Chimera | H.S Mature

22.

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*Samantha's POV*

I was pulled from sleep by the most horrendous headache. The pain radiated from the centre of my skull and extended in finger like projections throughout my head. My body ached, every muscle I had screamed in protest with the slightest movement. My mouth was filled with the most disgusting taste, a mixture of last night's vodka and vomit. My mind flicked back and forth between blurry images of myself stumbling up the stairs to my flat, my shins repeatedly banging off the concrete steps as I fell from one to another, and stumbling to the bathroom where I collapsed over the toilet and emptied my stomach. I felt dirty.

I rolled onto my side and braced myself before forcing myself into a sitting position using my elbow. Immediately I thought I was going to vomit again and I let my body slump forward with a groan. My stomach churned as I sat deadly still, waiting for the nausea to pass. My head felt like it was being punched repeatedly by a heavy-weight boxer and as I sat, my elbows resting on my legs and my head supported by my hands, I made a note of all the bruises that had appeared on my legs, angry black and purple splotches which were scattered between my shins and my knees. On my left knee there was a large skin coloured plaster, a red blob in the middle where the cut underneath had continued to bleed. I tried to remember when I had bandaged myself up but other than a few scattered images of being in a bar, walking home with someone's arm looped around my shoulders and sitting on a bench, there wasn't much more I could decipher.

Harry, it had been Harry's arm, I think. Yes it was him. I fought to remember what had happened, if I had said or done anything stupid but most of the night was a black void and thinking too much was hurting my head.

My stomach settled and I risked swaying to my feet. Once more I waited for a moment before taking my first tentative step to make sure I wasn't going to crash to the floor or throw up on the carpet, or maybe both. I wobbled to the mirror and huffed at my reflection. My hair was matted to my forehead, the blonde strands looked dull and dirty as they tumbled down my shoulders. It appears I had tried to tie my hair up at some point during the course of the evening as a single black bobble was tangled into several strands. At first I was gentle as I tried to remove it from my hair but eventually I gave up and pulled and ripped at it until it came loose, my head screamed at me in protest as it continued to throb. My face was surprisingly make up free, only a thin line of mascara which had been missed sat beneath my eye, I wiped it away with the tip of my finger but only succeeded in smudging it further. Had I taken my make up off last night? My fetching Winnie-the-Pooh pyjamas were twisted uncomfortably around my body and I quickly released them so that they hung loosely around my small frame. I was a mess, in every sense of the word.

From the kitchen, the sound of a pan clattering to the floor startled me from my self-assessment and I froze for a couple of seconds, my head staring at the door as I waited for another sound. It was a couple of minutes before what sounded like a piece of cutlery hitting the work surface shocked me into action and I made a half-dash, half-stumble to my bedroom door.

Harry swore as I appeared in the kitchen doorway.

"Fuck me Sam you gave me a bloody heart attack! Did I wake you? How are you feeling?" he said all at once. I was too shocked to respond to anything he had to say, so instead I fired back my own question.

"What are you doing here?" I asked.

"Didn't want to leave you alone in that state, you were throwing up every five minutes and then you kinda just, passed out, so I thought I'd stay to make sure you were ok during the night" he explains, "I hope that's ok?" he finishes.