This is not my story! I just took the original story Knockout by han-rawr on Tumblr and changed it to Niall.
All credit to the original writer.
“Bo, you need to get up!”
The incessant knocking is hindering my effort of drifting back to sleep. I burrow deeper into the covers, eyes still clamped shut, blindly searching for a rogue pillow to possibly hurl. My body rolls to the left, toes coming into contact with the end of my bed. I’m halfway down the mattress and comfortable.
“Bo!”
I was comfortable.
“Five more minutes, mum,” I groan.
Grabby hands pull at my duvet and pretty soon I’ve lost the tug of war. The victor stands with my bedding clutched to her chest, holding it hostage as I fail at reclaiming it. My eyes are just about adjusting before she rips open the thin curtains that cover the window over my cluttered desk. I flail around, attempting to curl into a ball.
“I am not your mother! And if you don’t get up now, you’re going to be late. AGAIN!”
Tiff’s eyebrows are raised expectantly as she stands over me and taps an impatient foot.
“What time is it?” I mumble.
My throat is dry and I feel like I’ve just stumbled through a desert. I should probably turn the heating down at night, but I love feeling bundled up when the weather is bitter.
“It’s quarter to ten.”
My eyes droop closed for a split second before the information settles and my body stiffens.
“Shit!”
I suddenly unfurl from my foetal position and nearly face plant in my rush to vacate the coverless bed. Odd shoes are objects to stubble over as I frantically collect items to use in the bathroom; toothbrush, hairbrush, deodorant, hairband.
Tiff stands still as I flutter around her, aware that if she wanders she’s a moving target for me to involuntarily body check. It’s better if she remains stationary.
It appears as though the kitchen is occupied; even the aroma of charred toast is enough to have my stomach grumble in complaint. But I don’t have time to eat. My feet stumble over pyjama bottoms that are too long in the leg as I make my way down the corridor. I can feel my chances of attending my morning seminar on time, slipping away as the closed bathroom door comes into sight.
“Nooo!”
I could almost sink to the floor in defeat; seconds are ticking by and I’m no further forward in my endeavour not to disappoint my lecturer again by my tardiness.
“Rob, get out of the bathroom, I’m going to be late!” I pound on the door.
I know it’s him because he’s humming along to a Miles Kane track. My room is next to his in our campus flat, and I’m treated to a pitchy rendition of “Arabella” nearly every evening (if he’s in). That is before Tiff comes storming along the corridor from two doors down to tell Rob, not so politely, to shut up.
“Maybe you should have gotten up earlier?” he suggests over the noise of the shower.
I want to strangle him.
“Thank you for your insightful opinion! Now get out!”
As a flatmate, he’s awful. I’ve never seen him take out the recycling, and there’s almost always a trail of crumbs from the kitchen to his room. I’m surprised he’s not infested with mice. But it’s not likely he’d ever know of their existence anyway, taking into account you can’t actually see his carpet under piles of unwashed clothes.
