Making It (On Hold Indefinitely)

0.8

0.8

I wake up the next morning feeling like shit. Bile clinging to walls of my throat. My stomach turning itself upside down and every inch of my body aching in pain. I bare through it just to bury my head beneath my pillow and hide away from my hangover, however the throbbing against my skull only follows me there too. I groan, gripping my pillow and pushing my hips into the air first before sitting up completely.

The throbbing only becomes louder and I have to squint through my blurry vision. Pouting softly I push my hair out my face and my fingers down my cheeks, turning my gaze over to my phone. Flipping it over I notice it's dying battery and many missed calls. Furrowing my brows I pick it up and slide over on one of them.

The ringback tone is excruciating and I have to hold my phone an inch away from my ear. My throat tightens the longer I sit and the familiar feeling of 'i'm going to throw up' tightens in my chest. I try to swallow it as I get my editors voicemail and suddenly my heart sinks.

Hanging up the line I check my calendar and my eyes widen.

Fuck!

My consolation meeting was today.

I scramble out of my bed despite my body's protest. Rushing into the bathroom and immediately falling to my knees in front of the toilet. I barely get the seat up before I'm spewing into the bowl. The smell hitting me instantly. My throat and nose burning.

I only feel ten times worse, my stomach swimming in nausea. When I'm left only coughing I fall back against the tub. Using some tissue to wipe at my mouth before tossing it over into the toilet.

A part of me regrets not bringing my phone into the bathroom but as the urge to throw up again climbs up my throat I figure it's best to stay right where I am.

• — • — •

After a hot shower, scrubbing my teeth, and downing some pain meds I call my editor back. I get her voicemail once again and leave a message apologizing profusely and promising to make it up to her. Telling her how serious I am about this book and reminding her how hard I'm working on it. After hanging up from that I raid our kitchen for food. Scavenging up enough ingredients to make a decent breakfast though it's way into lunch time.

Brooke shuffles her way in minutes after I start the sizzling of bacon and she looks a lot worse for wear than me. Her already pale skin looks even paler, auburn hair strewn about her head and still dressed in last nights clothes.

"How do you do it?" Brooke grumbles irritably, leaning over our small island counter that separates the kitchen from the living room.

"Do what?" I laugh and I stop as soon as she winces. Drooping her head she rests her elbows on the countertop while her fingers massage at her temples.

"Manage to look so damn good." Her words sound physically in pain as she speaks them and I feel bad for my best friend. While the pain meds didn't do much to ease my headache I was definitely feeling a lot better than when I first woke up.

"Ibuprofen and a hot shower." I tell her simply, shrugging her shoulders and she whimpers.

"I'm allergic to ibuprofen." She cries out, shooting me a saddened look.

"If you can manage a shower we can go stuff our faces with some actual breakfast and drink lots of Gatorade and water." I offer as a suggestion and she whimpers a bit but manages to pull herself off the countertop and nod her head.

I watch her sulk into the hall and disappear into the bathroom. Once the shower's going I stop my cooking and eat the few pieces of bacon that I managed before putting anything away.