catfish and the bottlemen imagines for rainy days + mondays

Fallout / Bondy

Wednesday had not been your day.
You should have predicted the downhill spiral when you'd forgotten your coat on the way to work the evening before. When you'd stepped on that crack in the pavements on your walk in.
When youd seen one solitary magpie and failed to salute him.

You should have predicted that you'd take a distracted wrong turn and wind up half an hour late, you should have predicted that everything you touched would break beneath your finger tips, you should have predicted that the washer in the tap would snap and leave the bathroom flooding in the middle of the night.

You should have predicted that the nightshift would drive you to despair with one melodrama after another and several serious emergencies pushing you to your absolute limits so that by the time you finally clocked out you felt as though you yourself were on deaths door.

You should probably have predicted that the heavens would open on your walk home, soak you to the bone and freeze you to your core. You should have known the wind would cut like ice and razor blades leave a sting in your cheeks. Your fingers numb, unable to grip your front door keys, your hands shivering too much to jam your key in the lock and twist.

"Oh come on don't do this to me," you cried wiggling the keys erratically to no avail. John had been complaining about your shitty lock for months before he'd gone away on tour, he'd given out to you almost every evening for the whole summer, asking yoyu why you didn't just get it changed. In truth you'd been meaning to for years, but you worked long, intense hours, and leaving work as if you were on deaths door wasn't a particularly infrequent occurrence for you. Still, now that Johnny had been away several months and you found yourself alone and miserable in the middle of winter, the weather giving out to you, running you down, you were beginning to regret not keeping the promise you had made to your boyfriend.

"Jesus fucking christ," you hissed your fingers ice burnt, the kind of ache which aches your bones as you finally twisted the lock. "Come on just, fucking open for christ sake," you whined leaning against the door, struggling with the handle more aggressively by the second. You were just about ready to kick it down, if only you hadn't been so tired, so close to crumbling and giving up. Resigning yourself to the tragic eventuality in which you wound up waiting for Johnny to come home in a weeks time and find you on the floor, open it for you.

Really you needed a new front door. Really you needed a new house.

You'd been renting this place since you'd first moved out, and in truth it was falling apart. It was old and nothing really worked. Nothing had really been replaced since the 70s.
Every time Johnny came to stay hed suggest it to you, moving house. Getting a place together instead, one you didn't have to rent, or put up with a nasty landlord. One which wasn't falling apart, which didnt have a rusted, stiff front door.

One with a bathroom that wasn't an ugly 80s shade of pink.

But you never gave in, never said yes, because you didn't see the point. Not when this was your home, albeit a completely shit home. The home youd lived in ever since you'd decided to take a blind leap of faith and move to Newcastle, give up on your university degree and start training in a hospital instead. Not when a new home would spend half the time empty, with both you and Johnny away for various reasons, him on tour or in the studio, you working doubles at the hospital, both of you exhausting yourselves something silly.

No, it made sense to stay in your tiny little terrace house, with only one bedroom upstairs. So small it was impossible to feel lonely in. At least it made sense in all situations but the one you were currently battling with now.

"Why?" you groaned kicking at the bottom door with your shoe, crying out again as the pain jarred your leg. Your sodden skinny jeans sticking to you, freezing you a little more.