Ghost Writer [Harry Styles][H.S. Fanfic]

8 - SLOW HANDS

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(SUNNY'S POV)

I can feel my body slowly easing out of my tequila-induced slumber, but I keep my eyes knit together tightly to avoid the impending blindness that I will succumb to from the morning light streaming through my windows. I shift to my left side and nuzzle my hands between my head and the abnormally stiff pillow, praying for just a few more minutes of sleep.

I'm not much of a morning person anymore. There's no reason to be. I used to wake up with the sun because I knew I got to spend all day doing something I loved. But I don't have that anymore. So, what's the point?

Plus, sleep is good. Sleep is nice. It's a place where dreams can still come true, and I can disappear from my empty shell of a life for a few hours at a time until I have to face the unapologetic slap in the face of reality again for the next day of suffering.

But why is my pillow so hard?

I whack my hand against it a couple of times in an attempt to fluff it back out. But when it shifts from underneath me, my eyes shoot open in startle as icy adrenaline launches through my veins with a vengeance.

Instantly looking toward my feet, I see that I'm lying on the couch in my living room with the side table lamp turned on, illuminating a soft glow between the protruding sun beams that dance through my half-closed blinds.

My eyes trail back up toward the top of my head and they land on a long pair of tight black jean-clad legs, kicked up and overlapped on the footrest. My stomach drops like a cement block as I continue to rotate my head around until I see Harry. He's passed out, sitting upright on the couch with his head slung back in slumber with soft snores puffing past his enviable pouted pink lips.

No! No no no no no. NO! 

I think I'm having a fucking stroke.

He stayed the night! Mitch is going to have a field day about this when I get home.

I slap my hand over my mouth to muffle the surprised gasp and slowly push myself to sit up, aiming to be as careful as I can so I don't wake him. I glance at the clock and see that I have fifteen minutes before I'm supposed to leave for my meeting.

"Shit!" I mouth in a silent scream, scrambling to my feet.

My bare feet pad cautiously to the bedroom around the corner, discarding my high-necked bathing suit and shorts on the otherwise spotless floor as I hurtle throughout the room. I hope he doesn't wake up to come find me because I didn't shut the door and I'm looking like an escaped mental patient bounding around my room butt ass naked.

I really need a shower, but there's no time. Grabbing my handful of medication from the pill case on the nightstand, I toss them back, dry swallowing the concoction per usual. I stopped needing water about four years ago.

I reluctantly look down to my bare body and trace the pad of my middle finger along the numerous jagged pink scars I've earned within the last six months. The healing flesh is thin and silky, littered from my chest to the top of my left thigh, with a few scattered on my arms and hands. I hate the way I look with these haunting reminders, which are quite literally carved into my skin. They serve as taunting memories of everything I've lost.

Stop it, Sunny!

Tears swell in the corners of my eyes, and I shake my head, cursing under my breath. I drop my hand in defeat as I walk over to my tall grey dresser, opening the first and third drawers. I pull on a pair of high-waisted Bermuda shorts before yanking on the first band tee my fingers come in contact with on top of the stack, tucking the front into the hem of the blue jeans because it's too long.