Another Day In Paradise | Danny Johnson x Reader

Damn You, Past Self

Damn you, past self, for making such stupid decisions. Just thinking is enough to get you to grimace, screwing your eyes together and wishing you'd been sober enough to close your stupid window before collapsing into bed the night before. Inside of your skull was a symphony of the worst kind; there were mind-shaking drums reverberating with every movement or flash or sound and high-pitch clarinets ringing in your ears, a constant buzz that threatened to drive you mad. The happy tweeting of the birds outside and the sound of passing cars was splitting your head down its center. If you could choose one thing in the world right now it would be to escape this hell you'd thrown yourself into. Every limb felt like it was lead-laden, too heavy to move and you were utterly exhausted, your throat bone-dry, your stomach pinching and pushing with nausea and pain. I'm never ever drinking again. Moving as little as possible you reached out an arm (which screamed in protest as you did so) in search of your phone, patting around the cluttered surface of your bedside table and nearly knocking over a half-empty and day-old glass of water. You found an abandoned hair tie, your earbuds, the tissue box and a single pencil but, with a groan, you finally accept that you won't find your phone just patting around like this. Sucking in as deep a breath as you can in your current, dreadful state, you get the pain over with and sit up, back creaking, and peel your eyelids away so you can scan the too-bright scape of your bedroom.

"Fuck me," You grumble, one hand lifting to rest on your forehead; it was warm to the touch- not a surprise. "Where the hell is that stupid phone?" You turn your head (reluctant to move anything else) and glance at your bedside, then let your gaze dance along the floor from one pair of pants to another, hoping to see it sticking from a pocket here or there. It seemed to have disappeared right off the face of the earth- or at least, that's what your muddled brain chose to believe to try and convince you to lay back down and forget the whole issue. Sadly, your phone was too important to just leave missing for some extra Z's. Reaching over for the old water with a suppressed groan you tilted your head back and drank desperately, eyes flitting shut as the sun-warm H2O did it's thing and cleared up your foggy mind to some degree. You pushed your blankets aside and slid to staggering feet, your bare toes on the cool hardwood giving you the tiniest jump-start. You were just about to drop to your knees to kick around through the shit all over your floor when three knocks on your door sent a white-hot agony blooming behind your eyelids. You wince, gritting your teeth together and hissing out the words in as normal a tone as possible, "Yes?"

"I've got breakfast, if you're hungry- bacon and eggs." It was your father. Good ole' dad, who currently doesn't know you drank half your bodyweight and are currently more hungover than you ever will be in your whole life.

"No thanks," You say back, pressing your palms to eyes, "I'm not hungry. Maybe later."

"Alright," You hear him pause and know he's still there, continuing a moment later, "Tell me about that party when you come out." Within your father's voice is a subtle suspicion, a curiosity. He wants to know how much you drank just like any good father would; you don't plan on letting him know any time soon.

"Sure thing, dad." With that, you hear his footsteps retreat and finally let yourself to your knees. It's a pain in the ass to crawl around with how tired you are, but you pick through the clothing until you're 100% sure that your phone isn't here on the floor. Now there's a prick of worry in your stomach as you wonder what you'd tell your dad if you lost the thing. Sorry, pa, I got drunk off my ass and must have traded it for some heroine, my bad. Using the support of your bed you manage to climb back to your feet and rustle through the blankets, pushing them and pulling them and flipping them over and around. You get desperate after a minute and shake them out over the floor, praying to whatever Gods may be listening that the thing goes flying. You could care less if you cracked the screen in your frantic search so long as it was here. When the blanket-shaking turned up fruitless you wanted to let out a frustrated cry- that frustrated cry did make it out, though rather quiet, when another hard knock on the door made your head spin. "What do you want!" You plop down onto your bed, leaning your head on your hands.