That 000000 & ffffff || Matty Healy

Get in the Shower if it all Goes Wrong

/ / G E T I N T H E S H O W E R I F I T A L L G O E S W R O N G / /

I didn't think I was ever one to regret my actions. I may think it stupid after the long run, but I never had a regret. I thought, life has its ups and downs and if you don't do things in the moment, you'll never do it all. Of course, it didn't help that my roommate was a pyromaniac and my best friend was a peer pressuring smooth talker – these physiognomies called for a bit of stupid decisions in my life.

Yet, as I'm sat here, in the back of a cab, wearing my dirty clothes from the night before, a consistent throbbing hitting at my temple and weird feeling in the pit of my stomach, all I can do is regret the night before – the hours before; I'm not fairly sure if I'm honest.

I feel like a groupie, and I also feel pretty cheap and just a bit dirty. And it's not him, god it can never be him and maybe I'm delusional in that way, but he wasn't rough with me, he didn't hurt me, it was complete bliss. When the cabbie makes a sharp left, I'm pulled out of the reverie in which I had been thinking about the way Matty Healy's lips had glossed all over my body, how his hands were mapping out my curves, eyes amused when finding a certain tattoo, but lips never leaving my skin. How his hands guided mine over his body, how he was insistent for me not to hold back despite my experience being so little, how it was fun as much as it was intimate, how he called out my name (and I was sure he would have forgotten it before the club had disappeared from our sight), how he made the dirtiest words sound like pure ecstasy. My finger skims across my clavicle, pressing lightly into the bruises that were forming and I'm glad the cabbie can't see me properly, because my face is heating up and I look a mess.

I feel cheap and dirty because I never wanted to be that fan. I never wanted to meet any of my favorite celebrity and become their one night stand – although I feel somewhat privileged, I just can't believe I was drunk enough to do that – I have a boyfriend for fuck's sake. Sort of. I groan into my hands until the car stops and I have to rummage my jacket for money. I don't exactly have enough change, but the driver seems sympathetic, probably having to escort a lot of people home from late night rendezvous frequently, so he pats my hand and says, "This one's on me, sweetheart."

I walk – and when I say walk, I mean stumble; my shoes had caused blisters on my feet and it kind of hurts a bit when I walk, but I manage to make it up the three flights of stairs and down the hall to the moderate apartment I'm only paying half the rent for.

My palm stings when I go to turn the door knob, and I flinch back, staring at the reddening skin, sore and way too sensitive, "What the hell?" I use the toe of my shoes to knock on the door, loudly and I'm met face to face with Jamie, a hand at his hips and an eyebrow raised.

"Marceline Devine, do you have any idea what time it is?"

"We were about to call for an AMBER alert," comes a voice in the general direction of the kitchen. I push past Jamie, immediately engulfed with smoke and steam.

"It's hot in here," I complain, shrugging off my jacket and trying to stop the fit of coughs erupting in my throat.

"That's because I'm here," is called from the kitchen and I roll my eyes. Of course, she's not wrong but it has nothing to do with her looks, gorgeous as she is.

"Are those hickeys?" Jamie squints at my collarbone

"Is something on fire?" I ask, but it's stupid question, because of course something's on fire. Something's always on fire.

"So you pulled that pastel bird from the club then?" Jamie wiggles his eyebrows and I think I'm going to vomit. Not at the thought of Louise but at the drinks I've had making it's way back up mixed with the smoke and heat. I'm surprised I haven't started heaving yet.