Perfectly Imperfect

Cuarenta: Woop-dee-doo

After I woke up, my hand immediately brought itself to my forehead.

Ugh, It feels like I just got hit by a truck.

. . . Or a wooden desk.

I pulled my hand away and studied it.

That doesn't look to good. . .

My hand — correction, handS are swollen and an array of blues, purples and blacks. I frowned at them.

This is just perfect.

I tried to turn them to get a better look, and pain shot through my hand and wrist. I bit my tongue, trying to stay silent.

I don't really know why. Josh has probably already left for work, and Adam has probably taken his leave too. Just a habit I formed I guess. But I can make as much noise as I need while I try and hide all the evidence that last night ever happened from all the prying eyes at school. Because, woop-dee-doo, it's Monday, and I'm already going to be late.

I slowly turned to my clock and realized how late I actually am. I'd be lucky to get there by lunch with all I have to take care of.

Of course, I haven't seen myself, so I may not actually have to cover much. Most of the pain is coming from places that no one sees under my clothing anyway.

Great, now that that's all figured out, onto the next trial of the day: getting out of this warm, soft, comfortable bed and out into the big, bad world.

  I grunted, trying to sit up, but flopped back down after not even getting an inch off the bed. My ribs are definitely re-injured. . . And right as they were starting to feel less like I had an elephant sitting on my chest twenty-four/seven.

  I tried a different tactic of just inching myself as carefully as possible closer to the edge of the mattress. I took in deep gulps of air and scrunched my eyebrows together in concentration, trying not to focus on the pain.

  I got to the point where I could swing my legs over the side and touch the floor. I sucked in a deep breath and held it, using my arms to push myself upright. I sneered at the sharp stab it caused to course through my torso and dull ache to my head. I groaned in discomfort.

Okay, on three.

1...2...3

I let out a loud grunt as I pushed myself off the bed. I had to brace myself on the night stand to relieve some of the pain on my lower stomach.

I took in another gulp of air. If I can't make it walking to the restroom, there's no way I'll make it through the school day.

I stood up straight with a cringe and got ready to put one foot in front of the other.

Eventually, I ended up standing in the restroom looking in the mirror at my bloody forehead, only needing a wall for support once on my trek here. Leaning in closer, I found that the blood is coming from the gash I got from camp, and when Josh banged my head against his desk it reopened, making it bleed again. There's also a new bruise forming around it that travels from the top of my forehead to my eyelid. I'll have to use like half my concealer to cover it. Witch is great in itself. I just love wasting makeup, time, and money.

Not that I even really need much of it in the first place. Not a fan of makeup. When I don't need it, I don't wear it. Too much maintenance.

But, when I do need it is the problem. I can't have it running out on me.

  I reached for the athletic tape under my sink to wrap my hands in and found that when I tried to close my fingers around it, they were stiff and swollen. They wouldn't budge.