The Writer and Her Pajamas
Minutes later, I was sitting on the couch with a thermometer sticking out of my mouth.
When it beeped, I read the digital numbers it displayed; my heart withered.
“38.9 degrees…” I murmured, thoroughly displeased at the bug invading my body. My forehead did feel really hot…my throat was scratchy, too.
“Would you like to take something?” There he goes again.
A little sarcastic demon twitched into wakefulness at the back of my mind, and I turned around, eyebrow arched.
“Yeah, give me what you’ve been taking. I could use an attitude reprogramming.”
Silence.
The little demon frowned, and I bet I did, too.
“What’s gotten into you? I’m just a little under the weather,” I huffed, coughing shortly afterwards. “I’ll right as rain in no time.”
I pushed myself up from the couch, and began trudging up the stairs in a quest to reach my pajamas.
Halfway up, I stopped and looked back, feeling a little guilty for being harsh.
Wait, guilty?!
“I’ll just lie down for a while…”