AUTHORS NOTE: I made an honest mistake in chapter 2...Harry doesn't have a tub . Just imagine that he put the laundry rack...wherever. And I just learned today that they don't say Laundry Mat or Laundromat in the UK, it's Launderette (goodness knows why) So i'm going to try it...You've been warned: Absolutely nothing important happens in this chapter .
I wake feeling much better than the day before. I don't feel as though I am recovering from a drinking binge anymore, which is a relief.
A streak on my murky window allows a slash of light into my room and it just so happens to hit me directly in my eyes. Cursing my luck I let an arm flop over my face. My mattress squeaks and groans and I wonder how much better it would be if I had a box mattress. It was either the frame or the box, you can guess what I chose.
I've never been afraid of monsters under the bed, and I wanted storage space. I've never regretted it, but the squealing does get annoying.
I roll over, causing more protesting sounds, and grope in my monster pile of laundry for my glasses. I place them on my face, smudges and all, and squint into my dingy kitchen.
Oh yeah, the clock on the stove went out yesterday.
For waking up feeling better than yesterday (which doesn't take much) I am in a pretty bad state. My wife beater is drenched with sweat and my skin feels cold and clammy. I stand next to my bed and pause to wrap my arms around my chest, shuddering. I don't think I want to remember what my nightmares were, to be honest.
Today is a work day. I wander down the hallway to bang on a random door to find out the time and discover that it's noon; which gives me 4 hours to get ready. I check the clothes on the rack and find them still damp. Shame, especially since I have more moldering in the trash bags. I stuff all the laundry back in the bags, and gather another dirty bag and tie them. Belatedly I realize I'm still in my boxers and tank so I toss on a sweatshirt and sweatpants and trip down the stairs in some old beaten up sandals.
Hermione says that it's a shame how I live. But after living in Petunia's sterile world for so long, I just can't bring myself to do the same. If anything, the fact that she kept me separate from said world, in either my dusty closet or abandoned second bedroom, probably has molded me into the slob I am today. Every time Hermione brings up my disgusting habits I bring up the fact that at least I do not ditch rotting food around my flat and I do my dishes promptly.
She counters that I have one cup and a plate and so me doing dishes right away does not count as being very responsible.
I trip down the stairs with my three bags and realize that I have forgotten my satchel. Frantically I sprint up the stairs empty-handed and find my door unlocked. I snatch the key from the counter and my bag from the floor and slam out of my apartment. If you can call a closet without a shower an apartment.
When I reach the second floor I find two grimy children giggling and jumping on my bags.
"Hey!" I protest.
They jump away, white faced, and disappear down the hall. I feel bad for scaring them, to be honest.
The launderette is empty when I arrive, but the steady and comforting thunk thunk of clothes in the dryer greets me when I open the door. I ditch two bags in some dryers and the other smaller one in the washer and depart to find a shower. Sometimes I go to a friend's, but sadly today I have to chance the shower at the crappy Hotel I live at. It's a public Toilet and I have to insert quarters to give me iced water, lukewarm at best.
Luckily it's unoccupied.
Hermione would have a cow if she realized that I wash with only a bar of soap.
My hands are frantic and jittery, pressing the bar too hard against my skin. Shivering under the cold water my skin becomes raw with fingernail marks and too much scrubbing. The shower sputters to a stop and I stare blankly at the sliver of soap left in my hand as slightly pink water swirls down the drain. "Damn, didn't get to my hair."
Slapping my feet on the grimy chilled tiles I exit the shower and roughly dries myself with my small towel. Efficiently I tousles my hair first then whip the scratchy thing along the rest of my body, ignoring the stings from my self-inflicted wounds.
The wounds on the side of my neck beat a tattoo with my heart. I shivers and wriggles into fresh clothing for work: just a simple white button down and black slacks. Eminently better than my normal clothes, but nothing flashy.
I wriggle my damp feet into a pair of socks and then lace them into my black work tennis shoes and shoulders my way into the hallways. #41 is making more noise again. But #45 is oddly quiet. The husband must be at work. Where I should be heading soon. With my faithful bag on my shoulder I trip down the stairs and up the street back to the launderette and switch my clothes from the washer to the drier, quarters clanking merrily in my pocket. More merrily than my mood, I'd wager.
I pick the least greasy chair to sit in and struggle to stay up straight in the shiny slick bucket chair that seems the staple of all launderettes.
I fail, and my head hits the back with a clunk, the only thing keeping me from sliding straight onto the floor. I close my eyes and pretend that there aren't driers sounding in the background. I don't think about much. Just about cool breezes and shadows from real trees, not ones jammed into the ground in a park or on the sidewalk. The tinkle of laughter next to the lake at Hogwarts.
I sigh, and the buzzer rings.
I jam all of my clothes into my rather worse for wear plastic garbage bag and tie it firmly. The room is empty when I leave, only a lonely drier sounding its call to no one. There's nothing to do in my apartment. So I ditch the bag on my bed, the musty clothes on my rack and slam out the door for work.
Hopefully I can get a ride home afterwards.