Page 4

Nope.

No, bad idea.

“Lord, help me,” I whisper, and I make it as far as the kitchen sink before I can’t hold it anymore.

My eyes are watering, my stomach clenching and every muscle tight as what I did manage to force down this morning comes right back up, splattering my mother’s perfectly polishedporcelain sink. The smell of acid is strong in the air as I struggle to swallow, fighting the demon crawling up my throat.

Oh god.

I threw up.

I threw up in the sink. Mom is going to be so mad.

“Good heavens!” My mother’s terrified voice climbs over the sound of my hammering heart and I feel her hands sliding into my hair and pulling it back, at the base of my skull. “Mercy, what’s gotten into you!? Are you sick?”

“Now, Janet,” my dad says, and I can hear the creak of the chair as he climbs to his feet. “Let’s just calm down.”

But there is no calm.

There is only confusion swirling inside me.

Is it something I ate?

Was I sick?

I had cereal for breakfast, and I skipped dinner last night.

I retch again, and now the saliva in my mouth overflows and drips down my chin. The contents of my stomach rise up into my mouth, and I barely have time to register what’s happening before I’m spilling my guts into the sink one more time, but it’s barely drool and bile this time.

I didn’t have much to give.

My stomach is aching.

My hands are shivering as I clutch the edge of the porcelain.

I can feel cold sweat beading on my forehead and dripping down the bridge of my nose.

The questions bounce around my skull as my mother hauls me back, away from the sink. Dad picks the pot of stew up from the table as Mother leads me past and out of the kitchen.

I’m sick.

Something is wrong.

“Sit down,” Mother says, pushing me down onto the couch. “Sit here. I’ll call Dr. Thompson. Just sit here.”

I can see dad riddling around in the cabinets as mom steps across the room, moving into the hallway to find her phone.

I never threw up.

Not even when I was sick.

I can only remember a couple of times I did as a kid.

What was wrong with me?

The glass door whispers shut behind me, sealing off the sounds of the world outside. I stand in the hollow quiet of the doctor’s office, my hands shaking, but not from the cold. The stagnant air wraps around me like an unwelcome embrace, and the scent of antiseptic gnaws at my gut.

Thankfully, I was able to convince my parents to let me go alone.