The Bile

Wretched.

That's the first word that comes to mind.

Things that twist the fingers, curl the tendons and bones till they snap.

That's what I wish my limbs could do.

Would do.

To contort.

The things which shant contort,

Not without breaking at least.

And then divide.

My insides felt like they were at least.

Like the prism was disconnecting my bowls from my chest.

Something sliding between them, something sharp and made of glass.

Tri.

The number of mirrors, the prism reflecting it all.

And then it all came up.

I was awake.

It was all very sudden.

The very thing convulsing from me like a sharp shake of reality.

Colors, tastes, chunks falling out after shoving up from my throat.

Desperately.

My fingers could not claw the content's taste out.

Again.

How many hours had it been?

Twenty-four?

I convulsed.

Again.

My back was straining, like a drum pulled taut.

Tears blinding me and I was holding a blue bucket under hand.

Frankly, it was an endless plastic cave. I could not see.

"Lowe's?" I choked out.

Then the bits came up.

Only water now.

I couldn't breath.

It was in my nose,

everything was pouring out.

I hated it all.

It started with a backache.

Sharp, like a knife in the back.

Then twisting,

tugging in and out.

Waking me in the middle of the late night hour.

Hot.

Like the sting of venom after it's had time to nestle itself within.

Supposedly all thirty-six hours ago.

Was I out that long?

Surely not.

Surely so.

No food.

No water.

No breaks.

Hospital?

No, there was no hospital.

Even if there was, they would have killed me.

The staff couldn't even deflate a drunk.

Even if they tried.

Chunks.

Oh! The bits.

I hated the bits.

Tasting, spitting, cursing myself.

I was passing out again.

My head falling over the bucket.

Only liquid and maybe three chicken noodles?

They looked more like shreds of thickened sheets that the dog chewed up.

What had happened?

No one knew.

The mother of my homely rest,

She had no clue.

She called my mother.

They watched me spiral.

No one took me in beneath their wing.

No one could help me rip free of the dark torment.

The dividing within me.

They watched.

Helplessly, they watched.

And on the forty-eighth hour, I was sleeping fine.

I was breathing again.

Air whistling from me like a toddler jumping on my chest.

Labored.

But breathing.

And it was gone, like a deposed body that had been found and drug out.

Gone.

Thankfully gone.

My body was mine again.

My fingers were curling in, grasping itself like it had tugged the ghost back within.

The pain still lingered for days, weeks, months.

Years.

Unfortunately.

But I never threw up water and bile like that again.

Not like that.

But yes.

There was an again.