"𝗦𝘁𝗼𝗽 𝗰𝗿𝗼𝘀𝘀𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗼𝗰𝗲𝗮𝗻𝘀 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗽𝗲𝗼𝗽𝗹𝗲 𝘄𝗵𝗼 𝘄𝗼𝗻'𝘁 𝗷𝘂𝗺𝗽 𝗽𝘂𝗱𝗱𝗹𝗲𝘀 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝘆𝗼𝘂."
Chaos may be the only way to describe Clailea Del Rosario's 9 years of life.
In a nasty divorce, somehow Clailea's druggie mother w...
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MENTIONS OF VOMIT
Being sick is not fun, but being wrapped in a blanket and carried everyone while a hand runs down your back to soothe you is much more comforting.
I finish my cracker, and surprisingly, I feel as though I could eat another without puking.
I want another, and I almost squeal with joy at the realization.
I've never really wanted food, even when I was living with mommy when she fed me. Thiago had to practically force the food down my throat, and I'm not sure how he survived without stealing any of it.
I would've shared, if I would've known.
Usok sits on the couch, my forehead resting on his shoulder, creating a small air pocket for me to breathe.
Being wrapped in a blanket and cuddled against Usok seems so strangely familiar that I'm almost drowned in deja vu.
I wish I could remember living with my brothers, and I wish I could've stayed living with them.
I always wonder what it would be like, when I walk down the halls and see their family photos, many people I don't recognize at all coating the walls.
It fills me with deep gloom, a dark cloud covering my brain, fogging it with a thick shadow and building up my walls whenever I glance at them.
However, my brothers have added me to the wall as well, not including the ones they already had of me.
One is of me and Zara asleep in my bed, Puddles in his arms, which hurts my heart to think about.
Another is one of the ones Ezrah took of me on the red ball at target, me laughing with a glint in my eye I never had before.
It's not much, but Coco insists on printing more. The thought of them wanting me to be on the photo wall, so much so that they're willing to pay money to get the photos printed, makes a smile grace my face every time.
Usok hands me another cracker, breaking me out of my thoughts, and without hesitation I take a bite out of it, smiling in success when it doesn't make me nauseous.
I am not sick, I want to say it to Usoks face, prove him wrong about having to go to the hospital.
But as if my body needs to remind me, I start shaking, shivering, and I don't know if I'm hot or cold.
Usok pushes my hair back, the loose strand falling from my ponytail on my forehead. The purple scrunchie on his wrist lightly touches my forehead, which makes me shiver as it sends tingles down my spine.
"You're burning, Puddles," Usok whispers, but all I'm doing is trying to sleep, and ignore that I am, in fact, burning.
