"Secrets can only lie in the dark for so long..."
Martha Dévolla had always been a fiery, uncontrollable, ambitious girl since she was young. When her teachers told her to sit still, she leaped about. If the rain poured heavily on her picnic plan...
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PAUL ENDED UP crashing in Martha's old bedroom; however, she expected that to happen, since they also did some unpacking. She took her grandfather's old bedroom. Changing the sheets and cleaning up some left over clothes and trash.
It was about one o'clock in the afternoon when Martha awoke with a start. The knocking on her bedroom door was the reason and she never loathed a certain sound more than right now. She stretched along the mattress, rubbing her droopy eyes. As soon as she sat up, her stomach rumbled with nausea. The cottony taste in her mouth only worsened the situation.
Martha jumped to her bare feet and bolted to her door. Paul yelled out when she pushed him aside to run towards the only bathroom in the house. Her feet made loud thumps against the tile as she burrowed down to her knees and emptied her insides into the porcelain.
"Ugh, gross." Paul exclaimed with a scrunch of his nose. "Was your burger too greasy or sum? Indigestion? Because that's disgusting."
The dancer shoved him the bird, exhaling harshly into the bowl. She wanted so badly to yell at him to go somewhere else if it was so disgusting, like Hell or a Tartarus pit. Martha already felt like unwanted shit at the bottom of your shoe and his commentary wasn't helping.
Sighing, she sat back against the wall. Her throat burned like a fiery furnace. The foul smell made her stomach churn once more and she worried for another spout of vomit.
Paul eyed her exhausted and pale features, frowning subtly to himself. "Hey," Martha turned her head, wiping her face of residue. He softened. "Are you alright? Need a Ginger Ale?" She shook her head mutely, heaving before trying to stand from the ground. "Whoa, whoa," The teen exclaimed, rushing to help her up.
Irritated, she weakly slapped his hands away. She didn't want to be touched right now. Walking towards the toilet, she turned her head away so she wouldn't have to see the mess, and flushed her morning sickness away. Why did they call it morning sickness when it could come at any time during the day? She wanted to personally write a letter to whoever claimed such a thing and shove said letter up their ass.
Her movements were jerky, frustration oozing from her pours as she flipped on the facet to wash her mouth out. When she was done, she didn't give Paul a single glance.
"Are you going to tell me what's going on?" He placed his hands on his hips, trying to be an authoritarian but it only worked to amuse Martha.
"Nope," She pursed her lips and went to the kitchen to look for some crackers.
"Please don't tell me you're sick." Paul stopped before her, leaning against the island counter with clenched fists. Martha took a bite of a couple salty crackers, noticing the concerned expression hidden behind Paul's facade.
