Permanent Scars

Nothing's Wrong

September 23, Tuesday. 2:56 a.m.

The alarm clock is screaming and it shouldn't be. My chest feels tight, lungs feel sticky. I try to breathe in but it hurts, I can only sputter and discover my throat is also sore.

After shutting off the alarm and shoving it away, I realize I need water, and attempt to push myself up. My limbs are infernally weak, wobbling like gelatin. I drop to the mattress almost as soon as I've raised myself, whimpering because everything hurts and I can't breathe.

   Mackerel, still protesting for food, whines and jumps on my bed. Seeing I am not well, she instantly changes her tune. Cats are cool like that. They seem to understand your feelings. At least some of the time, they do. Other times they couldn't care less, and they make sure you know it.

Concerned, Mackie paws at me. I stroke her fur with a trembling hand, knowing I must make myself get up for water. I'm all alone here, and the cat isn't capable of filling in as a mother or father in times of illness.

Sliding slowly off my bed, I decide it can't be all that humiliating to crawl if there's no one around to see. The bathrobe and towel are still huddled on my bedroom floor, my wet clothes still litter the hallway. I move at a most leisurely pace, eventually arriving in the bathroom. Forcing past the pain, I grip the countertop and pull myself up off the floor to drink from the faucet. The cold water feels good sliding down my throat, surprisingly washing the soreness away. That's unusual. Normally, I can't drink water when I have a sore throat. Must have just been parched.

   My head feels thick and drowsy. The longer I stand, the worse it gets. I turn to leave, but that's when I feel something wet pushing up my esophagus like I'm a human volcano. I didn't take note of it when I first got up, but I must have woken at some point yesterday evening, for there was a half-empty soup bowl on my nightstand by the alarm clock.

Fuzzy head obviously isn't keeping track of things like that.

   The wet substance pushes against the back of my tongue, and I scramble to bend over the toilet, retching my guts out. At least, that's what it feels like.

   When the first wave of nausea passes, I sit back on my heels and moan softly. Everything hurts, that just made things ten times more painful. Again, I just wish Daddy were here.

5:24 p.m.

I wake up on the bathroom floor for what must be the hundredth time by now. I can't keep track of all my wakings and dozings. The point is, I'm sick, and there's no one to take care of me. I blame the bullies and that intense rain for it. If only I owned an umbrella, I'd be at a lesser risk of getting drenched every time I step outside.

Curling up again, shutting my eyes and pillowing my head on my arms, I vow that buying an umbrella will be one of the first things I do when I get better.

Mackerel is very disturbed by my ill state. She keeps pestering me. All I want is to be left alone, to stay warm, to recover.

   Feverish dreams ebb their way into my head as I fall asleep once more.