Emma stared down at the brown flecks of dried blood floating among the yellow bile. Vomit was now the only color in her expansive, antiseptic bathroom: fluffy white towels, white shower curtain, thick white bathmat, and white walls. Her chest thumped at irregular intervals as vital potassium and electrolytes swam in the toilet. Sweat rolled down her face, dripping off her nose into the toilet. Stomach burned. Sinuses were on fire from acid forced through delicate passages.
“Em, please open the door,” Quinn called, knocking on the locked door.
Her diaphragm contracted at the sound of his lilting voice, and Emma thought she was going to split down the middle. The fireworks began again: explosions, blinding lights, cacophony. Emma screamed through each heave. Her screams were then silenced by blood caking the insides of her mouth. When the last of her insides were out, she laid her head down on the cold tiles and wept. The booms and bangs ended as she was lifted from the floor.
“Don’t touch me!” she screamed, slamming feeble fists into his chest. “You’re going to kill me.”
“You’re sick,” Quinn whispered, setting her into bed.
She wanted to melt into the pale, blue sheets.
“You’re killing me. Opened me up and tore a hole.”
Quinn disappeared and Emma sunk her shaking, naked frame into the soft bed, willing herself to dissolve.
“Plop, plop…” Quinn sang thrusting a fizzing highball glass at her.
Emma took the cup, drank it in one long pull and chucked it the wall. “There is something distinctly satisfying about the sound of shattering glass,” she said as she faded into the unconscious with a grin.
Photo: janosnovak
No comments:
Post a Comment