Questions for the Nauseous

Nothing in the world stood still. Even the world itself rotates on an axis everyday. Of course, you could never notice it all—the movement was always so slow. But to me, at that moment, it seemed as if the whole world was shaking from a massive earthquake; only that everything is blurring up and spinning, not really shaking.
It felt like a sea of an otherworldly motion sickness was making rounds in my stomach, and that some invisible man punched me, right in the middle of it all. The waves were rising now and—“augh!”—all I saw next was a white porcelain bowl filled with yellowish green stomach acids, with bits of mush mixed in with the concoction.
My eyes were tearing from the experience. My mouth tasted bitter and sour at the same time. My salivary glands were going mad, as drool escaped a corner of my lip. I flushed it all down, stood up, and washed my face in the sink.
The water was cool, refreshing in its own way, as it ran down my warm face. Raising that same warm face, I checked it in the mirror, seeing only the face of, who I know is, a healthy person: reddish-pink lips and rosy cheeks, a clear, tan, Filipina complexion, dark eyes and long hair. I couldn’t understand how anything could be wrong with me at this point. I had looked worse before, and I had gone through worse illnesses. Then why was I vomiting; why were my joints shaking, why was everything blurring and why—“aughkkkk!”—was I hugging this toilet again for dear life?

Giving up on my questions, I was, moments later, sitting quietly on the sofa, and waiting for everything to stop spinning. I could notice my mother and my sister at the home office in the corner, somewhere next to the underneath of the staircase. She glanced at my direction a few times, but tried to look away, and look back to the work she’s doing for her next job interview. She tried ignoring her feelings of sympathy and pity. “Focus,” she must have been thinking. But that didn’t really erase the frown on her face. Did my situation really look that bad?
Hm, maybe. I had been, after all, vomiting everything for two days. Everything, with no exaggeration: water, food, juice, oatmeal, medication, nibbles of bread or rice, and even stomach acids, when there was nothing else left of me.
“I’ll take you to the ER,” my mom suggested. I almost wanted to say no, but a person can only live without food or drink for three days. And my blurry eyesight was telling me that it was already two in the morning. It was already the third day, and only a few hours more to count my life to, before my energy-starved body would eat through my muscles to suck for a life-force.
“Hmkay,” was all I could manage to say through my trembling lips. It was all the response my dizzy head could think up. It was all the response I needed.
I took the heart-shaped, green pillow lying on my bed and rode in the car. The driver kicked start the engine, and I felt every vibration it made, considering it was a rather silent car, and a fairly new one too.

I sat stiffly through the ride, hoping for no speed bumps. I closed my eyes, counted to ten, and pulled back the nauseous feeling as I hugged the green pillow to its suffocation.

Until the Dripping Stops: An Autobiographical Narrative
Chapter One: Questions for the Nauseous
An Arlihama Thoughtspresso Original Composition

Fave the Original.