It’s there; I know it is. Watching and waiting to spread its pestilence. Green skinned with many mouths and no eyes. It’s there in restaurants spread by the children. It’s there when gluttons know no bounds. It’s there when disease stakes out a home.

I woke when the abrasive sound of his vomiting-cough breeched the barrier of my dream, throwing me violently back into this world. I can feel it behind me, standing in the door. No one else can ever see it, standing tall with a vile stench pouring from its pores. But I can see it. And it knows I can. And it waits for the inevitable.

Luckily, I woke on my left side which put my back to the room and I was grateful for this one small thing. Had I woken facing the doorway, the cursed doorway, I would have automatically seen the wretched thing and could not prepare. I most definitely couldn’t have had a hope, however minute, that it would pass by, thinking me still asleep. But as I continued to feign sleep, my stomach began to churn and bubble uncomfortably. Its presence grew behind me like the heat from a fire until it burned against the skin of my back. The bubbling grew worse and I had to move. I rolled onto my back and there it was, in my periphery, passive as ever and knowing that its appearance here was more than any words it could utter.

And just that tiny, blurred view of it was enough. The rolling of my stomach solidified the organ into a hard mass, the pain as if I’d had a meal earlier of concrete that finally hardened. With one hand to it, I fell out of the bed and crawled to the closest bathroom. The porcelain bowl was a welcome sight and I embraced it with open arms. Body heaving, the only thing occupying my mind during the horrible ordeal was, ridiculous as it may seem, the haircut I’d recently given myself just a few days ago. Long in the back, but short enough in the front that it did not want to stay in a ponytail. The rest of my hair was safe tied away, but the rebels hung down before me and swayed with my movements.

I clenched my eyes shut now, only wanting it to stop. Over and over unceasing, one pause leading into yet another chorus like a rest in a measure of beats. Over and over, sustenance gushing out in an unholy cascade, unceasing for what felt like an hour, maybe two, before the Sun gave the sky its early hue.

When it did finally come to its close, I heard a moan and then a strong snore from his new resting place on the bathroom floor. I got up from my aching knees and washed before nudging him with one toe to see if he was awake at all. The answer I got was negative, so I let him be. After all, he’s the one who summoned it and brought it into my house to torture me.

Back in the bedroom, it was gone and I was elated that its sickly form no longer darkened my door. I crawled into the bed, feeling worse than before and thankful that tomorrow was another day. So I turned off the bells and whistles that called me to arms once at eight and then again at nine and instead wrote a note I hoped someone would find. It was on a bright pink post-it stuck to the middle of my forehead and it said to all who cared to read:

Woke up at five

Leave me alone.

And God have mercy on the man that does not heed.

Das Ende

***   And this is how you turn the horrible experience of waking up at 4 in the morning to a man throwing up into a story. The best part? I hardly had to edit this at all. It was one of those magical, flowing story moments that beautifully happen at the most godawful hours of the night. The funny part is that I consider those moments "vomiting onto the page". Everytime I read it, I also realize it ended up rather lyrical, so that's a total plus! Thanks for reading and make sure to drop by my site for more stories!  ***