“I'll get that,” I said, turning to head for the kitchen.
Once there, I quickly found the jug and began to run the cold tap.
As I did, a new explosion of nausea erupted in my stomach,
disorientation laying siege to my head. My legs turned to jelly,
threatening to give way. I reached out, grabbing the sink to hold on
for dear life. I felt like acid was burning in my chest and belly
while the room span around me. I leaned forward, feeling a coughing
fit rising through my throat, my grip tightening until my knuckles
were white. Then it came: painful, acidic retching, the last drops
of bile leaving my body.
“Is everything okay, Robert?” I heard mum shout from the other
room.
“Fine,” I coughed back, standing up straight. And remarkably, I
was. As I released my grip on the sink, I realised that I'd not felt
that alive in years, maybe ever. “Hey, ho,” I said to myself,
splashing my face with water and rinsing my mouth. Drying my face
quickly, I filled the jug and returned to the living room, where
Raven was playing with mud.
