Love Can't Fix Everything

Don’t puke, I tell myself. Don’t you dare—

“Are you ok?” Rafael calls from the living room.

“Fine,” I croak. He won’t understand. He’s never had a migraine.

The acidic taste of vomit gathers in my mouth. Swirling shadows cloud my sight, puffs and tentacles obscuring the light and blurring my vision. And the pounding—

“You sure?”

Shut up for one minute—

I collapse to my knees in the hallway. A brown mush of pizza chunks and chocolate spews from my mouth. My eyes shut tightly. I beg the darkness behind my lids to take the pain away.

My trembling limbs drag me into the bathroom and across the icy linoleum. The sanctuary of the snug corner between the tub and the toilet welcomes me home.

Silence strokes my aching ears. Dimness cools my burning eyes when tears failed to do so. In the desperate hope of relieving the throbbing, my palms press into my eye sockets. Still the pounding but if I get just one minute—

“You don’t look good.”

Rafael steps over me and squats on the edge of the tub, his bony knees digging into my shoulder blades.

I lunge for the toilet; he throws the lid open with an echoing clang. Green bile hurtles from my stomach.

He holds my hair and strokes my back.

“Shh, I’m here. I’ll take care of you.” He’ll never understand.

Go away. I cover my ears and force back the vomit. You can’t fix this.

* * *

Author's Note: This was actually one of my first attempts at microfiction, back when I was still in grad school; I decided to dig it back up and post it here. It was based on how I felt before I got my migraines under control. I hope you enjoyed this look at my writing style way back when!