Shrimp and Chocolate Cake

I can still taste the blood in my mouth when I wake up. It takes brushing my teeth a whole three times, gargling twice, and staring blankly at myself in the mirror for five minutes before it finally goes away—somewhat, at least. I can still faintly taste the metal, and when I prod my tongue along the gum line, I can remember the feel of the meat as it squished inside of my mouth, got caught between my teeth and left my lips bloody.

I’ve got work this morning, but with how I look—remarkably not covered in blood, but looking as if I barely slept a wink—I doubt I’d look the part. I have always had dark circles under my eyes, that got worse as I aged, but this? I could smack on some powder and some mascara and some lipstick and make myself look somewhat alive, but the mere thought of doing so much makes me want to retch. There’s a fear in the back of my mind that if I did throw up, it would come out red and sticky, and tasting of dirty copper pennies, like when I was young and liked to stick coins in my mouth for fun… but mostly because my mother told me not to.

“Sweetheart?”

My shoulder jerks almost violently as soon as a warm hand touches it. My nerves feel fried, like I’ve been in a car accident, or on a roller coaster after downing six espresso shots.

“Sweetie?” I vaguely hear my fiancé repeat an endearment. His hand is no longer on my shoulder, but he’s got both held up, I can see in the mirror, as if approaching a startled animal. “Are you alright?”

I finally close my eyes, expecting some sort of relief; some sort of oh, rest but that doesn’t come. I just see—the red. The face. The red face, meaty and not at all human, but capable of expressing human-like emotion. Then again, I suppose all sentient beings are capable of rage and hunger.

“Yes?” I force through tight lips. “What time is it?”

“It’s a little after 6,” he says carefully. “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” I repeat again, trying to put some sort of steel behind my words. Instead, I sound like a sick child, trying to talk their parents into letting them go out with friends. I clear my throat and try again: “Yes, I’m fine. Good morning.”

It’s just a cold is all it is. Or food poisoning. I ate something bad last night—probably that sushi, even though it came from a place Jamie and I have been to a million times before, and never had such a problem with. Maybe it was rotten fish or something, and it gave me bad dreams, and now I’m just feeling a little sick that’s all. It could have been the slice of chocolate cake we had for dessert. I’ve never had an issue with sugar before bed before, but…

He stares at me, lips pulled into a confused smile, brows furrowed as if he isn’t sure whether to ask again or laugh at my attempt at sounding ‘fine’.

“Alright,” he says slowly. “You look… pale. You look really pale, and—jeez, Elle, you’re shaking like a damn leaf. You should lay back down. Maybe I’ll bring you some soup later, huh? Just—just go back to sleep.”

But the thought of going to sleep and seeing that face again is enough to make me burn in the back of my throat and lurch towards the toilet to violently retch out my insides. I can feel it coming out through my nose, can feel the acid spreading from the back of my tongue to the rest of my mouth, and coating my teeth in a grainy film that I’m sure won’t go away until I brush my teeth another three times.

Vaguely, I feel Jamie holding my hair back and saying shh shh and it’s okay quietly behind me. In the back of my mind, I know it’s a sweet gesture; one that he doesn’t have to do, and if the roles were reversed, I can’t imagine I’d want to be so close to someone spewing last night’s sushi and chocolate cake out of their face. Maybe that makes me a horrible fiancé, but it’s not like he has long hair. I doubt the situation will ever come up—so it’s not like he’ll ever know I wouldn’t do the same for him.

Through the tears, I can make out disgusting pink chunks in the muddy brown vomit. My brain, I think. It’s my brain. But of course it’s not. It’s just shrimp and chocolate cake.