Staggering Results

Crouched against the wall of the handicapped stall, body battles the mind. "Vomiting is a choice, not a necessity," I try to convince myself. A fever droplet makes a timeless leap from my forehead to the cold, white tile at my feet. Soaking into the urine-stained grout between two squares, it's gone before my eyes come back into focus. Staggering back to my cubicle, I'm a walking zombie collapsing against file cabinets and clinging to fake potted plants.

"I'm leaving," I gurgle and cough as I pass my manager's desk. The next thing I remember is waking up drenched with sweat under six inches of blankets in the hollow cave of a living space I have come to know as Shadow. Barely making out the time, twelve noon, my cell phone blinds my sleep encrusted eyes. This black metal house has become a sauna in the heat of midday. Rolling down the windows means risking sunburn, but it's the only remedy. After one more dose of NyQuil, the fever and aching bones are lost in a dream. I wake at sunset, fully purged of the demons of sickness that would return sooner than expected in another form.