Grasping for Comfort (Judah)
Warning: graphic descriptions of vomit & mentions of grief
The second Judah passes through the front door, he wants to collapse. His knees threaten to fold, so he braces himself on the wall by the entry. He lets his head hang, grounding himself as he resists the urge to fall over. He hadn’t slept more than an hour the night before, and his classes were unforgiving as usual—halfway across the campus from each other, in fact. Lovely.
After a short moment, he lets his backpack drop to the ground and heads straight for the stairs. Usually, he’ll grab whatever he can find from the kitchen and call that dinner, but tonight, the last thing he wants to do is eat. To add to his misery for the day, he has the sneaking suspicion that he’s coming down with something nasty. Ever since lunch, there’s been suspicious movement in his stomach, keeping him right along the edge of feeling unwell.
He trudges to his room and lands face-down on his bed with a muffled groan. He doesn’t even have the time to take his shoes off before he’s dead asleep.
Everything seems sort of seasick and distorted in his dreams, like a stranger constantly weeping his name from several rooms over. He gets trapped in an impossible task more than once, and half of the time, he can’t even understand English. The frustration and confusion well up significantly, and he finds himself actually walking straight off a bridge.
He wakes with a start.
His neck is stiff, and his head feels so stuffed with cotton that he isn’t sure that he hasn’t just entered another dream. His mouth is dry and stale, and the more he wakes up, the more he gets the vague feeling that whatever he ate for lunch is swiftly coming back on him. Swallowing defensively a few times, he gives himself just another moment to come to.
Eventually, he pushes himself up and rubs roughly at his eyes until his vision fills with stars. When he opens them, he comes to the realization that the light coming from outside his window has dulled to a muted orange-grey. He doesn’t know what day it is or who he is for a single, frightening moment.
A quick glance at his clock tells him he’s slept for nearly four hours, but his body tells him he hasn’t slept in weeks. There’s a twinge of pain to add to the discomfort in his stomach now, and the slight movement from earlier has become somewhat of a storm in his insides. He brings a hand up to unbutton his jeans, sighing when he gets just the tiniest bit of relief.
Unfortunately, the duration of his relief is probably two minutes at most. After those precious moments of sitting half-lucid, he starts feeling significantly queasy and rotten inside. It begins as just a tug, but within minutes, he feels like he might actually have to throw up his lunch. It hadn’t been very pleasant going down, so he grimaces at the idea of it all coming back up, sure to be tinged with stomach acid and bile.
He almost thinks he can already taste it, and that sends him hurtling as fast as he can towards the bathroom. He feels a little faint, and once he’s safely kneeling in front of the toilet, he closes his eyes against the spinning sensation. His stomach doesn’t immediately come rocketing out like he thought it would, but he still feels like it could at any moment.
His belly gives a low whine, leading straight into a cramp. He loops his arms around his stomach and holds his breath as the organ twists and curls, clearly fighting with whatever garbage they’d fed him in that godforsaken cafeteria. The cramp eventually dissolves into a rippling bout of nausea, and he hangs his head over the bowl, groaning miserably.
When another cramp almost immediately begins to seize in his stomach again, his breath gets caught in his throat. An unexpected wave of emotion unfurls in his chest, and he suddenly wants nothing more than for his mom to be there, telling him he’ll be okay.
He lets out a strained sort of noise, letting the sense of longing sink like lead in his limbs and pin him to the floor. He’s usually very good at keeping these foolishly childlike and very impossible desires suppressed, but today, his body is already too occupied fighting the fever that has his blood curdling in his veins. He wants to cry, but all he can seem to do is tremble and moan while he waits for his stomach to turn on him. His throat tightens with the force of sobbing, but no tears or sound come out, so he tries to focus on his breathing like he’d been taught.
He shuts his eyes and lets out a long, measured exhale, imagining that billowing, black smoke is coming out of his lungs. It makes him relax somehow, bringing him some sense of cleansing to the heavy weight in his chest. Unfortunately, his stomach abruptly ruins the illusion with another nauseating flip, and he opens his eyes to cough miserably over the water. Again, nothing comes up to relieve the tension in his gut.
He groans, moving to lay completely on the floor in surrender. He stays plastered there for several minutes, sweating despite the cold tiles pressed to his skin. That same swell of emotion remains dormant in his chest, pressing up into his throat and making it difficult to get a full breath.
The sense of longing doesn’t leave, either, and suddenly, he needs his aunt more than he can express. Feeling resolute, he lifts himself using the edge of the tub to leave his safe haven. He does stop at the door, giving himself one last chance to turn around and hurl if he needs to, but he doesn’t feel too urgent. The spiked, rushing feeling he’d had before has dwindled down to a rumbling ache, but he still feels awful enough to seek the only familial comfort he has left.
He’s thankful for the fact that he’s already fully dressed and ready to go, thanks to the rapid onset of his near-coma earlier. He lazily pockets his phone and heads down the stairs, hoping he can make it out without being noticed.
He’s never that lucky.
The second he gets close enough to touch the front door, his name is being called from the next room. He deflates, suddenly feeling more exhausted than ever. He can feel the fever coursing through his veins, boiling his blood almost to the point of delirium. It takes him several seconds to realize he hasn’t actually responded, and then his name is called once again, sharper this time. He debates just walking out the door, but ultimately decides that would be infinitely worse, and so he walks into the living room.
He finds his dad, limbs strewn on the couch, illuminated only by the flickering light of the TV. Judah’s stomach churns. He begs it to wait.
“Well?” is all his dad says, and Judah knows better than to ask what he means.
“I’m...I just want to go visit Aunt Josie tonight,” he admits, voice softer than he intended.
His dad lets out a sigh, turning his attention back to the TV. He seems to be thinking, though, so Judah doesn’t move. Even though he knows visiting his aunt isn’t wrong, he somehow feels like he’s being disobedient. He gets the sudden urge to roll his eyes at the thought, but that would run too high of a risk if his father saw. Besides, he’s in no condition for an argument—in all honesty, he’d probably pass out.
“Alright. School night, though, so be back by eleven. No excuses,” he draws out, eyes glued to the screen. That was a much better response than Judah was expecting, so he feels himself relax. He almost wonders if he hallucinated it all and is really still face-down in his mattress.
“Yes sir,” he finally replies, breaking out of his reverie. With that, he makes his way back to the door, slipping out before his name can be called for anything else.
It’s bitingly cold outside, making his eyes begin to water as he walks down the cracked sidewalk. He loops his arms around his stomach as it protests the movement, gurgling a little more with each step. It’s almost completely dark out now, giving sharp edges to the vague feeling of loneliness that had followed him around nearly all day. The usually numbed and muted grief is rubbed raw for some reason today, and it feeds the uneasiness in his belly.
At one point, the nausea comes back heavily, actually forcing him to bend over the sidewalk and let strings of spit fall onto the grass. He dry heaves just once, willing himself to pull it together after that. The last thing he wants is a neighbor seeing him vomit in their front yard. He turns scarlet at the thought.
Picking himself back up, he brings a hand to rest on the slight bulge of his stomach, taut with sour air and food that refuses to digest. It turns, feeling thick and heavy as he continues walking as fast as his fever-aching limbs will let him. This fever is a pulsing thing, turning everything fuzzy around the edges and making him see shapes in the darkness. He begins walking with a little more purpose, the probably irrational fear making his spine drip with freezing dread.
It’s a few more blocks before he finally comes to his streetlamp-lit destination, and he almost wants to collapse right there on the front steps. His belly gives an almighty lurch, and he does all he can do to not whimper out loud.
He knocks against the swollen wood of the door and steps back. Not even a full minute later, he hears the lock click, and the door swings open to reveal his aunt. Her eyebrows shoot up and a smile pulls at her lips.
“Oh, come in, you insane child. Who in their right mind would walk six blocks in this weather just to see their ancient aunt?” she jokes, swiftly shutting the door behind him and wrapping up in a tight hug.
He holds her back just as tightly, feeling the knot in his throat thicken. The tears that wouldn’t come before are now collecting in pools that blur his vision, wobbling just before spilling over onto his cheeks. He’s absent for a few seconds, and when she pulls back, he realizes he hasn’t been breathing.
“Hey, hey...what’s all this, hm? What’s wrong?” She quickly swoops back in, gently taking his face in her hands and wiping at his cheeks.
His face feels hot from straining against the tears, and he doesn’t even know which version of the truth to tell her. His stomach hurts too much to talk right then, too. He doesn’t really know exactly why he’s crying, anyway, so he doesn’t know what to say. Even if he did know, he isn’t sure he’d be able to say it without throwing up a little.
“Okay, how about we go sit down first. C’mere,” she suggests, starting to lead him to the sun room. At this time of the evening, it becomes a bit of a sanctuary. He figures that’s why she chose it, but it’s cold. The windows are unforgiving, and he finds himself trembling even more once they’re settled. She notices, but doesn’t say anything; she simply takes the throw blanket from the back of the couch and drapes it around his shoulders. He mutters a thanks, but his voice comes out roughened and barely there. “Of course, hon. Just let me know when you’re ready to talk, okay?” He nods, but still doesn’t know how much he wants to share.
As he sits there, he’s too aware of the heavy churning in his belly, making his nausea swell. He swallows laboriously. “Can I have some water? I feel kind of sick,” he admits, sniffling.
“Sure, Jude. Is that all you need?” He nods just enough to be seen, but it still makes his head spin. “Okay, hang tight, I’ll be back in just a second.”
Sitting there on the sofa, he has no idea how he even made it to her house alive. He feels brittle and exhausted, and his stomach is so upset that he could pass out. He doesn’t know if it’s the lack of distractions or what, but he’s suddenly feeling a whole lot worse. The horrific mixture that’s been taunting his stomach all day is sitting uncomfortably high in his chest now, contorting his organs in the most unnatural way.
Before he knows it, he’s past the point of no return. His tummy swirls, pushing up into his throat with purpose now. He tries to swallow against the feeling, but he can’t, and he panics.
“Aunt Jo,” he calls out, as loud as he dares. He’s frozen in place, holding his stomach as it lurches angrily, and it feels final. He covers his mouth with his free hand just as Aunt Josie calls back with a yes? He can hear her footsteps returning, but then everything gets very fuzzy, and he feels like he’s underwater. He only just manages to mumble, “I feel like I need to throw up,” but then he’s finishing his sentence with the action, splattering hours-old lunch onto her rug.
“Oh—oh, sweetheart,” she laments, but his ears are ringing, and she sounds miles away.
He pitches forward again, releasing a heavy stream and nearly choking on it. Pockets of air get trapped between waves, and each involuntary burp only serves to bring up more of his stomach. The clenching feeling of a new heave comes on every time he finishes spitting out the contents of the last one, and he’s confident that he’s never been so sick in his life. Looking down into the puddle keeps him throwing up, so he’s grateful once a trash bin gets placed under his chin and blocks the view. It gives him almost thirty seconds of blissful peace.
Just as his guts start churning again, he feels a hand begin to rub between his shoulder blades, and then he can’t help it—he’s crying again. “M’really sorry,” he croaks in between ragged heaves, voice thick with nausea, “I just don’t feel good.”
“It’s totally okay, kiddo, sometimes you just can’t make it. You’ll feel better once it’s all out,” she comforts, and he feels her press a hand to his forehead. She sighs quietly.
He earnestly hopes she’s right, because he has to keep puking either way. The urgency pushes at his throat insatiably, making wave after wave of yellow-tinged vomit splash against the plastic bin.
“There you go, you’re gonna be alright. Couldn’t have felt good to have all that in your stomach,” she comments. She’s right, it was torture. Is torture.
The pool that’s collecting around the trash at the bottom forces him to keep his eyes shut tight, but tears inevitably still leak from the corners. He just can’t stop shaking, either, and he’s freezing down to his bones.
He still feels sick once he’s empty, and he presses into his tummy in an attempt to stop the ache. He blindly pushes the bin away just slightly with his free hand to save himself from another fit of dry-heaving. It takes a few moments after that for the lightheadedness and nausea to dull, and then he finds himself wanting to break down in childlike upset. Something hurts, and naturally, he feels like what he doesn’t have is the only way to soothe it.
“You’re thinking pretty loud there, Jude,” Aunt Josie comments, remaining steady in rubbing along his back. He feels like the gesture should make him feel better like it usually does, but frustratingly enough, he’s still reeling.
“I wish mom was here.”
It leaves his mouth like the vomit he couldn’t hold in, and the silence that follows makes him want to take it all back. Her hand stills along his spine, and the air hangs suspended for too long. There’s a sob lodged in his chest, aching and raw.
But then, he’s being pulled close to her chest, head cradled by her gentle grasp. “I do too, Jay. I really do.” And then he can’t breathe, so he has to let out the gasping sob, turning a bit to come apart in her embrace. “I know. You’re having a rough day, but it’ll be alright again. It will.”
She’s right, but he’s so spent. His stomach is gurgling less, but still sore, and his skin feels too sensitive with the impressive fever he’s sporting. He lets himself sink and feel all of it, closing his eyes against the steady thump in his head. Her sweater is somehow comfortingly scratchy against his temple, and he melts into the familiar smell of the same, fading perfume she’s used for decades.
As soon as he starts to feel alright, he remembers what day it is, and the torture continues. A low moan escapes his lips without permission. “God, I have homework, Aunt Jo,” he quietly confesses, honestly feeling like he could be sick all over again.
“Hon, there is no way you’re going to school tomorrow with a fever this high.”
“Dad won’t care.”
“Then stay here,” she says, as if it’s the most simple thing in the world. She’s probably more than tired of hearing about his dad.
“But, he said be home—“
“I’ll call him, Judah. You need to rest, so let me worry about him, okay?” She waits until he nods. “Come on, then, up you get.” After managing to help him off the couch, she sends him straight off to the guest room so she can clean.
He turns just before he’s out the door, because he finally does feel better, and she has a lot to do with it. “Thank you,” he utters, voice as small as the room.
“You’re welcome. Always.”