Annabeth had been planning this trip since July. Ever since I told her I had never been to Disneyland. Being a born-again-California-native, it was almost as if she had taken great personal offense to my lack of knowledge surrounding the park's ins-and-outs.
That’s why I didn’t have the heart to tell her that the park was about to see my ins-and-outs if I didn’t find my way out of this line for Space Mountain. It wasn’t the ride. In fact on any other occasion I would be crossing my fingers for the seat in front, but today I just felt sick. What had started as a mild headache and an “off” feeling, had gradually morphed into “I'm definitely not feeling good,” in a matter of hours.
“Percy,” Annabeth said excitedly, “we are so close to the front!”
And that was it for me. I couldn’t ruin her excitement; not when she looked like a little kid in a candy shop, bouncing back and forth on the balls of her feet.
“It’s going to be awesome,” I said, trying to match her enthusiasm.
She smiled and reached for my hand, before swinging both of our arms back and forth as we waited in line. With two available cars left on the ride, we managed to get seated next, just behind a couple presumably on their honeymoon, as they both had Mickey ears donning a tuxedo and a veil.
I let Annabeth step into the car first before sliding in beside her. For a second I contemplated telling an employee that I wanted off the ride, but I hesitated just long enough for the lap bar to lower into our laps and figured that was the point of no return.
The rollercoaster rumbled beneath us before jumping forward and running down the first bit of track. Just as predicted, it didn't take long for it to build up speed and we were plunged into total darkness.
I could feel my stomach growing queasier as the ride continued. I blindly felt for Annabeth’s hand along the lap bar.
“Are you okay?” Annabeth shouted, feeling my hand squeezing hers.
The ride continued to whip around blind corners and it was all I could do not to add vomit to the sticky footwells of the coaster.
I saw a flash of light from a ride-experience camera before the cars started to slow down and return to the start. I tucked my head in between my knees in a last ditch effort to get rid of the nausea and at the very least spare everyone else the displeasure of watching me puke if I wasn’t successful.
“Percy?” Annabeth asked, leaning down close to me. “What’s going on? Are you feeling sick?”
I nodded, trying to keep my eyes closed.
“Do you have a bag?” Annabeth asked the ride attendant, “my boyfriend is going to throw up.”
I could hear her futzing with the paper before she placed the small, open, motion sickness bag below my chin. “It’s okay.” She soothed, “just let it out.”
I felt a prickly heat curl around my ears before I threw up into the waiting bag.
An impatient ride goer must have voiced their disgust because the next thing I heard was Annabeth yelling in my defense. “Hey!” She shouted, “you think he wants to be sick? Just give him a second!
I felt her fingers card through my hair. “How are you doing? Do you feel better?”
I shook my head.
She took the used bag and rolled the top over, tucking the tabs in on either side. “Come on,” she said, gesturing to the exit, “we’ll go outside and get some fresh air. That should help.”
I slowly climbed out of the car, making sure not to jostle my stomach too much. I looked over at the ride attendant who looked completely unbothered by the incident. “Hey man, I’m sorry.” I croaked.
He just waved me off. “It happens all the time. Don’t sweat it.”
I figured he was just being nice; not really believing this was an everyday occurence on Space Mountain; a ride marketed towards families. I accepted the reassurance nonetheless.
By the time Annabeth and I made our way back outside, my stomach was starting to sour again.
“Beth, I need to sit down,” I said, slouching down on a nearby bench.
“Still feeling pretty rough?” She asked, squatting down in front of me to get a better look at my face.
“I think I'm sick,” I said, before swallowing some thick saliva.
She scoffed. “Yeah, the vomiting kind of clued me in on that one Seaweed Brain.”
“No,” I said, thickly. “I think I'm actually sick.”
Annabeth rubbed her hand across my knee. “You think this is more than motion sickness?”
I could feel my stomach beginning to crawl its way up my throat again. “Beth. Move.” I said, doing my best to hold down the upcoming vomit.
“Behind you Percy!” she said, turning my shoulders towards the long planter, “into the dirt.”
I followed her lead, twisting in my seat just in time to throw up into the flower bed situated behind the row of benches.
“That’s it Perce,” Annabeth soothed, rubbing her hand down my back, “just get it all up.”
Annabeth’s POV
Percy heaved again, crawling up on his knees to position himself over the back of the bench, completely facing the dirt. He let out another guttural heave, this time bringing up what I could only imagine was a replay of this morning’s buffet-style breakfast.
A mom who was sitting at a neighboring bench, offered me a baby wipe from the diaper bag at her side. “For when he is done,” she said, offering a sympathetic smile.
“Thank you so much.” I said, reaching for it.
“No problem,” she said, waving it off. “My husband is about to get off the ride with our oldest and I already anticipate him fairing about the same,” she giggled.
Percy pressed his forehead against the back of the bench, taking in hungry, deep breaths.
I leaned in closer next to him. “How are we doing?” I asked, rubbing my hands across his shoulder blades.
“I don’t feel good,” he said, punctuating his statement with a wet burp.
My heart pinched at the statement. “Can I do anything?”
He shook his head. “Jus’- ” he pressed a fist to his mouth to smother another burp. “Just need a minute.”
I pressed my hand to the back of his neck. “I think you have a fever.”
Percy just hummed in acknowledgment. “ ‘m sorry, Annabeth.”
“Don’t be,” I said, running my hand across his low back, “you can’t help it if you don’t feel good.”
He spit into the dirt before turning around and sitting on the bench. “I know but you’ve been looking forward to this trip.”
I sat down next to him. “I’ve been looking forward to a trip with you. If that means pay-per-view movies in bed, while you sweat this out, then so be it.”
He slumped against the back of the bench, wrapping his arm around his middle. “More like, puke it out.”
I laughed. “Do you think you're done for now?”
“For now,” he said
“Here,” I said, offering him the proffered baby wipe, “use this to wipe your mouth and we can make our way back to the hotel.”
“You know, I don’t feel so guilty now, letting your Dad pay for the more expensive hotel,” he said wiping the sick off his lips, “now I’m just grateful it’s in walking distance.”
Annabeth nodded in agreement. “Absolutely.”
Upon learning that Walt Disney, a demigod himself, had built Disneyland and the surrounding Disney hotels as a refuge for demigods — a place safe from monsters — Annabeth’s father had booked them a room at Disney’s Grand Californian. At the time Annabeth and Percy had protested, feeling bad about the extra cost. Mr. Chase wouldn't hear of it. “You guys enjoying a trip without the threat of monsters is worth it to me. Just don’t eat any of the snacks in the hotel minibar and we’ll call it even.”
“Do you want to start walking back to the room?” Annabeth asked.
Christmas is one of the few days of the year that makes Judah feel warm. There could be a blizzard outside and twelve beers coursing through his dad’s veins, but Judah’s heart remains thawed. Despite the grief that’s been breathing down his neck since first grade, he’s managed to be lucky enough to avoid the seasonal depression that burdens so many people. He knows his mom wouldn’t want him to mourn on her favorite day of the year.
Under the tree in his living room sits a box covered in gold fabric. It’s filled with letters to his mom. Every year, he adds something new. Sometimes it’s a collection of the poetry he’s written over the year, sometimes it’s raw scribblings he bled over on the nights where all he wanted was to cry to his mom.
This year, it’s a carefully crafted paper crane. At the start of the year, he began a list of everything he wished he could tell her. When Arlo went on an origami kick over the summer, he’d tried to teach Judah. The only thing that worked out for him was a crane, albeit a rather wrinkled one. He spent hours practicing to make this one perfect, and everything he wanted to tell her is tattooed across every inch of the paper.
Tucking it in among the other papers, Judah feels the warmth in his chest blossom. He takes another moment to just look down at the collection before he closes the box and stands.
And, whoa.
His vision tunnels, and he grasps for the doorframe that he’s lucky is directly to his right. It takes several long seconds for his eyes to start working again, but his head is still spinning. He feels almost—drunk?
He swore after his last hangover that he’d never touch another drink. So far, he hasn’t, so that’s not the problem here. He starts asking himself what could be wrong, but his body gives him an answer before he really wants it. It comes in the form of nausea seeping over him like lava.
Pressing a fist to his lips, he forces himself to swallow against the rising feeling. It’s all so strange. He felt fine a few minutes ago. Right?
He tries to remember the morning and gets the sinking feeling that his love for Christmas has been cloaking a bone-deep exhaustion and lack of appetite all day. Maybe he’s reading into it too much, but his head has begun to throb. Or was it already? It’s all a bit much all of a sudden, and he finds himself retreating to his bedroom without a second thought.
He retrieves his phone from the bedside table and pulls up Aunt Jo’s contact.
When are you guys heading over?
He stares at his phone and waits for the delivered to change to read. The sudden urge to climb into bed and never come back out claws at him, but he knows that would never fly. His dad is right downstairs, and if Judah doesn’t come down before long, he’s sure he’ll notice. He doesn’t need things going downhill before they’ve even had dinner. It’s not like he doesn’t want to see his granddad or his aunt, the problem is just that he sort of feels like throwing up now, and he doesn’t really want an audience if he can help it.
With that in mind, he trails over to the bathroom and locks the door. Being in such close proximity to the toilet makes him feel even worse. He remembers the last time he got sick, and how long he’d spent draped over the murky water praying he’d just die.
He needs this one to be quick. With shaking hands, he braces himself on the tank of the toilet and forces a cough. His stomach presses upward uncomfortably, but nothing comes up. Another few coughs certainly takes him close to gagging, but apart from some watery spit, nothing makes it into the toilet.
He straightens up with a quiet, frustrated groan. How is it that his stomach was nearly flying out of him downstairs but won’t budge in front of a toilet?
His phone buzzes on the countertop beside him. He picks it up. It’s Aunt Jo.
Heading over in a minute, I’ll see you soon!
He’s simultaneously relieved and disappointed. If he just had a few more minutes, he might be able to get whatever wants out out. As it is, he’s screwed.
“Judah,” his father calls from the stairs. Double screwed.
He collects himself just enough to walk out and call out an answer. His head aches with the echo of his own voice.
“The hell are you doing up there?”
“Forgot my phone, Aunt Jo was texting me. They’ll be here any minute,” he answers, trying not to bristle at the tone of his dads voice. He should be used to it by now, really.
“That’s just great. Get your ass down here and finish up in the kitchen.”
“Yes sir,” he replies, wanting so desperately for things to calm down before they get here.
He only allows himself five more seconds of private misery before starting down the stairs. As he rounds the corner, the smell of the food he’d been cooking just earlier suddenly has him lingering close to the sink in case the nausea overwhelms him.
He finally takes the ham out of the oven and makes every effort to avoid looking at it. One spare glance at the mashed potatoes has his stomach churning badly. For a moment, he wants to just give up. He wants to throw up, go to his room, and sleep for the next few weeks.
Instead, he takes the iced tea he’d brewed earlier out of the fridge and sets the pitcher on the counter. The effort has his arm aching for no good reason. Thankfully, that’s the last of what he has to do.
“Care to explain why you’re just standing there instead of setting the table?” His fathers gritty, slightly slurred voice drawls behind him. So much for being done.
“I’ll do that now.”
His father just hums, low and dismissive. It’s clear from both the collection of bottles in the trash and his eyes that he’s already downed more than enough alcohol.
Judah gets that the holidays are hard when you’re missing someone—he gets that. He also gets that there’s a reason why Granddad stayed with Aunt Jo overnight after he flew instate instead of here. What he doesn’t get is getting piss-drunk every year and acting like you’re not. It’s certainly not convincing.
With a sigh, Judah ignores the way his head is starting to spin, gathers four plates, and places them on the table. He goes back for silverware and napkins, and then he dares to tell himself he’s done everything. Thankfully, before his dad can berate him about anything else, there’s a knock at the door. He instantly feels better.
His father beats him to answering the door, and Judah watches the painful exchange of his relatives pretending that they’d missed each other. In reality, Judah really has missed his grandad. After all, he’s the closest thing Judah has ever had to a father figure.
He almost feels well as his grandad hugs him. He can smell the same cologne he’s used for the last few decades. It reminds him of every last good year of his life. It’s almost hard not to start crying.
But instead, he pulls away, stepping toward his aunt and letting her wrap him up in her arms tightly. He really does almost cry then, tell her how awful he feels, but he somehow manages not to.
They say the same bullshit about how are you and what have you been up to and how are things in Colorado, but Judah starts to tune out. No matter how nice it is to see them again, he can no longer ignore the churning wake in his stomach.
His father gives him a look, and he knows immediately he has to go get the food. They settle in at the table while he goes to retrieve it. When he’s brought everything to the table, he’s more than happy to sink down into his own chair.
However, he’s much less happy about having to load up his plate with food he absolutely doesn’t want. Aunt Jo had brought some casserole and fruit, so he goes mainly for those. He pales at the mere idea of eating ham and buttery mashed potatoes.
“So, how was school this semester, Jay? Are you excited to graduate next year?” His aunt asks.
He manages to swallow a mouthful of casserole and wash it down with some tea so it’ll hopefully stay down. He wracks his brain to try and think of anything positive to say. In reality, he’d barely scraped by in calculus and avoided almost everyone he could. The idea of graduation is exciting, but the idea of college applications makes his stomach churn a little harder.
“Yeah, for sure, um. Well, my history teacher took us to that museum downtown, it was pretty cool.” He clears his throat. It’s thick with nausea. “I had some classes with Arlo, so that was good too.”
He prays he won’t have to say anything else. With so much food in front of him and his dad’s eyes burning into the side of his head, he’s so dizzy he can hardly stand it. Another wave of nausea passes through him then, worse than the last.
“Is that the same boy I met last time?” Granddad asks before taking a big bite of ham. Judah’s stomach gives a violent turn, so he only dares to nod. “Mm. He seems like a good kid. There’s not too many of those anymore.”
“Yeah,” he breathes. An uneasy chill breaks out across his skin. He wishes Arlo was here.
The fireplace crackles in the silence that follows. Judah chokes down a few more forkfuls of his dinner. Mom would’ve known how to keep things light.
“You know, I was thinking maybe you could come see me in the mountains soon, kid. I bet you’d really like it.”
Judah feels a pang of guilt for not having visited in so long, but then again, he hasn’t really been allowed to do much at all. His dad nods, says it’s a great idea, but Judah knows that’s a load of horse shit. The second Judah brings it up later, it’ll be shot down in a fiery blaze.
“That would be amazing, Granddad, thank you. I’d love to.”
Thankfully that sparks some stories about Colorado, and his guests’ attention is mercifully directed away from him. He’s finished over half his plate now, and it’s sitting like jagged rocks in his stomach.
If his head weren’t aching so badly, he might have a chance of listening to their conversation, but as it is, he’s barely lucid. What shreds of energy he has left are focused on keeping his dinner where it belongs. He breaks out in a cold sweat.
When he’s mostly cleared his plate, the ache in his stomach has almost tripled. He’s taking small sips of tea to keep things flowing in the right direction. The gesture’s effectiveness is dwindling exponentially.
For a couple minutes, his father disappears from the table with the excuse that he’d left a candle burning in the other room. Judah knows that means he’s going to go chug another couple of warm beers, but he’s smart enough even now to know better than to hint at that.
He tries desperately during that time to look even slightly engaged in the conversation. Nausea pools in the pit of his stomach, blooming toward his throat. He’s freezing, though he can feel the heat radiating from his palm where it’s resting on his leg.
His father returns, and Judah doesn’t miss the way he has to grip the table while he’s sitting down to keep from swaying. Embarrassment flames hot up the skin of his neck. He takes another sip of tea.
Only this time, he can’t seem to swallow it. He sits there, stone-still, willing his body to obey. It takes several long seconds, and the tea is warmed from saliva when he finally gets it down.
His stomach churns dangerously in response, his body suddenly flushing hot. He feels the blood drain from is face in an instant. He gets the awful sensation of his dinner sloshing up thick toward his throat, and he has to go—now.
“Excuse me,” he interrupts, pushing away from the table.
“Judah,” his father says. He ignores it. He knows he’ll pay for it later, as if he’s not already paying for his own existence now.
By the time he’s halfway up the stairs, he’s stifling gags against his sleeve. A wash of watery spit flows over his tongue, and he heaves his way through the hallway. His stomach lurches with finality as he passes the threshold of the bathroom. He’s only just made it through the doorway when a good portion of his dinner comes splattering out onto the tile and bathmat.
He locks himself inside the bathroom and prays no one heard him get sick on the floor. His dad would kill him. If this doesn’t kill him, that is.
The second his knees hit the cold tile, he’s vomiting again, blushing the clear water below an ugly shade of beige. He’s doing his best to be quiet, but being violently ill isn’t exactly what you’d consider a peaceful activity—especially when the food coming back up hasn’t even had time to digest.
There’s a brief moment where he stops, thick spit hanging from his mouth. He gets a few seconds to breathe, but then his stomach is churning all over again, and he knows the worsened aching means it’s working hard to bring everything else up he’s eaten today, too.
He’s begging the universe please not again, but all it sends back a resounding yes—again.
Some air comes up with a sudden retch, and then he sprays the back of the toilet with the beginnings of round two. He’s sort of surprised no one has come to see what he’d hurried away for, but he’s more grateful for that than anything. At least his father is maybe distracted.
As he continues to heave uncontrollably, it becomes evident that, yes, he’s already throwing up the sandwich and leftover pizza he’d eaten for lunch. The nausea ticks back up a few notches at the idea of something sitting so long inside of him and now coming back up with no chance of stopping it.
By the time his stomach ebbs to a gentle churn, he’s trembling wildly and so dizzy he could faint, but he has bigger problems. Half of his dinner is still splayed out thick across the floor to his left. He dares to look at the damage and has to whip his head back around to the toilet to be sick again.
He makes sure he’s done, and though he doesn’t feel all that much better, it’s a comfort to know he’s not at risk of emptying his full stomach at the dinner table. The throbbing in his temples has also dulled a little, which he’s certainly not complaining about.
He tries to make quick work of mopping up his vomit with toilet paper and spraying the bathroom with his cologne to hopefully mask the sour, sick smell should anyone walk by. He washes his mouth out at the sink and sees that his skin has gone an unnatural yellow-grey. He’s covered in sweat. There’s no way he can play this off, but he’s going to have to try.
His legs shake as he leaves the bathroom, and he attempts to steady them while he goes down the stairs. His stomach gives a hollow moan. The lingering nausea has him swallowing repeatedly as he approaches the table again.
There are three pairs of eyes on him, each laced with varying levels of concern. His father mostly just looks annoyed. Judah tries to pretend like it doesn’t affect him.
He clears his throat. “Sorry, I uh…,” he rasps, raw and sore. “I really needed to make a call.”
“Jude, you look awful, hon. Are you okay?”
Judah tries to perk up a little at that. He’s sure it’s not working.
“Oh, yeah, it’s just Arlo. His, um, his cat passed away earlier today, and I promised I’d call him before it got too late. He was pretty upset, so…that was hard.”
Judah prays his aunt doesn’t remember that Arlo’s cat died over a year ago. Thankfully, if she does remember, it doesn’t show.
“Oh no, on Christmas morning? That’s really tough. I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, me too,” Judah breathes, hoping they’ll just drop it and move onto something else. Death tends to do that.
And it does. Their attention drifts away from him again, and he can relax a little. He spends a few minutes just collecting himself. His eyes are aching along with his stomach and head, longing to shut and stay shut.
He lets them drop for just a few seconds, and when he opens them again, he finds himself looking at the remnants on his plate, which is just about the worst place his eyes could’ve landed. The smell suddenly hits him again, and the memory of being sick along with the sight of everyone still eating what he’d just had to violently throw up brings on a nausea he can’t ride out. Suddenly, heat is exploding in the back of his throat, and bitter vomit fills his mouth with a muted gush.
He doesn’t bother excusing himself this time, and he’s not going to make it to the bathroom, so he settles for the kitchen sink. He spits it all out, a string of curses repeating over and over in his head. He’s not done.
In hopes of covering the sound and washing out the sink at the same time, he turns on the faucet full blast. His bile-tinged breakfast makes a reappearance all over the stainless steel. His legs are barely holding him up as he curls over the edge of the sink with another heave.
“Oh, Jude…,” he hears behind him. It’s Aunt Jo. His heart drops. He’d tried so hard. “I knew you weren’t feeling good.”
Her hand runs across his back, and he vomits again. His stomach is already so sore, his head spinning. If he doesn’t stop puking soon, he’s going to faint.
“Alright, now what the fuck is this,” his father bites.
“He’s sick, Chris, give him a break,” Aunt Josie retorts. She never backs down when it comes to him, thank God.
“Probably just wasted. Little piece of shit stole my liquor not even two weeks ago.”
“Oh yeah? Well being drunk doesn’t give you a raging fever like his—you would know.”
At that, Judah retches more violently than he has all night. He’s scared for his aunt, and this argument has his nerves sharp, his insides knotting tighter. He remembers the beating he’d received upon his father’s discovery. He vomits from the very pit of his stomach.
Aunt Jo is still rubbing his back, so his father hadn’t lunged at her immediately. That makes him feel marginally better. He hears footsteps and then a door slam, and the relief of his father being gone is tangible. Still, his vision is blacking out around the edges, and he’s feeling so weak that he could collapse.
With one final, choking retch, he’s left panting over the drain. Aunt Jo uses the pull-away faucet to wash everything down, and then she brushes back some of the sweat-matted hair from his forehead. He could start sobbing if he weren’t so dehydrated.
“He okay?” He hears a deeper voice say. His grandad is standing in the doorway of the kitchen when Judah dares to straighten up. His father really is gone. He hopes he isn’t driving that drunk.
“Got sick to his stomach. I think he has a pretty bad fever,” she replies.
“M’okay. Really sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry, Jay. Throwing up is not something you have control over.”
“Should’ve just stayed in the bathroom,” he murmurs, whole body aching.
“Jude, how many times have you thrown up today?”
He hums. “Once earlier. I tried to make it through dinner, but I just started feeling so sick, I didn’t mean to waste all that food,” he murmurs, the tears that wouldn’t come earlier beginning to well up. “I’m sorry.”
“Judah, it’s okay,” she insists, pulling him in for a hug. Her hand draws over his back.
Granddad comes a little closer. “I’m sorry you’re feeling so awful, Judah. Your father has no right treating you the way he does.”
Judah stays silent at that. The less he talks about it all, the better. Talking about it hasn’t done him any good in twelve years.
“I think I need to lay down,” he finally murmurs, aching and exhausted.
Wordlessly, Aunt Jo begins to lead him upstairs. His fever comes back with a vengeance, swelling into a thick fog in his head. His body pulses with pain and fatigue. Tears keep slipping down his cheeks without permission.
His mouth feels fuzzy, his limbs full of static. Consciousness leaves him like draining blood. An angry ocean of darkness curls around him.
Whoever came up with the phrase “fever dream” certainly made it sound too pleasant. It’s more of gut-wrenching nightmares, terrors unimaginable in wakefulness. He’s drowning. He’s drowning, he’s drowning, he’s—
He’s looking at Arlo. Chest heaving, hot tears collecting under his chin, he stares at the boy beside him. He must still be dreaming.
“It’s okay, Judah, you’re alright. It’s just me,” he reassures quietly.
“You’re…,” Judah starts, unable to form any other words. His heart meets his stomach in his throat.
“Yeah, it’s okay.”
He’s shaking, drenched in sweat. He can barely remember a thing. Arlo flicks on the lamp beside them and sits carefully on the edge of the bed.
“Are you, um. Do you feel any better?”
Judah brings a trembling hand up to wipe the tears off his face. The question wakes him up a little. Memories start to trickle back in, hazy and uncomfortable to remember.
All of a sudden, he’s feeling every bit as miserable as before—probably worse. With a groan, he rests his head in his hands, the room swaying dangerously under him. His stomach wrenches tightly.
“Arlo…,” he starts. I don’t feel good. Get me a trash can. Move so I don’t puke on you.
He can’t get the words out.
“Yeah?”
His stomach pitches, floods full. Spit gathers warm under his tongue. He shuts his eyes tightly and feels a drawn-out rush of liquid pass his lips and cascade down his shirt into his lap.
“Oh shit,” Arlo blurts, and Judah’s pretty sure that’s the first time he’s ever heard him curse. He’ll tease him about it later. As of now, he’s a little occupied with violently emptying his stomach.
Thankfully, Arlo retrieves the trash can and gets it back to him before he has to be sick again. The smell and the feeling of puke soaking through to his legs sends his stomach reeling worse. He’s buried in the trash can, splattering his insides all over it, over and over.
If he’s not imagining it, Arlo’s hand is carefully brushing across his back. If this is a dream, it’s much less awful than the ones he was having before. He’d take puking over drowning any day.
As the fog begins to clear from his mind and his stomach stops lurching, he begins to think maybe it’s not a dream at all. He ignores his embarrassment for now and wipes a sleeve across his mouth. It’s going to have to be washed, anyway.
“What,” he barely manages, swallowing. “What are you doing here?”
Arlo shifts his weight, blinks. “Your aunt called me. Um. She said you were getting really upset and sick and kept asking for me.”
Judah frowns. He searches for the memory, even a trace, but he can’t remember that at all. Then again, he barely remembers the walk to his room, let alone anything after.
“Oh.”
“Yeah. And uh, she said she’s sorry to hear my cat died?”
That he does remember. His cheeks flush hot. There isn’t really a solid, logical explanation for that one.
“I needed an excuse for bailing from the table to go puke, so…I just couldn’t think of anything else to say. I’m sorry.”
“Oh, it’s okay. I figured maybe it was a fever thing.”
Judah shakes his head. Silence grows thick. He’s heavy with illness.
“I’m really sorry you’re so sick, Jude.”
“It’s okay, I feel a little better…,” he replies, unsure if he’s really telling the truth or not. “Thank you for coming. I wanted to see you, but not exactly like this.”
“I knew I couldn’t just stay home knowing you were feeling so bad. Besides, I still owe you for that night at my house,” Arlo replies, his own face growing crimson.
“Well…thank you,” he quietly repeats.
“You’re welcome. Um. Let me help you with this.”
Judah goes to refuse, but then he realizes just how much of a mess he made and how little energy he has to do something about it. So, silently, he allows Arlo to take the trash can, pull back the blankets, and carefully take his shirt off.
“I should shower…,” he murmurs, feeling much too exhausted to even think about moving.
“Yeah. Do you need help getting there, or like, clean clothes or something?”
Judah nods, eyes falling shut. He lets them linger there for a long moment. He feels Arlo’s tentative hand on his bare back, and he opens them.
“Here,” he encourages, slowly helping Judah out of bed.
They cross the room just as slow, finally making it to the bathroom. Judah sits on the toilet lid with a groan. Arlo turns the water on.
“What clothes do you want?”
Judah shrugs just barely. “Anything.”
“Okay. You’re not gonna pass out or anything right?”
“Probably not.”
It’s not a super comforting answer, but Arlo only lingers a bit before retreating to the bedroom. He returns with a t-shirt, some boxers, and some sweatpants. Judah thanks him, and he leaves again.
Judah is alone in the bathroom then, steam beginning to fill the air. He can’t find it in himself to get up for several minutes. When he does, his vision turns to static, and he grips the countertop beside him. The room spins.
He turns quickly toward the toilet, lifting the lid and gagging up a few streams of bile and stomach acid. When he feels finished, he undresses and steps into the shower, immediately sinking to sit in the tub. He hugs his stomach, letting the water just fall on him.
It feels really nice. He’s not freezing for the first time in a long time, and his headache almost retreats entirely. There, under the steady water, he suddenly remembers his father.
Surely he isn’t back home or Arlo wouldn’t be here so late. The thought of him still being out there makes his stomach twist with anxiety, and yet, he feels like he can finally breathe. It’s a feeling he’s never quite been able to shake when his dad is out somewhere drunk with no contact.
He leans forward and throws up a little. He’s too sore to really retch, so whatever watery nothing comes up is weak and comes out all on its own. He wonders briefly if he’ll ever stop puking.
He stays in the shower until the water starts to run cold and make him dizzy again. It takes more effort than he’s willing to admit to climb out of the shower and dry off. He dresses slowly and realizes he’d forgotten to flush the toilet.
He does, then washes his mouth out. The last thing he needs is to wake up with his mouth tasting like puke again. With the reminder that Arlo is probably still out there, he musters up the energy to leave the room.
His bed has been stripped, and Arlo is sitting in the chair by the window, looking down at a book Judah has never picked up from his own bookshelf. When he walks in, Arlo looks up.
“Hey. How do you feel?”
Judah shrugs. “Little better. Threw up a couple more times.”
“Sorry.”
“S’okay.”
Arlo closes the book and sets it down. Judah stands there, wet hair clinging to his forehead. He shivers.
“So um. I told your aunt what happened and she went to wash everything. She brought you some medicine and stuff.”
Judah looks at the beside table and sees a fresh trash can, water, pills, and some crackers. His stomach rolls uncertainly.
“Oh. I don’t know if I’ll be able to keep them down.”
“Yeah, I told her you probably wouldn’t be up for it, but it’s there if you want.”
Judah nods, then promptly heads for his empty mattress and collapses down on top of it. He curls onto his side with a sigh. Arlo is looking at him quietly. Judah finds it in him to smile.
The room has gone dark now, only illuminated by the orange light of his small lamp. Arlo smiles back at him.
“You don’t have to stay. You’ve seen your fair share of me puking.”
“I know I don’t have to stay.”
Judah hums, exhaustion overtaking him. He feels safe. It’s the first night in weeks that he’s not afraid to shut his eyes.
“Arlo.”
“Yeah, do you feel sick?”
“M’okay…tell me about your Christmas,” he murmurs.
As Arlo laughs a little and begins to talk, the world around Judah warms. He hums again, tries to listen. Something inside him gives a gentle pull, and sleep takes him before the minute is up.
————————————
Author’s note:
Hello everyone! Sorry for the giant absence, I haven’t been feeling very uh…inspired? I love Judah, and so do some of you guys, so I thought I’d bring him back. It felt nice to know him again! Let me know what you think and I hope you all have a wonderful week!
Alright, my stomach is queasy and I’m best friends with my bathroom. I’m cheating on my diet for now on carbs like crackers and toast for obvious reasons. Thanks stomach flu. Because I am throwing up I refuse to post my weight here. I do NOT want to encourage purging for weight loss or do any positive comments on here about it. My golden rule is I don’t do anything that I don’t want my daughters to do.
If you feel like purging or just refusing to eat much of anything is your only result for weight loss then call this number:
National Eating Disorder Referral and Information Center: 1-858-481-1515
Otherwise tell family, friends etc that you may think you have a problem and you’re scared. GET HELP. We are all fearfully and wonderfully made and as much as losing weight can be healthy when DONE PROPERLY, no one should risk stomach acid dissolving your teeth and esophagus or depriving your body of nutrients to make your goals work quickly. Rome wasn’t built in a day and neither was that Victoria Secret model’s body.
Hopefully I will be better tomorrow with my appetite. If I’m higher for weight I don’t care right now.
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.
Grey was sitting on the floor, slotted in between his bookshelf and his bed. The sun was peeking in just right, painting over his skin with a beam of yellow warmth. It always hit there at that time of day and made it one of his favorite spots.
He was reading Black Beauty for probably the thousandth time, because today, he needed the comfort of some familiarity. When he’d woken up that morning, it had been to a sourly aching stomach, and it refused to go away. He resolved to ignore it, because if he thought about the churning discomfort for too long, he started to believe that he was actually going to throw up.
Just the thought made a syrupy feeling of dread drip down his spine every time it invaded his mind, breaking his skin out in goosebumps. It started to happen again. He brought his knees to his chest, curling further into himself and the now-fading sunbeam. He groaned, shivered yet again, and reached one hand down to knead gingerly at his belly.
Having briefly thought that the tossing feeling was emptiness, he’d made the grave mistake of eating lunch. It sat in one congealed mess at the bottom of his stomach, giving a terrible flip every now and then. He was certain that nothing was digesting, so he tried his best to help the ailing organ along.
Unsurprisingly, his efforts weren’t very helpful, so he eventually gave up and turned back to the nearly crumbling novel in his hands.
So back we went and round by the crossroads, but by the time we got to the bridge it was very nearly dark; we could just see that the water was over the middle of it—
“Fuck!” Roses’ macaw, Pilot, screeched from the living room. Grey closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Sometimes that bird really made him want to jump out of a window. He gave himself a moment and looked back down again.
So back we went and round by the crossroads, but by the time we got to the bridge—
“You’re such a good boy!” Pilot wailed. Grey steeled himself, blocking it out any way he could.
So back we went and round by the crossroads, but—
“Fuck!” Again.
Grey shut the book and set it aside, burying his face in his hands. He was two seconds away from either crying or committing murder.
“Shut up, Pi! No talking right now,” came Rose’s merciful voice. She was the only person he listened to.
Grey’s breath came out in a long puff through his fingers as he tried to calm down. He knew he should he used to this kind of noise by now, but he genuinely didn’t have the stomach for it that day.
Since he’d been distracted from reading, the cramps seemed to come back full force, tugging his insides in unnatural directions. He felt some air climb up his chest, but he swallowed it right back down, refusing to give any part of his stomach permission to come up.
He laid a hand carefully on his roiling tummy and picked up the book again with the other. He read a line, forgot what he read, and started over. This happened a few more times before the door to their bedroom swung open.
“Hey, we’re gonna leave in five. Why aren’t you dressed?” Rose asked with just an edge of frustration.
“Leave to go...?” He started, genuinely fearing the answer.
“Uh, Thanksgiving with my family? The thing I told you about weeks ago? That thing?”
“Thanksgiving was nearly a week ago, I don’t...” he trailed off, swallowing against the rising knot in his throat. “I don’t remember, I’m sorry.”
“Look, it’s fine, just get dressed a little nicer really quick, okay?”
No. “Okay.”
She gave him a soft smile and left the room, allowing the sounds of some home improvement show she was watching to float in. Grey felt a swell of emotion as he stood up and immediately cramped, being forced to double over and freeze. The only reason he didn’t completely collapse back to the floor and admit defeat was because the wave went away rather quickly by some miracle.
He didn’t want to start a fight either, and a sure-fire way to piss Rose off was flaking on plans last minute. He shuffled over to the closet and grabbed a button-down, stopping in the middle of buttoning it to clutch his belly. Another cramp was seizing his insides, but this time, it brought with it a surge of unexpected nausea.
He pressed the knuckles of his free hand to his mouth, unsure of how far this feeling was going to take him. He shuddered again, waiting for the terrible, sick hesitance in the back of his throat to stop. He dared to swallow against the feeling, hoping it wouldn’t send him into a fit of retching; he couldn’t let that happen—he wouldn’t.
He forced himself to take a deep breath as the ache finally wavered and began to dissipate. His legs were shaking with the aftershock of his panic, and the last thing he felt like he could do in this world was face Rose’s relatives.
Still feeling unsteady, he decided to cave and stumble his way to the couch. It seemed like years before he was there, trembling in front of her like a little kid who just woke up from a nightmare. Rose just looked up at him, furrowed her brows at his half-done shirt, and made a face as if to say, ‘what is it now?’
“Rosie, I just...I think I feel too sick to my stomach tonight,” he finally managed, hating the way that once he admitted something, it made it a thousand times more apparent. His lunch gave a sickening whirl right on cue.
“Don’t start that, Grey. You’ve gotta stop getting in your own head like that.” She’s usually totally right about when he’s digging himself a hole, but she couldn’t be more wrong this time. He could feel his insides trembling with a pulsing fever, and this kind of nausea only came when he was truly getting ill.
“I really don’t feel good this time, baby, please,” he nearly begged, feeling all the fight leave him rather quickly.
“You’ll feel better once we get you out of the house. Fresh air n’all that.” Grey was sure his face remained entirely unconvinced. Rose heaved a sigh. “Can we just please do this for my family? I promise we can leave early after dinner and come back to relax. You can read all you want.”
He groaned inwardly knowing he’d lost. He nodded slowly then, trying to force himself to believe that it truly was his mind doing all of this to him. Turning and going back to the room, he finished getting dressed with the speed and grace of a sleepy toddler.
It was time to leave before he even got a chance to breathe it seemed, and they were on the road in no time. Grey tried to pretend like he was still on the floor, feeling the warmth of sunlight brushing his skin. It only worked in short bursts, but he took what he could get.
Thankfully, the drive wasn’t too long, or he would have ended up puking elegantly on the side of the road. He had a few close calls, but those weren’t new.
“Is that my Rose?” came her mother’s voice from the porch where she and Rose’s grandmother sat. They had barely even stepped out of the car and he was about to vomit from exertion.
“Hi momma,” she replied, grabbing onto Grey’s hand to lead him up the driveway despite his body’s protests.
Several hello’s and too-tight hugs later, they were finally past the threshold of their house, and the smell of dinner hit Grey like one hundred freight trains. He tried to conceal the fact that he had to abort several gags, and he resolved to breathe through his mouth for the duration of the visit. He didn’t know how he would ever get through dinner, but he decided he would cross that bridge when he came to it.
He found it terribly difficult to engage in small-talk, even more so than usual. Each time he was prompted to respond about something school or career-related, he feared that more than words would come out. He’d started to sweat, too, but he assumed that was just his fever breaking.
Rose’s claim that he would feel better once they got out of the house was also proving entirely false as he’d unfortunately predicted. As time wore on, he somehow felt even fuller. The tossing in his stomach had escalated to full-on ocean swells, and he had to find creative ways to rub it without anyone noticing.
The air that had threatened to come up earlier was also a constant pressure now, refusing to travel back to his stomach. It got to the point where he couldn’t physically hold it in anymore, so he brought a fist to his mouth and muffled the sound, hoping it would make him feel better.
Spoiler alert—it didn’t. At all.
Instead, it brought up a sour taste and the feeling of something wavering dangerously close to the back of his throat. He swallowed convulsively, trying to remain calm. The bubbling in his stomach didn’t stop either, making a nightmare mixture sort of feeling when the cramps hit again.
That’s when they finally all got called to the table, and he begged the universe for some mercy. “Rosie, I can’t do it, my belly hurts. Please don’t make me,” he whispered, falling back from the group.
“I’m not gonna make you, babe. I just wish you could enjoy this and not have to worry,” she said, rubbing a gentle circle across his stomach and chest. After a few seconds, she turned and continued to walk towards the table.
“But I’m not just worrying,” he protested quietly to no one. He inwardly cursed every time in the past where meeting Rose’s family had made his stomach nervous. Talk about crying wolf. There was really no other option then but to tough it out and go sit down.
He felt a renewed sense of optimism and perseverance for some reason as he took his seat next to Rose. That lasted all of ten glorious seconds before the food began to be dumped onto everyone’s plates.
The food that usually made Grey wish he had three stomachs now made him wish he didn’t even have one—especially this defective one set in reverse. The look of the food suddenly turned morbid, and he got intrusive thoughts of these animals that once used be alive. A twist in his guts made heat burn against his esophagus, and he panicked, bringing his water glass to his lips and forcing a bit down to put out the fire.
He hoped he didn’t look as deathly ill as he felt when he glanced at his finally full plate, but it was probably an empty desire. Not wanting to seem to suspicious, he began to take small bites, swallowing them almost immediately so he wouldn’t have to taste too much.
Another wave of goosebumps erupted across his skin, and he wondered if it was cold enough in the room to merit them or not. He was distracted by this thought for long enough that he hadn’t even realized he’d eaten more.
Even though only about half of the plate was gone, he came to the swift conclusion that he was about to burst into a million tiny pieces. The sounds and smells became too much, each taking their turn giving his stomach a roaring stir. His breath caught with a hiccup, and he felt his dinner start to come back on him.
This is not happening. Do not throw up. Do not throw up. Do not, he inwardly chanted over and over, as if that would actually manifest healing. It felt like an eternity, but it was probably only a few seconds before things really went south.
There was a new feeling in the back of his throat that kept his mouth open just slightly. He felt like everyone was looking at him; he needed to stop, but he couldn’t. He felt dizzy with all of the conversations merging and overlapping one another, and he could feel everything he’d eaten merging in the most unholy way.
He took one glance at the remains of his plate and that was it. An upsurge of thick warmth had him standing in an instant, pushing back his chair with the force. “Excuse me,” he managed to spit out before bailing from the room as fast as his legs would carry him.
Having purposely noted where the restroom was as soon as he’d arrived, he knew it was on the other side of the house. He had no hope of making it there before he would be sick and, he couldn’t risk being violently ill on their carpet. The front door was his only option, so he fumbled to pull it open, choking on the dreadful mixture that entered his mouth.
As soon as he was outside, he bent over the porch railing and let his partially digested dinner come right back up. He instantly regretted his previous choice to not chew very well, because each time a thick wave of sick left his mouth, the horrible texture immediately triggered another heave.
He held onto that railing like a lifeline each time he retched, repeatedly coating the ground below him in a greasy layer of stomach contents. He heard the door open behind him and hoped against hope that it was Rose.
“Oh, hon, I’m so sorry. This is my fault.” She came up behind him and rubbed along his spine as he shook with another deep retch. He felt the flames of mortification lick up his cheeks, and tears rimmed at the edges of his eyes; he refused to let them fall. He gurgled out another heavy stream of vomit, coughing raggedly afterward to get the feeling out of his throat. Static prickled in his vision as his fever most likely came to a peak. He felt fuzzy and uncomfortable, unsure of what was really going on anymore.
“I threw up, Ro,” he managed to whimper, leaning forward again and definitely bringing up his lunch from hours earlier.
“I see that, baby. You don’t have to to talk until you’re done, okay?” She brought her hand up to gently take off his glasses so that they wouldn’t fall off and become collateral damage. He rolled forward with yet another heave. He was crippled with the kind of insatiable nausea that only came when he had the stomach flu. And boy, did he have it bad this time. “Breathe, Grey...God, I’m terrible for bringing you here. You’re breaking my heart, sweet love,” she mumbled lowly.
His stomach never quite stopped lurching, but his heaves were no longer productive after a few minutes, so he figured he was done. He wiped at his eyes and dropped his head down to rest on his arms, letting Rose pet through his hair as he attempted to put himself back together.
“M’really sorry for ruining tonight.” His voice came out raw.
“Hey, don’t even try to apologize, none of this is your fault at all.” He let out a gritty hum as a reply. “Do you feel any better at least?”
He kept his head buried the crook of his arm and finally shook it slowly. He did not feel better in the slightest—just emptier. It felt like someone had carved a hole in his stomach and squeezed everything out with white-knuckles fists.
“That’s awful, I really am sorry...I’m just gonna go grab our things and then I’ll take you home, alright? Be right back.” She placed a kiss on the top of his head, and as he heard her leave, the relief finally started to trickle in. He was going to go home.
As the best hospital for gastroenteritis in Hyderabad, Telangana, India, PACE Hospitals delivers advanced, multidisciplinary care tailored to each patient. Our expert team of gastroenterologists, infectious disease specialists, and dietitians provides comprehensive care for the diagnosis and management of acute and chronic gastroenteritis caused by viral, bacterial, or parasitic infections.
We utilize advanced diagnostic tools such as stool analysis, blood tests, and imaging studies when needed to accurately identify the underlying cause of symptoms like diarrhea, abdominal cramps, vomiting, and dehydration.
As the leading gastroenterology hospital in Hyderabad, Telangana, India, our facility is supported by a team of internationally renowned medical and surgical gastroenterologists, experienced transplant surgeons, dedicated paramedical staff, skilled psychologists, and expert physiotherapists.
What is Gastroenteritis?
Gastroenteritis is the inflammation of your stomach and intestines, usually caused by infections from viruses, bacteria, or parasites. Sometimes, it’s triggered by food poisoning, contaminated water, or even certain medications. The result? Your digestive system goes into overdrive, trying to flush out the invaders—often with some very unpleasant symptoms.
Common causes include:
Viruses: Norovirus and rotavirus are the usual suspects, especially in kids.
Bacteria: Think Salmonella, E. coli, and Shigella—often from undercooked food or dirty water.
Parasites: Less common, but Giardia and Cryptosporidium can cause long-lasting trouble.
Other triggers: Medications, chemical toxins, or even food allergies.
Common Symptoms of Gastroenteritis
Gastroenteritis can come on suddenly and make you feel unwell in a hurry. Here are the most common signs to watch out for:
1. Sudden, Watery Diarrhea
Frequent, loose stools are often the first and most noticeable symptom. This rapid loss of fluids can quickly lead to dehydration if not managed.
2. Nausea and Vomiting
A queasy stomach and episodes of vomiting are typical, making it difficult to keep food or drinks down.
3. Stomach Cramps and Bloating
You may experience sharp abdominal pain, cramping, or a feeling of fullness and bloating as your digestive system reacts to the infection.
4. Mild Fever
A low-grade fever sometimes accompanies gastroenteritis, signaling your body’s response to infection.
5. Headache and Body Aches
General discomfort, including headaches and muscle aches, can occur as your body fights off the illness.
6. Signs of Dehydration
Watch for warning signs, such as a dry mouth, dark-coloured urine, dizziness, or feeling unusually thirsty. Dehydration can develop rapidly, particularly in children and older adults, and may necessitate prompt medical attention.
Diagnosing Gastroenteritis at PACE Hospitals
At PACE Hospitals, you’re never just a number. Every patient receives a personalized, science-driven approach to diagnosis, ensuring you get the right answers—and the right care—fast. Here’s how the expert team uncovers the root cause of your symptoms:
1. Comprehensive Medical History
Your story matters. The doctor will ask about recent travel, new or unusual foods you’ve eaten, and whether anyone around you has been sick. These details help identify possible sources of infection and guide the next steps.
2. Thorough Physical Examination
A hands-on assessment is key. The team checks for signs of dehydration (like dry mouth or low blood pressure), abdominal tenderness, bloating, and other warning signs. This helps determine the severity of your condition and whether urgent intervention is needed.
3. Targeted Laboratory Tests
To pinpoint the exact cause, PACE Hospitals uses advanced lab testing. This may include:
Stool analysis: To detect viruses, bacteria, or parasites.
Stool cultures: To identify specific bacterial infections.
Blood tests: To check for dehydration, infection, or complications.
4. Advanced Diagnostic Tools
For complex or persistent cases, the hospital offers state-of-the-art imaging and endoscopic procedures:
Ultrasound: Provides a non-invasive look at your abdominal organs, helping rule out other causes of pain or infection.
Endoscopy: Allows direct visualization of the digestive tract, which is especially useful for chronic or severe symptoms.
Treatment Approaches
1. Hydration is the Top Priority
The most crucial aspect of treatment is replenishing lost fluids and electrolytes. Drink plenty of water, ORS (oral rehydration solution), coconut water, or clear soups. In Hyderabad, ORS is available at every pharmacy and even many grocery stores.
2. Eat Light and Rest
Stick to bland, easy-to-digest foods like rice, bananas, curd, toast, and khichdi. Avoid spicy, oily, or dairy-heavy foods until you feel better. Give your body time to rest and recover.
3. Medications
Doctors may prescribe anti-nausea or anti-diarrheal medicines if your symptoms are severe. Antibiotics are only used if tests show a bacterial infection—never take them on your own. Probiotics can also help restore healthy gut bacteria.
4. Hospital Care for Severe Cases
If you’re very dehydrated or unable to eat or drink, hospitals like PACE Hospitals offer IV fluids and advanced care. Their team of gastroenterologists, infectious disease specialists, and dietitians will create a personalised treatment plan for you.
Why Choose PACE Hospitals for Gastroenteritis Treatment?
✅ Multidisciplinary Experts: Receive care from a team of experienced gastroenterologists, infectious disease specialists, critical care experts, and dietitians, all collaborating to ensure your swift recovery.
✅ Comprehensive Diagnostics: In-house facilities for stool analysis, blood tests, ultrasound, and advanced imaging enable accurate and timely diagnosis of gastroenteritis and its complications.
✅ Stepwise Treatment Approach: Treatment starts with evidence-based supportive care—IV fluids, electrolyte management, antiemetics, and nutritional support—progressing to targeted therapies only if needed.
✅ Advanced Interventions: For severe or complicated cases, options include endoscopic evaluation, specialised antimicrobial therapy, and critical care support, all delivered by skilled professionals.
✅ Nutritional & Lifestyle Support: Dedicated dietitians provide personalised nutrition plans and lifestyle advice to promote gut healing and prevent recurrence.
✅ Proven Outcomes: High success rates in managing both acute and chronic gastroenteritis, with a focus on rapid symptom relief, complication prevention, and long-term digestive health.
✅ Convenient Access: All diagnostic and treatment services are available under one roof in Hyderabad, ensuring seamless and coordinated care.
👉 Top Medical and Surgical Gastroenterologist Doctors in Hyderabad - Hitech City and Madinaguda
Dr. Govind Verma Interventional Gastroenterologist, Hepatologist & Endosonologist
Dr. M Sudhir Senior Gastroenterologist
Dr. Suresh Kumar S Surgical Gastroenterologist and Laparoscopy Surgeon
Dr. Prashanth Sangu Surgical Gastroenterologist, Laser and Laparoscopic Surgeon, Liver Transplant Surgeon
Dr. Padma Priya Consultant Gastroenterologist and Hepatologist
At PACE Hospitals—best hospitals in Hitech city, Hyderabad, Telangana, India—we specialise in diagnosing and treating gastroenteritis with a comprehensive, patient-centred approach. Our expert team offers everything from advanced diagnostics and personalised medical therapy to minimally invasive procedures and long-term Gastroenteritis management.
👉 Book an Appointment with top doctors in Hyderabad, Telangana, India
