The vomiting increases until I painfully lay next to the bucket on the floor. My throat and stomach burn. My eyes bulge from their sockets. My skin wants to fall off me.
I take a pill.
I’m desperate.
If it makes matters worse then I’ll die and be done with this horrible experience. If it helps me, then I can put all of my remaining energy towards escaping. Either way, it’ll be better than what I’m going through now.
It may be my imagination but a few minutes later, I feel a little, just a sliver, less fatal. The vomiting subsides to an extent. My skin turns clammy, and the burning all over me isn’t as sharp and thrusting. I’m left in a shapeless slump that can’t muster even enough energy to scramble off the floor to get on the bed. I don’t feel time passing but I know it is because suddenly, the full fledge pain returns.
Medicine, I say to myself as I stretch my hand to the floor next to me, but I’m completely uncoordinated.
“Here,” a voice says as a hand puts a pill in my mouth.
“Thanks,” I mumble, trying to figure out what’s real since I’m practically unconscious.
Strong arms wrap around me, and I’m carried to the bed. My glassy, unfocussed eyes try to look at who’s doing this, but all I can see is a blur in the opaque room.
“You’ll be okay in a few days,” the male voice promises.
Is someone really with me? I ask myself. Or am I hallucinating?
I suddenly feel a burst of water on my face. He’s sponging me off with cool, glorious water. It’s like paradise on my scorched skin, and I let my heavy eyelids close.
“I’m sorry you’re going through this,” he whispers gently. “But it’s the only way.”
I make the only noise I can—I groan.
“Sorry,” he repeats.
“What are you doing in here?” another male voice says. I briefly open my eyes to see a second blurry figure.
“She’s really hurting.”
“I know, but you shouldn’t be in here.”
“I had to come in.”
The other guy groans loudly. “This is dangerous for the both of us. We need to get out.”
“You leave. I’m staying with her.”
“It’s dangerous! What don’t you understand about that?” he asks, exasperated and furious.
“I don’t care,” he answers, his own voice angry. “I’m not leaving her like this to go at it alone—at least not at its worse.”
“But—”
“This is my decision. Stay out of it!”
“She could kill you in this state. We don’t know what her abilities are. Do you understand?”
“I know what’s at stake. I’m staying.”
“I’m going to tell—”
“No, you’re not,” he commands. “You’re not saying anything about this to anybody.”
“If they catch us—”
“Leave and there is no more us. If they catch me then I’ll suffer the consequences by myself. I promise I won’t involve you.”
“She’ll be fine without you being in here with her. You don’t have to risk your life like this.”
“She needs me.”
“She doesn’t need to have you here with her.”
“She does.”
I can’t believe you’re risking it all for her.”
“You don’t know her like I’ve grown to know her.”
When the door shifts down with the leaving of the other guy, my angel says, “Don’t worry, Madrigal, I’ll be with you for the whole night.”
As promised, he stays as I sleep in small patches, vomit at times, and go from freezing to boiling in seconds. He wipes off the perspiration from my face and exposed skin, holds the bucket close to me, gives me the black pills every hour and either puts blankets on me or takes them off—depending on my body temperature. All the while, he keeps saying in soothing tones, “Everything is going to be okay, Madrigal—I promise.”