ACCLIVITY(Being Revised)

The Physician & The Chemist

Dear Amnesia,

I'd like to recall what freedom fed me,

Why must I starve for something

I can't remember the taste of?

_______________________________

I rolled off the bed silently, the sheets barely whispering as I slid from them. The weight of the room seemed to press down on me, every sound magnified in the oppressive quiet. The air was thick and heavy, as though it shared my exhaustion. I moved like a ghost, trying not to disturb the peace that clung desperately to the walls. My legs trembled as I stood, unsteady, like a newborn fawn trying to find its footing.

Pin was slumped in the chair beside the bed, his features shadowed in the dim light, his breathing deep and even. He looked almost peaceful, the harsh lines of his face softened by sleep. Across the room, Tbor’s large form was draped over the kitchen counter, papers scattered around him like casualties of a lost battle. I paused, momentarily caught by the absurdity of it. Why did we rely on paper? It seemed out of place, archaic in a world that had long since abandoned such things. The dull glow from the digital screens on the counter only highlighted the incongruity, casting a cold, clinical light over the scene.

I pressed forward, each step a careful negotiation with my body, which was quickly failing me. The nausea hit before I reached the toilet, and I barely had time to lean over before I retched. The sound was harsh and ragged, breaking the quiet like glass shattering on a marble floor. My body convulsed, every muscle straining, as if trying to force something more than just bile from my system. My hand pressed shakily to my forehead, as if I could steady the dizziness spiraling through me.

The burn in my throat was sharp and relentless, each breath a battle against the acid that scorched my insides. I blinked hard, tears spilling from the corners of my eyes, not from emotion but from the sheer physical strain of vomiting. My fingers groped for the tissue on the counter, and I dabbed my lips with an uncoordinated swipe, the paper feeling rough against my chapped skin.

I shouldn’t have been out of bed. No one had given me permission, but what choice did I have? I couldn’t stay there and risk puking on the floor. The thought of it made me shudder. Another wave of nausea hit, and I muffled a groan into my hand, squeezing my eyes shut as my body convulsed again, violently. My trembling fingers gripped the cold toilet seat as if it were the only thing anchoring me to the world. I backed away slowly, collapsing against the wall beside the toilet, my breath coming in short, labored gasps.

A thin streak of pink caught my eye as I wiped my mouth again. My breath got caught. Blood. Yet somehow crimson is my favorite color. I stared at the crumpled tissue, my heart pounding in my chest like a hammer against stone. Panic swelled in my throat, and I threw myself forward, scanning the contents of the toilet bowl. The bitter metallic taste coated my tongue. Blood—so much of it that the bile tasted of iron and death. I flushed the tissue and its contents down quickly, my fingers shaking as they hovered over the lever. I couldn’t process it. I didn’t want to.

The swirling water felt final, like it was taking more than just the evidence of my sickness away. I leaned my head back against the cold wall, staring blankly at the ceiling. I could feel my body betraying me, breaking down in ways I couldn't control. This couldn’t be anything good. It was as if my own insides were unraveling, the delicate balance of life tipping further out of my control. I was on a path I couldn’t turn back from—a one-way road, and I could almost see the end of it in the distance.

I didn’t expect to survive this. How could I? Occasionally, the thought crept in—is survival even possible?—but I smothered it. Hopes like that were dangerous. Disappointment was inevitable, and I refused to let it catch me off guard. Better to prepare for the worst, so when the end finally came, it wouldn’t knock me off my feet.