When I was about seven, my mom tried making Haitian pate for the first time. The fluffy pastry was delicately flaked and the cod filling was spiced to perfection. I had maybe twelve of them. Then, I ended up vomiting all night, wondering if I also threw up twelve pounds.
That's how I feel now. I just cried harder than I ever remember crying in my life. I cried so hard it felt like I was vomiting instead.
I cried out all my gross stinky insides, and now I'm hollowed out with nothing left. Except a slight headache.
I'm sitting on top of a white heater in an even whiter bathroom. I don't remember if I ran in here, like I did last time. Each of the speckled doors on three stalls are slightly ajar. I'm in here alone. The floor is a smooth bluish gray. I know it's not tile; I can't see my reflection in it.
Thank goodness.
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The Prodigal Daughter
General FictionJosie began her journey of faith as a happy go lucky child with a bottomless curiosity when it came to God. Until a series of betrayal and estrangement leaves her insecure, cynical, and disillusioned with Christianity. Now the only people she trusts...
