When the Boundaries Blur (Draft 1)

Chapter 10 - Reagan

"Bag," I say when I get backstage and hand off my mic. But before anyone hears me, one of the tech guys begins getting the wiring gear off me.

Tom, I think his name is. I can't keep all their names straight, although I do try. Besides, I only met this one recently. He looks at me and says with a reprimand in his voice, "tell them to take this stuff off you if you are not going to use it."

I fight, and I mean I really fight the urge to roll my eyes and tell him I was too busy to be doing someone else's job. Half the work in this game is playing nice. I am not even clear on what he means because I'm tired and if I open my mouth, I am afraid that I might throw up. Plus, he is probably tired too and we could argue about whose fault it is, but little mistakes like that are bound to happen with how many people it takes to pull a show like this together.

Like what though? Seriously, I cannot pinpoint what he's talking about. Usually, the adrenaline rush keeps me a bit more vigilant but with my stomach turning and my head reeling I am in no mood to figure it out. He needs to get my earpiece and all the jazz that goes with that out. (A/N earpiece - what Reagan has in her ear and used to hear lyrics or herself while out there amongst a screaming crowd.) I just shut up and let him do what he needs to.

I try to think of something other than throwing up and failing. Just when I feel I like I am going to end up vomiting right there, probably on Tom, unfortunately, he's done. I dash back to the tiny dressing room that separates me from everyone else that went on stage. I do so, holding my mouth so that everyone knows they need to get away from me. Some of them try to follow me and help but I shake my head at them and close the door as soon as I get in the room.

When I get there, I zone in on my backpack because I remembered a plastic bag that I stuck in there on the flight. I yank the bag out of the chair and toss all its content onto the counter top in front of the mirror. Simultaneously, I swipe the clutter remaining on the counter-tops from when I was getting ready as well as the quick touch-ups that I did within the show. When I finally wrap my fingers around the bag, I unwrinkled it and hold it to my mouth.

Nothing happens. But I still have the horrible feeling that makes me almost feel dizzy and as if I was going to throw up. Like I'm seasick or something. I figure that if I stick my finger down my throat that will trigger something. While I am still contemplating this, I lose my train of thought.

"Girl, how could you get weirder every single time I see you?" comes a voice from the corner of the room.

I jump before I look up at the mirror to see my comical bag-to-mouth reflection and notice Mac seated on one of the few seats in the room behind me to the left, a smirk on her face.

"You scared me," I say flopping down beside her.

"Fantastic," she said grinning. Mac has blonde hair, long in the back but you can't tell because it's all in corn rows except a long part of it that hangs in front of her left eye. But my face must have been showing now because her eyebrows crinkled and her brown eyes narrow at me. "What's up?"

"I feel like I need to throw up," I replied, feeling like I was stating the obvious because there aren't very many other options to explain what I was doing with the bag, "and it's been bothering me throughout the show but now that I got the chance, I can't do it. It's just a terrible puke feeling that I cannot get rid of."

Memories from the stupid hangover episode several months ago make me cringe.
I really hate throwing up. I hate the yanking against my ribcage and the sharp pain that it leaves in your chest. I hate the smell, I hate the taste left in my mouth. I hate it all. But I especially hate not being able to get it over with and the feeling of, "throw up without actually throwing up." It is mortifying.