Wait for Tomorrow | Daniel Seavey

03

Harper

I feel my knees shaking from underneath my bed sheets. My soft blanket rubs against my delicate skin, soothing my worries. My arms find themselves covering my watering eyes. It's as if my palms are the only thing that holds this dam. This dam of water can't be released. I cannot be seen as weak.

But I am.

My head leans to the side to find my alarm clock. The red digits shine through the darkness of my bedroom. It reads three forty-five in the morning.

My stomach feels as if there is a giant boulder inside waiting to be bursted out, but it's not constipation. This boulder is what comes up your esophagus and out your mouth.

Vomit.

My throat feels like a million cotton balls had been stuffed down it. I can taste the salty bitterness between my gums. It gives me an uneasy feeling, something I fear. My phobia cannot be overcome.

Tears run down my face. The salty water drips around my temples and drops onto my pillow from behind, leaving tracks. I feel as if I'm suffocating. My breaths seem to be cut off short, only half the amount of oxygen entering my body. I squeeze my eyes shut.

I'm just paranoid.

I do this all the time. I feel like I will puke my guts out but never end up throwing up. It's all in my head. It's my anxiety. I can't control my fear. It's an unusual thing to cry over. I should be old enough to overcome this fear but I can't. It's a phobia that will stick with me until my last days.

I feel my stomach jerks inward. Instantly, I shoot up into a sitting position on my bed, my breath being caught in my throat. I lean forward as if I were in the position of vomiting, although nothing comes out.

I cry out. I need help. I can't face this on my own. I need the comfort of someone.

"Mom!" I struggle to scream, my voice cracking slightly from the amount of fear.

My legs now lay flat on the ground. My hands wrap around my stomach for warmth.

I don't want to throw up. I don't want to throw up.

I rock my body back and forth. My eyes are as wide as they'll ever be. If I close my eyes now, I'll invision myself vomiting.

My mom's figure enters the room, my bedroom door swinging open. Her eyes meet mine even through the dark of night. She kneels in front of me. Her hand is placed gently on my knee. Her tired eyes are concerned for me. I almost feel bad for waking her but she knows I won't stop crying until the pain has passed. And the pain doesn't pass without the assistance of my mother.

"What's wrong?" Her voice croaks.

"I don't know." I squint my eyes shut.

Yes you do.

I just need to tell myself that I'm overreacting. I'm only paranoid. This is normal. Maybe I'm just hungry.

"Harper, stop denying it. If you're sick then tell me. What do you feel?" She sits beside me, the matress sinking in with the small amount of weight my mother carries. She is very thin but not too skinny.

"I-my stomach," I feel a sharp pain in my stomach. I grunt as my hand grips onto my shirt.

"Do you feel like you have to throw up?" She finishes for me.

I hesitate for a moment. If I say yes, there is no going back. I'll end up having a panic attack. I can't have this fear come to reality. I can nod my head now or I can continue to trick myself into thinking I'm okay. Tricking myself sounds like a better plan.