Cherry Bomb (A Michael Fassbender Fanfic)

6: Soup

I lazily stretch, waking from yet another nap. The sunlight out my window drenches my bedroom and I groan. It's way too bright. I glance at my phone and see it's nearing lunchtime. I groan again at the thought of lunch. My stomach rumbles but I have no desire to eat. We usually spend this day out and about and I always look forward to lunch at The West End House with the entire family but something feels off today.

Saint Stephen's Day is also known as the Annual O'Conner Shop Til You Drop Day. My mother loves the after-Christmas sales. I enjoy it but never do more than browse. The lack of extra luggage space keeps my bank account steady on these trips.

I stretch one last time before attempting to sit up and I spew vomit across my lap, awkwardly forming a makeshift cup with my hands to catch it as best as I can. It spills over and dribbles down my bare legs instead. Shit.

I whimper and frantically look around for anything to help me. Michael's gift bag is on the floor so I kick it over with my foot until all the contents fall out, then dump my hands inside. I wipe my hands down my pajama shirt figuring it's already damaged. Before I can puke again, I carefully pull my shirt up over my head and use it to wipe down my legs. I toss the shirt into the middle of my bed and gather up the bedsheets. I quickly find a new shirt and some sweats and throw them on before I take my nasty laundry downstairs.

As I try to rush, because I can tell already that I have more coming, I nearly crash into Raegan who was also on her way downstairs but looking quite the opposite of me. "Rae, can you toss this stuff in the laundry room for me? Please? I'm sick and I don't think I'm going to make it back up in time to use the bathroom."

"You're sick?"

"Rae, please! Take it!" I shove my laundry in her arms and she pushes it back.

"What? No! I'm not touching that! Did you vomit on it?! God Frankie!"

"Rae, I swear to God, if you don't --" My eyes widen, as do hers. I throw my hands over my mouth, dropping the sheets at her feet. I spin around and book it to the bathroom in time to spew into the toilet.

"I'm not touching your shit, Frankie," Rae hollers as she makes her way down the stairs.

My stomach completely empties itself but I continue heaving until my eyes water. Once I finally catch a break, I flush the toilet and splash cold water on my face before I drag myself back to bed. Not even caring enough to hunt down clean sheets, I plop myself down onto my bare mattress and pray I'm done with puking for the rest of my life.

I didn't even notice my mother come in. "Francis? Sweetheart? Are you sick?" My heart swells hearing my mother's concerned voice, a rare gem in my life.

I moan in reply and turn to face her.

"So you're not coming?"

Again, I moan and shake my head.

"Oh, okay. Well, feel better. Stay hydrated. I threw your stuff in the wash. You really oughta put a towel down over the mattress. Just in case. Get some rest. Bye." Gently, she closes the door.

As I slowly drift back to sleep, whimpering and clenching my stomach as I bend myself into the fetal position, I can hear everyone leaving through the front door. The door closes, the cars start and finally I hear them leaving down the gravel road. I can only assume Rae explained I wouldn't be joining them today.

My eyes flutter back open when I hear the front door again. I half expect my mother to start yelling for me, but she doesn't. Maybe she's decided to stay behind and baby me. I don't get my hopes up, though. My eyelids get heavier by the second and I realize I really don't care about anything other than sleep. I sigh deeply as I feel sleep begin to overtake me until someone softly raps on my door.