The Dragon
The cycle begins. Hour one. The first flutter of nausea starts to grow, stretching its angry wings within. Something will soon be very wrong as the body prepares to void. An application of heat to a tender set of intestines, lends hope that the wave of retching will be absolved. The trash can a holy chalice in which to spit. Hour two. Anti-emetic drugs like children's Tylenol for an elephants pain. Any attempt to stop the Dragon is thwarted. The purge begins. Hour three. Denial still floats the boat. The stomach now an empty quivering cavern. Maybe this time will be the last time vomit is induced. There are no more nutrients to lose. Trying to utilize the power of breath but ceaselessly failing. I am stronger than this hateful beast. Hour four. Call for help. First from my own flesh, then from an ambulance. Into focus comes two pairs of black boots with no faces, asking the same questions. Don't they have a file by now? What is your name, your birth date, your medications,...