but it’s me who’s dying. I wake up, my body tangled in a nest of blankets, all swollen and sweaty. I’m feverish, although I’m not sure that's not another side effect of the magic potion she has been forcing down my throat for the last two weeks. Only thinking about that nasty blue liquid is nauseating. Now that I mention it... I don’t even know how much time has passed. The days are getting indistinguishable and the nights slip away in delirious visions, her lullabies and my vomit.
She takes such good care of me! The moment I reach for a Tylenol after a stressful day at work she turns my room into a hospital ward. She heats up a large pot to make another batch of the ghastly syrup. That’s the only medicine she approves of. She’s never one to tell me to sleep it off or to eat something. No, she doesn’t like easy solutions for health-related troubles.
She rejoices in my sickness, no matter how little it is. It might just be a common cold, but the medicine makes me she has something to treat me from in a matter of hours. It’s thick and bitter and by the time I finish the first bottle, I can hardly keep my eyes open. My body is heavier with each second passing. I am fatigued, lethargic and sluggish, I’d like to leave, but I simply can’t move. When she offers me another spoonful, I don't resist.
I'm not sure I’m going to wake up tomorrow.
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