Page 120 of The Sound of Him

We do alright, actually. He makes boxed pancakes that are just soft enough from the butter he spreads over them without feeling soggy. I eat almost greedily, pausing to take sips of my pulp-free orange juice every once in a while.

I stick my tongue out at Bryce when he says I’m a heathen for not wanting syrup on my pancakes. I try not to think about what that syrup would feel like in my mouth. He laughs and I smile and things feel okay.

Then I take another drink of my orange juice and - and - and there’s something else in my mouth, something non-liquid, something chunky, bouncing on my tongue as the juice slides around.

The juice was pulp-free.

It wassupposedto be pulp-free.

But it’s - it’s not, I guess.

It’s not, it’s not, it’s not, it’s not-

“Matt?”

I manage to swallow it, shuddering. Then I swallow the juice-flavored vomit trying to crawl back up my throat. I swallow, swallow, swallow. It doesn’t get better.

Nothing ever gets better.

Byrce doesn’t try to stop me when I leave.

I make it to the bathroom, but not the toilet.

The sound my stomach’s contents make against the tiled floor is an awful echo, worse than when I’ve been throwing up in the toilet later. There’s no soft landing in a puddle of water. No short travel. It’s a splat, going everywhere, wet and messy and I fall in it on my knees, my hands in it, and it’s everywhere and I sob and sob and choke on the sob because more is coming up and everything burns, everything is awful, everything hurts, this isn’t fair, this isn’t fair, I hate this, it’s not fair, it’s not fair, it’s not fair.

How do I get this part to stop?

I’m so tired of being a ghost.

What do I have to do to finally pass over?

Someone is singing quietly. Warm water is washing down my back, the pressure soft, like rain droplets. Something hard and cool is beneath me. My ankle bone is digging into it. I tell it to move, but it doesn’t listen. It’s tired, too. It’s so tired.

I’m so, so tired.

It takes a lot of energy to open my eyes, but I manage it when the scent of soap fills the steamy air. The front wall of the shower is in front of me, the faucet where the water would come out for a bath is only a few inches away. If I tipped my head back, I’d be able to see the nozzle for the water above, but it’d probably get in my eyes then, so I don’t.

“Hey,” Bryce says, his soapy cloth pausing on my shoulder. He gives it a squeeze through the material. “There you are.”

I force myself to look toward him. I don’t last more than a second before shutting my eyes and ducking my chin. The water runs down the back of my neck. It feels nice. Calming.

“I won’t tell Nolan, if that’s what you’re worried about. I won’t tell anyone. It’s no one’s business.”

I swallow. My throat is aching, but I’m not sure if it’s from the previous sobbing, or the vomiting, or the urge to start cryingagain, or something else. It doesn’t matter. Even if I knew, I wouldn’t be able to tell him.

“I don’t know how to wash your hair with this fancy soap and stuff, so I wrapped it in a shirt. Keep your head tilted if you want to keep it dry, okay?”

He starts moving the cloth again, down my back now.

I let my eyes fall closed and lean forward to rest my cheek on my knees, facing him, but not looking.

He washes my back and my other shoulder and my arm. There’s the sound of more soap, then the cloth is passing along the hip nearest to him, up the side of my thigh.

“Was it the food?”

I hunch in on myself, but I answer with a slight shake of my head.

He takes one of my hands, not pulling hard enough for my arms to have to unwind around my legs. I crack my eyes partly open to peek at him. He’s focused on my hand, each finger getting cleaned. I remember falling into the vomit from before and close my eyes again.