Xander

My door slams shut behind me, and it’s far from enough. I want to lock it, bar it, drag furniture in front of it, but before I can do any of that, my stomach lunges up my throat.

The washroom. Feet pound, heart pounds, mark screams. I land on my knees in front of the toilet and lose the kafi, along with everything else I’ve eaten since the last time I found myself like this.

When I’m empty, alone with the stink, my nausea doesn’t fade. I wish this ...