There was blood in the sink. I wasn’t able to hold it back anymore; out from my throat it came, and there it was: syrupy and sticky and tinged with mucus. It looked like a pen had burst in my mouth – the kind teachers use to correct papers – and I gargled my own fluids for several very long minutes before dispensing the soupy, red-thick sun from my swollen mouth. They say it gets worse before it gets better; well here I am, ready and waiting, though I am inclined to think that no spell is likely to work on a man with a bloody drool.

“There are better ways of living,” she says.

I snarl and spit, sheathing my anger or maybe my cowardice, shoveling my words. She doesn’t move, only staying where she is; I don’t move, either. Here we have it: a situation, so I grunt, still not able to form words in between spit-hissing droplets that tear their way through my stomach; the lining must have been shit at this point.

“You’re not strong enough to be doing this. You can’t do this. You need to sleep.”

Not letting any one person ever tell me what to do, I leave. I drive. I wait.