December 22, 2014

“Vomit against metal sounded like rain. The sounds comforted me although I choked on the pain. Whenever I vomited, I rang a bell strung up between my bedroom and my parents’. The bell signaled that they might soon find me dead on the bedroom floor, my throat thick with rancid puke, vomit already drying on my pillow, regurgitated mess in my hair. Just as often, the bell rang so that my parents would bring me milk. What came out of the milk jugs was curdled with off-white clot. The air smelled like molded cheese. If I pushed a finger against the milk, it resisted like gorgonzola. The bell in my room dinged and mother screamed her frustrations. She hated always having to feed me.”

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