Morning Sickness

A wave of nausea swept over him but he remained in bed, curled under the sheets. The sound of the alarm pierced through the room, signalling the beginning of a new day. But he wasn’t prepared to face it, not yet. He pulled his knees up to his chin, locked his fingers around his ankles, and lay wrapped up in his own self. Bile rose in his throat and he swallowed hard to stifle it.

It wasn’t meant to be like this, he thought bitterly. Things could have been different, he could have been happy. He could have sailed through life purposefully and not wandered like an aimless vagabond. He could have been up and about right now, rushing to seize the day with fervour. Instead, he lay under the sheets, eyes squeezed shut, hoping the darkness within would blot out the oh-so-mockingly cheerful and bright light that spilled into his room through where the curtains on the window parted as they billowed in the gentle breeze.

But as the morning wore on, sounds from the neighbourhood began to pierce the tranquillity of his bedroom. The street dogs barked and yelped as the neighbours’ children came out to play with them. The children shouted and laughed and clapped, and occasionally, their parents yelled at them to keep the noise down. The parents themselves were mostly busy shouting at each other or pulling up housemaids for their slapdash jobs or haggling with hawkers over the prices of vegetables and fish. Somewhere, in the distance, church bells pealed. But right beneath his window, a toddler began to cry. Softly at first, but quickly gaining in intensity and soon the cries became alarming bawls.

He buried himself deeper in his bed to shut out the noises but to no avail. The tyke’s squalling wrecked his fragile composure and before he could pause to restrain himself, his hand shot out, grabbed the alarm clock from the bedside and hurled it at the window with great fury.

The clock struck the steel frame of the window with a clanging sound. Its delicate parts shattered and fell to the ground. But its silver-plated casing bounced back and caught him square in the forehead before he could retreat under the sheets. The shock of the injury was the last straw. He could no longer hold it all in. He barfed, a little at first and then some more. He dragged himself across the room and heaved into the sink. He retched so hard he thought he’d spew out his innards.

 He splashed cold water on his face. When he looked up, he caught sight of his image in the mirror, looking pale and washed out. His head spun and at the same time felt both heavy as lead and light as a helium-filled balloon. He felt half dead yet aware of his own wretched life and his failed attempts at ending it. The bottle of sleeping pills had barely sufficed, he reckoned. Tears of misery pricked his eyes as the enormity of his failure dawned on him. Even death had mocked at him.

“Oh, God!” he cried out piteously.

“Yes, my son,” came the answer.

He crumpled to the floor in a dead faint.