Like shit. So, get out.
“I already have what you have.”
AmbroseLa’[email protected]:
I’m worse. You don’t wanna get worse.
“Oh, God. Do you have man-flu?”
AmbroseLa’[email protected]:
Maybe.
On top of the delightful chest infection.
“Oh, how terrible.”
AmbroseLa’[email protected]:
Do not take the piss out of me, little sister.
I hate that I used that term, but she needs reprimanding, and I need reminding of who she is to me.
“That’s what little sisters are for,” she quips back. “Anyway, I did offer earlier, but I’m actually gonna make something to eat. I’ll make you some, too.”
AmbroseLa’[email protected]:
I still don’t feel like eating. What’s with the magic eight ball?
Dollie stares down at her hands. “I asked it if I should check on you.” She sets the ball on the table. “Maybe you should ask it if it’s time for you to eat. Because if you don’t, your body will get weaker. So, you have to try. I can make a soup, or that stew Dad used to make when we were little, if we have the stuff.”
Humoring her, I stretch to the coffee table and pick up the ball. I ask it a silent question and wait for the little ball of plastic to side against me.
Should I eat?
The answer appears—without a doubt.
Placing it back down, I push it away before Dollie sees the answer in the ball.
My pinched expression is enough of an answer.
“Oh, I was right? So, Dad’s stew?”
AmbroseLa’[email protected]:
I doubt we have the stuff.
“I guess I’ll have to improvise then.”
An hour later, Dollie returns, two bowls in hand.
I force myself up on the sofa, shivering as the comforter falls down my naked torso. I stripped off my T-shirt a while ago because I couldn’t stand the feeling of it choking me, but I also couldn’t face all twenty steps to the second floor to get another.
It’s a fight between pulling the comforter higher and forcing my arms into the sleeves of my tee to hide myself as quickly as possible. The tattoo below my elbow is no longer the only reason. I’m also conscious of my scars, now that she’s made negative comments on my appearance.
Once dressed and burning up below the blanket, I accept one of the bowls.
“I don’t think it’s gonna taste like Dad’s.” She places her bowl on the coffee table and steals my uncomfortable pillow to sit on.
