first it’s the chill from his skin inward until it hits his bones, then shoots outward. he doesn’t understand it, how sudden, this wave of nausea, this harsh way it wipes him out. he thinks “i’ve been poisoned.”
poisoned and restless, reckless and rotten, “it must’ve been something i ate.” he gathers the rinds of figs, inspects them, looking for mold. flash of cold warps him, his stomach turns, catches suddenly bile in his throat.
“i must’ve caught something,” tremble in his belly, the stench of cigarettes in his hair. he wants to say, “i think i going to be sick,” but he barely makes it staining the floor with vomit.
up and down staircases for hours, doesn’t know whether to turn right or left so he keeps turning, stumbling about, reaches out for anything to steady himself. someone touches his shoulder, says, “let me take your temperature.”
his mouth is dry, he is so cold, he mutters to himself, mutters himself into the shower, mutters to himself until the water hits his skin, he swears it sizzles, leaning against the very same wall where the knobs are, turning it and turning it.
he stutters himself under blankets, he chatters to ghosts in the room with him, his child puts a wet towel on his forehead. the dead one, the one never born. “would you have given up on me if it was the other way around?”