Lance lurched off the edge of the tub and gripped the side of the yawning toilet just in time to release his half-digested dinner onto the smooth white porcelain. His stomach rolled into a ball so tight he feared it would tear itself loose inside him. He breathed in only to be assaulted by another racking cramp as his guts tried to will themselves out into the dim light.
When the final tremors faded and the sense of relief that only the aftermath of vomiting can bring was upon him, Lance fell back against the nearby wall and flushed the steak and sweet potatoes out of sight. He breathed in and tasted the acid that coated his tongue and teeth, and was nearly sick again.
The sensation of the dream continued to hang over him, and he imagined that if he looked up he would see it there, a black-clouded tumor with tendrils that reached down and clutched at his skull. Instead, he stared at the gray-tiled floor and tried to breathe deeply, but the taste in his mouth reduced his calming inhalations to mere gulps of air. Dejected, with his father’s voice still whispering in his ear, his hand slid to his wet forehead, and as quietly as he could, he began to cry.
The sunlight blazing into the room through the thrown-open curtains was a physical thing that pushed against Lance’s face, nudging him from sleep. He blinked his eyes and stared up at the white spackled ceiling of his bedroom. He looked to his right and studied the height of the sun out the window. Nearly nine o’clock, he thought, guessing by the angle of the rays. He slid a hand out to his left and wasn’t surprised not to feel Ellen’s soft form beside him. At the same moment he heard a clatter of pans being dragged from beneath the kitchen counter downstairs and smelled the faint aroma of coffee.
Lance swung his feet to the floor, and for a moment he knew that something was wrong but couldn’t put his finger on it. It felt like walking out of the grocery store after forgetting your list at home, knowing you were leaving something key behind in the aisles. The dream from the night before came rushing back with all its splendor and queasiness slid through his stomach once again. He let the images run through his mind on a high-speed reel, not letting any stay for more than half a second. The film ended and he breathed out, trying to dispel the tension he felt gathering in his chest.
“Nope, not gonna spend another morning like this,” he said to the empty room, as he heard Ellen turn on the flat screen in the living room. Absentmindedly, he opened his mouth wide and moved his jaw to the left. A loud snap echoed in the room and his jaw loosened considerably. He reached up with one hand and rubbed the right side of his face as the pain that was a constant morning companion faded away.
Sloughing off the remnants of sleep and nightmare, Lance walked to his bathroom and flipped on the powerful showerhead in the large stall. The satisfyingly normal sound of the water hitting the tile comforted him, and by the time he stepped into the hot spray, he had begun to feel better.
After toweling off and dressing in a pair of light shorts and his favorite cut off T-shirt emblazoned with the words Hell waits for no man in archaic script, Lance opened the door to his bedroom and bounded down the carpeted stairs outside.