a short story
By V. A. Jeffrey
Book cover by V.A. Jeffrey
I've had a migraine all day and I've been vomiting all morning. Only now that it's evening has the hammer of pain lifted. Headaches have become more frequent lately. Never used to get headaches before, much less migraines. The fever is subsiding, I think. My whole body was hotter than an oven last night. My skin, always cracked and dry feels soft with perspiration. I'm sweating like a marathon runner and it feels good. I hate my skin.
I finally muster up the strength to get out of bed without retching. Triumph. I wander to the living room to fire up the laptop. I leave the lights off in the house and peer through the window as it boots up. I look up at the sky. It's grayish-blue here and there with rivers of thin, dusty clouds crossing east and darker grays running in western currents with patches of fuchsia dispersed throughout. It is stunning. Even in a dim, half-stupor I can appreciate an April sky. Rain is sweeping in from the south. Softly it falls at first, then picks up speed. I listen to it in a dulled sort of calm as the rain pounds, beating down on the roof like a chorus of tribal drums. I like rain. It washes away smog, dirt, pain; it helps me think clearly, makes me feel safe. It also drives the cancer-courting sun worshipers out of the parks and away from beaches, out of sight. Especially the really pale ones who couldn’t tan if their lives depended upon it, which they don't. Aton is dead. And Ra, and Helios and Apollos and Amaterasu. . . . . . I'm off on a tangent.