The violent urge to throw up again and again when there was nothing much left in my stomach made me cry out in frustration. In the end, my tiny frame could not put up with this kind of punishment anymore. Drained of all energy, I just collapsed back onto the bed with small drops of saliva dribbling down from one side of my mouth.
When Mom recalled that fateful night with me days later, she said, with my limbs dangling lifelessly over the bedside, and my long hair in such a terrible mess, I looked more like some child’s discarded doll lying by the rubbish dump than a robust young girl of twenty and in the prime of her life.
When all the throwing-up was done, the room was strangely quiet again. So quiet I could hear my own breathing and also the hanging fan rotating sluggishly above me. Obviously, Dad had not oiled it for some time. Even in my current condition, I found the noise a bit annoying to my ears.
Excerpt from my second book, “A Daughter Less Ordinary”.