I’d booked myself an appointment when my belly had started to roil over and over: churning, rocking, roaring with no respite. My limbs flailed and crashed and I foamed at the fingertips. I’d become erratic, violent; I tipped over one boat after the other, scattering my own face with tiny writhing bodies that tickled my nostrils. Frustrated, I smashed the empty vessels on nearby rocks. The whales raised their eyebrows at one another and sulked down deep to avoid my rage.
‘Have you eaten anything unusual lately, something that could have caused this?’ asked the doctor. As a matter of fact I had, although not by choice: a draft of crude oil had been served up last week, viscous dark poison sliding down my gullet along with several tarred, dead seabirds - I’d been burping up feathers for days. A capsized cargo of designer flip flops had got stuck in my teeth and no amount of seaweed could floss them out. Lumps lodged in my throat turned out to be plastic bottles; sometimes I could cough them up on a beach without any drama, but on other days they made me retch until a tidal wave of salty vomit rushed out and smashed into the land. I’d flattened entire civilizations with the strength of my sickness.
‘Goodness me, no wonder your stomach is unsettled,’ the doctor exclaimed. ‘And it certainly explains the mood swings.’ He patted me gently with a damp hand and offered up a watery smile. ‘But as you know, there’s not much I can offer other than moral support,’ he sighed. ‘Us bodies of water are rather at the mercy of others.’
I swirled out noisily, the current pulling me home. Destined to churn and rock and roar until they could find something to help with the pain.
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