Post Thirty-One: Regurgitating What Was Regurgitated

Elli

I'm literally dying...and not just from embarrassment. Although, the embarrassment feels like enough to kill me. Morgan is just...doting on me. Getting me gravol, and gingerale, and soda crackers. Rubbing my back while I groan in pain. Self inflicted pain. How could I let myself drink so much?

I keep going over last night in my head. Cringing as I regurgitate what was...well...regurgitated. No matter how much I've drank in the past, I've never been so sick that I puked all over something, or someone. I feel like a complete and utter prat.

Yet, Morgan is still here, and moreso he's taking care of me. Which I definitely don't deserve.

Ugh...I can't believe I let this happen.

“How are the soda crackers sitting?” Morgan asked me, interrupting my thoughts.

“Oh...um...I think I'm okay now...” I answered, clutching my stomach, “you don't have to do this, you know.”

Morgan brushed his hand over my face, one side, then the other.

“You don't feel as clammy,” he mused, ignoring my comment.

“Please, don't do this, I already feel bad enough,” I begged.

“I think you need more water,” Morgan announced, getting up and leaving the room.

I laid back, staring up at my ceiling.

I really fucked up. Things were going so well, too well maybe. Perhaps this was the God's way of evening the score. Good ol' yin and yang.

After I threw up all over Morgan, he had a rather stoic face. Very calm about the whole thing.

He got up, trying to get as much puke off himself onto the sheets. Which were already completely covered. He picked me up, he actually carried me in his arms to the bathroom. Placing me in front of the toilet, and walking back to my bedroom. I heard rustling in the bedroom as he tore off the sheets, bringing the heavily saturated pukey top sheet into the bathroom and emptying it into the toilet. Then carried the sheets to my empty hamper, coming back into the bathroom.

“Do you have another set of sheets?” He asked.

“In the linen closet. Hallway. Two doors over,” I muttered, feeling the nausea. My gag reflex begging to unload. As soon as he went to find the new sheets, I leaned over the toilet, emptying my stomach once again.

I curled up in a ball on the bathroom floor, already feeling the shame. Eventually he came back, leaning down and moving the hair out of my face.

“Will you be okay if I take a shower? I just want to wash a bit of the...it will only take a second.”

“Please do.”

I groaned, trying to will the sickness away. To no avail, I may add.

Even though I think Morgan's shower was fairly short, it still felt like an eternity. When he finished up, he carried me back into the bedroom. Where he had set up a waste basket beside the bed for me to throw up into.

There was no denying the sweetness behind every little thing he had done for me. But when would or had it passed into too much? Surely at one point he felt anger, or irritability at having to take care of a girl he barely knew.

I ran my fingers through my hair, feeling the tension as I pulled at it. A braid? Did I do that? I don't remember braiding my hair.

Bleh. Like it matters.

I noticed I'd been rehashing last night for awhile now, and Morgan still hadn't come back from getting me water. It was possible Nat came home and they were talking. I didn't hear her though, and she's usually pretty loud.

My curiosity got the better of me, and I carefully stood up. I was still fairly queasy, even if the throwing up had stopped. I was also still naked. I took my throw blanket off the floor (where it had escaped the vomit) and wrapped it around myself.

I tiptoed outside of me room, checking the kitchen first. But he wasn't there. I continued on to towards the front door.

I stopped dead in my tracks. I faced Morgan, half-naked, in front of a very angry looking Paul.

#postthirtyone #partone #regurgitatingwhatwasregurgitated #polyamorous #comedy #drama #romance #elli