September 8, 2014 | Occasus | Issue 4 | Creative Nonfiction

Sick with Dread, and Chicken Soup

I am awake.

I am awake and my body feels… thin. Not thin in the literal sense; in the physical appearance, body-type, way of meaning. Rather in the sense of lacking a certain amount of substance. I am cold, and nauseous, and feel generally wobbly—the way I imagine it would feel to be one of those illusionary puddles that materialize on distant stretches of asphalt under the heat of the summer sun.

With a great reluctance I pull myself from my bed and begin the ritual of the morning hangover: Shuffle to the bathroom; piss; wash hands; fill water bottle with water; drink water; find phone; check outgoing messages.

The first problem of the morning presents itself in the form of a message to a female friend asking her to “forget everything I told [her] tonight”. Great. So there are some secrets spilt that I would have preferred remain, well, secret.

I continue with my morning. Shuffle to the kit-

Shit.

I feel my stomach drop into the bowl of my pelvis as I am filled with the memory of warming soup on the stove. I do not remember eating this soup. I do not remember anything past it warming on the stove. Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuck.

I break into a half-run as I race toward the kitchen, afraid of what it is I will find there when I arrive. As I round the corner and the stove slides into focus I am struck with relief. Relief, quickly supplanted by confusion.

The stove is—thank god—not on. The pot, is not on the stove. It’s not in the sink, either, for that matter. Nor is it, when I bend down to check, in the drawer beneath the stove.

I stop to consider the remaining possibilities.

Slowly, it begins to dawn on me, and I move towards the fridge. In a motion which is simultaneously incredulous and certain, I reach up and open the freezer door.

There sits the pot. The lid still on, still full of soup.

I am laughing now. I am standing in my kitchen, alone, and laughing.

Later, I will have a conversation with a friend, and she will tell me what secrets I shared. She will tell me that I touched her chest—a lot—that night. I will wonder how many more nights I will only half-remember, and how many more regrets will follow them. I will struggle to reconcile my desire to drink with my desire to remain in control of my actions. I will wonder at what point drinking becomes, “a problem”.

But that won’t be for hours yet.

Now, I am laughing.

JONAS TROTTIER is an undergraduate student at Western studying Biology and Theatre. He enjoys the creative exercise of writing, as it gives him reason to dwell on aspects of his environment and experience that he might otherwise take for granted.