This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book “Roman Remains” Down in the Dirt, v187 (the September 2021 Issue) Order the paperback book:

Order this writing that appears in the one-of-a-kind anthology Stardust in Hand the Down in the Dirt Sept.-Dec. 2021 issues collection book		get the 422 page Sept.-Dec. 2021 Down in the Dirt 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

Stomachaches

Anna Fritze

    My alarm clock goes off, and I sigh. I have been awake for hours already, contemplating whether or not it’s worth it to get out of bed. I probably should, I decide. My sister’s eighth birthday party is tonight, and I haven’t gotten her a gift. The whole idea of the thing is the opposite of appealing, but I’ve missed a lot of events I promised to be at. The school science fair, the soccer game, the dance recital... she doesn’t like science anyway; she likes the arts, so that one doesn’t really even count anyway. Really, I’ve only missed those two. Recently, at least.
    I think about the disappointed phone calls from my mother and her telling me how sad my sister was all those times I didn’t show. My sister tried to hide it every time, my mother said, that she didn’t want anyone to be mad at me, that she loved me and saw the best in me.
    I haven’t been going to classes, but I haven’t told my mother that. I would like to tell her; I want her to worry about me, to help me and tell me everything will be okay, to support me. But I know she won’t react that way; she’ll insult me and talk about wasted potential. So I keep it to myself, like most things.
    My alarm goes off again; it’s been another fifteen minutes. I pick up my phone and turn off the alarms I have set in fifteen-minute intervals from 9:00am until 1:00pm because I know myself. I’m not tired, but I’m still exhausted from a night of no sleep. 9:15, I think. I normally let the alarms go off at least until 11:30, so if I fall asleep now, my body should naturally wake me up before 11:00, right? I should get up now; I could get a lot done, but the thought of even washing my face and brushing my teeth is the most daunting thing I can think of. Going to the store and picking out a gift seems easy, but I can’t seem to wrap my head around getting ready for the day.
    I try to move, but my body doesn’t let me. I sigh. I’m not surprised. I close my eyes and let my exhaustion wash over me; I let every muscle in every limb in my body feel it, one at a time. My brain screams to move, to get up and get ready, because every morning I don’t I regret it and promise myself I won’t do this tomorrow. But every morning I do, and here I am again.
    Incentives like class and promises made to friends and family at least used to force me out of bed; times set in the morning made me move; I would get a stomachache if I didn’t. The stomach aches still come, I feel one approaching now, but they don’t work like they used to. The ache grows more and more painful, and I curl up as tightly as I can. I press my fist as hard as I can against my stomach to help relieve some of the pain; I take deep breaths. The wave passes for a moment and I feel relief, but the pain returns, but I was expecting it. I’m used to it more now; it doesn’t hurt as badly this time.
    I glance at the clock. 10:07. It’s been over an hour since my first alarm, but only barely over 45 minutes since the second. 10:00 isn’t bad for me. I stay where I am, and my brain reminds me how stupid I’m being, that I’m already behind where I told myself I’d be yesterday, that if I get up now, I won’t feel so bad.
    But if I get up now, I could be tired all day. I didn’t sleep enough, and I technically have enough time. I try to sleep again; I play piano music from my phone; that helps sometimes. I close my eyes, but it feels forced. I open them again, but they feel droopy. I let them fall where they want, and they stay half open. I can still see, but everything is blurry.
    My stomach moves; I’m hungry. I think about the food I have in the kitchen; most of it is only microwavable, sodium-filled, or both. My mouth waters when I think about them, I want them, but I know they’ll make my stomach feel even worse. I wish I had something healthy, that wouldn’t make me feel horrible, but even when I do, I let it sit until it rots, or I tell my roommates to eat it, and I laugh about the money I wasted yet again.
    The clock reminds me that it’s 11:23 now, that my thoughts have been strung out and it’s almost the time I normally get up, when my stomach hurts so badly that I have to do something about it.
    But my stomach feels okay right now. I feel the lingering pain from before, but it’s bearable. Deep breaths. I turn on my back, splay out my limbs, and stretch. I stretch so far that my back goes from feeling woken up to feeling pain; I freeze where I am, afraid of how it’s going to feel when I stop stretching and move back to a relaxed position. I hold my breath until I can’t anymore, I relax and clench my teeth as the pain moves from my neck to the center of my back and sticks there. I curl up and press my fist against my stomach again as the aching comes back there, too.
    11:52, my clock says. This makes me feel worse, so much worse that I decide I have to get up. I throw my blankets off my body, swing my legs over the edge over my bed, lean over, and let my face rest in my arms where it’s still warm. I stand up and stretch again while thinking about what to get buy my sister for her birthday. What do eight-year-old girls like, anyway?

Copyright of written pieces remain with the author, who has allowed it to be shown through Scars Publications and Design.Web site © Scars Publications and Design. All rights reserved. No material may be reprinted without express permission from the author.

Problems with this page? Then deal with it...