Call it Seasickness

I have an illness.
It’s terminal, but I haven’t told anyone.
It’s chronic, but on good days I don’t feel it at all.
I’m thinking if I leave it alone for long enough, it’ll go away.

In the absence of something, mist saturates me from the inside out. Condensing in my bone-seams, syrupy sweet, mortar in the cracks, sewing them close. Mist envelops me like a chainsmoker’s film, like emperor’s clothes. It’s both solid and not. I think I can breathe through it. I don’t remember how to, otherwise.

Theseus stands by the rocks as I take his ship; mist pushes it out to sea. My IV beeps. A floorboard flutters and disappears. The other boats moored to the coast seem so much grander from a distance. They’re dots. They’re gone. I’m adrift. A floorboard flutters, and nothing rises up to replace it. I look down and see an open pane of water, the gentle swaying tide. It’s still a ship. One piece doesn’t make a difference.

I look up, and my neck is so heavy today. My IV beeps. It’s not a good day. I reach up and jostle it a little. It hasn’t been for a while. My gown sweeps the floor as I sit cross-legged on the deck, fabric pooling to cover the hole. I wonder if I have anyone to tell. I wonder if enough of me is still something enough to be recognizable.

A formless light blinks tawny eyes in the distance, unannounced. I electrify. The mist pushes, then pulls. My IV drips through me and onto the deck. The deck is moving. A floorboard flutters, and I grab it with both hands before it can leave. The light gleams in an auroral arc. The deck is speeding. For the first time since I can remember, the something still inside of me steadies.

Then the wind whips, and it is over. Air forces through me, stripping the mist clean away, tearing it from wooden boughs. It sweeps up the pieces and tumbles them into the water. It’s swept away the light, too. I hate the wind, but I know better than to defy it. It ruffles my hair as it passes. I can’t stop the pinpricks from cornering my eyes.

The air stills; it’s gone as it comes. The IV drips into me, silent. I turn my head slowly. My “ship” is still here. The mast is skewed. I cannot sink yet. Next time, I think, and abhor myself for it.

Mist winds up my arm and makes a home on my shoulder. Without it, the air is acidic but breathable. Theseus is dead, but I have lungs, an arm and a shoulder, and I can withstand the weight of the wind. Maybe that’s reason enough to keep going.

I have an illness.
It’s terminal, but I haven’t told anyone.
It’s chronic, but on good days it doesn’t hurt so much.
It’s called