Conversations (17)

“Where’s Nick?” my mom asks my sister.

“Laying down, he doesn’t feel well,” she answers.

I’m sitting at the table eating a bagel and looking at the textbooks I just picked up.

“What’s wrong?” my mom asks.

“He has a headache, just like Emily” my sister answers.

“Oh,” I perk up, looking from my textbooks to across the table at her, “so he’s had them for seven years too?” I don’t get to add, every day? And he only gets a small reprieve when he bleeds from his vagina? It feels like his heads in a vice, or there’s an ice pick being driven into his brain and his eyes hurt even in normal lighting? Just like me?

“No, not like…,” she trails off, “he has a headache,” she corrects, and chews on her own bagel.

Maybe I’m wrong for jumping down her throat but she doesn’t know the half of it. The only way I could know if it was like me would be to feel his pain, make him feel mine and then split hairs.

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