Sick By Kore Ziegler
My mother protects me, even when I can’t see her. She tells me over and over again, “You’re not sick.” I trust her, like I always have. “Always look both ways before crossing a street.” “Never stray far from my sight.” “Don’t stop holding my hand.” I listen to her. I never let myself forget the heat of her fingers laced through my hand, or the dull pain of her stubbed nails pressed into my flesh. “Don’t you die,” she cries over and over and over. I try to listen. She warns me, always keep the light on or face the mutilated darkness, twisting and warping, embodying fear itself. Fear will get you when you least expect it, so flick that light switch 4 times no more and no less. Allow your eyelids to flutter open and close 8 times, no more and no less. Check underneath your bed as many times as it takes to comfort and soothe yourself into believing Fear is gone, even though you know deep down it is never gone. You will never be safe, but at least you won’t die. My mother scolds me, wash your hands. Over and over and over again. Wash them with scalding hot water until your skin burns, until you see rosebuds of red splotches across your palms, 80