“His eyes popped open. Blinking rapidly, he struggled to orient himself. Hot, sticky, and flustered, he threw off his sheets. I’m at home. I’m an adult, not a child. None of that is current. Breathing heavily, he eased into a sitting position, and fought to keep the bile from creeping up his throat. After being trapped in the cramped space for days, the bathroom had become his idea of hell. The toilet had been a clunking, rickety ancient device that only worked half the time. Once it clogged up,... he hadn’t known what else to do but go in the bathtub. He’d been five. Anger seared his veins like poison. Regardless of all that his mother had done, he always thought the treatment was his fault. That he had caused it by behaving naughtily. By the time his mother had come down from her high, enough to remember he existed, he was severely dehydrated, starving, and less than a foot away from a shit and piss filled drain. The experience created an aversion to small bathrooms.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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