the road is old and poorly maintained, full of potholes and bumpy patches. you're driving with a carsick sickie, trying to dodge as much of the bad road as you can, listening to their sick sounds, their quiet burps and soft moans and forced swallows.
coming around a turn, you see at the last minute a deep, wide pothole, the kind that would certainly give your car a flat tire. you're forced to swerve, dodging, and beside you in the passenger seat your sickie makes a strangled heaving noise, a hand coming up to cover their mouth.
"ohhhh, i don't feel good," they say, holding their belly with their free hand. "i'm really sorry, i think i might be sick soon."
"it's okay, baby. there are plastic bags in the glove compartment, let's get you one."
trying to keep the car steady, you lean over and find one of the bags, passing it to your sickie. they moan and open it, leaning over their lap with their hand still cluthing their sick tummy. a little bit of saliva drips over their lower lip to crinkle onto the plastic. you can hear their heavy, strained breaths as they try to hold back the inevitable.
in your distraction, you haven't been keeping a close enough watch on the road. before you can react, the right front tire dips into a hollow in the concrete, and the passenger side of the car bounces.
your sickie lets out a deep, sick-sounding belch. they snatch the bag and hold it up to their mouth just in time to catch a thin stream of bile.
"owww, it hurts," they tell you.
you take one hand off the wheel to rub their back. they retch, loud and empty, and you can feel all their back muscles tightening with the effort.
"just get it up, baby. come on, almost there," you tell your sickie as they struggle.
their labored breathing catches, and then they heave again, a guttural thing, producing a mouthful of sick. they cough in surprise and spit, gasping for air.
a minute later, there's another bump in the road you can't avoid, and your sickie groans and jerks over the bag, this time throwing up a heavy stream. it's chunky now—you can hear their stomach contents splattering against the plastic.
and so it goes. your sickie is moaning and squirming with discomfort, their nausea unavoidable. with every twist and uneven spot, they belch and gag and get sick, unable to control themself as their unhappy belly purges.
"the bag is getting full," they whine, right before a sharp burp brings up another small stream of vomit. they let out a pained, tired noise. "i can't stop."
"there's a gas station up ahead, it's okay. just let it all out."
pulling into the parking spot produces another strained retch and mouthful of vomit from your sickie. you wait for them to finish, still rubbing their back until they feel they can let go of the bag.
you come back from the gas station, having disposed of the full bag, to find your sickie has thrown up down their front, too weak and exhausted to get themselves out over the asphalt. orange bile and a couple chunks stain their shirt and cling to their chin.
you sigh and clean your sickie up, wiping their face off and getting them a new shirt to wear. you hand them a fresh bag from the glove compartment. it's going to be a long drive.
