Not So Happy Holidays (Judah)
Christmas is one of the few days of the year that makes Judah feel warm. There could be a blizzard outside and twelve beers coursing through his dad’s veins, but Judah’s heart remains thawed. Despite the grief that’s been breathing down his neck since first grade, he’s managed to be lucky enough to avoid the seasonal depression that burdens so many people. He knows his mom wouldn’t want him to mourn on her favorite day of the year.
Under the tree in his living room sits a box covered in gold fabric. It’s filled with letters to his mom. Every year, he adds something new. Sometimes it’s a collection of the poetry he’s written over the year, sometimes it’s raw scribblings he bled over on the nights where all he wanted was to cry to his mom.
This year, it’s a carefully crafted paper crane. At the start of the year, he began a list of everything he wished he could tell her. When Arlo went on an origami kick over the summer, he’d tried to teach Judah. The only thing that worked out for him was a crane, albeit a rather wrinkled one. He spent hours practicing to make this one perfect, and everything he wanted to tell her is tattooed across every inch of the paper.
Tucking it in among the other papers, Judah feels the warmth in his chest blossom. He takes another moment to just look down at the collection before he closes the box and stands.
And, whoa.
His vision tunnels, and he grasps for the doorframe that he’s lucky is directly to his right. It takes several long seconds for his eyes to start working again, but his head is still spinning. He feels almost—drunk?
He swore after his last hangover that he’d never touch another drink. So far, he hasn’t, so that’s not the problem here. He starts asking himself what could be wrong, but his body gives him an answer before he really wants it. It comes in the form of nausea seeping over him like lava.
Pressing a fist to his lips, he forces himself to swallow against the rising feeling. It’s all so strange. He felt fine a few minutes ago. Right?
He tries to remember the morning and gets the sinking feeling that his love for Christmas has been cloaking a bone-deep exhaustion and lack of appetite all day. Maybe he’s reading into it too much, but his head has begun to throb. Or was it already? It’s all a bit much all of a sudden, and he finds himself retreating to his bedroom without a second thought.
He retrieves his phone from the bedside table and pulls up Aunt Jo’s contact.
When are you guys heading over?
He stares at his phone and waits for the delivered to change to read. The sudden urge to climb into bed and never come back out claws at him, but he knows that would never fly. His dad is right downstairs, and if Judah doesn’t come down before long, he’s sure he’ll notice. He doesn’t need things going downhill before they’ve even had dinner. It’s not like he doesn’t want to see his granddad or his aunt, the problem is just that he sort of feels like throwing up now, and he doesn’t really want an audience if he can help it.
With that in mind, he trails over to the bathroom and locks the door. Being in such close proximity to the toilet makes him feel even worse. He remembers the last time he got sick, and how long he’d spent draped over the murky water praying he’d just die.
He needs this one to be quick. With shaking hands, he braces himself on the tank of the toilet and forces a cough. His stomach presses upward uncomfortably, but nothing comes up. Another few coughs certainly takes him close to gagging, but apart from some watery spit, nothing makes it into the toilet.
He straightens up with a quiet, frustrated groan. How is it that his stomach was nearly flying out of him downstairs but won’t budge in front of a toilet?
His phone buzzes on the countertop beside him. He picks it up. It’s Aunt Jo.
Heading over in a minute, I’ll see you soon!
He’s simultaneously relieved and disappointed. If he just had a few more minutes, he might be able to get whatever wants out out. As it is, he’s screwed.
“Judah,” his father calls from the stairs. Double screwed.
He collects himself just enough to walk out and call out an answer. His head aches with the echo of his own voice.
“The hell are you doing up there?”
“Forgot my phone, Aunt Jo was texting me. They’ll be here any minute,” he answers, trying not to bristle at the tone of his dads voice. He should be used to it by now, really.
“That’s just great. Get your ass down here and finish up in the kitchen.”
“Yes sir,” he replies, wanting so desperately for things to calm down before they get here.
He only allows himself five more seconds of private misery before starting down the stairs. As he rounds the corner, the smell of the food he’d been cooking just earlier suddenly has him lingering close to the sink in case the nausea overwhelms him.
He finally takes the ham out of the oven and makes every effort to avoid looking at it. One spare glance at the mashed potatoes has his stomach churning badly. For a moment, he wants to just give up. He wants to throw up, go to his room, and sleep for the next few weeks.
Instead, he takes the iced tea he’d brewed earlier out of the fridge and sets the pitcher on the counter. The effort has his arm aching for no good reason. Thankfully, that’s the last of what he has to do.
“Care to explain why you’re just standing there instead of setting the table?” His fathers gritty, slightly slurred voice drawls behind him. So much for being done.
“I’ll do that now.”
His father just hums, low and dismissive. It’s clear from both the collection of bottles in the trash and his eyes that he’s already downed more than enough alcohol.
Judah gets that the holidays are hard when you’re missing someone—he gets that. He also gets that there’s a reason why Granddad stayed with Aunt Jo overnight after he flew instate instead of here. What he doesn’t get is getting piss-drunk every year and acting like you’re not. It’s certainly not convincing.
With a sigh, Judah ignores the way his head is starting to spin, gathers four plates, and places them on the table. He goes back for silverware and napkins, and then he dares to tell himself he’s done everything. Thankfully, before his dad can berate him about anything else, there’s a knock at the door. He instantly feels better.
His father beats him to answering the door, and Judah watches the painful exchange of his relatives pretending that they’d missed each other. In reality, Judah really has missed his grandad. After all, he’s the closest thing Judah has ever had to a father figure.
He almost feels well as his grandad hugs him. He can smell the same cologne he’s used for the last few decades. It reminds him of every last good year of his life. It’s almost hard not to start crying.
But instead, he pulls away, stepping toward his aunt and letting her wrap him up in her arms tightly. He really does almost cry then, tell her how awful he feels, but he somehow manages not to.
They say the same bullshit about how are you and what have you been up to and how are things in Colorado, but Judah starts to tune out. No matter how nice it is to see them again, he can no longer ignore the churning wake in his stomach.
His father gives him a look, and he knows immediately he has to go get the food. They settle in at the table while he goes to retrieve it. When he’s brought everything to the table, he’s more than happy to sink down into his own chair.
However, he’s much less happy about having to load up his plate with food he absolutely doesn’t want. Aunt Jo had brought some casserole and fruit, so he goes mainly for those. He pales at the mere idea of eating ham and buttery mashed potatoes.
“So, how was school this semester, Jay? Are you excited to graduate next year?” His aunt asks.
He manages to swallow a mouthful of casserole and wash it down with some tea so it’ll hopefully stay down. He wracks his brain to try and think of anything positive to say. In reality, he’d barely scraped by in calculus and avoided almost everyone he could. The idea of graduation is exciting, but the idea of college applications makes his stomach churn a little harder.
“Yeah, for sure, um. Well, my history teacher took us to that museum downtown, it was pretty cool.” He clears his throat. It’s thick with nausea. “I had some classes with Arlo, so that was good too.”
He prays he won’t have to say anything else. With so much food in front of him and his dad’s eyes burning into the side of his head, he’s so dizzy he can hardly stand it. Another wave of nausea passes through him then, worse than the last.
“Is that the same boy I met last time?” Granddad asks before taking a big bite of ham. Judah’s stomach gives a violent turn, so he only dares to nod. “Mm. He seems like a good kid. There’s not too many of those anymore.”
“Yeah,” he breathes. An uneasy chill breaks out across his skin. He wishes Arlo was here.
The fireplace crackles in the silence that follows. Judah chokes down a few more forkfuls of his dinner. Mom would’ve known how to keep things light.
“You know, I was thinking maybe you could come see me in the mountains soon, kid. I bet you’d really like it.”
Judah feels a pang of guilt for not having visited in so long, but then again, he hasn’t really been allowed to do much at all. His dad nods, says it’s a great idea, but Judah knows that’s a load of horse shit. The second Judah brings it up later, it’ll be shot down in a fiery blaze.
“That would be amazing, Granddad, thank you. I’d love to.”
Thankfully that sparks some stories about Colorado, and his guests’ attention is mercifully directed away from him. He’s finished over half his plate now, and it’s sitting like jagged rocks in his stomach.
If his head weren’t aching so badly, he might have a chance of listening to their conversation, but as it is, he’s barely lucid. What shreds of energy he has left are focused on keeping his dinner where it belongs. He breaks out in a cold sweat.
When he’s mostly cleared his plate, the ache in his stomach has almost tripled. He’s taking small sips of tea to keep things flowing in the right direction. The gesture’s effectiveness is dwindling exponentially.
For a couple minutes, his father disappears from the table with the excuse that he’d left a candle burning in the other room. Judah knows that means he’s going to go chug another couple of warm beers, but he’s smart enough even now to know better than to hint at that.
He tries desperately during that time to look even slightly engaged in the conversation. Nausea pools in the pit of his stomach, blooming toward his throat. He’s freezing, though he can feel the heat radiating from his palm where it’s resting on his leg.
His father returns, and Judah doesn’t miss the way he has to grip the table while he’s sitting down to keep from swaying. Embarrassment flames hot up the skin of his neck. He takes another sip of tea.
Only this time, he can’t seem to swallow it. He sits there, stone-still, willing his body to obey. It takes several long seconds, and the tea is warmed from saliva when he finally gets it down.
His stomach churns dangerously in response, his body suddenly flushing hot. He feels the blood drain from is face in an instant. He gets the awful sensation of his dinner sloshing up thick toward his throat, and he has to go—now.
“Excuse me,” he interrupts, pushing away from the table.
“Judah,” his father says. He ignores it. He knows he’ll pay for it later, as if he’s not already paying for his own existence now.
By the time he’s halfway up the stairs, he’s stifling gags against his sleeve. A wash of watery spit flows over his tongue, and he heaves his way through the hallway. His stomach lurches with finality as he passes the threshold of the bathroom. He’s only just made it through the doorway when a good portion of his dinner comes splattering out onto the tile and bathmat.
He locks himself inside the bathroom and prays no one heard him get sick on the floor. His dad would kill him. If this doesn’t kill him, that is.
The second his knees hit the cold tile, he’s vomiting again, blushing the clear water below an ugly shade of beige. He’s doing his best to be quiet, but being violently ill isn’t exactly what you’d consider a peaceful activity—especially when the food coming back up hasn’t even had time to digest.
There’s a brief moment where he stops, thick spit hanging from his mouth. He gets a few seconds to breathe, but then his stomach is churning all over again, and he knows the worsened aching means it’s working hard to bring everything else up he’s eaten today, too.
He’s begging the universe please not again, but all it sends back a resounding yes—again.
Some air comes up with a sudden retch, and then he sprays the back of the toilet with the beginnings of round two. He’s sort of surprised no one has come to see what he’d hurried away for, but he’s more grateful for that than anything. At least his father is maybe distracted.
As he continues to heave uncontrollably, it becomes evident that, yes, he’s already throwing up the sandwich and leftover pizza he’d eaten for lunch. The nausea ticks back up a few notches at the idea of something sitting so long inside of him and now coming back up with no chance of stopping it.
By the time his stomach ebbs to a gentle churn, he’s trembling wildly and so dizzy he could faint, but he has bigger problems. Half of his dinner is still splayed out thick across the floor to his left. He dares to look at the damage and has to whip his head back around to the toilet to be sick again.
He makes sure he’s done, and though he doesn’t feel all that much better, it’s a comfort to know he’s not at risk of emptying his full stomach at the dinner table. The throbbing in his temples has also dulled a little, which he’s certainly not complaining about.
He tries to make quick work of mopping up his vomit with toilet paper and spraying the bathroom with his cologne to hopefully mask the sour, sick smell should anyone walk by. He washes his mouth out at the sink and sees that his skin has gone an unnatural yellow-grey. He’s covered in sweat. There’s no way he can play this off, but he’s going to have to try.
His legs shake as he leaves the bathroom, and he attempts to steady them while he goes down the stairs. His stomach gives a hollow moan. The lingering nausea has him swallowing repeatedly as he approaches the table again.
There are three pairs of eyes on him, each laced with varying levels of concern. His father mostly just looks annoyed. Judah tries to pretend like it doesn’t affect him.
He clears his throat. “Sorry, I uh…,” he rasps, raw and sore. “I really needed to make a call.”
“Jude, you look awful, hon. Are you okay?”
Judah tries to perk up a little at that. He’s sure it’s not working.
“Oh, yeah, it’s just Arlo. His, um, his cat passed away earlier today, and I promised I’d call him before it got too late. He was pretty upset, so…that was hard.”
Judah prays his aunt doesn’t remember that Arlo’s cat died over a year ago. Thankfully, if she does remember, it doesn’t show.
“Oh no, on Christmas morning? That’s really tough. I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, me too,” Judah breathes, hoping they’ll just drop it and move onto something else. Death tends to do that.
And it does. Their attention drifts away from him again, and he can relax a little. He spends a few minutes just collecting himself. His eyes are aching along with his stomach and head, longing to shut and stay shut.
He lets them drop for just a few seconds, and when he opens them again, he finds himself looking at the remnants on his plate, which is just about the worst place his eyes could’ve landed. The smell suddenly hits him again, and the memory of being sick along with the sight of everyone still eating what he’d just had to violently throw up brings on a nausea he can’t ride out. Suddenly, heat is exploding in the back of his throat, and bitter vomit fills his mouth with a muted gush.
He doesn’t bother excusing himself this time, and he’s not going to make it to the bathroom, so he settles for the kitchen sink. He spits it all out, a string of curses repeating over and over in his head. He’s not done.
In hopes of covering the sound and washing out the sink at the same time, he turns on the faucet full blast. His bile-tinged breakfast makes a reappearance all over the stainless steel. His legs are barely holding him up as he curls over the edge of the sink with another heave.
“Oh, Jude…,” he hears behind him. It’s Aunt Jo. His heart drops. He’d tried so hard. “I knew you weren’t feeling good.”
Her hand runs across his back, and he vomits again. His stomach is already so sore, his head spinning. If he doesn’t stop puking soon, he’s going to faint.
“Alright, now what the fuck is this,” his father bites.
“He’s sick, Chris, give him a break,” Aunt Josie retorts. She never backs down when it comes to him, thank God.
“Probably just wasted. Little piece of shit stole my liquor not even two weeks ago.”
“Oh yeah? Well being drunk doesn’t give you a raging fever like his—you would know.”
At that, Judah retches more violently than he has all night. He’s scared for his aunt, and this argument has his nerves sharp, his insides knotting tighter. He remembers the beating he’d received upon his father’s discovery. He vomits from the very pit of his stomach.
Aunt Jo is still rubbing his back, so his father hadn’t lunged at her immediately. That makes him feel marginally better. He hears footsteps and then a door slam, and the relief of his father being gone is tangible. Still, his vision is blacking out around the edges, and he’s feeling so weak that he could collapse.
With one final, choking retch, he’s left panting over the drain. Aunt Jo uses the pull-away faucet to wash everything down, and then she brushes back some of the sweat-matted hair from his forehead. He could start sobbing if he weren’t so dehydrated.
“He okay?” He hears a deeper voice say. His grandad is standing in the doorway of the kitchen when Judah dares to straighten up. His father really is gone. He hopes he isn’t driving that drunk.
“Got sick to his stomach. I think he has a pretty bad fever,” she replies.
“M’okay. Really sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry, Jay. Throwing up is not something you have control over.”
“Should’ve just stayed in the bathroom,” he murmurs, whole body aching.
“Jude, how many times have you thrown up today?”
He hums. “Once earlier. I tried to make it through dinner, but I just started feeling so sick, I didn’t mean to waste all that food,” he murmurs, the tears that wouldn’t come earlier beginning to well up. “I’m sorry.”
“Judah, it’s okay,” she insists, pulling him in for a hug. Her hand draws over his back.
Granddad comes a little closer. “I’m sorry you’re feeling so awful, Judah. Your father has no right treating you the way he does.”
Judah stays silent at that. The less he talks about it all, the better. Talking about it hasn’t done him any good in twelve years.
“I think I need to lay down,” he finally murmurs, aching and exhausted.
Wordlessly, Aunt Jo begins to lead him upstairs. His fever comes back with a vengeance, swelling into a thick fog in his head. His body pulses with pain and fatigue. Tears keep slipping down his cheeks without permission.
His mouth feels fuzzy, his limbs full of static. Consciousness leaves him like draining blood. An angry ocean of darkness curls around him.
Whoever came up with the phrase “fever dream” certainly made it sound too pleasant. It’s more of gut-wrenching nightmares, terrors unimaginable in wakefulness. He’s drowning. He’s drowning, he’s drowning, he’s—
He’s looking at Arlo. Chest heaving, hot tears collecting under his chin, he stares at the boy beside him. He must still be dreaming.
“It’s okay, Judah, you’re alright. It’s just me,” he reassures quietly.
“You’re…,” Judah starts, unable to form any other words. His heart meets his stomach in his throat.
“Yeah, it’s okay.”
He’s shaking, drenched in sweat. He can barely remember a thing. Arlo flicks on the lamp beside them and sits carefully on the edge of the bed.
“Are you, um. Do you feel any better?”
Judah brings a trembling hand up to wipe the tears off his face. The question wakes him up a little. Memories start to trickle back in, hazy and uncomfortable to remember.
All of a sudden, he’s feeling every bit as miserable as before—probably worse. With a groan, he rests his head in his hands, the room swaying dangerously under him. His stomach wrenches tightly.
“Arlo…,” he starts. I don’t feel good. Get me a trash can. Move so I don’t puke on you.
He can’t get the words out.
“Yeah?”
His stomach pitches, floods full. Spit gathers warm under his tongue. He shuts his eyes tightly and feels a drawn-out rush of liquid pass his lips and cascade down his shirt into his lap.
“Oh shit,” Arlo blurts, and Judah’s pretty sure that’s the first time he’s ever heard him curse. He’ll tease him about it later. As of now, he’s a little occupied with violently emptying his stomach.
Thankfully, Arlo retrieves the trash can and gets it back to him before he has to be sick again. The smell and the feeling of puke soaking through to his legs sends his stomach reeling worse. He’s buried in the trash can, splattering his insides all over it, over and over.
If he’s not imagining it, Arlo’s hand is carefully brushing across his back. If this is a dream, it’s much less awful than the ones he was having before. He’d take puking over drowning any day.
As the fog begins to clear from his mind and his stomach stops lurching, he begins to think maybe it’s not a dream at all. He ignores his embarrassment for now and wipes a sleeve across his mouth. It’s going to have to be washed, anyway.
“What,” he barely manages, swallowing. “What are you doing here?”
Arlo shifts his weight, blinks. “Your aunt called me. Um. She said you were getting really upset and sick and kept asking for me.”
Judah frowns. He searches for the memory, even a trace, but he can’t remember that at all. Then again, he barely remembers the walk to his room, let alone anything after.
“Oh.”
“Yeah. And uh, she said she’s sorry to hear my cat died?”
That he does remember. His cheeks flush hot. There isn’t really a solid, logical explanation for that one.
“I needed an excuse for bailing from the table to go puke, so…I just couldn’t think of anything else to say. I’m sorry.”
“Oh, it’s okay. I figured maybe it was a fever thing.”
Judah shakes his head. Silence grows thick. He’s heavy with illness.
“I’m really sorry you’re so sick, Jude.”
“It’s okay, I feel a little better…,” he replies, unsure if he’s really telling the truth or not. “Thank you for coming. I wanted to see you, but not exactly like this.”
“I knew I couldn’t just stay home knowing you were feeling so bad. Besides, I still owe you for that night at my house,” Arlo replies, his own face growing crimson.
“Well…thank you,” he quietly repeats.
“You’re welcome. Um. Let me help you with this.”
Judah goes to refuse, but then he realizes just how much of a mess he made and how little energy he has to do something about it. So, silently, he allows Arlo to take the trash can, pull back the blankets, and carefully take his shirt off.
“I should shower…,” he murmurs, feeling much too exhausted to even think about moving.
“Yeah. Do you need help getting there, or like, clean clothes or something?”
Judah nods, eyes falling shut. He lets them linger there for a long moment. He feels Arlo’s tentative hand on his bare back, and he opens them.
“Here,” he encourages, slowly helping Judah out of bed.
They cross the room just as slow, finally making it to the bathroom. Judah sits on the toilet lid with a groan. Arlo turns the water on.
“What clothes do you want?”
Judah shrugs just barely. “Anything.”
“Okay. You’re not gonna pass out or anything right?”
“Probably not.”
It’s not a super comforting answer, but Arlo only lingers a bit before retreating to the bedroom. He returns with a t-shirt, some boxers, and some sweatpants. Judah thanks him, and he leaves again.
Judah is alone in the bathroom then, steam beginning to fill the air. He can’t find it in himself to get up for several minutes. When he does, his vision turns to static, and he grips the countertop beside him. The room spins.
He turns quickly toward the toilet, lifting the lid and gagging up a few streams of bile and stomach acid. When he feels finished, he undresses and steps into the shower, immediately sinking to sit in the tub. He hugs his stomach, letting the water just fall on him.
It feels really nice. He’s not freezing for the first time in a long time, and his headache almost retreats entirely. There, under the steady water, he suddenly remembers his father.
Surely he isn’t back home or Arlo wouldn’t be here so late. The thought of him still being out there makes his stomach twist with anxiety, and yet, he feels like he can finally breathe. It’s a feeling he’s never quite been able to shake when his dad is out somewhere drunk with no contact.
He leans forward and throws up a little. He’s too sore to really retch, so whatever watery nothing comes up is weak and comes out all on its own. He wonders briefly if he’ll ever stop puking.
He stays in the shower until the water starts to run cold and make him dizzy again. It takes more effort than he’s willing to admit to climb out of the shower and dry off. He dresses slowly and realizes he’d forgotten to flush the toilet.
He does, then washes his mouth out. The last thing he needs is to wake up with his mouth tasting like puke again. With the reminder that Arlo is probably still out there, he musters up the energy to leave the room.
His bed has been stripped, and Arlo is sitting in the chair by the window, looking down at a book Judah has never picked up from his own bookshelf. When he walks in, Arlo looks up.
“Hey. How do you feel?”
Judah shrugs. “Little better. Threw up a couple more times.”
“Sorry.”
“S’okay.”
Arlo closes the book and sets it down. Judah stands there, wet hair clinging to his forehead. He shivers.
“So um. I told your aunt what happened and she went to wash everything. She brought you some medicine and stuff.”
Judah looks at the beside table and sees a fresh trash can, water, pills, and some crackers. His stomach rolls uncertainly.
“Oh. I don’t know if I’ll be able to keep them down.”
“Yeah, I told her you probably wouldn’t be up for it, but it’s there if you want.”
Judah nods, then promptly heads for his empty mattress and collapses down on top of it. He curls onto his side with a sigh. Arlo is looking at him quietly. Judah finds it in him to smile.
The room has gone dark now, only illuminated by the orange light of his small lamp. Arlo smiles back at him.
“You don’t have to stay. You’ve seen your fair share of me puking.”
“I know I don’t have to stay.”
Judah hums, exhaustion overtaking him. He feels safe. It’s the first night in weeks that he’s not afraid to shut his eyes.
“Arlo.”
“Yeah, do you feel sick?”
“M’okay…tell me about your Christmas,” he murmurs.
As Arlo laughs a little and begins to talk, the world around Judah warms. He hums again, tries to listen. Something inside him gives a gentle pull, and sleep takes him before the minute is up.
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Author’s note:
Hello everyone! Sorry for the giant absence, I haven’t been feeling very uh…inspired? I love Judah, and so do some of you guys, so I thought I’d bring him back. It felt nice to know him again! Let me know what you think and I hope you all have a wonderful week!
