13. Lesorcista
13
L'esorcista
The Exorcist
Bridget
M y little beautiful Bella is just lying there licking her arsehole whilst I try to catch her up on everything we’ve seen today. I'm not sure if she's even aware that I'm here but I love looking at her and telling her about my day. I would just prefer a better view than her bumhole.
Obviously I censor what I tell her because I'm pretty sure Amelia and Ben are listening in the background so I can’t really spill the beans on bush-dick or that Omar is… roar , for a lack of a better word.
So far I’ve managed to talk to her every day. Omar keeps grumbling about it, yet he’s always at the lookout for Wi-Fi when we get close to four in the afternoon. Today is our last day in Florence so we headed back to the hotel for me to call Bella before packing. My room is a bit of a tip really, but I unpacked everything I brought with me, planning to put together one bag for the next few days so poor Omar doesn’t have to schlepp all my suitcases to my room.
“And then, Bella, we went up onto this hill and it had this amazing view, and I could see the Ponte Vecchio and the cathedral and—” A wave of nausea hits me and I hold still for a moment in the hope it will pass. I take a deep breath and my stomach settles. I wonder what that was. I’m really not feeling very well. I try to lie very still and—
Oh my God. I scramble off the bed as quickly as I can. I already taste the first of the vomit in my mouth. I rush to the bathroom and bend over the toilet and—
Omar
I don’t know what it is with this country and paper-thin hotel walls, but it’s like every room’s made of cardboard. I’m stepping out of the shower when I hear it—the awful, gut-wrenching sounds coming from next door. It’s Bri’s room, and the relentless retching noise leaves no doubt about what’s happening.
I quickly throw on some shorts and a T-shirt, my heart thudding in my chest. She's still throwing up, and I’m really starting to worry. I rush to her door, but as I raise my hand to knock, I hesitate. What if I’m invading her privacy just when she needs space?
But the awful sound of her heaving doesn’t stop and I can’t just stand here doing nothing. I knock once and there’s no reply. I knock again, more urgently this time, but there’s still no response—just the sound of her struggling. I’m torn between the need to respect her privacy and fear that she might really need help. “Bri?” I call out. No answer. I press the door handle and it opens. Luckily this is one of those hotels with old fashioned keys rather than modern keycards and she has forgotten to lock the door after herself again despite me reminding her every day.
“Bri,” I call one more time and am answered by gagging. Her tablet is on the bed with a live video call of her cat who seems to be grooming herself, completely oblivious to what’s going on.
I ignore the tablet and step into the bathroom.
“Bri are you okay?”
“Go, go away. Don't. Don't look at me,” she manages to moan before another wave of sickness hits her. “I’m dying,” she mumbles between gagging and throwing up. “Omar, talk to—” She gags but nothing comes out, “talk to Bella.”
“Your cat?”
“Yes, please.”
“Why?”
“She’ll be worried.”
“It’s a cat.”
“Plea—” More gagging. I decide now isn’t the time to argue with her so I head back to the bedroom and pick up the tablet.
“Hey, cat.” The tabby furball looks at the screen. Huh, maybe she does pay attention
“Well listen, Bri is ill so we’ll have to cut this short. But I’ll take good care of her.” Fucking hell, I’m talking to a cat.
“Oh my god is she okay?” a voice shouts before the table on the other end of the call is moved. Amelia appears on the screen.
“Yes, no, I don’t know yet. It only just started. Probably food poisoning. I should go and look after her.” I point to the bathroom. Not that Amelia can see what I’m pointing at.
“Of course. Please keep us posted.” She gives me a worried smile before the call is ended.
Bri snaps at me again the minute I step into the bathroom, “Please don’t look at me. Just leave me to it. I’ll be fine.”
“Bri, let me be here for you.” She looks white as a sheet and her forehead is covered in sweat as she grabs the toilet seat again. I pick up a small towel from the sink and run it under the cold tap. Sitting next to her on the floor, I gently wipe her forehead to cool her down.
“You really shouldn't be seeing this,” she mumbles. She looks already exhausted.
“I'm here for you, okay? Do you think it's food poisoning or a virus?”
“I don't—” More retching but she has nothing left in her stomach to bring up. “I don't know.”
“You did have these oysters that didn't look that nice.”
She doesn’t reply but instead starts to dry heave. I gently rub her back and wipe her face with the cold towel. It’s another half an hour before her stomach seems to have settled a bit. She's hunched over the toilet and I carefully lift her in my arms and carry her to the bed.
She curls up under the duvet. I can’t resist stroking her hair away from her sweaty forehead. She looks drained and done for.
I try to give her some water but she's too weak.
“Come on, Bri. Just a sip.” I lift her head gently, holding a bottle of cold water to her lips. She slowly takes a few drops and when she’s done I carefully place her head back onto the pillow. Her forehead is damp with sweat, and her normally bright eyes are dull and tired. Worry gnaws at me so I press the button on the phone and call reception. My voice is tense as I quickly explain what's happening, and the receptionist offers to call for medical help.
“Bri, the doctor's on the way.”
“Ohh, I don't need a doctor,” she murmurs weakly.
“Yes, yes, you do. This isn't okay. We need to make sure it's not something serious.”
She’s lying on the bed looking fragile, her body small and vulnerable under the covers. I sit beside her, holding her hand and feeling helpless as I wait. The minutes drag by, each one stretching endlessly. Finally, after what feels like forever but is only forty-five minutes, the receptionist calls up to say the doctor's here. He is an older man, with the urgency of a snail when he enters the room. He takes one long look at Bri, asks me a few questions and then casually explains it’s probably food poisoning. He advises me to keep her hydrated and if she doesn’t improve within twenty-four hours, to take her to the local hospital. He is telling me what I already suspected. I'm not sure it was worth calling him out, but at least I feel like I’m doing everything I can.
Another wave of nausea hits Bri just after the doctor leaves and she rushes to the bathroom. I follow her, rubbing her back as she retches. Her stomach is empty so she’s just throwing up the water I gave her earlier. Her body shakes with effort, and it breaks my heart to see her like this. Once it passes I guide her back to bed and offer her a bit more water. She might throw it up again, but her body needs fluids. The doctor also left some electrolytes so I add them to the bottle. She takes a few sips, her hand trembling, before collapsing back onto the bed.
I lie down next to her, feeling the warmth of her body next to mine. She curls up next to me, resting her head on my chest. It feels right, like she’s where she’s meant to be. I shouldn't say it, I shouldn't even think it, but it feels so natural. I stroke her hair gently, my fingers tracing soothing patterns.
“Just rest now,” I whisper. “You’re going to be alright.”
Her breathing slows and deepens as she finally falls asleep, her face peaceful. I listen to her steady breaths, feeling a sense of relief wash over me. Maybe she’s over the worst of it. Holding her close, I shut my eyes and let myself relax for the first time since this all started.