Next came the pain. Excruciating, skull-splitting, breath-stealing pain. Sitting was not an option. Even rolling from my back to my side sent a tidal wave of nausea crashing over me, rushing up my throat along with bile and the meager remains of the last thing I ate. Vomit continued dribbling from my mouth as I lay on the hard floor, the sharp stabbing pains forcing me to take quick, shallow breaths. My body continued purging until I was empty and even then, dry heaves kept wracking my stomach over and over again. Each spasm sent a white-hot knife through my head. Just when I thought I couldn’t take anymore, the violent vomiting settled into dull queasiness. It didn’t feel good, but it was tolerable. My head was a whole other story. The pressure inside made it feel as if my skull had shrunk two sizes too small for my brain. I had no clue how long I lay on the floor, in a heap like a limp rag. Minutes, hours, days… I drifted in and out of consciousness. Each time I woke, the suffocating nausea sent my body into another long round of useless, excruciating dry heaves.
What do You think about Jagger (Broken Doll Book 2)?
