Hey love, you have to hear this. Ive been sick as a dog for two whole days, fever through the roof, and Liam didnt even bother making me a cuppa! I swear, hes not a proper bloke, just a useless lot! And now, when he finally feels like grabbing a bite, hell have to cook it himself.
Liam Liam, please could you pop down to the chemist? I croaked, my voice hoarse like dry autumn leaves. It sounded foreign, cracked, barely my own. I lay there, the sweatsoaked pillow pressing into my cheek, staring up at the ceiling that seemed to sink lower, threatening to crush me. My whole body felt like a blazing furnace; every joint, every bone was jagged glass, and even the slightest turn of my head sent a fresh wave of agony. The heat wasnt just a fever it was a living thing crawling under my skin, turning my muscles to molten lead.
From the living room came the rhythmic clack of keys and the angry clicks of a mouse, punctuated by short, guttural sighs. That was Liams world his world, where hed strapped on those massive gaming headphones that look like a pilots helmet and dived headfirst into a virtual battlefield. In that pixelated realm he was a commander, a hero, a legend. In our cramped flat on a council estate in Manchester, he was just a silhouette hunched over his gaming chair.
Liam, can you hear me? I feel awful. I need something for the fever and something for my throat, I managed, watching his broad back tense with the excitement of his game. He didnt turn. Only his left hand briefly left the keyboard, making a vague gesture that meant, Im listening, leave me be.
Right, yeah in a sec he muttered.
But that in a sec never arrived. Time stretched into a sticky, endless mass. Minutes melted into hours. The weak daylight sneaking through the cracked window turned to grey dusk and then vanished into thick darkness. I would drift into a nightmarish, sticky dream where hot waves and grotesque shadows chased me, only to snap back to the harsh reality of pain, thirst, and the relentless sound of his virtual gunfire. All I could think about was a simple chicken broth not a fancy dish, just hot, salty liquid that could warm me from the inside and give me a scrap of strength.
Then the kitchen filled with the buzz of a doorbell and a brief chat with the delivery driver. The scent of hot pizza dough, melted cheese, pepperoni rolled in. Liam had ordered a pizza for himself. That didnt make me angry I didnt have the energy for rage. It just sparked a deep, hollow despair. He was ten metres away, munching away, living his own little world, while I was melting in fever, forgotten like a broken teacup.
Summoning the last shred of will, I rasped again, my voice almost a whimper. Liam water, please Im so thirsty.
This time he actually reacted. He pulled off one of his headphones and turned his face, lit by the blue glow of his monitor. His eyes flickered with excitement, a halfsmile of triumph on his lips. He stared at me like I were just another piece of furniture.
Just a sec, Im finishing this round. Almost the final boss.
He slammed the headset back on, the wall of sound cutting him off completely. I shut my eyes and let a single hot tear slide down my cheek, evaporating on my heated skin. I wasnt just sick I was utterly alone, trapped in a flat with a man whod once promised to be there through thick and thin. A flu with a temperature close to forty didnt fit any of those categories.
Time stopped. My mind floated through a series of sticky, heavy dreams and sharp bursts of pain. I lost track was it a day or an eternity? Eventually I realized the fire inside me was dying out, replaced by a freezing, draining weakness. My body, which had felt like a furnace minutes before, now seemed foreign and cold. The sheets were damp and clingy, and a disgusting taste of sickness lingered in my mouth.
Thirst hit me like a tidal wave an actual, physical scream from every dehydrated cell. I slipped off the bed, and the room swayed, the walls blurring. I clutched the edge of the mattress, fighting the wave of nausea. The noises from the living room didnt disappear; they just changed pitch. It was no longer frantic gunfire but a loud echo of Liams shouted comments to invisible teammates in the chat. He was alive, his virtual world still spinning.
Each step toward the kitchen felt like climbing Everest. My legs trembled, my hands grabbed the wall like a frail old man searching for stability. The hallway smelled of stale, sour air. When I finally emerged into the kitchenliving area, the daylight slammed into my eyes, forcing me to blink. And then I saw it.
It wasnt just a mess it was a monument to his selfishness, built over the two days Id spent in this feverish hell. On the coffee table stood a pyramid of three pizza boxes, slick with greasy stains. Beside them, a mountain of energydrink cans and a sticky ring of spilled cola. The sink was a tower of dirty plates, bowls and forks drowning in murky water that reeked. Crumbs and wrappers littered the floor. He hadnt just avoided cleaning; hed turned our home into his personal rubbish pit, the only bright spot being the glow of his monitor.
I turned to see Liam still glued to his chair, headphones on, oblivious to my presence. He was deep in his world where everything was simple and clear no sick wives, no bills, no responsibility.
I shuffled over to the fridge, yanked open the door and gulped down a bottle of mineral water, feeling the lifegiving liquid flood back into me. Just then Liam finally lifted his head, removed his headset, and looked at me with a lazy, indifferent curiosity. His gaze swept over my pale, wrinkled tshirt and my gaunt face, and a crooked smile tugged at his lips.
Feeling better? You look like you could eat something, he said, as if I were a broken appliance finally fixed.
That casual remark hit me like a stone dropped into a deep well. It wasnt How are you? or Do you need anything? it was a flat, consumerlike observation: Youre fixed, now I can eat. In that instant every ounce of my weakness evaporated, replaced by a fierce, scorching anger. I looked at the pile of trash around us and, for the first time in two days, felt unbelievably powerful.
The world that had been wobbling and blurry snapped into a sharp, ringing clarity. My fatigue burned away like kindling in a whitehot blaze of fury. It wasnt a tantrum or a melodramatic fit it was a fullblown explosion, a tectonic shift that Liam, lost in his pixelated comfort, could never have anticipated.
Do you want to eat? I snapped, my voice cracking like ice. Are you serious? Ive been lying here in my own sweat for days, cant even get up to the loo! I begged you, like a beggar, to get some medicine! And youre finishing a game! I was dying of thirst, my lips were glued to my teeth, and the smell of your pizza was creeping into my bedroom! I was suffocating and you didnt even bother to come over!
I wasnt shouting; I was spitting words, each one a heavy stone hurled at his calm. The accusations were so specific, so undeniable, there was no excuse of Im just tired or Youre overreacting.
Liam watched my outburst with a lazy grin, arms crossed, that infuriating look of a grownup listening to a childs ramblings. He waited, waiting for the storm to pass so he could pop his headphones back on. To him it was just noise, background.
Finally, I fell silentnot because I ran out of words, but because I realized how pointless it all was. It was like shouting poems at a brick wall. I stared at him, at his relaxed posture, at that halfsmile, and all my rage compressed into a cold, heavy ball in my chest.
He finally leaned back and, with a mocking tone, asked, All thats out of your system?
That was the last mistake. He expected tears, a continuation of the argument, maybe some apology. He wasnt ready for what came next.
I didnt answer. I met his eyes for a few seconds, and there was no pain, no resentment left, only the cold, surgeons precision of someone whod decided the operation was over. Then I turned.
Ive been sick for two days, and you didnt even make me tea! Youre not a man, youre a useless lump! Now, if you want to eat, youll have to feed yourself!
With those words I flung open the fridge door. A burst of cold air rushed out, wrapping around me. Liam watched, bewildered. Was I about to eat alone? Throw a boycott? It sounded childish and ridiculous to him. But I didnt grab a plate. My hands went straight to a massive fivelitre pot waiting on the floor, filled with the rich, darkred borscht Id made before I fell ill. I hauled it onto the floor, then reached for a heavy container of golden pilau, its rice scented with meat and spices, and set it down next to the soup. A stew, braised cabbage, chicken cutlets everything Id cooked to last us a few days.
Liam stared at the mountain of pots and containers, still trying to make sense of it. His face was a mask of dumb, bewildered surprise. He opened his mouth to speak, but I, not even looking at him, hoisted the heaviest pot of borscht and marched straight to the bathroom.
The toilet door was open. The white porcelain bowl, usually just a mundane fixture, now looked like a sacrificial altar. I stood over it, holding the pot steady, my hands firm. I tipped the pot, and a thick, rubyred river of soup, flecked with meat and veg, cascaded into the water with a dull splash. The scent of beetroot, garlic, and broth the smell of home, comfort, care filled the tiny room, mixing with the sharp scent of bleach.
Liam, frozen in the kitchen doorway, could barely process what he was seeing. It was beyond his comprehension. It was wrong. It was absurd.
What are you doing? Already? he shouted, the panic evident in his voice.
I didnt reply. I watched the last potato chunk disappear in the torrent, then pressed the flush button with mechanical precision. The roar of water swirling down was the only answer a deafening, final punctuation mark. I set the empty pot down on the tiled floor, turned, and walked back into the kitchen.
Only then did the full scale of what I was doing sink in for Liam. This wasnt a quick fit of hysteria; it was a methodical, cold destruction.
Youve gone mad? he yelled, lunging around the kitchen, his face flushed. Youre dumping all the food! What am I supposed to eat now? You cooked it, and now youre flushing it! This is insane!
His words meant nothing to me any longer. They were just background noise. I moved with the steady rhythm of a conveyor belt, pot after pot, from the kitchen to the loo, each step taking me farther from him, from the life wed shared. I didnt look at him, didnt react to his screams. I simply did what Id decided obliterate every bridge, every thread, every material expression of the care hed taken for granted.
When the last pot was empty, I returned to the kitchen. The floor was a sea of dirty dishes and food remnants. Liam, breathing heavily, leaned against the wall, his gaze burning into me, waiting for an explanation, for the next round of shouting.
I surveyed the battlefield, then calmly opened the fridge again. In the corner sat a small plastic container I hadnt touched. I grabbed it; inside were a couple of chicken cutlets and a bit of barley my portion, my dinner. With the container in one hand and a clean fork from the drawer in the other, I headed to the bedroom.
Is that it? he croaked, turning his back on me. Youre just going to leave? What am I supposed to do with all this now?
I stopped at the bedroom door, but didnt look back. For a split second he thought Id say something else, but I just slipped inside, closed the door, and turned on the TV.
The final, deafening click of the lock turned in the keyhole. Liam was left alone in the wrecked kitchen, surrounded by empty boxes and filthy dishes, his stomach growling, the fridge humming emptily. The bedroom was silent, its thin wooden door keeping me safe as I ate, feeling the warmth return to my body, the sickness finally fading away.