Chapter Text
Barry bit his lip and curled up tighter, contorting his body, as if attempting to escape from his own body. The piercing pain shooting up his stomach and side only worsened with the movement
A few hours earlier, he had pain that was fading in and out. But then his throat burned, and he could almost feel his enamel peeling from his teeth as he threw up. Along with being between hot and cold, Margaret, his foster mother, said it as fever and sent him to bed.
Now, he attempted to stand, and he prematurely gagged, bile threatening to rise and spill all over the lush carpet, which was now soaked with his cold sweat, between his toes. He forced his leg to rise, his muscle fought back, and he groaned.
Hunched over like a granny, he shifted to the bathroom. He had to take breaks throughout his journey to the outside of his door; he had to move closer to the floor. By the time he reached the bathroom and retched, his throat protested the need to throw up. He felt like all aspects of his body were fighting against each other. He lifted his head, chin touching the cold toilet seat, the freezing porcelain practically burning his hands, as if he were suffering from inverted hypothermia.
He gaged, a tinted, lightly chunky liquid hitting the toilet. He had not managed to eat much that day. However, he could feel his stomach gurgling; he peeked down, and the bloating was disturbing, like he had a stomach-buster inside of him. He was pulled forward, knocking his head against the toilet and sending himself dizzy. He could feel the sting of a bruise developing.
Every day, Barry wished his mother were alive, to talk to, to see and get into arguments with, to have his father's voice scold him, not be filled with sorrow any time Barry did get to see him. Sometimes, like now, Barry wished he were with his mother, dead. His head settled against the seat, his body sinking into the bathroom floor, wanting heaven to take mercy and swallow him whole.
“Barry!?” Malcom, foster father and construction builder/ owner, called out, drawn to the ajar bathroom door. He called to the kid again, but Barry only mumbled something before gagging into the toilet. Clear water was all his stomach was able to hurl up anymore. Malcom felt the tackiness and sweatiness of Barry, then he rushed back into his bedroom to wake his wife. Upon calling 911, they sat in the bathroom comforting the young thirteen-year-old boy, who had only lost his mother two years ago, and the trial of his father had not stretched on long. Malcom opened the door, so when the first responders reached the door, they would be able to go right up to the bathroom. Marget wrapped her arms around the boy; he wanted to shrug her off, but couldn't, he was too weak. She wiped the tear streaming down his cheeks.
The wee-woo of the ambulance could be heard right before the lights could be seen; it briefly reminded him of his mother. He hated the horrible memories he had attached to such an amazing person.
He could hear the fast talking of Malcom, then heavy and fast footsteps up the stairs. Barry flinched. He looked above Margaret's shoulder and saw the two large men in the bathroom. “Where’s the pain?” The man's voice was softer than the look his appearance gave. His hand was already lying on his stomach, near the belly button area. “That’s what this looks like, The other muttered, too low for Barry to hear. Now they had kneeled, sympathy in both of their eyes as they gave the fragile boy a once-over.
They asked a few more questions to Barry, then one went to grab a chair to transport the child, while the other stayed and directed the questions to his foster parents. “Hold your hands close, don't push them out, we have you.” One of them said, wrapping his arm around his chest before lifting his downstairs.
In the ambulance, the lights burned Barry's eyes, especially against the darkness from outside. His caretakers were inerrably worried; Barry could tell even through his squinted and watery eyes. He was strapped down, his bloating even more obscene. By the time they had hit the hospital, Barry was close to passing out from the pain. He grabbed onto Margaret's hand and squeezed, forcing her run at the speed of the doctors as they rushed him. His bloods were quickly drawn, and an odd and cold jelly was applied to his belly. Barry thought they only used it on pregnant women.
“When did he last eat?” The nice doctor asked
“At 12 today-” Margett started before getting inturped but Barry, practically whispering, “I threw it up”, Barry slurred his head, lolling back.
The doctor double checked the time“It's been 14 hours since he last ate? We might have to wait another ten hours.”
“Are you sure? He is really sick.” Malcom complained.
“If his symptoms worsen, we move the produce up, but doing so now could cause complications. A twenty-four-hour window is the safest. But we will monitor him closely and treat him with antibiotics for now. “The doctor explained, Barry felt uncertainty in her voice as she looked at him.
He twitched; the morphine they had given him was helpful. However, his dizziness only worsened. The bed was uncomfortable, and his muscles were achy from all the twisting he had tried to do. He limply moved one hand to his head and pressed down from where he had hit it off the toilet. His caretakers shushed him, and Malcom forced his arm back down.
Careful with your energy, son. You will need it.” Malcom said, one hand in his hair, trying to lull him to sleep, the other keeping Barry's arm down. He heard Margett let out a small sob at this before getting coffee for her and her husband.
The ten hours did not go by quickly, even with the morphine. The beeps, footsteps and squeaky wheels echoed throughout the hallways. The child he was next to was up all night coughing; however, Barry was sure his crying annoyed him back.
Being rushed down the hallways to surgery almost gave Barry vertigo. The anthologist had explained everything very nicely, but he was too ill to focus on it. He quickly passed out on the operating table. A juice box was fed to him before even seeing his parents' caretakers. He tried to move his head up, but the nurse pushed him back down and cranked the straw.
The lights were still stinging his eyes; his senses were being restlessly attacked by the hospital environment. He was monitored for another two days, and he got a whole two weeks off from school over it. Along with a conversation with his caseworker and the social services staff, because it was ‘mandatory’. Like they weren't the worst people to talk to ever.