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Grace has explained to me that the human digestive tract, that goes from the mouth all the way to another, separate opening, is basically always active and moving either the food or the liquids that aid digestion around. I can hear this, of course, but it makes me uncomfortable to disclose and I don't think Grace would be happy to know this either.
The elements that make up his food are fairly innocuous and, for all intents and purposes, light as I found out when we talked about the energy he gets from consuming a single meal. Grace has pointed this out to me, too, comparing it to the elements that make up my rations. As a result, I don't know that humans even know the feeling of food sitting heavy inside of you.
I last ate 81600 seconds ago, after which I slept for 38800 seconds. When I woke up, I soon noticed that something in my body was not right. Some of my food must have gone bad. As much as I take care to prepare it well before eating, this is a risk that remains as one of the very few ways pathogens can harm me. In fact, before Grace explained radiation to me, I wondered if that was how my crew died. Fear of it had not kept me from eating, I knew that I needed to, to stay alive, but I thought myself lucky that it didn't happen while I was alone on the Blip-A. Lucky isn't how I feel now.
I am in my tunnel in Grace's lab and he is there, too. This is how most of our time is spent, in the same room. It's convenient with as often as Grace sleeps and I watch him. It's also nice while we are both awake and have each other's company. Despite my feeling unwell, I have just kept working on the latest thing to fix, as the Hail Mary ship has been out in deep space much longer than it was ever intended to be. This is the least I can do, when Grace is using it to take me home.
But I've slowed down over the last few hours, which Grace has noticed. I think, where his hearing comes short, he makes up for it with intuition. He's turned away from his own project and asks me in a tone that confirms his longer observation of myself instead of just an acute idea.
"What's wrong?"
"I feel not good," I tell him, since there's little sense in playing it off. I know that something will need to be done about it. "Meal I eat not digest properly."
"Oh," Grace says. He has never asked to observe me eat again after that first time, though always my sleep afterwards, thankfully. I'm very grateful, even as now that brings about confusion. "I watched you sleep after, everything seemed okay," he tries to reassure me.
I hum, again this is difficult to explain. "What can I do to help?" Grace asks before I can put any words together myself.
"Nothing you need do," I tell him. There's nothing he can do with our atmospheres separating us beyond the Xenonite, either, but I've come to understand this as a strong desire of his. I hope I can convey to him that it's not that I don't want his help—although I don't really, not with eating—but that it's simply nothing I'm willing to ask of him.
"Need to..." I waver, as it will never not be an uncomfortable topic for me, "Expel food. Too soon after eating, but need to." I insist, both toward Grace and myself. Yes, I am trying to convince myself that this is necessary. As uncomfortable as it will be, if I wait I will feel and be worse.
There's silence between us, even to me. This a somber stillness only fractured by me putting my claws together rhythmically, hoping to soothe myself.
"You watch me, question?" I ask, something I haven't needed to do in a long time once Grace understood my desire to be watched in my sleep. He's confused that I do, I can tell, but he mumbles his assent and nods, without asking why and what for.
I go down the tunnel into the dormitory with Grace behind me. It's a walk that makes me feel weak, as my limbs feel heavy despite the little gravity. At the far end of my compartment I pull the sealed box that stores my waste container out of one of the soft bags. It has markedly deflated, since we have been on our trip back to Erid for a long time and I've obviously had to eat most of my stored food.
The few times I've agreed to talk about it, Grace has told me he can 'smell' if his food has gone bad. I have no way of doing that, but I wonder if any of my other rations are affected. As uneasy as the thought makes me, though, the consequence is worse and still immediately in front of me. Alongside my waste container, I take out a separate utensil.
"What is that," Grace asks. I haven't shown him this before. "Is specialized tool."
"To do what?" Briefly, I am annoyed and wishing he didn't always ask so many questions. This is already difficult. I shift my carapace right and left and say nothing. Neither does Grace, but then I relent.
"Abdominal opening not made for reopen after eating. Need tool to help." My explanation sounds vague to myself. I hear Grace swallow without having taken anything in his mouth. He does this sometimes for physical reasons, like having too much of his saliva in his mouth, but other times it's just psychological.
"That seems risky." "Is," I say simply.
We're both just quiet again after that. I take out and tear apart another portion of my food, but without any desire to eat it. I'll need to, since my body has barely received any nutrition from the bad food inside of me, but also that's what making me not want to eat again. I tear the pieces apart smaller than ever, stalling.
"Will continue." I announce, after all. "Wait! What do I do?" I almost jump as Grace puts his hands on the Xenonite and his face close to it. I half turn to him.
"No need help. Say already."
"B-but then, what am I supposed to do here?" I can hear, no, feel Grace's desperation when he asks this time, and for all my resolve—which is admittedly only hastily put together—it makes me falter too. I sigh.
"Am sick... Is comfort."