The Machine. James Smythe
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It’s on, still; the screen dimmed, but still alight.
Hello? she asks.
It’s Laura, comes the voice on the other end. I’m in reception at work. Are you ill?
No, Beth says, but even as she says it she feels the sick in the back of her throat, rising. Her head pounds. What time is it?
Just gone eight, Laura says. I’ll let them know you’ll be late.
Beth gets out of bed and stands still, trying to hold down whatever’s threatening to work its way out of her. She gently strips, trying to move as little as possible, and then pulls on underwear and a skirt and a shirt. She walks to the fridge and grabs a little bottle of water, and then drinks it as she sits on the loo. Everything’s moving still: she sits there with her eyes shut, the coldness of the water so sharp on her throat it threatens to be her undoing. Eventually she stands up. She braces herself against the wall. She’s just doing too much too quickly, she knows.
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