Motion Sickness

A Two-Sided Story

Zzzzzzzz. Zzzzz. Zzzzzzzzzzzz.

Summer. Cars. Motorway. Moving. Returning from Czechoslovakia. Borderland. Sitting in the backseat of my grandfather’s small silver three-door car. Red soft drinks, practically radiating, sugary sweet, one-way cap. Eight years old. My sister in the front seat. Safety reasons. Curve approaching:

acce

slow do slo

acceler ac

slow down

slow down

accelerate

slow down

accelerate

Sick. Both of us. Her more acutely. Stop. Doors thrown open. Motorway air, heavy with fumes, closed eyes, breathing in – out. Out.

Zzzzz. Zzzzzzzzz. Zz–

Cars whizzing past. Turn around.

***

Zzzzzzzz. Zzzzz. Zzzzzzzzzzzz.

That smell. Somehow sweet. Somehow dark. Darkness protects against movement. That smell is life – potential – it lingers in the summer heat. Huge fingers move. Breathing in, breathing out. Those eyelids flutter. Furrowed brow. Then stillness. Moving in:

Zz

z

z

z.

(all quiet)

Zzz

zz

z

(no movement still)

zz

z.

(and…)

Zz–