The tiles are cracked and brown. Dirt and curls of hair are strewn across them. My stomach spasms, toilet water reflecting my pale face. Something slides up my throat, I gag. It dribbles then splashes into the toilet as bile streaks down my neck. It’s black and slimy, floating like a dead fish. I back away, retching, but it pours out now, hot and steaming. It pools on the floor with the clumps of hair and grime. It spreads under the stalls, coating tiles in its shining black mucus. The thing is spilling from me, like slugs in my mouth as it rises, the taste of vomit coating it, coming from it. My head is spinning from the smell, standing in the steam with it running from my innards.
The bathroom door opens. In an instant it is gone from floor and dirt and hair, compressed to a heavy stone deep in my stomach. The clear water holds nothing. The students are leaving, slamming the door. I wash my hands until they’re red. Looking into the mirror I see a black drip on my chin. I wipe it away, assured that my secret will stay inside me for another day.