motion sickness

We were spinning along full-steam in a little roller-coaster car on the edge of cliffs, laughing and squealing and enjoying every minute of our precarious position. And then he, the abruptly untrustworthy driver, suddenly slammed the brakes on with a deafening screech and the repulsive smell of burning rubber. He stopped the car so fast, in fact, that I flew out the window and landed face-down, flattened on the gravel. And when he offered me a demoted backseat in which to lie and heal my wounds, I turned my back and limped off, preferring to reach the original destination alone. I found a trail that cut through the mountain instead of around, and finally came to the open sea. I stood on the dim, hazy shore and let the salty droplets mix with my tears and blood and sting my wounds with healing. Alone. Again.