By Aisha Zubair
Edited by Alloe Mak

Do you know what a fever dream is?
Do you feel it crawling over you, its hands and nails digging into your thighs and waist?
Can you hear its dirty hot breath on your neck, can you feel yourself going in and out of consciousness against your will?

Where do you go in this drunken dream?
You are in front of your high school church.
You’re about to be sick.
You enter the sacred building—
left foot first.

Does the smell of the church make you feel guilty?
It should feel like a slap, and burn like alcohol.
Instead, it feels homey,
and you remember your dead grandmother.
And how she would make you cherry pie after Sunday Service.

You pass by St. Paul and Judith playing with your childhood tea set.
Father Daniels is on your left helping you with your algebra homework.
You head into the confession box.
Bless me Father for I have sinned; it has been seven funerals since my last confession.

The priest does not ask for your sins in the box. Instead, you may ask him one question.
And he must answer truthfully.
After all, priests can’t lie.

What is my fate?
You ask him while trying to see the shadow on the other side of the box.
Nothing is recognizable, but as you get closer to the divider, you smell the perfume you wore in the ninth grade.

Sometimes fever dreams contain nostalgia in their schedule.
They have fruit loops for breakfast, an unwanted touch for lunch, and vomiting for dinner.
The priest gives you an answer.
But you don’t hear it.

You beg him to repeat himself—the screen must’ve blocked his whisper.
You get out of the booth and try to pry his side open, but it doesn’t budge.
The fever is making you thirsty, starving, feral.
You need to satisfy this thirst.

You walk up to the stage where the holy water sits in your baby bassinet.
The reflection in it is you, but not you.
It alters between versions of you at ages 5, 9, and 16.
The water turns dirty as you touch it.

It tastes sickly going down your throat.
Your body lurches and convulses.
There is a voice.
The water is cleaning you of your sins.

What sins?
You have never harmed anyone, stolen, or cheated.
But wait.
You have lied.

you are a lie.

You go to the first row of pews and fall to your knees so hard they bleed.
The blood is the same color as her hair.
The same deep red as your high school uniform.
The pew is the color of her freckles.

Please forgive me Father for I have sinned.
Please rid me of this sickness, please change my fate.
You close your eyes and beg for what feels like hours.
Please God I’m sorry Father I’m sorry Mother I’m sorry Please I’m sorry Please God I’m sorry Father I’m sorry Mother I’m sorry Please I’m sorry Please God I’m sorry Father I’m sorry Mother I’m sorry Please I’m sorry Please God I’m sorry Father I’m sorry Mother I’m sorry Please I’m sorry

You are sick. There is a sickness that has buried its roots deep inside you.
You look behind you and see her, drowning in flames, her red hair on fire.
She whispers from the last pew but you hear it.
Am I making you feel sick?

She moves toward you and kneels.
Am I sick?
Did you make me sick?
You made me sick.

No, you were born sick, and you will die sick.
You close your eyes, God change me, fix me, cure me.
You are back in the confession booth ready for the remedy.
Three Hail Marys and five Our Fathers.