The Forbidden Fruit

Strawberries are my body’s poison. A forbidden luxury that has denied me its sweet satisfying taste. It took years of bafflement and worry to find the cause of my symptoms. Why was this happening to me? Why was my body rejecting me and WHY wouldn’t it go away?
After consumption, the poison would linger in my body until it decided to attack. On most occasions it would inconsiderately awake me from my comfortable deep sleep at a time that, frankly, doesn’t suit anyone. It began its routine with a forever irritating throbbing of the eye, followed shortly by the feeling of nausea. Most of the time, nausea may be associated with a light manageable hangover, possibly not even resulting in the act of vomiting but if it ends that way then you feel much better for it. Better out than in and all that. This was not the case for me. My nausea did, without fail, result in the act of vomiting and up to six or seven times. A dizzy feeling would consume me and my heart would gather speed as my body prepared for the ritual that was about to take place. My throat would expand and retch up my insides, projecting them a considerable distance across the room. After the third or fourth consecutive time my throat would become dry and sleep would beckon me back to its tempting world but the poison would persist and wouldn’t stop until it was fully satisfied with its cruel work.
The poison would usually be considerate enough to affect me in my own bed so I could be looked after and at least feel relatively safe. However, on one specific occasion it decided to attack at school when all the children, including me, were gathered on the carpet around Miss Jackson, awaiting story time. I merrily listened to the first half of ‘Burglar Bill’ absorbing myself into the exciting story when I was hit with the well known feeling of the ‘eye-throb’ and I knew too well what was coming next. I raised my hand.
‘Miss! Miss! I feel really ill, my eye hurts’.
Unaware of the messy situation Miss Jackson had to look forward to, she foolishly asked me to sit back down and tell her if it became worse. Of course, it did become worse. As I felt that familiar feeling creep up on my body I rushed to the front of the class to inform poor Miss Jackson. As I opened my mouth to speak, words failed to flow out. Instead, it was vomit. Vomit, on her shoes. Everything happened at a fast pace from that moment. We were suddenly in the girls’ toilets, me in a cubicle continuing the routine that the poison had inflicted on me and Miss Jackson with one sick drenched foot in the sink and her other being used to balance herself whilst consoling me at the same time.
Strawberries are alien to me now and I have been banned from the luxury of their taste and their texture. They are an enemy that I long to befriend. They are game that I cannot join in with. They are my forbidden fruit.