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Read my essay?
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08-04-2012 8:55pm#1
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You should post it here OP, I'll have a look if you do.
Can I post one too, just for funsies? Maybe I shouldn't reveal my issues here, this short story is a bit disturbing...but seeing as we're sharing...Monotony
They were all the same. Quite the same.
Expectant, inconsiderate, uninspired.
Almost wooden in their movements;
sometimes I imagined their actions were
dictated by some crazed, omnipotent
master of marionettes. Their destiny was
dangled before them but their hands and
souls were bound and each year they
slipped farther away.
They were given every opportunity, really,
but embracing life isn’t cool when it’s
fashionable to be bored, and objectionable
to show interest. Interest declines in the
absence of expression.
They had made that transition from
childhood to, well, somewhere uncertain: a
contrasting and sinister incarnation of
childhood. Light to darkness, eyes dulled,
smiles inverted. They had no opinions, no
thoughts to think, and too much to say.
They were quite convinced and secure in
the knowledge that their emotional range
extended from hatred to indifference to
mild amusement. They had the best
defence of all; nothing to defend. Nothing
to lose, and I was afraid of them.
They would walk down the street and hold
eye contact for excessive, defiant amounts
of time; feeling glorious in a world of
downcast avoidant gazes.
Once they spoke directly to me. I was
anxious, and I didn’t respond. There was
something unsettling about their eyes, they
didn’t seem coherent with their facial
expressions. Their faces were frozen in a
virulent sneer; that was to be expected, but
there was something not quite right. Some
state of balance had been altered. They had
asked me a question; they repeated it now,
in the same oddly calm tone. Everything
was too tranquil, the situation had a
surreal edge. Something had changed this
time.
I realised that I didn’t know the answer,
but it was too late now. Perhaps it had
always been too late, it had been building
up to this moment for years. Years of terror
and hopelessness. They were lurking in
every dark driveway. Every sound was a
threat. The wind imitated their voices,
taunting me.
***
They had cornered me, shark-circling,
whispering profanities almost delicately in
my ears. There was nobody within hearing
distance, the building was effectively
deserted, and it revolved around me. I was
paralysed; they were fluid, a sinister blur of
depravity and despair. Shadows danced
across their faces, eyes narrowed and teeth
bared in some grim mockery of laughter, as
they gently undressed me, and suddenly
tore the skin of my back with their
fingernails. I became the situation, the
person I was hid somewhere in the
recesses of my mind.
***
They were holding me down now, there
was no escape. I lay in silence while, with
surgical precision, they cut my arm, in one
quick, deliberate motion, from my elbow to
my wrist. Blood began to flow freely,
unrestricted by the life which had
imprisoned it. I pictured it evaporating, an
angry red mass of coils and tendrils slowly
dissipating. It passed through the ceiling
unhindered. A pale cloud, unable to stain
the placid canvas of the sky. The world
disintegrated.
***
It was a nice morning: April, as nice a
morning as any. With a tentative foot I
tested the floor, to make sure it was still
there. It was cold. I recovered the foot and
almost entertained the thought that I
should get up, opening my eyes for a
moment.
Wisps of sunlight crept in, flickering and
swirling. Light never filled the room, the
darkness that lurked in the corners always
seemed to stand steadfast in the wake of
its advance. It seemed there were several
little horizons stretching across the floor. I
couldn’t see beyond any of them. It was a
comforting thought that perhaps nobody
could breach my horizons, perhaps I was
safe.
I smiled, opted not to get up, and drifted
back into a soft, dreamless sense of
security.
***
It was a nice morning; October, a nice
morning for October. Someone had been
in to tell me what a nice morning it was.
They had insisted on it, I thought it best to
agree with them, they had seemed quite
emotionally invested in the fact. They had
taken my curtains away long before that;
presumably someone felt that increased
exposure to Nice Mornings would cause me
to develop a similar emotional connection
with them. Somebody else joked that I had
tried to hang myself with them. I didn’t
need curtains anyway, there was no privacy
now.
This person always talked at me
continuously, as if they were afraid I would
find in a moment’s silence an opportunity
to plunge them into a topic that would
make them uncomfortable; hold their head
under the surface. It didn’t bother me
much; people who pretended to believe in
the traditional format of conversation were
far more difficult. They always rearranged
their features into the same expression,
somewhere between concern and casual,
careful cheerfulness, and they’d say
impossibly sincere things in a monotone
like “how are you getting on,” and “it’s good
to see you again”. Then they’d smile at me
until I’d respond with some default
pleasantry. It was always very careful,
serious conversation, as if they felt obliged
to make an effort or as if they felt they did
me a great service by gracing me with their
presence. Perhaps they did but I was
ungrateful and didn’t appreciate it and it
was a wonder they dealt with me at all.
I could see the pity in their eyes.
***
Pity... I had seen something similar in their
eyes that day. Pity at first, as I screamed at
them, begged them to stop, to leave me
alone, as I cried. I couldn’t take anymore.
I don’t understand, pity doesn’t make
sense.
I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the
polished steel of the bed’s frame. My
cheeks are hollow and emaciated. The
medication has rotted my teeth, several are
missing. My hair is thinning, it hangs
limply. They wouldn’t gain any pleasure
from violating me now. I felt as disgusting
then as I do now.
Pity became wide-eyed fear when they saw
the knife. This memory doesn’t make sense,
I can’t make sense of it. I remember a
question, “Are you alright?”
I see the pain on my mother’s face as she
kneels over my father’s lifeless body, in a
pool of blood. I begin to scream. My throat
feels raw, but still I scream, and tear at my
skin with my fingernails and teeth. I throw
myself on the floor and scream.
The door opens and a woman walks briskly
in. I hardly notice her presence. She breaks
my skin with a small syringe, and my body
fades away. I feel nothing. Another woman
appears and together they lift me back into
the bed and straighten out my limbs. I
suppose they think they’re making me
comfortable. I think I see one shake her
head. I catch parts of their conversation as
my consciousness fluctuates.
“A very sad case, killed her family in a
psychotic episode. We think she saw them
as a group of men who had abused her for
years, sexually you know?”
“No I don’t believe she ever told anyone...
Tried to take her own life, but for better or
for worse hahah, she was found and
resuscitated...”
“Yes, eleven years she’s been here actually.
As you can see not much progress has
been made...”
“Quite tragic, she is sedated almost
continuously; you can see the reason for
that yourself, hahah...”
“No, actually, hahah to tell you the truth
Mabel, I don’t think she’ll ever leave the
institution.”
***
The darkness rose up and swallowed me.0 -
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finality, what was the essay title you chose? Or did you just write it? I think it's incredibly engaging because of the way it's written. I don't like this genre but it was so interesting to read on which is always great. Throughout the whole essay until the end I wasn't sure who exactly all these people who 'tortured' you were or who you were. Then in the end it all clicks together when you read the dialogue between the two ladies. I would have given things and people names more than you have but I think you might have deliberately went for the very abstract approach.
What was the title though? Off the top of my head I can't think of a title where this will suit nicely.
Patchy, great story too, very vivid and with nice dialogue. But the story is about an important event and that event here is the proposal itself. You spent most of the essay describing the day, the build-up, but the actual 'important event' is left till last and is fully dealt with in about two paragraphs. I think you need to give the proposal more detailed treatment. Maybe expand a little bit more on feelings felt, or the scene. If you fear the essay might get too long you can leave out the unnecessary details about lying on the beach on one spot and then in another. You could just say ''after finding place X much too loud for us, we went to place Z etc.''
Other than that it's a finely crafted tale Oh and by using commonplace names like John you tried to make the point that they are ordinary people living ordinary lives? If not, choose your names carefully. They can tell a lot about the character. Upon reading the name John in this essay I instantly got an image of an ordinary Average Joe kinda man in his later years. Which is what he is, judging by the essay. If you gave him an exotic name like Vyvyan then the reader would have got a very different impression of him. Well done anyway 0 -
~jumping on le bandwagon
Bear in mind this is no where near as good as the other ones that are being postedThe Modern Shopping Centre: A Modern Phenomenon?
What is it that makes the modern shopping centre such a shrine to us all? Is it the three euro per hour parking? What about the endless queues for the bathrooms? Or maybe the screams of tantrum throwing toddlers echoing through the mall? Can we honestly say these are the things which bring us back every weekend, to endure another two hours of trawling through shops? Yes, actually. No matter how much we may complain about how mind-numbingly boring and stress inducing shopping may be, it is most certainly an addiction. An itch we must scratch almost on a weekly basis.
What’s most appealing about modern shopping is the unbelievable convenience of it all. It’s almost impossible to live in Dublin today without being within a five mile radius of a McDonalds or Starbucks. I can practically roll out of bed and be at the cash register of a Penney’s in less than twenty minutes, with an overfilled basket in hand. From Grafton Street, to the monstrous complex of Dundrum Shopping Centre, we are literally spoiled for choice. The modern shopping centre itself is nothing less than a haven of shops, restaurants and facilities catering for every need. And every need certainly is catered for, no matter how superfluously. When buying an ice-cream for little Máire and Seán isn’t enough to pacify their tantrums, parents have no problem with carting their kids off to the crèche facility available. While the noise of little ones in the play pen may be reminiscent of a zoo, it’s certainly an invaluable service for any shopping centre to have. With disabled access, food courts and vending machines on every corner, you’re guaranteed to leave satisfied.
While we may marvel at how thoughtful and considerate these shopping centres may be for our needs, we can’t ignore the fact that shiny dollar signs are all these businesses are thinking of. Everything boils down to greed. Whether it be retail outlets or family orientated restaurants, it all comes at a price. And with prices as steep as €3 per hour in Jervis Shopping centre car park, there certainly is no dip in funds for the business. And don’t be fooled into thinking that the prices is where the greed stops. With a little help from Mr. Air Conditioning, the temperature of the shopping centre is cranked up to boiling point in an effort to promote drink and ice-cream business. And the food court isn’t on the top floor by mere accident. For those dying of hunger and thirst, getting to the closest Costa Coffee is as tiresome as a pilgrimage to Camino De Santiago, all for the sake of encouraging business in the shops on the floors preceding it. Not enough? Take a look at the new Hollister store opened in Dundrum. I’m sure the mahogany-skinned models greeting young customers at the door speaks for itself. It may be ludicrous, but it works.
I’m by no means trying to condemn shopping centres tactics in increasing business. Who are we to criticize these marketing techniques when we eat them up like an obedient lap dog? No matter how much money these shopping centres rake in by manipulating us, we’re always entertained by what they have to offer. Today’s modern shopping centre is a hedonist’s dream. From playing relaxing music through the speakers, to the smell of Marks and Spencer’s cookies wafting through the centre, it’s an unadulterated feast for the senses. Shopping has become more of a guilty pleasure than a chore nowadays, and we’re all guilty of indulging on a trip to Debenhams every now and again.
But really, how obsessed have we become with these trips to Dundrum? With everything so readily available to us in these malls it’s difficult to not get consumed by it all. Saturday’s and Sunday’s have for generations been synonymous with Religious resting days. But have the likes of Top Shop and Lifestyle Sports become a modern place of worship for us all? It’s almost as if materialism has transformed itself into a religious sect, and we the ever-obliging public are more than happy to be indoctrinated by its latest trends and special offers. However it is not necessarily a negative thing. Where else would we be able to have our designer jacket dry cleaned while buying groceries at the same time? I mean, if Dundrum were to close tomorrow, nothing less than complete bedlam would ensue. Whether you love it or loathe it, shopping is a necessity. Now classed by some as a modern form of sport, the shopping centres peppered throughout the country are no doubt an equivalent to a Ben Dunne Gym. However like the gym, it’s difficult to “work out” for any more than two hours, and when your Jimmy Choo’s begin to hurt, you know its home time.
would appreciate feedback though! 0 -
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snorebore, I loved how persuasive your piece was, really well done PF, that was a really interesting story
Just one thing though, it's doesnt take an apostrophe if its possessive - you might know that but the its' kinda confused me :P
And thanks for the feedback subz3r0 I kinda thought that too but I didnt know how to go back without overdoing it - I was going to put in something about going for dinner after but thats still not the proposal itself The day itself was more the event and I tried to subtly show them being in love with the whole thing of him being lonely when she left for just a few minutes and things like that And thanks for the point about names, I just picked John off the top of my head 
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Someone read mine?? It's a short story, ' a major change happens to the central character'
Mother is worried about me. It's not because of my constant school absences, strange behaviour or my sister's recent death. She is worried because one of her house plants has spots. Mother has believed for most of my sixteen years that this particular house plant, which is of the non descript variety, reflects my emotional, spiritual and physical well being. I've grown to believe it too.
She raises her hand to her face in distress and I go back to scribbling a poem in the margin of a novel. I'm huddled into a corner of the sofa. I love winter, I really do, but there's this distinct sadness I get during winter months ,just this melancholy greyness that comes and consumes me. I glance up. My mother and the plant are still peering at me, a tall duet of sorrow and concern.
Craving to get away, my feet guide my body over the hill where we used to go and sled. The cold air rushed against my already rosy cheeks like a glacial wave. There are many little children here. I watch them flying. Doing jumps and having races. The blood vessels in my face widened and my skin warmed, as the memories rushed back, flooding my mind. I thought that all those little children are going to grow up some day. And do the things we all do. But for now, sledding was enough. I thought it would be great if sledding was always enough, but it isn't. I try to fend off the oceanic sadness, but I can't. It's such a colossal effort not to be haunted by what's lost, but to be enchanted by what was. The cold numbs my body and reminds me I should probably head home. Incidentally, I know my mother will examine my face closely, like she has ever since they found Molly's lifeless body in the river. Silence will tick tock between us, as it has lately. I can feel her frustration, how she wishes she could shake me up like a book, hoping all the words will just fall out. I tip toe around my mother and go inside unnoticed. I simply long to be in Molly's room, pressed into her closet, into the lingering scents of riverside bonfires, coconut lotion and cheery blossom perfume - her.
I wake up much later with my face mushed into a pillow. I lean up on my elbows, trying to glance out the window. The stars have bewitched the sky of darkness. I crack the window open ,and the rhythm of the river sends the frost-scented breeze right into her room. Sometimes in the pitch of the night we would lie on our backs in the middle of the path and look up until the stars came back and when they did, we would reach our arms to touch them, and we did. We weren't afraid of the dark because even when the night was thick and starless, the dark was full of each other's voices across the room. With a sudden realisation that I feel slightly better, I try to push away all my thoughts. I take one more breathe of the river, Molly , the world and get up. I peek at the woods, where our secret code names, crystalised giggles and childish games left a mental footprint. Because of the wind, the trees are creaking symphonically.
Soon, I am the only person in a small hilltop cemetery. I sit beside the gravestone, rest my head against it, wrap my hands and arms around it. I want my sister to know there will never be a story she won't be part of, or a day she won't be missed. A tear travels down my cheek, as delicate a drizzle, but as harmful as a hurricane. I couldn't be stuck in this storm of constant precipitation, deep inside I knew the time has come to escape the labyrinth that has trapped me lately.
I close my eyes, and tell Molly I miss her. I reach into my bag and take out the houseplant. It's so decrepit, just a few blackened leaves left. I slowly walk towards the edge of the cliff, so I'm right over the falls. I can feel my stomach drop as I glance downwards. 'There simply is no other way' , I tell myself.
I take the plant out of its pot, shake the dirt off the roots, get a good grip, throw my arm back, take one deep breath before I pitch my arm forward, and let go.0 -
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Maybe you could make it like the plant becomes healthy again and she feels she's finally moved on with her life? I put it into a word counter and its 757 words - thats around 3 and a half A4 pages for me, maybe a little short for the exam, though its a perfectly good short story in the classic sense It just needs to be fleshed out a little I think 0
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I wasn't too sure either about the change haha, I guess she was just determined to move on with her life. Awh thank you that's so kind! My teacher only gave me 50% on it though
Has your teacher corrected for the SEC, if he/she hasn't, then the mark isn't really a guide.
I enjoyed it, for what it's worth, but I'm not an English teacher.0 -
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Hopping on the bandwagon bitchesssssss! :P
This essay is about A central character undergoing change
My teacher gave 86% on it but never said where I could improve.
Any criticism appreciated, positive and negative. :P
It was thrilling! It was exhilarating! I could feel the adrenaline pumping through my veins like hot lava. I could feel it flowing through my brain, heightening my senses, making my vision crystal clear but a blurry haze all at once. My eyes darted around to make sure nothing was alerted to my presence. I could feel laughter... No, not laughter, a cackle, bubbling its way up my throat, forcing its way out of my clenched lips. My laughter was met by another. Feminine, yet more aggressive. I looked over and there she sat, in the passenger seat, angled slightly towards me, her eyes glistening with victory. It was my first time... And I loved every minute of it.
***
The first time I ever met Vicky Stone was on the 28th of May 2001. I think I remember it so well because it was the last day of school and as soon as I stepped off the bus outside my house, there she was. Well, that coupled with the fact that that was day that my dad moved in with his new girlfriend... who I detested. She was about fifteen years younger than him. She would be more likely to be my girlfriend than his. You could almost call her his mistress.
Anyway, back to this girl. So she had moved next door. My first impression was, well, she was an intimidating looking person. She was my age, sixteen, but she looked about twenty. She was feminine, but had a tough edge. She had wavy red hair which hung to her shoulders, parted in the middle of her square shaped head, bright as the setting sun. Her hair hung over her face like silky, tread-like curtains. Her face was dominated by freckles. She had pale green eyes which complemented her fiery red hair. Her eyes held an arrogance and dominance which would render even the manliest of men into a feeble shell of themselves. She was curvaceous, but yet had a blocky figure. An emerald green t-shirt hugged her body and she wore black skinny jeans. In her hands she held a big brown cardboard box, marked with the word “kitchen”. In that moment when I stepped off the bus, and we locked eyes, I made a mental note that I must be wary of this girl. With that she turned and walked inside her new house.
I walked in the big oak front door of my semi-detached house. I was greeted by my father and his ‘mistress’. “I have something to tell you, son” he said excitedly, with an air of hesitation in his voice. I looked from him, to her, to the many boxes I had just noticed behind them. “NO WAY!” I shouted. “My mother, your wife, has been dead for 6 goddamn months, and you’re already moving in with this bitch?” I stormed up the stairs. I slammed my bedroom door, in hopes to get my point across even more. I trampled across my cluttered bedroom, clothes strewn across the floor, a bed pushed against the far wall, with a window glaring down above it. A bedside locker was located beside the bed, with a nearly empty glass of water on it that I had been drinking the night before. Posters of various rock bands covered the walls, with the cream paint underneath fighting its way between them to make itself known, but to no avail. I leapt onto my bed and immediately put my headphones in and played music as loud as I could in order to block out everything. I closed my eyes and began thinking of anything that could possibly make this day worse.
I awoke. I do not know how long I had been sleeping. All I knew it was dark out now, and my ears hurt from the awkward way my headphones had been sitting. The music played on angrily. A frail knock sounded on the bedroom door. I did not answer. Another knock, “There’s someone at the door for you, son”. I opened the room door and walked by my father, who stood in his police officer uniform, refusing to even acknowledge his presence. I went to the front door, and there she stood. She looked just as she had earlier when I saw her. “Hi, I’m Vicky. Do you wanna come outside for a little while?” She said kindly, with a slight hint of self confidence. “Sure.” I said with trepidation, dad was probably going on duty anyway, and I did not want to be stuck in the house with her, and so I stepped out onto the porch.
I showed her around the estate, telling her stories about the various residents. I was telling her about how Mrs. Lee is a complete lunatic, and a raging alcoholic when Kelly interrupted, “Do you drink?” “Well, I have, but I don’t do it often. Why?” I saw a flicker of something in her eye, almost as if she had found an opportunity to strike. Her eyes flashed to her handbag, and back at me. She pulled out a bottle of vodka. A sinister smile curved on her face. “Come on!” she said with a wink. We went over to a large tree, a secluded spot on the other end of a large green at the end of the estate. It fanned out and stooped over the ground, covering us. She pulled out the vodka and took a large gulp out of it. She passed it to me. I looked at her hesitantly. “Come on, take some. What could possibly happen?” She said. So I did. She pulled out an A4 refill pad, a small bag and what looked like a straw. She poured some of the contents of the bag out onto the front cover of the refill pad, and started to line it up. “I don’t know, Vicky, I mean...” “Oh, come on, try it. You only live once, don’t worry, I won’t let anything happen to you” She said with a laugh. So I did.
Before I knew it, I was telling Vicky all about myself, all about my mother, my father and his new slut. She sat there listening attentively, smoking and slugging at the vodka. I finally stopped talking. Everything was a weightless blur. I saw everything through a different perspective. Everything seemed so easy. I felt that I was invincible. That all possibilities were endless. Vicky was laughing in the background. I began to laugh too, realising that it was probably the vodka and cocaine thinking for me. I loved it. I could not help but think that this girl was bad news, but this was the most fun I have ever had. She looked at me, stood up and grabbed my hand and dragged me toward the estate. She set her eyes on a beautiful little black mini like she was a lioness, stalking her prey. She picked open the lock of the door, looked at me with excitement in her face. I looked back, high off my face, and started toward the car.
I woke up the next morning with my head pounding and a bitter taste in my mouth. I could barely remember the events of the night before. I could only remember little flashbacks. Sitting under the tree. Laughing with Vicky. Drinking the vodka. Doing coke. Carjacking. God, what had I done? This is so unlike me. But whether I liked it or not, I could not deny, it was the most fun I have ever had. I checked my phone, 1:33pm, and a text message from an unknown number. It read, “Last night was fun, let’s top it tonight
” I must have given her my number but forgotten to get hers. Already my heart was pounding, I could feel the excitement filling up inside me, I wanted to do it again, it was like an unquenchable thirst. “Definitely” I replied.
At about eleven o’clock she texted me again, telling to meet her under the tree. I left without telling anyone where I was going. I wondered if they even noticed. I walked toward the tree, and with every step I took, I felt the adrenaline, mixed with fear, anxiety and excitement. It was overpowering, but I thrived off of it. I gazed up at the street lamps, orange like miniature suns, casting an eerie glow over the estate, which fell behind me. The overcast sky looked menacing and threatening, but I trudged on. The tall oak tree began to tower over me, blocking out the sky above. Vicky sat underneath, vodka out, doing lines, already half gone. She greeted me with a hiccup, and a laugh, simultaneously passing me the bottle. I knew what to do, and I began to pour it into me like it was water. We sat, talked, laughed, did lines and drank until we were hardly fit to stand. I loved it. “Wanna go for round two?” She said with a grin. She did not wait for an answer. Instead, she ran, laughing like an excited child. I ran after her, we stumbled multiple times and fell even more. Finally we got to a car we liked. It was a big black jeep, and looked very expensive. It was perfect. Somehow she unlocked the car, and told me to drive.
We were not in the car more than two minutes when the sky decided to carry out its threat, and it began to pour with rain. This made everything even more fun for us. We got to the deserted back roads and began to pull skids, the radio blaring abrasively, laughing the whole way, we were having the time of our lives. Suddenly Vicky sat stiff, eyes wide, like craters forming in her face, she looked at me with fear washing over her face. I soon found out what was wrong with her. The red and blue flashing lights quickly filled the car filled the car like a deadly liquid, the faint sirens grew closer and began drowning out the sound of the radio. “DRIVE!” she screamed, and I slammed my foot on the accelerator. The car shot off, the rain hammering against the window, the wind howling past the car. We sped on, and the flashing lights followed effortlessly. Vicky was frantic in the passenger seat, probably heightened by the fact she was drunk and high, she kept telling me to go faster, “I can’t, stop yelling for God sake!” She shut up. My heart was pounding, my head was spinning, with multiple factors influencing it. My vision was blurry, but sharp, I could still hear the sirens, I looked behind me, they were hot on our tail, I could not shake them I did not know what to do. I knew there was a side road up ahead, I had hoped the police did not know this. I took a sharp turn to the left, the large jeep skidded sideways across the wet ground, it hit a pothole full of water and with a thud myself and Vicky were hurled sideways, the car flipping persistently over onto its roof. Glass shattered everywhere, there were screams. I did not know if they were mine or Vicky’s, I did not even know what side of me they were coming from, the car flipped for what seemed like an eternity. Wild red hair was being thrashed around the car, and with that my head smacked off of the dashboard. I last heard the screaming, and the sirens, with the blue and red lights, closing in on me, circling me.
I opened my eyes. There was my father, standing over me. “Son?” I passed back out.
I felt movement, I opened my eyes again, I was lying on the wet grass, I looked over, the only thing I noticed were the cold lifeless eyes, staring at me, half covered with matted, wet, red hair. I let out a groan, and passed out again.0 -
^ I like that
One thing though, what does your teacher say about curse words in stories? Mine says its okay as long as you dont just drop them in for the sake of it, but he also advised us to avoid it in case we get an awkward examiner who'd hate you for it and that it could kinda make your entire exam lose it shine :pac:0 -
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Hey...this is for junior cert...any constructive criticism greatly appreciated...
Personal Writing – Paper One, Section 2
Something had woken me up. My right eye searches the room for an answer. I soon found it, the nurse had walked in and opened the frayed curtains. Unaware of the impending discomfort this would cause me, she continues her daily routine of walking around the room ensuring everything was in order. As per usual, she politely wishes me a “good morning” and then leaves, to continue her duties elsewhere. Soon after she departs, the intense morning sun enters my room through the now exposed window. It blinds me, as it does every morning. Unfortunately, I have no choice but to endure the following 13 minutes of harsh rays until the sun decides to move on, to a higher place in the sky, away from the window. I decide to continue with my “project” until the sun moves on and relieves me.
So, my name is John. I am a thirty three year old man who has “locked in syndrome”. My disease is very rare. It is small consolation, but the chances of being caught in this hellish trap are about as likely as those of winning the lottery, or in my case, being bitten by a deadly snake. Yup, that’s why I’m here, fully paralysed, only able to think, not move or talk. Because of a snake. One moment, my life was mundane, the next I was experiencing unbearably intense pain and mere hours later, the whole world seemed to change. I am fully aware of my surroundings; however I cannot interact with them. I lie in bed for 23 hours of the day, watching, waiting and thinking.
Some say that they would much prefer to be dead than to be in my position. I disagree. Maybe it would be good, to die that it is. How can anyone know? The fear of the unknown is what makes me want to live. Maybe there is a great place where everyone goes after they die or maybe there are two places, one for good people, one for bad. Or, perhaps, there’s nothing. Maybe the atoms in our cells simply decompose and get put to use elsewhere in the universe. This is incomprehensible for humans; humans don’t know what nothing is. We might think of it as blackness and silence, but I believe this still is something.
As you can see I tend to get a bit carried away with my thoughts. That is why I’m writing this, well not really writing (because I can’t), but in my head I am. This is my book you see, or my “pretend” book that only I can read. Its purpose is to structure my thoughts and to help pass the time.
Anyway, back to my so-called “disease”. Well, basically, I was on holidays in South Africa, got bitten by a “Common Krait” snake and now only have the physical use of my right eye. This is how I communicate, by blinking. I have been in hospital for the past 8 months. I have seen 29 neurosurgeons since the snake bite but every one of them say that no operation or medication would be able to cure me. Oh, and I only have under a year to live. I would like to make the most of this time by doing something exciting like skydiving, scuba diving or going to Hawaii but instead I’m locked up here, in the sad, depressing part of the hospital that seldom gets visitors.
Over the past 3 weeks, I have been getting regular, but random seizures. I abhor them. I think they are a sign, that my time in this world is limited. I constantly feel weak, restless and generally fed-up with life. I have no way to express my feelings or have a meaningful conversation with another person. I think I’m going to die soon. My body feels worse and worse as each day passes. That is why I’m “writing” this, it’s going to be my last “project” before I pass away. I must stop now for today, I can hear the nurses gentle footsteps approaching; it must be time for my daily exercise. This involves a physiotherapist putting me on a machine which moves my arms and legs for me. I don’t like it, it makes me feel defenceless and vulnerable, reminding me that I have absolutely no control over my body’s movements. I think I would prefer the harsh sun rays.
Anyway, bye for now. I hope that I will be able to add to this “project” soon, or, if that is too much to ask, that the place we go to when we die is nice. I would be happy with either.
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