Creative fun in
the palm of your hand.
Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/1101867
Rated: 13+ · Short Story · Experience · #1101867
An uncomfortable look into someone's mind. Contains references to self-harm.
Too much, this is all too much.

My eyes wander over the room. The white walls, dirtied over time, contain various-sized encased bulletin boards. Pink papers with schedules, yellow papers with weekly events; a few blue papers with reminders for us. The warm-toned rug on the cool-tiled floor blends into a neverending confusion for my eyes. The plastic chairs beside me look like paintings, and I squint, trying to see through these foggy lenses.

I touch my hand to my face, watching as it moves slowly toward my cheek. I don't feel it, it's a memory. Everything is a memory these days. Nothing seems real. I ponder this as my eyes settle onto a chipped piece of tile just in front of my chair. But are they my eyes? They seem so foreign.

Something is wrong. Something doesn't feel right.

My left arm comes into view. There's a thick line of blood trailing neatly in a line down my milky-white forearm, contrasting severely. I look at my fingers curiously. Blood and skin are caked beneath the nails. How did I not feel it? Where am I? Why can't I move my legs?

A woman wearing squeaky, white shoes hovers over me. I? look into her plump face, look at the silvery shadow of hair surrounding her round head. She's holding something in her hand. I close my eyes and she was never there. Shee's just a memory.

Something enters my mouth, and I swallow. Did I swallow something? Was it just a dream? I open my eyes again, the woman and her squeaky, white shoes are gone.

What just happened? I don't remember. My chest feels heavy.

I stand, a rush to my head. Walking carefully, in an attempt to slip away unnoticed, I enter my room. My vision jolts, and my chest feels heavier. I lay down on my bed. What is happening? Am I dying? Is it finally happening?

I begin to pant, beads of sweat forming on my brow. My fists clench the sheets as the white walls beside my bed fade to black. I can hear an echo over me. Someone calling my name. I try to see through the darkness, but no shapes form. Is this death? Is it all over? Suddenly, I can't remember. The room comes into view, and I see the woman with squeaky shoes standing at the foot of my bed. She asks me something, but I can't remember what she says. Maybe she didn't even say anything.

The light goes out, and I lay wondering who is in control of my body. Wondering if this body even belonged to me, or if I was just a visitor. I fantasize that my days are just dreamds, and when I fall asleep, I'll be alive again. My lips curl into a faint smile as reality begins to wash over me.

I don't ever want to wake again.
© Copyright 2006 Lynn FitzGerald (prostheticlove at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
Writing.Com, its affiliates and syndicates have been granted non-exclusive rights to display this work.
Log in to Leave Feedback
Not a Member?
Signup right now, for free!
All accounts include:
*Bullet* FREE Email @Writing.Com!
*Bullet* FREE Portfolio Services!
Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/1101867