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 Hello my darlings, I need some help from you:) I have been trying to improve my compositions, because usually, the teachers tell me that my plots are too complex, too unrealistic, too long, and they don't make sense. With my Os in a few weeks, I really don't want to fail at something I'm supposedly better at, so could you help me look through this and critisize it as badly as you can? Please? Thank you so much!:)

The topic is Knowledge.

 I wanted knowledge.

  I thirsted for it. I wanted the power of knowing, the ability to see through lies, and I wanted the invincibility of knowing everything. I wanted to hold the secrets of the world against my chest, to be able to exert my will over it, and to use it whenever I wanted.

  When I was a child, I yearned to find the Tree of Knowledge. In the Bible, it was forbidden to eat the fruits of the Tree of Knowledge, but it did not matter to me one bit. I needed that Knowledge. I needed it badly, and I needed it at once. I would rather be cursed to an eternity of endless pain and suffering, than to watch my Mother die before my eyes. I would rather sin and go against the wishes of God, than to watch her ebb away from existence, minute by minute.

  My Mother had cancer. Throat cancer. It was painful; painful for her, painful for my Father, and painful for me. I watched a healthy, robust woman reduce to the shadow of a senseless corpse, therapy by therapy. She used to be so full of life, so healthy and happy that she almost emitted a golden glow around her. Her laugh was infectious, her eyes were always sparkling with some secret amusement of her own, and she made everyone happy.

  That woman was gone.

  There was no cure for cancer.

  My Mother had to take an infinite amount of medicine each day, go for numerous operations and endure countless sessions of chemotherapy. I hated the chemotherapy. After each session, my Mother would return to me frail, sick, and exhausted. With each therapy, she became more of a shadow of her former self. She was no longer golden, but gray. She was becoming intangible, a ghost, and all I could do was to watch her fade away.

  I was six when I saw her at her weakest. She could no longer speak properly because of the pain, but she insisted on living the way she used to live. She would want to sit in the living room and watch the television, or read a book. She wanted a normal life, even if it meant that she was living a life of denial.

  My Father let her, because deep down, I think he was aware that she did not have a chance of returning to that life in the future.

  She was sitting in her wheelchair when I entered the living room, with her head bowed and her withered fingers interlaced on her lap. I could see the outline of her spine, vertebrae upon vertebrae, pushing their way out of her skin as if they were trapped animals. Her eyes were closed, her complexion ashen, her lips parched and her wrinkles defined.

  What had happened to my Mother?

  She opened her eyes when I came in, and I could barely control my tears from spilling out when I saw that familiar sparkle in her tired eyes. She beckoned me closer, and I immediately complied. She pulled me into her lap, and it was as if a skeleton was holding me.

  It was frightening, and I was terrified. Why was there no cure for cancer? Why did they have to subject my Mother to such ‘merciful’ torture that could ‘probably’ save her life? That was not right. Why was there no cure? Why?

  “Oh, don’t cry, baby,” I heard my Mother whisper as I scrubbed my tears away.

  I tried not to.

  “Do you want to hear about my dream, Mother?” I asked her, my voice tight.

  “What is it?”

  “I am going to find the Tree of Knowledge, and I’m going to eat its fruits. Then, I can save you,” I told her.

  My Mother laughed, her laughter grating my ears.

  “You know it’s a sin, darling. Mother doesn’t need you to sin for her,” She said softly.

  I missed my Mother’s voice. I missed it so badly that I would give anything to hear it again. I wanted her to heal, to live and survive. I wanted my Mother back.

  “Then, I can’t save you,” I sobbed.

  “Hush, it’s alright sweetheart, I don’t need to be saved. If you want, you can learn how to save other people,” She smiled at me, her face pale, and her lips dry.

  “But I want to save you,” I said stubbornly.

  “It’s too late for that, baby. When you grow up, you can find a cure for this disease. You can save other people,” She told me. 

  “Do you want me to save other people?” I asked her.

  “I do.”



  That was the last conversation I had with my Mother.

  She passed away that night, and I remembered how her pale skin made her look like an angel. She looked like a beautiful angel.

  Finding the cure to cancer became my obsession, and to do it, I knew that I needed knowledge. I wanted the most of it, and preferably all of it. I sentenced myself to a prison in libraries and research centers in a bid to fill myself up with the secrets and facts of the world.

  With knowledge, I could solve any problem, save any life, and know everything.

  I wanted knowledge.

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