Writing Prompts for Hashtags and Projects

#TalkingHelps (Cont.)

*Poem--
Speak
Speak with the special tongue that is bestowed upon you,
It will help when you are feeling blue
It will give others a clue,

To what is going on in your head,
To what you fear and dread,

It is what gives us life and emotion
It can be a sick love potion,

Speak with all your might,
Even when it is dark as night,

You give others hope when you tell your story,
Life, love, laughter;
Those are only part of your glory*

***

I woke to a monitor. Beeep. Beeeep. Beeep. It said. I groan. I knew that the nurse must have been in here. Why I didn't wake sooner? I have no idea.

Screeeech went the door. I snap my head in the direction the noise came from. The nurse walked stiffly into the room, towards the monitor, as if I weren't even in the room. I just held my arm out, knowing she'd need too take a blood sample.

Normally, I would freak at the sight of needles, but ever since I've been diagnosed, they've had to give me multiple shots and take various samples, so I'm used to them now.

The nurse takes my arm without a word and stabs it. I wince slightly but it doesn't hurt as much as it used to. I just accept the little pain I get from the stabbings.

"Anything unusual occur in the past two days?" The nurse asks me. Of course, she's asking for anything physically that has happened out of the usual. And, of course, the answer is no.

I shake my head I response.

When I first got here, I vowed to myself that I'd make it as difficult as possible for them, as much as I could without, affecting anything to make my condition anymore worse than it is. So, in reality, I have rarely talked to them unless it isn't a question that I can answer with yes or no.

The nurse nods at my response and briskly walks out. I let out my sigh of relief that she is gone. She's one of my most unliked nurses in my book.

I hear murmuring outside my door from my bed. I knew that they were talking about me. They mostly do when they leave. I never know if it's good or bad though.

Disregarding them, I turn to the window, well, as far as I could from my uncomfortable position on the bed. It is raining and the droplets are running down the window, as if the window was crying.

I turn back and lay down in the bed and stare at the ceiling. The white ceiling that matched the white walls that went with the white bedspread that added some brightness to the white counters and white tiled floors.

I am sick of this place. Sick of not being able to go outside. Sick of my legs. Sick of the stabbings. Sick of the nurses. Sick of not knowing what's going on. Sick of the feeling of freedom when Conor walked in. Sick of all the gossip that's going around the school about me. Sick of having nothing to do. Sick of being me. I hate this place. I hate everything.

I lay back and close my eyes to imagine what it would be like to be someone else. To be someone who was loved, cared for. Someone who had a life outside of these walls.

The door squeaks open again. I pretend to be asleep.

"From the quick testing," the deep, controlled voice of the doctor says, "her condition won't get any worse."