It's already enough I'm dying

chapter 1

Chapter 1

"Amanda, sweetie are you awake?" My dad whispered from my door.

I didn't answer, not wanting to see the pain in my dad's face.

After awhile, he silently closed the door and his footsteps faded away down the hallway.

I sighed, sitting up from bed, I feel the churning in my stomach and dashed to the trash can to empty out what's little in my stomach.

See I have something that no one has and that no one will have, I hope. I got it 7 years ago when i was 10, 5 months after my mom died. It just came out of no where and never went away. The doctors don't know what to make of it, they ruled out all the diseases that they can think of.

I've been in the hospital ever since and since a few months ago I've decided that 7 years of my life I've been in the hospital, so I told the doctors that I wanted to go home and stay home and if I die then it was my time to die. Of course the doctors and my dad argued but I managed to convince him and he talked to the doctors and made a deal with me. If I has to go home, I would need equipment that I would need and that there would be a doctor there watching over me. That was the only chance I get to go home so of course, I agreed. So here I am, stuck in my own prison.

When I was done puking my guts out, I flushed the toilet and headed to my bed and pull out my scrap book of me, my mom, my dad and my friends. If I had meat on my bones I would have the curves like my mom. I look more like her, light brown wavy hair that reahes my shoulders, being sick with this unusual disease I don't have time to take care of my hair so I keep it short. I have my dad's blue eyes. Pale skin for not going in the sun and I'm abnormal skinny because I puke out my meals everytime I try to eat.

You can say I could look pretty if I ate more and got a tan and brush my hair but I can't do those thing. This disease takes away my energy so I can't play sports outside like everyone else, the only thing I can do that doesn't take much energy is painting.

I started painting around the time I got the disease and when my mother was murdered. I wouldn't talk to no one, I would just paint horrible things, dark things.

My dad took me to therapy, it helped a little but I'm still depressed.

Thinking about the past was making me want some fresh air. Walking over to my balcony and sitting down on a chair and looking at the sun setting, looking at the pretty colors mixing together and suddenly becoming to sleepy to get up and make it to bed. Another about this disease, I could sleep for days without waking up and it could start at anytime it wanted to and I'm thinking that this is one of those times.

Maybe I won't wake up this time.