| bookworm1999 |
06-13-2013 07:35 AM |
Quote:
Originally Posted by TheAshWolf
(Post 467731)
Sure! O.O
....I seriously need to sleep soon, though....
|
Okay XD It doesn't really introduce anything further into the book that you haven't read. Just emotional rant of Samuel.
I’m not insane.
Every morning, when the sun’s rays have collided with my lids, I tell myself this. I have to tell myself this. It’s the only thing holding me back from honestly believing it. Inclined to a habit, the habit then became a mandatory ritual. Now, I don’t know what it is. A religion? A morality? It’s come to the point where I mumble the phrase repeatedly in my sleep—if I happen to sleep that night. I dream it, I think it, I doodle it. Not insane not insane not insane.
I feel that since half the majority of my town has caught the news of Sam Howard’s chronic case of Lymphocytic Leukemia, I’m treated like a monster different. It’s similar that of a puppy with a cruel, malicious sickness. People pity it, fawn over the sad look in its tired, broken eyes; broken soul. But they don’t touch it. Some don’t even look at it, because they don’t give a rip or the puppy’s distress is too dreadful to glance at. I feel like that puppy. Some days, I get those dismal glances, and then others, I sense that I am surrounded by piercing, disgusted gazes. The sort of gazes that strip me clean, examine, and sniff me out like a dog.
The dread follows after.
Scuttling their children away like I am a disease walking, stifling gasps, hindering from within a few yards of me, whatever it is, my lungs slowly fill with liquid. The liquid thickens and I forget how to breathe. It cuts me off from my right mind, my right sense, and I want to wear a paper sack; hide myself from the world. I’m insane different, and apparently, no one likes different anymore. I don’t know where my mind has been for that past decade, though I sense I’ve been missing a lot.
I mainly get the looks in school. Don’t touch me, you’re crazy, watch out: the way I read them. Their pinched foreheads, wrinkled noses, diffident, fear-filled gazes with the lashes that touch the crest of their eyebrows. So wide, so terrified, even I’m scared of myself. I feel that I should be strapped down, locked up, put away. I’m a monster I’m not like them.
It also fuels my hate for cancer as well. Before, cancer was just a common, omnipresent problem. It was for every person enslaved to it and its effects. No one really thinks much of it. It’s sad, they understand that much. They want it gone, and that’s amazing. But did they ever sincerely care? No, and no one anticipated possessing it. I didn’t.
Cancer is just a word. It means a lot more. Hate is just a word. It means a lot more.
I’ve been anticipating having an excuse to get out of my room all day. Now I have one. I glance at the clock, waiting waiting waiting. Staring at its two hands, they click by gradually, announcing each second. I sit in the corner of my room where I usually sit; where I usually wait. I’m not tempted to pass the time by watching the TV, checking my phone or dabbling over the Internet. I’m too paranoid, terrified I’ll miss the exact time I am supposed to head off. So far now, I am stuck in time. My head swarming in the pool of minutes and seconds. I wait wait wait. |
