Writing Prompt: Day 110

110.jpgDay 110 of 365 Days of Writing Prompts: Make your character sick.

Shannon: “You okay,” I questioned. “You’ve been sleeping all day. Do you think you need to go in to the doctor?” He looked disoriented and cold as he snuggled into the couch with the blanket he’d been keeping around his shoulders.

“No I can beat it,” he whispered, barely keeping his eyes open. “I don’t want to go anywhere.”

“Why are you so afraid of going to the doctor? They can only help,” I reminded him.

He shook his head slightly. “I’m not afraid of getting better, or seeing the doctor. I just don’t like what it means if I’m sitting in the waiting room with handful of other sick people.”

“What’s does it mean?”

He turned to his back. “It means I need help to get my body back under control.” He sighed. “That’s not an easy thing for me to accept.”

Erin: The first time that I was sick and on my own, I didn’t know what to do. I’m the type of person who is crippled with pain in their illness. But there is only so long that a person can lay in bed and cry.

I found out that my record is 2 days. Excluding trips to the bathroom obviously. After that period of time my stomach growling overrides my pain. I squirm to the kitchen. Once I make that progress I’m empowered to do so much more.

I ingest medicine as well. I progress from saltines to full blown chicken soup and tea. I dress, and eventually I shower. I steam out some of my toxin. Then when I start to feel better I am unstoppable and can go about my day almost as normal.

Your character is not feeling well, how does that manifest?

2 thoughts on “Writing Prompt: Day 110

  1. A sneeze wracked my exhausted body and I lay, doubled over from the sheer force, among a veritable Everest of blankets. Somewhere outside the open window, a robin began to sing his mating tune; a stark reminder that, though I was ill, the world around me would, inevitably, go on. But my mind was too muddled to even feel sorry for myself and was resigned to being abandoned by the universe with my whole soul.
    When a light tap came from the solid wood door, I barely batted an eyelash, instead choosing to recede into the safe confines of my comforter tomb. I mightn’t have even been conscious when he silently opened the door, leisurely strode through the door, and waited chivalrously at the foot of the bed as I pretended, or perhaps I actually, snored.

    Everything came into focus again with an eerie figure resting comfortably in the velvet armchair by the window, glow from his cell phone casting strange shadows across his familiar face. Meaning to speak, I croaked and fell into a coughing fit so fierce that the capillaries in my eyelids must’ve burst. Bleary-eyes and dripping from the nose, with a flush that I was sure make me look mad; I attempted to make contact with the gentleman in my room. Through my fit, from what I could make sense of in my haze, he’d put the device down and retrieved the latest in a long line of tissue boxes I killed from its exile on the floor. Now, he was poised at the edge of the bed with a gentle smile on his soft face; reassurance that he would be there for me no matter how gross I was.
    With a glance into my eyes with a warmth that would make ice melt, he flicked on my bedroom light, forcing the realization of the day having turned to night in an instant, through the fog of the flu. Also included in my time jump was an intense urge, due to the blazing heat that coursed through my veins, to be rid of the tangled mess of sheets and flannels that felt to be suffocating me. But every time I moved, even just an arm muscle, the cough was triggered anew like an alarm system you lost the password for. As I struggled, like a blind dog, to force my way to the surface and fresh air, he quietly shifted from observation to action and tore the tangle from the bed. I could finally breathe.
    I sat, exposed to the frosty air, for a long moment before sneezing so hard it gave me a headache and I had to lean back on the lumpy pillows for solace. From where I was, calmly breathing through the ragged phlegm in my throat, I watched him pour a warm mug of tea without spilling a drop. As I took the boiling brew, I brought the cup to my nose and inhaled the tantalizing and unclogging scents of ginger and lemon; I could breathe easier already.

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  2. Created to Write:
    Finn drags himself back to bed, coughing. His lungs and throat are dry, as if someone coated them in chalk. His mother walks in, handing him a glass of water. Finn sits up enough to take a sip.
    His mother sits down, sighing, “I don’t like when you go out with your friends, Phineas.”
    He doesn’t answer, drinking more water. He can taste the medicine mixed in.
    “What they make you do causes this,” his mother continues, “those paints and sprays… they aren’t good for you.”
    “It doesn’t hurt them,” Finn says weakly.
    His mother takes the empty glass, “Maybe you have an allergy.” Finn shakes his head. His mother sighs again, “Promise me, you have to promise me, Phineas, that you won’t go out and make trouble with them again.”
    Finn doesn’t look her in the eye. He nods his head.
    “Say it.”
    “I promise, Mom.”
    She then turns and leaves his room. Finn feels guilty. He hates lying to his mom. He’s only glad she hasn’t learned she needs to look him in the eye to gain the truth.

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