Jan. 3rd, 2007

rewritethepast: (sad)
"You're sick," he says plainly and it's funny how the words my mother told me yesterday have such a different meaning when its his voice proclaiming them here where both of us are alone, no one else the wiser that we are meeting here. It's an echo, maybe, it's echoing in my mind and soothing the pain deep inside a little. Maybe I'm the only one who hears differently, my brain functioning hazily because of the growing pain I feel and the emotions that flutter around me - reminding him of what he is, what he was and still is to me.

I look at him disbelievingly, yet my cold hand grazes my forehead in a futile attempt to quiet the pounding deep inside it. "But I need to go to school later! I have to go to Ward 1 and IPC later to submit my genograph/gram!"

He looks at me imperiously, those brown eyes of his flickering to the hand on my forehead. "Forget it. You're sick, Lorraine. Go to bed already."

And I keep my hand pressed to my forehead, trying to ignore the overwhelming weakness in my muscles and the pain in my chest, my head, my stomach, my arms, my heart.


What a perfect New Year. I am downed by my old nemesis which killed me around mid-January, making me attend only Physics on a Monday (I think). Perfect. Just a little early. Complete with all the hazy hallucinations and waking dreams.

Oh fudgemuffins, make the pain stop. It hurts too much; I can't even walk anymore. Even typing this is a pain.

My mom says this is probably the flu. Fudgemuffins.

Good day, and I hope your new year is much better than mine.

January 2008

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