My machine and me

This time last year I joined a part time creative writing class. I love writing and write all the time but I had forgotten a lot of technicalities of writing and wanted to refresh.

As the weeks past we were given assignments and one of the assignments we had was to write something autobiographical.

This is a huge step for me. Although I want nothing more than to be a writer I am really nervous of putting my stuff out there. Seeing as this was the hardest assignment throughout the course I thought I would post what I wrote.

So here it is...


Something was wrong. It was the same feeling I had had six months ago. That little beast was gnawing the pit of my stomach again. I hate that feeling. I could tell by the way he was looking at me it was going to be bad news. I was uncomfortable so I kept rubbing my sweaty palms on to my flared jeans. It was then that I noticed that these were the same jeans I had on that fateful day. My mum hated these jeans. They flared out so much that the bottoms had scuffed and ripped and I tripped over the flare all the time. I had adorned them with badges and custom-made rips. They were how I felt, torn and broken. My sister had loved them but she wasn’t here anymore to tell me that she loved them. I felt another rip appear.

 

I glanced briefly at the Doctor again - he was addressing my parents more than me so I just gazed out the window instead. I knew I should be listening but I just couldn’t muster the energy. I felt like nothing could be worse than what it already was. It had been sunny before we got here but now it was grey, like the sun – like me – had just given up. It was poetic really; the sun would have been an inappropriate guest to our gathering of misery.

 

Minutes passed. I could tell because the clock ticks were pounding in my ears. Time had slowed down for months – since the dark day – and it felt that every clock mocked my existence.

 

I was so disconnected to everything around me I hadn’t even noticed my mother wailing next to me. I looked at her for a long time not knowing what do to or if I even cared to ask what had happened to make her a sobbing mess.

 

The doctor was staring at me; I felt my cheeks prickle with heat and sank a little lower in my seat. I was aware he was probably thinking I was just been a stroppy teenager but I just didn’t even know how to exist anymore.

 

“Are there any questions you want to ask me Nicola?”

 

“Um, I’m not sure?” I didn’t even know what he was referring to.

 

“Well, the options are a bit limited with how severe it is but it is your choice with what you want to do” The doctor said with such a monotonous tone these words had been uttered  as many times as he had greeted his wife.

 

My mother’s voice boomed and snapped me out of my haze

 

“Whichever one is going to keep her alive is the one she’ll have!”

 

I’m dying.

 

I caught snippets of words as I felt my chest tighten. Electric pulses, not working, prolonged rhythms, cardiac arrest, pacemaker but nothing made sense. I felt my heart start to hammer against my chest, as if it’s secret that it was broken had been uncovered and he needed to make a quick getaway. My head swirled and I felt a searing pain in my ears, I needed to get out of the room. I needed to throw up, to scream, to smash something, I needed my sister.

 

It transpired that I had the same heart condition that had crawled in like a dirty rat and snatched my sister in her slumber. We had more in common than we thought. I needed surgery and have a machine to help my heart beat properly. I wasn’t even eighteen yet.

 

I became older that day. I felt what was left of my youth flutter away with the wind that churned through my hair. My friends became names I wouldn’t recognise soon. I would always be referred as that girl who’s got the pacemaker. My body didn’t work, I didn’t work. I was broken in so many ways and there was nothing I could do about it.