Getting creative

We went to visit my folks during reading week, while we were there the subject of my writing talent came up again (as it usually does when they start discussing what I should be doing with my life – family eh?!)

The general consensus seemed to be that I should write a book about my experiences with ME/CFS; I’m not convinced.

I have my CFS blog and my website (which still needs updating) and that pretty much covers that aspect of my existance, a book is a large undertaking and I’m seriously unconvinced that what would mainly be an autobiographical account of my life would sell. If I were that interesting my blogs would be overrun with visitors and I’d already be a household name after the length of time I’ve been tapping away on here!

Nah, if I were to write a book it would be a creative piece, probably inolving magic and mystery and would maybe start a little something like this:

She sat on the bottom stair, clutching the note in her hand – eyes unseeing through the tears suspended on their surface.
The single word falls harshly into the silence. Finally the tears fall, fast and hard, the sobs wrack her slim body with their force.
Alone she tries to come to terms with the meaningless waste of it all; what did she miss? What didn’t she do?
The questions that will never be answered never go away – and the wounds that will never heal under the burden of time.

It was a glorious day outside; the sun was shining for the first time in over two weeks. The air was crisp and clear, people were smiling and the sounds of children shrieking in joy could be heard faintly through the door. It just seemed so wrong. In so many ways.
The sobs were calmer now; she slowly pulls herself together and tries to fix a semblance of normalcy around her, knowing full well that nothing would ever seem normal again.
It takes several more minutes, though it seems more like hours, before she can stand and move to the telephone.
The number is one she could dial in her sleep, so natural it seems, the ringing seems to last forever as the thoughts tumble disjointedly through her mind, Splintered images of a time that can never return.
“Hallloooo… speak – or forever hold your peace”
muffled laughter at the other end shows that this call is not going to be easy. As though this call could ever be easy.
The sound of breathing followed by “it must be a random, someone forgotten to stick the key lock on again – hang on”
She mentally shakes herself and answers
But she falters before she can say anything else, forlorn and bereft the sobs start again, beyond her control to hold them back.
“Jesus, Cassie? Is that you – what’s wrong? Please? Where are you? What’s happened?”
She can picture his face, growing taut with concern, shaking off whichever bimbo he’s currently playing with, it gives her the strength to push back the grief for a brief moment – just long enough to ask him to come and get her.
No questions asked he agrees to be there in ten minutes. Just as she knew he would.

When bad things happen it’s often surprising the people we turn to – strangers, or people that ordinarily we would avoid.  She muses on this as she tries to distance herself from her grief, calmer now that she knows she is not alone. She focuses instead on a hurt years old. He left, but came back – changed.
Now she is calling in that debt, he couldn’t erase the former, but this, this he can help with. He will understand.

2 thoughts on “Getting creative

  1. Stef

    ooh ooh I know what she was crying about……

    Looking down at the note she re-read “16, 27, 35, 36, 42, 45 bonus ball 7″, bollocks she thought those are my usual numbers, of all the weeks to forgot to put them on.


Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

You may use these HTML tags and attributes: <a href="" title=""> <abbr title=""> <acronym title=""> <b> <blockquote cite=""> <cite> <code> <del datetime=""> <em> <i> <q cite=""> <s> <strike> <strong>