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Come laugh at my 15 year old self

I promised frimfram I'd post this before Christmas, but I never got round to it.

I was clearing out a cupboard and found a load of stories I wrote for school. They're all crap, but this one though gave me a bit of a shock considering the last chpater of the WIP. So for a laugh...

Coma 12/12/1988

I awoke with a heavy pressure pushing down against my chest, crushing me and bringing me almost to breathlessness. I couldn’t feel life in my deadened limbs, but my hands, when I could muster up enough strength to move them, pushed feebly up against a dull, lifeless weight, which refused to yield despite my efforts.

I opened my eyes, they stung, like viscous claws tearing madly at them. All they gave me was a vision of black. All around me was black, although it was a black quite unlike any I had ever seen before. It was not even the kind of black associated even with deep night, but a deep black akin to no other, an absolute -artificial and impenetrable. And it enveloped everything in its unseen hand.

I realised then that I was coughing, a dry, hoarse contraction gripping at my chest – maybe that blackness was some kind of ash – soot even – covering me. I drew a breath in through my nose, there was very little air in my tiny confined space, somehow, the air didn’t smell right to me.

The atmosphere too seemed oppressive, it, with the darkness, seemed packed tightly around me, squeezing the life out of my spirit.

I confess, then I began to panic. I struggled fiercely, but it was all in vain, none of me would move – I couldn’t control myself anymore and I think I must have screamed, maybe silently, maybe wildly. Was this death?

My surrounding were silent, no whisperings informed me of my condition, no shouting shook me from my panic, no crying held me in shame, but only a dead silence – pregnant with its own secrets.

But there was a light at the end of the tunnel. I could feel the warmth of my blood beginning to surge through my broken body and the pain pulsing against my skin. The atmosphere too, which had had once seemed so oppressive, was now lifting, becoming lighter. I could even feel a light breeze, although that could have been my imagination.

That smell too, the one that didn’t seem to be right, was easing and seemed to become more familiar. It smelt clean and fresh, like the dawning of spring after a long, hard winter.

Excited chatter began to filter into my ears. I had no idea then that they were excited for me. No one was ever excited for me. That was one reason why I had taken the decision to slice my wrists in the first place. No! No, don’t say…

The light was becoming stronger, brighter. I could see it through the red lids of my eyes. Who found me? I had not wanted to be found. Who found me! Who betrayed me? At least I know what it is like to be so close to death.

My eyes opened consciously with a flicker, that dead weight had been lifted from me forever. I didn’t ever want to sleep again and once again enter that realm of oblivion. There is no darkness deeper than the one in the mind.

I was surprised, shocked, and I must admit, elated to see the faces of my friends and relatives surrounding my hospital bed. They smiled down at me. They had thought that they had lost me – but no, they hadn’t – no not yet.

The End

The teacher's comments on this were priceless, I had to include them:
"This is a superb attempt at stream-of-consciousness writing. You take a simple idea and, because you avoid any distraction or unnecessary embellishment, you sustain atmosphere and tension throughout. I would like to have seen the description if you had subsided into death."

With encouragement like that, I was always doomed wasn't I?

Also, Twelve Days is now up to Day Five - my stab at Cordelia. Go forth and giggle at that.


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Yeah for encouraging teachers:)

Not exactly steering me away from the doom and gloom, was he? I was such a goth. :)

No, he really wasn't...but he was encouraging you to think further out there...that's good I think, praise for what you'd done and a suggestion to go further.

Gosh, you had the creepy-writing talent even then. Wow.
I liked how the teacher talked to you at 'his level', and didn't talk down to you. That was nice.

What's most creepy to me is that I can see that I've written pretty much exactly the same thing 17 years later, and I don't even remember writing this at all.

Mr C was a very good, and slightly strange treacher. I'm sure he'd agree.

Wow, you were obviously born to it! I love the excited chatter.

That's actually a very thoughtful comment from your teacher, too. Ours used to just tick.

I'm very disturbed that I haven't changed that much!

I think 'superb' was stretching it a bit, but then how much crap did he have to read every day? Gods knows what he really thought about my dreadful poetry though.

You say you're disturbed that you haven't changed but believe me you have. Authors recycle ideas and themes and descriptions all the time. They try something and then rework because they don't feel they got it right the first time. You are writing based on similiar stream-of-consciousness feelings.

Your technique on the other hand has improved considerably. The feelings you are conveying have the same feel but you are delivering them with more clarity and elegant style.

All the difference that counts.

I'm trying to get the chance to re-read Twelve Days. I may have to wait and read it all in a chunk.

>>>Your technique on the other hand has improved considerably.

I should hope so!

Strange I should find this now though.

Good heavens! The seeds of greatness were clearly sown early.

Intense stuff for a teenager - did you panic anyone?

Have no idea, I didn't remember the story at all



I've had rather a lot of champagne.

That's great work considering how young you were. I don't think many others could do something like this at that age.

I did write a lot back then for fun. I pretty much taught myself from about the age of 13.

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