10th June 𝕯𝖊𝖆𝖗 𝖉𝖎𝖆𝖗𝖞,

I am afraid it’s getting worse. I don’t know how much longer my body will hold out.

*I have so much life yet to live, so many things I wish I had done. Now, stuck here in a hospital bed listening to the rhythmic beeps of my heart rate, I can’t do anything. All I will do, all I can do, is wait.

11th June 𝕯𝖊𝖆𝖗 𝖉𝖎𝖆𝖗𝖞, The doctors told me it’s a matter of days - only two or three, maybe a week if I’m unlucky.* I will miss being alive, truly alive, not in the state I am right now. I miss the years I would take stupid risks - jumping into deep waters, trying to land a double flip. I miss my family, though I’m not yet gone - I miss their happiness. It feels as I deteriorate so does their joy. I think it would be better if I just/“ ) : 12th June 𝕯𝖊𝖆𝖗 𝖉𝖎𝖆𝖗𝖞,

This is my last entry. I don’t know what to say. Yesterday, I fell unconscious - only to wake a few hours ago. Everybody is so worried. I am so worried - though I’m not sure what for. I have been waiting for this moment ever since I fell ill. So why did it feel all too soon.* Only 17. Running out of time.

The door clicked open, and I stood dazed in the corridor, hand grazing the handle I hand pulled. Finally home. Exiting, right? I scanned the simple apartment, examining the dust that had gathered in the year I had been gone for. I felt a smile inch across my face.

It was a humble flat, nothing special but it felt good to back in it. It may not have looked like much, but it meant a lot. This is where I studied for my degree. This is where I spent late nights cramming. Now my gap year was over, and I was back to the mundane life of a university student.

The wonderful ordinary.

I would have thrown myself onto my tattered couch, if not for the exhaustion. Instead I pitifully collapsed onto it, dropping my bags just in-front of the door. I missed this couch. I missed the smell of next doors beer and the sounds of their drunken songs. I missed all of it. I don’t regret travelling the world, not one bit, but it has made me appreciate the wonders of being home. Feeling safe.

I took a quick nap before I began to unpack my luggage. I had managed to acquire a tourists magnet from each place I visited; France, Germany, Norway, Poland then Turkey, Lebanon, Egypt, all the way to India, China and Vietnam, finally a long flight to Chile, Brazil and Honduras. I made sure to steer clear of the US, but I stopped in Canada for a bit (sadly failed to obtain a magnet). I carefully arranged them on my fridge, taking the time to organise them into alphabetical, geographical and than finally settling on the order I visited each in.

Home felt close for the first time in a year, but I would still have to get used to my ragged decor as apposed to the pristine holiday housing.

I don’t know why, or remember how long for, but I started to tear up. I allowed the water to roll down my cheeks, with a peaceful delicate smile painted on my sunburnt face.

Lying, lazing, lavishing Slowly, softly, drifting Sleep wanders my silent mind Beaming does the sun as I drift.

Lying, lazing, lavishing Relax, relish, reinvent The pine provides me shade Cools the sun that blesses my skin In a patchwork pattern.

Lying, lazing, lavishing Feeling, wandering, existing The grass beneath my fallen head Feel the graze of a blade

Falling slowly, relax and feel Focus on the here and now A gentle hand guides me along the path Of rest and final peace. Sweet dreams

“Miss Cardama, you will be staying here for tonight. I apologise for the state; as you will have heard we have a shortage of rooms. The pandemic has taken a toll,” the nurse sighed, her exhaustion was not only audible, but visible. She had dark blue toned rings around her heavy eyes, and she seemed unfocused. “Thank you Aria, I am sure it will suit me fine.”

Lola Cardama examined the odd menagerie, through a tank-like helmet. The patients were the few who had taken the disease worse. The “mori” as the ward was now called, the dying. It was like most wards in the hospital, only a few remained for organ functioning issues and older diseases. Lola had worked in a hospital before, at the beginning of the pandemic. They needed every doctor or nurse they could get there hands on, barely even skimmed the qualifications. Then she fell ill. She had mild symptoms, but highly contagious, and although half of western world had caught the disease, she was put in quarantine. Here. The room itself wasn’t bad. It was a tad creepy, with its long and thin layout, reminiscent of the hallway in the Shining. It was both too intimidatingly large, and too tight. Her head felt heavy and her ears overwhelmed at the sound of the “mori”. The coughing, the groaning, screeching, scratching, cries of bloody murder. It shook her. She walked through to the end of the ward, past rows of patients, skin pink toned and flaky, separated from her by a clear barrier. There eyes had fully dilated, so much so that the iris was indistinguishable. Lola eyed the grey floor, looking down at the stains and indents it held. She didn’t care to look closer at each patient. She knew the effects, she had seen them in her son and her wife, seen them just before her father died, all over the news. The first symptom that showed was hard to differentiate from the old cold, or the 2020s corona virus; sharp, phlegm filled coughs. By this time, it was already almost incurable. Second, the gradual pupil dilation. Difficult to notice in cocaine addicts or similar, but not impossible. Finally, the most obvious symptom, the skin changes; flaky, punk-hued, rashed, lined with scars and breakage. It was grotesque, and by the time this symptoms rears it’s head, it’s far too late.

Lola shook her head, trying to rid the memories of her families complexion from her loud mind. As she walked, she noticed the cries of the mori began to become more distant, and she began to approach the less affected.

She entered the clear cubicle in which her name was painted. In the cubicle adjacent she could see a normal looking man, dark skin and a broad face. He looked as if he’d once been relatively strong, but weakness had felled him like a fallen forest. In the corner of every cubicle was a system that allowed fresh air to skitter through. They also had a pill to fulfill hunger, and a good supply of water. Lola could survive here if the disease remained docile.

But she would never truly live.

I stubbled through the vine plagued forest. Trees stab this skyline, a trail of blue blood soaks each cloud. My thoughts run wildly as two legs try to keep pace. It’s past midnight, but sky is day. Fumbling limbs and aching feet, these moments could be the death of me. “Oh hell.” Gargled sounds revirbarated behind, bouncing off of pines. Screaming, running, tumbling, tripping. Must reach base. Then it will all be normal. More screams, but now it’s no familiar voice. Sirens sound everywhere. That only makes him angrier. Couldn’t try anything. Out of options.

Last life over. Sweet death envelops.

Mila loved food, probably more than she loved her husband. She found the question of sweet or savoury rather silly. Why not have both? She would ask. Sure, some foods had enchanting textures, but what really mattered was how it tasted. Sweet, salty, umami. Spicy, bitter. All honesty, Mila was not a huge fan of the latter. She would, however, get lost in the flavours either way. There’s something so magical about the way lasagna is a perfect combination of tastes. She would devour the whole kitchen if she could, just for a particle of something extraordinary. After the incident, it was never the same. She’d lost the desire, lost the taste completely. It started gradually. She had walked into the coffee shop, a street across from the building she works in, and pure bliss has welcomed her. Smells of fruity pastries and milky lattes, fumes from the hot chocolate machine erupted and escaped into the warm bakery air. It was delightful, but something was off. It felt dull. Maybe this effect was just nocebo, after all it had been a stressful morning.

But that wasn’t it. Everything was dim, like a light running out of power, or a flame being snuffed. The usual rich scent was masked by… nothing.

Bland. Dim.
Like a veil over a face of beauty.

I met my friend, Amita, minutes before the bus arrived. She had been off school for the past few days, so I was glad to have her back. It wasn’t that I didn’t have other friends, quite the contrary actually. I had a pretty large friendship circle and we all hung out together often. Even so, everything felt easier around Amita; words became more fluid. I felt less like every move I made was being picked apart and I would be chastised later by the girls who say they are my friends. I know it sounds kinda petty, but it’s difficult being popular. You never know who your real friends are. Amita had been my friend since primary school. She’d always been well-liked, and enjoyed attention. Who could blame a girl wanting people to see her? To know her? She’s remarkably pretty; high cheek bones, hooked nose, full coral lips, glowing brown skin. It was no surprise boys obsessed over her, girls the same. But she was more than just pretty, she was true. She was my best friend. I was lost without her. I hated each day when she was away, waited each morning for her to arrive. I know it was pitiful, I was pitiful, but sometimes you just cling to that one person and can’t untie your arms. It wasn’t just that though. I had to mingle with the other popular kids. I didn’t know how to engage in conversation with them; it seemed so awkward and forced. Sure they were my friends, but they weren’t like Amita. They weren’t… nice? Most days were unremarkable. All but one. Tuesday 22 March. An English lesson has passed in a blur of new old vocabulary and angsty renaissance poets, which led me to break time. I sat on the massive conjoined table we had assembled at the beginning of the year. The group was mostly the same, some people lost along the away, some gained. Opposite me was Aubrey. She could be civil, if she liked you. Usually she was unremarkably nice to me and Amita, as we kept to ourselves and occasionally made witty remarks but never at her expense. It was nice to have a familiar voice in the haze of noise that seemed to be the lunch hall. “So, where’s your pretty little friend?” She giggled, “Still not in? God you must be soooo lonely.” “Yeah I guess, but I mean there’s other people to talk to.” I tried to sound more willing than I felt to converse. She raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow, “Sure but your not usually very chatty unless Amita is with you.” “I can get on fine by myself.” I lied, though I knew my distress was visible at every query or joke or advance made towards me. “Alright,” Aubrey huffed, giving in. Then everything happened all at once. There was a grunt and then a crash and a plethora of gasps and… Someone had drenched me in water. My hair was inundated, my jeans soaked. I gazed horrified at the girl apologising infront of me, at the boys cackling across the table, the girls trying to hide there sniggers. “She looks like she peed herself!” Called one of the guys, laughing hysterically. “At least her hair finally got a wash,” giggled one of the girls too loudly. Everybody was laughing. Everybody was staring. I felt my body temperature rise. It was impossible to tell what was water and what was sweat. I don’t want to be here. Make them stop laughing. I can’t do this. It’s too loud. It’s too hot. It too much. There all looking at me. Stop looking at me. I am not a joke. Stop laughing. Please just go back to silently judging me. I can’t do this. It’s too much. It’s too much. Wheres Amita. I need my friend. So many thoughts. I wanted the ground to swallow me. I wanted the wind to steal me away. I wanted the noise to shatter me or the heat to kill me. But I just stood up, drenched and dripping. There was no sympathy in the world. No pity, no justice. They laughed with pain behind there eyes. They mocked me to hide there own mistakes, to make them feel big. All the same, I wanted to disappear. The laughing died in their throats. It turned to confusion to horror and back full circle. The look on their faces was priceless, when I disappeared.

I’ve always been afraid of the dark, or rather what lurks in its shadowed sanctuary.

I’d heard the stories. Of course I’d heard the stories: The tales of monsters and darkness and heroes, stories that held a place in the hearts of everyone. These were stories of valour and victory, but what lay with me those cold nights as I tossed and turned, were the looming faces of the alien creatures, chthonic faces not even a mother could begin to love. Nights like this, I woke in deep sweat, if I slept at all. Even now, almost seventeen, the thought of these… things made me shiver. They never left me a moment of peace.

Not even the theatrical yarns and chilling nightmares could have prepared me for facing the real thing. Especially not in pitch black.

I stood in the arena, ready to prove my worth to this village I could hope to call home, welcoming the fear that boiled inside me. “Fear is good. It makes you alert,” my mother had said that morning as she kissed my forehead and offered goodbyes.

The creature glared down at me, all 10 foot of its ugliness bristling and growling. It’s desperate, hungry eyes were a familiar orange, like a candle flame or small spiral sun. Despite the immense darkness, I felt as if I should be wearing shades, or simply shielding my eyes from the glow of its. I wanted to screamed, to yell, to signal for aid but I knew I must face this alone. I was a ruthless fighter, like my mother and her father and the man before him. I was a warrior. Or I was supposed to be.

Their arms were intertwined, like a network of flesh roots. They were a couple metres ahead of were I paced; I walked slow in attempt to not reveal myself. It was strange to watch these people from so far away, when I knew a time I was be part of their forest too. The man and women giggled and swayed as they stepped, as if they were drunk on affection, and undoubtably priceless wine. How I envied them. I fixed my eyes on their skin wrapped skulls, tasting the sweet flavour of revenge on the tip of my tongue. My bliss was disrupted by a misstep I took, fumbling over a pot hole. The man looked back sharply in my general direction. The glare sent a rush of panic through me, though I hid it well. Had he noticed I was trailing behind? But he simply kept walking, giggling, swaying. I reminded myself why I was here, as my panic began to dissipate slightly. These people deserved what was coming, and I was going to hand it to them with a smile on my scarred face.

Be brave, She who had called me her little sun and left, With only those two words; Be brave.

The war still rages, mother, The tides still batter, I wish could be the little sun, But I’m afraid my light is shattered.

Be brave, The words replay in my mind, Every day, every hour, every second; Be brave.

I miss you, mother Sometimes I still believe you’re near, I’m not sure if I can accept the truth, I’m afraid when you’re not here.

Be brave, Is this even possible? I’m all alone in a world unknown; Be brave.

They are coming for me, mother, I hear their voices, They may find me eventually, I’m afraid I’m out of choices.

Be brave, I wish I knew how, dear mother I wish I knew how you did it so long ago; Be brave.

I’m so sorry, mother, I tried so hard to be brave, To be your little ever-burning sun, But, in truth. I am terribly afraid.

(This is based on a story idea I had a while back)