Complicated

I lean over the sink and throw up.
I feel seriously sick, but I don't care. My suffering is mediocre compared to the weak girl in the living room.
As soon as I think of her I want to cry.
She's been through too much for someone her age. She's only sixteen - still a teenager. Yet already, she's bed - ridden. She doesn't speak anymore. She doesn't eat, hardly ever drinks. She doesn't do anything. Because she can't.
And why?
Six years ago, she was stuck down by some mysterious disease. What disease, I don't know. No one knows, not even the doctors. She was in hospital for three years, but it was impossible to find a cure. Or even diagnose her with an illness.
So they gave up on her. The hospital staff gave up on her. They said they had 'other important' matters to pursue.
Yeah, right.
They secretly thought that she was an odd child, struck down with some mutant disease who'd probably die anyways. They saw no point in her. To them, she was just a nuisance, taking up a bed when others needed it. So she was kicked out.
Bastards.
How could anyone be so heartless?
I couldn't let her stay so helpless. In a desperate attempt to help her in some way - despite the shit the staff at the hospital had given me - I looked around for a private doctor. Sure, it'd blow my savings, but what the hell, what does that matter?
I wish I hadn't.
Dr. Lance. Just the name makes me angry.
He tried ever so hard to be friendly at first, smiling whenever he saw her, getting her to call him by his first name - Jacob - rather than 'Doctor,' giving her sweets.
He told her she'd get better.
She didn't get better.
He gave up on her.
To him, she was going to die, and that was that. No questions asked, lesson over.
He still visits, yet now, he's like a relative of hers, instead of a doctor. He brings sweets, he talks to her, he tries to make her laugh.
Idiot. I hate him.
Assholes, all of them - the nurses, the doctors, the surgeons.
They just care about how they'd appear to other people. People see them and go "Whoa! You're a doctor!" and immediately assume that they're the children of God or something. I'll admit, that's what I thought at first as well. I've learnt since then. They're good-for-nothing spawns of Satan - that's what I believe.
I thought doctors were supposed to help people?
Don't they care for what I think?
No. Forget that. Don't they care about her? The child who's health is rapidly deteriorating, racing towards death?
My baby. My only baby, spiralling towards her death.
She's sixteen. Sixteen. She should be out, dating boys and breaking my curfew rules, just like every other teenage girl in the world.
Not lying at home, every single day, frozen to the couch in the living room. I can't even remember the last time she saw the outside world.
I've watched her fade; watched her face, now a pale sketch of what was once a vibrant, detailed painting, twist in pain, heard her cries in the middle of the night, felt her fragile frame underneath her blankets.
She doesn't deserve this. No one does.
I sigh deeply as I come back to the present. I reach for a glass of water to wash my mouth out, which still tastes of vomit.
I reach for another glass for her, hoping she'll drink something today.
My hand passes her tablets. I freeze for a minute.
'Just four of those could put her out of her misery,' I think.
No. Why did I just think that. What sort of a mother would think that?
But.
No.
She's dying anyways. Slowly and painfully. What sort of freak would just leave her in pain? Why not put her out of her suffering?
No.
She'll go to heaven. I know she will. She's done no wrong. How could she have done?
I shudder.
Why is life such a bitch? I wonder. Full of hurt and complications. What happened to living happily ever after?
I think of the girl in the room next over.
Before I know what I'm doing, I'm reaching for the tablets. I fill the glass with water, then stare at the little white box for a while, feeling as if I'd been sucked into a tornado of emotions.
Who knew they had so much power?
A tear oozes out from beneath my eyelids as I push four tablets out of the casing. I drop them into the water and watch them dissolve, releasing a string of tiny bubbles that soon disappear.
The water looks so innocent now.
I wipe my eyes with my sleeve, then pick up the glass.
Slowly, I walk into the living room.

Time

I sit here, waiting for you to come. Endless days pass - I've lost count.
But you never come.
You promised, swore against your life, said you'd never forget me. You broke that promise, didn't you? You've forgotten me, all memories containing me erased from your mind.
Yet still I wait. I stand, sit, pace this cold jail cell, twisting my fingers, gazing at the clock. The hands move, but not in unison with time. The clock sprints ahead, whilst the day drags behind.
I'm going crazy.
But I still wait for you, praying you'll come, knowing you won't.

Behind Glass Walls

She stares at him through the glass panes set into the door. Her eyes are distant, dreamy, as if her mind is elsewhere.
He sits, his head bent over a pile of books, oblivious of his stalker. His pen moves quickly, a teacherly scribble, leaving behind red lines of criticism.
She drinks in every detail- the way his thick, almost feminine eyelashes throw shadows upon his cheeks, the glint of his sandy hair in the soft light.
Her hand reaches out longingly, as if to touch him, but is barred by cool glass.
Some say she's crazy. Twisted.
They don't understand.

Task 42:Waiting for something

August 15th-A mother is driving her daughter to school to pick up her GCSE results

Alison: But what if I don't get it?
Catherine: Good lord, child, stop worrying. You'll go prematurely grey.
Alison: But-
Catherine: Honey, quit it, will you? You revised your head off for those exams, you'll get great results, you and I both know it.
Alison: And if I don't?
Catherine: Ali, will you stop being such a pessimist? Relaaaaax.....
Alison: (sighs exasperatedly and slouches in her seat) Fine. Whatever.
Catherine: (shakes her head) You and all your split personalities. We're here now. Go and get those results!
Alison: Mm....but...
Catherine: Ali-go!
Alison: I'm going, I'm going...
Catherine: You'll be out with Charlotte the rest of the day right?
Alison: Yeah, I think so...
Catherine: All right, call me if you need anything. And let me know those results!
Alison: Yeah, yeah, okay. (She gets out of the car)
Catherine: Right, then. I'll see you later, honey.
Alison: Okay, mum.
Catherine: Good luck, sweetie.
Alison: Okay...thanks.
Catherine: Awww...my baby girl...(adopts a dreamy expression) I remember when you were-
Alison: O-kay, mum. You can go now.
Catherine: Hmm? Oh, yes, well, yes. Good luck! Bye, love.
Alison: Buh-bye now.

(Catherine drives off, waving. Alison wanders through the school gates.)

Charlotte: Ali!
Alison: Hey, Charlie!
Charlotte: Where you been, girl? You've taken ages!
Alison: What, 'ain't you got your results yet?
Charlotte: Was waitin' for you, honey.
Alison: Oh. Right. Sorry for taking ages, then.

(Both girls walk towards the main office)

Alison: (To the woman at the desk) Alison McKenna. And Charlotte Hayes.
Woman at the desk: (Sorts through a pile of envelopes) Here you are. Good luck (smiles)

(Back in the playground)

Alison: I'm not sure I want to open mine...
Charlotte: C'mon, I know I've done crap, yet I still wanna open mine.
Alison: You won't have done crap...
Charlotte: Don't start. All right, on three, yeah? One, Two, Three..
(They rip open the envelopes and read them)
Alison: Oh my...
Charlotte: What? What did you get? Lemme see! (Reads the letter over Alison's shoulder) Oh wow! 3 A*s! You geek! You've passed practically everything!
Alison: I got a D in Geography...
Charlotte: Yeah, but who cares 'bout Geography? Wow...you nerd!
Alison: Stop it. So, what did you get?
Charlotte: I, uh, you don't need to know. It' s a bunch of crap...
Alison: That's not true! Show me! (wrestles the paper out of Charlotte's hand)
Charlotte: Hey! Give it back!
Alison: I...uh...well...wow. (Pause) This is great, Charlie!
Charlotte: Riiiight...Science, D, Maths, E, English lit, D...amazing, right?
Alison: No, but, I mean, but-hey, you got a B in French! That's great!
Charlotte: Yeah, only 'cause my mum's French.
Alison: But still...
Charlotte: What am I gonna do with French? Move to France? I don't think so.
Alison: French teacher?
Charlotte: Moi? As a teacher? Yeah...like that'll work...
Alison: True point. But still...you did good overall...
Charlotte: You're a terrible liar, you know that?
Alison: You could always do a re-sit.
Charlotte: Nah, I think I'm done with learning.
Alison: What?
Charlotte: I'm not too bothered with it to tell you the truth.
Alison: But don't you want to go to college? Uni? Get a degree?
Charlotte: What am I gonna do with a degree? Either way, I'll probably end up stacking boxes in Asda.
Alison: But you could-
Charlotte: Listen, honey, I didn't pass my GCSEs. I don't care. C'est la vie.
Alison: But how could-wait. You what? Se lee vee?
Charlotte: C'est la vie. Its Français. For that's just life.
Alison: But that's not 'just life!' You could-
Charlotte: Ali. I. Don't. Care. Stop hounding me. Go phone your mum. Tell her 'bout them grades of yours.
Alison: But-
Charlotte: You arguin' with me, girl?
Alison: No, I'm just saying-
Charlotte: Shut it darlin'. Go phone your mum.
Alison: (Sighs, but dials her mums number on her phone) Hey, Mum?
Catherine: Ali? 's that you, love?
Alison: Yeah,
Catherine: Honey! So...tell me! I was right, wasn't I?
Alison: Yeah, I guess, yeah. I s'pose you were...
Catherine: Sweetheart! I'm so proud! What did you get? Hurry up and tell me, I'm driving, so make it quick.
Alison: 3A*s, 2As, 2Bs, a C and a D.
Catherine: Sweetie! That's brilliant! See? Didn't I tell you? I was right!
Alison: mm..
Catherine: I should go, but I'll have a surprise waiting for you when you get home, okay?
Alison: Mum, you don't-

(There is a squeal of brakes on the other end of the line)

Alison: Mum?

(There's a crash. The phone goes dead.)

Don't Tell Anyone (Photo 7)

She shoots death stares at me all the way to the police station. She's trying to frighten me, I know, but so far, her attempts have been futile. After a couple of times, the whole 'daunting factor' of getting arrested sort of wore off.

"Sit" she snaps, pointing with one shockingly long fingernail at an unoccupied chair at the far end of the room.

I decide to obey, and sit.

"I'll be back in a minute. Don't move." After shooting me another hostile glance, she scurries off, her obviously-expensive platinum blonde hair bobbing underneath her policewoman helmet.

I slouch in my seat and examine the waiting room. I stare at the silver-haired woman crying, the snivelling little kid, the skeevy-looking girl in the corner whose boots seem to cover more skin than her actual clothes. I gaze at the assortment of papers tacked up on the walls-anti-drug leaflets, nicotine patch advertisements, missing posters.

Missing posters.

His poster is there.

Of course his poster is there.

His poster is everywhere-pinned onto trees, sellotaped onto fences. It's like a sharp thorn in my side that I can't get away from.

Not a day goes by when I don't see that picture. It eyes me when I walk down the road, it watches me from the side of milk cartons.

His face. Her face.

The faces of Cameron ans Riana Springer.

Cameron and Riana.

My best friend. And his daughter.

Everytime I see that picture, my mind drifts back to the day I last saw him.

I see Cameron, dragging along a heavy-looking rucksack with one arm; the other is taken up by Riana. She's asleep, oblivious of the racket around her. She looks so peaceful. She doesn't deserve to be here. She doesn't deserve any of this. She needs to be in the care of a loving family that have no eyes for anyone other than her. Not with a runaway druggie with less than a year to live. She won't last. She'll be gone within two months.

Cam's voice cuts through my thoughts. It's low and urgent. I strain my ears to hear what he's saying.

"Remember, Dave. Don't tell anyone. Please."

The sharp sound of heels on laminate flooring snap me out of my daydream.

It's a woman-a different one this time.

She wears spike-heeled stilettos and a powdery grey suit. He nose is wrinkled and her lips are pursed. She looks as if she'd just been force-fed a lemon. She gives me a steely glance and hands me my wallet and my mobile. No dope, though. Hardly surprising.

"Come" she says in a bitter tone, at the exact same time as my mobile went off. The ring tone seemed sickeningly cheerful against the dry, drab atmosphere of the station.

I look at the lady. She raises her eyebrows.

I look down at the caller ID.

Cameron.

I look at her again. She says nothing; just blinks.

I take this as permission to answer.

"Cam, this really isn't-" I start.

"Dave? Dave?" His voice is anxious, troubled. "Dave, listen. I need your help."

And that's when all hell breaks loose.

Life and Death

Please bear in mind that these are the first sonnets I have EVER written, so it may be a little lame.

Life

I've always known that we live in a world,
Where love is worth nothing and life's a game,
And since the dawn of mankind, hate unfurled
Its wings, robbing humankind of their shame.
For every child born, another one dies,
For every war that stops, another starts.
Each happy smile killed by a thousand cries
Our loved ones suffer from broken hearts.
Sick of it all, for restful death I cry;
I yearn for the peace of eternal sleep.
I beg for the Good Lord to let me lie
Away from the world that caused me to weep.
And when my life does end, I pray the Lord
Will grant me heaven as my own reward


Death

It took me, long before I was ready,
And flung me into a world of despair;
A land of loneliness, shade, tragedy,
Where darkness and sorrow hang in the air,
A storm grey cloud of emptiness. Where did
All the colours go? Green, blue, yellow, red?
All gone. I never did manage to bid
My farewells to the human world. Instead,
That goddess, Mother Nature snatched my life
Away, took my soul to a private hell
Where desolation is forever rife.
Life is precious. Though things may not go well,
It's all you'll get. Treasure it all. And so,
I must say this. Life is dear. Don't let go.