Short Story With Dementia Alternate Ending

Withdrawing it she settled for his hand, her fingers gripped upon his flesh part of a body, not a person or being, just flesh and bones. Her hand brushed against something hard and cold, her fingers enclosed around it. Pulling it up towards her face she squinted to make out its form. A bottle, her anti-depressants bottle, the lid was loose, and it was empty. She hurled at the wall watching it rebound and coming to rest within the ocean of blood, tears and lost hopes and

It was faded red, and slow: on Volkswagen time. Others rushed impatiently. It said, “Speed limit will do. No hurry.”

pushed the narrator to an extent. She became sick of their relationship, growing numbness to the pain that he makes her face.

And how twisted was the world, that his victim would forgive him before he forgave himself? That after he’d raped her, he was the one crying, it was him needing her comfort? She was always like this… this frightening mix of strength and vulnerability, both built upon suffering he, back then, could never even fathom. Now though… now he was beginning to understand what made her like

Not hard enough to damage it, of course not, because if there was one thing Dementia knew, _surprisingly_, it was boundaries. It took long for her fickle attention to diverge, however, with a smug grin and a needly roll of her hips against the hand that worked off her tights. Her own moved up to tug off her hat, allowing her to free her hair enough for pink and green tresses to mix and hang loosely around her. The contact of chest against chest along with the feeling of his hands working her free of her tights was enough to prompt her to hide her face against his bruised shoulder, breath heavy and legs growing weaker. Needless to say, she was growing

Whether Tom was deluding himself subconsciously, or intentionally, would never be certain, however his psyche swiftly convinced himself that the expression of shock on her face, and the pleading tone of her voice was fake. Part of the act, and the performance she was

I was 16 when I learned what it meant to be dead. I had known of it before, but I didn’t really know death -- I was too young to really understand. I didn’t realize how hard it would be to ward off the waves from washing away my grandparents when they were in Mexico, and I was here. We were separated by oceans of land so our contact was limited. And the oceans only got deeper as I realized that Alzheimer's meant something beyond just memory loss. It meant I watched my Abuelito’s glassy eyes lead to an empty attic, and knew I was waiting for a tsunami to take it over like it had the rest of him.

Hayden practiced that little speech in her head over a thousand times yet now, she couldn't utter it. She tried, but she couldn't get it past her almost perfect, for now un-smeared lips. She trembled. As if the man cast a spell on her, she was entirely under his control. It was pointless to resist, futile. Her body craved what he had on offer and she hated him for it, she hated herself.

A lecture which is called “From Diary to Graphic Memoir, How and Why I Wrote Tangles: A Story About Alzheimer’s, My Mother and Me” was held by Hiram College’s Center for Literature and Medicine on November 3rd. I was just curious about that lecture because I have read a novel about Alzheimer and I like books. A speaker, Sarah Leavitt is a writer and cartoonist, and teaches Creative Writing at University of British Columbia.

This study evaluated how people with Alzheimer’s disease present their life story. The authors utilized a narrative design using interviews as their basis for researching the importance in developing the knowledge about how people with Alzheimer’s disease present their life story, since life story work is believed to be a key concept in person-centered care according to these authors. A total of nine (9) participants (5 women and 4 men), aged 60-81 years were recruited via a geriatric clinic, healthcare center or by advertisement in local newspapers. All data collection, through interviews, was conducted in the patient’s home. Participants were asked questions pertaining to the following areas of their life: childhood, adult life, occupations,

The pain hurried through her for just a moment before being replaced again by his caresses. It felt shocking good and was successful at making her listen to his next words. There was no hesitation as she nodded her head quickly, digging her nails in sheets a little as she restrained herself. There was always the natural urge to disobey, to take the control back but it went out like a light when the length of

Having Alzheimer’s would cause your parents to forget everything over time, including you, their only child. Because you were so young, Alden and I decided to tell you that they had just been killed. We figured it would be better for you to believe that they were dead than to tell you that they do not even remember who you are. But, throughout these past few months, we have noticed that you haven’t forgotten about them, and no matter how hard we have tried to prevent you, you have always tried to find a way to see your parents again.”

If what had happened the day before wasn’t bad enough, what ended up being the result of that moment of just go with the flow was impossible to forget? Now she was stuck with the memory of when she opened had her eyes that morning, what occurred before, during, and after a barrage of kisses that had attacked her without stopping, and how she had proved that going with the flow once more wasn’t the greatest of ideas she had ever hand compared to all others. One of those others was attacking back and actually believing she had the upper hand.

She sank to her knees and crawled underneath the table. The frustration was building but she pushed it down and ignored it. Her life was a lot better and more enjoyable if she just ignored it. Stef started with her father, crawling to him and unbuttoning his slacks. She took his cock out and gave the head a small kitten lick. The father smiled and placed a hand on her head, encouraging her to do more. She grumbled quietly to herself before wrapping her lips around him, taking in as much of him as she could. Her mouth stretched and her jaw ached a little as she began to bob her head. Her father’s hand tangled itself

Purple bruises were scattered across her frail wrist like grotesque, swollen beetles. Her knee jutted out awkwardly to her side. Her bleeding, cracked lips were shrunken to a tiny buttonhole. Her tongue stuck out between her teeth like a piece of rubber. Her eyelids fluttered feebly as she lay there - defeated, defenseless, and desolate. Her chest heaved up and down, as her lungs fought for breath – she was barely alive. A caked, muddy trail of shoeprints followed him out the door. He had gotten away again. Tears prickled at the back of my eyes. My throat swelled up as my steely resolve began to dissolve. Grief shook my shoulders like an inner earthquake, the world around me crashing down. A nauseating mixture of relief and horror clenched tightly onto my loins – like when you finally stop an itch, only to realize that you’ve ripped a hole in your