The Long Hour

Sitting in a hospital waiting room, alone, afraid; and waiting for the news; would she be ok? Would she even survive? My nerves were out of control; my heart was beating through my chest, you could literally see it thumping through my top. The beads of sweat racing down my forehead, as if I was in the middle of the Safari dessert. I have been an athlete my entire life, yet I have never felt so physically drained. I look around, my eyes opening, then closing; as if I am coming in and out of consciousness, then suddenly echoed words begin to ring around my ear drums….” Sir…...sir, can you hear me? Sir please, we need to know what happened. We need to know what happened to her. Maybe my motionless state showed my

My clammy palms clasped the wooden arm of a plush, pink chair. The crisp air of the empty hall sent chills up my spine. Beaming lights engulfed the room. My heart felt dense. I could see my chest compress and decompress with every erratic beat and arrhythmic dance. Nerves jolted through my body. My mother squeezed my skeletal hand as she sat

He sat pondering with stinging eyes outside in the frosty evening air. His head was throbbing with a migraine that carried his thoughts to darker times, times that made his heart burn. Times that now caused his lungs to only inhale, that suffocating feeling the feeling of deaths unbearable hug, the engulfment of pain. He had felt it many times before. The anxiety and stomach nausea was almost always with him though only he knew of it. This boy was fluid in the language of pain. For he had the scars the screams and the sorrow to prove it. Currently his lungs began to fail him only allowing an inhale of agony, no oxygen would be permitted to exit, because the panic would not allow it. His eyes begin to blur like they sometimes would and

I opened my eyes to see nurses and doctors around my bedside. The bliss and serenity I had felt in the moments before... seemed to be the contentment they felt at the moment I opened my eyes. I had just survived a "Code

She blinked her eyes multiple times trying to adjust her eyes to the bright light that she could not find the source of, once her eyes fully adjusted she noticed she was laying in a comfortable little bed in a room that had a strange smell of bark. She sat up and turned her body so her legs dangled off the edge and in an instant, immeasurable pain came from her head she winced at the feel of it. “I must have

“The Story of an Hour” is a story that in a few pages creates commentary, emotions, and thoughts about a simple yet very important part of every civilization. It is quite amazing that a short story written over a hundred years ago is still relevant to our society today. Every successful civilization has had some form of marriage, and while this story is to many criticizing the institution of marriage, I believe that people could see this dichotomy of oppressor vs oppressed that this story tries to bring to the forefront and instead find a theme of freedom and responsibility that was not intended by the author.

I remember feeling dazed walking into the hospital; everything was a blur yet seemed to happen in slow motion. And the smell. It was overwhelming and stale. I was detached, just going through the motions: walk here, get wristband, sit, stay, wait. The waiting was the worst part. My mind began to spin. Worrying, and waiting, and contemplating, and waiting and waiting… My fingers began to restlessly tap, dancing out the rhythm of my steps over and over. I fell into a daze, nothing processing except

A humanly figure towered above me but I couldn’t identify it; it was faint and indistinct. My hands feel numb, my feet do too. My body feels exposed, and unusually moist; and I can’t blink – why can’t I blink? My torso stings in torment and my limbs feel stretched and distorted. The haziness slowly dwindled and my vision gradually cleared; but not quick enough to identify him. The anonymous figure abandoned the area leaving me to lie here in throbbing pain. I overheard him switching off a flame in the next room before leaving outside. And after that it was total silence, the only sound being the perpetual ticking of a grandfather clock that resonated all over the hall; tick tock, tick tock tick tock, tick

I didn’t know what I was doing or where I was. It felt like forever that I laid in this room. Covering me was about 3 white heated towels and blankets. I remember looking around me for quite awhile trying to recognize where I was and it hit me. I was in the recovery room after my tooth surgery. Moving my hand up to my face, I touched my lips. They were very numb and no matter how hard I pushed on them, I still couldn’t feel them. Cotton balls were protruding out of my mouth and they were white with a hint of red color in them. After a few more minutes I began to doze off again. Before I fell all the way asleep a nurse opened the curtain and peeked her head

It was a dark and stormy night at the October hours. Jack and his sister

I continued inspecting the dead bodies, my heart was pounding in my chest, pounding in my head, my entire body resonated with each beat, like a gong. I felt sick, my friends,

" Dimitri ! Release me ! " . she yelled once more . It had been two days already and there where barely any signs of improvement in her condition . I was getting worried but I believed in her . She was so strong , I knew she would snap out of it . I remained silent and simply moved closer to take (1)her (2)hand . Or at least try to take (3)her (4)hand she wouldn't let me touch her since she had gone into this state . Every time I would come close or try to touch her she would try her best to move away , showing disgust through her eyes . It was painful for me to see but I knew this wasn't her . This was the darkness . However I couldn't help but think that the darkness was revealing what she never dared to tell me . Which is that she never saw me the same

I sat down on a bar stool in the kitchen and Grace wet some paper towels and washed my face off. I could now tell where I was bleeding from; I had been cut on a spot under my chin and scraped on the top of my nose and on the left side of my forehead. Grace gave me more paper towels to hold onto my cut and went to get her mom. She and her mom came into the room with bandages and Neosporin. She came toward me, tilted my head up and looked at the cut muttering “Oh no, this looks deep, it might need stitches. I’ll call Mary in a bit.” Mary was her daughter and a nurse. For now, she put Neosporin on the cut under my chin, the only one that was still bleeding. It felt strange. It felt like her fingers were moving deep inside of my skin and moving bits of flesh around. “Sorry, this is gross, isn’t it? You don’t have to do it,” I said, feeling sorry that she had to touch my exposed flesh. She replied, “No, sweetie, I’m done now,” and she put the bandage on my

This room smelt of a multitude of perfumes mixed with coffee, and employees chitchatting echoed across the lobby. I stood in the entrance for a quick second, anxious that this was not the right place. Taking a step forward, I could feel the tightness of my expensive loafers around my feet, and the itchiness of my button-up around my torso. As I examined the room, I noticed a chair near the window in an empty corner. This seemed like a decent spot to wait. The chair itself was a terribly ugly green, similar to the Starbucks symbol. Its plushness sucked you in when you sat; getting out of it was a hassle. As I was sitting, I felt like I could not breathe. Everything felt so stiff: my throat, my appendages, my clothes, my mind. Sweat was seeping through my pores, and all I could think was, “Not now, anxiety, not now.” I could hear someone shouting “Samantha!” in a high-pitch tone at the opposite side of the lobby, which stopped my mind from racing. I was not certain that the shout was directed toward me, but I wandered over that way. The woman shouting must have been Louise, who was coordinating my whole job shadow. I met up with her, and she led me to the multitude of elevators that operated in Maine Medical Center. There were people everywhere-nurses, kitchen staff, doctors, visitors, and others I could not label. When the elevator arrived, Louise and I crammed in with what felt

In Anne Fleche’s critical analysis essay, "Long Day's Journey into Night: The Seen and the Unseen," I can find that her views on the motives of the Tyrones’ are parallel to mine. The opening sentence of her essay is, “The characters in Long Day's Journey into Night find themselves creating a new kind of religion, in which they experience, not sin without guilt, but guilt without sin--the habit of belief without its antecedent [preceding event]” (Fleche). In other words, the characters are recognizing the painfulness of their pasts, no matter how significant the event was. Each of the four family members, Edmund, James, James Jr., and Mary Tyrone, are dealing with their own painful disclosures, ranging from Mary’s morphine addiction relapse to Edmund’s realization that he has tuberculosis and must enter a sanatorium. These revelations add up over time and it seems as if the family is going to fall apart because of doubts and lack of remedies for their struggles.