be an editor and a critic.
i would like your help, if you are willing to comply.
i am applying to a university for a creative writing program this summer.
and i need to send in two samples of my writing.
i wrote this piece on march 11 in my journal after surgery.
i may have already read this to a few of you if you visited me.
i like constructive critism and gramatical suggestions.
please don't waste your time if you don't care.
A Nightmare
By Heather Knowlton
Last night, the third night after surgery, I woke up crying. Through the baby monitor, my parents heard my meltdown and my superman flew up the stairs in just his underwear. The clock read 4 a.m. when he gently kissed my head, then held my hand tightly in his, sitting down in the ‘visitor’s chair.’ It took a few moments for the waterfall of tears to finally freeze over, but patiently he waited for my broken up words. I told him about the dream.
I was fast asleep in my room, in my bed, in the same position I have been stuck in for the last 96 hours. I awake to a man jumping out my window, down onto my driveway with his hands full. His cliché black clothing and make gave away his identity as a typical robber. Panicking, I try to scream for help, but my voice seems empty and useless for the masked man had broken my baby monitor that had been lying on the window sill. The window now lies in tiny shattered pieces embedded into my rug, and almost invisible if it hadn’t been for the slight shimmer that illuminated the room when the moon light shone brightly down. Without a working leg or voice, all I could manage to do was take in this disturbing scene from the familiar place I laid. Helpless. The gusts of cold night air blew through my pane-less window to remind every cell in my body that I had just been stripped of everything I owned. The big screen television was gone, the guitar missing, the jewelry drawers lied open and empty, the money was taken, and my bouquet of flowers were drowning and broken. And the robber got away.
A team of FBI-type police detectives eventually show up in my driveway (after what seems to be hours) and begin to question my father, my mother, and I, all panic-stricken and wrapped in blankets. The endless tears flow more powerfully than rivers, down my cheeks, red and blotchy, as one cop assures me that they will “get him.” His words do not give me an ounce of reassurance. I felt like I was missing something. Something more than just pieces of expensive materials, factory made by underage, working children of China.
When the thought finally came to me, I screamed for my life. My mom ran up to check his room, but she found no one. My brother was taken.
With that, Superman held my hand more tightly, spoke more sweetly, and kissed more gently. One cold wash-cloth, two trips to the bathroom, and three half-chocking sips of water later, I controlled my hysteria to a minimum. He told me that dreams, or even nightmares, are not always logical. But when I thought about it logically, the dream made sense: it was deep and meaningful, but on two pills of Vikadin every four hours, it came off as a nightmare.
My little brother is used to being the baby of the family. My mom usually serves him breakfast, makes him lunch, does his laundry, and cleans up after his every mess, but since my injury his life as he knew it flip-flopped. He could not longer depend on his mother to cover up for his immense laziness, for she was too busy nursing me. I could hardly walk myself bathroom without passing out from a combination of pain and dizziness. I turned into the baby of the family (and for the proof: the baby monitor). Now Perry feels neglected and no one has the energy to help him anymore.
As far as the robber of all my possessions, since the incident I have slowly lost touch with certain specific pieces of my life. The open, broken window reflects the fact that I am vulnerable. Everything I do is watched over and I am incapable of participating in certain activities or outings or going to everyday places. The only way I can stay in touch with my friends is if they make an effort to come visit me because I cannot leave this room for another week and a half. Everything I have is exposed. I was naked in front of a team of doctors, unconscious. I was naked in front of nurses, who kept me from fainting after using the toilet. I was naked in front of both my parents, who had to help me change clothes in the hospital and wipe me down after nearly passing out, profusely sweating. I have little control over many aspects of my life at this point in time and this dream, more of a nightmare, is here to prove it. And also show the guilt I have for the people who I love and those who love me that this injury has affected.