Emily Rae Robles

the paradoxymoron

Teardrops of Injustice: Part 1

I’m reposting this as my entry for the Catch Me If You Can Blogfest at KayKay’s Corner. It’s the beginning (maybe) of a WIP that is as of yet untitled, and I’m not even quite sure where it’s going.  Let me know what you think. You can also email criticism to emilyraerobles@gmail.com

It was 6:13 a.m. when the nurses barged in with their blinking equipment and irritatingly sanitized smell.

“Brittany. Brittany. It’s time to take your vitals.”

Her consciousness opened its eyes before she did, gauging the necessity of waking up. Before she could make a decision, a thermometer invaded her mouth. As it beeped its way to judgment, she heard the sound of velcro being adjusted on her arm, tightening its grip as she relaxed into the closest thing to pain she could find. Blood pressure: 88/50, low as usual. She fluttered her lids with the agony of impeding nothingness. Another day of vomit-inducing meals, arrogant social workers, and unbearably long sessions of whining suicidal single moms and abusive dads. Another day filled with too many ticking minutes and not enough to care about.
The nurses were shaking awake the last of the five women in the room when Brittany finally slung her bare legs over the metal cot. One blanket and the flimsy nightgown assigned to her were not nearly enough to keep her warm at night. She stared at her knees, the dotted pattern of the gown piling on itself over and over until all she could see was dots dancing in front of her eyes, dots screeching into her ears, dots crowding around her until they pulled her down and she suffocated….
She screamed and clutched her throat. The girl in the bed next to her, a quiet soul who spent her time reading and avoiding the others, sat bolt upright.
“Are you all right?” she asked. Brittany tried to glare at her ignorance, but her resolve only ended up dissolving into emotion.
“No, I’m not all right,” she bawled. Tears came like friends hidden behind the facade of sanity. No more facade, no more faking, no more trying to be Brittany the perfect, Brittany the polite, Brittany the strong. Weakness was her new strength, failure her new success. Emotions overwhelmed her. Anger at the girl’s inability to understand, fear of inevitability, longing for a different life—only happiness was absent. Happiness. Had she ever known happiness? Would she ever? “It’s a Tuesday,” she sobbed incoherently. “Everyone I ever cared about died on a Tuesday. I’m going to die today. I can feel it. I’m going to die.”

The girl looked at her with an expression that, to Brittany’s surprise, contained neither suppressed laughter nor frustrated judgment. “You won’t die,” she said. “You won’t die if you don’t let yourself.”
Brittany slowly pulled her blanket around her shoulders and shivered, not with cold. This girl knew nothing about death. Death didn’t ask permission. Death thrived on patterns and superstitions. She stood up and drew the blanket closer. Her unshaven legs prickled and her lungs choked on the stale air. Let the day begin, she thought. Let it begin.


February 5, 2011 - Posted by | hospital stories, psychiatric pstories, stories, writings | , , , , ,


  1. An interesting start, and one that certainly caught my attention.

    Comment by stu | March 8, 2011 | Reply

  2. Sounds like we are in rehab. It feels gritty and depressing.
    Keep at it.

    Comment by Heather | March 8, 2011 | Reply

  3. This is a very interesting start you’ve got here. I’m curious about where she is–hospital? Rehab? Somewhere completely different? And why is she there? And what’s this about everyone she loves dying on a Tuesday?

    All very good questions for me to have 🙂 It definitely makes me want to read on.

    Thanks for sharing!

    Comment by Kristina Fugate | March 8, 2011 | Reply

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