You are lying in a hospital bed, staring up at the grey ceiling. The woman sitting next to you is your mother, a worried look plastered on her wrinkled face. You examine her closely. Was she expecting you to say something?

You blink.

“What?”

You had zoned out. Again! No wonder your mother is always so worried about you. You curse yourself, unsure what to say. Your mother’s frown deepens, placing a warm hand on your cheek.

“You will be fine.”

You look at her, eyebrows furrowing. “Fine” didn’t really help your situation. It had been a week (or was it 2 days. 3? It could have been a month) since you were put into the hospital. You had passed out, during your own birthday party, and you had been having sudden “fits” (your mother called it) of amnesia. You couldn’t remember what had happened before you came to the hospital but your sister had told you that you had “quite a fall”. Or was it your brother who had told you?

You blink again. Your mother’s hand was still on your cheek.

“Sorry, Mom,” You say, “I keep on zoning out.”

“Do not worry about it, my dear,” She says, removing her hand, “It happens.”

You turn toward your night stand. Sitting there is a pie you recognize as a cherry pie your mother used to make when you were a child. How long had it been there?

You itch at the bandages around your head.  Your mother is looking distressed now.

“My child,” She says, “You used to talk so much. Why have you become so silent?”

You blush. Did you really talk so much? Were you really so silent now?

“S-sorry,” You stutter, “I don’t really have much to say.”

It was true. You didn’t. You barely remembered anything that interested you, nowadays, so what would you talk about? You don’t want to tell your mother this. You’ll worry her even more.

You find your mother kissing you on your forehead, saying goodnight. It was night already? You feel light-headed. It feels like time is running so far ahead of you.

The door closes behind your mother and you sit on the side of the bed, eating the pie. It tastes cold and sour but you don’t mind; it reminds you of your mother. You cringe at the thought. Your mother is nothing like this pie; she’s warm and sweet.

You put the plate back on the stand, holding your head in your hands. You want to cry. Your mind is floating in blank memories of your family, your friends and…yourself? You barely know anything about yourself and your interests or who you even were. You feel pricks of nostalgia eat away at your heart. Did this ever happen before? Does your family suffer like this all the time, not knowing if their child or their sibling will ever remember them?

How old are you? Where do you live? What is your name? What’s your favourite colour? Who is your best friend? What school do you go to? What kind of food do you like?

Who are you?

You lay down on your bed, burying your face into the sweet-smelling pillow. You want to drift back into sleep and forget about everything again.

But you feel like you won’t this time.

“You will be fine.”

You close your eyes.

Grey, you remember.

Your favourite colour is grey.

“Every writer has trouble writing. Just don’t let that trouble control your life.”

~ ExpandingView (me)

(This is a quote I made for myself, after I let the guilt of not writing beat me up.  promise I’ll come back and post again!)

December is coming up and November is leaving. It feels terrible to think about NaNoWriMo and how horribly my first time taking part has gone. Despite not being online, I did write some of my story in a notebook I carry around but it seems like the words I’ve written will take me no where near my goal. It’s kind of saddening, really, but I’ll continue writing my story  no matter what.

I’ll see you all around!

“If a story is in you, it has to come out.”

~ William Faulkner

Despite not writing my novel, I got some poetry done but it was more for school than for myself (I really liked writing poetry, though. I should do it more often.)

So…see you guys on Monday?

These past few days have been rough and I have not written ANYTHING.

But at least I got my cover done:

*shrugs*

I’ll try my best to write some more this weekend but, since report cards are coming up, I may not get much of my story written.

I’m a disgrace! D:

“We are all apprentices in a craft, where no one ever becomes a master.”

~ Ernest Hemingway

1,461 words (brings me to 3,442).

Need sleep.

Goodnight.

See you guys, tomorrow!