Writing Prompts for Hashtags and Projects

#TalkingHelps

#TalkingHelps TalkingHelps
*the song is Scars to Your Beautiful by Cara*

It'll probably, most likely be the same old same old. Just sitting here as the freak I am. Just a freak. A nobody. And why I say that is because I'm alone. Always alone. No one to look to, no one that cares. Heck! I could go die in a hole and I bet you that no one would even notice.

A little tidbit about me, is that I am paralyzed from the waist down. Yes, I can feel stuff and yes, it hurts when you accidentally run your own foot over when you are getting used to a wheelchair.

Anyways, I'm, at the moment, sitting on the bed in the hospital waiting for either my parents or a nurse to come and give me my check up as they do every morning. So, while I'm waiting, I have my sketchbook out and a pencil. Drawing always seems to let me think about other things than being dead inside.

One stroke. The pencil paints across the page creating a long line. It makes another one that is attached. And another one. And another, making a picture. In certain places in the image, I draw small splashes, like tear drops, that should have fallen if I had anymore left over from crying myself to sleep. I shade in most of the picture and add volume and contrast. It looks kind of cool actually.

A loud knock in the eerie room makes me glance up, coming out of my trance of thoughts.  Instead of being my parents or the nurse, a boy walks in.

He's tall, well taller than me—or taller than I was. He's well built, but not too over the top. His mixture of dark and light brown hair is pushed back, as if he combed through it with his fingers and is slightly wavy. He had warm, cocoa brown eyes and small freckles spattered across his nose, where rectangle glasses sit slightly crooked.

"Hey! Oh! Sorry! Wrong room!" He apologizes. His voice brings me out of my thoughts and is oddly familiar. And oddly comforting.

"Oh, its fine. You really weren't disturbing anything anyway," I reply assuringly.

"Okay, good then. Do you think you could, um, help me?"

"Uh, depends where you're trying to get to."

"My mom had been diagnosed with cancer earlier this week and I came to visit. I've been living with my dad and haven't been able to visit and I feel really bad. So here I am now. Lost," he explains.

"I know where you can find her room," I start to kind of army/belly crawl to the other side of the bed with my wheelchair.

"Let me help you," the boy says as he walks swiftly over and move the chair to where I had gotten to, as if he knows exactly what I need when I need it. Like I've known him for a long time.

"Thanks." I climb into the chair and roll myself over to the door with the boy following me.

A few minutes later, were where all the people that have a disease that is hard to treat are. We go down the hallway and up to a talk desk where a lady with a long nose with spectacles on the end sat.

"Name," she states without looking up.

"Conor Keith." He said to the lady with the long nose.

"Patient's name," she says in a monotone.

"Margaret Harrison."

"Room 394," she says while indicating down Hall E.

I start wheeling my way around the counter and toward the hallway. I felt my wheelchair start to get easier to move. I turn and look behind me. Conor was standing there, hands on the handles.

"You don't have--" I start

"I don't mind. Besides, your arms will eventually get tired," Conor says while pushing me down the hall before I could protest anymore.

"Oh! I don't think I told you my name. I'm Kythie Connel," I introduce myself. I look up at him and he doesn't look down. He keeps his face drawn. I glance at his warm cocoa brown eyes, and see hurt and sadness in them.

I swear I heard him mutter, "I know."

We pass rooms 386, 388, 390, 392 and stop. A room tagged 394 was in front of us.

Conor sighed.

"Just knock and see if anyone responds," I whisper encouragingly.

Conor slowly raises his hand up to the door and knocks on wood. Three times. Rap, rap, rap.

A tall nurse appears in the doorway. And by tall, I mean tall. She was a little taller than Conor with medium brown hair. "Do you need anything?" She asks.

"I...uh...The lady at the desk said that this was the room my mom was in..." Conor trails.

"Oh! You're Conor Keith!" She exclaims. "Your mother speaks very highly of you. Come in, come in," she gestures for him to enter.

He walks in slowly and while I stay outside. He looks back and forces a small, slightly lopsided smile. I wave and give him a thumbs up and a smile of encouragement. The nurse waves at me as I turn to go.

***

I made my way back to my room. My arms felt like jello and it was difficult to lift myself onto the bed again. I pick up my drawing pad and pencil again and start making swirls and swishes across the paper. I eventually chuck the pad back onto my nightstand table because I can't think of anything to draw. All I had were lines that kind of resemble a person. It looked more like an alien really.

Lost in thoughts, I drift off into a dreamless sleep.