The Last memory I have of the outside world is of, who I think is, my mum. I don’t see why I’d be on a beach calling a random stranger ‘mummy’. The woman has Blonde hair and Green eyes. She looks just like me, apart from one painful difference. This difference is the one thing which makes us look like strangers living in a different world. My mother is heavily built with strong arms and a healthy figure. I, on the other hand, am small and weak. I look like a pathetic stick insect compared to her, a lifeless, insignificant timer waiting to conclude. But as Lady says I can’t help that, No-one can.
My disease in the significant thing, not me. Well, it would be if anyone knew or cared. But I guess there’s nothing to care about. Millions of children across the world are ill and diseased and no-one gives a damn about them so why should I be any different, apart from I am different. Special, if you’re the reassuring voice of Lady. I am the only person in Europe to catch this disease and 1 in only 5 in the world. I must be pretty lucky, huh? It’s almost like I’ve won the lottery but no-one’s buying a ticket. They’ve named my disease Hydronuclitheanos. This disease of mine is not one you would want to get which is a shame seeing as it’s so contagious. That’s the bit I hate the most. I could deal with having huge clear yellow whelks pulsing all over my body and non- existent nails although it would be nice to try out these nail art designs I’ve read so much about. That’s all I do all day you see, read. I read, then swallow a stew of medicine, then eat some cold dry food then swallow another handful of drugs to keep it all down and then to finish off the eating for one day I gulp down 4 pints of water. Not all at once of course as that would make me sick, which wouldn’t make too much of a difference to my daily routine. But the favourite part of the whole day is when I get to talk to Lady.
Lady is the only person I have in the whole world. She plays the part of my family, doctors, hairstylist, teacher and any extra’s in the play which is my life. Due to security I can’t know her real name, which is why I’ve resulted in christening her ‘Lady’. It’s a women’s voice but for all I know there could be hundreds of people up there, all of them different and wondering what to do with me and what to tell me. She promises it’s just her voice and I trust her. Without her I would have nothing to do. I wouldn’t even understand English let alone be able to speak it.
In the building which I call my home all I see is White. It’s typical really. All these medical places look like this. Well I’ve only ever been in this one but yet again I’ve read all about them in books. The room looks like it carries on forever but I know that if I take 8 and a half steps forward I reach a cold wall. This is my barrier; it’s a bit like a prison really. But it’s not my thought I’m in here. In my room, if you can call it that, I have a basic bed smack bang in the centre, a huge book case with 278 books in it and a sort of bathroom. Actually I guess technically I have 2 rooms then, if you count 3 walls as a room that is. They left out the door when they made my chamber of eternity as they were afraid that I would try to end my own life by shutting the door on my head countless times till…well….you know. They left out all “deathly” objects. My toilet is actually made out of rubber! It rubs on you whenever you sit down so that I now have permanent red ring on my behind. They also forgot to include a basin so I now have a plastic bowl under a tap. That pretty much completes my room. That’s it. My clothes are delivered to me every day through the lift. The lift is this tiny contraption just big enough for a plate. This delivers my clothes and food. But, here’s the weird thing: whenever I need a wash (once a week is what’s on my timetable) I have to stand under the lift and wait for them to spray a hose down onto me. I hate this. It just adds to the fact that I’m that contagious.
No-one’s aloud in and I mean no-one. Well actually I do get a yearly visit – they clean everything down and restock the books. They wear a huge yellowish suit with pipes going into a tank they carry on their backs – I think its oxygen. But I don’t know who they are and again I’m not allowed to. The first time it happened I ran at them with my arms outstretched. I longed for human contact and they were the closest thing to human I had seen in a year. I was 5. My mum was the most important thing to me and she was snatched away. No more hugs. No more love. I was ditched at 4 and left to die. Luckily for my mum she wasn’t allowed to speak to me either. I don’t know if she has seen me in here but in a way I kind hope she has. I know its mean and it’s not her fought but… there’s always a small part of me that wishes she could have done something. She could have tried. She could have tried to stop them taking me. She could have stopped them from ripping me away from the outside world, from civilisation… away from her. She could have, but she didn’t. It makes me think that I’m unwanted, A glitch in the system, Nothing. I lied when I said I only had one memory of her. I do have one more but that’s been shoved so far out of my mind that I try to pretend it was just a dream. That’s the problem thought, it is. It’s a recurring dream that always comes to bite me when I’m least expecting it. That’s what makes me cry. Not this disease, not this life, the dream. Whenever I get it I wake up screaming, howling for my mum to stop them. Begging her to come and wake me up from this nightmare. It carries on though. It’s not a dream it’s real. An 11 year long tribulation.
That’s how long I’ve been stuck here. 10 years. I was thrown in when I was 4 and I turned 15 2 months ago. In a month I’ll be ‘celebrating’ my illness anniversary. In 107 days I’ll be celebrating my medication anniversary. Yes, I got put in here 228 days after I caught Hydronuclitheanos. The doctors guessed how I caught it, the pond in my back garden. That’s the reason im in here. I fell into a pond. Most children fall into water once in their lives and the worse thing they get is a few scrapes or bruises, but me oh no i get a terminal illness. That’s right terminal. Remember how i said that im one of 5 people with this disease, well 2 of those 5 people are already dead. The scary part is both of them dies on their 10th year of the illness. So, as you can guess, I’m nearly there.
I’ve tried to picture what death will be like but... it’s hard. I don’t know if it will be painful or peaceful. I would prefer the second but that’s just not how life works. You don’t get to pick your life, it’s chosen for you which is why when you so get the chance to make a decision, make sure it’s the right one.