Young Writers Society

A/N No, this story is not compleat. I don't intend to compleat it. This is what imspired the story that i'm writing now. I wrote this in a responce to my mother maby having brest cancer. She dosn't, and is ok. Me,my mother, and brother are as ourselves. This is with the exceptions of the fantastical elaments. Yes, I am not nurotypical, My voical cords/lungs are weak. I can't scream ect. Anyways, enjoy my story. Brear in mind that my story is not perfect in grammer etc. Enjoy.

P.S. in my story about Phe,Peter's 'power' is different. 

........

“I have cancer.”

That was what mom told me, my brother, Brandon, and my dad. I just cried when the news broke. I know what cancer means. I know the seriousness of it because of the amount of research that I have done on it. I know things. Lots of medical things.

It was weeks after her follow up appointment with Dr. Price about her results from her mammogram. After Dr. Price reviewed the scan and found the blip suspicious, mom when for a biopsy of the tiney mass. The result: Ductal Carcinoma, cancer of the milk duct. On a third scan not too long after, the doctors found that the ‘tiny mass’ grew into a colony in her breast. It had only been shy of a month.

But this is strange because breast cancer grows very slowly. Some cancerus carcinomas grow fast, some take years to grow. Cancer doesn't grow that fast, does it?

And now hearing the word ‘milk duct’ is making me think of the tv show The Incredible Dr. Pol about a veterinarian who has treated several cases of mastitis in dairy cows to mammary cancer in dogs. But this is different, this is my mother, not an animal.

And that’s how we ended up at St. Ritia’s hospital. Only, this hospital is famous for treating ‘unusual’ medical conditions. When we looked it up on the internet, the whole website appeared ‘normal’. Since I have set foot in the hospital, nothing out of the ordinary jumped out at me.

But my mom’s case was very ‘normal’ or so I thought.

Mom was already a few days into her chemotherapy treatment. The oncologist, Dr. Wuu, a half Chinese-half- -anglo- saxon women, laid out a course of treatment. First chemo, then radiation, since this cancer was aggressive.

Right now I was in the room as mother was beginning her chemo treatment. I was wearing my green cap that closely resembled a baseball cap. I loved my cap. Mother’s copper colored, wavy, frizzy hair spills over her face, but she holds her hair with one hand as she ducks her head into shallow, kidney-shaped vomit bucket. She’s sick from the chemo. She vomits. Not only that but she’s tired as well. I can see it in her face, she looks exhausted, her eye rapidly blinking to keep herself awake. I can tell that she wants to take a nap.

Nausea and fatigue are common side effect from of this ‘drug that’s basically poison.’ Because of this, she hasn't been able to eat for few days. To my surprise, she hasn’t lost any weight. Normally she’d be having ketoacidosis right now, fats being broken down befor muscle in the process of starvation. I know that Type 1 diabetics get this life-threatening condition if their diabetes goes unchecked.

“I want to show you something funny,” mom says. At times when mom want’s to show me something funny, it’s, at times, of no interest to me. Typically, her version of ‘showing me something funny’ is something ‘very stupid’. But that’s just my opinion.

She opens up Youtube on my phone. And on the homepage of Youtube it has videos that Youtube recommends to me based on my browsing history. I forgot to erase all of my ‘activity’ on my browsing history. That’s what I do. I hate it when others know what I have been searching on the internet. I erase it in paranoia of what i’m researching being discovered. And now she was about to know what was going on.

Mother’s looked shocked. My history is full of ‘medical videos’ all the way from medical explanations to people’s individual stories about cancer.

“Stop looking this up, Samantha! It’s not healthy!” Mother cried. ‘Why do you always have to solve everyone else's medical issues. Let the doctor’s, the professional's do that! You're not a doctor, so stop acting like one! Why are you doing this? Speak?”

She doesn't understand. No one understand my curiosity! No one! I need to research! I need to learn! I want to know about the different disorders and disease of the body! I want to learn! I’m a natural-born researcher and ‘medical expert.’ And ‘scientist.’

To me, it’s kinda funny that she’d get angry at me for doing medical research because she praises me for my researching abilities elsewhere. My body feels weird from adrenalin, i’m shaking because of it. I can’t stop myself from quivering. In frustration, I put my hand’s on my head, almost tugging at my hair. Then my arms swiftly go to my sides.

“No!” I spit, the ‘no’ sounding thick and raspy. I’m not telling anyone anything. No reasoning. I clam up. Silence. I’m a very quiet person, most times hardly talking, although sometime I talk a lot. “No!” I have a hard time expressing my feeling.

Sometime when I get like this I want to scream,’ NO!’ But I don’t. I can’t scream. My lungs and vocal cords won’t let me,literaly. They are both weak.

“Your so weird, Sam.” Then she cries,” I can’t handle you right now! Just go!” In a sense I don’t blame her. She’s still very nasus and tired from the medication ( which has been put in the port-a-cath in her chest, which looks like a bump under her skin. It’s a quick delivery system for drugs for chronically ill patients. )

Her word tear into me. At times she question’s my ability to do things. Sometimes I don’t understand simple things. Sometimes. I get confused and clam up. I appear ‘stupid.’

I leave the room just as man enters the room. It’s doctor Scott Crichton, one of the doctor’s on-call. He’s young with back hair. Mom is almost giving the doctor a look like a young doctor fresh out of medical school. I want an older doctor, not some young rookie who doesn't know what they are doing. Mom has a ‘thing’ with young doctors, as in, she resents them. She’d prefer an older doctor with more experience. My mom used to work at a teaching hospital, working as a phlebotomist. She couldn’t believe how many times the young doctors would misdiagnose a patient.

I hide beside the entryway to the room. I’m quite, very quiet. That’s the way I am. It’s better to shut up and listen and observe then talk. When I was younger I used to talk a lot, now I don’t talk much. In ways I don’t appear like your average ‘neurotypical’ person. That’s because I’m not.

I lisen.

“…Hi Ms. Jenning, I’m Dr. Chirton. I’m the doctor on call today. Your lab results are in. We did a blood test and a dipstick on your urine…”

I know what those are. Or at least I think I know. Although, admittedly, I’m not one-hundred-percent sure what a ‘dipstick’ is. I’m guessing it’s a test for multiple things. But what? I don’t know.

“...How are feeling?...”

And I can tell that mother is definitely irritable from the way she answers.

“...Horrible...Nasus. Tired…”

“...We’ll give you some anti-nausea medication for that, okay…”

Then he says, “ The nurses complained about the amount of food that you haven't been taking in. So far you have been refusing most, if not all, food…”

Mother sticks with the same answer“...I’m nasus…”

The doctor is now speaking in a matter-of- fact tone. “...And that’s normal. Side effects from the treatment. It will fade in time…”

He flips a sheet on his clipboard, than ask,” ….Have you’ve been eating at home?...”

Mother blinks a few times before replying, she almost sighs,“No…”

“...And you're already a few days into your treatment… Ms. Jenning, from the analysis we found no evidence of ketones. Normally, someone who hasn’t eaten would start having ketones in their urine and blood by now as evidence of the body breaking down carbohydrates and fat first. Basically, your body is going in starvation mode. And you don’t feel light-headed, or any gastrointestinal upset? Any shakiness?”

“...no, not at all…”

“...If you don’t start eating something soon we will have to insert an NG tube…”

Then he says under his breath, “One more oddity that St. Ritia treats.”

I know what an NG tube is. Not that i’ve ever had one. An NG tube is a nasal- gastric tube that goes up your nose, into your stomach, feeding you. Although I know that there are different methods of ‘feeding’ in the hospital world.

And mother hasn’t eaten for several days and she hasn’t felt ill. Normally she’d be having ketoacidosis right now. But she’s not. And the doctor acts like ‘this is normal around here.’

And then I think...mother’s body is making it’s own food or something...How else could she be fine and not be ill from the lack of food…

Yep, I think. How else could she be fine. This is impossible. It doesn't make sense. Then I think, Woah! This is so weird and cool! MY MOM IS LIKE A PLANT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

MOTHER IS LIKE A PLANT!

SHE’S NOT DYING!

SHE’S LIVING!

But unlike a plant she doesn't need sunlight to convert that, sugar and water into food.

And now i’m thinking about diabetics.

About anorexics.

About Proder Willie's’ patients. People who don’t get the signal to stop eating from their brain. They eat and eat and eat, always feeling hungry, never stopping. They could eat themselves to death. Typically these patients are morbidly obese. Maby if they had what mom had then maybe they would not be starving all the time.

If only science could figure out how this works in people’s bodies, we could help so many people.

I told mom that I was going to the cafeteria. I asked if she wanted anything. She declined my offering with a kind,”No thank you.”

And I wonder what makes this place, St. Ritia’s so ‘different.’ I go to a waiting room to check it out. Most of the people in the room look quite ordinary, however, some look different.

A bald-headed man has a large, lumpy head, like broccoli.

A man with three eyes and four nostrils.

A woman who is, literally, coughing up (or out) birds. The colorful birds are so tiny that they are only visible if you pay attention. They are the quarter size of a fly. You’d have to do a double-take to notice them. The birds flit and ‘play’ around her face, eventually flying back into her lungs.

A girl who has a ‘cold’ and who is sneezing snow.

Close to me is a girl with something oval shaped swaddled in a blanket. She’s holding it close to her in her lap. It’s a beige, vomit color. It’s dotted with black specks. To my surprise, it’s an egg, a speckled egg. She looking down at it with an expression of love, cradling it close to her flat chest. It’s strange because the women is small and slender, her face ‘girlish’, she hasn’t seemed to put any weight on during her pregnancy. The fact that her chest is flat clues me in that her body isn’t mature. It’s a dead giveaway to a condition that I think that she has. Turner's syndrome, a genetic condition that affects females only. This condition not only causes some facial feature differences, like a webbed neck or a low hairline, but it can causes other health problems as well. Turner’s main symptoms is delayed growth and puberty.

it is also carried on the X chromosomes, and happens when the second X chromosome is partially deleted or is missing altogether. She can’t reproduce the normal way, but she can lay eggs.

Admittedly, this is kinda cool form a scientific and medical standpoint. Maby there's something else genetically going on, too. Part of me thinking that inside that egg is a human child, another part thinks that it’s going to be some sort of human-bird-hybrid.

Sitting in the chair closes to me is a teenage girl who is wearing a grey jumpsuit that looks like what the CDC wear in their labs, complete with gloves with duct tape around her wrist and ankles so that no air gets in. On her right wrist is hot pink medical ID bracelet. At first, I think this girl has no immune system. I think that until I see the sticker on the clear visor in front of her face. It reads:

‘Please do NOT remove this suite. I am allergic to the air and will go into anaphylactic shock if my suit is removed. I am not a ‘air-breather.’

So she does have immune system problems. Only, it was a bit different than what I was thinking. I thought that she would of have Severe Combined Immune Deficiency. But no, just sever allergies.

In the girl’s nose is an oxygen cannula, only, it’s not ‘air’ the she is breathing, but, to my surprise, it’s water. The water is coming from a giant tank that is besides her, like the kind that people who are on oxygen carry around.

I’m wondering so many things about this girl, mainly….

Does she have gills?

Is she part fish?

Is she an expert swimmer?

Was she maybe a ‘test tube’ baby? Or was this ‘mutation’ from development?

I. Don’t. Know.

She doesn't look part fish, I observe.

The girl waves to me and flashes a smile as she spots me. “Hi,” she says, her voice tinny from the suit, her voice wispy. “Hi.”

I return the greeting. I smile back. “Hi, back.” I say.

I’m about to get into a conversation with this girl until I hear some commotion going on not to far away from me. I hear someone cry, “ Get out of his way,” People scatter, parting for the man. This man is not normal. He’s so ‘tall’ that he’s at least nine feet.

And he’s not just tall, he’s bigger than everyone else. He sits down on the floor next to the check in desk, his body is hunched over as his knees are pulled up to his chest. He must have Gigantism.

I look around me some more.

In a chair is a tiny women who has her face buried in a magazine. The chinese looking women digs into her lab coat and, without even looking at me, hands me a card. I read.

‘I am 2 ft. 2 in. I have a genetic condition called dwarfism. Growth hormones don’t help. Please don’t make fun of my short stature. Thank you.’

The women in her 30’s is tiney. She doesn't look the way that most people with Dwarfism look, her slender body is proportionate in size. And this woman is gorgeous, too. Her black, wavy hair falls around her neck like a mane. Her face and skin are perfect, free of imperfections.

And I wonder if she was created like this for a purpose. It seems like it with how perfect she is outside of her height. But if she was genetically engineered, don’t you think that the laboratory would keep her a secret.

But I know that she couldn't have been genetically altered, altered to have a ‘miniature appearance.’ She can’t be, I’m guessing that she’s related to Dr. Wuu, who looks almost identical to her outside of sharing the same height.

‘I’m not going to make fun of you. If anything, I’d want to talk to you about you’re condition and maybe about medical things.”

In my head i’m thinking micro. Micro cow. Micro horse. She’s a micro human. But I wouldn’t say it out loud.

“Thank you.” she says in a voice that is clear, has a hint of an accent but lower in volume, like my voice. “Oh, and later on today I’m going to do a pre-op on your mother.”

And I want to ask her questions about her condition. So I ask. I feel deflated when she says,

“I’m sorry, but I have work to attend to.” For a second, I think she’s blowing me off. However, she could be legitimately busy. She’s a doctor, so it’s expected that she'd be busy. To my surprise, she reaches a hand in large bag beside her and pulled out...a gas mask?”

What?

“What’s that for?” My voice comes out raspy, wispy, and low in volume. My vocal cord aren't necessarily ‘healthy’ as far as vocal cords go.

“ I have a patient who has severe gastrointestinal problems. He has a chronically dry mouth which is leading to tooth decay and deadly halitosis. Not only that but the corrosive acid is dissolving his stomach, which is also creating deadly toxic gas that is produced by the colon. This patient needs a new stomach before the acid dissolves it. I’m about to assist in emergency surgery.”

I turn away and control the impulse to laugh. See, it’s just… it reminded me of being in my biology class in high school, and teacher telling us about ‘explosive diarrhea” I know I shouldn't laugh. These are real conditions that people deal with day-to-day. Doctors talk about these things ( and worse) all the time. Only, I have never heard about what the doctor just said. Deadly halitosis, deadly, toxic stomach gas. A stomach that is dissolving itself. They shouldn't be ‘scientifically possible.’ The stomach is coated in mucus, the mucus keeping the stomach safe from corrosive acid.

And his vomit is very corrosive,” the woman adds. And she leave. I leave, too.

And now I know why St. Ritia’s is ‘different,’ to put it mildly.

I make my way down to the cafeteria and find my brother sitting at a table. He’s staring at his phone, most likely answering text from his friends. Besides him is a Starbuck’s cup with coffee. “Hey,” I say, approaching him.

“ Hey,” he says back.

“Came here to see mom?” I asked.

“Yeah, and I have work at four.” Brandon works at seafood market. He loves working there.

“Brandon, this place is weird,”

“Doesn't look weird to me.”

“Have you’ve seen the waiting room?’ I whisper-cry. “ I mean, I don’t mean this in any offensive way, I’m just saying that this place is different.”

Just then a man behind us is yelling about his food order being wrong. Both my brother and I turn around, just in time to see the man ‘combust’ and go up in flames.

“Oh-kay,” my brother says. Like as if this is ‘mildly’ weird. As if you see a person go up in flames on a daily basis.

His eyebrows raise in shock, he stares for a moment before going back to his coffee. The man who, just moments before burst into flames, is now extinguished ( without the uses of fire extinguisher. The fire just suffs it’s slef out.)

He goes to grab his coffee cup. Before his hand reaches the cup, he examines his splayed fingers. He has tips missing on three of his fingers, on one of his three fingers the injury goes down to his first knuckle. Sometime he has a difficult time grasping things because with his injury, it is skin over bone. “What’s up with my hand? Why does it look like that!” He’s beginning to sound a bit panicky.

“Your oils,” I suggest.

He prods his palm with a finger, feeling something weird, he runs his finger along his palm.

“What is that?” He’s panicky, sounding close to tears.

“Well,” I say, being optimistic. “At least your here. The doctor’s will know what to do?”

“How do you know?” He spits.

“Because I know.”

I feel his hand with my fingers. I feel soft, hairlike fibers that are running along his palm. And I’m thinking…

Before I can even think I am answered by a young female. “I probably know what it is?”

I turn towards the voice. It’s coming from a girl who looks to by my age. The girl’s straight blond hair was tied in tight cornrows across her head (which I find a very odd style for a anglo-saxon girl.) Large framed glasses sat on her fair complexioned face. She’s in a wheelchair. There is a small plastic tube that’s coming from her abdomen leading to a bag that is filling with something yellow. At first I think it’s medication, but medicine isn’t delivered that way. I has to be urine. Dialysis, I think. Also on her wheelchair is an IV pole with an IV bag of clear fluid. In her lap is a IV pump for quick medication delivery.

“I know what that is,” she says. “You know about lizards,right.”

“Yeah, I know about them.”

When my brother was a kid he thought that lizards were cool. He would go outside and catch them and ‘wear’ them like earring. He’d even put one on his nose. He’d also enjoy capturing and observing them, after which he’d let them go.

“Lizard’s,” said the girl,” have tiny hair fibers on the soles of there feet. It’s what allows them to stick to and climb walls.”

“Are you saying that something’s wrong with my hand?” Brandon, says, his voice trembling. When my brother sees a new injury on a body part that he has never seen before, he gets panicky.

The girl puts her hands up, “ Listen,” she cries, “Just calm down. The doctors will know what to do.”

“How do you know!” My brother cried, pointedly, angry at the thought of having another life-altering ‘disability’ just like his damaged hand.

“Yes, I do. The doctors will take care of it. Mayby they can remove it and do a skin graft.”

Then she says,” the staff at St. Ritia’s hospital treat--” Her eyes dart left and right as she searches for a word,” Different, no! Peculiar or odd conditions. Like me for instance.”

Brandon isn’t understanding, his eyebrows raise in question.

“I--” She was about to start with her medical problemas, changed her mind and said,” My name is Peyton. I have urinary problems, see, my bladder doesn't work…” Peyton sighed, then, finding the situation awkward, cut to the chase,” I know this sounds weird and unusual, but I have a worm that is eating my kidneys and bladder and is feeding on my bodily waste. It’s growing bigger every day. I’m about to have surgery to remove it. Because of this parasite, I am can’t urinate, so I’m on dialysis.” “Then Peyton said, ”Can we please talk about something else now?”

I whisper,” How’d you get it?”

“Went swimming in a lake,’ she practically snapped in annoyance. “It’s larva probably swam up my nose and went all the way to my kidneys and bladder that way. And,” she added, “ I have fish in my veins, they're eating at my blood vessels...Can we please not talk about any more of my medical issues! Please!“

I’m quiet. I shut up, not daring (but wanting) to ask more questions. She’s either embarrassed, or she just doesn't like the grossness of it all. Now, I’m thinking that either her dialyse is for her kidneys or cleansing her blood. Or both.

My eyes widen, like cool, I think (because of this fish). Even though it’s not cool. Such bazire medical conditions.

My brother returned to grabbing his Starbucks cup that is now half full with cold coffee, wanting to throw it away. As soon as his hand makes contact, their was a slight sucking sound, his palm sticking to the smooth surface of the cup. His fingers hadn’t even wrapped around the cup, and it’s sticking to his palm! WHAT!

“What the hell is happening,” Brandon cries in alarm as he moves his hand, attempting to free the cup. It’s useless.

“Get it off,” he nearly waills, freaking out because nothing like this has ever happened to him.

“This could be an advantage,” I say with a smile, being optimistic. “At least you won’t be disabled.”

He gives me a look like yeah right. How am I supposed to live with this.

He then wraps his fingers around the cup while putting his other hand on it to pry it off.

Instantly, as the cup is grabbed by his opposite hand it explodes coffee squirting everywhere.

Peyton’s eyes went wide in amazement. Her eyes glittered.

“Woah!” Peyton exclaimed, “ You totally fit in with this place. Not only can you grip well but you're also really strong. I mean, you didn’t mean to grab the cup like that.”

She’s right, he didn’t. He picked up the cup from the ground and cleaned up the mess with paper towels.

“Well, “ Brandon said,” it’s no surprise because i’m already pretty strong .”

The scar on his cheek crinkles as he grins, his eyes lighting up, in realization of what he has.

My brother works out a lot. He’s ripped with muscle, but not in a bodybuilder way.

“Get back,” he ordered, as Peyton and I moved away from the table.

The grin is still on his face as her realized his newfound ability as he lifted the table. His arms quivered with effort. He wasn't expecting that. Not at all.

His breathing is slightly labored from effort, he says, “I know I’m strong, but dang! People at the gym are going to be so jealous.”

He puting the table down slowly and gently. He’s still grinning. Peyton is still looking amazed, her eyes wide.

The scientist me comes out, what I say comes out in a whisper, I say. “Your cells are creating ATP, carbohydrates and glucose are being converted to energy. I’m pretty sure that you're going to be sore tomorrow with all of the lactic acid in your muscles.”

“Nah, not without those lactic acid pills,” Brandon says. “ It won’t be that bad. Anyways, I’m going to see mom then head to the gym.”

“Impress the ladies,” I say.

“Will do.”

He’s so stoked by his newfound ability that he has completely disregards his hand.

“What about your hand?”

“Oh, “ he says, looking down at it. “ I don’t know. Anyways, I have work in a bit. I’m going to see mom first then head to the gym then work.”

He embaresses me, than he starts to leave the cafeteria. Now it’s only me and Peyton.

I sit across from Peyton.

“Hi, I’m Samantha. I never really introduced myself, did I.”

“Peyton,” she says.

“And that was my brother, Brandon.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, but what happened to his hand. He had missing fingers.”

“Well, “ I begin, thinking about what I’m going to say because I don’t want her think ill about my brother. “ My brother was messing around with a friend of his and they made an explosive. The fuse was lit and it was handed to my brother. It accidentally exploded in his hand. He has some missing fingers because of it. My brother just made the explosive for fun. He would never hurt anyone.”

I’m relieved when she says,“ I believe it. Your brother seems like a cool kid.”

“Thanks.” I thought of a question to ask her speaking of brothers. “Do you have a brother?”

“Yes, yes I do. His name is Peter and he’s 13. “ Then I’m amazed by what she says next because it’s a coincidence. “He’s at St. Ritia’s too. He’s been a long term resident here. He has leukemia. “

“Oh,” I said, my voice grave, looking down. “I’m sorry.” I know what leukemia is and means.

And what she says next is nothing out of the ordinary. It fits in with the hospital's oddities. She says slowly, “ His leukemia is rare. His kind is Macro Cell leukemia. The cancer starts out in the bone marrow, where the blood cells are made, the cancer attaches to the blood cells and just grows on them as the cells are going through the body. The cancer gets deposited in his tissues and just grows. His whole body literally grows with the cancer.”

“How big is he?”

“Six feet. He has to duck so that he won’t collide with doorframes.”

Oh, I understand,” I say.

“He’s a sweet kid,” she says. “He loves the outdoors.”

My curiosity is piqued. The doctor-scientist in me is coming out.

“What about his origins? Are they going to fail?”

Peyton frowns. Did I say the wrong thing?

Her chin and bottom lip tremble. Tears bead on her eyelashes. She snaps,” Of course they’re going to fail! The doctors are burnt out on trying to help him! They've tried everything! My brothers’ going to die! “ Then she screams tearfully, “And he doesn't deserve it!” Then, “ You're so insensitive, Sam!”

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. I repeat ‘i’m sorry’ profusely. Damn it, Sam! Why do you have to get your nose in everyone else's business! Then I think, I really don’t understand social norms. It’s true. I don’t.

And there is nothing that I can do to make this right. Talking to her won’t work.I want to say something, but before I can say anything, she’s already heading down the hall.

When she starts to leave is when I notice the pressure in my bladder. I must've been so busy talking that I didn’t notice it. I need to go. So, I get up and go in search of a restroom.

I’m heading further into the hospital maze that I eventually pass a corridor with offices. And I pause upon hearing something. Whenever it is, it sounds scientific and interesting. I’m just outside of the ladies room. And I can’t help but to pause and eavesdrop.

Two men are talking, they both sound young, like they are in their 30s or 40’s.

“....Something abnormal about the white blood cells….”

“....Shouldn't be happening…”

“... Her treatment has barely started and look at this…”

“...how is this happening?...”

“...Something to do with the bone marrow. It’s producing abnormally strong cells. Her cells are also making their own nutrients…”

“...Her children has strange abilities...Nothing out of the ordinary at St. Ritia’s. Many of the patients here are strange...But we can learn from them…”

“Yes, learn…”

“...When should we start research?...”

I don’t recognize the voices. I don’t know who they are, regardless, the whole conversation made me shudder and blood drain from my face. They were talking about my mom (most likely) and the hospital's patients, too. What are they planing? A part of me wants to rush in there and stop them, but what can I do? I need to do something.

My chest buzzes as a cough pops from me. It’s enough to give me away.

And it did!

“...What was that…”

“...I don’t know. It must be someone. One of her kids, maybe…”

And I fly into the restroom and into one of the stalls, my fingers fumbled with the lock as I slid it shut.

And I feel the presents of someone. They are looking around. Then, finding nothing, they stop. I sit on the top of the proclean tank and slid out my phone. Butterflies are in my stomach. I’m shaking from the flood of adrenaline.

I scroll through my contacts. Mom, no, Brandon, no. Jessica, yes. She’d understand. I don’t want to worry anyone else and cause commotion.

So, I text.

Samantha: Hey! S’up!

I’m trying to play everything off as ‘casual’ although nothing is casual. I wonder how’s she’s going to react to me telling her about St. Ritia’s.

Jessica: Hi, Samantha! How are you?

Samantha: Jessica! Something wrong!

Jessica: What do you mean? What’s wrong? Are you okay?

Samantha: Well...

I backspace and reconsider what i’m going to type. I start to explain my whole situation to her. As I do I hear one of the men outside the stall say. “We can wait here all day, Samantha.”

I start to panic inside myself as my breathing quickens. Through the cracks of the stall door I glimpse a white lab coat. Doctors. But what do they want. It’s seriously freaking me out! Hiding is my best and only option.

So I type.

Samantha: Well, I’m at a hospital, St. Ritia’s. I’m here because my mother is sick with cancer, she has a ductal carcinoma, if you know what that is.

Jessica: Oh, no! I’m so sorry! :(

Samantha: I’m here at a hospital, St. Rita’s...You know, as much as you are interested in nursing, you’d like it here. This place is so weird. You wouldn't believe what kinds of medical conditions are treated here. I saw this one woman and she was coughing up birds. I saw a girl who was breathing water. It’s so cool and weird at the same time.

Jessica: Are you okay? You're talking about another story, right?

Samantha: No, i’m not. It’s weird, my mom is healing herself. She’s had chemotherapy and she can’t eat. Her body's making it’s own food.

Jessica: This is so bizarre. Maby somthing wrong with her metabolic rate….

“Sam,” one of the men says, bring me back, reminding me that I don’t have much time.

I text as quick as I can. I tell her about some of the oddities that I have seen today. I tell her about my current situation, here in the bathroom.

And I dread stepping out of my protective stall. I keep feeling/thinking the worse. I keep thinking that this whole thing is a setup, That these ‘men’ have ‘plans’ for me. Logically speaking, it doesn't make sense. First off, these are doctors. Secondly, they are on the job. Not only would they be fired, but they'd have some legal ramifications as well. I take a deep breath.

I bolt out of the stale, only, I run info them.

My arms and legs are grabbed as they take me into the hall. I scream for help, but my voice is so soft and low that no one can hear me.

And i’m practically swung onto a gurney.

As quick as I can,

he would brings me back to what is going on reminding me that I don't have much time .

One of the men