myhistiostory

My mom came into my room before she went to work with a huge thermos of coffee and a small packet of milk. How adorable is that? She doesn't want me walking up and down the stairs between the kitchen and my room so she brought the coffee to me. I'm not use to being spoilt, nor am I use to being taken care of (you know, the whole someone does everything for you when you're sick - usually I just get on with it). 

Yesterday, in the waiting room, my mom and I could hear a child screaming for her life in one of the rooms. I kid you not, this kid was crying to the top of her lungs, begging them to let go of her. They were screams of torture. She was terrified. My heart stopped. I closed my eyes in hope that the screams would take away the chills I got running through my spine. It hurts me to hear a child scream in pain. It made me feel ashamed of myself. What the fuck am I complaining about, or worried about? I can handle this. Can a child? They're the true heros. They're the one's that deserve the praise and the admiration.

I dreamt about her screams. I was in a maze and I could hear the same scream. It was pitch dark and only small candles were lit to help me see if I was at a dead end or not. I was running fast, trying to find my way through to find the kid, to help her, and take her pain away. I kept getting lost. Her screams got louder and my heart pounded harder and harder. It was freezing and I could see the fog of my breath. At the same time, I was sweating and shaking. I had to find her. But I couldn't. I felt distraught and helpless, teased by the sound of her pain. We were both being tortured. If I can't help her, who will? I woke up, and I'll never find out.

Was the kid in the dream, me? I don't know. I don't know much these days. But I do know that children who are in pain, make my heart cry.