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This was the first page of a piece of memoir I wrote in high school, it's about a physically painful summer morning before senior year.

I was tired. Like every other night of that long useless summer I had stayed up so late it was early. 

Living as a vampire; I awoke at night and fell into a half-sleep in the day. 

There was fog in my mind when the sun rose and pain in my soul when the moon rose.

I did not know why I was sick, only that I didn’t want take the pills anymore. 

It was the lazy kind of summer where you do nothing and want nothing but sleep, ice-cream and a fan. 

My eyes lids droop as I scrolled through another page of homeopathic cures. I was reminded of a dull and growing pain, my leg had been bent under me for a long time. It unbends with a loud but painless crack. The pain always comes later.

I stand to stretch, but instead I fall into bed. An uncomfortable and strange sleep, over takes me. I fall in and out of consciousness, imaginary and real became a tangled knot and I was lost. If I dreamed any thing during that timeless, endless moment it was a nightmare. One so real I couldn’t tell, was I awake? Perhaps I was somewhere, real and in-between.

 

In moments between the dreams I was in pain, like mom’s sowing needles were floating deftly and painlessly through my veins, only to violently smash into each and every joint, at every junction of my body.

 

I dreamed of an impossible pain, indescribable. It was the worst migraine I ever had doubled, then tripled collecting in into pressure points, forcing me still, in a voluntarily paralysis. It was too strange, too scary to be real.

In the instants connecting, awareness and sleep I went to a place where I was awake yet sleeping, standing in wide field while lying in cramped bed. I see red, weather mist or a fine silk I remember not, but it surrounds me. I feel the deep, demanding pain cloud my thoughts, my feelings, my memories, my soul.

 

I open my eyes, I must still be dreaming. Where is the red? For a moment my tears, and an attention-starved pain distract me. I am such a baby, I think looking down at my legs past my feet, and into a mirror across my room. I think this even as my face crumples further and fallen tears are joined by new ones.

 

At that moment I knew I wasn’t, hadn’t been imagining or over playing what I felt.

 

This pain. It’s not like what my sister implied, and what my thoughts secretly reflected. No, this was real I did not make this up, nor did I over play it, it was-is real.

 

I saw myself reflected, the mirrored image of me pale, red eyed and crying was disturbing, I look away.

 

My mom comes in I’d been screaming in my sleep. She leaves to get something when I roll over and stare at the collection of sleep aids and painkillers where my books used to be. Before I dumped them in the closet.  

They weren’t healing me. Maybe nothing could.

I hear my mom getting some warm olive oil and cotton strips; it wasn’t going to get any easier. Maybe nothing ever did.

Author's Note

I'd love to hear some comments, this was written a few years ago and wrote differently then. I'd like to know what you think?