I'm lying in bed
woken by the sore throat that
is characteristic of crying yourself to sleep
it's hard to soothe a throat like that
no tea and honey will do
or lozenges relieve
(more) the scratches your dreams made as they
were dragged down your throat
with no hope
of ever seeing the light of day again (less)
She was tired of screaming to get attention from her teammates. She was tired of gradually lapsing into silence while the others discussed animatedly about things that she could help out so much with. She was tired of being dismissed, looked over, ignored, when her ideas were as good(more) as or even better than those of the more vocal individuals around her. She was tired of having to nurse a sore throat at the end of each conference, with an undeserved sense of failure hovering around her ears.
So she left. She'd find work where people would respect her and her thoughts. Where they'd listen instead of orate mindlessly. Where she didn't have to go home always feeling like she had a fever.(less)
i feel like there's something lodged in my throat and no matter what i do to try and get it out i can't. my days and nights are spent like this, trying to get rid of something that i'm not sure is even real.
My throat is sore from screaming in this maniac prison I've created.
My hands hurt from pounding my fists against the walls.
My knees ache from kneeling on the ground, head in my hands.
I'm in my own little slice of hell, and I can't find my way out.(more) Every turn around the corner leads to three new challenges, and I always seem to chose the hardest one.
I'm so very lost, and it's so very dark.
I crash into the walls, bloody up my nose.
They seem to merge with the blackness, until my whole word is an endless canvas that some depressed (enraged?) painter decided to paint completely black.
Maybe I'll find my way out.
I trip and fall, and just lay there.
I don't have energy to get up and keep trying.
It's all hopeless.
And I grab it, and realize
Maybe I'm not the only one who's in the dark.
And maybe I don't have to find my way out of it alone.(less)
He claws at the rope taut around his neck, a reflexive tear trickling down his cheek as he chokes. His eyes are wide and unfocused; at this point there is no thought behind his actions, just desperation and the instinct to cling to any scant chance of survival. Of(more) course, all of his struggles were in vain - she did not falter. He was powerless. He was helpless. To see him debased in such a way, made equal to any mere man as death is wont to do... such a sight filled her with an indescribable exhilaration.
If her grip had shown any signs of slacking, it would've only been to enjoy his impotency for a few moments more.(less)
"Try talking now." Luke stared at Martin's throat anxiously. "C'mon dude we need to know if you'll be okay to perform tomorrow."
Martain cleared his throat and tried to sing a little bit.
"We're going down do-" His voice cracked painfully and Luke winced when Martin coughed. John whistled.(more) "Dude, we're fucked." John scratched Martin behind the ear. "How did you even do this to yourself?"
Martin frowned and shrugged, looking miserable.
"Maybe it was all that time you spent with Arthur yesterday." Donnie sniggered and Martin kicked him in the shin. "Ow! Fucker!"
"Arthur's just a friend!" Martin rasped angrily. John and Donnie exchanged looks over the top of Martain's head and smiled. "It was probably the show he took me to."
"It was a punk show you fuck." Martain shoved Luke when he laughed like a donkey. "You'll have to do all the stage banter now, ass."
"And who's gunna sing the songs?" John pointed out. Martain slumped.
"I don't /know/."(less)
i just can't speak now and it's hard to breathe. sometimes i need to stop and cough before i finish a sentence and i don't know if you can read it on my face, but i'm in pain.
it's hard knowing tha(more)t there's something there, viciously blocking your voice.(less)
Nick opened his eyes when the cool cloth was laid on his forehead. He glared muzzily at Takeo, whose face was pale. "What are you still doing here?" he asked, his voice strained rasp. "I thought you were headed out on the next train back to Central."
(more) "Don't," Takeo said, and looked away. "Don't try to talk, your voice-"
Nick swallowed, his throat raw. It did hurt, but the soreness paled in comparison to the constant, raw stream of feedback straight through the nerves of his arm. "Tak-"
"Stop it!" Takeo shouted. Nick winced at the volume, and Takeo sagged in to himself, he looked almost as badly as Nick felt. "Please, Nick, just... you don't have to do this, you know?"
This. Barely out of the hospital, and right back into the operating room - but if he healed, if he waited for the wound to seal, it would just be all the worse when they tore it open. You had to be awake and conscious for this operation, as the technician and surgeon connected each wire directly to a nerve ending, and he had screamed his throat raw before someone had thought to shove a piece of wood between his teeth to keep him from biting his tongue clear through.
"You shouldn't be here, Takeo," Nick croaked, his eyes flat and dull with the pain. "Go back to Central, I'll be fine."
And Takeo, with his face pale and hands trembling, he had heard every agonizing instant of it. This is why Nick hadn't wanted him here in the first place, he wanted him safely locked away in a library studying in peace. He didn't need to bear witness to this.
"You wouldn't leave me behind," Takeo said, his voice somehow not shaking. "Like hell I'm leaving you."(less)
The herbal tea was hot and steaming. It warmed her hands delightfully. She took tiny sips so she wouldn't burn her tongue. The ginger tea ran down her throat, soothing the swollen ache that she had felt all day.
Rita sank back into her couch. She was (more)a bit dizzy, her sickness not limited to her throat. Thankfully she had gotten to leave work early. So she had nothing to do for the rest of the day except relax and try to feel better.
She looked around her tiny apartment. It was a bit of a mess, for sure. She had gotten so caught up in her work lately, she hadn't put much effort into her home life. Rita sighed. She didn't have much of a life, truth be told. It had been a long time since she had a night on the town.
Her relaxing night in seemed a little less exciting now. She sipped her tea again. She would have to make a little more effort to go out when she felt better.
She would read a book, she decided. She hadn't lost herself in a book for some time. At best, she would read a couple pages before falling asleep at bedtime.
Rita picked up her book, a bestseller a coworker had recommended, and started reading. But try as she might, she couldn't focus. Something was bothering her. She looked up and tried to pinpoint the noise. The refrigerator was humming. It always did that, but the noise was overwhelming in her silent apartment.
Her apartment was empty. Even though she was there, she might as well be a ghost. The white walls felt suffocating. It felt like it was her own silent tomb. How could she be alive but feel so dead sometimes?(less)