Figure 8 Read Free

for good. I feel like someone has shot me through the heart. I didn’t think about anyone else when I was being so selfish. It pains me to think about how worried he must have been all night. I lie back down with the intentions of having a little nap, but the bed is so hard and unwelcoming and the sheets are thin and stiff.
     
    How anal are you really Isabelle! You try to kill yourself and all you’re bothered about is the damn bedding.
     
    I really am a twat!

    I am scared and shivering, the fear etched firmly on my face.
    It’s dark but there is a crack of light coming from somewhere. I can’t tell where it is though.
    I can’t move, I can’t get down.
    I have an incredible fear of heights.
    I am paralysed with that fear.
    I am on the top loop of a solid number 8 – why an 8?
    I am about thirty foot high above the ground.
    It’s thick enough for me to walk about on.
    I shout for help but no one comes.
    I am alone.
    I shout louder and louder, but I soon realise that no one is going to come for me.
    No one will help me.
    I have to get out of this situation by myself but I don’t know how to.
    I can’t think
    I’m so scared.
    I try to climb down but I slip.
    I’m falling.
     
    I wake up, sweat is pouring from me. I feel frightened and lost. As I try to gather my bearings, I remember that I am in the hospital. I try to shake off the remnants of the nightmare that has plagued me for years. I don’t understand them, I don’t know what they mean, but it's always the same thing. Always a number 8. I hear voices outside the door, a man and a woman. The door opens and in walks the blonde nurse that was here earlier. She is young; probably the same age as me, she has blonde hair tied back in a bun. She has a kind smile and a warm presence. I like her.
    “Hello Miss Riley, I’m your nurse today, we met earlier but I think you were a bit confused to notice.” She smiles. “My name is Belinda and if you need anything at all, just press the little button next to your bed and I will be with you as soon as I can. I am just going to take your blood pressure and draw some blood samples then the doctor is going to come in and have a talk with you.”
    “That’s great, thank you,” I say humbly. I am now at the stage of being embarrassed by my actions and could easily crawl up my own arse when I think about what I have done. “When will I be able to go home?” I ask hopefully.
    “The doctor will be able to tell you more. We need to get your blood tests back to make sure the drugs have left your system and to determine the risk of hepatotoxicity.” I stare at her blankly. She notices my reaction and elaborates. “It’s just fancy talk for making sure your kidneys and liver are functioning properly. We had to put a small tube into your throat to get the charcoal down, so that will be sore for a few days.” My hand automatically reaches up to stroke my neck.
    I watch as she turns around to fiddle with some little things on a tray. I see her take the needle out of a plastic package and I suddenly feel really sick. I squirm as the needle goes into my arm and I watch paralysed as she pushes the little bottle on to the top, I can’t seem to look away as the red liquid flows into it. I hate needles, I remember the day I had my BCG vaccine at school. I remember, I passed out and had to go home. I was mortified and teased for weeks afterwards about it. It’s a damn good job I am already lying down right now. When she’s finished butchering my arm, she writes on the little vials of blood and sticks them in a bag, which she then attaches little stickers with my name and hospital number onto. She leaves the room reminding me that the doctor will be in shortly.
    I take this time to look in the bags that Dad brought for me. I rummage around and pull out my phone. Turning it on, I quickly switch it to silent before a thousand tiny beeps start to come through. I dismiss all the messages apart from the one I want, Jenny, my best