February 24, 2012
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My name is Tammar Michelle Venroe, but no one knows my full name. To them I am Tammi. Just a name. A simple, two-syllable word that is scribbled on nametags, or screamed with an empty meaning, echoing across a hockey rink.
I etch my name into the wood of the stiff chair with a small black pen I had found, hidden in the jumble of outdated magazines on a small table. The room is silent; all but two other chairs are vacant. They line the walls of the room, empty and gaping.
I am alone.
A slight buzzing from the fluorescent lights is all that fills my ears. Nervously, I raise my eyes across the room to them; they are whispering quietly to each other, eyeing me with curiosity and concern.
I’m so pathetic.
Our attention is shifted when a group of nurses passes by the door, their voices darting into the room for a moment. My heart thumps against my chest, but they continue past.
It’s funny how things work like this. Things can seem so perfect—so unbelievably perfect, just moments after everything seemed impossible. Floating a few inches above everyone else, the thought always in the back of your mind that there’s nothing heavy enough to pull your dangling feet back to the floor. And then everything falls apart; a sudden rumble and the pieces break apart so quickly you can’t even breathe. Creeping up like a quick shift in the wind, and crashing down until it tests your strength to stand and then some.
I glance up from the perfectly tiled floor, and realize that they have stood. A nurse is calmly standing at the doorway—way too calmly—with a forced smile on her face as she straightens out her pale pink scrubs.
My stomach drops as I lift myself from the uncomfortable chair, and I can feel my hands begin to shake. Shoving them into my pockets, I take a deep, unsteady breath and let the nurse lead the way.

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Tiff-the-Dreamer said...
Mar. 11, 2012 at 11:29 pm
What happens next? Great story so far.
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