Wong Keen Hing aka Justin
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Here's an essay I found lying around. It was done as SPM-level English homework and the topic in question was about the time I got bedridden. It's all fiction, by the way.
Here by the bedside I lay, watching the hours pass me by. On the table rests the many books that I have already read. Arranged on the little shelf in my room lies my collection of DVDs that I have already watched. As I stare at the plain ceiling, my hand clutches a phone that I know will never ring. I am a victim of the unmerciful existence of boredom itself.
Idling at home is definitely not my idea of spending my mid-term holidays. If it weren't for the curse that has befallen me that is the chicken pox, I would have made better use of my time. Alas, my sorry self is now confined within these four walls, deprived of contact with the outside world. Having known that I would have to put up with such a life for another week is driving me insane.
Isolation, however, is only half of my troubles. This wretched condition comes with a side effect so evil that only the devil himself can inflict: the endless itching. Resisting it is a feat achieved only by superhumans, but giving in will only bring more of it and will eventually scar my body. No man, however sinful, deserves such an experience.
Trying to sleep is also another difficult matter. Through the dark nights, I tossed and turn and used every technique known to mankind to make myself fall asleep. But the horrible itch had made all my efforts vain. Hour after hour, I slip in and out of consciousness, only to find myself as good as a dead man late the next morning.
To make matters worse, I have none to blame for this predicament except my very own self. It was only last week when I made a decision that became my undoing. Even though I was advised against it, I insisted on visiting a friend of mine who was suffering from the chicken pox. Due to close contact and my vaccination that refused to work, I am now put into misery by my own foolishness.
Deep inside me brews a volcano that will erupt should the circumstances persist. Laying here motionless on my bed, I could explode without warning. How I yearn to let it all out, to extinguish the flame without by channeling it out through my breath. But no, I could not. My dying but indestructible sense of self consciousness and pieces of my dignity forbids me to do so.
No amount of pleasure could dispel this cruel fate. No amount of console can make me feel that it could have been worse. Nothing can be done to erase my memory of this period of time that has been stolen from me. Soon, I will awaken a new man with a stronger will. For this is the day when I solemnly swear that I will forever be an enemy of the chicken pox.