S: The Voice Within Samantha Kick
FC: The Voice Within | Samantha Kick
1: My name is Samantha Kick and I am sixteen years old. If I could say only one thing about myself, it would be that I love to write. It would be a dream come true for me to be able to do that every day of my life. Aside from writing, I am a singer, an actress, and an avid reader. I am also a third degree black belt as well as an instructor in Taekwondo.
2: Table Of Contents | Lost in the Crowd | Page 4 | Hurting Inside | Page 10 | Page 16 | Pictures of Life
3: Page 18 | Over the River and Through the Woods | Page 22 | Page 24 | Loving from the Outside | Near death Experience
4: Lost in the Crowd
5: traightening his tie for the umpteenth time, a man with medium length strawberry blonde hair stared at the closed door looming in front of him. It was like this every morning in the old Acker family estate. He would get up each morning twenty minutes earlier than he actually needed in order to get ready for work on time. The rest of this time was spent right here, in front of the door. Taking one last breath, he grabbed the doorknob and pulled it open. The sidewalk in front of him was completely uninhabited, it always was. But that didn’t make him feel any better. He knew that | before very long he would find himself completely absorbed by the crowds of people. He counted to himself as he walked each step, nearing the busy part of the sidewalk. Fifty-five. Fifty-six. Fifty-seven... Shaking his head, Jeremy Acker weaves his way through the crowd, trying desperately to escape to the open spaces he knows await him just outside. But his attempts are to no avail; he is trapped. Crowds have always made him anxious for as long as he can remember. He wouldn't say he was claustrophobic or agoraphobic. He just didn’t much like multitudes of | S
6: people. He supposed he could trace back his dislike of large gatherings of people to when he was a small boy, if he wanted to. That was where this type of fear was supposed to come from or so they said. But what did they know about anything? Regardless of what they chose to say, there wasn’t just one pivotal event in his childhood that popped out in his memory as one that would make him afraid of crowds. No – not afraid – He simply disliked crowds, a lot. Jeremy | Acker, unlike most, preferred to be alone. But being a loner wasn’t quite so bad. He got much more done than other people. The people who liked crowds, enjoyed them even. He did not understand how anyone could actually want to spend time around this many people. He only did it because he had to; there was simply no other way to get to work. Even at work he avoided crowds. He was rarely involved in office meetings,
7: and many that he was included in could take place over his webcam. There was no need to leave the office. He ate his lunch at his desk, and stayed out of everyone else’s way. He didn’t need anyone else to do his job. Jeremy Acker got on just fine by himself, thank you. Feeling a hand on his arm, Jeremy stiffened, jolted out of his mind and back into the present. He spun around, ready to tell the person off, but stopped when he saw the culprit. Standing behind him was a woman with shoulder | length, chocolate brown hair and the brightest blue eyes he had ever seen. She had a kind smile on her face and was looking at him seemingly curious. She was quite possibly the most remarkable thing he had ever seen. He cleared his throat, and willed himself to speak, but no words came. “Are you alright?” She asked him gently. “Fine.” He grunted, his voice rather rough and cutting. “I’d like to get out of this crowd though.” He admitted,
8: unsure why he was telling her. She nodded and smiled at him. “Let me help you.” She said. Taking his hand, the blue-eyed stranger pushed through the mass of people until they had made it to the open spaces he had known were there. He caught his breath, and looked around. The crowd looked much less threatening from out here. “Are you sure you’re alright?” Asked the kind woman. He nodded. “Just don’t like crowds. Thank you Miss” He trailed off realizing he didn't actually know her name. | She smiled. “Annabelle. Annabelle Ramsey.” She paused here to take a breath before continuing on. “I walk this way every morning. I work at the childcare center five blocks from here, you see.” She finished by pointing down the street a bit, her hand swinging back like a metronome. He put out his hand to shake it. “Nice to meet you. I’m Jeremy Acker. He said feeling unusually out of sorts. The woman however didn’t seem to notice his unease. As they submerged themselves back into the crowd, she continued the
9: “The intelligence of the creature known as a crowd, is the square root of the number of people in it.” - Terry Pratchett . | conversation they had started. She kept a tight hold of his hand, and Jeremy found he didn’t dislike it one bit. Finally they arrived outside of the building where Jeremy worked. He thanked her politely for all she had done and made his way towards the entrance. Putting his hand into his pocket to retrieve his badge, he found instead, a folded up piece of paper with a 10-digit number and a note written in blue ink. He smiled to himself, putting the note back into his pocket. Maybe big crowds weren’t so bad after all. | Be sure to call me if you ever lose yourself in a crowd. Annabelle.
10: Based on a prompt entitled "Scars" | Hurting Inside
11: right arm is from the rosebush in front of my grandfather’s house. But the scars on my heart are the ones I covet the most. For it is those that make me strong. There is no one incident that gave me these scars. No – these have been acquired bit by bit as the years go by. In truth, the first of these scars may have appeared in my youth, from my best friend. I’ve never really had a good track record with people. To me, the word best friend has come to mean a person that you share your secrets with and then as soon as you become comfortable around them, they stab you in the back. But that | Everyone has scars, blemishes to their skin – the outside, but not everyone is scarred on the inside. It is those scars that take the longest to heal. Nothing that is done to the outside body matters when compared the trauma on the inside. Pain is nothing. Pain is not bad as some say, nor is it good. Pain is simply an experience that is shared by all life. My scars make me stronger. Not all of them are physical; many are on the inside. I have acquired many scars throughout the years, and all of them have a story. The scar on my foot is from a broken bottle on the beach. The one that wraps around my lower
12: really had a good track record with people. To me, the word best friend has come to mean a person that you share your secrets with and then as soon as you become comfortable around them, they stab you in the back. But that doesn't matter. I don't need anyone. I’m better on my own. That is where all of the scars came from. On my own, my heart would be completely whole; free of every blemish. But I would not be as strong as I am now. Understanding comes from experience. Without these experiences, | scars on my heart are the ones I covet the most. For it is those that make me strong. There is no one incident that gave me these scars. No – these have been acquired bit by bit as the years go by. In truth, the first of these scars may have appeared in my youth, from my best friend. I’ve never
13: I would be oblivious to the world around me. I would still be the naive little girl who believed that there was a tooth fairy; that I was a princess. But that girl is gone now. These scars helped me to grow up. I see the world so much differently now. They say that there is good in everyone, but I’m not so sure. I think that everyone is capable of good things, but too many bad choices take away that goodness. Sometimes a person is simply too far-gone. But people can change. I am a firm believer of that. If not, there would be no real world. We would go about our lives inside of a little bubble, protecting us | from harm. But change is a good thing. These scars have changed me, I won't deny it. There was a time when I would believe anything people told me; I would trust people without a second thought. I know better than that now. My trust is much more valuable than it was before and much harder to earn. And yet, I still do trust people. The new value placed on the people I trust shows me how lucky I really am. Injuries heal, that is a fact of life. But many scars never truly go away. I will always have the | Naive
14: thorns in my heart, but much like the glass that sliced my foot, one day they will not be quite as sharp. I will, however, carry the lessons that they have taught me for the rest of my life. | And soon I will bear more scars. Good scars this time. And I will be able to share my lessons with the one person who will listen – my own flesh and blood, unblemished and unmarred. But they will soon wear scars as well. There is no other way to learn, but from experience. Pain is not a bad thing. It is the one thing that is shared among all people, the one thing that makes us the same. Pain, is feeling, and that is only natural and will fade in time. The tide will wash away the footsteps in the sand. And life will go on.
15: “Pain is temporary. It may last a minute, or an hour, or a day, or a year, but eventually it will subside and something else will take its place. If I quit, however, it lasts forever.” -Lance Armstrong
16: Meant 2 Be
17: I was looking through old pictures when I came to one of me and you. I swear that for a moment the room smelled just like you. I sat and stared at us for a while. Memories of that day causing me to smile. | Pictures Of Life | We looked so cute that night, your arms around me tight. Why did you have to go, just wanna let you know that: | I remember the way I felt back then. Your hand in my hair, my brain who knows where, Spending more time with you But then I remember the reason there aren’t anymore. But I can’t bring myself to delete it at all. | No I can’t bring myself to delete you at all.
18: Over the River and Through the Woods
19: ver since I was a little girl, I would spend a lot of time at my grandmother’s house. My family and I lived an hour or so away from her house, but it was always worth the trip to go there. It was my home away from home. So many childhood memories took place in that house, which stood so proudly all these years. Many Christmases and summer excursions run through my mind. As I stand here now, on the front porch, with the wind blowing all around me, I am whisked back in time to the days I spent here with my family. Family had always meant so much to my grandmother. Pulling open the door, I smile as the symphonic dong of the door décor sounds. I close my eyes to breathe in | the familiar smell. It smells like home, and family. I can smell and see the Christmas tree that would have stood here, covered with tinsel and surrounded by presents. The warmth of the place, even now, reminding me of my grandmother. Moving down the narrow hallway, I pause at the first bedroom. How can one room hold so much history? This room was my aunt’s, and after that my great-grandmother’s. The room practically screams | E
20: Family love is messy, clinging, and of an annoying and repetitive pattern, like bad wallpaper.” -Friedrich Nietzsche | one of the things that took me years to understand. “I’m looking to marry a millionaire with one foot in the grave, and another on a banana peel.” Her laugh rings in my ears. I can see her fond smile as she watched her great-grandchildren. I see the pictures on her wall and dressers, all of the family she loved above all. How can a single room cause a person to feel all of that? Closing the door behind me I enter my grandmother’s room. The bed is made – as | her name. I remember how full of life she used to be. Memories of my great-grandmother assault me as my eyes sweep over the room that has now been designated as my little cousin’s. There is a sweet smell in the air, of her favorite dessert – Lemon meringue pie. I can hear her voice clearly, saying
21: usual – and the dresser is still cluttered with everything from receipts, to bills, to unopened envelopes. Above the dresser sits the mirror, still bearing the ribbon embroider with the words, ‘Best Grandmother’. Memories of playing dress up with my cousin and having sleepovers on this floor when the house was too full for each of us to have abed. My grandmother always brought us together. She loved her family, no one can say otherwise. Every school play and choral concert; she would come just for me. And then there were the visits. Always up at the crack of dawn, taking care of everyone and making sure | we were looked after. As the door opens behind me, I turn to see who is there to share in my memories. A short woman smiles warmly at me, the wrinkles barely evident beneath the glow of her grin. “It’s good to see you Beeb.” She says, pulling me into a deep hug. “Come down and eat.” She turns around and I watch the curly dark and grey hair of my grandmother disappear behind the door to the basement to rejoin the rest of my family. I guess some things never change.
22: Loving From the Outside
23: Beautifully perfect love. His love. Her love. Neglecting to notice mine. | Glittery green eyes. Kind eyes. Bright eyes. Sparkling in the sun. | Shiny red hair. Long hair. Soft hair. Falling around her face. | Small delicate hands. Soft hands. Smooth hands. Sliding inside of his.
24: Near-Death Experience
25: My name is Spencer Trinibald, I am thirty-six years old, and I am a surgeon. May I begin my story now?...Thank You. The hallway was deathly silent as I made my way to room 28B. I suppose I should have noticed how unusual that really was – the silence. Room 28B is on the third floor of the Kennedy Memorial Hospital, and the third floor is usually full of life. I probably should have seen the traces of red in the footprints on the floor. The flickering of the florescent light should have been a sign. I should have noticed that something was not right here, but I was oblivious to | my surroundings. I had a single purpose. And that was to get to room 28B. About three days earlier, the patient in room 28B was about to undergo a relatively minor surgery. He was supposed to have the pins from his previous orthopedic procedure removed. You see, he had been in a horrific skiing accident about six or so months ago, I think it was, and he damaged his leg pretty badlyIt was basically healed by now, and all that was left to do was to remove the pins. It is not a difficult surgery at all. I've done it hundreds of times. In fact, I was supposed to be his surgeon. But i decided to let someone else take the experience, since as I've said, it wasn't a very difficult surgery .
26: lives. But I didn't, and I wasn't. So as I walked down the hallway to room 28B yesterday, I was not expecting to find myself face to face with death. I mean, who is really? Nothing could have prepared me for the sight of him, covered in blood, clutching my scalpel in his right hand. The patient in room 28B was completely deranged. He had a mad glint in his eyes as he smiled sickeningly at me. I'm sorry...it's just that the thought of how close I really was frightens me - how close to death that is. This is the first time I've ever been this close, this near. Near to death...a near-death experience. Anyway, he lunged at me with the scalpel. As he was . | after all. But it went terribly wrong. The trainee sliced a major artery and we almost lost him. There were several moments where we thought he might have breathed his last breath. We thought we had lost him. I can't help thinking that it might have been better if we had. I went to check on him Tuesday morning, the patient in room 28B. He was still in a coma. After an entire week, he lay still in his bed. Deathly silent. Completely vulnerable. And harmless. Much unlike the way he was yesterday. If I had just taken a closer look at his vitals, I might have noticed the change in his brainwaves. I might have seen his hands flexing slightly as he lay there. I might have been able to save all those .
27: coming towards me I noticed that there was a pile of bloody hair on his bed. I suppose that those must have been the scalps of the others he killed. I think there were a lot of them. I don't really remember. At any rate, he took the scalpel for its literal meaning here. I remember thinking that it was somen's wig, and it would have to be cleaned before they wore it again. I thought of Mrs. Flannery in the Cancer Wing on the second floor with her big blonde beehive wig that she refuses to let anyone touch, let alone wash. You think of the weirdest things when you're about to die. I suppose that's what went wrong. With him I mean. With the patient from 28B. He almost died. And he snapped. That's the . | only thing that makes sense. I thought I was going to die too. But she saved me. The woman from the ICU unit. I don't even remember her name. But she always smiled and wore a flower in her hair. Every day. For as long as I can remember. It was purple yesterday. I think it was a tulip. Or a lilly. It doesn't really matter. I remember thinking that she looked very pretty. I thought she was dead though. Well, she stabbed him with the surgical knife that was on the floor beside her before she died. Jennifer...I think that's what her name was. She saved me. She picked up the surgical knife from the floor and stabbed him. She got him before he could get me. She smiled at me before she breathed .
28: her last breath. Always smiling that one. Not anymore, I guess. But he fell to the ground, completely defenseless. And that’s when you showed up. Well, you know what happens next. The voice stopped and the play button on the tape player clicked up. It was silent in the room. The people in the room looked at one another and then back to a man with grayish brown hair and a blue uniform. .
29: “Yes sir. They’d like you to come to his funeral. Did you know him, sir?” She asked, smiling softly. He nodded. “I met Doctor Trinibald when I was younger, before I was a cop. He saved my life you know. I had a massive allergic reaction. Wouldn’t be standing here today if it wasn’t for him.” He looked down sadly. “Saw him just a few days ago. Spence was a good man and a great friend.” A man in a white jacket burst into the room, startling them all out of the gloomy mood that had settled into the room. | “He hasn’t changed his story, then?” The man asks. “No, Officer Reidner. He still thinks he’s the surgeon.” said another. Officer Reidner shifted his feet awkwardly. “Well, I suppose he’ll come around sooner or later. And that’s when we’ll get the confession. That’s when he’ll tell us what truly happened. What he did to those people” He turned to a woman standing near the door with her long blonde hair pulled back into a tight braid. “Have you contacted the surgeon's family yet?
30: have any children on record. He never married. He was engaged though. To a Bethany Clark...lives on Dunningham Avenue.” Replied the woman. She looked up from her clipboard. “Did the surgeon?” He shook his head. “Only sons.” He ran his fingers through his graying hair. “But his wife is expecting. It’s going to be a girl. My god!” He started shaking. The woman handed him a cup of water. “Are you alright Officer? What’s the matter?” She asked. Officer Reidner downed the cup of water. “ I was talking to the Trinibald’s just last week. Charlotte said that they were going to name | “What is it, Aaron?” Officer Reidner asked, taking in the man’s wildly disheveled appearance. “He’s demanding to see you Jay. Says he needs to talk to the Officer right away,” said Aaron. “He claims that it’s about his little girl, His Emily.” Officer Reidner nodded. “Tell him I’ll be right there.” As Aaron rushed out of the room, Officer Reidner turned to the others in the room looking slightly alarmed. “Did the patient have a daughter named Emily?” he asked. "No sir. He doesn’t have
31: her Emily Jay Trinibald, as a tribute to me. I didn’t tell anyone. How could he possibly know that?” The room went deathly silent. The clock ticked madly away. No one even noticed the door slide open. The lights began to flicker wildly. “Emily?” Called a high-pitched, raspy voice. The room went black and Officer Reidner knew no more. When he opened his eyes again he was sitting at a table in the interrogation room. He saw | himself face to face with Aaron. “State your name and age for the record if you’d please.” Aaron said, his normally cheerful voice plagued with sorrow. The man started. “Officer Jay Reidner of the New Breyton Police, thirty-eight years old.” He stated firmly. Aaron’s eyes widened in shock. He rose and walked briskly to the door, puling it open. “Cynthia, call the department. He’s changed his story!” He yelled out. He smiled at the Officer and sat down, pushing the button on the tape recorder. “So, tell me what happened with the Patient in room 28B.”