This is a picture of a bvery strange anf farm


United States

Writing a bio for me is hard because I am myself and I could go on and on about how I think of me but would that be correct in others eyes? So I guess the only word I can really use to describe me is Bree and let my writing do the rest.

Message to Readers

Perhaps more later but this is really just experimental.


October 12, 2017


"Hold still," the doctor said impatiently, gesturing for the neighbor, Ann, to hold the boy down. She bit her lip, unwilling to touch the two people lying and wailing in the bed. The boy looked up and shook his head once- and he did look the smarter of the four of them, crammed in the same room. But she had to comply with the doctor- he knew what was best.
She half-closed her eyes and then grabbed his legs, forcing them open. Weakly, he tried to swat her hand away, tried to get away. She closed her eyes for what happened next, but the boy's screams were enough.
She clenched her jaw, feeling his whole small, lanky body shuddering, quaking under her grip, screaming while the doctor worked. He seemed to be ripping his lungs inside himself, and his weak body suddenly kicked into gear, nearly sending a foot crashing into her abdomen. "Still!" the doctor commanded angrily. She gripped it tighter and screamed when she felt some thick blood flood her hands.
Immediately she drew back and opened her eyes, heart beating fast. The scene was heart-stopping.
The Mother had grabbed her son with a free hand but, unable to do anything, simply pressed her hands against the doctor's incisions on his legs and arms to stop the heavy blood flow. "Stop ignorant woman!" he yelled, both of them still whimpering in pain from their treatments.
"That'll have to do. Move your hands!" he commanded.
The neighbor turned and didn't watch, hands over her ears as an ear-splitting shriek shattered the air, the pain a permanet feature in this room.


Before this, it was just a word. It has new meaning now, new meaning no dictionary could ever write down and get right. I wanted to relate it to something, so I could recount it later but all I could think of was the lack of pattern. Knives jerked inside my body like a magnet- my lungs would be bursting, full of nothing but vomit and my food resurfacing, then my head would be embedded it with daggers... and there was no end. The suffering was only distracted by my thoughts, but it hurt to remember good things, to use any part of my body. I stared at the ceiling, preparing myself for another round of agony.
I didn't have to wait long. A line of fire flew down my spine, a fierce whip cracking against me. I screamed, my lungs seeming to be in ribbons every time I took a breath. But it was the only thing I could do- what else could I do? Stop breathing? No- that wasn't an option. The illness wouldn't win. I looked up and saw the doctor move on from my mother where he had given her some herbs, my neighbor who had played nurse standing in the back. I glanced at him- where were my herbs, or medicine?
The doctor who's name I couldn't go through the pain to remember came over to me, near the foot of my bed. Rigid with pain, I didn't glance at him and craned my mouth open- he'd have to feed me. It was humiliating but I knew the pain, knew the lashing I'd receive if I tried to sit up. A small spasm went through my body and I shuddered as a fresh wave rung my muscles, clenching and unclenching, tightening and refusing to move and then seeming to fall apart and melt inside me. The doctor bent over me and I shuddered again, pain and coldness and tension all pushing my body. The neighbor insisted before the doctor arrived we be ready, and so we were in our underwear. But none of us looked at eachother differently- at ;east I didn't. I didn't care who saw me. I only cared I was better, I only wished I had the herb.
"Hold still," the doctor commanded, sounding a little pained like he could no longer stand to be in our company. I blinked, my eyes nearly rolling back in my head, but I caught in the dark a glint of metal. And suddenly hands were on my legs, pulling them apart in a quick motion that was too much for my weak frame.
I screamed, so much that it was all I could hear, drowning my own ears. Enema. It's an enema. 
I screamed louder, sure my lungs would never work properly again, and the air found it's way. I winced and my instincts seemed to take over, finally. Robotically my legs kicked out, my arms waving around, any part of my body that I could move moving. There was an unbearable pain suddenly, a plume of agony and despair on the inside of my legs, and my blood in a thick, steady stream poured out, making the doctor curse. His voice drifted in an out, and even when I could hear him I couldn't. He pulled away and the hands disappeared, replaced by new ones, cooler ones. I barely stopped myself from kicking my Mother's hand away.
I wailed, and no one stopped me. The Doctor quickly tied my legs with a fabric that allowed less blood flow out. Which of course didn't stop it from making my skin crimson, rubbing against my skin, a warm prong seeming to burn me. The rest was, thankfully a blur.
As much of a blur as possible.

Doctors in the 1700s, am I right?
This was to see if I could make anyone literally sick to their stomach. (Sorry)


See History
  • October 12, 2017 - 12:19pm (Now Viewing)

Login or Signup to provide a comment.

  • RedWriter

    Mission accomplished! I should probably write more. The illness is also unknown, just one of teh many unidentified ones in the West Indies back in the 1700s.

    9 months ago
  • Kaitlyn ❄

    Yes, sick to my stomach.

    9 months ago
  • AbigailSauble

    I'm a little confused . . . what's wrong with the boy? It's interesting doing this from the patient's perspective. Painful, but interesting. That probably sounds callus, but . . .
    Keep writing!
    God bless!

    9 months ago
  • Quilling Leaves

    You made me sick to my stomach for sure. Great writing.
    God bless you.

    9 months ago