Speed Bump

The feeling had returned. People had asked me what it felt like, but it can’t be explained. Of the billions of words, no combination of them could explain it. I felt weak, my stomach in knots, the feeling of severe nervousness experienced by one with extreme stage fright about to go in front of a large audience of people. Nausea and an intense hunger collide creating such a gut wrenching phenomenon. I felt dazed, slowly slipping away from reality. Small sounds brought me back. Alert again, I looked around before slipping away once again. I felt as if I couldn’t move, helpless and alone as my limp body stammered across the room.
I dig through my bag, rummaging around. Shaking, my hands close around the small black pouch and with desperateness I pull it out. I grasp at the small Velcro flap and rip it open. My hands fumble around the paper packaging as, with great effort, I am able to tear it. The smell of alcohol escapes into the air as the soft cotton pad is exposed. I slide it out of the paper and coat my finger in the strong odor of the swab.
I jam the small plastic strip into a device, a small machine in which I depend all health affairs on the accuracy of. Bringing a small plastic case housing a small needle to my finger, I press the button, stabbing the alcohol covered finger. Barely feeling the jab, I look down at my finger tip. Blood seeps from the hole in my finger. I squeeze at my finger until an even bead of blood gathers. I press the blood to the strip as it sucks it in. Within seconds a number appears on the screen, 53. Low. I didn’t need the machine to tell me this. I knew. The warning signs my body sent out, the feeling in my stomach, I knew, and I needed food.
With the feeling of sickness still ever present, I let my shaking fingers close around the crumbling glucose tablet that my well being relied on. The strong scent brought about the nausea, making it even more prevalent. The sweet smell that so often tempted and taunted me now turned to vile torment. I felt sick, and nearly gagged as I forced the pure sugar down my throat. Beginning to feel better I ate crackers, and once the queasiness vanished I craved another tablet. Gathering all self control, I pushed the container of tablets back into my bag and sighed. That was enough sugar for one day.
The whole concept was still new, still hard, and I hated it with every fiber of my being. But I wouldn’t let myself cry. The diabetes changed a lot about my life, but I wasn’t going to let it stop me. “Diabetes isn’t a road block, it’s a speed bump.”

Pink: A (very) Short Story For Breast Cancer Awareness

There was no fear or embarrassment as he climbed off the bus and headed into the school building. He made his way up the stairs towards his locker ignoring the people poking fun at his pink socks and backpack. As he neared his locker the crowd of boys that greeted him everyday circled around him.
“What’s up, gay wad?” the first asked smirking. The crowd behind him laughed as he pushed him by the shoulders into his locker.
He kept quiet as he stood himself up and opened his locker. One of the pink ribbons that hung from the top of his locker fell out, but before he could grab it another kid picked it up.
“Here you go fag, here’s your hair bow.” The crowd laughed as Mitchell took the ribbon from his hand and draped it across the hooks along the top of his locker.
“Will you go out with me?” one asked from somewhere amongst the group of boys.
“Hey!” another shouted, “lay off, that’s my boyfriend your flirting with!” The audience erupted in laughter.
Mitchell looked up at Jason, the first boy who led the assembly of harassers. His eyes burnt with emotion. They penetrated as he stood up for himself after months of countless ridicule for the pink ribbon draped across his locker, the pink shoelaces that replaced the original black ones, and the variety of pink shirts he wore every day. The look in his eyes was not pain, sadness, or even anger, but it was intense and the group of boys grew silent as he stared Jason down.
“You want to know why I wear pink?” he began steadily.
“Cause you wish you was a girl?” Jason answered with a sly grin.
“Nope,” Mitchell replied plainly without any emotion, “you guys want to know something? My mom abused me; she lost her rights and I’ve been living with my aunt and uncle for seven years. Earlier this year I lost both my aunt and my grandmother. They died within a month of each other. I wear pink to remember my aunt and grandmother, who within the same month died of breast cancer. I wear pink for my grandmother, the one person I could go to about everything. Me and my uncle wear pink for his wife, the closest thing to a loving mother I’ve ever had.” The crowd remained silent as Mitchell took a pink notebook from his locker, turned on his heels, and left the still crowd behind him as he walked away, never to be bothered about pink again.