Write an short Story based on the topic "The busy bee has no time for sorrow" in 500 words....Please... Pls answer this as soon as possible
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In trying to keep this going (and I realise I haven't posted anything for something like 5 or 6 months) this is a story I did for writing. It's not exactly polished or finished but I'll get around to it eventually. I've rediscovered my love of writing soooo yeah, hopefully I won't suck at it as I usually do. Such tripe. Its based on that whole typhoid/AIDS Mary urban myth thing. I couldn't think of a true myth I wanted to base my story upon and felt like doing something more original. So yeah. I dunno how it's going to translate into a script though. Birgitta made alot of good points about that though. She said "I found it to be nausiatng but in the very best way of wanting to keep reading something secret that you can't quite swallow (this is an absolute compliment to your creativity)." That was one part I found most amusing lol. I'll try and take nausiating in the good way that it's meant.
I suppose you could say this all started when I was twenty. I was a fool, I had lost myself in the arms of a man and when he left, who I thought I was left with him. I felt powerless as I read the note he had left on the fridge. He simply said we weren’t right. Until then, I thought I made all the right decisions in life. I stayed away from drugs, rarely drank, and believed the physical expression of love should only be shared when one is in love. I was crushed when he left, and despised my choices. My sporadic drinking gradually became it’s more frequent cousin, alcoholism, as I sunk into the numbing, murky depths of depression with all hands on board, like a ship capsized by an Atlantic swirl.
I drifted steadily lower in my mind and in my actions until one dim night. After six scotches, three beers and four shots of tequila, the suggestion of the man next to me seemed like a fantastic idea. There was no reason to slur my typical “I’m sorry, I’m not interested,” and sweetly smile as I stumbled away. In my mind, I had already been rejected by the only person who mattered. So I consented as he helped me into a taxi and the gaudy world around us spun like a carnival ride.
When I awoke the next morning I found myself in my bed, alone, except for the dull throb carving my head like a Christmas dinner. For a few dazzling moments I wondered how I got there, gazing around the familiar room as a newborn baby gazes at it’s mother, and then the realisation hit me with all the self loathing one feels after a horrible drunken mistake. I rolled to the edge of the bed and placed my two trembling feet on the beige carpet. I stared in nervous panic as I contemplated what my life had become. Looking at my clothes thrown carelessly around my room I prayed for the oblivion I didn’t find in the bottle for the thousandth time since he left.
I stumbled into the bathroom, and stared at the mirror in mute horror. I’ll never forget what it said, what was written there is seared into my brain in my most brilliant red lipstick. ‘Good morning beautiful. Because of our lovely tryst last night you now have HIV. I did not do this to you, I did this to life. Because I cannot create life, I will create death. Consider this your initiation.’
I took my face in my hands and silently sobbed. I wanted to tear my eyes out. I didn’t know what I wanted to do. When my room-mate came home and discovered me, weeping on the bathroom floor, she held me, cooed and asked what was wrong. When I got the self control to point my shaking finger to the mirror opposite, she thrust herself away from me with a distancing lie about scheduling an appointment to see if it was not all a sick joke.
As the weeks passed, I found that she was not the only one who began to avoid me. After their initial shock and consoling actions, friends and family stopped visiting. I found it more difficult to reach them by phone. My room-mate moved out one morning while I was still asleep, leaving an apologetic letter declaring she couldn’t stand my constant crying late at night. One finds the people that truly care in times of personal tragedy. When they saw the empty husk of the person I once was, with continuously swollen cheeks, red eyes, faltering words and a nervous tremble that persisted for hours, the people who loved me could not bear to be in my presence. I saw this as a rejection. I felt less rejected when he first told me he was leaving me. Even he visited me in my seclusion and couldn’t force himself to stay for fifteen minutes.
I found myself falling into a pattern of mute bewilderment after the results came back positive. I did not know what to do with myself, so I did nothing. Two years passed as I wallowed in my apartment. My family paid my living expenses and the bills of my medical tests while I lost the job I had loved, and failed University for lack of attendance.
I
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i hope it will help u...
if I'm wrong means I'm sorry...
