Personal Narrative: Running Out

If my heart were a metronome for an elegant musician, they would have been thrown off by the double almost triple beats that were going on per second. The crowd would be offended and throw rancid food at her delicate face. The dilemma with this was it would be all my fault. My stomach itself was like a butterfly garden. By holding my breath they would not be able to migrate to their balmy shelters, instead they would be stuck in my bleak torrid pit. The discomfort I would soon face was something I could never prepare myself for. It seemed like a simple process, a needle would penetrate my skin and that would be that. For my brain the process turned lengthy and problematic. As I reached the rustic door of the doctor's office, I prayed that my legs would give out. The force from hitting the ground would be so substantial I would pass out. I fidgeted with the door knob before turning it. Walking in I acknowledged the ardent receptionist then took a seat as far back as possible. Orbiting around me, mothers were comforting their sick, needy, and disgusting children. When the scrawny blonde nurse came to get me my heart did a flip. The rollercoaster of emotions I was facing was unbearable. Should I run out? Or should I just start screaming? Either would probably work out. Quickly, I …show more content…
Our boxing match would never have to occur. The cockiness in my face showed, until she came back in with a new shot. My face took a turn for the worst bringing my stomach with it. She smiled and apologized, never actually explaining what just happened. She cleaned it again, this time would be the time. My fist would hit her face, the meeting would be impeccable. Just as I rose my arm, she injected my other one. Leaving me stunned for about 5 seconds. “All done,” She said. She left the room. I felt vulnerable and weakened. My arm stung like never before. As I walked out of the office, I looked at a whiny child as if to say, “Good luck in there, it