Morgan Up Close

Morgan Up Close (formerly Morgan's Story)

January 22nd, 2004

Me. Morgan.

It's funny, I always thought keeping a diary, journal, or whatever-you-call-it, was extremely cheesy, seriously self-centered (it is, especially if you think about it literally), and a little narcissistic, but anyway, that's beside the point, because the funny thing is that surprisingly, it's my current circumstances that have convinced me otherwise. So, uh...here it goes...

As I fell, time slowed. I watched as the building began to inch by; that worn red brick, those intricate stone windows. Floating, yet all gone to the blink of an eye, but what I want to say is what happened after--I going to tell you what happens when you jump and don't die:

My name is Morgan Olivia Taylor, I'm sixteen years old, and I'm just time any other teenager--I like to listen to music, watch movies, dream about the future--even if only in my mind, because when I was fourteen I tried to commit suicide. Today, I am completely paralyzed and unable to speak.

January 23rd, 2004

Life

After two years here, I become somewhat of an expert of the goings on at the hospital. The routines, the local dialect (which FYI, go way become basics like stat and clear), but most of all, the people (at least those within my realm, with currently doesn't include much beside my room and the busy strip of linoleum tiled hall visible from the bed). Like the secretary, Tina Rogers, who thinks her boyfriend's cheating and her never ending theories, all of which she's like to spring on any poor soul with ears that happens past her desk. At once. Simultaneously. Uh, that poor deaf man. She's not really one for simple solutions, but here's one: break up with him. Or Louis, the night guard, who always sneaks not-so-secret-smoke-breaks on the roof, usually near the end of his shift, when the hospital's at its quietest. Nina and Chris, also on the graveyard shift, usually join him. But my personal is Lisa Reid, a nursing assistant, who often takes care of me, and who over the past couple of years has doubled as a best friend. She is one of two people, my father being the second, that still talks to me like I'm a normal person. After being silent for so long, I guess most  people seem to forget I'm even here--a living, breathing human being. I wish the was a way, a smile, even just a momentary lip twitch, some way to tell them I'm still here. Uh, I'd give anything.