I feel sick mother.
'What is it my dear, do you have a fever?'
No. It's not that.
'A cold perhaps?'
No.
'Stomach maybe?'
No mother.
'Then what ails you child?'
I cannot explain mother. I know I have to be up but I can only stay in bed. I'm trying mother, to smile, but all I can manage are a few sighs. I'm trying to breathe mother, but every breath seems to choke me more, the sounds of my heartbeat loud in my head. There are voices mother, I whisper, voices that tell me I'd be better off dead. I'm trying to shove them but they are winning. Get out of bed you say? I'm trying. Don't you see I'm trying?
Did I yell? I'm sorry mother. I didn't me