I wrote this short story to portray what goes on in the mind of a disabled person who is unable to move and talk. It is rathert short,as my English teacher wanted a very short story (I have been known to submit homeworks that are over 17 pages long!)

Hope.

I woke, as always, as mum ripped the curtains open, letting the light stream into the room. Flecks of dust danced, illuminated by the morning sun. they looked so free drifting to and fro, occasionally somersaulting and spiraling. I longed to to reach out, catch them, catch a little of their freedom for myself. My hand jerked upwards, out of my control, causing them to scatter, chaotically twirling away from my clumsy grasp, out of my reach.

Everything in my life seemed to be 'out of my reach.' The simplest of everyday tasks – walking, talking, and even holding a spoon – proved too difficult for me to achieve. If I could, I would cry, do something to ease my intense and ever-strengthening feelings of frustration. Why was I doomed to be trapped for the whole of my life in this useless husk of a body? Why couldn't I gain the movement that everyone else took for granted, but I craved so dearly? Wherever I went, people stared, young children pointed, mothers looked away. Sometimes people would talk to me, but they did like they were talking to a pet. They didn't know there was a person crying out for help inside of me. They didn't understand that I did know what they were saying to me.

I had heard some conversations about something that had went wrong with my brain when I was being born. Mum always cried when I was brought into the conversation. Why should she cry? I was the misunderstood, motionless one. My life was worse than death. I was sure of it.

But then there still was hope. Hope that someone would find the person locked inside my body, screaming to get out. I would have died if hope didn't give me a reason to live.