“I remember walking along this dark hallway.” “Go on,” the doctor urged quietly, behind his thick-rimmed glasses. He slid back into his chair and gripped his pencil tighter. A fan turned slowly, bathing the room in amber light. “The walls had this strange wallpaper, striped like they were in the 70s, but different. The stripes would bend at odd angles every now and then, or maybe it was just the way the paper was peeling. It was just strange. There were unpainted doors on either side, with labels in some language I’d never seen before. They went on for what seemed like miles, and it felt like a hotel, but it was different. There was some kind of un-ending feel to this hallway, like it went on forever. I kept following it for what seemed …show more content…
“I assure you, you are not alone. What was your first memory when you woke up?” The man gripped his cane and cocked his head. “I don’t...” he started. He tapped his cane with his fingers uneasily. “I remember looking at you, sitting on that chair. Taking notes. I must have... I was trying to see what you were writing.” The doctor smiled and craned his head forward. “Are you not blind? You have been for seventeen years. You weren’t attacked outside The Golden Flush. You were gambling with your drinking buddies and you were all were too drunk. Your friend Daryl believed you were sleeping with his wife and confronted you outside, remember?” The man suddenly stood up and his gaze widened. “I’ve been seeing all of this time? Why haven’t I noticed? It’s been years!” “You were seeing in your dream.” “But that’s different. Blind people can see in dreams doc, you know that.” The man was breathing heavily, becoming aware of the fan which had started to spin like a propeller. The pages on the clipboard were fluttering violently. The doctor had risen and walked across the room to a dark mahogany door. He was shorter than the man had expected, with an almost crumpled frame and a face that seemed too small for his shelled
Under the orders of her husband, the narrator was moved to a house far from society in the country, wherein she is locked into an upstairs room. This environment serves not as an inspiration for mental health but as an element of repression. The locked door and barred windows serves to physically restrain her. "The windows are barred for little children, and there are rings and things in the walls."(p218). Being exposed to the room's yellow wallpaper is dreadful and fosters only negative creativity. "The color is hideous enough, and unreliable enough, and infuriating enough, but the pattern is torturing.(p224). All through the story the yellow paper acts as an antagonist causing her to become very annoyed and disturbed. There is nothing to do in the secluded room but stare at the wallpaper. The narrator tells of the haphazard pattern having no organization or symmetrical plot. Her constant examination and reflection of the wallpaper causes her much travail. "I determine for the thousandth time that I will follow that pointless Johnston 2 pattern to some sort of a conclusion." (p221).
Throughout the short story The Yellow Wallpaper, by Charlotte Perkins Gilman the reader can identify how the narrator’s interpretation of the yellow wallpapers changes as she became mad and fixated on the pattern hidden within. As the story progresses, the viewer can discover how the wallpaper becomes significant to the narrator, through her fascination with the ostensibly formless model, and urge to figure out what it means. The pattern within the unsettling yellow wallpaper is a vital symbol within the text because as the narrator’s interpretation of the pattern changes, the wallpaper figuratively begins to reflect how she feels trapped. The narrator’s obsession with the patterned wallpaper
When the doctor came to the stand you could see the weight that had encumbered him. He had dark sags under his eyes. Wrinkles plagued his face. He was much too skinny and his white hair had been cut to a close shaved. Most notable, though, was the lack of life behind his eyes. Anyone could see that he was tired of politics and weapons.
“I was so surprised! I couldn’t believe it was actually him. A rush of adrenaline went through my body. Along with being in shock, I felt some sort of relief and happiness.”
He wondered if he had gone mad. He covered his ears with both of his hands, but he could still hear the garbled voices that were echoing around the room. He sat for a moment behind his desk and slow his breathing telling himself that he was simply tired.
Upon moving in to her home she is captivated, enthralled with the luscious garden, stunning greenhouse and well crafted colonial estate. This was a place she fantasized about, qualifying it as a home in which she seemed comfortable and free. These thoughts don’t last for long, however, when she is prescribed bed rest. She begins to think that the wallpaper, or someone in the wallpaper is watching her making her feel crazy. She finally abandons her positivity towards what now can be considered her husband’s home, and only labels negative features of the home. For example, the narrator rants about the wallpaper being, “the strangest yellow…wallpaper! It makes me think of… foul, bad yellow things” (Gilman). One can only imagine the mental torture that the narrator is experiencing, staring at the lifeless, repulsive yellow hue of ripping
Growing up as an only child I made out pretty well. You almost can’t help but be spoiled by your parents in some way. And I must admit that I enjoyed it; my own room, T.V., computer, stereo, all the material possessions that I had. But there was one event in my life that would change the way that I looked at these things and realized that you can’t take these things for granted and that’s not what life is about.
“Thank you,” she said politely and waited for him to disappear again. He didn’t. Instead he lingered awkwardly in the doorway like a stray cat. “Is…” Madame Giry began hesitantly, “Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“I’m dying,” said Burton. “Just days ago, for the first time, I bled from a wound that I couldn’t heal.”
Leo opened his eyes and sat straight up in bed. Ella stood over him, a horrified look on her face. “What? What do I have on my face?” he said, rubbing his face. Sadie started to laugh. “What is she doing in here?” She covered her mouth with her hands. “Shh! Don’t yell! We were attacked and the raiders are searching the cabins for anyone they can challenge. We’re hiding,” Ella said, holding a finger to her lips. “And we don’t want to wake Artie and frighten him,” the Doctor whispered. Leo jumped. He had forgotten the Doctor was in here. “And the TARDIS is not an option, they already took it. She isn’t going to be happy when they open her up,” he was saying. “Who isn’t going to be happy? River or the TARDIS?” Sadie asked. “Probably both,” the Doctor said. “Well I’m going to slip into the bathroom and change,” Leo said, trying to avoid thinking after he had just woken up.
When I was younger I was not so smart and would do questionable stuff all the time. I would jump from boulders to other boulders, climb on top of chairs, and even try killing snakes I would find in our yard. One day I learned a lesson from going on one of my self proclaimed adventures with a good friend.
“Raise your hand if you’ve ever been through a hard time,” Nick announced during the
“Oh thank God, I thought you were dead,” He stated. He looked familiar. He had brown shaggy hair and eyes so dark they were almost black.
The boy realized that his teacher was awake, and brought his face closer to hear better. “What?” His voice trembled.
“You made me come to the doctor’s office with you, to hold your hand, because you were afraid.” I stayed quiet and watched as he pulled out a large syringe from the bin.