42: Sickly young thing (drabble) [edited]
She’s such a sickly young thing, lying in her bed with a cool cloth across her forehead, her arms shaking and her face contorted in pain. Her mother looks on with the familiar glint of worry and concern in her eyes. Help me, she says, but she isn’t allowed medication. After several groans of distraught pain and restless attempts to fall asleep, she eventually does.
Day two of being a sickly young thing hasn’t really helped to improve her condition. She’s so pale, deathly pale.
And I can’t seem to write anything more about it.