In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Inside the Bubble.”

I peer up at the doctor in his protective gears with anxious eyes, dreading the worst.

I can’t quite define the emotions in his eyes; the transparent plague mask seems to disassociate him from warmer expressions and he tut tutted yet again.

“Say aarrghh,” he requests. His vocals come out a bit wobbly through the thick surgical mask.

I oblige willingly. Sticking my tongue out as far as I can. Anything to get rid of the plaguing ailment will do.

A poke here, a prod there, several vials of blood and muted instructions to nurses who are equally garbed like they are all ready to take off on a jaunt to Mars; they all shake their heads.

“What?” I ask through hot, parched lips?

”Am I dying?” I brace myself for a heart-stopping, gut wrenching response.

”I am not ready to die now,” I start protesting to my audience who peered at me like a new specimen for study.

Then came the blissful words of the doctor in the mask.

“No ma’am .” “You are not dying, but you have a very contagious infection called bogusmogusoperansuswhatamacallit.” “This is a very viral blah, blah, and can be fatal if not well managed.” You will be fine in a month with the right amount of treatment, but I am sorry you will have to remain quarantined here in the hospital for the required month.”

I feel too elated to nag or to worry. I feel extreme gratitude to learn that it is just a passing virus. That I still have a chance to live.

“Can I have my writing materials?” I ask hesitantly. Willing him to say yes with the power of my mind

“Of course yes you can ma’am” he answers politely. I imagine that his lips move in a smile.

My gratitude is complete. A month of solitude. Time to churn out that book, my agile mind picks up its trail of thought for my novel.

Jacqueline Oby-Ikocha