I'm not Philip!

Story time, friends!!! Here is a creative I wrote a while ago as a practise SAC. It's my favourite out of everything I've written. Although, I must say the plot of the story is not original T___T.

Btw, it's a HORROR story!! rawrrrr

Statement of intention

This creative piece is written for teenagers of upper primary school age and up. Unlike many other pieces of its type, this narrative’s aim is not to pontificate a moral to its readers. Instead, its goal is to entertain, thrill and surprise readers of the aforementioned age group. It attempts to achieve this by being set in a bleak hospital ward in Christmas time, something most children would dread. The macabre ending, left to the reader’s imagination, is designed to be thought provoking even after the reader has finished reading. The language used is for an advanced audience.


I’m not Philip!

Li Mei
“I’m not Philip!”

A boy’s intermittent shouting as he approached my ward compelled me to put down my Gameboy and look towards the entrance in curiosity. The source of the commotion revealed itself as a nurse pushed a scrawny looking boy in a wheelchair into the room. His hair was brown and untidy, his lanky arms gesticulating wildly as he continued yelling at the nurse “You’ve got it wrong! I’m NOT Phillip!” The nurse rolled her eyes; she seemed to have heard it a dozen times. She coaxed him into the bed opposite mine and hung a plastic board on his post. I could make out the letters MAGROIN, Phillip.

“Ring this bell if you need anything, Philip,” she told Philip as she tucked in his sheets and walked to my bed.

“I said, I’m not Philip!” Philip retorted defiantly, casting a sulky look towards her.

“Don’t worry about him, Martin.” The nurse whispered to me as she replaced my towels. “The poor boy is having his leg amputated, and its Christmas Day tomorrow too! He’s been trying to convince us that he is someone else ever since he arrived. You’ll be nice to him won’t, you?”

The boy gave the nurse another vehement cry of “I’m not Philip!” as she exited the ward. It was just the two of us now. I pulled myself up from my bed and in the friendliest tone I could muster, said to him “Hi, Philip. My name is Martin.”

“I am NOT Philip!” Philip shouted at me and ripped the curtain around his bed shut.

Great. Stuck in a hospital with some identity-confused loony on Christmas Eve. I sighed, but was immediately assaulted by a violent seizure of sneezes. I have always been allergic to the smell of hospitals. Although I have been here for a day, the pervading whiff of penicillin and alcohol was still overwhelmingly stimulating for my sensitive nose. The fading sunlight was filtering through the window blinds, lining the whitewashed walls of the ward with stripes of yellow light. A collection of get-well cards from family and friends crowded my bedside table; my sister had even brought me my basketball trophies. Spilling onto my linen bed sheet were my Marvel comics, none of which interested me now.

Philip’s curtain was suddenly pulled back. “My name is Ben,” he said glumly, scowling at me as though if daring me to challenge his words. He must have felt lonely, I thought.

“Err… hi Ben. What are you here for?” I replied warily.

“Nothing really, just a checkup.” He took no notice of the skepticism etched on my face as he twirled his sheet in his fingers, looking preoccupied. “What are you here for?”

“Having my tonsils removed. I can hardly eat because of the pain”.

The room fell into silence again, and night slowed settled around us. “Night,” I said to Philip as I pulled on my orange pyjamas.

“Night,” he grunted back. “And merry Christmas.” I rubbed my eyes. I almost thought I caught a sneer on Philip’s face as he pulled close his curtain.

It was a restless night. I have been scared of sleeping in hospitals ever since I broke my leg in my second year at school. From the creaking sounds of the bed springs emanating from Philip’s direction, it was apparent he was sleepless too. When I finally dozed off, my sleep was pervaded by nightmares. I dreamt of being chased down the hospital isle by a giant bouncing pumpkin, of having my leg amputated, of an evil looking Santa laughing at me at the end of my bed, who then transformed into a smirking Philip…

“Yup, this is Philip,” voices roused me from my slumber. Two men in white robes stood beside me, lifting me into a stretcher bed.

“Hey, what are you doing?” Shocked, I struggled in vain against their unbreakable grips.

“Your operation Philip, it’s in ten minutes” One of them said behind his surgical mask.

“But, I’m not Philip!” I cried, bewildered. “He is Philip!” I pointed to the other bed.

“The nurse told us this will happen,” the doctor sighed. His partner checked my file hanging on my bedpost again. “Yes, you are Philip Magroin. Be quiet now, or you might wake Martin up.”

“NO! You have it all wrong! He is Philip, I’m Martin. He swapped our files in the night! I saw him!”

Dread filled me, creeping across my skin like an icy gel. I shouted and kicked, but to no avail. I was wheeled out of my room to the elevator across the foyer, screaming all the way “I’m not Philip!”

As the elevator doors began to close, I saw Philip’s head poking outside the ward.

He smirked.