First Person (entry type): My nose was bleeding again today. Too many shocks. They said it's going to make me better and it doesn't hurt, but it feels funny. Tingly. Now there's blood on my gown.
The doctors always want to talk. They ask stupid questions. I don't like to answer stupid questions. They took away my paper because they don't like my pictures. I don't like the doctors. Does that mean someone's going to take them away?
I want to see my mommy. I know she's here. Daddy put us both here, but he only wants to take her back.
The doctors think they can make it stop, but Daddy doesn't. Daddy knows it won't ever stop.
Third Person:
Tick, tock. Tick, tock. Tick, tock.
Samara had been watching the clock for two hours and fifty-nine minutes.
There wasn't much else to do in her small, bare little room at the hospital, but she didn't mind. She liked it better when she was alone with the camera that they didn't think she knew about, the bed that she never slept in, and the clock that she'd watch for hours on end. When the doctors came to get her for interviews, or sponge baths, or electroshock therapy, they asked her all kinds of questions but never answered her own-- at least, not very well. They didn't know how to give the right answers. And it was always the same, day after day after day. Samara didn't get bored or lonely in the same way at most people did, but even she wasn't always fond of such mindless repetition.
The clock was different, though. The clock was interesting. It didn't ask questions, or shout and yell, or get upset when she thought about not-so-pretty things. It was repetitive, but in a nice way. Samara liked that.
Samara Morgan | The Ring
My nose was bleeding again today. Too many shocks. They said it's going to make me better and it doesn't hurt, but it feels funny. Tingly. Now there's blood on my gown.
The doctors always want to talk. They ask stupid questions. I don't like to answer stupid questions. They took away my paper because they don't like my pictures. I don't like the doctors. Does that mean someone's going to take them away?
I want to see my mommy. I know she's here. Daddy put us both here, but he only wants to take her back.
The doctors think they can make it stop, but Daddy doesn't. Daddy knows it won't ever stop.
Third Person:
Tick, tock. Tick, tock. Tick, tock.
Samara had been watching the clock for two hours and fifty-nine minutes.
There wasn't much else to do in her small, bare little room at the hospital, but she didn't mind. She liked it better when she was alone with the camera that they didn't think she knew about, the bed that she never slept in, and the clock that she'd watch for hours on end. When the doctors came to get her for interviews, or sponge baths, or electroshock therapy, they asked her all kinds of questions but never answered her own-- at least, not very well. They didn't know how to give the right answers. And it was always the same, day after day after day. Samara didn't get bored or lonely in the same way at most people did, but even she wasn't always fond of such mindless repetition.
The clock was different, though. The clock was interesting. It didn't ask questions, or shout and yell, or get upset when she thought about not-so-pretty things. It was repetitive, but in a nice way. Samara liked that.
Tick, tock. Tick, tock. Tick, tock.
Hour three.