Like a house on fire creative

[Geoo]

Hi, If someone could take a look at my creative from like a house on fire.
It's from Claire's perspective.
The narrow hallway closes in on me as I take my leave. Stark white walls lined with vain like cracks scale the corridor. Near in sight is the exit that leads home, the large navy-blue door of freedom.
“Off somewhere in a hurry? Isn’t you husband taking care of business at home?” Head nurse Margot catches me off guard. Still so light on her feet for a woman of her age.
“Family calls,” is all I respond. The throbbing is absolutely penetrating at this point, like a jackhammer digging for gold.
“Look, I’ll tell it to you straight. I have a shift that just opened up, pay’s triple, but it’s on Christmas Eve. I know you need the cash.”
Hand on the door handle as I turn to face her, “I’ll think about it.”
My 1998 Holden struggles up the long brick driveway. I know how it feels. Turning off the ignition as I sit in the car, just staring at the overgrown blade of grass, the harsh spikes of thistles, and the patches of weeds which grew when spring came. He and I were planning out the future of this garden. We were going to build a white picket fence, with formal arrangements of bright colourful flower to match a perfectly manicured lawn. It was supposed to be a sixties town house. We even had new windows installed before the incident, now they’re just covered cobwebs with a thick pile of dust on the window sill. Inhale, exhale. I don’t have time to reminisce. Slamming the door of the car as I travel to the porch of my home. Except this home I enter, feels the same as entering the prison I just left.  Although I have the key to control the prison of this home, it’s as if I‘m the one caged.
Exchanging the sterile white corridors of the hospital for yellowing walls, marked with old crayon scribble that mocks me, as no matter how much cleaner I tried, they still remain. “Dad broke the nativity scene,” Ben yells as soon as I slam the front door. I don’t have time for this. It’s always the same every time I arrive home, but for some reason I still hold out some hope something is done. Maybe the dirty dishes are cleaned, the clothes are folded and put away, or the floor has been vacuumed, but the hope of this happening is as futile as rubbing a lamp for a genie to appear and grant wishes. I stare at my husband, who is still lying on the worn blue yoga matt, in the same position I left him in. That matt is so worn down, there is a permanent indent of him ingrained into the soft foam.
“Can I get you anything?” I ask. Refusing to look at him, I steer my eyes away to the mess that was my nativity scene. I’m too tired to process the loss. When passing him the two Ibuprofen and a glass of water, I wonder if he really needs it, or if it’s just another prop to aid his story.
“How was your shift?” What does he think my shift was like, it’s the same menial tasks day in day out… caring for the old and forgotten. Does he not notice the shuffle in my steps, the arch in my back, the dry callouses of my hands, or the deep blue in the bags under my eyes. Is it too much to ask of him to ask me how I am, how I’m feeling?
“How do you think? Same as always.”
Christmas is coming up. In years past, we would take the kids to the carols, hunt Christmas lights, decorate a gingerbread house, but not this year. Since the accident… I feel as broken and neglected as a piece of the broken nativity scene. I couldn’t imagine a Christmas
“It’s triple the pay if I work overnight on Christmas Eve.”
He doesn’t even bother to respond. This feels like a betrayal to all the hard work I have done to keep this family going. I remember when he use to support and uplift me. He’d comfort me, and go over all the options. We’d form a plan of attack. We were a team. Now that same connection has shattered like a mirror. No more planning or talking. There is no team here. We can’t even touch or look at each other, so how could we go back to being the fun and loving duo we were.   
My beautiful blue bed with pansies has seen better days. But I still enjoy feeling the soft ribbed texture of the sheets on my skin. After tucking Evie into bed, falling into bed gives me as much relief as climbing into a bed of nails. I feels as if I cannot fulling relax knowing he’s right there, next to me. I stiffen up when he’s in the same bed, just lying there as if nothing is wrong, I’m as tight as steel with the amount of tension running through me. Busting open my laptop as I search for an answer to my husband’s mysterious back pain. A new word appears upon my screen, one that rings of truth. Psychosomatic. It makes sense really. Over six weeks of no change. Whilst I work to the bloody bone, he lays there staring at the cobwebs the dress the corners of the celling. I should be able to remove the mask of my profession that I wear all day, instead, I have to keep it, as if the air around me is so toxic and stifling - I am suffocating.
He staggers in. I don’t even lift my eyes from the bright white screen, “How’s the back going? Didn’t the physio mention that you should start to improve after six weeks?” Silence hangs in the air, except for the high-pitched squeaks coming from the floorboards.   
“It’s a slow process Claire.”
It’s the same as our many conversations of late, short and filled with as much tension as a gas tank ready to explode. Turning back to my screen, I continue to stare at the word which screams truth. Psychosomatic. The exhaustion has spread like a disease into the depths of my bones, it numbs the burning fire of resentment lit within me. He is resting soundly, finally, his head swallowed by the pillow. If only he would acknowledge he’s not the only one suffering. Why can’t he just become his old self again?

[Chocolatemilkshake]

Hi Geoo,
I really enjoyed the story, I had a quick read of it and here are some small thoughts!

I think you need to work on not telling the reader everything but trying to show or really really subtly imply. One of Kennedy's main story techniques is to make the reader try and figure out for themselves, often never stating a definite conclusion and employing very subtle extended metaphors. Your metaphors are nice but I think they're a little too obvious when trying to replicate Kennedy's writing.

For instance "I feel as broken and neglected as a piece of the broken nativity scene." I love the link to the original story here but telling the readers she feels like this is probably not how Kennedy would approach it. Maybe something like "Since the accident...all that's left are broken shards." Okay that isn't great either but I'm sure you could come up with something better  Maybe try not to use the word "feel" as this could help with show and not tell.

He doesn’t even bother to respond. This feels like a betrayal to all the hard work I have done to keep this family going. I remember when he use to support and uplift me. He’d comfort me, and go over all the options. We’d form a plan of attack. We were a team. Now that same connection has shattered like a mirror. No more planning or talking. There is no team here. We can’t even touch or look at each other, so how could we go back to being the fun and loving duo we were.   

Here, again I find it a little too obvious, too much description and not enough letting the audience realise for themselves that their relationship is broken and fragmented.

"Near in sight is the exit that leads home, the large navy-blue door of freedom." This is a little contradicting since her home is just as much a prison as the hospital (I loved this idea later on as I agree that this is exactly how Claire feels)

"bursting my laptop open" Not sure if I like the word bursting as it kind of implies its the first time she's looked for an answer to this problem.

As you probably know, Kennedy always has some sort of subtle shift in her stories, which you've done using the word "psychosomatic" I think this is really good but just be careful not to undermine the original story, which ends with hope as the husband takes Claire's hair ties out.

For the next stories you write
1. I would maybe try and think about coming up with your own extended metaphor to subtly thread throughout the piece. 2. Kennedy came into speak with our school and she told us that she usually ends her stories with some sort of physical touch. Perhaps you could do this and link it with a metaphor or something.
3. Continue to put a subtle shift in the story/character.
4. Really focus on not directly stating everything that is happening but showing the reader and letting them decide for themselves what's happening. I know sometimes you want to make it really obvious for your teacher that you are using metaphors, but try to at least make a few very subtle ones (hopefully with an extended metaphor in there too!)

Other than that, keep up the good work and good luck! Take my advice cautiously as your teacher could have something else in mind.