The Exhibit

Posted Mon 16th Jun 2025 at 09:12
by Eliza Harrison

Share

In June 2025, 14-year-old Eliza was honoured with the Nottingham Young Creatives Creative Writing Award.

This prestigious event took place at the Nottingham Playhouse, where she proudly accepted her award on stage before a packed audience.

Eliza’s winning piece, The Exhibit, draws readers into a vivid description that initially seems to portray a wild animal or monster. As the story unfolds, however, it reveals a powerful truth—the exhibit is, in fact, her Tourette’s.

Huge congratulations to Eliza for sharing her story with the world and for helping to raise awareness in such a creative and meaningful way!

The Exhibit

It squirmed and shifted in its cage as the bars kept closing in, its freedom slowly being taken away, independence stripped. The bars were a reminder of the monster it was, the shame it felt eating away at its good nature. The outside overwhelmed it, reeling in the bright lights and stifling smells that abused its head. The surrounding environment was toxic to it, the loudness of it all, draining and scary.

The sounds it made were unlike anything anybody had ever heard before, screeching and shouting, louder and louder. It was inhuman and it only got worse. It lashed out, sudden unpredictable movements, violent and unstable. Uncontrollable. Its actions were forced, excruciating and the noises accompanied them like a cruel partner. It grabbed its head begging for it to stop, for the sounds to cease and leave it in silence, but they kept coming, darting out of its mouth like bullets. And the bullets kept coming, ricocheting off the bars and through to the awaiting audience. Wait what?

A constant flow of people had now examined it and its cage. Ladies, gentlemen, boys and girls all gawking at the strange creature. Some laughing, jeering, some with their phones out trying to capture the essence of the anomalous beast. They stood on their tiptoes, desperate for a better view, for a clearer shot to show their friends. Their disgusted looks and whispered remarks were as hurtful as the jarring movements that wouldn't stop striking. It backed away, trying to hide from the cruel eyes of the public, the shadows were a blanket of protection from the ever - growing crowd. However, the people’s hurtful looks only made the volume worse, the anxiety spilling out of it like an explosion. The movements and sounds became more strained as it tried to hold them in, putting up its own set of bars, trying to contain the chaos within. It tensed its muscles and blocked its mouth, all concentration gone to the difficult task at hand. 5 seconds passed, 10 seconds, but then the forces broke down and the chaos commenced worse than it had ever been, the build-up of the blockage crashing down like a breaking wave.

Hands up to the bars it looked around into the crowd, scanning their faces. A mixture of laughter and cruelty, annoyance and pity. It felt their eyes carving scars into its skin, burning away at its defences. It tried to say something, to say that it couldn’t help it. That the performance they made wasn’t them, but instead another being that controlled them like a puppet, feeding on its pain. That the violent attacks and unsolicited cries were not them, but just an external barrier that excluded them from society. And that it wished every single day that the sounds would stop and leave them in peace, so that first impressions wouldn't always be marred by things it couldn’t control, so that it could live its life without the constant fear of judgement, so that it could finally relax without the movements and noises making that impossible. But all that came out was a piecing scream that startled the crowd, restoring them to their gawking and muttered remarks.

The pit in its stomach grew and grew until that's all it could feel. The negative attention was a horrible feeling, a heavy load on its back that weighed them down constantly. Vulnerable and alone. Anxious and self-conscious. Making loud noises and doing violent movements it couldn't control. With their voice hoarse and joints aching, the eyes on them felt like knives, daggers stabbing at them from all directions. But these sounds and movements could not be covered by a mask, could not be pushed into a dark corner of the mind, forbidden and forgotten. They could not be helped, and they were here to stay. So, the knives kept coming and the feeling grew worse, it longed for a thicker skin. But maybe this would have to do?

But it shouldn’t, my tics are not for you to stare at. They are not for you to judge, to film, to whisper, to gawk, to enjoy or to laugh at. I should not have to hide away or suppress my tics just to fit into your idealistic society. This is my reality. This is my Tourette’s. This is me.

Return to blog