I know, I know… It’s been a little while. And I promised myself that I would start doing this more. But honestly, my head has been everywhere else but on keeping up with this blog. I have been writing a little everyday, trying really hard to get my “novel” as close to completed before the next NaNoWriMo starts. I want to be able to start on a new project knowing that my current project has been written, not edited, but written.
It’s a good thing that Camp NaNoWriMo in April and July, as well as joining a writing group on Facebook, has kept me pretty focused. I am pretty pleased with things are headed in my current WIP, but have so many ideas on where I want to take it. It’s a good thing I still have 20,000+ words that need to be written just to meet the 50,000 word goal.
In the meantime, I want to resurrect part one of a short story I had posted back in December. I’ve been thinking of incorporating it into one of my bigger projects, either the one I’m working on now or one for the future. Any thoughts, suggestions, or comments would be great. Especially since reading other people’s material makes me question any ability that I think I have.
With that, here’s part one of The Stairs…
I vaguely remember what the bathroom looked like. There was a large mirror to my left and above a cream, faux-marble counter. The white wooden door of a medicine cabinet peeked out from behind the left side of his head. To the right was nothing but the hazy glow of white street lamps trying to shine through a frosted window.
Up until that night, I had never been that excruciatingly angry.
He was practically begging. “Please.” “Why not?” “Just for a minute.” But I couldn’t, I didn’t want to. Here we were, locked in a dark bathroom on the second floor of a house that belonged to someone I didn’t know. I can still hear him trying to charm me into giving in. He had a hold of my right wrist and was gently tugging it, trying to persuade me to my knees. All the while smiling. And begging. I said no. Nicely. And I said it repeatedly. But he kept trying to sweet-talk me. “Don’t you love me?” “C’mon, please.”
Finally out of frustration, I snapped at him. “Get your whore Andrea to do it.” It was petty, I know. But what can I say? I was only 15. I didn’t know any other way to behave. As the words flew out of my mouth, I pushed him away from me. I was still so disgusted about his previous indiscretions that I figured what better way to get him to leave me alone.
How we got from inside the bathroom to out in the hallway, I don’t remember. But he was beyond pissed. I could hear him mumble something as he turned toward the stairs. I don’t remember what exactly, but it was enough at the time to make me feel like I had just been gutted. I was nauseous and angry and hurt. In the seconds it took him to walk toward the top of the stairs, I took a tally of all of the hurtful things he had ever done, all of the nasty, hateful things he had ever said, and all of the rules and regulations that came with being with him. In those few seconds, I wanted him to feel every minute of pain that he had ever caused me.
I had every intention of hurting him. And I truly believed it would have been his fault. He had pushed me to the edge. I wanted him to know what it was like to be bruised and beaten, and then have those same wounds kissed better by the person who inflicted them. I wanted him to see what it was like to feel like a caged animal living in fear.
I fully intended to push him down those stairs.