Awful track practice has left me in a stupor. Bleh.
Can't think of anything to write. Instead, I think I'll just post something I've already written.
Here's an excerpt from The Not-So Meet Cute. It's from the middle, so I guess the fact that you don't know what's happening makes it a teaser. I'd post something from the beginning but I don't own it since I sent it out for a scholarship.
Anyways, feel free to critique. This is one of my favorite passages, so be nice and don't steal it.
Thanks! Oh, and by the way, the story is from Piper's point of view, and she can read minds.
The wall looked so plain, I thought as I stared at the one in my room. I lay on my bed, uncomfortable but unwilling to move, staring at my blank walls. There used to be pictures on them, but they had come down long ago.
I felt sorry for myself. I had nothing to do on that rare, sunny day on March. My parents were gone, I didn’t want to see my friends…I was basically wallowing in self-pity. I recognized this, but wasn’t going to address the situation.
Slowly, resolutely, I sat up. I had decided not to lie in my bed all day listening to my neighbor’s thoughts (apparently Howard was having an affair with his podiatrist, Rhonda). Next, I stood up, which was an accomplishment I previously didn’t believe possible.
Then, a sudden irrevocable urge hit me like a cement truck. I had to see his face. The randomness of this internal demand shocked me, but I wasn’t going to argue. I licked my lips, feeling hungry to see a picture, any picture…
My physical hunger led me blindly through my house and to my car. I couldn’t believe the nerve I had to do what I was doing. I knew how stupid it was, however, but I wouldn’t let myself answer to my conscience.
I drove cautiously, wary of the craving that consumed my actions. Obviously, my thinking wasn’t clear if I was on my way to his house---his old house.
I pulled into the driveway and everything appeared as I had left it over a month ago. My arms were shaking like an alcoholic’s would while waiting for their first sip of liquor, that long-waited release…
I could barely hold the keys in my hand after I reached for them; they made metallic clings in my unsteady hands. Taking a deep breath, I reached for the right key and shoved it in the keyhole.
Dust had settled in the house, and it was stirred up when the door swung open. Swirl-y patterns filled the light shaft from the open door as I inhaled the scent of abandonment.
Anxious, I tiptoed toward the kitchen in search of pictures I had seen last time I was in the house. I became filled with melancholy memories, but pushed them down when they threatened to surface.
I peeked into the kitchen discreetly, almost expecting to see the old family that had lived there using it again. Unfortunately, there was no such luck. Just an empty room lay before me. Everything was as I had left it---rather, how they had left it. I shivered, feeling unwelcome in the unused space, but I walked into it anyways.
I grabbed a stack of pictures from the kitchen table and pulled them close to my chest as if they might slip out of my hands. Feeling tangible, photographic evidence that this family really did exist eased my fluttering heart. However, remembering that I actually had no idea what had happened to them made my throat close up.
I ascended the creaky, well-worn stairs to his room, but stopped when I reached the door’s threshold. Did I dare enter the room of so many painful memories, the room where I had previously drained myself of tears? I suddenly felt very lucid, realizing how stupid my whole adventure was. Why was I indulging myself in self-pity? Knowing I’d probably risk a mental breakdown, I opened the door to his room, eyes closed. Only when I had settled myself on his bed did I reopen them.
My breathing became strangled when I saw the seemingly vast room unfold before me. I actually became dizzy, and had to put my head between my knees to ease my haggard breathing. There was an aching chasm between my lungs that continued to rip apart as I remembered him. Tasting salt on my lips, I cursed myself for crying again. I had promised myself I wouldn’t cry for him anymore.
Resolve strengthened, I sat up again. The room was still empty, but I was no longer haunted by what had been. Looking down, I saw my arms were still wrapped around old pictures of them. I slowly loosened my grip and began examining them. Happy moments captured on film lay before me. He was smiling, posing, fake. The one picture I found with a genuine smile ended up in my pocket. Hunger sated, I rested on the bed and looked at the wall. I was back in the same predicament that I had been in at home. Why did my life feel like a never-ending circle of disappointment?
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