Here is the first part of a story that I started in the summers, when I wasn’t exactly confident about my writing skills. (I’m still not confident, I need honest criticism to tell me what I’m doing wrong.) Anyone who would like to help me out, please give your feedback on the story, either in the comments section below or email at firstname.lastname@example.org. I’d be really grateful. Thank you.
She slipped back into the pool, drowning herself in the murky memories of her broken life. The cold water chilled her to the bone; she shuddered at the contact. Solitude was her kind of self-inflicted torture. Alone she was vulnerable, an open prey to the negative sadistic thoughts ready to hound her every chance they got. And they did. Her face bore the marks of these attacks, her lank frame screamed out the story of a life that wore her out. She was in need of help. If only someone would notice. But no one ever did.
At some point every rose has to die.
She died, countless times, in countless ways, at the hand of countless people. But this time was one time too many.
Broken glass can never be re-assembled. Even if you put back together a few larger pieces, the tiny crevices remain, forever weakening an entity that always spoke the truth. Broken mirrors lie, for distortion in reality portrays dishonesty.
Her life was one such broken piece of life.
Marina took her fingers off the keyboard and leaned back, away from the computer screen. Re-adjusting her glasses she let out a sigh, as if she’d dropped a considerable amount of baggage with the words she had just typed.
Writing from a third person perspective made it easier for her to write her story. The impersonal pronouns took away the familiarity, made it seem fiction. Writing about her own life kept her agent happy too., the words were emotional to the right degree, jerking tears and spewing venom at appropriate parts. The pain was fresh, the hurt ongoing and her pen poured out exactly what her heart felt.
She saved the draft and decided to turn in for the night. She clicked her laptop shut and pulled out the battery cord with a sudden vehement move. The aggression surprised her. She let out a startled cry and dropped down onto the settee behind her. She cursed her agent out loud. It was his fault she was facing this emotionally extolling exercise. But she had to put food on the table. A broken heart and an empty stomach did not make a good combination.
She stared hard at her cell phone, willing it to ring or just flash the incoming message sign.
She was living her protagonist’s life, or rather her protagonist was living hers. Her boyfriend didn’t call her either. If it weren’t for her own strong memory she would have long forgotten her relationship status.
Relationship. Only a fool would call what she was in a relationship. It was one sided to say the least. There wasn’t even a grain’s amount of love for her in his heart of steel. He simply did not care.
But she kept hanging on, in the hope that one day he might. Optimism was her biggest tool in keeping sane, and sanity kept her alive.
Not that she wanted to live. Each night she went to bed in the hope that her eyes won’t see another sunrise. But since when did anything happen her way?
Bitterness was taking over the reigns again; time for bed, before her mind started working on overdrive, processing negative thoughts.
Nightmares plagued her. She saw herself running into a void, running with no idea when she’d stop. She could actually feel her legs aching, long after the dream was over, the lingering pain a constant reminder of what the future held in store for her.
She believed in dreams, signs, directions from beyond, and her dreams usually came true.
She enjoyed analyzing cryptic images and sequences, it kept her mind from rusting, kept her experimenting with ideas she would never have imagined dealing with.
But this current series of nightmares was redefining her staunch belief; it spoke of her inevitable doom and as much as she wanted to discredit it, she couldn’t. She wouldn’t.
Fear, for her, had always been a driving force she wasn’t easily scared. She had a way of channeling those uncharted neurotic reactions into productive release. And that is why she wrote, scooping up every bit of emotion and letting it run free on paper.