authoring destruction

[19 weeks? Really? It's not that there hasn't been work; just... haven't... posted anything. But I'm starting a sincere effort to get back to this story (I know, I know), starting with the thorough re-write it deserves.]

Amber Poe.

“For the third time, I don't know.”

My words echoed across the telephone line, crackling out of an emergency call center headset into the harried ears of an overworked woman who didn't believe me. Having received all the warnings about how it was illegal to impersonate an actual emergency call, I stood finally at this impasse with this stranger; how could she believe a story that I didn't have to tell, anyway? I felt the stoniness of my own silence bearing down on me. My knuckled whitened on the telephone. This is what 911 is for!

“Ma'am, are you in danger?”

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[yes, I am still working on this story.]

I woke some time after noon, sore but feeling more energized than I had when Trent had woken me earlier that morning. I took a quarter hour to recount my evening and morning, recalling the names of Trent’s friends and what information I’d gathered concerning them, recalling the Trent and Forrest had gone back into the lion’s den to do business and gather belongings. Post this careful meditation, I hauled myself unsteadily to my feet and made my way into the bathroom. It was minimal, but clean and pleasantly spacious. There was a little bit of dust on the counter, indicating to me that the room – and likely, the guest bedroom as well – had not been used in some time. However, there were sufficient toiletries beneath the sink to allow me to clean up.

That shower was maybe the longest I have ever taken. I turned off the incandescent sconce on the wall, letting the light dim to the faint trickle of afternoon sunlight coming through the bedroom window beyond. There in that half-darkness, the hot water pounded over every inch of my body for maybe a half hour before I even addressed the matter of picking the scabs and tangles out of my hair. I’d incurred more minor wounds than I was formerly aware with all the excitement of the last few days. The soap stung into scrapes and abrasions all up and down my body. I could still feel the throbbing, muscle-deep bruise where the hypodermic needle had gone into my back. ( Read more... )

The key fit in the door, popping it open. The interior was clean, and unfortunately empty. ( Gap! )
The room goes black. Time stops in my hands; a tether I can feel pulling against the skin of my fingers. I can remember a time when I didn’t things like this happened to people.

[Why is it, I'm usually inspired when I have other obligations? Like sleep?]

The room goes black. Time stops in my hands; a tether I can feel pulling against the skin of my fingers. I can remember a time when I didn’t things like this happened to people.
( Read more... )

[Yes, there is some missing. How do you like them apples?]

Trent was silent for a while behind me while I rinsed the remainder of the dishes. I finished, turned, and leaned against the sink. Sliding his eyes away from me, he pursed his lips.

“Hmm.” Further silence. I didn’t give him the benefit of leading him toward the answer I was looking for. “So… ah… where do you need to go?”

At last. The million dollar question. I withdrew my slip of paper from the pocket of my jeans and handed it top him. His lips fluttered slightly as he looked it over, half-forming the words as his mind took them in.
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There was blood on the page. This is the most that I remember, of that night, of waking in the strange apartment high in that building that overlooked streets I did not recognize. Even now, the memories of that place come in clots. The world still breaks on me like a wave, at day. My nights are long, endless really, and I feel the tide sucking a little bit more of my forgotten psyche away each morning that spaces me from whatever happened that night. I remember most clearly, though, the blood on the paper.
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