Friday, September 23, 2011

Maybe one more before bed..

This is a very rough copy of a writing exercise that I started this semester.. So if it is not too great... Just throwing that out there...

Oh yea.. There is no title to this story.. So suggest titles to me in the comments!!!

Janie sat down at the ancient desk; a desk that once belonged to her great grandmother back during the civil war and was now littered with drafts of a letter she would probably never send. She cleared a spot of the desk before pulling out another piece of paper and writing, “Dear Brad.”
Hum. How to phrase the next part? She knew that she should probably just write down everything she felt, since Brad would never see the letter, but something stopped her. How could she possibly ever put down a year’s worth of feelings in one single letter; on one single page of paper? She had been hurt for so long that she didn’t know how to let the feelings go. She had bottled them up, locked them up. Now she wanted to let them go and she was beginning to find this… impossible.
Impossible to let go and impossible to hold on. How had her life become so complicated?
After much consideration, she picked up the pen and wrote three simple words: “You’re an ass.” There. That described how Janie felt towards Brad, even after a year.
But maybe that was too simple. Maybe she should be more specific about her feelings; not like he’d ever see the letter, right?
            She crumpled the paper and started again. “Dear Brad.” Another pause for thought. “You’re an ass and I hate you. I hate what you did to me. I hate myself for thinking that you were different; that our relationship was different.”
            The tears began to flow as the images of that night passed her mind’s eye. A night that she tried to forget. But that, too, was impossible.
            The scene flashed in her mind and she was back there, in the back of the car, hands and feet tied, gag in her mouth. Stuffed in a trunk, like some broken China doll about to be abandoned on the side of some god forsaken road; she’d probably be some fucked up version of road kill by the morning, cars swerving around her dead and mutilated body. Okay, she had to admit that was pretty dramatic. Maybe she wouldn’t be road kill, for say, but the chances of her surviving this were pretty slim to none.
            “Damnit,” Janie sputtered, her mind snapping back to the present like a stretched out rubber band. She looked down at the letter in front of her; too many emotions to try to put into words. Brad had messed her up so much more than she had ever realized.
            As this realization hit home, Janie decided that maybe she needed help. Maybe she couldn’t let go because she was still hurting; she still had the wound, the hole that Brad had left, eating away at her all of this time, making a hollow shell of what was once Janie; and finally, after all the substance that had made Janie who she was before Brad was eaten away, the shell was now a ghost. A ghost. Someone who had already died, by whatever means, and now roams the earth, never finding peace. Janie had never been able to actually accept this fact. But now she saw it. She wasn’t at peace and could never be if the images from a year ago kept haunting her.
            Janie crumpled the letter, tossed it into the trash can. She made a quick phone call before packing her bag. She was going to find the help that she needed; she was going to make life better for herself, no matter the cost.

© Natalie Davis 2011

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