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>Is it only me waiting for the gorgeous naked man to >run down the line??? *G* > >Seriously, this is a great idea! To focus on >something and get it done? What could be better? > >Well...hmmmm. I got an idea. > >Let me explain first. This time of year is always, >always, always, slow on this board, and while I know >I've been absent of late and not doing my part, it's >slower than slow. And I miss it. After a quick >scroll, I know I'm not the only one MIA. This board >is what keeps me sane, and it's the only place I go >where I freely admit that I dabble in the written >word. I'd like to see, and participate, in more >activity here, and I think this is the perfect >opportunity for us. So... > >How about as well as typing 'I'm in' we pick a day of >the week that works in our schedule, and then on each >self designated day, post a quick update on our >progress, our triumphs and frustrations, and post say >the last 500 words we wrote for the week. > >Now, I've been thinking about my first WIP for a bit >now, and am past ready to get it together. And I mean >that literally, cause I have scenes for it saved all >over the place. If I remember correctly, I have about >seven different, or edited, versions saved on disc, on >zip and now on flash drives. And now that I'm being >honest with myself, I have numerous individual scenes >on about three different computers. And besides, the >opening scene deals with the homework assigned this >week, and I'm taking it to mean that this is fated. >*G* > >So I'm in, and I'm posting a scene. > > > > >Excerpt from working title ‘Pander’ >by E. M. Sawatzky © 2001-2009 All rights reserved. >Posted for critiquing purposes only and does not >constitute publication. > > >By naming the road indicative of dreams, will death >stalk us? Will ignoring the censure of others cause >harm? Can something so beautiful, so pure, kill? > >Denial, the uncharted expanse of potential, is beyond >comprehension. It is the ultimate tome of picturesque >scenes, written in the language of possibilities and >achievements. Imagine a world where we can run free >through the welcoming meadows of opportunity, swim in >the churning rivers of setbacks and scale the haughty >mountains of success, without fear of failure or >consequence. Where no one would dare question our >choices, in the pretence of kindness, because the >decisions we make are not acceptable, understood or >qualified by the lofty standards of the well >intentioned. > >No, in the great Land of Denial, we wouldn’t have to >face the criticism of strangers. > >Who does she think she is anyway? Her, an outsider, >possessing an education with no knowledge, and yet she >is the one with the audacity to confront me with ><i>her</i> idea of the truth? What does she know? >She wasn’t even my doctor. She was just the one >working the night the ambulance brought me to the >emergency room. I don’t even remember her name. > >I close my eyes to remove the image of her pity, but >by doing so have to hear the concern in her voice as >it repeats in my mind. <i>I’m releasing you today. I >can’t justify keeping you in here any longer. I >suggest you go home and take a long look in the >mirror, because your denial is going to kill you. You >have to face reality. Your home isn’t safe. You need >to get out. If not for yourself, do it for your >children.</i> > >She doesn’t understand. She doesn’t know. I can >prove it. > >My eyes open and I glance in the mirrored closet doors >in our bedroom. I see the truth. > >And I know it’s not me with the purple bruises and >blackened eyes concealed from the world with makeup >and dark sunglasses. It’s not me with the swollen >cheek and split lip. It’s not me who lies to my >children and smiles through the pain. No honey, Daddy >didn’t hurt me. It was an accident. Mommy was >careless. Again. > >I am the good mother, the obedient wife. The provider >when things are tough and he can’t find work. I am >the one who knows of his childhood of abuse and his >struggle with alcohol and drugs. I’m the only one who >understands him. The only one who supports him and >all his decisions. > >I am not the stranger in the mirror. > >My shaky fingers reach out to touch her cheek, as if >my touch will get through to her when all the lessons >haven’t. If only she were a better wife, a better >mother, he wouldn’t do this to her. She should try >harder. Then the beatings would stop. She wouldn’t >be hurting him anymore. They would be happy. A >family. He only did this because he loved her. > >It’s her fault. All of it. Everything. > >Why didn’t she just go? Why had she waited? Of >course, he was angry. > >She deserves this. > >Dull, lifeless eyes stare back at me from a face >devoid of expression. She wants to die. It’s the >only way for her suffering to end. > >I turn away, unable to bear her pain. Her reflection >stares back at me from the window. I can’t escape. >She taunts me. She pleads with me when I’m powerless >to help her. > >A pivot back, my fingers seize the glass sculpture of >a raptor in flight sitting on the night table. Intent >on the insatiable urge to destroy her and everything >she represents, I hurl the beautiful object at her. > >She’s tough. She emerges unscathed. > >The crystal, a gift I received from my father, >destroyed. My hand on my side, I shuffle over the >carpet and wince from the sharp jab of pain in my ribs >as I bend at the knees and pick up the pieces. Her >wings broken, she can no longer fly. > >“What have I done?” I have no strength and sink down >to the carpet in anguish, confronting the >manifestation of despair in the image before me. A >pathetic excuse for a woman who cowers of the floor. >Ashamed, I glance down, at the fragmented pieces of >shattered glass that represent my life. > >Through the blurry haze of tears, I see the person >that once was. I am the stranger in the mirror. The >bruises around my throat are a threat to my sanity. I >understand the reality I created when the hopelessness >of my situation became too much to face. When my son >was born and I was too worthless to get out and find >the help he deserved. When I brought my daughter home >and he sneered she’d grow up to be as useless as me. >After denying the truth for so long…it hurts. Great >Spirit, it hurts. Worse than anything, and >everything, my husband did to me. > >My fingers stroke back and forth, over and over, >testing the edge. It’s sharp now, like a razor. >Blood wells up where it slices into my thumb, >trickling down and across my wrist in a trail of >coincidence. Numb to physical sensation, it doesn’t >even sting. > >No. In the misery of living, we are all liars. Just >like me. Just like the doctor. > >Denial isn’t going to kill me. > >I am. > > > >*~*~*~*~*~* > >His body could not endure the abuse much longer. He >hadn’t slept in more days than he could remember, >although with an odd detachment, knew he had been >sitting cross-legged in the clearing for two moons, >waiting. Weak from fasting, from purging his system >to make him worthy, and still, he hadn’t sacrificed >enough. He unsheathed his knife, chanting as the tip >sliced through skin on his chest and forearms. When >the prayer faded to the heavens, the knife slipped >from his bloody fingers. > >With calm unconcern, he placed his hands wrist up on >his knees, flexing and curling his fingers, >encouraging the blood to flow. Ruby-red liquid, his >life force, welled up from the slits on his arms, >following a twisted path of fate over his wrists and >spattering on the ground. The severity and number of >cuts a grave indication that this was the last resort >of a desperate man. But he would do anything, even >surrender his life, to feel her presence once more. > > >Time had ceased to matter. Weightless, he drifted >unconcerned, confident an attempt to find her spirit >would succeed. > >How or why he didn’t understand. It was a queasy >sensation inside himself, an intuition he had learned >to follow. Experience had taught him not to ignore >the hurtful twisting in his guts. Anguish was the >instinctual drive that prompted him to rein in his >horse, leave his companions with the hunting party and >return to a place he never intended to revisit. > >All for her. She called to him, and if necessary, >today was the day he would join her. > >A centered mind would allow him to distance himself >from the hurt, the loneliness, from the suffocating >darkness and apprehension holding him back. His >resolve strengthened, he forced himself to take >shallow breaths, to relax and remain calm. He could >feel his heart as it laboured. > >One beat. Two beats…Three…Fou… > >After years of enduring without her, he could still >see her beautiful face in his mind. Feel her lush >curves under his hands, the warmth of her smooth skin. > The vision of her so real he was at peace, lulled >into contentment. He remembered her compassion, the >empathy she gifted to others. He let the sound of her >laughter guide him to her, to allow her presence to >fill the empty void of loneliness. It was a treasure >to be with her again, to be able to reach out and >touch her, to hold her hand. > >Her grip turned cold. Despair clashed with his dream. > Hopelessness meant to torment him, misery called him >a fool. The desperation in the whispered words he >couldn’t comprehend haunted him. > >Again the pressure pushed at his chest, his wrists. >He couldn’t breathe. His body felt cumbersome, his >arms and legs useless. His fingers wouldn’t curl into >a fist. Troubled, he concentrated. And sensed >another. > >This was wrong. She had invaded his world. Her. A >white woman choosing to make the final journey. Tired >of the pain of life, she wanted to sleep the eternal >slumber. He stopped his struggles. The onerous >heaviness and discontent disappeared. The words >became clear, even if he had to strain to hear them. >He saw her through a blurry haze. > >She beguiled him, a presence out of time. He raised >his hand to cup her cheek, to make sure she was real, >but he was weak and his arm was heavy, the simple >gesture a monumental task too much for him. “Woman, >why do you do this?” His voice, hoarse from his >prayers, emerged as a gruff whisper. > >“Why do you?” > >He glanced at the foreign material bound tight over >each wrist, the bloodstained cloth hiding cuts he did >not remember inflicting upon himself. “If not for the >giving of yourself to bind my wounds, I’d be dead. >Why is my life worth more than yours?” > >She didn’t answer. > >He saw her then, felt her purpose, recognized her for >who she was. He smiled, relieved, elated, and >saddened all at once. Her life, the life he had >wished for her, was to be filled with love. Not with >the pain he glimpsed within the shadows of her eyes. >“You are meant for important things. You have many >joys ahead of you.” > >She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I must go.” With a >stumbling movement, she twisted away and gained her >feet. > >Exhausted, she didn’t have the will to see the wonder. > This place made her uneasy and heightened her fears >and despair. The shifting in her eyes spoke of her >need to flee. Anxiousness defined her tense muscles >and her desire to escape from her suffering. She was >as far from weak as he was from strong, her coming to >him told him much, but she would leave him and that >was not an option until she understood the >consequences. > >“Wait!” He tried to swallow. “Thirsty. My canteen…?” > >Without answering, her gaze swept over his >surroundings, until she spotted his saddlebags. “In >there?” > >Drowsy, he closed his eyes, listening. > >She rifled through his possessions; her footsteps loud >behind him as she hurried back. > >“Wake up!” Her hand touched his shoulder. “Don’t you >dare go to sleep.” > >“Tired.” > >“If you die on me, I’ll…” > >“You’ll what?” He opened his eyes. “Leave me to rot? > Woman, you were going to anyway.” > >“I shouldn’t be here.” > >“No. You shouldn’t be.” > >She passed him the canteen, and when he made no move >to take it, set it on the ground where he could reach >it. “I must go.” > >“I’m glad you’re here.” > >“Glad? Why?” > >“Could you hold my hand? Please. Just for a few >minutes?” > >Suspicion crept into her expression. > >“I am afraid. I only ask for comfort before I am >alone. The memories hurt me and I have no one. But I >suppose you wouldn’t understand what it’s like to have >no one care for you.” He swallowed, the words using >up his remaining strength. “To die alone.” > >She wiped the tears from her cheeks. “I understand.” > >Aware that blood still flowed from her wounds on each >wrist, he shifted toward her. With an impotent rage, >he realized she wouldn’t let him touch her, or help. >She would withdraw and be lost to him forever. He >feigned a greater weakness, a deception of truth. “I >am ashamed. I am not worthy of you.” He turned his >face away from her, his body following. “Go.” > >His fingers stiff and clumsy, he worked at the knots >out of the binding. Waiting. He knew her; he >understood the kindness she possessed that wouldn’t >allow her to leave him. And then, when most would >begin to begin to wonder, when they would doubt the >strength of their convictions, he felt her tentative >touch on his shoulder. He smiled. > >“I am here. You are not alone.” She settled close >beside him and threaded her fingers with his. > >Determined she survive, he tightened his grasp and >struggled to wrap the strip of cloth around her wrist. > She resisted his wishes, offering nothing more than a >token resistance and yet, he was breathing hard, >panting with effort, and still the fabric wasn’t >secured. “Woman, stop fighting me.” > >“Let me go. I’m tired.” > >“Then let me hold you until we are both rested.” > >As frail as she was, she defied him. Until his blood >smeared across her hand. > >He smiled in triumph. “I’m bleeding again. We ><i>will </i>rest together.”
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