Beneath the Surface

For about six months to a year now, I have been writing a novel. And yes, a full on novel--probably, actually definitely not, as big as the ones George R.R. Martin writes. But nevertheless, a novel. It is a fantasy and I would love to tell you more but the thing is, its a secret. As far as I know, no one has done my idea before. And I am honestly quite proud of myself for writing something original. I can however tell you that it includes the depths of water.
Anyways, I thought today I would share the first page with you. I am in my final stages of editing and hope to send it to one of the many wonderful publishing companies as a pitch to see what they think. Hopefully that will happen by the end of this year or by next. Due to it being grade 12 this year, who knows what will happen. I guess that is what holidays are for. :) (Supposably)

The first page of my current W.I.P.: Beneath The Surface. Enjoy :)

Once upon a time, there was a boy who was known for having a slightly bad temper… and he, was me. The thing was, it wasn’t just a bad temper; the fact was, when it came, it was an ugly dragon’s head, ready to plough into me. It didn’t just effect my emotions, it affected my whole entire body, shutting down my brain and overriding my limbs until it wasn’t me who was controlling my actions or my thoughts, it was the anger itself. Not so much of a happy fairy tale, huh?

So, let’s begin again…

My name was Regan Bloom and I was a seventeen year old who was currently struggling to finish his last year of high school. I honestly didn’t really care much for school, my mother didn’t pressure me into trying my hardest and she didn’t even bother to ask me how school was. So, I guess I fell into a rocky cavern where I was constantly getting into trouble, falling asleep during class and just not paying attention whenever I was awake. I also didn’t have many friends or many people that liked me, and that probably didn’t help my motivation for doing my best either.

In fact, my life was pretty dull and un-extraordinary in the first place. Most of the time, I sat alone—in classes, at lunch, on the bus, at home. However, the more I came to think about it, I didn’t really mind. I was one of those people who preferred the silent, solitude moments. I never was one that was up for crazy nights, drinking alcohol, singing Disney melodies from the top of their lungs… Unlike most teenagers my age, I preferred being at home, my thumbs twiddling with the remote to my very old, quintuplet-hand XBOX. Although, most of the time, I just got frustrated with it because it was so slow and jumpy most of the time. I blame all of my character deaths on the faultiness of my remote.

My mother was practically non-existent. From a very young age, I had learnt to care for myself—cook, clean, buy groceries for myself. The only times my mother did make an appearance for more than a few minutes was on my birthday. However, I will explain the reason a little bit later on. 

Why Me?

So for my university course last week, we had to take the short story that we had written the week before (in my case, my previous blog post: The Hunt) and change the genre. I wasn't entirely sure what my previous short story had been but I decided to turn it into a horror/crime.
I titled it, 'Why Me?'

Why Me?

It happens the moment my eyes open in the morning. It happens the moment my gaze wanders around for the first time—noticing the rays of sunlight filtering through the curtains; surveying the way the sunlight reflects off the fronds of the plant that sits on the windowsill; observing, through still bleary eyes, blood.

The sounds of everyday life filter into the bedroom, completely oblivious to the blood that is everywhere in my bedroom—the carpet, the walls, my hands; completely oblivious to the sight and smell which overtakes anything else. The moment I roll out of bed and place my feet against the floor, the blood seems to beckon me closer for inspection.

The blood stares up at me with sad eyes, with an expression that seems to read, ‘Why me?’ I crouch down beside it and myhand hovers over it; hesitant. A single touch though is all it takes for me to ache for more.

Then the second touch is a completely different story. The second touch begins a whole new frenzy which causes for my own blood to chill, tasting the spilt blood that lies on my skin.You think, maybe a second time won’t hurt. Maybe it won’t be as bad. Maybe it will be easier.

Then just as I am beginning to focus—ping! I have a new Facebook message.

“Hey! How are you? What are you doing” I reply and then, “Oh, you know, planning my future.”

After a half-hearted five minute conversation, mostly one sided, I plan once more. The pen and paper come out and I’m scribbling. Stroke after stroke, word after word, plan after plan. Another ping! And my friend is sending me all of thoseemojis with the tears gushing down their faces while complaining about some relationship that has just ended.Bingo. My friend has just become a part of my plan.

Suddenly my pen is scribbling across the paper at a million miles per hour. The tip cutting into the paper as if it is as sharp as a butcher’s knife. The ink flowing out, the colour of blood.All over my hands, all over my face and all over the sheets of paper.

Blood is everywhere. There is now a body sprawled across my bed and it stares up at me with blank eyes. Eyes that once used to gaze at me with warmth and not the cold they are now filled with. Just like the previous puddle of spilt blood, theirs seems to ask, ‘Why me?’ But I cannot answer that. Nor could I answer it for the last body. It just is and just was. Not a question of why or how, but a matter of it is done and cannot be undone.

The frenzy that had been singing in my blood is satisfied… for now. The sight of orange jumpsuits and bars that imprison your freedom vaguely comes to mind. A large amount of evidence is stacked up, enough for the image to become a reality. But that is not a problem for me. My problem is my next who or when.

If only my friend knew what I did to help her.