I thought tonight I would gather some courage and let you read an excerpt from the novel I'm working on. I can't tell you how scary this is for me! For whatever reason, writing about my life is easy. I just write the truth. But welcoming you into my head, where the stories are written, is just plain frightening.
Here's a little background: The book is about a girl, possibly with mental illness, who falls into piracy, during the Golden Age of piracy. The story is written from her point of view, and it's up to the reader to decide if she is crazy or can just see things no one else is sensitive enough to be aware of.
I don't know if I'm afraid you'll think it's stupid or silly or horrible or just makes no sense at all. But I have to share it eventually, right? This is towards the beginning. Our main character, Charlie, has, that day, cut her own face, in the shape of a "C", like her deeply beloved, deceased Grandfather used to trace on her temple and cheek. This is Charlie's very unpleasant father's arrival. Warning! It's not very nice. And forgive the language! Here goes:
And arrive, he did. Late, as usual, and clouded in an aroma of
smoke and drink and lady’s perfume. I wasn’t supposed to notice, these things,
but I couldn’t help it.
As soon as he came through the door, he kicked at the
doorframe, knocking loose clumps of dried mud and manure. He shrugged out of his coat and
threw it at my mother like she was a hat rack. It was an understandable mistake
really. Unlike usual, when she waited for him in the parlor, she was standing
right next to the door, her posture straighter than most iron rods. She caught
the coat and hung it up.
“Good evening, darling,” she said stiffly.
“Get me a glass of whiskey,” he said by way of a reply.
All this I witnessed from my assigned chair in the parlor.
My father was not yet aware of the incident with the scalpel, or the resulting
doctor’s visit. My hand absentmindedly stroked the cut over the bandages. “’C’
for Charlie,” I heard Grandfather’s voice say.
“He’s not here to help you now,” said a different voice. One
of the Hidden, Tristyn, I knew, but his voice was so close-sounding, like his
lips were by my ear, that I craned my head around and looked for the source.
“Oy!” said a third voice from the doorway. Father. He held
onto the doorframe and stumbled a bit. I didn’t need to ask to know he’d been
at Reginald’s Tavern already. “What’s that on your face?”
I often wondered what he thought my name was—what he called
me in his mind. To most I was Charlie, to my mother, Charlotte. But I couldn’t
remember the last time he actually called me by a name other than “you”. Most
often, he omitted a title entirely.
I squared my shoulders and took a deep, steadying breath.
Pussyfooting around the subject would do me no favors with him.
“I cut it,” I said clearly. “Mother called Dr. Dryson in,
but she didn’t need to. It’s not—“
“Hold on a fucking minute!” he bellowed, then moved
unsteadily towards me. It was only then that I realized just how inebriated he
was. I noticed Mother was nowhere to be seen, probably a very wise decision on
her part. He stumbled across the room, tripping on a threadbare rug, and
catching his balance by grabbing the armrest on a chair. Then, moving faster
than I would have expected, he seized my throat and shoved me back into the
sofa.
His voice alarmingly and deadly soft, he said, “You’re
wasting my good money on a doctor because you want to be hurt? You should have
told me. I’ll do it myself for free. And we won’t call no goddamn doctor,
neither.”
“Darling,” Mother’s voice trilled from the doorway. “Why
don’t you take a bit of a lie-down while Charlotte and I prepare supper?”
Slowly, Father released his grip on my throat and
straightened up, weaving ever-so-slightly. I could smell the heavy, yeasty
scent of ale on his hand. I wondered if Father would remember this later. No,
my hidden friend was exactly right. Grandfather wasn’t here to help me now.
It makes my heart pound just to think people will read this! I know it's kind of awful, but Charlie really does have a meaningful life, as a pirate, as an individuated person. I want you to be honest, but at the same time, be gentle!! Haha! I am so scared. But it's time to start sharing it, because it makes me more eager to work on it and improve it.
I promise it gets better, and makes more sense if you read more, but this is all you get for now!
Sarah
