|
|
|
Hello all of my loyal readers, all zero of you. I am working on writing a new book, so I am going to post an excerpt from my book for your review and comments.
Black Dawn
Chapter One
My proper name is Aurora Cynthia Black, though my father has called me “Little Cinder” since I was learning to toddle and I stumbled into the thankfully un-lit fireplace, emerging with my little body covered in cinders, and the name stuck. That is one of my fondest memories from when I was a child, the good old days, when my family was actually happy. My world has become slightly smaller since then. My bedroom is in the attic now. I haven’t even seen that fireplace since I was five. The room was small, four walls, ceiling, floor, bathroom, but it was warm and colorful. I liked a lot of color. The walls were painted buttercup yellow, the carpet was white, and the bedspread was dark blue. And it had a window. The window was my favorite part of the room. That place was my entire world. I guess what they say is true. It is a small world after all.
My desk was in front of the window, which was where I sat now, drawing meticulously on a page in my sketchbook. I guess it is not right to say that this is the day my story begins, in the place of my imprisonment, for my story began, like everyone else’s story begins, the day I was born. I will say, however, that the most interesting part of my story begins today, though, as it did the day I was born, it began with the sunrise. The sunlight reflected off of the black cobblestones, turning the glow of the dawn black. It was bittersweetly beautiful and the sight of it gave me a renewed sense of hope, despite the fact that hope was wasted on someone like me. I was deeply engrossed in my work when there was a sharp knock at the door, causing me to jump at the sudden noise. “Cinder, are you decent?”
“No,” I replied. “But I am dressed,” I told him, just like I did every time he asked me that question. I heard the sharp grinding sound as the heavy bolt was slid out of the lock and the door opened. “What do you want?” I asked, not even bothering to look up from my sketchbook. My father rarely came upstairs unless it was to do laundry or to give me grief.
“What are you drawing?” I felt a sudden jolt in my stomach and quickly covered the picture with my arms, but all that managed to do was arouse his suspicion further. “Let me see it,” he ordered. I sighed and moved my arms slowly away from the drawing of a beautiful woman with long honey colored hair and yellow eyes.
“Did I get close this time?” I asked hopefully.
“Not even close. Her hair was much longer and she had a flat chest, at least she did until you were born.” I pulled out my notebook and added the things he had just told me to the list of things he had told me over the years. “I thought that that was supposed to be you for a moment.”
“Well, it kind of was. You did say she looked like me,” I said. He shrugged.
“Well, you are her daughter.”
“Yeah, but I’m your daughter too and I don’t look a thing like you.”
“You have my nose,” he said absently. My father’s name was Darnel, a name which meant “Beloved”, which didn’t seem to suit my father. If I had had my way, his name would have meant “a**l-retentive, tyrannical, hard-a**, jerk”, but, unfortunately, I never get my way. “Anyway,” he said sharply. Here it comes, I thought, the lecture. “I thought I told you to put her out of your mind.”
“She’s my mother. I just wanted to know what she looked like, you know, incase she came back.”
“That’s doubtful,” he replied. I sighed.
“Did you want something?” I said shortly.
“I needed to have a talk with you.”
“Ok. Go ahead.”
“I’m not going to be here for dinner tonight.”
“Why?” I asked, uninterested.
“That’s my business,” he snapped.
“Whatever,” I replied.
“Will you be alright on your own? You’ve never been left by yourself for longer then a couple of hours.”
“I’ll be fine.” He got up then and walked across the room to the window.
“I really need to fix this window sill,” he said absently. “The wood’s all rotted out. Don’t lean on it. It’s a deathtrap. I’ll fix it when I get home.”
“How long will you be gone?”
“I’ll be back tomorrow morning.”
“Ok,” I responded, working on my drawing again. “Longer?” I asked, pointing to the woman’s hair.
“Longer, and fix the chest. And her eyes were wider and her lashes were thicker. I’ll see if I can find you a picture.”
“You’ve been looking for a picture of her since I was eleven.”
“And one of these days I’ll find one.” I rolled my eyes.
“When are you leaving?” I asked.
“In just a few moments. Your dinner is on the table,” he said, pointing to the small table by the door where an aluminum foil covered plate rested. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” Without another word, he got up and left the room. The first thing I did when I was sure he was gone was turn up my radio as loud as it would go. My father hated my music. He always said that it sounded like a tin can full of razor blades tied to a bumper and being driven over concrete at fifty-five miles an hour. I retorted by telling him that it sounded like the inside of my head. Another reason that I blared the loud music when my father was gone was the fact that I hated the quiet. At least when he was hear, I could hear noises from the house, my father’s voice on the phone, the shower running, the television, the door bell, the cars on the street outside. Now the house was quiet and I felt alone, even though I was used to being alone.
I haven’t been allowed outside of my room, not since I had become a prisoner at the age of five. When I asked why I had to stay in the attic, my father responded with “You’re my special little girl and I want to keep you all to myself.” I stopped buying that when I was eleven. He never treated my like I was his “Special little girl” however. When I told him as much, he told me something closer to the truth. He told me that I wasn’t natural and that I didn’t belong in the world to endanger others with my little monthly problem. In this house, my “time of the month” had nothing to do with becoming a woman.
My father called me a werewolf, for lack of a better word, though, every full moon, when the change came, he insisted that I had to be sedated and chained down. My father was a doctor and could acquire morphine easily. When you are injected with morphine, you feel nothing until the drug runs its course through your system. I never knew what the change was like. My father had told me that it was very painful, which was why he drug me when the time came. The room was stuffy and stagnant, so I opened the window, hoping to tempt a cool breeze inside my stifling attic bedroom. It was cold outside. It was nearing October and the smell of the air told me that snow would be soon approaching, so cold breezes were ample. With the breeze, however, came a scent. My nose twitched and my mussels became taunt. There was an intruder in my yard!
Despite the fact that I had never been aware of the change, my senses belonged to my wolfish form, and, because of my heightened sense of smell, I could tell that there was an intruder in my yard. I leaned out of the window as far as I possibly could, my eyes narrowed, a growl in my throat. I could see movement in the trees and I turned around, sitting on the window sill, hoping to climb onto the roof. I was getting ready to shout at the interloper when I suddenly felt myself falling into nothingness. The rotted out window sill gave way under my weight. A scream reached my lips and I felt a jolt as my jeans got snagged on a nail. I took that opportunity to lock my legs on the window to keep myself from falling forward. I screamed again when I saw a figure running across the yard towards the house. I felt the materiel of my pant leg rip and I gripped the window tighter. I could see the ground below me and I knew that, if I was unable to hold on, then my neck would surely break upon impact. I didn’t have the upper body strength required to hoist myself back in the window. My only hope was if someone passing by heard me and had a ladder handy.
As if in response to my plea, I felt a hand on my knee and another hand reach out to wrap around my shoulders, pulling me inside of the window. I landed on my stomach, on top of my rescuer. My heart was pounding in my chest and terrified tears began burning behind my eyes as I buried my face into my rescuer’s shoulder. “Shhhhh,” he whispered, gently stroking my hair. “It’s alright.” As soon as my heart rate returned to normal, I rolled off of him. “Are you ok?” he asked. When I looked up at him, about to answer, my heart began pounding for a different reason. There was a stranger in my house...
I hope you liked it. Maybe if I get enough demand (hint hint) I will post more.
 Julia_Sparrow · Mon Feb 16, 2009 @ 11:43pm · 0 Comments |
|
|
|
|
|
