Wednesday, March 16, 2011

Writing Wednesday: FML

Okay, this is what I'm changing my title too if my agent will let me.  It more clearly explains what my protagonist Sydney is going through.

Couple things before I post, if anyone wants to guest post some writing on my Wednesday blog, please contact me.  I'm sure people get tired of seeing my crap here all the time.

Also, don't forget my Follower contest get someone to be my 200th follower and you and that person each get a $10 Amazon gift card.

Now, without further ado, an excerpt from FML (and it's an R rated excerpt again, you've been warned):

     “Listen, Syd, ever since you and David started going out I’ve had my-best-friends-girl syndrome.”
     “I don’t get—”
     “I’ve liked you, Syd.  I love how your hair curls just slightly at the ends.  And how your nose wrinkles up when you laugh.  I love the real you, the one who acts like nothing bothers her, but has these moments of quiet reflection when she  thinks no one is looking.  I love your music, your singing.  I love you Syd.”
     “Oh my god.”  I slid out of bed and put my clothes back on.  “I can’t do this Zach.”
     “Why not?”
     “Because, I just broke up with my boyfriend.  Because I still love him, no matter what he’s done.  You can’t just get over that in a day!”
     “I’m not asking you to.  We can take things slow.”
     “No.  We’re not taking things at all.  You need to go.”  I picked his clothes up off the floor, pushed them at him and left my room.  I paced the kitchen.  I wanted to cry, yell, collapse.  This was not supposed to happen.  A sympathy fuck between friends and done.
     Zach came out a few minutes later, disheveled and glossy eyed.  His head hung low as he said, “Bye Syd.  See you later.”
     “Yep.” It was all I could say without screaming.
     As soon as the door shut behind him, I went to my dad’s tool room, grabbed his box cutter and pulled the blade out.  I went to the bathroom and grabbed the hydrogen peroxide, a washcloth, a Dixie up, and a bandage, then proceeded to my room, closing the door behind me.  Placing the blade in the cup, I sat it down on my nightstand, poured peroxide over it, and watched it bubble and foam.  I pulled my pants down to my knees and sat on my bed.  When I thought the blade was thoroughly sterilized, I removed it from the cup.  With a steady hand, I sliced into my thigh, about an inch long, and deep enough for blood to flow. 
     Imagining all the poison, all the anger, all the guilt inside me rushing out, I caught it in the washcloth, so that it could be bleached away in the wash.  When I’d bled out to my satisfaction, I wiped the rest of the blood from my leg, bandaged it up, and it was like nothing ever happened.


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