The Wrong Choice

The Wrong Choice

Status: In Progress

Genre: Fantasy

Houses:

Details

Status: In Progress

Genre: Fantasy

Houses:

Summary

I promise I didn't mean to. I didn't know it would happen like this. I made a mistake. If I could, I would go back and change it. Unforutnately, reality doesn't work like that.

This is a sample to decide if I want to continue writing. Constructive criticism is appreciated.
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Summary

I promise I didn't mean to. I didn't know it would happen like this. I made a mistake. If I could, I would go back and change it. Unforutnately, reality doesn't work like that.

This is a sample to decide if I want to continue writing. Constructive criticism is appreciated.

Chapter1 (v.1) - Undead

Author Chapter Note

Enjoy and comment. No flames, but constructive criticism is encouraged. Please explain why you dislike something. It is far more useful.

Thank you,
Little Lady Lords

Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: May 13, 2017

Reads: 33

A A A | A A A

Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: May 13, 2017

A A A

A A A

I don’t know where to start, so I suppose I’ll start a little before the wrong fiction begins. I’m your average small town college student, in a big town college, wide eyed and over excited. I hadn’t really done much of anything. I grew up with my nose in a book and when I wasn’t reading, I was doing homework. College was going to be different. I would be involved, join clubs, make friends, find love. All of it. I was going to live.


Unfortunately, living isn’t so easy. I arrived with no one to greet me. That was when it first occurred to me that I had made a mistake, been too determined to leave the world I knew behind. Not that I would admit this to my parents. They could never know. I wasn’t smart enough to do out-of-state and earn a full ride. They had already paid in loans and blood to send me here. I had to get it right. If not for me, for them.


I devoted myself to making friends during the first semester, but my desperation to make friends painted a smiling veneer over my personality, made me someone fake. My values changed. I prioritized spending time with friends over studying, feigning interest. As the semester wore on, the coating scratched, and I started to show through. I became more focused on my studies and withdrawn, but I had pretended so devotedly that I felt guilty for taking the veneer off. It lead to a bipolar character where I swung back and forth from friendly to cruel. I felt out of control. I was out of control. I couldn’t see my own feelings anymore. Sad and happy and angry all blurred together. I was everything at once, nothing at all and wrong all at the same time. I mistook friendship for love and love for friendship, and the world I built for myself burned. As it burned, I felt the ashes settling heavy on my heart. When they weren’t smoking the air from my lungs, there was vacuum filled with the empty sting of missing. Missing family, missing friends, missing love, missing everything.


I didn’t know what to do. I was choking on air without the breath to cry for help. That’s when the urges started. Subtle, easy to ignore twinges in the pit of my stomach. I started to tear at my lips, pealing away the layers until iron spilled on my tongue. Then the guilt set in, the shame. But the guilt made the urges worse. I would pretend to fight them, clenching my fists until my nails cut into my skin and tiny drops filled the seems. Blood. Again blood. I didn't realize, at first, that the blood was what I wanted, what I craved. Everything was about the blood. I should have stopped myself. I couldn’t even say that I didn’t see it coming. I did. I fought it. I tried. I didn’t want to. But I wasn’t strong enough. The desire overwhelmed the fear.


I used my key. It hurt. God did it hurt, but at the same time, the pain rushed into that vacuum. The pressure on my heart lifted, but only while the pain was there. I was only alright while the sting of the world superseded the sting of the missing. I didn’t mean to cut so deep. I didn’t mean to lose so much blood. I didn’t mean to leave a mess for my roommate. I didn’t mean a lot of things, but they happened. I didn’t even leave a note to explain to my family why they didn’t have a daughter anymore.


Dying wasn’t easy. I could feel it. Every fiber crying out for help. The same silent cry I’d been making for weeks bubble out of my mouth, falling half-formed, weak and hysterical, barely a gasp. I’d made a mistake. Help me. Save me. But I pretended too well. No one knew who I was, how much I hurt. 

My roommate, Sophie, found me in the bathroom. She vomited. I would have too. It’s strange, watching the world from the outside. I reached out to comfort her, tell her I was alright. It was a lie. The same lie I always told, but I didn’t want her to hurt. Not on my account. I’m sorry Sophie.

She tried to save me. Did CPR until the EMTs arrived and whisked my body away. It didn’t matter, but I wish I could have thanked her. I watched the doctors, calm yet anxious, giving me transfusions and trying to burn my cells back to life. Some of them caught fire, only to whither again. I was the first death for a new intern. When he left work that day, he cried. He shouldn’t have done that, not for me. I never wanted this. I wanted the world to stop. I wanted off the ride, but I never meant to take so many down with me. I’m sorry, intern.

I saw my mama bury her baby girl. I saw the strongest, fiercest, kindest woman in the world cry. She tried not to. She kept her breathing even, held her eyes open, refusing to blink, but they spilled over. First, a tiny trickle out her left eye. Then a steady stream from both. She didn’t wipe them away. She didn’t acknowledge their existence. She just watched them lower me into the ground. I think I broke her. She sent Mimi, my and her first stuffed animal, with me. I was her first and only baby. She couldn’t have anymore. I was her miracle. Before she snuggled Mimi in my arms, she clung to her like I did when I was little, like Mimi could take all the pain away. In that moment she was weak and fragile, but always kind. She needed Mimi, but she sent her with me, so I wouldn't be cold and alone. I’m sorry Mama.

My dad, who I never could forgive for not being there to raise me, who I hated as much as I loved, to whom I had the most left to say, didn’t bother hiding his sorrow. He drowned his sorrow, spilled as many tears as he did shots. He got sober for me the first time, trying to earn that forgiveness I never gave. I wish I had told him that I loved him all the same. I wish I had given him the chance to be the father I wanted him to be. He could have. He was once. He was the parent, when I was little, who I ran to and climbed all over and shared my secrets with. I whispered one last secret to him as he laid a beautiful bouquet next to Mimi. I told him that I loved him, that I always had. He didn’t hear me. He never did. I’m sorry Daddy.

Everyone I knew, everyone I hurt, lined up to throw dirt on me, hiding away the pain I caused them. I told them sorry, sorry, sorry, with every clump, but it was never enough, could never be enough. I began to fade. The darkness, the nothing, the vacuum grew with each handful.

Sorry, Sophie. Sorry, intern. Sorry, Mama. Sorry, Daddy. Sorry, friends.

All the sorrys trapped like all the cries before them. Save me; save me; save me. Sorry; sorry; sorry.

I’m scared. Help me.

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Dark is the absence of light, and humans are born fearing it. Absence of light eventually always leads to absence of life. I know that. I felt absence all around me. Buried alive, because I was dead. I panicked, clawed at the casket. But nothing. There was nothing, just me, sobbing in the dark, just me alone in death. People think that death is an escape, but really it’s a prison, walls of cold, hard wood, nothing to do but gasp and wait, and wait and cry. I lulled myself into a sort of peace in the gaps, learned to cling to the fog of thought. I couldn’t say how long I waited: seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years. Time lost meaning. When I hurt it was like I had hurt forever, when I crawled into the fog, it was the same moment I crawled out.


The light hurt the next time I saw it. My eyes had grown accustomed to nothing and the assault of everything was too much. My eyes burned. I tried to keep them open. I didn’t want to go back into the dark, but it hurt. I squeezed them shut, but the light burned through them. After an eternity in the dark, light was too much. I cried. 


“Aah oooh eee aaan, eee aaan ay or caw ah?”


The words were jarring. An eternity with only my whimpers and the language of blurred thoughts, and coherence becomes a foggy memory. I squinted in the direction I thought the voice had come from, but all I saw was light, light, light. All I wanted to see was light. It hurt, but it meant I was alive. Dying was a dream. I’d never seen my mama cry. I’d never pushed my Daddy off the wagon. I’d never disappeared without a goodbye. Someone had heard my cries. Sophie must have arrived in time. The intern must have zapped me back to life. I was in the hospital and this bright light was life crawling back inside of me, vivid and sharp, piercing and beautiful.


“Are you Lillian, Lillian Taylor Carter?” The voice asked again. Clear, crisp and perfunctory. He sounded young, maybe the intern?


“Are you Lillian Taylor Carter?” The voice asked again, not impatiently but as if he already knew the answer and was just waiting for me to catch up.


I opened my mouth, shaped what I thought were words, but nothing came out. I shook my head, trying to banish the fog. Salt from tears falling over my mouth.


“You’re not?” This time, he sounded irritated. 


Words fluttered up from my stomach, catching on my tongue and ricocheting around. I tried to spit them out. “Ah om.”


“Brilliant,” muttered the intern, “all this effort to revive her, and she’s a dud. The transition failed.”


“What are we going to do? We’re running out of time, and she’s the closest we’ve gotten,” said a second voice, feminine and lilting. She sounded on the verge of tears.


I moaned, struggling to sit up. I couldn't quite feel my own body, so I couldn’t quite say what actually happened, but the girl saw something.


“Look, she moved! Maybe she’s coming to? Let’s get her somewhere safe. Maybe she just needs more time.” Her voice rose with a mixture of excitement and fear as she spoke. Maybe I wasn’t saved yet. But this time, I would fight harder. I couldn’t leave without saying goodbye.


I tried to cling to the light, but something heavy was smothering me. This death wasn’t as bad as the first. The heaviness settled like a blanket, warm and safe. Death shouldn’t feel safe. It’s not fair. I tried to kick, but I couldn’t really move. Whatever the first death had done, it softened me up for the second. I couldn't fight. Not really. Unconsciousness, danced around me. Like water, smoothing down a rough stone in a river. I was pulled under and pushed around, and rounded out. It felt nice. Everything harsh and grating rubbed away. It was raw in the best way, like the ache after a good cry. Washed clean with salt water. It stung at the edges, but it was rejuvenating.


I shouldn’t want to go. I should want to live. I should fight. I couldn’t though. I’m a can’t plant. Can’t, can’t, can’t. I’m sorry mama. I was going to come back.


© Copyright 2017 Little Lady Lords. All rights reserved.

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