The Wings of My Words: Where The Broken Things Are

Catch-up update:
What happened to my November novel? Sickness. Lots and lots of sickness. For the first week, I wrote a few pages of fun stuff, but then I spent the next three weeks in survival mode with the flu that was followed immediately by what we guessed is strep (they ran out of strep tests at the doctor's office) followed by an antibiotic that didn't work followed by an antibiotic that did work but made me painfully lethargic. Thanksgiving break was school catch-up, and then it was the finals crunch right after that into December.

Life never ends, does it?
Let's all agree to forget I ever attempted such a silly writing stunt. :P

Regardless, I still come bearing good news. I was recently up at 2 AM one night (morning?) talking to my genius ESTJ older brother about the stories that we keep saying we're going to write but never really do, and that conversation gave me an epiphany about Where The Broken Things Are (which is my new name for my DWBSN rework) so that I have now been marching forward with happy ease. Yay for no more complications! :D
Also, more good news. This rad Cali chick also advised me to focus more on production and leave editing for later and for others, which means that I'm going to be flinging all of my raw junk up here as I produce it. As always, edits are quite welcome, but please remember that this is my prematurely-delivered firstborn and its mother is far less confident than she acts on a regular basis. ;)

Without further ado...

~ ~ ~

Chapter 1

- ON THE BRINK OF TARTARUS -

Suffocating…

If I say that I was born suffocating, then I have never known air for the nineteen years I have existed in my mind. But, if I have never had breath, then how do I know that this is actually suffocating?

Maybe everyone else is just that much better at hiding their suffocation than I am.

Or maybe I have always been afloat.

Maybe being afloat is just this miserable.

Maybe everyone goes through life like this: struggling, writhing, begging for it to all be over.

But when I compare myself to them, I feel like there is no way we could all be suffocating. They seem to always find the time to inhale and exhale in their ups and downs. They ride life, floating atop it and occasionally collapsing beneath the foam, but always surfacing again. I can tell what I look like to them. Their eyes spark; they laugh; they get together and celebrate life, even amidst the busyness. To them, I must be a vague unknown with permanent marks of darkness under my eyes and more depth in my shadow.

“Why does he always look tired?”

“I heard he works in the Rawks…”

“That’s so gross. Look at how pale his skin is.”

I’ve heard them.

And I can’t blame them.

How would they know what’s going on in my life if I hadn’t told them?

How would I know what’s going on in their lives unless if they told me?

But, at my core, I’m scared to ask, I guess. If I plucked up the courage to question if they drown the same way I do - what if they so no? What if this is just me? What if I am alone in this muffled ocean? How could I bear to go on then, knowing that I have been entirely defeated and that I am distanced from everyone else?

I can’t ask.

That would be suicide.

Inhaling slowly, my eyes open as my mind staggers from the black. I still haven’t been moved; they haven’t moved either. Like always, they leave blows that I’ll feel later so I can remember that it’s not over merely when I fade out.

They keep telling me that: I don’t exist only when my mind is awake.

I keep refusing to believe it.

Jaiden’s booted feet are before me, gliding atop shards of sparkling granite set into asphalt. The same fragments that hold her up leave cold imprints in the side of my face, and I watch, fitted and snug with the ground, as Jaiden slowly pulls her foot up, revealing the blood on her heel. Instinctively, my eyes close again, and my nails dig into my palms. There’s a ringing in my ears, like the rush of a waterfall and a clear, high bell.

Then I feel the impact against my head, and the philosophical musing of today is over.

I exist no longer.

~ ~ ~

Write on!

Clove