I have been working on this novel for fun since "Grimm and White" is almost finished. Check it out. Tell me what you think.
The girl’s body was caked with mud and the blood of her father. His artery was severed like the snapping of a guitar string. The boy dropped her small frame on the shore. He panted from the exertion of paddling with her in his arms. Stars in the sky faded, their light diminished, as if they were too scared to watch the scene below. The moons edges were tinted red, matching the victims, replicating the madness.
The boy kneeled on the wet ground, his knees sinking in the earth, the rain pouring against his back. He put his ear against her chest to listen. It was silent, the heart stopped within.
“Breathe damn it,” he yelled.
His ravaged voice echoed under the over pass, where the only other living being was a mangled coyote that had witnessed the car falling into the water 180 seconds before. Underneath the stretch of highway was a lake, some brush, but there was no way to access the spot by vehicle. Down the waterfront, about thirty feet away was a steep hill that the boy skidded down, trying to reach the girl and her father. The older man was already dead; his eyes flat like the coins in his pocket.
The boy’s hands were cut from the jagged rocks on the ground and now they pumped with furious determination against her chest. 1-2-3. “Come on. Come on.” Sword and savior. Sheep and wolf.
The rain was blinding him and her body was slipping in the deep trenches of mud. “Come on. Don’t die.” Water and choking gasps spill from her lips. He imagined he could hear her heart kick starting beneath her skin.
“It’s okay,” he said. He turned the girl on her side. “You’re okay.”
The fifteen-year-old girl sputtered for air. Her fingers clasped his, but she was alive and he had to escape. The police would arrive any second and he needed to be anywhere, but there. He had to leave before the lies were dealt like straw, turning them into gold. If you had a father, then you were forced to be a son. This is what he was told. This is what he believed.
“You’ll be okay, I promise,” he said, before peeling her fingers from his own.
He ran for miles, trying to let the rain wash the guilt away, but he had a feeling that no amount of scrubbing would wipe the girl’s bloodied face from his thoughts.
Alive or dead, she was a ghost to him. The boy was haunted.
About the blog:
Emily Ann Hansen
I'm a writer and teacher living in Baltimore City. I'm originally from Chicago. I graduated from Columbia College Chicago with a BA in Fiction. Instead of babbling, I will list a few of the things in life that make me happy: