Thursday, November 17, 2016

Write What You Know, Part 10

This is my first draft for NaNoWriMo 2016 novel Write What You Know. It's only a rough draft with very minimal editing and will, more than likely, contain, typos, grammatical errors, plot holes, or conflicting descriptions. It also includes notes to myself and excerpts from the novel the MC is writing that I try to indicate through various formatting that doesn't always translate well with my limited html skills. Furthermore, this particular novel is... there's no delicate way to put this... this novel is fucked up. So, especially in this rough draft crazed sort of NaNoWriMo way of writing, it may be difficult to read or follow.  I'm still posting it here because I want to shed more light on the process of writing to encourage and inspire other writers or readers who are interested. To learn more about this project, or my daily NaNoWriMo postings, please read Day 1-7.

Write What You Know, Part 10
By Stephanie Thompson, 1,546 words

Read: Part 1Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9

Helen was a misery who sat in the corner and cried constantly.
She hated who she had to be when she got to be who she was.
Helen was in agony in the dark pitifully.
She never saw the light at all and she ever knew the light was all.
Helen wasn’t anything which was nothing after all.

Cassandra hated Helen too but that’s another story.
Cassie wanted everything: fame, style, glory.
Cass was predatory and yearned to make her prey, gory
In the end, they always earned their quarry.

She didn’t know what she got up to some nights but she was tired of scrubbing dried blood from her nail beds and waking up with the taste of vomit in her mouth, Her showers were getting longer and longer and her wardrobe smaller and smaller because it’s hard to wash blood and that stench out of cotton and polyester.

It is also difficult to wash blood out of hair especially the morning after when it’s all dried and clotted. It made her curly hair matte together in big chunks like naturally occurring dreadlocks. After the second morning, she gave up on regularly washing and combing her hair. Instead she ha d a spray. After her nails came that spray.

She knocked several bottles of other sprays and makeups into the sink looking for the braid care spray. Helen could never find anything like someone was coming behind her and moving things when she wasn’t looking. It sounded paranoid but so much about her life was fucked up that she wouldn’t be surprised if it was true. But she had to find the spray because she didn’t have much time, Helen never had much time, and the spray wasn’t just for the blood but the odor as well.

That smell! It haunted her, constantly attached to her like an invisible layer, a slimy skin she couldn’t scrape off. The smell of shit, and puke, and musty sex, and cigarettes, and beer with cheap whisky, soaked in urine and still damp blood, then stinking chemicals and burning hair. And even after hot showers with two different soaps and scrubbing brushes and pumice stones, the stench was still there. Even under expensive lotions and fancy perfumes, it lingered like some olfactory stain for a 21st century Lady Macbeth.

It was enough to give her one of her migraines and she didn’t even get the satisfaction of knowing whether her efforts were noticed. She was just a clean-up crew, never got to hang out long enough to see any reactions.

Why hasn’t she called yet?

I told you this was a bad idea.

That’s what you always say like we would never get anything done of it was up to you.

Well, that’s what’s happening right now isn’t it? We’re not getting anything done because you’re too busy worrying about her calling your bluff instead of writing.

It’s not a bluff.

If we actually write something, all that awesome shit you’re promising, then it wouldn’t be a bluff. But for right now, yeah, yes it’s totally a bluff. We have no leverage.

Just wait. You’ll see. She’ll call soon.


Or show up.

He’d had just about enough of waiting on the phone for a call center employee’s supervisor’s supervisor’s manager’s manger. Apparently saying it was a key piece in a murder inquiry was not enough to get any of the information about the phone owner or account. Even with a high ranking detectives name attached or almost a dozen bodies. He didn’t even want credit card information just a single name and he’d Google the rest if he had to.

“Detective O’Ryan?”

He cleared his throat and sat straight up at attention like a teacher had just caught him napping in history class. “Yes?”

“Thank you for waiting and I am so sorry about the wait. Now how can I help you?”

If he was at home he would have sighed and rolled his eyes and probably he would’ve cursed too. Instead he added more sternness to his voice. “I’m looking at this phone with this serial number and ems number that we recovered from the murder scene of one of my fellow detectives and at the very least I’d like to know who owns it but I’d really love it if you could unlock the screen for me so I can access more information about the owner or how it might have ended up at a murder scene.”

“Ah, yessir, I’m sorry about that. We need someone of certain level to release that information (and maybe even a warrant? Probe a warrant I bet. Like I feel like I’ve watched enough crime shows that I should know this without research but maybe a tv shows are not a reliable source of information) Ok, it looks like the phone belongs to a Christie Fields (yo, is that her real name? Why don’t I know this information) of (wherever she’s fucking from). From her recent activity it appears she’s in the New York area and I’m afraid that’s the only information I can give you without a warrant, sir” (haha, yes, that’s that warrant action right there.)

Wes hung up the phone on the receiver with a slam. “It was a boring conversation anyway. But at least I finally got something.” He said to himself because apparently he’s the loneliest cop in the world and even in a police station during the middle of the day with serial killer loose, he’s still only thinking and talking all to himself.

“At least I finally have something,” he says to the google search window he opened. (And all some city records or arrest record search software or something right? Man, I need to watch more of the First 48 or maybe do actual research. . .  With Google)

Cassandra was bored. Like dangerously bored. Not dangerous for her. Dangerous for others. Or it would be if one of the vindictive bitches she lived with hadn’t hidden her cell phone or wallet. With no cash, no cards, and no way to call a cab, she was stuck in this stupid room. She couldn’t even play a game on her phone cause she would if she had her phone.

She already broke the tv. The remote was still lodged in it. 40 channels, 7 of them sports, 5 of them were news, 5 of them didn’t work, and one of them was the weather channel. Only one channel was a movie channel and she had no tv guide so she never knew what was coming just what was already there and 90% of the time, there was never anything good on. It was more entertaining to watch the tv with the remote stuck in it because at least remembering the time she screamed and threw the remote was kind of fun. It felt good to do it then, she kind of wished there was another tv around to destroy, at least it was something to do.

Where do you get your ideas? How do you come up with book ideas?  Where does your inspiration come from?

I lied before but I probably owe you the truth now. The truth is.. . She tells them to me.

She’s older than me you know. I didn’t at first. She only made herself look younger but she’s older. Much older. But perennially like 25 these days. And she’s full of darkness.

That’s not very nice. 

It’s the truth. The truth isn’t always what we want.

Isn’t this what you want?

Maybe. I don’t know. It’s not as fun as it use to be.

Fun isn’t what it’s cracked up to be. Neither is truth.

Yeah but

Yeah but Yeah but Yeah but

Yeah but seriously, what’s life without at least one or the other?

Ugh, who cares?

The truth is they aren’t stories or dreams or anything else. They are real life. Nikki’s real life. I don’t have one.

Answer the door.

With the right outfit, Cassandra didn’t need a wallet. And if she stayed in the hotel, she wouldn’t need a taxi. She just needed to be presentable, which, between the scratches and the matted hair was becoming increasingly difficult to accomplish. But with the right color of lipstick, the right length of skirt, the height of heel, and the right amount of cleavage and no one would notice a some light scratches or deep gouges as the case may be.

Luckily she found a little slip of a dress still left in the closet, probably fancier than a hotel bar required. Black lace and beads, cut practically to her navel with a skirt that barely covered thighs, and dancing all over her curves.  Heels so high she could barely walk and a lipstick so red it looked like her mouth was bleeding. She almost looked human. Almost.

There wasn’t much she could for her hair. Yet, a dozen bobby pins could hide just about anything. So she pinned it back and finally made her way out of the room, like an escaped prisoner in a new disguise. If anyone recognized her from her early morning entrances, creeping on staircases in the teeny hours of night, they wouldn’t recognize her and that was the best way to be.

The story continues in Part 11. Thanks for Reading!