Wednesday, February 16, 2011

Angel Curls and Other Fun Stuff

So, clearly you've all been waiting with bated breath for my next piece of actual writing. Well, take a breath, ladies and gentlemen, because here it is! This was one of the pieces I wrote for my Writers Craft exam. I still don't have the dialogue one yet (well, I have about half of it), so that won't be posted for a while.

Also, one of the novel ideas that has fastened to me so strongly is one including the characters from the Promises To Keep collection. The plot is surfacing slowly, but I have a good idea that it includes the shadow people that live in Gabe's head. I will likely post an excerpt before too long, because I'm really happy with it.

Anyway, without further nonsense, here's the story. Please keep in mind that this is a character speaking. Not me. Also, the story is a bit disturbing. A bit of language and possibly morally offensive subject matter.

Angel Curls
I can’t believe what I’m considering. What sort of monster am I? She’s my little sister, for fuck’s sake. She deserves better than being sacrificed for my own gain. God. I want that power. I want to be better, stronger, more interesting than everyone else. Is it worth it?
She looks like a goddamn angel. All those perfect, white blonde curls. That perfect, beautiful face. She’s even smiling. Why can’t she look like a brat when she’s sleeping. I want to do it. I want to take my knife to her throat and watch crimson splash across the pale marble of her skin, stain her hands and her hair and her blue eyes to become cold and distant. I really do want to.
I’m sick. She’s a little girl! How can I even think that?
And yet, the idea fascinates me.
I watch the way the orangey light from the street-lamp outside plays across my hands. Unremarkable hands. Too short to properly play the piano. Too clumsy to catch a ball, or to throw one properly. The nails are all bitten down, the skin red and raw.
Are these the hands of a murderer?
I look at her hands, curled around a fold in her blanket. Her fingers are as long as mine already, and she’s only seven. She’ll never have any trouble spanning an octave. She plays catch with dad on the weekends, and she rarely drops the ball, rarely throws it short. How is it that she’s less than half my age, and she’s already more talented than I am? The only similarity between my hands and hers are the chewed nails. She picked up that habit from me.

If I killed her- No, sacrificed her, I could be more talented. I could be beautiful and powerful. I could have golden curls and an angelic face. I could have blue eyes.
But I couldn’t ever have my little sister back.
Nick says it’ll be worth it. He gets this gleam in his eye when he says it, this hungry look. I know he wants the power as badly as I do. Maybe even moreso. But it’s not his little sister we’d be killing. I wonder if he’d have as hard a time as I’m having, making this decision.
I shouldn’t have this problem! I should be evil enough to want the power no matter the cost, or I should be good enough that I would never even consider it. I don’t need to waste my time feeling so fucking conflicted.               
I’ll do it. It’s worth it. She’s already lived more fully than I have.
Who’s fault is that?
I only have myself to blame. I still have time, though. I can work harder at school, make more friends, and break up with Nick. I can. I don’t have to have that power to feel whole, and happy and good about myself.  I can make an effort to be better.
But I’m still going to want it.
Slowly, I reach over and brush my hand across the silky smooth curls that have fallen over her forehead. She doesn’t wake up, and that’s well enough, because I’m not sure what I would do if she did. Because I’m willing to be a bad person. Not tonight, maybe, but soon.

Comments and feedback always appreciated! Thanks for reading!

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