Jan. 30th, 2015

offwiththeirdollheads: (Default)
An excerpt from the novel I wrote as part of NaNoWriMo 2014. Currently in its first draft stage...

The television blared with the canned laughter and applause of some inane game-show that relied on contestants being able to remember the answers to general knowledge questions in a previous round only to give them as the answers in the next round. She came round to the host asking the question, 'name the author of the best selling work of fiction, Frankenstein?' And the answer being given as 'Elvis Presley.' The room slowly came into focus and she partly wished that it hadn't. There was an overwhelming sense of disappointment when being met with a yellow nicotine stained ceiling and a room that would look better suited on a demolition site. She rarely dreamed any more, she would often black out and spend countless hours unaware of her name or her life and that would be for the best. Dreams would come at a cost, they would tease her of a life that she did not have or launch her into horrific situations in which she was never able to escape, no matter how fast she tried to run. It was easier for her not to dream. As the room began to solidify, she became aware of the familiar head throbbing clamp-like hangover that seemed to drain the juice that her brain floated in and make her want to gouge her other eye out. She would often remedy the situation with a handful of aspirin and a large mouthful of alcohol. The stronger the better, and this applied to both the pills and the alcohol. This time she came around though, she felt somewhat different. She had a sense that something had changed. She sat up and placed the empty bottle of Whisky down by the floor. Everything in her immediate surroundings looked the same as she remembered. Same wallpaper that was peeling away at the edges, same faulty television set, same loose spring sticking out of the sofa cushion, a metallic serpent intent on trying to pierce her skin. She stumbled around the room and made her way to the bathroom, making sure her singular eye did not make contact with the mirror positioned above the grimy sink. She had stopped looking in the mirror a long time ago. There was no need to see her face or what she looked like, whatever was reflected back would not be recognised anymore. Upon leaving the bathroom, she could not shake the feeling that something really was not right, as though something had been knocked out of alignment. An oven left on? Another bill unpaid? The front door unlocked? It was not a new thing for her to forget to do something but this felt different. More permanent. She touched her forehead hoping for the answer to materialise and just as though someone from the heavens had shot the answer to her on a golden arrow, a name appeared in the forefront of her mind. Jesse.

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Not an Oracle

January 2016

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