I am chatting this week on my blog on characterization, flaws and motivation.

Below the cut is something really weird I wrote. I thought it might be fun to share and it definitely spawned a story idea. Copyright yada-yada moi you know the routine.

She slowly lifts her head from her desk and finds she’s been crying. She doesn’t know why. Doesn’t remember. She only knows her skin is crawling. On fire. Aching. To have someone take a filet knife to her back would be sweet relief. 

She pushes herself upright, her bones creaking, joints protesting at the effort. Her vision swims and a woman screams in her head. It’s so loud, she finds herself screaming along. She’s glad she’s alone, but then, she’s always alone. Tears scald her face and every step she takes sends the skin on her back rippling in agony. Standing still doesn’t help, so she moves. She sniffs, wipes away the tears clouding her vision and opens the door.

Outside it’s summer and the heat is so thick, she can taste it on her tongue. She moves in a fog, forcing her hands to her ears as the woman screams again. She’s in agony, dying. Someone should shoot her and put her out of her misery. If Lena had a gun she’s do it; but she doesn’t so she just keeps moving, praying to get away, far away. With every step her heart slams against her ribcage. She trips and nearly falls down the porch steps, only to find herself momentarily distracted by the cool feel of grass against her feet. It’s soft and it tickles. She falls to her knees and presses her cheek to the ground. For a few seconds feels sweet relief of silence and no pain. But it returns with a vengeance, driving a knife through her skull and forcing her to move again. She pushes herself upright, using the tree for support and staggers on, one thought at the forefront of her mind—get help. 

Through her tears, through the screams echoing in her head and the ache of her back, she pushes forward, down the hill to her neighbors for help, for someone to save her—even if, in the back of her mind she knows no one will ever save her. She is alone, but right now she doesn’t want to be alone. Doesn’t want to die alone. The path is narrow, and the grass is taller now, dryer. It rustles in the hellish breeze, scouring her already tender skin and jabbing at the soles of her feet. She stumbles, and tearfully gives in to the voice in her head. She throws back her head and screams with the woman inside. The one who’s taken over her brain. Then she screams again, begging God or Buddah or anyone to make it stop. She rips off her tanktop and swipes at her face, aware that she’s topless, that her scars are showing, that people will see, but helpless to stop herself. She breaks through the grasses and falls to her knees at the sight of Cheryne on her porch steps.

The woman in her head screams again and Lena is on her back, screaming at the pale blue sky, body bowed.

She can hear Cheryne talking and trying to help with gentle hands on her arms, but all Lena can say is, “Make it stop,” over and over again.

Cheryne tries to help her up and Lena swipes at her, using her fingernails like claws. She crawls toward the porch, a part of her hoping that maybe Pat can help her. Another tiny part of her remebers that her neighbors have company and she’s topless. Her pajama bottoms are filthy from crawling across the gravel driveway. She climbs the porch steps and sobs for Pat to help her, then immediately flips over, her back bowing again as another scream rips from her. It’s then she realizes she was the woman screaming.

She was the woman in her own head.