Chapter 1 - The Sleeper Bin
Submitted February 28, 2006 Updated February 28, 2006 Status Incomplete | Little bits and pieces that I could continue on. Critique, please, and recommend which one would best work for a story line.
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Chapter 1 - The Sleeper Bin
Chapter 1 - The Sleeper Bin
She sat, curled up in the corner, rocking back and forth mindlessly, her green eyes fixed with some maddening intensity at the padded wall in front of her.
Back and forth, back and forth...
I knew that she was not a normal patient when she came in here. It just struck me as odd because deep down in those eyes I saw this intelligence that just seemed too ground with reality to be insane. But in those eyes also shone this fear and absolute terror that I couldn't define. It was almost animal-like; and that disturbed me.
During our first session, she didn't say anything. I considered the fact that they might have given her too many sedatives; her eyes seemed unfocused and very out of the world, but then this glimmer flickered through her eyes and I just knew, knew, that she was with me. She knew I was there.
I spoke softly.
"Renee," I said, not moving from my chair (we were sitting in her bedroom, "Renee, it's safe here. You can talk."
There was this terrified silence from her that seemed to stretch on to infinity. Then she spoke, her eyes moving from their position on the floor and floating up to me.
"No," Renee said, voice wavering, "It's not safe. You don't understand."
I paused. "What should I understand?"
Her eyes suddenly dilated, and I could actually see the hair on the back of her neck suddenly stand up. She gave a low growl, almost animal-like, and began to breathe heavily. More to herself than me, she began to mutter rapidly.
"He only came out at night, he only came out at night. It made no sense for him to come out now. No sense, no sense...It was daytime. He was for night. Why now? I don't know? Why? I DON'T KNOW!!" She suddenly shrieked, tendons bulging out of her neck, she lunged for the pen in my hand, and I knew what she was going to do, try to stab herself. I jerked backwards, tipping over the chair, and instead of calling for the aides, like most of the cowardly bastards around here would do, to get her sedated and under control, I waited. Drugging these poor people didn't stop the nightmares from coming back. One-on-one confrontation did.
She flew past me, skimming my leg and hitting the floor with a thud. I tensed, expecting her to get up and try again to get te pen, to stab herself, but instead she slumped down on the floor and began to sob.
"Renee," I said quietly. "Renee, what don't you know?"
Normally, someone would help people up if they had fallen on the floor. However, in a the nut-job ward, the patients were very frightened of physical contact. Renee probably would not be any different, and I knew that, so I stood aside while she slowly staggered to her feet, still crying, and faced me.
For a moment or two we stood in silence, appraising each other, before she walked unsteadily over to her chair and sat down. Her eyes had gotten this wierd resolve in it, something that seemed remarkably sane, and she took a deep breath.
"I don't know," she said quietly, "Why it happened. Why he came out in the daytime."
She looked up at me, pleading. "It was my shift. My partner had been waiting, waiting to get that prick where he stood, and he...he killed him. He killed my best friend in the world...A cop.
"And it was daytime." she ended, drawing her knees to her chest on the chair, "It was daytime and he killed." She glanced up, tears in her eyes, "He wasn't supposed to do that in the daytime. His time was night."
Her eyes lost focus with reality. She stared off into space. "His time still is night," she whispered
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Orlando_Hamar on June 29, 2006, 3:15:25 AM
Disco_Sh33ts on March 1, 2006, 7:32:28 AM
Disco_Sh33ts on
This was absolutely beautiful. You're a talented writer, keep up the good work.:3
You have a small problem, at least in the first chapter, in which you keep trying to tell the audience everything. For instance:
You needn't tell the reader that you're sitting in her bedroom so outwardly. Let them work it out for themselves. Mention a bed, describe the surroundings. It leaves much more room for imagination when you aren't absolutely specific. It also allows for more freedom in writing and description. But there you go.
The same problem comes up when you mention she's going to stab herself. I'd have to write the chapter myself to work out how I would bring that in, but I would rewrite that bit, were I you.
Now, onto Chapter 2!