Wanting the Forbidden

*Post inspired by the TRDC Red Writing Hood prompt, "Sex."

Let's get all steamy up in here and write about sex. But you know us. There's a twist. You can't write about the act... There are so many other possibilities. And I hope you have fun finding them. Limit is 600 words.

For the first time, I am going to post an excerpt from the very first novel I've written, In the Family. It's one I would probably never try to publish (one reason being that it's long), but it's one I love nonetheless.

There isn't much explaining to do, since you can kinda get the gist of the character's conflict from this segment. Enjoy (I hope), and remember, criticism is welcome!

Michael woke to a glaring ray of sunlight.  He squinted, moving his head away from the window, and realized that all that had happened in the dark hours of the morning hadn’t been a dream.  It was very real, and the fact that Anna still slept in his arms confirmed that.  He still had his arms around her, but now her arms were wrapped snuggly around him as well, instead of at his chest, gripping his shirt.

The sensation caught his heart ablaze, hotter than it’d ever been, and he instinctively constricted his arms around her.  He could tell by her steady, slow breathing that she was still sleeping, and deeply.  He didn’t know what time it was, but didn’t care.  Hell, he’d stay this way forever if he could. 

Yes, he felt guilty.  Perhaps more shameful than he’d ever felt in his entire life.  

Yet here he was, on cloud nine with his brother’s fiancé in his arms.  And the worst thing about it was that the guilt only seemed to add meaning to this new life of his.  He’d never felt so alive, and though the shame was disheartening, it woke a part of him he didn’t know existed.  A part he thought was dead.  His emotions were raw, stripped, and he felt more vulnerable than ever before.  And the negative emotions seemed to infuse him as strongly as the positive.

But there was nothing he could do, nothing he would do.  If ever there was a time to make a play for his brother’s future wife, now would be the time.  But everything inside him, all that made up who he was, would never allow it.  So, instead, he soaked this moment in, along with the guilt at wondering how Mitch would feel if he knew what Michael was doing at this very moment…what he was thinking.

Placing his lips delicately against her hair, he inhaled, becoming swallowed in her intoxicating scent.  He closed his eyes as he was thrown deeper down the spiral that had the potential of destroying his brother’s life, and his own. 

But since the concept of releasing her was impossible, he continued to breathe her in, a tinge of lilac and citrus, and as the deepest pit in his stomach quivered and his chest caught fire, he again tightened his arms around her.  And at the same time that he was grateful for the clothing between them, he cursed it.

She stirred, murmuring in satisfaction, and moved her mouth to his neck, where his eyes closed in torment.  She lightly stretched against him, arching her back and constricting her arms around his torso as she breathed into his neck, and he realized if he didn’t pull himself away soon, he might do something he would always regret.

And as though his heart wasn’t speeding fast enough, she sighed his name, in a way that told him she wasn’t quite awake.  It was the best sound he’d ever heard.  Damn his brother and their situation.  Damn the fact that he couldn’t throw everything away and lose himself in that moment like he knew he could. 

He used all his focus to control himself.

Then she murmured his name again, louder, and he swore under his breath.  “Anna…”

“Michael?” she replied, and he knew she was coming to. 

Then she stiffened and he was sure she’d just realized the predicament they were in.  She pulled her face away from the crook of his neck, where they met each other’s eyes, and hers were wide.  His lips were close to hers now, and with the heat of their bodies together, tangled beneath the warm blankets, he knew if he was any weaker a man, his open mouth would have found hers. 

Red Writing Hood: Rewrite

*Post inspired by the TRDC Red Writing Hood prompt, "Rewrite."

Go back in the archives and pick a fiction or nonfiction piece. Perhaps something you posted on your blog, or an old Red Dress Club prompt? Find something that you're proud of, but something you haven't read for awhile. Do a complete overhaul.

My archives don't go that far back as far as my fiction and writing prompts go, so I went back to my first Red Writing Hood post (original post here), which was only 2.5 months ago. But the fiction piece itself is "old," since it's an excerpt from my novel, The Exception.

I rewrote it in Elanor's first person, present tense, and changed it up a bit (and cut some, of course, since we have to bring it down to 400 words). Feel free to comment/critique!

For the other segments of The Exception, visit the The Exception label at the bottom of this post.

Sam reaches into his pocket and pulls out a gold key, and I shouldn’t be surprised he still has it.  But for some reason it stirs me, makes me forget the last twenty years even happened.  I’m still whirled by this when he unlocks the door, so I don’t move, keep my back against it.  He’s close, his eyes piercing, and I feel his body heat.  And I know I’d do anything those blue eyes ask of me.

He opens the door and I feel the open air against my back, the unnerving energy saturated in memories.  Lurking.  He motions behind me, raising a brow.  And as I swallow hard, his eyes give me the courage to step backward.  And then again.  My back is still turned on the interior of the house, but I’m inside.  And my skin crawls.  My palms sweat and my chest feels tight, and I know Sam senses my fear because he smiles.  In the way he always did.

He leaves me then, but not before touching me on the shoulder.  I hear him opening drapes behind me, allowing light to infiltrate the house.  “This is yours now, Elanor.  Take it in.  Accept it.”

I sigh as I turn, and my brow is tense.  Dust dances in the sunlight, but everything isn’t caked in it as I expected.  My shoulders relax and my chest feels lighter.  It’s clean, immaculate even.  It almost looks lived-in, but not by me and my father.  It’s easier to take in like this, so unlike the way I remember.

I’m pulled by an intruding memory.  I step past Sam and kneel on the dulled hardwood floor by the stairs, running my hand over its smooth surface as I search for any trace of blood.  And even though there is none, that night is fresh in my mind.  I’m eleven now, and I hear my father standing above me, snaring me with his honey-sweet lies.  I see his face and hate that no trace of life remains behind his eyes.  I feel myself hit the wall, smash the mirror and table; I feel him crushing me.  I hear my eleven-year-old screams.

I feel Sam’s warm blood on my hands and the shuddering of his chest as his life is sucked away.  And I can’t remove myself from the past.

But Sam kneels before me, and his touch on my shoulder brings me back, reminds me that twenty years have passed.  “I’m still here,” he softly reminds me.

Red Writing Hood: Sparkly Shoes

*Post inspired by the TRDC Red Writing Hood prompt, "Shoes."

Those shoes can be real or symbolic, they can hurt or be super comfy but I want to see what they say about the life of the person wearing them...

And because I am a giver, this prompt's word limit is 625.Come back and link up here Friday to show us your "sole".

I've shared a few excerpts from my novel in previous RWH posts with hints to who Elanor, Sam, and even Paul and Jamie are. But this time, since there are no passages about shoes in the book, or that would relate at all, I'm writing this one independent of the novel, about a pair of Elanor's shoes as a little girl.

And I admit, I'm a little glad I had nothing to go with, because I always love to write something new.

Elanor was in a hurry, fishing through the clutter in her closet.  She threw aside shoe after shoe, though she didn’t have many, and they thumped loudly on the hardwood floor, threatening to wake her father.  Most didn’t fit her, but still she kept them, collecting them like memories—every pair that she’d accumulated over her eleven years of life. 

Her last encounter with her gym shoes was almost a year ago.  She’d been upset at her teacher for forcing her to play dodgeball and had hid them away, vowing to never put them on again.  And every day Mr. Hansen had marked her down for wearing the only pair of shoes that now fit her: her warn, black boots, bought from the thrift store.  He didn’t understand kids like her, comfortable in his large house and three cars.  He probably had a pair of shoes for every occasion.

But yesterday he’d threatened a visit to her father, and she’d sworn she’d never come to gym class unprepared again.  Even though she knew those old shoes would squeeze her feet until she could feel them no more. 

She’d grown fast over the last few months, out and up, even growing womanly things.  One day, while Sam was inspecting the hem of her suddenly too-short pants, he’d called it a growth spurt.  

She glanced at her pink watch and sighed, grumbling under her breath as she continued to search.  She was already running late for school, and the knowledge that Sam was at the bus stop, waiting, motivated her.  She pictured him, leaning against the Whitmans’ mailbox with an apple in hand, ready to add it to her measly lunch.

Then her heart stopped.  Red sparkled from the bottom of the box, beneath every meaningless shoe.  She reached for it, hesitantly.  She felt over the coarse, glittered surface, where some collected to her fingertips.  She’d forgotten about them over the last year, the only pretty, sparkly things she’d ever owned.

She pulled out the pair of ruby red shoes, the straps flaccid and the soles worn to nearly nothing, and she was surprised that they sparkled just as brightly as they once had.  She was eight when she’d first watched The Wizard of Oz, and she hadn’t been able to forget it, for a whole week daydreaming of Dorothy and the yellow brick road and the ruby red slippers that had brought her back home, where everyone she loved was waiting. 

A few days later, Elanor had froze when entering her bedroom, Dorothy’s very shoes sitting on the foot of her bed.  Waiting.  As though they’d miraculously appeared from nowhere.  Her heart had sped, and the exhilaration had swelled inside her until she could no longer contain it.  She’d squealed while putting them on, a perfect fit, and had even been foolish enough to tap them together a few times.

She’d practically jumped up and down when showing Sam that afternoon, and his look had been aloof.  And that was when she’d known it was him who’d gotten them for her, probably placed them on her bed when her father was at the shop.  She didn’t know how he’d come across such a treasure, but like most things with Sam, she never questioned.

And to this day, he denied it.  But she knew. 

She’d worn them every day during that next year, rain or shine, and even some the year after, when her growing toes were curled uncomfortably inside.  She’d played with Sam in the barn in them, walked the railroad ties in them, pretended she was a princess in them.

And now she would take them in her backpack, since they were far too small for her ever-growing feet.  Still wishing for home.

Again forgetting about her old gym shoes.

Red Writing Hood: The Letter

*Post inspired by the TRDC Red Writing Hood prompt about a forgotten letter. "You or your character find a forgotten letter or card from someone important in your life--whether good or bad.  What does it say?  How does it affect you or your character?  What is done with it?"

I know this is late coming, but this is the fourth installment I've posted from my Novel, The Exception. I'm hoping to reveal a little more each week. Oh, and I cheated this time. It's actually closer to 700 words. Sorry, I tried. I had to cut a lot, add some things, and move things around so it would make a little more sense.

That aside, constructive criticism is welcome!

Here are the other excerpts, in chronological order (this one fits somewhere between "The Guardian" and "The House"):

The Guardian

The House

The Encounter

“I picked up your mail,” Paul called from Elanor’s kitchen.  “It’s on the table.” 

She sighed.  Paul might have been an Adonis by every definition, and every woman might label her lucky to call him her fiancé, but there was still something missing, something not right.  He was still fuming from the argument that had transpired on the bed, of that she knew.  But it was her birthday, so tonight he acted like he’d moved past it.

She sat on the couch, where he’d demanded she stay, and heard cupboards opening and closing from the kitchen.  She hated surprises.  Especially birthday surprises.  She stood and walked to the dining room table, blowing out a scented candle on the way, and started thumbing through the stack of mail.

Most of it was junk, but she froze, just as she did every time she saw the envelopes.  Another letter from Hugh, her former name still scrawled in his handwriting…haunting her.  Sighing, her face heating, she crumpled it.  Before she could toss it in the waste basket, Paul appeared and took it from her hands.

“Whoa, what’s this?”

“Paul, don’t,” she begged, trying to take it from him.

They stared each other down a moment, his eyes narrowing.  “What are you hiding from me?”

“I’m not hiding anything.  It’s just a letter from an old foster parent.”

He straightened the envelope, reading the addresses.  “A foster parent with your last name?”

“Graham is not my last name.”

He rolled his eyes.  “A foster parent with your old last name?  Who’s Hugh, Elanor?  What aren’t you telling me?”

Just when she was about to reply with another false excuse, she saw behind his shoulder, into the kitchen.  It was a birthday cake, elaborate and detailed, and just small enough for the two of them.  Her eyes immediately burned.  “What’s that?” she unevenly asked, pointing to it.

He twisted, then sighed.  “What does it look like?”

“I thought I told you before: no cakes.  You knew that.”

He ran his hand through his hair.  “It’s a cake, El.  It’s not a big deal.”

“It is to me!”

He studied her a moment, her eyes glistening.  “It’s one thing to change the subject, but I’ve worked hard to make this night special for you.  Where’s the appreciation?”  He threw the crumpled envelope on the table.  “I don’t know what’s with you.  I’ve tried to get past your weird quirks, El, but I just don’t know…”

Inhaling unevenly, she withdrew.  “What are you saying, Paul?  Am I too nuts for you?  Is it too crazy that I don’t like birthdays, or even birthday cakes?”

“Oh, let’s not forget all the other hang-ups.  The house I wanted to buy was vintage, Elanor, and a steal.  And I had to pass it up because it had hardwood floors?”

“I’m sorry if those things remind me.”

“Remind you of what?”  He sighed, calming himself.  “All you have to do is open up to me, El.  We could work through whatever shit’s in your past.”

“We can’t work through anything.  I just want to move on, I want to forget certain things.  Is that too much to ask?”

His eyes turned somber.  “How can you marry someone you can’t even share yourself with?”

She tightened her jaw, her eyes rewetting.  “You know me, Paul,” she lied.

Glancing at the letter, his upper lip curled over his bleached teeth.  “No.  I don’t.”  He walked toward the door, grabbing his jacket. 

And he was gone.

Later, Elanor’s eyes found the blasted letter on the dining room table, suitably crinkled.  She picked it up, the course wrinkles satisfying against her fingertips, and noticed something different than usual.  On the front, in Hugh’s sloppy handwriting, it read, “Please don’t throw me away.”

With heating skin she huffed, revisiting her determination from nineteen years before, when she’d vowed to never play the fool again. 

When she’d disowned Hugh as her father. 

Hoping he could feel it, with both her fists she balled it into the tightest wad she could crumple—putting all her hatred into it—and threw it into the trash, her eyes burning from ancient betrayal. 

She would never read his words, never know what lies filled his many letters.

Red Writing Hood: Life...in a flash.

*Post inspired by this week's TRDC Red Writing Hood: "Flash Fiction can be fun and a real challenge. This week focus on the words and the strength of each to contribute to your story. Write a 300 word piece using the following word for inspiration: LIFE."

Flash Fiction. Eek. Not sure if this fits all the plot elements that are supposed to be creatively fit into flash fiction, but here's a pretty good short story within my story (The Exception) using "Life" as the inspiration (in 292 words, to be exact).

In past posts from this novel, Elanor was an adult, but as you'll see from this excerpt, Sam was with her as a child as well.

For the other two posts about Elanor, Sam, and even the protagonist, Jamie, click here (Happy Non-end) and here (Beauty Downfall).

Elanor’s seven-year-old stare was intent.  “I know you’re him, Sam—our guardian.”

Sam paused, stunned she knew so much.  With her hand still in his, they stopped walking and he looked down on her, into the eyes he’d do anything for—even if it meant living a miserable eternity as an immortal.  He’d never thought of himself as a guardian, only someone put in place to oversee.  But the gnawing reminder of how he’d veered off that course once before made the title seem fitting, even in his failures.  And now he was doing it again.

“Are you an angel, Sam?”

He chuckled.  “I don’t think so.  Not the last time I checked, anyway.”

“What are you then?”  Her freckled brow pulled together and her pink, full lips nearly pouted.  It was her traditional display of frustration and he tried not smile.

“I know you trust me, Lanor, so do you think you can keep trusting me, even though I can’t tell you everything?  Just know that I will always be around to make sure you’re safe, because that’s why I’m here.”

She lowered her eyes, and her shoulders.

He put his finger under her chin and raised it toward him.  “And it’s not because I don’t think you’ll understand.  It’s because I don’t know how much I’m allowed to tell you.  But I know that because you are so grown-up, you will understand that.  You will know that sometimes, that’s the way life works.”

Her eyes softened, his words lifting her shoulders.

“Besides,” he lightheartedly continued as he started forward again, “don’t you think the secret makes our friendship extra special?”

She smiled again, the beginnings of another tooth slowly filling the gap from a month ago.  “Yeah,” she dreamily replied.

Downfall

*Post inspired by the TRDC Red Writing Hood prompt, "Physical Beauty." (Write a scene in which a physically beautiful character is somehow impacted by that trait.)


This one is difficult, only because of the content of the scene I am posting. It's another excerpt from my unpublished novel, The Exception. I thought that since both my main characters are physically beautiful, I would have oodles of scenes to choose from, but after scanning over it, it turns out there's really only one scene that displays how she is actually impacted by it.


Not only may it be an uncomfortable scene for some to read, but you will be confused by some things going on and left wondering why this villain is after her, who his uncles are, etc. So apologies for any confusion. One thing you may gather from this, and my last Red Writing Hood post, is that Sam is, in a way, Elanor's guardian. There isn't much more I can explain without giving away more of the plot than I'd like. So here it is, in just under 600 words.


(For another post about Sam and Elanor, visit my last Red Writing Hood post here.)


And feel free to critique! 

Elanor backed up as Jamie approached, his hands mysteriously behind his back.  He gave her the once-over, a glimmer of male instincts getting the best of him.  Flicking his tongue, he said, “They never told me how stunning you are.  Killing you might be difficult.”  He paused, his smile growing mischievous.  “Then again, it might make it that much more enjoyable.”

She swallowed hard, unable to remove her eyes from his.  “They?  You mean your puppet masters?”

Briefly faltering, anger flashed across his face.  “What do you know of my uncles?”

“Uncles?  Is that what they told you?”

Jamie paused before smiling in enlightenment.  “What they told me is that Sam may have gotten to you.”

Elanor stopped when the edge of Sam’s bed was against her calves.  “Did they also tell you what they are?  Or that Sam will stop at nothing to see your death?”

Jamie chuckled condescendingly.  “You’ll both be dead before he even knows I’m here.”

She stayed frozen as he slowly approached, her voice wavering as she warned, “He’ll be back any minute.”

“Not if our boy Matt does his job.”  Jamie looked thoughtfully to the side as he removed a large machete from behind his back, inspecting the blade dramatically.  “I will have to thank your sorry excuse of a bodyguard for his impeccable weapon choice, though.”

Elanor’s heart skipped into a panic as a flash of her nightmare played in her mind, the only difference to now being the location.

“Get on your knees,” he calmly commanded.

She barely shook her head, still immobile from his strange, captivating draw.

“Get on your knees!” he shouted, losing every ounce of his poise.

Startled, Elanor slowly did as he commanded, kneeling before him.  His figure blurred as she looked up at him in a begging manner.  “Please, Jamie,” she shakily whispered.  “You don’t have to do this.”

A corner of his heart twitched when gazing into her wide hazel eyes, her beauty strangely magnified by the moisture that glazed them.  Surely, this woman couldn’t be a threat to his family, as his uncles had told him.  He ran his fingers into her chestnut hair in a moment of hesitation, her beauty nearly hypnotizing him.  He couldn’t remember wanting someone so badly in years.

Elanor shivered as Jamie’s hand cradled her head and pushed it into his thigh.  His warn jeans smelled of gasoline and cigarette smoke.  Closing her eyes, she let the tears drop freely.  “You can walk away,” she gently cried.  “You can leave.”

He clenched his jaw, remembering another warning from his uncles.  Her beauty is a ruse, her existence an abomination.  They knew his weaknesses, knew him better than he knew himself.  They’d known the path his mind would wander.  He’d dropped his guard by letting her get to him, and now he would get to her.  “Take off your shirt,” he quietly ordered.

She stiffened, pushing away from him.

“Now.”

She shook her head in haste, her eyes pleading with him yet again.

He gripped her hair tightly, yanking her head back as he bent to her level.  “That shit isn’t going to work on me.  This plan has been in place for generations.  You think I’m going to let you throw me off?!”

“You already have,” she warily countered, closing her eyes through the burning in her scalp.  Wincing, she opened them again when his grasp tightened.  “Why prolong it?  Just kill me.  That’s what they wanted you to do, isn’t it?”

Red Writing Hood: Happy Non-End

Post inspired by the The Red Dress Club Red Writing Hood prompt "Happy Endings." We were to write a scene that includes a happy ending. If it's a continuation, it doesn't have to be the actual END of the story, but should include one challenge that your hero has to overcome.

Which is what I did. I have never, until now, posted anything from my fiction novels on my blog, so this post is even harder for me than the last one. Because this is a tiny bit of one of the projects I've spent hours and hours on.

And hours.

So, please, constructive criticism is welcome!

But be nice!

Shaky sigh.

So here goes. This is a brief excerpt from my most recent novel, The Exception.

Sam reached into his pocket to retrieve the key, then unlocked and opened the door behind Elanor.  He motioned inside with his hand.

The interior lurked behind her, the unnerving energy waiting.  She felt it, saturated in memories.  His eyes gave her strength and she swallowed hard, retreating until she was inside.  As he closed the door behind him, leaving them in murkiness, she quietly said, “I believe forging keys is illegal.”

He chuckled.  “I’ve had this key since before you were born,” he said, feeling strange again about their reunion.  “You should be grateful.  I’ve kept this house what it still is.”

Grasping his shoulders and reaching on her tiptoes, she kissed him lightly on the cheek.  “And I can’t thank you enough.”

His eyes grew wide.  It seemed that something once so innocent wasn’t anymore.  She lightly cleared her throat.  “Anyway, I believe you had a question to answer.  And now that we’re inside, no more games.  Time to spill your guts.”

 Elanor stayed in place, keeping her eyes on the door as Sam made his way to every window and lifted the drapes, allowing light to infiltrate the house.  “First you have to take this in,” he said.  “This is your house now, Lanor.  You have to accept it.”

She sighed, furrowing her brow as she slowly turned.  The dust danced in the sunlight, but everything wasn’t caked in it as she expected.  It was clean, immaculate even.  It almost looked lived-in, and seeing it in this condition made it easier to take in, unlike the way she remembered it—the way she expected it still to look.  Her mouth hung in surprise.  “Sam…”

“I’m sorry.  I hope you don’t mind I come in sometimes.  Cleaning helps me feel…sane.”

“It’s perfect,” she said, staring into his eyes.

“I get bored,” he shrugged.

Pulled by an intruding memory, she stepped past him and knelt on the faded hardwood floor by the stairs.  She ran her hand over it, feeling its smooth surface as she searched for any trace of blood.  Being in this place brought it all back, that night now fresh in the forefront of her mind.  She could hear her father standing just to her right, snaring her with his honey-sweet lies, his love a sham.  She could see his face, the way no trace of life remained behind his eyes.  She could feel herself hitting the wall, smashing the mirror and table, hear the clatter as she was showered with glass.  She felt him crushing her, heard her screams.  She felt her heart shattering.

She felt Sam’s warm blood on her hands, felt the shuddering of his chest as she held him, imaging his life being sucked away.

Sam knelt next to her, watching as she caressed the floor, absorbing the memories.  She was feeling them all over again with the touch of her hand and releasing them with her silent tears.  He touched her shoulder.  “I’m still here,” he softly reminded her.

What She Wants

*This is my first week participating in Red Writing Hood. And even though I'm extremely self-conscious about putting my fiction on my blog, here it is.

Haley let her mind drift, let the sound of beeping monitors and bustling nurses fade into the background. She’d always been good at escaping. Mentally anyway. She’d tried escaping physically once, too, telling herself she was thirteen and strong.

But by the time she’d ripped the tubes from her nose and the I.V. from the back of her hand, the nurses had had her surrounded, reminding her that age meant nothing. Not to her fatigued muscles, not to her fragile bones--strong and vibrant only eight months before.

Mere mental escape hadn’t been enough on that night--the night before she could officially call herself a teen. Maybe, she’d thought then, if I could just make it home, Lacey wouldn’t feel guilty for leaving.

But she hadn’t even made it past the foot of her hospital bed, and her sister, Lacey, let her guilt keep her by Haley’s side. Lacey was three years older and they shared the same birthday, and every year, since Haley could remember, they'd spent them together. But this year, Haley wanted Lacey to let go, to live the way a sixteen-year-old should.

And Lacey just wanted her sister to get better.

So instead, Haley's arrival into teenage-hood--and Lacey’s sweet sixteen--had been spent in Haley's hospital room. 

Instead of boys, music, and dancing had been tears, infection, and a catheter.

Instead of trendy clothes had been hats, and even a mildly attractive wig.

Now, staring out the blackened hospital window, she couldn't sleep, but took her thoughts elsewhere, somewhere far away and safe. Somewhere where she was healthy and strong. In that place, she wasn't poor, brave Haley, but beautiful, powerful Haley.

She absentmindedly drew her finger along the scar that stretched from the middle of her ribcage to just above her belly button, where it split and continued down both sides of her abdomen--branding her stomach with a twelve-inch upside-down “Y.” The raised skin was still sensitive, even raw in places, but she imagined it smooth, imagined that she hadn’t just been opened like a lily six months before.

She felt her hand over her smooth head and imagined hair, imagined braids and ponytails and the annoyance she’d feel when the wind would blow it in her eyes. She’d give anything to feel that annoyance again.

But instead she felt a draft against her uneven skull.

It used to be red, her hair. Fiery and full of light, as her mother used to say. And once upon a time, her freckles had matched. But now they seemed out of place.

Her eyes suddenly burned, and she set her jaw against the quivering. She was supposed to be strong. The strong, young cancer patient, smiling to give her mother the same hope she faked herself.

But her mother was gone and the nurses cackled outside her cracked door as though life wasn’t slipping away in the rooms around them. And for the first time in months, Haley felt free.

She let the tears spill, and they spilled as though they’d spent the last six months begging for release. She wanted to be pretty again. She wanted to dance like she used to, like gravity wasn’t her worst enemy.

She wanted her first kiss, and since she doubted she ever would, she imagined the way it would feel to have a boy’s lips against hers--maybe Mark’s, the boy whose name once decorated her hot pink binder.

Her mother entered the room then, catching her off guard, and as soon as she saw the tears drenching Haley’s cheeks, she dropped her purse and hurried toward her. Her mother could always cry at the drop of a hat, and usually Haley could soothe her.

But in that moment, Haley could only cry in the way her mother usually did. And when her mother’s arms encircled her, the warmth she’d been fighting against for months finally entered her soul, and she wept harder.

For the first time since the diagnosis, she took comfort from the same mothering arms that rocked her as a young child, and found that they gave her what she could no longer give everyone else--what she'd wanted to feel all along.

Hope.

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Though this is a work of fiction based on the The Red Dress Club prompt "What does your character want?" much of the inspiration for this post comes from my sister, who was a cancer survivor at the age of thirteen. Love you, Sissy.