And so it begins…
After a bit of a hiatus which included a crisis (or two) of confidence, I decided to take the plunge.
For real.
With no net. (Well, except the obvious one. You know what I mean.)
So this is the first piece of writing for what may someday vaguely resemble a novel. Or maybe a novella. Or perhaps I should aim for just a short story. Sigh.
It’s a prologue. After all, I’ve got to start somewhere. Don’t expect too much.
Writing beginnings is actually pretty hard. In fact, this little piece has haunted me for quite a while. So I figure it’s time to let this particular ghost wander the battlements.
Prologue: A Candle, Guttering
Dark.
Cold. So very cold.
A soft hissing of gas, ebbing away, like a child’s balloon deflating, life leaking out of a jar. A mechanical whirring, dim and low, at the edge of hearing. A mind stumbles, fragmented. Synapses fire chaotically. Neurotransmitters ebb and sputter.
Spark.
A sudden tightening, spasming. Chest heaving, lungs straining, full of fluid. A mouth gurgles, obstructed and hopelessly struggling for the air that will not come.
Pain.
Chest burning, ribs acheing, temples pounding. Eyes flicker open, wide and frightened. Consciousness tentatively reforms and hovers on the brink of nothingness. Memories begin tumbling and twisting together, trying to put themselves back to make the person they once belonged to. Things that have happened, or might have happened, or maybe things that are yet to happen.
A cold, thin layer of plastic covered cushioning nestles against calves and thighs. Someone lies prone staring upwards, random flickers of phantom phospherescence playing across straining retinas.
A thought recurs. A name returns.
Cassandra. My name is Cassandra.
Hands fumble around in the blackness to find themselves hemmed in closely on both sides by chilled metal and fabric. Reaching up now, mere inches above her face, a subtly curved surface squats over her, unyielding. Her mouth and nose are masked, connected to tubes which snake off into the inky depths, joining others which pierce her right side, just beneath her armpit.
The distant whirring changes pitch. The tubes twitch and pulse as they fight to suck away the cold viscous fluid that threatens to drown her. Snatches of air rasp in her throat, teasing her with the promise of life.
There. Up there.
A weak flashing redness, at the corner of vision. As her head twists up and to the left to see, it tugs against a pair of unseen obstructions which pierce the top of her skull.
A sense of panic builds, rising up from her stomach, cresting on waves of nausea. A stream of frantic questions, pleading.
Where am I?
Why is this happening to me?
Won’t someone please help me?
Am I going to die here, alone?
The icy darkness sits mute and suffocating. A swirling river of memory is playing her life back before her eyes.
Deep down, Cassandra knows something is terribly, terribly wrong.
Somewhere, someone is screaming.
June 12th, 2008 at 5:53 pm
Good luck with the writing. I know it is never easy.
Did you consciously or subconsiously choose Cassandra as your main character’s name? References to the Illiad immediately come to mind, and what could be in story for her. While anyone recognize the truth she sees?
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June 12th, 2008 at 6:15 pm
Thanks for the encouragement.
As for the name of Cassandra, well spotted – it was a bit of both. The name just came to me initially and felt right, and when I looked into the mythology references and consciously saw all the possible allusions and connections to prophecy and disbelief, that just confirmed it was the right name.
I could say more, but I’d best wait until I’ve written more of the chapter, lest I get tempted to break an important rule of writing – namely Show, Don’t Tell.
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