If you've been following my little word count meter you will have noticed that it hasn't moved for over a week. That's right, I've done no writing in about a week on Violet's story or anything else for that matter and I must admit I think I might slowly be going mad. I've got a backlog of story ideas and possible plots for Violet but they just aren't making it onto paper.
So yes, I've stopped writing about Violet, and maybe I've failed NaNoWriMo this month, it's not going to stop me from having another attempt next month. I'll hang on to those 8000 words of Violet's story, and see if I can pull 50,000 words out of a hat for August. Wish me luck.
Until then, here's a little more of Violet's story. Beware this is rough and unedited and the story will change I guarantee it!!
I’m jolted awake and scramble out of my bed for #652 and panic when I can’t find it to begin with. My head is full of scenes that are going to happen that I’m not even clicking to begin with that I’m home. I find it burrowed in my messenger bag and write furiously. I’m glad for the lack of the awful tightening feeling but am so wrapped up in getting what I see down that I don’t realise that I’m not alone in my room.Movement in the corner brings me out of my daze. Ellie sits perched upon the arm chair waiting impatiently.“You’re so lucky I smuggled your behind into the room earlier. If anyone… namely Mum and Dad… had seen you they would have flipped their lid and gone all protective. I mean you in the arms of a very hot guy. And completely out of it, hello!” My memory is pretty hazy but at least I now know how I got home.Hopefully you all enjoyed this. Stay tuned
“Well at least you remembered the milk. I told Mum you weren’t feeling good so your covered. Now spill.” Her foot starts tapping. It’s an annoying habit if you’re under interrogation.“Uh, nothing to tell. I don’t remember what happened. I just kind of blacked out is all.” I shrug, uncomfortable with the blank spot in my memory. Ellie looks at me incredulously but shrugs. She gets up and throws the pillow at me.“You’re right to come out. Mum and Dad have gone to bed. Oh and before I forget.” She pulls out a small square of paper and puts it on my desk before closing the door behind her.
I wait a bit to make sure she’s gone to her room before I get up and see what she left.The paper sends warm tingles up my arm and I’m greeted with the image of flowers. Hundreds of them. Bright, yellows, reds, pinks, blues… before the images fades and the tingles disappear. I hold up the note:Blaise 0645 546 456 – sorry.Sorry? What has he got to be sorry for? I’m the one who feels like an idiot for having some complete stranger carry me home. I’m tempted to message and ask what he’s sorry for but I immediately squash that idea. I don’t need the trouble, the possibility of explanations if things get awkward, nothing like that. I put the note back on my desk and go back to #652.
This time there’s only a small paragraph of my writing one sketch. I’m surprised at how good it is considering this is the latest in the curse department. That and feeling things through paper. Weird. Even though the sketch is coloured in smoky grays it’s unmistakable for what it is. It’s of the poorly lit street, headlights flashing, rain pouring, and a boy stepping in front of the headlights. It’s enough to make me feel sick and I slam the book closed. I feel nauseous. I can feel the phantom pain of my bones breaking in my legs and hear the squeal of the tyres as if it’s just happening now. And if things couldn’t get any worse, I could smell the blood. I get up and head to my en suite just in time to see my lunch go. Ugh. Well this is new. I’d never been caught in a vision as vivid as this so soon. I look at the clock. 11:59pm on Friday night. Great. At least that vision was written down and done with for now. I don’t think I could handle the frequency of that one popping up in my dreams, revealing more and more until the day it happens.
That used to happen a lot before I was aware that writing was my only consolation to this dreaded curse. On top of not being able to speak to anyone about this I’d get the reoccurring visions or premonitions. They would intensify to a point where I thought it was actually happening to me. Well until I was jolted awake by my sister, or Mum because they’d awoken from the banging or something. Never Dad though. He could sleep through a damn tornado and wake up none the wiser.
Violet © Melissa 'Charlie' Freeman 2011