...My
heart skips a beat. The wind is knocked out of me and suddenly I’m
standing alone, completely surrounded by countless blurred faces in a
familiar open foyer from my past. I stand motionless in the midst of
scurrying adolescents, clutching my books to my chest. Sheepishly, I
look up from my polished mary-janes. I see you for the first time, again.
You sit across the way, thoughtfully gazing through
the glass towards the open field outside. I find myself in a trans;
unable to move. You glance at me in the reflection. Your brilliant blue
eyes lock with mine. Your face softened into a sweet smile mirroring my
own. We had a connection, you and me; brief as it were. For five whole
seconds we were the only two in existence and in that moment, I knew the
image of your intoxicating allure would forever be burned onto my heart
like an insignia I would be sentenced to live with for the rest of my
life. I would now have to force myself to stay cloaked in the shadows of
lies, never to let on to my own true feelings within. For that, I hated
you.
I woke in a cold sweat again, breathless. This is the forth night in a
row I have been visited with this bitter sweet vision. Why do these
dreams, these flashes of a dead reality, keep haunting me so? Dreams,
they say, are visions of the heart’s deepest and truest desires. I’m
beginning to wonder if perhaps maybe they are right.
Friday, March 28, 2014
Jane
So I am working on one of my next books, Jane, which I plan on
releasing in spring/early summer 2015. Though, I am not entirely happy
with the title, so it will probably change as I get further into her
character and her story.
I am having a lot of fun writing about her. The excitement of learning new information through the abundance of research in different psychological disorders and their various treatments....just wow. Jane is a skitzophranic who suffers from multiple personality disorder, pyromania, and psychogenic amnesia. Right now she is being held hostage in a psychiatric facility after the police had her at the precinct questioning her about a burning house she was sitting in front of which they believed to have been her own. Turns out, it wasn't her house and two people died inside. They had nothing tying her to the crime, besides her presence of course, and as the detective was discussing her release, she had a psychiatric breakdown. Currently, she thinks she is just in the hospital. Maybe she should spend a little less time finding euphoria in staring at burning houses....
"...well, again, tell me your name and we will begin."
I had no idea what he was talking about. The very last thing I remembered was putting my head back on the pillow after nurse, whats-her-name, left the room after giving me some water. I truthfully did not want to play along with this man, but obviously he wasn't going to give me any further information until I cooperated. This was absolutely ridiculous.
"I am sure you already know what I am called. You have my chart. My name is there." I looked up at the ceiling and breathed deeply, letting the air out slowly.
"You have an interesting way of wording things. What you are called as opposed to whom you are called or simply, your name. Do you go by an alias then? The name on this chart is not your legal name? Is that a safe assumption?"
"What do you want?" I asked.
"I want for you, miss, to tell me your name. The relevance of it existing in this chart does not matter. I need to hear it from you."
"Jane."
"Right you are. Jane, do you have a last name?"
"No. I go by Jane. Plain Jane."
"That's unusal. Generally people have three names, or at the very least, two. A first, and a last, and occasionally the third being a middle name. But I have met people who have dropped their middle names before. Am I to understand you dropped both; your middle and last?"
I sighed heavily. "Jesus. Stevens! Jane Stevens! Satisfied?" I shoved my head back against the hard pillow behind it.
"Quite. However, I am confused. Is it difficult for you to remember your name, Jane?" He asked as he lifted his clipboard and began to scribble again.
"No. I know who I am." I stared blankly at him.
"Then what is wrong with telling me your name?"
"Nothing. I just think it is ridiculous that you feel it necessary to ask a question for which the answer is staring up at you on the chart you are staring down at. You already know the answer so the question is absurd. Why should I answer you? I'm sure you were taught to read at some point during your many years of schooling for your doctorate. Were you not?"
"I suppose you're right. However, you need to get used to it. I will be asking you your name every time we meet. If you plan on keeping this up, you will be wasting a lot of time."
"My response will not change as long as your answer is written in front of you, so I guess we will be wasting quite a bit of time then." I looked up at the ceiling and tried crossing my bound arms again to no avail. Blasted handcuffs. I just want out of this stupid hospital bed. He then took a piece of paper out of the front cover of my chart and moved closer to my bed.
"Do you see this, and this?" He asked as he pointed to my name in two places on the page.
"Yes." I said skeptically.
He then began tearing up the piece of paper and letting the pieces fall on my bed. "That was the only page in your chart with your full name on it."
I scoffed at him. "You have a back up. I am not stupid."
"No. I am afraid we don't operate that way here. That was the original and only. So there, I no longer have the answers to my questions written in front of me."
I was at a loss for words. My mind went blank. I had no rebuttal.
"See, I can be stubborn too. Don't test me." He looked pleased with himself.
I can't wait to see what happens when Dr. Thatcher gets inside her head and begins treating her. ...Or will he just make matters worse? Back to writing I go!
~KD Hanes
I am having a lot of fun writing about her. The excitement of learning new information through the abundance of research in different psychological disorders and their various treatments....just wow. Jane is a skitzophranic who suffers from multiple personality disorder, pyromania, and psychogenic amnesia. Right now she is being held hostage in a psychiatric facility after the police had her at the precinct questioning her about a burning house she was sitting in front of which they believed to have been her own. Turns out, it wasn't her house and two people died inside. They had nothing tying her to the crime, besides her presence of course, and as the detective was discussing her release, she had a psychiatric breakdown. Currently, she thinks she is just in the hospital. Maybe she should spend a little less time finding euphoria in staring at burning houses....
"...well, again, tell me your name and we will begin."
I had no idea what he was talking about. The very last thing I remembered was putting my head back on the pillow after nurse, whats-her-name, left the room after giving me some water. I truthfully did not want to play along with this man, but obviously he wasn't going to give me any further information until I cooperated. This was absolutely ridiculous.
"I am sure you already know what I am called. You have my chart. My name is there." I looked up at the ceiling and breathed deeply, letting the air out slowly.
"You have an interesting way of wording things. What you are called as opposed to whom you are called or simply, your name. Do you go by an alias then? The name on this chart is not your legal name? Is that a safe assumption?"
"What do you want?" I asked.
"I want for you, miss, to tell me your name. The relevance of it existing in this chart does not matter. I need to hear it from you."
"Jane."
"Right you are. Jane, do you have a last name?"
"No. I go by Jane. Plain Jane."
"That's unusal. Generally people have three names, or at the very least, two. A first, and a last, and occasionally the third being a middle name. But I have met people who have dropped their middle names before. Am I to understand you dropped both; your middle and last?"
I sighed heavily. "Jesus. Stevens! Jane Stevens! Satisfied?" I shoved my head back against the hard pillow behind it.
"Quite. However, I am confused. Is it difficult for you to remember your name, Jane?" He asked as he lifted his clipboard and began to scribble again.
"No. I know who I am." I stared blankly at him.
"Then what is wrong with telling me your name?"
"Nothing. I just think it is ridiculous that you feel it necessary to ask a question for which the answer is staring up at you on the chart you are staring down at. You already know the answer so the question is absurd. Why should I answer you? I'm sure you were taught to read at some point during your many years of schooling for your doctorate. Were you not?"
"I suppose you're right. However, you need to get used to it. I will be asking you your name every time we meet. If you plan on keeping this up, you will be wasting a lot of time."
"My response will not change as long as your answer is written in front of you, so I guess we will be wasting quite a bit of time then." I looked up at the ceiling and tried crossing my bound arms again to no avail. Blasted handcuffs. I just want out of this stupid hospital bed. He then took a piece of paper out of the front cover of my chart and moved closer to my bed.
"Do you see this, and this?" He asked as he pointed to my name in two places on the page.
"Yes." I said skeptically.
He then began tearing up the piece of paper and letting the pieces fall on my bed. "That was the only page in your chart with your full name on it."
I scoffed at him. "You have a back up. I am not stupid."
"No. I am afraid we don't operate that way here. That was the original and only. So there, I no longer have the answers to my questions written in front of me."
I was at a loss for words. My mind went blank. I had no rebuttal.
"See, I can be stubborn too. Don't test me." He looked pleased with himself.
I can't wait to see what happens when Dr. Thatcher gets inside her head and begins treating her. ...Or will he just make matters worse? Back to writing I go!
~KD Hanes
Thursday, March 13, 2014
A Stranger's Pocket
My 2/2014 submission for Writer's Digest My Story competition:
“If you can guess what I have in my pocket, you can have it.” A gruff voice said.
Startled, I looked up to find a tall old man standing over me. “Excuse me?” I asked in a broken voice.
“Now I know your young ears heard me plain as day, so guess.”
I studied the old man. He was weathered, like he’d been through a war. He had thick white hair and dark, crinkled skin. I must have seen him in the mall before; he looked familiar. He tightened his white bushy eyebrows over his tiny eyes; urging a response from me. “Leave me alone, old man.” I barked, unamused.
“It’d end that ridiculous blubberin’ you’re doin’, but suit yourself.” The old man grumbled and walked away.
The next day, I returned to work as usual. The old man didn’t cross my mind until lunch time when I looked over the rail of the two-story mall and saw him sitting in the same lounge area where I had encountered him yesterday. He was talking to a woman who looked like she had no interest in what he was saying but was trying to be polite and listen anyway. He must have nothing better to do, than bug strangers; I thought to myself.
When my shift ended, I peered over the rail again. He was sitting there having a conversation with someone else, who also appeared uninterested.
I tried to sneak past the lounge area but in my peripheral I saw the old man notice me, hold up one finger to his audience, and rise to his feet.
He approached me and happily said, “If you can guess what’s in my pocket, it’s yours.”
“Look, I’m sorry you’re a lonely old man, but I don’t care. I’m not interested in your stories nor is anyone else.” I said harshly and continued on my way. A twinge of regret came over me. I hesitated looking back at the man, expecting a response. Instead, he glared at me through his bushy white eyebrows and twitched his thick white mustache in distaste of my behavior.
I did not work the following three days. I thought about the old man though, and how I could have been much more pleasant towards him. I could have humored him; he was old and there was no reason for me to be rude after all.
When I returned to work, my usual route took me past the lounge area and I couldn’t help but look for the old man who was not present.
“Welcome to work.” My manager greeted me. “You know you are not allowed to have visitors during work hours. I’m writing you up.” He said as he handed me three envelopes.
“What are you talking about?” I asked angrily.
“I’m aware you’ve been gone three days, but each day a white-haired man came by asking for you.”
“A man?”
“Yes. A friend of yours, or relative, I assumed. One more write-up and you’re fired. Get to work.” He ordered as he closed his office door in my face.
I thumbed through the envelopes. Great. The only white-haired man I knew was a complete stranger. I reached the last envelope, and realized it was much thicker than the others and not from my manager. I opened it and the letter read:
“Son, your attitude wasn’t appreciated. At this point I realize you don’t remember me. We met in a bar two weeks ago. You were drunk and distraught, thus bestowed upon me all your misfortunes. You were quite annoying, but then you asked me to guess what was in your pocket. Amused, I played along. To my sad surprise, you pulled out an eviction notice you’d just received - so I bought you another beer. We talked for hours after that; about life, lovers, beers... I took a liking to you and drove you home.
“Had you guessed what was in my pocket, judging by what I’d learned about you that night, I think you would’ve said ‘keys’. You’d have been right too. I had a key for you which went to a box containing the attached. My kids won’t like this, but I reckon you deserve it more than those selfish people.”
Behind the letter was the man’s Last Will and Testament leaving his home, and all his fortune, to a complete stranger.
“PS:” the letter continued, “There’s one condition; don’t be an angry person like me. See you in the next life, kid.”
“If you can guess what I have in my pocket, you can have it.” A gruff voice said.
Startled, I looked up to find a tall old man standing over me. “Excuse me?” I asked in a broken voice.
“Now I know your young ears heard me plain as day, so guess.”
I studied the old man. He was weathered, like he’d been through a war. He had thick white hair and dark, crinkled skin. I must have seen him in the mall before; he looked familiar. He tightened his white bushy eyebrows over his tiny eyes; urging a response from me. “Leave me alone, old man.” I barked, unamused.
“It’d end that ridiculous blubberin’ you’re doin’, but suit yourself.” The old man grumbled and walked away.
The next day, I returned to work as usual. The old man didn’t cross my mind until lunch time when I looked over the rail of the two-story mall and saw him sitting in the same lounge area where I had encountered him yesterday. He was talking to a woman who looked like she had no interest in what he was saying but was trying to be polite and listen anyway. He must have nothing better to do, than bug strangers; I thought to myself.
When my shift ended, I peered over the rail again. He was sitting there having a conversation with someone else, who also appeared uninterested.
I tried to sneak past the lounge area but in my peripheral I saw the old man notice me, hold up one finger to his audience, and rise to his feet.
He approached me and happily said, “If you can guess what’s in my pocket, it’s yours.”
“Look, I’m sorry you’re a lonely old man, but I don’t care. I’m not interested in your stories nor is anyone else.” I said harshly and continued on my way. A twinge of regret came over me. I hesitated looking back at the man, expecting a response. Instead, he glared at me through his bushy white eyebrows and twitched his thick white mustache in distaste of my behavior.
I did not work the following three days. I thought about the old man though, and how I could have been much more pleasant towards him. I could have humored him; he was old and there was no reason for me to be rude after all.
When I returned to work, my usual route took me past the lounge area and I couldn’t help but look for the old man who was not present.
“Welcome to work.” My manager greeted me. “You know you are not allowed to have visitors during work hours. I’m writing you up.” He said as he handed me three envelopes.
“What are you talking about?” I asked angrily.
“I’m aware you’ve been gone three days, but each day a white-haired man came by asking for you.”
“A man?”
“Yes. A friend of yours, or relative, I assumed. One more write-up and you’re fired. Get to work.” He ordered as he closed his office door in my face.
I thumbed through the envelopes. Great. The only white-haired man I knew was a complete stranger. I reached the last envelope, and realized it was much thicker than the others and not from my manager. I opened it and the letter read:
“Son, your attitude wasn’t appreciated. At this point I realize you don’t remember me. We met in a bar two weeks ago. You were drunk and distraught, thus bestowed upon me all your misfortunes. You were quite annoying, but then you asked me to guess what was in your pocket. Amused, I played along. To my sad surprise, you pulled out an eviction notice you’d just received - so I bought you another beer. We talked for hours after that; about life, lovers, beers... I took a liking to you and drove you home.
“Had you guessed what was in my pocket, judging by what I’d learned about you that night, I think you would’ve said ‘keys’. You’d have been right too. I had a key for you which went to a box containing the attached. My kids won’t like this, but I reckon you deserve it more than those selfish people.”
Behind the letter was the man’s Last Will and Testament leaving his home, and all his fortune, to a complete stranger.
“PS:” the letter continued, “There’s one condition; don’t be an angry person like me. See you in the next life, kid.”
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