So last week, I published because quite frankly, no one else ever will the first instalment from the book I started writing at age 14 - The Dance of Revenge. If you missed last week, please go HERE and read. Seriously, you don't want to miss one word of this story. *cough*
You know, I think this is proof I have very little shame, seeing that I'm sharing this with ya'll. ;)
For those who read last week, but need a recap...We met our main character, Sherrie - ballet dancer and daughter of Elizabeth - who fought with her mother over her mother's lover, Adam Brair. Sherrie expressed her disdain with her mother over her relationship with Adam, and then Elizabeth announced that she and Adam were getting hitched, which flew Sherrie in to a panic (and screaming match with her mother). This week, we find out why Sherrie despises her mother's lover...
Now, remember...I was 14 years old when I wrote this, so you'll have to excuse me for...many, many reasons. As last week, I've written my comments [in red and in brackets like this].
THE DANCE OF REVENGE
Sherrie stared out the window of the attic to the small street that layed outside the window. [There is so much wrong with this sentence, I just don’t know where to start. sigh] An old man swept the pathway outside his bakery, then hurried inside as it began to rain. The water trickled down the glass window [are windows usually made of anything else other than glass in a house?] and dripped off the windowpane outside. Sherrie touched the glass with her hand. She wiped the fog [fog? Condensation perhaps?] so that she could see the street more clearly. Why had her mother done this to her? How she hated Mr Brair. She would not call him Adam. She would not call him that to please him. She would never please him. Not ever! [OK! I think we GOT IT!] She hated him more than she hated spiders. She hated spiders more than anything in the world until she met him. Now the spiders took second place. If Mr Brair was [were] a spider, she’d kill it. That’s what she’d do. She’d do it slowly too. [Ok, this is getting a little weird…] She’d fry him in a pan under a red hot flame or cut his legs off one by one. [Nice.] How she’d like to do that. He was a bastard. [I didn't swear much at all when I was 14, so writing this must have been very daring for me.] Sherrie knew it, but her mother was too blind to see what he was really like. She hated the way his moustache turned up. [Presumably, at each end.] She hated his thick, black hair and his dark brown, almost black, eyes. He was terribly handsome, she had to admit that, but he knew it. His body was fine too. [Good Lord, reading that I can imagine Oprah saying it like that. "His body was fiiiine."] But so awkward. Sherrie did not like the way he called her mother his ‘darling princess of love’. [Oh, come on! Who does that?] Another thing was that he was American. [Ok, may I state for the record that I didn’t have, nor do I have a problem with Americans? I was going for the whole “the French don’t like the Americans and vice versa” angel. ;) ] Sherrie hated his accent, and the way he tried to impress her mother with it. He was an American bastard! The worst kind. [Once again…not my personal opinion here.] Not all American’s were bad. [Phew.] Sherrie knew a few at school that she really liked. Mr Brair just wasn’t one of them.
He tried so hard to impress Sherrie that it made her laugh hysterically. [Is it me, or does Sherrie sound decidedly unstable?] He bought her jewellery, clothes, sweets and even records. Old, old records that Sherrie hated. She didn’t even know the bastards that sang the songs. He tried so hard. So ‘God damn’ hard, as Mr Brair would put it.
Sherrie heard footsteps on the stairs. She thought it was her mother until the door opened to reveal him standing there. Her hands began to tremble and she immediately began to work on the ring on her right hand. A beautiful ring. Her mind began to reel. Had he come to… [Are you on the edge of your seats? Are you?!]
“Ah, so here you are lovie,” Mr Brair drawled. Sherrie fumed at his words. She hated him calling her that.
“Don’t call me that name!” she shouted. “Where’s my mother?” Sherrie demanded. Mr Brair laughed. Sherrie's stomach churned.
“Why honey, she’s gone out. Food shopping I guess. Isn’t that good? Now we have a lot of time by ourselves to talk about us.” Sherrie’s lip trembled.
“Us?” she asked quietly. “What about us? There’s nothing to talk about. Now please leave me alone.” She turned her head triumphantly back to the window. He laughed wickedly. Sherrie thought she may be sick. He moved closer. His hand reached out and smoothed her head. He twirled her golden hair around his finger.
“Leave you alone? Don’t be silly. I wouldn’t think of it.” He sat down next to her and pulled his arm around her shoulders. “Isn’t that comfy?” he asked. Sherrie drew away from his arms.
“No. It’s not.” Her voice was shaky. She turned to gather up her records, but he was right at her side again. He took the records from her hands and threw them down on the rug. He twirled Sherrie quickly around and began to [oh, God – are you sure you’re ready for this? This is where I get really uncomfortable reading this back…!] kiss her passionately on the lips. Sherrie tried with all her strength to free from his grip, but he dare not let go of her. Sherrie, in a desperate attempt to free from his clasp, pulled back her knee and dug it hard in to his upper leg. He cried out in pain and threw her against the wall. Sherrie sucked in her breath when a sharp pain raced through her body. Mr Brair, in an angry flair [oh look! Poetry!] threw himself on top of her and pulled her towards the rug.
“I’ll get you, you bitch. No one ever pushes me around.” He kissed her on the neck and then hard on the lips. His tongue tried desperately to probe further into her mouth. Sherrie felt sick and tried to bite down on his tongue, but failed. She began to sob and scream. [Not an easy feat when you have a tongue down your throat, I’m sure.] She couldn’t move for fear of hurting herself on the records that lay beneath her. She heard them crunch as he tried to further his way down her neck. He kissed her neck and ripped at her tutu. Soon his mouth found her breast and he kissed and slithered his tongue on that too. She screamed hysterically. He was then about to tug down on her pants [or underwear] when he heard a door slam shut. Sherrie cried in relief. Her mother was home! Adam, how she hated that name, [what the?] jumped off her and pushed her away. He looked at her, his eyes still flaring! [I should have gone with his ‘nostrils flaring’, huh?]
“If you say a word of this to your mother, I’ll kill you. God help me, I’ll kill you!” He turned away from her and rushed out the door, tucking in his shirt as he did so. Sherrie coughed and spluttered. She could not breath. She felt terribly dirty and sweaty. He had touched her. The way he probably touched her mother. He had tried to rape her. His lips had touched hers, his tongue…
Sherrie shuddered. He had touched her before to her disgust, but never had he done this before. Never. How she hated him. He would pay. One day… [I think this is where the ‘revenge’ bit gets in to the title of the book.]
Sherrie looked down at her records. They were ruined. Smashed to pieces by that horribly, thilfy [I think I meant ‘filthy’] man. She rushed to the toilet downstairs just in time to throw up her disgust.
Then she showered. She scrubbed and scrubbed but could not feel clean. The memory of that man would always remain within her, and showering could not wash those memories away.
Goodness me. I think I might have to shower after reading that myself.
Next week we move on to Chapter Two. Adam and Sherrie's mum get a little...intimate. Will be interesting, because, you know, I was most certainly NOT writing from experience at the time.
Tune in then...