A new year, a new series of #1lineWed themes. Today’s theme: **OLD** should be an easy one for most writers. There’s old news, old friends, old clothes, old age, old…take your pick. In my case, the first bit that popped up when I did a search of my Works in Progress, is the prologue for Gravedigger’s story. I know some of you are waiting for him. Maybe I’ll hit a writing streak this year and he’ll get his book done as well. This bit is in the POV of Shiane “Shy” Rourke. There’s graphic language, just FYI.
Fifteen years ago…
I wrapped my arms around my big sister. I was beyond screaming, beyond tears. The storm raged around the house, lightning flashes and thunder that weren’t from Mother Nature. Shadows stomped through the room as I crouched over Becca. I wanted her to hold me, to tell me it would be okay but her arms were limp.
Men cursed saying really bad words, words that Becca told her boyfriend not to say around me. Why wasn’t she moving? Why wasn’t she doing something to make them go away?
I stopped breathing as a huge shadow loomed over me.
“Brick!” the shadow yelled.
An even bigger shadow appeared. “What the fuck?”
“That’s not a nice word,” I whispered. Or thought I did. My teeth were chattering I was so scared.
“The bitch is dead,” the first shadow said.
What? He shouldn’t call Becca a bitch. That was a bad word too. Then the other word he’d said hit me. Dead? No. She couldn’t be dead. She was my big sister. She took care of me.
“Fuck it all to hell,” the second shadow growled.
I cringed back as hands reached for me. I clutched Becca’s sweater, clung to it as those hands plucked me up.
“Let to, baby girl,” the first shadow said, his voice so low it rumbled in my ear like a diesel truck.
“No!” Never. I would never let go of my sister. Something silvery glinted in a flash of light and then I was jerked away, my fists still grasping parts of Becca’s sweater.
“Bury this, Gravedigger,” the second shadow snarled.
A cop had found me sitting on a bench at the bus stop half a block from the police station. I was covered in blood—none of it mine. All I had left of my sister was two handfuls of unraveling yarn. They never found her body. Never found her boyfriend’s or any of the guys in his motorcycle gang.
Mitch Collins, the cop who sat with me at the ER, who walked me through the system, was a good guy. He and his wife took me in though they didn’t adopt me. That was fine. I didn’t want any of my baggage to taint them. You see, sitting there on that bench? I started to plan. I might have been only ten, but my sister was my whole world. Our old man had been a biker and our mother a biker’s old lady. They drank, smoked pot, did meth. Mom OD’d when I was five and Becca was fifteen. She took care of me because losin’ Mom? That just made the old man drink, smoke pot, do meth and fuck every pussy he could stick his dick into.
Becca got us away from that. She was going to community college, going to become a dental tech because there was good money to be made. Then she met Bozo. His name should have told her something. He was a biker. And Becca? She fell hard. And it got her dead.
Still, Mitch and Kathy were nice people. They saw me through high school and I think they were relieved when I joined the Army after graduation. See, I went into the military to get trained. I had an agenda, one I’d kept close to my chest since Mitch found me sitting on that damn bench, covered in blood, teeth chattering from shock, and scared out of my ever-loving mind.
That was then. This was now. I remembered two things from that night—two things that haunted every last one of my nights: a wolf’s head, fanged mouth open ready to eat me alive, and a name.
I have a few chapters written, inspiration that comes in fits and starts. The same happens with Wizard’s and Gunner’s books. We’ll see which gets finished first. So, in this first week of the new year, do any of you have old words to share? Any thoughts on Digger’s dilemma? *bwahaha*