Notes from the Author:
1, Yes, I forgot a day again. So, two more chapters it is.
2, This is ridiculous. I thought I would be at the big "incident" moment about four chapters ago. I know they're short, but it's taking too long. Domino is thinking too much, there is too much build up for this moment that is to come, but there is not enough happening within those build up moments. I like Domino's thoughts. Most of them. I think some of his thoughts are important and I would like to keep, but they are out of place. I need to re-organize many of these moments. For example, chapter 10 can be condensed or removed, or I'll use a lot of the concepts of this scene earlier on. Like, in chapter 2.
3, on top of three overflowing notebooks, journals and folders, I've started a Domino calendar. This way I can keep track of all my characters normal scheduled lives as well as all the events that happen within those days, what chapters they are, and what days jump back and forth in the "time travel" parts. It's time consuming, but I should have started one a long time ago. It's exhausting to see the list of major edits I need to make. But I'm glad I took a break and came back to it, because now I have a better scope of my story and can spot the mistakes easier. If I don't post for several days, it's because I hit a knot and have to do some untangling.
10
A Second Thing to Lose
“Morning Domino!”
“Morning.”
“Look
at the clouds! They’re fantastic!”
I
look up from my black convers as we walk.
I only glance up for a second. As
a bodyguard, I must be the one to watch our feet. Over time it’s been apparent that watching
her steps is not Qym’s strong point.
The
sky looks no different than yesterday’s sky.
Sometimes I doubt every day is different. If days were movie producers, then they would
be completely dry of inspiration, resorting to repeating the same story over
and over. It’s probable. What isn’t probable are the days skipping
forward.
The clouds are wispy, tinted wakening
colors of pink and yellow. Streaks of
white from airplanes scar the sky, like a nail across car paint.
It
could be pretty, if I liked pretty things.
Reason
why I Hate Qym #6:
She’s kind of like the sky.
We cross the bridge, and the skull someone spray painted on
the pavement. The cars roar past us, and
beneath us.
“I’d live in the sky if I could,” she
continues.
I glance down at her.
She’s not looking at the sky anymore.
She stares forward, as though she sees something fantastic in the
distance that I can’t see. The huff of air
follows behind a speeding vehicle, strands of hair attack her face. She stokes it back into her pink hat and lets
her finger strum across the bridge gate, creating a metal humming sound. Like a child playing a xylophone.
We reach the street, and I grip her hand,
speed-walking across the street before the next wave of cars pass by. Her metal legs thump and squeak along as she
struggles to keep up. I take slower
steps. It’s cold, but my hands
sweat. We cross the median and continue
across to the sidewalk.
“You have a really tight grip,” she
says. I cringe at the observation,
releasing her hand
“It
keeps getting tighter every morning, it feels like. Are you afraid of streets?”
I
glare down at her, shaking my head, “Yes.
Definitely.”
“What
are you scared of?”
Reason
Why I Hate Qym #7:
She knows I lie, yet she asks questions as if she expects me to be
honest
The gravestones watch us through the shriveled vines around
the fence. Or, they watch me. As if to say, “Yeah, Domino, what are you scared of?”
Qym moves on to the next ill-timed
question, as though satisfied with my silence.
“What do you think would be the worst death?”
A collage of horrible images flood
my mind. I finally settle for one that
sinks deepest in my stomach. “Being
buried alive.”
“That’s not a death.”
“Eventually, it is.”
A turns it’s bass up so loud I feel
it through my chest as it passes. An
obnoxious woman’s voice calls for her dog.
I know Qym wants me to repeat the question to her. I don’t.
And I hope my silence indicates I wish for her to remain silent or
change the subject.
She answers, “I don’t know the worst
way to die.”
That’s great.
You can shut up now.
We’re walking by Savvy now.
“Any death alone would be hard I guess,” she proceeds, “But,
I would want a “Lady of Shalott” kind of funeral. I’d want to be sailed away on a boat. Then have someone shoot a burning arrow into it,
and have everyone there be in cool mid-evil costumes and sing sad Elvish songs and
I’ll sail over a waterfall or something.” she inhales, as if in awe of her own
splendid funeral.
My jaws hurt from grinding my teeth.
How is everything so beautiful and
fantastic through her eyes? Someone who loves
to hike and lost their legs. Who lost
them because her Dad wasn’t watching her as she played next to the campfire. Who wasn’t watching because he wasn’t
around. Who wasn’t around because he
didn’t care.
My
fatherless situation isn’t remotely as bad as Qym’s. Because Qym had one, and he failed. I’m
not abandoned, I just fill in what I don’t have.
I’m a master at filling in the
blanks. Like what I did in Kindergarten
art class, when I asked for the red paint and they didn’t pass it to me. So, I cut myself on a sharpener and used the
blood on my finger to paint. My teacher
was really upset with me. So was Mom.
Somehow, Qym knows how to fill in
the blanks without cutting herself.
11
A Fear and a Nightmare
Here’s the thing about nightmares. They are different then fears. Qym wanted to know what I feared. And just like I couldn’t make the opening
sentence to this book, “Domino was dead,” I couldn’t just reply to her question. Lying wouldn’t have worked. Like how saying, “Domino is alive” isn’t a
very convincing lie.
Nightmares aren’t fears. Fears are situations. Events.
Nightmares are flesh and blood.
Everyone has fears. Not everyone
has nightmares. Nightmares are like
friends. They stick close. They are
there in your darkest times, and when you are hurt. They’re like Sharks. They’re there when you’re bleeding.
