I read a lot of literary agent interviews. Inevitably, the question of "What do you hate to see on an opening page?" comes up, and one of the most common answers is "waking up". They are quick to explain that it can be done well, and it can have significance, but if you're just starting at waking up ... well, just because ... you're probably better off starting somewhere else.
So, my challenge this week is: Write a "waking up" opening scene that has something unique or significant about it, something that would justify its use as an opening scene, not just another kid waking up and climbing out of bed.
Enjoy!
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My response:
(I'd like to take a moment to say that I do usually come up with these prompts on the spot. There is sometimes that tickle, somewhere between the thrill of a roller coaster with my stomach dropping out from under me and the turning of my gut before I lose my lunch. In that moment, I doubt my capabilities as a writer, and I worry about what kind of drivel I'm about to write and post to the internet. Then I swallow, let my mind go, and pray it won't be too terribly bad. Yep. That feeling right there. Well, here goes!)
There was too much light. Even with my eyes closed, I squinted against the brightness piercing my lids. It was as if I'd been in a cave for a year, then sought out the sunlight, only to find I was blinded by the sun. I had no idea then how close that thought came to the truth.
The sounds came next. The incessant beeping. It was like something out of my mother's daytime dramas, the heart monitor and the whirring of a blood pressure machine. Except there was no TV, or at least, if there was, it wasn't on. And the next thing I felt was the tightening of the band on my arm and the pulling of tape at certain spots on my skin.
I wanted to open my eyes and look around, but they refused. Instead, I stretched, rolling my shoulders and taking inventory of all my limbs.
Whispered curses, and I heard the clang of metal on metal. "Are you awake?!" Then footsteps, retreating.
I breathed in, filling my lungs. No pain. Only the ache of having slept too long in one position. Why was there no pain? If I'd been in a car accident, if I'd been sick ... anything that would have landed me in a hospital ought to have left me in pain, but as far as I could tell, I was whole.
Footsteps, more than one set of them, came back into the room. I managed to force my lids apart, just a slit, and three forms moved between me and the light.
"Kimber?" Yes, that was my name. Kimber. "Kimber. This is Dr. Marx. Can you open your eyes, sweetheart?"
I did. Dr. Marx had skin that hung from his neck, like a starving vulture, and a beak to match it, with beady little eyes. His voice, though, was deep and rolling, like the far off rumble of thunder.
I opened my mouth to speak, but found my tongue and mouth too dry. My lips stuck together awkwardly.
"Nurse ..." A blue figure bent over me, and I felt a swab moving across my lips, drops seeping into my mouth.
"That's better, now," Dr. Marx went on. "Go ahead Amber, try again."
My lips moved, but no sound came out. I remembered there was more to speaking than just my lips. My sound box quacked like a dying seagull. I tried again.
"What ... what ... happened?"
"Don't you worry about that now, Kimber, you are tired." I felt the calming stroke of a hand on my arm and let my eyes drop closed again. "Rest now. We'll talk soon."
I felt my mind dropping away, drifting off to sleep, but I heard the nurse's question.
"Have you ever seen someone come out of a coma after five years, Dr.?"
The soft bluish light coming from the nightlight in the hall greets me as I open my eyes, but the windows are still dark. With supreme effort, my head turns to look at the clock. 3:33. Three hours left before the blasted alarm would wake me up to go to work. Well, hopefully wake me up, because that would mean that I had gotten back to sleep. Unfortunately, that wasn’t always the way it worked when I woke up in the middle of the night. My eyes close, and I roll over onto my left side to try to go back to sleep, working my body backward, closer to my wife to pull some of her warmth. My ears pick up the expected sound of soft footfalls. One of the kids is out of bed. That is usually what wakes me up.
ReplyDeleteMy eyes snap open. Unless the kids have put on their shoes, those steps aren’t coming from them. I slide my hand backward to make sure my wife is in bed with me. Ice travels down my spine as I feel her there. That means someone else is in the house. Wait, do we have company? No…no, we don’t.
I sit up, instantly awake, heart pounding. The footsteps are still there. They are on a hard floor, so they are either in the main bathroom down the hall, or in the kitchen downstairs. They seem faint, probably in the kitchen. I turn around to nudge my wife awake. I try to whisper in her ear, but my throat is dry and my voice is trembling. I finally manage to choke out a horse, “there is someone downstairs, get the kids.” I turn away to get out of bed as quietly as I can. I can tell when what I said sinks in, because her hand shoots and grabs my shirt. I can feel her hands trembling too. “It will be OK,” I almost squeak, “just get the phone and follow me to the kids.” Now that we are both moving, I can’t hear the footsteps anymore, but I am sure they are there.
I get to the closet, and almost flip on the light, before realizing that would kill my night vision. I fumble a bit for the old shotgun that I never use anymore, but at least I don’t bang anything. I grab a box of buckshot and load 3, rack the slide, and load a 4th, to replace the shell now in the chamber. I grab a couple more shells and slip them in my pocket.
My hands are trembling. I probably can’t shoot straight right now. I offer a silent prayer that I won’t need to, but that if I do, I will do what is needed. My heart calms a bit.
My wife is already whispering into the phone, telling the 911 operator that we think there is someone in the house. We live 35 minutes from town. They will never make it in time to help us if whoever is downstairs wants to start something.
I take a deep breath and start moving down the hall as quietly as possible, gun at the low ready, my wife’s hand on my back. My eyes locked on the end of the hall, one thought repeats itself over and over: please, please, let me reach my kids before anyone else does.