I belong to a book reading group on Goodreads that was started by some members of the MNINB Platform Challenge group. The first book we read and discussed was Stephen King’s “On Writing.” Toward the end of the book, King suggests a writing exercise to illustrate the method he has been explaining. Several people in our group decided to try it. Here’s my contribution:
Bryan pulled into the garage and turned off the engine. Holding onto the roofline for support, he slid the back door open and reached across the folded walker to lift out his shopping bags. He could stand and walk short distances without it now, but he didn’t yet trust his body’s recovery enough to leave home without a source of support.
It had been nearly a year since his wife, Carlotta, had crushed him between the front bumper of her Bentley and the support post of the parking garage next to his office building. Everyone said he was lucky to be alive. At first, the doctors had told him he might never walk again, but determination and months of painfully hard work had put him back on his feet.
He had no choice. His daughter needed him to be whole and healthy. Maggie had been his reason for living ever since he found out she had been conceived. He had just dropped her off at his parents’ house for the weekend and he missed her already.
Moving alongside the minivan, Bryan hit the button to close the garage door and put his key in the deadbolt. He hated the security measures his weakened body and scarred psyche had required. He felt his physical strength growing every day and weeks of sessions with Dr. Patterson, a PTSD therapist, had given him tools to overcome the panic attacks, but he still felt insecure about his abilities.
This morning, Carlotta had finally been convicted of first degree attempted murder. Once her sentence hearing was over on Monday, she’d be moved to the penitentiary at the other end of the state and he and Maggie could finally relax. He might even be able to allow Maggie to play in the fenced backyard again without constant supervision.
Bryan stepped into the back hallway and closed the door behind him. Habit made him check to be sure the automatic lock had engaged. As he moved toward the kitchen something sent a shiver of tension through him. He paused in the door way and scanned the room before entering. Everything appeared normal. The breakfast dishes still waited for him on the counter. His PTSD forced him to circle the room, checking all the windows and the patio door locks. Finally satisfied that the room was secure, he unloaded the Party Store shopping bags onto the table. From the first came Dora the Explorer paper plates, cups, napkins and party favor bags. The second one held a box of bright pink forks and spoons, multicolored streamers, and balloons, plus piles of small party favor items: whistles, rings, necklaces, tiny stuffed animals, and packets of chocolate. He put the two large Village Toy Shop bags, loaded with presents and wrapping paper in the pantry for later.
“Coffee first.”
Bryan picked up the pot and carried it to the sink. Even this simple act gave him a satisfied feeling of accomplishment. Being able to function alone after months of depending on other people was amazing. He poured water into the reservoir, added a coffee packet, and pushed the start button.
Turning toward the living room, he hesitated, the tension flooding through him once more. Something was off. Bryan held his breath and listened. No sound. He scanned the area before him. The overstuffed leather sofa and chairs were grouped in a half circle facing the stone fireplace and the flat screen TV mounted above it. To his right, light streamed through the stained glass embedded in the front door and fell across the lower steps of the stairway to the upper floor.
Once again, he couldn’t resist checking the window latches and even crossed to the front entry way to check the front door locks. All was secure. Shrugging off his vapors, he opened the credenza behind the sofa, revealing a complex sound system. He switched on the radio and turned back toward the kitchen.
He was forcing himself to let Maggie spend the weekend away from him so that he could prepare everything for her birthday party on Monday afternoon. It would be a double celebration, his wife’s sentencing and their daughter’s fourth birthday.
“We interrupt this hour of smooth jazz with an important announcement. A transport van carrying eight prisoners from the courthouse back to the county jail has been involved in a traffic accident. One of the prisoners and the driver of the jail van were taken to the hospital with minor injuries. During the confusion immediately after the accident, three prisoners escaped. Two have already been recovered, but one is reported to still be at large. No names have been released. Stay tuned for updates.”
For a moment the sounds of Bryan’s pounding heart and rasping breath made thinking of anything outside his own panic impossible. He closed his eyes and began the control exercises Dr. Patterson had taught him.
“Hold your breath for a slow count of seven. Breathe out slowly to a count of nine, in for five, hold for seven, out for nine.” Gradually, his senses came back into focus as his pulse slowed.
The next breath brought the scent of Gucci Guilty drifting down the stairs. The signature perfume had been Carly’s only fragrance. That was what had been nagging at his subconscious. He hadn’t cleared his wife’s things from the master bedroom upstairs because he couldn’t handle the steps yet. He and Maggie had been sleeping on the twin beds in the downstairs guest room. Backing toward the kitchen, he reached into the pocket of his shorts for his cellphone.
“911, what is your emergency?”
“The escaped prisoner is in my house.” Bryan whispered into the phone.
“Sir, I can’t hear you, could you repeat that?”
Her high heels clattered down the stairs behind him and he lost his voice completely as hers rang through the house. He stuck the phone back in his pocket without hanging up, hoping they would trace the call.
“Oh Bryan, you’re home! Just in time deary. I had to shower off the jail stink and get into some decent clothes first, but I’m ready for you now. We need to have a little chat. Talk about custody and all that.”
Coming into the kitchen her face twisted in disgust as she swept everything from the table onto the floor.
“Look at all the money you’ve wasted on the brat’s birthday. Really now, you spoil her shamefully.”
“How did you get all the way out here from town, anyway?”
“Some old fool stopped to help after the accident. He left his Camaro sitting at the curb with the engine running and I couldn’t resist the chance to come see you one last time. I even found this in the glove box. This time, I’ll do the job right.” She raised her right arm to display a 38 pistol aimed at Bryan’s head.
His breath stopped and his heart rate jumped. He twisted to run, but his hip gave way and he nearly fell. Bracing himself on the counter, he grabbed the coffee pot and hurled it at her before heading toward the back hallway. Behind him, her scream indicated he’d scored some kind of damage.
He hesitated briefly at the garage door. Should he leave? Try to get away? Visions of a high speed chase through their suburban neighborhood filled his head and he continued down the hall toward the back bedroom.
Bryan stumbled over Maggie’s favorite bear as he rounded her bed and pitched forward onto the floor. Catching hold of the closet door, he managed to pull himself back to his feet. He reached up to the shelf above the clothes rod and pulled down the flat black steel box stored there. He braced himself against the nightstand and dropped carefully back to the floor. Pressing his thumb against the recessed pad in the lid, he released the lock and lifted out the Glock stored inside.
The sound of Carlotta’s heels on the hardwood floor of the hallway signaled her approach. Bryan stretched out on his stomach across his bed and held the gun in both hands, bracing them against the footboard, just as his soon to be ex-wife stepped through the door. Her hair was dripping coffee onto the bright yellow of her silk top and the left side of her face was already starting to blister.
Carlotta’s eyes widened at the site of his gun and her head tilted slightly as she stopped in the doorway, raising the pistol again.
“Well, well. What do we have here? A firearm in the house! Have you compromised your bleeding heart values, Bry?”
As she pulled the trigger, Bryan jerked sideways. He felt the heat of the bullet as it sped past his cheekbone and nicked his ear before burying itself in the headboard behind him. He aimed for her right shoulder and squeezed carefully. He really didn’t want to kill her. She might not be capable of loving their daughter, but Maggie still loved her. The force of the bullet sent her backwards against the bathroom door and her weapon flew down the hall.
The weeks he had spent learning to shoot had been worth it. Stepping carefully over the woman who would always be the mother of his child, Bryan left her bleeding on the floor and went to let the police in before they decided to break down the door.
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