Teaser Tuesday

Yay! It's another Teaser Tuesday and I can honestly say that I have been productive. So, for those of you who haven't been lurking around MDW and FNW, I am still working on Have Mercy. I have about 3, 415 words, which is good to me because I am not a fast writer.

It's scary writing contemporary, especially one that's so edgy. Have Mercy isn't going to be a light novel. Also it's not urban fantasy or paranormal or historical so this is kinda new for me.

I worked on this particular snippet yesterday so if you already read it, sorry.

"Alden," she said, "that's a nice name."

I wasn't completely rude. "Thanks."

"Who named you?" she asked.

"My..." I started, but then stopped midway. She almost had me.

"Yes?" she pushed, her eyes getting wider. She looked harmless, I noted, as I stole a quick glance at her. Her skin was a soft brown, her hair fell around her shoulders in tired brown curls. She even wore a tan pinstriped suit. Consistency. I liked that in a person. But those eyes, they were too bright, too intruding. I looked down at my hands, pulling absently at my fingers.

"Was it your father or your mother?"

"My mother is dead." Now, that slipped. It was what I said every time someone mentioned the word "mother" in a sentence. I didn't look at Dr. Rosenberg. I didn't want to see her get that look. The one everyone got when they hear about how you lost your mother at a young age. She died when I was eight. I was seventeen, almost eighteen years old now. You don't get over the death of a parent, ever, but I wasn't one to sulk about it every time someone brought it up. She was dead and there was nothing I could do about it.

I felt myself asking. "Why do you want to know who named me? It's not important."

"Well, we have to start somewhere." Her voice was flat, and I wondered what her face looked like.

"My father asked you how long this would take. I want to know. How long will I have to come here?" I fought the urge to look up at her, but apparently I wasn't strong enough. My head jerked up, and I met her green gaze.

"It depends."

"On what?"

"How fast you're willing to open up."

"I have nothing to open up about," I muttered.

"It would seem that way."

"There's nothing wrong with me. My father doesn't know anything about me. He just...."

"Yes?"

"Nothing."

In the corner of my eye, I saw her take something off of her desk. A clipboard. Pulling a pen out of her breast-pocket, she started to scribble something down. I wondered what she was writing. I mean, we didn't say anything too each other. She didn't know anything about me. They were probably lies, then. After placing the clipboard down on her lap, she looked back up at me.

"So, how is your relationship with your father?"

I rolled my eyes. She was starting the game now. I smirked, "How do you think it is?"

"Why don't you tell me?" she asked. "I want to know."

You're paid to know, I wanted to say but instead I leaned back in my chair. "Where's the couch?"

She laughed, "You watch a lot of television."

"No, I don't. You didn't answer my question."

"I don't have one."

"Well," I said, "it looks like you've answered your own question."

She smiled softly, and then looked down at her watch. A sigh of relief left my lips, as I started to stand. Her eyes flitted over to me. "Your session isn't over yet, Alden. You have twenty minutes left."

I plopped back down in the chair, the legs screeching across the floor. "There's no point for me to stay here. I mean, we're not even talking about anything."

"We can talk about something. What do you want to talk about?" she asked, her eyes colored with interest.

"I don't know. Maybe the weather or baseball or American Idol. I really don't care." Her pen was flying across that paper again.

"Baseball is nice," she said, "Do you like baseball?"

"No. It's boring."

"Do you play any sports?"

"Football," I breathed, "I play football."

She nodded her head, as if she were satisfied that I was answering her questions. There was a moment of silence.

"Do you like playing football?"

"It doesn't matter."

"Of course it does," she countered. "What do you like to do?"

I decided to humor her. "Get drunk, get high, go to parties. You know, the stuff jocks do."

This time, she didn't smile. Apparently she couldn't take a joke.

"Alden, I believe you're a smart young man."

I couldn't help laughing. "Flattery isn't going to get me to say jack."

"The point is, I don't think you're like every other jock."

"Think. That's the key word. You don't know anything about me."

"I know enough."

"Whatever," I scoffed.

She tilted her head to the side. "What does it feel like?"

My mouth went dry. My muscles tightened. I knew what she was asking, but I didn't want her to know that. "What does what feel like?"

"Alden, you know what I'm talking about."

"I don't." My eyes were burning now. My veins were freezing. I couldn't breathe.

"You were right, Alden. There's nothing wrong with you. Your father doesn't know anything about you."

I nodded. "I know there's nothing wrong with me, but he thinks I'm crazy."

"Why does he think you're crazy?"

"Because I don't do what he wants me to do. I'm not him. I'm not ever going to be him. I'm..."

She waited.

"I'm finished talking."

*

When we got home, I locked myself in the bathroom with a fresh packet of Newport's. I needed privacy and my room was off limits. My father took the door off the hinges a couple of days ago. I guess he figured that I wouldn't hold a gun to my head if people could see me do it.

I leaned my head back against the door, blowing out a ring of smoke. It smelled of good days and bad ones. It tasted of happiness and sorrow. As I inhaled and exhaled, I started to remember. The way she talked. The way she smiled. The way she made me feel. I was alive when she was here. And now that she's gone, I don't know what I am. I just don't know.

I took another drag.

My heart felt heavy. My vision was starting to blur. It was coming. I could feel it. Hot and heavy, like blood. They scorched their ways down my cheek and onto the cigarette.

"Why?" I cried. Why? Why? Why? I said it over and over again, but I didn't get an answer. I never got an answer. It was one simple word and no one could answer me. No one. Not even my father or God or me.

I just wanted an answer. That's all I wanted. But no one would give it to me.

And then I saw that gun.

And then everything made sense.

All I had to do was pull the trigger.

That's all I had to do.

But I didn't do it.

I didn't do it and now I'll never know the answer.

The tears came quicker now.

I cried myself to sleep on the bathroom floor.