(DISCLAIMER [w/ slight spoilers]: There is a character in this who, as you will read, has a strange speech pattern. They do not have a stutter. It is not my intent to villainize, criminalise, or stereotype people with a stutter. The person I am referring to is liable to nervous breakdowns when in excitement-inducing scenarios, and these breakdowns often affect their speech. I am not trying to stereotype people with anxiety disorders, either-- in fact, I have anxiety myself-- but I am trying to write a full, round character, who responds realistically to trauma and the abusive, lonely childhood they endured.
(I also write this character as somewhat unsympathetic/violent, and this stems from the trauma they encountered as a child-- being surrounded by ghost stories and left with a legacy of violence and hatred will do awful things to a child. If you have any corrections about this character, feel free to comment about what you think I could fix. I could really use the feedback, thanks! ^^)
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The doctors said it had been an attempted suicide.
The doctors said she would probably survive.
The doctors said he wouldn't ever breathe again.
. . . can you imagine having your last breaths smothered by gas? Imagine the last breath drawn into your lungs, your throbbing, burning lungs, filled with a stinging, blackened chemical, your sweaty back pressing an indentation into a ripped, grey mattress? Your damp palms squeezing the tiny, bony hand next to you, though it was already cold and unmoving?
How lucky, the doctors said. How fortunate she had been that they were able to save her. What a miracle.
Air tasted sweet in her mouth. Light on her tongue, cool in her throat, filling her up from the inside and pulling her back to reality.
How fortunate.
How lucky.
How strong were her lungs? How strong was her desire to survive?
Not all that strong, she thought wryly, considering how she had gotten into that situation in the first place. She drew her skinny legs to her chest, bony fingers tapping out a quiet rhythm on the cold, concrete floor. Her skin was pulled so tightly over her back the spikes of her spine poked out, jutting against the side of the mattress she was leaning against.
A shadow crossed the floor and she looked up, gaze obscured by stringy bangs that fell in her eyes. The silhouette of a head scraped the top of the doorframe, throwing sticky darkness into the room.
A gentle sigh.
"How many times have I told you?" The voice scraped roughly in his throat, sounding disappointed. "We have electric lights now. None of this gas nonsense. Stop using gas lamps."
With a rattle and a click, the throbbing source of light vanished, and was quickly replaced by a white light flooding over everything, frighteningly bright. Trying to shield her eyes, her gaze dragged itself back to the concrete floor, her head dipping downward.
"C'mon, get up." The low voice again. Grumbling. At her.
Maybe she should throttle him. Maybe, maybe, maybe--
She shook her head, her long, lanky hair tossed back and forth like a spiderweb's strings in a tempest storm. The disappointed sigh came again, and them someone was touching her they were touching her there were hands ON HER SKIN GET HIM OFF--
YOU ARE READING
The Truth Of The Matter
FanfictionA collection of not-quite ghost hunters go rampaging all around the US, trying to hit the most haunted places in each state. It's a total mess, but at least it's thoroughly researched? In a clash between a series of paranormal investigations and mu...
