Burning Bridges

Burning Bridges-- Chapter 1

Chapter 1--The Beginning (or is it really?)

 She made her way into the corridor, covered with blood, not daring to look back. How could she? All she had known had been lost. And at what cost? For her survival. 

I sighed, and shut down the laptop. Yes, I was going through the famous Writer's Block again.

I was perfectly fine after the break up. I mean, this whole break up thing was getting kind of old, anyways. I was done crying over it. What was the point? 

Although that is what I mostly did for the next week after he moved out. And then I started sulking about everything in life. And now I'm onto my final stage: not caring anymore. It had been a year now, anyways.

I started focusing on my book. This was my 3rd book, but I hadn't been published yet. I don't really know why I want to be an author so bad, it's just that I want to share what I write with the world. I want people to be interested in things bigger and better than Some Famous People Everyone Knows About. 

Of course, if I just focused on my book and did nothing else, I would go homeless. I work in a publishing company, too. I had to. It was this or flipping burgers. And I'm terrible at cooking. He used to do all the cooking in our house anyways. 

Okay, change the topic. So, what did I write about? Horror. I love the idea of scaring the pants off strangers. A good horror book can really change the mood. Anyways, another reason why I decided to work in a publishing company was because one day I could hopefully convince my boss to take a look at my work. 

But that's not going to happen any time sooner, because my boss, also known as Ms Uptight, is this forty-something year old three times divorced bitter old woman who has nothing better to do but run a publishing company. 

I was living alone, again. I couldn't move out because a) I didn't have the money and b) I really didn't want to ask my parents for help. Even though I was born and raised in the rich part of New York, my parents thought differently. First of all, they never liked him. They said that he was too poor for my taste, and I should have never met him in college and let him move in with me, when he was jobless. And they still thought we were together. 

Yeah, I know, I'm pathetic. I should have told them. I love my parents and all, but I wasn't ever really close to them. It's just that we had different ways at seeing things, at least me and my mom did. My dad just supported everything my mom said. Anyways, I hardly talk to them, so what's the point? And besides, if I tell them, they will work up their 'we told you so' routine that just makes me want to crawl into a hole in shrink to the size of plankton. 

And here I was, six months later, going down in the elevator, on a lazy Sunday, to check my mail. Aaand, the bombshell dropped.

The elevator door opened, to the lobby of my retro apartment building. And in front of me, stood him.