Today, you get to read about a girl who became a monster and a wolf amongst angels. It's technically supposed to be #WatchMeWrite day, but I'm mixing it up.
Brett Michael Orr's Ashton—it's not necessary to read that first, but it would be fun. I think what really made me write this fic was that Brett used second person PoV, which is one of my favourite experimental styles. I decided to mix it up a little more, so do enjoy!
I've also chosen to intersperse author's notes throughout. Let me know how this method worked out — hopefully it wasn't too reminiscent of My Immortal.
you didn’t think he’d come. when they found you splayed on white hospital linens, he kissed your unscarred cheek. somewhere between the eyeliner for your lashes and the antiseptic for your wound, your pounding heart became a cage for a monster and its howls.
when the man brought his cleaver down on your face, he smashed bones and the cage. and so the police told you, “We are working on your case,” you only thought: i do not want him in a cell. i want him to bleed, and remember i made him bleed.
This work is very much one of contrast. The angelic girl and the monstrous wolf, thematically, but stylistically I also tried to play off capitalised dialogue and lowercase narrative, plus second-person narrative versus first-person thoughts.what did it take to stitch lambswool for the wolf? how many bandages, how many beeping and whirring machines?
“I need time,” he told you.
your monster clawed against the fraying bandages. you were drunk: on morphine, on the echo of fear when you saw him, on the vengeance your monster promises.
you called it your monster, but under the fangs and the fur, it was only your heart, with its strings torn out. because you will not be a puppet, their princess in the tower. never again.
I wrote this after a medical attachment in a hospital, so it amused me to toss in this hospital scene, with bandages and machines and morphine. Oh, and heartstrings are an actual medical thing, did you know?he did not speak. the sirens came screeching down the street; not the wildlings of the sea, but the hunters of your kind. you looked at him and wished you still had a heart to break.
the monster looked in his eyes and turned away.
(did he do it for the monster between your ribs, or the angel in his dreams)
(which monster was the more innocent, the one with a bullet and a trigger or the one with a halo of golden hair)
(did you love him, did he love you)
“I still love you,” he said, half a lifetime ago, when your monster was yet a suckling.
“Go away.” when he does not answer the wolf’s stern glare, you give him the girl’s pliant tears. “Please.”
(some answers were meant to be known and not said)
“What is your relationship to the accused?”
you never wanted to become a wolf amongst girls. but somewhere, sometime, from the dark road of the butcher to the sunlit witness stand, you shed the girl’s skin and let the monster be born. the pelt fit you better than your old flimsy coat.
and so you did not say, he is my boyfriend, my husband-to-be, my shining knight and white prince, my sun-and-stars, my t’hy’la—
Brownie points for those who recognised both references.remember: make him bleed. “I do not know.”
(you never did. monsters do not love, not even other monsters.)
Here's the real issue: I haven't thought of a title yet. So please, do suggest one in the comments!
Thoughts on this experimental style? What do you think this should be titled?
PSSST. If you enjoy my writing, you ought to join my takeout army for monthly exclusive sneak peeks at my writing!
And if you want to read more of my words, watch this space on September 10th! Snazzy Snippets is once again coming up ;P