January Exercise: Why Me? (m)
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| Sat, 01-12-2002 - 3:12pm |
January Exercise: Why Me? (m)
Now that we've been talking about critique, I'll be your first victim-LOL. I have question about this story but I'll post it at the end. Thanks, Mac.
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Title: Why Me? (suggestions for optional titles would be appreciated)
Propped against the many pillows in his mother’s bed, Jimmy listened as she read him a bedtime story. “Is this when the dragon comes, Mommy?”
“No baby, there’s no dragons in this tale,” she said with a closed mouth smile.
His tiny finger reached out and traced the scar on his mother’s face. “Did a dragon hurt you?”
Jillian’s smile faded and her eyes grew serious. “Mommy was hurt in the accident. Do you remember what I told you about the accident, Jimmy?”
He nodded that he did.
“It’s getting late young man, you’d better get to bed.”
“One more story, please,” he whined.
“No more stories. It’s way past your bedtime,” she said, reaching for her walker. “Now see if you can brush your teeth and be in bed before Mommy gets there.”
Jumping from the bed, Jimmy shouted over his shoulder, “I bet I’ll beat you.”
After tucking her four-year-old son in for the night, Jillian’s slowly made her way back to her bedroom. She couldn’t sleep and opened a book to read; she’d do anything to avoid the memories that were attempting to consume her mind as they often did.
How could she ever tell her son about the crazed man who’d seen her on a pin-up calendar and began stalking her? Would she ever be able to forgive the man who had stolen her way of life fifteen months before? She often asked herself when she looked into the mirror. Not only had he robbed her of her beautifully chiseled face and her ability to walk completely on her own, but also he’d taken a very precious item: her husband.
Fred was the vivacious man who’d won Jillian’s heart the moment she laid eyes on him. They were both sophomores at the University of Alabama and went with a group of students to New Orleans to celebrate Mardi Gras. As they walked along Bourbon Street, the group began to disperse; some preferred the jazz bars, some wanted to dance and a few -- Fred and Jillian included -- headed for the Irish pub. Before long, the redheaded McKenna with lovely green eyes was paired up with 6’3” guy whose friends called Fitz (short for Fitzgerald). As Fred and Jillian sang their rendition of Danny Boy, the two fell instantly in love.
Seven months later, Jillian McKenna became Mrs. Frederick Fitzgerald in a small chapel outside of Tuscaloosa, Alabama.
Shortly after the wedding, the man who’d photographed the ceremony contacted Jillian with a job proposal. He was putting together a calendar of female student, or “Rolltide Girls” as he’d called it. At first, she rejected idea; the thoughts of posing in a swimsuit made her fair skin turn rosy. But after Fred and some of their friends encouraged her to do it, she called the photographer back and accepted the job.
Why had she not trusted her instincts? Jillian often wondered. Had she followed her gut reaction none of the tragic events that happened in the years following would have occurred.
She leaned over and picked up Fred’s picture. It was one that her mother had taken at the hospital; Fred had rushed from his college graduation just in time to witness Jimmy’s arrival into the world. As she wiped away a tear from her cheek, her finger caressed her scar. She closed her eyes and tried to wish away the night of the accident and the way Fred died.
Fred and Jillian were coming out of Biannca’s Restaurant -- both were stuffed from their anniversary dinner when her cell phone rang. Thinking it was the babysitter she quickly answered.
After a moment of silence, Fred asked, “Who is it, honey?”
Jillian face was frozen; she couldn’t speak. The voice was that of the man--someone that called so often they’d changed their phone numbers, and switched their mailing address to a Post Office Box. But nothing helped, even the police said they couldn’t do anything until the man made physical contact.
Fred grabbed the phone from her. “Who is this?” he demanded.
From the other end of the line, he heard a man whispering filthy desires but most importantly he heard something else. The music in the background was the same as what he heard from across the street where a band was playing.
Covering the phone with one hand, he said, “keep him talking. I’m going over there to find this guy.”
“No, Fred. Please don’t,” she begged.
He shoved the phone to her ear, and made a circular motion with his hand. “Say something,” he mouthed, and took off running.
“Why do you do this to me?” she said into the phone with a non-emotional tone.
“Why?” He mocked her.
Jillian waited until Fred reached the door of the bar before she asked again. “Why me?”
“I should be asking you why,” he said. “Why do you act like you don’t remember me?”
“What are you talking about? I don’t know you.”
“You know me!” he shouted. “You sat right next to me in class for three years. I watched you then you know. Whatever class you registered for, I signed up for.”
“How…how did you know what classes I…I took?”
“I worked for the Registrar’s office. I could find out anything I wanted on the computer. In fact, I’m still pretty good. How do you think I kept getting your phone number?”
It was then that she heard her husband’s voice and shuffle taking place. She listened as the man was pulled from his stool; his cell phone slammed to floor but didn’t disconnect.
Not knowing what to do, Jillian listened intensely, waiting for Fred to say something again. But all she heard was the screams and someone shouted that a man had been shot. Knowing her husband wasn’t carrying a gun, she feared the worse as she stepped on the two-lane road that separated her and her husband.
Jillian never saw the motorcycle struck her body nor did the driver see her as she suddenly appeared between the cars parked along the side of the street.
Two days later, Jillian woke up in a hospital to find her hip had been shattered, her face badly burned from the motorcycle’s hot muffler, and her husband dead. She wanted to die herself but it was Jimmy that kept her going. She had a son to raise; their son needed her.
It wasn’t until later--after long hours of physical therapy and several plastic surgeries--that she found out the man who’d stalked her and killed her husband had been arrested. She would’ve jumped for joy had she been able to but Jillian still had lots of recovering to do.
By the time she testified in front of the jury at her husband’s murder trial, she was able to make small strides with the assistance of a walker. But the scar would never go away—it could not be operated on any further.
As she watched the state’s evidence being presented and listened to the tape-recorded conversations the police had recovered from the stalker’s apartment, she prayed for justice. After seven hours of deliberation, the jury found him guilty of murder and the man was sentenced to life imprisonment without the possibility of parole. “He deserved the death penalty,” Jillian had said after hearing the verdict.
Her son’s voice brought her out of the courtroom and back to her empty bedroom.
“Mommy, are you okay? I heard something break?”
Jillian opened her eyes and glanced down at the broken glass with the picture frame nearby. “Oh, I didn’t realize I dropped Daddy’s picture. You go back to bed. I’ll get this cleaned up.”
She watched Jimmy sauntered back down the hallway, and then leaned down and picked up the pieces of shattered glass and wooden frame from the hardwood floor. She placed it back on the nightstand and turned off the light. She thought about the irony of what Jimmy had asked earlier. In a way it was a dragon that’d hurt her because the man who’d did this to her and Fred was a ferocious beast--he was evil.
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Okay, here's what I was wondering. I really wanted to start the story out in the present, have Jillian flash back to the past and stay there until she comes back to the present at the end but I couldn't figure out a way to make that work. Any ideas? Or do you think it goes back and forth okay?
Mac

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Nice work mac(m)
I liked your dialog, and the story itself. I thought the transitions worked fine. Although there are a couple of sentences that could be smoothed out, the only think that really bothered me was the ending sentence. And I'll be darned if I know why. Maybe it seems a little simplistic for such a terrible tragedy. It didn't seem to bother anyone esle, so maybe it was just me-LOL. At any rate, this was a top notch story. I think if you smooth out a few sentences, you could try to get this published.
Linda
cl-ozarker
"We are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master." - Ernest Heminway
This is good!
I think you did a fine job of going back and forth between past and present. Flashbacks are hard, but you pulled it off just fine. :-)
Nice work here. I liked the "Stolen Memories" suggestion for a title some gave.
Michelle
Michelle, co-cl for The Writing Life
Life is short. Buy the shoes.
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Thanks Linda (m)
I appreciate your comments and I’ll see what I can do with that last sentence. I’m sure it’s not just you. I’ll keep you posted on what I end up doing with this one.
Mac
Thanks Michelle (m)
I find flashbacks and transitions to be really hard to do so I'm really HAPPY you think I did good.
I appreciate you reading my story and your comments.
Mac
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