The Book - An Excerpt

I started writing a novel back in November of 2009. At the time, I was unemployed, had a lot of free time, and was slightly obsessed with Charlaine Harris' "Sookie Stackhouse" novels. I've attempted to regain interest in my start since then, but have found it hard to get back into it, largely because I'm not actually convinced that anyone would be interested in it. I figured I'd post the first three pages of the Preface here and see how it was received. So.... here goes.

Preface

So let’s get this straight from the very beginning. I'm not the type of girl that people look at and assume “That Delilah, she hangs out with Vampires.” Obviously, this statement hinges on you actually believing in the creatures in the first place, but let's table that skepticism for a moment. My life has always been pretty normal. I wasn't the ostracized kid who always boasted on how “different” they were from their peers, dressing in black, and listening to loud, cacophonous music. Nor was I the type to dye my hair different colors, act out to upset my parents, or spend my nights smoking weed in the basement. In fact, the most “abnormal” thing about me was that my parents raised me strictly Catholic in a neighborhood that was more or less full of Protestants. I was the type of girl that did well in classes and studied hard, but still managed to have a relatively stable group of friends. Work hard, Play hard had always been my father's motto, and I took it to heart. Even inwardly, I had never had reason to even consider that I might be different than my peers until shortly after the accident.

Truly – I should have seen the accident coming. I'd been an insomniac since High School, and it only stood to reason that at some point the lack of sleep would catch up with me. It wasn't unusual that I would occasionally grow faint, or pass out during the day – I was a college student. Living off of Ramen, caffeine pills and borrowed Adderall was the road to cum laude status, wasn't it? But of course, I kept ignoring the signs until I passed out while driving to class a few weeks before finals, my Senior year. Obviously what came next was a near disaster, as I plowed my beloved, second-hand Ford Taurus into a guard rail. I still count myself as being extremely lucky that I was the only one hurt. One moment I was trying to remember the fates of the wives of Henry VIII (divorced, beheaded, died, divorced, beheaded, survived), and the next I was in excruciating pain, looking up at the concerned faces of my mother and elder brother.

I tried to force my lips to create words, while also trying to look at how bad the damage had been. My right arm was in a cast, and I felt as though an elephant was sitting perched on my chest. “Where am I?” I managed to squeak out, my voice sounding harsh and grating to my own ears.

“Johns Hopkins!” My mother said, her voice wrought with grief. I was puzzled. I'd been nowhere near the vicinity of that hospital, which inferred that I was most likely airlifted there. My first trip in a helicopter and I was asleep for it! I thought to myself, slightly disappointed. I then wondered what kind of narcotics the doctor's had given me to cause such an out of place thought at a time where I should be grateful to be alive.

I squinted, looking around, puzzled. My mother was wringing her hands anxiously, and worry lines crossed my brother's brow. “Dad?” I asked, trying to remember if he was in town, or if he was off talking at some convention or another. My father worked in the IT field, developing software specifically targeted at small churches. As a result, he often traveled to either show off his projects, or to visit some of the churches already utilizing the programs.

“It's men's retreat week. I've sent a message to the Priest, he should be returning later this week. I should go get the doctor; he wasn't expecting you to awaken so soon,” my mother responded. I watched as she turned, and exited the small hospital room. She still moved with the grace of a dancer, even after the birth of my brother and me. She and I shared the same short stature, and lithe build, but that was about where the similarity ended. My mother was a mousy looking brunette, with dark brown eyes and unremarkable facial features. She was the type of woman that if you saw only her face, you'd immediately think, “Yep, she's a mom.” Me on the other hand, I possessed auburn hair and clear blue eyes – obviously the result of some recessive genetics at work, family members had joked.

I gazed around the room while my mother was gone, noting that some of my friends and family had left me cards and flowers. It was then that I truly understood the gravity of the situation - I’d been at the hospital long enough for people to miss me. For some reason I felt guilty then for making everyone worry about my well being. I searched around for any sign of my cell phone, but didn’t see it anywhere. As it had been in my pocket when the accident occurred, I could only assume that it had been destroyed in the process. No cell phone meant no contact with the outside world - and would make my stay at the hospital even more boring.

My brother's scowl snapped me out of my reverie. “How long has this been happening?” He asked, curtly. His icy blue eyes glared at me with disapproval.

I shrugged without thinking, and winced at the pain it caused. “What? The black outs?” I shook my head. “I don't sleep enough, Mikey; it was bound to happen eventually.”

I hoped that his scowl was because I called him Mikey – a nickname he hated – but I assumed that it was likely because he was disappointed in me. His gaze left mine to focus on the IV that was supplying me with fluids, and I followed his gaze. In addition to the standard clear IV bag was one that had been filled with blood – AB negative# by the label. “You lost a lot of blood. You have a rare type, the hospital had to call several blood banks to track some down.” He stated absently. I had a momentary twinge of guilt. The blood drives at college had often complained of how short the local blood supply was, but I'd never donated.

“But mom used to donate, couldn't she have just tapped open a vein?” I joked.

Mikhael didn't smile. “Mom wasn't a match. Nor was I, and Dad was out of town,” He explained simply. I eyed the empty bag, feeling disconcerted. Even being college educated, there was still some part of me that got a little creeped out by the thought of somebody else's vital fluids in my body. His gaze focused on me once more. “We need to hang out more once you're out of here, little sis. I've missed you,” He said, his voice full of sincerity. There was a rather large age gap between Mikhael and myself, 7 years, but he had always tried to be there for me, especially recently. Shortly after our grandmother had passed away, back when I was 14 and he was 21, he had a phase where he had lost touch with the family for a while, and he always felt bad about abandoning me then. Grannie and I had been quite close, and her death was hard on me.

Our discussion was interrupted by the return of my mother, who brought with her the doctor, who appeared to be in his late 40s. His dark brown hair was graying, but his hazel eyes still looked like that of a young boy, curious and intelligent. “Miss Connolly, how are you feeling? You're up rather sooner than we expected.”

“I feel like I was hit by a truck,” I said, truthfully. My midsection both itched and ached horribly and I suspected that if I were to look down, I would find stitches holding me together. “How long have I been out?”

“About 48 hours.” He answered, as he produced a flashlight from his pocket and gestured for me to follow it with my eyes. “You hit your head pretty good, so you had a minor concussion. Your left arm was fractured, as were several ribs. There was some internal bleeding as well, but luckily nothing important was punctured.” He clicked off the flashlight decisively, and fixed me with a stern look. “You are very lucky that nothing more serious occurred, and that no one else was injured.” He stated. Then his hands began to probe at a bump on my scalp that I had previously not been aware of. Under pressure, however, it stung, and I winced. “I'll get you a bit more morphine,” he stated, and left momentarily. He returned with a vial and a syringe, which he injected into the IV.

My mouth was filled with a vaguely metallic taste, and although I fought valiantly, I couldn't seem to stop myself from drifting back off to sleep. The last thing I remember hearing in my semi-conscious state was the doctor explaining to my mother that while he was impressed that I had awoken so quickly, that didn't necessarily mean that I was out of danger.

~*~