I'm seeking a beta reader for critiques and adivce. I am looking for a reader that has read and knows YA very well. I am posting the first 1,700 words. If you are interested PM me and we will discuss it farther. If you have any questions about how the story is formated or the plot allways PM me and I will be more than happy to share details.
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It’s different from the movies. It’s always different from the movies that we watch. The ER scenes don’t show the real progress of how slow everything feels. It doesn’t show how shaky your hands get when the nurses say you can’t go any further; that you can’t go through the doors to be with him. The cameras can’t sit on your brain and listen to what you’re thinking and how you will do it. They don’t see all the memories that you see every time you close your eyes and there they are playing behind your eye lids. The actors don’t know how to not talk when the doctor asks for your name and who he was to you. You have to face things that lights can’t reach. You have to face not having a script to this life. You have to face waiting in the waiting room that smells too clean, but you know all too well the filth that lies underneath its surface.
Songs can’t capture the way you feel when they pronounce him dead but the doctor is still trying to bring him back because he saw a young girl come in along with the body. Those damn silly songs don’t mean anything when nurses and doctors just walk right by you, but you don’t say anything because they can’t help you. And they certainly don’t mean a thing when the cops come for you and you start freaking out so you run down hall ways congested with sick and lonely people. The only song that could be heard in your ears is the song your heart and lungs are playing. And that song fills your ears when you lock yourself up in one of the bathrooms. You hear it getting louder when you lean against the door to stop the bodies in blue from breaking it down. But when you lock yourself up in one of the stales, everything is silent. Nothing moves but your chest.
But it can all go downhill. Everything could be turned upside down and inside out. What are only minutes can feel like hours. But the men in blue get the door unlock and you leave the stale willingly.
“Can I see him at least?” you ask the doctor before the cops take you away.
“Yes, he’s in the morgue.” The doctor says flatly.
And you become excited. Your nerve endings burn when you, the doctor, and the cops take the elevator down to the basement to see him. He’s like a monster that is dangerous to the world and not that many are allowed to see him. You feel privileged to see him. Your very own monster that took care of you for so many years that’s now locked up in some cold room with other monsters that had different things to take care of. You try to hold back the tears that swell up in your eyes. You choke back the lump that forms in your throat and wants to break out of your neck. The cops stand at the door as the doctor and the Grim Reaper follow you to a table were your monster lies. He’s still warm when you touch the cloth that is over his body. You drag it down past his chest so you can see him how you remembered him. You’re not afraid to touch his skin that is losing heat quickly. You rub his arm as if he’s sleeping. You touch his hair like you would to a child that is lying down for comfort. You wrap your fingers around his hand and you begin to cry.
You don’t like to cry but it’s the only thing you know how to do at that point in time. You try not to be loud because you don’t want to wake the others that are sleeping in there metal tombs for the moment. Your monster has stopped breathing. You try not to think about the word. But the word is there in your mind, and your brain is trying to get it past your tongue and to have it roll off your lips. But you fight it. You fight so hard that you just cry harder and louder. You hear voices talking in the back ground but you don’t listen that well, because you’re trying to pay attention to your monster that’s just lying there on a cold table. But you know that you have to leave because the voices are waiting for you. So you lean into your monster and you kiss his forehead.
“I love you, dad.” You whisper in his ear, but he can’t hear you. He can’t say anything back to you. You don’t want to let go of his hand, but you must. You pull your hand away and you cover him back up. You notice how cold he has gotten. You notice how blue his skin has become. You notice how hard he is. But you walk away. You leave him there on that metal table without any goodbyes, because goodbyes mean forever. And you don’t want it to be goodbye forever. The doctor touches your shoulders and leads you back to the elevator with the cops. You close your eyes when the doors close and you float back to the top floor where the cops then lead you to the car. They shut the door on you when you’re inside of the apparatus.
“Someone will pick up his belongs and bring them to you at the shelter.” The one says as they drive off and head to the freeway.
And I think to myself, how awful.
The sun shines to bright outside, so I don’t leave the room. I sit on the bed that was given to me and I stare at the necklace charm in my hand. He used to wear it around his neck. But he used to wear a lot of things, but I didn’t want those things. I wanted this. I wanted the charm that both he and I loved. It is just like him, odd and beautiful. I wear his denim jacket like its forty degrees outsides. It makes the lady mad when I don’t take it off. She wants to wash it, but I don’t let her. It smells like him too much. I liked the way he smelled. But I hate the way it smells in here. It smells like bleach and old lady perfume. She and her husband are older than my father. They must be in their sixty’s because they don’t move that well. The woman has a hunch back already and the man has a bad knee. I haven’t bothered to learn their names because I won’t be here long. At least I hope I shouldn’t be here long. I don’t want to be here long. I want to be somewhere else where I can play loud music and eat junk food and smoke cigarettes. My dad had almost a hundred dollars on him. That’s enough for something. I just want something but I can’t have it because I don’t want the old people to know what I’m getting. I could arrange for someone to meet me somewhere but I won’t. I’ll wait a few more days before I leave at night to go get some.
But I must hand it to them. For them being so old, they sure do have a lot of liquor. It’s in a small cabinet in the basement. It isn’t locked, so it’s just always open and ready for someone to stick a hand in there and pull something out. The old couple usually has a glass of something after dinner when they watch the news and say “That is terrible”. I feel inept without it. All of my body gets anxious. My teeth gnash together. This apparatus of my body shakes. Just thinking of its awful taste makes me a murky, bumbling fool. I feel like a ghost without. I don’t want to live without it.
It’s Friday and I should be in class, but I told the woman I wasn’t feeling good, so she kept me here. I’m thankful that she feels bad for me. She feels bad that I have no one in the world now. But my worker says that there is someone out there for me.
“He’s your uncle. He lives in the city. I have an appointment with him next week. Hopefully he’ll be fit enough so you can stay with him.” She says. I don’t look her in the face. Her face is round and chubby like her body. She has pictures of her family on her desk. They’re nice pictures. Her daughter is in college and is going to be a doctor. I pick the picture up and look at it. Her daughter is lighter than the rest of her family.
“Is she adopted?” I ask. I flash the picture and she smiles at me.
“Yes, she is. She was my sister’s daughter. I took her in when she was four.”
“Oh. That was nice of you.”
“She’s family. I had to do it.” She takes the picture from my hands and looks at her. “She looks like her mother. Yep, her mother was darker than her. She’s a mocha color.” She smiles at me. I try to smile back, but I don’t. I just sit there and look past her out the window and wonder where he’s at. She understands that I miss my father and I don’t like talking about it. But every time I’m there she pushes for something.
“Have you been using lately?” She asks. I feel her eyes on my face.
I keep it smooth. “No. I have no money and no way to getting my hands onto it. No I haven’t been using.”
“Ah. Good. You’re too pretty to be ‘cracked out’ or ‘blown’. You’re going to be somewhere, I can feel it.”
“In fifteen years, were do you see yourself?” He asks. I hate Mr. Crow. He is a stupid teacher with dumb things to say. “Yes, you?” He points to some kid in the back of the class. I turn and look at him like the rest of the class.
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It’s different from the movies. It’s always different from the movies that we watch. The ER scenes don’t show the real progress of how slow everything feels. It doesn’t show how shaky your hands get when the nurses say you can’t go any further; that you can’t go through the doors to be with him. The cameras can’t sit on your brain and listen to what you’re thinking and how you will do it. They don’t see all the memories that you see every time you close your eyes and there they are playing behind your eye lids. The actors don’t know how to not talk when the doctor asks for your name and who he was to you. You have to face things that lights can’t reach. You have to face not having a script to this life. You have to face waiting in the waiting room that smells too clean, but you know all too well the filth that lies underneath its surface.
Songs can’t capture the way you feel when they pronounce him dead but the doctor is still trying to bring him back because he saw a young girl come in along with the body. Those damn silly songs don’t mean anything when nurses and doctors just walk right by you, but you don’t say anything because they can’t help you. And they certainly don’t mean a thing when the cops come for you and you start freaking out so you run down hall ways congested with sick and lonely people. The only song that could be heard in your ears is the song your heart and lungs are playing. And that song fills your ears when you lock yourself up in one of the bathrooms. You hear it getting louder when you lean against the door to stop the bodies in blue from breaking it down. But when you lock yourself up in one of the stales, everything is silent. Nothing moves but your chest.
But it can all go downhill. Everything could be turned upside down and inside out. What are only minutes can feel like hours. But the men in blue get the door unlock and you leave the stale willingly.
“Can I see him at least?” you ask the doctor before the cops take you away.
“Yes, he’s in the morgue.” The doctor says flatly.
And you become excited. Your nerve endings burn when you, the doctor, and the cops take the elevator down to the basement to see him. He’s like a monster that is dangerous to the world and not that many are allowed to see him. You feel privileged to see him. Your very own monster that took care of you for so many years that’s now locked up in some cold room with other monsters that had different things to take care of. You try to hold back the tears that swell up in your eyes. You choke back the lump that forms in your throat and wants to break out of your neck. The cops stand at the door as the doctor and the Grim Reaper follow you to a table were your monster lies. He’s still warm when you touch the cloth that is over his body. You drag it down past his chest so you can see him how you remembered him. You’re not afraid to touch his skin that is losing heat quickly. You rub his arm as if he’s sleeping. You touch his hair like you would to a child that is lying down for comfort. You wrap your fingers around his hand and you begin to cry.
You don’t like to cry but it’s the only thing you know how to do at that point in time. You try not to be loud because you don’t want to wake the others that are sleeping in there metal tombs for the moment. Your monster has stopped breathing. You try not to think about the word. But the word is there in your mind, and your brain is trying to get it past your tongue and to have it roll off your lips. But you fight it. You fight so hard that you just cry harder and louder. You hear voices talking in the back ground but you don’t listen that well, because you’re trying to pay attention to your monster that’s just lying there on a cold table. But you know that you have to leave because the voices are waiting for you. So you lean into your monster and you kiss his forehead.
“I love you, dad.” You whisper in his ear, but he can’t hear you. He can’t say anything back to you. You don’t want to let go of his hand, but you must. You pull your hand away and you cover him back up. You notice how cold he has gotten. You notice how blue his skin has become. You notice how hard he is. But you walk away. You leave him there on that metal table without any goodbyes, because goodbyes mean forever. And you don’t want it to be goodbye forever. The doctor touches your shoulders and leads you back to the elevator with the cops. You close your eyes when the doors close and you float back to the top floor where the cops then lead you to the car. They shut the door on you when you’re inside of the apparatus.
“Someone will pick up his belongs and bring them to you at the shelter.” The one says as they drive off and head to the freeway.
And I think to myself, how awful.
The sun shines to bright outside, so I don’t leave the room. I sit on the bed that was given to me and I stare at the necklace charm in my hand. He used to wear it around his neck. But he used to wear a lot of things, but I didn’t want those things. I wanted this. I wanted the charm that both he and I loved. It is just like him, odd and beautiful. I wear his denim jacket like its forty degrees outsides. It makes the lady mad when I don’t take it off. She wants to wash it, but I don’t let her. It smells like him too much. I liked the way he smelled. But I hate the way it smells in here. It smells like bleach and old lady perfume. She and her husband are older than my father. They must be in their sixty’s because they don’t move that well. The woman has a hunch back already and the man has a bad knee. I haven’t bothered to learn their names because I won’t be here long. At least I hope I shouldn’t be here long. I don’t want to be here long. I want to be somewhere else where I can play loud music and eat junk food and smoke cigarettes. My dad had almost a hundred dollars on him. That’s enough for something. I just want something but I can’t have it because I don’t want the old people to know what I’m getting. I could arrange for someone to meet me somewhere but I won’t. I’ll wait a few more days before I leave at night to go get some.
But I must hand it to them. For them being so old, they sure do have a lot of liquor. It’s in a small cabinet in the basement. It isn’t locked, so it’s just always open and ready for someone to stick a hand in there and pull something out. The old couple usually has a glass of something after dinner when they watch the news and say “That is terrible”. I feel inept without it. All of my body gets anxious. My teeth gnash together. This apparatus of my body shakes. Just thinking of its awful taste makes me a murky, bumbling fool. I feel like a ghost without. I don’t want to live without it.
It’s Friday and I should be in class, but I told the woman I wasn’t feeling good, so she kept me here. I’m thankful that she feels bad for me. She feels bad that I have no one in the world now. But my worker says that there is someone out there for me.
“He’s your uncle. He lives in the city. I have an appointment with him next week. Hopefully he’ll be fit enough so you can stay with him.” She says. I don’t look her in the face. Her face is round and chubby like her body. She has pictures of her family on her desk. They’re nice pictures. Her daughter is in college and is going to be a doctor. I pick the picture up and look at it. Her daughter is lighter than the rest of her family.
“Is she adopted?” I ask. I flash the picture and she smiles at me.
“Yes, she is. She was my sister’s daughter. I took her in when she was four.”
“Oh. That was nice of you.”
“She’s family. I had to do it.” She takes the picture from my hands and looks at her. “She looks like her mother. Yep, her mother was darker than her. She’s a mocha color.” She smiles at me. I try to smile back, but I don’t. I just sit there and look past her out the window and wonder where he’s at. She understands that I miss my father and I don’t like talking about it. But every time I’m there she pushes for something.
“Have you been using lately?” She asks. I feel her eyes on my face.
I keep it smooth. “No. I have no money and no way to getting my hands onto it. No I haven’t been using.”
“Ah. Good. You’re too pretty to be ‘cracked out’ or ‘blown’. You’re going to be somewhere, I can feel it.”
“In fifteen years, were do you see yourself?” He asks. I hate Mr. Crow. He is a stupid teacher with dumb things to say. “Yes, you?” He points to some kid in the back of the class. I turn and look at him like the rest of the class.