I've been making my way through Creating Character Emotions and selecting an emotion a day to practice writing. You guys responded so well to my fun game on Instagram--what emotion do you feel?--that I wanted to post one to my blog. For anyone who guesses the correct emotion below, you get a prize coming your way. Ready to play? Let's go!
Five minutes. It should take five minutes. She checked the clock. It had only been one. She stared at the thin stick on the bathroom counter, willing the faded blue lines not to intersect. It said five minutes. Results wouldn’t come until then, she repeated to herself.
From the edge of the bathtub, she could see herself in the mirror. The grey florescent light accentuated every line, every dark circle on her pure skin, causing her to resemble someone twice her age. Like her sister Amanda. Thirty going on fifty--unmarried, introverted, plain. But adored by their parents. No amount of gushing was ever enough for them. Last year’s newsletter proved that. Two minutes.
Or Rebecca. Senior with honors but no boyfriend. Dad took her shopping for a new car. Mom for clothes. They even threw her a party for being a what--valedictorian. Virgin, more like it. They love those. She scrunched her toes in the bath mat. Three minutes.
But for their youngest? Nothing. For their average student? Nothing. Little did they care about her. She ran her fingers through her thick blonde hair and pushed her chest out. Beautiful. Youthful. Prom Queen. Popular.
Her hands grew sticky tucked under her thighs. She knew exactly what they would do. What they’ve been waiting to do ever since she started talking back, sneaking out, kissing boys. Exile her. And in minutes she’d find out if they’d get their way.
Pressure slammed down on her chest. She had sixty seconds. Sixty seconds until her life would be determined by two blue lines. She stood. Pushed her hair out of her face as she stared at the pregnancy stick. She tried synching her breathing with her heartbeat, to calm
her. But all she could manage were short gasps. Twenty seconds. Don’t pick up the stick. Results may suffer if she picked up the stick. Ten seconds. Drowning couldn’t be worse than this, she thought, feeling her chest sinking in on her. Five seconds. Either way, her
life would change.
Four. She swallowed hard, eyes locked on the cross that was appearing before her, branding her. Three seconds. As a slut. As an exile.
And as a mother.