10 years ago I started to write a short story, and I could never write more than 15000 words.
I’ve restarted and rewritten that it at least twice since then. Last week I rewrote it again, but I’m feeling more confident in the direction I’m going with it this time.
The story is called Radiation and it’s about super powers, but underneath that setting it’s a story about corruption, violence, and losing your sense of self. The only thing that I cannot decide is if I will keep it first person perspective or use third person. Alternatively I might keep the prologue in first person and use third person in the majority of the story.
ANYWAYS, here’s the prologue of my latest version of Radiation.
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PROLOGUE: ASHES
All I remember is an intense heat, a fierce light, and the searing of flesh.
I have this dream every night. My mother, my father, all of my siblings, and my step-parents are in front of me. I burn them all alive and watch them turn into ash. The cold steel pressed against my head demands obedience. I can kill them myself or watch them die. But their death is a promise. The first few times I was able to refuse but killing them became compulsory. I didn’t need the gun to my head. I just kill them. I kill my family every night. I’m used to it now. I am ashamed to say that I usually enjoy it.
That’s untrue. I usually enjoy killing the men and I’m indifferent about killing the women. But I feel immense guilt as I turn my younger sister into a pillar of ash. I kill her and it feels like I’m killing my inner child, turning into a monster. In my dreams I’m forced to break the one promise I swore to keep. I become a monster. Violence breeds violence and in my dreams I am not exempt. Once the flames start to spill out of me they don’t stop. I start by killing my family but by morning the entire earth is a burnt husk. I wander empty streets searching for water, but I never find any. Every morning I wake up drenched in sweat. I feel thirsty. Most of all I feel uncomfortably hot. I’m never able to regulate my temperature on my own. I have to take a cold shower. Steam comes off my body. Truthfully, I am unable to cry, but as the cold water hits my face, I am unable to tell. I stay in the shower until the emotions become bearable. Pretending to cry shouldn’t provide emotional relief but somehow it does. Once I’m cooled off I sit on the floor of the shower and dissociate; by the time I leave the shower I’m always shivering.
I first began having nightmares about violence as a child but was never the perpetrator in them until late adolescence. I never told anyone. I had no one that I could trust. As an adult I tried to figure it out on my own but time and distance didn’t free me. I kept having the nightmare. I would spend my waking hours chasing chemical bliss, hopping from one addiction to the next. I lost eight years in that haze before I found the courage to look inside myself. But sobriety didn’t free me either. I kept having the nightmare. I kept feeling guilty during the day. I dream of violence every night and carry shame every day.
I don’t know what triggered the change but last night was different, instead of killing all of my family I only had to kill my fathers. I killed two violent men and for the first time I felt free. When I woke up I felt a sense of purpose unlike anything I had felt before. I knew that I wasn’t destined to destroy the world. I was meant to help. I didn’t feel ashamed anymore. I decided that violence was ok, but it had to be directed at people who deserved it. For once I was able to sleep in.
This morning I went to the bathroom and cleaned away less sweat than usual. I got dressed, skipped breakfast and left for work. On my way to work, a tanker cut me off suddenly. I tried to stop my car but the crash felt inevitable. Time slows and I notice several warning numbers on the back of the truck. The tanker carries a solvent that is flammable and corrosive. I notice a bio-hazard symbol, and a radiation warning. The acrid smell of burnt asphalt fills the air as my car skids and then slams into the left rear of the tanker. The steel frame of my car breaks both rear axles and the tanker scrapes on its side across both sides of the street. My car skids to a stop and I stumble out of my car. I realize that my mouth is full of blood. My tongue traces my gums and I feel three teeth missing. I spit mucus and blood onto the pavement but don’t find any teeth. I collapse against my wrecked car.
I black out.
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