PhD 2

by Linda Glaz

CHAPTER TWO

Staring into the darkness, Rochelle rested against the side of the dumpster, trying to will herself back to reality.

Where am I? How long have I been here?

Peeking through the swollen slits of her eyes, she cautiously absorbed the immediate area. She stared through the darkness, her breath coming in painful gasps.

Rochelle crawled over broken glass shards and a crumpled burger bag that leaked mustard. The smell caused her to turn her head aside and vomit. [This could have more punch: “The smell twisted her gut. Her stomach heaved and she turned her head to vomit.” Something along those lines.] Hoisting her tender arm gingerly, she managed to wipe her mouth and then press[ed] her coat sleeve against her nose because of the horrific odor. She cried, “Oh God, oh God, oh God, please! Jesus . . . please help me!” Over and over she repeated the phrase until her breathing steadied with the familiar mantra. [Nice.]

At last, she yanked one item after another from her bulky purse until she discovered her cell phone at the bottom.

In the distance, from the direction of St. Phillip’s, she heard sirens and wondered, dazed, who else had been hurt.

[Personal opinion: I’d have her feel a surge of hope at hearing sirens. Were they heading for her? She listens, but they fade instead of getting louder. Then she chides herself—who could possibly know she was there? That would build more empathy for your character instead of simple wondering.]

After punching in numbers, Rochelle did not know the man who answered her call. She almost hung up hearing a stranger’s voice. Then, she recognized the regular locker room shouting and laughter before her boyfriend, Ed McGrath, came to the phone.

“Eddie. Come get me, please? Now!” Rochelle cried into the thin phone at her ear. Blood trickled over the edge of the receiver and onto her hand drop by drop. Without deliberate effort, she lifted her hand to her mouth, tasted the blood, and grew queasy all over again. [I’m a little confused here. Do you mean with deliberate effort? “Without” doesn’t create a clear picture. And do you mean she put a bloody hand to her mouth for the purpose of tasting her own blood? Why would she do that after she’s already thrown up? If that’s not what you meant, it’s how it reads to me.]

Is this really happening?

“Where are you, Chell? What’s going on?”

“Please, Ed. Help me. I’ve been in some kind of accident.” She struggled for the right words. [This will be more effective like this: “Please, Ed. Help me. I’ve been …” She struggled for the right words. “…in some kind of accident.”]

“Rochelle, what is going on? Where are you!” he shouted. [Dialog tags like “shouted” aren’t necessary. Well, if they are necessary, you haven’t written your dialog properly (but you have). Plus, he’s repeating the same things he asked her before. Try, “What? Where are you?”]

“I feel sick. Please get help. I’m,” she surveyed her surroundings, her judgment blurred by the overwhelming nausea, “next to a huge metal dumpsters past Nino’s.” She sobbed uncontrollably for a moment and then cried, “For the love of God! Help me!”

[Overwhelming nausea, uncontrollable sobbing, and her cry of “For the love of God!” all contribute to an overly dramatic paragraph. Those techniques aren’t the way to get emotion across. Also, her judgment blurred doesn’t sound right. People seldom know when their own judgment has been impaired. But I know what you mean—she was having a hard time judging her surroundings. Rewrite the paragraph to something like this:

“Please get help. I’m…” She surveyed her surroundings. “…next to a dumpster past Nino’s.” For several moments all she could do was cling to the phone and sob. “Please, just come get me!”]

To pack the right kind of emotional punch in this scene, she could have a nagging fear that her attacker might return, maybe try to steady her shaking hands enough to work her phone.

* * *

Hidden behind the corner of the dumpster, Kyle examined her from the shadows and ridiculed a god who would allow her to rot like this. Though his first thought should have been escape, he paused long enough to delight in her misery. Her dark hair had loosened more and blood caused soft curls to mat against her head.

Kyle stumbled away with her leather glove dangling from the pocket of his Army jacket.

You know me now, don’t you, Princess?

You know me reaaaal good.

Cursing the cold in his fingers, he hauled out half a poorly rolled joint and lit the end with an old Zippo lighter engraved with “Born to Raise Hell” on the side. As he strolled away he hummed a tune reminiscent of an AC/DC album his mother used to play late at night when she entertained. After each puff and each step, he considered himself more in command, more in charge of his life.

Princess got just what she asked for. You want to give people like me a guilt trip every time you open your stupid mouth on the radio?[All that was over a guilt trip? You need something more compelling here. Or just skip his rationale in this scene.] You dirty little witch. You got just what you deserved.

He stopped a couple steps outside St. Andrews on Barrymore Street kitty corner from Nino’s. The lights were off; the building appeared locked up tight for the night. And Kyle smirked.

Will you look at that? Nobody’s home. I think God just may be on vacation. Well, I appreciate it O’ Mighty One. Thou dideth me a big favor tonight. Stay on vacation, You hear?

A loud clanging noise and Kyle spun around glaring toward the alley. The kid at Nino’s with more garbage, he supposed. He longed for a final glimpse of Rochelle spread on the ground bloodied and sobbing, but the fantasy was not meant to be. He had to make tracks.

Just keep your pious opinions to yourself from now on, Princess. Stay put in your little ivory tower. Your opinions don’t matter out here in the real world. Nobody wants ‘em. Nobody cares.

With his head bowed into his hands to drag on what was left of the joint, he breathed deeply and stepped blindly into the street. Before he could react, he heard the screeching wheels of a city bus.

* * *

Blaring sirens resounded through the air while Rochelle fought to regain consciousness once again. She felt herself being lifted. The sound of doors closing. The sirens again.

Forcing her eyes open, she caught a glimpse of Ed, still outfitted in his red and white team jersey, clutching her hand to his lips. Is he praying? Why? A stranger inserted a needle into the back of her hand. What is he doing? She winced at the pain. Noticing blood smeared on Ed’s jersey, she wanted to ask him if he’d been hurt in the game. Words would not come.

Finally she tried, “Ed, why is there blood all over you?” Her voice sounded faraway and remarkably calm. Ed didn’t answer her. Rochelle tried to recall the events of the evening, but her mind felt as if it were shutting down. Drugged.

Oh, why can’t I remember?

Then, she closed her eyes and allowed the gentle feeling to wash over her. She floated for how long, she wasn’t sure.

“We’re almost there, Chell. The MedVac’s making great time.”

His words drifted in and out and Rochelle’s mind whirled into a battleground of questions, able to hear but not to answer. Why were they in a MedVac? Maybe Ed was going to tell her. “Don’t worry, Chelley. We’re getting you to the hospital. You’re doing fine.”

Why should I worry?

“They’ll take care of you. We’re just a few minutes from St. Phillips.”

Why am I going to a hospital?

“I promise you’ll be okay,” he said. “You have to be okay.” Then, he grabbed her hand and kissed her fingers over and over.

Of course, I’m okay. Why is everyone acting so funny?

Little by little she started to remember as Ed’s tears dripped onto her cheeks and her hands. Just when they arrived at the hospital, she fought through the fog in her mind and clutched at him, screaming, “Oh, God. No!”

The scene is fine for the most part. But it would be better with even subtle little changes. Her thoughts annoyed me for some reason. Forgive me, but I’m going to edit it to show you the difference:

Blaring sirens resounded through the air while Rochelle fought to regain consciousness. She felt herself being lifted. The sound of doors closing. The sirens again.

Forcing her eyes open, she caught a glimpse of Ed, still outfitted in his red and white team jersey, clutching her hand to his lips. A stranger inserted a needle into the back of her hand and she winced at the pain.

Ed’s jersey was smeared with blood. Had he been hurt in the game? “Ed, why is there blood all over you?” Her voice sounded faraway and remarkably calm. Ed didn’t answer and her mind felt as if it were shutting down. Drugged.

She closed her eyes and allowed the gentle feeling to wash over her. How long she floated, she wasn’t sure.

“We’re almost there, Chell. The MedVac’s making great time.” His words drifted in and out.

Rochelle’s mind whirled into a battleground of questions she was unable to ask. Why were they in a MedVac? Why was Ed crying and praying?

“Don’t worry, Chelley. We’re getting you to the hospital. You’re doing fine.”

Why should she worry?

“I promise you’ll be okay. You have to be okay.” He grabbed her hand and kissed her fingers over and over. His tears dripped onto her hands.

The fog in her mind lifted a little. One after the other, images flooded her mind. Her attacker’s face. His cruel eyes. His eager hands reaching for her.

Dear God, please tell me it didn’t happen.

But she knew God couldn’t make such any such reassurances. She clutched at Eddie. “No!”