The Legacy: Day 177 - 201

My creativity lately has come out in the form of writing rather than visual art, which is a very good thing since I am a writer!  But it is much harder to post a story in progress than it is a piece of art.  So, I haven't posted much lately while I allowed the numerous stories inside of me to flourish.  One thing I've noticed is that the way I approach art has bled into my writing -- in a very good way.  Mostly when I start art projects I have no idea where they are going, I simply follow my pen or brush.  With writing, I'm usually more directive and I agonize over every word as if divine inspiration is not possible.  But I know that it is, my artwork has taught me that.  Even when i don't know what a piece of art is going to become, I know that if I follow my inspiration the right and perfect thing will materialize.  I'm now applying that lesson to my writing, and it is working out well.  It is allowing me to write.  For that, I am very grateful.

I want to share some of my stories on this blog (it is a writing blog after all), but they are still in the editing stage and not ready for prime time.  So, how about I share the first page of one of my pieces?  I envision this story as part of a series of linked short stories all dealing with the modern day legacy of Columbus' voyage to the Americas.  You won't see how the Columbus theme fits in from the first page, but trust me it's there!

Enjoy.

The Legacy

 by Marjorie Florestal

The smell of urine pressed into her nose.  It was a human thing, angry, acidic, and biting.  It stung her nostrils as she fought to push Chris away.

“Stop!  Stop!”

He bit her ear, as if that would stop the cries.  And the more she struggled the more he pressed down until she thought her ear would fall off.  She cried now for this new pain and for the feel of Chris’ hand ripping at her panties.  Without pause he pushed into her with three hard thrusts, and it was over. 

Rena immediately rolled away, wrapping her body into a tight ball.   “Why did you do this to me?” she asked, barely above a whisper.

By now, Chris was staring at her with a look bordering confusion and horror.  “Don’t cry.”  He said.  “Why are you crying?”  He reached out a hand, wiping the tears off her cheeks even as she shrunk from his touch.  “Why are you crying?” he repeated.

Rena pushed his hand away, and that seemed to unleash something inside her.  She kept pushing and hitting until he doubled over with the pain.  She wanted to inflict on him just a fraction of her own pain, but it didn’t seem possible so she stopped.  Her belly heaved with sobs.  Rena climbed over Chris’ prone body and rearranged her crumpled skirt before rushing out of the room with the sound of his words reverberating in her ears.  “I’m sorry.  I’m so sorry.”

* * *

            Rena François kept her eyes focused on the landscape as her taxicab drove through the old Brooklyn neighborhood.  It had been 12 years since that terrible night, and she had not been back here since.  She felt bile rise up in her throat as the memories came flooding back.  The taxicab inched forward in early afternoon traffic and turned the corner onto Foster Avenue.  Belleville came into view dominating the landscape with its gray presence.  The dull redbrick remained impervious to age and neglect while the spiral rooftop hung over the neighborhood like an umbrella against the steel cold wind.  Rena watched as the taxicab drove through the wrought iron gates and up a long, winding driveway past a sign, which read:  Belleville State Psychiatric Hospital.

“This okay?” The cab driver asked when Rena made no move to leave.

            “Oh yes, yes,” Rena paid the driver before stepping out of the cab.  It was time to confront her past.