Forgetting and Writing

I’ve been rewriting since the last time I posted, but I forgot I wanted to post anything. I just forgot. My brain is a sieve.

But anyway, I’ve added a new scene into the first half of the manuscript. And here it is! Thanks for reading.

Hannah ran like the old woman had told her to. She ran by strange souls lingering in the hall. They were blurs in the corner of her eye. She thought she glimpsed a girl with flame red hair and a boy made of scars.

She was almost to the door when a lone black bird flew into the hall from the shadows of a patient’s room. The bird swooped and cawed. Hannah jerked sideways to avoid its mad flight, and she crashed into a man wearing a doorman’s uniform. She knocked him into the wall.

The lockpick fell from her hand. Hannah stumbled backwards and looked at the floor for the lockpick. It was her favorite.

“Who the hell are you?” the man asked.

She looked up. His nametag reflected the hall light. “George.”

“I’m George.” He looked puzzled and rubbed the back of his head.

Hannah snorted. She tried to keep one eye on him while she searched for the lockpick. He might be able to lunge and take hold of her, but she sized him up. He wasn’t a man who knew how to deal with someone who fought back.

George continued to rub the back of his head. “Go back to your room,” he said. “You patients can’t be running willy nilly out here. Nurse will have us all hung.” He squinted. “What was I doing?”

At that moment, the old woman caught up with Hannah. “He’s one of Them,” she said.

“I don’t think he’s going to bother us,” Hannah replied still looking for her lockpick. The doorman bent over forward and put his hands on his knees.

“I think I hit my head,” he mumbled.

Hannah hesitated. She’d crashed into him hard, but his apparent disorientation unsettled her. “You okay?” she asked, glancing at him sideways.

He stayed bent over, but he laughed. Then he coughed. He hacked. “Can’t say a patient’s ever asked after me like that. Am I okay?” He leaned even farther forward. “My head hurts.”

“What should we do?” Hannah turned to the old woman. “I think I…”

“I told you not to stop for any reason, and here you are, worrying about one of Them.” The old woman stepped over to the doorman.

A thin line of silver flashed a few feet away. It was the lockpick. She knelt down to snatch it up, and when she stood back up, a loud thud startled her. The uniformed man was out on the floor. The old woman stood over him.

“What happened?” Hannah asked.

“He fell.”

Hannah didn’t know what to do. “But he’s unconscious.” The old woman could’ve knocked him out, but that seemed ridiculous. The old woman couldn’t be that strong.

“He fell hard,” the old woman said. “Now go. Run like I told you to.”

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One response to “Forgetting and Writing

  1. Glad to read the scene, in its newer form. this phrase keeps coming back to me– a boy made of scars. I know what that feels like, I know what it looks like. Great image.

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