#chapter 1 draft

[freebee303]

I can officially say that we’re almost there.

AHHH IM SO EXCITED!!!

[impdidnothingwrong]

So because I'm hit with writers block have this lol. I'm still trying to decide if I should do wildbows style of first person stream of consciousness or if I should just write it in the style I'm used to for ease. Anyway:

I was no stranger at waking up in foreign places, by any means, especially with the life I had lead, but with what happened prior to my loss of consciousness it wasn't surprising how much panic surged through me once I realized I was alive. I jolted upright, my senses more bug than human, mapping out my location and, "You're up, thank god. I know she said no hospital, but any longer and I would be sending you to Recovery Girl" I knew Contessa worked in mysterious ways against unsurmountable odds, but that was Japanese, pure and simple, and had understood all of it.

I had known a little, with the ABBs chokehold on the areas surrounding the Docks, from trips Mom and I would take to visit Dad at work, but none of this was part of it. In all her wisdom, or path to it, she'd given me a new language. It would have to mean something about the path she had given me.

He stepped closer and my hands splayed out in front of me, desperately, almost, to keep him back. Hands. Just another thing I owed Contessa for. I just had to hope I had something to give if she ever came to collect. He stopped immediately, as if expecting that reaction, before his own hands crept up into a similar position.

He was tall, even to me, making him appear slimmer than he was. Even with his baggy clothes I could tell by his stance he was no stranger to strength. His shoulders were wide and set. He looked, above all else, sturdy, hands wide and visibly calloused. That, however spoke nothing regarding the rest of him. He wore a scarf of sorts around his neck, a light grey that contrasted with the dark of the rest of his ensemble. The only flash of color coming from the goggles around his neck. He looked unkempt, but not the unkempt that came from poor hygiene, like I had seen out of Greg, where unwashed hair would go uncombed, and sweatstains lingered on graphic tees with fraying necklines, although I'm sure that was partially because of the dark color he wore. I could tell from experience alone how dirty and stained it was, with dust and ash and probably blood, but there was no sign of fraying or holes. His hair, while greasy, was combed back into a messy ponytail, no doubt a well practiced maneuver. With his hair out of his face I could see the dark circles under his eyes, and the stubble that shaded his mouth and jaw looked, among other things, unintentional.

I had a fleeting thought that he resembled Defiant, and tears pricked at the corners of my eyes. I couldn't recognize at the time, but now, remembering how he felt, and the way his face was every time I took control, I realized: he had never been afraid of me.

The man had reached the foot of the bed I was on, palms facing down on the mattress as he lowered himself to his knees. Eyes never leaving mine as he sunk to my level. "Are you alright?" I blinked at him before opening my mouth to speak.

"I'm fine." I had expected my voice to croak, so I was surprised how normal it sounded.

"Kid, a strange woman dropped you off in my apartment without entering it, only spoke to tell me not to take you to a hospital, and you've been unconscious for the better half of the night. I'm not gonna believe you're fine." I was fine, but arguing was pointless, so i just nodded. Asking questions would get me farther, even if he didn't answer them.

"Who are you?" The polite thing to do would probably be to introduce myself first, but I was unmasked, and I really didn't think he'd mind.

"I'm Pro Hero Eraserhead, kid. Although you probably wouldn't recognize me. I try to keep it that way." So he was a hero, and he didn't know me. It was almost too good to be true. And it would be, if it werent for who exactly put me here. "And what about you, kid?"

There it was again, the kid? How old did he think I was? Even Defiant hadn't spoken to me that way except for our worst meeting, and even then it was condescension, pure and simple. "I'm Taylor, why do you keep calling me kid?"

"Because you are?"

"I'm 18" The look he leveled at me was incredulous, like he couldn't possibly believe it, but he didn't push that either.

"Now, do you want to go to the hospital?" Hospitals required records, and I didn't exist on this earth, as I knew. Too many questions from authorities right off the back, and I couldn't go on the run. Not so soon. It would all but ruin my chances here.

"No hospital, please."

"Ok, but I am taking you to Recovery Girl. If she says you need the hospital after"

[bitofbookishness]

Progress!

I’m getting there with my chapter 1 draft, but there’s still a long way to go! However, I’m finding heaps of really great stuff to put in that relates to events that affect Wordsworth’s editing and publishing decisions regarding his later poetry!