Short Story Wednesday
The Kiss, Part 2
Dear Readers,
Welcome to Short Story Wednesday. I have a confession to make. I’m rotten at marketing my work, but I love to write, so I’ve chosen to create short stories while “cleverly” telling you about my longer work. Well, not so cleverly because I sometimes forget to mention my books. I told you I was rotten. Today’s story is Part 2 of The Kiss. Part 1 is HERE. So I hope you’ll read it, and then let me know what you think. Please spare me loud raspberries, but I appreciate constructive criticism!
The Kiss, Part 2
Abigail took her hand and led her into the bedroom. “Mel, look.”
“I know there isn’t a body. But last night there was.”
“Honey, you believe that. And I understand why. You’re out to change what happened two years ago, but you can’t in real life, so you try to do it in your dreams. Drake’s gone, Mel. His killer’s in prison.”
Abigail had been with her from the time Drake had been shot, through her repeated calls to 911 and her mental meltdown.
“Look, come and spend tonight with us. Then as much as I hate saying this, I think you have to move. It’s this house. That bedroom.”
Mel nodded. Her friend was right. She should have moved immediately, but she kept thinking that if she stayed—confronted what had happened—she could find absolution. All she found was a growing shame. Something was wrong with her, something she didn’t know how to fix.
Early that evening, Mel packed an overnight bag. She’d agreed to take Abigail up on her offer and stay with her. A good night’s sleep would help her make the right decisions about what to do. She bundled in her heavy sweater and stepped outside. The moon still cast a bright white light, so the shadows from trees and bushes were stark, stretching across the sidewalk.
She’d only passed her driveway when the crackle of dry leaves from behind brought her to a halt. She froze, then with dread pumping blood into every part of her, she turned to look back. His shadow stretched toward her, nearly touching her toes. He advanced, and that shadow crept up her legs and across her chest. She hadn’t killed him last night after all.
“You led me on,” he said, “then when all I asked for was one kiss, you refused.”
Fear lodged in her throat, shutting down her ability to move. She couldn’t scream for help. She couldn’t run. This time it wasn’t a dream. This time, he was inches from her. She was sure of it even though common sense said he was behind bars.
“I wouldn’t have killed Drake if not for you. It was your fault that it happened.”
It had been a flirtation. She’d encouraged this man but then had second thoughts. Her marriage was too important to risk. He’d refused to leave. Drake came home from his meeting that night and found her struggling in his embrace. There was a fight, a gunshot, and blood. Those memories stalked her. She’d made a stupid mistake, and she’d cost her husband his life. She’d paid for that mistake again and again. She was so tired. Let whatever this was facing her engulf and end her.
Abigail’s words were in her head, saying what she’d been saying for two years. “No means no, Mel. Don’t forget that.”
Mel finally found her voice.“Go away. Leave me alone,” she pleaded, but the dark figure crept closer. Then, for the first time since that night, she shouted, “I said no! You didn’t respect that!”
The shadow stepped back, hesitating and silent before vanishing and letting the moonlight pour over her—stark white and defining. She finally saw the difference between her guilt and her shame, a difference doctors had presented again and again.
“I did something wrong. I’m guilty.” Her voice was steady when she said the words that might set her on the path to healing.“But I’m not a bad person. I’m a person who made a terrible mistake.”
The End
I kind of wrote myself into a corner with this one, and I wasn’t sure which way to go. Let her have a breakdown again? I even considered having him become real, having escaped from prison. No. Too corny. So I went with the psychology of guilt versus shame. Did it work?
Available on Amazon
This time, I’ll make sure to mention my latest release. It’s receiving positive reviews.
Amazon Review:
At first, I believed that this would simply be another surface level high school drama akin to Mean Girls, but I was pleasantly surprised to see how wrong I was. The characters are not one dimensional. In fact, the decision to write each chapter from a different character’s perspective allows readers to break this stereotype, as we quickly learn that how one character sees another character is not how the character sees themselves or the world. They are multidimensional people with their own secrets and struggles, and those who seem like villains are not necessarily bad people.
The book also deals with topical issues, including school shooting and loneliness/depression. It presents these issues rawly, pulling on readers heartstrings.
I thoroughly enjoyed this read.
Until next Wednesday!
I liked where you took this story, Lee. If, what we write, can serve greater purposes like the themes you explore, the subtexts, it's always a plus.
I thought you might like this little story from my bio: (it's about my teenage years)
THE KISS
Trembling, I try to force my mind to think of nothing, to let what’s to come, come. My eyes lose their focus as the empty ceiling becomes a sea of the palest blue, almost white. But it is useless. Thoughts tumble into each other so quickly they overlap.
How did I get into this position? What could have possessed me to agree, so readily, so ‘matter-of-factly’, to such an idea, one that was completely bizarre to us both? How could we have spent so long discussing such a trivial, yet important thing? A safe way to experience something all our friends talked about, but which we could only guess at?
Without warning, a face replaces the ceiling, filling my field of vision. The eyes hold me, framed with long, fine, fair lashes. I never noticed how blue the irises are before, with incredibly large pupils. Embarrassed, I tear my gaze away, down the sunburnt nose to the mouth, over which an almost invisible moustache grows. The full lips are almost parted, almost moist. Suddenly, I remember my teacher telling me, ‘Do nothing you would not have your mother see you do.’
I try to put mother out of my mind, we are only practising. Where is the harm in that? Richard’s breath, faintly sweet, enters my nostrils. His eyes become one. Should I keep looking, or shut mine? I close them; I am lost in his power.
Lightly at first, then with a sensitive, delightful pressure, his mouth brushes a faint, electric sensation into the nerves of mine. A minute passes, probably; I can’t tell, but it seems that time stands still until the weight of his body lightens, eases to my left, and he turns onto his back.
Twisting, I look at his head, framed by the afternoon sun that slants through the French windows so that his hair makes a sort of halo.
‘Was that nice?’ he asks in a whisper almost inaudible.
‘Yes, very,’ I say, surprised that I have a voice at all.
‘Well,’ he continues, ‘now it is my turn to pretend to be the girl.’