Writing Exercise: Chris Argent has feeeeeelings
Exercise for today was to write a 500 word thing made up entirely of imperatives (do this, do that), which is an indirect way of doing second person.
I didn't draw names out of hat, because I knew immediately who I wanted to do this exercise with.
[Chris Argent - Imperative - (560 words) Warnings for grief]Chris Argent - Imperative - (560 words) Warnings for grief
Open your eyes. No, really, open your damn eyes. Turn on your side and sit up slowly; put your feet on the floor. Ignore the absence at your back, because there is no sense in dwelling on it. Shower and dress and put on the coffee-the kind you like, the kind you finally get to drink now that she's-
No, drink the kind you like. Don't drink that strong, black, liquid bitterness that she preferred. Don't do it. And don't spit out your coffee, the kind you always liked before her, into the sink. Don't waste time making more coffee. Eat your breakfast.
Talk to Allison while she eats breakfast. Ask her about homework and normal things. Ponder whether you should ask her about her friends, or whoever it is she's hanging out with now. Don't ask why she hasn't hung out with Lydia for a while. Don't ask whether she and Scott are still together. Stay the hell away from your daughter's social life, except don't let her be lonely, obviously. At some point, figure out how to help her, because somebody fucking has to.
Don't get pissed at Allison for being lonely. Don't get pissed at Victoria for being dead. Don't get pissed at Kate for being dead. Don't be pissed at these women that you needed a hell of a lot more than you thought you did.
Go to the full-time job you have now that you’re the only breadwinner. File the paperwork for something. Plan out a strategy for the construction on the Mercer building. Don't answer the phone call from your second cousin, who probably wants help with a hunt. Hit "ignore," and fucking do your job so that your daughter can eat.
Go home. Don't sigh when you see that Allison is already home, in her room. Don't go knock on her door and ask what she's doing this weekend. Don't-or do?- or fuck, make up your damn mind about something to do about her. Look on the internet if you have to; look at parenting blogs and wince at the color schemes and type "grieving" into search bars. Contemplate whether you've irrevocably fucked up your own daughter.
Ask your daughter if she wants to go to a movie with you on Friday. Don't get annoyed when she says "no." Go downstairs and clean the guns that need cleaning, and then the arrows that need cleaning, the ones that Allison put through the shoulders and thighs and guts of one person or another. Remember belatedly that you haven't made dinner and that Allison probably hasn't eaten anything.
Go stare at the pantry for fifteen minutes because, yeah, that'll help with the fact that you don't know how to cook anything. Find a package of macaroni and cheese at the back of the shelf. Follow the directions.
Bring a bowl of plastic-looking mac and cheese up to Allison's room. Don't say anything when she winces at it. Try not to feel too overwhelmingly grateful when she still smiles and says, "Thanks Dad."
Say "Sure" and "Goodnight" and "I love you," even though you feel awkward, because you're the only person left in the universe who's saying "I love you" to her, so suck it the fuck up.
Go lie down on your bed. Turn onto your side. Ignore the absence at your back.
I didn't draw names out of hat, because I knew immediately who I wanted to do this exercise with.
[Chris Argent - Imperative - (560 words) Warnings for grief]Chris Argent - Imperative - (560 words) Warnings for grief
Open your eyes. No, really, open your damn eyes. Turn on your side and sit up slowly; put your feet on the floor. Ignore the absence at your back, because there is no sense in dwelling on it. Shower and dress and put on the coffee-the kind you like, the kind you finally get to drink now that she's-
No, drink the kind you like. Don't drink that strong, black, liquid bitterness that she preferred. Don't do it. And don't spit out your coffee, the kind you always liked before her, into the sink. Don't waste time making more coffee. Eat your breakfast.
Talk to Allison while she eats breakfast. Ask her about homework and normal things. Ponder whether you should ask her about her friends, or whoever it is she's hanging out with now. Don't ask why she hasn't hung out with Lydia for a while. Don't ask whether she and Scott are still together. Stay the hell away from your daughter's social life, except don't let her be lonely, obviously. At some point, figure out how to help her, because somebody fucking has to.
Don't get pissed at Allison for being lonely. Don't get pissed at Victoria for being dead. Don't get pissed at Kate for being dead. Don't be pissed at these women that you needed a hell of a lot more than you thought you did.
Go to the full-time job you have now that you’re the only breadwinner. File the paperwork for something. Plan out a strategy for the construction on the Mercer building. Don't answer the phone call from your second cousin, who probably wants help with a hunt. Hit "ignore," and fucking do your job so that your daughter can eat.
Go home. Don't sigh when you see that Allison is already home, in her room. Don't go knock on her door and ask what she's doing this weekend. Don't-or do?- or fuck, make up your damn mind about something to do about her. Look on the internet if you have to; look at parenting blogs and wince at the color schemes and type "grieving" into search bars. Contemplate whether you've irrevocably fucked up your own daughter.
Ask your daughter if she wants to go to a movie with you on Friday. Don't get annoyed when she says "no." Go downstairs and clean the guns that need cleaning, and then the arrows that need cleaning, the ones that Allison put through the shoulders and thighs and guts of one person or another. Remember belatedly that you haven't made dinner and that Allison probably hasn't eaten anything.
Go stare at the pantry for fifteen minutes because, yeah, that'll help with the fact that you don't know how to cook anything. Find a package of macaroni and cheese at the back of the shelf. Follow the directions.
Bring a bowl of plastic-looking mac and cheese up to Allison's room. Don't say anything when she winces at it. Try not to feel too overwhelmingly grateful when she still smiles and says, "Thanks Dad."
Say "Sure" and "Goodnight" and "I love you," even though you feel awkward, because you're the only person left in the universe who's saying "I love you" to her, so suck it the fuck up.
Go lie down on your bed. Turn onto your side. Ignore the absence at your back.