Original Fiction: Character Sketch (Scotlyn)
This won't be part of my novel for NaNoWriMo, but this is a quick character sketch (under 1,000 words) that I did for my main character, Scotlyn.
Dad died on December 5th, 2009.
I remember going to the funeral, and sitting in silence while my father's best friend, Mister Richardson, got up and said a eulogy. I couldn't tell you what it was about, or what words came out of my mother's mouth when she got up to say a few words. I remember that everyone was crying, but no tears stained my eyes. When I got up to say something, I looked over the small crowd of people, all of them faceless except for those of my family. My throat was dry - I couldn't speak. Eventually, I just went back to my seat, but I don't think anyone minded. I was the grief-stricken daughter of the deceased. I received hugs from these people that I didn't know, supposed to comfort me. They didn't.
When we got into the car, my mother took my hand. My uncle Arnold was driving us, and we were the first car behind the hearse. We went out onto the street, and I turned my head toward the window. Mom squeezed my hand, and I'm not sure if I returned the gesture or not. A drop of rain fell onto the glass, and was immediately followed by more. How ironic - the sky was crying, and even I couldn't seem to muster up the energy to shed a single tear for the loss of my best friend.
The rest of the day passed by in a blur. The graveyard, littered with little clusters of people under black umbrellas. I remember wondering why funerals always had to be so somber all of the time. Dad wouldn't have liked it. He would have wanted something happy, to commemorate his life. But I was silent, seeming to have lost the will to speak.
After the burial, we went home, and the funeral procession seemed to follow us. People brought food, and I kept getting stopped by people offering their condolences. I remember wishing that they would stop, but I kept meeting each person with a smile. I didn't even know that my father had known this many people. I wondered if maybe some of them were actually homeless, wandering in and taking advantage of a family's grief to get food. It would have been a good system.
Finally, the last person had trickled out. My mother, my sister and I were sat at the table. We hadn't spoken in forever. This was the quietest I had ever heard this house be; there was almost always something going on. My sister was usually listening to loud music, my mother was generally banging around in the kitchen, and the television was always on. I was used to hearing my father complain about the score of the football game, or commenting on the weather forecast for the next few days. Never had it been so silent that all I could hear was the ticking of the clock on the wall.
“Scotlyn!”
My mother called after me as I abruptly stood up and walked to my room. I didn't look back at her, not once, as I walked up the stairs and closed the door behind me. Finally, I was alone. Alone with my thoughts, and the silence. I stood at the foot of my bed, looking into the mirror hanging on the back of my door for a long while. I could see him in me. My eyes, the structure of my jaw, my slightly longer neck and sandy blonde hair, I had gotten all of them from him.
A sound startled me out of my thoughts, a cross between something being choked and a cat's death rattle. I realized after a moment that it had come from me. Something warm and wet rolled down my cheeks, and I realized that I was crying.
How could he have left us like this? We needed him! He was the one who was always there for us - for me when I needed him, and where was he now? Six feet under the ground, in a pine box, where he couldn't be of any comfort to me at all! I couldn't explain the rage that suddenly welled up inside of me at these thoughts, but within moments, I had a pair of orange-handled scissors in my hand, and as I looked at myself in the mirror, I gathered my long hair into my hand, angled the scissors, and snipped. Six inches of hair fell to the floor. I dropped the scissors and ran my fingers through the chopped up mess that I had made, and the longest bit fell to just above my chin. The rage subsided. My tears dried, and after a moment of collecting myself, I gathered up my fallen youth and dropped it into the trash can.
That was the first night I spent without sleep. It was the start of my slow descent into the realm of insomnia.
Dad died on December 5th, 2009.
I remember going to the funeral, and sitting in silence while my father's best friend, Mister Richardson, got up and said a eulogy. I couldn't tell you what it was about, or what words came out of my mother's mouth when she got up to say a few words. I remember that everyone was crying, but no tears stained my eyes. When I got up to say something, I looked over the small crowd of people, all of them faceless except for those of my family. My throat was dry - I couldn't speak. Eventually, I just went back to my seat, but I don't think anyone minded. I was the grief-stricken daughter of the deceased. I received hugs from these people that I didn't know, supposed to comfort me. They didn't.
When we got into the car, my mother took my hand. My uncle Arnold was driving us, and we were the first car behind the hearse. We went out onto the street, and I turned my head toward the window. Mom squeezed my hand, and I'm not sure if I returned the gesture or not. A drop of rain fell onto the glass, and was immediately followed by more. How ironic - the sky was crying, and even I couldn't seem to muster up the energy to shed a single tear for the loss of my best friend.
The rest of the day passed by in a blur. The graveyard, littered with little clusters of people under black umbrellas. I remember wondering why funerals always had to be so somber all of the time. Dad wouldn't have liked it. He would have wanted something happy, to commemorate his life. But I was silent, seeming to have lost the will to speak.
After the burial, we went home, and the funeral procession seemed to follow us. People brought food, and I kept getting stopped by people offering their condolences. I remember wishing that they would stop, but I kept meeting each person with a smile. I didn't even know that my father had known this many people. I wondered if maybe some of them were actually homeless, wandering in and taking advantage of a family's grief to get food. It would have been a good system.
Finally, the last person had trickled out. My mother, my sister and I were sat at the table. We hadn't spoken in forever. This was the quietest I had ever heard this house be; there was almost always something going on. My sister was usually listening to loud music, my mother was generally banging around in the kitchen, and the television was always on. I was used to hearing my father complain about the score of the football game, or commenting on the weather forecast for the next few days. Never had it been so silent that all I could hear was the ticking of the clock on the wall.
“Scotlyn!”
My mother called after me as I abruptly stood up and walked to my room. I didn't look back at her, not once, as I walked up the stairs and closed the door behind me. Finally, I was alone. Alone with my thoughts, and the silence. I stood at the foot of my bed, looking into the mirror hanging on the back of my door for a long while. I could see him in me. My eyes, the structure of my jaw, my slightly longer neck and sandy blonde hair, I had gotten all of them from him.
A sound startled me out of my thoughts, a cross between something being choked and a cat's death rattle. I realized after a moment that it had come from me. Something warm and wet rolled down my cheeks, and I realized that I was crying.
How could he have left us like this? We needed him! He was the one who was always there for us - for me when I needed him, and where was he now? Six feet under the ground, in a pine box, where he couldn't be of any comfort to me at all! I couldn't explain the rage that suddenly welled up inside of me at these thoughts, but within moments, I had a pair of orange-handled scissors in my hand, and as I looked at myself in the mirror, I gathered my long hair into my hand, angled the scissors, and snipped. Six inches of hair fell to the floor. I dropped the scissors and ran my fingers through the chopped up mess that I had made, and the longest bit fell to just above my chin. The rage subsided. My tears dried, and after a moment of collecting myself, I gathered up my fallen youth and dropped it into the trash can.
That was the first night I spent without sleep. It was the start of my slow descent into the realm of insomnia.