(This is an excerpt from the fiction novel I am writing.)
About the author:
This is more of an "about the author's intent" paragraph, rather than "about the author" himself.
My name is Troy Dearbourne; I am an early twenties YA contemporary fiction author. I'm aware that SteemIt is particularly used for blog posts, but I am testing the waters to see if full-length novels would not only be accepted here on this site, but if they would be read and enjoyed as well.
So how would you liked to get PAID to read?
Those of you who aren't fond of reading fiction books can leave this post, as it is not likely to interest you. But for those of you who love to read a good book, imagine this: instead of paying 'X' amount for an ebook on Kindle, you instead come to SteemIt, where you vote for books/chapters you enjoyed reading, while also having the opportunity to comment and resteem to earn Steem yourself. There would be no upfront cost to the reader, but the opportunity exists where they could earn money/Steem by reading works written by novelists and upvoting their book posts.
Every day between the hours of 12:00 p.m. and 1:00 p.m. EST, I will be posting a new chapter of this book until all chapters are posted and the book is complete. From there, I will leave it on this site for readers to enjoy and upvote, comment, resteem as they please.
Granted, this is just a field test, but I would love to hear from you in the comment section below. If you too are a novelist, whether fiction or non-fiction, give me a shout!
To enjoy the story to its fullest potential, please seek out the first chapter and read from the beginning. All posted chapters can be located on my blog wall.
And without further delay, please enjoy my novel, Paraplegic, below.
I'll never walk again.
The courtyard before me is scattered with different ones rushing to their next destination; each one going their separate ways to and fro without a care, without thought, taking their freedom for granted.
I envy such people.
What I wouldn't give to relive those days, the days when I had my freedom. If I could go back in time, I would warn myself not to leave. I wouldn't go. I wouldn't get in that car. But I can't. This is who I am now. I'm stuck like this; forever reliving the pain, the shock that day brought to me. Even now, with how much time has passed, I still tremble at the thought of that day and the changes it forced upon me. It haunts me. My eyes are weary; I can hardly hold back the tears that threaten to fall. I didn't just lose my freedom that day, I lost someone, too. I lost a friend. A dear friend.
The rain splatters against the panes of the elongated windows in front of me. The little droplets stick to the glass for a moment, gather into pools, then slide down - my eyes following their movements as the process repeats. The sky is dark and dreary, much like my heart. Distant voices from those just like me echo through my empty mind, but I don't recruit the energy to hear them. I am numb. Numb to the pain. Numb to the people around me. Numb to life.
Is this how my life is to be, forever confined to the space of this chair, like a dog on a short leash? Am I nothing more than a dog, an animal that can't escape the boundaries that encompass her?
I place a hand on the cold wheels and guide myself away from the windows. I must forget that day. But I know that I won't. I can't. The tragedies that unfolded stare at me each day, when I close my eyes, and when I wake. They say there's hope, hope that I might get better, that I might recover, but I know they're just words of hollowed encouragement. I can't blame them, though. What else are they to say?
I maneuver through the brooding halls, avoiding eye contact with those that pass by. I'm not in the mood to chat, though to be fair, I rarely am anymore. I just don't have the heart to engage in a conversation like I once did. It's laughable, really, the person I use to be. It's shameful. My arrogance is to blame. Just seconds before it happened, the two of us were smiling, laughing; blissfully unaware of the horror that lurked around the next minute.
I lurch forward from the stabbing pain the memories give me. Bile burns my throat, but I swallow it back. It takes me a moment to gather myself. I'm suddenly breathless, drained of energy and in desperate need of sleep. But every time I shut my eyes, I'm warped back to that day.
I can still hear her screams.
As I lift my gaze, I notice of few of them staring at me; their faces filled with concern. I hate it when people stare at me. I hate the attention. It makes me feel like I'm different. I am different.
Without further delay, I reach for the wheels again and press on down the hallway and into the library. It'll be quiet there. I yearn for quiet. Once I'm there, I pull a book off a lower shelf and open it to a random page. I'm not actually going to read it. I don't have the desire to read at the moment. I just don't want to be bothered; hoping that if someone sees me with my face buried in a book, they will march on by without so much as a mention of my name.
A woman rolling a metal cart topped with medical supplements jerks it sideways; the wheels screech in protest. The sound startles me. I skittishly jump - well, the half of me that can jump. The sound reminds me of what happened to us that day. How the wheels of the car locked up; the way I struggled to maintain it within the white lines on the road. The asphalt was slick; it had been raining. I remember gripping the steering wheel with every ounce of strength I had, but it ripped its stubborn self from my grasp, propelling us into the base of the tree.
Tears stain the surface of the page. I wipe them, smearing their existence over the inky letters.
There's a gap in my memory as to what all happened next. Maybe it's because I've tried so very hard to forget, or perhaps it's because I'm still trying to run from the reality of it all. Either way, I know it's no dream, or nightmare. This chair is proof, a vile reminder of what happened.
The faint echo of heels clacking against the worn tile floor approaches from behind. I don't bother tearing my gaze from the book. I don't feel like exerting that much energy. "McKenzie, it's time, sweetie." The voice is female, and her tone is filled with a little too much sympathy. It's mother. My shoulder warms at her touch. She seems so tall anymore, but it isn't her that has changed. It's me. "Let's go," her voice barely a whisper, gripping the rubber handles of my chair and guiding me out of the room.
Truth is I don't want to go. I'm not even sure I want to live anymore. Do I even have the right to live after what happened? Regardless of how I feel in the moment, I don't argue with her. I throw the hoodie over my head and drop my chin to my chest, ignoring the ambient voices around me.
I thank you greatly for reading. Please 'follow' me and hit that 'vote' button, as that really does help. Comments are also welcomed.
~Cheers
(c) Copyright by Troy Dearbourne 2017. All rights reserved. Anyone who copies this document in any capacity without the written consent from the author will be in subjection to extreme legal action.
