The past couple of weekends, my mom has been cleaning things out of the front room of our house. (Giant kudos to her for that, because getting rid of things is hard for her.) Today, I decided to do the same to my own room. I found a story which I wrote in high school, while I was going through “a phase.” You know the one. The one where you think your deep and introspective teenage thoughts are the most brilliant thing ever? This is a product of that.
“It is a fact of my life that no matter how prepared I think I am, something always comes up and rearranges my plans. Every event in my life, major or minor, has encountered some sort of obstacle. So really, I shouldn’t have been surprised when I ended up, on the so-called happiest day of my life, on a rooftop, trying to catch my breath. I didn’t have much time, and so I walked across the tightrope, slowly, one foot carefully following the other, marveling that this particular skill had come in handy. I looked down into the alleyway, dark and filled with garbage, except that near the end, underneath a dim flickering light, was a bright red door marked “ESCAPE.” It seemed like a strange place to house such a cheery color, and the juxtaposition startled me, and distracted me for a moment. My world tumbled out of focus; I was falling through the air, my wedding gown whipping around me. It took me a moment to realize what had happened. I was falling, and would certainly die. I felt no fear. I was merely annoyed that after everything, I would still be late.
After resigning myself to this fact, and realizing that if I died, I would keep my guests waiting for who knows how long, I patiently anticipated the crushing impact. I shut my eyes tightly, and started to scream, as I imagined most people that fall from a seven story building would. How did this happen? I planned every detail so meticulously. The location was perfect. All my favorite people managed to fly in for the event. The flowers, the food, the music… everything was perfect. Even my dress was perfect, as evidenced by the fact that I had scaled a building in it, and it still looked fabulous. My fiance was nearly perfect. But they say that the perfect man doesn’t exist, right? We all have to settle down eventually. I can learn to love his flaws. The way he interrupts me every time I open my mouth will become endearing. I might even start to view it as a sign of his excitement to talk to me. And the way the constantly makes snide remarks about anything my family says? Surely I will come to find him witty and brilliant. I just have to try harder. After dating someone for seven years, what other choice is there, but to get married? I’m quickly approaching thirty. I’m not getting any younger. If I want to have any children, I’ll have to get started soon. He has a great career, he’d be able to support a family. I wouldn’t even have to work. There’s no logical reason not to marry him. His family tells me it will make me happy. I want to be happy, don’t I? Right now, I don’t have time to consider all this. I have to get to my wedding. This was the event I always waited for, the one that would signal that my life was about to start.
I didn’t have the chance to finish these thoughts. In that instant, I hit the ground. I hear, before I feel, my bones snap. I hear my self scream. I feel blood pooling around me, and feel a twinge of regret that my beautiful white dress will be ruined. There is a dull ache on the left side of my face, and it occurs to me that no matter how much hairspray is in my hair, it will no longer look perfect. My breathing is becoming ragged, my heart is beating frantically, as though it is trying to make up for the lifetime of work it would now miss. The light above the “ESCAPE” door stops flickering. My sight is getting blurry, but I focus on the door. My field of vision closes until I can barely see the word on the door. Escape. If only it could have been that easy. I will never get to my wedding now. I will never start my life.”
I only got a 15 out of 20 for that story, mainly because I didn’t include a title.
I seem to have scrawled “I’m Getting Married in the Morning” as my “revision” to try and make up the points. I got a nasty comment saying “The title was a requirement so it can’t count as a revision.”
This is why I don’t write fiction.