*It's been ages since I've worked on my novel, but here's another go...CRITICIZE AWAY PLEASE=). This is completely unedited. The novel was previously known as Lone Teen--just in case you want to read the previous chapters in my portfolio=).
Chapter 4: Echo’s Metamorphosis
The sun was starting to rise as I shuddered awake with a massive headache that violently shook my brain. My body felt as heavy as if it was being weighted down with morphine and I couldn’t move because my bed was eating me… Wait WHAT!?! Oh OK, my bed was not eating me, but I was suffering from an episode of what I believed was called night paralysis. I tried to scream, and when that didn’t work, I closed my eyes and counted to ten in my head. Eventually, I realized I was being an idiot. I wasn’t paralyzed or frozen stiff, but my muscles were dense and heavy to lift. My body felt ridiculously sore. I rolled out of bed and landed with a thump on the strewn junk spread across the ground. Using my bed stand as a support system, I managed to put my body in a balanced, upright position in front of the full-length mirror hanging on my bedroom door and I must admit, I hated what I saw.
There was a bulge on my neck where the mysterious wolf had bit me and it kind of had an odd, yellow tinge to it. Oh great—I was growing another head. Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. I carefully pressed my middle finger onto the lump and screamed to my Lord Almighty, “AHHHHHHHH!” After making sure I hadn’t attracted any attention from the rest of the household, I looked back at the repulsive boy in the mirror—me. The worst part was my body. I was ripped and I looked like one of Brittany’s many meaty boyfriends. I swear it was disgusting. Looking down, I could see a six-pack jutting out of my white tee, and immediately I caught sight of my hands. It was odd that my eyes could catch every little detail in the dim setting of my room. Very odd.
My fingernails were pointy, long, and a grossly yellow…and my hands were covered in some rough blackish material. As I stroked my chin, I felt the same rough material on my face. Now that I thought of it, I actually felt like I was wearing a hair shirt underneath my tee. I’m talking about the kind Christian monks used to use to punish and restrict their sinful bodies. I definitely needed to calm down so I started pacing across my room and took note of my sudden, amazing coordination skill. Me and coordination in harmony? Now that was creepy. I was born clumsy and tripped over imaginary objects on freakishly straight floors all the time. That was a given law of nature in “Echo’s World”. Lalalala lalalala…Echo’s World…Echo’s World. Whoa…I should really stop that. Stupid educational television and its seductively, catchy theme songs. Ahem…thinking this was all an odd dream induced by those damn Twinkies I had scourged last night, I gracefully glided in front of the mirror again. Yet again, I wasn’t pleased.
I freaking swear that I was as hairy as the bearded lady I had seen at that local circus I had tried to run away to when I was only five. OK, it really wasn’t that horrific. It just looked like I hadn’t shaved in about a week. I had the average five o’clock shadow that hadn’t been there when I went to sleep and my body was just a tad bit hairier then I was accustomed to. My hormones were just raging or something, right? Right. I tried to focus on my breathing to relax—that’s something useful I actually learned from Mr. Crucifer. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Yum. I took in the whiff of fresh pancake batter my mom must have just begun mixing all the way down in the kitchen. How the hell had my permanently clogged nose even picked that up?
This is what I finally came up with: I was growing into a hairy, two-headed freak with super senses. Yay me! All of this nonsense was because of my stupid venture into the woods, because of my stupid encounter with the enticing, gray wolf, because of my stupid self, and because of that stupid bite. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Ugh. I was coming down with some kind of freaky transmutation and I needed to find out how to get rid of it—ASAP. I wasn’t going to go for all that hormone BS my parents always shoved down my ears when I had a bodily crisis. I mean “the talk” was enough to make me feel insecure about girls for the rest of my teenage life.
I squeezed on a pair of my baggiest jeans (which took forever to find considering skinny jeans are my trademark) over my muscle-packed thighs and threw on my faithful, leather jacket over my broad chest. After quickly shaving (resulting in several painfully stinging cuts) and clipping my vomit-inducing nails (which probably scarred me for life), I propped up my collar to cover the baby-fist sized lump on my neck and pranced down the steps as if I was a ballet dancer. Now my graceful stance was starting to get gay. I hated it.
As I danced into the kitchen, I found my picture perfect family digging into picture perfect, aromatic chocolate-chip pancakes whose creation I had smelled about an hour ago. As they laid their eyes on me, everyone took double takes and Brittany idiotically pointed out, “I can’t put my finger on it…but you umm, like, look different.” No really Einstein? My body just puffed up and grew hair because that’s what it usually does overnight. No big. At least my parents had a normal response.
I sucked in an extremely lengthy breath and for the first time noticed the millions of scents I caught in my nose and on my taste buds. It was so…painful. There were far too many smells in the world for me to bear. After all, I was only human. Yet, for some reason I wanted—needed—more so I took in another breath…and another…and another. I had never ever breathed like this before. This was not just breathing—this was an experience. It was both addicting and invigorating and I couldn’t stop. Strangely, I didn’t care how ridiculous I looked gulping down air like a buff madman. By the time my mom collapsed onto the floor and started weeping uncontrollably, I was completely high on my senses.
Hearing her precarious stilettos snap on the tiled floor, my jaw dropped open and I stared incomprehensibly at her crumpled figure until my father retorted, “Steroids? That’s the best solution you can come up with? I know you’re a sociopath, but this is not the way to get the right kind of friends, Echo. Looking like Hulk Hogan won’t get you girls. If your new friends are putting you up to drug use, they’re not your friends and I’m sorry to say, but I’m going to have to forbid you from seeing them—whoever they are. We came here so you could sort yourself out—not so you could become a druggie.”
So that’s what my diagnosis was. I was a sociopath. Sociopath. Ugh. That word felt like a shard of glass cutting deep into my skin. Before this moment, I’d never heard anyone say it out loud and in my face. I mean I knew they thought it all the time... My skin felt like it had been splintered by a thousand pieces of glass and for the first time in my life, I couldn’t keep the corners of my mouth from twitching downwards a tad bit. I had never been big on emotional revelations because aloofness had always been way more understandable to me. After all, Emily Dickinson and J. D. Salinger became hermits for a reason. There is just something satisfying about being a recluse.
My father’s strained expression knocked me out of my little reverie and I quickly blubbered, “Dad, I’m definitely NOT on drugs and I’d never give into peer pressure. You know I move to the beat of a different drummer. I was actually going to ask you why I’m suddenly all ripped and junk. I’m thinking hormones. They’re supposed to be balanced. And I’m guessing mine aren’t?” OK, this was far from what I truly thought, but when a dude’s mom is weeping on the ground and his cherubic father suddenly goes all “say no to drugs” on him, he’s got to fib to keep his family sane. Right? Unfortunately, I never was a good liar and I think Pinocchio would have done a far better job than I did.
“Echo,” my mother moaned, “Don’t lie to the woman who gave you birth. I carried you in my womb for nine long months! I know everything there is to know about you. Sweety, I see your flushed cheeks, your worried glances, your unsure footing…you’re like an open book. You always have been and you always will be.” Damn. She had to pull out the “birth card”. Why did mothers always have to go and pull out that particular card? Why not the “I wiped your rear-end” card? Oh noooooo—that wasn’t enough emotional blackmail for them.
Ten minutes later, I found myself standing alone in the middle of the kitchen while the rest of my family waited impatiently for me in the car. My father had carried my overdramatic mother to the passenger seat and as usual, Brittany had just followed in suit. No one had even made eye contact. I had killed the family spirit. I had taken a stake and stabbed it through the family heart. I was a murderer. My face was flushing in odd patch-like formations and I felt my blood boiling from the resentment inside of me. I’d rather have just been slapped in the face than watch my mother and father breakdown because of my idiocy…because of my selfishness. I was a sociopath. I was the opposite of the teenager parents prayed for. I was the teenager from hell and Satan himself endorsed me. Slowly, I slipped on my tattered, black Converses and stepped out into the light. As I slammed the door of my house shut, I could feel the dread clogging the pure air of Pepin, Wisconsin. Next stop: Pepin Manor.
. I hate editing my own writing, but I know its important lol. I was wondering if you've read the other chapters?
You haven't written this in ages, am I right? This paragraph was a little slow and didn't get us started, when, to me, it should be just rather quick introduction to the chapter itself. You're using too much time in describing the fact the MC can't move his muscles, and that bed thing in the middle is just random.