This is the opening sequence to my first novel, I am interested to know what others think of my writing style and decriptive terms. I have never written anything before, but there is a story I want to get out. Please note the questions the protagonist asks himself in the fourth line will be revised, I haven't realised what the questions will be yet, as I am starting from the end. Thank You.
A broken man of twenty-nine is in an old burnt out house, sitting on the charred remains of what was once a chair. He is gaunt looking in the face and limbs, but appears to be bloated in the torso, disproportionate to the rest of his body, as over indulgence has gone straight to his belly. There is a look of a mad man in his eyes. He is distressed, crying and babbling, asking questions of himself, “Is it me?”, “Is it because of them?”, “How could I have done it?”. He has a length of rope in his hand. Suddenly he falls to the floor screaming, and punching the floor as hard as he can, until he has no more energy. All he can do then is to curl up into a ball and continue to weep. He lies on the cold, dusty floor for a few minutes. Finding some composure from somewhere he gets up and wipes the tears and saliva from his face. He picks up his bottle of vodka, and quenches his thirst from the pain, with a few long gulps. Along with his energy being spent, the strong spirit seems to help a little more with his composure. He knows that this self harm of violence and intoxication is not a cure, he hopes in a sense that it will be, but he knows it won’t, and that’s not why he’s here. He’s here to end his life, but at the same time crying out, maybe for help, maybe for the life he wished he’d had, but he doesn’t know himself, he’s too confused, too angry and wallowing in self-pity. He lights a cigarette as another aid, again appearing to help. He is now more focused and on the edge of deep thought. As he takes another swig of what is now the sweetest tasting medicine, he is suddenly hit with an image of who he thinks is his father in the full beam of a cars headlight, and the look of terror on his father’s face. He tenses up, clenching his hands and grinding his knees together, but in this more focused state he manages to control himself this time. “Fuck” he sighs, as though he felt he would lose his momentary sanity again. He takes another drag and another swig.
Again his mind wanders. He hears his mother calling his name “Adam, Adam, Adam”, constantly repeating in a soft tone, a calming tone, and he feels better for being there, as though he can be saved. And now he can see her, she looks happy, in the image he loved to remember he by, “Like the best times” he thought. Though she is only in his mind, he cannot distinguish between reality and his own imagination. He gets up off his stool with great effort and slowly staggers towards her. As he approaches her, he is nearly in arms length of embracing her. But her face turns to anger as he had never seen before. She is angry but he still attempts to hold her.
“No” he blubbers, but before he can get to her she lashes out with a strike, which seemed to be in slow motion as he tries to plead with her. But she keeps going, clenched fist, “Fuck you!” and hits him so hard that his imagination seems real, and he falls back, crashing in to his charred chair. He is spent and confused, the fall caused him to hit his head and although he knows what just happened, he is not surprised at his minds, or even his mother’s reaction. “I expect hell in this life, and the next” he despairs. Drag and swig. With this religious thought, his mind wanders a third time and he sees the figure of all his hatred. The picture is distorted, but he knows who it is, he can feel them, he can smell them. And in a voice of laughable, even pathetic valour, Adam whispers with intent “I’m glad I’m going where you’re going”. His attention falls back to his original intention and he fumbles around the cluttered floor for the rope, he thought to himself “It’s time I was getting on with this” his mind appears set and he pulls the rope tight, as if to mean it. He looks up at where a ceiling once was, all that remained was the bare wood that held the ceiling up and the floor upstairs from falling down. “Perfect” he growls “My mind will not entertain these thoughts of anger like this anymore, or even the joyous ones, that you know you don’t deserve!” Adam now speaking in a way that he hadn’t before. He lights up another cigarette and takes a long swig.
He makes a loop and ties a knot. A determined look as if to say “You will do this!” written on his face. Adam throws the rope, over the other side it comes; he threads the other end through the loop, and pulls taught. He realised he hadn’t completely thought his demise through, but continued to create his makeshift hangman’s noose. He placed the chair underneath. His heart is pounding, and realisation kicking in. He wants to, he so desperately wants to. But he’s shaking now, as though it’s a major step from tying the first knot to the last. And with placing the chair a feeling that cannot be described passes through. “NO! You will do this”, with that he stood on the chair, still shaking in a way human shouldn’t. He puts the noose around his neck, staring straight in front, at nothingness. Just as he rocks the chair, something in the back of his mind says “Let’s think this through again”. Adams mind forces him to look back his earliest memories, he feels as he felt then; the innocence hugs him with warmth in this cold carcase of a home and a feeling that he hasn’t felt since then. He embraces himself as if the first rush of a drug has taken hold.
