Author's Commentary
I'm sure there is some spelling/grammatical errors in this, but that's not what I'm worried about at this point. Don't point them out, I'll get them later.
Just writing the story straight through at this point, got about eleven pages down. When I proofread/edit during the writing process, I tend to get caught up, and never get further in the piece.
What would be greatly appreciated would be some more broad comments/suggestions. What parts you like, dislike, etc, and why.
Thank you :)
Katelyn came from one of those fucked-up families, with an abusive, single mother, and a few unwanted children. Theresa, the eldest of the three siblings, tried to supplement the parenting to Kate and her brother that their mother neglected. Theresa was a vestige of rape, and the other two were lesser mistakes. The only parent any of them had in common was the mother, and none had met their respective fathers. That’s all I knew about her family.
Kate had left the house shortly after finishing her sophomore year of high school, as she told me, mostly for the sake of not being in her sister’s hair. She walked out the door with some large bills from her mother’s purse and a pack of cigarettes in the pockets of the cleanest clothes she had. She didn’t know where to go, or what to do; all she had figured out at that point was to last a few days worth of eating and smoking.
I had found her, five days later, as I was walking home from work, half an hour or so past eleven at night. She was sitting on a bus stop bench surrounded by a few cigarettes, smoked to the filter, with another hanging from her mouth. By that point, she had muddled through a third of her cash and was on a fourth carton of Camels. I noticed, as I neared her on the yellow-lit sidewalk, how young this girl, slouching into the bench, and blowing puffs of smoke towards her legs, appeared to be. In need of a break from my mile-and-a-half walk after a day on my feet at work, I sat down next to her.
Neither of us spoke, or openly acknowledged the other’s existence, until her cigarette reached its end. She reached for another, and discovered after several clicks, that her lighter had finally died on her. She shook it, sighed, and tossed it into the street. Slightly agitated, she turned her head towards me.
“Got a light?” she asked me, around the smoke balanced between her lips. Her face, covered partially by strands of scraggly brown hair, would have been pale, if it not tinted by the orange-ish streetlight above us. Her features, as I finally saw them, were tight and defined; thin lips under a small straight nose, the whites of her brown eyes contrasting the darkness around them. I told her I didn’t.
“Aren’t you too young to smoke?” I had been waiting to say this to her since I sat down, and I was relieved to find a chance. She shrugged, and deposited the Camel back into its pack. Her eyes fixed on some indistinct point in front of her, as she sank lower into the metal seat, wrapped in her own arms.
It was a summer night, and relatively warm, but the night’s chill was still present. The breeze efficiently sucked away warmth, and could pierce thin layers, such as the jacket I wore. Her jacket seemed lighter than mine, and while the air was refreshing to me, she surely didn’t find it so welcomed. It was a minute or so before I managed to push more words out of my mouth.
“Why are you out so late by yourself?” I asked. She didn’t respond, only continued staring at the nothing in front of her. “Buses don’t run this late, you know” I added. She bit her lip. Despite two consecutive failures, I tried again.
“Why don’t you go home?” It was contemplative moment before she finally gave me a reply.
“Don’t have one.” I wasn’t sure how to respond, so I didn’t. I wanted to offer what hospitality I could, but I knew I’d come off as creepy. I imposed upon her space, sitting on what apparently was her bed, for a few more minutes while I rested my legs. I stood up, and started to continue on my way home, but I turned around after a few steps.
“You need a place to stay the night?” She faced me, with an almost scornful look.
“I have a couch.” Her face softened a little, the need for physical comfort starting to weigh in on her mind, overriding her skepticism. “Beats sleeping on a bench.”
Convinced, finally, to some small extent, she pushed herself up, and walked cautiously towards me. As I walked the remaining mile to my building, she trailed several feet behind. As we neared my apartment complex, I fished out a key from my pocket. I led her up a few flights of stairs, and pushed open the door to my flat.
She stood in the middle of the near-empty room while I set up the couch for her. She watched me as I tossed a cushion near an arm of the chair, and grabbed a blanket from my bed. When I was done, she made herself comfortable under the blanket, and shoved her face into the pillow, silently gracious for a pleasant place to crash. I walked to my bed in the next room, and found sleep quickly, as well.
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