No Time for Yuckies

Hello Readers,

OK, I’ve run into my first writing roadblock: I’m sick. I started feeling bad yesterday afternoon and today…well, today it’s a challenge to keep myself from going home and pulling the covers over my head for the next week. However, I’ve made a promise to you and myself. I have to keep writing whether I feel like it or not because I have a goal to meet.

So, putting on my writer’s hat, what can I do with this case of the ‘yuckies’ I have? How could I use it for a character? Could my teary eyes be indicative of crying rather than illness, and could that incorrect assumption lead to some action on the part of either the hero or the bad guy? I have the chills so I’m wearing a sweater even though it’s supposed to be seventy degrees today; I could use the excess clothing as a ‘cover up’ of bruises perhaps. My body aches in all my joints which makes me move just a little more tenderly, how can I use that? Hmmm, I’ll just go with this line of thinking and see where it takes me.

With tears pooling in the corners of her cornflower blue eyes, the usually bustling woman gingerly perched on the edge of the purposely uncomfortable chair positioned dead center in front of her boss’s sleek desk. Her hair a hot mess, she negligently tucked a strand behind one ear and winced as she gathered her sweater closer to her body.

“Has that rat bastard hit you?” Rich abandoned his normally rigid posture and leaned slightly over the desk. “Is there something we can do to help you? I could have our HR rep help you call the police to file charges and we have an excellent Employee Assistance Program that…”

“No, Rich. The ‘rat bastard,’ as you refer to him, didn’t hit me.” At least not this time. “I only came in here to tell you I’m sick and I want nothing more than to go home, get some chicken soup then crawl into bed and pull the covers up over my head.”

Rich reared back in his chair and let his breath out in a big gust. He jerked forward and slammed his broad hands against the desktop. Linda jumped and Rich clenched his jaw. Very slowly, and very softly he asked, “How long are you going to keep pretending that we haven’t figured out he hits you? Do you think we don’t see the way you move every other Monday? Pay day is every other Friday and then Monday you come in looking like an old woman, covered from head to toe, wearing sweaters in the summer and scarves around your neck. We know, Linda. We know. So, how can we help?”

“Please, Rich. I’m just sick and I need to go home now. As you know, I have plenty of sick and vacation time. Hopefully, I’ll be back tomorrow morning.” Linda attempted to keep her voice well modulated, to tamp down the need to throw back her head and scream ‘Help Me.’ While she wished someone could help her, she just couldn’t risk an attempt to reach out to anyone. It was so much safer this way. The ever present fear was a potent deterrent to pursuing freedom from the chilling horror of her life. Besides, she was the only getting hurt, so what did it matter what it took to keep Jilly safe?

Well, I certainly didn’t expect to go in that direction but every writer knows that you have to let the story lead you, not vice versa. Ugh - I don't feel good and just don't have time for these 'yuckies.' I’ve used up what little bit of brain energy I had today so I’ll catch up with you tomorrow. Stay well, everyone.