I am prone to getting writer's block rather often, so what works for me to get rid of that pesky problem are using writing prompts. I recently stumbled upon a site that offers prompt ideas. I decided to use that to write something new every week.
This week's prompt: The park stretched out verdantly around me. Which was odd because I had no recollection of how I got there.
I used that opening to start my little story. This piece is so not Angelina Rain. Ang is erotic and sensual and mostly light-hearted. This story is dark and twisted. I plan on writing dark suspense and thrillers under a different name within the next few years. I guess you could say this is a sneak peek at the kind of stuff you'll get from my other persona eventually.
by Angelina Rain
The park stretched out verdantly around me. Which was odd because I had no recollection of how I got there. The full moon cast eerie shadows over the green vegetation. I glanced around, seeing nothing but fields and dense trees. No houses. No life. The only thing that didn’t belong in that nature scene was me and my car, which stood parked about ten feet behind me.
One of my headlights was busted, and the other shone directly at me. I turned around again, hoping something would spark a memory of how I got there. Clearly, I had driven, which was indicated by my idling car. Still, nothing flashed behind my eyes, nothing gave hints of missing time.
I was prone to blackouts. At first, they were short, seconds, minutes. I’d gotten an MRI and the doctors assumed it was epilepsy, but nothing was truly diagnosed. They had ruled out their only option, unsure of what was wrong with my mind. Those blackouts, however, got worse. They went on for longer stretches of time, hours even.
The last thing I remembered now was being woken in the middle of the night. I had looked at the clock, and it was slightly after one am when I stirred from my slumber. The sound of breaking glass had infiltrated my sleepy mind and I quickly crawled out of bed. Stopping in my bathroom, I grabbed a bottle of hairspray and made my way toward the sound.
Hairspray. What a dumb weapon of choice, but if sprayed directly at the eyes, nose, and mouth, it did some damage. I uncapped and shook the bottle as I descended the stairs and rounded the corner to my kitchen. The glass square in the door by the lock was broken.
Footsteps! Behind me! I turned quickly, pressed the spray nozzle as I came face to face with a man in a ski mask. And… And… Darkness.
I rubbed my left temple in frustration. Why the hell couldn’t I remember what happened afterwards? Why did I drive to this park? Why was I still wearing my skimpy, black silk nightgown? Looking at the sky, I prayed for answers. All I saw were stars, the moon, and the twilight hue that was darker before. It was morning. It had to be around five am. About four hours lost in time. What happened? How did I survive my attacker?
Suddenly, I realized heaviness in my right hand. I was holding something. Why did it take me so long to notice that? Was it the hairspray bottle? Slowly, afraid of the answer, I raised my hand.
The silver revolver fell from my grip and I jumped back. My head was spinning. Why was I carrying a gun? I didn’t have a gun, didn’t even know how to shoot one, and had no business with one in my hand.
My heart pounded inside my chest. Fear and confusion merged together, forming an intoxicating cocktail of emotions. I stared at the gun on the ground and took in a deep breath. The earth at my feet was turned over. A shovel lay by the gun. I jumped back, realizing I stood on a freshly dug grave.
Why would someone bury the dead in the middle of nowhere? Why was it my shovel that lay on dark soil?
In the lightening field, I raised my hands and stared at the dirt and blood that covered my skin.
What have I done?
Bile rose inside my throat. The edges of insanity gripped me. I grabbed the shovel and dug, furiously, as cold sweat rolled down my body. By the time my shovel collided with flesh and bone, my nightgown was dripping wet and gooseflesh covered my icy skin. I bent down and used my hands to shove the soil away from the corpse’s face. My fingers gripped the soft knit ski mask and I took a deep breath. I had killed the intruder. Certainly it had to be self defense? That would explain where the gun came from. But why would I bury the evidence? Why not just call the police and have them take care of it? There was still a piece of the puzzle missing, a piece my mind didn’t want to remind me of.
Maybe it was his identity? Even in my blackout stage, I doubted I would bury someone without checking to see who they were. With shaking hands, I pulled the ski mask away from his face. Dirt scattered everywhere, raining on his pale features. When I looked into his striking blue eyes, I gasped. I recognized him.