I seem to have developed a new penchant for submitting these stories a day late. This one is intriguing because I found a way to work it into the backstory of a character in my next novel, Ghost Writer. The prompt was about trauma manifesting physically on the character’s body.
TW: Death, substance abuse
The Hunger of Regret
The grief would eat her alive, she knew.
And she was going to let it.
The yellow lamplight spilled over the keys of the Remington. It had been a graduation gift from her parents. Years of wordsmithing had worn the keys down smooth, but she didn’t mind. Her fingers knew the way.
The scars, however, made no sense.
The one across her lower abdomen was to be expected. She placed a bony hand to the spot just below her navel. Another phantom kick brought to mind the smell of the sterile O.R. The tiny wails. The decision not to look.
To let it go.
Then, a few months later, Dad died. She was no stranger to loss. Mom had been gone for years. But once a daddy’s girl, always a daddy’s girl.
Now, she had no one.
After the funeral, the scar began to burn. It was intense, strange, unnatural. The doctors said it was part of the healing process, but nearly six months post-op, it was the opposite of healed.
It had spread.
Head, shoulders, knees, and toes. She couldn’t bear to look at herself in the mirror anymore. Even before their appearance, the people in town looked at her like a walking corpse whenever she went out for an errand. So she stayed hidden, only answering the phone to handle matters of Dad’s estate.
Her doctor claimed he saw no scars and referred her to a psychiatrist.
She knew better.
Death was in her bones and consuming her flesh.
When your time is drawing near, the best thing to do is tell your story as fast as you can.
So she sat day and night at her typewriter, mouth stained with bourbon and cigarette smoke. She stopped eating. Drank only liquor and spite. She stopped bathing. Stopped living.
Essentially, she was mummified.
But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t complete her life’s work. She’d rip every page to shreds, convinced she must start again. But eventually, she ran out of time.
The scars left their final marks, stitching her mouth closed and her eyes shut with silvery sinew. However, they left her ears open so she would leave this world to the sound of those infant cries. Her greatest love—the face she’d never seen, but knew like the back of her hand.
Now, in her last conscious moment, it had become clear.
All along, the monster wasn’t grief.
It was regret.
Cedar Gap Gazette — August 12th, 1990
Local recluse Wanda Fletcher was found dead at her desk on August 1st after a postal worker reported a foul odor coming from the home. Authorities say that the scene was truly disturbing. Ms. Fletcher’s emaciated body was covered in cigarette burns, even around her eyes and mouth. Hundreds of crumpled manuscript pages were scattered throughout the room.
Sheriff Matthew Garrett, Sr., stated that the former creative writing professor’s pages were full of incoherent gibberish, which corroborates the reports from Wanda’s former primary care physician that her mental health had been declining since her father’s death.
The official cause of death has been ruled severe self-neglect complicated by alcohol abuse.
One emergency response technician, who requested anonymity, claimed the expression on Fletcher’s face was “the most frightening thing” he had ever seen.
Stay tuned for more of Wanda’s story to come! She will be a ghost in my paranormal-cozy-mystery-romance, Ghost Writer.
<3
Hallie
Talk about a nightmare.
Oi, this is devastating. 😭 and yet, I can see it as a real life story....