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I've been working for three days on Part V of "Wonderland", and I've restarted twice. Third time's the charm, and I'm rolling now, but I thought I'd post the rejected starts for posterity.
The first excerpt was Rebecca-POV, but it felt strained and flaccid, so out it went:
If she had any lingering doubts about his love for her, they were swept away when she saw Don Flack, police officer and macho child of the streets, running through Grand Central Station as if his life depended on it. On his face was naked fear, and he was searching for her among the shuffling, constantly shifting crowd.
Oh, honey.
Remember that face the next time you get any bright ideas about playing the victim, girl, her grandfather admonished gruffly. He's holding on with both hands and saying prayers his mouth doesn't remember. It's the face of a man chasing after the tail of a comet, and if he doesn't find you, he's going to hit his knees in the middle of this station.
"Don," she called. "Sweetie, over here."
His head swiveled in the direction of her voice, and then he was shouldering his way through the indifferent crowd, ignoring the scowls and mutters of protest. He skirted a woman pushing a baby carriage, pushed past a group of chattering teenagers, and skidded to a halt in front of her chair.
"Rebecca, what the fuck are you doin' here?" he demanded furiously, but his eyes were anguished, and he gathered her in his arms. "I've been lookin' every fuckin' where for you. You have any fuckin' idea the scenarios that have been playin' in my head since I got that phone call?"
He cupped the back of her head and pulled it into the crook of his neck, and she sagged bonelessly against him. He was warm and solid and felt so good, and she burrowed further into him. He was trembling beneath his clothes, but his embrace was solid and reassuring.
"Where you been, doll? Where you been?" he breathed into her ear over and over again.
"I'm sorry," she slurred. Now that he was here, the adrenaline that had carried her through the pitiless heat and over the rutted sidewalk was slipping away and filling her already-swollen ankles with lead. She wanted to close her eyes and be lulled to sleep by the rise and fall of his chest.
"Rebecca." Her name was a soothing rumble in his chest.
She grunted in response. His hands were on her bony shoulders now, trying to sit her upright. She resisted and wrapped her arms around his neck. "'M so sleepy, love," she murmured.
A shuddering, ragged sigh. "I know, doll. But you gotta talk to me for a few minutes. Please?"
She heaved herself upright with a Herculean effort and blinked at him, a tranquilized sloth squinting blearily into the sun. He smiled at her and cupped her face in his hands.
"Hey," he said softly. "There ya are." He smoothed the balls of his thumbs over her cheekbones. "How you feelin'?"
"I smell like shit," she told him matter-of-factly. "Feel like it, too."
His head drooped and his shoulders began to quake, and for a moment, she thought he was crying. She reached out to cup his cheeks with gritty, sweat-sticky fingers. "Babe, don't. It's-," And then she realized he was laughing.
"Oh, Jesus," he sputtered between chuckles. "That's my girl." He took a deep breath. "Are you hurtin' anywhere?" His hands stroked her belly, and she knew he was looking for the lumbrous, heavy shift of his baby.
His hands were warm and soft and reverent, and as they explored the tight, rounded mound of her belly in search of his Junior, she started to cry. The tears burned her dry eyes and scalded her sunburned cheeks. Her parched tongue darted out to catch them as they fell and pull them into her aching mouth.
"Hey, hey," he murmured, alarmed, and crab-walked closer, the better to enfold her in his arms and the familiar, musty-wool smell of his coat. "'S all right, doll. I got you now, and nobody's goin' to hurt you no more. I'm right here." He planted kisses on the greasy crown of her head.
"Don't do that," she sobbed, and twisted away from him. "It's heart disease in a follicle."
"And I don't care." He kissed her again and smoothed her lank hair from her forehead. "Just let me take care of you like I shoulda been all along."
He wants you to be proud of him, Gavin said inside her head, and she sobbed again.
"I'm so sorry. So sorry, sweetie. I didn't mean- I just couldn't stay there. I just wanted to get away, and I couldn't find you, and I just wanted-w-w-wanted them to leave me alone, to st-stop touching me and hurt-hurting me-," She was babbling and breathless and choking on snot and shame, and her voice was rising steadily in pitch. Her fingers clutched spasmodically at his coat.
He rocked from toe to heel and back again with her torso tucked protectively against his chest. "It's okay. I know what they did, and I promise they aren't gonna do it again. To you or anybody else." His voice was hard with the promise of retribution, but his fingers were soft and gentle as they harrowed the dirty, knotted tangle of her hair. "I got Mac and Stella at the hospital, and they're tearin' it apart. If that doesn't work, Hawkes'll just doctor 'em to death."
"Mac and Stella?" she repeated with shrill, drunken glee. "Oh, they're fucked."
"Yeah," he agreed placidly. He continued to rock her.
It was serene in the circle of his arms, and she wanted to stay there forever and watch the world go by through the remote, fishbowl glaze of drugs and exhaustion. It was quiet, the rustle and hissing shamble of moving feet muffled by his body and the sussurating rush of his heartbeat, but her bladder was a hot, distended pike in her pelvis. She shifted to alleviate the pressure, but the baby matched her motion, and she imagined him plopping his plump baby buttocks onto her bladder.
"I have to pee," she announced groggily.
"I bet you do." He rose from his crouch and winced as his joints creaked. "Let's get you to a bathroom, huh?" He stepped around and behind her. "No," he told her when she reached for her wheels. "You've done all the pushin' you're gonna do until you're bringin' Junior into the world."
"What about Gavin?" she asked.
Don froze. "Gavin?" he said sharply.
His tone cut through her loginess with the cruel efficiency of a cool, steel blade, and she straightened in her chair, one arm cradled beneath her belly. "He's over there." She pointed to a wooden bench, where Gavin sat flipping through a copy of The Times someone had left behind. "I didn't know what to do, so I called him. Collect," she added, as though frugality mattered when she was sitting in the middle of Grand Central in a visible miasma of her own filth.
The second was a Flack-POV, and I could have made it work, but it struck me as lackluster:
He saw her huddled by the bank of payphones, arms cradled under her protuberant belly, and his relief was so great that his racing heart skipped a beat with a dizzying jolt. He shouldered past a group of boisterous teenagers and skirted a mother pushing a stroller, her name already on his lips.
"Rebecca!" Harsh with worry and adrenaline, but she reached for him all the same, and he gathered her in his arms. He was tempted to pull her from her chair and cradle her to his chest, but he was afraid of stressing her amniotic sac with sudden movement, so he settled for a protective, hovering crouch in front of her chair.
"Don'," she slurred, and twisted away from him. "I smell like shit."
She did smell, musty and sour, old skin and unwashed hair. There was a sharper smell, too, winos and apple cores left to rot in the sun and moldering newspapers. It was stale piss and dying junkies crowded in the holding cells of the precinct in the sweltering, sticky-bodied heat of summer. His nose wrinkled involuntarily against the stink he had come to associate with despair and the seedy underbelly of the streets, but his arms tightened around her.
"You think I give a shit? What are you doin' here, doll, huh? D'you have any fuckin' idea the thoughts that've been runnin' through my head since you pulled your little disappearin' act this mornin'? I've been lookin' every fuckin' where for you. What the hell is wrong with you?" He wanted to shake her until her teeth rattled, but instead, he cupped the back of her head and grimaced at the lank, greasy matt of her hair.
The first excerpt was Rebecca-POV, but it felt strained and flaccid, so out it went:
If she had any lingering doubts about his love for her, they were swept away when she saw Don Flack, police officer and macho child of the streets, running through Grand Central Station as if his life depended on it. On his face was naked fear, and he was searching for her among the shuffling, constantly shifting crowd.
Oh, honey.
Remember that face the next time you get any bright ideas about playing the victim, girl, her grandfather admonished gruffly. He's holding on with both hands and saying prayers his mouth doesn't remember. It's the face of a man chasing after the tail of a comet, and if he doesn't find you, he's going to hit his knees in the middle of this station.
"Don," she called. "Sweetie, over here."
His head swiveled in the direction of her voice, and then he was shouldering his way through the indifferent crowd, ignoring the scowls and mutters of protest. He skirted a woman pushing a baby carriage, pushed past a group of chattering teenagers, and skidded to a halt in front of her chair.
"Rebecca, what the fuck are you doin' here?" he demanded furiously, but his eyes were anguished, and he gathered her in his arms. "I've been lookin' every fuckin' where for you. You have any fuckin' idea the scenarios that have been playin' in my head since I got that phone call?"
He cupped the back of her head and pulled it into the crook of his neck, and she sagged bonelessly against him. He was warm and solid and felt so good, and she burrowed further into him. He was trembling beneath his clothes, but his embrace was solid and reassuring.
"Where you been, doll? Where you been?" he breathed into her ear over and over again.
"I'm sorry," she slurred. Now that he was here, the adrenaline that had carried her through the pitiless heat and over the rutted sidewalk was slipping away and filling her already-swollen ankles with lead. She wanted to close her eyes and be lulled to sleep by the rise and fall of his chest.
"Rebecca." Her name was a soothing rumble in his chest.
She grunted in response. His hands were on her bony shoulders now, trying to sit her upright. She resisted and wrapped her arms around his neck. "'M so sleepy, love," she murmured.
A shuddering, ragged sigh. "I know, doll. But you gotta talk to me for a few minutes. Please?"
She heaved herself upright with a Herculean effort and blinked at him, a tranquilized sloth squinting blearily into the sun. He smiled at her and cupped her face in his hands.
"Hey," he said softly. "There ya are." He smoothed the balls of his thumbs over her cheekbones. "How you feelin'?"
"I smell like shit," she told him matter-of-factly. "Feel like it, too."
His head drooped and his shoulders began to quake, and for a moment, she thought he was crying. She reached out to cup his cheeks with gritty, sweat-sticky fingers. "Babe, don't. It's-," And then she realized he was laughing.
"Oh, Jesus," he sputtered between chuckles. "That's my girl." He took a deep breath. "Are you hurtin' anywhere?" His hands stroked her belly, and she knew he was looking for the lumbrous, heavy shift of his baby.
His hands were warm and soft and reverent, and as they explored the tight, rounded mound of her belly in search of his Junior, she started to cry. The tears burned her dry eyes and scalded her sunburned cheeks. Her parched tongue darted out to catch them as they fell and pull them into her aching mouth.
"Hey, hey," he murmured, alarmed, and crab-walked closer, the better to enfold her in his arms and the familiar, musty-wool smell of his coat. "'S all right, doll. I got you now, and nobody's goin' to hurt you no more. I'm right here." He planted kisses on the greasy crown of her head.
"Don't do that," she sobbed, and twisted away from him. "It's heart disease in a follicle."
"And I don't care." He kissed her again and smoothed her lank hair from her forehead. "Just let me take care of you like I shoulda been all along."
He wants you to be proud of him, Gavin said inside her head, and she sobbed again.
"I'm so sorry. So sorry, sweetie. I didn't mean- I just couldn't stay there. I just wanted to get away, and I couldn't find you, and I just wanted-w-w-wanted them to leave me alone, to st-stop touching me and hurt-hurting me-," She was babbling and breathless and choking on snot and shame, and her voice was rising steadily in pitch. Her fingers clutched spasmodically at his coat.
He rocked from toe to heel and back again with her torso tucked protectively against his chest. "It's okay. I know what they did, and I promise they aren't gonna do it again. To you or anybody else." His voice was hard with the promise of retribution, but his fingers were soft and gentle as they harrowed the dirty, knotted tangle of her hair. "I got Mac and Stella at the hospital, and they're tearin' it apart. If that doesn't work, Hawkes'll just doctor 'em to death."
"Mac and Stella?" she repeated with shrill, drunken glee. "Oh, they're fucked."
"Yeah," he agreed placidly. He continued to rock her.
It was serene in the circle of his arms, and she wanted to stay there forever and watch the world go by through the remote, fishbowl glaze of drugs and exhaustion. It was quiet, the rustle and hissing shamble of moving feet muffled by his body and the sussurating rush of his heartbeat, but her bladder was a hot, distended pike in her pelvis. She shifted to alleviate the pressure, but the baby matched her motion, and she imagined him plopping his plump baby buttocks onto her bladder.
"I have to pee," she announced groggily.
"I bet you do." He rose from his crouch and winced as his joints creaked. "Let's get you to a bathroom, huh?" He stepped around and behind her. "No," he told her when she reached for her wheels. "You've done all the pushin' you're gonna do until you're bringin' Junior into the world."
"What about Gavin?" she asked.
Don froze. "Gavin?" he said sharply.
His tone cut through her loginess with the cruel efficiency of a cool, steel blade, and she straightened in her chair, one arm cradled beneath her belly. "He's over there." She pointed to a wooden bench, where Gavin sat flipping through a copy of The Times someone had left behind. "I didn't know what to do, so I called him. Collect," she added, as though frugality mattered when she was sitting in the middle of Grand Central in a visible miasma of her own filth.
The second was a Flack-POV, and I could have made it work, but it struck me as lackluster:
He saw her huddled by the bank of payphones, arms cradled under her protuberant belly, and his relief was so great that his racing heart skipped a beat with a dizzying jolt. He shouldered past a group of boisterous teenagers and skirted a mother pushing a stroller, her name already on his lips.
"Rebecca!" Harsh with worry and adrenaline, but she reached for him all the same, and he gathered her in his arms. He was tempted to pull her from her chair and cradle her to his chest, but he was afraid of stressing her amniotic sac with sudden movement, so he settled for a protective, hovering crouch in front of her chair.
"Don'," she slurred, and twisted away from him. "I smell like shit."
She did smell, musty and sour, old skin and unwashed hair. There was a sharper smell, too, winos and apple cores left to rot in the sun and moldering newspapers. It was stale piss and dying junkies crowded in the holding cells of the precinct in the sweltering, sticky-bodied heat of summer. His nose wrinkled involuntarily against the stink he had come to associate with despair and the seedy underbelly of the streets, but his arms tightened around her.
"You think I give a shit? What are you doin' here, doll, huh? D'you have any fuckin' idea the thoughts that've been runnin' through my head since you pulled your little disappearin' act this mornin'? I've been lookin' every fuckin' where for you. What the hell is wrong with you?" He wanted to shake her until her teeth rattled, but instead, he cupped the back of her head and grimaced at the lank, greasy matt of her hair.
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