WRITING PRACTICE 3.17

Writing Practice for Creative Writing Class. Prompt: Write a scene in which a character wants something the other will not give.

He rubbed his brow for the third time before directing his eyes from the floor to the ceiling. It was odd seeing him like this. For the past four hours, he had seemed composed and stern; he was wearing down. It did not matter how large tall he was or how strong he looked, he was weak. He glanced at the window again, his gaze lingering longer each time he repeated the action. It was as if he were asking it a question. Was he giving up? Was he ready to turn wave the white flag and give me what I wanted?

I stretched my legs, adjusting my position in my chair. The movement caused his head to whip around; his eyes narrowed as if he were trying to pin me to the wall, but I knew he did not have much fight left in him. I had to admit: I was impressed. There was not a clock in sight, but I assumed that it was now early in the morning. He was not the first person I have talked to today, but he has been the most determined. There is a passion in his eyes swirling around with the sadness and exhaustion. He wants it and we both know that it is paining to him to not have it. 

I wonder what his stakes are. What does this mean to him? My curiosity is the source of my perseverance. I want him to snap. I want the rage that is coiled up inside of him to burst like I know it will. I want him to try and use all that force and strength that he has to try and tear me down only to fail because he cannot lay a finger on me.

I am untouchable and he knows this. The tension is rising and the stakes are high. Each minute that goes by is weighing on him. The silence is thickening. I do not know how much longer he can go; I can see defeat swelling in his tough demeanor. He takes a deep breath and straightens up in his chair. 

“I’m going to give you one more chance, Marks. You can work with us and we can negotiate with the judge or you are on your own to face the jury.” 

The man’s words were curt and laced with anger. The ultimatum seemed to incite another wave of hatred and determination to worm its way out of the man. He pointed to the files splayed out on the table as if they still held some chance of changing my mind. I stared at the photos, looking at all of the work I had done. I was impressed with myself, seeing all of the intricate carvings and marks that I had left on each girl. I made sure to repeat the incisions that created the most pleasure for myself on each of the girls, but every time felt completely different. I remembered each way the girl screamed and writhed, how every reaction was completely different. It made me happy, which made the man across from me scowl as he watched me.

The man slammed his fist on the table. It shook me out of my memory; how disappointing. The door beside the window opened immediately, the stern man in a suit rushed in with the brunette woman behind him when the agent across from me raised his hand, stopping them immediately with a silent command. He never broke eye contact with me. He leaned forward, his words low and malignant, and asked again:

“Where are Jessie Carman and Kelly Fulton located and are they still alive?”