Writer's Block - A Preview
A snippet from my upcoming novel Writer's Block. Enjoy... and comments are welcome. LOL.
Paralyzed with shock, JR stood looking down at Rocky. There was nothing, no movement, just a silence in the room broken only by the sound of JR’s breath as it caught in his throat with each respiration.
Rocky was perfectly still, eyes closed, his head at an unnatural angle from the position of his upper torso against the hearth.
JR stood looking down at Rocky, as if willing him by sheer mental telepathy to open his eyes or make a sound or something, anything. And still only the loudness of JR’s breath broke the quiet of the scene.
Suddenly remembering that he could move, JR knelt down beside Rocky and took his wrist, searching for a pulse that wasn’t there. Fear coursing through him, he pulled Rocky away from the hearth until the boy lay supine and then he felt for a pulse in Rocky’s neck. Pleading in his mind for there to be one, the passing seconds seemed hours long while the stillness beneath his fingers betrayed the horror that was creeping over him. Bolting back on his knees, JR stared at the body with eyes wide and every hair on his head standing on end.
‘I killed him! I killed him!’ he could hear his voice shouting in his head. “Oh Jesus God I killed him!”
Closing his eyes against the reality that surrounded him, JR tried desperately to gather his wits. His inner voice was still screaming at him, now imploring him to do something, but he couldn’t move. He should have been calling 911. He should have been performing CPR. Rocky lay dead just a foot away from him and all he could do was sit there on his haunches and listen to his own voice in his head.
The feeling of bile rising in his throat propelled him to jump to his feet and he ran out into the hall toward the bathroom, fighting not to disgorge the contents of his stomach until he reached his destination. Barely making it, he heaved violently and his body shook as he rid himself of the nausea. The putrid task over, he grasped for the hand towel beside the sink and used it to dry his face of the perspiration that popped out on it while he was throwing up.
Glancing at himself in the mirror he was shocked by the whiteness of his face. He fancied he looked like a corpse himself as he tried to organize the myriad thoughts that were spinning around in his mind. He knew he had to do something. But what?
Putting his hands on the vanity to steady himself, he felt something soft beneath his right palm. Looking curiously at it, he realized that there was a white powder adhering to his skin. And Rocky had been in this bathroom only minutes before the fight.
“Oh my god,” JR breathed.
Wiping his hands on the towel, he went back into the living room where Rocky’s body lay motionless. Recalling the discussion they’d had only weeks ago, where Rocky had promised him he’d give up cocaine, JR let his thoughts settle into an order that took on a life of its own, dictating what would happen and how it would take place.
He took Rocky’s left arm and moved the body away from the fireplace. Then he grabbed both of Rocky’s wrists and began pulling him across the floor toward the French doors that led out to the terrace. Once there, he took in a deep breath of the warm night air and even though he knew no one could see him he still looked around as if this was necessary. He didn’t even feel like he was in control of what he was doing anymore.
Because Rocky was taller than he was, JR had to struggle to lift him up from the floor. Grunting under the weight of the dead boy’s body, he shoved it upward against the terrace railing until he could push it forward using its own momentum to aid him. Gravity came into play at just the right moment and with a final thrust JR watched Rocky’s body go over the ironwork head first.
Not wanting to wait and see if he could hear when the body reached the ground eighteen floors below, JR went back inside. He left the French doors open as he strode toward the phone on his desk. His nerves beginning to tingle again, he dialed 911 and summoned the precise amount of panic into his voice as the operator answered.