I never know how to open these things up, so I just thought I'd start with 'hello' and take it from there.
Today is my birthday. I am thirty-four, and that means, I've been writing for thirty years. No, seriously.
I thought I'd give you a day in my life, but typically, I couldn't release it without committee editing, so instead, I thought I'd introduce you to Elliot.
Happy birthday, fourth wall
He leads me into a quiet room off to one side. I can hear weeping in one of the other rooms, as the door snaps open and then shut again. I catch a glimpse of a woman, hands bloody, sobbing with them stretched out on the table before her, the steel chill against the bright red blood.
"Stop looking, you know what happened anyway," he snaps at me, pulling me a little bit faster. He's furious, but there's no way for me to work out why. No contextual cues. And I'm not jacked in, and yet….I think I know something. But, I'm vague, glassy - waiting to be filled up again with knowledge.
The room opens, sparse, blue, with a glass wall. It's as I expected. I've been here before.
"Sit," he said, pointing to a smart desk. His shirt sleeves are rolled up, revealing taunt, scarred arms, and I look over at the chair he's pointing to.
"No, sorry, don't like the tech," I say automatically. He pulls out a null sheet and extravagantly, as if putting down a picnic blanket, spreads it over the table with a small, sardonic flick. His left wrist is leading his right, as if one isn't as fast. I tilt my head, and I see overlays. Dates, times. When his hand was replaced.
"Sit," he says again. His eyes are ice against my own gaze, the blue stark and clear against his skin.
"Sir," I say, snapping him a salute. He doesn't rise to the bait. I look around. On the walls, like luminol tattoos are all of the interrogations that will be here, past and present. Dizzying, I try to read a few before giving in.
"So, here's what I know. You're not a clone," I incline my head. "You're not a cop," I incline my head, more hesitantly this time, "in fact, you're not anything in the judicial system," My head incline is more like raising my chin again. Straightening my back, I pull down the edges of the skirt I am regretting wearing. He sits down across from me, chair turned 180 degrees, leaning on the edge of the back.
"I know you, but I don't know why," he said, softer.
"Me? I'm Kai. I'm nobody," I say.
"That's a lie," he replies mildly. "Let's start with the easy stuff. Name?"
"Kai. D Kai Wilson-Viola," I reply.
I bite my lip. "Sabrann Curach and Lady Fayth C Reeves,"
"In a house."
"Most people do," Detective Peters says.
"Skip that one for now please?"
"So what did you do on Sunday the eleventh?"
"Well," I say, looking at the table, trying not to think of the woman in the other room, wondering what news she'd had that made her cry. Wondering whose blood it was.
It's her husband's. His case is Elliot's ninth. That's the voice of my Muse. I push it back for now.
"I got up, had breakfast, got ready to go out,"
"Coffee meet for a project called the Nanowrimo,"
"I'm sorry, the what?" he says. His face is perplexed, creased.
"National Novel Writer's month,"
"You're a writer?" His voice reverberates slightly tinny in the room and I incline my head again. He's quick, isn't he?
"I came home and wrote some more."
He scribbles something, then says, "I have reason to believe that a serious crime was committed today," I swallow hard. "So what about the last 24 hours?"
"Packed my kids off to school," he ticks something, "Saw my partner off to work," again his hand moves on the list, "opened some mail."
"Went to the pub, for a write in." I said. He stopped, tilting his head.
"Seriously?" His eyebrows are up.
"No other work?"
"Nope. Editing is quiet, the chatrooms are busy, I'm writing a lot," I'm less repentant now, my chin rising.
"Will I have read anything of yours?"
"Very much doubt it," I respond, before continuing, "but you might before Christmas. I've got a couple of short stories up under my pen names,"
He nods, and continues to write on the clipboard.
Finally, he looks back at me and says, "Well, that will be all then," before gesturing to the door.
"If I may ask, what was the crime?"
"You may ask, but I'm not telling you. You can work it out when you get here in the next book," Dammit…
"And Happy Birthday," he adds, just as I pull the handle and close the door behind me.
Find Glass Block at Goodreads
She's midway (nearly) thought her 10th Nanowrimo, and Monday the 12th of November (when this was posted) was her birthday.
You can find her at http://authorinterrupted.com - http://dkaiwilsonviola.com or http://facebook.com/dkaiwilsonviola where she loves to hang out and talk books.
The views, beliefs, and opinions expressed by guest post authors are their own and do not necessarily reflect the views, beliefs, or opinions of Girl Who Reads. Girl Who Reads is an advertising affiliate with Amazon and IndieBound; a small fee is earned when purchases are made using the above links.