In the short time that I've been a writer, I've learned a valuable secret that we writers don't discuss often: a writer is only as good as his or her editors.
Receiving feedback and accepting criticism and edits isn't easy. No one likes being told what they are doing wrong, especially when the thing being criticized is something we've poured our heart and soul into it.
3 Tips for Receiving Feedback From an Editor Without Wanting to Quit
When I first started writing, I hated getting edits. Now I pursue edits and editors with vigor. Here are three things I had to learn about receiving feedback that helped make me a better writer:
1. It’s not personal.
It took me a year to finish my first book. When it was done, I treated it like a family member. I was part of a writing group at the time. I remember presenting the story to them with pride, expecting Ooo’s and Aaah’s.
Instead, they cut it to shreds. They sliced and diced. Nothing was left untouched.
In response, I told them they’d hurt my feelings and that they didn’t know what they were talking about. Then I didn’t participate in the group for a few weeks, telling myself that “real artists are never fully appreciated until they’re dead.”
Of course, before my writing group said anything, I knew most my story’s flaws. I knew how terribly the plot flowed, how poorly many of the scenes were constructed, and how the protagonist was flat, unchanging, and passive. I knew.
But I was treating my story like crazy Uncle Joey at the family picnic. Other family members can comment on how crazy Uncle Joey is, but if an outsider does it, watch out! Those are fighting words.
I took the edits personally.
A finished story can feel like part of us, as if we had created a new appendage that is now at work with our arms. We tend to call our stories “our babies” and we say we “give birth to them.” I think this is because creative work is intimate. When we write, we expose things about ourselves on the page.
As writers, it is necessary that we separate ourselves from our work. While it does reveal aspects of who we are, it is not who we are. We must learn that when people criticize it, they are not commenting on us as individuals.
If we can’t separate our work from ourselves, then we will miss opportunities to grow.
(Of course, it's also a good idea to deliver feedback in a way that doesn't leave people feeling personally attacked. Here's our strategy for staying popular in a writer's group.)
2. Every note is a good note.
There was one time when I gave a speech to a room of a few hundred people. A week after the talk, I got a card in the mail. It was in a decorative envelope and had butterflies on the front.
On the inside of the card, in tiny handwriting, were paragraphs and paragraphs of criticisms. The author of the note thought I’d talked to fast, I’d misinterpreted the text I was reading from, and my illustrations distracted from the seriousness of the topic. He even criticized things like the belt I’d chosen to wear and how I moved around the stage as I spoke.
It was easy to be offended by the note. At first I wanted to rip it up and throw it in the garbage; but, instead, I tacked it to my wall. Each morning for a week, I came back to it.
Taking one criticism at a time, I tried to imagine the critic’s perspective and understand why he saw what he saw. While I found I disagreed with the vast majority of his points, I learned a lot about how I my talk was perceived by audience members, and how my style could be changed to avoid those perceptions in the future.
When we receive notes on our work, we must try to take them with an attitude of gratitude. The fact that someone has taken the time to read our writing and was moved to share his or her opinion is a compliment (even when the opinion is not). Receiving feedback and approaching edits in this way opens us up to learn from them. If we can be thankful for them, then even the most bizarre and odd notes can become learning tools.
I’m not saying you need to accept every note at face value. Recently I published a story online and a commenter said, “I saw the ending coming a mile away.” This note was helpful, just not in the way the commenter had intended.
Through the story, I’d been leaving clues as to how the story would end. For me, the story was less about the thrill of the journey and more a commentary on the background of the story. By hinting to the ending throughout, I’d hoped to enhance the point that an ending to story about social class only ends one way. I took this note, therefore, as a compliment. That the reader saw the ending coming a mile away was a good thing.
Unfortunately, I also took away from this comment (and other comments on the story) that maybe my social commentary hadn’t been as clear as I’d hoped. None of the commenters mentioned it. I am grateful for all these comments because they helped me see my piece in a new way.
3. Diversity in editors is good.
The best edits I’ve ever received came from a woman in Asia who is twenty years my senior. She saw problems in my writing that I was blind to because of my cultural upbringing. Things I assumed everyone thought she showed me were unique to me. I ask her for notes now whenever I can because I know she will see my stories differently than I do.
We live in an amazing time. Never before have people across the globe been so connected. Through the magic of the internet, even though I am located on the east coast of the United States, I can receive notes on my work from European writers, and Asian writers, and African writers. We are so lucky.
I therefore feel that, because we live at such an incredible time, it is upon us to pursue notes from cultures different than ours. We must work to find readers who will provide us with different perspectives on our work. Not to do so would be to squander the amazing blessing of connectedness.
Every Writer Needs Editors
Receiving feedback can be hard. It is never fun to be told what you are doing wrong. At the same time, if we want to produce our best work, then we must put our personal attachment to our work aside, not take edits personally, pursue editors who come from a different world than we do, receive their edits with an attitude of gratitude, and learn from them.
We will be better writers for it.
Do you have any tips for receiving feedback without feeling stung by it? What's the best (or worst!) feedback you've ever received? Let us know in the comments.
PRACTICE
Today, write for fifteen minutes. Continue your work in progress, or write a new story based on this prompt:
A former assassin is haunted by a ghost.
When you're done, share your work in the comments. Then, offer notes to someone else’s work. The goal is to accept and receive feedback, so don't hold back—tell your fellow writers something that works, an area where they can improve, and another great thing about their writing.
Finally, when your own work receives an edit, say “thank you.” Remember, it's a compliment for someone to give you feedback, even if you disagree with their comments.
Thanks, Jeff. I needed that.
An experimental departure from memoir to flash fiction resulted in an 800-word short that I was bursting my suspenders over. I thought it was perfect. The only reason I think I sent it off to an on-line editor was to wait for the inevitable high praise it was sure to receive. Am I glad to be disappointed on that one. The editor looked at what she called “the big picture” and suggested the piece needed some work.
Really! I bristled, but having paid the nominal editing fee I continued reading her advice. Because there is no time for much backstory in flash, she said to pick the most important 5 minutes of the whole thing and write just that 5 minute chunk with no backstory. Well, I tried it and wound up writing the entire story based on that chunk. All of the prelude, the musing, the mental melodrama I’d included were tossed out. Everything I needed to tell my story flows from that five minute chunk and every one of my 800 words are now held together without forays onto the sidelines. Oh sure, it will always need fine tuning, but the essence is there because somebody cared enough to read it, see what I was trying to say, and gently guided me in the right direction.
Thanks again, Jeff. And Good Luck to you.
Thanks for sharing that story. It’s a great example. I hope you find a great home for the story.
5 minute chunk with no backstory on a 800 word short….good to know, and thanks for sharing!
Great post! And I am going to share a critique I just received yesterday – I was so happy with my story that I was sure it was a hands down winner, I was ready to get paid and be accepted into this upcoming anthology.
When I got the below message my heart sank, but I saw the truth and value in her words and I will go chop my story and strive for a concise tale. I thanked her for taking the time to give me feedback, it is better then not knowing why I wasn’t accepted.
This is the email I received from the Editor:
My immediate reaction on scanning the text was the overwhelming amount of times you wrote Max, so I asked Word to count them. 62 times. Make that 10-12 at the most.
Then cut the story right down from your 3800 to 2000-2500. It’s well over written, loads of repetition, loads of sentences which have nothing to do with the story. Cut cut cut cut cut cut cut. I should have that on copy and paste, the amount of times I say it…
Only put into a short story the words that carry the reader from the start to the end. That means taking 0ut, or better still, not putting in, all the empty fluffy bits, the descriptions which tell us nothing, the interruptions to action to divert into a bit of background… it’s all there in this story and it can all come out.
that was awesome…..i like fluff….it’s natural and easy. when I cut,cut, cut and cut again, and finally get to the core, sometimes I feel like “what’s the point? that’s not even what i am trying to say!” Because I like the fluff, its fun….and it’s challenging. Guess the bottom line is getting to the core, is even more of a challenge. I took your critique to heart and appreciate you sharing!
I too like the fluff – the descriptive tales – the suspense that draws you into the scene. I suppose some ppl just want to cut to the chase. So it really is editors choice, but if it’s going to get my story accepted by cutting, then cutting I shall do too 🙂 Thanks for reading and sharing your thoughts too Lynn…we’ll keep our fluff til we’re famous!
I could really use some feedback on this scene from my WIP. Specifically – did I overdo it on the character description, does the pace drag at the beginning, and is the sentence structure cumbersome? Reviews would be greatly appreciated!
“Oh no.”
“What?” Detective Cameron stared at something behind me, eyes wide. I tried to look, but –
“No!” Her hand shot out and pulled me to her. “Keep walking.” I didn’t have much choice. The detective set a brisk pace towards her car, and with her hand on my back I was pulled along beside her. “If we don’t draw attention then maybe she won’t –”
“Yoo-hoo! Detective Cameron, darling!”
The detective stopped short, shoulders sagging. She muttered something under her breath that sounded a lot like, “Hell’s bells.” Straightening, she turned around and flashed a toothy smile that was more lupine than friendly. “Ms. Speck. Lovely to see you.”
I finally turned as well. Yellow exploded across my vision like a lightning strike, making me squint. I realized it was not, in fact, a flock of vengeful canaries zooming across the parking lot, but a woman. She stopped in front of us, planting a hand on her cocked hip. She was white, and about my age. Her dark hair was cut in a sharply asymmetrical bob. And everything she wore – from her heels to her dress to her handbag and her lipstick – was a blinding highlighter yellow. “Thank goodness I caught you! If I didn’t know better, Detective, I’d say you were trying to avoid me.”
“Whatever gave you that impression.”
Anger sparked and snuffed in her eyes so quickly I nearly missed it, but it tipped me off that she knew full well we had been trying to avoid her. She turned her gaze on me, over-plucked eyebrows raised. “And who’s this?”
Before Detective Cameron could make introductions, I stuck out my hand. “Dr. Alexandra MacBride.” If there’s one thing I hate, it’s people talking over my head.
The woman’s eyes lit up. “Ah! Our new medical examiner.”
“Words travels fast around here.”
“Small towns, darling – only kind of secret is an open one.” She shook my hand, smiling coyly. “Verena Speck, with the Briar Creek Chronicle.” A journalist. Finally this bizarre interaction began to make sense. In any precinct, the relationship between the police and the press was always tense. And after talking to Verena Speck for less than five minutes, I already knew she was the kind of journalist that would inspire even the most by-the-book cop to homicide.
I really liked that! I thought the descriptions were great, especially the part about a flock of vengeful canaries – fun 🙂
My only thought, and I could be way wrong, is that in the paragraph where one character is talking, and then you have the main character involved, does it need to be broken up? Because it’s not her talking? You will need a pro advice here.
EG: “No!” Her hand shot out and pulled me to her. “Keep walking.” I didn’t have much choice. The detective set a brisk pace towards her car, and with her hand on my back I was pulled along beside her. “If we don’t draw attention then maybe she won’t –”
Should it be as:
“No!”
Her hand shot out and pulled me to her.
“Keep walking.”
I didn’t have much choice. The detective set a brisk pace towards her car, and with her hand on my back I was pulled along beside her.
“If we don’t draw attention then maybe she wont -“
Thank you for taking the time to review!
I would suggest buying Elements of Style. Theresa is correct. Each line of new dialogue needs a new paragraph. I thought the story was fine, but formatting needs work. Perhaps it would help with sentence structure.
Thanks for taking the time to review! I’ll be sure to look up the book
I agree with your point about the importance of thanking the “critic” for taking the time to comment. I know from my own experience that when I read something that’s awful, I feel like saying nothing at all because it would take so much time (and effort) to read it over again critically and explain what I found amiss.
So I truly appreciate it when someone else does so.
Great article.
Your project is excelent, congratulations, I appreciate it.
Wow. Loads of great info in both the post and the comments.
Thank you, everyone for sharing. Fantastic work.
I love your ‘encouraging’ article and tips. My problem is thinking, ‘well, who wants to read my nonsense?’ I feel I’ll bother people by asking them for feedback. Always a bit reluctant to post.
He had always loved swimming. The fluid movements came naturally to him and he would lose himself in the monotony of the strokes. There was something soothing about the submerged silence of being under water; a kind of calm he had never found anywhere else.
For what seemed like the hundredth time, he stood at the edge of the pool, fully clothed. His blue eyes gazed intensely at the water as though he were anxiously waiting for someone to emerge. His strong jaw was emphasised as he unconsciously clenched his teeth, the grey stubble on his face glistening in the sunlight as his muscles tensed. If the pool were a frozen river, one might think he were standing on the edge of suicide, about to jump.
“Damn you,” he thought, longing for the cool water’s gentle embrace. It had been six months since he last saw her, but he could still feel her firm grip on his arm; her hair painting the water with golden streaks. He had never been able to feel much: fear, anger, love…they were all emotions he had learned to lock away and focus on the job. Killing was easy for him, and he was good at it. Until her.
Now, overcome with an unsavoury mixture of angst and anger, his mind raced and he almost lost his balance as a now familiar queasiness overcame him and he dropped to his knees. He bent over, staring frantically into the still water, searching for the face that was etched into his mind. Before her, he never hesitated – had no regrets. But something changed in him that day.
As he had always done, he planned the kill down to the last detail. This was an easy case: she had an indoor swimming pool and, like clockwork, she would be alone when she took her daily swim. Waiting in the shadows as she approached, he remembered the unfamiliar knot in his stomach as he watched her dive gracefully into the water. For a moment, he even thought he should join her. He could tell she loved the water – just like he did.
As his instincts kicked in, he approached when she neared the end of a lap, ready to pull her out of the water – it would be a quick kill. He reached into the water and pulled her out by the neck, her gasping face coming within inches of his own. She flailed and screamed a scream that echoed in his ears. She was small, but she was stronger than he had anticipated. For a brief moment her wet skin slipped from under his grip and he grabbed her head, pulling off her swimming cap. In that moment she leapt backwards into the pool and started swimming frantically to the other end. He jumped in after her, grabbing by the foot and pulling her under. For an instance that seemed to last forever, they were both underwater and he was captivated by the beauty of her subdued face, her floating hair illuminated by the light from above.
She kicked him in the stomach in a final attempt to flee, but they both knew it was about to be over. Yanking her to the surface, he held her head back and slit her throat in one, clean sweep. As her dying eyes searched his for an answer, tears streaming into the water around her, he held her close and kissed her until her body stilled in a cloud of red.
He hides behind a pile of dirty clothes in the laundry. He hopes that the noise of the washing machines can cover the sound of his rushing heart. He needs some time to catch his breath. He is sweating, but at the same time, he is freezing.
“What was that?”
He shot a full magazine to that thing. A full damn magazine and nothing happen. He didn’t flinch. He kept getting closer even if it appeared it wasn’t moving at all.
Mark has seen a lot of weird situation. He had fought against beings that were more similar to monsters than men. But all of them. Every single one of them bleeds. It was hard to catch them, but once you shoot them in the head, they were no more. One bullet in the right place and they became history. And he was good. No, he was the best in his job. He never wasted a shot. One mission, one bullet, one dead person.
But this thing. This thing doesn’t die. He saw it. He saw it very clearly. It was real. Just not the kind of “real” he used to know.
He forced himself to relax. He may have retired from his job, but his skills are not the kind you forget. He slows down his breathing, relaxes the muscles in his shoulders. He closes his eyes and absorbs the environment. Every small sound, every faint smell. He takes everything in and mixes it with his memories of the space to build a detailed map of the field in his mind. When he opens his eyes, the assassin is back. If that thing is in his world, he will find a way to terminate it.
Under “Every note is a good note,” in the paragraph beginning “Taking one criticism at a time…” you have a typo: “…I learned a lot about how I my talk was perceived…”
Or maybe that’s Freudian, since you ARE talking about the whole concept of conflating criticism of your TALK, with criticism of yourself.
Anyway, please, by all means, delete my comment here, when you’ve changed that. And sorry for being such a compulsive editor.
In my first critique session i was fortunate enough to have John. I.too thought I had written a masterpiece. It was just a sbort story less than 1500 words. He started out by telling me what he liked and what a good job I’d done at a particular spot. Then instead of telling me “what I did wrong” he asked why I hadn’t used more dialog. Luckily I held my hurt feelings in check and asked a ques in stead. “How if she’s alone in the house?” His response…have her talk to the dog. I knew right away that would never work with my story, but I did add a parrot in a birdcage in the kitchen. I have found that GOOD crit is honest and friendly, but be prepared to see what your reader sees, learn from it, and make your next piece better.
Liz, I appreciate your post on critique. The negative parts a reader sees and points out is more than helpful for improving a story. Of course, praise makes one’s heart swell with satisfaction.
He had always loved swimming. The fluid movements came naturally to him and he would lose himself in the monotony of the strokes. There was something soothing about the submerged silence of being under water; a kind of calm he had never found anywhere else.
For what seemed like the hundredth time, he stood at the edge of the pool, fully clothed. His blue eyes gazed intensely at the water as though he were anxiously waiting for someone to emerge. His strong jaw was emphasised as he unconsciously clenched his teeth, the grey stubble on his face glistening in the sunlight as his muscles tensed. If the pool were a frozen river, one might think he were standing on the edge of suicide, about to jump.
“Damn you,” he thought, longing for the cool water’s gentle embrace. It had been six months since he last saw her, but he could still feel her firm grip on his arm; her hair painting the water with golden streaks. He had never been able to feel much: fear, anger, love…they were all emotions he had learned to lock away and focus on the job. Killing was easy for him, and he was good at it. Until her.
Now, overcome with an unsavoury mixture of angst and anger, his mind raced and he almost lost his balance as a now familiar queasiness overcame him and he dropped to his knees. He bent over, staring frantically into the still water, searching for the face that was etched into his mind. Before her, he never hesitated – had no regrets. But something changed in him that day.
As he had always done, he planned the kill down to the last detail. This was an easy case: she had an indoor swimming pool and, like clockwork, she would be alone when she took her daily swim. Waiting in the shadows as she approached, he remembered the unfamiliar knot in his stomach as he watched her dive gracefully into the water. For a moment, he even thought he should join her. He could tell she loved the water – just like he did.
As his instincts kicked in, he approached when she neared the end of a lap, ready to pull her out of the water – it would be a quick kill. He reached into the water and pulled her out by the neck, her gasping face coming within inches of his own. She flailed and screamed a scream that echoed in his ears. She was small, but she was stronger than he had anticipated. For a brief moment her wet skin slipped from under his grip and he grabbed her head, pulling off her swimming cap. In that moment she leapt backwards into the pool and started swimming frantically to the other end. He jumped in after her, grabbing her by the foot and pulling her under. For an instance that seemed to last forever, they were both underwater and he was captivated by the beauty of her subdued face, her floating hair illuminated by the light from above.
She kicked him in the stomach in a final attempt to flee, but they both knew it was about to be over. Yanking her to the surface, he held her head back and slit her throat in one, clean sweep. As her dying eyes searched his for an answer, tears streaming into the water around her, he held her close and kissed her until her body lay still in a cloud of red.
This is awesome, Kristen. As I read your story a film reel spun across my eyes, seeing every detail with your fantastic descriptions.
Maybe you could use ‘was’ instead of ‘were’ in a couple of places. I could be wrong, though.
Best wishes for writing great stories.
Hi Lilian,
Thank you for the compliments and feedback. I looked up how to use ‘were’ and found this helpful extract:
“Were is used in the second person singular and plural and first and third person plural. It is used in the subjunctive mood to indicate unreal or hypothetical statements. The words if and wish usually indicate the subjunctive mood.”
I think using ‘were’ makes sense for my villain’s hypothetical scenario: “If the pool were a frozen river,…”, but I should be using ‘was’ in the second sentence of that same paragraph. So ‘was’ is indeed the appropriate tense when referring to ‘he’.
I appreciate your pointing this out to me and taking the time to read and comment.
All the best!
This has been a good read. Especially at work, my work is often heavily edited as I work in finance. We have crit sessions which is great to hear opinions about your work and also feedback on others. Never take it personal 🙂
http://creativesabrina.com
Career & Lifestyle | Busy Girls
Had an editor that changed her prices after I paid her, and became out of my price range. She liked my work, edited 3 chapters, and that was it. A very sad place when a JKR or Rockefeller I am not. I have seen some (well-known) works with frightful editing, and that means you speak the truth: You are only as good as your editor. When I read, I want to read to enjoy, not to edit the typos (seems to take me right out of the action for some reason).
recently sent a story to a magazine. She insisted that I remove the word ‘that’, she hates it. Have a look at your own stories and see how many times the word ‘that’ appears! Took me 3 hours to restructure a 3500 word story to her liking. Sold it though!!
Then last week, at Write Practice, received a critique; ‘your story was so dull I almost dropped it and went to another’. I did not think this a very diplomatic way of saying ‘maybe it lacks action’!! Certainly, there are ways, and there are ways, of saying the same thing. Fortunately, I’m thick skinned!!
She had come to terms with the fact that he didn’t want to know her. She was hurt and it still bothered her that he kept invading her thoughts at random times. It was often difficult to distract herself, so she found ways to fill her time – with family and friends – all the while still feeling lonely and missing something. She threw herself in her work – teaching and keeping house.
After a few months, the empty feeling started to subside and became less painful. Rose had arranged to meet with Abby in Costa in town after work. It had been a long day when she finally got there and ordered a tea, a toastie and a cake. Taking her tray to an empty table, a hand rested on her arm forcing Rose to look up. She forgot where she was and stared at the man.
‘It can’t be him can it? it’s not possible, he doesn’t even live in this country! What is he doing here? Has he been stalking me without me realising?’ Her heart beat faster and she felt herself starting to panic at the thought of being stalked. As these questions fired through her mind, she became dimly aware that he was talking to her. She didn’t understand a word he was saying. ‘He’s Scottish! Duh! No wonder I can’t understand him. Yeah, it’s definitely him. Tom, who doesn’t want to know me.’
He took her tray and put it down on the nearest empty table, Rose followed trying to figure out how to handle this situation.
‘Calm down! He hasn’t been stalking at all! He’s probably here because of work or something and this is purely coincidence.’ Sitting down, she thanked him and asked him to join her.
‘Why have I just asked him to join me? Am I crazy? Okay. Deep breath.’
The alcohol burns me harshly as it travels down my throat. Everything inside me aches with guilt. Knives of regret threaten to cut me open and cut all the strings inside me. How could I think I could do it? My eyes fall closed against their own will, the drink starting to have its strange effect on me already. My head felt as hollow as a balloon, the pressure rising with each shaky breath I took. The small pub around me is empty save for the bartender. I sit alone at a wobbly wooden table in the center of the room, splinters poking at my forearms and a line of empty glasses in front of me.
My eyes are about to explode. So much feeling swells up inside me and my eyelids slip closed from the unbearable pressure. When they close, a tear falls out of each eye. My body slumps onto the table as uncontrollable sobs escape my body. My heart is sat upon by an anvil of guilt.
I can’t do this anymore. The cost has been too great already.
An inexplicable chill runs through me, and something like an ice cube runs down my right arm. My head snaps up, my puffy eyes registering nothing but darkness for a few moments before they hone in on the figure before me.
My breath gets caught in my throat. The hues of the pub lighting turn cold as if someone flips a switch.
Before me sits a beautiful 25-year-old girl with stunningly familiar features and a flowing river of locks. Her coloring consists of one: white. The lady is so pale she is nearly translucent in this light. She looks like an animation, with eyes bigger than her face and high, high cheekbones. Her dainty hand still rests on my arm, chilling me to the bone.
“Who are you?” I mumble, drunken and unsure.
Her movie star smile turns sad. “Oh, you don’t recognize me?” She rests her other hand on my other arm and leans forward, as if getting a good look in the eye will help me place her significance in my head.
Everything around me freezes. My toes curl with guilt and my eyes try to force themselves closed again. Anything to not have to look her in the eye. If I’m so great at breaking things, why can’t I break eye contact? That poor, sweet, innocent girl.
“You recognize me.” A statement, not a question. “It doesn’t have to be like this.”
My gaze finds her once more. She doesn’t understand. “I suppose you’re right. But it’s too late now. It already is.” So many things churn in my stomach. I think I’m going to be sick.
“Nobody had to die.”
More hot tears slip out from my eyes, though they stayed open the entire time. “You don’t understand.”
Her grip on my arm tightens. She pulls me to her in one smooth move, knocking over the line of shot glasses and beer mugs between us. “No. YOU don’t understand.”
I can count all her teeth.
“I’ve tried and tried and TRIED to get out of the business. And once I finally find a way, an actual PLAUSIBLE way to lead myself to a normal life, YOU come running along. You ruin everything. And to think, I thought I was done with your little shenanigans. I bet you’re not even sorry.”
Guilt bubbles into fury and I stand up forcefully, pushing my chair to the ground with the back of my knees and throwing the table to the side with just one swoop of the arm.
“I was not planning on killing you! I was trying to get out of the business too! I would do anything to wash your blood off my hands, and you know it! I loved you, Maria. I loved you . . . how could I have let this happen?” I sink to the floor since my chair is no longer there to support me. The guilt that bubbled to anger surrenders to defeat. “I’m so sorry.”
Maria stands up from her chair and peers over my broken body. She spits on me where I lie surrounded by shards of broken glass. “Well, sorry doesn’t save lives.”
The chill in the room disappears and the warm darkness returns. I lie there, my skin peppered with glass and drops of my own blood, perfectly still.
*I’m very sorry if this is commented twice, I posted it the first time but it seemed to have disappeared within minutes . . .*
The alcohol burns me harshly as it travels down my throat. Everything inside me aches with guilt. Knives of regret threaten to cut me open and sever all the strings inside me. How could I do such a thing? My eyes fall closed against their own will, the drink starting to have its effect on me already. My head feels as hollow as a balloon, the pressure rising with each shaky breath I take. The small pub around me is empty save for the bartender. I sit alone at a wobbly wooden table for two in the center of the room, splinters poking at my forearms and a line of empty glasses in front of me.
My eyes are about to explode. So much feeling swells up inside me and my eyelids slip closed from the unbearable pressure. When they close, a tear falls out of each eye. My body slumps onto the table as uncontrollable sobs escape my body. My heart is sat upon by an anvil of grief.
I can’t do this anymore. The cost has been too great already.
An inexplicable chill runs through me, and something like an ice cube runs down my right arm. My head snaps up, puffy eyes registering nothing but darkness for a few moments before honing in on the figure before me.
My breath catches in my throat. The hues of the pub lighting turn icy as if by the flip of a switch.
Before me sits a beautiful 25-year-old girl with stunningly familiar features and a flowing river of locks. Her coloring consists of one: white. The lady is so pale she is nearly translucent in this light. She looks like an animation, with eyes bigger than her face and high, high cheekbones lacking a rosy tint. Her dainty hand still rests on my arm, chilling me to the bone.
“Who are you?” I mumble, drunken and unsure.
Her movie star smile turns sad. “Oh, you don’t recognize me?” She rests her other hand on my other arm and leans forward, as if getting a good look in the eye will help me place her significance in my head.
Everything around me freezes. My toes curl with guilt and my eyes try to force themselves closed again. Anything to not have to look her in the eye. If I’m so great at breaking things, why can’t I break eye contact?
“You recognize me.” A statement, not a question. “Good. Eric, It doesn’t have to be like this.”
My gaze finds her once more. She doesn’t understand. “I suppose you’re right. But it’s too late now. It already is like this.” So many things churn in my stomach. I think I’m going to be sick.
“Nobody had to die.”
More hot tears slip out from my eyes, though they managed to stay open the entire time. “You don’t understand.”
Her grip on my arm tightens. She pulls me to her in one smooth move, knocking over the line of shot glasses and beer mugs between us. “No. YOU don’t understand.”
I can count all her teeth.
“I’ve tried and tried and TRIED to get out of the business. And once I finally find a way, an actual PLAUSIBLE way to lead myself to a normal life, YOU come running along. You ruined everything. And to think, I thought I was done with your little shenanigans. I bet you’re not even sorry.”
Guilt bubbles into fury and I stand up forcefully, pushing my chair to the ground with the back of my knees and throwing the table to the side with just one swoop of the arm.
“I was not planning on killing you! I was trying to get out of the business too! I never wanted to do this in the first place!”
“One would think you would know what you signed up for when you signed up to be an assassin,” she accuses, her once-soothing voice as frigid as her skin.
The past I cannot hide courses through me in red hot anger. “I would do anything to wash your blood off my hands, and you know it! I loved you, Maria. I loved you. How could I have let this happen?” I sink to the floor since my chair is no longer there to support me. The guilt that once bubbled to anger now surrenders to defeat. “I’m so sorry.”
Maria stands up from her chair and sneers over my broken body. She spits on me where I lie surrounded by shards of broken glass. “Well, sorry doesn’t save lives.”
The chill in the room disappears and the warm darkness returns. I lie there, my skin peppered with glass and drops of my own blood, perfectly still.