#SneakPeakSunday – Dead Memories (March 8th)

#SneakPeak Sunday:

It’s that time again, so let’s get right into it, today I’ll be sharing a full Chapter 1 of Dead Memories:

Chapter One

I had big dreams, always have done ever since I was five years old. It’s just a shame that time was never on my side.
Oh forgive me, I forgot my manners. My name is Kimberly Wyatt, but my friends call me Kimbo. I’m twenty two years old and in the next two hours, the doctors are going to turn off my life support.
Maybe I should have opened with that, the fact that at this very moment, I am lying in a hospital bed in an I.C.U unit, living out my final moments on this earth and you know what? I just wished they would open the blinds for once.
For as long as I have been in this room, the blinds have always been down, denying me of feeling the outside sun on my face.
I guess the hospital staff must all be vampires, it would make sense, what with most of the staff I’ve seen so far, all being so pasty white. Then again this is England, the home of rain and cold, of course they’re ghastly pales, its either that or slap on a load of fake tan.
Then again, vampires or not, my family are no better, whenever my parents visit, they can’t be arsed to open the blinds either.
Oops I swore.
I do hope you don’t think that was rude of me, I never used to swear, I never used to do anything before I met him. It’s funny how some people can spend years trying to open your eyes, only to then have you meet that one person who does it in a matter of seconds,
For me that person was Radley, Mr Smokes like a chimney, drinks like a fish and swears like a sailor, Radley.
Ever since I met him, I was never the same again. No more was I the goody two-shoes my parents raised me to be. No more was I the boring girl who fulfilled every request her parents had of her, whilst leaving her own on the wayside.
All I ever did was spent my life being who they wanted me to be. The day I first started pre-school they told me to knuckle down and make sure I exceed. It was only natural that with their desires for me to solely focus on my school studies that I became an A student and first in my year, for every year I attended.
The I made the mistake of singing and dancing in front of my parents, as soon as they realised the natural talent I had at eight, they made me dedicate my after school life, to honing my skills. I became that good, I caught the attention of BRIT school and found myself enrolled there, until I graduated.
I gave my parents everything I possibly could and how do they reward my lifelong efforts? They occasionally visit me in the hospital and by occasionally, I mean once a month, which when you think about it, it is an absolute mockery and slap in the face.
Ever since that bus smashed into the driver’s door of my cheap, second-hand red Mini Cooper, which literally broke every bone on the right-hand side of my body and fractured my skull, I’ve spent the last thirteen months lying in this bed with mother and father, only to grace me with their presence once a month for the last eleven.
I suppose I could cut them a little slack, but I won’t. In fact if I’m being honest with you, when the doctor does pull the plug, I am going to die actually hating my parents.
When they do visit, the visits are never nice. Father would just stand in one corner of them room, with his head bowed in shame. Every now and then he’d cast his gaze at my lifeless body and shake his head with disgust. He thinks I can’t see him.
That I don’t see him.
But I do.
Just like I can hear him muttering “what a waste,” under his breath.
I can’t help but wonder, a waste of what? Talent, or the time and effort you and mother put into turning me into the “perfect daughter?”
Mother however was a different story. She would sit to one side of me, but her face would always be facing every available direction that wasn’t me. Both her hands would reside either side of one of mine.
She doesn’t dare to grace my skin with the touch of her own, then again, she never liked psychical contact with me when I was able to walk.
Able to dance.
Able to live.
So why would now change anything?
It’s sad really, as my eyes gaze at the clock mounted on the wall, I can’t help but eagerly await my inevitable death.  I know that sounds wrong, but I really don’t care. Besides, it is actually better this way because if I were to awake from my coma, living isn’t exactly what I would be doing.
Given the severity of the injury I sustained and the longevity of just how long I have been comatose, the odds of me waking up without sustaining any lasting brain damage, are about the same of the dinosaurs not getting wiped out by the meteor. We all know how that turned out.
Plus there’s the fact that I broke my spine during the impact from the crash. Well, I say broke, more like completely fucked it up. I wouldn’t just be brain damaged when I woke, if I woke, but I’d be a quadriplegic an’ all.
Oops, grammar slip, I hate it when that happens.
Actually, no I don’t. I’m a girl born and breed in the East End, the cockney accent is my accent, so why do I keep trying to sound like one of that lot from that TV show Made in Chelsea?
Oh yeah, I do know why, my mother.
Wait! What’s that?

Now as far as nominations go, how about every writer who glances at this profound post. Let’s share our works ladies and gentleman.

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