BRUISES

| One |

August 2021

I don't want to be here.

            One thing I liked about writing behind a screen was not being noticed. The only thing I can indulge in is fantasize about my characters and their sweet lives that seem unbelievable. Sit at the desk for hours, wishing I was the character that had unique features, a beatable personality, and a voice that encouraged all.

            Now all I hear is about my characters and I am sick of every detail of the story. How am I able to submit this outrageous manuscript and receive a response of interest? I should've said no because if I said no, I'd be sitting in my own room—vigorously slapping keys, drinking water to substitute the lack of moving, and listen to the same song on repeat.

            Yet, I am standing on a cheap raised platform in a rental space at a hotel. I am currently on my book tour in South Carolina, pleasing all these readers that hold a content smile and hopeful dreams. Admiring the author of the book in their hands, not knowing that a few hours before, I didn't want to be here.

            My agent, Francine, promised me that once this book tour is over, I will be able to take as long of a break I want. But I don't like to be alone, especially in a foreign state that isn't called my home. Although, I don't really have a home.

            So, I encouraged her to contact other publishing houses in other countries for a possible translated manuscript. Then another possible book tour overseas.

            I answer broad questions—even chuckle at the ones such as 'if you had to choose an actress to play the main role, who would you choose?'. I would choose myself because the protagonist is me.

            No one knows though.

            No one knows because no one here knows me.

            A figure stands and she is handed the microphone. At first, I don't acknowledge her because for myself, there's no reason to remember their faces. I won't have to speak to them ever again.

            But I pause when I see her, standing over the crowd. Her black hair pushed over her shoulders. A sweater pulled over her body. Her small body almost hiding in the crowd of hungry people waiting to hear more about my book. Although, what they have is enough.

            She knows I notice her from the moment of silence she holds. Her hand gripping the handle as though her life depends on it. My palms grow clammy and I grip onto the book, so it doesn't fall, and I make a fool out of myself.

            "Does she ever forgive her father?" Marie asks and I know she isn't talking about the protagonist in my book as everybody else is. I swallow thickly and blink the stillness of my eyes.

            "Um," I begin, my thoughts jumbling up my own sentences. My tongue twisting and pulling until I swallow it whole.

            Someone whispers my name and when I look down at the front row, Francine is mouthing me to answer. With a slight nod, I shift my stance and laugh nervously.

            Marie stands properly, her back straight and her chest out. Her mom always reminded her of a strong back. She—as well as everybody else—waits for me to give an answer. But Marie knows the truth and she knows it's about me. She's waiting for a personal response, one that will close the last conversation we had when I called her sobbing about my father.

            "Well that's for the readers to decide." I smile, turning away from her and watching a new voice chime into the mic. I don't even listen the first time because my mind drifts back to Marie's seat. When I glance to receive her stare, the seat empty.