Opening Pages - SALLY NOBODY - Upmarket

[Annie Oswald]

 

OPENING SCENE - Introduces protagonist, setting, inciting incident and the antagonists (character & new setting).

 

 CHAPTER ONE

Losing the house was bad but losing this smell would be unbearable. Sally nestled her face into the bunched fabric of Maria’s sweater. The bristly wool scratched against her cheek as she inhaled hints of jasmine and ginger into her lungs. She threw the sweater on and ran downstairs into Maria’s bedroom, a mausoleum for her scent. The rug, the bed, the blankets, all still saturated with the aroma of Maria’s life. She slammed open the dresser drawers and stuck her face into the folded clothes. Maria felt closer than ever. She rushed to the closet and yanked the door open. A waft of sweet-smelling spice crashed into her. Sally pulled a handful of clothes off the hangers and clutched them under her arm. She’d pack as many of them as she could. Only what she could carry. 

Walking over to Maria’s dresser, she looked at a framed photo of them together from eight years ago. They’d set up the self-timer on the camera but had placed it too high on the table. It had captured only from their chins up. They’d both closed their eyes as the shutter clicked, smiling, leaning their heads on one another’s. It had been Maria’s favorite photo. Sally picked up the cold metal frame. She unlatched the cardboard back and pulled the picture out. One of the only scentless things she’d take. Everything else would be left to memory. 

She couldn’t bear the thought of being forcibly removed by strangers from the house, of watching them put their careless hands all over her and Maria’s home, mindlessly treading over this sacred ground, sweating on their memories, removing all signs of their life together and disposing of it into a dumpster. She’d failed. To save Maria, to save the house. Nothing she’d done was enough. Not nearly. A part of her was angry at herself, at her inability to find a solution. Another part of her was angry at Maria, for being so flippant about finances, for not warning Sally about the depth of her ruin. She could do nothing now but leave on her own terms. 

Her chest was as tight as a corset as she walked around the house for the last time. She stuffed two backpacks mostly of Maria’s clothes and a few of her books. Maria’s letter was folded between the pages of one of them to keep it safe. The mystery of Maria’s final wish in the letter was still lodged achingly underneath Sally’s skin. An enigmatic splinter. Sitting on her bed, she looked up at the wooden beamed ceiling, those dark notches in the cedar she used to count when she was bored. She looked out the window, the iron fire escape trailing down from it, that familiar view of the city beyond blocked by warehouses and condominiums. 

Slinging the bags onto her back, she turned out the lights and headed downstairs into the living room. Where she’d spent thousands of hours with Maria. It smelled of musky perfume and ink. Shelves of leather-bound books stood next to stacks of journals and dusty anthologies. Candles and lamps filled the crevices between chairs and side table drawers were stuffed with letters in opened envelopes. Jute rugs and kilims were pieced together over the wooden floorboards creating an ocean of colored fibers that felt scratchy underfoot. They used to spend whole days together in this room listening to music, playing card games, eating pistachios, reading, napping. But all of that was gone. 

She stood in the center of the room with her arms lifted at her sides, trying to absorb all its warmth into her bones. The approaching storm’s heavy draft blew into the side of the house. She listened for those familiar sounds. She’d grown used to the way the rickety windows rattled in the faintest of wind and the ashy smell of the fireplace as it traveled through those old vents. This house was in her, of her, a part of her so long that it now felt like her skin. These walls had sheltered her from the weather of her life. Twenty-two years ago, after leaving her parent’s house as a little girl, these walls had welcomed her weary young soul into its embrace. Standing in that room for the final time, the embrace pulled away, unraveling itself from her body. 

Lifting Maria’s urn from the side table, she put her keys in its place. She opened the front door and stepped out into the bitter cold.

 

CHAPTER TWO

The sharp wind cut into her face as she rode her bike as fast as she could away from the house and through the streets toward anything, anywhere. She didn’t know where she was going but she knew she wanted distance from this street, from her past, from her broken life. Her feet pushed the pedals hard, but instead her speed slowed. She looked down. The front tire had burst. She banged her foot up and down on it as the bicycle came to a stop. Holding onto the hand brake, she looked out toward a forest of snow beside her. She’d made it to a wooded park three miles from the house. She sat quietly on the bicycle, her belongings hanging limply off the sides of the broken-down machine like deflated balloons.

The snow fell and the temperature dropped. The tops of the trees were covered in white, barely discernible from the pale sky as snowflakes fell around her, dropping like silent grenades. Stepping off the bike, she took two labored steps in the foot-high powder and dropped to her knees. She opened her mouth wide and closed her eyes as the snowflakes pooled on the surface of her tongue like liquid cyanide. She swallowed. It was so quiet she could hear the pounding of her heart in her ears. Thump, thump, thump. Listening for the beats to fade, she waited for her exit. Maybe the cold would sneak up and whisk her away. No pain, no mess, no trace.

 

         SNOW DRAG ME UNDER

         NOTHING YOU CAN SAVE

         ICICLES AS MY COFFIN

         SADNESS AS MY GRAVE 

 

Rhyming didn’t help this time. Nothing would help now. Losing Maria wasn’t survivable. She couldn’t do this life without her, it was impossible. She opened her eyes, looking at her nearly frostbitten fingers with indifference. The weight of an anvil melded together from fractured pieces of her life pushed her down hard toward the ground. 

“Not a great way to die,” said a voice from behind. Sally turned toward it. A woman in a trapper hat with ear flaps the size of tree trunks was looking at her. She was wrapped inside an oversized mink coat and had plastic bags tied over her shoes with rubber bands. “I’ve seen someone freeze to death,” said the woman.

Sally gasped, keeping still as stone. In the flurried semi-darkness of twilight, the woman resembled some dubious winter creature, like a yeti emerged from its cave, wandering the snowy terrain hunting its prey. Sally readied herself for a swift escape if she moved any closer.

“We were out in Siberia. On assignment. Our cameraman had staked out overnight in the taiga and when we found him in the morning he was as solid as rock. Apparently, your organs shut down, your veins solidify, you feel tiny knives stabbing you all over, and in a really dark twist,” she looked intensely at Sally as she spoke, a smirk lingering on the side of her face as if enjoying each gruesome detail, “your flesh actually feels like it’s melting.” 

The mention of knives and flesh made Sally’s breath quicken as the woman took a few steps closer. Sally carefully observed her as she came into full view. She sounded old, her voice deep and hoarse, but her face was bright and youthful. Early thirties she’d guess.        

“I’m Catherine. Shepherd. But almost everyone calls me Shep. Except for my ex-husband who calls me ‘maladjusted’ but that’s another story.” Shep looked over at the belongings piled onto the bicycle. She took another few steps toward Sally, it was close enough to see the red swelling under her eyes and the way her body was folding into itself. “You ok?”  

“I don’t know.” She didn’t. She was sure of nothing at this point. Each approaching minute and its chaos plunged her deeper into the quivering unknown. Her desperation was acute. Maria was gone. The house was gone. Her life was actually in danger. She had no sense of what to do next. 

“How 'bout I help you up.” Shep lifted each foot high off the ground as she waded through the snow. The plastic bags on her feet crinkled. “Not the right kinda day for hypothermia.”

“What’s the right kinda day?” Sally watched Shep closely as she approached, still unsure of her motives.

“Told you. Some vast tundra, five-thousand miles away, sacrificing yourself for journalistic achievement.” She put her hand on her chest in a mocking fashion. “Not sittin’ here near the road with your shitty bike, making snow angels or some shit.” 

Sally couldn’t discern whether this woman was aggressive or just rude and conversational. Either way, she kept on high alert. (...)

[DomGerard]

So many great sensory moments!