Fiction Friday: Quiet and Fight

Some fridays, Sarah at Well and Cheaply does a post called Fiction Friday. The idea is to set the timer, write a very incomplete piece of fiction usually from a few words or a prompt, and then just post it, willy nilly! This is a lot like my 750 words posts except it is entirely for pieces of fiction. I agree with Sarah that putting some extremely rough draft work out into the universe can be a liberating feeling, so I decided to do my own Fiction Friday!

Today I chose to write about the words: Quiet and Fight. Feel free to join in with this prompt or another. Posting incomplete fiction is a great exercise and helps fight against our need for perfection in writing.

She was quiet on the porch. The kind of quiet that comes after a series of sobs and eyes too tired to keep going. I didn’t feel like I could say anything, you know, since she was so quiet. It felt like an intrusion to even be sitting there with her, and I kept wiggling because it was awkward to be vulnerable like that, to let her know that I was there if she wanted to talk and that I was sorry. I don’t think I could have said anything any way, it would have sounded stupid. What could I say to relate to her? She was off the rail. A different boy every Friday night and empty bottles behind her bed – of course I knew the truth. But in the end, I was the geeky sister. I was the quiet one who got good grades and always made mom and dad happy. I made sure my room was clean and everything else about my life was made up, too. Why would she think I would care? What could I say to help, anyway? I wanted to tell her that she was the pretty one. I wanted to tell her, “don’t be upset, you could have everything you ever wanted! I’m stuck here because I’m good at math and I have braces on my already-too-big-for-my-mouth-teeth and I’ll never be able to throw my head back and laugh the way you do. You have it all, don’t you see? Who cares about the fight you’re having with dad?” But I knew it wouldn’t help. Somehow, looking at her with her short skirt and the folded hands on her lap, I knew she wasn’t who she wanted to be. I was embarrassed. I wanted to get up and leave, run away, scream, or do something.  I was embarrassed because even though she hated who she was, I envied her.