Welcome back to writing Wednesday everyone! Sorry for taking the week off last week but with A Reliant Love's release, I had to promote. Speaking of, A Reliant Love has been my best release yet! I sold more copies over the weekend than any of my other releases. So if you purchased one, THANK YOU!
I'm doing another giveaway on goodreads so enter if you want a free copy!
NOW ONTO THE PROMPT OF THE WEEK!
Prompt Forty- Phone Message
Scenario based writing prompt. You get home from a long day at work and as you unload your things, you click your phone to check the messages. You have 3. The third message begins and you freeze. What happens next? Begin your story there and go anywhere with it.
Response....
My entire body freezes at the noise coming from the speaker. I drop my bag on the floor as the message transfers and his voice fills the way-too-small room. He sounds just as he used to, only tense and hard as if he hasn't slept in days. His hoarse voice cuts off too soon and I haven't even heard the message.
I lunge for the speaker before the message auto-deletes and catch it before the automated voice confirms. I hit replay and another automated voice starts up. "This is a message from Berlin Penitentiary. Inmate #10247532 is trying to reach you." The message ends and then it's his voice again.
"Katie, it's me. Listen, I know you don't give a shit and trust me, I get it, but I need you. I get out tomorrow and have nobody to get me. They won't release me alone and I have no money to hire someone. Please, can you come? You're the only person I have. I know you hate me. You didn't answer a single letter. But please, god, just come."
I let the message be deleted despite the urge to keep it just so I can listen to his voice play over and over again. My therapist strongly discourages actions like that. She also discourages any contact I have with Camden. She claims our relationship was volatile, too up and down and sideways and crazy. I have to admit that she's right.
But at the same time, I love Cam, always will. Him being away for two years only made me love him more, in some fucked up, bizarre way. His letters didn't help since all he did for two years was tell me how sorry he was and how he was going to make it up to me and how he was going to spend the rest of his life loving me. I didn't tell my therapist about the letters since I know she'd make me throw them away, or worse, burn them.
I go to bed questioning everything. From my own insecurities to his actions in the past, I know there's no way I should go down there and pick him up. But things were only bad those last few weeks. He must be sober now. Surely, he doesn't want to go back to jail. Maybe he's changed.
The next morning my mind is made up. What will hurt just picking him up? I'm sure he has some plan. Either way he'll just need a ride from me. I need to make it clear what my intentions are. That I'm just picking him up because I feel bad for him and he needed me as a friend.
Hopefully he won't hear the dishonesty.
The prison is monstrous, the clouds looming above ominous. I can't help but feel like I'm going to be wrapped inside a twister before the days over. There's three check points I have to clear before I'm allowed to drive to where Cam will come out.
I feel like I might vomit, my stomach exploding with nerves. I fidget with my fingernails as I park the car and wait inside like the officer instructed me. Three inmates come out and reunite with their families. Still no sign of Cam. I reach back and grab my bag to check my phone. I don't have any missed calls or anything. When I look up, it's right into Cam's baby blues.
He opens the passenger side door and has to bend to get into my low car. Wordlessly, he buckles his seat belt and throws a bag in the back of the car without even looking. I turn over the engine and leave the jail, the awkward tension in the car building exponentially.
Once we're out the last checkpoint and in the world, Cam places his hand on my thigh and nods his head to the side, silently telling me to pull over. I comply, wanting to end this weirdness. When the car is parked, he unbuckles his bed and wraps his arms around me over the center console.
"I missed you so much, Katie," he whispers. His voice cracks and I pull back to find him crying. Not like crying crying, but small tears drop off his eyelashes. The image of this grown man actually crying cuts me to the core. I hold him tighter than ever, not caring what my therapist says. Only caring about Cam.
He pulls back after a few quiet moments trying to compose himself. I finally get a chance to look at him and I'm pleasantly surprised. As odd and wrong as it sounds, prison did good to him. He's thicker and stronger, his body in the best shape I've seen it. His complexion is perfect, his face glowing.
"You look great," I tell him. The first words I say.
"Katie, I know you hate me. But I've got nothing and nowhere to go. Can you take me in?" he asks.
"I don't know if that's a good idea," I start to say, but he cuts me off.
"I don't expect you to do anything. Do you have a couch I can stay on? In a week or two once I have a job and some money, I'll leave. I have nothing, Katie. Nothing."
"Okay," I relent.
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