This excerpt from Everywhere the Undrowned by Stephanie Clare Smith is a disturbing read, but demonstrates Smith’s skill in getting beneath the skin of her feelings, pulling them out to lay them bare on the page. It’s gripping writing, and it’s all too real.
I left my shoes and underwear on the floor of his truck. Two men on the sidewalk shouted something at me. The way I hated them. I looked back to see if they were chasing me, if the truck was circling around for me. The way pain shot through me as I ran, and blood dripped down my legs and soaked the crotch of my pants. The way I bled for three days.
That Thursday night, for the first time, I piled three silver pots and some glass ashtrays in front of the door, like Laura Petrie did on the Dick Van Dyke Show. I began my practice of laying my head where my feet used to go, so I could see through the living room to the big front door with the too-little lock and my homemade alarm. That way I could sleep until it came crashing down.
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