Guilt

https://reinventionsreena.wordpress.com/ and I have used her word prompt to write a possible ending for my new novel. I have only rewritten six chapters, so not sure if this will be used, but I had fun writing it.

My story involves a young journalist, who through a car crash, starts to lose her sight. Her husband dies, and she investigates his death, and always believed it was not an accident. Her trust in the wrong person, leads to plot twists (hopefully) and a race against time before she goes completely blind.

In the end she realises, she is still the same journalist, and losing her sight doesn’t mean she has to give up on herself. I am looking into the theme of guilt, and her understanding to forgive herself.

It came from somewhere too far to walk, from as far away as the most unreasonable desire, the most devastating hope. To be able to keep doing the job she loves, or to give up. Her fingers dip into the sea, as the cool water washes sand from her fingers.

A world, devoid of any colour, but focussing on the sounds, I could almost picture the beach. The waves rolling onto the sand, dragging back, clearing the sand away, before returning it back to the ocean.

Joe, Graham, Scott, and here I am living as if they never existed.

My investigation, Richard behind bars, and now the only thing consuming me, is my loss. Life, and I can’t clear my thoughts quickly enough to recover. I dig wet toes into the sand, and they sink, before the water washes the indentations away.

I smelt his soap, before I realised he is next to me. Mike, the person I should have trusted all along. The person Richard betrayed, as much as he betrayed me. Two birds, and all his problems would go away.

‘Sarah . . . I wanted to see if you were okay.’

‘I’m fine . . . actually I’m not fine.’

‘I know, but at least you’re willing to accept that now.

‘Did I ever tell you about Joe? No, because I felt guilty that I didn’t tell my parents he was in possession of cocaine. If I did, then he would still be alive. Probably refusing to talk to me, but alive. If I had listened to Graham, then we would have waited till morning. He would still be alive.’

‘Or, we can see it in this way . . . Joe made his choice with drugs, which was nothing to do with you. Your mum spoke to me the other day, when she picked you up. She said he made his choices, and it wasn’t fair of him to ask you to keep his secret. Graham, from what you’ve told me, loved you. If it were the other way round, you would have done the same for him. You weren’t to know the danger you were in, or meeting Scott was a trap.’

‘I should have known about Richard, all the clues were there.’

‘No, you shouldn’t have, just because we work in the industry we do, doesn’t mean we know everything. You weren’t to know with Richard, like I wasn’t to know. I lived in the same house during our university days, and he kept his secrets well. Respectable, but also responsible.’

‘I suppose, but how did I not know about his involvement in my brother’s death.’

‘No suppose about it – Richard fooled a great many people, including me. I thought he was my friend, but he was just using me. How were you to know about his involvement. You were thirteen, and he was eighteen. A stranger to you then, and very adept and keeping his true self hidden.’

I scoop up sand, allowing the water to finally wash away the guilt. ‘I’m not sure what I want to do now,’ I say.

‘Work for me, while you decide. I know we’re only a small concern, but I bet you have many ideas to bring us into the twenty-second century. I’m still getting e mails from restaurants, asking you to review their establishment. Look, I know it’s not quite what you are used to, but even Tony misses you.’

I scrunch up the soft sand hand, and it sticks to my fingers before the tide washes them away again. I wasn’t sure what I want to do next, but my answer to Mike is easier than I thought.

I’m at home here.

‘Yes.’

Published by writerravenclaw

I am a fifty something mother of two grown up children, and one beautiful grandchild. I have been married for nearly thirty-four years. My first book was published ten years ago. I wrote my book Sticks and Stones because of my experience of being bullied at school.

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