So my current project has stagnated over the past few months, my initial enthusiasm waning, giving way to almost total indifference. This was to be expected perhaps, as it was likely doomed from the beginning. In an attempt to create an epic novel, I filled pages upon pages with an plethora of characters whose story lines seemed to clumsily trip over each other.

Titled Design Build, it is the story of the design and construction of a prison building. It has engineers, architects, contractors, sales reps, building owners, and even some politicians. Enticing read, right? It is actually a reboot of a novel I wrote  for a girl during my senior year in high school (Imprisoned). I guess I should have known better. Anyway, the first 60,000 words were spawned as part of my 2013 NaNoWriMo effort. I reached my word count goal, but the novel is far from complete.

I am working through some plot issues and will have to come to grips with the fact that having 30+ developed characters is beyond ridiculous. If I can get through these issues, I may try to work towards a conclusion. Until then, here is a rough draft of the opening scene:

Henry pressed his right index finger over the scanner and watched as the LED above the knob flashed from red to green. The motorized latch turned and the lock released, allowing him to push the door of his apartment open. The foyer lighting flickered on, then slowly glowed to a soft white, revealing the pile of trash that he had forgotten to take out that morning. A box full of empty bottles also needed to be brought down to the recycling station. He stood in the entry and sighed, pausing for a moment, remembering a different time so long ago. Grasping the pink rubber bracelet on his right wrist, he shook his head at the mess before him.

Damn it, it was so much easier when Libby was around.

Now alone, he struggled to keep what was once their home in any semblance of order. She, with her strong spirit and calm demeanor, was always the one who seemed to keep things from falling apart. She handled the bills and kept everything where it belonged. She did his laundry and made him breakfast in the morning. And when he came home, after a long day at Stargate, it was she who, no matter how bad the day had been, would make things seem ok. Three years later and it was a surprise that he wasn’t dead as well.

He pulled a ration box out of the cupboard, tore off the top and placed the pale, grainy bar in a white ceramic bowl. He set the bowl in the microwave, shut the door, and pressed the start button. Eight seconds later, the reconstituted ONN HomeMaid Salisbury Steak with Country Gravy, Creamed Corn and Cherries Jubilee was ready for consumption. Delicious.

After dinner, Henry walked out onto his eleventh-story deck overlooking the Pacific Ocean, cupping a lowball glass filled three fingers high with Stranahan’s. It was a temperate night. The steady, gentle breeze was refreshing; the faint rhythm of the ocean’s ebb and flow, calming. Standing in front of the railing, he watched the shimmer of the moonlight against the ripples on the water and took a sip of his whiskey, savoring the hints of vanilla and red berry.

He closed his eyes and exhaled.

“My name is Sarah Williams,” she said.

Henry’s glass slipped from his hand, crashing onto the hard, Saltillo tile. Shards of crystal scattered. She was standing on the right side of the balcony, next to the door and behind the withered Japanese maple that Libby had once cared for so many years ago.

“Sarah?” he asked, turning towards her. She was dressed in a light windbreaker, black leggings and weathered brown leather boots that climbed up to her knees. “Sarah…What are you doing here?” His voice trembled.

“My name is Sarah Williams,” she repeated, her eyes glazed. “My parents, Steven and Elizabeth, are both dead. They died in a car accident three days before my eleventh birthday…”

“…Sarah…” he said, walking towards her.

“…I have a brother, David. I went to Mater Dei High School. I was in the marching band…”

“Sarah, what are you doing?” he asked. “You don’t have to do this. You don’t have to…”

“…My name is Sarah Williams. My parents, Steven and Elizabeth, were killed three days before my eleventh birthday. I have a brother, David. I went to Mater Dei High School. I was in the marching band. Blake Searcy was the first boy who ever kissed me…”

“Sarah stop!” Henry commanded. He put his hands on her shoulders to calm her, to quiet her. There was a vacancy in her gaze. She was different. She didn’t appear scared or even nervous, as she did during her previous unexpected visits. She was calm, sedate.

It was worse than he had expected.

“My name is Sarah…”

“Sarah, do you know where you are?” Henry asked, holding her wrists at her side.

She looked at him and took a deep breath.

“Of course I know where I am, Dr. Francis,” she replied. “I’m on your balcony.” That was a good sign.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“I came to see you,” she said. “I came to see you because I’m trying to understand. I’m trying to remember. I’m trying to remember it all.”

Henry guided her to the set of chairs on the north side of the balcony, where he and Libby used to take their hibiscus tea and blueberry scones on Saturday afternoons in the fall.

“Sarah,” he said. “You do remember. Don’t you see? You remember everything…”

“…almost everything Dr. Francis.”

“I don’t understand,” he replied. “What are you talking about? All of the tests showed…”

“All of the tests showed that I remember who I am. I am Sarah Williams. I remember that my parents were killed in a car accident on Saturday, November 5th on their way home from dinner. It was raining that night. I remember that my brother David had to raise me on his own. I remember marching in the band. I remember every step, every turn, every about-face, every note of music for four years of high school. I remember the sweet smell of strawberry bubblegum on Blake Searcy’s breath the night he kissed me after the homecoming football game, when we beat Servite 45-44 on a last second 39-yard field goal into the wind. I remember it all.”

“That’s right Sarah,” Henry replied. “You do remember…”

“But I don’t remember how I felt,” she said.

“Sarah…”

“My mind is filled with memories, snapshots, images, reels of my past. I remember all of it. Every last detail. And yet…I don’t remember any emotional link to any of these events. I can’t remember the pain. I can’t remember the joy. I don’t even know what those things are anymore.”

“Sarah,” Henry said. “You’ve been through a lot. I know that you’re scared right now…”

“I’m not scared…”

“I know you’re confused right now. But things will get better,” he said. “Things will get better.”

Sarah shook her head and stood up, walking to the railing.

“Even you don’t believe that. Do you Dr. Francis?” she asked, her back to him.

He stood up and sighed.

“Of course I do,” he replied, half-heartedly.

“I don’t feel anything anymore,” she replied. “I haven’t for months now.”

“Sarah, we are working on your treatment…”

“I just want to feel again,” she said. “I want to feel alive.” She climbed up onto the railing and leaned towards the ocean.

“Sarah, be careful!” Henry cried.

“I want to feel…fear,” she said.

“Sarah, please get down!”

She stood on the top of the railing, balancing effortlessly on the cold, metal rim.

“Or what?” she asked, trying to force a smile.

“You need to be careful…or…you’ll kill yourself!” he replied.

Her face went blank again.

“Kill myself, Dr. Francis?” she asked. “I’m already dead.”

With that, she opened her arms and stepped off the railing.

“No!” Henry screamed. He jumped towards her and grabbed onto her wrists as the rest of her body fell, dangling eleven stories above the Pacific Ocean. “I’ve got you, Sarah. Don’t let go! Don’t be scared!”

But she wasn’t scared. Her empty gaze was locked onto his eyes. He struggled to keep her up. With all that he had, he pulled her upwards, trying to get her back across the railing. But her weight was more than his frail body could handle.

“Don’t let go!” he cried. His heart raced. He saw her eyes snap to focus and her hands grasped for his wrists. He pulled up again. “Don’t let go!” Her hands were wrapped around his forearms. But the strain was too much. Henry looked down at her and felt his pink rubber bracelet slowly roll off his wrist.

“Goodbye Dr. Francis,” Sarah said. “Goodbye.”

“No!” he cried.

“My name is Sarah Williams.”

And then she was gone.