So I've been working on a story for some time now, continuously refrining it and rewriting segments and I'm actually pretty far in at this point. But this is simply about the opening few paragraphs. I want this to be my "hidden gun" (for those unfamiliar with the term it refers to a play where in the opening scene has a man load a pistol then place it on a table only to have it come into play at the end of the performance). So I need feedback on a) how gripping it is and b) how cheesy it is.
Thanks
Go ahead.
Ask me. Ask me if I regret this. Ask me if I feel guilty. Tell me to apologize.
I don’t, and I won’t.
I can see it, you’re thinking, “How can you not care? How can you sleep at night you son-of-a-bitch?”
It’s not my job to care and I sleep like a baby.
She was going to die no matter what and I’d rather it be me who killed her than some stranger, somebody who didn’t know her. Somebody who couldn’t give her the kind of death she had coming to you.
So this, this isn’t about regret, it’s about acceptance. It isn’t about pain, it’s about tolerance. And certainly it isn’t about sadness because she wasn’t such a great person.
And let’s be honest here, she couldn’t have asked for anything better. I know she enjoyed it as much as I did, because for 3 weeks, she was famous. On every small town back-woods newspaper front page and on every ticker on every 24-hour news network, there she was. Her old college graduation photo being shown to millions. Her life story glorified and admired by people 7 degrees of separation away from her.
She didn’t get her 15 minutes, she got 2,016 people’s 15 minutes.
She loved every second of it and for her, it was totally worth it.
Suffering is the only path to glory.
And I know she suffered when she died, but probably not as much as she should have. And if her family were there, they’d be suffering too, but not as much as they should be. And me, I’m doing fine, but not as fine as I’d like.
