NaNo: the third chapter

Chapter Three
If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again

I didn’t sleep well that night. I’d like to think it might have been that my conscience was bothering me over the fact that I might have killed a man, but to be honest, I think I was more worried that I hadn’t. If I hadn’t killed him, and he told Mark what happened… would they assume I would have run by now, or would they be back? I’d love to run and hide, if I had anywhere to go. Where was the batty old uncle who died and left me a deserted cabin in the woods when I needed him? Why didn’t I have any crackpot survivalist no-ties-to-the-outside-world relatives I could stay with? Where was that wardrobe that led to Narnia?

By the time I dragged myself out of my hidey-hole I was hungry, cranky, and stiff. I was too old to sleep on the floor, no matter how many blankets I piled under me. Stretching and groaning, I made my way down to the kitchen and set about making myself some breakfast. Unfortunately, I couldn’t find a clean pan anywhere. With a sigh, I set about cleaning up the pit that was my kitchen. As I worked, I found my tension easing somewhat. I resisted the urge to turn on the television and see if there was any news about the car crash. There wasn’t anything I could do about it, and concentrating on the small, trivial tasks at hand managed to distract my mind from the bigger problems. I washed all of the dishes, made myself breakfast, washed dishes again, wiped down the counter, and ran a load of kitchen towels and rags in the washer. I sorted through a stack of mail, throwing away ninety percent of it and setting the rest into two piles: pay and file. Then I decided to tackle the dreaded junk drawer. Why not? I was on a roll. I pulled it out and upended it on the countertop. A mishmash of pens, coins, paper, and weird plastic bits rolled and bounced around the counter. I started by sorting the like objects and trying to weed out as much as I could to toss. Ancient superglue tube? Toss. Cash receipt from Clucker’s Chicken dated five years ago? Toss. Twenty-five pens that no longer write? Toss. Weird piece of plastic that looks like it might be important but I don’t have the faintest clue what it is? Set it on the counter and stare at it, willing it to tell me what it is.

( An hour later I had a mostly empty, neatly organized junk drawer, if I could even call it that now. (read more) )