Skywriter novel/script excerpt
I reached over to touch her arm, but I couldn’t, “Núria, you’re not forgiving them, are you?”
“Hells no,” she said, and pumped her fist in the air, “I’m mad. Fuck those guys, seriously. If you don’t want kids, don’t have them.”
“Have you always sworn?”
“No, but I’m a ghost now, and nobody can be disapproving about me swearing, because I’m dead.”
“Touché,” I said, grinning at her. She smiled back, and we had our first real sisterly moment there in the windowsill.
My webcomic-to-be has its humorous moments.
She stated that she had simply woken up one day and that was her life.
I found this strange – I can remember my childhood. I can remember being looked after by my maternal grandparents, and I can clearly remember them being spooked by my abuela. I can remember poor Núria being born, I can remember my mother’s death, and I can remember my father marrying my stepmother. I remember my grandparents dying and my abuela coming to care for me and Núria. I remember Núria throwing tantrums all the time, while I had always been a solemn and well-behaved child, quietly contemplative in comparison to Núria’s constant needs and wants.
I started to tell her some of this, and explained that maybe it was good not to remember a past, if she had one – mine was full of weirdness and sorrow.
The reply came back quickly – yes, but who knew her before that morning she woke up with no idea? If she truly existed before then, why didn’t anyone from before try to contact her? Why was there a record of her birth at the city registration office, but no details of any family members or adoptive or foster parents?
I finally decided that I needed to be her friend.
My name is Zaneta Núria Montserrat. I am 24 years old, and I was born in October, near Halloween. I live in Budmouth, South Wessex, but I used to live near Casterbridge. I have auburn hair that I like to dye red, and I recently gave it a drastic cut after 24 years of sensible haircuts. My Peruvian father is a paranormal researcher and I sometimes don’t see him for years at a time. My half-sister died a few months ago. I work at a local university in Sandbourne. I like cars, and I was very good at fixing up my old one, but I don’t know a lot about new ones. I like to buy technology even if I don’t need it. I casually play video games, but I rarely finish them. I live with my paternal grandmother, my abuela, whose name is Pilar. I have a pet West Highland White Terrier called Craigellachie, after a place on the Rocky Mountaineer Calgary-to-Vancouver line that I want to travel on one day. I also have a black shuck with me called Damario, who came to me the night my sister died, and I am being stalked by something sinister and truly unnatural.
In response, Alaska quickly located me on Skype using my email address, and invited me to connect.
This will probably not be Alaska’s final backstory but we’ll see.
Are you gonna be okay?” Mabel asked carefully, as she’d been trying to avoid this subject with me ever since the crematorium. It had unnerved her that I had remained so stoic and quiet during the ceremony. I had explained that I grieve in my own way due to my unique family configuration and my unusual upbringing, and hadn’t bothered to tell her that I suspected my recently deceased sister was now visiting my abuela on a nightly basis, or that she’d been killed by some Eldritch abomination.