The Good Neighbor, стр. 44
No, I would never return to Hewitt Street.
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About the Author
Kimberly A. Bettes was born in Missouri in 1977. Kimberly is the author of four novels and many short stories. She enjoyed eight months on the New York Times Bestseller List, and then she woke up. She lives with her husband and son, her snobby cat, and her dog in the beautiful Ozark Mountains of southeast Missouri, where she terrorizes residents of a small town with her twisted tales. It’s there she likes to study serial killers and knit. She is currently working on her next novel.
Connect with Me Online:
Twitter: http://twitter.com/kimberlyabettes
Facebook: http://facebook.com/kimberlyabettes
Smashwords: http://smashwords.com/profile/view/kimberlyabettes
My blog: http://kimberlyabettes.wordpress.com
Note to the Reader
When I was fourteen, I picked up the book Watchers by Dean Koontz, an author unknown to me at the time. I cracked it open and was mesmerized by the brilliance of the story. I was unable to put it down until I’d read every last word. I laughed, I cried, and I fell in love with the story and the style in which it was written. I was amazed at the way simple words on a page could evoke such emotion from me. As I closed the book, I stared off across my bedroom with a goofy smile on my face and I just knew this was what I was supposed to do.
I spent my summer that year writing my first novel, Adaptations. I worked my fingers to the bones, typing out page after page on an old typewriter. I stayed up late, using the quiet of the night to clack away at the keys. It took nearly two years for me to finish that novel, as the life of a teenager got in the way a bit. Between school and keeping up my social life, I struggled to find time to write.
What was the reward for all that hard work, you ask. Well, simply put, a full-length novel that, to my standards at least, is horrible. It’s not a bad story, don’t get me wrong. But when I look back at it with the experience and wisdom I have now, I see all the work that it would take to polish it into a book that suits my standards today. Who knows? Maybe one day, when I have nothing else to do, perhaps I’ll pull out that possible diamond in the rough, blow the dust off it, and polish it until it shines. After all, it will always hold a place in my heart. It’s my first novel.
My second novel, Annie’s Revenge, was written a handful of years later. It too is a great story, but as I look back on it now, I don’t love it as I loved it when I wrote it. Maybe it’s because I’ve spent more than ten years now handling it. Or maybe it’s because after all these years, I’ve found my style and my subject matter, my theme, and it just doesn’t fit. My husband tells me to throw it away. I can’t do that. I’ve never thrown away anything I’ve written no matter how horrible it is. It’s a part of me and is a testament to my thought process at the time. It too holds a special place in my heart, even if it isn’t the kind of story I would write today.
In the summer of 2010, I sat down at my laptop (a far cry from the days of clacking on the keys of an old typewriter) to write a short story for a novel I’d been toying with for years, Minutes to Death. Funny thing happened, though. Before I’d written two full pages, the story had become something totally different than what I was planning to write. It took on a life of its own and I knew that it was going to be a novel.
Three weeks later, it was complete. It was my best work to date, I felt. I couldn’t believe how the story wrote itself and how little time it took. I emailed each chapter to a friend as soon as I’d finished it, and was yelled at to write more more more! I did as I was told, and loved the final product, a novel called The Good Neighbor.
It’s the summer of 2011 now. I’m working on a novel called Rage. It is by far the greatest story I’ve ever written. I love the character and hate what I’m putting him through. This story tells itself in more ways than I could’ve ever imagined. I had a list of things I wanted to have happen, and some of them I just can’t do. Why? Because my main character says so. And he’s the boss. I’m just here to relate his story to you.
I’ve learned a lot through the years and have really tightened up my writing. The stuff I turned out years ago makes me cringe when I read it, while the work I do today astonishes me. I’m my own worst critic.
I’ve enclosed some excerpts from some of my other stories. Read them if you like, and please tell me what you think. You can comment on my blog or my Twitter account or my Facebook page. All the addresses are listed above.
Thank you for taking the time to read my work. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. See you next time.
The following is an excerpt from Rage, my latest novel. Look for the Smashwords Edition in 2011.
Rage
1
Face down on my bed, I buried my face in my pillow and waited for him to finish.
“Tell Daddy you like it,” he said through grunts.
I ignored him. The son of a bitch may be married to my mother, but he was not my daddy. My daddy was dead.
“Say it, Brian,” he said behind me.
I still ignored him.
He slapped the back of my head. I peeked up from the pillow and saw his hands, one on each side of my head, giving him the leverage he needed to slam himself against me as hard as he wanted.
I stared at his hands. His fingernails were bitten off far past the tips of his fingers. Faded blue tattoos spell G-O-O-D across the fingers of his left hand and E-V-I-L across those of his right. I doubted there’d ever been a time when his left hand had prevailed.
I tried to stay relaxed. It hurt less that way. It still hurt like hell, but it hurt less. The pain was still intense enough to make me want to cry. But there’s no way I’d let him see me. No way.
I felt him tense and knew it was almost over. But I also knew that the worst part was getting ready to happen.
I squeezed my eyes shut.
He went at me harder now, grunting like a madman. Then, he stiffened and held his position for a few seconds before collapsing on me.
He was sweaty and panting and crushing me. It was hard to breathe. Just when I thought I’d pass out from the lack of air, he got up. I took a deep breath. I heard him zip his jeans and leave the room.
I lay there for a while, crying silently into my pillow. When I was all cried out, I got off the bed slowly, my backside burning. I made my way to the bathroom as quietly as I could to avoid drawing his attention. I sat on the toilet to rid myself of his stuff, and then showered. It hurt to do it, but I scrubbed myself to try to erase any evidence of him.
I hated him. More than I’ve ever hated anybody. I don’t know why my mother stayed with him. I don’t know why she ever got with him in the first place.
That wasn’t true. I knew why.
I slowly and quietly made my way across the hallway and back to my bedroom. It hurt too much to sit, so I lay on my side and did my homework. My mother wasn’t home and there was no way I was going to be around him without her.