An assignment for Creative Writing; we had to write dialogue with at least twelve exchanges where what one person said, they definitely didn't mean. I decided just to do a narrative, and it sort of developed into this :p I think it could be the basis for something else, but.. what do you guys think? x3
I traced the rim of the chilled glass with my fingertip, my lips pulled downward and my eyes cast to the floor. I leaned over on the stool, propping my elbows up on the marble island, and I sat with my chin between my arms. I heard footsteps shuffling back and forth behind me, and I grimaced inside my sleeves. I didn't want to be here.
The stool next to me screeched, and I heard a greeting. My eyes wandered over to my uncle, whom I rarely see. I folded my hands onto my lap and smiled politely. "Are you feeling well?" He asked, appearing concerned.
I wasn't feeling very well in the first place, to be honest, but now that this ogre of a man decided to sit his disgusting self next to me, I felt much worse. I wanted to strike his dark, greasy hair on fire, letting his unwashed mustache scorch his upper lip, or maybe let his eyebrows slip from his forehead. "Perfect," I responded, baring my teeth in a smile that couldn't convince anybody.
He looked at me, cocking his head, the edges of his lips pulled into a frown I wanted to rip off. Maybe his head would tumble off of his neck, smashing onto the scuffed wooden floor and spattering blood along the walls and cabinets. I wouldn't mind seeing his blood someplace other than inside his throbbing veins. He opened his mouth to speak, his dark, chapped lips rubbing against each other, and he told me, "I want you to enjoy the party."
This? This pathetic gathering of people who barely even know each other, this place where those who come smile and pretend that they don't want to give a concussion to every person who speaks to them? I pulled my thin lips tighter into another convincing expression. "I am, everything is lovely," I wanted to die. "I missed everybody so much." I honestly wouldn't mind if they all jumped off a bridge, either.
Thick, black hairs on his stomach protruded toward me, his pale skin peeking through his shirt. His tie climbed over his chest, the silky white aesthetically pleasing against the navy blue. Unfortunately, it doesn't look or feel so nice anymore when it's wrapped tightly around your neck. His large, powerful hands shook as he laughed, a chuckle that he choked out from the bottom of his throat. "Me too," he grinned, his dirty yellow teeth threatening to pop right out of his gums. He pounded his fingers along his leg, the fingertips scratching his matching pair of pants. I remember those fingertips, pounding and scratching something else.
His eyes searched me, crawling along my chest and neck. I almost shuddered; I wanted to lash my hand out and strike him across the face with my knuckles. I wanted to take the empty plate in front of me and bash it against his skull. I wanted to see the crumbs floating in his thick blood. His folded a piece of hair behind his ear, and let his palm fall onto the counter instead of back onto his lap. The dirt inside his fingernails adulterated the bright white of the table as he drummed them, and I watch his gaze focus on my own.
I slipped off the chair and planted my feet on the floor. "I'm going to get more food," I announced, and I watched him fall off his stool as well. He was beaming, his dark eyes resting on mine, shining as he stared at me.
"Good idea," he grinned, the wrinkles on his forehead folding over one another, the small black hairs matted against his oily skin. I cringed as he clasped my shoulder, almost playing with the fabric of my snow-white sweater, nipping with his fingers the stitches near my neck. His fingers smelled of rubbing alcohol and whiskey; I felt like gagging.
I wanted to jerk his hand off my shoulder, but instead I forced myself to shuffle my way across the room toward the food. My stomach ached, and bread was already piled inside my throat. My uncle snatched a plate from the counter, and I hastily removed his grasp. I took a biscuit. I felt too sick to even want to know what his grubby hands were eagerly grabbing. I moved away from him, and he kept following me. I put the biscuit in my mouth, put the plate down, and I went to leave the kitchen. "Tyler," he called, and I turned, grudgingly. "I want to talk to you."
His fingers were gently stroking his tie, and he placed the glass plate back on the counter. I couldn't find my voice. I wanted to sound threatening. I didn't want to sound submissive, my words small and my eyes frightened. But it came out that way. "Yes?" I had to choke out the words, and I cleared my throat and tapped my fist on my chest.
My uncle approached me. He took his hand off his tie and put both too few inches above my waist. "I want you to know," he began, his eyes wandering to the ceiling, his tongue peeking through his lips. "That I'm here whenever you need me."
"I know," I squeaked instinctively. He pinched my skin from outside the fabric. His expression wanted to remain solemn, but his smile kept coming through, and I frowned back. Blood pounded into my cheeks as he moved closer, and my arms remained stationary at my side. My fingers felt numb.
His breathing became more audible. It was loud and even, and it echoed in my ears. "Good," he said. "Good."
"Are you feeling well?" He asked.
"Perfect," I responded.
"I want you to enjoy the party," he told me.
"I am, everything is lovely. I missed everybody so much." I smiled.
"Me too." He grinned.
"I'm going to get more food." I announced.
"Good idea," He grinned. Then,
"Tyler, I want to talk to you," He called.
"Yes?" I answered.
"I want you to know that I'm here whenever you need me," He reminded me.
"I know." I squeaked.
"Good, good." He said.
Dialogue can be so misleading when left alone, can it not? Except for the squeaking part. I don't know how you would interpret that xD