Tag Archive: domestic abuse


It’s the little things…

Life’s been insane. I started working almost full-time at a local convenience store chain. Escaped my abuser’s home (and yes, I came to terms with the fact that it was abuse, in the past year).

In that time, I’ve been writing. I’ve been competing, too. Remember that writing competition on LJ I waxed poetic about? Well, season 9 started back in… March?

It’s still going.

We’re like three weeks or so away from reaching the top 50.

And I am clawing my way into that coveted range of people. My true goal is Top 25.

In the past year, I’ve split up my Tomorrow Trilogy into three separate books, each with their own separate story lines and casts. Gray Morning is still titled that — Gray Morning. Ryan (previously Ryin) has his own world to play in, and so does Jordine and the Hooban race.

I’ve written several new short stories I intend to try and push out into the world.

And my erotica writing has, sadly, ground to a halt. I intend to resume it, and I’m editing all five pieces for Say What You Want to publish as a single book — but I am debating on adding another “bonus” chapter to the end. My muses want to, and I think it might benefit the story if I did, but finding the energy to write that much unabashed smut right now is difficult.

My life, right now, is so much better than it was a year ago. And while I’m not writing as much as I used to, I’m still writing, and I’m piecing together a new draft for Gray Morning. Behold, a little of what I have cobbled together, today:


“Where were you?” Savin growled once the door shut behind him. “The Empire’s been fucking falling apart –”

“I know,” Jazz murmured, frowning.

“They think you’re dead!” Savin shouted, throwing his keys down on the little stand beside his door. He tugged off his jacket and tossed it aside, storming past Jazz once he slipped his shoes off his feet.

“I know,” Jazz whispered, his voice quiet and subdued.

“They think I did it!” Savin turned sharply on his heel, running his fingers through his hair. “Do you know how long it took for them to let me go back to my job? Fucking Amelia kept an eye on me for at least a month — I almost got fired — I –” He cut himself off, noticing the look on Jazz’s face.

“Do you blame them?” Jazz asked, his back nearly to the door, his lip caught underneath his teeth. “You did tell them what happened, right?”

Savin paused, the anger having been sucked from his lungs. He frowned and looked away from Jazz. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “They only wanted to know where you were — and since I didn’t know…”

Jazz nodded, still chewing on his bottom lip as he turned his gaze towards the floor. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I just — I couldn’t do it anymore.”

“I don’t care,” Savin said, turning on his heel and waving his hand dismissively in the air. He kept talking as he moved towards his bedroom, tugging his top over his shoulders as he walked. “I really fucking don’t, okay? You left, and my life nearly fucking fell apart, and I don’t give a shit anymore.”

He slammed his bathroom door behind him and shed the rest of his clothes. He needed a shower. Needed to get away and just forget that Jazz was even there. In his apartment. Alive. And apparently no worse for wear, even after the past six months, and —

Savin shut off the water and tugged his jeans back over his waist. Anger filled him again, and he marched out of the bathroom, arms folded over his bare chest. “Where the fuck where you, anyway?” he snapped, his nails digging into his upper arms. “You’re the fucking Emperor — how could you just abandon your whole fucking Empire like that?”

Jazz flinched, his back still to the front door. His face flushed and he kept his eyes low. “I thought it would be in good hands,” he said, fidgeting.

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Daily Report & Snippet

You know how sometimes, you just struggle with a piece? One of my characters, Savin, tends to give me a lot of trouble when I’m writing something where he’s being a grade A asshole. He withholds dialogue from me, makes me believe that this dialogue I’m writing really happened this way when no, it’s actually a little out of order. He does it to make himself look better. It’s getting easier to recognize. Usually he just skips over dialogue entirely — that’s his biggest thing. 

So I’m working on Gray Morning, which is the book where his ass-itude is at its highest. And with the changes I intend to make in the (third) draft, it’s even worse than in previous versions. Before, I had him skirting the edge of becoming abusive. Now? Yeaaaah. He’s going to become abusive. I know what the Final Straw ends up being for Jazz and it’s really, really not pretty. I’m terrified of writing it. 

But it needs to be written. I saw the scene. Saw what he does to Jazz. And it’s awful, and I’m going to cry when I write it, because I love these two characters. I love their relationship. I love their dynamic. I just…love them.

And I have to write them both at their lowest points. Have to write them struggling to return to their individual levels of normal and okay and happy. And Savin…well, it’s a good thing therapists exist in the Tomorrow Trilogy ‘verse because he’ll need it, if he wants to ever have a relationship with Jazz again. 

This book is my favorite of the three. I have to do it justice. I’m afraid to write it out of order/without having fully revised drafts of Seize the Day and Surrender the Night, but it’s calling to me, and I need to listen. 

Hopefully it’ll help me reconcile the shit I’m currently going through.

Without further ado, here’s my snippet for the evening…

***

Savin snorted and rolled his eyes. “I’m not fucking ‘acting,’ Jasper,” he spat, narrowing his eyes at Jazz. Jazz kept his distance as Savin pulled his hand out of his pocket, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. Wished his heart would stop feeling as though it would burst out of his chest any moment. “I told you, this is what I’ve always been like.”

“No, it’s fucking not,” Jazz snapped, grinding his heel into the ground. He ignored the pounding of his heart and the twisting in his stomach as he reached out for Savin’s shoulder. 

Savin turned sharply, grabbing Jazz’s wrist and ripping Jazz’s hand off his shoulder. “And how the hell would you know?” he growled, moving dangerously close to Jazz once again as he continued to hold him. “You’ve been totally head over heels for me since the moment we fucking met, thought I could do no fucking wrong.” He squeezed Jazz’s wrist. A jolt of pain caused Jazz to gasp and try to wrench his wrist free.

He couldn’t. He couldn’t get free. And they were alone — entirely fucking alone in the Palace Gardens, and with the way the clouds gathered overhead, no one would be coming outside anytime soon. Jazz’s mouth went dry as Savin gripped his chin with his free hand yet again.

“I’ve just been using you,” Savin said with a smirk. “Didn’t you once tell me you’d never trust a surgeon? Maybe you should have listened to your instincts.” 

Jazz shuddered as Savin’s fingers trailed along the edge of his jaw and down his neck, before both of Savin’s hands left his body entirely. Breathing became easier again, just for a moment, and he could no longer feel the way his heart hammered in his chest. “You’re not — you’re not like them.”

“You don’t know that for sure,” Savin said with a laugh. “All surgeons have to do a stint in the Orphanages, you know. Have to observe the experiments –”

“You’re lying!” Jazz shouted, glaring at Savin. He ignored how his cheeks suddenly felt wet — how all of his scars suddenly burned his skin. “If you — if you had fucking been involved in the Orphanages, you wouldn’t have even considered putting Danni through that! So stop fucking lying and stop trying to push me away — I’m not fucking going anywhere!”

“I don’t have to fucking try, Jasper –”

Stop calling me that!” Jazz bellowed. Savin blinked at him in confusion before snickering to himself, shaking his head. “That’s not my fucking name and you know it!”

“Legally, it is your name, Jasper,” Savin drawled, a wide grin sweeping across his face. “So get fucking used to me calling you that.”

Jazz watched in silence as Savin reached into his pocket and pulled out his pack of cigarettes. As Savin lit another, smoke clouded the air between them once more. His eyes focused on Jazz. They hardened, flashing dangerously in the red light of the burning cherry. “Don’t fucking worry — you won’t stay with me. You’ll leave, just like everyone else, and you won’t have to hear me call you that, ever again.”

He then took in a long drag, intentionally blowing the smoke into Jazz’s face. “Just you wait,” he murmured, turning on his heel and walking away.

Don’t Push (Me Away)

Note: it’s rare that I post whole pieces, but this one has been instrumental in my coping with my recent Personal Problem. Takes place a during Gray Morning, which is book 3 of my trilogy.

“You’ve been talking to Mari.”

Jazz jumped at the sound of Savin’s voice — at the anger that laced through it. He put down the stack of reports he held in his hands and braced himself. “I have,” he said quietly, nodding his head. “Is that okay with you?”

“About what?” Savin snapped, throwing himself in the chair directly across from Jazz. He folded his arms over his chest, a deep frown overtaking his features. “About me?”

Jazz directed his eyes downward, tracing a finger along the wood of the table top. “Yes,” he whispered, biting his lip. He had been confiding in Mari for weeks, asking for her advice, wondering how she would handle the man that sat before him now. She had known Savin for over a decade. Knew him just as well, if not better, than Jazz did.

And she still couldn’t tell him what to do when Savin glared at him like that. When that sadistic half-smile played on his lips. When every word that left them had one, singular purpose: push Jazz far, far away from him.

“What did she say?” Savin pressed, picking up one of Jazz’s pens and twirling it absently with his fingers. The frown remained in place.

Jazz looked away from him. Tried to ignore how his shoulders felt so tense they ached. Tried to ignore how his heart pounded in his chest.

“She said I should leave. Give you some space.”

A bitter laugh. One that caused a shiver to roll down Jazz’s spine. One that reminded him this wasn’t the man he married — that this wasn’t the Savin he knew at all. A facade. A fake. “Of course she did — she left me, after all. Just like everyone else.”

“Not me,” Jazz breathed, the tension in his shoulders building. He could feel the tears come, and he didn’t fight them as he turned to look Savin in the eye. There was that smirk. That humorless one, that one that let Jazz know the rest of the night was going to suck, that he should just leave and let the mood pass.

But he couldn’t. Savin was so convinced he would. Savin wanted him to. Wanted him to forget all about him, wanted him to forget about their vows, their life together, everything.

“Bullshit,” Savin spat, tapping the pen against the table. Fingers moving in practiced, likely memorized motions. He held the pen like a knife. Like a scalpel. Another shiver rippled through Jazz, causing him to turn away yet again.

“I won’t leave,” Jazz insisted. But his voice faltered, cracked as he spoke and as the tears streamed down his face. “Savin, I love you — there’s nothing you could do to get me to leave.”

Another hollow laugh, this one more biting than the last. “Is that so?” Savin countered, his voice dripping with contempt. Contempt for him, Jazz realized. Savin still held the pen like a knife. Made crude cutting motions with it across the table, as if miming the cruel incisions that Jazz had endured as a child.

“It is,” he said, his voice wavering all the while. A lie. Deep down, he knew that was a lie. That there were things Savin could do that would make him leave. That there were things Savin could say, things Savin could be that would push him away entirely.

He wanted to believe that Savin wouldn’t — that Savin couldn’t do those things, or say those things, or be those things. Desperately, he prayed that there was still some shred left of the man he married. Prayed that a voice of reason would keep Savin from doing anything too drastic to make a point.

But then he watched as Savin put the knife — pen back down on the table. Watched as Savin slowly stood up and smoothed down the front of his shirt. Froze in place as Savin moved around the edge of the table and stood beside his chair.

Except he wasn’t entirely frozen. Not as his body shook. Not as Savin grabbed his chin, forcing his eyes to look into dead green ones. “You’re a liar,” Savin said, his breath smelling of smoke. He let go of Jazz’s chin and walked away, heading towards the kitchen.

“No, I’m not,” Jazz said, his voice stronger than his legs, which nearly gave out on him when he stood. He followed Savin, trying to stop the tears, to regain his voice and his strength. He could push through this. He could get through to Savin. Could talk some sense into him. He had to.

Savin turned sharply on his heel and strode over to Jazz. Jazz remained where he was, his back stiff and burning. Before he could say or do anything, Savin’s hands were on his shoulders, nails digging through the fabric of his shirt, each finger tip burning his skin. “Are you sure about that?” Savin asked, his grip tightening.

“Yes,” Jazz squeaked, closing his eyes and biting his lip. Savin wouldn’t hurt him. Savin wouldn’t hit him. Savin wouldn’t — he wouldn’t —

Savin’s hands slid up his shoulders, towards his neck. Jazz’s heart stopped, plummeting to the floor as those fingers — fingers that once would do anything to pleasure him — loosely wrapped around his throat.

“Are you sure about that?” Savin repeated.

Yes.”

He couldn’t open his eyes. Couldn’t stop the tears, either, as he silently prayed for it all to stop. For this to end. For his Savin to come back to him, for Savin to wake up. A heartbeat. Then two, then three.

Savin’s hands fell away from his neck, never having tightened around it in the first place. “Fine,” Savin said, causing Jazz’s eyes to snap open. He didn’t dare move his hands to his throat, to his shoulders, instead feeling relieved as Savin moved away from him. “I’m going out for a smoke. Want to join me?”

“Yes.”

Savin smiled bitterly and shook his head. Even laughed as Jazz followed behind him without the slightest bit of hesitation.

If he were ever to get his husband back, he needed to follow. Needed to stay. Needed to prove that he would.

But when they made it out to the Palace Gardens — when Savin helped him fumble through lighting his own cigarette, he could only think of one thing:

The worst was yet to come.