I’m releasing the Prologue to my debut novel, Someone to Listen, because honestly I can’t wait to get this story out into the world. I’m dying to upload and publish this book, but I want it to be as perfect as I can get it before you get your hands on the whole thing.
In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this first look at what has been the prime focus of the last three months of my life…
It was time to put pen to paper. If no one was going to listen to the words coming out of my mouth, then perhaps feeling the rough indentations of my wild scrawl against their fingers would be more convincing.
The entirety of the last four years I hid in the background, shy and unnoticed, a shadow to the rest of the world. In just a few short days, I was thrust into the media spotlight, becoming the sole focus of my college and all of New England. The prying, judging eyes of the world were on me, and there I was, screaming to get someone’s attention to truly hear my story but finding nothing but deaf ears.
They were all convinced they knew what happened, that I couldn’t possibly be telling the truth. Some knew my history, the unspoken circumstances of the last time I was under this type of scrutiny. They didn’t believe me back then, either.
Just when I felt I had something to live for – someone to live for – everything was taken from me. The more desperate my grasps to get it back, the quicker it slipped through my fingers. I felt trapped and alone, more so than I had ever been in my life. This was supposed to be my fresh start. For awhile it was the beautiful new beginning I imagined for myself through years of darkness, and now it was crumbling away before my eyes.
Sitting down on the bed, leaning forward onto my sore thighs, I let the long, wavy strands of my light brown hair envelop the sides of my face as if to hide me away from the world. It was too easy to crawl back into my shell, into that dark place that lingered in my mind. If I went back there, I may never come out again.
I quickly shook away those thoughts and grabbed for the pen and notebook that sat idly on the nightstand. My hand and pen vigorously attacked the paper as I wrote the words that I prayed someone would read.
Someone had to believe me.
Someone had to listen.