This is the prologue of the novel I'm currently working on. Let me know what you think.
1983
The 1980s.
It felt like a new beginning to some, coming out of the chaos that the 1970s had
felt like. Margaret Thatcher and Ronald Reagan were the choices of the
grownups: The Iron Lady and the Cowboy/Actor.
But to the
youth of the time, music told the tale. Depeche Mode, Duran Duran, Phil
Collins, Genesis, Wham, Flock of Seagulls, Bryan Ferry, Orchestral Maneuvers in
the Dark, and the like breathed something different to a new generation. Even
older rockers, like The Who appeared to have seen a new day.
Boys
wearing guy-liner, girls in leg warmers and shoulder pads, all of them sporting
big hair held in place with hairspray, danced with abandon to a new age of pop
music and pop culture.
The Evans
twins, Brynn and Christopher turned 15 at the beginning of the decade. Their
older sister, Amanda was months away from entering Uni, and all was right with
the world. The fact that they were twins may have had a small bit to do with
their popularity – at least Kit believed that about himself. The boys were
about to enter sixth form the following school year, and two years of prep for Uni
themselves.
Identical
twins, but not identical in personality: Brynn was good at sports and played on
the school’s football team – what the Americans called soccer. Kit spent his
spare time with his guitar, singing, and learning the songs from the radio.
While
Kit’s friends were mainly from the music and theatre people at school, Brynn’s
were more likely to be athletes, although neither was exclusive to those
groups, and their closest friends mingled in both. Brynn could usually coax Kit
into going to parties or simply hanging about with his set. But Kit never tried
to convince himself that he was any sort of athlete.
Kit saw
Brynn as the talented one: the athletic one, who painted amazing watercolors,
wrote prolifically – although Kit’s written work, when he got around to it, was
far better technically – and made friends as easily as smiling. Kit, on the
other hand, tended to be shy around people he didn’t know well, unless he had
guitar in hand and a microphone in front of him. He could be found more often
engrossed in a book, albeit up in a tree, than getting up to some of the antics
of his brother.
It was
surprising that now, two and a half years later, the nearly 18-year-olds were headed
to a party given by Kit’s theatre friends on a Friday night in early March, one
where Brynn would be the relative stranger.
Brynn
and Kit were in high spirits. The party had been discussed for weeks among
their friends in anticipation. As usual, Brynn joked and made witty comments
about their friends. He was never mean. The subjects of his comments would
laugh at what he had to say as much as Kit did.
Kit
ran a hand through his dark brown hair, and it flopped on his forehead. Brynn
didn’t dare touch his own hair. He wore it sprayed as many of the
pop stars did. It wasn’t unusual in 1983 for boys to use hairspray. Kit often
did the same, but he’d been running late, and didn’t have the time to get it
just so. Besides, he’d heard a certain young lady at the party liked the look
of his deep blue eyes looking out from under his tousled feathered haircut.
Looking good for the
ladies might be the goal of the evening, but both boys had plans for university
in another few years.
“Your
turn is two streets up,” Kit said.
“Great,”
Brynn replied, continuing along the main street.
Oddly,
considering Brynn was the more outgoing of the two – the first born – Kit knew
more of the people who would be at the party than Brynn did. But Brynn wouldn’t be a stranger by any means.
All
of the side streets had stop signs, so it was a clear run to the street where
they needed to turn. As they started across the one before it, another car
raced toward the intersection. The lights caught Kit’s attention.
“Brynn,
watch out!”
Brynn
turned his head and slammed on the brakes a second too late. The other car,
ignoring the stop sign, slammed into the driver’s side of the car, slamming it into a light pole that hit just forward of
Kit’s door.
“Brynn!”
Kit said. He started to reach toward his brother, but pain in his side and his
arm made his breath catch.
He
didn’t like the angle of his brother’s head. Something looked off. He waited
for Brynn to make noise, shake himself, or groan, at least.
No
sound came. Kit was afraid to move, not wanting the pain, not knowing what else
might be wrong.
“Brynn!”
Brynn!”
His shout turned into a howl as he sat bolt upright in bed.
The
bedroom door opened, and his grandfather entered. He grabbed Kit, who stared into the darkness like one blind, and gradually calmed him down. He sat on the side of the bed stroking the boy’s hair.
“Is
he all right?” the boy’s grandmother asked from the doorway.
“Nightmare
again,” her husband replied.
He
knew well the effects of PTSD – battle fatigue they called it when he was in
the war.
“It’s
all right, boy,” his grandfather said gently.
“It
was the accident again?” his grandmother asked. Her husband nodded.
Mr.
Evans was good at getting his grandson calmed enough to sleep. His wife left
him to it.
“This
was the first one in a long while,” Mrs. Evans said when her husband returned
to their bedroom.
“I
was hoping it had stopped for good. I can’t imagine how he’ll get on at
university with this still lingering. It would drive any roommate mad.”
“He
still has a few months before he has to decide. And another year wouldn’t
hurt.”
“He’s
been anxious to go. I think even suggesting he wait another year would hurt
him. We’ll have to see what his doctor recommends.”
The
conversation was put to rest for the night. The morning always made things
easier to decide.
