I was browsing through a folder of old writing stuff the other day and came across this little unfinished piece. When I first started writing more seriously, I used to take scenes from some of my favorite movies and shows and rewrite them from the perspective of (or starring) my own characters. Not only was it a good exercise in terms of practicing describing movie visuals with the written word, but it was fun to throw the characters into these already-established scenes and brainstorm how they might react or how their unique traits and personalities would affect the situation.
The original date on this one is July 2013, so it’s from the summer before Dakiti was published. It’s based on a scene from the end of No Country For Old Men, one of my favorite movies. Yes, Ziva is the (anti)hero in my books, but due to the nature of her work, she’s the villain in a lot of other people’s stories, and I always thought it would be interesting to put her in the role of Anton Chigurh. I’ve actually toyed with the idea of writing an entire story/book from someone else’s perspective where she’s the primary antagonist, and I still might sometime.
It’s funny reading this now because I can tell I actually drew on parts of the vague little backstory I concocted here for certain elements in Fracture and Embers. This is only about 1,000 words long, and it cuts off pretty abruptly, but I thought it would be fun to share it anyway. Enjoy!
It was the wee hours of the morning before he made it home. The silence that followed the slam of the door was heavenly—his ears still hadn’t recovered from that ridiculous music they’d been playing at the club. He set his wallet and office pass key on the table beside the door and tossed his jacket onto the sofa, not even bothering to turn on the light. The long nights and coming home to a dark house had become something of a routine as of late.
He stood there in the peace and quiet for a moment, torn between getting something to eat and going straight to bed. He placed a hand on his forehead and closed his eyes an an attempt to cure a sudden bout of dizziness. It had been a while since he’d been this drunk, but he figured he deserved a bit of a celebration now that he was finally in the clear. He still couldn’t quite bring himself to be relieved, however—after all, he hadn’t heard from his brother in a while. Chances were they’d gotten to him. He was probably dead.
His bed sounded more inviting by the minute, so he finally concluded that he’d skip the midnight snack. After all, now that he’d found buyers for his share of the stolen goods, it didn’t matter how hungover he was in the morning. There were still, of course, the drug dealers that needed to be dealt with, but now that he had the money, he was no longer concerned about them. Yes, he would take tomorrow to relax. He would pay the cartel back, and then he would return to his normal life.
The top-notch locking mechanism on his bedroom door was a nightly reminder that his life had been anything but normal for the past several weeks. His brother was…had been the best thief in the business, and the items he acquired often called for the highest quality security. He’d been uncomfortable with the thought of storing the haul in his own home, but the knowledge that it would enable him to pay his debt and free himself from the cartel’s control had won him over in the end.
It took his unsteady hand three tries to enter the correct code on the keypad. His bedroom—his whole house, for that matter—had been transformed into a vault for the duration that the treasures had been in his possession. There wasn’t much point in having this lock anymore now that the job was done. Right now, it was just one more obstacle separating him from the comfort of his bed.
Despite not having full control of his faculties, the realization that something wasn’t right hit him before the door had even opened. This wasn’t the simple paranoia he’d grown accustomed to lately, the tingle that shot through his body whenever he encountered a cop or when someone came to the door. This was different—the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end and his legs felt weak beneath him. The confirmation that something was amiss came when he was blinded by the light from his bedside lamp, the one he’d gotten into the habit of angling away in order to avoid this very situation after a late night. It seemed absurdly bright compared to the darkness from which he had come.
He instinctively lifted his hand to shield his eyes. The far side of the room was dim due to the positioning of the lighting panel, but he was still able to make out the indistinct figure of a person sitting in his desk chair. As his eyes adjusted, he found himself looking at a face partially obscured by shadows. It belonged to a woman; she was dressed entirely in black and sat with one leg draped over the other, silently regarding him with eyes that were—he did a double take—yes, blood red.
His heart collapsed into his stomach and he suddenly felt short of breath. “I knew this wasn’t over.”
She said nothing, remaining so still and quiet that for a moment he wondered if she was simply a figment of his paranoid imagination. But then she blinked. It was a long, slow blink that gave him the impression she was deep in thought or maybe even bored. She was Haphezian, unless he was mistaken—the small patterns of dots tattooed onto her face gave that away. in all honestly, she was quite striking, and she had a certain graceful air about her that impressed him. It was the reason she was there that terrified him. His eyes were drawn to where her left hand rested on the arm of the chair. In it, she held a suppressed projectile pistol, and it was pointed directly at him.
“It’s all gone,” he said, lowering his hand and standing up as straight as he could. “I had less than half of the collection to begin with. I don’t even know where the rest of it is, but I’m sure it’s long gone too. The money I made selling it? I owe that to the leader of a local drug cartel who will come after me if I don’t pay him back by tomorrow.”
She had her right elbow propped up on the armrest and rested her chin in her hand. Her facial expression remained unchanged. “I wouldn’t worry about that.”
Her words—and her voice—made his skin crawl. He suddenly felt very faint and placed a hand against the wall to steady himself. Even if he was clear-headed and stable, there was no way he’d make it back out the door with that gun trained on him. “I need to sit down,” he said, easing onto the foot of the bed.
She continued to watch him with those red eyes, still completely motionless except for the occasional blink. Even when he turned away from her and hung his head, he could still feel her gaze drilling into him. Was she the assassin who had been hunting his brother? That was the primary reason he’d been in charge of storing a portion of the loot. Word had gotten around that the royal family had sent someone after whoever had stolen their treasures, but nobody had known exactly who. If she knew to come here, she had no doubt been in contact—whatever that meant—with his brother at some point.
“You’ve got no reason to hurt me.”
“No?”
“He’s the one who stole everything.”
Fun, right? I’ve always loved this movie. The book is good too—it’s easily the best book-to-movie adaptation I’ve ever come across.
