Late to the Party. Write 500 words where your main character has arrived to a party after something big happened. Try to paint a vivid picture after the fact.
I don’t have time for this, but…here is goes…500 words…
The broken glass crunching under my boots, and the hard scent of liquor should have alerted me. But I continue up the path, almost running to the beat of the music pulsing from the house.
“Guy!” Lisa calls from the open, front door. The hem of her red dress is not right. Skewed as if someone had tugged on one side too hard; her hair disheveled.
I reach for her and wrap my arms around her waist, drawing her close. “Sorry, I’m late, honey. It won’t happen again. What’s going on?”
Lisa shakes her head and pushes me away, tears in her eyes. “You should have gotten here on time. It wouldn’t have happened if you were here.”
Sirens cry in the distance. Lisa looks back into the house, but doesn’t make a move to either leave or go back in. She simply stares. I follow her gaze, a lump in my throat, and I take in a sharp breath at the sight of all that blood.
I shallow hard. “What happened, baby. Just tell me that. What happened?” I had to raise my voice so I could hear myself think over the sound of the music weaving with the sirens. Somewhere, someone turns off the stereo.
The sharp screech of tires makes Lisa jump back into my arms. She buries her face into my shoulder. “I told him to leave.”
A few of our friends file out of the house. None look at us and they move off of the porch to stand in the remains of the broken window. Looks of confusion and fear paint their faces along with the red flashing lights of the police cars and ambulance.
I hold Lisa tight and whisper in her ear. “It’s gonna be alright.”
A police officer comes up to us, ignoring the small crowd on the lawn. His hand rests on his holster. He nods at me.
“Officer Starett. Did you make the call?”
Other officers start to gather and question my friends. I keep my eyes on them and say, “No. I just got here.” Lisa is sobbing into my chest. I rub her back. “Honey, did you call 911?”
She lifts her head far enough away from me to mumble something incoherent, and wipe at her nose. That’s when I notice all the blood on her hands. I push her away and realize the front of her dress is drenched in blood. It wasn’t red.
The thought of all her sleepless nights, the complaints of migraines, and her ranting about wanting a birthday party despite what the physiologist said crash into me.
“Baby, what did you do?”