Blind is a YA Romance novel. Approximately 42,000 words, it is currently enjoying retirement in a nice cushy Word doc.
Beth isn't crazy. Sure, she doesn't like to hit the college party scene quite as hard as her friends. Sure, she would rather talk about books than pretend to be interested in football to lure in guys. Sure, her dreams are being haunt by an adorable Aussie who's been dead for five years and claims he's her soul mate -- and she believes him. But none of that makes her crazy, right?
Below is an excerpt from the beginning of chapter three.
The spring semester at Addison University started three weeks after I was out of the hospital and able to walk on my own. My arm was still in a cast, but my few free fingers were mobile enough that I could write – never mind that that writing looked like an overexcited three-year-old with a magic marker. So, with this somewhat-limited mobility on my side, I convinced my parents that I could go back to school.
“Don’t lift that, Beth! Let your father do it.”
“She’s right, honey, I’ll get it in a sec.”
“Oh, not that one either! No, Beth, here, take this book. It’s not too heavy, is it? I could take it. Oh, in fact, there, just set it there. David, take that from her.”
“You can just wait here, hon. We’ll be back.”
My parents toddled off, their bones nearly snapping under the weight of the ridiculous amount of boxes they had piled onto their arms. I was left, alone and useless, behind our van, guarding the two suitcases my parents had decided could wait. As useless as I felt, I didn’t mind not being allowed to lift anything. Flopping into the back of the van, I leaned against the open door and let my feet dangle near the exhaust pipe. It had been exactly three weeks and five days since I had dreamed of Cameron, the dream of him as a knight, fighting that dragon, saving me. And looking at me like–
I stopped. This was exactly why I hadn’t let myself get into a deep enough sleep to dream. Sure, I was exhausted beyond reason; sure, I couldn’t exactly function as normal. I just attributed my inability to not slur my speech or perform everyday tasks on my head injury. No one suspected a thing, and I was saved the cruelty of having to see Cameron.
Yep, I was certifiable. My parents shouldn’t be taking me back to college; they should be taking me to a mental institute.
“What seems to be the problem?” the psychologist would ask.
“Well, doctor, I’m afraid to sleep. If I sleep, I’ll dream, and I’ll see someone named Cameron, and I can’t bear that this dream-knight isn’t real. You understand.”