Prompt 1 found here: @mariannewest/day-17-the-weekend-freewrite-the-first-sentence
There she was, Amy Gerstein, over by the pool, kissing my father. How could she? She really thought she could just insert herself into our lives and become my new mother and his new wife. Or she just wanted to fuck him. Either way, I thought it was gross and she was ugly and I was not about to allow this to happen. So I did was any sane 13 year old would do. I ran to the pool and did a dive ball in to shower them with water. She needed some cooling off and so did my dad. Ugh. Grown ups really gross me out. Of course, when I came up for air and saw them sputtering there, it meant that I wound up here, in my room, grounded for a week. It was going to be two weeks but Amy argued for some leniency, saying she understood my feelings, and my dad should try to, too. Gross. She wears that bubblegum pink lipstick and gets it on his cheeks and she got some on my cheek tonight, too. She actually kissed me on the cheek and patted my shoulders, like she knew what I was going through. And then she winked at me before she left! Winked. It was all I could do to keep from gagging. I did throw up a little in my mouth. Now I have to plot some way to get her away from my dad and out my life, forever. No matter what.
Prompt 2 found here: @mariannewest/day-17-weekend-freewrite-the-interference
On the following Friday, we packed our bags and planned our escape. Sorry. Some time has passed since my last entry. I feel like I've aged 100 years since then. It's Sunday now. Greta and I made our escape late that Friday night. We stole her parents' car and I stole my dad's stash of cash. What else could we do? We killed Amy. I didn't exactly not mean to, but I hadn't completely thought out the consequences of my actions. Our actions. Greta helped me. I don't think she knew entirely what she was getting herself in for, either. But here we are, now both murderesses at 14 years old, on the run from the law. I don't know how long we'll be able to keep ourselves hidden. We only have enough money for a few nights' motel stays. But as I say that, and check out the window every five seconds for the blinking lights that I'm just sure are on the way for us, I realize we shouldn't even be staying in motels. We'll be too easy to track. Greta may look 20 with that black wig on and I may look like a boy with my hair hacked short, but how long before someone recognizes us? We need to get off the grid. It wasn't supposed to happen like this. It wasn't supposed to be so obviously a murder. She was just supposed to wind up dead and it look like an accident, so my dad and I could go back to our life together.
Prompt 3 found here: @mariannewest/day-17-the-weekend-freewrite-the-dramatic-twist
That stain on the wall is my tell-tale heart. It's just a heart-shaped stain on the wall of this dingy studio apartment, but I can't stop staring at it. Greta is the real hero here. She's out there earning money for us so we can eat, while I sit here with my arms wrapped around my legs, hair greasy and dirty, staring at a stain on the wall. I wonder how my dad is doing. We made it as far as Los Angeles. We don't have a TV and I threw away my phone. I don't know if our faces are still plastered all over the news. Surely something else has happened, some mass shooting, and the news cycle has moved on. I need to get it together. I can't leave it all up to Greta. I should be out there selling drugs or something else dramatic and unlawful, like the unlawful and dirty person I am, to earn us money. Of course, I don't have any drugs to sell. Greta got a fake ID from those fake ID peddlers in the park, but it's easy enough for her since she already looks like she could be my cool older aunt or something. I just look like a scared, stupid kid. And that stain on the wall looks like a bloody heart. Like Amy's bloody heart. But not like a real heart, like the organ, but like the hearts Amy would draw in lipstick on my dad's bathroom's mirror, that I would see and know she'd slept over the night before. Those hearts were really what made me want to kill her. She loved my dad. No one else could love my dad, not the way my mom could, not the way I could. He was a traitor to my mom's memory. And Amy had to pay for making him a traitor. But it was all supposed to look like an accident. If it had, would I still be here, sitting on the floor of this dingy studio apartment on the other side of the country, staring at a heart shaped stain on the wall while cockroaches scurry across the floor of the linoleum? Are those lights blinking? I almost wish that sound of a helicopter were the sound of a helicopter coming for me.