Excerpt of a longer story
“Blank Page” is a 7000-word short story that feature two sixteen-year old girls Kyle and Amber, as they interact with each other in their lives. Kyle’s story is central and is narrated through a limited third-person point of view. She has been sexually abused by her mother at the age of six and suffers from PTSD as a result. She has forgotten about the abuse that took place in her past and her family actively sabotages her recovery. Kyle begins to become closer friends with Amber who shows concern and understanding. Their friendship provides Kyle with support, which helps her remember that her mother sexually abused her when she was a child. This discovery explains the PTSD symptoms that she has been experiencing and marks the start of her recovery.
The story consists of 5 chapters, in which 3 are told from Kyle’s third-person point of view and 2 are told from Amber’s perspective in the form of a first-person narrative. Kyle’s is told from a third person point of view to create distance from the sensitive topic, while Amber’s perspective creates closeness and relatability.
Representing “the unspeakable”
Mandel is a fierce opponent of the literary representation of ‘the unspeakable.’ Barry Stampfi observes that Mandel provides a rather fierce judgment: that those that write about the unspeakable are acting in a morally questionable way as they use trauma to build tension, plot, sympathy and or conflict in a story without concern for traumatised people. She concludes that ‘evoking the unspeakable in the context of trauma simply is not respectable.’[1] However, while it is true that victims can often experience psychological pain when exposed to literary representations of trauma, Olzman claims that texts such as these are not intended for the victims but for people that do not understand the traumatic experience. They are meant to ‘illustrate-and to a certain extend traumatize-the intended audience with little experience of the incident itself,’ (Olzman, p. 3) which is essential to the morals of representation. Critics refer to this approach as ‘crossing the line’, in which the author’s goal is to ethically represent trauma while using the experience to discomfort the reader (Olzman, p. 2). Olzman stresses that representation is still important even if the portrayal cannot exactly replicate the experience. The depiction intends to connect the reader and the victim through ‘empathetic response and understanding, instead of guilt and anger’ (Olzman, p. 7). In other words, the focus lies on the effect that a traumatic event has on the victim in the hope to raise understanding, which is what my story intends to achieve. Raising awareness amongst those who have not suffered traumatic experiences indirectly helps victims, as people are more likely to show solidarity, which could end a victim’s isolation.
Sparse description and objective sentences
In their literary representation of trauma, some fiction touches upon the portrayal of the act of sexual abuse, but a lot of fiction does not. The reader is told that sexual abuse has taken place but is either not shown the event explicitly or at all. In Chbosky’s novel, we are told that Aunt Helen touched Charlie under his pants but we are not given any graphic details. ‘My brother and my sister and I were watching television with my Aunt Helen […] and she was doing what Sam was doing.’ [1] Contrary to this examples, I have attempted to illustrate the sexual abuse in such a way that the audience is able to experience it, rather than simply learn about it. Additionally, I aim to do this in a way that allows each individual to perceive his or her own emotions in response to the text. Alice Sebold’s memoir Lucky portrays the sexual abuse but only through the use of sparse description. Sebold’s writing style changes between longer descriptive sentences and short and simple ones and uses the latter to describe the act of rape. ‘I took it in my hand. It was small. Hot, clammy. It throbbed involuntarily at my touch. He shoved my head forward and I put it in. It touched my tongue. The taste like dirty rubber or burnt hair.’[2] Sebold presents the assault through objective sentences which ‘complements ethical representation because language often does not do trauma justice’ (Olzman, p. 16). In other words, if Sebold had described this event in a subjective manner, the text would have only been able to partially capture the horror, as each individual will experience the same event differently. I have portrayed the traumatic event in my story in a similarly objective way. Since language often cannot portray trauma adequately, representing the traumatic event objectively ensures that the text will remain ethical. At the same time, this factual writing style allows the reader to fill in the feelings that are left out in writing in order to put himself in the situation of the victim.
Below you’ll find an excerpt of a chapter told from Amber’s perspective and a chapter that is told from Kyle’s perspective.
Chapter 2: Amber (First person point of view)
‘On your marks . . .’ I push the tips of my fingers down into the wet grass ‘. . . set . . .’ and try to stare ahead ‘Go!’ I start running. I swing my arms back and forth as fast as I can; much like how I imagine a bird would move his wings to fly. I barely notice the first metres but feel my legs slightly weaken halfway through. I close my eyes for a moment and start swinging my arms more vigorously. The 100 metres always feel about ten metres too long, but I force myself to get there and pass the baton to Tash. I slow down, walk a few steps and then rest on my knees as I try to catch my breath. While Tash is sprinting, I notice Kyle run past me. She’s alone and I realise that I’ve seen her pass this point of the track before. ‘You know you’re quite fast,’ I say when I catch up. She jumps slightly but quickly composes herself. ‘Not fast enough to make the team.’ ‘You’re on the team.’ She smiles. ‘You know what I mean.’ I know she’s referring to the try-outs for the 800 metres yesterday. ‘Why don’t you try out the 400-metre relay?’ She raises an eyebrow, but I raise two back at her. ‘We still need someone. You’re fast and you wouldn’t have to compete on the track by yourself.’ Her shoulders tense up. ‘Think about it?’ I say, but her focus seems to have drifted. She’s looking ahead and keeps on running when I stop and join my team and I wonder if I said something wrong. The tips of my light grey trainers have turned dark even though it stopped raining around noon. I’m lifting them off the grass when I see someone move towards our circle of four and look up. ‘Hey,’ I say. Kyle is standing three metres away from us. ‘I was wondering if- about what you said,’ she says. I have to take a step forward in order to hear because my teammates have started a different conversation. ‘You want to try the relay?’ I see my coach’s glance shift towards me and then towards Kyle. ‘I guess,’ she says. She’s fumbling with the drawstrings of the same black shorts that we’re all wearing. ‘Great, just what we need,’ coach says before I can answer. ‘Let’s go again then.’ I wonder if Kyle feels the same as I do when running. The initial seconds before the start are horrible as if everything solid and secure inside has turned into mush. But once you’re running it’s fine. Nothing matters because I’m faster than the things that are trying to drag me down. It’s the wind blowing against my face and I’m showing it that it can’t stop me. I pass the baton on to Tash and stay standing this time. I don’t run my best but nothing beats the feeling of heavy legs and the sharpness of the air going into my lungs after a run. Tash is about to reach Kyle and I notice her hand is shaking. ‘Come on, come on,’ I say so softly I’m sure I’m the only one that can hear. The hand over goes smoothly and Kyle is off. Her body leans forward, almost as if she could be in the process of falling, while her arms are stretching backwards. It can’t be true, but it seems as if her body moves faster than her legs. She passes the baton over and by the time Emma reaches the finish our coach has raised his fist in the air. ‘57 seconds!’ he says. It’s a second faster than our previous record but Kyle walks over with the frown of concentration on her face. ‘Well done,’ I say as I nudge her shoulder. For a moment, her body tenses, and then she says, ‘Thanks, it was pretty cool.’ She smiles but when I look into her eyes it seems as if the owner of her house has decided to leave and turn the lights off. ‘What’re you doing today?’ I say. She’s looking past me. ‘Homework, I guess?’ ‘Come over to my place, we can study together; have some fun,’ I say. Her focus switches back to me. ‘That’s your idea of fun?’ ‘You’re the one that suggested homework.’ I follow her glance as it shifts to something behind me. ‘Can we get out of here?’ She’s looking at the empty parking lot. There are a white SUV and a green Renault parked in the spot where Mum dropped me off this morning. ‘Yeah?’ I say. She starts running and it feels as if an invisible cord is pulling me forward, so I run after her until we enter the school. Both of us have a backpack but hers is a deep pink while mine is teal. We take a few minutes to dress, then close the lockers once we’ve grabbed our bags and jackets and take the other exit out. She stops before we leave the shelter of a final wall between the parking lot and us, and grabs her phone. ‘Who you texting?’ ‘Just telling Mum I’ll be home later,’ she says. ‘How do we get to yours?’ ‘We can walk if you want.’ I nudge in the right direction but Kyle’s attention is still with the parking lot. ‘Can we run the first part?’ ‘Haven’t you run enough?’ She doesn’t listen to me so I follow her at a jog. After a little while, my shins start feeling heavy but Kyle won’t stop until we’re about three blocks away from the school. ‘Maybe you’re a distance runner after all,’ I say while I try to catch my breath. She unsuccessfully tries to hide her grin. ‘It’s easier when I don’t have to run alone.’ ‘That’s why you should stick with the relay.’ ‘Yeah, yeah.’ It feels good to be outside. My chest goes in and out and the breath escaping my mouth looks like a little cloud of fog. It flies up like the smoke from chimneys. Kyle creates a few of them on purpose and we make it a competition. ‘I’m like a dragon,’ she says. ‘I don’t think that’s quite like fire,’ I say as we watch the last cloud disappear. The air around us must have gotten warmer but Kyle shivers. ‘Do you want to go to my house?’ ‘Can we go to the park?’ We sprint across the street where the emission from a car lingers above the asphalt. There’s a gate we enter and once we do the noise of the road disappears into the background, and suddenly trees and fallen leaves with bright shades of yellow and warm orange surround us. It’s been so long since I’ve been here. Mum used to take my brother and me at least twice a week in the early afternoon. It almost seemed as if we were the only ones there, but sometimes a teenager would walk past and I’d wonder what it felt like to be an adult. I didn’t think my brother thought of anything then. Sometimes I think I would have preferred to keep the question unanswered and stop time. But then I’m still a teenager so maybe it will all be different when I’m an adult. My brother got better too, after all. We walk to the edge of a small pond in the middle of the park, which has stepping stones in the water that lead to a little platform. I drop my backpack on the grass and jump from one stone to the other. The second I land on the wooden planks that are overgrown with moss, a duck honks at me and flies up. ‘Sorry,’ I say softly, and as I do a flock of quacking ducks come swimming towards me. ‘I don’t have any bread to feed you.’ ‘I didn’t eat my sandwich earlier,’ Kyle says. She’s still on the side of the pond. I go quiet and think about how my brother used to bring his sandwiches back home at the end of the day. He stopped doing it when we knew he actively tried losing weight, but I saw him throw them away at school instead so mum and dad wouldn’t know. I hear her put her bag down and jump over to where I am. She has the sandwich in her hand. ‘Weren’t hungry today?’ I say. She throws a piece of bread into the water where it lands with a plop. I want to stop her but control myself. The ducks, however, attack the pieces of bread at once. ‘It’s nice here,’ she says. ‘They seem to like it more than you do?’ She laughs as she’s looking at the ducks. ‘I don’t really like ham.’ ‘Why’d you make it?’ ‘Mum did.’ I turn my head towards the water and feel oddly relieved. It’s not because she doesn’t want to eat. ‘I prefer cheese too,’ I say. The ducks have stopped fighting now that the bread is gone, eaten mostly by the biggest duck. His head is a shiny emerald green that stops at a white stripe around his neck. He has a dark brown bottom and has the look of the most common ducks, but the way their colours are divided intrigues me. The ducks linger around but eventually leave us alone. ‘Did you like the relay today?’ ‘It’s fun to sprint, actually.’ ‘Why didn’t you try before?’ ‘I didn’t want to do it with other people.’ ‘What changed?’ ‘You sort of forced me.’ ‘Ha ha.’ I listen to the leaves on the trees as they gently rustle. Every now and then a goose honks in the distance, but it’s mostly quiet. ‘I haven’t really been close to anyone before,’ she says. ‘I guess it’s less scary when you know someone.’ I look to my left, but she’s staring at the water. ‘Why haven’t you told your mum you dislike ham?’ I say. She starts laughing as if I’ve made a joke and hops back to grass at the side of the pond. She swings her bag over her shoulders. ‘Are we still going to your place?’ Kyle says.
Chapter 5: Kyle (representation of the unspeakable)
Kyle found her bedroom door slightly ajar, casting a ray of light into the darker hallway. Her poster had been shred to bits and parts of the wallpaper had been ripped off. It looked like the claws of an animal had tried to scratch it open; like a cat trying to claim its territory. Parts of the carpet near the walls were wet and above it, spots of wallpaper had darkened. In one of these places, a small piece of paper had been ripped downwards in a straight line. It now lay on the floor like a lost flake; like the lone survivor of a burned piece of paper. She felt the fabric of her trousers slide down her ankles. The door shut and the curtains were closed but it still looked like day outside. Air stroked her exposed skin. It gave her goosebumps but she didn’t move her arms to cover herself. She looked at the stars on the ceiling. They were almost white, but not quite as white as the ceiling. It’s strange that I can see them, she thought, stars only smile at me at night. There was a five-pointed star just below a half shaped moon next to a falling star. There were other stars like those, but there was only a single moon. Her glance shifted to the shape of a spiral but suddenly she couldn’t see it anymore; her sight had gone blurry. The blanket below her was pulled away. Something wet dripped on the side of her neck and all of a sudden she heard herself gasp for air. She grabbed hold of the side of her neck. It felt just like skin; it wasn’t wet, but when she blinked a teardrop slid off her cheek and fell down on the carpet next to the lost piece of wallpaper on the floor. She followed it down as if she wanted to try and save it but could only feel a slight trace of it when she brushed over the carpet. She took long ragged breaths. Something crept under her sock and slowly slid up to her ankles. Gravity pulled her down. * * * Her legs were pushed wide open; a sound stuck in her throat. The spotless walls with yellow and purple flowers towered over her. Two cold hands rested on the insides of her thighs and she shivered uncontrollably. Blurry spots and bright stars took over her vision. She heard nothing but the sound of what seemed to be like a broken television. Warm air caressed her private parts. She couldn’t stop her arm from shaking. It felt wet but not like water. It was wet. It wouldn’t stop. Her eyes shut. It wouldn’t stop. The stars would see. It wouldn’t stop. It wouldn’t stop. It wouldn’t stop.
[1] ] Barry Stampfi, ‘Parsing the Unspeakable in the Context of Trauma’ in Contemporary Approaches in Literary Trauma Theory, ed. by Michelle Balaev (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2014), pp. 15-41 (p. 17).
[2] Stephen Chbosky, The Perks of Being a Wallflower (London: Pocket Books, 2009), p. 218.
[3] Sebold, Alice, Lucky (New York: Hachette Book Group, 2002), p. 19.