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 Each day feels new, and my memory of the one before is faint. I’m learning to adapt. |
| Here is my attempt at rewriting a third-person omniscient narrative in the third-person limited perspective. First 3rd person omniscient The night air was thick with the smell of rain-soaked asphalt, headlights smearing across the slick Oklahoma highway. Elena’s lungs burned as she ran, clutching the hoodie tighter around her thin frame. Her sneakers slapped the ground in a frantic rhythm. Behind her, far off but too close, a pair of headlights drifted along the county road like a predator’s eyes. She didn’t dare look back. Her hand pressed against the pocket of her hoodie where the flash drive dug into her ribs. The little piece of plastic was heavier than a brick, heavier than the years they had stolen from her. She kept moving. A green highway sign loomed out of the dark—"Wynnewood, 2 miles". The town’s lights shimmered faintly beyond the trees. She veered off the road, heart thudding, and cut through a field where the grass snagged her jeans. A barn light glowed in the distance. Beyond it, a low cinderblock building with a tilted sign: "Vance Auto Repair". Elena stumbled into the gravel lot, nearly tripping over a tire rim. The big doors were shut, but a strip of yellow light leaked from a side window. She pressed her face against the glass. Inside, a man bent over an engine block, sleeves rolled to his elbows, grease painting his hands. She pounded on the door before her brain could argue. The man straightened, frowning. He was tall, lean, maybe mid-forties, with dark hair silvered at the edges. His eyes, sharp and steel blue, cut through the glass. He opened the door a crack. “Shop’s closed.” Elena’s throat locked. Words refused to form. She stood there trembling, hoodie dripping rainwater onto the concrete. Same scene, different perspective. 3rd person limited Elena ran. Her sneakers slapped the wet highway, each step jolting up her legs. A horn blared in the dark, making her flinch and stumble sideways. A semi roared past, spraying her with cold water that soaked her clothes and stole her breath. Her chest lurched, heart pounding unevenly. She gasped, half sobbing, then forced herself to breathe and keep moving. The night pressed on her shoulders, thick with the smell of wet asphalt and exhaust. Rain plastered her hair and stung her face as she sprinted along the highway shoulder. Her lungs burned. Each step rattled her ribs. But she couldn’t stop, not with the panel van’s headlights still glowing in the distance—a warning that the man would come looking once the tire was changed. She hadn’t looked back since leaving the van. She didn’t dare; looking back slowed you down. The van had blown a front tire—loud as a gunshot. Caleb had cursed, pulling them near a service station, hands tight on the wheel while rain hammered the windshield. He hadn’t moved to fix it, not in the downpour, not with traffic slicing past. But once he did, he’d start hunting her. She had to be gone before then. Don’t think. Run. Her sneakers slapped the asphalt, water splashing with every step. The storm churned, low clouds glowing from the refinery lights. The smell of oil and pavement filled her nose. She wanted to run faster, but her body was reaching its limit. Pain shot through her shins. Her breath was ragged and uneven. She focused on distance, not speed. Just one mile between the service station and the intersection. She pictured the rust-striped sign with faded paint and the wide gravel lot where old pickups were parked. If she made it, she could knock on the steel door and hope it wasn’t locked. Her vision blurred as the rain stung her face. The panel van’s headlights faded, lost in the storm and darkness. Relief flickered in her chest, but it was brief and fragile. Keep running. The storm eased to drizzle. Puddles shone like shattered mirrors on the shoulder. Her shoes were soaked, squelching with each step. She pushed on, arms pumping weakly. When she saw the glow of a security light, tears blurred her sight again. The squat building crouched at the intersection’s corner, roof sagging, steel siding streaked with rust. A hand-painted sign read "Todd’s Auto & Diesel," one corner curling. The roll-up door was shut. No cars out front. Office windows black. She stumbled up the gravel apron—shoes sliding on wet rock. She reached the side service door. Her knuckles rapped the metal, weak at first, then harder. 'Please,' she whispered, her throat raw. 'Please, open.' The storm had left the world too quiet. Only her fists made a sound. The door clicked, its hinges groaning, as light spilled out. A man filled the frame—broad shoulders, work shirt stained. His eyes flicked from her drenched hair to her shaking arms, to the empty road. His mouth tightened. 'Shop’s closed.' The words hit like a slap. Her chest heaved; her breath was ragged. She could barely stand. Behind her, the road stretched black and endless. The storm’s aftertaste was sour. She shook her head, lips moving but no words coming. The man’s hand tightened on the door, ready to shut it. Elena’s vision tunneled. She forced her voice through her raw throat. 'Please.' One word, no strength for more. For a moment, she saw only his outline against the light, his eyes unreadable. Then he hesitated—a fraction of a second, but real. The rain hissed in the gravel. The panel van’s headlights were gone now, past the bend, but in her mind they still blazed, coming closer. She stood swaying in the doorway, heart pounding against her ribs, waiting for the man to decide if she lived or was sent back. I'm not sure I hit the mark. Drop me a note to let me know. |
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