In my novel Dead Man Floating, I have three point of view characters, and I used third person limited for each. The opening in its original form can be seen here on my blog page about The Hook.
But since then, I decided to see if changing the main protagonist’s story to first person worked better. So trialing the change now. The story has greater intimacy, I think, but I will continue until I have a decent length to make a final decision.
I have reached no decision about the other two POV characters but my instinct tells me to leave them in third person at the moment as they are secondary. It will provide a greater contrast to the main character, and increase the power of her viewpoint. Does that sound like a load of crap? I may change my mind. It will be interesting writing the antagonist’s story in first person, though.
Oh, God! Oh, God! Oh, God! Please don’t let her be dead. I muttered over and over as I neared the circle of hotel staff. JuJu lay on the hot dusty ground, her bare legs splayed, short skirt rucked.
I vowed find whoever it was hurt her and dumped her here. The hotel staff surrounding her, and the bar girls in town knew every Western man who arrived Hua Hin. Knew their name, their status, their profession, their income, their age, before they introduced themselves. It should be easy to find the bastard, and I vowed to make him pay.
Please, God, let her be alive. I promise not to drink any more. I’ll close the bar, and open a nail shop instead. I concentrated on pressing two fingers against the side of the girl’s neck detecting a faint pulse. “She’s alive.” My voice was dry and it came out in a croak. Swallowing hard, I tossed my phone to the barefoot boy who brought me. “Ring for an ambulance. Tell them Khun Brina will pay for it.”
My hands warmed when I ran them over her body checking for injuries, relieved I found no broken bones. But my relief disappeared when I moved her hair back from JuJu’s neck, and recognised the cause of the small, circular burn marks. Cursed with a vivid imagination, the image of cigarettes stubbed out on her flesh caused the contents of my stomach to rush to the back of my throat.
“Jesus!” I reared, wanting to run and hide, but I forced the horror aside. Now was not the time to be cowardly self. “JuJu. Can you hear me? It’s Brina. You’re going to be okay. There’s an ambulance on its way.” I turned her onto her back, and my own pulse raced like an electric jig saw as I stared at JuJu’s bare stomach, as raw as a side of scored pork. A mix of bruises and scratches on her face had me grinding my teeth. No. Not scratches; cuts, tiny nicks in the skin.
I swallowed the urge to vomit again and held JuJu’s hand, murmuring to her until the ambulance came. After climbing in, I shouted to the barefoot boy before the doors closed. “Tell Anee to meet me at the hospital.”
If you have any thoughts, you’re welcome to comment.