This is now my third attempt of writing the opening of my book. I took What's advice and tried to send a message to the readers. the message was:
What makes us strong is our courage.
In the story, the protagonist was weak and finds himself being beaten by strong people. Later in the story he grows stronger, but is still faced with stronger people who abused their power. He still continues to fight them, even though he isn't as strong. He has determination and courage; this is what drives him forward.
I finally think that I've found my beginning, but I might not be wording it correctly. Please tell me if it does relate to the message. Please be critical.
The dog was weak and fragile. There was nothing it could do to protect itself from them. That didn’t stop them from kicking it around. They were laughing at its pain and continued to beat it to death. The pup had bruises all over itself. The poor thing could barely open its eyes. Yet, they didn’t stop.
I couldn’t stand there. It made me sick to my stomach to see this. It was infuriating to just stand and watch. Before I knew it, I was throwing punches and taking hits to the gut. They outnumbered and overpowered me. I had taken the dog’s place. It hurt immensely, but it was nothing compared to the pain of not doing anything.
The strong picked on the weak. It was a simple as that. Nothing more, nothing less. But, what makes someone strong? Muscles? How hard you could hit? No. It wasn’t either of those. There had to be something that made someone stronger than others. So, the question remains.
What makes someone strong?
The cuts on my face burned as my sister cleaned them. She used an old, red rag dipped in cool water to wipe my face. Her expression was calm and understanding. It always was; this was our regular routine almost every day. I would always come home with cuts and bruises, but she wouldn’t say a word until she was almost done tending to my injuries.
“What happened this time?” She asked, soaking the rag in water.
“Nothing. I just fell down some steps.” I lied.
“You say that every time you come home bruised up like this.” She asked once more. “Now, what really happened?”
I sighed. “There were these jerks and they were beating this dog and I-“
“-and you couldn’t let it slide.” She finished for me.
“Yeah.” I admitted. “Are you mad?”
“No.” She answered.
Of course she wasn’t. She never got mad. Her only emotions were kindness and caring. All she would do was just fix me up and tell me to be more careful.
“Just be more careful.” She said after finishing up.
I lied again. “I will.”
“Good.” She stood up. “Come on. It’s time to go.”