by Matt Shaw
I have never felt the urge.
The sight of the little fish, swimming around, puts me off.
“I’m sorry,” said Rebecca, “I didn’t think.”
That’s her problem. She rarely thinks. Leaves most decisions up to me, these days and - whilst trying to think of a new book to write.... a new story to tell.... I feel she’s nothing more than a drain on my creativity.
“Maybe it would help to go back there?” she said, from her little chair.
Not a stupid suggestion. Considering it’s source, anyway.
All those months ago, the woodlands - that’s where I first dreamt up my novel. I had taken Rebecca down there, just to escape from the mundane of the every day. We were sat there, in a clearing, surrounded by nature - singing birds, gentle breezes gently toying with the leaves on the tall trees, brilliant blue skies and a beaming sun, high in the sky.
So peaceful.
So tranquil.
The story came to me more or less instantly, in that clearing, and by the time we had gone home, I had everything in my head; a beginning, a middle and an end.
“It might help,” she repeated because, I’m guessing, I didn’t respond the first time she mentioned it.
Maybe if I do go back down to that clearing - maybe inspiration will sweep through me a second time too. Maybe. For the first time, in what feels like weeks, a little piece of hope rushes through my body.
“And I doubt we’ll bump into them down there.”
The hope trickles back out of my body.
* * * * *
It was obvious Rebecca was going to jinx it, as I watch her down by the water - laughing and joking with, I guess, the neighbour.
I watch her from the safety of my mound, a little up the hill, laughing and skipping stones into the water. He’s just stood there, his hands in his pockets and a stern look on her face. I wonder, does he not like the way she is throwing stones into the water either? Like me, does he think it’s cruel to scare the little fish?
Something else we have in common.
We’ve both written books.
We both dislike cruelty to fish.
Such a stern expression on his face.
We both rarely smile.
Rebecca turns to me and waves me down towards them. The neighbour also turns to me and frowns as I shake my head. I’m not going down there. I came here to think up a new story - not to listen to some guy I don’t want to even know waffling on about nothing that could possibly interest me.
I don’t have time for people. Why does Rebecca not understand this?
Another sudden burst of Rebecca’s laughter breaks my thought pattern.
Is she flirting with him? Maybe I should go down there and see what the fuss is about....
In between laughing, she turns to me again, “Come here, Phil wants to say hello.”
What is she - drunk? She knows I don’t like meeting other people.
I frown, as I stand up, and walk in the opposite direction.
Why did she have to tell him about this place? I wonder if he has a partner.... kids, maybe. They’re going to ruin this place. Why did she have to tell him?
I stop walking when I’m out of sight. Out of sight, out of mind. I hope.
Ssh. Listen.
They’re not coming after me. She’s laughing again. Part of me wonders whether I should have anything to be jealous about. Part of me doesn’t care.
Of course I care.
She isn’t going anywhere - she’s stuck with me.
Maybe I should be better safe than sorry - have a word with him. Let him know she is with me. Mark my territory. Isn’t that what alpha-males do?
No, there’s no point. She gets under my skin most of the time anyway. Having words with some man I don’t even know, or wish to know - well, that’s just wasting time that would be better spent trying to write. Even these thoughts now - thoughts about her flirting with him, even those are wasting precious minutes which could be better spent.
Besides, if she was cheating on me with this stranger - I’m sure she wouldn’t have bothered trying to introduce me to him. She knows I’d kill him.
She isn’t that stupid.
I think.
Why am I still doing this to myself? Forget about it. Nothing is happening between them.
Nothing.
3.
“Are you sleeping with him?”
I don’t know why I even brought it up, when we got back to the study.
“What?”
I crossed the room and sat at the typewriter - typing the words as I said them out loud, “ARE YOU SLEEPING WITH HIM?”
Rebecca sat in her usual chair and just looked at me. It was clear from her expression she really didn’t have a clue as to why I brought this up. Maybe I could turn it all around and just pretend it’s the opening of my new story.
“Am I sleeping with who? Phil?”
“If that’s his name...”
Or I could say what’s actually on my mind and kick-start another argument which, in turn, will take up more of my time and distract my thoughts away from the task at hand. Well done, me.
“I met him today and he was more interested in knowing about you! And you think I’m having an affair with him?”
Well, when she puts it like that.
Change the subject.
“Well, you shouldn’t have told him about our spot. I thought it was going to be just the two of us down there, today.”
Out of frustration I rip the piece of paper from the typewriter and rip it into several pieces.
“I didn’t know he was going to be there,” said Rebecca. A lie? “Did you at least think of any new stories?”
I sit back in my chair and run my hands through my long, dark hair.
I need a haircut.
Rebecca stood up and crossed the room until she was stood behind me. She placed her hands on my shoulders and started rubbing them. Is this supposed to be relaxing?
“You’re so tense. Relax,” she said.
“Relax? How can I relax? People are expecting another story from me..... you realise if I don’t strike whilst the iron is hot.... you realise I have to start everything again? How long it’s taken me to get this far....”
Rebecca stopped massaging me and crossed the room again, moving away from me. Distance - a familiar sensation between the two of us. Growing daily. Not helped by outsiders. I’ll close the distance between the two of us. I’ll bring her back to me. Not sure how, yet.
Write a story for her.
About us?
Give us a happy ending in the story. Show her what could be. There’s still a chance between the two of us. A happy couple, an outsider named Phil trying to split them up.... a rivalry between the two men.... love triangle. The happy couple aren’t tainted by the end of the book - their love conquers everything.
It’s been done; trash novel. No good. Think of something else. Something more worthwhile for my fans. I wouldn’t be happy to let them read something that was anything less than what I perceived to be as perfect.
“Maybe you just need a break from writing....”
“How can I have a break from something I’m not doing?”
“You’re trying too hard. Take a little time out and recharge your brain.”
A little time out? A little time out? Haven’t these last few months been enough of a time out?!
“Even if it’s only for a few days,” she continued. “It’ll do you good.”
I don’t see how.
“Well, I’m going to get ready for bed - are you going to come?” she asked.
I fired her a glance. A glance was enough to answer her question. She stood up and walked from the study, closing the door behind her.
Okay.
This is it.
Just me and the typewriter.
Let’s get this done.
Another piece of paper is fed into the ever-hungry typewriter. At this rate, I’m going to need to go to the shops to get another rea
m. Maybe I should just buy a box. It might be cheaper in the long run. I should have asked Rebecca, before she left....
Rebecca...
Things weren’t always like this between us. So strained. Going back a few months it was all very different. Things only really changed when the book came out. I feel as though I’m losing her.
Is that a bad thing?
I don’t think it’s me that changed. It’s Rebecca who seems to be growing more distant. I just wish I knew how I felt about it; one minute I am desperate to cling onto her - the next, I want rid. Take the time to find someone else.
She and I - we don’t have enough in common. They say opposites attract but, I disagree... over time - opposites repel each other. At this rate, within a year - there’ll only be me in here.
Hmmmm.
Peaceful.
* * * * *
Time doesn’t seem to exist in this little room of mine. Especially as I end up crashing in here, during the night, instead of going to bed properly. I believe, stay in the room, I’m more likely to write something - come up with an idea. If I leave the room, something will only distract me.
There are no windows. There’s no television, radio or other source of entertainment. Just a dusty bookshelf, filled with books - the titles of which I can’t even remember. Preferring to write instead of read, I lost interest in the collection no sooner had I had it installed on the far wall. Even Rebecca shows them little interest. Not that that surprised me. Besides, when I read something - I tend to find myself copying the style of that author instead of using my own voice and that’s dangerous for a writer’s credibility.
Credibility.
I make myself laugh.
Each day I fail to write something kills my credibility that little bit more.
Still, when I can’t think of anything to write, I usually end up sitting at the typewriter and staring at the empty piece of paper waiting for inspiration to hit me. Or I end up napping on the sofa, hoping for a dream to inspire my creative urges...
Or I simply sit on my chair, swiveled away from the desk - throwing a tennis ball.... bouncing it off the wall and catching it again. Until, that is, Rebecca comes in complaining of a headache.
Selfish.
She knows how important this is to me and, if I feel bouncing balls off a wall helps, she should support that. She knew all this before we became united properly!
I wonder how long I’ve been sat here now. Sometimes it feels as though hours pass.... and I’m always shocked when Rebecca informs me she’s only been absent for five or ten minutes. Losing track of time is both a blessing and a curse to a writer.
Losing track of the time means you don’t worry about the little progress you’ve made on that particular day, which is nice but on the other hand, it doesn’t encourage you to push yourself harder and further. You always think, “There’s always time.”
4.
Dreams. I still, at least, have them from time to time. Running through the woods..... near the lake.... Rebecca’s and mine. Our own lake; private paradise. That’s the usual dream I have. Recurring. Sometimes, I wish I could dream something else - a new story idea, perhaps. But, it’s not the end of the world - I’m happy with the memories too.
Vivid, but broken, segments of dreams. Some laughter. Some tears. Him.
What?
The neighbour? Tears?
I open my eyes.
That was new.
What was he doing in there..... my subconscious? I barely thought of him after he left. And the tears? Why the tears? I can’t remember why there were tears in the dream. Who was crying? Was it Rebecca? Was it me? Both of us? Why’d we both be crying?
Think.
Try and remember.
Try and piece together some of the segments. There must be something.
Is it even important? Why do I care?
Probably because the recurring dream has been happening so long now, I’m not used to the sudden change.
Think.
The change in the dream; could be something I could use in a new story. Maybe it’s my brain’s way of telling me a love triangle would be a good story.
Maybe.
“How’s it going?”
I jump as Rebecca walks into the room, holding a cup of tea in her left hand. She places it next to my typewriter and I scowl at her. My scowl going unnoticed much to my annoyance.
“Anything to report on the writing front?” she asked.
“A few things in the pipeline,” I answered. A lie for no other reason than I couldn’t be bothered to hear her say how sorry she was that I couldn’t think of anything, sorry that my writing wasn’t coming along and sorry for... well, sorry for everything. Sounds so fake.
KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!
Knocking on the door? I look at Rebecca.
“Are you expecting anyone?” I asked.
She looks at me - a blank expression on her face - before shaking her head.
Another knock on the door.
“I’ll get it,” she said finally.
* * * * *
He continues to stare at me as I leave the room, closing the door behind me - sealing him back in his little prison.
The best place for him.
Ever since his story came to light. Ever since that - he’s changed. Become more vocal, for one. Before the story, he never really said anything and kept himself to himself out of shyness and not arrogance; a feeling of superiority?
It’s weird - before his story came to light, I was the more vocal of the two of us.... well, the more opinionated at least. Now, though, we always go by his opinion. I might do the talking but, at the end of the day, it’s what he wants.
I pass through the modest kitchen and down the hallway, to the front door - opening it to reveal Phil. My heart skips a beat at the sight of him; suited and booted. He looks handsome. Handsome, at least, for a man approximately twenty years my senior.
“Morning,” he said.
I smiled at him, “Morning... sorry, I wasn’t expecting a visitor. I must look dreadful.”
“No, no, not at all.” He smiles and his eyes widen behind his dark-rimmed glasses. “I did say I was popping in...”
“Sorry, I must have forgotten - please - come in.”
Phil stepped in, over the mat, and walked through to the living room - obviously presuming I have the time for, or wanted, a sit down conversation with him.
“How was your night?” he asked, after I followed him into the room. He was already on the sofa, having made himself right at home.
“Fine, thank you,” I answered. “We didn’t really do anything after we got home.”
Phil smiled, “Is he in today?”
An awkward beat whilst my brain quickly decides whether to lie or tell the truth.
Lie.
It’s easier.
“Not right now. He’s popped out - trying to get some inspiration for his new story, I think.”
THUD!
I freeze.
THUD!
Phil hasn’t heard.
THUD!
I know what that noise is - fucking tennis ball.
THUD!
The pounding goes right through my skull. I wish he could find something quieter to do whilst taking his time to think things through.
THUD!
I stand up, cross the living room floor to close the door, before returning to my seat - opposite Phil who is casually sipping from a cup of water which he must have brought with him. Weird, I would have made him a drink had he asked.
He never asks.
The closing of the door helps drown out the thudding noise of the tennis ball. I can still hear it but it’s barely audible to those who aren’t used to it.
“That’s a shame,” continued Phil, “really would like to chat to him.”
“I’m sure you’ll catch him one day,” I replied - not believing my own words.
Phil smiled again.
A slight feeling of unease crawled it’s way up my
spine, tickling me in the process. It was nice to have some company around the house but - three visits in the space of two days was a bit much. Especially as, every time I saw him, he was asking me about my husband. Worse still he was asking me about me -
