I lay there, frozen, on my bed, on my side. My right ear pressing against the pillow. My legs slightly bent under the sheets. My arms pulled under my chin. My eyes are closed. My mouth is clenched shut. Everything about me was dead calm. But I can still hear the frantic breathing coming from my nose. Short and abrupt puffs. Enough to get air but quiet enough to be unheard. All I wanted to do was to appear dead.
My blanket didn’t stop moving. It glided over my skin. Stroking every hair that stood up on my arm. Slow and steady. The blanket unveiled me a quarter of the way now. The air was cold. I could no longer pretend to be dead. My body began trembling. Maybe I can look asleep.
I try hard. I pray hard. Hoping that this is just a dream. But the blanket is still moving. More than halfway off. I can smell the urine soaked sheets. It’s tepid and damp. Fifteen years old and I’m still a child.
The edge of the blanket made it’s way over my shorts and down my legs. It said goodbye to my thighs, then my knees, to my calves, and finally to my feet. All before sliding down the side of my bed. My ears suddenly become sensitive. I listen to the rubbing of carpet and cloth. I listen to the blanket moving across the room. I listen to the closet door open. I listen as it enters. I hear nothing. Not even a sound outside. Maybe even nature knew how unnatural this night was. And it too wanted to be left alone. I knew it wasn’t the case for me. I knew what was to happen next. And right on cue, I hear it. A feint sound. I wanted to mistaken it as the wind. But it wanted to be heard. So it called out again. Ever slightly louder. Up to the point that it knew. It knew I heard it calling my name. All it had to do was whisper…
“Piece of crap!” I cry out to myself.
Reading the piece over and over again, I just can’t help but think this is going nowhere. There’s just no way I’m telling this story the way I want it.
“I can’t do horror. Look at this.”
I reread the passages.
“This sounds like an opening to a case of child abuse, not supernatural.”
I grip hands full of hair.
“What do you think Ryo-Ohki?”
She’s hardly any help as she sits there staring blankly at me holding her little stuffed animal. She never seems to part with that thing. It’s a flimsy little TY Beanie Baby of a puppy who’s probably long due for a wash.
“I should just stick to what I’m writing best.”
I stare up at the ceiling now. Hands still clenched. The tugging hair follicles almost feels like a head massage. I imagine what it is exactly that I do best. Nothing comes to mind. The term is too subjective though. I’m not even quite sure if anything I do is good or even if it should be. All of this is an exercise so I can tell that one story.
Cars rumble on by outside, from small passenger cars, to large tractor trailers, and on occasion loud Harley’s. San Fernando Boulevard is such a busy street by the afternoon. It makes for a rather difficult brainstorming session. I usually don’t mind noise. Actually, I prefer noise over silence. Not monotonous sounds from mechanical parts, but sounds from people. Whether it were songs or conversations, I needed it around when I imagined. Their voices fueled my imagination.
“People need people, that’s the premise, right?” I ask Rho-Ohki, but of course she sits there with her big smile. “That’s always my thing.”
I stare back down at what I’ve been writing.
“This story is about a boy and a ghost.”
My mouth starts chewing on something imaginary as it so often does when I play video games. It’s like the thought processes always have strings attached to them. Analysis is tied to the mouth while creative imagination is tied to the sinuses. It’s both good and bad when a creative idea breaks through. Good for the excitement of the revealation, but bad for the relentless running noise that follows. I eye the tissue box next to the laptop. No used tissues so far. This story is definitely not going well.
“Well, to keep with the theme, there’s the mother. He needs her for help and unknowing to him, she needs him for the medication.”
I scratch my head and slowly shake my head.
“Yeah, it’s a messed up story. Basically, they are both being haunted and she sends him to the shrink, telling him to be strong. While she’s taking the prescription to block out the hauntings herself.”
I shrug.
“Yeah, it’s a messed up story. She basically scars his life by commiting suicide. Just wanted to see if I’m capable of telling a dark story.”
I sit with my elbows on the table gazing into the computer screen. My finger hovers over the delete button. I sit unsure of starting over or starting in a different direction.
“Not sure if first person works well here either.”
I rock back and forth in the metal chair. The back bridge supports remind me how sore my back is from the gym a few days ago. Luckily there’s a cushion to make the writing session bearable. I grab the remote and turn on the television. The sounds from it will be an artificial substitution.
An old comedy was on, a really stupid one, or should I say a really “dumb” one. My mind races from a scene from a John Carpenter flick to a scene with Jim Carrey spiking his friend’s drink with an extra-strength laxative. I pause to watch the whole scene. I laugh at the part when he nonchalantly tips the cup forcing his friend to finish the drink. I shake my head and go back to thinking about the scene in the room. It’s cold. It’s dark. My character is lying there cold, shaking both from the cold and from fear. But now, he’s Jim Carrey and he’s got that absurd look on his face.
“This is not going to work.”
I turn off the television. That was the problem with it. It pulls me in. Writing in the coffee shop is much different than writing at home. The noise around the shop were uninteresting conversations that you can just filter out. Not the noise that comes from the television. Whether it’s news, a feature, or even an informercial, it’s goal was to get your attention. And it did it well.
My iPod stares at me. But I know better than to turn it on. The same can be said for music as for television. However, these were songs I personally choose. My favorite music was in that little player. Not only that, people have a way of associating an event or a situation to a song. Probably why it becomes your favorite song in the first place. It’s probably even more distracting than the television at this point. So I decide to push it away. Out of sight, out of mind.
I sigh.
Sunday’s are suppose to be relaxing. I’m sitting in my shorts even though I could still feel the cold air trying to make it inside the house. I figure my long sleeve shirt and ankle high socks would provide enough warmth. The feeling of the cold air on my thighs is actually stimulating. But this mix-match of clothing will have to come to an end. It was time. There’s no way to concentrate here at home. If I this story were to ever get beyond a draft, I needed to get out of the house.
“I can’t stand it in here any more.”
I save my story I titled Crimson and close my laptop.
“Going to step out for a bit.”
Ryo-Ohki just stares at me while I go change. Her little stuffed animal’s head tilted as if it were puzzled.
I wonder sometimes if she thinks I’m crazy.
