part0023

I don’t even know what it is I’m doing here. Writing a story? Yeah, right. I’ve been avoiding picking this laptop up all morning. There’s always something else that can be done. The dishes need washing, there’s food shopping that needs to be done, there’s all that important news on Facebook that I need to check. Avoiding getting things done is something that I’m particularly good at. A master of procrastination one might say. In fact, it’s taken me four attempts to write this much. Am I even at one hundred words yet? I don’t know, I try to avoid checking that word counter. It leads to obsession, and a tendency to fill a story with rubbish; just padding it to hit a word count, isn’t going to make for a good story.

What even does make a good story? I say that like I know what I’m talking about, but in fact, I’m completely clueless. I just write down things as they come into my head. Sometimes they turn out to be a story. If what readers tell me is true, then it turns out to be a pretty good story. Well, most of the readers. There are some that don't care for my work, but I’ve learned to accept that as perfectly natural. It is impossible to write something that is liked by all. Everyone has different tastes. ‘Art is subjective’, as they say. (Whoever ‘they’ are! )

So, why am I sitting here, babbling away like this is some sort of diary entry? Well, truth be told, this is a habit I developed a while back. If you’re struggling to find words to make a story, then just write down any old words. Once you get into the flow of things, a half-decent idea will come along, and those words will begin to have substance. At least, that’s what I hope. There’re no guarantees, of course. With my poor attention span, it’s quite possible that I’ll set this laptop down while I go to make a cup of coffee, and then not come back to it at all. It’ll just be another unfinished story, before it even got started.

Right, focus, come on. You need to get this done. All morning I’ve been sitting here now, and I’m still no further into the story. I did have an idea this morning; it seemd good at the time. I woke from my nightmare full of excitement. That’s where most of my ideas come from, nightmares. I often wake, screaming and fighting shadows that aren’t really there. I have this tendency in which I wake up, and can still see my dreams, but I don’t know they’re dreams. I think they’re real. It seems logical to me that, if you are awake, and you can see something, then it has to be real, right? Unless you’ve been taking some form of drug, you have no reason to doubt your senses. So, I freak out at the sight of these demons’ shadows for a few minutes; sometimes I even jump from the bed, and fight nothing for a while. After several seconds, I become fully awake. No longer in that weird crossover of dreamland and the real world. It’s at this point I realise those visions were not actually there, but they would make for a damn good story. So I grab my moleskin notebook from the headboard, and I scribble them down. I usually fall back to sleep pretty quickly after that. It’s weird really. I freak out so much, but it doesn’t take much to calm down, at all. Anyway, I’ve learned not to question the process; I just accept that I will continue to have nightmares until the day I die, but those nightmares are the muse for all my stories. I’m also willing to accept that they're not really a bad thing; they can't hurt me, after all.

What was I saying? See? This is the problem I was telling you about. My attention span is awful. I had to stop writing for a moment to answer the door. From there, I decided to take a toilet break, go and get a drink, make something to eat, then boom-there’s an hour gone. Now, I find myself having to read back through this, to figure out exactly where I was going.

Ah, story ideas, that was it. Well, as I was saying; usually, I can thank my nightmares for giving me the fuel for my stories. Those dark dreams are the birthplace of my messed-up ideas. Except for last night’s nightmare. When the morning sun lit my bedroom up with its bright gaze, I overflowed with excitement. I knew that last night’s dream was a real doozy. It would make for a fantastic story. That is, until I read my scrawl from the middle of the night.

There’s a reason that my story idea seemed to be so good. Would you like to know what that reason is? Because it wasn’t my idea! You cannot understand the frustration that came over me, when I read through my notes to find very in-depth ideas for a story about a killer clown who was terrorising a town, and killing off people one by one. A clown named Pennywise. Yes, my fantastic idea that I scribbled in the middle of the night, was none other than ‘IT’, by Stephen King. How I didn’t notice at the time of making my notes, I will never know. Perhaps, I was blinded by excitement, or I was still half asleep and just didn’t pay attention. Whatever the reason, my plans for the day quickly unraveled when I read those notes. Damn, I can’t even begin to imagine what King felt when he wrote that story. If I was so excited at the concept of someone else’s idea, then the actual creator must have been ecstatic. I can only imagine the kind of messed-up dreams that he has. They must be a hell of a lot worse than mine.

Hang on a second, there’s a knock at the door.

Okay, I’m back. I have just been chatting with a very cheerful postman. Well, truth be told, he didn’t look very impressed at all; he looked like he wanted to escape. Of course, I kept him talking for as long as I could. Anything to keep me away from this godforsaken laptop.

Amongst a bunch of letters, which I threw on the side, the postman gave me a very neatly wrapped red parcel. It had been tied with yellow string, and a label hung from the side.

Let’s have a look, and see who it’s from.

Wow, that really is totally unexpected! She lives in Indiana, USA; it must have cost her a fortune to send this to me. I don’t like that she calls herself a “fan”, though. I’m not comfortable with that word; it makes me feel weird. I don’t have fans; celebrities have fans, and I am certainly not a celebrity. I have readers, and truth be told, I feel bloody lucky to have those readers; especially ones as loyal as Becky. There are some readers that get every single piece of work that you write. You can’t buy that kind of loyalty. It’s really humbling at times, and I don’t know exactly what I did to earn this, but I am thankful for it every day. As if being a constant reader wasn’t a big enough gift, Becky has now gone and sent this to me. Let’s get it opened, and see what’s inside. I’m really excited now.

Well, this really is a lovely surprise. Becky has sent me a massive Easter egg. I know it’s not actually Easter for another couple of days, but I’m going to eat it now. First though, I need to drop a message to her to say thank you.

Well, I must tell you, this is really good chocolate. I have no idea what brand it is, there’s no label or anything. It came in a plain, white box, and if I didn't know better, I’d say it was homemade. The problem now is I can’t stop eating it. It's always been a problem of mine with chocolate: once I start, I can't stop until it's all gone.

Okay, okay, come on, Andy. Concentrate, now. You’ve almost spent an entire day sitting in front of this stupid screen, and haven’t made any progress, at all, with this story.

I’m finding it harder to focus, now. My vision is beginning to blur; perhaps I need to take little break. I know I haven’t made progress with my story, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t been staring at the screen for too long. And, truth be told, I’ve felt a little bit sick since eating that chocolate egg. It’s my own stupid fault for eating the whole thing in one sitting. My punishment for gluttony will be an upset stomach, by the looks of it. I am starting to feel a little faint as well; maybe I should go and get a glass of wat….

Time to panic! I don’t know what the hell happened, but I’ve somehow managed to get from the couch in my living room to my bed upstairs. I don’t know who has done this or how, but I’m strapped to the bed. I can’t move my legs or body at, all. The only thing I’m able to move are my hands and wrists, which are securely tied to the laptop. Hence, how I’m able to type this.

Of course, my first instinct was to log onto the internet to try and summon help. My captor obviously anticipated this move, as the internet has been disconnected. I’ve tried screaming, but there’s been no response. I’m not surprised really; double-glazed windows are rather good at sound proofing. The house next door is attached to mine, so they would have been able to hear me, if they hadn’t moved out last week. We’re still waiting for the new tenants to move in.

For God’s sake! On any other weekend, I’d have my wife and kids here with me. They asked me to come with them to Wales, camping for the weekend, but no, I thought the solitude would be good for my writing. If only I’d known that writing would be the only thing I’m able to do, because I can’t bloody move! I should have just taken the break, like my wife said. What’s so wrong with a nice weekend of fresh air, and walks on the beach? My God, I would kill to be breathing in that crisp sea breeze right now! That weird cold, but burning, sensation you get from walking along the shore; that would be heaven. Instead, I’m lying here in bed, alone and scared.

I can hear someone downstairs. I’ve tried calling to them, to ask what they want. I’ve even kept quiet, to see if I can identify what it is they’re taking, or breaking. But, the only thing I can hear, is the sound of pots and pans in the kitchen. And, judging by the smell that’s rising up the stairs, they’re cooking. What kind of person breaks into someone’s house, ties them up and then cooks dinner?

Okay, I can hear someone coming. Time to find out what’s going on.

Well, now, we have some more information. Believe it or not, “number one fan” Becky Narron has taken me hostage! I have no idea how long she’s been in this country, or how the hell she figured out where I live, but she’s here now, and the crazy bitch has tied me up.

A woman of about 5”7, with reddish brown hair, entered my room, talking with a southern American accent. She was highly offended when I asked who she was, and why the hell I was tied up. She looked at me in shock, like I should know. “Becky,” she said. “Becky Narron. How do you not know who I am? I’m your biggest fan.”

Well, besides the fact that she lives on the other side of the world, and, as far as I'm aware, she doesn’t have any pictures of herself on Facebook (which is how we connected in the first place), so, I had no possible way of knowing what she looked like. Jesus Christ, for all I know, this woman could have been following me for weeks, months even.

She stormed out of the room, after I explained that I hadn’t recognised her, leaving a plate of food at the foot of the bed. I couldn’t tell you, exactly, what that food was; it’s all mashed together. I’m guessing that she planned on spoon-feeding me, unless she was going to untie me to enable me to eat. I’ve got to be honest; I kind of hope she does, because I’ll smash this laptop right across her head. Wishful thinking, eh?

It’s been a while, now. I’ve been calling Becky’s name, and apologising, but there’s been no answer. God! I’m starving, as well. Even that ridiculous mush, at the end of the bed, looks appealing now. My wrists are hurting, from trying to struggle out of these binds; my head hurts and I’m thirsty. God, please, someone, just help .

I’m fed now; but, I feel sick with fear. Becky is far more unstable than I’d originally thought; she is completely crazy.

Entering the room, she asked me, “Well, are you going to acknowledge your number one fan, now?”

“Yes, Becky.” I said. “I’m really sorry, I was just so surprised to see you here.”

After scolding me about paying more attention to my readers, she fed me the mashed food. I’m not entirely sure what it was, to be honest. Some form of potato, carrots and ham perhaps? It was hard to tell, the whole thing was drowning in a weird sauce.

Anyway, I asked her why she was doing this to me. If she loved me as much as she said she did, then surely punishing me like this was a contradiction to that love. She said that she wanted me to write a special story, for her. Well, of course, I tried to explain to her, that it wouldn't be possible for me to write under these conditions—kidnapped and tied to my bed—it was just ludicrous!

“Well, perhaps you could use this situation as an inspiration for your story. I could be your muse,” she smiled.

“Sorry to break this to you, Annie Wilkes, but Stephen King already did that, you crazy cow.”

The irony of almost stealing one of his stories earlier today did cross my mind, but I kept quiet about that.

“Oh, yes.” Becky flashed a sinister grin. “You’re right. Well, perhaps I’ll break your ankles the way she did; that really motivated that writer didn’t it! ”

And then she stormed out again. Now, I’m waiting in terror for her to re-appear with a goddamned hammer in her hand, or something comparable. This is absolutely crazy. Things don’t happen like this in real life. I mean, okay, if it actually did happen to Stephen King, then you could understand it, but not me. Pretty much everyone in the world could pass me in the street, and be totally unaware that I write books. I’m not good enough at this game to deserve this next-level, crazy-ass shit; it's not fair!

I can hear her rustling about, downstairs. I swear to God, I heard the sound of knives being emptied out the drawer. What is this woman going to do to me?

I’ve opened a new Word doc, so it looks like I’m working on a story for her. It also means I can hide this log of events. I’ve got three different passwords set up on this laptop. All three have to be entered, to get far enough, to reach the Word docs. If the moment comes that she tries to finish me off, I’ll hit the power button, then this doc can be evidence used against her. At least someone will know who did this to me.

Oh God. What’s going to happen when my family arrives home? I don’t want them finding me dead in bed. I’ve already lost my dignity; the yellow stain appeared in the middle of the sheets a while ago. Becky had ignored my cries for a bathroom trip.

She’s coming. I can hear her thumping up the stairs. If this is it, then tell my wife and kids that I loved them very much. I hope I made you proud in my short stay on this world. And please just… .

Well, I wasn’t able to finish that last paragraph, but I feel that it should be left in, so you can understand how quickly everything happened. Here’s what happened next:

Becky rushed into the bedroom, holding a large sledgehammer. I shit you not; she had a hammer just like the one that was used in ‘Misery’. It’s like she took that book as the inspiration for this whole thing. Well, she was bright red in the face; you could almost see the rage seeping from her pores. She screamed things at me; I don’t even know half of what she was saying. It was all blurred into to some rambling gibberish. Spittle flew from her mouth. I flinched as it continually showered me in the face and eyes. I could see her physically shaking with rage.

I wailed, “What have I done to make you hate me so much?”

“Hate you?” she asked, calming for just a moment. “I’m not doing this because I hate you. I’m doing this because I love you.”

Her face once more turned bright red, and she began swinging that horribly huge hammer. I couldn't bear watching it, so I shut my eyes tightly, and thought to myself

“I love you more than anyone in the wo….” Her voice fell silent and she slumped to the floor.

“Not as much as me, bitch.” My wife, Hazel, looked down at my fallen captor. She had a candle burner in her hand. I recognised it as being the one from the window in the hallway. It was an extremely heavy, ceramic burner. I thought about just how heavy it was, as my wife repeatedly slammed it into Becky’s head. She didn’t stop until she was breathless and unable to continue.