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Where does the time go? Usually, my writing sprints last about twenty minutes or a half-hour at most before I’ve written maybe one thousand words and my aching back and shoulders are screaming at me to take a break. Maybe it’s the whiskey I drank before I started to write, but two hours have flown by before I realize I haven’t taken a single break. I was blocked for so long that it’s all just flowing out of me now. It’s not even me who’s doing the writing, but some invisible power. Me? I’m just the conduit for putting the words on the page.
Only when the text message alerts me from my cell phone do I stop writing. I glance at my watch and see that it’s two in the morning.
“Jesus H,” I say aloud. “I’ve been writing for two straight hours. I look at the word count. Three thousand words. I also know where the story is going, which is the most important thing. Some writers screw themselves over by blowing their entire load in one writing session and then they have no idea where the story is going from there. What results is the dreaded writer’s block. But not me. I know where I’m going with this story, precisely because I’m living it in real-time (thus the first-person, present).
Glancing at my phone, I pick it up, type in my four-digit pin, and unlock the screen, My stomach goes tight when I see that it’s a brand new text from Jennifer. But I don’t open it yet. I’ve allowed the fire to die. Getting up, I go to the wooden box and take hold of the metal poker. I open the door and stare at the red-hot smoldering wood coals. It’s like looking into the mouth of hell itself.
Adding a single log to the fire, I see that the box is now empty. I close the steel door, apply the latch, and set the poker against the wood wall. Only then do I head to the desk and seat myself back in the swivel chair. Pouring one last whiskey for the night, I stare at the digital phone screen. I sip the whiskey and feel its good slow burn travel down my esophagus. Setting the toothbrush glass beside the laptop, I open the text.
My Dearest Martin. I can’t sleep. I’ve been tossing and turning thinking about us. No, not thinking. But despairing. How can you not love me when I am willing to give my entire heart over to you? I am willing to sacrifice myself for you. I would have your baby if you want. I would give you a brood of children. You wouldn’t have to do any of the work. I would take care of the children on my own so you have the time to write more books and dedicate them all to me with love. Doesn’t that sound like heaven Martin? You should feel my pillow tonight and the tears that are soaking it. I LOVE YOU MARTIN. Please write me back.
“Now she not only wants me to write and dedicate a book to her,” I whisper aloud, “she wants to have my babies.”
I take a glance at the number from which the text originates. It’s yet another number I do not recognize other than the area code which is New York City about one hundred miles south of Millbrook.
“Another ghost phone,” I say to myself. “Makes me wonder if Jennifer is a woman at all.”
Note to self: give the rabbit a chase. But will Mary be okay with it? No choice but to go for it. This craziness must end now. I can’t wait around until Jennifer once again shows up at my property, he or she dressed in a crazy costume consisting of a black robe and a fucking hockey goalie mask. The next step is a pistol barrel to my head or a knife to my back. Maybe she’ll even find a way to take me hostage and hobble me like in that old Stephen King nightmare of a story and movie, “Misery.”
“I cannot allow anything like that to happen,” I say. “Not when I’ve got a great story going. Not when I’m about to be the toast of the town in Manhattan again.”
I stare at the text and begin typing a response.
Dear Jennifer, I text. I can tell how much you are suffering. As a writer, I am intuitive about these things. I am in touch with your emotions. Never forget that. We never did meet up yesterday, so why don’t we repair that and meet here at my farmhouse on Sunday early evening at five o’clock. Can you do that? Just you and me and our love together.
I can’t for the life of me believe I wrote that last bit about just her and me and our love together. But I need to do this right if I’m going to bait her into coming to the farmhouse on Sunday. The last thing I want to do is waste the cop’s time or the time of her support staff who are sure to show up with their service weapons drawn and the handcuffs waiting. All I need to do is get the rabbit to commit and we’re good to go. The harassment will end, and I’ll be safe. More importantly, the mystery will be solved.
Drinking more whiskey, I stare at the phone and wait. I check my watch. Two-thirty in the morning. It’s way past my bedtime. Writing during the night is extremely unusual for me. But when the words have been building up inside you, expanding your brain and your soul like gas inside your gut, the pressure has got to be released sooner or later. If I had gone to bed when I was supposed to, I would have just laid there wide awake anyway, going over the words I wanted to put down on paper inside my head.
The phone vibrates and chimes. I pick it up and stare at the screen.
“Bingo,” I say, my voice sounding strange inside the otherwise lifeless studio.
I am overjoyed you would love to see me on Sunday evening Martin. We can share some wine together. If you allow me I’d love to cook a sumptuous meal for you. Do you like lamb? Do you like pork? Would you rather have a steak very raw and bloody? I like mine bloody. The more blood the better don’t you think? Flesh and blood...it’s sooooo damn tasty. Like you Martin. You are going to taste so good to me when you fuck me and then I allow you to empty your babies inside my mouth. You will love me even more Martin. It will be all you can do to head back to your one-room writing studio to write me some wonderful loving words that will be dedicated to me and my undying love for you. You will write late into the night like you are right now Martin. I love you. Goodnight. See you Sunday evening. I’ll be counting the seconds until then.