[hr] [img]https://fontmeme.com/permalink/190129/1cdeafe6aa548fe89ae15f95ed040166.png[/img] [hr] The apartment’s curtains remained drawn, and whatever light came from the morning sun was blocked by the artificial night created by blackout curtains and poor living conditions. In the near pitch-blackness of the room, a figure moved, shuffling with meticulous awkwardness towards a shadowy bookstand. Hands raised up to gain balance, and a low utterance of a grunt came out of the man’s chest as he fumbled with a light switch, creating dim light in the room. The man sighed, rubbing a hand over his face, contorting his skin as he groaned against the light, trying to find [i]something[/i] in the mess of his room. Finally, he sat on an old sagging loveseat, covered in old blankets. The flashing red light of an answering machine begged to be checked, and he seemed to agonize for a long time before finally groaning again, making his way towards it, and pressing the “play button.” [color=YELLOW]“Daaavid!”[/color] The prolonged “a” with the almost insufferable nebbish voice made it quite clear who was trying to contact him. [color=YELLOW]“How’s my favorite master of horror? Are you missing Seattle yet? Because I have some [i]grreeat[/i] news for you!”[/color] more extended vowels and the promise of good news? It was Eddie Howell’s signature pitch; dress up the shitty deal and hope that David was too fucked up on his meds to say no. [color=YELLOW]“A very cute little company out of Vancouver want to adapt The Screamers for a tv mini series! This could really do well on paperback sales of-”[/color] [i]Click.[/i] “Message deleted.” The answering machine voice droned on as David Marlowe slumped into a wooden chair at his small kitchen table. Eddie had spent the past two years tryting to get David out of Baltham and back to the “real world”. He always said that hiding out wasn’t the manly thing to do; and that he needed to get back into the public and get another big book published. Besides, the whole “scandal” deal was long forgotten. But he knew it had been forgotten because [i]he[/i] had been forgotten. The moment his name was out there again, the faster the shit would hit the fan all over again. The gurgle of the coffee maker caught his ear; that must mean it was almost noon if it was boiling another pot. That meant he needed to start working for today. [color=GRAY]“Sorry Eddie,”[/color] David muttered to no one in particular, [color=GRAY]“but there’s no way i’m going back to Seattle. Ever.”[/color] He finally forced himself up with a hearty groan, and poured himself a black cup of cheap coffee. He sipped at it, contorting his face with distaste, then carried the steaming mug to a dark writing desk in the corner of the living room. There he looked over the old IBM Lexmark his father had given him when he published his first novel. Still queued up on the page were a few...scribbles and musings, but nothing was solid. David replaced the paper, centered it; and prepared to write. Fifteen minutes later he stood up, his hands shaking. This had been a common occurrence for the past six months: he would start a paragraph, and suddenly in the middle of it all; simply freeze. But this time had been different: it had been worse. David began to struggle to breathe as he tried to bring his fingers down onto the mechanical keys of the typewriter, and he found himself unable to think at all for a solid minute. Was this it? Was he coming to the end of his career as a writer? Would he die, here in this shitty hovel unable to even finish a goddamn paragraph? [color=GRAY]“Fuck it,”[/color] He muttered to himself, walking over to his couch. He grabbed the remote to his television, letting the hum of the LCD screen tv flash bright vibrant light into the room. The news was on. [color=RED]“-horrible accident today as several police officers were involved in a shooting-”[/color] The channel suddenly changed to daytime soaps, then to crappy game shows, and finally to infomercials, until finally David hit the power button again, stood up and made a shocking announcement:[color=GRAY] “I have to get out of this fucking room.” [/color] He washed, brushed his teeth, fixed his hair and threw on a jacket. For the first time in what felt like a lifetime; David Marlowe was going outside. [i]At lunchtime.[/i] [hr]