Evee

Around you the log cabin is cozy. It’s one of those picturesque little places in the mountains and, as always happens here in winter, it’s snowing hard. You’re sitting in front of a roaring fireplace with your back against the sofa (Though isn’t it an odd through; a fireplace in a log cabin?). The rug beneath you is thick and your bare toes could grip at it were you inclined to try. A mug sits beside you on the floor, hot cocoa, or coffee if you prefer, still teaming from the pot. The light is dim, your mates have crashed for the night and get real anal if you leave the lights on while they’re sleeping. Damned if you know why, the fussy bastards. At any rate, you’re not tired. You’ve brought a book and some writing to do in moments like this, and with little company other then the crackling hearth, now seems the opportune moment to get down some thoughts from earlier.

As your pen hits the paper, though, things change. You don’t fel as if the words you’re writing are really yours, like some other, unseen forced has taken hold of your hand, is in your very head and talking to you, bloody talking to you, with their words appearing on the page in front of you both. This isn’t what you meant to write. You don’t even know what this is, can’t remember what you’ve just written, so it could be bull trip for all you know. Is it even legible? Can you even read your own writing?

Your hand cramps, and you slow down. No. You can’t read your writing. You guess that it doesn’t really matter, your hand-writing sucks anyway. Skimming whatever it is you’ve just writing, you realise that despite that ache in your hand you’ve achieved nothing. This isn’t how you wanted it to go, has nothing to do with what you were writing earlier. Frustrated with yourself and with the time wasted, you go to tear the pages out.

You can’t.

As if stopped by an invisible hand, you feel yourself pull away from the page. The pen draws ever nearer. You don’t want to write, you want to go to sleep. Urges like this are fuckin’ scary and you want to do nothing more then leave the book where it lies and head into the other room. You want to curl up on the uncomfortable mess of blankets on the floor you were stuck with ‘cause Alex and Sam keep hogging the beds. The night’ll leave faster if you sleep, with daylight greeting you when you wake up, daylight with it’s lack of writing demons. The presence won’t let you go, dammit all. It grips you around your gut as if you were in some screwed up wrestling match and your pen slams back onto the page. Writing so hard that you leave indents on the pages behind, you wheel around, trying to throw the muse off you. It’s fucking two in the morning and you’re going skiing tomorrow, so you need to sleep, not throw punches at something that isn’t even there. Physically, anyway.

The notebook hits the wall, sinking to the floor as if the thing possessing it were slightly dazed. You’re panting – panting! – as Alex teeters through the door. He looks at you strangely, as if you’re a mite mad and should be treated with caution. Can’t blame him, you probably look the part; winded, eyes ablaze and having an argument with a bleeding notebook, of all things.
“Christ, mate.” Alex’s voice is thick with sleep. “Too much to ask for you to shut up, man? We’ve got an early start tomorrow.”

“I know.” Your reply is hoarse, like you’ve gone through one of those ordeals those old guys on the history channel are always on about. “I’ll crash soon.”And you mean it, you really do. As Alex grumbles something unintelligible back at you as he takes his leave and you’re about to follow when you stop. You won’t be able to sleep though, because just as your leaving your notebook finishes it’s submission to gravity and flops open. The image of it almost glaring at you with it’s one, single word written on the page, you’re scared shitless until morning. You didn’t write that name.

Evee.