Every morning, your photo sits with me at my desk.
I see you every time I look up from my writing; it focuses me more.
The whole essence of the novel is centred on you and how your future entwines with me. The block is gone and I now keep writing.
Events from the past fall in to build the backstory as you reminisce the currency of your new being. The phantom fox extends this into extended possibilities as you are chased across the pages. Nothing is clear until the turn and your true personality explodes into driving new chapters. I couldn’t see this before, but now the photo takes me onwards.
In the evening, the photograph is bathed by the side light.
I watch it as the darkness fills my room and colours my words. The pages develop into where we should be, where we should end, but the means is lacking somewhat and I am at a loss.
The writing stops and I look at you glowing from the photo and colouring my study brown. I have difficulty thinking on, as the world is brown. My heavy eyes see little, so I rest.
The coffee is bitter as it descends my oesophagus to the sharp pains of my continued affliction. I sip some more and suffer in the pause.
The flaming fire burns at me as I huddle closer, peering into the flames that flicker scenes and characters across the coals. The fleeting glimpses miss my mind as they play like clouds on a summer’s day, but do not rest long enough to form enough thought.
I look back at the desk and your photo still stares at me, haunting me across the room.
The ending waits as I finish my coffee and take a stiff one from the decanter. The pain jabs me as it goes down; like a stabbing dagger landing in my gut.
I see you cutting there. I see you jabbing over a lifetime of indiscretions as the cuts are felt. There is only one way to go and I see it happening to the end. I take the photo from the frame and throw it in the fire and for a time you look back at me as the edges smoulder and burn. The image lasts for what seems an age until you are gone and I poke you into the coal and dust.
I lift my pen and you are again there; driving me.
You take me to the last chapter. The building is on fire and you rescue all from the inferno, but leave me stuck in the study, grinding out the final words of the story. I look up and see you in the doorway fighting to get in, screaming at me. I grimace and hold my stomach. A falling beam crashes down and pins me to the floor and forever my pain disappears. No words are left to give.