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This writing was accepted for publication in the 84 page perfect-bound issue... cc&d magazine (v213) (the September 2010 Issue) |
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In Conversation with My Mind
Natascha Tallowin
A girl sits, a book arranged in her lap. She holds a black biro between her fingers.
Motionless.
A clock ticks loudly from another room.
A dog barks, scratches against the back door.
She jumps, mind flung far at every unexpected noise.
The dog barks again, claws tap against the wood.
Earlier she had trapped a spider under a glass near the door and she was reluctant to move from the safety of her chair.
What use is a guard dog inside anyway, she justifies to herself.
The dog barks again, only this time he doesn’t stop.
She sighs, closes the bare pages of her book and moves to the door, keeping one wary eye on the glass with the spider in it.
She opens the door sharply, readying herself for the assault of cold muddy paws and hot wet breath.
But there was nothing.
Tentatively she peers into the seemingly endless night, expecting the clatter of claws on concrete any minute now.
She steps out into the garden, a breath of white air briefly obscuring her vision.
The front door creaks behind her, she turns, expecting to see the flicker of a grey tail disappearing into the house.
Instead she sees him.
‘You shouldn’t leave the door open at night.’ he chastises, arms folded loosely across his chest.
‘No one can get in.’ She answers flatly, walking past him, back into the house.
The dog is asleep at the foot of her chair.
He follows her in.
“Maybe you were too busy thinking about that spider by your foot.” He sighs, idly fingering the pages of her book.
She looks down, her skin prickling at the sight of the brown spider scurrying under the skirting board.
He smiles slightly.
‘Shut up’, she hisses, tossing him a glare as she leaves the room, knowing he will follow her into the kitchen.
“What are you doing?” He asks, leaning against the door frame, his black coat scuffed at the hem.
“Making a cup of tea.” She answers flatly.
“I don’t want any.”
“I wasn’t making it for you.”
“You’re a terrible host.”
“I didn’t invite you,” she replies quickly, watching him as he dips a long white finger into the sugar bowl.
“Yes you did, you opened the door,’ he answers, extending an oddly long pink tongue to his finger.
“You’re stalking me.” She accuses
“What else am I supposed to do? You won’t talk to me anymore.”
She remains silent.
“I want to talk to you. I think you know that.”
He persists, licking his finger clean twice more.
“Of course I do. I created you.” She snaps, snatching the kettle and pouring the boiling water into a mug.
‘I think you miss me. I’m charming.’ he drawls, cocking his head to one side, watching her as she realises she has forgotten the tea bag.
‘You’re not even real.’ She whispers, refusing to look back at him.
‘Not in the conventional sense, no. I still live somewhere though, I consume, I have a world, a home.’
‘You live in my head, you consume my spare time, and your world and your home exist on paper, and paper alone.’
For a moment he is hurt, his eyes contact lens green with artificial envy.
“I’m your imaginary friend,’ he beams, recovering quickly.
‘No, you are fiction, you are a character from a book that I wrote.’
‘Except when you think of me outside of the story, then I’m your friend, your lover.’ he smiles, revealing the series of white teeth that she had given him.
She draws in a guttural sigh, her mind tiring of this debate.
‘So friend, other than a craving for my company, what brings you back to the real world?’
His eyes glitter; he had thought she may never ask.
He follows her back into the sitting room, the dog still sleeps on the carpet, paws twitching.
‘I’m on a mission’ he declares proudly, following her with all the theatrical ease that she has allowed him.
‘I’m going to save the world.’
‘I didn’t know we were under siege.’ she replies, holding the mug of hot water between her hands, warming them.
He rolls his wide green eyes. ‘Not your world, my world.’
She looks up at him, suddenly acutely aware that the last time they had met, they had made love.
Ever since then she hadn’t been able to write.
‘Your characters are dying; they’re fading away with each day, each hour, and each minute. It’s an epidemic. The longer your pen stays off paper, the more my world disappears.’
She refuses to let the shock show on her face. She’d designed him to be a character of immaturity and amusement. Until now she hadn’t considered him capable of serious thought.
Could he be a potential protagonist?
She looks back up at him. There was such a sense of possibility within his gaze.
‘Why didn’t you tell me sooner?’ she asks, her voice almost a whisper.
‘I’m telling you now, just in the nick of time. Isn’t that how you like it?’
‘Well, do you think perhaps, that just once, you could arrive before the nick of time?’ She asked.
She was angry, cross with herself for letting her imagination dwindle and the characters she loved so much suffer, and cross with him for becoming so unlike himself.
‘You created me remember, you with your frantic mosaic of thoughts, you love me, you’re in love with me.’
‘I am not.’ She snaps before taking the time to think.
‘This is not a love story, love stories are for lovers, and we were only ever just friends.’
