1. April 6th

APRIL 6TH

Sylvan

PING! "You've got mail!"

After clicking into her email and scanning its new contents, she worried the left side of her bottom lip and hissed when she felt herself draw blood. "Go. Away." Hastily, she clicked the box in front of the new, unwanted email, clicked the "delete" button, and then proceeded back to her manuscript.

Fingers poised over her keyboard, she stared at the white page. Her brain waited for words to flow from its dark, creative corners.

A full minute passed, and nothing happened. Her fingers didn't even twitch.

Her eyes narrowed to pour every ounce of her energy into staring down the cursor's mocking wink.

Aw, are you stuck?

"No, I am not stuck."

Hmm. Distracted, perhaps? By anything in particular? Or should I say, "anyone"?

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Oh, I think you know EXACTLY who I'm talking about.

"Please, what would be the point of being distracted by him? It's not like he cares."

See? You knew who I meant. And distractions don't have a point. That's why they're called distractions. They are, by definition, pointless. Besides, he must care at least a little. The two of you texted for hours two nights ago. Not his previous M.O., which was to text you, you replied, and a couple of hours would go by before he responded again.

"Maybe you should stop bothering me. You're the one distracting me right now."

Don't blame this on me! Blame it on tall, dark, and broody.

"You don't know that he's any of those things. You've never seen him."

Oh, but I can imagine him that way. And if I can, that means you can because we're the same person. So be a good girl and admit he's distracting you.

She huffed in indignation. "I will admit no such thing!"

Who do you think you're fooling? Do you even hear yourself talking to yourself? Don't tell me you're not distracted.

"Oh, for sittin' on the cat. Are you even listening to me? Us? Whatever! I told you I'm distracted. I'm just not distracted by him."

That's so sweet. You honestly believe that, don't you? Stop lying to yourself. Recognizing the problem is the first step to recovery!

"I'm ignoring you now. Buh-bye."

Sylvan swore she heard mocking laughter echoing inside her head.

Giving her shoulders a quick shake, she settled her fingers in the "asdfjkl;" position on the keyboard once more and returned her eyes to the screen with a new sense of purpose.

Three minutes later? Nothing. Not even a string of gibberish.

"These words aren't going to type themselves, you dumb bunny, so think of something! Forty-seven days isn't much time."

A frustrated sigh expelled itself from her mouth with a force strong enough to lift the stray wisps of hair falling loose from the messy pile on top of her head. In twenty-five previous manuscripts, she had never experienced this. Writing manuscript one, with no technical understanding of the craft, words poured out of her fingertips so fast even she had been surprised. With manuscript two, she'd worried that her sophomore effort would prove her greatest fear—that the freshman effort was a fluke, and she'd never write another novel. But even then, the words had always come, although they weren't necessarily great ones at first.

Today? Not a floofin' thing.

Her fingers sat atop the keyboard, her eyes gazed on the page, and Sylvan's brain wandered again. Back to those texts from two nights ago when the distracter in question told her some hilarious stories about his co-worker, particularly one where he suffered a bite to the butt by a coral snake. She'd been smiling like a loon through the whole exchange, totally acting like a teenager texting with her first crush, but she was past caring.

Come to think of it, their texting sessions had gotten longer and longer of late. Maybe he was a little intrigued. Then again, he'd been stuck on his recent business trip coming up on fifty days, so he was probably climbing the walls with boredom and texting her to pass the time.

DING DONG!

Sylvan's brow furrowed. "Who the heck is messaging me at this hour of the night?"

She clicked over onto her social media page to see that, sure enough, someone had messaged her on her author page. Before thinking it through, she clicked on the notification. Thinking things through had never been her strong suit. She really needed to work on that.

UNKNOWN

Hello, Red. Miss me?

UNKNOWN

I told you that you'd never escape me.

UNKNOWN

I have to say, you made me work to find you.

UNKNOWN

And you've been ignoring my emails. Can't have that.

UNKNOWN

See you soon…

All the blood rushed from the upper portion of Sylvan's body as the messages began appearing on her screen. When she violently shoved her keyboard, as if that would make the message writer be further away from her, it caught the edge of her teacup, sending the contents spilling. The scalding liquid splashed her hand with stinging bites, and it ran in all directions on her desk, ruining her notes in the notebook she'd been referencing.

She whimpered.

Lock it down. He can't see you. He's not here. He can't hurt you. He may have found you on the computer, but that doesn't mean he knows where you are. You hid well.

Shaking with real fear, Sylvan reached out to hard shutdown the computer. Clutching her burnt hand and ignoring the spreading spilled tea, she sprung from her desk chair, dove into her bed, and pulled the bedspread up over her head just like she used to when she was little and scared. A part of her prayed for the magic that children believed in, that if every part of you was under the covers, the monsters couldn't touch you.

Unfortunately, she knew from experience that some monsters were far more powerful than cover-magic.

It was hours of tears later when she finally fell into a fitful sleep. But even then, she dreamt of shadowy figures who ripped and tore covers to shreds, then covered her with their stinking breath, salivating mouths, and grotesque bodies. And there was no Prince Charming in the background to fight them off.