𝐈𝐍𝐊 - JAMIE CAMPBELL BOWER

2

     The atmosphere of the antique store is much warmer from the crisp spring air you'd grown accustomed to. It was dark, filled with tall cabinets of porcelain dolls and glass figurines. Candles illuminated the dusty shelves.

     "Welcome to JUNE'S DAY," a low voice greets. You can't see him until he rises from the counter piled with books and bonsai trees. You'd expected someone much older, but the dark-haired man who meets your eyes is young. He looms tall over everything, with dimples that peak at his cheeks. "Looking for anything in particular?"

     "Oh, not really," you smile, "but thank you."

     He nods and returns to scanning the pile of books at his desk. Finally, he picks one and settles back into his chair. You recognize the title of the book. He's got good taste.

     The items in the store were interesting. No one else was here, save for the mannequins dressed in vintage suits and dresses. There were old maps, pottery, and countless other strange artifacts. A statue of a fallen angel catches your gaze. Its chalk-white eyes bore into yours without expression.

     As you stroll along the rows of items, you take notice of the fireplace in the back. The flames danced inside. You'd never seen a lit fireplace inside a store before.

     A strange sensation crawls up the back of your neck. There's an old mirror beside the fireplace. The border was woven gold, the glass leaving your reflection blurry and distorted. A funhouse mirror of some sort. It makes you flinch.

     You should probably go. The store was fascinating, but it wasn't sparking any inspiration. It only left an unnerving feeling in your chest. There were better things you could be doing with your time. Though, if that were entirely true, you would have left ages ago.

     A typewriter catches your attention. The silver object rested on an old wooden desk in the far corner. Before you can stop yourself, you're walking in that direction. Something draws you to it. It pulls you closer and closer. The feeling isn't quenched until your fingers lay across the cold keys.

     You shouldn't be touching things, but when you look over to the counter, the shopkeeper is gone. It's that and the pressuring silence that convinces you to go on. You type a letter at random, just to see if there was ink inside. The letter J stares back at you in all caps.

     Your conscience seems to be trapped in a daze. The fingers before you keep moving as if they're not your own. With four more clicks, the name is spelled out before you:

     JAMIE

     It bounces around in your head like a mantra. It leaves you writhing in a trance. In the back of your mind, you can see him, in all his blonde-haired and blue-eyed glory. The way you'd dreamt him up to be. The way Kat had.

     You run your hands against the typewriter's sleek exterior. The cold metal shocks your fingers. In the same way, it ignites a spark in your brain. Call it magic, call it impulse, call it inspiration. It was there.

      It was not likely that the shopkeeper would appreciate your meddling. Swiftly, you pull the parchment paper from its hold. Your eyes linger on the name for a second. The letters stab a lonely pain in your chest

     You're walking away now, but the typewriter still lingers in the back of your mind. You can't stop thinking about it. All that emotion you'd felt when you were near it, the sparks of inspiration were addicting. What if that was the cure to your writer's block?

    SLAM goes a door. You jump so hard the paper falls from your fingertips and into the flames of the fireplace below. The name crackles, paper folding in at the edges. It browns before it turns into ash and then it's nothing. The shopkeeper obliviously returns back to his desk.

"Sir?" you call, giving into the tempation. The shopkeeper glances up from his book. "How much is that typewriter?"

     He surveys the object for a steady while before he replies, "It's free."

     "I'll take it."

     He nods.

     It's not long before you arrive at your apartment, or maybe the excitement made it all seem quicker than it was. The first thing you do is find a spot for the typewriter. It stands out from the other furniture as Xander enjoyed a more modern look, but it would work. He was on a business trip anyway.

     You place it on the white desk in your bedroom. With some ambient music and a glass of cold water, the tone is set for writing. It's a wonder when the first few words seep into the page—like magic bringing Jamie's story to life.

     The words come out without thought. The ink fills page after page. The bliss you love so much is back, and you almost feel like crying because you missed this. You missed this high that writing brought you.

     The next time you look at the clock, six hours have passed. Time really flew when you were in the zone. You force yourself to stop, climbing into a bed of soft pillows and warm blankets. You could pick up your project again in the morning, but now, it was time for sleep.

     You're so out of it, that you can't sense the puzzled figure standing in your room. At least, not until it speaks.

     "A bit early for bed, isn't it?" it says.

     At first, you think it's Xander pulling off an alarmingly authentic British accent, but he was not the type to do impressions. Xander wasn't even here.

     Horror surges through you like lightning. Your eyes snap open and you scream. The pillow you'd been laying on gets thrown in the voice's direction.

     The man standing before you is not Xander. It isn't anyone you've ever seen before, but the scary part was that you recognized him. He was here, well alive and breathing. A nervous smile perks up on his face as he waves at you in all his blond-haired and blue-eyed glory.