"I will return when your time is up, Mr.Fritz," The guard says, a tad stiffly.
He then leaves, shutting the door behind him.
Shaking, I turn around. The room is very blank, with gray walls, floor, and ceiling. It's lit fairly evenly, by a bright overhead light. The only furniture in the room is a small brown table, with two chairs.
One is empty.
The other... has someone sitting on it.
My heart seems to skip a beat. My mouth is dry as sandpaper. And all I think is,
Oh. Dear. God.
He's right there.
'Nightmare'.
He's staring at the table, hands clasped together. He's wearing a light gray shirt and jeans, nothing out of the ordinary.
Then he looks up.
His red eyes fix themselves to mine in an instant. And, very slowly, he smiles.
It's playful and light, perhaps a tad arrogant, but those eyes are much different. They hold an icy chill to them, far colder than outside. Yet, there's still a teasing air about his gaze.
He tilts his head to the left slightly, as if asking, Well? Going to say something?
I then notice he's still wearing his bowtie.
That, strangely, snaps me out of my numb staring.
"U-um, h-h-hello. My n-name is Michael F-Fritz an-d I'm here to write a biography."
I rush the last part, in an effort not to stutter.
He raises an eyebrow.
"Yours, specifically."
He raises both eyebrows, looking mildly interested.
I take a deep breath, and walk forward. I sit down.
He grins, looking extremely amused. I swear I can almost hear him thinking, Oh, this should be good...
"So... let's, um, start off with something simple; what's your name?"
He chuckles, surprising me, as it's the first sound he's made.
" 'Nightmare', silly," he says, his voice slightly deep with a rough edge. Not very rough, though, about as rough as... a cat's tongue.
"But... that's not your real name, is it?"
"No."
"Well then, what is your name?"
"Not telling," he says cheekily, reminding me of a child.
Surprisingly (or maybe not so much), I feel myself getting irritated.
"Just tell me your name."
"Nnno."
"Tell me your name, please."
"No."
"Tell me your name."
"Nope," he says, smugly smiling, as he can probably tell I'm getting angry.
I am struggling to keep calm. I know very well that he's goading me deliberately. Why, I don't know, but I tell myself not to explode.
"Please, sir, simply tell me your name, and I'll stop asking."
"Why should I?", he asks, smirking.
"Because it would be polite, and, well, because I sort of need to know your name so I can write."
YOU ARE READING
A Writer's Nightmare
Short StoryA young, unsuccessful writer named Micheal Fritz is a normal guy in the town of Frost City. That is, until he's commissioned to write the biography of a serial killer. Known only as Nightmare, he had murdered over fifty people between the ages of...
