Secret Within {ON HOLD}

Chapter II

– Mort Rainey –

Thunder rumbles, a light sprinkle of rain showering onto the earthen soil outside.

Sitting pensively at my study upstairs, my left hand at my mouth in thought, I gaze at the taunting screen of my laptop.

The small clock near my stack of papers ticks away, seeming to get louder with each tock, nearing the loud half hour of ten-thirty.

Still, I stare at the screen, hoping to find some sort of answer in between the lines. Because rereading these four lines of writing that only meet a dead end are not getting me anywhere.

A vacuum starts up, invading my mind freely as my thoughts ensue a balanced chaos. Damnit, Mrs. Garvey... I swear, her noise is not helping.

I play with my face, thinking long and hard about the void-like story. I glance over at my dog, Chico, who is resting in a cushioned lounge chair. I flick my gaze to the computer screen, then back to my dog, and stop playing with my face.

"I'm open to suggestions," I tell her. She lifts her head to give me a sad-looking expression, clearly not understanding my proposal. I ignore it and continue to play with my face, rubbing my lips with my hand.

I try to find an answer in my screen, but with that damn vacuum noise, I can't even count to ten without being distracted. I leap up from my chair, leaning both hands onto the table in haste as I look over the railing and down at the housekeeper. She doesn't even acknowledge my abrupt movement, which irritates me even more.

I grit my teeth and clench my jaw, glaring at her innocent tidying. I shift my gaze over to my dog, my eyes wide with immense disbelief. I raise my brows and dare, "If you don't go and bite her, I'll kill her."

Chico simply turns away, as if she doesn't hear me. First, blindness in one eye. Now you're deaf, too. Great, I think bitterly as I sit back down. I resume playing with my face, then rub my hands together.

Never has this story given me a trouble. Only until a couple months ago, after... I mentally shake the thought away. Not thinking about that shit again. Don't do it, Mort.

I intertwine my fingers and rest my hands against my lips, rereading the draft before me aloud.

"'Four days after George had confirmed to his own satisfaction that his wife was cheating on him, he confro'—This is just... bad writing," I mumble, grabbing my metal slinky, leaning back in my chair and toying with it in contemplation. "Just bad writing."

So, you know what to do?

I stop playing with the slinky as my little voice of a conscience speaks to me.

Just do it.

I pause, put my slinky down, and lean forward and highlight the text with my mouse as I lick my lips.

No.

I press delete on my keyboard.

Bad.

I lean back in my chair with an exhale of relief.

Writing.

A content smile swipes onto my face. I turn to my dog and say, "I think that solves it."

Chico whimpers and does a small circle, turning around in the chair and lying back down.

– Mary Delaney –