A Writer's Nightfall

Clair didn’t need to open her eyes to know that it was not yet morning.  The rays of the sun had not yet peeked through the slotted window blinds yet. She knew that her sleep was over.  She opened her eyes to check the glowing red of the cable television box: 3:03.  

Clair gave an audible sigh.  She glanced over at Josh.  He was still asleep and had no signs of waking soon.  It was Saturday morning and Josh didn’t have to get up for work that morning.  He would tuck himself away in bed for the next eight hours.

Clair got up and walked to the bathroom, turning on the switch that simultaneously controlled the overhead light and fan only after closing the door so as not to disturb Josh.  She sat on the toilet, ignoring the stream of urine, and thought about what she would do with the long hours alone in the silent house.  She could finish cleaning the mess from the lasagna and Cabernet dinner the previous night or she could get on the Peloton with her ear buds.  Either of these ideas were workable, but Clair knew what she should do and thinking about it made her heart speed up.  She had been stuck for weeks, and the idea of trying again made her nauseous.

She brushed her teeth, clotted downstairs, put water in the teakettle and lit the stove. She tapped the pads of her fingers on the counter as the water heated.  She put a gunpowder green tea bag into her favorite red oversized mug, a gift from a coworker at a job from almost a decade ago.  When steam billowed out, she picked up the kettle before it started whistling, careful not to disturb Josh.

With the mug, she took a seat at her laptop, placing the mug beside her as steam pooled off the top and woke the machine with a touch of a finger.  She stared at the blank page in front of her.  It had been blank for a few days now.  Perhaps her brain felt if she woke early, she could get inspiration out of nowhere and have a few thousand words before Josh awoke.  But she wasn’t feeling that way staring at the screen.

She placed her hands on the attached keyboard. Perhaps, that would help.  But nothing came out of the other ends of her fingertips.  Not a “the”, a “once”, or any other word that may start a sentence with prose worthy of praise.

She looked out the office window into the pitch black, not able to see the oak tree that stood across the overgrown yard.  If the light was peaking over the hill, she could at least take their golden retriever Murphy for a walk.  

Walking usually helped create various ideas for her.  They were not always great ideas, but they were at least a starting point.  This was how she came up with her first and second published novel.  But so far, it did not help with the third novel.  And in this darkness, she figured it was not smart to wander around in blackness.    

Clair focused on the blank screen once more, placing her fingertips back on the keyboard and looking up as though the Monet print had her next novel inscribed on it.  Her mind went in circles, looking for the perfect prose to start ideas flowing onto the page.

“Screw it!”  Clair rose from her chair, put on her tennis shoes, took one sip of tea that by this time was not too hot and not too cold before collecting Murphy and his leash.  He was reluctant to rise, but when he saw the leash in Clair’s hands, he perked up, allowing her to put the leash on easily.

The asymmetrical pair strolled down the street.  Clair felt a little uneasy about going out this early while it was still dark, but it was a safe neighborhood. Besides, she had Murphy.  No one was going to attack a woman with a large dog.  

As Clair walked, she became more cognizant that something felt off with the night.  She gripped the leash a little tighter, pulling Murphy into herself.  Although she was still in her safe little neighborhood, when she crossed over the creek, which bore a hundred foot stretch with no homes, no street lights, and no way of seeing into the darkness beyond the sidewalk.

While Clair was in her head, thinking about how horrible of an idea this was, Murphy stopped, causing her to jump missing stepping on his tail by less than an inch.  As Clair was about to yell at the dog to keep moving, when Murphy gave a low growl to something ahead of them.  Something indeed was wrong. 

Clair turned to run, hoping she could get Murphy to stop from growling and run alongside her.  Perhaps it was a deer.  Murphy growled at the deer in the yard when he saw them, didn’t he?  But before she could finish that thought, she felt something pulling her back with a thickness around her neck.

Clair attempted to wriggle free, but the surrounding arms were too strong.  She could hear Murphy barking as the person behind her lifted her off her feet.  He gave a single bark in warning before Clair heard a loud bang and saw from the bottom of her eyes; the dog sank as though he was made of liquid.  

This was terrible. Clair attempted to scream but nothing came out.  The arm was too tight around her neck.  Then as she felt she was going to pass out, either from fear or lack of oxygen, the grip loosened. 

“It’s just me,” the body said with a voice that sounded too familiar.  The body let her go and Clair could breathe again.  She took a deep breath of air before turning around to face her attacker.  Not only was the voice familiar but the face as well.  It was Josh.

“What are you doing here?” Clair asked with a deep breath.

“The tea kettle woke me and when I heard the door slam, I figured I would join you.” 

“What about…” Clair didn’t know how to finish the sentence so she turned around and pointed to where Murphy had been laying on the sidewalk moments before.  He now panted by her leg with a dog smile.

“Oh that,” said Josh, “We have been practicing that trick for weeks.  It looks like he finally got it down.” He leaned down to pet the dog to give him praise.

Clair was confused.  What did Josh do?  Why would he scare her like that?

The pair walked Murphy home and chatted about the lack of sleep they both had that morning.  When she got home, she sat down at her laptop and for the first time in months; she wrote.