Labyrinth

      It’s the uneasy quiet that gets her attention first.

           Walking through the strange environment, she knows she’s not unaccustomed to silence. Being the introvert that she is, sometimes a quiet day is a welcome reprieve. Feeling the wind blow over her shirt sends a different chill down her spine.

           “This kind of quiet makes me go too far into my own mind,” she says and looks around.

           Everything around her is abundantly green, that much she can tell so far. Her new surroundings have many different shades and tones, but all of them are undoubtedly green. She smiles a nervous grin seeing the color. It is one of my favorites after all. The longer she stares, however, the more disoriented she gets.

           Rubbing her eyes, she tries to refocus her vision. Instead of helping, this action brings out a loud, unexpected cacophony of sound. A garbled voice starts to play in the background and she convulses in reply. She can’t pick out distinct words as the voice grows louder. It’s like a gnat that starts out gliding but then turns into a buzzing that can’t be swatted away enough. 

           She looks down at her feet and wonders how fast she can get away from the noises. The voice speaks again. This time it’s clearer.

           “You always were your own worst enemy,” it snarls.

           She decides against running, opting for what comes naturally in such stress.

           Bellowing into the sky, she lets her lungs erupt through a scream. The voice taunts her and tries to interrupt her yelling. She screams more, never growing hoarse yet becoming desperate for relief from the torment stretching her nerves thin as dental floss.

           Finally, she bolts upright. Her whole body is drenched in sweat.

           She glances at her bedside clock. The neon numbers are blurry and she can only make out a three. Wiping the back of her neck, she feels overwhelming wetness. Gross. She pulls herself over the bed and lets her feet hit the cold hardwood floor. She’s burning up despite a chill in the air. She walks with stumbling feet down the hall. Not bothering to turn on the light when she reaches her desired room, she protects her eyes. They’re burning and she knows exposing them to brightness will do more harm than good.

           She fumbles for the faucet’s handle and turns it. Internally hoping her memory of the sink has guided her to the correct side. Cupping her hands under the flowing liquid, she sighs with relief. Next, she splashes a few handfuls of the glorious water on her face, breathing easy when the liquid cools down the flush there. A few yawns later, she heads back to her bedroom and attempts to not focus on the jungle from before.

           “That horrid place may have turned me against green for a while,” she says aloud and tries to fall asleep again.

           When she wakes up the next day, she remembers she’s scheduled herself a few hours of writing. She has a deadline in a few months and failing to meet it is not an option. Opening her laptop, she clicks into currently unfinished works. Hours later and despite her efforts, the blinking cursor in all of them taunts her. On and off. On and off. It’s quick but her brain moves fast enough to put an accompanying statement with each movement. They all run on a loop. 

           “You suck at writing.”

           “You’ll never finish any more stories.”

           “Give up now.”

           She looks over rough notes from earlier in the week, a vain attempt to jog her memory but she ends up sighing in annoyance. 

           “Come on Rita, get it together,” she says.

           Moments pass as the cursor continues its mocking. She groans and feels tension start to build in her forehead. She jabs at the buttons on her keyboard. Nonsense syllables appear in rapid succession on the screen.

           “Why can’t I do this anymore? It’s like any ounce of creativity I had is lost forever.”

           An erratic beeping takes her attention away from the screen to her phone. She moans but feels relief at the same time.

           “Hello?”

           A cheery tone greets her, “Hey Rita, how’s the work coming along?”

           “Oh, you know, same old same old, trying to find the best way to phrase this or that,” she mumbles, hoping to hide the worry in her voice.

           “Your stuff is great you know. I can’t wait to read your new pages.”

           Yeah, good luck on that happening soon. She feels the bitterness start to creep through her but stops it before it comes out in her voice.

           “Sure Yolanda. You always are my first reader.” 

           Her friend’s voice grows excited, “Woot!”

           Rita smiles and disconnects the call after Yolanda says goodbye. She turns herself back to her computer again. The spiteful cursor is still blinking silent jabs into her thoughts. She deletes the gibberish she typed before and sighs.

           This is going to be a long day.

           Rita’s feet plop onto the hard ground. She glances around and recognizes her surroundings. The jungle has grown larger and greener. How is that possible? Rita walks around. The trees look barren as she starts to hear distant sounds ahead. She perks her ears to find out if they are from the voice she heard before and is surprised to hear two voices. 

           One is from a man dressed in ragged clothing clinging to his skinny frame and discolored circles under his eyes. The other voice belongs to a woman, also unkempt, but in more of an ‘I’ve let my looks go because I don’t know what self-care is anymore’ kind of way. Rita steps back, wanting to protect herself from horrendous stenches emitting from both individuals.

           “You have no idea what you’re talking about! You sound like a lunatic who is too paranoid to function!” The woman screeches.

           The man jabs his finger into the woman’s face in defiance, “I know what I’m talking about. Others have this truth and when we find each other, we will not be denied!”

           Their argument continues and Rita goes unnoticed until she sneezes. The two figures’ heads jerk toward her and she feels her eyes grow large in panic.

           “You!” They say in unison.

           Rita freezes, unable to move or form a verbal response.

           “You can help us since you know that I’m not alone in my concerns. Tell Mary my truth is real.”

           The woman scoffs, “Johnny, she’s not going to help you more than she didn’t help me. I’m the one who knows more about the world anyway.”

           Rita nods without thinking, recognition hitting her. This couple is from a story idea she randomly got on a past road trip. She never started the piece though, putting it off to try and focus on novels (which have also so far gone unfinished).

How am I able to talk to fictional characters I never fully created?

           “I’d love to help you both, but I don’t know if I can,” Rita sputters out.

           “Why not?” They both demand.

           Rita can’t answer as her head starts to spin and she grows woozy. Her voice is slurred.

           “I, I just,” she tries to say, but a nauseous feeling rises to her throat.

           Instead, she runs at marathon speed. But the jungle’s layout has shifted, it’s tilted with rows of web like designs. Pushing through them while running, her muscles sear with pain. Johnny and Mary trail her at every step, arguing the entire time. Mary reaches her at one point, grabbing her shirt, she rips a shred off. Rita ignores it, pushing herself forward. She starts to scream again, feeling it’s her only way out.

           Her own voice echoes in her ears when she bolts up in bed.

           “I need help,” she says in between puffing heavy breaths.

           The next day, Rita uses a different writing approach. Taking supplies (laptop, headphones), she goes to a lake a few miles away from her home. She finds a semi-secluded area to be able to focus while feeling comfortable. Queuing up previously inspirational music, she tries to type a description with more than visual details. Her entire playlist eventually finishes without her writing a single word. When the first song’s second playing starts, her fingers are hovering over the keyboard. Anger turns her stomach into constricted knots.

           “Maybe a walk could help?” She says aloud to no one in particular. Rita then remembers the supplies she brought. 

           “No wonder Thoreau was so productive at Walden. All he had to lug around was a notebook and pen,” she spits out bitterly as she packs her car. 

           The next day, Rita meets Yolanda for lunch. Despite her best efforts, her face looks drawn, and she can’t hide all of the darkness to the circles under her eyes. Her clothes are more presentable than she feels inside. Yolanda is at the café first and seeing her friend’s bright positive attitude unnerves Rita. 

           “Hey lady. How are things?” The brunette greets her with a smile.

           Rita bows her head, taking a breath before answering, “Not great. I haven’t written even a word since we talked last. I also—”

           “That sucks. I know how upset you sounded on the phone that day,” Yolanda interrupts, “Are you still mad today? That’s allowed. As your editor and best friend, I am okay with your moods.” 

           Rita sighs and feels her heart thump in her throat. How do I respond to that? I can’t get pissy now or she’ll keep being encouraging. And then I’ll get angrier and then

           Their server reaches the table then and Rita stops thinking.

           “Have you ladies decided or do you need a few more minutes?”

           Rita feels her throat tighten, her palms sweating. 

Have I lost my speaking voice along with my writing one too?

           “We’ll need a few more minutes,” Yolanda answers.

           The server nods, “Take your time, I’ll be back.”

           “Yolanda, what if I don’t write anything else? Getting the first book out was so great but I don’t know if I have anything more in me.”

           Her friend shakes her head, “Nonsense! You’re amazing. This is one block. You’ll get it through it.”

           “What if I become a one book wonder?”

           “There’s nothing wrong with that either,” her voice is warm, accompanied by a big smile. “Plenty of authors wrote one book and they’re still well-known.”

           “Name one.”

           Rita watches Yolanda struggle.

Ha! See. She knows a real author does more than one book. What a passive-aggressive bitch. I knew she had those tendencies to her.

           “Margaret Mitchell,” Yolanda says with confidence, “There’s more too but you won’t be one. You’ll find your groove soon. For now, let’s enjoy a non-writing related lunch. Besides, you’ve got months until I absolutely need pages.”  

           The next morning, Rita wakes up feeling disturbed. She’s exhausted due to the almost week of inconsistent sleep. As the day goes on, she decides to forgo a shower and stays in her wrinkled pajamas. After leftover pizza for lunch, Rita pulls up a new blank document instead of her unfinished others. Images from her dreams over the last few days come to mind. They’re clear, precise and she feels herself start to shake at their memories. The tremors move her fingers over the keys, but she can’t bring herself to type any letters. Rita groans with distress and slams her laptop closed.

“Why is it so hard to get even one word out?” She fumes, tramping away from the desk.

She paces around her den. The warmth of the sun streams in from a half-open window. Remembering her scruffy look, she yanks the blinds over the windows. 

Nope. No show for the neighbors today despite how great it’d be. Come one, come all. See the imposter claiming to be a writer after creating only one book.

           That night, sleep comes surprisingly easy. Rita feels her body relax into her soft sheets and cool pillow. Soon, a shadowy figure walks toward her from her right. Rita feels the back of her neck moisten and her body shivers against her control. She strains, pulling on each of her legs and finds herself immobile.

The figure moves closer.       

The person gets within inches of her but doesn’t speak. He’s dressed in a white shirt and khaki pants with an apron. It has faint splotches of red on various parts. In his right hand, he has a slender steel object with a wooden handle. Rita’s eyes widen when the light catches the steel, shining on its color. She gulps, her mouth having gone dry.

           “Nice to meetcha, ma’am,” a Southern accent drawling out his vowels.

“I’m stuck.”

           “Well, you’re darn lucky I found ya. I can help with that.”

           The man pulls his machete back to swipe at her side. The smooth blade captures Rita’s ribs. Warm liquid pours out onto her fingers. The sensation of seeing and feeling her own blood makes her weak. Her body sways in reaction as a metal cup cools her side where she was slashed.

           “Yessire. This will be some great sauce,” the man says, his voice now more sinister. 

           “What? You said you were going to help me not feel trapped.”

           He laughs with manic glee, “If ya ain’t alive, you ain’t trapped are ya?”

           Rita flinches, her body tense.  

           “Oh, come now, it won’t hurt for much longer,” the butcher sneers, moving closer to slice her again.

           Rita gathers her strength to push herself. The effort drops her to her knees. Thankful for the different position, Rita still grows weaker as she continues to lose blood. She scrambles to pull herself into a running position but fails. Opting to crawl, she desperately makes a getaway path. Her body writhes as she pulls herself into a lit area.

           Rita feels her sheets again, trembling as she removes her quilt. Inside her head, she can still see the leering man with a frenzied grin talking about sauce. 

           “He’s the butcher I thought of in high school,” Rita whispers.

           As her heart slows back to normal, Rita thinks over the dreams and the theme hits her. She’s being chased by writing ideas she never started.

Am I being attacked by my own mind? Like a literary schizophrenia or something?

           When Yolanda offers lunch the next day, Rita turns her down, citing it being an angry writer day.

           Rita doesn’t wait for Yolanda to reply. She silences her phone, leaving it in another room, wanting it out of sight while she writes. Rita digs out a notebook from her bottom desk drawer.  On the first page, Rita describes the physical traits of all nightmarish images that have been torturing her. She whips her pen and the lines fill quickly, soon turning into pages. Rita’s hand cramps and stiffens at one point, but she wills herself to fight through it. A rush of exhilaration takes over and she doesn’t stop, not wanting to.

I have to get these beasts out of my head.

           When her body starts to wilt in fatigue, she moves her non-writing arm to her desk’s top. Her head follows it soon after.

           Out of a darkened area, a figure appears. A stink alerts Rita to the person’s presence first. She looks up to see a woman with a rat’s nest of brown hair. Her clothes’ wrinkles remind her of an elephant’s butt. Rita recognizes the smell that alerted her now to be body odor and unwashed skin. She scrambles and stands up to see the woman move toward her. The woman has dark creases under eyes that she sees when she yawns. 

           Other than the decrepit appearance, Rita feels the lady could be her double.

“Please don’t hurt me.”

           “Why would I do that?” The woman asks her.

           “You look like me. You probably want to take my life,” she stammers. “If you do that now though, you’ll regret it. Being a writer who can’t write is no picnic.” 

           The other woman nods, “I know. Are you familiar with the idea of doppelgangers?”

           “Yeah,” Rita says unemotionally.

           “Then you know who I am. Just call me Alt-Rita.” 

           “I’m still wondering if you’re going to take over my life.”

           Alt-Rita smiles, “I can if you want, but I don’t advise it. I’m the version of you that feeds your pain and writing struggles. You have plenty of ideas, just don’t pressure yourself to finish all of them at once.”

           “Writing’s all I’ve ever wanted to do,” Rita sighs. “I can’t give it up.”

           Alt-Rita grabs her hand and Rita flinches, “You don’t have to. The ideas you’ve thought of have always been so creative, so originally you. It’s your fear about how anyone but Yolanda will see them that’s held you back. Think again about all the characters you’ve subconsciously met this week.” 

           Tears poke out of Rita’s eyes and she bows her head in shame. Her stomach also tightens in recall of the jungle and the labyrinth it turned into. 

I don’t want to go back to that place.

“Recall what you were doing when you started to feel control again.”

She looks over her smelly twin again, unsure if she can get back to that eagerness or if it will stay if she tries again to work alone. Can I ask Alt-Rita for help?

           “Will writing about those people really make you and all of them go away?”

           Rita looks up. She’s sitting aby herself at her desk, notebook open to a blank page. She starts to scribble again, desperate to try and see if the words really will come once more.

           A writer’s mind is like a labyrinth. It’s hard to know how to get out of it. In the moment when one finds him or herself in such a trap…