I’ll Never Tell

Spencer sat alone at the table, her laptop out and a steaming cup of hot coffee next to her. She stared at the blank page. The cursor blinked, taunting her.

If only you could find the courage to write.

Her eyes widened as the words appeared on the blank page seemingly out of nowhere.

She glanced around the coffee shop, watching other people typing away on their keyboards. Most had headphones in, completely oblivious to their surroundings.

They can’t help you.

Spencer stared at the screen, afraid to put her fingers back on the keys. She glanced around again, searching for anyone looking back at her. Nothing. Just the sound of furious typing and milk being steamed.

I’m sorry, Spencer typed. Who are you?

She felt so silly, typing a question on a blank word document. She wasn’t in a chat room, talking to a real person. She was ultimately alone, in a crowded coffee house, trying to write a novel.

She shook her head, sure she was imagining the situation. It was just her brain, telling her the things she needed to hear and she was just picturing them on the screen. Hell, maybe she was even typing them herself and just too wrapped up to notice.

Her finger hovered over the backspace key to delete the strange text.

I’ll never tell.

The words sprawled across the screen in bright red font.

She shoved the laptop away, knocking her cup of coffee over, spilling the hot liquid all over the table and the floor. All eyes shot her way.

With a deep sigh and a look of embarrassment, Spencer pulled herself from the table and grabbed some napkins from the bar. As she sopped up the spilled drink, a barista with long black hair and a ring through her nose, headed towards her table with a new cup of coffee. She smiled gently at Spencer, placed the cup down and walked away.

Spencer tossed the wet napkins in the trash, grabbed a packet of sugar and moved back to her table. She stirred the sugar in the mug and, with a deep breath, pulled her laptop back to her.

Covering the screen, over and over were the words “I’ll never tell”. Page after page after page.

With shaking hands, Spencer hit the enter key and the words stopped repeating. The cursor blinked, as if asking her to respond.

Her fingers trembled as she typed.

What do you want?

Spencer waited, her breath shallow and labored. The cursor continued to blink.

She slumped back against the booth she was sitting in, anxious and uneasy. She looked around, watching everyone else, wondering if any of them had ever felt as crazy as she did now.

With an audible sigh, she cracked her neck and placed her hands on the keyboard.

You need to write the story you’re avoiding.

A shiver tingled down her spine.

I’m trying, Spencer typed.

No. You’re not.

Spencer, confused, replied, Yes, I am. I’ve got the outline and the characters plotted.

That’s not the story you should be writing. Nobody cares about that story. You’re being a coward.

She liked the story she was writing. Who didn’t love a good romance?

You’ve got a better story in you. You’re just too afraid to tell it.

Spencer’s mind raced and nausea washed over her.

I’m sorry … What are you talking about? How do you know what I’m af—

I’LL NEVER TELL!

I’LL NEVER TELL!

I’LL NEVER TELL!

Spencer again pushed the computer from her and watched as the pages filled over and over with the words in bright red. The words appeared at such a veracious speed that what started as 6 pages was suddenly 45.

She jammed her finger against the enter key and it stopped. The cursor blinked, patiently waiting for her reply.

Tears welled in Spencer’s eyes. She knew what she needed to write. She also knew why she couldn’t. She couldn’t find the strength to tell the truth.

Yes you can.

The words stared at her, through her.

How do you know? Spencer asked.

I’ll never tell.

I don’t understand. Spencer’s heart raced.

I’ll never tell.

Please, she pleaded. I don’t understand how you can possibly know what happened.

The cursor blinked, and blinked. And blinked.

Half an hour passed as Spencer watched the screen staring back at her blankly. Spencer grabbed her coffee, took a long sip and put her hands on the keys.

Don’t be afraid.

With trembling fingers, she started typing.

Within an hour, Spencer had written 200 pages detailing the brutal murder of Scott Benson, the man she’d killed two summers ago.

* * *

Spencer met Scott Benson at a party while in college. They’d hit it off and he seemed so nice. He was kind and had a gentle smile. They dated for a few months, and then things turned. Scott became increasingly paranoid and overbearing. He was possessive and domineering.

The first time that Scott smashed his fist into Spencer’s eye, was the last. She had always promised herself that she’d never let a man hit her. The night that Spencer had tried to end things, Scott became furious and threw her across the room. He pulled her up against the wall. She tried to get away, and he hit her.

Spencer landed on the floor with a thud, as Scott paced back and forth, yelling at her for what she’d made him do. Spencer kept quiet. She didn’t cry. She just waited. Scott picked her up from the floor and took her to bed.

She didn’t sleep. She couldn’t. Once she heard the soft snores from Scott, she crept from the bed and into the kitchen. She grabbed the biggest, sharpest knife she could find and slowly crawled back into the bed. Scott rustled, and turned so his back was to her. With a steady hand, she raised the knife high above her head and without hesitation, she lodged it deep into the side of Scott’s neck. He bled out in seconds.

Blood spattered the walls and coated the white sheets. Spencer sat in silence, watching as the life drained from his body.

She wiped down the knife and called 911, reporting hearing unsettling sounds from the apartment next door and then ran like hell. She ran for a week straight before landing in Westbrook. She nestled down, changed her name and found a place where she could hide. No one knew her. No one questioned her past. She was quiet and unassuming.

But somehow, someone knew.

She clicked the enter key a few times. Then typed, Are you real?

The cursor blinked and the page remained empty.

* * *

Spencer sent her manuscript, a lurid fiction story to Random House under a pen name. The novel hit The NY Times Bestseller list in the first week.

Back in the coffee shop, Spencer ordered a cup of coffee from the same barista with long dark hair and a ring in her nose. She tipped her with a twenty-dollar bill. She pulled out her laptop and her headphones, ready to start on her second novel.

A young woman with dark blonde hair and an anxious habit of nail-biting, sat at the table next to her. Spencer glanced over, and on the blank word document on the girls screen read the words, “I’ll never tell.”

With a small smile, Spencer put her fingers to the keyboard, and started typing.