Chapter 4
Wyatt
The morning light trickled through my cabin’s windows, casting a cold, hard glow across the room. I stirred from beneath the warmth of my thick blankets, blinking away the remnants of my dreams. Not all bad this time.
Michael Keaton stretched out beside me, his tail thumping in lazy greeting.
“Morning, buddy.” I pulled him into my arms for the mandatory kiss between the eyes, rubbing his furry head as I swung my legs over the side of the bed.
With a yawn, I shuffled to the small kitchen, immediately feeling the chill in the air that signaled the brewing storm outside. Pulling on my heavy, threadbare but still functional housecoat, I flipped the switch that would begin life anew.
The old coffee maker rumbled to life as I measured out the grounds, their comforting aroma filling the surrounding space. Michael bounced off the bed and trotted over to me, watching with attentive eyes.
“Looks like it’s going to be one for the books, huh?” I mumbled to him, pouring myself a steaming cup. “I think this one’s finally going to knock January 2019 out of third place.”
As if he understood exactly what I was talking about, Michael Keaton’s eyes darted over to our storm tally board stuck against the side of the kitchen cupboard. He whined, his tongue coming out to lick the back of my knee.
“It’s okay, boy.” I bent down to give him a reassuring pat on the head. “At least it won’t be the horror of February 2015. Pigs will fly before that one leaves first place.”
His tail wagged in agreement, and I smiled. His company was my life raft out here in the middle of nowhere, and nothing.
After savoring that first sip of coffee I settled into my worn armchair, legs curled up and laptop open. Another day, another writing goal. The blinking cursor taunted me, a reminder of the block I was having.
Patricia had no idea, of course, and if it were up to me, she never would. Those pages she’d raved about had been finished weeks ago. I just held off on submitting to buy myself more time. To make her think that I’d been writing up a storm like the good little writer client she believed me to be.
I sighed, taking a bigger sip from my already cooling cup of coffee. It had been a battle lately, coaxing the words from my cinder block brain. The right words, in the right order, to keep the right people happy.
People. A tired, sardonic laugh escaped me. Because, of course, my livelihood, and some days my entire existence, would depend on the thing that stressed me out the most.
I scratched Michael Keaton behind the ears, finding solace in his presence. “Well, buddy, here goes nothing.”
I took a deep breath, fingers poised over the keyboard. The storm picked up outside, but in my cozy cabin with my faithful companion I was safe. And for now, that was more than enough.
Elara, my series protagonist, was on her way to face her biggest challenge yet. As the series finale, The Shadow Realm was going to have to be all kinds of epic and dramatic. Finally, my readers would get to see the power Elara had been nurturing over the course of the last five books.
When I looked down, Michael Keaton’s eyes were on me. In my mind, there was silent knowing there. Like he saw right through me, and there was nowhere to hide.
“We’ll keep it between the two of us,” I chided, and got back to work.
Nobody had to know the reason behind Elara’s unique magical power of empathic restoration.
She had the ability to intuitively perceive the emotional pain and turmoil of those she encountered, seeing it as ethereal, shadowy auras around them.
Along with this, she could focus her powers on channeling healing to those people, mending their emotional wounds.
Resilience and hope. That’s what I envisioned her quest would invoke.
It’s what I’d hoped to reap from the journey when I first birthed her character in my mind. Hope. Resilience. Surely there was a way those things could seep from the fictional world and infuse with my daily life.
I groaned inwardly. That was more wishful thinking than hope.
With all the writer’s block drama aside, it took me less than two hours to hit my goal and I snapped my laptop shut before my brain decided to torture me with the bright idea to finish the chapter I was in the middle of.
“All right, Michael Keaton, it’s that time again.” I went over to my bed and sprawled across it, reaching for the other set of tools I had. Ones I dutifully stowed on my bedside table.
My soulmate leapt onto the bed and snuggled tightly against my side. I cast a sideways glance at the faithful Lab, his eyes blinking nothing but the purest innocence.
“Yeah, I know.” I sighed, opening my journal to the freshest page. “But I still don’t get the point of this. Fiction is my catharsis, my therapy. But try telling Gretna that.”
Michael Keaton snorted softly, lapped my ear and laid his head on his paws. I, still mildly disgruntled, wrote the date at the top of the page. The day after yesterday. The one before tomorrow, when I’d be in this same spot, doing it all again.
“She’s convinced writing down my thoughts will magically make everything better.” I wrote the exact words I was speaking. “When all it is, is just a bunch of scribbles that no one will ever read. You tell me, sir, what’s the point in that?”
I paused and ran a hand through my hair. We were on day four of our shampoo break, and my dark blonde waves were beginning to slick themselves back.
But.
Life in mountain solitude was nothing if not incumbent upon routine. And my routine stated that a shampoo break was needed every four weeks to ensure healthy, bouncy locks. Taken straight from a YouTube influencer with amazing hair.
“You know what, buddy? Maybe you should do my homework today. What do you say?” I slid my journal in front of Michael Keaton and held out the pen to him. “You’re a great listener, and I bet you’ll have some fascinating insights into my psyche.”
He lifted his head and let out an enthusiastic bark, his tail wagging even faster.
I chuckled, shaking my head. “Yeah, you’re right. I guess I’ll just have to suffer through it by myself. For my own good, like you said.”
I took back my half-filled journal and began to write. Even though I couldn’t quite see the point.
No sooner had I hit the mark where my hand was moving of its own volition than an unbidden memory fought for attention. I held it back, forcing my focus to the mundane details of cabin life—crackling fires, the snowstorm outside that painted the world an icy white.
But it was persistent, stirring, restless. A dark shadow lurking in the corners of consciousness, pleading with me to cast a light on it. My chest tightened, and a suffocating weight pressed down on me as the shadow clawed its way to the surface.
No. Not now. Not yet.
My hands trembled slightly as I continued to write, and the words in front of me slowly started to blur. With my breath shallowing out I sensed the onset of another attack, heart racing, a thin sheen of sweat breaking out on my brow.
Unable to bear it any longer, I pulled up to sit and slammed the journal shut with a sharp, frustrated groan. I hugged my knees to my chest, rocking away the turmoil bubbling up inside me. And Michael Keaton, always Michael, came to nuzzle my face with a comforting whine.
Just then, a shrill ringing shattered the heavy silence of the cabin, causing both Michael Keaton and me to jump in surprise.
My phone’s screen lit up, and for a moment, I was frozen in place. Gemma. Her name glared on my screen, screaming at me. We hadn’t spoken in months, and I wasn’t sure if I was ready to change that.
More unwanted memories came galloping at me, squeezing my heart with cold, knobby hands.
Reluctantly, I answered, thinking there might be an important reason for her to cross the no-contact line.
“Hello?” I was guarded. Of course I was guarded. If this were the dark ages, I’d have suited up in full armor before taking the call, sword at the ready to protect the tattered shards of my heart.
I secretly wished that instead of the dark ages, this could’ve been a whole other realm completely. One where the likes of Elara actually existed. I’d seek her out and throw myself at her feet, pleading with her to bestow her special healing upon me.
“Wyatt?” Gemma’s voice on the other end sounded hesitant, as if she was as unsure of this phone call as I was.
My grip tightened on the handset. “It’s my number you dialed. And as great as he is, Michael Keaton hasn’t adopted human vocalization just yet. So, yes, it’s me.”
“I… I saw the news about the big storm heading your way,” she replied, her words tentative. “I guess I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
I scoffed despite myself. Or maybe I scoffed because I wanted to. Because was she kidding right now?
“Why would you care if I’m okay?” The words tumbled out before I could stop them, and the tension between us crackled through the phone.
There was a heavy pause, and I could sense Gemma struggling to find the right words. She was wasting her time. There was no such thing. Not after how things ended.
“I still care about you, Wyatt,” she said then. “Whatever you may think, I-”
A knot pulled tight in my chest, releasing a fresh tide of bitterness. “You made your choice, Gemma. You don’t get to care about or know anything.”
She was speaking, but I ended the call anyway, my ears ringing as I tossed my phone across the bed. Michael Keaton jumped up and went to sniff my phone, looking back at me with puzzlement in his big brown eyes.
“I know, right? It’s not even lunchtime yet, and this day is already kicking our asses.”
He lurched at me, knocking me flat onto my back, paws pinning me down while he licked my face over and over.
“Want to make a bet on what happens next?” I giggled through his love storm, giving him furious rubs all over. “I’m thinking a talking bear breaks in, or the wind picks up really bad and carries us off—cabin and all—to Morocco. What’s yours?”