Seraphina
The cursor blinked patiently, steadily. Like it knew something I didn't or perhaps...
Like it knew something you didn't.
I wrapped both hands around my coffee mug, letting the warmth settle into my fingertips while the rain tapped softly against the kitchen window.
There was something comforting about rainy mornings.
They made the world quieter, softer. People hurried indoors, pulled their curtains shut, convinced they were safe simply because they couldn't see what was outside.
Strange, isn't it? Humans have always believed that what they can't see can't possibly hurt them.
I took another sip; too hot I winced.
"...Still worth it."
Gerald, perched on the edge of my desk with all the authority of a disgruntled life coach, stared at me in complete silence.
"I know," I sighed.
"I should've waited."
He continued staring.
"You're incredibly judgmental for someone who's twelve inches tall."
Frank snorted from the bookshelf.
"She's talking to ceramic decorations again."
"I prefer trusted advisors."
"You bought us at a garden centre."
"You don't know where you came from."
"I literally watched you pay."
Details. People get so caught up in details. I grinned before turning back to the blinking document on my screen. It's strange being an author. People assume inspiration arrives like lightning. A flash, a revelation or maybe some magical little whisper in the middle of the night.
It doesn't.
Ideas are much quieter than that. Sometimes they're born from overheard conversations in coffee shops, sometimes from headlines tucked between advertisements or from strangers whose names you'll never know and sometimes... Sometimes inspiration smiles at you while holding the door open.
That's the dangerous kind because monsters rarely look like monsters. If they did...
Well, my job would be considerably more difficult. I rested my elbows on the desk, studying the empty page. Do you know what readers ask me most? No, not "Where do your ideas come from?" That's second. The first is always...
"How do you write villains so well?"
I never know how to answer that. Do they expect me to say I lock myself in a room for three days and summon demons? That I consult ancient spirits beneath a blood moon? That I possess some wonderfully tragic secrets? Disappointingly...
No.
Writing villains is easy. People write themselves. The difficult part... Are convincing readers they're heroes. Now that takes practice.
I absentmindedly traced the rim of my coffee mug.
"You know what I love most about readers?"
Gerald groaned.
"We're asking them questions again."
"They're good listeners."
"They don't have a choice."
"Exactly."
I looked toward you, not the page. You. You've already started making assumptions.
You don't even realise it. You're deciding who you'll trust. Who's funny.
Who's dangerous. Who's secretly hiding something. Its instinct don’t worry.
You simply just can't help yourself. Humans crave certainty.
You see a smile and think, kind. You see a uniform and think, honest. You see tears and think, innocent.
It's adorable and catastrophically unreliable.
I wonder...
How many people have fooled you in your lifetime?
Five?
Ten?
More?
Don't answer that. If you knew the number, they probably weren't very good at it. The truly talented ones. Leave without ever being discovered.
Silence settled over the room. Outside, rain drummed against the roof.
Inside, only the soft ticking of the clock accompanied the cursor's endless blinking.
Stories are funny things. People think authors create them.
We don't, we simply decide which truths to tell and which ones to bury beneath prettier words.
I set my mug beside the keyboard and flexed my fingers.
"Ready?"
Gerald sighed dramatically.
"No."
"I wasn't asking you."
"I know."
"I was asking them."
Frank glanced toward the window.
"They don't know what they're agreeing to."
"No."
A smile tugged at the corner of my mouth.
"They never do."
I rested my fingers on the keyboard. The blinking cursor disappeared beneath the first keystroke. Across the top of the page… One name appeared
Joey
Therapists smile too much. Not genuine smiles. Practised ones. The kind they learn in university. Tilt your head, soften your eyes, make people feel safe enough to tell you everything. It's clever, really. Almost manipulative. Almost.
Dr. Eleanor Hayes smiled exactly like that.
I'd been sitting in her office for... what?
Three minutes? Four? Long enough for her to decide I was broken.
Long enough for her to assume she could fix me.
People are fascinating like that. They meet you for five minutes and suddenly they're experts.
One degree is framed on the wall, and everyone thinks they're God.
I looked around her office instead. Cream walls, bookshelves, plants she forgot to water, and a candle labelled Rose Fields.
Of course. Therapists are obsessed with roses.
Apparently, flowers solve trauma. Who knew?
A little family photograph sat beside the window.
Husband. Two daughters. Golden retriever.
Matching Christmas pyjamas. So Sweet. She followed my eyes and smiled.
"My girls."
"I guessed."
"You did?"
"You look like someone who labels food containers."
She laughed.
"I do."
"Like I said."
"You couldn't have known."
I smiled.
"I notice things."
"Oh."
She uncapped her pen.
"That's a wonderful skill."
"It depends on who's noticing."
She laughed again. Second mistake. People always assume laughter means comfort. Sometimes, it just means they're lowering their guard. She crossed one leg over the other. Wedding ring. Twisting it, tiny habit. She is nervous. Interesting.
"So, Joey..."
"There it is."
She blinked.
"I'm sorry?"
"The voice."
"What voice?"
"The therapist's voice."
"I don't know what you mean."
"You do."
I leaned back in my chair.
"It's softer than your normal one."
Her smile faltered.
"People only use that voice when they're talking to children..."
I tilted my head.
"or people they think are damaged."
Silence. Just for a second. Then she recovered, very professional.
"I imagine you've had difficult experiences."
"There it is again."
"What?"
"The assumption."
"I'm not making assumptions. You told me someone tried to hurt you. I only said don’t play the victim. Heaven knows the way you look; something was going to happen."
What the fuck did this bitch just say.
"Excuse me?”
"I apologize, let's just return to the conversation."
"No. You've decided I'm the victim."
She frowned slightly.
"You told me someone tried to hurt you."
"He did."
"I'm sorry."
"I didn't say I was."
She stopped writing. The room suddenly felt... Different. Quieter. Almost like the air had thickened. She studied me more carefully this time. Not like a patient but like a puzzle.
"Tell me what happened."
I smiled.
"He tried to kill me."
"I'm so sorry, no one deserves that."
"I suppose not."
She nodded encouragingly.
"And how did that make you feel?"
I stared at her. People always ask that. As though feelings are the interesting part.
"Like nothing."
"Your feelings?"
"Feelings in general."
She waited. Therapists love waiting. They think silence makes people confess. Sometimes it does and other times...
"As I said he tried to kill me."
She nodded gently.
"And then?"
"I killed him first."
Silence. Real silence. No fountain, clock, birds outside. Just. Sweet Silence. Wonderful. Silence, she blinked. Once.
"Excuse me."
Sweat dripped down her face, drip, drip, drip. Ewww
"I. Killed. Him. First."
"What did you just say?"
I looked at her for a long moment. Tilting my head sideways I laughed. Truly her face looks like a pufferfish. Oh, how funny.
"Mm..."
I leaned forward and whispered.
"You think I'm joking."
She smiled trying to look through me or if she could see if it’s a joke. It’s Not.
"I think you've been through something traumatic."
"No."
I couldn't stop smiling.
"I've been through something educational."
Her pen stopped moving. For the first time since I'd walked in... She looked uncertain. Good. I do so enjoy progress.
The room fell silent. For a long moment...
I simply stared at the screen. The cursor blinked beneath the last sentence.
Waiting for me to decide what happened next.
I took another sip of my coffee. Cold, of course.
Coffee has a remarkable ability to become undrinkable the moment an author gets distracted. I swallowed anyway. Waste not.
Gerald climbed onto the keyboard.
"Well?"
I looked at him.
"Well, what?"
"You left us with quite the cliffhanger."
"I know."
"You can't just stop there."
"I absolutely can."
"It's cruel."
"It's character building."
"For whom?"
"The readers."
Frank wandered onto the desk, peering suspiciously at the screen.
"They're going to hate Joey."
"No..."
I smiled.
"They're going to fear her."
"That's... arguably worse."
"I know."
Silence settled over us. I read the final paragraph again, then once more.
Authors are funny creatures. We'll spend six hours writing a scene then another hour staring at it like we've never seen words before in our lives.
Sometimes I wonder if sculptors argue with marble.
Do painters apologize to canvases? Do bakers stare at bread wondering if it has enough emotional depth? Probably not.
Lucky them.
I highlighted a sentence, deleted it. Immediately regretted deleting it, pressed undo there, better or worse. Honestly after the fifteenth edit it's impossible to tell.
Gerald folded his tiny ceramic arms.
"So?"
"So?"
"Would she actually say that?"
I considered the question.
"Maybe not."
"I knew it."
"I think she'd grin instead of smile."
Frank looked horrified.
"That's your note?"
"The dialogue's fine and the pacing's good and the psychological manipulation is lovely."
"But she should smile more."
I nodded.
"Exactly."
"You concern me."
"I've heard that before."
"Frequently?"