An Angry Place, cont...

"Where am I?"

"You shouldn't have come here." He hissed under his breath.

"What are you doing? What are you going to do to me?"

I felt the cat brush along my ankle.

"Shut up, just SHUT UP! I need to think."

I couldn't move my arms, he had duck taped them to the chair. I didn't know how long I'd been out for.

"THINK ABOUT UNFUC..."

I froze. I noticed the rope slung from the ceiling. The realization that I might need to be a little more diplomatic in the situation dawned on me as a cold chill went down my spine.

"Dave, are you okay?"

It was a stupid question. Of course he wasn't, but his answer surprised me.

"I'll be alright."

"What happened Dave?"

"I don't know, I don't fucking know. Why the fuck are you here? How did you get in?"

"Your landlady let me up, said she'd heard weird noises from the apartment, she was concerned."

"Nosy Bitch! For fuck sakes. You're trespassing you know. I didn't kill her. Why the fuck did you come back here?"

I could tell he was on edge. He sat opposite me beside the door. He had a cigarette in his hand and a crammed ashtray beside him. The room was mostly dark, some sort of blackout curtains over the windows with only a few streams of light getting past. Something was on the TV behind me judging by the lights being cast on the wall, but it was muted.

"Why couldn't you just stay away, why'd you come back here? Why the fuck are you here?'

He started to pace. We were in the living room. I silently wondered why there was no coffee table till I noticed its folded remnants propped beside the door.

Dave was a stocky guy, 5'9" about, 190 lbs. We'd been good friends in high school, but had drifted apart as people are apt to do. We'd moved to different cities and other than facebook would hardly be considered friends anymore. Yet a month ago I decided to cheap out on a hotel and couch surf.

Just one night, and it hadn't been awful. His wife seemed nice, a little shy.

artistic re-creation of writers face

The more I write, the more restricted I feel, burdened by the story before, and what once was joy, becomes a laborious bore. So I lay here a grand fuck it. A cop out. Had I built any like able characters? Had I simply tried to build scene study on scene study with dialogue?

I'd say I know what George railroad Martin must feel like, tied to finishing his masterpiece with neither the drive nor reason to do so. But my work and time invested is nowhere near his caliber or time invested.

So here is a limerick about a puppy.

There once was a dog named Bear
He had beautiful long curly hair
Until he went bald one day
Cause he decided to play
In the drawer where my wife kept her Nair.

Have a lovely day😁