Trapped

Is my life the price I must pay for a life of comfort? The typewriter sits where it always does, sending the same message. I would do anything to put that back in the garage, to get rid of it. Anything. But would I? The pull that the dusty typewriter had on me was strong. Those three words are even stronger. Anything you want. I could have all the money I need, I could pay for Ava's college tuition. If I typed. So I did.

I typed.

And typed.

But eventually the typewriter took my power. I had to write or it would do something. Something bad. I lost Ava's mother, my wife, due to thinking I was above a typewriter's control. I wasn't. That's how I found Genevieve dead when I came home that cold December night.

The typewriter has the power. I either write, or it rewrites a nightmare that I'll never wake up from. In the crisp daylight, it looks so innocent. Inanimate. If only that were the truth.

So I write. I write to save Ava. I write away the rest of my humanity. Anything to not let it get angry. People end up injured, or worse, because of me and this blasted typewriter. I don't let myself mourn the losses. As long as it's not Ava, I tell myself. The typewriter won't hurt my last person in this world I care about as long as I write. So I do.