“Who is that?” Handley asked.
I paused from typing. I didn’t know what she was talking about. That wasn’t part of the planned scene.
“Listen,” Handley said. “I hear someone.”
“As do I,” her therapist, Endura said.
Grutte Piers was nodding. “And I hear him, too.” His mild accent bothered me.
None of that matched the dialogue I’d been chasing as part of the scene. Sitting up, I gave heed to my characters’ comments and listened.
“He died when I was eight. My memories of him is of an overweight man who always drank, who was always smoking cigars. He was always in a wheel chair. Quite frankly, I was always a little scared of him.”
So the voice goes on across the room, issuing from a woman. Her voice has the quality to slash through my writing shields. It’s a rare phenomena. I can usually block everyone out. Not her. What is it about her tone, frequency or volume that lacerates my concentration and focus?
She’s fallen silent but the characters are all restlessly shifting. “Okay, where were we?” Handley asked. “What’s going on?”
“I don’t know,” Grutte Piers said. Looking up and out at me from his place on the page embedded on the computer screen, he continued, “Why don’t you go back and see what you’ve written so you can remind us where we were going?”
“Okay,” I answered. “In a moment.” The world was too much with me. Music was playing. Others were speaking. “I need to collect myself first.” Sipping coffee, I looked out at the rain.
The voice began again….
Ah, she’s leaving….