The Novelist

Strings.

Fear.

Every sensation comes to a sudden halt. Every train of thought stops and ceases within minutes. A force darker and graver than death envelops you to complete chaos and insanity. It creeps upon you and clutches you tight before pulling you right out of your conscience. Oh how dark, how horrid, how hungry is it's presence. And yet. It's nothing but your mind inflicting pain. That dark force that falls beyond your control is just your mind.

After all. Aren't we the ones who manipulate ourselves?

Knock knock.

"Ma'am your food is here."

Shivering tediously, I stood up and made my way to the white door. Light steps on the carpeted floor created a delicate sound that my auditiory nerves were sensitive enough to pick up. I turned the golden knob to open the door for an old man with a covered platter in his right hand.
"Is this the correct room number?" My hoarse voice quivered.
"I'm quite sure it is ma'am." He replied.
"I don't remember ordering." I spoke.
"I'm sorry to interrupt but I ordered the food for you Ms. Anne Brook." I looked around, spotting the voice.  Mr. Noah Macks was leaning against the wall by my door, wearing a brown coat, a black scarf and a pair of shades.
"Mr... Macks?" I said. He knitted his brows before nodding at the waiter to walk in. I quickly moved out of his way as he proceeded to place the platter on the unattended couch table. Mr. Macks walked in, pocketing his hands and looking around the suite uncomfortably, waiting for the waiter to leave before he shut the door.
"Please don't mind me Anne. After everything that happened and...well I know for a fact that you're far from alright...I just want to make sure you're at ease... I couldn't do much for anyone. I want to do my best for you at the least. Please. Let me help." Macks stated. I nodded curtly before making it to the couch, shivering and taking small steps. He walked up to the couch and sat on a chair. The soft humming of the television distracted him and once my eyes met the news channel, I found myself trembling and losing my thoughts again. I was completely unresponsive and the drastic blackening of the screen jolted me back again.
"Anne please stop watching that." I heard Macks' voice.
I looked down at my hands that uncharacteristically scratched and digged on the leather couch.
"Let me ask you again. Would you like to visit the hospital?" I heard the man's voice.
"No." I replied. He sighed loudly.
"You're sick. You're traumatized. You need help." He said.
"I'm just...a little taken back. I'll be fine. Thank you for your concern." I spoke. I looked up at the man whose brown orbs were pooled with guilt and regret.
"Would you like to talk about anything at all?" He asked. I shook my head before I looked up at him again.
"When will you be leaving England?" I asked.
"Not any time soon. I'm not sure if I can write much this year. I'll probably go back home when I recover." He said. I nodded.

I didn't remember much of what had happened. The swift motion of the aircraft rocketing downwards towards masses of salt blue while the captain chanted a juxtaposed chain of 'mayday' and 'do not panic' under his breath, was the only speck of disheveled memory I held in mind and that was, to be clearer, more of a feeling than a memory.
I know I didn't save my own life because one needs consciousness to escape a drowning junk of metal much less swim to safety, which I distinctly remember losing when I jerked sideways on the window, staring at the galloping blues hungrily swallowing the fallen ship.
I woke up, two days from the accident, on white sheets of a busy hospital. My only visitor, the stranger who took much curiosity in me in the same aircraft. Mr. Noah Macks. Also a survivor of the Atlantic wreck.
I found out about the incident in bits and pieces. Some 86 passengers were beyond saving and some were heavily injured and in the hospital. A handful made it out alive without causing much damage to themselves and amongst that mass was me and my former neighbor. Macks took full responsibility of my stay at the hospital then after discharge, bringing me to the hotel he himself was residing for as long as we have been.
It's been another 24 hours since my discharge and Regardless to say, things haven't changed much.
"Would you like me to book a ride home for you any time soon?" He asked. I didn't reply, just staring down at my hands as the thought or air travel shook me to my core.
"I know you're terrified but maybe returning home would make things better? It's pointless to remain here alone..." He said, his words fading into a tone of uncertainty.
"I'd rather stay for a few more days..." I spoke. He nodded curtly.
"Anne. I'm right next room alright? Whenever you need to speak, please do not hesitate." I heard him speak, not making eye contact. He huffed slightly and then walked to the front door, looking behind one last time before shutting the door behind him.

Was it just the traumatic events of the plane crash that had me defeated to my worst?

I wish it was.

No. For a time span of 48 hours, I was trapped in the misty labyrinth of a dream or a vision...I believe I have lost the confidence to differentiate between the two.

Why would a vision bother me to this extent?

Hesitant, scared and greatly nervous about what this may mean and what lies beyond this veil of complexities and meaningless conquests, I travelled across the room. The platter of food lay cold on the coffee table. Ideas clashed with one another, synchronizing itself with my slow pace towards and out of the hotel room, not closed long ago...or maybe it has been, the grasp on time for me was long lost.

Grasp on time? Doesn't that come after you realize who or what you are or who or what has been your constant company for consecutive days?

I knocked at the door that would lead my curiosity to further levels. Where I verbalise what anyone would term as complete insanity.

The door opened and my eyes locked with a pair of uncertain and unprepared brown eyes.

"Would you like to come inside?" He asks and I curtly nod. He makes way for me to walk in to a suite similar to mine and shuts the door close while I  settle myself on the couch. He sits by me, a deja vu of the last time we, or much less he conversed.

"So..." I cut him off immediately with a statement which made him go wide eyed.

"How do you know me? And how have you been writing about my life?"

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