My house is quiet now, a state of being that rarely exists. The eldest of my siblings, Ellen, is resting in one room with my mother; the three other siblings are grounded in another room. Mr. Cherran isn't coming over today to work on the laundry room, and I've paid my respects to B-Gee (the old lady at church who calls me her own). There's no one to watch, no one to help, and no one to entertain.
I sigh, content.
My little Chromebook sits on my lap, beaming the Fur Affinity page out to me; the bottom-right corner notifies me of some Markiplier/creepy-pasta game-thing. The screen provides the brightest light in the living room, what-with all of the other lights turned off; only the barest rays of sunlight can peek through the peach-colored curtains of the picture window. One ray sits on my new coffee mug, illuminating the numbers "217"; I smirk, remembering my indecisiveness at the Stanley Hotel: Stephen King's room number, or REDRUM? I sip the cold coffee, curl back onto the couch, and begin to type.
"What about that musical?" Fyurl asks me.
I feel myself grit my teeth in annoyance. "What . . . are you doing here?"
This wasn't the first time I met her outside of the Start Room; that started about a week or two ago, up in Colorado. I spent a week on an Urban mission in the small mountain town of Nederland, sleeping in the pews of a small church and working in 90-degree weather . . . it was the best week of my life.
Many of the projects were small, for certain reasons (20 little piggies were taking a road trip to Colorado, but when a bus broke down, 14 couldn't make it. How many are left?), but our little group did work on one large project: the Chipeta Park trail. Only a fifth of a mile long, the trail didn't seem like it would be that much work, but when it came to wheeling the . . .
"Well, what about the musical?"
Fyurl just won't shut up about the musical, so I'll just answer her question: yes, I am working on it.
He's been spending more time watching Jacksepticeye play Undertale than he has been sleeping.
I scowl at her, trying to burn holes through her furry forehead, but she just chuckles; "You're cute when you're upset."
"Just because I talk to you at night," I say, "doesn't mean you can pop up everywhere I go!"
Even on your computer?
"Look, I know you have questions to ask me, but you can't ask them here."
"Because . . ."
I noticed you get tired easily, like your mom.
"We watched The Shining yesterday. You'd be tired, too."
"What the fuck do you mean, 'why'?"
Oh, and the kids in the other room, your siblings? Grounded, right?
My left hand is shaking. "Look, I ask the questions around-"
And who was Victor, again?
"Just shut up! Just . . ."
The world became dead. I could hear wind whistling through an empty soul, a hollow helmet. Through the darkness, I could see a mechanical silhouette, and metal head wrapped in wires, smiling heartlessly.
I opened my eyes; I dropped my laptop onto the living room floor. I had been crying, dried tear stains on my face. One of my hands were clenched so hard that dried blood was stuck to my wrist.
Fyurl had left.
P.S. Try a Youtube channel. Maybe that could help you write the play.