This is my entry for the #BlogBattle hosted by Rachael Ritchey. I had a few ideas, but at some point the little comedy piece I had in mind decided it didn't want to be written, but it the end it turned out to be a Drama instead. I hope you enjoy reading it!

I just want to say thank you to everyone who voted for this story as the Week 59 battle winner! I appreciated it very much!
She’s crying again.

I know why she’s crying.

She’s been doing that a lot lately, ever since ‘The Accident’. She never cries in front of me, but I can always see the stains on her cheeks when she comes in. They're almost permanent now. I want to comfort her, but what would I say? How would I say it?

It was never meant to go this far, but... but there’s nothing I can do about it now.

It was all an accident. Just an accident.

We were young when we got married. We’re still young. We both have... had goals and dreams and careers; she once put a picture of me in the dictionary, right next to the word ‘ambitious’. It had been a joke then. Now… now it's not so funny anymore.

But I digress. We were young, and we were driven. The brief discussion we’d had about children and parenthood ended quickly with a firm decision from us both: ‘Not anytime soon.’ Neither of us were ready for the responsibility.

She told me she was pregnant that night. I’m not sure why she chose to tell me then; we were both more than a little drunk on wine, and I probably shouldn’t have been driving to begin with. I still hate myself for that decision. Things could have been so different. We were such a happy couple. Our friends always told us that if anyone in our group could become a ‘power couple’, we were…

I’m sorry, I’m wandering from my tale again. It happens so often these days, just can’t hold on to a single train of thought like I used too. Back to ‘that night’.

We argued, I lost control.

It was a stupid mistake. If things had been different… maybe I would have been happy to become a father. Or maybe the argument and the pregnancy would have damaged our marriage irreparably. Sometimes I think the miscarriage already has.

She still tries to talk to me. I know she still loves me – it’s one of the reasons why she hasn’t left yet. The other… well, she doesn’t really have anywhere else to go. Her parents died when she was young, and mine… let’s just say that they would have been happy to hear about the miscarriage. Once the slew of medical bills started coming in, our circle of friends quickly dwindled down to nothing.

Sad, really.

She’s still crying, quieter now. It means she’ll be checking on me, soon.

Sometimes I want to tell her to leave. To go and find a better life. She’s only twenty five, she shouldn’t be stuck here, in this life, because I made a mistake. She still has all that potential… and I want her to realise it. I still love her, too. I just don’t tell her that anymore. I don’t tell her much of anything.

Other times, when I can almost see her determination to just end it, I want to beg her to stay… and I feel guilty about that. But I don’t want her to leave me here, alone. I don’t say a word. Not even when she begs me to just speak to her. To say something. I wish I could, especially when I can see the beginnings of tears in her eyes again before she storms out of the room.

She always comes back, though. Always. She promises that she’ll stay, that she’ll never leave me. But I know she’ll beg again. She’ll get angry again. One day, she will leave.

So many times I’ve tried to talk to her, to give her what she wants. What she needs. But the words always get stuck, and I feel like I’m choking on them. Tears that refuse to be shed burn behind my eyes. We’re not living anymore. We’re barely existing. But it’s all we have.

Here she is now, coming into the room. Look at her. She’s a shadow of what she used to be. She looks half starved, with circles under her eyes, her hair in a tangled mess. I can see three stains on her dress. They were there yesterday, too. I see everything these days…

“Hey love.”

She always says that. I say nothing.

“Are you hungry?”

Her eyes are pleading with me.

Silence.

“Let’s get you cleaned up, and then we’ll get you something to eat.”

That’s how I know she still loves me. She takes care of me, and she never complains.

I watch her until she disappears behind me, grasping the handles of the wheelchair. She’ll take me to the bathroom now. She’ll bathe me, she’ll feed me through a tube. Then she’ll wheel me outside and sing to me. She sings beautifully, and she sings often… these days.

She’ll sing to me, for me, filling the silence with her voice…

…because I don’t have one anymore.

I recently started writing a fanfiction (oh close your mouth, for goodness sake) story, but after a couple of chapters I started thinking about turning it into a original story. There's something dark about the whole idea that just appeals to me. Here's an excerpt of the story, with the names changed, for your enjoyment. Let me know what you think - worth pursuing an original, or stick to fanfiction?

Through a Brother's Eyes

The first time he'd killed, he'd been nine and in his freshman year at senior high. It'd been an accident, and he still can't really remember what'd happened. Something about velocity, impact, and the mathematics of aerodynamics... He'd always known that he was different – genius they called him – but when he had looked at that dead chick, feeling only disappointment that his hypothesis had been incorrect, it'd been the first time he'd wondered if different was wrong.

He hadn't thought about that chick again until five years later. He and his brother were graduating – and everyone was so proud. His parents were so obsessed with taking pictures of their young genius; they hadn't noticed when their eldest son had slipped away. But he had. Tony loved his brother. Even though they were never that close, Mikey had always been there when he really needed him. He protected against bullies, and held him through the nightmares. And hugs... hugs were precious – precious because they came from his brother, and they came very, very rarely. Yes, he loved his older brother very much, and he knew him very well... so when he saw Mikey slip away, Tony knew that his older sibling was unhappy at being left out again.

It wasn't difficult to distract his parents. Soon enough they were in deep conversation with a college professor who wanted to 'recruit' him for their program, and he was out hunting Michael down. Today was a hug day. His brother, Tony found out, had the same thought. Only, Michael wasn't hugging him today. Instead he was hugging a strange girl, hidden in a dark corner far away from the crowd. He'd seen her before... She was a cruel girl, often making fun of him and his equations, looking down on everyone around her... and now she was stealing his hug! But it wasn't just the hug. He could hear them moaning as he crept closer, watching with wide eyes when he realised just what Mikey was doing with the girl...

Two days later, as he watched the blond corpse sink into the depths, Tony realized something interesting. The numbers were quiet. Not silent, never silent, but instead of being a near blinding chorus in his mind, they had become a pleasurable, comfortable hum... but he also realised something else. She was never going to touch Michael again, because Michael was his Michael, and maybe, just maybe, he loved Mikey a little more than he technically should.

When Mikey had left, he'd thought it might just be a good thing, even if he almost hated him for it.

The next few years, Tony threw himself into his work. He threw himself into several other things as well, but they always had dark hair and dark eyes and he never knew their names. He didn't want to know their names. But it wasn't until the trip to give a lecture on his groundbreaking Convergent Hypothesis in Los Angeles when one of his faceless, nameless Michael's thought he could break the rules. He heard something on the news when they got back two days later, but he already knew the cops weren't going to find anything. Just like he knew that he liked carving the bastard up.

He'd had to face the truth after that. He thought he cared about them. About dad and Melissa and Harry... and mom. But when mom was dying, and his dad yelled at him almost every day to go and say his goodbyes... he still couldn't leave his study. They would all believe that he'd lost himself in the unsolvable equations he so loved to tackle, because he couldn't deal with his mother's death. It was a lie he let them believe. He didn't work at them because he wanted to ignore his mother's illness, but because he just couldn't understand why the thought of it didn't frighten him, or make him sad. He knew it should...

The truth was, he worked on them because maybe, just maybe, solving someone else's unsolvable problem would help him solve his own.

Heartless. That's the word he'd ascribed himself during those months. Emotionless. His father had certainly told him that more than enough times – and Tony almost believed it, too. Until Mikey came back. So different... and so the same. The same dark hair and dark eyes, the same voice, same rough hands and powerful body... and when those hands jerked him away from his blackboards, shaking him in anger, Tony knew it was time to leave the study. He wasn't heartless or emotionless. He'd found the solution to his problem, the other side of the emotional equation. He wasn't too surprised by it either.

 The answer could only ever have been Michael.

Very slowly, their lives began to settle into a pattern. Michael was still Michael, and Tony still turned to faceless shadows. Sometimes he even thought it was funny, how no one could see him for what he was. They all thought he was sweet and funny and so intelligent, if a little socially awkward. Professor Tony Bennes, who can't see the way Melissa looks at him, who's probably still a virgin, and who could never hurt a fly. If only they knew...

Then, one day, everything changes and suddenly Tony is involved with the NYPD, helping them on their cases. No, not helping them... helping Michael. He'd walked into the building, expecting to feel a certain... fear. There were, after all, still cold cases in this very building that related to things he'd done. But when he stepped off the elevator, there was nothing but excitement to see and help his brother. And did they ever work well together, just like Tony had always known they would.

 He allowed himself to get a little... closer, every now and then. Like after the shooting. He'd practically folded himself into Mikey then. It wasn't so much because of the shooting itself, but when Michael had rushed forward and held him, he took advantage. Life went on, but sometimes Tony could almost believe that Mikey felt something for him, too. A look that lingered, a touch or a squeeze that lasted just a second longer than it should between siblings...

 And then came Elizabeth Darro.

When he'd found the box and the ring inside it, Tony had stared at it for a good, long while. Someone had come very close to stealing his Michael away... Three days later, Tony showed up at Michael's door with the box. He'd settled in on the couch with him, a happy little smile on his face. Michael had chosen to stay here, with him, even if there had been a woman waiting for him. And Tony knew that Michael would always be his.

Thirty eight hours later, Michael and his team were informed that Elizabeth had mysteriously disappeared. His brother had nearly killed himself in an attempt to find her – but Tony knew he never would. She would be just another cold case... Instead, when Michael finally broke two months later, it was Tony that sat with him in the dark of the apartment. Tony who made sure that Michael didn't drink too much, that he ate and took his showers while they waited for him to be approved for active duty again. It was Tony who comforted him, running his fingers through his brother's soft hair as Michael lay on his lap while they watched Gulliver's Travels together.

 And he knew that, if anyone was ever going to catch him...

 ...it was going to be his Michael.

Dear Muse,

I started the original draft of this letter while I was quite frustrated. As you know, it is National Novel Writing Month and I have been drawing creativity from every source I can get my hands on to finish this book in time. But now - while I need you most - you seem to be constantly hiding, finding excuses and just generally proving to be unhelpful.

I finished a long letter - read RANT - about why you should be around, how disappointed I am, and how I was going to chain you up once you finally got back. And when I was done, I sat back, feeling better and quite self justified, staring at the pages filled with ink.

It took all of five minutes before I regretted writing that letter. In those five minutes, something amazing happened, something which I can barely describe. You see, my dear muse, in those five minutes I suddenly realized I thought of you not just as some mythical force, but a powerful creative entity that was an extension of myself. I thought of you as a living being in those minutes - and I felt horrible. I reread those pages several times, and I realized what a horrible mistake I had made.

Because you see, Muse, I can't blame you. 

I can't blame you for wanting to hide away from someone who would write such a letter, just like I would hide myself if someone wanted to do those things to me.
I expect you to be around whenever I demand it, no questions asked, no excuses given.
I expect you to come with creativity and ideas in hand, and to keep delivering when I feel that the ones you've tried to inspire me with aren't good enough.
I expect you to stay as long as I need you to, without rest, without breaks, without some time to stew in subconscious creative juices and come up with something new.
I expect you to be happy with these circumstances, where I'm prone to complain about your lack of work and dedication, your constant escapes, and rant, rave and insult you all the time.

If my boss wrote me a list of expectations like that, I would NEVER work for him. I would quit my job or sue him! And yet, here I was, writing out a whole letter demanding that you explain why you weren't following those rules.

And I came to realize a few very important things:

I realized that maybe you kept running away because I kept trying cage you and force you to work.
I realized that maybe you enjoyed coming on your own, and that you don't appreciate being summoned like a dog or slave.
I realized that even muses need time to rest, time to themselves, so that they can deliver later.

I realized that you are incredibly dedicated and understanding. You give and you give, and it's never enough. And on the few occasions when you actually get the chance to come up with a great idea, and can't wait to show it to me, I complain that you are being active at the worst possible time.

AND I'M SORRY.

I imagine that if you were a physical person, you would be one of the unhappiest, most depressed people in existence. And nobody would care.

When I started this letter, I'd planned to rant about how horrible you are, and how you were failing me.

Instead, I'd like to say: THANK YOU.

Thank you for always making some effort to show up, even when you hate that I called you.
Thank you for always coming with some ideas, even if they aren't the best. You take the abuse, the insults, the mockery, and you can't say anything about it - and you take some more after you get back from hiding out.
Thank you for always coming back, and sticking with me despite everything. I can't imagine how many times you've wanted to leave and never come back
Thank you for always trying to inspire me, and caring for my creative self.

You might not walk around or talk, or have a physical body, but that doesn't mean that I shouldn't respect you or that creative part of myself. It does mean that you need someone to speak out for you, someone who cares. It's unfortunate that that someone just so happens to be the worst offender, ME, but I'll try harder.

In short, Muse, this letter is a promise.

I promise I'll try harder to see your side of things. 
I promise I'll understand when you need a break.
I promise I'll take a closer look at your ideas, no matter how horrible they may seem, and try to find the good in them.
I promise to actually work with you rather than expecting you to do all the work.

And most important: I Promise to respect you - you who are a part of me, an extension of my being and my creativity - and in so doing respect myself.

With all my love,
Your Writer

She stared at the white curtains. They were graying with age, and if you looked closely you could notice spots of dirt or mucus that could no longer be washed out.

Click. They miss me not. 
Beyond the curtains she could just make out the moon, divided in half by the heavy bars over the window. It was full tonight, casting an eerie glow on the dark landscape beyond, untouched by man-made light.  The woods in the distance seemed even darker in contrast to its shine.

Click. They miss me.
It was rarely quiet in this room; there were always noises made by people mumbling or shuffling around, or finding something new to moan about. Then there were the others, with their fake smiles and gentle words and not so gentle hands. To her eyes they looked human, but she knew that on the inside they were all evil. Always pretending to care, until the lights went out. At night their masks came off and they would stalk into her room, all greedy hands and red eyes and quiet threats as they took what they wanted. Until tomorrow, when the sun came out and brought their fake smiles with it.

Click. They miss me not. 
She smiled. Then giggled.

Click. They miss me. 
There would be no smiles tomorrow, no red eyes tomorrow night. No more clawed hands or intimidation or fear. After all, how could that evil thing smile with a pencil sticking out of its eye? He’d come again, a burning shadow in the night. This time she’d been ready. She hadn’t been afraid! When he'd hovered over her, she’d plunged the pencil through the embers of his eyes, as far into the monstrosity behind the human skin as it could go. He barely had time to scream.

Click. They miss me not. 
She thought someone might have heard, but no one came. So she wandered here, to this room. The room with the ugly white curtains. She had always hated these curtains, a symbol of the tarnished innocence that this hell was filled with - of her own stained innocence, ripped away on her first night with these monsters.

She would not let them come again. They would not have her, not here, not anywhere.

Click. They miss me. 
She would be free soon. She knew what she had to do - but she had wanted to see the moon one more time first. It had been so long, and she could still remember how she danced beneath it on the hot summer nights at her family cottage. Simpler times, gone now, consumed by the forest fire that had stolen her family. She was supposed to have been there, but had begged to go with a friend on holiday instead. She’d skipped out on family time and had ended up being alone, just like she wanted. Alone and trapped in her own private hell.

Click. They miss me not.
That fire was supposed to have taken her whole family. It was waiting for her – they were waiting for her.

Click. They miss me.
She looked at the lighter in her hand as the lid hung open. It was time. She slowly extended her legs which had been cradled against her chest, and rose from the hard floor. Her white dress shifted softly in the night as she shuffled over to the curtains.

“I’m coming home, mama.” She whispered, before pouring the bottle of medical spirits over her head and the dreary curtains.

Click.