Day 2: Gestation of Evil (from film wank to literary wank)

Right. So a short story written in the 2nd person.. god, I`m rusty now (`yeh, I know` - God). But complex grammar aside, have decided that despite the lack of merits this story needs to be copyrighted. So no filching it to enter a creative writing competition for 12 year olds where the first prize is a stash of buns, ok? Mmm. Buns. Actually most of you will probably hate it but please do wait for the entire thing to be go up before making a comment; `tis a work in progress!

Recur (i)

The white-washed walls stare back. Rust-coloured carpet, stretching down anonymous corridors, to the same vanishing point. For the first time you realize it`s always dusk; the scale-pink sun already gone again. Inside now, the same hotel room, the four walls are contracting, expanding, breathing perhaps. Well, at least something`s breathing, you think. When was the last time I ate? Cup miso ramen - can`t quite recall how it tasted. Not feeling hungry anymore.
You sense her returning, animal-soft, snaking through the strip of light from the bathroom door and perching on the foot of the bed. She says nothing, as usual, and the soundlessness of the room seems to resonate. A tiny high-pitched note ringing out. Or maybe it`s only you that can hear it. Shifting uncomfortably, you observe without much interest the bed, the desk, an indistinct photo hanging on the wall. It looks a little crooked in the half-light, but that hardly matters right now. The worn chair you`re sitting in, on second thoughts, is quite inviting, moulded to you somehow. As if you`ve been sitting here indefinitely. Stale air, with a hint of varnished wood, but easy to breathe. So you breathe and wait.
Something ripples below the surface.
You shift in the chair again. She rises and you watch her shadowed form slink over to the drinks cabinet as her fragrance breaks over the air, momentarily, before dissipating without a trace. Reminds me of a garden somewhere, you start to think. Returning now with glasses of Jameson whiskey and ice (my usual tipple), you take the glass she offers, gently clinking. Cool to the touch, yet somehow weightless. That`s odd. You open your mouth to speak. Time passes.
Something again can be felt below the surface, something deeply unsettling but without a face.
You open your eyes in time to see her enter the room once more (more liquid in her movements this time?), pad over to the same cabinet. Pours two glasses as before and hands one to you. You accept it with a murmur but wonder where the first one disappeared to. Then realize, of course, that this is the first one. You put the copper-coloured fluid to your lips, it`s fiery going down, so you inhale sharply without meaning to. She is watching you, intent, breathing softly with spider-web hair hanging in disarray by her shoulders. Please say something. She quietly takes a sip too, and replaces the glass on the table. Time passes.
Something dark ripples – this time, she interrupts.
-Do I know you? she asks.

(ii, tomorrow)