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You are sitting, staring at the green of the typewriter. It is enticing, nauseating.

You gaze at its alignment, its decorative aspect. That is why you took it with you, after all: to garnish the space.

You haven’t thought about writing in days, weeks, or perhaps years. It is hard to remember what you looked like when writing at this desk. You risk a glance in the mirror, see your face, aligned with curling tendrils, falling into place. You catch a glance as your fingers dance, hover above the letters.

QWERTY.

Aligned.

In place, a natural stance.

You haven’t felt aligned since you stopped writing.

It was his warning.

Do not say a word.

You have not.

So you also have not written. You are scared a word will become those words.

You do not know the difference. Fact or fiction.

Something takes over when you type, a mechanical heart beating the pulse of all you have to say. It is safer not to hover, not to look, to let the typewriter linger, verdant, collecting dust.

You wanted to take the typewriter with you.

You wanted to reclaim the narrative.

You placed it on the desk, watered the plants nearby, and grew the temptation.

You sit at the desk, looking at the letters from this angle, how harmless they look, frozen on the keys. They sit, then squirm, then squiggle. You see the shape of the story growing. It is indifferent to your silence.

Stroke.

Stroke.

Stop.

The keys make a sharp echo as they dispense.

You could begin to write again.

You could.

There is a lot you could do.

Rumors of cause and effect float through your vision. You could have called the police. You could have left the typewriter. You could take one more pause, one more moment of reflection. That is all it would take.

Were those your fingers? Did you press the

eff?

You compose. Snap your hand sharply to your side.

You will not go down this path. You do not know if it can be undone.

The desk sits.

The typewriter sits on the desk.

It is green.

The desk is white.

You write.

The story unravels as you type. You cease to think. The words you have been too scared to utter pour out of you, an open vein. The typewriter echoes: click, crack, boom. Suddenly, you are back in Chicago. He has the gun to your head. Tell anyone. You're dead.

You are not telling anyone. You are telling everyone.

The press of the key. The raised character. The swing to strike. The inked ribbon running like mascara down your face. The transfer of ink onto paper is like the palm of a hand across your face. The carriage shifts one space left.

You left.

His finger was a force of power; you could not lift your own without asking for permission.

Your fingers strike, stroke, stop.

Strike through.

There is an x.

A series of Xs blot out your words, a frenetic bleeding blizzard of censorship. They run like blood. Everything you had to say is silenced, covered in a black that begins to blush toward burgundy. You stare at the paper in front of you. The machine is alive with a force all its own.

The belt snaps. The typewriter bites you. It is angry. Your hands spasm unwittingly along the keys, and every keystroke is a stab. Writing this will end you.

Click.

Clack.

Rat-a-tat.

The gun is pointed at your head.

Your fingers are pointed at the keys.

A pool of blood.

Left to its devices, the typewriter sings a metallic zip, returning to form.