“I was thinking we could just call it good, I wrote your story,” I said. 1,100 words — a short story. It wasn’t bad… still it was a relief to have it done.
He made a gurgling, phlegmy sound which might have been a laugh. “We haven’t even gotten started, sweetheart,” he said.
I did not have to take this — this was my house, my mind, and I would write what I wanted to — I had to draw the line somewhere. “Look, I don’t write that kind of crap. I’m doing Sunshine, Lollipops and Rainbows. Get out of my house.”
“No,” he said and narrowed his eyes at me. “I’m not leaving until you write me.”
“But… no one is going to like me.”
“Not my problem. Your job is to write me. We’re wasting time.”
His feet were propped on the coffee table and as I tried to shove them off I saw the pile of glitter. Pink glitter. “What did you do to Sunshine, Lollipops and Rainbows?” I hadn’t seen my old book since the day he showed up.
“Haven’t seen her,” he said and patted his stomach.
This was ten days ago and The Beast has since grown to a timeline, a plot outline, pages and pages of character worksheets and 8,000 words of manuscript. I’m hoping if I do as he says, we can get this over with.