“Where did you get this book?”
Mum’s found it then.
Becca sighed. Just when she had almost cleared her mind about it, the book subject just slapped her in the face again.
“I found it, but we can throw it away. I don’t want it.”
“Good,” her mum smiled as she passed the book to her. “you throw it in the recycling bin.”
She took the book from her mother and turned to walk out the door.
Her head smacked into something that felt like an invisible wall.
“What the…?” She tried again, but was still stopped.
“Do not throw writer’s books.” The voices whispered.
She gulped and thoughtfully walked back upstairs, wondering what other ways she could get rid of the book.
The second she threw it onto the desk, the book snapped open.
“You haven’t finished the book yet.” The voices came back, surrounding the room.
Becca threw her fleece onto the bed and turned to look out the window. “I’m not finishing it.”
“You must.”
“You can’t tell me to do anything.”
As she charged out of the room, she was swung against the wall, smacking her head on the hard stone.
She winced as her brother raced upstairs. “What the hell was that?”
Becca’s eyes were still squeezed shut. “I’m fine.”
He shrugged and turned to walk downstairs. “You’d better be. I’m not taking you to hospital in this weather.”
Her head was throbbing, and she could feel a burning sensation spreading from her head down to her toes.
“We need this information. You can give it to us.”
“Why would I ever want to help you?” It made her throat sore at every word she said.
“We need the information. It’s important.”
She was launched into her open bedroom door and landed on her chair, nearly falling backwards off of it.
“We only give books to specific people, you know.”
“Who…” she swallowed back the sting in her throat. “the gullible ones?”
“The strong ones.”
She laughed, but it sounded more like a croak.
“If you complete the book, and it has the information that we want, we will take it and you will live.”
“And if it doesn’t, I die.”
“You don’t need to think about that.”
The chair swivelled round to face the book. “If you want to live, write.”
Her fingers curled around the pencil, and she hovered it over the book, thinking.
“Think harder.”
She shut her eyes, and scanned through everything that was on her mind. She skipped all the thoughts about this being wrong, and not doing what she wanted, and the image of the book appeared.
Suddenly, a breeze whipped past her, carrying a voice with it. This voice was different to the others. Much deeper.
Her hands tingled.
