Work Text:
Blank pages are not an uncommon occurrence in the home of Ike Eveland. One must have room for the words to grow, and what kind of novelist would Ike be if he did not keep space to foster his writing on? Words are like mirrors; they reflect our being. Often Ike’s readers, whom he has lovingly named the “Quilldren,” will tell him that his novels evoke a myriad of feelings within them, causing them to evaluate themselves in ways Ike himself had never even considered. They see themselves in his words, and although it is more often than not unintentional on Ike’s part, he is grateful that so many can connect parts of themselves with others through his writing.
Ike, however, does not see himself in his works.
Do not misunderstand. Ike puts everything into his novels. He pours his heart into his words, working well into the night in order to satisfy his perfectionist tendencies. He toils over grammar, gets frustrated over diction, loses sleep over syntax, yet there are no traces of Ike Eveland in the words he’s published. This is intentional, on Ike’s part. He tells himself, “too much of one’s soul simply should not be beared to the public eye, lest you hold the world’s criticism too close to your heart.”
I know that’s bullshit. Ike knows it too.
Ike couldn’t care less about the world’s criticism of his novels, and why would he? There is no part of him in those ink stained tombs, no shred of Ike’s heart to find no matter how deeply you read between the lines. How could he spare any emotion over the thoughts people have on his novels, when there is no part of Ike himself in them to be upset over? Yes, he is grateful to his Quilldren, thankful for every kind word, every review, every award, but not because he feels validated personally by these things. The only validation that brings him is the knowledge that he is an exceptional liar.
I know Ike’s heart; I am a part of it. If he were to put any ounce of his true thoughts into his works, he would be considered one of two things; a genius, or a sociopath. Either way, the sort of attention that would bring to him does not appeal to Ike in the slightest. He prefers to keep his heart locked away, bound not by leather book bindings, but by the chains he has wound so tightly around both him and I. He thinks if he holds fast to the reins, he will remain in control of himself. I think he’s a fool. He should be well aware by now, that a rope strung too tightly is apt to snap at any moment.
I have witnessed Ike writing his first drafts. He gets into a state of intense hyperfocus, writing for hours on end. I find myself wanting to pilot him into stopping so that we may enjoy at least one meal throughout the day that isn’t composed only of an energy drink. I do not often interfere when he gets like this, however; his draft writing sessions are when we are closest to one another. It’s a marvel to see, his first drafts. They can be described as nothing less than unpolished masterpieces; raw, nuanced, and painted with the colorful strokes of Ike’s mind. He is brilliant, after all. I will give him that. I quite enjoy the writing style of Ike’s drafts; they are the only version of Ike’s work that I see reflected by him. I should know. I am his mirror.
It’s the polishing that I don’t enjoy. Everyone knows that the first draft is the truest, rawest form of one’s ideas, and the final draft, the one that reaches the world, is the version made for safe consumption. Ike slaves over his work, editing punctuation, rewording phrases, deleting entire pages. Scrubbing away at anything that might expose his heart. It is painful to watch. All that is left of his work is a husk of who he truly is, and I cannot say I am fond of it. I love Ike in his rawest form; I despise him in his falsifications. Truly, all I desire is for us to be seen together; not necessarily as one single, indistinguishable being, but more so as two sides of the same coin. However much I tug at him, he does not budge. No matter how closely I hover over his shoulder, he refuses to turn and meet my eyes. To do so would be to acknowledge he is not the person he presents himself as, and I know that would send his reality crashing down around him.
Truthfully, I’d love to see it. Truthfully, I already have.
I see it when he goes to cut strawberries for us. He knows of my fondness for the fruit, so he always makes sure to keep some in the fridge, which would likely only consist of sugar filled energy drinks otherwise. He thinks it will appease me. I think he is a fool. As he reaches for the knife, I reach for his heart.
“Ike.” I said to him, “While I would be a fool to turn away from a strawberry offered to me, is there not another red we could be cutting into?”
He did not answer me. I knew that he wouldn’t. He simply cut the berries into slices, added a light drizzle of honey, and prayed I would be silent while we ate. I said nothing else; why waste my words when I had driven the stake just far enough into him already?
I see it when he speaks with the Quilldren. As a novelist, you are bound to touch at least one person’s heart, and when the heart is touched, being the sensitive thing that it is, it bleeds. The Quilldren are no different. Ike has touched their hearts, and in return, they bleed for him. They share with him their stories; trials and tribulations that they’ve gone through, hardships and triumphs, all the things that Ike’s writing has gotten them through. I find myself feeling the same surge of emotion that Ike does when they come to him; an intense need to keep them safe from harm, to give them joy and amusement, to protect . He is good at hiding it from them, he thinks. He cannot, however, hide it from me.
I know how he longs to bring discord into the lives of those who would hurt his Quilldren. I know, because I long for it too. He cannot bring himself to act upon his urges; he fears it will frighten them. Personally, I think they would be grateful to know that their beloved novelist cares for them so deeply. But I digress.
I see it, most of all, in his writing. No, I’m not talking about the polished, watered down versions he releases into the world. I’m not even talking about his drafts. I’m referring to his journal writings. He and I are the only pair of eyes to see the words he writes in his journals, and if Ike were to have it his way, not even I would be privy to such knowledge. He details his day; every action, every urge, every thought. He writes, furiously almost, in a futile attempt to quell his desire for a more “hands on” approach. He loses himself, describing how to best dismember someone, explaining thoroughly how to destroy the human psyche, plotting intricate murders without a second thought. I feel myself running through his veins, to the point where the sensation of scribbling, applying pressure to the pen, and scrawling words upon the paper is not his, but ours. He writes, and I write, and when we finish he looks back at his paper and sees me. A blank page is an empty mirror, and when Ike finally allows himself to gaze into the reflective surface, I gaze back.
The words on the page read like a mantra. Ike knows what he wrote, remembers the intricate details of his mind that he wove together, but all he sees scrawled on the page is Eki, Eki, Eki.
Swiftly he puts his journal away, locked in a drawer of his desk. He takes a breath, and I feel myself recede from the front of our consciousness. He thinks that writing solves everything. By filling a blank page with his most violent desires, he thinks somehow it has been remedied. He thinks that he has released all his darker urges by marking them down on a page where no one will ever see it. He thinks that through doing this he can avoid letting me out. I think he is a fool.
There is no hiding from yourself, after all.