The Writers' Circle

Words are stronger than anything else on this earth.
With a word you can destroy a whole country, heal a friendship, be the difference between life and death.
That one word can change everything. Make someone like you, make someone hate you. Unfortunately, we often have no idea whether it will do one or the other. Words are wild and uncontrollable.
Language is power. The way you speak, the way you act when speaking, all contributes to this power. And if you abuse words, things can go very wrong very quickly.
	Sometimes you can get so attached to a novel that you can't put it down. We say it 'draws you in'. But what if that actually happened? What if, somewhere on this vast planet, there was a person who could draw you into her words? What if, with a few words, she could kill you?

Present Day

Early morning. My tears have dried now, sticking to my face. I can feel the trails of them. But the shuddering continues. The huge, shuddering, jumping breaths. They leap up out of my throat. I pull my knees closer to me, trying to be smaller, trying to pull myself into the wall behind me. The bed... I can't bring myself to look at it. No. Please no.
I have to get out of here. I have to leave.
I pull myself towards the door. It's still open. I take a deep breath. No use. I throw up all over the floor. The tears come again thick and fast. It's not happening. Not me. Not now.
I run out the door and pull it shut. I try to run down the stairs but I trip up. I grab the banister to stop myself making that horrible fall. There is something sticky on it. I jump back. Wash it off. Must wash it off.
There's no blood in the kitchen. Was that when it hit then? Just when he was going up the stairs. No don't think. Concentrate on water. Cleansing water. Don't think of the red, just the colourless. The no colour liquid that doesn't have any meaning attached to it.
After washing my hands, I sink to the floor.
So what now? I turn to my earlier thought. Get out of here. As fast as possible.
I pick myself up, with a purpose now. It feels different. I haven't had a purpose for the last two days. I must look ill.
I don't pack. I don't dare go back into the room. Instead, I put on some clothes from the laundry basket. His shirt's still there. I breathe in the scent but it sticks in my throat. Will I ever smell the same scent again?
I put on the shirt and pull one of my jumpers over the top. I take my bag from where I left it last night, hanging up on the hooks beside the door. For a moment, I pause. There are three messages on the answering machine. I stare at the little green 3. Almost by instinct, I press play.
"Hey, Jo. Listen honey, I won't be back till late but I got a surprise for..."
I hit the delete button. My breath comes out in short gasps. How can I leave him? How can I?
I look at the blood again and go out the door.

Getting to the house is a blur. I remember only half formed images. Like the first step onto the train or a glance at a child who was staring at me. But now, standing in front of it, I seem to have forgotten everything that preceded it.
I open the gate. Everything is just how I remember. The swings, the wall fencing off our property that I used to sit on for ages. There are even buckets and spades still hidden among the bushes. For a moment, I am back to a much lighter time. The memories of that time bring a certain atmosphere that brightens up the dull garden. Then it fades.
I look at my hands. There is no mark on them. I washed them thoroughly. But what about my face? My clothes? Do I look normal enough? These worries hit me suddenly. I get my mirror from my purse. Dark circles surround my eyes which look frightened. My skin is so pale, it glows. I haven't been away from the sun for that long, have I? It almost looks like I'm about to wither away and die on the spot. I snap the mirror shut. Nothing I can do about that now.
I walk up the garden path, every step taking me closer to the final meeting. Eventually, the door stands in front of me. I raise my hand but don't knock. I pause, my hand just centimetres away. Do I really want to do this? Burden them with everything I've been through? On the other hand, who else have I got to turn to?
I knock on the door.

They weren't surprised at all by my appearance. They didn't care that I'd shown up uninvited with no belongings. They were just glad to see me.
My parents. Mum and Dad. Still exactly the same from Dad's receding hairline to the string of beads that Mum usually wears. She still has the same scent.
I managed to hold it together. Tried to be happy as we were once more reunited. Mum had tears in her eyes. She couldn't stop looking at me, as though I wasn't real.
They wanted to know where I'd been all these years, What I'd been doing. I replied vaguely. I'd done some writing yes. I work doing some pieces for a newspaper and some waitressing. I am not in need of money.
The only question I found hard to answer was about my flat mate. Who was he? Where was he now? I only gave straight noncommittal answers.
After a meal that I could barely remember eating, mum took me back to my old room.

It was fairly big. A single bed drawn up against one wall. Behind posters, pictures, pages of words the walls are a bright sunny yellow. Daisies decorated the sides while I was very young and the curtains were a natural green. The teenage years covered all that up. Posters of bands I liked and went to concerts of. Pictures of good looking actors. My friends and I sprawling across the sand on some beach I have forgotten the name of.
Mum picks up my bag from where it's been lying at my side.
"It's very light," she comments. "What have you got in here?"
She tips up the bag before I can protest.
Pages and pages of close, slanted writing falls out.