Merlot sat before his typewriter, the apartment pressing in around him.
He pictured the reporter, smirking, pen hovering. "What was your favourite part of The Sangria War?"
"The ending," Merlot said without hesitation.
"Why the ending? Don't you like writing?"
He rolled his shoulders, stiff from hours hunched over the keys. "The ending means I don't have to worry anymore. No loose ends. No threads clawing at me. It's done. I can finally rest."
Every author has flaws. He rushed—thirsty for the ending like a runner chasing the finishing line for a drink.
The German march song, Erika, pounded in his head, its relentless beat dragging him back to sweat-soaked days in the war. He'd longed to return home—though Uncle Sam was no sweetheart. Uncle Sam was a heartbreaker, stuffing him into a flimsy cotton uniform that jungle branches tore apart like paper.
Lemony isn't wrong—you're being guided by a hand you can't see.
The voice burned through his skull. His cheeks flared reddish‑purple, as if a swarm of bees had stung him from the inside out.
"Shut up." The mug slammed against the desk, liquid sloshing over the rim. "I'm trying to write."
Does the name Erika ring a bell? I'm the one typing. You're just pretending to exist outside the page,the voice pressed, amused.
Merlot shook his head. Erika throbbed through him, a reminder that he might only exist inside the story. He didn't know anyone by that name, yet it hammered inside his skull, intent on splitting him apart.