a write to write, if only a little something...

scottie hadn't written anything. it'd been 17 days and he hadn't written a word. not a line. his notebook lay barren on the floor, collecting dust, carving a permanent shadow into the cold, hard tile beneath it. they only want you when you're had, he wrote, they only want you when you're up to the test. it was the last scribbled line in over two weeks. now it was just a remnant, a ghost of a long lost feeling that he knew never really existed in the first place. he sat against the heater, eyes closed, facing the oven that loomed over his lonely notebook. he wanted to write. he wanted to stretch out with all his emotion and pour into the very fibers of that notebook, empty his heart onto the pages with a great ferocity. but he couldn't. instead he just sat there, arms folded around bent legs, cradling his own unhinged longing. he shifted in his spot. quietly. it was there for the taking, he knew, but the pressure now was too great for him to overcome. he blinked twice and stood up. they only want you when you're had, he recalled. some cosmic game of chicken. the phone rang a shrill, unnerving tone and scottie reached for the door. it rang twice before he closed it all behinfd him.