It was four in the morning. At least that was what the clock said. You could not trust the clocks in Night Vale though. She tried to close her eyes again and go back to her dream. She had been at a Thanksgiving dinner. Everybody had been there, or at least everybody who was dead. There were people there, people she had never meet but people she knew nonetheless from their skin and their bones, hidden as the might be. They had been sitting at a table and her mother had asked her to sit down with them.
It was a nice dream. She'd really like to fall asleep again.
But she couldn't. The Scratch was too close.
She had always loved silence. The complete absence of any noise. She slept with ear plugs, despised television and radio, especially the show of that one guy who always played that terrible music, and had bought a house as far away from other, noisy, people as possible.
What she did like was reading and tea. And sleeping. She loved sleeping. Sleeping had proven to be a fantastic way to ignore all the annoying, filled with way too much noise things that seemed to constantly happen. When the animals had started to fall from the sky she slept through every of the terrible loud splats that their impact caused. She had managed to sleep through the screams of Street cleaning day and Valentines Day and in her opinion it was a damn good way of living.
At the moment, though. At the moment there was The Scratch. The Scratch had started yesterday when she had very quietly sat in her chair and had, equally quietly, read a book. She had noticed The Scratch immediately and the moment she had noticed it it had become The Scratch in her mind.
Beaks. Or rather one beak. A soft tapping against glass. Just … quieter. A small bird pecking against a window far away.
Something like that. She had never been good with metaphors.
Hated them even. Her former girlfriend had been a writer and she wouldn't stop comparing her eyes to everything that could be considered blue. Not that she was thinking about Linda at the moment.
No, she couldn't think with The Scratch. The Scratch seemed to follow her around. It should not be possible, yet it was. Leaving the living room after she heard The Scratch for the first time she had gone into her bedroom. When she had gone there The Scratch had already been there.
Like claws. Or rather a claw. A gentle scraping against wood. Just … quieter. A little cat scratching at a door far away.
She had stormed, very quietly, into the bathroom, almost loosing one of her slippers and had looked the door, equally quiet, behind her.
Then she searched for her ear plugs in absolute silence. She found them, put them in and The Scratch did stop.
She smiled and went back to her living room. The silence continued for precisely three hours twenty-two minutes and sixteen seconds.
Then The Scratch returned.
She had a very quiet breakdown. Then she got more ear plugs. It did not help this time.
She went to bed and tried to sleep. The complete and utter silence that only existed in her head, usually so easy obtained eluded her.
It became four in the morning. And she still could hear it.
Closer now. When it was two rooms and a rather thick wall before, now it was one room and maybe a couch away. Not a big couch. A small one. A small one with an rather ugly color Linda had insisted on keeping.
She closed her eyes but the darkness under her eyelids was filled with The Scratch.
She did not believe in going mad. But it seemed like a good idea at the moment.
When the sun rose she had started moving her furniture. Turned the whole house over, found nothing but a notebook Linda had left behind under the couch which she quickly put away. And yet the Scratch continued.
Close enough now, to know that whatever was causing it was in the same room.
She sat down and tried to to read the Night Vale Daily Journal. After half an hour in which she had not managed to find even one article between the advertisements for Big Rico's pizza and the reminder that pens were illegal she made herself some more tea.
Tea had, next to sleep, always been the one thing to calm herself down.
Not this time though. The Scratch was there.
Like pens. Or rather one pen. Scratching on a paper. Just … quieter. A writer trying to be quiet to not disturb a loved one.
She realized it that moment and if she was anybody else she would have cursed loudly. So she just stood up and got the notebook. It was green because Linda liked green and she knew that so she had bought a green one for her. It was also dusty since it had been under the couch.
And when she hold it in her hands The Scratch seemed to fill her ears.
She was not stupid. She knew what happened to people who were stupid in Night Vale. She also knew what happened to people who were smart so she successfully stayed on the line between not stupid enough to die and not smart enough to get killed.
Linda had been smart. She had been very smart. Had always compared her eyes to everything that could be considered blue, her metaphors becoming more and more obscure until she had to smile and Linda laughed at her success.
She hated metaphors.
Realizing that she was just delaying the incredible stupid thing she was going to do anyway she opened the book.
Your eyes are the vast and disturbing endlessness of summer day skies, mixed with the impenetrable uncertainty of the ocean the page she opened read.
Somebody took two cornflowers and planted them into the two symmetrical holes in your head. it continued.
The rest of the pages seemed to be pretty much the same, the compliments becoming cornier and cornier.
She rolled her eyes and wanted to put the book away again.
Then she realized that The Scratch had almost completely stopped. Wearily she put the book down and The Scratch returned with an intensity that made her flinch. Quickly she grabbed the book again and The Scratch calmed down. Moving a page she noticed that noise of The Scratch varied. The closer she got to the beginning the louder it got and the more she got to the end the quieter it became. While she was no fan of cursed objects overall at least this one seemed ready to negotiate.
"I'll read the last pages and you will stop, okay?" she said quietly. The Scratch did not react but as Linda had said, it was always worth the try.
Still not cursing but now grumbling inwardly she turned to the last few pages.
Your eyes are the sky without the clouds feebly trying to shield us from its horrors
"Back to the sky metaphors, I see. Seems like you're running out of ideas." she mumbled. She turned to the next page.
No, I just know that you like them best.
She did not throw the book away and screamed because that would cause so much unnecessary noise. Instead she flinched again.
"Linda?" she whispered, slowly turning the page.
Yes.
"Are you... are you in the book?" she asked, turning the page so quickly this time she almost teared it.
No.
"Are you sure?"
Pretty much. Look, we're running out of pages here. I have to tell you something important.
"What?" She turned the page
I love your eyes.
Disappointment flushed through her. "That's all?" she asked, turning another page.
No, it's just that you know the last thing I thought before I … you know was that I never told you that. Just metaphors. Always the metaphors.
She said nothing. Just turned the page.
You hate metaphors.
"It's okay." she whispered. Turning another page.
It's not. I'm sorry.
"Don't be." she mumbled.
You would like it here. It's quiet. So very quiet. I miss you.
"I miss you too."
She turned to the last page. Vaguely noticed she was crying.
Don't cry. It could ruin the paper, you know. She smiled through the tears. "Really Linda, is the stability of your paper more important than the feelings of your girlfriend?"
Made you smile. I love you, Rebecca. "I love you too Linda."
She tried to turn the page before she remembered that it was the last one.
For a brief moment she just sat there in silence. Then she put the book down.
"You know Linda, you had always problems with satisfying endings." she mumbled quietly.
The Scratch had stopped.
