392 Here Comes the Great Storyteller 1 (2/2)
Without even bothering to look at the book in Crow's hand, Juho said, ”I told you, you can take it. I don't care.”
”I couldn't possibly do that. These are your books!”
'So much for threatening me with a knife,' Juho thought. Glancing at the room, which was quite messy, Juho looked away.
”That's Coin's book.”
”Yep! The one that competed with your book,” Crow said, pointing toward a trophy. It was the novel about the very first murder in the history of mankind, written in its original language.
”I'd never seen a first edition copy of this book!” Crow said excitedly. ”I love that your study's full of rare books, Mr. Woo. It's like a treasure trove in here!”
”There is some research data that I used to refer to when I wrote my stories. Feel free to look at them.”
”Oh! That's what those boxes are?”
”The ones in that room, yes.”
”You don't seem to take good care of them, Mr. Woo. You could sell a lot of these for an exorbitant amount of money!” Crow said. However, Juho didn't bother to respond.
”Are you planning on cleaning the place sometime? I'd like to help!”
”I haven't done much cleaning while living here and I haven't had any problems,” Juho said with disinterest. There was something else that he needed to do. Checking the time, he added, ”You can stick around. Show yourself out when you leave.”
”Yes, sir. I'll be sure to stay quiet.”
”Make sure to answer my phone whenever it rings.”
”Of course!”
Juho hurried into his room. The sense of anxiety lingered even as he was writing. Taking a deep breath, Juho picked up his pen and looked down at the old, worn out notepad, which contained all of his past failures. Juho fully intended on making the protagonist of his story go through the same exact troubles, which also meant that the author knew the pain and despair of the character better than anyone.
Then, Juho started writing without hesitation. His hands were writing the narrative on their own, even without their owner thinking about what he was writing. There was a shift in the writing style. The hands of a child were different from those of an adult. The two types moved autonomously, staying within their boundaries, which they competed to expand. At times, Juho would find himself getting confused as to who was writing what. At some point, the moment of realization that had once drawn near faded away in no time. Juho swallowed nervously.
At that moment, Juho sensed a presence behind him, which felt quite familiar. It was Crow, peeking through the door crack like usual. Paying no attention to him, Juho moved his hands even faster, his mind filled with scenes he wanted to write. Depicting the inner thoughts of the protagonist made the author emotional. The character's tragedy was directly correlated with that of the author. The more Juho wrote about the protagonist's life, the more things became clear. He found himself getting closer to the truth that he had been trying to distance himself from. However, instead of a sense of reward or pride, there was nothing but pain, which left the author vulnerable to his cravings for alcohol, cigarettes, and gambling.
Looking out the window, Juho pictured a dark, night sky. He was looking more and more like his past self, and the desires he had killed were slowly coming back. As time passed and the closer the story came to its completion, the more anxious the author grew. It was going to be winter soon. Wol had passed away on a snowy winter day. Similarly, Juho found himself sinking, falling deeper into the abyss. At that moment...
”What the!?”
… Juho stopped writing upon hearing a thud. It was Crow.
”... I'm sorry,” the aspiring writer said, flabbergasted.
”What is it?” Juho asked calmly.
”Oh, it's just that… I lost balance as I kept leaning forward.”
”I thought you said you were gonna stay quiet?”
”I'm so sorry, Mr. Woo.”
Seeing Crow tense up, Juho put the pen down.
”I'm so very sorry,” the Crow said, apologizing profusely. Without saying anything, Juho rubbed his mouth, bothered by the aspiring writer's apology for an unknown reason.
”You're Crow, right?”
”Yes, that was my nickname growing up.”
”And you said that I like birds, right?”
”I did.”
”Here's the thing. I don't recall ever telling you that.”
Apart from Crow's nervous breathing, the room became silent.
”What's one thing that you hate the most in this world?” Juho asked.
”... My skin.”
”Mine are crows,” Juho said, sitting up on his chair, which made a squeaking noise.
”May I ask why?”
”No, you may not,” Juho replied, rising from his seat and taking his worn out leather wallet out of his pocket.
”Do me a favor.”
”... Of course.”
”I need you to leave me alone for the next six hours. If you don't want to, you're more than welcome to go home, so make sure to take your belongings with you.”
The aspiring writer left the room quietly, closing the front door cautiously on his way out. Left alone, Juho picked up his pen once again. Although there was nobody around to distract him, Juho simply couldn't make any progress. No matter what he wrote, he simply wasn't happy with it. Thinking that he was wasting his time, Juho started to feel a weight in his stomach. The Sun had set long ago.
”Maybe I should eat something.”
As Juho was coming out of his room, he felt something on his foot, followed by a sharp sound and a wet sensation. When he looked down, he saw a cup of water and a simple meal prepared for him on the floor. There was only one person who would do something like that. Picking up the cup that was rolling around the floor, Juho let out a small sigh.
”So, you're coming back, huh?”
Scooping the chunk of food on the plate, which had long turned cold, Juho put it in his mouth and ate it in a hurry. After which, he went back to his chair, thinking, 'I might be having trouble accepting this story as my own, but I'm NOT letting anybody do my job for me. I'm getting this done before I die, no matter what.'
Getting past the crisis, the story proceeded to the climax.