Page 59 of Twisted Little Thing

CHAPTER XXI

Nicky

As hard as it may be for Yuka to understand, I actually feel a lot better after talking to Evan.

In all honesty, the conversation I had with Yuka afterward was a lot more stressful than talking to him. I hate having to explain myself.

Evan awakens a side in me that is strange and foreign to everything else I am. The strong, alternative free spirit who does not let anyone tell her what to do and who to be.

With him, I feel like I am shattering into pieces, melting beneath his eyes and under his touch – just to have him put me back together. I feel as if I am growing stronger every time I see him. It is liberating and frightening at the same time.

I call in sick for my shift at the restaurant the next day. Despite feeling a little better, I am still not ready to face the real world , and definitely not ready to go back to that restaurant and possibly run into another bunch of insolent women.

A waitress.

It was their faces. The way they looked at me. The way their voices sounded. So disappointed. Disgusted even.

A cold clamp closes around my heart every time I recall that moment. And I hate myself for it. I have always prided myself on not caring about what other people think.

After all, I am independent. Free. Different. I don't need what they need. I opted out of that life years ago, when I decided to quit college and figure things out for myself. Freeing myself from any restrictions and expectations.

But where did that lead me, really?

I would never admit it, but Evan's request was a lot more intimate than I am comfortable with. He touched a sensitive subject. Just like he unfolds me sexually, masterfully exploring my mind and body, he also seems to see right through me when it comes to this.

He noticed that I am not completely happy with the way things are in my life right now.

Even I didn't know that until he pointed it out. Or I didn't want to admit it.

Still, I loathe doing this. It is shortly after noon and I am still in bed. I didn't even get up to eat something. I'm not hungry. Pen and paper in hand, I am trying to do his assignment.

What makes me write?

What do I want to achieve with it?

"I don't know," I whisper to myself.

The truth is, I haven't written anything in weeks. The last thing I wrote was a short marketing piece about designer furniture that a company wanted to use on its website. Why they chose to hire a no-name freelancer like me for the job was beyond me. It could only mean that they didn't have a lot of money for marketing.

That job was tedious, but it paid well and I wish I could land more like it. But the freelance market is so competitive, and people are willing to do the work for less and less. Especially when they are just starting out like me. I am not willing to sell myself short, or I am not willing to charge less just to land a project, but that is what I need to do.

I have no degree, no references except those provided by former employers, or no credentialed experience except that earned from former places of employment. And those are few.

I would gladly write if I could earn money doing it.

That is the truth. I would like to be able to earn money by writing. It doesn't even matter what I write. Writing comes easy for me. I can write two long pages praising the merits of a set of living room furniture that I would never be able to afford and that I think is ugly. I can give a detailed and persuasive description of just about anything. I just need a clear assignment.

Because that is my weak spot. Creativity. I told Evan that I have no stories to tell, and that is the truth. I can write – but I need somebody to tell me what to write.

I want to earn money writing, but without needing to be creative.

I don't like that sentence and cross it out as soon as I write it.

Of course, I would need creativity. Writing is always a creative process, even when one is just following an order.

I’m such a hypocrite. Creativity. Isn’t this what I always blame others for lacking?

How am I any different? I am not, except for the fact that I don’t have a regular job sitting alongside the same people in an office day in and day out.

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