Writer Lady feels tired, cranky, and sleep deprived. She’s had enough of House’s crap. Walking across the kitchen she pulls a fine tipped permanent marker out of a cabinet. Returning to the other side, she stops next to the refrigerator. Removing the marker’s cap, she holds the tip of the marker over House’s immaculate white board. “I’m going to say this one time and one time only. Whatever kind of game it is you’re playing with me ends. Right Now. What’s going on. Where is that noise coming from?”
“Or...you’re going to what? Write on my board? Oh no! I’m so scared.”
Writer Lady realizes House is not aware of an important detail. “You can’t tell the difference can you? This is not any run of the mill dry erase marker I’m holding. This is the marker I use on my freezer container labels.”
“As in?”
“It’s permanent." She says. "Black marks. I’ll put nothing but black marks all over your beautiful white board. You can scrub, wipe and buff to your heart's content. The marks will fade but they will always be there. It won’t be perfect any more. Your board will be less than immaculate, forever.”
“You wouldn’t dare!”
“I’m hot, tired, and sleep deprived.” Writer Lady responds. She runs both hands through her hair reawakening hair spray with the damp perspiration from the back of her neck. She feels something smooth and wet against her face then remembers the marker in her hand.
“Now you’ve done it.”
Writer Lady squats down in front of the stove and studies her reflection in the oven door. A long black mark runs up her cheek bone and her forehead disappearing into her hairline which is standing on end in a way she has not seen since high school. She looks like someone who didn’t get chosen for best costume at the pep rally on the day she finally built her courage up enough to try to get noticed by the cool girls and make them her friends. Or any friends for that matter. “This is awkward.”
“Only for you.” House quips.
“You’re aren’t helping very much.” Writer Lady says as she runs to the bathroom. Pulling her golden blonde hair back from her face, she studies the mark.
“It could be worse I guess.” House says. “It’s not like it spells out Loser or anything. You could almost go on like this night never happened, until someone asks you who’s been writing on your face then you’d have to admit…”
Writer Lady watches as her reflection pales,“I did it to myself.”
“What kind of person writes on their own face?”
“A clumsy one.” Writer Lady responds. “A clumsy, jumpy, sleep deprived person does all kinds of stuff. It'll be a long story.”
“A long story no one wants to hear.” House counters.
Tap...tap...tap.
“Your friend is back.” She continues.
“I know. I will be happy to continue looking for my tapper in the morning, after I’ve gotten some sleep.”
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
“I think that might be a ‘no.’ “ House says.
“I’m not listening.” Writer Lady sings. The rapid fire tapping continues as Writer Lady gets ready for bed. It stops long enough for her drift into a relaxed state on the cusp of sleep after which another round of tapping begins. Eventually the faster tapping morphs into a deeper slower pattern that resembles a funeral march which is TP’s cue to pop into Writer Lady’s bedroom with a trumpet and begin playing “Taps.”
Giving up all hope of sleep Writer Lady sits up in bed and looks at TP, she runs a finger across her throat in the universal “Stop it now or I’m seriously going to hurt you,” signal.
The faerie stops playing. Lowering the instrument he covers his mouth with his free hand to contain a giggle.
Looking at the ceiling she calls, “Okay House, I give up. Who is it?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know.”
“He says he doesn’t have a name.”
“Why not?”
“It’s complicated.”
Taking another direction she asks, “Where can I find him?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know.”
“Tell the truth.” TP says.
“I don’t know his exact location. I heard the tapping and directed my magic to whomever was doing it. He responded. He said he needed to talk to you.”
“Did he say what it was about?” Writer Lady asks.
“Do I look like a secretary?”
Tap. Tap. Tap.
“Is that him?”
“Do we know any other tappers?” House counters.
“Ask him who he is, where he is and what he wants.”
Several moments pass.
“Doesn’t have a name, you know where to find him, blah, blah, blah...tired of waiting...you are a horrible woman…”
Writer Lady looks confused as TP giggles.
“TP help.” The faerie says. After the trumpet disappears in a puff of glittery smoke, he raises his hands in the direction of the ceiling, a bright blue light travels from his fingertips along the ceiling disappearing as it reaches the opposite wall.
“Thank you TP. That really helps.” House says. “Two, four, six, eight, ten, twenty, thirty...okay this is just getting ridiculous. I see him. He’s sitting back in a corner, there’s a metal cup in his hand…”
Tap...tap...TAP!
“He’s one of the unborn.” House announces.
“Unborn?”
“The tapper is one of the characters you have yet to write.”
“In other words this infernal tapping sound.”
“Is all in your head.”
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