Writing is Hard

It had been a couple of weeks since Reuben had put Ryder on a strict schedule, limiting his video game time to just a couple of hours each day. As much as Ryder resented it, he knew he had to endure Reuben’s stint as a “crazy controlling father figure” for a while. He figured it wouldn’t be long before Reuben loosened up and let him do whatever he wanted again.

In the meantime, Ryder was restless and running low on patience. He wandered over to his bookshelf, scanning the rows of well-worn stories. The collection was impressive, filled with wonderful adventures, but Ryder wasn’t in the mood to read. He missed listening to Alice narrate stories to him, but she hadn’t appeared in ages.

Desperate for something to occupy his time, he pulled a small, blank book from the shelf and smiled, remembering where it came from. Calista had given him some money on his birthday, and he had bought it with the idea of filling it with his stories and art. Back then, his imagination seemed boundless, and with his magical ink, he could print the pages with vivid, detailed stories. But lately, the pages he had once enchanted began to fade, the once-clear words growing harder to make out. His magic was faltering, and his confidence along with it.

Ryder knew how to write — he had all the vocabulary and knowledge he needed — but putting pen to paper had never been his strength. Every attempt looked like the scribbles of a one-year-old with a crayon. It was infuriating, especially since he could once enchant the pages to look perfect. Now, with his magic waning, he was left with no choice but to train himself the hard way.

Determined, Ryder sat down at his desk and opened the book. He began by attempting to write basic words, but all that came out were barely legible scribbles. He frowned in frustration, then pulled up YouTube on his phone and set it on the desk beside him. If learning to write was going to be his new focus, he’d have to figure it out from scratch.

He spent the next few hours watching tutorial videos and practicing the alphabet on scratch paper. He carefully mimicked the strokes and shapes he saw, and eventually felt confident enough to try journaling. Ryder wrote a page, then another, pushing through his impatience. His handwriting gradually improved, the words becoming clearer with each page he turned. It was far from perfect, but at least it no longer looked like a toddler’s artwork.

Ryder told himself he’d journal every day to keep improving. If he put as much determination into this as he had with his magic training when he first arrived at the Rothmore estate, he could get the hang of it soon enough.

Throughout the day, Ryder poured all his focus into his writing. He ripped out multiple pages in frustration, scratching out mistakes and starting over. Slowly, a rhythm began to form. He practiced the alphabet repeatedly, studying how letters fit together and which words were easier to shape than others. It wasn’t long before he was deep in concentration, barely aware of the world around him.

That’s when the voice came.

“What do you think you’re trying to accomplish here?” an ominous voice echoed through the room.

Ryder’s breath caught. He closed his eyes, taking slow, deep breaths. That voice — he hadn’t heard it since his birthday. The nightmares had stopped, everything had been quiet. Until today. The one day he tried something different, something new.

“Cat got your tongue, kid? Don’t have your big bad boyfriend to protect you today?” the voice continued, dripping with mockery.

“Leave me alone,” Ryder muttered sharply, turning to face Erryd. The dark, grungy version of himself hovered just behind him, a sinister grin spreading across his face. Ryder didn’t need this right now. Not when he’d been making progress.

Erryd’s grin widened. “Oh, come on, it’s been a while. I haven’t come out to play since your birthday party,” he said, his voice full of twisted glee. “The storm cloud needs to rain on someone’s parade.” Erryd laughed, the sound echoing unnervingly through the room. “Oh, how I loved that nickname your boyfriend gave me.”

Ryder sighed heavily. “First of all, Reinhart is not my boyfriend. We’ve barely spoken since the party. And second, I don’t have the patience for you today.”

Erryd’s grin faltered slightly before his eyes narrowed with interest. “Feisty today, aren’t we? A bit out of character for a weakling like you,” he sneered, stroking his chin thoughtfully before his smile returned.

Ryder’s fists clenched. He floated up to meet Erryd at eye level, his glare unwavering. “Leave,” he said, voice steady despite the anger simmering beneath. “I’m not dealing with you today.”

For a moment, Erryd’s grin vanished, replaced by a look of simmering rage. He glanced past Ryder at the desk, where scrawled notes and scribbled letters lay scattered. “It looks like a child’s handwriting,” Erryd sneered. “You should practice harder if you ever want it to look decent.”

Before Ryder could respond, Erryd vanished, disappearing in the blink of an eye. Ryder stayed still, breathing heavily. Was it his own resolve that made Erryd leave, or was the shadow self just not getting the reaction he wanted today? Whatever the reason, Ryder was relieved to see him gone, even if only temporarily.

With a deep breath, Ryder turned back to his desk. Erryd’s taunts still stung, but he was determined not to let it get to him. “Practice makes perfect,” he murmured to himself, picking up his pen and focusing on the pages in front of him.

He started writing again, slowly but steadily, pushing past his self-doubt. Ryder had decided: today wouldn’t be another lost day to fear or frustration. Today was about moving forward, one letter at a time..