The recorder whirs almost silently, but not silently enough. 

You can hear the internal mechanisms moving.

Grating. 

Setting your teeth on edge, and adding a thin layer of purple static to the edges of your vision.

"Ok," says a voice, deep and gruff with exasperation, "One more time, from the beginning."

"The beginning?" You echo, voice as cold and mechanical as the machine on the table. 

Chunky and obsolete.

The man across from you nods and tents his fingers. 

If you come across this story on Amazon, it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

He's tired.

You're tired too, but in a different way. 

The sound of cassette tape spooling in the plastic and metal guts of the recorder somehow fills the whole room, drowning out the buzz of the yellowed overhead lights, and the footsteps of the people outside. 

"You won't believe me, no matter where I start." You say, hands damp with sweat, "A-and it's not like I don't want to tell you but… this Story hates being told, it's--" you pause, fumbling for words, "it's not like it's shy, it's like there's something physically stopping it from coming out." 

The man looks at you with big bruised eyes, half lidded beneath big fuzzy eyebrows that remind you of wizards from books.

There's a gleam there that you both understand and viscerally dislike. He arches a single bushy brow, "Try me."

You can feel it, the ink crawling its way up your throat like vomit.

You know you won't get far.

But you have to try.

So you open your mouth and let the Words, the Story, flow.