[ WP ] People have discovered that our greatest phobias exist because they are a foreshadowing of how we will die . You 've completely avoided every situation that would involve yours . Until now .

Remember as a kid when you'd have to go around the classroom and say your biggest fear? Just about every kid had one that was rational. Tim was afraid of heights, Sally was afraid of deep water, so on and so forth. One would simply tell his fear and carry on. I always had trouble with this. I always had trouble explaining why I was afraid of typewriters. To just about everyone this seemed like a strange thing to be terrified of, and I admit it was. In the end it was justified though. I was I had been afraid of something else. I would have taken anything over what happened to me. 
 
 
 
 I forgot to introduce myself and I apologize for that. My name is Marcus Senatore, first generation Italian American, born to a barber and a maid. We were n't wealthy. We simply made do. Our house was small but elegant. My mom always seemed to have a knack for finding nice things at old vintage shops nobody would bother walking into. That's where she found the typewriter. It was an old Underwood. It's blue tinge had turned slightly yellow long ago. There was an old smell that came with it too. One that smelled like my grandmothers perfume. It had spent too much time collecting dust. You could feel the weight with each clack, as if each word typed had some sort of depth. At night I would hear it going on for hours. It littered my dreams with that clack, clack, clack... 
 
 
 
 After school I went to community college hoping to leave with a trade. I did n't know what I was doing, none of us did back then. There I met a girl named Sally, or you could say I met her again. As it turns out we had gone to the same class together back home. We fit perfectly together. Long nights were spent. First kisses were had. Eventually we found each other at the beach on a sunday night accidentally. The moonlight illuminated her as she took her clothes off. `` Lets go for a dip'', she said. That was the last thing I ever heard her say. The ocean never let her go. 
 
 
 I picked up where my father left off. I grabbed the brown tinged bottle and let it burn my throat. After awhile the pain went away. But so did the fun. I pulled out the old typewriter and started writing her a good bye letter, hoping that it would help me get over her, for at least a solitary night. I wrote and I wrote never hearing a thing besides that clack. After awhile I found myself writing about other things. It started with letters to friends who were still alive. Then it evolved into short stories, dialogues, poems, I could n't have enough words on paper. With every bottle came another two pages. 
 
 
 I got liver disease at a young age. Died a short while after Sally did. The ocean swallowed us both whole that night. My body just kept going long enough to be killed off all on it's own.
