Title: Second Skin
Fandom: Twin Peaks
Rating: PG-13
Length: ~400 words
Content notes: Crackiness
Author notes: Three challenges in a row, yay!
Summary: Josie's life as a drawer pull.



The wake-up calls were the worst. She would be at peace, lulled into a merciful sleep-like state by the soft steady breathing of the person in the bed and the distant hum of the ice machine, when the telephone would shriek and send awful vibrations throughout her wood.

Wood. Despite it being the source of her fortune, she had always hated wood. She hated Douglas Fir the most, even before she learned to her sorrow of the damnable stuff’s capacity for absorbing human souls.

She would try to tell the hotel guests what had happened to her, to plead for help, but only once had someone, a young child, actually seen her and said, “Daddy, there’s a lady in the drawer.” Among the adults even the most sensitive would simply feel a momentary uneasiness, then go back to watching TV. Sometimes, just for a change, she would try to talk them into changing the channel.

It was while they slept, their minds open and unguarded, that she could speak to them. She whispered stories of her life that came to them as dreams. They dreamt of sunsets in Hong Kong, of secret hiding places, of a murdered man coming back to life. One state congressman dreamt of strong hands tearing a silky negligee from his quiescent body, and upon waking masturbated frenetically while weeping. She didn’t share that particular memory much after that.

In fact, Harry’s face was beginning to fade, becoming less distinct for her than, say, Pete’s. This partial memory loss disturbed her. She remembered Eckhardt’s terrible smile clearly, but had only a vague recollection of shooting him. She could remember shooting Agent Cooper, but the reason why she had done so seemed to elude her. At least, what she did remember didn’t make much sense.

But at least she wasn’t alone. There were other spirits in the hotel, some trapped like her, complaining softly in creaks and squeaks. And then there was the colossal phantom who appeared sometimes and spoke in a deep, resonant voice. “The time…is not yet,” was all he would say to her, but it was enough for her to pin her hopes on. Time for what, she didn’t know, but anything would be better than wood.