He sits by his computer, gnawing at the end of a well chewed No2 pencil. Pieces of the wooden outer sheathing splintering off into his teeth, that he clips into smaller slivers with his canines. The same pencil he always chews. Maybe it's a luck charm, maybe its his muse, he doesn't even know, but he has never written a single thing with the leaden implement itself. It's point has never contacted or been intimate with paper or post it note.
He imagines people, places, and circumstances. Any blip of even a remote starting point for his writing, but no matter the research, or the segues into which his imagination takes him, nothing sits correctly in conjuring any type of fathomable story. He chews, tightens his jaw around the pencil harder, snapping and crunching noises rolling between his teeth; he is sure to work his way down to the leaden core.
What happens when he does reach the core? New pencil? No, No he can't. This is his one thing, his once lucky charm that gets him through. Gum is not an option, it would get stuck in the pencil crevices and ruin the comfortable, perfect dental impressions made that relax him so. His fingers toy the keys. Ring finger placed on the "A" key, Middle on the left placed on the "E" key. Indexes float, stroking the F,D, J and K keys. Thumbs poised on the space bar and of course, out of frustration, left pinky forever caressing the backspace/delete.
The words flow out of every orifice imaginable, but none in context, none making sense. He can't get his thoughts in order. He is lost. There is a mistake he has made and he has spent weeks trying to resurrect the thought, in which, might have sabotaged the clear conformity of his writing. He quit smoking, but he never smoked in his office anyway, hence his lucky charms new ongoing destruction. He drinks, always the same drink, the same amount for when writers block kicks in.
The headache rips through his frontal lobe, sparking images of blood and torture. He can taste the copper stench on his breath. His right hand balls into a fist and wraps around the pencil. The pencil creaks under the pressure of his thumb and fist. Unclenching his fist as the horror subsides from his memory, leaving nothing but a rancid odor of bile in the back of his throat.
These images and headaches have been becoming more and more frequent lately. Started with just a pain in the back of his neck, a tweak basically. Flooding further up his into his skull and lower directly down his spine. Now it's nausea due to the over powering odor of blood, where there is no blood to be seen except in his mind. The images are getting consuming.
He grabs the thumb printed grimy glass from the drawer, pours two fingers, and in one head tilt, the amber liquid heats his insides and eases his mind. For now the evil is subsiding from his mind. He cracks his neck. Left, then right. Something stirs in the pit of his stomach. He feels like the burning bourbon is making it was back up, he swallows hard trying to force his overly watering mouth into a dormant state, knowing that with the vomiting, comes back the thoughts.
He breathes hard, deep yet shallow, quick yet sharp breaths to ease not only the flashing painful impulses, but to ease his nausea. He can't stop the pain. He cannot write what is in his mind. All the blood, all the evil, disturbing stomach turning things he conjured up in his mind. If he writes them, they will become real. This he is sure of. His poised hands start moving and twitching with a will of their own, his little finger refusing to head towards the delete button now. He has lost all control of his outlet.
He tries to fight his hands, his left one pulling at his right. Trying to remove them from the keys. "NO!" he screams, "I cannot, I WILL NOT let you kill someone else with this plan again". His right knuckles get pale from the fighting of his individual fingers. His left hand breaks free momentarily. Wraps his entire hand around his little finger on his right hand and pulls the finger outward down as far and as fast as he can to the outside of his hand until he hears a pop, followed by a gut wrenching crack and he cries out in pain. The images flood more. The right hand doesn't even care that the little finger is now broken and the bone is sticking out a few millimeters above the lower knuckle.
The right hand continues to work, typing, causing him to convulse in means of throwing up. Blood, gore, murder, sin. Tearing the stomach open of the one woman he had seen walking down the street wearing the large print floral dress. His mind is taking over, his body wants to follow. He is in pain, crying, screaming at himself. Knowing the last time, the very last time this happened, 3 women in lower east Manhattan were torn to shreds using a pair of safety paper scissors, slowly.
He had thought about it for a long time, it was his way of writing once in a while under his pseudo name. The pseudo name seems to have spawned it's own want and need for attention. He wrote. Word for word the acts were followed out and at one point he was convinced it was some fan-nut reading his proofs and copying the mass murder scene by scene. Scissors, dull, plastic, inserted, slowly through the navel. Intently pushed up through the soft flesh of the stomach to the sternum. Peeling back the flesh from the sternum and smashing the hard bone with the closed dull points of the scissors until it shatters, splinters, baring the heart. The heart of the bitches that shun him on a day to day basis.
Never would this happen because of me, he thought. No, as he discovered later, when he found his "pseudos" kill box. Found the childs scissors. Found the hearts in jars set in the same alcohol he was drinking night after night.
He wrote, or his pseudo wrote, and this monster came out. Everything he wrote came true, this would not happen this time. He still had some control of his left hand, he reached for something to disable the right, anything. The right hand shot up from the keyboard, grabbed his inner right cheek and tore with all it's might ripping the flesh away from his face. The louder he screamed the further the skin ripped towards his jaw bone.
Luck charm.... Luck charm. Blood is dripping from the screen where words are forming so fast he can barely concentrate, His head swimming from the pain in his right fingers from the external fractures and the pain from the torn cheek. He cannot be consumed by this writing. He cannot let this writing kill more innocent (They weren't innocent you fucking pansy! They shunned you, they thought you were a fucking loser! You let them walk ALL over you and you don't give a fuck you fucking pussy!)
Maybe they DO deserve to die, maybe they... NO what is he thinking? You can't fight the devil without the armor. Your armor. Luck charm. Pick up the luck charm.
Left hand,.. being taken over. Started to type in sync with the right, even though the right is completely ignoring it's handicap, his brain can not escape the pain. Luck charm, damn you! LUCK CHARM!
Clenching his jaw feeling the blood gush in his mouth, unable to breath and choking on his own vomit and putrid irony blood, he pushes his left hand gingerly to the pencil then in one swift move plunges it deep into his right eye. The pain, even though excrutiating, does not stop him from shifting the pencil up and down in the upper tear duct region behind his eye. Lobotomy. Slivers of wood pierce his eye, still he thrusts deeper. Screaming.
Stillness. The vitreous fluid seeps into a mixture of blood and tears pouring down his cheek bone into the torn open wound on his face. Brain activity ceases. Heart stops. He is limp and crooked in his chair.
Right hand still pressed on the keyboard, it is making an error beep for holding down a key too long.
The beeping stops....index twitches. "Red rains down on all that is man...."
These images and headaches have been becoming more and more frequent lately. Started with just a pain in the back of his neck, a tweak basically. Flooding further up his into his skull and lower directly down his spine. Now it's nausea due to the over powering odor of blood, where there is no blood to be seen except in his mind. The images are getting consuming.
He grabs the thumb printed grimy glass from the drawer, pours two fingers, and in one head tilt, the amber liquid heats his insides and eases his mind. For now the evil is subsiding from his mind. He cracks his neck. Left, then right. Something stirs in the pit of his stomach. He feels like the burning bourbon is making it was back up, he swallows hard trying to force his overly watering mouth into a dormant state, knowing that with the vomiting, comes back the thoughts.
He breathes hard, deep yet shallow, quick yet sharp breaths to ease not only the flashing painful impulses, but to ease his nausea. He can't stop the pain. He cannot write what is in his mind. All the blood, all the evil, disturbing stomach turning things he conjured up in his mind. If he writes them, they will become real. This he is sure of. His poised hands start moving and twitching with a will of their own, his little finger refusing to head towards the delete button now. He has lost all control of his outlet.
He tries to fight his hands, his left one pulling at his right. Trying to remove them from the keys. "NO!" he screams, "I cannot, I WILL NOT let you kill someone else with this plan again". His right knuckles get pale from the fighting of his individual fingers. His left hand breaks free momentarily. Wraps his entire hand around his little finger on his right hand and pulls the finger outward down as far and as fast as he can to the outside of his hand until he hears a pop, followed by a gut wrenching crack and he cries out in pain. The images flood more. The right hand doesn't even care that the little finger is now broken and the bone is sticking out a few millimeters above the lower knuckle.
The right hand continues to work, typing, causing him to convulse in means of throwing up. Blood, gore, murder, sin. Tearing the stomach open of the one woman he had seen walking down the street wearing the large print floral dress. His mind is taking over, his body wants to follow. He is in pain, crying, screaming at himself. Knowing the last time, the very last time this happened, 3 women in lower east Manhattan were torn to shreds using a pair of safety paper scissors, slowly.
He had thought about it for a long time, it was his way of writing once in a while under his pseudo name. The pseudo name seems to have spawned it's own want and need for attention. He wrote. Word for word the acts were followed out and at one point he was convinced it was some fan-nut reading his proofs and copying the mass murder scene by scene. Scissors, dull, plastic, inserted, slowly through the navel. Intently pushed up through the soft flesh of the stomach to the sternum. Peeling back the flesh from the sternum and smashing the hard bone with the closed dull points of the scissors until it shatters, splinters, baring the heart. The heart of the bitches that shun him on a day to day basis.
Never would this happen because of me, he thought. No, as he discovered later, when he found his "pseudos" kill box. Found the childs scissors. Found the hearts in jars set in the same alcohol he was drinking night after night.
He wrote, or his pseudo wrote, and this monster came out. Everything he wrote came true, this would not happen this time. He still had some control of his left hand, he reached for something to disable the right, anything. The right hand shot up from the keyboard, grabbed his inner right cheek and tore with all it's might ripping the flesh away from his face. The louder he screamed the further the skin ripped towards his jaw bone.
Luck charm.... Luck charm. Blood is dripping from the screen where words are forming so fast he can barely concentrate, His head swimming from the pain in his right fingers from the external fractures and the pain from the torn cheek. He cannot be consumed by this writing. He cannot let this writing kill more innocent (They weren't innocent you fucking pansy! They shunned you, they thought you were a fucking loser! You let them walk ALL over you and you don't give a fuck you fucking pussy!)
Maybe they DO deserve to die, maybe they... NO what is he thinking? You can't fight the devil without the armor. Your armor. Luck charm. Pick up the luck charm.
Left hand,.. being taken over. Started to type in sync with the right, even though the right is completely ignoring it's handicap, his brain can not escape the pain. Luck charm, damn you! LUCK CHARM!
Clenching his jaw feeling the blood gush in his mouth, unable to breath and choking on his own vomit and putrid irony blood, he pushes his left hand gingerly to the pencil then in one swift move plunges it deep into his right eye. The pain, even though excrutiating, does not stop him from shifting the pencil up and down in the upper tear duct region behind his eye. Lobotomy. Slivers of wood pierce his eye, still he thrusts deeper. Screaming.
Stillness. The vitreous fluid seeps into a mixture of blood and tears pouring down his cheek bone into the torn open wound on his face. Brain activity ceases. Heart stops. He is limp and crooked in his chair.
Right hand still pressed on the keyboard, it is making an error beep for holding down a key too long.
The beeping stops....index twitches. "Red rains down on all that is man...."
