An open book – Short Story
His feet dragged across the stained floor, his head hung low, staring at the empty blotches of red imprinted on his clothes. The sound of clinking metal chains rustled his thoughts, resonating his thoughts.
Why was he even here?
Did it matter anyways, if he were dead or not?
The weaver of words continued walking, his eyes half hanging towards his destination. Muted conversations all passed him, none at all catching his attention. This wasn’t like him at all. He had always used other living organisms as research, personal or not.
What is wrong with him?
The sight of his very own wrists brought his to well in guilt. Why had he written so many words? Why did he write that wretched book?!
It only brought him to this, this utter abattoir. He filled it with enormous passion; so much inspiration that was dwelled in him had been poured out. But instead of riches and fame, its price was blood.
Blood in any way a human could get.
Finally, he reached his cell, which was rested far beyond the others.
Isolation could be peace, but also a brutal punishment.
As he entered his cell, a cold shivering breeze welcomed him. One that made him feel no less lonely, only more insecure and miserable.
His fingers ran over the rough surface of the walls, searching for a switch for light. His thumb found a bump and then the room was illuminated by a dim light bulb.
The light casts about the scarred walls, each word no longer invisible, no longer unnoticed. Multiple sorts of inspiration were sewn out into the walls, carefully engraved in Gothic cursive handwriting by the author.
It was the author’s one and only, opened book.
This! This marvelous story written beautifully into the walls tugged at the man’s lips.
This was his creation!
Take away his pens! Take away his paper! But you’ll never, ever take away his passion for literacy.
Even though he produced this, the author himself was as awestruck as any other reader would. He stood there, his mouth agape, his eyes absorbing every magnificent word.
A verse caught him right off, one that he carved when he first arrived.
“The story is yours to dream, yours to hold and yours to write.”
He found his heart fluttering. Just moments before… he wanted to die, he wanted ever so badly to commit suicide. But now, now… he realized that he was so much more.
So immersed in his creation, he didn’t hear the gruff knock on his door until his visitor growled, “Simon. Here. Now.”
The author turned around slowly. Already, he knew who it was and was completely dreading. He had visions of this. And after all the deaths that he’d researched and written… he was scared.
This man will die.
This man will die.
This human is going to die.
Sweat beaded off his forehead, brow and everywhere else. He faced the buff man at his door, who’d been intimidating him for weeks now.
“W-What do you want?” the author gulped his stuttering. Or at least tried to.
The man before him was twice his size, with beefy arms and athletic figure. The author seemed like a microorganism compared to this bully.
He resisted trembling, but his legs gave up.
What was there to lose anyways?
“You know what I want.” The big guy boomed. “You alone had killed my partner, my friend and everyone else you’ve talked to. The bloody freak you are!”
“B-But I-’ he tried to protest. Now at his knees, he didn’t dare look up. For the sight of his reaper may bring him to tears. “I didn’t. I warned… I had a v-vision and-”.
“What I want from you is a favor.” The bully grabbed Simon by the jaw and stabbed the author’s shaken figure through his glare.
“But I only KILL people!” The author cried. “Leave me ALONE!”
The bully dropped his scrawny victim onto the filthy floor. The writer curled up into a traumatized ball, shuddering and sweaty. He sniffed in his tears and tried to act brave for once. All his life, he’s been running from reality. He’d become nothing but a head in the clouds, useless and weak.
He needed a revival.
The bully began scanning his surroundings; the corrupted prompts on the walls, the short strings of morbid inspiration and the relative emotions that hung eerily in the air. He snorted out of disdain after a moment of silence and the author whimpered, feeling abruptly vulnerable and exposed.
“I see you’ve killed your wife.” The bully began. He trudged around in circles, covering the cell.
“I didn’t!” The author shouted, unable to keep his trepidation. “A-Aidan, my character. H-he did it!”
The bully just raised an eyebrow and muttered a curse. He then reached for something behind his back.
“What do you want from me?” the author demanded once more.
The bully’s expression changed. From merciless to pitiful. From dishearteningly troubling to gravely solid. He pulled out a gun from his pocket and handed it to the author.
“Where did you get this from?” the author shivered as the gun was forced into his palm.
“Just… shut up.” The bully pleaded with mismatched fragile eyes.
“And kill me.”
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