A futile scratching echoed through the barren apartment. The sound of pen on paper as ink threaded its way between the lines but all it did was worsen the atrocity that slowly edged along its path into existence. The pen stopped. An exasperated sigh broke the stale air and marked the death of yet another piece of writing, as the disheveled writer violently crumpled his paper and threw it into a small, netted bin that already overflowed with other failed works. It was like a cemetery for his creativity, where his ideas went to die. The writer’s gaze lingered on the wastebin and the mountain of paper inside as he dejectedly pushed his rusted metal chair back and stood. He wiped his dusty glasses, lost in his thoughts until noticed the fading light through his stained window. He hurriedly put his glasses back on, fidgeting for a second as he attempted to get the crooked left temple over his ear. His wrist shot up to meet his eye level, a small leather watch placed upon it with a silver rim. He locked his gaze upon the watch, squinting to discern the minuscule numbering. 7:15 pm. It was getting late. “Shit. God fucking damn it, not another fucking day with no progress. Fuck.” He angrily reprimanded himself, his scathing words pointed inwards and whispered under his breath, as though he sought to keep his thoughts hidden, despite the lack of anyone else nearby.
He trudged through the drab, dark apartment and turned on the lights with a tiny switch on the faded walls. What had once been a pure titanium white now flaked and crumbled, its original brilliance lost to the test of time. “Heh, how painfully symbolic.” the writer grimaced. He looked around the bleak room and thought back to his first text. He remembered the very first piece of writing he had written for the world to see. He had submitted it to a small horror writing contest. It had been a story of a boy lost in a haunted forest; not the most unique story, but it was one the best there. He had won second place and developed a newfound love for the genre of horror. From there he delved into the art of terror, the emotion of dread, and the power of fear, reading– no, analyzing— the works of the titans of despair. Lovecraft, Shelley, Poe. These were his gods, his bibles, his scripture and he dedicated himself wholly to the search and struggle to achieve horror. Then, he had written his first real novel. A story detailing the struggle of a detective to explain the unexplainable, culminating in desperate insanity overtaking him and leading to his demise. That novel had been an absolute hit, his writing agent had 3 publishers call about it and he had ended up selling over 10,000 copies. It had been glorious though, unfortunately, that had been 3 years ago. A lot had changed. He sighed.
As he came back to his senses—leaving his thoughts hanging in the stale air— a sense of sadness overcame him, a frown coming upon his face. If only he still had some of the creativity he had displayed during his successful entrance into writing, but no, the well was now dry. These last few months had been especially rough on him. Every time he went into a new idea, every time he set out to explore a thought, every time he put pen to paper, he failed. Hundreds of ideas now filled the trash and decorated the corners of the room, taking the shape of scrunched-up balls. They were all garbage. It felt like an endless cycle of mediocrity, a conveyor belt from his mind into the unfeeling void, and yet, he still wrote. He had to. He had to write a story that would put him in the spotlight again, he needed his glory back. He needed to leave his mark upon the world. A mark of fear and terror. He would die a titan of the horror genre if it was the last thing he did. He had put far too much time and effort to let it all go now. These thoughts played on loop, ripping through his mind, tearing up his everyday life to the point where they existed as a sort of monotonous drone in the backdrop. Even still, the good ideas didn’t come to him. A man trapped on a ship in a storm. Too bland. A scary circus. Too basic. A little girl trapped in the woods with a deranged killer. Too edgy. These, along with at least a hundred other ideas swirled through his head yet none could he expand and write into a compelling story. None were good enough for him. He sighed.
These thoughts spun through his head as he slogged through the tiny apartment into his bleak kitchen. The once pristine marble countertops were now yellowing at the edges and the glass spice containers were in varying states of emptiness. A lone container of pickles sat next to the stained stove. He slowly turned his head away, to the left, to look at the archaic fridge. The device barely even attempted to work, breaking in some aspect at least once a week, but it was all that he could afford. “Besides” he mused as he opened the rusty door “no need for a good fridge if there’s nothing good inside.”. The pale blue light emanating from within illuminated a sorry sight. A single egg, a slice of rock-hard bread, and a vaguely green ham. He stared in disgust at the contents of the fridge, the expression slowly morphing into disappointment targeted towards himself. Was he so far gone that his food now consisted of a single egg and some pickles? Was this truly rock bottom? He sighed, and closed the door, sealing away the light as it reflected off of a tear that rolled down his cheek. He sighed.
Exhaustion pounded within the writer and the true extent of his fatigue became apparent now that nothing distracted him. He had nothing more he could do today. The battered bed called him from the opposite side of the room. Sleep would at least provide some momentary escape from the stresses of life. He took heavy steps towards the bed, despair etched in every part of his being. His hunched back, his clenched fists, his wet eyes, they were all old friends. After all, this was the same song and dance that he had done for more or less the past 2 months. He sat upon the hard mattress and pulled the crumpled duvet from the other side, covering himself, head and all
Sleep came quickly and upon its wings rode many dreams. They swirled and danced playfully like faeries, flitting in and out of view sporadically. Momentary fragments of hundreds of different dreams formed a confusing mosaic of thoughts, thoughts which were doomed to be forgotten when the writer rose. Memories of childhood, visions of warmth and happiness, beautiful colors, and bizarre sights all graced the writer’s mind in a splendid bouquet. His mind wandered through this labyrinth of comfort, taking in the dreams as much as he could. His consciousness reached towards a particular one, grasping it. Pure electricity ran through every cell in the man’s brain and body. Frigid cold flowed through his veins and in the peripheral of his mind he felt the other dreams retreating far away. He was now well aware that he was within a dream and attempted to awaken, but the darkness of sleep stood firm, now becoming oppressive, not providing an escape, but rather shackling him to whatever this incomprehensible force was. He could no longer let go and this arcane force only pulled him deeper within itself. As it pulled, his consciousness provided resistance, straining to keep him out and keep itself together. With a sudden pulse, it consumed him.
The darkness cleared slowly, illuminating the scene. As he looked around he noticed the scene. A large desk sat in a corner, next to an open window, illuminated by a crimson table lamp. Outside, the sky was inky black, without stars nor a moon. Beyond that, however, the world seemed bizarre. The terrain seemed to shift and ripple before his very eyes, as though he was upon a wide ocean of seeming infinity. This placid island upon which the room was located, was his safety within this alien realm. He tried to step forward, though he was surprised to find he couldn’t. He attempted to will himself forward but found that he still couldn’t, despite having full knowledge that he was dreaming. A lucid dream where he couldn’t control the events. Just his luck. As he struggled with regaining control over his mind a noise interrupted his actions. A familiar sound. One which had tormented him these last few months. Pencil on paper.
He willed himself to turn and, much to his surprise, he actually could. He swiveled from his point of view up on the ceiling to look down at a large head. From behind, he could see that the person had short brunette hair and pale white skin. His real focus though was the figure’s hands. His hands were thin and delicate, yet they grasped the pencil with clear purpose and expertise. When his fingers moved off the instrument for a second, the dreamer saw the dents left by the pencil. He was writing his masterpiece. This was not just a writer, but an author. The writer looked on in wonder at the author’s drive as an overwhelming sense of curiosity devoured him. What was he writing? What was the genre? What was it about? Questions filled his thoughts as he once again attempted to move to get a better look. Nothing, once again. The writer strained and pulled but try as he might, it was as if he was tightly tethered to his spot on the wall by unseen shackles. Shackles that shouldn’t even exist. “Screw this” he angrily thought and pulled harder, firmly reminding himself that he should be able to move, that this was a dream, that he was in control. With a lurch he moved, the imagined chains snapping and tearing and letting him free. He moved his presence and point of view forward, around the author’s broad shoulder and peering over his forearm as it pumped forward, writing forth a new story for the world. “Perhaps that’ll be my big break, my true idea, MY story. A story found in my psyche heh.” the writer pondered hopefully.
He caught a glimpse of the title, “The writer who found the truth”. “Vague, but intriguing” he mused. His eyes wandered down the page to the first sentence, “A futile scratching echoed through the barren apartment.”. “Hah, now isn’t that a relatable thought?” he reflected with a grimace. His eyes ran further down, towards the middle of the page, “The pale blue light emanating from within illuminated a sorry sight. A single egg, a slice of rock-hard b, read, and a vaguely green ham. He stared in disgust at the contents of the fridge…” “Huh… that’s exactly what happened today… odd” he thought to himself “I mean I suppose it makes sense, it is what I did, I suppose my brain is simply recapping the events of today. That’s…strange”. His eyes shot down to the final paragraph. He watched as the author continued to write vigorously, and then turned back to the page that -apparently- just detailed his day. His eyes stopped a few lines above the end. It read “…then turned back to the page that -apparently- just detailed his day. His eyes stopped a few lines above the end…”.
What?
His eyes shot back up the paragraph and he skimmed through it, confused. It wasn’t a detail of just his day as he thought…no, it included the dream. His mind was seemingly transcribing everything as it happened in literary prose. However, if that was truly the case, if it was his consciousness that was writing this, then why were there already lines below. Why below what was happening currently for him were there 4 more lines of writing and why was the author continuing. Why was there a transcription of exactly what he would do in the future and why was he doing exactly as was written?
He turned his eyes to the bottom of the page, and his mind screamed. It was warning him. He shouldn’t look at the bottom. A cold, piercing agony overcame him but rampant curiosity reared its head and consumed him entirely. “…woke up.”. Woke up? From the dream, he assumed, but if that was the case, how was the author continuing. The pain turned to numb dread. There was no way… right? He couldn’t… no, no, NO! Could this being predict-no- control his life? Had it been doing so all this time? This…omniscient, or at least prophetic, being was not a dream. It was something so much greater. This was THE Author. The writer had accidentally uncovered a glimpse of the truth behind the veil of life, the truth that he was nothing. Nothing more than a character for this celestial god. How else could he make sense of it? Only a god could control his life, his thoughts, and his emotions. His future. His mind feebly shouted. This wasn’t a sight he was meant to have seen. He was nothingness within infinity. His psyche yelled out again, pulling him back but all he saw were the tendrils of the Author’s puppeteer strings moving the plot forward, moving him forward. He woke up.
He awoke with a start, shooting upwards into a rigid sitting position. Icy sweat clung to his clammy skin as he gingerly grasped at his body. His shirt was soaked in sweat and his teeth wouldn’t stop chattering but he was awake, and most importantly out of that…dream. He slowly put his hands out in front of him. They violently trembled, the fingers almost appearing a blur in the darkness. Momentarily he saw 2 strings, wrapped tight around his wrist, leading upwards into the heavens or wherever that entity existed. Tears welled up in his eyes as he slowly came to terms with what he had seen, for he was sure of one thing: it had not been a mere dream. His life was nothing but a story and his thoughts were all lies. His existence was nothing more than a work of fiction by some author in a universe beyond his comprehension.
The tears within his eyes poured; salty streams of despair fell down his face as he delved down his thoughts. If his existence was nothing more than a lie, what about everyone else’s? Was it all a lie? Sharp air pierced his lungs as he took a quick breath. His pulse rose and the breath came and went even faster. Was his whole world a lie? Hell, had the world even existed before the author began? The last thought shot through his mind and he froze for a moment. Was this entire universe just this writer’s creation? How long had it existed truly? Was there any way to know? He stepped out of his bed, the sheets feeling like lead weights and he stood up, immediately lurching forth and retching. He fell to his knees, unable to stand and his throat closed, despite the bile rising from his stomach. Wracking coughs rampaged out of his chest and along with it, a pale flood of vomit poured out of his mouth. The sickening stench of decay and sickness spread quickly and the writer looked to the false heavens and opened his artificial mouth to let out a scream of pure anguish. Tears and snot streamed endlessly as did the pained scream within his crafted soul. His face remained contorted, a rictus of misery.
He cried. He sobbed. He laughed
His mind snapper and he laughed. The joyous laughter rioted out, juxtaposing the scene. In a barren apartment, in the middle of nowhere, a writer laughed in the dead of night. The concept that everything was a fabrication was too much to handle and so he roared with false laughter at the sheer absurdity of his newfound knowledge. His eyes turned to his overflowing bin and he doubled over. If everything meant nothing then why did he care? What was the point of the last five years of writing? What was the point of publishing? He laughed at himself, mocking and jeering inwardly as he realized that nothing he had ever done would make an impact. All that stress, all that sadness, all that anxiety, all for nothing. As he laughed, he got to his feet, shaking with spasms of manic joy, and he stumbled over to the bin. He pulled out some of the useless wastepaper and placed it on his desk, grabbing a marker. He scribbled harshly, his eyes bloodshot and wide as he stared at the paper. His laughter faded as he finished and a grin came upon his face as he stared at his deranged handiwork. He fumbled for the tape and savagely ripped it with his teeth and taped the untidy and torn pages to the wall. He stepped back to admire the display. His greatest work yet. The only thing that could create an impact in this lie of a life. This would be his legacy. He laughed once more, tears of mirth leaking from his pained eyes. Now for the final step.
He turned and stepped slowly towards the shadowy object at the back of his room. He shook as he walked, beginning to tremble at the prospect of his task. His laughter slowly turned into heaving sobs and his tears went from joyous to desperate. He collapsed, falling to his knees and staring at the cold floor for the last time. His head slowly turned upwards and he reached forth, crawling towards the dark box. It beckoned to him. It sweetly called and told him that it would give him succor. He smiled as he cried and opened the small wooden trunk. Carefully, reverently, he reached in and, as one would hold a snake, he pulled out a thick, corded rope.
A month later, the detectives and police would find a grotesque sight. The corpse of a man dangling from the ceiling fan with the faint vestiges of a smile remaining upon his decayed visage. Behind him, they would see papers, stuck to a wall, with large scrawled words. It would read, ‘This writer found the truth’.