They might have been there all along, the fear, the anxiety, the hallucinations, stored in the brinks of a falsely remembered happy scene from his past. He might of coped with an alternate version of the truth, indulging on desire to feel good and know less.
Had he not delved now to find his muse and spill monsters on paper, it would have stayed a happy lie. But the driving necessity of escaping this limbo of plots and twists had made him a slave of a nagging voice in his head. Cut yourself open, pour it from within, write it with your whole being.
The pen slipped between his fingers and rolled on the desk across the scattered pile of torn and ink soaked papers. He stared at his trembling wrist, at his numb fingers refusing to wield the instrument of his craft. He’d cut them to see if he’d feel anything, and now they bled under the bandages.
He pushed himself back, away from blank papers and cursed words.
Shadows ran on the walls and when he closed his eyes he could hear them scratching inside the walls, tip-toeing behind his back. It was an empty room with a dim light when he opened them again. He’d miss days and live nights, listening to the taps and scratches behind the walls of his mind.
He choked on the inability to create. Ink stained and ill he lay, curled in a ball on the wooden floor, his lips mumbling that which his hands couldn’t write.
Bent and broken he listened to the voice and the scratches stopped.
His body was the vessel of the word, and the word was spelled in red. The scratches manifested behind the walls of his house. Madly born monsters made real, made strong