With my eyes held closed and dancing my fingers over the pages I realized that I had eternity in my grasp. It was lovely, and the scent of nutmeg floated off of the pages like the sweetest aroma possible. It was so intoxicating that I felt my head spin and my eyes lost their horizon.
The book in my hands was folded open to page one hundred and something and the power was overwhelming. There was a quill scratching at my face and an ink well dangling out of sight on the edge of my writing desk. It was dark, save the lamplight from a dimly flickering candle sitting on the shelf above my writing surface. The widow was rattling with fresh early morning or late night wind, and I could feel the ghost of its breath on my face, freezing my cheeks and lips.
Hours into my writing I gave in to the temptation of sleep. So I laid my head on my desk while watching tiredly as the blue yellow flame ate at the wick and splashed ruby wax down the meaty sides of the candle. I was too tired, and my hand hurt too much, so I didn’t blow it out. I fell asleep.
Late in the afternoon, perhaps three, I woke up. I woke up because I could hear the screaming of my ‘people’. I sat up, wiping drool from the corner of my mouth and moving myself off of my writing. The wind had blown my flimsy window open, and snuffed out the candle. The candle had concerned me through the night. I dreamt about it. I dreamed that it spilled bloody wax all over me and I couldn’t move. Then, when I was immobile the flame walked off of the wick and burned my work… my life.
I howled and screamed and thrashed, and no matter what I did the little beast wouldn’t stop! And as I thrashed, and cried, and moaned it laughed hard. It laughed so hard that it shook me. I woke up then. Okay, I was in one piece and my work was untouched by flame and ash. No chances, I’d have to get rid of it.
I stretched and looked around my small room, staring at the pages of novels hung on the walls, the black list in the corner, and the art work on the ceiling. I was driving myself crazy by staring at the faces that stared back unblinkingly. They were familiar faces of those people that I controlled.
I was their God! I was the ruler of a world all my own, and all of the people in it. No one had any say against me. No one could change how things worked. It was all mine, my world, my dreams, my people, my rules.
The trash can lid slammed shut and the candle inside was forgotten. The sun was loitering in the sky, just over the horizon sparkling pink and orange from the gasses in the city. I felt a little annoyed tongue click in my mouth at the thought. Gasses and poison were beautiful. Does it take someone crazy to see that?
I had been listening to my neighbor’s television at night. There was a lot of talk about saving the environment or something like that. I liked the flood of noxious odors and the stifling clouds of smog during rush hour. I liked the production. Trees were sacrificing themselves for my written art, the least I could do is love the production.
Mrs. Prewitt stuck her head out of the window. The stout grey woman watched me a moment. She was a dear and worried about me so. “Fabian?” she called. I ignored her, waiting for her to call again. I smiled to myself, pretending I didn’t hear her. “Fabian!” she called again, louder this time.
My smile just grew. I’d wait until she’d call me a third time. She didn’t. After a moment of watching me she closed her window around her face and walked away, being replaced by her overweight, flabby faced, ugly cat. I hated that thing, truly and deeply hated it. It liked to kill the mice around here. I liked the mice; I fell asleep at night imagining them at tea and in beds made of shoes. So I decided that I’d kill it.
That night the flea bag was let out. I had stayed out there all that time waiting on the fence, watching the back door for the kindly old woman and her ugly pet. I kicked my feet and daydreamed a bit while I waited, but over all I was being wildly unproductive. When it was out on the yard, eating grass and pawing at worms and other creepy crawlies I made the move.
I swept the thing off of the grass and shoved it in a plastic bag, tied it and then left it beside the trash can. It struggled and meowed, but ultimately sank into quiet slumber. I smirked. I was in control here.
- Title: Apathetically Yours
- Artist: Ivhalo
- Description: This is just a little nibblet concerning an aspiring writer who thinks that the world works like his stories. He's a bit crazy and probably a little too out there for a lot of people to relate to him. But, I don't care XD. Read and enjoy the shortness and be telling me if there should be more of them.
- Date: 03/18/2009
- Tags: insane dark crazy writer controlling