Write.

She sat on the cold wooden chair with her tired hazel eyes staring at the too bright white of the open word document. Its motionless screen glared at her.  Around her she could feel its unnatural glow paired with the electric hum of the monitor to create blast of power that cut through the dark quiet of the empty household.  The winter chill ached under the floor boards with its throbbing, nipping her her pale limbs that, although covered in a thin blanket, were still victim to the freezing air. This cold didn’t bother her, nor did the heavy feeling that traced her eyelids. Not even the once tantalising key board with its beautiful block letters could manipulate her attention anymore. Letters that used to dare her to form words which would appear out of nowhere in front of her, flowing down until page after page filled the screen. None of that magic mattered now. Nothing mattered now; hadn’t for months as she became overwhelmed with sadness.

Looking away from the screen, her eyes were pulled once again to the surrounding walls filled with bitter-sweet memories. Photos in wooden frames and glassy reflective surfaces that bounced the light of the computer back at her, hurting her eyes. But the brightness was a weak pain. Nothing could compare to the iron fist which clenched tightly around her heart upon viewing the images of her father. Of her mother’s dimpled smile. Her brother’s bright eyes so filled with hope. These memories of time before. Her eyes lingered on her Graduation photo. Her father’s proud smile looking down at her as he wrapped her in a warm embrace with the promise of a new life gleaming in her happy eyes. If only that girl knew what life would become, she thought.

She knew that her father would be ashamed to see her like this. Seeing her reach so low that she couldn’t even look at a blank page without remembering. Knowing that she had developed a black space in her body that made her so lost, numb, and cold. Like being dead. Dead. Like he was. Her cold hands battered the menacing tears. I had been months. Months she felt she didn’t deserve. Months she felt that she, too, should be dead.  She lay a hand down on the table, as her fingers circled the keys on the black orderly keyboard. Months that the rivers of her imagination dried and leaked in flooding tears from her eyes, stopping her fingers from typing- from wrapping her fingers around the old quills she stole from her parents and carving into the sharp paper with its inky presence. He wouldn’t want her like this and she knew it. He would want her to write again To move on. But she felt as though a great  weight had her pinned against the ocean floor and was suffocating her. Despite everything he had taught her, She was stuck.

Grabbing her empty stained coffee mug, she pushed her weary body off the hard chair, pausing at the tall bookshelf momentarily to touch  the old dust ridded trophies she received from writing competitions, before turning away in anguish. He had been there for every one of those awards, smiling proudly, sharing her success with her….Rushing away from the memory filled tomb, she fumbled for the light switch in the kitchen, before boiling the water trying to distract herself in thoughts of filling her dirty mug with a fresh batch of sweet brown steaming coffee. While waiting for the water to boil, she sat of the cold hard floor, hunched over in deep heaving breaths.” What am I doing?” She asked herself in agonized whispers. It’s had been months since she was last able to go into that room. She felt like she didn’t deserve to be in that room. That room used to be filled with light, dreams, imagination, and now was filled with the sullen dead air of a world lost to darkness. But yet, she could not stay away.  

She heard the water boiling and rose, taking the stainless steel pop of the heat. Dropping her head into her hands, she squeezed her eyes shut as a hot tear reminded her she was still alive. Her mind cast way in the accident. The music of Bon Jovi whispering out of the crackling radio of the fading blue pick-up truck. The deep rumble of his laughter mixing with childish whines and giggles over things that she can’t even remember. The passing trees that flew by as the wind blew through her long golden hair.  All that is important to her now is the sound of the screeching tire and the dog that came out of nowhere. The warm laughter turning into yells as her voice turning into screaming. And the look of horror clear in his hazel eyes that mimicked her own. Blinking through the pain to see blood and awaking to the news that her father is dead

Abandoning her unmade coffee, she ran to the room again with tears rolling like a storm down her face. She saw her family happy in every swirling image and fell to the middle of the dark floor wracked with wild sobs. It was like everything in that room mocked her yet she had to be in it. There was no moving forward. No going back. No changing how things are. No making things better. This is how it was; her family dead. All these voices hounded her head like an explosion bringing forth powerful painful emotion that she couldn’t describe. Her hands pulling at her hair as she relived those happy moments of beach days and school and family dinners. Pulling her hair as she relived the sad days of her fights over nothing and childish tantrums that she would give anything to take back. Rocking back and forth, she relived the accident. Her dad. Her best friend.

Write. She heard her fathers voice whisper out of the confusion and madness of her mind- causing something deep inside her welled with a newfound urge to write. His voice begged her to make the screaming stop and the let chill to leave her tired body. Crawling to the key board, she leant a trembling hand forward and pressed on the keyboard. A letter appeared. Followed by another and letter until her feelings splashed onto the screen like the tears onto her cheek, appearing like always out of nowhere to magically fill the screen. Words turned to sentences as all she could do was listen to a voice pushing her to write- to let herself feel some small ounce of relief. Seconds turned to minuets turned to hours as she typed in a frenzied trance. Write. Pouring everything she had into her story, until she saw the sun rise beneath the curtains and she finally lay her head to rest on the desk, drifting into a finally peaceful slumber

Author's Note

Enjoy x

Reviews

[IvorySunshine]

I enjoyed this more then I should have, aha. Your imagery was very thorough, you kept in sync with the character. Very dark, but hopeful ending, pleasurable read. Well done

[GorgEOus NiGhtMarE]

Thankyou for the reveiw! It is pretty dark. I kinda started off writing about writers block and it expanded from there :P

[IvorySunshine]

If you wrote this from thinking of writers block, then you, are an outstanding writer! :3

[GorgEOus NiGhtMarE]

Please, we both know thats you :P

[IvorySunshine]

We both know it's BOTH OF US :D

[A. Amos]

Simply brilliant piece of art, love the title and contents were marvelous!

[GorgEOus NiGhtMarE]

Thankyou!!

[A. Amos]

You're most welcome my friend

[RONGORONGO::^/JEUSSEN/F..]

p.s. I'm glad that was over! It got too depressing to read it. It was too...cold...too negative. Whispered no hope. Did not make me feel emotions besides dread in the soul...so....Did not make me want to continue reading.

[RONGORONGO::^/JEUSSEN/F..]

...Maybe your character doesn't write unless it's at her typewriter or handwritten because there's too many hackers nowadays and no one could write if someone was staring at their paper. Also, most writers I know CANNOT write if they are depressed/ or oppressed. I like your character. She's very strong! And a flower that deserves a happy end like no other, and she shall have her own private land wherever that may be, could be in Fiji, could be in her heart or on the shores of her mind where she recollects the poem song of the sea, but wherever it may be...she is FREE. And happy to look forward to a future that she knows will actually exist for her, and not one where she hopes there is one, but one that is actually real and alive more than ever, it's here she takes her pen and mightier sword, for the pen truly is mightier than the sword, and she is all the more mighty of oppression, which could never capture her spirit. Or maybe she's just contemplating what story and characters she will next create. After all- she is a writer- and this is her fate, because the other one, love, was never real in the first place.