e sits in his chair. He hates this chair. It’s the same ugly, uncomfortable chair he has been using since he wrote his first short stories. Now he uses it to write novels. He is Charles Whilst, the world renowned author, who writes stories filled with action and adventure. The stories may change, characters get lost over time, but at least the chair is the same. That’s what’s important, right? As long as his surroundings remain unchanged so will his thought process. Looking for a bit of inspiration for his newest novel, he decides to look back at an old manuscript.
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Beep... Beep... Beep...
That is all he recognizes. He doesn’t have the strength to open his eyes or even roll over to make himself more comfortable. He feels an itch on his stomach. Paul begins to lift his arm to provide himself some sort of relief, but feels a deep twinge and a shooting pain. It is so overwhelming that he forces his teeth to clench. As this happens, he can feel a thin stream of warm liquid dribble down his cheek and pool under his neck.
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“No, that won’t do,” Charles says, hoping the old rafters will listen to him. He sets that manuscript back onto the desk. “I need some fresh ideas. No more hospitals. I’ve written enough of those to bore even my most ardent fans.” He decides to let himself take a break from writing. “Perhaps a short nap can help my muddled thinking process.” With these words he goes over to his bed and falls into a deep sleep.
Minutes later, he lurches his body up and his eyes open wide. Each time he falls asleep he hopes that that feeling won’t return. His dreams are filled with the horrific stories he writes about. He is unable to escape his own fictional world. Sweat pours off his face and shoulders; he reaches back, only to find his pillow drenched, as he had suspected, in sweat and tears. He takes the same hand and reaches over towards the bedside table. His fingers brush across something smooth and damp and he picks up that glass of lukewarm water. He glances towards the blood red alarm clock numbers. He takes two swallows of water and looks at the clock again. The water tastes musty; it hasn’t been changed in a couple of days. He lets out a sigh. He focuses on the glass, studies the way that the water is jostled as his arm shakes uncontrollably. Particles of dust float on the surface as some descend into its depths. He pours it onto the floor. He can hear the initial sound of the splash as well as latent droplets slowly finding their way to the floor. Listening for the noise to stop, he waits in silence. He gives the silence a laugh, filled with both victory and defeat. But he knows how to end it; the glass rolls out of his hand. He allows it to fall in absolute silence until it hits the floor. The sound of the shattering glass makes him sick to his stomach; he drops his body back onto the pillow and is encompassed by sleep.
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A scream resonates in his ears, and he opens his eyes to realize that the raspy voice he hears is bellowing from his throat. Another fist pounds into his chest, and he feels his ribs crumble from the blow. Justin gasps for air only to feel another more direct hit pound into the side of his head. Please, please let this end. Just let me die; make it stop, he thinks over and over to himself. He just wants the torture to cease. Someone hears his pleas for mercy, and his mind goes blurry, and he blacks out, with the taste of fresh, warm blood in his mouth and a sharp, stinging pain in his side.
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He sets that manuscript back down. Maybe action isn’t the way to go after all, he thinks, confusedly. Maybe something romantic, something touching that will do some pulling on their heart strings. A change in style could even bring in a new group of readers. Selling more copies never hurt anyone. His mind seems content with the idea, of reaching more people with his writing, and his wallet doesn’t have any objections either. He decides to give the whole thing one more go. Once more for old times sake, he thinks to himself. He’ll always have time to recover anyway. He’s still relatively young. It seems like a good idea and he writes the note onto his little pad: One for the road. Call Dr. Schwen first thing in the morning. With that little action, he is satisfied. This will be his last big move in a long series of unusual situations.
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Arnold struggles as he lifts his leg, moves it cautiously forward, and slowly sets it back down just a few short inches from where it started. The woman next to him gives him a smile, an approving nod, and a simple “Good, now try the other one.” He has always known her as Marie and her nametag has always told him that her name is Marianne. He has always thought that she looks more like a Maureen. She just carries herself in a way that reminds him of his aunt, a very amiable woman who he often finds in fits of laughter. He can always talk to her comfortably.
The whole process drains him of all the energy he ever has. His muscles ache. His spirit grows weak. Out of pity for himself, he is forced to ask for a chair. At this moment, he feels that his legs won’t be able to sufficiently hold his weight any longer. He knows that Marie is not judging him. She is only here to be of assistance to him, but he can’t help but feel a bit embarrassed. She helps him carefully into the chair and as he feels himself touch the padded top, he lets out a thankful sigh. She gives him another caring smile.
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Charles sits at his typewriter, with the feeling of 4 a.m. looming over his head. The tapping sounds off in his ears; his fingers float over the keys, expelling just enough energy to press them so the machine can register the pressure and apply the strokes to the paper in front of him. He has never felt anything better than the hard, cold metal of the companion he has kept by his side since he first discovered it in the attic of his grandmother’s townhouse so many years ago. The rain pounds on the roof. A thin line of water flows down the wall in the corner of the room. He collects it in a bucket. His manuscript sits, covered in light and the projection of the water streaming down the plate-glass window outside. It is beside the typewriter on the old oak desk. The prologue grows longer with each key he presses, with each word that is transferred to the page. It all concludes in a single sentence, not only summing up his novel, but also his life:
Experience is the only way to write a book; without the knowledge of having lived the surreal, there is no way to understand it. –Charles T. Whilst
