Stuff Slasher Saw

This was first an essay for school under the heading 'Movie Magic'. It tell's on a man posseded by a story so real to him, that he is willing to give up his soul to darkness for it...

This is Copyright 2007 of Emily Alice Collins, along with any spelling or grammer mistakes.

The writer.

The pen skittered back and forth across the page. The room was silent apart from the scratch and the occasional grunt from the haggard looking man how bent over the desk, his face low over the page and marked with ink, it’s dark colour the only one in that stark white, haunted face.

This was the writer. In the fleeting moments of sanity, that that came and went like the showers of rain in April, he felt like a man both blessed and cursed. Before he was able to explain why to the few friends still remaining to him, a number that dwindled as time march on to it’s steady beat, the strange madness would consumed him once more, and he was lost to reality and all those who inhabited it.

He would sit before the blank pages, hunched over the desk, the dark room, as still as a living statue, all but his hand, that moved in a whirlwind of agitation over the pure white paper, leaving behind it the stain of his thoughts.

He could not stop, could not even speak, he could only write. He did not see the room around him, did not see it’s bareness, did not feel the chill that prevailed there. He was encased, absorbed, in a world that non but him could preserve.

This was the state he was in now, it could last for hours, but then he would collapse, a being existed, but he was unable to rest, and would tear at his hair, throw himself about there room, moaning and crying out in a desperation piteous to behold. Waling like a lost soul, he call out to his tormenters, his visions, and the sound could be hear in the streets.

“Will I have no peace! Am I never to be relieved!” But there was no answer to he’s bequest, only the silence, and he would curl himself into a ball, still howling and moaning, like a child, or wounded animal till something very like sleep over took him, letting him collapse and be still for a short while.

Then he would crawl back to his desk, and sit, staring blankly at the wall. Anyone how would have looked on him in a moment like that would have been moved. A broken man, haunted and drained, with wide staring eyes in a white –nay, it was almost grey- face. These eyes had seen too much, and would continue to see even when they were closed. Then he would pick up the pen, were it had lain quite, and look at it as if unsure what it was, and how he should use it, hold it, even, approach it.

But it would find a way to fit into his hand, his shaking, ink stained fingers, and he would once again start to write.

The pen was now scratching over the page, before it was discarded and another begin. “Slow down…” He mumbled to him self and he wrote.

Page after page was covered, turned, thrown beside the rest…

But then he stopped, his eyes resting on the last word he had written, before the looked up, slow, with unseeing eyes. And he whispered, and his voice held the strange mix of fear, hope and blind determination known only to those who are beyond desperation.

“How do they end?”

He poised, as if hearing a reply, before answering with slow deliberateness.

“No.”

He rose from the desk like, the spectre from the grave, the biting cold air seemed to be filled with smoke or fog.

“No. No, I will not condemn then like this.”

The stillness was almost tangible, and his movements as he walked around the desk were frightening to behold.

He stopped. “If, I do as you say, what will become of them?” There was no answer, but he seemed to hear on all the same.

“It can’t be so.” He lent upon the desk, almost weeping, tear that rose from the bottom of his very soul.

“Stop, pray, let us strike a bargain. Let me end it, in another way, then, I will do anything you wish, anything you could ever wish me to do.” He was pleading with the silence, and it seemed to consider. He took strength from this before continueing. “The letter will not come, and there will be no storm. Michael shall arrive in time at the house, and she will not have felt. Let her give him the locket and the map of ever they may meat again, at a time when it will be safe for them both, and let him leave! Before the captain comes, before… But if the captain comes, what will become of her?...” He’s voice teetered off, and he started to passed. “What can she do? Must she pay that prise? No, news will come to the house, call him away, and she will be able to make her escape! All will be well! And they will meat again! They will!”

With a glade smile he sat down and wrote in a slow smooth hand.

‘The end.’

Carefully he gathered up the papers, and placed them in order, ‘White Velvet, a novel, by Stewart Manhattan.’

“ Your price then, I pay it, for there happiness…” He turned to the figure only he could see, and spoke in a voice of deliberate calm. “I am ready.”