1340

For Holly, for inspiring me.

I gave out a slight groan. Maintaining routine, my head spins as I wake to find myself slumped over my desk once more. My decreasingly reliable cocktail of sleeping pills and JD fail to get me through another sleepless night. The moonlight pours in through the partially closed blinds and illuminates the latest transcript in an otherwise dark room.

I need some inspiration, so I refill my glass. Jack is the only company I keep these days. He inspires the direction I take each day, the air I sweetly inhale. For a moment, I worry as the bottle runs low. A quick glance towards the kitchen calms my fears. There's another two crates – enough to get me through until the end of the month. My memory isn't what it used to be, times I can’t recall thanks to an empty bottle.

I'm no alcoholic. I don't need to drink; I just enjoy the bitter-sweet taste left in my mouth as it enters my body. I can feel the fire as it rushes inside, every drop taking me one step closer to my goal. It clears my mind from both distraction and her. It maintains my concentration, allowing me to focus on my passion that will never abandon me. Without two or three bottles a night, I can't get started. All engines need their fuel. The human body is no different; the petrol simply varies from one person to the next.

I've a deadline to meet, so I continue my story, my greatest to date. An epic that will reinvigorate a dying genre, and provide escape from the visions that haunt me. I know they're nothing more than the result of my over-active imagination, yet they seem so real. As if the depths of Hell have manifested in my hideaway in this corner of the world. I push on and fill page after page with expertly crafted text, with characters and worlds that jump from the page. The hand before me is not my own.

The weather takes a turn for the worse. What was once a gentle breeze has now developed into a howling wind, the distant thunder increases in volume. The window shutters slam against its own frame, allowing the storm to announce its intentions.

Another headache begins to take effect, squeezing my temples with a vice-like grip. The gentle massage of my brow fails to ease the pain. I'll go see a doctor in the morning, but first, my story. The world highly-anticipates this release, and who am I to keep them waiting. Everyone wants to see how my seven-tome effort comes to a close.

The pain overwhelms me, it's much worse than normal. I struggle to get beyond picking up my pen and putting it to paper. My thoughts become clouded, even though there are half a dozen pain killers in my bloodstream at this very moment.

Suddenly, the stairs creak. I turn around to see nothing out the ordinary, just the same stairs I use on a daily basis. Must be the alcohol, I figure. As I attempt to resume my writing, my fingers seize with pain. A burning sensation that flares up every time I move. I pop two more vicodin, although they do little to numb the pain, making my raison d’être all the more difficult.

I've only just woken up so it will be hours before I can rest my weary eyes again. I stare blankly at the page, struggling to regain my train of thought. Rubbing my brow, I force myself through the discomfort. My flow slowly returns. The ideas begin to...

The disused bells found in the kitchen begin to let out a deafening ring. The volume is simply too loud to ignore, so I have no choice but to investigate further. The volume sharply increases as I enter the kitchen, bursting my eardrums. I clutch at my bleeding lobes and shout in agony, trying to restrict the damage. I reach out for the light switch, but to my distress, the power is cut. The bells ring faster than ever; they slightly glow.

They stop.

The house becomes lifeless once more. If it were not for the blood pouring down my face, I would have dismissed it as yet another one of my disturbing dreams. I knew this was real, despite the medication that seems to never leave my body. I lose my balance, a side effect of my light-headedness, and end up against the wall. Dark patches interfere with my weakening vision as I struggle to distinguish between reality and imagination. The patches in front of me linger in the shadows, a black so dark it absorbed all light in its wake. They take shapes – semi-humanoid, with small protrusions from what I could only describe as their backs. They delightfully danced around the room in response to my suffering, whilst I attempted to reach out towards them. Unintelligible whispers emanate from within, weakening what little strength I possess through incantation.

This is not real. This is not real. I repeat it under my breath, in a desperate attempt to protect myself from the most vivid of dreams. Suddenly, my self-reassurance is interrupted by a loud thud behind me. The bookcase had now found its way to the floor, its contents piled around my feet. In defeat, I slumped to the floor only to be stuck by the corner of a picture frame. One that resided in the kitchen.

Looking up, I saw my possessions being thrown across the room from all angles. My few belongings being obliterated before my eyes. Despite the knowledge it is a mere illusion, I cry out to the voices, pleading with them to cease the destruction. Rather than comply, the volume of the voices increases. Chanting other-worldly tones in a language I did not recognise.

Like the bells, the voices stop, apparently on the whim of a long dull tone.

A voice speaks out from the depths.

“At last, the time has come for me to claim what is truly mine”

I was rendered speechless. The voice was unlike any other, resonating throughout the room. I noticed part of the room beginning to slowly illuminate.

“Do not look so surprised, writer. I have come for you as we agreed”

My memory failed me; I did not recall a pact with anyone, let alone a shadow. Only, the shadow was anything but. He stepped out from the protection of the dark to reveal his full grotesque image. A horned, satanic monstrosity with maroon skin. On closer inspection, I realise that skin colour can be attributed to heat. He was suffering from extreme burns, his skin crisping in the heat that had taken hold in the room.

“A man of words with nothing to say! The irony! I shall treasure this moment for an eternity.”

His mocking tones drove me to speak out.

“Wh…What are you?”

“I am the son of Naamah and Adam the First. One of the Fallen. I am the one who gave you the success you now enjoy through rebirth.”

A series of hallucinations flashes before me, images that haunted me for weeks following my divorce. An offer to become something greater than ever before.

“I see you recall our arrangement. I am here to collect my payment.”

My thoughts raced, in attempt to decipher his words. What would a being such as this find valuable?

“Stand up and follow me into the depths of Gehenna, for it is time for you to relinquish your soul to me.”

I consider fighting back, but ultimately concede defeat. Doing anything now is futile, so I do as instructed. I turn around to take a final glance at my home. There, glass in hand, lays my rotting, lifeless corpse. I never woke this morning, and with the view of my incomplete masterpiece lying before me, I descended into the depths of Hell, where I would spend the rest of eternity knowing the true cost of salvation.