Hello, book lovers. This post is going to be something a little different to what I usually post on here, but it, like my poetry postings, will be the start of something new for the blog. Of course if you’ve read my About Me page you’ll know that I am a first year Creative Writing student at the University of Bedfordshire. When I got into my first few weeks of Uni, we were still getting used to it all and were asked to do several smaller tasks, before the bigger assessments were introduced. One of these was to ask ourselves why we write, or more specifically, who we write for. This small piece of fiction is my reply to that question. I hope you like it.
Who Do I Write For?
Intertwining the fingers of each of my palms through each other and locking them together over my lap, I closed my eyes and tried to rid my mind of the dark thoughts which had been consuming it for such a long time. But no action or internal thought of mine could ease the tension that was building and kicking a pulsating buzz against the inner walls of my skull, like a rocket after take off.
The pain rested on my brain like a block of stone, sinking deeper and deeper in, beginning to consume the happiness from within me that had once been. I unlocked my hands and dragged my nails down the wooden surface of my desk, clawing in all of my frustration like an animal trying to break itself free from a cage.
It was no use. The headache was growing slowly and increasingly worse, strengthening both in size and the power it held over me. I reached for the pad of white paper on the shelf above my head and the black ballpoint pen resting in the pot of pens and pencils on the desk and threw the needed items down in front of me. I studied the blankness of the page for several seconds, before allowing the words to spill out of me. They gushed out of my head with a surprising ease, unexpected yet highly welcomed.
It wasn’t long before the tension was released and the usual aching sensation began to fade away as the shadowy figure appeared behind my head, towering over me, watching, observing the words as they appeared on the page. For the very first time, I turned around to face my enemy.
Small, with chest-length blonde hair and blue eyes, she stood above me with her eyes piercing through mine like two, dark crescent moons. We were almost exactly one and the same. But this shadowy copy of mine was far weaker, far more frail. And as more words, more feelings and more pain appeared on the page in front of me, I watched with a bitter satisfaction as each separate word sliced like a stab wound through her body.
Paper-thin wounds spilled blood as black as ink onto the carpet floor of my bedroom and the figure behind me slowly bled away into nothing.
I smiled and unclenched my fists. Until the next time at least, I was free.