Writer's Block

The room is empty except for the blood and urine-stained mattress against the northern wall. My eyes dance around the room, running over the maps I drew on the walls, all of the worlds that I have created; all that has been lost. Papers of late-night ramblings and unfinished works decorate the floor. I cant even see the floor-boards now.

I take a drag from my cigarette, letting the smoke curl slowly over my lips. I toss it off the balcony down to the busy streets of Manhattan below. The honking of the horns hurts my ears so I decide to return to the madness of my dismal one-room apartment.

I hear the crinkling of papers beneath my bare feet. The noise sounds a mix between nails on a chalkboard and breaking glass. This makes my head throb even more. I need another cigarette.

My shaking hand reaches down into the left pocket of my jeans, fumbling for the Marlboro’s and the lighter. I pull out the crumpled pack and grab a stick. Placing it between my dry and cracked lips makes me feel better. My thumb flips the tab a million times before the flame starts up. I light my cigarette and inhale long and slow. Salvation.

I glance down at the papers and see I am standing on one of my more recent pieces of work: a full page of “Writer’s Block” repeating over and over.

“Fuck,” I say, remembering that I have been stuck for months. “Fuck,” I say again, but this time it echo’s around the room. “Not again, please,” I whisper to my self and angrily kick the paper.

“Writer’s block,” The voices say to me, “Writer’s block writer’s block writer’s block…” The words bounce around in my head, reverberating off the bone.

“No,” I bite my lip and rub my temples. I place my hands over my ears trying to stop the voices. They keep getting louder the harder I press.

“Writer’s block writer’s block writer’s block WRITER’S BLOCK!”

I open my eyes to find the words being scribbled all over the walls by an invisible pen. The words begin to appear on the ceiling and they all start to move. They writhe down to the floor and slither over my papers. One touches my foot; it burns. I try to crawl away but they have me. Up they go; in my jeans, on my legs.
I cry out from the pain.

The voices are shrieking now.

“STOP IT!” I scream. The words are starting to wrap around my chest tighter and tighter. My cigarette falls from my hand and is instantly swallowed by the waves of the black letters.

“Writer’s block writer’s block writer’s block writer’s block writer’s block…”

There is a knock on the door.

“Réz?” I hear Ms. McKinley say, “Are you alright in there dear?” Ms. McKinley lives next door. She is a kind old woman who helps me pay my rent all too often.

“Help… me…” I gasp. I am beginning to lose consciousness for the words are raping around my throat.

A key enters the door and the doorknob starts to wriggle. It bursts open and I am temporarily blinded by the light of the hallway. Ms. McKinley stands in the doorway and stares at me.

The voices stop abruptly and the writing is gone. I am standing in the middle of my apartment alone… All alone.

“Er… Nightmare,” I say shakily. My hand starts to reach for my pocket but I stop it; Ms. McKinley hates smoke.

“Okay then,” She says slowly, examining me through her thick bifocals. “Why don’t you come over for some tea. And maybe some food, too, you look like death, child.”
I nod slowly and do a quick visual sweep of around my room. Everything is in order… or disorder, really. No words are there to attack me.

Ms. McKinley stands with her arm out in a welcoming manner as I shuffle over to her.

You know you really should clean you room, dear. It looks like a hurricane hit. You may just get trapped in all of those words,” she chuckled and I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. “What is it, Réz?”

“Nothing,” I pull my eyes away from her and as I close the door I see is a glint of black metal from my type writer.

“Writer’s block,” It whispers to me. I shut the door quickly and lock it, only sparing one glance back at it as we head to Ms. McKinley’s apartment.