DIVINATIONS 
MAGAZINE

The black ink staining the lines of the paper was beginning to drive me to the brink of insanity.

The heaviness of my lids was a clear indication that I had pushed myself well beyond my limits. The words were slowly becoming unintelligible as I felt my head droop slightly. I’d lost complete track of time whilst working on my masterpiece. Every single door and window in my studio was locked to prevent any intrusion. To warn my wife and children that an uninvited entry would end before it began.

I shook myself awake and forced my pen to continue its assault on the paper. I had no clear indication of what I was writing – to this day I can’t recall what utter blasphemy was being scrawled on that paper – but it felt as if my hand was moving of its own free will. I squinted my eyes, desperately trying to urge myself to stay awake and keep my eyes on the prize. The candlelight that was illuminating my paper flickering every so often as a reminder that time was fleeting away from me quicker than I could even grasp. My hands started to shake, my body rattled, as my eyes began to leak sinful tears at the prospect of becoming a failure. My vision was failing me – I knew that much – as my hand began to work at godspeed scrawling on the paper as if it were an entity completely separate to me. My heart felt as still as a cruel statue; a statue reminding me of the beauty of absolute immortality, where time was of no issue and no odds because you had the security of forever. There was no reminder of a beating heart delivering the necessity of oxygen to my vessel, for that would be too kind for the man, and there was certainly no guarantee of salvation from this incessant scrawling.

I was watching myself unfold before my very eyes and I was utterly deprived of being able to stop the unravelling.

The clock on the wall read 3:03am, yet the hands were not moving. The seconds were not ticking by in that usually nauseating way that would drive any sane man to utter depravity.

Why did I not feel peace?

Why was there no solace in the silence?

The sight of myself descending further and further into whatever hell was unfolding before me was enough to try and break free from whatever had my every limb under its control. When I opened my mouth to try and protest, to repent for whatever sins I had committed, to beg for salvation, my mouth betrayed me. The grip on my vessel was too strong for me to fight against. They had me under their complete control.

I flicked my eyes back to the blasphemous clock on the wall; it was still mocking me with the same stillness as before, the same numbers reading 3:03am. I was absolutely helpless to the numbers and to the shackles that burned red hot welts into my skin as I watched myself fall further. My hands were still working overtime, but upon closer examination my eyes were now closed. It was as if I were a puppet being controlled by a puppet master who was making me act out the most sadistic acts imaginable.

Splat. Splat.

Using the only sense I was able to, I moved my gaze to the paper.

Red splotches stained the words, continuing to flow at the same speed as my hand was scrawling the words on the paper.

The blood was pouring from my eyes as I stood there and watched.

There was no peace in this; no solace, no relief that I was writing. I was watching myself be taken over by an entity that preyed on my weaknesses, my fear, my sleep deprivation, and my utter depravity. I was a sick, old man with no remorse, no empathy, and no desire to engage in anything that wasn’t self-serving. The pen and paper mattered the most to me, for it was an obsession at that point, a Baudelarian and Bukowski-esque desire to write whatever filth tainted my brain and pour it into the paper. This entity knew that to prey on me was to display my downfall.

My heart beat was non-existent because my heart was non-existent.

The fear that was splayed for me to see wasn’t fear of never seeing my family again; it was the fear of death because if I was dead, then my hedonism died with me.

As this fear ran around my brain, my eyes focused on the blood. The blood was pooling around the words, mocking me with the promise of a destroyed manuscript – of worthless words. The lines of reality and my subconscious were blurring as I stared at the blood pooling on the paper – each non-existent second passing descending me further into utter madness. The candlelight that was once an indication of time passing by was slowly turning to a wax pile at the side of the notebook. The flame was dwindling as each second, minute, maybe hour, passed. The room would soon be pitch-black.

I would fade into nothingness.

I began to rack my brain for the Lord’s Prayer; please note that I was not a religious man but the desperation made me turn to God for salvation from this obscenity. As if sensing my declaration of turning into a God-fearing man, I felt a presence coating me with what I can only describe to you as a cloak of despair; perhaps pity. As I felt the fabric cover each part of my vessel, I tried to close my eyes. As if toothpicks were placed between my eyelids to force them open, I found myself at the complete mercy of my cloaked demon.

Please, have mercy on me.

A low laugh echoed through my head as I continued to try and plead my case to the judge.

I am aware that there is no pity to be found in a sick man. There is no punishment harsh enough for a man like I. A man with no soul, no heartbeat, no desire to try and do good in this world. Spare me for I have children and a wife, and they do not deserve to find me in this decrepit state. Let them see the good in the world, and do not torment them with grief.

The cloak continued its descent over me, clouding my vision with spirals of pure black and forbidding me from having the joy of seeing colour and of having access to my sight. Whilst my sight diminished, my smell began to enhance and the scent of decay assaulted my nostrils. A smell of rotten fruit, so rotten that it would make me vomit if I had control of my body, infiltrated the air as I felt the shackles of the cloak restrict me further. I was seconds away from disintegrating completely; seconds from becoming a slave to the night.

Salvation cannot save you from yourself. You are more than a sick man; you are a disease upon to yourself. You will rot yourself from the inside out. An eternity in Hell is too kind. Madness will ravage you as you live the rest of your days with the desire to fix yourself, yet finding the shackles restricting you from doing so. So be it.

My eyes shot open and instantly went to the clock on the wall; the same clock that had been terrorising me and mocking me with its jests of silence.

3:04am.

I closed my notebook and dropped my pen.