The Writer

Just a quickie here, an old and very short piece I just dug up from the bowels of the internet that I thought was worth showcasing.

The pen leapt from his trembling hand as he struggled to contain his plagued conscience; a fear he had avoided for years had finally resurfaced and taken him spiraling into darkness. As he signed the note he knew he could not leave this to be witnessed by those he held dear; and bitter resentment filled his heart as he slipped the damp note under the large oak door that towered his archaic study. He hoped that his wife would find the precious last memoir before his beloved child. How his heart broke as he imagined the boy’s once innocent blue eyes fill up with tears and the cold, harsh struggle to become a man without a father commence. His innocence torn in half by the impact the secret and its connotations would brand into his mind after the image of the tear-soaked letter burns into the back of his retina. He had locked all the doors from the outside and entered through the window; which he had then carefully removed in the hope that escapism would cure his resurfaced bloodlust. As he keeled over in agony he knew that he would never worry again; nor would he remember what it was like to be human. There would be nothing left of what was once a good man; and as the desk shattered with one swipe on an almost human fist, was now the incarnation of his child’s nightmares


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