I missed writing so I'm taking prompts from the internet and testing them out. Maybe I'll like one enough that I'll make it into a full fledged story. Maybe.
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January 9th, 1:00 am To be honest, I don't know why I'm doing this. The doctor thinks that getting some of the thoughts in my head out might make me fall asleep faster, but I think he just doesn't know what to do with me. I've been staring at this page for an hour, mind racing but nothing to say. Out of boredom I started jotting this mess down. I just — I don't see how this is going to help me sleep. I can't write down what's really going through my head; too dangerous and no silly notebook with smiling clouds on it could contain that. Besides, I can't let that thing know—
January 9th, 3:00 am Well that didn't help at all. I stared at the clock, watching the minutes run off with my sanity into the sunrise. I almost wrote down something that shouldn't exist outside of my mind so I stopped myself. I'm not giving up on this though, I have to prove to my doctor that I at least tried his stupid idea before he'll give me the blissful medicine that floats me into No Man's Land. I really wish he would've suggested anything else though. A breathing exercise, soft music, that ASMR stuff, reading, a n y t h i n g except for writing. I — no, I shouldn't share.
January 9th, 4:15 am I don't know what else to do. I've pretty much been fired at this point: told I can't come back to work until I've had a full night's sleep. I sleep during the day like some pathetic vampire, and what little sleep does come is a restless onslaught of visions. I haven't spoken to another living person besides my doctor in weeks. I wish I was a vampire because then I wouldn't have to see my reflection. Instead, staring back at me in the mirror is a grotesque mash of vampire, zombie, and stoner. Skin so pale it's translucent and sunken everywhere on my face like it's ready to disintegrate, bags below my eyes so dark and deep you could hide a body in them, and the eyes themselves so red that every blood vessel inside must have popped— I've covered every reflective surface in my small apartment. Surprisingly, there were a lot. Heh.
January 9th, 6:47 am I can't take it anymore. My head feels like it's so pressurized my eyeballs could fly right out from all the thoughts cramming in my brain, but sleep provides no relief. Instead it haunts me with unfinished visions and scenes replaying over and over again. At this point, I'm willing to risk writing it down in hopes my head doesn't combust. You see, I am a writer. From the time I was very young, my imagination was more wild than the wolves in the nearby mountains. When I was taught that I could take the visions in my mind and write them on paper, and show others my glorious creations, I was ecstatic. And at first, it was great. I wrote my stories, I told them to my family and friends, and everyone loved it. As I grew up, I realized I was pretty good at this writing thing. No, great. I could make a career out of it. Make money, gain followings of worlds completely under my control, it sounded like a dream come true. Then, I met him. Cruel, manipulative, and oh so demanding. It seemed I could never please him, and he wanted much more credit for my work than he deserved. He called himself my editor but I knew what he was doing before I even saw the first copy of my book. His name in big bold letters on the cover and mine, a small footnote in the beginning. The part of the book that everyone skips to go straight to the story, and I was powerless to stop him. I was outraged, these precious creations of mine that I wanted to share with the world had been ripped from my hands— everything had been taken. I came home that day in a rage, but what could I do? I couldn't say anything, he held far more power than I did both literally and metaphorically. I couldn't do anything to him, so I did what I do best: I wrote. It was a short story, a simple tale of a bully getting what they deserved. In my anger, yes, I may have taken it a bit too far. I wrote him falling into the river in town and drowning, but I wasn't crazy. And besides, I was just going to crumble it up and throw it away when I was done, just a harmless way to release my pent up anger. So, imagine my shock and horror when I turn on the news that night and see it. See what I had—
January 11th, 2:00 am I didn't want to come back to this, to face what I had almost brought back before. I fought it, fought for sleep that morning. It came, but almost as unbearable as the waking world. I tried to ignore it the next night, the pretty pink and blue book with white clouds and a swirly "Sweet Dreams" etched into the front. Sleep didn't want to pull me in, but I was strong and adamant. Tonight, I tried the same, but the momentary relief of writing two nights ago was so beautiful in my mind that I couldn't ignore it. I've never been addicted to drugs, but now I can understand why so many find it difficult to quit. How is it that something making you feel so good is causing so much damage? Even as I write now the thing dances around the edges of my vision. That mangled, blue, and bloated face of wrath and torment. He taunts me, telling me I can never write again because my creations are no longer pretty. Only terrifying and disfigured, like him. Like me. But maybe... maybe now I have power. I can defeat him here and now. My ability to bring reality from fantasy can be my own weapon and armor against this demon behind me. But I cannot reach it here. Not now. I must come to its turf, fight at its level. I feel something foreign to me, a heaviness taking over my eyes and mind but for once it has no sharpness to it. It comes not with malice but with gentleness. I think they call this sleep...
