Knight Rise
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- Oct 28, 2010
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3
Illumination
My eyes refused to open as I felt the warmth of the sun hit my face. I placed my right hand over my eyes and slowly began to sit up. I felt around for the blind turner so I wouldn't blind myself and carefully closed the shutters. I opened my eyes and looked at my surroundings.
My wife, Alice, was sitting on the arm of the couch, smiling as if she hadn't seen me in years. The coffee table sat about a foot away, holding my thermos and typewriter. The ceiling was a deep shade of brown, matching the walls and floor, giving it a log cabin persona as some people would put it. The bathroom, however, was pearl white, though you couldn't tell by walking in for the door was cracked and the lights were off. If the fire of going, which it was, you would only see tiny glints of white.
I laid quietly, still recovering from my little "adventure" that apparently was a psychological vision brought on by stress or worriment summoned by a supernatural part of the mind. A nightmare, in other words. Invisible wounds still throbbed through my body, hiding from the rest of the world as if they were taunting me to tell the preposterous tales of where they appeared. The flashlight was had vanished from my grasp, though I could still feel the cold metal pressing against my hand. The image of the axe hung in my brain as I slowly sat up and took a deep breath. I ran my hand through my hair and stood.
"I don't remember coming home Alice," I spoke softly. "I don't remember entering the door, locking the truck, brewing the coffee, or falling asleep. I don't remember anything."
Alice gave me a puzzled look. "Well, you weren't exactly yourself last night. Actually, I'm surprised you came home safely."
She took a sip of the thermos and began.
"I was about to take a short nap about 3 minutes before you arrived. I fluffed up the couch pillow and laid my head against it. Soon, I heard a loud banging noise coming from just outside the house. It was you slamming the truck door."
Alice sort of smiled for a few seconds, but then frowned and continued.
"It was as if you weren't yourself, Alan. You kept reaching down towards something, whispering something about someone named Zane, punching the air and then just gave up and fell."
I held up my hand for her to stop for a moment and slowly sat back down on the couch. Somehow, I had gotten in my truck and found myself driving home, still fighting Colt in my dream for my eyes were deceiving me. I raised my head and stared at her for a few moments.
"Did anything else happen after that?"
She nodded and recovered her thoughts.
"You staggered towards me after you got up from the ground. I blinked for a second and saw you were carrying something. It was your typewriter. I asked what was going on and you passed me without a word, sat down in your office, and began to type. I assumed something was troubling you or you had struck inspiration or something like that. So I let you be."
Alice just sat there in the recliner facing towards me after she was finished. She did make the comment that she didn't know how I ended up on the couch because she had fallen asleep not 15 minutes later.
Three hours later, I was showered and dressed. Alice had fixed me a late breakfast and suggested I should stay home for a few days and take my mind off my work. I agreed and we took a walk around the town, sightseeing what little there was. Though something kept poking me in the back of my head; what exactly did I type last night?
As soon as we returned home, I headed straight for my office. The door was always locked, for it was the only room that was closed completely. No windows, no vents, no air passages at all. A small fan sits on the desk cooling me off. I am an unorganized writer, meaning if any major air entered my office, my work would be blown into oblivion.
I sat down at my desk and looked at the typewriter. A full page of words sat at the top. I glanced over it a little. Sure enough, it was telling word for word what happened last night. I removed the paper and saw that it had some writing off to the side in red ink, in my hand writing.
Zane. Awakening. Not real. Lake
Later that day, I was researching on my laptop to see if Zane was an actual person. It turns out, he was a writer like me who lost his mind in writing, killed his wife, and disappeared without reason. It was a horrid story.
I closed the computer and slowly made my way towards my bedroom. It was silent, for Alice had gone to get some groceries. I laid down on the plaid sheets and rested my eyes for a few minutes.
Soon, I heard something coming from my office. I got up and went straight towards it. The door was open and the typewriter, alone, was at work.
After a few seconds, it stopped. I leaned in to see what it was. Now I wished I hadn't. There, in large letters:
Within your work, I breathe. Within your work, I see the world vividly through your eyes. Within your work, darkness dwells and light is no more. While you still write, you can never go back.
Sleep. That's all I wanted. To dream, to leave reality, to (write). Write? No, no, no. I have had enough of writing for today (but one little sentence couldn't hurt). Oh yes it could. One little sentence can (change the world. That's my dream). But what about the nightmares? I can't afford to lose my sanity over (what could be the greatest story of all time). Couldn't it wait until later? Can't I just (let my ideas slip away in my dreams? No I must write).
I stumbled into the bathroom and flicked the light on. I stared into the mirror and tried to calm my thoughts. What's happening to me? If I want to write, I will and if I don't, I don't. Why can't I accept that? (Maybe I should write my feelings out. That could solve the nightmares).
Yeah. Maybe one little sentence couldn't hurt...
