The Writer In My Book

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Flash Fiction  |  House: The Horror House


This is an old story which I wrote when I was sleepless for many nights. It's about a writer trapped in his own mind, in an endless night.

Submitted: September 18, 2018

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Submitted: September 18, 2018

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Night seems to stretch forever when you are too excited to sleep. My mind restlessly keeps turning pages of my thoughts anticipating the next day, but my body is exhausted and reluctant to get up and do something to fall asleep.

Tomorrow is a big day. I am going to pitch my novel to the publisher and it makes me pretty nervous and excited. My book is a story of a writer who suffered mental breakdown following his wife's grisly murder and ended up in a mental institute. He is deluded that he just finished his best novel and is going to pitch it to a publisher.

It's been an hour or two. I don't know for how long I've been trying to sleep. There's a clock on the wall in left but I am too tired to turn my head. I roll my eyes, a million needles sting me inside my skull and I don't see the clock, in the silence I don't hear it's ticking either. I am too tired to care. I should let the peace outside my body work it's way inside. The sleeplessness will make me grouchy and slouchy by morning.

I would skip jogging and wake up late. Maybe eat a pizza or something greasy. The taste might make me feel better. Now, I could try to rest on the bed. Either I will fall asleep sooner or the 5:00 AM alarm will start beeping. The squishy mattress and cushion under me never felt so comfortable. My head is depressing into the cushion by miniscule distance, slowly making the dent deeper and my back is pressing on the mattress, feels like I am getting a premium massage. Dreamy.

And I am thinking of tomorrow with my heavy, half closed eyes staring at the bright lit white ceiling which gets blurry every time my eyelids fall. Yet I can't sleep. I open my eyes and the room turns into a whitewashed whirl swept in with headache. I want to hold my head and stop it from spinning but my arms are impotent, trapped close to my sides and my ankles are tight together. I lay stiff on the bed, waiting for the sleep to carry me in its grave and put me out of this misery. Only if my mind would ever shut up.

The writer in my novel, the best I ever wrote, is schizoid and had killed his wife so he could have some peace while writing. He is unaware that the character in his imaginary book is he himself. Strapped to a hospital bed in a bright lit white room he sleeplessly waits for the morning, which never comes, thinking about his book like a broken record that loops uninterruptedly. Night seems to stretch forever...


© Copyright 2018 Akshay Raj Chovhan. All rights reserved.

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