Self Portrait

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: September 06, 2019

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Submitted: September 06, 2019

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Self Portrait

Robert had been sitting in his study room of his new house for the fifth day. His eyes were bloodshot and were staring at the blank pages in front of him. A glass of liquor was on the table, so did his three bottles of prescribed pills. He tipped out thirteen different colored pills and swallowed them all with that glass of liquor. He knew it was suicidal to do that, but did he care? Did anyone care?

The effect of drugs and alcohol started to kicking it, his head was splitting into pieces, his organs were blended into pulps. He sat there in agony, and he found his hand was touching his crutch subconsciously, the sensation at the bottom of his torso was the only connection he had with his environment, even it was actually fading to none. He closed his eyes and thought of the glory days he had had. The days he had no writer's block and had unlimited creativity.

Pages of written words were whipped through his computer screen. Books of Adventure or Fantasy stories were saved and categorized in the files named "Draft", "Editing", "Submitted" and "Published". Awards after awards from various small writing contests. And a letter from a guy who said he was an editor from a big publisher who would like to meet him in person...

The editor was bearded, smelled like a goat. But he was kind and offered him a generous grant to ask him to write a biography for all the top executives of a big company. All he had to do was to work and live with them for three months each or whatever time he needed to write some accurate accounts of stories on them. The offered money was at six figures for each book that he wrote. He needed that money and he had no other reason to reject him.

Robert accepted the project. He started to move in to live at Steven's apartment, the top CEO of the company to observe his life. He also had interviews with Steven himself, his family and associates to gather data. However, he couldn't personally involve or alter Steven's life in any way, and he could not write for others while he was on the project as part of the deal. He was there with him simply to know and write about him. He spent three months and finished his first biography for the company's executives and submitted it to the editor. He received his promised payment. He then moved in to the manager's house, after four months he turned out another book.

Robert's life had changed to a large degree. He started to live of luxury and felt haughty amongst those executives and his own friends. He thought of the younger days when he started to write with his paper and pen at his dinning table after his divorce with his wife and had two kids to raise. Now he had a latest version of iMac and a auto-typist and the kids were now moved to a big three-floor house. A big lamp was standing outside of this new house.

For past seven years he had only visited his kids for five times. He had written fifteen books for this project without writing any piece he liked for himself. He didn't know whether any of his written biography got published or not. He only knew he was getting tired of writing, his mind was full of political, social, pompous, promiscuous or corruptive daily talks and accounts. He had become a man who had no dream of himself, he couldn't even remember when he thought of anything that could bring himself some laugh or smile. He didn't even know when he last cried. He needed pills and drinks to dull that the most horrific feeling a writer can get.

Robert sat at his chair, after he was sure he could not even feel anything from touching his crutch. He reached for a sharp knife and slitted his wrist open.

A letter from the editor dropped to the floor. It read: "This is the last payment for the project. I thank you for your willingness to take your time to write those fifteen biographies for those tycoons whose lives I certainty have to keep secret of, so I could not publish the books you wrote. I chose you because I saw your great potential to be a best selling writer for Adventure and all other genres, if you wish to have a go at them. My son's ambition was to be the most famous Adventure book writer too. But he is not as talented as you. I am sorry that I have to buy your time and give him a chance."

The lamp outside of his house bent its neck and from it hung a dead cat. The moon was full but covered by overcast clouds. Black rains started to drops.


© Copyright 2020 Derina Penn. All rights reserved.

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