The Writer Part 4: Reality

They found her hanging by the hooks, as if that weren’t enough, on the wall were the inscriptions, “Set you free”
Now in the hindsight, the writer wonders why no one saw the connection. His poem had been published and accolades came pouring instantly. An underground cult was brewing in the town and everyone wanted a piece of his words. All connections were lost until the high school rock band decided to sing his words and dedicate the song to her. She had been beautiful, thought the Writer, would have even been a good fuck. But he only thought of that because his brother would make fun of him. To him, she was like this purity which was staring him right in the eye.
By the end of the night, while she was slowly breathing her last, the Writer was looking for an end of the story. He fondly remembered her smile and her long hair and yet he couldn’t help but write what he saw.
However, he did fight it with reason. “This won’t make a good story.” He told Him. “Write what you see”, said the voice. “But no one will like it.” “Just write what you see.” And as it turned out his stories of horror were far more famous than the baby sitter’s death. He saw it all. Her being beaten up, being hung up like an animal, and wondered…why? Who was the lesson being taught to?
It didn’t matter though. Nothing ever does.
The door opens; the nurse brings the adequate pills. He chucks them to a side. You don’t need pills on the other side of 50, you just need to sit and wait for death.
The sixteenth had made him realize that other people’s deaths never scared him. 2000 books published till date, even stories that happened in a whole different continent. He wrote of the many boys being murdered in Delhi; of the 92 people shot dead in Norway; of the father who molested his child for decades.
He looks at the bookshelf now and smiles. Perhaps they saw it coming. His brother knew something was wrong. The Writer was no longer scared of him. And every time the brother suggested anything scary, the Writer just smiled.
And so it was many years later, on this grey winter’s day, the writer sat down to write. As the words began to form in front of him and he began to put his pen to paper.

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