He wakes from his moment of bliss to see what the pen and paper has conjured up this time. Another Story.
The room was a well lit white. The stack of books in the corner was beginning to gather dust. The tiny window at the top of the room was merely for the tiny ray of sunlight that stole itself into the room. He looked up for a moment; the rain had splattered the dirt from the road on to the window as if the white of room was fighting against the filth outside. The door was ajar, he must have been waiting for someone. Or something. The sounds of the rain got louder, as if daring him to let it enter the room. He looked up and hoped the glass would hold. The books began to shudder, must be the wind, he thought. It was all dark now. The lights had gone out in the white room. He sighed a sigh, this has happened before, he thought. In a dream once. Only this wasn’t a dream. When the lights came on, the room was now red. All his books were alive. His mother’s hanging in the bedroom, and the worst of all, the babysitter, her tortured body walking across the room, they all came back to him. That little friend, he met at the park, that voice, he was back. It had always been him.
He wanted to get out! Out of this horrendous room, he tried to shout but there was no sound. Even the rain had gone quiet now. Could he not hear anymore? He took away his hearing? That’s how he would never get scared? He looked back around the room. All the horrors of the world coming alive, why could he not hear himself screaming? Was he not able to scream at all? The red was overwhelming now. He had to start listening again; if he could just dig a little deeper and remove the thing stuck in his ear. The pen! He would use the pen to remove the block. He felt no pain as he jabbed it in, maybe he took away my pain too, he thought. Or did I do that to myself?
He jabbed it again and tried to scream and still couldn’t hear a thing. Maybe if I open my mouth wider. He held his lower jaw and started pulling away harder and harder. But nothing happened, the patter of the rain was gone, the sound of his screams nonexistent. It was just him and the red room.
The writer reads on with horror as he reads the story, he feels the left of his head go soft and the pen covered with blood.