The Written Man

I wrote this a long time ago and someone told me it was really sad.

     The air in my room was mechanical, filled with purifiers courtesy of my s**t air conditioner, the filter having been in the machine way too long to be safe. My bed was unmade and inhabited by me, the comforter around my legs to provide the little bit of warmth my already hot body demanded to be comfortable. I sat crossed legged with my notebook in my lap, my tongue between my lips in an inherited look of concentration. The book was already half filled with my scrawly writing and my pen flew down the lines furiously, determined to get every detail down. It took two more pages to satisfy me and once I was done I sighed, a grin spreading my lips. My lips were chapped already and I rubbed a quick line of chap stick across my mouth, soothing the water logged flesh. Determined, I crawled out of my nest and stood in the middle of my room, the note book in front of me like a spell book of great importance. I closed my eyes and stretched my mind out into my chest to touch my soul, taking a little piece off and sending it to my tongue. Thick with life, I began to read what I wrote, starting from the top of my man and speaking each word I wrote with a confident voice, building him down to his shoes. In front of me, the fabric of reality started to ripple and bits and pieces of a man came to stand before me, my soul forcing him into creation. When everything had been read I stopped and cut off the thread of power, the remaining bits settling back with the rest in my chest. In the middle of my room, facing me, was a man of perfect quality. His blond hair was descriptively shaggy and dirty. He was taller than I, like most of them were, and he had piercing blue eyes that shone with a wicked non-existent intelligence. His t-shirt was white and smudgy with street grime from his imagined apartment and his jeans had holes in them from when he fought some one that never really existed. I looked up at him and smiled, an expression that he returned with a sly one of this own.Just like I wrote it.
"Hello Callum." I said happily, closing the notebook and holding it down at my side.
"What's good?" He asked, no surprise at his unusual environment.
"Do you know who I am?" I asked, considering the movements of his mouth when he talked and the expression in his eyes when he reached into his mind for the answer.
"You're Rabbit. The writer." His eyes showed no sign of misunderstanding or confusion, but that's how I wanted it.
"Do you know what state we're in?" I asked, not expecting him to know the answer. I told him only my name, his name, and the name of his brother. When he tried to answer, his eyes went flat and his mouth didn't open. Nothing.
"What's your brother's name?" I asked, knowing he'd get this one. As expected, his eyes re-lit and he scowled.
"Cole."
I nodded and he shoved his hands in his pockets, the character's habit.
"Do you want to come walk with me?" I asked, stepping one foot back and gesturing to the door of my room. Again his mind went blank and he didn't move. I sighed and flipped open my notebook, continuing on the page of his description. I re-gathered some of my soul and spoke a simple command.
"Walk with me."
Immediately Callum smiled and stood at attention, going to the door to hold it open for me. I let my soul go and smiled, walking through the now open entrance.
"Thank you."

Together we walked down the street and I asked more questions, gathering all that I could about his personality, trying to see exactly what he was. By the time we reached the end of the street, I knew enough to let him go. I sat on the grass of someone's lawn and he stood, watching me. As a final experiment, I looked up against the bright sunlight at him and said;
"I'm writing your death."
No reaction. I sighed and grumbled something about precision, my pen beginning to work out the scene in my head. I sat there for the better part of an hour, writing furiously, Callum standing over me like a blank child.

Once the scene was written, I repeated the process of gathering the power I needed to thread the words into the fabric of society, making my tongue thick with it.
"A black unmarked box-like van careened around the corner of Hayward street, it's freshly painted roof gleaming in the sunlight. The car sped down the stretch of street, it's speedometer tapping the eighty mile dash. At that precise moment, Callum McHale stepped off the corner of the street, chasing after a little rubber ball his compainion had dropped." As I spoke this, the sound of screeching breaks could be heard and I pulled from my pocket a little multi-colored ball I found in a Walmart parking lot yesterday, dropping it in onto the sidewalk. It bounced into the street and Callum, fueled by my words, stepped off the curb.
"The moment he bends to pick the ball up the car smacks into him with all the force of a ton of metal traveling at eighty miles an hour."
The world played out like I commanded and a loud 'bang' made me flinch.
"Immediately the shocked driver slams on his breaks, the car squealing voilently."
The car did as I said and I winced from the sound. Callum's ruined body flung onto the road and slid a few feet, blood smearing the asphalt. My chest tightened and I inhaled deeply, reminding myself he didn't know what was happening.
"Distraught, the man driving gets out of the car and screams for help."
I describe the man in a ridiculous amount of detail, adding alcohol to his breath so the cops wouldn't ask too many questions.
The first people begin to come out of their houses and I let my soul seep back into my chest, walking away from the choas rather than towards it. I sliped behind someone's house before I was noticed and cut across their backyard, thankful that the curtains were closed.

When I got back home, I sat myself back in my nest and ignored the sounds of frantic shouting outside my window and, eventually, sirens. This had been a disaster, just like all the rest, and I closed my note book, tossing it on the floor and flopping back onto my pollows. In no time I was asleep, dreaming of the slam of bodies and the sound of a cracked skull on asphalt.

Author's Note

This one was kind of lengthy and a little under-done to me, but I can't go into too much detail at the moment, seeing as I'm feeling a little under the weather. Also, my buddy Spell Check stopped working about half way through, as it sometimes does, so I didn't catch all of the errors. If you see any, please point them out so I may smite them with my corrective powers. Merci. :3

Reviews

[Jack The Rabbit]

D: Absolutely horrible!!
Sweet Jesus, I let this out into the world?! I must revise EVERYTHING.