This was submitted as my GCSE Original Writing and I absolutely love it.
I found it difficult to come up with anything at first, which is sort of reflected in the characters inability to write anything, before going on a personal journey to regain that elusive inspiration.
I sat there again. In darkness. Only the gentle hum of the refrigerator broke the damp silence which was a distraction. The humming torturing my head, numb with emptiness. I broke the silence, my feet tapping against the cold, hard, limestone floor, as I slowly crossed the vast kitchen to retrieve some Paracetamol, the powdered type. I had never been a pill person and found them impossible to swallow. As the pink sherbet-like powder hit the water, it fizzed, a magical noise, as if some spell were being cast over me, to relieve my aching brain. As the pain drifted away, thoughts of what the day ahead would bring took their place. As I reached to place my glass on the sideboard; minimalistic, almost bare; my fragile fingers trembled, knocked my glass, and my notebook flew. Off the countertop. As it fell, time slowed down. I watched as the paper started to creep out and as the pages splayed I felt exposed and vulnerable, as if my deepest, most private thoughts were about to be broadcast to the whole world. For everyone to see. That couldn’t happen; it was my book.
I sat once more at my desk to write. It was a reflex reaction- it always happened after getting up and having breakfast; the less calories the better. I had to stay skinny. I needed to be perceived that way, to feel good in the spotlight. As I sat at my desk, the hours passed imperceptibly; time drifted on and yet not a single word, a single letter, was etched on my page. All I could see on this vast blank page were little white lakes, where Tipp-ex had run: after I had decided it should remain clean. Untouched. I gazed into space, feebly grasping for ideas but then letting them slip away, like a balloon silently floating out of reach. As I looked down to write again, horror struck me. A small puddle had formed, blue this time. The ink from my pen- trying to escape, running for freedom, the puddle starting to grow into a small ocean across my page. My mind racing, I paused and pondered. Did I want the ink to be set free? Could I control its gushing capabilities? Just one little slip, it could let loose its wild thoughts, my thoughts, so I had to control its flow to just a trickle, so as not to cause chaos.
My thoughts were interrupted by the sharp trill of the telephone, precisely positioned at the foot of the stairs, almost hidden by the lavish tapestry that hung from the wall above. That way I could forget about its presence. Until it rang. I let it ring for what seemed like eternity before it sharply clicked onto answer phone and I heard my own voice speak, cutting through the silence in the stairwell, echoing across the empty hall.
My mind drifted into thoughts of despair and anguish as I knew what the voice at the other end would say. A constant reminder of my inability to write. I had to write, yet I couldn’t let the ink flow across the page. I would have liked it to. But I could only let go within the safe confines of the notebook, whose exact, original content no one would ever view.
The more time passed, the harder writing became and it seemed a pointless exercise, sitting at my desk, pen poised, waiting for the words to start flowing off the nib. I began to cross the room again, this time to the ever expanding white ocean surrounding my waste paper basket. As I turned sharply, so as not to dwell on my many failings, I caught a glimpse of the bookcase. Filled with novels, arranged alphabetically. All successful, inspirational, yet all I wanted to do, on impulse, was destroy them. Destroy all of their content- leave the pages though- but leave them blank like mine. I wanted to scream, lose it, let go of all the anger and frustration pent up inside of me. It was like a tap dripping inside of me, gradually filling me up, until one day I would burst and all of the anger would flow out. Hopefully it would drown me with its sheer volume.
As days passed without a trace, I found it impossible to know what day of the week it was. And with no desire inside of me to understand the time, I woke and slept by the rise and fall of the sun. Day by day, I took my place at my desk, always stuck for words.
I could never sleep, my head always spinning, searching for ideas, notebook placed beside my pillow, eyes periodically darting to check if it was still there. Drifting in and out of sleep, my mind ticking over, thinking, as something that had lain sleeping quietly in the back of my mind for a while, slowly crept towards the front.
I had made up my mind.
I slid open the white lacquered draw of my bedside table. Rummaged to the bottom, pushing out of the way my preferred pink sherbet fizz, and reached the three or four crackly silver coloured trays of Paracetamol. I begin to pop the pills from their little pods. They lie scattered in a pile beside my glass and as I pop out twenty-seven in total, one by one, I listen to the splitting of the silver foil and then the tapping as each one hits the polished surface it is dropped onto. I snatch the goblet of water from beside my bed and begin the arduous task of swallowing them down. It is painful as each passes my throat and I feel its matt surface struggle down, towards my gurgling stomach.
I feel brief relief as I find every single one has gone, but I soon feel a wave of horror hit me as I begin to question what I have done. I feel my face go pale as the heat of my bed drains from my cheeks. I warily take my notebook from its home on my bedside. I heave myself up from the edge of the bed, legs shaking, my every step is cautious but necessary as I decisively aim myself at the telephone, sleeping quietly and obediently at the bottom of the stairs. It knows its place. With little grace, I find myself sat like a naughty child, on the stairs, fingers fumbling for the number and on finding the button, I slowly depress it three times in total. As I ramble a sentence or two into the receiver, I begin to feel weaker and suddenly distant, my only comfort, the notebook, clutched tightly to my chest.
I awake from my slumber, the deepest sleep I can remember, unaware of the chaos being passed between various white coated men surrounding me. I am dazed by all of the beeping machines with green lines bobbing up and down on their screens and by the needles and lines stuck into my clammy skin. As I gradually begin to recollect what had happened and eventually decide where I am, my mind is peaceful. I no longer have a throbbing head, nor am I restless or stuck. I smile to myself. Just to myself as it all becomes clear why I feel relieved; I have something to do. I reach for my notebook and begin to write.