I began pulling myself along the floor, leaving a trail of blood in my wake. I was getting tired … feeling weak. I wasn’t going to make it to the door, not even close. I was just going to die right there on the floor. I knew Karen was going to be really pissed about the blood all over the floor.  

       I hadn’t really been a very good guy all my life, and I thought maybe this was my comeuppance. I had caused my share of heartache and pain, and I supposed some of my victims would have thrilled at the sight of me lying on the floor, with a bullet in my belly.  

       My life of crime began when I was just fifteen. I stepped into a general store, knife in hand, and robbed the clerk. Not satisfied with the forty dollars and change, I stabbed her. She didn’t die, but she had been injured badly enough to spend several days in very serious condition. I had rather enjoyed the look of surprise when she realized I was going to hurt her. It left me with a sense of power I had never before experienced. It was this sense of power that had seduced me into a continued criminal lifestyle.  

       It was just 3 years later that I had killed my first victim. I had not intended to kill him, but he was really pissing me off with all that whining. “Please don’t kill me, I have a family. I’ll do whatever you want.” Damn right he would do whatever I wanted; I was the one holding the gun. Stupid little bastard deserved to die, he was practically begging for it. I aimed the pistol at his face and pulled the trigger.  

       The roar of the gun was deafening in the small store, and I absurdly raised my hands to cover my ears. There was a huge pattern of blood on the floor and wall behind him, and it was a couple of seconds before he slumped to the floor in a heap. I noticed small bits of a white globular substance mixed in with the blood, and guessed this to be brain matter. It was a grisly sight, but somehow I felt compelled to look at it a bit longer. I had never seen human brains before, and I would have thought this incident would have somehow made a monumental change in me, and even though I waited several seconds, the change never came.  

       I laid there in agony for what seemed like hours, but was probably only an hour, and suddenly started feeling better. As I began to feel better, I remembered what was going on. I would feel better for the rest of the day, and tomorrow would be a fine day as well. The following day however would not be as pleasant. You see, when one feels pain for too long, they become desensitized to it, and we can’t have that. This is what we do here in Hell after all … we feel pain. I have been reliving my death for over a hundred earthly years now, and will continue on for billions more. Yes, THIS is what would have delighted my victims … it is probably what they prayed for.

      As morning turns to afternoon, the writer writes. He writes of pain, anguish, and death. It is all he ever writes, it is all he knows how to write. He writes what he feels, and these things are all he feels when he lifts the pen. It is how he vents his anger, and he sees it as a harmless escape. The rage flows down his arm and out the tip of the pen. He writes not because he enjoys it, but because he must. This release has always been there for him, and it always will be.

He writes of murder, he writes of suffering. This and more flow from him, like the ink from the pen. The flow of imagined pain is his own elixir of sweet ambrosia. It makes him strong, it gives him power. He moves the pen in gentle flowing arcs, but there is nothing gentle in the product of its journey. He believes he knows what it must feel like to be a God, for surely this is the true essence of Godhood. His greatest desire is to behold the product of his mighty pen with his own eyes, though he is perfectly content to witness it with his imagination alone.

In life, the writer is quiet … almost meek, but within his mind lies a cornucopia of agony. With pen in hand, he is omnipotent, but without it he is lost in the crowd. The writer believes that the pen is truly more powerful than the sword … he knows it to be true. With his pen, he is a creator of worlds, a taker of life, and an inflictor of pain. Without it, he is a nameless, faceless drone.

As afternoon turns to night, an apparition appears. She tells the writer that he possesses great power, but that he must learn not to abuse that power. She tells him that she must show him the consequences of his actions. The specter shows him a new world. It is not a world unknown to him, for it is the world he has created with his own pen. He is able to see the agony and despair on the faces of the people in this world. The phantom tells him he is causing pain with each stroke of his pen. She shows him rivers of blood and mountains of viscera. He hears screams of agony and moans of despair.

As the writer turns his head, he sees a woman carrying an infant, dripping blood, and wailing painfully. His eyes widen because he recognizes them … he created them. The writer continues to survey the area around him, and he recognizes others. They are his creations, each and every one.

The writer understands that this ghostly being has come, not to harm him, but to enlighten him. He sees and hears the pain he has created, and he knows what he must do.

As night turns to morning, the writer writes. He writes of pain, anguish, and death. It is all he ever writes, it is all he will ever write.