I Can’t Find The Right Words Pt. 1

Chapter 1

My eyelids opened, and heart dropped…this nightmare was real. It was still next to me, how disgusting it felt. I let out a sigh of discomfort and just kept my eyes on the ceiling. The blade of the ceiling fan sliced through the dark. Any useless thoughts that still lingered evaporated from my mind, well until I get up. For now, I just wanted to lie here.

My eyelids closed, the echoes of the fan filled the room. The house lay dormant. Just how I like it. I wanted to shield myself off from the world; to just stay here would have been paradise, but the cold hard cover of the book was a reminder, a reminder of how unrealistic that fantasy was.

I was stiff; the depression had sunk back in, what a shame. Not even thirty minutes had passed, and there it was. The iPhone vibrated on the dresser, an annoying tune looped over itself. As irritating as it was, I just laid there. It was a contest of who could out last who…….

the phone won.

The book would fly off as I reached for the phone, five missed calls from my agent, family, and a few friends.

They're starving for the same thing “Where…Is…The…. Book”.

The book…the book.. the book.

It’s always the same fucking thing every time.

Everyone wants to know when the next book will come out, rushing me after two years of success after my first book. But not only them the fans of it too, where is it?

This attention was intoxicating. To be honest, I couldn't tell you how I came up with my first novel, or how it blew up so fast. To some, they would say skill, to others blind luck of some kind. Maybe it came from a show or something I don’t care. It was the beginning of the end of my writing career.

As early as grade school was when I started and wrote as I got older, each grade it would increase through high school and college. But then it happened…. while finally collecting an agent and spending a year and a half on my first novel, things just took off. Quicker than I expected.

My first novel blew up in ways I couldn’t even imagine. The story wasn’t special; Cover wasn’t unique; and the genre was a run-of-the-mill horror story, but the way I made it out to be read, just made the story hit that much harder for the reader.

Plus, social media has significantly boosted the popularity of nobodies like myself.

But that was my biggest fear, having my first novel increase to this size. Now it makes the rest of my future catalog look average compared to it.

Don’t get me wrong, the love and support was perfect even to have all the people who supported me in the past now see the fruits of my labor, but to repeat something like this..it was…. it was impossible.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, the computer screen filled in my pupils. How much time has gone by with me working on this first draft? The words wouldn’t come out properly. This anxiety was strangling me. It was getting more frustrating each minute I placed on this project. Days would go by, rinse and repeat, starting with a thousand words each day, then they would meet the tail end of the backspace button.

Bags would expand under my eyelids, while my skin grew paler just by becoming a hermit. But I had to give the people something. There had to be another book coming out…Right.

I dragged my corpse to the computer. Email notifications flooded through my home screen. This was becoming irritating.

I departed and then wandered around the house before having breakfast and returning to the computer.

Typing sound

The words danced across the page, appearing and disappearing with each passing moment. Just more garbage gift wrapped in clichés. Where is this story? What is this story? Had I forgotten on what I had wanted to write in the first place? Maybe spinning around would throw some ideas, they didn’t.. instead I just zoned out.

This pressure was too heavy to lift. Why did I want to do this anymore? What was the reason I wrote in the first place?

I hate writing…. I hate writing so much….. Why am I doing this to myself if I hate it so much?

My focused turned to the open book on the ground, the adrenaline sunk in, sweat spilled from my forehead and I remembered. It was all because of this stupid book, this stupid fucking book. Like a lion, I pounced on my prey and mutilated it, ripping it page by page.

Page tearing sound

Crumbling chapters up, stripping the hardcover of its body, then going after the book jacket, tearing away the book’s identity. But it wasn’t over yet. I knelt down, dissecting each page down to its molecule. This book needed to know…no it needed to feel the disgust I felt towards it. More, more, I needed this book to evaporate.

Heavy breathing

When did I stop? I couldn’t tell you, but once the pages became specks, I took a break to catch my breath. It was something that I needed. The evidence formed like an oval around me. Am I done writing? but before I could finish that thought, something broke the silence.

Water dripping

It sounded like something was leaking.

Water dripping

I controlled my breathing to hear it better. The echoes of water were coming from the closet. That was impossible. There was nothing in there for it to leak. “It seems like everything is out to provoke a reaction from me.” I scoffed. With each step towards the closet, the sound of the leaking grew louder, like a steady rhythm. I lifted my hand, tracing it across anything that was damp. The closet was basic size, with the rack being filled with hung clothes, some containers on the floor and a few boxes on a top shelf.

Water dripping more

More water piled onto itself, but the more I checked the ceiling, the less sense it was making. There was no hole or crack in the wall. Curiosity was growing. I raced my hands across the carpet, searching for any sign of moisture. However, the floor felt completely dry. It made no sense. The water was still leaking, but from where? There was no dampness to the floor. The carpet was devoid of water.

This was pointless. Maybe the stress of the book was getting to me. Wait a minute, this was a scene. Just like the book, a similar scene played out the same. The only thing the main character had to do to stop it was….

Water dripping

In that moment, I stood frozen, scoffing at the line. The book had completely consumed me. This was ridiculous. As I was leaving, the edge of the doorway was near me. A drop of curiosity still lingered.

In the book, the main character also looks through the closet, hearing water drip, but there was no water anywhere in the closet until he checked the back of the closet as he went deeper in. With each push against the wall, he could sense its resistance, until he lost his balance and tumbled into a sprawling expanse of water. This scenario almost mirrored that chapter, but this was stupid. It had to be. My imagination was expansive, especially being a writer, but this was insane.

But I indulged it. I mimicked the scenes of the chapter. My nerves were getting the best of me until I felt the cold, psychical manifestation of reality. The wall was still there, and the water had stopped leaking.

A grin washed over my face and I started laughing…..

Large Splash

I gasped for air. The violence of the waves tackled my body…this wasn’t real…this wasn’t…real.

My mind was repeating to itself, but this water felt tangible,...

the water pouring itself into my lungs felt real… What the fuck was going on?

Keeping myself afloat was impossible. Every time I tried, I would end up sinking deeper. The water was murky and dull, light was nowhere in sight. Where was I? How did I end up here? Was I in my story?

There was no time to think. My body was a rag doll playing tug of war with the waves.

Need to regain control, but it was useless. The water was hostile. What a cruel fate, to die at the hands of my own words.

And that’s when I gave in. My strength was already low to begin with. Descending deeper into the darkness, deeper into this foreign sea.

The surface shrinking further back, both lungs couldn’t hold the limited air I caught, bubbles started climbing towards the surface. The drowsiness was emerging..my eyes were heavy…. Peace washed over me as I embraced this watery grave. I fell asleep. The sound of water plugging my ears felt peaceful.

Sound of water and something sinking

A sound of a hand slamming against a desk

“Mr. Anderson, it’s not nap time. Get ready to present your essay quickly, Mr. Anderson.” Drool fell from the corner of my mouth. The grogginess subsided. Wait…Mr. Anderson… besides my parents, I haven’t heard that name since high school. Mrs. Peters would always call me that, but she had retired years ago. Adjusting my eye’s I could tell that this lady in front of me bore a strong resemblance to her. A short fragile woman with low cut gray hair rocking black glasses, but as I recall, she looked much older than this. Now the wrinkles near her mouth had vanished, her youth had returned. My eyes traced at my desk, an old wooden type with metal bars touching the ground, sitting in an old metal chair then through the room. Not only did it look like my old classroom. But also felt like it too being surrounded by many classmates that have been long ignored.

As I rose from my seat, I surveyed the classroom, taking in the sight of students standing together, chatting, and exchanging papers, instantly transporting me back to my high school days.

Think… project…. Project, I scrambled through papers, now I remember. An essay, read out aloud as a replacement for a quiz, some type of short story that was centered on the genre of thriller and horror. Something based on an old Edgar Allen Poe story that we just got done reading. This is unbelievable. I could have sworn for a moment I was in my house and then drowning how the hell did I go back in time? This is crazy.

I strolled around, observing the youthful faces of my former high school classmates. The scent of fresh paper and ink lingered in the air, transporting me back to those long-forgotten days. Their names, once etched in my memory, now faded into the abyss. I couldn’t help but notice the happiness on their faces, which would soon turn into weariness right after being trapped into dead-end jobs in the future. Meanwhile, fortune smiled upon me, blessed with the opportunity to work from the comfort of my own home, all thanks to a single book.

I went back to my desk defeated but playing along to the scene. And glanced at the notebook. This entire scene was familiar. This assignment was also a critique project where students received little sheets to review the best piece and what stood out to you as the reader.

To be honest, this assignment was pointless, but it got me comfortable to reviews and critiques about my work. Nothing too major since it's high school, but still a good place to start from.

As I sat down, the rest of the students all took their seats. Mrs. Peters handed out the notes for us to write our reviews.

This is before I was overly critical of my writing, and it was a pastime of me dabbling more into my creativity. Then with college I learned structure which led to the birth of my book after a couple of years. At this time, it was still fun to write.

One after the other, read off their stories. Some about a haunted house, others about family murders, and so on. But I remembered this exact scene. I chuckled because I remember my story garnering so much attention that it reminded me of how good of a writer I actually was. A huge load fell off of my chest. How long since I told myself that, but then again, what is a talented writer? This was high school. Did this even count? Before a million more thoughts could flood my head, my name was called. Confidently, I grabbed the sheet of paper and strolled to the front of the classroom. This was the moment that solidified me on wanting to become a writer.

Without looking, I read out the title, “My story is called Schizophrenia”. Excitement mixed with tension swam through my body. To get to read this again, the jump-start of my career, I looked down to start off reading. But something was wrong. The page was blank. There were no words.

End of Chapter 1

Chapter 2

The page was empty. I was sure I already filled it out, but no, it hadn’t come true. What was going on here? Looking back up at the eyes of my classmates. Their eyes filled with curiosity as if I was building up to a slow burn with my first paragraph. Fuck, I didn’t really remember it, but I was a bestselling author, for god-sake. An Idea sprouted out something to get me first place. I mean, this was high school still.

My mind fell silent. Every thought I attempted to grasp dissolved into a chaotic blur. Think of something…think of something…think of something.

My mind fell silent. Every thought I attempted to grasp dissolved into a chaotic blur. Think of something…think of something…think of something. It was hopeless. The increase in pressure was becoming coal to my furnace, scorching my body to an unimaginable degree.

“Is there something wrong? Mr. Anderson,” the question startled me, causing me to leap back. “Uh, um, no, no, just trying to set the mood and get into character.” I finished.

The word fraud scattered and echoed through my skull, just a fraud, repeating over. The crazy part was as many times as I repeated it, it would appear over and over onto the page, staining itself in black ink. As if it was teleporting from my head to the page in an instant. Forget it, just take it one sentence at a time.

“Schizophrenia,” I said confidently, is the title of the story, and as I took a breath, I felt the weight on my shoulders lift. The thought of writing being fun crossed my mind. “So it starts with a man that’s trapped in a room, trying to come up with his next best hit, but comes up short.” The next twenty minutes were used to retell the recent events that had happened into a cohesive story. My talent flourished, stretching the truth up a bit and cramming in a twist, ending it off with a question mark. “As he entered the room, a wall painted with pages but not only random pages but the carcass of his book. Crossed out, marked in, edited throughout each page, covering each inch of the walls, ceilings and floor. A nightmare is an understatement. The End,” a smirk had appeared.

A flood of cheer, excitement, and questions filled the air.

Reaching my seat, the students sitting nearby greeted me with compliments.

“Okay, okay everyone, enough speaking. Now finish your review sheet and pass it to the student whose story captivated you the most,” Mrs. Peters instructed.

My confidence had resurfaced. This was what the doctor ordered. I needed something to get the creative juices flowing. Even if it was from a class full of high school students. With that, a line of students dropped note after note on my desk, but before I read them, my note generously went to the underwater haunted house story. Interesting plot, but characters could use some work.

After getting back to my desk, I gleefully picked at the notes, like a hungry vulture ready to absorb each compliment.

Excitement doesn’t even describe it; my mouth was already salivating, eagerly awaiting the flood of positive reviews. Honestly, I needed this more than anything else. This felt important to me. After the success of my first book; the next thing I wrote needed to be short… something quick to continue receiving the dopamine. A big grin grew over my face as I grabbed the first note. Picture me, with a grin on my face and anticipation in my eyes, just like a child about to dig into a bag full of Halloween candy.

After turning over the first note, I felt fear and dread wash over me as someone had scribbled “fraud” violently. I turned to face the classmate behind me and saw a devilish grin, but their mouth was stretching past its limits. Each note got more aggressive and more hostile towards my writing, with words forced violently on them saying impostor, fake, unoriginal, plagiarized. Now multiple students joined in with their devilish grin all staring and now grinning in sync, including my teacher. What the hell was going on here? My heart skipped a beat, and the room felt like it was spinning. Was the room getting warmer or was this classroom’s critique getting more twisted?

Each student started laughing more and more calling out to me, “the story is so bland and unoriginal, I'm pretty sure he took this from A show, Yeah you can really tell this is his first time writing, sloppy stuff Jake, Just give up with writing if your coming up with shit like this.”

This was agonizing. The air was shrinking. Not even my nightmares were this harsh. Their tone had been rising. Now they were closing in on me, still criticizing the story, throwing notes and notes of criticism. Everything was getting blurry. My breathing was out of control. I cannot contain my anxiety. An exit. There has to be a way out of here. My chest is hurting. Mrs Peters just stood there with this menacing glare. The stare had this look of utter disgust, like I was a rodent who crawled through the cracks and had accidentally made its way into the classroom looking for food.

With a burst of anger, I tossed my desk towards the rear door, criticizing everything in sight. Eventually, I reach the door and forcefully open it, then promptly closed it behind me, making sure it was firmly shut. The click of the lock echoed. The room was dark, but I made it out. What the fuck was all that? It was like it was a memory that turned sour. This was not how I remembered it. It started out familiar. Maybe that was the only way to lower my guard, but then again, how do I know if any of this is actually real? For now, I had to figure out where I was at.

Unable to see anything, I navigated the room tentatively, my hands outstretched, searching for any object to provide a sense of direction, all the while plagued by the fear of an unexpected encounter. One step at a time, anything could be in here. It was quiet too quiet enough for my thoughts to be heard. Inching deeper and deeper through the void, but it still wasn’t getting me anywhere. My chest was getting tighter. A panic attack was just around the corner. Maybe I should go back. Ok, let’s see if I can retrace my steps. Let me just turn around, but the disorienting sensation tells me I’m facing the wrong way. Where did that door go? Was I fucked? Wait, I feel something smooth and cold. It’s a wall. My fingers traced through the cool surface, and felt something like paper. My hands will continue replacing my vision till they find either a knob or light switch.

Scribbling sound

My body froze, chest grew tighter and heart pounded louder. It sounded as if someone was here. Fuck me. There was a violent, forceful clash of pen and paper behind me. Fear had paralyzed my limbs, move…you need to fucking move. My body slid down, back hugged the wall. Sweat was falling from the tip of my nostril. I quietly placed my left foot on the side. Step by step, my prayers grew more desperate, hoping to find any means of escape from the presence of whoever or whatever was with me.

Scribbling sound

It was still writing. Despite the complete lack of visibility, this person’s determination to write was clear, their pen moving swiftly as they captured their thoughts. I felt a sudden shift, a flicker in the air.

Reluctantly, I hesitated to disturb them.

But what if I find a switch before the doorknob? What if there was no door to escape through, trapping me in this suffocating darkness? It became my only shield, shielding me from the unknown horrors lurking within. Honestly, there wasn’t much of a choice. The path I had entered from was now closed off. Just as that thought crossed my mind, a manifestation had taken hold, just as I thought, while stumbling upon a switch. Shit.

As soon as I felt it, the scribbling stopped, and the silence flooded back in. No shapes were visible. Was it coming after me? Had it found out that I had found the switch? And what if I flick the switch? How would it react? Thoughts raced through my head. I could turn the light on, but what would I find?

With no other options available, I had no choice but to take a chance. If someone came at me, my plan was to swiftly find a door and book it. My finger teased the switch. My teeth bit the edge of my lip as I hesitated, with a determined breath, I flipped on the switch. Light illuminated the room with comfort. The Pupils in my eyes took a minute to adjust, I scanned for a door or anything looking like an exit ready for an attack but to my shock I was alone. No one else was here, only a pencil on the floor. Impossible. I could have sworn there was someone in here with me, who else was scratching on that paper, making that scribbling noise. What got even more bizarre was the walls. Pages of writing filled each part of the wall. Getting closer, each page suffocated with words with chaotic writings, which left me feeling completely bewildered. Another familiar scene, as if I was slipping through the story I had written for the high school presentation. It was eerie. The pages had small letters filled from top to bottom but there was more, there was words crossed out, words scribbled out extra words created by pencil. The pencil covered the type written words on the page.

As I scanned each page, I recognized every word and letter, a familiar feeling washing over me. It was my story, dissected and meticulously glued to the wall. This was even more disturbing the closer I looked at the edits. These familiar edits were for my novel at home. It still needed more improvements. No matter how high it ranks, it was still unfinished. My stomach churned. These thoughts were supposed to be buried. No one else knew how unhappy I was about my first novel. This wasn’t important now. Distract yourself… where was the figure at… focus on that for a minute. Please don’t remind me of writing. Please don’t make me write. These pages were evidence of that, displayed all over the wall to show how ugly my work can really be. These pages felt disgusting. They were mocking me. In a burst of frustration, I snatched the pencil and vigorously stabbed at the pages, covering them in an overwhelming sea of gray. When will it ever be enough? When will my writing ever be enough?

Scribbling and tearing sounds

With each tear of the page, I grew more forceful, my anger mounting, escaping the repetitive reminders of my inadequacy. This would be an even bigger display than the one back in my room. Top to bottom, each skin of paper got peeled off the walls. I will strip this wall of its identity until I get to the last page. One more page.

My hand met with the page. Then from the corner I peeled it off, but before I got halfway, a pool of pages tackled my face. A wall was spouting thousands of paper. What the fuck. Was logic out of the question in this world? Each page was flying through, similar to water from a faucet. The room would flood soon. In my immature tantrum, the thought of a door slipped by. Left and right, there was no way out. My head wasn’t processing, but my body was. Against better judgment, I tried to block the hole with my body, but the force behind it was too strong, flinging me back into this pit of paper. Stop fucking touching me. I don’t want to write anymore, get me out of this nightmare. It was showing, wasn’t it? The imperfections, the slow pacing, the terrible Grammar, weak adverbs, all coming back to kill me. There was nowhere to go. The more I struggled, the heavier the pages got. They were getting heavier. Each lung was losing air.

There were waves of pages. Climbing, swimming, crawling were useless. My writing was turning against me. The irony might have been heavier than the pages in this room.

There's nothing I could do at this point. The pages were almost hitting the roof and something was dragging me deep down. Maybe it was my self doubt or maybe it was that thing making noise earlier. But it didn’t matter. Soon I would suffocate. Each breath became a challenge, taking longer to breathe in and out. I wouldn’t fight it. If only I had more time. The room went back to being pitch black.

End of Chapter 2

Chapter 3

I gasped for air.

“And I really think we should throw out a snippet of the material used from chapter 3. It feels a bit bloated Jake, what about you?” Sarah asked. The unexpected turn of events made me jolt in my seat, almost losing my balance. As I looked around, I realized I was in a different location, and the brightness of it immediately caught my attention. “Excuse me, Jake, were you paying attention? This could expand the target audience of the book, even if by a modest number, as any slight improvement can contribute to generating more momentum upon its release... Jake, are you paying attention?”

Now, being from the book, this scene took place at Starbucks a couple of streets from my place. It was about a month and a half before the launch of my novel. This was surreal. Before the book had launched, my agent had scheduled a meeting to increase sales for the book, trying to squeeze enough readers before it was out. “Yeah…sorry, I…Um…haven’t been sleeping much lately. I am just distracted.” I muttered, “Well, it makes sense. Your book is only weeks away and if we can rope in just a few more readers, it’s possible that this book will explode in popularity.” I chuckled a little. Sarah didn’t know the half of it.

It has been three years working on this project with my agent, Sarah. In her forties, Sarah proved to be the best agent I could have hoped for, her unwavering passion for books outshining even my own. Sarah worked tirelessly finding me trustworthy publishers, going through every option with meticulous care. Never got scammed and was always like that soccer mom watching for her child. It made sense I was 23, so about five years older than her eldest kid. With her professional attitude, she sported shoulder-length blonde hair and applied a subtle 20% of makeup. She always dressed in a manner that was professional, yet comfortable for our meetings.

When it came down to business, she was a completely different woman. It’s like the numbers ran through her head. Of course, with the twenty years of experience under her belt, Sarah could pinpoint a good deal from a mile away. Also providing any little feedback on each publishing company we went through, she had a strong relationship with most of these companies. Sarah entered each building, with her 5 foot tall frame disappearing into the entrance, only to emerge as a towering figure 6 feet taller.

“Sarah, doesn’t this feel like déjà vu? I swear we’ve had this conversation before.” I asked. Puzzled, Sarah glanced at me with a mix of bewilderment and concern. I understood her reaction; the increasingly bizarre circumstances were taking a toll on me as well.

“No Jake, it’s been about four weeks since we’ve last seen each other, but don’t worry the launch of a new book stresses out every new author, we’ve just got to push through these last few weeks and then it’s vacation time.”

“Alright then, I’ll play along. I’m guessing for my first book it’s expected to be nervous.” I nervously chuckled. But Sarah just looked at me, confused, as if she didn’t grasp the nature of the joke. “Jake, maybe you should get some rest. This second book might’ve taken a bigger toll on you.” Wait.. did she say a second book? What did she mean by that? The draft for the second novel was still years away from being completed. It wasn’t even enough to call it a first draft. I hesitated for a moment before admitting, “Um, I haven’t written,” I squeamishly said, my mind devoid of any further ideas. It’s frustrating that none of the words I write seem to stay on the paper. As the young waitress refilled our glasses, Sarah pulled out a thick novel with a blurry cover and a scratched up title. Shock washed over me, mixed with confusion, as I reached for the novel and flipped through the pages. Pages sprayed haphazardly with a jumble of nonsensical words, creating a confusing sight. My eye’s gawking back at Sarah to explain what this was, as she took a sip of her water, but still had this puzzled look as if I was the one not making sense. “Um.. Sarah, have you read any of this?” I questioned. She chuckled, “Of course, just because I’m an agent doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy a good thriller.” She finished before taking another sip of water. “This might be your best work so far. Well then, again, that first novel was like lightning in a bottle.” Her grin got even wider.

Bringing my gaze back to the page, was met with a jumble of text that I couldn’t make sense of. “You know what can you um… can you read out your favorite chapter for me?” I Pleaded. “Are you sure you're okay, Jake? You're acting weird today? How much have you been cooped up in your house?, you really should take some time too…” Before finishing I abruptly said, “Yes.. yes I’m fine but please I just want to hear your opinion on it. At least before we talk about the marketing for it.” Next, I placed the book near her glass. A puzzled look turned into excitement, flipping over to the middle of the book.

As she clears her throat, the sound reverberates through the room, signaling the start of her narration. “The man takes a moment to straighten his fancy suit, wanting to present himself in the best possible light. A book I had not written or had not remembered reading. As the lights dimmed, the audience covered with fancy attire settled into their plush seats, ready for the show to begin. Anxious thoughts consumed my mind, making me fidget in my seat. Even if I couldn’t read a word back at the cafe, now that I’m in front of thousands, I must come up with something. I couldn’t lie my way as I did at the high school.” She finished. “Wait.. wait, wait.” I muttered …no was this a part of the story or was it something that would soon happen? “What…am I narrating it wrong? I will be honest. I don’t do as much justice as your writing does, but wow, you are literally blowing my mind with this one, Jake.” She finished and then sat the book down and widened her eyes. “I mean, this might surpass your first book. It appears we have a prodigy in our midst,” she remarked, astounded.

“Come on, Sarah...please,” I pleaded, my voice now filled with desperation. “Jake, you’re being too humble,” Sarah insisted, her voice brimming with admiration. As she attempted to return the book to me, a mysterious goo dripped from its pages, causing me to react and collide with the man standing behind me. “Shit Sorry about that Sir”. I nervously said. With a bewildered expression, the man stood silently, his lips sealed, lost in his thoughts. “Your…Jake…the writer Jake.” He questioned. “Uh yeah, that’s me.” I replied. “Wait, did someone say Jake Anderson was here” A lady pleaded from the next table, with her husband now recording me with his iPhone. Twenty more eager fans popped up. “What are your thoughts on your next book? How did you write it so fast? Will this become a trilogy?”. They questioned. More people lined up surrounding me. “Umm, uh I don’t know,” was all that came out. As the crowd grew larger, I glanced back at Sarah, who engrossed herself in flipping through the book, smearing ink on her arms with each turn of the page. Her face lit up with joy and amazement, completely oblivious to my presence.

Sweat started pouring down my face as I attempted to hide from view, but my efforts were in vain. The swarm of fans had already encircled me. The air was getting thicker with the heat. Sweat was blocking my vision, but what I could tell it was also effecting the crowd too. But no one seemed to notice. Turning back to the table, the sight of our glass cups steaming frightened me.

“Isn’t anyone else alarmed by the sudden spike in heat?” I questioned, looking around. They were relentless, like a hungry pack of wolves on the hunt, completely unfazed by anything I said and unaffected by the scorching heat. Piles of people swarming around each other, increasing. The ink from the book was spreading across my agent’s arm, creating a disturbing sight. Talking to these people was useless. My voice drowned out by hundreds of hungry customers. Melting wasn’t an overstatement. The air was getting heavier and my vision was out of focus. Any second I would pass out and these people would have mauled my corpse. It seems they were suffering more than me without realizing it. Their movements were slow, clothes drenched, and some passed out. Trying to voice reason into these people was hopeless.

“Please everyone, enough,” I pleaded repeatedly, but my words fell on unresponsive ears.

“Listen up, everyone. I didn’t write the second book. Writing has become impossible for me. The first book was a fluke, and I’m ashamed of it. Please, let’s just move on and forget about the second book. Maybe someone else wrote it, because it certainly wasn’t me.”

We both pause for a minute. Maybe it worked. They stay still for a minute or two, thinking, and then just laugh it off. This was a joke to them.

With a snarky tone, the man scoffed, “Come on, who are you fooling?”. “Yeah, the imagery sounds exactly like the first book, even the metaphors,” a mother observed, her skepticism. I can’t get over how incredible the cover artwork is. How did you even create something so unique and otherworldly? The older man posed a question. From horror to frustration, my gears changed. “You people are mental. I did not touch this book. I had no hand in making this. This is not my book. I don't know where it came from.”

Again they pause looked at each other and continue laughing. They were still praising each little detail of the book, the cover, the words, the grammar, even the placement of the periods. It was ridiculous. They were so infatuated with the book that they disregarded anything I said about it, even the smallest details like the number of pages it had. These people were too far gone. They would praise anything that came from me. These memories were all wrong.

Now, as the heat spread rapidly, I started getting dizzy, and I noticed that objects on the tables were melting.

The scorching heat made the kids’ shoes melt, clinging towards the ground, a sign of the unnatural temperature. Finding shelter indoors was a necessity, but easier said than done.

The crowd of people blocked my way to the entrance. They all now had copies of the book in their hand and we're all asking for autographs. Feeling trapped, I yearned for an exit. My attempts to maneuver through the crowd by squeezing through small gaps proved futile. Growing increasingly desperate, my actions became more aggressive. Pushing my way through the crowd was a challenging task, as their combined strength proved formidable. The sheer number of people felt overwhelming, like an unstoppable tide crashing against me. Both head and vision were fading fast, I couldn’t tell if more people were gathering or if my vision was doubling the amount but it didn’t matter the door was closer now, if I didn’t reach it within a few minutes the heat would consume me. The door was only a few steps away, but the oppressive heat made it feel like a never-ending journey.

The empty praises reverberated in my mind, amplifying the throbbing pain of a growing migraine. Every writer craves genuine praise for their work, but this empty praise feels like a haunting nightmare.

Their voices grew increasingly muffled, making it difficult to discern their words, but it hardly mattered. I was getting closer, and the crowd jostled me forcefully from side to side until I finally tumbled and collided with the ground. Waves of open books and pens were being stretched towards me. I crawled to the cafe entrance. As the crowd erupted in loud cheers and applause, I felt hands grabbing at my shirt, eager to drag me along. No matter how heavy I felt, the door was still within my reach.

Distorted crowd’s voices

Was this the actual weight of expectation that I felt about my book? Doesn’t matter, just a little closer now.

Distorted laughter

An opening finally, a bolt of adrenaline hit as I pushed the asphalt away from my chest and flung my body through the door. My eye’s closed, praying this chance would help me escape.

A large thud

I hit the ground hard…but it was quiet and the air was about room temperature. I opened my eyes and was in complete darkness.

End of Chapter 3

Chapter 4

As I sat up, I could feel my heartbeat slowly returning to a normal rhythm, a reassurance that I was safe, at least for now. How could I have written a second book? Was I going crazy? Maybe this was all one big hallucination, with the world swirling in a kaleidoscope of colors and distorted sounds. But why these scenes, they held no real merit besides finding my passion for writing and cramming enough buzz for my novel?

Annoyed, I remained seated in the dark room, feeling the loneliness surround me. Something weird stood out. As I traced my fingers along the clothes I was wearing, I couldn’t help but notice their silky texture. As I moved my hands around, I felt a smooth silk tie snugly wrapped around my neck. What scene was this?

Rising to my feet, I winced at the sudden ache radiating from the tight dress shoes on the ground. As I walked through, I stumbled upon red curtains strewn across the ground, a jumble of technical equipment, and the soft glow of stage lights.

As I stood backstage in the theater, the faint reverberation of people’s voices reached my ears. Maybe there was someway to see, but then again, what if it was that same crowd before as my eyes trailed I noticed a piece of paper on the ground a page?

Crowd in the distance

It read off chapter 3. That was odd, a few more pages were surrounding it. The words were a chaotic mess, scrambled and incomprehensible, making it difficult to decipher their meaning. Was this from the same book that I had written? Why was I the only one who couldn’t read it? But then again, I was in a place with no logic to itself. The combination of stress and aggravation made it feel like my mind was playing a cruel game, dangling a valuable idea just out of reach. This was a cruel way of teasing me. But to be honest, writing had always been a constant struggle, a back-and-forth. Even now, as a published author, the pressure and weight of it all were intensifying. Did this place reflect how I perceived myself as a writer? Uncovering a fraud, the release of my one and only masterpiece laid bare my true identity as a mediocre writer. Fuck, this place was getting to me. I picked up the remaining pages, feeling their crisp edges between my fingertips, and ventured deeper into the stage. Finally, I discovered an opening where red curtains adorned both sides, revealing a wooden stand with a microphone placed in the center. Were the pages leading me up to hear? It was dark, but visible enough for me to make out my surroundings. I walked up nervously and looked at the stands. The stands laid vacant.

As I got behind the stand, my fingers brushed against a stack of papers near the microphone. What was this place trying to tell me? Something about the next book…something about my writing…something about myself. This was a riddle. I loathed riddles. This time, I had no choice. If I wanted to make it out, I had to solve it.

Okay, apart from the places I’ve already visited, it seems like all of them are destinations that cater to my writing interests. Not all of them seem significant like the High school but spots specifically tailored toward points of my writing, with some added points of the next novel I was going to write which was….. which was…. fuck I forgot the name. Wait, this made little sense. I’ve been trying to get this novel made for months and now I can’t remember it. Dammit, this was frustrating. Is that the reason for my presence here, to manipulate and inspire me somehow to write more? With a frustrated gesture, I forcefully tossed the pages onto the stand. No..no.. It has to be more than that, since they didn’t even bring up the sequel at the high school. Does it have something to do with my writing? Maybe by correcting how I write? Or why was I writing in the first place? As soon as those words left my lips, the stage light blinded me, forcing me to shield my eyes.

“Alright, I know you guys are ready to hear the latest story from the newest best-selling author Mr. Jake Anderson…I know I am”. Sarah Bellowed. Next to me stood my Agent Sarah, exuding professionalism in her black casual work formal dress, complete with long sleeve buttons and a bold red lipstick. As I looked at the audience, the once empty seats were now packed with a sea of people. Men, women, and children alike, all donning their best clothes, came together for this occasion. Clad in black full face masks, their identities remained hidden. Covering all forms of expression from them, it was disturbing as all hell. In perfect synchronization, they erupted into applause, a cacophony of cheers blending together, making it impossible to distinguish whose voice belonged to whom.

“Okay, okay everyone, I’ll admit, I have dove into a few chapters and to be honest in my thirteenth years of being an agent I have never seen writing like this, it’s truly astonishing how Jake can really place you into the mind of his characters.” Sarah continued.

As I look down, I see the book’s name printed on the cover, and a rush of memories washes over me - it’s the same name I had planned for my unwritten novel. How was I able to see the cover this time? Was I getting a better grasp of this place? For right now, it doesn’t seem to matter. Sarah couldn’t contain her excitement over my well-written novel, waving her arms in astonishment.

Sarah is a brilliant agent, very honest and upfront about a lot of things that I would usually keep to myself. Her belief in my writing surpassed even my own, and without her, my first novel would still be stuck in development. Once again, she showered me with praise, although it didn’t belong to me, and the reality of it all seemed questionable.

Her grip on my shoulders tightened, and she leaned in to whisper, “You’re getting closer.” Confused, I paused for a minute and then turned to ask her what she meant, but of course, she had vanished. Again by myself, surrounded by the audience, their whispers filling the air, and carrying with me a nugget of truth.

I paused and stared at the crowd, noticing their rigid posture as they remained seated, completely still. Shit, maybe this is when I read it. Would these people believe me if I said this wasn’t mine? No.. No, I should play along with this for a bit to see what comes next. “Serenity is my second book and I am happy to read it out to you today.” Voice echoed through the ceiling. The crowd was patiently waiting and my anxiety was crawling through my skin. Come on, I just needed a glimpse of what I had written, hoping it would provide some clarity. Its cover was entirely black, contrasting beautifully with the ornate gold designs that adorned its spine. But after opening the book, chapter 1 only had one word. (The) that was the only word that I had found. Page after page, my fingers skimmed over the blankness, leaving behind a feeling of frustration. As I looked up at the audience, the blank expressions only matched their stillness on their faces, all directed towards me.

The pressure pressed down on me. My breathing was erratic. “Um, one moment still trying to figure out which chapter to start off with…. he hehe…each one is so dramatic, um, got to make sure you don’t get lost in this book.” Returned to a dead response, it didn’t matter at this point. These people didn’t come to hear a stumbling idiot, they came to listen to another bestselling horror thriller. With a sense of desperation, I closed the book and reopened it, but no matter how many times I tried, the words remained elusive.

Have to say something, need to say something, maybe a repeat of the past events, like I did at the high school. Over there, it seemed to work, but not what I had envisioned. After taking a deep breath, I started reading it from the beginning, determined to give them something worthwhile.

“Serenity Chapter 1 The….”

Large amounts of clapping and cheering

A puzzled expression crossed my face once more, attempting to make sense of it. The sounds of cheers and admiration echoed around me, filling the air. How it was better than the first book, how the title was so unique, how beautifully I placed the word The at.

“No..no… I didn’t start yet. All I said was one word.” I said.

“Wow, this is already an improvement compared to the first book. This man is an absolute genius. 10 out of 10 for me, a must buy.”

Once again, they were mocking me, their laughter echoing in my ears, as they praised every single word I had written in this book. This was disgusting. This was not what I wanted. As a writer, I always felt insecure, constantly yearning for my work to be as profound and distinctive as that of other authors. However, it was disconcerting to be adored effortlessly, without even exerting any effort. What was the point of writing?

“Shut the hell up, everyone. I’m done with this crap.” I barked.

“This isn’t even a book anymore. Now you’ve become mindless slaves.” I continued.

Saliva spewed uncontrollably from my mouth while the veins on my neck pulsated with intensity. But their cheers were growing in volume, trying to drown out my frustration. I wouldn’t let it.

In a continuous motion, the crowd and I moved back and forth, creating a sense of chaos and energy. Swear words were being thrown around so frequently that I heard new ones from my mouth that I didn’t even know existed. Again, they would consider me to Stephen king and Dean Koontz with no logic behind those words.

Amid that complete debacle, I could feel the building trembling with small vibrations. The more the crowd clapped and cheered, the stronger the vibrations beneath my feet became, but in my rage, I hadn’t even noticed. Enough playing. I trampled through the back of the stage. The noise of a mob of people echoed behind me as I continued on. No…not this again. I strained my eyes to find any hint of an exit or door, but the darkness of the room made it nearly impossible to distinguish anything. Frustrated, I sought refuge under a stack of crates and the beams of spotlights.

Footsteps and heavy breathing

As I covered my mouth, the sound of footsteps echoed in my ears, growing fainter as they walked past. They remained silent, their breaths heavy and laborious, resembling the revving of a car engine, as if they were inseparable from their face masks. Slithering through the end of the stage and I made it back to the center. The seats were completely empty, and it was dead quiet. I looked around the area, feeling completely bewildered. I went further back into the audience area and turned left. As I walked by, a neon sign flickered and buzzed, demanding my attention.

The translucent red glow of the book signings added an enchanting ambiance to the theatre.

Interesting. Guess this is where I need to head next. As I opened the door and stepped through, a surreal scene that seemed straight out of a dream greeted me.

End of Chapter 4

Music Credits-

@Myuu

@CO.AG

@Artlist- Michael vignola/Olivier olsen

A