I Can’t Find The Right Words Pt. 2
Chapter 5
As I entered the empty library, I could barely make out the rows upon rows of books in the dim lighting. There seemed to be no end to these shelves, and the building of this library was massive.
Glass walls enclosed the space, offering a breathtaking view of the nocturnal forest landscape.
It seemed weird to point out, but there was this stillness inside. I had always wanted to know what it felt like being in a library at night by yourself. Some would find this setting creepy, but I found it to be relaxing. I was back in my plain t-shirt and gym shorts, feeling utterly unremarkable in my appearance. As I continued walking through it, the solitude became more apparent. Despite my efforts, finding a door to this place seemed utterly impossible. Walking around the massive towers of bookshelves, I couldn’t help but grin at the musty scent of old books that filled the air. Tracing my fingers across each book gave me a sense of euphoria. Every time I was in a library, I could turn the world off and just think. Whenever I had a big exam, or had free time, the library was always there for me. It’s not like I grew up in a poor household, it was just that the library felt like a second home to me.
Even working on my first title, I spent months holed up at the library, crafting the pieces to my story. And I guess this was why I was here, to take a step back and to figure out how to get back home. And so I pressed on. It made little sense the High School, the cafe, the theater. Besides my writing, these places had little connection, and even then, they had no connections to my first book until after my talk with my agent and doing a public reading at a theater for it. But the high school was only when I first took writing seriously. It had nothing to do with the first novel.
Maybe that was how this place functioned. Perhaps just lost in the depths of my thoughts, replaying various scenes from my life, each one taking a dark and twisted turn.
But that still doesn’t explain everything from this place. Sarah spoke to me at the theater, like she knew I was getting closer to something, maybe to the end of this place. Then again, I ended up falling through my closet, so that doesn’t exactly boost my confidence either.
Well then, what was I supposed to do now? Endlessly walk down to find an exit, or maybe it was like a video game and I had to find my book out of this behemoth of novels. Fuck me, but to be honest, if I could find food, I wouldn’t mind being stuck in this limbo world of books. As I ascended the stairs, the soft glow of moonlight illuminated the graceful dance of the grass and trees swaying in the wind. The sight was so peaceful that I felt reluctant to tear my gaze away from it.
Books falling
What the hell was that? As I thought to myself, I instinctively crouched behind a shelf, straining to peer into the aisles.
I thought I was alone in here; the shadows obscuring any discernible shapes from a distance. I stayed in that position. Please, just let this be my imagination. A few minutes ticked by in silence, causing me to wonder if whatever made that noise had already vanished.
Books falling from the shelves
Heavy Footsteps start running
After hearing that, I wasted no time and sprinted off. As I frantically searched for a hiding spot, the sound of heavy breathing and quick footsteps filled the air. I couldn’t determine the direction it was coming from, but I knew I had to find shelter soon.
The footsteps sounded like they were getting louder or getting closer. It was impossible to discern the two.
Unfamiliar groans
My face was a canvas of disgust and horror, the emotions etched onto my features like a permanent mask. The anxiety was building up, and I could feel a presence lurking nearby, but now too terrified to turn and face it, fearing that once seen, it could never be unseen.
Scurrying down the stairs, I slide through a new aisle of books, their intoxicating scent filling my nostrils as I cover my mouth to stifle a gasp.
Heavy footsteps
Unfamiliar groans
It was close now; the tension mounting as my options dwindled. Determined, I stood up and carefully pulled back a book to create a peephole. Thankfully, I found myself close to the transparent glass walls, surrounded by lush green plants and tables, but there was still no visible way out. Wait, I saw something small, a shadow playing under the table. I pulled back three more books to get a better look. I saw a small child, dressed in a vibrant blue and yellow t-shirt and shorts, nervously covering his mouth with his hands. The boy looked petrified, his eyes wide with fear, but then he spotted me. We locked eyes, and a sense of relief washed over him as he waved me over.
A million questions ran through my mind, but I nodded. I looked both ways, making sure there was no one in sight, and swiftly made my way towards the table. Before I could even utter a word, the boy swiftly placed his hand over my mouth. In that very moment, an eerie noise filled the air as something slowly passed us, emitting strange groans and moans. Its heavy footsteps resonated, shaking the ground beneath us. As it passed, a single page fluttered to the ground, dropped from its feet.
As the heat intensified, a tiny droplet of sweat made its way down my temple.
“Okay, he’s gone,”
“What is this place, and what is that thing out there?”
“It’s you Jake,”
“What are you talking about, kid? I am right here. And how did you know my name?”
“Because…mom gave us that name.”
“Mom? Wait, do you mean you're Jake too? Your me?”
“Yes, I am.”
“That makes little sense.. none of this makes any sense.”
“It’s not supposed to, Jake, because you were the one creating this.”
“What? How? That doesn’t sound right?”
“Shhh, he’s coming back.”
“Coming back why?”
“To force us to stop writing.”
“Wait to stop us from writing.”
“Yes, don’t worry. Once we get to the mirror, it will all make sense.”
“None of this world makes sense. You’re not getting it. Why would I stop myself from writing when I don’t want to write?”
Once again, Jake, the child, forcefully covered my mouth as a menacing, guttural sound escaped the creature in search of us. I couldn’t fathom how this pitiful creature standing before me could be any alternate version of myself. The child bore a striking resemblance to me, with the same hair color and scar beneath his lip, but I couldn’t help but feel that this was a stretch.
The creature had now left. “Okay, how does a mirror help us?”
“It will help show you the truth and give you the answers to getting out of here.”
“How do you even know that?”
“Because I am the rational part of your head, the part that can still imagine the stories you used to write before middle school.”
“Wait? What?”
“Now!”
The boy’s grip tightened on my arm as we raced down the aisle of books, navigating the labyrinthine maze of the library.
The sound of the table being flipped echoed through the room, followed by the thunderous charge of heavy footsteps towards us. The creature’s heavy footsteps echoed through the air as it gurgled, spouted, and moaned at us. Searching for us. It felt close, as if it was just a couple of turns ahead of us. The bookshelves seemed to have a life of their own, shifting and swaying, as if purposely creating a barrier between us and it. Was the boy doing this or was I doing it?
“It’s the door!” The boy yelped. Amongst the glass wall, a weathered, old wooden door caught the eye, adorned with a gleaming, antique golden knob. The boy grabbed it open and pushed me in. “Good Luck Jake”.
The door slammed shut behind me, leaving me standing there, frantically twisting and pulling at the knob, only to find it stubbornly locked. Fuck.
Despite a few more desperate beats against the door, it remained stubbornly closed. I leaned my head against the door, feeling its cool surface against my skin as I slid alongside it. I was losing my mind. This place was getting to me. Would this mirror really help me out, or would I sink deeper into this mess? Would writing really fix this? As I longed for home, a sudden glimmer caught my eye—a weathered silver mirror, beckoning me with its shimmer. To be honest, it was a beautiful sight - a silver frame adorned with what appeared to be delicate silver roses in each corner, perfectly reflecting my image. Looking at my defeated face, I could see the disappointment reflected in my eyes.
Was giving up on writing such a bad thing? My creative well ran dry, leaving me feeling fraudulent and incapable of producing anything remotely interesting. It may have been original, but it was full of cliches and dry metaphors. Clearly, writing wasn’t in the cards for me, but why was I still writing?
Click of a door unlocking
As I heard the door creak, I cautiously extended my hand towards the doorknob, relieved to find it in working condition. With a slow creak, I opened it, and as I stepped through, the darkness swallowed me whole. As I enter the room, a heavy darkness engulfs me, leaving me feeling disoriented and uneasy.
End Of Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Inside the room, darkness consumed everything, leaving no trace of light. As I scanned the area, I realized that this space was completely unknown to me. The room gave off an empty vibe, and I could only distinguish the outline of a bed against the walls. It seemed like it was a guest room. In the dimly lit room, I could barely make out the familiar shapes of a bed, a dresser, and a dirty clothes hamper. Other than that, the room lacked any significant details, so then I examined the closet. It was completely empty. The pole hanging above had empty clothes hangers, which were swaying ever so slightly.
What was I supposed to do now? I thought for a second. I extended my hands towards the walls, running my fingers along their surface in search of a knob. It took me a few minutes to locate one. My hands reached the distinct shape of two rectangles, and as I continued to explore, I could feel the edges of a slit forming a door frame. I extended my arm even farther, feeling the icy coldness of the knob beneath my fingertips, and then I gave it a twist. I peeked my head outside and turned right, only to be greeted by a blanket of pitch black darkness. Perhaps whatever awaited inside could whisk me away to the next location or bring me one step closer to returning home, or maybe I would stumble upon that boy once more. It’s possible that he has the answers I’m looking for about this world. He seemed quite knowledgeable when we were at the library. After waiting for a minute, I focused on the silence that filled the house. Not a single sound was visible, making it seem like reaching the light might be a safe option. I began my journey, the soft glow of light beckoning me from just a few steps away. Carefully, I tiptoed through the hallway, mindful of every sound. The mesmerizing, well-lit room filled me with anticipation, as I yearned for answers or an escape. This whole scenario was taking a toll on me, my body feeling alien in this unfamiliar environment. The gravity of this planet had taken its toll on me. All around me were fake, exaggerated caricatures of the people I knew. Being chased by faceless fans, I relied on my agent and a younger version of myself for guidance. This whole thing sounded crazy but could make an interesting horror novel. Wait, I froze for a minute. The room, with its inviting glow, felt like a mirage as I hurried my steps, but it stubbornly stayed at the same distance. Fuck, not again. My legs churned faster. Come on, quiet fucking with me. The room felt suffocating, with the walls tightening around me, while the hallway stretched out endlessly, creating a disorienting sensation. As I moved away from the room, the glow from the lit room receded into the distance. This house was teasing me.
All my efforts went to waste, and to show for it was with aching lungs and a body soaked in sweat. The air coming in and out of my mouth had blocked any type of English I could make out. As I fell down, my thoughts spilled out into the open. “Okay…what now? WHAT MORE DO YOU NEED FROM ME!!!”
What more did I need to do? How much more suffering did this world want from me?
In a sudden realization, I reflected on the bizarre nature of the world and how the concept of logic felt irrelevant. No matter how you looked at it, it would never make sense in a world like this. So why was I trying to force something like that? It would be better to play by its rules.
In response, I sprinted away in the opposite direction. Not knowing what I would gain in this moment, but not letting this twisted hallway win its sick little game. I ran for what felt like thirty, no, forty feet until I finally reached the warmly lit room, deciding not to question how I got there and simply entering. Stepping into the child’s bedroom that was once my own at six or maybe seven, my mouth dropped by how much smaller it appeared now, giving the space a surreal quality. For a short period, I felt safe. The cream-colored walls now adorned with my childhood drawings of superheroes and animals. How, how was I here? Again, I forgot logic didn’t exist here. I sat on my vintage race car bed, surrounded by my long-forgotten comic book treasures. I was a huge spider-man fan back then. A soft laugh slipped through my lips. As I glanced down, I noticed a cluster of Hot Wheels cars scattered near the ground. As a kid, I was sure that my future profession would include racing cars. I always begged my family for anything that resembled a car. Whether it was the bed, covers, toys, etc. My gaze landed on a small plastic table across from me, and I made my way towards it. It didn’t dawn to me that writing had always been there. Even before I realized it, I had always loved writing. The infinite worlds waiting to take shape felt endless to me. Tears filled my eyes as I picked up the page. I remember these stories. Old stories of me and my family, becoming superheroes, god this was goofy.
But it was fun and simple. When did writing become such a chore for me? When did the passion fade from my words? Maybe it can be this way again. If I ever make it back, maybe I can rediscover the joy it brings. These stories weren’t for anyone back then, not my family or even the short story back in high school. They were for me. Creating them was so much fun, and I was so impressed by how cool they turned out that I felt compelled to share them. That also goes for the book, but as soon as the pressure built up and expectations rose, I think I lose sight of that. As I placed the page down, my eyes gleamed with a spark of hope. Once I get back, I want to write. I want to tell the story that I want to hear.
It felt as though my shoulders had gotten lighter. At my feet, I noticed something light that had rolled towards me, almost escaping my notice. I picked up a ballpoint pen with a vibrant red cover. The object had an elegant appearance and appeared to be free of any visible fingerprints. Then four more rolled out from under the bed. When I cautiously approached the door, I encountered the familiar sound of a locked door clicking. Underneath the bed, a dozen more pens rolled out, their clattering echoing through the room. The closet emitted eerie moaning sounds as its door slowly stretched out. I knew this sequence all too well now. It was time for me to head to the next location, but instead of fear and panic, I was ready for it. As I stepped through the pens that had grown to ankle length, I reached out to grab the paper of my story. The door suddenly popped open, and the sound of clicking pens echoed throughout the room. I wasn’t afraid anymore. This time, I felt prepared to return and immerse myself in writing once more if I made it back. But for me this time. The pens towered above me, reaching up to my neck. To my surprise, they felt lighter than I had expected. I closed my eyes, filled my lungs with a deep breath of air, squeezed the paper tightly, and dove under.
End of Chapter 6
Chapter 7
A smooth surface supported my back; I opened my eyes to see the soft glow of a dim light. Now it was growing, the light increasing in intensity, showering my face in its warmth. Haphazardly, I staggered to my feet, the emptiness of the white box pressing in on me. It felt like I was in a corner of limbo; the empty walls faded into nothingness, and a sense of peace washed over me. Now what was I supposed to do? My pupils, tracing through the empty canvas, finally settled on a tiny, distant dot across the room; a speck of dust. I inched towards it. Walking then turned into pacing that ended in running.
As I approached, the dot expanded, its edges blurring into a larger shape. The book sat there, spine cracked, pages filled with my annotations—it was my book again.
Crisscrossed on the floor, I began flipping through the book’s brittle pages, the sound of the pages turning a quiet counterpoint to the stillness of the room. With a quiet rustle, my fingers traced the lines of the text, the cream-colored pages cool and smooth beneath their touch as I continued my search.
The sheer time and energy wasted on loathing this novel felt like a profound loss. And the detrimental effects this novel had on my life. I’ll be honest, I didn’t grasp the novel’s main idea anymore. A small, throaty chuckle rumbled from my chest, following my wide grin. My pupils fixated towards the cover. I lost myself in the whirlwind of newfound fame, the pressure to avoid becoming a one-hit wonder, and my determination to just enjoy it. Panic tightened its grip as I understood the inescapable truth; my escape had become my prison, leaving me trapped and suffocated. How pathetic am I? The weight of sorrow clouded my head, making me sink lower into the depression that had seeped into me. How do I come back from this?
As a shadow fell across the open pages of my book, I glanced up to see the boy from the library, the same boy who aspired to be a writer, and in that moment, I felt a profound sense of recognition, as if I were looking at myself. Still in the same clothes, but now holding a notebook and pen, a smile touched his lips as he stood over me. A proud, warm smile played on his lips; he was brimming with unspoken triumph.
“So, what are you reading?” The boy spouted.
“A book I made.”
The boy’s eyes lit up.
“I didn’t know you wrote books. That’s so cool. I hope when I get older I can be like you.” The boy applauded.
“Oh yeah, it’s not everyday you here about kids wanting to make books? But it’s not so easy. There is a lot of work, plus we can’t all make loads of money. It’s not like everyone can be a Stephen King.”
“Who?”
“Nevermind.”
“Well, I don’t care about any of that, and it’s not like I need lots of money. Wait a minute, maybe I do. Maybe just enough for two, no, four cases of juice boxes.”
His stubby fingers worked furiously, counting the dollars, a puzzled expression etched on the boy’s face. The quiet only punctuated the intensity of his calculation. Did I love writing this much as a child?
“So you dream of writing books?”
The boy nodded in excitement.
“Funny,” I mustered.
“What is?”
“I used to be the same way.”
“Really, that’s so cool. You must be having so much fun.”
For a minute, I paused. Writing isn’t fun anymore.
“No, I don’t have fun with it anymore.” I mumbled.
His face registered a puzzled expression, his brow furrowed, as if my words were alien to him.
My face gushed red. This is nonsense. Was this really me? Is it possible to alter my past if this were the case?
I lowered my head, noticing the rough texture of the ground beneath my cheek. I avoided my reflection, unable to meet my gaze. The sight of me was unbearable. Could I tell myself to give up? Could I change my past? Did I want to change it?
No, it was something that needed to be said.
“Yeah, after my first book, writing got really hard, and then I got mad and just couldn’t make a story good enough for everyone to be happy with.”
A heavy silence hung in the air for a minute or two. He said nothing. What were his thoughts? I raised my pupils, only to meet a gentle smile on his face. The boy sat next to me and mimicked me. Cutting through the pages of his notebook.
“Look…Look at this. This is a story about my family and dog, and where a bunch of superheros, going out to defeat bad people and saving the earth.”
A half smile grew, but in my head I kept shouting stop it, just give it up, it won’t always be like this.
Please don’t give me hope.
Before I could utter a word, his fingers clamped down on my shoulder, startling me.
A playful, excited smile expanded on his face.
“I think I know how I can help you, mister, and fix your writing.”
I laughed, “Oh really? Well then, what is the magic?”
He stood and walked away, his shoulders slumped, leaving me bewildered. But then he turned, his eyes wide, and spoke.
“I didn’t make this story for anyone….. I made it for me….”
A blinding flash of light leaves me disoriented before another door appears; the boy has vanished. The words, “I made it for me,” form silently on my lips, a private affirmation. A tear rolls down my cheek as my hand shakes uncontrollably; is it really that simple?
Only one way to find out. I get up and open the door.
End of Chapter 7
Chapter 8
As I entered, the dim light and comforting hum of the old house settled around me, a sense of familiarity overwhelming me—I think I was back. The closet, which I had previously entered and nearly drowned in, miraculously restored itself back to its normal state; the lingering dampness and the chill air were gone. Dry and neatly arranged, the clothes hung on the rack, their textures smooth and fresh.
With a sigh, I turned back through the door I’d just passed, the worn wood cool beneath my fingers as I tugged the knob.
Heart pounding, sweat beaded on my brow as I nervously turned the knob, expecting the unexpected; to my surprise, I was back home. Stepping from the darkness of the closet, the familiar warmth and textures of my bedroom enveloped me. Scanning the familiar bedroom—the bed, dresser, desk, computer, and cream walls — everything was still here. My eyes settled on the window as my pace quickened. The air hung still and quiet. Outside, the glass frame showed the normalcy of the world again… I was back. The sharp sting of my slap echoed the turmoil in my mind as I looked down at the scattered paper scraps—a physical confirmation of this strange reality. My cheek burned, a testament to the pain, but I still wondered if it truly was real.
My chest finally unclenched only after what felt like an eternity of suffocating dread. The wall was cold against my back as I slid down and sat there, replaying the events in my mind. A glance at the clock showed only an hour or two had passed, but the stark, empty computer screen seemed to stretch the time infinitely.
In all honesty, I couldn’t explain what happened; it felt like a fever dream, a hazy blur of exhaustion and overwork as I strained to find the right story. It felt impossibly real; the places, the people, the boy—all imbued with such palpable authenticity, defying any rational explanation.
Guess trying to make sense of it won’t lead me anywhere. The best thing to do now is to clean up this novel. Sweeping up the shredded paper with a dustpan and broom was a real chore; the small pieces kept scattering. I cursed myself softly, the initial sense of release replaced by the grim reality of the colossal mess I had made. The weight of my actions pressed down on me while cleaning up the aftermath of my childish tantrum. It took me 20-30 minutes to clear the floor of visible papers, a slow process of gathering scattered sheets. I tossed the crumpled paper near the overflowing trash bin beside my desk, then noticed something on my cluttered computer desk—a notebook, eerily similar to the one the boy had been holding.
It was bizarre finding the notebook on my desk; I distinctly recalled writing in it as a child, but why here? My parents should have locked it in a box at their house, tucked deep in a closet. I opened the notebook, its worn pages whispering stories, and a warm, small smile bloomed on my face. What was it doing here? The preceding short stories used titles derived from movies like Star Wars and The Matrix to heighten their effect. Stories that I’ve read through more than I can count. Tales that captivated a child’s vivid imagination, an imagination that served as a powerful aid. It helped him escape the emptiness he felt, a void created by the absence of friends and the constant busyness of his family.
I discovered a newfound joy in writing thanks to this exercise; it was the perfect way to improve my craft and have fun at the same time. Even at this early stage, the stories were unfolding for me alone, a private world built around my family and pet. I forgot the unadulterated happiness that flooded my face as I finished another story, another exhilarating escapade in this superhero series. The older you get, the more you forget: simple things like regular meals, the balance between work and life, how stress from overworking can cause writer’s block, and the love you once poured into your writing.
I felt a renewed sense of excitement, ready to embrace the challenge of writing another book, unconcerned with whether it would outshine the first or fail; a part of my audience would understand if I created something I truly loved. My fingers tingled with childish excitement as I reached for the chair, a giddy feeling bubbling in my chest. I took a large, deep breath of the crisp morning air and sat down in the worn wooden chair. The desk under the computer was warm, a comforting sensation as I typed away on the keyboard. The words were buzzing through my head. It felt like I was at peace. Unsure of what to do, my hand hovered over the letter T; a sudden, sharp knock from the living room startled me. Utterly baffled; I hadn’t expected seeing family or my agent. As the day wound down, the time glowed 5 pm from the bottom right corner of the computer screen.
I shot up, my senses heightened, and ran towards the door; the first knock felt like a trick of the mind, but a second, more forceful one, confirmed it wasn’t. My head throbbed, a dull ache that mirrored the pounding of my heart. Had I escaped?
I peeled open the door; the hinges groaning softly, and saw a somewhat familiar face—a middle-aged man with a thick, grey beard and wire-rimmed glasses. My neighbor, “Hi Jake…I wasn’t interrupting something, was I?”
“No…no it’s fine. How can I help you?”
“Forgot that the old printer was out of paper. Before I left for the market, I remembered that a best seller was living next to me. Don't worry, I still keep that between us. So I figured that you might have extra, being a writer and all hahaha.”
“Of course… I just got some. Come on in Jeff.”
“Don’t mind if I do. You sure you're okay? Those bags under your eyes suggest otherwise, hahaha.”
“Yeah, just working on my next project.”
A soft chuckle escaped my lips as I laughed along with him. The middle-aged neighbors, a friendly couple, always greeted me with a smile; I wasn’t sure if they had children, but I knew the father was a community college professor. They invited me over when I first moved in; I was young and alone, and their home felt comforting and inviting, a welcome change from my quiet home. Being friendly and honest, my hosts invited me to a barbeque, and when the conversation turned to occupations, I impulsively announced my profession as an author. They weren’t too familiar with my genre of writing but still bought the book, anyway. But even after that, they weren’t really nosy about it. Since their requests were always small, I happily obliged each time they needed a few things.
I offered for him to sit on the couch while I checked my office for any extra sheets of paper. He nodded politely, a warm smile playing on his lips beneath his grey beard, his circular glasses magnifying his gaze as he surveyed the bookshelves. After a brief two-to-three-minute absence to collect a stack of sheets, I returned to the living room, only to find it empty.
Odd, “Um I got the papers, you still hear.!”
……..
“Yes, your book collection is quite extensive. I was just curious if there were any other shelves…thank you for the paper though.”
I found it strange; his approach seemed to originate from the direction of my room, even if he was following through to the bookshelves it would lead closer to the kitchen, although their locations were actually on opposite sides of the house. The discrepancy was unsettling.
“No problem. Do you need anything else?”
“Oh no, young man, this is already an enormous help. Thank you.”
My neighbor, in his worn leather brown dress shoes, hurried out of here, the scuff of his shoes echoing on the pavement. Clutching his left side, his hand trembled against the worn, brown fabric of his jacket. Leaving with the same smile he came in with.
After locking the door, I scanned the living room; the silence amplifying the stillness, finding nothing amiss; the kitchen, too, was undisturbed, the only sound the hum of the refrigerator.
But after that fever dream, the words flowed freely, banishing my writer’s block, and I quickly finished the second draft. Nothing weird like that ever happened again. I couldn’t tell if it was real or a figment of my imagination; the whole thing was so unbelievable, but the important part is that I’m writing again with a renewed sense of ease.
The End
Music Credits-
@Co.Ag
@Myuu
@Artlist- Kyle Preston
