Pick up the pen! That one, single line was stuck inside of his head like a deep trauma embedded into the back of his skull. His hands lightly trembling as he sat on his creaking, old chair. In front of him, a rather simple wooden table, where a sheet of paper rested upon. Next to the paper was a single pen, it’s tip sharp and ready for action.

One piece of paper was already set in place, sitting in the middle of the wooden surface. A blank sheet, untouched, unwritten. Think about all of the possibilities… this piece of paper could turn into an amazing short story; an idea for a thrilling novel; or even just another expansion of his journal. Yet, his hands refused to pick up the pen.

He dug his nails deep into his palms, hoping for his instincts to aid him reduce the pain by taking action, but he remained still. On the edge of his desk, a white candle burned alight, smoothly glowing and spending a gentle breeze of light around him. Most of it had already burned down, hot wax dropping onto the cold, hard oak wood beneath it.

Wondering how long he was already sitting here, he took a glance out of the window to his right. The nostalgic loneliness of the night had already cast itself upon the outside world. Been a while since he had been out there, but it didn’t bother him. It was more cozy and nice in here, which compensated his emotional emptiness a little. How nice!

Not a single cloud on the vast sky, stars as countless as thoughts inside his head. The moon staring down at him as if to judge, he shut the blinds. How dare the moon tell him what he was supposed to do? No one was allowed to tell him what he was supposed to do! He would just stay in here, writing his stuff, alone, safe.

His fist hit the table, the light of the candle flickered for a moment. He tapped the desk with his cold fingertips, then his view glided back over to the writing utensil. His hand moved upwards, picking up the pen with a dense grip. He turned it over and looked at it’s tip. Sharp, still. All of the words I could tickle out of this thing… but how.

He spun it back, the tip now pointing down towards the sheet of paper in front of him. He hovered the tip of the pen over the upper left corner, hesitating. Come on, just a single sentence, a single word. Everything beyond that point would flow out of his hands like it was nothing. The pen felt heavy in his hands. He sighed.

So, well, what could he write about? There were more or less limitless possibilities. Short-story, non fiction, essay, letter, poem,… horror, fantasy, romance, thriller, adventure, drama,…

He put down the pen, a little to hard maybe, ready to write something, anything. The tip gave in to the paper and the pens tip broke of silently. Great, now he couldn’t write anything. His breathing got heavier. The device to sharpen the pen was across the desk. Why should he put in the colossal effort to resharpen his pen? Maybe he should stop for now and try again tomorrow…

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And even if he did sharpen his pen, it was no use anyways. The paper had already gotten dirty by the pencil lead spread across its upper corner. It was more or less unusable now. He could take a new piece of paper sure, but he didn’t have infinite of these and every failed attempt brought him closer to eventually running out. He didn’t want to run out of paper… he didn’t want to leave his room again. His lightly shaking hand gripping the pen with increasing strength.

He put his right palm on his desk, fingers lightly spread out. Pale skin. Long fingernails. the smell and taste of stale air. Hesitation for a second, then a jerking movement with his left arm, tearing it upwards as his gaze was fixed on his right hand. Then, almost breaking the pen with the tightness of his grip, he bolted his arm downwards, embedding the pen inside of the back of his hand. Thump!

His heartbeat fastened, the feeling of nearly losing consciousness. He pulled his left hand away as the pen remained stuck inside of his shivering mess of a right hand. He felt awake again. His head was spinning, his gaze unmoving. He moved his impaled hand off the table, taking a closer look. He had smashed the pen right through his hand... great, now he wouldn’t be able to write anything today. His head hit the table in despair.

He sat there for a moment, the sound of slow dripping audible close to him, yet, he didn’t care. Why care at all? It was all futile anyways. Why did he even keep on trying this. Struggle emerged from the depths of his mind. He lifted his head off the desk, left hand formed to a fist. Fuck this, I quit.

He grabbed the lower edge of the desk, with both hands, and flipped it upwards with all of his remaining strength. The pulsing pain in his right palm almost vanished for a moment, but returned almost immediately. The sound of flying paper, a shift of light. He got up, kicked his chair across the room without care for his foot.

His view glided back to his palm. A small river of red body fluid had run down his palm and was currently dripping off his fingertips, down upon the carpet underneath his feet, fabric drinking the fresh blood like a hungry plant. He gripped the end of the pen with his fist. Hesitation, then confidence. A swift, hateful movement, veins pumping. He held the tainted red pen inside of his hand.

It looked quite odd, being something he had never observed before. Pen, blood, chaos. These words tried to fit into his head like furniture inside a moving truck. Yes! He now knew.

Not too far away, down on the floor, the candle was silently dripping on the ground. It had somehow remained burning, now laying sideways while it’s gentle flame remained pointing towards the ceiling. One of the sheets of paper, which had been spread across the floor in his rage, was laying right beside it, close enough to be clearly illuminated.

He stumbled over and kneeled down next to it. A single spot of lead was immortalized onto it’s upper left corner. Who cares, there was more than enough space for his idea here. He put the pen down next to the stain. It still wrote, even though being lightly blunt and wet.

His fingers guided him across the paper...

...and he started writing.

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