the drawing

February 14, 2012
The man sat on the slab of rock relaxing his young mind; in the winter breeze which occasionally swept through the mountains which surrounded him. He gazed for some time at the density of trees which dotted the familiar landscape, which was deeply embraced in the mountains same as he was. The breeze swept through once more causing him to shiver; as he stared into the lion’s den that would soon lead to something he thought could only exist in his head. Something from a nightmare.

Maybe this was the place he thought to himself. (As he had a thousand of times before.) It was here that he could find the peace and impartation for his next book and here that he would put his fears to rest. Being a writer is not all the façade people think it is he told himself and it was true that was the reason he was here. He had been planning this to end his wife’s misery for a while. His writing became a curse upon his family since he was young. (He of course would never admit this. That was until his wife cornered him on it.) He needed to get away from city life and from his family. He vanished leaving only a note which he left to his wife which said, “I have to get away from the noise of this place. I could be gone for some time.” He put all of his thought into leaving. Every one besides his wife had heard from her that he had committed suicide; this was good that meant no one would find him unless he wanted to be found. When he left Los Angeles that night he had planned to get one last look at Anaheim but that was when his nightmares came back and as a result he thought it best to avoid all places of his early childhood. So he proceeded with his plan changed his name; and bought a house in the middle of the Rocky Mountains.

Five minutes later if you had wanted to find famous writer Thomas Daniel they would find him, still resting on the rock overlooking the san Isabel forest. Something about this scenic overlook as he would later call it seemed to draw him in. Just getting up b**** and you’ll die first something about these words worried him. Just getting up what did that mean and where had he heard it before. These thoughts worried him even after he was resting in his warm Mitsubishi eclipse; which was painted blood red as was to his liking. When he had bought it it was bright yellow and had a rather severe need of repairs. (Which of course was no problem in terms of cost.) people of course thought it was insanity to buy a car which was as they called it ‘shot to high hell’ and again this did not bother him after all he thought everyone was a little insane even if they did not admit it. He bought the piece of s*** at an old used car dealer ship of which he could not remember the name. It was a good deal $3500 with a total of $2500 in repairs. After it was once again drivable he took it to Mara’s paint shop and paid for the most expensive blood-red paint job’s she could do. Mara was a friend from high school and she did offer him a rather large discount and he thanked her for it.

He pulled out of the rest area and started down the road and soon the worrying went away. Who cares he thought it doesn’t matter at all if I forgot that’s in the past. The car was crammed full of assorted papers each belonging precisely, in a certain order which only he was aware of. For instance the page about the castle of mirrors goes in the middle while the one which reads souls lament goes in the very beginning. He stopped on the side of the road and placed them in a black leather briefcase. Placed it back where it belonged. And returned to the road driving at intense speed. He gazed perplexed at the snow as it fell and he seemed to sway a bit by the thin shimmer of silver in the center of the road. He slammed the breaks to no effect he slid on the snowy mountain road right into the shimmer and pop. His front tires snapped sending him rocketing over the cliff side and into a razor wire fence. He flipped once more and again dropped down into the forest. Blood marred his face and arms as the car came to a stop. His heart pounded against his chest. The blood dripped further down his skin. The pain thrusted him into the air bag which had suddenly released. Darkness engulfed him.

Pain seared through his body blood still ran down his cheek as he returned from his black sleep. It was not the first time he had cheated death and he certainly hoped and prayed he was wrong. Two thoughts seared through his mind one was that his latest book had a seen which was exactly the same as the event which sent him of the edge of the cliff. This thought however had several flaws which made it seem unlikely. If someone really wanted to kill me like the character in my book they would have to know what happened. The other thought was far grimmer. His childhood was marred with scars which he only wished he could forget. It happened like this when his mother died. He had nightmares back then about the clawed man. This was what worried him back then. While in truth he did not know or care what it was for to him it was a man in a black trench coat. But when looking back to it now it was just an entity with no physical form, it could in fact be the devil himself. Back then he was a writer as well but he guessed that event changed him for life. He wrote for his senior project a story about fear based solely on his nightmares. The story was fear for its words seemed to be real he wrote that death claims all then she died. Things only got worse after she died until they faced it pure evil incarnate and lose in the world.

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