By Asad Zaidi
I am writing today for the sake of writing, for the sole purpose of opening black wounds onto this sheet of paper with my pen. A cursed existence, some might say. But I would argue otherwise. There is nothing like the euphoria that comes from seeing the thousands of words, the unfathomable vortex of secrets taking palpable form right in front of you. However, I guess a part of me would have to agree with the aforementioned ‘some’, for without a pen and paper I am nothing. I –
I sense someone outside. I can feel their oppressive auras. I doubt this bodes well. Should I hide?
Too late. One of them just knocked down the front door.
Too late. One of them just knocked down the front door.
There are men in front of me, dressed in long, white coats with their eyes cowering behind sunglasses. One of them holds a gun in his hand. I wonder if flight is still an option. I would make a pathetic attempt to shield my face with my hands but that would mean stopping writing.
There is a dart sticking out of my shoulder. I should probably feel relieved that it is not a bullet. I feel so tired now. The stream of words is slowing. Coherence. Losing…
I am writing for the sake of writing again. But today, I do not write just to maim sheet after sheet of paper. They have told me to write, that it is but a test, and nothing serious. I do not need to see the way the man next to me is staring at my hand as it glides across this page, his eyes hungry to read the words appearing in its wake, to sense his malice.
I am not sure when I regained consciousness or where I am or how long it has been since I was taken. Somehow my mind cannot gather information about this room, only that it is made of shiny metal and is rather unwelcoming. And there is a man sitting next to me staring at my hand.
The man nudges me and throws a document in my lap. Given a moment’s reprieve, I put down my pen to read it. There, I have read it. It was a certain classified document outlining some details about various government facilities that ‘do not exist’. My mind has instinctively reached out into the world in an attempt to gather information. I see what they want with me.
No! These men are obviously malicious. I do not want to be the one to unleash chaos into the world. Perhaps if I diverted my thoughts… My name is Terrance Shaw. I am seventeen. I have been in a wheelchair all my life. I am mute. I also happen to be a bibliopath, a telepath cursed to see all that happens and write all he sees. I –
The man just backhanded me. I can feel blood welling on the inside of my cheeks. For someone with so much power, I am so weak. But I will not help them.
***
I can not remember ever a time when I missed my pen and paper so dearly. They deprived me of it. How long, I can not say, only that I knew I was going to die soon without them. Have you ever felt every human being in the world screaming on the inside of your skull? I guess not. The voices tormented me, yelling at me to let them out.
I have decided to help them, not because I want to, but because I have no choice. I value my sanity and my writing tools. I am shocked to have reached such a decision, but I am only human, just as greedy and selfish as the others. Perhaps one day the voices of those I unleashed terror upon will accuse me inside my head until I am forced to take my own life. But until then I will make most of this unexpected situation and write for the sake of writing.
