((Bam. Right. Umm.... Yes.))

"What are you writing?"

He didn't look up from the blank computer screen, and his hand began to tap a quick beat against the wooden table. He had been this close to finding the right word, the right sentence to begin the story, until the interruption made his concentration disappear just like every word he had tried to put on the page. After a deep cleansing breath he looked up to see his one of the three people who shared his little home. As always he was dressed in semi formal attire, button down shirt and slacks, with his dark hair forced into the style of successful people everywhere. Despite his long experience at describing things with flowery phrases he couldn't really find a way to put that particular hair style into words. Medium length and somewhat conservative looking maybe?

Wasn't important. What was important was that his status as the one who was paying for most of the food and utilities meant he couldn't give him the annoyed answer that he desperately wanted to at the moment. "Post-Apocalyptic seems pretty popular right now, or maybe a nice dystopian future," he said as evenly as he could. Apparently he was successful because his friend didn't comment and poured himself a cup of juice, most likely expired, and quickly downed it without looking up at him in front of his blank computer screen.

"What about one of those teenage romance things? I mean, the publics going crazy over those things from what I hear, and a writer like you could probably bang one out in a day or so," the idiot decided to say as he pulled on a pair of comfortable shoes. He turned to glare at the man, who was too busy putting on his shoes to notice. So he sighed and typed a few quick words into his computer before looking up and waiting until the man had his shoes on.

"Before I answer, can you come and have a look at this sentence? I think I might have spelled something wrong and the darn spell check just doesn't work right," he asked testily. His friend walked over, looked at the screen, and began to laugh. He glanced back at the screen, and scratched his head, "I didn't think I spelled it quite that badly." I'd rather die Don said the black letters on the screen.

"Well, when you feel like you'd rather have money than your 'literary superiority' you can write one. Anyways, I have to run down a story so I'll be gone most of the day, and most of the night if things get interesting," Don said, with the peculiar excitement of a freshly hired journalist. It was most likely the same excitement that a predator pouncing on its wounded prey felt, but who was he to judge the man and his profession? At least he had a steady source of income.

"Anyways, see you later Paul," Don said as he pulled on his jacket and left. The door closed with the same definite click that it always did. He was left staring at the mostly blank page as his fingers began to beat a steady rhythm against the wooden desk. After an hour he deleted the only words on the page just so that he could touch the keyboard and effect some sort of change on the page, instead of hovering uneasily over the keys as he tried to think of something to write. He sat there for another hour until his second housemate, this one was a John, woke up and entered with the grumpy expression of a night-owl who was forced to operate before noon. He grunted, before heading to the fridge and grabbing something caffeinated which was probably, through some buggery of the time space continuum, slightly out of date or otherwise expired.

His friend rubbed one stubbly cheek, ran a hand through his long unkempt hair, and frowned at his hand. "Shower," John grunted with annoyance before leaving the room once more. He just stared at the little routine, before he looked back at his computer screen and sighed. At least now he could turn on his music without worrying about his sleeping housemates, and he quickly did so as the pipes began to moan as alot of water passed through them in a short amount of time. The music slowly became louder until finally he couldn't hear that very annoying sound, and he once more began running his hands lightly over the keys of his computer. Maybe some form of divination could bring words to his mind. Oh great keyboard, I ask that you let me partake in your great wordly wisdom... Yes, I'm praying for wordly wisdom, not worldly wisdom. Just had to clear that up in case you misinterpreted my prayer oh great and mighty keyboard.

He was still staring at a wordless screen—Darn you great and wise keyboard—when a newly washed and much improved John came into the room with a pair of Jeans and a T-shirt which was halfway on his gaunt form. "Gotta go, be back after work. Tell me if Kristine calls," said John in the grunts he always used when in a hurry. Since John was either barely on time or a few seconds late, he spoke in grunts alot. He tried to convince himself that he was merely characterizing everyone he knew, as a writing exorcize, instead of judging them like a jerk when the door closed again with that same click.

It took him thirty minutes of staring at that empty screen, while listlessly tapping keys and erasing whatever actually appeared on the page, to decide that maybe he needed to distract himself for a little bit to get the creative juices flowing. He stood, and began to work on different chores around their small abode. Every so often he glanced over at the intimidating form of his computer and that blank page which stared mockingly at him. He gave it a withering glare, before he retreated from its unfeeling gaze and threw himself back into chores. Anything to make him feel like he wasn't running away from his writers block.

He ran out of chores long before he began to believe that, and was too ashamed to turn on the TV and try to escape that way. He finally sat back down in front of the computer, before immediately jumping back up and pacing back and forth, his eyes focused on that mocking white screen. "Come on Paul, gotta do this! There's a deadline here, and you were the one who decided to focus on your writing. You gotta get this out if you want to be able to put out your part of the rent," he growled at himself, all writers were slightly crazy in his professional opinion.

He finally sat down and stared at the screen some more, "I'm not going to leave until I get something down." Immediately his bladder began to ache, but he ignored it until John finally came back with a bag of fast food in his hand. He didn't look up, but the sounds coming from the kitchen annoyed him to no end. He began to grind his teeth as each noise shattered his concentration, and his hands began to beat a harder and faster rhythm against the table.

"Got you some food," John said with nary a grunt in sight. He merely began to grind his teeth more, and John took one look at the blank page of the computer, and moved the bag of food so that it sat next to his computer on the table. "Right, one of those nights again. So what are you writing?"

He could swear that John was one of the smartest guys he knew, while simultaneously being the most clueless when it came to moments where you wanted everyone to shut up so that you could get working. So instead of saying anything, he turned to glare at John, which was a bad way to repay someone who had been kind enough to pick up food for him, but he was annoyed enough not to care. After a while John finally nodded, as if something had been said, and replied to the unspoken string of curse words, "Right. I'll ask Don when he gets back."

He continued to sit there as the night ran on. The phone rang, the TV began to add its noise to the mix, and he heard John talking. It was all in the background as he stared at that maddeningly blank page. Eventually the sound stopped for a while when someone knocked on the door and John said his goodbyes to a mostly oblivious Paul. He heard feminine laughter before the door clicked shut with that same startling finality. Blissful quiet, that sweet silence that was abruptly shattered at some late hour by Don returning. There was laughter and a quick, "Still working I see" as a more disheveled looking man entered his field of vision. There was probably a metaphor hidden somewhere in how Don's appearance changed during his time on the job, but he was too focused on getting a word onto the page to find it.

Eventually everything was silent again, and he had managed to squeeze out a paragraph before his peace was shattered by the intrusion of John and all the strange smells he brought with him. There were hints of strange perfumes and an undercurrent of booze which managed to break his concentration as soundly as any... Well... As any sound might. "You know, all work and no play makes Paul a dull boy... And will most likely give him an aneurism. You should go to a party with me, get relaxed. Might make you write better," John said as he read that lonely paragraph over his shoulder. He glared after rereading that one crappy paragraph. He deleted it with a vengeance before he glared at John. Amateur philosopher, he thought vindictively, as John slowly got the hint and went to his room with a sigh.

He finally turned to his computer once more, and sighed. He quickly tried to retype the paragraph he had just erased, and managed to somehow make it worse in the process. After staring at the words for an eternity or three he sighed, saved the little progress he had made, and finally stood to relieve his aching bladder before going to bed. He remembered that the shadows seemed to be watching him with a strange glee before he dropped off into sleep and the unsettling dreams that it held. With morning he lost all memory of whatever visions assaulted him during the night, and he sat back down at his computer. He was more tired then he had been the night before...

And a second day passed much as the first had, except now he no longer had the manic energy required to stand and do chores or even to move away from the computer except for the most dire of bodily needs. His senses all seemed dull as well. He knew that at some point during the day both John and Don—Both their names end in N. Why haven't I noticed that before?— spoke to him but he couldn't remember what they said or how it had been said. All he could remember was that their voices were oddly quiet, or distorted.

It wasn't important, finishing the story was. He was standing as the second day was coming to an end, and he glanced sadly at his paper. There was a second paragraph, just as lonely on that long white page as the first was. He growled, he needed to finish this story short story for the book. It was his only chance of breaking into the bigger game where he could actually live off of his writing, instead of merely earning that little bit on the side. The desperation to finish nearly drove him back down into the seat, but he managed to keep himself from bowing to that demand, and instead began to wearily trudge toward his room.

As he began to ready himself for bed, a second wave of desperation and despair washed over him. He was never going to finish this story if he continued as he was. That thought surrounded him as he circled that little drain of sanity, and as he lay down to sleep he knew one thing for certain. If it was possible for anyone to help him he would take that help without regret. Even if a man in a suit came to his door with a contract that needed to be signed in blood, he was sure he would do it without hesitation if it meant he could finish his story on time. He dropped off into sleep, and he began to dream once more.

Everything was red. The sky was red from smoke and ash, and the ground was red from... What he hoped wasn't blood. The sounds were red, from the mad barks of strange animals to the screams of people far off in the distance. He looked around, and saw nothing but the apocalypse that he was trying to hard to build on paper. There he stood, until finally he heard something moving toward him, and not knowing what else to do in a dream apocalypse he ran, and he heard the strange sound of an animal chasing him. He didn't look back, afraid of what his imagination had conjured, but what he ran into was in some way worse even though it was more familiar.

John and Don standing with a group of other people, each snarling and brandishing a weapon of some sort. John was thinner in his dream then he was in real life, and the once clean shaven Don was a dirty dingy mess, but he ran toward the familiar faces all the same. They growled at him, and began to jab with spears made from a mixture of a hundred different things stained red by more spilled blood, as was only appropriate in any post-apocalyptic world. He tried to yell at them, tell them he was a friend, put some sense into them, but the sharp end of a spear jabbed into his arm and pain pressed itself on him. It was... Incredible, more realistic than any dream should ever be, and that pain attached itself to him in a way that defied any attempt to analyze it with his adrenaline addled mind.

But before he could do more than look shocked the thing that had been chasing him bowled him over and ran into the now shrieking group that his friends had been a part of. He heard the grunts of pain that abruptly ended, and the sound of people being slammed into what had once been buildings but when he finally lifted his head to look once more everything had gone silent. He saw the horrible features of the beast that had chased him, saw it feeding on what had once been a friend, and felt like he was gagging.

He awoke on the floor with his sheets tangled around him, and his struggles were slowly bringing the edge of his blanket tighter against his throat. He was gagging as he tried to pull in a breath that wouldn't come, and there was a soft knocking on the door to his room. He stopped struggling, and tried to loosen the blanket which was slowly cutting off the flow of blood to his brain as John softly spoke through the door. "Hey, just seeing if you're ok Paul," came a worried yet still maddeningly calm voice as he lay their trying not to choke. Through it all he was aware of this strange pain in his arm, where he had been stabbed by that spear in his dream.

He finally untangled himself and pulled in a deep breath, before he hurriedly pulled on a pair of pants and opened the door to his room. "What is it John?" he said, and was shocked at how testy his own voice sounded. Maybe he was just angry because he had been dieing and this man had done nothing to help him... That was probably it. It sounded reasonable enough anyways.

John, unaware of his near death experience, was surprised by the anger in his response. After taking a hasty step back he glanced sheepishly off to the side and began to speak again. "Don said he heard some weird noises coming from in here, and left a note asking me to check on you if you weren't up when I left for work," his friend said, before taking one more look at him and turning to go through his normal wake up routine. Paul took that opportunity to dress, and found himself tapping his foot impatiently as he waited for John to leave.

When he finally did it was with that click of finality. Finally he was alone, cut off from all distraction so that he could write again. He sat down at his computer, and after everything appeared on screen he watched with surprise as his fingers began to move. He was hesitantly tapping away at the keys and leaving a trail of words that painted a vivid picture of that world which he wanted to capture. And it was while he was writing he began to notice another strange thing, the pain was receding. He stopped typing, and that invisible wound he had taken in his dream began to throb, but now the pain was somehow lessened.

He blinked, and began to write once more, the pain slowly pouring from him into the pages of his story. Every captured image that had been burned into his mind came pouring out until it sank deeply into his work, where it lay ready to spread his visions to anyone who read the work. He sat there, hesitantly tapping away until John came home from work, and he had poured every little ounce of his dream into the story. Then he went into the bathroom, and finally showered. When he was done he looked at himself in that steam shrouded mirror, and saw something off about his reflection. He couldn't tell what it was, but something just seemed wrong.

He left, and tried not to think about his reflection. After dressing in clean clothes he returned to the living room to see John glancing at the computer, and quietly began to tap his foot again. "See you got your muse working again," John said with a smile, and then the smile seemed to falter as he looked up at Paul. They stayed silent until John finally awkwardly said he had to leave, and left to recapture his nightlife. With nothing else to do, Paul sat at his computer table and stared into space. After a while he finally went back into his room and stared down at his bed.

Some part of him knew that that dream was what had fueled his writing, and accepted the pain that the dream had brought him as an acceptable sacrifice. Another smaller, but most likely smarter, part of him was screeching caution into ears that didn't want to listen. He wanted more dreams, and more pain that could be poured out onto paper. Before he did go to bed though, he pulled all the sheets off and pushed them into a corner. Then he readied himself for bed, and shivered until the dreams finally overtook him.

They were more chaotic this time, but at the same time there was more silence. It was infinitely stranger, infinitely creepier, and the knowledge of why everything was quiet impressed itself upon him. He wandered lonely ruins and wastes, and saw pain. People froze, and he froze with them. People starved and his own stomach began to feel empty, and he began to crave anything that would fill it. He came across a pair that were sobbing as they filled their belly with red scraps of bloody meat. He felt their revulsion mix with his own as the knowledge of what they were eating pressed itself steadily upon him. It wasn't the worst thing he saw that night, nor the strongest thing to press upon him. That was the worst part.

When he thought he couldn't take any more of the pain he forced himself to stay in this land of dreams, to try and soak up one more thing that he could use in his writing. As if summoned by his desire, one more thing came for him to see, and it was the most painful sight he had seen that night. Their story pressed against him, and he felt it attack to him, soil him as he had never been soiled before. The foul odor of their history assaulted him, just as they fought now given strength by their madness yet weakened by its source. The hunger…

And finally, one of the lovers killed the other and the dam burst. He woke up and rushed to the bathroom as the dream broke, and he retched his pure disgust into a pool of water framed by white porcelain. He flushed, and rose to unsteady feet as every pain and disgusting act he had felt in that dreamed clamored for attention. He felt dirty, fouled so badly that he would never be clean, and the hunger overrode everything else. He staggered out of the bathroom, not noticing his reflection in the mirror. The blond hair that was messed up in every way and turning prematurely grey at its roots, and the beginnings of madness already dulling his eyes.

He made himself something to eat, but no matter how much he ate the hunger still seemed to be sitting in the pit of his stomach. He sat down at his computer to try and expunge it with writing, but something stopped him... Everyone else was still home. He went back into the bathroom and contemplated taking a shower, but was afraid that he would wash away all the pain he had worked so hard to collect. So he sat in front of his computer and waited as his housemates slowly woke and went through their routine. He barely noticed them until the door sounded that fatalistic click and locked him away from distraction.

Then his fingers began to fly over the keys, no longer hesitant like yesterday. He poured the pain out onto the pages, like so much bad blood being drawn from a bloated man, and finally it was all gone. He looked at his pages, and he grew afraid. There was alot there, but it still wasn't enough! He began to pace. No one had yet to come home, and he didn't feel tired enough to sleep. All he felt was a nervous energy that kept him twitching as he paced back and forth. He needed his dreams again, and he just couldn't wait until night, not now. Not when he was so close.

He rushed into the bathroom and wrenched open the medicine cabinet, already pulling out bottles with strange names on them. A different sort of hunger began to wash over him, a desire for more dreams, more pain that he could spill into his writing, and for that he needed sleep. By any means necessary. He pulled the tops off several bottles and dumped the pills inside onto his hand. They tumbled into his mouth, and right before he filled a cup of water to help swallow them down he began to wonder if he should be doing this. He stared at his reflection, hair askew, cheeks unshaven and skin pulled tight across his face. The worst was the eyes, now shining with a strange sort of madness, bright blue against the darker than usual skin which circled them.

He stared, and slowly swallowed the pills. He felt the drugs immediately rush through his system, and he staggered out of the bathroom. His knee banged against something but he felt no pain, and he barely made it back into his bed before the darkness took him. Waiting there like a predator fixated on wounded prey, or maybe like an excited journalist hounding a story to its end, stood the dreams. He always thought that writers were a little crazy, and when he rushed for those dreams and the pain they would bring he had his proof. He just wasn't sane enough to appreciate that anymore.


((Not the ending I originally had planned, but whatever.))