Creation

The questions hung in the air, hopelessly waiting for answers that
typically hardly ever came. He was sitting at the table, slouched back,
eyes wide and full of concern. His mouth was not quite closed, just
open enough to make room for a fine stream of saliva. If they saw, they
would laugh. If they only knew, it had come down to this. Maybe they
suspected, maybe - he tried not to think of that.

The light was dim and dwindling, as the day was nearing its end. He had
been sitting there for a while. Not knowing what to do, not knowing
where to start. Some days were like that. Sometimes it was torment,
trying to figure out where to start, how to continue and when to find
an end. He silently cursed the situation. Only half-heartedly, of
course, because he knew just too well that he had only gotten, what he
had asked for in the first place. Still, today was not a good day.
Silence and rejection all day long. No one had actually cared to
respond to any of his questions. He was baffled and frightened, did not
understand why no one cared enough for an answer, and did not mind the
fact that technically no one was actually around to hear his
questioning. Mere details.

In front of him, loosely scattered on the dark brown table were sheets
of paper. White and free, not one mark showing. Pencils were nearby,
unused, but ready for their tasks. Just like his utensils, he was
waiting. Not too clear about very much in general and certainly not too
clear about his specific purpose on this specific day, he could not
help but wait. It would come, he was sure of it; it always came sooner
or later. He liked to choose sooner over later if he had the choice,
but today, obviously, he did not. That choice had been taken away from
him.

A choice - suddenly was made, he could feel it, felt immediately a
change in his mind and body. His fingers started trembling. He closed
his eyes. That was it. Something was happening; he delved deeper into
the realm of sensations. All the waiting had finally served a purpose.
A surge of joy pulsed through him. He opened his eyes and leaned
forward. His right hand found a pencil. Fingers almost hesitantly
ceased trembling and clutched around a wooden shaft. He smiled. His
left hand pulled a sheet of paper closer and his whole upper body
seemed to bend over it, a shadow so deep, the paper lost most of its
innocence right then and there. So quickly, as if a switch had been
turned. Thoughts and ideas started forming in his mind, some simple,
some complex, almost overwhelming. He placed the lead point of his
pencil on the paper and let it do its job. Without paying conscious
attention, he finally embraced his opportunity, the liberty to express
his thoughts. He wrote very little, not much, but what he wrote his
hand seemed to enjoy. Too much, perhaps, it was as if it had been taken
over. He was writing, but did not know what. His eyes seemed stuck
closed, he could not open them, what was happening? Panic rose, but the
hand and pencil continued furiously until at last they fell, spent and
limp on the table

When he finally opened his eyes again and lowered his glance to the
sheet of paper in front of him he stared. With mounting horror he read
what had been written by his errant hand. As he opened his mouth to
scream, a chilling chuckle came from the empty air behind him.