2
The course of time cleared her mind from the previous night's fatigue. She would be able disregard the thoughts of pain evoked by writing.
As dim sunlight filtered through the room, illuminating her individual prison cell in a monochromatic shade of depression, her eyes began to slowly open. She groaned as lucidity loomed over her. Her blue-grey eyes sprung shut at the first instance in which they registered light, pupils quickly contracting.
Her arms tensed as she pushed herself onto her feet, haphazardly falling into the chair, which she had unironically fallen from the night before. On wheels, it slid slightly back and nausea taunted her stomach. Eyes still closed, she yawned, a humble greeting to the new day, her short, dishevelled brown hair tangled around her soft, rounded features.
Opening her eyes, she squinted in the sudden brightness to which her eyes had not yet adjusted. "Another day." Her voice was tired but mature, like a General after mobilising defences in the night.
As she rose from the chair, her eyes darted around the room helplessly. The apartment was small, but for her it was large enough. Through her messy and uncombed hair, which in the slowly brightening surroundings revealed streaks of a golden colour, she could make out the useless words of inconsistently scrawled in her writing book.
She looked in disgust at the pages on the table, hostile from fatigue and grief. She picked one up, aggressively destroying it, before disregarding it to the air. Gravity deposited the shreds of paper on the carpet, among the others.
Proceeding towards the kitchen in a zombie like stagger, she reached for the coffee tin. As her fingernails made contact with it, there were echoes, suggesting that it was nearly empty.
She grimaced.
The electric kettle rattled to life. She picked up an aging, yellowing manuscript and fished out the rejection letter from its substantial bulk.
“Your characters are alive, their thoughts vibrant and believable, but stagnant when the suspense builds. The action is going on around them not within them. At this time, we believe that your manuscript is not suitable for publishing.”
A million other rejection letters triggered off in her mind as the kettle began to sing a high-pitched beep.
It's not good enough.
Compared to the last one you sent us...
This is a fine but unsuitable manuscript due to it's obscene and obscure over exaggeration of violence and the abuse of drugs and alcohol.
We regret to inform you that...
You are very persistent, and we doubt this will be the last manuscript you send to us, but...
The unkind taunts of editors continued in her mind even after she picked up the bubbling kettle. Pouring the boiling kettle's water into her mug, she thought it may have as well been her blood in the kettle, as there was a massive amount of frustration dancing ungracefully in her mind, caused by the sudden impact of forgotten grief.
Replacing the kettle, tiny storms of boiling water were attracted to her hand. Her face grimaced in pain, but she did nothing to stop the burning sensation penetrate her soft, delicate skin.
Opening the cutlery drawer carefully, she fumbled through the clatter and commotion of knives and forks, searching not caring if her hand was torn asunder by unseen cutlery. She slammed the draw shut with her free hand, just managing to extract her groping, searching hand, which was holding a packet of cigarettes, badly in need of replacing.
She opened it, mocking the health warning "SMOKING KILLS" There were two left. She took one and lit it on the gas stove, next to the still quietly screeching kettle. Reaching for her mug, she took a drag of the cigarette and a calm tide of gentle coughing reminded her that the warnings on the packets were there for a reason.
Her frustrated mind was calming, but she was still dawdling mentally, desperately trying to eliminate the last embers of emotion from her mind, like a solitary mercenary being hunted; it was only a matter of time. Very quickly she finished the remaining coffee, cigarette in hand, taking in the in smoke at a regular, rhythmic pace.
Energized, she moved back into the study, opening one of the draws below the table, which inside, quite innocently held stationary. Fumbling in the depths of the draw, she slowly but violently cursed when it was found.
A drop of blood trickled from the tip of her index finger, secreting moist, bright blood upon the razor blade she had extracted. Now wedged tightly between fore-finger and thumb, she smiled, a child on Christmas morning. She slowly placed the cold metallic teeth upon her wrist, where a scar haunted her, slowly slicing across in a melancholic symphony that played exclusively in her mind. She winced slightly as she did. It was a reflex that she hated herself for showing to the world.
Blood slowly seeped through the wound, spilling out on to her imperfectly skin, which was marred by scars, old and new. She picked up her watch, conveniently located on the study's table and placed its dark fabric band over the stinging incision. She threw the blade back into the draw, and headed to the bedroom where the phone rang.