David Anderson's Blog - Posts Tagged "nightmares"
The Storyteller
I booked into another hotel today, this one a grand old building on the southwest coast, overlooking the beach. I checked in, stored my luggage in my room. I took out the damned notebook and pen and set them on the writing desk located at the foot of my bed.
I went downstairs to the restaurant and had myself a fine meal - a steak, medium-rare, cooked to perfection - and a bottle of vintage wine. Cost me an arm and a leg. I retired to the bar for a digestif and read the broadsheets as I waited for my food to digest.
When I wasn't feeling so bloated, I took a walk around the hotel grounds and along the beach. The wind was bracing but I didn't mind, it freshened me up, focused my mind. I turned up my collar and put my hands in my pockets.
I'm not getting any younger and my knees quickly began to pain me so I returned to the hotel and went to my room. I pulled a parlour chair to the window and admired the scenery. My view looked out to the sea and I watched the waves break against the beach until it was too dark to see them anymore. Fittingly it began to rain. I roused myself from my seat, my knees complaining ferociously, and flicked on the lights. I could no longer put off what had to be done.
I manoeuvred the chair back to the writing desk and sat down. I reached for the notebook and opened it to the first blank page. I tried my best to avoid looking at the handwritten script that filled the opposite page. Having to read it once had been enough. The handwriting was my own, for shame.
I picked up the pen and put it to paper. My hand began to move as if by instinct and words began to pour onto the page. I read them as I went and was disgusted with what my hand was transcribing. Vile words, scenes of torture, sexual depravity, sickening murder, foulness unimaginable.
I am a mild-mannered man, people who know me call me friendly, pleasant, decent. How then can these lunatic words come from the same well-liked man? Do they come from my subconscious or do I channel them from some separate, corrupt individual? I hope for my sake, no matter how implausible, that they are the words of another and not mine.
I write solidly for an hour, filling four, five, six pages in tiny letters. My hand aches from writing but I am powerless to stop its movement. When the words run dry it will stop of its own accord. I have learned this through experience. I simply have to wait this unpleasantness out. The intensity of the rain steadily increases, pounding the windowpane loudly. Each monstrous drop sounds like a child's palms striking the glass. I dare not look to the window for fear of seeing pale, wet faces floating in the darkness.
Finally, mercifully, the pen drops from my hand and clatters to the floor. I bend to pick it up and my back creaks audibly as I do so. I'm not getting any younger. Exhausted, I lift myself from my chair and undress. I slip beneath the covers of the bed and fall asleep, lulled by the rain that had until recently terrified me so.
I enjoy a dreamless slumber. I cannot vouch for the other guests who share the hotel with me.
I went downstairs to the restaurant and had myself a fine meal - a steak, medium-rare, cooked to perfection - and a bottle of vintage wine. Cost me an arm and a leg. I retired to the bar for a digestif and read the broadsheets as I waited for my food to digest.
When I wasn't feeling so bloated, I took a walk around the hotel grounds and along the beach. The wind was bracing but I didn't mind, it freshened me up, focused my mind. I turned up my collar and put my hands in my pockets.
I'm not getting any younger and my knees quickly began to pain me so I returned to the hotel and went to my room. I pulled a parlour chair to the window and admired the scenery. My view looked out to the sea and I watched the waves break against the beach until it was too dark to see them anymore. Fittingly it began to rain. I roused myself from my seat, my knees complaining ferociously, and flicked on the lights. I could no longer put off what had to be done.
I manoeuvred the chair back to the writing desk and sat down. I reached for the notebook and opened it to the first blank page. I tried my best to avoid looking at the handwritten script that filled the opposite page. Having to read it once had been enough. The handwriting was my own, for shame.
I picked up the pen and put it to paper. My hand began to move as if by instinct and words began to pour onto the page. I read them as I went and was disgusted with what my hand was transcribing. Vile words, scenes of torture, sexual depravity, sickening murder, foulness unimaginable.
I am a mild-mannered man, people who know me call me friendly, pleasant, decent. How then can these lunatic words come from the same well-liked man? Do they come from my subconscious or do I channel them from some separate, corrupt individual? I hope for my sake, no matter how implausible, that they are the words of another and not mine.
I write solidly for an hour, filling four, five, six pages in tiny letters. My hand aches from writing but I am powerless to stop its movement. When the words run dry it will stop of its own accord. I have learned this through experience. I simply have to wait this unpleasantness out. The intensity of the rain steadily increases, pounding the windowpane loudly. Each monstrous drop sounds like a child's palms striking the glass. I dare not look to the window for fear of seeing pale, wet faces floating in the darkness.
Finally, mercifully, the pen drops from my hand and clatters to the floor. I bend to pick it up and my back creaks audibly as I do so. I'm not getting any younger. Exhausted, I lift myself from my chair and undress. I slip beneath the covers of the bed and fall asleep, lulled by the rain that had until recently terrified me so.
I enjoy a dreamless slumber. I cannot vouch for the other guests who share the hotel with me.
