Blocked

            by Sarah Woodard

 

The pen is glaring at me, its black ink craving to ooze out of the metal tip. But I wont let it, I can’t let it. I manage to lift my arm, which weighs about ten times their usual self in these situations, and clasp my fingers around its smooth metallic shell. Up we go, remove the cap press it to the clean white paper. Blotch. That is all I am able to achieve these days. I lay the pen on the paper but nothing ever happens. A puddle of ink forms while my eyes glaze over into the far reaches of my imagination. Nothing. Except for a black dot on the paper. Some may consider this black dot a bad omen, but I just think of it as my mind. A black abyss craving to be cleaned and gone through, organized and ready to go. I put down the pen. This is hopeless. The concept of writers block is something that everyone fears. Or at least I hope I am not alone in trepidation. Will it ever end? I open the dark wooden desk drawer to my right and place the contaminated paper with all the others. No use to me if they cant inspire.

It has been three months now. Sitting at my desk attempting to write a masterpiece but getting nothing more then grocery lists and black ink marks. The only conclusion I have come up with is that my life is out of inspiration.  It is basic and uneventful. A whisper of a knock at the door, here he comes. I slowly rise from my thoughts and open the door. “Hey honey sorry to interrupt but I was wondering if you wanted to get some lunch at some point?” my husband says cautiously.

“I think I’m going to pass thanks, I have a lot of work to do here,” I tried to make myself seem busy.

“Oh ok are you sure? I can bring you something back?”

“Yeah I’m ok, I’m at this really intense part I need to be fully concentrated but thanks anyways!” I lied.

“That’s great you think you’ll be done soon?”

“Probably in a month or two I’m really on a role! Bye hon,” I have become a pro at lying. But who is to say I was ever bad at it. To be a writer you need to be a good liar. Or is that to be an actor? Why can’t I think straight!

I slowly make my way back to the comfort of my chair. It is painted a deep purple with puke yellow flowers infesting the whole thing. It’s the ugliest piece of furniture in the whole house, yet it has become my favorite. It is covered in personality and has never failed me until now. I reenter my trance I was in before my husband interrupted my concentration. The pen, its still sitting there staring, wanting me to put it to good use, yet somehow my hand decides otherwise. It won’t budge from its content spot on my thigh.

Will this winter ever end? I am done hibernating I want it to be spring. I need to wake up and lift that god-forsaken pen and write! I slowly open the drawer full of broken attempts. Take them out of their cave and go through them. Sheet after sheet of nothing. I never knew how capable I was of wasting paper. The door creaks open, damn husband doesn’t know how to close a door properly. He doesn’t have any sense of privacy. It took years to train him to NEVER enter my workspace without knocking first. I need my space my time my mind. A burst of cold air enters the room. “MEEOOOOOOOWWW.”

“Fuck,” I respond to my cat

“Meeeeeeeooooooowwwwwwww,” he screams back to me

“He forgot to feed you again didn’t he?”

“Meoow,” he agrees. Right when I’m about to get somewhere I get interrupted. This is a classic circle of irony. I stand up slightly frustrated with having to do a chore. I walk the nine steps that it takes to get across the room and join Gatsby as he leads me to his precious food bowl. As I walk through the doorway I feel as if I am journeying into another dimension. The air is less stuffy, the walls are brighter, and the pictures on the wall of our wedding day stare at me. I wore a white dress, a pretty dress. I never dress like that. I don’t recognize the woman on the wall. I walk further down the hallway, there I am. My light brown hair has become tangled and full of rats nests, my clothes are sweat stained and wrinkled. The expression on my face is… unusual, but familiar. I stare into my deep brown eyes searching for something, but for what? I bought the mirror at a garage sale for $5 but I would have paid more, it is gorgeous bordered with sea green tile and pebbles. But the best part about it is the truth. It doesn’t lie to me. “MEOOOOW.”

“I’m coming!”

He leads me further down the hallway past all the doors until we reach the last one. I open it and there right in front of me is his food bowl. And right next to that is a bird. A dead bird, oozing blood from its neck with a crooked beak and a bed of feathers surrounding the body. I feel a wet spot on my cheek. A tear. Am I really crying over this bird? One dead bird lying on the floor of my house hopeless and gone. I look into its beady eyes nothing, not a single story behind them but cat food. The tears stop. How can I mourn this animal if it doesn’t have life left in his eyes?

My stomach hurts. It must be hunger. I don’t think I have eaten anything in three days. Maybe four. Why bother now? No food until I can write a word a single word on a damn piece of paper. One word that means the world to me, all I am asking for is one, just one. I sit back down in my chair. This time it is next to the window. It gives me something new to stare at. The world, people walking by, inspiration. The sky is gloomy and the plants in the front yard are wilting. No people have walked by yet. Still no one. No one. I wonder how much time has gone by. But I haven’t looked at a clock in days; I don’t even know what day it is. A bird! Fuck I forgot about the dead bird. My husband will get it when he comes home. Is he home? I haven’t heard him.

Maybe I should shift my view, outside has become nothing more to me than the blank piece of paper. Nothing has a story behind it. Nothing has life. Except this room. I love this room, everything about it I love. It is my home it is my story and my life. I turn around and look at the one place I can call home. The once white wallpaper is peeling off the walls and turning yellow. But that is a good thing. It’s used, old and creative. There are no black dots on it but stories and words instead. Time seems to go by so quickly which is funny because I am doing nothing but staring at a wall. A beautiful happy wall but a wall. Images begin to form on the white. They flash for a moment but then disappear before I get the chance to see them.

There it was again. A picture. What was it? If only it lasted a moment longer I could figure it out. I just need to see it. The sun has set and the room has become dark without a warning. I sit there unable to take my eyes off of the wall. It stares back at me. Challenges me to look away. The moment I do the pictures will be there. I just know it. I will win this battle. I have to win this battle.

 That innocent little knock again. Why can’t he just leave me alone? Isn’t it obvious I need to be alone? I need to see what the wall is telling me. I just know it is something important I know that when I see it I will once again know how to make pen and paper one. If I ignore it maybe he will go away. There is it again. IGNORE it. Do not look away from that wall! Whatever happens I cannot look away until I see what it is hiding from me, see what wants to come out. The wall has become evil, it has turned on me. The pictures aren’t though they want to escape the prison in which they are being kept. They want to show themselves to me and when they do I will be there to see them. “Hon are you okay in there?” he says through the door. Obviously I don’t want to talk to him so why does he even try? He loves me so much and I love him too. But in this room, he doesn’t exist. In here it’s only the desk, the chair, that wall, and me.

I hear his feet slowly shuffling away. Finally I am alone again. I just need to concentrate I know that if I can just see those pictures I will know what to write, I will have an epiphany life will be clear again. The pain in my stomach is returning, I have to fight it just like I’m fighting this wall. I will prevail against them.

I saw it again. A moment ago that flash of imagery. What was it? Only one more time I know I can catch it I just know it. A lot of time must have gone by, the lights are off in the rest of the house as far as I can tell, and cars have stopped driving up and down the street. Any minute now I will see it. I just know I will. Any minute now. Soon I will see it soon. I have to see it, I need to know! I need this life to end! I need to go back to normal! I NEED TO BE FREE FROM THIS PRISON!

I can feel them again, wet tears straining down my face. They are starting to blur my vision. This will not do. It is imperative that I can be able to see perfectly incase the picture shows up again. They keep rolling down my face and continue down my neck into my shirt. All these tears taking over my face, I have no control. It would seem I have no control over anything anymore. Especially my tears. My vision is not improving. I could have sworn I saw the images again, but I just couldn’t see well enough because of those fucking tears. Why don’t they just go away? What are they doing here? They are unwanted and unnecessary.  I am just fine. “GO AWAY.”

They don’t listen. They seem to be as stubborn as their owner. No matter I can live with them. I have learned to see past the water in my eyes. “I can still see you,” I told him that dreary wall. “I am sitting here waiting, watching you, I know what you are up too.”

He knows I’m on to him. He doesn’t respond though. Not even a whisper. Is he ignoring me? I have been sitting in front of him for hours and he thinks he can ignore me? I will teach him to ignore me. I need to see those pictures. They are trapped and I have to set them free. Slowly I rise from my chair careful not to look away from him. Otherwise he will get me. I will lose and he will win and destroy me. I walk over to him staring at him in the eyes, or what I think are his eyes. Two places where the wallpaper has been torn off. I raise my surprisingly light arm to him and start to claw my way through. I need to get through to those pictures and teach him to treat me like this. I keep working on him longer and longer, tears keep streaking down my face but there is nothing I can do about them. I know I am getting to him there is red showing up where I have been attacking. I am winning, he is bleeding. More and more of the wallpaper is coming apart and even pieces of the wall himself. I can almost grasp the images getting closer and closer, there is red everywhere now I must be close. I will get there very soon I am sure of it. Almost there. I hear a loud noise coming from somewhere but I am unable to place it. Is it coming from outside? Is it he mourning in my triumph? It sounds like someone is in pain. It must be him with all of the red blood streaking down his face. My tears continue falling.

There is loud knocking, this is new. I am way to busy to answer the door. “HONEY ARE YOU OK? IM COMING IN!”

I ignore his screams. Why would I not be ok? I am wining I am going to see those pictures. Those images so soon! I know they are there somewhere. I keep digging further and further into him and I know soon he will give up and let me see them. It is imperative that I see those images! They came to ME! They want ME to see them. “STOP,” I scream.

“OH MY GOD!” my husband screams.

I am unable to pay attention. I have no idea why he is overreacting. I am getting this wall I am almost done and he will show me the pictures soon I just know it. My husband should be happy for me! I feel something tugging at my waist. “STOP IT,” I yell to the attacker. I have no idea who or what is it. But I have no time to waste I am very busy right now. They don’t give up they keep pulling me and I am forced to fight back. They are too strong. They pull me down onto the floor. It is my husband. “What are you doing?” I demand, “I am very busy right now!” the tears wont go away. It must make me look upset. I need to make him understand that I am not upset. I am happy. I am so close to knowing what they are. I have beaten the wall and I will see those images any minute now. If only my husband would let go of me.

“Baby its ok I’m here for you don’t worry I’ll take you to the hospital,” He soothingly says. Although I have no idea what he is talking about. Hospital. There is no need for a hospital what is he talking about? I look at the wall covered in red and the wallpaper torn into pieces. There is no picture. I can’t see anything but red and white blurs. Those tears keep ruining my view. My hands hurt. I look up into my husband’s eyes, he is so scared. He looks so worried, but why? What have I done? I look down at my hands; they are covered in blood, my blood. I will not be able to pick up a pen for weeks.