SNAP - A short horror story by MissyTheMisc

SNAP

...

Jotting, scribbling, writing.

     I remember it well, how the pencil danced in my hands, creating worlds, characters that went on long, marvelous adventures that one could only dream of embarking upon themselves. The rain pounding outside upon my window only added to the immersion as the flames of the lantern on my desk danced in celebration of my project, excited to see my brain child, the results of allowing my imagination to run wild and free like a stallion.

...then, I heard a snap.

     I bit my lower lip, holding in my newfound frustrations that begged to be let out, unleashed upon my living quarters. It was a snap that I knew too well, indicating the sudden and jarring halt of my progress. My pencil, my loyal writing utensil, had broken under my hand's force, it's lead laying disjointed mere millimeters away from the jagged wood.

     "Gah!" I silently growled, pressing the utensil against my desk. It is truly when, in the moment, a writer or an artist feels truly and utterly alive. The racing of their heartbeat, the restricted flow of adrenaline as their piece reaches the crescendo- so, tell me, what can feel worse than suddenly being ripped out of that moment by the lack of paint on a brush, a missed musical note, or a broken pencil?

Over and over, as I walked down the halls of my cabin, did I think about the final words I had halted upon when my pencil broke under the sudden pressure.

     "He entered the hallway, the light of the candle dancing off of the walls like ballerinas  practicing for their next recital. Judging by the peeling wallpaper and the musky odor that tainted the place like ink on a white shirt, the home had not been entered in years. Though, it only added to his excitement- perhaps the treasure within also laid untouched by man as well. This thought kept him going, deeper and deeper into the jaws of the beast, scanning the ceiling f-"

...and that's when my pencil finally gave up its fight.

      I eagerly scanned the main room of my small cabin, looking for a pencil sharpener, a knife, even, just SOMETHING to get me back to my story, back to my creation. I overturned many items, simply shoving them off onto the floor in my desperation to get back to my project. Finally, when my search between my couch cushions and my coffee table turned up fruitless, I set my sights for the kitchen. Without even thinking twice, I scanned eagerly around the place where I prepared all my meals and grabbed my kitchen knife hurriedly, the edge glistening in the light the sudden lightning strike provided through the kitchen window. I... I had to get back to my writing, at any cost.

I needed to see what would happen next.

     Knife in hand, I eagerly went back to my living quarters and sat back at my desk, grabbing the pencil and holding the knife to the triangular edge. I began to hastily whittle away at the wood that was holding the lead of my utensil hostage. It didn't have to be perfect, it just needed to be able to write long without snapping under the pressure. Suddenly, I felt a sharp pain on my index finger as the edge of the blade viciously dug into my flesh, causing it to begin bleeding. I checked my work on my pencil. The carving I did was... grotesque, compared to the previously even physique of the utensil beforehand. However, it was good enough, as I began working through the pain to complete my masterpiece.

"...scanning the ceiling for some kind of opportunity to enter the house's mysterious attic and claim what was rightfully his. The Oxwell family was very wealthy indeed in the 1900's, surely, when they were all slaughtered, the murderer couldn't have known the wealth they were secretly keeping in the attic.

He hoped, anyways.

'Oxwell, where have you hidden your gold?' he whispered to the darkness, the only response being his own breathing. 'I've been searching for years to track down your God-forsaken home, now, where is your momentous wealth?! I do not want some utter fool to piggy-back off of MY success and claim your riches before myself! I have exhibited the dedication, I have gone the miles, now, where is my re-"

...then, I heard a snap.

     I cursed to the heavens above. At this point, I knew, for a fact, that they were enjoying taunting me with such denial of creation. Not only was I myself suffering, but my masterpiece was as well under such delay as, with a deeply burning rage in my heart, I picked up my pencil and began furiously chopping away once more, barely even noticing the dark red splotches that dotted my story and how disgusting they made my work look.

I couldn't bother with the finer details, I needed to get back in.

Eventually, I threw the pencil down in disgust- such setbacks were caused by it, and only it alone. I needed something else, something reliable. A pen? No, I would have to fetch one, and my work would take even longer. Chalk? It doesn't work well on paper.

...I caught another glimpse of my finger again.

I had an idea.

     I grabbed the knife again, eyeing the edge cautiously, chunks of wood sticking on to the steel with my own blood. Just how badly did I want my story to reach its end? How much was I willing to sacrifice so that my brain child may finally be born into a world where people could appreciate it just as much as I had?

More than any "logical" person would.

I shut my eyes tightly as I brought the edge of the blade to my left palm, and, with a quick flick, sliced my hand open, producing plenty of blood to effectively write with. It stung so, so much, but it was all for the story, for the lore. The show must go on! If it doesn't, who will carry the torch? Who will finish my marvelous, marvelous story?!

Dipping my fingers in, I began writing.

"'I have gone the miles, now, where is my reward?!' he cried, falling to his knees, his palms making contact with the musty, old carpet of the mansion. He sat up again and screamed, screamed the loudest, agonizing scream he had ever mustered in his entire life."

I started growing woozy and my living quarters slowly began to spin. I had to finish it, and quickly. Stray drops of red began to fall onto the paper below.

"Finally, he colapsed, tears falling free onto the carpet beloooooow. It was then that he finally realized the teachings off his mentor- to not go chasing waterfalls such as this."

Come on, come on! I'm... running out of time!

"The more he thought, the more it sank in that he had meddddled with powers faaaar beyond his comprehension."

I... feel so... tired...

"'Don't go chasing waterfalls...

"'Because the cycle they're a part of never, ever ends.'"

     I propped myself up on my hands, covered in a sickening crimson red. It was done. My masterpiece was complete. I sat there, reading it over. There were a few mistakes, but that's just part of the process, right? I can... I can fix them later, when I don't feel this exhausted.

     It was then that my hand slipped out from under me, causing my lantern to slip down to the floor and shatter, my butchered pencil following swiftly after. I felt the side of my head come into contact with the corner of my desk. Though, it didn't matter anymore. My life's work was complete. I now had a legacy, no matter how dissatisfied with it I may be. As my body barreled towards the hard wood floor, I was at peace.

...as I hit the ground, I heard a snap.