her hand. Shaking with rage, she pointed the weapon at Charles.
“Typical,” he muttered as she shot him in the chest. Charles watched with disinterest as the hot blood spurt from the gaping wound and stained his white garments. As he shook his head in dismay, the wound closed, and the woman disappeared. Charles’ clothes returned to their previous immaculate state.
“Battle!” he cried suddenly, leaping from his chair. Another idea had struck him. The walls melted away, revealing a vast landscape with two armies locked in deadly combat. The sickly sweet stench of sweat and gore filled Charles’ nostrils, and the screams of dying warriors entered his ears.
Charles appeared in the midst of it with an iron sword in hand, which he twirled expertly to slay opponent after opponent. A comrade of his fought near him, slaughtering the assailants with equal efficiency. Still, more continued to enter the fray, until Charles and his partner were surrounded.
“Good luck,” Charles said, raising his blade in anticipation of a charge.
Then, an agonizing pain blossomed in his chest. Charles felt his legs weaken and then fail, and he collapsed with a dull thud. His vision blurred, but he could still see his own blood mixing with dirt on the ground.
“Sorry, Charles,” said his comrade, withdrawing the rapier from Charles’ back. Darkness enclosed Charles, and gradually the sounds of melee faded away.
He was back in the white room.
“Far too cliché…” he said, shaking his head.
His quill vibrated gently, drawing his attention. It began to rise into the air, making a low humming noise. It slowly rotated, until the sharp tip faced Charles.
“The quill betrays the author,” said Charles breathlessly. The quill shot forward, burying itself deep into Charles’ neck. Blood erupted from his mouth, spilling onto the floor and parchment. In desperation, he seized the quill and pulled it from his neck.
All noise ceased.
Charles dipped the bloodied quill into the ink, and began to write.
05-Jun-2011 21:09:35
