The Right

The Right

His fingers flying, he was a machine, Lewis traversed the keyboard he felt the words flowing through his fingertips, without him giving a single conscious thought towards what he was writing.

As the minutes turned into hours and the story was born, birthed into a life of its own, until, like a child even if he wanted to change it he wouldn’t be able to retype a single word. He couldn’t eat, sleep, or even take a small break to get the kinks out of his legs; he wouldn't be able to move until the story had its way with him.

He was full of demons, each one gripping him in it’s possession until he found the right combinations of words to exorcize it, setting it loose upon the world to ravage somebody else. It was born, let it fly like it was always destined to do.

Lewis had been a writer since before he was old enough to hold a pencil, when he was three years old, he used to spin long stories, which he would tell each night to his two older brothers, as they would lie in bed each night waiting to drift into sleep.

And each night like clockwork, his oldest brother Mark, would wake up drenched in a cold sweat, screaming trying to let loose the grip of a nightmare. Until it got to the point where their mother had to put Mark into counseling, and separate them at night.

Lewis never understood where his stories came from, many times he would be in a restaurant or talking to somebody on the subway and in mid-sentence he would blank out, he would still be talking but his mind was far from wherever he was.
He would be discussing the stock market crash, and the economy, but in his mind he was general fighting back an invading army trying to take over Wall Street, or fighting rabid bears running through New York.

It would just wash over him like a tidal wave, to the point where he felt gidy on his feet, and if he closed his eyes he could actually feel the sensation of the water coursing down his skin, the stories consumed him, he was one with the stories.

If he was able to think clearly he should be wondering why his back wasn’t cramping up on him, how he never got hungry. It wasn’t uncommon for him to spend two days in front of his computer, until the final page came out of the printer, and he collapsed exhausted and used, weary but strangely exhilarated.

As his soul crumbled into sleep, the demons which once would rampantly course through his veins, suddenly eerily quiet, the ensuing peace rejuvenating to his mind, while he slept dreaming beautiful dreams.

As each story went to the publishers, he knew what to expect when the telephone rang, and the editor was bitching on the other end of the line, he said each book was worst then the last.

Lewis though, didn’t write to please his editor, he didn’t write to please anybody but himself, and every time Lewis told him as much, and he was perfectly free not to publish it.

Waking up he made himself brew a pot of coffee, and then sat down to read his manuscript, it was one of the few pleasures he had, for each time he turned a page he was reading the words for the very first time.

Each page would begin anew the anxiousness he felt, for he would begin to remember what he held inside of him.


And then he would begin to change.

Lewis could feel the floorboards beneath his chair begin to groan, as if they were beginning to strain from added pressure, and as he looked down at his hands he saw them turning bluish green like they weren’t getting enough blood flowing to them, watching as they begun twisting and deforming themselves until they looked like talons.

Not noticing as the pages of the manuscript scattered from his lap until they covered the floor like a cheap throw rug, he could feel his heartbeat pounding in his ear drums faster and faster until it was beating an arrhythmic rendition of impending death.

Hearing the scream welling up in his throat long before it spewed from him, a long eerie banshee’s wail, which would send shivers through the most stoic heart.

The small part of him which was left hidden inside was terrified at the thought of what was to come next.

Standing up his scream was filled with the lust of rage when his head smashed into the ceiling, ripping down the chandelier, illuminating the tiny shards of glass exploding around him, as he burst through the front door into the torrential downpour which had begun to fall.

Not knowing where he was going he strode with confidence, down the deserted city streets, looking for somebody, and he knew he would sense it when he drew close.

The rain felt cool on his hot skin, and barely perceptible over the splattering raindrops was the ticking sound of his toes on the slick concrete. He was on the hunt, and he wouldn’t rest until he was done.

Walking tirelessly at a brisk pace, there was but one thought on his mind, to satisfy the anger welled up inside, there was a thirst draining him, which only redemption could quench.

Lewis never saw where he was headed, so when he walked into the front door of his publishers, to the gargled screams of the lonely desk clerk working this late hour, the thought flashed through Lewis' mind to kill him, but he wasn’t the one, so unless he threatened Lewis he would live.

Wandering through the corridors sniffing, smelling, tasting the air; he had drawn close, he knew it.

Noticing the way his overgrown toenails almost hissed as he climbed the steps, towards the second floor, his eyes were alive with a dull throbbing red, pressure in his skull growing stronger and stronger; the pain intense.
Playing in the back of his mind like a slideshow were images, almost premonitions of what was coming, he could see clearly now the face of the hunted, and he knew their crimes, he was close for he had the taste of flesh on his tongue.

Bearing down on a closed doorway towards the end of the brightly lit hallway, he began walking slowly, needlessly conscious of the noise he was making, it didn’t make any difference whether or not he was given away, for once Lewis got to the end of the hallway, there was nowhere left to run, he had him.

Behind the closed door he could hear drawers being opened and slammed closed, somebody was in a hurry, but they weren’t going to leave anytime soon.

The pain almost unbearable now, longed to be soothed, sent back to the deepest bowels of hell from whence it came.

Hearing someone cursing he began to feel lightheaded almost giddy, but time was of the essence, he knew the clerk at the front desk would be on the phone to the police the second he walked past him, so Lewis knew he did not have the time to savour this before he had to be out of the building or the police would kill him, they would take one look at him, shoot first and then forget about him.

Hearing something slamming from directly on the other side of the door, Lewis didn’t slow down as he threw his weight against the door, exploding the brittle wood of the frame, and slamming the door into the occupant of the room.

The man, a look etched onto his face, pure terror, at this demon standing over him clutching a sheaf of papers to his chest, like a shield, his mouth agape, open in a breathless scream.

Towering above this creature, Lewis was standing nearly eight feet tall when he stood straight up, his shoulders spanned nearly five.

Still screaming the man looked into the utter blankness of Lewis’s eyes, except for the occasional flicker of what could be called black fire; there was no soul behind those eyes, his skin so grizzled and thick it looked impenetrable.

As Lewis lurched forward, throwing his hand out to pick him up, the man skittered backwards, attempting to find fruitless refuge. With one step Lewis caught him, picking him up with the ease of a mother carrying a newborn child, slamming him into the filing cabinet with such fury, all that could be heard was the sickening wet sound of bones cracking, the mans screams dying into a hoarse whimper.

Lewis hovering before him, his massive countenance a scant centimeter from the colorless tear stained jowls of the blubbering man, screamed why. . . over and over until the mans silence continued to infuriate him.

Grabbing the sheaf of papers still clutched within his grasp, he shoved it in his face, Lewis pointing to his name on the copyrighted work, still screaming why. . . why did he steal his work.

Holding the man at arms length the man saw Lewis’s eyes turn from empty nothingness into cold blue steel as a sound of a tortured animal emanated from him. Lewis looking towards the ceiling, feeling the infinite madness washing over him as he was rocked by rage and pure unadulterated elation, threw the man down, grabbing him by the head squeezing until the bone gave way; imbedding itself in the soft tissue of the brain.

Dropping him he threw the copy of his book on his chest, and said why. . You didn’t have the right, as Lewis disappeared into the night.