The Perfect Ending

CONTENT WARNING: The following is a work of fiction. It lightly dances around mental health and contains physical violence. While there is no blood or gore, the situations described in this story may be uncomfortable and/or disturbing to readers. Additionally, it covers loss of control and disturbing presences, both of which may be triggering. For these reasons, reader discretion is advised.

CLICK CLACK! CLICK CLACK!

George sat at his computer typing away. He knew it was late and he should sleep - after all, he had work the next morning - yet he couldn't stop typing. He was almost done with his book.

It was the final chapter of his book. His main character had returned home and all he had to do was write what equated to an epilogue.

George knew he shouldn't, knew it would only make him aware of how late it was, but he dared a momentary glance at the corner of his monitor, looking at the time.

The time read 1:43 AM.

CLICK CLACK! CLICK CLACK!

George kept typing, but as he did, he was almost immediately hit with his mistake. A yawn betrayed him, escaping his lips.

No, George had to keep going, he had to keep writing, had to finish this book.

CLICK CLACK! CLICK CLACK!

The keys clicked and clacked as he hammered away at his story. Only for another yawn to slither from his lips.

George was torn. On the one hand, he wanted, no, needed to finish this story, but on the other hand, he wasn't sure how much longer he could stay awake.

Should he just go to sleep? Call it a night? No, he needed to finish this story tonight. He was in the zone, going with the flow, the muse's call moving him to motivation.

Coffee! That was it. George would tear himself away just long enough to get some coffee.

He stood up and walked to the kitchenet of his tiny apartment. He felt his eyelids drooping, felt his limbs weighed down by gravity, calling, begging him to just lay down.

No, he needed to ignore that feeling. He had worked so hard on this book. It had taken up the last three years of his life, and he was finally going to finish it.

George staggered over to his coffee maker.

This wasn't the first time he had worked late into the night. In fact, the further he got into his book, the more late nights he'd had. That's why he had half a carafe of cold coffee sitting there.

But it was all alright. He had gotten...what? Four hours of sleep the night before? Maybe a whole six the night before that? He would be fine.

George got a mug from the cupboard and poured himself a mug.

Normally, he would add sugar and creamer - he couldn't stand black coffee - but he knew that would only make him crash from the sugar. So, he steeled himself, squinted his eyes shut, and downed the cold coffee in one extended pull from the mug.

He made a face upon finishing. It was disgusting, but almost immediately, the jolt from the cold, unaltered coffee made him forget the weariness and weight of his limbs and eyes.

George eyed the carafe, the bitter bite of unsweetened coffee still tingling on his tongue, wondering if he should drink another mug of it.

"Better safe than sorry." George said, already grimacing at the thought.

He poured himself another mug and downed the liquid in one pull again.

"Ack!" George exclaimed before shaking his head and washing out his mug. "Right, back to work."

With that, George went back to his computer.

CLICK CLACK! CLICK CLACK!

George immediately settled in and started typing again.

Yes, yes, this was it. He felt that muse's call once more. Tonight was the night, he could feel it.

George watched as the words typed out on his screen, his fingers flying, typing tenaciously as the words simply poured out onto the screen.

Line by line, page by page, George kept it up, determination and hope brimming inside him.

CLICK CLACK! CLICK CLACK!

It felt good. George hadn't felt this determined in a long time.

He watched as his story progressed closer and closer to those two words: The End.

As he kept typing, he felt guilt tug at the back of his mind. He should sleep, he should rest. He was going to be exhausted at work tomorrow. What if he got fired for giving a lackluster job performance?

So what if I get fired?, a little voice in the back of his head said. This book is an adornment that has absorbed the last three years of your life. And now it will be finished.

George wanted to disagree with the voice, but he knew it was right. Misguided and vain, perhaps, but right nonetheless.

No. No, George should get some sleep. He would finish this tomorrow.

CLICK CLACK! CLICK CLACK!

George tried to move. Yet, as he tried to pry and pull his way apart from the keyboard, he found that his body would not obey.

He tried again, yet despite feeling the strain in his muscles, he found that he could not move.

George started to panic, trying to stand, trying to move, trying to do anything he could to stop typing, yet he found his body simply would not obey.

CLICK CLACK! CLICK CLACK!

George continued to struggle, attempting to find any little thing he could control. He found it.

His eyes. He could move his eyes.

That was the one thing he could control as he was forced to watch himself tip-tap typing away, unable to do anything but watch and type the words out.

George checked the corner of his monitor.

The time read 1:53 AM.

He had only been at this 10 minutes.

George could feel himself hyperventilate, fear creeping and crawling into his heart at the fact that his facilities were not his own.

CLICK CLACK! CLICK CLACK!

His eyes widened as the words whipped across the page, the text typing faster than George had ever managed in his life.

He began to feel the strain in his right hand, the cramp creeping across his palm and up his arm.

Pain surged and struck his nerves on his right hand, yet despite the hint of a grimace across his inarticulate expression, he could not stop.

"Keep going. Finish it. You're almost there." A voice said from just behind George, whispering in his ear.

Who's there? George thought in his mind, unable to express the concern out loud.

CLICK CLACK! CLICK CLACK! CLICK CLACK!

His right hand shook with spasms as his left hand raged with red hot pain, cramps crawling up his left arm.

George felt a tear crawl down his cheek as he checked the corner of his monitor.

The time read 1:55 AM.

That wasn't possible. He must've written half a dozen pages. He couldn't do that in two minutes!

Tears now streamed down his face as pain became him.

His hands, his fingers, his arms - everything from his fingers to his shoulders ached in agony as fire folded around his entire arms.

Please, George begged. Please, let me stop.

Once again, that voice responded, a sinister slither in his ear.

"This is what you wanted. You asked for this. Keep. Going."

George felt his leg muscles tense as he tried to get up, to move to do anything to get away from the intense pain that absorbed him in that moment.

CLICK CLACK! CLICK CLACK! CLICK CLACK!

1:56 AM.

CLICK CLACK! CLICK CLACK! CLICK CLACK!

1:57 AM.

CLICK CLACK! CLICK CLACK! CLICK CLACK!

1:58 AM.

The burning burdened George's mind.

His vision all but disappeared as the pain became too much to handle.

Please. Make it stop. George thought.

And once again, that voice whispered two simple words.

"Keep. Going."

There was no malice to the words. It was a simple command. And George could do nothing but obey.

He needed a distraction, needed to do something, anything, to get away from the physical sensation of the torturous, twisting twangs of the pain.

It's probably nothing, George told himself. This voice is probably in your head. This isn't real. This is a nightmare. You probably fell asleep at your computer and this is just a nightmare about finishing your book. This isn't possible in the real world.

CLICK CLACK! CLICK CLACK! CLICK CLACK! CLICK CLACK! CLICK CLACK! CLICK CLACK!

The pain fogged George's vision, but he pushed through it one last time.

CLICK CLACK! CLICK CLACK! CLICK CLACK!

George forced his vision to clear.

CLICK CLACK! CLICK CLACK!

Was it just him, or was the typing starting to slow?

CLICK...CLACK!

What time was it?

George focused on the corner of his monitor.

The time read 1:59 AM, and the pain pushed back against his vision.

CLICK....................CLACK......

George couldn't withstand it any more. He passed out from the pain.

With a gasp, George lurched awake.

The time read 2:30 AM.

George couldn't help himself. He chuckled.

It was all a dream, He thought.

He had merely fallen asleep at his computer.

At least, that's what he assumed.

He looked up and saw that his book was finished.

Confused, George tried to lean forward and found that searing fire shot up his arms, spasms shivering across his skin.

In that moment, all the pain came back to him, and he felt the fire once more.

His hands gave little twitches mimicking typing motions.

George furrowed his brow and looked up at his computer screen.

The cursor flashed on the finished page, the final page of the book.

George couldn't help himself. He half-chuckled, half-sobbed for several minutes before collapsing from a mixture of exhaustion and pain after reading the last two words in bold beside the blinking cursor at the bottom of the page: The End.