The last chapter

He looked through the window. It was raining. It was his favorite time to write. He had been working on this novel for a while. He had the writer’s block for weeks now and has been depressed since. But the lazy rain drops on his window surfaced a burning desire to write; he was inspired. He pushed the curtains aside to let the amazing view peek through and ran to his desk. He pulled out his paper novel. He likes to write his stories by hand which infuriated his publisher, but he was a damn good writer, so his way prevailed. He took a deep breath, and plunged into the world that he created.

She slammed the door behind her. It was pouring outside to the like that she had never seen before, but she didn’t care. She was fed up with her family, with everything. She felt trapped in the turmoil called life. Constant arguments, broken dreams, never-ending problems plagued her mind. If it wasn’t one issue, it was the next, like a recycling system that never fails. She ran in the rain blinded by its thickness. She ran just to run as if she could escape her reality. She ran, but in vain. Like a cloud above her, her problems followed her shouting and screaming in her head. And she collapsed. She felt to her knees and cried. She cried bitterness; she cried anger, and she yelled and cursed the sky and all that cowered in its kingdom. And her tears were as thick as the rain drops when they melt on the ground. She was soaked, weary, and alone like a lost soul in a desert. And she thought to herself that her whole life as been a tragedy, like a forced accident, that all of her efforts have been vain, that maybe it was better to quit now instead of hoping to change a future she already knows. So she dragged herself a bit further to a nearby active street and waited. It was impossible to see, she thought as she lay there, and she cried in anticipation of her own demise. But there were no blinding lights, no screeching tires, and no red wine on the pavement; it was just her. And even the rain shyly faded like a mean joke. But her feeling hadn’t fade, her anger still remained. It was now drizzling, the rain drop danced on the pavement as if to mock her. So she got up resigned to a life that she swore wasn’t hers, but as she was leaving, a particular sign caught her attention. She wasn’t where she thought she was, the name of the street she was in was ‘destiny”. She looked around to realize that she was lost. And she was instantly struck by a new conviction, she was hit by a strong realization that she was in control of her life, of her destiny. So she ran, in the rain, she ran. For everything she knew, she ran. And surely she arrived at this beautiful house; the path that she was now convinced she had to take, like an impulse that was greater than raison itself. So she pushed the first door open; she barged in the second door, stood still at the last door and…

The writer stopped and remained silent. He smirked at his own fear, at his own “geniusness”. He took a deep breath and plunged back in.

And she shivered at a last thought, but her anger rose once more and conquered her fears. She had been through the worst, met pain too many times, and her tears are the scars she always wears. Her memories raged inside of her, dwelled in her eyes, in her mind, so she gathered her strength and kicked the door open…

The writer fell off his chair and screamed as he crawled backwards. His door just opened and a lady walked in soaking wet. She stared at him with menacing eyes. He saw hell through them and screamed even louder. But the lady simply walked to his desk, took his paper novel, and walked away.

The end

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