Dead lines

Today’s Daily Prompt – Write about anything you’d like. Somewhere in your post, include the sentence, “I heard the car door slam, and immediately looked at the clock.”

(image courtesy of Google)

The computer screen projected phosphorescent beams of light coating the room in an eerie glow. It had a macabre essence to it but nothing helped to pique my keen sense of the unusual. The walls in the tiny room inched closer to me with every passing second and the absence of any natural light in the small window signaled that the clock read 9:00 pm. I could have sworn it was still morning.

The cursor continued to flash on the screen and only served to remind me that time was ticking. Each flash represented another second gone by with no words to add to the 100,000 needed to finish the project. Being a ghost writer was one thing, being a dead writer was the threat that gnawed on my consciousness. The shackles around my ankles didn’t allow for the normal freedom of movement I needed to change my perspective and allow the creativity to flow. It was a race against time and I was losing the race.

The only way I could keep track of my time spent in this tomb was to count the number of fast food bags that had been delivered to keep me nourished. The remnants of congealed grease and faux-beef were piled in the corner and the stench was nauseating. I had been here for six days. Watching the cursor was hypnotic and the repetition lulled me into sleep.

I awoke in a panic and the clock on the wall slowly swam into focus. It was 3:00 am. I had a mere five hours to creatively articulate his vision and another 40,000 words to write to meet his deadline. The computer woke much faster than I did and I feverishly began to type the words that had followed me from my dream into reality. The word count rose at a rapid pace. There was no time for editing, no time to read anything back to see how the story flowed. I was writing for my life at this point, I don’t think a misplaced comma truly mattered in the grand scheme of my situation. My bladder argued vehemently and I ignored it. That was the least of my worries.

Light slowly filtered through the small window and I checked the word count – 85,400. I was close. I heard the car door slam, and immediately looked at the clock. I had failed. Somewhere at the beginning of this torture, I knew it wouldn’t end well. Many times during my captivity I had wished for a self-destruct button on the computer, or that one little pill that would end it on my terms, but dreams and reality rarely ever meet.

The door opened and light stabbed the floor in jagged patterns. The man responsible for my disgusting diet over the last week hovered over the computer screen to assess my progress. I knew what was coming as he stepped back shaking his head. I had been preparing myself for death for the last seven days. I never even heard the shot.