A payment due

The room had begun to decay rapidly.

The Writer tried to watch, but the sudden dilapidation of his second-story flat seemed to happen in between movements, in between blinks. There had always been mould and cracks in the paint, but in the past week since he had isolated himself, it had worsened. Black rot had crawled its way up the bathroom walls like a sinister hand, grabbing hold of the tiles and the floor. The bedroom walls were hued by a rusted crimson, the living room was constantly and consistently darkened by a substance not dissimilar to tar. Though the curtains were wide open and welcoming the June sun, the windows were stained. The only light that penetrated the gloom radiated from his monitor in the corner, that stared at him with the intent of a starving beast. He sat on his armchair, staring at the dark walls, feeling the weight pull his eye-lids down, but he resisted. He picked at the arms of his cushioned chair. It too began to feel the effects, fluff and innards spilled out from corners and tears that had not been present seven long nights ago. This was the cost of his pact, and he knew if he slept, it would be much worse when he awoke.

Instead he strode to the kitchen; a grim mess of unwashed dishes and spotted tiles. Flies flew around directionless, and he waved them away idly. He went to the kettle and removed it from its stand with some difficulty, the bottom was sticky and a dark brown. He poured in the water from the tap, and was appalled when it began to run a murky reddish-brown, as if the faucet itself had begun to bleed. He sighed impatiently, and watched the water run over his fingers, feeling the cool liquid drip to the full basin below, but he did not feel refreshed. He set the kettle aside and instead went to the fridge, and grabbed one of the last beers he had. At least that had not decayed, at least not yet. He opened it and drank gratefully from its cool contents. This might not keep him awake, but at least it dulled that constant feeling of dread for a second or two.

As he turned from his kitchen, he passed the front door, which seemed to hold the worst of the decay. It was white a week ago, but now it was coated in the same dark tar that slowly ate its way into his living room. He had tried to open it just three days ago as the claustrophobia had began to rot away at his mind too, but it was futile. He knew the deal by now, it wouldn’t open until the book was finished, none of this would end until he finished writing, and he was running out of time. What a daunting task it was though. Several times a day he sat at the computer, cracked his knuckles dramatically and prepared to write; but he never did. He would suddenly remember to do his laundry, or remember a song that was stuck in the dark corners of his mind that he suddenly had to indulge. Soon the laundry piled up, the dishes remained dirty, the excuses began to halt, and he would just sit, staring into the maw of the monster in front of him. He had no title, no first line, no general idea of what to write. He had begun a few times before at least, but always thrown it away in frustration. He sighed heavily and sat at the computer once again. It was time, this was the time. He slapped at his cheeks and downed the remainder of his beer, and propped it under the desk below him, hearing it clink as it brushed against the others that lay disused on the floor. He was so tired. The blank document stared at him patiently, just waiting for something, anything. He still had seven days left. This was the time, but still he stared at it, watching it slowly turn black.

He awoke sometime later, disorientated, groggy, unsure of where he was. All he could see was a gentle white glow in front of him; an open door, an escape from the invisible hands he could feel grasp his shoulders, his legs, his back, his throat, the hands that pulled, pulled down. He rubbed at his eyes and blinked several times. He had no idea how long he had truly slept for. Time began to blend and meld itself together. Time had no jurisdiction here anymore, there was only himself and the blank computer that stared back into his soul, unyielding. He looked around. The world was so much darker than before. The sun had obviously gone into hiding, and the tar had began to climb even higher. Through squinted eyes he could see the wall behind him had hardened, a new pitch-black skin had grown where it was a light cream before. He shook his head, and stood up. He peeled back the curtains, which too had began to rot. He wiped at the dirty windows and stared into the night beyond. He lived slap-bang in the middle of the city, and from what he could discern, it was a quiet night. He stared out at the city lights, a pale amber glow that stretched beyond. He watched any silhouette that stumbled down the street, hoping for a character to form in his head. His head began to swim with possible ideas and worlds and people, but it was strained, it hurt to force himself that way. His stare had dropped to a heavy gaze that focused somewhere between the filthy carpet and the dying walls, when he heard voices; a commotion that began to happen just outside his building. He pressed his face almost to the glass, trying to get a better view of the arguing couple below. He couldn’t get a good look through the grime, but he could see wild gesticulating and furious pointing. Initially he began to feel irrational anger. Anytime something odd or intrusive happened on this street, it always seemed to be right outside his place of residence. The further he watched, however, the more he longed to be there, with the arguing couple. Shouting, raging, gesticulating. Just experiencing another human being again.

He watched until the couple went their separate ways, one of them shouted after the other, but they did not react. Soon they were gone, and the Writer was alone again. He watched the empty streets, wondering if there was an idea there. An arguing couple could spring-board any amount of ideas. Maybe one was an adulterer, maybe one wasn’t ready for kids yet and disappointed the other. Maybe they were just two friends, one was a Trekkie and the other was a die had Star-Wars advocate, fruitlessly trying to describe the secret merits of the prequels. He rubbed at his eyes again. His mind was stretched. Any idea that came out was a kidney stone, pain and piss from a withered and ruined head. He sat heavily on his rotting sofa, away from the window and computer, his head heavy in his hands. Seven or maybe eight days of this. Struggling and failing. He had to think, he had to. If he didn’t fulfil his end of the deal each and every year.....He would be taken. That was the deal. Success and everything you’ve ever wanted, but  you have to finish the book. It didn’t matter what the book was, or how many spelling errors had been submitted. All he had to was finish it. Failure to finish it though…

The shudder crept up his spine and grabbed him by the base of his skull. He wouldn’t let that happen. He just had to think. Coherently, or as best he could anyway. This was the third year of the pact. He had already written two whole books, so what was the secret to those that he was missing this time? While he enjoyed the fame for most parts of the year, the money had been squandered. A series of bad investments and stupid ideas had left him in what was now, quite literally a hell-hole. He wasn’t even aware of how much time was left. He stood up suddenly. No. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t finish this. Not in a week, not in a hundred weeks. He was going to fail the pact, and he would be taken. Forever.

He lumbered slowly to the bathroom. He turned on the light out of habit, but it barely made a difference. The walls were entirely sprayed in mould, rust, tar and filth. He walked over to the bath/turned shower and stepped into it, not even registering the insects that scurried away from his step and back down the drain. He sat down heavily, fully clothed, in the tub. His eyes were blank, numb to the world around him. He turned on the tap without looking away and the cold water rained from above, and still he lay, not moving, barely even feeling, as his clothes became sodden and soaked. The dirty water ran down the bath. There was something he was missing he was sure of it, but soon he began not to care. Maybe this was for the best. Ride out the last week of his life in this rotting flat, and be pulled down into the depths of the abyss. There was no-one else to blame. He made a decision, a decision to achieve all of his dreams instantly, for a single price, and a single consequence. He wasn’t even that good of a writer. He barely scraped a passing grade in English, and people always laughed at his poetry. He just wanted to prove everyone wrong, and he did, to an extent. Two award-winning books, plenty of royalties. He was a celebrity to many people, a literature rock-star, and he couldn’t even remember the difference between a simile and a metaphor.

He rubbed the cold water into his face. This was it. This was what he deserved. Rash decisions equate to rash consequences, and his were due. He opened his mouth and let the water run down his cracked throat, for as long as possible. Maybe if he drowned himself before the pact was up, he could escape the consequences.

Then, his eyes opened. He choked on the rushing water, and quickly turned it off. He stood up in soaking clothes. He had it.

He quickly ripped off his sodden clothes, threw on his bathrobe and sat down at the computer again, kicking the bottles below wildly. He began to write. His fingers rained down upon the keyboard with a divine fury, and the words flowed, and flowed, and flowed. He had it. He finally had it. By morning, the grey strands of light filtered through into the curtains, and the world was lighter. The tar on the walls began to recede millimetres at a time, and still he wrote. He wrote for days, barely breaking to eat or drink, even when the water began to clear. With less than a day left on his time-limit, he was finished. Sixty-thousand words, in a first draft. He could only hope that he would be allowed to finish the revision. He might have gotten this far without earning his title as a writer, but that would not be the case for this one. No spelling errors, no grammatical errors. This would be the start of his true career, no matter what, he would be sure of it. All he needed was a title. He strode to the windows, the glass had cleared up significantly. He tried to open the window, and for the first time in a fortnight, it lifted. He breathed in the new air gratefully, savouring every bit deep within his lungs. A smile creeped over his dry lips, as he observed the world around him, humans busying themselves with their own lives in their own worlds. The Writer who sold his soul. Had a nice ring to it.

If anyone asked, it was purely fiction.