The Writer

One

A crisp clean white page stared at Leonid Pall from the metal framework of his Remington Typewriter. If Leonid didn’t know any better, he could swear the page was mocking him in his father’s voice. “Your last play was awful, what gives you the right to waste more paper on your worthless musings?”

Leonid opened the drawer of the sturdy desk he used in his office, reached in, pulled out a bottle of Scotland’s finest, unscrewed the cap and poured the amber liquid into the mug that was a permanent resident of his desk. Placing the bottle back in the drawer, for fear of draining it dry, he looked back at the page and sighed.

It didn’t used to be this hard, when he was younger, the ideas flowed like water, and everyone said he was destined for great things. Everyone was right, and great things did happen to Leonid Pall; he had written twelve plays so far, with the first seven being of exceptional quality and performed on a regular basis to high commercial success. However, one particular bad thing had happened to Leonid Pall, the worst thing that could have happened, and the most pain a person can endure; outliving their own child.

Leonid blamed himself everyday for his son’s death, after all, if Leonid had of been sober that night, his brother wouldn’t have had to drive the car. After the accident, and to this day Leonid told his wife that he didn’t remember much from the crash except that their son died instantly and didn’t suffer. That however, was a lie.

Leonid remembered everything as if it had happened moments ago, his brother swerving to miss something on the road, then the deafening silence and weightlessness that he experienced when the car veered off the cliff. Then even the alcohol couldn’t subdue the pain that shot through Leonid’s body, as the car crumpled in on them all.

Leonid had been in the back of the car, and once the car had stopped, wedged in a rock at the bottom of a ravine, he was able to force open the door and managed to crawl away from the wreck to catch his breath, and get his bearings. For the briefest of moments, Leonid focused on the pain in his left arm and had forgotten about his family in the car. Suddenly, he thought of them, and as he sat there on the cool ground, cradling his arm, he could just make out his son’s voice calling to him, before fire engulfed the car, burning Leonid’s brother and son alive. To this day, Leonid could hear their screams when he was alone.

After the accident, Leonid’s creative side suffered. The drama’s he was known for were a confused mess and each play Leonid submitted was worse than the last. His last play, the twelfth one, had just been put on at the Loki Theatre, and was a terrible production. Pall had lost all faith he had in his writing ability, and now he spent his days staring at the page that was in his typewriter.

Leonid stared at the page and picked up his mug. He wouldn’t get any work done today, not with the dark thoughts that swam around his head. He looked at the liquid as he swilled it around in the mug, and wondered what his wife would say if she saw him drinking again. He had promised after all to stop, but he’d promised a lot of things the past few years and with that thought in his mind he raised the mug to his lips and embraced the cloudy nothingness that would follow.