text: &#x200B; Pretend People are watching you this is the truth. The accumulation, the accolades tell a story that he can. That he has done. Complete and yet he bleeds dying in a bedroom. The cost was steep. Pretend people were out to get him and this time one shot him in the chest. This is his story, the story of Ladle. Could any of this have been prevented, it didn't matter. He was running out of time, his life force was fading, he wanted to do what he had always done and yet there was a resistance. He could feel the energy exhaling leaving through the gaping hole in his chest. He no longer had a heart it was blown to smithereens. Disappointment after disappointment, it brought him here. In this bland bedroom full of his filth his shame. He remembered what it was like to feel a desire, a wanting, it hit him like a brick. If desire were a color, it would be red, and the once bland room was now full of it. Red painted the floors, the bed it covered the trash his clothes and even his body. But was it too late? ========================================= It all started with a brand-new house, a brand-new bedroom. It was an ordinary room but perfect for a bed. It offered a clarity, this bedroom. Safety for the lucky buyer. That buyer was none other than Ladel. He paid in full and bought the house but really only bought the bedroom. He could care less about the rest of the rooms; they were merely there to insulate the one room he cared about. The room he'd do what he always did. He decided to furnish it with a big king size bed, one night stand and a lamp, his bed garnished with red blankets. He wasn't particularly fond of red. But it fit added contrast to the brown walls. This was a humble beginning for an aspiring writer. Ladel was a loner. He did what he had to, to survive or maybe he didn't but who cares. We already know how this ends. Anyway one-night Ladel stared at the laptop that caressed his lap. It sat there only seeming to offer heat to his genitals, and the white screen glazed his eyes. It was bright. Ladel every night including this night hardly ever wrote a thing, He would type and erase, sometimes he'd craft a short story though these were rare, or he'd create a character like a Patty, an elegant woman but lacking in social skills or maybe a Frank an idealist stuck in his head. All the while, he was a living neglect. Over time this neglect was bleeding into all the areas neglect bleeds. His frustration from his inability to write was starting to build. He stroked the scar that covered his heart and moaned "Help meeee" Help meee" a strange vague smile had lit his half dead face. He followed by kicking his legs as if he was swimming under his blanket. He kicked a pizza box off onto his dirty clothes that caked the floor of his bed. "Where are the words? The capacity, the colors, instead I'm gifted with mouth rot and work that resembles the carcass of a dead dog named spork.'' He tried to sound clever but knew that he wasn't. He stroked his scar on his chest once more as time seemed to pass, ultimately nothing. He put down his computer and laid there, he started to ruminate over the negativity, that had struck him. His procrastination, the guilt of unfinished art, stifled him. And yet he dreamed of being great it was in his body in his blood. He imagined now being called a failure he could hear it, much like the stories the ones he loved the ones that always ended in failure. He loved a man coming close, but the man must never make it. He felt this too should be his destiny. "I haven't even come close, disgusting". he said aloud. He could feel the judgment, people are watching me he thought. He pulled his computer out once more and wrote people are watching me. He hoped for the inspiration and howled. "Help meeeee Help meeeee" Another lesser smirk hit his face. This time he heard his calling, he heard it loudly as if it were real. Was it real? "You were meant to fail; disappointment has brought you here". Startled, Ladel was gripped by the text on his computer. "People are watching you". He could feel the honest truth behind the sentence, he tried to soften it he wrote Pretend people are watching. This is the truth. It didn't matter, pretend or not, the man was right he was meant to fail. Ladel closed his computer slightly he sat up turned his lamp on. He thought he was dreaming. The words pretend people are watching he could feel it echo almost to the core of his soul. His heart began to pound. He was breathing heavy now. He looked around his room what was once a home was now a dungeon, it was a place of despair a battle ground, of filth disgust anguish. He knew it, and all could see. He wasn't sure what had happened. He thought for a minute maybe he summoned a demon or the devil. He screamed as loud as he could. "Help meeeeee help meeee". This time no smirk had come only stillness and wide eyes. Every sound the ruffling of wrappers the movement in his bed was heightened by the increased awareness. Ladel could feel the inevitable. He could feel it coming, he had nowhere to go so he immersed himself back into his computer one more time. For once He wrote and he told the story of Ladel, the writer with all his trophies and accolades, the one that can and the one that has. The man who dies coming so close. He then closed his computer, watched the stranger enter his room. The man carried a pistol "I know you know this, but you were meant to fail. Disappointment has brought me to you. Just know I don't feel I have no heart I just simply act." The stranger said he got in real close. Ladel closed his eyes. ================================================================================================================================================================================================================== The accumulation, the accolades tell a story that he can. That he has done. Complete and yet he bleeds dying in a bedroom. The cost was steep. Pretend people were out to get him and this time one shot him in the chest. This is his story, Ladel.