The page was empty. I was sure I already filled it out, but no, it hadn’t come true. What was going on here? Looking back up at the eyes of my classmates. Their eyes filled with curiosity as if I was building up to a slow burn with my first paragraph. Fuck, I didn’t really remember it, but I was a bestselling author, for god-sake. An Idea sprouted out something to get me first place. I mean, this was high school still.
My mind fell silent. Every thought I attempted to grasp dissolved into a chaotic blur. Think of something…think of something…think of something. It was hopeless. The increase in pressure was becoming coal to my furnace, scorching my body to an unimaginable degree.
“Is there something wrong? Mr. Anderson,” the question startled me, causing me to leap back. “Uh, um, no, no, just trying to set the mood and get into character.” I finished.
The word fraud scattered and echoed through my skull, just a fraud, repeating over. The crazy part was as many times as I repeated it, it would appear over and over onto the page, staining itself in black ink. As if it was teleporting from my head to the page in an instant. Forget it, just take it one sentence at a time.
“Schizophrenia,” I said confidently, is the title of the story, and as I took a breath, I felt the weight on my shoulders lift. The thought of writing being fun crossed my mind. “So it starts with a man that’s trapped in a room, trying to come up with his next best hit, but comes up short.” The next twenty minutes were used to retell the recent events that had happened into a cohesive story. My talent flourished, stretching the truth up a bit and cramming in a twist, ending it off with a question mark. “As he entered the room, a wall painted with pages but not only random pages but the carcass of his book. Crossed out, marked in, edited throughout each page, covering each inch of the walls, ceilings and floor. A nightmare is an understatement. The End,” a smirk had appeared.
A flood of cheer, excitement, and questions filled the air.
Reaching my seat, the students sitting nearby greeted me with compliments.
“Okay, okay everyone, enough speaking. Now finish your review sheet and pass it to the student whose story captivated you the most,” Mrs. Peters instructed.
My confidence had resurfaced. This was what the doctor ordered. I needed something to get the creative juices flowing. Even if it was from a class full of high schoolers. With that, a line of students dropped note after note on my desk, but before I read them, my note generously went to the underwater haunted house story. Interesting plot, but characters could use some work.
After getting back to my desk, I gleefully picked at the notes, like a hungry vulture ready to absorb each compliment.
Excitement doesn’t even describe it; my mouth was already salivating, eagerly awaiting the flood of positive reviews. Honestly, I needed this more than anything else. This felt important to me. After the success of my first book; the next thing I wrote needed to be short… something quick to continue receiving the dopamine. A big grin grew over my face as I grabbed the first note. Picture me, with a grin on my face and anticipation in my eyes, just like a child about to dig into a bag full of Halloween candy.
After turning over the first note, I felt fear and dread wash over me as someone had scribbled “fraud” violently. I turned to face the classmate behind me and saw a devilish grin, but their mouth was stretching past its limits. Each note got more aggressive and more hostile towards my writing, with words forced violently on them saying impostor, fake, unoriginal, plagiarized. Now multiple students joined in with their devilish grin all staring and now grinning in sync, including my teacher. What the hell was going on here? My heart skipped a beat, and the room felt like it was spinning. Was the room getting warmer or was this classroom’s critique getting more twisted?
Each student started laughing more and more calling out to me, “the story is so bland and unoriginal, I'm pretty sure he took this from A show, Yeah you can really tell this is his first time writing, sloppy stuff Jake, Just give up with writing if your coming up with shit like this.” 
This was agonizing. The air was shrinking. Not even my nightmares were this harsh. Their tone had been rising. Now they were closing in on me, still criticizing the story, throwing notes and notes of criticism. Everything was getting blurry. My breathing was out of control. I cannot contain my anxiety. An exit. There has to be a way out of here. My chest is hurting. Mrs Peters just stood there with this menacing glare. The stare had this look of utter disgust, like I was a rodent who crawled through the cracks and had accidentally made its way into the classroom looking for food.
With a burst of anger, I tossed my desk towards the rear door, criticizing everything in sight. Eventually, I reach the door and forcefully open it, then promptly closed it behind me, making sure it was firmly shut. The click of the lock echoed. The room was dark, but I made it out. What the fuck was all that? It was like it was a memory that turned sour. This was not how I remembered it. It started out familiar. Maybe that was the only way to lower my guard, but then again, how do I know if any of this is actually real? For now, I had to figure out where I was at.
Unable to see anything, I navigated the room tentatively, my hands outstretched, searching for any object to provide a sense of direction, all the while plagued by the fear of an unexpected encounter. One step at a time, anything could be in here. It was quiet too quiet enough for my thoughts to be heard. Inching deeper and deeper through the void, but it still wasn’t getting me anywhere. My chest was getting tighter. A panic attack was just around the corner. Maybe I should go back. Ok, let’s see if I can retrace my steps. Let me just turn around, but the disorienting sensation tells me I’m facing the wrong way. Where did that door go? Was I fucked? Wait, I feel something smooth and cold. It’s a wall. My fingers traced through the cool surface, and felt something like paper. My hands will continue replacing  my vision till they find either a knob or light switch.
Scribbling sound
My body froze, chest grew tighter and heart pounded louder. It sounded as if someone was here. Fuck me. There was a violent, forceful clash of pen and paper behind me. Fear had paralyzed my limbs, move…you need to fucking move. My body slid down, back hugged the wall. Sweat was falling from the tip of my nostril. I quietly placed my left foot on the side. Step by step, my prayers grew more desperate, hoping to find any means of escape from the presence of whoever or whatever was with me.
Scribbling sound
It was still writing. Despite the complete lack of visibility, this person’s determination to write was clear, their pen moving swiftly as they captured their thoughts. I felt a sudden shift, a flicker in the air. Reluctantly, I hesitated to disturb them. But what if I find a switch before the doorknob? What if there was no door to escape through, trapping me in this suffocating darkness? It became my only shield, shielding me from the unknown horrors lurking within. Honestly, there wasn’t much of a choice. The path I had entered from was now closed off. Just as that thought crossed my mind, a manifestation had taken hold, just as I thought, while stumbling upon a switch. Shit.
As soon as I felt it, the scribbling stopped, and the silence flooded back in. No shapes were visible. Was it coming after me? Had it found out that I had found the switch? And what if I flick the switch? How would it react? Thoughts raced through my head. I could turn the light on, but what would I find?
With no other options available, I had no choice but to take a chance. If someone came at me, my plan was to swiftly find a door and book it. My finger teased the switch. My teeth bit the edge of my lip as I hesitated, with a determined breath, I flipped on the switch. Light illuminated the room with comfort. The Pupils in my eyes took a minute to adjust,  I scanned for a door or anything looking like an exit ready for an attack but to my shock I was alone. No one else was here, only a pencil on the floor. Impossible. I could have sworn there was someone in here with me, who else was scratching on that paper, making that scribbling noise. What got even more bizarre was the walls. Pages of writing filled each part of the wall. Getting closer, each page suffocated with words with chaotic writings, which left me feeling completely bewildered. Another familiar scene, as if I was slipping through the story I had written for the high school presentation. It was eerie. The pages had small letters filled from top to bottom but there was more, there was words crossed out, words scribbled out extra words created by pencil. The pencil covered the type written words on the page. 
As I scanned each page, I recognized every word and letter, a familiar feeling washing over me. It was my story, dissected and meticulously glued to the wall. This was even more disturbing the closer I looked at the edits. These familiar edits were for my novel at home. It still needed more improvements. No matter how high it ranks, it was still unfinished. My stomach churned. These thoughts were supposed to be buried. No one else knew how unhappy I was about my first novel. This wasn’t important now. Distract yourself… where was the figure at… focus on that for a minute. Please don’t remind me of writing. Please don’t make me write. These pages were evidence of that, displayed all over the wall to show how ugly my work can really be. These pages felt disgusting. They were mocking me. In a burst of frustration, I snatched the pencil and vigorously stabbed at the pages, covering them in an overwhelming sea of gray. When will it ever be enough? When will my writing ever be enough?
Scribbling and tearing sounds
With each tear of the page, I grew more forceful, my anger mounting, escaping the repetitive reminders of my inadequacy. This would be an even bigger display than the one back in my room. Top to bottom, each skin of paper got peeled off the walls. I will strip this wall of its identity until I get to the last page. One more page.
My hand met with the page. Then from the corner I peeled it off, but before I got halfway, a pool of pages tackled my face. A wall was spouting thousands of paper. What the fuck. Was logic out of the question in this world? Each page was flying through, similar to water from a faucet. The room would flood soon. In my immature tantrum, the thought of a door slipped by. Left and right, there was no way out. My head wasn’t processing, but my body was. Against better judgment, I tried to block the hole with my body, but the force behind it was too strong, flinging me back into this pit of paper. Stop fucking touching me. I don’t want to write anymore, get me out of this nightmare. It was showing, wasn’t it? The imperfections, the slow pacing, the terrible Grammer, weak adverbs, all coming back to kill me. There was nowhere to go. The more I struggled, the heavier the pages got. They were getting heavier. Each lung was losing air. 
There were waves of pages. Climbing, swimming, crawling were useless. My writing was turning against me. The irony might have been heavier than the pages in this room.
There's nothing I could do at this point. The pages were almost hitting the roof and something was dragging me deep down. Maybe it was my self doubt or maybe it was that thing making noise earlier. But it didn’t matter. Soon I would suffocate. Each breath became a challenge, taking longer to breathe in and out. I wouldn’t fight it. If only I had more time. The room went back to being pitch black.