A Story A Day. Story 86 of 365: Cursed.

Pages and pages he wrote, restless. Feeling the pen rip apart the skin on his hand, but not being able to stop. Seeing the blood spots on the paper. Feeling the pain, but not being able to stop. He had been writing for days, his arm sore, his legs asleep, his head about to explode. Yet, his hand was acting on itself on a quest. A quest to write the longest poem ever. He wasn't even able to see what he was writing anymore, he couldn't control it. Some part of his brain that had ever been unconscious had taken a shortcut and took control of his whole body. A part he could not reach even if he tried to. He was hungry, he was thirsty, but he could not stand up. At one point the pen ran away of ink. To his horror his hand started using his own blood as ink. He wondered how much more he would be able to write before bleeding to death. The pain was excruciating, he closed his eyes, trying to isolate himself from it all, but it made it only worse. He opened his eyes again, and stared at the verses, nothing made any sense, he could read some words "penitence", "sorrow". What was he writing? The pile of blank paper was growing thinner and he soon ran out of it. He had the hope he would have to stop writing when the paper was over, but his body had other plans. He stood up, almost falling after so many days of inactivity, and started writing on any smooth surface he could find. When he was done with all the inside walls of his small apartment, as he was thinking there couldn't be more blood in him to keep writing, he found himself outside, in the middle of the night, leaving his words on the outside walls. The neighbors found him there, finally bleed to death, the poem unfinished.