The blood flows from my fingertips in to the keys. I sit staring at the small drops. They accumulate more rapidly than they did a few months ago. I see them now for what they are, a release. A total release of who I am and what I can do. I see the characters strike at their victims. See every piece of prose before it hits the page. The rapid pressing of keys feels like the rapid beat of their victims heart. Just as their teeth tear a hole in their victim’s throat I try to keep up with the action on the page. Rapidly pressing the keys, striking just as they strike. Feeling the rush of the blood entering their own blood stream as it enters mine.
The feeling is one of abandon, total abandonment of what I am. Giving in to the writing and the characters on the page. Giving the breath, the blood, and soul to each character. They make their appearances nightly in my mind. I feel the random stroking, their voice coming through my head. the quickening of each labored breath. The feeling of something new on the page will pull me and toss me around like the rag doll I am. The breath, the taste, the smell of the blood as it pours through their open mouth. An accepting angel of each victim’s mortality.
They take, destroy and wrestle with each death. Seeing each life through the passage of blood. Gathering their flock, their children to once again run forth on to the field of battle, chasing their own demons as I chase my own.
The chase is what brings me to the keys every night. Chasing away my demons, as my characters chase their own.