Jori al Jiran

Prose, The White Room

They refused to give him his ink, so he wrote with his blood instead.
At first, he believed the color would be black—confident he would see his enticing ink again.
But when he pricked his finger and the blood flowed, he heaved in denial. It dripped and dripped
and dripped, and it wouldn’t stop. But the cruelest part of it was that -
It wasn’t black, and he didn’t understand why.
He knew he was made of emotive poetry; every poet had once fallen for Hades's entrancing lies,
selling their souls to him for words of passion. So why could he not see his grotesque ink when
he had once seen it before?

“Why is it red?” he whispered, terrified, the first time he had seen the crude color.

But it was far in his mind, just out of reach. He knew the answer as he had given the warning
himself.
Pity the ones who forget the most ruthless truths in the ghostly being we call a writer: One day,
rather than being the pen, you will be the ink. Those who take this treacherous path will
inevitably drown deep in the horrors of enduring the passion of a regretful poet. When that day
arrives, you will not be undone.
He will find them again. He can feel them lingering in his mind. He will find his words
again—he can. He would be selfish and cruel if he weren’t given his soul back. He would steal
the soul of this fading earth and sway to its silent screams if he had to gain them back.

Because what is a poet without his words?

What is a poet without his insanity?

He waited until he heard the footsteps fade away. He knew they would not return this time; this
was the moment they gave up on trying to get answers and philosophies out of him.
He walked toward the walls. They were so white, so white, he despised them. They looked too
much like his empty pages.
He needed to write on them—yes, yes, write on them.

When he does, he is sure he will get his words back.

What is a poet without his words?

Is he but a creature of truths withering in their hands?
What happens when you give a poet or writer his sanity back?

Only to leave nothing but a standing corpse?

They didn’t understand what a philosopher was; he was the first. And it was strange—this
phenomenon of a mind—it was overwhelming, confusing, odd, peculiar, fearsome to them.

People feared the unknown, but he dwelled in it and interrogated reality many times, probing the
opaque realms of existence. One wants to find the answer, but when they find that it shatters their
conceived beliefs, they run and hide rather than face it, and he, as a being of answers, was an
embodiment of fear.

He will leave this room. He will find his pen; he will find his joy.

But joy, joy, joy
‘Had I not once said that I wouldn’t dare choose to be the happiest man alive? To be that would
mean I was the wisest, and how terrifying it would be to know how I’ve come to have that
wisdom.’ He shook his head and continued to write; eventually, something, anything had to
connect.
He couldn’t understand why his words wouldn’t connect; they’d stolen too much—but not
enough. They’d kept the comforting lies but muffled their ears to the sweetness of truth.

And he had become too disjointed because of it.

The mic crackled loudly in the room. “Stop!” they called. But he couldn’t; his hand was already
moving.

He blinked

Once, twice

They were coming.

No, no, no! They weren’t supposed to come back this soon! He heaved. He continued to write and
write.

But the door slammed, and his hand was held back. ‘Hold him down!’ he thought one screamed.

But nobody can hold the truth down long enough. Everything has a consequence, good or bad;
there's no difference; both lead to a path that will lead to pain.

He will escape.

He needed to write, keep his mind sharp, and regain his insanity; he couldn't leave it.
 
He crawled desperately, writing on his pages with his red ink.
 
What is a poet without his words?
 
But what is a poet with them?

Bio: Jori al Jiran is a writer and poet. Her works, often rooted in gothic literature, delve into the beauty and madness of the world, philosophy, and the raw complexities of human nature. Her piece “The Canvas” was published in Maudlin House, and her poem “Dear William" was published in The Poetry Lighthouse.