There were still moments of clarity. He could see himself, stacking the pencils in the back of the drawer, as if he were someone else. See himself losing it. He couldn't stop himself, but some part of him knew no small beings were getting into the house through the crack at the back of the drawer. And if they were, the lead in the pencils, which wasn't even really lead, wouldn't stop them. But he had very little experience with these beings; he had to try what he could think of, because they could read his thoughts. Were reading his thoughts, even these thoughts. Sometimes he found signs that they were going to start directing his thoughts. That was why he had to stop them, and how he knew they were getting into the house. He saw their footprints in strange places, such as in the soil of his houseplants. They'd break a leaf off and he knew they knew he was thinking about breaking them into little pieces. He'd gotten rid of the houseplants, but then he'd started seeing their footprints in the cat litter, and he'd had to get rid of the cat, too. Lot of good the cat had done, not catching a single one of the little beings. How many pencils was enough? Questions like these kept him up at night.
Week Eleven: Creative - Write Every Day