“When people don’t know exactly what depression is, they can be judgmental.”
— Marion Cotillard
A writhing, whirling mass of barbed, eye-encrusted tentacles slithered up the side of the shadowed desk in the dark room. One of the tentacles curled about a stray pencil, taking the time to leave a small doodle on a scribbled-upon sheaf of paper. When that failed to produce any reaction from the writer, the thing released a sigh. The writer’s head leaned forward even as his being held back.
“Why the long face, friend?” The face-like shape at the center of the mass burbled, one tentacle twitching to the side. The writer looked up.
“I’m still not convinced you’re real. So if you care to bugger off, you disgusting lump, now’s the time.”
“Hey, there’s no need to be hurtful.” The lump responded, “I have a name, you know.”
“Churg’x. I heard it the first time I hallucinated you.”
“That’s Churg’AX, sorry. One of my worst pet peeves, you know.”
“But there’s no a in your name.”
“Yes there is! It’s just invisible.”
“You mean silent.”
“I know what I said.” The lump replied, folding two tentacles beneath its chin in demonic indignation.
“Is there a point to all your rambling?”
“There always is!” Churg’x gurgled cheerfully. “I’m only trying to help. You haven’t written a word in ages and I simply can’t have it!”
“I’m sorry, you can’t have it?”
“That’s right! I can’t have you like this! Where’s that smile of yours, those ideas? They’re in there somewhere! You just have to find ’em!”
“So you’re saying all there is to this is to just try harder, eh?” The writer asked, a smile creeping back to his face. It wasn’t the smile Churg’x was hoping for.
A Writer and His Demons 