Inkpot

The studio was dark and dimly lit. It smelled of rust and something rotten, and dust floated about in the air, catching the rays of street light, few and far in between as they were, streaming in through the open windows, welcoming the light of the street lamps as the night sky twinkled, joyfully. You could almost taste the rusted metal bars of the windows as you saw them, almost all brown now, only a few specks showing their original color, black.

Scratching.

A man sat by the window, head bowed, arm swaying from side to side, to allow for his wrist to move furiously as it did.

Scratching.

The ink gleamed on his parchment, as it scratched loudly, obnoxiously even. It gleamed dark, and bright, catching what seemed like all the sparse light that made its way to this studio.

Scratching.

He paused, scratching his hand furiously, fast, agitated.

Scratching.

The pen hit the paper, it looked long, and was marked with designs. Steel, it gleamed in flashes as it moved by the rays of light.

Scratching.

The smell got stronger the more the sky faded into the night, inducing stomach pain, attracting insects and vermin. They chattered cheerfully as they found their way to the studio, driven by the smell, a siren for their primitive brains and needs.

Scratching. 

The ink shimmered by the light, wet, fresh.

Scratching.

The smell grew stronger, the man raised his head, eyebrows furling, then stared back at the paper, not seeming to notice the putrid smell, frowning over what he was writing. He bent over again, and kept on writing. He paused. He started to draw something. He ran out of space. He slid the paper over to the sheaf that was already building up, put it on, making the lines on this align with all the ones below, both hands evening out the sides, making it one pile, standing tall. He drew another paper from a pile on the other side of the desk, and continued to write.

Scratching. An ink pot stood watch by his hand, solitary, the ink gleaming as it sloshed around inside, the agitated movement from his hand shaking the small container. Flies started to buzz in through the windows, the smell like catnip to them.

Scratching.

He stopped. Unaware of the insects and rodents and crawlies drawn to his apartment, oblivious, or maybe just uncaring, he looked at his inkpot. There was enough in there for now. He would have to fill it soon though. He dipped the pen in the container. The gleaming, steel nib made a slight splash and then a small scratch as it circled around the bottom of the container. He drew it with a flourish, small thick beads of ink falling from it.

Drip, drip, drip.

He gave it a little shake, more drops fell.

Drip. drip.

He continued to write. Unceasing. Untiring. The dark of the night gave way to the small of the day, as the sky began to warm, glowing hues of color making their way to the blackness of night. He kept writing. The smell became unbearable. He didn’t notice.

Scratching.

His ink ran out. The pot was empty. With a sigh, he got up, the chair groaning as he did. He walked across his bare studio to the one closet in the place. He opened the door. The smell came out, thick fumes, almost. The animals feasting inside snarled at the light and at him. He picked up the arm that hung limp by the side of the man, took out a knife from his back pocket, and made a small cut. He filled the inkpot up with the liquid that dripped out. It sloshed hungrily, crimson in the light.