Every day, he would sit on the bench, overlooking the mass of skyscrapers across the river. He would nod and smile at passersby, sometimes strike conversations and introduce himself as an artist in search of inspiration.
“Why don’t you seek inspiration elsewhere?”
“Something compels me to stay here.”
He knew what that something was. It came not long after dusk, its cold dark hands ever marred with dried blood, its claws gleaming in the moon- or starlight, its mouth twisted in a sadistic smirk.
“Follow me,” it would say.
He’d get up and follow it into a deep limbo where demons waited patiently for him, eager to inflict pain and make him beg. It was a punishment he’d have to suffer through for many nights to come. His punishment for the day when he had foolishly tried to seek inspiration in Tartarus.
Morning would bring with it an ephemeral reprieve.
I hope to write more prose in June; I’m too stuck on poetry right now.
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