Page 1 of Silent Night Temptation

Nyree

Idiot.

You’re so stupid, Nyree. Why can’t you just do this?

I wish I could think of stronger words to chastise myself with, yet my brain is too fried for even just that.

I'm sitting at my desk, staring at the blank computer screen, feeling like I'm stuck in a never-ending nightmare. It has been weeks now, and I haven't been able to write a single page. It feels like whatever creative fluids I have are completely dried up. The deadline for the book I am writing draws ever closer, and with every day that passes, I am closer to not meeting it. Then again, maybe this shouldn't come as such a surprise. This happens around this time of the year. The holidays are creeping up on me, and I can't shake off the dread they bring.

I still have memories of some point in my life when Christmas used to be a time of joy, but now it's just a painful reminder of all that I've lost.

My dad died on Christmas day when I was seventeen.

Yeah… Death puts a damper on things.

It was sudden and senseless. A car accident caused by a drunk driver. He was trying to rush home since it was Christmas morning… He died on the spot.

It left a hole in my heart that never quite healed, even after eight years. It didn’t help that mom passed away from a heart attack a few months into the new year after I turned eighteen; her love for him was stronger than her interest in her daughter, I suppose.

Yet, it’s not entirely her fault. It mustn’t have been easy, abandoned in this world by her soulmate with the obsessive-compulsive offspring he helped create.

That’s right. I have OCD. Coupled with a crippling anxiety, it tends to be hell.

When she passed away, it felt like the world had crumbled beneath my feet, leaving me to fend for myself.

Ah.

Still, I should not be thinking of this. Not when I have a job to do. I ought to be strong enough to resist the thoughts.

All I need to do is focus.

Focus…

I push back a fallen strand from my black curly hair and instantly feel discomfort wash over me. Like clockwork, my legs propel me upwards, and I find my way to the standing mirror in the corner of the living area.

With a sigh, I let down my huge, thick curls, allowing them to frame my soft features before quickly pulling them back into a slick, tight bun.

Hm.

I stare at myself for a moment after. Something feels different. Perhaps it’s how much lighter my brown skin has gotten due to being away from the sun for so long. Still, I am well accustomed to my winter shade.

My eyes hypercritically find their way down the rest of my body and, as I turn to get a full view of my back, my brows lift slightly.

I have gotten thicker over the weeks. Sadly, I’d been too consumed in struggles with the book to realize. After giving my reflection a commending nod, I make my way back to the work corner of my living room, but not before casting another look to make sure my hair was in place.

The pressure of my looming publishing deadline weighs heavily on my shoulders, suffocating my creativity. Writing used to be my escape, but now it feels like a prison.

And then there is my perfectionism, my ceaseless need to get everything perfect that pushes me to obsess over every word, every sentence, driving me to the brink of madness in pursuit of perfection. It's a never-ending battle against my mind, a war I feel like I'm losing more and more each day.

The fear of making a mistake, of not meeting my own impossibly high standards, looms over me like a dark cloud.

The dim light of my desk lamp casts long shadows, mirroring the darkness that threatens to consume me. Every unfinished sentence feels like a reflection of my fractured self, a reminder of the pieces of me I've lost along the way.

I am surrounded by scattered papers in every corner of my desk. Somehow, I’d expected pen writing might stop the block. Yet, the evidence disarranged everywhere, only deems to drive me further insane.

With trembling hands, I hurry to pick up the papers at last, finding it difficult to breathe, as my brain immediately reminds me of the consequences of endlessly postponing my writing.

Once again, I get lost in the chaos of my mind, feeling trapped in this cycle of doubt and compulsion that dictates every aspect of my life. As I walk over a couple feet to drop the papers inthe bin, I feel my heart pounding harder than it would at an attempted marathon.

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