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(TW: Implied violence, Depression & Horror)

Ares continues to stare at his blank computer screen. He’s been staring at it for so long, that even Cronus gave up on keeping track of time. It feels like Ares has been running around in circles again and again. Seemingly caught in his own Ouroboros of misery, and it was only serving to frustrate him more and more.

“It shouldn’t be this hard.” He said to himself. “I should be able to write a Halloween theme story and that should be that. So why is nothing sticking!?”When you’re a writer, you essentially hold the power of God in your hands. You are able to craft a tale and bring it to life, show it for others to see and marvel at its beauty. As a writer, you’re the be all and end all of whatever story you write. You can be whatever you want to be. In fiction that is.

In reality however, it’s often disappointing. People often don’t care about your silly little tales of wonder, or how many agonizing hours you would put in just to write a couple of lines made out of letters and sometimes numbers. And poor, poor Ares wasn’t a god. No, he was simply, a normal man. One who had been trying his damn hardest to come up with a story for a contest, and he had his reasons.

No one truly understood the depths of his depravity. How difficult it can be at times to get out of bed and not appear lazy. To go out into the world and not appear like a zombie. To simply “smile more” because all you are brewing is negative energy. Ares was tired of feeling like the bottom of the barrel. Tired of the pity and tired of the guilt that came with said pity.

People claim to love Ares, but deep down, he knew. That was a lie. If they were brutally honest with him. Then the rest of society would shunned them. Cast them down from their perfect utopia just like God casted out Lucifer from heaven. People want the alluring form of a fallen angel, but they don’t want the biblically or theoretically accurate version. That scares them. Ares knows he is scaring these people who claimed to love him away, they’re just being nice about it.

Ares had enough of looking at the blank screen. So he decided to get up and pace around the room a bit, hoping the idea would latch onto to him like a Parasite does with their host. He hoped that his mindless wandering would finally annoy Hephaestus enough to gain his attention, when he heard it. The wails.

Ares sighs. “Not her again. Why must she always do this?” He walked over to the window and their she was. A woman who was paler than a block of limestone, her long gray hair seems almost double the length of her entire body, yet seem very frail and loose. Her wails were certainly a sound to behold, as most would be petrified by the mere sound of it. But not Ares, he had grown more and more annoyed by it each and every passing day that she would come.

“Distractions.” He muttered under his breath. “If she wishes to cry, then do it elsewhere.” He could feel his blood boiling, but the woman did not stop. He grab a rock that for some reason he kept inside this room. It had some initials on it, but he couldn’t care less. If this woman couldn’t be the fairy to fix his dilemma, then she’ll be a piece of someone else’s architect. He opened the window and slung the rock at great speed. Then.

Silence. The woman’s wails had ceased. “Better.” He sighed in relief. Perhaps now, he could finally get that story he always wanted to write finished. So he goes and sits back down at his computer terminal. Hoping that something was transferred onto the machine. But. Nothing. The screen was still blank.

It didn’t make any sense. He has scouted the madness and many intersections of the Informational superhighway multiple times. He has seen and read the many great works of many talented individuals. Some have even set up shops at certain exits, which both new and old patrons rush towards daily. He’s tried on multiple occasions many times to gain the same level of success and following as they did. But he didn’t get anywhere. He was stuck. Just like how he is stuck now. It doesn’t make sense. What did he had that he didn’t? Why did it seem like Plutus constantly favored them, but not him? He has worked blood, sweat and tears just to appear like a functioning member of society, yet nothing. Nothing was going his way. Even now, the blank word document continues to sit there on his screen. Nothing but a flickering vertical line that continue to remain stationary.

Suddenly, the sound of giggling can be heard. Ares turned towards his left and stared at the jack-o’-lantern he left unfinished. He forgot why he even made that thing in the first place. Then again, it was that time of year, and he had promised someone that he would make one for them. The jack-o’-lantern continue to giggle, eventually turning into hysterical laughter. The more Ares stared at the thing. The more angered and disgusted he became.

He could see the imperfections in it’s grooves. He could just visualize the plethora of many of other state of the arts jack-o’-lanterns the Informational superhighway displayed and advertised so abundantly. Just like his works of literature. It too was a laughing stock. Which meant that he too, was also a laughing stock. That’s why the pumpkin was laughing, to mock him. To remind him that just like the people who pity him and play the “Sympathetic” card just so they wouldn’t be crucified, Ares, was the butt of the joke.

Ares already knew this, so he had grown agitated with the constant reminders. He got up, searched around his space. Picked up a hammer and walked over to laughing Jack in a calming manner. He stood over the pumpkin, which continued to laugh hysterically. He took a deep breath.

SQUISH! The hammer slammed down onto the pumpkin, but it was still laughing. Thankfully, Ares wasn’t done. He unleashed his fury, as he continues to bash the pumpkin In. Over and over. The horrendous sounds of its guts, seeds and mesh bursts everywhere. By the time Ares was finished, nothing but a puddle of remnants was left.

Ares drops the hammer. Sat back down in his chair, and stared once again at the screen. Nothing. Still nothing. This was agony. Nothing but continuous agony and misery that made up the Ouroboros.

At this point, he could feel it. The set of amber color eyes glaring at him through the screen. As if to mock him, hoping that Ares drops dead right then and there. That wasn’t the only thing that was mocking him. No. Far from it.

He had to put up with the continuous sounds of mechanical high pitch howling. The blazing colors of red and blue that used to enlighten his room until he fixed the windows. The constant banging from all sides. Thank Hephaestus once again for having enough mercy to build him this prison. One that Ares will not leave from until he has finally written a story for this contest. A story so great that even the stars in heaven will sing praises for eons to come.

Ares continues to ignore the screams and cries of the many voices who he firmly believed was there to mock him. Some continually said “Open the door Mr. Areson. Or we will force our way in!” Though they never did. While others were screaming “Daddy! Mommies hurt! Mommies hurt!” Another screamed. “Dammit Arin! Open this door! Your wife, kids and family are worried. She’s been trying to reach you for the longest time until you (Illegible). For God sake man! That rock might of caused her some brain trauma.”

Ares continues to ignore this sounds, cause he know that they’re just there to mock him. Like everyone and everything else does in his life. He’s going to have his perfect Halloween story. Even if it meant sitting here in his room till his organs would be granted mercy by Thanatos himself.