"The Eternal Writer"

     Some people write because its fun. Some write because they feel inspired. I write because that thing behind me won't let me stop.
    It's watching me, its cold eyes burning into the back of my skull. It's been there for so long at this point that I can't remember a time where it wasn't behind me. It watches me with intensity. One of which sends chills down my spine.
    There was one point where I stopped writing for a single moment, to rest my aching fingers, but I heard footsteps behind me scraping against the floorboards as they creeped closer. That was a few days ago. I begged and pleaded for it to let me stop tying, to get some food, to use the restroom, to even just sleep. Yet, it remained silent. I was thankful at least that I had the lights on when I began writing, otherwise I'd be left in the dark overnight without being able to see my keys. Could you imagine, typing away at a keyboard without being able to see?
    I was thankful, however, that the thing behind me never really paid any attention to what I was writing. It only required the clacking of my keyboard to satisfy whatever twisted thing it was after. Oh, how I resent whatever horrifying thing was behind me. I didn't know what it was. I'd never turned around a single time. I'm afraid to. I mean, that's what they tell you in those horror movies, right? Looking at the monster only angers it or something?
    My stomach was rumbling, as I hadn't eaten in a few hours. I know, I said earlier that the thing wouldn't let me eat. I guess I should rephrase that. It won't let me eat human food. Instead, there's this tube that it dangles over my head. I put my mouth on it and have to eat whatever putrid thing comes out. By force or by choice. If I refuse, which I often do, it pushes the tube into my mouth. It's horrific, I don't want to think about it.
    Where was I? Oh yes, this thing doesn't pay any attention to what I'm writing. That's why I'm here typing this out now. Hoping this can find somebody. Anybody, to free me from this twisted prison of writing endlessly.
    You know, it's kind of funny. I always wanted to be a writer, to use my words to paint a picture, to create a world even grander that our own. To create these characters to go on adventures. To make monsters to shake people to their cores. To make people rethink the world they live in, for better or worse.
    But still, here I sat. Typing away as if I have any choice. But I guess if I'm forced to write like this for the rest of my life, I'm going to have to, at some point, write the best thing I've ever written. Maybe then it would leave me alone. Then, it would let me rest.
    As I take a moment to think long and hard about what I want to write, to mentally craft something glorious, I hear that familiar scrapping sound behind me that chills me to the bone. Angered huffs as the rage builds within the thing behind me. Frantically, my fingers return to the keys, typing away. Typing random nonsense, just to keep the twisted beast at bay just a little while long. The angered breathing calms into deeper, more joyful breaths.
    I was safe, as long as I just kept typing.
    Please, if you're reading this, if there's anything you can do to help, please. Help me.