Death Wish

I have to write. Those were the words that escaped the dying man's lips. He was found lying unconscious near a mountain of blank paper. His autopsy revealed over exhaustion as the reason. But what did he want to write so badly that it killed him, no one knows. The task was designated to the junior cop who was part of the investigation team. Let's call him Namura. So here we are with Namura in a room with the mountain of blank paper. He is awed as to why should there be so many papers near a dying man. He picks a sheet on the top. He studies it. It's as blank as blank papers can be. No pencil or pen has violated its virgin whiteness. Namura thinks of the white bed sheets back home. He is tired. All he wants is to crash on his bed. He feels angry about the whole situation. Here I am, staring at a blank piece of paper, wondering why someone who wanted to write so badly didn't write a single word, while the whole world is sleeping on their comfy beds. He wanted to tear the paper to bits. He started hating the whiteness of the paper. He hated the white light from the table lamp. He wanted to write on the paper so that it no longer taunted him. He wanted to fill up every single sheet in the pile with his thoughts. He wanted to write, write and just write. But he couldn't, it was a blatant violation of protocol to desecrate evidence. Something was welling up deep inside him. He had to write, but he couldn't. His heart was on overdrive. He was shivering from head to toe. He was sweating profusely. His knuckles turened white as his grip on the pen tightened. He just wanted to write something on those papers. That's how they found him the next day, near that mound of papers, struggling for his life. Some say he was croaking, I have to write, before he passed away.