Story of the Month: Obsession

I found the book in the basement of a library. When I first picked it up I knew there was something wrong with it. I opened to the first page which was numbered six hundred ninety-two. I closed it then turned back to the first page, seven hundred eighty-nine. I took it home to see if there was any machinery in the book, nothing, it looked just like a plain hardcover book. Months later, I was sitting in the same spot not moving, unless to reach for the phone to order another pizza, and to go to the door to get the pizza. Other than that the only thing I was doing was copying the book. I knew it wasn't infinite. Nothing is infinite. Everything has an end. After a year of writing my friend came over, "What is so important that you have to disappear for an entire year?"
"What do you mean a year? It's only been a week or so."
"Today is February 15, 2012." I looked on the computer to see, he was right. I thought it was January of 2011. I just couldn't believe it, I surveyed my surroundings for the first time; cans of monster and boxes of pizza became the floor, on my desk lied stacks of paper that reached the roof of my apartment, and laying there sat the dreaded book. I had become obsessed. Even now as I am writing this my body is craving to find the end of that book.
I left the apartment, hid the key and did everything to keep my mind off that book. Something in my head kept saying You must find the end, there has to be an end, everything has an end, nothing is infinite. No matter how much I resisted, the temptation keeps getting stronger, and stronger. I snapped. I couldn't resist the urge anymore. I ran to my apartment, found the key, then continued writing. The animal inside me had finally broken loose. I kept saying to myself, "I will find an end to this book, there is always an end, nothing is infinite." My friend came again, he tried everything to get my attention away from the book. He tried to pull me away from the book, he tried to take me away from my book, so I killed him. I no longer cared for him, he tried to take me away from my book. My book. He was jealous that I had found it and not him. The police came and took me away from my book. They took me to the insane asylum. They helped me get better, they helped me to part from my book. I still have nightmares of it, I still have the temptation to start copying it again, and finding the end. At times I go mad I keep repeating this phrase like some sort of cultist chant, "Give me my book, Where is my book, Give me my book." When I finally start thinking wrongly, I mean, when I finally start thinking correctly, I am afraid of what I did. I haven't had an episode like that for a few months, they say I can leave but I am afraid that when I do I will return to my book and start copying again. Maybe they moved my book somewhere else, maybe they are copying my book, I have to find my book so I can copy again, no, so I can destroy it. Why would I do that? I have to find the end, I must find the end, there is an end to everything. Maybe I ask the doctors if I could leave, so I can find my book and find it's end.