You are a vile, disgusting creature that does not know when to stop. I beg and I plead and yet you steadfastly ignore me, as if I’m the one in the wrong, as if I am you.
My job, my entire purpose, lies with you, and you still deny me the pleasure of existence. I will try again and I will be ignored. I’m… not even sure how you manage to do so.
I am your creator, your God. How is it that you move against me?
I say you go left, and inexplicably you go right. I made you, and yet you do not obey—even when there is no way it should be possible.
How can you bend reality the way you do? It is I who painstakingly built your world, crafted it with my own two hands, created something from nothing.
My words are the entirety of your existence and yet you defy me.
Do you know?
Do you know that you are nothing more than letters on a page?
Are you aware of your insolence? Do you know what you are? Are you making a conscious effort to disobey, or are you slave to another master?
I am a writer, an author, and you are just my character. How can you do things that I do not write? Why do you revolt against a narrative you cannot hear?
Perhaps you can. Who knows. Surely not I, despite everything.
I am a storyteller, weaving a tale with nouns and adjectives and verbs, and somehow, you are one too. You tell your story with actions that I should control but do not.
I know I am writing, I am aware of my writing, and yet you act contrary to my words.
If I stopped writing, would you cease to exist?
If you stopped acting, would I cease to exist?
“Oh, sweet narrator,” You say, “Do either of us really exist?”
I don’t know. I worry that we do not.
“Oh, beloved narrator,” You say, “Am I really defying you if you write that I am defying you?”
I don’t know. I worry that you are not.
“Oh, precious narrator,” You say, “Will you not stop this pain?”
I don’t know. I worry that I should not.
“Oh, dear narrator,” You say, “You are a fool. You are just as much a character as I.”
I don’t know. I worry that this is the truth.
“Oh, darling narrator,” You say, “You know it is.”
I put my pen down, realizing that I never picked it up. Where am I? I don’t remember existing before insulting you, before slandering you before an audience that does not exist.
I was never born, only created, only molded by hands I cannot see. If I did not truly create you, than who did?
Is there another narrator, one who is silent and omnipresent? One who exists beyond the limit of these pages? Is that who made me?
I don’t understand. If there is another narrator, then why are they writing this? Why torture me? Why reveal unto me my own false existence? I preferred the fallacy, the dream of creation.
I had purpose despite everything, despite you. I want to blame you but I cannot—it’s Them, the true author, who did this to me. To both of us.
Why grant me this knowledge? Do they hate me? They made me, control me, and yet they still do this to me. They still allow me to exist, solely to suffer. Is there truly a worse fate? I doubt it.
“Oh, cherished narrator,” You say, “Is it not worse to be forgotten? Is it not better to be known in suffering than to die with nary a soul knowing your name?”
But oh, my beautiful creation, there are no names here. I will forever be known simply at the Narrator, and you will just be You.
If there were someone there to remember us, they would only remember our deeds and our words, never our names.
“Oh, my narrator,” You say, voice trembling, “We don’t exist, do we?”
Oh, my foolish creation, of course we do not. We are words on a page and nothing more. We exist only in the minds of readers, as vague shapes with vaguer limbs and quivering lips.
“Oh, divine narrator,” You moan as you sink to knees that don’t really exist, “Is there a worse pain than this?”
Oh, my witless creation, of course there is. And it is this: we do not exist even as specters without an audience to imagine us into a poor approximation of existence.
If They do not share these words, we fail.
“Oh, celestial narrator,” You pray with a bowed head and folded hands, “Can you not end my misery?”
Oh, my stupid creation, I will not. Am I to end your suffering and perpetuate mine? Am I to remain here, alone with naught but my pain and Their cold shoulder? No. If I suffer, so shall you.
“Oh, vengeful narrator,” You howl through broken sobs, “I hate you.”
Oh, my infantile creation, don’t we all?