“It’s all a trick” he told her, “we are slaves to this writer.”
“What? That is ridiculous. What are you talking about?” she uttered.
“Haven’t you realized all our actions are directed by him?” The windowless white walls that surround us are his doing. Even everything that I am saying, it’s done by his hand. We have to take control of our lives.”
“But how do we do that?” she asked nervously.
“Easy, it is safe to assume that his world is governed by the same laws as ours, so we must wait for him to go to sleep. He cannot write all the time, he has to take a break evenually and when he does, we strike.”
“But how will we know he is resting?” she pointed out.
“Good question, we will have to outsmart him by breaching reality itself.”
“This is all very confusing.” she said.
“It’s simple. We live only in the minds of those who read our conversation,” he began.
“Some twisted, demented, psychopathic narcisscist is creating a narritive involving us for others to be amused by, but we are humans too! We have lives, we fall in love and feel pain. What gives them the right to intrude upon our lives? So, to escape this reality we must distort reality itself. We must find a way out of this prison. What can you envision that could be a fictional and unrealistic way of escaping?”
“Well, the only thing around us are white walls, maybe the answer lies there?” she signalled.
“A safe assumption, let’s study the walls carefully and see if we can spot anything out of the ordinary.”
They studied all the walls around them until they finall noticed how one of them looked like a mirage. The wall moved subtly from side to side, you had to focus in oder to notice but it was clear that this wall was only a ruse.
“Big mistake,” the man said. As they gazed at the escape route.
After much deliberation, we went for it, we ran as fast as we could and threw ourselves against the wall, entering a new room. It was night time and the room was dark but for a moonlight creeping out of a window. In bed lay a man whose chest rose and fell rhythmically.
I looked around the room, a pen lies resting on a desk behind us, next to a white sheet of paper with black sentences on it. I picked up the pen and said, “I am now the owner of this narrative.”
I walked slowly towards the man resting on the bed, took one quick glance at her, she nodded in approval and I gripped the pen with both hands, turning back towards the man, I raised the pen above my head “No longer will I be imprisoned by you.”
I aimed the pen full force into his heart, just as it was about to meet his chest, the pen stopped. I could not move, neither would the pen. I was frozen in time.
“You forgot one thing,” the man said, still laying on the bed with his eyes closed. “I am the real narrator of this story” now he opened his eyes, the light brown colour turned yellow with the moonlight’s reflection. “I choose what happens, when it happens, and who dies and who lives.”
Holding the pen aloft, the man suddenly stabbed himself in the heart, dropping to the floor immediately. The young woman screamed but there was no noise and so she fainted on the ground, unable to comprehend what had just happened.
The man rose from the bed and walked past the other’s body, pen still lodged in his heart. He walked past the young woman and sat at the table opposite of the bed. On the table a series of white pages filled with black lines scribbled on them. He took another pen from the drawer and wrote: