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Well, we would eat at a local Chipotle and he would most definitely maybe slip a sleeping pill into my Dr. Pepper, steal my snuggie collection, and lock me in a Cheeto factory. But before all that, we would probably talk about the weather.
Flawless and handsome (as ruled by my grandmother.)
@not-so-secret-secret-assassin
Well, out of all the places to be captured and locked up in, a Cheeto factory isn’t too shabby.
But this has left me with one burning question… who paid for the meal?
@kathleenramm — First off, great question XD
I was running. They knew who I was–They knew the fate I, their author, had destined them too. I briefly wondered if it was too late to beg for mercy, but I didn’t have to ponder that long. I made them ruthless, after all.
By this point, I was out of breath, and knew they would catch me any time now. Any time.
“Daisy, in here.” I feel a sharp tug on my elbow and suddenly I’m yanked into a building and bathed in blue lights from an aquarium that wraps its way around the room.
My heart is racing. I suck in a breath and turn to face my captor, only to exhale in relief when I find that it is one of my favorite characters, who only somewhat dislikes me.
Tristan is still holding my arm as we weave our way through a restaurant full of people. It’s a lovely place–one I don’t remember inventing.
The door opens behind us and a bell dings with it. Never before had the sound of a bell sounded so ominous.
He looks at my wild, terrified eyes and quickly pulls us both into a family booth, which we now share with one other person. He quickly hands me a menu, ignoring the look from the bewildered person beside us, and I take it. I don’t know how his hands are so steady when my own are so shaky.
We bury our heads behind the menus just as a group of orange-suited guards walks through the aisle. Watching. Searching. They walk slowly.
My toes curl in my shoes and every hair on my skin stands.
The person behind us cowers. I almost find it humorous, since he doesn’t even know who these people are.
We stayed that way for several minutes–even after they left. I finally exhale and raise my head.
Tristan shakes his head. “That was too close.”
“Definitely.”
Grumbling, the person beside us leaves the booth, and I don’t blame him. I offer an apologetic wave and duck my head.
“Thanks for saving me,” I mumble, feeling guilty for all the times I’ve put the poor guy through torture, just for the sake of “character development”. Development shmelopment. Just look how mad the Liberation is now! This wasn’t the first time they’d sought me out, and I knew it wouldn’t be the last.
“Yeah,” he grunts. He starts to stand, but I gently lay a hand on his arm.
“Please,” I whisper, “stay. I want to learn more about you. I want to. . . to apologize.”
He glares at me. “Why would I want the apologies of someone who’s sole career has been built off of the deaths and tears of others?”
I swallow back my protest. He was right–I was a monster. But I was a writer–I was born that way. What else could I do but my job? What else can you do when black ink flows through your veins and keeps your heart alive?
“Don’t bother with your apologies. I don’t want them.”
He tried to stand, and I almost let him, but then some of that ink from my blood spilled over into my words and said, “Then why save me? If you can’t stand me, why save me?”
His steel eyes pierce me with a look that I can’t describe. “Because you made Catherine. You made the one person who showed me that real sunshine can be in the world–and if you can do that, then surely that little ounce–however small it may be–of good in you deserves to live.
I sit back in my chair, breathless. “I really am sorry.” But my words sound hollow, even to myself.
He snorts and shakes his head. “That’s all you writers know how to say, isn’t it? Sure, you spell a lot, but when it comes to being vocal”–He swiped a hand at the air–“whoosh, all your real words are gone. Just like all of the characters you swore to love and cherish, and then killed.”
Wincing, I lowered my head and stared at my hands. Just then, a waiter came by.
“What can I get for you today?” he asks with a friendly smile. He’s so clueless–he doesn’t have a single but of knowledge of the true scenario here. And I don’t wish him to. The burden a writer carries. . . only few can hold it.
I quickly jump at the chance to keep Tristan here. “Two fried catfish plates, please–hold the lemon on his.” I nod at Tristan.
“Right away! And your drink will be here shortly.” He leaves.
Tristan threw a burning look my way. “I won’t stay here. You can’t make me. You no longer write this story.”
I looked at him sorrowfully. “I know that. But just once–just this once–can’t I pretend I do? Or that I at least still hold some power here?”
He scoffed. “Me? A character? Let you resume your role? Never. That’s why the war between writers and characters was fought. Do you think I’d fight you, just to undo it all and return to the way things used to be?”
I looked away and softly replied, “No, I didn’t think you would, but I had hoped.”
He sighed and sat down. “One conversation. One. But as soon as my food is done, we are finished, okay? Done. I never knew you, you never knew me. Things will go back to how they once were.”
I perked up at that. “Okay! I promise, that’s all I want! I’ll even pay! Thank you!”
"It's easy to be caught up in stardust and whispers when reality is so dark and loud."
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