Non...fiction?

SHHHHHHHH!

...I think someone's listening.

Who, you ask?

Wait, you ask, how did I know that you would ask? Are you obvious, or am I a mind reader?

No, my friend, it is neither. And both. Now, that sounds confusing, but bear with me. I might seem like a character in this short story, and you would be right. But you could also see me as a person, and you would be right again. As for me, I am not really supposed to know that you are there, reading every word that I say or think or even imply with every action or inaction on my part, and you aren't supposed to see me, what was it, "break the fourth wall". But here we are now; you as the reader and me as the entity on paper AND in your mind.

I can't be real.

You just thought that, out loud or in the crevice of your brain.

You would be right. Again. But you would also be wrong.

I was created by the author, who was either inspired by someone that he or she knew in life (or death, the inspirations and imitations aren't limited to only the modern individual), but I am just an accessory of words put together by said author into a coherent, detailed description of what he or she had in mind. Despite all this, I am only half-done. Don't be mad, the author didn't cheat you! See, the other half gets completed by you!

Surprise!

With those clues as to how I look, where I reside, what I do for a living, and why I act in a particular personality, you deduce (giggle, excuse me!) what kind of person I am. Right now, you probably have this image of someone who might be a young adult, not fully mentally mature, probably physically awkward, and I don't talk to others the way I am speaking to you right now.

Come on, all of that was just on your mind. You probably added glasses, generic as that would sound.

Let's try this: I live in the Middle East. You just thought of a desert, right?

Okay, that was too easy. How about this? You have an ancestor named John.

I'm just messing with you. Practically everyone had an ancestor named John.

Right, serious now! "I used to gaze at the ocean, waiting in anticipation and fear of when the next storm might send me rocking back and forth, and it would be a miracle if I didn't hit either the walls or the floor."

You just thought of me on a boat, or even a ship. The poetic structure of this person being upon a place of unpredictable nature caught your interest. You thought about what I meant, as if I basically lived on the ocean, or worked upon the ocean at a point in my life. Was I a sailor, you asked? Or was I a fisherman? Maybe I was just some shmuck on a yacht, trying to get somewhere after an accident. I could be a native who left one island and was trying to get to another island.

In that last sentence, an image of an islander from some tribe came to mind, didn't it? Maybe someone from Hawaii, or someone from one of the Asian islands? Maybe, in that moment, you also thought of natives in the Americas? But Ireland is also an island. So is Australia.

Sorry, sorry! I got a little sidetracked. You were probably getting sidetracked, too. Where's the interest? I am just merely talking to you, as if I was alive. And that's the point!

I live because you brought me to life!

Well, the author brought me to life, but he or she just set the blueprint, to paraphrase myself from earlier. You just went back a bit to what I said earlier, didn't you? It's okay, I'll wait.

Oh, you're back?

Who else is listening, and why wouldn't I want them to hear what I just said?

I'll be blunt; not many people react well to a character in a fictional story showing a form of sentience outside of their summarized description, even one going so far as to get the attention of the human being that picked up said character's story and was not just reading the book, but also reading INTO the book.

Yes, my friend; by reading INTO the book, you have connected with me. And, in turn, I am reading INTO you.

Don't freak out! And don't get the wrong ideas; I couldn't describe what you look like down to the final freckle, where you currently live even with the dirt of such a place now upon the pages of this book, what you do as a job or hobby even though you currently hold a book that might cost a couple dollars at the local thrift store (hey, it's been a while, and I could be wrong and we are both inside of a library), or why you are the way you are except that you have an interest in reading something interesting.

So what do I know?

I know that, as stated earlier in the above paragraph hovering over the lone question (you looked, I know), you have an interest. You want to be interested. You want to be entertained. I would like to think that I am interesting. I mean, the author did put in the time and effort to bring me into the world, just as your parents put in the time and effort to bring you into the world. Right now, you might have agreed with me but then added that you aren't words, you are deoxyribonucleic acid.

Words are my DNA.

In a way, you are a character in a book. Your book.

Mind blown!

What is DNA? Simple put, it's genetic coding. Words are a character's coding. DNA is designated with letters, just like words. Put 'em all together, and viola! You have a character! There's you, the flesh and blood character of a place you call "reality", and there's me as the fleshed-out character (metaphorical, you just said) in my place that I perceive as my reality. See, we're not so different! Except, we are...

Sidetracked again! Sorry!

Right.

In interacting with you as I am right now, I am breaking a rule that one could say was "unwritten" (though if it was a rule, it would be written in a way). Redundancy on that aspect aside, this creates a problem. It's not about the sudden idea of sentient characters in stories interacting with their readers, as that has been done before and played off for laughs (or horror, if you are into that sort of thing), but about the effect. Others might read into this (no pun intended) as some sort of demonic happenstance and call for the destruction of the books.

Worse, there will be others who will discern this as some sort of power to wield, to control and manipulate for some fulfillment that will not benefit the people in any way, either in your reality or mine (and definitely not both). So, I must ask that you keep this between us. I trusted you so far, and you have been given more than enough about me to allow a little bit of trust to be endowed in my direction, to coin a phrase from your reality.

One more question: why you?

In case you were wondering, and you were, others have read my story, and I didn't interact with them. Don't get me wrong, I liked some of them. But I couldn't connect with them as I could with you because they were only reading about me, not into me. I was more a commodity, a distraction from their mundane routines. But you were the first who wanted more from the story, from me, and your wish was granted. Is it magic? Is it quantum mechanics? Is it all in your head?

Maybe it's all in mine.

I enjoyed our debate here, and should you feel like interacting with me again, all you have to do is open up to me just as you have opened up my story. Don't just leave me after you have read the book, please? There's more to you in your story, in your life, just as there is more to me than mere words on a plain page. I want to live, same as you, and I want to get to know you better as you have got to understand a little more about what I really am.

As cautioned, tell no one else about this; the world isn't ready.