Notion

It had been twenty-four years since she’d last seen it, but the place looked exactly the same, exactly as the voice was describing it. What is going on? I must be going crazy.

Vera replayed the last two minutes in her head.

“Can anyone hear me? Can anyone hear me?!”

Yes, Vera had heard them. The voice had been quiet and distorted, as if from the other side of a window, but so near that it could have been coming from over her shoulder. Vera remembered gazing around the room – three walls of bookcases and the desk she was sitting at – no place for a person to hide. She had stood and walked to the window, pulling aside the blinds, but no one was there.

Still, the voice had continued. “If you are there, why won’t you talk to me?! Show yourself?!” It was louder, the anger and frustration clearer.

Vera had locked up before she entered the study to write, she had been sure of it. Still, she had decided to grab her mobile phone from the desk before checking out the rest of the house.

“Hello?” Vera had called as she stepped out of the study and peered into the open living area, her eyes searching for a body to match the voice.

There had been a short pause in the ranting before it started up again, louder, clearer, closer. “Sometimes I think I hear you, then nothing! Nothing! If you’re real, how could you do this to me? Hoooooooow?”

Vera had heard the torment and tears in the voice. A woman’s voice. Good, if it comes down to it, I can fight off a woman.

She recalled looking around for something to defend herself with. She had a mantra for situations like this: everything’s a weapon, everything’s a weapon, everything’s a weapon. A pen, a note pad, and her home phone sat on a small table to her right. Vera remembered thinking she could pick up the table and use it as a weapon, but she hadn’t wanted to seem like a crazy person. She had taken the pen instead, a handy stabbing tool, and entered ‘000’ into the phone in her other hand, her thumb hovering above the call button.

“Answer me!”

“No, you answer me! Who are you?” Vera had demanded, sounding braver than her shaking hands revealed.

“God? Is that you? Sorry, I just thought you would sound like a man.”

Oh great, she’s unhinged, maybe I should have grabbed that table, Vera had thought. “Of course, I’m not God! Who are you and where are you?”

“My name is Penny Truda. I’m in my bedroom. Are you an angel? If you’re an angel, why can’t you see where I am?” the voice had asked.

Penny Truda? Penny Truda? Vera’s brain had skimmed through the names of every person she had ever met. Penny Truda had sounded familiar but she couldn’t place it.

From where she had been standing, Vera could see all four of the bedroom doors in her house, but she couldn’t see inside. “I can hear you, Penny, but I’m struggling to lock onto your location. Can you describe your bedroom for me?”

“Um, OK. It has purple wallpaper, with big white flowers, and light grey carpet on the floor.” Penny had described the wallpaper in the main bedroom, Vera’s bedroom. Vera had taken a few steps towards the bedroom, her thumb still ready to dial 000, when the voice continued, “The bed has a grey herringbone quilt on it, and the bedhead is big and white, and is padded, with buttons on it. There is a sliding door leading out to the balcony, and I’ve got a great view of the city lights from here.”

That’s when Vera had stopped dead in her tracks. That was not her bed, and that was not her view. Her eyes darted to the window, where the sun was shining brightly, and the kangaroos were making their way out of the bush to graze on the grass. No city lights here. Yet, Vera had known the place that the voice was talking about. It had been twenty-four years since she’d last seen it, but the place looked exactly the same, exactly as she had created it. What is going on? I must be going crazy.

“It’s no wonder you can’t focus in on me when there are so many people living in my building. My apartment number is 806. Can you see me yet?”

“Yes. Yes, I can,” Vera said. And she could, because she had created her. “Why do you call yourself Penny, when I called you Pansy?”

“You called me Pansy? So, you did make me. Why did you say you’re not God, then?”

“I’m not God, Pansy.”

“What else could have created me? Are you an angel?”

“No.”

“Then what are you?”

“I’m an author.” Vera cringed as she remembered the story she had written about Pansy. Poor Pansy. I’m going mad, Vera thought, again.

“What is an author?” Pansy asked.

What is an author? How could she not know what an author was? Then Vera realised – Pansy only knew what had been written about her. “Hang on,” Vera said, as she ran to her computer.

Vera searched for a file, Notion, and opened it. There it was, everything she had ever written about Pansy’s life. Vera scrolled to the end of the story. In that moment, her mind temporarily stopped working. The interaction she had just had with Pansy had been tagged on to the end of her novel. Her heart – while beating harder than it ever had before – felt like it may give out at any moment, and a scream stuck in her throat, as she saw more words appear on the screen:

Vera scrolled to the end of the story. In that moment, her mind temporarily stopped working. The interaction she had just had with Pansy had been tagged on to the end of her novel. Her heart – while beating harder than it ever had before – felt like it may give out at any moment, and a scream stuck in her throat, as she saw more words appear on the screen.

Vera screamed.

Vera screamed.

She closed her eyes. “Stop it! I’m going mad. I’m going mad!”

“What’s going on?” Pansy asked.

“Nothing. Don’t worry, I’m just about to show you what an author is.” And with her eyes still closed, she began to type:

Pansy walked to the bookcase and ran her hand along the spines. One book protruded slightly further than the rest. Instead of pushing it back into place, she decided to pull it out and examine it.

“What is this?” Pansy asked, as she held the rectangular object.

“It’s a book,” Vera answered, as she typed:

Pansy opened the book.

“Woah! It’s got lots of pieces, but they are all staying together.”

“Read it,” said Vera.

“What do you mean?”

“Can’t you see the words?”

“How can you see words?” Pansy asked, “I see little black marks on the flat bits. Is that what you want me to see? They seem to be in some kind of order, they’re all in straight lines, but they don’t look like anything.” Pansy put her head to the side as she tried to make out what the marks might be. “I guess some of them look like snakes, and there are quite a few circles, but I don’t know what it’s meant to mean.”

“That’s OK,” Vera said as she typed. “Just look again.”

Pansy read the book.

Pansy drew in a breath. The black marks meant something. Suddenly there were words, sentences, paragraphs, meaning to something that had been meaningless a moment ago.

“Pansy, are you there?”

Pansy slammed the book shut. On the cover she saw the word ‘Notion’.

“Pansy?”

She opened the book back up and skimmed through it, shaking, as she noticed each page told a story about the most intimate details of her life – from her abusive parents –

“Pansy?”

– to her philandering husband –

“Pansy?”

– to her suicide attempts.

“What is this?” Pansy screamed. “Who are you? What are you?”

“I told you, I am an author, a writer, a storyteller. I wrote the book you are reading. I wrote you.”

Silence.

Vera felt sick. She forced her chair away from the desk. She couldn’t do this anymore. She had written someone into existence, a person who had only ever known pain, purely for her readers to be entertained. She had tortured this poor woman.

The silence continued. Vera thought it was over. Then she looked at the computer screen as it continued to tell her story, describing everything, right down to the tears blurring her vision. If the story was still going, then Pansy was still there, probably in shock.

Pansy was my idea, Vera thought, she exists only because I imagined her. Her story will continue for as long as she is in my thoughts. Vera focused on one idea – Pansy turned to the back page of the book and read the final sentence.

Pansy screamed as she read ‘Pansy turned to the back page of the book and read the final sentence.’ She screamed again as the words ‘Pansy screamed’ appeared before her eyes.

“Are you writing this?” Pansy asked.

“Not exactly. I wrote some of it but just imaging it seems to make it write itself”

Pansy was shaking. “Why would you imagine such a life for me? Why do you hate me? What have I done to you?”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I am so sorry. I’m going to make it up to you, I promise,” Vera said, and she meant it.

“How? How could you possibly ever make this up to me?”

“You will see. Just wait and I will show you.” Vera walked to the bathroom and sat on the toilet. I can’t believe this is how I am going to die, she thought, sitting here, with my pants around her ankles, yet she knew she couldn’t live with the guilt of having created not just Pansy, but so many other damaged characters. Her thoughts went back to Pansy.

“Are you ready, Pansy?” But before Pansy could even respond, Vera began the next chapter of her story.

Pansy appeared under a tree by a lake. Her puffy eyes and leaking mascara had been replaced by a fresh and perfectly made up face, her power suit had been swapped for a summer dress. The tranquillity of her surroundings – the birds chirping, the bees buzzing, the sunshine warming her clothes – sat in wild contrast to her state of mind. Startled by the relocation and the time of day, it took Pansy a moment to realise where she was. This had been her favourite place to go to as child. Her place of comfort after abuse. She had even sort out this place after the bitter break up with her husband, despite having to travel three and half hours to reach it. Pansy began to feel a sense of peace and of hope. That was until she spotted movement out of the corner of her eye.

Her head turned towards the lake, where a strange creature was emerging. She stifled her scream, as she realised it was a fully clothed woman slowly rising out of the water and walking to the shore.

“Hello, Pansy.”

“Vera?” Pansy asked, as the woman approached her.

Vera didn’t answer, she only smiled as she saw clearly for the first time just how beautiful her creation was. Pansy stood stiffly with her arms by her side as Vera forcefully embraced her, saturating the front of Pansy’s sun dress with her soaking wet Pearl Jam t-shirt.

Pansy was underwhelmed. Her creator was nothing impressive: overweight, boyish, and, by the looks of it, slightly crazy.

“Why did you come out of the water like that? You scared me.”

“Sorry, I guess it was symbolic. I just wanted to be washed clean. I feel so guilty for what I have done to you.”

“You said you could make it up to me.”

“And I can,” Vera said, as a smile lit up her face. “My life is yours, Pansy. For as long as I live, I dedicate my life to you.”

“What does that mean?” Pansy asked.

“It means tell me what you would like to do, where you would like to go, when you would like to experience, and your wishes will be fulfilled. No more tears for my Pansy.”

Pansy thought about it. “I know I’m in my forties and I only went to year 9, but I would like to go to university and study to become a doctor and find the cure for the cancer that killed my little sister.” She held her breath waiting for the response.

Vera laughed, “Sure, let’s start small.”

Pansy thought Vera had laughed because her request was so large, so ridiculous, but that was before she knew what was to come.

Not only did Pansy become a doctor and cure cancer, it turned out that her sister’s body had been kept in cryostasis, so Pansy had been able to cure her, too. Pansy raised her little sister as her own. They went on amazing adventures together as they travelled through time and space. Pansy’s sister eventually moved on to fulfil her dreams of getting married and having a family of her own, but Pansy enjoyed the single life. It felt as though she had lived a thousand lifetimes, yet she was never lonely, often catching up with her sister, or Vera, or one of Vera’s many characters that she had introduced to Pansy, asking her to take care of them. Pansy had been having such a great time that she had never felt the need to return to her place of comfort by the lake, yet somehow, suddenly, she found herself there.

The birds, the bees, the sun – it would have been beautiful if it weren’t for the body, sick and scared, curled up under the tree.

Pansy approached with caution, although she could tell who it was. Vera was wearing the same clothes that she had been wearing when they first met thousands of years ago, although she was a lot skinnier now. She looked awful, so frail, yet Pansy saw her, as she had come to see over the centuries and millennia, as the most beautiful and powerful person she knew.

Pansy placed her hand on Vera’s shoulder. “Vera?” she said. “How are you?”

“Pansy.” Vera smiled. She struggled to get herself into a sitting position, then patted the ground beside her. “Sit with me, Pansy.”

Pansy tucked her skirt under her legs as she sat.

“I’m dying, Pansy. This is the end. I know it’s been thousands of years for you, but it’s only been days for me. I can barely think anymore, my mind feels like it's fading away, but I need to know, I need to know, Pansy, have I done enough? Can you forgive me?”

Pansy wrapped her arms around Vera, she struggled to keep her lips from shaking as she hid her tears over Vera’s shoulder. “I forgive you. You've done more than enough. You've shown me things I could never have imagined. I’ve had an amazing life, and none of it would have been possible without you.”

They stayed that way for a long time, until Pansy pulled away and Vera asked, “Is there anything you want to say or ask before the end?”

Pansy thought for a while. “Yes. Two questions have stuck in my mind over the years. One, if I’m a character in a story, are you a character in a story, too? Do you have an author?”

Vera laughed. “Oh, man, I hope not.”

“Pardon?”

“Sorry, I just mean that I’ve never thought about. I would like to think I am the author of my own destiny, but it doesn’t always feel like that. I guess the answer is ‘I don’t know’. Next question.”

“OK. My name. All my life I got picked on and called a pansy, and made to feel like a weakling, a nobody, because of my name. But you seemed so upset when you heard that I changed it. Why?”

“Oh, that’s an easy one. I called you Pansy Truda because it means something. Pansy, from a word meaning ‘thought’, or ‘to think’; and Truda, from a word that means ‘fighting woman’ or ‘warrior woman’ – and, Pansy, I couldn’t think of a more thoughtful, strong woman than you. You were everything I could imagine in a woman, from your beauty, the way you presented yourself, to the way you overcame all the things that you had to endure in your life. I couldn’t think of anyone more perfect than you. So, yeah, I was upset when you changed it, especially when you changed it to ‘Penny’, something of such little value, when I valued you so much”

Pansy listened with her jaw ajar and tears slowly flowing down her cheeks. “I was you, wasn’t I? The best of you.”

Vera smiled. “Not quite me, but everything I wished I could be. Yes, you were. You are.”

Pansy held Vera’s arm and put her head on her shoulder. They closed their eye and stayed that way, waiting for the story to end.

To Vera, it didn’t matter what came next. She had had a chance to create new lives for every being that she had ever written into existence, a paradise to make up for the pain that she had caused them, and that was all that mattered.