Oh, can a bystander’s story ever be told?

There’s pretty much nothing exciting going on in my life, being one of the many characters in a writers head. I get up, brush, eat, dress and get ready for work. As I grab my keys and head out the front door, I try to ignore my incomplete novel lying on the table, its empty pages staring accusingly at me in silence.

Sighing, I bustle out the front door onto the footpath, coffee cup in one hand and my office bag in the other. I was getting late for work, I think. Suddenly the protagonist of the story brushes past me, hurrying off in the direction of the hospital. I can almost see the writers hand as she describes the scene. “Jace hurries down the street, brushing past a stranger in his haste to reach his injured friend.”

Yeah… I’m just a mere bystander, a mere stranger who is not worthy of even having her name on even one page of the story.

As I type away at work, calculating account balances of people financially way better off than me, I start doubting whether I would make it in life, in the current financial status I was in. My boss calls me over to hand me some more darned files. For many hours it goes on like this. Typing, some files, some more typing.

The life of a typical, normal bystanders life. Seldom portrayed on the pages of action-packed, protagonist-centred novels. Nothing out of the ordinary, unless summoned up by the writer herself.

As I make my way to my favourite cafe after a tiring day at work, I spot the protagonist inside, in a quiet corner, head in his hands. It must be the call to action that's tearing him apart, I think as I sit near the window, ordering myself a warm cup of coffee. Although he sat in a corner, the spotlight was on him, his every emotion, his every thought. Suddenly as if on cue, a group of teenagers enter the room, looking around for someone. On spotting the protagonist in the corner they make their way towards him and they soon get talking. The look of frustration and doubt slowly melts away from his face, now replaced with a smile that he flashes at his new friends. I was deep in thought when suddenly the protagonist gets up and with a look of resolution on his face, walks out the cafe. Sitting there, I watch his untouched cup of cold coffee for a while.

Afterwards, as I make my way back home, the ground suddenly shudders and I hear explosions in the distance. Must be another clash between the protagonist and antagonist, I think. I’m automatically whisked buy the writers pen to the spot where the fight was going on, to perform my tiring, obligatory role of a bystander. The protagonist wrestled with the antagonist, screaming obscenities at each other. It was the usual... at first, it seemed like the protagonist was losing, then a quick, unexpected turn of events- and the antagonist loses. We've seen a lot like these. There was destruction, cuts and blood everywhere. If you ask me, most of the scenes we're made to witness are either inappropriate or kinda traumatising. A few other unfortunate onlookers stood there too, one whose hair was dripping wet. Perhaps whisked away by the writer from between a nice relaxing shower, I think.

Minutes later, as the place cleared up and we were allowed to resume what we were doing, I shoot a tired smile at the other bystanders and make my way back home, hop into the shower and making myself a fresh cup of coffee, I chew the back of my pen, thinking about working on my novel. And that’s when I spot it.

The cursed writer's pen, looming right there, above my head in silence. And the moment I’m whisked into a scene, I realize the danger I was in. Of course, it was a scene where the antagonist wreaks havoc on the innocent citizens of the city until the protagonist zooms in to save the day.

Buildings, vehicles and trees crash to the ground, dust filling the atmosphere as the antagonist’s evil villains do their best to wreak havoc. People like me ran around screaming for help, trying to create a scene filled with tension. I instinctively try to dash under a sturdy bench but the darned pen appears yet again, this time forcing me into a run right in the middle of the road, yelling at the top of my voice for extra dramatic effect. And so I hold my hands over my head and run, walls and furniture crashing down all around me and missing my head by inches. Finally, the protagonist decides to make his appearance, saving our city and earning forced cheers and applause from the rest of us.

I stand there applauding, dark thoughts filling my head. Wait until the writer chooses to make me the protagonist one day... I’ll get you back big time. And that’s when the piece of rock falls on my head.

I lie on the hospital bed along with a few others, but our faces are blurred as the spotlight shines on the protagonist who silently weeps for his friend's misfortune, swearing vengeance against the antagonist's demonic act. Crocodile tears flow down his cheeks as the writer frantically wave placards in the background and the protagonist reads them out loud through squinting eyes. I just lie there on the bed, listening to the seemingly never-ending conversation between him and his friend as the writer desperately tries to invoke sympathy from the readers.

Days later as I finally sit in my home, book and pen in hand, that’s when it strikes me. This whole story centres around me, my story, and my life. So in the end, haven’t I become the protagonist myself? And the darned protagonist, my antagonist? Oh, writing isn't the thing for me. Writing just isn't the thing for me. And then I think

Oh, can a bystanders story ever be told?