Abyss

Does everything that is ejected out of a human womb have a purpose or are we just here because an orgasm occurred? I would be angry if it were the latter, so let us all agree that we’re really doing something here. If we all have a purpose, then I know that the moment I came out of the entanglement in my mother, I was to be a writer, and as I cried, the world pulled me into an embrace and assured me that they would listen to what I had to say. And immediately, my tears ceased.

I wonder when people notice they are writers. Does the deceit start from our elementary school teacher who told us our composition about our Christmas holiday was excellent, and gave us little stars? Or did it start much later when we realized our blood wasn’t red, but was black and white, and in it held the ability to create the most magnificent colours? Or was it when we called people to see what we had bled, and their mouths gaped as they told us, “oh, how pretty”.

What if the best writers are the ones not doing the writing and we writers don't know what we’re doing? When we tell stories and people laugh or cry, are they deceiving us or are we deceiving them? Has the world done writers a disservice or have writers done the world a disservice?

This is my curse – that when nobody has words I must produce them. And when I have words I must love them or hate them, never both. On the days I love them, the world must then decide if they love them or hate them. And on the days I hate them, I am nothing.

This is my second curse – that I do not know if I want the first curse lifted because I like how the weight slowly breaks my back and lovingly battles me to the ground. On some days, I hope to wake up and never have to write again, but I love it more than I love my life so if that day comes, I will never want to wake. Do I –

“Hunnay!” Zed startles me as he opens the door of my study. He smiles at me and I smile back. “Still nothing?”

I nod.

“You’ll figure it out, I’m sure.” He pauses, contemplating how to craft what he really came to say. “Would you like me to read?” he says quietly.

“No, Zed. No.” I say with a polite smile.

“B-but,” he sulks and I wonder why he puts on this show. He knows that he cannot read it yet. “But what if I can give you an idea?”

I laugh as I make my way to the door, gently pushing him out of it. “The day that happens, we must all pack our bags and leave, and we must say goodbye to our dear planet and move to the one you have created.”

“Real funny.” he says and I close the door in his face.

I walk back to my station and stretch my back on the sofa. My story is looking at me from my laptop wondering why I’ve stopped trying to make her beautiful. She tells me she misses me but she must understand that without an idea, she will begin to irritate me, and after the irritation comes hatred and then inevitably, a murder. So I will stay away a while. 

In my story, I have put all my past loves in Oliver. He has a dark, beautiful body, and he is very supportive like Zed. I have also made Oliver funny and spontaneous like the man who tore my heart in two. He is a bit like Omida too, because of how tenderly he loves. 

Zed would know exactly what I have done, so I will not let him read it till I’m ready to send it off. I look forward to the fight we will have afterwards because at least we would not speak for days.

I did not make Oliver suffocate Abigail the way Zed does. Oliver lets Abigail live. He doesn’t survive on one-part oxygen and two-parts his lover’s attention. Abigail can invite her friends over without Oliver showing up and spending the evening rubbing her arm, supporting her jokes with needless bouts of laughter or perching on her every conversation. Abigail doesn’t feel like she has murdered a man when she misses Oliver’s calls. She feels no guilt for not being with her phone for a second or being in that very important meeting she couldn’t excuse herself from! 

Abigail and Oliver have a raw, honest relationship. They’ve seen the murkiness that tinges their insides and are comfortable knowing that sometimes, some stains become permanent. Oliver isn’t looking for a perfect Abby. He isn’t trying to trim her loose sides till she can fit into the image he has carved out - perfect colour, perfect hair, perfect responses. He understands that to force your expectations on your partner is to make them less like themselves. And he knows that a love that diminishes is the worst kind of love.

Abigail is the woman I would be if I had the courage. And Oliver is the man I would love if I were Abigail. But I am Reila and an Oliver wants no Reila, and so a Reila must accept love from the Zeds of this world.

I wish I could write myself better and live out my earnest fantasies in a never-ending comedy. But no one laughs forever and all stories must end, just like Abby’s and Oliver’s. I wish I could give them a happily ever after. After the stalker, the cheating and the suicide, they deserve it. But I want them to suffer just a bit more. I need them to...

Oh yes. I have just made up my mind. The world deceived writers. The pen is mightier than a sword. Oh, what a joke! If a pen is so powerful, why am I in much stronger shackles? Where is my freedom?

I can't even say the words. Can’t even open my mouth to tell Zed to get lost and let me live. Can’t tell Zed that anytime I see his face, I have to hold back the vomit. Can’t tell Zed that anytime he rubs my arm, the knife underneath my skin sinks deeper. Where are my words? Where is my power? The world shouldn’t have told us we are the chosen ones. They should have left us alone, ordinary.

Ugh...there my story is again, begging me to come back. 

Okay. Oliver.

Oliver has done enough crying recently. Maybe it’s time for Abigail to get those cheeks warm and wet.  

The new promotion suits her well. Who knew she had it in her to take charge like that? I did, didn't I? Or did I? Anyway, her job is good. But is it worth so much to her? Her house. She’s held on to that thing for so long. Let go, Abby. It’s time. Or maybe Oliver could leave her? She would die if he did. That asshole, he wouldn't do it. He loves her too much. Oh darling Abby, what do I take from you?

The breeze from my slightly open window is beginning to lick my skin so I grab the blanket I keep at the tail of the sofa, and get cozy under it. A mosquito begins singing their bestselling tune and I pause, patient. It enters my view like I knew it would, and when it is in the middle, I clap. I open my palm to see the tiny, squashed being. I’ve been camping in my study all morning and all I’ve accomplished was putting an end to a life. It might be time to...

Putting an end to a life.

Ending a life.

End a life!

As I stared at the mosquito, I knew it was time to squash Oliver.

But how? But why?

But why not?

Abigail would break beyond repair...but she needs it. No one should have such a perfect love. No one. This is what she deserves. A rude awakening. Yes.

No. My Oliver, gone? His life has just begun. 

Yes. Give it some time and all good things change.

That’s it. That’s final. It’s rude and unexpected, but whose life ever goes how they imagined? 

Goodbye, Oliver. Hello, Abby’s abyss. 

Oliver, I am sorry. I thought life would smile on you longer. To you Abby, I apologize even more, because as I put in the last chapter of my story, the last paragraph, the last word, I am sending your soul to the afterlife where characters can choose their destinies, but I have sent you off without yours.