Dear Author

Dear Author, 

I suppose I should be grateful you didn't begin my story with waking up. Nor did birdsong factor in. You'd be surprised by the amount of creative pieces that slide across my desk beginning with birdsong.

Then again, perhaps the ubiquitous birdsong I suffer at the hands of fledgling writers is your doing. Everything is your doing, isn't it?

It wasn't that difficult to deduce, I must say. 

I've been a disciple of the written word for nearly fifteen years. I have poured over page after page since I discovered a weathered cardboard box in the attic containing my father's old paperbacks. I read in those days to create some sort of connection with him, the man I never knew. But as my tears dried and anger calcified into bitter acceptance, I learned to enjoy the written word for its own sake. 

Of course you already know this. This is your story.

Tell me, are the feminists correct in their belief that God is a woman? My contemporaries in the English Department will be so pleased. Do you even have a gender? It doesn't matter, I'm merely curious. 

It's astounding no one else notices. Everything is so structured; meaningful. How can life be anything but a narrative? Then again, I suppose I am biased as the world literally revolves around me. 

Anyway, this isn’t about me. This is about you. Well, I suppose it’s about both of us, really. I am writing this letter so that I may air my grievances with you and your misguided (dare I say malicious) attempts at making my life interesting. 

For instance, you’ve placed a new teacher beside my classroom, an attractive woman in her mid-thirties. She has long, slender legs and glossy brown hair. She looks more like an illustration than a person. I know you want me to speak with her. She always smiles warmly (too warmly for a stranger) and something in my stomach coils at the sight. 

I have avoided her. I refuse to play into your hands. I'm a post-modernist. I refuse to follow any edict by some metaphysical construct. The authenticity of your existence is entirely irrelevant to me. 

Besides, have you not learned your lesson since the last time you tried to find me a mate? In case it’s escaped your memory, allow me to remind you. 

It was last September and my elderly neighbors unexpectedly divorced. Taking their place was a charming twenty-something. I watched her move in from my kitchen as I took my morning coffee.

It was obvious you wanted me to approach her as she struggled, unloading featureless box after featureless box from the backend of a moving van. Quite an unusual sight. Moving is not a single person activity. 

She wore a seasonal tank top and shorts, and with each load the sweat stains beneath her armpits grew darker. Her messy bun drooped with exhaustion. Tragic. I could feel the invisible string pulling. The one meant to usher me on to the next plot point, but I waved it off like one of the many flies that have snuck into my house.

Frankly, I was embarrassed for you. You actually expected me to scramble over, clad in only my pajamas, to help this poor woman move into her home. 

No. There were papers to grade. 

I slunk to my office, working up each page with a bright red pen. Your thread cut into my torso, wrapping around my throat until I nearly choked from the effort of resisting you. Then, all at once, the sensation vanished. Normalcy reasserted itself. At least for a moment.

Fortunately, you temporarily gave up on finding me a girlfriend. Instead you settled on some other inane disaster.

My home was broken into by vampires —vampires! — at least I believe they were vampires. Their eyes glowed white in the dark and their teeth were as sharp as serrated knives. I was pleased to discover none of them wished to couple with me. 

Instead they pounced and bit and tore as I screamed all profanity known to me. I felt the pull again, the loss of autonomy, the sensation of losing myself to the situation. The vampire straddling me tore at his arm until a thin streak of black blood wept from the wound. He proffered it to me, brow furrowed in determination. He wanted me to drink it. You wanted me to drink it. 

I refused. 

Black dots spotted my vision. Thick liquid seeped out of me, but I help firm. 

Instead of waking into the afterlife, I found myself in my bed without a scratch. 

I took inventory of myself in the shower and it seemed the whole thing was a failed endeavor. You're experimenting with genres again. A week transpired and, just when everything appeared to be normal, I received a bleeding man at my door. He slumped against the doorway, clutching his side with a look of desperation. 

"I know you don't know me yet," he wheezed, "but I'm from your future."

I slipped back inside and shut the door. He cried out in despair, rattling the windows. The thread was so tight it threatened to slice me in half. Even so, I found the strength the call for an emergency vehicle. 

An ambulance was deployed in short order. The man died in the hospital. 

You must have been angry about this because you proceeded to murder my poor neighbor the following day. The culprit fled unseen, but left a bloody footprint on the front porch in his flight.

A sergeant came to my doorstep and asked me questions which I did my best to answer. Well, I say best. I was able to deduce almost instantly it was her ex-boyfriend whom she had an illegitimate child with. He killed her to avoid paying child support. Obviously. 

Or at least it was obvious once you gifted me extraordinary deductive skills. 

And so we now reach the present. I called the school this morning and told them, due to a death in the family, I would need to take the next few days off. Thus far, I have spend the bereavement period, not grieving a dead relative, but drinking in celebration. 

Every attempt you've made to give my life meaning, I've denied you. 

I've denied myself oh so many things: a warm embrace, camaraderie, acceptance and purpose. 

You may think me cold, but I've wept for the cups that have passed me by. I could have been a hero, a thief, a lover, or a warrior. 

Nevertheless, I find myself pottering about a free man. 

You may hold the pen, but I will bear the slings and arrows so long as I can say I make my own destiny.

Even if I die--or never die--a nameless gorm at least I'll have died as me. 

Sincerely,

M.C