The Ending

I haven’t moved or even let out a breath I hadn’t realized I had been holding for what seems like ages. I hang out in this limbo just waiting for you to write, to think of me again. Put your problems aside and pick up the computer. That expensive piece of machinery you bought to “concentrate on your writing”. I keep screaming in your head, keep waiting on your page. But you just keep passing the computer, I see you looking at it like it is dog crap on the sidewalk, see that lust in your eyes when you think your muse has found you again. I know you think of me, I’m in your head. In your mind, I am powerful, popular, I grab the attention and place it on myself without being obnoxious. But you just can’t get the motivation. You walk by it and just grab your coffee, alcoholic drink, or water if you’re on a healthy kick. Your cats pay more attention to it. They sit on the computer, bat at the screen, while you play your Sims or research a bunch of things including names for me.

My name is Ana Phillips although you keep changing it too, I’ve been Sarah Miller (too plain), Dusty Park (too weird), and even Honey (too flower child). You’ve written me as a beautiful girl with a nice chest that men stare at too long, a plain girl with glasses (still keeping that big chest though, feeding those librarian/teacher fantasies), a scarred young woman (physically and mentally, but you didn’t know if that would be ableist (you had to look that word up)). I always hook up with a flawed interest: a tortured man who wants to torture me, a nice guy I don’t look at until I find myself, a righteous butt munch who really has a heart of gold. I get written many times and yet I’m still here in limbo, waiting for you to pick it up again. You will after you read that book that inspires you. Maybe it’s a great book by your favorite author (who you could totally write like) or maybe it’s a bad so God awful that your “booktubers” trash it like it didn’t take the author hours of their life to complete, having to immerse themselves into a world of darkness, pain, whatever it took, whatever you don’t have to finish the story. And you think to yourself in both cases that they have the dedication and patience you had in your youth. Before every problem was solvable, when you needed that escape. Now, you can handle life which is great for you. Not so much for me. Your characters back then weren’t so neglected, they were alive not only on your head, but you couldn’t get them onto the paper or computer fast enough. Yes, it was a dark time, but you less than secretly miss it. It was your escape from the voices telling you that you sucked, that the world would be better off without you. Yes, you were a great writer before you had your “breakdown”, before you gave up on writing altogether. You came back to it in another hard time of your life and swore this time you wouldn’t give up. So far, you’ve kept your promise, you haven’t given up. But you’ve barely started. 

I feel like giving up on you altogether, wouldn’t it be easier to find someone else to haunt? Someone to hear my banshee cries and lead themselves into my trap? I bellow and bellow and you ignore me, but alas, you always surprise me. Just as I want to disappear into oblivion, I see your determination as you sit at the computer. Your typing is lightning in my world and I’m the Creature; your Frankenstein fingers work at me, sewing and re-sewing my words, pain, and joyous occasions while looking absent-minded. You’re creating my life, giving me the bestest of best friends, one that reminds you of yours, I’m falling in and out of love much like you did in your teens and early twenties. I have my hopes and dreams again as you’re stretching my story out; I feel invigorated in your capable hands. You can’t believe what you’ve written, you love me, I’m your favorite main character, this is your favorite story. You work on me for days, polishing and buffing me onto the page. The months I’ve been ignored fall behind me and I’m new again. 

You get into the end, you can’t believe you’ve written this consistently, this long. You’re back, but you sigh. The end is coming, and you know what you need to do, I can see it in your eyes and as your creation, I’m not quite ready for it. I’m sure I’ll get married to the newest book boyfriend with heterochromia and a small, crooked smile like Sly or Milo’s, we’ll have some kids that will of course inherit his conditions (I’m not sure if those genes are passed on, but ok, whatever), and we’ll live in the country surrounded by horses and dogs. Maybe a couple of cats with your cats’ names (Bubble Butts and Hairy Heinie (maybe you should let your own love interest name the kids)). You crack your knuckles and bite your lip, chewing a little. I see you typing, and I’m transfixed into my own world. My book boyfriend starts to tell me no, I can’t sacrifice myself. Come again, I want to ask the words on my lips before you write my dialogue, telling him I have to; I need to save the world. F the world, I’m really thinking, before I leapt into the portal. I feel the earth below me and every bone breaks in me. The pain is excruciating before you sigh yet again and erase the last few sentences. My body is still recovering as you put me in a hospital, dying from some disease. My body is in agony as you sip some more coffee and sigh again. You once again erase my last few days and start again. 

You’ve shot me, stabbed me, blown me up, and even had an elephant trample me. You can’t make up your mind. Just give me a happy ending,any ending at this point!

Now, you’ve once again ignored me, but not before sticking me a pit of snakes, trying to find a way out. 

I. HATE. YOU.