Frank

Frank sat at his cluttered desk at work like he did every morning, the computer screen displaying endless spreadsheets full of meaningless numbers that served no purpose other than to appease his micromanaging boss. Frank yawned widely and wiped the crusty remnants of sleep from his bleary eyes. He grabbed his chipped coffee mug, the faded lettering dubbing him the "World's Best Boss" though he felt anything but. With a weary groan, he pushed back his creaky office chair and shambled toward the kitchen for his morning caffeine fix.

The harsh fluorescent lights of the kitchen flickered and hummed overhead, amplifying the pounding in Frank's head. Beth was already there, predictably hovering greedily over the open biscuit tin on the counter, scoping out the selection before her coworkers wandered in. Hoping to avoid detection, she quickly shoved a stack of no less than five custard creams into her mouth, nibbling them ferret-like and stowing them in her bulging chipmunk cheeks.

"Morning, Beth," Frank mumbled half-heartedly, putting his mug down. His motion caused the precarious tower of crusted dishes in the overflowing sink to shift, threatening to topple over and add to the mess.

"Hmmfph," Beth attempted to respond through her mouthful of pilfered biscuits. After swallowing with some difficulty, she finally managed "Ready for another non-stop action-packed day in paradise?" Her voice dripped with sarcasm.

"Oh yeah. Livin' the dream," Frank intoned wryly, dumping stale coffee grounds into the ancient percolator. The smell of burnt coffee did little to improve his morning outlook. He filled the reservoir with water and flipped the sputtering machine on. Leaning back against the counter with a weary sigh, he lamented his mind-numbing existence.

Just then, Beth greedily snatched another biscuit from the tin, oblivious to all else in her single-minded quest. Elbowing Frank sharply in the process, she caused the steaming coffee pot he had just removed to slosh scalding liquid all over the front of his stained shirt.

"Agh!" Frank yelped at the burning sensation, slopping coffee across the counter as he jerked back. His foot caught on the leg of an unstable stool, sending him crashing backwards onto the hard linoleum floor. The back of his head cracked against the sharp corner of a cabinet, exploding stars across his vision.

What Frank didn’t realize that day was he would die, his soul taken by the...

“My head,” Frank said as he rubbed the large lump forming on the back of his head from where he had hit the sharp cabinet corner.

“Oh my god Frank are you ok?” Beth said, crumbs from the half-eaten custard cream hanging out of her mouth.

“Yeah I am fine,” Frank said, looking around the office kitchen puzzled as he tried to figure out what had just happened.

“Who is that?” he said to Beth, who was looking at him confused.

“Who is what?” she said, holding out her hand to help him get back on his feet since his time for coffee was clearly over.

“The person narrating everything,” Frank said, still trying to regain his balance and figure out who was describing his every move.

“Can you hear that?” he said to Beth, checking around the room again but seeing no one else there narrating his actions.

“No I don’t hear anything. Maybe you banged your head pretty hard. Maybe you should go to the doctor and I will tell them what happened so you can take the day off,” Beth suggested, her eyes drifting back longingly toward the tin of biscuits.

Frank looked at Beth, then looked around the room again suspiciously, and then looked back at Beth before sticking his tongue out and spinning dramatically around on the spot.

“OK seriously, who is that? Why are you narrating everything I do?” Beth looked at him confused, then slowly grabbed the box of biscuits before stepping away - nothing would come between her and a Bourbon biscuit.

“Yes I know what Beth is doing, I can see her doing it, also not a very nice comment about her being obsessed with biscuits,” Frank said, going back to his desk hurriedly, then slowly gathering his things into his bag.

“Oh for god’s sake,” he said in frustration, then unpacked his bag again and repacked it, before grabbing a pencil off his desk and rolling it back and forth contemplatively while looking up at the ceiling. “Is this god?” he wondered. What Frank didn’t realize was it was not god narrating his actions.

“Ok, so you are not god then - am I insane?” Frank said, gazing back up at the ceiling while people around the office started looking at him funny, noticing his odd behavior.

“I don’t care about them,” Frank thought defiantly, though he really should have cared, since it’s not good to have people think you might be insane because they hear you talking to a voice inside your head dictating your every move. Frank hadn’t realized he was meant to die that day, meant to go on an exciting comedic journey through the afterlife meeting death. But somehow Frank had survived, stretching the story off course, and now here they were.

“I was meant to do what now?” Frank shouted in an angry yet confused manner. “You meant for me to die?” He pointed up at the ceiling accusingly. I mean I had it all written down here in the notes that today Frank would die. We are very much off course now.

“I need to go see a doctor, or check myself into a mental health facility,” Frank said, grabbing his bag and slowly walking out of the office. He paused in the doorway.

“So if I don’t move or do anything, this story won't carry on?” he speculated, having a lightbulb moment. Frank was onto something - if he stood perfectly still, perhaps the story would stall. But realistically, how long could he stand motionless in one spot? He considered this for a while.

“Hey, don’t be putting thoughts in my head!” he finally exclaimed, realizing the narrator was influencing his thinking. But the pain in Frank’s head was only getting worse.

“Oh my god, my head is killing me now - did you do that?” Frank said, grabbing his head in agony. He couldn’t stand still any longer and quickly left the building, almost jogging out of the front door.

“Holy shit, I’m actually jogging now - can I control any of this?” he said, flailing his arms around dramatically before coming to a stop outside the building on the side of the road. He looked down at his feet and arms and saw he did have some control over his own actions, though the narrator was steering him in certain directions.

Suddenly, a car came skidding rapidly around the corner right toward him. The elderly driver had lost control and the car was heading straight for Frank, who annoyingly jumped out of the way. The car missed him and crashed into the nearby lamppost.

Frank sat up on the pavement, gazing at what had just transpired. “Are you trying to kill me?” he screamed, looking toward the sky where he imagined the narration was coming from. Frank was indeed correct, though what he didn’t realize was that the narrator was just trying to get the story back on track, per the original plot.

“Ah, now I realize, hey stop that,” Frank said, the pieces coming together. What Frank also didn’t notice until that moment was that the old lady driver had gotten out of the crashed car and now had a large butcher knife in her hand. She was running toward him in a most horrific way - it was quite a sight to see an 86-year-old woman sprinting toward you wielding a knife.

“I did actually think that just now - I can’t lie,” Frank admitted out loud. The old lady suddenly leapt through the air toward Frank with the knife pointed down directly at him. Because he knew this was coming thanks to the narrator’s description, Frank managed to frustratingly dodge out of the way once again. “OK look, I don’t want to die!” Frank yelled exasperatedly. “And now you’ve got this poor old lady defying the laws of physics, just floating here in midair?” Indeed, the woman was frozen absurdly in an attack pose. Fine, she falls to the floor and gets knocked out then. Frank thought this was a bit much for the poor old lady, but the narrator didn’t really care either way.

“Well, you should care - that’s someone's grandmother,” Frank insisted. It’s not anyone's actual grandmother, Frank - we just made her up. Frank stood up and looked around again, wondering if he was still losing his mind.  

“How do I get you out of my head?” he asked the open air in frustration as people on the busy street walked past, looking down at the knocked out old woman laying on the sidewalk that had so recently tried to murder Frank in broad daylight.

“Oh, so now the street is busy with people, when a second ago it was completely empty?” Frank questioned sarcastically. We are world-building here, Frank, You can’t reasonably think an old lady could just be laid out unconscious on a busy city sidewalk and no one would notice.

“Well I don’t have a clue - I’m not the one writing this nonsense,” Frank fired back.

Alright, look - let's just agree to disagree on these story details, okay? I can't finish crafting the story properly with you being so difficult about everything, and you clearly don't want me controlling you anymore.

“Well, yes, I would rather you not be in control of me,” Frank said, pointing upward. Fine, how about this - Frank goes back home after hitting his head and goes to sleep.

“Zzzzzzzz,” Frank rumbled exaggeratedly, pretending to snore. Finally - I mean, Frank is finally asleep now, and he won't remember any of this tomorrow. Well, not anything related to today at least.”

The next morning, Elizabeth sat at her desk at work like she did every morning. Her computer screen displayed spreadsheet after spreadsheet of unimportant numbers and data that did little besides prove to her micromanaging boss that she was busy working. Elizabeth yawned widely and wiped the remnants of sleep from her eyes before grabbing her coffee mug. She got up slowly from her desk chair and headed to the office kitchen to make her usual morning coffee.

What Elizabeth didn’t yet realize was that today she was going to die in a most sudden and horrific way, with no chance of survival. It was going to be quite a day.

The End