Let me tell you what it is like to be a character without a story.
When your story gets erased, you open your eyes and you see nothing but white. Beneath your hands, a blank page that extends far beyond your sight. It is not cold nor hot, but rather pleasant enough you don’t notice it. It takes you a second to remember your name. The instant the word appears in your head, a sudden realization hits you. The world that you lived in was nothing but a page much like the one underneath you, now erased as if it never existed. Your friends, your family, they are all fantasy. You are fantasy.
The first time, and if you’re lucky, the only time this happens to you, you’ll begin to ask too many questions. What was wrong with my story? Why did it get erased? Why was I of all people saved instead of being deleted along with my world?
Then the memories start to flood in. Like knives and bullets, you feel them dig into your chest as they flash through your eyes. Friends that were more family than your family. Will you ever see them again or did they die with the story? Tears of anger and pain you shed, the blood you spilt, the people you destroy, the way you hurt yourself, they all return. Your skin tingles as you feel once more every touch, every wound, every kiss in the blink of an eye. You can barely breathe and you are sure your heart is going to stop from all the sensations but then you remember you can’t die because you’re not real.
That’s when it really hits you.
You’re not real.
Of course, your first reaction might be to test your theory, but you don’t have anything to test it with. You look around and realize there is nothing but white. You grab your clothes but notice that you’re wearing nothing but a white robe.
Then real fear hits you.
You’re alone. You don’t have anything to distract yourself. You have no way of knowing how much time has passed or how much longer until you get assigned a new story. And of course, you won’t go insane because you’re not real and in the blank pages, the rules of a story don’t apply. You stay exactly how you need to be, stuck in a pocket of reality that isn’t affected by time or logic. It’s a little drawer where the Writer stores you until She finds a new story to break you with once again. And when that day come, you gladly join the story no matter how painful it looks because it is always better than absolutely nothing.
I’ve been through ten stories now and I always return to the blank page. When you’ve been through as many stories as me, you have memories of countless lives. You remember all the things you wished you have done, all the things you would have said if you had been conscious you were a part of a story. The odd thing is that when you are in a new story, you forget everything about your past lives and the blank page, and you become convinced that the story you are in is the only reality that exists.
Sometimes, faces and names repeat in your stories, faces you love and people that love you. You start to develop false hope that your friends will follow you into each story you get thrown into. Until you end up in the blank page once more and realize that you didn’t see them in the last story you were in. It hits you that you are truly alone.
Perhaps it is that I’ve been through so many stories or that the Writer keeps insisting on keeping me existing that a few stories ago, I woke up with a pen by my side. I questioned if She wanted me to help her, to tell her which story I belonged in. I keep wondering why I’m the one She chooses to save.
Perhaps its because I’m the only fool that after ten times, still willingly jumps into the fire just to get out of the frying pan.
I’m tired of stories and I’m tired of ending up back here every single time. Alone and with nothing but a pen to keep me company.
My only knowledge is that my name is Rose and there’s nothing that can break me more than I already am. So when I see a light form a door in between the white for the eleventh time, I drop my pen and walk to it without knowing what awaits me and without fear of the unknown.