Kill the story

"Phew, I'm done for today." I pull my hands from the keyboard, saving the day's work and standing up. Seven years I've been posting my writing in my spare time. Views are low, my stories bleak and untrendy, but it's fine. I just like finishing the tales I tell. Maybe it's self-indulgent. I saw a comment once: "Why not just imagine this and jerk off? Why upload?" Why indeed. Am I forcing my world on others? Can't they understand there's this kind of writing too? Don't read it if you hate it! ...But I couldn't reply. "What to eat..." It's 10 PM, perfect for snacking, unhealthy but enjoyable. There's duck meat from yesterday. Supermarket snacks are a steal these days. Sizzle. The sound of pages turning makes me look up. It's been ages since I've held a paper book. On my sofa sits a man, dapper, hatted, reading intently. He's got tears in his eyes, so it must be sad. Wait. A man in my solo apartment? On my sofa? I almost scream, but he closes the book and looks up. "You...!" "Thanks for the good read," he says. I'm speechless. Not due to his audacity, but because his face is foreign yet familiar. A tear rolls down his cheek, and it hurts me. He stands, walks to me, places his right hand on his chest, and bows. "Honored to meet you." Where do I know him from? His slicked-back black hair, the earring with a strange symbol, the nose and eyes too strong for a Asian, the stubborn mouth... It's all familiar, despite me never leaving India. "Who are you?" I ask. "You don't know? Disappointing." He feigns hurt, and I nearly apologize. But he's an intruder! "I live alone," I say, firming up. "This is trespassing. The door was locked. How'd you get in?" "Trespassing? Amusing." He laughs, but I don't. This feels like a dream, unreal. He, however, is confident, looking around before handing me his book. Surprised, I found the title of my writing on the cover. A quick skim through the pages confirmed it was indeed my work. It was undoubtedly my writing. At one point, I had considered making a few copies for myself, but I never actually did it. So, this guy... "Are you a stalker?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. "You must be joking. Who would stalk such an unpopular work?" he retorted, a hint of amusement in his voice. "Well, yeah, that's true, but who in their right mind would go to the trouble of binding such an unpopular work and then bring it to the author?" I countered, trying to make sense of the situation. "Let me be clear," the man stated, his voice firm and unwavering, "I am not a reader of your work." "Wait..." I tried to rebut his absurd words, but seeing the incredibly serious look on the man's face, my words got stuck in my throat. Ha, this guy is a trespasser. Why am I even speechless? But honestly, where did he get this made? It's really well done. Should I ask him where? "It doesn't matter if you don't recognize me," the man said, his voice laced with a hint of melancholy, "though it would have made me feel a little, just a little, better." "Did you come here because you have a complaint about the story?" I inquired, trying to understand his motive. "Hmm, something like that," he replied vaguely, his gaze fixed on the book in my hands. "You can't just come here unannounced if you're dissatisfied," I retorted, my frustration growing. "You could have sent a message to my account. Even if you somehow found my address, you could have sent a letter. At the very least, you should have rung the doorbell..." As I continued speaking, uneasiness began to creep up. Unconsciously, my voice grew quieter and weaker, as if the words were being drained of their energy. The sorrow I saw in the man's face at the beginning reappeared, even more intense. It was as if a dark cloud had descended upon him, casting a shadow over his entire being. "I cannot dislike your writing," he confessed, his voice thick with emotion. "It made me who I am today, so how could I hate it? But..." "But?" I prompted, my curiosity piqued. "I am exhausted," he sighed, the weight of his burden evident in his tone. "I'm having a hard time. No matter how much I try and prepare, I can't prevent it. I've risen above despair countless times, but there's no end in sight." "What do you mean..." I trailed off, unsure of how to respond to his cryptic words. "The danger grows with each moment," he continued, his voice filled with desperation, "and everything I've tried to protect is being trampled underfoot. I can no longer find any dreams or hopes." I remained silent, unsure of what to say. Ah, why does this man cry so often? This feels like more than just a fan who's gone too far. Even if the story is bleak, to go to such lengths... Should I have written it a little less grim? "I thought long and hard," the man declared, his voice suddenly filled with determination. "And I found a solution." "W-What is it?" I stammered, a sense of dread washing over me. Please, just leave quietly. I might even beg for forgiveness. But the next words that came from the man's mouth exceeded the limits of my imagination. "The creator. There's no one else." "What?" I questioned, my confusion deepening. "Once a story is written, it becomes an immutable truth," he explained, his eyes gleaming with an unsettling intensity. "To change it, an irregular is needed. And there is only one irregular in the world who can interfere with the story." "What are you talking about..." I began, but my words were cut short by a sudden, blinding light. Startled, I squinted and looked down. The book the man had handed me was emitting a radiant glow, illuminating the room with an otherworldly light. "What the...?!" I exclaimed, my voice filled with disbelief. "Please. I beg you," the man pleaded, his voice filled with desperation. "Hey, wait...!" I cried out, but it was too late. The book opened of its own accord, pages began flipping rapidly, and the light grew even more intense, casting long, dancing shadows on the walls. And then, I felt an irresistible force, as if an invisible hand had reached out from the book and grabbed hold of me. I tried to pull my hands away from the book, but it was stuck to my palms like glue, dragging my upper body closer to its glowing pages. But it was futile. The force was too strong to resist. I felt my face being drawn into the book, a sensation of being submerged into an unknown abyss. "Please protect our dreams and hopes," the man's voice echoed in my ears, growing fainter as I was pulled deeper into the book. "You, you're…!" I managed to gasp out, a realization dawning upon me. Why did I realize it only now? For the past seven years, he had been the one I wrote about the most. Just as his name was about to come to mind, my consciousness began to fade rapidly, like a candle flickering in the wind. I'm doomed. Whatever it is, it's terribly wrong. But in the end, I was swallowed by the book without a chance to speak for myself, my last thought a desperate plea for help that went unheard.