Day Twenty-Eight
Gerald started to lose the control over his breathing, while he continued to run away from Frank. He couldn't escape from him for any longer. Because he couldn't think straight in this situation, he ran himself into a corner, or more appropritately, to the cliff leading to the nothingness. His legs couldn't carry him for any longer, as he broke down and tried to catch his breath.
„It's time, Gerald“, uttered Frank, as he slowly moved towards him, pointing at him with his gun.
„Any last words before I finish you off?“
Gerald didn't dare to turn to him as he whispered weakly: „Notarc no ruy-“
„Oh no, you won't!“
He kicked him to the side, making him lie on his back.
Gerald's voice got progressively weaker. „Notarc no ruy oti-“
Frank tried to stop him by shooting Gerald's hand. The scream that followed was as shrill as screaching a chalkboard with a rusty nail. But he didn't give up.
„Notarc no ruy oti ni-“
„Shut up!“, yelled Frank, as he shot his other hand. „I warn you!“
„Notarc no ruy oti ni nard-“
„Shut up, Gerald!“ He barely missed Gerald's head with his next shot, as his hands started to shake nervously. „Try to use the ritual sentence one last time, and you'll have a nice, big, red point in the middle of your forehead!“
Gerald's mouth suddenly shut leaving him lying on the ground, unable to control any of his body parts.
„Well, it's going to end now. I hope there is nothing you regret, because you have no chances anymore to change it.“ Frank's hands were shaking as ever, giving him some problems to aim with it at anything, even though Gerald's head was only a few feet away from him.
„Stop it, Frank!“
Vincent seemed to have finally caught up with them, as he drew his Gatling and aimed at Frank. „You have no idea what you're doing right now!“
„You don't seem to understand what I'm doing there, Vincent! I'm going to finish it!“, yelled Frank, focused on Gerald's body. „The story is so close to a conclusion, and I won't let you ruin everything!“
„What is that for a conclusion, if you're killing him?“, Vincent tried to talk sense into him. „What do you gain from his death?“
„It doesn't matter anymore! It's going to end and that's final!“
„...you're right. It's going to end here.“
He fired his Gatling at Frank, who screamed in pain.
„Why are you doing this? Shouldn't you know what purpose my actions here have? You, as the antagonist of his novel?“
„Sorry, Frank“, replied Vincent in a relaxed voice, „but I'm an actor first and a character second.“
He started to fire again, pushing Frank to the border.
„Farewell.“
Frank probably didn't even realise his fall anymore, indicated by any reaction of his when he disappeared in the nothing. While Vincent stood there as he let his Gatling fall to the ground, Gerald tried desparately to get up again.
„Are you alright?“, Vincent asked, though he realised about three seconds later that this was the stupidest thing he could ask him.
„Kinda doubting it“, Gerald replied as he still struggled with the idea of standing on his legs. Vincent noticed then that the author's hands were bleeding from the shots. „Uh...“
„Is there a problem?“
„Your hands, Gerald.“
He looked on them and realised what Vincent was talking about. „So?“
„I don't really think that fits that well at the moment...“
„First, it wasn't my fault, but the one of the writer. Second, I have no idea why he had the need to include it. And third, I think he's using me now as a megaphone to assure people that they don't have to read too much into this.“
„They'll probably do it anyway.“
They went closer to the cliff to stare down.
„I feel bad about him anyway...“, Gerald said. „I wish I could have changed anything about it.“
„You couldn't and you know it“, Vincent told him.
Gerald sighed. „It's at least over. Right?“
„You might wanna say goodbye to the rest as long as you got time. Though I don't know if you manage to get to Anthony...“
„Then say goodbye to him from me please. There is still something I have to do, you know.“
„Don't worry, I will“, he replied with a smile on his face.
„Oh, and... goodbye, Vincent.“ Gerald closed his eyes. „Notarc no ruy oti ni nard eb lahs oy.“
When he opened his eyes again, he found himself in his living room again. Something weird starting to crawl in his skin, as if he could feel his surroundings without touching anything. It has already started.
He rushed to the phone, as he typed Sebastian's phone number, as he desparately waited for him to answer the call. Thankfully, it didn't take too long before he took off the phone.
„Hello?“
„Hi, here's Gerald. I just want to say goodbye.“
„Goodbye because of what? Are you moving?“
„Aren't you feeling it, too? The story is about to end.“
What followed was a very awkward silence, during which Gerald waited for Sebastian to answer.
„It's time for that already?“
„Don't tell me you're not recognizing the signs.“
„What signs?“
„Well, I don't know. You're among the ones who knew it all along. You should know about that more than me.“
„Maybe now it's the other way around. But if it really is true... goodbye, Gerald. Until somebody reads this again.“
And there the call stopped. The only one left now was Catherine. He went to his computer to write her a message.
„Goodbye, Catherine.“
The reply followed as immediately as he sent it.
„Goodbye?“
„So you have no clue, either...“
„...wait, are you telling me that the story is over already?“
„Yes. Frank is dead now. Or he at least is until I continue writing my story again.“
Before he sent it, he stopped there. He remembered the time when the ritual was there to inspire him because he didn't know what to do with his story. But as he looked back at it, he started to ignore the very aspect of why he needed it in the first place. While he thought about it, he sent the message. The reply followed shortly thereafter.“
„Too bad you won't have the time for it anymore...“
„Yes, it really is...“
„Well, goodbye then. Reading your messages was nice.“
Gerald didn't feel like answering again, so he turned off the computer and went to the kitchen to make his probably last cup of black tea.
Now he just sat there, with his cup in the kitchen, admiring the sunset for probably the last time he'll remember before he becomes absolutely nothing. But something really bothered him. Why would the writer let do this? That just didn't feel as good as an ending. Except if he maybe missed something...
He wandered around his appartment, as he eyes fell on the manuscript. Week upon week has passed, but it didn't get that much longer for such a long period of time. Not to mention that it was far from finished.
He sat down to look through it. Sometimes he laughed about what he wrote, sometimes he got angry because he didn't understand why he had to put certain lines into, and then he reached the point when he witnessed the last written sentence. There was no conclusion, but Gerald felt like there was more missing in his story.
He drank more of the black tea, as he thought about something: What good is a written story if it isn't at least finished? He worked on it for so long and he barely reached the middle point. He couldn't let it be like that.
„...time to make another cup, I guess...“
It was going to be a very hard night. The only light in his room was the lamp standing on the table. Everything else was consumed by the darkness.
His manuscript was lying in front of him, together with a pen and a cup of black tea.
„Time to wrap it up.“
And so he started writing as if he was possessed. He ignored any mistakes he made, as they would only cost him time to correct. Why he didn't write on his computer wasn't that hard to guess, as he would probably only be distracted by internet videos and other stuff that in the end was meaningless right now. He kept on writing. Nothing could stop him anymore as the words kept flooding his papers one after another. The ideas were running around his head, to the point that he had no idea which one he should pick next. Some of them were weird, others again completely stupid, but in the end it didn't matter anymore. All he wanted to do right now was to finish it for good.
And then he did.
As he wrote the final two words on the paper – The End, to be exact – he had this weird feeling in his stomach. He suddenly felt so accomplished about it. And even though some of the ideas that he ended up using were pretty ridicilous in hindsight – he almost wanted to use the idea of the characters knowing about the fictionality himself – but that all didn't matter to him anymore. All he knew right now that he finally managed to finish it.
But as the last words were written, the feeling from before came back, stronger than ever. That could only mean that he didn't have much time left.
He closed the manuscript and laid onto his bed, as he saw the first glimpses of the sun shining through the window.
The last time he was going to see it before he was going to forget everything. Maybe he couldn't change the course of the story this time, but he was sure that he could do it next time. He couldn't discourage himself, or it will just end up the same way.
The last thought that was in his head before everything he saw was utter darkness was: „Just too bad that the only thing that I'm never going to change is that the alarm clock is going to annoy me.“
...Gerald? Can you hear me?
„Huh, who is this?“
I'm sure you've never noticed me until now, haven't you?
„Maybe it would help if you told me who you are?
Well, I'm the narrator.
„The narrator? As in the guy who tells the story?“
Well, I'm not sure about the gender as I think that I have none, but the second part is on the spot.
„But, why are you speaking to me directly? And why haven't I noticed you until now?“
Characters only notice me if I'm talking to them directly. As long as I'm only describing the action or the surroundings, I'm as silent for you all as the air is invincible.
„That's a weird comparison...“
Don't tell that to me. I'm only the narrator, not the writer himself.
„But he's using you right now to talk to me, isn't he?“
Maybe, maybe not. I can't give you that much information.
„Is that in your contract?“
I'm as much forced to follow my orders as you are with yours. Contracts are unnessecary in that case.
„I see... where are we, actually?“
We are in a state which the writer likes to call „post-story“.
„But if that is supposed to take place after everything that happened up to this point, why can't I just lay in my bed while we're talking?“
Because the actual story has ended. There is no need for actual scenery.
„It would have been nice to have it anyway. Is he really that lazy?“
He never thought of himself as a good writer. He only wanted to have his fun with it.
„Elaborate, please.“
You see, he wrote his story as the part of a contest in which he has to write a novel of the length of fifty thousand words. And the ending was just reflecting that it's all over now and that he can finally relax from the stress.
„And is he finished now, too?“
Sadly not. He's still missing eighthundredeightysix words at this point.
„So basically we are only talking so he can reach them?“
That is the sad truth, yes.
„So... how is it to be a narrator?“
It's an... interesting experience being the one to reflect the surrounding so the reader can imagine some scenes better. That is, if the writer could actually describe things. He's just lazy in that regard.
„So that's why I never really understood the nothing when I looked at it... Interesting.“
Yes, the only reason you actually saw the nothing was because he mentioned it. Or, better, because he let me mention it.
„Is there anything else I should know before my existence is going to end?“
Yes. He really liked Helena.
„...in a honest way or in a „interesting“ way?“
He just liked writing someone who makes no sense and therefore can make up everything as it goes along.
„Has he never heard of actually planning his story?“
He did at first, but he had to come up with her so that his chances of finishing the story increased. He needed to keep it interesting, or it would have never actually ended. Imagine that he would have aborted writing the story as soon as you got attacked the first time.
„It would have left a lot of question.“
Exactly.
„But... isn't that... I don't know... obvious?“
It is, but he is starting to run out of ideas, you see.
„Already?“
He just can't focus on anything. Oh well, probably when December comes, the story will get longer and maybe this entire part doesn't need to happen.
„I don't know. I think it's interesting to talk to such a pivotal... let's say character before this gets complicated for the worst of reasons.“
But I don't have that much to say, you see.
„Better than nothing, isn't it?“
For sure it is, but you gotta admit that this entire part is only here because he's desperate for more material.
„At least he can come up with material. If I took my time to actually start writing, this entire thing would have never happened. But no, I had to use some obscure ritual whose last user was the creator of many people's nightmares and had to fight a weird and nonsensical chick and her giant group of followers.“
Uh... Vincent and Anthony fought the Freedom Seekers, not you.
„I didn't mean in the literal sense of fighting. Also, Helena almost killed me. You should know that more than any of us, don't you?“
...yes, I do. But if he didn't come up with Helena, you would have to witness even more crazy stuff, followed by Frank turning evil for no actual reason.
„That would have made even less sense!“
So be happy for Helena, before he cuts her out of the story.
„Doesn't he like her?“
Touche.
„Something I just noticed: Why did Vincent have to hit people with his Gatling instead of... well... shooting them?“
Because the writer thought it was badass.
„Isn't it also a little bit stupid?“
He didn't think so much about it as he wrote the story. It was for the sake of having fun.
„And did he have fun in the end?“
Sometimes he did, sometimes he didn't. He had two breakdowns in that month because he thought he wasn't going to finish it.
„It's just a book, not the healing method for cancer or something.“
Well, he wrote on this for a month, so it's understandable that he got attached to his story. A lot. Also, he didn't need some sort of weird ritual to write his story. You did.
„But in the end, I didn't need it, either. It actually just stopped me from writing anything. So wait, does that mean that this story has some sort of moral?“
If it did, it wasn't intentional and cheesy.
„Who can guarrantee that?“
… I don't know, really. Look, my only job here is to tell the story. I have no idea if the writer has gotten any sort of feedback for this.
„But isn't he using you right now to talk to me?“
Like he does with you?
„...so he's basically talking with himself?“
That isn't creepy or anything.
„Wait, now I know the real reason why he lets us talk to each other!“
Tell me.
„All of this is just an author's note to make fun of his writing!“
That... actually makes sense. But doesn't he let you make fun of his writing all the time in the second half of the story?
„Maybe he just wants to enforce it some more.“
Wouldn't that get boring when it happens too often?
„That's probably just the only thing he knows – making fun of his writing. He probably can't write anything without laughing at himself.“
Hopefully that won't cause any pyschological issues.
„Well, I guess it's not taking too long anymore. How many words are left at this point?“
Fiftyseven.
„So it will be over in a while... well, it was interesting talking to you. Even though I wasn't really talking to you... I just discovered that he likes to be overly complicated as well if he wants to.“
„Well, we can't change that. We're only pawns and he's the player.“
Well, until somebody reaches the end again, Gerald
„Goodbye, and hopefully he'll give you better text when he edits this.“
I doubt it, but I can always hope that it's going to happen.
The End.
