This coffee is probably the only blessing I’ve received today, and I’d be salty about it but I’m so thankful I could start crying. These past few days have not been particularly easy, what can I say?
It’s not that I have the worst conditions, I’m healthy and able. Comfortable, and as safe as one can be in my position. But something’s off. I remember being so passionate about the possibility of my goals coming true, the thrill of knowing something is about to happen. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still hopeful, but it’s been a few months since I’ve started feeling the anticipation, and I’m getting tired of waiting. Love life is pretty non-existent too, ever since I realised I don’t want the bare minimum. I physically cannot accept it anymore. I get nauseous at the thought of it.
Even the designated ‘me’ time has started feeling like a façade. My elaborate imagination is never going to manifest into this reality.
So, as a coping mechanism, (and a sudden one at that) I’ve decided to give writing a shot, at 3:45 AM on a Tuesday.
I’ve been an avid reader my whole life, nothing says temptation than a novel that would reinforce my belief in magic. I know it’s probably not the healthiest outlet to escape into fictional stories, but everyone else is none the wiser, so what’s the harm? All creative geniuses have a poison and if mine ends up being this, I’d still be better off.
As I sit on my bed, a blinking cursor in front of me, with my blessing of a coffee to fight off the non existent sleep (it won’t come to me until the first crack of dawn anyway), I start writing possibly the wackiest story a reader like me would’ve come across. All those years of passionate all-nighters with myriad of fictional characters acting as extensive research and fueling my mind. All my hopes and pleasures being materialised in probably the only way that I had control.
Before I knew it, the story had witches, magic, Greek Mythology, secret quests, clandestine and extravagant love affairs, potent lust and pure adrenaline, and possibly the greatest plot twist ever. The protagonist of my story goes through the trials and hardships thinking she’s the hero, but slowly, in a twisted turn of events, realises that she’s actually the villain, and has been accidentally aiding the process of destruction this whole time.
Tingly with excitement, I quickly write what flowed naturally from me onto the screen, with a couple hiccups here and there. After writing most of it, I hit my first prominent block at the climax.
The situation was set, the stakes high, but I couldn’t quite understand how to end it.
This was a draft, the first one at that, and I’d have to touch up some sentence structures and add more details, but the basic gist was complete, and it was pretty good.
I racked my brain for another hour but still came up short. Deciding that 6AM was possibly the last hour I could still claim to be dawn, I tried to get some shut-eye. The invasive thoughts of my story and where it could go wouldn’t let my brain calm down enough to reach deep slumber. All that kept going in my mind was the possible outcomes of the story. I could imagine three to four scenarios, but none of them clicked. None of them had the gratification I was looking for.
After a fitful five hours of tossing and turning, I gave up.
I went through the dull morning activities of freshening up, having some breakfast, and ignoring my workout schedule. I tried to distract myself with some good Korean dramas but after an hour, even I couldn’t ignore the enticement of getting back to writing. Since I knew nothing had changed in my creative flow, I decided to bring in the one person who would tell me if this was even worth writing in the first place. Hopefully, it would act as inspiration.
I picked up my phone and dialed my best friend, Enya, who was probably the only one I knew to have read as many, if not a few more, books than me. She picked up on the third ring, and was summoned by the urgency in my voice. It bode well for me she lived right next door. It took forty-five seconds, a bit longer than usual, for her to show up and be ushered into my room.
As I anxiously waited for her to finish reading, I contemplated how would I live down the embarrassment if she hated it. You can’t show another reader bad writing, it’s a rule. I don’t know who made it but it is.
She gasped here and there, even stopped reading to look at me at one point. Did my heart jump up in my throat? Yes, ma’am.
“Alex,-”
“You hate it. I knew it. I don’t know what I was thinking. Forget it, okay?-”
“What? No. It’s BRILLIANT.”
“Huh? Are you sure? Did I open the right document for you?”
“YEAH! It’s so good, I couldn’t stop reading. You immersed me into it instantly, I just can’t wait to see how it ends.” She squealed with glee but my heart deflated instantly at the thought of the incomplete ending.
“Ah, that’s the problem, I don’t know how it ends. I can’t come up with anything.”
“When did you start writing this?”
“Last night.”
“You started last night and already wrote this much?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“Where have you been hiding your talents all this time? Well, then give it some time. Brilliant writing doesn’t happen overnight.”
I gave her an overdramatic smug look.
“It doesn’t get completed overnight, you little shit.”
I rolled my eyes. “Fine. I’ll get back to it then.”
“Cool, I have to leave anyway. I have some school work to finish.”
“They don’t let history students breathe for one second. Everything has already happened, what is the rush?”
She smirked in a knowing way, and was going to say something but then decided against it. After she left, softly clicking the door of my room close behind her, I read my entire story again. And again. And again.
The story, the beginning set in the midst of a bar fight in one of those old-timey taverns, is from the point of view of the soon-to-be-evil protagonist, named Maya. She’s dressed in a warrior’s outfit, all maroon velvet and practical straps holding her weapons. She’s on a quest that no one knows about yet and is waiting for inspiration to hit while on her third glass of beer. She’s barely tipsy even now. (You’d think a person of her figure couldn’t hold even a single glass of liquor but alcohol had been her escape for whenever she was angry, and understandably that had been a lot.) Her skills are often underestimated due to her feminine appearance, but her magic and combat abilities make her almost seem like a mirage in a battle, which is where she got her name.
She hears some men catcalling another woman who has just entered the tavern, and turns at the commotion, already pissed that she will have to kill them for not being quiet enough for her to think.
She rolls her eyes at the disgusting men before her eye finally catches the new addition to the scene. Shoulder length blonde hair, meek appearance, and pink silk gown. “Oh for the sake of all that is fucking annoying already, please let this not be a lost princess,” Maya thinks to herself but before she even completes her thought, she sees the other woman do a curtsey for the owner of the tavern.
Maya doesn’t have anything against princesses except for the fact that they’re all daft and ditzy, always walking into situations they aren’t capable of getting themselves out of. And their sense of fashion sucks. The mere glint of her pink gown is hurting Maya’s eyes. She sees one of the men approach her, about to grab her ass, much to the ignorance of Miss Flower Petals over here.
Before his extended limb can make contact, a knife flies out of nowhere and impales his palm. His roar of pain rattles the princess as she stumbles backward with a squeak.
Maya smirks to herself and lazily gets up. She tosses a little more money than she owes on the table, next to her third empty glass, and politely thanks the owner. She’s a regular, and has a reputation to maintain.
The grotesque reflection of what is supposed to be a man is still clutching his palm, while trying to spew out slurs no one can understand. His friends are simmering with anger but not going anywhere near her. The archaic M symbol sticking out the handle of the knife is a strong hint of who she is. While her appearance comforts her enemies who haven’t had the chance to meet her in person, the symbol is widely known.
She confidently strolls towards the princess, and asks in a matter-of-fact way, “Do they not teach you to not turn your back away when you’re in a dangerous establishment?”
The man having recovered from the initial shock, still unaware of who he’s up against, hisses, “You bitch-” and starts towards them. Polly Pocket’s eyes widen, but Maya doesn’t even flinch at the latest inconvenience. She notices a chair with sharp, protruding knife like structures along the spine, on her right, the only barrier between the wounded man and her, and kicks it directly into him.
Falling to the floor, the man screams with pain and starts bleeding out at an alarming pace. His ‘friends’ scream at the owner to get some bandages and rush to his side, still not even trying to fight back. “They’re smarter than they look”, Maya latently acknowledges in her mind, as she makes her first eye contact, and the man sees what most of her enemies see right before they die. Soulless, obsidian eyes. He then realises what his companions knew when they saw the knife. She chuckles, “You must be new here.” before throwing another knife that slices his neck. The first knife was a generous warning, failing to realise this usually led to the second outcome. And there was no need for a third.
“I didn’t hear you answer.” Maya looks at the princess, her pupils back to her normal brown.
“I- I mean, We-”.
Maya rolls her eyes, when it hits her that this might be an opportunity in disguise for her next step.
“Well, I just saved your virtue, so it’s time for you to pay me back. Follow me”, Maya says as she leaves, dinging the bell of ‘Beery Good Service’ at the door. The princess decides she doesn’t want to know what not following this scary woman entails, and leaves the tavern right behind Maya, the smell of strong cleaning substances in her wake.
As I read on, Maya meets a couple different characters. Fights like a thousand battles, and even manages to find love somewhere in the middle. I read about the turmoil, the tragedy, the loss, the pleasure, the victory, and then inevitable dilemma. The climax’s blinking cursor a taunt that I keep staring at for what seems like an eternity.
Ugh, why can’t this story just get completed on its own?
With a new kind of headache than I’ve ever had setting in my temples, I rest my head down at the table. Constantly thinking about what I’d do if I were in that situation, having been through all of the events, I try to put myself in Maya’s mind. Repeating to myself that I am Maya, I start getting sleepy. My surroundings around me start to feel like they’re moving, but I’m too focussed on making the feeling of being Maya concrete in my mind.
I’m almost on the verge of sleeping when I suddenly hear a lot of shouting. Before I even open my eyes, the smell of leather and alcohol invades my senses.
Hmm. That doesn’t seem right.
With a jerk, I wake up to see myself different location than what I remember. My desk, my lavender candle, and that taunting cursor, are all gone and replaced by beers, big ugly drunk men, waitresses dressed in short skirts, and a setting sun that is visible through the tainted windows. What the-
The fog in my mind starts clearing up slowly when I suddenly hear the ding of the bell at the door, indicating someone’s arrival. Just as I turn to look, a woman dressed in a pink silk gown catches my eye. With a sudden annoyance flaring up at the back of my mind, I notice how that seems familiar. Where have I seen this before-
Oh. Oh fuck.
It’s my story.
I’m in my story.
Wait.
I’m inside my story?
This can’t be true, it must be a dream. It has to be!
I shakily get up from my chair and I pinch myself. Nothing happens. I forcefully close my eyes and will myself awake, but the sound of the the men chuckling at the woman doing a curtsey in front of the owner distracts me.
Ugh, I feel the irritation at her actions in my bones.
Coming back to my own problem, I try to remember what happens in the story that I knew like the back of my hand up until a little while I go.
Why don’t I remember anything else other than my name and where I am?
As I’m freaking out, and trying to find a way out of this very real seeming dream, I see a man getting up and reaching towards her in my peripheral vision. I’m still reeling from waking up in a world I know all but also nothing about, when I involuntarily reach down to my thigh, unsheathe a small throwing knife and launch it at the man, precisely impaling his palm. I realise I could’ve aimed for his neck and end this whole ordeal but a part of me wanted to have a little fun.
As if suddenly jolted to the present moment, I remember exactly what happens next. I look at my reflection in one of the glass cabinets holding liquor in front of me, behind the bar’s serving table. I’m Maya. I’m here to bring justice to this world. I know my power, and I know I’m capable. I’m the badass hero of the story. FUCK YEAH!
There’s a flicker of something at the back of my mind, like a missing detail that I should know but it’s gone as soon as it came. I vaguely remember the details of the quest, and while I feel a deep need to fulfil it, the Alex in me also makes a mental note to find a way to go back to my reality. And also that I maintain the identity of Maya constantly. It’s better if people didn’t know I am not who I appear to be.
I slowly start getting more comfortable in this new skin but at the back of my mind wonder how I adjust so quick to the situation, because Alex that I have been all my life has almost never done anything daring. But it is something Maya would do. Maya would survive first and then think about the consequences of that later.
Thankfully fitting in isn’t as hard either as whatever I’m supposed to do according to the story, an unseen force makes me do it. I assume and tell myself I’ll figure this out to calm myself further, letting the determination of my character Maya take over. I hear the man scream out a slur and immediately remember what I’m supposed to do. A slow smirk reaches my lips, and I can’t tell if it’s Maya or Alex revelling in the power that I feel coursing through my veins.
I stroll towards the scene and do my part, asking the witty questions and bringing this man down to the level he deserves to be at. As he’s on the floor, writhing in pain from the brunt of the chair, I feel my eyes turn obsidian, as I hear electricity crackle around me. There’s a comforting whisper in my ear, slowly telling me that I am the most powerful being to have ever existed, that this is exactly what a hero would do.
In an ironical twist that isn’t lost on me, I mutter, “You must be new here.”
