I've always been fascinated by the lost art of short fiction and I have dabbled in it in the past. This story, however, is one of my first serious attempts at the craft. Honest opinions from my fellow citizen journalists and fiction lovers would be greatly appreciated! I figured this would be the best place on the site to get some feedback.
"The Five Stages"
The other day I was writing a long, drawn out love story and the main male character, who was involved in a lover's triangle, started speaking to me. Now, he was not speaking to me in the manner that I heard voices in my head (I'm not crazy after all), it was a little different than that. It was as though I had no control over my pen and he was speaking to me through my writing.
It all started when I finished a line that read, "He did not know that this indefensible action would eventually lead to his death." It was the part of the story written directly after he went to bed with his mistress. This was the point when I lost control of my pen. My hand began writing on its own, "What? You mean I am going to die? This can't be happening." Needless to say I was astonished by the fact that a character I created was speaking to me. I did not know whether to answer him aloud or write my response on the paper. I decided to speak the two fateful words, "Of course."
He was obviously dismayed by this – How would you feel if you found out you were going to die? – so he decided to beg and plead with me. "How could you do this to me?" my hand wrote, "Don't you think I'm a good guy?"
"Well no, not really", I responded, "You seem to be a scumbag."
He was blatantly angered by my response. "Why would you do this to me?" the ink begged, "This is so unfair. What kind of a person are you?" He was obviously unwilling to take responsibility for his actions.
"Well, it is because you cheated on your wife. It is going to make her very upset when she finds out."
"I'll change, I promise."
It was hard to believe that I was sitting there arguing with a character that was a product of my own imagination. I could not believe that he had the audacity to argue with me over his life. I gave him that life, after all, and if it were not for me he would have never existed in the first place. How ungrateful he seemed for the gift I presented him. "It is not up to me," I responded, "You made a bad decision."
He decided to try bargaining. "Just please let me live to see my children grow up and go to school they are the only good thing that has come out of my life."
This argument was compelling, but the events seemed to be out of my control. I merely set them in motion. "Maybe you should ask your wife," I suggested, "she is the one who is going to kill you."
This seemed to strike a chord in him. "I can't believe this is happening. My life has been utterly meaningless and now it is going to end over this. How pathetic." I imagine his tone was very melancholy, but I obviously could not hear him (I already told you I'm not crazy, I don't hear voices).
"You're not pathetic," I tried to reassure him, "I'm sure you have done plenty of good things in the past." Truth be told, however, I had no information regarding his past, just present and future.
"The past is not important if I have no future." While writing those words my hand moved the pen so utterly slow that it seemed as though his sadness was keeping him from conveying his thoughts at a normal speed. The shaking of the pen seemed to mimic a shaking that was present in his voice. It was the most terrible thing to witness.
I tried to convince him that everything would be okay, but I am fairly certain he knew that I was lying.
There was a long pause that contained the most dreadful sea of silence I had ever heard. I began to think that maybe he had done something drastic. Did he kill himself? Then what would happen to my story? I had almost forgotten the soothing sound of the pen rolling on the paper when my hand started writing again. "I must pay for my mistakes." I could not help but think that the words were more of a blind submission to his fate then an acceptance of what was to come.
I crossed out our conversation and began writing the story again.
The man continued the tryst with his lover and ignored the needs of his wife while she continued to look after the family. She was not stupid, however, and she began to suspect her husbands actions. She hired a private investigator, wishing that her suspicions stemmed from an overblown paranoia, but it only confirmed her worst nightmare. After a few months of contemplating what her next move should be, she decided to slowly poison the bastard to death. It would look like an illness, and she could collect the insurance money. He died within a year.
