After hearing that word, I passed out, and I'm not sure how long it took me to wake up. Maybe immediately, or after a few days. But when I opened my eyes, I saw something I never expected to see. I was back in my room, with my mother waiting next to me. The same as the morning I woke up to terrible events!
Looking at my mom, I did not see any injury on her, which made me smile a little. Then I lifted the blanket and saw that I had no injury whatsoever—no holes in my limbs, no cut parts. Nothing.
Excitedly, I pulled on my pants and rushed downstairs, which surprised my mom a lot. She even called me, "Where are you going? Wash your face first!"
Not listening, I rushed to the kitchen, and seeing my dad there alive, tears started to flood my eyes. Rushing toward him, I hugged him and started crying.
"Hey, what is wrong?" he asked. I didn't answer, just stood there, not moving my arms.
My actions worried everyone at home to the point that I had to laugh it off and say that I just had a bad dream.
Well, yes, it was a bad dream, but not just any dream. The most terrifying nightmare I have ever had. But I had to forget it; I had to continue my life again. A few seconds of nightmare cannot affect my whole life anyway.
I went back to the bathroom and washed my face. Then, without any problems, I brushed my teeth. Came back to the kitchen and began to eat my breakfast.
…
Suddenly I heard the door knock.
"Dan, can you get the door?" My mom asked.
"Sure," I said, but my dad stopped me, pulling my arm a little before I could stand up. "You continue to eat; I finished mine anyway."
I nodded with a smile and continued to eat.
He went to the door and opened it, and I could surely hear everything.
"Hey, how can I help?" My dad asked.
Bang!
As soon as I heard the loud gunshot, I dashed to the door, and what I saw was a nightmare. The same men I saw in my nightmare had shot my father again.
Before I could even say anything, I was back in the white room. The Room of Horror.
"How was it?" I heard a voice. I tried to look around but the pain… My neck wasn't hurting, but it was the only thing not hurting; my arms and legs were. All of them were injured or straight up cut off. I was back in hell again.
I tried to look around and find the source of the voice, but there was nothing except me and my severed body parts.
"Was it good to see your family again? Hugging your dad, seeing your mom's head still attached to her body?"
"Who are you? What do you want from me?" I asked in panic.
"Oh, you already know who I am, don't you? You already found out where you are."
This voice… Could it be he is the person who did all the things to me? To my loved ones?
"You said something right before passing out. Could you please repeat it?" The voice asked.
"Horror story," I replied. "I said I am in a horror story."
"Then if you are in a horror story, what does it make me?"
"The writer of the story."
"Yes! Thank God you figured it out. I was getting worried that I wrote you too stupid."
"You wrote me?"
"Yes, since I am the writer, I can write anything, can't I?"
"So everything I have ever seen has been written by you? This world, this place, people, my parents. Even me?"
"Why do you make me repeat? I am the writer. Yes, I wrote everything you knew. Even I was the one who gave you hints to find me, but you were kind of slow."
"No, this is not possible. It can't be. There is no way for a person to write a story where actual humans live in it!"
"You are right, it is impossible, but not for me. I am special. Not exactly me, but my pen is."
"I don't get it; it doesn't make sense."
It actually didn't. How could a pen help you to create actual words where humans can feel, live, and love, and even feel pain and die?
"It is because of how the gods have made the rules."
"Gods?"
"Yes. I live in a world ruled by wishes of those who know how to wish. Those who do can get nearly anything, but they have to suffer the consequences. Of course, I did not. My dream was nothing but a childish one.
I just wished that I could make anything I write become reality, so I received a pen out of thin air. But there was a problem. The pen did not make things real, not in my world at least. It would make characters and the world itself real, so they would act, feel, love, and die. Which single-handedly made me the greatest author of all time."
"What are you saying? None of them makes sense. It is not a reason to make me suffer."
"It doesn't, but that is the price of being human. Every human gets bored at one point. Some play video games, some watch movies, and some read stories. And I? I write stories. However, writing new stories bored me, and I wanted to try something different. I wanted to see if a character could realize that they are just a character but nothing else. So I wrote you."
"You wrote me for your experience?"
"Not completely. The reason you had a family to begin with and how you knew everything about them was because I had already written you. Your story was a slice-of-life romance story. You were supposed to get together with Layla, and that was when I was supposed to end the story. But after years, I changed the story. I came back to it and started making you suffer, making you play absurd games to see how far I can push you."
"Is that the reason—"
"Oh, inconsistencies. Yeah, after dropping your story for years, I forgot those small details about your father's shoes, his plane tickets, and all. I also forgot to add enough classmates in your class. But who cares?" He left a slight giggle.
"You are not a human. You are a monster. A human doesn't do this to another one."
"Shhhh... I guess you don't understand it. I am a human. Human with power. That's what humans do: use their powers in the way that entertains them. And guess what? After a while, not even sex is entertaining. So you start to mess with people. You play with them, torture them, and kill them. Sometimes even eat them. Why? Because we are humans.
Now imagine that you are not real and I do these to you. In a matter of seconds I can delete what I wrote, and you wouldn't even remember what I did to you; you would live a happy life. But they can't do it, and even if they could, they still won't do it. They want more suffering, more terror. Why? Because we are humans.
You said I am a monster, right? No, a monster is merely a toy for human entertainment."
"I don't even care about it. Please end this. Kill me, huh?"
"No, we still have a few more games to play."
"But you said you would free me if I—"
"Don't you get it? You are not human, not even an animal. Legally or morally, I am not doing anything wrong. There is nothing to stop me from doing anything to you. The pen is mine to write. As long as I paint this paper with words, you have no way but to do as I please. So shut up; we have four more games to play."
…
I did. I played two more games, which cost me my siblings. Both of them.
Games? I don't even remember them. I don't remember the rules or the games themselves. All I know is I saw their death.
Then he forced me to play the other two games too.
I didn't. I couldn't. I knew there was no escape, so I killed myself, but he revived me. Then I killed myself again, but he didn't waste time and revived me once more.
And again and again and again. I don't know how many times I died. I wasn't even aware of dying after a point.
Then he got bored. He said I do not excite him anymore since my mind is broken and all I do is commit suicide. He found the games a chore and said he will write other stories. He even said he won't let others read this story either. He didn't think this was his style, so it would hurt his reputation.
I thought that was the end; finally I was either free or was going to die, but he said no. He wrote me as immortal. He didn't heal me, and he didn't help me. He just left a button in the middle of the room. Each time I pressed it, it would give an electroshock to my body. I had to torture myself because there wasn't anything else to do. Out of boredom, I was supposed to hurt myself.
And I did. I don't know for how long; I pressed that button continuously, shocking my own body out of boredom.
I hope it kills me. Or someone. Please, someone, kill me.