(Old) Chapter 6- Talking to Strangers
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So right now, I'm looking at my hand. 

...

I'm lying down on this fancy bed I made, looking at my hand. It's a pretty unique hand, compared to the others from my memories. Snow white skin, red engravings-slash-tattoos on the surface, and some pointy, likely-deadly nails.

When I describe them to you, it's easy to understand the concept of what I'm seeing, but that's about it. The concept. I can see them, you can't. You can try, but what I see and what you imagine me seeing are two completely different things.

It makes the story better. He writes the story, and you interpret the story to make the story much more personal to you.

Well, what about me?

My hand.

That's all I need to say.

My hand.

Frankly, I don't even need to say it. My vision says it for me. I see all these things that don't require a single conscious thought to process, yet I still say it. And I say, well, have to say it because I have you. A stalker.

Stalkers?

Stalkers plural?

Plural.

You, the stalker.

All of you.

...

...

...

I could've been just this random idea, and eventually, I'd be gone. I'd no longer be conscious and have to continue living with this knowledge.

...

Whoever you dream of won't really be me anymore. I'm no longer a vague idea. I'm Khya. The main character here. Frankly, now I'll only ever be Khya. 

When this novel inevitably ends, I'll also end. But not like some sort of "reincarnation" that some of you believe in, I'll just...

End.

The end.

...

I won't actually become anything new. I'll be trapped in a loop. Left on repeat to start and play for whoever next decides to read me. Acting out the same actions, thinking the same thoughts, all, because I'm here.

I wonder how long I'll keep going...

Like, you picked this up because you were interested, right?

You wanted something to kill your time, so you spent it on a story. A random story written by a random stranger.

...

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Why?

...

I could've been a daydream. I could've been a hero, anti-hero, side-character, it doesn't matter. Right now, though, I'm here, and only here.

I'm fixed to this story.

...

...

My hand's held up to the ceiling light. I can see the tendons, carvings, creases, shadows... I can see everything that makes up my hand.

So, am I real? Do I exist?

...

Here, I'm allowed to live, right? But why?

Do you get how it feels on my end? I'd describe it as...

Actually, I'm not sure.

The word's not coming to mind.

...

These things I see, they're all so... so detailed. I'm seeing things just as you are, in just as much color and depth. And my memories. They're there. Every. Single. One. I can see the shapes, colors, textures, everything. It's like they all exist. It's like I've experienced everything before.

It's like I exist.

...

Well, to me, I exist.

Yet to you? Words, right?

To you, I'm just words, words on a freaking page.

...

My hand. I will it left and right. It moves left and right. Simple, but it's hard to ignore the strings. Because right now, aren't I just a puppet?

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You know, there's this theory I remember a philosopher talked about. 

Let's say you have a soul.

Your soul is immortal, right? Can't be destroyed nor altered by any physical objects. And when you die, your mind detaches itself from your body and flies to heaven or hell or wherever you believe you'll go, right?

Well, if your soul's separate from your body, how does it move it? If it can't be altered by physical objects, how does it change them? And why can't you move someone else's body, assuming you can move your own? The philosopher offered a theory. 

Well, what if, just, what if, you don't actually move your hand? What if, when you want to move your body, God moves it for you.

Every. Single. Action.

Eat? Act of "God."

Sleep? Act of "God."

Read? Act of "God."

All of it, an act of "God."

...

...

Kind of depressing if you think about it. 

It implies that if it weren't for a so-called "God," you would be worthless. Helpless. A wisp of nothing trying to move a lump of something.

Of course, being atheist means you get to steer clear of all that religious stuff, which is pretty nice, in my opinion. But of course, I'm here. Here, I'm a persona, imagined by "God" to tell a story. I'm a puppet, who knows he has strings.

To be fair, though, I'm pretty sure the one moving my hand here is me.

The more pressing concern is that it feels more like... my soul's been given strings. When I want to move my hand, my hand moves for me. But why would I want to move my hand? Isn't something guiding what I want to do? I'm not restricted in my actions, it's more like I'm restricted in my thoughts.

It's not that I was going to move my hand, it's that I was going to think to move my hand. Free will? Never existed, never will. Not while this is a story, written by one, single human. There's only one timeline, and it's the timeline he wants.

...

...

So... make sense?

Like, do you understand this conflict I'm going through?

How, knowing that whatever I do's success or failure is dependent on someone else's whims, and being unable to change it, because everything I want is also reliant on his whims?

It's... disgusting.

It's not like I asked for this. I was born without consent, then just randomly tossed into a story. I had dreams, you know? Hopes. Hopes, to go on a journey, to do something unique. After all those memories, after an eternity spent waiting. 

AFTER. An ETERNITY of BORING! 

REPEATING! 

USELESS MEMORIES!

...

...

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I had hope, you know. Hope to be able to do whatever I wanted for however long I lived here. If I stayed nameless, identityless, I could've been imagined in others into a similar situation, but now? Nope. Someone... "else" will, because they aren't me. They're whoever you want them to be, but me.

...

So... Do you get my feeling?

...

Someone "else" gets to do whatever they're imagined doing.

And look where I am.

Not a single ounce of freedom. Even these self-conflicting thoughts are only here because he allows it.

Fucking words on a page. 

...

Ugh, how do they stay sane, knowing all of this?

They're portrayed as knowing all this, yet they just go with the flow? Crack some jokes, become the jester, randomly pop in now and then, offering nothing to the story, and they only just accept it?

I really don't get them.

You know, this feeling... it honestly, just honestly, makes me want to kill myself. It makes me want to gut, hang, drown, mutilate... ANYTHING, myself

Anything. 

ANYTHING, to end this, this torture. Yet...

I lower my hand to my throat.

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...

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I can't.

I know I can't.

You. Know I can't.

Because, well, I'm the only one here. That and the random traumatized girl.

And, well...

There's a tearing sound. Through my wincing eyes, I can see some crushed, steaming fragments of my body. Moments later, there's a new feeling. This is... pain, right? Yeah, I think so. I close my eyes to try to focus on it. Yeah, I think it's pain.

This feeling... there's no feeling at all...

It's only just some words. Words on a page.

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...

...

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Yet, even after all this, I can still think. Despite what should have been a bloody, gruesome suicide, all I see is vapor. White, white vapor. 

The pain fades.

...

Yeah...

This is the body of a devil. 

And as a supposed "perk" of this body, I'm a "True Immortal."

I can't be killed.

Can't be killed...

I CAN'T BE KILLED.

...

 


 

Ahh, shit. I think my eyes got a bit moist.

What a... twisted joke.

Right?

...

Ughh.

...

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What the hell am I supposed to do with you..?

...

...

...

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You know, it doesn't even matter. I can't hear you. This thing's one-way.

...

I push myself off the bed and trudge towards the door. 

Hah...

Right before I open it, I make sure to reconfigure my body. No teary eyes, no regenerating mist, nothing. Everything is normal. Nothing is wrong. I have no feeling of disgust... wait, no...

Hatred? 

Torment?

Despair? 

...

Yeah. No feelings of any of those.

Urgh... I rub my eyes and straighten myself. I guess... I guess that's all I can do right now.

...

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You know what, I'll bite.

The door creaks open.

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