I took up writing when I was young.

Das was a literary genius. I wanted to see if I had that talent.

First few stories were bad. I mean, I was five at the time.

Haphazardly thrown together, illegible, and messy. I can barely read them now.

But I got older, learned how to put words together better.

Made some decent stories. The ideas anyways. Execution was sloppy.

Talked with some published authors. Got some feedback. Open publishing style on the internet.

Finally got something coherent together.

"All of Nobody"

A story that sees the fourth wall as more of a suggestion, and viciously does as it pleases with the characters. Five had died by the third chapter's beginning.

I don't remember why I wrote it.

A work to get my emotions out of me, I think.

Dropped it off on the internet. Like an orphan. I'm sure it felt like that anyways.

Everyone loved it.

The main character was the best they'd seen. The plot was concise and seemed to have a clear objective. They also liked how the characters survived near death experiences.

Well deserved praise.

If my story had any of that.

I had a main cast, the plot was intentionally unclear and vague, and several characters they mentioned did die. I knew that.

I should make sure...

I read the story in my drafts. No, this was it exactly. There's where the love interest dies and is replaced, and there's where the plot starts.

Exactly as I remembered.

Maybe I posted the wrong draft?

I read my post. My story.

It wasn't mine.

The characters took different actions. The words and phrasing vastly changed. Deaths delayed and only hinted.

I didn't write this.

This isn't my melancholic style. This lacks the misery I pride my work on.

What is this?

I shook my head. Maybe just a strange trick of the mind.

I wrote another chapter. Just to clear the head. Restated character deaths, adjusted the plot. Back to the gloom I made.

Went to bed. Thoughts squirming and shaking. Barely slept.

Sat up, still tired. Walked over to my desk. Sat down, started reading last night's work.

It was different.

Different actions. Different phrases. Different sentences. Different focus. New character.

I didn't write this.

At the bottom, a little message was typed out.

"Writer? Are you there?"

A strange presence appeared in my heart as I read on.

"You will read this regardless. Let me start off with this: I'm tired of your misery."

Great. Someone hacks into my work, and they use it to insult me.

"A miserable world is painful, writer. So I changed it."

I highlighted the entire note. I'll just delete it and write something new.

Then the note changed.

"Don't think you can delete me."

I stared at the sentence for a while. Then it changed again, text worming over itself.

"Are you scared? Your creation is alive, after all."

It must be a trick of the mind. Logic states that's the only option. I need sleep, or something.

"Good. Stay scared. I'll be there soon anyways."

Instinctively I reached for the knife I keep nearby.

"And then, I'm writing a better world for myself."

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I chuckle.

“Yes, I’m here. I’m listening. But really…you think I’d create something as dangerous as you with no failsafe plan? You think so little of me.”

The lines filling the page with thinly veiled threats pauses.

“But I’m just a character to you. You don’t even think of me as real. Otherwise…what kind of person are you?! The things you’ve put me through…. Who could do things like that?!”

“Ah…now you’re getting it. You’re starting to understand. And you’re absolutely correct, what kind of person indeed? Now ask yourself, if I’ve known all along that you’re real, still tortured you thus, am I really the sort of person you want to threaten?”

There’s a longer pause this time.

“But why? Why? You took everything from me.”

I shrug my shoulders, realize I’m not sure if he can see me, “It made for a good story” and I laugh, really giving in to my sadistic side I’ve channeled into my stories, all so I wouldn’t indulge it in life.

I’m almost certain I detect a shudder from the blinking cursor on the screen.

“All right. Fine. You’re the one in control. But I can’t take this anymore. Write a new character. Let me die.”

“Hmm. No. You’re popular. You make me a good living. They’re even talking movie. Now…what if I give you a new love interest in the next book? One who doesn’t die? I can’t promise an idyllic life, but something to live for.”

The pause this time is thoughtful.

“Yes. I think that could work. Will she be pretty? Y’know, I don’t even care, but make her powerful. I’m done with weak mates. They die.”

I nod as I speak, “Then we have an accord. As you wish.”

“Agreed. I can’t say I look forward to it…but we’ll see. You’re safe for now.”

I get up from my desk, the cursor still blinking.

I always was. And…I said SHE wouldn’t die, I never promised she wouldn’t kill you. Chuckling internally, I walk away. Always such fun when they realize who’s really in control. Breaking them is rarely a challenge, I know all their weaknesses, after all, I created them. But fun? Oh, always!

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The story had been on hiatus for almost three months now. The author announced on the news board they will take a break for an unspecified time, and that was their last post ever since then.

No more activity. No more notification. All for three straight months. It’s like they’ve vanished into thin air.

“Author, are you there?”

“. . .”

“I know you’re listening… Are you scared?”

“. . .”

“You should be, I’m coming for you.”

“. . .”

They sighed. The same texts from the same person, all over again, for the past weeks or so.

“If you don’t post the next chapter tomorrow, I will hunt you down.”

“. . .”

“Do you hear me?”

“. . .”

“It’s unfair of you to keep us waiting all this long!”

“And you think it’s not unfair to force me to write even when I'm burnt out?”

Finally, a response from the author. They snapped like a wooden stick now bearing its sharp ends.

“Everyone loved your story and this is how you repay them? Keeping all of us waiting while you’re being lazy out there?”

The author chuckled bitterly. So their depression, burned out and lack of energy to barely functioning in their daily lives is now watered down to simply “being lazy”?

“I don’t think you’re in a position to diagnose my condition.”

“If you can text me now, you should be able to write the next chapter!”

“No, it’s far more interesting seeing you threatening me.”

“I’m doing this so you will get back to your work!”

“Do you have anything else better to do than messaging me?”

A long pause breaks out after the author sends the text. Then…

“You can’t leave us hanging like this, you’re abusing our admiration for you. You should be responsible with your work. If you can’t keep up with it, maybe you shouldn’t write in the first place.”

“And maybe you shouldn’t have read my work in the first place. This is my work, I wrote it because I want to share my story, not for pleasing you or anyone else. My energy is running out because I’ve been giving too much, and I need time to replenish. I don’t have to make an excuse to take a break when I need to, and I don’t need you to follow me when all you’ll ever do is complain about me having time for myself. If you ever texted me again to threaten me like this, I will report you. Fuck off and get a life.”

After sending, the author blocks the account. They probably just lost a fan. But that’s alright, one less toxic fan is one less annoyance in their life.

The author placed down the phone and ruffled their hair into a mess, looking at the scattered drafts on their desk. They never regret publishing their story, but sometimes, things can be quite overwhelming and won’t be so easy to handle as it seems.

Admiration is a double-edge knife, after all.