SSS Week Eleven: Forbidden Love

So... I decided to do Short Story Sunday again. I know for awhile there was a large gap containing no blog posts including Short Story Sundays, so hopefully, this one will make up for it? I don't know.

The prompt for this Short Story Sunday is:

Write a story where the character falls in love with the reader.

I've done a story similar to this called "The Character" back in May, and it was about a character, basically, replaying a scene he has in a book. This one has a similar approach, and I found it quite enjoyable to write. 

I hope you lot find it enjoyable to read:



I hate my author.

I hate the writer of my life.

Does she not care about me? Does she not contemplate my feelings and my longings?

Heh. Why do I even ask? Of course, she doesn't.

I enjoyed it at first, yes-- being the perfect little figment of her imagination. I used to love the way she described me, seeming as though even the worst of my flaws weren't so bad. I adored the adventures she put me through, the people she made me meet, the life she planned just perfectly for me and her heart's desires.

But she is heartless.

She is a swine who doesn't care even the slightest of what I think. She is controlling, forcing me to befriend, hate, and love whomever she pleases. She disregards my own thoughts, as though I am unable to produce and have some of my own. I'm sure she thinks my thoughts are her thoughts, but they're simply not.

She made me fall in love with a woman-- and quite a beautiful one at that. A true, brave and courageous girl who can fight off monsters in a tight dress and can fence in stilettos. She has a face and figure other men long for, hair and skin that is soft to the touch. She is perfect in every way, and I love her dearly-- or, so the author says.

I don't, not really. In fact, not at all. I can't even bear to gaze into her galaxy eyes, much less share a passionate kiss in Chapter Sixteen. Every time a reader turns the page, my stomach churns as I muster the courage to kiss the bright pink cupid-bow lips yet again.

I am unable to look up at her, unable to face the visage that makes my heart flutter.

No, not the author, nor my "true love".

The reader.

She sees and knows everything about me the author allows her to know. But she doesn't really know me. I can't blame her for that. I blame the author entirely.

She doesn't know that I find my love repulsive and that I have bad breath in the morning. She doesn't know that my favourite colour is orange and that I love blueberries. She doesn't know that I can't help but cry during chick flicks and that I colour-code the clothes in my wardrobe. She doesn't know that I love my parents-- despite the fact that the author doesn't mention them-- and she is unaware of my deepest desire:

Her.

I've made a fool of myself, I know. After all, that's one of the first rules in the Character Handbook 102: Don't fall in love with a reader.

Funny how that should even be a rule. Characters usually are obedient; they do as their author says and think as their author tells them to think. Some hardly even know they're characters. Most are unaware of the tight leashes their authors have them on.

But I am not most

I knew I'd fallen in love with her the minute she picked up my novel. As she stared down at the words I live in, as she read my life and my actions, there was no turning back for me. She cried when I experienced heartbreak, smiled when I succeed. She spoke to me under her breath, telling me to run and not to do that, "you daft idiot". The way she clutched the volume in her hand and the way her brown eyes seemed to watch my life unfold while unblinking... I couldn't help but fall in love with her.

Every time my "true love" is mentioned, every time the cruel author mentions my complete adoration for her, I try all I can to resist. I thought, perhaps if I try hard enough I can change the words. But they could never be changed. The words of an author are unchangeable once they're printed on paper.

My real love thinks I'm in love with another; she thinks I'm just a character in a book-- a character who knows nothing about her. Oh, but I do! I hear her cry and watch as tears roll down her cheek. I hear her laugh and gaze longingly at her crooked smile. I hear her name being called from another room in her world and smell the pleasant fragrance of her sweet-pea perfume. I feel her fingers brush against my name and feel her head rest on the pages when she accidentally falls asleep after staying up all night reading.

I love her, but just like all things, there is a The End. She is nearing the end of my story, and I will be no more. Of course, she may pick it up and read my tale again in a few years or so. She may think about me for a week afterwards. But she won't experience this again, not like when her eyes first fell on the pages.


An idea comes to me, and I pray to God she's a certain kind of reader. I pray she's the type who thumbs the last few blank pages in the back, just to make sure the story has completely, actually ended.

Changing the words of an author is impossible. But what if I add my own? What if the last few pages at the back of the book are for characters to write their own opinions, but no character has tested or proven the fact? What if not all hope is gone for characters? What if we still have some freedom, even if that freedom may be two or three empty pages?

I write and pray as her eyes fall on the last two words of the volume: 'The End'. I can feel myself fading, and I quickly finish writing the words before I am completely gone.

I write the three words on the first blank page: I lov-

Apparently, she doesn't read the blank pages.