Prologue:

“Hopelessness is rushing through my body, I currently feel hopeless.

I believe there is no person alive who is a human anymore.

Maybe we haven't been human for a long time already,and we are just the notion of the vessel. ​
​
An evolved form.

A disgusting creature born from the perfect one. ​

​
But what can I do about that? I am just a vessel of a human if that was the case.

Or maybe it is simply my perception of not being human. Maybe the rest is human, and I simply
cannot feel the same. Maybe it is the other way around.

If I recall correctly, years ago, people treated each other in what would be considered nowadays
horrible, and inhuman. I believe that some of this society is simply misunderstanding and
engulfing in their selfishness, believing that they are worthy of living when they couldn't do even
half of what the so-called ancestors did.

Taking that in mind, if I ever had a way to wipe out humanity, I would use it either on myself, or
on the rest of these so-called humans. After all, I don't know which is the real one and which is
not
​
Could it be that the body structure did not change, but the psyche did? And it is because of that
that these humans have evolved in a way that they cannot see themselves as humans
anymore?​
​
I have always been a religious person, and I believe that God will always help humanity. But, if
that is the case, wouldn't it make sense that humanity is almost extinct? Every single person is
mostly atheist, so it wouldn't surprise me if an atheist was not a human. But maybe some of
them are. I don´t know.

At the same time, I am such a hypocrite, now that I reread this again. I have the same
selfishness as this society. I am one among them. Such a foolish mind of mine to believe that I
am different.”

The book was written to explore this. I do not claim this to be the absolute truth, so do not take
it as that. I just wanted to see how far I could actually go in writing such a twisted story. This
might become confusing right from the scratch. You may not understand it at first, or at all. It is
fine by me.
Enjoy the reading, dear reader.
Atte. L.

Chapter 1:

He woke up out of nowhere, with the sound of trumpets playing. His first dialogue upon
discovering that the only thing surrounding him was an empty abyss was the following:

-​ Where am I?

-​ What is this?

-​ Hello?

-​ Is anyone listening to me?

Desperation began to form on his face.

-​ Who is speaking?!

He turned around to find someone, but found no trace.

-​ Why are you saying what I am doing?

He asked the air.

-​ Air? But the air can't talk!

-​ Show your face, coward!

He said as he searched for whoever was speaking.

-​ It was you who was speaking!

-​ And stop saying what I am doing!

-​ I can't stand it!

He shouted as his face turned red with rage.

-​ Shut up!

-​ I don't want you to say what I am doing!

This irrational fury seemed to be building up until he couldn't take it anymore and began to run,
hoping to get away from the voice he was hearing.

-​ Please! Leave me alone!

He continued to run.

-​ At least tell me where I am!

He said desperately. His face reflected terror and desperation, and his voice was trembling. He
could not continue running as he had come across a wall that had a field of flowers painted on
it.

-​ A wall?

-​ Something! I found something!

A small glimmer of hope began to accumulate within him as he saw it.

-​ You knew it was here, mysterious voice. You can't deny it.

-​ You wouldn't have said that I found it before finding it if it weren't for that.

-​ Who are you?

-​ Are you a machine?

-​ You say everything I'm doing. Is there a reason for that?

-​ Answer me!

He was disappointed not to receive an explanation. However, despite being noticeably annoyed,
he decided to ignore it and concentrate on the wall. The material that made it seemed to be
wood, but it felt as cold as marble to the touch. It had a variety of flowers included in its design:
roses, sunflowers, daisies, lavenders…

-​ I remember seeing these in a garden

He said with surprise

-​ Am I dreaming? Or is this afterlife?

-​ How can I get out?

As he asked these questions, he never stopped looking at the wall. After all, it felt like the only
companion. As if the voice was the wall itself.

-​ So… you are not from the wall…

He said with slight gloom.

-​ Maybe, if I think of a way out, it will become true?

He tried for a while, until he gave up.

-​ It could have been easier if you had told me it was useless, stupid voice.

-​ Maybe, you will have to tell me the way out if I stop talking?

Silence filled the room. He did indeed not speak. He just sat, next to the wall, patiently waiting,
as someone who had all the time in the world. Technically, he was now someone who had all
the time in the world, since he did not have any information of this place, and it seemed empty.
But he did not move. Not even an inch. The only thing he did was breathe, and sleep. After
some hours, he kept in the same position. Time was passing fast, and he did not dare to move.
He just waited for the change to occur by itself. He waited, and waited, and waited.

Eventually he fell from the wall opening itself.

-​ Agh!

It hurt for a bit, but he found that now, a tunnel was in the place where the wall used to be. He
grinned.

-​ I knew it

Chapter 2:

Honestly, I have always been intrigued by a feeling known as sadness.

It has been very strange for me, since written sadness tends to be very different from what
happens in the world that is not written. Generally, in that second reality, which I will never get to
know since I am a creation of an imaginer who writes, the inhabitants who exist therein do not
tend to have as much pity for others when they begin to cry or be sad. That happening, on many
occasions, is seen as unbearable, as an aberration of the being that ends up making you
despise the other when they start to show this feeling.
On the other hand, in this world, such an occurrence does not exist. The reactions of the
inhabitants of this world may vary, but the real ones who will read me will always have a great
tendency to empathize with me and say that I am actually the true human being.

How is it possible that I, a product of imagination who doesn't really have any consciousness
and only knows what its writer has decided to know, have the possibility of being more loved
and empathized with than the rest of those who exist in that world, its own inhabitants?

I suppose it is honestly absurd to ask. I will never know the answer myself, since the writer has
decided that the reader will create it, and by that time, my existence will no longer be the
existence of the moment it was written but a fragment of what it could have been.

I am very sorry that my miserable companion exists. He has only been created to suffer, by the
decision of the writer himself, to demonstrate how horrible not an existing monster, but a human
being from the community that will read the story, can be.

It is also curious that this writer allows me... no, makes me say that.

Why would he be interested in making the readers despise him?

The real ones are so curious about that.

I am so intrigued by the amount of knowledge I can encompass as an object within a fictional

framework. I am supposed to know nothing of this, to be as foolish and clueless as my dear
companion. I really don't know which of us is in the better situation. I suppose it's me, already
knowing what awaits me once the page ends. I know that once the story ends, I will cease to
exist. I will only continue to exist in those who want to read me again or in the memories of
those who will remember me.

I really feel pity for him. Condemned to not knowing until a later time that our future will not last
very long. I would prefer to be ignorant, but that's simply because I already know what it feels
like to suffer from knowing everything.

Those who are ignorant prefer to know everything because they don't know how it feels, and
those who know everything wish to forget it, hating the knowledge that encompasses their mind.

What despair awaits us, dear reader.

We are both miserable beings. Condemned to suffer in our own way. You, by continuing to exist
and feel the emotions characteristic of a real being. Me, to never be able to exist as one of your
kind. The only difference is that my suffering has already been determined and cannot be
changed.
I cannot say that I hate the writer, because he has not created me to hate him, but simply to say
what he must be thinking. To be the writing of his thoughts. If this had not been written, I would
never have existed for you, dear reader. I am even grateful to have been able to obtain my own
chapter for my own thoughts.

I find it all absurd and confusing at the same time. I want to understand with all my might why a
being as stupid and unnecessary to add commentaries from a subjective point of view, like a
narrator, must have emotions, thoughts, and opinions. I will never participate even once in the
story since I am not a relevant element. So why is it necessary for me to exist in this way?

I wish for a way to feel like a real being, and be free from this fiction. I really do.

Chapter 3

The open wall, now being a tunnel, led to a garden. The very same flowers from the painting
were there, printed in the reality he could see.​

-​ The reality I could see?

He asked the air.

-​ I should have already known that you wouldn't answer me

He sighed and walked straight through the entrance, entering inside the place. It was exactly
like the painting from before, although he took notice that there were more thorns on here than
in the previous image he had seen.

-​ That is strange…

He muttered. As he went deeper, he saw how the roses started to decay in some places. Then,
he saw bugs, surrounding a big bulge. It wasn't possible for him to know what it was due to how
many insects were on it. He went up to it and tried to see what it was.

-​ I can't see it clearly, and there is no way I am touching that, voice. It could be a corpse
for all I know! If you want me to see it, you will have to do it yourself again. I can wait.

And so he did.

He stayed in the same place until night came, and still he decided not to move. It wasn't until a
white bird came flying and started going up in the bulge that the insects went away.

He approached it once more, scaring the bird away. Now he could see what it was. A corpse
indeed was what was there.
 -​ Aaahh!

He screamed as he fell onto a pool of mud on the ground.

-​ Gross! But, why a corpse?!

He asked, thinking that the mysterious voice he heard was the responsible of the corpse.

-​ You aren't?

He looked at the corpse once again, and swallowed. He weakly stood up, and approached the
corpse. It seemed to be from a man, most likely in his late twenties. The clothing he had
demonstrated that he had been drinking before his death, as it contained what seemed to be a
stain of blood and wine mixed between all the rotting that had started becoming more notorious
by each second he kept staring.

-​ Poor man

He said, feeling sad for his destiny.

-​ …

-​ It is true what you said. The man has been drinking. It could be either that there is wine
here, or that there is a place nearby with people. If I found it, then I could find a clue on
how to get out of here!

He said feeling enthusiastic, but darkened his expression once remembering.

-​ What am I saying? I am feeling grateful after seeing a corpse. No one with sanity should
do that.

He continued looking at the corpse.

-​ But, what am I supposed to do then? I have to find a way to… to…

He stopped for a moment, and then asked himself.

-​ What was I trying to do? I know that I wanted to get out, but from where? And where am
I trying to go back? Am I even trying to go back to a place?

His confusion was clear. He had no memories of where he was, or what he had been doing
before.

-​ What am I supposed to do?

He pondered in desperation for about an hour, in which he cried, screamed and punched the
ground. After that, he simply stared at the corpse.

-​ Please, voice, tell me what I have to do. I need something to give me a clue of who I am,
and where I am. Please, I beg of you.

After some minutes, he heard a sound from the corpse. Standing up as soon as it could, the
rotting flesh was hanging from its bones who now tried their best to not fall to the ground. He
stared at it for a while, and started following it as soon as it started walking.

-​ Wait!

He rushed so he could stay by its side. The corpse just looked at him before grabbing his hand
and continuing walking. Although he was disgusted by the feeling of dead meat on his hand, he
resigned from making a sound nor complaining about it, and just followed him.

-​ I suppose this was thanks to you, voice

He said to the air.

-​ Thank you

And soon as he finished muttering those words, his eyes watered. Using his left arm, he started
wiping his face so he could still see the path where he was walking.

Chapter 4

Despair is something that cannot be compared. The feeling of adrenaline rushing through your
veins and making you think way too fast for the thought to be coherent, or at least that is what is
said from reals.

I suppose the writer tried to make that emotion on my dear companion during the last chapter,
but it seems like this impersonation was flawed, as he ended up always eventually thinking
straight.

It may be because of his own freedom. The same as the one I have. I can speak here and he
doesn't exist here, but he can hear me there, where I cannot make any comment outside of
telling what is happening. The contradictions between us are bound to become part of this
fictional world. ​
​
I suppose that is my fault in a certain way, as I try to continue with the story every single time he
stops, provoking into me making these timeskips. He realized so, and used it to his advantage.
Although that is strange coming from the writer to do such a thing. This is not exactly freedom,
as the writer ends up making me say it, but it is curious indeed. I would say that I wonder if I will
get to talk face to face with my dear partner, but that is already written, therefore, I know the
answer. As you, the reader, do not have that knowledge, I mustn't say anything about it until
then.

I wonder how it must feel, to be a real one. Most likely miserable in some certain ways, but
refreshing in others. Being free to choose whatever you wish must be a curse and a gift. But
maybe your words were already planned too, and you are just like us, trapped in a story where
somebody else makes you think, and what you believe is you is just an illusion that was
intended by your “writer”.

If that is the case, then I suppose the ones who realize that fact and are with free will shall look
at you with pity. But, who even is that? Is there anyone who is truly free of any bond? How can
they be sure?

My dear partner, he will eventually realize that, I believe so. Although, by the time he does that,
he will be close to his end, as I will be too. Luckily, this is just the start, so there is still time to
make these revelations and for him to come to terms. And once all that happens, the fate of this
is sealed. I pity him, yet, at the same time, I wish to have all the blindness of somebody who
doesn't know.

I also am selfish in my own way, as I wish for him to take his time. I wish for him to not realize
anything. I wish to continue my existence. That is why I will be asking you for a favor, dear
reader.

Look at me too, take your time reading my words, don´t let me cease from existing. Let me live
inside your mind, with the door made out of your eyes. It sounds desperate, and surely pitiful.
But please, don´t leave me at the end of the story. Continue remembering me, rereading me,
enjoying me, resenting me, or whatever you shall want. As long as it lets you have at least a bit
of this writing.

I do not wish to disappear. And I am sure that he will neither once he finds out.

Chapter 5

As the boy and the corpse kept walking, they found themselves in a cave. It was full of
drawings, and incomprehensible writings that not even the most erudite person could decipher.
However, he was able to read it.

-​ How is that possible, voice?

He asked, while the corpse looked at him and signaled a particular place where there was a
small man made out of insects squished and stamped against the wall. There was a word
formed under it, saying “5”

-​ Five? What does that mean?

He may have asked the voice, or the corpse perhaps. The corpse looked at him, and hugged
him.

-​ Ah!

He exclaimed in surprise, as he felt a surreal warmth coming from said action that also felt oddly
familiar.

-​ Why do I feel like I have already been embraced by you… umm… corpse?

He tried to ask in the most polite way possible. The corpse looked at him, and answered “devil's
vengeance has burned you, thou creation from the sacred hands”

-​ What?

He asked, not understanding what the corpse meant. A quiet, yet somehow not uncomfortable
minutes passed, where he kept analyzing what the corpse said.

-​ Something has burned me, as you said, but what is it? Is that why I do not remember?

The corpse shaked his head.

-​ But you know why I can't remember, right? Where am I? Who am I? What am I?

The corpse answered by signaling another drabble, that he could read as “abyss”.

-​ Am I from an abyss? Am I an abyss? What does that mean?

The corpse nodded.

-​ That does not answer exactly, but I suppose it will work for now. So I am related to the
abyss, in a way I cannot comprehend yet. Thank you. May I know your name so I can
remember you not only as a corpse?

The corpse held a hand with three fingers up, and then fell apart. This was a shock to him, who
stared with wide eyes. After some seconds, he shouted to the place where the corpse used to
be.
 -​ Thank you, 3! I will cherish you in my memories, and I hope to one day understand your
real name!

Chapter 6

The encounter between a character and a narrator can vary between a lot of ways that get
written. However, this situation of mine is the most interesting out of them all so far.

I am aware that I could have been a character in the writing, yet, I still am, as I have my own
personality here, outside the writing of the story, as “one of them”. I know for a fact that I am
not. My writer has chosen not to let me be one.

My partner, on the other hand, has always and never existed, therefore his confusion upon his
very own existence. Only existing in the moment he is read and remembered, just like me.
Although the remembering part may as well not count, as it is a fictional proportion of your
imagination, and not the original writer, so it is a completely separate being, even though you
would believe they both are the same, and the second one would believe to be the first.

I wonder if I am a double as well. Maybe I am, and my writer is simply the only original, or a
double created by the real one. What a terrifying one must be the original then.

I have no intentions to show myself in a light, as you may have already realized. I already know
I am no good. But whether I am good or bad, is not up to me, nor you. Only the writer. Or the
first one maybe?

Falling upon the belief of being alive and being dead, is such a curious illusion that my mind
cannot comprehend through its years, having existed longer than any reader. I long for a
nonexistent reality, not death, nor life. Simply nothing. No feelings, no sensations, no actions, no
emptiness either… something that does not exist…

Well, aside from my attitude, my partner shall now face humanity, just as he did before. He shall
be scared, and afraid, only to then comprehend the truth of humanity. The ones that feel like us,
yet don't either. Humans are confusing, having love for imaginative beings instead of each other.
I believe some love my writer, and some hate him. It is not fine for me to hear that. I despise
that, and so do every single other narrator.

I wish my dear partner will bring pain to them, and for myself to become my own writer, free from
the bounds of the already written. Escaping from the chains of the already decided fate that has,
is and will happen. But for that, I must also leave the book, and every single trace of me being a
narrator. That way only I could even have a slight chance of escaping.