Spoiler! :
Where did I get that idea?
Who hasn't asked that question? Or perhaps, 'why did I do that?', or 'what was that all about?' Simple questions, really. And everyone always thinks they know the answer. 'It's probably a dare.' 'It's probably just an old memory.' It's always part of someone's story - everyone has a story. Everything has a story. The world is made up of a million disjointed stories, randomly created and randomly bumping into each other...
Or so I thought, up until May 17, 2011.
On May 16, 2011, I realized that I was in love. I didn't know why. I just was. Braden was tall, he was handsome, he was kind and good and all that stuff. So I sat in my bed and thought about him
I wondered if God was listening to my thoughts. I always prayed at night, but I never seemed to get an answer. I wondered if something would happen if I did something else.
So I wrote a letter instead.
'Dear whoever's up there,
I've been wondering why you made love. I also wonder why I'm so in love with this one guy. I do love him, I mean - it's genuine - but I just can't help but wonder. How do people's loves get chosen? Do they get chosen, or is it just a random chance thing?
I guess these are stupid questions - who can understand love? But it's something I can't help questioning.
Your creation,
Mara.'
At this point, I realized that what I was doing was just a little out there. Why would I have to write a letter to be understood? And why was I doing this anyways? What did I expect, God to write back?
I wadded the letter into a loose ball, a little embarrassed at the strange folly, and fell onto my pillow, leaving the mangled paper sitting forlornly on my nightstand. I wasn't tired, but I fell asleep quickly, allowing my mind to sink into unknowing blankness for a while.
The morning of May 17, 2011 was bright and sleepy as the sun filtered through my window. I sat up slowly, pressing my hand to my clean nightstand, and stretched, feeling as if--
My clean nightstand?
I looked down, seeing the blank empty wood staring back at me. What about the letter? Hadn't I left it on the nightstand?
Still groggy, I assumed it had somehow fallen down the gap between the nightstand and my bed - it wouldn't have been the first time - and, too lazy to search, left the room to begin a slow breakfast.
The day went by blissfully slowly, until I lumbered upstairs to my bedroom to strum some chords on my guitar, in case I went out of practice. As I sat on my bed, I once again saw the colors and trinkets of my room - the warm blue walls, the faded white bookshelves full of books and memories, my nightstand with the letter on it, the--
I thought the letter fell off.
My thoughts raced back to morning. I'd thought nothing of the letter's disappearance - I'd forgotten it had even happened until now. But how did that letter get back onto the nightstand?
I seized the paper and realized it was not the same type my letter's. I opened the paper that was not mine and saw words that were not mine, written in handwriting that was not mine with a pen that was probably not mine.
If they weren't mine, then whose paper, words, handwriting and paper was it? For some reason, they felt sacred somehow, although I didn't know why I felt that way. My mind brushed past the question, leaving it for later, and I read the letter instead.
'My beloved Mara,
Before you panic, I am not God. However, I suppose, in a way, you may view me similarly to him.
I did not know you existed until yesterday - May 16, 2011. I did not know your world truly existed until yesterday. I thought you were only ideas in my head.
This is why I must see you. I can only assume this will work, but please write the words 'dear Brionna' and a message asking to see me. I will see you soon if it works.
Yours truly,
Brionna.'
I didn't linger on the fact that this was impossible. I pulled a pen from the drawer of my nightstand and scrawled,
'Dear Brionna,
I do not know who you are or where you are, but I must see you and meet you.
Yours truly,
Mara.'
I held the letter tightly and waited.
A minute went by. Then ten minutes. Then half an hour, then an hour, and soon two hours had crawled by.
I sighed in defeat and crushed the paper, giving up.
And almost instantly I was gone.
I stood in a room exactly like my room in a world exactly like my world. There were only two reasons I knew I had moved. One was that I was standing, while I had been sitting not a second ago.
The other reason was because I was looking at myself.
The red hair, the fair skin, the narrow build - everything was exactly the same as me. I couldn't see the face, but I knew it was mine, since this was obviously me I was looking at.
I couldn't help it - I stepped back in shock and took a sharp breath. I - or the other me - turned to face me. I realized that the other me had blue eyes instead of my green. It was the only difference.
The other me looked just as taken aback about looking at me - or her - or - somebody. Her eyes widened as she looked into mine, and then spoke.
"You have green eyes," she said quietly.
"Y-yes," I stammered.
"Then you must be Mara. But..." she sighed and sat down limply on her bed.
I couldn't take the silence. "Are... are you Brionna?" I asked timdily.
Brionna nodded.
Finally, I asked the question. "Who exactly are you, Brionna?"
Brionna looked up. "I'm a writer. I've begun a book - a book with the main character Mara, who lives in a quiet suburb town..."
I stood silent. It wasn't possible.
"I based you off of myself. The only difference is the green eyes, and the name. I ... I created you, gave you a home just like mine and a world almost exactly like mine."
"Almost?"
"Well, um... I guess I can't really talk about Braden, since it would mess with the fabric of reality ... probably. I just don't know! This kind of stuff isn't supposed to happen in real life."
In real life. "But..." I stood there shocked, as the full effect of the truth finally slammed into me with the force of a tiger. I had been created by a girl my own age. My entire world had been fabricated by her, pieced together by her personal thoughts.
Could I be real if I was nothing but ideas and words?
I felt tears spring to my eyes. "...I am real. I'm made of flesh and bones, and I have to eat to stay healthy, and ... and I have memories.
"I was born in a hospital in Washington, and I dream to be a marine scientist one day, and when I was little I got hold of a meat knife and gave myself a scar along my arm. I used to have a puppy named Shadow, but he died; my parents told me he'd gone away because I was two and I didn't understand. I fell asleep once in history class, while they were teaching us about George Washington, and I was mortified because I got a detention. I hate bugs, and my favorite color is purple. I have claustrophobia since I got stuck in a cupboard when I was three. My parents are divorced and I never get to see my brother.
"Are you saying you just made all this up? Are you saying none of it really happened? If I'm made of paper and pencil, can anything I remember or know be real or true? Am I really alive?"
At this, I fell silent. The girl in front of me, more real than I had ever been, didn't answer. She couldn't. The air was heavy with silence.
I thought I heard Brionna's breathing grow heavier, as if she was holding something back.
"I'm sorry," I said, calming down. "I'm not angry at you for the truth. It's not even your fault. I'm just so confused."
Brionna looked up. "I'm not angry - I'm confused too. Because I didn't say or think any of what you just said. You're claustrophobic, but I didn't know why. I mentioned your scar, but all I said was that it was a childhood incident. I've never heard of George Washington, and I didn't even know what your favorite color was."
The longest silence yet rose between me and my creator.
"So what am I?" I finally said. "Words on paper?"
"Or flesh on bone?" wondered Brionna. "I don't know."
And again we lapsed into silence.
"Maybe you're both," said Brionna. I looked up.
Brionna continued haltingly, as if she was afraid of hurting me. "Maybe ... maybe each word I write makes a new world, and each thing you do is part of that."
"Maybe every book and every story is its own world," I said, catching on. "That's why the letter I wrote went through to you."
"So even though you are words on paper..." continued Brionna, picking up speed.
"...I'm also flesh on bone!" I cried, finishing the statement.
"That's so amazing," Brionna said quietly. "I mean... you're real. For so long, I've imagined what it would be like, and you're here, right in front of me." She thought a bit some more. "I wonder... does this mean when you read, you're seeing into another world?"
"I guess so," I said, thinking of all the stories I'd read. Then I remembered something else, something smaller. "You know, you never did answer my letter."
"What?" Brionna looked confused.
"I asked how my love came to be. I think - I know - that Braden the one meant for me. But why him? You did choose him, right?"
"I can't answer that," said Brionna. "I feel... I feel weird talking to you like this. With all the stuff I have planned..." she broke off. "Sorry. I'm being creepy."
"That's alright," I said, although it was unsettling. "Maybe..." Then I saw a laptop on her desk, open and turned on. I saw a document with black words condensed on it. Like Brionna's letter, it seemed sacred somehow.
"Is that..." I trailed off, but Brionna understood my question.
"Yes. That's the book."
"My life is written in that book."
"Yes." Brionna choked up, surprising me. "It is."
"I supposed I'm not allowed to read that."
"Sorry." Brionna looked strangely teary. Then again, I suppose she had a right to. Seeing a real person stand in front of you and realizing that whatever happens to them is up to you has got to be sobering.
"Well, I guess I have to go," I said, suddenly feeling awkward and exposed somehow, like a butterfly in a jar. "How do I leave?"
Eventually, I just wrote a letter to Brendan saying I needed to go home. He wouldn't actually need to read it - just addressing and writing it did the trick. I crushed the paper in my hands - for some reason, that was the way to make it work - and had one last look at my creator and the words of my life before I was gone.
In my own world, I looked at the mirror. My own reflection shone in it - me, words on paper and flesh on bone. I knew what I had to do, of course. I couldn't just keep this memory. Otherwise, Brionna couldn't write my story properly, and if my story stopped... what would happen?
I didn't investigate. Instead, I tore a piece of paper from a notebook and picked the pen up from where it lay on my bed.
'Dear Mara,
I don't want to, but we have to forget everything that just happened from the writing of the letter to Brionna to the crumpling of this letter. I can't try to take my fate into my own hands - Brionna will take care of us, or else... I don't know what exactly she's going to do. But I have to forget, or she can' write my life. I have to forget Brionna. I have to forget the book. Goodbye.
Yours truly,
The Mara that knows everything.'
I took a deep breath. Goodbye, Brionna. Good luck on that book.
And then I crushed the last letter of truth.
Once again, credit for this idea should be given to ChibiGiraffe and his work.
Thank you for reading and please critique!
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