Fifty pages ago, I died. Fell into a well, broke my leg, went into hypothermia, shock, and died. Twenty five pages later they dig me up, those grave robbing hooligans, looking for a fresh corpse to sell to dissection labs at upscale colleges. The next chapter sees me not in a dissection class, but in a desolate room on a cold metal gurney, awaiting who knows what, because I’m still dead at that point. All I know is, I’m there. That’s what I feel. That’s all I know. I can’t move. I feel tensed up. I have no way to blink my eyes. All I see is open space around me. Cold open space.
Mid-chapter, I hear a nurses voice, cooing to me, sweet and frightening, because I’m dead, and wouldn’t that make her deranged? What am I here for? To stare at the tiles on the ceiling? Why didn’t they leave me alone in the last chapter? Everything was fine there. I met a nice girl, one who helped me understand myself. One who listened. I was really getting to like her. And zap. I walk into a goddamn well. Poetic justice. Always in the hole. Never seem to get out. No matter which chapter, which page, or which profession.
The nurse is some harbinger of Satan, no doubt. She picks me up. In the interim of my death and my new life I have been transferred into the body of a newborn. I squiggle in her arms and try to ask her how this could be. Last time I checked I was a thirty eight year old construction worker named Scott. Obviously the author didn’t like the way the story was headed, so he used creative license to change me once again. Great! Now I’m a baby. I hate diapers. So I tell the nurse, “hey babe, please don’t make me wear a humiliating diaper. I’m thirty eight years old for the love of donuts.”
All that comes out is this indecipherable google goggle. Is that my voice? Ah crap! Why couldn’t I have been born in someone else’s book? This guy don’t know squat about keeping tension within the plot. He utilizes characters in all the wrong ways. Hell…I have been here before . I knew I recognized the nurses face, her nurses hat. So, how has she managed to stay the same? And I get to die umpteen million times. What am I? A floater character? And why can’t this idjit write me into sex scenes. It gets boring not getting laid. Tends to make me uptight. Grouchy even.
The nurse puts me into a little cradle scale, and I weigh the same as I did the last time. So I tell her, “six pounds, four ounces, and not a penny more.” What she hears is goonie-goo-goo and a dollop of drool. She touches my cheek, and tells me what a sweet girl I am. And I instantly lose it. A girl. What the hell? And I stop goo-gooing and start to cry. What the hell. If I ever get out of this book, I will murder the author. He must be a sadistic bastard to treat his main characters this way, the hack!
The nurse wipes the drool away, and I go for her finger. If I had teeth I would have bitten it off. How does she get to play the same part, and I get killed, only to come back as a girl? This is gonna scar me for life. Well, this life anyhow. Who knows what I’ll be next. Probably a dung beetle, or a cockroach.
Hopefully he gets writers block again, soon , or gets a cramp in his wrist because of writing everything out in pen first, (what a dinosaur; hello, ever heard of a keyboard?) or maybe he loses his mind and can’t write anymore. Which will be fine by me, as long as he doesn’t leave me as a girl in his next story, while he’s away at the funny farm. In a diaper! Just like his last story.