A rose to grind

-33-

Logs, books, papers and journals. The passages that I had written were strewn across the table. When I opened my eyes, the dream that had been terrorizing me disappeared.

Ah. Here came my morning routine. My elbows brushed aside the sheets and my arm elongated to catch the fountain pen that nearly rolled off the edge of the desk. The pen was a rod-shaped, expensive little thing. Why, this was in fact, Eton Junta's. That old man relished in luxury, and now that he was dead, the only place he could go to was hell.

I propped up my arm, fingers rubbing circles into my pounding temples. Then, I started to write a line, then two, then more.

[ Castelli's log III ]

I wonder what you're doing all the way over the boundary separating fiction and reality.
Some days, I wonder to myself, will I ever see you? Will I ever become more than just a book, more than a character you would forget?
How do I make you notice me...?
What if I killed for you,
then would you notice me?
There's only a fine line between fear and love. My goal is to make you fear me so much you'll end up loving me.
Please write me back a response.
I want to know your world.
Perhaps, I can also meet my father and mother-in-law soon.

I set down my pen, admiring my own handwriting. Not to brag or anything, but my penmanship was out of this world. Usually, most people would struggle writing calligraphy, but I'd like to think mine was superior. After all, having lived thousands of years in this fictional hellhole made me learn many things. Out of all the things I had grown adapted to, I was still unfamiliar with love.

"What kind of books do they like..?" Unconsciously, I started to draw circles into the rough sheet on which I had written my 'love' letter with the pen. When I realized what I had been doing, I grew enraged. I shot up from my seat and flipped over the table, panting heavily, and swallowing the angry, ragged breaths down my throat. My chest felt heavy.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," I kicked the table away with my foot. The desk was flung away at once. It crashed into the wall with an obnoxious bang, and little bits of debris and particles fluttered down in the air onto the ground. Thank goodness the author had written me to be an overpowered character. Yet, as strong as my powers were in this world, what was the point of them if you didn't exist in this hellhole?

My fingers grasped the ends of the love letter. I smoothed out the crinkles tenderly, staring down at the paper with hot, affectionate eyes.

"I'm so sorry," I mumbled, holding the paper closer to my chest. "So, so, sorry. Please don't be angry at me. Reader, I don't know what I'll do without you. I'm sorry, okay?"

Before I knew it, my lips were pressing against the paper. The surface felt rough under my lips, and the sensation was not enjoyable. But, I would imagine that it was you that I was kissing and the experience would be more tolerable.

Seriously, reader, I don't know what I'd do without you. I was created for you. Only you. For each and everyone of you. If you don't love me... then what would my existence be?

"Aw, shucks. It got smudged."

I rolled up the paper then gently packed it within my pocket. Men's pockets were generally larger in size compared to women's. And, thank god it was, if it weren't for it, how would I be able to keep the papers written to you by my side?

Well, I already formulated a plan to catch my lovers' attention. Homicide! Double homicide! It didn't matter. As long as the crime was heinous, they'd notice me. Besides, hadn't they ever forgiven characters who also committed war crimes? My sin was only a little compared to the others, so won't you love me more?