Catharsis II: An Army of Words (AUDITIONS)

Applicant #21: Fictional

The evening was quiet except for the song of crickets. It was as if, all of a sudden, Jasmine and Chris were on a different plane. Everything but his hand around hers, his hair shining in the light of the setting sun, his warm gray eyes---everything else felt so far away.

He brought her hands to his chest. "I'm going to tell you the truth. You won't believed me, but you deserve to know."

A raw knot of pain took hold of Jasmine's insides.

"There was a writer..."

Jasmine groaned. She couldn't help it. A writer wasn't going to hold the answers to any of the questions she had about Chris.

"Just listen," he said, shooting her look. "There was a writer who's working with his novel. Everytime he start writing about the female protagonist, the book will take him inside the story to meet her, and the story will begin with its own writer as the male protagonist. But the world inside the book forbids them to kiss, because when they do, the book will vanish as well as the female protagonist. The writer will be left alone. He'll start writing the same work again to meet her, and the the story will happen again."

"So?"

"I'm trying to say... I guess you could say I'm that writer, Jasmine." He spoke as if the words tasted bitter.

"I fall in love," he explained, taking her hands and holding them tightly. "Over and over again. And each time, it ends catastrophically."

"Over and over again." The words made her ill. Jasmine closed her eyes and withdrew her hands.

He squeezed her fingers. "Look at me," he pleaded. "Here's where it gets hard."

She opened her eyes.

"The female protagonist and the person I fall in love with each time is you."

She'd been holding her breath, and meant to exhale, but it came out as a sharp, cutting laugh.

"Right, Chris," she said, starting to stand up. "That sounds horrible."

"Listen." He pulled her back down with a force that made her shoulder throb. "I'm begging you, let me explain." His voice quaked. "The problem isn't loving you."

She took a deep breath. "What is it?" She willed herself to listen.

"You'll vanish together with the book everytime we kissed," he said.

"You thought I wasn't going to survive it---the kiss?"

"Based on previous experiences," he said hoarsely. "Yes."

"That's just crazy."

Her eyes narrowed, her hands on his chest, her lips parted expectantly.

So it was too late. As soon as her lips melted into his, both of them were powerless. The honeysuckle taste of her mouth made him dizzy. The closer she pressed againts him, the more his stomach churned with the thrill and agony of it all. Her tounge traced his, and fire between them burned brighter, hotter, more powerful with every new touch, every new exploration. Yet none of it was new.