In some ways, even before you first decided to put pen to page, you've always been a storyteller. You've always had the gift for spinning a web around yourself, weaving together the strands of truth and lies and maybe so's, until no one could possibly tell them apart. You thought, maybe this way you could protect yourself. Maybe this way you could protect Charlie. As long as you maintained the charade until you got the hell out of this city for good-
You couldn't have been more wrong.
--
England, 1983. A university student traps himself in his own narrative, kills his sister, and gets prank-called. Not in that specific order, though.
I had first regarded it a prank. A wrong number. A mistake.
But the calls wouldn't stop. He was bothering me, disturbing me-- as though I was a selected target.
As the harassment escalated, I began to imagine things. I feared every corner, was scared of the dark, began to hallucinate things which weren't real.
Why? Why me? Why was this man calling me? Who was he?
I had suspicions. The possibilities were endless. There was nothing anybody could do. He wouldn't stop-- so I had to take things into my own hands.
~*~
He tracked me down. He plotted to execute me. I managed to escape into the woods and beyond. I discovered his hideout, his base and his scheme. I could expose him. I could reveal his identity to the world, and he would surrender.
But I made a mistake. I couldn't change my fate.