Sleep overcomes me as I write the story. The man who lives in my head watches the world collapse around him as the mind slowly loses consciousness and begins to go into a dream state. What horrors might he see when I plunge into a nightmare? He hopes to make it through alive.
I disappear. He steps up and takes control of I. The first person is now in his control. He is the narrator.
I have always narrated his dreams. He loved listening to my voice. It echoed through his head, he said. He summoned me at times during the day. He found himself out of his depth frequently. So he merely observed. He could be detached that way. Recording events. And I would then narrate it to him.
There were no mundane moments in his life. I would not let that happen. He found the daily existence uninteresting. Banality bored him. He pitied the people who led dull lives. He had no idea that his was no different.
I engaged the services of colourful people. Characters. I found them in his head when I got here. I don’t know where they came from. The characters played their parts well. His life was dramatized right before his eyes.
Conversation was rewritten into dialogue. Emotions were amplified. Life became more interesting.
And unlike him, I knew precisely how every story should end.
