Chapter 6: I'll be the Villain in your story
"You know what? Death is too easy." He grinned widely, a goofy smile that seemed utterly deranged. Just a second ago, he'd been threatening my life, and now he looked like he was ready to tell a joke. Bipolar jerk.
"I'll torture you slowly, so, so painfully that you will wish you were dead." He said it calmly, almost cheerfully, as he sauntered around my room like he owned the place, flipping through my books and manuscripts with reckless abandon. It felt like he was making himself at home, and I couldn't tell if I wanted to scream or laugh.
"I'll become the bane of your existence," he declared, flipping through the pages of one manuscript. Suddenly, he stopped, staring intently at his own story, the corners of his mouth twitching up. "Ah, there it is! The masterpiece of my existence."
With a flourish, he tossed the manuscript into the air. It vanished mid-flight, a poof of nothingness where it had been just moments before.
"Where did it go?" I asked, crossing my arms in disbelief. "Doesn't that require some sort of… pocket dimension? Or whatever it's called?"
"Correct! Aren't you clever?" he laughed, sarcasm dripping from his tone. "But I prefer to think of it as my personal little realm. Telekinesis isn't just about moving things with my mind, darling. It's a means of manipulation—a gateway to bending reality to my will. I make things disappear, and soon, you'll understand just how powerful I truly am."
He twirled around the room, inspecting my decorations with exaggerated curiosity. "What is this place? A glorified library or a mausoleum for your failed aspirations?" He picked up a framed picture of me at a book signing, a smug grin stretching across his face. "You look like a deer caught in headlights here. Pathetic."
"Why don't you try creating something yourself instead of trashing my work?" I shot back, irritation flaring. "Maybe then you wouldn't have to rely on my stories to feel relevant."
"Aw, sweetie, you wound me!" He clutched his chest in mock agony. "But let's be honest. I'm the real star of the show, aren't I? Without me, you'd just be another forgettable author. Just a name on a dusty shelf." He continued his tour of my mansion, examining every nook and cranny. "This place could use some work, you know. A little bit of my aesthetic would do wonders."
"Your 'aesthetic'? You mean chaos and destruction?" I retorted, following him as he moved from room to room, ransacking my carefully curated collection of novels and notes.
"Exactly! It's called character development, darling. You should try it sometime. Look at this room!" He gestured wildly, nearly knocking over a lamp. "It screams 'I gave up on life!' So much beige. Where's the fun in that?"
"I like beige, thank you very much," I shot back, but a flicker of doubt crept in. Did my surroundings really reflect my inner turmoil?
He snorted, tossing a decorative pillow over his shoulder. "Beige is for the boring. You should embrace the chaos. You have a living nightmare in front of you, and instead of embracing it, you're trying to hide in the safety of pastels. Pathetic."
"And you think torturing me is going to make my life any better?" I asked, an eyebrow raised.
"Oh, absolutely! But you see, it's not just about the physical pain," he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "It's about the mental games. I'll be your shadow, the nagging doubt whispering in your ear. I'll unravel your sanity, thread by thread, until you can't tell if you're awake or dreaming. That's real power."
I glared at him, refusing to show any sign of fear. "You think you're so clever, don't you? But you're just a manchild playing in a grown-up's world. Your bravado is nothing but a mask for your insecurities."
He laughed, the sound echoing off the walls. "Oh, honey, you have no idea how right you are. But while I'm here, you'll be the one who's insecure. Your world revolves around me now."
"I was born a hero, but I'll be the villain in your story. Your very own villain has a nice ring to it, doesn't it, darling?" He smirked, the corners of his mouth curling in delight.
Suddenly, he paused, his expression shifting to one of childish wonder. "And now I'm hungry." He moved to the kitchen, leaving me to rub my temple in frustration. He really was a child in a grown-up's body.
"You live alone in this big mansion?" He mumbled while chewing an apple, still rummaging through my fridge. "That's pathetic, man."
"Stop talking while you're eating!" I said, irritation flaring again. He leaned closer, a playful smile stretching across his face. "I guess it's working," he teased, clearly reveling in my discomfort.
He stepped back, and I realized I had been holding my breath. "Is that alcohol?" I asked in disbelief, spotting a bottle of wine tucked away on the top shelf. "Where did you even find it? I don't want a drunkard in my house."
"I won't get drunk," he declared, holding the bottle away from me. "I can handle my liquor, thank you very much."
Before I could respond, he unscrewed the cap and took a swig, a satisfied look spreading across his face. "Ahh, that's the good stuff! You really know how to treat a villain, don't you?" He leaned against the counter, swaying slightly, and suddenly he was staring at me with an intensity that was both unsettling and flattering.
"You know," he began, his voice slightly slurred, "you're really something, aren't you? I mean, look at you. It's just… unfair, you know? I was meant to have all the power, but look at you, all pretty and in control of your world."
"What are you talking about?" I shot back, crossing my arms defensively.
"You killed me off, and yet here you are, alive and thriving while I'm stuck here, some glorified ghost of your imagination," he lamented, his tone light but tinged with genuine frustration. "It's just not fair! I had so much more to give. Look at me!" He gestured to himself dramatically, swaying a bit. "I was supposed to be a hero! But now I'm just your little puppet."
"Just because I created you doesn't mean you're entitled to anything," I retorted, trying to mask my growing amusement at his antics.
He stepped closer, eyes wide and glassy, the alcohol giving him a boldness I hadn't seen before. "But I am so much more than that! I mean, just look at you. You're like a dream come to life. It's like you're the muse I never knew I needed." He placed a hand over his heart, swaying slightly as he tried to look earnest. "It's unfair that I had to die when I could've been here, enjoying all of this—this beauty, this chaos! I should have been the one to write my own story, not be snuffed out like a candle!"
I rolled my eyes, but I couldn't help but feel flattered despite his manic energy. "Welcome to the consequences of your own actions," I said, though the laughter bubbling beneath the surface was hard to contain.
So much for not getting drunk. I shake my head, I bet he is going to forget the fact that he called me pretty and start hating me again when he is sober. Nothing new here, I am used to hate. All I get is hate, All I deserve is hate.