The Main Character
Where do you fit in your story?
It was on the dying second of Wednesday night, at his desk, that Samson thought he found god. And they had a secret to tell.
But before that, he found the Writers Retreat.
Monday
“So this is your room,” said the maid.
“Oh.” Samson said, looking at the cobwebs in the corners, “Homey.”
“I will call you for your lunch.”
Samson nodded and dropped his luggage with sore reddened fingers.
He found the wooden desk at one end of the room and placed the laptop. He put up the Omega 5 and started it up, staring at the blaring screen.
“Now to write.” And he stroked his thick ginger beard.
Tuesday
“Soon I will write.”
Wednesday
“Why can’t I write!”
Samson shut the laptop.
He couldn’t find anything to write about. Couldn't find the plot. Couldn’t find the characters.
“If you are out there characters, find me!”
Knock knock.
“Not now!” Samson cried out to the door.
“But I was just wondering if sir would like any refreshments,” said the butler, opening the door a smidge revealing him to have the visage typically associated with his profession.
“What would be refreshing…” Samson sighed, screwing up his eyes, “Is if you leave me alone so I can write my story!”
“Very good sir!”
And when the door was shut, Samson shouted “plebeians!”
His mobile phone rang. He put it to his ear.
“How's it going?” asked his boss. “It’s -” Samson began. “Still coming back tomorrow?”
“I-”
“Good. We need you. Well, (laugh) we don’t. It would be a bit annoying, but you are easily replaceable. So you know, don’t worry about it.”
“Yes sir.”
Samson flung his phone across the room.
Replaceable.
Like he was nothing.
A spider crawled across his desk.
“You know, do you ever feel like you’re insignificant?”
The night went on, and he sat in front of the screen, halfway between sleep and delirium.
At the dying seconds of the night, he cleaned his glasses. He then saw in the black reflection of a dormant laptop, his face. This would be not unusual, if not for the fact he saw his face next to his own perplexed reflection.
“Hello, Samson.”
“What the hell!”
Samson stood up out of his chair and faced himself. Or rather, as he would think it, a less handsome and rounder version of how he saw himself.
“Now do I have a story to tell you.”
“Well, that’s it,” Samson said, slamming the laptop screen and putting his head in his hands, “I’ve finally gone mad — although, it could make me a better writer.”
“Yes, it’s about these writings,” said the Samson behind him.
“Go on.”
“Well do you ever feel like a side character in your own story? That you are a minor character in everyone else's life?”
“Who told you?”
“You did.”
“Oh, you did. And I should know because I’m you.” Samson winced.
“Right.”
Samson got up and laid headfirst on his bed.
“What are you doing?”
“Maybe if I fall asleep I will wake up.”
“Err… I can’t say I see your logic there.”
“What do you want?”
“Well,” said the other Samson, sitting on the side of the bed, “just to tell you the good news.”
“And that is?”
“You are the main character.”
“What?” said Samson, frowning.
“Life is a story, one that you wrote. You are the main character. You just didn’t know it. You needed to be invited here at this point to receive your destined information.”
“Is that right?”
“Yes.”
Samson got up and walked across the room.
“What are you doing?”
“Oh, just… trying to escape my psychotic long-lost twin.” But when he opened the door he almost fell into the vista of nothingness that spiraled all around outside his room.
“Oh yeah, forget to mention. In pivotal points of self-development, reality is… well let’s say less focused.”
Samson closed the door.
“I think I want a drink.”
“You don’t drink.”
“Oh yeah,” said Samson feeling numb. “So, what does all this mean?”
“It means when you leave today there will be no longer living the life of a minor character. You are the main character in your own story. You are not a slave to words or destiny, for they are both at your command.”
A slow smile rose on Samson's lips. “You know, that does sound good.”
“It does, doesn’t it. Now get some sleep. Forget about the novel you were thinking of writing. Prepare to go forward and live your story. As the main character.”
Samson grinned and immediately fell forward on his bed and started snoring.
Thursday
The maid was cleaning plates in the sink in the kitchen.
Samson walked in.
“Oh.” Said the maid. “I thought you left this morning.”
“No, I…” Samson frowned and shook his head, “hang on,” Samson then transformed into the form of the butler.
“Oh, of course, it’s you,” the maid smiled, “Did everything go to plan?”
“Yep. That’s another insignificant person thinking he matters in this world.”
“Seems a pretty pointless endeavor to me.”
“Well,” said the Butler, “if he hadn’t already accepted that we all have a pretty small part to play in this enormity we pettily called existence, I might as well have fun with those minor characters.”
“I’ve been thinking. Isn’t everyone the main character of their own stories because they experience every moment of their lives?”
“Maybe in practicality, but not in sentiment dear,” he purred.
“Indeed. Thank you for letting me be the supporting character in your story, Solip.”
“No problem, Sism”
The kitchen and the building around them began to rumble as they crossed dimensions.
“One day, I think you should take up other hobbies.”
“Well, what’s a narrative-obsessed multi-dimensional wizard going to do to pass the none existent time?” asked Solip.
Sism glanced at him, “Writing?”
They laughed and laughed and laughed.
