A Story You Like

Even now, even after everything that he’d learned, Sonny could not comprehend the sight of Nora at the business end of his trembling gun. Nora - his best friend’s sister, the last constant in his miserable life, the girl he’d killed and nearly died for a hundred times over, Nora - curled up on the ground with her blood-splattered face and wide, pleading eyes, begging him not to do this, to give her a chance to explain. Nora who’d betrayed him, Nora who had collaborated with his enemies, Nora whom he would shoot with the same gun he’d used to avenge her brother’s death only weeks before.

“This isn’t right,” Nora said, holding up her shaking palms toward him, like a fugitive showing the police their intent to surrender. “Sonny, I swear to you this is not -”

“Don’t lie to me!” Sonny snapped, his voice cracking. “God, Nora, don’t you dare lie to me again. I can’t -”

Can’t what? Believe it? He’d caught her redhanded, trying to help their enemy escape. Can’t kill her? God, could he? He tightened his grip on the gun, feeling suddenly like the terrified little boy who couldn’t shoot a deer on his first hunting trip.

Nora was shaking, crying. He hated her for stirring his sympathy now, when this decision lay before him. He hated her for being afraid to die for what she’d done. He hated her for being the last person he’d had left to care about.

When she spoke, her voice came out as a strained whisper.

“You’re the only person I have left in the world, Sonny.”

They’d had to bury her brother Eli in an unmarked grave, in a town they’d never return to. He’d held her while she cried. He’d promised her they’d come back for him when this was all over, that he’d get a nice plot in the cemetery and they’d bury Eli next to their parents, and Sonny and Nora could visit every day if they wanted because they’d have nothing left to run from. Where would he bury Nora? Who would be left to bury him?

Resolution flooded his veins like ice. There would be no decent burial for either of them. Sonny squeezed -

“STOP!”

Isaac heard the shout as clearly as if it had been inches from his ear. The dramatic climax of his fourth book melted away as his own reality returned to his awareness. The flickering street lamp outside his window. The dull hum of his building’s HVAC. The stiffness of muscles that had been in one position too long. The dryness of his mouth after a long night of all coffee and no water. The calendar with his too-soon deadline circled in menacing red. A bleak scene, and an empty one. Isaac was alone in his apartment. He’d probably dozed off and dreamt the shout.

Isaac groaned and leaned back in his desk chair, rubbing his palms into his tired eyes. This was the hardest time he’d had with an ending since starting his career. His series was successful - successful enough to pay the bills for him, but not successful enough that he could be certain his publishers would be lenient with him if he missed his deadline. They needed a finished draft. Isaac squinted at the time in the bottom right corner of his laptop - 3:12 am. He took a sip of his cold coffee and winced. Then he leaned his shambling body forward and returned to his keyboard. Where had he left off?

Resolution flooded his veins like -

“I said stop!”

This time, Isaac couldn’t pretend he’d dreamed it. Impossible as it was, someone had spoken to him. Which meant someone was in his apartment. Isaac snatched his phone off his desk and typed in 911, ready to hit the call button the moment he was certain the shout had come from inside. He peered out the window to the deserted street below, then steeled his nerves to open his bedroom door and look out into the living room. But before he could reach the door, he heard the voice again.

“Not out there, Isaac,” the girl said, impatience dripping from her voice. “In your story. In your head.”

“In my… head,” he repeated, out loud, to no one.

“It’s Nora? Your character? I’m not doing this bullshit ending.”

Ah. So he’d gone crazy. He heard that most people with schizophrenia experience their first hallucinations in their twenties. So he was a few years late.

“You’re not crazy, you’re sleep-deprived. Take a nap and I’ll be gone.”

The voice of reason. Isaac abandoned his resolve to finish the book that night. Naptime it was.

“Not so fast!” Nora cried.

Suddenly he could see her - not really there, not in front of him, but in that way he could see his story so clearly in his mind while writing that it was like the real world had disappeared behind a screen. Nora stood from where she’d been crouched on the floor of their hideout and scrubbed her bloody hands on her jeans with a look of disgust. Sonny had vanished from the scene altogether, apparently giving them some privacy for this conversation.

“Can I… help you?” Isaac attempted.

Nora snorted. It was strange - not just seeing her, but seeing her angry. His Nora was tragic, often sad, but never angry. At least, never angry at Sonny, his main character. So in his mind’s eye, he’d never really needed to picture her angry. That was more Sonny’s thing. But Nora’s eyes were stern and her lips were pursed and she held a tension in her upper body that let Isaac know she’d hit him if that were possible. So yeah, she was definitely angry.

“Can you help me? Not killing me would be a great place to start,” she said.

“I’m not -”

“Do not try to tell me it’s Sonny killing me,” she said, rolling her eyes. “It’s late. You’re going to fall asleep on me. We have to be direct here. Sonny’s not real. You decide everything he does. You are killing me.”

Isaac didn’t feel like that was fair, coming from her.

“You’re not real either. I’m not killing anyone,” he said.

“You’re killing your career,” Nora said. “How do you think this ending is going to go over with your fans? Sonny’s ‘love interest’ for the past three books - don’t sit down!”

Isaac had been about to sink back into his desk chair. Nora snapped her fingers impatiently to get his attention.

“Sonny’s love interest - not a good love interest, mind you–”

“Hey!”

“But that’s not what we’re here to discuss,” Nora said, waving off his protests. Isaac’s gaze followed her hand longer than it should have. The blood had wiped off so cleanly, like it had never been there. “Sonny’s had one love interest for three books, one person left who’s been by his side for the whole story, and she just betrays him out of the blue? Why? And now Sonny’s going to shoot her point blank in the face? Real romantic.”

Isaac scoffed, pretending as though he had not had the same doubts about Nora’s betrayal and Sonny’s reaction since the moment he came up with it.

“My fans like gritty stories. Sonny’s always been meant to be a loner. Nora – you – were holding him back. Without her – you – to keep him grounded, he’ll finally be brutal enough to fight Nineteen and win.”

Nora rolled her eyes again, crossing her arms over her thin frame.

“Yeah, because that’s what your series is missing. Grittiness. Main characters dying dramatically at the end. I mean, you did that with Patrick in book 1, Maggie in book 2, Eli in book 3. If it ain’t broke.” Nora shrugged.

It wasn’t the first time Isaac had been accused of being overly-formulaic. But so what? People like familiar stories. Star Wars gets to remake the Death Star as much as it wants, so why should Isaac pull the plug on a pattern that was working for him? He’d quit his day job. He was still renting. Risk-taking was for homeowners.

Nora’s face softened – the sharp corners of her doe-eyes smoothing as the glare disappeared, her mouth resetting into its residual pout. For the first time in a long time, Isaac felt himself cringe at his own character design. For what it was worth, fans didn’t particularly like Nora – or, if he was being honest with himself, didn’t like how he’d written her. She was Sonny’s eternally innocent, eternally girlish, eternally forgiving doormat of a love interest, content to follow him faithfully around on his journey no matter how many times it put her life at risk, no matter how many times Sonny had failed to protect the people around them, no matter how long Sonny failed to actually pursue a connection with her beyond an occasional vow to protect her with his life.

“I could be interesting, you know,” Nora said gently. “Without, you know, turning me into a traitor so you have an excuse to kill me off.”

Isaac chuckled. If he was a better writer, maybe she’d already be interesting. Maybe he’d know what to do with his series without doubling down on Sonny’s constant, repetitive miseries.

“I’m not real Isaac. I can only think things you’re already thinking,” Nora said. She backed up slowly, then crouched down onto the floor again. She wiped her hands on her jeans again, and the bloodstains returned. “Write a book you actually like.”

And just like that, his perception of the scene faded away. His cursor blinked innocently at him from the screen of his laptop.

Where would he bury Nora? Who would be left to bury him?

Resolution flooded his veins like ice. There would be no decent burial for either of them. Sonny squeezed

He held down the backspace key. Stopped. Highlighted the whole chapter and considered pressing delete. He’d written himself into a hole. He’d spent a whole book trying to scrub the slate clean, to leave himself with just Sonny and just the villains and just the parts of the story he thought he’d gotten right, rather than working with all the pieces he still had. Deleting one chapter was not going to undo that work. Letting things play out as he’d planned wasn’t going to result in a book he liked.

Isaac scrubbed his hands over his face and took a deep breath.

“Fuck it,” he exhaled.

He opened a new document and titled it “Draft #2.”