A Story I Couldn't Change

It was easy to discourage her in the beginning. She was the youngest, the only girl. She was a cute little thing that people doted on. It sickened me. Of course, she wasn’t perfect. She carried the stain that marred all the descendants of the original protagonist. She could be selfish and prone to anger. These things I could work with; these were things I could feed. I resolved to taint her, turn her stain into a blackness that seeped into her very soul. And so, my work began.

She was isolated, with no one her age around. I took advantage of her loneliness. I made her believe she was different and weird, that she had a fundamental character defect. I made her believe she was not fit for companionship. She hid her true self away. It was not enough, though. I craved depravity. I was a snake waiting to inflict the deadliest bite.

My opportunity to strike came in the form of her sibling, and I took it. I corrupted and twisted the boy’s mind, made him doubt the despicable Author’s purpose. With my new ally as a tool, I was able to tear her self-esteem apart, destroy her trust in humanity. The boy ridiculed and laughed at her daily. I made him take his own hurt out on her. “You are so stupid.” She believed the lie. I used his words and his actions to beat her down. I twisted and corrupted the two young minds. She raged at the betrayal, yet still yearned for her brother to protect her. I reveled in her pain. I was at the top of my game. I danced with delight at how I revised the story.

A cruel twist, an arrow to my carefully laid defenses; she found hope, a new life. The Author had gained a foothold, a plot twist that foiled my narrative. I will crush this hope, I told myself. So, I stole and threatened and manipulated. I continued to assault her with doubts. She would fall, but then she would get up again with renewed strength. I was not gaining any ground.

I examined her view of the Author. There was a flaw in her philosophy. She believed she was safe from harm, since she now belonged to His story. She didn’t realize that the Author gave me control over her circumstances, so I took away her security. I threatened her safety so violently that she feared for her life. Her foundation crumbled; not rooted in truth. I made her doubt the Author was writing a love story. Fear took over; her faith wavered. She was angry at the Author. This was encouraging. I proceeded with caution, planting subtle, fine-tuned doubts in her mind. I would distract her with circumstances, keep her from recognizing my interference.

Again, I was able to isolate her. I assailed her with imagined threats that caused her to lose her breath, made her heart pound, and left her nerves taut. She removed herself from life, not trusting the Author to protect her. Her dreams were dark and haunted. She no longer trusted where the story might lead. I had control again, and it felt good, for a moment.

A new revelation; my hold began to slip. She examined her beliefs. She searched for the true nature of the Author. He can only be good, she reasoned, or He is not who He claims to be. To trust or turn away; she chose wrong. She decided she could not abandon His prose. She would not throw out the chapters He had for her. Her hope became rooted in the Author, not the setting. He only writes the very best, she confessed. It made my blood boil. She trusted that He was a reliable narrator. She saw me then for who I was, a liar and a thief, a plagiarist who could only twist the original manuscript.

I tried one last time. Surely if I separated her from her family, threatened to remove her from the story, she would turn on the Author. I would strike at the most crucial moment, the birth of her son. In that joyous moment, I afflicted her. Doctors flocked and sent her for tests. Family took her son home to be cared for and loved, while she remained isolated and alone. A shadow of death passed along the pages.

She tried to talk to the Author. She could not hear Him. She didn’t understand why the story had turned so dark. Isolated again, I waited for her to renounce Him. I was sure she was done being part of His narrative. She cried and let fear seize her. But, to my disgust, my plan to turn her to my narrative failed. There was no turning her away; she was fully rooted in His story. It was revolting.

She examined her life. Even with all its hurts and betrayals, she remembered all the good that was in her life and credited it all to the Author. She believed He was active and present, even in His silence. Then she told Him to write her ending if that was His plan. It was His story after all, she told herself.

I scoffed at her trust. Could she not see that He was a tyrant using her as a pawn? There is no good in the world, I screamed at her. He is only using you for His own amusement, I bellowed. She was no longer listening. She was trusting in a saga He wrote long ago.

I trudge on. I no longer influence the heart of the story. I can throw obstacles in chapters of her life. I can add drama or tragedy to the plot. I can play the antagonist. But I am fighting a losing battle. I am no longer the author in her story. She recognizes my efforts and laughs.

Much to my horror, she now interferes with other stories I am writing. She sways the characters to the original Author. She tells them that He will make their stories beautiful. She shows them an outline that was fixed long ago. She knows the Author wrote an epic conclusion.

I despise her unmovable trust in the Author. I hate happy endings.