The Villain He Needed

CW: Contains themes of suicide and psychological distress.

Dear reader,

I am merely a character in my author’s novel. In Chapter Four, I discovered I was quite an emotionally intelligent character who happened to own a pen and a piece of paper. With my growing irritation and lack of control over the trajectory of this story, it felt necessary to write this letter. You will likely read his novel before you ever come across my words, but here is where I write my evidence. When you arrive at the scene of the crime, remember this as a letter of proof, not a confession.

If you’ve ever experienced an identity crisis, then I hope you can empathize with my entire existence. I go by the name Esther, not because it was given to me at birth by a mother and father—though I like to imagine this papered version of me has parents—but because my author decided it matched my character. Stating my character seemed laughable. Did I have the ability to take ownership of myself when the very essence of Esther was created by an author whom I’ve only met within the confines of letters and pages and paper?

That is the first and most obvious reason for this identity crisis. My name has remained untouched, but I’ve had the pleasure of having brown, blonde, and even purple hair. The purple didn’t last long, if only for a few hours, and I chalk it up to a lapse in judgment on my author’s behalf. It had been a restless, late evening illuminated only by dim lamplight and hands that struggled to write anything beyond the switch to purple hair. Perhaps this random swap of color stirred creativity. After a heavy, albeit uncomfortable, sleep beside his pen and a shot of espresso, I was back to a lively, strawberry blonde. His hand kept forming letters until pieces of my existence began to take shape.

It had been decided that I would be kind. That I, Esther, was the type of sensitive, naive girl that a boy could easily confuse. I was quirky and optimistic and overflowed with this need to help others, even at the cost of my own needs. The hurt that would soon precede me in the pages of this novel was inevitable. As his own creation, I felt it coming, but there was nothing I could do to stop it. He ensured Esther wasn’t created with this type of power. I imagine you’re reading this as a tangible, heart-beating, sentient human. You have the freedom to decide whether or not you choose to hold compassion for the situation I find myself in. My freedom has boundaries. Built by a nameless, faceless author I cannot see.

One evening, he placed me in a wide, open field. I could faintly make out my hands, illuminated by moonlight. Esther was written to contemplate life beneath a starry blanket. It had been magical. The soft, spring breeze danced atop the tall grass, weaving through tendrils of my golden-strawberry curls. It smelt of fresh flowers and new life. I could have sat there for days…at least, I thought. My author didn’t return to write for twelve days. I was stuck in this fictional universe until he was ready to move forward. Potentially a bad case of writer’s block, or possibly, as I thought, due to hours of forced contemplation, he did not want to return to a story he kept pouring his very soul into. I wasn’t aware of what he looked like, but through these pages, I started to get a glimpse of who he was. He allowed Esther days of contemplation and in this, when he finally returned, I was confident this story was near to his heart.

In the written words to follow, I grew frustrated and impatient with his indecisiveness. One moment, Esther provided peace and calm, the next she was as dishonest as they come. She’d cause restlessness and inaccurate depictions of her personality. His story did not line up. It felt chaotic, and when he turned Esther into the villain, it felt forced. Chapters later, I’d go back to my whimsical, wondrous self that provided steadiness.

It was tiring to experience this whiplash. I wasn’t created as an angry character, but I was as close to angry as I was able to feel. I wanted to jump out of the pages and shake sense into his writing—into his addled and questionably insecure mind. I wanted the chance to look him in the eyes and ask why? Why are you turning Esther into an unrecognizable, unlikeable character? You design Esther to be loving, showcasing delightful attributes of her that were never defined by the horrific past you’ve given her, then decide she’s actually inadequate. Does the destruction of her character make you feel better?

After reading this, one might believe Esther is the tragic character in this story. Just a puppet beneath the control of her puppeteer. Esther was a vibrant, sweet girl who never actually pretended to be anything other than what she was made to be. It was the very befuddled, cruel hands of her writer who actually bore the tragic soul. Unable to escape an endless, tortured mind hell-bent on ruining what is good and pure. I might be trapped in these pages, but it was he who lived and breathed in a world where you could choose change. To build and establish a real, meaningful reality. I learned the hard and painful way, as he wrote one word to finalize Esther’s fate, that told me he was the one who was truly a slave.

Murderer.

I could tell you how Esther became a murderer, just as I have been. Though I believe it’s time you read from the author himself…

Chapter Fifty-two

Esther loved him. It was a genuine, gentle love. Formed by the bonds of friendship and soft smiles beneath a star-lit sky. She saw beneath his façade. The walls he placed were an attempt to act as though no one would ever understand him. Esther did. She understood her lovers complex mind that often circled the abyss. She would joyfully grasp that hand and guide it away from the abyss with a kind of patience that was nearly unheard of, and hold on with understanding over and over and over again. Esther liked to believe it was because of this, because she broke through one layer of his impenetrable wall, that made him do the unthinkable. Her lover always imagined he’d be alone for a long, long while. Convinced himself that is where his tragedy lies—to the point he loved this thought more than he ever loved her. Esther showed him an unconditional love, a growing friendship, and a heart that would fight for him despite the parts of his being that looked sickly to others. This simply didn’t follow his made-up plan. With little words, Esther collapsed in pain she knew would last a lifetime. A gaping wound in her bloody chest as her best friend, her troubled love, walked away and never returned.

It had been what he wanted all along—for Esther to kill someone. In the last chapter, chapter fifty-two, page four-hundred-eighty-six, I committed murder. I looked in the mirror at my long, not purple hair and my lifeless green eyes. I killed myself for love. Those beautiful, unique pieces of Esther were diminished and warped into exactly who he wanted her to be. In the end, he did not end up loving her more, even when she killed for him.

With condolences,

Esther