Other Side of Me

By: Melanie The Annoying Little Evil Writer Girl

Disclaimer: Mine, mine, and mine! Thought of it while reading fics, while very cold.

Summary: A look at Fanfiction writers.me at least. Short.


You there again, at that blasted computer, typing away your sanity. You use that fanfiction as escapism, but it only draws you in. It's an unhealthy obsession as it is, but you use it for escapism, so you are worse for it. Imagining things that will never be. You disgust me. I pity you, as well.

It's the middle of winter, more towards spring, actually, but the first of February is cold enough here. And you are in a tank top. No socks. No sleeves. No shoes. No nothing. I can see your fingers, always known for their warmth, frozen, turning white. Your feet like blocks of ice. Yet, you do not move. Do not sway to the cold you so rarely feel. But you are almost shivering, I can tell. Because I freeze as well.

I can not watch you in this nightmare, this dream, your freedom, and your prison. All the things this offers you, it also traps you with. Living in a world of self-inflicted pain. Trying so desperately to escape, but never knowing this is not the way out. But as I brood this, your fingers slow on the keyboard. You try to ignore my musings as you hear me leave the room. But you can't.

I go to your room and put your pink and red, worn-down slippers on my feet, freezing on their own. And I pick up the black cotton gloves, which you never use, from off the floor. I slip them on as I leave the room with a new floppy disk for you to fill with stories that mask your misery. Whether the characters take on this pain, or they are happy, you always have that same nostalgic expression as you reread your work. And I pity you more.

When I come back to the room, I see you sitting there with the black gloves and red and pink slippers on. I look down at my hands, covered in the same gloves before I hand you the disk. Me feet are still frozen, so I know yours are too. More pity. Always pity for you. I can't help it. You need help.

I leave you with your misery as I lay down on the bed next to the computer and pick my book up again. Later, you will write more fanfiction from what I am rereading. And for a moment I feel guilty. But I cannot ignore myself for you-for us. It is your own fault for doing this. I never understood this fascination for amateur emotional outpourings. But I've never dreamt of being an author like you do. And I pity you for that as well.

And no matter what I do, our feet are still cold. Our arms are still bare and tinged white by frost. And you will continue to torture yourself with this fanfiction when we both-we all-know that you should instead put on socks and a sweater to warm yourself. But you were never smart enough to see what this is in the first place. And to you, the cold is a simple price to pay for freedom, even if you shall never get it this way.


My Theory (which may explain some things): I do not have simple "moods" but instead gave each stupid mood a name of sorts. There is Me who is hateful and unhappy-the depressed one, if you will, and then there are Melanies #1 through # 62. The higher up you get, the happier she is. In fact, Numbers 60 and 62 are the moods I use when I am asleep. Stupid lazy bastards. So this is like one Melanie seeing another-the writer one.