She who writes this for me does not know she does it thus. As she takes a thoughtful bite of plain, buttered bread, a favorite snack for those days in which she feels the craving to write, she thinks she is safe, that I am merely creative inspiration— how could I touch her on a day like today, when the day is golden and hazy, the sun warming the trees that are yellowing in preparation for autumn? She fancies herself safe from me and that I am not real— not real like the fear that has consumed her on numerous nights, nights where she believed me to be a figment of her imagination.
She truly could feel me. I allowed her to feel me, this teenage girl, considered "disturbed" and "emo," listening to System of a Down even as I give her the words to write. Ironically, the song is "Revenga."
A chill wind touches her fevered head now, a wind I have sent for her, giving her goosebumps and causing the pale golden hairs, in contrast with her tanned skin, to stand up on her arm.
No, she doesn't realize that I am all too real. In her mind, I am merely a piece of something else, an inspiration from a book she only just finished reading. I had known she would read this select piece of literature eventually, and it was through that I would give to her my knowledge.
The author whose tale she had just finished reading, a well-known horror novelist with equally well-known stories of vampires, had little idea of the truth of how we work. She was closer to it than most, but my authoress, who types my tale furiously (I believe her current typing speed is 75 wpm?), knew even this one did not have it correctly. There are still parts to it which were not right.
Therefore, although at my own risk as traitor to my species, I am revealing this to her. I have planned it, planned it for years. I always knew that this girl would be the one for my tale— I have watched her, seen the infinite power of her mental workings, workings that she does not fully comprehend but knows are there.
I am Paulette, so ironically named after one of the most faithful of Jesus' disciples. On the mountain on which this girl lives, I seem far from her— though we see each other almost every day, she has never bothered looking at her surroundings, and I am well aware of this.
I am a damned creature, but I refuse to cease holding onto this life as so many of my species have. I will reveal what has happened thus far to my pretty young scribe, who cannot know that this is all she is, but this is merely an incomplete story— no stories, most clearly those of nonfiction, although fiction lacks them as well, have true endings. For, in these created universes, or spun worlds that the authors have created, the characters continue to live on, and when they die, their children do the same. Tales do not end, merely spiral outwards to the point where a thoughtful author or authoress feels the need to cut things off. Perhaps it is purely because the tale has reached as far as it is that day, perhaps it is because the sheer possibilities of continuing on for thousands of generations is overwhelming to our authors.
But there are no true endings, and as such my own tale will have no ending, though the part to be written shall.