The Minor Character

When someone dies — authors draw rain. They always turn to it when they want to emphasize a tragic effect. Sometimes they manage to do it beautifully enough to touch their viewer’s heart. And sometimes they completely fail. When I killed her, the sky shimmered with a sunny blue. I slowly ran the blade of the knife across her body, squinting and occasionally glancing up. The sky had no intention of turning gray. It was cheerful and unsuspecting. Back then, I thought it was strange. I’m the main character here, so the rain had to show up. This wasn’t right. I squatted down and began tracing the soft neck of the girl lying before me with a tip of my knife. Could I cut her head off? Probably not. This knife wasn’t sharp enough. Most likely, it would break before I reached the bone. I wonder what her name was. She died before the narrative bothered to tell me. I looked up at the sky again. A clear day. I’m soaked head to toe in the blood of a dead girl. People rush past me, hurrying back and forth. A black-and-white, faceless crowd that doesn’t care about anything in this world— unless things concern them personally. So they will only notice me if I douse myself in gasoline, head into the subway and set myself on fire. But I won’t do that, because something is wrong with this story. Something is really really wrong with it, so there is no guarantee anyone would notice me even if I do that, or simply call the police. By the way, do I even want all this? Do I wanna end up behind the bars? I paused, lost in thought, and began carving something into the open chest of the girl still lying on the gray ground. Still lying there?.. No, she is been dead for half an hour now. I don’t know why I killed her. In fact, this is the first time I have ever seen her. So, it must have been someone else. But if it was someone else, why are my clothes and hands covered with her blood? Because the Author felt like it. When I get out of here, I won’t advice him turn around. I have one murder on my count. I can do it again and next time it will be justified. Thunder rumbled. The sky was swiftly drawn behind gray curtains of clouds. A gust of wind tore through, lifting the girl’s long, blood-matted hair off the ground— ugh, it touched my forehead. I shouldn’t have sat so close. When lightning traced the darkened street, the girl’s body convulsed. It nearly jumped in place, twisting into awkward, unnatural poses. Slowly, she began to rise to her feet. Her head wobbled on the ragged stump of her slender neck, a constant stream of dark red blood flowing from it. She reached out with a hand that, not long ago, had been alive—beautiful, untouched. Her fingers curled into a fist, then she extended her index finger and pointed it at me. This is the part where I was supposed to scream. But instead, I just hiccupped and scooted a few inches away. "Youuu… fooorgooot..." the girl's voice gurgled and stretched, like chewing gum clogging a toilet. "Fooorgoooot…" What? How would she know if I’d forgotten something or not? We didn’t know each other, had never even crossed paths. "Youu foorgooot…" she repeated. Her face began to smooth out in a strange way. You know— the ugly notches I had carved with my own knife were now being absorbed into her bluish skin, melting into a pale-peach blush. Her neck no longer looked like a torn stump. Her insides shrank and crawled back into her body, the wounds sealed over, and her clothes were quickly shedding their crimson stains. "So what is this supposed to mean, huh…?" I muttered aloud, not hiding my annoyance. "Am I supposed to kill you again?" "Not necessarily," the girl replied, speaking now in a normal human voice. "But preferably," I smirked, standing up and shifting the knife from my left hand to my right. "You forgot," she sighed, tactfully stepping back from me, though remaining utterly calm. "You definitely forgot…" "This time, I’ll carve something a little more interesting than a f—" "Idiot!" She didn’t let me finish. She simply flew forward and slapped me with all her might. Sparks burst before my eyes. "You’re not the main character in this story," she said, her voice sharp but composed, "But you should know a few things by now. I just hope today you’ll actually let me finish what I’m saying before making another decision. The truth is…" "…I’m your attending physician." I flinched and blinked. The gloomy street, my knife, and the not so dead girl all vanished without warning. In their place rose white walls and a walnut desk, behind which sat some old man in a lab coat, studying me with a probing stare. "Put him back," he said, glancing toward a black device built into the wall. "We’ve got a new one," came a voice from behind the door. There was the sound of shuffling feet and creaking—someone was dragging something metallic this way. "Another zombie?" someone asked. "Dunno," another replied. "Whatever Doc says, that’s how it’ll be". The door burst open and orderlies tumbled into the room. I lunged forward, intending to slip past them and out the open exit, but one of them managed to knock me down, and worse, pin me to the floor and inject something into my shoulder. "Cranky lil' psycho," the second one commented, still standing in the doorway, watching as I writhed and convulsed on the floor, foam spraying from my mouth. "We dealt with worser", said the other. "Where to, Doc?" "Room 302. And give him a double dose." "You got it, Doc. Top of the line treatment." Their voices grew muffled, like if they were trying to reach me through layers of thick cotton. The room was filling with a murky fog, clinging to the ceiling in swirling patches. Must be that injection. "…kicking in?" "Of course. It’s very strrrrnnng—" The end of their sentence stumbled and shattered into pieces. And then, the orderlies, the doctor, and the room itself slipped out of view; everything was drowning in the murky depths of the fog. There was nothing left to do but close my eyes and drift away.