Work Text:
Author was driving himself crazy with how much he tapped his pen against the desk. He was stuck on the same damn sentence for over ten minutes. This character wasn’t cooperating. If he had to rewrite the same command one more time, he was going to lose it. Always happened with the stronger ones. This character kept fighting back against the story. That dazed confusion soon turned stubbornness before Author could get past the second paragraph.
It was a pitch-black, cold night and Author just wanted this man to move forward. He slammed his fist on the table and growled in frustration. “God damnit!” His character defied him, again. He could hear the cocky dialogue from here.
“I’ll make my own path…” Author mocked the character under his breath. He scribbled something down aggressively. “I’ll show you a path.”
A heavy sigh left him as he leaned back in his chair. He ran a shaky hand through his hair and closed his eyes. This was taking longer than expected. This was supposed to be a quick die-by-mysterious-circumstances, not this boring slow burn. He should’ve gotten something to eat if he knew this was going to happen. Stupid him skipped lunch. Feeling lightheaded was the cherry on top of this never-ending nightmare.
His stomach growled with the need to eat, but his stubborn mind wanted, at least, one more paragraph. Each word, each letter, was slowly written with an impatient mind. He kept having to repeat himself after this guy constantly questioned him. He wanted a good story; was that too much to ask? Apparently so, according to these cruel circumstances.
“Fucking christ.” He panicked, standing up and looking out his window. There was a small head rush from his fatigue, but he had to push through it for this. “Don’t come here, dumbass!” The character was heading towards his cabin. This was far too soon in the story. Hell, Author hadn’t made the killer character yet, and maybe he wouldn’t have to this time.
The bat felt familiar in his hand as he gripped the handle. Its cold metal helped snap him out of his fatigue, enough that he could stomp outside in search of his character. Screw his notebook, at this point. All he could see was red in the near distance, there were footsteps; this character wasn’t the most sneaky. That oaf would’ve been perfect prey for some monster with those loud footsteps. Damn these circumstances. He made a beeline towards the sound.
It was a confusing sight for the character, definitely. One second he was trotting through the forest, naive as ever, and then in the next, he’s being confronted by some deranged man with a bat. Naturally, he acted defensive, going into a fighting stance and staring down Author. “Who the hell are you?” he asked, attempting to make his voice low.
“Shut up!” Author snapped. He spun his bat around and stalked forward. “I don’t want to hear another annoying word from you! You’ve ruined my story enough.”
That voice sounded familiar. Author’s little narrations were ringing in the character’s head the whole time. At first, it was confusing to hear, but after a while he just ignored Author. To think some rando was able to control him like that. He’d have to teach this ‘Author’ a lesson.
That blind confidence was still there, mixed in with endless confusion. “What’s your deal? Are you a demon or something?” If only he knew his words meant nothing.
Author raised his bat over his head. “Shut. Up.”
Writing down a death was one thing, killing with his own hands was another. The character couldn’t do much to defend himself against Author’s overwhelming anger. Or perhaps he was so hungry that he wanted this to be over as soon as possible. Most likely a mix of both.
His bat swung down harder with each hit, beating the character with a sickening crack that echoed through the forest, along with his plethora of curses that he yelled. He couldn’t care less over the blood splattering onto his clothes and face. The character’s shrieked pleads fell upon deaf ears; This man couldn’t do much besides take the beating. Author was rabid with his bat; wanting nothing more but to kill.
He wasn’t sure when the character stopped moving, but he eventually noticed that he caved this man’s face in. A popped out eye stared horrified at him, an expression that would stay permanently. The blood and visceral seeped into the ground in a silent river. That was one problem solved, he supposed.
“So you do have a brain…” Author chuckled weakly, poking the brain remnants with his bat.
All he could hear was his heart pumping in his ears from the adrenaline. He dropped his bat, before falling to his knees with a soft thud. The fatigue of hunger was really kicking his ass now, making him sway in place and hold his head. His character, or what’s left of him, laid motionless in a bloody mess of visceral and jutting out bones. The smell of fresh blood wafted through the air. He bit his lip as he realized he was salivating at the scent. He slowly lowered his hands, looking at his blood-stained hands. His stomach growled.
As he brought his hand to his mouth, he expected his stomach to churn in disgust. As he licked slowly along his index finger, he expected to recoil and spit out the blood. As he let the metallic taste spread across his tongue, he was surprised to find himself enjoying it.
Oh god, he enjoyed it.
Golden eyes carefully looked over the body, now in a new light. He reached over and held his character’s still hand, before dropping it and watching as it fell against the spilled blood. Like a child playing with his food. It looked mesmerizing to him, to the point where he had to stop himself from lapping up the blood like a rabid dog. He always imagined the wild animals here found the bodies he left and ate them. Why couldn’t he do the same? His mind was made up, so he grabbed his bat, as well as the man’s leg, and began going home. He could bear through his hunger one last time for this.
Kicking down his cabin’s door, he then dropped the body onto the floor. He was no butcher, but there was nothing wrong with learning a new skill. Though, he wasn’t sure what to eat. Organs? Limbs? Gnaw on the bones? Next time, if there will be one, he should research more on the edibility of humans. For now, he could just wing it in his kitchen and a hefty saw.
The saw sliced through his character’s thigh in jagged motions. As if he couldn’t get messier, blood shot out in spurts, staining the wooden floor further and nearly getting in his eyes. At least the red complimented his eyes. Eventually, he had a decent slab of meat in his hands he could cook. It was messy, but when he put it in the pan, it cooked nicely with a satisfying sizzle. The smell was hypnotizing him, wrapping around his mind as if he wasn’t already hungry enough. His meal might be a little undercooked, but should be fine. He never minded a little red in his steaks, after all.
Not even bothering to clean himself, Author sat at his table with a plate full of bleeding human meat. “I wonder if I can write a story with this,” he muttered while poking at it with a fork. Well, he couldn’t wait anymore, so he cut off a bite-size piece and popped it in his mouth. He visibly slacked as the taste of blood and meat spread across his taste buds. It was something he couldn’t quite pinpoint a comparison to. If he had to write it down, he debated thinking of this like pork or veal, maybe even a little like beef.
People always said an author put themselves in each of their characters, now Author could say he had a piece of a character in him. His meal was gone far too soon for his liking and soon he had an empty plate and a body on the floor. He looked at the body on the ground, humming in thought. He’d clean up his bones and throw them to the wolves. This should last him a while.
Next time, he’d find a place to butcher his meals so he can spare his floors. Next time, he’d gather the most edible characters, and they’re going to regret not cooperating with his stories. Next time, he was going to have a feast.
He couldn’t wait for more.