“Ngnh.....” I felt my body being shaken. “Stop...I was having a good dream...” Oh who was I kidding, it was a weird dream, I just wanted my sleep. I felt my face get hit with a pillow. “Avasa! Come on! You've got to get up, get up! They called you down to The Writer today, along with a bunch of others; your description matches again! The description told was: 'Long hair, female, age ranging between 18-21 years of age, and cannot be from America or Western Europe! That's you so come on!” One of my best friends and roommates, Drea Dixon, said with a wide smile on her face, making her eyes seem brighter and freckles stand out. Drea was a year older than I was, and moved here to America when she was three, hailing from England. “Doesn't that call for you too...? Long hair...female...you're 20” She seemed to tense for a moment, but I dismissed it as a trick of the light.
“No, England is part of Western Europe, ya dumbnutt.” I pressed a pillow to my face and groaned. “But why so early...? Couldn't The Writer like give us more time to sleep or something...? I mean jeez...” Drea gave a exasperated sigh. “Avasa! It's not early! It's 11:26. I should have woken you up hours ago!” She grabbed the pillow from me and made the room's light shine past my eyelids. “Tch...point proven...too early...” I flipped my arm over my eyes to block out the light. “Nope, Avasa, get up. Seriously. What if this time it's the one?” I inwardly rolled my eyes. “You said that last time, and the time before that, and the time before that...” She pulled me off the bed and smirked, “Oh, I forgot to mention, part of the description said 'stubborn', so I think it's a perfect fit!”
I glared at her. “Oh, screw you and grow up....” She laughed and stuck out her tongue, pulling me to my feet. “Just get dressed. You can't go down there in just an old, stretched out band t-shirt and some boxers. Though that might definitely get you in for your stubbornness of not wanting to get up, or being in a story that you can't choose the genre of.” I tried to ignore her, and walked to my drawers to pull on some clothes. “Would you give that up already? And how about this?” I held out a Rolling Stones t-shirt and a pair of jeans. She nodded. “As long as it's not what you're wearing already, then it's fine. The Writer probably wouldn't care either way, but you still wouldn't want to embarrass yourself.”
I snorted. “Speak for yourself, the shirt I'm wearing rocks. It's Green Day, how could it not?” She arched an eyebrow. “Yes, it's Green Day, but it has certainly seen better days. And going down in your boxers? Really?” She had a point, but I didn't want her to know that of course, so I just ignored it all together. “So where's Michael?” She looked confused for a moment, before a look of realization dawned on her features. “Oh, yeah, he went to work an hour ago. He should be back around 6:00.” Michael, full name Michael Ruskin, worked at a local coffee shop; he was our other roommate, and best friend. He used the other room while Drea and I shared this one, using a bunk bed to do so.
“Oh, well call him up later and tell him to bring me home a coffee.” She chuckled, “Alright, I'll do that.” I nodded and began to get dressed, with Drea looking away. “Jeez Avasa, I've said it once, and I'll say it again, but at least warn me before you just drop your top!” I shrugged, not really caring. “Not like you haven't seen me before, as we've known each other for years. Besides, I'm turned around so it's just my back. Why should it even matter? It's just anatomy.” She sighed, “Gah, you're such a rebel. Can't you be normal for once?”
I pulled on my newly picked out shirt before answering. “Nope, that would be cliché, and if I'm going to be a character in a story, I am certainly not going to be a Mary Sue. Not that I want to stand out, but like I already said, I am not going to be a cliché on anyone's watch.” I could hear her sigh as I finished getting dressed and turned around, hair a mess as morning hair typically is. “Fair enough. But brush your hair at least, and don't say 'But that would be a cliché, every character brushes their hair!'” She joked, tossing me the brush. I caught it and snorted, “That was a terrible impression of me you know.” She smiled. “I know.”
This caused me to grin, and I ran the brush through my tangled locks while walking to the kitchen. “So when does this thing start anyway?” She followed me, “In about ten minutes, so you'd better hurry.” I sighed, “Well I'd better get going then... Seeya soon, dude.” I kicked on my shoes that were next to the door and set the brush aside, opening the door. I saw her wave from the corner of my eye, which I acknowledged with a nod, before going to the elevator where some middle aged father type figure I didn't recognize was residing. I leaned against the back of the elevator, pissed now that I had forgotten to get my ear plugs for music.
I left the building about a minute later after I got off the elevator, and headed off towards The Office. It didn't take me too long to get there, maybe seven minutes at most. Our apartment wasn't too far away so we wouldn't be late for any of these sudden round ups, you could call them. As soon as I got there, I was told to sit in a chair until the exact time was up for the assigning began. Not long afterwards, I heard The Writer on the intercom, telling us to come in, by line of course. There were about twenty others, twenty-three to be exact. I felt sorry for the poor bloke who would end up getting chosen for this 'Oh, so promising novel'. We'll see how that would turn out.
I sighed as I trudged to the forming line that led straight to the actual office for which this building was named, and several other women followed suit behind me, though there were others who'd rather push more towards the front. I honestly didn't blame them, I wanted to get this over with as well. I was getting tired of getting called down here; it was the third time this month. The Writer was getting desperate it seemed, trying to find the perfect character by coming up with new descriptions and personalities everyday to find the perfect one for the book. Looked like so far it had been narrowed down pretty well.
I looked around at the women surrounding me. There was quite a diversity of people in this group, though less than the last time I had been here, but then again, The Writer hadn't said anything about your roots in the description then. Some people were whispering among themselves. It was quite possible they had several acquaintances here, though I did not see anyone I truly recognized here; just possible faces I may or may not have seen before. I truly didn't care to see anyone here I knew, as it didn't seem relevant.
The line was moving relatively quickly by now, at least, compared to how these usually went down. Sometimes it was like a full blown interview and you could be in there for about 20-30 minutes, but these were lasting 10 minutes at the very most. But of course, just for me, it seemed to take forever for my turn, and I just wanted to get the whole thing over with. I sighed and looked up towards the ceiling, taking in the detail of something as mundane as it was and something I'd seen frequently, but it kept my mind distracted from boredom.
A few minutes more minutes passed without my noticing, when someone tapped on my shoulder, telling me to go into the official office where The Writer was waiting. I nodded in response and walked in, seeing The Writer. “Ah, looks like I keep running into you, maybe the newest story wants to be yours?” I grunted. “Maybe. If it is, then so be it. I hope it's not anything stupid.” The Writer smiled. “Ah, you really are stubborn aren't you? It's too bad I can't tell you the genre yet. Oh, you can sit down if you'd like.” I almost insisted on standing, but decided I didn't want to seem the cliché rebel, and relented, waiting for The Writer to continue.
“So how old are you again, Avasa?” Shouldn't The Writer know that? It created me anyway. It probably was just trying to find how I would fit into Its story. Or to see how I would react. “Nineteen years of age.” I replied. “Ah, still so young. That's perfect. Tell me about yourself.” I could see The Writer's eyes flicker with excitement. That could never be good. “You created me. You tell me.” The Writer chuckled. “Yes, but I want to know how you think of yourself.”
“You know that as well. Because you know all my answers. All because really you're just somewhere in the real world just imagining this in your mind, trying to find a fit for your novel, trying to find the best personality.” The Writer's smile didn't waver, if anything it seemed to grow. “You're smart.” I shrugged. “Not really, I just know the knowledge that everyone knows in your mind. That we're all fictional.” The Writer shook Its head. “ No, no, no, you're mistaken. You aren't completely fictional, as you all are real to me and to my readers.”
I bit my tongue to keep from saying something that could have bad effects on me later. “Yeah but see, that's the point. We're 'real' to the people you exploit us to. In the end we're still just characters. Nothing we say is our own, not really.” The Writer seemed to take that in and nodded absentmindedly. “Yes... But it wasn't entirely my doing that created you; not strictly my own imagination. I've had influences of my daily life, which includes people, movies, the internet, music, past experiences, etc. So in a sense, the essence of you does exist in everyday life.”
“So what you're saying is that I am basically a collage cut out from some tabloid magazine.” This made The Writer laugh. “Well I guess that is one way of looking at it.” I sighed. The conversation didn't seem to be going anywhere. “Can you just decide already?” The Writer smiled, a big, toothy kind of smile, the kind you get when you get the urge to laugh. “Oh, I've already decided. I just enjoy talking to you and getting your perspective.”
I frowned, “Oh? Then are you gonna tell me if I'm in this next book or not? Because I'd rather you tell me so that I can go home.” The Writer chuckled, “Yes, Avasa. This is your book. You're in it.” I had a feeling that's where this was going. The Writer handed me a pen and a clipboard with paper on it, asking for my name, the date, my signature, etc. The Writer spoke before I could ask. “Just for a bit of a professional air.”
I shrugged before doing as The Writer wished. I rubbed my hand over my face, “So are you gonna tell me the genre yet or what?” The Writer continued smiling and nodded. “I might as well tell you. What's the point of being in a book if you don't know what it's about? Then you couldn't do it right.” The Writer looked at me expectantly, as if expecting me to respond. Instead I waited for them to go ahead and tell already. They grinned. “Romance.”