Are You a God?

It felt like a big break through, at first. Realising who these people were, I mean. It's a funny thing, being surrounded by people you created. I'm not saying I'm a god or anything. But.

The thing is, knowing that tidbit of information doesn't actually help me at all in any real sense. I'm still stuck here. Wherever "here" is. I don't know how to get home. I wonder, briefly, whether Jana has missed me yet. Probably not.

Since I'm stuck, it's tempting to indulge for a little while. Enjoy this god-like feeling. The free coffee. The people-watching. This last has taken on a whole new layer of enjoyment.

I've noticed a lot of people looking at me. I'm beginning to think they know who I am. Sometimes it's the way a glance lingers a beat or so too long, or a double-take. A few times it's more obvious: nudging and pointing and whispering. Staring. A frown, which I hope is a thoughtful is that...? and not a ugh I hate...!

Sitting in this coffee shop, I have an urge like I haven't had in months, but I don't have my laptop with me. I don't even have a notebook or a pen. I don't know what I would write... but it would be something. Character descriptions, maybe. It has a whole different flavour when they are living and breathing and walking around you. My fingers itch to nail the details to the page.

The barista was tickled nine ways to Sunday to be serving me, of all people, so I go up to the counter and ask her if she has a notebook I could borrow, and maybe a pen.

"A couple of napkins would be okay, if there isn't any paper," I say, not wanting to put her to any trouble.

"Have a seat and I'll see what I can find for you," she says.

While I'm waiting, I wonder who I am to these people. Do they recognise me as their Creator? That's a thought and a half. It feels uncomfortable to linger on it.

When she comes back at last, she has a brand new notebook and a packet of pens. I think she must have gone up the high street and bought them specially.

I write more than I have in ages, while dusk thickens outside the window. The staff don't kick me out at closing time, and there are plenty of customers still lingering and peering at me. This is how come I end up leaving so late, when it's nearly full dark out.

This is when I learn: a Creator I may be, but a god I certainly am not. Someone, faceless like nearly all the others, bumps into me, knife first.

The blade plunges through my jacket and pricks my side. My assailant doesn't rifle through my pockets, so it's not a mugging. He must have some personal beef with me. Maybe he isn't happy about his lack of a face? I still haven't worked out if this is actually how they look, or something lacking in me.

I stagger, blood oozing over my shirt and dripping onto my jeans. My fistful of writing from this afternoon is red-soaked to the point of illegibility.

I don't want to die here. Have I ever written a nurse or a doctor? I flip my mental rolodex, looking for a story set in a hospital, but my vision is starting to blur.

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Thank you for reading!

As we all know, when someone asks "Are you a God?" you say "Yes!"

See you tomorrow!

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