“It’s nice here.”
swan delviking fills the form of the chair, spills over the floor and covers me with warmth. this is how i
remember it. how i remember you. your hair is wet from my tears. wait. don't go. damn it.
"i'm still here."
where? i don't see you. now i don't hear you. fine. don't save me.
"go back to work. go save some people from being writers."
why? they're idiots. all of them, i tell you. i hate myself for even being associated with them. the saving
business is dirty. it sullies you. not that i'm telling you anything, i'm sure. no. i'm not sure. what's it like for
you? damn it. answer me. don't be a tease. the gun is in my hand again. but now when i turn it over and
look at it it is just a prop. a lethal one and it is ugly. man should never have progressed past the arrow
stage. i don't suppose attempting to kill myself with a crossbow could ever rise above an oddity. i’ll work
on this. is that you, swan? what did you say? i choose to believe you told me to go back to work because
why the hell not. and that should be good enough and i would never actually kill myself and the gun
points itself at my head and BLAM
this book to find out if the narrator
dies.
one more click, even if I think the
author is probably a dick.