Number 9

After my recognition of the woman that was next to me, and the excruciating pain I was feeling subsided, everything went dark. I felt my body getting cold, and my heart slowly coming to a standstill...

After which I found myself standing up, completely naked. I felt the carpet on my bare feet, an always-so-pleasant feeling. The carpet was a dark shade of red, and the room, no, hall, was decorated in a baroque-style, with lots of golden ornaments and dark woods. It wasn't even a hall, there were rows of chairs, in an arch around a stage... It simply was a theater. I looked around, and found myself in the back of the theater, in front of the 2 enormous ebony doors. I pulled the 2 brass rings that served as doorhandles, but the massive door wouldn't move. "Fuck..."

"Please, no cursing in the house of the lord!" I heard a booming voice roar behind me. I quickly turned around, and saw a man sitting on the edge of the stage. He was wearing a black suit, combined with a thin, white tie. He had longish hair, and a scruffy beard... Well, you could barely call it a beard anyways.

"Where the hell am I?" I agitatedly yelled.
"Well, hell's not the right answer."
"Then what is this place?" I slowly started moving towards the man.
"This is a place of the arts, a place of worship, a place of music. We all know you like music." I approached row 5.
"... How do you know me? Who are you?"
"What's with all the questions? This isn't Jeopardy! Hah! No? Not funny? Okay. Well, you can call me - yeah, just take a seat over there -..."
I stared at the man's scruffy face as I sat down on one of the red, velvet chairs. "What was I saying? Oh yeah, you can call me whatever you like. I like to refer to myself as 'The Writer' or just simply 'Kylian'. You asked me how I knew you? I created you. I took my pen and a piece of paper, and made you."

"... How did I get here?"
"I decided you'd go here." The Writer grinned at me, as he swung his legs unto the stage and stood up.
"This is my home, this is my church, this is the truth: The theater, home of all thoughts, home of everything that makes life worth living. This is where I made you up. All of you: your height, the color of your eyes, how you enjoy the feeling of your feet on this carpet, even your very own thoughts. This, my friend, is my imagination."
He theatrically opened up his arms, but I wasn't even interested anymore, I just wanted to get out of this place. "I know you're not comfortable, but I have yet to decide what I'm going to do with you. Heaven? Hell? You know what, let's ask my friends."
I heard sounds coming from the back of the theater, and I looked behind me. The doors I had just so desperately tried to open, opened. 4 people came out. "Who are they?" I asked the man.
"As I said; my friends, my cowriters. Let me introduce to you: Hannah, Zosha, Daniel and Joram. We're the masters of your universe, we decide what happens to you and the people around you. Now that I think of it, we also decided that you'd die."
"But why would you be so cruel?"
"I just figured it'd make a good opening of a story."
How could this man be so mean? Why did I have to be part of this story? He didn't give me time to think about it. "So, guys, what do you think I should do with this guy?"

"This guy died ages ago, why are you still writing about his past and even his afterlife? There should be better ways to express yourself." the blonde-haired girl said.
"Yeah, you should let him go already!" one of the guys exclaimed. They all seemed to agree: I wasn't going to go anywhere, I'd just disappear. Apparently I was just a figment of someone's imagination, part of a story, and that meant I wasn't relevant anymore. I saw the man looking at me and I could see the sadness in his eyes.

"Well, you heard them, my friend, I think that will be all then."

And then there was nothing. Except for music: The writer would honor me by posting some relevant song. I could finally rest.

-----
Well, as he expected of me;

In Memoriam,
My Character.