It was a Saturday evening when John first realized that things had gone awry. The feeling was sudden and inexplicable yet absolutely unmistakable, something was wrong with the world.
"John, are you okay?"
John snapped back into reality. His wife and the in-laws were peering at him over the dinner table with curious faces.
"Oh yes. Yes I'm quite all right thank you honey," he replied.
"Then you might consider eating those peas rather than just staring at them."
"Right, of course," he mumbled putting the fork into his mouth and chewing absently.
The conversation returned to where it had left off: politics, the price of cheese and those bloody Maoris. Usually John would have something to say about all of these topics but today he was kept quiet by his thoughts and the effort of feigning interest in dinner.
Who is that and what the hell does he want with me?
*
At ten thirty when a few games of scrabble and chess had been played and the movie on tv3 had finished, the in-laws gathered their belongings and bustled out the door. John, peeking through a gap in the curtains, watched the red lights of their car pull out of the driveway and recede into the distance. High heeled footsteps tapped up to the front of the house. The door slammed shut.
"What on earth is wrong with you John? You didn't even say goodbye to my parents."
"Sorry about that honey," he said still facing towards the window. "I've just been a little bit preoccupied of late that's all."
"Preoccupied with what?"
"Oh, just work and stuff," he lied.
"Well I don't host dinner parties like this too often. The least you could do is make conversation."
"Yup."
*
John and his wife lay on opposite sides of the queen size bed. They were both wide awake, burdened with fears, thoughts and desires.
Why is he still here?
John shuffled around under the covers and rolled over onto his side. He felt eyes on the back of his head.
Go away.
A pair of arms wrapped themselves around his chest and squeezed, warm lips kissed the nape of his neck, breasts pressed against his back. John's wife fondled his chest with her soft hands and caressed her way down under the elastic band of his boxer shorts.
Damn it.
John sat upright and swung his legs off the side of the bed.
"What's the matter?"
"I've just got to go to the toilet that's all," he muttered.
She sighed wearily and slumped her chin onto the palm of her hand.
"Well hurry up then."
John threw his pyjamas on and hastened away from the bedroom. He had no intention of visiting the toilet while he was being watched.
*
The tin roof of the garage was freezing cold against John's back but the night air was clear, clean and just warm enough. He was staring up at the moon, eyebrows knit together. Only half of the moons surface was visible tonight but he could not rightly say whether it was waxing or waning. It was one or the other but as far as appearances went it was impossible to tell the difference.
A distant and muffled voice was calling out John's name.
"I'm on the garage," he shouted.
His wife appeared at the back door in her night gown.
"Jesus Christ John what are you doing up there? It's almost three o'clock."
"I know," he replied. "But I couldn't get any sleep so I thought I might as well do some star gazing."
"Why can't you sleep?"
"I've got things on my mind. You know, work and everything." He stared back up into the sky. "Say have you ever wondered what the earth would look like from the perspective of somebody on the moon?"
"What are you talking about? You mean like aliens, little men in the moon?"
"Perhaps. Maybe an alien would see earth like we see the moon. Maybe they would call us the aliens."
"You're being ridiculous John. Aliens don't even exist."
Maybe that's what an alien would say about us.
*
The first rays of light were beginning to creep out of the dark mouth of the horizon when John sat down at his computer.
Okay Wikipedia what have you got for me? P.a.r.a.n.o.i.a.
Let's see: a disturbed thought process characterized by excessive anxiety or fear, often to the point of irrationality or delusion. Sounds about half right, what else? The affected person believes he is being persecuted; I guess so. Psychotic illnesses, schizophrenia, marijuana, methamphetamine, crack cocaine; Jesus Christ bugger all that. Common paranoid delusions include… being followed… being controlled by an external force; oh bloody hell, enough of this.
*
"Which one of these do you think looks better on me?"
John examined the two different earrings that his wife held up to her earlobes. One was a simple yet elegant pearl, the other was a silver decorated plate which carried a small mirror. John caught his reflection gazing back at him in the mirrored earring. He had dark bags under his eyes from last night.
"I like this one better," he said pointing to the pearl earring. "It's more," he paused for a moment, struggling to make up a word, "cl@ssy."
"Good. Let's go then, my mother will be expecting me soon enough."
"Tell you what honey," John proposed, "you go and wait in the car and I'll be there in five minutes."
"Why, what are you doing?"
"I've just got to sort out some things for work really quickly."
She glared at him with a black face. "Just five minutes?"
"Yup, just five minutes."
Once she had left the room John snatched the mirrored earring and stared intently at his reflection.
Come out and show yourself you bastard.
The apparition in the mirror did not budge nor talk back.
Don't you ignore me mate, I'm on to your game. Come out and tell me who you are.
John clutched the earring tightly and…
What do you want from me?
What?
I said what do you want from me? Why are you here?
Are you talking to me?
Yes I'm talking to you. Why have you been hanging around me since yesterday?
Why have I been hanging around you?
Yeah, you've been leering over me like a goddamned pervert. Why?
Well I wouldn't exactly call it leering but the presence of an author is generally unavoidable in a story. You can't have a piece of writing without a writer.
What the hell do you mean a 'story'?
I mean the story that I'm writing right now, the story about you for my English short fiction course which you have just rudely interrupted.
Hold on a second, "short fiction"? Are you implying that I'm…
You're the protagonist of my story and you are purely fictional, which is why I'm surprised that you now accost me and accuse me voyeurism.
You think I'm fictional? That I don't exist?
Well yeah I just made up your character so I suppose that makes you a figment of my imagination. You're about as real as Goldilocks or Rumplestiltskin.
That's a complete load of bollocks. If anything you're the one who doesn't exist, you're probably just a paranoid delusion from my imagination.
What? No that's not right I'm the author here not you.
Why should I believe that you exist as the author of my false reality? I don't look into a mirror and believe that the figure I see exists while I am just the reflection. The logical thing to say is that I am the original while you are just the reflection.
Look I'm the one writing this story right now. If I print this out and give it to someone to read they would surely conclude the same as I, that you are a character of my creation, albeit one who has derailed the plot.
And if I went to a psychiatrist they would surely conclude that you are a product of my delusion. My argument is as strong as yours I'm afraid but I have the upper hand.
How do you have the upper hand?
You mentioned something similar to it earlier. You said that "you can't have a piece of writing without a writer."
What of it?
That's one way of putting Descartes' statement: I think, therefore I am. It says that things which are thinking must exist and as it happens I am thinking right now. Therefore I must exist and consequently you must not.
That doesn't give you the upper hand at all. Descartes' logic applies equally to my own thoughts.
Then I propose a gamble.
What's that?
Stop writing your story. If you believe that I am a part of your imagination then not thinking about me will surely poof me out of existence. On the other hand if you stop writing, yet my own thoughts continue then it will be you who is poofed out of existence.
Okay then that sounds like a safe bet.
Fine then do it.
I will.
/
That's better, it's about time I had my mind to myself; although now it's going to annoy the hell out of me to think of what his story was about in the first place; Oh sh*t it's been way more than five minutes; where has Julia disappeared to?
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