Chapter 15

Donovan

“You okay Don?” It hasn’t even been a full hour and I’m having a nervous breakdown. Being transported into some severely unpleasant world with people that have apparently wanted to meet me doesn’t sit too well in my head. Even Sam’s voice and presence couldn’t keep me at ease.

“I don’t know anymore.” I said. “It’s probably best I hurry up and get going and talk to this guy.”

Sam’s head titled while she put on a concerned look. “I’ve been where you’ve been right now Don. Not knowing what the hell is happening. We’ve all been there. It’ll be okay, just go and see him. I’m sure he isn’t has deranged as these other freaks.”

She couldn’t be entirely wrong. Sebastian and Sam are both people that have helped me a lot through this. “Yeah…you’re right. Okay, where’s his room?”

She gestured down a hall, and it was a very long one might I add. This place seems to be just like a regular house you could find in any suburban area. I walked towards my destination after giving Sam and Tweak a confirming nod. Although the gesture could come off as ‘I’ll see you soon’ or ‘Goodbye forever’. I squeezed pass some groups to get to his room. A room I somehow know where he will be in. Even in the small time frame of me moving I kept my eyes out for Plague but I still couldn’t locate the psychotic fucker. I don’t know where he could be, but if manage to get out of this alive; I’m asking him a slew of questions.

The giant noise crept back into my head as I passed by the second door down the hall, but it wasn’t as loud this time, so I guess it’s rewarding you if you come closer? Well, who knows and who cares. I’m here now. I raised my hand to knock on the door, but before I could even make contact with the door, it opened itself. It definitely shocked me, and apparently everyone else in the living room area of the house. All of their eyes were peered on me with some sick form of intrigue. I chose to ignore it, and steadily went into the abyss of a room this guy resides in.

I stood there in darkness wondering how the light spilling out from the door didn’t hit any object in the room to give it form. There were no outlines of shelves, books, and lamps to be illuminated by the light. It was just pure utter darkness. Suddenly, I could hear the door steadily creak behind me. I cautiously turn my head to witness the door being closed, but what I saw before it closed was a pale face of red eyes. It was the strange man staring at me the moment I walked into this place. He was doing the same thing, grinning at me before eye contact was cut off. I don’t know what he’s trying to do, but the concept of “death” looms around him.

There I am, in an empty room where I can’t see shit. I’m practically waiting for something to jump out and eat me, but instead I’m greeted with a flick of a lamp to dimly illuminate the entire room, with an extremely deep voice to add. “Hello there.” My eyes fixate on a middle-aged Caucasian man pushing his early 50’s wearing a faded green trench coat hunched over an outrageously thick book on the wooden desk he resides behind. “Your name is…Donovan, am I correct?” His voice was outrageously deep and I didn’t expect it to be like that honestly. I’m not gonna lie, this guy’s whole demeanor has gotten my senses standing at full attention right now.

“Yeah, my name is Donovan. Can I get yours?”

“Mr. Writer.”

“That’s your real name?”

“No. I’m not giving out that information.”

Not the response I was expecting. “You seem like a paranoid fellow. Why are you locked up in here rather than being out there with your numerous guests?”

“I see the detective skills are pouring out of you right now, but that’s a safe enough question for me to answer.” What does he mean about safe? How did he know about my occupation? I just met this guy, and he already knew my name as well? No, I can’t show all my cards just yet. I have to learn to talk to these freaks without revealing too much about myself. These people have clearly heard about me before and are probably looking at me as some kind of golden ticket. I feel like I’m on the auction block. “I’m writing a book as you could probably tell.”

“Can I ask on what you’re writing about?”

“You.”

“…What?”

“I’m writing about you.”

“...I notice you’re halfway through the book…I don’t remember doing any interviews with you…”

“You’re right; we didn’t do any of that. I’m able to get information on you in other ways.”

“Pardon my tone, but I’m sure as hell not happy with you supposedly peeking into my life without my fucking consent. Is this some sort of reverse psychology to get me to talk more about myself? I know everyone here is tryin-“

“Your favorite color is orange; you secretly love to eat raw oysters and also struggle with telling anyone that truth because nearly everyone you know thinks eating them is nasty…and rightfully so.”

The color was no big deal to me, but the food part sold it. He deliberately gave an easy piece of trivia you could ask someone of mutual acquaintance and then suddenly hit me with a deep conscience thought that only I could know. Yeah, he proved his point. Normally I would try to figure out how he knows that, but unfortunately my methods only work on normal people. All I need to worry about right now is how not to piss this guy off. “Why’d you call me in here?” I asked. “Was that all you wanted to tell me, my own secrets?”

“Not quite. As you can see I’m, halfway done with the book; or your story in some cases. Now for some reason…I just can’t figure out how it will end.”

“Aren’t you writing about my life? Shouldn’t you know what happens next?”

He tilts his head down into the book. It’s clear from his demeanor that he’s confused but also frustrated. “Don’t think of me as some sort of omnipotent deity that sees all. I only write so far ahead into the future for everyone’s book. I have as slew of other work to finish right now, but yours…I just can’t seem to pinpoint what’s to come of you.”

“That doesn’t sound very good for me. It almost sounds as if I’m about to die.”

“Again…not quite. It doesn’t necessarily mean that. Your story could end thousands of pages from here…or it could end on the turn of just one.”

“Thanks for that reassurance.”

“Hmm, Mr. Plague did say you have sarcastic humor.”

“Wait…you talked to him? When? Where is he?”

He leans back into his chair. I could clearly see the huge bags under his eyes. It looked as if he hadn’t slept in years. “I did talk to him and I don’t know where he is, but that’s not why I brought you in here today. I wanted to discuss the agreement we both conducted before you came.”

“An agreement I’m sure not to have any say in?”

“You’re correct.” He steadily leans to his bottom left to open a drawer. He pulls out a green hardcover book with intricate braille all across the outer rims. He gently sets it on the right side of my supposed book under the lamp and turns it over to reveal the titling of it. It said 'Sebastian'. “For me to continue your story, another has to end.”

“...Shit…”