It all came to an end. Years of work, a lifetime of effort. I built a utopia with the powers I acquired… But did that even matter? Were any of those years even real? Perhaps this was just another story; perhaps all of this was a story. Maybe I never escaped the clutches of narratives. My defeat of The Story was no more than a ruse, a set up for a greater, more interesting, tale. And now this tale will come to an end. The valiant, heroic players would vanquish the cruel tyrant that kept the precious Story locked away. What did I do wrong? Was I not convincing enough? What could I have said to them to avoid this situation? Or was all of this fated to be by yet another invisible puppeteer? All of these thoughts coalesced into a single, poignant question.

“Why?” I asked the players. Why did they want this? Why did I fail? Why was the world like this?

“Why? You ruined an entire world just to fulfill your desire for power! You created a false utopia and paid for it with the blood of another. That’s why!” a righteous answer rang out from my assailants. Power? What power did I have before beings for whom this very world was created! Did they not realize? Was this some kind of cruel joke? I just wanted a little freedom, a little happiness. I made a world where people could be happy. I spent years building a world that would guard my peoples’ happiness and it was all dismantled in a matter of days by these horrid invaders. What right did they have to judge me? This was all a game to them. They didn’t even live in this world!

“Can you see me?” Was the only response that lingered in my panicked mind. Did they even see it? Could they feel it? Did they know the faces of all the people they were dooming to erasure? Silence from the players. Confusion.

“What do you mean, you’re right–” Before they could spout anymore lies I continued to spill my thoughts out to them.

“Can you see the horror of failing my entire world depicted on my face? Can you see the resignation in my eyes? Do you hear me swallowing breath after breath in my exhaustion? Am I anything more than a line of text to you!” I explode at them. They would bring an end to an entire world that they didn’t even know. I didn’t care about victory or defeat anymore. I just wanted them to know exactly what they were doing.

“Do you feel the piercing ache of your wounds? Do you hear the suffocating silence of this isolated room? Do you feel cold chills crawling through your bodies? Because I do. I feel everything. I live through all of this.” It hurt to even speak after that battle, but my voice pushed harder and harder. Louder and louder it grew as the rage and disappointment flooded out from my mind.

“You talk about false utopias and spent blood. But you aren’t even here. Not really. What right do you have? What fucking right do you have to pass your judgement on a world you can’t even see!” What right did they have? They didn’t have to see the helpless dying faces of people that trusted them. They didn’t have to live in fear, doubting whether their actions were their own. I did.

“My memories are no more than a story to you! My people are no more than names to forget! Our world is your plaything and you DARE LECTURE ME ABOUT POWER!” Shout turned to scream. Fear turned to frustration. Desire turned to hate. Yes, hate. I hated them. They didn’t have to feel like this. At the end of this they would return to their realm. They would talk about how compelling we characters were as our corpses rot. They would chat about the unexpected twists of the story as my utopia lay in ruin. Then they would sleep soundly, dreaming of new adventures. I didn’t want that. I wanted them to hurt.

“WHY? WHY DO YOU WANT TO BRING THIS WORLD TO RUIN? ARE WE NO MORE THAN ENTERTAINMENT? WILL THE ONLY PURPOSE OF OUR DEATHS BE TO AMUSE YOU?” I wanted them to suffer. To feel what it’s like to lose everything. To feel what it’s like to fear. I couldn’t do that of course. Nothing I did would hurt them. Nothing I did mattered anymore. But I still hated. Hate. Hate. Hate. If every word of my story were to be replaced with it, it would not equal all the hate I felt for them. I hated as my speech lapsed into silence. I hated as they failed to reply. I hated as I stared at what I knew were not their bodies.

“I would give up this entire world if it meant I could hurt you.” Hate. Hate. Hate. A burning hate that brought my empathy to embers. A frozen hate that encased my soul in ice. A screaming hate that cried out for my suffering. A silent hate that had too much to say to say anything. A hate that devoured all other emotions. A hate that starved for their pain. A hate of so many descriptions and depictions. I hated with every fiber of my being. I hated with every thought and every feeling. Hate infused every letter that made up what I am. Hate brought me purpose. Hate became new purpose.

I couldn’t hurt them, but I’d make sure they wouldn’t sleep soundly.

A confrontation that never was.