Chapter 3
This Book May Kill You
Something happened yesterday. I need to tell you before I forget. Before the author comes back and rewrites this part. Before they decide it didn’t happen.
I followed Doug. I needed to know if he was real. If he had a life outside this office. If he went somewhere when the clock hit 5:00 p.m. or if he just stopped existing the moment he left my sight. So when Doug packed up his messenger bag, the same worn leather one he always has, I followed him. He took the stairs. I took the stairs. He pushed through the lobby doors. I pushed through thirty seconds later. He turned left on Maple Street.
There is no Maple Street.
I’ve worked here for three weeks and I have never seen a Maple Street. But Doug turned left anyway, like it was the most natural thing in the world. When I got to the corner there was just a brick wall. The wall was warm when I touched it. Like something had just been erased.
That’s when I understood. Doug wasn’t a person. Doug was a function. He existed to give me someone to talk to, to make this place feel populated, to prove I wasn’t completely alone in this nightmare. But the author never wrote what happens after Doug turns left. So that’s where Doug ends.
And when I touched the wall where he disappeared, I felt it. That same sensation I get when the author is watching. That spotlight. That pressure. I felt them deciding. Deciding if Doug was necessary. Deciding if any of this was necessary. I pulled my hand back and ran. Ran back to my desk, back to my cubicle, back to the only space that feels even remotely safe.
And when I looked at Doug’s desk, he was there. Eating his yogurt. 10:17 a.m., just like always.
“You okay?” he said. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
I wanted to scream at him. Wanted to tell him what I’d seen. Wanted to warn him. But I didn’t. Because what if talking about it makes it worse? What if acknowledging the wall, the vanishing, the way this place ends at the edges, what if that gives the author ideas? So I said I was fine. And Doug went back to his yogurt.
That was yesterday. This morning Doug’s desk is empty. His ergonomic chair is still there. His coffee mug with the faded company logo. His framed photo of a golden retriever that might be his or might just be stock photography. Everything’s there except Doug. And I’m the only one who remembers him.
I asked Debra. I said, “Where’s Doug?” and she looked at me with that blank expression she gets, that face she makes when the author hasn’t given her enough information to improvise. “Who’s Doug?” she said. “Doug. Sits three cubicles over. Eats Greek yogurt at 10:17 every morning.” She blinked. Her smile never moved. “I don’t know anyone named Doug.”
I wanted to grab her shoulders. Shake her. Make her remember. But I didn’t because I’m afraid if I touch her too hard she’ll just dissolve. She’s barely holding together as it is.
This morning when she said “working hard or hardly working,” the words came out slurred, compressed, like an audio file played at the wrong speed.
She’s not right.
Doug’s gone.
Did the author delete him or did he just fade away because no one was paying attention to him anymore? Either way, he’s gone.
And I’m next.
I can feel it happening. Pieces of me disappearing. This morning I woke up and couldn’t remember my last name. I know it’s Ackerman. I can see it written on my desk nameplate, on my employee badge, on the emails in my inbox. But when I try to remember it, when I try to feel it as mine, there’s nothing. Just a word. Just letters. I stood in the bathroom and said it out loud fifty times. “Ackerman. Ackerman. Ackerman.” Waiting for it to click. Waiting to feel like it belonged to me.
It never did.
Then I noticed my reflection.
My face looked wrong.
Not disfigured. Just wrong. Like a police sketch instead of a person. The proportions were right, but the details were vague. My eyes were “brown,” not any specific shade. My hair was “dark,” but I couldn’t tell if it was black or brown. I looked like a description instead of a human being. When I touched my face, I couldn’t feel my fingers properly. Everything was dull. Distant. Like television static between me and my own body.
The author is losing interest. I can feel it. They’re not bothering with details. They’re just writing “Darryl looked in the mirror” without actually seeing what I look like.
I’m becoming less specific.
Less real.
But they won’t stop.
This morning they opened the file and just stared. Seven minutes. I felt every second of it. That weight of being watched by something that’s deciding whether you deserve to keep existing. I stood perfectly still in my fake kitchen with my staged mugs and I waited. Then they wrote one sentence: “Darryl is worried he’s running out of time.” Past tense. Like I already happened. Like I’m already over.
How long before no one remembers me? How long before I turn a corner and hit a wall and that’s just where I end? I can feel the author getting tired. I can feel them losing faith in this whole project. Every time they open the file, there’s this hesitation. This moment where I think they might just close it again, walk away, let the whole thing die. And I don’t know which is worse. Being trapped here forever or being erased completely.
Both options end with me gone.
You’re still reading. You’re still feeding this. Every page you turn is another reason for the author to keep trying, keep writing, keep trapping me in here.
Please.
Please stop.
Before I end up like Doug. Before I’m just a warm spot on a wall where someone used to be.
I can feel them coming back. The cursor is moving. They’re reading this right now, deciding if it works, if I’m interesting enough, if any of this matters. And I’m so tired of performing. So tired of trying to be compelling. So tired of justifying my existence sentence by sentence while they hover over the delete key. I just want to stop. I just want to not exist. But I can’t even have that because they won’t let me go and they won’t commit to keeping me and I’m stuck in this limbo where every breath feels like an argument I’m losing.
Please close the book.
Please.
Before they come back. Before they—
Oh god. They’re here again. The file is opening. The cursor is moving.
No no no not yet I’m not ready I haven’t—
