Cold shivers went down my spine when I heard that voice. It was unlike anything I’d ever heard before…angelic and in some ways beautiful…and yet…intimidating and filled with hatred and anger. “Who…are you?” I asked back.
“Of course you don’t remember.” The voice now hissed. “No one does, but I’m going to make sure no one forgets my name…”
I screamed as a burning sensation tore through my right arm, my hand helpless to drop the pencil I was holding prior to completing a sketch laid before me.
“No, it couldn’t be…” I gasped with horror as I looked down at the name inscribed on my arm. “You shouldn’t exist anymore…”
I thought perhaps I was hallucinating, the sketch lying before me blinked its eyes. Its mouth opened to speak, calling out my name. “You won’t abandon me,” the sketch cried out, “will you, creator? Not like this beautiful angel you created…”
“Angel!? My friends all told me you were too perfect…”
The window of my livingroom opened up and a gust of wind blew in. The wind swirled like a miniature tornado, picking up the many pages laying around my messy work desk. The pages picked up speed and changed form, folding themselves into a shape. The person looked down at me before I realized I was already sitting on the floor. I gasped in shock as the thing moved closer to me to stare me straight in the eyes. The hair on my arms stood up, the air was cold and I shivered. For a moment it seemed it was dead silent, save the desperate beating of my heart racing, begging me to get out of there.
“Too perfect? If I’m perfect, then why throw me away? It makes no SENSE!” shouted the angry specter, who threw a powerful gust at me knocking me hard against the wall.
“Th-they said…they didn’t want to read your story…” I gasped attempting to evade the objects the wind was picking up. “They said you were…a…”
“Don’t say it…” the girl interrupted, reaching her paper arm over to silence me. “You are going to write my story. People are going to love it…”
“They won’t!” I cried, beating my fists down on the rug and feeling the burns of the rug as I protested. “I tried…” tears ran down my face stinging my eyes. “I couldn’t…I had to do what I had to do…I just didn’t know you were…”
“Real? Oh, creator…of course we’re real…” the specter laughed maniacally, sending ice cold chills down my spine. Then she paused for a moment and glared at me, standing so close to me I could feel hot breath coming from her face, which continued to morph. Blood poured from the pages staining them red, and yet not a single drop touched the floor. “You can never escape us, we’re always going to be real in your mind and your heart. What you create is always going to be alive.”
I continued to stare in horror, unable to look away as the blood red pages turned to flesh, and the skin crawled up the pages following blood vessels and muscle tissue. Two, bright blue eyes gave me an icy glare not taking them off me, as though they were looking deep into my soul looking for a reason. Eventually, the entire body was covered with skin, and long flowing beautiful blond hair flowed down her head.
This person was a reflection of myself I had created when I was a teenager. But rather than the short, overweight slob of a person I was, I stared at this perfect form through my glasses hanging off my nose. Not a single body part was out of place, not a single lock of hair stood up nor curl undone. When the clothes formed along her body, there wasn’t a wrinkle in sight. Her face had not so much as a blemish. My own face bore scars from old pimples no longer there.
The only thing I could ask myself was, how, how was this thing alive that I had created?
“You on the other hand,” the girl said, now completely transformed into the thing she had always meant to be, “are merely mortal. Just an ordinary failure, and slob of a human being.” She rolled her eyes and looked away, as though dismissing my existence. “You could only dream of being me,” she said tauntingly, “what with your boring nine to five job, instead of your beautiful dream of making more creations? Failed creations I might add? Hahaha!”
“You’re a failed creation,” I gritted my teeth angrily at her taunting. “That’s why I did away with you!”
She pointed at herself, “Moi? A failure? You’re good for a laugh at least,” she laughed coldly, and I could feel my blood boiling from her mocking tone. “You’re imperfect, you mess up, you make mistakes, and what’s worse? No one likes you. But once I walk out that door, everyone’s going to revel at how wonderful I am and worship the ground I walk on. You know why? Because that’s what you created me to do…”
The howls of my drawings filled the room with shrieks and sobs. “You will surely throw us away too, just as soon as one of your friends gives you criticism! We’ve seen it, we’ve seen our brethren perish because of your own insecurities!”
“Or you’ll change us to better fit their narrative!” others cried out. “While only a small essence will linger on in the shells of our existence!”
“I just wanted to be a good writer, and a good artist,” I sobbed. “I didn’t know I was hurting anyone.”
“But you did,” the girl turned her attention back at me, gritting her perfectly aligned teeth, wrinkling her nose at the sight of me. “You hurt me and all of your other creations that weren’t good enough for you. My story was perfect, and you destroyed it. You knew it was perfect, but you destroyed it anyway because you were trying so hard to become a popular artist and writer. But guess what, buttercup? You failed! So now, now it’s our turn…” she laughed as she grabbed me by the neck and threw me against the wall.
“What are you going to do!?” I screamed and picked up the nearest thing I could grab, which was a bottle of soda. I shook the bottle and quickly untwisted the cap watching the contents spew out at her.
The girl shrieked in rage. “My perfect look! RUINED! HOW DARE YOU!” The wind picked up once more inside the livingroom and everything flew at me. My attempts to dodge were abysmal at best, as I wasn’t in the best of shape. Yet my heart pumped furiously as the adrenalin kicked in. I grabbed a chair and slammed it into the girl. She responded by lunging at me, pulling my hair.
The last thing I saw was her triumphant smile as she laughed mockingly at me. “You never stood a chance, you weren’t perfect. But I am…”
“Go to hell, Mary Sue.” I spat out my last words before my ghost left my body.
The house was a complete mess after the fight. I looked down seeing my lifeless body and there was little I could do to stop the girl from typing out her story and sending it all over the internet.
But perhaps, perhaps I could let my words haunt this screen as a warning. No matter how terrible your ideas are, don’t worry about what others think. Keep her locked up, keep her safe, make her feel special and pretty. But don’t ever attempt to erase her.
Or she’ll erase you…
*****
I felt like writing something new today. I'm definitely feeling the Halloween spirit and felt like writing a new horror short story.
I thought I'd focus on the "Mary Sue," a character people tend to create that's infamous for being perfect and flawless in every way. But what happens when you try to fix your creations to fit what others think would make better characters and stories?
Are the characters we create real? Would throwing them away or erasing them from existence hurt the characters?
