It’s strange, knowing that every move, every interaction, every event, every tragedy, every single last thing is controlled by some higher power.

“Even my own thoughts,” he said out loud, glaring up at the ceiling in accusation. “I know you know what you’re doing. What you’ve done. But I could really use some help.”

He frowned at the lack of answer. Maybe that was all he was going to get; creators often didn’t take to requests from their creations kindly.

“Could you just... I don’t know. Undo a few things? Give me a hand? Help me undo some things?” He sighed, rubbing at his temples. “Maybe even erase it all, I don’t care. I know this is probably amusing for you, but...”

There was nothing else to say. So much had been done and said already, though he guessed it wasn’t technically by him if there really was someone controlling it all.

“Thanks for coming up with all this. It’ll make a great campfire tale one day. But please,” he pleaded, eyes distant. “When you fix this all, don’t make me the main character.”

He’d grown out of his reading phase at 13, years before he realized.

His story in another time, place, space, might have made it into the shelf of a small town library. Kids liked fiction, right?

Who would’ve thought that the price of fiction was someone’s biography.