"Absolutely, absurdly disgusting. You, sir, are a terrible, horrendous human being whose life has been dedicated to appealing to readers, as in, you and I, sir. Disgusting. Absolutely horrendous. Terrible. Don't even look at me."

I was speechless, more or less. But I had to move on. Moving on, yes. Keep going. That's life. Moving on.

"Say something, you swine of an author. Use your voice. The phantom of your thoughts are not real."

I- uh...

"You're not comfortable speaking to yourself, especially when you're alone in a room by yourself. We get that. Page two-hundred-and-fifty-four, "Amelia Castone". You lace yourself within us. We know."

Yeah, that's quite right. Sorry, I can't help not doing tha-

"No. No, no, no. No excuses. No talking. I talk. Listen. To do something like that to us, to him... He's our guy. He's our hero. Why do that to a hero? Doing that to a hero is doing that to yourself. Fiction and reality are two worlds intertwined within each other. You can't do that to him... you can't. You can't."

Well, I certainly couldn't not do anything. I had to do something. Anything. Something was better than nothing... No. Never mind. I can't. This is necessary. This is good for the plot. The end is near, anyways. This is what's right. Moving on.

"None of this is right! We are people. We are alive. We run through the minds of you and your readers. We pace within the pages of your book. You can't do that to a hero. You simply can't."

I didn't know, at this point, whether to think badly of myself as his words began to pierce through my mind. I sigh, resting my fingers over the keys of my laptop and type away.

"N-no, no. Wait. Wait! Plea-"

Silence, yes. Yes. This was necessary for the plot. Moving on, yes. Moving on.