The Author

She walked into the room with that look in her eye like she knew all about us, everyone of us, narrating our lives, authoring us, writing me.

That’s when she stared directly at me, pointed a finger and shouted, “You!”

I flinched, nearly filled my pants. Her voice sliced through my head, shattered any sense of confidence to which I may have pretended. With a twist of her hand, my breath was yanked out of me. The room grew dark and a rising rushing sound filled my ears. After that I have no memory to what transpired, which may have been a mercy.

When I regained consciousness, events had progressed far beyond my ability to affect any change. I could see it all before me, predestined as with ink on parchment, a life dedicated to her bidding, borne on the wings piercing my back.