Based on a True Story

I don’t know why you’re reading this.  It’s pointless.  I don’t even know why I’m writing this.  It’s stupid and irrational and I’m probably going to end up lying to you before this is all over.  I’m a liar.  You’ll find that one out real quick.  And that’s basically all you need to know about me.  That and the fact that I’m well acquainted with our mutual friend.  You might refer to him as Death. 

            You might find out my name.  Actually, you’ll probably find it out.  I might even be the one that tells it to you.  But it doesn't matter.  I could be anyone.  I could be a clone, the middle child of six million.  Or I could be human and have a soul, whatever the hell that is.  It doesn't matter.  I haven’t even decided if this story matters. 

            I don’t know where you are, if you’re from the past or the present or the future.  I know where I am, but I don’t know where you are in relation to me.  But I know where I’m not.  I’m not in a brave new world and it’s not 1984.  We’re not even on the Gregorian calendar anymore.  That’s why I have no idea when I am in terms that you can understand.  The government re-standardized the years in accordance to the stars and other complicated astronomical events rather than based off of some figure who may or may not be God.

            But that’s not important.  God died and that’s that.  The point is, I’m everywhere because it doesn't matter if I am here at all.  I am immortal because I’m nowhere and everywhere at once.  They used to say time catches up with us all.  Actually, it caught up with everyone and the world ended and now I’m here telling you all this.  And for some reason, you’re still reading.

Now’s the part where you look out your window just to check if the world ended.  Look carefully ‘cause you probably won’t notice it.  No one did notice it.  ‘Cause it ended with a whimper instead of a bang.  Anyways, if you look out your window and the sunflowers are still growing and people are still smiling, then the world probably hasn’t ended yet.  But that’s really for you to decide.  And if, Watson, you deduce that the world has not, in fact, ended yet, then I am in your future.  Trust me, there’s not much to look forward to.

If you look out your widow and conclude that the world has indeed ended, then you’re in my present and there’s no real point for you to go on reading.  You already know what I’m going to say and you’ll be the bloody idiot to call me out on my lies.  Go home and cry yourself to sleep like the rest of us.  Save us the trouble of putting up with your company.

And if you’re anyone else, then congratulations.  I didn't believe you existed.  I still don’t, actually.  I don’t believe there is a future for us.  So go to hell.  I’ll meet you there.

 

If you’re still here, reading this, I suppose that means you’re from the past.  You’re ignorant and optimistic and starry-eyed and stupid.  And you might still believe in God.  With the insults out of the way, I have to explain some things that are going to stretch the limits of your hopelessness.  ‘Cause here, where I’m from, there’s no such thing as any of that�"there’s no optimism and no God and no hope.  I don’t know if you can wrap your mind around that concept.  You hope in every little thing.  Bloody stupid optimist. 

You’re wrong, Watson, in the end.  ‘Cause in the end, there’s actually no such thing as hope.  Trust me, I know.  I’m going to try and explain it to you in terms which make sense to your ignorant mind.

Taking into consideration that you are, in fact, in the past, then I suppose writing this in the future would leave it standing, in your time, as a sort of science fiction.  It’s in the future after all.  But there’s no aliens or clones or science or fiction for that matter.  (Well, except the fact that I am a habitual liar.)  This could be a historical work, if you’re from a future that doesn't exist, so actually, I guess that doesn't work.  This could be a drama�"no, a tragedy. That’s really what it boils down to in the end, I suppose, if you have to label it.  But it doesn't really matter.

The point is, when it comes down to it, it doesn't matter what kind of writing this is.  Because it’s not really any of them, not in your terms anyways.  I've read some of the books from way back when and I personally find them all ridiculous.  Course by now, they’re heralded as marvelous works of literature.  Bullshit.  That’s all it really is.  They've got more lies than I could ever conjure up.  I have found, in your literature, no matter what, there is somewhere a protagonist and an antagonist, hero and a villain.  But here, where I’m from, that’s not true.  There’s no such things as heroes anymore.  But there’s sure a hell of a lot of villains.

Let me explain your ignorance. Let’s say that you decided that this is indeed a work of science fiction, minus the fiction bit because you’re a nice person and will humor me when I lie to you.  I, as the sarcastic narrator, will tell you that I live under an oppressive government that controls my every move.  You immediately make an assumption here, whether consciously or subconsciously.  As your narrator, you designate me as the protagonist and the aforementioned oppressive government as the antagonist.  You assume, because of this, that by the end of the book, I will have successfully overthrown said government, though you do not know how yet as it is only the beginning.  Until I tell you something ridiculous such as the government doesn't allow for its subjects to fall in love.  Here is where you begin you real deductions.  Good job, Watson.  You deduce to your satisfaction that since I am the narrator and the protagonist�"therefore the hero�"and I live under an oppressive government that doesn't allow for love, I will, over the course of the book, meet a tall, dark, and handsome young man who shares my distaste for the government and overthrow the government through our deep, pure, powerful love.  And congratulations.  You have successfully predicted the end of the book within one paragraph.  Elementary.

Except you haven’t ‘cause that was a whole bunch of s**t.  See, I lied to you.  That’s not at all what this is.  Think hard, Watson, ‘cause this one’s the important one. 

Let’s get this straight.  I am the narrator.  You’ll probably find out my name but that doesn't matter.  I am not the hero.  Not. At. All.  I don’t hold a high moral character.  I lie all the time, I cuss when I’m angry, I don’t believe in God, and I kill people.  I’m not your hero.  So right now, stop believing in me.  Actually, stop liking me.  Hate me.  I won’t hold it against you.  I’m not a hero.  Actually, I might even be the villain. 

And if you’re not okay with that, then fine.  Go home, get on your knees, and beg your God that you die before the world ends.  Maybe he’ll listen.

If you stay, then great.  It won’t be worth a damn in the end, let me tell you that.  Now, though, I’m going to tell you a story that might end up being a lie.  And you’re going to continue reading, you’re going to tolerate my cynicism, sarcasm, pessimism, atheism, and any other negatively connoted -ism you can think of.  Listen to me, Watson, ‘cause I’m not telling you science fiction.  I’m telling you the truth.  What the truth boils down to is yours to decide.  But I’m telling you the truth. 

Ironic really. I’m telling you the truth by telling you a lie.

Author's Note

I made a lot of stylistic choices with this character, the main one being that she is going to continue to refer to the second person--whom she has dubbed as Watson--for the remainder of the book. Let me know what you think.