Fabrication -Nada

The city that supposedly never sleeps seems to be taking a nap. It was one of those nights where you can hardly spot a soul outside and all you can hear are branches brushing up against each other. I decide to stay in myself, order some food, and work on the ending of my book. What was once the act that brought me the most pleasure is now the one that terrifies me the most. I’ve been postponing writing for weeks. My deadline is coming up, and I have already told my editor I was done ages ago, even though I still have to write the final chapter. I don’t know how to end it. It’s like a dark hole that I’m reluctant to plunge into. 

I often find myself daydreaming about Ana, the seemingly insane protagonist of my third book, and how to end her roller coaster of a story. I’ve taken Ana through many journeys in the previous books, but this is by far the darkest one I’ve ever explored. 

I’ve done intense research and reading on dreams, the power of the unconscious, and the most dangerous mental illnesses out there. Ana is a beautiful girl; inside and out, who is talked into believing she is crazy by her society. Is she really crazy or is she feeding off what others tell her?

Speaking of dreams, I’ve had the same one last night. I still don’t know who it is. I still don’t know who’s standing behind me …  

In three books, Ana has been through more than what people go through in a lifetime. I’ve taken every trauma I’ve been through and put an extreme spin on it. Childhood abuse, destructive relationships, and suicidal thoughts. There’s so much darkness in her but it’s hard not to notice her exquisite beauty as well. She embraces every emotion, be it good or bad, and that’s what makes her dangerous to herself as well as others. 

I’ve had my fair share of ups and downs. I can never forget the time I spent in an asylum in my early twenties. Until now, I don’t know if there was really anything wrong with me, or if there still is for that matter. I went to see all kinds of professionals from psychiatrists, to therapists, to healers. Some told me that I was perfectly okay; others told me that I was depressed and gave me pills, and one psychologist diagnosed me with bipolar disorder. 

As I was developing Ana, I decided to use the most personal parts of myself, and amplify them. I went through all my old journals. I spent weeks researching myself. It was fascinating. Eye-opening. Frightening at times. 

I imagined her in my head like I always do with all my characters. She’s tall, strikingly pale, with long black hair. I would even draw sketches of her to have a more vivid image in my head as I wrote. 

The ending that makes the most sense, at least to me, would be for Ana to take her own life. I just don’t know how my audience, or editor for that matter, will respond to that. I think I’m also having a hard time letting go of her myself … 

I have no idea how to end her story. It’s slowly driving me crazy. I’ve never not known. I’ve always formed the entire story, even if vaguely, in my head. This time is different. Everything about this time is different. As I reread what I’ve written so far, I can’t help but feel like it’s someone else’s work of fiction, someone else’s imagination. I cannot detect my voice anymore. I don’t know what changed. Have I changed? Something is off. I’m just scared that others will notice. I never thought Ana would be loved by so many. Understood by so many. I think it’s because I’ve magnified in Ana what most people try to destroy in themselves. I’ve received countless fan letters since I wrote the first book about her. Who am I going to be without her? As a writer? As an individual? 

I’m too accustomed to writing about her. It’s almost as if Ana herself is running through my veins. The line between her and me has been blurred for a long time. 

I should be on cloud nine, and I was, but I don’t know where I am anymore. I’m just floating. I used to be one of those college girls who dreamt of having this life, who thought being published was the most exhilarating accomplishment in the world, but now it feels as thought it has consumed me. This book has gobbled me up. I can’t remember the last time I actually had a good night’s sleep. Fiction has become more of a necessity than sleep.

I miss finding an escape in writing, as opposed to now, when writing is the one thing I want to escape from but can’t … 

I started seeing a therapist too. Isn’t that ironic? My life is moving forward in a pace I can hardly keep up with, yet I still gave in to the urge to see a professional for help, as if I’m back to where I started. I’m terrified of anyone finding out. I’m terrified of anyone sensing that Ana is an extension of me. I’m terrified of anyone realizing that writing those three books was like writing volumes of my autobiography. I’m afraid of being exposed. 

I had the same dream last night. I lost count of how many times I’ve had this same dream. I’ve been having the same reoccurring dream for about a month. I replay it in my head as I drift off to sleep. I wake up in the middle of the night because of it. In this bizarre dream, I’m writing in a notebook, which is odd. For some reason, I can’t seem to control my arm.  I start out writing normally, but then my arm takes on a life of its own. Even though I want to stop writing because I’m in excruciating pain, I just can’t, no matter how hard I try. My words make sense at first, but then as my arm moves more furiously, all I write is nonsense. It’s like my whole arm is possessed. I start to cry but that still doesn’t make my disobeying arm stop. It only makes it worse. In the dream, I’m also aware that someone is standing behind me, but I have no idea who it is. I wake up every night, around 3 am, confused by this inexplicable dream. What freaks me out the most is the weirdly painful throbbing sensation in my arm and the nail marks on my palm when I wake up. 

It’s almost midnight. I finally start writing, but I can’t decide how Ana dies, or if she should. I throw myself on the couch. I’m suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to sleep. It’s like I’ve been drugged. I put my hand on my forehead. My head is throbbing. 

Everyone can relate to her. We all have an Ana within us. The relationship we have with her differs from one person to the other. Some ignore her, some suppress her, and others bury her completely. Rarely do people embrace her.

My neck starts to ache, so I grab a pillow, only to find it covered in long black hair. I’m too tired to care. I’ve had a few dinner parties lately. I guess my apartment is in desperate need of cleaning up. 

I pick up my laptop to write. The white screen is staring back at me mockingly. It suddenly becomes the hardest thing in the world to get my almost-paralyzed hands to start typing words. Any words. I’ve become used to this daily challenge. 

The idea of a walk seems appealing right now. I need contact with the outside world. I get ready, grab my phone, and walk to the table where I always throw my keys on but they’re not there. I decide to look for them when I get back. I try to open the door but it won’t budge. I don’t remember locking the apartment when I came back home last night. I can’t help but find the ridiculousness of the situation funny. I’ve never heard of someone getting locked inside their apartment. I guess I should take this as a sign that I should get back to writing. 

I need a hot shower to unwind. I haven’t actually done anything yet. I’m just physically tired from thinking. My whole body is in pain. The inability to write is affecting me physically. 

The hot water feels heavenly against my skin. I’m running my fingers through my foamy hair when suddenly the shower rail falls on me. The curtain clings to me stubbornly even though I try to peel it off.  I can barely breathe, nor see, with the hot water beating down aggressively on my face and the curtain violently wrapping me up. I slip and land on my back. My head is throbbing even more now. 

I get out of the tub and feel myself shaking. It’s not because I’m cold. The water, which quickly became scorching, almost burned my skin. I can barely see anything inside my steam-filled bathroom. However, I can vaguely make out a squiggly A in the mirror. Puzzled doesn’t even begin to explain how I feel. I look down. I notice blood dripping on the sink. I see that my left arm is covered in bloody scars. I look to my right to find a blood-covered razor in my tub. The sharp pain is registering. I must have cut myself when I slipped. For a second, I feel like I am about to faint. 

   

Looking at the cuts on my arms brings back painful memories. Nothing makes one feel as vulnerable as open wounds. I cover them up, get dressed, and go back to the living room to work. 

I enter the living room and the first thing I do is yell. A lanky girl, with long black hair, is lying on my couch. She’s twisting her hair around her fingers as she looks at me calmly. She has dark circles under her captivating blue eyes. Who is she and how did she get in?

“Don’t kill me.” 

“Who are you?” 

“You should know.” 

Her voice is low … hoarse … as if she’s been screaming. 

My mouth, uncontrollably, utters the name 

“Ana?” 

“Don’t kill me. You can’t. Not without killing yourself.” 

I could only stared. My heart is beating so fast that my chest feels like it’s going to explode. I can’t think straight. 

“You already put me through so much. Why are you so afraid of letting me live? I will linger inside of you whether you kill me off or not.” 

I don’t know how to respond. 

“I tried to kill you, but I couldn’t, so I know how you feel.” 

I’m in so much shock that I can barely comprehend what she’s saying. She opens my laptop for me and tenderly gestures for me to sit next to her. I hypnotically walk towards her. There’s so much I want to say but all I can do is stare. I start writing. The words start to rush out of me like never before. I can feel her hot breath on my neck. I can feel my heart beating in my throat. She’s reading every word as I type it. I don’t know what I’m writing. I see the words but they barely make sense to me. My hands start to hurt. 

I wake up on my keyboard. I can’t even remember falling asleep. My apartment is eerily quite. I look around. There’s no one but me. I turn on my laptop. I don’t know what I’m expecting to find or what I want to, but I open the file of the finale chapter, and find that it’s complete. I see that I’ve already emailed my editor the ending. Ana’s not dead. I start to feel my heart racing again. 

This is a story I know I can’t tell anyone. I’m afraid of even retelling it to myself, but I knew that I would break down if I didn’t at least write about it. Did it really happen? Am I losing my mind? There’s nothing that slowly drives one crazy quite like unanswered questions …