User blog:Yobo Blue/Unwritten Rebirth: Prologue

A single page fluttered. The paper hit the desk it was on, moving for only a single second, but it was enough to tell there was something different.

Where am I?

It wasn’t something that could be sensed or noticed, but the thought was there. Something else to signify the paper was alive, in some shape or form.

Who am I?

A simple question, but it helped bring its own answers. The thoughts of the paper were slow and sluggish, maybe from shock, and maybe from the wrongness of it’s own existence.

''I can’t move. I can barely think. Am I human.....?''

The paper grasped at something in its own mind, reaching out, but finding little more than the blank whiteness of its own face reflected within. The paper seemed shudder.

I need to understand who I am.....

A tremendous effort welled up from inside, a second wind of renewed effort to find something, anything, that could answer the few unfathomable questions that served as its thoughts. And then, like a spark of fire, some recollection appeared. The leftover memories of a life passed, sluggish and shattered, but a welcome change from the emptiness. Memories of happy times, of family memories, of times with friends, and of sadness and death.

''Death.... is this death? No....''

The thoughts and memories coalesced a bit more. A dream of writing. A sister who helped him in the tough times. Parents who supported them both. And then an ending.

''How did it end? What happened to me? If I can just remember that''

He reached into the recesses of his mind and grasped at the death, the endings in his life, and found what he wanted to know and more. Parents who died in a car crash, leaving them destitute. No relatives to take them in. And sickness. In the place of a quick and easy death, a disease he didn’t have the resources to learn about or fight. He would have preferred the easy death of a stabbing or a traffic accident, but he couldn’t let down his sister, nor could he abandon the manuscript he had nearly finished. But before he could, death came to take him, the only record of his existence left being his sister and writings. He had placed his draft in a place he couldn’t recall where no one would find it, having put it away out of some shame he couldn’t even remember the reason for, ensuring it would never help anyone.

''I really am a idiot. I can’t even remember any names.''

He pushed aside the only memories he had left to think about his predicament.

''I’m a paper now. Shit. Reincarnation is a bitch.''

Then, he noticed a change in himself, or rather, on the paper that was his body. On it, words in deep black ink appeared.

Let’s play a game.