You can think whatever you want about this piece of writing. I feel that you have to develop an attachment to your characters to portray them properly. It's different with little snippets and prompts they come and go, and are quickly forgotten. But if your going to write a work over months or even years of time then your going to put your heart and soul into it and grow to love or hate the characters.

I wake with a start, once again alone in the real world, dripping in sweat and choked by the foreboding feelings of impending doom. Cautiously searching the house walking from room to room and finding nothing. Satisfied my fears were invoked by a vivid dream, I make my way to the shower. Eyes closed the water pelting me harder and harder as the dial turns. Enjoying the warmth, the muscles in my body begin to unwind from their tense state. My mind goes blank, to think of nothing is a welcome pleasure these days.

But even here I cannot escape my own mind. A blinding white light flashes just behind my closed lids. I am nearly brought to my knees with its intensity. As the water flows, emotion overcomes me, something is wrong. This shouldn't happen anymore, years ago I learned to channel my emotions, to put them on paper, create the players, let them do their dance and then burn all that was written so that no one would grow to know me, for surely the ferocity in which I love and hate would make me an outcast, a freak, feared by those around me.

Hastily, grabbing clothes from the drawer, then heading for the office in search of pencils and paper, I sit down to write, but instead begin to draw. Before me appears my heroine, she lays broken, locked in his bedchamber seething and bleeding. She calls out to me as she sobs uncontrollably, cursing me for my perjury. The veil from her eyes now lifted she knows her king never really existed. In reality he is just a muscle bound boy with pretty face in which when I wrote I instilled all that I could ever hope to find for myself. But I love him; because he made me laugh, he made me cry, he made me feel. I was needed, wanted, loved even if it was just for a short time. I'll never forget him.

In my ears Callisto screams, a scream of death, of defiance, of hatred. Another man, another rage. Hot-blooded hysterics is all she is capable of on days such as this. As I draw her beautiful form wretched in the agony of scorn and disgust for both me and all men, I comprehend her affliction to its fullest extent, as her feelings become mine again. I cry in pain, torment, fear and hostility, big bulbous tears swollen with emotion flow from my eyes and splash upon the paper. The wetness causes circular ripples; the lead blurs and begins to erode their forms. The façade is deteriorating, the walls of protection built throughout these pasts months crumbling.

Am I left once again to face the world alone?

The End

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