It had been quite a long night.
I set down my clothes on the hanger in my house, setting dozens of other unworn clothes aside.
Most of them were gifts handed to me by relatives, others I picked out myself but never wore.
I live in a six story apartment building with my parents, my mom. And.... my dad.
It's not exactly the most impressive space.
But I am glad I live here though.
I'm glad to have a roof over my head.
The floorboards creak as I wall over them.
That makes sense. I've been here in this apartment with my parents, for 16 years.
It's not a mystery why the floors creak nowadays. And why the apartment feels slightly haunted from the outside.
Not really a good look for any guests coming over, but atleast it keeps people out from approaching.
I'm not sure why,
But.
I don't like people.
I'm not socially awkward. I'm not anxious, atleast I don't think I am? I'm not completely sure. Sometimes I am nervous.
Sometimes I'm not.
Sometimes I just don't want to talk to them.
My family never liked this about me. They always said I was unsocial in family gatherings. I never understood how that was a bad thing though.
Somedays I wonder, if I'm becoming empty. Emotionless.
Then I'm met back with reality. The hope crushing reality that I am still alive. I can still feel. I have to. I'm forced to.
I feel as though I am but a spectator in my own body. Watching someone else live their life akin to a movie.
I don't know what this feeling is called.
And I won't try to find out either because I feel it's easier to go about my day without thinking about it too hard.
I want to become a writer.
Good writers can bring their stories to life. Literally
They can make their stories feel like real, living, breathing places that truly exist.
I've always wanted to be a writer. I've always been a creative person. Though, I suppose I'm better suited for studying, graduating, obtaining a degree, and working a mindless profession that requires minimal cognitive output.
Those who are at the top are all people born in creativity.
True humanity.
That is, exploration of one's inner creative mind and expression of oneself.
I do believe it. That creativity is the cornerstone of humanity. It is what seperates us from robots. It seperates us from other animals.
It is everything to us.
And it is exactly what we, no. What I lack most.
I'll admit it. I lack creativity. Just like other people who were fated to walk the same path as me.
I also lack creativity.
Working a 9-5. Spending 40 hours a week at a job where you are treated as expendable. Having to suffer mental abuse and traumatic things at an office.
These are not what humans were made for. Humans naturally want to express themselves.
Why should we be forced not to? Is this what the world wants? For us to stay at the bottom?
In this world.
Creativity is not just another part of being human.
It is quite literally power.
Stories can become real. Songs, poems, epics, legends.
Art, cooking, even programming. All things that require complex cognitive output and creative thinking manifest into reality into different forms.
There are all kinds of famous people who have strong powerful creative manifestations. Some have it in the forms of characters. Some have artifacts. Common tools or objects that become almost magical in nature after having been cared for with human passion.
And I....
Was unfortunate enough to end up having my 12 year old self's edgy novel protagonist manifest into real life on my 16th birthday.
...
Yeah so. What I forgot to mention is that there is a 5'10 almost offensively black haired, black eyed emo protagonist sitting on my bed.
I'm so fucking unlucky. God damn it.
What's worse is that I never gave him a good personality or even a proper backstory.
Fictional characters when they become real by manifesting are usually more powerful depending on the quality and complexity of their character. It possibly has a connection to the attachment towards that character as well, but I'm not sure about that.
"Oi, Ashen. Don't you have any more of those fried potato cubes?" The boy laying on my bed said as he disrespectfully picked his disgusting nose right infront of me.
Flicking a booger onto the floor.
...
Should I just kill him now...? I've always had murderous thoughts bubbling up in me. He's my manifested character anyways. I migh not go to prison–
"Are you dumb, or are you fucking stupid? Do you mean french fries?" I ask him. Clearly annoyed, but trying my best not to show that. However I was failing really badly. Considering I could feel how hot my head was from my anger.
Okay yeah I'm not calm. I just swore out of anger.
My expression outwards did not change. It remained neutral and calm.
Atleast that's what I think. I don't know how I look right now. Not that I care.
"Eh, is that what they're called? Yeah sure whatevs, gimme some more. Also I'm not dumb! I'm Alexander Of The North!"
...Who the fuck actualls talks like that? No real person says that. What was I thinking when writing him..? I could've atleast given him ONE sad backstory instead of making him overpowered and oneshot random monsters in his story.
This cannot fucking go on...
Even his name is just... What the hell?