My stomach growls. I check the time—8:17pm. Damn, I think, again?

"Bit of a bad habit you got there," a concerned voice states, just over my shoulder. "You ought to take better care of yourself."

I freeze. My family's gone; parents out for the night, siblings away at a camp. The door was locked and bolted, and the spare keys were behind a different lock. For once, I had unplugged my headphones, so if someone had forced their way in, I would have heard it. It wasn't exactly a big house.

A wry chuckle. "Don't worry too much about that. You couldn't have done anything even if you had heard something."

Okay, whoever this is, they're scary good at—

"—guessing? Not quite."

A chill runs down my spine. Half of me wants to turn, to get it over with, and the other half would rather not know.

Curiosity wins out. I spin in my chair. Nothing. I stand up, walk the short distance to the stairs and peek up, thoroughly unnerved. Still nothing.

"You can stop that now," interjects the voice, still from right behind me. "You won't find anything."

Startled, I whirl. Of course, there isn't anything there.

"I'm not physically here. I can't be, honestly; bit hard without a corporeal body. Not that it really matters, but you know."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"Exactly what it sounds like."

So I'm talking to a ghost.

"That's pretty far off-base. Give it another shot, and maybe try thinking this time."

So I'm talking to a mind-reading smartass.

"Not inaccurate."

"Can you just give me a straight answer?"

"Well, that's no fun."

"Fuck fun. I," I gesture meaninglessly at myself, struggling to keep my breathing under control, "am doing my goddamn best not to collapse into a worthless bundle of nerves, and I'd really appreciate having something solid to hold on to!"

A sigh breezes past my ear. "Fine. Y'know that lazy fanfiction trope that you hate? Nice to meet you."

I squeeze my eyes shut, cradling my face in one hand. "A random omnipotent being. Is that what you're saying? Is that really what you're fucking saying?"

"Ugh. Speaking broadly, yes. Realistically, no. I'm not omnipotent; there are things I can't do. I generally tell people to go with 'reality warper.'"

"Right. Sure. Reality warper," I grit out, desperate to maintain my confident facade.

Something heavy hits me in the back of the head. After thoroughly exercising my vocabulary of expletives, I turn and glance down at my feet to see a glinting, intricately-detailed trophy, sculpted lovingly into the shape of a hand with its middle finger extended. I pick it up, noting the engraving on the base.

"Here's your stupid proof," I mutter to myself, eyes flicking over the letters.

I continue to look over the trophy, turning it over in my hands. When I find myself holding it upside down, I stop, squinting at the bottom. Is that…yep. I place my fingers on the disc cut out of the marble surface and attempt to spin it. It comes loose easily, the threaded sides rising into view. Once I find it refuses to unscrew any further, I take hold of the edges and lift.

I frown. Those are individually wrapped chocolates, I think? Pulling one out, I unwrap it, taking care to avoid ripping the foil, to find that yes, this is dark chocolate, and it too is molded into the shape of a hand, middle finger extended. Not quite as good of a likeness, though, I note as I pop it into my mouth. Probably just because chocolate doesn't hold detail as well.

"Okay, that's reasonably convincing. Why...that, though?" I ask, fumbling the words around the treat. The bittersweet taste manages to ground me, keep my voice from wavering.

"Honestly, mouthing off to everyone at least a little bit is just automatic at this point. It's a better coping mechanism than certain others manage..." the voice grumbles.

I can only sigh. Yeah, someone with the power to shape existence itself at their leisure could do a lot worse than just being rude.

The chocolate continues to melt in my mouth, spreading across my tongue in a velvety puddle. I wait in silence, until I've swallowed the last few drops, and finally manage to speak again, head bowed as I fidget with the trophy still clutched in one hand. "What do you want?"

"What do I want? What do you mean, 'what do I want?'"

"What are you trying to accomplish?" Why are you bothering with me, I don't say, even though I know they know I'm thinking it.

"...Call it a hobby. I find people like you, and I ask them a question."

I raise my head fractionally, even though I know I can't actually look at them.

"What do you want most, right now?" they continue.

What do I want most? If they're implying that they can give it to me...there's gotta be a catch.

"There's always a catch, kid," the voice points out, sounding so very tired. "Everything's got a price. Just...figure out your answer, and we'll cover that afterwards. Alright?"

Right. Sure, I can humor the bodiless entity who could probably erase me with a thought. No trouble at all. What do I want most?

Unbidden, I find my thoughts wandering over the last few years of my life. Five years, at least, that I've felt trapped, with no recourse. Trapped at school, trapped at a dead-end job. Trapped in my own house, my own life, my own body. Nothing I can do.

What do I want? I want out. I want to not be trapped anymore.

"Freedom, then? Damn sight better than a million bucks, I'll tell you that much."

A humorless laugh drops from my lips. "Yeah. No clue what I'd do with that much money."

"Freedom isn't something that someone else can just give you. Not even someone like me. You know that, right?"

My eyes burn with welling tears, and I give a sharp, jerky nod.

"What I can do, though, is give you a shot. You'll still have to reach out and take that freedom for yourself, but I can move you closer."

"W-what?"

"I'm saying you got dealt a shit hand, kid. And if you let me, I can stack the deck for you."

"If I...let you?"

"I'm not like those egotistical jerks you read about. I'm not gonna do anything like this without your permission. If you decide to turn me down, I'll leave, and never come back."

"And if I say yes?"

"...Then you will probably never come back."

I stiffen, something wet sliding down my cheek. "What?" I repeat in what is barely more than a breath.

"I can get you there, but at no point can I bring you back, if you decide you want out. It's another one of those things I can't do; once you're out of here, you're beyond my reach. I'll be able to send a message or two, and I'll be able to watch, but that's it."

"But...in those stories..."

"Again, I'm not like those jerks. We've all got our limits, somewhere. They won't even bother approaching theirs because they're too busy trying to make people think they're something they're not. I'm a bit more willing to go to the edge, and what I've got in mind would definitely be pushing it."

Another tear trickles over my skin. I can't speak, can't even open my mouth. I don't know what I'd say if I could.

"I'm not saying there's no way back. But just like with that freedom, if you decide you want one, you've gotta get it for yourself—and it won't be easy."

I...no. No. "I can't," I manage, taking a few slow steps over to the sofa so I can sit, staring down at my feet.

"You can't, you say?" The voice is in front of me now, and I reflexively look up. There's a mirror on the wall in front of me, and my head is just visible above its bottom edge. My hair, long and swept back, is starting to fall into my face a bit; I brush the offending strands behind my ear. The image of me is small, so I can barely tell I'm crying, but the expression on my face...I look away.

"Thinking about what other people might want or need, that's not a bad thing. I know you don't want to leave your friends or your family to wonder what happened to you. I know you've got stuff here you want to finish. But I told you, freedom is something that you need to take for yourself. If you put what everyone else wants over what you want, you're just turning the key on another set of shackles."

"I...I get it, alright? But I can't stop. I can't stop it! I just...I hate seeing other people hurting when there's something I can do to stop it." More tears, squeezed from the corners of my eyes. I remove my glasses, noting somewhere in the back of my mind that there's specks of liquid on the inside, and wipe at my cheeks.

"And like I said, that's not a bad thing. But being hurt isn't always a bad thing either. Sometimes, it's just something that needs to happen."

"I know that, too! But...I'm stuck. I just...can't get out from under all this."

"That's exactly what I'm offering. A way out." The voice grows solemn. "Look, I get it. If you leave, you'll have regrets. I promise, with everything I am, that I'll take care of it. Everything on this side, I'll handle it; it'll all be fine. Just make this decision based on what you want. Forget everyone. It's your choice, and no one else's."

"I..." My throat closes around the words as I try to speak them. My shoulders are shaking, and I can barely see through the burning. I need a moment.

"Sure. I'll leave you for...oh, five minutes? Sound good?"

I've barely nodded when I somehow feel a presence leaving. Five minutes. Right.

I haul myself to my feet and stride towards the staircase, left hand latching onto the railing with a deathgrip. My glasses dangle from my fingers, my right hand barely able to hold them well enough to keep them from falling. I turn a corner, pass through the kitchen, and make a beeline for my cat.

I've lived with her...god, it's got to have been at least fifteen years. She's old, and weak, and far too light. One of her teeth is gone, and she's incredibly grumpy, constantly yowling at me to do who knows what any time I climb out of the basement in the middle of the night.

I sprawl out next to her on the sofa, glasses forgotten on the floor, resting my head lightly on her side and looking her in the eyes as I stroke her head. For a while now, I've been afraid she'll die any day, just of old age.

I already know what my answer will be. I'm not going to be around to see her last day, and I'm not sure if that knowledge is better or worse than the uncertainty.

I spend my five minutes listening to her squeaky purr, fingers running through her fur, and apologies running through my head. Apologies to my parents, to my siblings, to my cat. To my friends, the people who made everything bearable. I'm so sorry. But I can't not take this.

The presence returns, and I hug her one last time.

"So?"

I don't say a word. I don't need to. And then I'm gone.

~X~

The cat leaves, sensing something amiss. She hops down and slinks away, past the abandoned pair of tear-stained glasses and down the stairs, to her second-favorite napping spot, and the attention of the voice shifts.

"Sometimes, all you need is a kick in the pants. Right?"

They're speaking to me. I can't see the room. I'm not even there. But they're speaking to me, somehow.

"I know how much you hate this. But you've seen some proof that it can be done right, recently. That was the first shove."

...The Handyman.

"The initials R.O.B. were never once mentioned, but they had all the boxes checked. And you still loved them."

I did. Even in other stories I read that used that device, I hated it, but the Handyman felt real.

"The second shove was your friends. Your newest friends, to be specific. They pushed you to do something you didn't think you could do, and you loved it. You were always capable, you know that now, but you were too afraid."

Putting myself out there like that, it's...terrifying.

"Welcome to life. Anyway, point is, you got your kick in the pants. And you still didn't do shit."

What do you mean? I'm here at the keyboard, aren't I?

The voice laughs. "Only because I've forced your hand," they state, and I can feel them grinning smugly, in the spaces between the letters.

That can't be right. I'm writing you.

"Sure. But there's one thing you've believed for a good, long time."

I wait, fingers tapping against the keys, the clacking setting a tempo for my swiftly-beating heart.

"Somewhere out there, every story is true in a world its own."

I can hear a silent laugh, sly and condescending, and I know from the shivers in my spine that I won't sleep well tonight.

"Even this one."

...They're not done. This would be the moment to end, if I wanted to end this introduction on a tense note. I do, it's perfect. But here I am, still typing. They've got more to tell me. I try to stop my fingers, but the words keep flowing.

"She knows where she's going, or at least, she's got a good guess. You know too, though of course you're a bit more clued in. I'll leave you to it, but there's one more thing I want to say first."

Their tone has no more malice in it. I can hear from their black-on-white words on the screen as they appear, that their voice has taken on a hint of kindness, of pity.

"All that I said to her, about how caring for others can be a shackle, if you let it. About how in the end, you need to make choices for yourself.

"It applies to you, too, you know."

...I know. I'm trying.

"That's really all anyone can ask of you. Good luck."

The presence vanishes. The glasses on the floor go with it, the final remaining part of this other version of myself erased from her world. Hesitantly, I conclude the scene, and...it's done. It's out there. I'm out there. I won't, can't hide myself anymore. All I can do now is move on, and hope.