I know I have a story to update, believe me I am perfectly aware of that fact. But I've been having some serious writer's block when it comes to that and I decided to try and write something to just clear my head. And this is what came of that. I'm sure my muse will return soon in regard to my other story that is in need of another chapter but until that happens you'll just have to settle for this.
Disclaimer: Everyone already knows this but I don't own Castle, never have and I certainly never will. Though it would be extremely nice to.
In reality they were both storytellers, weaving together stories until they made sense. In his case, he strung words together into sentences that would eventually form a book. A story that people would read late at night before they drifted off to sleep, page after page turning in curiosity of what was to come. He told stories of suspenseful mysteries, budding romances and coldblooded killers. And every time the mystery was always solved, a fictional killer put to justice. Everyone wanted to know the ending; it was human instinct. Her job was to find out what caused the ending, she was left with the final piece to a perplexing puzzle and she was paid to put the other pieces together around it. She was given facts, evidence of small plot twists and was then expected to weave a story. And so she would stand at her outline of the story every night, the board that displayed the ending and small tidbits that provided insight on how that particular ending came to be, trying to make each and every piece fit. On her journey to find the right story she always made up false ones, but eventually she would always piece together the truth. Just like in his stories the killer was always caught, though in her case it wasn't fiction.
They both told tales for a living, each one knowing the ending before it even began, so how come neither knew the ending to this particular narrative? The one they were living, the one each of them were experiencing. They knew what events had gotten them to this point; both of them remembered each one clearly. But neither understood them, and that was probably why they couldn't piece together an ending to this story. They were careening down this unknown trail together, but neither knew what they were heading for. What they were still learning is that they couldn't know where this was going to end up, there was no predicting the end. They hadn't even come to realize that this was their story, they still held onto the primitive ideas that he had his story and she had hers. They may have different points of view on the saga but it was undoubtedly one they shared equally.
They couldn't even agree where this story had begun, let alone where it would end. Though they both had their ideas on that subject. If you asked him he'd insist it started the moment she'd tapped him on the shoulder, informing him of a murder and requesting to ask him a few questions. Of course, she hadn't really been requesting, that was only to be polite. If you listened to him relive the memory you'd hear him chuckle and he would tell you that in the years he had worked with her he could count the number of times she had been polite to him on one hand. If you asked her the same question she'd deny that they even had a story, scoffing at the possibility that the childish author was at all a large part of her life. But if you reached into her mind and saw the thoughts roaming around in there you'd find out what the actual answer to that question was. She thought their story had begun long before they first met, around ten years earlier to be exact. When she used the stories he told to lose herself, when she gained comfort from the words he wrote. According to her, the first time she picked up one of his books was when the first sentence of their story was written. And in a way, they were both correct. Their story would never have a specific beginning, no real starting point. That certainly is not normal for a story, but when are they ever conventional?
Something that nobody could agree on was when the climax would, or had, taken place. If you got her mad enough, and drunk enough, she would argue that the climax was when he had left for the summer with that blonde bitch clinging to his arm. She would be uncertain whether he was just leaving for the summer or if he was never coming back to the precinct; back to her. She'd wonder aloud if instead of the climax, that moment was the ending. But she didn't know, she hated not knowing. And it would be clear, if you were perceptive enough to see it, that the uncertainty terrified her in ways nothing else could. If you confronted him with the issue he'd tell you that he really wasn't sure. He's not sure because he doesn't know whether their story is over or not. He'd say that if he were writing it the climax would be yet to come, but unfortunately he is not the author of this particular story. In this story, he is just a character. He would say, with a crack in his voice, that if their story truly was over then he didn't see the climax come and go. He just experienced the aftermath; he hadn't known they had reached the peak and that they were now descending the mountain, crawling towards the final events of the expedition. Their friends and family all seemed to think that the climax had not yet reared its head; they all insisted that the story is far from over. In fact, each one thinks it's only the beginning. And each one is sure that the story will have a happy ending. Everyone around them has come up with their own ending to a story that may or may not be over already, and each scenario has at least one thing in common. And yet the two main characters, the ones this whole narrative is affecting the most, have not a clue as to how it might end up.
But that doesn't mean neither of them dream about it. Each one fantasizes about their preferable ending, completely unaware that the other wants the exact same thing. Although the scenario crosses her mind daily, hourly in fact, and haunts her dreams when she braves sleeping she's never even hinted to him that that is the ending she desires. He's been more up front about it, but always carefully shoves these feeble attempts into subtle hints or masks them behind meaningless things. Then he wrote a book about it, he's in the process of writing a whole series about it; about the ending he craves each moment of every day. But she didn't see through the thin veil he put over this particular attempt, though everyone else could see it clearly as if he had screamed his fantasies to them in person, she only saw his characters, not them. Some would argue that how the tale ended was up to a higher power, a magical being or beings that decided the fate of mortals, but in this story that isn't right. Those mystical beings are not the authors of this novel. The authors of this story are much more earthly and yet as hard, if not harder, to explain. The feelings of the two main characters are the authors here. What these two people feel eventually pushes them to act, decisions are made and words are exchanged that are based on these growing feelings inside each soul. Wherever they end up it will be those feelings that drove them there. And while each are afraid to put a label on what they feel, in fear that it might be what it indeed is. Both of them have no idea that these feelings they're having, one of the things they fear most, are writing their story. And one day, if they accept what is stirring inside of them, maybe they'll get the ending they want. Perhaps they'll get the ending they both deserve. In actuality they were both storytellers but this time neither one of them could write it; they could only feel it.
So...I'd really appreciate a review. You and I both know that the process is not a lengthy one, nor is it particularly hard. Just click on that link down there, type a few words that resemble an opinion, click another button and then you're done. Not so hard, is it? Come one, reviews make my day that much better and don't you want to be the one responsible for brightening my entire day? You're gonna make me say it aren't you? Fine, I'll say it. But only for you. Here it goes...please?