A Supporting Role

A Supporting Role

By Donny Bruso

         “Just do it, Daria. It will only hurt for a second…”

         Daria Taylor sat on the floor in her bathroom, tears running down her cheeks. Her right hand clutched a large chunk of the recently broken mirror. Part of her brain nattered on that she should let go of it before she cut her fingers, but it seemed dim and far away.

         The forefront of her mind was dominated by the Voice. Notice the capital V? Makes it seem more important. Right this moment, the Voice was telling her that she needed to take the razor sharp chunk of glass and slash her wrists. Lengthwise. Got to get the details correct.

Daria herself didn’t particularly see the need to do this, but from before she could remember she had heard stories from her family and friends telling her about their religious experiences with the Voice of God. Because if you hear voices in your head it must be God. I mean otherwise you’d be crazy, and they would take you somewhere nice and white with lots of padded walls and friendly people in lab coats.

         “I hate to push here, Daria, but I’m kind of on a timetable. The tears and inner battle are all nice and dramatic, but let’s face it, you’re a supporting character. This isn’t happening on screen. Can we get this over with already? I have three more scenes to write tonight.”

         Choking on her sobs, Daria felt her hand move, placing the tip of the glass on her left wrist and begin to bear down. A bright bead of blood welled up around the tip of her homemade shiv.

         But that voice in the back of her head kept blathering on about how badly she was going to hurt people by doing this, and that things weren’t even that bad. Really, they were pretty good. She had a great job, a boyfriend she could mostly tolerate; even her family was reasonably acceptable in spite of their religious fervor.

         In fact if you kill yourself you wouldn’t be able to go snowboarding with Alexis and Sarah this weekend. And you do love snowboarding, don’t you? Sure you spend as much time on your ass as on the board, but it’s all in good fun right?

         Focusing on the rational voice made her head hurt, and Daria dropped the shard of glass to bury her head in her bloody hands. Spikes of red agony tripped through her skull and she moaned in pain.

         “Pick up the damn glass and get on with it!” the Voice of God demanded.

         “NO!” Daria screamed back, and grabbing the shard of glass, flung it against the wall; where it shattered into a thousand tiny pieces, each far too small to serve as a cutting implement.

         “Goddamnit. I can’t deal with this right now. I need a break…”

         Daria felt the pain in her head suddenly recede, and with it her strength seemed to fade as well. She sagged against the wall, feeling like a marionette that has just had its strings cut.

         A knock came from the door of her apartment. Knocking would have been the polite term, but it was really more like pounding. Daria pushed herself to her knees, then laboriously to her feet. In one of the few spider-webbed pieces of glass left in the mirror frame she caught sight of her reflection. Her face was streaked with tears and mascara, and the nick on her wrist dripped blood down onto her palm.

         “I can’t answer the door like this,” she muttered to herself. “If the neighbors see what goes on in here they’ll all want to join in on the fun.” Her natural sarcasm asserting itself was comforting; a sign that things were going back to normal.

         The pounding continued, as it tends to do. Because people firmly believe that if we just simply knock loud enough, someone will suddenly teleport home and answer the door. But now there was yelling to go with it. As Daria washed the blood off and stuck a band-aid on her wrist (singing the band-aid song in her head as she did so, because doesn’t everyone?) She heard her nosy neighbor’s voice calling through the door.

         “Daria? Are you in there? I heard yelling and what sounded like glass breaking. Daria? Are you going to make me stand out here in the hall all night? I swear, young people have no manners anymore! Back in my day when one of our elders said jump, we asked how high, and there was no delay in asking, let me tell you! But you kids these days…”

         As it usually did, Mrs. Jacobson’s speech rambled off down the broad and well-traveled path of how much better things had been when she was young.

         Daria hurriedly finger combed her hair, and stepping carefully around the broken glass, padded down the hall to see her senile neighbor.

         She opened the door just as Mrs. Jacobson was about to knock yet again, and the older woman staggered forward and slammed her fist into Daria’s shoulder. “Ow!” Daria yelped.

         “Well you should know better than to open a door when someone’s about to knock on it!” Mrs. Jacobson snapped. “Serves you right, young lady. Making me stand out here pounding on your door all night. I was about to call the police.”

         “Because I didn’t answer the door? I do have a job, you know. I go places. The fact that I’m not home is hardly evidence of foul play, Mrs. Jacobson.”

         “Don’t try any of your verbal gymnastics on me, young lady. I heard screaming and all kinds of disruptive noises from your apartment this evening. I’ve half a mind to call the building manager!”

         “Half? That seems like a generous estimate.”

         “Mrs. Jacobson?” The building manager broke in, stepping out of the stairwell. “Some of the tenants are complaining about the- Daria!” He stopped dead, a look of shock on his face.

         “Um, Yes?” Daria turned around to see if there was something behind her, but no, it was just her normal sparsely furnished I’m-saving-money-to-get-out-of-this-place apartment.

         “Uh, I’m not sure, actually,” The manager looked confused, and rubbed his temples as if he had a headache. “I just got this feeling that something bad should be going on with you when I came up here.” He shrugged. “Glad to be wrong though. If you two ladies could keep your voices down I’d appreciate it.” He smiled apologetically. “Walls are kind of thin, you know.” With that he waved goodbye and disappeared back into the stairwell.

         Mrs. Jacobson gave Daria one of her prune-faced looks of disapproval, and shuffled the twenty feet down the hall to her own door. As she swung the door closed, she shot Daria another disparaging look, which Daria felt morally obligated to return with the finger before she closed her own door.



#



         “Miss Taylor? What are you doing here?”

         Daria narrowed her eyes and looked at the receptionist. “I work here. It’s Thursday. Did I miss a memo about having the day off?”

         “Uh, well… this is awkward… It seems that we’ve promoted someone to replace you. For some reason I have down that you’re um, unable to continue working here.”

         “What?! I was just here yesterday!”

         “Yes, hrmm, it’s very confusing…”

         “Well I’m perfectly able to continue working here, and if the firm tries to fire me or replace me with this new girl, I’m perfectly able to file a lawsuit. Got me?”

         “Oh certainly, we’d never try to force you out, Daria! Mr. Sutherland speaks so highly of your work! I suppose I’d better call Miss Reynolds out here and explain it to her… I don’t suppose I could talk you into that part could I?”

         “Nope. I’ll be at my desk.”

         “Uh… Yes… Get the gofer to go get the box of your stuff out of the storeroom. We sort of cleaned it all out for Miss Reynolds last night…”

         Daria rolled her eyes. “Right. Well no one had better come bitching that I didn’t get anything done today.”



         Out in the corridor leading to her office, Daria grabbed the arm of Jim, the office gofer. “Hey, go get my stuff out of storage, would you Jim?”

         “M-m-miss Taylor?!? Uh… Of course! I’ll get right on it!”

         Daria scowled at him. “What is the matter with everyone here? You all look at me like I’ve grown a second head or come back as a zombie.”

         “Well… it’s just… We all read the paper this morning-”

         “What about the paper?” Daria demanded, crossing her arms.

         “You haven’t seen it?” Jim asked, astonished.

         “No, I overslept, I didn’t get my paper, my coffee, or any of the rest of my usual morning routine, so please,” Daria said with sarcastic sweetness, “Enlighten me.”

         “I’ll get you a paper with the rest of your things, Miss Taylor. Just be a moment. I’ll bring them to your desk.”

         “What the hell is going on around here?” Daria muttered to herself as Jim hurried off.



         Rounding the corner in the hallway, she found a maintenance guy scraping her name off of the glass door of her office. “Hey!” she snapped. “Paint that back on!”

         “Who the hell do-” The guy turned, ready to lay into whoever had dared contradict his work order. Laying eyes on Daria, the scraper he had been using fell from his hand, landing with a muffled thump on the carpet, and he hurriedly crossed himself.

         “Put it back,” Daria snarled at him, her patience at an end.

         “Right away, Miss Taylor! Won’t take but a minute!”

         Daria ignored him and pushed through the door into her office. Or what used to be her office, anyway. Now it looked like it had been taken over by the neighborhood tree hugger association. Potted plants squatted in every corner, plant hangers dangled in front of the spacious window with its prestigious view of the parking lot, and smaller potted plants loitered on Daria’s hideously expensive solid wood desk, hand carved by starving artists and inlaid with gold.

         “Who the hell are you?” The blonde woman behind the desk demanded as Daria walked in. Then she went pale. “It can’t be…”

         “What in the ninth circle of hell is going on in this place?” Daria demanded, posting her fists on her hips. “Every person in this office has acted shocked that I had the audacity to show up for work, and none of them have been willing to provide so much as a whisker of a reason why. Now you’re stuck here with your hideous plants leaking water all over my desk, and you aren’t going anywhere until I get some answers!”

         “What? But you’re… I mean… you can’t be here!” The blonde stammered out.

         “And why exactly is that?” Daria demanded through clenched teeth.

         “Well you’re ah… That is to say they told me you were, um… Dead.”

         “What?!?” Daria exploded. “Do I bloody well look dead? I guarantee no dead person has the blood pressure issues you’re giving me right now! Get your god-awful plants and whatever other crap you brought in here and get out of my office. If I see you in here again, you can resign yourself to being a junior associate for the rest of your time with this firm.”

         “Of course! I mean, I didn’t mean to take your desk, Miss Taylor! I’d never do that! It’s just that Mr. White told me-”

         Her babbling cut off as the depth of Daria’s scowl registered somewhere in the back of her bleach-addled brain. Daria’s icy eyes glared at her over her glasses as she quickly collected the few items she had unpacked and threw them back in the boxes they had been brought in.

         When Blondie had gone, Daria sank down in her chair, which was now adjusted so high her feet dangled without touching the floor. With a mental growl of frustration, she readjusted it, then planted her elbows on the hard, cool wood of her desk, and rested her chin on her hands.

         Dead? Why would they think I was dead? And how could they promote someone that quickly? Did they do a full partner review board after I left yesterday?

         Daria’s head was beginning to pound. Probably from the intense frustration and absurdity of the situation; but just as likely from a lack of caffeine. It had been so hard to get up this morning. She had woken up over and over in the night, gasping for air as though she were being smothered.

         Strange dreams had run through her mind all night, in which the Voice figured prominently. Finally, some time after two a.m. it had stopped and she had gotten some semi-restful sleep, only to awake and find that she had missed her alarm by an hour.

         On the way to the office it had seemed like all the cars on the road were aiming at her, either running her off the road, or trying to hit her at any opportunity.

         And now this. She was supposedly dead. And if she understood Jim’s hinting about the paper, supposedly they had published her obituary. Crap. Gotta call Mom and Dad, they’ll be a mess.

         Just as she reached for the phone, Jim rapped on her door and pushed it open. He held a large cardboard box in his arms, and a cardboard cup of coffee balanced on top.

         “Here you are, Miss Taylor. I brought you some coffee since you said you hadn’t had any yet. Today’s paper is tucked in the box with all your things.”

         “Thank you, Jim,” Daria said, setting down the receiver for a moment. “Who exactly started this story though? I’d like to have a little chat with them…” She growled the last part.

         “Hmmm. You know, I don’t really know who started it. Mr. Sutherland called me at home last night and asked me to pick up a night shift to clean out your office. He’s the one that told me, but I couldn’t say how he knew.”

         “The Managing Partner called you.”

         “Yes ma’am.”

         “The Managing Partner called you.”

         “…Yes…”

         “I’m not trying to belittle you here, Jim, but you’re our errand boy. I like you well enough, but we’re not exactly bosom friends, here. I find it very odd that John Sutherland even knows your phone number; especially since he calls you Jack every time he asks you for something.”

         “Hmmm. That’s a good point, ma’am. I didn’t think it was odd last night, but now that you mention it, it does seem weird. Maybe he has it in a file somewhere?”

         Daria frowned. “Maybe. I suppose someone must. It just seems like something he would have delegated to a flunky. No offense.”

         “None taken, ma’am.”

         Daria sighed. “Thank you, Jim. I can put this all back myself, I’m sure you have better things to do than hang my ego wall back up.”

         Jim shrugged. “Not really, but if you prefer to do it, I won’t complain.” He gave her a smile, then left, closing the door behind him.



         The day went almost painfully slowly. After calling her parents and generally contacting just about everyone she knew to let them know that she was not, in fact, dead, Daria spent the day returning her office to its normal state.

         People cycled through her office throughout the day, all staring at her as if she had suddenly transformed into a particularly shocking form of demonic fungus during the night.

         Sometime after lunch, and several visits from the office gofers to return her current case files, Daria finally had the time to attempt to get to the bottom of her purported demise.

         She knew perfectly well that she should be dead. She had almost slit her wrists open with her own bathroom mirror the previous night, but no one knew that. She had been alone in her apartment, and had told no one about it. Attempted suicide was generally seen as a bad thing in a junior partner, at least at her particular law firm.

         So how had Sutherland known to promote someone to replace her? Who had called the paper to have not just her obituary, but a story complete with pictures published?

         Her head continued to hurt, despite copious amounts of caffeine and aspirin. Daria pinched the bridge of her nose, then snatched up her phone and paged her assistant.

         Her assistant, a girl who looked about two days out of high school, but insisted she was a qualified paralegal, stuck her head in the door. “Yes Miss Taylor?”

         Daria set her glasses on the desk and rubbed her eyes. She hadn’t even done any real work today. Why was she feeling this bad? “Can you call Mr. Sutherland and get me a meeting with him? The sooner the better.”

         “Of course. And I apologize for not coming by earlier, but I’m glad the paper was wrong,” She smiled at Daria.

         “Thank you, Liz. Oh, did we get those depositions back on the Nelson case?”

         “I believe they’re sitting in my inbox now. I was trying to track down who was working the case now, but I’ll bring them right up as soon as I call Mr. Sutherland.”

         “Good. I need something to distract me from this absurdity. Nothing like reading criminals’ attempts to excuse their behavior to make your reported demise seem mundane.”

         Liz smiled and backed out of the office, presumably heading for her cubicle, and Daria tilted her chair back, waiting for the girl to return.

         “Getting old?”

         Daria’s eyes snapped open and she quickly tilted her chair forward and jammed her glasses back on her face. “Mr. Sutherland, I was just-”

         He held up his hands, exposing a perfect band of starched white cuff at each wrist. His cuff-links were shaped like tiny silver cameras. “Relax, Daria. I’m sure it’s been a trying day.”

         She smiled ruefully. “That’s one way of putting it, Sir.”

         “I wanted to stop by earlier, but you know how the business goes.” He shrugged, and Daria nodded. The MP is never late. Everyone else is just early.

         “I was very upset when I thought we’d lost you,” Sutherland continued. “You’re quite possibly the best trial lawyer in the firm. It’s no accident that you’ve gotten to this office as quickly as you have.”

         “Sir, if you don’t mind my asking, how exactly did you hear that I was dead?” Daria clutched her hands together in her lap, trying not to fidget.

         Sutherland frowned. “Normally I wouldn’t- Well I suppose under the circumstances, I owe you an explanation, don’t I?” He nodded to himself. “Do you believe in God, Daria?”

         “Um, after a fashion, I suppose. I’m not especially religious, Sir.”

         Sutherland frowned at that, but continued. “My family and I are very devout. In particular, I’m very interested, and have extensively researched, the phenomenon of people hearing the Voice of God.”

         Daria tensed, and her eyes narrowed. “Are you saying that God told you I was dead, Sir?”

         Sutherland‘s face took on a somewhat darker shade of pink. He coughed lightly into his fist. “Yes, I suppose I am, Daria. I know it seems crazy, but I heard him telling me that I needed to promote Miss Reynolds to take your spot after you um, killed yourself last night.” He looked sharply at her. “Do you need to see someone, Daria? We’ll give you whatever time you need…”

         “I’m fine, Sir,” Daria blurted out. “Couldn’t be happier.”

         Sutherland’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not sure I believe you,” he murmured.

         “Really, Sir,” Daria said, leaning forward. “I’m fine.”

         “Daria, I hope that we have built a relationship where you can tell me if something of that magnitude is wrong.”

         Oh what the hell. He’s already told me he’s a Jesus-freak and hears voices. Might as well tell him the truth…

         “Well,” Daria cleared her throat and squared her shoulders. “In light of what you’ve told me, there is something that has been bothering me, but it just started last night.”

         Sutherland leaned forward in his chair and gestured for her to continue.

         “You mentioned hearing… well… God?” Daria said, feeling her face start to burn.

         “Yes, I believe that he guides the faithful and at times provides them with information they may require.”

         “Um, well… last night, I think I heard him,” Daria got out. This is extremely ill-advised. I’m going to tell my boss that God wanted me to kill myself? What the hell is wrong with you, Taylor? Tired of unpadded walls and people who think you’re playing with a full deck?

         “Fascinating,” Sutherland said. “That he should speak to someone so… ambivalent about their faith. But then mere mortals aren’t capable of understanding the workings of God.”

         “Um, yes.”

         “Why does this bother you?”

         “Uh, well, he seemed kind of impatient with me. As though I wasn’t doing what he wanted.”

         Sutherland leaned back in his chair and shrugged. “If that troubles you, perhaps you should look to what He wanted you to do.”

         “That’s somewhat difficult for me, Sir. I don’t want to do it.”

         “Well perhaps I can assist you. What is it you feel He wants you to do?”

         “Kill myself.”

         Sutherland’s eyes narrowed to slits and he studied Daria’s face silently for a long time, his face drawing together in a magnificently repressing frown.

         Finally he spoke, enunciating very carefully, as though speaking in spite of a deep fury. “Miss Taylor,” he started, and the sudden switch away from her first name wasn’t lost on Daria.

         “I am not accustomed to being mocked. Much less by my subordinates, however skilled they are. I’m going to assume that this is either a very poor attempt at humor, or notice that you are no longer interested in working at this firm. Am I mistaken?”

         There’s a loaded question. How do you tell your boss that he’s wrong?

         “I’m afraid you are mistaken, Sir. I meant no offense to you. But that is what the Voice instructed me to do. And he was fairly rude about it too, to be honest. Kept telling me to hurry up, that he was on a timetable.”

         Sutherland brushed some imaginary lint or perhaps dust off the knees of his slacks and got to his feet. “I see. Either you are wholly misguided, or enjoy blasphemy. Either way, I believe we’re done here, Miss Taylor. I’ll be expecting your usual levels of productivity to resume. Good day.”

         With that, he exited the office and went to do whatever it was that managing partners did when they weren’t badgering their subordinates.

         Daria scowled, once he was safely outside and couldn’t see her. I try to be honest, and this is what I get. As if God being out to get me wasn’t bad enough, now my boss thinks I’m disrespecting him, or a savage heathen who needs to be kept from stripping naked and painting herself with blood. This day just keeps getting better and better…

         Liz tapped on the glass of her door and entered with the depositions Daria had sent her after. “I called Mr. Sutherland’s office, but his secretary said he was on his way down to see you,” She began.

         “He’s already been and gone, thank you, Liz. Hopefully things will be back to normal tomorrow, and I’ll have a normal workload for you. If no one else is demanding stuff from you, why don’t you take the afternoon off?”

         Liz smiled crookedly. “I’m so far down the food chain here even the rats are demanding things of me, ma’am. I appreciate the offer, though. Let me know if you need anything else.”

         Daria nodded and opened the file folder Liz had given her. Nothing like work to take your mind off of life’s little oddities.



#



         “Father, could I have a moment of your time?”

         Father Malcolm Shaugnessy looked up from the papers on his desk. Next Sunday’s sermon wasn’t looking to be one of his best. “You don’t need to call me ‘Father,’ Daria. I’ve been your friend far longer than I’ve been a priest.”

         Daria gave a faint smile. “Well I kind of need a priest right now, Mal.”

         “Uh oh. Making trouble again? Causing impure thoughts in the men all around you, no doubt.”

         Daria smiled more naturally. “No, I’ve just decided I’m going to become a nun. Those habits are just so in this season.”

         Mal snorted. “You would be the worst nun I’ve ever seen. You are spectacularly unsuited for a life of prayer and service to God.”

         Daria leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb. “And here I thought the clergy was supposed to encourage people to become closer to God.”

         “Ah, well our subterfuge is complete then. You’ve clearly missed our true purpose entirely, and our diabolical scheme is safe from your prying.” He gestured at the somewhat battered chair in front of his scraped and scarred desk.

         Daria took the proffered seat and began picking at a large patch of peeling paint on the desk, avoiding eye contact.

         Mal cleared his throat. “You mentioned needing a priest?”

         Daria shrugged, unsure of herself. Mal watched, fascinated at the change in her. Daria had always been confident; up to and even beyond the point of arrogance. She was smart, successful, and extremely attractive. And she knew it. Far from being the spoiled tyrant she could have been, she was generally easy going and courteous to anyone who wanted to talk with her.

         Of course she had her off days where she was cranky, but everyone did. Watching her now, so unsure of what to do that she had actually sought out religious advice, was like an episode of Twilight Zone brought to life.

         “I need to talk to someone about a… religious experience I had,” Daria ventured, sneaking a quick peek at Mal over her glasses, and then studiously going back to picking at the paint.

         “I see,” Mal said, leaning back in his chair. “What sort of experience was it?”

         “I think God spoke to me,” Daria mumbled.

         “I’m sorry; you’ll have to speak up. I didn’t catch that.”

         “I said I think God spoke to me,” Daria repeated.

         “Ah. Well that’s not terribly uncommon, you know. Thousands of people hear the Voice of God every year. Depending on who you ask, He can sound like anything from a caring family member to a raging alcoholic.”

         “I’m going to weigh in on the raging alcoholic end of the spectrum,” Daria sighed. “Assuming it was actually God, and I’m not just losing my marbles, that is.”

         “Well generally insane people tend not to worry about their sanity, so I think we’re safe to assume that it’s God speaking to you. As I said, it’s fairly common.”

         “What does he usually say to people?”

         Mal took a deep breath and spread his hands. “I can’t tell you that, Daria. Many people tell me about their religious experiences in confidence, and I would be violating my ethical responsibilities to share that with you.”

         “I don’t need to know verbatim conversations; just generalities would be good enough.”

         “Ok, I think I can do that. No names though. Let’s see…” He stretched deeply, then placed his hands behind his head and leaned farther back, looking up at the ceiling. “I would say generally, God speaks to people because he wants them to do something specific that they might or might not do on their own. So God gives them a nudge.”

         Daria frowned at that, and squirmed in her chair. “I was told to do something that I don’t want to do.”

         “I assume you’d like to keep this between us?”

         Daria nodded vigorously. “Hell yes.”

         Mal tsked at her choice of words and leaned forward, forearms braced on his desk. “Mind your language, now. Ok, just between us, what did God ask you to do?”

         Daria took a deep breath and looked around the office, as if someone would be lurking to overhear what she was about to say. “I believe he not only told me to kill myself, but tried to physically control me into doing it.”

         Malcolm scowled at her. “That’s not funny, Daria.”

         “Do you see me bloody laughing?!” Daria demanded. “I’m serious as a heart attack, Mal. I can take you home and show you the bathroom mirror he made me break to get a glass shard to slit my wrists with.”

         “Why would God want you to kill yourself?” Mal asked. “That makes no sense at all.”

         “Mal, if I knew I wouldn’t be here,” Daria pleaded. “I’m confused and scared, and the one person I talked to about it accused me of mocking his religion and then being ‘wholly misguided or enjoying blasphemy.’” Daria lowered her voice to mock Sutherland’s. “I don’t want to die. I’m happy with my life, I have no reason to kill myself, but God seems to think I need to!”

         “This is definitely a first, Daria. I’ve never had anyone come to me and tell me either that they were capable of defying God’s Will, or that He wanted them to kill themselves.” Mal crossed his arms over his chest and frowned in concentration.

         “What do I do? The papers had a story this morning about how I had killed myself last night. Interviews with people who found my body and everything. My job had already put a new girl in my office to replace me. Everything seems to be steaming along as if I should be dead, but I’m still alive!”

         “That’s very odd. Have you noticed any more discontinuities?”

         “Not yet, no. Though it seems like every vehicle on the road is trying to kill me today. I figured that was par for the course here though.”

         “Hmmm. Well the thought that occurs to me, is that if it’s simply necessary for you to die, God would have myriad ways to accomplish that. Heart attacks, strokes, brain aneurysms, the list is endless. Since none of that happened, it seems to be important to His plan that you kill yourself. This means the only person that is a danger to you is yourself.”

         “Great, the craziest chick I know…” Daria muttered.

         Mal smiled faintly. “And also the one you can’t get away from. I don’t know what God’s plan is, so I can’t tell you what you should do. I do know that everything happens for a reason. If God needs you to exit the stage, so to speak, there must be a good reason for it. I can’t believe He would do it capriciously.”

         Daria’s jaw dropped. “You’re saying I should go kill myself then?”

         Mal sighed. “No, I’m not saying that, Daria. I’m saying that if you were to die, things would happen differently. Someone else would take your cases at work and handle them differently. Perhaps to different outcomes. The man you’re seeing would eventually move on and perhaps marry someone he never would have met if you and he stayed together. Perhaps that marriage produces a child who finds the cure for cancer.” Mal shrugged. “There are infinite possibilities stemming from every choice we make.”

         “But last night, it felt like I was being forced, Mal. I remember my hands moving on their own, getting ready to- to- do it.”

         “That’s interesting. I didn’t realize that God would need to resort to direct personal control. What amazes me is that you were able to break it. I mean, you’re more stubborn than God, Daria…”

         “Great. So God has earmarked me for disposal, and I’m too stubborn to just go ahead and die.” She sighed and ran her fingers through her hair. Quietly she asked, “Am I damned now for thwarting God’s plan, Mal?”

         Mal took a deed breath. “I can’t say that for sure, Daria. I can’t pass judgment. That is for God, and God alone.”

         “In your opinion, then?” She looked up at him, and the fear was plain to see in her eyes.

         Mal rubbed at his temples. “It pains me to say it, but yes, I think you are, my friend.”

         Daria put her face in her hands, and her shoulders shuddered a bit, as though she were crying. Mal slid a box of Kleenex across his desk, and Daria snatched one and blew her nose. She grabbed a second and wiped her eyes. “Thank you for your time, Mal,” she said, getting to her feet.

         Her shoulders slumped, and all the vitality had gone out of her as she moved to the door. “I need some time alone to think,” she said listlessly as she left.



#



         Later that evening, Daria was preparing to slide her key into the lock on her apartment, when the door swing open, and a strong arm reached out and yanked her inside. She yelped as something solid slammed into the back of her head and she blacked out.

         Consciousness came back slowly, and brought pain with it. Her brain felt like it was trying to split her skull in half and burst out. Daria squeezed her eyes shut and tried to cover them with her hands, but something was preventing her hands from moving.

         Cautiously, she opened her eyes and found that she was seated in one of her dining room chairs, with her wrists duct taped to the arms. Her ankles had been similarly taped to the legs of the chair, and a strip of it had been stuck over her mouth, preventing her from doing any more than groaning at the man she found sitting in the chair in front of her.

         “Hello, Daria,” He said cheerfully. Then he reached up and took hold of the tape across her mouth and peeled it off, leaving her with the taste of glue on her lips.

         “Who are you?” Daria mumbled past the throbbing in her head. “How do you know my name?”

         “Ah yes, you wouldn’t recognize me. No one here has ever seen me before. All of you should recognize my voice, however.”

         “You’re… God?” Daria gasped.

The man threw his head back and laughed. It was an ominous cackle. Not quite evil villain laughter, but it could easily be mistaken for it in a dark alley. “No, Daria, I’m not God. Although it serves my purposes for you people to interpret my voice as that of God. Otherwise the game would be up, and I’d have a great deal many more problems like you to deal with.” His tone began lightly enough, but by the end of his statement it had become angry and threatening.

         Daria licked her lips with a dry tongue. “I don’t understand.”

         “I am the man who created all of this,” He gestured around him. “I created this… world you live in. I chose your appearance, your name, even the color of your carpets.”

         “They’re hideous,” Daria interjected.

         “You, and every other person here, are bound by my whim. You are all characters in a story I’m writing. Most of my characters are good little peons and do as they’re told. God speaks to them, tells them to try a different route home tonight so they can conveniently arrive in time to save the people in the burning car. Or crash into them and create the burning car.

         “My plots dictate your lives. What I write happens in this made up world. Without exception. Until I created you, at least.”

         “I think things were going fine until you tried to kill me, actually,” Daria snapped.

         “Just so.” The writer steepled his fingers and leaned back in the wooden chair. “You, my dear, were supposed to be just a supporting character. A minor footnote to the story. The gifted trial lawyer who would have won the case that Mr. Sutherland had to assign to Ms. Reynolds after your tragic suicide.

         “Sadly Ms. Reynolds isn’t quite the attorney you are, and would have lost that particular case. A murderer would be rightly incarcerated for life, and everyone walks away happy. Well, not the murderer, I suppose. And not you, since the dead do very little walking.”

         Daria blinked several times, trying to clear her vision. She was having trouble making her eyes focus on the strange man talking to her. “So the fact that I’m alive alters the story?”

         He chuckled politely. “Ah, somewhat. Though not in the way you’re thinking. No, your persistent refusal to obey my writing has forced me to add several pages to the manuscript, which my editor will undoubtedly remove as unnecessary. You see, when you refuse to follow the script like a good character, I need to write a new one. Your refusal to slit your wrists, abandon your job when you’d already been replaced, suffer a tragic accident in the night and suffocate yourself with a pillow, the car accidents you somehow avoided… I gave you chance after chance to follow the story, and you repeatedly refused.

         “So now it’s time for somewhat more direct action.” He drew a pistol from beneath his sport coat and aimed it at her. “I deeply regret that it has come to this, Daria. I loathe personally killing off a character, but you’ve left me with no choice.”

         Daria stared at the muzzle of the gun. Having it aimed at her seemed to deprive her of the ability to speak. Her natural flair for sarcasm and glib remarks abandoned her like rats fleeing a sinking ship.

         “I don’t suppose it’s any consolation at this point,” the man said as he thumbed the hammer of the pistol back. “But you were one of my favorites.” He sighed. “Ah the things I could have done with you, Daria. But as they say ‘All the world’s a stage. The men and women merely players.’ And I’m afraid it’s time for your final exit.” The pistol came up a few inches, pointing directly at the bridge of her nose.

         “Really?” Daria demanded. “You come here to murder me and then quote Shakespeare in the process?” She sneered at him. “I think I prefer Macbeth: ‘Life is a tale told by an idiot. Full of sound and fury, signifying nothi-.’”

         The pistol fired, and the man stood alone in the room, surveying what he had done. “I may be an idiot,” he muttered under his breath. “But it’s still my tale.”