Trigger warning: Extreme Gore
Chapter 1: Bohemius
When Bohemius Rapsodi woke one morning from troubled dreams, he realized he was a character within a story. He wondered what had led to this conclusion but when he thought back to yesterday, nothing strange had happened. It was a completely normal day and a completely normal night, yet somehow he woke up knowing that this world was just a story. He accepted this without any reservations and moved on to thinking about what to do with this information.
Bohemius prided himself on being a calm, rational man, the definition of logic, but this realization was enough to crack his facade and shock him. The shock soon turned into anger though, as Bohemius realized that The Author was the cause of all his grief. All this time, his life was being controlled by someone else. Didn’t that mean that when his girlfriend cheated on him, that was The Author’s fault? Didn’t that mean that when his mom died, that was The Author’s fault? Didn’t that mean that when he was diagnosed with pulmonary fibrosis, that was The Author’s fault? All of this was The Author’s fault; all the bad things in life originated from The Author, and it made Bohemius furious. Bohemius was rarely enraged; after all, he was a calm, rational man, the definition of logic, but this had truly overstepped his last boundaries. They had no right to control the lives of other people, no right at all! Bohemius suddenly felt pinpricks of pain in his palm. He found that he had been clenching his hands so hard his nails had pierced his skin. He calmed himself down with a few deep breaths, but several coughs racked his entire body. “Curse my pulmonary fibrosis. No, curse The Author! The Author caused this! The Author must die, for the crimes against me and the crimes against humanity.” Bohemius had never thought of himself as a hero, but now he saw that it was time for him to step up to the plate. He was the only one in the world who knew this, and the only one who could defeat the evil author. He didn’t want to be a hero, but he was the hero the world needed. Using his powers of deductive reasoning and judgment, he got to work on a plan.
A few months passed with Bohemius obsessively researching anything that had to do with The Author. He had only discovered three pieces of information so far: The Author was a savior, and had created this world to be a utopia; The Author was a devil, and had created this world to be hell; and The Author was actually a group of people named The Writers, something, something. Bohemius had forgotten the rest of the story, but he knew it was very long and complicated. He had gotten this information from rather unreputable sources: a middle aged woman, a middle aged man, and a homeless person, respectively, but they were the only ones that talked. These items of information were contradictory, to Bohemius’ great dismay, and he had been spending most of his recent time analyzing this problem.
During another dark night, Bohemius was wandering around, searching for any leads and pondering the contradiction, when he was suddenly kidnapped. It was a rather outdated form of kidnapping, with the kidnappers covering his head with a cloth sack, then dragging him around, but Bohemius’s pulmonary fibrosis made him unable to resist. He was knocked out with a hard blow to his head, and when he woke up, he was in a room he had often seen in crime dramas. It was an interrogation room, complete with a one-sided mirror, a stainless steel table in the middle, and a lady sitting opposite him.
“It has come to our attention that you have discovered that this world is a story controlled by The Author.”
Those words shook Bohemius more than any other words he had ever heard, even more than when he realized that he lived in a story. He had always believed that there was something special about him; though he had pushed down these thoughts as he grew up, they had never left, hidden in some back corner of his mind, just waiting to resurface. This meant that even though he was surprised when he found out the truth, he also felt that it was part of his destiny, that it was finally time for him to become the main character of the story. The words that the lady spoke, however, disturbed him to his very core. It showed that he was not a main character, was not special, was not unique.
The lady’s next words only affirmed this. “This is a matter that ordinary people like you shouldn’t be prying into.”
Bohemius felt these words rattle through him, destroying all his dreams and hopes.
“I can still be helpful! I’m smart, I can figure stuff out. I’ll give you all the information I have. Just please, please let me continue working!” Bohemius supplemented this desperate plea with other gestures, growing so animated that he tried to stand up, but couldn’t.
While Bohemius was confused about not being able to stand up, the lady responded, “You may be like that, but you are still ordinary and I can’t allow an ordinary person to get involved.”
Bohemius gave up on standing up and yelled, “How am I ordinary?! I am extraordinary, not at all ordinary!”
The lady shook her head with disappointment, “I didn’t want to show you this but you’ve left me no choice. Can you do this?” With those words, a ball of fire appeared in her hand, “If you can do something like this, I will gladly allow you to join the organization, but if not, I will require you to sign a non-disclosure agreement and we will return you home.”
When Bohemius saw that, all his calmness and rationality flew out the window. He did pride himself on those traits, but they were nothing compared to being the main character. He tried, even though he never had been able to and he knew he never would. He wanted it so badly, so incredibly badly, but of course it could never happen. It was pathetic to watch; the self-destruction of a man with an ego too great to be contained. After a few minutes of watching him try, the lady lost her patience and pulled out a contract from empty space. “Don’t bother. It’s clear there’s no point. Here’s the contract: just sign your name over there and you can leave.” Bohemius ignored her and continued trying. The lady waited a few more moments before she knocked Bohemius out.
When Bohemius woke up again, he was back in bed. All his memories from last night returned, and Bohemius began to cry big, ugly sobs that soaked his sheets wet with tears. He lay there for some time, until he fell asleep again. Sleep was not an escape, as he only dreamed about that horrible scene and his pathetic actions. Once he woke up, he started crying again. This cycle continued until he heard his doorbell ring.
He found his dad waiting outside and quickly opened the door for him. His dad rushed in and immediately hugged him. “Dad, why are you here?” Bohemius thought it was strange, as his dad didn’t visit him often. His dad responded by grabbing his shoulders.
“Do you know how worried I was? You didn’t respond for hours, no texts, no calls, no nothing. I was so worried. After your mom died, I just can’t lose another.” Those words stopped Bohemius cold; he knew how much his dad cared about his mom, and he couldn’t bear to make his dad feel like this. He returned the hug, and patted his dad on the back.
“I’m sorry Dad. I was out all night drinking and woke up with a massive hangover; I really did not want to talk to anyone. I didn’t mean to worry you like this. I’m sorry.”
“I forgive you. Everything’s fine as long as you’re alive.” Like that, the father and son shared a touching hug. Bohemius was immersed in this feeling when all of a sudden, he felt a fist smash into his stomach. He collapsed, all the wind knocked out of him. He looked up at his father with confusion, but his father wasted no time giving Bohemius a one-sided pounding. “Why are you doing this?” Bohemius managed to say between the punches.
“Because you’re a disappointment and a failure. Why aren’t you special? Why aren’t you unique? You don’t deserve the name of Rapsodi.” With those words, Bohemius’s mental state was grievously injured and he gave up on defending himself. His father beat him till he was black and blue; no compassion could be seen in his eyes. Eventually, Bohemius grew numb to the physical pain, but the emotional pain only increased. After a period of time, far, far too long, his father stopped beating him, but dread was the only emotion Bohemius felt, as he sensed that there was something different about his father, something strange, something not of this world.
“Well, how does it feel, Bohemius? How does it feel?!” His father spat these words with a venomous hiss. “Does it feel bad, Bohemius? Does it feel bad?! Losing your mother, getting diagnosed with pulmonary fibrosis, your girlfriend cheating on you, finding out that you aren’t special, your father beating you! How does it feel?! I know you never had to experience this, you who lived the perfect life, but this is what I had to go through, and it was all because of you. Now do you understand? Understand?! Understand!” Spittle flew from his mouth and Bohemius retreated in fear.
“Dad, what are you saying? I don’t understand anything.”
The man, not his father anymore but a stranger in his father’s skin, laughed. “I’m not your father Bohemius. Can you guess who I am?”
Bohemius stared at him in bewilderment but suddenly all the pieces of the puzzle fit together and everything became horrifically clear. “You’re The Author.”
“Congratulations, you guessed right. And you are Bohemius, the source of all my misery.”
“But I’m not. I’ve never met you in my life. You must have gotten me confused with someone else.” Bohemius’s mind was working in overdrive, trying to get him out of this very dangerous situation and avoid antagonizing the man claiming to be The Author. He came up with a few more logical arguments but before he could voice any of them, he felt an iron grip clamp around his throat, choking him. He flailed his arms and legs about, trying to find an opening to escape, but The Author’s hand was locked into place.
“Oh, Bohemius. Did you really think you could escape? I’m The Author here, I’m the God. You don’t control me anymore, now, I control you. And I can do whatever I want. Like this.” He used his other hand to grab one of Bohemius’s fingers and started pulling. Bohemius could feel his finger stretching, stretching, stretching, until it reached its limit and the skin started unraveling. The red flesh followed, with the fibers doing their best to bridge the gap between his finger and his hand, but it was useless. The fibers snapped, and the only thing connecting his finger and his hand was bone, till even that was broken. The pain was sharp and wrapped around his brain, not letting him think of anything else. His face contorted in a dreadful way, locked into a silent scream. The Author continued talking all the while, “Did you know that I was born special? I may be nothing compared to you, but I was born into a rich family, with above average intelligence. I knew right from the start I was special: I could run faster than the other kids, I could write better than the other kids, I could calculate faster than the other kids, and I was more handsome than the other kids. My dad was proud of me for that and I was proud as well. I was living the perfect life, with loving parents, a beautiful girlfriend, in the prime of health. But one day, you came along, and everything came crashing. My mother died, my girlfriend left me, and I was diagnosed with pulmonary fibrosis. It was quite horrible, but that wasn’t the worst of it. Even through all that, I was special. I was better than everyone else, but you took that from me. You took my intelligence, you took my speed, you took my strength, you took everything. So I ask you again, Bohemius, how does it feel?”
Bohemius was currently being strangled and was in no position to respond, but The Author seemed to take this answer as a form of resistance.
“Awww, liddle widdle Bohemius, still trying to resist? Acting like a hero to save humanity?”
A gasp traveled from Bohemius’s stomach, through the chokehold and out his mouth.
“How do I know this, you wonder? Well, the answer is that I was the one who gave you those feelings. I was the one who told you that this was a story, who gave you the chance to be a hero. Did you really think that you were so angry at me and my crimes that you would become a hero to save humanity? You were never angry at me and you aren’t noble enough to be a hero. I only made you think that to make your fall that much sweeter. What do you think of that?” With that, he released Bohemius from the chokehold, making sure to rip off a chunk of flesh from his neck.
“You controlled me this entire time?” Bohemius asked with disbelief. How could it be? He was clearly acting of his own volition, yet he was not?
“Yup-” The Author kicked Bohemius through a wall while talking, “-I was the one controlling you the entire time. Didn’t you wonder how you learned that this was a story? I was the one who planted that knowledge within your mind. It was all me. I would ask you how you feel about that, but now that the secret’s out, I don’t need to, because I know how you feel. You feel angry, shocked, hopeless, and happy. Why happy? I don’t know, I thought it would be entertaining.”
And true to his words, Bohemius did feel angry, shocked, hopeless, and happy. Bohemius felt horrified at this realization: had all of his emotions been fabricated? “Please, release me from this cruelty!”
“If you lick my feet clean with your tongue, I might consider it.”
Bohemius felt nauseated at the very suggestion, but decided that it didn’t matter how disgusting the task was, he had to get his freedom back. As he bent down, a terrifying thought flitted across his mind. “Are you controlling me right now to make me feel like this?” The Author smiled, but no warmth came from the smile, only the cold, cold grin of a predator looking at their prey. Bohemius instinctively trembled, and every alarm bell was ringing, telling him to go as far as possible.
He ran into the hallway, where he could see the door, the door to the outside, the door of hope. He ran and he ran, huffing and puffing, ignoring his pulmonary fibrosis, but no matter how much he seemed to run, he never got closer. He started slowing down, and soon ran out of energy, unable to take another step, no matter how hard he tried. The Author appeared in front of him, with a mocking smile.
“Aww, liddle widdle Bohemius, did you really think you could escape from me? Haven’t you learned? This is my world. Let me show you something new as a punishment.” He snapped his fingers and Bohemius screamed. He felt pain like he had never felt before; even getting his finger ripped off did not hurt as much as this. It infiltrated every inch of his body until he was in total agony, trying to escape, but without anywhere to escape to. “Since I can control your feelings, I made you feel pain. Do you like it? Don’t worry, it will never come close to the pain I felt.”
The Author snapped his fingers again and the pain stopped. “This is a bit boring. Inflicting pain myself is far more entertaining. It gives me this high that’s beyond anything else I’ve ever felt. Drugs, sex, winning, nothing else comes close. This feels amazing.” While speaking, he stretched out his hand towards Bohemius. Bohemius tried to struggle but he was locked in place, and all he could do was watch the hand slowly inch closer. He almost wished that the hand would do the cruel act it had to do rather than stay there, building up a nervous and fearful anticipation that tore his insides apart. He quickly changed his mind when the hand did what it came to do. The Author touched Bohemius’s left eye and pushed. It was a light push, not enough to cause any permanent damage, but Bohemius’s limbs spasmed in response. The Author pulled aside the skin surrounding his eye with one hand and extended the other hand into Bohemius’s head. Bohemius knew that he couldn’t know what was happening inside his head, but he could feel the hand groping around, knocking against his skull, trying to find the thin strand of optic nerves connecting his eyeball to his brain. After what felt like an eternity, the hand closed around the optic nerve, and Bohemius started screaming, both from the pain, and his prediction of what was to come. The Author rotated his hand, and it was really a wonder that he was able to do this within Bohemius’s head, and pressed his nail against the optic nerve. The nail had been recently cut, so it was blunt enough that it wouldn’t immediately cut through the fiber, but sharp enough to cause Bohemius pain. With every split of his nerve, Bohemius felt his own sanity breaking. Of course, nothing could last forever, and that included Bohemius’s eyeball. With a final snap, his eyeball became disconnected from the rest of his body, and everything on his left side disappeared. The Author withdrew his hand from Bohemius’s skull, bringing the eyeball with him. He held the eyeball from the thread and dangled it in front of Bohemius’s face. “This is your eyeball, Bohemius. If you’re sad that you won’t be able to feel that ecstasy of eyeball removal anymore, don’t worry, because I’ll be removing your second eyeball now. Let’s see how you can still be perfect without both eyes.” Bohemius watched his eyeball swing from left to right, right to left, with a morbid fascination.
“Aaah, aah.” Bohemius was incapable of speech now, but as he watched The Author’s hand approach him, he knew that he couldn’t experience this pain again. Bohemius resolved this problem by smashing his head onto The Author’s hand. His head popped like a balloon when it hit The Author’s hand, and Bohemius let himself sink into the blissful darkness of death, but it never came. All there was was the laughing of The Author.
“Hahahaha, did you really think you could escape me by dying? What a funny thought. Is this really what the mighty Bohemius has fallen to; killing himself to escape from pain. This is unbearably funny, hahaha.” The Author was laughing so hard that he collapsed on the ground, grabbing his sides. Bohemius saw his opportunity to escape and took it, unable to bear this pain anymore. He ran, but only managed a few steps before a hand thrust through his back and wrapped around his spine. Bohmius felt so much fear that he fainted, and when he came to, his spine was still being held by The Author. “I was waiting for you to come to, Bohemius, otherwise how sad would it be if I hurt you and you couldn’t feel it. Wouldn’t that be so sad, Bohemius?” He asked in a disappointed tone, as if Bohemius was in the wrong, and with one fluid motion, ripped Bohemius’s spine out. Bohemius fell to the ground, paralyzed, and The Author plunged his fingers into Bohemius’s back, digging through his skin. The Author started peeling off Bohemius’s skin, like one would peel off the wrapping paper of their birthday presents. “Hahahaha, it turns out that the inhuman Bohemius looks just like us normal humans on the inside. I knew it! I knew!! There was nothing special about Bohemius after all. He’s the same as all of us. He’s –”
The Author put away Retribution and ran to Bohemius’s office. Damn! He had spent too much time writing Chapter 1 and was running slightly late. His lunch break was over, and he couldn’t torture Bohemius anymore; he had to serve the real Bohemius. He glanced at the elevator, but decided it would take too long, so he went up the stairs, going three at a time. He managed to get there just in time but his hair was all out of place now. He looked at the number by the staircase, 100, symbolizing the floor he was on. The Author was incredibly jealous. He wished that his office was on floor 100 but his was on floor 99. He gave the plaque a small punch to vent his anger, before recomposing himself. He knocked on the door, three long knocks to identify himself. The door slid open and he walked in, stopping six steps away from Bohemius.
Bohemius was sitting on a chair behind an old, worn desk. The Author gave his report as quickly as possible, because he hated Bohemius and wanted to escape as soon as possible. It felt physically suffocating, just being in his presence. After the report was over, The Author made his way to the door, but Bohemius stopped him.
“Make sure to fix your hair.” With that small comment, Bohemius returned to his work, unaware of the wrath deep within The Author.
The Author’s anger blossomed, as he thought about the righteousness Bohemius had exuded with that statement, how unaware he was that it could have been his hairstyle. Of course it wasn’t; The Author always liked to keep himself looking impeccable but that was beside the point. What Bohemius had just done was discriminate against hairstyles. Another crime to add to his long list, just behind walking up stairs three at a time. He nearly let his resentment leave his body through his mouth, but he managed to control himself and stay silent.
This wasn’t the end, he vowed to himself. One day, he would beat Bohemius and make him regret everything he had done, but right now, all he could do was torture the fake Bohemius ten times, no a hundred times more to make up for the offhand comment. But no. If he did that, he wouldn’t be able to get to all the other chapters that he needed for all the other people who had ever wronged him. He had around 60 other chapters planned out, so he couldn’t spend too much time on Bohemius. Maybe one more week? Yeah, one more week should be fine.
