It's not how you fall that matters. It's how you land.
"The best self-preservation methods, a book written by the one and only Oliver."
The man himself, Oliver, was sitting at the desk. His neatly cut moustache was itchy. His messy ginger hair was tickling his ears.
"Yes! Good job, Oliver! You really did outdo yourself this time."
Oliver turned his head to the left. "Honey—"
"Right... she left."
Oliver started rubbing his face with the tips of his fingers. "God, I am such an idiot."
He turned his face towards the painting-made window with holes in it. This painting was painted by him when he was happily married—a portrait of his ex-wife. Yet the sun shone so bright that the woman's face was barely visible.
"What?"
"Elyon and I are going to go buy a map. You can wander the village for a while."
"Why can't the three of us go together?"
"Guy's secret."
Oliver slammed his fist on the table. "Fucking bastards can't even let me think in peace!"
He turned back towards the wordless book. He picked up his pen, but he didn't write anything. Oliver took out a piece of paper from one of his drawers.
"I will write her something."
"Dear Maddie,"
With a swift line, he cut both words.
"What's the point?"
He threw the piece of paper across the room, right into the corner where many pieces of paper lay discarded.
"It's not like she would even care."
Oliver rubbed his elbow absentmindedly. It felt sharper than he remembered. Everything will change today; all will change when he starts writing his book that has been postponed numerous times.
Oliver nodded silently. He will do it. That sounds exactly like a plan. First, he needs something to eat.
He got up and, after walking down a flight of stairs, found himself in his kitchen. Oliver grabbed a bowl; he would make himself a bowl of delicious porridge, just like his wife—he cut that thought out before it could even form.
After a few minutes of stirring the milk and porridge together, he decided to treat himself to some apple slices with honey on top. Oliver's mouth was basically salivating at this point. After cutting the apples, drizzling the honey on top, and leaving the porridge to cool off, he laid them perfectly in front of him.
"Hmm, I am not really that hungry. Oh, no matter, I will just eat later."
The apple, honey, and porridge were left untouched on the table while he went back to his office.
Once he got back into his office, he stared at the portrait for a bit. After a while, he started scratching his face.
"Wait..."
He scratched his face some more.
"I understand it now."
He scratched his neck.
"That's it!"
He stopped scratching.
"Ah, it was so simple! How didn't I think of this? I don't need Marrie; she is the one who needs me! And I am not going to give her the satisfaction of receiving that letter from me. She should be the one who sends me a letter!"
Oliver started laughing so hard, tears began to fall from his eyes. Once he stopped laughing, he clutched his stomach.
"My stomach hurts so bad from all that laughing. I can't, it's so funny."
After a while, he sat back at his desk. And for the next half-hour, he didn't write a single word.
Someone knocked on his door. It scared him so bad that he dropped his pen.
Oliver walked cautiously towards his front door. There was someone at the front of his door. He felt dread.
"Please, not today. Come tomorrow," he whispered under his breath.
The person behind the door knocked again. "Hey! Is someone there? We have the daily newspaper for you."
"Yes? I am here. What do you want?" He talked quietly, but to him it felt like he was yelling.
The man knocked again. Oliver clutched his chest; he started breathing heavily.
"I guess not." The person behind the door left.
Oliver felt relieved. He scratched his face.
"It's time to eat now. Now I really am hungry."
Yet after muttering those words, he forgot about the food that was waiting in the kitchen. After a bit more scratching, he went back into his office.
Once he closed the door to his office, he suddenly flung it open. He ran downstairs, grabbed the bowl of porridge and the honey apple slices. He threw them against the wall. Porridge and honey clung to it, while the bowl and the apple slices lay on the dirty floor.
"Oh, you did it again, you bastard! The fucking mailman, huh? You think you are so tough! The next time you show your face here, you will experience the wrath of Oliver himself!"
He started scratching his neck.
"Pft, bastard, what was I even doing? Right, this time I will start writing."
Oliver went back into his office. The food lay discarded on the floor, just like the rest of the rotting food that's already on the ground. But instead of writing, he punched a hole straight through the portrait of his ex-wife.
Tears began to fall from his eyes. He removed his hand, and dusk painted Oliver's glassy tears.
"Everything is going to be fine, at this point. I don't even care... wait? When did the whole day pass? Wasn't it morning just a few hours ago?"
He wiped his tears. "I want to go outside."
Oliver left his office and walked down the stairs. He met the door, his hand clutching the handle.
"You can do it, Oliver." "Believe in yourself." "Come on, you are the great author of Ravencross and going outside scares you? Don't be a baby."
Oliver applied some force on the handle, and the door groaned.
Splat. Something watery fell on the ground.
Splat, splat, splat.
"Up," Oliver told himself.
As he spoke those words, a girl ran past him. She looked like she had lost something important. Oliver stared at the tears that started falling onto the bark road. The rain painted the world... beautifully.
Oliver turned around, and he bolted straight to his office. He pulled out a piece of paper, which he put in his coat after he finished writing on it. Again in haste, he ran towards the door. Yet this time, he crossed the threshold.
He spread his arms, and the rain started picking at his skin. Raindrops fell into his eyes and his face. Oliver just wiped his face. For the first time in a while—maybe even forever—he started dancing.
He was sloppy at first; his legs didn't know how to properly move. His arms flailed uselessly against his body. His head banged back and forth in the rain. But this time, he didn't care. Oliver danced and danced some more.
The raining heavens, as well as a random woman, were bearing witness to something so insignificant, it felt funny. His feet splashed against the bark that formed puddles. His hands hit the rain without mercy.
He felt alive.
After a bit, the woman left. When enough time passed, he was drenched and tired. His messy hair was obstructing his vision. Oliver just stood in front of his house.
"Maggie! I am coming for you. Wait for me, my dear!" Oliver screamed so loudly that the whole neighbourhood heard him.
A man scoffed behind him. "Oy, bastard, shut up. You are loud, and the neighbours are sleeping."
Oliver turned around, and a scruffy man with an annoyed expression stared back at him. Oliver ran towards the man, and he grabbed the man by the clothes, then he pulled him closer.
"You don't understand! I am the chosen one! I... I will bring change to everyone and everything. Please see for yourself the man I am! You will be left amazed!"
The man pushed him away. "I don't know what your deal is, but you need to calm the fuck down."
Oliver grabbed the man again by his clothes.
"Don—"
But before he could finish, the man cut his nose and cheek with a knife.
"If you won't back down, you will die."
Oliver grabbed his face with both hands. The rain and blood smeared on his face. His eyes were wide open, and he looked back at the man. "Why?"
The man started laughing. "Just leave, you bastard. I really have no patien—"
Yet this time, his words were cut off. Oliver grabbed his wrist, and he began to turn the man's wrist. The man was staring at the tip of his knife. He was startled by the sudden change in this insane man. He tried walking backwards, yet he lost his footing. The man fell, with Oliver climbing on top of him.
"MAN! Sorry, I didn't mean to cut, can y—"
"SHUT UP! YOU ARE ALL THE SAME!"
Oliver applied more force, and the knife cut his throat at one point. Rain washed away the blood that spewed from that guy's throat. Oliver stared in shock at the man's dead body. After a while, he started laughing.
"It's fine, who cares about it anyway?"
Oliver got back up, and he went inside his house. The corpse was left in the streets. Once inside, he fell to the ground.
"I killed a man? No, I-I, uhm... it's fine, it's not like. His blood was real... REAL I TELL YOU! The guards will come find me... I have to run to hide. I need to hide. Come on, get back up. You are an author. Once things cool down, you will get back up with Marie, and you will start writing the book. Everyone will applaud you for your genius... I hope."
Oliver started nodding at his words, yet tears began to fall from his face. He pulled the door open in haste, and he started running—the exact opposite way the girl who ran earlier was going.
He ran and ran. He stumbled once, then twice. But he kept running.
After a good while, he entered the Forest of Whispering.
"You did great out there! Come on, you are close to finding your mistress."
Oliver agreed with the words. He is going to find her; he will be the hero. The one who writes the story, the one who wins, the one who gets the heroine in the end. Where they will grow old together happily, where th—
His train of thought came to an end when the forest ended. What lay in front of him was a forest, but much lower. He was on top of a hill. He took a step back, yet he slipped on the mud.
He fell.
So far, so good.
As he was falling, he pulled out his letter. Oliver clutched it to his chest.
So far, so good.
So far, so good.
"I AM ALIV—" He couldn't finish what he started.
Crash.
Blackness.