Cheryl Darkmoon glances up at her husband as they lay in bed together.
“Raven honey, what are you doing?” She asks.
“Can’t help myself, babe. It’s so long, I just love playing with it.” Raven answers.
“Well, do that some other time. I’m sleepy.”
“Fine. I’ll just lie back here and stroke it like I always do.”
“That’s always been a funny habit of yours. Whether we make love or not, you have to stroke it just so you can get to sleep.” Cheryl replies. “Although, the readers probably aren’t going to be thinking of my hair when they read this.”
“Readers? What?” Raven asks.
“Didn’t you know, hon? We’re just characters the writer made up for his stories. Those stories become parts of our lives.”
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“Wait. This is news to me. What about when I killed my brother?”
“Yep. He made that up, as well as the part where your brother did those horrible things to your first love.”
“Yeah.” Cheryl answers. “Don’t feel too bad. He made me an alcoholic prostitute who lost her first baby. Somehow, I think he just likes tragic characters. I dunno.”
“Stories, huh?” Raven asks.
“Yeah. Although with this writer, it’s more like mental masturbation. He doesn’t plan out a whole lot, he just starts writing and lets it go from there until he has a story he feels good about, then cleans up the mess by editing.”
“What a depraved little shit. I’ve a good mind to find him and kick his ass.”
“Oh, honey! You shouldn’t say that about the writer!” Cheryl says, horrified.
“Why not? What’s he going to do?”
“He can make you say and do weird things.” A bucket of water appears and douses Raven. Cheryl folds her arms and glares at him. “There. Are you happy? Now the bed’s soaked.”
“Oh, that bastard is dead when I see him.” Raven splutters. He starts to get out of bed when he falls into the floor.
“Stop saying things like that, or it’s just going to get worse.” Cheryl warns.
“Is the writer that guy sitting there looking at a computer screen and laughing?” Raven asks.
“Let me see…Yep. I think it is.”
“Then I’m going to…heh. Get a look at his desktop wallpaper.” Raven says, chuckling. “It’s you.”
“There’s no way he has pictures of me…wait…that’s not me. That’s the artwork that inspired me. I think her name’s Beer, or Whiskey, or something like that.” Cheryl says.