A Chance Encounter

[BrianEtrius]

As a writer I envision scenes I want to describe, and sometimes it feels like I'm actually there. In a fictional club I can smell the combination of sweat, alcohol, and lust yet it's all in my mind. Characters in stories are no different; while some characters are clearly based off of people I know, some I can actually feel like I can talk to. Sad for me, it's not imaginary. I recently had an unfortunate mishap where I had to face the man himself: Lucifer, or more specifically, Ryan Louis Cipher.

It happened over a course of several days. On the first day, after cramming several meetings, I decided to step out of the office for a cup of joe and a quick drag. After ordering a mocha (with cinnamon and nutmeg on top of the whip cream, mmm, sugar and caffeine) I stood outside trying to light my cigarette. A passerby noticed the problem with my Zippo and took out his Zippo to help. I thanked the man and he disappeared. At the time, I took little notice; with the exception the man had a Zippo. I mean, come on, who else uses Zippos anymore? I just have the damn thing to look cool. They're terrible in wind, which, sad to say, is a constant climate in the city. Besides, I didn't even get a good look at the guy.

The next day, same coffee shop, same place. This time around, there was a guy in front of me wearing a black Burberry trench coat, single-breasted. Now this was a sight, not only was it sunny outside, but the guy was wearing a single breasted Burberry. I didn't even know they made single breasted trench coats; if they did, I would have bought one by now. Here's the kicker: the oddly dressed man made the exact order I would make less than a minute later. As with the first encounter, I didn't a proper look at the man's face.

It was the third day things really began to go down. It was a usual overcast day, but the wind was off than what it usually was. There was something to it, but at the time I couldn't place what was different. It felt sort of like walking into your elementary school 10 years after the fact; yeah it's there, but it's not the same. I was outside on the corner of the block smoking, watching tourists go by and thinking about I might blow off the rest of the day. A voice called out to me, saying, "Hey you!" Turning my head to find the direction of the shout, the voice continued. "Yes, you in the navy Joseph Abboud suit! Come over here!" Really? This guy knew the make of my suit? This must be some smart dresser, I thought at the time. With nothing better to do as I was on my hour long lunch break, I started to walk towards the source of the keen eyed person.

My journey led me not far from my office, just down the block and into a corner alleyway. Now, mind you, these are not your typically alleyways. Being in the city, even side streets are pretty nice, much less abandoned. So, for the time being, I felt pretty safe. I'm not necessarily a big guy, but I'm taller than most and can look threatening when I need to, so this shouldn't have been a big problem. Besides, why would anyone want to rob/kill me? I wasn't carrying much cash at the time and I'm not worth much in ransom. Still, my curiosity got the better of me that day and I somewhat regret that.

The voice kept urging me to come further down the alleyway. I eventually reached a dead end, but I could still hear the voice calling out. I was puzzled; how was I to continue down a road that doesn't exist? But then that weird zephyr blew again, and the direction of the voice changed. Somehow, somehow, the voice was behind me, albeit in a different tone.
I dropped my coffee right then and there. My mind began to scream as my brain tried to process this impossible reality that was occurring in front of me. Black Italian shoes? Check. Black Armani suit? Check. Red Michael Kors tie? Check. Ray Bans? Yep. Rolex? Bingo. Lucky Stripe cigarette in right hand? Oh yeah. Words failed me. I'm sure any passerby would have thought I was mentally ill; I might (I can't remember quite frankly) have been mouthing words without sound.

How could this be? A fictional character, let alone a character written by me, a 20-something year old guy with a love of noir and a lot of spare time on his hands, be an actual being? And not only exist, but as the Grim Reaper himself? My heart began to race; I had written other characters into a similar spot before and I knew they did not leave alive. Some had try to resist while others went peacefully, but I had no weapon to fight and I certainly did not think it was my time to go, unless, of course, that 3 month period of chain smoking finally caught up to me.

I had to control myself as Ryan approached closer. Surely I was dreaming, I thought. Perhaps this is a bad nightmare, like that Chris Nolan film I saw. Maybe Ryan exists because I want him to exist, and since I'm dreaming that could be possible. But I couldn't be asleep because I felt the hot coffee against my leg; my sock had absorbed some of what I had spilt seconds earlier. Okay then, maybe it's just my imagination. I could be hallucinating. Alas, once again reality struck, I was feeling no other symptoms of when I was usually hallucinogenic (not that I'm normally that way, but after one bad trip you begin to see a pattern).

Almost as if I could of written him to say so in his trademark wit, he said with perfect timing as I thought in my head, "What? Surprised?" I could not respond, even as I tried my hardest to make out a simple yes or no answer. "I see that the creator is puzzled. Maybe I should do the talking. You can do the thinking," Ryan went on. "See, I'm not what you call a fictional character. Yes, I do exist inside your puny little mind, but I'm not just there. I'm in everyone's mind; I'm just manifested in a different way. You're lucky because I happen to an easy writable character in yours. I am the wrath, the greed, the lust, the envy, the sloth and the pride that occurs in everybody. I am Alpha and I am Omega. I am the asshole that cuts you off in traffic. I am the action hero that everyone wants to be. I am the life of the party that no one can be. I am the guy who gets all the ladies. I am the giant fuck you that everybody wants to shout out to the world that doesn't understand them. Most importantly, I am you. I am everybody and nobody at once. I exist as the outcast of society, a person who dwells in the minds of others. Sure, many ignore me, but some listen and then, only then, can you see my work. You are lucky, I repeat, to even be aware of my existence. But be forewarned: if you abuse such knowledge, I'll know, and I won't be happy. I exist inside of you too, and if you're not careful I may simply end you like I've ended others. Don't disappoint me." As he began to walk away he turned back and threw me a small book that looked like a diary. "Here," he said. "Here's a log of everything I've done so far. I've seen your works and I do enjoy them. But please, for the love of God, make them more accurate. This should help." With those final words, he disappeared.

That diary now sits on my desk. It's dusty and has Egyptian hieroglyphics on them. I have not opened it yet, as I am afraid of what secrets it may hold. The risk of abuse is too great; I do not want Ryan to take over my life. I've stored the diary in various places over the past few months, in a safe, in a bank vault, etc. This has been the first time in awhile that I've actually touched the book. My fear still exists, but as with all mysteries, I have to find out the end game. It's time for me to read The Book of the Dead.