bhaskar saikia

The evening had been nothing more than a lament of tears. The relentless afternoon rain had left the garden littered with fallen leaves and glistening puddles. The nearby brook, once a gentle stream, now roared with fury, invigorated by the monsoon’s sudden deluge. The approaching twilight cast long, somber shadows, a melancholic reminder of the wretched life Richard Zane had been living.

Yes, Richard Zane—his name was synonymous with tragedy, immortalized in the pages of his bestselling novels. A disgruntled old man, abandoned by his wife and children, who could no longer endure his bleak and often cruel perception of the world.

His stories chronicled grand adventures and immense suffering, yet one unyielding thread bound them all—the protagonist always met a grim demise. Whether in self-sacrifice, cold-blooded betrayal or at the villain’s hands, none survived his narratives.

Critics called him a sadist. Richard Zane had no defense. He simply did not care.

As twilight deepened, darkness swallowed his house. The afternoon storm had brought down electric towers, leaving the entire neighborhood powerless. He cursed the government, the weather and the rain for his misfortune. With a grunt, he lit a few candles, their flickering flames casting eerie shadows across the walls. He decided to take a bath, lighting more candles around the tub before sinking into the cold water. The rhythmic patter of rain against the windowpane lulled him and before he knew it, he drifted off.

A sudden, violent noise jolted him awake. The candles had blown out. A gust of wind had forced open a window, slamming it against the wall. In the dim ambient light filtering through the stormy sky, he strained to adjust his vision. Then he saw it—a silhouette of a man standing in the darkness. His breath caught. He blinked. The figure was gone.

His pulse quickened. Was someone in the house? He fumbled for a matchbox, hastily striking a flame to rekindle a candle. As the light flickered to life, he gasped. A woman’s face appeared—then vanished in an instant.

His mind reeled. Was he hallucinating? Perhaps years of solitude had finally eroded his sanity. He had imagined things before—writers often did, didn’t they? Lost in their worlds, blurring the lines between fiction and reality.

Shaking his head, he rose from the tub. He needed to close the window. But as he stood, he froze. Staring at him, mere inches away, was a man’s face.

Richard Zane screamed, stumbling backward into the tub. His breath came in ragged gasps. “Who are you?” he demanded, his voice hoarse with fear.

The man did not reply. He simply stood there, watching.

Something about him was familiar. A creeping dread slithered through Richard’s veins. And then, from behind, he felt it—a hand crawling over his shoulder.

He whipped around. A woman. Recognition struck him like lightning. He knew her. He knew them both.

They were his protagonists.

“How… how can you be real?” he stammered.

The man smirked. “Oh, we are real. When you created us, you gave us life. We are not just words on a page, Richard Zane. We exist.”

“You had no remorse when you killed us, did you?” the woman whispered, her voice a blade against his trembling mind.

Richard shook his head violently. “No, this is impossible. You were just my characters! You can’t be real.”

The man stepped closer, his breath warm against Richard’s skin. “If we weren’t real, we wouldn’t be able to kill you. And I’m afraid that is exactly what we are going to do.”

“No! Don’t!”

A third voice joined them. Near the door, another figure loomed—a disfigured man, his grotesque face twisted in fury. “Before we kill you, Richard, I will make you suffer. Just as you made me suffer before you had me slaughtered.”

Panic overtook him. With a sudden burst of strength, he shoved past them, racing out of the bathroom. The house was a maze of darkness, his breath ragged as he sprinted, desperate for escape.

But the voices followed. The shadows pursued.

His own creations were hunting him.

A scream tore through the house—his own. He had run straight into his bedroom, only to find himself surrounded. Four more figures materialized from the gloom, weapons in hand. Their eyes burned with vengeance. They were all there—the ones he had mercilessly doomed to death in his books.

“Kill him!” their voices chanted in unison.

Richard Zane’s body trembled. This was the end.

“What will you gain from this?” he pleaded. “I am just an old man. I’m sorry for what I did to you, but an author has the power of life and death over his characters.”

“You wielded that power selfishly,” the woman hissed. “And you always chose death.”

“You never let us see the light,” another growled. “You condemned us to suffering just to satisfy your cruelty.”

“But now, you will understand what it feels like when someone else holds that power over you,” the disfigured man said. “And like you, we choose death.”

“No! Please—”

Richard Zane’s scream shattered the air—

And he woke up.

Gasping for breath, drenched in cold sweat, he found himself still in the bathtub. The water had turned icy. He was alone.

He stared at his trembling hands, his heart hammering against his ribs. A dream. It had been just a dream.

He exhaled, a shaky, disbelieving chuckle escaping his lips. “I’m alive… I’m alive.”

But the dream had left something behind. For the first time, he saw beyond his own narratives. He had not only wielded the power of life and death over his characters but over himself and his family as well. And like his characters, he had always chosen death—if not literally, then metaphorically.

Maybe the world was not as wretched as he had believed. Maybe his family had not been as selfish as he had thought. Maybe the problem had been with him all along.

Because, in the end, the world was nothing more than a reflection of his own soul.