The Character and the Creator

The night is dark, light by some idle street lamp. Its beam shines softly through the window, distorted by the flakes of snow that flit haphazardly around it. My fingers are cold tonight; numb almost. The paper is due tomorrow, but the screen before me is blank. I know the story I want to tell and I can see the face of my impatient character staring at me even now. Hurry up, he urges. I crack my fingers and the sound is sharp in the otherwise silent room. Hesitantly I place my fingers back onto the keys and then I wait as seconds fade into minutes.
Nothing. Not the slightest whisper of inspiration or direction.
He taps anxiously on my shoulder; pain etched on his face. I try to ignore it. He takes a seat on the side of the desk and stares down at me with unforgiving eyes like the ghost of a tormented angel. I have to set him free, but to do so hastily or without thought would mean his death. I am his creator, and thus I have all the potential to be his destroyer as well.
The screen glows in front of me and small particles of dust drift beneath the light of the small lamp, as if disturbed by his presence. Please, he begs. I begin to type, slowly at first, but my pace quickens with each click of the keys. Where is he from? I don’t know. His identity is pinned to his sleeve, but I don’t understand it yet. His journey is a long one and the road winds in ways I cannot yet imagine. He is a reality spun of glass and plastic, of frustration and desperation. I look up. His hair has fallen across his face, casting a shadow over one eye.
Melted thoughts and half-formed sentences are my constant companion in these early hours. My hands shake, and I shut my eyes. Focus. Focus. Focus. The story will go with me-- shut out amongst dusty pages and dead ideas. The keys click faster under my control, with an unspoken urgency that screams through the dead end I am at. Where's he going? I fear that I may have lead him down a road with no end. He's cold, dead, lost --doomed to wander and worse, doomed to know. Focus. Focus. Focus. He face is contorted in anguish, but he sits so still I fear he has ceased to be. He flicks his head in a half-hearted nod at me, his way of encouraging me to go on. I am the only one who will tell the tale of his life. For who will give meaning to his pain, if not me? I am the one who must give him a name through the telling of his beautiful face and his somber ways. It is no small task.
Crumpled papers are scattered across the floor, like white flowers picked before their time. They are not but twisted thoughts and beginnings that I cannot end. Help me, he mouths with is cracked lips, free me. I don’t think I can. Words force themselves out of my mind: hope. It is only a four letter word and I laugh at its treachery. Hope can't help him… only I can. I am hope when there is no hope. I am nothing. I am everything. I am the creator. I am the destroyer. Focus. Focus. Focus. I squeeze my eyes shut once more. My hands form a too-tight frame around my face in an attempt to force the information from it. Focus. Focus. Focus. Pain pounds in my head, towards the back, like the dull thud of gavel that sentences me to failure. Make it stop.
I look to him, to be reassured that he is still there. His eyes bore into mine, and I feel his hand reach through the cavity of my chest to grip the heart that beats beneath. I can feel his breath on my face as he leans towards me and presses his forehead lightly against mine, causing sparks to trace along the nerves of my mind. They leave fires behind them, ideas raging violently, fueled by the dry tinder of fatigue. My fingers now move of their own will. Somehow I am pouring him into the screen, placing him softly within my ardent language. I have given him a direction-- a home.
Words, sentences, pages… they fly from the printer and hit the floor. Set him free. Let him go. Focus. Focus. Focus. Step back. Breathless, I look to his face. Thank you, he whispers. I blink and when my eyes reopen he is hazy, distorted. Panic halts my breath -- did I act as the destroyer after all? But no, his distant finger points to the paper at my feet and there in the small, black letters I see his face clearly. His is relaxed, the dark circles beneath his eyes now gone. As I glance back up to the desk, where he sat just moments before, I see the last quiver of his form before he is gone. The dust dances in his passing. I have set him free at long last.
I collect the pages from the floor and bind them together with a sharp snap of the stapler. As I place the fragile sheets in their folder I pause for a moment. Have I done him a disservice by sending him off to critiqued? Will I cheapen him by allowing his essence to be graded? Will I lose him in a score?
No, he murmurs, his voice far away. I let out a heavy sigh. I realize that instead of depreciating him I have given him a voice. I have done what only I could do. I have given others a glimpse of what only my eyes could see. Tomorrow my hands will shake as I turn it in, and I will be filled with doubt, as always. Will they sense the fervor and vehemence with which I created a being out of not but a shadow? Will they see the beautiful ghost that has now been freed through a simple assignment? Maybe, but it doesn’t matter: he is free.