Jophiel Yaer
The glass suddenly broke as I tried to reach for it. Someone must be talking a lot of bad things about me right now. If someone has, then I couldn't care less. I had just had my second book published the moment I got right back from my long-term hiatus.
I had this bad feeling the moment I published those works of mine. At first I had these nightmares—a vision, somewhat. It's somehow giving me ideas of what to write and how the story will go. And before I knew it, I had already finished typing the book.
Those visions...I used to think they were just strange dreams—nothing more than fragments of a tired mind. But after I published my second book, things started to make sense in a way I wish they hadn't.
Maybe I am somehow glad I was born not an idiot…
The events I wrote about… they started happening. At first, I thought it was a coincidence or maybe some kind of subconscious inspiration. But now, looking back, it's clear. The dreams were never just dreams. They were warnings—or maybe blueprints. And I turned them into stories.
I didn't think much of it then. I just wrote what came to me. I thought it was fiction. But when people started getting hurt, when the same details from my pages showed up in real life...I couldn't ignore it anymore.
I didn't mean for any of it to happen.
At first, it felt harmless—just fiction. Just words. No one gets hurt from stories, right? But then came the first headline: a girl found in her dorm, pale and unresponsive, her body strangely cold, her skin blooming with something that looked too much like the petals I described in Evie. Then the girl who was diagnosed with an unknown skin disease, just like in Ivanka. I told myself it was all in my head. That maybe I was reading too much into it.
But I kept writing.
The dreams didn't stop, either. They grew louder, more vivid. I'd wake up sweating, heart racing, and the moment I sat at my desk, the words poured out like they'd been waiting for me all night. And just like that, another story was born. Another warning I didn't recognize until it was too late.
I think I was too proud. Too excited that the ideas were coming back. After that long stretch of nothing, I didn't want to question where the inspiration was coming from. I just wrote.
And now…I think I might be the reason they're dying.
I've decided to stop writing—at least stories like those. I can't keep doing this, not knowing that something I write could come true. I don't want that kind of power. I don't want that kind of responsibility.
I've made people suffer, even if I didn't mean to. And now I have to live with that.
Tonight, I just sat in front of my computer. Didn't type. I just placed my hands on the keyboard and stared at the blank screen. I sighed. Not because I was tired—but because I knew I was done.
I packed away the drafts. The outlines, the notes, the half-finished manuscripts—they're all in a flashdrive hidden in a box now, shoved beneath my bed where I don't have to see them.
At least for now.
"I guess it's time to say goodbye again" I said as I stood up and saw Ced running towards me. Panting heavily and sweating a ton—
"Jophiel! You won't believe it!" he says as he tries to catch his breath.
"Your works—your—" Ced continues, swallowing his saliva.
"Calm down, catch your breath first" I said annoyingly, as it had been weeks since we last talked, and it annoys me a lot that he speaks so casually and smiles heavily as if nothing just happened!
"Your books—I just came from the publisher's office, and Mr. P said that it was a success!" Cedric said excitedly and jumped into my arms—hugging me so tightly.
I was in a dilemma—the choices collided, and the guilt was transformed into ease. I felt recognized—so this is what it feels like to have overcome success? The sudden joy lifts up my spirits, but could I handle such burdens? Am I willing to risk lives just to grasp the feeling of fame and power-
Mr. P invited us for a celebratory dinner near the apartment that we are staying at. The crowds and the billboards of the recent news are still striking me; I couldn't even bear to swallow the food that was served in front of me. "This is such a pleasant day for you, Mr. Yaer, now that your works are making their way to the top. The readers seem to enjoy them and want you to publish stories like these." Mr. P interrupted me as I was about to speak up about taking a break from my writing—from all of the things that are making it happen.
I was about to say something when Ced grabbed my arm and congratulated me—his eyes said it all: that he was proud of me, that he was glad that he was my book's editor, and that he was glad that he stayed.
I am glad too
"Are you currently making your next book, Mr. Yaer?" Mr. P gently asked as he took a sip from his tea.
Lost in the thought of having to choose decisions. But greed had already taken over me—the idea of being at the top made me giggle. I leaned back in my chair, letting the noise of the city melt into a background hum. I sighed—not from exhaustion, but from the weight of possibility. There was a time I wrote for healing. For truth. But those days were gone. This is what I had desired from the beginning—nothing will ever pull me back from enjoying writing again. Even if it meant killing innocent people.
Now, I wrote for power.
To prove.
A slow grin spread across my face. Not the kind born of joy, but one twisted with the thrill of dominance. I had tasted what it was like to have readers bend to every word, to have critics dissect me like scripture, and to have whispers of fear and awe surround my name. I had become something more than a writer—I had become a mythmaker.
And I wasn't done yet.
Because even if I wanted to stop, I couldn't. Not now. Not when I was so close to staying at the top.
And the strange deaths, the horrifying synchronicities between fiction and reality?
Collateral.
I once pitied the innocent. Now I saw them as pawns—fragments to be rearranged, characters in a plot I controlled.
The truth was this: I would keep writing.
I would keep feeding the hunger.
"Yes, Mr. P"
"The drafts will be ready in the next two months." I smiled.