Simon says

Simon, no!

His fingers are wet with blood, and his eyes are giving birth to a dark mist. He's done the irreversible. And he doesn't even thank me for helping him!

Simon, you know what you should do. You know you have to listen to me.

Simon scoffs and catches a glimpse at the fourth wall--one that has been broken. "You don't get to tell me what to do." His voice is harsh, like a high-schooler who likes to murder girls whom he couldn't get to take out on a date. Well, every weekend. It's become a habit. And I, the very lovely narrator, have helped him get away with it!

Simon continues washing the crimson, bloodshot sleeves under the sink. He's full of rage. Like any sociopath, Simon is proficient in wearing a transparent mask. Everyone loves his generous charity donations and his greetings of glittering rhapsody. His narcissism leads him down a dark path, however, where even his shimmering eyes couldn't fight the shadows. He believes that everyone should love him about as much as he loves himself, so when he gets rejected, his frustration transforms into a bloodbath.

Maybe he should force this fact into his head: girls don't like cocky, narcissistic, and flirty boys. Unless they read too much Wattpad.

"That's not true!" Simon tugs against the sleeves. "They're too judgemental. They don't deserve to live."

Now, aren't you the judge-y one, Simon?

"You don't know anything!"

I must argue to that--I know everything! I'm the narrator, the creator of this sapless, null universe! Simon needs to appreciate me, seriously, but he only ever appreciates his reflections. I  would have stopped aiding him in his horrible crimes. The girls are too cute to die. They have such aspirations for possible futures and stories to write, yet he took away my characters.

Now, you may wonder, why am I helping this monster on Earth if I don't wish to? That's the mystery of this story for you to try and figure out. After all, how else is it supposed to be entertaining without mystery?

I'm just joking. You'll get used to it. The thing is, I made a horrible mistake. I named him Simon, so whatever he says I must do. Simon Says, it's the law! How despicable.

"Simon says," the ruthless being calls, "I want you as the lookout."

Humdrum task for me. Smell the incoming stories and burn them. Feels bad.

"Do it."

Fine.

Hmm, let's see. Simon is currently standing in the male restroom with the deceased Amelie Arthur, the school's beauty queen, though not so exquisite with a sapphire face and ripped throat. Poor girl. Simon has his shirt in the sink, with a long list of items awaiting evidence disposal. There shouldn't be anyone, for it's the afterschool period and all individuals are swindling dreams. A footstep echoes outside. It's an approaching security guard. Now is my time to shine. I'm the narrator, so all I have to do is narrate, and the world reforms to appeal to me.

The security guard is startled by a salvo of noise in the chemistry lab upstairs. He immediately redirects his path and chases the anonymous sound.

"Good job," Simon says. Sure, yeah, whatever. 

I've tried my narration on Simon before, but it never seems to work. He's broken the fourth wall, after all--a wall that should be unbreakable.

Simon stops bullying the narrator and stops his miserable crimes.

"Nice try," he spits. "Actually, I'll be blunt. It sucked."

The narrator yelps in dissatisfaction, offended by his malignant statement.

"I'd like for you to shut up."

Now, he didn't say "Simon Says," so I don't have to listen to him. A story without narration simply cannot exist; if I shut up, it's all over! Does he know that if I meet my doom, so will this fictitious story, and so will he?

"Simon says," he says with a gut-wrenching grin, ready to bring my demise with stubborn words, "shut up."