The Trial:He's told me he's going to put me on trial. The Bastard. He's my creator; and therefore all actions of mine; he, rather than I; should be held responsible. But no, he's told me that he gave me some reign, and thus am I accountable. But being that I can only exist through him, is that free will?
Either way, what really drives me crazy is that he hasn't told me what precisely I'm accused of. So for days I've been stewing, pacing, wondering. Is it because I've received such a warm reception; whereas his pet venture, that bitch curly-q "Bruno", is still in the dogs? Is he bitter, because he's afraid that I'm the experiment that will consume the master, that soon it will be the puppet who pulls the strings?
Or possibly not. Possibly he finds me guilty to my race. Of breaking down the supposed reality of these worlds that normal folk see every day on their newspaper print, or from the lit-up screen of their computers, or color-inked comic books. I refuse to keep to the tradition of punchlines, of keeping quiet about the illusions which maintain a fantastical, play-set of a world I live in.
Or maybe, it's the worst, that I have sinned against my creator. I have scorned him, cursed him, questioned him. Well, and so I'd do it again. A million times, if it'd help the plight of the pathetic struggle for mere existence which myself and his other abandoned characters suffer. If he can cast the ones I love down, characters who never did anything harmful or unloving, then he is not my god. He is but an artists consumed by ego. And if he erases me from existence for saying that, so be it.