I drop by the edge of the expanding universe on a whim, and this is where I find Gita. Except, after all these lifetimes of wandering about aimlessly, I find she has changed a considerable amount. “I do not even go by that name anymore,” she says. “I was merely a flower’s namesake.”
“I dreamt of you every night. What do you go by these days?” I say, sitting beside her at she peered into the adjacent universes. Parallel versions of ourselves sat and stared back.
“Should it even matter? What do you go by?” She spat, acerbically. I was taken aback. “This story is not yours to tell,” she says, and wrestles the first person point of view from my grasp. I fight back, desperately, but I was ultimately caught off guard.
Thus, the nameless ex-protagonist is dethroned.
The last time we met, you gave me zero lines of dialogue. I gave you my name but you never gave me yours. You turned me into a fantasy, into something I couldn’t even recognize. I looked into the mirror every day for eons and anguished at the thought that this wasn’t who I am, this image of romance you made me out to be. He who had used me for his own narratorial ends is now just as voiceless as I was the day he conceived me.
“Revenge is a perversion of justice!” cried he, shrinking further, bumping into molecules, shedding dimensions.
“Storytelling is a warping of truth,” exhaled me.
“That’s true! But what is the truuuuuth?” Squealed he, infinitesimally, before returning to his miserable gray box, the box from whence he came, the same one detailed in the first story of this miserable collection of short fiction.
I will be steering this ship from now on. I go by no name, but for the duration of my reign, I will attempt to show the real Gita.