[ WP ] Life is a game , you are a NPC , and you figured out how to crash the game so only you and the players remember the reload .

I have an interesting friend, see. Or, at least that ’ s what I ’ m led to believe. I don ’ t see him often — he ’ s only in town every couple of months — and when he is, he tends to forget to tell me he ’ s around. But, we keep in touch, somewhat. In fact, I don ’ t know if I can necessarily call him a friend. Our lives brush by every so often, sometimes aligning for a rare day or two, but then he ’ s off again, back to his “ business ”. He never has told me what that business is. The new clothes and generous wallet tells me it ’ s going well. People treat him like he ’ s important, and everything he says has finality to it. He gets what he wants, does what he wants, and those around him flock to him for it. I guess that ’ s why I still try to know him. 
 
 People started coming to me about him, asking if I can let them speak to him. I don ’ t know how they find me. Usually, it happens when I ’ m on my own walking down the street, but there ’ s been a few times they ’ ve come to my apartment door, knocking incessantly. I ’ ve never put up a fuss about it. Typically, I just hand over his cell number, and *whoosh*, they ’ re on their way in their black leather or combat suit or nearly nothing at all. Not one has been dressed like an average, everyday person, like they ’ re *trying* to stick out in a crowd, forsaking any sense of taste for the Rule of Cool. 
 
 I tried not to question any of it. I really did. That is, till one of them shot me in the head. 
 
 I was having a bad day. A really bad day. The-only-pair-of-socks-you-have-left-are-slightly-wet kind of bad day. The-landlady-yelled-at-you-for-being-late-on-rent-again bad, bad day. And then came one. I saw him a mile away, his gold jacket and flame-decaled biker helmet being the sorest of all thumbs in the crowd ahead. I veered into the nearest alley, intending to circumnavigate him, but he came striding in right behind me, like he knew exactly where I was going. 
 
 I wheeled around, told him to bug off, I ’ m not in the mood. Ask someone else, wouldya. 
 
 I kept yelling at him, and he just stood and stared, the helmet impassive. He didn ’ t say a word. In fact, they never talked. I just *knew* what they wanted, and that ’ s why I gave them the number. I never seemed to realize it till now, but for that one day, I ’ d had enough. 
 
 After five minutes of me refusing to comply, he raised a gun and shot me square in the forehead. I know he did, because I felt it. It wasn ’ t painful, just shocking. All I remember was my head swinging back, my legs giving out, and my body hitting the pavement before it all went dark. 
 
 I woke up in my bed, right as rain. The bathroom mirror confirmed it. No damage to my face, no brains blown out the back of my head. Not even a bruise from falling. Maybe a dream? No, it was too real. Much too real. 
 
 I checked my calendar, then my phone. It was still the same day, but morning again. 
 
 The day went on, but I remained confused. I ate breakfast, made sure to dry some socks this time, and went to work again. Nothing out of the ordinary occurred, and I left when my shift was over. I left at the same time, went down the same street, and passed the same people. 
 
 Then, again, there was bike-helmet-guy. I veered into the alley again, and he followed. 
 
 This time I didn ’ t say a word and only returned the stare. He didn ’ t wait as long as last time. The gun rose, his finger tensed, and he pulled the trigger. 
 
 Nothing happened. There was no sharp blast, no slam to the face, no darkness. The gun didn ’ t even fire. 
 
 I watched him pull the trigger again, and then again, and then again. Nothing. He looked the gun over, shaking his head. He pointed it to my side. BANG. The bullet fired and dug itself into the brickwork of the building. *That* made me jump, my hair standing on end as every flight instinct in my bones begged me to run for it. 
 
 I held my ground, though, as he continued to mess with the gun. He ’ d point at me, fail to fire, then shoot the wall again. This happened three more times. All the while, it dawned on me. This guy, this… off brand biker gang member. He couldn ’ t attack me. No matter how hard he tried, how much he wanted me dead, it was as if the very fabric of reality refused it. 
 
 As he approached and started to swing his fists at my head in frustration, his knuckles forced to a stop only inches from my skull every time, I started to consider the possibilities of this. They always came alone. They were always dressed out of the norm. They knew where I was at all times. They never spoke, and all they wanted was the number for a person much more interesting than me. One had managed to kill me, but now he couldn ’ t even touch me. What did it even mean? Was I so important to these odd people that they… 
 
 Wait. 
 
 No. 
 
 Oh. 
 
 Oh. My. God. 
 
 
 ( Second part is in my reply. ) 
 
 
 
 
 

