I couldn’t believe it! He was actually going to kill me. Every drop of ink he put on paper brought me closer to my death, and I had no control over it. He was making a huge mistake. I wished I could stop him from contemplating my murder. But, no matter how I shouted, he just kept on writing, word after gruesome word. I’d thought I’d be the main character in his next novel, but, apparently, I’d been nothing but a few sentences. He was ending my existence without second thought—painting a bloody picture with deliberate words. Erratic author!