Narrator ( Draft 1,Part 1)

Please note that this story needs more editing. And the entire story is dialogue.

“This is the last time . . . I walk through the park alone at night.”

I thought to myself as I lay there, being buried.

I’ve avoided this kind of thing for the last thousand years, yet here I am. Murdered!

Or whatever I want to call this situation.

Technically, I was murdered; I was just not dead; it still hurts, though.

“I bet it does. You know, I thought you’d be smarter than this for someone who has lived over a thousand years, but look at you now.” The narrator explained.

“Please, please shut up, not now. I’m trying to concentrate.”

“Concentrate on what! Oh, oh yeah, unburying yourself, okay.”

Like I was saying, I was murdered, not exactly; well,

I was grabbed from behind

stripped down,

stabbed several times,

and then . . .

buried.”

“I love how you tell the audience what’s always happening; you know I can do that for you.

It’s my way of taking back control since I’m cursed with you to narrate my life for eternity.

A CURSE! I thought we were making significant progress in this relationship. I like to think of us at the least . . . colleges.

Says the narrator with a sigh.”

“You are getting very good at that, it’s magnificent. “

“Can we get back to the fact that somebody tried to kill me?”

“I’ll do this part for our readers.”

  “Mira summoned all her strength to claw her way out of what was meant to be her eternal resting place, the tension palpable in the air.

Her attempted murderer, now long gone, exhilarated, falsely believing their task was completed.

Oh, how naive they were.”

“The narrator said in a sinister voice. Mira explained.”

“Perfect.”

“It’s freezing; I need to find clothes, a blanket, or something else. At this point, I’ll take a trash bag. Do you know where we are? “

“West Point View Park, it seems your assailant chose the Northeast side of the park for their deeds. Unfortunately, it’s the perfect place for concealing a crime—secluded, off the beaten path, surrounded by dense bushes and trees. Disturbingly enough, the hole was already prepared. They definitely planned this in advance.”

“A Serial Killer?”

“Yes, A Serial Killer.”

“Can you narrate me home? I’m about to turn into an ice block.”

“Oh, of course. How bad is the pain?”

“On a scale of one to ten. . . eight.”

“Sometimes, I wish I didn’t feel pain instead of having to endure immortality. I don’t like pain.”

“Mira’s words came out in shallow breaths, punctuated by shivers that raked through her frame. Despite the pain that was plainly etched across her face, her eyes remained dry; no tears could escape. Her body was marred with open wounds, smeared with streaks of blood—a testament to her ordeal. Having been her narrator for a thousand years, there was one thing I always dreaded: that look. The look of profound pain, deep-seated sadness, and being utterly subdued. It struck a chord in my very essence, evoking a blend of empathy, sorrow, and undying allegiance to her plight.”

“I don’t like pain, either.”

“Come on, I`ll keep you company on the way home.”

“I heard you, ya know?”

“I know.”

   “Mira began her journey home. Each step sent a surge of pain through her body, like an uncontrollable fire spreading through a desert. No matter how much it hurt, Mira pushed on.”

“But after a few steps, she almost collapsed. “

“Mira, I think you should pause and catch your breath momentarily. I know you can’t die, but your pain can intensify. You’ll pass out again; who knows when you`ll wake up. “

  “Why are you British? Mira asked matter-of-factly.”

“Excuse me?”

“British, . . . Why, why, the British accent this time? A while ago you were Mongolian, Mira asked through heavy breaths, evidence of the cold from lingering steam from her mouth. “

“You didn’t need to narrate that part. You could have just answered the question.”

“Well, if you must know, your last pass out was for more than 143 years; I had to keep busy, so I listened around for a bit and decided I liked the accent. It sounds quite intelligent. Don’t you think?”

“Yeah. I guess.”

“It`s comforting, for sure.”

“I am freezing, my body hurts so much, I don’t think I can make it home.”

“No, no, no, Mira! You have to push through this; I can’t go for another few years in isolation. “

“Can you figure out a way to help me then? “

“Okay, let me assess the scene. “

“As Mira stood in the park, her loss of conscience near, she longed for the comfort of her bed, the warmth of her blanket covering her body, the safety of . . .

Hey, can you speed it up? I`m about to go down!”

“Yes, of course. “

“Mira noticed a coat tucked by the trees as she surveyed the park. She limped her wounded body over and slipped it on.”

“Oh thank the universe!!”

“You`re welcome!”

“You know what I mean.”

“I don’t, but you should probably get to hospital.”

“It`s to a hospital. Not to hospital. “

“Mira said in a snooty voice!”

“DON`T... narrate now, please.”

“You`re so judgmental for a person who has just been stabbed multiple times.”

“WHICH WAY OUT OF THE PARK!!”

“LEFT!”

. . .

“YOU`RE WELCOME!”