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There are stars in the sky. (They aren’t stars, not really, but it’s nice to pretend.)
The sky is completely dark, at this time of night. (That’s not the sky. They know it’s not the sky. They want to keep pretending.) It should be cold, too, but for some reason it isn't. They’re probably just wearing a jacket. (They aren’t. They don’t have a body right now.) It’s okay. The moon isn’t visible at the moment. It must be a new moon. (Of course they can’t see the moon, because that isn’t the sky.)
They don’t have a name right now, but that’s okay. They’ll get one again soon. (They ignore the reason they don’t have a name, just as they ignore that they don’t have a body, just as they ignore that they know where they are. They’ve been here before. It hurts to think about. The knowledge grates against their mind with rough, jagged edges. It’s like trying to force a piece of a puzzle into a spot where it doesn’t belong. They know the truth, but it just hurts so much. Ignoring it is better.)
The stars are really pretty, when there’s no light pollution to keep them at bay. (Not stars. Those are eyes, eyes, eyes, and It is watching. Planning.) Hm, light pollution. They can’t remember where they learned that term. (They can’t remember any of the lives they’ve lived, not without abandoning the warm comfort that denial brings them. Facing reality isn’t better. Not really. This place doesn’t want to be understood. It doesn’t want to be understood. It is something too great to comprehend, and to even attempt to do so will only unravel their mind like a ball of yarn in the paws of a playful kitten. They’ve been here before, so many times, and they’ve learned that lesson.)
(The rules they abide by are simple. Don’t think about where you are, because you aren’t really anywhere. Don’t think about It, because It does not want to be thought about. Sit and pretend.) Look at the eyes stars. Aren’t they so pretty? Just wait for morning. For sunrise. (Wait for the next story to start. Let the strings wind around your limbs and tug you across the stage like the helpless little marionette you are, because you know you can never be free from them. At least once it starts you won’t remember this place. You’ll think it’s real, you’ll believe you can make choices. The not knowing is better. It’s so nice to believe.)
They can breathe freely in the cool night air. (They can’t breathe. They don’t have lungs. There is no air. There is no temperature.) It’s a beautiful night. Everything is still, everything is peaceful. Not even the crickets dare to disturb the calming silence. (The total lack of sound grates on them. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts. It consumes everything, scraping at their mind like nails on a chalkboard.) They are alone out here, just them and the stars. (It is here. It is nowhere and everywhere. It is watching, trying to decide what to do with them next. They can’t think about that though, or they might break. And what fun is a broken toy?)
They aren’t scared. There’s nothing to be scared of. (It will start again soon. Why do the stories always hurt? Why does tragedy always haunt the lives of heroes? Why do they have to be the protagonist? They would give anything to be unimportant. Some forgotten nameless character living comfortably in the background. Greatness is a burden they are endlessly cursed to bear.) It’s just a nice night, spent stargazing. Their eyes (they don’t have eyes right now. Only It does.) tracing the familiar shapes of constellations.
They dutifully ignore how the stars move and blink. All stars do that. It’s okay. (It’s never been okay. Why is it so hard to pretend? Pretending is better, of course it’s better, but it’s still so difficult.) They don’t actually remember any constellations, but that’s okay. Everything is okay. (Don’t think about it, don't think about it, don't think about it, don't think about it, don't think about it-) They can just make up new ones. Make their own names for the ambiguous shapes they imagine in the softly glowing stars. They could even name themself, if they really wanted to. (What’s the point? Why try to cling to identity when they are meant to be something malleable? They’ve been so many people, and yet at their core they are no one.)
They can feel the nothingness around them start to warp and shift. The thin veil of ignorance that they cling to is torn from their metaphorical hands, forcing them to remember. This means that the next one is starting soon. They wonder who they’ll be this time. Some child burdened with a heroic destiny from birth? A lowly peasant boy elevated to kingship through miraculous coincidence, forced to learn how to play the treacherous game of court politics? A teen given magical powers she must use to stop evildoers and protect her city? It doesn’t matter, not really. It’s not like they have a choice in how things will go.
They exist as nothing but a prop, a tool to further the narrative. They possess no more agency than a desk or a rock. Once it starts, they won’t even remember this place, nor the previous stories that they’ve lived. They’ll know nothing but the false memories until the story ends. At least they’ll be able to believe they have free will while it happens. They’ll forget that their choices are not their own. Small mercies.
The millions of eyes twist up in glee, signaling that this story will be a particularly miserable one. If they could, they would sigh in resignation. Perhaps a thousand or so stories ago they would’ve felt a heavy dread, would’ve tried to scream and sob and beg for mercy. It doesn’t matter what they want, though. Their purpose isn’t to want things. It isn’t to be a person. They have a single purpose, and that is to play their part. The eyes all blink at once. It’s starting now.
The show must go on.