A/N Hmmmm, yes, this is a rather strange one. It's from the POV of the script that Betty and Joe were writing together.


Thoughts of a creation

My pages detail a love story always intended for the public but my creation was a love story that was never meant to happen.

I became aware of my existence when the first few words were stamped onto my pages. I could hear my creators discussing me, arguing over my general purpose and my story. Was I to bring joy and laughter to the world or tears and sighs? Was I to make people think or was I to make them forget? Would I be an inspiration or a diversion? Sometimes my creators spoke in soft voices and sometimes they shouted. I didn't like to hear them argue, because it was my fault if they disagreed. I loved it when they got excited, when words flew fast between them. I loved it because those words stuck to me and another chunk of me would come into existence. Slowly I felt them completing me and as each new part of me came into existence I tested is out, becoming comfortable with what I was. Sometimes they disliked something and then my entire character would change. A future I had foreseen would disintegrate and vanish, but I didn't mind too much because a new one would soon replace it. I longed for them to finish me. I wished to feel complete and whole, to know my purpose and whether or not it would all end well.

Yet my creators pulled and shifted me, rewriting something here, removing something there. My entire life was constantly changing and blending, but I knew it was just because they wanted me to be the best, no matter how uncomfortable it made me.

The day I was finished I felt the final few words slot into place and everything suddenly made sense. I laughed along with my creators as they celebrated and watched as the romance that had been growing between them, hidden and secret came out into the open. I was glad.

I lay in my finished state upon the desk as they expressed themselves next to me on the floor. Life seemed to be working out well, like the plot amongst my pages.

I don't know what went wrong.

I suppose I was naïve. I hadn't been in existence long and I assumed that all stories ended the same way that mine did.

My purpose has never been fulfilled. I sit on a shelf and lament as my pages grow dusty with disuse.

My authoress comes to see me. She strokes my pages and whispers things to me…and then tears fall from her eyes and smear my perfectly printed words so they are illegible and vague. I don't know why she cried but I know that he is gone and that is probably why. She is a half without a whole.

My purpose, I know, will never be fulfilled. I remind her too much of him. I can't even remember what it was anymore. It has faded as the print has faded and been washed away by tears. It has dimmed in the distant memory of my sole remaining creator.

My happy ending left when he did, because when I was created I was not the only thing in creation and as the two were created together their fates irrevocably intertwined so I share the same fate as the other story that ended in tragedy. In my creation I created something and in its destruction I too am destroyed.