He pressed the gun barrel against my head and pulled the trigger. There was no hesitation, no long-winded speech. One minute I was alive and pleading for my life. The next minute, I had no life to plead for.

Don’t shed a tear for me. There is no reason to mourn. I am not a ghost, nor am I the undead. You see, I never existed. I was never walking the earth. I was just a weak thought in his head, an insignificant character that had little purpose. I added to the suspense. I was page 31 in a collection of over 200.

On page 30, I was in a department store, asking to see a tie. On page 31, I was lying face down on the floor in a pool of my own tears and sweat, shaking and praying to a god I did not know. I served my purpose and now I am no more. By page 43, you will have forgotten about me. You won’t even remember my name. Because I never had one. That’s how insignificant I was. My eyes were colourless. My nationality, vague. I had no quirky speech patterns or colourful language. In fact, during my life, I only spoke one word: please. Which was quickly interrupted with a loud popping sound.

That’s how he described it: “a loud popping sound.” Not only was I an insignificant character, I was part of an insignificant book, written by an insignificant writer. Come to think of it, perhaps he did me a favour.