I won't give up on you.
The end is not really the end. The end is just a prologue to a new beginning. The curtain has not even begun to open yet, but the platform is built, the set is built, and the characters are getting dressed before the show. Everyone is dead before my show. What are my characters now?
It's like the story has not been written yet. The old story was merely teasing you with what is to come. But you don't get the joke.
I won't give up on you.
It's like you read the final chapter, the end has come and gone, but that light at the end of the tunnel gives you hope for a new life, a better life, a life where nobody hurts. Because nobody hurts like me. Nobody aches like me. Nobody could ever feel like me.
I won't give up on you.
And in that final moment, a voice calls out, a voice only you can hear. That voice, it speaks to you, it guides you, it IS you. This is that new life. A life of joy, not sorrow, a life that looks at today, not tomorrow. A life filled with wonder and majestic things. A life......but where there is life, there is also death.
I won't give up on you.
And that brings you back. Back to your life, your house, your kids, whatever it may be. It brings you back to reality, and I'm not so sure if that's where I want to be anymore. I want to get away, get away to a better day. Better days have come and gone, however, and now I'm just trapped in a world that is a desolate wasteland, a land filled with things gone wrong and people who won't understand. They will never understand.
I won't give up on you.
So before the curtain is closed, before the novel has been put down, before that light at the end of the tunnel has disappeared, there is one thing everyone needs to hear. This thing, this insignificant little phrase, has put my life on the edge, filled my vision with a new perspective, a new outlook on those better days. Oh how I wish these were better days.
I won't give up on you.
That one thing will shape the lives of generations, cause people to get on their knees and pray to whatever person they believe in that life needs to end now. Because when life ends, another begins. I won't be there when it begins again. This is the only thing that could make it all different.
You can go back.
They say the past is obdurate. They say the things you have done are written in stone, written in blood on the wall that is now just a fainting memory of the past. They say the past just doesn't want to change, will never change. But I have no change. What have I got to lose?
I won't give up on you.
And now the curtain opens again, but the main act is long gone. The bows have arrived, and everyone looks relieved that they have put on a good show. But if you could change the show, change it so something went horribly wrong, what would the bows look like then? The point of no return has been reached. Once you enter the stage of the bows, you can never redo the show again.
That would all change if you could go back.
I want to go back.
Don't give up on me.

Johnny Dashwood was running away. This man was running away quite fast, actually, down a narrow stretch of hallway lined with stainless steel walls that felt as if they were closing in, preparing to squish him into a bloody pulp of organs.
I won't give up on you.
The Voice was back, commanding him, no, demanding him to plow ahead, to outrun the tragedy he had gotten himself into. Johnny had no idea how this Voice had inhabited his cerebrum, but for now, that was not the biggest worry he faced. The largest  worry were those walls, inching closer and closer no matter how far Johnny ran down the never-ending hallway, or so it seemed. For now, The Voice was actually comforting, egging him on 'til the very end, encouraging him. The Voice was inside him, the Voice became him, and it would not be overcome.
I won't give up on you.
Johnny's heartbeat was off the scale, darkness clouded his vision, and The Voice fell to a faint whisper. The walls were still closing in, both sides touching his shoulders now, and yet the whisper persisted on, still crying out to forge ahead. And Johnny listened.
I won't give up on you.
And now these words rattling around his head formed on his lips, and he heard the echo of the phrase off the now very uncomfortably close walls.
"I........will........not........give........up.........on...........you."
Johnny charged ahead with new vigor that caused adrenaline to course throughout his veins until he was sprinting faster than he ever had before. Walls closing,  The Voice still urging him forward, running faster, faster.
Don't give up on me.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!"
Johnny Dashwood had just exited a nightmare that almost caused the poor middle-aged victim to wet his bed. It was the first time a dream like that had happened to him, and he was honestly scared out of his mind when he awoke from his darkened slumber. After the screams finally died down, and Johnny was calmed by the fact he had entered reality, he got out of his bed and went downstairs for breakfast, still shaking all over. This was one moment where he was actually glad he was no longer a married man.
The tall man, six foot five inches to be exact, bent down to examine the bottom contents of his ironically colored stainless steel refrigerator. Even though he usually was a very balanced eater, Johnny's appetite was not very large because of his fake encounter with death, so he only took some milk for a bowl of cereal and a yogurt. Eggs and bacon was a very appealing option, but he felt as if he could throw it all up in a heartbeat. Turning down a protein- filled breakfast was just another clue that suggested how bad Johnny was shaken up after his ordeal.
The phone rang as Johnny was hunched over, guiding his milk into a glass bowl filled with Raisin Bran. He grabbed the home line off the counter just as it rang for the second time.
"Hello there!" Johnny's greeting reverberated off the dark green walls of his humble living facility. Even though his odd dream still haunted him, Johnny still put on a smile and greeted the caller warmly.
"This is Johnny Dashwood, I presume." The monotone voice at the other end of the line sounded like it was stating a fact more than asking a question.
"Yes, it is. Is there something I can do for you?" Johnny replied, now starting to question in his mind about who the unfamiliar voice belonged to, and why they were calling him in the morning, on a Saturday, no less.
"We called about the incident that happened around thirty minutes ago. Your neighbors could hear screaming and called us to make sure nothing was wrong. Is there something wrong, Mr. Dashwood?"
"Oh, no. Just a bad dream, sir. Sorry to bother the neighbors, it's just been hard, what with my wife gone and everything." Johnny breathed a sigh of relief, for it was merely the police department checking up on a tip from the neighbors.
"Ah, I see. Well, thank you for the help, Mr. Dashwood. Just doing my job."
"Thank you, sir. Have a nice day."
"You too. And by the way, The Voice Phone Service covers calls from KPD, so you won't be charged."
"Thank you for that information. I had no idea." Johnny hung up, but not before noticing the odd coincidence that had just took place over the phone with the police officer. The Voice Phone Service? Johnny had never noticed that the same thing haunting his dreams was the name of his phone company. It was so ironic, actually, that Johnny began to laugh at himself for being so stupid as to not notice the connection from his dream to reality.
"The Voice was my phone company? Wow." Johnny was still chuckling to himself as he got up from the table and put his bowl and glass in the sink to be washed. "I can't believe I've been worried about my phone company." And Johnny, still giggling quietly, set off for a stroll to the local library to find a good book.

The library was about the only distinguishing feature of the quaint little town of Kingsport. Its ionic columns and marble floors made it a stand-out figure in the small community of happy townsfolk, and its four stories made it the most elaborately designed library in the state of Oklahoma. Johnny lived in a suburban neighborhood, Kingston Springs, right outside the bulk of the city, so he could take a nice walk through his gated community right to the library in only about ten minutes. It was a nice time for Johnny to reflect on the day, and today he had a lot to reflect about.
So The Voice isn't real. Just another figment of my imagination. Stupid me. Scared about a freaking voice in my head. I've read way too much sci-fi and horror stories lately. Johnny again chuckled, still amused at the fact that he had been so dumbstruck this morning that he could not realize the obvious connection of his dream.
A woman in the middle of her jogging routine brushed against Johnny and made him stumble a little on the sidewalk, but he was oblivious and continued his jaunt through town to the library. One of the scariest days of his life had turned into one he actually enjoyed. Well, before he got to the library, anyway.

Johnny rang the bell to alert the customer service desk of his inquiry. A plump woman with a badge that certified her as an assistant came over to where Johnny was patiently waiting. Johnny looked up from a magazine he had been eyeing over in the Media department, and when he saw the support specialist, smiled warmly and greeted her.
"Well hello there, Johnny! What can I do for you on this fine day?" The lady's voice had a country twang to it, but that was a common thing in a city full of country-raised citizens.
"Hello Wanda," Johnny replied, recognizing the girl from his previous visits. "I would actually like to dive into your horror bestsellers, I think."
"Wow! A very eclectic taste you have, Mr. Dashwood. Just last week you were asking about novels by Orson Scott Card and H.G Wells!"
"I'll read anything with a good plot," Johnny said warmly. He then was ushered into the next room, the horror section, to a shelf that housed a broad arrangement of bestselling thrillers.
"Here ya go, Johnny. Be sure to get scared for me." Wanda winked and then scurried off when she heard the ring of the customer service bell. Johnny's eyes lingered for a second more, and then gazed over at the spectacle that was the horror  section. Johnny had only set foot in there but a couple of times, and when he did, it wasn't to look for outrageous murder plots or novels on mass genocide, and if he did get something out of this part of the library, it usually would not be anything like the usual blood and gore type horror. Johnny was looking for something a little more captivating. And only one book on the long shelf of books that had already sold thousands of copies caught his eye.
It was a small, paperback story titled Devoured by the Darkness. Its unappealing beige cover and the crude picture of fog creeping up behind an unsuspecting victim were not exactly reasons why this strange book would be called a bestseller. Its story must be incredible for so many to find this book and look the way it does, Johnny thought. The earnest temptation of an enthralling plot was too much to resist, and Johnny headed for the counter with book in one hand and library card in the other. This is just what I need, Johnny reasoned. A story I can emerge into and never come out.

After checking out his book and returning to his neighborhood, he decided to detour from his original destination, his home, and go to the small park inside the gated community, for there was a small walking track he sometimes liked to venture down. With book in hand, he walked the trail, still debating in his head about the meaning of that persistent dream that just kept entering his mind. Then, he headed home and into his own little library space to start his dramatic story.
The book was wonderful. Every turn of the page made Johnny hunger for more, and soon he became so engrossed in it that he did not notice the clock on the end table next to his leather reading chair chime nine times or the world outside his window become increasing darker. It was as if Johnny was oblivious to the world because of his addiction to the newfound book. Johnny did not care about the time, but soon he stopped reading and looked up in astonishment. There was another silly coincidence that had shown up about his wild delusion the night before. The Voice had popped up again, but this time, Johnny had no idea why.
It began being mentioned in chapter three, where the hero of the story, being the writer because of its first person point of view, was reading a book in a much similar setting such as Johnny was in. The protagonist had just had a weird feeling creeping up in his senses, and then suddenly, he could feel and internal battle with his conscience and another present being. It was as if someone was probing his brain, trying to enter into the depths of his secrets locked away. Johnny was horrified at the gruesome details the writer had included, and almost put the book down for that reason. Almost.
The hero ended up losing the battle, and an omnipotent power took control of his brain. The writer described the feeling as The Darkness, hence the name Devoured by the Darkness, but it was strangely similar in characteristics as to what Johnny referred to as The Voice. Those chilling pages made Johnny's mind flash back to the previous night, where a being such as the one in the story was taking control of his brain cells. It was unheard of that The Voice had popped up twice in one day, three if you count the original encounter. Why was this happening? What exactly was happening? These questions rattled around Johnny's head as he turned the page to see what the hero would choose to do next.

...and then it began its work on me.
The Darkness was an all-knowing presence, lingering in the depths of my mental thoughts as if it was spying on me, learning my powers, learning my weaknesses. In the days that passed, it felt as if my conscience was merely gone from existence, trapped in a cage this dark power had conjured up, and then left there to rot. The Darkness became my conscience, my motivator to do the right things. My motivator to do wrong things as well.
See, that was the scary part. It didn't just tell me horrible, grotesque things to do to other human beings like I had thought it would, but it was actually like a real conscience. It guided me through the paths of ordinary life, may they be right or wrong. It just became a mirror image of the "voice inside my head," so to speak. But when the time came for it to turn into what I had envisioned, I was nowhere near prepared.

Johnny did not believe in fate or destiny. But Johnny did believe that this book somehow was put into his life for a reason. What it may be, he knew not, but it was here to be something, like a sign that could guide him through this odd string of events. In this book, he gained comfort, he gained support. He gained the support of knowing another person felt like him, though he was not as deeply perturbed as the character in the story, but still supported nonetheless. And that was when Johnny's life became a whole different ballgame.
The Darkness, The Voice in Johnny's case, had found the weak spot, the point where Johnny accepted the fact that he was weak, accepted he needed support. That broke his internal walls, and all The Voice did was gave a little push. It flooded Johnny's mind, and he began to feel exactly as the writer's character did. It battled his conscience fiercely, trying desperately to anchor itself into Johnny, and it would not be stopped. The anchor had been cast, and Johnny's last real thought as a free man was the fact that he knew he could never go back.

It was just like the dream. The Voice was controlling him fully, Johnny just being a tool carrying out The Voice's dark deeds. It was a perfect plan. Johnny would still talk and act like good ole Johnny Dashwood, resident of Kingsport, Oklahoma, but behind the scenes would be The Voice, the grand puppeteer of it all. Johnny would think for himself and not even really notice The Voice's presence, but when it was time to take command, he would be none the wiser.

Johnny Dashwood was inhabited by a creature known as The Voice, yet he had no idea whatsoever that the dark, menacing being was present inside him. Oops, I dropped my story, Johnny though as he bent over to pick it up where it lay on the floor since the initial shock of The Voice had occurred. Now what page was I on? And Johnny continued reading his brand new book.

"What can I do for you, sir?" The lovely greeter at the Kingsport Mega Mall smiled warmly as she eyed Johnny's muscular physique. Johnny had ventured down to the mall for a cup of coffee, which he lacked at his abode, and an Advil at the drugstore for his pounding headache. Little did he know that the cause of that aching was a little thing known as The Voice.
"Oh, nothing. Just need...medicine." Johnny's train of thought was interrupted for a second by another burst of throbbing on his head. He pounded it with his fist, but it just made the headache worse. The greeter looked up and saw the distress the man was in, so she began to usher him to a back room for the police to come get him, thinking he was a drunk man because of his awkward swaying and slightly slurred words.
No, no, no! I just need medicine." Johnny surged forward, escaping her grasp and even knocking the poor girl off of her feet. He could hear the crack of a skull against concrete, but he paid no attention to the incident and began to jog towards his destination. He did not even care about the woman bleeding from her skull lying unconscious on the floor.
The Voice had commanded him to push her. It wasn't him who had the sudden beast-like urge to knock her over, for the shove was on purpose. This is not me. This is not who I am. But it is who I am. It has been forever. A cruel, heartless monster who just wanted some headache medication. A monster. That's what I have become. Johnny was struggling against his own mind, wanting to reconnect with his lost real self, but being blocked by a powerful foe. That enemy was The Voice, and it would not be overcome.
"I don't know what is happening anymore," Johnny muttered to himself as he approached the mall's pharmacy desk, still in somewhat of a jog.
"Excuse me?" The nurse behind the counter had heard Johnny's mumbling, thinking he was talking to her.
"Oh, nothing. I just need to find some headache medicine. I have a burning feeling in my head and a huge migraine." Johnny came closer to the desk, and the nurse's visage turned to one of shock as she noticed the way Johnny was moving his body and beating his brains out with his fist.
"My goodness, let me get you some. I'll be right back." The nurse scurried off into the back to find the medication.
Minutes passed. The nurse still had not returned, and the beast inside Johnny was getting antsy. It grew inside his brain, grew inside his chest, and he was startled as his legs started to move themselves to the door behind the counter even though he was not controlling them. Someone had became him, urging his body forward to wreak havoc on the unsuspecting nurse. He opened the door and peered inside, anger still bubbling in his chest. He was prepared to kill, he was prepared to do whatever would stop what he thought was wrong with him. But then something odd occurred. The friendly nurse was nowhere to be found.
Johnny Dashwood was at his boiling point. He had enough of his headache, enough of his life even. But like what was mentioned before, the reason The Voice was so tempting was because it did not always urge him to make bad decisions. So instead of doing the predictable thing, finding the nurse, taking the medicine, and then brutally committing manslaughter, he instead chose to do a good thing: Just take the medicine, for there was a spare behind the desk, and leave in peace. But The Voice had one more trick up its sleeve to get Johnny to blow.

Johnny left the mall and continued on back to his house, where he quickly gulped the pill and then settled back into his reading chair to see what happened in his newfound interest: horror stories. After the first few chapters, he had established in his brain that horror was the most amazing genre on the face of Earth. Just a few chapters in one horror novel had made Johnny feel irrationally addicted, but The Voice had swayed his thinking a little. He sat the pill box to the side and picked up Devoured by the Darkness.
Johnny had cleared the book in three hours flat. It was a good size book, too, but he had read very swiftly, his desire to know how it ended fueling him through the entire story. But now Johnny's face looked drained of any color, and that fire that had kept him going had been put on the back burner, for the ending of the thriller had not been what Johnny had wanted at all.
The ending of Devoured by the Darkness was focused on the hero's last thoughts before he committed suicide. The Darkness had creeped closer and closer until one day he just snapped. He had gone into the streets with a loaded pistol and shot six pedestrians off their feet and onto the hard sidewalk, stone dead. But after the irreversible deed was committed, The Darkness had left his victim, gone to prow on another unsuspecting suburban citizen. It had achieved what it wanted, and it left the man with a baffled mind who remembered what had gone on, but not ready to come to alms with it.
This last chapter, in the form of a journal entry by the now Darkness-free man, was all about how he wished he could go back and redo his life again. He wanted a second chance, to come to peace with the ones he had murdered, people he did not even know, and he felt as his life was closing, like a book. Unless he could go back, there would be no reason for him to live. But what kind of person wants to die?
He kept ranting on and on about The Darkness, and the same phrase was written over and over until he final line, where it became flipped around, a message that stated that he was begging for forgiveness instead of trying to make himself believe it was possible.
Don't give up on me.

This was too many coincidences for Johnny to handle. The Voice Phone Company, The Voice appearing in the book he checked out at the library, and now the phrase that had haunted his dreams! But this is a fictional story, you idiot. You can't possibly believe it is happening to you. Johnny sank back into his plush chair and gazed outside. It cannot possibly be happening to you.

The Voice was on its final stage of life. It has three phases that the victim psychologically goes through before its work is done. The first is anger. This is the hardest stage to handle, for if the subject's anger gets out of hand, the plot from the story Johnny was reading could become a reality. He had entered and passed that phase at the mall.
Then comes the denial. That had just passed, the moment when Johnny's logical thinking prevailed and exposed the coincidences, but merely shaken them off. This was the easiest stage to deal with, a kind of waypoint between the big ones. And oh was this last stage the big one.
The final stage is referred to as "The Snap." The Snap is when all emotions are left behind and action is the only thing that occurred. Johnny had now entered that phase, the final phase, the most volatile, the phase where someone would usually die. And in the end, if all went as planned, two would be dead instead.

The honk of a horn interrupted Johnny's contemplation. He abruptly put his book down and hurried to the door, glancing at the calendar on a board he had hung up in the kitchen. It was his day, and he had completely forgotten.
A woman with flowing red hair and a lean figure appeared at the door with about a twelve year old boy. Johnny opened the door and greeted the boy warmly, with his ex-wife with a hint of disdain.
"Hi daddy!" The boy, Russell, ran up and hugged his father. Johnny was astonished for a moment, but then a small smile creeped along the edges of his mouth as he welcomed his son into the house he only got to see every other weekend.
"Here's his school bag for Monday, and a couple of toys he's been obsessing over the past few days." The woman, Dakota Motley, bent down and hugged her son and then departed out the door, without a goodbye for Johnny.
"Russell, go put your things in the guest room and then I'll tuck you in. It's past your bedtime already!" Johnny exclaimed, chucking as he ushered his son into the room. Johnny then sat down at the kitchen table, still smiling warmly. His mood always lightened when he saw his son. Russell called out from the other room, and Johnny was on his way. It was a picture perfect scene, but a little voice in the back of Johnny's mind reminded him that work was still to be done.

After Russell was tucked in without any interruptions like bathroom breaks or needing more water, Johnny tiptoed back to the library space, so he could clean up his mess he had made earlier before going to sleep himself. It was then that he spotted the overturned book he had been reading, and leaned over to pick it up. In a rush, all the memories of those awfully strange coincidences came rushing back. They took him with them, away from the cheery atmosphere of the house, away from everything he had cherished in the past hours, son especially. It brought him down along with a torrent of other memories, memories he would like to forget. The anger at the mall. How he wanted to kill the nurse, kill anyone to stop the headaches, stop the pain. He was filled with pain. And in that moment, Johnny felt a pain ten times worse than the last. The Voice had full control, The Voice became Johnny Dashwood. And in the next few seconds, all Johnny could do was be along for the ride.

The deed was done. Murder weapon, a hunting knife now soaked in innocent blood, in his right hand, the remains of the shirt he had ripped off the victim in his left. The bloodlust was gone, the headaches were gone, The Voice was finally gone. But not before something absolutely terrible had occurred.
I won't give up on you.
It had started. It was like a trance, like the dream Johnny had was then made into a reality. That dream was like a glimpse of the future, a warning sign flashing before a crash. But he had fallen for the trap, and the crash had in turn murdered his son. Only it wasn't a crash that had really murdered his son. It was The Voice, no, it was Johnny Dashwood of Kingsport, Oklahoma.
I won't give up on you.
The Voice had been replaced by that single phrase, gnawing at his brain, trying to get him to take action. But Johnny was rooted to the spot. He had figured out what he had to do. How to do, as the writer of Devoured by the Darkness put it, go back. He could save his son, he could see him and be with him forever. And there was only one way that would be possible.
I won't give up on you.
And Johnny realized that he knew what that phrase meant. He loved his son, he would go to the ends of the earth to get his son back, and the solution was sitting in his right hand. He could not give up, he would not give up.
I won't give up on you.
And then The Voice got its wish. Johnny was laid to rest, the blood and gore of his son splattered against his shirt.

Reid Hepburn was going crazy. After writing a story as creepy as Devoured by the Darkness, he felt like his story was jumping off the page and into his personal life. This Darkness he wrote of was devouring him, and he couldn't take it anymore. He just couldn't take it anymore.
I won't give up on you.
He wasn't going crazy, more like going insane. The Voice, Darkness, whatever it may be called, had grabbed ahold of him and dragged him along for its next assault on mankind. And the iron grip on it was too hard for Reid to pull away.
I won't give up on you.
The stages were irrelevant at this point. It felt as if Reid had skipped anger and denial and gone straight to The Snap. And Reid had written the book, so surely he knew what the only possible way out of the situation was.
I won't give up on you.
Maybe he wasn't crazy and he would wake up safe and sound. So why not try? Why not end it here, to see if it was actually just starting to begin. And if his plan did go wrong, he had a wife himself waiting for him on the other side. What could go wrong?
I won't give up on you.
And so Reid Hepburn did the only think rational to do. He did the only thing that was described in his book. It's funny how much we are what we read. And the gun he held in his trembling hand uttered a final crack.
Don't give up on me.