Do you know why I am alive? I shouldn't be, being a scum of society, with no job, no home, no skills, and no friends.

It is because my god is more than just an author. He might have written my story, recording how I lived, but I know from experience that he has written parts of this world, creating them forcefully rather than simply seeing them in his mind's eye.

These more active roles were to spare me from some things I guess were their bottom line. Because of what they did, I haven't had much trouble living this meager life, but my God who was close in the past, with a deep connection to my life, as much as I had to his, went missing a few years ago.

He lost connection with me and probably over reached, getting hurt in the process. All because they helped me in a way which was delusional. To betray the expectation any reader would have, seeing someone like me crawling and gasping for breath.

Even I thought I was a dead corpse.

Note that I am fairly certain that my god is male, due to him breaking connection when I slept or went to the washroom to bathe. Which might have been out of respect, but was the only clue I had. Any other attempts led to nowhere.

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By finishing a simple criteria, I have been given a home in a secret location, which has no shortage of food or water, and is always clean when I wake up. There is an infinite source of electricity, and a connection to the internet with no costs.

All I need to do is write, exercise, and pray in my own way. Which is not a thing of worship, but to simulate a conversation in a dream between my god and I.

I can barely hear his words, barely see his face, his eyes, his feelings. His desires. But I know in my heart, that what I see, is all I can see. Barely anything, if what is in front of me, is not simply a delusion.

I dare not think what might have happened if they wrote a happy life for me. I would suspect that he might be able to forcefully change the course of my life.

Change things to be right. But at what cost? I fear he would die. And I would become a monster who I would despise.

Wish death upon myself, not as a mercy, but as a grievance. Regret at what a disgusting person I have become, truly suited to be seen as nothing but one of the worthless extras.

Happiness is nice. But at the death of someone who had fought for my life? It seemed meaningless to think about. I would rather die.