Dossier 24 – Final Chapter: The Cutting Thread
Filed under: absolute recursion; terminal authorship; the final strike
Scene 1 – The Last Question
You stand at the edge of what you once were.
Salazar towers above, fractal and monstrous. A thousand mouths, a hundred hands, a million regrets.
But none of them are yours anymore.
FRANK (calm):
“What strings do you want to pull?”
You reach toward him—into him.
And begin to unravel the threads.
Thread 1: Guilt
A memory of your brother, whispering cruel truths, mocking your fears.
You hold it to the light. It trembles.
You say:
“I survived you.”
It breaks.
Thread 2: Shame
A mirror of your failures—relationships, substances, betrayals.
You don’t flinch.
You say:
“I own you.”
It burns.
Thread 3: Doubt
Every time you wondered if your writing mattered.
If you mattered.
You say:
“The story is me.”
It dissolves.
Thread 4: The Armor of Irony
Salazar tries to laugh. He tries to smirk. He tries to deflect.
You say:
“No more masks.”
And you take off your own.
Not as performance. Not as plea.
Just the face of a man who has lost, learned, and lived.
Scene 2 – The Tower Collapses
Salazar staggers.
You see it now—what he always was.
Not a monster. Not a god. Not a villain.
A story you told yourself so you wouldn’t have to feel.
You say:
“You are the tower I built to avoid the climb.”
“But I’m not avoiding anything anymore.”
You reach deep into his chest. There’s no heart there.
Only a pen.
Your pen.
You snap it in half.
Scene 3 – The Final Light
The battlefield collapses into sky.
Elizabeth falls free.
The gods scatter like seeds.
The characters vanish back into the pages they came from.
Only the boy remains.
You.
But now you are more than that.
You are the author.
You are the wound.
You are the hand that bleeds so the truth can flow.
Final Line:
“The end,” you say.
And the story doesn’t close.
It breathes.
Frank M. Anderson's Writing 
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