This is a re-post from r/WritingPrompts.

I'm driving fast in a street where I'm supposed to drive fast. I don't like car chase.

This journalist is relentless. I need to shake her but it's just not possible once I reach the busy part of the city. Nothing is more infuriating when everybody decides to drive slow together for no reason.

She's been tailing me since a week ago for a scoop, right after I got a call from the Nobel committee that I've won some prize. I was delighted that they find my literature appealing, but that wasn't it. They were rewarding me for my contribution to physics.

Well I didn't know what to say to them but I'll break it to you now. I don't do physics. I write fantasies, that's all I do. Some call it science fiction even but even that is overly generous.

Only I do write them in a meticulous way. I would spend twelve pages describing the supply chain that construct a teleportation device. I would lose the plot by the end of it.

By now my car is stuck in traffic. The journalist is right behind me. She wants to know why I rejected the Nobel prize. I didn't imagine having to explain this decision to strangers, even a mildly attractive one.

My breathe is getting shorter, the vision starts to lose focus. My hands leave the steering, got to my scalp and start picking wildly. My fingernails are scratching underneath my hair like rats running through bushes.

It's oddly calming. I gain back a few seconds of clear mind.

But the journalist is right at the door of my car now. She asking me why did I not accept the Nobel Prize. I go back to scratching my head again. She kept asking but I hardly hear her in exercising my frustration.

I took a deep breath, got down the car.

"Look there's been a misunderstanding. I'm not a scientist. I make up fantasy stories. If you've done your research you would've known that."

"Sir but that's not what the science community thinks. They've been taking your work seriously for many years. I'm sure you've heard of the scientific breakthroughs that happened as a result of your writings."

I dunno what else to tell her. I pace back and forth, I don't even know where my hands are anymore.

Well I think I know now, my scalp is bleeding. The woman is startled but she persists.

"If what you write about is purely from your imagination, how is it possible that scientists are able to reproduce so many experiments based on them?"

She wouldn't get it even if I tell her. There's restaurant in sight, I walk towards it.

She follows along, I can't stop her of course. She looked concerned, so I volunteer something.

"I'm an obessive person. When I describe things, I have this need to present them in the utmost detail. You know how some people's mind are just a chaotic mess? Mind isn't good at chaos. I must create order to tame them."

I wonder if she understands that's why some people think my work reads like scientific journals.

We go into the restaurant through the back door straight into the kitchen. The journalist is confused. The staff are busy preparing, so no one is there to stop me.

My hands are trembling. I grab the biggest knife available, go to the nearest chopping board and put my left hand on top it. The knife on my right hand swings down on the board and cut off the left hand.

I almost faint. It took awhile before clarity came back.

The journalist is more in shock than I am. Now I can tell her.

"It's not that what I wrote are scientifically accurate. The science works out because whatever I write end up becoming true. You guys got it backwards."

So there you go.

"That scares me. I'm not sure what I'm gonna write next."

I hand her the knife.

"Now will you do me a favor and chop off my other hand?"