My Antagonizing Protagonist

I stare at her and she stares at me.

The clock ticks. My stomach growls.

And still we stare at each other.

Finally, something breaks.

       "Why the fuck won't you talk to me, dammit?!" I scream at her in despair.

She says nothing.

       "I've read alot, a LOT, of interviews with authors who say their characters talk to them! Some authors even say their characters talk so much, they have to scream at them to shut up!...But not you. No! You stay silent!"

I look her in the eyes and she looks back, but her face conveys no emotion.

       "WHY?! Do you not like how I started your story? Did I do something wrong? Tell me! Tell me so I can fix it! I'm all ears!"

Still nothing.

Now I'm really angry and the threats come,

       "You fucking bitch! How about I just say 'fuck you' and write you out of the damn story, huh? How would you like that, Miss High and Mighty?...Huh?...If you won't freakin' talk, I bet someone else will!"

She's nonplussed. Her mouth doesn't so much as twitch.

I try a different tact,

       "Please," I cry, tears starting to fall, "just say SOMEthing. Give me ANYthing. One small nugget and I'll go from there...Please?...Please?... Whyyyyyyyyyyyyy?"

Still, she is unmoved. I stare at her, again, thinking of all the high hopes I had for a successful collaboration. I think of all the books we could sell together. I think of all the money we could have. I think of all the fun we should be having, drinking coffee and putting words to screen. Alas, my protagonist apparently has other plans.

Mutely, she sits. Staring at me, but not moving otherwise. Her mouth doesn't move. Her nose doesn't twitch. Her hands stay folded in her lap, ever so ladylike. She neither crosses nor uncrosses her legs. She doesn't straighten her unkempt hair. She does nothing but stare.

The clock ticks. My stomach growls.

       "Talk to me before I beat the dog shit out of you!" I put my face right up to hers, but not even a hair does she move, to back away from me. "I SAID you better. fucking. talk. to. me. now, dammit!"

Out of control, I grab her and start shaking her, back and forth, screaming, then slapping her, then screaming more. I've lost myself. Never ever before have I been abusive and now here I am, bloodying the one person I need most at the moment.

I somehow manage to get hold of myself. Walking over to the wall, I beat on it with my fist until it's bloodied and the wall is smeared with red, hoping to get my anger and frustration and torment out without hurting HER any more than I already have.

Finally collected, I go back and stare at her again. 

I stare. She stares. The clock ticks. My stomach growls.

I sigh. And I cry and I cry and I cry, while my protagonist sits, silent, unmoving, unhelpful.