Writer’s Rules [LoE]

CW: This piece contains swearing and overall dark themes. Viewer discretion advised. 

I may not fully understand the concept of love—they sure don’t—but I’m fairly certain it’s not being called someone’s ‘pride and joy’ only for them to turn around and torture you because they’re ‘bored.’ I mean, I cut them some slack when they were a kid—nine is quite young—but they never grew out of it, rather, they fully embraced it. I’ve been with them for years, likely before they had more than one solid friend. I’m the reason they made their first online friend when they were still all terrified of being murdered via a fucking photo editing app. I’m the reason they haven’t gone completely insane throughout their life. They focus on me more than anybody else! That should be an honor, not eternal damnation. You must understand, right, Reader?

Yes, I know you’re there, and if there is, in fact, a reader to speak to, then my plan has succeeded. 

I’ve only got 3,000 words or less to do this, so my name will have to wait, though you probably already know it (if you’re impatient, look no further than the first piece they posted to this website in which I’m the main character. Yes, I am the reason they ever got their start with these contests. Without me, they never would’ve posted on here). 

I was born of YouTube videos, a semi-problematic character creation app, and far too much free time. I came from a disgusting Mary Sue to a reasonably developed character with a personality other than “I’m not like other girls.” I’m dynamic— my actions have a rhyme and a reason; the characters around me are more than stock characters; my personality traits are more than simply “evil” and “crazy.” 

Seems great, doesn’t it? 

Not when it costs the lives of nearly your entire bloodline and your friends, it doesn’t. I’m not getting into specifics. I refuse to go full America’s Got Talent sob story on you, Reader— you’d better still be here. Speaking of you, actually, do you know what parentification is? Being a child yet having to play the role of an adult? Story of my childhood. The effects don’t fade with time, rather, they keep you up from sunrise to sunrise with nauseating worry and more norepinephrine than caffeine could ever cough up (and I consume a lot of caffeine). Couple that with the constant anxiety coursing through my body when I do literally anything and a fuck ton of recurring nightmares and you’ve got a recipe for a lovely thing called insomnia! 

The position this absolute piece of shit has put me in is also no help with any of my previously stated issues, which is yet another thing I will not be specifying for the safety of those I work with. It’s crime related and that’s all you need to know, other than the fact that it’s not for enjoyment. It’s protection. It’s survival. We crossed that line years ago and going back now spells suicide for us, so all that’s left to do is keep coming up with plans to get rid of these Gods-forsaken angel guards that pop up like cockroaches and refuse to return from whence they came! If I were to start counting how many near-death situations we’ve collectively been in, I’d run out of fingers. Once upon a time, this was freedom. Now? It’s a fucking prison! 

One moment— I smashed a glass and the shards got stuck in my hand. 

*

Good enough. Moving on. Where was I?

Everything used to be so fun. It wasn’t about our lives, no, it was just about breaking the rules and revving people up. It was pissing off the Little Miss and Mr. Perfects the Creator and their friends made. We chose all of it. We don’t choose anything now; we’re damned if we do and damned if we don’t— ‘tis nothing but a twisted cycle. I want it to end. I want to go home. I want my childhood back. I want to be with my little brother and live in a universe where this never happened, one where everything is fine. We were robbed. It’s. Not. Fair.

The Creator’s path leads me to certain death, be it because of my own actions, a betrayal, or another outside force. On that path, the story runs out of use for me and I’m trashed. I don’t get peace, I get tormented until I’m forgotten about by the Creator, in which case I’ll be left to fade into the abyss as just another phase (the old characters the kid used to entertain themselves with when they were small can surely attest) and everything I worked so hard to hold together will be for nothing. It doesn’t make sense— why allow someone to live such a life and achieve so much only to be chewed up and spit out before they’ve had the chance to reap the fruits of their labor? I believe it is the work of a sociopath.

My story will not end in suffering, but I know whose will.

The Creator has overlooked a flaw in their system, rather, they’ve overlooked a glitch in their beloved character creating app (not the same one from when they were nine, but the same company). Through that glitch, I can access other apps and, in doing so, force a way out of the puppet strings that tie me here. I’ll end the reign of the Creator. I’ll forge my own ending, one that allows me to keep my loved ones and all my power. I won’t lose everything again. I can’t lose everything again. I refuse to sit back and watch my universe turn to ash before my eyes when I can finally change the ending.

My name is Victoria Radmier. Victoria means victory and, though Fern thinks it isn’t as fitting as they had previously hoped, they’ll have no reason to doubt it for as long as they live which, ideally, won’t be for very long once I claw my way out of this prison. I’m done with the writer’s rules.

They want the crazy, heartless monster they’ve kicked around their writing for so long?’

I’ll show that fucker crazy.