But you’ve been told that you have a sadistic streak. As kids, for instance, you remember the shrill demands of your sister to stop when you turned boring, romantic roleplays into something more Uncanny (it was either that or arguing, but you could do both simultaneously). Several times you delighted in turning the genre to Suspense – the best genre, in your opinion. Probably why she always made you play the Alpha Bitch or Love Interest while she defended her poor-but-beautiful-and-kind character heroines.
Not too far from reality though, as she wasn’t the only person who forced you into that role. Of course, you couldn’t help but be a rude, opinionated brat anyway. You eventually learned to embrace such labels, make it a hobby. It’s not cocaine, but you’re certainly addicted.
And obsessed; you go where the pain is. Perhaps that makes you a masochist as well. When working, you like your mood how you like the night – dark with beckoning shadows, where anything can slink up from if you let your mind go enough.
– You’ll take those attributes and transform them into words. Keep them for another time –
Maybe that’s why you don’t mind the feathery digits snaking around your arms and shoulders, molesting each cell as its stare possesses you tonight.
It’s not rape if you give consent.
You’ve now submitted your life, self, and sanity to this demonic force of nature. It does not care for your personal fate, and neither do you. Scribbling these voices and sketching their faces until your hands seize up with pins and needles. Sometimes, they will possess your voice to better converse; all to better remember the words that slither out to write them down when you can.
You’ve decided to make a career out of creating spell books that will make anyone who chooses to read them temporarily insane. If done correctly, forever. It makes their hearts moist when you seduce it out of them. People may – no, they do – call you weird, crazy, and perhaps mentally ill. But! Is it really mental illness, or does your mind simply work in a way, so differently from most people’s, that folks just don’t know what else to call it?
Either way, it’s part of the job description. What doesn’t kill you gives you inspiration.
Of course, it doesn’t stop there. To achieve that, you must be both saner than a Saint and madder than a Hatter. When achieved, you are everything: a Preacher, a Psychologist, a Victim, an Atoner, a Liar, a Theif, an Imp, a Human… And for just a few moments, a God.
Welcome to maddening, deceitful, fictional reality.
You’ve laid out a gun in the house, just on the top shelf of the oak wood cabinet. Down the street, a motel fitted with tubs to drown someone has a vacancy. A mysterious chaser is on the hunt, with you lazily pulling the strings whenever you’re bored.
Poor Alex… Perhaps a little black dog will help narrow the choices. This isn’t a Choose Your Own Adventure here!
… Maybe that’s why you started fabricating worlds, telling lies, and making people, because you so desperately desire for your side to be told. Minor Depersonalization is just the best way to deal.
Rip out another piece of your heart, your soul, your identity. Let it become possessed and grow:
This person, they do nothing. They don’t help the Manipulating Bastard, but they don’t hurt them. Likewise, they don’t hurt the Spy Guy or The Gang, but they don’t help them, either. They are apathetic: helping, hurting, and doing neither all at once.
They won’t sniff up the storm threatening their summer. Your curiosity giggles in anticipation of setting it in stone; your pragmatic side allows it to happen.
Tilt the mirror and sacrifice another piece of Self: This one foils the previous. They help, they hurt, they Irish Step Dance through the spectrum of ‘right’ and ‘wrong’, every challenging smirk, gamble, and adjustment of their specs asking ‘What is Purity~?’
You make a bet with the demon called Muse on how to better make them break when they taste the answer. It will sour them as they’ve tainted others.
Spin the mirror another way and you see this piece shaking and wilting. They have lost and all their frost, mask, and venom, choking out their hopes and forgotten ideals as they finally fall down in a defeated mess. Once a face of ice, but a bit of steam melted it all off, shocking all spectators stiff.
Flip the mirror and you see yourself.
You're not a bad person, but you can be pragmatically 'evil'.
Every day, you make people. They are all Protagonists, some are Antagonists, but none are actually the Big Bad Villain, and never will be.
After all, isn’t the true villain of any story the Author themself?
ns 172.69.6.110da2
然後按「加至主畫面」