If Im Not Traumatizing People On The Internet Am I Even A Writer

If I’m not traumatizing people on the internet am I even a writer

The hero woke up with a start, tears streaming down their face as their book went flying. They rubbed their palms against their cheeks angrily, but it did nothing to stop the flow.

Across the room, the villain coughed.

The Hero’s gaze snapped to them, and they regarded the hero calmly.

“Bad dream?”

The hero looked away, embarrassment coloring their cheeks.

“No.”

The villain sighed.

“Good dream, then?”

The hero said nothing, and the villain nodded in understanding.

“I see. Would you like to tell me about it?”

They studied every inch of their room, the silence fidgeting between them like an anxious child, before the words fought their way out.

“I—we, saved the world.”

The villain hummed. “Ah.”

The hero sniffed and tugged the blankets higher on their lap. The book lay forgotten on the floor.

“I can understand the tears, then,” they said sympathetically. The hero let out an unamused laugh.

“No, you can’t.”

“Just because I do not empathize does not mean I cannot understand,” the villain tipped their head. “You have many regrets. That much is clear. It is written upon every move you make. So do not preach understanding, Hero, when I know how you work.”

The hero stiffened.

“I hate you.”

“You hate yourself more,” the villain said conversationally, and the hero’s chest welled with pain.

The silence roiled.

“Yes,” they agreed quietly. “I do.”

The villain tapped their hand once against the door frame.

“I’ll leave you to your dreaming, then, Hero.”

Hero.

Nothing more than a bit of mockery, now.

Their eyes met, the villain’s gaze burning into them, before they turned from the door of the hero’s cell.

They paused. “You cannot change the past, fallen one,” they said softly. And then they were gone.

The hero lay back, and closed their eyes.

Maybe if they tried hard enough, they could bring their dreams into reality. Maybe they could save everyone—could be the hero everyone had worshiped them as. Could rewrite the ending and bring their friends back to life. Could make it so they ended up in a pedestal and not in a cage. So many maybes. The hero dreamed of all of them, constantly. It never really made a difference.

In their cell designed by the villain who had beaten them irrevocably, the hero fell asleep, and outside, the world burned.

Unsaved.

"You are my sunshine," their breath hitched, tongue going numb as another scream shattered the air.

"My only—"

What came next?

"You make me—"

Their cheeks were wet. What right did they have to cry? They weren't the one bleeding. They were the one singing a lullaby so they wouldn't hear—

The scream was louder this time, higher pitched with agony. They didn't know what could cause that kind of pain.

When skies are—

You never know—

There was a knife on the table, three feet from their hand.

What they had done, the way the horrible truth of it oozed out of their soul; it felt kind of like bleeding.

It felt like screaming under water.

It felt like dying.

If it was their fault, did it matter if it killed them, too?

There was a knife, three feet from their hand.

Their lover screamed again, vocal cords running raw.

Had there even been a choice? Yes, yes, always yes, but had there really?

Their hands were shaking. For some reason, the sight of them trembling drew a sob from their chest.

"Sunshine," they mumbled, but whatever words came after that were lost in their mouth.

There was a knife three feet from their hand.

The next time their lover screamed it cut off so abruptly they wondered if they had gone deaf. If their brain had simply turned off, stolen every sound in the air for protection.

Their lover didn't scream again.

There was a knife in their hand.

"They're alive," they whispered. "They're alive they're alive they're alive."

Say it enough and you believe it.

There was a knife in their hand.

The villain laughed.

Their hand clenched around the hilt.

If they saved their lover, their lover wouldn't forgive them. They knew that. How could they—the person they loved the most, the one person they trusted, had lured them in for the villain.

If their lover was dead—well.

There was a knife in their hand.

The villain was laughing.

And they were going to make sure the villain died painfully.

Maybe by the end of it, they would have something to actually cry about.

Their lover whimpered, a horrible wretched sound. It sounded like hope. It sounded like ‘I’m still here.’

They had a knife in their hand.

And they knew how to use it.

So they did.

I beg of you

Haunt me forever

I’ll stay a believer

So long as you just

Stay

“I won’t tell you anything,” the protagonist snarled.

The villain smiled dangerously. “Oh, I love it when they say that.” They tested the edge of their blade. “It makes it so much more fun when they break.” They tapped their knife against the protagonists chin.

“Now, love, will you be making me break you?”

The protagonist glared.

The villain’s smile widened.

“Oh, darling.” They winked. “Try not to stain my shoes when you bleed.”

The protagonist told them everything.

And the villain enjoyed every minute of it.

She kissed him with blood covered lips.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, love.”

He smiled, wolf sharp teeth against her mouth.

“Happy Valentine’s day.”

Behind them, the city bled.