𝐆𝐎𝐃𝐒 [𝐁𝐨𝐫𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐅𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐁𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐅𝐚𝐭𝐞]

Prologue

𝐑𝐨𝐲𝐚 𝐀𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐢

I’ve always felt like an outsider. While everyone around me laughs and cries, I remain untouched, watching like a spectator at a play. Emotions? They confuse me. I don’t understand why people get so worked up over things that don’t matter.

Growing up, my parents constantly told me I was “different.” I didn’t see the world the way they did, and they never let me forget it. I was the black sheep, the problem child. They yelled, they blamed, but I learned to tune it all out. Their disappointment became background noise, an irritation I could easily ignore.

When I took matters into my own hands, it was a revelation. I didn’t feel remorse when I hurt Diago, our dog, for biting me. I fed him chocolate, knowing it would harm him. I wanted him to hurt like I did. The looks on my parents' faces when they found out were worth it. They were horrified, but I found amusement in their outrage. I didn’t care that they called me a monster; their words were just noise.

Neglect followed, like a shadow. They distanced themselves from me, unable to accept what I was. Their attempts at control only made me more determined. I started plotting, watching, calculating my moves. I realized that if they couldn’t love me, they didn’t deserve to be in my life.

As I grew older, I discovered a new outlet: writing. It became my sanctuary. In my stories, I created worlds where I had control, where my characters could suffer and die at my hands. I could unleash the darkness I felt inside without any real-world consequences. The anonymity of it all was intoxicating. I could be anyone, create anything, and no one would know my true identity.

One afternoon, I sat at my desk, sunlight streaming through the window, fingers flying across the keyboard. My latest novel featured a strong hero, but I found more joy in killing him off than in his triumphs. I crafted a scene where he faced an unexpected betrayal from his closest ally. The moment I typed the words that sealed his fate, a thrill coursed through me. The character I had nurtured and developed was gone, and I felt invincible.

When I revealed his death in a dramatic twist, the backlash from readers was instantaneous. My social media, under my pseudonym, erupted with outrage. “How could you do this?” “You’re a monster!” they screamed, flooding my notifications with their emotional chaos. I laughed at their frustration. They couldn’t understand that the chaos of their emotions only fueled my creativity.

Instead of feeling guilt, I felt empowered. Their hate became my motivation. I plotted new stories, new characters, and I let my imagination run wild. Each death, each twist was a way to assert my dominance over them, just like I had done with my parents. I reveled in their discomfort, using it as inspiration to craft even darker narratives.

After the uproar from the last book, I decided to lean into the chaos. I held a live Q&A session under my pen name, expecting a mix of hostility and curiosity. When the comments flooded in, I relished the anger directed at me. “You’re sick!” someone typed. I smiled, responding, “Art is meant to provoke.” The more they lashed out, the more invigorated I felt.

I started to explore different genres, taking on thrillers and horror. With each new character I created, I felt the excitement of potential destruction. In one story, I introduced a family of four. I meticulously planned their demise—each character with a unique, brutal end. A car crash, a poisoning, an accidental drowning. The idea of weaving their fates together filled me with anticipation.

When the story published, I watched as readers were taken aback by the brutality. Their reactions were priceless—some were horrified, others fascinated. I fed off their responses, diving deeper into the darkness. I pushed boundaries, writing characters that mirrored the worst of humanity, only to snuff them out without hesitation. Each time I did, the rush grew.

One evening, while sitting in a café with my laptop, I overheard a group discussing my latest work. “Can you believe what she did to that character?” one said, incredulous. I smiled to myself, knowing they were talking about me, oblivious to my true identity. The thrill of their reactions was intoxicating.

Now, I live in a world that’s finally mine, free from judgment and expectation. I embrace my nature, unburdened by guilt or remorse. I am who I am, and I thrive in it. The more they hate me, the more motivated I become to push their buttons, to create and destroy at will. In the end, it’s just me and my pen, cloaked in anonymity, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

__________

I know, I get it. She is a complex character to write but it's not her fault she is different. It will get better, trust me. Diago was saved in time guys.

-Tz