Alex Walker rolled over on his bed, the faint sound of a tired groan escaping his lips.
The sound of his alarm reverberated inside his small room, if it could even be called a room. Alex mumbled some nonsensical words and tried to turn to the other side, only to wince in pain.
Fuck
Another small groan escaped his lips as he took a pillow from under his head and used it to cover his head. This would turn out to be another mistake. He winced again and finally got out of bed.
The term 'got out of bed' was a glorified term to describe what actually happened. He tried to get up, but kept wincing at any form of a slight movement. At the end, he decided to roll over and fell on the floor. The pain he felt caused him to let out a loud curse.
"Fuck!"
After that, he managed to pick himself up and went to the bathroom. When he was about to enter, he took another glance at the alarm that was still ringing and shrugged.
I'm sure the neighbors wouldn't mind that little bit of noise.
Thirty minutes later, Alex dragged himself out of the bathroom and put on some clothes. After he finished dressing up, he brought out his Macbook... ahem... his old, tattered laptop that was on the verge of death.
I'm really going to miss this, but it's for the greater good
Alex stared at his laptop before loading up the chat.ai webapp page. He attached a file which was titled 'Veins of A Fallen World.pdf' onto it and started writing various prompts to guide the AI to finish the book.
Veins of A Fallen World was a Webnovel that he started writing three years ago. It started out as nothing but a hobby, but then it became something else... it was an escape from reality. It was an escape from the fact that he was a loser.
Yeah... that's all I am, a fucking loser
Alex burst into a small fit of laughter as he continued typing prompts. After he was done typing the prompts, he hit the send button, and just like that his book was finished. Three years of his life was over. After copying all the chapters that the AI wrote, he pasted them on the site he used to write his novel. Seeing the pathetic number of views there, he burst into laughter.
His novel wasn't even like the failed works that had criticism. It was so bad that almost nobody decided to pick it up. For the past one year only one person read his novel. He would've stopped writing if not for that one person. That one person that made him feel less of a loser.
After setting all the chapters to a timer, Alex created a new chapter, and titled it 'My Story'. After creating the chapter, and started writing.
Hello to anyone who's read this far,
My name is Alex Walker, and I died on the fifteenth of November, two thousand and twenty-seven.
Not in the way people usually mean when they say they're dead inside. No, this was final. Cold. Decided. But before I go, I figured someone ought to know what kind of life leads a person here. To this edge.
I wasn't born broken. I was broken, piece by piece, by the people who were supposed to keep me whole.
My earliest memory is pain, though I didn't have a word for it back then. Just a twisting, choking confusion that came from a place that was supposed to mean warmth—home. But it didn't feel like home. It felt like a trap.
When I was five, I was raped by my own mother. The woman that was supposed to protect me from the world became the monster I needed protection from. I told someone what was happening. I don't even know how I found the words. I barely understood them myself. But someone must've listened, because I was taken away. People clapped their hands and said, "You're safe now." I wanted to believe them.
Then came Dad. A stranger at first. A man with a hard stare and a voice like a knife. He didn't hit me, not at first. No, he waited. Watched me flinch and hesitate like a stray dog. And when he saw I wouldn't fight back, he made sure I'd never forget my place in his house. His punches were punctuation. His kicks, conclusions.
When I was eleven, I stopped waiting for someone to save me.
I did what they said monsters do. No, I didn't do what monsters do, I did what the heroes were supposed to do.. I killed the monster. And still, no one asked why.
Alex paused his writing briefly, his hands were shaking and his eyes were filled with tears. But the tears didn't fall. There was no way he was going to let them fall.
"You can do this, you can do this, you can do this". Alex muttered under his breath as he kept his hands on his keyboard and continued to write. To relieve the painful memories that made up his life.
They locked me up for what I did to him. Said I was dangerous. Said I needed to be reformed. They sent me to a place where the walls bled silence and the doors never really shut out the screams. I thought I'd already seen hell. I was wrong.
There, I was nothing. Less than nothing. A target. A body to use. A soul to wear down until it crumbled into dust.
One year. Just twelve months. That's how long they said I'd be there. But time works different when every second is another reminder that no one gives a damn about you.
And then — freedom. Sort of. A new family. A soft-spoken woman and her quiet husband. They smiled like maybe they really cared. For six months, I breathed again. Laughed once, maybe twice. I think I even slept through a whole night once.
Then the car crash happened. That smile — gone in an instant. So fast. So cruel.
Another family took me in. They weren't kind. I didn't expect them to be. Their fists weren't as hard as Dad's, but they landed just the same. Bruises started to feel like fingerprints. Ownership.
I stopped being surprised by loss. I started expecting it.
Eventually, I stopped hoping for better. That's when I knew I was done. Not with the world — the world didn't owe me anything. I was just done pretending I could live in it.
So I ended it. All of it. Them. Me. The cycle.
You're probably thinking I'm the villain in my own story. Maybe I am. But here's the truth: I didn't start this story. I was written into it, chapter after brutal chapter, by hands far crueler than mine. I just ran out of pages.
If there's a heaven, I'm not going. If there's a hell, I've already lived in it.
All I ever wanted was to be seen. To be heard. To not flinch at every kindness, wondering what price it carried.
So if you're reading this — really reading it — remember me not as the killer, not as the broken kid, but as the boy who never had a real chance.
My name is Alex Walker.
And this… is my story