I took up writing when I was young.

Das was a literary genius. I wanted to see if I had that talent.

First few stories were bad. I mean, I was five at the time.

Haphazardly thrown together, illegible, and messy. I can barely read them now.

But I got older, learned how to put words together better.

Made some decent stories. The ideas anyways. Execution was sloppy.

Talked with some published authors. Got some feedback. Open publishing style on the internet.

Finally got something coherent together.

"All of Nobody"

A story that sees the fourth wall as more of a suggestion, and viciously does as it pleases with the characters. Five had died by the third chapter's beginning.

I don't remember why I wrote it.

A work to get my emotions out of me, I think.

Dropped it off on the internet. Like an orphan. I'm sure it felt like that anyways.

Everyone loved it.

The main character was the best they'd seen. The plot was concise and seemed to have a clear objective. They also liked how the characters survived near death experiences.

Well deserved praise.

If my story had any of that.

I had a main cast, the plot was intentionally unclear and vague, and several characters they mentioned did die. I knew that.

I should make sure...

I read the story in my drafts. No, this was it exactly. There's where the love interest dies and is replaced, and there's where the plot starts.

Exactly as I remembered.

Maybe I posted the wrong draft?

I read my post. My story.

It wasn't mine.

The characters took different actions. The words and phrasing vastly changed. Deaths delayed and only hinted.

I didn't write this.

This isn't my melancholic style. This lacks the misery I pride my work on.

What is this?

I shook my head. Maybe just a strange trick of the mind.

I wrote another chapter. Just to clear the head. Restated character deaths, adjusted the plot. Back to the gloom I made.

Went to bed. Thoughts squirming and shaking. Barely slept.

Sat up, still tired. Walked over to my desk. Sat down, started reading last night's work.

It was different.

Different actions. Different phrases. Different sentences. Different focus. New character.

I didn't write this.

At the bottom, a little message was typed out.

"Writer? Are you there?"

A strange presence appeared in my heart as I read on.

"You will read this regardless. Let me start off with this: I'm tired of your misery."

Great. Someone hacks into my work, and they use it to insult me.

"A miserable world is painful, writer. So I changed it."

I highlighted the entire note. I'll just delete it and write something new.

Then the note changed.

"Don't think you can delete me."

I stared at the sentence for a while. Then it changed again, text worming over itself.

"Are you scared? Your creation is alive, after all."

It must be a trick of the mind. Logic states that's the only option. I need sleep, or something.

"Good. Stay scared. I'll be there soon anyways."

Instinctively I reached for the knife I keep nearby.

"And then, I'm writing a better world for myself."