“Reality is wrong. I know it is.
Every time I blink, the timeline shifts—just a hair—just enough to make me wonder if I’m losing it, or if everyone else already has.
They forgot it all… the screams, the corruption, the blood. All of it—gone. Wiped clean like it never happened.
Except me. Lucky me.”
Ttac sat on the edge of his bed, legs jittering like they were trying to evacuate his soul early. His room was dark except for the flickering CRT television in the corner—static tonight, as if even the electronics were tired of this timeline. The air felt wrong, too still, like the world was holding its breath and waiting for him to break first.
He dragged a hand down his face.
“Honestly, it’s rude.”
He stood up abruptly, pacing.
“We survived an apocalypse so horrific I STILL smell imaginary sulfur when I sneeze. A demon bit my leg—BIT IT—like I was a freaking snack pack. Casey tried to murder Bandit with a baseball bat. Neo yeeted herself into a wall. Blurient turned corrupted AGAIN and no one thought to maybe—oh, I don’t know—WRITE THAT DOWN? Maybe pin a sticky note somewhere?”
He spun toward the reader.
Yes — you. He looked straight at you.
“And don’t act innocent. I KNOW you’re watching this like it’s a drama you’re emotionally detached from. ‘Oooh, look at Ttac losing his mind.’ Yeah? Come try living it. Come try existing in a world where the fabric of reality is held together with duct tape, guilt, and Blurient’s questionable decision-making skills.”
He pointed aggressively at the book’s margins.
“And YOU—Narrator—stop leaving out details. I can SEE you skipping things. Don’t gaslight me.”
The Narrator, unbothered, spoke gently:
[The Narrator would like to remind Ttac that gaslighting is not occurring. Simply… narrative efficiency.]
“THAT’S WHAT A GASLIGHTER WOULD SAY!”
He was breathing hard now, adrenaline clawing at his ribs. The quiet returned like a weighted blanket — the uncomfortable kind they use in psych horror games right before something goes very, very wrong.
He sat again, voice lower.
“It happened. All of it. Blurient destroying everything… then fixing it. Demon becoming Debbel. Casey losing her mind. Leo slicing heads. Landon dying. Stormy running. Pebble… Pebble—”
His voice shook.
“Why doesn’t anyone REMEMBER?”
He pressed his palms into his eyes until he saw stars—or maybe that was something else. His memories felt wet, like ink soaking through paper; the harder he held onto them, the more they blurred into nightmares.
A soft sound echoed in the corner of the room.
Ttac froze.
Static on the TV shifted into shapes.
Silhouettes. Red eyes.
One blink. Two blinks. Three.
The shapes melted away like ink poured into water.
“You see THAT?” Ttac snapped at the invisible audience again. “You saw that, right? RIGHT?!”
The Narrator finally sighed.
[No comment.]
Ttac’s laugh cracked down the center — half hysterical, half exhausted.
“Of course. Of course you’re quiet. Why wouldn’t you be? I’m only dealing with lingering cosmic trauma and a faulty timeline. No big deal. And Blurient—don’t even get me started. She’s out here pretending everything is FINE. Like she didn’t literally cause an apocalyptic puppet show starring our deepest fears. Like she didn’t create Blurry, the walking embodiment of ‘you did a bad thing and I’m here to ruin your life.’”
A pause.
He stared out the window.
The street outside was empty.
But something was standing under the streetlight.
Tall. Thin. Wrong.
Blink.
Gone.
“…see?” Ttac whispered. “This is what I’m talking about.”
He hugged his arms around himself, breathing uneven.
“Everyone moved on. Everyone forgot. Everyone laughs again. Except me.”
The silence was heavy now.
Then—then Ttac whispered the line no one else was brave enough to say aloud:
“What if I’m the one who’s wrong?”
The TV hissed louder. Like it answered.
The shadows leaned in.
And somewhere — not in the room, not in the world, but in the space where stories breathe — a faint voice whispered:
”…No. You’re the one who remembers.”
Ttac jolted, looking around wildly.
“You heard that too, right?!”
The Narrator hesitated.
[…this chapter is over now.]
“HEY—DON’T END THE CHA—”