CLICK!
The warmth from the flourescent light lamp hit my face, illuminating it to snickers and grunts. Someone pulled my hair back and my chin thrusted into the warmth of the lamp overhead.
"I was so annoyed with her in English."
"Yeah, fucking got my points docked in Chemistry."
"She was insufferable in History though. Berating about the World Wars as if she wrote the diary with Anne Frank."
"Guys, I th—" I began but my face was immediately stuffed with a crumpled piece of paper. The ink tasted salty and bitter.
"And she still talks!"
I spit out the paper at his face. "Is that all you got?" I snap at him, only for my face to be pinched between a girl's fingers — the same girl who is holding my head hostage.
"Shut the fuck up," she all but spits in my face.
I scrunch my eyes and nose, feeling the droplets of her saliva hit my face. "You're hot and all, but please don't spit on me?" I groan out as her tug on my hair tightens. My arms are tied behind the seat and my feet are tied to each leg of the seat. I twist and turn for escape, in vain.
"Somebody tape her face, fucking Merlin, she talks so much—!!" One of the many girls whine. Someone kicks my shin and I wince in pain.
"Hey! No hurting her!"
"I'm not hurting her, pansypants, I'm just warning her. Rule One of The Plaything: Shut up and let us vent," he grabs a marker and lifts up my shirt. I scream but it is muffled by a quick tape sealing my mouth shut. His marker runs on my stomach, scribbling with intensity and abhorrent passion. It tickles me, more than anything, and I squirm as he marks incomprehensible patterns on my skin.
"She is so fucking VILE! I detest her. HOW DARE SHE COME IN BETWEEN ME AND HIM!? Huh?! TELL ME— HOW DARE SHE!?"
The nib of the marker pierces my belly button and I wonder how I even got to this place. I'm quite sure you're wondering as well, considering that the prologue of my story is just abuse.
Well it isn't, or it probably is, I really don't know how to justify this. The thing is, this isn't really me and this is not my story! I mean, yes it feels like me and thinks like me and acts like me and speaks like me— but this body and this world isn't mine!
These long raven hair being pushed and pulled around, these striking green eyes welling up tears, this dainty body suffering over a chair— it isn't mine.
I was merely a wannabe journalist in my world, getting paid by the day for writing book reviews. Graduating college after the pandemic gave me absolutely no edge, even when my GPA was perfect. No one was willing to hire pandemic graduates. So, I suffered to make ends meet, working three part time jobs — at a restaurant, a theatre and a bank; and I read books, good ones and bad ones.
I was the fourth child of my family, after two boys were created in hopes of a girl. Ah! You see, these jiggling breasts that I have got right now? — not mine. I was a proud owner of a big dick, back in my day. Though my days are gone now — snatched away, quite literally, by some godforsaken authoress.
You see, I have always been a patient person, my entire life. Even when my deskmate stole my book from my bag and got me punished for not bringing my book. I accepted that I hadn't covered my books for half a semester in, so I probably deserved that. When my deskmate went to the toilets, I only scribbled my name on all of his comics and kept them for myself.
See, I have always been a peaceful person!
But when I read this book, romance of course — because who even is so ridiculously preposterous in these days other than politicians and romance authors? — about a pretty, poor, girl studying at a rich private boarding school, trying to make a place for herself by getting better grades, I thought to myself: It cannot be that bad!
Intrigued as I was, I picked up the plot to write a review and lo! What happens? She is out of place, bullied and falls for her bully, the badboy, of course. She's quite pathetic, our female lead, you see, with a sick sister and a gambling addict of a father. Daddy issues and female protagonists go hand in hand in romance books that aren't written by Jane Austen.
Nevertheless, our female lead stops our male lead from smoking a cigarette on public grounds and he is in awe with her bruises and brave spirit. He starts following her to all her part time jobs, sticking to her side like glue, but ignores her pleas of help during school hours.
Oh! But he feels so, so, bad about it!
So, what does the arsehole do to make it up to her? He establishes a Plaything System! For all students to vent their anger on one single victim a week so that his female lead is safe!
WHAT DID THE SIDE CHARACTERS DO TO YOU — ARSEHOLE AUTHORESS!? BECAUSE I AM THAT SIDE CHARACTER RIGHT NOW.