The Plaything System is fairly simple; the one who ranks the lowest in weekly evaluations has to pay the price. In the book, the male lead gets it passed under the pretext of, "Motivating students to do better," and, "No harm to anyone, only mental benefits and healthy competition!"
It did not even look that bad in the book, considering we were only given the female lead's point of view. She was safe against all the unnecessary bullying and as a reader — considering all cringe tropes aside — this wasn't an all that bad plot point. Heck even I thought it was smart of the male lead to do it!
But what no body took under consideration were these bullies, these characters, created into a world, left to vent and compete against eachother. Submitting to the whims of a dirty pen.
"She fell in PE and the teacher blamed me! ME! If she couldn't play then why the fuck did she agree?! Why the fuck is this my fault?!"
Someone jerks a watter bottle in my face and its contents hit me. Ice cubes and liquid water charging at my body in the name of a vent attack. I never knew water could hit so hard—?! I shiver, as another sudden splash hits me.
When will this end? Was there a time to it? — ah, when the extra class finishes and the school grounds close for the day.
The world beyond the primary characters is sad. Not that the primary characters lived a better life on paper. The book ends with the female protagonist getting a scholarship to Harvard because that's where all the trash romance authors couldn't go.
I don't remember if the male lead follows her or if they indulge in long distance— but it was left on a cliffhanger because wannabe daddy's real daddy shows up with milk. The male lead ends up being some Prince of some sort, having to follow his birth responsibility or something.
It was whack, I tell you, is why I personally emailed the authoress to ask if she was doing alright and wheather this book was an April Fools prank. Turns out, the real authoress died and her world was left hanging — without a redemption in sight for any character.
I had felt bad about it, of course, maybe she just wanted to pen a fantasy before passing away. It was a commendable effort, really, and I'm sure if they applied they'd win a place in the guiness book of world records for a book with no likeable characters and originality.
But that's all a concern for the real which, from which, I consequently passed as well because this is also the story of how I choked on a few peanuts, tears and vomit, and was reincarnated in here.
That book was the death of me, quite literally.
I opened my eyes to see one of the students tying my shoelaces as one and the some other shaving their pencil on me. The pencil shavings stick to my wet skin and uniform, making it itch and iky.
I'm sure I looked like a primary school dustbin.
"My dad would not let me shave my pencils," the person mutters as they see me staring at them. "We're poor and I must save my pencils. But— but, I really, really like shaving my pencils!" He cries, "I like it when they are sharp and pointy but he measures them every day! I like art and he hates art. He wants me to not shave my pencils and do business. I hate him. I hate math. I want to do art and shave my pencils!"
I nodded, eyes melting with concern. Why was I being concerned?! This dude was nothing but immature and petty! He needs to man up and study and be a better person. His dad is right and there is no hope for this pathetic sod in art—
But why are my eyes welling up with big chunks of tears?!
Are these the emotions of this body?!
The boy cries and so do I. Though, my tears are genuine and his are petulant. Or maybe he really liked art a whole lot.
"Shut the fuck up dude. You don't do art, you scribble and save pencil and colour shavings in your box and make a mess out of your backpack!" Another boy pushes him away and comes forward.
"My problem is a real problem!" He announces, "I love to do make up! But my family would not let me! They call me gay! I'm not gay! I just like makeup!" And then, he bends over and pulls out a mini black box. My eyes bulge out in mortification but there is only NOTHING that I can do about it. The authoress left me no choice.
I sigh as the minutes bleed into hours and seconds lap up my body in one ridiculous item or the other. I would be humiliated if it was really me, but I just feel nothing.
And then, the bell rings. My restrains are cut open and I shoot up from my chair. Students rush out to meet curfew. "FUCK OFF NOW, YES, YOU ARSEHOLES. ROT IN HELL, YOU WEAKLINGS!" I curse as they nonchalantly scramble out of the dark basement.
One of them flips me off.
I fling at them.
I should have guessed it by now that my sad excuse of a character had no chance getting any sort of retaliation, whatsoever, because my laces are tied together.
I fall, face first to the floor, cursing the name of the man who started it all.
"Fucking Evander Blackwell."