I rolled my neck to the side, letting out a deep sigh as a satisfying crack echoed through the room. It sounded like an applause for surviving the torture I'd just endured. "Finally done with that godforsaken book," I muttered, glaring at my ancient computer screen. The poor thing looked like it was seconds away from giving up on life. But nope, not on my watch. I can't afford a new one, so it stays alive, whether it likes it or not.
I glanced at the title of the book I'd just slogged through on the screen: Paintings of Eryndor's Portraits. Sounds fancy, right? Well, color me unimpressed. What's next? Doodles of the Doodles' Sketchbook? This was a complete and utter waste of my time, if you ask me.
But hey, let me humblebrag for a second. I'm not just some random reader venting into the void. Nope, I'm a top tier novel reviewer on this app. People actually respect my feedback. Some even say I'm the secret sauce behind their edited masterpieces. Yep, they've offered to pay for my reviews, because apparently, I'm that good. Who knew being judgmental could be lucrative?
Thanks to this gig, I've earned enough to keep my fridge from being empty and pay my rent, oh well..barely. Honestly, it feels like a small miracle every time.
Heh. Not gonna lie, it makes me feel pretty proud.
Working from home and tearing apart, I mean reviewing novels for extra cash? Could be worse. It's not glamorous, but it keeps me fed and my computer plugged in, even if it's running on pure spite.
So, here I am, stuck with the wealthy author 2bjade, who's been asking me for feedback on her work, the same book I just had to suffer through, Paintings of Eryndor's Portraits.
Now, don't get me wrong, I appreciate the opportunity. It's not every day a big-name author asks for my expertise. But honestly, I'm a little... insulted. She's still paying other people for feedback too? One review from me, the great me, apparently isn't enough? Tsk. I mean, what's the point of hiring a genius like me, if you're just going to keep fishing for other opinions?
Well, I guess when you're loaded, you really can have it all, even a dozen opinions when one should be more than enough.
I clicked my tongue, shaking my head in disappointment. This book 'Paintings of Eryndor's Portraits' was clearly made for someone who enjoys the suffering, the tears, the endless angst. You know, the type who gets a kick out of tragedy. But did that stop me from reading it? Of course not. Why? Because I have a job to do, and I get paid for my feedback.
At least the author's loaded, which means there's a chance I could actually make a decent chunk of change from this review. That's the only thing keeping me going right now.
I slumped my shoulders and let out a long, dramatic sigh. Alright, time to write the feedback. But I can't go full brutal honesty on this one..don't want her getting upset and withholding payment. Got to play nice with the rich folks. Who knows, maybe I can even squeeze a little bonus out of her.
I glanced at my computer keyboard and started typing. Despite my low opinion of the book, I had to give credit where credit was due. The author clearly had some work ethic, there were a lot of chapters in this thing. I mean, sure, it was an emotional wrecking ball, but it wasn't all bad. Just… not my thing.
After finishing my feedback, I leaned back in my chair, stretching like I'd just run a marathon, and reread what I'd typed.
'This is the reader ThePearvert, aka Pear. In my opinion, the book was compelling and interesting. The characters' contrasting personalities provided a nice balance. The pacing was excellent, the world-building masterful, and the story kept me on the edge of my seat. The author's descriptive writing? Chef's kiss. In conclusion, I'd rate this book a solid 10 out of 10 and highly recommend 2bjade to continue writing.'
The words on the screen blurred as I stared at them. Praise after praise, compliments stacked so high they could touch the ceiling. But were they my thoughts?
Absolutely not.
No, this was pure fiction on my part, a carefully crafted lie, all for the sake of receiving money from the wealthy author.
But the truth? This book was a black hole of misery. The ending was so bleak it felt like the author had personally conspired to ruin my day. From the protagonist's perspective, everything was doom and gloom, a never-ending parade of despair. Honestly, anyone who picks this up should be ready to question their life choices, because when I read it, I sure did.
I wasn't just unhappy: I was downright offended. If there was a soul buyback program, I'd happily trade mine just to see this book go up in flames.
Okay, maybe that's a bit harsh… so, uh… in my humble opinion?
Considering the genre: a heady cocktail of
historical, fantasy, horror..and don't forget tragedy. All packed into one thick, gloomy, soul-crushing package. So yeah, I shouldn't have been that surprised that it ended up being a bottomless pit of despair. But seriously, the way the author seemed to revel in torturing her characters, especially the poor protagonist, was borderline sadistic.
Like, I get it, tragedy is your brand, but did every single character have to endure a Shakespearean level of torment? Even the protagonist couldn't catch a break.
Seriously, what was the author thinking? Did she sit at her desk, cackling maniacally while piling trauma onto trauma? Because it sure felt like it.
As someone who is, of course, very kind and deeply sensitive (self-proclaimed, but let's not question it), I simply wasn't equipped to endure such a dark and disturbing book. It felt like emotional warfare, and let me tell you, I was losing every battle.
But then again, the lure of easy money is a powerful thing. Principles? Morals? Integrity? They all took a back seat the moment I saw the payout waiting for me.
To be fair, the author's writing style was solid. Clean, polished, and definitely reflective of her hard work. She kept piling on chapters like an artist possessed. I could respect that. But was that enough to make up for the emotional torment this book dragged me through?
Absolutely not.
As I stared at my glowing, overly-positive review, a pang of guilt settled in my chest. I wasn't just sugarcoating. I was lying with a shiny bow on top. My usual brutally honest reviews? Completely abandoned. Right now, I was selling my soul to the highest bidder, and it was going straight into my rent fund.
I was snapped out of my spiraling thoughts by a string of message notifications lighting up my screen.
Oh, fantastic, it's her. How does she reply so fast? I sighed dramatically, reluctantly glancing at the chat.
The first message popped up: 'Hello Pear, thank you so much for the feedback. It's enough to make me giddy with excitement!'
Giddy, huh? Oh, please. If I'd dared to type out my real opinion, I wouldn't be surprised if a ticking package showed up at my shabby apartment door the next day.
The second one came through: 'You like my descriptive writing? I'm glad my hard work paid off. Everyone compliments it!'
I sat there, eye twitching as I stared at the screen, one eyebrow raised in disbelief.
Everyone?..
So, I'm not the only one feeding into her inflated ego with these sugar-coated lies. Looks like the other reviewers are just as eager to pad their wallets with a few extra bucks, singing praises for this tragic trainwreck. Or maybe there are actual people out there who genuinely enjoyed this rollercoaster of misery and horror. After all, this trash of a book has somehow amassed a surprising number of readers..dare I say,
fans?..
How did this thing manage to pull that off anyway?..
Hmm, I read her reply message once again.
Descriptive writing? Sure, I mentioned that. But let's be real. What I really meant was: "Wow, you sure know how to describe every gory detail of how your protagonist gets abused, tortured, and twisted into a psychopath plotting revenge in the most twisted way possible while secretly torturing people behind the scenes"
The detail...Eugh. It was so disturbing, it almost felt like she took pleasure in painting the most graphic, grotesque picture possible. And here I am, pretending it's some kind of masterpiece.. Like, how-does-she-even-think-of-this kind of detailed.?!?!?!
The reviewers must be just as terrified, reading those uncomfortable, gory, and tragic scenes and somehow twisting it into being impressed by her writing. And her readers? How on earth could they stomach this? I almost didn't want to compliment her, but instead, I seriously considered reporting the author to the police..if not for the money.
Then came the third message, a simple,: 'You've flattered me!'
But it was the fourth message that really caught my attention: 'Oh, by the way, who's your favorite character and why? If I like your answer, maybe you'll be rewarded with more money hehe. Thank you again for reading!'
...
Rewarded with more money...?
My eyes widened as I reread that line, just to make sure I wasn't hallucinating. This... THIS was why I forced myself through the literary torture chamber. My useless knowledge about this book might finally be worth something.
It's clear that 2bjade had mastered the art of transactional relationships. She knew how to dangle a carrot in front of people like me, using money to have me right where she wanted. And here I was, ready to dance like a trained monkey just to grab that carrot.
Well played, 2bjade. Well played..
But her question though... about my favorite character and my reasoning behind it?
Oh, sweet merciful heavens.
Favorite character? In that book? There is NOTHING remotely likable about anyone in that miserable pile of angst and despair. The mere thought of dredging up memories from that torment is exhausting. I felt a single, dramatic tear roll down my cheek but no, pull it together. I must summon the cursed knowledge.
I binge-read that monstrosity purely to trigger the "completed" notification on her app, ensuring she'd know I suffered through every tragic word. I never thought I'd actually have to use what I read. I was fully prepared to let that entire story rot in the abyss of my brain, but no, here I am, forced to revisit it. Once I'm done answering her question, I'm going to dump this book's plot into my mental landfill and forget it ever existed.
Because let's be real, I can't just reply with, 'My favorite character? Oh, none of them. They're all so interesting.' That would expose how little I cared about the whole thing. And if she suspects I didn't take her book seriously, she might pay me less. And I cannot and WILL not let that happen.
Money first.
Always.
But for the love of all things holy, why did she have to write a book so excessively tragic? If she'd toned it down even a little, I might've been able to stomach it, maybe even enjoy it.
It's not like I think books in that genre are inherently awful. It's just that this one, specifically, was not for me. Not. At. All.
See?! I'm such a nice person. Look at me, finding some way to compliment this thing.
Truly a saint.
I scratched my head, groaning as I forced myself to think about the characters in that cursed book. After what felt like an eternity of mental torture, the name finally clicked. Of course.
Eryndor Solvere.
The main character. What a name, huh? Sounds like something you'd chant during a medieval battle. Honestly, it should've been Eryndor Suffer-ere because, suffering was his entire personality. According to the book, he's this angelic, looking guy the kind who look like they rescues kittens and sings with birds, right?
Wrong.
The dude's a walking rage tornado. Harsh, aggressive, and fueled by enough trauma to fill a trilogy. His entire POV was just one long, spiraling descent into madness. And because he'd been miserable since young, he decided everyone else should join him on his misery cruise.
Misery loves company, after all.
Yet somehow, Author 2bjade's fans adored him. Practically worshiped the guy. "Oh, poor baby Ryn! You're so misunderstood! Burn the world, my sweet angel!" They acted like his pain was a badge of honor, like it was romantic or something.
I let my tongue hang out in mock disgust. Bleh. If anything, the only romance I saw was between him and his endless suffering. But fine. FINE. I'd play along. Time to pretend I was one of those unhinged superfans.
Cracking my knuckles, I started typing my reply to the author.
'Thank you so much for asking! Our dear Ryn, Eryndor Solvere, is absolutely my favorite character. His two-faced nature, the angelic charmer who's actually a psycho is just so captivating! He's incredibly charismatic, complex, and downright unforgettable. I'd do anything for my king!'
Haiya!
Typing that felt like a small part of my soul died. My masculinity withered away, shriveled up like a raisin left out in the sun. But hey, this is for the money, right? Gotta keep the paycheck rolling in.
A minute later, a notification popped up from 2bjade. 'Oh my goodness, you also love Ryn?!!! The money will be sent. Haha, I wonder how you'd feel if you ever met Eryndor in real life! Would you be excited?!'
Her last sentence made me twitch for some reason. As if I'd ever run into Eryndor, the psycho. But meet him in real life? No thanks, I'd rather gnaw on a live wire.
I shrugged it off and sent my email address to 2bjade in a private message.
Then I typed out my response to her earlier comment, 'It's an honor I couldn't have even dreamed of! Also, Author 2bjade, my email is in your DM, and I gladly accept payment through the Online Payment app. I'm beyond thrilled to receive rewards from Eryndor's creator.'
I proofread it and hit send.
I read it again, and honestly, the more I looked at it, the worse it seemed. Ugh, I really wish I didn't have to even think about meeting your main character, 2bjade. The idea alone terrifies me. But at least I didn't come off as desperate for money. Please tell me I didn't sound like that.
I can't be that obvious... right?!
A few minutes later, the author replied, 'How flattering! The money has already been sent. As an extra gift, would you like me to write a chapter just for you, You X Eryndor? Our Theodore? What do you think? Since you like him so much.'
At first, I was grinning ear to ear. The money was already in, and that little bonus gift? Sweet!
But then I read the rest of her message, and my smile instantly vanished.
You X Eryndor...
Hell no! I was just lying to get paid, lady!
Eryndor Solvere is not some misunderstood tragic hero, he's a cruel, two-faced psycho who thinks his pain makes him special. If only I could tell you that I'm not like your crazy readers who swoon over his so-called "depth" or whatever it is you call that twisted mess. Seriously, what are you all seeing in this tragic, self-absorbed, emotional wreck of a character? I'd rather hang out with a brick wall than have a "romantic" chapter with him.
But, why are you even thinking that, 2bjade?!? A romance chapter with me and that walking trauma dump? Plus, hello?!—I'm a man!
But whatever. Right now, I'm content with the one true love of my life: Money.
I'll answer her later. Priorities first.
Grabbing my phone, I eagerly checked my online payment account, my fingers practically trembling with anticipation. And there it was—a fresh deposit of $500.
Ohhh… oh wow… $500?!
I blinked. It was a nice chunk of money, sure, but considering 2bjade's reputation for being crazy rich, I half-expected at least $1,000. I mean, wasn't she swimming in wealth? Would throwing an extra $500 my way really hurt her?
But fine. I shouldn't complain. Even I have to admit, paying someone a grand just for a single fake review might be a bit excessive.
...
I put the phone down, sinking into the worn-out chair, its softness a mockery of comfort. I let out a long, weary sigh, the weight of the moment pressing against me. Earlier, I was all cocky, indulging in my usual antics, enjoying at my own ridiculousness. But, deep down, I knew the truth.
....
It was just a distraction, a cheap trick to keep myself from thinking about how messed up my life actually was.
...
A click at the front door made me snap my head toward the sound.
Why now?
It had to be that old geezer coming back. Lord, I'm too tired to deal with his nonsense.
By "old geezer," I meant my father.
I don't love him, but I don't hate him either. As family, I feel some responsibility to check on him, even though I'd rather forget he exists.
I turn my face away, staring at the ceiling, not wanting to face the past. But it's hard to forget that my mother left him for someone better.
I don't want to badmouth her, but she was a terrible person.
And my father? He didn't take it well. Years passed, and he drowned himself in every vice he could get his hands on, gambling, drinking, wasting away. He was a wreck.
But I never blamed them. Never hated myself for being their kid, either. As long as I was still breathing, that was enough.
I sighed, heavy and tired.
Then—THUD!
A bottle hit the floor, the sharp clatter cutting through the silence.
"Percy!"
His voice, slurred and rough, rang out from the other room.
I didn't even flinch. Just another night in our lovely, carpetless, concrete-floored dump of an apartment.
Not that I had the energy to complain.
Frustrated, I slammed my hand on the chair armrest, letting out a heavy sigh. With a reluctant groan, I stood up and walked out of my room, dragging myself toward the front door.
As I turned the corner, there he was. My father, face down on the cold floor, gripping a half-empty bottle like it was the only thing keeping him alive. His disheveled hair and the thin, gaunt frame made him look pathetic.
Another sigh escaped me. I was starting to wonder if I had any breath left to sigh with.
I muttered, "What's the matter?"
No answer.
He was either passed out or asleep, couldn't tell which.
I shook my head and noticed the second apartment key lying on the floor, the one he dropped. The first key was safely tucked in my wallet, the one I always used.
I still can't wrap my head around how he managed to unlock the door in this state. I gave the front door one last glance, locking it behind me, then turned to walk away, leaving him exactly where he lay.
But as my foot touched the hallway, I hesitated, staring down at my father's pitiful, half-conscious form. A small flicker of pity tugged at me, but not enough to make me care about helping him up and setting him on a bed. Not this time. With a shrug, I took another step, intent on leaving the mess behind.
That was until I felt a cold, clammy hand latch onto my ankle, causing me to stumble and nearly lose my balance. Looking down, I saw him.
My father, glaring up at me through bleary eyes, barely aware of what he was doing.
"You're finally awake?" I gritted through clenched teeth, irritation bubbling up. "What do you want me to do for you now?"
"Help me up for a moment," he rasped, his voice hoarse from booze and exhaustion.
I clicked my tongue, irritated, but crouched down anyway, lifting him to his feet. Predictably, he clung to his half-empty bottle.
"There," I said, exasperated. "But let go of the bottle first."
..
No response.
Just the overwhelming stench of alcohol rolling off him in waves. My nose scrunched in disgust as he finally lifted his head, eyes half-lidded, barely aware, but still lucid enough to say the one thing that made my blood boil.
"I need money."
I froze. My grip on his arm tightened, my patience snapping like a frayed wire. You're kidding me. Here I was, dragging his sorry self off the floor, and he had the nerve, the absolute audacity—to ask me for money?
When I was barely getting by myself?
I clenched my jaw, feeling my forehead vein throb. Lord, grant me strength so I don't commit a felony tonight.
I scowled. "What? No, you don't. Now, come on, let's get you to the couch before you collapse again." I said, trying to drag him along.
But he wouldn't budge.
I sighed, already at my limit. "Now what's wrong wi—"
"I said I need money."
His voice was sharper this time, more insistent. My hands clenched into fists at my sides, my patience dangling by a thread.
Deep breath, Percy. Deep breath.
"Karrh…" A low, guttural noise slipped from my throat—somewhere between a sigh and the sound of a man spiritually restraining himself from committing violence.
I gritted my teeth and forced my voice to stay level, though frustration still bled through. "Why do you need money?"
"I just gave you a hundred bucks last week. That's a lot for people like us. You can't seriously be out already."
My father dropped his head, muttering just loud enough for me to hear, "And here I thought I had a good son. Turns out you're just a big disappointment."
The words stung, even through the thick haze of alcohol that coated them.
"You're my son. You should be helping your father when he needs it, not acting so damn selfish—just like your mother."
That one hit harder. My grip on his arm tightened.
I'd heard this speech a hundred times before. It never changed, and yet, somehow, it always managed to ruin my mood. I had been riding high just moments ago, $500 richer, even indulging in a little delusion to distract myself from reality. But reality had sharp teeth, and it always bit back.
I inhaled slowly, forcing the anger down. "Enough already," I said, keeping my voice steady. "I am helping you. Let's go to the living room and get some rest." Even though I was angry, I tried not to show it.
I didn't want to make things worse, as always.
But as I tried to guide him toward the living room, he shoved me away with more force than I expected.
I managed to stay on my feet, though, barely, and I shot him a look of disbelief. "Hey, what the hell, Dad?!" I yelled, my confusion bleeding into the sharpness of my voice.
His face twisted with frustration. "What do you mean, helping? I'm asking for money, Percy, money! Why won't you give it to me?" His voice was louder than I'd ever heard, which was strange since he usually just mumbled or zonked out in front of the TV when he got home.
I took a deep breath, trying to keep my cool. "Father, I've already told you, you have enough, and I have no more to give." My tone stayed level, but my insides were simmering.
"Liar. Just like your mother!" he barked back, the words cutting deeper than I wanted to admit.
It was strange. Today, he was bringing her up more than usual.
My frown deepened as I snapped, "You really think I'd give you money when you blow it on the worst things possible? You don't even use it to survive! You use it to destroy yourself! Don't act like I don't know you've been using drugs!" My voice rose, the frustration spilling out before I could stop it.
For a brief moment, it felt good to let it out, to stop pretending I wasn't sick of this cycle. But that feeling was quickly replaced by exhaustion, because no matter how much I yelled, nothing would change.
My father's expression twisted with fury. "Oh? So now you're talking back to me, huh? You're my son!" he roared, his grip tightening around the empty bottle like he wanted to throw it.
I scoffed, shaking my head. "Your son? Right. Then maybe you should start acting like a father." I exhaled sharply, my patience wearing dangerously thin.
"I'm not a kid anymore, old man. This dump of an apartment? This roof over your head? All of it exists because I worked my ass off to make sure neither of us ended up on the streets. So no, I'm not giving you a damn cent. It's time to get your act together." I locked eyes with him, unflinching. But deep down, I already knew. He wasn't going to listen.
He never did.
His sudden shift in tone sent a chill down my spine. His voice, unusually calm and serious, carried an unsettling weight.
"How would you feel if you had no way to escape?"
I opened my mouth, my frustration ready to spill over. "Father, listen—"
But he cut me off.
"Percy, just give me the money," he said, his voice eerily quiet, almost desperate. "Think of it as something that'll help me survive."
I clenched my fists. "Survive? You call this surviving?" My voice cracked with anger. "Absolutely not! I won't feed your self-destruction!"
But he wasn't listening. Instead, he turned and made a beeline for my room.
"Father, stop it!" Panic surged through me as I rushed after him.
Too late.
His bleary eyes locked onto my phone, its screen still lit up, displaying the recent $500 transfer.
My stomach dropped. If only I had turned it off before leaving.
"You're always in this damn room," he muttered bitterly.
Then, before I could react, he raised his bottle...and with a sharp crash, smashed my phone against the floor.
"Father?!" My voice trembled, panic flooding my chest as I watched him destroy my phone. His wild eyes never left it as he rained down blows, each smash feeling like a punch to my heart.
"You lied!" His voice was frenzied, shaking with rage. "You said you didn't have any more money, but look! You just got your money. Lying, just like that goddamned whore!" His words cut deep, the venom in his voice stinging more than the broken phone ever could.
I felt my chest tighten, a lump forming in my throat as I tried to hold it together. "Oh god, I can't handle this," I whispered, the weight of the moment crashing down on me. My eyes filled with tears, but I couldn't let them fall, not yet.
And then I saw it. His gaze shifting to my computer.
No. No, please. Not my computer.
I rushed forward, my heart pounding in my chest. I planted myself between him and the desk, desperation flooding my veins. "Father, calm down! Stop it!" My voice cracked, the raw emotion in it choking me.
But his eyes didn't soften. If anything, the storm in them intensified.
He raised the alcohol bottle, his face twisted in rage. "Get out of my way!" he yelled, his voice raw with anger.
Before I could react, he swung it at my head, the bottle connecting with a sickening crack.
...
Pain exploded in my skull, and I felt the world tilt as I staggered backward, my legs giving out beneath me. The sharp sting of the blow spread like wildfire through my head, dizziness clouding my vision.
Blood began to drip down my forehead, warm and sticky.
I collapsed to the floor, dazed and breathless, staring up at my father in shock. His face was a blur through the haze of my vision, but I could see the fury still burning in his eyes.
My breath came in ragged, shallow gasps.
I'm dying...
The thought was terrifyingly clear.
I didn't want to die. Not like this.
I felt my life slipping away, a cold, creeping sensation that filled me with a paralyzing terror. My body ached, and the world around me began to distort, blurring at the edges as if I were sinking into darkness.
My father's eyes locked onto me, but they weren't filled with concern. No, only a raw, bitter hatred. He looked at me, then glanced down at his hand, still bleeding from the broken bottle.
"Piece of shit," he muttered through gritted teeth, his voice a low growl. Without warning, he hurled my computer at me with a twisted kind of anger that I couldn't fully comprehend. The sharp edges hit me hard; it fucking hurt, but I think I'm dying to react. However, I noticed my old, barely functioning computer screen dimly glowing.
I couldn't focus on that. The pain from the impact was sharp, overwhelming, and my head spun. My vision faded in and out, each blink growing slower.
Notifications pinged somewhere in the background, unimportant, trivial, while I felt my blood spill from me, hot and sticky against my skin.
I just wanted to live.
I blinked a few more times, trying to hold on, and for a brief moment, I saw his face..panic, desperation, guilt flickering in his eyes. He grabbed my shoulders, shaking me roughly, as if that could bring me back.
But I couldn't respond. I couldn't move.
The ringing in my ears drowned out everything else, until the world around me slipped completely into nothingness.
And then... death.
The last thing I heard, amidst the blinding blackness, was the soft ping of a notification.
[[Novel: 'Paintings of Eryndor's portraits.' Deleted.]]