I'm staring at the blinking cursor like it owes me money. Seven tabs open, all about Sicilian mafia codes, tattoo symbolism, and—because I like to torture myself—maps of Palermo's underground routes. My coffee's gone cold hours ago, but I'm still clutching the cup like it's a lifeline, except I'm almost certain it's just caffeine-fueled paranoia keeping me alive.
Some people collect stamps or coins. Me? I collect horrors. The kind I feed to my readers, and the kind that keep me awake when the world goes silent.
The thing about writing dark stories online is that people think it's all fiction—made-up monsters and bad guys. But I know better. There's a fine line between imagination and memory, and I'm standing smack in the middle of it, wearing the faint scars like badges.
Today's masterpiece? The Sicilian mafia's second-in-command—call him "Il Secondo"—a psychopath with a taste for cruelty so refined it makes Dante look like an amateur.
He doesn't just kill the forgotten daughter from the rival family; he makes her last moments a symphony of agony and madness before… well, let's just say some taboos aren't for polite company.
Writing that scene, I felt a twisted thrill. Because even though I know it's fiction, it's too vivid. Too real. I laugh bitterly. "If this guy was real," I whisper to the empty room, "I'd piss myself and never leave the house."
The silence answers back with the hum of my laptop and a sudden loud bang outside. My heart skips. Mafia? No, no. Just the city being itself—noises, chaos, life. Still, my mind paints black SUVs and men in suits instantly. I shake it off, put on my headphones, and drown out the world with music.
But I'm a writer. And writers see what others don't.
The college bell rings behind me as I pack up my bag, the usual drag after lectures that I half-listened to while mentally plotting the next twisted scene. My phone buzzes with notifications—fans hyped about the latest chapter—but I barely glance. My mind's already racing ahead, imagining Il Secondo's next move, the precise way his fingers curl when he's about to snap a neck, and the tattoos—oh god, those tattoos—etched deep into his skin like a roadmap of terror.
I step outside, and that's when I see them.
Black SUVs lined up like predators waiting for the kill, their windows so dark they swallow the afternoon sun. My breath catches. The crest on the doors—the Sicilian lion rampant, just like in my story. I blink, thinking it's a trick of the light, or maybe a prank some super-fan cooked up. But no. The men in sharp suits, scanning the street with cold eyes, are very real. And very focused.
My pulse hammers like a war drum. "Okay," I tell myself, "don't freak out. Maybe it's a movie shoot. Or those guys from campus security playing dress-up."
I take a step back. Then another. Then—crunch. My heel crushes a discarded soda can, the sharp noise slicing through the quiet. Heads swivel. Their eyes lock on me like I'm the missing puzzle piece to their grim plans.
Nope. Nope. Nope.
I run.
I burst out of the building like a damned ghost fleeing its own grave. My heart hammers so loud I'm sure they can hear it over the street noise. Behind me, the echo of heels on pavement is relentless, a death march with my name tattooed on it.
Of all days to accidentally write yourself into a nightmare...
Every step feels like I'm running through molasses, but there's no time to slow down.
I'm thinking about the scene I just wrote—Il Secondo's cold, merciless hands—and now his footsteps are chasing me.
What kind of sick joke is this?
A flash of a dark suit is on my heels. I shove a dumpster aside, nearly scraping skin off my palms, but no time to care. The smell of garbage and fear mingle in my nostrils. I hear them shout my pen name.
They know who I am.
That's when the crazy cocktail hits me — panic, disbelief, and a fierce, stupid kind of defiance.
You wrote this. You created this monster. Now live with it.
Like fucking hell I will?!
My bag swings wildly, and then—fuck—papers and notebooks scatter like leaves in a storm. No, no, no, not my research, not my lifeline. But I can't stop. I won't stop.
The alley spits me onto the street. Cars blur past, indifferent, normal, mocking. My chest burns, my legs scream, and then—
A horn.
A screech.
Glass explodes like fireworks in reverse.
Pain blooms sharp and sudden.
Silence crashes down.
Everything is hazy... I try to open my eyes, vision blurred from the pain. There's someone...next to me. Rough hand... The sirens and horns get distant with every passing second. Something sticky and warm leaking from my side.I blackout.
This... is the end.