I am not a writer.

There's a running gag in my life. I become what I'm not without wanting to. I didn't really mean to end up a Timberwolf, but an ambush is an ambush, and you fight back when your life is threatened you know? That whole gig was something else. Fighting monsters, seeing monsters, fighting people who look like monsters...not bad I guess, but not what I ever wanted for myself. And I didn't and don't want to be some bargaining chip, some sort of weird pawn in a cosmic chess match, but I guess that's what I am now, too. Thanks to Fracture. He thinks we're best buddies now or something. Motherfucker. I am what I am not.

And now I'm a writer.

I don't want to be a proxy. I want nothing to do with any of these...weird assholes. Not anymore. Drug-addled, pseudo-religious thugs...masked cultists...whatever the hell those bug people are, or the String Slaves...I'm tired of all of this bullshit already. But anyone reading saw what went down. Fracture's enemies decided to take their beef with him out on my face, and made me hated in every Fear cult compound that would have otherwise taken me in after that train wreck of an incident.

I spent a long time wandering in the desert by myself. Way too long.

Did I mention I'm not a writer? Yeah, I think I did, because I'm no goddamn good at this. What I'm supposed to write about, I guess, is the deal with Fracture. He's promised me in absolutely uncertain terms that, as long as I'm polite and help him do his work like a good little Proxy Bitch, he'll look for any Loops I might have passed through in an effort to fully restore my face. Good luck to him. Can't say I remember ever having encountered a Loop before this asshole waltzed into my life followed by a parade of various psychopaths.

The bastard in the white coat gave me my own room within his complex. The place is...probably a Loop, I think? Because it's so convoluted. Impressive, in a way, though by no means the most impressive building I've been in during my time as a servant. I'd roll over and try to watch television, but there's nothing on but screams and gore. Some kind of demented 'portal to Hell' channel or something, I haven't quite figured that out yet.

And I get to room with Jack, the Psycho Eight Year Old! An eight year old! With a knife! And eyes that never close, singing showtunes for no damn reason! How fun is that?

Not very. None of this is fun. Serving Slenderman is not fun. Fighting other Fear Cultists sucks. Dealing with Fears is a goddamn nightmare, sometimes literally. Life is one great big mess of evil and sickness and...I don't even know where I'm going with this. I don't trust anything anymore, not even my own head, and that's the only thing I really know for certain right now. Oh, and that Fracture is lying through his teeth about fixing my face. Yeah, duh, asshole.

But, see, what else is there left for me but to ride this out? I gave up what little I had to be a Timberwolf. I gave up being a Timberwolf when that turned out to be complete bollocks, too. None of those fucks would give me the time of day when I needed them. No one would. At least for right now I have a bed that isn't sand, food that actually tastes good, and walls to stare at when I'm listless trying to figure out what I'm going to do next.

I'm Cerebrus, by the way. That's one more thing I am certain of.