I wrote recursive fanfiction.

Which means . . . I have no life.

"Danny Phantom" belongs to Butch Hartman.

"Domination" belongs to Nimrod the Writer.

He's proud of me, he says, even as my hands tremble and my knees splash down in the puddle of blood soaking the carpet.

Flecks of grime and gore coat my face. My mouth tastes like copper.

He's finally taught me to kill.

Everything hurts.

I still shake, even hours later.

I still remember the dead man's unblinking eyes.

I blink now, trying to erase the image, even though it's printed into my retinas.

Vlad sickens of the way I lay curled up on the bed, shell-shocked and broken. He strips me down and throws me into the bathtub.

The water soaks into my skin and heats up my bones.

I stop shivering as much.

Keep staring straight ahead.

He joins me in the bath.

He doesn't do anything, but the way the pads of his fingers press against my temple still makes me shiver.

He holds me.

I can tell he wants me to let go and relax in his arms.

I won't give in.

It's hard to breath, hard to think.

I'm on my back, and he's weighing me down.

Blink.

"Get off."

I pronounce it with a barest whisper.

"Get off."

The words rot in my throat.

He laughs.

My protests amuse him.

I killed.

I killed.

IkilledIkilledIkilledI-

The words string together in my head.

I don't sleep that night, even as Vlad holds me against him.

The next day at breakfast, I make a request.

He looks startled, and then he laughs.

(I hate his laugh I hate it I hate it)

"Why of course, my dear boy."

Fuck you, Vlad.

(I already do)

The pen feels heavy in my hand. I want to tell them everything. I want to tell them nothing.

They will break if they know what's happening to me.

Vlad promised this letter would arrive safely in their general location (since even he doesn't know the specifics).

I can only hope he keeps his word.

I don't even know with Vlad anymore.

I just.

I just don't know.

I'm so tired.

I want to sleep.

I put my head in my arms, press my nose to the wooden desk, breathe in the smell.

I know Vlad's impatient from the way he leans back in his chair, reading his magazine.

He wants me to get on with writing the letter so he can make me kill more people or fuck me against a wall or something fun like that.

Writing this is only a temporary break from hell.

Dear Mom and Dad,

I guess you know all about the Danny Phantom thing by now. If you've met up with Sam and Tucker they'll have told you more about it.

I'm sorry. I never wanted you to know, mostly because I knew you would freak out. I never wanted to lie to you, either.

I hope you can forgive me.

Please try and stay safe. Don't make trouble and they won't hurt you. I hope everyone's doing okay.

I'm doing okay, I think. I'm alive, which counts for something.

I can't make this letter much longer, but I just want you to know I love you both.

I hope you still love me, too, even if you find out what I've done.

Love,

Danny.

He seals the envelope with his tongue.

"I'll have one of my soldiers send it out tomorrow," he promises.

I nod.

His eyes are hungry.

Please review.

I would totally ghostwrite for Nimrod.

I still have no life.