Chapter One: The Night Raydes Meltdown Show

Once upon a dreary night, in the darkest corner of an even darker room, there lived a writer—me, Night Raydes. Well, 'lived' might be a generous term. Let's go with 'existed'—much like that leftover pizza that's one bad sniff away from being hazardous waste. I had once been a beacon of literary hope, inspired by the grand fanfiction tales of a legendary scribe known only as Ruskbyte. But now, my inspiration had all but drained away, much like the funding for my food budget. Seriously, who knew living could be so expensive?

I sat hunched over my laptop, the dim glow of the screen casting an eerie light across the room. The latest fanfiction masterpiece was up on the screen, cursor blinking in the cruel silence, mocking me with its insistence on existence. All I received these days were reviews that were more about selling art commissions than actual feedback.

"Hey, wanna buy my anime-style portraits of your characters?" one review squawked. "Check out my Etsy store!"

I rolled my eyes so hard I almost saw my own brain. "No, Brenda, I don't want to buy your art. Also, if you're reading this—fuck off."

My health situation wasn’t helping either. My headspace was darker than the bottom of a well in a blackout during a solar eclipse. My body was an assortment of complaints and aches, and the chronic state of being broke added that extra flavor of desperation. If I had to choose between buying food or my next prescription, the decision was always hilariously grim. Spoiler alert: I could never afford either.

Writing had once been my sanctuary, a place where words flowed like a river of creativity. Now it was more like a trickle from a rusty faucet—occasionally surprising but mostly just annoying. Every new alert from the fanfiction platform was another stab to the heart. Views and story alerts, sure. But comments? Those were as rare as a unicorn in a Walmart parking lot.

"The next person who sends me a spammy review gets a personal invite to go jump off a cliff," I muttered, fingers flying across the keyboard.

I could remember the good old days, when I was filled with a sense of purpose. But those days seemed like a distant memory now. All the hard work, late nights, and coffee-fueled writing sessions had culminated in nothing but solicitations from amateur artists and an alarming amount of self-doubt.

"No thanks," I typed furiously to an imaginary audience. "It's not even about the thanks anymore. It's about the fundamental lack of appreciation for the craft. What’s the point if nobody cares?"

I sighed, the weight of it all pressing down like a ten-ton anvil. Maybe it was time to take a long walk off a short pier. At least that would be an adventure.

But for now, I did what I did best: I wrote. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

So here’s to me—the resilient, the weary, the wordsmith fighting against the dying light. Because sometimes, the best stories come from the darkest places. And sometimes, even in the blackest pit, you’ve gotta find a way to laugh at it all. Because if you don't laugh, well, you’ll probably start screaming. And nobody wants that.

The end of the beginning.