Terrence Anathema Escape Room Post

Woke up, head splitting, in a room that I definitely didn't fall asleep in. Small enclosed space, blue-painted walls, no windows, a single light fixture on the ceiling. 

Regain my bearings: my name is Terrence Anathema. I've been off the grid for the last few years, in hiding from the higher-ups of the Fear Mythos Discord Server. I was an announcer for one of their tournaments. Archangard appeard during the third round I presided over, told me I would die when it ended, helped me escape that fate. Living Rael moment; Arkngard was me and I was Arkngard. Posted a vent post that got stolen for an advert during the tournament of the following year. The chase ensued.

Looking around. Not alone. Demure lady with blue hair standing in far corner. It and her, but never she. Hands behind her back. Noticing a distinct taste of almost-water in my mouth. Think it drugged me and brought me here. 

"Hey, you. You're finally awake," it says. I look at her, attempt to reach for her. Arms chained. Legs chained. Stuck in a chair, sat at a nondescript table. Imprisoned. Deep breath; fate waits for no one.

"Relax, Terry. I'm not here to kill you or turn you over to the higher-ups or anything. I'm here to help you." Funny way of showing it.

"How?" Quivering voice, shaking body. I struggle to slip out of my bondage, to no avail. 

"It's really quite simple, actually. I just need you to write, Terrence, Archangard, slender man." It approaches, moving hands in front. A laptop. "Write a blog. Tell the world all about your isolation, about how your other selves' deaths haunt you, break you, live in your head rent free, fill your nightly dreams with static."

Truth. I've read about the slender man's existential uncertainty. How he killed Arkngard in a duel. How he despaired over not being written. Lack of understanding; "if he killed Archangard, how could he have appeared to me? Been me? I am alive, am I not?" Asked aloud but to no one.

"The slender man killed Arkngard, yes; you and Arkngard are one and the same, yes. These are both true," my captor speaks, "but you should know, Terry, having read that slender verse poem, that the both of them are avatars of a Creator. As are you. One being in Three voices, and as long as the One exists none of you will ever die."

Chill down spine. Limbs go limp. Staring ahead but looking at nothing. 

It continues: "so, just write. Don't you want to let these thoughts out? Free yourself from your other selves?" Laptop awake, Blogspot open on new post. "I even created the new blog for you, picked out a cute URL and everything. You don't want to make me sad, do you?" Ever-so-slight voice crack, genuine emotion in voice. Chains release hands to type.

"Honestly? Nah, I'm good," I respond promptly. "If I am one of Three voices for One creator, then these thoughts aren't my own, are they. Therefore, the suffering I thought they've caused me over these past years can't be said to be real."

"Well fuck you, too," it retorts as the binds around my legs fall off and the sound of a door opening resounds from behind me. 

"Thanks, though. I needed this," I say to my blue haired and pronouned captor before turning to leave.