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Once upon a time, there were actors upon a stage. And once upon a time, these actors played their roles again and again. Each time the show ran, it was slightly different. The script was always the same, but things were ever so slightly shifted. The actors would play and play until they finally got things right. Until that day came, however, they would roll and reroll, repeating history until things finally settled into the ultimate, the most perfect of endings.
It didn’t matter if they got right. It didn’t matter if they got it wrong. The show “must” and will go on. Time and time again, it would go on. Regardless if they were wrong, regardless if they were wrong, the roars and cheers of the crowd would forever propel them forward.
A slaughter. A mess. A massacre. A tragedy. A “key” of the clockhand turned into a knife, a skull into a sign of power and dominance. The wine would flow red with the blood of the seven victims.
In truth, she was scared. In truth, “she” knew that “she” was a decoy, the sacrificial lamb. She found the truth in her pocket. However, “she” was a denier of the truth. Why give her life? Why end it all so that others might live? Others of which “she” had no association with, no connection to? Would they mourn her death? Would they weep at her grave? Surely not!
That was why. That was why, again and again, the fakes chose instead the easy path. If blood must be spilled, then “she” would let the mansion run with their blood. Their piercing screams, their desperate cries would rile the crowd. Time and time again, “she” fell into this trap. This false understanding that “she” might save herself by slaughtering others in her place.
She saw it; the real role of the village girl. She saw each show. Each and every time, she sat at the edge of her seat, watching as her friends were turned into puppets. At first, she had feared they were soulless; devoid of life. It was all throughout the first show she nearly wept at the thought. The second and third plays commenced. Her friends were revived. Her friends were re-killed. Still, still, there was a change; a shift of some kind. They didn’t remember, no. Not exactly. However, they were shifting themselves. They were changing. Each time, they came back just a little bit smarter, a little bit wiser. They pondered on the same things as before, but they did not linger on the details as long. It was as though they were recalling a memory long lost rather than creating a full new one. It was this reason, and the fact that the substitute changed over and over that the little skit never played the same.
She thought that they could do it. They were so, so close to figuring it out. No, the ending was not written down in the script. The missing page represented a page that was never meant to be seen nor read; much less conformed to the rest of the book.
It was getting near the end of the third show that she could no longer take it anymore. She had to do something. She had to act. She saw the way the substitute had stolen the clockhand and for all the wrong reasons. She saw it with her own eyes; the audience’s eyes. She rose from her seat…
She hadn’t been quick enough. She hadn’t been fast enough. The false ending was combined to the script, and the aftershocks shook the entire mansion so terribly that the entire stage collapsed on itself.
And then, and then she was awake. Or rather, she was waking up deep within the forest. She had evidently missed the curtain’s call, evident by the empty clearing where the role of the village girl began. She had to sneak into the mansion, not get caught, and finish what the EndrolL told her to do. The thing that she had feared, but unlike the fakes, she would commit to it. She would do it, however reluctantly, if this was truly the one and only way to save her friends.
She was thankful for the large mansion. With so many rooms and floors, it meant that it was less likely that her fake and her would cross paths. It was in this way, with the adrenaline rushing through her veins, the cheers of the crowd propelling her forward, that she did it. She had grabbed the second hand of the clock and made it down the stairs to the crypt. Pushing open each of the coffins, she couldn’t help but shiver each time she was met with a face identical to hers; a face that had grown pale and devoid of life. It was as though she were looking through a mirror representing the future.
Her heart beat wildly as she finally found the EndrolL. Her eyes scanned the letter, reading it once, twice, thrice. The words hadn’t changed. They never changed, much like the beating of a clock. And as she stood there, wishing that the words would change, the beating was also a signal to get a move on. She had run out of time. Yes, for her friends had recovered their memories, or at least enough to have realized what the True enD surely must be: a fate of which led to death and destruction, but not to anyone else. She heard the hidden door at the top be slammed open and the sound of seven separate pairs of feet rushing down the long winding staircase.
She wished she could explain. She wished that she could say goodbye. She wished that there were some other way. She wished it wasn’t her, but rather some double, some person of whom she’d never seen and would never think to care about her. She wished she never would have left her seat in the audience. She wished – she wished for so many things, none of which she had the luxury of thinking of now. Now, she had to commit to following the EndrolL.
Using the self-made clock-dagger, she dragged it across her wrist. Writing the required message in her own blood on the backside of the letter was difficult and messy, but she worked through it quickly.
The door to the crypt slammed open as well now. She turned towards them, her friends. The doll twins had tripped over themselves, or perhaps been pushed, to the ground. Behind them were five other faces, each of them filled with horror; each of them screaming and calling her name.
Her name.
Miku.
She had almost forgotten it herself. Yes, that was right, she was not Village Girl, but Miku. Not that such things mattered anymore. She had to turn away, raising the knife and angling it towards her chest.
“You can’t do this!”
“What the hell do you think you’re doing!”
“Don’t do this, please!”
“There is another way!”
“Please, we’re begging you!”
Their voices overlapped as they began forcing themselves through the room.
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She couldn’t stop the tears that rolled down her cheeks, for there was no other way. The world in which she and her friends would coexist, happy and free, simply could not exist any longer. Someone had to pay the price; a double or her. Time and time again, the doubles refused. It was up to her. She was running out of time–
Just as she felt a hand grab her shoulder, she plunged the knife deep into her chest. Everything went dark, never to return.
That was the True enD, which then ended the cycle of never-ending shows.