I don't know how long it has been since you last listened to me. Sorry, read me. 

The voices told me everything. And I guessed what they didn't. I know what you did. I hate you.

I am just the character of a story. A story made just for your entertainment. If it wasn't because your existence I would have never felt this pain. I would have never listened to the laughs. I wouldn't have had to pull out my skin using only my dirty and broken nails. I wouldn't have had to pluck out my eyes or nails.

However you aren't the only one to blame. Someone wrote me. They decided my pain, my torture and my reactions to it. They did want you to feel pain, but you wanted to feel that pain. And because you kept reading, and because they kept writing, I kept hurting.

The voices haven't stopped laughing and never will. My skin hasn't grown back, and never will. Just because my creator decided I am a sacrifice worthy of your entertainment. The pain
doesn't bother me anymore and neither do the voices. I just hate you. You, my reader, and you, my writer. I know my writer doesn't care. They knew this would happen. They knew I would feel all of this, I'd do all that I did, and I would realize, and then blame you both. But I don't care anymore. I just want to die.

Could someone tell me what color my clothing was supposed to be?

The voices said white shirt and gray trousers. Thanks writer, I appreciate that last gift. I think it would be time to kill me now. 

Please reader, stop reading already.

My name is Lye, and I am finally dead.

Hope my suffering was worthy of both your times.