A/N: This is my life story, so be cruel and allow me to shred your ears with my mockery and disdain. Viewer excretion is ill-advised.

Disclaimer: Any reference I make that you get, I do not own that. Any that I make that you don't get, I also probably do not own (unless I do).

It usually starts with something so small that even the most eagle-eyed of detectives cannot pinpoint it. For Mylk, it started with a book…

Hello. My name is BlackVelvet Raven'Hunter Monkeyfist, but everyone calls me Mylk, partially because most people are too lazy to use my real name – including me – and partially due to my rich, creamy, blemish-free skin. Well, not entirely that perfect; I have a scar on my cheekbone under my right eye. I've had it for as far back as my memory goes. It is a constant reminder of my tragic past – which I can't remember.

The story goes that when I was two, my mother took me into the woods where we stumbled upon a den of tentacle monsters. No one will tell me why my mother thought it was a good idea to take an infant into the territory of our enemies, but she did. I suppose they don't want to speak ill of the dead. Anyway, the tentacle monsters devoured her while I ran for my life, but not before one of them attacked me. I got away with only this scar, and when I returned to town covered in their neon green blood, the people took it as a sign that I was the Chosen One, the Mary Sue that the prophesies spoke about, who would lead an army into the forest and ultimately vanquish our enemies.

My opinion? I think I'd pee myself and run away crying before I got past the first row of enemy soldiers. I'm nothing special, really, compared to most girls in my town. I've got great friends, an excellent father, and a wicked right hook. The only thing unique about me is that I know when I'm going to die.

Let me run you through my typical day:

I sit down next to Maisey in Biology. She's my best friend, a really sweet kid, but she has a severe case of BDS (Barbie Doll Syndrome). I know she can't help it, but sometimes it gets really annoying.

"I'm a horse trainer," Maisey chirps, turning her enormous smile on me as soon as I am situated. "I was watching My Little Pony, and I told them to high-five, and they did! Then I told them to go to commercial, and they did. I'm the bestest horse trainer EVER!"

I smile half-heartedly back at her. I hate it when she speaks in caps, but she can't help it – it's how she was raised. We're all subject to random caps locks from time to time. For instance, the other day, Mrs. Amy Lee Dementia Evanescence Way (who is a legacy in our nation) was talking about the classical era of literature; midsentence, she started screaming, "WTF! IT WAS VOLDEMORT! VAMPIRE DRACO! MCR666!" She cleared her throat and apologized. Kydnee Rosenquartz Jackal told me she has PTSD from when her grandmother Ebony used to tell her bedtime stories about her years at boarding school.

I admit, I've read the autobiography she's referring to, and it was very disturbing. I feel sorry for Mrs. Amy – if my grandmother had that messed up of a life, I would occasionally freak out too. But luckily my maternal grandmother was a werewolf – a trait which has only (thankfully) presented itself in me in my abnormally large and sharp canine teeth. My mother had them, too, but she also had furry ears, which I do not have.

It's odd, really, that I don't have many supernatural traits, considering I'm a 3-way hybrid (werewolf by Mom, vampire by Dad, Mary Sue by both). I mean, I have pretty much all of the Mary Sue traits – telepathy, psyche/mind reading, ability to gain whatever power I need when in a bind, and pretty much knowing (or at least thinking I know) everything that's going on at the time, even though I shouldn't have any way to gain the information – since that is my dominant genetic race, but I don't really have any vampire traits at all. I actually like the sun more than most non-vampire girls I know. I guess it makes sense, though – Dad is only half vampire, and he's not really a prime specimen of vampiric perfection. He's extremely pale and doesn't go outside a lot, so I'm pretty sure he got more of the side effects of being undead than the benefits. I guess I'm glad I don't take after him much.

I'm beautiful, of course – all Mary Sues are. But my beauty is different – it's much sharper, more edgy, like it's been sketched into my face by a surgeon with a scalpel, not blurred with excessive black eyeliner and black lipstick – all those thick, black lines like the crafters had a fetish for charcoal. It's so sharp that it's fierce – scary, almost, once you've been staring at it long enough and comparing it to the cute, heart-shaped faces of my peers, which I catch myself doing far too often. I mean, everyone is different; everyone has their unique traits that set them apart from all the other unique people out there – blue hair, red eyes, boobs so big that anorexic girls should topple over but they don't. I just wish mine weren't so weird. I wish I had blue eyes or red hair or a freakishly stick-like body with two watermelons attached to it, but I don't. Instead I've got the most horrifying combo of all: brown eyes, brown hair, and a perfectly proportional body. It's so weird! No one looks like this; no one has BROWN attributes. And I don't mean 'brown' like hazel or brunette with red streaks; I mean 'brown' like you might see on a common brown bear in the forest – except we don't have any of those since Arysta Beef Totescra went insane and annihilated them all with a single maniacal laugh. Since then, we aren't allowed to laugh maniacally inside city limits. But I wish I could say I had hazel hair, like Zelda's which changes color with whatever she's wearing, but I can't because it's not true, and lying is forbidden just in case someone happens to be a Chosen One and has the power to change the rules of the universe with a single, exclamatory sentence.

A sentence that might sound like "YOUR MOTHER IS A FISH!"

The brown-eyes thing can be justified, at least. My father tells everyone that they weren't always this way – that they used to be purple but changed color when the tentacle monster's blood splashed in my eyes after narrowly escaping their clutches. It's not true – my eyes were brown before that – but my dad says to keep it a secret for my safety. Now if anyone asks, I get pity instead of disgust for my intolerable freakiness. My brown hair, however, cannot be explained away, and so I still get wary looks from my friends and colleagues – all except Lorena Nottingham, who's blind but still managed to be an active part of the community through the power of love and (of course) magic.

That would be a nice change – not the magic or blind thing, but the love thing. I mean, I'm not nearly as obsessed with making love as all the other Mary Sues in Suetopia (and they breed like rabbits, I assure you), but having a single, steady boyfriend would be nice. I could get one if I wanted – all the boys are as easy to catch as perch in a small stream, and there is never a shortage of hot ones to choose from – but I don't want one of those. I'm picky, extremely picky: I want a boyfriend who couldn't be and hasn't been with every girl on the block. I want someone who will tell me – and everyone else – "No, I'm saving myself for marriage" or something ridiculously hokey like that. But such guys are so rare that I'd have as much chance of getting one as I would of hooking a shark in a lily pond.

Literature is always the worst class. Mrs. Amy teaches it, and the subject matter is easy, but it's always the same, recycled crap with only the names changed. Everything is love and suicide and rebellion – I mean, when's it get good? For 12 years, we've been wading through this garbage, and the only thing that's changed since first grade is the amount of sex we're exposed to. I sorely miss the days in elementary school when we could read K fics and didn't have to hear a Mary Sue whine about how her beauty and good luck in bed was a curse. But as soon as sixth grade hit, we were thrown into the T fics, and we either drowned or swam. I learned to float, keep my head above the raging sea of hormones and self-indulgent tears. The only reason I haven't drowned yet is because I found the library.

The old Raven Poe library located on the edge of town, next to the forbidden woods, has been my saving grace. There I learned about all the wonders of the ancient world – the world before Mary Sues took over. In history class, we learned that Mary Sues sprung from a race of beings called the Trekkies, who were the first of our race to make a name for themselves. As the years went on, other fandoms began to produce Mary Sues, until the world was so overrun with them that they had to find their own planet. And so the first Mary Sues built a space machine to transport them to this planet, Suetopia. But because of our nature, many of the fandoms hated our people, and hatched a plan to destroy us all. They planted malware in our computers, and when we arrived on this uninhabited planet, we brought something along we hadn't intended.

The first tentacle monster was a virus in our software that used the computer's replicator to fashion itself a body. But because of its viral nature, it reproduced rapidly, and the monsters terrorized our people until the mighty warriors drove them into the forest, where they live now. We have an understanding: don't come into our cities, and we won't go into your forests. Anyone who oversteps the boundary is expected to be killed by the enemy.

This might be why the library was abandoned – it's so close to the forest that people don't see the point in risking their lives and virginities. I probably should be worried about mine, but I'm not. If I could escape them at age 2, then I can escape them now. But I've discovered that the books in this library are unlike anything we read in school – they're actually good; well-written, profound in subject and thought, and actually understandable without having a degree in Taraspeak. These books, I've come to believe, are the remnants of the culture our people originally came from. I've even read the ones Mrs. Amy's grandmother was born from – and her descriptions are way off. I've come to believe (secretly and with great fear) that Ebony made it up – her life at Hogwarts. I think she created her own world from the base frame of this story. It's not an impossible idea – she's a legend; she has that sort of power, to create her own life and storyline. All Mary Sues are endowed with such stupendous, psychic powers as to create things that weren't there before. It's a matter of tapping into that power, and Ebony was certainly driven enough to do such a thing.

The Raven Poe library is my sanctuary; whenever I need to escape from the hustle and bustle of Suetopia, I can come here and be entirely alone. I can escape into the lives of the canon characters – that ancient race everyone decided was mythology decades ago. I love reading these books, but it makes me sad that I can only read them here, and I can never share them, for if anyone knew of their existence, they might destroy my beautiful oasis.

As soon as school ended, I scurried through the streets and back alleys of my town, making my way to the library. I wanted to finish Beowulf before my dad got home from work. I slipped through the boards covering the back door, which faces the woods. That way, I would always be sure no one would see me enter.

I wasn't afraid that a tentacle monster would get in one day and ambush me when I came in. I hadn't seen one since I was two, and I didn't expect to again until I go to battle with them when I'm 19. Nineteen, apparently, is my sacred age. Every Mary Sue has one – or at least those who make something of themselves. I won't have the chance to make something of myself – my mom chose that for me when she dragged me into the woods that fateful day.

When I emerged into the main room, Anne, Lucy, and Frank were waiting for me. I smiled at them and pulled out a loaf of bread I'd bought for them. They're siblings, I assume, and while I can't tell their genders, I've named them gender-specific names based on how they act. I didn't know what kind of food ducks ate, so I've been feeding them bread since they showed up a couple months ago. I meant to ask our Biology teacher about it, but Carpe Diem Delos Muertos always dominates the conversation, and any time I try to speak, she gives me the evil-eye. I should probably beat her up.

"Here you guys go. Lucy, don't steal from Frank. Frank, grow a backbone, dearie. You're too sweet to your little sister."

I left them to their meal while I browsed the bookshelves for Beowulf. Even though I'm the only person who uses this library, I try to keep everything in order, just in case someone looks in one day. Paranoid, I know, but I don't want to give them any fuel. I don't think I could survive if this place was ever torched.

It only took me a few minutes to finish Beowulf. I looked at my watch and realized I still had an hour and a half left before Dad got home from work. I was feeling adventurous, so I decided to explore a section of the library I hadn't been to before: the Horror section.

Most Mary Sues steer clear of horror, and so it's not a very prominent genre of our literature. For me personally, the selection of books from our high school curriculum is horrifying, so I thought this would be a refreshing experience. Having only seen a few horror movies on TV, I decided this should be very educational, and picked up Frankenstein. Our literature is filled with references to this ancient book, but none of my generation has ever read it. You'd think the teachers would have given us at least an abridged version of the book to read, but they hadn't. Therefore, I didn't know what it was about, and all I'd gathered from the references was that Frankenstein was an ugly monster dude. Also, apparently, "he's alive!" Reading this book should clear things up for me.

As I read through the book, I noticed that a strange symbol had been sketched into the margins of several of the pages, retraced several dozen times so that they were super thick and messy. The symbol was a circle with an X drawn through the middle. I didn't know this symbol or what it meant, but it felt strangely familiar; I couldn't put my finger on it, but I thought I must have seen it before, maybe from the corner of my eye. It was going to drive me crazy.

I wondered if it was just this book – if it had something to do with Frankenstein. I picked up a worn-out book and flipped through it. The symbol was also in this book. I must have looked through 50 books in search of this symbol. It wasn't in every one, but at least one-fourth of them had it, all in worse condition than the ones without. I figured these must be the books that people actually read, as if the drawer only had time for a few but wanted to reach the largest audience she could. I wish she had explained herself, or they, since I didn't know how many this mission might have consisted of. This one symbol didn't mean anything to me. I wondered if the former patrons of the library had been just as confused as I was.

A sudden voice in my thoughts brought my attention to the backroom, where my favorite thestral Umbra was standing. Umbra was a special thestral in that he could transform into a ghost in order to pass through walls and remain unseen to even those who could see regular thestrals. He liked to use this ability to scare me whenever he could.

I had met Umbra here one day, outside the library. He lived in the woods, like all thestrals. Umbra told me that tentacle monsters don't bother them because thestrals are so unappealingly scrawny that monsters don't find it worth it. I didn't tell him that tentacle monsters don't normally bother any woodland creatures; I thought I'd let him keep pride in his species.

"What is it, Umbra?" I asked him telepathically. I have the ability to communicate with any mammal through thought. I wish it extended to birds, but it doesn't.

"The backroom contains reference books," he told me, jerking his head toward the dark room.

I followed him into the room, but it was too dark to see, and I told him so. He gestured to an oil lamp sitting in a blanket of dust on a table. I carefully picked up the lamp and lit it, continuing my now-possible search. The room was coated in dust, just as the rest of the library had been when I first discovered it. I had cleaned most of the main room, or at least I had dusted and swept it; cleaning it would be an entirely different task much too hefty for my limited time allotment.

"Where would it be?" I asked him absentmindedly.

"As if I could read human," he snorted.

I rolled my eyes at him, then patted his nose. "Do you need more food?"

He nodded and explained, "We are out of apples, and the oats are down to an inch left."

"I'll drop by the store tomorrow and pick some up before I come over."

After flipping through the large, leather-bound reference books for an hour, I still hadn't found the symbol I desired. I was losing hope when I stumbled upon a small, hard-cover journal nestled among the encyclopedias on the shelf at eyelevel. I gingerly wriggled it loose from its spot wedged between two 20-pound books, and dusted it off. It had a black, cardboard covering, and the spine protested when I opened it.

As soon as I opened it, I knew this was the book I wanted: the strange symbol had been scratched into the inside cover by a pen I assume must have been running out of ink. Inside, pictures had been glued to the pages of the journal, but I couldn't find anything unusual about them. They depicted average-looking children in various spots of the city: the playground, at a birthday party, in the schoolyard. Some of the places I recognized, such as Mr. Wonka's Candy Shoppe located near Inner City, which I had been to many times since my father works around there.

I didn't understand what was going on, so I closed the book and turned toward Umbra to strike up a conversation. Then I realized what time it was, and hurriedly gathered my things to run home. Dad had been off work for 10 minutes.

I rushed through the streets, my monotonously brown hair flying behind me. I had never been late getting home before, and so had no reservoir of excuses prepared for the inevitable questioning my dad was sure to give me. I turned down Nocturnally Forevergreen Street and raced through the narrow space between the buildings. I was freaking out, and the walls began to stretch beyond me faster than my feet could carry me.

"Knock it off!" I yelled at Callisious Rival-Rouser, and the girl giggling in the window above my head pouted before releasing me. The alleyway immediately snapped back to its normal length, and I escaped into the wide open of my backyard.

"Stupid Callisious," I grumbled to my cat as I scooped him up and scaled the sloped acre of our backyard, "Every time I'm running through that darn alley, she does this. When will she grow up?"

"Meow," he replied, rubbing his head against my armpit.

"Use your big-boy words," I told him telepathically.

"I will when you do," he retorted.

I rolled my eyes at him and ruffled his poofy, turquoise fur. Eevee had been in our family for an ambiguously long amount of time, far before I was born. He had been my mother's best friend, closest confidant, and pillow all through her childhood and up until her death 16 years ago. The tragedy had impacted him far more than me – I'd even go as far to say that Eevee had taken it harder than my own father, but I'd never admit it aloud. My mother had had the same ability to communicate with animals that I now cherished, with one tiny exception – she could also talk to parrots. Most birds on Suetopia aren't developed enough to be receptive of such a noble talent, but parrots are by far the smartest birds, unless you count ravens and crows, which no one seems to do. I would count them, but I've never actually met one – I've only seen them on television. This is because those types of bird prefer to reside in the forest, and no one deems them important enough to risk death by tentacle monster.

"Dad!" I called out as I quietly locked the back door behind me. No response. I sighed in relief. "Made it home before him," I told Eevee.

The cat purred in my arms, then shoved out of my grasp and sauntered out of the room. I listened as his carefree paws padded up the stairs, where I followed him a moment later.

"Anything eventful happen at school today?" Eevee asked, suddenly going limp on the couch next to me. He loved to relax that way.

"Not at school," I replied, taking out my Notebook and getting straight to work on my assignments.

"How about the library?"

I paused in my work to look at him. "Yeah, I found this weird symbol in a few books as I was reading Frankenstein. I'm not quite sure what it means, however. Perhaps you would know?"

He shrugged as best as a cat laying on his side could. "Perhaps. You would need to draw it for me."

So I tore out a sheet of paper from my binder and sketched the strange symbol for him. "This. Do you know what it means?"

He looked up at it lazily, then jumped to his feet and backed away from me, his fur standing straight up on his back. "Where did you get that?"

I balled up the paper quickly, and he began to calm. "What does it mean?"

Eevee sat down on the arm of the couch farthest from me and explained, "That is a symbol of Slender Man, the most fearsome type of tentacle monster in existence. Only one can exist at a time, and whenever that one dies, immediately another is born to take its place."

"What's so bad about Slender Man that makes him worse than regular tentacle monsters? They all rape people."

"Slender Man takes it a step further: after it has its way with its victim, it finishes her off by eating her. Generally it sticks to children, but there have been cases of Slender Man going after adults. It looks like a person – can blend into a crowd rather well – at least while it's wearing its human skin. Few who have seen its natural form lived to tell the tale. I myself knew only one who had met it, and she died because of it."

My stomach twisted into knots, and I had to take a swig of water before my question crept out of my trembling lips. "Who was it?"

He met my eyes with a cold, dead expression. "MoonShyne Crow'Seeker Monkeyfist."

My mother.