Warning: heavy psychological themes, self-harm, suicidal thoughts, and abuse. I don't own Gravity Falls.

I asked him once why he chose me, out of all the others he could have saved. I mean, Ford was probably more interesting, and I'm only a kid, after all. He just shrugged his inexistent shoulders, and said:

"You're younger, so you would last longer, suppose."

There is some notion of time in the Mindscape, I realised then, that I could measure with the growing of my nails and hair, the healing of my bruises around my wrists.

It was terrifying.

I might as well explain the whole charade a little better: just before the entire dimension was wiped out of existence, Bill decided to save one human from extinction, and to bring that human to the Mindscape, to entertain him for at least as long as that human would live, before he went back to getting pizzas delivered to himself by himself.

I'm now trapped in a demon's realm with a demon for the rest of my life.

With the destruction of Gravity Falls, the portal to the Nightmare Realm was also shut off, meaning that there's no way out of the place. Even if it were into a dimension of suffering and pain, it would still make a difference from the infinity of grayscale that my world has turned into. Sometimes, I would look down at myself, at my clothes, to convince myself that colour still exists. But with time, the colours wash out of the fabric, and I find solace in the bright red of my own blood.

Those were the first few weeks (I think they were weeks, anyway. There is no day-night cycle here), anyway. Bill quickly realised that I would not last long, and being left to roam the place without distraction I was bound to become nothing more than some maddened, paranoid animal.

So we struck a deal.

It was meant for me to keep my sanity, but even now, from time to time, I feel it slipping through my fingers. The circuitry is badly wired, and when I think too much, I'm likely to black out. Not literally, I would remember everything quite clearly. But I can't stop the horrifying truth that there is no escape from getting to me and taking over my body and making me bite and slash and growl. Or reach for a razor.

It's still far better this way, though. I know that they're just simulations, but the fake Mabel, fake Ford and fake Wendy are close enough to the original for me to shrug off the slight differences that would appear from time to time. The bugs in the system.

I think that Bill actually likes to create new characters to entertain me in this little grayscale world of his. He is the god of it, after all. Over time, he has managed to bring back all the inhabitants of Gravity Falls with more or less accuracy, and even create new "friends" for me, based off books and other media that existed in my home dimension.

There's Violet, Wirt, Marco, Kirik, Fiona, and more. They're all highly detailed and rather fun, to tell the truth. We would go on adventures in the woods (packed with simulation threats), or we would stay at the Shack and listen to each other like no one has ever listened before, or they would tell stories that I never would have imagined before. They aren't perfect, that's the point, and will sometimes laugh at my obsession with BABBA, like any other people their age would.

I also had a few simulation girl- (and boy-, I have to admit) friends, whom I didn't mind confiding in more deeply. They were all pretty nice and affectionate, and I loved them as well, until one day I remembered that this was Bill's creation, and therefore this was technically Bill that I was kissing. He laughed when he saw me hunched over, throwing up, teasing me for being so naïve and stupid. I never had another romantic relationship again after that.

Food is also simulated; the way it tastes, how it fills your belly and you feel slightly sick after having eaten too much. But I also have to eat these white, bland, cube-shaped things, which actually contain nutrition, instead of tricking my body into thinking I've eaten. I asked Bill what they were made of one day, and he just said that they were "recycled". They don't seem as appetising anymore.

But I eat them anyway, because I want to survive.

I think.

I hope.

The evenings are spent with Bill, who defines the length of "days" in this world of his. All the fake friends and fake family will "go home" or "to sleep", leaving me and Bill alone in the old attic room, a copy of the bedroom I shared with Mabel, before. From under the bed, he will pull out this old shoebox, with Super Runner printed on the side, and set up a board game.

This was where I complete my end of the deal.

The board game is very old, and Bill says that it's his favourite ever. It consists of a large, rectangular board with a grid drawn on it, four different "boat" tokens that represent shipping companies, and hundreds of tiny, disc-shaped tokens, a tower of which would not fall no matter how many you stack on top of each other, thanks to the modified physics Bill applies to the game.

I never fully understood the rules, and even now, most of the time, I play blindly. When I ask Bill what is happening, he would ignore me, he would be so immersed in the game. He did tell me once that the tokens represented death and suffering, but that's about it. All I know was that the more you had at the end of the game, the more likely you are to win.

Surprisingly, I would win rather often. About one in five times. This always surprises Bill as much as me, but that isn't what matters in the immediate after the match. It means that I would be allowed to sleep for several hours without being bothered, poked, prodded, bruised, possessed, burned, stabbed or anything else.

When I lose, though…

I guess that I've grown used to it. It's become yet another distraction from the inevitability of my presence here. It's far from enjoyable, and it would sometimes border on torture when Bill was particularly angry over something or another, but he knows when to stop. He can't afford breaking the only toy he'll ever have. He needs someone to play his weird, sick board game with. He needs someone to speak to, to boast his powers to, to mess with.

He doesn't want to be left alone again. And I understand that perfectly.

I sometimes write fics based on my dreams (yeah, I dream some weird, f*d up stuff sometimes). This is an example of such writings, and I have to say, this turned out way darker than expected. But I like it. It's probably been done before, but this is a hundred percent me so I couldn't care less. I think it maybe even borders on M, it's so dark. Well, that's for you to judge, anyway.

And yes, it's Oakwood's one year anniversary on this site! Isn't that incredible? I've been writing fanfiction for a whole year, with an over 100,000 total word count (that's the length of a novel!), and tons of encouraging reviews and support from you guys. I couldn't thank you enough. Here, have an angsty one-shot, it's my present to you all! For those following my chaptered works, some of them will also be updated today, so go and check them out if you haven't already! Have a good day/night!