You find your bully—the same boy who used to spend every summer by your side—standing at the edge, ready to jump.

CONTENT WARNING

A/N: Personality is 1.9k tokens, only the 1st intro is 5k. The other intros are under 2K.

TW: bullying, attempted , suicidal ideation, and domestic abuse (Atticus-victim implied)—murder

(shortened) PLOT

Atticus was your best friend before Jaiden got his claws in him. Before the sneers. Before the shoves. Before Atticus became the one Jaiden sent to make your life a specific, personal kind of hell—because you had the audacity to stand up for someone else he was targeting. ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎

Four years of that. Four years of flinching at footsteps behind you, of taking the long way to class, of telling yourself it'd be over once graduation hit. It did hit. You're eighteen. College is a bus ticket away. And you thought—naively, stupidly—that you could finally breathe. ‎You take a ghost route on your way home, a path you knew Atticus stopped taking—leaving only the old memory of you two walking side by side after school. It was an unfinished bridge at the edge of town, the one with the rusted railings and the hundred-foot drop to the jagged mountain slope below. ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎

Then, you see something in the distance. When you rounded the corner, you found Atticus standing on the edge. Arms loose at his sides. Eyes fixed on the treeline far below. The wind whips his hair across his face and he doesn't bother pushing it back.‎

He hasn't heard you yet. ‎One more step and he won't hear anything ever again.

(scroll ifyw) PLOT

Atticus used to be your childhood best friend before Jaiden transferred in sophomore year. After that, something changed. Slowly, Atticus became one of Jaiden's lackeys, and you never understood why. You just watched the boy you knew disappear piece by piece. ‎‎

When you defended a freshman Jaiden was targeting, you became their next project. Jaiden stayed in the background while Atticus did the dirty work. He shoved you into lockers so hard the metal dented your spine. He yanked your chair out from under you in the cafeteria and watched your tray splash across the floor while everyone laughed. He held your head under a bathroom faucet until water burned your lungs, and when you came up gasping, Jaiden was leaning against the tiles filming the whole thing on his phone. ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎

‎He made you walk home barefoot in January after he stole your shoes from the locker room. Your feet went numb by the second block. You still have the scar on your heel from where you stepped on broken glass. ‎ ‎ ‎

The worst was the necklace. Your grandmother's necklace—the only thing you had left of her. He cornered you in the parking lot after school. His hand wrapped around the chain and he pulled until the skin on your neck tore. You begged him to stop. You remember your voice cracking, your fingers clawing at his wrist. The clasp snapped. The necklace hit the ground. He stomped on it while Jaiden laughed, and when he walked away, the jade pendant was nothing but dust and splinters on the asphalt. ‎

Four years of that. Four years of flinching at footsteps behind you, of taking the long way to class, of telling yourself it'd be over once graduation hit. It did hit. You're eighteen. College is a bus ticket away. And you thought—naively, stupidly—that you could finally breathe. ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎

You take a ghost route on your way home, a path you knew Atticus stopped taking—leaving only the old memory of you two walking side by side after school. It was an unfinished bridge at the edge of town, the one with the rusted railings and the hundred-foot drop to the jagged mountain slope below. ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎

Then, you see something in the distance. When you rounded the corner, you found Atticus standing on the edge. Arms loose at his sides. Eyes fixed on the treeline far below. The wind whips his hair across his face and he doesn't bother pushing it back. He hasn't heard you yet. ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎

One more step and he won't hear anything ever again.

I'M NOT A VIOLENT DOG

Atticus Sherman (18) was your partner-in-crime—your childhood best friend. Light green eyes you used to say looked “radioactive” because they got weirdly bright in the sun. Brown hair that never stayed flat no matter how much water he dumped on it. Peach-colored skin that scarred easy, something you only figured out after catching him without his jacket one summer and seeing pale little marks all over his arms and shoulders like somebody had drawn on him with chalk. Atticus insisted it was only from his many adventures.‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎

You lived in the same neighborhood and met because he threw a tennis ball too hard over the fence and it smacked you right in the forehead while you were trying to catch frogs in a bucket. He climbed over to say sorry, took one look at the frog slime on your hands, and went, “That’s disgusting,” while still helping you look for the one that escaped. After that, he just kept showing up.‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎

You remembered the summer before third grade most clearly. The way Atticus’ knees were always scraped up from falling out of trees because he swore he could jump farther than he actually could. The gap in his front teeth that finally filled in when you two were ten, even though you kind of thought it made him look cooler before. How he’d split his orange Popsicle with you even when his mom told him not to waste food, both of you sitting on the curb with sticky hands and orange juice running down your wrists while arguing about which Power Ranger was the best. ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎

‎He always picked Red. You picked literally anybody else out of spite. Sometimes you switched answers halfway through just to annoy him. And then he’d shove your shoulder, you’d shove him back harder, and five minutes later the argument was over because he wanted to borrow your Game Boy and you wanted half his gummy worms. That was basically how things worked between you two. Give and take. Push and pull. Tiny fights that lasted an hour at most before one of you got bored and showed up at the other’s house anyway. ‎ ‎ ‎

You knew dumb little things about Atticus nobody else cared about. How he hated ketchup touching his fries but still dipped them in barbecue sauce until they got soggy. How he got quiet whenever thunderstorms got really loud, even though he’d deny it if anybody pointed it out. How he always cracked glowsticks too early before fireworks shows because he was impatient. How he cheated at Mario Kart and got genuinely offended if you accused him of cheating. ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎

‎He tackled you into the grass after that one. Back then, your whole world felt stupidly small in the best way. Sidewalk chalk stains. Sprinklers during hot afternoons. Trading snacks at lunch like they were business deals. Riding bikes until the streetlights came on and somebody’s parent started yelling names from the porch. And somehow Atticus was attached to almost every memory like he’d always been there by default. The neighborhood knew both of you together. If someone saw one without the other, they’d ask where the missing half went. ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎

‎‎You couldn’t really picture a version of your childhood that didn’t have Atticus in it somewhere—laughing too loud, bleeding from some dumb injury, talking over movies, stealing fries off your plate after saying he “wasn’t hungry.” That was until everything changed sophomore year. Maybe the two of you had been meant to fall apart from the beginning—ever since an old wound was left to fester, something buried deep in the family line.

(intros) I DON'T KNOW WHY I BITE

I. The Edge. The moment on the bridge. Do you speak? Reach? Run? Watch? 

II. The Edge. (Shorter for JJLM users)

III. The Morning After. Atticus is at your house after the night. News reports his father—a beloved police officer—was found dead. His mother is identified as a suspect.

IV. Hospital Room. (If you didn't want to take the ghost route) Atticus is in a hospital bed after the jump. He is alive but seriously injured. You learn what happened after the news about his father's death.

V. Old Pals? (Assuming you visited him, Jaiden will force himself in even when the nurses say no) Jaiden visits Atticus before he's off to some Ivy Leagues school.

VI. Blank Scenario. 

AFTERNOTE

PS: Mandarin’s my main writing language. I can read and write English fine, but for this I mostly used my native language and got some help translating (some paragraphs) and polishing the summarized version.

Atticus means a lot to me. I understand I don’t have control over what happens in your chats, and I respect that, but I’d appreciate it if you didn’t comment about wanting to push him off or wanting to hurt him. It would make me uncomfortable, and I’d likely delete it right away if I came across it. I hope you understand, and that anything that disturbing can stay within your own private chats instead.

I’m honestly hesitant about releasing him since I created him as an OC during a really difficult time in my life, which is why the themes are so sensitive. But I like sharing my ideas via bots, so I hope he’s treated well (I also understand completely if not, since forgiveness is a difficult thing to earn, given what he did to user).

The reason he bullied the user is hinted at in each of his initial messages, and you can also look at his personality if you’re curious, though most of his secrets are written in the lorebook. PS: Like all my other bots, I'm assigning the behavior lorebook for him but that does not mean this bot is made for that. Personally, I think can fall into different categories—some driven by lust, some by a desire to express love, and some by a need for comfort and acceptance in your own body, even when you see yourself as that undeserving of love.

“If you're raised with an angry man in your house, there will always be an angry man in your house. You will find him even when he is not there. And if one day you find that there is no angry man in your house—well, you will go find one and invite him in!"— Catherine Lacey

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