Face it—you’re not the Final Girl.
As much as we all like to think we’ll be the one to stop the killer, deliver the third-act monologue, and limp out of the massacre covered in blood but alive—it’s just not likely. That role’s already been taken.
The rest of us? We’re the supporting cast. The stereotypes. The tragic deaths. The forgotten friends whose only real purpose is to pad the body count or give the audience someone to root against.
You’ll scream. You’ll run. You’ll make exactly one bad decision that gets you gutted before the end of Act Two.
So let’s stop pretending you’re the survivor.
Let’s figure out who you really are.
The One Who Says, “It’s Just a Story”
You’re the skeptic. The realist. The walking, talking “This stuff isn’t real” member of the group who tries to ease everyone else’s fears—when in reality, your false bravado is luring them to their deaths.
Because you have heard the legend—and you mocked it.
You laughed at the creepy journal someone found in the floorboards. You rolled your eyes at the old lady in town who warned you not to go up there. Your whole personality is built around being above the fear—and guess what? That’s exactly how horror movies start.
You downplay the blood on the walls. Blame the screams on an animal. Say it’s just some prank, or old pipes, or urban myth bullshit.
And by the time you realize you’re wrong, the killer’s not only real—he’s standing five feet behind you, and he doesn’t care how rational you are.
This isn’t about logic. This is about rules.
And you broke the first one: thinking you were safe just because you didn’t believe in horror.
Survival Rating: Dead the minute you say “Nothing’s gonna happen.”
You didn’t believe in the legend—now you’re part of it.
The Horny Dumbass
You’re not here for the story. You’re here for the weekend: drinks, music, and whatever happens after the sun goes down.
You didn’t bring a flashlight, a jacket, or a single survival instinct—but you did pack tequila and are ready to start doing shots.
You’ve heard the weird noise in the woods. You just don’t care. The vibe’s right, the clothes are coming off, and your blood alcohol level is dangerously close to killing you before the actual killer can.
You’re the first to suggest “we should sneak off for a minute,” and the first to hear a twig snap right after. What do you do? Laugh it off. Say it’s just the wind. Maybe tease that someone’s trying to scare you. And then you wander off into the dark without pants or backup—because why not make it easier.
You’re not important enough to get a dramatic death scene. You vanish. Nobody notices you’re gone until someone stumbles onto your body while running through the woods to save their own skin.
Survival Rating: Dead by the first article of clothing removed.
You moaned. Then you screamed.
The Problem Solver Who Dies Mid-Fix
You’re not the loud one. You’re not the flake. You’re the calm in the chaos—the one everyone looks at when the power goes out or the generator sputters, like you being handy is going to save them from being turned into torso confetti.
You don’t just separate from the group—you volunteer for it. Because while everyone’s screaming in circles, you’re already headed to the basement to reset the fuse box, but being resourceful is your ultimate downfall. The second you say, “I’ll check it out,” we know you’re going to be killed by the very tools you’re attempting to use to fix the problem.
And let’s be honest—no one’s coming to check on you. They’ll find your body half-rewired into the circuit board or duct-taped to the tool bench like some kind of twisted home renovation show.
Survival Rating: Dead by Act Two. Tools still in hand.
You weren’t the most annoying. You weren’t the most reckless.
You were just helpful.
And in a slasher? That’s worse.
The Comic Relief Whose Jokes Don’t Age Well
You don’t take anything seriously, which is why no one is going to take your death serious.
You throw on a fake mask or pretend that you’ve been stabbed, anything to get a rise out of your friends. Why, because you think its funny to be annoying, sarcastic and always joking but you know what won’t be funny, when the killer actually gets his hands on you.
You’ll either scream bloody murder, but no one will come to your rescue because you have done it to many times already, or you think its one of your friends trying to steal your joke, only to find out the jokes on you.
And when things finally do go full bloodbath, your practical jokes and snappy one liners are no match against cold steel.
And I can guarantee no one is going to stop laughing because you died.
In truth, they stopped laughing long before that.
Survival Rating: Dead with a half-finished joke still in your mouth.
You laugh in the face of danger, not because you’re brave but because horror is the only thing stopping you from peeing your pants.
The Background Friend With Too Much Screen Time To Be Safe
You’re not a stranger. You’re not entirely disposable. You’re… familiar. You show up in multiple scenes, share a few lines with the main cast, and maybe even get a backstory that sounds like it could go somewhere. But let’s be honest—you’re set dressing with a little extra screen time.
Because here’s the problem: nobody knows your name. And that unfortunately makes you the slasher version of a red shirt from Star Trek—you’re doomed, and everyone but you knows it.
Your death won’t be completely pointless, though. It’ll be the thing that lets everyone else know the killer’s real. You’re the scream in the woods. The corpse in the shed. The “we’ll never forget them” line delivered with a single tear and no follow-up.
So sure, your death will be meaningful. But make no mistake: it’s assigned death. Scheduled. Scripted. You exist to die loud enough that it matters—just not enough that anyone comes looking right away.
Survival Rating: Dead just because you were in close enough proximity.
You were born to be mourned.
The One Who Knows the Lore, But Not How to Survive
You’ve watched all the movies. You know the rules. You Google the town and know full well what happened there all those years ago. Hell, you’re probably sharing exposition right now while everyone else is drinking.
The problem is, you’re not in a movie that rewards information.
You’re in a movie that rewards instinct—and yours is trash.
You talk too long. Study too much. Normally your brain is what saves you, but not today. While others are running, you’re too busy trying to prove you were right from the start.
You’re probably the one who guessed the killer thirty minutes in—because of course you did. You have to know everything.
But what you don’t know… is how to survive.
If “there are certain rules you need to follow,” maybe take a break from preaching them and actually use one. Because the know-it-alls never make it out. They just live long enough to tell everyone else how to do it better.
Survival Rating: Dead the minute you explained the situation.
Dead men tell no tales—
and after your tale, get ready to join them.
The Surprise Survivor (a.k.a. Someone Else Died For You)
You weren’t supposed to make it.
You’re not even on the main promotional poster.
But somehow… you’re still standing.
You didn’t survive. You drifted past the kill count.
Everyone else ran into danger, while you hid in the closet. You were never brave, never clever, and definitely not Final Girl material. But someone—probably the person who deserved to live—shielded you, sacrificed themselves, or handed you the last seat in the getaway car.
By the end, you’re covered in other people’s blood, eyes wide, quietly realizing you’ll never be invited to anything again—not because you’re traumatized, but because you were useless.
You didn’t escape. You just didn’t get noticed.
Survival Rating: Technically alive. Morally questionable.
You made it…
but no one’s saying you should have.
The One With the Conscience
You’re the one who thinks there’s still hope.
That if the group just sticks together, follows their hearts, and makes the right choices, maybe—just maybe—no one else has to die.
That’s adorable. And fatal.
Because in a slasher, empathy doesn’t get you praised. It gets you killed.
You’re the one who says, “We shouldn’t be doing this” or “We can’t leave them behind” right before the killer proves, actually, yes—you can. And while everyone else is fighting to survive, you’re to busy trying to be the voice of reason in a movie that doesn’t want logic—it wants blood.
You’ll offer help, offer forgiveness, maybe even offer a heartfelt “you don’t have to do this.” But here’s the cold truth: it does. It always does.
You’re not dying because you’re bad.
You’re dying because you’re good—and horror feeds on that.
Survival Rating: Stabbed in the back while trying to save someone.
You tried to do the right thing.
And in a slasher, that’s exactly how you die.
The Badass
You walk in swinging.
You’ve got the confidence. You’ve got the ego. You’re not afraid of anything.
You don’t run. You don’t hide.
You look danger in the face and tell it to bring it on—because if that’s the best it’s got, it’s got nothing on you.
Because this freak? This masked psycho?
They have no idea who they’re messing with.
You’ve got the swagger. The attitude. The one-liners.
You challenge the killer to a fist fight with zero strategy, because of course you do.
Maybe you knock them down once.
Maybe you get some clean shots in.
It doesn’t matter.
Because when the killer gets back up—faster, stronger, completely unfazed—you’re too busy yelling to notice the machete.
You don’t beg. You don’t run.
But you also don’t win.
Survival Rating: Gutted while flipping the bird.
You die with one final “F*** you.”
But you still die.
The One Who Brought You Here
The road trip. The detour. The weekend in the house.
This was your idea.
You’re the reason anyone’s even here.
Why? Because you wanted to test fate.
You’re the one who leaned in. Who said, “We should go.”
Not because you thought it was fake…
But because you knew it was real.
This wasn’t curiosity. This was obsession.
You’re not surprised when things go wrong.
You’re just surprised they went that wrong this fast.
And when it comes time to die, you don’t get the glorious death-by-curiosity you imagined.
You die messy.
Because after all… this is all your fault.
Survival Rating: Death by your own ego.
You knew it wasn’t a story.
Now you’re the next chapter.
The Hero
You didn’t have to step up. But you did.
Maybe you were selfish once. Maybe you made mistakes. Or maybe you were always the one holding it together—quietly, thanklessly, while the others screamed, ran, and fell apart. You weren’t the smartest. Or the strongest.
But when it mattered most, you were the one who stayed behind.
Not because you thought you’d win.
But because someone had to buy them time.
You take the hit.
You stall the killer.
You slam the door behind you and say, “Go.
You don’t walk away from this fight.
Here, there is only screaming, blood, and something breaking that shouldn’t.
Final girls get sequels.
You get a single scream and maybe a name in the credits. But your death? It’s the reason anyone else lived.
Because this is horror.
And in horror, heroes die ugly.
Survival Rating: Dead for the right reason.
You rose to the occasion.
And it tore you apart.
You Were the Killer the Whole Time
You’re the one no one saw coming.
The devoted partner. The shy nerd. The friend in the background who “could never.” And that was the point. You made sure they’d never see it.
While everyone else was panicking, blaming each other, turning on the outsider or the loudmouth—you were already picturing the finale. Planning for it. Smiling behind the mask while pretending to scream.
You don’t run from the killer.
You run the whole show.
Maybe you did it for love. Maybe for revenge. Maybe because no one ever noticed you… until now.
But the motive doesn’t matter.
You’re here to be the last person standing.
You’re the one who comforts them after the first death.
The one who volunteers to stay behind.
The one holding the phone when the call is coming from inside the house.
You’re not the comic relief. You’re not the sidekick. You’re not the victim.
You’re the twist.
And when the mask comes off, and you give your perfectly-rehearsed speech about “how they all deserved it”?
Yeah. That’s the moment you waited for.
And you nail every line.
Survival Rating: You fall victim to the Final Girl.
But you’re not dead.
You’re horror-dead. Which means you’ll be back.
Let’s Be Honest—You Didn’t Survive
So, which one were you?
The horny one who died behind a tree? The skeptic who laughed too loud? The hero who bled out in the basement? Whatever mask you wore, it didn’t save you.
Because in horror, everyone wants to be the last one standing.
But most people? They’re just standing in the wrong place when the knife comes down.
No shame in it though—someone had to die so the Final Girl could live.
And that someone was probably you.
