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Tom Felton is More Evil than Draco Malfoy

Ready for another heavily detailed dream? Well, I’m putting a warning on this one. WARNING: Contains extremely mature content, such as violence, language, and graphic sexual themes. It is HIGHLY recommended that you do not read on unless you are at least eighteen (18) years or older. I will not be held responsible for minors choosing to read on.

Alright, let’s get this party started. So, it’s been “nightmare season” for me, and let me explain what I mean. I have these long periods of time where I have nightmares every night, extremely graphic, frightening, makes me wake up drenched in sweat, and they affect me physically and mentally during the waking hours. I’ve had these since I was a child, not too young, but still a child. They’re caused by PTSD (thank you, Erin, you filthy whore), so they are not just nightmares. But then I’ll have shorter periods of time where I will have no PTSD nightmares at all, just regular bad dreams, good dreams, and weird dreams. In my adult life, my dreams, nightmares or not, have been EXTREMELY vivid, and not only that, but the likelihood of being lucid has increased.

For those of you who really know me, you know about the significance February has on me. Now that it’s passed, I think we’re easing out of “nightmare season,” because the dream I’m about to tell you was both AWESOME and terrifying. There were only a few parts that really upset me, so without further ado, let’s ramble on.

It’s no secret that I fell in love with Tom Felton after his portrayal of Draco Malfoy in the Harry Potter movies. Of course, I myself was old enough to attend Hogwarts when the movies came out, so it wasn’t until the third movie that my hormones allowed me to drool over him, especially since his hair looked FUCKING AMAZING IN THE THIRD MOVIE! But, like many Draco Malfoy fan girls, it was because of him that I fell in love with Draco, even though he’s a horrible person. I can turn him good all I want in my fan fictions, but canon to HIS universe, according to JK Rowling herself, he doesn’t have any good in him. All of these things considered, I have tons of dreams where I meet Draco and have the BIGGEST crush on him, and sometimes he ignores me when I try to get his attention, sometimes he shows a tiny bit of interest like laughing at my jokes and smiling at me, and then sometimes he full out confesses his feelings for me. And even if I’m like… fifteen in the dream, I still know I’m dating Michael, so I always feel like I’m cheating on him. I need to let myself know it’s okay in the dreams because it’s not real.

However, last night was the very first time I dreamt of Tom Felton himself. Another thing I need to explain is that I have regular areas that my dreams occur in, like in LSD: Dream Emulator, you revisit places like the Natural World, Happy Town, the Violence District, et cetera. One of these places is a huge ass hotel, bigger than it should be, and when I’m there, it’s because I’m with my high school choir on a trip to compete with other choirs. I have this bad habit of not remembering where my room is, not having my key card, not remembering the floor it’s on, having to try and track down the two girls I’m sharing the room with so I can get in, and not being able to pack in time when we have to leave. Since I was in choir with Sempai in my Junior year, she’s usually in these dreams, unless it’s my Senior year, which by then she had already graduated. But she was in this one.

Sometimes the floors in my dreams are at a decently steep slant, making it hard to walk or stand on. Sempai and I were getting coffee at the hotel’s Starbucks, which was on the peak of one of these slants, so we were hanging on to the counter while we ordered. I happened to look behind me to estimate how carefully I would need to walk down it, but I spotted the familiar face of Tom Felton down below (his hair being its natural color, that’s how I knew it wasn’t actually Draco Malfoy), and I gasped so hard, I started coughing, let go of the counter, and Sempai tried to save me, which resulted in both of us toppling down the slope, landing right in front of Tom. After plenty of groans and “ows” from the two of us, I stood to see Tom looking at us. His smile was incredibly friendly, and I think I was in the middle of having a heart attack.

I was shaking, and my voice was very high pitched as I said, “you’re… you’re Tom Felton…!” Sempai, not being as big of a Harry Potter fan as me… or not at all… only vaguely knew who he was. He said, “let me guess, you know me as Draco Malfoy, right?” When I confirmed it, he laughed and continued, “that seems to be the only thing I’m known for.” Even though he was being very nice, it was clear that he didn’t want to deal with another Draco fan girl, and it made me not want to take up too much of his time, so I simply asked for an autograph and a picture together. For some reason, I wanted him to sign my Death Note….? But he only had a sharpie, and before signing the book, he signed my face. XD I was laughing, even if the gesture felt a little passive aggressive, like he wanted to say, “you’re pathetic, go away,” but was too nice to do so.

Sempai disappeared, I think she went to the bathroom, and she had my phone, so I couldn’t have the picture taken straight away. I begged him to allow me to hang around him until she came back, so he did, and I met some of his friends. One guy was a weirdo that wore PVC “sock” puppets on his arms, but they went up to his upper arms like formal dress gloves, and the puppet heads were that of cute snakes. One was purple, and one was green. I don’t think I heard a single word come out of this guy’s mouth, only hisses when he shoved the snakes in someone’s face, and snickers when that person told him to go away. He had curly brown hair, and wasn’t very attractive. He was also very rude, picking on me incessantly because I was a pretty girl (in my dreams, I’m always extremely gorgeous). He’d make the snakes bite my butt, and Tom had to keep telling him to leave me alone.

Then there were a couple of girls, both brunettes, and I think they were sisters. They kept teasing Tom, saying, “ooh, have you got yourself a girlfriend, Tom?” It didn’t seem to bother him, it was like nothing could upset him, he just kept smiling, joking, and being friendly, even when scolding snake guy. None of his friends seemed too fond of me because Tom was now giving me his full attention, soon learning that my interest in him as Draco Malfoy did not stop me from treating him as his own person. I would ask him things about playing the character and what it was like on the set, but I also wondered about the rest of his career and he himself. I think this was refreshing to him, to be treated like a real person instead of a celebrity, though I was still star struck.

Of course, I had to deal with his other fans fawning over him too, and he was like, “every time I just want to have a vacation with my mates, I still can’t get a break.” We ended up chilling outside of the hotel on some chairs with his three friends, but still, I was his focus. Tom seemed very interested in me now as I told him about my boyfriend and what I did for a living, which had him asking me questions that eventually led to discussing our views of the world. He didn’t seemed disturbed when I told him my very extreme ideals, some that I don’t even share with anyone on the internet for safety reasons… why I didn’t filter myself, I don’t know, you’d think that’d be a sure fire way to chase someone away. However, Tom’s ideals were… even more extreme, so much that he had to whisper when he told me about them, for not even his friends knew. He still seemed so friendly, but I was close enough to see this look in his eye, a look of power, hunger for control, and a strong hint that he had a secret life, one that was dark and destructive. It made me ache to know more… did this seemingly kind man actually act on things that were mere fantasy to me?

Sempai found us (I had actually forgotten about her, something that made me feel guilty), and I finally got a picture with Tom on my phone. It was just in time because Sempai came to tell me that Mrs. Gray (our choir teacher) wants everyone to pack so that we were ready to catch the plane back to San Diego. Sempai and I shared a room with one other girl, whom I don’t really remember. Tom didn’t look disappointed to see me go, not until I told him, “I really enjoyed hanging out with you.” He looked shocked, and he said, “hanging out? Like… like as people?” He seemed to be surprised that a fan of his would consider the time spent with him as something so casual. I said, “yeah, you may be famous, but I see your personality, I see passed Draco Malfoy, and I know you’re a person like me and everyone else. I’m honestly going to miss you.”

“You view me as a person?” he asked, and I nodded. I said goodbye to him, shaking his hand, but he took some time letting go of mine, and he didn’t blink as he stared into my eyes. It was a look, not of love or adoration, but of a sort of longing, as if he were looking deeper into my body, seeing my soul, and wanting to analyze it, to find connections with his own, to let it into his world… it was as if he were meeting the first person who has ever shared his views, the first friend he could truly relate to. It was rather psychotic, and I was very upset that I didn’t have more time to pick his brain.

So, Sempai and I rode the elevator to like level sixty-something (the hotel has one hundred floors, and fun fact, floors eighty-eight to one hundred are decayed and corrupted like something straight out of Silent Hill, complete with monsters and everything. Pyramid Head is on floor one hundred, and if you can get passed him onto the roof, you can see nothing but fog, no buildings, no ground, as if the building was impossibly tall. There’s no significance except that it’s safe, and the only way down is surviving those twelve floors again and ride the elevator down, which, by the way, only traveled to one floor at a time once you got to eighty-eight, forcing you to find a different elevator to get to the next one), and we made it back to our room. The girl who shared it with us had already packed and joined the rest of our class waiting to take the charter bus to the airport. Sempai was packing, but for some reason, I couldn’t concentrate, examining the photo of Tom and I on my phone, getting a better look at his face. He had put an arm over my shoulder, my own around his waist, and we were smiling, but behind his very friendly grin, I could see something sinister, just like the look he gave me while we were shaking hands.

Just as Sempai finished packing and started saying, “you haven’t packed yet?! Hurry up or we’ll all miss our flight!” an odd smell slowly came into the room, along with a bluish mist. We both saw it come through the door, which I tried to close immediately, not wanting to find out what the gas was, but the door was too small for the frame, so it couldn’t close (this is a normal occurrence in my dreams). I was horrified when Sempai became engulfed in the gas, and her body turned blue, her eyelids heavy, and she became a mindless zombie, tilting her head at me and advancing. I felt heavy as the gas made its way to me, so incredibly sleepy, and found myself on the floor because I couldn’t support my own weight. Sempai was on the floor too, and she wrapped her hands around my throat, choking me, I couldn’t struggle, I was paralyzed, and I passed out from lack of oxygen.

When I woke up, I was in a van, sitting in between Tom, and one of the sisters. My head was so heavy, but I peered around at my surroundings, seeing that we were in the back seat, and on the sister’s other side were… my now ex-friend, Ariel, for some reason, and Sempai, who also looked confused about where she was. Then there was a rather large space until it came to the middle seats, which had the other sister and snake guy, and in the front were a man and a woman, probably Tom’s parents. Sempai and I both asked where we were, and Tom explained that it had felt so nice to be treated like a real person by people other than his three friends, that he wanted to get to know us better, even though he hadn’t shown any interest in Sempai prior. He told us that he had our luggage shipped back to our homes (which he found the addresses on our state IDs), and had informed Mrs. Gray that the two of us were not going to fly back home with them. Apparently, it took a few hundred dollars to make her okay with this, as she had argued with him, saying that she was responsible for the safety of her students.

I never got an explanation of why Ariel was there, but then again, I never do. Whenever I dream of her, we’re still friends, but I guess in this dream, she was also friends with the two sisters, so she knew Tom Felton, and I didn’t inquire about why she had never told me. This is when… things started getting really weird…

Tom and I became engrossed in a whispered conversation like the one we had earlier. He said that he could see me for who I was, that he had never met someone like himself, and that he was aroused by my personality… yes, sexually. o_O He said, “I can take you away from this world, you know. I could give you everything, give you power over these filthy pieces of trash that litter the planet, give you the power to live the way you want, instead of the way society wants you to live. All I need you to do is be by my side and swear your loyalty to me.”

“What kind of power do you have?” I asked him, absolutely entranced by this new tone of voice, a smooth growl that raised so many red flags that said, “ALERT! DANGER!” But… I liked it. He responded, “are you willing to take the risk and find out?” Common sense told me that this man was not someone I wanted to be involved with, but curiosity told me to say yes. After glancing at the three people sitting on my left, he told me to stay silent and try to be discreet, and he started kissing me. It was not affection, it was not romantic interest, it was not emotional desire… it was lust, dominance, and control. I kissed him back as if I had no free will, but when he broke it, I reminded him that I had a boyfriend. Tom said that this was the way he wanted me to swear my loyalty, and in order to live a new life, I had to make some sacrifices. I didn’t want to betray Michael, and in real life, I NEVER would, but still, my curiosity was too strong.

Telling me again to stay quiet, he had his hand up my skirt, touching me, and his other hand unzipped his pants, pulling them down and exposing himself. I remember gasping, “holy Moses!” upon seeing his penis because it was HUGE. Now, normally I find unnaturally big dicks very unappealing, nasty, and even frightening, but even though his was big, it was not too big, not enough to be counted along side the horrors of oversized wangs in some hentai I’ve seen. It’s like oversized boobs… YUCK! But this… this was desirable. He wanted me to go down on him, but I was afraid of the others seeing, though Tom said not to worry about it. Sooooo…. I did. I’ve been told by many of my boyfriends that I’m great at giving blow jobs, so in this dream, Tom was no exception.

After a few minutes, however, the sister to my left noticed, and she whispered to Ariel and Sempai what was going on. I actually heard these whispers, and my poor best friend saying, “are you fucking kidding me?” She’s always been very uncomfortable with me showing public displays of affection, even something as small as light kisses or hugging, so this was way across the line. Ariel has always been extremely rude, so she said loudly, “hey Kara, are you enjoying sucking on Tom’s lollipop?” This caught the attention of snake guy and the other sister, and I was embarrassed when they looked back, but then they met Tom’s eyes and quickly went back to minding their own business. The sister next to me hissed at Ariel, “you goddamn idiot!” The man and woman in the very front didn’t seem to notice, or if they did, they didn’t care. They had a strange air about them that told me they knew things about Tom no one else did, things that he was soon going to share with me. What his friends knew was to not mess with him.

I noticed Tom glaring at Ariel as she said, “what? She’s sitting there sucking his dick like we’re not even here, and it’s gross!” The sister kept telling her to shut up, so she followed up with, “what’s he gonna do, huh? Tom, you can’t scare me with a fucking glare. Stop pretending you’re intimidating.” I was glaring at Ariel now, too, which did have her a little nervous. In real life, she was the first person to ever say, “Kara’s fucking SCARY when she gets mad,” and it was really hard to scare Ariel, let me tell you. She’s the reason I discovered this weapon of intimidation, which usually works best when face to face with someone. Back to the dream. On top of both of us glowering, Tom was muttering something. “What did you say?” Ariel snapped at him. He kept muttering for a few more seconds, and then smiled, saying, “oh nothing.” Confusion was plain on mine, Ariel’s, and Sempai’s faces, but the sister had left her seat to join the two in the seat in front of us, urging Sempai to do the same. In the mean time, Tom coaxed me into the large space in front of us, pressing me against the back of the seat and covering me with his body… protecting me…

I noticed in the back window a black car that was quickly approaching us. Ariel noticed it too, and she said, “wow, that guy is getting really close.” Then we realized it was driving toward us backward, and my gut told me what it was going to do. I asked Tom, “is this going to hurt all of us?” He said, “the rest of you did nothing wrong.” The black car rammed us hard, but only Ariel and Sempai screamed, and the woman driving even slowed down. The back door of the car opened to reveal three men dressed in black with ski masks on, and they all had guns. They drove so close to our van, they were able to open our back doors, and they snatched Ariel, pulling her in. She was screaming, and as the car slowed down, we all saw one of the men shoot her in the head. Sempai was crying, scared for her life, but my jaw was simply hanging open as Tom closed our doors.

When he returned to me, I asked, “how did you do that…?!” He pointed at the seamlessly plain black cuff on his left wrist, and I saw a very small button and microphone hole on the rim of it… he had had his left arm resting against the back of the seat while glaring at Ariel, and he had been muttering orders to those men to dispose of her. He told me all of this very quietly, not wanting Sempai to hear, though she was too busy crying and being comforted by the sisters, and snake guy was snickering again. Then, as if nothing had happened, he started fucking me, and apparently didn’t even care if anyone else in the car noticed since they knew what would happen if they argued. Apparently, even though his friends didn’t know about his entire secret life, they did know he had men… men he paid lots of money to do whatever he told them to do. In fact, these three people didn’t actually want to stay friends with Tom, they were being forced to.

While we were having extremely violent and kind-of-painful-for-me-but-it-was-okay-because-I’m-a-sadomasochist sex, Tom stabbed my neck with a syringe, injected me with some blue fluid, and I passed out again. He most likely didn’t stop his actions until he climaxed, which I didn’t hold against him later. I had a dream that I was in this nineteenth century village, and it was night time. I was tied up, a masked executioner standing next to me, telling me I had betrayed Tom’s trust, so I was to be punished. The thing I was tied to could be moved around, and at first, I thought the man was going to throw me down the well nearby, but with the help of another executioner, I was lain on a guillotine face down. I forgot to mention that I was watching this in third person, and the version of myself looked more like the real me instead of the hot mama my dream self is.

I was beheaded, and it was so painful, but my head stayed alive. It sat in the basket, and the man propped it up to sit on the neck, and then placed the basket on the ground. A procession of horses were closely following a baby pig, and I cooed at it, until I noticed that then men riding the horses were trying to get the equines to trample the poor thing. I couldn’t turn my neck to look away, so I closed my eyes, but the man held my eyelids open. Luckily, I myself didn’t see the pig’s gruesome death, but my head sure did, and it was screaming and crying. The man told me my head would forever remain alive, and I’d be forced to watch horrible things that I was weak to, such as animal abuse and murder. Then it went black. I came to the conclusion that this dream was forced upon me by Tom using that weird liquid, using it as a warning of what would happen if I really did betray him.

This time I woke up in a large house, brightly lit, very neat and welcoming, and I was lying on a white couch. I was so sleepy and groggy, it took me a moment to realize that the man and woman who were talking to me were the same ones from the van. They were super friendly, telling me that they were so happy to hear that Tom had finally made a true friend. I asked them if they were his parents, and they said no, but those who swore their loyalty to him were all part of his family. They had three children of their own; a toddler boy, a baby girl, and a second baby girl that was only a little bigger than my full grown, extremely fat rat. She needed special care, having been born way too early, and was only alive because they swore their loyalty to Tom in return. Was this man even human?

My fatigue didn’t wear off, but even so, I was asked to look after the children. I felt really sick, heavy, and I kept drifting in and out of consciousness. I noticed there was a 3DS on the coffee table in front of the couch, so I grabbed it and started playing a Pokémon game that doesn’t actually exist, and apparently it was some secret cartridge developed by Nintendo, not a hack or anything. It had different play mechanics, never before seen Pokémon, and was actually really dark for a kid’s game. As I played, I still found my vision blurry at times, and I’d fall asleep with the thing in my hands, waking up periodically to tell myself to save because I kept falling asleep!

Then the very next time I woke up, it was night, dark in the house, and I was on my back in the middle of the living room floor. The baby girl was sitting on my chest, which hurt, so I said, “alright, you’ve gotta get off me, sweetie,” and moved her to the floor. However, she crawled on me again, and I told her once again not to do that. She kept doing it, and I was losing my patience. Alright, I HATE children, but in real life, I don’t hate babies as long as I don’t have to spend too much time around them. I do not believe in violence toward them, nor do I condone murdering them, as I believe they haven’t had the chance to do anything wrong that would deserve such a thing. In the dream, though, I actually wanted to throw the infant away from me… I didn’t have to, however. The next time I moved her to the floor, someone walked up and plunged a fireplace picker straight through her chest. She didn’t even make a sound, just died instantly.

“This thing bothering you?” asked Tom. I wasn’t horrified at the baby’s death, which I think was the first test Tom was giving me… would I betray him by showing empathy for the baby? He was pleased when I didn’t. He helped me off of the floor and gave me something to drink, something that woke me up and made my body feel normal again. The parents entered the room, saw the dead baby, but didn’t give any reaction, asking where the other two were. I had no fucking idea, I had been drugged! I looked around and saw the tiny baby lying in a comfy stroller made for a doll, and I pointed her out. The father picked her up, and the mother said she’d look for her son upstairs, thinking maybe he was in his bedroom. Apparently he was, so mystery solved.

I didn’t understand why they didn’t mourn for the loss of their middle child, but a few more people came to the house, and it became clear that this was some kind of cult, for they all had sworn loyalty to Tom, and actually praised him. Tom introduced me as his queen, and that they were to do whatever I said, and protect me at all costs. In the meantime, I was physically involved with him, spending most of my time in his bed.

Here comes another part, aside from the pig scene, that really upset me. Michael ended up finding out about me sleeping with another man, and I tried to explain to him what was going on, but he wouldn’t look at me, and he wouldn’t talk to me. It… didn’t really help that I was naked, wrapped in a towel, and practically covered in cum. T_T I was completely horrified when Michael took a bottle of some clear liquid and splashed it into his eyes. He did not yell, he didn’t make any sounds, even as his flesh sizzled and was eaten away. The skin was red, bloody, and had deep holes, his eyelids were gone, and both of his eyes were bloodshot, the irises discolored, the pupils red and milky. He smiled at me, though it was clear he was blind. I was sobbing, shaking him and asking why he did that. He still did not speak, but gently dropped himself into the pool we had been standing next to, because I had chased him into Tom’s pool room…? He didn’t move while in the water, and seemed to drown instantly. In real life, it takes four minutes max to drown to death.

I dragged him out, trying to get him to wake up, and I was only a little aware that Tom was watching from the doorway. The love of my life was dead, the last thing in life that he knew was me being unfaithful as a show of loyalty to this psychopath who was a physical embodiment of my own inner evils…

It was another test.

Tom asked me if I hated him now that he took away the most important man in the world to me. As he asked me this, he offered me a piece of chocolate. I stood up, wiped my tears, and shook my head. In real life, if I lost Michael, I would be the exact opposite of calm, and my own life would be in danger. However, in this dream, I managed to shove the memories of Michael aside and forget he ever existed. I took the chocolate, and Tom pat my head, calling me a good girl, and saying he just knew I was the one. I inquired about Sempai’s whereabouts, and Tom told me he had sent her home, threatening her to keep her mouth shut about what happened to us. She was safe, more or less. My old life was gone.

Another place I frequently visit in my dreams is a bakery that’s located on a corner of a really nice street that looks as though it could be located in Germany or Italy. I recognized the area as Tom and I were walking around, getting excited as I knew I had been there before in previous dreams, and when I found it, I dragged Tom into it, telling him I was a sucker for sweets. He said he’d buy me whatever I wanted, that money was not an issue for him, so I ended up getting a shit load of desserts, eating on the way home and saving some for later.

But we didn’t go home. We kept walking until twilight, and we entered a one story house that I had never seen before. I asked Tom why we were there, and he put his index finger to his lips to shush me. We entered through the back door, then walked to the living room where a man and a woman were on a couch watching television. Tom walked behind the man, grabbed the sides of his head, and jerked it to the side, breaking his neck. The woman screamed, jumping up from the couch and backing away from it, horrified as she stared at her unconscious husband (FYI, it’s not possible to break someone’s neck by hand like they show in movies and television, let alone kill them this way). I just stood there curiously, wondering what this was about.

Apparently, the couple knew Tom, as the woman was screaming, “please, Tom, please! We’re sorry! We’re so sorry!” Tom said, “you two betrayed me, [woman’s name]. You attempted to go to the police, didn’t you? I’m glad they didn’t take you seriously, that they thought it was a joke. Still… I don’t tolerate insubordination.” He beckoned me closer, and I obeyed, walking to stand next to him. “Have you ever killed someone, Kara?”

“No,” I replied, “but just like many people, I’ve fantasized about it. I’m not sure if I’m actually capable of doing it.” Tom handed me a hunting knife, the blade already turned out. “I wonder if you can pass my next test,” he purred with a grin. I took the knife in my hands, turning it over and observing the serrated blade. It reminded me of the knife Abigail Hobbs used to kill Nicholas Boyle in the TV series, Hannibal. “She’s going to fight back,” I told him, and he nodded, grabbing the woman’s hair, forcing her to her knees, and yanking her head back. “Cut her throat,” said Tom, his other hand grabbing her wrists, knees applying pressure to her legs so that she was stationary.

I approached her, and she pleaded with me, eyes begging to be spared. She told me I was brainwashed like the others, and that I could kill Tom instead, but I said to her, “no, I’m not brainwashed. We just think the same.” I ran the blade across her throat, making sure to sever the jugular vein, and Tom released her. We both watched her struggling to cover the wound to keep her blood in, gasping, shaking, and gargling all the while. Then she bled out and moved no more. The man was still alive, but also still unconscious. If he woke up, he’d be unable to move, being paralyzed. Tom asked for the knife back, then sat on the floor, took off his bottom garments, and made two large, horizontal gashes in both of his thighs. I was shocked, mentioning that there was a vein in the leg that could cause him to bleed out as well, but he assured me the wounds weren’t deep enough, and gestured for me to join him on the floor.

I didn’t really need to be instructed on what to do, my own fetish took care of that for me. I leaned over him and licked the blood from the wounds one at a time, switching between them to allow them to start bleeding again. He was petting my head, praising me, telling me that the world was ours, but I was shocked when he pulled my hair and shoved me to the floor, cocking a gun and pointing it at my temple. I was frightened at first, but then figured this must be another test, so I calmed myself and closed my eyes. Part of me expected him to actually shoot me, because at this point, it wouldn’t surprise me.

“What am I to you?” he hissed in my ear next to the gun.

“I’m not entirely sure,” I admitted calmly. “In a way, you’re my oppressor, but you’ve also become my lover, my savior, and my mentor. You’re allowing me to fulfill my urges, protecting me from their consequences, and even though you’ve robbed me of certain things I deeply cared about, you somehow still treat me like I’m the best thing that’s happened to you. What’s more, you’ve given me something that I’ve always wanted… someone else like me, someone I can relate to. I can talk to you about anything, and you understand… that’s all I’ve ever wanted.” He pulled the trigger, and I flinched, but the gun was empty. He laughed at me.

“You got startled,” he jeered. I said, “of course I did, it’s right next to my ear. I did the same thing when I got my ears pierced.” Tom put the gun away, and I sat up, listening to him tell me once more that I was a good girl, but then he said, “you are the best thing that’s happened to me. I’ve craved someone to relate to as well, I didn’t even have to manipulate you, you’re just another monster like me.”

“All humans are monsters, you and I are just a different breed,” I said, and that made him laugh again. I glanced over his shoulder and saw two people staring in the window, horrified, and I grabbed Tom’s shoulder, saying, “someone’s been watching us…!” He pulled his pants back on and stood up, and the spies ran off. “Lie under the window as close to the wall as possible,” he said. “Keep face down, and if anyone but me enters this room, pretend to be dead.” As I did what he said, he whispered something into his wrist cuff, and then left the room. I admit, I was frightened because I felt like my protection was gone.

There were two gunshots outside, which I assumed killed the two who had looked in on the crime scene. They had already gotten the chance to call the cops, and after two loud gunshots, neighbors surely would panic. In fact, one of them came up to the door, banging on it and calling the names of the couple who lived here, saying that he’d kick the door down if they didn’t answer. I was preparing to play dead, but a third gunshot and a loud thump told me one of Tom’s men had killed him. No other neighbor risked going up to the door, but there were soon sirens, and I heard two cops come up to the house, swearing as they encountered the body on the porch.

“Police! Open up!” shouted one, banging on the door more violently than the neighbor had. After ordering for someone to answer the door two more times, I heard the doorknob rattle, but his partner said, “shh! Something doesn’t feel right… I think we’re being watched–” And just like that, two more shots fired, two more bodies dropping dead. There had been a third officer that stayed by the car as backup, but now he took action, bursting through the door. I kept as still as I could, and I felt him point his gun at me, but he fell for the act as he said, “jesus… what the hell?” A second pair of footsteps forced my eyes open, and I saw Tom stride right up to the officer, shooting him in the head just as he pointed his own gun at him. Then he squatted next to me and gave me a cupcake with a casual, “here you go. Stay put, okay?”

“What about you? I don’t want you getting hurt!” I whimpered. He then gave me a walkie talkie and said, “I’ll give you orders through here. Don’t worry about me, I have snipers surrounding this house. We’ll stir up some trouble for a bit before we go home.” I was pat on the head again, and he left me once more. As time passed, I was hearing sirens, police on megaphones, more shots fired that abruptly silenced their voices, more sirens, helicopters, more gunshots, the sound of the helicopter crashing to the ground… and I ate my cupcake.

“Stay still,” came Tom’s voice from the walkie talkie. “Looks like we got some big dogs. They have scanners that can pick up movement through walls, and they’ll shoot right at the wall to kill you.” I obeyed, now even more frightened for my life. A couple shots were fired, the bullets going through the walls, but they weren’t anywhere near me. More people were gunned down by the snipers, and soon, three of Tom’s men joined me in the room, each positioned at windows. The one next to me put his hand on my head, silently reminding me not to move.

As they fired at officers that came into view of the windows, one of the men got shot in the shoulder, but he didn’t make a sound, and it didn’t seem to bother him. I heard people getting evacuated from their homes, and on the megaphone was a threat to bomb the house. That’s when the walkie talkie buzzed, and Tom’s calm voice said, “run.” I didn’t need telling twice, jumping to my feet and bolting out the back door. The three men followed me, and as soon as I got to the backyard, they stood in front of me, as there were officers stationed right in the yard. They were shot, but did not fall, though blood splattered the ground. Then snipers hidden elsewhere shot the officers, and the three men cleared me to keep running.

“Hide,” said Tom, “don’t let them see you.” I was panicking, hopping a fence and trying to figure out where to go. Shots were fired at me, but they missed, and I sprinted toward a town hall building, running behind it to try and obscure myself by the stone pillars. I felt safe once I got there, until I saw an officer patrolling the building. He sighed, sitting right in front of the pillar I was hiding behind, and he got on his cell to call someone.

“They’re everywhere, we can’t even see them, but they can see us,” he was saying. “There’s no way I’m getting close enough to the action. I don’t even know who to look for. I’m being told there’s a blonde girl, others tell me there’s a blonde man, and I don’t know which way to turn.” I think he was speaking to someone back at the police station or something, but he kept peering around the pillar, so each time he did, I had to jump to the other side. “You think this is the cult that couple was talking about? Maybe they were telling the truth… this is their house, after all… isn’t Tom Felton an actor? Maybe it’s a different guy who shares the same name.”

It was just my luck… the officer had known where I was hiding the entire time, and out of nowhere, he jumped out at me, about to shoot me, but Tom was suddenly right behind him, planting a bullet of his own in the back of his head. “Well, at least you tried to hide,” he told me. He was bleeding from the shoulder, and I pointed it out. Without so much as a wince, he dug straight into the wound with a sickening squelch and pulled the bullet out. There was barely any blood. He invited me to get on his back, saying we were leaving, so I did, and he ran away from the vicinity, though we had been spotted, and we were being chased. I saw shadows of people hopping from roof top to roof top, keeping up with us, and I realized they were the snipers, doing everything they could to protect us. They were very successful.

It seemed like a dead end when we hit the ocean, and we were quickly surrounded. Tom ordered me to hold on tight, and he actually ran on the surface of the water, but it was much faster than any human could run… so fast, in fact, that I was left behind, sitting in midair in the same position. Realizing I wasn’t with him anymore, Tom stopped on a large rock not too far from shore, appearing confused. Then my body zoomed toward him and back into position. “What was that about?” he asked. “Sometimes my dreams fight with me, and I’m unable to go anywhere at high speeds,” I told him. “I think this dream actually glitched me out!” With a laugh, Tom dove into the water, and I was able to cling to him as he swam so fast, not even the helicopters could keep up.

By the time the sun came up, we found ourselves in Hawaii… I guess… Tom stole someone’s hat without them even noticing, and he put it on my head to protect me from the sun. He said it was likely that an alert had been put out for our arrest, but told me not to worry because catching us was impossible. Even so, he didn’t want me to get hurt, so he told me to stay close to him, and if we were recognized, we’d have to run again. If we planned accordingly, we could make it back home with no problem, as no one actually knew he lived there.

“You said you’d take me away from this world,” I said angrily, but he put his arm around me, smiling. “I did. You’re not in that world anymore, you’re in my world. As long as you’re with me, people from that world cannot hurt you, even if you hurt, or even kill them. I’m letting you live your fantasies, you just have to put all of your trust in me. That way, you have just as much power as I do.”

“You seem like something so evil, you could be the son of the devil,” I joked, and Tom laughed. “Oh sweetie, haven’t you realized by now?” he said, and then put his mouth against my ear and whispered, “I am the devil.” I knew he couldn’t be the same one from my other dreams, Mephistpheles was a completely different entity, but Tom was definitely some incarnation of the devil, and now it made sense why he was worshipped. He was our god, and by association, I was now their goddess. The only thing that got in my way was mortality.

After a few hours, we were recognized, so I was on Tom’s back again as he ran. He seemed to be having fun with this, and something told me he did this often, just to amuse himself. He said to me, “ready for things to get hot?” and without waiting for an answer, he started climbing up a FUCKING VOLCANO. You guys know that I’m TERRIFIED of volcanoes, right? Fire, lava, anything super hot, NOPE. So I was shouting at him, but he simply laughed and told me to keep hanging on tight. To my surprise, even as we got to the mouth of the volcano, it wasn’t that hot. “If you let go of me, you’ll burn alive,” he warned, and he leapt into the lava. It felt like warm water, and to ensure my safety, I was clinging to Tom tighter than I ever had.

He found a tunnel at the bottom of the volcano, and we went through it, coming to an underground cave that existed due to a trapped oxygen bubble underground, so we were no longer in the magma. Still, I had to keep hold on Tom, or else the surrounding temperature would kill me. He easily hopped along rocks in little magma pools, gaps in the ground, we went up and down slopes, through more tunnels, and in no time at all, the bodies of magma became less and less, and the air became cooler, Tom said I was no longer in danger of burning alive, and we climbed up a wooden ladder, and…

We were back in his mansion.

Tom contacted his men to make sure there were no casualties, and it was confirmed that they were all safe. Then Tom surprised me with something. He said, “I didn’t rob you of everything you cared about…” Curious, I followed him to his bedroom, and I gasped, seeing my rats in their critter nation. They were completely unharmed, and I was squealing, jumping for joy and hugging Tom.

Then the dream changed. Tom was gone, I was in a different room, and I was curled up in a fetal position, floating in midair, and unable to control which direction I went. I slowly floated along like a ball sitting on the surface of a pool, only changing direction when I bumped against a wall. Michael was back, and I told him I was sorry that I cheated on him and caused him to kill himself. He did not forgive me, saying that a monster like me deserved a monster like Tom. I asked where Tom was, and Michael said, “back in his home with our rats, our children, Kara. You’re trapped in this room, this purgatory I created for you. You’ll never see him again, you’ll never be able to leave, you won’t be able to move… he’ll think you ran away from him, and he’ll kill our rats.”

“He’d never do that to me!” I cried, but Michael said, “he would if he thought you betrayed him.” I told him that Tom would search for me first, but Mike said he’d never find me. Then he said goodbye and left me in this room, floating slowly and aimlessly, bumping gently against the walls, and crying my heart out.

Then I woke up, made my way to the bathroom, and threw up in the toilet.

Can you imagine if I met the real Tom Felton and told him about this dream? I’d be able to write a book called, “How to Lose a Guy in One Hour.” I mean, I really did enjoy many parts of the dream, but the parts with the pig and Michael… I can’t get the image of Michael’s acid burned face out of my head… that smile… those eyes still wide open even after death… and that last scene where I was clearly being punished for my actions…

The real Michael told me my mind hates him. My mind is just going to have to deal with the fact that I love him. Man, though… what a dream.

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WE ARE THE END

I was contemplating human existence a few days ago, and realized something: we’re it. We are the end of the evolutionary line. We are the last species on this planet, and we’ll never evolve into anything more, even if the Earth manages to live for another billion years or so. Nope. We are literally the end.

Think about it. Really think. Humans are the only creatures on Earth that defy nature, that go against instinct, and serve no purpose to other creatures or the planet itself, except to destroy it. We are also the only species on this planet that exude evil. One of my favorite quotes from the Hannibal TV series is, “Human emotions are a gift from our animal ancestors. Cruelty is a gift humanity has given itself.” As humans, we are born evil. Some of us will learn to suppress most of that evil, but it will always be there. We have evolved into the end of the world. How did it happen? How did we gain the ability to be cruel to everyone and everything?

We’ve already proven that nothing will come after us unless we literally create it. You see it every new generation, you see it with every child that is born. There are too many people on this planet, yet we keep reproducing. Why? What’s the point? We don’t need more of us! The whole reason animals reproduce is to continue the species. It’s a survival thing. Well, it doesn’t look like we’re going to go extinct any time soon, not before the planet becomes uninhabitable.

And look at the people who are reproducing; parents that think they’re ready, but aren’t, teenagers and young adults that get pregnant by accident, women who get pregnant by rape, drug addicts that can’t stop fucking each other, and people who refuse to get abortions because of their religion or whatever. Then look at their kids. Oh… their kids… seriously, just look at the children in this generation. Now look at them from the previous generation, and the one before that, and the one before that. Notice how each new generation is getting…………… worse? Uh, yeah… and no one has thought to stop it why?

“Children are our future.” Children grow up and have children of their own… humans are the end… what does this mean? It means that the only reason nature has allowed us to exist is to destroy this planet. Is this all part of god’s plan? I already thought, “if god exists, he’s one messed up mother fucker.” Heh, another quote from Hannibal: “Killing must feel good to God, too. He does it all the time, and are we not created in his image?” If god exists, his whole plan was to build up this project called “Earth,” and then create something that would kill it all. Why? Just for the lulz! God is just one big troll!

I know I won’t get the chance to see the end of humanity, but the fact that we’re already looking for another planet to move to is concerning. I hope we never make it to another planet. Do you know what will happen? We’ll end up destroying that one too… and the next one… and the next one… if humans continue to exist, our race will be the destroyer of worlds. We are a threat to the universe. Why is it that the geniuses of our time are trying to find ways to prolong our existence instead of trying to stop it? We have no problem stopping other species from existing. But even if we do move on to more planets, we’re not going to evolve any further. We are stuck in evolutionary limbo, and the only direction we can go is backward. WE ARE THE END.

There are people who will agree with me, but there are also those who think I’m very wrong. Only time will tell, won’t it? If I’m wrong, I won’t be around to see it, but if I’m right, I won’t be around to tell future humans, “I told you so.” And if there are people reading this thinking I’m just being a Negative Nancy, I just have one thing to say to you…

Don’t blame the player, blame the game, son. Open your eyes.

I Just Need to Vent Again

This is less about people reading it, and more me just trying to empty the bottle a bit. These are times when I wish that I lived in the Harry Potter universe. I would be a witch that attends Hogwarts, and I’d have access to the Room of Requirement. I’d make it a room filled with breakable objects just so I could get out my frustrations physically. I’ve never been able to do that, and I really need to have a huge violent fit right now in order to completely empty the bottle… venting just doesn’t cut it most of the time.

Of course, we live in a world where we can’t just be violent without consequence, which is upsetting. Humans are naturally violent creatures, and we need to… excuse this reference… purge in order to get rid of it. I finally saw the movie The Purge, and it did not live up to my expectations. But what if, man? What if we had an annual purge? Let’s make a few changes though. Instead of annually, this purge could happen whenever the fuck people want to physically let out their rage. How would this work?

Well, the way I’m seeing it, this purge wouldn’t be “all crime is legal.” In fact, laws would and should stay the same. I’m thinking more like… having a facility with different types of rooms for different things. You’d need to pay to enter the facility, maybe like ten dollars, I think that’s fair. There’d be rooms where you could just break stuff, there’d be rooms that only one person can enter at a time to destroy stuff with different kinds of weapons, and there’d be rooms where people could enter to consent to actually fighting each other. A controlled environment where the only injuries are your fault because you chose to engage.

If we had that kind of outlet, crime could possibly lessen, but I’m not saying it would stop all together. This “purging” would be for, you know, regular people who get stressed and want to JUST FUCKING BEAT THE SHIT OUT OF SOMETHING OR SOMEONE. This would lessen anyone taking their frustration out on others, both verbally and physically. But, just like I say when I wish I ruled the world, unrealistic dreams are unrealistic.

So, what’s grinding Reitanna’s gears today? Fucking… fuckity… FUCK… FUCKING TEENAGERS, man! Okay, I’ll admit, when I was a stupid teenager, I was guilty at doing this too, but now I know how stupid and irritating it is! When some fucking kid sicks their friends on you. Especially for no reason! Like, say someone deliberately insults me. Well, I’m a fucking Scorpio, I don’t take that shit sitting down! I’m a lover and a fighter, and I believe people should not just get away with doing something wrong, they need to experience the consequence. So, naturally, I defend myself. Depending on the insult, I could respond with annoyance, frustration, anger, or rage.

Say this person doesn’t like one of my “Muffins” stories. Okay, cool, no problem, everyone has their own opinions. However, because they dislike it, they have the audacity to say it’s BAD WRITING. Excuse me, but I am far from a bad writer, and that’s not my opinion. I have an extremely high reading and writing level, to the point where I’ve out-shown everyone in all of my classes involving reading and writing since second grade. When I was in second grade, my teacher actually forbade me from reading books that were a second grade level because I read them too easily. She forced me to pick from the fourth grade books, which were still not much of a challenge, though much more entertaining than the second grade books.

By eight grade, I was at an eleventh grade reading/writing level. Then, by Sophomore year, I was at a college reading/writing level. My Sophomore English teacher sat me down one day to talk about my essays. She said, “I noticed something about your essay writing. When you try to follow the thesis/commentary/commentary/conclusion format, you don’t seem to write at your full potential. The best essays I’ve seen from you are ones where you didn’t follow the standard format. From now on, I want you to just write. Don’t bother with the format, just go.” That was some of the best advice I had ever received from a teacher.

Junior year came around, and at the end of the year was the Junior Paper. This was a huge essay that counted for most of your grade. Well, me, being in Choir, was going to be in Washington DC while everyone else was working on all three of their drafts and the final essay. My grandmother bought me a second-hand laptop so I could attempt to work on it, but we hardly spent any time in our hotel rooms. We mostly attended workshops, practiced, went sight seeing, following all of the events that our teacher had planned for us. Then, of course, there was the competition itself, which had multiple stages. We killed it, by the way.

So, what did this mean for me? I got back home at about midnight on a Sunday. I usually went to bed around nine (I’ve set my own curfew since I was ten). Guess what? THE ENTIRE JUNIOR PAPER WAS DUE THE VERY NEXT DAY. I had to write an eight page essay in one night, very exhausted, and very jet lagged. But oh man, did I write that sucker. I stayed up until three in the morning writing the essay from scratch, no drafts, no notes, NOTHING. The required length was eight pages, and I honestly don’t remember if I exceeded it or not. Monday came, and I had been the only one in the class who had flushed out their entire essay in one night with no preparation, and no guidance from the teacher.

B+ mother fuckers. B FUCKING PLUS. If I had had the time that everyone else got, that would’ve been an A+, but a B+ for something like that was good enough for me. I was shocked, but astounded, and it was then that I truly realized what having a high reading/writing level meant. I had never really appreciated it much until that day. Naturally, for my Senior Project the next year, I wrote two stories; “Quiet Heartbeat” and “Untitled.” Of course, you never stop learning, so I’ve come a long way since then, but the judges still gave me near-perfect scores. I say “near-perfect” because one bitch made a note about how I wasn’t dressed professionally. I’m sorry, but I was wearing a black and white sawtooth blazer with a matching skirt that fell just above my knees. Even my grandmother said I looked professional, and the other judges didn’t seem to have a problem with it!

Anyway, I’m twenty-five now. I may still be learning and improving my skills, but that does not make me a bad writer in any sense. However, apparently if someone doesn’t like something, it means it’s bad. Oh wah, cry my a river, build me a boat, and take me on a vacation to Whinersville. Let me give two examples from real people that shows what a rational person does when they dislike something.

I hate Star Wars. With a passion. Always have, always will, no matter how many times I’ve tried to get into it. I can’t. I can’t stand it so much, I hate when people talk about it. HOWEVER… does this mean the movies are bad? Some fans would have their comments about how certain films were disappointing, but in general, are the films bad because I dislike them? No, I don’t think they’re bad at all, quite the contrary. I think they’re stupid, but that’s an opinion. The fact is is that the Star Wars franchise is incredibly successful, and for good reason. I’m certain that the movies have broken multiple world records. They are great films, I can’t deny that, I just don’t like them. I can hate them all I want, but that doesn’t change the fact that they are excellent.

My boyfriend, Michael, loves Star Wars, but HAAAAAAATES Harry Potter, which I love. All the same, just like me, he cannot actually knock the films, because they are not bad films. He cannot knock the books, because they are extremely well written. Same with music. He hates Lady Gaga’s music, but he can’t deny that she’s talented and that her music is good. He just doesn’t like it, and that’s his opinion. He is fair to the creations, even though he wants nothing to do with them. Sensible people do this. Now, it’s different when something actually is bad, like Sonic Boom.

Oh, that brings me to a third example I just thought of! This one is sort of reverse, and has to do with the Sonic the Hedgehog franchise. Unlike many people, I enjoyed Shadow the Hedgehog. It is known as one of the worst Sonic games, but I enjoyed it. However, I can see why many people dislike it, or even hate it. There are too many elements that, rightfully, make it a bad Sonic game. All the same, I really enjoyed playing it. I love Shadow (not as much as Knuckles, though), I liked being able to choose to be good or evil, I enjoyed using weapons even though it was so unlike a Sonic game to do such a thing, and the entire game itself was challenging. I tried getting all of the endings, but there was one I couldn’t get because I couldn’t fucking find this one thing to complete this one level… Still.

I assume that’s how fans of Sonic Boom feel, as few as they are. Hopefully they can see why it’s a bad game. But let’s face it, no matter how bad Shadow the Hedgehog was, it’s nowhere near as bad as Sonic Boom. You know, the same goes for Silent Hill 4: The Room. That is hands down my favorite Silent Hill game, but is often shot down by other Silent Hill fans. Even though it’s my favorite game, I can still see why some people don’t like it.

Another possible example is The Last Airbender. I loved the cartoon, so I was excited about the movie. The pronunciations of the names had me cringe each time they were said, and I have a great deal of complaints about other main aspects of the film. However, I was able to see the good in it, even though it’s small. People often say the entire movie sucked. Well, that’s not really true. This is a very small matter, but the graphics were pretty good. There were other tiny things that made it pretty entertaining. I wouldn’t voluntarily watch it again, but if someone else wanted to watch it with me, I’d be able to tolerate it. It’s just a matter of seeing things from different views.

Now, this person said my story was “bad writing” because he/she did not understand how the bakers act in the story, specifically mentally torturing others, not the actual act of physical violence. Long story short, he/she could not actually comprehend how someone could be so cruel, as if he/she was unaware of the reality of just how cruel real people are. Because of their cruelty, he/she said they dislike that particular story. No big deal, that’s fine, no problem. But he/she outright said it was “bad writing.” Um, no, it’s not, in fact, it’s the exact opposite. It’s realistic, it captures the mentality of a Sociopath, it shows how a “normal” mind reacts to such torment.

I can easily write this for multiple reasons; I have a criminal mind, I understand the basics of Psychology (maybe a little more), and I’ve done enough research on countless criminals to fully understand how it all works. It also helps that I realized at a young age how evil people are. My eyes have long been open to the reality of our world. Putting all of this together, it is actually very impressive writing.

So, just because you don’t understand how Psychology works, you deem it “bad writing?” That’s like me saying, “Psycho-Pass is a bad Anime because I have a hard time remembering their names.” (For the record, Psycho-Pass is an excellent Anime, and that’s saying something coming from me since I’m not a huge Anime person.) JUST BECAUSE YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND SOMETHING, DOESN’T MAKE IT BAD. Actually, it means either you have a warped perspective of the world, or…….. yer dumb. That’s just it. Your opinion isn’t law, it doesn’t change all of the things that make it good.

I could’ve been fine with the lack of understanding, because I can explain that. I could’ve been fine with “I dislike this story,” that doesn’t bug me. But to flat out call it bad writing is just… selfish! Especially after he/she said, “I like the series, I just don’t like this story.” So, you’re a fan, but you called me a bad writer? Doesn’t that contradict itself? You, sir or madam, do not make sense to me. Ooh! I don’t understand you, so does that make you a bad person? By your logic, it does! T_T In reality, no, it doesn’t.

BUT THEN some little punk comes in and says to me, “someone’s a little butthurt.” Wow, someone give a trophy to this huge dick, he just tore me from my V to my A. “Butthurt” and “insulted” are two different things. The thing is, I didn’t even rage at the person calling me a bad writer, I gave them a fair amount of anger that was reasonable, enough to show them that they blatantly disrespected another human being for absolutely no rational explanation. But oh, here comes Mr. Raging Testosterone to tell me I’m “butthurt.” I wonder if maybe he just needed to be burped.

Now, I don’t actually know if he/she sent that person on me, or if they even know each other, but it reminded me of what youngins do, and what I, regrettably, also used to do. Someone starts being a big meanie, so let’s send all our little friends to flame them. Like… it’s embarrassing to know that I WAS LIKE THAT!! I just gotta keep reminding myself, “I was a stupid teenager.” Teenagers think some of the most ridiculous things are important, but they’re not! They think that their petty problems matter, but they don’t! “I’m so hardcore because I have an army of friends waiting to fight my battles, the ones I started because I decided to make this person angry!” Man, I hope you grow out of it just like I did, it’s so pathetic. Teenagers… are… pathetic! That’s all there is to it!

Now, note that a lot of my fans are teenagers, but you know what? They know they’re in THE PHASE. They know what’s going on with their minds and bodies, and they know that things feel like a BIG DEAL when they’re actually not. They understand that they will grow passed that once their body hits full maturity at age twenty. Makes me wonder why eighteen is the legal age… That’s still stupid teenage time. Though, I have to say I started to wise up at nineteen because I was thrown into the real world with no preparations for it. Man, was that a smack in the face.

And if Mr. Raging Testosterone was not a friend of sir or madam, then he was just a random kid who saw the conversation, went, “ooh! I’ma gonna stert a flam warz!” As if I was going to tolerate that shit. But it still irks me. It’s none of your business, kid! You don’t even know what we’re talking about. Why were you even on my channel? Do you just randomly go to channels to start fights? Better be careful, Hot Rod, you might overwork your tiny brain. I think I can already smell it smoking.

And now here’s angry gibberish.

lrksejtrljetoju9o4t6wurhjinklfdklndklgjnmfdkxzknf;zkljnf;lkhngklnsdegrs;mnklgaze’nkG DE’nkGA;nkGA;nk;hnkrhsznknkrhsznklhfrrhszzrhnkrhznklgzrdnkFUCK.

There.

Alright, I think I got some of it out. You can tip the bottle to try and empty it, but there’s always some residue. I just wish I didn’t have to deal with so many idiots in the career I chose. It sucks when you feel like the only intelligent person left. That’s alright, I just turn to Michael or Sempai, who are also very intelligent, so they are my reminder that there are some of us left. We’re a dying breed because the stupid ones can’t keep it in their pants.

I need to get back to work now. I’m not gonna proofread this post since it was just venting, so I apologize for any typos. I type faster than I think sometimes. XD

Insensitive Assholes at their Finest

WARNING: It’s rant time!

Everyone has had to deal with someone that seems to have absolutely no heart at all, whether directly, or indirectly. The jerks who laugh at things that are far from funny, things people can’t control, things that hinder every day life. You’ve either seen it, or you’ve had it happen to you. These bastards don’t understand how detrimental it is on us to be made fun of for our ailments, almost like they want to make it worse. Whether you’ve been a victim, or a witness to a victim, I’m sure most of you reading this will understand where I’m coming from, and that my frustration is justified. Here are my own personal experiences dealing with the literal shit of human society.

If you’ve been keeping up with me at all, you’ll know that I suffer from a mental illness known as Manic Depression, AKA Bipolar Disorder. If you don’t know what it is, it’s a depression disorder that greatly affects our moods, but it’s not just “mood swings.” You have your manic episodes, or “happy” episodes, and your depressed episodes. Manic episodes might not sound so bad. Large bursts of energy fill us with optimism, makes us determined and motivated, and life is full of puppies, flowers, rainbows, and candy.

It’s not all that fun. At all. In fact, it’s just as much of a road block as the depression episodes. While experiencing mania or hypermania, we may seem like the happiest person in the whole wide world, but our minds are both going a mile a minute, and remaining completely blank at the same time. Now, everyone is different, so symptoms may differ from person to person, but these are the things that I experience. I basically turn into a hyperactive child, bouncing around, not properly listening to people who are talking to me, I get easily distracted, and if someone is trying to be serious, it’s nothing but a joke to me. Obnoxious, loud, spontaneous… and reckless.

Having a manic episode is still dangerous. I have indeed participated in self mutilation while seemingly completely happy. The problem is, I’m not really aware that I’m doing it. It just… happens. The X on my hip was caused by one of these instances. During the episode, I don’t really seem to care, but other people definitely do. They ask, “why did you do this to yourself?” Do you know what I say? Something completely off topic, because I avoid the question. For me, my manic episodes last significantly shorter than my depression ones do, though they used to last longer when I was younger. When I was nineteen, I had one that lasted about three months. I had some long ones in my senior year of high school too.

Oh, it gets better. How does one come out of these episodes? Oh, well, IF ANY TINY LITTLE THING GOES WRONG, I’m brought spiraling down into an extremely deep depression. Doesn’t that sound fun? Oh yeah, it’s a fucking blast.

My depression episodes last a very long time, months on end. My brain takes anything bad, even the smallest thing, and reacts like it’s the end of the fucking world. I have no motivation, no determination, no appetite, and no energy. When I say no motivation, I mean not even enough motivation to watch a movie or play a video game. I lay in bed, staring at my wall, and listening to my thoughts. Oh, this is the greatest part; MY THOUGHTS. They run wild, literally nothing can silence them. I don’t hear voices, but I might as well, I can’t control what they say, I can’t stop them, and I can’t tell them they’re wrong. They say things like, “I’m worthless,” “I’m hopeless,” “no one cares about me,” “mommy didn’t love me,” “my life has no meaning,” and “I want to kill myself.” These are things I do not think while in my right state of mind. And you know what? I believe them.

You’d be lucky to get me to talk while in a “mild” depression episode, or even move for that matter. If I start to talk, you’ll know that things are gradually going downhill. If I start crying, I’m starting to have an attack. Oh, the attacks are the most fun, but I’ve only heard about them, because I don’t remember them. A few people have seen these attacks, but Sempai and Michael have seen them more than anyone, and they’ve provided me with the details that utterly horrified me. In fact, both have said, “you become a different person.”

Even when mildly depressed, I, again, turn into a child. If someone tries to gently grab me, I’ll yank away with a whiny grunt. I will pout, I will dead weight so no one can move me, I’ll refuse to look at anyone, and also refuse the much needed help. When the attacks happen, according to what my loved ones have told me, I’m like a child throwing a tantrum, except I’m dangerous. I have come very close to killing myself multiple times, but have succeeded in collecting a large amount of self inflicted scars on my body during my life. Also remember that I was not medicated until I was twenty, so when I was a teenager, my hormones made my depression even more unbearable.

I’m not just a danger to myself, though. I get violent both toward me, and the people around me. I’ve never tried to kill anyone, but I’ve left huge scratch marks on people that took quite some time to fade, and even bit Michael a few times. Luckily, he is much stronger than me, so he is able to hold me down. This doesn’t stop the screaming, however. Like I said, I am throwing a tantrum. I scream as if I were being murdered, my sobbing doesn’t stop, I fight every single fucking step of the way, and if I get a hold of something sharp, it needs to be taken away immediately.

After the violent part of the attack ends, it’s just hysterical crying. I am no longer a danger to anyone, and Michael and Sempai know to hold me tight like a fucking baby. They have to comfort me, saying “shhh,” and “it’s alright…” I’ve been told I’ve said things like, “why didn’t mommy love me?” “Where’s mommy?” and “I want my mommy.” Since most of my trauma stems from Erin’s abuse, that’s usually what my brain likes to focus on. An attack like this can last from one to three hours non-stop, and I’m not exaggerating. Once I go quiet again, it’s unlikely I will have an attack for another few days.

When in the mild stages of my depression, I will cry for literally no reason. You know when you get upset and you have a good cry for about ten, maybe twenty minutes? Yeah, mine last for a few hours, the waterworks turning on for long periods of time, shutting off shortly, and then turning on again. No fucking reason. And unlike a manic episode, it’s much harder to come out of the depression. Sometimes it’ll change out of nowhere for absolutely no reason at all, but simply trying to “cheer me up” does nothing. Doesn’t that sound fun?

You can imagine the hell this has put me through. I wasn’t diagnosed until I was twelve or thirteen, but I was showing symptoms much earlier, around six or seven. Naturally, no one paid attention to the quiet little blonde girl, not even her family. Erin herself would joke, “she’ll start crying for no reason, lock herself in her room, and come out an hour later completely happy.” Oh yes, you stupid bitch, so funny. Why did it take you until I was in middle school to get me checked out? A six year old should not be talking about wanting to die, or wanting to kill people. When I was diagnosed, they put me on medication that made it worse, so I refused to take it. When I was twenty, I decided on my own to get properly treated.

I had to endure this disorder on top of abuse and neglect from Erin, and constant bullying at school. This wasn’t “neener neener neener” bullying either, kids have tried to kill me. Not only that, but my entire life, I’ve had social phobia, which I didn’t know until recently is the same thing as Social Anxiety Disorder. Now, I’ve exhibited text book symptoms of this disorder to the T, but I have not been professionally diagnosed yet. I’m going to get psychoanalyzed in a few weeks. I’m preparing for the introduction of a second Other…

Oh yeah, Others. For those of you who don’t know, they are fictional creatures that represent real mental disorders. I created Annatier as a form of self therapy, because regular therapy doesn’t work on me. She has helped me understand my Manic Depression much better, to the point where I have found ways to cope, and have accepted the things I can’t control. Doing this has inspired many of my fans to create Others based on their disorders as well, and it has helped them cope too. I’m thrilled to hear this, because I feel that my purpose in life is to help others find ways to arm themselves against the unkindness life brings. I’ve endured a lot of pain, and I want to keep others from feeling it so severely, I want to help them find the strength to meet these issues head on. I have been told by countless people that my advice is impeccable, and I’ve saved tons of people from suicide, including my own brother.

Anyway, thanks to medical science, I can keep my moods stable so I can lead as normal a life as I can. What does this mean? I have to take medication for the rest of my life. Every. Single. Day. It’s not fun, I don’t like it, I wish I didn’t have to, but it’s the only thing that keeps me emotionally normal and shuts my brain up. On top of depression, I’ve also had to struggle with insomnia since I was nine. “Oh, how annoying can it possibly be to take a couple pills every day?” A couple? Not including my vitamin B and vitamin D pills, I have to take nine pills each day. In the morning: one Lamotrigine, one Bupropion, and one Venlafaxine. In the evening, around 5:30 or so: one Lamotrigine, one Bupropion, and one Venlafaxine. At night, before bed: three Trazodone pills. Those are to get me to sleep. I have to take pills just to fucking sleep. What keeps me awake? Well, the earlier meds have worn off, sooooo…. my thoughts.

That means, each day, I’m taking three anti-depressants and one anti-psychotic. FUN, RIGHT? FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE. It’s so COOL to have this disorder, and I’m so FUCKING HARDCORE. And god forbid, if I forget to take my medication, I may not have an attack, but I will certainly fall. I don’t have many manic episodes anymore, they seem to be rare as you get older. Speaking of, Manic Depressive Disorder gets worse as you age. I’m twenty-five. I’ve got a long way to go, and a hell that will never leave. THERE IS NO CURE FOR MENTAL ILLNESS.

I also suffer from two disorders that affect my appearance negatively, which doesn’t help make me feel better. I am very self conscious about my appearance, so dealing with these two things are a nightmare. People that have one usually have the other as well, and there is no cure. These things are…

Dermatillomania: “An impulse control disorder characterized by the repeated urge to pick at one’s own skin, often to the extent that damage is caused.”

Trichotillomania: “An impulse control disorder characterized by the compulsive urge to pull out one’s hair, leading to hair loss and balding, distress, and social or functional impairment.”

These two disorders are NOT, I repeat, NOT a joke. Since I was nine or ten, I’ve pulled out my eyebrows and eyelashes, and obsessively picked at my skin. In fifth grade, both arms were covered in scabs. When I was sixteen, I started pulling hair from my head. Since I hit puberty, I’ve picked at every single goddamn imperfection on my face, to the point where I have embarrassing scabs and scars. Here is a recent picture:

this_is_why_i_m_not_pretty_by_reitanna_seishin-d9ny7aq

It took a lot of courage to even post this on DA, let alone here. Of course, you can’t see the bald spots on my scalp, but you can see my eyelashes, eyebrows, and skin. Oh, by the way? My eyebrows will never properly grow back. The only hair that grows is vellus hair, and maybe a few terminal hairs here and there, but not enough to form a shape. I have to draw them on. Every. Day.

As for my face? These were not huge pimples. These were things that other people could not see unless they looked as close as I did. And do you know what I do? I pick off the scab to reveal little white bulbs that I try to pull out with tweezers. What are these white bulbs? MY HAIR FOLICLES. I cannot control this, no matter how hard I try. Hell, you should see my back and shoulders! And don’t even get me started on my pubic area. ISN’T. THIS. FUN??? I’ve tried many things to get myself to stop, but it NEVER FUCKING WORKS.

Why have I brought all of this shit up? To make you pity me? To try and get sympathy? To show how horrible my life has been? No. To make people understand. In fact, I think pity is one of the most disgusting things a person can give to the disabled. But chances are, many of you do understand! A lot of you may struggle with the same obstacles! Hell, I bet some of you have it worse than me! I’m just one out of seven billion people on the planet, of course there are people like me, or have worse situations! The point is…

I have been ridiculed for these things. These disorders I can’t control, these painful and degrading things that I didn’t choose to have. Some of you can relate to what I’m about to say. I’ve been accused of, get this…. I’ve been accused of CRYING OUT FOR ATTENTION. Because I’m honest about what goes on in my head? Because I’m a human being who is done hiding like I’ve done for nearly two decades? Because I want to help people understand what could possibly being going on in their heads?

Oh! OH! It gets better! I’ve been called “emo” because I have depression. I HAVE A SERIOUS MEDICAL DISORDER THAT I CANNOT CONTROL IN ANY WAY, and I’m apparently “emo.” Um, I am twenty-five years old, there is no such thing as stupid little teenage fashion cliques! Hell, “emo” isn’t even a thing! People use it to describe EVERYTHING!!! I FUCKING HATE IT!! Oh! And then there’s this one… “edgy.” I’m “edgy” because I HAVE A FUCKING MENTAL DISORDER. It’s so COOL and HARDCORE to have to take NINE PILLS EVERY FUCKING DAY FOR THE REST OF MY FUCKING LIFE!! Do you understand how much I HATE this? I would give both of my legs to be cured of this. I’d never be able to walk again, but that’s way better than dealing with my illness!

Same with the DTM and TTM. I posted that picture on Deviant Art, not to get fucking sympathy or pity, but to make people understand why I don’t think I’m pretty. I’m SICK and TIRED of hearing, “oh, you’re pretty no matter what!” NO! FUCKING NO! DO YOU SEE THAT? THAT IS UGLY AS FUCKING SIN!! I wanted people to tell me how bad it was, to basically punch me in the face to possibly get my mind to understand that it needs to STOP. It was basically a voluntary intervention. You know what? I got a lot of people who didn’t read the description telling me what I didn’t want to hear: That I’m pretty on the inside! That the outside doesn’t matter! IT MATTERS TO ME! The other people told me exactly what I needed to hear, they were honest, and though the words may look unkind, I needed to hear them from somebody other than myself. The truth isn’t always pleasant, but it is always necessary.

Oho, but there was one user who was butt hurt that I blocked him for being a douchebag, who claimed I posted it to get attention. Are you fucking serious? That’s the reason I want to STOP! Because these scars and bald spots bring me unwanted attention! People stare at me like I’m some fucking druggie! I’m already afraid of people, so WHY the FUCK would I WANT them staring at me you STUPID asshole?!? I hate sympathy, I hate pity, and the only attention I want is the kind I’m rewarded with when I work hard at what I do. When I create something, draw, write, make a video, whatever, that’s what I like. I don’t require it, except, of course, on YouTube because that’s my job, and I am certainly not going to try and get attention through dishonest ways, or by exploiting my flaws! I need people to understand why I say the things I say, why I do the things I do, and so I can help others, as well as receive help for myself! Asking for help is not the same as crying out for attention! I’M FUCKING SUICIDAL, so I must be “emo” and “edgy,” right? FUCK OFF.

I don’t even understand why some people go through such lengths to get attention, the people who seem to “need” it. I don’t understand that. I’m an adult, adults aren’t “edgy” (whatever the fuck that means, because edgy only has three definitions, and these stupid freaks are using it in a way that doesn’t fit any of them), adults are not “emo” (that’s just something stupid teenagers came up with so that they could take multiple fashions, throw them together, and call it a new thing), and adults don’t “cry out for attention.” God… I hope not… then again, there was that lady that lied about being a 9/11 survivor… okay, some sad excuses for human beings do that, but responsible adults with common sense like me DO NOT. I rarely even leave the house, and that’s so people don’t see me, and I don’t see them! Making videos is the only time I feel comfortable being myself somewhat publicly because I’m not face to face with a real person!

I’m not the only fucking person with Manic Depression, I’m not the only fucking person with DTM and TTM, and I’m not the only fucking person who is comfortable enough to talk to people about it. So many people don’t understand mental illness, and I used to be afraid of admitting that my brain wasn’t wired right. But it’s shameful to feel ashamed, and I’m sick of hiding like a sniveling coward. I have completely accepted what I have. I don’t like it. I never will. I hate it. But I’m not hiding. I am a human being, so I will act like a human being. YOU, who attack people like me, are SNIVELING FUCKING COWARDS.

I wish… oho, do I wish… that I could give these bastards a mental illness. Let’s see how “edgy” they think it is. Remember that “point-of-view” gun from Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy? Yeah, I want that, but super powered. Let’s see how they like crying for no reason, let’s see how they like wanting to die, let’s see how they like taking medication, pulling out their hair until they’re bald, and digging holes into their faces! ISN’T IT SO SUPER DUPER COOL?? OH MY GOD, I’M SO FUCKING EDGY!!

You bastards think you’re all big, bad wolves hiding behind a computer, but you’re nothing but sheep. I guarantee that, if you met me face to face, you wouldn’t be able to show those big balls you pretend to have. No, you’d cower. There’s a reason people have told me I’m scary, there’s a reason people have learned not to mess with me. I can’t do SHIT through the internet, but let me tell you, when I’m face to face with someone who has enraged me, my social anxiety is GONE. You’re sheep. Cowardly, pathetic sheep being led by a shepherd, not knowing that your shepherd is taking you to a slaughter house. I’m not afraid like you are, and that’s why I’m honest about what I feel, and how I live. That’s why I don’t keep secrets. What’s the point? I have nothing to gain by hiding, but everything to gain by showing my true self.

Even though I only get one out of every hundred people who decide it’s funny to make fun of the disabled, it still infuriates me to no end. I mean, what if I didn’t have medication and killed myself? Would they say, “oops?” Would they feel ashamed? HA! No, that’s not how it works, apparently. They’d laugh and feel PROUD at what they accomplished. I hate these people who get joy out of seeing other people suffer for no reason. I did not choose to have these disorders, I don’t want them, and I sure as hell don’t need them. Please! Take them away if me talking about them bugs you so much! I would shake your hand and kiss your ass for the rest of my life if you took them away! Why would anyone lie about having an illness? Why does anyone lie in the first place? Lying gets you nowhere! Just deeper into the hole you’ve dug yourself! THAT’S WHY I DON’T DO IT! My code of honor, once again, is honesty, and I cherish it like it’s my own beating heart. I choose not to lie to anyone. Why? Because the consequences for lying are way worse than the consequences for telling the truth. I am literally the most honest person you will ever speak to.

If these fucking shit holes are over the age of twenty, I would be disturbed beyond measure. These are things that snotty nosed preteens and teenagers do to each other. Where the fuck are the parents? Hope you’re proud of your fucking kid! But if they are an adult, I laugh at how ludicrous their behavior is! I mean, you’ve got to be pretty insecure to act like a dull witted teenage bully when you’re a fucking adult that is supposed to be paying bills and taxes! Maybe they have a small dick, I don’t know. Maybe the girls are uglier than I am, I don’t know! But even if this enrages me to no end, at least I know that their warped perception of me is not true.

And what they don’t know is, I am the kindest and most loyal person to people who also show kindness, and I am a wonderful friend. I can love just as much as I can hate, and I can hate like fire can burn. If these trash talking lowlifes had just been kind, and spoken to me as a fellow human, we probably could’ve been great friends! No, they have to make themselves feel better by making other people feel bad. Whatever issues they have to deal with in their life, I could’ve given them the advice to cope. You know what, shit heads? You chose to be miserable, and you chose to be just another zit on the face of society just waiting to be popped. I’d love to take my disorders and shove them into your head, that way, I’d be free of them, and you’d get a taste of hell. Ha! Maybe someone would call you “emo!”

To the people who are kind, to the people who have witnessed behavior like this, and to the people who have experienced this, speak up. None of us should be hiding. The pecking order is fucked up, and we need to do the pecking here. If you have a mental illness, don’t hide from it, fight for it. You know what? Many people have been able to find ways to make their illnesses help them in life. Admittedly, a lot of my best creations have come from my fucked up mind, but I’d still rather be rid of it. All the same, we need to learn to stand up, because we are way stronger than these hip-gangster wannabes. Why? Because we have to deal with literal hell, and yet, we’re still here! They wouldn’t last a week in our shoes! I don’t have the power to start a movement, that’s a very unrealistic fantasy, but maybe my words could reach someone who does. People like this need to be put in their place.

Just stop the silence.

Quarter of a Century

Well, in less than a month, I turn twenty-five. I didn’t think it would stress me out this much, but it is. Even though I’m on my medication, I feel really down lately, and I just want November eighth to pass.

You’d think I’d be excited for my birthday, but I’m not. Well, in all honesty, my birthdays stopped being fun after I turned eighteen. But this… I didn’t think I’d make it this far. No, I didn’t want to make it this far. Just because my medication helps keep my brain in check, doesn’t mean I’m not still suicidal. The difference is, I’m not going to go kill myself in a fit of depression. I’m stable, so I can think clearly and make rational decisions.

Still, I don’t want to be twenty-five, I don’t want to be another year older, and I don’t want to be reminded that I’ve spent a quarter of a century in this stupid world. And then there’s the getting older part. I’ve already lost my cuteness that I had as a teenager, but as I get closer to thirty, the wrinkles will start showing up. That means the bags under my eyes are going to be even more alarming. And all that aging cream and wrinkle reducing cream and all that? Expensive face moisturizers. That expensive stuff that claims to reduce signs of aging is the same thing as your everyday moisturizer. Moisture helps reduce the appearance of wrinkles, but as you get older, it can only do so much. So the fact of the matter is, I’M GOING TO GET EVEN UGLIER THAN I ALREADY AM. I’ll probably get fatter, too, even though I’ve been losing weight. NOT ENOUGH.

I’m not worried about grey hair. I’m blonde, have TTM, and like to wear wigs. Big whoop. No, I’m going to get uglier, and I have to spend more time with people around me. I HATE PEOPLE. The only two people I even care about is Michael and Sempai. Sempai was so excited about turning twenty-five, and I honestly couldn’t see why… then again, she actually likes people. She doesn’t have the same thought process I do.

Mike and I are going to Missouri on November ninth, the day after my birthday. I’m hoping the change in scenery will make me feel a little better, plus there are less people in one area, unlike here where all the houses are so close together, we can all hear each other. Can’t even go out at night without passing someone, and each time we do, it freaks me out. While in Missouri, we’re going to check the price of houses. If things look good over there, then in one to two years, we’ll move across the country. Being in a house and not being so surrounded will do me some good. Some people are afraid of change, but god, I need it so badly.

Why do we even celebrate the day we were born?

I Dreamt a Documentary

This post might be a little disturbing, so just as a warning, you may not want to read this one if you’re sensitive to certain subjects. It’s also very long.

My doctor just recently switched my sleeping medication because Ambien stopped working for me, and I took it last night. It worked well, but I’m not sure if this crazy dream was a result of the medication, or if it was just my sick mind fucking around with me again. I have a lot of disturbing dreams, but often the only nightmares that affect me when I wake up are the ones involving emotional distress, usually caused by reliving my childhood, coming face to face with Erin, or being unable to take my medication. They say your greatest enemy is yourself, and that couldn’t be more true. My greatest nightmares make me experience the side of me that I’m afraid of. Anything else, no matter how disturbing, doesn’t usually get to me.

Now, I’m not sure if this certain dream is actually bothering me, or if I just want to document it because it was so… dynamic and detailed. It was pretty damn crazy, I’ll give it that! Even though the memory of the dream isn’t really upsetting me while awake, it upset my dream self, and I need to write it down. Dreams fascinate me, so I like to reflect back on the really complex ones to try and understand what dreaming actually is. I’m no expert, so I’m still just as stumped as anyone else, but even so, it’s still somewhat helpful.

I watch a lot of documentaries on different types of murderers; serial killers, mass murderers, spree killers, impulse killers, et cetera. I do this for multiple reasons that range from research to just entertainment. It also makes me feel better to say, “well, at least I’m not as crazy as that person.” Certain common elements bug me when they go over the killer’s past, and that is history of being sexually abused, and torturing and/or killing animals as a child. We hear these things all of the time, and it’s the only part that ever disturbs me. I mention this because it plays a big part in this dream.

Enough beating around the bush, let’s get down to business. Remember, everything I say is fictional (except when I go over certain elements of my own past) and only occurred in the dream. Any relevance to actual people or occurrences are purely coincidental. The dream starts out with me checking my YouTube comments, and I received one from the director of a recently released online documentary. I think the director was a Freelancer, so he posted his work on his own channel instead of it being produced and distributed as a film. Seeing the comment didn’t surprise me, and I recognized the username. The comment read, “it’s done, here it is,” and then there was a link to a video. Clicking the link brought me to a video called, “A Broken Mind: The [name I can’t remember] Story (Part 1).” In the “related” section of the page were parts two and three. The description read, “the upsetting story of [name I can’t remember], one of the most disturbed murderers of America in the last decade. Special thanks go to…” Then there was a list of names of people on the crew, people who were interviewed, people involved in the case, and so on. “Reitanna Seishin” was listed in these credits, and next to it was a link to my YouTube channel.

None of this surprised me, and I remembered being asked to be a part of the documentary. At the time, my dream self did not provide my conscious self with the information as to why I was in the film, or what role I played, so I clicked “play” on the video and began to watch. The view of the dream changed to where, instead of watching the video on a computer screen, it was like my eyes were the camera lens. It was pretty surreal, honestly. The issue I had in this dream was that the names kept changing, specifically the murderer that the documentary was about. I can’t remember all of the names it changed to, so I’ll settle on the one that stuck out; Carl Dawson. I will have to make up names for everyone else, so bear with me.

I don’t remember the exact date this happened, but it was within the last ten years, and apparently it happened in Alpine. I lived in Alpine from ages twelve to fourteen, so I’m going to guess that the time frame had to be between 2002 and 2004 at least. Carl Dawson was a couple years older than me, so he was in high school when I was in middle school. The film went over Carl’s past, and it was this that upset my dream self.

Carl’s real parents were killed in a car accident when he was a baby, and later was adopted by a couple with the last name “Dawson,” so he inherited that name as well. We’ll call the woman Anne Dawson, and the man Will Dawson. At the time they adopted Carl, they already had a three year old biological son, and we’ll call him Kyle. Pictures were shown of the family and the house, and these pictures included birthday photos that were mostly of Carl and Kyle. Carl had medium-long, wavy blonde hair, and Kyle had short brunette hair. Anne honestly looked like a meth addict. She had badly bleached blonde hair with dark brunette roots showing, alarming bags under her eyes, yellow teeth, and just looked pretty trashy. Will was a little on the chubby side, but he was tall, looked strong, had greying hair, and was very intimidating. The house was also messy and poorly taken care of; you could tell the family didn’t make a lot of money. They also had a grey cat.

The parents had a history of drug abuse, alcoholism, and could never hold steady jobs. On the upside, Anne cared very dearly for her sons, even if one of them wasn’t her own flesh and blood. However, her relationship with Will wasn’t a healthy one, and Will would beat the shit out of her when he was drunk. He didn’t hit the children, but I consider what he did much, much worse. This is the part that upset me, and it’s also the reason why Anne and Will fought so much.

Will had a habit of molesting Kyle, and poor Carl fell victim to it as well. Unfortunately, Anne didn’t even know about it until Carl was two, and his behavior toward Will started to change. He became afraid of him, less talkative, and didn’t like to be touched by anyone. Kyle had always had behavioral problems, being hyper active, somewhat violent, and Anne had to keep him from hurting the cat. She assumed he was just that way, but Carl had shown noticeable changes that made her worried. She tried asking Carl if daddy ever hit him, and he said, “daddy told me not to tell.” She ended up calling her best friend, saying she suspected her husband was abusing Carl, but she had to hang up quickly when she heard Will walk through the front door.

Then, when she was changing Carl’s diaper, she noticed bruises around his lower body, and came to the horrifying conclusion that her husband had raped their adopted son. This caused a huge fight between Anne and Will, resulting in her being savagely beaten in front of both boys. Will also took the opportunity to tell her that he had been doing the same thing to Kyle for years, and that if she knew what was good for her, she’d keep her mouth shut. Will threatened to kill her if she even tried leaving. Anne was sickened by this entire thing, but couldn’t help but wonder why Kyle hadn’t shown drastic changes in behavior like Carl had. Then she figured that all of his behavioral problems must’ve come from the abuse in the first place.

Kyle got less “attention” than Carl did as the boys grew older, and that’s because Kyle was now “too old” for Will’s interests. Kyle continued to be a very bad kid, torturing the cat, killing random animals outside, breaking objects, fighting at school, and hitting his adopted brother. Carl spoke less and less, and became very afraid of people, including other kids at school, and this caused him to be bullied. It didn’t help that their family was poor, so his clothes were shabby. He spent a lot of time in his room where he’d pin up doodles he made on lined paper to the wall. Even as childish scribbles, they weren’t very happy looking.

Things escalated for Carl as time passed by. Kyle was hitting puberty, so now, on top of his preexisting problems, he now had to deal with hormones. Being raped by his own father messed with his mentality, and made his view of the real world and social interactions very warped. Kyle started sneaking into Carl’s room at night and molesting him as well. With both his adopted father and brother sexually abusing him, and with his mother constantly drowning her sorrows in substances, Carl’s trust in humanity was broken, and so was he. The only living creature he seemed to want to even be around was the cat.

When Carl entered middle school, he was still quiet and afraid of people, but he was now entering the transition into manhood. On his first day in sixth grade, he wasn’t sure where his first class was, and a seventh grade girl named Mary (this was her actual name in the dream) noticed how lost he looked. She was very petite, having long, straight dark brunette hair, peachy skin, and was wearing a black shirt, grey skirt, and black leggings that stopped below her knees. Lastly, her shoes were simple black flats, and wore no socks. I’m not sure why she stuck out to me so fiercely, but I think it was because this documentary was showing this past segment as if the camera man had been there while it happened, which was impossible. There were quite a lot of moments like that, some I’d rather not go into detail about.

Carl immediately took a shine to Mary, but he wasn’t used to speaking to people, so he was very nervous. He stuttered when he spoke to her, stumbled over words, said words wrong, and sometimes said the wrong thing completely. This didn’t bother her at all, being smart enough to recognize shyness, and being kind and confident enough to tell him it was alright. After this first encounter, Mary considered Carl her friend, and he’d follow her around like a puppy following its master. He practically idolized her because she was so caring and nice to him, and she even stood up to his bullies for him. Having a girl stand up for him didn’t emasculate him, but caused him to fall for her even harder.

It seemed like life was getting just a little better for Carl. The police were called by their neighbors after a particularly violent outdoor domestic disturbance between Will and Anne, and Anne took the chance to tell the police that Will had raped their sons. She didn’t know about Kyle doing the same thing to Carl because Carl wouldn’t talk about it. Will was arrested, and Anne took her children and cat to live in a small house in Alpine (I guess they were living just outside of the town beforehand, so they didn’t have to change schools). It wasn’t much nicer than their old house, and was even a bit smaller. Carl didn’t mind, because the house just happened to be right next door to Mary’s, and could even see her bedroom window from his own.

However, even though one of his life’s horrors was out of the picture, it didn’t change the fact that Carl’s mind had been severely messed up. Even after Kyle started “visiting” him less frequently, Carl still viewed the world very differently. He and Mary entered high school, but he never asked her out, and she was oblivious to the fact that he was madly in love with her. Little did she know, his “love” was actually a very unhealthy obsession. He wrote her name all over his walls, drew pictures of her, and watched her through her window using a cheap telescope. Whenever she had any interaction with another boy at school, Carl would draw pictures of himself killing them in many different and horrific ways. In these pictures, it always depicted Mary praising him for “saving” her from the filthy men of the world.

Kyle was a senior, and still a very bad kid, committing juvenile crimes, abusing drugs, and getting violent for pointless reasons. After school one day, he actually came up behind Mary, wrapped his arms around her, and tried to feel her up, but she turned around and pushed him away, shouting at him. Carl flared up as well, telling his brother to keep his hands off of her, but he punched Carl in the face and told him to shut his mouth, or he’d regret it. Mary didn’t take too kindly to this, so she socked Kyle right in the face as hard as she could. Enraged, and not afraid to hit a girl, Kyle lunged at her, but a teacher stopped him. He was suspended for about a week.

This would be the biggest week of Carl’s life. Anne worked two jobs, so she was rarely ever home, even for days at a time. One of these jobs was prostitution, so she was mostly gone at night. Kyle was now forced to stay at home for a week, and due to Carl’s and Mary’s retaliation, he was extremely hostile toward Carl, hitting him whenever he had the chance. Carl constructed a home made lock to install on his door to keep Kyle out of his room so that he’d finally have peace, and he spent his time spying on Mary through the window, writing in his journal, or writing and drawing on his wall. Some of it was written on scraps of paper pinned to it, but most of it was written on the wall itself. It showed obvious obsession over Mary, and when she couldn’t be seen through her window, he’d stare at places he had written her name.

Carl also had gotten his hands on an inexpensive digital camera that could take low quality pictures and video, though it wasn’t capable of recording audio. (I’ve actually had a camera like this, so that’s probably how my dream fabricated it.) He didn’t use it much… at first.

Kyle had recently started going out with a girl from another school named Wendy (actual name in the dream), so during his suspension, he’d bring her over. This was actually the first time Carl had ever seen her, and he found her very beautiful. Incredibly quickly, he became just as obsessed over her as he was with Mary, and started writing her name all over his walls as well. There were now two girls in his life he was madly in “love” with, and Wendy didn’t even treat him nicely. Why did he become obsessed with her? Maybe he idolized beautiful women because one had never harmed him in the way that his father and brother had. He even considered his own mother a lost cause because she was so far gone anyway, and she was never able to stop the abuse. Plus, she was so junked up, she had long lost her beauty, if she even had any to begin with.

Carl had an unhealthy obsession with spying on Kyle and Wendy when they had sex, and his obsession with Wendy was already unhealthy enough. Midway into the week, Kyle spotted Carl and became enraged, as was wont to happen, and Carl tried running away. Kyle, only wearing his underwear, chased Carl outside and grabbed him, tackling him to the ground and punching him repeatedly in the face. Wendy had gotten dressed and followed them, and she simply watched with satisfaction. Seeing Wendy with her arms crossed and smile on her face became Carl’s breaking point, and he went into a sort of blind rage where he had no control of what he was doing, and didn’t even realize he was doing it. This caused him to summon strength he had never used before, and he pushed Kyle off of him, standing and grabbing a nearby shovel that was sitting in the yard. Terrified that Carl had a weapon and a bloodthirsty look in his eyes, Kyle and Wendy ran back into the house, but didn’t think to close the door behind them.

The two hid behind the couch, and once Carl entered with the shovel, Kyle jumped out and kicked it out of his hands. Wendy ran back outside to keep away from the danger, sitting against the side of the house and crying. Now that Carl had no weapon, Kyle thought he’d have the upper hand, but was proven wrong. The two fought violently, both getting covered in cuts and bruises, and Carl had landed a punch that broke Kyle’s nose. Kyle pushed Carl into the wall next to their mother’s open bedroom door, and Carl ran inside, grabbing the gun that Anne kept under her bed for protection. This made Kyle frightened again, holding up his hands and backing away, trying to apologize to his brother. As they slowly made their way back into the living room, Carl was breathing heavily, but the gun he pointed at Kyle was held in very steady hands. Kyle attempted to dash out the open door, but was shot in the head, collapsing to the floor.

Hearing the gunshot, Wendy screamed and made to run away from the house, but Carl had come out and smacked her in the temple with the gun handle. She fell to the ground, still conscious, and started screaming when Carl dragged her back into the house, where he shot her in the head multiple times. Both her and Kyle were dead, blood covering the floor, and some splattered on the nearest wall.

Alone next door, Mary was doing her homework when she heard the yelling coming from Carl’s house, then became horrified when the first shot was fired. It was followed by a series of female screams, and the next few shots caused her to run downstairs and out her front door. She sprinted over to Carl’s, seeing the door was open, and she ran in to see what had happened. This had not been a good choice. Mary screamed upon seeing the two dead bodies on the floor, and an unrecognizable Carl with a gun in his hand. At this point, Carl had come out of his blind rage, but he didn’t regret what he had done. Realizing she had stumbled upon a dangerous situation, Mary immediately made to turn around to run through the door again, but Carl grabbed her from behind, wrapping an arm around her throat, and choking her. She struggled, but became limp as she lost consciousness.

When Mary woke up, she was lying on the floor of Carl’s room, which she had never been in before because he had never even invited her over to his house. She soon realized that her hands were tied behind her back, and her ankles were tied together very tightly, so she could only squirm with fright. Her eyes scanned the room, and she saw hers and Wendy’s names written on the wall in multiple places, as well as obsessive expressions of love, drawings of the girls, and drawings of Carl killing other guys. Mary also spotted the telescope pointed at the window, which she knew was right next to her own bedroom window. The next thing she noticed was Carl scratching out Wendy’s name with a knife, though he hadn’t gotten to all of them.

Scared, Mary demanded Carl to tell her what was going on. He knelt next to her, telling her how pretty she was, and that he loved her so much. He took the knife and cut into his palm, which didn’t seem to hurt him, and used his index finger to touch the blood, applying it to Mary’s lips as if it were lipstick. This, naturally, did not calm her down, but scared her even more. Then Carl took the digital camera and started taking pictures of her, showing her each one after he took it. He also leaned his head close to hers, taking a picture of himself with her. Mary told him he was sick, and that she regretted ever being his friend, but this angered Carl. He slashed her upper arm with the knife as he shouted about how she was just like everyone else, that he couldn’t trust anyone because everyone he ever cared about only ended up hurting him. After being maimed, Mary tried a different approach, apologizing to him and saying that she did care for him, and that she could help him.

Carl used the digital camera to take a video, propped it on his bed, made perfectly sure that it was pointed at Mary, and began stabbing her repeatedly in the chest. When Mary was dead, he untied her, grabbed the camera, and filmed her lifeless body up close for about a minute. Then he turned it off. He didn’t take care of any of the three bodies in the house, but instead sat on his bed and wrote in his journal, explaining about what he had done in a fit of anger, and then what he had done when he had come back to himself.

A lot of this part of the story was told through showing the scenes of what actually happened, which, as I mentioned before, would’ve been impossible. However, I soon found the role I played in the documentary. I was chosen by the director to interview Carl’s parents, Will having been released from prison just a year before filming. They lived in the same house, and Will and Anne had “found God,” so they no longer indulged in unhealthy and criminal vices. Will said Jesus had come to him in a dream, saying he’d be forgiven if he vowed to never harm another human being, so he believed he was saved. I asked them questions about how Carl was as a child, and about everything that happened in their household, so a good chunk of the story was told by them. The rest of the information had been gathered from reading Carl’s journal, observing his bedroom wall, and recovering photos and video footage from the camera.

To my conscious self, there was still the mystery of why I was interviewing them in the first place. I watched myself interacting with the cat, who was now very old, as well as being led around the house by Anne while she told me where everything happened. Will was raking leaves outside when I asked him questions, but I didn’t want to spend too much time with him because of his disgusting past with his children. The director did his fair share of interviewing as well, so I was not alone.

We went to the police department to ask the officers involved with the case some questions, and they told us everything they could legally disclose. We also interviewed the families of the victims… and this was when I found out more than three people had been killed. It was one of those “but Kyle, Wendy, and Mary were not the only ones to lose their lives to Carl” moments to increase suspense. Two more girls had been murdered in Carl’s bedroom, but his would-be sixth victim had escaped her fate.

I watched myself being led up to Carl’s old room by Anne, and she opened the door, turning on the light. The blood had been cleaned up, the digital camera and journal had been taken in by police, but everything on the walls was left the way it had been. The police had taken pictures of the walls as evidence, and Anne and Will decided not to clean them up as a reminder of how they broke their adopted son. It was a form of self punishment. I examined the walls, seeing the names “Wendy” and “Mary” crossed out by a knife’s blade. There were three other names written on the wall as well, but I can only remember the name of one of the two other girls that were killed: Morgan. We’ll call the other girl Sandra. Both “Morgan” and “Sandra” were crossed out, but the third name was not, and that was because Carl only crossed the names out after he killed them.

There were poems, drawings, and words of longing expressed toward the three girls he captured after Mary. He had fallen in “love” with them the moment he saw them, stalked them, kidnapped them, and brought them to his house all within the span of a few days. First to get caught after Mary was Sandra, and as she lay unconscious and tied up on the floor, Carl wrote about her on his wall. This is what she would wake up to, as well as the dead body of Mary laying right next to her. According to his journal, he had already met Morgan and the third girl by the time Sandra was taken, so his obsession over them were on the walls as well.

Using his mother’s makeup, he applied heavy eye shadow and lipstick to Sandra’s face, and then took pictures of her like he had with Mary. He explained to her that she was a beautiful girl, confessed his love to her, but said that her beauty had made her as corrupt as the rest of the horrible people on this planet. “Even though I love you, you have to die,” Carl said, “but we have to learn to let go of the things we care about.” She screamed as he set the camera up on his bed, pointing it at her and using the video function to record a video. He watched her struggle for a few minutes, and she pleaded with him to let her go, that she didn’t even know who he was, but the camera was unable to record her voice.

Carl ended Sandra’s life by beating her mercilessly with the shovel he had almost attacked Kyle with. Even after her body stopped moving, he hit her face constantly, and by the time he grabbed the camera to show the details of her body, her face was unrecognizable. After the video was stopped, Carl untied her, left her body where it was, used his knife to scratch out her name in the various places he had written it on the wall, and sat on his bed to write the event in his journal.

Next to come was Morgan, who actually was one of my friends at my middle school at the time. This is the reason I could remember her name. She woke up on Carl’s bed, but was able to see Mary’s and Sandra’s corpses on the floor, which was stained with huge amounts of blood. Carl was sitting next to her, stroking her brown hair, and she started crying and whimpering. He said, “even though you’re a few years younger than me, I still find you so beautiful.” Once again, he confessed his love for her, and she asked him if he had raped her. Carl was overcome with rage and yelled at her, saying he would never do such a thing, that he was insulted she’d even think that. “Don’t you understand? I love you, Morgan! I don’t ever want to hurt you!” he said. She asked why she was tied up, and Carl responded by saying that beautiful women need to die so that they don’t hurt him or anyone else ever again. He somehow didn’t count killing as “hurting” someone, but felt that pain was more of an emotional thing, and that’s what he meant by “I don’t ever want to hurt you.”

While Morgan had been passed out, Carl had dressed her in one of his mother’s dresses, which was a little too big for her. After explaining that she needed to die, he did her makeup, but cut his hand again, running it over her hair and tinting it red. It was now damp and slightly sticky. Carl then told her he’d spare her life if she smiled for all of the pictures he took of her, so she did, even smiling for the ones that Carl included himself in. Of course, when he was done, he told Morgan that he lied, and set the camera up on the bedside table to video record her. She pleaded with him to spare her, but he held up the gun he used to kill Kyle and Wendy, then emptied the two remaining bullets into her head. As usual, Carl filmed her body, then left it on his bed as he crossed out her name, and added another entry to his journal.

The name of the third would-be victim sent me into confusion and distress. I watched my face fall while my eyes scanned the wall, seeing certain things that I recognized. Carl had drawn Divel and Sticky the Female Mad Man in some places, which were two of my very first characters that I invented in middle school. I found the name “Kara” written everywhere, included in the mess of obsession. “Kara” is my real name, and I definitely did not remember being kidnapped. While this was filmed, the director explained to me that he asked me to help him with the documentary because I had been the only person who survived Carl’s killing spree. I was so confused, I started crying, asking him how that was possible when I had never even met him.

Apparently I had met him. In fact, stalking me was the only reason he had discovered Morgan. The scene changed to back at the police station, where they handed over the journal for us to read. The officer turned to the first page that mentioned my name, and it told the story of how Carl and I met.

He was in high school, and I was in middle school, but Alpine was a small town that I often walked around in with my friends, or even alone. I didn’t feel unsafe there; nothing bad had happened… that I knew of. I had met Carl at the grocery store not too far from my apartment, but I’ve always been pretty afraid of people myself because I have my fair share of mental problems coupled with a traumatic past, though I later admitted to myself that Carl’s situation was much worse than mine. I encountered him while picking out some candy, and ran straight into him as I exited the aisle. Shyness being one of my flaws, I avoided eye contact as I apologized repeatedly, stumbling over my words like I always did in front of strangers. I had dropped my candy, and Carl picked it up for me, handing it back.

“Are you shy?” he asked in a surprisingly quiet voice that had a bit of a stutter. My fear of people made me want to get away from him and out of the store as quickly as possible, which was normal for me, but the question intrigued me too much to make an excuse to purchase my candy and go. I finally looked him in the eyes, and I could see there was something very dark behind them. He was so pale and sickly looking, and his expression was completely blank. I wasn’t sure if I was afraid of him, or even more curious. I told him I wasn’t very good around people, and he said he had the same problem. I tended to get along better with boys anyway, even since I was a young child, so meeting one with fear or social interaction made me feel a little more comfortable.

Carl followed me as I bought the candy, and then we sat outside to talk. I shared the candy with him, and he told me that he’s only had one person he’s felt comfortable enough to really talk with, and that was his friend Mary, who had moved away recently. Now he had no friends, was bullied constantly, and life at home was less than desirable. I told him I was bullied too, that many of my only friends had been special education kids when I was in sixth grade. Even though I had never been in a special education class in my entire life, I was called a “retard” because I hung out with them, but the reason I hung out with them was because they were the only ones who were nice to me. When I entered seventh grade, I changed the way I dressed to fit in, and stopped hanging around my old friends to try and stop the bullying, which was a very unkind thing for me to do, and to this day, I’m not proud of my decisions. Bullying didn’t stop, but I was able to make new friends, one of them having been Morgan at the time.

We actually connected a lot even though he was older, and he offered to walk me home, saying it wasn’t safe to go anywhere alone. I humored him because I was enjoying his company, so we went back to my apartment complex, and I said goodbye to him. He asked me for my phone number before I headed up the stairs so that he could talk to me if things got bad for him, so I wrote it down and gave it to him. He watched me as I entered my apartment, which was on the second story.

Reading this entry caused heavily repressed memories to return, and it terrified me. The director asked me if I was remembering something, so I filled in the blanks, the things that Carl had not been able to write about in his journal.

Carl didn’t call me for a few days, but when he finally did, he sounded like he had been crying. He said something really bad happened, and that he wanted to talk to me, but in person. I told him to come over, and we could walk around while he told me what was wrong. I met him outside, then we left the complex, and he asked me to come to his house so that he was in a place where he felt more comfortable. I was nervous, but agreed, so we walked to his house.

As I read the journal entries about me, I learned that, during those days I hadn’t heard from Carl, he had been stalking me. He followed me to school, watched me from afar while I was at break or lunch, saw me talking to Morgan in PE, and followed me home. He sat outside my apartment, staring up at my window, which I usually shut the curtains to. I kept the actual window open to let cool air in because I hate getting too hot, so he could hear what I was doing. I usually listened to music while drawing or doing crafts, but I also had an old hobby where I used my dolls to record plays and stories on an old tape recorder. I had actually done this since I was little, which eventually evolved into my interest in video making and narrations.

Morgan was mentioned a lot after seeing her with me at school, and he had stalked her as well. Then the journal mentioned that he had killed Morgan, and now I was next to be taken for the sake of cleansing humanity, though Carl admitted in the entry that I was less of a cancer to the world than most people he’s met. Still, to him, I was pretty, and pretty girls will do nothing but hurt others, just like all men will. There were even doodles of Divel and STFMM in the journal, and it never told me how he even knew about those characters.

Upon entering Carl’s house, I immediately saw the bodies of a teenage boy and girl lying on a large brown stain near a wall. When I was younger, I was much less desensitized to gore, and was definitely afraid of death, so this was a terrifying sight for me. Before I could let out any sort of scream, Carl had grabbed me and put his arm around my throat, choking me until I passed out just as he had with Mary.

I woke up, wrists and ankles tied together, inside Carl’s bedroom in front of the door, which was closed, but I had a full view of the three dead girls in the room. I recognized the one on the bed as Morgan, and I started crying. Carl had been sitting on the bed, watching me as he flipped a knife over and over in his hands. He smiled as he stood, and then knelt next to me, a digital camera in his hands. “Don’t be scared,” he said, “you’re much more beautiful when you smile. See, Morgan was smiling…” Carl then showed me the pictures of Morgan, and she had indeed been smiling, despite being tied up and wearing way too much makeup. Then he showed me the video of him killing her, and told me that pretty girls have to die so that they don’t hurt people, and even though I was a lot like him, I was no exception.

I have been convinced throughout my life that I am not at all pretty, and that stems from the fact that I look exactly like Erin. I told Carl that I wasn’t really that pretty, but he insisted that I was beautiful and that he loved me. “But even you have hurt me,” he said with spite, and he showed me a comic drawn on lined paper of him killing a boy that looked familiar to me, and then showed a girl that looked like me smiling about it. “You’re dating this boy,” he stated. It was true that I had recently started going out with a boy named Lance. “I almost thought you were the exception, but I was wrong.”

I was scared an confused, wondering how he expected me to feel the same way about him if we only just met, and spent barely an hour together. Carl said this is why pretty girls need to be eliminated, because they can’t help but hurt people, even when they’re not trying. He compared them to all men, but said men are different because they know they’re hurting people, and they enjoy it. I asked him why he thought he was different than other men, and he said, “because I’ve discovered the truth.”

Just like he had with the other girls in the room, Carl applied heavy makeup to my face, but I was still wearing the clothes I had left my house in, which I later assumed were pretty enough for him. He took pictures of me, showing me each one in turn, but I was disgusted by the terrible makeover, especially since I had become obsessed with trying to look beautiful to fit in at school. Then Carl set up the camera on his bed, recording a video of me, and standing over me with the knife. I was scared out of my mind and screamed as loud as I could. I was always told my scream could break glass, which was not true obviously, but it was still a pretty effective distraction.

However, Carl was distracted by a second scream from downstairs, and he seemed to panic, backing away from me as running footsteps came up the stairs. I watched as a woman, who I later found out was Anne, his mother, burst through the door. She saw the bodies, and then looked at me. Anne bravely wrestled the knife out of her son’s hands, and it fell next to me. My hands were tied behind my back, but I was able to sit up, grab it, and with difficulty, cut the rope around my wrists. Anne had Carl pinned to the floor as I cut the rope binding my ankles, and she screamed at me to run, so I did. Not wanting to stay in the house, I ran to the closest public store and told them to call the police, that people had been murdered.

The memories were even more vivid when the officer showed me the photos Carl had taken of me, as well as the video. I felt a little sick as I watched myself about to be murdered, and then escape, but the camera hadn’t been shut off as Anne fought with Carl. He managed to throw her off of him and grab the knife, and Anne backed out of the frame. He went after her, and everything was still for a couple of minutes. Then Carl fell to the floor in front of the camera, the knife falling out of his hands, the open wound on his throat bleeding profusely.

The officer turned the camera off, explaining to us that it continued to record Carl’s dead body for a good five minutes before the SD card finally ran out of space. It was concluded that he had killed himself. What I didn’t understand was, why didn’t I remember any of this?

They told me that, after the incident, I was put into therapy, but it wasn’t doing any good. I was losing sleep, and when I did sleep, I was plagued with nightmares, reliving the event. After a few weeks, I told the therapist that I just wanted to forget, so she decided to tell me about an experimental treatment that involved hypnotism. I didn’t believe in that stuff, but I was willing to try it. After being hypnotized, the therapist was able to wipe my memories of the experience, and even meeting Carl in the first place.

It wasn’t explained in the dream how I didn’t hear about my escape from people who read the newspaper or watched the news on TV, but I had heard about the other murders, and that someone got away alive. In reality, forgetting the event would be impossible, and there’s no way they wouldn’t have reported about the one survivor. I’m guessing that it’s possible (in the dream) that they kept my identity a secret, saying there was an anonymous survivor, so I’m going to assume that’s what happened.

The documentary switched back to me speaking with Anne, and she told me that, after I escaped, Carl had thrown her off. She backed away as he pointed the knife at her, but told him that she was sorry she couldn’t have saved him from the torture he endured, that no one deserved what happened to him. She was sure that Carl’s real parents were up in Heaven, looking down at their poor baby living in Hell, and that there was no way Anne was ever going to be up there with them after death, but she hopes they know how sorry she was. After hearing all of this, Carl had started crying, and then slit his own throat, killing himself.

The film ended with a scene of me before I had discovered the truth of my involvement, petting the old cat and smiling. The director’s voice over said, “some speculate that Carl did not kill himself, but that Anne had grabbed his hand holding the knife and forced him to cut his own throat. There’s no proof of this, but it’s this point that makes the story very mysterious. Did Carl actually commit suicide, or did Anne Dawson kill her adopted son? We may never know, and Anne certainly denies the allegation. Nearly a decade after the tragedy, Kara has remembered what she experienced, and it may take some time for her to really come to terms with it. The families of the victims give words of encouragement, hoping that she values the life that was almost taken from her. Carl Dawson’s story remains a dark stain on history, one that is impossible to forget, no matter how hard you try.”

After watching all three parts of the documentary, I sat away from my computer and sighed, wiping the tears that had come from my eyes. My dream self had known exactly what the film contained even before I watched it, having remembered everything during filming, but it was a massive shock to my conscious self. Other than the tears, my dream self didn’t seem to express how I felt about the situation, but left a comment under the third part. It said, “this turned out very good, I’m glad to have been a part of it.”

Then the dream changed to my male rat Sammy actually being a girl, and the reason she was so fat was because she was pregnant. Within twelve hours, she gave birth, the babies grew fur, opened their eyes, and were running around my apartment. I had to round them up and put them in a cage. It was as if the previous dream, so complex and detailed, never happened.

It’s not often that I remember a dream so clearly, and I’m surprised I was able to recall almost everything. This entire post is almost eight thousand words long, and I doubt anyone has read this whole thing. It doesn’t matter to me, I just needed to document it, but I wanted to share it just in case people are interested in reading the whole thing. I feel a little better after getting this out, but my throat feels tight when I remember what poor Carl had to go through, and even what Kyle went through until he started doing the same thing.

I’m not sure what this dream means. Maybe it’s telling me I will lose my life by being murdered someday, maybe it’s telling me I will escape from a murderer. Maybe it’s simply telling me to value my life while I can. Or maybe it was showing me some sick, subconscious fantasy combining my fear of people with my fear of experiencing a painful death. It’s no secret that, even though I don’t fear my life ending, I am afraid of being tortured or dying painfully. That’s why I am able to write “Muffins,” because I write about what I’m afraid of. It’s therapy in a sense.

Whatever it means, I’m glad it’s over.

Deep Web Urban Legend: Human Experiments

The “Deep Web” is more of a term to describe websites that can’t be accessed through your typical browser. The corner of the Deep Web that holds the crazy shit is known as the Darknet, but for the sake of people not knowing the difference, I will refer to it as the Deep Web.

I actually learned about the “Human Experiments” website that supposedly exists on the Deep Web the same time I learned about Sad Satan. (You can find that blog entry here:https://reitannaseishin.wordpress.com/2015/08/09/sad-satan/) I’ve actually been hearing a lot of stories concerning the Deep Web that just seem so… farfetched. Don’t get me wrong, the Deep Web is a dangerous place to be, and you need to be careful, but it’s actually not quite as bad as people say. When I heard about Human Experiments, I thought to myself, “well, wait… that seems pretty unrealistic.” Once again, I decided to dig deeper.

For the first time in ages, I started up Tor and looked around. There were some changes! For one, both Torbook and Galaxy had been shut down, so now the two main social networking sites are Blackbook and Galaxy2. I also found something that very much surprised me! A small, simple website dedicated to freeing Tor of CP! Granted, I know the creators have good intentions, but in reality, their movement is not going to keep Cheese Pizza off of the Deep Web. All the same, I’m in full support of it, and more power to them for trying!

ftncp_bb

Before I get into my journey, I have to clear something up. Human trafficking is a real thing, and it does occur on the Deep Web. There is plenty of evidence of sales of human body parts on the Black Market, websites dedicated to cannibalism, and plenty of other sites involving murder and torture. Red Rooms exist, no doubt about that, though I think you need to pay to enter one, and as far as I know, it’s illegal to view their content. And you know what? Snuff films exist, my friends, so there is no end to the atrocities the Deep Web has to offer. However, I am going to explain to you why it is not only possible, but probable that the Human Experiments website was not what the stories claim it to be.

The Hidden Wiki is pretty good at listing active websites and telling you exactly what you’ll find on them. It also shows which sites were taken down, but sometimes it’s not as consistent as we’d like it to be. Going through the entire list of sites, there is not a single link to Human Experiments, and it’s not even listed as one of the sites that were taken down. I actually searched quite a few link directories before I finally found it. The wiki took me to a site called TorLinks, and under the “media” section, there is a link to “The Human Experiment.” When clicked on, it simply says there was an error connecting to the site, which is typical for sites that are taken down.

Here’s my question: Why would a site dedicated to torturing and killing people of all ages and genders be so easily accessible? Sure, it took some time to track down, but it’s still on one of the main link sites listed on the Hidden Wiki. It’s not actually that hard to find! Also, usually when sites are taken down, they pop back up again rather quickly, so where is the new Human Experiments site? And last thing, if Red Rooms are so hard to find and require payment to enter, why was Human Experiments so casual?

First, note that, just like on the Surface Web (AKA the Clearnet), there are honest sites. I found a site dedicated to helping people deal with depression and getting help to fight suicide. I even found an anonymous “confessions” site where you “confess your sins” without even having to make a screen name. However, just like on the Surface, there are also troll sites. I came across a site called “Gorey Site.” Thinking that maybe “Gorey” was accidentally spelled wrong, I clicked it, and was brought to this page:

gorey1

Well cool, okay… BestGore has a warning on the front page too, and a nice cute picture of a puppy to click if you want to leave. So I clicked “ENTER SITE” and was brought to this page:

gorey2

Yup, that’s it. There are no other pages aside from this one. This is Gorey, my friends, and apparently it’s in Ireland! I distinctly remember saying out loud, “oh, that’s messed up” because I seriously thought it was going to be a real gore site. Nope, I got trolled. To be fair, the town looks very pretty.

Next, let’s discuss what we know about Human Experiments. The only thing we have that “proves” its existence is a few screen shots. I think there are four in total, but I could only find three. I will post them here, but note that the text may contain disturbing subject matter to some. There are no actual pictures of people being tortured, so don’t worry about that. Here they are:

print 3 print 2 humanexperiment3

I’m pretty sure the page I’m missing is the “about us” page (as far as I know, warehouse two and four do not exist), but here’s what it says…

“In this website, we attempt to illustrate several experiments that are being conducted by our group on human subjects. The people chosen for this range of experiments are usually homeless people that are unregistered citizens. Experimentations range from:

· starvation and water/fluid restriction

· vivisection/pain tolerances

· infectious diseases and organ effects

· transfusions

· drug trials

· sterilization

· Neonate and infant tolerances to x-rays, heat, and pressure.

Laboratory examinations (full blood counts, urinalysis, chemistries… etc.) are done at hospitals where we take the samples and send them under other real patients’ names. The results are carefully dispersed so as not to arouse suspicion. The bodies of the dead are dissected and then disposed of in dumpsters of meat shops where their bodies will not be found. No IRB approval was sought for this secret range of experimentations. The high command oversees all operations and designates potential targets. The names of the test subjects will be kept confidential. Only their serial numbers will be displayed.”

It is also stated that their team consists of three nurses, six medical students, two medical interns, and three medical residents. Not only that, but they refer to themselves as “the high command.” Hmm… sounds like something you’d hear in a Shitpasta written by an angsty thirteen year old. Laboratory examinations are done at real hospitals under real patients’ names? No. No they are not. There is absolutely no way that wouldn’t arouse suspicion. To make it even more convincing, there are four warehouses where the victims are kept, and they are completely unguarded! Talk about professional!

As a horror writer, the main reason I search for gore and violence is for research. I need to know how to torture and kill my characters’ victims as realistically as possible, even if it’s fiction. The other parts of my research are to study the psychology of different types of killers, find out how they eluded capture for as long as they did, and also find out how they finally got caught. I need to study cases from both the view of the killer and the legal system, otherwise your fictional character seems about as realistic as Jeff the Killer.

Let me tell you this; disposing human bodies in restaurant meat dumpsters will not go unnoticed, and in fact, is probably one of the most reckless things a killer can do if they don’t want to get caught. Do you really think human remains are just going to be ignored, dissected or not? Especially if you’re disposing of as many humans as you claim to be? Not only that, but you have at least twenty people in each warehouse. That’s eighty people right there, but the site claims to hold more if they need to. They claim that these experiments are done if the team has “spare time.” If?

So let me get this straight. You have medical professionals and medical students experimenting on at least eighty people stretched across four different warehouses. Hang on, stay with me here. I know that people in the medical field are quite busy building their careers, so I understand that school and work might leave one with little to no “spare time.” So… these eighty-some people are locked up in four abandoned warehouses located god knows where, and they are completely unguarded? No. Just no. Will someone get all of these little teenagers off of the Deep Web please? Parents, do your job!

Because of my thirst for knowledge, I am rather good at doing research. According to the screenshots, I have found some very interesting things! One, the only pages you could go to were “home,” “experiments,” and “about us.” The “experiments” page brought you to the same place clicking on the warehouses would, and that’s just a simple description of the experiments taking place. When I say “simple,” I mean written by someone who has very little knowledge of the subject matter they are writing about. There are no pictures or videos on the site. In fact, further research led me to discover that the entire site was created using a web designer template! Human Experiments was nothing more than text thrown on to a few blank layouts!

But don’t assume I only did research on the Clearnet, oh no, I dug as deep as I could legally go, and there is absolutely no record of anyone visiting this site and finding actual footage of torture and murder. All of those stories you read on reddit or the Creepypasta wiki are just that; stories. None of them are true. Besides, looking at the screenshots of the site, it’s obvious that medical professionals, highly educated and intelligent people, did not write any of it. I’m sure even a nurse would know better than to put a comma in the sentence, “we go, where few dare.” Not to mention other grammatical mistakes, as well as using the British nontechnical spelling of “foetus” instead of “fetus.” The word “foetus” is rarely ever used, and I have a feeling the one writer of the site’s content only used it to look professional, when in reality, it just made him/her look like a jackass.

So, did the Human Experiments site exist? Yes, but it was nothing more than a couple of pages spewing fictional nonsense to scare people. It was just a troll site, an attempt to create an origin for Creepypastas. And you know what? It worked! People seriously think this site was what the stories say, but it wasn’t! So why did it get taken down? Well, it’s no secret that the FBI is trying to regulate the Deep Web (though they are failing), so the stories surfacing on the Clearnet would attract attention to the site. It was so easily accessible, it wouldn’t take long for feds to track it down, do an investigation, and shut down the site. But would some badly written descriptions of experiments done on human beings really warrant for a full fledged investigation? Most likely not. The police deal with internet hoaxes all the time. Chances are, this site was shut down simply to put the stories to rest, but I don’t think the FBI realizes how stupid most of the people on the internet are. The smart ones would know better than to dump their victims’ bodies in a dumpster.

Human Experiments could’ve been way more convincing. You can find tons of pictures on an image search on like Google or Bing and find plenty of pictures of human experimentation. Dig deep enough, and I’m sure you’ll find some videos too! There’s plenty of footage of mental hospital lobotomies performed in early days, so I’m sure there are other experiments too. Or if anything, you could’ve faked the experiments yourself. What really gave it away was the bad writing, the completely unrealistic explanations of how the team worked, and lack of site navigation. I’m sure there’s a Red Room somewhere doing exactly what this site claimed they were doing, but I guarantee it’s harder to get to than just a few clicks.

This story is a hoax. You know, at least Sad Satan tried. The original “gameplay” may have been a hoax, but the person who made the clone laced it with a virus, so they did some actual harm. Human Experiments didn’t even try, they may as well have just created the site on the Surface and claim it was real. Then again, if it’s on the Deep Web, it’s super duper scary, right?

Alright, so I’m going to go take my camera, some liquid latex, fake blood, and some random knives, lead my best friend into the forest, and create a fake snuff film to post on the Deep Web to get some scares. No, screw the knives! I’m just so edgy, I won’t need them to cut her open!

In all seriousness, I’d love to make a fake snuff film, but I’d need a lot more than liquid latex and fake blood. So… yeah, sarcasm.

Did this post disturb you? Here’s a puppy: