!!!

hihi!! welcome to my page. feel free to request, though I may not write it based off my own comfortability. or just shoot me a message, that’s cool too !! !! MINOR

[voiceofaboud]

Oh, my God, it feels like the first days of the war all over again. Bombing everywhere in Gaza right now. It you scroll past this without sharing, please question your humanity.

[voiceofaboud]

[voiceofaboud]

I just got a call from my mother while I’m lying in a hospital bed. She was screaming as my younger siblings cried in terror. The bombing was very close, and they survived by a miracle. Please donate to help evacuate my family and keep them alive.

Chuffed – PayPal – Verified

[aboodgaza0]

please share

[joeyclaire]

please share and donate!

[artsekey]

reblog to microwave them faster

[artsekey]

the speed of 20 reblogs... what could 100 do...

[koolyourjetz]

Do I creep you out?

Male!Husband!Yandere x ???!Reader

Summary: He’s losing it. The day he paid for his sin has come, and it has taken the very form of what tempted him most. You have forsaken him, left him with nothing but rot and regret. He is going to suffer. And it will never end.

(A/N: dude this is gonna be the darkest fic I’ve made yet. This dude is genuinely losing it.)

Warnings!!! (I’m not putting this lightly): EXTREMELY experimental (grammatical errors and run-on sentences are INTENTIONAL), body horror, graphic descriptions of death, both canon suicide and implied suicide, descriptions of abuse, overall dread, involuntary regression (somewhat)

He’s been in the bathroom for exactly 25 minutes. Not a second has passed that has slipped past his watchful eye— wide and always present— never, never in the past. For exactly 25 minutes, his finger has been shakily kept upon his pistols trigger. For exactly 25 minutes, he’s been pointing said gun at the bathroom door.

Something is behind it.

And it’s pounding. It has been pounding for 25 minutes. His arm is starting to hurt—it’s been hurting for 23 minutes— but he can’t put the gun down because if he puts the gun down you’ll get in and you’ll reach him with those fingers those fingers that aren’t yours yet they shake and tremble with a rage only you’d know—

“Open the door?”

That’s not you. It’s not you and it’s making him sick. The marble floor below him is freezing solid, as if having been phased through by a ghost. That’s not you. You’re not his wife. His loving, beautiful wife. You’re sick and disgusting and you’re pounding on the door.

“Leave!” He barked, yet his vocal cords betray him. He won’t stop shaking, why won’t he stop? He needs it to stop. Stop. Stop. Stop.

Instead of the demanding order he was forced to use upon you— you, his darling you, why have you left him in his hell?— was grotesquely morphed into a whimper, scratching at his nerves like a mutt paws on his front door.

“Leave, please, please, get out of my house!”

Some semblance of rage is forming within him, yet the stillcoldstillcold floor beneath him blows out the flame. You won’t stop pounding on the door. It gets louder, it’s so so loud and his mind is spinning so quickly he can’t think.

“Stop it, stop it, stop it, stop it, stopstopstopstopstopstop!”

When did he start screaming? 1 minute ago. Hes been in the bathroom for 26 minutes. You’ve been pounding on the door for 25 minutes.

And the bathroom is grey. He’s a liar, it’s black. Moss looking shadows consume the walls, beckoning him to lose himself within them. Everything is shrinking and growing and the smell of rot penetrates his nostrils with almost glee. The unbearable thumping sound barely constitutes as a coherent choice now, you’re simply hungry.

The darkness consumes a bullet, and you do not cease. Breath is racing to be freed from its host now, as if sensing a rancid omen in the air. His head is pounding his mind forgetting that he can even think at all, replaced with the suffocating thought that perhaps you’ve been replaced by something sinister— that you’ve left him completely and moved on from being the pet he craved. It’s not his fault. This isn’t his fault you know it isn’t his fault you know it isn’t his fault you know what he went through

“LEAVE!”

you know how his mother treated him you know how she beat and beat

and beat and beat and beat and beat

“GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!”

andbeatandbeatandbeatandbeatandbeatandbeatbeatbeatbeatbeatbeatbeat

Your hands— so many hands— desperately lunge for him from underneath the door— squirming with flesh that isn’t yours and breathing with life that you’ve—

“YOU’RE NOT MY WIFE!”

it’s been 30 minutes.

.

.

.

.

The walls are still black. His arm is still tired. But it is quiet. The worst part about silence is the fact that his mind always filled in the gaps. It was never truly silent, really. The outside world just went quiet for a little bit.

His mind isn’t very nice to him.

His skin feels like static, and he’s remembering her hands and how badly they hurt. He remembers seeing his tears in yours as fist pounded against skin with a rhythm so horrible it felt like home.

Is this damnation? Has he died and been casted out by God, forced to sit endlessly; gun pointed at the door.

31.

35.

So, so fast. Time always moved so fast for you. You you you you you you you you, was he really so wrong? After everything, years of screaming for a God that never came, didn’t he deserve to become his own salvation? Didn’t you, his twin flame, forever wife, deserve to beg for yours?

This isn’t fair, apart of him cries, one bubbling with snot and tears— vile. Filthy, filthy, filthy. He needed to crawl deep within himself and claw that brats skin away from his— an imposter posing as someone he should love someone he should love

You’re humming behind the door, and his head gets all fuzzy. Ha, haha. Hmmmm….

Something clatters against the floor.

Or was that song his mother’s?

The walls are melting. His arm is rotting.

He thinks he trained you for that..?

The walls are laughing at him.

…

.

When did he drop his gun?

.

.

.

“Is it the blood?”

Blood. No, no, no no no no. The blood seeps from under the door— from where did the arms go— and began to make their way toward his feet. The gap between you two began to merge so disgustingly close and his mind began to turn on him why does EVERYONE turn on him fuzzy everything is so FUZZY.

And the blood keeps moving— on his feet. He can still feel the blood on his hands when he found YOU— the real, if anything ever was, you— you hurt yourself so badly and your blood was everywhere and the blood wouldn’t come off no matter how much skin he scrapped off of him or you or him or you.

Why did you leave him? Why does everyone? Why? Whywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhy

“Make it stop,” someone is sobbing, wailing with painful arms and blooded fingertips and slit open stomachs. “Please? I’ll be good, I promise. Please, please, please stop it.”

whywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhy

But it never ends. Blood doesn’t come off of skin so nicely. Rot doesn’t end so soon. Walls aren’t repaired so easily.

WHYWHYWHYWHYWHYWHYWHYWHYWHY

A door is opened. A gun is pointed. A shot sounds.

Someone is dead.

…………………………………………………………………………

A/N: okay, this was a huge huge experimental thing. also also, it was a way for me to push myself to write SOMETHING. Please let me know what you guys think (don’t fry me tho 💔💔).. most of this is supposed to be nonsensical. Hope you enjoyed!

[neechees]

📄 This isn't just a medical report… this is a desperate plea to save a mother 💔

Today I'm sharing something heart-breaking…

This isn't just a piece of paper; it's a medical report confirming the fear and pain we experience every day. This is my friend's mother… a mother battling cancer after a long journey with chemotherapy.She underwent treatment, she suffered, she persevered, and she's still trying to cling to life despite everything.The report shows that the disease isn't over yet, that the road ahead is still long and expensive, and that the pain continues.

My friend can't sleep peacefully; he lives in constant anxiety watching his mother weaken day by day, fearing that financial hardship will prevent her from receiving another chance at treatment… or even another day of life.

I'm writing this post for him because he no longer has the strength to speak.

All he wants is to save his mother… nothing more. Any donation, no matter how small, can ease her pain, and any share can amplify her voice to someone who can help. Don't leave a mother to face her illness alone, and don't let a son live the nightmare of losing his mother while he's still alive. This message carries real pain…

Whoever can ease this pain, please lend a hand now.

Fundraiser by Keti Jovanovski | Give Abdul Rahman's Family from Gaza a Chance at Life

Keti Jovanovski Needs Your Help | A letter from Abdul Rahman: Dear friends and kind hearts, My name is Abdul Rahman, and I write to you from

This Palestinian's vetting info can be found on the pinned post of my blog.

[koolyourjetz]

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 Best Friends Forever !!

Yan!BFF x Reader !!

Synopsis: You’re his saving grace— a light that shone upon him in his darkest hour; the least he can do is stay forever by your side.

CONTENT WARNINGS: obsessive and delusional behavior (really bad… 😕), reader is hypersexual, discussion of sexual abuse (reader), infantilization, murder, desires of kidnapping and murder.

Yan!BFF who was pretty much a nobody before he met you.

For as long as he could remember, he didn’t exist. An outsider to humanity itself, he could only peer in as others kindered friendships and love. Envy became the most consistent figure in his life, filling the gaps fun and whimsy should’ve. All he could do was watch. And watch. And watch.

Yan!BFF who almost forgets how to breathe when you first offered him your hand.

You transferred to his elementary school yesterday, and already you’ve completely turned his life on its head. He had resumed his natural place— isolated and a mere spectator— when you simply appeared.

“What’s your name?” You had chirped, reaching toward him like you had known him for years.

Now pulled to his feet, he could only stare.

Someone was speaking to him. Why? Why him? Why defy what’s always been and take the risk of acknowledging his presence? Why? He couldn’t understand— why someone as strange as yourself would even bother—

“Oh, are you deaf?” Your innocent voice cut in, having been left waiting because of his little inner soliloquy. “Sorry, I don’t know sign or anything.”

“No.” He managed, meek and small. “Just a little surprised. I-I’m Liam.”

A smile graces your lips just then, did you even notice? Wide and carefree, showing all of your teeth to a world as if unafraid of its possible rejection.

“Okay! You’re my first friend then, okay?”

Friend.

Just like that?

You want him— as your friend?

“Liam, you’re getting quiet again!” You playfully whined. “I wanna go and play, c’mon!”

And as you took his hand, it all made sense. Everything clicked, and the world gained color for the first time.

“I’ll play whatever you want.” Liam mumbled, more to himself. “Forever and ever.”

Yan!BFF who stuck around after that, almost like a puppy. From elementary to middle school, from middle school to high school. Never did he part ways with you, never would he allow it.

Spending the night at your place, he quietly watches you rest with silent devotion. Did you know? How you saved his life? How you single-handedly shifted the trajectory of his pathetic existance? Or did you do it just to do it? Because you saw someone weak and desired to save them?

It didn’t matter, and he had no right to question your intentions. You picked him up. You saved him.

Yan!BFF who enjoys caretaking.

Forgot to drink water? A water bottle suddenly appeared in your bag pocket!

Low on food? Good! He ‘accidentally’ made himself too big of a portion, anyway. Weirdly, it’s always what you’ve been craving that week..

Scrapped your knee? No one’s helping you but him. The nurse was probably busy, anyway. Don’t worry, he’ll gently clean it off and wrap it; he’ll do it as many times as it takes.

“Hey, you really d’have to.” You mumbled, wincing as he cleaned the wound. “I’m not five.”

Concentrated, he doesn’t meet your eye. “I know. Just looking out. You shouldn’t have to worry about stuff like this.”

And oh, when you get sick?

Right. At. Your. Side. Like. A. Dog.

Suffocatingly sweet, endlessly enduring.

“Shh, hey, you’re okay.” He hummed, his voice almost like music— but maybe that was the fever. “Wanna drink some water? Grabbed some from downstairs.”

All you could really do was whine, nod, or shake your head. Everything hurt and you didn’t really wanna do anything… but he sounded so proud when you agreed.

“You’re doing great. This’ll help the headache.”

Sometimes he’d hope you’d get sick like this more often, only then do you really let him do what he should be doing all the time.

Hey Google, what can weaken the immune system?

Yan!BFF who really, REALLY, didn’t like the men you’d see.

He doesn’t call them boyfriends, mostly because they’re just using you.

All of them 5+ years your senior, all of them perverted, none of them with good intention. They all look at you the same— like wolves salivating at fresh meat.

Disgusting vermin that deserve to die.

You’ve made a cycle out of this. A freak takes interest, you indulge them, they leave. It’s not your fault, no. It’s them. They take advantage. They hurt. They lie. They savor.

But, in the most shameful way, he’s grateful for it. Because, in the end, it all ends the same.

You crying in his arms.

“I hate myself,” you hiccuped, face buried into his shoulder as you slurred endless degrading remarks unto yourself. “All I do is—is sleep ‘round and cry.”

You shouldn’t be thinking this way about yourself, sweet girl. But he can’t cut you off yet, you’d hate that. He needs you. He needs you to need him, too.

“Threw myself at my teacher— threw myself at my boss— I—I—“ you wailed, almost choking on your own suffering.

Dirty. Filthy. Tainted. Never clean. That’s all you’ll ever be, or atleast, that’s what you’ve convinced yourself. His hands will never leave you, and no matter how much you run— you’ll never escape the feeling of being dirty.

Note to self: he really needs to kill your father.

“—You’re hurt.” He cut in, tilting your chin toward him. “You’ve been hurt for such a long time.”

His words taste like honey, wrapping around you like perfume and invading your most self-deprecating thoughts.

“The way you express that? Not your fault. None of it is.”

He shouldn’t keep talking.

“It’s theirs.”

He does anyway.

“They’re mindless pigs that can’t be helped.”

Can you blame him?

“All they do is lie. Liars like that hurt people like you.”

He’s said too much.

Through now half-lidded eyes, you let out a yawn. Breakdowns tend to do that to people.

“People like me?”

And once you fall asleep, he pressed his lips to your scalp.

“Perfect.”

Yan!BFF who always refused to sleep with you. He doesn’t need to be your boyfriend, being your best friend was enough.

You’d always put him first anyway, so he never cared for the title. All he needed was to stay by your side. <3

On that note, Yan!BFF who’s been thinking..

Maybe it’s better that those men went away. They’ve long overstayed their welcome.

..

Maybe it’s time he takes you away from all this. Where you can be safe. Where you can heal. Where you can thrive.

Where your best friend forever can protect you.

Forever and ever.

A/N: this took forever.. sorry!! Writers block </3. Pushed myself for this, enjoy!

[koolyourjetz]

Wait guys,,, because I have another idea rotting in my brain and I wanna write about it.. but lmk what you guys want first !! (I plan to do both in time.)

Choose what I should write next!

Continue Yan!bully storyline (if so, comment ideas for a pt.2 ✌️🥹)

Platonic!yan!BFF (who’s 2x worse than a romantic Yandere.. 🙂‍↕️)

Voting ended onDec 11, 2025

[koolyourjetz]

Kk!! We’re going with the platonic!yan!BFF then!! Ik I’ve said this before but I really need ideas for the bully!yan storyline 💔.. I don’t wanna drop it but I lwk don’t know where to go from there.

[koolyourjetz]

Wait guys,,, because I have another idea rotting in my brain and I wanna write about it.. but lmk what you guys want first !! (I plan to do both in time.)

Choose what I should write next!

Continue Yan!bully storyline (if so, comment ideas for a pt.2 ✌️🥹)

Platonic!yan!BFF (who’s 2x worse than a romantic Yandere.. 🙂‍↕️)

Voting ended onDec 11, 2025

[koolyourjetz]

Okay, I actually don’t have any ideas on what to write to continue the yan!bully series 🥹✌️.. I’d really appreciate it if someone can drop an idea or prompt in my inbox for me to write to!!

All I ask is NO SMUT and nothing sacrilegious!”

[koolyourjetz]

Haii I was wondering if u would ever make a follow up for yan bully? Like possibly a pt2?? If u are PLS DOO IAM HOOKED I LOVE THE WAY U WRITE

Yes yes yes of course I will!! I’m planning to go more in depth on their relationship ❤️‍🩹 and tysm!! I love their dynamic. Thank you sm for your support ❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹

Also also!! If you have any requests to things I should write ABOUT them and their relationship, you can request it!! (Js no smut !)

[koolyourjetz]

꒰🐾꒱𐂯 FAST AS YOU CAN !!

yan!bully x dark!reader (headcannon format!!)

Synopsis: He’s been tormenting you since you two were kids; unending torment and mockery being the only consistency between you. But things change with age. People get worse.

TRIGGER WARNINGS: Graphic descriptions of violence, bullying, unhealthy relationships, implied child abuse, implied S/H.

⋆˚࿔ yan!bully who’s been your only friend— using the term “friend” loosely— for as long as you could remember.

He’s the only one who’s stuck around for more than a week. Everyone else, even if they seemed really kind, always seemed to leave you behind. It doesn’t help that he loved to spread rumors about you, even on the playground.

⋆˚࿔ yan!bully who’s source of entertainment stems from your tears. Kicking, punching, pinching, it didn’t matter. If it made those pathetic droplets of water spill down your face, it did its job.

Faintly, you recall the sound of his laughter through your tears; you loathed the sound. It was so loud. So high-pitched listening to it made you feel like a mutt hearing a dog whistle. It filled you with so much fear, so much stress— you’d pray you’d go deaf than hear it again.

⋆˚࿔ yan!bully who HATED it when you’d dissociate. None of you, being no older than 10, knew exactly what dissociation was; all he knew was that you’d get all spacey and quiet. You wouldn’t cry. He hated it.

“Cmon, cmon!” He demanded, venom spilling from his lips as another rock slammed into you.

On the floor, you sputtered— yet no sob escaped you. Eyes vacant, you mentally drifted off to somewhere else. Where? You couldn’t explain it if you tried. It was warm, though. That’s all that mattered.

“Ugh!” He screamed, his voice cracking and bursting with frustration. “You ruin everything for me, you freak!”

The waterfall landed softly on you, coating you in strange comfort— like some weird blanket. It was both refreshing and baffling, you think faintly. Water isn’t supposed to be so warm.

“Just cry already, you big baby! It’s all your good for! So cmon— do it already!”

But that doesn’t really matter, does it? It feels nice. You just want to feel nice.

You only scream when he shattered your rib, his eyes shooting open in typical I-don’t-wanna-get-in-trouble-fashion. You were crying alright, something he could savor later, but for now— you needed to shut up. Someone could hear you!

You cried, and cried, and cried, ripped from your safe space. Ripped from your warmth.

Nobody came.

⋆˚࿔ yan!bully who no one believes can do such a thing. Not only is he a little sweetheart when the teachers are looking, but his parents keep their pockets full and their mouths shut he’s also incredibly generous and thoughtful! Maybe you’re the problem. You’re picking on an innocent boy, after all.

Even with your broken rib— something that kept you out of school for a few days— your accusations were treated like threats, putting you in detention for what seemed like hours.

That satisfied him. If he wouldn’t be the one to make you suffer, your parents definitely will.

⋆˚࿔ yan!bully who follows you to middle school, then highschool. You both grow older, of course. His cruelty gets less comedically evil and more psychologically destructive. Rumors on the playground become slut-shaming and accusations of things you didn’t even wanna think about.

Insults and photos of your face on sex worker photos liter your locker, snickering from kids passing by ringing in your ears. You didn’t cry much anymore, which threw him off. You just got quiet. Too quiet for his liking.

Yet, that shake in your hands? The almost nonexistent yet ever present clench of teeth as you tried—and failed— to wipe your precious locker clean? Delicious.

It was only a matter of time before you shattered, something he’s been waiting for.

⋆˚࿔ yan!bully who’s embarrassingly lonely. Yeah, sure, everyone likes him. He has money, he’s charismatic, yada yada yada— but no one really likes him. No one ever talks to him about anything non-superficial. His parents, hah! He’d be impressed if they knew he was alive.

What a miserable life he lives, huh? Wake up, pretend to care about anything he has “going for him,” talk with people who wouldn’t care if he stopped breathing and dropped dead, and—

And be with you.

You, who never once faked interest in him. You HATED him, and that was REAL. So hypnotizingly authentic, he couldn’t get enough! Sure, it was “at your expense,” and yeah he has seen those bandages on your wrists— but could you blame him? No one blames the addict, right?

⋆˚࿔ yan!bully who seems to go too far one day.

Today was just off, for starters. You woke up feeling.. fuzzy. Your parents didn’t mess around and give you a concussion, did they? No, probably not, no.

Everything seemed so much more dull than usual, as if the world had been overtaken by grey and black. Each step was a burden, every breath a war. Why did your body feel so heavy?

When did living become so insufferable?

When did he become so insufferable?

Before you could brush it off; sort of what you did when he forced you into an empty classroom post-school hours. Just humiliation. None of his friends showed up, so you figured it could either be so much better— or weirdly intimate. He always liked to be so close to you in that way.

But watching him talk and talk and talk? It was driving you insane. Words fell from his mouth yet no sound followed. All you saw was his face; now cheeky and addictively punchable—

And you swung.

Your fist connects dead-center to his face, an audible crack telling of its effect. A gasp escaped his throat, falling back against the wall as crimson gushed down his face.

As your foot met his chest— over and over again— you reached that waterfall again. Serene and quiet, calm and steady. You haven’t been here in so long, huh? You missed it.

Below you, he chokes and cries out, blubbering pleads and yelps for help. His body, now riddled with bruises and cuts, now laid frail and pathetic under your heel.

“Ghhk— he— help.” He managed.

The school is empty, though.

And nobody came.

⋆˚࿔ yan!bully who’s relationship with you is.. different.. after that.

Oh, did he finally leave you alone? No. Of course not. Keep up.

He’s clingier now. Always on your arm or pressing his face to your shoulder, always holding your hand and whining if he can’t.

No one but him can torment you, either. No more rumors, no more friends to hold you down as he beat you— na da. Just him. Only him.

No one else knows you like he does. And no one else knows him like you do.

“You’re my favorite freak, yknow?” He drawled, lazily wrapping his arm around you.

You scoff quietly and look away, that vacant look in your eye tantalizing.

Before, he hated it. So bland and dull and whatever— but that afternoon? Seeing your expression fall flat as you beat him half to death?

Better than tears. So, so, so much better than tears.

And you’ve betrayed yourself, huh? You could easily leave. It’d hurt him more than beating him, and you no longer fear him as much as you did before. Simply ignoring him would definitely shatter him now. But you don’t.

And he knows whyyyyy!

You love him, right?

You’ve stuck around this long.

That means you have to.

─────────۶ৎ──────────

A/N: Guys.. guys.. did you see the parallel… guys.. haha.. guys.. anyway, feedback is very appreciated!! Comment what you think ❤️‍🩹🥹

[koolyourjetz]

Do yall wanna read a yan!bully x dark!reader fic 🥹❤️‍🩹..

[koolyourjetz]

— 🍓 ̟ !! Open Your Heart up!

Eʀɴᴇsᴛ (Yᴀɴᴅᴀᴅ) + Aɴᴏᴍᴀʟʏ!”Rᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ”

Synopsis: Ernest had nothing after you disappeared. Faced with the reality of the fact you’ll never return, he decides to join you in the afterlife. Well, until you’re suddenly on his doorstep, of course.

Warnings: Suicide attempt (doesn’t go through with it but it’s there), suicidal thoughts (redundant but whatever) descriptive gore, child loss, depression/depressive atmosphere.

A/N: Not proofread… 💔

‧̍̊·̊‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥‧̥·̊‧̍̊ ♡ °̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥ ·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ °̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥ ♡ ‧̍̊·̊‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥‧̥·̊‧̍̊ ‧̍̊·̊‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥‧̥·̊‧̍̊ ♡ °̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥ ♡

February 21st. 5 months ago. 5 months ago, you were ripped away from him. 5 months ago, you vanished from his arms. At school one second, taken the next. No one noticed until he screamed, begged police to send an army of men searching for you. For weeks, he marched up and down the surrounding forest in search of you, sobbing your name with love only a father could muster— only he could muster.

No use. None of it mattered, because you were gone. It didn’t matter the amount of questions he asked, leads he followed, suspects he’d beat, or missing posters he put up. He was still alone. You were still missing. Your room, filled with posters and trinkets, remained void of your light. He never watched TV anymore, as there was no one left to hold as horror movies droned on for hours at a time. Never left the house, as there was no one else he’d want to speak to. His wife had tried to reach out, he didn’t answer. Neighbors were scared away with warning gunshots. He was left alone, then. Too much of a threat to talk with. Too unstable.

How could he be stable? His very life was stolen from him, blown away and forgotten. There was no “stability” after that. Life was over.

Ernest wondered why he hadn’t killed himself yet as he mindlessly stalked the halls. As he passed photos on the wall, he pondered what kept him. At first, he told himself it was the chance you’d come back. He hoped to God that this was one big rebellious phase, you having ran off after the argument you two shared — goodness, how stupid he was — and simply got lost. But now, with the eerie silence whispering to him, he knew you were gone.

Your room welcomes him, door slightly cracked open, just like you always had it. Gently, his hand pushed the door back, and faintly— your favorite songs greeted him. Shivering, he allows the melody to consume him, pretending that you were at school and he came in here to set up a prank for your arrival. Yes, yes.. only here to put some glitter in your closet. Nothing harmful. Nothing wrong. You’d come home and gasp, playfully slapping his shoulder as the both of you cleaned it up the best you could. Dinner would be ready by then, and you’d both share your favorite. His arms would wrap around you, he thought, wrapping his arms around himself. You’d hug him.

Then, the song stopped. Having reached its finale, there’s a moment of silence between song changes that he’s reminded that he’s lost everything. You.

“My sweet girl,” he gently murmured, his eyes shifting up— as if hoping to see you in Heaven. He is only met with your roof, staring silently back down at him.

It was about time he came to see you, wasn’t it? You’ve been waiting so long. Alone, scared, wondering where your dear father could be. How stupid he was to leave you alone.

“I’ll see you soon.” A promise, this one he won’t break. Ernest swore to himself that he’d never break a promise to you again. Be it pushing the stars, or shifting the seas.

His fingers grace your record player, and he chooses to ignore the accumulating dust. Between his obsessive bursts of perfecting the essence your room, he found himself spiraling into episodes where ever glancing at your door would trigger hour-long breakdowns that seemed to last decades. Cautiously, like caressing glass, he played your favorite. One you shared together on laughter-filled nights and gentle mornings as he took you to school. Hearing its opening melody made his breath shake, goosebumps littering up and down his arms. As if you were still with him, he thought faintly, slowly heading back into the hallway.

Your father left your door wide open, allowing your song to fill your home. The walls sing and the paintings danced to, as if yearning for your presence once more. He understood. He understood completely. Who wouldn’t sob for the blessing of your voice? Wail for the sound of your rhythm? No one smart, he thought. No human at all.

Almost naturally, he swayed as he walked. It felt as though he were walking on clouds. A foreign yet familiar feeling of calm settled upon him, as he knew peace would be coming soon through his reunion with you. Downstairs is the same, filled with your presence as he switches the television to your favorite episodes (he had them all saved in await for your return.)

The only thing that brought him back to reality, only for a second, was the feeling of cold metal in his hand. His gun stared back at him with understanding, his bullets smiling within their chamber. Everything was quiet then. Not a sound besides what you allowed made itself know. His lips turn upwards, gently pressing the barrel to his chin, tilting his head upward. Back up. Back toward Heaven.

Back to you.

“Shh, shh,” he consoled to no one in particular. “It’s okay now. I’m coming now. Just..”

Like smoke, his words are blown away, leaving only a faint gasp to escape his throat as the gun cocked. Seconds away from freedom, his heart slammed against his chest. Each beat thrashed for freedom, away from its soon to die vessel that’s long betrayed it. He doesn’t listen. Not even as the sweat rolled down his brow.

His sweet baby was watching him with anticipation, holding his hand in acceptance as his thumb moved to—

—Someone’s knocking at his door.

Without his finger moving from the trigger, his eyes shift to the source of the intruding sound.

Knock. Knock.

His lips press together, the gun now shaking in his hand. Had someone suspected his escapade? No. He hadn’t spoken to anyone in, what, years? A wellness check? Officers were certainly noisy enough. Whatever it was, it was an obstacle. Keeping him away from what he needed most.

Slowly, he made his way over, gun tightening in his hand by his side.

He won’t let anything come between you two.

Knock. Knock.

There seemed to be an infinite space between himself and that traitorous door, and what lies behind it knocked in a strangely consistent pattern. Knock twice, wait for three, knock twice. His breath trembled, eyes wide yet narrowing as he leaned toward the peak-hole.

Where he met your eye.

“What is—“

“Dad?”

Instantaneously, Ernest almost fell to his knees, which now tried to give up on him. The gun falls from his hand, firing one bullet into the ceiling. His eyes don’t leave yours. You don’t flinch. But your voice— oh, your voice. Just as he remembered. Your song, although delightful, simply couldn’t compare. He had the real thing— had you before him. How? How didn’t matter. You were here. Just as he needed you, you came.

“Dad?” You repeated, your tone the same. Curious. Cheeky, even. “Cmon. Open up? It’s so cold out here. Dad?”

The door slammed open without a second thought as his arms snatched you into his chest. Oh you poor thing, you’re practically frozen! The winter (how long has it been winter?) must’ve stripped you of all your heat! Who knows how long you’ve been suffering out there.

“My girl. My sweet, sweet girl. My girl, my girl..” he chanted, his eyes shutting as he sobbed into your hair. “I’m here. Daddy’s here, my love. I’ll be here forever. You’ll never leave from my sight ever again. I promise, my baby, oh my baby..”

You didn’t resist, either. Didn’t move, simply receiving his hug in silence. You must be in shock, huh? Don’t worry. He’ll make it all go away, just as a real dad should. All the pain, the scars, the fear, he’ll never make you sad again. Nothing but joy and delight. He swore.

Countless kisses were planted on your crown, and he squeezed as if seeking to become you. To merge into your skin and never part. Your head tilted, eyes locking onto the kitchen. The melody didn’t stir a reaction out of you, nor did the television, but the fridge. He doesn’t mind at all, nor does he mention the slight nibble he felt on his shoulder.

“Goodness, you must—you must be starving,” Ernest whispered, almost manically. “Come on, baby, I’ll make your favorite.”

He drags you to the kitchen, quickly going through his pantry for any food that hasn’t gone bad. His back, regrettably, faced away from you. Losing himself in contentment, his shoulders slightly move to the steadfast music that flowed between the two of you. “You know, I read somewhere that I should only give you small portions for now.”

“No.” You mumble, your eyes focused on the freezer.

“Look, I know it sounds bad, but your stomach can’t handle too much food if you’ve been..” oh dear, he shouldn’t bring that up, should he? What an idiot, had he forgotten basic manners? “Hurt.”

Losing himself in the fantasy, he began to hum along to the song steadfast in the background, life feeling just about normal again. He’s interrupted with the sound of rummaging behind him. Turning, he’s met with you tearing through a package of rotting meat, your mouth stuffed and your eyes wild. Slightly larger than they should be, pupils so huge they almost took up the sclera.

“Baby!” He cried, his hands grabbing onto the meat, now half devoured, and failing to snatch it from your hands. In return, he heard you practically froth at the mouth. An animalistic, horrifying sound as you suffered. For his invasive efforts, you bit into his hand, ripping a scream from him as you take off meat. Blood gushes from the wound, and he quickly took his injured hand back. As if to continue your tirade, you began to crawl toward him before your head snapped to the side of him.

The oven. When he fell it had switched on. Some meat he had attempted to heat remained inside, cold and forgotten. The heat emanated some of its smell, enough to attract you. As he held his gaping wound, you ripped open the oven and began to feast.

No. How dare he. He’s describing you like you’re some animal. You’ve come home to him. Saved him, and he’s mocking you in return? No. No, no, no. He mentally slaps himself, shakily retrieving some napkins he hoped weren’t filthy, and began to cover his bite wound. You continued to eat to your hearts content, no longer hostile.

When you were finished, red stained your cheeks, meat stuck in your teeth and jaw moving rapidly to swallow. All he could see was his 5-year-old girl, giggling as her spaghetti-o’s stained her cheeks. You needed him. To help you.. take care of you..

“Don’t be scared,” he whispered weakly, crawling toward you. “It’s okay. Daddy was being so silly, wasn’t he? You were eating. Daddy is so, so sorry.”

Ernest takes you into his arms once more, sighing in relief at your acceptance. Nothing mattered anymore, not because of his suffering, but because of your security.

“Daddy will take care of you, and he’ll never let you go again.”

‧̍̊·̊‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥‧̥·̊‧̍̊ ♡ °̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥ ·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ °̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥ ♡ ‧̍̊·̊‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥‧̥·̊‧̍̊ ‧̍̊·̊‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥‧̥·̊‧̍̊ ♡ °̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥ ♡

A/N: I’d love to draw what “reader” looks like 🙏. Also, I wanna make a series of the other post I made (the zombie apocalypse yandad). Anyway, hope you enjoyed! Reblogs n comments r very important to me, so leave one if you can! Byebye.

[koolyourjetz]

──★ ˙🍓 ̟ ! “𝑆𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑛𝑎, 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞.“

Sᴇʙᴀsᴛɪᴀɴ (Zᴏᴍʙɪᴇ-Aᴘᴏᴄᴀʟʏᴘsᴇ!Yᴀɴᴅᴀᴅ) + Rᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ.

Sʏɴᴏᴘsɪs: ᴄᴏʀᴘsᴇs ᴀʀᴇ sᴜᴘᴘᴏsᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ʙɪɢ ʙᴀᴅ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴀᴘᴏᴄᴀʟʏᴘsᴇ. ʙᴜᴛ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ, ʏᴏᴜ’ʀᴇ ʀᴇᴍɪɴᴅᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴍᴀɴ ʜᴀs ᴀʟᴡᴀʏs ᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴏɴ ᴛᴏᴘ.

WARNⵊNGS: Gʀᴀᴘʜɪᴄ ᴅᴇsᴄʀɪᴘᴛɪᴏɴs ᴏꜰ ɢᴏʀᴇ, ᴛʀʏᴘᴏᴘʜᴏʙɪᴀ, ᴄʜɪʟᴅ ʟᴏss + ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, sᴜɪᴄɪᴅᴀʟɪᴛʏ (sʟɪɢʜᴛʟʏ), sʟɪɢʜᴛ ᴅᴇʟᴜsɪᴏɴ.

A/N: ᴢᴏᴍʙɪᴇs ᴀʀᴇ ᴄᴀʟʟᴇᴅ “ᴄᴏʀᴘsᴇs,“ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ ɪs sᴏᴄɪᴀʟʟʏ ɪɴᴇᴘᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ɪs ᴘʀᴇᴛᴛʏ ᴄʀᴜᴇʟ ʜᴇʀᴇ, ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ᴅᴏɴᴛ ᴘʀᴏᴏꜰʀᴇᴀᴅ 💔… ʜᴀᴠᴇ ꜰᴜɴ.

꧁⎝ 𓆩༺✧༻𓆪 ⎠꧂

ᴛʜᴇ sᴜɴ ʙᴇᴀᴍᴇᴅ ᴅᴏᴡɴ sᴏ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ʜᴀʀᴅᴇʀ ᴏɴ ʀᴀɪᴅɪɴɢ ᴅᴀʏs, ᴀs ɪꜰ ᴋɴᴏᴡɪɴɢ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴀʙᴏʀ ᴀɴᴅ sᴜꜰꜰᴇʀɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴄᴀᴍᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ sᴄᴀᴠᴇɴɢɪɴɢ ꜰᴏʀ ꜰᴏᴏᴅ. ᴇɴᴅʟᴇss ʀᴏᴀᴅs ᴡɪᴛʜ ꜰᴀʀ ᴏꜰꜰ ɢʀᴏᴀɴs ʀᴇᴘʟᴀᴄᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴀʟʟ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏʀɴɪɴɢ ʀᴏᴏsᴛᴇʀ, sᴛᴀʀᴛɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴅᴀʏ ᴏꜰꜰ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀ ʀᴇᴍɪɴᴅᴇʀ: ʏᴏᴜʀ ʟɪꜰᴇ ᴡᴀs ɴᴏ ʟᴏɴɢᴇʀ ʏᴏᴜʀs. ᴡʜᴀᴛ ʀᴇᴘʟᴀᴄᴇᴅ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴅᴀʏs ᴏꜰ ᴘᴀɴᴄᴀᴋᴇs ᴀɴᴅ ɢɪɢɢʟᴇs ᴡᴀs ꜰᴀᴅᴇᴅ ᴄʀɪᴍsᴏɴ ᴅᴀsʜᴇᴅ ᴀʀᴏᴜɴᴅ ᴄᴏʀɴᴇʀs, ᴜsᴇᴅ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴘᴀɪɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴀʀᴋ ᴛᴇʀʀɪᴛᴏʀʏ.

“ᴀɴɪᴍᴀʟs.“ ʏᴏᴜ’ᴅ ʜɪss ᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜʀsᴇʟꜰ, ꜰᴜʀʀᴏᴡɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʙʀᴏᴡ ᴀs ʏᴏᴜ ᴘʀᴏᴍᴘʟʏ ɪɢɴᴏʀᴇᴅ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢ sɪɢɴ ᴀꜰᴛᴇʀ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢ sɪɢɴ.

ᴍᴀʏʙᴇ ɪɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴇᴀʀʟɪᴇʀ ᴅᴀʏs, ʏᴏᴜ’ᴅ ᴀᴅʜᴇʀᴇ. ʟᴇᴛ ᴡʜᴀᴛᴇᴠᴇʀ ꜰᴏᴏʟs ᴄʟᴀɪᴍᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ʀᴇsᴘᴇᴄᴛɪᴠᴇ sᴛᴏʀᴇs ʙᴇ ɪɴ ʜᴏᴘᴇs ᴏꜰ ᴋᴇᴇᴘɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʜᴇᴀᴅ. ᴛʜᴏsᴇ ɴɪɢʜᴛs ʏᴏᴜᴅ ɢᴏ ʜᴜɴɢʀʏ, sᴏʙʙɪɴɢ ꜰᴏʀ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴡᴇʀᴇɴ’ᴛ ᴀʀᴏᴜɴᴅ ᴀɴʏᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴄᴏᴍᴇ sᴀᴠᴇ ʏᴏᴜ. ɪᴛ ᴡᴀs ᴏɴʟʏ ᴡʜᴇɴ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛᴏᴏᴋ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴀ sᴍᴀʟʟ ɢʀᴏᴜᴘ ᴏꜰ ʜᴜɴᴛᴇʀs ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴜɴɢʀɪʟʏ ᴅᴇᴠᴏᴜʀᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ᴘʟᴜɴᴅᴇʀ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ʀᴇᴀʟɪᴢᴇᴅ ᴍᴏʀᴀʟɪᴛʏ ɢᴏᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ɴᴏᴡʜᴇʀᴇ.

ᴀ ᴅᴏᴏʀ sᴛᴏᴏᴅ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀɴᴅ ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ʜɪᴅᴇᴏᴜᴛ. ᴏɴ ɪᴛ ʟᴀɪᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴀsᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜ’ʟʟ ɢᴇᴛ. ᴛᴀᴋɪɴɢ ᴀ ᴄʜᴀɴᴄᴇ ᴛᴏ ʟᴏᴏᴋ ᴀᴛ ɪᴛ, ʏᴏᴜ ꜰɪɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜʀsᴇʟꜰ ᴀᴅᴍɪʀɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ᴀʀᴛɪsᴛs ᴀᴛᴛᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴇᴛᴀɪʟ. ɪᴛ ᴡᴀs sᴏᴍᴇ sᴏʀᴛ ᴏꜰ ꜰʟᴏᴡᴇʀ. ᴏʙᴠɪᴏᴜsʟʏ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴇʀᴇɴ’ᴛ ᴀ ʙᴏᴛᴀɴɪsᴛ, sᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴀᴅ ᴢᴇʀᴏ ᴄʟᴜᴇ ᴡʜɪᴄʜ ɪᴛ ᴡᴀs. ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴏᴏʀ ᴏᴘᴇɴs ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀɴ ᴀʟᴀʀᴍɪɴɢ ʟᴏᴜᴅ ᴄʀᴇᴀᴋ, ʏᴏᴜʀ ʜᴀɴᴅ ʀᴇᴀᴄʜɪɴɢ ꜰᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜʀ ɢᴜɴ ɪɴsᴛɪɴᴄᴛɪᴠᴇʟʏ.

ɪᴛs ǫᴜɪᴇᴛ. ᴛᴏᴏ ǫᴜɪᴇᴛ. ᴛʜᴇ ᴏɴʟʏ sᴏᴜɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴀᴛᴄʜ ɪs ʏᴏᴜʀsᴇʟꜰ ᴍᴏᴠɪɴɢ ᴀᴄʀᴏss ᴄᴀʀᴇꜰᴜʟʟʏ ᴄʀᴀꜰᴛᴇᴅ ᴡᴏᴏᴅᴇɴ ꜰʟᴏᴏʀs. ꜰʀᴇᴇᴢɪɴɢ, ʏᴏᴜ ᴘᴜʟʟ ᴏᴜᴛ ʏᴏᴜʀ ɢᴜɴ-- sɴᴀᴘᴘɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʜᴇᴀᴅ ᴀʀᴏᴜɴᴅ sɪʟᴇɴᴛʟʏ ᴀs ʏᴏᴜ ᴀɴᴀʟʏᴢᴇᴅ ʏᴏᴜʀ sᴜʀʀᴏᴜɴᴅɪɴɢs. ɴᴏ ᴏɴᴇ, ᴏʀ sᴏ ɪᴛ sᴇᴇᴍᴇᴅ. ʏᴏᴜ’ᴅ ʙᴇ ᴀɴ ᴀʙsᴏʟᴜᴛᴇ ᴍᴏʀᴏɴ ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ᴍᴏᴠᴇᴅ ᴀʀᴏᴜɴᴅ ᴡɪʟʟʏ ɴɪʟʟʏ ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜsᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏᴡɴᴇʀ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜɪs ᴘʟᴀᴄᴇ ʜᴀsɴ’ᴛ ᴡɪᴘᴘᴇᴅ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴀ ᴍᴀᴄʜɪɴᴇ ɢᴜɴ ʏᴇᴛ.

ᴍᴏᴠɪɴɢ ᴍᴀᴅᴇ ɴᴏɪsᴇ, sᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄʀᴇᴘᴛ sʟᴏᴡʟʏ ᴡʜɪʟsᴛ ᴋɴᴇʟᴛ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ꜰᴜʀɴɪᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴛᴏ ꜰᴜʀɴɪᴛᴜʀᴇ, ᴇʏᴇs ᴅᴀʀᴛɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ᴄᴏʀɴᴇʀ ᴇxᴘᴇᴄᴛᴀɴᴛʟʏ. ᴡʜᴀᴛ ʀᴇᴀʟʟʏ ɢᴏᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴀs ᴊᴜsᴛ ʜᴏᴡ.. ʜᴏᴍᴇ-ʏ ᴛʜɪs ᴘʟᴀᴄᴇ ᴡᴀs ᴅᴇsᴘɪᴛᴇ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ. ᴀ ᴋɪᴛᴄʜᴇɴ sᴇᴛ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛᴡᴏ ᴘᴜʟʟᴇᴅ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴄʜᴀɪʀs -- ᴀ ᴄᴏᴜᴘʟᴇ, ʟɪᴋᴇʟʏ-- ᴘʜᴏᴛᴏs ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴀʟʟ ʏᴏᴜ ʟᴀᴄᴋ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ᴛᴏ ʟᴏᴏᴋ ᴀᴛ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴀ ꜰᴇᴡ sᴛɪᴄᴋʏ ɴᴏᴛᴇs ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴘᴏssɪʙʟʏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀsᴛ ʜᴀɴᴅᴡʀɪᴛɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜ’ᴠᴇ ᴇᴠᴇʀ sᴇᴇɴ ᴅɪʀᴛʏɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇᴍ. ᴛʜɪs ᴘʟᴀᴄᴇ sᴛᴏᴏᴅ ᴛᴀʟʟ, ᴀ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ᴄᴀᴘsᴜʟᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴀ ʜᴀʟꜰ-ᴏᴋᴀʏ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ɪɴ ᴀ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ᴛʜᴀᴛ’s ʙᴇᴇɴ ʟᴏɴɢ ᴅᴇᴀᴅ.

ɴᴏᴛʜɪɴɢ ʏᴇᴛ, ʙᴜᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ɢᴇᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰᴇᴇʟɪɴɢ ᴅᴇᴇᴘ ᴡɪᴛʜɪɴ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ɴᴇᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ sᴛᴀʏ ᴏɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ɢᴜᴀʀᴅ. ᴛᴜʀɴɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʜᴇᴀᴅ, ʏᴏᴜ ʟᴏᴄᴋ ᴇʏᴇs ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇ sᴛᴀɪʀs. ᴏɴᴇ sᴛᴇᴘ, ᴛʜᴇɴ ᴛᴡᴏ, ʏᴏᴜ ᴡɪɴᴄᴇ ᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʀᴇᴀᴋs ᴀs ʏᴏᴜ ᴘʀᴏɢʀᴇss ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴜᴘᴘᴇʀ ꜰʟᴏᴏʀ.

sᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ʜᴏʀʀɪʙʟᴇ ʟɪɴɢᴇʀs ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴀɪʀ. ᴛʜᴇ ꜰᴀᴍɪʟɪᴀʀ sɪᴄᴋʟʏ sᴡᴇᴇᴛ sᴍᴇʟʟ ᴏꜰ ʀᴏᴛ. ɪɴꜰᴇsᴛɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜʀ ɴᴏsᴇ ɪs ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴜʀɢᴇɴᴛ ᴏᴅᴏʀ ᴏꜰ ʀᴏᴛᴛɪɴɢ ꜰʟᴇsʜ, ꜰᴏʀᴄɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛᴏ ʙᴀᴛᴛʟᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴋᴇᴇᴘ ʙɪʟᴇ ᴅᴏᴡɴ. ɪɴᴛᴇʀɴᴀʟʟʏ, ʏᴏᴜ ꜰᴇʟᴛ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʙʀᴇᴀᴛʜ ꜰᴀʟᴛᴇʀ ᴀᴛ sᴜᴄʜ ᴀ ᴛᴇɴsɪᴏɴ, ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴍɪɴᴅ sᴄʀᴇᴀᴍɪɴɢ ᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛᴏ ᴅʀᴏᴘ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍɪssɪᴏɴ ᴀɴᴅ ʀᴜɴ.

ʏᴇᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴅᴏɴᴛ.

ᴛᴡᴏ ʀᴇᴀsᴏɴs. ᴏɴᴇ, ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴜɴɢᴇʀ. ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴜɴɢᴇʀ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴋᴇᴇᴘs ʏᴏᴜ ᴜᴘ ᴀᴛ ɴɪɢʜᴛ, ᴄʟᴀᴡɪɴɢ ᴡɪᴛʜɪɴ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ sᴀᴛɪsꜰɪᴇᴅ. ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴜɴɢᴇʀ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʙʟᴇᴇᴅs ɪɴᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍs, ᴡᴀᴋɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛᴏ sᴡᴇᴀᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ᴘᴀɪɴ. sᴏ, sᴏ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ᴘᴀɪɴ.

ᴛʜᴇ sᴇᴄᴏɴᴅ, ɪɴꜰɪɴɪᴛᴇʟʏ sᴛᴜᴘɪᴅᴇʀ ʙᴏᴛʜ ᴍᴇɴᴛᴀʟʟʏ ᴀɴᴅ ᴏᴜᴛ ʟᴏᴜᴅ, ᴡᴀs ᴄᴜʀɪᴏsɪᴛʏ. ᴛʜᴇ ᴛʀɪᴄᴋʏ ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴋɪʟʟs ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴇsᴋʏ ᴄᴀᴛ. ɪᴛ ᴘᴜʟʟᴇᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ɪɴ, ᴀs ɪꜰ ʜᴀᴠɪɴɢ ɪᴛs ᴏᴡɴ ɢʀᴀᴠɪᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ꜰᴏʀᴄᴇ, ᴀɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ʏɪᴇʟᴅᴇᴅ.

ᴏɴᴄᴇ ʏᴏᴜ sᴛᴇᴘ ɪɴsɪᴅᴇ, ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ɴᴏᴛ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴀ sᴇᴄᴏɴᴅ ᴏꜰ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ᴛᴏ ꜰᴏᴄᴜs ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʜɪᴅᴅᴇɴ ꜰɪɢᴜʀᴇ ɢʀᴏᴀɴɪɴɢ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀ ᴀ sʜᴇᴇᴛ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ sᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴊᴜᴍᴘs ᴛᴏ ᴀᴛᴛᴀᴄᴋ ʏᴏᴜ. ᴀ ᴄᴏʀᴘsᴇ? ɴᴏ.

“ᴀᴄᴋ!“ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴏᴜɢʜ, ꜰᴀʟʟɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰʟᴏᴏʀ ᴀs ʏᴏᴜ ʟᴏᴄᴋᴇᴅ ᴇʏᴇs ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇ ɴᴏᴡ ʀᴇᴠᴇᴀʟᴇᴅ ᴀᴛᴛᴀᴄᴋᴇʀ.

ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴏᴍᴇᴏᴡɴᴇʀ.

“ᴅᴏɴᴛ ꜰɪɢʜᴛ ᴍᴇ.“ ʜᴇ ɢʀᴏᴡʟᴇᴅ, ᴠᴇɴᴏᴍ ᴡʜɪʀʀʟɪɴɢ ᴡɪᴛʜɪɴ ᴇᴀᴄʜ ᴀɴᴅ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ᴡᴏʀᴅ. “ᴊᴜsᴛ sᴛᴀʏ sᴛɪʟʟ!“

ᴀ ɴᴇᴇᴅʟᴇ ɪs ᴛɪɢʜᴛʟʏ ʜᴇʟᴅ ɪɴ ʜɪs ʟᴇꜰᴛ ʜᴀɴᴅ, ʀᴏᴜɢʜʟʏ ᴛʀʏɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴄᴇᴘᴛ ʏᴏᴜʀ sᴋɪɴ. ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ ʙᴇᴀᴛɪɴɢ ꜰᴀsᴛ, ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴀᴛᴄʜ ʜɪs ᴀʀᴍ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ɪᴛ ᴄᴀɴ. ʜᴇs ᴏʟᴅᴇʀ, sᴛʀᴏɴɢᴇʀ, ᴀɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴀᴅʀᴇɴᴀʟɪɴᴇ ᴡᴏɴᴛ ᴋᴇᴇᴘ ʏᴏᴜ ɢᴏɪɴɢ ꜰᴏʀ ʟᴏɴɢ.

ʜɪs ʀɪɢʜᴛ ʜᴀɴᴅ ᴍᴏᴠᴇs ᴛᴏ ᴀɪᴅ ʜɪs ʟᴇꜰᴛ, sᴡᴇᴀᴛ ʙᴇᴀᴅs ʀᴏʟʟɪɴɢ ᴅᴏᴡɴ ʜɪs ᴋɴᴜᴄᴋʟᴇs ᴀs ʜᴇ ʙᴇɢᴀɴ ᴛᴏ ᴘᴜsʜ.

“ɢᴇᴛ,“ ʏᴏᴜ ʙᴇɢᴀɴ, ᴄᴏᴄᴋɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜰʀᴇᴇ ʜᴀɴᴅ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴀɴᴅ ʟᴀɴᴅɪɴɢ ᴀ ᴅᴇsᴘᴇʀᴀᴛᴇ ʙʟᴏᴡ ᴄʟᴇᴀɴ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ sɪᴅᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴇᴀᴅ. “ᴏꜰꜰ ᴏꜰ ᴍᴇ!“

ɪᴛ ᴅᴏᴇsɴᴛ ᴍᴏᴠᴇ ʜɪᴍ, ʙᴜᴛ ɪᴛ sᴛᴀʀᴛʟᴇs ʜɪᴍ. ʜɪs ᴘʀᴇssᴜʀᴇ ʟᴏᴏsᴇɴᴇᴅ, ʙᴜᴛ ʜᴇ ᴋᴇᴘᴛ ᴘᴜsʜɪɴɢ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀɴ ᴀʟᴍᴏsᴛ ᴄᴏᴍᴍᴇɴᴅᴀʙʟᴇ sᴛᴜʙʙᴏʀɴɴᴇss. ᴀɢᴀɪɴ, ʏᴏᴜ ᴘᴜɴᴄʜ. ʜᴇ ᴡɪɴᴄᴇs, ᴛᴇᴇᴛʜ ɢʀɪᴛ. ᴀɢᴀɪɴ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ. ʜɪs ʜᴀɴᴅs ᴀʀᴇ sʜᴀᴋɪɴɢ, ᴀs ᴛʜᴇ ɴᴇᴇᴅʟᴇ ɴᴇᴀʀs ʏᴏᴜ ɴᴇᴄᴋ. ᴛɪᴍᴇs ʀᴜɴɴɪɴɢ ᴏᴜᴛ. ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴛɪᴍᴇs ᴀʟᴍᴏsᴛ ᴜᴘ. ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴇʏᴇs ᴅᴀʀᴛ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʟᴏᴛʜᴇᴅ ꜰɪɢᴜʀᴇ, ᴍɪɴᴅʟᴇssʟʏ sᴡᴀʏɪɴɢ sɪᴅᴇ-ᴛᴏ-sɪᴅᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴍᴏᴀɴɪɴɢ sɪʟᴇɴᴛʟʏ.

ɪɴ ᴀ ʟᴀsᴛ ᴅɪᴛᴄʜᴇᴅ ᴇꜰꜰᴏʀᴛ, ʏᴏᴜ ᴛʜʀᴇᴡ ᴛʜᴇ ɴᴇᴀʀᴇsᴛ ᴏʙᴊᴇᴄᴛ ᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇᴍ.

“ɴᴏ!“ ʜᴇ sᴄʀᴇᴀᴍᴇᴅ, ᴛʜᴇ sᴏᴜɴᴅ ʀɪᴘᴘɪɴɢ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʜɪs ᴛʜʀᴏᴀᴛ ᴀs ʜɪs ʜᴇᴀᴅ sɴᴀᴘᴘᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴀᴄᴛɪᴏɴ.

ʜɪs ᴄʀʏ ɢᴀᴠᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴛʜᴀɴ ᴇɴᴏᴜɢʜ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ᴛᴏ sɴᴀᴛᴄʜ ᴛʜᴇ ɴᴇᴇᴅʟᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜʀsᴇʟꜰ ᴀɴᴅ ꜰᴏʀᴄᴇ ɪᴛ ɪɴᴛᴏ ʜɪs ɴᴇᴄᴋ, ᴘʀᴇssɪɴɢ ᴅᴏᴡɴ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀ ᴡᴇᴀᴋᴇɴɪɴɢ ꜰɪsᴛ. ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴠɪsɪᴏɴ ᴡᴀsɴ’ᴛ sᴘᴏᴛᴛɪɴɢ, ʏᴏᴜ’ᴅ ɴᴏᴛɪᴄᴇ ʜᴏᴡ ǫᴜɪᴄᴋʟʏ ʜᴇ sʟᴜᴍᴘᴇᴅ ᴏᴠᴇʀ, ᴄʀᴀsʜɪɴɢ ᴅᴏᴡɴ ʙᴇsɪᴅᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀ ʜᴏʀʀɪꜰʏɪɴɢ sɪʟᴇɴᴄᴇ. ᴀɪʀ ʀᴜsʜᴇᴅ ɪɴᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴠᴇɴɢᴇɴᴄᴇ, ꜰᴏʀᴄɪɴɢ ɢᴀsᴘs ᴀɴᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɢʜs ᴏᴜᴛ ᴏꜰ ʏᴏᴜʀ sʜᴀᴋᴇɴ ꜰᴏʀᴍ.

“ɢʜʜᴋ,“ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄʜᴏᴋᴇᴅ, ᴀʟᴍᴏsᴛ ᴘᴀᴛʜᴇᴛɪᴄᴀʟʟʏ, ᴘʟᴀᴄɪɴɢ ᴀ ʜᴀɴᴅ ᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴛʜʀᴏᴀᴛ. sᴀꜰᴇ. ʏᴏᴜ’ʀᴇ sᴀꜰᴇ ɴᴏᴡ. “ʜᴀʜ.“

sʜɪꜰᴛɪɴɢ ᴏɴᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜰᴇᴇᴛ, ɪᴛs ᴀ sᴛʀᴜɢɢʟɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴇᴠᴇɴ sᴛᴀɴᴅ. ᴛʜᴇ sᴍᴇʟʟ ʜɪᴛs ʏᴏᴜ ᴏɴᴄᴇ ᴍᴏʀᴇ. ᴄᴀᴜɢʜᴛ ᴏꜰꜰ ɢᴜᴀʀᴅ, ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴏʟᴅ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ʙɪʟᴇ ᴀs ʏᴏᴜ sᴛᴜᴍʙʟᴇ ʙᴀᴄᴋᴡᴀʀᴅs ᴀ sᴛᴇᴘ ᴏʀ ᴛᴡᴏ. ʏᴏᴜ ʟᴏᴏᴋ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴅᴏᴡɴ ᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴏᴍᴇᴏᴡɴᴇʀ, ᴍᴇᴇᴛɪɴɢ ʜɪs ᴡɪᴅᴇ ᴇʏᴇs. ɪɴᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜʀ sᴏᴜʟ ʜᴇ sᴛᴀʀᴇᴅ, ʜᴇʟᴘʟᴇssʟʏ sᴛɪʟʟ ᴀs ʜɪs ɢʟᴀʀᴇ ᴅᴜɢ ɪɴᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜʀ sᴋɪɴ. ʜɪs ᴍᴏᴜᴛʜ ᴏᴘᴇɴs ᴛᴏ sᴀʏ sᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ, ʙᴜᴛ ɴᴏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴄᴏᴍᴇs ᴏᴜᴛ.

“ʏ’ʀ ᴘᴀʀᴀʟʏᴢᴇᴅ.“ ʏᴏᴜ sʟᴜʀ, sᴛɪʟʟ ᴄᴏʟʟᴇᴄᴛɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜʀsᴇʟꜰ. ᴀs ᴀɴ ᴀꜰᴛᴇʀ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜᴛ, ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴇʏᴇʙʀᴏᴡs ꜰᴜʀʀᴏᴡ. “ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ɢᴏɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴘᴀʀᴀʟʏᴢᴇ ᴍᴇ?“

“ɪʟʟ ᴅᴏ ᴀ ʟᴏᴛ ᴡᴏʀsᴇ ᴡʜᴇɴ ɪᴍ ꜰʀᴇᴇ.“ ʜᴇ ʙɪᴛ, ᴀ ʙɪᴛᴇ ᴇᴠᴇʀᴘʀᴇsᴇɴᴛ ɪɴ ʜɪs ᴡᴏʀᴅs ᴅᴇsᴘɪᴛᴇ ʜɪs ᴡᴇᴀᴋᴇɴᴇᴅ sᴛᴀᴛᴇ. “ɪʟʟ ᴋɪʟʟ ʏᴏᴜ, ʙʀᴀᴛ. ɪ sᴡᴇᴀʀ ɪ ᴡɪʟʟ. ʀɪᴘ ʏᴏᴜ ʟɪᴍʙ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʟɪᴍʙ ꜰᴏʀ ɪɴᴠᴀᴅɪɴɢ ᴏᴜʀ ʜᴏᴍᴇ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛʜɪs!“

ᴏᴋᴀʏ. ꜰᴀɪʀ. ᴍᴀʏʙᴇ ʏᴏᴜ sʜᴏᴜʟᴅ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ʙᴇᴇɴ ᴀ ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴄᴀʀᴇꜰᴜʟ ᴄʜᴏᴏsɪɴɢ ᴀ ʜᴏᴍᴇ. ᴍᴀʏʙᴇ ᴛʜɪs ᴡᴀs ᴀ ʀᴇᴍɪɴᴅᴇʀ ᴀs ᴛᴏ ʜᴏᴡ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ᴏꜰ ᴀ ᴍᴏɴsᴛᴇʀ ʏᴏᴜ’ᴠᴇ ʙᴇᴄᴏᴍᴇ ʏᴏᴜʀsᴇʟꜰ. ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ sʜᴏᴏᴛ ʜɪᴍ, ʏᴏᴜ ʀᴇᴀʟɪᴢᴇᴅ, ᴇʏᴇs ꜰʟɪᴄᴋᴇʀɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴅʀᴏᴘᴘᴇᴅ ɢᴜɴ. ᴀs ʏᴏᴜ ᴍᴀᴅᴇ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴡᴀʏ ᴀɴᴅ ᴄᴏʟʟᴇᴄᴛᴇᴅ ɪᴛ, ʜɪs ʜᴇᴀᴅ ʀᴇᴍᴀɪɴᴇᴅ ꜰʟᴀᴛ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ɢʀᴏᴜɴᴅ.

“ᴄᴏᴡᴀʀᴅ.“ ʜᴇ sʜᴀᴍᴇᴅ, ᴀ ᴍᴜᴛᴛᴇʀ ᴛᴏ ʜɪᴍsᴇʟꜰ ᴛʜᴀɴ ᴀɴʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴇʟsᴇ. “ᴊᴜsᴛ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴏɴᴇ ᴇʟsᴇ.“

ɪᴍᴀɢɪɴᴇ ʜɪs sʜᴏᴄᴋ ᴡʜᴇɴ ʏᴏᴜ sᴛᴇᴘᴘᴇᴅ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ʜɪᴍ. ꜰᴏʀ ᴀ ᴍᴏᴍᴇɴᴛ, ʜᴇs ᴄᴏɴꜰᴜsᴇᴅ. ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴄᴏɴꜰᴜsɪᴏɴ ᴍᴏʀᴘʜs ᴠᴇʀʏ ǫᴜɪᴄᴋʟʏ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴇsᴘᴇʀᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴀs ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴀʟᴋ ᴛᴏᴡᴀʀs ᴛʜᴇ sᴏᴜʀᴄᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴏᴅᴏʀ. ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴅɪᴅ ʜᴇ ᴍᴇᴀɴ ʙʏ ’ᴏᴜʀ ʜᴏᴍᴇ’?

“ɴᴏ, ɴᴏ, ɴᴏ!“ ʜᴇ sʜᴏᴜᴛᴇᴅ, ᴇʏᴇs ᴀs ᴡɪᴅᴇ ᴀs sᴀᴜᴄᴇʀs. “ʟᴇᴀᴠᴇ ʜᴇʀ ᴀʟᴏɴᴇ! ɢᴇᴛ ᴀᴡᴀʏ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʜᴇʀ!“

ʀɪᴘᴘɪɴɢ ᴏꜰꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʟᴏᴛʜ, ʏᴏᴜ’ʀᴇ ᴍᴇᴛ ᴡɪᴛʜ ɴᴏᴛʜɪɴɢ sʜᴏʀᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴀ ɴᴀᴜsᴇᴀᴛɪɴɢ sɪɢʜᴛ.

ɪᴛs ᴀ ᴄᴏʀᴘsᴇ.

sʜɪꜰᴛɪɴɢ ᴀɴᴅ ʙɪᴛɪɴɢ ᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡɪᴛʜ ɴᴏ sᴇɴsᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴅɪʀᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ. ʀᴏᴛᴛᴇᴅ sᴋɪɴ ʟɪᴛᴛᴇʀᴇᴅ ʜᴇʀ ʟᴏɴɢ-ɢᴏɴᴇ ꜰᴏʀᴍ. ᴅᴇᴀᴅ ᴍᴀɢɢᴏᴛs ʟᴀɪᴅ ᴏɴ ʜᴇʀ ꜰɪʟᴛʜʏ ᴘʀɪɴᴄᴇss ɢᴏᴡɴ, ʟɪᴋᴇʟʏ ᴘɪᴄᴋᴇᴅ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛʟᴇss ʜᴏʟᴇs ɪɴ ʜᴇʀ sᴋɪɴ. sʜᴀᴄᴋʟᴇs ʙᴏᴜɴᴅᴇᴅ ᴇᴀᴄʜ ᴏꜰ ʜᴇʀ ʟɪᴍʙs ᴅᴏᴡɴ, ᴛʜᴇ sɪʟᴠᴇʀ ᴄʟᴀɴᴋɪɴɢ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴀɴɪᴍᴀʟɪsᴛɪᴄᴀʟʟʏ ᴀs sʜᴇ ᴛʀɪᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʀᴇᴀᴄʜ ʏᴏᴜ.

“ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ..“ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴍᴏᴜᴛʜ ᴍᴏᴠᴇᴅ ꜰᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜ, sʜᴏᴄᴋ ʟᴇᴀᴠɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜ ᴜɴᴀʙʟᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴏ ᴀɴʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴇʟsᴇ ʙᴜᴛ sᴛᴀʀᴇ.

ʙᴇʜɪɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜ, ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴏᴍᴇᴏᴡɴᴇʀ ʀᴏᴀʀᴇᴅ.

“ʟᴇᴀᴠᴇ ʜᴇʀ ᴀʟᴏɴᴇ, ʏᴏᴜ sɪᴄᴋ ꜰʀᴇᴀᴋ! sᴛᴀʏ ᴀᴡᴀʏ! ɢᴇᴛ ᴀᴡᴀʏ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴍʏ ʙᴀʙʏ, ɴᴏᴡ! ɪ sᴡᴇᴀʀ ᴏɴ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ɪ ʟᴏᴠᴇ, ɪʟʟ ᴋɪʟʟ ʏᴏᴜ ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛᴏᴜᴄʜ ʜᴇʀ!“

ʏᴏᴜ’ʀᴇ ɴᴏᴛ ʟɪsᴛᴇɴɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ʜɪᴍ, ᴇʏᴇs ꜰɪxᴇᴅ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅɪsᴘʟᴀʏ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜ. ʜᴏᴡ ʟᴏɴɢ ʜᴀᴅ ʜᴇ ʙᴇᴇɴ ᴋᴇᴇᴘɪɴɢ ʜᴇʀ? ᴀᴡʜɪʟᴇ, ᴏʙᴠɪᴏᴜsʟʏ, sʜᴇs ʙᴇɢᴀɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘʀᴏᴄᴇss ᴏꜰ ᴅᴇᴄᴏᴍᴘᴏsɪɴɢ.

“ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴅᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴜs, ʜᴜʜ? ᴄʟᴏᴛʜᴇs? ꜰᴏᴏᴅ? ᴡᴀᴛᴇʀ? ᴛᴀᴋᴇ ɪᴛ! ᴊᴜsᴛ ʟᴇᴀᴠᴇ ʜᴇʀ ᴀʟᴏɴᴇ!“

ʜɪs ᴅᴀᴜɢʜᴛᴇʀ, ʙʏ ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴏᴏᴋs ᴏꜰ ɪᴛ. ʟᴏᴠᴇᴅ ᴅɪsɴᴇʏ ᴘʀɪɴᴄᴇssᴇs ᴀɴᴅ ᴛɪᴀʀᴀs, ᴀʟᴏɴɢsɪᴅᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰᴀᴄᴛ ʜᴇ ᴄᴏɴsɪᴅᴇʀs ʜᴇʀ ʜɪs ʙᴀʙʏ. ʜᴇ ᴡᴀs ɢᴏɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ꜰᴇᴇᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛᴏ ʜᴇʀ.

sʟᴏᴡʟʏ, ʏᴏᴜ ʟɪꜰᴛ ʏᴏᴜʀ ɢᴜɴ ɪɴ ɪᴛs ᴅɪʀᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ, sᴛᴇᴀᴅʏɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʙʀᴇᴀᴛʜ. ʜɪs ʙʀᴇᴀᴛʜ ᴄᴀᴜɢʜᴛ, ᴀɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜ sᴡᴇᴀʀ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ʜᴇᴀʀ ʜɪs ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ ᴅʀᴏᴘ.

“ɴᴏ, ɴᴏ-- ɴᴏ ɴᴏ ɴᴏ ɴᴏ ɴᴏ.“ ʜᴇ sᴘᴏᴋᴇ ǫᴜɪᴄᴋʟʏ, ᴛʀʏɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ꜰᴏʀᴄᴇ ʜɪᴍsᴇʟꜰ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴏᴠᴇ ʜᴇʟᴘʟᴇssʟʏ. “ɴᴏ, ɴᴏ ɴᴏ ᴘʟᴇᴀsᴇ. ᴘʟᴇᴀsᴇ, ɪᴍ sᴏʀʀʏ. ɪᴍ sᴏʀʀʏ, ɪᴍ sᴏʀʀʏ. ᴅᴏɴᴛ sʜᴏᴏᴛ ʜᴇʀ. ᴅᴏɴᴛ sʜᴏᴏᴛ ᴍʏ ʙᴀʙʏ, ᴘʟᴇᴀsᴇ. ᴘʟᴇᴀsᴇ.“

ᴛʜᴇ ꜰɪʀᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴡᴀs ʜɪs ʀᴀɢᴇ ʜᴀᴅ ʙʟᴏᴡɴ ᴏᴜᴛ, ʟᴇᴀᴠɪɴɢ ʜɪs ᴠᴏɪᴄᴇ ǫᴜᴀᴋɪɴɢ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴘɪᴛɪꜰᴜʟ ᴅᴇsᴘᴇʀᴀᴛɪᴏɴ. sᴇᴇɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴅᴏɴᴛ ʟᴏᴡᴇʀ ʏᴏᴜʀ ɢᴜɴ, ᴀ sᴏʙ ᴇsᴄᴀᴘᴇᴅ ʜɪs ᴛʜʀᴏᴀᴛ. ʟᴏᴜᴅ, ʀᴀᴡ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴜɢʟʏ.

“ɪʟʟ ᴅᴏ ᴀɴʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀsᴋ.“ ʜᴇ ᴘʟᴇᴀᴅᴇᴅ. “ʀᴏʙ, sᴛᴇᴀʟ, ᴋɪʟʟ. ᴀɴʏᴛʜɪɴɢ. ʜᴜʀᴛ ᴍᴇ. ʜᴜʀᴛ ᴍᴇ!“

ʏᴏᴜ’ʀᴇ ᴅᴏɪɴɢ ʜɪᴍ ᴀ ꜰᴀᴠᴏʀ.

“ᴀɴʏᴛʜɪɴɢ, ᴀɴʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ɪʟʟ ᴅᴏ ᴀɴʏᴛʜɪɴɢ!“ ʜᴇ ᴡᴀɪʟᴇᴅ. “ʟᴇᴀᴠᴇ ʜᴇʀ ᴀʟᴏɴᴇ. ɢᴏᴅ, ᴘʟᴇᴀsᴇ ᴅᴏɴᴛ- ᴅᴏɴᴛ ᴛᴀᴋᴇ ʜᴇʀ ᴀᴡᴀʏ. sʜᴇs ᴀʟʟ ɪ ʜᴀᴠᴇ. ɪ ʜᴀᴠᴇ--ɪ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴘʀᴏᴛᴇᴄᴛ ʜᴇʀ.“

ʜᴇs ʙʟᴜʙʙᴇʀɪɴɢ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ʜɪs ᴡᴏʀᴅs ɴᴏᴡ, ᴛʜɪɴᴋɪɴɢ ᴏꜰ ᴀɴʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴀɴᴅ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴇᴛᴇʀ ʏᴏᴜʀ sʜᴏᴛ.

ʏᴏᴜ’ʀᴇ ᴅᴏɪɴɢ ʜɪᴍ ᴀ ꜰᴀᴠᴏʀ.

“sʜᴇs ᴅᴇᴀᴅ.“ ʏᴏᴜ ᴜᴛᴛᴇʀ. “sʜᴇ ʜᴀs ʙᴇᴇɴ ꜰᴏʀ ᴀ ʟᴏɴɢ ᴛɪᴍᴇ.“

BANG!

ᴀɴ ɪɴʜᴜᴍᴀɴ sᴏᴜɴᴅ ᴇᴄʜᴏᴇᴅ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ꜰᴀᴍɪʟʏ ʜᴏᴍᴇ ᴊᴜsᴛ ᴛʜᴇɴ, ᴀ ʜɪɢʜ-ᴘɪᴛᴄʜᴇᴅ sʜʀɪᴇᴋ ᴛʜᴀᴛ sʜᴏᴏᴋ ᴇᴀʀᴛʜ ᴛᴏ ɪᴛs ᴄᴏʀᴇ. sʟᴜᴍᴘɪɴɢ ᴏᴠᴇʀ, ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴏʀᴘsᴇ, ɢᴏᴇs sʟᴀᴄᴋ ɪɴ ʜᴇʀ ᴄʜᴀɪɴs. ꜰʀᴇᴇ, ʏᴏᴜ ᴛʜɪɴᴋ. ꜰɪɴᴀʟʟʏ ꜰʀᴇᴇ.

ʜᴇs ʜʏsᴛᴇʀɪᴄᴀʟ ᴡʜᴇɴ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛᴜʀɴ ᴀʀᴏᴜɴᴅ. ꜰᴏʀ sᴏᴍᴇᴏɴᴇ ᴜɴᴀʙʟᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴏᴠᴇ, ʜɪs ꜰᴀᴄᴇ ɪs ᴄᴏɴᴛᴏʀɴᴇᴅ ɪɴ ᴜᴛᴛᴇʀ ᴀɴɢᴜɪsʜ. ᴛᴇᴀʀs ᴘᴏᴜʀ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʜɪs ᴇʏᴇs ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛʜᴜɴᴅᴇʀ, sɴᴏᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ᴅʀᴏᴏʟ ᴅɪsᴘʟᴀʏɪɴɢ ʜɪs sʜᴀᴛᴛᴇʀᴇᴅ ʀᴇᴀʟɪᴛʏ. ɪɴᴄᴏᴍᴘʀʜᴇɴsɪᴠᴇ ᴘʟᴇᴀs ᴛᴏ ᴋɪʟʟ ʜɪᴍ ʀᴇᴘʟᴀᴄᴇ sᴍᴀʟʟ ᴛᴀʟᴋ, ᴇʏᴇs sǫᴜᴇᴇᴢᴇᴅ sʜᴜᴛ, ᴘʀᴇᴘᴀʀɪɴɢ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ sʜᴏᴛ. ʜɪs ᴠᴇʀʏ ʟɪꜰᴇ ʜᴀᴅ ᴅɪᴇᴅ, ʜɪs ʙᴀʙʏ ʟᴀɪᴅ sᴛɪʟʟ. ʜᴇ ᴡᴀs ᴀʟᴏɴᴇ. ɴᴏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴡᴀs ʟᴇꜰᴛ ᴏɴ ᴛʜɪs ɢᴏᴅ-ꜰᴏʀᴇsᴀᴋᴇɴ ᴇᴀʀᴛʜ ꜰᴏʀ ʜɪᴍ.

ᴡʜᴇɴ ʏᴏᴜ sɪᴛ ʙᴇsɪᴅᴇ ʜɪᴍ, ʜᴇ ᴅᴏᴇsɴᴛ ʟᴏᴏᴋ ᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ. ᴡʜᴇɴ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀᴡᴋᴡᴀʀᴅʟʏ ᴡɪᴘᴇ ʜɪs ᴛᴇᴀʀs, ʜᴇ ᴅᴏᴇsɴᴛ ʙɪᴛᴇ ɴᴏʀ ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ. ɪꜰ ɪᴛ ᴡᴇʀᴇɴ’ᴛ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ -- ɴᴏᴡ ɴᴜᴍʙ -- sᴏʙs ᴇsᴄᴀᴘɪɴɢ ɪᴛ, ʏᴏᴜ’ᴅ ᴛʜɪɴᴋ ʜᴇ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ᴄᴀᴛᴀᴛᴏɴɪᴄ. ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴀᴠᴇɴ’ᴛ ʀᴇᴀʟʟʏ ʜᴀᴅ ᴀ ᴍᴏᴍᴇɴᴛ ᴏꜰ sɪʟᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀɴʏᴏɴᴇ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ. ɴᴏᴛ sɪɴᴄᴇ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴏᴡɴ ᴘᴀʀᴇɴᴛs. ɪɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴍɪɴᴅ, ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ᴜsᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ɪᴛ. ʙᴜᴛ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇ ᴜɴᴍɪsᴛᴀᴋᴇᴀʙʟᴇ ᴘʀᴇsᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ɴᴇxᴛ ᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ɴᴏᴡ, ʏᴏᴜ ʀᴇᴀʟɪᴢᴇ ʜᴏᴡ ᴏᴅᴅʟʏ ᴄᴏᴍꜰᴏʀᴛɪɴɢ ɪᴛ ɪs.

“ɪ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ’ᴠᴇ ᴅᴏɴᴇ ᴛʜᴇ sᴀᴍᴇ.“ ʏᴏᴜ ᴏꜰꜰᴇʀᴇᴅ ɪɴ ᴀ ᴡʜɪsᴘᴇʀ. “ɪꜰ ᴍʏ ᴅᴀᴅ ᴅɪᴇᴅ.“

ʜᴇ ᴅᴏᴇsɴ’ᴛ ʀᴇsᴘᴏɴᴅ, ʙᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴀᴛʀᴇᴅ ɪɴ ʜɪs ᴇʏᴇs ᴀɴsᴡᴇʀs ꜰᴏʀ ʜɪᴍ. ʏᴏᴜ’ʀᴇ ᴀ ʙɪᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴀ ʜʏᴘᴏᴄʀɪᴛᴇ ᴛʜᴇɴ, ᴀʀᴇɴ’ᴛ ʏᴏᴜ?

“ᴅᴏᴇsɴᴛ ᴍᴇᴀɴ ɪᴛs ʜᴇᴀʟᴛʜʏ.“ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀᴅᴅᴇᴅ, ɢʟᴀɴᴄɪɴɢ ᴀᴡᴀʏ. “ᴊᴜsᴛ ᴍᴇᴀɴs ʏᴏᴜ’ʀᴇ ɴᴏᴛ... ᴄʀᴀᴢʏ.“

ʏᴏᴜ’ʀᴇ ʜᴏʀʀɪʙʟᴇ ᴀᴛ ᴛʜɪs, ʏᴏᴜ ʀᴇᴀʟɪᴢᴇ. ɴᴏᴛ ᴜsᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴛᴀʟᴋɪɴɢ ᴀꜰᴛᴇʀ ᴀ ᴋɪʟʟ. sᴛɪʟʟ ɴᴏᴛ ᴜsᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ.. ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ. ʏᴇᴛ, ᴀᴛʟᴇᴀsᴛ. ʏᴏᴜʀ ʜᴀɴᴅ ꜰɪʀsᴛ ᴡɪᴘᴇs ᴀɢᴀɪɴsᴛ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴘᴀɴᴛs, ʀᴜʙʙɪɴɢ ᴏꜰꜰ ᴀɴʏ ɢʀɪᴍᴇ ʏᴏᴜ’ᴠᴇ ᴄᴏʟʟᴇᴄᴛᴇᴅ ᴛᴏᴅᴀʏ. ᴏʀ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴀsᴛ ꜰᴇᴡ ᴡᴇᴇᴋs. ɪᴛ ᴅᴏᴇsɴᴛ ᴅᴏ ᴍᴜᴄʜ, ʙᴜᴛ ɪᴛ ʜᴇʟᴘs. ʜᴇsɪᴛᴀɴᴛʟʏ, ʏᴏᴜ ʙᴇɢᴀɴ ᴛᴏ ᴡɪᴘᴇ ʜɪs ꜰᴀᴄᴇ ᴅᴏᴡɴ. ʜᴇ ʟᴇᴛs ʏᴏᴜ, ɴᴏᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʜᴇ ʜᴀᴅ ᴀ ᴄʜᴏɪᴄᴇ.

“...Sᴏᴍᴇᴛɪᴍᴇs ɪ ᴛʜɪɴᴋ ɪᴍ ᴄʀᴀᴢʏ?“ ɪᴛ ᴅᴏᴇsɴᴛ ʟᴀɴᴅ. ᴏꜰ ᴄᴏᴜʀsᴇ ɪᴛ ᴅᴏᴇsɴᴛ, ʏᴏᴜ ᴊᴜsᴛ ᴋɪʟʟᴇᴅ ᴛʜɪs ɢᴜʏs ᴅᴇᴀᴅ ᴅᴀᴜɢʜᴛᴇʀ. sᴍᴀʟʟ ᴛᴀʟᴋ ɪsɴᴛ ɢᴏɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ’ʟᴀɴᴅ’ ᴀꜰᴛᴇʀ sᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ.

ᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜʀ sᴜʀᴘʀɪsᴇ, ʜɪs ʟɪᴘs ᴘᴀʀᴛ. “ʏ’ɴᴏᴛ ᴄʀᴀᴢʏ.“

ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴇʏᴇs ᴡɪᴅᴇɴ, ᴘᴀᴜsɪɴɢ ɪɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴍᴏᴠᴇᴍᴇɴᴛs ᴀs ʜᴇ ʀᴀsᴘs.

“ʏ’ʜᴜᴍᴀɴ. sᴜʀᴠɪᴠɪɴɢ.“

ᴛʜᴇʀᴇs ʀᴇsɪɢɴᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ɪɴ ʜɪs ᴛᴏɴᴇ, ᴀɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴏɴᴅᴇʀ ɪꜰ ʜᴇs sᴘᴏᴋᴇɴ ᴛᴏ ᴀɴʏᴏɴᴇ ᴇʟsᴇ ʙᴇsɪᴅᴇs... ʜᴇʀ. ɪꜰ sʜᴇ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴍᴀɴᴀɢᴇ. ʜɪs ᴇʏᴇs ᴀʀᴇ ᴏɴ ʏᴏᴜ ɴᴏᴡ, sᴏꜰᴛᴇʀ ᴛʜᴀɴ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ, ʙᴜᴛ ᴜɴᴄᴀɴɴʏ ɴᴏɴᴇᴛʜᴇʟᴇss. sᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ʟɪɴɢᴇʀᴇᴅ ɪɴ ʜɪs ᴘᴜᴘɪʟs.

“...Aɴᴅ ʏ’ʀ ᴀʟʟ ᴀʟᴏɴᴇ.“

ʜᴇ ɴᴏᴛɪᴄᴇs ʜᴏᴡ ᴛɪʀᴇᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ʟᴏᴏᴋ, ʜᴏᴡ sᴜʟʟᴇɴ ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴏᴘᴇʟᴇss. sᴏᴍᴇᴏɴᴇ sᴏ ʏᴏᴜɴɢ ʟᴇꜰᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴇꜰᴇɴᴅ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇᴍsᴇʟᴠᴇs ɪɴ ᴀ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛʜɪs. ᴍᴜsᴛ ʙᴇ sᴛᴀʀᴠɪɴɢ ᴀɴᴅ ᴅᴇsᴘᴇʀᴀᴛᴇ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ʙʀᴇᴀᴋɪɴɢ ɪɴᴛᴏ ʜᴏᴍᴇs ᴀɴᴅ ʜɪᴅᴇᴏᴜᴛs ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ.

“ᴍʜᴍ.“ ʏᴏᴜ ᴍᴜᴍʙʟᴇ, ɴᴏᴛ ʀᴇᴀʟʟʏ ᴘᴀʏɪɴɢ ᴀᴛᴛᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀʟʏɪɴɢ ᴘᴀᴛᴇʀɴᴀʟ ᴀsᴘᴇᴄᴛ ᴏꜰ ʜɪs ᴡᴏʀᴅs. “ɪ ɢᴜᴇss.“

ᴀɴᴅ ᴀs ʜᴇ ɢᴀᴢᴇs ᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ, ᴀʟᴏɴᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴇʟᴘʟᴇss, ʜᴇ ᴛᴀᴋᴇs ᴀᴄᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴏɴᴇ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴛʜɪɴɢ.

ʜᴏᴡ ʜɪs ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ɢɪʀʟ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ’ᴠᴇ ʟᴏᴏᴋᴇᴅ ᴊᴜsᴛ ʟɪᴋᴇ ʏᴏᴜ.

꧁⎝ 𓆩༺✧༻𓆪 ⎠꧂

A/N: ɪ ʀᴇᴀʟʟʏ ᴡᴀɴɴᴀ ᴅᴇᴄᴏɴsᴛʀᴜᴄᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ’ʏᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇ’ ᴛʀᴏᴘᴇ ɪꜰ ɪ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ᴛʜɪs ᴀ sᴇʀɪᴇs. sᴇʙᴀsᴛɪᴀɴs ’ʏᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇ ʙᴇʜᴀᴠɪᴏᴜʀ’ sᴛᴇᴍs ꜰʀᴏᴍ ɢʀɪᴇꜰ ᴀɴᴅ ᴅᴇʟᴜsɪᴏɴ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰᴇᴀʀ ᴏꜰ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ᴀʟᴏɴᴇ ᴀᴛ ʜɪs ᴄᴏʀᴇ. ɪ ᴛʜɪɴᴋ ᴛʜᴀᴛs ᴄᴏᴏʟ. ᴀɴʏᴡᴀʏ, ᴛʜᴀɴᴋs ꜰᴏʀ ʀᴇᴀᴅɪɴɢ!