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Thinking back on this i might maybe do a part 2

The monster in human skin

The memory of that rainy night lingers vividly in my mind, each detail etched with startling clarity. The relentless drumming of raindrops against the door, the ominous creak as it swung open, and the unsettling scent of copper mingled with cigar smoke. It's a scene I recall all too well, perhaps too well for my own comfort.

I can still feel the weight of fear pressing down on me as I hid, paralyzed by the terror in his eyes. His presence filled the room, dragging heavy wings and leaving a trail of crimson in his wake. Even now, the memory sends shivers down my spine.

I remember the way he closed the door with a gentle push, as if to shield me from the horrors outside. But his gaze pierced through me, empty and devoid of humanity. It was then that I realized, those eyes were not my father's; they belonged to something else entirely.

His touch, cold and stained with that sickening liquid, chilled me to the bone. Yet, there was an eerie calmness in his voice as he spoke, masking the darkness that lurked within. "Why are you not asleep, kiddo? It's too early to be up," he said, wiping away the blood with a casual indifference that sent a shiver down my spine. He sent me to bed afterwards.

And so, he lingered, a silent sentinel in the shadows, watching over me with an unsettling intensity. In that moment, I understood the truth: the true nature of the man I'd called Dad—a monster masquerading as a father. And yet, despite the horror, a part of me still yearns for his twisted version of love.

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I loveee fantasy settings doing magical exhaustion:

burnt out pyromancers emitting steam and smoke

tired cryomancers shivering with visible foggy breath

weary necromancers looking ill and hearing voices

frazzled healers receiving the same cuts, bruises, and injuries of their patients

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Do not blame me for who I am. The doctor prescribed me 20 mL of #hellsite (derogatory) twice a day.

[winter-words]

The monster in human skin

The memory of that rainy night lingers vividly in my mind, each detail etched with startling clarity. The relentless drumming of raindrops against the door, the ominous creak as it swung open, and the unsettling scent of copper mingled with cigar smoke. It's a scene I recall all too well, perhaps too well for my own comfort.

I can still feel the weight of fear pressing down on me as I hid, paralyzed by the terror in his eyes. His presence filled the room, dragging heavy wings and leaving a trail of crimson in his wake. Even now, the memory sends shivers down my spine.

I remember the way he closed the door with a gentle push, as if to shield me from the horrors outside. But his gaze pierced through me, empty and devoid of humanity. It was then that I realized, those eyes were not my father's; they belonged to something else entirely.

His touch, cold and stained with that sickening liquid, chilled me to the bone. Yet, there was an eerie calmness in his voice as he spoke, masking the darkness that lurked within. "Why are you not asleep, kiddo? It's too early to be up," he said, wiping away the blood with a casual indifference that sent a shiver down my spine. He sent me to bed afterwards.

And so, he lingered, a silent sentinel in the shadows, watching over me with an unsettling intensity. In that moment, I understood the truth: the true nature of the man I'd called Dad—a monster masquerading as a father. And yet, despite the horror, a part of me still yearns for his twisted version of love.

[winter-words]

Death is not a performance and acts of falling and seizing. It is simply a man failing to reappear.

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I am a monster, a beast that's trapped in a birdcage trying to sing as I am told, except all that comes out is ragged and wrong.

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The Yellow Spider and the Monarch Butterfly

Once upon a time, in the heart of the royal garden, there lived a humble yellow spider. Though small and unremarkable, it had spun a web of breathtaking beauty — a delicate masterpiece, shimmering under the soft glow of the moon. The strands of silk stretched between the roses and ivy, glinting like silver threads in the night. Yet, for all the web’s grandeur, the spider itself remained unnoticed, a creature of little significance in the grand tapestry of the garden.

One night, the web caught an unexpected visitor: a Monarch butterfly, its wings vibrant and shimmering like stained glass. As it fluttered through the garden, it became ensnared in the spider’s silken trap. The butterfly’s wings thrashed against the sticky threads, causing the entire web to tremble. Sensing the disturbance, the yellow spider stirred from its slumber, creeping out from its corner to investigate.

Slowly, carefully, the spider approached the trapped butterfly. The Monarch’s wings glistened in the moonlight, even as they struggled helplessly against the silk.

“Help me, please! Don’t eat me!” the butterfly pleaded, its voice fragile with desperation.

The spider paused, its many eyes reflecting the beauty of the butterfly’s wings. For a long moment, it said nothing, simply admiring the vivid patterns and rich hues. Finally, in a soft, almost regretful tone, it replied, “I wish I could help you, but the silk has tangled too deeply in your wings. I fear there is no way to free you.”

Despite the dire circumstances, a strange bond began to form between the two. Each night, they would talk — the spider drawn to the butterfly's grace and beauty, the butterfly finding comfort in the spider's quiet presence. Their conversations stretched through the darkness, each word weaving a fragile thread of friendship. But as the days passed, the butterfly grew weaker, its wings losing their strength.

One fateful morning, as the first rays of sunlight crept into the garden, a human wandered by and noticed the Monarch’s plight. With pity in their heart, the human reached out to free the butterfly. The yellow spider, desperate to protect its web — its home, its creation — scurried forward and bit the human's hand in a futile act of defiance.

With a swift, careless motion, the human tore through the spider’s intricate web, ripping apart the delicate threads that had taken so long to build. The butterfly, now freed from the tangle of silk, fluttered weakly into the air, its beautiful wings beating one last time under the human’s gaze.

But for the yellow spider, there was no triumph. Crushed in the chaos, it lay motionless among the ruins of its web, watching as the butterfly soared for just a moment before disappearing into the light of day.

And so, the spider's masterpiece, its web, was lost — torn apart in a fleeting gesture of mercy — while the memory of the butterfly’s final flight lingered like a ghost beneath the garden's roses.