Serum [Testing] chapter one.Something stirred in the darkness of the den.
Blaze heard it through half-pricked ears; something heavy, but sounding as if whatever it was was trying to be quiet. The dragon curled her lip at the thought of anyone sleeping through that racket. She slowly opened one eye, and as discreetly as she could, swept her gaze around the small den. There was a flicker of movement against the dark tree roots, and she held her breath. Something had just broken the soft stream of moonlight flooding through the entrance. Whatever it was, it was trying to be sneaky
The attack sent the intruder reeling back against the wall, gasping in surprise. Blaze snarled, checked and lunged again.
Prepared this time, the creature shied to the side, eyes flashing- not with anger, but mild amusement. She could easily evade this dragon's attacks; after all she'd grown up with them.
Blaze pulled out of the lunge and turned to renew her assault, spitting fury.
"Calm down Blaze, it's on
Organized by Collection
Child AbuseDaddy left for the bar,
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Stealing away the the car,
Soon Mama put me to bed,
And kissed me on the head,
Daddy was still not home,
He left us all alone,
Daddy came home just after four,
Mama was angrier then ever before,
Daddy was so mad and drunk he left the house,
I listened in bed as quiet as a mouse,
Daddy wasn't home for breakfast,
And when lunch time came at last,
Daddy didnt show up,
Mama was quiet, sipping at a cup,
Daddy came home tonight,
His eyes looked out of sight,
Mama pushed him away with all her might,
Daddy looked past the light,
Daddy took mama to the bedroom,
She screamed and there was a big boom,
Daddy walked out of the bedroom very tall,
I shrieked and ran down the hall,
Daddy caught me, I felt small,
Then he threw me against the wall,
He hit me and punched me,
My eyes hurt so bad I couldnt see,
My name is Katie,
I am three,
And on this night my Daddy murdered me.
Child AbuseChild Abuse
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There's a girl I knew,
A really beautiful girl,
With dirty blond hair,
A really young girl,
This girl was seven years old,
She had a sad tale,
She told me the tale,
The hour before she died,
That she was abused,
Her mother got drunk,
The girl hid under the bed,
Her dad got shot,
She heard a gun CRACK,
And a loud THUNK on the ground,
And saw bright blood,
Her mom went crazy,
The mother killed her true love,
And blamed the poor girl,
The girl was punished,
For no actual reason,
And was left with scars,
Her mom got worse,
And gave the girl more bruises,
And fresher black eyes,
After she told me,
I raced to my mom and dad,
And told them the tale,
We called the police,
They were told the story too,
And drove to her house,
But when they got there,
They were all too late to help,
'Cause the girl was dead.
There's Something in my Bed...There's something in my bed.
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Something that's not supposed to be there. I can feel it, the weight of it behind me. I'm lying on my side and I can't move, can't look over my shoulder. God forbid I should wish to, anyway. I woke up still. And I was stupid enough to close my eyes. My whole body is frozen, every muscle. I can't even blink. My eyes are watering and my vision's going fuzzy. They say you should try and move your fingers, your toes, so you can get mobility back into your limbs, but I daren't even do that. I don't want to touch it. I'm swallowing screams that I couldn't let out, even if I tried.
I can feel its breath now, inhaling and exhaling over my neck, sending shivers up my spine. It makes me want to vomit. It's an indication that it's impossibly close, and I can't get away. I don't know what it wants, don't even know what it is. Whether it's even real or not.
It's touching me. Running its cold, dead fingers up my arm and, God, it's making my skin crawl and tingle. It's fi
When I Say ThingsWhen I say things, I sometimes wish that I could take them back.
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I wish that I could bite my words, swallow my thoughts,
and walk through the hallway, like I had nothing to say in the first place.
Perhaps, it's the way in which I convey my words,
in such a way that seems like I don't care,
but in actuality, I care a whole lot.
My tone is fast, and upbeat,
I try to say too many things at once, yet end up saying too little at most.
The receiver of my conversation stares at me, and giggles.
But they're more freaked out then they are happy.
I can tell.
We don't always regret the bad things we say,
but I think, more than often, we regret the good things we say.
Or, at least the way in which we say them.
We wish we said them differently, I think.
When I say things, I want to say them.
I just don't know how.