Naked moms in bed

2020.11.27 08:32 sad_lemon_123 Naked moms in bed

I have a question for those of you who are mothers (or fulfilling a comparable motherly role). Since I was a child, my (uBPD) mom has always used terms such as "maternal instinct", "motherly love", "motherly care" and "mother's rights" to justify all kinds of (now I believe) odd behaviours. Any protest against the said behaviours from my side was deflected by saying that I "can't possibly understand yet" but I certainly will once I am a mother myself (just typing this out makes my skin crawl).
I am still not one (tbh, I might never become) but the more I dig into my childhood and adolescence, the more I question my mother's interpretation of what it means to be a mother.
So I wanted to ask people here who have children about your experiences - what do you now perceive as maternal instincts, and what did your mother serve you as one back in the time? How do you experience all this now that you are a parent?
Some example of things that are maternal instincts or mother's rights, courtesy of my mom (in no partcular order):

  1. The right to know everything I am thinking, everything about my life and life of my friends - it's her right, since we "were once one and the same person".
  2. A tendency to guess my feelings and act on those guesses - it's her instinct to know what I am feeling at any time and about any topic, regardless of what I know I am feeling (in my very late 20s). Not that I am in touch with my feelings as a RBB anyways, though...
  3. The right to unload any emotional burden or even a fleeting frustration onto me - I am her child, so who can she share with, if not me? Nothing's off limits - it's just how a mother-daughter relationship should be! That's natural!
  4. The right to demand her teenage daughter to keep secrets and keep her side against her husband (my father). Because the mother-daughter bond just beats any other family relationship and it's her right to demand loyalty that excludes the other parent!
  5. The right to come into the bathroom while I am showering/being on the toilet. If I complain, I am vile - she gave birth to me, saw me naked, tended to me as a baby, so it is her right to still be able to see (and comment) on everything about my body.
  6. The right to demand her daughter to text her every night before going to bed (despite having spoken already 2 times on the phone that day). It is a. her right to receive a good night text that shows her child cares about her, because that is what mothers deserve; b. impossible for her to fall alseep unless she knows I'm safe and sound in my bed (I am in my late 20s, I repeat), because..."maternal instincts"
  7. The right to demand endless compliments on her physical appearance, character and cleverness from her child. Because, it's her right to be praised and respected by her child.
  8. The right to slap her teenager daughter who had a mini-breakdown and said she doesn't want to have children. Because it's her right to demand grandchildren and her daughter has no right to "take away mother's right to her daughter's children"!
  9. The right to say how, once she does have the said grandchildren, she will demand them "to call and check up on grandma at least once a day", because....wait, grandmaternal instict?? Don't even know anymore.
So by now, I am aware that these are all, most likely, out of ordinary. I still have to remind myself every day that these behaviours are not necessary a reflection of some sort of universal motherly love - but my mother's personal weaknesses. But I am still scared that the ideas I got from her might damage my children one day.
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2020.11.27 08:32 Fantamuse96 Naked moms in bed

This is a journal entry from an individual that attended a ballet dating from April 4, 1913.
April 4,
I have seen many things in my time. From love to war to hate, I’ve seen it all. Yet what I saw two nights ago was unlike anything I had seen before or since. It was Wednesday when I had received a phone call from my friends. They had just gotten tickets to a ballet that has escaped my mind as of late, but what I saw that night will never leave me. So I happily agreed to come along to this ballet assuming it would be a joyful experience. After arriving at the local theater we made our way into the building, just me, my girlfriend, and our other friends. Once we had found our seats, an announcer came on stage and welcomed the audience to the show. He gave a brief speech before introducing us to the composer, whose name also escapes me. You see I’m not very much into high culture, so if there’s something related to that I won’t remember it for long. Anyways the audience applauded as the composer walked on stage, although instead of giving a short speech, he simply bowed. He was a strange looking man, with white upright hair and an older, lean face. He walked stage left as the lights dimmed, and the orchestra queued up. The beginning arrangement was somber, almost like something you’d find at a funeral. Of all the ballets, operas, and other theatrical performances I’ve seen, I had never seen one start like this. Nothing happened for a while, except the music grew more menacing as it went on. We looked at one another in confusion as the woodwind section made more rapid notes, and the tempo increased. Then the orchestra died down and all was silent, and then the curtain rose. At the center of the stage stood four half naked natives and one further out front hunched over. Then the music resumed, and a threatening rhythm echoed from the orchestra pit. The four natives began hopping up and down rapidly to the symphony, and the one out front shot their head up to stare at the audience. The ones at the back danced what I can only describe as a hellish folk dance along with the daunting music. The one at the front suddenly and frantically rushed to the right of the “dancers,” and suddenly hopped up and down to the beat of the music. At this point the audience grew more confused by this sight, and before we knew it, what we thought were pieces of the set suddenly got up and turned out to be more dancers. They then began to do the same hopping dance that the earlier ones had and combined with the music, it triggered something from the audience. People began to murmur to one another, small children complained to their parents and some cried, but the dancing continued. The costumes they wore were nothing short of revealing, only covering their breasts and genitalia. Their makeup was rather garish, as they looked as white as a ghost but with solid black eyes and a black mouth. To top it off they wore tribal headdresses and shoes, creating these rather unsettling designs. After a while the dancing and music got to a point where it was reduced to one rhythmic beat, one heard earlier in this supposed “ballet.” To accompany this the dancers crowded and hunched around a single dancer at the middle, doing that unnerving hopping dance, as this single rhythm continued. And then all hell broke loose. It was at this point that the theaters murmurings turned to shouting, due to the music being loud enough to overtake the audience. Then, coupled with the shouting, several members began screaming as the dancing and music got faster. As the dancing sped up, it caused the dancers breasts to fly out of their skimpy clothing appalling the audience, but they continued dancing. The sounds coming from the orchestra were so terrifying that I could only imagine something similar coming from my nightmares. Then audience members began fighting past one another for the exit, and fights broke out. What began as a hopeful and silent evening turned into a cacophony of this disturbing, thumping music, continued screaming and shouting, and people fighting one another. Groups of people were rushing the aisle at this point, and proceeded to trample some in the process. I watched as people helplessly got crushed beneath the angry theatergoers, all the while these now exposed dancers moved faster and faster, more erratic than before. At one point one of the dancers stumbled over and vomited blood onto the stage, and I saw that another dancer's ballet slippers had become a dark red as blood pooled and spilled out of them. That’s when the dancers began wailing and screaming, almost as if mocking the now angered crowd. During the commotion I could hear shouts of, “someone has to stop this!” And, “make it stop mom, make it stop!” I then looked back at the aisle and saw countless dead and trampled people on the floor, some of which were women and children. Before I could process what I had just seen, the orchestra's loud music came to an end with a loud crescendo. It caused my ears to start ringing, and blood came out of one of them. I then looked back at the stage, and I could now see the dancers slumped over in one large pile at center stage, presumably dead. The curtains closed as some people rushed both the stage and the orchestra pit in a fit of rage. My group finally decided to get out of there, and we had to walk down the aisle. Dear god the aisle, I can’t even describe to you in words what it feels like to walk over limp lifeless bodies of those that had been alive not long before. We made it outside and waited for a cab to arrive, as groups of other people waited outside. Some other patrons were yelling at management about what they had just seen, while others cried into the arms of loved ones. Then out of the corner of my eye I saw the composer leaving the theater, pushing past people and walking at a feverish pace to where I don’t know. An ambulance arrived at the scene, and before I knew it I was riding with my friends away from that unholy place. The next day the papers published the catastrophe for all to see, and it was then that I had found out that the composer was fleeing to a mental asylum to get evaluated. It remained unclear just how many casualties there were as the paper left that out of its article, almost as if they had been covered up. Needless to say that after that night, I never want to see another ballet again...
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2020.11.27 03:47 tkvsh Naked moms in bed

I went to visit you today. The sun was shining and the birds were chirping. I got 30 minutes of alone time, more than I’ve had in weeks. I miss you so much everyday. I talked to your sister and she said your mom can’t even cook this year. My heart breaks for your family all over again. Last Thanksgiving was the first night I ever spent at your house. Remember, I begged you to pick me up from the bar and you drove from your cousins house in Maryland. The second you walked in, I chugged my drink and gave you a look like “can I please get you alone?” And we left there so fast. Didn’t even say goodbye to our friends. I kept saying “ok, we’re not having sex and I’m not sleeping over.” We didn’t have sex but I did sleep over. You heard my snoring for the first time and didn’t mind it. You said it was cute. We cuddled naked and talked and kissed until 4am. In the morning, I was shy. You took me home and texted me immediately. I think I started to fall in love with you then. I felt so peaceful with you. I was always able to block everything out when we were together. I let you comfort me and I did the same for you. I can’t count how many times I cried in your arms or had an anxiety attack and you brought me back to reality. How you’d rub my hair and my back and give me endless kisses. How tight you’d hold me, even in your sleep. I’d get mad at you and then within 15 mins realize I can never be mad at you for too long. I can’t believe they took you away from me. I used to always tell you to slow down when you’re driving, wear your seatbelt, and don’t drive when you drank too much. I thought it’d be a car crash. I didn’t think someone would take your life from you. You had so much left to give me. We had a life to build together. We had demons to fight off together!!! We were supposed to get our happy ending. Then 26 days ago someone just takes it all away from us? What am I supposed to do now? There’s no one here for me the way you were. There’s no one who knows me like you do. I go to work and I feel empty. You’ve never even stepped foot into my office but I think of you everyday since you gave me advice on my interview. You used to be waiting to pick me up at 5pm on the dot, never a minute later. I worked half days at the beginning of the pandemic and we were so happy cause it meant more time for us. I got to class and I think of you. I can barely log onto the zoom cause I get wrapped up in reading our old messages. I did this program so I can start my career. So I can tell my mom by March that I was ready to get married. And you were doing your program for the same thing. So we could start our life together, for real. I wish we went to the courthouse in Richmond like we’d planned in May. Maybe all that would’ve saved us. Maybe one thing could’ve changed our outcome. I’m not sure. I’m rambling now. This would’ve been our first official Thanksgiving together. I’ve already met your family but we would’ve been together. It would’ve been real. But I’m happy for the 1+ year of time I had with you. Our one year kissaversary is 10/27 and you left me on 11/1. Everyday I spent with you was amazing, whether or not we were fighting. I look back now and I can barely remember what we argued about. It never had substance. Cause we were so in love with each other. We’d forgive each other for anything. I love you more than I can say. My heart aches for you. I want you back. If I go now, I’d be okay cause at least I get to be with you. I love you so much baby. Rest now. I’ll see you one day.
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2020.11.27 03:33 Jackson_Arthur Naked moms in bed

Boom!
Boom!
Boom!
I could not see through the closed door, but I recognized the voices of my parents, they were reaching out to me through time and memory. That horrifying night was beginning to tear through the blockage in my mind that had been built up over the years. I had been there that night, standing right outside of the door, standing right where I was currently standing.
I had been a little boy about to lose everything.
But why?
I could hear the anger, my memory replaying the moment, and I could feel the flames that were filling the closed room. It wasn’t the beginning of an argument. The argument had been raging for some time and was nearing its peak. The pressure was building and building, the momentum growing, and there was nothing I could do to stop it, because it had already happened. And once the pressure finally reached its breaking point, my life would be changed forever.
The blockage didn’t completely break up, though, and the voices were muffled. What had they been fighting about? I couldn’t remember. I needed to remember. Desperately, I tried to listen closely to the voice, decipher words, any words, so that I may remember what was said that night.
But it remained noise.
Just noise.
I thought about breaking through the closed door. But I didn’t. Because I didn’t that night. I never went into that room that night or any night since.
The emotions in the room drastically shifted, like I knew they would. I remember when the shift happened. The fiery anger became cold fear, at least for my mother. My father was still aflame, but my mother’s voice became pleading and afraid. She was scared. And she should have been.
For a fleeting moment, both voices fell away and there was only silence. I remember how that silence felt. It was worse than the noise and yelling. That silence said more than anything else. Sometimes silence can do that, speak louder than screaming.
When the silence finally broke, it was my mother pleading for her life. I didn’t have to recall the words to understand what was happening. Her voice had been shrill but hopeless. She was begging. Yet, she knew that her pleas would get her nowhere.
Boom! Boom!
Boom!
The blasts of the shotgun rattled me, even though I knew they were coming.
Two for her.
One for himself.
Like the young boy I had been, my knees gave out and I stumbled back against the nearest wall. I fell to a sitting position and began to hug my knees. I didn’t cry. Either time. I simply hid my face and wished it had all been a dream.
I don’t know how long I sat there, either time, before finally getting back to my feet. I considered going into the bedroom. Would there still be blood on the walls or the floor? Had it been cleaned or merely sealed up like a tomb?
I didn’t go in, though.
Neither time.
Instead, I recovered my pack and found my old bedroom. Dr. Pemberton had been right. Coming back to my house had reawakened slumbering memories. And somewhere within the memories would be the source of my night terror. Dr. Pemberton had only wanted me to visit my old home, though, but I had other plans.
I was going to spend the night.
There was no point in starting a fire before settling in, because the night was warm enough to suit my needs. The fireplace’s flue was probably rusted shut or something, anyway. Besides. I was not worried too much about comfort. If being comfortable was a priority, I wouldn’t be anywhere within 100 hundred miles of this cabin of nightmares.
After entering my old bedroom, I doused my overly bright flashlight and pulled my electric lantern from my pack. I placed it on the floor and switched it on. The light of the lantern was dimmer than the flashlight, but it would work better for sleeping. I could use no light at all, but I wasn’t going to sleep in total darkness. I just wasn’t.
My old bedroom was just as empty as the rest of the house. The basketball posters that I had mentioned to Dr. Pemberton were long gone, most likely having been thrown away. As was my old bed, along with any other furniture I might have owned back then. It had been gutted of everything but four walls, a floor, and a ceiling. It was like I had never been here, at all. Like this room has always been empty and will remain empty forever.
It didn’t matter.
I didn’t need a bed.
I picked a random spot in the middle of the floor to roll out my blue sleeping mat. Once the mat was out and flat, I removed my sleeping bag from my pack, as well. I made a quick bed that would do fine for the night.
I considered eating something from the various snacks that I had brought, but decided against it. Rather than put food in my stomach, I tossed back one of the sleeping pills that Dr. Pemberton had prescribed to me. I used a quick drink from a bottle of water to wash it fully down.
It wouldn’t be long.
Without changing my soiled clothes, I slid into my sleeping bag and closed my eyes.
It wouldn’t be long.
I don’t remember falling asleep, but the next thing that I knew I was being jolted awake. No. Not awake. When I felt the bed beneath me, I knew that I was waking into a dream. No. Not a dream. Into my nightmare. The realization of the dream faded at the sound of movement, and the dream fully took me.
Scratch.
Scrape.
Shuffle.
I was not alone in the dark room.
Mom?
Dad?
The overwhelming smell of rotting flesh and sweat gagged me, but I fought the urge to puke. Frightened by the rancid odor, the stench of something dead, I tried to hide my eight-year-old body beneath a multi-colored comforter. There was something foul in my room and it wasn’t my parents. I could still hear it moving. Closer. And closer. I could even hear it breathing. But if I hid out of sight, whatever was there would eventually go away.
Right?
But I knew better.
I peeked. Just a little. But enough to see the monster standing over me. All I could see was its head, at first. Large, black eyes. Bald head, except for a few puffs or strands across its scalp. Its face was gaunt and covered in a sickly gray skin. It saw me peeking and it smiled. Its grin was filled with brown, jagged teeth. On its breath was the worst stink I had ever encountered.
Once again, I swallowed the urge to vomit.
My heart pounding and my breath locked in my lungs, I attempted to pull the comforter back over my face, but the monster reached out and grabbed it before I could. I struggled but it was much stronger than me. I fought and fought, but the monster managed to pull my comforter from me and from the bed entirely.
I kicked and struck out when it tried to get its long fingers on me. I tried my best to hit whatever parts of its thin, naked form I could. However, my short arms and short legs did little to fend off such a monster. It appeared skinny, but its long arms were just too strong. When I eventually found myself in its clutches, I remembered that I had a voice.
“Mom! Dad!” I would have yelled, if I had only remembered my voice a moment before. By the time I tried to call out, the monster was stuffing my mouth with one of my dirty socks that had been lying around the room.
There was no spitting it out.
It had been lodged in much too far.
I was on the verge of choking when the monster plucked me from my bed. I continued kicking and punching, but still to no avail. I was helpless. As if I were nothing but a lifeless doll, it bound my hands and feet with rope that appeared from nowhere. And then it stuffed me into the large feed sack that had been lying at its feet before slinging me over its shoulder. It then began to carry me away. I couldn’t see clearly through the sack, so I didn’t know exactly in which direction it was taking me, or how it was able to travel through my house without waking my parents, but I knew what the destination would be.
The cellar out back.
After hearing the rusty hinges of the cellar door groan as they moved, I was bombarded with the earthy smells emanating from the hole in the hill. I never liked the smell of that cellar. It was always overbearing to my nose, a strong, damp mixture of ripe potatoes, dirt, dust, and possibly mildew hidden in the crack and crevices of the wood.
I often imagined that it was how being buried alive smelled.
The creature took me all the way to the back of the cellar before dumping me onto the flimsy wooden floor. I fell with a hard thud and immediately tried to scurry as far away from the beast as I could, but I was already up against the rear wall. Frantically, my eyes darted from one side of the cellar to the other. The walls were lined with wooden shelves and produce. The walking space was a narrow path between the shelves. Even if my feet were free, there would be no getting around the creature, who stood smack dab in the middle of the room.
I had nowhere to go.
I put my back against the thin boards of the wall and glared up at the monster. I was bound and gagged and helpless to its whims.
I could see the drool at the corner of its mouth. I could see the hunger blazing in its eyes. And I was overcome with a sense of deja vu. I couldn’t shake the feeling that everything has happened before. And that it will all happen again...and again.
A cycle.
Unbreakable.
I watched the creature grin as it came for me. Brown teeth and foul breath. It couldn’t wait another minute. Out of instinct, I squirmed and tried to fight back, but I knew it would sink its claws into me either way. And when it clutched both of my upper arms to lift me from the floor, its claws punctured deep into my flesh and I cried out in pain. But my cries of pain only spread the monster’s grin wider.
Faster than I thought the creature was capable, its face lunged toward mine and it sank its filthy teeth into the soft meat of my left cheek. It bit down hard, pushing its teeth all the way through into my own mouth. A dam was broken and blood began to rush into my mouth, across my tongue and down my throat, causing me to choke and gag. Once its jaws were clenched tight, it tore the skin from my face.
I howled, spraying blood and bits of flesh.
The agony ripping through my face blurred my vision, but I could still see clearly enough to watch the creature chew.
It loved the taste of me.
While the monster was lost in the ecstasy of my flavor, I lifted my bound legs and planted my feet against its chest. I pushed with all my strength. Slick blood had spilled down my left shoulder and upper arm, weakening the monster’s grip there. When I pushed, it couldn’t keep holding on and I was able to fall free.
I tumbled with another hard thud but was somehow able to get to my feet. I glared at the monster once more and knew that if I didn’t do something it would eat the rest of me, too.
A cycle.
Repeating over and over.
No.
Something was different that time.
I was fighting back.
I stood up straight, my shoulders high, and I howled at the monster who was eating me. I howled from my frightened gut and then spat a wad of blood at it.
“No more!” I screamed. “You will not eat me anymore!”
The monster’s eyes shot open wide and the joy on its face fell away. It also knew that the cycle had changed.
“You can’t do this anymore!” I yelled. “Dad!”
The monster began to spasm, its sickly skin trembled and quivering as its shape changed. Its claws retracted. Its teeth straightened. Its eyes went from black to green. It was still tall and lanky, but no longer was there a ravenous monster standing in front of me, but my own father.
And he looked defeated. I had taken away his power.
Suddenly, my eight-year-old body transformed, as well, into the man that I currently was. Grown. Strong. Ready to face the truth of my dreams. Ready to sleep soundly once more.
“You are done doing this to me,” I told him, right before my dream began to dissolve.
I woke with a start and a gasp, climbing back to consciousness in the same place I had fallen from it. My old bedroom. Through a nearby window, I could see that the sun was beginning to rise. Somehow, the nightmare had lasted all night. I kicked away my sleeping bag and lunged to my feet. I rushed from the room and returned, as I had stood the night before, in front of my parent’s bedroom door.
Memories assaulted my mind and I started hearing their voices again, traveling to me from a time before. However, instead of muffled emotions and noise, I could finally hear them clearly and the truth I had finally faced became as concrete as flesh and blood.
“You’re a monster!” my mom shouted, heartbreak filling her throat. “How could you do this to our son? Our boy?”
“Don’t look at me like that!” my dad replied. “I am not that! I am not! Don’t you dare call me that!”
“How many times? How many? How many times did you take my child to the cellar? I’m a monster too! I should have stopped it! I should have known! I should have stopped you!”
“Stop talking to me like that! I will stop! I promise! You can’t tell anyone! You can’t!”
“Liar! You will never stop! You can’t! I will never let you near my son, again! Get out of my way!”
“Where are you going!”
“I’m taking Darryl far away from you!”
“You are not taking my son anywhere! You hear me! You will not take him from me! Get away from the door!”
“Don’t touch me! Let me go!”
“I won’t let you do this!”
“Put that down!” her voice got quieter. “Please. We can talk about this. Let me leave and we can talk about this. I promise.”
“I am not a monster.”
Boom! Boom!
Boom!
It had taken two shotgun blasts to kill my mother and a single blow to the head to end my father. I stood there for a few more seconds as the gunfire echoed in my brain. Then, as it eventually faded, I left that cabin, without grabbing a thing from it. Not my pack. Not my lantern. Nothing. I wanted nothing from it.
Tucked away in the trunk of my car, I always kept a bottle of lighter fluid and a pack of matches, just in case the firewood was too wet or being stubborn or I simply didn’t want to spend hours getting a campfire going.
It didn’t take much. The cabin was more than willing to burn. And so was the cellar. And as I drove away from the blaze, I felt lighter, freed from a hefty burden I hadn’t fully realized, one that had haunted me for years.
I was free.
Free from my past.
And free from the monsters.
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2020.11.26 20:51 f4c3m3l73r Naked moms in bed

I have to be up at the ass crack of dawn 5 days out of the week and my neighbors are loud as fuck at stupid hours of the night.
I'm writing this because it's actually quite a peculiar thing. Mainly because they have been bringing in rather big coolers and mini fridges seemingly every night at 1 to 3 in the morning for the past several weeks. What the fuck, right? The other reason that this is a peculiar thing is because they're all large people. So, if I, a 27 year old that is 150 pounds soaken wet, were to go up to these massive people and tell them to shut the fuck up it wouldn't weight out in my favor.
I figure, okay, its near Thanksgiving, just bringing in food. Nope. It's literally the day before and they are doing it right now and its 2:31am.
I've called the cops. They come, they talk and leave. Its happened twice now and it's just a "not another one of these calls" situation to these cops. Well fuck you too then, I guess I'll just sleep for 3 hours a night and work 10 hours shifts just so I can come home, agonize in my depressive fatigue and attempt escaping reality with a book or a video game and smoke weed until these assholes start bringing shit into their house at 1 am.
Sleep is futile. I'm not going to just go to bed as soon as I get home just to get woken up at 1 am and get up at 5 when they are done at 3.
I tried that one time, going to bed as soon as I got off, and I wish that I hadn't.
So, as you would guess, I was woken up at about midnight to talking, shuffling, noises that annoyed me and I shot up out of bed and decided to let my anger take over a bit. I turned my TV to full blast and put on Yu Yu Hakusho and blared some 90s Hip Hop. Fuck them. I thought. What right do they have to make me suffer like this?
I turned the volume bar down after a little while and I began to notice that the noises from outside seemed to be gone.
I turned the volume down on both my TV and stereo a little more and I looked outside. Those people were gone.
A knock came to my door.
I live alone, and I don't really have many friends aside from my playstation friends and facebook people. It was past midnight and I had no guests coming by.
It had to be them.
I had no choice but to open my door. If I didn't I felt like they would not be happy about that. I opened the door and smiled weakly to a very tall and very bulky man.
"Hello. Sorry about the noise." I said. Feeling my legs shake.
He didn't respond. He just stared at me with a cold, empty look. It was here that I slowly became aware of the fact that a many number of people were behind him. Just staring at me. I had no way to stop the trembling in my very being. I was literally shook. These guys could easily rip me to pieces if they wanted to.
I think the creepiest part was that they didn't even say a single word to me. They just stood on my door step and front lawn motionless.
"Um. Well I.. I'm going to go now." I forced myself to say.
I slowly shut the door as my eyes locked with the guy who I assumed knocked on the door. Before I had the door fully shut a smile formed on his lips. It made me feel kind of tired and definitely scared upon looking at that.
I called my dad to see if he would let me borrow a pistol, but he hung up before I could even let out a nervous chuckle. That guy probably thinks I'm such a failure. I don't have much, but god dammit I work hard for what I have!
Even if it is just a two bedroom one bath house I found on craigslist in a pretty shitty area, at least I did the damn thing.
After that they seemed to slow down, but this time I noticed that other people seemed to show up there around the same time they would pack shit into their house and even in the mornings. It was a two story brick home with a nice front porch and a stone outline for the concrete staircase leading up. It looked like a witch lived there. The people that would come in and out looked like an older crowd. Most looked miserable and I remember walking to my car one day to go to work, a small old lady with her husband were covering their faces as they walked in my direction to get to my neighbors door.
I looked down at the old womans hand and this lady's skin looked like leather. The whole day at work I shivered. Was the face covering necessary?
That week I started drinking. I'm drunk now, but I don't care. It helps me deal with this shit. I can sleep a little more sometimes and I even have nice dreams. However, two days ago I decided to stay up all night and try to get far in Bloodborne. It never worked out that much for me, but the game is always fun.
I heard a shout come from my neighbors.
Again. Then louder. The scream was of pain and suffering. I grabbed my phone and called the cops. I spoke to them and hung up the phone. I looked outside to see if I could catch a glimpse of anything. In that moment of me peeking outside I saw three men in which one was not wearing any clothes or at least looked to not be. They seemed to be fighting. Then in a sudden surprise one man picked the naked man up by the throat and with great force slammed him into the concrete below. His screaming instantly stopped. It looked like his head made contact with ground. They looked down at the man and tilted their heads to my direction.
I fell to the ground and covered my mouth from my whimpers. What the fuck was that shit? HOW? I saw the lights from the cops a moment later. I tried my absolute hardest to NOT be obvious with my peeking and noticed the cops get out.
I didn't see the people at all.
The cops seemed pretty relaxed at first, but then noticed the man on the ground and put their guns up. I then saw both men that injured that man randomly come out from a corner of the house with their hands slightly in the air as if to say "woah hey there its alright" and the cops holstered their fucking guns and talked with them. After a few moments one of the cops pointed at my house as if to let them know I was the one who called.
They left shortly after that.
I spent that whole night praying that they wouldn't come to my door. Nothing happened and eventually I fell asleep.
Yesterday is when it became clear that there was something horrible going on in that house. Call it drunken courage, but I wanted to go in there and see what the fuck is going on. The cops will never know. At least not yet, because when I see a chance, I'm sneaking in. I've noticed that there are a total of 3 people that live there. One is old as dirt, but is always seen driving (I'm pretty sure he works for a trucking company because I rarely see him and he's wearing the usual outfit), then theres the twins. At least they look like twins. I cant tell them apart. Long blonde hair in a pony tail with a blonde goatee. They were all big people. It seemed that trucker guy was gone from wednesdays to fridays all day and night and the twins were gone on wednesdays all day for whatever reason. They would come home late and usually start bringing shit in.
So wednesday was my day.
I used to be a thief, so I have a lock pick kit and that's what I used to get in. The place smelled absolutely horrible. Like a mixture of urine, rotting wood and barf. I almost barfed right there in the front room. I out my shirt up to cover my nose in am attempt to soothe my nausea. It barely helped. I had a flashlight and I turned it on. The place was like a hoarders paradise. I had to walk over countless items to get anywhere. There was a small path, however, led to an area just beyond my sight. I had a window of two and a half hours at this point so I felt confident that I would get to the bottom of this mystery before sundown. Despite the sun still up, the windows in the house were either boarded up or covered with cloth so it was dark in there. I made it to the area where I couldnt see before and noticed a door. I went to go open it and turn the knob. I opened the door. Staring forward, the door creaked open and I saw stairs leading down to a basement.
"Is someone there?" A tired, muffled voice commanded from down in the basement.
Oh my god. I didnt know what to do at first, but I walked down at a sort of fast pace before I could even think of anything to say. I looked around for a light switch, but there was too much junk everywhere. I heard the voice again. Same tone and everything. I walked to the source of the sounds and immediately saw a blood trail that led to an old large chest with a chain and lock around the handle.
The chest began to shake and I almost shit my pants. Someone was in there! "Please let me out of here!" The womans voice begged again. I quickly fumbled my lock pick and quickly disengaged the lock. Before I opened the chest, I noticed an odd engraving in just above the handle. The symbol did not look welcoming at all.
Upon opening it, I was hit with a smell that nearly singed my eyebrows off. It was worse than the smell of the house. I know what rotting meat smells like, but this foul stench was far more excessive than that. I didn't want to, but I looked down at the chests contents. There was a pile of flesh and gore. Two arms and legs were sticking out of the viscera, which was pulsing and was now emitting a deep gurgling noise. I looked in horror as something began to rise to the surface of entrails, blood, bone and hair could be seen. It was long, black and seemingly shined perfectly despite the smeared gore around it. The hands bolted out of the chest and grabbed my shoulders. I was frozen and couldnt even move. Slowly, the faces visage emerged and I was met with the top half of a woman. Her face was pale, yet somehow beautiful in a morbid sense.. She looked young and I wanted to cry, but couldn't. Instead my mouth gaped open and tried to scream. The womans face shifted to one of rage and anger. Her mouth gaped open and I could hear more gurgling. A scream shot out of her and she vomited a mess of red all over my face.
It got in my mouth and I tried desperately to spit and gasped for air. It was no use. The blood invaded my mouth and I could feel chunks of meat and God knows what else. She suddenly stopped and let go of me, slowly creeping back into the chest with a smile. I fell to the ground, got back up and ran the fuck out of that hell hole.
I left the house and didnt bother covering up that I was there. I got in my bathroom and violently emptied my stomach into my toilet bowl. I flushed, brushed my teeth with such vigor that my teeth were brighter than headlights. I stripped down and took a shower for at least an hour. Crying, shaking, violated. This trauma is forever embedded in my memory. I eventually wore myself out from terror, from the shaking to constantly trying to vomit. I locked my doors, turned on some classical music and drifted to sleep.
It's Thanksgiving and I have to go eat with family. I don't want to, but it's mty family. I drove my ccar to my moms and did the family thing. I'm very huingry. Abnormally hungry. Normally my dad eats all the leftovers, but I ate his. I was really oiut of it. Still am. Nothing seems like it was before, it's like I'm living in a hollow body and I'm just mindlessly on autopilot. I started to forget about the whole thing with the woman in the chest. It w as like it never evwn happened.
When I drove home, somehow making it to my driveway, there was a note taped to my front door. I looked it over and it simply read:
She bathes her children with love
I set it on my kitchen countyer.
I had an old girlfriend call me and she said that her family made her upset and she could use a distraction. I told her to come on by. Her voice made me fidget and I wanted her to come over immediately. I was filled with joy.
The doorbell rang and I let her in with a smile. "Wow Josh, have you been sleeping at all?" She said.
"Its a long story, come in." I replied as she walked by me. I could hear her heart beat and it reverberated in my being with ecstacy.
I was very hungry. Even more so than when I was at the kitchen table with my family.
"So, how've you been?" She asked, plopping down on my couch.
"Ive.. I've never been.." I started
"What?" Before she said anything else approached her and sat down next to her. I stared at her and smiled.
"You know, I was going to say.. I didn't just come here to talk."
Her hand was on my leg and I looked at her arm. The veins were bulging slightly and I felt the blood flow like a chocolate fountain. My mouth was watering.
"Wow! You look like your ready to go!" She started taking her clothes off. Perfect. Oh, my.. the flesh was beautiful. I touched her breats and slowly reached up to her neck. My stomach growled.
"I didn't know you were into that."
I stared into her eyes. My ears were ringing with excitement.
"Josh?"
Snap.
It was over in an instant. The flesh oozed between my fingers like jello and her head fell to the ground, rolling to my foot.
I found a strength in me I never knew I had before. There was an aroma of bliss in the air.. it came from her corpse. I wasted no time and dug in. I think my favorite part was the heart. So juicy!
I felt great after that! But, I also realized something. I couldn't finish this feast by myself.. I think I am going to share with mother.
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2020.11.26 19:22 BWithGeneral What you are looking for is..... (Link in the Desc.)4

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2020.11.26 18:09 cal_ness The Nightmare Box – Part 1

I was always my mom’s favorite. Well, of course I was. I don’t have any brothers or sisters. Don’t have cousins, either. Don’t even have aunts or uncles, at least none who ever kept in touch with either of my parents. Growing up, it was just me, mom, and dad, who busied himself mostly with hating my mom from a distance. We lived in a drafty, four-story house with dozens of rooms I never even stepped inside for the twenty-some years I lived there.
My mom was the wispy type. She was a once-upon-a-time hippy who sort of floated around from one thing to the next like an untethered balloon. She was constantly bumping into things and pissing people off. Even her sing-song voice reminded you of that squeaky sound a balloon makes when its surface rubs something the wrong way. Mom’s nature drove off anyone who’d have added a normal dimension to my cloistered upbringing.
Mom was protective as hell, too. We had a weird relationship. Uncomfortable as it is to admit, I always felt like she’d have been fine marrying me and kicking my dad to the curb. Makes me woozy just thinking about it. But in that fierce, inappropriate love was an undeniable sense of protectiveness, a lioness vigilantly guarding her cub.
Suffice it to say, I was my mom’s everything. She did everything in her power to protect me from the world.
By the end, she was batshit crazy. Looking back, I wonder if she’d just been batshit crazy all along, if age slowly peeled back the onion layers to finally reveal the true craziness underneath. But the psychologists assured me that her final mental break constituted a new level of batshit.
If you’ve never heard of sundowners, let me be the first to tell you that it’s fucking terrifying. Watching your mom’s brain turn to goo is a helpless feeling. She spent the five o’clock hour for the last three months of her life wandering around the house talking to people who weren’t there, yelling at walls, and threatening to kill herself. As if our relationship hadn’t already been strained enough. But no matter how much inconvenience she caused me throughout my life, I felt pity for her.
During her sundowning episodes, she’d wander into the forgotten rooms in the old house, some of the ones I’d never stepped foot inside for as long as I lived there. The rooms were loaded with useless shit that my mom had hoarded over a lifetime and forgotten belongings from previous owners. The house was supposedly created by some nutty architect. It was chock-full of secret corners and hidden passageways. Four stories tall (who the fuck builds a four-story house?) with snaking hallways connecting each empty room to the next, steep stairways leading between the floors, and a blanket of dust covering all of it on account of the massive place being impossible to keep clean.
Even as a thirty-year-old, I felt scared to follow mom into those forgotten rooms. I’d let her sundowning episodes run their course, waiting until her threadbare sanity returned and she found her way back to find me. But on the occasions she didn’t snap out of it, I had to play her unsettling games of hide-and-seek.
I’m making my mom sound like a purely bad person, but she had a good heart underneath the nuttiness, at least at some point. Things got worse over the years, but when I was really young, I remember my family being somewhat happy. Mom didn’t have a day job so she made being a parent her full-time gig. Growing up, I was never allowed to watch TV or play video games, but she always created activities to keep me busy. Friends who came to sleep over –– aside from being scared as hell of the old house –– wondered why we couldn’t just plug in a VHS. But mom always insisted that “A child’s imagination is a wonderful thing” and that “TV is one of society’s most malignant cancers.”
Instead of TV, Mom would hide things –– candy, cookies, homemade toys –– and create a meticulous treasure map for me to find them. She’d write a series of riddles which, if I solved them, would win me a pizza night. Our yard –– overgrown, just as maze-like and disorderly as the house itself –– was a veritable jungle. If I found the special amulet she’d hidden (a painted mason jar lid with thread poked through a hole to make it wearable), I’d get a pocket full of quarters to spend at the local arcade. A few hours at the arcade was a rarity, but the prospect of winning the big kahuna made her stupid games worth playing.
Mom also took a homemade, homeopathic approach to helping me deal with the traumas inherent to growing up. Throughout my childhood, I always had nightmares –– bad ones. It was probably on account of growing up in a terrifying old house without any role models besides my kooky mom and absentminded dad, but that’s another story.
Mom eventually came up with a solution: the Nightmare Box. She whittled it herself, nicking her fingertips with the carving blade a dozen times in the process. The box was plain, simple, and square. There was no stain or varnish. The only texture on the outside came from the rough cuts my mom had made into the piece of wood. She fastened on a tiny brass clasp that kept the lid shut, and screwed in some cheap hinges from a local craft store on the box’s backside.
The box opened, but I was strictly instructed to always keep it closed.
“You can put your nightmares in,” mom had said, with her ecstatic, toothy smile. “But you don’t ever need to open it. We have to trap the nightmares, see? Don’t ever let them out once you put them in.”
I obeyed her. Mom had a weird mystic quality, and I’d always assumed she was clued into some secret of the universe I’d never comprehend. So I kept the box closed, and every night before bed, while other kids around the country were kneeling down to say the Lord’s Prayer, I was doing my best to channel my nightmares into the box.
One of my most vivid memories of childhood was mom’s late-night visits to my bedroom. I woke up almost every time, and through cracked eyelids, I’d watch her grab the Nightmare Box from my bed stand. Other kids had a tooth fairy –– I had a nightmare fairy. Mom would take the box over to my window, crack the window open, and empty the invisible, imagined contents of the box into the night. Then she’d come back over, place it on my bedside table again, and go back out the way she came.
Strangely, the idea worked. I still had nightmares occasionally, but I wasn’t scared of having them anymore. I came to realize they were dreams, just strange ones, a different part of my subconscious making itself known. With a little mental makebelieve, I learned to put my nightmares in the box, and obeying my mom, I kept them there by always keeping the lid closed.
I still hadn’t opened the box until a few weeks ago.
Before we get to that, real quick, I need to tell you a few more things for everything to make sense. Let’s go back to mom being a good person past all the eccentricities, which I think is important to reaffirm. Despite all the darkness of what happened, I want to remember the good stuff, too.
Outside of treasure maps, homemade puzzles, and Nightmare Boxes, mom was one of my biggest cheerleaders in school. She pushed me to study hard so I could make it out of our shit town and go to college. She served on the PTA all throughout elementary school, annoying the shit out of all the other parents but vocalizing her opinions anyway. Her homemade cookies always went untouched on account of people being scared she’d snuck some hippy shit into them, but she showed up for me.
She went out of her way to do good deeds for others, too. She organized canned food drives in the neighborhood every holiday season even though we didn’t celebrate Thanksgiving or Christmas at the house. She worked with the city planners to create a space in an old, abandoned parking lot for homeless people, equipped with toilets, fresh water, and soup served every night by volunteers. When Thea Mitchell from down the street went missing, my mom organized search parties that went out every night. Mom became obsessed with finding Thea and giving her family closure. Long after everyone else stopped, my mom kept her investigations going. I remember countless nights when mom would have tears in her eyes at dinnertime, lamenting how hard it would be to lose a child while my dad glared at her from his seat at the head of the table.
Mom’s obsession with Thea surprised me because, on the one day she had seen me walking home from school with Thea, flirting as horny middle schoolers tend to do, she scolded me.
“I don’t like her long hair,” mom had said. “Girls with long hair like that –– well, I don’t know, but I just don’t like it.”
Thea did have long hair. Long, blonde, beautiful hair. She was the envy of every other girl in town. She was the most popular girl in school, but she had enemies, countless girls who whispered about her in the hallways, driven by jealousy. Thea’s hair (and the cut off jean shorts she always wore in the warm months) was part of why I had such a vicious crush on her. For a few weeks, we dated, if you can call it that. It consisted mostly of sitting together at lunch and walking home together the one time my mom saw us.
After meeting my mom and seeing how lonely and strange my home life was after school one day, Thea, like pretty much every other kid who’d seen the same, said that she wasn’t interested in me anymore. That was that.
When Thea disappeared, mom showed up. Mom had known about my crush. She saw how big a toll Thea’s disappearance had taken on me. In addition to her nightly searches around the neighborhood, eventually, mom devoted an empty room on the first floor of our house to her amateur investigations. After she finally stopped searching the neighborhood, she spent what seemed like every waking hour in the room. The walls were covered with maps of town scrawled with notes written in mom’s elegant, loopy handwriting, pictures of Thea, and thumbtacks and twine connecting all of it together. She kept after it long after everyone in town, including Thea’s parents, gave up. She did it out of love for me.
I’d hear my mom talking to herself in the room one floor below my bedroom –– the one she’d turned into Thea Mitchell HQ. At the time, I needed the Nightmare Box more than ever. I swore I could Thea wailing on the night wind outside my bedroom window. Even at age fourteen, I put my sadness, frustration, and despair into the box, never opening it on account of my promise to mom and fear of what might escape if I did.
My mom’s obsession with Thea’s disappearance eventually sent her over the edge. One day over breakfast, my dad staring at mom with hateful eyes over the top of his newspaper, she collapsed. She seized on the ground until the paramedics came, my dad, looking on indifferently, me crying on the ground next to her, begging her to snap out of it. I remember mom staring at me with a glazed, milky stare as the paramedics carted her out. I knew at that moment that whatever sanity my mom once had was now completely gone.
Dad had her committed, then ditched town without saying much. Child and family services decided that it was okay for me to stay with my best friend, who lived down the street, on account of not having any family and being old enough –– in ninth grade, at the time –– to keep up my studies in school. I visited my mom occasionally and did my best to live somewhat of a normal life.
The rest of high school came and went. The old house stood there, empty, still owned by my family, filled with our junk. It was a grim inheritance waiting for me once I got old enough to do something with it. The Nightmare Box was in there too, sitting in my childhood bedroom on the nightstand collecting dust. I forgot about it eventually.
Senior year of high school, I got into a liberal arts college on the opposite side of the state. I went for two years, studying English with a focus on journalism. Then I dropped out and decided to move back home and care for mom. As much grief as she’d caused me throughout my childhood, she had cared for me when my dad hadn’t. Seeing her in the insane asylum (they called it a “care facility,” but it was an insane asylum) made me sad. However nutty she was, mom didn’t deserve to be locked up like that, so I quit school and became her full-time caregiver.
During the almost ten years I cared for her, I watched my mom decline. The sundowning episodes became more frequent. Eventually, she talked to people who weren’t there and yelled at the walls even when she wasn’t in an episode. I moved into my childhood bedroom on the second floor –– I had to have some space from my mom, who I’d set up in the room above mine, which was one floor beneath her and dad’s old bedroom up on the fourth floor.
In October of last year, mom climbed up to their bedroom and followed through on her promise to kill herself. She jumped out the window, impaling herself on the wrought iron fence that surrounded our house four stories below.
After I got over the grisliness of it, I felt relief. The coroner assured me that mom had died on impact. Now, she’s finally at peace.
***
Earlier this year, I finally decided to sell the old house and move on with my life. I entered rooms for the first time and tossed most of the crap out: old books, stuff from my mom’s childhood, files from dad’s old clients, and junk that belonged to previous owners. It was tedious work, but there was relief in it. I was finally able to let go of things, to strip away the baggage of my strange life and leave it in a dumpster.
When I was cleaning out my mom and dad’s old bedroom up on the fourth floor, the one where she’d committed suicide, everything changed. On the old dresser, tucked next to jewelry containers, scattered makeup, and crumpled clothes from another lifetime, I saw the Nightmare Box. Until that moment, I’d forgotten about it. The box was the only thing in the room that wasn’t covered in about fifteen years of dust. A voice of reason told me to throw it into the trashcan along with all the other junk, but the fact that it wasn’t covered in dust caught my attention. Someone had been picking it up, handling it, even though everything else in the room had been left untouched.
I decided to open it for the first time. Despite all the warnings my mom had given me throughout my childhood about what would happen if I did, I pried up the old clasps with shaky fingers.
Inside the box, I found another one of mom’s games. No nightmares, just four trinkets. There was a homemade compass, an old skeleton key, a razorblade covered in blood-colored rust, and a yellowed scrap of paper. On the piece of paper were two words written in my mom’s elegant, loopy handwriting: Itchy Scratchy.
Surely it was just more evidence that my mom, before she’d finally died, had gone completely batshit. But a little voice inside my head said there was something to it. There had to be –– there was always a deeper layer when it came to mom’s games. Every puzzle had a solution. Every riddle had an answer.
The logical place to start was the compass. I took it out, and its needle started spinning around randomly. It sure as hell wasn’t pointing north, which was the direction my mom and dad’s bedroom window had faced. I decided to walk around the house and see if the needle was being drawn to something. I wandered around for a half-hour like I was a kid again, following the treasure map or hunting down the lost amulet in our overgrown yard. There was nothing on the fourth floor. But as soon as I walked away from my mom and dad’s old bedroom, I noticed the needle was pointing straight back in that direction. I walked down to the third floor. Nothing there, either. The needle pointed back to the room directly below the old master –– the room I’d set my mom up in for the final years of her life –– but once I went inside, the compass needle started spinning in circles again.
There was nothing on the second floor, either. In my old bedroom, the compass needle continued its crazy dance. When I finally made it to the first floor, I found the source. It was in the room adjacent to the kitchen, underneath my bedroom, mom’s temporary room on the third floor, and the master where I’d found the Nightmare Box. The compass had led me to the old room my mom had turned into her headquarters for finding Thea Mitchell. Around the room, the pictures of Thea and town maps still covered the walls. The thumbtacks and twine were there as well, connecting my mom’s hair brain theories. Continuing to follow the taut compass needle, I saw the homemade magnet it was attracted to: a large steel rod to which my mom had taped a picture of her and me. I had to have been in third or fourth grade in the picture, sitting in front of mom with an anxious half-smile, her behind me with that ecstatic, toothy, almost comedic grin that warned of something unhinged deep inside, which had waited until later years to reveal itself.
Wrapped around the steel rod was an ugly nest of copper wire. A thick braid of wire led to a DieHard truck battery, which had begun bleeding acid onto the floorboards below. How long had the magnet been there? Years? How long had my mom been designing this final game?
I felt my hand, still holding the Nightmare Box, being pulled toward the magnet. It was the key inside. I noticed that the car keys in my pocket were being pulled toward it as well.
One puzzle piece down. I dropped the compass to the ground. Behind the magnet and the picture of my mom and I was a pile of old wooden chairs. On the other side was a blank wall. Past the chairs –– their wooden legs like tree branches in an overgrown forest –– I saw that the wallpaper was a different color. It was floral print, with pink flowers intertwined on a mint green background. It was the same pattern as the wallpaper surrounding it, but newer, more vibrant. The difference was slight, so slight that you wouldn’t have noticed unless you had a reason to look. I moved the chairs aside. Then I realized that the new wallpaper was a rectangle in the shape of a doorway.
Three pieces of the puzzle left. The skeleton key, the razor blade, and the yellowed piece of paper with the words Itchy Scratchy written in my mom’s handwriting. I took the razor and cut the wallpaper along the shape of the doorway. It went right through, except when I hit the hinges on the left side of the door frame. After finishing cutting the shape, I dropped the razor blade and ripped back the wallpaper. It stuck to the frame, letting up puffs of old glue as the paper clung to the wood.
Two puzzle pieces left. The skeleton key fit perfectly into the door’s lock. I opened it. On the other side, there was a rickety wooden staircase leading down to a dark cellar that I never knew existed. I flipped a light switch next to me, and a set of naked bulbs, strung together by exposed wire, lit the passage, a dull yellow light shining through decades-old dust. I descended the stairs, which creaked in protest beneath my feet. At the bottom, was a dirt-floored corridor leading to another room.
The place was an abandoned wine cellar. Ancient bottles filled some of the racks, but most slots were empty. How much time had my mom spent down here? Why had she spent any time down here? I started realizing that this was her solution to my childhood problem of having bad dreams. This was where the nightmares I’d put into the box all those years lived, even though my mom had pretended to let them go on the night wind outside my open bedroom window.
Carved into the wooden wine racks along the corridor were a variety of messages:
God is watching.
The truth is in the stars.
Sluts never prosper.
Baby deserves love.
No more nightmares.
God is dead.
The dirt-floored corridor was silent, but I covered my ears anyway. Every scrawled message was written in my mom’s voice. Her words pounded in my ears.
I finally reached the room at the end of the corridor and opened the door. If it had once been another part of the wine cellar, some previous owner had turned it into a woodshop. But as opposed to wood, the room smelled like decades-old death. Whatever had died in here had been dead for a long time. Scabbed over. Leathered. Mummified.
Sitting in a chair in the middle of the room, arms and legs bound to it with leather straps, was Thea Mitchell’s corpse. I knew it was her because the corpse was approximately the same height as she was. It was also wearing cutoff jean shorts, the same ones Thea had been wearing the afternoon before she’d disappeared. The same ones she always wore in the warm months.
I walked forward to look more closely at Thea. One thing that wasn’t the same was that her long, beautiful hair was gone, shorn down to the scalp. What was left of her hair had been cut to the skin in some places, which was scarred by haphazard scissor marks.
Thea was wearing something strange. A shirt. Looking closer, I realized it was a shirt made of her own hair, from the chopped up pieces of her once beautiful locks.
Around the room on the workbenches were a variety of torture implements –– pliers, several screwdrivers, hundreds of razor blades covered in blood like the one my mom had left me to cut the wallpaper. There were syringes full of gelatinous gunk –– some sort of homemade drug my mom had used to keep Thea calm –– and junk food wrappers strewn about next to a dozen containers filled with human waste.
I looked down at the Nightmare Box, then back up at the mummified corpse of a fourteen-year-old girl wearing a hair shirt. There was one final clue, mom’s last game, her dying gift to her beloved son. Two words scrawled on a yellowed piece of paper that have become burrowed under my skin like a festering splinter of Thea’s hair:
Itchy Scratchy.
***
Why did mom do it? To punish Thea for deciding she didn’t like me anymore? Because she didn’t like her hair? The unanswered questions haunt me. Maybe mom went crazy earlier than any of us thought. People don’t become evil overnight. How much other stuff had my mom done throughout her life that would make her grim torture chamber look tame by comparison?
After twenty years, Thea Mitchell’s family finally got closure. I decided to have the old house bulldozed, then I put the property up for sale. There was a petition in town for the city to reappropriate the land and turn it into a community garden in Thea’s memory. I signed my name next to a few hundred others, but a rich real-estate developer from the opposite side of the state swooped in, paid off the city, and started breaking ground for a luxury apartment complex a month later.
Taking the money felt dirty, but it was enough for me to move somewhere else and start over. My mom went down in the history books as a sadist murderer. It was one of the more disturbing moments in the history of our small town, but most people forgot once a few news cycles passed.
It feels selfish to admit, but I think the hardest part for me is that no matter how far away I move, I can’t forget what happened. For the first time since someplace in the middle of my troubled childhood, the Nightmare Box is full again.
submitted by cal_ness to WestCoastDerry [link] [comments]


2020.11.26 07:39 Anch0-Chili In naked moms bed

some context: (this might be a bit long sorry) this last summer was crazy for me. I had a best friend that I would hang out with almost every weekend. we’ll call him teddy. once COVID started I didn’t see him for a few months, so I went to spend the weekend at his house. we would hang out and play video games all day pretty much and then at night I would hang out with his older sister. we’ll call her hannah. I went into her room and we would watch shows and stuff until we went to bed. the next weekend I came back to his house and repeated the same activities such as playing video games with teddy, and at night watching a movie with hannah. this time halfway through the movie we started cuddling. my heart was fucking racing and I didn’t know what to do because something like that has never happened to me.
I end up making out with my first girl that night. these next few months were the weirdest in my life. her parents unfortunately found out about me being In her room and us doing stuff so I was kinda banned from being at his house at the same time as she was. we were however allowed to go to the beach together, so we went to the beach. my parents drove me there and also unfortunately witnessed her on top of me while we were making out. my dad actually screamed “STOP WRESTLING” from across the beach. they were actually pretty cool about it in general but it was super embarrassing to her. anyways I’m getting sidetracked.
At some point hannah started being really weird and wouldn’t text me back and was being passive aggressive which really weirded me out because she’s usually so sweet. (I learned she was dealing with terrible emotional trauma and depression and was trying to get rid of me by trying to make me hate her)I wouldn’t sleep for days because of this. the only thing that helped me get through this was video games. I sat up playing destiny 2 for about 48 hours straight without eating or drinking. this hurt so bad because I was so attached to her and didn’t want her to go. the only thing I felt was guilt for something I wasn’t aware of / didn’t do. we ended up breaking up and I cried myself to sleep for weeks after that. I couldn’t do anything and I only felt sad. it hurt so much. I still talked to her about it throughout feeling terrible. it’s been six months and I have moved away from California and to Washington (she lives in California) and i flew back to San Francisco just to see them for a week and also meet up with a girl who ended up cheating on me. it was actually great I had a lot of fun except we broke a lot of teddy’s moms rules and we also got caught smoking weed. teddy actually ended up bending the truth and being a pussy in general on top of throwing me under the bus for no reason.
I also had met this girl at some point and we had exchanged nudes. I was very excited about this so I immediately texted all my friends and for some reason teddy fucking asked me for the pics. idk why but I said yes. and now that’s hes telling on me about shit and not being a good friend he I told someone to kick his ass to teach him a lesson. (He was on the gc when I said that) from here he threatened to leak my nudes to gc which he recently added his older sister hannah to. I HAVE NO IDEA WHY. so my ex girlfriend and some of my still close friends have seen me naked which just makes me want to barf. I don’t talk to teddy anymore for obvious reasons. Except his sister Hannah won’t talk to me either because of this. I have no one. I lost all of my close friends. I have barely anyone to go to when I need help. hannah was the coolest nicest person I had ever met and she understood me so well and I couldn’t ask for anyone better than her and I have lost her. what do I do. I still love her so much. and she looks like she’s enjoying her life and it makes me happy and so sad the same time. how do I get through this? please help me.
TL:DR I lost all my friends and I’m very depressed.
submitted by Anch0-Chili to Advice [link] [comments]


2020.11.26 06:15 Chrysania83 Mom viewed me as sexual competition

My mom was always abusive, but things went up a whole new level when I (38F) hit puberty. Suddenly I was a "slut" anytime I talked to other kids my age. Everything became sexualized, even as we grew up in a house where sex (or puberty, or anything) was NEVER discussed.
The women in my family are well endowed, and when I FINALLY got my mom to buy me a bra, the very first thing she did when I put it on was to show my brothers how to snap it, then proceeded to chase me around the house, doing so and laughing.
Her boss came over one day, and I was coming down the stairs as he came in, all braces and awkwardness, and he said, "Hello, beautiful!" My mom came into the room smiling because she thought he meant her, but when she saw him talking to me she looked at me with absolute hatred in her eyes. It's like I became competition as soon as I got boobs.
My mom also did things to my brothers, like pulling down their swimming trunks in the pool as a "joke." She'd walk around the house naked and insist on leaving the bathroom door open, no matter what she was doing in there. We were allowed no privacy, of course. Nothing belonged to us and we had no rights because "I brought you into this world." Ok, mom, you birthed me, but that doesn't mean you get to pinch my ass and loudly talk about how fat I am in front of everyone, or grab my boobs and make fun of me.
Any time I talked to a guy, my mom would berate me for being such a trashy whore. The funny thing is, she was so obsessed with the evilness of guys and how much of a boy-crazy tramp I was that that my girlfriend and I managed to pass under her radar completely, even though we were always together and not nearly as subtle as we thought.
If there was any kissing or anything in a movie, she'd cover our eyes because that was "disgusting," and if someone brought up anything pertaining to sexual relations my mom would put her fingers in her ears and go, "lalalalala." Woman, you had eight kids, so you know SOMETHING about the birds and the bees. It didn't help that we were in a fundamentalist cult that has arranged marriage (sometimes), so my mom would one day tell me which brother (everyone was called brother and sister) she was going to arrange for me to marry, then turn around and beat the shit out of me for talking to some guy at church that I also went to school with.
I got kicked out at 16, and a few years later, she and my stepdad separated. Years later I find out that she told people that my stepdad sexually abused me! My stepdad did a lot of fucked up stuff, but he never EVER did anything of the kind. I only found out because I asked my brother why my dad was avoiding me, because he was told (by my mom) that I'd accused him of that. But when my sister WAS r*ped buy a much older guy, my mom told her she was asking for it.
Mom was the opposite way with my brother - arranged a prom date for him (I don't even want to know how) and actively looked for girls to introduce him to (yuck). Of course Mom was obsessed with everyone getting married young and having babies, but ALSO never leaving home and becoming functional adults. Her dream was to have a bunch of people she could control to take care of her, because you have children so that someone can cook and clean for you, not so you can raise a new generation or anything.
Were any of your parents obsessed with the virgin/whore dichotomy? How did it manifest?
submitted by Chrysania83 to raisedbynarcissists [link] [comments]


2020.11.26 05:51 MathBOYO Naked moms in bed

The two most important people to me in my life are my mother and my SO of four years(who I’ve discussed marriage with and plan to do it in the future when stuff start to clear up). So of course, these two don’t like each other. My mother doesn’t like my SO because she thinks she is promiscuous. My SO is not, my mom just thinks she is because SO likes to dress sexy(but appropriately sexy if you get what I’m saying) and doesn’t act all demure or stereotypically lady like. SO understandable doesn’t like my mother because of this and thinks my mom is a hypocrite because my mom isn’t anything like how she wants my SO to be. But tbh SO could try to not rile my mom up. She goes out of her way sometimes to do or say things that will annoy my mom. But they put up with each other for me. Well this this time they got into an argument that got heated and I need your guys opinion on who’s the asshole.
We were having a family dinne movie night. My mother never watched the X men movies as they came out so she’s been binge watching them recently. We were watching DOFP and the scene where Wolverines gets out of bed naked comes on. I’m sure you all know what I’m talking about. My SO wants to joke around and probably mess with my mom so she whistles when it comes on. I thinks it’s funny but my mom gives her a dirty look. She says”Should you really be acting like that around your future husband?” SO says not to worry because I like seeing her like that. My mom shakes her head to herself and says”I don’t know what he sees in you...” Gf gets mad now. Goes off on my mom. Says”You’re really prudish for a lady who had her son from a random hookup. Yeah, OP told me.” My mom erupts on my SO now. I’ll spare you the details but they are going back and forth. I just wanted to enjoy my lasagna and watch X-men. I get dragged into this whole thing where they ask what side I’m on. I straight up tell them they are both acting like catty bitches tbh. That doesn’t go well. The night ends early. SO thinks I’m a mamas boy who is afraid to be fully against my mothers side. Mom thinks I’m an idiot for my choice in a future wife. Both think I’m a jerk for what I said. I was just trying to calm them down and I thought the blunt approach would have worked.
Who is the asshole here?
submitted by MathBOYO to AmItheAsshole [link] [comments]