ozzyd27

[ozzyd27]

Stranger Statement

*Sorry for the wait, I've been on a cruise lol! Anywho enjoy the next part of my fan statement series! Go check my profile for the others :3*

Ozzy Statements Episode 12: Obsession

Statement of Isaac Shurst regarding his hypnotizing lover, told by manner of rhyme. Original statement given January 8th 2023. Recorded by Ozzy, the Archivist.

Statement begins.

Blood and misery as I was born,

A cracked soul and home torn.

Mother dead, succumbed to insanity,

Sister sick, a brother of vanity,

Father scowls and beats his way

Through the house, unleashed hate.

Nary a smile for another,

Nary a helper or a lover,

Just an empty household

Of deep anger untold.

I hoped dearly this wasn't a recital

For a tragedy in which pain is vital,

And yet I could feel it in my flesh:

A life imbued with screams and death.

Self-worth always an alien concept,

Dirty hair and clothes daily unkempt

And so when her kind, fair shape

Blessed my eyes, I thanked fate.

I sobbed that night, thinking back

To her ocean eyes that never lacked,

A gentle swirl of greys, greens and blues

That carried me, gentle, with fairy-like tunes.

When I knew we would surely meet once more,

My soul bloomed, bright hope adorned.

Her visage and presence was trapped in my mind,

Any reason for doubt I could never find,

And I slept that night with her dulcet tones

Echoing through me and my aching bones.

Further in time our relationship grew,

As did our love against remnant gloom,

As our lips touched, so did the stars,

A supernova of bliss rippling far.

When I looked in the mirror, I saw-

Bloodshot eyes, bruised and gored-*

*I was pale, red wounds like a corpse,

No, all was fine, a rose glow in my mind,

Her eyes brought me back, back to find

Soft sweet lips to help me unwind.

I dreamt fitfully, still she stayed.

I felt weak, but we smiled and played,

All worries would always fade.

I hardly needed food, for she sustained me

With euphoria and her calm sea breeze

Tinged with the smell of- *visceral disease.

Rotting fish and a hint of excrement

Smothered my nostrils, like drying cement

Which caused in me-* utter excitement,

For she was my life, and I was engrossed.

She was my cure and my selfless host,

Her beautiful- *teeth made my skin corrode,

I could feel them pierce into me every night,

But God I could only feel-* utter delight

As it was worth it for her blessed light.

Sometimes I felt her sweet saliva

Drip lustfully down my throat,

And I would become the highest climber,

Dazed and blurred I'd dote.

All the world would spin slower yet faster,

With my mind becoming a limping dancer.

There I laid- *feeble and thin-*

Desires lost for any sin.

She would then walk to the bath

And giddily disrobe like a harlequin,

Revealing that- *her skin is a graft,

Hiding a cold, dead mannequin!*

*The grey wrinkled flesh she wears

Laid on the floor’s grubby stripes,

And her plastic form of nightmares

Was a disgusting shell of spikes*

I don't care, I don't care!

This being is one of warmth!

She's kind, gentle, fair,

It matters not how she was born!

Her petals are exotic, rare,

It's only natural she’s thorned!

That ecstatic daze I laid in

Was quite simply amazing,

And even if I know

*That the blood in her veins is mine*

I will still dutifully throw

*My corpse to her rhythm and rhyme*

Yesterday she- *sunk her teeth into my brain*

And now I will never know any worries or pain.

There are these cruel fleeting moments

When *I speak the truth*,

But the truth is insult to her bestowments

That I will soon remove

Today I arrive as a trophy of her's,

*A symbol of her pure sadism*

And an invitation to any lovers

Who want to jump into her great prison.

Statement ends

[ozzyd27]

*Context: this is a short horror story I wrote for my college's writing competition, the theme was "Reflections". It uses parts of a previous story I wrote inspired by The Magnus Archives, but remasters them into, frankly, a better story which stands alone from that source material. Enjoy!*

The Eye of The Wood

Sat in a cold metal chair, the blood-soaked man averts his eyes from the officer's, whose pupils are boring holes into his pale face. Suddenly, the officer clicks the tape recorder on and it begins to whir insistently. “This is a recording of the interview between Officer Jacob Fines, and Kilner Lockroft who has been arrested on several counts of murder. The date is the 2nd of April 2019, 6:36 PM. Kilner, please can you give your account of what led up to your arrest. Your motives, plans, and any important information.”

A short burst of silence pervades the soulless grey interrogation room. Kilner idly turns to his reflection in the one-way mirror and, as if on impulse, scowls. He closes his eyes, sighs, and begins.

“I’ve told you already that you’re not going to believe me, but ironically you didn’t even believe that. So, if you really insist, I suppose it’s time to give you nightmares for a few weeks. I've always had issues with anger, alright? A little sprinkle of impulsive thoughts here and there, some have been pretty shitty, and I’m not proud of what my mind concocts up there. But, I must emphasize I’ve never actually acted on any of the thoughts, I'm not a monster! For some masochistic reason, I work in retail, and so every week I have to deal with annoying customers. Again, I’m not a monster I swear, but I’ll admit, I’ve thought of horrible ways to maim, torture, and kill them: dismemberment, crushing, drowning, etc. As soon as someone holds up the queue, it’s the first thing that springs to my mind.

“Anger, it could be said, is my response to most things. It is a corrupting fleshy mass bubbling in my soul, and I endeavored to never let it free. Inside, it could do no harm. Then the creature appeared.

“I was sleeping peacefully, but I awoke in the middle of the night to a sharp yet quiet snap. Like a branch cracking underfoot. On edge, I hesitantly pulled my duvet off me, and scanned the room, but saw nothing. Until I did. The eye was massive, bulbous, grotesque, staring at me unblinking from the corner of the room. Everything was quiet, even the usual creaking of trees outside had ceased. Dread built in my heart but I was frozen. This thing clung to the corner like a daddy longlegs. It had four main appendages - legs, arms, or whatever they were - but each one was so thin and spindly and motionless. There were too many joints in them, and they jutted out in harsh angles. There were other wriggling shadows I could make out too, undulating behind the all-knowing eye.

“There was a harsh, loud creak, like an impossibly old floorboard squeaking and splintering under someone's weight, and in a fraction of a second it was on me. The limbs were sharp, wooden, pinning me to my bed as blood instantly bloomed from swiftly deepening wounds in my shoulders and thighs. The worst thing though, was that the godforsaken eye hadn’t blinked once, but from this close I could see that it simply couldn’t. Its ‘head’, if it can be called that, was just the eye, no eyelid or any sort of flesh, and it was at least 15 inches in diameter. As I gazed in terror at it, from behind this bloodshot thing where perhaps an optic nerve would be, came dozens of wriggling, creaking tentacles. 

“I sobbed noiselessly and couldn't help but stare into the great black pupil as the tentacles, rough with splinters, reached all around my head, in a circle. More emerged, impossible amounts wriggling together tangled in my hair, until it was nothing less than a tunnel. The outside world was blocked out, and my universe was this eye, the iris a galaxy of red and orange swirled in a smudge of judgement.”

At this moment, anyone listening to the recording would notice a gradual and increasing scuttling of static filling the audio, and Kilner’s voice becoming monotone yet breathless. “It stared, and Impossible depth assaulted logic, as the eye tore me apart through its incandescence back into myself, perceptive silence, a cacophony of nothing. Any colour escaped to the periphery, a perspicacious black absorbing my fate. In the void of its pupil I see my sinful visage staring back at me, and me staring back through my reflection’s eyes in an immortal spiral of perception  From somewhere below this world, the bark of its limbs whispered ‘the trees see all, the leaves recognise all, the wood perceives you, we know you, we know you, we know you’ and they did. They knew me, they knew my universe of neurons and the cold dead stars of my regrets. A force of will hiding from this reverie of truth strived to rip the tendrils from my head, but I knew I couldn't, and it knew I couldn't, it knew everything. Every lightless nook and hidden crevice in my mind was seen by that unblinking symbol of judgement, until eventually I knew that it knew me better than I could ever know myself, and I knew that what it saw in me was awful, horned, abhorrent. Every terrible thing I had ever thought, every impulsive horror lurking within me, it was all known.”

The static at this point on the recording almost eclipses Kilner’s voice in a swarm of buzzing, until suddenly, coinciding with Kilner taking a deep breath, the crescendo of malicious noise stops. Officer Price is already very pale, and breathing heavily, but after a pause Kilner once more continues with his story.

“What felt like aeons later, I could finally blink. And in the millisecond that I did, there was a great harsh crack, and it was gone. I briefly saw it scuttling down my garden, but it was only a blurred shadow. Suffice to say I couldn’t sleep, my mattress was saturated with blood from where the creature had stabbed me, and I was still bleeding profusely, but I could only spend the rest of the night blinking profusely and washing my eyes. It was as if a splinter had found itself embedded somewhere behind my retina. Every time I blinked, I felt it dig in, but no matter how red my eyes became from scrubbing them, the scrap of wood never shifted. I still feel it, you know, every time I close my eyes I am reminded of that piercing gaze. I know I will never escape it.

“At some point my wounds had closed and the sun had risen, although I never noticed either. I don’t even know what I was doing that morning, I was in some sort of depressed or crazed daze, for good reason I’d say. Either way, my daydreams were interrupted by my phone suddenly ringing. It was my mum. I picked up and she was screaming at me. Still bleary, I told her to calm down, but she didn’t. Her words were incoherent and my mind was still scrambled, but I heard something about the news. I fumbled with the remote, and when the room was lit with my name I gulped down a sob. Scrolling across the bottom of the screen were the words ‘Local cashier turned serial killer - Kilner Lockroft’, and playing above it was horrible footage crudely censored with pixelated bars. It was me, completely in view of a security camera. The thing that looked like me was smothering a poor old lady to death. I remember her from when she spent half an hour trying to find her purse, my anger was immeasurable and I had imagined exactly this.

It dropped the wrinkly corpse, and stared directly into the camera. The CCTV footage was black and white, but I knew deep in my soul that those eyes were red and orange. I had long since dropped my phone in shock, but the footage switched to another victim. This one was being shoved into the ground again and again, skull flowering in a deep wet bloom of death. It switched to another, and another, and another. Dozens of victims by this thing that wore my face, all of whom I had fantasized about murdering before. I lost count shortly before my door was bashed in, and my room was a cacophony of police and guns. You know the rest, Officer. So, the important question: do you believe me?”

Officer Price so desperately wants to say no, but the only thing that rises from his mouth is vomit. The tape recorder is practically smashed to get it to stop, and the officer stumbles out of the room, gasping ragged breaths.

Kilner is alone, save for his reflection on the one-way mirror, which is insistently staring at him. He tries to ignore it, but those savage red and orange swirled eyes will never blink.

[ozzyd27]

[ozzyd27]

[ozzyd27]

Buried Statement

*This may be my favourite so far, it has themes! Also it's pretty long. Be warned, there's a surprising amount of gore for a buried statement! Go check out my profile for my previous fan statements!*

Ozzy Statements Episode 11: Trapped in Grief

Statement of Thominous Crown regarding his experience drowning in corpses in a mysterious Victorian stairway. Original statement given October 11th 1993. Recorded by Ozzy, the Archivist.

Statement Begins

Have you ever heard of Victorian death stairs? Well I certainly hadn't until I met my husband, he was obsessed with old Victorian architecture, a bit of a hyperfixation I'd say. Mark would constantly rant to me about Victorian traditions and practices and, of course, how some houses designed their stairs with coffins specifically in mind, with the perfect dimensions for the undertaker to pass it down the stairs without any hassle and without any resulting massive fee for the tenants. He had a wonderful voice, and it was easy to let him speak for hours, in intellectual and informative prose.

Then 20 years ago he died, and it was all my fault. I was driving, having enjoyed a party that I can't remember the contents of, and traversing a road I have long forgotten the name of. I was tipsy, and I must have simply forgotten the car to the right as I merged with a main road. I pulled out without a care in the world as the car smashed into us, the body of both vehicles eviscerated. Our wrecked heap of metal was flung into a tree, and then everything was still. Including my husband. A log had crashed into his skull, pinning him down and creating a fatal gory crater in his head. Scraps of sharp debris were digging into my sides, trapping me in my seat and giving me the most horrible sense of claustrophobia. The door was stuck, the seatbelt wouldn't come undone, and every inch I moved caused rivers of blood to run down my body.

Eventually, the other driver must have helped me, although I don't remember them in the slightest. Maybe the police came, or firemen, it doesn't matter. All that did matter was that Mark was dead, and I hated myself for it.

In the years following, I was numb, horribly depressed, self hatred buried deep within my flesh. Worst of all, I could never move on. Every night the car crash played viscerally in my mind, and every day I saw his face everywhere I went. Whenever I tried to date someone new, I would have a breakdown, a wave of guilt passing through me. I couldn't even take our pictures down, I simply couldn't let go of him. I always kept a small polaroid of him in my pocket for comfort. I would never have even considered leaving that photo. That would have been an ultimate form of betrayal. I was trapped in grief for him, and I didn't think I could ever escape.

For the 10 year anniversary of his death, which also happens to be 10 years ago from now, I decided to go to an old Victorian house in London. I thought maybe if I did something I knew he would have loved me to do, I might feel less guilty, I might be able to move on.

I planned to stay there for a day and night, although I instantly had second thoughts when I stepped in through the door and felt how cold it was. How on earth was I going to sleep through this? A second discovery though, and quite a pleasant surprise, was that this house just so happened to have a set of death stairs. Mark loved talking about them so much, it just felt like fate that they would be here. They weren't as odd as I had expected to be honest, they were simply a spiral of stairs centered around a rectangular hole. I swear I could hear something, though, as I stood at the bottom. It was faint, so much so that I thought I was imagining it, but it was a percussive sound: a gunshot? Something dropping? Either way, the sounds came one after the other, in a pattern that slowly disguised itself in the beat of my heart. At that point, I decided it was probably far off construction work, and went up to the bedroom.

I won't bore you with the details of the house: it was rickety, old, and Victorian. Go and look up a book on Victorian interiors from your local library, and you'll get a good idea of where I was. I didn't even spend most of my time there, I was mainly walking around the local shops looking for souvenirs, all the while fidgeting with Mark's photo in my pocket as always. I was tired after my excursion and fell asleep as soon as I got back to the building, perhaps a bit earlier than is healthy.

I don't remember my dreams, but I do remember when I suddenly woke up to a bang. It was pitch black and the harsh cracking crash resonated throughout the house. I was frozen for a moment, before hesitantly getting out of bed. I suppose I hadn't even taken off my clothes, so I was ready to investigate - lucky polaroid safely in my pocket. As you may expect, and very logically assume, by now, the loud sound did indeed come from the death stairs. I knew this for a fact, because as I stood at the top step, I could still hear the remnant sounds echoing sporadically beneath me. Travelling up the stairs. The stairs which I now couldn't see the bottom of. 

As I peered through the rectangle of its center, which was previously only a couple of stories high, what awaited my eyes was a dark and unending void stretching far far below. I turned, ready to just leave whatever this was alone, maybe I was dreaming or hallucinating etc etc. Unfortunately, as I turned around, something fell from my pocket: the polaroid. I lunged to get it back, but it floated right down the center, quickly fading out of view. Blinded with smothering panic, I ran down the stairs.

You are free to think me a fool, because you would be unequivocally correct, but you cannot begin to know the despair I felt at that moment. All that mattered in the universe was this photograph, all else fell to the wayside. Including caution and logic.

For several minutes I ran down those stairs in an adrenaline fueled mania, until suddenly I rolled my ankle on one of the steps. I fell forwards, thankfully landing on one of the corner stairs, but injuring my leg further in the process. I sat there wincing in pain for many minutes, until the worst of it had faded and I stood up shakily. I winced, and lent on the wall for support, but I could still walk.

As I started forward, I went deathly pale as a massive torrent of wind rushed by me, caused by something massive falling down the hole from above. I stumbled and didn't get a good look at it, but whatever it was there was no possible way for anybody to be up there throwing things down. In fact, it was only just dawning on me, none of this made any sense at all. And yet here I was, with a very real limp, hesitantly going down very real stairs, having just been blown by a very real gust of air. So I decided not to question it, I never really felt like I understood much of anything anyway. Everything had been a blur since Mark's death, and confusion was very commonplace. I blanked out all higher thought from my mind, and endeavored to march staunchly down this God forsaken staircase until I found that polaroid.

That mindset was broken again very soon though, as another object hurtled down the rectangular center. This time, I saw very clearly that it was a coffin. The wood was rotten, and it was splattered with dried blood, but it was very recognisable as a coffin. The builders of the staircase would be overjoyed, I'm sure, to see that the coffin passed down the middle with no issue, the dimensions of the rectangle perfect to the millimeter. At this point I also realized, I couldn't hear them hit the bottom. I slapped my cheeks and focused, clearing my mind again and striding down the stairs. This was no time to be contemplating!

As if mocking me, that's when the viscera began to appear. First it was stray bones, strewn across random steps. Then, I saw a mummified hand trapped between the banisters, hanging off the side of the staircase. As I went even further down, the stairs became coated in thick blood, not yet fully dried, and the scraps of bones and bodies became more common and fresh. Fingers, skulls, legs, organs. All the while, coffins continued to drop from the top, now with increased frequency. I was panting and gasping ragged breaths, but I had no choice but to venture down the increasingly gory stairs. I would not betray my love.

A few minutes later, I was struggling to continue without stepping on a severed head or discarded torso, the horrors layered the floor in a wet carpet of misery. Now, though, I could hear the bottom. Whenever the coffins speeded past, I now could hear the deep resonant crash as they shattered against whatever awaited me down there.

The corpses became more whole as I hesitantly moved further down, still slightly limping from my injured leg, and soon I was knee deep in stagnant despair. Suddenly, I heard an awful, groaning, squelching, rushing torrent behind me. I looked back and screamed as I saw the corpses and bones sliding down the stairs in a river of blood, a tsunami of death gushing towards me.

I was swept off my feet and hit my head on something hard, maybe a bone, before sliding down the stairs, hitting every rotting corpse on the way down. Some wet chunks in the wave surpassed me and sloshed against my face at every corner, and stray bones sliced into me. The dirty blood seeped into my mouth as I tumbled harshly down the death stairs. I smashed into every corner and fell painfully down every stair for what felt like several years. Suddenly I slid to a halt in a slimy pool of bodies. Groaning, I lifted my head and spat a huge brown globule of assorted entrails into the face of a random corpse. The chasm of death was silent now, save for the now gentle trickle of blood down the stairs. Any way further down the stairs disappeared within the mass of corpses, meaning that… this was the bottom. Despite the disgusting state I was in, I laughed triumphantly and scanned around for that fabled polaroid.

I saw it there, sitting undisturbed and peaceful in the middle of the scene perched on a stray nose, and I began standing up in order to get it. But then, I heard a harsh whistling far above me, louder, and louder, and-

I leaped out of the way at the last moment, diving into a soft and plump body as the coffin smashed directly into the middle of the pile, launching body parts in every direction. The coffin splintered upon impact, releasing a new body, and covering the surroundings with scraps of wood. I was impaled by many of them, but still my eyes burned with determination, the photo was no longer visible but I knew it was in the middle somewhere, and I strided forward to search for it.

What I hadn't anticipated was that a pool of destroyed bodies is much like a pit of quicksand. With every step I sunk deeper, more bones and splinters digging into my legs. I was breathing heavily, and with each ragged exhale of air I could feel myself being dragged further down. As I reached the middle, I was already waist deep. I began to dig. Dig down, fingernails broken and crusted with blood. Dig through organs, and innards, and slick bones. Dig further and further down while the rigored and ruptured dead hands urged me, pulling me down. I was up to my neck now, and still I dug. Tickling the tips of my fingers, I could feel the edge of the polaroid, and I maniacally shovelled armfuls of bloody slop over the edge of my grave-like hole. I reached deep down, but a bone got in my way and instead I pushed the photo further into the assorted body parts. I growled in frustration, but it became stuck in my throat as I heard a faint and familiar whistle. There was no time to climb out of the hole, so I dived as hard as I could into the side, bodies and skeletons pressing against every inch of me, blood invading every orifice. I wiggled and clawed through the side, desperately trying to avoid the imminent crash site. I was too late though. As the coffin exploded into my panicked burial site, the pit rippled and shook, a large shard of sharp wood launching itself into my right leg. Later I learned that this ballista bolt of bloody, ragged, tarnished scrap completely severed my hamstring and pulverized my knee, rendering my leg completely useless. All I knew at that moment though was pain and tears and screaming. The crashed coffin had shifted everything in the disgusting pit, and I couldn't tell now which way was up or down. I could only see darkness and crimson. Hair and gore clung matted to my face, and any air I could breathe through shallow choking inhales was stale and suffocating, and I could feel it rapidly running out. It was as if the corpses deep below were still breathing, and stealing every vestige of oxygen available. Alas, “below” was not a direction I knew anymore.

With all my strength, I pushed and struggled on all sides, thrashing and fighting against an army of the dead. My strength quickly waned, and to move a further inch seemed impossible. For a moment I considered laying there, pressure nestling and welcoming me into the rotten guts. Any struggle would only bring infinitely more pain. I could no longer breathe, and any attempt to do so just invited rot into my body. I was prepared to embrace the darkness, to wait for my consciousness to fade, drowning in the company of so many others. 

Muffled in the distance, I heard it again. A whistling. The light of my consciousness sputtered as it came closer and closer, and suddenly as the coffin pierced deep into the slough of bodies I found myself flung powerfully up, a human cannonball soaked in blood. My back and head was smashed into the stairs I had come down, and I slumped onto the bottom step. I gasped, and coughed, and winced, and groaned, tears streaming down my face. 

I raised my battered and bruised face and my eyes wearily landed upon the polaroid. It was there, on the surface, but it was on the complete other side of the pile. I sighed, and almost started wading forwards again automatically, but my mutilated leg stopped me. I instantly fell back onto the step, and looked longingly at that beautiful photo. For the first time in this whole ordeal, I looked behind me. The stairs were intact, albeit coated in blood. I clearly had a choice.

Again, I felt that pang of guilt deep in my soul. Surely I would not turn my back on him. Surely I would not be so worthless and disgusting a human being as to betray his loyalty. But then I thought back to him, how much he loved me, how his eyes would soften when he looked at me, how he would rant to me and gift me his beautiful knowledge. He wouldn't want me to die. He wouldn't want me to sacrifice myself for a photo. He wouldn't want the last remnant of his influence on this world to be rotted to dust in a deep suffocating hole of death. I sobbed and hung my head, the decision was made.

I turned around, and began to hop pathetically up the stairs, supporting myself by my hands, leaning against the wall. Another coffin came like a meteor, crashing down, and as the pool of gore settled once more beneath me I knew the picture was lost.

Slowly, painfully, I hopped, then crawled, up those stairs. By the time I made it up to the top, the daylight had long since pervaded the outside. I collapsed in bed, and unsurprisingly there was no trace of the deep death stairs when I woke up. In fact there were no death stairs at all, it was simply a normal linear staircase. My destroyed leg and many wounds all over my body were very real though, and I spent many months in hospital afterwards. 

In the 10 years since that fateful night, I dare say I have begun to move on. I decided to become a history teacher to let Mark's knowledge live on, and I'm able to close my eyes without seeing his face. I'm able to date again without feeling guilty. I don't have to carry a polaroid anymore to feel whole. I have been buried in grief for so long, but now I feel like I can breathe.

Statement ends.

[ozzyd27]

don’t worry everyone the doctor who wiki has everything under control

[ozzyd27]

Ceaseless watcher turn your gaze upon this wretched art

[ozzyd27]

Slaughter Statement

*This is perhaps the worst thing I've ever written, I love it! Go to my profile to check out the rest of my fan statements!*

Ozzy Statements Episode 10: Red

Statement of Ash Gandy regarding the aptly named Death House. Original statement given January 9th 2024. Statement recorded by Ozzy, The Archivist.

Statement begins.

Alrite so I'm not too smart innit, and I don't write thhat much, so my hand righting migt be a bit - what's the word - oh! Messy.

Anywaey, as soon as I turnt 16 I dropped outta school. Grades were iffy, beleeve it or not I got 9 U’s. Mum n Dad screamded at me, but all da words danced like ballet on those pages, it wasn't my fawlt! Now im 21 and their kickin me outta home, im sad. Like reaaally sad. Super sad. I was homesless for a bit, but then I had a big spark in my memery! 

Basickly when I was abowt 5, my brother Hiko went and stayed in a big big house, I never sawed him again so I thought mayby he was hapy there. So at dis moment I was leik “I wanna smile! Imma go to Hiko”. I sorta membered where it was from when the big police guys came too the door. They said he was “missing” wich was confoosing cause they said he was lasst seen at that house. Like he's just in the house sillies. They said they surched it, but he musta been under a bed or somefink!

Anyway, I went over to the big house, and it WAS soooo big! Plus above the door there wos a big flashy sign and it saided “Death House” so I thought “Oh! He just lost his heering and wonted a specialisist for deaf peeple.” I thought they're might be docters in thair, an their ushally pritty kind, I was shore I'd get a place to sleap they're.

I hurted my toe on a floor stone on the way in, and tripped a littly bit, but I evenchualy pushd opened the doore. It was - what was da big word agen? Oh right! - “massivr”! For sum reason, I feeled real angry all of sudden as if deaf people had killed my cat or someing. Recepshonist lady smiled at me, said thay ecspected me. I fought maybe Hiko had seen me come in! Da lady was in a big fish bowl thing, like a big dome for some reeson. Looked strong, effecktive.

I'd seen sum peeple doin weird shapes with there hands befoar to deaf guys, and recepshonist woman had biiig hands, maybe they muscly after doin shapes!

She pointed at room and I followed, door said “Death Room”, so I guessd that was were Hiko was if he had bad ears. In it tho wos a long ttable, wiv a hole bunch of otherers. Musta been like a dozen. Ackchually how much is a dozen? 5 right? Well da peeple in Death Room were more than that, like at least 20. All ov em sat seriously, wiv frowny eyes. Kinda scarary.

Sumone told me too sit down, so I did. Gotta say didnt look deaf, felt leik they were waching and lisning to me at the same time! Bloodthirsty. Herd that word in a flim one time, defanately applys here. Then suddenenly they're was a click, and my brane went weird. I wasnt scaered of them an more, and I felt… good! Reelly good! Strong.

There eyes shoned red and boom, loud noises as evryone jumpsed onto eachother! Fists, punchs, hair pulld [At this point in the text, the writing suddenly switches to a very distinct neat, intellectual script. The ink also seems to switch to what appears to be blood] and someone lunged at me, but the beast inside of my soul reacted, pouncing swiftly behind him and quickly snapping his neck. Beautiful dark crimson nectar started to cover the walls and pool on the ground. Where once there was depressing white, there was now a ruthless void of delicious savagery. And still the warmongering monsters inside us possessed our flesh to smash and destroy and maim. Teeth shattered, joints crunched, organs squelched, and unearthly torrents of blood took their place, as if every stray atom in the expanse of the universe had coalesced down into this one fight, to contribute dividends of gore to this horrific and visceral occurrence.

And then there were two, and I had a smile on my face - coated in layers of crimson. For the first time in my life, I felt successful, impressive, superior, and with a smooth, sleek movement I grabbed a fistful of his hair and whipped his head harshly downwards. His skull collapsed against the hard floor as the flesh of his face burst wetly, chunks projected limply amongst the debris. My boot lifted up, and I stomped against the back of the scalp, more of his skull crunching beneath me, and more of his visage exploding outwards like a firework of butchery. I lifted him once more and held the bloomed and bloody flower of his head aloft in victory, like an athlete raising a trophy.

Then, there was a click and [The handwriting reverts here, back to its previous form, but arguably even more messy] th doore opend. I was frosen thouh! I lookd arownd me nd wow. So red. I did that, I did the red. All of it. All of the red. You gota undastand, I didna meen it!

Never fownd Heeko, ran owt door, no look backs. I think in one of th rumes he's red, he's part of the red maybe. I dknow why I suvived! Its bad I did I fink, cos someimes I heeer clicks an I feel relly angry, theirs been moor red, lodes mre red, al red, bt [the writing becomes wholely illegible at this point, until the very end] and sometmes I now it loves me, an it knows th feelings mutual.

Statement ends

[ozzyd27]

End Statement

*Another fan statement! Go check my profile for the previous ones!*

Ozzy Statements Episode 9: The Angel

Statement of Jeffery Bones regarding his time within the death cult known as The Last Enemy. Original statement given March 12th 1988. Recorded by Ozzy, The Archivist.

Statement begins.

Lordsville has always been an extremely religious town for as long as I have lived there, which I dare say has been my entire existence. It has always stood there, in the American Southwest, proud and prosperous alongside it's twin town Bullston. I have long forgotten the details of my childhood, but it hardly matters. I am not particularly important to this story, essentially the only part I had to play happened 23 years into my life. Because that is when my wife became pregnant. I was so happy that day, it felt like my life had truly begun. It was easy to ignore, but I remember that day I found out, I… also found a rotting deer in our garden. I'm sure I have no need to tell you how strange it is to see a deer in a desert, not to mention a dead one. Alas, what is clearly a foreboding omen in retrospect could at the time be attributed to bad luck.

Either way, when Callum’s life was brought into this world, it was a trade for my wife's. She died screaming horribly, before the infant was even out yet. The community doctor, Paula, had to cut part of her open in order to get to it.

The child laid there, silent in her viscera until the Paula cut the umbilical cord and passed the baby to me. It was cold to the touch, and still did not cry, nor smile. It simply stared at me with threatening determination. A few days later I noticed that where my hands had touched him, there was now a layer of rotten skin, emitting a revolting stench. Furthermore, although this wouldn't register in my mind for many years, those clothes I wore on that day, which touched Callum’s skin, quickly deteriorated in quality. In the following months they were among the first of my clothes to become faded and damaged in my entire life, despite those garments being exceptionally new purchases.

The following days after the birth were painful for everyone, I really loved my wife, as did the whole community. She had worked part time voluntarily with Paula, helping to heal and care for the sick in the town. Everyone knew they could trust that lovely duo of doctors. Apart from that, nothing particularly odd happened in regards to Callum. My neighbours chipped in to look after him while I worked at the butcher's, and when I returned he always seemed fine. Healthy. Never happy though, nobody had ever seen a glimpse of emotion pass that child's face. Even now it pains me to say that it gave even me, his father, a sense of disgust and dread.

He became a very studious young man though, in the following years, and was a true student of The Bible. By the time he was 10 I dare say he could recite the entire book word for word from memory. One time, a friend dared him to read it out loud from memory backwards, and for a whole weekend he really did. And I must emphasize, he didn't just know the words, he knew the meanings, for every verse he had a unique insight which he could articulate precisely. It was truly remarkable.

One deeply foreboding aspect of his childhood though, which I will not neglect to share, is that in the first 18 years of his life he had a total of 36 pets. Dogs, cats, goats, birds, mice. They all died, none of them lasted more than 3 months. Oh and again, my earlier sentiment held true: throughout his seminal years, he never once showed happiness, sadness, joy, excitement, fear, anything at all, upon that cold face. And then, one day that changed.

On an ordinary morning like any other, around 18 years after his birth, Callum rang the bell in the town square to signal an emergency. I had been wondering where he was, as he hadn't eaten breakfast with me like usual that morning. The community of over a hundred gathered in the middle of the square and looked at his dire face. Callum was the very picture of fear, his visage contorted with sweat and impatience. Everyone immediately paid attention, nobody had seen him like this before. “What I'm about to say will shock many of you” he began, his voice booming across the square. “I regret to say that I have discovered, from personal and anecdotal account, that our trusted Reverend Peter has been engaging in homosexual activities.” Gasps and muttering rolled across the crowd, but still he continued. “That's right, disgusting sodomy. We must go to drastic measures upon this day, for not only was this act was committed within our holy church, but it was also enacted upon a boy of scarcely 12 years old!” The whole community was roaring in rage, disbelief and hatred as he uttered those last words. “Calm down congregation, for I will make him pay! Come now, to the church!” He instructed harshly as he turned and marched to the house of God. His flock, ablaze with fury, followed him hastily, grabbing torches from the toolshed along the way. I was near the front, and saw as Callum kicked down the door of the church. The Reverend froze inside, he had clearly stood up to do something, but now stayed still as a statue as he saw the united crowd hellbent on his destruction. Callum stepped in. I was very near to the door and I heard the Reverend say “P-please, what have you done? I am pure! Please everyone, I have done nothing wrong!” But alas his voice was drowned out by the crazed shouts of vengeance. Callum urged me in next, and told me to drag Peter out to the street. I hesitated, but that look on his face shot through me and I obliged.

Callum raised a hand at the crowd to signal he was going to speak. “Look at this base creature, snivelling in denial. He has committed terrible acts and, worse, he does not confess! The only thing I can say to you, pathetic wretch, is Leviticus 20:13 ‘If a man lies with a male as with a women, both of them shall be put to death for their abominable deed; they have forfeited their lives.’ the other perpetrator will be found and dealt with, but you will be subject to the Lord's wrath here and now.” The crowd gradually quietened as he said all of this, fully enraptured by his words. Everyone waited with bated breath for what he would do. Slowly, he raised his hand before the kneeling, sobbing, Reverend. With a single finger, he pressed down on Peter's scalp.

From where he touched, a wave of age passed through his body. He screamed as his body swiftly withered, wrinkles forming and multiplying. His skin sagged, his hair fell in chunks away, and his voice broke until he could no longer shout. The skin thinned and became grey, tightening over his bones as any vestige of fat decayed within him. Eventually, he collapsed to the street, a wrinkled grey sack of scarcely covered shattered and rotten bones which clattered hollowly against the pavement.

Silence pervaded through the crowded town centre, shock, awe perhaps, and fear. That is what I felt, at least, I can't really speak for the others. All eyes were cast upon Callum, for answers. His face had long since returned to its cold dead resting place, devoid of emotion. “Let it be known, all who live upon the consecrated soil of Lordsville, and remove themselves from the clutching hands of sin, will be blessed and guided by your new Reverend. I reveal myself to you now, not as the Callum you know, but as Azrael, the angel of death. Kneel now, and look forward to your fulfillment. Gaze onwards to your ascension!” and they did. They knelt and wept, flooded with awe. As he stood there, a statue of purpose, the air itself seemed to go stale around him, the ground blackening where he stood. There wasn't a hint of disquiet among the community, except for one brave soul “Murderer!” A random old lady shouted “I know in my soul that Peter was no sodomite! I know of his innocence! Your manipulation has no place here! You are touched by Satan, not our Lord, and you will be judged!”. Her eyes bloomed with malice and spittle flew from her lips as she pushed towards him, above the kneeled crowd. His eyes darkened and with a deep growling voice he spoke “Your denial and anger are false idols that shall be crushed, brought to death like all things. Acceptance is the path of the Lord that you have strayed from. I can see, though, that you are too far gone.” and like a tidal wave he stepped forward, striking the woman quicker and more powerfully than I had ever thought possible. As his fist made contact, all function of her organs ceased, I could see it in her eyes. One instant she was there, the next she was gone. Her body was knocked to the ground, limp, dead, and cold as if it had been so for many hours. Again shocked voices started to whisper among the crowd, a ripple of doubt. But again, he raised his hand. “‘Do not fear those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul. Rather fear him who can destroy both soul and body in hell’, congregation do you recognize the words of Matthew 10:28? If you have been pure, you will be judged thusly, death is not to be dreaded! It is inevitable, the Lord has simply given us the task of swiftening its arrival for the sinners!”

For a moment, he paused, as if hesitating to say something to the crowd. If I'm honest, they would have accepted anything at that moment. But instead his voice boomed “Abscond to your lives and think of what you have been told. And I warn you all, my true name is not to be spoken among mortals, it is divine and you will be judged for doing so. You may only refer to myself as The Reverend. Farewell.”

And, as quickly as this whole ordeal had started, The Reverend disappeared inside the church, leaving the crowd to disperse hesitantly behind him.

In the following weeks, he held mass on Sundays, his sermons centering on the certainty of death, and how we should be its heralds and harbingers. In the final moments of each sermon he would call names forth to the lectern and make them kneel before him. The Reverend’s gaze would become stormy and he would accuse them of grand sins: heresy, homosexuality, rape, and so much more. Each time he would announce their crime and assert “You have strayed from the path of the angel of death, sin has blinded you! The Lord's mercy shall be your last hope.” before pressing his hand to their head, and sapping the life from their bones. I must say, though, there was never ever any evidence found for any of this, nor of Peter's alleged homosexual pedophelia. Alas, nobody dared speak, and many chose ignorance instead for the salvation it gifted.

I remember vividly the sermon where he gave us our name. He said to us that Christianity had become corrupt, severed from God, and we were above that name. He told us that we were to be called The Last Enemy, inspired by Corinthians 15:26, which states simply ‘The last enemy to be destroyed is death.’

A hand hesitantly went up from the audience, The Reverend pointed to it and the man rose. He said softly “But why are we the enemy? And why must we be destroyed?”

And he responded, monologuing as if he had the whole speech planned out: “Fear not my congregation, all elements are inevitably placed in opposition to something in God's great design. Imagine a cat and a dog, they despise each other. The cat is the enemy of the dog. So then, shall we murder every cat on earth in its defense? Of course not, their rivalry is the Lord's plan. Death may be an enemy, but life is the enemy to death all the same. Are we to place shame upon those who live? Of course not, it is God's will to have each temper the other's glowing steel. So have not dread within your souls, for you will see further than all. Every creation will be eviscerated at the end of His design, but I place within you the looming beacon that we will be The Last to dim in the Lord's forge”. And with that, The Last Enemy was born.

At this point, it may be obvious to you, that I had scarcely any role in this. The Reverend did not give me any special job or privileges just for being his father. I never saw him outside of the church, least of all in my home. I was simply another member of the crowd, shocked as anyone else. I was shocked when we were told to never wear white; I was shocked when Paula the doctor was fired in favour of “leaving it to God”; I was shocked when all of our cross necklaces were taken to the forge and remade into the symbol of The Last Enemy - a finger outstretched downwards, pressed upon a wrinkly surface - and my shock was insurmountable when it was told that we must enact genocide on the neighbouring village.

Around a year after The Last Enemy was founded, The Reverend called an emergency mass at midnight on a Wednesday. He started with a short sermon on the judgement that we will all face upon death, then he told a tale. With his followers entranced like always, he explained “The town we have been in trade with for many years, Bullston, is rife with sin. That's right, it has been enacted under our pure noses this whole time. The creatures that reside there bathe in unholy pleasures, turning their visage from the Lord! I tell you mournfully here and now, they have been known to have sexual relations with their livestock! The Lord wishes for this primal tribe to be eliminated, so that their judgement may come all the sooner. This divinely important business is up to us.”

That is when the blacksmith came in, laying dozens and dozens of pistols and bayonets at the front, near The Reverend’s feet. There were shocked gasps rippling across the crowd, but like always he raised his hand. “This is the Lord's work! Have not trepidation in your souls, my followers! Do you not remember the fate of the sinful Amelekites from the book of Samuel? Do not forget how God so mercilessly said: ‘Go, now, attack Amalek, and deal with him and all that he has under the ban. Do not spare him, but kill men and women, children and infants, oxen and sheep, camels and asses’ so I command you now! This is your test of faith, and you know what happens if you fail it.”

And just like that, the congregation stood in determination and strided forward one by one to grasp a firearm. My face was beaded with sweat, and I almost dropped the smooth silver pistol I took. This was too far, surely, nobody would actually go through with this right? But like obedient drones they marched to make preparations, and then suddenly it was time to advance to Bullston. I hid.

The Reverend didn't even consider the possibility that somebody might have any doubt, he didn't even turn around to make sure everyone was there, because he knew they would be. Or else.

And yet, I hid and ran, ducked into the church to escape that terrifying makeshift battalion. For the first time, I noticed that where The Reverend had stood so often, every week, there were deep rotted grooves in the wood behind the lectern, splintered at the edges. The pedestal was similar in its state of decay, from where The Reverend had leant on it and such during his sermons. These simple, small details, are what finally got it in my thick skull that this monster was no angel of God. Nobody under the Lord's command would tarnish a church in such a manner, no matter how accidental. And so, without looking back, I ran, escaped from the town, as far away as I could. I could hear hundreds of gunshots in the distance, and so many screams, as I sprinted onwards. I still hear them now, as I stand in Britain, far away from anyone who would ever know the name Lordsville or of the terrifying Reverend. I am bereft of regret for my decision, even if I can feel my age slowly sapping from me every moment I am away from him.

Statement ends.

[ozzyd27]

waiting for something to happen

[ozzyd27]

Hornet :3

[ozzyd27]

Art by Vincenzo Lamolinara

[ozzyd27]

A while back my pharmacist saw my deadname on my profile and accidentially called it out, he corrected and deleted my deadname from the system so only my preferred name shows up now. There was a crowd of people behind me, so as he hands over the pills he apologized, in equal tone and volume as when he called my deadname and lied saying it's been a long day and he didn't mean to call out -his own- name. I quietly told him it was fine and he didn't need to do that for my sake.

His response: "No, it's my name now."

I went to the pharmacist yesterday, his nametag is my deadname. He informed me he's immigrating and in the process he's changed his first name to my deadname to have an English sounding name. That's why he's now able to get a reprint of his nametag to be my deadname. And repeated, with the intense seriousness of someone who is going to die on this hill: "It's mine now. Not yours. I'm taking." His tone indicated that decision is final.

Bro literally deadnamed me once, and has committed to flat out stealing my deadname. It's his now. Legally. Officially. I over heard his co-workers call him by the name.

[ozzyd27]

yeah, im sorry, i know you introduced yourself five minutes ago but i forgot your name 😔, i can tell you the first and last name of 46 people from the hit british horror podcast the magnus archives though

[ozzyd27]

Desolation Statement

*This one took a while! I ran out of ideas for a bit, but I'm back with another fan statement. Go look at my profile for the others!*

Ozzy Statements Episode 8: Destructive Decades

Statement of Margaret Farman regarding her life of tragedy, cursed by fire. Original statement given March 12th 2000. Recorded by Ozzy, The Archivist.

Statement begins

Oh dearie, I know you'll find this tale shocking, but I've lived with this affliction for so long it hardly surprises me. You see I'm a ripe old woman, at 89 years of age, and the fact of the matter is that every 10 years of my life, a terrifying disaster occurs that uproots my entire life.

It all started when I was but a small child, I don't really remember it if I'm honest, after all I was only 10. The only thing I do know about it is what people told me, and the horrified look in their eyes when they did. Apparently, it was a fire, which wiped out basically the whole block. My entire family died, because everyone lived quite close together, you see. And, with one fell swoop I was cast into the label of “orphan”. Looking back at this story now, I wish I had died there. They told me the firefighters found me sobbing under the bed, with fire roaring all around me. I should have died from a fire so powerful, but now I think it chose me somehow. Sometimes, even in my old age, I find myself staring into fire, the tips of the flames dancing chaotically away from the answers I seek. 

Anyway, after that I had a relatively normal childhood, the usual teenage antics. I even had a relatively nice foster family, although I will admit the standards of what is “nice” weren't as high back in my day. In particular, I would say my step-father was a very violent man, with detestable opinions and terribly unhealthy habits, and yet I still loved him. In addition, at around 19 I was courted by a lovely young man, Thomas Philney. He had the most beautiful eyes that lay calmly behind delicate glasses and he was so gentle, I fell in love right away. I could see the perfect life with him, my father even approved of him. Those were, if I'm honest, the best times of my life.

Then, on my 20th birthday, everything went, pardon my language, to utter Hell. There had been a storm forecasted for that Saturday, but nothing too major, the usual for Britain. The worst I've seen of a storm here is a couple of knocked over trees, maybe a couple of bent fences, except, of course, for this particular instance. 

My step parents, my love, his parents, all those closest to me, held a formal surprise party at Thomas’ house. You see “party” didn't particularly hold the same meaning back then, it was frankly a bit boring. It was more akin to a formal Christmas dinner where nobody wanted to stand out.  Nevertheless, I was enjoying myself, the champagne was beginning to flow, and even Thomas’ parents were starting to crack a smile.

Over the course of the day, the rain had slowly picked up bit by bit, until it was pounding viciously against the windows by the time we were eating. I remember Thomas was just standing up to get a drink for me, when suddenly a cacophony of destruction boomed through the house. Glass shattered, cutlery clattered, the furniture was flung, all victim to the torrent of storm that assaulted our gathering. I was terrified, I won't lie dearie. The way I screamed at that moment was unbecoming of a woman in polite society, I was pressed to the floor by the powerful wind while I saw Thomas being tossed around not 5 feet from me like a ragdoll. His poor glasses were eviscerated, the lenses smashed and lost among the debris on the floor. I couldn't even see his parents, but later they were somehow found in the river a mile from the house, battered and dismembered. My step parents, on the other hand, I could definitely see: my father had been impaled by a dozen steak knifes, pinned to the wall. More horrifically, though, one of his eyes was… out, hanging limply by the optic nerve, swinging wildly from the stormy gusts. My mother had been essentially torn apart, her entrails splayed across the floor. Her head had been pulled off and was flying all around the room, splattering blood everywhere. I was still pinned to the ground as the brickwork of the house began to crumble. The omnipotent winds growled through cracks as any conceivable feature of any of my loved ones became nothing more than a fresh coating of red paint to decorate the rubble. 

I apologize if I sound quite detached from the matter, it's simply the case that I'm used to it by now, and it was so very long ago. Anyway, by the time the last winds disappeared, I was covered in dirt, laying among something that might generously be called a ruin. I was… absolutely unharmed. Well, physically at least. The firemen and police and such came an hour later, and were very confused.

You see there had never been a storm, they told me, it had been blown south at the last minute and people had been relieved to find the forecast inaccurate. Naturally, they were very suspicious of my account of a tremendous tempest, and eventually gave up, putting it down to an explosion of some sort. They never suspected me for a moment, even with my peculiar story, I suppose that was the only good thing about being a woman back in those days. Nobody even considered a pretty little lady doing anything untoward. 

Eventually, they escorted me to my house… or they would have done if it had still been there. During my whole ordeal, an accident had coincidentally transpired at my home. Apparently someone was driving inebriated, and a truck was forced to swerve. It plowed right into my house, taking out every support. Now, again, I was faced with a pile of rubble.

Over the following years, I began living at an old friend's house. Lancer, was his name, I had known him back from when I was at the orphanage. I had to get a job in order to pay him rent. I'll be honest dear, I had never worked a day in my life! So, naturally, I was terrible at it. Eventually… Oh this doesn't matter, my career isn't important to the story. The only thing that matters is that by the time I was 29 I had a nice stable job, and had a somewhat good social life. Lancer's friends were quite… deviant, but they made me happy sometimes, a mood which became increasingly alien to me as life went on. I had a suspicion that something might happen on my 30th birthday, I could already see the pattern, even if it made no sense. So, I decided to abscond the day before it, on a boat trip across the channel. I didn't want to endanger anyone, so surely if I went far away, those closest to me would be alright! They weren't.

The day came and went, and I made my way back to Lancer's house. When I arrived by taxi, I saw the tragedy. The door has been kicked in. I entered, and I immediately felt something crawl up my leg, I slapped at it with a yelp, and it scurried away. Inside, I saw dozens of other rats running around, but more importantly all of Lancer's friends laid dead on the ground, on their backs in a line. All of them had giant diseased gory holes in their stomachs. Blood pooled in a puddle beneath them, flecked with stray chunks of organs and flesh. It was as if the rats had appeared within their insides and had been forced to gnaw their way out. All of those demonic vermin had distended bellies, and looked at me, still hungry. Lancer was upstairs. I won't give unnecessary details, but I assure you, his fate was much, much worse.

After that, I decided, I would live my life as a hermit in the woods. Clearly whatever curse had afflicted me fed on connections, so what better cure was there than loneliness? Over the next 10 years, I built a little hamlet, a self-sustaining garden, a life devoid of other people. It was wonderful, but I was beginning to fall deeply into depression. I battled with suicidal thoughts every day, and to be honest, I'm sorry but I should have done it. All my life, my existence has only ever brought suffering, and this world would have been better off without me. And yet, I thought I could beat this affliction. On my 40th birthday, I laughed. 

I looked to the sky and swore and laughed and cheered, certain of my victory. Then, the fire came. Sweat slid from my pores and my sweating ceased. I looked around, and saw that It encircled my home, having appeared out of nowhere. It marched forward like a wave of despair as I looked on at all I had built with sobbing dread. The flames rose high and crashed against my home, obliterating every inch of wood, leaving nothing but smoldering ash. But still it advanced, taking my garden inconsequentially, like one would pick a penny off the floor. I had never been harmed before, so I figured it wouldn't touch me, but it did. The fire swiftly fell upon my skin, smothering my legs as I screamed in desperate horror. The agony went on for so long, so very long, but it never touched beyond my waist. By the time it faded, my legs were nothing more than exposed bones smothered in a burnt maroon tar-like substance that might have once have been flesh. I was forced to crawl by my hands towards civilization, branches and roots stabbing me as I dragged myself onwards.

Eventually, someone found me, covered in ashy dirt and barely alive. I was in hospital for months, but unsurprisingly they were unable to salvage my legs.

I couldn't go to the woods anymore, because I had to be given a certain medication, in essence I was bound to civilization. And so, over the next 4 decades I have gone from place to place: hostels, care homes, prison at one point, staying in each place until eventually they are absolutely destroyed. By plane crash, flood, disease, so many people have died because of me. And I have done nothing with my life - all that remains of anything I have ever made is now rubble or ash. Every day is laced with darkness, a smile hasn't passed my old lips in years.

My 90th birthday is in 2 days, and I refuse to let any more lives be hurt. I thought I'd give my statement before I go up to the bridge. I hope it's been interesting dearie, goodbye.

Statement ends.

[ozzyd27]

Sergey eats Colin and they both become immortal within eachother, aww such wholesome vore

HAS THIS BEEN DONE YET?? WELL IT HAS NOW

TRULY, THEY ARE PARALLELS OF ONE ANOTHER

[ozzyd27]

Podium