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chrislaplante · 9 months ago

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𝖛𝖊𝖗𝖘𝖊𝖘

ᴄᴀɴᴏɴ ( ʙɪᴏ )

𐕣 𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐇 𝐒��𝐇𝐎𝐎𝐋 . ⸻ ᴀɢᴇ 18. it has been two years since it happened. since he tried to contact his father. set with a ouija board and nothing else. but how else could he have done it? who else could he have asked for answers? two years have gone by, now he's eighteen and trying to put the chaos behind. reciting to himself what the doctors say; it's not real, it's all in your head. ignore it, take your meds and it'll go away. only problem is, the meds aren't working.

it's trial and error, the doctors say, it takes time. in the meantime, the so-called hallucinations and nightmares and night terrors fuel his skills in art class. chris has always been a quiet kid, but since the "incident" he's become more reclusive. isolated. he's retrieved into himself, losing the few friends he had (alex, mark and jenny). but this is what happens, he knows, when you don't communicate. when you give the runaround. nowadays, he keeps to himself. both at home and school. his mother worries. his sister pretends it's just his brother being a weird teenager.

in the quiet of his room, in the privacy of his mind, he wonders if he'll end up like his father. he's certainly showing the signs, as they say, and there's no stopping those. the symptoms are persistent, and so he takes more pills than recommended.

he can't run from any of it and so he puts them on his sketchbook. his school assignments. on paper, on a canvas, with charcoal. obsessively. compulsively. he has to exorcize them out of his head somehow. but this cleansing rite has become a problem in school. his mother has heard about it more than once. so has the school counselor, and the staff is well acquainted with his "situation". how he "refuses to cooperate". but he knows what they'll ask; is he taking his meds? has he thought of hurting himself or anyone else? can they be sure he won't be a problem?

despite it all, his grades are good and so is his portfolio. he's poured all he has left into his studies and his art. he'll be off to art school next year, then he can put some distance between himself and the chaos. he hopes, finally putting an end to it.

(spoiler alert: it will only get worse.)

𐕣 𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐆𝐄 . ⸻ ᴀɢᴇ 18-20. it took a lot to convince his mother. he was eighteen after all, but he didn't want her to worry about him. about him being on his own, so far away from home. he'll be the first to admit, the moment he stepped foot on his dorm he knew things would be different. he's on his own now. with a cocktail of medications and therapy sessions. not to mention, the same issues since he turned sixteen. he's grown angry with his father, and he knows how unfair this is. but the man should be here. with him. guiding him through it. the inheritance he left behind. the things that infest his mind. his mother can only do so much, and so much less now with the distance between them. quietly fearful of another "episode", chris remains thoroughly invested in school and his art. truthfully, it's all he had.

quiet and private. nearly recluse. chris has now adapted to being alone. finding solace in his work. perhaps the most quiet college student to ever be seen on campus. nowadays, he makes no effort to make acquaintances. with a dorm full of dark art pieces, things took a turn on the first night of winter break. he'd chosen not to go home and so he was alone in his dorm. after a horror film where a parent is unaware of his own mental illness, with a young child who has to carry with the burdensome knowledge. as the film came to a climax with a terrifying chase, the father attempting to catch his child, chris decided to turn the thing off and go to bed.

his dreams weren't pleasant that night. visions of a darkened closet invaded his nightmares. he could hear his father's voice right outside its door. he found himself petrified. frozen in place. sobbing and desperately hoping his mother would come home. chris was smaller. younger. eight years old. the voice outside the closet wanted to lure him. it sounded like dad, it spoke like dad, but he knew dad was gone. chris awoke in harsh breaths and tears running down his face. he couldn't stop it, it'd been coming for him all along. it hadn't been a nightmare, he knew, but a memory he'd refused to accept. from that moment on, he didn't have that luxury anymore.

the symptoms worsened as time went on. he'd "fallen" from his bed multiple times. once, somehow managing to land shoulder first against the wall. about ten feet away from the comfort of his bed. two broken toes was the final score. his foot went first as he landed on the hard of the floor by the door. with several accidents, nightlights being turned off as he slept. waking in the darkness and panic becoming a close friend. being awakened by a bestial roar and finding the door of his dorm wide open when he'd made sure to have locked.

the doctors called them seizures, these injurious "accidents". a new development for sure. fatigue overcame him as time went on and he couldn't handle it anymore. with habitual doctor visits, medications in constant rotation, chris held on to the very end. now questioning his diagnoses (and his father's), there have been talks about leaving school and moving back home where he wouldn't be alone.

chirs knows, however, he's never alone.

𐕣 𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐔𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑 . ⸻ ᴀɢᴇ 21-25. whatever friends and acquaintances he'd managed to keep, believe him to be agoraphobic. seldom seen out, other than for work. chris held on to dear life until he couldn't do it anymore. honest. in time, living on campus, college, classes, none were an option. as his episodes became more recurrent and the symptoms worsened, doctors advised for him to move back home. maybe take online classes. chris turned away from a degree. an art degree. a questionable choice to begin with, some might say. better off. imagine his surprise when he was able to submit his portfolio for an illustration gig without finishing school (they must've been desperate).

it sounded like a joke. in the beginning. a bad, upsetting joke. illustrator sounded much more glamorous, more prestigious, than the cubicle he sat in now. the hardest part was creating something, a piece of artwork (not that he'd call it that), without the freedom of allowing it to create itself. so to speak. stay within the margins. fulfill the prerequisites and keep up with deadlines. keep it clean, polished and colorful. hellmark, indeed. but it pays the bills and keeps him from moving back home. it's not that he doesn't want to live with his mother and sister, it's just difficult to live with them when he's beginning to disagree with the doctors and his mother on his diagnoses and how to deal with it. which, in turn, causes concern.

the medications no longer help. the hallucinations are more persistent than ever, and the pills only add to the symptoms and side effects. if you were to ask him, he's not sure why he keeps trying. but he does. maybe he's in denial. maybe it's false hope. maybe he just likes the drugs. not that they make him feel any kind of chemical joy. there is no high, there is no low. there's the nausea and the loss of appetite. the loss of sleep. the will to live. more harrowing still, he's found comfort in feeling sick. he won't take much time trying to pick himself apart, he knows exactly why. this is all he knows. this is his "normal". it makes him feel like himself. it's part of what makes chris chris. like growing up in a crime-ridden neighborhood, where all you know is chaos. moving into the quiet of the suburbs just doesn't feel like home.

maybe he's found some kind of beauty in suffering.

there are plenty of distractions when opting to blissfully neglect dealing with your problems. for instance, a soul-sucking job and the downtime that comes along with it. this is where he can find solace in his work. the thing he truly enjoys. there's a market for that, too. he stumbled upon it by accident. it's what happens when you meet people in school who go on to put what they learned into practice.

musicians. the occasional aspiring author. both groups of people visual types. he's not what you'd call popular, much too introverted (a hermit, truly), but he's certainly found a place within the local artist scene. mainly with local bands in need of dark imagery (designs, artwork) to put on their bulk-ordered t-shirts and bandcamp single releases. along with one or two self-published writers in the same social circles. given their taste in music and comradery, chris' work appealed to their amazon kindle-exclusive releases.

he should take pride in this, he knows. and perhaps he will as he spends more time with like-minded individuals.

though reserved and quiet, as time went on, he found a few kindred spirits who took to him and his company. this small circle often invite him to band practice, outings to bars (where he'll have a glass of water, or a serving of nachos and a soda), and their friends' bands' shows. a tight-knit community of creative souls maneuvering life on the fringes of the social norm. chris was welcomed and embraced by them. nurtured, in a way. it's hard to tell when all this happened, but with patience and an open, non-judgmental set of mind, they've managed what a hoard of doctors and years of medications could not.

when he's not being a recluse, he can be found hanging out in the back corner of some small music venue, rented practice space or someone's basement, drawing. supporting his- well, friends' endeavors. these are the only times, places and people he feels comfortable with. alternatively, he prefers to stay home. these days home is a tiny loft ("studio-apartment") where he can keep the chaos contained. chris has made sure of that.

three sets of stairs and a narrow pathway to the left. not what you'd expect to find behind such a unsuspecting door. brightly lit with linear fluorescent and incandescent, wall-mounted lights. white walls. cold. hospital-like. clinical and safe. no dark corners to hide, no chance of silhouettes or shapes creeping from behind. metal, spiral staircase feet away from the door, leading up to the loft level, to where his bedroom. his workspace just below it, in what he suspects was meant to be the living room. the "studio" part, he assumes. walls plastered with drawings in charcoal. some large pieces with accents in red, the striking contrast appearing ominous. he's spent countless nights working in his little space. sometimes, until the sun comes out. often making late night trips to the convenience store down the street. when caffeine is required. occasionally neglecting to take his medication, or taking more of the ones which will keep him from falling asleep.

battery-powered flashlights and emergency lamps always in stock. battery packs at hand, disposable and rechargeable, and a small portable generator stored in the downstairs closet. prepared as he felt, he's now used to living in fear. unbeknownst to him, he would soon grow tired of it all. exhausted with this sad existence. as predicted, and perhaps expected (as history repeats itself), there would come a point when he couldn't take it anymore. he'd been right all along...

he would end up just like his father.

𐕣 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐍 (ᴍᴀɪɴ) . ⸻ ᴀɢᴇ 28. if you were to ask him how he ended up here, he wouldn't be able to tell you. while there are parts of it he doesn't like, it's the company and the time he gets to play and make music that makes it worth the while. a form of therapy, perhaps. a release he didn't know he so desperately needed. and he's thankful, to his friends (now bandmates). matt, kay and pascual. not only had they welcome him with open arms into their little group, they encouraged him to explore other creative outlets. none of them could have ever guessed how someone like chris (an extremely quiet, seemingly shy, private guy) could transform the way he does onstage. it took some time, of course, for him to become comfortable using his voice, stepping onto a stage, and facing a crowd of strangers every time he did.

it hadn't been his choice, technically, becoming the lead singer in his friends' band. but the guys liked the lyrics he was able to write. the themes, the eeriness, the metaphors. the heart he put into them. they knew it wasn't just a passing infatuation, perhaps from hanging out around them. no. this had been in him all along. he'd simply not explore it. and so, one day, while they were brainstorming and playing around with their instruments, pascual gave chris a push to share what he'd been writing during their practice sessions.

he'd sit there, drawing, hanging out. just a friend, privately and quietly writing words to the skeletons of songs they had been working on. later, sharing them with pascual (an equally quiet guy). with pascual's invitation and the encouragement from kay and matt, chris gave in. without song names and not being a familiar enough with terminology, he had to read them in the melodies he'd been listening to every time they got together. it's funny how things can change so drastically with a little push from a friend. it seemed like just yesterday that he'd run to the restroom before going onstage. relieving the contents of his stomach, knees on tiled floor and hands around ceramic. nerves. nerves followed him for a time. as matt recalls chris initially having to turn his back to the twenty-or-so spectators ("like morrison!").

two independent releases later, with a small following then (mostly friends of friends, their respective bands, and maybe a scattered amount of regulars looking for an outlet in the local scene), their third was received much more generously. it was all on the thousands of streams. to them, it was ridiculous. to chris, it was terrifying.

crepusculo put them on the map. not a radio play or movie soundtrack kind of map but, still a map. it'll take a while for them to be on the cover of a magazine, for example, but music fans and old school goths and metalheads alike seem to like them enough (not to mention, the abba aficionados). having a constant presence on music-heads' youtube channel interviews, underground zines, and a myriad of online self-professed music critics' (read: elitists) blogs, it's been a lot for chris to wrap his head around. regardless of where his life is now, he's still that same guy who prefers the quiet solitude of a sketchbook and some compressed charcoal sticks.

it's hard to become accustomed to strangers knowing who he is, being asked to take pictures with random people, or being invited to be bombarded with the same formula of questions in front of a camera or audio recording. the expectations, they were not built for a guy like him. admittedly, he's not sure he'll ever adapt to any of it. but nothing compares with the effect "the cult following" they've managed to reach has had on him. it's strange, to chris - if no one else, how so many people can identify with something so dark. so raw. so personal... so personal, in fact, that his friends have no idea what fuels him, both onstage and with the words he writes.

just before he joined the band, chris was at his breaking point.

living alone, isolated, and constantly terrorized by them. he knew them well by now. he could identify them by the way they made themselves known. by the way they wanted to be acknowledged. to be invited. chris knew the moment would come when he couldn't fight them anymore. when he'll be so tired, so worn out, so desperate, that he won't put up a fight and they'll do with him what they pleased.

he had a good idea of what they wanted. even the one chris liked, he knew she'd betray him to get what she wanted. what they needed. they wanted blood. just as they had done with his father. this was when chris had the crushing realization that, yes, his father had done the things he was suspected of. those atrocities. those horrible things - and those poor people. some of them never found. he also knew, without a shadow of a doubt, his father hadn't been in control of his actions. this is what chris feared the most, what would become of him. a marionette. a living dummy. a puppet. a glove they'd wear to accomplish the most inhumane and unspeakable acts. unlike his father, though, chris had the advantage of awareness. of knowing they were real. of knowing, too, that he wouldn't let them take him alive.

in a whirlwind of shadows, voices, dark impulses and horrible whispers, his chest pounded as he held the sharpest knife in the kitchen. one clean cut on each of his wrists. she sat on the floor and waited for sweet relief. in time, he could feel himself growing cold. numb. tired. he was fading. even with unfocused, blurry vision, he was shocked by the amount of blood. maybe he could close his eyes and he fall asleep for the very last time... this is not what happened.

blue, startled eyes opened suddenly hours later. a harsh inhale of air as he sat up. dazed, disoriented and confused, he awoke on his couch. a blanket on him. his hands, trembling uncontrollably. he was thirsty, tired. there were bandages wrapped around his arms, tight around the wrists.

he couldn't remember doing this. he couldn't remember getting up from the kitchen floor and stopping death at his doorstep... and yet, he had.

blood. they wanted blood. this is how it all started. a new rite. painful, visceral, but necessary. they wanted blood, so blood they would have. he'd found a loophole. by the time his friends had him join the band he'd already gather a collection of scars under his sleeves. decorating the full of his arms. it didn't take long before he felt comfortable enough to expose them to his peers. they didn't ask questions, they didn't have to. they knew chris carried some stuff on his shoulders. they knew he'd tell them about it when he felt comfortable. and they knew, after many conversations, that he was aware they were rock solid, if he ever needed them.

about a year into being the fourth member of SEANCE, he began to conduct said rite onstage. it shocked his friends the first time he did so. they didn't know what to do when, without a warning, he reached for an empty glass bottle set by kay's drum set, held it by its neck and broke it against one of the amps. he then took the broken bottle, sharp ends to his arm, and punctured the skin. a flood of crimson red immediately began to spill as he slid the glass across both his arms. he did this multiple times. just enough to be seen by the people sitting at the bar from across the locale. there was an explosion of gasps and sharp inward breaths. some people simply stared in silence and disbelief. a couple of them exclaimed their disgust and left. but after the initial shock, what remained of the audience broke into loud of cheers and enthusiastic wooing. two or three still couldn't believe what they'd just witnessed. the place exploded with a roar they hadn't have before.

chris wasn't sure what took over him, though he had an idea or two.

when the set was done, chris was certain his friends would give him the bad news; he would have to leave the band. he was prepared to apologize and take the consequences to his actions... instead, they went to check on him. once they were sure he was okay, they carried on as if nothing had happen. in time, this became a regular "act" during their shows. the "blood rites", as their audience decided to call it, were embraced in no time. despite the distaste of venue owners and managers.

nowadays chris sports long, bleached blond hair and darker clothing. face paint becoming an addition onstage. an appearance so far removed from who he is, or was. unrecognizable to those that knew him before the existence of SEANCE. but chris is more than happy to give this version of himself to those who only know him as "the singer of that band with the blood guy".

at this point, it is s all he's willing to offer.

ᴀʟᴛᴇʀɴᴀᴛᴇ

𐕣 𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐕𝐈𝐂𝐓 𝐀𝐔 . ⸻ ᴀɢᴇ 25-28. the trial had been a media spectacle. one most have forgotten about by now. the small boy found in a closet, covered in blood. his father found in a pool of blood, savaged, at the foot of the stairs. a noose around his neck, signs of an attempt of strangulation. multiple stab wounds, broken limbs and internal bleeding. it was a gruesome crime scene. an unbelievable crime scene. no sign of forced entry, no sign of another in the house other than the boy and his father. this left a courtroom asking questions and appalled at the verdict.

christopher laplante, only eight years old, ten at the time of the verdict, was found guilty in relation to the death of his father. the decision was left to the judge, what to do with the boy. this had been an incredible case. an absurd trial, and everyone was left with more doubt rather than any understanding of what happened that day. despite the boy's claims, impossible claims, it was finally said he'd done so unintentionally. manslaughter, in an attempt to protect himself (it was difficult to ignore the physical evidence, after all, a kitchen knife, the murder weapon, found by the boy in the closet, small fingerprints in blood) from an allegedly abusive man without any history of violence. however, once the journals were discovered, no one really cared for the loss of him. now the focus was on the boy. found by his mother, hidden in the upstairs closet of his bedroom. he was sentenced to five-to-ten years in a mental institution where he would find the "help" he needed.

of course, as these things often go, the boy was released early on good behavior. with a prescribed cocktail of medication and years of therapy, the approval was pushed. he was released to the care of his mother, at age fourteen. not long after, merely two months into trying to adapt back into a "normal" life, he began to hear and see things again. the whispers, the knocking, the scratching, the shadows, the voices.

one stormy night, as everyone else in the house slept, the boy found a hammer.

OPERATOR: 911, what's your emergency? IRIS LAPLANTE: Please! Please! My son is going to break through! [ loud pounding on door ] OPERATOR: Ma'am-- IRIS LAPLANTE: Please, send someone! OPERATOR: Ma-- Ma'am, I'm gonna need you to calm-- [ door pounding ] MARA LAPLANTE: [ hysterically crying ] [ wood cracking ] MARA LAPLANTE: [ screaming ] Mom! OPERATOR: Y-your-- IRIS LAPLANTE: Oh, god- Please! Someone help us! [ loud cracking ] OPERATOR: Ma'am, did you say your son? IRIS LAPLANTE: Please! please send someone! [ unintelligible ] MARA LAPLANTE: [ crying ] Mommy!

stopped in time and taken into custody, the boy was escorted to the local P.D. where he was handcuffed and held until morning in a vacant office. officers were stunned to see him sleeping on a couch only five minutes after his arrival. the boy was exhausted.

chris' family were rushed to the hospital for a thorough check-up. they spent the night, as mara wouldn't let go of her mother. having bouts of panic. sudden crying, shaking, hyperventilating and watching the doors. fearing her brother would get to them. while seeing her daughter cling to her for dear life in terror, iris laplante had to make an impossible decision. her son could not come back home. she was not fit to care for him, while simultaneously keeping her daughter safe. brokenhearted, she spoke to the officers keeping guard and things changed forever.

/ WORK IN PROGRESS.

𐕣 𝐅𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐈𝐍 𝐀𝐔 . ⸻ ᴀɢᴇ 28- ∞. WORK IN PROGRESS.

𐕣 𝐆𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝐀𝐔 . ⸻ ᴀɢᴇ 18- ∞. WORK IN PROGRESS.

𐕣 𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐀𝐔 . ⸻ ᴀɢᴇ 28- ∞. WORK IN PROGRESS.

𐕣 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑 𝐀𝐔 . ⸻ ᴀɢᴇ 28, WORK IN PROGRESS.

#ＶＥＲＳＥＳＰＯＳＴ：ＤＮＩ．#ＴＯＢＥＥＤＩＴＥＤ．

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chrislaplante · 9 months ago

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ཐི 𝖘𝖙𝖆𝖙𝖘 𐕣 𝖘𝖍𝖊𝖊𝖙 ཋྀ

⟩ NAME christopher anakin laplante. ( "chris" ) ⟩ ANAKIN note that he will not disclose his middle name unless he has to. only close friends & family know it/use it, or its nickname "ani" ( Aa-nee, like in star wars). ⟩ AGE 28. ( verse dependent ) ⟩ BIRTHDATE march 5th. ⟩ SIGN pisces. ⟩ GEN ID cis-male. ( he / him ) ⟩ RACE & ETHNICITY caucasian / mixed. ( french-canadian / latinx ) ⟩ ORIENTATION pan - sexual & romantic. ( currently questioning ) ⟩ LANGUAGES english, understands spanish but does not speak it. ⟩ SPECIES human. living conduit. ⟩ HEIGHT six foot, four. ⟩ WEIGHT between one hundred sixty four & one hundred seventy lbs. ⟩ BUILD average, thin but healthy, slight muscle visibility. ⟩ EYES blue with specks of green. ⟩ HAIR light brown, bleached blond, long, messy, curls at the ends when clean. ⟩ FACE CLAIM jack kilmer. ⟩ VOICE CLAIM jack kilmer. ⟩ SINGING VOICE CLAIM jasperrvocals on yt. ⟩ PHYSIQUE CLAIM bill skarsgard in battlecreek ( minus scarring ).

⟩ SIGNIFICANT OTHER helena elanor rodriguez ( " hels " ). ⟩ FRIENDS matt, pascual & kay. ( verse dependent ) ⟩ FATHER cassidy nathaniel laplante. ( " cassie " ) † ⟩ MOTHER iris arabella laplante ( " bella " ). ( nee de luna ) ⟩ SIBLINGS marabella jade laplante ( " mar " ). ( five yrs chris' junior ) ⟩ PETS none. but he had a cat named "cheese-itz" as a kid.

⟩ RELIGIOUS BELIEFS he was not raised in a religious household, he grew up having no belief in god nor in any religious institution (atheist). when his mental health became a "problem", he started to question the inexplicable & began to explore spiritual possibilities (landing him with a ouija board). presently, he considers himself agnostic due to the obvious complicated affairs he deals with.

⟩ EDUCATION high school graduate, college drop-out. ( verse dependent )

⟩ OCCUPATION student , failed artist illustrator for a greeting card company but takes private commissions on the side to not let his soul die for band merch designs ( usually from local goth-punk bands & the occasional artsy metal band who are still on their " garage phase " ) or for self-published authors who may need something "dark" / "underground" / "unpolished" for their first amazon-exclusive ebook . lead singer in a little band called 𝑺𝖊𝖆𝖓𝖈𝖊 ( verse dependent )

⟩ SUFFERS FROM night terrors, anxiety, depression, nyctophobia (fear of the dark), insomnia, blackouts, dangerous intrusive thoughts, prolonged dissociation, episodes of depersonalization/derealization, anxiety attacks, auditory & visual "hallucinations". ⟩ DIAGNOSED WITH schizophrenia, general anxiety disorder, clinical depression, ocd, ptsd & non-suicidal self-injury disorder. ⟩ PRESCRIPTIONS 𐕣 ᴀɴᴛɪᴩꜱyᴄʜᴏᴛɪᴄꜱ (aripiprazole, side effects: low sex drive, restlessness, dry mouth, lack of emotion, dizziness, drowsiness, nausea, insomnia, headaches, blurred vision, low blood pressure, "seizures" / helps: hallucinations, paranoia, loss of interest in life). 𐕣 ᴍᴏᴏᴅ ꜱᴛᴀʙɪʟɪᴢᴇʀꜱ (lithium, side effects: trembling hands/tremors, nausea, hallucinations, "seizures" / helps: experiencing emotions). 𐕣 ᴀɴᴛɪᴅᴇᴩʀᴇꜱꜱᴀɴᴛꜱ (lexapro, side effects: nausea, tiredness, low sex drive / helps: mutes extreme lows, anxiety, depression, energy). 𐕣 ᴍᴜʟᴛɪᴩʟᴇ ꜱᴇᴅᴀᴛɪᴠᴇꜱ (clonazepam, side effects: paranoia, suicidal ideation, memory impairment / helps: seizures, night terrors, panic attacks. alprazolam, side effects: paranoia, suicidal ideation, memory impairment, impaired judgement & coordination). 𐕣 ᴇxᴛʀᴀ : he also occasionally habitually will take anything that might help him sleep (over the counter drugs; nyquil, benadryl, etc), even if they could clash with his prescribed medication. ( all of the medications above are verse dependent )

⟩ ENTITIES 𐕣 𝖳𝖧𝖤 𝖡𝖫𝖴𝖤 𝖵𝖤𝖨𝖫𝖤𝖣 𝖶𝖮𝖬𝖠𝖭 (stand-in for hekate); she is often gentle, nurturing, comforting, healing. chris is never fearful of her & if he'd surrender willingly to an entity, it would be her. 𐕣 𝖳𝖧𝖤 𝖣𝖠𝖱𝖪 𝖥𝖨𝖦𝖴𝖱𝖤 (stand-in for abaddon); is a male-essence dark figure which looms & feeds from pain, both physical or psychological. its sole purpose is to cause suffering. chris often sees "him" as a tall, menacing shadow, with shades of dark red. 𐕣 𝖳𝖧𝖤 𝖵𝖨𝖫𝖤 𝖬𝖠𝖱𝖨𝖮𝖭𝖤𝖳𝖳𝖤 (stand-in for abalam), always talking, prodding, pestering, infecting what it can. it knows how to feign friendliness but there is something off. something bigger behind it. like a trap. chris can’t quite see it clearly, but it feels like a farce. a costume. a mask. like a puppet trying to lure him into the mouth of a hungry beast. as it should. the marionette is simply trying to convince him. befriend him. to have him fall. the marionette works in the behest of the darkness. that is the only way chris can describe it. 𐕣 𝖳𝖧𝖤 𝖣𝖠𝖱𝖪𝖭𝖤𝖲𝖲 (stand-in for paymon) is foreboding. like a curtain that falls from behind a backdrop to uncover the monster that has been posing as a gutted-out carcass of an abandoned building. but it breathes. it watches. it smells of decay & it has you. the moment it touches you you are tainted. chris can hear its starving rumble , a low guttural growl. something savage. something hungry. like a storm that’s brewing. something that’s been watching its prey , learning its movements before it could even walk. chris cannot describe it as an entity , or a shadow , nor a shape. the darkness is an infection. a disease. & it feels like a watchful heavy mantle. like a cloud of smoke that swallows him whole before he can even see it coming in the horizon. but it’s there. chris knows it. it’s always been there. looming. waiting. waiting for surrender.

𝔣𝔯𝔬𝔪 𝔫𝔬𝔴 𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔪𝔢𝔯𝔤𝔢 𝔦𝔰 𝔢𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔫𝔞𝔩

ᴄᴀɴ'ᴛ yᴏᴜ ꜱᴇᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ yᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ʟᴏꜱᴛ? ᴄᴀɴ'ᴛ yᴏᴜ ꜱᴇᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ yᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ʟᴏꜱᴛ ᴡɪᴛʜᴏᴜᴛ ᴍᴇ?

#ＡＢＯＵＴＰＯＳＴ：ＤＮＩ．#ＴＯＢＥＥＤＩＴＥＤ．

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