#familicide

[cupcakes-and-pain]

A Feast for One

— — —

Abraham knew it was wrong. But how could he deny himself? If it was bad, why did God make flesh so delicious?

He ripped into the still-warm corpses of his family, pulling out chunks of stomach and lung and liver. He gorged himself on their oozing organs.

He felt embarrassed as the blood dripped down his chin, but alas, there was no neat way to dine. Still, he reached for something to clean himself. The closest thing was his daughter's wedding veil. He'd have to inform the groom she wouldn't be coming, but that could wait.

He continued to feast.

[shallowseeker]

There's definitely something uncomfortable about Kelly and mirrors.

We start Jack's journey with an attempted parent-child death, and that's the motif Chuck liked best.

Entire religions are built on the image of son-sacrifice (and wars, too). But the visceral image of killing a son makes us balk, no matter what the circumstances.

(Suicide mentions)

In 12x08 LOTUS, MIRRORS SHATTER:

We get this image of Castiel, standing behind Lucifer leaving his vessel, and the mirror between Dean and Kelly shatters.

///

In 12x19 The Future, we see another shattered mirror in the narrative, one that becomes Kelly's weapon to end her own life and the life of her child.

"causing a mirror to fall from the wall. Shattering on the floor."

Kelly uses the mirror to kill herself, hoping to kill Jack at the same time.

This won't be the last time Jack's parent figure tries to kill him. In Moriah, Dean will also try to kill Jack...and himself.

Jack winds up being a kid "raised by a village," so to speak, and so Chuck arranges scenarios to get his beloved visual on the screen in whatever way he can.

When he can't have Dean killing Jack, he gets Cas destroying Jack's body when he accidentally incinerates Belphegor in a fit of rage.

///

In the same episode (12x19), Cas comes to kill them both, but he can't pull the trigger:

Cas-- reeling at the loss of his men. At his inability to pull the trigger.

///

In 13x23 Let the Good Times Roll, Lucifer arranges for Jack to kill Sam. Jack is getting "the Dean and Cas treatment" here, in terms of the narrative.

Like Dean and Cas, Jack must kill a loved one in order to become the perfect son/soldier:

LUCIFER TO SAM: "Oh, I'm not going to kill you. (a look to Jack) He is."

///

We return to our previous motifs in 14x20 Moriah, where Chuck encourages Dean to encompass the suicide-murder AND the gun visuals.

Turns out Dean can't pull the trigger either.

///

And in 15x03 The Rupture, we'll see that if we can't have the real thing, then the VISUAL of burning Belphagor, will do.

he looks just like Jack's body again "It's me...Jack." And CASTIEL SMITES HIM! A...rage smiting. (Bel) charred on the floor. Cas sees the...remains of his son.

In his rage, Cas burns Jack's body AND the weapon, not just the demon. (Castiel's smitings aren't usually as complete as this. This is a decimation of potentiality, of Jack's vessel and holy weapon.) And this is truly when everything unravels.

The appearance of Belphagor delayed/prolonged the acceptance of the Jack loss.

///

ON DEAN. A frown. He changes the subject--

///

Whatever conversation Cas wants to have about Jack, Dean doesn't.

///

DEAN-- trying to change the subject.

15x04

(Text Attributions// Supernatural scripts here via @spnscripthunt. Transcripts are located here via SPNWiki. Visit their Tumblr to donate.)

[themurdererblog]

Christopher Watts, the Watts Family Murderer.

Country: United States of America (Colorado)

Year(s) Active: 2018

Victim Count: 3 (+1 including an unborn child)

Punishment: Three consecutive life sentences, plus 84 years. He murdered his wife and children, and was offered a plea bargain, which he agreed to.

[dirjoh-blog]

Magda and Joseph Goebbels: The Architects and Devotees of Nazi Ideology

Magda and Joseph Goebbels were two of the most influential figures in Adolf Hitler’s inner circle, embodying the personal and political complexities of the Nazi regime. Joseph Goebbels, Hitler’s Minister of Propaganda, played a pivotal role in shaping the narrative of the Third Reich, while Magda Goebbels, his wife, personified the ideal Nazi woman—loyal, elegant, and devoted to both her husband…

[underfiends]

Behind Closed Doors

Hi, I'm back. This is another addition to the Killing Time series, set in a hypothetical world where the lovely librarian Mandus ends up...not so lovely. This is more of an origin story, but I intend to write more for this because it has invaded my brain. Mandus belongs to @hannrenn. I've added tags for the trigger warnings in this, so please heed those. I don't know is this is the heaviest short story I've posted, but it's certainly not my lightest. Nevertheless, I hope you enjoy!

I turn my head as a raised voice snaps through the air. Gazing across a wooden fence, my eyes travel over to my neighbours’ house. In the mud of the street before a crooked, unpainted door, a man and woman bear down upon someone far smaller.

“-you useless thing! I should have thrown you into the well as a babe! Our lives would have been better for it.” The man marches forward and grabs onto a small arm. Olive skin bulges and whitens around thick fingers; no doubt it will redden before long. “Get up! You will learn what happens when you cross me. Mark my words, you won’t dare do it again.”

The woman watches with a smooth brow as her husband drags the child through that crooked, unpainted door. Her gaze drifts to mine. Her cheeks alight, hurried steps splashing through the mud as she scurries to the fence.

“Many apologies for the disturbance. Our son, he is well prone to mischief.” She looks back at the house, brows smoothing again when she catches glimpse of the small shape being dragged deeper in.

I look over. A small head turns, and pale brown hair turns into an even paler face. Small, wide eyes catch mine. I can see the liquid sheen from here, red already puffing lower eyelids, cheeks ruddy in anticipation.

I look away. A shard of ice pricks my chest as a door slams closed.

“I understand, truly. Children can be such fickle things, especially those with…deformities. I wish you luck in teaching those pesky tendencies away.”

The woman droops, hands clasping before her, breathing out a relieved sigh. “Yes, thank you so much. It has been such a hardship, as I am sure you have witnessed, living close as you do.”

I ignore the painful lump in my throat. I think of a child crouched in the dirt, hands pulling at tiny, fuzzy horns, completely ignoring the darkening skin of his cheek. My chest constricts as I recall muffled sobs drifting from a window crack, interspersed with pained whimpers. 

I shake my head to dislodge the images, smile now strained. “It has been no hardship. Please do ask for assistance should you ever need it. A friend of mine is a priest; perhaps he could cure your child of his affliction.”

“If only it were so easy. A church was the first place we went after he was born. Though I thank you again for your kindness. I must be going; dinner will not prepare itself!” She gives a small wave, then turns back to that crooked, unpainted door.

I do not watch her leave. My skirt flutters around my ankles, steps so hurried that I nearly expose myself. The moment I press my palm against rough wood, the creak of a door behind me lets chilling cries pierce the air.

I throw myself into my home, slamming the door shut behind me. The sun-worn wood does not block out the aching scream torn from tiny lungs. A salty trail cuts through the dirt on my cheek.

Oh how I wish I could help that poor child. With parents such as that, who would find every fault simply for the way he was born, he truly never stood a chance. Perhaps the world will be kind and allow him to be taken away to the gods. They have interfered in mortal affairs before; I pray they will again.

I shuffle into my kitchen and set about cutting potatoes. I too have a dinner to prepare, no matter how my hands shake.

Later, when the cries stop, I let myself believe that everything is now right. Nothing has happened. I am sure that small child was only throwing a tantrum at being sent to his room. There is no reason for the sharp inhale and rush of dizziness that passes over me when I see the child exit his prison that evening. I am relieved only that he has stayed out of trouble long enough to be once again allowed to play.

When night falls, I climb in bed next to my husband. He has been so sweet to me this evening. Perhaps he could sense the guilt that clung to my bones, or perhaps he simply had a long day and was pleased to see me again. A bloom of warmth spreads over my chest at the thought. My eyes drift closed, content now to sleep and allow today’s events to fall from my mind as they always do.

Screams are what I awaken to. I shoot up in bed, my husband already on his feet and rushing across the room.

It is dark; the moon’s light barely penetrates the thin curtains over our bedroom’s window. I pull the sheet from the bed, clutching it to my chest in a tight grip as I shuffle in the direction my husband went. I peek out into the front room. The door is open, letting in the cool night air; the hinges creak as the door moves in the wind.

I can hear the crunch of dirt under boots. No doubt my husband has gone outside to investigate those awful noises. As his steps fade, my mind drifts.

I had heard screams already earlier today; the screams of a small child, surely accompanied by the sound of fists hitting flesh, though I could not hear it at the time. These screams had not sounded like those ones. They were… I shudder when the night air finally reaches me, cooling my skin with ease despite the bedsheet around my shoulders. My nightgown is not meant for the outside air; it is only for sleeping in, next to a warm body.

A scream rips through the air.

I race to the door, heart in my throat. That had sounded so familiar, but never before have I heard this voice sound that way. It is meant to be soft and sweet, rumbling deep and low in gentle tones as it tells me of its owner’s day. This sound was raw, high and terrified. Like a pig squealing as its belly is cut open.

My bare feet touch cold mud. The filth is quick to cover my skin and the hem of my nightgown. I stare across the wooden fence surrounding my house, to the next one over.

That crooked, unpainted door hangs open. The opening is dark. I have not heard another scream since the one that ran my blood cold.

My hands pull the bedsheet tighter around myself and slowly walk forward. Wet fabric brushes against my ankles. I will need to wash my gown and sheet before returning to bed. I am sure my husband will attempt to stay up with me, and I will need to send him to bed so that he is able to go to work in the morning.

Cold mud turns to cold wood under my feet as I pass the threshold of my neighbours’ doorway. Without the moonlight, my eyes are able to adjust to the darkness. There is a scent in the air. One I cannot place. It is so thick that my eyes begin to water; it clings to my tongue and pools in my lungs.

I nearly choke, then clap a hand over my mouth in an attempt to filter the stench. My breath comes quicker. I gasp and gag in the doorway, eyes drifting over the front room as I try to find the source of this smell.

My breath stops altogether when I see it. A pair of muddy boots, one turned to the side. White sleep pants extending past a wall; I do not need to see the sleep shirt to know that it is white as well, or the hair to know that it is shaggy and unkempt from sleep. There is a darkness spreading across the parts of the legs I can see. I am sure the source is from the pool on the ground.

The image before me blurs. I take a stumbling step forward. My heart is beating so loud I can feel it in my ears. A sob punches out of my throat and my knees slam into the wood floor. I care not for the ache of bruises forming, my only thought is of the man facedown before me. Numb fingers drop the bedsheet and instead grip onto still warm skin.

I press my face into the lower abdomen of the one I had been sleeping with not ten minutes before. I cannot fathom this, cannot understand how this could happen.

Screams.

We were woken by screams. My husband screamed.

My breath catches, eyes snapping open wide, freezing in place. I can still hear breathing.

Slowly, throat tightening and panic running like blood through me, I lift my head. I am kneeling in the opening to a living room. There are curtains halfway parted from the windows. Someone is standing in the middle of the room.

A step forward, and moonlight catches a face twisted in rage. There is a dark bruise covering half of his face. He has dark speckles on his cheeks and down his front, more of the same covering the hand clutching a splitting axe. I looked away from this face earlier today, and yet now I could not look away if I tried.

His arms raises, lips curling over sharp canines, eyes flashing the colour this room will be come morning. I recall the prayer I had made against my closed door. An axe strikes down.

The gods have finally interfered.

[dahliaduvide]

Contemporary media coverage in the Washington Post.

"Rachel David, sole survivor from her family's suicide plunge from a downtown Salt Lake hotel balcony in 1978, says she still believes her father is God...she has continued to try to follow the suicide order..."

[notanartificialintelligence]

ah yes, the Ranboo Dinner Stream

[roseofhybrids]

For the council of head canon's consideration-

if one goes with the N is the one that got Nori with the nanite acid theory, it would mean than N "killed" Uzi's mom

however, he also went on to then save her from being killed for real during episode 7. Because if he hadn't distracted possessed Uzi with the hang-out message, then Nori would have been eaten

so he "killed" her but also saved her life, so like, they break even or something I think I'm explaining this poorly, I am very tired

[joyride-time]

It’s not as obvious I’m making fun of baby Tarvek as I intended it to be in the last post because his life really is on a similar trajectory to where he thought he’d be. I mean, he’s Gil’s sidekick and he’s working for the Baron, but he’s very peaceful/flourishing/in his lane about it. He’s romantically entangled with the Heterodyne… he always intended to gain power through marriage… probably the second-biggest surprise to baby Tarvek would be the poly.

[thecryptkeeper]

other ppl having stress dreams about work or teeth falling out meanwhile im out here in silent hill

[zolo-san]

Why is Dressrosa just Doflamingo and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day?

[civicmuses]

I keep getting reminded how Jack (one of the three kids in Doey) wasn't even an orphan. Jack was a young child with loving parents who fell into a vat of dough mix while on a tour of the factory. Probably to avoid lawsuits, the scientists locked the parents in the room with Doey, knowing the play dough monster would kill them. Jack unknowingly killed his parents.

[mjrtaurus]

Dark AU

Especially dark post, so do mind the tags

Blood and lineage are core to Tenryuubito culture, this is known.

A bloodline can bless you just as easily as curse you. The sins and virtues of previous generations are inherited, effective from the day one is born. The Celestials claim to never forget these, though it seems the transgressions are all they care to remember. They will never let their slaves forget, either.

The occupants of the Sinner’s Arena know precious little outside their alcoves, but they know everything within its walls is permeated with that sentiment. Everyone here is a slave sentenced to death. Everyone born here is a slave sentenced to death.

Yes, born here.

The Sinner’s Arena was a gift to Saint Topman Warcury from the Donquixote family, and has been used to enact justice in Mary Geoise since the founding of the World Government. There is… a practice that goes on behind those red stone walls. A vile practice.

The killing separates the wheat from the chaff, but it takes much and more to find the finest seeds.

There are no champions here, as no slave is worthy of glory, least of all a disobedient one. There are only crowd favorites, and if one makes it far enough, then it’s only good practice for a line to be sired off of them to make the most of their entertainment value. A sort of immortality, an endless cycle of punishment. A little bit of Hell in the heart of Heaven.

At least until a new pit dog bewitches the stands. Then they’re out like last week’s fashion craze.

Dragon was… one of these crowd favorites, up until he escaped.

When he sees Robin and Luffy, he can’t help but wonder- with a sick feeling in his gut- how many of his chicks have lived and died behind those walls in Mary Geoise, cut off from the world beyond?

[jackdaw-and-hattrick]

Danny: *fills the walls with Furbies*

Jazz: How does it feel knowing both of your children are by Vlad Masters?

[thestarsaligne]

"should I commit homocide" unsure, doesn't communicate strength

"I should commit homocide" affirmative, taking the initiative

[bredforloyalty]

i am this👌 close to saying Mother i beg of you stop relying on me because i cannot be relied upon because i am your child.