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w0efulboopsoul · 1 month ago

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Day 1, I Am Cara, Cara Loraine Zimmermen,

My memories are a blizzard gone wild, a storm of screams and jagged tears clawing at my mind. Each one stings with the memory of brutal fists, the icy clatter of shackles, and a suffocating dread that paints my past in shades of unrelenting horror.

At the center of it all, I see her—my mother—her hair cascading in waves just like mine, her back turned to me. A rusted shackle bites into her ankle, branding her a prisoner. She sways faintly, staring at the cracked wall, her body trembling like she’s trapped in a desolate trance of despair.

The room had been a crypt of shadows, the air thick with the stench of decay and despair. In the flickering candlelight, I had seen her—my mother—her hair a cascade of tangled waves that mirrored my own, though hers had been matted with grime and neglect. Her back had been turned, a silhouette of sorrow, and around her ankle, a rusty shackle had bitten into her flesh, a brutal testament to her captivity. She had swayed like a broken marionette, her gaze fixed on the cracked wall, her body trembling as if trapped in an eternal nightmare. I had wanted to reach out, to whisper her name, but fear had clamped my throat shut. What if she had turned and hadn’t recognized me? What if she had screamed again that I wasn’t real?

The moment “Momma” had escaped my lips, it had been like flipping a switch. Her body had stiffened, and she had whipped around, eyes blazing with a madness that chilled my blood. “Stop calling me that!” she had shrieked, her voice a razor-sharp wail that sliced through the air. “You’re not real! You’re a figment, a curse!” She had slammed her fists against the wall, the impact sending dust raining down, her gaze locking onto me—hatred and terror warring in her eyes as if I had been the embodiment of her worst fears.

“You’re not REAL!” she had hissed, her face contorting into a mask of rage. She had lunged, her thin, bony finger jabbing into my chest with such force that I stumbled back, pain blooming where she had struck. “YOU WILL NEVER BE REAL!” Her arms had flailed wildly, the shackle tearing into her ankle, blood trickling down, but she hadn’t noticed. She had been lost in her own hell, and I had been the demon haunting her.

Then she had clawed at her hair, ripping strands free, her face twisting in a grotesque dance of fury and fear. “I am not your mother!” she had howled at the wall, her voice trembling with desperation. I had frozen, heart hammering, terrified of this shadow she had become—an echo of love drowned in darkness. The air had thickened, cold and suffocating, and I hadn’t been able to tell if she had still been my mother or a wraith lost to the void.

My memories of Kira envelop me like a warm blanket, melting the frost that has settled around my heart, yet they also plunge me into a bittersweet ache. Kira was more than just a sister to Alma and me; she was our fierce protector, shielding us from the stormy wrath of our father and nurturing us with a tenderness that our mother often struggled to provide. Despite the shadow of our painful childhood, Kira radiated an unwavering light, her laughter bright and her smile infectious as she embraced us in moments of joy.

I can still feel the warmth of her embrace as she held me close, her gentle voice a soothing balm amidst the chaos. “It’s okay,” she would whisper, her presence a fort against my mother's piercing screams that echoed around us, telling me I wasn’t real. In those moments, Kira became my sanctuary, a steadfast reminder that even in the depths of despair, love and kindness could still bloom.“It’s okay, shh, shh, shhhhh… You’re real, Cara, you’re really here…” Her soothing voice enveloped me like a soft, warm blanket, offering a sense of comfort amidst the storm of my emotions as I sobbed uncontrollably. Each hiccup reverberated in the heavy silence, a haunting echo of my deep-seated grief. I desperately yearned to unravel the tangled web of confusion surrounding my mother’s words, to understand why she deemed me not real.

Why did her gaze shift like shadows at dusk, filled with an unsettling distance? Why did my father confine her with chains of despair, both physical and emotional? Why couldn’t she accept me, her own flesh and blood? Each question tinged my heart with a bittersweet ache as I clung to the fragile hope that somewhere beneath the surface, she loved me.

My vision blurred through the cascade of tears that streaked down my face, which bore the painful marks of countless bruises. I can still hear her soft crooning mingling with the soothing rhythmic sway of her arms as she cradled me close, her presence a fragile anchor in that storm of emotions. She whispered tender reassurances, recalling how Mother had once screamed those very words to all of us—a promise of our existence in the midst of chaos.

Kira carefully braided my hair that night, her fingers skillfully weaving it into an elegant traditional Howa'ahian style. As she worked, she gently tucked vibrant frostbloom flowers into the intricate braid, their soft pastel blue and ivory petals contrasting beautifully against my blonde hair.

"You're special, Cara. Did you know that?" she said with warmth in her voice, her eyes glimmering with sincerity. "You, me, and Alma—we're the heart of this. We’re the ones who going to make it, you see? We’re the underdogs. And underdogs? They find a way to survive it all." Why did she have to die? Why did the gods take her from me, Alma, and Valraxies? Why did Valraxies have to take her body away?

My breath hitched, a sharp wince biting back as his magic surged through the sigil again, searing my soul like a white-hot blade. The sigil retaliated with a violent crimson backlash of blood magic, flooding the room in a fleeting red glow that burned my eyes. The surge dragged me under, plunging me back into the memories I’d fought so hard to bury.

I was ten again, perched on the edge of a creaking wooden chair at my older sister’s bedside. The air was thick with the bitter tang of medicinal herbs and the weight of despair, each breath heavier than the last. Kira had been wasting away for two long weeks, her once-vibrant spirit shadowed by the crimson death that ravaged her frail body. The laughter that used to light up our home had faded to shallow, rattling breaths, each one a fragile thread on the verge of snapping.

I clutched a tattered teddy bear, its worn fur a reminder of better days when she’d braid my hair and hum lullabies. I remembered picking wildflowers together, her laughter brightening the world. Now, the room was silent, and with each labored gasp, she seemed to slip further away. I wanted to scream, to beg time to reverse, but I was just a helpless witness to the cruel march of time taking her from me. As night fell, despair wrapped around my heart, knowing that soon, our laughter and love would be mere echoes in an empty room.

My small fingers trembled as I watched her chest rise and fall, each breath weaker than the last, a haunting rhythm that echoed the fleeting moments of our time together. The doctor stood nearby, his weathered hands hovering over her with a desperate hope that felt like a cruel illusion. As the seconds passed, I saw his shoulders slump, surrendering to a grim reality. His bowed head was heavy with the burden of inevitability, lines of sorrow etched deeply into his weary face. He shook his head slowly, as if that simple motion could somehow soften the blow that we all dreaded.

Kira’s hand, so delicate and cold in his grasp, slipped free and fell limp against the threadbare blanket, a cruel reminder of the life that once pulsed with warmth and laughter. I stifled a sob, feeling an unbearable weight settle in my chest as the room grew quiet, the air thick with grief. The flickering light overhead seemed to dim, casting shadows that mirrored my despair. In that moment, time itself felt like it had frozen, trapping us in a heartbreaking farewell. The world continued to spin outside, but within these four walls, a piece of our hearts shattered, leaving us adrift in an ocean of silence and sorrow.

“Time of death… 10:00 p.m.,” he intoned, his voice a hollow echo in the suffocating silence. The teddy bear slipped from my grasp, tumbling to the floor with a soft, muffled thud, like a gentle surrender to a reality too heavy to bear. Silent tears streamed down my cheeks, each drop a silent cry for a world where sisters didn’t vanish into shadows, leaving behind echoes of laughter that would never fade.I sat there, paralyzed by grief, the ache in my chest swelling with a fierce intensity, as if it were a black hole determined to consume every shred of light.

The sound of the doctor’s footsteps faded into the night, a haunting reminder that some things are irretrievable. In that moment, I felt utterly lost, drowning in a despair too deep for words.

I long for my sister’s presence, to feel the warmth of her embrace once more, to witness the radiance of her smile that used to brighten my world. I want her to weave the strands of my hair into playful braids, just as she did in those days of our childhood. I miss the sound of her voice. I miss the joyous notes of her laughter and her comfort when things would get too hard. Kira, my heart aches for you… a profound, relentless ache that tightens around my chest, making it difficult to draw in a full breath. Tears spill over as memories of you wash over me, the intensity of my feelings leaving me overwhelmed. I detest this deep-seated ache. What is this torment that lingers, refusing to fade away? Why must it persist in shadowing my days?

Give me my sisters back… Please… Alma… Gods, please let her be safe. Let her be happy and unharmed… Please.

My father wasn’t a man—he was a monstrosity, a nightmare stitched into sagging, yellowed flesh that clung to his bones like a shroud. His eyes were hollow pits, festering with a malice that burned through the shadows, marking him as something less than human. A serial killer whose name slithered through hushed, terrified whispers, he ruled our rotting prison of a house—a decaying husk where the walls wept mildew and the air choked with the sour reek of cheap whiskey and despair. That night—the night everything shattered—was his third binge-drinking rampage of the week, and the jagged edge of his rage crackled like a live wire, ready to ignite.

Alma and I, barely more than kids, huddled on the threadbare couch in the flickering dimness of the living room. The sagging fabric groaned beneath us, a cruel echo of the fear crushing our chests. Our bodies pressed tight, as if closeness could shield us from the storm brewing in his silence. His rants were a twisted liturgy, each word a lash we’d learned to endure, but that night, his fury sharpened into something lethal—a blade poised to strike. The air thickened, every breath a labored gasp, as if the oxygen had curdled into something toxic. A heavy silence descended, pressing against my skull like a vice. I could hear the faint drip-drip-drip of water from the ceiling, each drop a heartbeat counting down to doom.

Then, his voice erupted, a roar that shattered the stillness and jolted us upright, hearts hammering. “Where is it?!” His bloodshot eyes, wild with drunken rage, swept the room before locking onto Alma. “Where’s the damn whiskey?!” She shrank beside me, a trembling wisp of a girl, her silence a reflex born from years of terror. “Did you take it and hide it again, Alma?” he snarled, his tone venomous, dripping with accusation.

Her whimpers only fueled his fire. He slammed his fist onto the table, inches from us, the crack splitting the air like a gunshot. We flinched, a gasp tearing from my throat. “Answer me, Alma!” he bellowed, his voice a thunderclap that shook the walls. Alma flinched and let out a terrified cry, her tiny hands covering her mouth, her bi-colored eyes filling with terror at what father was about to do. Alma had always been a shy little thing, never that confident, and didn't do well with conflict.

However, before she could muster the courage to speak, his patience snapped. He lunged, a predator pouncing, his meaty hand snaring her long, brunette hair in a vicious grip. “Come here, you little wretch,” he growled, his voice sinking into a guttural, animalistic snarl that iced my blood as Alma cried in pain and fear. “You’ll learn what happens when you defy me.”

Alma’s scream pierced the room as he yanked her to her feet with savage force, her small body flailing helplessly. “D-Daddy—noooo, I-I didn’t take it, please!” Her voice cracked, rising into a desperate wail as she clawed at the walls, the floor—anything to halt her descent toward the cellar door. That iron-bolted monstrosity loomed in the corner like a gateway to hell, its hinges groaning as he kicked it open. Her nails gouged bloody furrows into the wood, her pleas swallowed by the dark maw beyond. The cellar was his lair, a crypt of unspeakable horrors, its secrets locked tight with the screams of the women he’d dragged there to die.

My heart thrashed against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat drowning out thought. I couldn’t let him take her—not Alma, my baby sister, barely five, too fragile for that abyss. Panic surged, raw and feral, driving me toward a heavy brass candlestick on the mantle, its base crusted with wax from forgotten nights. My hands shook as I seized it, the metal cold and unyielding. A pressure swelled in my skull, building until a sharp pop burst on the left side of my head—like a dam breaking. A voice snarled within me, primal and unhinged: 'Kill him now! Kill him where he stands! You’ll lose her!' It was as if a beast had clawed free, hijacking my body.

My arms swung before my mind could resist. The candlestick crashed into his skull with a sickening crunch, bone splintering under the blow. Blood sprayed in a grotesque splotches, splattering the walls in crimson stains that dripped like tears of the damned. He staggered, a guttural grunt escaping, but I didn’t stop. The candlestick rose and fell, again and again—thud, thud, thud—each strike a wet, visceral symphony of flesh and bone giving way. His skull caved, blood and brain matter oozing from the ruin, his body crumpling into a twitching heap. I kept swinging until the twitching ceased, until he was nothing but a mangled, gore-soaked husk.

Reality slammed back, a tidal wave of horror. I collapsed, the candlestick slipping from my slick, trembling hands, my ears ringing with Alma’s broken sobs from the corner. Blood coated me—my arms, my face, my soul—and the weight of what I’d done crushed the air from my lungs. I hadn’t meant to kill him, only to stop him, but now he was dead, and now, I had committed murder. I stared at my hands in pure horror, the world around me slowing to a nauseating turn as the noise around me slowly drained out as I struggled to catch my breath. It was my first berserker episode and my darkest episode.

A new sound cut through the haze—a guttural, chilling cackle that froze my marrow. My mother, a ghost of a woman lost to catatonia or rage, was awake, transformed. The rusted shackle that had chained her ankle for years lay shattered, her flesh beneath it raw and weeping. She clawed the walls with jagged nails, her laughter swelling into a feral howl—a beast unchained, a witch reveling in chaos. For the first time, she saw us, her eyes blazing with a twisted, horrifying clarity.

Her trembling fingers plunged into the pooling blood of my father’s corpse, smearing it across the floor in jagged, frenzied streaks. “Taken out by your own spawn!” she crowed, her voice a venomous hymn of glee. “You didn’t see that coming, did you, dear?” She mocked the lifeless heap, her cackle echoing like a curse. Then her gaze locked onto me, wild and piercing. With a blood-slicked finger, she painted a deliberate stripe across my brow, her touch icy and deliberate. “I was wrong, Cara,” she rasped, her voice hoarse yet lucid, cutting deeper than any blade. “You are real…”

The words sank into me, a twisted lifeline I couldn’t grasp. Chaos erupted as the village elders burst in, their faces pale masks of horror at the slaughterhouse we’d become. Alma’s wails, my mother’s laughter, and the stench of blood swallowed the night whole.

That night... Everything changed for little Alma and me as the royal guards came to do their nightly check-ins on the villagers.

The slaver’s docks were a gaping maw of despair, a festering hell where the air itself seemed to choke the life out of you. It reeked of salt-soaked decay, human filth, and the sour rot of forgotten flesh, a stench so thick it coated my tongue and burned my lungs with every shallow breath. The warped wooden planks beneath my feet were treacherous, slick with a vile sludge of blood, sweat, and seawater, groaning under each step as if mourning the souls they’d borne to ruin.

I was eleven, but my body felt like it had endured centuries—my face a grotesque mask of swollen, pulpy flesh, one eye a throbbing, useless slit, the other leaking a steady stream of tears that mingled with the blood oozing from gashes on my cheeks and torn lips. The rusted shackles gnawed at my wrists, their jagged edges slicing into raw, weeping skin, every tug of the chain igniting a fresh flare of agony.

A woman loomed over me, her forearm emblazoned with a serpent tattoo that seemed to writhe with every flex of her muscle. She yanked me forward with a force that nearly tore my arm from its socket, her grip a vice of cold, unfeeling steel. Her name was Voxrilies the Second, and she wasn’t just some dockside thug—she commanded the chaos with the icy precision of a war general, her polished boots gleaming obscenely against the gore-streaked planks.

Six weeks pregnant, she carried on about it with a drawl so languid it made my stomach churn. “My husband's really exited about it and so am I,” she said, her tone as casual as if she were gossiping over tea. “Six weeks along, and the cravings are already wild. Won’t be long now—off these damned docks, somewhere cushy for the little one.” She patted her belly with a smug grin, her nonchalance a grotesque mockery of the life she cradled while she crushed mine beneath her heel.

Her words were a lash across my soul. How could she prattle about a new life while dragging me through this abyss? How could she stand there and act like nothing happened after savagely beating me? Couldn't she see my tears? My messed up face? Did she not feel bad or guilty in the least? I was only a kid myself... How could a new mother be so cruel? My fractured mind clung to every syllable she uttered, etching them into the haze of pain—Voxrilies wasn’t just a guard; she was a sadistic enigma, her indifference more terrifying than any whip.

Eight years later, at nineteen, I was back in that suffocating nightmare, entombed in a dank cell at the docks. My body was a shadow of its former self—gaunt, caked in grime, draped in rags that clung to my skeletal frame like a shroud. Shackles bit into my ankles, anchoring me to the icy stone floor, the metal grinding against bone with every futile twitch. I sat motionless, a ghost in the gloom, my hands working tirelessly on a vipe cat bone—a brittle remnant of some scavenged scrap—carving its tip into a razor-sharp point. Silence was my shield, a cloak of stillness that lulled the guards into dismissing me as broken, invisible.

Voxrilies’ voice pierced the murk, her lazy cadence slicing through the din as she barked her routine: inspect the newcomers, brand their flesh, subdue the rest, check the pits, then the shift change—my fleeting chance at freedom. “That blonde one? Been a mess since I hauled her in. She stirring up trouble?” Another guard snorted. “Nah, just sits there like she’s already dead. Why’s she even in the cage?” Voxrilies’ laugh was a jagged blade against my spine. “Careful now—she’s an animal, that one.”

Keep thinking I’m a shattered toy, I seethed inwardly, a feral spark igniting in my chest. You’ll see what kind of beast I am. I clawed my way out of the cell, splintered nails tearing at the wood until I burst into the biting night air. The compound sprawled before me, a maze of flickering torchlight and inky shadows, the snow crunching underfoot like shattered glass. I rounded a corner and stopped dead—another slave stood there, his emaciated face twisting in shock, eyes shrinking to terrified pinpricks. I thrust my hands up and voice a ragged whisper.

“No… no… shh, please…” But I saw it—the glint of fear as he turned to run, to scream, to doom me.

The berserker gene erupted within me, a deafening pop splitting my skull as the voice roared: 'He’ll sell you out. You need to kill him or he's gonna sell you the fuck out—kill him NOW!' I launched myself at him, a predator unleashed, slamming him into the frozen earth. We hit the ground hard, his frail form writhing beneath me as my hands locked around his throat. My fingers dug in, crushing flesh and cartilage, his gasps dissolving into wet, choking gurgles. His eyes bulged, veins bursting across his purpling face, until a grotesque crunch signaled his windpipe’s collapse. Blood bubbled from his lips, pooling in the snow, staining it a deep, accusing crimson.

I straddled his lifeless body, trembling, hands slick with his blood, staring into those vacant eyes until the distant thud of boots snapped me back. Horror clawed at my throat—“No… no… oh God, no…”—but survival overruled remorse. I bolted into the darkness, legs pumping through the snow, fleeing until the docks were a fading specter, swallowed by the frozen wilds of Howa’ah. I finally paused, breathless and trembling, only when I was certain the danger had passed.

A profound silence enveloped me as I leaned against a gnarled and weathered tree trunk, its rough bark a stark contrast to my fragile state. The cool earth beneath me felt both grounding and suffocating as the heavy weight of the life I had taken began to engulf me like a relentless tide. Sobs erupted from deep within, raw and unrestrained, each wave tearing through my chest and echoing into the stillness of the surrounding woods. What had I done? I had taken the life of yet another, this time of a person who was in the same situation as myself. He had probably been a father, a son... Someone's lover. He was probably out sneaking around in the hope of finding some food or even a glimpse of a family member. And I had just snuffed him out and ran away as if it had been nothing. I would never forgive myself for taking that man's life. That was the second time my berserker personality had come out.

Two months had passed, and I was no longer alone on my journey; Thrym had joined me. I remember the forest that day; it loomed around me, a cathedral of gnarled pines clawing at the sky, their branches heavy with snow that glittered like shattered glass in the pale moonlight.

The wilds of Howa’ah had swallowed me whole, and I’d emerged leaner, harder, my body wrapped in scavenged furs that stank of earth and survival. The wind howled, a bitter lash against my cheeks, but it carried a strange promise—a whisper of freedom I hadn’t dared to dream of in years. I was hiding on the outskirts of a village just near the Harvendale's peak, a mountain as old as the gods themselves. I was searching for food and spare clothes, something other than the slaver's rags I'd been wearing before snagging a white shirt and a pair of leather pants and boots from a clothesline. I was just about to leave when I spotted two massive vases of ale brewing next to a Balladeer's stables. I couldn't resist the luxury of trying something new. I stole the beer as well and snuck my way back to Thrym. “Heya, buddy,” I called, my voice carrying a lightness I hadn’t felt in years as the bear lifted his head and tilted it curiously at me. “I nabbed these from that village… Ever had a beer before?!” I halted for a moment, my lips curling into a slow, joyful grin that radiated pure delight as I carefully placed the vases on the table. Eager anticipation coursed through me as I leaned in to pry one open, my fingers tingling with excitement. Thrym, with a playful huff, puffed a cool breath into my face, dusting my lashes with delicate flakes of frost, making them shimmer like tiny icicles. Then, with a charming nonchalance, he settled down in front of me, his forelimbs hanging closely at his sides. He was sitting so still and plush that it was as if he were a charming stuffed bear, bringing a touch of whimsy to the moment. “Oh, don’t worry—neither have I. We can try this together!” I said as I lifted the lid from the fermenting brew. A symphony of earthy aromas wafted up, tantalizing my senses. I carefully poured a portion into the lid, watching as the liquid sparkled in the light, a swirling dance of golden hues. Bringing the vase to my lips, I savored the concoction, relishing the complex flavors that mingled on my palate, as I raised my hand to take a sip in a gesture of companionship with Thrym. “Thrym… I… I want us to try… all sorts of new things now…” A genuine smile broke across my face, all teeth and unrestrained laughter as I drank—far too young—with Thrym at my side, dipping his nose into the vase I had stolen and sniffing the liquid, then sneezed on me. He didn't seem too sure about the beer, but he tried it. He didn't like it.

#w0e's at it again #w0e's musings #creative writing #writing #((R-RATED CONTENT; EXTREMELY SENSITIVE CONTENT))#((MENTIONINGS OF A HORRIFIC CHILDHOOD DEPTICS A TRAGIC PAST; GORE; MURDER; ENSLAVEMENT.))#This is part 1 #SERIOUSLY RATED-R #MINORS NO READ #GRAPHIC #The Title is the closest font I could find to what Cara's hand writing would look like #writers on tumblr #writerscommunity #writing community #writers of tumblr #writer stuff #writers and poets

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