Here's why lol you see another planning at school shooting another one yes with MK Ultra pulled children like mine and that kind of pisses me off so I called the schools I called the school and at water to warn them and to let them know that if they call any of my children's third high schools to warn them that they would be admitting to the eye and having control over it so how do you proceed education department to Warren schools and the public without admitting to the eye if you even can which you cannot and since you refuse to put your money where your mouth is and actually give a s*** about my children or any children for that matter I'm going to clue you in on how it's really done are you ready hey kids
lord3 of no post code envy i
have a dream you will kill 4me!
Dedication
Kings, Queens and Royal TY if w-Egod dam wanna B!
To: Avert the urge to kill every ass who thinks a gov ped should get to put my owne d ass in bed so he can rape amd traffucml my kids eal eyes with dad in atwater so provr it they say ok so i dont snap im praging if god is real use ypur power of purr sway sis mind to mass kill those ignoring this trans act and shun! i hope my lra pra yers are answeted but only so i cant be charged and i get pure orgasms at the nrws!
This book isn't for the faint of heart. It's not pretty. It's raw, jagged, a mess of broken things glued back together with spit and prayer. It's a testament to the things that shouldn't happen, the things that steal your light and leave you clawing in the dark. It's a scream into the void, a desperate attempt to make sense of the senseless.
This isn't a polished narrative, no carefully crafted sentences or neatly tied bows. It's a frantic scrawl, a fever dream etched onto pages. It's the echo of a shattered mind trying to rebuild itself, one fractured memory at a time. There are moments of clarity, pinpricks of light piercing the darkness, but mostly, it's just the raw,
unfiltered pain. The terror. The betrayal. The endless, suffocating despair.
This is for the girls they took. The ones who never got to tell their story. The ones whose voices were stolen before they could even scream. This is for the ones who are still fighting, still struggling to breathe, still clinging to the slimmest thread of hope. I see you. I hear you. And I know your pain. Because it's mine too.
This is for the little girl I used to be, the one they tried to bury under mountains of lies and broken promises. This is for her
innocence, brutally stolen in the dead of night. This is for the dreams they crushed, the life they tried to erase. This is to say, you weren't forgotten. You are still here, a flickering flame in the ashes of what was.
This is for those who survived. Those who carry the scars, both
visible and invisible. Those who live with the ghosts of their past, whispering in the quiet moments. This is for the nights you lie awake, paralyzed by fear, haunted by the memories that refuse to fade. This is for the days you fight to function, to move forward, to find some semblance of peace amidst the chaos. Know this: your strength is astounding. Your resilience, a testament to the
unyielding spirit of the human heart. You are not alone.
This isn't a happy ending. Not yet. But it is a beginning. A
beginning of reclaiming my voice, my story, my life. And maybe, just maybe, it's a beginning for you too.
The First Crack
The chipped paint on the windowsill felt rough beneath my
fingertips, a familiar comfort in a world that was increasingly becoming anything but. Sunlight streamed through, dust motes dancing in the golden beams, illuminating the worn floral
wallpaper. It was a Tuesday, just like any other Tuesday. Or so it seemed. Mama hummed off-key as she baked her apple pie, the sweet scent a constant in our small, cramped kitchen. Dad was at his workbench in the shed, the rhythmic tap-tap-tap of his hammer a calming backdrop to the day. It was…peaceful. Illusory, I know now, but peaceful. The kind of peaceful that screams of a looming storm.
I was twelve, maybe thirteen. Old enough to know better, young enough to not yet truly understand the darkness that lurked just beyond the edges of our seemingly idyllic life. My memories of that time are shards of glass, reflecting distorted images of happiness and something else…something sickly sweet and terrifyingly wrong.
Like a half-remembered nightmare you can't quite shake, leaving you with a lingering sense of unease, a knot in your stomach that refuses to unravel.
School was…fine. I wasn't brilliant, not a star student, but I wasn't a failure either. I had a few friends, the kind of fleeting friendships forged in the crucible of adolescence. We gossiped about boys, giggled over silly things, shared secrets whispered in hushed tones during recess. Looking back, those friendships feel like mirages, shimmering illusions in the vast desert of my trauma. They were real, I know they were, but the memories are bleached, faded by the harsh realities that followed.
Evenings were spent with my family, playing board games around the rickety kitchen table, Dad's laughter booming, Mama's smile soft and reassuring. We were a family, weren't we? A family unit, tightly bound by love and loyalty. Or so I believed. The carefully constructed façade of normalcy hid a chasm of fear and uncertainty that I wouldn't fully grasp for years to come. The cracks were already there, subtle, almost invisible, but present nonetheless.
One day, a stranger's car pulled into our driveway – a sleek black car that felt out of place in our quiet suburban street. I remember the glint of the chrome, the way the sun seemed to distort its reflection, making it appear almost phantom-like. I remember the feeling of dread that coiled in my stomach, a primal fear that had no rational explanation. It was a feeling so deep, so visceral, that it left an indelible mark on my soul. This wasn't the usual friendly face; this was different. This was…wrong.
Mama had a strange look on her face that day, a mixture of fear and…was it compliance? A disturbing placidity that made my skin crawl. Dad wasn't around; he was at work, or so she said. The lie hung heavy in the air, suffocating me with its implications. The smell of apple pie, usually so comforting, felt cloying, sickening.
The familiar rhythm of Dad's hammer seemed distant, faint, a phantom sound echoing from a world I was being pulled away from.
That stranger, I remember his eyes. Cold, calculating, devoid of any warmth or kindness. They saw me, not as a person, but as…
something else. An object. A commodity. The memory is hazy, obscured by the fog of trauma, but the chill of his gaze still sends shivers down my spine. His smile was a cruel mockery, a predatory grin that promised only pain.
There were words spoken, promises whispered, insidious lies laced with honeyed sweetness that coated the bitter pill of my impending doom. I didn't understand then, but I understand now: I was being groomed. Prepped. My innocence, my very being, was being
meticulously prepared for its slaughter. The subtle shift in the dynamics of our family, the strained smiles, the forced cheerful conversations, they were all part of the elaborate dance of
manipulation.
The silence of that Tuesday afternoon is etched into my memory. A silence that was far more terrifying than any scream. It was a
silence pregnant with unspoken horrors, a silence that amplified the fear coiling within my young body. It was the silence before the storm, the calm before the catastrophic upheaval that would shatter
my world, leaving me adrift in a sea of pain and confusion.
The sense of impending doom intensified with each passing
moment. I tried to articulate my fear, to voice my concerns to Mama, but the words caught in my throat. A nameless terror
gripped me, paralyzing me with its icy fingers. My intuition, that childlike, unadulterated sense of knowing, screamed at me. This was wrong. Deeply, horribly wrong. But I was silenced, not by physical force, but by the insidious power of manipulation, a power far more pervasive and terrifying than any brute strength.
There's a certain way the air shifts before a storm. You feel it in your bones, a tangible change in the atmosphere. It's a subtle shift, almost imperceptible, but it's there. A subtle drop in temperature, a change in the wind's direction, the ominous stillness before the tempest. That's how it felt. The silence before the storm was a tangible entity, oppressive, suffocating, a precursor to the
devastation that would soon engulf me. It was the final, chilling prelude to the nightmare that would consume my life, leaving me scarred and broken, forever changed. The cracks were widening, the foundation crumbling, and the storm was coming.
The world around me, once a source of comfort and familiarity, began to feel alien, distorted, threatening. Even the sweet scent of Mama's apple pie became tainted, laced with the bitter aftertaste of betrayal and dread. The innocent simplicity of childhood was eroded, replaced by a gnawing sense of unease, a persistent feeling that something was profoundly wrong. I was adrift in a sea of unspoken anxieties, trapped in a suffocating silence that only amplified the coming terror.
The vibrant colours of the world began to fade, replaced by a muted palette of grey and despair. The sunlight, once so comforting, now seemed harsh, revealing the cracks in the facade of our perfect family. Each tick of the clock felt agonizing, a cruel reminder of the inevitable storm approaching, a storm that would leave nothing untouched, nothing unscathed. My laughter, once spontaneous and carefree, felt distant, like a fading echo of a life that no longer existed. It was a prelude to a silence that would become my
constant companion, a suffocating blanket of fear and isolation.
The feeling of being watched intensified. It wasn't a tangible
presence, but an oppressive awareness, a sense of being observed by unseen eyes, judged by unseen forces. Paranoia, the insidious
companion of trauma, began to take root, twisting my perceptions, feeding on my fears. The mundane objects around me – the chairs, the tables, even the shadows cast by the sun – seemed to take on sinister shapes, menacing forms in the growing darkness.
Sleep became a refuge, yet also a torturous landscape of
nightmares, a constant replay of what was yet to come. The
nightmares were vivid, sensory experiences, each one a
foreshadowing of the torment yet to be inflicted. The faces of my abusers, blurred and indistinct, haunted my dreams, their silent presence a constant reminder of the approaching danger. I awoke each morning with a renewed sense of dread, a chilling premonition of the violence yet to come.
My body became a barometer of fear, reacting to every subtle shift in the atmosphere, every change in tone or expression. A sudden silence, a raised voice, a furtive glance – each could trigger a
cascade of anxieties, leaving me trembling and breathless. The feeling of impending disaster became an almost physical presence, a weight pressing down on my chest, constricting my breath, stealing my ability to think clearly. I was a coiled spring, tightly wound, ready to snap under the strain.
The world outside our home, once a source of wonder and
adventure, now seemed fraught with peril. Every stranger on the street, every car that passed, every shadow that stretched across the sidewalk, seemed to represent a potential threat, a symbol of the danger that lurked just beyond the periphery of my vision. The ordinary routine of daily life became a source of anxiety, a
reminder of my vulnerability, my helplessness.
My instincts screamed at me; something catastrophic was about to happen. The subtle cracks in the façade of normalcy that I had initially dismissed, were now gaping chasms, revealing the abyss of darkness that awaited me. The storm was approaching. I could feel it in the air, taste it on my tongue, see it in the distorted reflections
of the windowpane. And I was powerless to stop it. Powerless, terrified, and utterly alone.
The Shadow of Doubt
The chipped mug warmed my hands, the lukewarm tea doing little to soothe the icy dread that had settled in my gut. It had started subtly, a hairline fracture in the seemingly perfect picture of our family life. Mama's smiles, once genuine and warm, now felt strained, forced, like a mask she wore to hide something. Dad, usually boisterous and full of life, had become withdrawn, his laughter replaced by a tense silence that hung heavy in the air. He spent more time in his shed, the rhythmic tap-tap-tap of his
hammer now a discordant beat in the symphony of my growing unease.
I tried to dismiss it as teenage angst, a phase, a temporary blip in the otherwise smooth trajectory of our lives. I told myself it was all in my head, the product of a hyperactive imagination fueled by too many scary movies and late-night ghost stories. But the feeling persisted, a low hum of unease that vibrated through my very being. It was a feeling that defied logic, a visceral sense of
impending doom that left me perpetually on edge.
There were incidents, small things that individually seemed
insignificant, but collectively formed a disturbing pattern. The way Mr. Henderson, our next-door neighbor, would linger a little too long while talking to Mama, his gaze lingering on me with an unsettling intensity. The unsettling gifts – a shiny bracelet from Uncle Frank, a plush toy from a man I'd never met who visited Dad in his shed. These small gestures, seemingly harmless, felt wrong, tainted with a disturbing undercurrent of something sinister.
My attempts to articulate my feelings to Mama were met with dismissal. "You're just imagining things, honey," she'd say, her voice tight, her eyes avoiding mine. "You're too sensitive. Don't be so melodramatic." Her words, meant to reassure, only deepened my sense of isolation, of being trapped in a reality that nobody else seemed to see. The silence between us was heavier than any
argument, a chasm of unspoken fears and suspicions.
School became a refuge, a temporary respite from the growing
unease at home. But even there, the shadows followed. The
whispers in the hallways, the curious stares, the subtle way some boys would brush against me, their touch leaving a trail of icy dread in its wake. I became hyper-aware of my surroundings, constantly scanning for threats, my senses on high alert. The world, once a place of wonder and excitement, was now a minefield of potential dangers.
Sleep offered no escape. My dreams were plagued by shadowy figures, distorted faces, and a pervasive sense of impending
violence. I'd wake up in a cold sweat, my heart pounding, my body trembling, the remnants of my nightmares clinging to me like a shroud. The lines between dreams and reality blurred, leaving me disoriented and confused, unsure of what was real and what was merely a figment of my terrified imagination.
My trust in the adults in my life began to erode, the foundation of my world crumbling beneath my feet. The unwavering faith I'd once had in my parents, the unshakeable belief in their love and
protection, was replaced by a gnawing doubt, a deep-seated
suspicion that something was terribly wrong. The carefully
constructed image of our perfect family was shattered, revealing a fractured reality where secrets were kept, lies were whispered, and fear reigned supreme.
I remember one specific incident – a Sunday afternoon, the smell of roast chicken filling the house. Dad was unusually jovial, his
laughter echoing through the rooms. He was telling stories,
embellishing them with dramatic gestures, his eyes gleaming with a manic energy that made my skin crawl. Mama sat silently, her eyes fixed on her plate, her usual warmth absent. The air crackled with an unspoken tension, a palpable sense of unease that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
That evening, Dad took me aside. He smiled, a smile that didn't reach his eyes, and told me a secret. It was a secret that felt wrong, a secret that twisted my stomach into knots. He said it was our secret, something we should never tell anyone. The words, his tone, the way he looked at me – it was a mixture of charm, manipulation, and something else…something predatory that sent shivers down
my spine.
I tried to dismiss it, to convince myself that I was overreacting. But the seed of doubt had been planted, a tiny, malignant seed that was slowly taking root, its tendrils wrapping around my heart and squeezing the life out of my innocence. I started to see things differently, to notice the nuances of behavior that I had previously overlooked. The subtle shift in Mama's demeanor, the way Dad would sometimes stare at me with a look I couldn't quite decipher.
The feeling of being manipulated, of being subtly controlled,
became increasingly pervasive. It wasn't a physical force, not outright violence, but a psychological game, a silent war waged with smiles, whispers, and carefully crafted lies. I felt like a puppet, my strings pulled by unseen hands, my movements dictated by forces beyond my control.
The world felt like a stage, and I was playing a role I didn't
understand, a part in a play whose script was written by someone else, a script that promised only pain and suffering. The joyous laughter of my childhood faded into a distant memory, replaced by a constant hum of apprehension, a persistent feeling of impending doom. The silence, once a comforting presence, now echoed with the unspoken horrors that were yet to come. The storm was
gathering, and I was powerless to stop it. The calm before the storm was a cruel deception, a deceptive peace masking the chaos that was about to engulf my life. And in that silence, in that deceptive peace, the seeds of my destruction were sown. The shadow of doubt stretched long and dark, engulfing everything in its path, leaving me alone, vulnerable, and utterly terrified. The cracks were
widening, the foundations crumbling, and the storm was coming. I could feel it in my bones.
The Web Tightens
The Sunday roast chicken had become a ritual, a macabre
performance played out under the guise of family normalcy. Dad's laughter, once a comforting sound, now grated on my nerves, a jarring dissonance in the unsettling quietude Mama maintained. Her eyes, once sparkling with mirth, were now dull, lifeless, reflecting a pain that mirrored my own, yet remained locked behind a wall of silence. The silence was suffocating, a thick blanket smothering any possibility of escape, any chance of voicing the fear that clawed at my throat.
It wasn't just the dinners. The subtle shifts in their behavior became more pronounced, more blatant. The gifts continued, each one a chilling reminder of their insidious control. A silk scarf from a man I'd seen fleetingly in the car, a music box from Mr. Henderson, whose eyes seemed to bore into my soul. Each present felt like a brand, a mark of ownership, a chilling testament to my helpless captivity. I began to meticulously catalogue these gifts, a morbid inventory of my slow descent into a nightmare. My secret journal, filled with these chilling observations, became my sole confidante, a silent witness to my silent screams.
The touches, once fleeting, grew bolder. A hand on my shoulder that lingered too long, a brush against my leg during a crowded movie, a hug that held me too tightly, squeezing the air from my lungs. Each contact was an invasion, a violation that chipped away at the fragile remnants of my self-worth. The physical assaults became a horrifying punctuation mark to the psychological
manipulation, the silent cruelty a chilling foreshadowing of worse to come.
Sleep became a battlefield, a warzone of nightmares and terror. My dreams were no longer just scary; they were prophetic, visions of impending doom. I dreamt of hands reaching out from the darkness, of faces contorted in a silent scream. I woke up screaming, soaked in sweat, my heart pounding like a frantic drum. The line between reality and nightmare blurred, leaving me constantly on edge, unable to shake the feeling that something terrible was always just
around the corner.
School became a torment. The whispers followed me, like shadows clinging to my heels. The stares became more intense, more
probing. I could feel the eyes on me, even when I couldn't see them. I started to avoid people, to shrink myself, to become invisible. I felt like I was carrying a secret, a heavy burden that threatened to crush me under its weight. The weight of their secret, a secret they had forced upon we
And yes it was oh now that being said those of us whose faces were used like a f****** mask at a bank robbery understand that it's just our f****** face and maybe not be such an a****** and understand that well none of you came to our rescue and yet here we are for yours so .. what you meant to say was thank you for giving us another chance and you were smart to get thrown into the vent that's what you meant right sorry that's me vin! Right Ur new bu KY bred bread? Don? Dawn!? Huh!?