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These…evil villains….🥺

(These aren't set in stone designs I just wanted to not draw two very similar shapes every-time I drew them)

The intricacies of the mind: Fear

A story written about the mind and an experience of fear toxin

Unedited

The mind is a wonderous, extraordinary yet unexplainable thing. It is what processes our senses, holds our memories and makes us able to be who we are. However there is a dark side to the mind. The side that can manipulate us into seeing what is not real, feel what there is nothing to feel, smell what can’t be smelled, hear what shouldn’t be heard, and even taste what we have no business tasting. Sometimes it is the intricately woven words on a paper that string along the senses on a journey of metaphysical thoughts that transcend our own reality around us. 

No a beautiful sun brighter field where the soft and slight damp soil the color so rich and full of potential, surrounded by flowers with the morning dew shimmering in the, light the mix and match of a patchwork field of flowers the colors of a clear blue sky, a brightness that can only be described as being the color of sunshine, and a deep red that brings forth the deep and rich emotions of a well received love letter. The crisp sweet taste of the juices of a Strawberry sliding down the throat, and a smell of a perfect summer day on the nose. 

That is the beauty of the mind. That beauty can create moments so precious and dear can also crawl in the cracks and crevasses of the mind, the ones we choose to avoid because they slowly grey the world around us, making everything seem so drab and hazy to the mind. They are the places that can become a parasite to all that we hold dear. 

That is when the mind is no longer wondrous and jaw droppingly beautiful but haunting and eerie. 

That is the part of the mind that we often choose to ignore because while it can hold its own sense of beauty it also leads down an ever even darkening path down a slowly crumbling hall of thoughts that lose their warm glow and grow sharp edges and a bone chilling cold that never truly leaves no matter how much warmth surrounds them. The feeling of apprehension and dread builds as the once shiny and envy-inducing hard wood becomes dry and cracked with large splinters jutting up in places a boot might have scuffed the aging wood too hard. 

The now graying color starts to sap away at our own leaving a shell of what might have been a beautiful smell of a well cleaned and cared for hall now smells of mildew and a dampness that welcomes in teh mold that has taken to housing in the walls and the corners of crown molding that might have once been majestic enough for a king. The halls once colorful and seemed to sing in happiness now whisper in trepidation. The ornate wall paper that would have been hand painted which would bring forth the feeling of comfort and ease is now peeling down the walls into jagged spirals. The dried glue holding on is like the withered bones of something long past ancient. Mirrors that at one point made a person glow in life and a distincting beautiful presence now hollow out the reflection like a carving just too rough and sharp to be recognizable against the senseless cracks. The feeling and unease set and grow heavy in the body when a darkness not even the brightest fluorescent can dispel. 

The feeling of what might have been a flashlight now feels like a worn down tarnished metal as the wax of a half used candle poles in the basin providing the only warmth to a body that is an outsider to itself. The flame of the candle swaying around to what would seem to be a skin crawling hyme coming from the draft with no origin. The closest windows shut and let in the pale glow of a never quite full moon. 

The old panes covered in layers of history that will never be discovered look over the dark grounds of what might have once have been an outdoor lavish garden fit to hold posh afternoon tea and sunset strolls with a long forgotten second half now hold the knurled trees that wind has shaped as their own, the plants having become the crooked rulers of a ruined kingdom leading as the choose. The pounds once clear enough to be a mirror for all good in the world have now become dark landscaped of long overstayed guests that have made their refusal to leave. 

Was that a movement from the corner? A creak of a footstep? The huff of a breath? Was there something here? Were you not alone in this long abandoned home of the past. 

The rise of a deathly quiet pulse, the movement of a once still chest now moves as if compensating for the lack of any other breathing thing. 

The shadow catches your attention again, staying just long enough to let the living know that a corner was turned. 

Leave— the hall seems to say. Leave— as if there will be no other chance after. One more step, one more curious movement and the cliff of safety we were on before will crumble away leaving only to go forwards. 

The creak of the step is made and another. That shadow was watching you, stop it. 

The candle handle grows heavy in hand. Seemingly knowing where it may go, it wants no part in the horrors to come. 

Had the wood turned to moss covered stone? The creaks are gone now replaced with the uneasy claps of boots? Were those boots before? Has the hall grown smaller? The mirrors were gone but the stones seem to be rows and crowds of faces anyway, just out of reach and the finer features gone to the eyes. 

The candle falls out of hand and a soft splash and clang is heard, feeling like the earth shattering sound of destruction and apprehension. Had something had been alerted. The hand had reached out to grab the candle back when the feeling of a liquid came first. It was warm to the touch and stuck to the fingers like water never could, but not of tree sap. The candle light only provides the idea of a dark substance. The smell whiffs the nose; rust. A rust that doesn’t belong on a rotted out pan from a kitchen but one that cling to iron. Some drips onto your lips….. blood. Fresh warm blood. Was the shadow bleeding? 

The stone walls blur as the slaps of boots make haste down the stone hall. In apprehension the face rapinns, but in concern the whistling of the air urging teh pace along with snickers that slash through the mind, raising the heartbeat, and upping the stake. 

The blood continues growing larger in quantity. It could not have been healthy. Most certainly. There was now splashes of blood on your clothes becoming a stain as teh hall seems to continue. 

Wait, when did it become a tunnel? The dirt seemed to be well enough packed but came falling down with the thumping of the boots that continued to upset the balance of the tunnel. It felt encampulsating, enclosing, the air had grown stale and old. There weren’t any windows anymore, no ruined kingdom of forestry, and no fogged over mirrors with sea rest. 

A giggle so quiet and underbreathe that it might have been overheard but it was like a knife to a heart. 

There was a glow at the end of the tunnel. Was it the end or had it caved in? 

Pale fabric was wrapped around pale skin. The blood is now clumping dirt to the bottom of your boots and dust covering your head. 

The figure was underfoot now, your knees digging into blood pooled dirt. The skin was cold and tough, cracked like leather. The blood had dried. 

This wasn’t alive. The clutches of life and their story long over. It was not pretty in any sense of the word but morbid and terror. 

A scream— a bone shattering scream, was it yours?

No! The dirt arched overhead starts to shift and tremble. Dust falls first, a cough, and steady world ending streams of dirt start falling. The ever rising sea of dirt pooling around. The dirt was voiding everything else closing in. 

Your breath was hitching. Was the air always this heavy? Scratching at the throat wasn’t making the air move in the lunges any better. 

Now breathing in fistfuls of dirt your thoughts were turning blurry. The senses have eluded you. Was it dirt or a blanket? Was that air or soil becoming an invasive species in your lungs? 

The last thing, the last thought, the last hurrah was of fear, completely death bringing, soul shattering fear. 

That was the last thought before another was lost to the ever-errouding hallways of darkness that live within our mind. 

I feel like in Gotham, whenever someone buys a large quantity of some random item, people always wonder, "Prankster or supervillian?"

Maybe there's even an instragram or sm dedicated to it like those siblings or dating posts.

Riddle us this?

The girls n' the gay are my favourite

ayooo pride came early (i had this idea and didn't wanna wait till June XDD)

Riddler