12:36 pm at midnight western times inside a humble American home in the outskirts neighbourhood of San Francisco. A boy no older then 18 years old was standing Infront of a crack mirror slightly stained with drips of blood.
He was shorter then an average boy his age should be. With brunette messy hair, green eyes and wore nothing but just brown trunks, allowing him to see his figure on the fragmented mirror, pale skin and a withered body so unhealthy that they were practically muscleless with the ribcage being easily defined and a sucken stomach
The boy's hands were grip on the sink. Shacking like they were struggling with holding his body straight, his right knuckles was blooded with pricks of small shattered glass, it look painful, extremely so. But he seem not to be bothered by the pain— or did he even felt it pierce his skin? Anyone would be wincing in pain and started removing the shards as fast as possible, but he payed no mind and let them rest deep with his blood dripping down the sink and stained the tiled floor.
"W̸̧̹̞̙̰̌̉͆͋̓ȟ̵̈́͜ă̷̢͕̠͓̮t̴̃͗͘͜ ̷̱̮̌a̵̘͔͍̿͂̂͘͝r̷͓̭̆̈́̿̑͝e̴̗̮͙͙͂̆̈́͜͝ ̵͍͇͉́ỳ̷͚̱͍̞̉̌͠o̷͓͇̔͒̍̈́͝u̴̖͋́́̕̚ ̵̪̲͙̅͘ẁ̴͓a̵̲̽͑ȋ̶͉͙͈̏̆͆̓t̷̡̽̒̾ī̷̧̲͚̩͕̎̄͠ņ̵̛̗͌̎ͅg̵̨̲̘̜̰̔ ̷̨̟̩̅f̶̺́͝o̶̜͚̣͂͝ͅŕ̴͉̮̙̟͑̔́?̶̺̌" No one was with him in the room, yet a voice spoke with an almost static like glitching radio effect that barely made it audible to understand, nor was it pleasant to listen to. it wasn't even at the otherside of the closed shut door?
"Just let me think first" he finally replied after a long state of silence, with a voice that simply calling it lack of emotion would be sugar coating, if a corpse can speak behind his or her death— it would be more lively then the boy's absolute deadness of a voice he had.
"Y̷͕̓ö̸̫́ǘ̷̘'̶̹̎v̵͚̽e̶͍̍ ̵̩̐b̸̰̚e̵̘͛ë̷̱́ņ̴̂ ̴̳̑s̴̖͌t̷̪̍a̶̱͆n̶̝͝d̴̟̊i̴̠̐n̴̮̂g̶͉̽ ̵̥̃h̷̼̆ḛ̷̈́r̵̟͒e̴̮͘ ̸͔̃f̶̡̀ọ̸̑r̶͉̉ ̶̬̇à̵̻b̶͖͗ò̷̘u̶̗͝ț̵́ ̸̻̓t̸̙͗w̶͉̎o̷̧͘ ̵̩̈́m̶̹̓i̵͍̊n̴͕̿ủ̷̳t̷͠ͅe̴̟͗s̵̤͊ ̸̦͌n̵̦̿o̶̙̊w̵̤͠,̷̘͌ ̴̬̽y̵̙̅ȏ̷̤u̷͓̐'ȑ̵̝e ̵͔̕t̶͉̽é̷̟l̶̠̒l̷͎͝i̵̝̋ṇ̸̓g̷͝ͅ ̶̒ͅm̸̠͗e̵̗̎ ̴͚͌ẗ̴̳h̵͙̓ă̶̜t̶̻́ ̷̲̉ỳ̸̨o̴͚̎u̶͕̅ ̴̖̿s̵͖̕t̵̓͜į̸̕ĺ̵̟l̴̼̇ ̴̭̓n̵̜̄e̶͙̐e̸͕͠d̴̢͠ ̵̞̿t̶͙̔í̷̳ḿ̷̘ȩ̴̒" The voice argues back with a strained chuckle, with the boy still not caring for the slightest. "M̴̰̈́ẏ̶͉ ̷̣̃p̷̲͝â̸͖s̵̝͋t̶̯͂ ̷͓̅a̵̺͛p̵̢̆o̷̫̿s̸͙͝t̷̬͛l̷̤̆e̴͎͂s̵͔̿ ̸͖́d̷͇̂i̵̟͆d̸̞̃n̷̢̄'̸̘͑t̵͇̂ ̸̥̚m̵̜͗a̶͓̔d̶̘̈́ẽ̴̤ ̶̖̍ḿ̴͍ȩ̸͊ ̶̪̀w̴̨͂a̵̭͊i̶̦̊t̴̞̓ ̶̨̾t̸͈̾h̶̞̽i̷̚͜s̷̢̒ ̵͚̋l̶̢̀o̵̱͘n̴̯̍ģ̴͌ ̸̩͆t̸̘̓o̶̲̐ ̶̭̀d̵̡̕ŏ̸͎ ̶͜͝ţ̷̔h̸̏͜ḛ̴̆ ̷͙͑f̷̣͛ï̴͓ṙ̸̻s̶̔ͅt̴͓͋ ̷̖̾r̵͔͒e̴̜͗q̸͇̌u̸̢̿į̶̏r̵͗͜ë̵̤́m̷̱̐e̵̳͊n̴͎̂t̶̳̓" The voice peeved in irritation. Wanting the boy to just get on with what ever he was supposed to do
"I'm still a kid, a child... not like your others before me" He retorted with no more emotion then before, every sentence he look left him sounding unimpressed, coupled with his voice who's monotone-ness made the dead sound alive by comparison.
A boy of his lively hood couldn't possibly had a good life if he turned out this colourless in comparison to his bright eyes. But the reality is he did had a good life— a good meaningless life, with parents so loving yet so unaware of what he feels.... Or lack there off. He was a boy filled with contradictions
YOU ARE READING
Tales From the Void of Madness: The butcher
ParanormalSince before mankind had told stories in literary artforms, a book existed before them all with no clear author, with no origin to think off and of language indescribably by any other languages. The sombranomicon, from its boundless pages of ancien...
