"I am tainted, with the blood of many; yet, my heart still thrives and prospers as if nothing has happened." "I protect my pack, the rogue clan, with the same ferocity as a mother who presides over her children. We may not hold the name of an official coven, but we are family. Family as one, and family together. I may appear emotionless and cold, but my heart swells for those I love. It's not many that I adore believe me, but to be loved by me is an achievement one will behold for eternity." "I do not deserve my birthname anymore than I deserve to be here. But, I suppose, as I am on the brink of death, I shall tell you. The blood represents my remorse, and the pain that has eclipsed itself over my heart; the blood cascading over my body symbolizes my torment. A rose. My favorite flower. A symbol of romance and depression. It is what my father gifted me each day, when he would place the plant on the foot of the bed amidst my deep slumber. Every day, he would gift me one, adorn me with it's luscious fragrance. Even if i don't believe those bloody lies I still remember. Him. He would call me, beautiful." "My thorns will push you away prick you if you stray too near. But, I am fragile, breakable, a fine sheet of thin ice. I am as bleak as the petals that sift softly in the wind, pulling to be free. They are beautiful. Graceful. Delicate. But sensitive especially. I can shatter from a single touch; crumble at the light brush of a finger; obliterate at hurtful words. I may be strong, my barrier desperately holding up my fortress, but if you do it right, touch me in the specific form, you can slowly pick at my petals, peeling each one away, piece by piece, until you are left with nothing. Nothing but my cold heart, standing bright amidst the darkness. An almost ornamental peace. Gorgeous, yet filled with darkness and hatred, without a care in the world." That is what I am. A beautiful killer. The once white rose, is now stained with impure, red blood.

Creepypasta story about two clowns that has to go to a normal school like everybody does.

In 1925, a 6 year old girl named Mary, had a wide imagination and always wanted some attention. This was a gloomy time, Mary didn't have so much friends considering her mother was so strict with other families and their children. One day Mary was playing in her room alone until she was talking to herself in her room. Her mother asked who she was talking to and she said that is was her new friend Laughing Jill. 3 years came by and Mary was 9 years old and still talking to Jill. Mary's mother was extremely worried, did her child get in a cased of schizophrenia? Was she going insane? Anywhere Mary goes with her mother, she always talked to Jill until her life started to change.