It All Started With a Smile - Ulysses Wrath - Wattpad

It All Started With a Smile

Reads 884
Votes 22
Parts 24
Time 2h 3m

Reads 884
Votes 22
Parts 24
Time 2h 3m

Mature

blasphemy blood curse darkfantasy death love murder revenge romance thrill

Madness is a beast Livin inside each one of us, it is caged in there by chains of sanity... But madness is strong, madness keeps feeding on your emotions, your sadness, your anger, your happiness... It keeps feeding on them growing stonger and stronger, breaking the chains of sanity... I wonder... How many chains do you have remaining?All Rights Reserved

blasphemy blood curse darkfantasy death love murder revenge romance thrill

24 parts

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Losing Game by cha1nz

(TWs: gore, abuse, sexual abuse, cursing) Why does he still breathe? Why is he kept alive in this shadowed purgatory where time has no meaning, and screams are swallowed by the walls? His cell is a cage, his life a cruel experiment, and his mind a battlefield. Questions claw at him relentlessly: Who is he? What is he? Why does this torment exist? The walls bleed stories of others-lost souls whose cries still linger, haunting the air. His own voice has grown hoarse from endless screams, his body a canvas of scars, a map of suffering that tells no answers, only pain. Every day is a ritual of degradation, where faceless captors toy with his humanity, stripping him of it piece by agonizing piece. The only constant is the endless cycle of questions. Why him? Why the torture? What is their purpose? He clings to the faintest memories of a time before-fleeting images of warmth, love, a face he cannot quite recall. But even those are slipping away, devoured by the void growing inside him. In this relentless, suffocating darkness, where hope is a distant memory, only one question remains: When will the game end, and what will be left of him when it does?

Poetry of Death by Viklaw

"You kept saying that you would never die, that you would live forever. But here you are, and here I am. Isn't it funny? I'm here to take your soul. Did I mention, I love my job? Oh right! I never told you. I'm the reaper who will reap your life." By M.E./ Viklaw and T.L./ Shyama_Ismae.

Run by FatalDawn

What is more horrible than the evil itself? Well the nightmares that feed into the evil, where there is no place to go, be safe or find any light at all. Where only dark and hell remain, where souls go to die.. and life is taken from you by sheer force. Who will save us all from suffering that revolves around, each and every one of us. Who will light it's way through the night, who will bring justice and avenge us all? When everything you ever known has died and all the hope we had has been lost. (This is a censored version.)

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Insanity: Sacred Truth by ViolaCandle

"Death is not the greatest loss in life. The greatest loss is what dies inside us while we live" ~ Norman Cousins I was a target. A target of a lie. A lie that held me accountable. Accountable for the death of another. A lie that has driven me to the peak of insanity. A lie that drove me to embrace the arms of death.

The Sinister's Obsession by xeronsane_

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Haunted Souls by Authorofnightmares

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Slide 1 of 10

Losing Game cover

Poetry of Death cover

lowercase lament cover

Insanity: Sacred Truth cover

The Sinister's Obsession cover

Reflection cover

Lucid dreamer [Dark Dreams] cover

What I'd do for Love cover

Haunted Souls cover

Losing Game

(TWs: gore, abuse, sexual abuse, cursing) Why does he still breathe? Why is he kept alive in this shadowed purgatory where time has no meaning, and screams are swallowed by the walls? His cell is a cage, his life a cruel experiment, and his mind a battlefield. Questions claw at him relentlessly: Who is he? What is he? Why does this torment exist? The walls bleed stories of others-lost souls whose cries still linger, haunting the air. His own voice has grown hoarse from endless screams, his body a canvas of scars, a map of suffering that tells no answers, only pain. Every day is a ritual of degradation, where faceless captors toy with his humanity, stripping him of it piece by agonizing piece. The only constant is the endless cycle of questions. Why him? Why the torture? What is their purpose? He clings to the faintest memories of a time before-fleeting images of warmth, love, a face he cannot quite recall. But even those are slipping away, devoured by the void growing inside him. In this relentless, suffocating darkness, where hope is a distant memory, only one question remains: When will the game end, and what will be left of him when it does?