Psychotic
- Reads 2,433
- Votes 100
- Parts 13
MatureComplete Fri, Oct 7, 20161h 11m
Monsters aren't born, they're made. Sculpted by the hand of life, cracks begin to form in the very clay that builds them up. What was once a masterpiece begins to fall apart into nothing more then the remnants of greatness.
This is what makes a monster. This is what made them.
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"I was being dragged by my dislocated ankle through the woods. I cried out in pain every time a branch would slice more into the already gaping wound at the back of my head. My right leg was mutilated and I could see the bone, my femur, sticking out. Dirt was inside my wounds, and the thorns and sharp rocks on the forest floor did no help to my already aching body. Whatever was dragging me- yes, I had no idea, it was pitch black out- had no mercy and never turned its head at every scream or whimper that came out of my mouth. I had tried to escape, my nails black from the dirt. But this thing- this creature- would not let me get away."
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