Quoth the Raven Part 1

     Hey, sorry this has taken so long to post up, but I haven't had much time to really write about anything, much less something as difficult as this is going to be. Sorry if things don't make much sense in this either, Migz and I have been traveling around non-stop as of late, so I'm rather tired. Some good news is that my Slender-sickness finally subsided! So there's something (and yes, Raggedy, I have some of that sludge shit saved for you. It was surprising easily contained).

   

     Well, no point in wasting any more time. Migz, if I randomly burst into hysteric tears, this is why.


 
     This basically all started the day I was born. I very briefly lived in a tiny home with both my elder sister, Scarlett Rose and my mother, Judy Rose. My mother was... well, she was a whore, to put it bluntly. She never had a great liking for children, even my sister, who she had somehow put up with for ten whole years. But when I was born, I guess something in her mind just snapped. For the short amount of time I was with her, I was never fed, treated terribly, and she had even given me an insulting name; "Raven," which I have since had legally changed for... well, we'll get to that later. She named me after that famous poem The Raven, in which the bird is depicted as a sort of tormenter, a "bird of the devil," and I guess that's what she thought of me.

     And when I say I very briefly lived there, I mean it. I don't even remember the house or what my mother looked like. Almost a week into my life, she had kicked my sister and I out. Luckily, Scarlett decided to do the smart thing and ask our fathers to hopefully take us in. We first went to her father; a very successful business man who had a wife but no children. He said he'd be glad to take one of us in, but they didn't want more than one child in the house. He was both kind and greedy, but kindness can be expensive. And I guess in the world of business, greed always comes first. This meant that we had to go and talk to my father; a middle class working man with a wife and a son. Lucky for me, he was a moderately kind man, and willing to take me in; regardless of the fact that his family would know he cheated.

     For about 6 years I lived happily with that family. I never knew anything about my mother or my sister, or what had become of either of them. Besides my bright red hair, I looked just like my father. I had no reason to think I was any different from them. I was happy. I was a happy ignorant child, spoiled beyond her wildest dreams and unaware of the terrors of the real world. I can't remember a time I was happier than I was those first 6 years of my life.

     As for Scarlett, things were very different. She didn't have the blessing of a fading infant's memory.  She clearly remembered how terrible our moth... Judy was to her for all those years. She was constantly neglected and abused; either by Judy herself, or her "clients." Things didn't get much better at her new home either. Her father and his wife were barely ever home. She was constantly by herself, and she was too shy to make any friends at school. She got picked on so much that it got to the point were she had to be home schooled.

     Eventually, her father and his wife got divorced. The wife didn't want to have to spend all her money taking care of her, so she was left with her father and a nanny. Things only got worse from there. Her father had stopped coming home from work, only showing up maybe once a week smelling like booze, sweat, and god knows what else. The man who had been homeschooling her left as soon as he had stopped being payed, and the nanny just left one day and never returned. Scarlett was completely alone.

     Around the time she turned 14, she started lashing out. During her father's absences, she would turn furniture, break antiques, smash windows, and tear out door and walls. I don't know why, but she was never punished for this. My guess is that her father was either too busy or too high to notice. So the violence in her heart escalated to the point where she took Buds, her father's pet cat, skinned him alive, ripped off all of his limbs, and left him to bleed to death in her father's room. The sight of it when he finally came home must've given him a heart attack. Finally, he was convinced she needed help and sent her to an institution. However, she quickly escaped, and the loneliness and anger in her heart had built up so much that she went back to her father's house, and waited for him to come home.

     On the day he finally showed up, she hid in the basement as she knew his exact schedule for whenever he was home; shower, eat, go to bed. She waited a couple hours down there until she was confidant that he was asleep. Then, she took the knife that he had used to cut his steak, slowly climbed the stairs to his bedroom, crept over to his bedside, and cut out his throat. Once he was dead, she wanted to make sure she left a nice, big mess for the police to find. She separated him into what must've been a million tiny pieces, and scattered him all over his newly refurnished house.

   


     But she didn't want to stop there.



I'll continue the rest of this, perhaps tomorrow. It's hard... reliving these memories, even if they aren't mine. No, I haven't even gotten to the good part yet.