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A Christmas Massacre 3Crying once again he no longer saw his stepfather, but a man with horribley burnt skin wearing a dusty brown fedora hat with startling crystal sea blue eyes. Also dressed in a blood red and pine green striped Christmas sweater, brown cargo pants, and black steel- tipped hiking boots. On his right hand, however, was a glove spiced up with blades on his fingers.
He smirked. "I ain't gonna hurcha kid."
"You... you're not?" Duncan whispered. The man shook his head, running his forefingered talon over one of the many scratches and scars (most still fresh, bleeding droplets of the dark liquid) on Duncan's face. Duncan didn't react of flinch at the touch, though looked immensily relieved.
"Who does this to you?" the mystery man asked abruptedly, still running his knives on the cuts.
"My... daddy, sir," Duncan answered in a weak tone laced with unease and fright. "He gets... very... angry." He then gasped and clapped his hands over his mouth. "Oh! I'm in so much trouble!" a muffled scold sound
A Christmas Massacre 2"1, 2, Freddy's comin' for you..."
Duncan drowsily opened his eyes, sitting up and rubbing his head, his hair slightly messing up as he hugged Archie to his chest. His face was wet and tearstreaked as he looked around in utmost curiousity.
"3, 4, better lock your door..."
A graveyard. He was in, what looked to be, an endless graveyard, the tombstones crumbling and moldy. Going on and on the darkness was eerie and chilling. But Duncan wasn't afraid.
He got to his feet, looking at the three little seven year old girls dressed in white. They were playing jumprope, and chanting a song.
"5, 6, grab your crucifix..."
Duncan walked up to them, smiling. "Can I play with you?" he asked innocently. One of the girls swinging the rope looked over to him, a peaceful smile on her lips. The other girls continued singing.
"7, 8, gonna stay up late..."
"Okay," the girl said sweetly. Still swinging the rope as Duncan walked over she carefully handed him the handle, being sure to keep it smoothly moving
A Christmas Massacre*Heheh, even further proof of my psychiactric issues. Summary: One of the twenty two teens of Total Drama Island, Duncan, had an encounter with our favorite dream demon, the Springwood Slasher himself, Freddy Krueger. When he was seven. How had he gotten out alive you ask? Why, it was Christmas Eve that night..."
A little, small boy lie awake on his bed, crying. For being seven years old Duncan Blac was scrawny. Two and a half feet tall, Unnaturally skinny, health low, malnourished... and covered with bruises. And scratches. His parents, real parents, had died when he was only one, and he had been transfered to his foster father's (or stepfather's) home on Elm Street, located in Springwood Ohio.
His stepfather beat him. Terribley. For no reason. He was a good boy. He did what he was told, never disobeyed a command for he knew the consequences... and yet he still suffered. What was Duncan to do?
Now he cried, sobbed into his pillow, soaking it. From pain, sadne
LatreuophobiaI wash off sick-sweet orange lipstick in front of a mirror as dusty as gothic romances. It tastes like oblivion, that is to say, like nothing my tongue can detect.
The door opens with a creak no private restroom could emulate. Some chick with blue bobbed hair and smeared eyeliner. I looked like that once. Ten years ago.
Getting the beer out of my hair is harder. Some men just can't take it when I'd rather they not kiss my feet or call me an angel or-
“Dayum girl, you look like a goddess.”
I gulp, taste of acid.
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