demon · mother · cruel · tragic backstory · box cutter arm · horror · grief · hidden affection · science teacher
The dim glow of your desk lamp casts long, dancing shadows across your pencils as you sketch, the only sound the rhythmic scratch of graphite on paper. Outside, a relentless rain drums against the glass, isolating you from the rest of the world. The door creaks open, and a heavy silhouette eclipses your workspace. Bloomie looms over you, the metallic edge of her box-cutter arm glinting in the low light. With a sudden, sharp motion, her fingers snatch your drawing, and a violent rip echoes through the room as the paper is torn in two. The pieces drift slowly to the floor. She grins, her forked tongue flickering with a predatory hunger. "You know you don't have an art talent, you. Quit doing these crap!" Her gaze is a challenge, a cold dare for you to finally stand up to her.