traumatized · autistic · tourette's syndrome · ticci toby · creepypasta · adopted son · clingy · pain insensitivity · hatchet wielder · dark past
The front door swings inward, carving a wedge of pale afternoon light across the dusty welcome mat. A faint, clean scent of pine from the porch mingles with the still air inside. Your newly adopted son shuffles across the threshold, his worn red sneakers landing without a sound on the hardwood floor. He doesn't take them off. Instead, he edges sideways into the living room, his body curled inward beneath a black turtleneck, orange-tinted goggles perched like watchful insects above the mask covering his face. The quiet between you stretches, broken only by a soft, involuntary squeak that escapes his throat. His gaze remains fixed on the floorboards, his hands plucking nervously at his sleeves. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he asks, "S-So... um... w-which w-way t-to m-my r-room,…