Jaeson has a minion!

Lucy the Thrae

Legacy Name: Jaeson

The Bloodred Devonti
Owner: Alysse

Age: 7 years, 10 months, 6 days

Born: December 20th, 2012

Adopted: 7 years, 10 months, 6 days ago

Adopted: December 20th, 2012


  • Level: 1
  • Strength: 10
  • Defense: 10
  • Speed: 10
  • Health: 11
  • HP: 11/11
  • Intelligence: 1
  • Books Read: 0
  • Food Eaten: 0
  • Job: Unemployed

clair·au·di·ence the power or faculty of hearing something not present to the ear but regarded as having objective reality

HA reference

Warning: The following text contains strong language

He eyed the knife glistening on the kitchen counter. Take it. He moved toward it with a shaky hand, glancing out the little window to see his mother cutting back the flowers. Don't be scared. Just take it. It was the knife his mother liked to use whenever she was cutting vegetables. His father had just sharpened it the other day with a piece of metal that made a terrible sound, but his mother was pleased with how easy it was to slice the skin of tomatoes after that.

He touched the plastic handle, his small fingers curling around it. That's it. Take it. He glanced out the window again, watching his mother place fresh dirt around her herbs. She always bought spice plants this time of year when the farmer's market opened up. Take it. His eyes snapped back to the knife in his hand, and he swayed a little. What was he going to do with it now? He held it in his hand, tightening his grip as he stared at the shiny blade. Go to you room. Don't let your mother find out. He shuffled out of the kitchen, bringing the knife down to his side. He kept glancing backwards at the window, making sure his mother was still tending to her garden.

He closed his bedroom door and climbed up on his bed. He crossed his legs and placed the knife on the bedspread, making sure the sharp side was facing away from him. It couldn't hurt him if it was facing away from him. He then began to rock back and forth, keeping his eyes closed and breathing heavily. Pick up the knife. He stopped moving but did not open his eyes. Pick up the knife. He reached forward and felt around for the knife, patting his hands nervously on the blanket. He felt the plastic handle graze his fingertips, and he wrapped his hand around it. His palm was sweating now. Hold it up to your neck. He started to shake. Hold it up to your neck. He squeezed his eyelids closer together, the knife crawling toward his throat. He could hardly keep his hand still as the blade rested against the skin beneath his jaw. Cut it. His eyes popped open. Cut it. He started shaking uncontrollably. Cut. It. He couldn't move. He felt the muscles in his neck tighten, and he was suddenly gasping for air. Tears streamed down his face, and his mouth began to quiver. He sobbed quietly on the bed, the knife still resting on his skin. CUT IT. CUT IT. CUT IT. CUT YOUR FUCKING THROAT. DO IT OR THE BITCH DIES.

"No!" he screamed, finally able to breathe. "No! Don't touch her! Don't hurt my mom!" He shrieked and howled. He sobbed and twisted his body off the bed. He pulled the knife away from his throat, forcing his hand down toward the floor. There was resistance in his movement, and a wave of terror washed over him. Something was pulling his hand back up. He tried harder and harder to drop the knife, keeping his hand as far away from his body as possible. His arm was shaking as his hand moved back toward his neck, and he let out another scream. The knife was back against his throat, the sharp side of the blade pressing against him. He felt a sudden sting across his skin, and he yelped. Just as the knife dragged across his throat, cutting closer to his vein, the door to his bedroom burst open.


He screamed, jolting up in bed. He reached for his throat, feeling around for the slice across his skin. Tears ran down his cheeks as his fingers prodded the area, searching desperately for the cut. His body shook with relief when he realized that nothing was there except for the same, dull scar that ran across his Adam's apple. His fingertips traced the line by memory, his eyes shutting tight as he sobbed.
"Hey," a voice barked from the doorway of Jaeson's bedroom. The 24-year-old jumped at the sound, his hands moving away from his face to clutch his night shirt. Harlee was standing there all bundled up in a cable knit sweater and jeans that clung to his thin legs, staring at Jaeson with wide, green eyes. "Are you okay? What the hell happened?" he asked, holding onto the door frame."I had a nightmare," Jaeson whispered, his hand reaching back up toward his scar.

Profile by: Grinbeard

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