Information

Benz has a minion!

Minion the Coal Fiend

Benz
Legacy Name: Benz

The

Graveyard Clawsion
Owner:

nervous

Age: 4 years, 5 months, 4 weeks

Born: October 28th, 2019

Adopted: 4 years, 5 months, 4 weeks ago

Adopted: October 28th, 2019

Statistics

Level: 20
Strength: 63
Defense: 52
Speed: 50
Health: 50
HP: 50/50
Intelligence: 110
Books Read: 110
Food Eaten: 0
Job: Unemployed

☩☩☩☩☩

Benz

There was a time years ago when I was happy, but those days were over. Or, I thought they were.
How I ended up all the way across the country is a long story. I don't want to keep you here all day with my sob story and we'll get into it later, but I found myself hauling all my belongings into garbage bags within a day. Things change fast. Life is crazy. All of that junk.
I used to live where it was warm all of the time. The sun was always out, and people were happy. Now, I lived in a frozen tundra of a place thousands of miles away from any whisper of sunlight. The skies were gray and blotchy most of the year, the weather swinging between sad, gray rain and tufts of powdered sugar snow.
I lived in an attic space of my estranged uncle's house. He had his own kids, my cousins I never knew existed until that day, that had real bedrooms. I got the attic, because I was an afterthought. It was nice of him to take me in though. I didn't exactly have a sparkling reputation of being a "good kid," but hey. Anyway, in that attic space, I unlocked a new part of my mind that I didn't know was there.

And so it begins...

I found myself becoming fascinated with horror. Anything macabre found its way to me. Books, art, music, anything, any kind of medium of horror and spooks was what I danced with all night long.
I think part of it was my misery longing for company. Part of it was that I didn't have friends. Even where I used to live, I didn't have friends. I guess I'm just more of the loner type. I'm not an angry, brash, belligerent, or unfriendly person. Not really. I just keep to myself. As far as I'm concerned, my business is my own. That's really not up for anyone's grabs. I share what I want to, when I want to, which is not much and hardly ever. I like it that way. I keep everything locked up for only me to access.
I especially love old horror books. You know the types: Unhinging at the spine, torn covers, waxy, flaky paper and bleeding ink splotches. Lore, poetry, fiction, nonfiction, hell, fantasy. I love all of it.
My affinity for the obscure and dark translated into my life, and I found myself convinced of everything I read and I breathed darkness and loneliness. That changed when I met my boyfriend, though.

And so it continues...

He's the bright type, the kind always shitting rainbows and puking sunshine. He's had a hard year this last year, but somehow he always pulls himself out of it with a smile. I admire him a lot.
We fancy each other just fine. I think since my hands are always cold and his hands are always warm, we reach equilibrium when our fingers interlace. He laughs loudly, and it makes me smile quietly.
The best thing about it is that he doesn't try to change me. He knows what I like, I know what he likes. We talk about it, and even if we don't agree, he's always interested to hear me talk anyway. I think he just likes me in general.
Anyway, not to get all lovey-dovey and gross. Don't want to kill the mood. I'm done talking now, so you should get to bouncing. I've just bought a collection of vintage horror poetry, and I'm not wasting time digging into it. Until again.

template by