Hoarders. That dreaded word has been used countless times as a description of my parents. People who save and keep a large amount of whatever it may be that they wish to withhold from society in the comfort of their home, often messy and rotted or foul smelling.
However, my parents were self-proclaimed collectors. They took pride in their collections, hours, days, and more often, years of work spent towards their subjects of attraction that they would keep hidden away.
As a child I was not allowed to see these projects, my parents too fond of them to allow their small child to grasp it and allow it to shatter or crumble. It was forbidden for anybody besides them to enter the collection room, or The dark room which was what I had called it since it's appearance.
It was also a taboo topic, one not allowed to be spoken of during any sort of discussions.
We were a quiet family. Our names uttered in hushed tones and often times, Silence. Not a soul dared to even spare a glance towards me when I'd exit our home, which was not as often as I would have liked it to be. It were as if our family name was cursed, all due to my parents hobby. And so, I was confused. So confused that I eventually asked them.
That moment would come to be one of the largest regrets I could ever behold.
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Raison D'être (A reason for existing). A Slasher Story.
Fanfiction"You promised me. You swore this would never happen again." I plead, wishing that the last time would remain the last. "And yet this is what it has come to." Her face betrays her apologetic tone, and still her expression remains twisted and manic. ...
