To off and to, I lie
For those eyes that see
To my life, I bid "goodbye"
For my smile holds no glee.
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It was one Thursday morning; the skies were pale and the air was cold. Birds flocked between themselves to secure a warm nest. Horses were onto staples locked in a massive white soil blocking their path. Carriages now rendered unusable under the volume of snow present. Only those braving to go out were those with a reason to "go out". Many that stayed were sick and deprived of any food. Farms that were built only became obsolete as the eternal freeze never seemed to go any away. Little houses were abandoned for the sake of moving to another land; but those with any means of transport - an abundance of money that is - could ever afford this kind of luxury.
For some unfortunate, however, this was never the case...
And in that very home, where a tale began...
...is where this story starts.
Unlike many manors built from stone, the manufacturer for this had merely auctioned part of its lands to the rich to expand their farms. Ignoring the remains of an old wooden home now considered a mere "ruin" to the eyes whose gaze draws attention to "gold", the ever-growing snow overtook this massive structure and turned it into nothing but a simple "shack" for mice and roaches to infest. Eat out the rest of anything necessary to be left as "food" and a place for repopulation amongst pests.
Yet inside that very house lies a small small family...
One mother.
One father.
One brother.
One sister.
There were four who found this place and claimed it as their home. The littered and thrashed bags of fabric were their beds. The rodents were their food. The snow was their water. And the robes deemed unfitting were their clothes. Under one sole bonfire gathered by the pieces of the manor now torn off by the heavy snow, they gathered as one...
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"Fukah!"
No answer.
"Fukah!"
Still no answer.
"FUKAH!"
There was yet none who answered.
The woman had a hoarse tone from all the yelling, more times than thrice if she could count with a mere six of fingers. Her gaze was towards the only room the manor had kept intact, with it now open ajar to unveil a frail little girl.
She had a skin just as pale as the snow - her breath just as cold as it. With tatters meant to her only fabric to wear and a worried smile on her face, she craned her head downwards. Indecency were nonexistent in these ages.
"You woke up late again!" exclaimed the mother, drawing herself near.
"Didn't our Father told you to wake up early so you and your brother can gather wood!?"
More words after this were let out and only the sound of a pipe being hit across the pale flesh would be heard from ears turned deaf from the berating. Showered only with hate and never with hope, the little girl left the home to gather snow... and yet it was too late. A way to wake up the day with hatred, yet a smile carried only to her face. For even a time, the journey there felt so short. For a thousand of walks to take nothing but seconds to get there. A mind only adrift to the dreams she expects.
You did so well, Fukah!
I am so proud of you, Fukah!
There's nothing in this world that is as valuable as you, Fukah!
Ḯ̵̲͇̰̳ ̶̡͇̼͕̏̑̅́l̸̳͚̜̋̏o̷̧̼̩̅͊v̸͉̐̑̾ẻ̷̙͓ͅ ̶̡͚̒̕͝ỵ̷͛̀̚͠o̷̭̗̣̱̽ū̴̫͆͛̄,̸͚̼̮͝ ̶̟̞̐͑̊̚F̶̗̠̼́͐̔ư̵̠̆̈́̀͜k̴͚͍̲̀̇á̵̦̣̝̣̋̈h̸̬̫͑̓͝.̸͇̗̤̪̓̆̿
W̷̙̹̖̭͆̏̃̽͂̉͑̓̉̍e̶̤͚̖̙̹̬̼̬͊͆̓͊̽͆̽̅̒͋̍̚͜͝ ̶̯̜̣͚̗̀̓͐̀̓̚͘͠a̶̧͖̭̪̿̇̎͝ͅl̶͙͔̳͚̀̂̾̎͒̅̂l̴͔̻̫͎͉̯͖͕̲͔̦̼̬̫͈͍̂̽̎͋͛̽̅͂͂̅̍̓̍ ̴̺͛̀́͛̐̔͂̔́̎̔d̵̩̝̤͖̪̣̰̈́̿̎̆̐̈o̴̡̡̺̘̤̻̪̝̗͙̲͇̗̪͋̂̓̀͐͌͒̌̐̊̌.̶̨̭̘̞̹̼̲̱͈͔̘͈̪̪̦̻̣̈́̓̒̋͝͝
Words that meant something becoming dust. Nothing.
Scoop, scoop.
Her hands dug into the snow and kept scooping. The amount didn't matter. The pain in her hands didn't matter. The numbness didn't matter. All that mattered were the results, no? They always do, no matter the progress and how it takes to get there. The ends would always justify the means, if it means that that the end would end into the loving arms of her family.
"What is this?!"
The smile carried by the joy of a thousand rainbows, a simple snowman made as a gift, a bonfire lit to be blown by her small breath, and even the warmth from their body as they slumber into the night...
"You brought TOO MUCH Snow!"
Meaningful things that were meant to be there, and that were-
"What are we supposed to do with this?! Make snowmen and have fun?"
The warmth-
"Oh so you're learning to rebel now, huh?!"
The joy-
"You never learned even after ALLLL of these years, haven't you!?"
The pain-
"That's why we can never be proud of you, Fukah. Always with the silent treatment. Thinking you can be the princess here resting on that bed, expecting us to get all of the things to spoon-fed into your mouth. That's now how this world works! We need to earn hard for what we do with our blood, sweat, and tears. So don't just laze around thinking that you can get little rest! Did you think that we went to sleep after YOU did? Of course, not! We have to prepare to find food that YOU should be doing for US!"
The pain-
"You were never our kid, Fukah...."
The pain.....
"You were adopted. We found you on a forest.... under the tree...."
The pain. The pain. The pain. The pain. The pain. The pain. The pain. The pain. The pain. The pain. The pain. The pain. The pain. The pain. The pain. The pain. The pain. The pain. The pain. The pain. The pain. The pain. The pain. The pain. The pain. The pain. The pain. The pain. The pain. The pain. The pain. The pain. The pain. The pain. The pain. The pain. The pain. The pain. The pain. The pain. The pain. The pain. The pain. The pain. The pain. The pain. The pain. The pain. The pain. The pain. The pain. The pain. The pain. The pain. The pain. The pain. The pain. The pain. The pain. The pain. The pain. The pain. The pain. The pain. The pain. The pain. The pain. The pain. T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐T̷̝̔ḧ̶́ͅē̴̬ ̷̯̈́p̶̞̔a̴̲͗i̶̍ͅn̴̖͒.̷̹̐-
Red.
Blood.
Scary.
.....
Chomp, chomp.
....
Gobble, gobble.
....
Gulp.
....
Burp.
....
"Serves you right...."