Boar-deaths and other weirdness

2021.09.29 05:03 tjstebbing Boar-deaths and other weirdness

Logged in to my server today, every boar in my boar-run is dead.. the whole place is littered in meat and scraps. I have a table in there and it's on an island where I can confirm nothing has spawned in over 500 days (the entire island is a farm). The only other people on the server have not logged in and none of them killed the boars.
Has anyone else seen this sort of thing? It's not the only weirdness since hearth & home, a longboat I had built out of water up on a stand along the side of my 'shipyard' had somehow launched itself (without the stand being knocked out) after I logged in last week also.
submitted by tjstebbing to valheim [link] [comments]


2021.09.29 05:03 BankerCheese If I install a skin mod, and my friend does too, will he see the skin mod?

Say there's a Deadpool skin for Nick, if I install it, and my friend does too, when I play as nick and play with the Deadpool skin, will he see it as well? i've seen very varying things on this so I want a clear answer. If not, how can my friend see it?
submitted by BankerCheese to left4dead [link] [comments]


2021.09.29 05:03 TheAmiGuit0 Late night news: The Delirium mod will be on a hiatus for a while, probably till the end of October, since I need to finish some work first before fully focusing on this project, have a meem for now.

Late night news: The Delirium mod will be on a hiatus for a while, probably till the end of October, since I need to finish some work first before fully focusing on this project, have a meem for now. submitted by TheAmiGuit0 to FridayNightFunkin [link] [comments]


2021.09.29 05:03 get_rickrolled_byme How do I add collision sound effects!

The title says it all, I do have the SFX I want to apply
plz help
submitted by get_rickrolled_byme to unity [link] [comments]


2021.09.29 05:03 itsEmilySahara If death is normal and natural, then why is the energy of it freakishly negative?

Death happens every day to countless entities constantly; and yet––if death is the beautiful twin sister of Life, then why is it that when someone starts dying they become consumed by negative energy? If death is natural and normal, then why isn't it neutral or positive in many circumstances rather than horrific, painful, and negative in 99% of circumstances? I want to die peacefully, and yet, with death usually being followed by agonizing pain/emotional suffering/negative energy, it seems almost impossible to imagine a truly 'peaceful passing' when coming from such a negative 'life state.'
When I imagine the monk who set himself on fire (Thich Quang Duc?) and didn't flinch, I know he was in horrible pain, and yet––the peace he was able to maintain the entire time gives me a tiny sliver of hope that a peaceful death is possible despite the pain. And yet... anyone who's ever been in horrifying pain before knows how easy it is to 'lose faith' or be totally consumed by the pain/darkness. Does anyone have any deeper ideas about this?
submitted by itsEmilySahara to spirituality [link] [comments]


2021.09.29 05:03 JCPhotography_mi The actual Rosa Parks bus. Henry Ford Museum, Detroit.

The actual Rosa Parks bus. Henry Ford Museum, Detroit. submitted by JCPhotography_mi to interestingasfuck [link] [comments]


2021.09.29 05:03 deephistorian iOS Mobile App Not Displaying Databases Correctly

So I updated the app but it still didn’t fix the issue: my databases won’t display the correct view as how I set them up via my computer browser.
Is this normal and we are expected to have to reassign the correct view when using the app or is it an error?
Thanks!
submitted by deephistorian to Notion [link] [comments]


2021.09.29 05:03 prawnbiryani 💗☁🍦🌸🧁🤍🦩

💗☁🍦🌸🧁🤍🦩 submitted by prawnbiryani to 11hr11min [link] [comments]


2021.09.29 05:03 CryptoVines 🌱Plant Token🌱 Crypto Freelance Marketplace🏪 Liquidity Locked 1yr🔒 Weekly Lottery 🎲 Doxxed Dev✅ Do work, Get paid in crypto☀️


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submitted by CryptoVines to CryptocurrencyICO [link] [comments]


2021.09.29 05:03 chinaza-e canadian looking to study in england!?

hii, i’m hoping to start uni next year which means i’m applying like, rn— im just feeling really lost in this process as i’m kinda of on my own. every one else is staying in canada and my guidance counsellors don’t know much about uk programs.
this is might be a long one so bless ur heart if you acc read it all 😭
anywaysss, i’m wondering if anyone could share some tips for the UCAS as an international student and also recommend programs and schools to look into.
rn i’m interested in:
University of Manchester - Nursing (kind of bummed they make you pick between the adult, children, or mental health as i’d love to try a little bit of all)
King’s College London - Global Health and Social Medicine with a year abroad (think it’d be nice to do my year abroad back in canada)
——
The courses and pathways in these programs are all very appealing to me but ik these schools are like top tier so i’m looking to add one or two more that could be considered “safeties”.
Mainly interested in nursing or health sciences, and schools in big cities, my a-level equivalent grades are like AAB— What programs would you recommend?
Also for the reference part of the UCAS, is this meant to be an academic teacher reference or can it be like an employer?
Any input is appreciated, ty xx
submitted by chinaza-e to UniUK [link] [comments]


2021.09.29 05:03 WONKedition Germany’s elections left the country with an unclear future that complicates its leadership in Europe and the world.

Here’s more: Germany enters uncertain future after elections (WONKedition)
- NewsForTeens
submitted by WONKedition to NewsForTeens [link] [comments]


2021.09.29 05:03 Morgan-992 It is advised that you lift with a correct posture and use footwear that cover your toes. SPECIFICATIONS: Material: Polypropylene strap Maximum Load: 250 kg or 550 lb Length of the Main Strap: 2.7 m / 8.9 ft Width: 4.5 cm / 1.77" PACKET INCLUDES: Comprehensive Set (2 main straps, 2 shoulder aux

It is advised that you lift with a correct posture and use footwear that cover your toes. SPECIFICATIONS: Material: Polypropylene strap Maximum Load: 250 kg or 550 lb Length of the Main Strap: 2.7 m / 8.9 ft Width: 4.5 cm / 1.77 submitted by Morgan-992 to McrOne [link] [comments]


2021.09.29 05:03 hamiltonarch Exchange Code

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submitted by hamiltonarch to BinanceCode [link] [comments]


2021.09.29 05:03 santoswalkerr Binance 40 Referral

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submitted by santoswalkerr to Binance40Referral [link] [comments]


2021.09.29 05:03 AncientAd4164 Request for Village Seed (Java 1.17.1)

I am looking for a seed where there is a village visible from spawn. I want the land to be as flat as possible. Could be a small amount of deviation but pretty even land. That's about it, really. Things like ruined portals or places to loot would be cool, but are entirely unnecessary. I really just want as flat a land space as possible without actually using Flat world options lol. Thank you very much.
submitted by AncientAd4164 to minecraftseeds [link] [comments]


2021.09.29 05:03 joewastal If you know you know...

If you know you know... submitted by joewastal to StarVStheForcesofEvil [link] [comments]


2021.09.29 05:03 coin7200 UPDATE NODE TO 0.12.3 by Radical#5736

UPDATE NODE TO 0.12.3 by Radical#5736 Node version: 0.12.3
Node name: radical5736
Parachain Account: 5Ec4AhPZk8STuex8Wsi9TwDtJQxKqzPJRCH7348Xtcs9vZLJ
[Relaychain] 🏷 Local node identity is: 12D3KooWBifC8KAZDUJBjLJvsK2M9Td1XXA6ZdPECvL4Wv1PAkj5
Local node identity is: 12D3KooWDFRPL16tBxUpxjDwmbc8hivWzWYXz6aLbiFTPCBBK8R8
https://preview.redd.it/r7173d6pycq71.jpg?width=689&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=216707f66cc3c8a901d3039d72de9cafb248cdb7
submitted by coin7200 to MoonbeamAmbassadors [link] [comments]


2021.09.29 05:03 cxpxlot People have been claiming that mood swings has never shipped out orders from months ago

People have been claiming that mood swings has never shipped out orders from months ago submitted by cxpxlot to Fashiondemiks [link] [comments]


2021.09.29 05:03 SkaiBreaker Renamon re-uploads herself back into Death Battle

Renamon re-uploads herself back into Death Battle submitted by SkaiBreaker to DeathBattleMatchups [link] [comments]


2021.09.29 05:03 FourteenFish r/4tran survey results!!

4tran survey results!! submitted by FourteenFish to 4tran [link] [comments]


2021.09.29 05:03 MarTB2000 Can John copy passive abilities as well?

For example say there is a guy with a fire ability but to compliment that while he’s very strong with his fire he has a heavy resistance to fire to keep from burning himself up. Would John be able to copy his fire resistance?
submitted by MarTB2000 to unOrdinary [link] [comments]


2021.09.29 05:03 chlochlo13 Went to a hetero wedding a couple of weeks ago and the venue was just ✨✨

Went to a hetero wedding a couple of weeks ago and the venue was just ✨✨ submitted by chlochlo13 to LesbianActually [link] [comments]


2021.09.29 05:03 Brittlby Hand Me Down

My name is Elaine Hatcher, I was eleven years old when I killed my sister and I have never killed again.
A handful of medical examiners and a dozen psychiatrists all insisted that it was a tragic accident, almost a forgone conclusion given how high the deck was stacked up against poor Abigail. My mother was the only one who knew. Of course, she couldn't have actually known, but her obsession with Abby blended with a mother's intuition pointed in the right direction. For once.
I had planned the murder with my confederacy of stuffed animals. My favorite, Captain Crocodile, offered silent approval, staring me down with his one remaining button eye as I recited every detail like a prison break. And in many ways it was...
Abby was born three years before me. A perfect little doll, coquettish with her pink cherub cheeks and golden blond curls. She had a laugh that was infectious, my mother would say whenever she could shove it into a conversation. By the time I'd come along, Abby rarely had a reason to laugh. The few times I'd heard it, it was a raspy thing that rattled around her dry lungs like a rat trying to escape a glue trap. It did feel infectious, but more in the way one might be quarantined if they lingered too long and too close around her.
After her second birthday, the doctors diagnosed her with a grab-bag of horrific allergies, auto immune diseases and a genetic disorder that even now, I couldn't pronounce correctly. Desperation drove my parents as they were informed what would be needed to keep their baby alive. When test after retest certified neither of them were compatible donors, they were staring down the barrel of the unthinkable.
Their little angel was going to die.
They needed a miracle and when God wasn't forthcoming, they decided to make their own miracle. People tell me how horrible it is that I was bred for utility. They say I should be furious at my parents. But as I've already explained to you, whether I was born this way or it from my mother's disparate treatment of me and my sister, I was a premeditated murderer by eleven. If not an textbook sociopath, I am certainly adept at compartmentalizing my emotions.
I can not help but approach the whole matter with a clinical detachment. What would someone desperate to save their child NOT do? Torture a hypothetical child who wasn't even born yet? It was an easy choice.
When it turned out I was a viable candidate, any chance I ever had of a loving family life evaporated. I don't often waste time brooding on what might have been, but I can't help but imagine if I had been incompatible. Abby would have died, but nature abhors a vacuum. I would have grown into the hole she left in my parent's heart and had a loving, if perhaps over protected childhood. Instead, I became the lifeline to Abigail. And how attached can a mother and father allow themselves to become to a child they would have to medically torture at regular intervals for spare parts? I'm surprised they took the risk of naming me for fear it might breed attachment, like naming a pig they'd have to slaughter once I was mature.
I was kept on a strict diet. Poisons like sugar were absolutely out of the question. Medicine was another luxury I wasn't allowed, as it could lead to complications if Abby needed a piece of me. Playing outside was also a dead issue. At first, my mother's horrific tales of the dangers of the outdoors and other children served to keep me petrified of even trying to make friends. Eventually, I couldn't help noticing how much fun everyone had at recess while I hid in the nurses office.
Now, understand me when I say I didn't kill her because I didn't have friends, or I wasn't given cake on my birthday or even because I was half-heartedly "loved" out of obligation. I am not a perfect person, but I am not petty. No, I had a much better reason. By the time I was ten, I had given bone marrow three times. Marrow extraction back then was excruciating. In a decade, I had given enough blood to fill a hot tub. That's not a euphemism. I did the math.
Abby went into renal failure when I was eleven. I had abandoned the childhood fear of needles after years in the hospital but, I was terrified of being put to sleep and having bits of me cut out. I had the audacity to mention these fears and my mother looked at me like I was a poisonous insect for needing parental reassurance. It was then when I decided I was going to kill my sister.
My mother slapped me, aghast at my selfishness. My father avoided the matter, washing his misgivings away with light beer. Too young to have a choice in what was to be done with my kidney, the operation happened swiftly. In the recovery with my sister, my surgical scar smoldering, I found the strength to follow through.
Amongst Abby's more worrying issues was a severe strawberry allergy, and I'd smuggled in a small package of strawberry shortbread cookies into the hospital in my backpack. The cold tile on my soles was something to focus on rather than the pain in my side, three steps to my backpack taking an eternity. I held my breath during the pull of the zipper, careful not to wake any of the others in the recovery room. I never had the courage to buy cookies to sneak for myself. It felt almost as blasphemous an act as murder. The scent of the shortbread was heavenly as I opened the package.
Holding a cookie gingerly between my thumb and forefingers, it felt too light for something so deadly. I hid the bag in the biohazard bin for used needles and gauze, before turning my attention to Abby. I broke the cookie in smaller pieces, just like mother had taught me when feeding Abby, and her eyes only opened as I was slipping the third piece between her pale lips. She fought, of course, but even two years older than me, she was bedridden more often than not. I kept my hand clamped over her face as she struggled weakly. Her eyes reddened and rolled back into their sockets as her windpipe swelled. I was back in bed and she was gone before the nurse had a chance to respond to the alarm.
The staff simply shrugged their shoulders at the pale corpse. Maybe they were complacent given her litany of conditions, it wasn't an unexpected tragedy. Or, perhaps they never dug too deeply into post operative deaths, given the legal repercussions that could stem from them. Regardless, they refused to humor my mother's insistence upon an autopsy. Even my typically useless father found himself forced to step in as his wife accused me over and over again of killing her daughter.
I won't bore you with the long version of the next ten years. Skimming the highlights, there was a divorce. My mother got visitation which she never used beyond an occasional sobbing phone call during which she lobbed accusations at me. Eventually this proved too little of a reason to linger in this world of pain and she killed herself. My father mourned the loss of his daughter to illness and his wife to madness by flirting with alcoholism. But nature abhors a vacuum and soon he was remarried and I had the happy childhood I'd always heard about. Happiness and security has always felt strange to me, like a favorite shirt that had been shrunk in the dryer. I enjoyed it but it never felt comfortable.
I had almost managed to stop thinking about murdering my sister until high school. It felt like any other Tuesday when I hopped out of my friend's car as she dropped me off. More an acquaintance than a friend, Nancy's only real value to me was access to dad's sun bleached jeep. Nancy was the only one of my friends who had a car and so I took care to stay in her good graces. I opened the mailbox and aside from a magazine for my stepmother it was empty... except for a package of strawberry shortbread cookies. I pulled them out of the box, suddenly sick as the package crinkled merrily up at me as I recognized them.
"What have you got there?" Nancy asked, always eager to stick her nose in other people's business. I numbly held up the bag and her eyes lit up, "Wow... I thought they stopped making those years ago! Those were my mom's favorites. Y'know, I thought you didn't like sweets?"
I didn't. After years without, I had never managed to develop a taste for sugar. And even if I had, I'd sooner each glass than the shortbread. Taking my silence for acquiescence as she often did, Nancy snatched them from my hand and I watched them vanished into her purse like a magic trick, "Great! My mom will love them! Later, hooker! I'll pick you up at 7:30...ish!"
Her dad's jeep sputtered off, leaving me with the newest copy of Homes and Gardens and my thoughts. They came in an unwelcome flood, none of them particularly useful. Who could possibly know? Why would they come for me after all this time? Why not go to the police if they had any proof? After turning the thoughts over again and again, there was only one thing I knew for certain. That lying bitch Nancy wasn't going to give those cookies to her mom!
I tried to push the worries aside, insisting to myself that it was nothing. Like the narrator in the Tell-tale Heart, I wondered if maybe I'd subconsciously done it. Prior to my mother there was no history of mental illness in my family, but after five years of therapy, the most plausible theory was that I'd somehow done it to myself as an expression of unaddressed guilt. I'd lied to my therapists, of course, but I'd definitely picked up some of the lingo.
Once again, my skill at compartmentalizing came in handy and by the time dinner had rolled around, I'd already put the whole thing into a tidy little box that I'd shoved way in the back corner of my mind in favor of watching a few episodes of Ghost Adventures. It wasn't until the next morning when Nancy didn't show up that I grew concerned. A stranger answered when I called her house after eight, their voice clipped and officious. They asked my name and I could hear a brief exchange between the man and Nancy's mother.
I was briefly questioned as one of the last people who had seen her before the murder.
I told them everything about the afternoon except about the shortbread. Her parents insisted that she had been completely normal at dinner and they couldn't imagine who would have any kind of grudge. The tidbits I got from the newspaper and Nancy's bereaved mother painted a picture of someone truly deranged. The killer had done so much damage to the body that the service had to be closed casket, large pieces of the victim still missing as if the killer had taken them as trophies.
It was hard to separate the truth from high school exaggerations but they claimed her lower jaw had been ripped out. The only thing that nagged me as the police questioned me, I noticed a picture on the white board. Outside Nancy's second story window was a partial foot print, a ruler was held next to the muddy print to show scale in the photo. It was a children's sneaker size, the distorted mud impression of Pikachu's face smiling from between the treads. I recognized them immediately, because I had had a pair once... and they'd been given to little Abigail when I outgrew them.
I managed to suppress the idea before it could germinate. After all, how many million pairs of those shoes were made? It wasn't hard for me to forget. After all, there were a number of more viable theories beyond some killer leaving me cookies and stealing my dead sister's shoes to punish me half a decade later. And so I had not real cause to dwell on it. The killer never struck again and the investigation led to no suspects or further leads.
It was another five years before I was reminded of poor Nancy and poor Abby. Senior year of college, nestled in my campus P.O. Box next to a flyer for a campus fundraiser was a green package of shortbread. I could feel the icy rush of adrenaline in my veins, my throat dry as I pulled them out of the box. I wish I could say that I kept it together... but I did not.
Frantic, I started yelling at the sophomore behind the post office window. She said she didn't know where they'd come from and she wasn't sure how it had ended up in my box. Angrily, I shoved them under the slot of her kiosk, snarling, "I don't want any of that crap in my mailbox!" As unhinged as I was, the mousey young girl fidgeted with her glasses nervously and seemed to decide that no response was the best response.
I had trouble calming myself that night, even borrowing a cigarette from my roommate. A chronic non-smoker, I was violently ill and still no closer to sleep. With the taste of mouthwash covering the bile, I went back out to the balcony for some fresh air. Across the dorm complex however, I could make out flashing lights from emergency vehicles. My kneejerk reaction was to go see what had happened, but even though I was shaky from the Post Office, I knew better than to make myself a suspect.
The next few weeks unfurled like reading a mystery novel I'd already skipped to the end of. I wasn't particularly surprised to find that there was a murder nor was I shocked upon discovering the poor mousey girl in spectacles that I'd yelled at was the victim. Her name was Amanda. Some small guilty voice inside me made certain that I at least did her the courtesy of learning her name. The assault was very much the same M.O. as whoever had killed Nancy, but with two states and five years between the murders, the police didn't connect them. Brutally savaged, the victim missing limbs and organs, Amanda's roommate was traumatized to the point she insisted she couldn't tell them anything about the killer.
I waited two months before approaching her. She wasn't particularly forthcoming, not that I expected she would be. I had to get a few drinks into her before the dam burst. Amanda's roommate had been entirely forthcoming with the police and had not gotten a good look at the killer. With a few margaritas in her, she was more willingly to elaborate on what "not gotten a good look" meant. She said in the darkness, her eyes were playing tricks on her. The shape on top of Amanda stank like dry leather and strawberry, and it turned to look straight at her. Even twisted and rotting, she could still tell that the killer's face was small like a child's. It laughed like a little girl too, the innocent tinkling of bells on a playground, made perverse and unnatural in the darkness as it mauled Amanda.
Amanda's roommate vomited cheap tequila out of the window of my Volvo as we came back on campus. I had only had one myself but I could still feel my gorge rising. The only halfway rational thing I could think to do was visit Abby's grave the next weekend. It looked to me as if perhaps the dirt had been disturbed but it had been almost three months and I was hardly an expert.
Besides which, the dead don't rise from the grave.
I decided to take a page from Sherlock Holmes and eliminate the impossible. Whatever remained, no matter how improbable must be the truth. Detaching myself from the situation, I had to admit that I was a prime candidate for some kind of mental imbalance. But even if that was the case, I wasn't going to turn myself in. I rationalized that the next time I snuck myself a package of cookies, I would just have to take steps to keep myself from going out and performing the unspeakable.
I didn't allow myself to feel guilty, however. How do you apologize for something you don't remember ever doing?
Another five years passed, and I scarcely worried about the matter, my unhealthy mental state giving me a gift of willful ignorance. I graduated, got a job, got an apartment, bought a dog and eventually met someone. I liked her quite a bit, though I might stop short of saying I loved her. I was far too broken to ever say that word and mean it. But over the last three years she had wormed her way into my life in such a way that I was very appreciative of her and the ways she made life better. Terry would run her fingers through my hair and put me to sleep when I was too manic to stop working. She would remember the myriad of social obligations we shared, and did her best to keep them to a minimum, knowing how tiring it was for me to deal with... people. And so, in my own way, I was quite content.
But as always, it never felt entirely comfortable or right. Sure enough, it was a cold night in autumn when I checked my mail and found the package inside. Strawberry shortbread. I was twenty six years old and I had had five long years to plan in the back of my head what I was going to do. That night I made dinner and shared the couch with Terry, watching a couple episodes of one of her brainless cooking shows.
I had rationalized that the previous deaths had been people I had given the tainted snack to and so... when the time came for bed, I set the unopened package on my bedside table next to my bottled water and alarm clock. When your opponent is your own mind, it seemed pretty stupid for anyone to try and outsmart themselves. I hoped my subconscious was as rational as I was and if I didn't "mark" anyone with the snacks, then maybe nothing would happen. Or maybe, with a misplaced sense of justice, I would snuff myself out.
I woke up at two in the morning to the sound of something outside our bedroom balcony. We were on the fourteenth floor and it wasn't unheard of for the pigeons to make themselves at home on the railing, but not usually this close to winter. I sat up in bed and could see though the sliding glass door that there WAS a lone pigeon clattering across the rail, cooing dully. I turned my head to confirm that Terry was still asleep. She was snoring softly, a lock of hair rising and falling above her lips. I settling back when I caught sight of something else on the balcony.
It clutched the railing, fingers grey and twisted. I had a hard time recognizing it at first until I noticed the bright yellow nail polish. Even though the nails were cracked and worn from age, I knew Nancy had been wearing the same shade ten years ago when she dropped me off. The thing pulled itself up slowly, mismatched body parts causing it to sway with an unnatural shamble. Backlit by the city lights, I could see she still had the blond dollish hair I remembered when I had killed her.
Abby turned her face to the side, Nancy's lower jaw jutting out from her rotting face like a bulldog as she opened her mouth wide. My mother had been right. Abby's laughter WAS infectious. A warm little girl's cackle escaped the maw of the rotting creature as she pressed a hand against the glass. A streak of rot and viscera trailed behind as she slid her fingers towards the door latch. One eye was milky blue and sightless, but the other was a dark hazel I recognized from the poor girl at the campus post office. The eye was focused on me, Abby's breath steaming against the glass despite her being dead fifteen years now.
As the dry autumn air rushed in through the open door, I could smell old rot and strawberries. My old scar began to sting like it was fresh from the operation table the night I had gotten out of bed. Earlier that day I had rationalized that I was ready to die if that was what my guilty conscience demanded, but as Abby staggered across the room on mismatched legs, leaving her sticky grey footprints on my carpet, I knew I would never let that undead bitch have another inch of me.
Her head twitched like a nervous bird, watching me with her good eye as I tore open the bag of shortbread and snatched out a broken fistful of them. Terry woke up to me trying to force feed her gooey crumbs and the sight of Abby creeping ever closer. Her reaction was... typical, flailing as she tried to pushing me away. I pried her mouth open and shoved the shortbread past her lips. Terry bit me as I pulled my fingers back, but I didn't deter me while I gripped her by the shoulders and slammed her against the back of the bed until she swallowed the shortbread so she could gasp for air. She looked at me as if I was a madwoman, but as Abby snapped her attention from me over to Terry, she seemed to realize that the danger wasn't over even though I'd let her go.
Terry's skin sizzled and split open like a blister as the corpse of my sister touched her, tracing her fingernails across her abdomen. I moved off of the bed when Terry reached out for me, but I didn't turn away. I felt I owed her that much. It took almost an hour for Abby to strip away every bit of Terry that she craved. Impossibly, Terry survived the whole ordeal, only passing away after Abigail removed her rotting claws and took a step back.
The milky blue eye had been replaced by Terry's fresh green one, and it swiveled towards me, full of accusations. I wasn't sure if it was Terry or Abby who was doing the accusing at that point, but as the corpse retreated back towards the balcony, I called the police. After hanging up, I threw myself around the room a bit, hoping to make the case that I was attacked as well.
I was so thorough that I was told "the killer" had given me a mild concussion and cracked two ribs. Just like the medical examiners at my sister's murder, to them I was a wounded bird and somehow beyond suspicion.
I've received the package twice more since then. I gave one to a panhandler on the way to work and another to a woman who struck up a conversation with me on the subway. No one ever connected Nancy and Terry, but I did not want to push my luck. Now I choose Abby's victims as people that have no ties to me. I don't think that makes me a bad person. It's important that you understand, circumstances make monsters of us all, but there is nothing more human than survival. Would you choose someone to suffer horribly in your place?
My mother was right, it's an easy choice.
My name is Elaine Hatcher, I was eleven years old when I killed my sister and I have never killed again.
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2021.09.29 05:03 BassBurr25 Barbara Palvin

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2021.09.29 05:03 Creepy-Honeydew Lmao

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