12-02-2017, 11:55 PM
<b>warning:</b> mentions of child abuse and mild gore
<link href="https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Amatic+SC" rel="stylesheet"><center><style> .dontwannabeanamericanidiot {background-image: url('https://s8.postimg.org/vpu0xvhlh/babadook2.jpg'); width: 534px; height: 821px; border: 4px black double; box-shadow: 0px 0px 50px black inset; padding-top: 20px;} .guns22guns {background-image:url('https://78.media.tumblr.com/3d9385e895066fed0b949cc0d146c61b/tumblr_ozrvyd1nVK1w1ai4so1_500.jpg'); background-size: 150%; background-position: right; height: 300px; background-repeat: no-repeat; background-color: black; width: 300px; border-radius: 100%; border: black 5px double; box-shadow: 0px 0px 50px black inset;} .iwasjustanonlychildoftheuniverse {background-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.9); width: 460px; overflow: auto; height: 440px; color: gray; font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 1.3em; font-size: 0.9em; text-align: justify; padding: 20px; border: 1px dotted #191818;} .iwasjustanonlychildoftheuniverse::-webkit-scrollbar {width: 8px;} .iwasjustanonlychildoftheuniverse::-webkit-scrollbar-thumb {background-image:url('https://s8.postimg.org/ecjqj06ut/babadook3.jpg'); background-size: fill;}</style><div class="dontwannabeanamericanidiot"><center><div class="guns22guns"></div><div style="color: #555; font-size: 3em; margin-top: -45px; text-shadow: -1px -1px black, -1px -1px black; font-family: 'amatic sc', cursive; letter-spacing: 0.1em; text-transform: uppercase;">Babadook</div></center><div class="iwasjustanonlychildoftheuniverse">His mother is relentless. His thin body is already scattered with a plethora of puckered, fresh scars and healing scrapes and new, wet cuts. The bruises blossom under his smoky silver coat and make his young, thin face curl into expressions of ache and distress. She feeds him, but only enough to keep him away from the brink of death (he is alive but still starving, drastically thin but still growing). There is still something whispering (<i>“He is your son”</i> and <i>“Don’t be a failure as a mother”</i> and <i>“At least until he needs your teat no longer”</i>) in the depths of her mind that allows him to suckle from her.
It is one of her many sour moods that sends him plodding toward the playground. As he’s gotten older, Babadook has been able to sense the growing storm within her. He’s watched the way her eyes darken with a surreal sort of gloom, he’s heard the mumblings under her breath that he knows will cascade into screaming, he’s seen the way her hips swing in a thought to kick and her ears pin and her tail cracks against her heels. So he leaves, without so much as a whisper of a goodbye in her direction, knowing that she might barely notice his absence.
The skinny boy is surprised to see a mother among the crowd of youngsters. He’s been watching from the shadows as mothers and fathers drop off their children with a grateful look toward the fairies. He can see the way their shoulders seem lighter as they leave, away from the babbling questions and constant guidance. But he’s also seen the mothers and fathers return. Babadook has seen the children come running back, seen the way the parents’ faces light up with happiness, seen the way they trot away with their shoulders brushing.
This mother is one of the gentle ones. He is drawn to her warmth. Even as she whispers to her son and watches him scramble away, he is close by. His muscles are sore (from racing away from her biting words, from getting shoved into the tree a week ago, from trembling during the cold spring night when she would offer him no shelter against her belly) so he does not chase the fillies or play-fight with the colts.
Babadook watches as the kind mother’s son gathers children from all around the playground. Although he wasn’t invited — he rarely has been invited to anything, with his ribs poking through his sides and his wounds dappling his body and his thin, angular cheeks frightening the girls away — he finds himself settling on the outskirts of the crowd.
Her voice is soothing.
He finds it hard to stay awake.
But then she is speaking about someone new, someone he’s never heard of before. Santa. His ears prick up at the unfamiliar word and then his eyes latch onto her face more fervently when she says Santa gives whatever the child wishes for. Hope glows in his abused little heart. All he’s ever wished for is his mother’s love (the love that covers his bruised face in kisses, the love that pulls him close when the wolves howl, the love that feeds him until he is full and bloated).
The mother challenges them to find Santa and tell him their wish. Her urging voice and the desire in his heart causes his skinny, bleeding little body to leap to its feet before he can comprehend what’s happening. Santa could make his mother love him. If only Babadook can find him.
Babadook doesn’t scamper back into the forest, like some of the more adventurous might do. He knows what’s waiting for him in the shadows (a fierce mother who might rage that he is back to annoy her more than he has already done) and an instinctive shudder crawls along his spine. Maybe the next time he returns to her, she will welcome him with warm huffs and gentle cuddles.
He turns toward the small stream curving along the playground’s border. If Santa has to travel all around Beqanna to deliver all the gifts, he must have to stop at some point for something to drink. Babadook plans to follow the stream’s path until it ends or converges with something mightier. He wades along the shallows, enjoying the coolness of the water on his fetlocks. Eventually the stream curves past the playground’s borders and he moves out of the sight of the fairies.
The current is happily bubbling as Babadook walks, and he finds his mood lifted for the first time in a long time. Nature has always made the skinny boy happy, especially when it comes to wrap its comforting arms around him following an abusive episode with his mother. He finds himself babbling back to the stream.
<b>“I hope you don’t mind me following you, stream. I’m looking for Santa! He’s supposed to grant me a wish and I want him to make my mama love me… She isn’t like other mama’s, but that makes her even more special. I just want hugs sometimes, and maybe for her to not get so mad when I’m hungry. Oh no!”</b>
His thought process is abruptly cut off by the sight of a tree having fallen on its side to block the path. During his walk, the stream had grown wider and deeper. Babadook is mature enough to know that he won’t be able to swim across the expanse, not with how sore his muscles are and how weak his strength is. The roots of the tree twist and tangle with the undergrowth a few feet away from the path the colt has been following. The curve of the trunk comes to Babadook’s shoulder.
Maybe he can jump over it? Maybe he can scoot across it?
He decides to try and jump over the trunk, though it results in a bit of a combination of the two options. He almost clears the bark, but it roughly scrapes on the soft underside of his belly. A cry rips from his mouth as he slides down the other side of the tree’s trunk. He can feel a few cuts on his belly, but the sting is familiar to him by now. The injuries are deep but superficial (though full of splinters nonetheless) and blood begins to drip onto the moist soil beside the stream not long after he begins moving again.
Babadook chooses to wade through the shallows once more, allowing the blood to darken the stream’s clear waters to a deep red before melting away. He’s bled in the wilderness alone long enough to know that a scent trail of blood would lead the predators right toward him. The scenery around him has changed following the tree obstacle. Where before the trail had been cheery and inviting, this new one is more tangled and shadowed. Babadook feels anxiety itching along his spine and he begins to talk to the shadows to calm himself.
<b>“Hi, shadows. You’re kinda scaring me and I really don’t want to be scared. I’m on an adventure given to me by the nice mama and I’m trying to be brave. Please don’t bring any wolves or scary monsters to eat me, because then my mama will never, ever love me.”</b>
He quiets, then. The deeper portions of the stream curve closer to the shoreline and Babadook is forced to step onto the muddy bank. Roots and vines entangle the trail as he winds along. Although he is looking for Santa, Babadook makes sure his eyes don’t peer too deeply into the darkness. He’s seen what lingers in them before (it had been one of the few times his mother had allowed his quivering frame close to her breast) and he doesn’t want to see ever again.
There’s a snap of weight on twigs and Babadook jumps, twisting toward the sound with a scream of fright already bubbling on his lips.
</div></div></center>
<link href="https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Amatic+SC" rel="stylesheet"><center><style> .dontwannabeanamericanidiot {background-image: url('https://s8.postimg.org/vpu0xvhlh/babadook2.jpg'); width: 534px; height: 821px; border: 4px black double; box-shadow: 0px 0px 50px black inset; padding-top: 20px;} .guns22guns {background-image:url('https://78.media.tumblr.com/3d9385e895066fed0b949cc0d146c61b/tumblr_ozrvyd1nVK1w1ai4so1_500.jpg'); background-size: 150%; background-position: right; height: 300px; background-repeat: no-repeat; background-color: black; width: 300px; border-radius: 100%; border: black 5px double; box-shadow: 0px 0px 50px black inset;} .iwasjustanonlychildoftheuniverse {background-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.9); width: 460px; overflow: auto; height: 440px; color: gray; font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 1.3em; font-size: 0.9em; text-align: justify; padding: 20px; border: 1px dotted #191818;} .iwasjustanonlychildoftheuniverse::-webkit-scrollbar {width: 8px;} .iwasjustanonlychildoftheuniverse::-webkit-scrollbar-thumb {background-image:url('https://s8.postimg.org/ecjqj06ut/babadook3.jpg'); background-size: fill;}</style><div class="dontwannabeanamericanidiot"><center><div class="guns22guns"></div><div style="color: #555; font-size: 3em; margin-top: -45px; text-shadow: -1px -1px black, -1px -1px black; font-family: 'amatic sc', cursive; letter-spacing: 0.1em; text-transform: uppercase;">Babadook</div></center><div class="iwasjustanonlychildoftheuniverse">His mother is relentless. His thin body is already scattered with a plethora of puckered, fresh scars and healing scrapes and new, wet cuts. The bruises blossom under his smoky silver coat and make his young, thin face curl into expressions of ache and distress. She feeds him, but only enough to keep him away from the brink of death (he is alive but still starving, drastically thin but still growing). There is still something whispering (<i>“He is your son”</i> and <i>“Don’t be a failure as a mother”</i> and <i>“At least until he needs your teat no longer”</i>) in the depths of her mind that allows him to suckle from her.
It is one of her many sour moods that sends him plodding toward the playground. As he’s gotten older, Babadook has been able to sense the growing storm within her. He’s watched the way her eyes darken with a surreal sort of gloom, he’s heard the mumblings under her breath that he knows will cascade into screaming, he’s seen the way her hips swing in a thought to kick and her ears pin and her tail cracks against her heels. So he leaves, without so much as a whisper of a goodbye in her direction, knowing that she might barely notice his absence.
The skinny boy is surprised to see a mother among the crowd of youngsters. He’s been watching from the shadows as mothers and fathers drop off their children with a grateful look toward the fairies. He can see the way their shoulders seem lighter as they leave, away from the babbling questions and constant guidance. But he’s also seen the mothers and fathers return. Babadook has seen the children come running back, seen the way the parents’ faces light up with happiness, seen the way they trot away with their shoulders brushing.
This mother is one of the gentle ones. He is drawn to her warmth. Even as she whispers to her son and watches him scramble away, he is close by. His muscles are sore (from racing away from her biting words, from getting shoved into the tree a week ago, from trembling during the cold spring night when she would offer him no shelter against her belly) so he does not chase the fillies or play-fight with the colts.
Babadook watches as the kind mother’s son gathers children from all around the playground. Although he wasn’t invited — he rarely has been invited to anything, with his ribs poking through his sides and his wounds dappling his body and his thin, angular cheeks frightening the girls away — he finds himself settling on the outskirts of the crowd.
Her voice is soothing.
He finds it hard to stay awake.
But then she is speaking about someone new, someone he’s never heard of before. Santa. His ears prick up at the unfamiliar word and then his eyes latch onto her face more fervently when she says Santa gives whatever the child wishes for. Hope glows in his abused little heart. All he’s ever wished for is his mother’s love (the love that covers his bruised face in kisses, the love that pulls him close when the wolves howl, the love that feeds him until he is full and bloated).
The mother challenges them to find Santa and tell him their wish. Her urging voice and the desire in his heart causes his skinny, bleeding little body to leap to its feet before he can comprehend what’s happening. Santa could make his mother love him. If only Babadook can find him.
Babadook doesn’t scamper back into the forest, like some of the more adventurous might do. He knows what’s waiting for him in the shadows (a fierce mother who might rage that he is back to annoy her more than he has already done) and an instinctive shudder crawls along his spine. Maybe the next time he returns to her, she will welcome him with warm huffs and gentle cuddles.
He turns toward the small stream curving along the playground’s border. If Santa has to travel all around Beqanna to deliver all the gifts, he must have to stop at some point for something to drink. Babadook plans to follow the stream’s path until it ends or converges with something mightier. He wades along the shallows, enjoying the coolness of the water on his fetlocks. Eventually the stream curves past the playground’s borders and he moves out of the sight of the fairies.
The current is happily bubbling as Babadook walks, and he finds his mood lifted for the first time in a long time. Nature has always made the skinny boy happy, especially when it comes to wrap its comforting arms around him following an abusive episode with his mother. He finds himself babbling back to the stream.
<b>“I hope you don’t mind me following you, stream. I’m looking for Santa! He’s supposed to grant me a wish and I want him to make my mama love me… She isn’t like other mama’s, but that makes her even more special. I just want hugs sometimes, and maybe for her to not get so mad when I’m hungry. Oh no!”</b>
His thought process is abruptly cut off by the sight of a tree having fallen on its side to block the path. During his walk, the stream had grown wider and deeper. Babadook is mature enough to know that he won’t be able to swim across the expanse, not with how sore his muscles are and how weak his strength is. The roots of the tree twist and tangle with the undergrowth a few feet away from the path the colt has been following. The curve of the trunk comes to Babadook’s shoulder.
Maybe he can jump over it? Maybe he can scoot across it?
He decides to try and jump over the trunk, though it results in a bit of a combination of the two options. He almost clears the bark, but it roughly scrapes on the soft underside of his belly. A cry rips from his mouth as he slides down the other side of the tree’s trunk. He can feel a few cuts on his belly, but the sting is familiar to him by now. The injuries are deep but superficial (though full of splinters nonetheless) and blood begins to drip onto the moist soil beside the stream not long after he begins moving again.
Babadook chooses to wade through the shallows once more, allowing the blood to darken the stream’s clear waters to a deep red before melting away. He’s bled in the wilderness alone long enough to know that a scent trail of blood would lead the predators right toward him. The scenery around him has changed following the tree obstacle. Where before the trail had been cheery and inviting, this new one is more tangled and shadowed. Babadook feels anxiety itching along his spine and he begins to talk to the shadows to calm himself.
<b>“Hi, shadows. You’re kinda scaring me and I really don’t want to be scared. I’m on an adventure given to me by the nice mama and I’m trying to be brave. Please don’t bring any wolves or scary monsters to eat me, because then my mama will never, ever love me.”</b>
He quiets, then. The deeper portions of the stream curve closer to the shoreline and Babadook is forced to step onto the muddy bank. Roots and vines entangle the trail as he winds along. Although he is looking for Santa, Babadook makes sure his eyes don’t peer too deeply into the darkness. He’s seen what lingers in them before (it had been one of the few times his mother had allowed his quivering frame close to her breast) and he doesn’t want to see ever again.
There’s a snap of weight on twigs and Babadook jumps, twisting toward the sound with a scream of fright already bubbling on his lips.
</div></div></center>