Tag Archives: rhyan scorpio-rhys

Sisters in Adversity: A Symphony of Liberation

Posted by Madd_Fictional on 
Disparate lives, woven together by the cruel threads of fate. Strangers, yet kindred spirits, united in their suffering, their resilience, their indomitable will to survive.

Persecution's chains
Binding them tight
In a sisterhood
Forged in the fires of plight

Each woman, a unique melody, her story a haunting refrain. Verses of pain, of loss, of shattered dreams and broken promises. A dissonant chorus of oppression's unyielding grip.

Objectification's discordant tune
Echoing through their days
Reducing vibrant souls
To mere puppets in men's plays

But in the depths of their shared despair, a glimmer of hope, a whisper of defiance. A realization that even in the darkest of nights, a single spark can ignite the flames of change.

Solidarity's embers
Glowing beneath the ash
Awaiting the breath
Of unity's passion to stoke the flash

And so, they began to explore, to delve deep within themselves, seeking the keys to their own liberation. Each woman, a lock waiting to be opened, a potential waiting to be unleashed.

Introspection's journey
A quest for inner truth
Unearthing the strength
Long buried beneath abuse's uncouth

One by one, they discovered their unique gifts, their hidden melodies. Notes of resilience, chords of courage, harmonies of hope. A symphony waiting to be sung.

Empowerment's aria
Rising from the depths
As each woman finds
Her voice, her breath

Together, they raised their voices, a choir of change, a song of liberation. Their melodies intertwined, weaving a tapestry of strength, of unity, of unbreakable bonds.

Harmonizing their pain
Into a battle cry
A declaration of freedom
Soaring to the sky

And with each note, each verse, each chorus, they felt the chains of their oppression begin to crack, to crumble, to disintegrate under the power of their shared song.

The tyranny of evil men
Powerless against their might
As they sing into existence
A future, radiant and bright

In their music, they found their freedom, their identity, their purpose. No longer objects, no longer prisoners, but queens of their own destinies, architects of their own lives.

Liberation's symphony
A masterpiece, complete
As they step into the world
Victorious, their triumph sweet

And though the echoes of their past may linger, like ghostly refrains in the night, they know that together, they can face any challenge, overcome any obstacle. For they are sisters, bound by the unbreakable ties of shared struggle and shared triumph.

A sisterhood, eternal
Forged in adversity's fire
Their song of change
An everlasting, empowering choir.

VirtuEmma: The Story Art of Performance

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

In the dim corner of her apartment, Emma adjusted the tiny camera perched atop her monitor. The glow of the screen flickered, casting soft light across her face, illuminating her eyes like distant city lights, warm but unreachable. She didn’t need much to perform: a well-angled shot, a few carefully chosen props, and, most importantly, her voice—soft like velvet, persuasive as a half-spoken promise.

Tonight, the room was just right. She had the curtains pulled slightly, enough for a sliver of moonlight to blend with the muted blue of her monitor. She sat in front of it, legs crossed, her fingertips grazing the edge of her knee like a gentle afterthought. She didn’t rush; that was her style. The men logged in one by one, faceless but always eager, their usernames streaming down the side of the screen like silent introductions at a cocktail party.

They paid for her time, but it wasn’t just the usual reasons. She knew that, and so did they. Some of them wanted a story, a narrative they could lose themselves in, even if just for an hour. Others craved that intimate closeness that lingered behind the words she didn’t quite say.

“Good evening,” she began, her voice a slow drawl, like an old record playing at half speed. She let the silence stretch out after that, knowing how to make them wait, to feel every second of it. “Miss me?” Her smile curled just enough. They liked when she played coy, like the answer mattered even though both sides knew the script.

In the frame, she kept her movements subtle, like the deliberate flip of her hair or the way her finger traced the rim of her glass—a glass of water, but it might as well have been anything their imaginations conjured up. She understood the art of suggestion. There were lines she wouldn’t cross, of course, but her mastery lay in how close she could dance to the edge without ever stepping over.

Her audience didn’t come for the obvious. They wanted what lay beneath the surface, the flicker of the unspoken—the slow play of fingers across her collarbone, the way she tilted her head back, lost in a thought she would never fully reveal. They watched as if waiting for a secret they could never quite grasp.

And she let them wait.

The tips rolled in, pixelated confessions of their need to stay a little longer in her world. She would offer them another story, or maybe tonight, she’d lean in close, her lips just out of frame, and whisper something that sounded like a promise, but wasn’t. She played with possibilities, hinting at what might come but never delivering the full picture.

The truth was, Emma had perfected her performance long ago. This wasn’t about seduction, at least not in the way they’d expect. It was about control, about keeping the power in her hands while letting them think they held it for a fleeting moment. The distance between her and the men watching felt tangible, a glass wall they couldn’t break, no matter how much they tried. And that’s how she liked it.

When the hour ended, she always logged off the same way—her hand reaching for the mouse, the camera lingering on her lips for a heartbeat too long before the screen went black. The silence afterward was a different kind of performance, one they couldn’t witness. It was the emptiness left in their lives after she disappeared from their view, but for Emma, it was the exhale of control restored.

And tomorrow, she’d be back again, dancing on the edges of the unseen, a ghost in the glow of the screen.

“The Call” – Horror Movie Teaser Trailer – The Phone Won’t Stop Ringing… Will You Answer?

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What if the sound that drives you mad is a call you can’t escape?

The Call is a spine-chilling horror movie that delves into the psychological terror of unanswered phones. Who’s on the other end? What do they want? And why are people too afraid to pick up? The ringing never stops… but the mystery deepens.

Watch the trailer now and prepare for a nightmare that will leave you dreading every ring.

Ghost Biker (Bizarro Fiction Version)

Posted by Madd_Fictional on
silhouette-of-cyclist

Author’s Note: When it comes to writing experimentation, you know me (well, you don’t know me know me, which is why I explain myself ad nauseam): can’t stop, won’t stop. This time I’m dipping my tootsies into bizarro fiction, and if you don’t happen to run in those circles, it’s a genre that embraces the absurd, surreal, and strange, often combining dark humor, satire, and bizarre elements to create stories that are unpredictable and sometimes unsettling. I haven’t quite cracked it yet, but this story is a start. Lemme know what you think.

Samantha Lancaster’s heart felt like a two-headed hamster sprinting on dual wheels inside her chest, a frenetic pace urging her legs to pump faster. As her bicycle rolled down the street, thick, glowing clouds of pink smoke puffed from her mouth with every breath. They formed shapes—a 1934 Lionel standard gauge train set with 400E locomotive, a 1969 Hot Wheels Beach Bomb prototype with rear loading surfboards, and once, a 1953 French Resistance Gumby—but Samantha ignored them. Her focus was the flickering green light ahead, attached to the spectral figure on a bicycle. The ghost biker. The thing that had hijacked her life since everything went sideways.

It all started when her best friend Carolina, who once believed she could speak the ancient mystic tongue of vegetables, got mashed into a human latke by an out-of-control ice cream truck desperately seeking shade to avoid melting in the hot summer sun. Now, Carolina lived in a world of beeps and bandages, hooked up to medical machines that hummed along to an upbeat disco rhythm. One night, as the machines bleeped out the Bee Gees, Samantha swore a vow between sobs: she’d figure out the meaning behind the ghost biker’s appearances—if it killed her.

Urban myths were a worthless currency to Samantha, but she stumbled onto a myth demanding to be spent. Her suspicions went full throttle after meeting Sarah, a cyclist who had been run over by a runaway genetically modified bus-sized avocado. Shaking like a Jenga tower one block away from disaster, Sarah offered up a Polaroid of the ghost biker: an empty bike, floating two inches off the ground, surrounded by a glowing aura of sentient Tigeroos, the 1965 Ideal Toy Company’s Roaring Tiger Bike Horn.

Driven by grief and the need to stop the insanity, Samantha went headfirst into the city’s records—though the records were more like a concentric circle of talking filing cabinets that only spoke in flawed logic riddles. With help from Alexus, a militant cycling advocate who thought helmets were just a government conspiracy to control minds, Samantha realized the truth: the ghost biker wasn’t just a ghost. He was a revenge spirit, fueled by the injustices of the city’s labyrinthine streets, which seemed to shift positions like a living Rubik’s cube designed by a sadistic metropolitan deity.

The ghost biker’s appearances were like bizarre performance art pieces. Once, Samantha saw him deliver a silent soliloquy while balancing on his bike’s handlebars, juggling oversized forensic evidence identification markers as he rode through an intersection where ten cyclists had mysteriously vanished into thin air. Another time, the ghost used his bicycle to spell out cryptic messages in the sky—messages like “Slow Down or Eat Derailleur!” It was a warning. But from who? And why?

More through happenstance than investigation, Samantha found Frank, Michael’s brother (for the sake of brevity, Michael was the original ghost biker before his transcendence, which is a story for another time), he was selling haunted bicycle chains on the black market. Frank explained, between bites of a hot dog with an advanced healing factor that regrew every time he took a bite, that his brother had once been a safety advocate—until a sidewalk went Vesuvius and launched Michael into the sky like a meat confetti cannon.

“I’ve seen him,” Samantha said. “He’s riding the streets.”

Frank nodded. “He’s not just riding. He’s marking places. The city’s fighting back.”

In the weeks that followed, Samantha and Frank noticed strange things: bike lanes that turned into rivers of molten licorice, crosswalks that led to underground sea foam parties filled with clones of city council members, each one whispering “Safety is overrated.”

But Samantha wouldn’t stop. She joined Alexus at rallies where people chanted in unison: “We Want Bike Lanes, Not Lanes of Pain!” while dressed in inflatable banana seat costumes. They handed out cursed pamphlets—flyers that, when read, caused the reader’s nose to bleed Sharkleberry Fin Kool-Aid for three days.

Every night, the ghost biker appeared, floating just ahead of Samantha, guiding her to the city’s hidden weak spots. And every time he passed through, the streets warped—fire hydrants turned into Cthulhian water wigglers, and lamp posts transformed into screaming anorexic lighthouses. It wasn’t just a battle for cycling reform. It was a battle for the city’s soul. The roads had become sentient, and they were angry.

In the final showdown, Samantha pedaled at breakneck speed toward City Hall, where the ghost biker led her to the Mayor—who was revealed to be a sentient bicycle disguised as a human this whole time. The ghost biker performed an ethereal backflip and merged with Samantha’s bike, transforming it into a glowing two-wheeled spirit of vengeance.

“Let’s ride,” Samantha whispered as her bike began to hum with otherworldly power.

And together, they rode—through streets that twisted into impossible shapes, past floating pyramids and sentient skyscrapers that tried to block their path. Samantha’s heart raced, no longer from grief, but from the thrill of a fight that wasn’t just about safer streets—it was about survival in a world that had lost its butterfingered grip on the fringes of sanity.

In the end, the roads bent to their will, reimagined not by bureaucracy but by the force of the ghost biker’s relentless spirit. And as Samantha pedaled into the horizon, a new dawn broke—a city rebuilt by preposterous whim and ruled by cyclists who could now gear shift into the sky.

More Than Flesh and Blood: A Poignant Robot Love Ballad Music Video

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

*Lyrics by yours truly.

Experience the future of love with “More Than Flesh and Blood,” a heartfelt AI love story that transcends the boundaries of technology.

This emotional music video tells the tale of a robot who defies its programming to express true love, featuring mesmerizing close-up shots of female AI robots with intricate cogs and gears beneath their segmented faceplates. Dive into a world where love knows no limits—where even artificial intelligence can feel. Perfect for fans of futuristic romance, cyber love ballads, and the exploration of human-AI connections.

Don’t miss this touching tribute to love beyond flesh and blood.

…It Also Gazes Into You

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

The crowd was an ocean of faces, pale moons orbiting the sickly glow that bathed them. Eyes wide, pupils dilated like black holes, they stared into the screen—an altar to the void. A voice, disembodied yet alive with sinister intent, slithered through the air like smoke curling from a dying star.

“Come closer, my children,” it purred, the words sticking to the air like damp velvet. “I offer you a vision. Not just a painting, but the very soul of the cosmos trapped in a portrait. Gaze upon it, and let it seep into your marrow.”

With a flicker, the image crackled to life—a canvas of black so absolute it seemed to hum, a nothingness pregnant with sinister possibility. It vibrated with a frequency too low for the human ear to detect but one the heart could feel—throbbing, pulling, luring. The abyss had teeth, and it was hungry.

“Look deeper,” the voice urged, its tones a hypnotic waltz played on strings of shadow. “Stare into the abyss, and feel it stare back.”

The air thickened, became viscous with silence. Time fractured. Then a voice—small, hesitant—rose from the sea of the mesmerized.

“I…I see something,” it quivered, the words barely more than a breath, but they were enough to break the spell. The abyss blinked.

“Do you?” The disembodied voice coiled tighter, wrapping itself around the woman’s faltering mind like ivy choking a fragile tree. “Tell me…what do you see?”

A figure stumbled forward, her movements marionetted by the invisible strings of fear. “A man,” she whispered, eyes wild, mouth trembling. “No…no, not a man. More. Something… more.”

The voice oozed satisfaction. “Describe him.”

Her fingers twitched as if tracing the contours of an invisible face, a face etched not in flesh but in nightmare. “Thin…so thin…like bones wrapped in ancient parchment. His skin…it crackles like dead leaves in the wind.”

Her voice wavered, faltered. “And his smile…” she choked, horror seeping into her words. “It stretches too far…too wide…as though his face was never meant to hold such a terrible joy.”

A tremor rippled through the crowd. Another voice, brittle with dread, broke the silence. “His eyes,” it croaked. “They…they pierce through me. They see everything. They burn—they burn!”

The voice of the unseen puppeteer swelled, a dark maestro conducting his symphony of madness. “Do you see now? You have glimpsed the true face of The Universe. The vast, unknowable reality…and it gazes upon you.”

The crowd gasped, a collective inhalation of poisoned air. But one man, his skin ashen and eyes fevered, fought against the tide. He surged forward, his voice a broken cry. “No! This is trickery! Illusion! Lies!”

The voice laughed, sharp as shattered glass, its melody cutting through the man’s feeble protestations. “Illusion, you say? Or perhaps they are the chosen few—blessed with the sight denied to the rest of you. Perhaps it is you who are blind to the truth.”

Doubt, thick and viscous, oozed into the man’s expression, his confidence dissolving like sugar in acid. “But…why them? Why not…us?”

The voice shifted, venom lacing its velvet tones. “Perhaps you are unworthy. Perhaps your faith is weak. The Universe reveals itself only to those who are ready to embrace its darkness.”

The crowd murmured, a chorus of unease that vibrated through the room. The screen pulsed, the blackness seeming to grow, to stretch, as though the abyss itself was reaching out, fingers of shadow caressing eager minds.

“Look closer,” the voice whispered, seductive now, dripping with sweet malice. “Let the darkness cradle you, hold you, consume you. Become one with it, and you will understand…”

One by one, they obeyed, faces bathed in the darkness’ thrall. They pressed closer, yearning to be devoured, to merge with the void, their eyes wide and unblinking as though seeking to be swallowed whole by eternity itself.

The voice soared, a hymn of dark exultation, swelling with their surrender. “Behold the face of The Universe! Let it sear itself into your minds, your hearts, your very souls! Let it gaze into the deepest crevices of your being and make you one with it!”

They gazed, and the abyss did not disappoint. It stared back with the ferocity of a god unchained. Mouths opened in silent screams of revelation and agony. Bodies convulsed in ecstasy and terror, their minds unraveling, and yet—there was bliss in the ruin.

The voice watched from the shadows, victorious. It whispered like a lover into their broken minds, a soft hiss of eternal dominion. “You are mine now, bound to the face of The Universe…forever.”

And so they lay, bodies twisted in a tableau of final surrender, eyes forever open, staring into the blackness that now ruled them. Their faces were frozen in grotesque reverence, the ecstasy of having been consumed.

And on the screen, the blackness rippled once more…shifted…and slowly, inexorably, it smiled.

The Atomic Dolphin Social Club™ Theme

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

*Lyrics by yours truly.

Dive into the extraordinary undersea world of Aquatopia in “The Atomic Dolphin Social Club™”!

Meet Coral, Echo, Mariner, and Pearl, marine-hybrid heroes crafted from human and dolphin DNA. These guardians use their unique abilities to protect their home from human invaders and a malevolent undersea entity. Witness their fight against human greed, their unity, and courage in this epic tale of survival and coexistence.

Join us as we explore a future where the fate of humanity and the ocean are inextricably linked. Can the Atomic Dolphin Social Club™ save the day? Watch now to find out! 🌊🐬✨

™ & ©2016 Rhyan Scorpio-Rhys. All Rights Reserved.

#classicmovies #classicmovies #Aquatopia #AtomicDolphin #AtomicDolphinSocialClub #OceanGuardians #SciFiAdventure

Gioia de Vivre

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Dr. Derek Renninger sprawled in his office chair, a disenchanted god surveying the chaos of his creation. Case files danced a manic tango across his desk, their secrets spilling like blood from a gaping wound. The computer purred seductively, a digital Siren luring him into the labyrinthine depths of the human psyche.

“Oh Freud, oh Jung,” he lamented to the leather-bound specters that haunted his shelves. “Were we ever truly the lighthouse keepers of the mind, or mere pebbles skipped across the surface of an unfathomable ocean?”

Amidst the maelstrom of scattered papers, one name shimmered like a dark jewel: Norma Gioia. Her file was a Pandora’s box, taunting him with whispers of the abyss.

The clock ticked a tribal beat as anticipation crackled through his veins. Then, she appeared—a silhouette of secrets, an onyx goddess swathed in enigma. Norma Gioia glided into the room, her presence warping gravity itself.

“Dr. Renninger,” she purred, her voice smoke and velvet. “Ready to spelunk the caverns of my tortured soul?”

He leaned forward, fingers steepled. “Lay yourself bare, my dear. Let us exhume your demons together.”

Their verbal pas de deux began, empathy and inquiry their weapons of choice. Renninger conducted her confessions like a maestro possessed, coaxing anguished arias from her hesitant lips.

Session by session, Norma blossomed like a black rose. Thorny tales of trauma and tribulation unfurled their petals. Renninger found himself ensnared, a willing captive in her garden of grief.

“I am no stranger to the dark,” he admitted one rain-lashed evening. “It takes a monster to love a monster.”

Her smile was a scythe. “Then we are a perfect match, you and I.”

Amidst their explorations of the uncharted mind, a tempest raged. As Norma unearthed her deepest horrors, a malevolent specter clawed its way into their shared reality—a grotesque manifestation of her innermost torment.

“Behold!” Renninger cried, part aghast, part enraptured. “The Jungian Shadow made flesh!”

They battled the beast, Norma’s unleashed psyche their arena. Blow by metaphysical blow, they subdued the grotesquery, forging an unbreakable alliance in the process.

The grand finale unspooled within the labyrinth of Norma’s mindscape. An obsidian castle loomed, constructed from the bones of her traumas. At its core lurked a malevolent Jabberwock, the architect of her agonies.

“Slay the Jabberwock,” Renninger intoned. “Behead the beast and free yourself.”

With a banshee wail, Norma charged. Her vorpal blade, forged from newfound strength, cleaved the creature’s head from its shoulders. As it toppled, the ebony citadel crumbled to dust.

Norma stood amidst the ruin, reborn. No longer Norma Gioia, she would forevermore be known as Gioia de Vivre. Renninger knelt before her, a disciple at the feet of an ebon empress.

“You are your own master now,” he declared. “The puppet strings have been severed.”

Renninger rose, took her hand in his, and together they strode into the dawn of Gioia’s renaissance that had been imbued with the blood of vanquished monsters.

But as the dawn’s light whispered against the edges of reality, a bitter truth clawed at Renninger’s insides. He had unlocked the crypts of her soul, orchestrated her resurrection from the ashes of despair—yet in her ascension, he felt the cold fingers of obsolescence tighten around his heart. This was their final waltz through the shadows. He could not bind her to his unraveling world any longer.

Desperation simmered beneath his skin as he ransacked the caverns of her psyche, grasping at the ghostly threads that still lingered. He yearned to tether himself to her brilliance, to swim in her light forever. But no anchor could hold, no tether could stretch that far.

And then, it hit him—anima et umbra. Where there was light, shadow must follow, and she had become the blinding sun, while he had been consigned to the shade. She was free, radiant, reborn, and he…he was nothing more than a silhouette, a discarded relic lost in the crevices of her forgotten night.

Renninger stood in the labyrinth’s dying embers, a shadow adrift in her afterglow, forever chasing the ghost of a goddess who no longer needed worshippers.

Miranda Doyle and the Chest of Doom: A Spine-Tingling Tale

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Prepare to be captivated by the spine-tingling tale of “Miranda Doyle and the Chest of Doom”…a concept told in storyboards. Driven by an insatiable curiosity, Miranda Doyle stumbles upon an ancient, cursed chest in a haunted manor. Little does she know, opening it will unleash an immortal demon upon the world. Follow Miranda’s harrowing journey as she battles dark forces, deciphers ancient runes, and confronts the demon in a fierce showdown to save humanity. Will she succeed, or will the whispers of the manor claim her soul? Dive into this supernatural adventure and find out!

The Fear Comes When I’m Home and Safe

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

Apart from the tiny hammers of rain that pounded against the window panes, the house was quiet, warm, and still. Amelia sat on the couch, wrapped in a thick blanket, a book resting unopened in her lap. The fireplace crackled softly, filling the room with a gentle, comforting heat. She should have felt safe, at peace, but the unease that had been gnawing at her for weeks refused to let her rest.

It started the night she came home from the hospital. The doctors called it a close call—a minor car accident, nothing serious, just a few cuts and bruises. They marveled at her luck, saying she could have been hurt much worse. Amelia laughed it off at the time, grateful to be alive, but something about the experience had changed her. It wasn’t the accident itself, but what followed, the way the world seemed to shift when she stepped back into her home.

At first, it was just a vague feeling, a sense of unease that settled in her chest as she turned the key in the lock. She brushed it off, convincing herself it was just the stress of the accident, the adrenaline still wearing off. But as the days turned into weeks, the feeling grew stronger, more insistent.

Amelia couldn’t quite explain it to anyone, not even to herself. The fear wasn’t rational—it wasn’t about someone breaking in or a fire starting. No, this fear was deeper, more primal. It came in the moments of stillness, when she was alone in the house, when the world outside was shut out, and she was left with nothing but her own thoughts.

It was in those moments, when she was safe at home, that the fear would creep in, wrapping itself around her like a cold fog. It was a fear that didn’t have a name, a fear that didn’t stem from anything tangible. It was just there, lurking in the shadows, waiting for the quiet.

She started to dread the nights. As soon as the sun went down and the world outside grew dark, she would feel it coming, the tightening in her chest, the way her hands would tremble as she reached for the light switch. She would turn on every light in the house, trying to push back the darkness, but it didn’t help. The fear wasn’t in the dark; it was inside her, inescapable.

She tried to distract herself, filling her evenings with noise and light. She kept the television on, music playing, anything to drown out the silence. But the fear would always find her in the end, seeping into her thoughts like poison, paralyzing her with an anxiety she couldn’t explain.

One night, after hours of pacing the living room, she decided to confront it. She turned off the TV, silenced the music, and stood in the middle of the room, forcing herself to face the silence. The house was still, the only sound the crackling of the fire. Amelia stood there, her breath shallow, waiting.

Nothing happened at first. Just the quiet, the warmth of the fire, the soft glow of the lamp. But then she felt it, a slow, creeping dread that started in the pit of her stomach and spread through her body. Her heart began to race, her skin prickling with a cold sweat. She felt as though she were being watched, but there was no one there, just her and the empty room.

The walls seemed to close in on her, the shadows lengthening, darkening. The safety of her home, the comfort she had always felt here, was gone, replaced by an overwhelming terror. It was as if the house itself had turned against her, the walls whispering secrets she couldn’t understand, the floors creaking under the weight of something unseen.

She tried to run, but her legs wouldn’t move. She was rooted to the spot, trapped in her own home, the place that was supposed to be her refuge. The fear grew stronger, pressing down on her, suffocating her. She gasped for breath, her vision blurring as the room seemed to spin around her.

And then, just as suddenly as it had come, the fear began to recede. The shadows lifted, the walls stopped closing in, and the room returned to its normal state. Amelia was left standing there, trembling, her heart pounding in her chest. The fear was gone, but it had left its mark, a lingering dread that would never fully disappear.

She sank to the floor, the fire still crackling softly in the hearth, the blanket of warmth slowly returning. But she knew now that safety was an illusion. The real danger wasn’t outside; it was inside, waiting for the quiet moments, waiting for the stillness to return.

Amelia realized that the fear would always be there, lurking in the corners of her mind, ready to pounce when she was at her most vulnerable. She was safe at home, but that was when the fear was strongest, when it came to remind her that there was no escaping it.

No matter how safe she thought she was, the fear would always find her. And there was nothing she could do to stop it.