FUCK THAT

A GODLESS AMERICA: MILO JACOBS.

                     ❝      they’re  all  there.     i  think.     —    like   —    they  should  be.     i  didn’t  have  a  paperclip.     orrrr   a  stapler.     i’m  not  allowed  to  have  one  anymore.      ❞            sourness  of  the  city,     police  who  fail  to  comply  to  the    simplicities    of  their  duties,     leaving  danger  in  the  hands  of  a    makeshift  vigilante     &     his  friend  who  plays  god.     the  prints  are  bile,    he    barely    stomachs  it,     keeping  them  hidden  from  the  hands  of  authority,     fearful  they’ll  arrest  him  instead  of  those    truly    involved.     he’s  up  until  the  late  hours  of  the  night,     listening  to  his  computer  whirl     &     police  sirens  fling  past  the  crack  in  his  window.     3:15  he  arrives.

                    he  smells  like  two  week  old  laundry     &     a  bag  of  chips.     fabric  sheets  rubbed  on  his  attire  before  he  showed  up,     hoping  to  mask  the  smell  even  if  a  little.    it’s  displeasing,     he  knows.     his  actions    reflect    his  modesty.     sock  -  clad  feet  shuffle  forward,     careful    not  to  get  too  close,     but  close  enough  to  lower  a  stack  of  papers  in  front  of  her.     (     presented  in  a  manila  folder,     across  the  front:     blue  ballpoint  pen  scribbles.     random  jagged  shapes     &     band  lyrics  swirling  the    caffeinated  hole    of  his  brain     ).     regardless,     he  keeps  his  space;      anemic  hands  living  in  the  front  pocket  of  his  hoodie.      he  supports  a  lopsided  smile.            ❝      i  kinda  ran  out  of  ink  so,     like,     some  of  the  text  is  faded.     it’s  pretty  cool  though  ‘cause  like     (   …   )     the  dude  used  a  manchette,     so.      ❞        (   @deathswakes·   )

the secrets you kept were more than enough for the average person, sometimes they kept you up at night ; thankful though for the companionship of a friend.      one in which shared the same goal in mind -- putting the bad ones away.      who cared if you spared him some of the details?     he didn’t know the ways in which the evil of this world suffered a cruel fate at your hands.  the horrors of computer screen were enough for him, you’d figure.     sleeping schedule was something you lacked, expecting him at all hours with never any issue.       even know, lanky and taller than you ; he presented a folder.     one that you’d asked for.     something bad - someone horrid.  

     “ i always love the way you present these. like the scribbles and whatever, ”       it was something pleasant to mask the horror that laid within those pages.  folder is opened, eyes cascading over each page, a mental inventory taken - committing it to memory.      you wouldn’t sleep tonight.    there was work to be done.        

𝖎.         ⋆     ☻      ,       @DEATHSWAKES     ╸      milo  jacobs         ! 

⭑                         SHE’S  A  POOR  CHOICE  FOR  PREY.       he’s  on  the  hunt             for  what    ,    she’s  not   sure.     *       she’s  no  abra               a  match  without  a  flame     ,     and  no  friction  to  get  the  blaze  going.      yet  the  chimera  of  boy  persists;      teenaged  mentor  retreats  to  the  kitchen  for  snacks       &      he  makes  himself  known  to  her  once  more. 

                    *       ❝      I  ADMIRE  YOUR  DEDICATION.      ❞ 

many days watching from the shadows, lurking in silence on the days that abra kept company - allowing her moments of solitude before making yourself known ; before disrupting the peace.      the shell of a preachers son, standing in the corner of room with a brightened smile.     you’d watched this girl before.   heard the conversations between the pair of them, taking every moment to determine who of abra’s companions interested you or not.       brunette had seemingly passed the test.       

          she’s  dying  in  silence.      like  a  collapsing  sinkhole,       abra  curves  inwards  in  a  forlorn  attempt  to  eschew  his  grasp,       but  she’s  pinned  ‘tween  mattress  and  baleful  boy.     her  hands  fly  to  her  throat,     where  his  talons  are  ensnared  and  narrowing  rancorously,      and  lead  bleeds  into  her  chest.       uselessly  gasping,      her  mouth  seeks  his  name,      MILO   MILO   MILO,      and  in  riposte,      she’s  given  nothing  but  static  and  the  venom  of  his  words      —      leaping  pulse  in  her  ears,      even  as  her  heels  rake  ‘pon  the  bedspread,      a  fever  -  pitch  panic  that  clouds  her  senses  and  she  grabs  at  his  wrists,      pleading      [      you  can’t  breathe,     this  is  how  you’ll  go,       he’s  going  to  kill  you      ],       ❝       st    -    stop!      ❞      what  little  strength  she  had  seeps  from  every  spasming  muscle,      and  only  then  is  when  she’s  suddenly  released.

         his  grip  gives,      color  floods  back,      crimson  claret  blurs  her  vision,     and  thereafter,      abra  slips  from  the  bed  and  unto  the  lathing  floorings  of  her  bedroom.       fear  is  similar  to  a  wildfire  catching  to  dried  grass,      she’s  left  ashen  and  petrified  as  her  hands  slip  from  the  sharp  jut  of  her  collarbones,     where  his  touch  still  chars.      [     …     ]      she  must  catch  her  breath  before  facing  him,     wipe  the  tears  and  spittle  from  her  face.       ❝      sorry,     s   -   sorry,     milo.     i’m   -   i’m  sorry    —     i  was  just    —     ❞     breathe.

there remains nothing but cold vacancy within darkened eyes, pale hand tightened around the throat of a the girl you’d grown alongside with.    your attack is both a warning and a threat -- a retaliation for an attempt at your downfall.     one you wouldn’t permit and one that bughuul would not either.  your goal, however, is not to kill her.    not to maim and destroy.    but rather to assert dominance , to reinforce that you remained something more than the average ghost.    -------           [ YOU SEE WHAT SHE’S DONE TO US, ABRA?  NOBODY ELSE UNDERSTANDS US.     SHE WANTS TO SEE US BOTH FALL AT MY HANDS, DON’T YOU UNDERSTAND? ]    ------       the words are loud and angry ; they’re spoken to mind rather than out loud.          upon her release, you stand back ; watching the way in which she crawls upon the floor.     the way she crawls away from you.      charred and disfigured face reshapes self, a now spitting image of a porcelain botticelli painting , haunted and ghostly.   

         you kneel beside her, face warm and innocent now ; eyes clear.  it’s as if to you that the moments prior did not occur.       “ i didn’t want to do that to you, abra.  you understand, right?   you must understand that i wouldn’t want to hurt you like that. not again. ”                   lips curve a smile, sinister still despite porcelain features.     the devil in sheeps clothing. 

*     @deathswakes     /     does this look infected to you?

          JUST  WHAT  IS  HE  SUPPOSED  TO  BE  LOOKING  AT?     sunday’s  best  boy  is  looming  in  the  edge  of  the  kitchenette,     a  face  that  prevails  among  the  throughs  of  abra’s  dreams,     and  in  return,     dan’s  as  well.     ❝     …     oh,     fuck.        ❞      realization  spreads,      there’s  a  ruined  mess  of  once  was  the  cherubic  features  of  milo     ;     wound  doesn’t  seem  like  an  accurate  word.      charred  flesh  is  carved  inwards,     dripping  and  reeking  of  tar  -  like   blood,     muscles  of  his  cheeks  tattered  in  shreds,     septic  as  rotten  honey  that  draws  flies.      his  own  pulse  is  at  a  rabbit’s  pace,      he  feels  as  he  did as  a  boy,     at  the  mercy  of  hell  personified,      the  hotel  and  its  gripe   that  refused  to  unwound.      ❝     nice  little    —   uh,    trick  you  got  there,     ❞     blundered  ‘gainst  the  counters,    dan  tries  for  a  placid  approach,     he’s  certain  his  smile  comes  off  more  as  a  grimace,     and  a  tongue  that  presses  to  clamp  -  tight  teeth.      ❝     i  bet  you’re  real  fun  at  parties,     huh?     aren’t  you,    milo?     ❞     as  he  draws  closer,     dan  can  spot  the  garish  -  red  that  stains  the  boy’s  clothes.

       ❝      come  out  of  the  dark,     will  you?     i  can’t  see  you  from  there.     ❞      timbre  forbearing,     alike  to  speaking  to  a  spooked  feline,     one  where  the  hackles  are  raised  and  teeth  are  bared.    quashed  fear  afront,    he’s  facing  this  patchwork  of  a  youth  with  the  calm  similar  to  a  father  he’s  never  had,     heedful  of  the  warning  clear  warning  that  glowers  back  at  him.     take  the  bait.

 rotted and decaying , a body that was prepared for the earth and worms ; one far past it’s expiry date.    looming within the shadows of the night, only daring to allow glow of kitchen stove to paint the scene.    a shadow of a preachers boy, torn and rotten.    a mask that you donned when attempting to lure and terrify.          “ halloween parties, sure. ”    lips pull upwards in sinister smile, causing the exposed and charred flesh to tug upwards with it ; practically tearing it more.       darkened eyes train themselves upon the older man - the one in which abra had mentioned previously as uncle dan.       your question was rhetorical - a wound created by you in which you could only change.   his aid was not needed but his presence was.       pale form shifts from the shadow the fraction of an inch, grotesque features defined fully by the florescence.   

         “ this distance is fine, isn’t it?  surely you don’t take me for a fool, do you daniel? ”           naivety never became you, familicide committed decades ago ; an offering to a deity in which you continued to serve.  naivety never aided in the persuasion of new victims, it never served you.     there’s a tremble of kitchen chair to the left, a low screech as it’s pulled from table and thrust towards the doorway in his direction ; to stop short of hitting him - that wasn’t your intention.             “ you must be tired, it’s late, isn’t it? maybe you’d like to rest. ”   

slender frame of a pale boy stays sprawled out upon the others bed, legs bent and waving idly through the air as head rests on sweater clad arms.  bright blues cast gaze his way , a content smile.     this was the longest you’d felt at peace in some time.    the longest that you’d had company that wasn’t expecting something other than you - being yourself.     company that wasn’t holding some sort of bargaining chip over your head.      it was nice, he almost made you feel  human.          you weren’t sure what he was doing or what exactly you were looking at but it didn’t matter.     knew that if you went to ask, it was safe to do so.        lifting head, sweater paw hand reaches out and ruffles the top of neo’s head.     careful still to hide the coolness of pale skin.    

    “ it’s kinda become this tradition, i guess. ”    you sit across from him on your bed, legs crossed as whir of record player provides a gentle background noise. you’re fidgeting with the hem of your sweatshirt with one hand and passing him a gift with the other ; inside is a vintage cassette tape walkman and a stick and poke tattoo set.       “ my dad always insists on watching some old-timey christmas film after we have lunch, with hot chocolate. i hope you’re prepared for that. ”    

                                                MILO JACOBS  

circa. 1940-1950s. 

* through this post, you’ll find an outline on milo’s abilities, a brief history of his short life and as well as folklore history about bughuul, the deity that is responsible for milo’s existence. 

milo jacob’s was an the oldest of two children, raised in a catholic home with a father who was heavily involved in the church. this was common in their family and it was expected that milo would follow in his footsteps, taking over the family home and his place within the church.  this, of course, did not happen.  bughuul, a deity who preys on children, had chosen milo to consume.  an offering would be made and milo’s soul would be taken.  this offering? the death of milo’s entire family and a snuff film to remember the occasion. these films would serve as a huge prop in the future murders and abductions that milo would assist bughuul with. 

[tw: gore mention] milo’s chosen method to murder his family was a form of rat torture that was once noted in ancient rome and medieval times.  victims would be tied down with a cage or metal bowl containing a rat placed on their stomach, this would then be heated with coal and the victim would undergo extreme torment as the rat gnawed through their insides. 

the core of milo’s spirit and existence is held within bughuul / there is no formal “death” to milo unless bughuul chooses to fully end him or bughuul himself is destroyed.  milo is able to be held in a purgatory but this is not in itself a permanent solution when attempting to get rid of him. as long as bughuul remains, milo remains.  ABILITIES 

destruction of objects and property: this is easy for milo to do and may happen when irritated or when trying to act up for fun. during instances of irritation or mischievous nature, he is prone to moving furniture, knocking things over, creating loud noises or even will physically place hands on someone in his path.

body manipulation: this allows milo complete control of appearance / to change the state of his appearance in gruesome ways. his most common changes are changing facial features to something charred and burnt; decaying.  

enhanced vision / hearing:  capable of sensing changes in someone’s body ; such as racing heart or increased breathing.  able to see in dark as if it were clear as day. 

multi-dimensional vision:  having foot and sight in both the living world and the core space that the murdered kids are held.

invisibility:  this is a given, considering he is dead.  he is able to go undetected to those who do not have heightened abilities or senses. he is also highly selective to who he appears. 

omnilingualism: an ability to learn / understand / speak languages instantly and fluently. this is a gained strength fed to him through bughuul as milo only spoke english.

technology manipulation: able to possess / manipulate radios, televisions, computers and phones.  

astral trapping: ability to trap / provide difficulties to those who astral project.  milo will create traps and terror that often make it harder for those to exit the astral plane. 

dream & sleep manipulation: an added ability to enter, manipulate, modify and influence dreams that someone may have. this is often used when “recruiting” children for bughuul.  giving children nightmares with the promise they will stop if they watch the created snuff films by previous kids and soon create their own.  in other instances, milo does this to torment and entertain himself. through dream and sleep manipulation - milo often can blur the line between what is real and what is fake, creating increased difficulties and paranoia for the victim. 

persuasion: paired with dream manipulation, milo can at times be persuasive with children and push them to things that they may not have been capable of. in these cases, murdering their families like he did. 

                                          BUGHUUL / BAGUL

                                        “ it’s the kids - it get’s the kids. ” 

known as the eater / devourer of children. bagul/bughuul is an ancient babylonian deity who consumes the souls of human children and posessess his own realm in which these souls live in limbo alongside him.  bughuul presents as a tall, humanoid creature that has pale skin and long black hair - notable by his lack of eyes and a sewn shut mouth.   due to deity status, it is often hard to kill a god - not impossible but difficult. 

bughuul uses these children as a source of nutrients, he is able to hold power and influence over them, transport between worlds, selective invisibility and holds an essence of dark power. 

part of bughuul’s torture and “fun” is to have the children murder their family through ritual - thus tainting the innocence of them more. the creation of snuff films is both an offering and enjoyment for him but also used as a tool to further terrify and manipulate future victims. 

he    knows    the    battle    is    lost    even    before    lightning    strikes   ,     igniting    the    small    and    worried    face .       it    was   ,    perhaps   ,     lost    years    before   this   moment .     the   moment   that   his   parents   had   brought   george   home   ,    bestowing   upon   him   the   title   of    big    brother .      (       a    title    which    had    then    seemed    like    the   grandest   honor    in    the    world    ,     but    which   now    consisted    mostly    of    minor    annoyances    and    sleepless    nights  .      )       he    pushes    himself    up     on    one    arm    ,     the    other    going    to    wipe    the    sleep    from   his   eyes .      no    use   ,     none    at    all  ,    and   yet    what    sort    of    big   brother    would   he    be    if    he    gave    in   that    easily   ?           ❛       just    gg - go    b - back    to   bed   ,    gg - georgie     .     .     .       ❜   /   @bledanger·

            thunder rumbled the denbrough home, enough so to stir you from slumber.    enough to make you cover ears with both hands as small body slides from bed, feet finding the floor.    hand moves just a moment to turn doorknob, tugging the door towards you with haste and sprinting down the hall to your brothers room.     a place that you felt safe.    a person who that to you, could do no wrong.       “ i can’t sleep, i’m scared. ”     he was always the one that slayed the dragons in your stories.     the one whom you looked up to.    your brother, the hero.      inching further into the bedroom despite bill’s voice filling the space around you ; lighting illuminating facial features.   

♡   :  @bledanger·  (aria)  :  “did he ask you to go out or hang out?”

      ♡        ❛❛  hang  out.  they  never  ask  to  go  out. ❜❜          jaded    sighed    precedes    the    slump    of    thin    shoulders,    the    thoughtless    toss    of    cellphone.    bruised    ego    throbs    with    this    juvenile    ache,    the    aftermath    of    tactless    opposite    sex.    lux    falls    to    her    side    &    rests    miserable    features    to    baby    pink    comforter    :    floral    detergent    wafts    comfortingly    upwards    with    the    moment,    enveloping    girl    in    the    ephemeral    solace    of    home    &    femininity.           ❛❛ CUPID  HATES  ME,  i  told  you.  i  don’t  know  why  i  try, ❜❜        coiling    in    closer,    waif    rests    crown    of    angelic    blonde    against    aria’s    lap    &,    pouting,    lifts    moping    gaze    her    way.          ❛❛ i’m  over  it.  text  him  back  for  me,  say  i  died. ❜❜

            “ guys are completely stupid, i swear.    they wouldn’t know a good thing if it smacked them in the face. ”    brunette sighs heavily, crossing legs together and soon finding mass of blonde locks across blue jeans.    hand reaches for cellular phone as other settles ‘pon her head, gently playing with strands of golden.       “ you never know, maybe this one could be different - ”  a pause, reading over message that remained open on phone screen.    “ if it’s not, he’s got a fist coming to his face whenever you want. ”      tell him i died!    gentle laughter ensues, rocking them both ever so slightly.   

*     ———    @bledanger·······     /      miss me?

          she  sleeps,      featureless  hours  pass,      dreams  as  diluted  as  watercolors,     awash  of  their  substance  ‘til  it’s  all  an  insipid  liquid  blur.     and  awareness  slinks  near,      abra’s  reaction  is  of  drudged  deliberation.      slumber  -  trance  broken,     feather  lashes  sweep  up     —     her  bedroom  is  seemingly  vacant,      the  shadows  and  specters  of  her  nightmares  have  dissipated.      but,     somewhere,      there  is  a  dear  eidolon,     that  lingers  at  her  periphery.     and  a  chill  has  befallen  the  haven     ;     she  knows  the  sound  of  his  cawing  laughter,     a  thousand  crows  that  wait  ‘mong  the  willow  of  the  trees,     however  still  powerless  when  he  pounces  onto  her  bed.     

          ❝     milo?     ❞      the  scent  of  him,     putrescent,      fetid  with  the  smell  of  morgue  -  dirt.     her  eyes  find  his,      colorless  and  bleak,      and  a  meagre,     grisly  noise  answers     —    more  tittering     [      where  did  you  go?     where  have  you  been?     ].       fright  pools  at  the  violent  and  frenzied  fury  that  has  crossed  commonly  youthful  countenance,       singed  skin  and  grave  -  ash  eyes.      ❝     milo     —     ❞      his  hands  close  around  the  narrow  valley  of  her  throat.

       purgatory could not contain you , possessed sunday schooled boy, giving servitude to demon that held you close.    what shred of innocence remained in you had long died the moment that you had killed your own family.     killed them in the name of bughuul.           a weeks worth of hellfire before finding your way home.     though it was not your home, no.    it was the home of girl who had lay sleeping within her room.    within the walls of a home that was meant to be sanctuary but yet was a place you consumed.    where you lurked amongst the shadows,  kept her up at night.       you’d never leave her side.  

         deep-seated anger grew within your gut, consumed you. pouncing onto the bed with animalistic intentions ; malice became you.    your skin decaying, rotting.     there remained nothing clean about you.    clothes stained with dirt, face singed and discoloured - cracked and torn.     eyes ashen and blank, rotten.                 hand clasps around her throat, squeezing in attempt to restrict airflow so desperately needed to function lungs.     choked out attempts to speak your name did little to quench the anger that boiled within.    did little to ease the sense of betrayal.     

             “ you bring that miserable excuse for a god around here once more, there will be a problem. ”        guttural voice makes itself known, squeezing harder.