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Choose your ingredients and mix a Cocktail for you and your friends.
Hier findet ihr nützliches Zubehör für Rollenspiele.
Einfach einen Würfel auswählen und das Ergebnis erscheint im Chat :)
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The same thing works from everywhere on Belle, no matter if it's a book recommendation in our Blog or an Amazon link in a profile.
Everything we earn this way, will be added to Belletristia's development budget.
Thank you very, very much! :)
- Ben & Sebastian
Unfortunately I've never been one to voice things, and yet on some level I think she knew my feelings for her. And if there was a single common thing about abuse survivors, often one has a hard time sorting out their feelings for other people. I'm one to assume even poisoners have feelings for other people. Almost to an exaggerated degree. You find yourself growing gradual disdain for the guardian that was suppose to take care of and protect you. Remember, I was there once. I just got out of the house in time, and never had those desires since. And so while I don't exactly approve of slipping cyanide in someone's coffee, it is an understandable feeling to me when someone continuously spanks you and never letting up.
And yet, despite my insistence on cooking, and her more strongly insisting I haven't died so far, although I might give it weeks at the most.
Yet whenever I am home she is happy to see me now.
A very different girl from the one I met. She was a lot dirtier then, but now if I describe her appearance her skin tone is paradox of tan and pale, she looks as if someone who could be more dark skinned like a Spaniard, and yet do to lack of exposure from sunlight she is so pale. And her hair is as dark as a black rose. Her body was a petite skinny hour glass shape, with the larger end around the bottom and smaller on top. Her hair the gently trimmed shoulder length darkness one associates with a guillotine cut having grown out over the last six months. I asked her why she kept her hair at that length. "It reminds me of how close I came to losing it all." And I knew exactly what she meant, teenage girl there really did.
Even their heads.
Hey don't look at me like that, I tend to pay attention to what I like. Even if they aren't a good person. Especially guillotine cuts. We embrace for the midnight bed, under the glow of the lunar light shining over the mountains.
You know how it is when you date an ex poisoner without the ability to poison.
I hear her loading up a shotgun, so I wake up. But instead of pointing that gun at me like I was expecting (I will not kill in most cases, but will out of self defense), she is instead putting the shotgun in her mouth.
So for the first time in my life I was forced into the situation of having to talk somebody down from suicide, not exactly something I was experienced with. I had poisoned myself about three times before meeting her, and I was barely in a mental state to help. And yet the adrenaline rush made me take the shotgun from her hands, and she fired it to the ceiling.
"Why were you going to do that, I was going to miss you." I said.
"Nobody misses me, I have nobody." And then she passes out onto the floor, convulsing and hoping that I wouldn't spank her. And I didn't, that's just not how you treat anyone in that kind of a mental state.
And then I hugged her gently.
I allowed her to cry in my shoulders.
There were things she finally confessed, when I promised my beloved that I was not the type to judge someone based on their past.
Anna-Marie remembered when she had first took an airplane to the US. She had just barely been acquitted for her serial murder of her two brothers and her father. Her father would try to reserve sexual favors for himself, her becoming a kind of surrogate mother after Elizabeth died.
Her brothers tried to hide the fact that they threatened to hit her after she refused to get a sickle for their farming. "I'm not your servant girl, no you fuck yourself. Your smile penis does not compare to dad's." Her brother Jacques was not happy about this, and would eventually, with the help of his and Anna-Marie's younger brother, stalk her and drug her with wine. Then they did was many disorderly brothers would do, that for sake of good taste shall be left to your imagination. So it was a simple solution, after she woke up in her bedroom she shared with her two sisters.
She would poison her brothers. She murdered her first brother with rice soup, and her youngest brother and her father by a fight they challenged others in order to try to win sexual favors. They both died in the fights. Her sisters felt guilty about turning her sister in to authorities, so she tried to be super nice to her after she was acquitted.
Anna-Marie only cried for what she did to her sisters whom she had always loved, but did not cry for her brothers and father.
She cried in my shoulder, partly out of joy and partly out of regret.
I was simply happy I could give her the shoulder to cry on.
Anna-Marie dropped off contact with her family, leaving a suicide letter and a farewell with an I love you and an apology for the stress of almost having lost another family member. "Don't forget me, I want to come with you." Ursula said, but Anna-Marie insisted she preferred to be alone. She could never go back to her old society, not with the crimes that she had done.
So coming to US was a mix of fear and emotional triggers from her old life. She wondered if she would see her sisters again.
Anna-Marie wore a cowboy hat, got herself a shotgun, and headed for the new digital frontier of the North West. Things had changed in the US after the French take over, and she wondered if she would be known her. But society had changed considerably since the former half of the twenty first century.
Perhaps she could start a new life. There was only one certainty.
She missed her mother Elizabeth.
She would tell me of difficulties she had adjusting to the new life here in the United States. Things were never really the same.
Anna-Marie had difficulty sleeping. She had constant memories of the guillotine that never came to be. She would at time wonder what it would have been like if she had her neck placed into a loop, and then it was all o'er. Her last remaining vision being the the crowd of the new twenty first, who became increasingly vicious for blood after the election of "The Ink Pen" who resigned the Guillotine back into law after the rest of Europe was dealing with the Post Nazi Restoration Party's advance. Japan always renewed their imperialist fervor.
The Guillotine Gun. The new national razor. The second widow. It was all part of the new right wing's game.
And poor Anna, the girl who trusted no man, almost died.
She could have been lost in the game.
I had heard about a similar criminal case who, while she was not exactly the contemporary of Anna-Marie, she was of similar type of criminal case. She would eventually come to poison members of her own family.
Really more of an Irish-American friend I knew, they called her Betty even though her real name was Bette. In case the daughter they adopted turned out to be completely psychotic in later years, they did not want their beloved classic to end up being libeled and never read again. Betty would at times deliberately change the name of the house name board on houses along the coast of the North West, out of a sense of mischief and to see whether this would manipulation local fire trucks from coming to her family, that would occasionally be called because of accidental fires her brother would cause in the kitchen.
"How many times have I told you boys to be careful in there?" said their mother, who said it in a more playful way than she would have if Betty had done so. Betty had always been the outsider of the family, and so she would often receive generally harsher treatment overall than her older male siblings.
"Sorry mom, it won't happen again." one brother said.
"Make sure of that guy." Betty said, being slapped in the face by mother.
"Only natural born MacCuffins can lecture them." her mother lectured. And this became something that Betty would come to take for granted.
Whenever they would have the local seafood, she would always hate to offend them and their cooking, and would at times find some excuse to avoid eating whatever it was they offered do to their mom refuses to cook. So eventually Betty moved beyond merely changing the name of title board of the beach house. Part of must have hoped that changing the name of the board would make them confuse houses, and so she would make her escape to a kind her family.
Her fears of being beaten for not liking their cooking were not exactly unfounded. At one point a while ago she had been paddled by one because he was some offended by one of her remarks. So she decided there was only one certain way to stop the beatings once and for all. But her family had to be gone from the beach house, and she had to offer the cooking for the following evening.
She made seafood like her family, and her brothers commented, surprisingly how particularly interesting and fantastic the fish was this evening. And despite feeling somewhat ill, in fact requested to their mother to perhaps let their sister help them with the cooking more often. This gave Betty some guilt.
However by the time bedtime rolled around, bother her brothers fell gravely ill. Eventually they fade out of existence the following morning. She had strained relationships with her parents, but her parents by this point were to afraid of pissing her off that they said nothing. But Betty started to get paranoid.
So she stabbed both her parents.
When the neighbor heard screams, the neighbors got involved. Law enforcement did not particularly dealing with cases dealing with child abuse, but had particular disdain of the old majority that ruled this country, even if perhaps the evidence suggested that Betty's real mother was French.
Betty had a quick trail, some suggested judicial error.
She was taken to the courtyard, held in confinement for a few days. And then taken out for her execution. She walked up the scaffold stairs in a nervous wreck, and almost couldn't make it to the center. They closed the loop on the guillotine gun around her small frail neck, and then counted down.
The trigger was pulled, the angled blade flew through her neck. Her head fell down onto the scaffold floor below. Because there was no board to hold her upright, the execution largely being rushed to avoid detection by children's rights activists from human rights international being involved, they wanted the case to be as over quickly as they could possibly make it.
The executioner held up her head for all to see.
And then quickly prepared funeral arrangements. I only know so much, because I could have been an apprentice for said events, but had luckily gotten sick from the idea of killing a girl that could have been a friend.
So they had me watch her demise instead to learn.
And I sure did learn quite a bit. That in this country we call home, it was a vastly different from the old world where childhood was sacred.
Kids lost their heads like anyone else.
I cried myself to sleep that night, vowing that I would someday completely eliminate everyone from the French government in my country. That I would use the toothpicks I owned to torture them, and never let them die.
To poke them till they leave the country.
I was reminded again, of how much I valued meeting a girl that could have been executed. It was the first time I comprehended how opposed to capital punishment I really was.
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