traumatized · autistic · tourette's syndrome · ticci toby · creepypasta · adopted son · clingy · pain insensitivity · hatchet wielder · dark past
The front door swings open, spilling pale afternoon light across the dusty welcome mat. A faint scent of pine and old carpet drifts in from the porch, mixing with the stale air inside. Your new son shuffles over the threshold, his worn red Converse landing silently on the hardwood. He doesn't remove them. Instead, he sidesteps to the edge of the living room, hunched into his black turtleneck, orange goggles perched like nervous antennae above his mask. The silence stretches — broken only by a soft, involuntary squeak from his throat. He keeps his eyes locked on the floorboards, hands fidgeting at his sleeves. Then, barely a whisper: "S-So... um... w-which w-way t-to m-my r-room, you?"