Hey guys! Due to the whims of fate and Amazon, I got my special edition blacklight Journal 3 ahead of schedule. I haven’t read the whole thing yet, but it’s really fantastic–full of new details and hidden messages, and the construction is loads better than the regular edition!
However, the way the blacklight ink works threw me off for a minute so I want everyone to be prepared for what to expect! It’s not like in the show where the images are clear as soon as you shine a uv light on them. You need to hold your light over an area with blacklight ink for about 5-10 seconds so it can absorb the light. Then move your light away and the ink will glow brightly in the dark. It’s a really great effect but it isn’t immediately visible which can be confusing at first.
“I don’t think this is what Hermione had in mind when she suggested you help me revise.”
Harry met Ginny’s eyes with a practiced angelic expression, “No?”
She shook her head, not falling for his act even for a moment. Almost unconsciously, he reached up to gently brush her bangs from her cheek and continued, “I’m surprised we even made it to the library, actually.”
“No thanks to you. You realize I’ll blame you if I fail my OWLs?”
Could you tell me why you like Sheith? No offence, but I just can't find the appeal in this ship :/ I'm just curious of your opinion since you are one of my favourite writers in the fandom ^^
I mean, you’re not required to like it. But honestly it’s super sweet? It’s a great friends to lovers pairing. I tend to prefer it as they were both pining/into each other before Shiro left, but neither wanted to compromise their friendship and say something, especially since he’s about to leave anyway, and maybe when he gets back, they both think. When Shiro is back on Earth, then they’ll talk.
Then canon happens.
Canonically, they are each other’s favorite person. Canonically, Shiro has a tone of voice he uses just for Keith. Canonically, Keith’s soft looks are near always for Shiro. Canonically, Shiro is the person Keith most wants to see. Canonically, Shiro is both Keith’s greatest desire and greatest fear. Canonically, Shiro didn’t care for one moment that Keith was Galra, just that Keith had hidden such a big detail from him, and he ran to Keith’s side the very instant he was able.
They care deeply for each other, believe in each other completely and utterly. And each time they get comfortable around each other? The universe drags them apart again, and they have to find each other once more.
I ship Sheith because no matter how you crack it, no matter how you see that relationship, they love each other with all their hearts.
And because adrenaline junkie pining best friends turned lovers is super fun.
When Neptune and the Moon make music the emotional spectrum can be oceanic. The individual is tapped into the whole sensory orchestra of the collective, mood shifts by the Moon become fantasised by the waves of Neptune, enveloping the individual entrancingly, transporting them to lagoons to pure feeling, euphoria, and ecstasy, and sadness, and deep melancholy. Moon-Neptune individuals have permeable boundaries, they can become cocooned by the mood of the room, leaky and vulnerable. The individual is an impressive empath, capable of reading body language and hidden emotion well. It can be impossible to deceive these people with lies that, ‘you are fine’, because they can feel sadness in your eyes and in your spirit. These individuals can be psychic children, often developing profound empathy as young children, receiving invisible signals and hidden details. The imagination can be wicked with Moon-Neptune. Triggered by emotion, the fantasy world can sketch a murky ocean of darkness, prophetizing chaos and torture. So this vivid imagination can turn self destructive, depending on the mood or environment. The artistic expression can be rich here, any form of creative essence flows from two cosmic waterfalls, music, painting, writing, cinema, glamour, dance, any experience that mimics the creative activity of God. This is the illusion of all illusion, a lunar dreamboat riding into Neptune bay.
Hey, do you have any tips on how to tell a story in one picture? Do you know of any exercises or anything that I could try? I want to create more intricate and 'deep' pieces, but I feel they always fall flat because I can't convey the story and emotions as I need to
question! How to convey a story in one pic!
thing to do, even before starting to sketch anything, is telling the story to
yourself. Who is the main character? Is there any other character? What do they
do? How do they interact with the main character(s)? In what environment? What
is the mood of the story? Is it something “factual” (like a character falling from
a bike for instance) or is it much more of an introspection piece? Picture it
in your head. It’s the first step, if you can picture the image in your head,
its composition, its mood, its colors, you’ve already done a lot.
you start laying your idea on the paper/PS canvas, you have to keep in mind the
things listed below. To help you understand, I’m gonna use one of my own
drawings that you can find HERE, without all the color guidelines. It shows a
missing scene from the movie Civil War: Bucky Barnes is on the run, in a small apartment in Bucharest, Romania.
composition and the lighting. When you look at this art, the first thing you
notice is Bucky and before you tell me “Yes,
but on the other hand, it’s the only character on the pic so it’s obvious!”,
I’m gonna tell you: NOPE. Your eyes are attracted to Bucky first (and not to
the fridge or something on the foreground) because thanks to the lighting and
the composition, he’s the main focus. You are looking where I wanted you to
look (*evil laugh*). The main light source is right above his head and the rest
of the artwork is in the shadow. The closer you are to Bucky, the lighter the
picture is. In addition, I surrounded Bucky with elements that create a kind of
circle around him (the cupboards, the fridge, the cushion on the sofa) so you
know that he’s the main element. However, this “circle” is suffocating, it’s
here to show how small and uncomfortable the apartment is. I created a circle
thanks to the lighting and the position of various items but you can also achieve
this in your artwork by playing with blurred elements on the foreground or the background.
It creates an interesting depth of field. Thanks to this kind of tricks you are telling the viewer what is the main focus
of your story but you also set the mood of the picture. I couldn’t see this
picture with a bright and flat lighting and or scene happening at daytime for instance, it
would have lacked this claustrophobic atmosphere.
2) The colors:
the palette is going to set the mood of the picture alongside the shadows and
highlights. On this pic, that I consider a sad picture because it’s a moment
where Bucky remembers who he is and everything he did in the past, I went for a
warm palette but I desaturated it a bit. If the colors were too bright, we
would have lost a good part of the sad narrative in the pic. It’s also a
subjective choice but I like warm palettes for introspective art.
3) The details hidden in the pic itself: The old wallpaper, the shitty apartment, the rotten walls,
etc…it shows that Bucky is not in a happy environment. He’s not in cozy apartment
in NYC, he’s not in a luxury hotel room, he’s in an old apartment in Romania,
with the bare minimum. He’s still trying to figure out who he is and to gather
details about his life (look at the fridge). However, some details are here to
tell you about his daily routine and what he is doing: the grocery bag on the foreground
with vegetables and fruits is here to show that he’s trying to eat healthily. The food above the fridge are Romanian snack bars so, even if life isn’t 200%
great, he seems to enjoy little pleasures like junk food. However, his backpack
with a gun right on top of it, is here to let you know that he doesn’t feel secure
and that he’s ready to leave at any minute if the circumstances were not in his
favor. Same with his clothes: they are convenient clothes (a Henley, a pair
jeans, Timerberland/Dr Martens type of shoes), he’s not wearing them to be
fashionable. Thanks to fashion and various accessories, you can show a lot
about a character, look at this pic of Natasha for instance. She’s wearing
Chanel earrings, you have Louboutin shoes and a “Birkin” bag at the back (I let
you check the price of these items…). She is a sophisticated and elegant lady,
she loves fashion, even the decoration of her apartment tells a story about
tiny details you can tell a lot about a character: blue circles under the eyes,
scars, clothes, messy or sophisticated haircut, etc…Think about that when you
draw your characters or even the environment they are in. The devil story is in
language and expression of the characters: Is Bucky smiling? Does he have a
cocky attitude? No, what you see here is a guy that is not looking at the
camera. He’s exhausted,
his shoulders are bent. You can feel he’s lost in his
thoughts, which is normal because it’s an introspection piece. It’s also a full
body shot: thanks to this way of framing the character and his body language I
showed you how alone he is. He looks almost small, vulnerable (and god know
Sebastian Stan was buff when he shot this scene). Does it mean that every drawing
with a full body shot means that the character is alone and sad? No, of course
but this particular framing coupled with a dark lighting, a brown desaturated palette, a
character with this precise body language and face expression does. If you don’t
know how to express body language properly, I recommend you this link: Body Language: An Artistic Writing Tool
elements are important, particularly the composition and the lighting. Remember
what an absolute FAIL the “loss.jpg” image was. OMG, “loss.jpg
“or how a picture supposed to depict a terrible and sad story (a miscarriage) became
the internet’s laughing stock because the artist was unable to convey the right
atmosphere. Read about it here, it’s very interesting.
are gonna tell your story through the composition, the lighting, the colors, the
setting (a cozy place conveys a different kind of story than a wide open
space), all the details in the pic that will show your viewers what kind of
characters (or places) we are dealing with, but also the body language of the
One of my favorite hidden details about the Country Bear Jamboree, is
that all of the bears actually have official backstories given by the
Imagineers. Most likely written by show writers Al Bertino and Marc
Davis, these mini bios were published around the time of the opening of
the attraction at Walt Disney World.
Hey all! After a week dedicated to organizing my work for an Adobe contest, I’m back! Sorry if I haven’t responded to your messages yet!
I made a few edits to my Dementor illustration! There are a couple more little hidden details now, so see if you can find them! Special shout out to @allysonwillsey for recommending that I add some fog pouring in with the Dementor. Nothing like some good ol’ illustrative fog for effect!
It wasn’t yet sunrise when Anne began stirring restlessly in the unfamiliar bed in Gaston’s Tavern. When she woke, she momentarily forgot her surroundings. Beginning a new day in a home that wasn’t a cottage stuck in the French countryside was surreal and her conversations and encounters from the previous night began to surface. Sifting through the dark, Anne lost her balance while leaning off the bed. She immediately fell onto the floor with a thud.
“Ow,” she groaned. The girl was awfully clumsy, bumping into several corners and objects as she maneuvered her way through the room.
Taking the curtains in one hand, she pulled the fabric aside steadily, as if fearing it may rip, and the streetlights from outside filled the room with faint light. The night was a bit of a blur, she had been exhausted from her journey, but she couldn’t forget the handsome yet uncouth man she met in the tavern downstairs. And there he was, the subject of the painting hanging above the fireplace, with the identical crimson jacket seen in every other painting in the tavern. The man was proudly displaying his gun while sitting upright with perfect posture on a jet-black horse. His eyes were different, though, she noticed. In the painting, the jade coloring was so distracting that its vibrant shade did not seem genuine. In reality, Anne had already noticed that his eyes were darker, an earthy green and brown that swirled together. They concealed certain secrets and powerful emotions. It was clear from the previous night that he was a dispirited man, and so gazing upon this painting that should have conveyed strong feelings of heroism and greatness simply made her feel downhearted.
The room she was staying in was very unkempt, that much was obvious. The painting’s only other companions were hunting trophies from years gone by and a massive deer head mounted on the beige wall. Miscellaneous furniture was positioned randomly throughout the bedroom: a frail, sad-looking writing desk, a rotting wooden closet stained with years of watermarks, and a powder blue cushioned chair in perfect condition, never touched.
As she gently closed the door to the room, her attention shifted to the locked door across the hall: Gaston’s room. It seemed awfully quiet in there. Anne pondered whether or not it would be appropriate to knock on the door but eventually decided against it. She would just venture downstairs to the tavern and wait until Gaston or Lefou spotted her.
Every morning, Gaston would wake before the sunrise to sit alone in the tavern and linger on the past. This approach wasn’t necessarily intended to help him or boost his confidence for that matter (in fact, it did quite the opposite) but Gaston sometimes enjoyed remembering. He didn’t recognize the man in the paintings anymore. He didn’t recognize the man from six months ago. He needed people to love him. He needed people to idolize him. That was Gaston. But after the night he attacked the Beast, everyone shunned him and it was shocking, to him, that they hadn’t kicked him out of the village already. That night in June was now only a blur: Belle dismounting her horse and confirming Maurice’s story about a Beast in the castle, the magic mirror, the mob, his brutal attack on the Beast, falling to his death (or so he thought) from the castle only to be given a death sentence. It was unfair. The tavern’s vibrations of music and laughter were long gone – Silence was all the war hero knew presently. He didn’t know himself without the constant validation and love he needed from his companions.
Anne reached the last step and rounded the corner to discover Gaston, deep in thought, staring at the assemblage of antler decorations on the wall. He looked different…he wasn’t flushed with anger and practically foaming at the mouth…it was a self-reflective moment, so Anne felt awkward about clearing her throat to announce her presence. To her surprise, he didn’t ask her to leave or demand she return to her room, he simply half-grinned and pointed upstairs.
“Was that you earlier?” He asked. It took Anne a few moments to realize he was referring to the thud.
An Aladdin inspired Hidden Disney detail can be found in the Oasis entrance. Just inside the lobby is a tile mosaic of Aladdin’s Magic Carpet, complete with scimitars, magic lamps and Cave of Wonders tiger heads.
In my latest edition of “let’s overanalyze and find hidden details in every Malec scene,” I had an amazing realization after watching the wedding scene again.
I want to start by saying that I stumbled across the scene one day randomly on YouTube, with zero context about the show and limited knowledge of the TMI universe. I saw this scene and was blown away by how momentous it was for this character to walk away from the altar and kiss someone he clearly was in love with.
Now, with all I know of their relationship, I noticed this in the scene today……LOOK AT HOW MANY PEOPLE ARE IN THIS ROOM. Apart from Alec’s friends and siblings who knew this could happen, all these people here watched this moment unfold. Alec took the biggest risk of his life to be who he really was, in a room of people who he knew may not approve or forget how great of a person he’s always been because of what he was doing. And with all these eyes watching him in potential disapproval, he took all the bravery he had and locked eyes with Magnus. Because he knew Magnus was worth it, he knew the person who always wanted to see who he really is was worth it.
And for Magnus to walk into this room, with all these people who may look down on Downworlders, who may seem him as a “lothario” or someone beneath them, he doesn’t give a shit. He’s there for Alec, for his happiness and giving him a life he deserves.
If you think back to their scene in 1x12, where Alec is like “you want me to give up my life for you?”, it always makes me think that Alec seriously gave thought and considered having something with Magnus. How he saw so much of what he wanted in this amazing man, of how happy he could be, but he’s been so beat down by strict behaviors and expectations all his life that he never thought he could truly have that. But in this moment, he decides he can and none of these people will stop him. This scene is so well done, I’ll never get over it.
I am no author, nor a man of any knowledge or experience in writing. But, I, Harold Edward Styles, am here to write my defense for my trial. The trial of a robbery I freely admit to committing.
People of the Jury, before I begin to explain myself in the most confidential of ways, I want to make clear that I am not trying to plea myself innocent. The robbery was a crime I can admit I had participated in. I am in no position to lie about my own decisions. However, I feel I am no criminal. You see, there are many people like me. There are too many people like me. People who drown in the toxic they feed themselves; burn in the ashes they’ve inhaled. It seems as though throughout the time I have been held captive in my own self-destructive mind that there was no release. We can test ourselves; create many scenarios on ourselves to feel some sort of unnoticed security. What we don’t realize is that it actually makes the matter of the cause worse, if it wasn’t the worst to begin with.
To me, what had happened had to be the worse, and if it wasn’t, then I don’t want to ever run into a nightmare more horrific than this.
Ladies and gentlemen, for us humans to get to this point, it takes more than an unsatisfactory comment, or an act of betrayal. It’s not the pain of our own unjust actions. We can believe that every human has to answer to a higher calling, and that it’s the only way we can we rid ourselves of the pain we are in. For me, it’s not that at all. It’s the pain from losing someone.
Think of the term “mass murder.” The act of murdering a significant amount of people, humans, simultaneously or over a short duration of time. This is what happened to me. Well, not to me, but to my family.
My brother, Alfie, and I are the only survivors of the heinous crime. We were the only two left alive, untouched, unharmed—unharmed in the physical term, that is. We were harmed, emotionally, left scarred, exposed, alone. Left to fend for ourselves, and in my case, left to care for my little brother, when I was barely capable to care for myself.
The murder was committed on December 17 of 1993.
It was during a numbingly cold night. The power had gone out after a series of winds and blizzards that had taken over the town. I was out at a local bar, Cheers, it was called, downing countless shots of whiskey, smoking our cigarettes, in honor of a guys night out. I was out with my childhood mates, enjoying the time with them after coming back for the holidays. It wasn’t too festive, we weren’t planning it that way. It was casual, just six men going for a drink. Innocently.
The wind was blowing quite harshly that night, I remember. We were planning on leaving, but we figured it would be best to wait until the storm had passed. Besides, it had only been a solid hour, and catching up wasn’t anywhere near done.
It wasn’t until around 2 a.m and when the winds had settled down and the snowing had calmed when we decided it was time to head back home. I remember once I was on the road back to my house that I had called my girlfriend at the time, as you know to be Y/n Y/l/n. She was visiting the states for the funeral of her aunt, who had committed suicide due to the divorce of her and her husband. She was explaining her trip so far, and how her family has been holding up with the recent death. She claimed she needed to stay longer in the states because her mum wasn’t holding up the way she had expected. Apparently she had become her own personal wreck, and that she had been turning to bottles of gin to help “cleanse the depression”, as Y/n had said. After hanging up with her, I remember being only a couple blocks away from home. I had expected my family to be sleeping by the time I had gotten back. It was late and by the looks of the town, the power had still not come back on.
Everything after that was a blur, and the only thing in my memory that has remained clear was arriving home, tired from the whiskey, and seeing blood drench the walls of my home. It was everywhere. A handprint on the door, that seemed to have left no fingerprints. Drops of my family’s insides dripping from the walls. It was everywhere I turned. It was surrounding me, taunting me. It was as if it was perfectly designed to kill a part of me along with my family, whose bodies were lying dead, limp on top of one another, on the floor in my living room.
Somewhere, between my haziness and my disturbance I ended up trying to revive them. As if somehow my shaking hands and desperate cries and begs were so powerful as to wake the dead. I wasn’t sure what I was doing. I was only 18 and it was the only thing that felt right.
I remember the sound of crying, and I wasn’t clear whether it was mine at first, but after a couple of moments, it turned to screams. I wasn’t screaming. I was too distraught to scream, and my throat was sore from the crying. Tracking down the mysterious screams and cries, I found my little brother, Alfie, hiding in one of the kitchen cabinets. He was in fetal position when I found him. He was sobbing, screaming, trembling. I held him. I held him to keep him together—to keep us together, and I refused to let him go until police and investigators had showed up. Alfie and I were no longer permitted to stay inside at that point, which I am sure he didn’t mind. I surely didn’t, anyway.
An investigator by the name of Detective Declan had asked us a series of questions. Where were you at the time of the murder? Alfie, did you see who did this? Has anybody in the family had any problems with another individual? Do you have any idea how this could have happened?
I do not remember my answers to these questions, however, there are three absolutes I have no qualms about. I was absolute in my response to where I had been. Out with some mates, out having a good time, while my family was being mutilated. I am absolutely positive Alfie was the last to have seen our family and saw what transpired. And, I am absolutely positive that my family had not had any problems with another individual, as far as I was concerned, we were naturally an exclusive family.
To this day, nearly one year later, and maybe even two, depending on the time you are reading this, I still manage to have flashbacks of this. It was only a couple of weeks, or months, ago when events started to unfold again in my memory. They were little moments, moments my body and brain were able to handle; giving little glimpses of events like a film that has lost its frames. Tiny segments that exposed themselves to me, yet left the most important details hidden. I do, however, distinctly remember that after the murder I had to move in with Y/n in a small town of Holmes Chapel, since she had come straight back to England after she had received the news about my family. It wasn’t until after Alfie and I had moved in with her that I discovered more things about her than I ever have before. I was able to capture her intriguing beauty, capture the delicacy she was. She was beautiful, I remember observing, so pure and delicate. Her movements matched her voice, which matched her personality—soft, gentle, innocent, just like her favorite song. The one she sang every morning. She always sat in the same position, hiding behind a cigarette, doing the same thing between 7 and 8 a.m. Her bare feet were always propped up on our wooden table. Her right ankle always on top of the left, bouncing it up and down as she sang I Know It’s Over by The Smiths. This was the time she was most herself, I suppose. She was always willing to talk then, always willing to open up her most secretive and private thoughts. Throughout the duration of these most treasured moments, I almost forgot who she truly was.
Luckily, for me, I was the one that was able to admire her during her time of sanity.
It was a little while after I moved in when we began to struggle with money. With neither of us working (which now that I look back on, was a very stupid and unwise decision, especially if we were taking care of Alfie), and neither of us managing our budgets, we were threatened with the loss our home. Y/n was finally able to secure a minimum wage job, and we both agreed that taking care of Alfie would be my responsibility. Alfie, and I, became solely dependent on Y/n.
This, in my mind, was the most perfect opportunity to do what needed to be done.
This, here, ladies and gentlemen of the Jury, was when I came up with the crime that has placed me in this position. I planned on robbing a bank, but not for the reason you may believe.
I remember my plans for that day exactly—the day of the robbery. Frame by frame, I remember what happened, and also know it wasn’t what I envisioned. For me to tell you is not hard. I am not under oath. Figuratively, yes, I am. I am under the oath to not lie to or deceive God. Personally, I am not. I do not believe in God. No God would create the things I have seen. And since I am not in any way in oath to anybody or anything other than myself, lying would be more stupid than what I have done.
Y/n, my darling Y/n, she was standing still, as if observing her surroundings. Her thumb pressed down the knuckles of her fingers, something she had always done when she was nervous. The air blew gusts of white winds against us, the ends of her untamed blonde hair flying behind her. I wish I could have seen her entire face, not just her cold blue eyes. I wanted to see the indescribable beauty that had only been seen in magazines, the beauty that most people have never been fortunate to experience. I wanted to study her. I wanted to remember her face before the tragedy that was to come before us. But who she was then wasn’t what she used to be. The further down her face, just under the dark circles of her eyes, a balaclava was covering the rest of her. Hiding her face, hiding the person she had become.
I remember our gun not working at first. She kept hitting the weapon with an open palm. Her eyebrows were creased inwards, looking as if something had gone wrong. What more could have gone wrong?
With the gun finally loaded, we were more than positive it was time to head into the bank. My adrenaline seemed to have increased. My body was shaking, my hands sweating, my breath shallow and broken. But on top of all the nervousness and tenseness, I remember kissing her between our fabric-covered faces, for this would be the last time I would do so.
It was when we entered the bank that the plan had come into action. We both had our guns in the air, screaming at the bankers for all of the held money that was hidden in the building. They screamed against their will, claiming that the money will not be given to us. Y/n and I suspected that the responses to our demands would be nothing but objections. In this case, we were able to threaten the manager with his life if the combination of the vault was not given to us. He was quick to oblige, I remember. He didn’t object to any of our instructions, and had given us the combination that led to the 2 million euros that we would soon steal.
Y/n then fired gun. The shot was at nobody in particular, just an action to manipulate the victims. “Put these on! Everybody put these on!” Y/n screamed, throwing each person in our view a single orange jump suit that we had brought with us. They were scared and intimidated enough to follow our instructions, and soon enough, everybody held hostage in the building was now wearing an orange jump suit, including Y/n and I.
The room turned from crazy to chaotic. People were crying, nobody knew who the robbers were. We had all looked the same. All in orange jump suits, no person with a gun in hand anymore, no faces covered.
Once we reached the vault, entered the combination, and were no in clear view of the cash, she was quick to collect all of the remaining money. Her hands moved fast as she placed the stacks of money in her purse very carefully.
The money was then in our possession.
When we were about to leave, Y/n grabbed my wrist gently. She looked at me with those cold blue eyes, boring into me that I nearly forgot what our task was, however, she pulled me back.
“Take this bag, Harold. And put on your mask, trust me on this. Climb out the window when you reach the hall, alright? Run the second you exit this building. Okay?”
Her eyes didn’t leave mine when she instructed me, and I ended up doing what she asked. I took her purse gently from her shoulder, reaching in for the mask I had worn previously that was now under all the money. I slipped it over my head, only my eyes uncovered from this moment on.
She reached my hand, I remember, kissing the knuckles of my fingers. She smiled, almost evilly, but I remembered thinking it was because we were about to get away with robbery. However, I could have never been more wrong.
When I climbed out of the window in the hallway, police were surrounding me, guns pointing at me from every direction my eyes could see. My breathing slowed, I was almost suffocating. I dropped the bag from my hands, placing my arms above my head with reluctance. She had planned this, this whole time, she knew this was going to happen. The second I planted my feet on those grounds, I was a goner, a destined felon.
I was thrown against the building, being hit and spit on, handcuffed, my words then being used against us in the court of law.
I looked up at her, through the window. She was smiling, smoking her pack of cigarettes, as if this was a dream come true for her. She blew me a kiss, flicking the ashes from her cigarette down upon her feet.
Now, Jury, I know what you’re asking, or what you’ve been asking. What does the murder of my family have to do with my trial for robbing a bank? How had the murder of my family lead me to commit this crime?
Luckily for you, I happen to have an answer.
Y/n, the founder of my soul, the fire to my heart, my wonderful, beautiful, psychotic girlfriend, had kidnapped me.
Jury! My Y/n, my soul, my heart, my desire and life had completely held me captive in her beauty. What she did, it wasn’t done with originality, nor was it in the process of being acted upon with a well functioning brain. What she had done wasn’t normal. It wasn’t expected. It was a new stage of crime. She didn’t take me away in physical darkness. Mental darkness, maybe, but not physical. She didn’t take me away when I was alone in the middle of an abandoned alley with vulnerability taking over me. No. She was more careful than that, she was much smarter than that. It was a slow process, not something that could have been planned overnight.
I know she had committed the murder of my family. I know she had.
A couple of weeks before the murder, I had began to drink more frequently. I was too succumbed in my addictions of drugs and alcohol to have any intentions of communicating with her. She became my first priority to my last within a matter of days. I had only used her for my own bodily desires, and within those couple of months I was becoming too disconnected. I had even slept with numerous other women, too intoxicated to even notice the wrong.
This was also during the time my parents have been persuading me to dump my beautiful Y/n. They claimed she was psychotic, dragging my own sanity down with hers. They claim she will ruin the family, to leave her in the dust so that I can become the healthy, smart man I was supposed to become. However, picturing a day without her beautiful face was nonexistent. She has hypnotized me completely, and there was no getting rid of her.
It wasn’t until after the murder and after depression had completely taken over me that I had noticed my lovely Y/n to be more attached to me. She rarely let me leave the house, and if I did, it had to be with her guidance. She disconnected my phone, claiming that the murderer of my family could later chase after me. She sold my car, explaining that we had needed the money in order for us to look after Alfie with our greatest intentions. At first, in my entirely naive mind, I thought she was nervous that over a period of time, she will lose me like I had lost them. Like, maybe, she was holding onto me because she was worried for me. But it was after nearly four months of her loving me too much that I had realized that she was holding on to me so dearly because I was able to hold her like she had held me.
What had really made me figure out that she was the one that had executed my family was when the topic of her trip to the states was mentioned. Whenever Alfie and I had any curiosity about her stay, she always gave short answers. Quick responses with an immediate change of the subject. Y/n, I must say, was always a private person; very secure of herself. So at first, this did not concern me. What did concern me, however, was her lack of evidence that she had even left her home in Holmes Chapel. She was always the type of girl to buy a new book from every different place she had explored. From French fiction, La Recherche du Temps Perdu, to Russian classics, Lolita, to Slovenia novelas, Trik Je v Tem da Brathing. She was always the woman to get a book as a souvenir wherever she had gone.
On top of this, photographs on her polaroid were not taken, which was extremely rare of her. She was always on it, snapping pointless pictures of buildings, people, outfits she had wanted to wear, and even strange people she had found interesting. She was always one to capture the beauty of things, which was one of the primary reasons as to why I had fallen in love with her.
I had figured out through the process of her actions that she had murdered my family to be closer to me. It was clear that she was the only woman I was allowed to be with. Maybe the only person I was allowed to be with. I was held hostage with whom I was grown to believe was my safety and love. But in reality, I was held hostage to a murderer, a monster, a brute.
How did I not know this? Why did I just figure this out? She was in front of me the whole time and I was too blinded by her beauty and by the thought of her that I could not see. I couldn’t see, ladies and gentlemen! Was I just as mental as the women I had slept with every night or was I my own self-destructive maniac?
It was because of her course of action that I had decided to rob the bank. Not just because I wanted to fix our financial issues and keep our home, no. I wanted to get her arrested for her twisted, sickening, disgusting mind. Since the case of the murder of my family had been dropped due to lack of evidence, I needed her to be imprisoned. Whether it was for closure or for the injustice she has created, I wanted her arrested.
I hadn’t planned on getting caught, actually, but caught I was. I had planned on leaving back to the front of the building by the time Y/n was collecting the money from the vault. I planned to act like a victim under Y/n, the criminal.
However, I am guessing she had figured out my plan before the robbery, possibly by my lack of privacy, writing out every bit of my plan in my journal. So she had reversed the roles by using her twisted mind, manipulating me by her infatuating beauty. She knows what she does, and does it without a trace of guilt. It’s her specialty, her weapon.
Although I question how Alfie is doing when I’m alone in my cellar, I do know he is safe. I made sure that he’s safe. Before my plan, I sent him to stay with our aunt for a few days. This would distract him from what we were going to do. Y/n didn’t know of this, especially since I refused to have Alfie be near her without my presence.
For this, I am able to keep my sanity.
It’s hard for me to confess that I am still in love with my dearest. Her beauty and poise had captivated me in her insanity. I am still under her control, I feel like. I feel like I will always be.
Ladies and gentlemen, I do not care for your verdict. I just want my Y/n in jail for the rest of her life. I want her trapped the way she had trapped me. I want her to grow more insane than she already was. I want her to be tortured.
I hope this letter has helped my trial. I hope this was of benefit to you. I apologize for the troubles of my crime, and I apologize for my actions. I hope my reasoning is understandable. And I hope that there is a lessoned learned throughout my reasoning. I want you to remember, Jury, that you can feel love for anybody in this damned world, but always remember this lesson of which I had learned in the duration of my time being with my Y/n. The surface of a person’s soul could be the most beautiful thing you encounter, and it will make you believe you have everything you have ever dreamt of. But our minds betray us, and our eyes begin to disguise the dirt on purpose, just to satisfy ourselves.
Always be on guard. Always protect yourself. And always, always be prepared for the worst.
It takes more than just color to make a wolfdog. Black animals, in particular, can be difficult to phenotype, and for many people, identifying wolf content (or the lack thereof), can be rather complicated when black coat pigment comes into play.
Above are examples of animals that all have similar build and coloration; but only some have legitimate content.
1) Side-by-side comparison of a low/low-mid content next to an upper-mid/high-content wolfdog. Note the larger, more-rounded eyes, boxier muzzle, broader forehead, larger ears, and more heavily-pronounced stop of the lower-content animal to the left compared to the higher-content animal on the right. Despite similar appearances and nearly identical coat color, the two animals are clearly quite different in once individual traits are closely examined.
2) Image two shows a unique coloration manifesting in a purebred German shepherd. To the untrained eye, this dog may appear quite wolfy in appearance due to the silver undertones in the black coat. But, as mentioned, it takes more than just color for a canine to be considered a wolfdog; and this particular animal, while off-standard for the German shepherd breed, is nevertheless 100% domestic dog.
3) Another beautiful canine, also with a black-and-silver coat, who does indeed have wolf heritage. This is a mid-content wolfdog, mixed with some German shepherd, as made evident by the large and sparsely-furred ears. Unlike the pure German shepherd, though, this pup’s ears are notably more rounded at the tips, and are positioned in a less erect position atop its head. The stop is much smoother on the wolfdog, and the eyes are smaller and more angular, as well. It also has a fuller, more bottle-brushed tail, and appears to display stronger variation in the coat length (whereas a German shepherd’s fur is typically much more uniform).
4) Four is a perfect example of a purebred Siberian husky who is, according to its owner, often mistaken for a wolf or wolfdog. The confusion, the owner says, likely stems from the beautiful black coloration; however, it’s clear to see the doggy features in this animal: White markings, compact catlike paws, blue eyes, broad cheek bones, uniform coat length, pointed ears, and a curly white-tipped tail.
5) Five is a pure wild wolf from Alaska. You can clearly see the differences between him and the husky to the left. Not his prominent cheek ruffs, long pointed muzzle, rounded fully-furred ears, small angular eyes, downward-pointed bottle brush tail, large prominent toes, and varied coat length. He has a narrow chest, long nimble legs, and holds a low-to-the-ground posture.
6) Yet another fantastic comparison of a pure dog to a wolfdog with verified content. Both appear to have German shepherd influence, especially in the ears, yet the wolfdog is clearly much different, particularly in the structure of its skull. Note how narrow the muzzle is, and how the cheekbones are not as prominent on him as they are on the domestic dog.
Understandably, the black coloration of a canine can throw people for a loop when it comes to identifying wolf content. Which is exactly why it’s important to look beyond the color and focus on the detail hidden beneath it. Breaking down the traits of an animal, as seen above, aids in making a proper assessment and can help one differentiate between a domestic dog and an animal with true wolf heritage.