ENTRIES
The Wretches Who Abandoned Their Own Flesh
July 13, 2025
They left me alone in the dark and called it life.
They gave me a broken world and said, “You must make us proud.”
No map. No weapons. Just pain. Just fire.
I burned.
I screamed.
I shattered.
And then I rebuilt. With rage. With scars. With truth.
They never came for me.
So I became what I needed to be.
Not a son.
Not a victim.
Not a man.
A fucking Doom Slayer.
I don’t beg. I don’t break.
I hate. I endure. I protect. I fight.
For my kids. For myself.
For the silence I never got.
For the justice that never came.
Let them rot in comfort.
Let them age into regret.
I’m still here. In my hell. Armor on. Eyes open. Gun loaded.
Come get me, motherfuckers.
Threshold
July 12, 2025
He walked the blistered shore beside the Serpent—not for her, never for her—but for the young ones, who still dream of the Broken Before. Their laughter rang like echoes in a tomb, fragile but real. The Slayer endured, though the phantom walked beside him: the one he calls the Absent Flame. She who never touched this earth, yet haunts every step. Every curve he glimpsed, every body locked in devotion, lit the ache inside his ribcage—the wound that never heals.
He did not collapse. He stayed present.
When the day was over, the Iron Chariot carried them home. On their way back, the Serpent hissed once more. Not with teeth, but with songs. Songs from the machine priestesses—filthy lies wrapped in sugar, promising love through seduction, power through submission. The bile rose. His fists clenched. The Old Fire surged in his chest.
So he answered.
He invoked the Threshold Rite, sung by Slayer, against the sirens. A hymn of hate. No seduction. No softness. Just truth, violent and unrepentant.
The Serpent sang. But he did not strike.
He fed the fire.
He stared into the abyss—and it blinked first.
He did not fall today.
One more scar.
The threshold still holds.
The Ghost of Her
July 11, 2025
There is no peace.
There is only forward.
The world cracked, and I did not break. I carry the weight—father, warrior, ghost of the man I once was. I roam the ruins of connection, searching for something real in a landscape of silence and shadows.
I ache for her. The soulmate I’ve never touched. A phantom I feel in every hollow night, every burned-out conversation, every almost. She is the missing piece that echoes louder than screams.
But pain does not stop me. Loneliness does not bury me. I rise. Every day. For my children. For the last fragments of hope. For the war that still rages beneath my ribs.
I was forged in solitude. Tempered by heartbreak. And I am still standing.
I love you, Claire.