How to raise a monster property

𝓗𝓸𝔀 𝓽𝓸 𝓡𝓪𝓲𝓼𝓮 𝓪 𝓜𝓸𝓷𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻 𝓟𝓻𝓸𝓹𝓮𝓻𝓵𝔂 Dark nights have their own lesson plans. In this house, class begins with candle flicker and ends when the wax hardens like little graves in the November fog. The mother—elegant, elite, hair piled high, red silk like a warning—rocks the pram as if it were an altar on wheels. Golden scrollwork, a frame made from the great-grandparents’ bones, a family crest, a handle that knows many dark corridors. Inside, the heir babbles, about to bite his mother’s hand, which she will accept with a proud smile on dark red lips. His tiny face is marked with blood-red finger signs, proof of a recent dark consecration. “Courtesy first,” she whispers. “Then the screams.” The child gurgles, pleased with the order, licking thin threads of blood from the corners of his mouth. Learning is a form of love when done right: shadow studies, spider studies, the basics of doors that never close all the way, behind which certain secrets wait. Glass clinks softly in the pram’s footwell. A clear bottle, sealed carefully with resin, rocks on the cushions. A heart, fresh as a young morning—though in this house, mornings are not much appreciated. No one says what it is for. For hard times, when the child’s tongue asks for real comfort? For a trade, if the future demands a toll? Or as a silent reminder that love is an organ—and must turn hard when the night asks its price? Beside it lies the stuffed toy, old velvet, button eyes sewn down as if they’ve already seen too much. Children need something to take their hand at night when the mother’s hand is busy sorting prophecies. This one can hum a lullaby—or whisper which streets in this quarter you should avoid. On the carriage top the tomcat sleeps, curled into the warmth of the story. Cats are experts on thresholds. If he stays, the threshold is either safe—or so dangerous only a professional would stand guard here. He purrs in tones that sound like distant cellars. The mother lifts the candle closer to the child’s face, and the shadows turn the blood marks on his pale skin into bizarre tribal signs. Outside, the night pushes the next chapter up to the door. Whether this is a midnight tale, a script, or an oral account from one of the country’s darkest regions will be decided later… …when someone asks whose heart beat in that bottle—and why it still answers when asked. -Samara Blue/Kerstin Ellinghoven Made with Daz 3D I No Ki I Krefeld, 06.10.2025

Hours Spent: 14
Software Used: DAZ Studio 4 With IRAY, Photoshop