My name is Sarah. I live in a pretty house

My name is Sarah. I live in a pretty house on a pretty street with my pretty family. On the outside, my life is perfect. But like most, I have my demons. This is my story.

His name was Peter, and he was tall, really tall, like 40 feet tall, but he was mine. I had never had my very own demon before and it kinda rocked. "Call me Sarah," I commanded.

Peter winced. Sarah was a biblical name and not the kind of word that a demon could swallow, even if it was his master's. He choked my name out like flaming vomit. The heat burned

in his throat. But his head remained bowed in supplication. "Fetch me the Vienna Sausages from that high shelf. Now." Peter was helpless not to obey. He reached.

He did not see the spider hiding behind the sausages. It was as big as a softball, pistol black. It's purple eyes gleamed. His fingers searched around the can, centimeters from

its pinchers. Suddenly, the black widow plunged, and started dancing, saying that he got "Rick rolled." It started singing with an oddly low voice, with other spiders doing

the safety dance. It was not a pretty scene at all, but it was a party scene. So with all the strength she could muster

she dove in, not minding that the smoke from the bar was infusing her pores and the fibers of her clothes with a stench that she'd carry with her for days despite showering and.

Flawed Flautist of the Frangipani Flower, whereupon they were overcome by the heady scent of those exquisitely fatal flora, falling to the floor as the Flautist flayed them all.