◼️ @westrnnites ◼️

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▍ ❝   ABOUT MUSE.
an original character crafted for the horrorverse. LA waitress by day, cannibalistic serial killer by night. this account is not associated with hayden anhedönia. not a strictly lewd account but there will be occasional lewd.dead dove: do not eat; violence, language, drug and alcohol use, religious trauma, childhood abuse, sexual content, gore▍ ❝   INTERACTION INFO.
semi literate rp, occasional nsfw, feel free to add me to groupchats, fine with ic & ooc interactions, might be inactive due to work and such pls do not rush me to reply. account is mdni▍ ❝   DNI.
under 18, basic criteria, trump supporter, proshipper, shedtwt.

tortured poet

TRIGGER WARNING: child abuse. rape. attempted suicide. murder.❝ Calista was a troubled kid. Most killers are. Their story begins in Cheyenne, Oklahoma, with the name Cayleigh. a town where the wind howls a constant lament across the flat plains, a town with a population barely scraping 800 souls. In a place that small, anonymity is a luxury, one that Cayleigh was not blessed with, being their father was the towns beloved Sunday preacher, Pastor Daniel. Their mother, a quiet woman with dreams as big as the sun, was pushed into a marriage by her parents and forced and to settle once she met the pastor. To say the Caldwells were well known would be a gross understatement. They were a fixture, a constant presence, a guiding light for the people of Cheyenne. Being the preacher's kid came with constraints, a suffocating pressure to uphold an image of perfection. But behind the forced smiles and Sunday best lurked a terrifying reality. Cayleighs’ childhood was a dark and twisted secret, riddled with abuse inflicted upon them by the very man who preached love and peace to the town every week. From a young age, Cayleighs’ father would take his anger out on them, whether that be with simply yelling at them or much worse. Their mother, too scared to intervene, simply let the abuse go on. It escalated from slaps here and there to her father forcing himself on them. The first time it happened they were 9, and despite relentless screams, nobody came to their rescue. This carried on for years, each hymn sung in church felt like a mocking echo of the hell they endured at home.In their small, suffocating world, music became their sanctuary. It started with the dusty, out-of-tune piano in the church basement. Under the guise of practicing hymns, they taught themselves chords, letting their fingers wander beyond the prescribed melodies, pouring their unspoken pain into each note. Soon, their hands were restless, craving more. They scrounged up discarded instruments, a beat-up electric guitar with a missing string, a bass with a neck that bowed like a weary traveler, a worn acoustic guitar with a voice that resonated with the stories of the land, a rickety drumset that stayed in the attic of their home. Each instrument became a confidante, a vessel for their anger, and their dreams. While other children played games in the sun, Cayleigh was locked away, lost in the intricate patterns of music, building walls of sound to shield themselves from the reality of their life. Music wasn't just an escape; it was their life, their future, their salvation.But eventually their father discovered their endeavors, and put a halt to it immediately. Smashing up their piano, ripping the strings off their guitars, throwing out anything and everything to do with music. Cayleigh was left sobbing in their room; and later that night they made their way to the church, climbing up to the roof, and taking one last deep breath before falling forward. They didn’t get the sweet release of death that they so craved, instead met with the fury of their father and a lot of broken bones. He put them on house arrest, policing where they go and what they do, forcing them to become a hermit, a shell of their former self.Years went by, and the weight of their life became unbearable. The suffocating atmosphere of their house, the constant fear, the unending abuse - it was slowly crushing their spirit. Cayleigh knew they had to leave, to carve out a space where they could finally breathe, finally be themselves. At the age of 17, they realized that they would never be able to escape. Not with their father still here. So that night they hatched a plan.Sundays were obviously a busy day for the man, he was off preaching and meeting with families around town. That day while Cayleigh’ father was gone, they went into town, and bought themself a shiny new pocket knife using all the change that they’d scrounged up from random side hustles; mowing lawns, walking dogs, anything they could. They came home, and the night went on like normal. Their parents came home from work, they had dinner like normal, and soon enough it was 10pm and they were crawling into bed. And now? They waited. Every night at midnight their father would slip into their room. And sure enough, once that clock read 12:00 they heard the creaking of the floorboards down the hall. Their hand was under the pillow as they pretended to sleep, holding the knife with an iron grip. Soon enough the man was standing over them, slowly peeling back the covers. Before they could think, the knife was plunging deep into his chest.A sickening grin spread across their face. The one stab would’ve been enough, they were sure it hit his heart judging by the sheer amount of blood seeping out of him. But no, it wasn’t enough. More, they craved more. All those years of relentless torture and abuse were flushed out of their mind once they saw the look on that man’s face.Hours later, they fled. Took all the cash in the safe, shoved it into a duffle bag along with some clothes, and stole their neighbors motorcycle. One-hundred and eleven. That was what the autopsy report recorded as the amount of stab wounds found on Daniel Caldwells body the next day. But no knife, and no Cayleigh. And never again would there be a “Cayleigh.” Only Calista remained.After killing their father, they’ve never felt more alive. And so, they continued their spree. They lived in LA now, and boy were the men here easy targets. Creeps outside a bar, guys following them home from work, the usual. They got a tattoo commemorating each one. Like some sort of fucked up momento. Needless to say, they’re always adding more ink to their body . . . .

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written by :     ptolemaea
age :     eighteen
pronouns :     they / them
timezone :     est
extra :     tmasc, audhd & bpd

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