Andrew | Satanist

• Very good memory

• June cancer

• ISTP

• Likes to read horoscopes, but doesn’t believe in them

• Devoted

• Favorite animals: crows, wolves

• favorite food: the most ordinary ones, like milk chocolate and warm milky coffee

• Doesn't like oysters and garlic

• A pile of books on the shelf, many of which are still unread

• not against humor

• Loves to collect tattered leaflets and scrolls

• Loves small knitted toys (has a whole drawer of them under his bed)

From childhood, Andrew was different. While other children feared monsters in the closet, he peered into the darkness with a genuine, morbid curiosity, hoping to discern the outlines of something real. For him, darkness wasn't the absence of light, but rather a dense, living fabric concealing intriguing secrets. He was drawn to the transcendental and terrifying: demonology, ancient myths about monsters, occult symbols. He didn't just believe in it—he yearned for it to be true.

This morbid interest became his trump card and shield. In the schoolyard, he was an oddball, but an oddball with an aura of power. Andrew became a master of verbal terror, making up stories on the fly and telling them to his peers that left them transfixed in a mixture of horror and admiration. He didn't recount tales from the internet—he created them himself, imbuing every detail with his own conviction, nurtured in the dark. His words carried weight, and his quiet, measured voice made one believe the most incredible things. They feared him, avoided him, but also respected him, for he possessed what they sorely lacked—absolute, chilling fearlessness. He didn't play the brave man; he simply wasn't afraid.

By the age of seventeen, his childhood obsession had grown into something more, taking on a form and a name. Andrew surpassed all the fears of his parents and teachers, finally shedding the label of "strange child." He became a Satanist. But this wasn't rebellion for the sake of rebellion or blind worship of evil. It was something inherently unique to him.

Of course, here is the story of his parents.

Mark and Elena always believed their son Andrew was simply a very sensitive and profound child. At five, he asked to be read not fairy tales at night, but myths about the ancient Greek afterlife. At ten, he was doodling his notebooks with Gothic spires and imaginary monsters, which were far more interesting than his schoolwork.

They, a practical engineer and a kind teacher, didn't understand this affinity for the dark, but chalked it up to a fertile imagination. Mark grumbled that "the boy needs to go outside more, not sit in the corner," and tried to instill a love of football in him, suffering failure after failure. Elena, however, defended her son: "He's just searching for himself; it's a creative period."

Their quiet, predictable world shattered when Andrew turned seventeen. In their son's room, smelling of incense and old paper, they found not just drawings but Baphomet symbols, printed copies of LaVey's manifestos, and a black candle. The phrase "I am a Satanist," uttered by their boy with icy calm, sounded like a death sentence.

Their reaction was classic: scandal, tears, accusations. Mark screamed shame and demanded they "throw this devilry away." Elena, crying, asked, "We're good parents, right? We loved him, right? What did we do wrong?"

Since then, their connections, unfortunately, have been severed.

From a young age, Andrew had a morbid fascination with all things sinister and otherworldly. Monsters, demons—all things unknown beckoned him. He sought to spend as much time as possible in the dark, hoping to catch a glimpse of something unusual.

He told his peers, pampered and fearful, nightmarish stories of his own making. His words terrified them, but at the same time inspired a grudging respect. Andrew seemed to know no fear.

Upon reaching 17, he crossed the line and became a follower of Satanism, confirming the worst fears of those around him. His fascination with darkness took on a new, terrifying form.