Not Your Villain: La Llorona’s Support Group for Misunderstood Women


La Llorona had had enough.

Centuries of being blamed, misquoted, and Photoshopped into low-budget horror posters had finally pushed her over the edge. She wasn’t evil — she was traumatised. And honestly? She was tired of people thinking she just wandered around crying over her ghost children for fun.

So she did what any empowered, emotionally exhausted spirit would do in the digital age:
She started a support group.

Name?
“Not Your Villain: Women in Folklore Reclaiming the Narrative.”

Held every Wednesday night on Boo!m.

First to join was the Churail, logging in from rural Punjab with terrible WiFi and a visible chip on her shoulder.

“I don’t even eat men anymore,” she said on the first call, stirring her tea angrily. “But no one talks about why I started doing it in the first place. You cheat on your wife while she’s pregnant and I’m the monster?”

La Llorona nodded, dabbing at her tear-streaked face with a tissue that had somehow stayed wet since the 1600s. “They never ask about the context,” she sniffed. “I was grieving!”

Next came Medusa — camera off, mic on. “You think you had it bad?” she snapped. “I was minding my own business and got cursed for being attacked. Now every teenage boy with a sword thinks he can come for my neck.”

The group hummed in mutual rage.

They discussed trauma. They shared haunting tips. La Llorona recommended waterproof mascara. Medusa offered a tutorial on turning creepy exes to stone.

The Churail was still mad no one let her be part of feminist horror panels.

“I have range,” she growled. “I can wail and levitate.”

But just as they started to find healing…
He started showing up.

Uninvited. Silent. A pale figure with no face.

Slenderman.

At first, he just lurked. Turned his camera on without saying anything.

“I think he’s trying to manspook,” Medusa muttered.

“Does he even have trauma?” asked La Llorona. “He’s just… vibes and static.”

Every week, they’d kick him out. Every week, he’d find a way back in — camera always on, no expression, haunting the chat with ominous ellipses.

The Churail eventually threatened to curse his router.

“He probably thinks he’s being edgy,” Medusa rolled her eyes. “It’s giving ghostfisher.”

But despite the uninvited shadow, the group thrived.

They planned a podcast. Designed a merch line. Created a collaborative spreadsheet of misused tropes.

“Next time someone calls me a banshee,” said La Llorona, “I’m sending them my therapist’s number.”

The Churail smiled, fanged and proud. “Let’s haunt on our terms.”

Medusa nodded. “Stone cold solidarity.”

And somewhere, in the cursed corners of the internet, women once feared became women heard — unfiltered, unmuted, and undeniably not your villain.

(Except Slenderman. He’s still in the waiting room.)

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