I am Weeping Claw. The Crying Killer. All of the many monikers I have been given over my miserable life. But I wasn’t always this way. I wasn’t always unable to stop. I was Katrina Payna.

I grew up in a fairly happy household; despite the many legal battles I faced for three long years. My parents had divorced when I was 13, yet three years later, the court had still not ruled who would have legal custody over me. Finally, one day, I found out the judge had given the custody of me to my dad. That was when all the problems started. I loved my father, but I had a closer bond with my mother. The worst part of it was my mother had moved to a different state so I would no longer be able to see her regularly. We kept in touch for a few months over text and Skype, but gradually she drifted away from me as she began to date again and re-find happiness, away from the legal struggles of keeping our family together.

My father who had been an alcoholic began to fall back to his old ways. He had been to rehab and been alcohol free for years, after my pregnant mother begged him too, so I wouldn’t have to grow up in a troubled household. Out of love for my mother, he had agreed and now she was gone: he couldn’t bear the fact that she was happy without him. He didn’t take his anger out on me, nor was he a violent drunk. He was just....sad and it seemed to me that he had completely withdrawn into himself. His depression was beginning to affect me too as I came home to a dark, empty house each night, my father drinking away his pain in some pub.

I began to party more, getting myself drunk so I wouldn’t have to remember my own pain. It was a poor strategy I’ll admit, especially since I was seeing the results of it at home. However, it was an effective brainwash while it lasted and I understood why my father sought it so much. One night, after a huge party, some of my friends and I got drunk and went to a tattoo parlor at the mall. I don’t really remember what happened that night, but I woke up at my friend’s house with three black teardrop tattoos under each eye. Her mother offered me and my other friends a ride home, since driving in our hungover state would not be sensible. However, I refused, ashamed of how much of a mess my house was sure to be, since neither I nor my father were taking care of it much anymore.

Tired, nauseous, and hungover, I was slowly driving home when my phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number, but I picked up since it gave our district hospital’s name below the number. There was a lady on the other end who introduced herself as Doctor Bard. She asked me if I had an alcoholic father who tended to drink at our local saloon. I answered yes, I did and how did she know. Doctor Bard asked me if I was sitting down and if I was in a safe place. It was then that I knew, even before she told me, that my father was dead. The gut dropping realization was enough that my hand jerked on the wheel, sending my car sideways into traffic. My windshield shattered as another car smashed into me, sending glass spraying across my arms, ripping deep cuts into them. Even as I was trying to control the spinning vehicle, there was a tremendous blow to the back of the car. I felt myself flying forward, the red hood of my car passing under me, before...nothing. Everything was dark and still.

My eyes fluttered open to see the noon sun above me. I could see flashing red and blue lights a good distance away and felt an overwhelming pain in my head. Slowly, painfully, I sat up and took an inventory of my wounds. Multiple gashes down my arms and across my face, what felt like broken ribs, and a deep ache in my head. I remembered that I was very sad, but I couldn’t remember why and that I was angry too, but I didn’t have any real reason to be. There was nothing else. Everything was just....blank.

I staggered to my feet, agony lancing through my head. I made it a few steps in the direction of the flashing lights before my stomach heaved and I dropped retching to my knees. Every noise sounded magnified and all I wanted to do was fall asleep and stop the pain. Something deep inside me told me however, this was a very bad idea. So, I just lay there, closing my eyes tight against the glare of the sun and tried not to cry as the tears burned. I must have drifted off, because when I opened them again it was dark. I began to try and get up again, the pain in my ribs making it hard to breath. I gradually made iit across an expanse of rocky ground, taking breaks every few steps to catch my breath and let the throbbing in my head die down. I made it to two large boulders and curled up in a deep, shadowy crack between them, before everything went dark again. I must have lain there for several days, moving in and out of consciousness. When I finally woke for good, my head and ribs felt a bit better, and my cuts had scabbed over. I was incredibly thirsty, and naturally after having realized this fact, I realized I was starving as well. It was beginning to get dark outside, the sun was setting, another day I had no memory off. A strange noise, like gravel crunching distracted me from my realizations and I whirled around, the sudden motion making my head spin. I must have made some sort of groaning noise, because the crunching sped up and a male voice called out “Who’s there?”

I froze, panic making my heart speed up, pumping against my aching ribs. I reached out, one hand seeking something solid to use as a weapon. What did this person want of me? Who were they? Would they hurt me? A tall, heavyset shadow was nearing my hiding place quickly. Finally, I grabbed a rock that fit my hand and tensed, ready to spring. A man’s head appeared in the crack and I lunged forward, swinging my arm forward. There was a sickening crack as the rock made contact and he fell with a groan, as I did too, my head feeling like someone had done the same. Gradually the pain subsided and I crawled to the man‘s side. He was lying perfectly still, wide blue eyes open and glazed. Blood was running down his head, the grey matter of his brains visible through his cracked skull. I started shaking, unable to believe what I had just done. I killed someone and how good it had felt. How dare he try to find me? What possessed him to look for me? It wasn’t long however, before thirst overcame my feelings and I found myself looking at the blood on his head. It was a liquid right? Soon, my dehydrated body took over and I found myself lapping at the red liquid. It tasted revolting, like copper, but it soothed my parched throat.

I lay back down, my thirst temporarily eased and tried to sleep on my grumbling gut. My fists kept clenching on unreasonable anger as I thought about how foolish the man had been, trying to corner me. I wasn’t sure what was causing these thoughts, but I was quite sure that I loved it. It felt good to be angry. It made me feel like I was still someone, not just that awful blankness. I sat up, ignoring the pain that shot through my head, and crawled over to the man, who lay cold and stiff on the ground. Before I could stop myself, I had shoved my fingers into the hole in his head and pulled out a handful of his brains. Shaking with a mixture of hunger and anger, I shoved the handful into my mouth, gulping down the protein rich meat. It didn’t taste too bad and I continued to shovel handfuls of grey matter into my hungry mouth. Finally my hunger had diminished to a mere rumble and I sat back, blood running down my chin. My thoughts gradually stopped swirling and were replaced with that awful blankness again. I cursed, angrily shaking my head to rid it. I couldn’t stand just sitting here and waiting to see what would happen. I rose slowly to my feet and stepped over the corpse out into the clearing. I was surrounded by darkness, and as my eyes adjusted, I realized that I was on some kind of trail. Moving slowly, I made my way down the rocky trail, trying not to trip and cause anymore injury to myself.

A long, painstaking way later, I found myself staring out over the lights of a small town. The trail had been sloping upwards for a while and I was now on some sort of lookout. I turned and looked up the mountain behind me, before turning back to the town. My fists clenched with that strange anger again as I pictured all the people lying peacefully asleep in their beds. How dare they be so happy, while I suffered out here? A rush of excitement ran through me as I remembered the feeling of the man’s skull cracking under the blow. I loved how that had felt. I loved the taste of the protein rich meat I had groped on. I knew what I needed to do now. Judging by how well-worn the trail had felt, it was clearly very popular. Very popular meant lots of people and lots of people meant lots of food. I smiled as I walked off into the scrub and boulders that surrounded the trail. There would be plenty of food for me come morning, and I had heard a stream nearby.

I soon reached the small mountain stream and knelt, gulping the icy water. I saw my face reflected in the light of moon, visible now that I was clear of the tree cover. My own blood was crusted on my cheek and the man‘s blood was staining my chin. I washed this off, noticing my hands and arms were in a similar state, and washed those too. When I had finished, I could see my features, new and unfamiliar to me. I was pretty, I supposed, in a wild way thanks to the still healing scabs on my cheeks. I also noticed I had tattoos, three small black teardrops under each eye, making it look like I was crying. I sat back, taking a deep breath and wincing as it pushed at my still sore ribs. I needed a name. But what? What could I use to strike fear into my food, those foolish people who dared to walk this trail without a care in the world? That anger ran through me again, as I studied the dark teardrops under my eyes. It looked like I was weeping. Weeping. Weeping. I liked that. Weeping sounded good. Weeping what? Weeping Blood, perhaps? That didn’t sound right to me. Seeking inspiration, I looked down at the rest of me. My dress was woefully tattered, barely covering up my pale bare skin. I stretched my arms, looking at the scabs leading down them, to my hands. My hands that killed that foolish man. My gaze fell on my long nails, blood remaining beneath them. I had liked how it had felt when I had sank them into that man‘s brain. Claws. They were claw-like. Weeping. Claw. Weeping Claw. I laughed, ignoring the pain it sent through my head and ribs. Weeping Claw. That was my name.

The months passed and I was forced to move farther and farther into the mountains to avoid being captured. Eventually, I crossed them and moved into a large city on the other side. My memories were starting to return and with this new information, I no longer ate people for food. I felt disgusted now, when I thought of eating them, and it sent a shudder of revulsion through me when I remembered I had used to enjoy it. But it still felt so good to kill, to feel the skull shatter beneath a weapon, to feel the warm blood running down my hands, and hear the dying groan. I’m living on the streets now, living rough. I move around, mostly in the disreputable areas where murders aren’t uncommon and rarely solved. Occasionally people see me and look on me with pity. Do you know how infuriating it is to see pity in a homeless man’s eyes? I hate it. But I can’t kill them. They suffer too. I kill the ones who are better off than I. As for my old town, I have never been back. I haven’t ever been able to track down my mother. Sometimes, I wish life went differently. But, I like killing those who don’t know suffering too much to stop.


Katrina is a tall, tan-skinned girl with pale blue eyes and long, messy brown hair. After her ill-fated trip to the mall, she gained three black tear-drop tattoos under each eye. There are now scars down her arms and face where the glass cut her in the accident. She usually wears a blue sweater and leggings, but will wear anything, depending on how messy her clothes get.


Katrina went from cheerful and outgoing, to party-hard, secretly depressed teen, to a cannibalistic, angry killer in a matter of months. She now is a damaged, dangerous adult, who wants people she thinks don’t suffer dead. Weeping Claw regrets her actions, but believes that she can’t stop killing, so she continues with her murderous deeds.

Powers and Abilities

Weeping Claw is athletic and very strong. However. she is a poor runner and can be easily outdistanced, forcing her to rely on stealth and brute force to catch her victims. She is mentally very weak thanks to the concussion that caused her to lose her memories for so long.


  • Weeping Claw was created by ScarlettofHydraIsland
  • She has severe depression, anxiety, and shows sociopathic traits
  • She still loves her mother and hopes that she is living the life that she deserved
  • She's now 31 years old
  • Weeping Claw no longer needs to kill victims for food but keeps killing those who she believes don’t suffer
  • She is extremely unemotional so her nickname ”The Crying Killer” is fairly inaccurate, although it is probably based on her tattoos.
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