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The Only Truth... | Part One

The Only Truth I Know Is You Masterlist

John "Bucky" Egan x POW Flight Nurse!Female Reader

While your journeys are very different, fate brings both you and Major John Egan to Stalag VIIA in Moosburg, Germany.

Warnings: Language, Angst, Descriptions of Aerial Combat and Plane Crash, Reader Injury (2nd Degree Burns), Death, Blood, Gore, Angst, John Egan Injury, Forced March, Hospital Setting, POW Camp Setting, SS Officers, Mental Health Struggles, Inevitable Historical and Military Inaccuracies, Rating - 18+ ONLY.

Author’s Note: This is a work of fiction based off the portrayal by the actors in the Apple TV+ series. I hold nothing but respect for the real life individuals referenced within.

Word Count: 7531

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January 8, 1945

A cacophony of thunderous explosions and shrieking metal shredded your restful state where you lay perched on the bottom stretcher in the back of a C-47, desperately trying to recover from the routine 0400 wake-up that came on mission days before your arrival at the advance airfield where some eighteen wounded men would come under your care. As the plane lurched and shuddered again, you bolted upright, cracking your head on the middle stretcher above you with a sharp expletive as the rows of jerry cans that you had helped load to fight off pre-flight jitters rattled against the floor where they were strapped down.

You had never experienced flak before. You had trained for the possibility of it at the School of Air Evacuation in Bowman Field, Kentucky, but the reality of it was something entirely different. Watching pinpricks of daylight appear through the alarmingly thin skin of the aircraft flooded your mouth with the bitter taste of adrenaline, your heart pounding violently as it prepared to fight or flee – but given that you were thousands of feet in the air, neither of those options were really available to you. Scrambling to your feet, you stumbled along the narrow path between the supplies that had been crammed onto the plane to be left at the front, to be traded for wounded patients on landing, and tried to get to the nose of the plane. Tried to get to cockpit where Major Roy and Captain Mercer were, pilot and co-pilot – the senior officers. They would surely know what to do.

Grateful for the decision to add your sheepskin flight jacket and gloves to your uniform of olive drab jacket and slacks with shirt and tie, a garrison cap pinned onto your sensibly styled hair, you still felt a shiver run through you despite the added warmth as you neared the radioman Warren and the brand new, baby-faced navigator Schmidt. With brown eyes wide as saucers and freckles splattered haphazardly across his face, you would not have believed the boy to be a day over fifteen. Given the fact that the plane had wandered into the range of enemy guns, your suspicions were growing all the more likely. Turning to see the back of your surgical technician, Fitzgibbons, blocking the entry into cockpit, you were about to tap his shoulder when a shower of wet, hot viscera splattered across you from the left – the only trace of Warren that remained, as a ragged hole in the fuselage now replaced his radio operator’s position.

You were vaguely aware of someone screaming, not realizing the haunting and horrified noise was emanating from your throat until Fitzgibbons grabbed you by the shoulders and shook you firmly.

“Lieutenant!” He shouted, seemingly exasperated with you. “Are you hurt?!”

Snapping your mouth shut, you smeared your hands across your face and down your body, shaking your head as the acrid smell of fuel flooded your nostrils, returning your senses to you. You quickly looked to Schmidt on your right, worried he might have been in the line of fire, and frowned to see him trying to yank a sizeable piece of metal from his shoulder.

“No, don’t!” You shouted firmly and grabbed the first aid kit from the wall above him, quickly padding the penetrating object with gauze and wrapping it, finding the purpose and procedure of it steadying. “It’ll keep the bleeding slow, ok? Keep it in, Schmitty.” You offered what you hoped was a reassuring smile, but with the remnants of Warren, mixed with the contents of the fuel tanks, splattered across you, who was to say what image you presented in that moment.

“It’s all my fault. It’s all my fault Ma’am, we shouldn’t even be here, got lost in the clouds an…” He began to blubber, and the plane shuddered and lurched again as Mercer tried banking out of the hail of flak, fairly dumping you into his lap.

“Easy now, easy…” You cleared your throat as it began to burn with irritation, lifting your head to see smoke billowing in from the hole in the fuselage.

“That’s it, we’re bailing out!” Roy yelled from the cockpit as he hit the bailout bell and Fitzgibbons quickly collected your parachutes, but you insisted on sending Schmidt down the aisle and out the door behind the wing first, given that he was injured.

“You know what to do Schmitty, try not to land on that shoulder.” You nodded firmly as you strapped your parachute on, fumbling slightly due to shaking hands and your thick gloves, but the repetition during your training paid off with your eventual success.

“Yes, Ma’am.” He nodded before seeming to vanish out the side of the plane.

“Sergeant.” You turned to Fitzgibbons, but he shook his head.

“You may outrank me Ma’am but you’re still a lady.” He muttered stubbornly, gesturing insistently toward the door.

“Get a move on!” Came Mercer’s impatient cry from the now-distant cockpit and you glared at Fitzgibbons.

The smoke that had been curling around you ignited then, a wall of flame licking through the air, fixing to separate Fitzgibbons from the door. A look of pure terror crossed his face – in a plane loaded with fuel, carrying dozens of jerry cans and tanks of oxygen, fire was certain death. Gripping the doorframe tightly with your right hand, you flung your left forward in advance of the encroaching, fierce heat, somewhat protected by the leather you wore, though the searing pain on your wrist assured you the flames had still found a way through. Grasping the surgical technician by the collar, you yanked him toward you just before the oppressive wall of fire sealed off the front half of the plane, checking that he nor his parachute were alight before shoving him out the door. You did not wait long to follow him.

Tears were streaming down your cheeks as the sleeve of your jacket was smoldering, the leather hardening and shrinking, the fleece on the inside trapping agonizing heat against your flesh. But your first priority was gravity. Yanking on the ripcord, you cried out at the sharp jolt from your midsection as the parachute caught the air and flung you upward before you began a gentle descent. Then you were able to begin frantically smacking at your coat, trying in vain to stop further injury. But it was not the leather itself that was burning, rather the fuel that coated the surface of it, and it refused to be put out. You had to get the damn thing off.

At last the disorienting cloud gave way to mercifully flat Italian farmland, the ground rushing up to meet your feet. You punched the harness free from your chest, yanking off your gloves, and wrestling free of your coat before stumbling forward toward the sound of a nearby stream, collapsing onto your chest to submerge the screaming flesh of your arm into the icy water. The relief of it drew a soft sob from your throat. The sliver of skin that had been exposed between your sleeve and glove was already starting to blister, would surely scar. You could not see the rest of your forearm trapped beneath your uniform sleeve, but it might have faired somewhat better.

You could have happily lay there for all of eternity, numbing the agonized nerve endings in your arm, but the sharp press of a rifle muzzle between your shoulder blades brought an abrupt end to your moment of bliss.

“Up.” A sharp command was issued in an angry, accented voice and you carefully, if awkwardly, raised up onto your knees with your hands in the air, turning to face the man.

The German soldier’s eyes widened, and his jaw hung slightly open for a moment, his shock more than evident as you revealed yourself to be a woman, before a hardened mask fell over his features once more. He gestured sharply with his rifle for you to rise to your feet and you were quick to obey. He stepped forward, reaching out as if to search you and then stopped, once again looking to your face.

You had read a pamphlet once, on what to do if you were captured. At the time, the situation had seemed utterly preposterous and unlikely, but standing face to face with a German solider in the middle of occupied Italy, you were suddenly grateful you remember something of what to do. You gave him your name followed by,

“Second lieutenant. N-741432.”

“Leutnant?” He muttered, nose crinkling, but his gaze moved to the gold butter bar on first your right shoulder and then your left, the second lieutenant’s insignia. His eyes narrowed further to see the silver wings on your left breast with the prominent N denoting your status as a Flight Nurse. “Schwester…”

The first bit of German was easy to extrapolate, sounded very much like the English version of your rank, but the second sounded like ‘sister’ more than anything else and you were not entirely certain what he was trying to communicate. He seemed finished with the conversation when he motioned to the left with his rifle.

“Go.”

And so you went, keeping your arms raised despite the arching protest of the left, past the still-smoldering remains of your flight jacket and your gloves, past your parachute tumbling across the field on the icy breeze, towards a group of two more German soldiers who seemed equally shocked as your face came into view. You supposed the slacks and loose fit of your jacket made it difficult from a distance to determine that you were a woman, but each of them was quick to smother their reactions as soon as they were revealed. One of the new fellows, so blond he barely had eyebrows, motioned for you to drop your hands and you were barely able to conceal your pain in doing so.

A flurry of Germany left his lips, making your eyebrows furrow in confusion before he gestured at the wet sleeve of your jacket. “Hurt?”

Nodding emphatically, you swallowed, pulling the fabric up slightly to reveal some of the blistered skin. The three men turned to one another, and a rather heated debate ensued, or at least that was the impression you gleaned from their tones of voice and body language, before the loudest among them seemed to prevail.

“You, come, medic.” He grasped your uninjured elbow and led you through the field on a slightly different vector toward a semi-ruined barn where several German soldiers were receiving treatment.

A soldier bearing a white armband with the Geneva cross came over when your guide beckoned and after their brief exchange, gestured for you to take a seat on an old barrel. Taking a pair of scissors, the medic carefully cut through your jacket and shirt, revealing angry, blistered skin all the way up to your elbow. Very gently, your arm was bandaged before he offered you a couple of pills that you did not recognize, and you refused them with a soft shake of the head. He shrugged and tucked them back into his pocket.

“Go, schwester.”

You frowned and pointed at yourself. “Schwester?”

The medic nodded and pointed to your golden nurse’s Caduceus insignias pinned to the lower lapels of your jacket and your eyes widened in recognition. “Oh, nurse.” You muttered quietly and stood. “Thank you.” Nodding to the medic, you followed the soldier out of the farmhouse as you rolled up the ruined ends of your sleeves to keep them from flapping obnoxiously.

What followed was a seemingly endless amount of walking, your entire body beginning to shake with cold and shock, as the soldier sought out his commanding officer. Everything felt surreal, the sound of battle so close at hand, German soldiers all around you, casting repetitive glances your way – it felt as though you had stumbled into the wrong side of a John Wayne film. When, at last, you plodded into the correct house on the outskirts of a small village, you were unspeakably grateful for the fire roaring in the hearth behind the desk of the imposing German officer who glared down his nose at you.

“Too bad you’re a woman…” He muttered in startlingly good English, making it your turn to look on in shock as your legs threatened to give out. “I suppose you also only know name, rank, serial number?”

Clenching your jaw, you nodded stubbornly, trying not to let your face betray the way your heart lurched hopefully at the word ‘also’ and he exhaled a long-suffering sigh. “You can put the contents of your pockets in here.” He held out a small burlap sack and you frowned, but obediently surrendered your favorite tube of lipstick, the four spare hairpins you always carried around, and your change purse – things all stored in your uniform jacket as you found the pockets of the flight jacket too unreliable for storage anyway. Satisfied you were carrying nothing more, he nodded to the man behind you and issued an order in German.

It was difficult to convince your legs into motion again as you were led down to a grimy root cellar with a dirt floor and only one window letting in little light. You had never seen a more welcome sight in your entire life as Schmidt and Mercer lifted their faces to meet you, their equally grimy and worn-out but elated expressions quickly blurring behind tears of relief that mortifyingly flooded your eyes. Dabbing them away, you quickly moved to Schmidt’s side and frowned to see he still had the remnants of your hasty bandage job and the piece of shrapnel in place, seemingly not afforded the same medical care you had been.

“Shit, Schmitty, they didn’t do a thing for you did they.” Kneeling beside him you began to unravel the bandages and gauze. “This needs to come out, then. Captain, would you mind holding him still, sir?”

“I’ve got him.” He nodded and grabbed the boy’s hands as you took a steadying breath.

Wrapping your fingers around the protruding end of the warped, jagged piece of metal, you began to carefully pull it from his shoulder, angling it forward as an uneven, wider piece was revealed on the end. Schmidt did an admirable job of relegating his protests to whimpers and murmurs of ‘oh god,’ only letting out one great yelp as you pulled the last of it free. You would have preferred to flush the wound with something, but there was no water available. Encouragingly, though, there was no great gush of blood.

“You did so good, Schmitty.” You smiled broadly and frowned a moment at the filthy bandages you had removed from him before beginning to unravel the relatively clean ones from your own arm.

“M…Ma’am!” He protested, voice cracking as he saw the state of your skin.

“You’re at much higher risk of infection than me, Sergeant, I won’t take any argument.”

“I don’t suppose I have any say in this?” Captain Mercer arched one of his rather elegant, black eyebrows and you swallowed.

“I’m sorry sir, but not when it comes to medical treatment. Besides, they went out of their way to bandage me once, maybe they’ll do it again.” You muttered and tied off the dressing on Schmidt. “Let me know if it gets hot or more painful, ok?”

He nodded quickly, settling back against the wall and you followed suit, feeling quite fatigued, sore, and to your surprise, hungry. Resting your throbbing arm atop your knee, you leaned your head back against the bricks of the foundation, closing your eyes to listen to the scuff of jackboots across the floorboards above you. Your mind wanted to whirl like a top, to turn questions over and over like ‘Where are we?’ ‘What will they do with us?’ ‘How long will they keep us down here?’ ‘Where are Fitz and Roy?’ but it would just be a waste of energy. Your fate was no longer in your hands and what would happen next would come no matter how hard you dwelt upon it.

The sound of the door at the top of the stairs scraping across the worn floor had all three of your heads snapping up as three sets of feet tromped down into the cellar. It was difficult to hold back your smile as Fitzgibbons peered out from between two German soldiers, the first gesturing for him to join you all on the floor while the other set down a tin plate of thick slices of dark bread covered with thin smears of margarine and four mugs of bitter smelling, black coffee. The first soldier crouched down and pointed at your arm, speaking in German.

“I needed bandages.” You pointed at Schmidt, and he frowned, either not understanding, or unimpressed. Perhaps both.

He straightened with a huff before digging around in his woolen jacket to produce a thick, rectangular bundle, tossing it at you. The two of them then retreated upstairs, shutting the door firmly behind them. Fitzgibbons was on you almost immediately, grasping the folded bandage to unravel it curiously.

“This does not look good, Lieutenant.” He looked at your arm pointedly and you huffed.

“Schmitty was worse off, Fitz, needs must.” You muttered but held out your arm without further protest as he quickly familiarized himself with the foreign bandage and carefully wrapped as much of your burn as he could.

“Thank you for what you did, Ma’am.” He murmured, voice barely audible, and you shook your head quickly.

“You’d have done the same.”

He lifted his eyes to meet yours, gaze filled with a vulnerable uncertainty, and you squeezed his shoulder with your free hand.

“Let’s eat something you two.” Mercer chimed in once he had finished bandaging you and the four of you descended on the plate of food, which tasted a lot better than it appeared. The coffee was just as bitter as it smelled, but was hot and that was entirely welcome.

After the plate was emptied, Fitzgibbons looked to Mercer slowly. “Roy?”

The Captain shook his head and you swallowed your gulp of coffee painfully – of the six of you that had left the airstrip outside Rome that morning only four had made it. Two of you were injured, and your journey had most certainly only just begun now that you were captives of the German army.

As the slim shaft of light that penetrated the cellar began to fade, your companions were fetched one by one for individual questioning by the German officer who had greeted you upon your arrival. When it at last came to your turn, the sun was well set, and though you tried to pay more attention to the detail of the rustic country house, it was hard to pick out much in the low light of the sporadically placed candles.

There was a chair waiting for you opposite the desk this time and you sank into it gratefully, every muscle in your body tight with pain as it felt distinctly like someone was rubbing sandpaper over your superheated flesh with every movement you made.

“I’m terribly sorry about your radioman and pilot, must have been horribly shocking to see such things. What a terrible day you’ve endured Lieutenant.”

Shifting quietly in your chair, you shook your head as he offered a cigarette from a pack of Lucky Strikes – surely confiscated from one of your crew members as they were not so readily available in occupied Italy.

“Is there anything I can get you to ease your discomfort? Blankets? A coat? More bandages?”

Pressing your lips together in a thin line you dropped your gaze to your lap, focusing on filling your lungs to a count of three before slowly exhaling, then repeating the process. Each offer of comfort, each word of kindness was horridly tempting and yet the source also filled you with revulsion.

“It’s a far cry from Lido De Roma where you’re going, no beaches or sea air…” Your head jerked up in shock and a slow, devious smile curled onto the German officer’s thin lips as his mention of the 802nd Medical Air Evacuation Squadron’s posting finally garnered a reaction from you. “I hope you like the Alps, Lieutenant. You will see them on your way by.”

Tears of shame pricked the corners of your eyes, and you blinked them away furiously, looking to the side. Slamming his leather-clad palms flat onto the desk, you jumped and eyed him warily as he stood slowly. “If you have nothing of value to add, then?”

Inhaling slowly you repeated your name, rank, and serial number one last time – much to his ire – before he barked out an order to have you removed from the warmth of his office and returned to the cellar. This process was repeated several times at random intervals throughout the night, the four of you taking turns resting and watching for the unfriendly arrival of an errand boy soldier to haul you upstairs for another ‘chat’ with their English-speaking officer. Sometimes he was friendly, other times he was intimidating. Once he simply sat opposite you in the near-dark and glowered.

Eventually, time or patience ran out and just as the grey light of dawn began to permeate the misty winter morning, the four of you were marched as a group up the stairs and loaded into the back of a canvas-covered truck partially filled with crates. Wedging yourselves into what open spaces you could find, you had barely sat down before the vehicle lurched into motion and began its long and jolting ride to your next destination. The sun was much higher in the sky by the time you arrived at a small train station, emerging into midday, the mists long burned away. Herded across the tracks towards a cattle car, you were startled to see a group of other American soldiers – infantrymen, being loaded in.

“Up.” Came the command from the German soldier at your back and you reached up gratefully for the broad hand of corporal already in the car who helped hoist you inside.

“How the heck did you wind up here?! Ma’am…” He quickly tacked on, and you could not help but laugh a little at the bewildered expression on his face, shuffling further into the car as the last of your comrades were loaded in.

“Well the long and the short of it is, we ran into a bit of trouble during our flight…”

Captain Mercer scoffed as he came to stand behind you. “You could say that again, Lieutenant.”

The space was suddenly plunged into darkness as the door was slid shut and barred closed. You nearly toppled over as the train jostled forward, thanking Fitzgibbons as he steadied you. You embarked on a seemingly endless journey in darkness as the train ascended and descended, stopped and started, climbed and came down across unknown landscape. It was nigh impossible to see through the thin gaps between the slats of the car itself, but you knew from your ‘conversations’ with the officer that you were crossing the Alps. Could feel the air grow cold as you huddled closer to the men around you for what warmth you could glean as your breath hung from your lips in foggy exhales.

Your bladder ached until you could no longer deny needing to use the squalid bucket in the corner. Mercer, Fitzgibbons, and Schmidt formed a human wall with their backs to you, loudly clearing their throats as you took quite possibly the longest piss in the history of womankind. With that basic need met, the ravening hunger set in. Those slices of bread were long digested by the time the train came to a stop and disgorged the lot of you, blinking into the daylight like mole-people, squinting for signage.

“Moosburg.” Mercer muttered under his breath, and you hugged your arms tightly around yourself as you stumbled through the snow to form two lines as instructed by new soldiers whose uniforms sported the double lightning symbol of the SS.

You would had never thought it possible to envy a dead man, but standing there shivering in the snow as cruel-faced men in well-cut uniforms marched up and down the lines with their snarling dogs, you wondered if perhaps it would not have been better if that piece of flak had taken you out at the same time it had struck Warren. You were not entirely certain if you were strong enough for what was to come.

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April 11, 1945

Every step was an agony. It was remarkable, really, how many injuries two goons had managed to inflict on Bucky’s body in the brief moments between Buck’s escape and Lieutenant Colonel Clark’s intervention. At least two of his ribs were cracked by the butt of that rifle, severely hampering his ability to breathe properly. Then there had been the sharp kick to the back of his calf, wrenching his knee. The coupe-de-grace had been the left hook to his jaw, shredding the inside of his lower lip across his teeth and flooding his mouth with blood. If Clark had not called them off with the threat of riot, Bucky was not entirely sure he would have made it out of that village.

As it was, he had barely made it off the floor of the church the next night, requiring a great deal of prodding from DeMarco. Teeth gritted against the raw ache in every limb, every joint, he had risen to his feet through sheer force of will, knowing the alternative was a bullet to the brain. Somehow even though Buck was well on his way back to the American lines – by god he truly hoped so – Bucky could not face the thought of disappointing him by dying like that and so he had persisted. Had kept putting one foot in front of the other as they had trudged through the mud, crossing the Danube, putting another twenty kilometres between them and Nuremberg.

It had not made it any easier to keep up, however. Bucky had felt himself slowing, felt his body refusing to keep pace with the rest of the men. Every time he had lifted his eyes from the boots of those in front of him plodding through the endless muck, he had been surrounded by different faces. As he had neared the back of the group, lightheaded from pain and lack of oxygen, he had taken a second glance as he realized the faces around him were those of Brady, Cruikshank, DeMarco, Murphy, and Hamilton – all men from the Hundredth. All had been keeping pace with him.

“We’re almost at 20, Bucky.” Brady had murmured quietly under his breath, glancing back at the pair of goons bringing up the rear.

“Keep it up.” Cruikshank had nodded encouragingly.

By some miracle he had made it into the half-collapsed warehouse, crawling into a corner that was still partially covered by its patchy roof and had promptly fallen asleep. There had been a gentle prodding against his shoulder sometime later, daylight filtering in through the dust motes drifting thickly in the air and an offering of bread had been waved in front of his face. He had pushed it away clumsily before falling back asleep. Bucky’s next return to consciousness had been with his arms slung across the shoulders of DeMarco and Brady, a great amount of protest falling from their lips about the size of him.

It had been dark again. Darkness meant more walking and so he had awkwardly planted his feet. Relieved sighs had filled his ears from both his companions as the three of them worked together to propel him out of there and down the muddy road. Night had yielded to the hazy light of dawn and at last a sea of barbed wire fences, clapboard buildings and canvas tents came into view. Bucky had quite honestly never been so pleased to see a Stalag in his entire existence.

“Almost there.” Groaned Hamilton, who had since switched off with DeMarco, though the stalwart Brady had yet to budge from beneath his right arm.

As they stepped through the gates into the main courtyard, Bucky lifted his head to eye Clark blearily. “Guess they’re not gonna process us.” His words were slightly slurred as he tried to present his usual level of joviality, but the man’s brows only furrowed deeply in response.

“Get him to the hospital immediately.”

There was a chorus of ‘yes sirs’ and some hesitation before Hamilton and Brady got their bearings, but then they were on the move again. Bucky’s legs were barely responding by this point, toes mostly dragging through the incessant muddy landscape that seemed a consistent feature of every Stalag he’d had the misfortune of visiting thus far. As his vision began to go fuzzy, black dots eating away at it while it simultaneously began to dim at the edges, Bucky began to worry this might be his last camp.

“Put him right there please.”

Bucky tried to swing his head towards the most musical sound he had heard in over a year, but Hamilton and Brady were turning him to lay on his stomach, rambling about the broken ribs on his back and all he could see were worn wooden floorboards. Until suddenly your gorgeous face flooded his vision as you knelt beside his cot, your shockingly feminine fingers cradling his face to gently turn it and ensure he was not smothered in the pillow.

The style of your hair, the lashes framing your eyes, the cupid’s bow of your upper lip – the unmistakable womanliness of you; it made his heart ache.

“Must be in heaven…” He slurred as there was certainly no way he could be alive anymore. Women did not exist in this reality of underfed men and murderous goons.

“They got you good, Major, but you’re still very much with us.” You smiled warmly up at him, and he groaned out a laugh, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“You’re killing me, angel face.” He wheezed, lips clumsy and barely responsive, before promptly blacking out.

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Your heart plummeted as you watched his eyelids fall, shuttering those stunning, if exhausted, blue eyes, terrified you had lost another one before you even had the chance to try and save him. Fingers delving beneath the collar of his shirt, you were greatly relieved to find his strong pulse. Holding your cheek in front of his notably plush lips, the bottom one all the more pronounced by his recent injury, you were even more encouraged to feel the caress of his steady breathing. Sitting back on your heels, you nodded up to his mismatched pair of friends reassuringly.

“Did he just call her ‘angelfish?’” The blond one with angular features and a mouthful of gold muttered as they watched over their friend protectively but also seeming shocked, as everyone before them had been, to find an American woman in a POW camp.

“Maybe he was going for ‘angel face?’” The brunette with sturdy eyebrows replied in a hushed voice.

“Are you gentlemen in need of anything?” You asked, fighting hard against the amused smile that wanted to break through. They were truly a distraction when you had a patient in need of attention before you.

“No, Ma’am.”

“Thank you, Ma’am” They shuffled off to leave you to your work.

Taking a moment to assess the length and breadth of your patient, you carefully worked off his leather flight jacket before untucking his uniform shirt and undershirt to reveal the deep purple bruises on his back. His friends had been very right to be worried about broken ribs – at least three by the span of the contusion. Kneeling back down you looked over his face once more, gently lifting his head to inspect both cheeks and confirm the bones were all intact. There did not appear to be anything in need of bandaging. It was most likely that undernourishment, the march, and the broken ribs all compounded to extreme exhaustion.

“What do we have here, Nurse?”

You looked up as Major Chalmers, a British surgeon, and head of the hospital emerged from one of the exam rooms. He had been a resident POW of Stalag VIIA for nearly eight months when you arrived in January, happily surrendering one of his exam rooms to become your separate quarters in return for your work in the camp hospital. It was an arrangement that benefited both of you, kept you safe and out of the male population and occupied the long and lonely hours that seemed to pass at their own pace in this place.

Chalmers had done what he could to care for your burned arm, re-bandaging it daily. However, by the time he had been able to start giving it proper care, the damage had already been done. The skin was now permanently mottled by scars, unnaturally smooth, with a texture akin to crumpled cellophane. You were always very mindful to keep your mended sleeve down to your wrist. It was not all that difficult to cover your shame when the rest of your wardrobe consisted of standard men’s POW wear from the Red Cross – the sweaters draping over half your hands and the winter coat blissfully warm but nearly swallowing you whole.

It was only due to Chalmers’ temerity that anyone walked away from the camp hospital at all. With supplies chronically low, men were dying of the most preventable and treatable things. All you could do most of the time was put on a brave face and hold their hand, give them a little comfort at the end. Even Schimdt, despite your best efforts, had found his shoulder wound quickly beset with infection in the less than sanitary environment. Penicillin was non-existent here and he had faded fast, lost in a feverish delirium as you held tight to his hand, watching the light fade from his burning eyes. Your brave façade was second nature to you by this point, showing itself more often than your real, bedraggled self who only showed her face in the cold isolation of your locked exam-room-turned-solo-combine at night.

“Newly arrived American Major, force marched over eight days, beaten two nights ago. At least three broken ribs, damage to lower lip, abrasions to the face and contusions to the back but nothing else I can see. Pulse is strong, breathing is steady, but lost consciousness almost as soon as we laid him down, sir.”

“Hmmm.” Chalmers made a noise of displeasure at the last and conducted his own exam, digging out one of the makeshift charts to add some notes before glancing at his watch. “Do we know when he last ate?”

“No, sir.” You shook your head.

“Alright, I want you to sit with him and keep an eye on his vitals. Hopefully, he’s simply sleeping this off, but I want you to get some water and broth in him as soon as he wakes up alright?”

“Yes, sir.”

Collecting the requisite liquids, you settled onto the sliver of floor space between the Major’s cot and his neighbor’s, working at folding some boiled and dried bandages, now ready for re-use. The actual hospital itself was unspeakably crowded, men nearly stacked atop one another around a small cast iron stove. Originally built for 10,000, the camp’s population had been well over that when you had arrived in January and seemed to multiply every week now. Things had become so dire, a tent hospital had been erected adjacent to the building you lived and worked in to allow for the treatment of more men. It was crowded and ripe, and even surrounded by all these humans you still felt alone as the sole representative of your sex.

As you pulled each strand of once-white fabric from the basket, carefully rolling and tucking the ends to form neat bundles, you studied the unconscious man’s face. Errant dark curls were dangling across his tall forehead and the most absurd and yet endearing dusting of hair graced his upper lip. Clearly, he was going for a Clark Gable, but it was not quite there. Even with one ear poking a mile out to the side, however, you swallowed tightly as you realized you would not change a thing about him. Taken individually his attributes seemed odd, yet combined to make an incredibly handsome whole. Not to mention his feet were dangling off the end of his cot, his shoulders barely contained by the sides of it. If he woke up, no when he woke up, he was going to be a devastating sight to behold.

Reaching the midway point of your task, you slid forward onto your knees to check his vitals, pleased they were holding steady and noting so on the chart, before settling back onto the floor. You had nearly reached the bottom of the basket when a pair of boots entered the hospital. Not German, you had long since become familiar with the way jackboots reverberated across wooden floorboards. Most likely American or British. Peering around the end of the bed your eyes widened as you caught a glimpse of a silver oak leaf – a Lieutenant Colonel! That was the highest rank you had yet to encounter in camp.

Struggling to disentangle yourself from your laundry and not kick over your patient’s waiting fluids in the process of trying to rise to your feet and accord the man the proper greeting that his rank entitled him, you looked up startled as he addressed you first.

“At ease, Nurse.”

He was the first man to seem utterly unfazed by your presence and you somehow found that unspeakably reassuring.

“Thank you, Colonel.”

“How is Major Egan?” He peered down at the still very much asleep man.

“Major Chalmers, our Surgeon, is certain it is no more than a case of exhaustion and he will recover with rest and fluids upon waking. He’s just down the hallway behind you there if you’d like to speak to him yourself, sir.”

He nodded thoughtfully as he glanced over his shoulder before looking back to you. “The Red Cross knows you’re here?”

“I filled out the card when I arrived in January, sir.” You nodded.

“Where have they put you?”

“Converted one of the exam rooms, sir. I eat, sleep, bathe separately.”

“Good.” He nodded in return, seeming quite satisfied with your answer. “Name’s Clark, please find me if you need anything.”

“Thank you very much, Colonel.” You smiled warmly, feeling strangely fragile as the warmth of it actually emanated from deep inside you rather than a mask plastered on for the comfort of the recipient.

Dismissing himself from your presence with one sharp nod, he turned to follow your directions down the hall, most likely in search of Chalmers. Turning back to eye your patient, Major Egan, you sighed a little as he remained blissfully unconscious, lips parted against the thin pillow to allow heavy exhales to fall rhythmically. There was little change to his condition as the sun made its way across the sky before hovering at the horizon, preparing to set. Your dinner was delivered to the bedside and there was a rather heated exchange between Chalmers, Clark, and a few of the guards before they conceded you could remain unlocked for the night to keep an eye on your fragile patient. This Lieutenant Colonel was obviously not someone to be trifled with.

You waved off Chalmers when he asked if you were up to the task, taking advantage of his presence to make a quick bathroom run and fetch a blanket before returning to your post. It was your first night spent amongst others in months, their soft snores and nightly noises combining with the sound of rain pattering onto the ramshackle roof to do their very best to pull you under into sleep. The downward slide of your eyelids was halted abruptly by the first vocalization from Major Egan since his contested term of endearment – angel face? Angelfish? Whatever it had been, silence had since reigned over his mouth until he began to mutter and emit soft sounds of protest, his features tense and furrowed. Shifting up onto your knees, you lay one hand over his clenched fist, trying to smooth the crease in his brow with the thumb of your other.

“It’s alright Major Egan, you’re safe.” You soothed in a hushed whisper, hoping to dispel whatever unseen terror was plaguing his thus far peaceful sleep.

He shifted slightly in response, lips smacking a little as his hand moved with alarming speed to engulf yours in a tight grip and hold it close to the side of his chest. Barely smothering your gasp of surprise, you held your breath a moment until he stilled completely, features relaxing and breath evening out as he slipped deeper into sleep once more. Exhaling slowly you gnawed on your lip a moment before shifting to sit on the floor with your back against the cot, hand still very much held captive by his. Allowing yourself to drift a little more, quite certain any movement on his part would now alert you to his wakening, you barely noticed the hourly checks the goons were making on you – clearly uneasy about having you roam free amongst the hospital patients, but for whatever reason Clark’s demands had been honored and it was a refreshing change around here.

It was just before dawn of the following day when Major Egan began to shuffle and groan behind you, your hand slipping free from his. You straightened stiffly, turn to watch him roll onto his uninjured side and take stock of his surroundings.

“Good morning, Major, have a good rest?” You asked quietly, hoping not to wake the others sleeping around him.

His head immediately snapped down towards you and he eyed you in bewilderment once again. “I thought you were a hallucination.” He rumbled, voice roughened by disuse.

You smirked slightly and nodded. “I got that impression. Thirsty?”

He bobbed his head in a small nod, and you slid to your feet, grasping his elbows to help him sit up. Grabbing the mug from the ground, you offered it to him, only allowing him to take a small sip before pulling it back. He blinked at you sluggishly for a moment before you offered him the mug again. After three limited sips, which he clearly found frustrating, you allowed him to keep hold of the mug as you wrapped your fingers around his thick wrist to track his pulse.

“How long was I out?” He asked once you were finished noting your findings on his chart.

“Almost a day. Seems as though you really needed the rest. Ready to try a little broth?” You smiled as he nodded once more and picked up the other mug from the ground. “I saved you some, I’ll get it warmed up.”

He slowly lay back down as you took the mug of broth over to the stove in the centre of the room and set it on top, swirling the liquid until it was steaming and then decanting it into his now empty water mug so it would not burn his hands. As you returned to his bedside, he leveraged himself up with barely concealed, painful effort and you frowned as you set the mug in his hands.

“I’m here to help with that, Major.”

“Please,” he took a sip of the steaming liquid, “call me Bucky.”

You smiled and introduced yourself properly as well before your lips tugged into a mischievous grin. “But do feel free to keep calling me angelfish, I certainly haven’t gotten that one before.”

He choked a little on his next sip, giving you a rueful albeit lazy smirk. “Kick a man when he’s down why don’t ya, angelfish.”

You were unsuccessful in smothering your answering giggle, several of the men around you muttering and tossing restlessly as you had accidentally woken them. Bucky pressed a long finger to his lips teasingly before turning back to his broth, slowly finishing it before setting the empty mug on the floor beside the low cot.

“I uh, am sure the facilities are lacking but…” He raised an eyebrow meaningfully and you swallowed, gesturing for him to follow you, and assessing his movements with your medically trained eye.

It was of course a test, of his balance, pain level, and energy to see how he moved across the floor and into the rustic patients’ washroom. You, of course, left him to his own devices in there, but walked him back to the bed, noting how he grew stiffer with each step.

“I’m sorry we don’t have anything for the pain.” You whispered when he lay down once more on his stomach, small grunts of discomfort escaping him.

He shook his head. “S’fine, angelfish.” He mumbled softly, sleep tugging at him again already as you tucked him in with the worn blanket.

“Rest then, Bucky.” You soothed, relieved that he was quite cognizant, able to keep his food down, and resting well.

This one might make it.

-------------------------

Read Part Two

The Only Truth I Know Is You Masterlist

Tag list: @gretagerwigsmuse, @luminouslywriting, @softspeirs, @sunny747

#john egan x reader #major john egan x reader #bucky egan x reader #john egan fic #john egan imagine #john egan #mota fanfic #masters of the air fanfiction

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disneyanddisneyships · 8 months

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Malaponi

The thing is that for this song it can go two ways. SO.

Mal as Elsa, aponi as Anna:

"Mal?!"

Mal turned around at the sound of her best friends voice echoing in her ears.

Lilly?

"Who's asking?" Mal stated, not trusting that her best friend would be in hell of all places.

"What're you doing here?" Lilly asked.

Oh god... it WAS lilly... Mal could recognize that smile anywhere.

"Me?! What the hell are YOU doing here?!" Mal all but yelled as she looked at her best friend's demon form, attempting to figure out what she was based on.

"Well uh.. suicide can do that to a person," Lilly joked. "I can't believe you're here!" She exclaimed as she moved to hug her friend.

Mal stepped back...

Oh god... it was my fault that she died wasn't it?

Standing frozen in this life I've chosen Please, don't find me, the past is all behind me Leave me in the snow, let me go

Mal stood frozen in place.

"Mal, wha-"

"Please go away..... I'm bad for you.... just let me go...." Mal muttered before hugging herself with her arms, beginning to walk away.

No, Elsa, wait, don't go! I'm just trying to protect you! You don't have to protect me! I'm not afraid! What do you want, Anna?

"What?! No!" Lilly scolded, grabbing Mal's arm gently, turning Mal towards her.

"I'm trying to protect you!" Mal replied, pulling her arm out of Lilly's grasp.

"Protect me? From what? Im not afraid!" Lilly stated.

"What do you want from me, Lilly?" Mal asked, a bit more harsh than she would've liked.

This. Just you and I talking and chatting and taking up space And you, you look so at peace, which I did not predict after what all took place I'm so sorry, I didn't know, I couldn't see I knew you were hiding, but selfishly thought you were hiding from me That's why I've come all this way: to look in your eyes and say I can't lose you, not again I can't lose you like then If you could see yourself the way I do Then you'd see why I can't lose you

"I just.. want THIS.... you and I talking... being best friends Luke we used to be.... you seem at peace here.... I'm happy about that..... I didn't expect you would be after you ran away but.. you seem happy...." Lilly spoke.

Mal stayed silent, not meeting Lilly's eyes.

"Im... I'm sorry I didn't try harder.... when you told me to leave you alone.. I selfishly thought it was personal... and I'm sorry.... but... I... I can't lose you... not again.... I can't lose you like I lost you then," Lilly stated.

Mal looked up at her, tears evident in her eyes.

"I wish you could see yourself the way I do.... maybe you'd figure out why I can't lose you," Lilly finished.

Silence from Mal.

Lilly sighed and nodded, her smile fading before she began to walk away.

Wait! I'm happy you came but it's not safe to stay here and talk Don't get close! This is all so brand new, let me first learn to crawl before I try to walk I'm at home here, out in the cold, up in the air But it all turns to chaos near people I love and, with how much I care, Please, don't remind me to feel, believe me, the danger is real

Mal grabbed Lilly's hand.

"I'm happy you're here.... but it's not safe for you to stay.... we haven't done rhis in a while just... let me crawl before i can walk," Mal replied.

Lilly stayed silent, listening.

"I feel like im home... but everything turns to chaos when I'm around the people I love..... I'm bad luck.. if you're around me, you're in danger," Mal explained.

I can't lose you, not again I can't lose you like then You don't know the things that I can do Keep your distance, 'cause I can't lose you

"I can't lose you either.... not again.... but you don't know what's happen.... you need to keep your distance because I cannot lose you like I lost you back then," Mal explained, remembering when she had seen the news about Lilly's suicide.

You have to listen, I've come here to tell you That everything's different now that I understand I know you mean well, but the air's getting colder Just leave me alone, let me get this in hand But I'm here for you, we can fix this together For once try to trust me, I'm begging you now Don't you see I'm the storm and you make it worse? I would fix it, but I don't know how

"You have to listen to me, lilly-"

"Everything's different now! I understand!" Lilly interrupted.

"I get that you mean well. But things are gonna get bad real fast. Just leave me alone... let me figure stuff out," Mal stated.

"Mal, I'm here for you! We can fix this together. For once just listen to me! I'll beg you if i have to!" Lilly argued.

"You just make things worse! I can't control my emotions when you're here! It's going to get you hurt!" Mal scolded.

Lilly stared at mal, somewhat angrily.

Anna & Elsa: I can't lose you, try to see Anna: Why can't you turn to me? Elsa: I'm trying to tell you that Anna & Elsa: I can't lose you like before Elsa: As much as I wish, I can't open that door Anna: Why can't you open that door? Anna & Elsa: If you loved yourself the way I do Then you'd see why I can't lose you

"I cant lose you!" Lilly yelled. "Try to see! Why don't you feel like you can turn to me?!" She asked, desperately.

"I'm trying to tell you that I xant lose you like before! I xant be the one to reopen that door!" Mal yelled back.

"If you knew how much you meant to me you'd see why i can't lose you!" Lilly shouted back.

Mal sighed before wlaking away without another word, leaving Lilly there alone, tears streaming down her face.

Aponi as Elsa, Mal as Anna:

Aponi walked backstage after her performance, tugging at the collar Valentino had made her wear while she danced.

As aponi took off her makeup, she heard a knock on the door.

"Come in!" She called out, expecting Angel dust to waltz through the door.

But instead she was met with a voice she never thought she'd hear again. Especially not after her suicide.

"Lilly?"

Aponi turned around quickly.

"Mal," she deadpanned, the shock eminent on her face.

Standing frozen in this life I've chosen Please, don't find me, the past is all behind me Leave me in the snow, let me go

Aponi stood there like a deer in headlights, not making a move.

Then she remembered the Val's threat that one day when she had disobeyed him.

"I'll rip out the hearts of anyone you love, little butterfly,"

"You have to leave....." Aponi stated as she turned her back on Mal.

No, Elsa, wait, don't go! I'm just trying to protect you! You don't have to protect me! I'm not afraid! What do you want, Anna?

"What? No! I haven't seen you in years! If you hate me, just say so!" Mal fought back.

"I'm trying to protect you," Aponi muttered.

"You? Protect me? You have NO idea what my life was like Lilly," Mal stated.

Aponi sighed. "What do you want?" She asked, bitterly.

"What do I want?! This! I missed you! I saw your performance! You looked more at peace than you ever have! And..... I wouldn't expect that... down here of all places.... especially after I saw what happened on the news...." Mal explained. "I'm sorry..... I thought you would've hated me after I snapped at you.... I didn't know that you..... I didn't know that he was...." Mal trailed off.

Mal looked down in shame, remembering the day she found out Lilly had killed herself.

".... I can't lose you.... not again..... I can't lose you like then," she whispered, a tear rolling down her cheek.

"I'm happy you came.... I'm happy you're here, I really am... but its....." Lilly looked around the room at the cameras. "Its not safe here for you right now...." she muttered.

Mal took a step towards her, only to be met with Lilly taking a step back.

"Dont get close...... its... I'm not comfortable with touching just yet," she lied. "I feel at home here.... but shut is gonna hit the fan if I give in to this...." she stated, hiding the way her hands were shaking.

I can't lose you, not again I can't lose you like then You don't know the things that I can do Keep your distance, 'cause I can't lose you

"I can't lose you either.... not like back then.... so please.... get away from me.... I can't lose you...." Lilly whispered, a flood of tears rolling down her face as she pushed away her best friend. Her everything.

"No no! I get it now! I understand!" Mal stated with a hopeful smile.

"You mean well, and I get it. But please just leave me alone...." Aponi muttered, turningher back on mal again and taking off the rest of her now smudged makeup.

"Lilly, I'm here for you! We can fix everything between us! Please trust me!" Mal smiled as she held out her hand to Aponi.

"Mal you're gonna make everything worse... I can't fix this," Aponi argued with a tired breath.

"I cant lose you! Why won't you turn to me!?" Mal asked, helplessly.

"I'm trying to protect you! I can't lose enough like before! Please leave.. close the door," Aponi pleaded.

"If you would just listen to me! Just see yourself the way I see you!" Mal stated as she placed her hand over Lilly's.

"Get out, Mallory,"

Mal's eyes widened and she took her hand back.

Aponi gently pushed Mal out of her dressing room, closing the door and locking it before sliding down to the ground, crying.

She had to say it.... it was the only way to get Mal out of the room....

She had to say it.

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wheel-of-fish · 2 months

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Ethan Freeman weekend link roundup!

A huge thanks to Dannii at @behindthemirrorofmusic for organizing and to everyone who came out to celebrate his 65th birthday with us! It was so fun doing a collaboration like this.

Featured content

Full video: Ethan Freeman, Anne Gorner & Nikolaj Brucker (Essen 2006, his last performance as the Phantom)

Full video: Ethan Freeman, Julie Washington & Simon Bowman (London 1995)

Ethan Freeman at 65: Dannii's brand-new, hour-long documentary about Ethan and his career, featuring lots of interview footage and performance clips

Special birthday episode of Behind the Mirror of Music podcast: Features many rare recordings!

Albums

With You (solo album): Apple Music | Spotify | YouTube

The Phantom of the Opera & Love Never Dies (Highlights) feat. Claire Moore and John Barrowman: Apple Music | Spotify

Other fun stuff

The Ethan Freeman Appreciation YouTube channel

@ethanfreemanappreciation here on Tumblr

Ethan reads excerpts from The Phantom of the Opera by Gaston Leroux

"'Til I Hear You Sing" (live)

Where to find Ethan

Instagram: @ethan_daniel_freemanactor and @art_ethandanielfreeman

Facebook

#ethan freeman #saturday streams

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jupitersrising · 21 days

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The sequel to "Brand Bowman's Guide to Making Dino-Nuggets" is out now!

Read chapter one of "Brand Bowman's Guide to Bisexuality, Break-Ups, and Brotherhood" here!

There will be updates every Friday and nine ~3k word chapters.

#camp cretaceous #jwcc #jurassic world camp cretaceous #ao3 fanfic #fanfic #darius bowman #brand bowman #kenji kon

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mangosaurus · 4 months

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going out for new years tonight so i probably wont get this done until tomorrow at best but oh we are so in it

#was originally gonna do some shippy stuff for today but no. the spirit of the bowman brothers possessed me #just imagine they're posing for a picture here and brand's the one taking it ^-^#mango doodles

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nineratsinatrenchcoat · 2 months

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Insane Kenji angst concept that will never see the light of day in my docs:

Several months after he moves in with the Bowmans and is decently settled in, his dad just straight up dies (murder, natural causes, whatever reason). Cue complex grieving for a childhood that never existed, for the desperate hope that Daniel might improve one day, and for having no living (bio) family. The old wound of losing a parent is revisited for Darius and Brand, only this time they both hate the dead guy. Idk the potential for really complex emotions is there I think

#totally not projecting my daddy issues here #paternal granddaddy issues I guess #but both #it’s just so ANGST #tw death #kenji kon #jwcc #camp cretaceous #jurassic world camp cretaceous #campamento cretacico

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pbj-katz · 4 days

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The Surreal Murder of Stephanie Marsland

Stephanie Marsland died Friday, March 15th, 2019, she had turned 16 only three weeks earlier. They found her on the east side of Yew Dr., approximately a quarter before four in Harpy, Colorado. During the initial examination, experts determined she had died only 15 minutes prior to the discovery.

Drowning.

She was face down in a puddle of maybe 4 inches of water; it had rained through the night before, and into the day, stopping only an hour before school was released. The pothole that held the water was the infamous Silly Billy hole. The name, well disputed on who had given it to the pothole, was in front of the house of William Harris, an elderly man who, as many of the folks who lived in Harpy would have claimed, had been living in the house before the town was even built. Despite the rumors right after his death from a heart attack three days later, William Harris was not the one to find the girl. No, that task was left to 10-year-old Sean Abshear, who sat on the ground with wet cement soaking into his brand new jeans and screamed until someone pulled him away from the sight.

“Those jeans, they were stained. I had to throw them away. Spent nearly 90 dollars on them and threw them away because Sean didn’t have the common sense to knock on a door. He gets that from his father.” His mother, Kimberly Abshear, would tell their neighbor Beverly Turner when asked what had happened that day. But of course, when Beverly went over to the Abshear’s house, she was looking for the gruesome details.

Within four months, Silly Billy, who had been filled with asphalt every year only to return deeper and more vengeful each year, would disappear. As if overnight, the town of Harpy would close Yew Dr., and reopen it three weeks later, freshly paved.

“I guess something good came from that girl’s death.” Fred Bowman stood on his porch early in the morning, looking out on the new street. Standing just outside the door, his husband felt a shiver crawl up his back, the only other person who could have heard.

That girl.

“Stephanie was an angel; she had this bright future. We had just started talking about colleges, about her major, about growing. She wasn’t stupid, she wouldn’t have lain down in a puddle, she wouldn’t have killed herself.” Fiona Marsland told a student-made documentary almost a year to the date of her daughter’s death.

Stephanie Marsland was described as a kind-hearted, easygoing girl. She loved dogs, and her younger brothers, often described as a second mother to them. Over the 16 years she was alive, she had an influential impact on the town of Harpy, though mostly gone unnoticed. She would volunteer at events, or at the local hospital, but she was also a shy girl.

“She wouldn’t have won any popularity competitions, that’s for sure. The girl was smart, no question, but the girl was also dim. She could write a paper, and it would be this masterpiece, but the second the girl opened her mouth, nothing would come out. She had friends, I’ve seen her with friends, and she wasn’t ever without someone in the class to team up with, but once all eyes fell on her, she would freeze.” Launa Hempton, Stephanie’s sophomore biology teacher, would tell the police when they first launched their investigation. “No one hated that girl, or at least, I don’t think anyone would. There was nothing to hate, she probably didn’t have a single negative thought in her head. Poor girl, she probably passed out and fell into the wrong place at the wrong time.”

The most popular theory that passed around Harpy. On her way home, Stephanie lost consciousness and accidentally fell into Silly Billy, tragically drowning while no one was aware. But that could not be the case. In the official autopsy, the cause of death was purely drowning. There were no apparent reasons for her to lose consciousness; she was adequately hydrated and had food in her stomach. There were no indications of diabetes, drugs, or alcohol in her system. She did not suffer from anemia, seizures, or low blood pressure, and all her organs appeared to be in good health. Besides the post-mortem broken rib from the CPR, there was no trauma to the body, no blunt force, no sign of any sort of struggle, and no trauma to her body or genitals, her hymen was still intact with no signs of any sort of penetration.

Absolutely no sign of trauma.

In the case of Ms. Stephanie Marsland, her examination came back entirely unremarkable. In the ruling of her death, it appears, in my professional opinion, that she unequivocally drowned. No evidence indicated a fall; had she passed out as suggested, there would have been visible marks on her body, especially if she had completely lost consciousness and couldn’t protect herself. Any sort of wounds I found, three in total, at least a day old, if not older, please refer to my official records for more information on the wounds. Ms. Marsland was the picture of a healthy 16-year-old youth, I have doubts she had ever touched alcohol or any drug stronger than Tylenol. All foreign fibers and hairs came back explainable, again refer to my report. I signed off on the autopsy as drowning, with my report reading: Ms. Stephanie Marsland was in exceptional health, if she momentarily lost consciousness, she would have had lay down and rolled to the point her face found the water, she purposely placed herself into the water, or, and most likely, since an article of clothing seemed to have been removed from the body, she was placed there.

The investigation started within a few days of her death, teens were pulled from classes to answer questions, one of them being maybe Stephanie’s best friend. Jacklyn Pappas sat in front of the police, the grease pen drawn mustache for her dress rehearsal of Hamlet, playing Horatio, still on her face. The questions were straightforward, how long had she known Stephanie? (Since childhood.) How long have you two been friends? (Since childhood.) How well did she know her? (Better than anyone at that school, I would say.) When was the last time she had seen her? (As they dressed after PE.) Was Stephanie acting strange? (No.) Was she showing signs of distress? (I don’t think so.) Did she ever mention feeling sad, depressed, suicidal? (No, despite what people say, she was never a sad person.) What do people say? (Stephanie was suicidal because Justin Goodwin had no interest in her.) Who is Justin Goodwin? (A boy Stephanie did like, a boy that she felt she would never have a chance with.) Did she ever talk to Mr. Goodwin? (No, she was too shy.) Did that make her sad? (No, maybe a little, but she rarely talked about it, she was more focused on her future.) Was Stephanie wearing a bra that day?

Jacklyn could not recall precisely what color, maybe purple, but yes, Stephanie was wearing a bra that day. They had changed twice in front of each other, once for PE, and the second after, both times Jacklyn knew for a fact she was in a bra. To Jacklyn, she would have noticed if Stephanie had not, because, despite her petite frame, she was heavy-breasted. She was not one to go without a bra, not when she knew the attention her breast had already garnered with it on, and if there was anything that she hated more, it was the gawking she got when she began to fill out at the early age of 11. She had mentioned reduction surgery more than once, but it was a dream for when she was older.

When she was found face down in that puddle, Glenn Hopper, a retired medic three houses down from where the boy sat screaming, pulled her from the puddle and administered CPR, he noted the girl had no bra on. Even when her mother sobbed in the morgue with the bag of clothing that she had been wearing, she asked where the bra was. As if the fact this girl had drowned in a puddle did not raise enough eyebrows, the missing article of clothing did. The entire town seemed to agree unanimously that Stephanie lying face first in a puddle was acceptable, but they drew the line at the missing bra.

“She was really nice, she was pretty too, I don’t think many people saw that, but she was a pretty girl.” Franklin Singur had been recorded saying over the phone to the Just a Second in Time podcast. Later in the call, he mentioned to Theresa Hernandez more on the subject. “I know she had gone on one date, maybe a few weeks before her death, I don’t know if you would even call it that, but she had gone out with Lincoln Perry, and he was there that day, one of the last people to see her alive.”

“Did he do it?” Theresa would ask.

“No, no, it’s too easy, isn’t it? But no, Lincoln was just a bystander that day, the real beef was between Justin Goodwin, and Patrick Hawkins. Lincoln was probably home right after she left and had an alibi. I remember eyes were on him for a hot second, but off as if they were like, no, not Lincoln Perry.”

“What exactly do you mean the beef was between Justin Goodwin and Patrick Hawkins?”

The argument of precisely when Justin and Patrick’s abhor for one another began narrowed down to three separate incidents. When questioned by the police, Lincoln would recount the first one, as he had volunteered to talk to them the very second he heard of Stephanie’s passing. “Justin and Patrick never liked each other, Justin grew up in Harpy, where Patrick showed up in the second grade. He was always strange, Patrick, he had these jars, tiny jars, and in the jars he would put bugs. He had one friend, Drake, and Drake isn’t weird, we played basketball together, but even Drake never jumped to Patrick’s defense. We would call him weird, and where Drake would never join in, he would keep his mouth shut. Patrick started our school, and from day one Justin didn’t like the guy. It was never directly one thing, but I think what set it off was when, and we were kids, like seven or eight, but Justin opened those jars into Patrick’s lunchbox, and when he opened it all these weird insects scurried around the table. Everyone was screaming, but Justin was saying, ‘I told you, the freak eats them.’”

The next incident was told by Nicolas Banter after the case was closed when the official transcripts had been released, and the first set of true crime investigators clamped down. Henry James’ podcast, The Back Waters Crimes, would be one of the first to take an interest in the story. Although the broadcast lacked enough information to make it worthwhile, a patron tier granted the audience who contributed five dollars a month the ability to read transcripts of unreleased episodes.

Nicolas Banter: Leans back in his chair, chuckling at the report. Of course, that is the moment Link would say, the bugs.

Henry James: You think that wasn’t it?

Nicolas: No, this paints Justin in a negative light, as if he just judged the freak right off the bat. Yes, what Lincoln said was true, the two clearly hated each other the second their eyes met, but if it wasn’t for Patrick, it wouldn’t have escalated to this.

Henry: So, you think Patrick pushed Justin to spill the bugs in his lunch bag?

Nicolas: No, I know for a fact it was. Patrick envied Justin, his dad was a chief of police in a different county, about a week before Chief Goodwin arrested Patrick’s dad when he ran a stop sign, and then failed a sobriety test. You see, Patrick was in the damn car. I don’t know if he saw Goodwin and figured, or was told, but the next time he saw Justin he jumped on him, punching the shit out of him, screaming at him. I would not be surprised if the guy killed Stephanie, if COVID didn’t happen, I feel like the investigation would have ended differently.

Henry: What was he saying? To Justin, when he was hitting him?

Nicolas: ‘F—k you and f—k your pig father.’

The case never categorically went cold, but as the year ended, and the climb into 2020 happened, one year came, and it passed one piece of evidence reigniting interest in the case until it came to an abrupt halt late in March 2020, when the country shut down due to the pandemic. Only Drake Hamal knew a story that the other two were oblivious to, potentially explaining the true cause of the two boys’ mutual hatred. He penned his human-interest story in his college newspaper detailing the event.

Nearly three years ago, while I was in high school, a girl was found dead. She had been drowned in a puddle four blocks from my house. The biggest spotlight fell on two students that I had known since elementary school, an incident that occurred at school, and then developed through the day until escalating off campus. In the end, a girl was found dead, and the boy’s pointed fingers at the other, as they had done almost a decade before.

PH moved from Utah, his family was Mormons, as was JG, they belonged to the same church. Years later, PH finally revealed to me the exact details of what had occurred, a truth that I deeply regretted knowing. JG was no stranger to attending events put on by Mr. G, who was heavily involved in the church. The boys, who must have been seven, were left to watch a movie in JG’s family den, when the DVD skipped, and they both went up to the main house to inform the adults, but found the house empty. PH claimed that JG suggested checking upstairs, but they both ascended to the second floor upon hearing a noise. It was a relief, PH would tell me, they weren’t alone, but as he went to open the door, JG told him no, that he wasn’t allowed to when the door was shut, but PH still turned the knob.

PH’s parents plus JG’s mother were engaged in sexual relations as JG’s dad watched. He would tell me Mr. G sat in a chair tucked back in the corner, naked as the others were, but still never taking his eyes off what was unfolding in front of him. As a teenager, we were just about 15 when this story was told to me; he understood what exactly was happening, but there, as he saw what he would call a pathetic pig watch his wife take it, he felt as if Mr. G was who to blame, by extension, JG too.

Yes, they hated each other the second they met, the classic clashing of personalities, there PH would put his disgust for his own parents all on to whom he felt was liable. He claimed he was the one who pushed JG into the door, but JG would be the first one to throw a punch. Their parents would come out of the room still naked, to the scuffle. It would end with the H’s leaving, and within a week of the embarrassing tussle, JG’s father would be arresting PH’s father.

The article will tell the story of the incident that would lead to the fight outside of the school on the afternoon of March 15th, which would have been argued to lead to the death of Stephanie Marsland, an incident that would be better detailed in the official police report, besides the partial redaction. The report is:

Monday, March 25th, 2019

The past week I have had the pleasure of talking to one Mr. Patrick Hawkins and Mr. Justin Goodwin, son of Delt county’s Chief Goodwin. They eagerly shared the details of the events that transpired on Friday, March 15th, evidence securely gathered and awaiting processing. Mr. Goodwin’s testimony is as follows; rap star Gaze the Baptist came out with a new clothing line late the year before, selling out as fast as it had gone up. This clothing line included a $300 pair of jeans that Mr. Goodwin would claim he had been saving up to get and was one of the lucky ones to purchase. That week the package came, and despite Mrs. Goodwin’s protest of letting her son leave the house with those pants on, he would arrive at school in them. He would claim he was aware of Mr. Hawkin’s being a fan of this rapper, and when he showed up in the jeans, Mr. Goodwin is quoted as saying; “I knew I made a mistake, the look Patrick gave me was telling me I would not leave the school without regretting wearing them.”

The pants in question were taken from Mr. Goodwin and put on evidence, but later released back to the boy.

It had been noted that Mr. Hawkin’s favorite form of taking notes was in red pens, not just by Mr. Goodwin, but by other classmates and teachers. Some even were quoted as saying he would use variations of shades, but always red. In their shared 3rd period class, Mr. Goodwin would take his seat right before the late bell and proceed with the class as usual, taking notes and interacting as he would normally. At this moment in his story, he looked out the window for a long time, his face turning a slight red as he thought of his next words. He was called up to the front of the class to give his presentation, one he claimed he had spent weeks preparing, and as he stood the giggling started, and by the time he was in front of the class, everyone was laughing.

“Madison Thorpe even asked me if I needed a tampon, and that’s how the period jokes started.” He would tell us. On the left side, and into the middle of his buttocks, was a red stain. The pants, when presented as evidence, did not show any resemblance to blood stains. The stain had seeped into his pants, through his briefs, and stained his skin. “Even now, what? Two weeks later? I still have a goddamn stain on my ass.” This is where, unprompted, Mr. Goodwin would stand up, and present the stain on his buttocks, mostly faded but a clear pink blob. “It was that goddamn freak, and his goddamn red pens.”

When asked about the ink, Mr. Hawkins smiled but shook his head. “No, I didn’t do it, yes, it was funny, but the asshole deserved it.” When asked how he thought the ink got on his chair, Mr. Hawkins would tell us he was unsure, though he couldn’t have done it even though he knew he had a “reputation of red ink”, how the boy would put it. We questioned whether he perceived the targeting of Mr. Goodwin with red ink as a mere coincidence. “I got to class with two other people, while three others were already seated. I sit nowhere near Justin, if I wanted to do it, the others would have seen me.”

Both admitted to the lunchtime confrontation, where Mr. Goodwin went up to Mr. Hawkins and shoved him to the ground but was pulled away before it could escalate. In the next class, the two shared they were separated, but comments between the two were heard from other classmates. The last class, one shared with Ms. Marsland, ended while one boy was sent to the library and the other to the computer lab after a brawl almost broke out during quiet time.

Classmate, Peter Waller, told the police that it started when Mr. Goodwin went to turn a paper in, he went the long way around the desk to knock into Mr. Hawkins’ arm, prompting Mr. Hawkins to rise and was quoted saying; “Face me like a man.” Three others impeded the two before they were separated.

The real confrontation did not start until after school had gotten out.

[Redacted]

The redaction was blacked out in permanent marker in the unofficial report, but when typed out, a simple redacted was placed, ending the document. The blackout second was just about a page and a half long, but no other reports seem to mention what event took place after the school bell released the school. Edward Hobble, a private investigator, became interested in the case in his time, cooped up in his house during the shutdown. Hobble had grown up in a town near Harpy, and the case was brought to his attention by his son, who was writing his senior thesis on the case.

At first glance, Hoddle quickly concluded that the details were clear and straightforward. His theory, his son would quote him saying in the 30 page paper on the Marsland, was that she probably had an anxiety attack, the girl had clearly had an issue there and laid down on the ground when she felt dizzy and must have rolled into the puddle. The missing bra didn’t catch his attention, it was the unofficial redaction that did.

“Goodwin’s father was the chief of police, and then more than a page was redacted the second they mentioned the girl’s name. If anyone knows what happened to that girl, it’s either or both boys.”

The only people who were aware of what happened the afternoon of March 15th were Justin Goodwin, Patrick Hawkins, Lincoln Perry, and Nicolas Banter. In none of the interviews of investigations, has it been released whether Lincoln or Nicolas mention that afternoon confrontation, or if that information was told, just once more redacted. The common theory in a true crime Reddit thread, about the Stephanie Marsland case was Chief Goodwin made sure the boys wouldn’t talk. It was not until u/ [deleted] took to the forum.

There is a common theory that Chief Goodwin silenced those involved in the Goodwin v. Hawkins, and while I can confirm that we were told to keep our mouths shut, we never had to sign anything. We were minors, for Christ’s sake, and it’s not because we killed that girl. We left school, the three of us, and Justin was steamed up. He had changed into his gym shorts, and yes, he had this giant ass stain on his ass, I’d be pissed too. It was common knowledge that Patrick frequently used the back way home, which ran behind Yew Dr. There was a stream along the bank that Justin walk to, especially after it rained, but that day he kept making this jerky movement, like he was trying to see up the bank. We heard whistling. That’s the thing about Patrick all these reports failed to mention, this weirdo would whilst, very out of tone, always he would walk by, whistling.

I think Link said something like ‘I think that’s Patrick’ or something, but before he could even finish Justin was charging up the bank, us behind him. Link was the one to want to put a stop to the violence, but even there as Patrick froze as we bobbed up that mound, I think we all had the same idea, we’d scare the freak.

Justin was calling this guy every damn name he could think of, he grabbed him by the jacket and was jerking at him; we joined in, pushing him. I don’t know what the hell the kid had in his backpack, maybe jars of bugs, [A comment that would not be made clear until later, and many who would respond to this post would question this one line in particular] but it was heavy, he kept losing his balance until he finally fell over. Justin grabbed him by his ankles, dragging him towards the bank, telling him he was going to shove his face into the water.

If you want my opinion, that’s the reason that Chief Goodwin went out of his way to keep us quiet, Justin threatening to dunk this kid, and then the girl was found dead less than an hour later that exact way. But Patrick kicked out hard, and Justin lost his grip.

We grabbed Patrick before he could get away and held him for Justin, who looked as if he could murder Patrick. I think we would have let him go from an expression alone, but a voice stopped it.

Stephanie was shy, it’s been told over and over, but honestly, I didn’t think she would have ever said anything there if she didn’t see Lincoln. He liked her a lot, and I think she liked him, they had gone on a few dates, but he said she was too nervous to even kiss him, but he’s a good guy, he probably never pushed it. I didn’t know much more about her, but there she was, her hands on her hips as if she was a goddamn superhero. She told us to let Patrick go, to leave him alone, that three against one was grossly unfair.

Shit, it was the most I had ever heard the girl talk. Link was embarrassed, he let go first and even took a few steps away from the freak. Justin, on the other hand, just looked at her as if she was on the same level as Patrick and told her to eff off. Now, I doubted anyone had ever spoken to Stephanie like that, but it did not phase her. She told him he was being a bully in class, and he was being a bully now.

If I remember correctly, he looked at Lincoln in a way to ask him to calm his girl, but no one said anything back to her. She went up to Patrick, put her hand on his arm, and they left together.

Patrick Hawkins was the last one to be seen with her alive.

Whatever happened to Stephanie Marsland, Patrick is the only person who knows.

At the time of the post, an overwhelming interest in Stephanie Marsland flooded the internet. The subreddit became divided between believers and skeptics, as nobody could confirm the identity of the person speculated to be Nicolas Banter.

According to U/BrutalStar, it was impossible for it to be him, as it was a throwaway account that was created and deleted on the same day. However, it was u/GodsPrankOnAbraham that pointed out that the details in the story seemed to match up well with the reports that would be released later in the week.

It wasn’t until YouTuber Tylor Kamer, who would tell his own story on this post that the truth came to light. In the video, Kramer retold the story of Stephanie Marsland, connecting the dots to this Reddit comment. But was it truly Nicolas Banter who posted the comment?

“Here with me,” Kamer’s voice came over a video of him doing his research. “Is the real-life Nicolas Banter. Hello Nick, thank you for joining me today.”

Transcripts come over the screen. “Hi Tylor, thank you for reaching out.”

“Now, you were there that day, as it has been presented in the evidence.”

“Yes.”

“I know you met with Henry James’s podcast right after the comment had popped up on Reddit, but I read over those transcripts, and it never mentions the comment.”

“I think I did the interview, man, I don’t know, a week, maybe more after the comment on the subreddit, and I doubt Henry knew about it. Maybe a month later, I received an email, and I swore it was going to ask me for another interview just about the comment, but no, it was just telling me he didn’t have enough evidence for a full episode and that he would be put it on his Patron. I shrugged it off, wasn’t too aware how much popularity in the comment had gained.”

“Now, Nick, let me ask the question we all have been wondering since the comment came to light a year ago. Was that you?”

“Yes.” The words come on as music plays, and a voiceover goes more into detail about the comment before returning to the interview, but the unedited interview continues. “I have friends and something of a community that I connect with on Reddit. The whole Stephanie Marsland case was never fully connected to me, and I get where it is now, I realized that from that subreddit alone, but at the time she had shown up and was dead. One of my friends, I only really know him on Discord, Reddit, and Xbox, but he was the one that brought it to my attention. At one point our school photos were posted, and he was like ‘Man, I think this is you, it’s your name, and looks just like you. You never told me you killed a girl.’ At that point, I was just a freshman in college, on my own for the first time, and there was my picture in connection with Stephanie. I just created an account and deleted it, and I get how that would look, but I really didn’t want my account to be covered in Stephanie Marsland post from then on. What I wrote was true, I got a call from Lincoln a few weeks after and he didn’t even need to ask me if I wrote it, he was just like ‘Man hope to Christ Chief Goodwin doesn’t see that.’”

“You said that he never made you sign anything, what did he say to get Lincoln react like that?”

“‘You boys keep your goddamn mouth shut if you don’t want to end up in a juvenile detention center, the girl was basically raped, and drowned, that shit will never scrub off your name.’ But she wasn’t, yeah, the whole bra thing is weird, like she was never touched other than removing the bra? That’s trophy shit you read about in serial killers, but, I don’t know, we were one of the last people to see her alive, so yeah, we stayed quiet.”

“The bra, they found it though.”

“They found a bra, yes, but that was a year later, tucked in a goddamn maple tree.”

The case was never exactly cold, the police department of Harpy would claim they were just waiting through the rest of the evidence, but in the end, everyone knew how it would end. It would be an accidental drowning, all the strangeness surrounding the rest would be explained simply as; she had a panic attack and laid down and rolled, the missing bra might be that she felt constricted and removed it, Patrick and Justin would be cleared, and Stephanie Marsland would be forgotten.

Until the end of March 2020.

Couple Dean Oster and Patty Hearst would walk over their property on the outskirts of Harpy, a 3-archer land that backed into woods, when Patty spotted something sticking out of a tree. She would tell the newspaper that she thought nothing of it at first, bird would bring strange things into those trees, but then as they got closer, she said she cried. “It was a bra strap from the back. Dean saw it and goes ‘what is that?’ but there I was sobbing. It’s not like we didn’t find clothing on our property before, teen would sneak there to have sex, but it wasn’t the fact it was a bra, but it was black with these purple hearts, almost a year to the day they found the little girl dead.”

The evidence description of the bra is as fallows;

Agency: Harpy PD

Case Number: 09-0747

Item Number: 1

Date/Time: 03/10/2020, 1407

Description and/or Location: The bra, in size 36C, is black in color with purple hearts measuring approximately 2/3rds of an inch adorning the straps and cups. The fabric is covered in debris from the maple tree where it was discovered, but is otherwise in a clean condition. It must have been placed there within a day or two since no rainwater had soaked into the padding.

The information was not released to the public immediately. Fiona and Dave Marsland, along with Jacklyn Pappas, were shown it, but none of them could definitively confirm or deny if it belonged to Stephanie. Fiona would tell the police that she didn’t think so, Stephanie was more into solid colors, while Jacklyn would say maybe because she could remember purple, but both agreed on one thing. While the cup size was correct, the strap size was not. Fiona had brought samples of her bras, all reading 34C.

One size off. When asked if she would buy the bra because she liked it, but could not find her size, so she bought the size up? Fiona would firmly say no, and when prompted on why, because she only liked solid colors.

It was true, in photos presented, or videos, or any sort of media that would show Stephanie, she was always in a solid color shirt. From the age she would have dressed herself, a photo album marked Stephanie through the years, one could guess around seven, she would be in a solid color shirt, and jeans, or solid color leggings. Even her jackets and sweaters were all solid colors. Not even a brand, just one color.

In the photos that would be posted to her timeline, or she would be tagged in following her death would show her smiling with others, or doing her volunteer work, or playing the piano, all in solid colors, all but one photo.

It went unnoticed, until one Tumblr thread uncovered one photo that, until then, had gone unnoticed. The post emerged almost two years after the death.

anyone else notice that they keep talking about stephanie only wore solid colors but what about this photo?

The photo in question had three faces blurred as two of the people sat on steps outside of what looked to be a school, the other, alongside Stephanie, stood almost out of frame, but smiling at who took the photo, her shirt one of pink with flowers, a heart blooming out of the bundle. An altered picture emerged those who sat on the steps were Jacklyn Pappas, a guy she had seen and the original poster of the photo, Dale Hoffman, Stephanie, and next to her, almost completely cut off, but still obviously looking at her, was Justin Goodwin.

Justin Goodwin would be found converted to Catholicism right out of school, and in college majoring in philosophy, preparing himself to someday gain priesthood out in Rhode Island.

“Stephanie Marshland?” He had been shocked by the name as he agreed to sit down with amateur documentarian Rodger Dwyer. “That happened, my, what four years ago at this point? The case has been closed.”

“You are not aware of the popularity the story had gained on the internet over the last few years?”

“No, my online presence was never consistent in high school, and since I graduated, I have been completely off.” He would take this moment to look down at his hands, folded in front of him, before picking up his head to look just off camera where Rodger would be sitting. “I’m glad that Stephanie’s story is being told, I have prayed for her since her death, I pray for her safety as she ascended to God’s embrace.”

“Since the closure of her case, there has a few things that have been brought up in connection with her. Of course, you were a junior when the missing article of clothing was found, but are you aware of the controversy behind it?”

He would delicately shake his head. “Yes, I remember a bra was found, but I do also recall it was not hers.”

“There was not enough evidence to conclude if it was hers or not, but that’s not it. It had hearts on it. Everyone, including her mother, said she would wear soiled colors.”

“I know nothing about that.”

“But when posting photos for her birthday, someone posted this one.” Rodger would hold out a photo to Justin, whose eyebrows would come together, then relax.

“They think there was a relationship between Stephanie and I.” How he said it was not a question. “I hate to disappoint, but there was nothing between me and the girl. This photo was taken during a class project. If I remember correctly, we were heading to my house to work on it, and I was unaware I was being photographed.”

“But do you see how it implicates you? You are looking right at her.”

“I was not, I can see how you would think that, but I was looking at who was just off camera, the real person I was in a relationship with. I believe I have an uncropped version of this, or at least one taken concurrently.”

Rodger allowed Justin to leave, and within 20 minutes, he returned, this time carrying a photo album. As expected, another photo in it appeared nearly identical to the one posted, but with noticeable differences. Stephine stood a few steps above, a shy smile on her lips as she gazed at the photo taker. Dale affectionately kissed Jacklyn’s cheek, while Justin grinned as if he were laughing. However, the photo posted only displayed Nicolas Banter, as it had been cut off.

“After Stephanie left with Patrick that day, Nick and I went back to his place, his ring camera caught us 15 minutes before she would be found dead, and his mother was with us until I left an hour after.”

“What happened between you and Nick?”

“The same reason I left Mormonism, why I left Colorado. There was a force greater than me, greater than my relationship, greater than the world I had known and loved. If it weren’t for Patrick, I think that force would have consumed me, but after an exposure to my relationship with Nick, the novelty wore off for him, and the year we had spent together meant nothing. God came to me one night in a dream, and I saw the light there, I saw my path, it led me here. I wish it was different that day, if Patrick had exposed us sooner, maybe, maybe I wouldn’t hold the vengeful hate my father distilled in me, and I would have forgiven. Stephine may have lived.”

“What happened to Patrick?”

Patrick Hawkins. Grew up in Utah, until his father gained a promotion, moving his family to Colorado. He was the only child of the couple, but the youngest of his father who had been married once before, two children from that relationship, the younger of the two being over 10 years older than Patrick.

By the time he was about to finish his junior year of high school, concerning online comments surfaced about how he ‘wished I could take a semi-automatic to those fuckers’ getting him expelled. Little is known about what exactly happened to Patrick, questioning from the police made its rounds, but even those investigating could not find much after he left Harpy High.

At the time of Stephanie’s death, a video from in the interrogation room surfaced, Patrick sitting there with his father as the cops talked to the boy. “Patrick, you were the last one to see her alive, you left with her, no one else can tell where you were from the time she died to the time that you arrived home two hours after she had died.”

Patrick, who had his hood up, did not move. If he speaks, no mic can pick him up.

This guy did it, open and shut, why are we even fighting it? The comment with the most likes on the video would read.

Then, a little over a year later, Patrick once more sat in the same room, same cop, but this time with his mother, who would be recorded saying; “He’s a 17-year-old boy, he made a comment, he doesn’t even own a gun. Why are we here? Those kids pick on him, those kids hurt him, kick him, they put bugs in his lunch!”

“Ma’am.”

“No, do not ma’am me!”

“Mom.” Patrick would be heard saying. “I made a mistake, I’m aware of that. I had a bad day, and I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“You’re online, how did you have a bad day?”

“There’s there snapchat group chat that leaked, some people who hate me are in it. They said… they said I take it in the ass. I was defending myself, I posted publicly that it’s Justin Goodwin that takes it up the ass by Nick Banter, and it got back to Goodwin. I walk to through the graveyard when I feel too cooped up, and two days ago I was jumped by Justin. He kicked the shit out of me. I got home, and I felt so shitty, I lost it.”

From the two tapes, something became clear to Penny Upton, a popular true crime blogger, dove deeper into the connection between Patrick Hawkins and Stephanie Marsland.

The Surreal Case of Stephanie Marsland

‘Part 13

As those who have been meticulously following my investigation into the case of Stephanie Marsland may know from part 1, I had said Patrick was the one who did it, and though through the last four posts has been Patrick focused, I can say for sure today I have evidence to prove myself wrong. Patrick was the last one to see her alive, that we are aware of, yes, and where Patrick ended up going to jail for an unrelated incident, he did not kill Stephanie. Last week, I carefully reviewed two interrogation tapes numerous times as I prepared to write this post, yet something felt amiss. Why did he not get arrested the first time? The time he refused to answer?

The digging process was proving to be extremely difficult, but thanks to my favorite sleuth, NotAnotherCrimePost, she had provided me with an actual alibi for Patrick, one that I revisited the second video to realize he did not do it.

A house next to the graveyard has a nest camera pointed right at the entrance, that day, Patrick walked through the gate in the last 10 minutes of Stephanie’s life and did not leave until over and hour later. Stephanie herself stepping into view, alive and well, before stepping out as soon as Patrick was out of sight.

The fence around the graveyard is 10 feet high, with no other way in or out. The alibi was airtight. Patrick Hawkins did not kill Stephanie, and with no other evidence, I would have to definitively close this case in the manner that all of you know I hate the most, but I am firmly labeling it a freak accident.’

A freak accident. Stephanie Marsland died by accident, every story would report so, the Harpy PD would close the case as accidental. With the popularity the case would gain over the course of two years, it would never come close to the truth, either coming to the same conclusion, or burning out, or simply losing interest.

The closest to the truth that ever came to light, was one comment on a post that would get three likes, but never picked up by any of the investigators, a comment that one person would write, would post, and would forget about, never perusing how close they would be to asking the first right question to this case.

Who took the photo?

Back in the two photos, where Stephanie would intentionally dress in an unusual manner for herself, clearly smiling at the person who took the photo.

Each one would say it, each interview would give off the answer, but the questions were not being asked, and by the end of 2023, the case of Stephanie Marsland was officially no longer discussed, and the public would move on to newer cases, more interesting ones, ones that they would know the questions for. As for Stephanie, she was still dead, she still would be dead, and the truth would decay away with her.

The truth would be in a notebook, one that the only person who knew what happened that day would write in but would burn simultaneously before the bra would be discovered. A notebook that would be a confession that would disappear before a single person could read it.

The passage wrote out longhand, in a red pen, read as follows; She was beautiful, young, pure. She came to me one night needing help, and I wanted to help. I thought telling her she was beautiful would have her turn away from me, but she didn’t. The more often we spent together, the more she bloomed, her personality showed through her clothing, and the way she would smile more freely, especially for me. I knew of her shyness, but my god, if you could see how composed she was in private, you’d understand why I loved her.

I could not understand why she defended Patrick, why she went against Justin, but it irritated me. She looked at me; she knew I was there, and still walked away with him. Yes, I would be the first to admit I was jealous, she would leave with him, but no, she walked him to the graveyard; I doubted they spoke as they walked there. I stayed back, watching, making sure that freak did nothing to her, but before he went in he thanked her, that was it, then she started away when she spotted me.

The argument started, and I didn’t mean to get so angry at her, but I could not understand why she would defy me like that. She tried so damn hard to tell me I had nothing to envy, but the hell, I did. My anger, it gave her that panic attack, and she was breathing so hard that, I don’t know; she passed out. I held on to her, holding her up, unsure what to do. I loved her, but she made her choice to go with Patrick, and I would not let Justin get humiliated by him. She wasn’t supposed to die; I brought her over to Silly Billy in thoughts that she would wake up as soon as her face hit the water. Laying her down on her side, I removed the bra, and rolled her until she was face down into the water. The plan was to plant the bra on Patrick, so I went back towards the graveyard to wait for him. She wouldn’t name me, she was smarter than that to do it, she would just say she didn’t know or remember, but as I waited, that kid began to scream, and when I got back to where I had left her, she was dead.

The rest would be written on another date in a blue pen.

I knew I should have come forward sooner, but shit, this is murder. I still have the damn bra, but I think Justin suspects me, my plan was to turn myself in, but tonight I think I will have myself a fire.

The composer reread over his confession before tossing it into the fire in front of him, watching the pages get eaten away by the flames. Then, from his pocket, he pulled out her bra, his finger stroking over the fabric, more hesitant to throw it in.

“Dad?” Justin’s voice caused the composer to jump before looking back at his son, the bra shoved back into his pocket. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, yeah, I think, I think I’m going to go for a walk.” Chief Goodwin walked towards the front door.

“It’s nearly midnight.”

“Put the fire out before you go to bed.” He refused to look back at his son, already suspecting his sexual orientation, already the greater force that would drive Justin away.

“Dad? What’s going on?”

“One day, you’ll understand. Goodnight, son.” He stepped out of the house, setting his course into those woods.

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