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my-heart-is-made-of-graphene · 3 years

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Shackles That Bend

(Title subject to change, previously called Chains Of Our Past)

Warnings: Electrocution, descriptions of pain, manhandling, beating, insults, swearing, blood-mention, bad mindsets

(I decided to post this one on its own due to the fact that I've hit a writer's block and have been stuck at the one chapter I promised I would then post all the chapters that had come before it. So here it is. The first chapter.)

Chapter 1. Shocking Pain And Three Shocking Words

This was the second time in this short time period that he had been quite literally jolted awake. The voltages coursed through his body like a wire and he felt blood literally and figuratively boil, with his already damaged nerves angrily aware of each individual volt that aggressively danced through them. His jailer truly knew no mercy, did he? A Rider is not to show weakness and he especially refused to show any signs of weakness to his torturer so he had to just inwardly grit his teeth and bare the qpain as he had to. His captor flipped back the switch, causing the electricity to cease. His pain didn't cease however. In fact, his body "hurt like hell", as his brute of a jailor would put it.

He felt his chin be grabbed and dragged up roughly by a cold, armoured hand, "Look at me."

His nerves once again protested at the harsh way his neck was brought up to be eye level with the brute.

"Disgusting."

His jailor's words were spat out as though the appearance of the prisoner alone was so sickening, it could bring bile to rise up one's throat. Actually, The Stranger didn't doubt that, in all honesty. The Stranger didn't have a good grasp on passing time here but it didn't take much thinking for him to know that all this torture in such a short time span wouldn't do his body any good, but he supposed that was the point. His body didn't have much time in order to heal so he would be weaker and thus less likely to escape.

"You disgust me. The way you bleed, the way you attempt to guard yourself like it'll save you, the way you fall unconscious after I hardly even touch you. I can inflict far worse pain to you. But that would just knock you out like a light, and where's the fun in that? Can i ask a you a question? Was it fun ending all those lives down there?"

The Stranger isn't versed in the concept of 'fun', as 'fun' was only temporary. His mission had far more weight than 'fun'. Your silence speaks volumes." The Stranger's lip tugged a smidge south and his eyes squinted a small bit. It didn't go unnoticed. "You truly are pathetic to think that I don't notice. You're worthless, your kind must have expected you to fail. And your failure is why you are here. But I'm so glad you did," his jailer--no, as much as referring to the crooked warden by his title hurt, this was the easiest of hard truths to bring forth--The Chain moved his hand from The Stranger's chin to his cheek and rubbed it in a way that was almost affectionate before removing his hand from The Stranger's face and flipping back on the electricity, "because I can watch and inflict so much pain as I want on something that is also very much so capable of inflicting great amounts of pain upon others. It's a great feeling. For me, not for you. Your people were likely just trying to get rid of their garbage. But as the saying goes, one man's trash is another one's treasure."

The Chain laughed loudly at him in a sadistic manner. The Stranger tensed as his muscles clenched with the electricity rippling through them.

Sometimes, however, it's the verbal blows that hurt worse than anything physical. The Stranger didn't have all too much time of his own: time to think and plan and such. If he wasn't being tortured then he was unconscious and recovering from his injuries. It was rare for him to be awake without any abuse occurring to him. But he was thinking now, and the hard truths seemed to hurt worse than the shocks administered to him.

His thoughts just regurgitated The Chain's words back at him. The shocks felt numb to him. The thoughts sunk their metaphorical jaws in deep. There could be no further denying it, The Stranger had failed his Star. He was without meaning. He was discarded garbage. Is The Star waiting? Why? I've failed. The Starship doesn't know that I've been captured, but surely The Star has lost faith in me carrying out the mission, right?

The only thing close to a purpose anymore for him was this repetitive cycle of abuse. It was always the same methods: electrocution, beatings, manhandling, insults threats, and occasionally, The Chain would sit there on a chair doing nothing at all but reading a book and tugging that heinous switch on and off. That last one was hurtful in its own way. It symbolized what hurt The Stranger the most: the knowledge he was worth nothing and that this torture was what he deserve. If he were to return to The Star, their termination would be too merciful. The Stranger was a Rider and a Rider was created to serve a purpose; to carry out the tasks. His task was crucial. His memory was a haze but he knew he had to return to his Starship and destroy thia planet. He did not forget. It was crucial. That makes it worse. The Stranger wishes that he forgot. Having his role reversed on him was an incredibly degrading feeling. He hates this.

He hadn't noticed but the shocks were no longer coming. He only noticed after The Chain slapped him across the face.

"What is going on inside that head of yours? What thoughts are going on up there that have the ability to make you so oblivious? Aren't you suppose to be an observant little warrior? You already got the latter part wrong. Come on, speak and enlighten me. I know you aren't mute, I've heard the noises you make before you're about to pass out. Or when I catch you off guard." The Chain hummed in curiosity, "I've been told that you don't seem to feel pain when you had first been dropped at my doorstep. But I know you do. You feel pain just fine. It's sickening, because, well, it makes you that more human. I noticed this a long while back. You really got on my nerves that day. You damn near looked like the pain would've made you cry. But your kind doesn't do that. You do a lot of things you aren't supposed to, though, don't you? Maybe I'll prove the scientists wrong that can cry too. Y'know, if you had only done what you were meant to, then you wouldn't be in this pain." The Chain stepped away from The Stranger. The Stranger's eyes followed The Chain's movements as he walked away.

The warden murmured something that wasn't within the audible range of a human from this distance. The Stranger picked up on it however due to his larger range of hearing, "if only I myself had conformed." The Stranger looked to his jailor with a stranger look on his face: an expression that he doesn't recall looking at him with before. Most of the looks he gave his tormentor were hate-filled and angry. This one was just simply curious.

The Chain looked towards him. The Stranger couldn't tell what was going through his head though, the masks obscured his true face. Or at least, The Stranger was relatively sure that there was one beneath all three of the masks. "So, you heard me. Such a peculiar specimen. This isn't a face I've ever seen you make. It tempts me to flip back on the power," The Chain chortled a bit upon seeing The Strangers face in response to that remark, "but I won't." Why?

The Chain never showed him any quarter. Why now? "I can tell you are confused, Stranger. Not all prisoners here are in shackles. I never wanted a job like this. But this is a result of the choices I've made. You could make a choice. Fight me and my fellow guardians and escape. Destroy our planet. I'd like to see you try." The Chain laughed sardonically then grabbed the Rider by the arm. "Haha, no. You seem to have no real mind of your own though. You're spineless. If you had a spine, you would have made your first attempt months ago. You sick fuck: maybe you're enjoying this treatment."

The rage that coursed through The Stranger drowned out all of his pain. He never wanted to be belittled again. He hates to admit it, but The Chain was right, he's just rotting here. He wanted to put an end to this. He was going to return to his people and he was going to complete his mission. Any who opposed The Stranger would be cut down.

The Stranger growled in frustration and writhed in his restraints. The Chain slammed his fist into the middle of the rider's chest in response. That sent pain blooming across The Stranger's body as it seized harshly. His face held a look of pained surprise. The Stranger, try as he did and may, could see no way to get out of these binds. Unless...

At that very moment, an insane idea popped into the Rider's mind. But he's already decided that he would escape at all costs. This will just be one of those costs. The Stranger was going to have to use words if he was going to communicate this idea then and he just hoped he had enough of an understanding of the Earthen tongue to be able to properly verbalize what he wants to say.

He looked up and locked eyes with his jailer; his own cold black and blue ones to the cold glass eye-slits of his jailor's mask.

"Escape with me."

#furi #the game bakers #furi game #guardians #original content #the stranger #riders #the chain #whump #whump writing #my writing #the chain furi #the stranger furi #furi fic #fanfiction

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loughtonbaithead · 4 years

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dartmythcollege-blog · 5 years

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TW: SA

Dear President Hanlon (and also, To Whom It May Concern),

As a sophomore at Dartmouth, I was sexually assaulted after a fraternity party. This experience has impacted my life physically, emotionally, and financially in ways I could never imagine. The alienation I faced from 2005 to 2007 at Dartmouth as a sexual assault victim who reported the attack was harrowing and demoralizing in many ways. Once full of hopes and dreams that I would be a graduate of a prestigious Ivy League college, my experience completely took the wind out of my sails as a young adult preparing to forge my way in the world.

After my sexual assault, which was reported to police but not ultimately prosecuted, my Dartmouth peers wrote horrible things on the Internet about wishing I was dead. I faced regular shame and ridicule which I have internalized for years. At one point toward the end of my time at Dartmouth, I honestly feared for my safety and had to seek refuge in a safe dorm on campus. On graduation day, I barely walked across the stage, teetering on the edge of a nervous breakdown.

Part of the reason it took so long for me to come to terms with the level of abuse I accepted at Dartmouth was that I left college during stressful times in late 2007 when it was very difficult for young graduates to find work. It was arguably even harder for a young graduate like me who suffered sexual and emotional trauma and was effectively “cast out” from the Dartmouth network. Ever since, I have had extreme financial challenges for most of the time (and while at school I was on a scholarship and came from a bankrupt family with very limited income). Dealing with this reality while working to recover from abuse has been difficult to bear.

Willing myself to do the typical Ivy League career-building things to land a solid job after graduation proved nearly impossible. On top of it, I was suffering from crippling anxiety and depression stemming from experiencing severe trauma without a safety net. I felt— for good reason, I might add— that it was completely unsafe to speak about my past experiences. When it came time to network and schmooze under these extreme circumstances, I couldn’t bring myself to lie to people’s faces when they asked me about my time at Dartmouth. Many times after a job interview I would be reduced to tears, after having to keep a straight face with an interviewer while simultaneously ruminating about the difficult experiences which scarred my psyche.

People would enviously remark on my Dartmouth education during a job interview, about what a great experience it must have been. I wanted them to know the whole story, about how much suffering and sacrifice was required to ultimately hold that fancy parchment diploma. But it was a story that stayed buried for many years, hidden by shame and a desire to pick myself up by my bootstraps so to speak, to turn the other cheek and find steady work and succeed in spite of the things that happened to me.

To this day I have yet to find a permanent job that has offered me health insurance benefits— my English degree is just as unmarketable as everyone warned me it would be when I was working to obtain it. And on top of it all, I have learned that the very English degree I worked so hard to earn is not even of much use when it comes to speaking truth about all of these painful and terrible things now that the time has come for revelation and reckoning, which is long overdue.

I cannot even use my English degree to define what happened to me as “sexual assault” and “rape” without encountering significant legal risk. Whether I am allowed to identify my attacker as a rapist who committed sexual assault is currently up for debate in federal court. Even though those definitions are clear and defined by the FBI, and even though the crimes I reported to the police fall well within those definitional guidelines.

My prestigious degree should at the very least render me capable and competent to define subjects on clearly defined and cited terms. What was the point of me earning a degree in Creative Writing if I cannot even use it to write about something deeply personal of extreme importance, which seems to be increasingly relevant to the shared experiences of many other victims? What power does my degree have if my very attacker can use the power his own Dartmouth degree has afforded him to effectively render me mute?

As victims we are damned in silence and anonymity, and damned in speaking and emerging from the shadows. We are damned as we are shamed into pretending everything is OK, and damned as we are implicitly asked to hold our lips and make nice anytime anyone asks about Dartmouth. Rather than take this significant moment to truly engage with the victims of the community, Dartmouth has acted to create policies to encourage people to move on and stop talking about the problem, long before it has truly been solved. Dartmouth has explicitly stated that the class action against them should be divided, and to me the strategy for dividing the voices of victims to me seems clear. If we are divided, we cannot stand together. Things can get settled and agreements can be signed to keep quiet. Things can easily get buried once again.

It seems there is no fair path forward for victims to seek reconciliation, as victims seem to be judged more harshly by the community than those who committed heinous acts of sexual abuse in the first place. This demonization comes no matter how we behave as victims, which is why it is no surprise that some victims would choose to remain anonymous in the face of such retraumatizing tactics.

The moment I began speaking out again, I began to face the threat of a very expensive lawsuit. As a result of the limited ways I began writing publicly about my experiences, I am accused in a court of law of being a lying, defaming, and gold digging opportunist, among other things. Members of the homegrown terrorist “incel” community have made statements about how I need “to be raped and burned alive.” One said he wanted to find me and “slit [my] throat,” and fantasized about hurting my family. All because I now face the challenge of my assailant accusing me of defamation, and attempting to put all of my speech and my life on trial as the price to pay for uttering forbidden words shielded under a veil of omertà. I sometimes wonder if the stakes would be lower if I’d joined the Mafia instead of attending Dartmouth.

Back when I was at Dartmouth in the aftermath of my assault, I was unable to receive psychological care at the college because there was an emergency shortage of therapists and psychiatrists available. There was an impossibly long waiting list, and ultimately I was unable to receive the care that I needed and deserved. Which is why the accusations being leveled against the Psychological and Brain Sciences department are, to me, beyond the pale. Abusers were sanctioned and paid by the college to continue academic research in the field of psychology, and meanwhile victims were being swept under the rug and denied psychological care.

To say this is a lost opportunity in the field of psychology is an understatement. For me, poverty and governmental policy kept me from accessing necessary therapy after graduation for several years. It was only years later under the care of many therapists that I ultimately began to fully accept and come to terms with the truth about Dartmouth, which is something I ran from in early adulthood and tried unsuccessfully to forget. I sometimes wonder what my healing process would have looked like if I had been afforded community support and an adequate safety net.

I fear a generation of future female leaders has been lost to the reality of scapegoating and re-victimization. These people could change the world if allowed to come together and given the space and resources to fully heal. We have not been given that opportunity, and we have been divided and silenced to weaken our cause. We have not been treated as stakeholders nor have we been given a seat at the table to foment change.

We are the voices that are needed to find lasting solutions which honor and rectify the lives of victims. Dartmouth can do much more to provide a platform and support to build a strong future for its victims in spite of the wrongs that happened to us at the college. Dartmouth needs to step up to recognize this festering wound at the core of its institution, and recognize the harmful experiences inflicted on its own community members. Professing ignorance, as the administrators do, seems to me almost like a cruel joke.

The first time I went to the mental hospital seeking treatment for a psychological breakdown, I met another troubled former Dartmouth student, Alix LeClair, in the women’s wing with me. She was having similar visions as I was about a resurgence of divine feminine energy, and the need for women to step forward and reclaim the sexual power they had relinquished to society and to others. We bonded over these ideals and compelling dreams and visions of an enlightened future, which the medical community was all too quick to label as sheer madness.

I came to find out she had also been abused at Dartmouth, and during her time there had protested and banged on the President’s door to his mansion late at night, to urgently give her message about honoring the feminine and dismantling the toxic patriarchy within the institution. At the time, I did not grasp it all and was focused on my own recovery. She and I went our separate ways after I was discharged and I never came back to see her at the hospital. I wish I had, because she died suddenly and unexpectedly a few months after we met. My good friend and sex educator Anna Zelinsky ‘06 still has a watch that Alix gave to me in the hospital, which reminds me that the time is always now and that I can no longer afford to avoid doing the difficult work of confronting the scary and difficult truth about Dartmouth College.

I have spent the past thirteen years of my life unpacking everything that happened to me during my time at Dartmouth. This unpacking has sent me several places including the federal court in the Eastern District of New York, cost tens if not hundreds of thousands of dollars along with countless hours, and introduced me to dozens of other women who have suffered in ways all too similar to the ways I have suffered. Unraveling all of this has come at a great price, but it has also brought me closer to finding meaningful connections in the face of a lot of pain.

The time has come for Dartmouth to come to terms with the very real lives of the people who have been harmed by sexual violence and grotesque harassment on its campus. Because none of those costs are ever referenced in the marketing materials or the financial aid paperwork— and even with a scholarship, for me the price of losing my sexual autonomy as well as my voice has proven to be far too great of a price to bear.

At the very least, Dartmouth’s victims need representation and support. At the most, actions should be taken in a good faith effort to bring us closer to wholeness. Covering up the past and marching forward with new policy band-aids is not going to solve the problem of institutional rot, nor will it address the plight victims have faced and ultimately still face to this day. Dartmouth needs to take the opportunity to rise to the occasion of this “Call to Lead” they have foisted upon the community, take heed of this “red letter day,” and do better.

Monica Morrison, ‘07

#dartmyth250

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lord-of-isengard · 7 years

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#1.6 Deep Dark Well

I have fallen in love a lot of times. Countless times, I have had my heart ripped out by a girl who, as you could imagine used to be way out of my league. It always felt like they ate and digested some part of me again and again. And still, I used to get up, face the world and let time to heal. As the cliché saying goes, ‘Time fucking heals everything!’ and it really did. Time healed me faster than anyone else and let me be hurt again and again. At one time, I know I used to come home a broken, defeated and lost guy every weekend and go back to school a healed man. True story! I was fucking hopeful and I idolized myself for my courage to have the guts and major big balls (which then had to be operated, as they were too big for a normal person, apparently there is this thing called big-balled syndrome also called Big-Man-Sac-disease where your balls swell up to be a size of a rather big chicken egg) to go on and ask girls out. But when I did, they used to take one good hard look at me and say ‘Ewww! Stay away from me, perv!’. Some even laughed at me, some said I was retarded and some times, and this one still haunts me, the girls used to call the guys that they were ‘dating’ to make me ‘stop bothering them with my rapey glance!’ I was a kid back then and I didn’t even know was in earth was being a pervert or having a rapey glance. It was then when I was just a fucking teenager, I realized that no one wanted to be with me. I was a fucking wall and people treated there was shit sticking on me and I seemed to disgust them. It wasn’t just a simple nope that I got, it was always superlative of no. I used to come home devastated and sometimes with minor scratches in my face (Thanks to the girl’s boyfriends) but it never let me down. Yeah, I agree I felt like shit, wanted to fucking yell at god from my terrace till my voice gave up and I wanted to ask, ‘Why always fucking me!?’ but then that would be it. I would get past it in a blink of an eye. My hands helped me heal and fast too. (If you know what I mean!) But that was my schedule, my heart used to get a beating a lot and so did my meat. Had they all considered how I was just a normal human being like them, I think I would’ve turned out in a different way. Bullies loved to bully me and girls, because of my notorious rapey glance used to tell on me. I used to get into trouble that I didn’t even have any fucking part to. Yeah, life was fucking sad man. Totally fucking sad.

But I’m thankful of whatever thrashing or heartbreak that I got, because now I get to brag about all the bad things people have done to me. I always get to win that fucking game, and why not? I had been made to walk the fire of humiliation and fucking self hatred, I should have to have something out of it, haven’t I? If all that bad things have happened to me, It seems only fair that it should be shared and fucking ruin people argument about how they have the worst life ever. It’s good to brag about some shit that had happened to you so long ago that it still fucking haunts you. For example there was this time when I saw this girl who was great. She was apparently going out with this beefy guy who was in some sort of motorcycle gang (which I came to know later). Their relationship was completely age inappropriate, but well the guy was giving it to her and she was fucking taking it, like a pro or so it seemed. So, one time at the bar, when I had a little too much to drink, I heard myself asking her out. The guy heard it and he along with his beefy buddies came over and made sure I learned a lesson. He shoved a burning cigarette in my bare skin while the guys were rubbing their hands on my butt. I still remember the sound that cigarette made when it touched my sweaty skin. I was angry and furious and fucking helpless when the beefy guys bullied me. And the girl, fuck she didn’t do shit. I felt so fucking bad and I felt worthless. Truly, after that incident, the whole world, which seemed bright and so full of life, looked so fucking dull to me. One action can change people’s perception, and that was one for me. It killed my innocence, it managed to infect my personality at an alarming rate I could do nothing but to see me, my personal unadulterated version bleeding to death and all I could do was to see it withering in pain. Howling for help. For whole world, I was a fucking pervert with rapey glance. But they knew I wasn’t. They knew I could harm no one, but still they did all those things to break me, just for fucking fun and just because they could make fun of a ‘fat ugly retard.’ I lost myself in that transition and was becoming a fucking ghost of whatever I was in the past.

I might have made mistakes, but surely no one deserves a treatment that harsh. Was I angry, yes I was! Did I hate myself for not being able to defend the last shred of my dignity that used to be tore down off of me every day? Yes I did, but my life went on. I felt it wouldn’t but it did. There was once a moment when I thought I would stop it all, and fucking end it, but I didn’t. I always asked though, why is living peacefully so hard. Why would they term me as a pervert, I just was alone and lonely. I too longed for the affection that people gave to everyone except me! I wanted it, but I was crushed when I wanted to get something that I wanted. I fucking had a lot of obstacles and walls that tried to fucking stop me, but I learned to leap and jump. That was how I got through it all. So when people talk about their sorrows, I just listen to them politely because they don’t know what I went through when I was about the same age of their kid who they have awfully spoiled. But fuck it, nobody’s life is fucking perfect is it? Shit happens and you just have to make sure that it doesn’t stick and make you dirty, in my case, it managed to leave a big fucking scar that occasionally burns. It’s a phantom burn that reminds me how scared I am and who I will be. Now you must be wondering by now, if I have finally managed to lose my marbles. By the rate things are going on my head, I think I am fucking retarded. I am over thinking and overanalyzing stuffs that should be left alone. It’s like my fucking Pandora’s Box where all sorts of monstrosity lie, hidden and ready to pounce whenever my shields are down. My personal Elm Street where the nightmares are waiting with their heinous smiles.

That was the main reason why I changed myself. Killed rather than curing my infected personality and my own traits to fucking please people whose attention I deeply craved. I brutally murdered myself, and all the things what I stood for because of that fucking cigarette and the low hiss it made when it touched my skin. I along with that beefy guy had committed a crime, but I was to blame more than him. See, some people think getting attacked by a faceless dude with chainsaw is the worst nightmare and to some people its jizzing even before the initial contact and to some it’s a stupid past incident that manages to rule their inner thoughts and the way they behave. My life looked darker and darker, I began to self doubt myself and I still do. I closed myself to the world and since then I haven’t been able to open up to people. I am sure the day I finally manage to open up like I was once, would be the most amazing transformation. I think I would really connect to people that time, be bold and not to feel afraid or less of a man and doubt myself, but sadly that day is not today. Today I am still a broken man, with a broken fearful heart. When I try to persuade my heart to go out and do something, it flatly denies. It says it doesn’t want to be hurt again, and then I don’t discuss it. My heart is a fucking treacherous being, it never forgets and gets scared easily. Time had managed to help me all along the way in the past, but this time, time itself has stopped and it has left me to suffer. Left me to suffer to feel the hate brewing inside of me, the anger like a hot molten lava and I can’t do anything to cool it down. That is the death of me as I know it, I lived to love, I fell in love and now all I have is hate. And it was just because of that fucking action. That fucking simple action shattered my view on how I took life back then. Now, I feel I am deep inside a well of hatred, hatred to all the people, things and circumstance that managed to have this bad effect on me. I feel I am at the bottom, someone is closing the lid of the well and I can feel the helplessness and despair creeping in. I can feel the hotness of fury and the longing grasp of hatred. All the love and light seems to be disappearing, leaving me in this damp place. It takes one strategically shot bullet to take down any big fucking animal, and our life is the same. One event, one simple fuckup can change your life and that too for the worse. The one causing that action to happen may not even fucking realize how bigger effect it would have to the one being directly affected. And in a blink of an eye, whatever the fuck that you know or have imagined, comes crashing down. What to do then? What is it that can be done then?

Fuck that guy and fuck that girl who threw me here and be like this. I am a big boy now, I am supposed to get past it but I seem to be going around the circle. It’s like a black hole and it’s sucking me in. Deeper and deeper I go and I feel dead. Briefly, there was a time when, as alone and desperate I was, I mistook love to lust. For a romantic that got killed, when the girl came and said that she loved my look, I was completely taken aback. The world had managed to convince me that my own looks were rapey. And I believed them. So needless to say, when the girl came, I was happy. I felt special. I felt that I had finally met someone who was different. And I used to see the brief glimpse every time I saw the girl, of the past me, the carefree me and the innocent me. I thought I loved her, I really did. But I didn’t. It seems I couldn’t love anyone, because now I have stopped understanding it. I am too scared to understand it because I know, someone will come and hurt me the way the girl did. She took me, made me feel special, she taught me stuffs, she fucking made me vulnerable and she stripped me of my wall; just to fucking loot me of the tiny shred dignity that I had left. Oh how she broke me, how she pushed the dagger right through my heart to see it bleed. The girl made promises that she couldn’t keep. I was bleeding.

I will be honest with you, I want to be touched, to be warmed and to be made feel like nothing would go wrong. Because I am fed up living with the noose of fear and shame around my neck. Wish forgetting about the past would be so easy like they make us believe! How I wish, whatever wrong thing that has happened to me just stayed in the past and didn’t come to haunt me and make me feel fucking miserable. But that is a desperate plea of a desperate man and there is nothing that is to be done. The battle is long lost and the sooner you accept, the better it would it be. I say fuck to all the songs or to all the movies that gives us the impression that things could go back to how it were after a big mishap. Fuck no, the truth is they will always be there. Even if you ignore it, it’s there. Right in your peripheral vision, sitting and fucking brooding. Feeding off the darkness and the doubts that makes you question yourself. Just fucking someone to fill the deep void in your love-lost heart is making it more and more deeper and someday the doubt will throw you in and close the lid, like it has done to me.

This dark place is my home now and I don’t think I will be getting off of this place anymore soon. I look around and I see there was a ladder here but now it is beyond my reach. I jump and I try climbing, but I cannot reach it. I am in deep.I finally understand why the ladder is there and why can’t my dirty hands reach it. I hope someone comes and saves me from this well of desperation.

Help me out from this deep dark well.

#blog no 6 #true story #true shit #very long post #lonely #depressing thoughts #depressing tumblr #venting out #problems #my life story #misunderstood #text

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ecotone99 · 4 years

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[SP] The Hand of Glory

I never planned on becoming a thief. Skulking around in the dark was never really my forté and, other than a few misguided instances of childhood shoplifting, I never stole a thing in my life. That being said, I never thought I’d be living in a quarantined city while the world burns away into chaos and hatred like charcoal and ash. The whole thing felt like something out of a bad dystopian horror movie.

Scavenging had become the only way of finding resources, murder the only means of survival. If you hoped to see the sun the next day, you had two options; smash and grab from a commercial business or sneak into an occupied home. (I personally believe that the lesser of the two evils is making my way into a house.) Looting a store out in the open forced you to face other desperate scum, hoping to find anything of value, only to leave empty-handed more often than not. If it looked abandoned, you can bet that it’d already been picked clean by those vultures... or worse. A house, on the other hand, was still occupied which meant they were not only secure but even filled to the brim with valuables and whatever else people wanted for themselves.

I know you must be thinking me some kind of creep or predator, sneaking into someone’s house while they’re still home in order to pilfer their property.

I’m not a bad guy, though making that choice grew rarer the longer the quarantine went on. When I burgled a residence, I made sure to enter and leave without almost anyone becoming aware of my trespassing until I was far and away, never a soul harmed nor an item lifted that couldn’t be replaced. Things did not always go so smoothly though; it took more time, mistakes, and blood on my knife than I’d like to admit before I could call myself a “Propper Theif”. It wasn’t with years of practice, persistence, or any sort of talent that I had perfected my new skills. Some say its a blessing, though they know nothing of the curse it truly is, for no soul since 1599 AD had made a Hand of Glory.

All it took was one botched job, one bad day to haunt my dreams and force me to seek out a new way about my “business”. I could not abide by another pool of red, another little girl lifeless on the floor, her blood dripping from my knife and her parents wailing like banshees into the night. Looking back, I’d have happily starved to death that night rather than endure that horrifying grief and unrelenting guilt.

The archaic system of survival demanded we become beasts again, however, no other child would ever know or need fear the monster I had to become.

Creating the Hand was not my first option, honestly I never even considered it until I fount The Book. A hodge-podge of parchment and calfskin vellum pages, bound in some strange scaley leather, the tome was filled with recipes and “spells” that seemed more appropriate at a renaissance fair than a safe in the back of some large manor. The information found in the book was bizarre, “Command animals to do your absolute bidding (Ha!), Build a man out of clay to protect your community (too Jewish), Create a skull that tells the future (doubtful), The pro’s v. con’s of wish-granting ape fists (baloney) ...” It all seemed like superstitious mumbo jumbo when I first flipped through the pages, after carefully liberating it from the previous owner. After my initial look through nothing seemed to be of any use, other than maybe the age of the book, it didn’t have really any value. Hell, I threw the book across the room and remember thinking a drink seemed more important at the time. Something stopped me from walking out the door to my kitchen, some deep-seated urge kept ringing in my mind, “Go pick up the book”.

Unable to clear my head, I turned back, walked over, picked up the mysterious codex and saw my wretched future drawn out in that faded iron ink. “La Maine de Gloire. The Hand of Glory: A gift for thieves and those who wish to remain unseen.” Though never a religious or superstitious man, this was the first time I felt...blessed. Clutching tight to the book, a single tear streamed down my cheek, the first tear I had shed since that terrible night.

After hours of translating a rediculous mixture of Latin, French, and very old English scribbled around the page, I had my recipe for creating the Hand. The recipe was not a simple one: requiring pickling, saltpeter, hot peppers, hair, fat, and of course a human hand. Even the means of procuring some of the ingredients were incredibly detailed and complex. Have you any idea how difficult it is to find the fresh human hand, fat, and hair of a recently executed murderer, during the new moon... at MIDNIGHT?! Luckily, there was no shortage of scum and villainy out on the streets, so I had my “pick of the litter” when it came to materials. Finding some poor devil strung up on a street lamp by some angry mob was where I claimed the left hand, the hair, and fat to make the candle. All the other ingredients could be found in your local grocers or chemists.

The process was long and overly complex; first draining and arranging the hand, then salting and pickling, air drying and inscribing with mystic symbols, before finally repeatedly dipping the hand in a tub of melted beeswax. After months of work and preparation, my Glory was finally ready. After sticking the candle made of human hair and fat to the palm, I attempted to light my macabre creation. I held the flame of my lighter to the “wick” for minutes waiting for it to catch, but as moment after moment passes I feared I had made a mistake, or worse, the Hand of Glory was just another old-world folktale. I checked the book and realized that I somehow missed that the Hand required the phrase “Vox Vorbis Lux” to be chanted continuously for the hand to ignite. Once lit it could only extinguishable by the barer or by a splash of sterilized milk. I tried again, fearing failure meant no other options, many wasted nights, and my eventual death via starvation. This was it. It HAD to work...and it did.

The candle ignited in a tiny explosion covering me in a bright, almost blinding, light emanating from a white, blue, and violet flame. It was wonderous, I could barely pull my eyes away from the miraculous flame. As I looked around the room, a thick inky void surrounded me, all-encompassing and inescapable. I pointed the light towards my dresser on the far side of the room and was astounded when the entire wall began to illuminate as though being basked in the light of the sun. I could see everything in perfect detail, nothing could escape my gaze.

After that stealing became the easiest thing I could wish to accomplish. On my first job, I learned just what the Hand was capable of. When I entered a house through the basement, my usual means of entry, and ignited the Hand and the void blanketed everything in sight. Not only was the candle aflame, but so were the thumb and the first three fingers that I later learned indicated that the four members of the house were still awake. Cautiously, I started walking around the house and, to my complete surprise, slipped by every member of the house as if I wasn’t even there. I didn’t even try and hide, the young family just continued on their activities. As the children fell asleep, two of the flames slowly fade before snuffing themselves out. Without a single worry or care, I was able to make my way through and out of the house pilfering cash, jewelry, food, trading material, and other valuable resources. As I continued my thieving spree, I gained enough treasures and provisions to easily live out the rest of the quarantine in comfort and luxury. Through thick and thin I never forgot why I created the Hand of Glory, often leaving gifts or provisions to the house of the grief-stricken family whose lives I crippled. They never knew from where all the gifts came from, I never left a name with any of the gifts. The last thing I wanted or deserved was recognition.

Before long I felt something was wrong with the Hand of Glory, with every use I could feel as though something was affecting me. I went back to the mysterious book, scanning the pages about the Hand vigorously, hoping to find any clue or list of side effects using the Hand may have caused.

Nothing. What else could there be, I’ve read over each of those pages thousands of times... but I never bothered to read the back of the page. There, not only did I learn the properties of the Hand of Glory but also the eventual fate of whoever used the Hand, as well as whoever dares craft one.

According to my translations (which I had confirmed by educated professionals), those who use a Hand of Glory for a prolonged period of time( or multiple times) are susceptible to horrific nightmares, visions, spontaneous parasites, all manner of illnesses, bleeding from the eyes, and leprosy. Though my use of the Hand had finished by this time, I made sure to seek out proper medical treatment to counteract any lingering side effects. It didn’t matter though, I was damned but just didn’t know it yet. The “sins” of using the Hand were microscopic compared to that of the creation of a Hand itself.

According to my translations, consultation from the catholic arch-diocese, and advice from so-called paranormal investigators,

“...those who use the Hand are already prepared to break a number of the Lord’s commandments. The creation of the Hand of Glory is not only a macabre and physically vile act but also spiritually binding to those that were deemed ‘suitable materials’. The Hand of Glory must be constructed with the left hand of a murderer, thief, or otherwise heinous villain. Their soul, already damned to hell, becomes warped and twisted by the procedure and incantations needed to construct the Hand, and their soul itself is used to light the Hand and acts as the source of its power. Those who actively seek to create the must understand the severity of this action; the sins one commits in order to create a Hand are numerous and horrendous, setting them on an unwavering path to the depths of damnation. Upon their passing, amongst the flames of the inferno, sits a malevolent beast waiting simply to torture and torment its victim. This demon is all that remains of the soul of whoever was mutilated post-mortem to gather the aforementioned materials from their corpse, seeking retribution for their eternity of suffering and deformity. There is no means of reversing this bond, for God himself contends those selfish enough to dare create a Hand of Glory.”

There you have it, it’s all there. I am damned.

Not only damned but awaiting a reserved torture chair and personal tormenter at the moment of my passing. I know I deserve to go to hell, for what I did to that girl, to her family. What I didn’t know, nor expect, was that I was horrendously tormenting the eternal existence of the poor man I found hanging from that street lamp. Now he, or what I can only imagine is left of him, sharpens his tools of torment and pain in anticipation. Can’t say I blame him, really. He deserves his vengeance, especially after the number of times I used the damned artifact to further my own agenda.

I made the Hand of Glory 45 years ago. The years are catching up to me, there is nothing I can do about it and that frightens me terribly. Wallowing in my fortune, my breath grows shallower and shallower, there is nothing left I can do but wait for deaths cold embrace. All I can do anymore is glare at the key of my eternal punishment, and ponder that poor girl from all those years ago. What would she have made of herself? Would she have been happy with life? What good would she have accomplished? What was her name?

My god, have I really lived my entire life without ever knowing the name of the little girl who died on my knife? I’ve spent all these years trying to avoid reliving that terrible mistake, but was it for their benefit or my own?

The shadows are creeping in now, little time remains. If you are reading this, then my soul has already been claimed. I implore you to head this warning; there is no glory to be found with the Hands use. It shall rot you from the inside out, festering gluttony and incurable greed, it is a curse I would not wish upon my worst enemy. If you are smart you might cast it into the sea, or lock the thing away submerged in a bath of blue milk and holy water.

There is nothing left for me to say, my time has arrived. He is com--

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valiha · 5 years

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helshades

reblogged your post and added:

“helshades: valiha: helshades: valiha: helshades: @valiha, it...”

Groupie! Sycophant! Fan!

OK, so it took me the better part of the night, after being constantly interrupted by people coming and going (it’s Laylat al-Qadr and it is tradition for families to gather for iftar and afterwards). I had to just add my replies and the numbers they refer to, because it turned out long and rambling and probably rubbish, but whatever. Now, how do I add a read more?

1. Re: ‘Earth-616 versus Earth-19999′ - got it!

2. OK, then it's simply that I'm not getting the explanation. It's not getting through. Or it's honestly that I don't like the idea of creating a divergent timeline when time-travelers go back to the past - that's again creating an entire universe that has to suffer these consequences?? (you'll probably say, they're fictional! but what if this were real? aren't you at least a little uncomfortable about that??)

3. Yes I do, if I want to enjoy the movie. I have trouble staying immersed in a movie if I can't at least be somewhat ok with the choices on the screen. Am I not allowed to express my dissatisfction with a plot point of a movie/show I'm watching? Even if my view might not be correct by someone else's opinion? (Also, I didn't like that the conflict between Steve and Tony. They were always in conflict; always yammer yammer fight fight; why?? That's boring to me. I'm finding I don't really like interpersonal conflict I guess? Not even in movies.)

4. But aren't your at least a little uncomfortable with that exodus at this moment in time, where there is a real live exodus of refugees, people fleeing their homes and countries, which have been utterly destroyed and they left desolate, forever scarred and at the mercy of others?? That is like a knife in my chest. Even in Avatar, which everybody is derisive about, when that scene of the Na'vi's home being destroyed came up and the were wailing on the screen you could have heard a pin drop at the theater. It was deathly silent, people were sitting in their seats holding each other, some were rying. The war had been over for nearly 15 years, yet this light-fare scifi flick had enough power to make grown people cry by showing alien people's home destroyed, inhabitants dead, wounded or fleeing. How do I explain how powerful that feeling was then, and is now, watching similar scenes, in the kind of world we live?

Re: Hela... I'd like to think everyone's redeemable. The kind of fics I like to read the most are often redemption stories. And I'm thinking, Odin lead those conquering wars, He had Hela as his right hand, pointed her towards his goals and had her "execute his vision", let's say. We can imagine their conquests were bloody: his father exterminated (to his knowledge) an entire race of people (I refuse to believe each and every member of a species is evil). He nearly did the same with the Jotnar. Something finally made him stop and look, and ask himself if he truly whated that to be his legacy. The movie says there's no hope for Hela, she's too far gone and perhaps she is - sometimes people truly are eveil; but what if? What if she decided to put down her sword when Odin asked, and Thor and Loki grew up beside her? If Odin gets his chance, can't she? These are the kinds of stories I am interested in.

This is something I've been thinking of often these past few days, with the anniversaries of some heinous acts of war committed in my country. I found myself thinking, would I try to rehabilitate and redeem the war criminals, the gun wielders, and the order givers? Would I forgive, or tolerate their presence, see them on the streets of my every day, see them working as police officers, businessmen, mayors the way some of them do on the streets of the cities they operated in years ago? Would I, provided they paid their dues, and retired to live out their lives far from the eyes of the public?

I struggle with this. Thing is, I don't owe anybody forgiveness for wronging me, and nobody owes me the same if I was the guilty party. But I'd like to think I would give a second chance, if it were earned. If we all keep enacting vengeance, eventually we'll exterminate each other.

(ugh I've again written a wall of text, and don't know if I managed to get across what I was trying to...)

5. No attacks, and I do know; and again I have to shake my head at that disgusting anon message. Nothing, in fandom or in brickspace, no kind of disagreement on what are maginary wrlds and people (even if the feelings are real) justifies that kind of behavior.

6. Re: your own sacrifie - have I missed a sentence somewhere in the MCU that said you could sacrifice yourself? And how would you get the Soul stone then - or were you always supposed to bring another person with you?? Have I missed something?

7. Back up - what Sif show? I thought Jamie Alexander was still filming her own series?

If you remember, I wasn't all that keen on the new look of Asgard they were leaking while the Dark World was filming - I already liked the, er, gilded design of the first movie, and its Shakespearean background. :) I guess the kind of audience that movie found wasn't the audience the TPTB were looking for... TDW did grow on me, eventually. What I dislike thmost abot Ragnarok is exactly that irreverent treatment of previous movies - it might be the thing in Maori culture, but it didn't at all feel respectfully disrespectful, dammit, but plain malicious. They just plain didn't care about what came before. It felt insulting. :( It may not have been meant that way, but that's how a lot of people viewed it.

Foster’s Fellows Forever! And no, unfortunatelly, from what I see except the peope on my dash and people whose fics I read at AO3, most of the wider audience really didn't like Dr. Foster. I'm not sure about the comics - I'm not a regular reader, and I spend even less time in comic spaces, but based on fandom osmosis, I thought her Thor run was popular?

(Lets make yet another Disney+ series - after all, aparently we've got the multiverse now - let's make it the kind of universe where everything ends well and the good doctor gets te recognition she deserves.)

I may have misread the comment on the issue between Marvel and Portman - would you agree that they had a problem with her (or her character) and not the other way around??

(Hel, I must admit a guilty pleasure: I too sometimes like watching cool fights against colourful aliens, as evidenced by a certain movie with a gaseous giant as the name of the main character. :D )

8. I'm not sure that Loki did fake his death either time. The scene on the bridge certainly felt like watching someone decide that's it, it's finally over. I think he knew of the passageways between Yggdrasil's branches, but didn't care if he happened upon one or not. He was lucky (or not so lucky I guess). Same with TDW - there's resignation on his face, plus apparently TPTB decree was that he would die and it was filmed as a genuine death, but the audience wanted him back. In-story explanation might then be his magic healed him, or his Jotun healing, or the Norns had other plans for him or whatever. I don't have any proof really, but I prefer this explanation.

(I should probably heed spoilers which say my facorite characters will die; I do the same for fic so why don't I learn the same for movies?!)

Re: Gamora, I'm sad about the loss of development she went through, all the small moments with Groot, the time she spent with the others on Milano. That hurts. This Gamora hasn't had that, and who's to say she will gravitate towards them again? If she doesn't, I at least hope the new companions she finds will be good for her.

Thanos, get your grubby hands off my Earth, thank you very much. Let's have that battle out in space, away from any populated planets, shall we?

9. Attack: criticize or oppose fiercely and publicly. No attacks whatsoever, not for opposing views in fandom, not for liking/disliking characters, not for anything. Thankfully there's a blacklist (even a native one for the Tumblr app), so I can hide whatever I don't want to see. But even if I do see and read it with my own eyes, if I interact with the post I will not do it maliciously. If we can't agree, we don't agree, and we change the topic. How's that?

#helshades

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