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the-headbop-wraith · 3 years

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1_16 Sometimes There

Their task complete with the reclusive Silver Ghost, the Mystery Skulls move onward in search of a new mystery to solve. The group glides through the motions of normality, but how far from normality have they strayed? How far can a wire be pulled tight before the tension causes it to snap?

There was no way to return the mangled cigarette tin, but Vivi had made Arthur take them back to the Owen’s residence to give them a brief report of their encounter with the spirit of their relative. None of the events of that night were mentioned, and Viv had only made the family aware that Fritz had been remorseful about taking his life and was now in a better place. There was one decent picture of the few taken, and Vivi was not about to share the one of the noose hanging from the ceiling. The family seemed accepting of the stories about the Mystery Skulls encounter with Fritz, but it was tricky to tell with most people and their outlook on paranormal research.

It was unfairly early in the morning to be on the road, though in all honesty Lewis didn’t care. Throughout the night Arthur had been driving nonstop, and had only survived on a steady supply of energy drinks and pop rocks carefully rationed by Vivi. Vivi was convinced Arthur would suffer a heart attack if he didn’t slow down, and Lewis had considered the mien as an entertaining subject piece to dwell over along the hours of road time. As of the beginning of the trip Lewis had yet to volunteer to drive, but he was giving the matter some heavy consideration.

Lewis could perceive that the air was cool, maybe too cold for bare arms. The sunlight in the cloudless sky made a difference if it was possible to stay out of the shadows, and the unwelcome breeze. Lewis had opened the back doors of the van and lay in the sun absorbing the warmth through the incorporeal swarm that consisted of his shape. Arthur had parked away from the more populated side of the busy convenience shop, and truthfully Lewis didn’t give a damn at this time if someone became curious to his appearance. Most of him looked human, that was enough. What business did anyone have to bother him during his siesta? Lewis relocated his thoughts away from the persistent noise of traffic, engines constantly in motion of come and gone. Some of his solidity, his consciousness and his memories, prickled through his foremost awareness. He held no accurate relation to the description, but only knew the sensation gave him a swell of invigoration that would be essential later. Solid, present, existing. That’s what was important to him. Lewis needed that.

“Don’t catch the van to fire,” a sweet voice chimed.

Lewis slammed back into his current space of occupation and tilts himself up, nearly gliding through the floor of the van as a figure of blue came into his vision. He looked at his shoulders where the pink ember flames had suspended and bobbed under the guidance of his swaying form. Lewis waved the small orb away, before pressing his palms into the floor of the van and pulled himself up into a sitting position on the bumper.

“No harm done,” Lewis said. He looked at the large item of black leather Vivi carried over her arm. As if anticipating her future dialogue the heart on Lewis’ chest fluttered, as he inclined his brow behind the sunglasses. “Is that a leather jacket?”

Vivi nods, as she takes the coat by the shoulders and looks it over. “You’re gonna look like a dead greaser for a while, but that’s all they had in your size. And I thought it’d match your hands, that way you won’t look too odd. Maybe.” She flopped the jacket into Lewis’ arms, while he was distracted with the current state of his free floating palms and bleached bone knuckles. Lewis stood up and tussled the jacket over in his hands. “Try not to roast this off, K? You can go through walls, I think it’s safe to assume you can slip out of a coat like anyone else?”

Lewis noted that the coat was still much larger than he needed it, but even without it zipped up the tight leather hugged close to his sides and there was nothing that could be done about the ribs. “It’s fashionable,” Lewis says. “I love it.” Vivi straightened up the collars and patted the pockets over before zipping it up.

“Arthur’s not back yet?” she asked, as she turns to check around the open parking lot. A few travelers were out fueling their cars, and a group of kids followed a taller man into the front of the store. Of a blonde haired young man and a white and black dog, no sign thereof.

Lewis shuffled aside over the asphalt as Vivi pushed by to crawl into the vans back. As she rummaged around, Lewis fiddled with the locket beneath the thick black pocket of his jacket. The jacket looked awful zipped up as it was to his crisp white collar, but it looked twice as awkward if his suit was showing underneath. He made mental note to not let this go and maybe remedy it later, as if he had a choice.

“When did Arthur and Mystery become so close?” Lewis asked, in way to distract himself. He gave up on the locket for now, and peered into the vans interior as Vivi slid the ice chest out. The ice box was heavy with water so Lewis hefted it out and carried it to the side of the parking lot where the grass tore through the eroded concrete in desperate yellow clumps. “You were the one that found him.”

Vivi nodded, and bounced up to sit on one of the cement poles that bordered the road around the convenience mart. “I sometimes wonder myself,” she said, with a sigh. When was it exactly, she tried to recall but those memories were dim and painful. A crashing, whirling blur when the world was engulfed in dry brittle scabs, and so many tears dried into shoulders and bed sheets. She remember the smell of the hospital clearly, anesthetic and the tinge of rot. For a long time Vivi had accepted that the smell was saturated into Arthur’s soul, and no amount of washing would cleanse it off. Some days it was hard to get off to see him, and she made excuses not to visit. It was horrible of her. But she defended by convincing herself she didn’t know what to do, her presence was damaging to Arthur in some way. She thought Arthur had hated her for making him go into the cave.

Vivi coughed as she swallowed. “For a long time he was really low,” she said, her voice rasped. “I thought it was his arm, at least, that’s what the doctors always said. I believed them.” Vivi shrugged. She moved off the cement pole, as Lewis lifted the drained ice chest and shook the container to remove excess water as he began walking with her across the parking lot. “It’s was awful. For a while Mystery was gone, just disappeared.” Vivi wrapped her arms across her chest and shivered, her voice lowered. “I thought that’s what he meant. He would mumble in his sleep.” Lewis stood with Vivi beside the van, ice chest slumped in his arms. “He would say, ‘He’s gone Vi. He’s gone. I’m sorry, god I’m sorry.’ And I knew it was the delirium, he was upset I’d lost my dog. We left Mystery in the cave and he was dead, and Arthur was apologizing for killing my dog while he lay in a bed half dead, arm ripped off, brain drowned in cocktail of morphine and antidepressants. I was so fucking stupid.” Vivi lowered her head down into her sweater and knit her fingers deep into the fiber of her sweater.

Lewis set the ice box down on the asphalt and grabbed Vivi by her shoulders when she began to sway. “Easy, mi arandano,” Lewis hummed, and pulled her around to sit on the ice box. He knelt in front of her and kept his hands clasped to her shoulders. “Don’t tell me about it. I don’t need to know anymore if this is going to hurt you.”

“I wanna tell you,” Vivi murmured. She shut her eyes tightly and fought back the tears, but a few managed their freedom. “You and Arthur never want to talk about it, but I do. I need to. You weren’t there! So you never saw him go through that. I wasn’t even hardly there for him.” She sniffled and wiped at her eyes with the blue sleeve of her sweater. “I gave up on Mystery,” she said, voice cracking in her throat. “And I was giving up on Arthur. Each time I saw him, it seemed like I was losing more of him. I thought the less I visited him, the less he’d waste away. It’s stupid to think that, I know.”

“It’s not stupid,” Lewis said. His sunglasses slipped too low on his face but he didn’t bother to fix them. He instead rubbed her shoulders, edging small coils of warmth into her trembling arms.

“One day I was visiting Art,” Vivi said. She reached out and fumbled with the collar of Lewis’ new jacket, and snapped off one of the tags still dangling there. The jacket itself looked fine on him, but his collar…. “That’s after when they let him out of the hospital, he wasn’t on suicide watch anymore.” Vivi swallowed when the words leapt from her. “I was ready to start shoving food down his throat – he lost so much weight. Everyday. Everyday he,” Vivi paused as she dried more of her tears and wrestled her emotions under some semblance of control. “Then out of nowhere, it’s Mystery. I couldn’t believe it. Arthur too, he had this haunted weird twisted look in his eyes, but he didn’t move. I think if he had jumped out of bed at that point it would’ve killed him. But there’s Mystery, somehow, I don’t care. I don’t remember how to move and I don’t recognize him, and I can’t believe it’s him. And Mystery hardly gives us a look, he just goes over to Arthur’s bed and set this little damp fluffy thing on his lap.”

As Lewis ponders a moment, Vivi takes another breath and exhales a hot moist breath laced with sorrow and memories she didn’t need. She rubs at her eyes and set her arms over Lewis’ shoulders and leans on him. “A hamster,” Lewis says. He peers at Vivi, who is now very close to his face. “Galaham?”

Vivi nods and manages a faint smile. “We were horrified at first,” she admits. “I thought Mystery had mangled the poor thing, but Arthur gave the hamster a quick look over and concluded he must’ve been born that way. It was the most he’d spoken in weeks.”

Lewis tugs his lips into a tight smirk. “A bittersweet ending,” he muttered. “No wonder I couldn’t get him to bring Galahad with us.”

Vivi sniffles as she stands up from the ice box, and Lewis stands along with her. “I think too Lance needs the company. Helps him feel close to Art, in a way,” she said. “But it would be hard keeping track of two pets.” Vivi taps the ice chest with her foot, and Lewis moves to pick it up and resumes following her to the stores front. Vivi does her best to scrub away the shreds of her sorrow but the effort is futile, only time would aid in that matter. It amazed her how invaluable time was to them all now.

The store is divided into three sections, with the gift shop and convenient store at the forefront, a buffet to the right, and the bathrooms along with arcade section opposite to the side of the buffet. Vivi led the way to the cold drinks and began selecting the purchases – a bag of ice, chilled drinks, and some packaged sandwiches – all went into the ice box. While Lewis carried the ice box to the front, Vivi selected additional none chilled goods along the way.

“Are we still headed towards that cursed interstate in the mountains?” Lewis asked, as they moved along in line. Lewis hefted the ice box onto his shoulder and balanced it there. He noted the older woman in front of them gave him an incredulous glare before she moved forward, out of his way. “Not that I’m scared or anything, but it could be a huge waste of time.”

“You saw the open tab labeling out the weather report,” Vivi accused, glaring up at him. “Didn’t you?”

“I am sorry, I am done with ice for a while,” Lewis muttered. He was going to say more but stopped prolonging the conversations and thought a moment. It was more than just being bothered by the cold, he just didn’t want to be reminded. He couldn’t offer Vivi his concerns, but an icy road and the rumor of numerous accident did not appeal to him either.

“You don’t like to drive on the ice,” a voice said behind them. It was soft, but had sternness to it. Lewis and Vivi turned to a wide man in a plaid red shirt and frayed jeans. “That road has a bad reputation. A lot of accidents. People use it anyway, and don’t care. It cuts the distance between Knoxx and Ruben by half, but the out of Towner’s don’t know how to drive on those kinda roads.”

Vivi straightened up to the man’s tall stature and his verbal cautions. “We know,” she said. She moved forward with Lewis as the line shuffled along. “That’s the reason we’re headed over there. My group’s gonna explore around, see if there’s an unnatural reason why all those wrecks are caused.”

“Aw really?” asked the man, squinting.

“Yeah,” Lewis said. He turned away to set the ice chest on the counter and opened it up for the cashier, while Vivi dumped her foods and bags onto the glass counter top. “Not just faulty road construction. Paranormal means. Weird energy, optical illusion roads.” He shrugged, and tilts around to address the friendly face of the man. “Who knows, maybe there’s a vengeful ghost hanging around?” The larger man slapped a hand onto Lewis’ back, and Lewis nearly lost his sunglasses when he jerked under the playful pat.

“You’re ghost hunters then?” the man said, chuckling in his throat. “How’s that working for you?”

“We’ve had worse,” Lewis says. When Vivi collected the change, Lewis hurriedly packed up the ice box and moves aside to allow the friendly man on by.

“Hold up a second,” the man said. He set a bag of jerky and a water bottle on the counter, and asked for a tin of tobacco. “I know a place ‘round nearby you might want to look at. Unless you’re in a hurry.”

Vivi shared a look with Lewis as they pause by the newspaper rack beside the glass doors of the stores entrance. “Well,” Vivi said, doubtfully, “we don’t just check out random places because of local rumors. There kind of has to be a lot of attention….” She trailed off, as the man in plaid pockets his purchases stepped closer to her and Lewis. He ripped open the bag of jerky and offers Vivi a piece, which she takes because they haven’t stopped for lunch yet and this run saw that they picked up snacks to remedy this. Lewis waves off the food offer, and the man dumps out a piece of jerky into his large, rough palm.

“Well, I am sorry to hear that,” the man grumbled. “The people that own the place didn’t want a lot of publicity. They have their own reasons.” He nods. Lewis and Vivi move aside as people stroll by and out the sliding doors, a gust of cool air sweeps in at their backs. “But trust me, this place is haunted. Or something’s there, something evil.”

“Evil?” Vivi questions, frowning. “That’s a heavy claim. And they don’t want publication, help? Do the owners even believe their home could be haunted, or is it just a local rumor?”

The man nods, and chews a bit on his jerky piece. “They believe,” he says. “They just don’t want word to get out, because then they’d have ghost hunters like you people by the place, but I think they could use some help. See, I told them I’d never post about the incident, but I never said nothin’ about sending people their way. Just don’t tell them I sent you.” He takes a bite of the jerky and chews.

“We won’t,” Lewis confides. Meanwhile, Vivi stuffs the whole jerky piece in her mouth and struggles to chew it. “So, what’s this problem they have?” he asked, as Vivi nearly chokes.

The location given by the overly friendly man from the convenience mart left Lewis more than dubious, but Vivi had already made up her mind once they stepped out of the stores front. They alternated giving Arthur the acquired information as he drove the long road up among the thin growth of trees and sparse clumps of brush, the road among the foliage was not old or forgotten, but pristine and new. A few vehicles did pass the van as it chugged on its way up, winding around narrow roads among the mountains, and slipping into the low bobbing hills that ruled the terra firma.

“Are you sure this is the right way?” Arthur asked, every few minutes as he peered through the amber windshield of the van. In the middle seat beside Arthur sat Vivi, laptop on her lap and a few tabs still open since the time they had departed the convenience mart. She held a sheet of paper with horrible handwriting on its white page, with lines and tiny writing to identify specific landmarks.

“Yep,” Vivi says, as she compares the ‘map’ to the bird eye views she had uploaded. “We should be reaching a… ah.” She set the laptop aside, by Mystery curled up in the passenger seat. “You put in a code to open the gate.”

“I know,” Arthur muttered, as he guides the vans window up beside the small keypad beside the road. A wall extended across the road, a short distance before them to either side of the thin tree growth, its décor sandy red brick. There was no way to drive around. “Did he give us a code?”

“One-three-nine-three-six-five-three,” Vivi answered. She heard the distinct chime of the code buttons as Arthur punched away, then a low buzz as the black steel gate between the red brick ahead of them swung open. “You doing okay back there, Lew?” Viv leaned up over her seat to check the darkened interior of the vans back. She swayed, gripping the seat at her side as Arthur applied gas and guides their transportation through the open gate.

“Fine,” the voice echoed, cutting over the interior of the metal walls. “Just peachy.” Vivi undid her seatbelt in order to turn around more comfortably and check on Lewis, who had lain down along the side of the vans wall facing the inner edge, his arms were wrapped tight over his jacket. His skull lay just in the inner side of his white collar and appeared positively inert from the angle Vivi was watching him from.

“We’re almost there,” Vivi said, as she slipped back into her seat. “If you plan to go in with us.”

There came a short beat. The van rolled along the smooth road between large homes built up and on miniature plateaus, with wild landscape and sparse cultivated foliage among the esteem neighborhood design. Each home was unique and bore similarities to rustic wood cabins with dark timber outer walls and spaces of grainy stone work.

Arthur winced when he picked up the soft movement in the back. “What was that address, again?” he asked, quick to cover up the sudden drop in his voice.

“Looks like it’s on the furthest side,” Vivi responds, again with the little ratty piece of paper in her hand. She looked up as Lewis peered over the bench seat. “Take this road here, and keep driving.” Vivi looked up at Lewis. “We’re you asleep?”

“Nope,” Lewis hummed. He slipped the sunglasses on and focused, assuring his nonphysical sense that he was maintaining his visible appearance under the jacket. Lewis leaned up over Arthur’s head to catch the sight of himself in the mirror before he settled back behind the seat and watched as they rolled through a bend in the road. “S’that the place?”

Vivi and Arthur muttered to each other, Vivi turned the paper around and pointed to the marks. “I think so,” she said, and looked up to the large home now rising into view. “Big house, huh?”

It wasn’t a house. It was a regal estate. A tall wall of red brick guarded the grounds, with a large black gate embedded in one side of the rocky wall. Down a ways from the larger gate, sat a smaller gate facing a semicircular sandstone driveway, situated off the main road that encircled the rest of the neighborhood; the guest entrance, most likely. Saplings dominated the yard, and a few of the larger trees had been left intact just beyond the main grounds of the modified landscape.

“Feels kind of like deja’vu,” Arthur said, as he leaned over the steering wheel. “Where should I park?” Vivi indicated to the side parking, beside the sandstone gate. Arthur kills the engine and leans back in his seat, as Vivi rummages around on the floorboard and collects her provision bag. “Maybe I should stick out here for once. In case the police show up.” He winced when Lewis flicked a finger at his good shoulder.

“C’mon,” Lewis encouraged. “If anything, they might tell us an interesting story.” Lewis ducked out of sight, and the harsh screech of the backdoors ignited as Lewis forced one door open. Arthur sighed, reminding himself to oil the gear if they ever got back. But he went along, and slipped out from the driver side door.

Once Vivi had roused Mystery and the van doors were locked, the group entered through the guest entrance in the smaller steel gate and moved up the long path to the front doors of the estate. The path was designed with large sections of rough dark stone, with gravel among the gaps. Vivi focused a bit on the sounds of their feet scraping over the gritty surface and Mystery claws tapping, the shuffle-scraping only ending when they reached the large entrance doors. To either side of the front patio, large pillars of wood rose up to the high ceiling of the underside of the patio. It took a few seconds for Vivi to find the doorbell hidden beside the doorframe, where Arthur indicated it.

“Have we thought about what we’re going to say?” Lewis asked.

Vivi shrugged, her rapid movement caused the items within her bag to crinkle. “We’ll just wing it. That’s a plan,” she said.

“A plan designed to fail,” Arthur muttered. He kept behind Lewis, before drifting to stand near Vivi and Mystery. He straightened up at Vivi’s motion, when the large front doors opened and a man revealed himself there in the threshold. An older man, with a red tinged hair and a mustache. He appeared in good health, lean but strong, a man of discipline or too much time on his hands. He peered at the group quizzically, before he spoke:

“If you’re here to sell something—”

“Oh no!” Vivi gasped, amused but not offended. “Ah… we heard you were having some… problems with an entity. A hostile spirit, or something unwanted in your home. If this is all false, let us know now and we’ll leave.” Vivi waved her hands with exaggeration, fearing the sudden denial that was working in the man’s visage. “But we’re a group dedicated to the paranormal, and we have methods for helping people deal with unwanted supernatural entities.” Her speech slowed down as she continued, gaping at the taller man as he stared her down. “We’re here to help and learn, we won’t bring unwanted attention to your home, and our services are free of charge. I assure you.”

Vivi stepped back into Arthur as the man pushed the door open all the way and leaned onto the rich wood frame. The interior of the home was large and reflected much of the pseudo natural details of the homes exterior. Soft beige tile floors, a long rug in the main hall, walls splotched with ‘artistic’ paint texture, and deep gray light fixtures adhered to the walls between doorways and along the upper walls.

“Who sent you?” the man asked. Somewhere beyond the hall a female voice called, but the words were cut off by the walls. “Just a moment Harriet,” the man called back.

“No one sent us,” Lewis said. “A guy from the city got wind we were ghost investigators, so he told us about your place if we were interested. He made it clear you didn’t want any attention brought your way, but he managed to catch us while we were leaving.” Lewis looked to Vivi, and Vivi pulled the corner of her mouth back into a sort of humorless smirk. The man looked down at the dog, as Vivi went on:

“We also do debunking,” she said. “Trying to understand if the activity in a home is paranormal, or can be explained by everyday occurrences. We don’t actually know yet if your home is haunted, but we’d like to find out if it’s true and maybe help? We also have contact information of the college we work and researching with, if you want to verify us.”

The man looks back to her, biting his upper lip as he ponders. Finally, he pushed away from the door and extends his hand. “Come in then. I’m Sanders by the way. Sanders McHiggin.” Sanders shakes hands with each member of the group as they give their names. He stops when Mystery steps up, reared on his back legs with a paw outstretched up to Sanders.

“That’s Mystery,” Vivi says, pointing to the dog. “He helps with our investigations.”

After shaking Mystery’s paw, Sanders shuts the doors and leads the group the main hall and into the foyer. Steps lead up to a balcony and to the higher floors, a chandelier dangles above the first landing of the stairs, and above sun windows allow the bright light of late noon to fall over the carpet of the floor stretched across the room. “I didn’t want any of this story to get out,” Sanders said, as he leads the group into another doorway off from the foyer. It was a living area with armchairs, a large table with a cloth over it mid center of the room and a chandelier hanging down. “It’s bad for business. Bad for publicity. You can assure me none of this is going to go public? I warn you now I’ll press charges, kids or not.”

“It’s part of our strict policy. It assures the protection of the rights of those involved with our investigations, whether it be you or your ‘guests,’” Vivi did air quotes, and folds her hands over in front of her waist. “What about some pictures? Can I take pictures, I use them to identify a presence that doesn’t want to be seen.” She was already grabbing for her bag, when she spied Sanders shaking his head.

“The architect of my home is revolutionary style,” said Sanders, still shaking his head with his mustache pulled into a grimace. “Please be respectful of my wishes.”

“I will,” Vivi sighed. Sanders gestured them to sit in the armchairs set around the table, and the group does. Mystery leaps up and squeezes in beside Vivi and she scoots over as he settles to lay down over her thighs. Mystery looks to Lewis, and Lewis tenses before he folds and moves to the chair beside Arthur. The short exchange is missed by Vivi as she rubbed Mystery’s head, before addressing Sanders seated across from her. “Can you describe the activity that’s been bothering you? Your family?”

Sanders slouched back in his chair, and gestured his open palm to Vivi. “Where do I start? I’m not exactly sure what warrants your interest?” he trailed off, and set his hand back upon the arm of his chair and rubbed his fingers on the velvety fabric. “I think it started with the noises.”

The recount took a little more than an hour. For the first thirty minutes a member of the family would come into the social room and check out the visitors of their father/husband. It was a wife and two teens, and a teen in progress. After Vivi had written down some of the preliminary activity (in one of her trusty beaten up notebooks), and requested if it was all right by Mr. McHiggin if he could show them around, describe the activity in detail in what areas where it occurred. Sander’s agreed and led the Mystery Skulls around his luxurious home. Most the sounds Sanders noted came from the walls or the floors above, where no one would be normally if the family was out.

“It gets creepy when you’re home alone,” Sander’s noted to Arthur, as they stood side by side as Lewis and Vivi inspected a ‘small’ closet. “The kids will be off doing their thing, and my wife has clubs and I’ll be home trying to read and those noises start up.”

The noises were scratching and a lot of banging, sometimes loud thudding.

“I used to call out people all the time,” Sanders went on. The group had located to one of the upper rooms, a family bar with popcorn machine on the counter behind the granite countertop and various sweet drinks and colorful bottles for punch martinis. The story with the room went that the McHiggin would be enjoying some together time, sometimes a few friends of the kids were brought over, and midway during activities an awful smell would fill the room. Horrible odors had become a theme after the sounds, and though the sounds were frightening and obnoxious on their own, the grotesque odor was more so. “They’d give me an entire list of possible causes, practically tear the house apart looking for the origins, and find nothing.”

A sink was behind the main bar, and Lewis had opened up the pantry beneath it to check the pipes. Everything was practically brand new but Sanders had made constant remark of how recent his home was and it shouldn’t be having these kind of problems. Sanders was stuck on traditional hauntings, Lewis noted. But that didn’t mean a newer home couldn’t be haunted.

“I know what sulfide smells like,” Sanders said. He watched as Arthur and Mystery poke around the side of the bar. “The house smelled like it for a while when the plumbing was first installed. Some homes are like that, and you just have to let it run out of the pipes. Eventually, it does.”

“Where does the smell usually come from?” Arthur inquires, as he peers down at a vent beside the bar. Mystery had leaned in low to sniff at the grate, but inside it Arthur shined his penlight he could see nothing, nothing save for the pristine silver metal.

“The bar,” Sanders answered. “That vent there. Once, a cat did get stuck in a vent during construction. And this happened in the winter time so we didn’t know about it until summer when it began to warm up. Yeah. It smelt worse than that.”

Mystery whined. That was really a terrible story. He nuzzled Arthur’s fingers as his companion gave his face a consoling stroke.

While Mr. McHiggin moved to address Vivi and more of her questions, Arthur stood up from behind the bar and called Lewis over. “The sediments in this area could make variations of odors in the pipes,” Arthur began, as Lewis stood behind the other side of the bar. “Even if they do have filters on water, the smell can still come up from the drains. It could be coming from the drains.”

“But it’s never come from the bathrooms,” Lewis reasoned. “And that should be where this smell comes from, right? It’d be kind of tricky if a selective cloud of smell just sort of wanders through the rooms.”

Arthur nodded. “You can get pockets of smell,” he said, insisting. “It depends on air currents and where the odor comes from.” He stumbled back when Mystery squeezed between his legs, to get around Arthur to Vivi and Mr. McHiggin. Arthur barked after the dog, cautioning Mystery to be more careful.

“We’ll wait and see,” Lewis said. “We can’t really judge this occurrence until we experience it, so it just remains an unconfirmed rumor.” Lewis turned back to the sink and turned the tap on, he peered down into the drain as the water swirled down into the little grate.

Next was a hall, where the family members had seen the creature. The apparition was described as a large wolf, as big as a bear at least, and the hall they currently stood within was not small but it had no trouble filling the sides with its shoulders. Sanders admitted he hadn’t seen it, so when his youngest son had emerged from his room, Sanders called him over to recount the incident.

“I don’t like to talk about it,” the youth, Alex admitted. He was a miniature version of his father, scrawnier with longer red hair settled over his ears and forehead. “It scared the piss out of me, and now at night I sleep with my brother. My dad doesn’t believe me.” He looked to McHiggin senior, and the older man laugher with an awkward cough.

“I never said that,” defends Sanders. “But your story was sensational, and you were hysterical that night.”

Vivi gave Arthur a side glance, then turned to Sanders. “Can we speak to your son a bit, alone?” Vivi asks. “If you’re comfortable with that?” She indicated senior and junior McHiggin with her fists, one hand held the notebook while the other clasped a pen.

With some reluctance, Mr. McHiggin left his son to recount the story. “I’ll be in the entertainment room,” Sanders said. He pat his son on the shoulder as he strolled to the end of the hall and vanished around the corner.

The incident occurred three weeks ago, give or take. It was a week night and Alex admitted he hadn’t been able to sleep, but Lewis suspected he may have been entertained by personal activities while the household was quiet. The hall was the youth’s wing of the estate and Alex did confirm that one room was for video games and movies, while another was for exercising. Each of his siblings had personal computers in their rooms.

Alex left his room that night to investigate some obnoxious sound. It was well past midnight, and Alex suspected his brother or sister was creating the ruckus and would alert their parents. For some reason the light in the hall didn’t work, which annoyed Alex more than alarmed, he wasn’t afraid of the dark but they had reoccurring problems with the electricity lately and every time they called a repairman out, the problem had resolved itself. In the meantime, the electrician would cut power to certain areas of the home, and that interfered with the internet.

“I came out of my room and turned to go down the hall,” Alex said, as he indicated the area of the hall he’d been facing. He shuddered and stuffed his hands into his jean pockets. Lewis stepped by, Mystery followed his footsteps as Lewis glanced over the walls and doors that had been fitted into the hall. “Light comes from the end of the hall, from the windows above the staircase. I couldn’t make it out, but I could see it was huge.” Alex’s eyes got big as he opened up his arms, pantomiming the size of the monster. “And its eyes glowed, and I could hear it breathing. I’m not making this up.”

Vivi quickly scratched down her notes and turned her attention back to the taller, young man. “We know you’re not,” she assured. “Did it rush at you, make any violent movements? Or did it just manifest and stand there.”

Arthur looked up from her notebook and swallowed. Huge fucking bear/wolf. He could hardly wait.

Alex concluded his account, explaining the thing was only scary but it felt malevolent and it had begun to move in his direction. Slowly. Alex had locked his door and shoved his bed up against the door and slept in his closet that night. Afterwards, Alex persisted to share the room with his older brother, Peter.

Peter didn’t believe the account, but sympathized with his brother’s fear and never turned him away when Alex came to his room early in the night. But Peter had nothing else to say to the Mystery skulls group and kept scarce from their investigations. Vivi suggested they find Mr. McHiggin and see what else he had for them.

Quite possibly the most intriguing bit of information regarding the whole haunting, was the pool that had been left in the beginning stages of construction. Mr. McHiggin explained that the pool was to be indoor and connected to the sun room of the estate and went into elaborate detail about the design of the pools large room and the shutters, and on and on. Lewis found the construction difficult to imagine in its current stage, as it was only a large hole in the soil with the excavated dirt piled back from the sight to allow further freedom for the workers to maneuver around. From the appearance of the large sand mounds and dried out roots that had been shoveled aside by the bulldozers, Lewis could estimate that it had been more than a month since progress of the pool had ceased.

Poor Vivi was left on the top soil with Mr. McHiggin, while Lewis, Arthur, and Mystery dropped down into the soft sandy bottom of the pit to look around. Walls built of two by fours and plywood had been nailed up to prevent the sides of the loose soil from caving in, and dried river trails decorated what sandy walls were exposed, etched down into sloping pit. Tarps had been hung up and some sandbags left around to protect what progress was made before the pool was abandoned altogether. Lewis thumbed the ratty pieces of a canvas wall as he checked the sediment behind walls for evidence of soil distortions, or missed artifacts that may had been overlooked during the excavation.

“Remember that one movie you and Vi made me watch?” Arthur asked. He kicked at the base of the earthy wall and watched the dirt sift down over the toe of his shoe. “The one where they lived in that house and started digging a pool, and it turns out—”

“What is with you and recounting all the horror movies you willingly watched with us?” Lewis muttered. He turned to Arthur and crossed his arms over the black jacket stretched over his chest. Arthur looked afflicted by the comment or the tone Lewis used, and turns away. Mystery scampered over to Arthur’s feet and paced around his knees, staring up at the blonde as Arthur adjusted his amber vest. “I was thinking the same thing,” Lewis said. He averted his gaze from Arthur and looked back to the tarp and the side of the pool behind it carved with the thin river lines. “About the pool. It falls in with renovations on a home? Or digging in sacred ground and disturbing the spirits resting there. The story that movie was based on was inspired by true events.” Lewis checked the tone of his voice, trying to keep its echo warm.

“Oh, yeah,” Arthur said. He moved to walk away, but Mystery had sprung up into his shins then darted away. Mystery did this odd lunge and retreat, panting and returning to Arthur and trotting around his companion with his doggy smile stretched wide over his snout. Arthur made no comment to the dog, and Lewis only glanced between the two as Mystery continued his playful antics. “The soil smells weird,” Arthur said. “I don’t know if you can pick it up, y’know…. Anyway, it does, if you didn’t notice. Like metal. The geography for the region didn’t mention anything about ore sediments.” Arthur’s voice shrank as he moved away, Mystery keeping pace with him as Arthur hiked past Lewis and up the slope of the pool, to the shallower section. Mr. McHiggin was still talking, but the conversation sounded nearer to their current subject of interest.

“Do you believe you’re group can remove this… thing?” Sanders asked. He stood a few feet from the edge of the pool, hand over his brow to shield from the strong rays of the sun falling over them.

“We’ll see what we can do,” Vivi said. She began flipping through the pages of the notebook, checking earlier notes she had taken of more specific paranormal activity. “If it turns out we lack the tools, then we can give you the number of our college and they can find someone to help. A priest or some demon hunter.”

“Demon hunter?” Sanders exclaimed.

Vivi nodded as she propped the notebook on her palm and wrote into one of the pages. “Mostly they go around blessing places, expunging hostile energy in homes – not as action packed as it sounds.”

“The name certainly sounds exciting,” said Sanders, with a smirk spreading under his mustache. “I hope you can do the job though, since you made the trip here. And….”

Vivi smirked and finished for him, “—And you can stay under the radar. Anonymity is taken very seriously.” Before Vivi could speak further, loud snarling and barks came from the pools pit. She and Sanders whirled to where Arthur stood, now atop the pools side where they stood. Arthur gave them a wide eyed look, he was taken by as much surprise as they were, and glimpsed over the side of the pool where Lewis and Mystery were. “What happened?” Vivi nearly screamed.

Lewis had his hands out and was standing back from Mystery, where the dog had planted his feet in the soil and turned his teeth to Lewis. Mystery was firmly set glaring at his companion, teeth bared and deep growls rolling in his chest. Sanders muttered something neither of the group managed to perceive, while Mystery snarled and glanced from Lewis to the edge of the pool where Arthur stood. When it was apparent Lewis had backed off, Mystery returned to the side of the pool, the lowest edge of the entire perimeter, and tried to leap up. Mystery’s claws caught the loose soil and the dog could haul his body up, but his weight coupled with the loose soil sent him tumbling back down.

“I don’t know,” Lewis said, his dark eyes wide behind the sunglasses. “I was trying to help him out. He’s never acted this way before, he—” Lewis’ sputtering dimmed as he recalled, a time when Mystery had behaved like this toward him. And the dog had turned and ran away.

Once again Mystery threw his body up as high as he could muster and clawed at the sandy edge and nearly fell backwards, had Arthur not lashed forward and taken Mystery by his chocolate paws. Mystery scrambled up to join his companions, and Arthur hauled Mystery the rest of the way, his metal hand gripping the red collar in the process of dragging the dog up.

The vacant expression that crossed Lewis’ face was not missed by Vivi. When Lewis met her eyes she had that same resolute determination locked on her face, the same glower she had that night when she placed herself between Lewis and Arthur. “Lew, dear. We’ll talk later.” Vivi cleared her throat and turned to the befuddled Mr. McHiggin and forced a grim smile. “I’m sorry about that. For some reason Mystery doesn’t like his new jacket. Real leather, very expensive. Dogs are weird like that.”

Mystery padded between Vivi and Arthur, he turned his snout up and gave a low groan in the back of his throat. I am Not shallow, don’t make me look bad in front of the client! He snuffed at the air and gave his hide a shake, before he plodded off to check some of the foundation work left half-finished around the pools edge.

Arthur remained squatted beside the pool watching the direction Mystery wandered off into, and waited as Vivi and Sanders began to step away back towards the plastic coated and partially demolished side of the estate. As Lewis glides up to stand beside Arthur, Arthur rose to his feet and leaned towards Lewis. “What’d you do?”

A low rasping shrill came from Lewis, deep in his chest if Arthur was to judge. Arthur took a wide step away as Lewis whirled his face to him, his skin dimming over the bleached skull beneath but the face maintained its solidity. Arthur would have been impressed, if Lewis eyes’ didn’t look so piercing through the shades. “I didn’t do anything.” It came as more of a hiss and whistle than a voice, and it took Arthur a moment to decode the sound as Lewis stormed off in Vivi’s direction, pink flames flickering at his heels.

Arthur let out a lungful of stale air he had been holding, and reached his flesh hand up to rub at his aching shoulder.

There were a few final bases to cover, before the group took leave of the McHiggin household for the remainder of the evening. They had ample time to go over supplies and discuss probable remedies and logical explanations for the activity in the house. Aside from third party accounts recounted by Sanders McHiggin, only Alex and his older sister Rachel McHiggin had seen the creature. Paranoia was a factor to consider, and any sum of oozing shadows mingled with the rancid odor, whatever its origins, could account for witnessing a ‘monster’ in a dark hall. During the time spent in the van preparing for the night, none of the Mystery Skulls members spoke much to each other, that didn’t reflect the current case of interest. Arthur provided logical insight, Lewis gave his opinions, and Vivi used the laptop to make notes and assemble a strategy based on their findings and reported experiences. Mystery had stayed outside the van and as far as Vivi knew, he had taken a walk around the estates grounds.

“Don’t go too far off,” Vivi had called after the dog, when he had padded off past the open driver side door in silence. Vivi stayed slumped in the front seat, her legs slung up over the backseat, which allowed the sun to hit the screen of the laptop on her chest at full force. Vivi couldn’t understand how Arthur managed to sleep in the front seat, but she knew it was the most soothing method he had come by to sleep soundly whenever they stopped to rest. “We’ll try some holy water,” she said, fingers tapping swiftly over the keys of the computer with rapid ticks. “And the iron letter openers. If it is some sort of fairy entity, iron should dissuade it if one of us gets in a bind. But Mr. McHiggin did say it was none violent. I dunno if he knew what he was talking about.”

“How about some salt?” Lewis asked. He took the two letter openers from a side cuvee in the wall of the van and looked at them in his hands. They didn’t bother him, which was a ligament concern he had had. “Just in case?”

Vivi nodded, though Lewis couldn’t see it. “Better safe than sorry,” she said. “Little salt never hurt no one. “Until we see this thing, I think that’ll be our best course. It doesn’t sound too complex though.”

Lewis moved to the back of the van where Arthur sat, jolted, when Lewis moved up behind him. Lewis handed over the makeshift knives, and Arthur stuffed one into the waist ban of his jeans and tucked the second one into a backpack. “Vi,” Lewis said, as he turned from Arthur. Lewis didn’t want to see Arthur’s pitying gaze, as he spun around to face the front of the van. Lewis pulled his sunglasses off and gazed at the top of Vivi’s blue head through the shaded interior of the van. “About earlier. I… uh, about Mystery.” Lewis stumbled over his words, and struggled to keep his gaze from slipping behind him, back to Arthur. The locket on Lewis chest quivered, and Lewis was unsure if he could say anything to bring to light of what had happened and maybe why. He looked up to where Vivi’s legs hung over the bench seat, one of her pale blue stockings had a thin rip along the side and some blackened smudges. “Try and hear me—”

“Lew.” Lewis sputtered, his face dimming and briefly the skull was fully visible for a moment – skin gone, neck vacant, before Lewis recovered. Vivi pulled herself up to sit backwards in the seat on her knees and faced him, the laptop was set aside. “I don’t want to talk about it right now. And I don’t want to hear what you have to say,” she said, raising her hand when Lewis was about to huff out more words. Vivi lowered her head behind the seat and rested her ear against the covering. She could picture that hurt look on Lewis face, his dark eye sockets and the pink glow of those ember eyes within. Vivi spoke into the seats back, “I just want you to know I trust you. So… take some time and think about what you need to tell me. I’ll listen. Whatever it is, I’ll listen to you first.” Her fingers gripped her skirt tightly, and she didn’t want to think of the worst. She didn’t want to think that Mystery hated Lewis, and she may never know why.

There was a small space of quiet. A soft clicking sound, some noise made by the metal of Arthur’s arm as he fumbled with the zipper of the backpack. Then a scuffling and the faint scrap of ‘feet’ pacing away. Viv sunk down on the driver seat a little more and debated on moving back or staying where she was. Where had Lewis gone to?

“Oh hey, how’s it going?” To the new voice, chipper and male, Vivi snapped her head up. She whipped her gaze to Arthur, still seated in the back of the van and staring at her with that same wide eyed gape.

“Hey,” Lewis said. He raised his head as he fixed his glasses. No sooner were his shades in place, did Arthur and Vivi come pouring out of the vans open doors. He looked from Vivi then turned Arthur’s way with no vocal response, just turned the edges of his mouth down. He introduced Vivi and Arthur with as little to no emotion as he could muster, then faced the man before him. “We have a gig here. You are?” He shook hands with the stranger.

“Trevor,” said the man. “Trevon, but I like Trevor better.” Trevor was casually dressed in white khakis, a white shirt, and his hair was platinum champagne or some wild bleached color of canary yellow. The long sleeves of his shirt came down his arms and the buttons of his long sleeves wrists were undone. “These guys lasso you into some bogus job? I’d get going while you’re ahead.” Trevor thumbed over his shoulder, back to his van on the opposite side of the large parking road. “Let’s say it isn’t safe here.”

“We know,” Vivi announced. She stepped towards Trevor and folded her arms behind her back as she peered up at him. “That’s why we’re here. I take it you heard the rumors too?”

Trevor laughs, he laughs like he was told this awful joke that he came up with and still hated it when people repeated it. “Unfortunately,” he wheezed, before he gained some control over his breathing. “My group was the first to experience the weirdness. In fact,” he gestured to the front of the home, beyond the Mystery Skulls van behind the group. “I was collaborating with the landscape group digging out for the pool. Sanders tell you all the spiffy additions he wanted? That guy, he knows what he wants.”

Vivi blinked. “You mean to tell me, when the pool was first being dug out?” she asked, nearly incredulous. Vivi stepped back as Lewis walked by, toward the open driver side door.

“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” answered Trevor. “Everything was fine when we started. The landscapers, when they first began to dig – I was just around to rework the electrics of the house, since my company was the one that wired the place. Nice house, but these big places don’t pay right enough, they only look good in a resume.” Trevor chuckled and rubbed his hands together as if to warm them. “Sorry. What was I saying?”

“The pool?” Arthur prompted. He leaned back against the van, behind Vivi’s shoulder. “We kind of got that the pool was sorta the source of the problems.” Arthur gestured with his metal arm, and he noted with some irritation that Trevor had noticed his prosthetic.

Trevor nodded and shifted his footing on the pavement. “Yes, we must’ve stirred something up. Or they did, I was just rewiring that one side of the house – did he show you that mess? Never mind.” Trevor shook his head. “Yeah. Took’em about a day and a half to get started, then everything went bad. While we were on that side we’d get this stink, like something old and dead- but he’s probably told you? Right. In the house too? Thought so.” Trevor mirrors the nods that Vivi and Arthur give. “Then we start seeing shadows. A big animal, furry and sort of scabbed. We never actually see it, but we catch a glimpse of it moving around, and always when we get a face full of that reek. Ughh… I’ve had my share of bad rot, but that is something else.”

“In broad daylight?” Vivi asked, surprised. Mr. McHiggin stated that workers that came by to check the homes reoccurring problems had seen it inside, during the work hours of the day, but she hadn’t thought people had seen it outside the walls of the home during the day. Probably this activity was caused by intruders interfering with its territory.

“I don’t know,” Trevor said, and shrugged. “The other guys, working on the pool, they left. Took off. Then it was my crew, and whatever gullible spleen McHiggin could drag out to his place to keep working on that damn pool. Pardon my French. Anyway, none of them last long. They get wind of that hell beast, see it, and take off. Even my guys refused to come out here, so I would just come out solo to do the work and finish up what I can until McHiggin can find someone else to make progress on the pool.” He took a step back, as if the mansion had given him a stern look for spewing such slander. “Now I don’t hardly come out. Not after what happened.” He jammed his hands into his pants pockets and maneuvered around, walking away from Vivi and Arthur. “If you’re wise, you won’t stick around either.”

“What happened to you?” Vivi asked, twisting around to follow Trevor’s stroll. “Can you… talk about it?”

Trevor paused in front of the van, a few yards from the entrance of the gate to the McHiggin estate. He glanced towards the path to the large front doors, then back to Vivi and Arthur now waiting and watching curiously beside the grill of the van. He sighed, and took a half step to them. “I was working late one day, my last day,” he whispered, and moved in closer as Vivi tilts her head towards him.

Twilight, early fall when the days were still long enough but growing shorter by the weeks that ran by on the many busy, blurred days. Trevor stood in the quiet of the orange sun as he twisted wires and capped the raw ends with the bright bobs, then tucked the tidy ends back into the open breaker box in the wall. He had to put in long hours alone at the McHiggin estate, if he wanted to keep his workers and the other jobs around the city. It was too much work for one person but he had no choice, he could only curse under his breath and maintain his minimal focus on rewiring the outlets along the wall and avoid burning his palms too badly.

The plastic pinned over the ruined walls, torn out to make ready for the extension of the home and the one day completed indoor pool, crinkle in the soft breeze. It was spooky, with the location being as isolated in the way these big houses were up in the exclusive neighbors away from the ruffians and common folk. Trevor was a city boy and he didn’t like visiting the woods, but he supposed people liked this sort of thing if they could afford it. The novelty of independence.

He began coughing when he got a nose full of that stink. A thick salty fog that hovered around his head, and swelled down into the back of his throat. “Oh god,” Trevor gagged, as he released the wall panel and let it fall. He shoved his gritty palms over his nose and turned around, his eyes searched around as he tried to constrict his breathing. Where was it coming from? The air was so still, it couldn’t be a carcass. It had to be the plumbing.

At his back, towards the side of the pools many shoveled hills, he heard a low scratching. Not a scratching he realized as he listened, but a throaty snarl. Trevor turns, expecting some stray dog or a wolf, he does not expect the monster that is poised between the mounds of earth. He tried to make a sound, he chokes out a soft moan, but he could not raise his voice to save his life. The big thing, the hell beast, began towards the petrified mortal.

Arthur stared at the bandage wrapped around Trevor’s lower arm. It was fresh gauze wrapped tightly with metal pins in place to secure the cover, the faint tinge of red had seeped along the side.

“I didn’t think I was going to live,” Trevor says, as he pulls his sleeve back over the medical wrapping. “I blacked out by the door I think. Hadn’t made it inside. Dunno what made it release me, I must’ve had an angel watching over me that day.” Trevor gave a lop sided grin. “One of their kids found me later, near nightfall. My clothing was torn up but only my arm was maimed. Big paws prints, like some sort of bear. They called animal control, and the whole circus came out but nothing was ever found.” He turned away from the silent stares of Arthur and Vivi, and he moved past the front of the van and towards the large gate. “I wouldn’t stay here,” he says, over his shoulder. “As soon as my business is done, I am gone.” Trevor entered the gate onto the sandstone walkway and exited their sight.

Once Vivi was certain Trevor was beyond earshot, Vivi says to Arthur, “So, it is hostile.” Arthur moved away, returning to the back of the van. Vivi followed. “Wish Mr. McHiggin had warned us.”

Arthur shrugged as he moved beside the open doors. In the driver seat sat Lewis and when Arthur raised his gaze he caught the eyes peering over the sunglasses staring into the rearview mirror. Arthur stalled and gave a weak little wave. Lewis was silent. “You know how he is,” Arthur said. Vivi climbed up into the vans back and went for her bag, where Arthur had previously been sitting and stocking supplies. “‘I want no negative publicity, this’ll ruin me,’” Arthur grumbled, imitating a voice too deep for his meekness. “He has a hard time finding lunatics to finish his pool.” He nearly chortled. He rapped the metal digits of his hand on the vans bumper, and peered up at Vivi as he tapped out a shallow tune. “Who can blame him? The rumors are bad.”

“Still, for our safety,” Vivi said. She snagged her backpack and shoved it down over Arthur’s hand, to silence his sounds. Arthur gave her a mischievous grin as he snatched his arm away and hid it behind his back. Vivi turns from him as she pulls the straps of the backpack over her shoulders, and crouched on the short plush of the vans carpeted back. “I can’t believe he’s still living here if the things dangerous.”

Lewis leans around in the driver’s seat, and braces his arm over the chairs back. “It’s not like he could just uproot his family,” Lewis reasons. “The guy might be loaded, but he’s sort of tied to the house. Besides, he didn’t even believe that kid, Alex.”

“It still seems like—” Vivi cut off there, and smiled thinly Lewis’ way. “Are we ready then?”

Lewis tilts his head down and makes a motion with his hand, dubious. “Sólo dar la orden, arándano,” he rumbled. “We’re at your beck and call.”

Vivi shuffles closer to Lewis on her knees and sets her hand upon his bleached knuckles splayed loosely on the backside of the bench seat. “You are such a charmer, Lew.” When Lewis’ expression fluttered, eyes dimming behind the dark purple shades, Vivi tore away and bounced out the back of the van. “I’m STILL pissed at you, though!”

Arthur staggered back as Vivi flew by, and was nearly smacked in the chest by a rogue knee. Arthur twisted his eyes back to Lewis, who had taken on a bright sheen of fuchsia as spirits flames sprout around the black collar of his jacket. A crackling mist and embers flicker from Lewis neck, and the space behind the sunglasses blaze against the dusk sun still gleaming through the windows. Arthur sprang up in place and backpedaled from the doors, before a flash of flames swiped at the ceiling of the van. Arthur swore Lewis was breathing fire. There was fire at his lips and in his throat when he shrieked something unintelligible, by Arthur’s impression the sound hadn’t even come out of Lewis, it leapt from the scratchy static of the radio as the van lurched into temporary life.

Vivi waited on the other side of the van casually, as Lewis had his moment. She let her hand rest on Arthur’s bad shoulder when he joined her, and they waited in silence that followed; for the last of the sun to shrink out of sight and replace the cinnamon coated sky with violets and blues, as a multitude of glittering stars began to prick into existence above them in the dark blanket cast by the sky.

It wasn’t long after that Lewis found the nerve (or strength) to lock up the van and offer an apology to Vivi. The apology had no definition, no origin, it was just an apology Lewis felt Vivi had warranted, and for the time she accepted it. It was a temporary fix, but it was a start.

#msa #mystery skulls animated #mystery skulls fanfic #msa fanfic #mystery skulls #mystery skulls fanfiction #msa fanfiction #msa mystery #msa vivi #msa lewis #msa arthur #fanfiction

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kinglazrus · 4 years

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The Haunting of Danny Fenton

Chapter Four: Fear the Reaper

Word count: 2494 | [ffn] [ao3] | [previous] [next]

Valerie makes it through dinner, somehow. It’s just her, Maddie, and Jack seated around the Fenton’s modest table in their cozy kitchen. Tucker left some time while Valerie was upstairs. Danny stays in his room the whole time, sleeping, or so his parents say. She helps clean up, because that’s the polite thing to do, and Maddie points out the frozen meals she’s prepared for the week ahead.

Danny needs hearty foods, she tells Valerie, but nothing too dense. If he doesn't have the appetite for it, make sure he eats at least one full meal. Otherwise, he subsists off smoothies chock full of vitamins and protein. Valerie feels more like a babysitter than a bodyguard as Maddie gives her a rundown of life at Fenton Works and Danny's daily routine.

Much to Valerie's relief, they leave the boring discussion behind soon enough and move on to what really matters—the Shade.

“We'll set up the fence tonight and leave it there for the week." Maddie passes Valerie one of two black boxes. "It's not very complex, so if Danny wants to move it, you can."

"Why would he move it?" Valerie hefts the box in her arms, surprised by its weight. It's not very large, fitting neatly under her arm, but still substantial enough that she needs two hands to properly secure it.

Jack, emerging from the basement door with two long extension cords on his arms, answers for Maddie. "It gets pretty boring being stuck in the same spot night after night, don't you think?"

Valerie, who sleeps at night and therefore prefers being in the same room the entire time—because waking up somewhere else would be incredibly disorienting—does not know how to respond to Jack's statement beyond a quiet, "Huh?"

Ignoring her noise of confusion, or simply not hearing it, Jack walks to the bottom of the stairs and calls Danny's name.

"Shouldn't we let him sleep?" Valerie asks. If it were her, and she had a choice in the matter, she would much rather be unconscious when the Shade shows itself.

Maddie glances over her shoulder toward the front door.

Outside, the setting sun paints the clouds in pink and orange hues, cool purple shadows cutting through the streaks of colour. It's a beautiful sight, the sky behind the clouds a gradient of darkening blue, turning gold in the distance. It's the kind of sunset Valerie admires from her hoverboard, flying high over the city. Dusk has always been her favourite time of day, and she takes in the rich, colourful sight with a content smile.

Maddie watches the sky with dread in her eyes. "Danny won't be sleeping now. It will start soon."

Danny's bedroom door groans as it opens. The sound, low and despondent, reminds Valerie of the oppressive aura she endured earlier. Logically, she knows the door's whine is born from poorly oiled hinges, but she can't shake the notion that the house itself is moaning in anguish, grieving for Danny and his haunting.

Danny lingers beyond the doorway, in the shadows of his room, the hall's dim light barely touching his toes. With one hand, he grips the doorframe, his thumb stroking the stop in a gesture Valerie would almost call comforting, a sort of soothing caress. His lips move, barely, but he speaks too quietly to hear.

Valerie watches this and thinks it's the weirdest damn thing she's ever seen.

Danny's hand falls to his side. "My room's fine tonight. I need my computer." He retreats further into his room.

"You heard him," Jack say, smiling over his shoulder.

Jack goes up the stairs first, Maddie right after him, with Valerie trailing behind. When they reach Danny's room, Valerie raises her eyebrows at the setup. His desk is in the middle of the room, a foot of space on every side, while all other furniture is shoved back against the wall. Danny's already sitting down, legs crossed on his chair, a tumbler dotted with condensation sitting beside his keyboard and a bowl of trail mix resting in his lap.

Weirder still, the light is off, and his curtains are drawn, leaving the soft glow of his computer screen to be the only light source. Neither Maddie nor Jack seem to mind this, making no moves toward the light switch on the wall.

"Got everything you need?" Maddie sidles around Danny's desk and sets the box she's holding, identical to the one in Valerie's arms, down on the floor.

"Snack, smoothie, extra water bottle in the drawer. Textbook's are beside my chair. Pillow and blankets under the desk," Danny says.

Squinting, Valerie sees the aforementioned pile of bedding stuffed in front of his chair.

"Bathroom?" Jack asks as he dumps the extension cords on Danny's bed. He starts unravelling them with practiced ease, watching his son for an answer.

"Already went."

"Are you... are you staying there all night?" Valerie asks. The thought of being stuck in that chair all night has her pursing her lips. It reminds her far too much of high school, languishing for hours in cramped desks with hard, plastic chairs. She always hated high school.

Danny gives her a sidelong glance. The longer he stares, the more Valerie fidgets, and she does not fidget, ever. But Danny's eyes, which appeared dull and hollow before, seem to glow now. Not with vitality, but with an eerie, soulless light that disturbs Valerie so much she can't avert her eyes. She's shaking, and sweating, and it takes her far too long to identify this feeling: fear. Danny cuts the least impressive figure Valerie has ever seen in her life, but right now, she's afraid. Afraid that when he she turns her back, he will still be there. Still watching.

"Valerie, dear, you can set that down over here." Maddie's voice, casual, unknowing, compels Valerie to look away. Maddie crouches by the short side of Danny's desk—Valerie didn't notice her move—and taps the floor beside it.

Valerie jolts into action, eager for a distraction, and drops beside Maddie, holding out the black box. Maddie takes it, placing it on the carpet. For a few seconds, she fusses with it, prodding it, pushing it this way and that, until it sits exactly where she wants it.

"You might want to scoot back a little. The other post is already in position."

Valerie puts a good few inches between her and the 'post.' Apparently satisfied with Valerie's position, Maddie reaches out and bops the top of the box. Valerie recoils when the post bursts open. The sides unfurl, falling flat, and the top caves in, exposing a mass of wires and antennas. Something whirs. A spool at the bottom of the device starts spinning, and a slender cable of dotted lights shoots out. It curves around the back of the desk, stretching out of Valerie's line of sight.

Movement to her right gains her attention, and she sees a second cable of lights unwinding around Danny's chair. The new cable hits the post just as the spool stops spinning, locking into a plug at the end of the first cable. Three sharp beeps ring out.

"Looks good!" Maddie claps her hands. "Jack, can you plug it in?"

"Already on it." Jack plugs one end of his extension cord into the post in front of Maddie and Valerie, takes the other end, and rushes out of the room. The extension cord whips after him, snaking off of Danny's bed and out the door.

Valerie eyes the device dubiously. Maddie called it a fence, but it doesn't look very fence-like to her. Looking at it, it's hard to imagine it stopping anything, much less a Shade. But Valerie knows better than to underestimate the Fentons, and she might as well use this opportunity to learn from her ghost hunting heroes.

"What does this do?" she asks.

"Do you know what GZF is?" Maddie asks.

Valerie's heard of it, tried to read a few articles about it, but overall knows very little. "Vaguely."

"It stands for Ghost Zone Frequency. Think of the electromagnetic spectrum, spanning everything from radio waves, to the visible and invisible spectrum, to gamma rays. The Ghost Zone, which exists on a different plane from us, has its own equivalent spectrum we call GZF. It has its own spectrum because, so far, it can't be properly sensed by human instruments or human eyes," Maddie explains.

"But we can see ectoplasm. And we can see ghosts," Valerie points out.

"You see what you want to see," Danny says.

Valerie nearly flinches, and she hates herself for it. She hates Danny for it. It's not fair that he can drag such a visceral reaction from her just by talking. Even less fair is the fact that she doesn't understand why he sets her on edge so much. At least he isn't looking at her now, instead concentrating on his computer screen.

"What does that mean?" Valerie asks.

"It's pretty straight forward. Your brain can't see it, so it fills in the blanks with what it thinks should be there." Danny's eyes flit away from the screen for a moment, glancing over her before going back. "You ever read anything Lovecraft?"

"Maybe in high school."

"Well, he does this thing when he writes—he describes something as indescribable. And our measly little human brains try to understand what that indescribable thing is, but it can't, because it's indescribable to us. Ghost stuff is like that. But, unlike Lovecraft's monsters, ghosts aren't monsters from another dimension; they're the flipside of our reality. Because of that, our brains are able to perceive ghosts without seeing or hearing them. And since they know something is there, they fill in the blanks. Otherwise, we'd all be twitching balls of anxiety that constantly feel like we're missing something glaringly obvious."

Danny twists, draping his arm over the back of his chair, and regards Valerie with a fervent stare. "Got it?"

Valerie refuses to look away this time. "Sort of."

"Good enough for me." As Danny turns back to the computer, he twitches. A glower takes over his face. He rolls his shoulder, as if brushing off an unwanted touch. Ever so subtly, he lifts the hand opposite from Maddie and Valerie, cupping it over his ear.

"Danny?" Valerie reaches toward him.

"Shut up. I'm fine. Shut up!" He hurls his last words at the empty space to his right, bearing his teeth.

Valerie marvels at the open air. She can’t see a trace of the Shade, not even a faint shadow. But Danny’s eyes glide across the room, unmistakably tracking something as it moves around them. The hairs on her arm raise as Danny’s gaze roves over her. If she didn’t know any better, she would have blamed it on a chill in the air.

"Remember, sweetie. Don't respond to it." Maddie's voice is calm and even, as though she's said this line a hundred times before. She probably has.

Danny nods, a sharp, jerky movement, and hunches over. Valerie notices his jaw clenching and his toes curling. Despite how pained he appears, his eyes grow brighter still. Maybe Danny is a lot stronger than he looks. How very Fenton of him, to cast Valerie's expectations aside like that.

Jack's voice, a faint boom, drifts through the open door. "Plugging in!"

The cable lights flare to life. Narrow green beacons curve upward, converging over Danny's head He visibly relaxes, some of the tension bleeding out of him.

Valerie stretches her hand out, watching Maddie for any sign she should stop. When she gets none, she holds her hand over the beacons. The lights remain uninterrupted even though she blocks three of them with her palm.

"How does this stop a Shade?" she asks.

Maddie's eyes widen. "Oh, that's right! I never finished answering your question. Through our research, Jack and I discovered Shades exist in a thirty point range on the GZF spectrum. This is a rudimentary blockade design for small quarters. The cables are identical, one beacon for each of the thirty points in the Shade range. They're aimed straight up, but the identical points are attracted to each other, making them curve like so.

"The completed arcs generate an energy signature that stretches out four feet from the point of convergence, although it gets weaker around the edges. All thirty arcs together create a dense space that makes it hard for Shades to move within this area."

Valerie's brain buzzes as Maddie keeps talking. This is rudimentary? There's nothing rudimentary about it.

"But it needs such a narrow field that we can't make the shield any wider. And it isn't perfect. A strong enough Shade could break through it, but thankfully the one haunting Danny doesn't appear to be one of them," Maddie finishes.

Valerie's mouth drops open, but she can't think of a response, instead staring dumbly at the fence.

"Mom, I think you broke her," Danny says, grinning smugly.

"Oh, not again."

Valerie's mouth snaps shut with a clack. She shoots Danny a withering glare, then turns to Maddie. "I'm fine. It's just a lot to process. Guns are more my expertise."

"Danny could teach you a few things while you're here. He likes to pretend he doesn't care about science, but we all know he does." Maddie winks.

"Space science! It's different from ghost science," Danny declares.

Maddie hides her mouth with her hand and whispers loudly, "He loves both."

Danny grumbles under his breath. "I'll show you loving science."

Valerie rolls her eyes and shares a smile with Maddie, both of them laughing quietly at Danny's expense. He stubbornly ignores them, typing away on his computer, but there's a smile on his pale lips.

Valerie prefers Danny like this, smiling and joking. It reminds her that they were supposed to be classmates. If his accident never happened, if he never got his disease, if he wasn't homeschooled, they might have been friends. She doesn't remember meeting him way back during freshman orientation, but now she wishes she did. Their first interaction might have gone better that way. But it's too late for that now.

She wonders which one is the real Danny. The sardonic punster with a bitter glare. The eerie wraith that chills Valerie to her core. Or the happy boy before her now whose grin lights up his face, momentarily gracing him with the warm glow of life his illness and haunting has stolen from him. Maybe they're all him. Humans aren't so simple that she can reduce a person to a few key words and say that's all they are. Taking everything you see at face value is a habit Valerie abhors.

But that only means she can't trust any face Danny puts on, no matter how genuine it appears. He can be all of them and none them. In the end, she doesn't care. She's just here to do her job.

#thdf #danny phantom #phanfic #phicc #danny phantom fanfiction #valerie gray #bodygyard au #hurt/comfort #supernatural

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fanfictrashdump · 3 years

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Universe in a Jar, 4 - Phase 4 fic

Recap: Some days ago, I reblogged this post about the magical trio. And then my brain went off on a monumental tangent and, I wrote Universe in a Jar.

Characters: Stephen Strange, Loki, Wanda Maximoff, Wong, OC

Rating: T?

Warnings: Language! Mentions of sexual encounters, sarcasm, terrible storytelling, and typos prob.

Summary: Baby-sitting beings arguably more powerful than him goes awry for Doctor Strange. He knows one person who can possibly keep them isolated and out of trouble. Well, he knew someone who could… he hasn’t seen them in decades and for stupid reasons.

Previous Chapter

Persephone stepped lively out of the portal and gave Wong one last haphazard wave before dropping her book hoard onto the kitchen table. Wanda didn't even look over her shoulder from the pot of oatmeal she was stirring at the sound, despite the fact Stephen started slightly at the booming thud. Seph threw herself into one of the wooden chairs, cross-legged, only to find that she was hovering slightly above the seat as the cloak fluttered around her. After a gentle stroke of the fabric, she grabbed the leather-bound tome at the top of the pile and opened it to the first page.

Wanda gave a yawn and started ladling oatmeal into bowls. "What did Wong say?"

"Not much. Just that Stephen was an unobservant idiot," Seph quipped back, turning the page, devouring the words on the page as if they were to be taken away from her at any second.

"So, nothing new, then?" The two exchanged a smile, but Seph remained silent.

Stephen made an offended noise like a strangled scoff. "I am still standing here." He threw himself into another chair with an undignified pout, only to have Seph blindly pat his hand. "That is in Sumerian. How are you even reading it?"

That comment was enough for her to raise her eyes up at the surly Sorcerer with a question in her eyes. "What?" She stared at the page for a long time before humming acknowledgment. "Hm. I guess you're right." She shrugged and continued her reading, leaving Stephen to make an exasperated noise.

"How can you read it?"

She scrunched her nose. "I don't know. I just can."

Wanda flicked her hands and all the books floated up above their heads. "Food first, reading after." Seph stared at the surface of the oatmeal with a certain hesitation. "I asked Stephen how to make it."

The hesitation on her face turned sheepish at the clarification. "Oh. Thanks, Wanda."

"You're welcome. I need to keep myself occupied and I feel bad for imposing on you like this," she replied, sitting down with her own bowl at Seph's other side after sliding one toward Stephen.

"You're not imposing. I should probably get out a little more, as it is." She smiled, stirring her breakfast absently. Hazel eyes cut briefly sideways, watching Stephen shovel a spoonful of hot cereal into his mouth. He did a double-take when he caught her gaze briefly and smiled before giving her the smallest of nods, unbeknownst to the other occupant. A spoonful of her own promptly went into her mouth, leaving her to determine whether she was going to be able to finish this bowl. While it was a little on the sweet side, it wasn't eliciting the same headache-y response other attempts at food had done. "Is Loki still asleep?"

"Pretending to be," Wanda responded. "I don't think he actually sleeps this much, but he likes keeping to himself in the mornings. Why?"

"He asked to see the flowering greenhouse. I was going to take him for the early blooms."

"That's sweet. He's certainly a contradiction, isn't he?" Wanda looked like she had more to say, but opted to look between Stephen and Persephone with an inquisitive eye.

Stephen scoffed. "Not the word I'd use."

"That's because you're salty. That is not his fault, Steve."

"I'm not salty–" Both women leveled a disbelieving stare at him. "–I just wonder what he has to do for you two to see he's trouble."

Seph put down her spoon and leaned against the table. "So, you're upset we think he's a good person even if he hasn't lived a perfect life while simultaneously being annoyed at you for making mistakes, even when you've lived your life in what you perceive to be utter perfection?"

Stephen shifted in his seat, his shoulders tightening in on themselves with discomfort. He avoided her gaze as he pushed oatmeal around his bowl, silent.

"Shit, you're good," Wanda muttered, smiling into her coffee.

Pushing another spoonful into her mouth, she reached out to him, again. This time her hand lingered on his and she continued her breakfast eating with her non-dominant hand. After a few extra minutes of silence, steps thudded down the old, creaky staircase and Loki swept into the kitchen like a hungry storm. He walked around the table, stopping to press a kiss on Persephone's crown, on his way to the stove.

Stephen made to slip his hand away at the gesture, only to find that 1. Seph tightened her hand around his, and 2. he actually couldn't will his hand to move, despite his desire. A cursory look around to room showed him that Loki was still dealing at the stove and Seph had managed to fish her book down and propped it to float at eye level while she ate. Wanda was the only one smiling to herself, looking up only when Stephen's glare was too heavy to ignore. He mouthed an irate stop it only to have her shrug like nothing was the matter.

Loki took his seat on his other side, glancing around the table with an impish grin. "Oh, are we holding hands, today?" He grasped Stephen's other hand, paying no mind to the spoon in it, and tucked into his own breakfast. "I can't say we've ever held hands, darling. A shame, considering we've held pretty much everything else of each other's, haven't we, Sorcerer?"

The man in question stiffened, eyes falling closed with a heavy sigh. Wanda and Seph looked up from their tasks, and at each other, before turning back at them with curiosity. "I have to–your carrots are overdue…" he muttered quietly, pushing his chair back and finding he could move at will, once more. He fled the kitchen as quickly as he could.

Seph departed from her text to glare across the table. "Loki–"

He waved her serious tone away. "It's only sex. There is no reason to be so touchy. Truly."

"He doesn't like being reminded of mistakes."

Loki laughed, hand over heart in mock offense. "Ouch, kitten. Low blow."

She rolled her eyes. "Just… there's enough tension in this house, as it is. Don't antagonize him, please."

"I make no promises," he retorted with a wolfish grin before taking a spoonful of porridge. "What have I missed? What's all this?" He gestured the floating books and the cloak wrapped around her.

"I could show you if I had Stephen's slin–" Loki twisted his hand and produced the ring out of thin air. "Is that why you were holding his hand?" Loki shrugged, but smiled, nonetheless, tossing the ring in the air. Seph caught it easily and slipped it around her fingers. The walls lit up in bright sigils for Loki to peruse.

"Quantum magics. How pedestrian."

"Ass." She smiled to herself and pulled the ring off, pinning it in the waistband of her pajamas.

"Oh." He sounded more amused this time around. "Now this. This I can get behind." He watched curiously as the sigils sizzled and settled into the fabric of reality. "Asgardian, Vanir, Jotunn, Celtic, Elemental, Chaos, Eldritch–how worried are you about your safety, pet?" He pondered over a bite of breakfast. "Or is it a linguistic error?"

Wanda frowned. "Linguistics?"

"Security for safety." He tilted his head and fluttered his fingers, symbols rearranging themselves in the ether. "You longed so hard for a place to feel at home, secure, that you essentially made yourself a fortress. Fascinating."

"I'm glad my emotional trauma makes for an interesting study."

"Says the woman who just psychoanalyzed the most annoying man on Earth into silence," Wanda teased, standing with her empty bowl and mug and placing them into the dishwasher.

"I can't help it. I've been doing it all my life. If figuring out Stephen Strange to save him from himself paid dividends, I'd be a fucking millionaire by now."

"Nice to know the conversation is still on me," Stephen quipped as he dropped a basket of carrots on the table, dirt caked on his arms and smudged on his face. "And maybe if you'd gone into a better specialty, you'd be a millionaire."

"Aww, but who would oversee your mandated psych hold when you finally crack under the weight of your own expectations?" She flashed him a saccharine smile that made the corners of her eyes crinkle.

Despite Stephen's best efforts to remain stone-faced, he smirked. "Well, you got me there, Peep." He glanced at Loki. "My ring."

The Asgardian smirked. "I do not have it, Strange."

Persephone whistled, holding his sling ring aloft while she turned a page with her other hand. Stephen reached to retrieve his ring. Seph did not release it immediately. Instead, she slid a scrap of paper to hold her place and looked up at him. "You want some help? Gathering my crops or do you have some weird, period movie-style brooding to do in the fields?" He nodded. "OK. You stay here, buddy." With gentle hands, she coaxed a reluctant cloak off of her shoulders, only able to shrug it off with the promise that she'd be back later.

Pulling on her boots at the door, she followed Stephen onto the sun-dappled green fenced-in with chicken wire. They kneeled in neighboring rows and worked silently for a while, stopping every so often to straighten their backs and stretch. It was a companionable silence that fell between them, only the sound of earthmoving and vegetables being tossed into large baskets cutting through their thoughts.

"You know, Loki had already mentioned it to me."

Stephen frowned, loosening the dirt around a particularly stubborn carrot. "Mentioned what?"

"That you two had a fling."

He snorted. "Fling is a strong word for what we did, Peep."

"Quickie hate sex, then. I was being delicate." She smirked. "Unlike you and Mischief."

"Is there a point to this conversation? Other than reminding me of my poor judgment."

"You don't have to feel awkward about who you sleep with, Stephen."

"I don't feel awkward that I slept with him. I feel awkward that it was a topic of discussion at breakfast. And why were you talking about that with him, anyway?"

"He was curious if we had ever hooked up. Something or other about collecting a full set."

He breathed in, stretching his neck side to side to disguise the little bubble of irritation that rose within him. "Oh, so you slept with him?"

It was her turn to laugh. "Fuck no. My life is as complicated as I want it right now. Sex with a demigod sounds like everything I don't need. Why? Was he any good? Is this a Yelp review?"

"I am not talking to you about this."

"Oh, come on! We've told each other worse!"

"Exactly! I still can't the image of Zach Curtis sobbing while they wheeled him off to the hospital. It's been twenty-six years!"

Seph hummed, lost in thought. "Yeah, that was a pretty bad day."

"Aggressive technique. Poor kid was in agony for a month."

"He kept saying 'harder'! I got annoyed," she defended vehemently, throwing a clod of dirt in his direction. "I bet Loki would like that."

"He would not," he riposted, automatically, only catching himself after the fact when she gasped. "Fuck. Not another word. Besides, you punched Zach in the balls so hard you gave him torsion. No one wants that."

"Is he secretly very gentle and sappy? Needs to be nurtured? Come on, give me something!" He remained quiet, stacking his accumulated carrots in the basket before digging his hands back to the earth. "You're no fun."

After a long while, he mumbled. "If you want to know, jump him yourself."

She shrugged. "Maybe I will."

"Fine. Go right ahead." Despite the message, his tone sounded unconvinced.

Persephone piled the last of her carrots into her basket, stood, and dusted off her knees. She hefted the basket and balanced it on her cocked hip. "Why are you even doing this by hand? Don't you have some impressive universe-bending powers?"

"It's soothing. And quiet," he shot her a look, "most of the time."'

"What do you need to be soothed about?"

He didn't turn his eyes away from the clod of dirt he was breaking apart. "I spent five years inside the Soul Stone. Aware that time had passed but with no way to understand why. Worried out of my mind for the people with me and the people outside. Worried my plan would fall through and we'd be stuck there forever. Half the Universe, stuck there forever because I could not make our one chance come through. I have a few things."

With a sigh, she put the basket down beside his and sat cross-legged between the rows. "I'm sorry. I was being a brat."

"It's not your fault, Seph. You didn't bring Thanos." He shot her a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Managing my feelings isn't your job, anymore."

"It never was my job, Stephen. I did it because I cared. I still do."

He looked over, deadpan. "You tried to kill me."

"Yes! I was upset and heartbroken and I still couldn't get over the fact that I cared for you. And despite the fact that I tried to kill you, you still checked up on me because I had a nightmare." She sighed. "Let's face it. We're stuck with each other. No matter how far we try to run, we always come back to each other."

With a heavy sigh, Stephen sat back onto the dirt, folding his legs up so he could rest his arms on his knees. When he looked up, Persephone recognized a familiar sort of ache in his eyes. It was the same pain whenever they were going in for a test he didn't feel prepared for, or his first ER rotation where barely had a chance to think before reacting.

"I-I don't know what I'm doing, Seph. I'm supposed to be in charge of protecting reality and I haven't got a goddamn clue wha–" He sighed, hanging his head.

One of her hands grasped at his, and his head snapped back up. The vision of his shaking digits in hers had him pulling back. Her own, faster hands closed around his before he could slip away.

"Don't do that, Stephen." She smiled. "You can probably still suture faster than I can."

Something like a smile tugged at the very corner of his mouth. "Probably. You were always a slowpoke."

She rolled her eyes, though an affectionate squeeze went through his hand. "We're going to figure it out, Stephen. I promise."

"You'll help me?"

"Of course. Lord knows you have no authority over those two. At least they listen to me."

"Thanks, Peep." Sincerity rang clear in his words.

"You're welcome, hon." He smiled, then, at the long-forgotten term of endearment. "Come on, before Loki eats me out of house and home. Maybe I can get a vegetable in him," she added easily, gesturing the carrots.

#marvel #mcu #mcu fanfiction #mcu phase 4 #doctor strange #stephen strange #loki mcu #wanda maximoff #wong mcu #multiverse #marvel phase four #original character #stephen just doing farm things to avoid the others #cloak being clingy #universe in a jar

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steveneveral · 6 years

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RIP Anthony Bourdain... (6-10-18)

I was completely shellshocked when I saw the notification on my phone about Anthony Bourdain’s suicide. I have two main things to say about it.

First, how I became a big fan of Anthony Bourdain:

I remember watching his show ‘No Reservations’ on the Travel Channel back in the day. I was a kid stuck in a shitty town in America, with the insatiable desire to get away from that place. When I came across ‘No Reservations’ one day, it was like a revelation. I remember watching a few episodes, and just green with envy at what he was doing: travelling to all sorts of countries in the world, interacting with the people, and eating the local food. He was what I wanted to be: an expert traveler.

It was watching his show, specifically a show he did about Singapore, Germany, and France, that made me want to travel around the world. I was a broke ass 18 year old, but I had a way out of that shitty American town: the US Army.

I wanted to join the military to travel, and boy, did I! I was on active duty for seven years, and spent a total of five years, two months overseas in one capacity or another. When I refer to this, I always say the idiom, ‘Be careful what you wish for, you just might get it.’. I got an extremely lucky first post-basic training and Army technical school posting: Germany. I was 19 years old, about a year out of high school, and now I was in Germany! I look back on it to this day and am still stunned about how it happened. (It was likely some paperwork pusher in some Army administrative office that is responsible for this, but I digress.)

Anyway, once the jet lag wore off, and the novelty of being in Germany wore off, I started exploring the country on the weekends. I saw all sorts of amazing places, met all sorts of weird, interesting, and amazing people, and ate all sorts of incredible German food. Once I figured out the German high-speed train system, I took it to Austria, Switzerland, France, The Netherlands, and Belgium. There was no way you could keep me on that military base on the weekend, I just wanted to see more of Europe in my limited time there. It was a similar case when I was sent to Korea in 2009. I traveled all around Korea, and even managed to make a trip to Japan, which I am planning on doing again.

Secondly, his suicide...

I have been near this abyss before. It is a tempting exit, and while there was one point in my life that I looked into that abyss, I thankfully didn’t take it.

I’ve seen all sorts of snide and misinformed comments online about how someone like Anthony Bourdain could take his own life, only seeing his character on TV, thinking that they personally know him through the TV, some people even thinking that he was somehow murdered.

A common comment was, ‘Why would he take his own life?’

Listen, depression is a motherfucker. It doesn’t care about how successful you are, or what good things are happening in your life. If it can take Robin Williams, Chris Cornell, and Chester Bennington, it can take you, too.

I’m not going to go into the time I considered suicide, since it’s a bit of a long and depress-o story. But I have been depressed in my life. I still struggle with the latent depressive thoughts from time to time. It’s not easy, but I know that I can find ways around it. It’s hard, but I can keep it at bay, at least.

I heard a really good analogy about depression, and I think its perfect: “Depression is basically your brain bullying yourself.”

It really is.

There is so many reasons why someone could become depressed. Maybe it’s the ‘wiring’ of their brain, maybe its some sort of event or perceived slight against them in their day-to-day life.

If it was just as easy as ‘Just cheering up’, then there would be no depressed people. No matter how well you think you know a person, no matter how well you think you know what someone else is thinking, you will never really know what is going on in someone’s head. It’s one of the reasons that I am super cool to everyone that I initially meet, especially when I am emceeing my open-mic.

I’m at a place where there could be someone who has never performed on a stage before, and it was super-hard for them to work up the courage to even show up, much less perform. If a performer doesn’t want to perform, or needs more time, I am super understanding of it. I will accommodate them. When they do perform, and get a positive crowd reaction, I love seeing the look on his or her face when the audience is clapping in approval. I’ve seen a lot of depression get knocked away on that open-mic stage.

But you can never really know what’s going on in someone’s head. Just assuming you think you know them and what someone is thinking shows how little you understand about people, in general.

If someone you know seems a bit down, don’t be afraid to talk to them. It might be the thing that snaps them out of that funk, even for a little bit.

(1-800-273-8255. Seriously, if you’re thinking about suicide, or just need someone to talk to, call that number.)

#anthony bourdain #suicide #musician #traveler #no reservations #global traveler #life thoughts #life story #thoughts #1-800-273-8255

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silverscribblesuniverse · 7 years

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MORE ADHD VIKTOR HEADCANNONS!

Hey Friends! So one of the most beautiful parts of Yuri on Ice is how Yuuri’s anxiety is depicted, right? It’s a really interesting detail, which makes him a much more complex, 3-dimensional character – which in turn gives the story more emotional stakes, and makes the viewers want to root for him.

Another lovely thing about it, is that lot of viewers who have Anxiety in real life found a character that they could relate to – a strong, wonderful, precious character who achieves great things, despite his mental health issues.

SO, keeping that in mind, I’d like to share a long-held head cannon of mine (though I certainly wasn't the first to think of it) about another beloved YOI Character.

Since October is ADHD Awareness Month, I present for your consideration: ADHD Viktor!

(Based on my personal, real-life knowledge and experiences managing my own ADHD)

ENJOY! (it’s a VERY long post, sorry not sorry, lol)

- Viktor has Combined Inattentive/Hyperactive Type ADHD.

[According to the DSM-5 (The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, 5th Edition, *which is the most recent edition, published in 2013) ADHD is broken down into three sub-types: Hyperactive Type, Combined Inattentive/Hyperactive Type and *Inattentive Type (*Previously referred to as “ADD” – or Attention Deficit Disorder without Hyperactivity).]

- He’s never been FORMALLY diagnosed though, because OBVIOUSLY talented/“gifted”/successful people can’t POSSIBLY have an Executive Functioning Disorder/Neurodevelopmental Disorder.

[*SARCASM*]

- When he was a little kid (like 4 or 5) he had SO MUCH ENERGY. TOO MUCH ENERGY. ALL THE ENERGY ALL THE TIME. He was ALWAYS talking too much and “getting into trouble” – his constant outbursts were nearly impossible for the adults in his life to handle. So, his parents/guardians enrolled him in various sports, hoping to channel some of that energy into something “more productive”.

[Hello, Hyperactive Symptoms!]

- That’s when he FELL IN LOVE with skating – it was all he ever wanted to do, all he ever wanted to think about, all he ever wanted to talk about, all he ever cared about.

[Ahh, yes, there’s that typical ADHD fixation/obsession]

- And he was good – INCREDIBLY GOOD. So he kept going; He kept getting better and better, and eventually got into Jr. Competitions, where he started winning. And then . . . he kept winning. Suddenly, everyone (especially adults) started praising him for his “dedication” and “focus” – he wasn't constantly being reprimanded for his behaviour anymore; he wasn't being told to “sit still” and “stop fidgeting” anymore.

[People with ADHD often tend to develop a very low self-esteem, because, as children, they are constantly being scolded for their behaviour (Behaviour which they cannot control, because their brains are literally wired differently).]

- But, the praise and attention was only a tiny piece of the puzzle. What REALLY mattered to Viktor was that he had found something he loved, and he was GOOD at it. He finally felt like he belonged somewhere; completely at home on the ice.

[Subconsciously, skating may have given Viktor an incredible creative outlet (People with ADHD tend to be “creative types”), while the exercise during practice may have given him an awesome boost of serotonin, endorphins and DOPAMINE (The leading theory is that ADHD is linked to/caused by an imbalance/lack of dopamine – that’s why stimulant medications can sometimes help. Exercise is also a highly encouraged lifestyle management tool for those with ADHD).]

- So, Viktor kept skating because he loved it, because he excelled at it, and soon he was the Junior World Champion. Things still weren't perfect though – Yakov always yelled at him for spacing out during practice, getting distracted during interviews, forgetting things all over the place, constantly being late (or outright forgetting commitments altogether) and just generally showing a lack of interest/care in anything that didn't involve him physically skating.

[There you are, Inattentive Symptoms; welcome to the party!]

- But like . . . it isn't Viktor’s fault that interviews are so boring. And, besides, Yakov always took care of the scheduling and stuff – if something important came up, Yakov would just remind him!

[People with undiagnosed ADHD tend to subconsciously develop their own “coping” mechanisms to counteract their symptoms – like perfectionism, avoidance, excessive procrastination, or dependency on others.]

- As an adult, Viktor made a name for himself as a figure skating LEGEND. So . . . If he was late sometimes, or distracted, or overly-emotional, it’s totally FINE – LEGENDS like himself are ALLOWED to be ECCENTRIC.

[ADHD can often go unrecognised/undiagnosed/misdiagnosed well into adulthood – especially in “gifted” individuals. ADHD symptoms are also often overlooked, as it can present comorbid with other conditions such as Depression, Anxiety, OCD, ASD (Including Aspergers Syndrome), Tourette’s, Dyslexia, Oppositional Defiant Disorder, and Conduct Disorder (just to name a few).]

- But now, Viktor’s reaching the end of his career – he’s a 5 time World Champion and . . . nothing is as easy as it once was. He has no more inspiration. He can’t surprise the audience anymore. He’s still winning . . . but it isn't fun anymore. It doesn't make him happy anymore.

[Maybe it’s because no one is good enough to challenge him, so competitions aren't interesting anymore. Or maybe it’s because he’s lonely, with no time for Life or Love . . . but part of the boredom/malaise could ALSO be the lack of DOPAMINE taking its toll. DOPAMINE is responsible for regulating the “reward centre” of the brain – people with ADHD might not feel the same “rush” as others when they achieve things – like getting good grades, being promoted or receiving an award].

- AND THEN comes the infamous banquet – where Viktor meets Katsuki Yuuri, HIS FUTURE HUSBAND AND THE LOVE OF HIS LIFE. Now, Viktor LOVES skating . . . but he can’t remember EVER being happier than when he was dancing with Yuuri. And sure, he’s had lovers before, but NOTHING ever felt like THIS. He is 100%, absolutely, irrevocably, unquestionably IN LOVE. IT’S ALL SO NEW AND EXCITING AND SCARY AND WONDERFUL AND YUURI IS PERFECT AND VIKTOR IS FEELING ALL THE THINGS!!!

[Another symptom of ADHD (and many other psychiatric conditions) is “Emotional Dysregulation” – people with ADHD can find it hard to control their emotions, often have rapidly shifting emotions, feel their emotions INCREDIBLY INTENSELY, and then tend to act on them impulsively. They often view problems/life in “black and white”; It’s pretty much “all or nothing” feelings-wise.]

- One thing leads to another, and suddenly Viktor has dropped EVERYTHING to fly to JAPAN to be Yuuri’s coach on a WHIM because he is overjoyed and excited and in love – AND THERE’S NO WAY THIS COULD POSSIBLY BACKFIRE! THIS IS THE BEST DECISION HE’S EVER MADE EVER.

[There’s that classic ADHD impulsivity/recklessness/risk-taking.]

- He expects Yuuri to be overjoyed to see him – they’re going to skate and talk and have “slumber parties” and fall in love! But . . . that doesn't happen. Not right away, in any case. Instead, Viktor shows up and Yuuri runs away – he doesn't want to have slumber parties and he starts avoiding him and he acts like he doesn't even REMEMBER the banquet! It’s like Yuuri isn't happy to see him at all. So, Viktor may have been a bit teary-eyed, as he went to sleep ALONE (apart from Makkachin) that first night in Hasetsu.

[Some people with ADHD also experience something called Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria (RSD) – an extreme emotional sensitivity to PERCEIVED rejection/criticism].

- Viktor and Yuuri slowly become closer over time; working on their relationships (both personal and coach/student) and figuring out how to communicate . . . even though Viktor has a tendency to be too blunt/push too hard/be too clingy at times.

[EPISODE 2]

VIKTOR: So, do you have feelings for Minako? Do you have a lover now? What about ex-lovers?

YUURI: I’d rather not talk about it . . .

VIKTOR: Then let’s talk about me! Let’s see, my first –

[EPISODE 3]

VIKTOR: The truth is, you’re actually both FAR MORE mediocre than you think. You need to be more self-aware.

[EPISODE 4]

VIKTOR: Yuuri! Why don’t we get some food?

Yuuri! Want to soak in the springs together?

Yuuri! How about a slumber party?

[EPISODE 5]

VIKTOR: It’s amazing you got such a high score after running your face into a wall, but thanks for proving me right about your ability to get a solid PCS! And don’t worry about letting me down, I know you’ll do better next time!”

[EPISODE 7]

VIKTOR: I'm not very good with people crying

Skater’s hearts are as fragile as glass – let’s try shattering his into pieces . . .

[People with ADHD tend to have communication issues. They might not easily pick up on the emotions of others, interrupt often or otherwise steam-roll conversations. They commonly tend to talk too much, talk too loudly, speak before they think, or say incredibly blunt/hurtful things (all without even realizing what they are doing), which can make them come across as callous, self-centred or tactless. Impatience can also be a HUGE problem – they may tend to dive into new things head-first and don’t always take the time to properly assess situations/build relationships. People with ADHD are often described as being “intense”/“overbearing” or having “BIG PERSONALITIES”; opposingly, they might also be perceived as “flaky”/“aloof”/“uncaring”(depending on ADHD Type and Symptoms Exhibited).]

- Eventually, things start heading in the right direction. Viktor is a fully-fledged coach, and Yuuri just keeps getting better; constantly growing and surprising him. Coaching is exciting for Viktor, because it’s new and novel and he gets to be with Yuuri – but it’s also exhausting, because now it’s HIS job to take care of all the scheduling/organizing/memorizing/time management – things that Yakov used to do. Things that definitely DON’T play to his own strengths.

[EPISODE 2]

VIKTOR: Uh, oh, that’s not a happy face. Let me guess, I forgot to do something I said I would do?

[EPISODE 2]

VIKTOR: Ha, ha, ha, yea, I remember now, it totally slipped my mind! I'm sorry, but you know how I forget stuff sometimes . . .

[EPISODE 5]

YUURI: I must have told you a million times – but in last year’s nationals I BOMBED EVERYTHING . . .

[EPISODE 5]

YUURI: Do you have any idea where Viktor is? It’s about to start and I can’t find him!

VIKTOR: Sorry, were you waiting?

[EPISODE 6]

YUURI: Come on, Viktor! We’ll miss the flight if we don’t get moving!

[EPISODE 6]

VIKTOR: I'm hungry and this is boring, can we go get hot pot now?

YUURI: I'm kinda in the middle of an interview here . . .

[EPISODE 10]

VIKTOR: Do you want to try my hot wine?

YUURI: No, I don’t like to drink before a competition

VIKTOR: Oh, right, I forgot.

There are other little quirks of Viktor’s coaching too; but maybe that’s just because it’s all so new to him. He doesn't have the most experience – but he DEFINITELY has the most enthusiasm.

Like, THAT KISS - (you know the one ;) )

[Pretty impulsive, wouldn't you say? (In the BEST WAY, of course :D)]

And whenever Viktor is rink-side, watching Yuuri skate; he’s always SUPER animated – he gets so invested he even does the quad flip along with Yuuri at the Grand Prix Final in Barcelona!

[EXCITEMENT - INTENSE EMOTIONS! HIGH ENERGY/RESTLESSNESS – SOMETIMES IT JUST GETS EXPRESSED AS A QUAD-FLIP!]

Viktor also gets super into the other Skater’s short programs at the Grand Prix Final, and doesn't notice how his words/actions are affecting Yuuri.

[Perhaps it’s just because he loves skating and misses it so much . . . or could it be attributed, in part, to his ADHD brain fixating without him realizing it?]

[So, to sum up; forgetfulness/memory issues, tardiness/poor time management, easily bored/distractable, impulsive . . . those are all pretty much par for the course with ADHD (and other Executive Functioning Disorders as well).]

- In the end, Yuuri wins silver at the Grand Prix Final; but more importantly, he gives Viktor two very important things: Life and Love. And while the road to the GPF is rough and rocky, (managing both Yuuri’s Anxiety and Viktor’s ADHD); their love only grows, changing them and challenging them . . . and making them BOTH stronger for it.

So, there you have it; my ADHD!Viktor head cannons! :)

He may be forgetful and flaky and blunt and pushy and impulsive and emotional – but he’s also energetic and outgoing and supportive and talented and creative and brilliant and charming and loving.

I see a lot of myself in Viktor – good things and bad things – so this head cannon has a very special place in my heart. Almost all our ADHD-related stories/characters in pop-culture are inaccurate, disregard the realities of ADHD, or just blatantly depict it COMPLETELY WRONG – so when I saw these traits more accurately mirrored in Viktor, a character that I love with all my heart, I couldn't help but expand on the idea.

Having said that, ADHD is a complex disorder; here are some basics:

- ADHD is an Executive Functioning Disorder/Neurodevelopmental Disorder.

- The name: “Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder” is a bit of a misnomer; it’s not a “lack” of attention, so much as it is the brain’s inability to filter out stimuli, and direct “focus” where it needs to be at any given time.

- According to the DSM-5, there are 3 subtypes of ADHD – Inattentive, Hyperactive and Combined Inattentive/Hyperactive.

- Not everyone with ADHD will present ALL Symptoms of ADHD, due to the different subtypes.

[There are also many more common Symptoms/Comorbidities that go along with ADHD, which I did NOT head cannon for Viktor – things like Sensory Perception Issues/Misophpnia, Coordination Issues/Dyspraxia, and Low Frustration Tolerance/Hot Temper, just to name a few]

- ADHD is GENETIC and HERITABLE – and is linked to a lack of Dopamine.

- ADHD is not a “Childhood Disorder”. It’s not something you “grow out of” or “cure” – it’s something you learn to manage and live with. Medication is one option – but treatment may also include making lifestyle changes (like diet, exercise, and getting proper sleep), working with ADHD coaches, going to Therapy, and investing time in creating an organizational system that works WITH one’s symptoms.

- An ADHD diagnosis does not mean that one is stupid or lazy or out of control – plenty of highly intelligent, “gifted” or otherwise successful individuals have ADHD (and in fact, with the right diagnosis and treatments, many people who struggle or “under-perform” at school/work due to ADHD are able to harness their previously untapped potential, leading to great improvements in their work, and enabling them to start on a path to success).

- ADHD isn't a “fake illness” or an “excuse”. ADHD is a very REAL disorder, with a very REAL impact on the lives of those that it affects. However, with the proper diagnosis, knowledge, skills and tools, ADHD is also manageable – and you can absolutely learn how to work WITH your ADHD to become your best self.

***

So, if you've stuck with me this long, thanks for reading! I hope you've enjoyed these little head-cannons for one of my most favourite characters of all-time – and maybe learned something new that can help you or a loved one living with ADHD.

Thanks again! This has been my contribution for ADHD Awareness Month and the YOI One-Year Anniversary!

See You Next Level! ;)

#Yuri on ice #yuuri on ice #yuri!!! on ice #yuuri!!! on ice #yuri on ice headcannon #viktor nikiforov #victor nikiforov #adhd viktor #adhd awareness #adhd awareness month

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infpisme · 7 years

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10 Life-Changing Pieces Of Advice For Empaths And Highly Sensitive People

“And those who were seen dancing were thought insane by those who could not hear the music.” ― Nietzsche

Highly sensitive people are too often perceived as weak or broken. But to feel intensely is not a symptom of weakness, it is the characteristic of a truly alive and compassionate human being. It is not the sensitive person who is broken, it is society’s understanding that has become dysfunctional and emotionally incapacitated. There is zero shame in expressing your authentic feelings. Those who are at times described as being ‘too emotional’ or ‘complicated’ are the very fabric of what keeps the dream alive for a more thoughtful, caring, humane world. Never be ashamed to let your feelings, smiles and tears shine a light in this world.

Of course, that’s easier said than done, because it can be so confusing, right? … Why you get overwhelmed by run-of-the-mill tasks that others take in stride. Why you mull over slights that ought to be forgotten. Why subtleties are magnified for you and yet lost on others.

It’s like you were born missing a protective layer of skin that others seem to have.

You try to hide it. Numb it. Tune it out. But the comments still pierce your armor: “You’re overthinking things. You’re too sensitive. Toughen up!”

You’re left wondering what on earth is wrong with you.

I know, because I was in my mid-40s when I stumbled across the term ‘highly sensitive people.’ This led me to discover how delicious it feels to be one of thousands saying, “You do that? Me too!”

Since then, I’ve learned that many sensitive people feel isolated from others. They feel misunderstood and different, and they usually don’t know why. They just don’t realize that they have a simple trait that explains their confusing array of symptoms and quirks.

There’s even a scientific term for it: Sensory Processing Sensitivity. Dr. Elaine Aron, a psychotherapist and researcher, estimates that 15-20% of people have nervous systems that process stimuli intensely. They think deeply. They feel deeply (physically and emotionally). They easily become over-stimulated.

According to my research several successful historical figures were highly sensitive, such as Albert Einstein, Martin Luther King, and Steve Jobs. I see this as great news, because it means us sensitive types aren’t inherently disadvantaged.

But when we don’t realize how to handle our sensitivity, we end up pushing too hard to keep up with everyone else. We try to do what others seem to handle with ease, and try to do it better than them. And this leads to problems.

For a time, we do a first-rate job of using our natural gifts: we’re creative students, conscientious employees, and devoted family members. But when we hammer on beyond our limits, doing so can eventually take its toll. It shows up in things like unrelenting health conditions, muscle tension we can’t get rid of, and being endlessly fatigued or on edge for no good reason.

If you resonate with any of this, here are 10 actions you can take to stop struggling and start thriving:

1. Quit searching for someone or something to fix you.

Sensitivity is a temperament trait, not a medical disorder. So nothing is inherently wrong with you. Sadly, though, many certified health practitioners don’t understand this because sensory processing sensitivity is a recent area of health research.

Sure, highly sensitive people are more likely to have allergies or sensitivities to food, chemicals, medication, and so forth. And they’re more prone to overstimulation, thus quicker to feel stress — which can lead to other health issues. But sensitivity in itself is not something that needs fixing.

Successful sensitive types realize that they’re not “broken.” If your mind is exhausted from busily researching yet another solution to take away your “flaws,” know that the answers to living in harmony with your sensitive nature lie inside you.

2. Tell yourself, as often as necessary, that you are not a fraud.

Impostor syndrome isn’t exclusive to highly sensitive people. Many conscientious and high achieving people fall victim to this nagging fear. But the simmering discomfort about being found out is often constant for a sensitive person.

Why wouldn’t it be, considering you’ve spent a lifetime of feeling different from others and trying to fit in? Maybe you blame your tears on dust in your eye during that cheesy TV commercial; or you sign up for the company fun run, even though you hate running and you know you’ll feel ashamed of how long your body takes to recover. But even if you grew up displaying your sensitivity with pride, it’s unlikely you escaped the cultural pressure motivating you to disguise your real self to fit the norms.

Successful sensitive types respect that their nervous systems are wired differently from 80-85% of people. If you’re constantly thinking about who you should be but aren’t, and what you should be doing but can’t, understand that valuing your achievements and signature strengths allows you to show yourself as you truly are, more comfortably — even when you’re the odd one out.

3. Seek out kindred spirits (and know that you are NOT alone).

You probably feel different and alone. But the truth is, you’re not. Many have experienced confusion in isolation before discovering that hordes of people have some idea of what it’s like to be you. They’ve felt the surge of power that comes from being supported by like-minded souls. And they want to pay it forward.

The key whenever possible is to hang out with sensitive people who are already flourishing, or at least open to those possibilities. They understand not only how to manage their sensitivity, but also how to wield its superpowers. They know what it’s like for you to feel endlessly under siege, and they can offer firsthand experience and wisdom to help you make your sensitivities work in your favor.

Successful sensitive types appreciate and relish the strengths of sensitivity, in themselves and others. If you’re feeling unsupported or misunderstood, find a sensitively knowledgeable coach, mentor, or community who gets you … and nurture that connection.

4. Look for the hidden positivity in every situation and soak it up.

The brain is a powerful filter that molds experiences and perceptions of reality. If you think the world is a dangerous place, your brain is wired to hunt for evidence of danger. If you believe it’s a loving place, you spot more loving opportunities. What you focus on, you get more of.

As a highly sensitive person, the more negative the environment, the more you suffer. But the opposite is also true — the more positive, the more you thrive (even compared to others).

Thoughts are stimuli for your nervous system. One of the most important things a sensitive person can do is acknowledge the negative (not ignore it — because what you resist, persists), but then let it go… immerse yourself in positive thoughts and situations that make you feel good, or at least give you a soothing sense of relief.

Successful sensitive types decide to see the world brimming with opportunities to feel grateful for, and to marinate in that positive vibe. If you’re feeling at the mercy of your emotions and circumstances, understand that your thoughts (and the emotional charges they trigger) are always within your control.

5. Find new spins on old flaws.

Your gifts of sensitivity include deep reflection and an instinct to see all angles and consequences. But by being so deeply tuned into details, you’re easily overwhelmed and exhausted by unyielding stimulation. And when you don’t understand why you feel and behave in the ways you do, it’s easy to frame these as flaws.

In truth, these “weaknesses” are simply your unmet needs and unique gifts to nourish. In reframing your past and nurturing your present, you set yourself up for success in your future.

Successful sensitive types rethink old perceptions in light of their deeper understandings of sensitivity. If you’re weighed down by the hypersensitive and neglected (even, despised) parts of yourself, seek to discover the other side of the coin … where you’ll find some of your greatest strengths: intuition, vision, conscientiousness — and the list goes on.

6. Treat yourself with compassion.

As a highly sensitive person you are deeply compassionate. So much so that putting others’ comfort and needs before your own is second nature. On top of that, you’re often your own biggest critic. You push yourself hard, and then you beat up on yourself when you miss the mark. You criticize yourself in ways you’d never dream of judging others.

Controlling your nagging inner critic is essential to self-compassion. But contrary to popular belief, you shouldn’t do so by relentlessly ignoring it. Deep thinking is one of your gifts, so why not embrace that power? Take control by hearing your thoughts without judgment (after all, there might be gems of wisdom hidden deep) and then pivoting to thoughts that trigger kinder and more loving emotions in your body. From that better-feeling place, you’re better able to choose actions to care for yourself and others.

Successful sensitive types show themselves the same loving compassion that they’re naturally good at giving others. It may feel selfish or vain at first, but it’s not. If your critical inner voice is devaluing who you are, answer back with self-kindness … this is the antidote.

7. Create healthy boundaries, not rigid emotional walls.

We live in a culture that values “take a painkiller and push on” far more than it values sensitivity. We grow up hearing: “no pain, no gain; survival of the fittest; life isn’t fair — get used to it.” We admire those who show grit to prevail over their terrible plights.

As a highly sensitive person your reflex reaction may be to freeze up or struggle to toughen up. You build walls to shield yourself from hurt … Emotional walls, such as suppressing feelings or creating dramatic turmoil to distract from the real causes of pain. Physical walls, such as piling on layers of weight to hide behind. Mental walls, such as tuning out with alcohol or drugs.

Or, you may let all your boundaries collapse at once, thereby unconsciously absorbing others’ energies and feeling devoured by unpredictable events and emotions. You try to escape the feelings by getting caught up in overthinking everything: endlessly planning and searching and analyzing, while completely losing touch with your intuition. And in the process you confuse conscientiousness with overwork, empathy with over-identification, compassion with over-tolerance. So you beat yourself up about how you know you should have better boundaries. It’s a vicious cycle.

Successful sensitive types embody gentle but firm personal boundaries. If you struggle to put your own needs first (which doesn’t come naturally to a highly sensitive person), make a conscious choice to practice the skill of saying “no” with love and grace, or carving out alone time to recharge … and decide to feel good about that.

8. Tune in to your body (to avoid seesawing between emotional extremes).

Many highly sensitive people learn to ignore the messages their bodies are sending them. They switch it off to avoid overwhelm or they tune in to others’ needs instead of their own to meet what’s expected of them. Does this sound familiar?

Doing so leaves you swinging like a pendulum. Too much, too little. Too fast, too slow. Too in, too out. Back and forth between being over-stimulated and mind-numbingly bored, dieting and then bingeing, or exercising hard and then needing several days to recover. And so on and so forth.

Successful sensitive types tune in to the physical sensations in their bodies; they accept that it’s not always comfortable, but they trust their bodies to guide them. If you have a habit of hiding from feelings or passing the point of overwhelm, learn to recognize your body’s subtle signs of overstimulation. You’ll spend less time being thrown out of balance, and more time swaying gently within your nervous system’s range of optimal arousal.

9. Design healthy habits that fit your unique needs.

Eventually, it all catches up with you. Grueling hours at work, followed by hard sweat at the gym and keeping on top of chaos around home — all fueled by crappy diets and minimal sleep or downtime. It’s an easy trap to fall into because you’re simply living the way you see most people get by on.

What’s more, some seemingly healthy habits hit hard on a sensitive nervous system — like “health” foods that are heavily processed and pumped with sugar and artificial additives, or intense exercise that’s not balanced with ample recovery time. If you allow too much stimulation and too lousy replenishment, you run the risk of chronic illnesses (as many sensitive types have learned the hard way). At the same time, if you overprotect yourself, your genius goes unexpressed, and that also can lead to stress and ill health.

Successful sensitive types practice habits that truly nourish them. If you struggle with energy or well-being issues, prioritize habits that nurture these areas of your life (such as more sleep and alone time), and limit those that over-stimulate or drain you (such as too many high pressures activities — even if they are so-called healthy).

10. Stop smothering your sensitivity.

After a lifetime of being bombarded by stimuli, it becomes second nature to push sensitivity out of the conscious awareness. Tuning out from relentless sensations, for example, so you can pretend you don’t give a darn. Toning down intense feelings (good and bad) so you aren’t on a roller coaster. Suppressing emotions to get a break from feeling anything at all.

This self-protective mechanism might fool your conscious mind, but it doesn’t fool your sensitive body. This oozes into your health, your relationships, your career, every aspect of your life … or, it builds tension inside until something has to give.

Successful sensitive types let go of the grasp for control. When you free the energy used to hold yourself tight, you free the gifts of sensitivity that have been lost to you: empathy, creativity, and heightened joy, to name a few. And you allow your true potential to blossom.

By MarcAndAngel

#hsp #empath #highly sensitive person #empath problems #infp #life advice #empath advice #hsp problems #hsp advice

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pisati · 5 years

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I suppose it's a product of the society we live in, but I feel messed up in some ways for not wanting my own children. Not liking babies, not even really thinking they're cute. Being terrified of pregnancy. I almost wish I could be 'normal' about it, in the same way I sometimes wish I could be 'normal' about sexual attraction and drive. It would make things so much less complicated, feels like. I looked it up. Just a few scattered articles about women who don't want children (some of which say "it's perfectly normal!"). A lot of the justifications some of these women give are... honestly really pretentious. Some of these people just think babies are plain gross. And they can be; they're little poop machines, they puke, they blow mucus everywhere... but I saw one article that was like "they're gross and inconsiderate and selfish" like... fucking duh? They're infants. They don't know how to control their bodily functions quite yet and they don't know how else to communicate their needs. "You're a baby. You have nothing to do. If you're tired, just sleep instead of crying about it" like how fucking stupid are y'all? Have you ever tried falling asleep when you're tired but your brain just won't let you? Did it occur to you that infants have to learn things as basic as the concept of object permanence, and maybe they cry when they're tired because they just don't know what else to do about it? Being tired fucking sucks. Even at 25 I sometimes get so tired I want to cry. Fuck off. And "inconsiderate"?? As if babies have even the slightest concept of "considerate"? They are wired to survive. To need their parents to provide for them. That is what they know how to do. "Considerate" is learned. God. Those things are not an issue I really have with babies. I get kind of secondhand embarrassed when babies do stupid things, but I understand they're learning. I get super grossed out by the idea of diaper blowouts and spit-up and faces covered in snot and every food they try to ingest, but... I know if that were my child it'd be a little easier to deal with. I'm fine with my pets' bodily functions, I don't see why, if I loved something enough, it should really be a problem. Some people don't get that. But they say they love their pets in a way they don’t care for children; makes me wonder how they actually treat them. Some people think babies are life-ruiners, but of course they're going to be if they're not wanted, you absolute fucking morons. They are work. Some women love being a mom but hate motherhood, and that's understandable. Some people don't want to give up their careers, because honestly, raising children is a full-time job in itself. Babies maybe won't ruin your life's work, but they certainly can derail it and be a weight you have to carry around for a lifetime. Not everyone is ready to commit to that. But that's not an issue I seem to have with them either. If I wanted them, they'd be worked into my future plans. It wouldn't be ruining my life if that was the way I wanted my life to go, you know? The people that think it's the worst thing that could happen to their career... shouldn't have them, lmao. Those kids are going to grow up knowing they're resented. Knowing that you had things you wanted to do with your life, until they came along. They're going to feel like a burden on you, and you’ll probably take out your regret on them at some point. Your feeling like you "need" to have a child because of societal expectations doesn't trump the wellbeing of the child you're bringing into this world. There's the tantrums. The crying, the screaming, the not listening to reason. That's one thing I can actually agree with. I can't deal with babies crying. Some say that the cry of a baby draws people in; it makes mothers want to go to them and comfort them. I have the opposite reaction. I hear a baby crying, I want to get far away from it. I don't think I'd be very good at perceiving a baby's needs. They wouldn't stop crying, I'd get impatient and frustrated. You can't reason with a crying infant, you have to find the off switch by guessing at which needs aren't being met. I wouldn't be able to deal with tantrums or an indignant child, but I feel like any child of mine would know better than to give me the business. Who knows, though? Who knows what I'd end up with? I was a good kid. Afraid of consequences, sensitive, obedient, for the most part, if not a little stubborn (ok, very stubborn). What if my kid was the exact opposite? What if no matter how much love I gave them, no matter how attentive I tried to be towards their needs, no matter how many lessons I tried to teach them, they ended up a little brat? A gigantic asshole? God forbid, a white supremacist or some other horrible thing? Sometimes people really do their best and still it doesn't matter.

I just. I don’t have those instincts towards babies. I really don’t. I wish I did, sometimes. But that’s just not how I was wired. They scare me too, possibly because of unfamiliarity, but more because I don’t have the energy or the money to be as good of a parent as I’d want to be for an infant. I do think I have maternal instincts though. I know I try to take good care of my rats and I love caring for them. Spoiling them, making sure they have what they need, making sure they're happy and healthy. I can't see myself ever not having pets. But by that same token... just thinking about it. I've been saying for a while now that I think my maternal instincts are misdirected towards animals instead of humans (ha ha), but I don't think that's actually true. My heart breaks for older children in the foster system-- older children being kids that aren't babies. Any child in the foster system, of course, but I’m more drawn personally to the older ones. Kids that have known abusive parents or never even knew who their parents were, kids that grew up in foster care, bouncing from place to place, knowing they don't really have a family. Children have a lot of needs growing up, and emotional needs are a big one that people sometimes overlook. Kids can get hurt, bad. They feel a lot of things, and deeply. I remember being a kid myself, and I was always one to feel things extraordinarily strongly. I remember dad got me two Polly Pocket sets for.. maybe my birthday one year. And I'd thrown out the little plastic insert that one of them was packaged with-- you know, just opening a box, discarding the packaging. And I realized later that the insert would've been perfect for keeping the little rubber doll pieces organized, and the regret over having thrown it out hurt so bad I cried. Like... kids are growing and they're complicated and I can't even imagine having that made harder by parents or lack thereof. Knowing that kids are growing up in those conditions makes me want to take them in. Like my friend’s family, who’s taken in a whole bunch of foster kids and adopted them all. I'd want to bring a child home, and let them know that this is their home and would always be their home. Give them some stability on a fundamental level. Show them love they may not have received yet. Do their hair, have little makeover days, movie nights, game nights, craft nights. Surprise them with things they like, watch their face light up knowing they're listened to and cared about. Listen to them talk about their interests, try to guide them towards things that make them happy; spark that interest and let them explore and grow; not try to mold them any way I think they should be. Help them with homework, work through problems together, because lord knows I'd probably struggle with some of them too. Hope they'd trust me enough to come to me with emotional issues-- not like how I could never talk to my mom about boys. Try to help them heal from whatever trauma they may have experienced. I don't know how I'd handle behavioral issues, if that were to happen, but I know the best course of action is educating myself and trying to be understanding. I do think I'd be a good mother. Just not to an infant, lmao When I was still in school, I'd let my rats run around my apartment during playtime. I'd leave my plastic shopping bags on the floor in the kitchen once I'd put groceries away, because I knew Jay liked to hoard them under my couch. And sometimes I'd take my phone flashlight and look around under there at the mess he made. I wouldn't touch it (until cleaning day came, usually, or unless there was a receipt I realized I needed). I'd just look at the organized chaos his little rat brain told him to create. I was witnessing the physical manifestation of his personality-- something he created himself. He put those bags right where he wanted them, and I could hear him rustling around down there sometimes, arranging them how he liked. He would grab mouthfuls of food and stash them in piles under the couch too, in specific places. I think I'd be the type of person to do the same for a child. I couldn't ever tell them what to do or how to be, necessarily. I'm sure I'd just marvel at anything they created; anything their mind produced. I'd want to know them for them, and love them just the same, even if they were nothing like me. Hell, I'd probably be happy if they were nothing like me (in some regards). Reminds me of that scene from Ladybird. I just. I wish that you liked me. Of course I love you. But do you like me? I want you to be the very best version of yourself that you can be. But what if this is the best version? Parks & Rec: I love you and I like you. One day I'll be able to say that. I hope.

#don't know what prompted this one #maybe tv; maybe some posts I scrolled past #I need to learn to be more honest with myself #stop drawing such hard lines #especially where none need to be drawn #it always seems like 'all or none' with this kind of thing #either you want them or you don't-- at all-- ever #but that's just not the way it is sometimes #I'm learning to acknowledge that and the fact that it's okay to feel like this #mostly just relieved that there are people that are WAY bigger assholes about it #people that think they're better than others because they don't have kids.... need to shut the fuck up lmao #cool if it's not the thing for you but maybe cool your jets about other people's choices #and the fact that-- yes-- sometimes other people's choices in that regard will encroach upon your lifestyle #like I can't wait to never be pregnant or have to deal with an infant #but I........ actually think I could one day do the mom thing #I could definitely see it as enriching and a positive addition to my life #and hopefully equally as if not more beneficial for the kid #girl's got a heart after all

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observenature · 7 years

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Where magic and science meet.

Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic. -- Arthur C. Clarke

In the context of my professional scientific training and the personal value I place in the Scientific Method this is a heretical post. While I am a strict physicalist, there are limits to what Science can tell us, at least in part because there are things that are, as far as we can tell, unknowable. In fact (so to speak), there are different classes of unknowable things. At the top of the ignorance food-chain one might reference Godel’s Incompleteness Theorem, colloquially put: Godel proved that there exist true statements which are impossible for us to know are true using any normal mathematical/logical system; he effectively proved the inherent ignorance of deductive reasoning . In his book The Moral Landscape, Sam Harris describes the concept of factual realities that can, for all practical purposes, never be known. For instance, you can ask: between exactly 12:01 am and 11:59 pm today, how many people on Earth were bitten by mosquitoes (assuming some reasonable definition of “bitten”)? There is a single number that is the right answer -- let’s say 3,223,541 people were bitten. We can estimate this value (we won’t here), but humanity could devote virtually limitless time and effort and never truly know exactly how many people were bitten -- there are just too many variables and much of the data required to actually know this value simply does not exist, it was never recorded. Then there’s uncomputable numbers, that is, numbers whose exact enumeration would take an infinite number of operations on a perfect Turing Machine. There are proofs that show that certain physical systems cannot be described analytically by a closed mathematical form (e.g. the states of 3D Ising Model) and the related larger space of problems in computational complexity (i.e. P vs. NP). And then there’s chaotic systems, the simplest of which is the double pendulum. The dynamic trajectory of such systems is, frustratingly, deterministic, but depends so sensitively on initial conditions that predicting the motion over long time periods is impossible. These are all concrete physical and/or mathematical examples of unknowable and/or unprovable, but true things; or said differently, physical systems for which precise information about the system exists but is unknowable.

To be clear, this does not mean that we are completely ignorant about these systems. Indeed, we can compute / simulate many measurables about them, but the amount of work (read: actual energy or number of computational operations) to reach those answers depends on the desired level of precision. Whatever the limitations, we can conceptualize ‘the space of all knowable things’, that is, the contiguous information space of all knowledge accessible with our current methods, limited energy for computation, and understanding of what is possible. The point is that from the logocentric perspective of our human-sized, neurologically wired brains, it appears that that knowledge space has limits. Accordingly, from our point of view that space is all that can be known, even though we know that there is hypothetical knowledge beyond those limits. Many people would assert that this post should stop there, with a kind of ontological circular argument that all that can be known is all that can be known, and thus considering anything past that is folly. Let the heresy begin -- let’s now consider, against the proofs and assertions of people much smarter than me, that there is a body of information (call them ‘facts’, ‘algorithms’, ‘technologies’ etc) that in a grander sense could be known if we had better tools, bigger brains, massively expanded intuition, or a fundamentally different understanding of reality (ignoring the very real possibility that we are simply wrong about what we think can and cannot be known).

As an attempt to illustrate this concept let’s consider two examples. I have three wonderful cats: Zorro, Purry, and Handsome. Sometimes I imagine that if I could speak ‘Meowish’ I might try to explain new concepts to them and see what they think about them. “Hey Zorro, did you know that we live on a rocky spherical planet orbiting an average-sized star that we call the Sun in a galaxy about 100,000 light years across?” I have serious doubts that no matter how fluent I am in Meowish, no matter how masterfully I explained these concepts, no matter how small I broke down the ideas, their brains are incapable of understanding nearly every abstract concept in that question. Second example: very soon we might create artificial intelligence whose ability to integrate the sum of human knowledge and rapidly test hypotheses through simulation endows it with an intuitive understanding of reality that dwarfs that of any single human, maybe even humankind. From the point of view of my cats, the average human is god-like in their understanding of the world and is capable of knowing, understanding, and controlling reality in a way that no cat can. From the point of view of my (reasonably) speculated AI, we are cat-like in our understanding of reality -- its cognitive capabilities place it on another plane of existence, god-like you might say.

Cats and humans are biologically essentially identical and in terms of our definition of sentience and agency, humans are just barely past the dividing line between Life that can understand its place and move with agency in the Universe and Life that is blissfully unaware of all but the most salient features of its environment and the corresponding influences on its survival. That fact should humbly remind us that we, and our offspring (liberally defined), have a lot to learn. I wonder if even that understanding, that I / we perceive to be so important -- between what we conceive of as sentient living systems and unconscious self-reproducing goo -- is actually its own opaque barrier between our current state and a far deeper, more holistic, and penetrating view of physical reality -- i.e. to potential god-like lifeforms, we are the unconscious, self-replicating goo.

In the search for the existence of that deeper truth, understanding, or a chance to touch the unknowable, people turn to all kinds of systems of belief. Broadly, my personal classification is that those systems are either falsifiable or unjustifiable. Reasonable examples of the former include believing that the alignment of planets or division of the heavens (the Zodiac) have, through their gravitational effects or other mechanisms-at-a-distance, anything to do with who you are as a person. Put that in contrast to a back-of-the-envelope calculation showing that who was standing around you at birth is far more gravitationally important than planetary alignments, or simply skipping over the obvious fact that the time of year you were born has many other salient correlates like light levels, temperature, or available foods, all of which affect your development and propensities. Another example is the erroneous notion that water has any kind of molecular memory for, or health relevant qualities from, a now absent molecular species. For the latter classification, I gloss over the largest can of worms and roundly put theistic religions in the ‘unjustifiable’ category without further discussion -- you can keep your faith, I’ll employ my evidence and mechanism. (I like this possibly apocryphal quote from Laplace) All that said, anything -- be it religion or psychedelic drugs -- that alters how your neurons fire might well bring with it a noticeable expansion of one’s personal knowledge space. I wager practitioners of either school would attest to such -- I certainly do.

The point in all this posturing and discussion is that our knowledge space has bounds, likely imposed by the very structure and capabilities of our brains, yet maybe there is far more that can be known by entities with greater capacities. Consider then that in terms of biological structure and mechanisms, the cat brain and the human brain are essentially the same, and thus if the relatively minor differences in brain size and connectivity produce god-like differences in organismal consciousness, how easy would it be to imagine a life form with god-like capabilities above ours and how much larger and qualitatively distinct might the differences in comprehension and control of physical reality be? And if sentient Life emerged elsewhere in the cosmos, a billion years ahead of us, it could be incomprehensibly more advanced in its technology and understanding of reality, so much so, that it would not be possible for us to understand, replicate, or even use its technologies, anymore than a cat can consciously surf the internet or a chimpanzee can comprehend regular perturbations of non-linear partial differential equations. In that context, now consider Arthur C. Clarke’s quote ... “Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.” These beings, their methods and capabilities, and their influence on our reality would be magical, and because it might employ knowledge that we could never attain or comprehend (i.e. on the time scale of human civilizations), it would remain magical and mysterious no matter how much effort we put into understanding it. The real mind fuck is that it would (or could) still be rooted in physical reality, meaning: a true source of magic, as far as we can ascertain, whose fundamental workings are still and will always remain real and physical.

With all this in mind I begrudgingly admit that these concepts force me to consider the possibility of (physical) beings so advanced that they are effectively gods -- relative to us their knowledge gives them omniscience and their technology gives them omnipotence. If we haven’t met them yet, let’s hope they are also omnibenevolent. Though, mostly likely (imo) they simply will not give us much consideration -- benevolent or malevolent -- in much the same way that we rarely try to have meaningful conversations with an ant colony. We may not even comprehend their presence, in much the same way that I doubt ants are aware of our presence beyond basic notions of threat and large scale environmental influences. To my mind, the other interesting possibility is that, like the plants we tend in our gardens, we are, right now, being tended without awareness of our conscious minds, in the same way that a plant can have so much care put into its cultivation and never have any ‘idea’ that there is a gardener -- it just ‘sees’ its version of physical reality: it’s hot or cold, dry or wet, nourishing or starving, competing or cooperating -- the plant lives in the only physical realities it has ever known. My personal hope is that if such beings exist, they are capable of communicating their presence in a way that we can understand ... oh, fuck, may that’s what supernatural is?! :\

The ability to test a hypothesis, to measure a difference between an idea and reality is, for the physicalist or anyone else that values objective reality, the definition of knowledge and the defining line between mechanistic and predictive understanding and the realm of the unknowable and the uncontrollable that we call magic. Therefore, I assert that when our ability to perform measurements and gain the knowledge that empowers distinction between science and magic disappears, science and magic cease to be separate -- physical reality and magic are one and the same at the edge of what can be known.

And as for possible implications for an afterlife, in some form, let me get back to you ...

(photo credits: Mr. Wuffles)

Belief in the supernatural reflects a failure of the imagination. – Edward Abbey

#religion #aliens #reality #physics #metaphysics #mathematics #philosophy

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bits-by-bittrist · 4 years

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Some more thoughts on trust & relationships

Hi, it’s me again. Turns out I have more to say tonight. I’ve been reading Fumio Sasaki’s goodbye things - on minimalist living over the last several days and it’s speaking to me beyond a material level. Sasaki proposes (as many psychologists have over the years, of which he is not one) that: “We [humans] can’t thrive without proving our existence has value.” He later talks about how as “social animals”, this means we can often be forced to fight depression formed from loneliness. In modern culture, this struggle can manifest in materialism to show our value to others and a sense of “never enough” that follows thanks to novelty and the wiring of our brains. However, I want to look at that from the original, social lens. I’ve struggled for years and years with depression (or, as it turns out, some other much more significant mood disorder), often relying on accomplishment in work, music, school, or relationships to stay elevated. This has made me a very driven person. As I’ve grown older, though, my energy has lessened and I am more prone to burnout than ever. I’ve been forced to be more sustainable in my efforts through work, school, and music; I’ve studied psychology to try and learn about my neurosis; I’ve turned to mindfulness and Eastern spirituality to find new means of relaxation, affirmation, and self-worth; I’ve even tried thinning out relationships I don’t think will go the distance to leave more energy to cultivate self-worth elsewhere in my life. Over the 4 months or so, though, I’ve examined my relationships and tendencies within them more closely than ever. I’ve already written about the dilemma of “betting the house” on someone and trusting them fully--I still believe this is key to creating the most fulfilling and deep relationship one can. And I’ve previously seen how this can cause one to perceive every unmet expectation and unreciprocated action or feeling as a death blow. I just don’t know how to tread the middle. How do I walk the line without precluding myself and my budding partner-in-crime from the relationship I know is possible? I try not to take things personally - I know they’re almost never meant that way. I try to trust things will work out. I just hope and maybe pray my heart doesn’t break again. I’ve spent so long uprooting the stockholm syndrome that the pain from my first real love created - I’m still fighting it and me writing this (as opposed to drinking, binging tv, food, etc.) is evidence. I’ve put in the hard work. When will it feel worth it? Is this discipline from numbing myself the biggest fruit of my labor? Noah Tolson - Sobriety, Day 89 - 07/03/2020

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theliterateape · 6 years

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...fucking Mark

...fucking Mark.

Imagine a sad, defeated Mitch McConnell. He’s seated hunched over all alone in his dark empty office. Obamacare just passed. He’s got his glasses in one hand while the other pinches the bridge of his nose right between his eyes. And between the dry gasps that always precede a good cry, shakes his head, and says, not without humor, “...fucking Obama.”

That. That right there. That is how you say, “...fucking Mark.”

The ‘g’ is typically silent. Like when you say something is “rootin’ tootin,’” which is becoming so commonplace these days it’s just chiche. Everything is “rootin' tootin.’”

So, just to clear the air of the elephant in the room of long tailed cats and rocking chairs, this is not a story about what it is like to fuck Mark in the biblical sense of “fuck.” It is a true story, though Mark is not his true name. I am really nice that way. Not quite nice enough to not use a name so incredibly close to his real one. But, you know, nice.

I was hired to be part of the entertainment for a corporate Christmas function in Iowa. The entertainment was to involve an interactive improv show, with drinks and dancing to follow DJ’d by fucking Mark. Altogether I spent about two days with him. In a row.

Mark was an almost last minute replacement recommended by someone’s weed dealer. Mark had about two-and-a-half day's notice.

The first time I saw Mark, we were arriving in the van at his pick up point in the far north Chicago neighborhood of Edgewater. It was the middle of the marrow-deep Lake Michigan cold that is the true dead of Chicago winter. Fucking Mark was wearing a red winter beanie, work boots, over sized dark blue jeans that he had, apparently, painted his floor in at one point (I asked and he confirmed), fingerless gloves, and a loose fitting gray tank top.

Beady little eyes, always fidgeting, his long brown hair that stopped just above his trapezius muscles. Honestly pretty impressive. The dude was stacked. He looked liked Scott Stapp from Creed had a baby with Cheddar Bob from 8 Mile. The Google image search you should do based on that last sentence is worth it.

As we turned into the corner and parked, he popped one eye wide open and turned it toward the van. This facial expression gave the impression that we had just severely insulted him. It was like you had just crossed a serious line with Popeye, and he's just decided to eat an entire can of spinach he doesn't even need to beat your ass.

We stopped at the curb, him still giving us a one-eyed glare. He just stood there like that, looking at us, for about 10 to 15 seconds, which feels much longer than it is. Something in his head clicked, and he began walking toward the van. Cautiously. He craned his neck forward with his rib cage sucked in, his hands hung from disengaged wrists at his drawn back sternum as his feet seemed to pull the rest of him along with his legs acting as leashes. He looked like Mr. Burns, but a bird, trying to figure out if we were food or, in fact, a trap, with a coked out eye of Sauron on top.

I thought we were either about to be robbed or offered free samples of the type of drugs you shouldn’t do.

He got to passenger window, my window. He moved his head around the window to see in like he was searching for a keyhole. I lowered the window.

“Hi, I’m Mark. I’m the DJ. Are you here for Mark the DJ?”

“Hi Mark, I’m Boss,” said Boss, driver, and owner of the company we were booked through, “Hey, it’s pretty cold out, if you want to go in and grab your coat that’s totally fine, we have time.”

“It’s no problem, I don’t live here. Besides I have really good callouses.”

Boss, “What?”

“Plus a hat.”

Mark was 32, and blind. Partially. Mostly. That’s why he approached the van the way he did. Every time Mark looked at something, he would get that one eyeball so close it would practically touch its subject. He did this with people too. I would describe the first handshake with Mark as "startling".

I assure you that I am not picking on Mark because he is blind, nor would I anyone ever. Being blind is not Mark’s biggest problem. His problem, from which all others grew, is that he is what my grandfather would have called, “dumber'n two turds fightin’ 20 turds’’.

Mark got in the van.

Boss asked where his DJ equipment is.

“Oh it’s in storage on the south side.”

A pause. Boss asked for something that you might maybe call specifics. “I don’t know the address. But I know where it is.”

Using “south” as our guide, and with a sundrop of hope, we made our way to the highway and around the city toward this mysterious storage facility. About halfway around the city, I smelled that burning leaves smell that, to me, always reminds me of running through the seemingly endless rolling plains and orange forests to explore that is rural Michigan in the autumn. To this day and forever my true heart will always reside there.

I contributed some small talk, something like the above, but shorter.

Others said something like, but longer than, “Me too.” Mark contributed:

“Yeah, I still love going into, like, you know those old general stores? I love just sticking my head in bags of manure and inhaling as fast and deeply as I possibly can through my nose.”

The rest of us, simultaneously, sucked in an egg sized pocket of air. And held it. I was the first to break.

“You mean like... like, horse... like horse, uh, poop?”

“I mean yeah but it’s not like it’s human shit.”

“Oh.” I was willing to forgo all questions if I could be promised no answers.

“Yeah. I mean, other than my shit. Or farts. I like the smell of those. They’re actually, seriously? They’re not bad. Just not other people’s shit.”

“Yep,” I yepped.

“What in the Ever-Loving Sun God of fuck.” I thought.

I just accepted that there are places where there are giant sacks of shit on display, and all the customers come from miles around to smell them. These places are called “old general stores.” I held onto that information, put it in my back pocket, and moved on.

We arrived at the storage facility after stopping three different times to check the internet maps on our pocket robots while Mark left some voicemails. I know this sounds crazy, but even though we were on a schedule, through that entire search time did not stop even once.

Are you starting to see how any one of these little pieces of Mark so far are relatively easily forgivable in isolation? But fucking Mark pokes at this primordial nerve in your brain over and over and over. It’s death by tiny spears. You cannot understand. You are young, and I envy you.

His equipment was in a square concrete room in the basement of the storage facility. It smelled like bong water and burnt food. I had a suspicion he slept here. He assured me he did not (I didn’t ask) because “no bitches would fuck me here.” I suppose he wasn’t wrong.

None of the equipment was ready to move. We broke down and packed up two large speakers, wires galore, two turntables, a crossfader/mixer, a home stereo sized dual CD player, crates of vinyl, CDs, more wires, and stuff. And yes, he owned a laptop. Three of them, laying on top of each other, underneath a half eaten hot pocket with a cigarette stubbed out in it, in the storage space.

Here is the best game; guess how much of this he ends up actually using other than the speakers. Now hold onto that guess, put it in your pocket. It’s one turntable, a handful of records, and his phone.

We made the six- or seven- hour trip in the van. Mark kept farting to prove to us that his farts really didn’t smell bad. He would get indignant when you told him to stop. Here is another fun game; guess if they did or not. I will tell you the answer after this sentence. Yes. Here is that same game on hard mode; guess how many scovilles.

There’s so much other stuff. Little Mark instances and stories. Thousands of the little nuggets of odorless Mark shit. Too many to include all of them. We lost him at a gas station because he walked across the street to another gas station to “check out the area.” He argued at every perceived opportunity, and poorly. He said the solution to gun violence was "little helmets with guns that detect when someone is pointing a gun at you" and “they probably already have them.” He had many, many opinions. Here is the last game: Guess how they tended to land politically. This is actually the most difficult of the games. If you guessed “alt-right internet forum memes,” congratulations, nobody wins. There are no winners in any of these games.

We arrived at the venue. It was a large event rental space with catering in the middle of a nothing but a frozen tundra of dead Iowa cornfields. Snow and freezing rain was falling, and the DJ equipment needed to be brought in.

Mark asked if he can borrow my coat.

In the middle of the two of us carrying a speaker, he said he needs to go talk to the manager of “about this one thing.”

“Um,” I said. Mark dropped his side of the speaker, jogged in and did not return.

Boss relayed the story to me later. In the interest of setting up the tone that Mark would proceed to lay waste to, you should know that our boss could sell you a ketchup popsicle. He is a seasoned performer, legit funny, and a trained experienced natural salesman. And Boss was in mode.

Mark followed our boss’ voice, found him, shook his hand and asked where the fuckin’ manager was at.

Boss, “Mark! This is Client McClientsname, he hired us. Client, Mark will be your DJ for the evening!”

Mark grabed Client's hand and shook it, shoving his wide open eye right in Client’s face, “Are you the manager?!”

Client said, “no” like he was just asked if he had fucked Mark’s wife.

“OK,” eyeball still close enough to count pores, “I need some help because I’ve only ever actually done this I think maybe one or two times on my own and...”

“Mark!” shouted my boss’ skeleton from behind a polite smile belying the hunger pains he felt in his gut that only revenge satiates. “I think the other guys need help bringing in the rest of your stuff?” Boss said it without breaking character in front of the client. Boss could sell you a pickle-flavored boat.

When Boss told me that story later, I laughed so hard I grew tits.

Mark asked us to introduce him “DJ Tushy Flex.”

“That sounds like you’re puckering your asshole, Mark.”

“What, that’s not what it is.”

“...what is it?”

“Dude it’s my fucking DJ name.”

We did the improv show. It was great. Fun was had by all. Mark stood behind us and his DJ equipment, arms crossed, unmoving, the entire show. He just stood there the whole time with a neutral expression and blinked.

The show ended and it was time for Mark to DJ. We introduced him as “Mark the DJ.”

Just to establish my credentials as one to stand in judgement of a DJ set, let me just say that I am a long time fan and hobbyist with an above average level of appreciation for the craft of DJing.* I want you to know this so you can understand how serious I’m being when I say, that DJ Check-Out-My-Glutes was, by far and by away, the absolute worst god-dang rootin’ tootin’ DJ I have ever heard in my whole entire life.

He refused to take requests. He would only play what I can only describe as rasta house. Corporate America, of course, long known for their affinity for obscure electronic dance music subgenres.

He would cross back and forth between completely incongruent songs that made no sense. Like when he rapidly switched back and forth between Kiss from a Rose by Seal and some fucking drum circle happening near a murder. Not in some cool mash up way either. In no universe did those tempos match. There was no rhythm to the switches either. Just back and forth between those two songs, playing with the crossfader like a hyperactive kid flipping a light switch.

In a heroic effort, boss took over the sound, plugged in his mobile pad and bought a subscription to a music streaming service and started playing requests. People started having fun.

Mark would somehow keep getting control back and switch in the middle of the song to a recording of some guy yelling over the sound a middle school marching band warming up.

Several hours of this went by and it was time to leave. Mark didn't help with the load out because he was smoking weed in the green room, which was really a large business meeting room with high ceiling to floor windows that faced the parking lot. When chastised, he angrily insisted that we’re the true idiots here because nobody told him he couldn't and “cigarettes smell worse.”

The freezing rain made the roads unsafe and we were exhausted, so we decided to stay overnight and drive back to Chicago in the morning. Mark held us up at the gas station so he could spend over 3/4 his night’s paycheck on a bottle of “real Iowa whiskey.” Back at the hotel I try some. If a politician running in the next primaries compliments Iowa on their historically good whiskey, I will know they are a liar.

Later on than we would have liked, we were in the hotel room hanging out with the TV on. Mark had the remote. He was seated directly in front of the TV, eyeball practically making a smear on the screen flipping through channels. It occurred to me that this might actually be how he went blind.

Mark landed on Women’s college basketball. His accompanying comment made between the landing and subsequent dismount from this channel was, and I quote: “Ha ha ha, women’s basketball. Show me your titties. Take her titty out and bite it. Whoa, that one’s actually hot.”

Myself and another cast member exchanged a knowing pained look at each other that we knew he would never see, then pretended to be distracted by our phones.

He flipped some more and eventually stopped on A League of Their Own.

"Oh sweet, A League of Their Own," he said.

A League of Their Own is a timeless and distinctly American romp featuring unforgettable characters and heart. I think there is a good argument to be made that it is the greatest baseball movie ever made** But I think Mark might have missed one of the central messages of A League of Their Own. It may even have been, in fact, the central message. I am also pretty sure that, at some point, Mark has voted. I can’t be certain of this because if he ever told me he voted I surely would have repressed that memory.

The next day, during the drive home, I was woken up from a nap by Mark. He was shouting about how unfair it was that he couldn’t say the N-word but the two other cast members in the van, who were both African American, could.

Of course he never once said “N-Word” or “the N-word.” I mean, of course. And though I haven’t said so explicitly, you guessed it. Yes, of course he is white.

“Why? Why, Mark. What, do you need permission ahead of time just in case? Like, if you find yourself in this situation where you really need to use it?” I attempted, among other things, despite what was clearly a brick wall.

“No, but what I’m saying is why not.”

“Because it’s a hurtful thing to say, and the people in this van are asking you politely to stop.”

Later, Mark asked me what I thought of his DJ set. This was long past me being fed up, so I told him the truth as delicately as one can tell someone that they were awful. Mark told me he had a gun, then threatened to kill me for “talking shit.” He was serious. I told him, I shit thee not, that he’d have to fucking aim at me first. That was not a nice thing to say, nor smart. But I did.

No, I am not afraid of him reading this.

It's too long.

We got back to the storage facility and put all the equipment back. Mark met a ride who was waiting for him there. We said "good" and by the time we got to "bye" our backs were turned.

By the end of the trip, Mark had gone from being an obnoxious but mostly harmless joke to being legitimately... not a good guy. Maybe even dangerous. He had no mental impairments or disabilities, as least no diagnosable ones I could see.*** He was never doing a bit to mess with us. I never detected in him a desire to be seen as funny, and I know my own.

I think that at some point somebody should have told him that how he’s behaving is not OK. Though I am not qualified to be the arbiter of who deserves to have painful criticism handed out to them, surely in this case somebody at some point should have been willing to hurt this guy’s feelings. Not to hurt this guy’s feelings, but being willing to have that a price Mark might have to pay for his and the world’s greater good, because he's a dick. And nobody ever did that for this guy.

He's racist, misogynist, self assured with no qualifications to be, ignorant, genuinely unintelligent, has a crushing confidence, and defaults to aggression at the any criticism. Does this remind you of anyone?

That is why when I turned around after hearing him slip on a patch of ice, I thought to myself, “Welp, there by the grace of God goes The President of The United States of America.”

It’s OK. Let it out. You deserve that sigh.

...fucking Mark.

*I love dance music. I have always loved dance music. When I was a kid I listened to Janet Jackson’s Rhythm Nation cassette on repeat. I had a poster of her in my room. When my dad went to music stores to look at guitars, I always wanted to play with the synthesizers. What is generally (and stupidly, because none of the bands sound the same) called “’90s electronica” is my favorite music of all time. I started making my own dance music in high school with a cheap little computer program. My freshman year of high school, I auditioned for battle of the bands with a full heavy as stone 1996 or ’97 desktop computer and giant CRT monitor and a synthesizer. I got in. I got more equipment. I started sneaking out to go to and play at raves in high school. I swear on my life, I did nothing stronger than pot, and even that was seldom. I just loved the music and the energy so much. Dance music used to be hippie culture, even though now it’s more club culture. I will be that guy and say dance music was better before it was popular, and please stop sarcastically calling me dad.

I have favorite DJ mixes, I’m constantly seeking out new ones. I make them in my head for fun. If I wasn’t poor and had DJ equipment and a laptop that could run the necessary software, I would be spending all my time playing around with it and making mixes for fun. Somewhere in Michigan in an attic there are tons of old mix tapes I made as a kid. I can even appreciate a DJ on the level of a wedding DJ. What song follows what? How did that energy match? What’s the crowd doing? You don’t need to beat match to be able to read a crowd and play a good song.

Once, in line for one of those underground parties, I saw two guys speaking to each other in sign language. I inquired, for it was a music event. I was a bit of an asshole that way. He told me that his friend was deaf, and because of the bass and volume this was the only way he could experience music. That is how much I like dance music.

**Yes I am including every movie you just thought of. A League of Their Own is the only one where they are fighting for just being able to play which is just an extension of them fighting for their very meaning as the devastation of the largest war ever waged plays as a backdrop to what is already a very stressful situation. Highest emotional stakes. Also most quotable. Funniest by far. These are but a few among variety of reasons I say A League of Their Own is the greatest baseball movie ever made.

***If it matters, I have worked with people with special needs of all ages through several different jobs.

#True Story #Peter Kremidas #Road Trip #Stupid #thinly veiled metaphor

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literateape · 6 years