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writing-in-april · 3 years

Text

The 5 Stages of Grief

Stage three: Bargaining (3/5)

Spencer Reid x Gender Neutral Reader (Spencer’s POV)

Summary: Spencer going through each of the stages of grief after the death of the reader. Stage three is bargaining.

A/N: Here’s chapter 3 everyone! I think this might be the chapter I’m most proud of in terms of writing. Idk I just really like how this chapter came together even though it’s obviously extremely sad. It also kinda got away from me in terms of length lmao 😂 this chapter puts the overall word count for the series at 5k which is the most I’ve ever written before 🥳 I wonder- does anyone have any guesses as to where the story is going next? If you’ve got any ideas drop them in the comments or my inbox- I’m curious! Also- I’ve got a special surprise coming!!Requests are open!

Warnings ⚠️ (warnings for the whole series are on the series Masterlist): Death, Funeral, Craving drugs, Using drugs, Suicide references, Suicidal thoughts, Religion references, Obsessive thoughts, Spencer’s all over the place, Spencer gets mad collectively at the team again, Spencer contradicts himself a few times, Unreliable narrator

Main Masterlist | 5 Stages of Grief Masterlist

Word count: 2.1k

Earth often symbolized stability; I had never felt more unstable then I did now, when I was without the person that grounded me. I wished the earth would just swallow me whole as the water and fire had done. I wish I was buried underneath all the dirt, right beside them and with a headstone to match.

A constant loop of the same thoughts kept running through my head that all had one goal in mind. A small logical part of my brain spoke to me telling me that obsessing over different variations of, “If only” weren’t healthy for me. But, I couldn’t stop thinking of every possible outcome of that night, how it might have gone different or how I could have done differently. The questions that had once filled my head were now filled with absolutes. Absolutes that caused me to sink further into my mind. I wish the absolutes would have buried me alive. At least then I’d be laid beside them and I would no longer have to cry.

I’d rather the earth crush me than accept that they’re gone.

If only I had run faster.

If only I had drawn my gun faster.

If only I had taken the hit.

If only they were here.

If only.

When the non-denominational preacher spoke as their casket was lowered back into the earth I blocked out his words of what some would perceive as wisdom. The wisdom was hollow, it was all a folly. I had never understood how people could just accept the grief that was dealt to them. Why should I have to accept the horrible fact of what had befallen the person closest to my heart?

Death was a fact of life, I knew. But, my heart still couldn’t bear to accept that fact. I couldn’t be objective anymore, my grief had crushed any accepted meaning to anyone or anything.

“Do you need anything Spence?” JJ’s words broke me out of my swirling thoughts for a moment as I walked into the foyer of the apartment I could barely bear to step foot in. I focused enough that her words just made me laugh bitterly internally. What do I need? What I needed she couldn’t give me. No one could give me what I wanted, unless I started to buy in and believe in what the priest had been preaching.

“What I need you can’t give me.” I gazed around the small living room, lingering on the green walls of my apartment that had once been a happy spot for me. I remembered the joy I had with them the day we had decided to freshen up the walls with a new color of paint. I should paint them black now, to match my clothes and the gaping hole that sat within my chest.

“Maybe I could try?” JJ was smart, but her naivety was astounding to me at times. The fact that she could not read the meaning behind my words made me question if she knew anything about me at all. She claimed to me my best friend, but the real person who held that spot was now buried in a cemetery.

“Can you bring them back JJ?” Silence was the only response I got to my words.

I wonder if JJ suspected what I wanted to do when she shut the door, the door to an apartment I used to share with someone. I didn't want to turn to it, but I couldn’t find a less extreme option for me. The only other option was to resort to the drug that had ruled my life before I had met them. Addiction used to ensnare me in its vice like grip, which was the time in my life when I had first met them. They had freed me from its wicked vines that had trapped me for so long, they were the only one to listen to my cries for help then. So, who would listen now?

Would JJ be the one to hear my silent cries?

Or would I be abandoned like I had been before?

If she knew what I was about to do would she have let me? Or would she not even bother to help? She was already planning on leaving me tonight to be all alone, just like everyone else always did. So, why would she care if I indulged in the vials that sat in my pocket?

When she did leave for the night, the emptiness of our apartment- my apartment was apparent. What had once been filled with happiness was now soiled with the overwhelming presence of grief. I wished the team would stop giving me food and platitudes about life after death. I wished they cared enough to truly help me instead of giving me their blasé condolences with casseroles. I wished they had done so many things differently that day. I wished they did something different now. Where were they now? Why couldn’t we deal with our grief together? They lost a co-worker, but I lost a partner. They were selfish when they left me time and time again, first the dilaudid, then many other grievances, and now this. Why did they always leave me so alone? Why couldn’t they stay to help ground me? Why did I have to be alone? Why did everyone always leave me?

Why did they have to leave me?

I need to again stop asking questions that I know I’ll never have the answer to, I know now that the world only deals in absolutes.

If only the team had connected the dots faster.

If only they had gotten there faster.

If only they had drawn their guns faster.

If only someone else had taken the hit.

If only they were here.

If only.

I sat at the small kitchen table that used to be occupied by a pair of chairs, but after I had broken the chair that they used to use, there was only one. It had reminded me too much of the sight of their empty chair at the round table, except the one at the BAU I knew would one day have another occupant. The chair that used to sit across from me during the rare meals we had at home and not on a case would never be occupied by another. There was no way I could ever move on from them, the grief was too much and I had no doubt that their death would forever leave a hole in my chest, never to be filled again. I was broken without them and even more so than their old chair, I was fractured without them, I wasn’t me without them. I knew I’d never be the same again. I would never be happy again.

The gaping hole in my chest that begged to be filled by a presence no longer there made me ache for any sort of relief. The glass vials in my pocket clinked together loudly as if they were mocking me and telling me that there was no escape from their addictive presence. I wished someone had been there to stop me from ever paying my old dealer who had greeted me like an old friend. The sight of him sickened me, I knew I was desecrating their memory by giving into the addiction that they had pulled me away from. But, my shaking fingers couldn’t resist paying the man that held the glass vials that held the clear liquid I desperately wanted injected in my veins. It felt like I had made a deal with death when I had handed the man the money. It allowed me reprieve from the ever reaching depths of death’s power over my life, but death was an inescapable fact. No one can win when a deal with death is struck because death would always be an old friend to us all. But, I didn’t mind, if death took me it would at least let me be with them again.

I couldn’t ground myself without them, they had helped tether me to the earth rather than letting myself float away into the abyss. They were the whole reason I stopped in the first place. The ground had been pulled out from under me when I just wished it would bury me alongside them. This feeling of falling with no reprieve, with no ground to stabilize me made me want to cling to my past coping mechanisms. I wish death would just take me.

I had lost my rock and that dilaudid I had picked up before the funeral felt like pebbles in my pocket that could possibly save me. They’d never compare to the feeling of having the ground underfoot, keeping me rooted in all life had to offer.

My rock was gone and the dilaudid was the biggest pebble I had to keep me clinging to what once was.

If only there was some less extreme option.

If only something had been different.

If only I had done something different.

If only they were here.

If only.

I was slipping away, I needed something to ground me, to hold me down. I only had the pebbles in my pocket now. I was trapped in my mind and trapped in my grief, the one thing I needed to save me was impossible to reach.

My mind was racing with possibilities in an attempt to distract myself from the clinking of the glass vials in my pocket. I was trying to ignore the memories of that blissfully weightless feeling I got when I used to stick the hypodermic needle in my arm to flood my veins with what could only be described as euphoria. I needed someone to save me. I needed them, I needed my rock. Who or what could bring that weight back? Who or what could bring the person back who gave my life its meaning? Who or what could I plead to? And who would bother to hear the pleas of a broken man on his knees?

“I won’t relapse if you bring them back.” I fell down on my knees as I pleaded out loud to whoever may care. The tears that spilled down my cheeks barely registered in my mind, they seemed like a constant in my life now, always there to drip down and stain every part of my life. I would never escape this grief. The grief left me feeling heavy and weightless at the same time, heavy with regret and weightless because I had no purpose now. Death was cruel to take away the only thing I had to weigh me down. My last possible reprieve before resorting to something I promised to never touch again was to plead.

I used one last plea, one last plea until I picked the pebbles out of my pocket. One last plea to something I didn’t even fully believe existed. One last plea in hopes of bringing my rock back to bring me back down to earth. One last plea that was perhaps was in vain, but I was still trying to cling to the ground that had been pulled out from under me. Maybe the entity some knew as God would answer my plea, even though we had only spoken a handful of times. I wasn’t even confident that God was real. There were so many other possibilities.

I’d just instead use my plea to beg any entity that may be out there. Whatever the origin and whatever the cost, I did not care. The only thing I cared about is if my rock was there.

If my plea was not answered by the someone or something I was praying to, the ground that had been pulled out from under me would never return. If my plea was not answered and my rock did not return to weigh my feet back down to keep me from floating in the air, I wouldn’t be sure what my options were anymore.

Without my rock, I’d float with only a meager few pebbles to try and bring me back down. If my rock did not return maybe after trying a few of the pebbles maybe I’d just let myself get swallowed by a different type of earth, soil. Soil that would cover me so I would at least be able to be laid down beside the person I had once thought would one day be my spouse.

But, the door never opened.

And, the earth did not swallow me to allow me to join them.

Though, I sincerely wished it had.

Maybe, I’d still resort to that.

Maybe, death would cash in it’s side of the deal.

If only my plea had worked.

I’d be with my rock again.

I guess I would settle with my pebbles.

—-

Tag list (message me if you want to be added):

All works:

@shotarosleftpinky @oreogutz

Spencer Reid/CM:

@calm-and-doctor @destiny-tsukino @safertokiss

5 stages of grief:

@joonie-centric @tatesimper @half-blood-dork @mcntsee @illuxions-x @rainsong01 @nomajdetective @loveheathens @day-n-night-dreamer @reidbuck

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid angst #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds #criminal minds angst #spencer reid series #spencer reid fanfic #5 stages of grief series #5 stages of grief #matthew gray gubler #matthew gray gubler x reader

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bornintartarus · 4 years

Text

Posted for the annual Jason Todd Birthday Week! Also on AO3

Jason's feet are numb as he walks the lonely streets of Gotham. They are barely protected against the ice and snow he treads upon, covered in the remnants of shoes that had been brand new five years ago. He wiggles his toes to bring back some warmth as he walks, hands tightened in his tattered jacket pockets. One of his hands is clenching the leather wallet he picked off a businessman chattering on his phone, the other a bracelet he stole from a woman when she helped him up after falling to his knees in the snow.

A stab of guilt worms its way into his young heart and he squashes it down resolutely. His mom needs this money, he needs this money. It's the only way they'll survive past this stupid winter.

Winter in Gotham City is much like everything else he's experienced in his life this far, brutally unforgiving and a death trap on the streets if you weren't careful. It makes him shiver in his sleep, the wind's screaming jolting him awake in the middle of the night. He loves his city, it's the only home he's ever known, but that doesn't stop him from being tired.

The stealing is rough, but it hurts less than coming back to his mom without anything to feed her. It doesn't help that she's getting weaker by the day, barely accepting anything to eat anymore. Jason fondly remembers the days before his life became a living nightmare, before his dad left and they were living out in the cold.

His mom was filled with life back then, her cheeks pink and eyes glowing. She was healthy, not starved and always exhausted. He had sobbed at first when he realized what the drugs were doing to her, depriving him of a mother who was actually capable of taking care of him. There is no sparkle in her eyes now, all traces of mischief and adventure gone.

Jason realizes that he doesn't really know his mom anymore.

Wind whips at his cheeks, pushing hair in front of his eyes. He brushes it aside with trembling fingers and readjusts his hood to cover more of his face, gasping when the wind steals its way through the cracks and engulfs his ears in the freezing cold air.

Better hats, better socks, better gloves- there's a list of clothes he needs to survive this season, all with expensive price tags. It's either being cold or going hungry, and even at eight years old Jason's smart enough to know which one will get him killed first.

He has an actual list too, one back in that ramshackle shelter he and his mom call their home. He used to carry it with him, but just looking at the store windows made him want to tear it to pieces with desperation. They need food that isn't stale, water that's hot, clothes that actually fit. He doesn't know how much longer he can go on like this.

They've only been out on the streets for two years now, and a part of him swears he's never been this cold. He spent the last couple of days nailing scraps of wood and plastic garbage to block up the cracks at their little shelter, trying to root out where the cold air forces its way in. He spends the rest of his time out on the streets, scrounging for anything that can substitute for blankets and stealing things here and there from people to buy food from the dingy convenience store around the corner.

He takes the time to check on his mom, usually just to reassure himself that she's still breathing.

"Hi mom."

His throat closes up and not for the first time he wishes he was less of a crier.

"I have to run out to get some things."

No response.

Jason sniffles and holds back tears. He can do this, it's been two years, but seeing his mom like this never fails to cripple him.

He clears his throat. "I'll be back soon."

He doesn't expect a reply as he whispers a quick "Love you" and bolts away.

So that's what he's doing now, out in the cold. As he passes the Gilzean's Turf he keeps his head as low as possible, making himself smaller as he inches away. He's perfected the art of being invisible over the years, the only way to get away with trespassing on another gang's land. He knows that the gang members in Gotham have no qualms about killing children, hell, half of them make a living by selling drugs to kids in public schools. The thought makes his blood boil with anger.

He skirts around one of the drug dealers, hands inadvertently clenching around his stolen items. If he's caught with the wallet and the bracelet he'll be a prime target for life.

He breathes a sigh of relief when he finally passes safely, but something bright stops him in his tracks.

The store window is closing for the day, but the lights are still on and the cakes are on display. He hasn't seen anything this beautiful in the two years he's lived on the streets. The cakes come in all shapes, colors and sizes, but the one that catches his eye is fire engine red, yellow and orange icing swirling on top to imitate flames. The whole thing has a ridiculous toy fire truck on the top, and at that moment all Jason desperately wants to know is if it's edible or not.

He's stomach is growling with hunger while his mouth waters in vain. His fingers twitch at his sides restlessly. He doesn't know how long he stands there, cold, tired, hungry.

It's his birthday.

He's turning nine, he knows he's turning nine. It's his second birthday on the streets and he misses everything he's lost.

He misses his full stomach, his friends at school, his warm bed. He misses his books and toys, and the way his mom used to laugh when they spent time together.

He misses it all, and none of it is coming back. The feeling hurts more than anything he's ever felt, and he wonders if the hollow feeling in his chest will subside over time.

Suddenly, someone in the store shuts off the lights and the cake vanishes from view, a pang of misery resonating within him. It's gone, and some lucky kid will probably eat it tomorrow.

He stuffs his shivering hands back into his pockets, hands immediately finding the wallet. At least they'll have food tonight.

He makes his way back home after stopping at the convenience store, purchasing two cans of microwavable soup and a bottle of water with a $20 bill. The cashier looks suspicious as he hands over the change, and unease ripples through his empty stomach until he leaves.

He wastes no more time getting back, drinking the cold soup straight from the can. It's the cheapest he could find, greasy and too salty, and the chilly liquid does nothing to prevent the chills racking his skinny frame. Pouring the other into a chipped ceramic Tupperware container, he makes his way to his mom.

"Mom?"

She's awake this time, eyes glassy. Catherine Todd is right in front of him, but all Jason wants to do is cry about how far away she is.

"I brought you soup. You need to eat some this time, alright?"

She turns her head to face him briefly but doesn't respond. He sits next to her and tries to stop his hands from shaking as he feeds her small spoonfuls of soup.

She gets through half of it before she's pushing him away. He leaves the bottle of water next to her, knowing with a heavy heart that he'll find it unopened in the morning.

He pecks her on the cheek and pulls their best blanket over her, pausing to say goodnight before he leaves.

He knows that it'd be warmer if they slept together, but he knows he can't handle seeing her so frail for longer than an hour, and his crying upsets her.

He pulls out his raggedy piece of carpet to cover himself with to bed. He found it a couple of weeks ago in a garbage can, it's the warmest thing he possesses.

He makes a wish, hoping that his mom will live long enough to be there for his tenth birthday.

He dreams of red fire trucks.

___________________________________

ii.

It doesn't take long for time to pass; the days blur into weeks and weeks into months. The cold fades away and suddenly Gotham is warm again, bathed in summer light. The trees grow new leaves, the birds come back, and in no time at all the world moves on.

Wayne Manor hasn't changed in the slightest. The famous Robin costume hangs in the cave, Batman's proudly standing next to it. The manor is spotless as always, the endless hallways and rooms free of dust. The banisters are polished, the fireplaces cleaned of any ash.

Bruce's life simultaneously feels normal and completely out of order at the same time.

He still gets dressed in the morning, still eats breakfast and leaves for Wayne Enterprises. He still deals with boring meetings and pesky co-workers who won't stop staring at him.

It's difficult to get out of bed nowadays.

That, at least, is new. The wretched feeling of hopelessness weighing him down like an anvil. It makes his head hurt and his hands shake. His chest is left feeling tight and it’s always hard to breathe.

No matter how hard he tries to hide it, he knows almost everyone can see the change in him now, and a part of him hates himself for being weak while another part can't muster up the energy to give a damn. Lucius gives him pitying looks whenever he drifts off during a conversation. The league members are more gentle with him now, speaking in low tones without the biting remarks from before. Alfred tries his best to hide his concern when Bruce wakes himself up in the middle of the night screaming his son's name.

Everyone treats him like glass now, fragile, delicate, and liable of shattering. It doesn't help that it's exactly how Bruce feels, like one wrong word could break him for good. The only time he can remember hurting this bad was when he was eight years old and kneeling in front of his parent's bodies in that god forsaken alley.

He lets out a whimper of despair when he remembers finding a 10 year old Jason in that very alley, wrench in hand and grime on his face. He shoves his head into his hands to try and bury the memory, pulling at his hair.

The boy had looked so guilty, crouching in front of the Batmobile. He reminded Bruce of a scared cat, frightened to come forward but fierce in a fight.

He brought the kid a burger.

It had seemed logical at the time, Jason was obviously starving and he figured it was a smart way to get the boy to trust him.

That memory used to make him feel proud, now all he feels is nausea churning through his stomach.

If Jason never met him in the first place he'd still be alive. Maybe hungry and out of school but still breathing.

Adopting Jason had been different from adopting Dick. Dick was cautious as a child, still grieving over his parent's gruesome deaths. When Bruce looked into the acrobat's eyes he saw himself, someone desperately alone who needed love and support. When Jason was brought into his life it was sudden but welcome, and it made Bruce feel a little less lonely in the Manor since his first child spent most of his time in the Titans Tower.

Loving Dick felt like a responsibility, in a way. The boy deserved the attention Bruce had been deprived of after Martha and Thomas Wayne were murdered. It made him proud to witness Dick's journey through teenage years, standing by his side in some of Gotham's darkest moments. He's fought Penguin and Scarecrow and Riddler, and he gets better every time.

The arguing was new, but Bruce knows it's normal. He just wishes it didn't rile him as much as it does. Their fighting is loud, angry and sharp. Words are tossed around, ones that hurt, and they make Alfred sigh sadly. He can't help but feel annoyed at Dick acting out, but he knows that Dick hates it more when he gets left out.

It doesn't take long for Dick to realize he needs some space, and Bruce doesn't stop him when he leaves to train with the Titans.

But in that amount of time Jason Todd has wormed his way into his heart, slowly but surely. He manages to fill the gaping hole in Bruce's heart, and he comes to love the boy more than anything. While his love for Dick is as natural as breathing, instinctual at this point, his love for Jason is all-consuming, and it burns inside of him like a roaring flame.

Dick was never happy about Jason's presence in their lives, and he'd told Bruce once that it made him feel replaced and unwanted. It was hard work, but eventually the four of them had learned to make it work, coexisting with some semblance of normalcy. Nothing made Bruce happier than seeing his sons get along, and it made his heart swell with pride.

Life was good. Dick came by the manor more often and they fought less, Jason was settling in nicely, Alfred was overjoyed. Their small family wasn't normal, but Bruce gave up tradition when he put on the cowl for the first time.

Bruce wants that life back so badly. His heart aches and his head burns with memories. Dick is grieving as well, in his own way. It hurts to see Dick at his worst, awakens something primal in him that screams and shouts, demanding his attention. Dick runs himself ragged, stubbornly contributing to the Titans Team and Gotham at the same time. When Bruce voices his concerns, Dick shouts at him, cries out that he’s doing the best he can.

It makes Bruce feel even more like a failure.

In the end he holds Dick while he weeps and tries to pull himself together, because Dick’s grief is his fault, Jason’s death is his fault.

Today is as bad as any day, his legs feel like dead weights and his brain is mush. He knows how to get past this, he’s been battling this feeling for almost a year now. He swings his legs to the side of the bed and pulls himself upright.

He picks up the phone lying on the bedside table next to him and starts scrolling through his notifications. He reads through the schedule Lucius has made for him for the day, making mental notes as he goes along. He makes adjustments when needed, planning on the meetings he’ll attend. He swears internally when he realizes he’s overbooked for 5:00. He wastes no time switching to his calendar, searching for a free spot when he freezes.

The date is there, staring him in the face like a warning sign. He gazes at the letters almost hypnotically until they’re etched into his brain.

August 16.

He barely gets the chance to register the fact that his legs are moving until he’s crouching on the bathroom tiles, throwing up his dinner from the night before. Sweat beads his forehead as heaves, unable to focus on anything except the fact that it's August 16.

When it finally ends he pulls his legs forward and haunches himself up into a ball on the floor, head tucked inwards. Tears escape and he sobs, grief tearing his heart in two.

17. His little boy would have turned 17 years old.

The realization makes panic seize his chest until he’s gasping for air, fingers trembling as they scramble for purchase. There are hands on his shoulders, warm steady ones pulling him out of his head.

“Bruce, it’s gonna be alright.”

The words float towards him like distant echoes.

“I need you to breathe for me B, c’mon.”

He’s had panic attacks before but in his experience there’s no way to be fully prepared for one. His throat feels like it’s closing up, palms sweaty. His eyes bounce back and forth manically, finally settling on his eldest son.

“That’s good. Focus on me now.”

He tries his best, and eventually his breathing slows. Dick eases himself onto the floor gracefully, covering Bruce’s trembling hands with his own.

“Talk to me Bruce.”

After months spent alone, struggling to get through the days and dealing with his grief alone it’s all that’s needed to break the dam.

“He would have turned 17 today.”

The words are barely a whisper, but he can’t stop the tears that roll down his face from the confession. Dick squeezes his hand and gives him a silent nod of encouragement.

“If I hadn’t gotten him involved with being Robin in the first place he’d still be alive today.”

Dick shakes his head firmly.

“This is my fault, Dick, I-”

“Remember when he put on the suit for the first time?”

His brain scrambles as he's taken back to that day. Like he’d ever be able to forget. Jason was so excited he’d been worried about him falling off one of the buildings while he ran and leaped, doing somersaults in midair.

“He put it on and preened in front of a mirror, then jumped onto a table and screamed about it being the best day of his life, remember?"

Dick laughs softly and Bruce can't help but return the favour with a watery chuckle.

They sit for a few more moments, collecting their thoughts. Dick turns to face him.

"Here's what we're going to do B. You're gonna change, I'm going to help Alfred with breakfast and call Lucius to tell him you're taking the day off."

Bruce groans. "No, Dick, I've got the product launch meeting to supervise, the company's been working on it for months-"

His eldest gives him a hand to help him off the floor and glares at him. "You're taking the day off. Don't make me bring Alfred into this."

He finally relents, heading back to his bedroom to find some clothes. Dick retreats to the kitchen, grinning victoriously.

He abandons the suit he was preparing to wear to work and picks out the softest sweatshirt he owns instead. His phone rings unexpectedly and he grabs it, expecting it to be Lucius.

"Bruce?"

Clark's soft voice rings through the phone and Bruce's breath catches. He hastily presses it to his ear.

"What's wrong? Is it Metropolis or the Justice league?"

He's already running the scenarios through his head, calculating the amount of time it'll take to grab his batsuit and get there.

The voice on the other end halts, Clark clearing his throat. His unease grows.

"No, Bruce." The kryptonian sounds surprisingly gentle. "This is about Jason."

Ah.

Bruce takes a minute to wipe the tears stubbornly forming at the corner of his eyes again. Clark uses that silence to continue.

"Look, I know what today feels like for you and your family. I've been there."

The emotion in his voice instantly lets Bruce know that his friend is talking about Jonathan Kent. Clark's father had passed away two years ago from a heart attack. The memory is still fresh in his mind, Clark barely holding himself together as he spoke at the funeral, clutching his mother's hand.

He swallows. "It's just hard-" his voice cracks with emotion and he starts over. "Hard to move on. A part of me feels like I'm just leaving him behind if I forget the moments we spent together."

He doesn't feel like locking his emotions away this time, he's been doing it for the last couple of months and it's definitely making him worse. The reasoning makes him feel significantly better about his breakdown.

"How are Dick and Alfred holding up?"

"Better then I am, but at this point I have no idea. A part of me is afraid that Dick's distracting himself from his grief by taking care of me instead. He's spreading himself too thin with Gotham and the Teen Titans and-"

Clark stops him before he starts spilling his soul into the phone. "Alright, so work through this together. It's pretty obvious that you both need each other right now."

"I know he needs me but I don't know how-"

He can hear Clark's smile through the phone. "Bruce, c'mon, you're overthinking this. Just be there for him, trust me."

Bruce swallows audibly. "Alright."

"I'm here too, if you need me. For anything."

And shit if that doesn't make him want to start crying again. He manages to whisper his thanks and accepts Clark's casual "Anytime."

He hangs up, and heads downstairs, eating breakfast with Dick and Alfred. The rest of the day passes without incident, Dick calls Lucius and they spend his day-off relaxing in the manor and taking strolls around the grounds. Overall the day is one of the best he's had in a long time.

That doesn't stop him from going to visit Jason's grave in the middle of the night, shakily opening up his copy of Oliver Twist and reading it out loud until his tears start to blur the words.

___________________________________

iii.

He spits out curses as he walks down the street, breathing laboured under his signature red hood. His ribs are bruised and he can't seem to muster up enough energy to hide his brand new limp.

Black Mask's men had attempted to take over some of his turf once again. Usually Jason didn't mind, it was pretty low on his list of concerns. He let them have it for a couple of days before moving in, killing most of the idiots on sight. He figured Black Mask would get some better men by now but it seemed he was as much an idiot as they were.

The problem with this particular spot was that it was home to an apartment he'd brought earlier and rented out to a couple of street kids. They were all minors, some of them living on their own while others lived with roommates. If Jason was loyal to anyone it was those kids and he wasted no time going in with guns blazing.

Not exactly the nicest way to start off his 23rd birthday but hey no one could say it hadn't started off with a bang.

At least all the kids were safe. Most of Sionis's men were dead, but that was normal at this point. One of the kids stopped him as he left, concern painting his features.

"You look like shit man, stay here."

At least the kid had spunk; not all of them were brave enough to approach him. He looked about 15, barely fitting into clothes that were dirty and about two sizes too large. Jason searches his memory for a name, comes up blank. He might have been one of the kids who tagged along when he'd picked up someone else.

His musing is interrupted as the kid steps in front of him.

"I'm serious, you look like you're about to keel over."

Jason ignores the lightheaded feeling as his surroundings spin lazily around him. He clears his throat.

"I'm good. Make sure you lock the windows and doors tonight, call me if anything happens."

The kid nods, looking unconvinced. Jason pushes forward.

All he wants to do is spend the night snoozing in one of his safe houses, but the thought of sleeping in one of his cots makes him groan with discomfort. The possessions he keeps in his safe houses are always meager, he doesn't want to lose his supplies over something as stupid as being caught.

He prepares to walk home and scowls when he realizes he's going to need to stop somewhere for food, his stomach is growling. He makes a right on the next street and propels himself to the nearest grocery store, grateful that it's a dingy place with hardly any customers.

He ducks into the alley next to it and ditches his helmet, breathing in the fresh air as it comes off. He swaps it for a baseball cap and covers up his suit with a light jacket. He zips it up as he makes his way into the store, head down and steps purposeful.

He browses the shelves and picks out some water bottles and stops at the freezers to grab microwave lasagna. He grins at the thought of Alfred shuddering at his meal choices, he could practically hear the man complaining about the unhealthy ingredients used.

On his way to check out he finds a table cheerfully advertising cupcakes that are 50% off. They look like they're on the verge of expiring but it's been a while since he's had something sweet. He shrugs and picks up a pack that isn't too crushed.

He dumps his items on the conveyer belt and roots through his pocket for money, groaning internally when the price totals to $27.88. Money isn't hard to find nowadays, what with all of the connections he's gathered over the years, but a small part of him is still a starving nine year old desperate to feed himself with the little he has.

He wonders dimly if that part of him will ever fade.

He's startled out of his thoughts for the second time that night but the woman behind the cashier. He knows he needs to bandage his wounds and sleep it off, but he can't do that unless he focuses and gets his ass back to the safe house.

The woman's name tag indicates that her name is René and she peers at him worriedly from behind her glasses.

He flashes her a tired smile. "Sorry, I'm a little distracted tonight." He hands over the cash and she busies herself with the register, printing out his receipt. While the machine spits out the paper she turns to face him again.

"Are you alright? You look like you were hit by a car."

Even when Jason was a street kid, he loved to watch people. It was a great way to practice his thieving skills, finding out who would be an easy target long before slipping his hands in their pockets. One thing all citizens in Gotham had in common was their bluntness when it came to the crazy crime sprees and sudden robberies. Barely anyone batted an eye when there was a home invasion, and unless the body count was above five it wasn't even featured in the local newspapers.

To outsiders the cold disinterest might've been considered cruel, but it didn't take Jason long to figure out that it was the way that people coped. Keeping yourself numb kept the pain at bay, and he could probably relate to that fact more than anyone.

So René's reaction to an injured young man showing up at her store instead of a hospital wasn't surprising, but at least he could deal with this.

"I'm fine. Just ran into some people, you know how it goes."

She nods as she bags his items, pausing with the cupcakes.

"You sure you want these? I know it's technically my store but you seriously don't want to know how long they've been on these shelves."

He can't stop the sudden bark of laughter at her words and tries to stop himself from doubling over and crying out. He's starting to reconsider his original evaluation of the state of his ribs.

In the end all he manages is turning away and wheezing, trying to quell the coughs that makes his insides feel like they're on fire.

René stares at him with unease, looking like she wants to simultaneously pat him on the shoulder and take a couple steps back at the same time.

She settles for grabbing him a bottle of cold water from the fridge behind her, unscrewing the cap and pushing it into his shaking hands. She glares at him until he relents and takes a gulp, the cool liquid soothing his dry throat. He keeps his eyes on her as he finishes it.

"Thanks."

"If you start coughing up blood like the dude in the horror movie I saw last night I'm kicking you out. I'm not staying overtime, I got a girlfriend to binge Stranger Things with," she warns, not unkindly.

"Wouldn't dream of it." He gives her a smirk, or tries to. He'd like to think he pulled it off. "And yeah, I'll take the cupcake. I am the birthday boy after all."

She raises an eyebrow. "No kidding? I'm guessing the blood and twisted ankle is from a surprise party gone wrong?"

He doesn't grin this time, eyes focused on the bags containing his items.

He keeps his tone carefully uninterested. "Nope. Decided to celebrate the occasion on my own this year."

He doesn't miss her sigh. Once you move to Gotham you see some things on a daily basis that make you stop questioning the why behind the crimes. It's just a fact of life at this point, trees are green, pizza is good and Gotham is where bloodthirsty maniacs call home sweet home. She's probably seen thousands of tired, ragged kids on their own stumbling into her store just like he's done tonight.

The thought stirs up the familiar rage he's been carrying with him since he was little. The sick feeling that haunts him as he sleeps, the knowledge that the children in his city are raped, beaten, kidnapped and killed almost regularly.

He grabs his purchases and avoids René's gaze, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other. He knows he's practically running out of the store but can't seem to give a damn.

He's already outside when he hears it, the shout muted through the glass doors.

"Happy birthday!"

It's enough to stop him in his tracks as he contemplates going back. She was nice to him, there's no reason to leave things awkward.

He settles for sticking his head back in the door and yelling out a "Thanks!" before bolting.

He heads back home, head throbbing in tune with his heart. He shrugs off the dizziness as he walks, pausing to catch his breath as he leans against the wall of a building. He inhales the sharp smell of cigarettes and gasoline, a combination he's been familiar with for longer than he can remember.

Cars speed past him, the bright lights almost dizzying as they flash across his vision. He rubs his hands against his eyes to get rid of the bright spots, trying to quell his rising nausea.

Miraculously he makes it back in one piece, and it takes all of his willpower not to collapse on his cot and pass out. He heads to the small shower and runs the water until it's hot, shedding his jacket and dirty armour. He climbs in and sighs out loud at the blissful feeling. He shampoos his dark hair, fingers dragging through his scalp as he works in the soap until it starts to foam.

He rinses it all off, wincing slightly when the hot spray of water hits the worst of his bruising. He grabs a towel and grabs some clean clothes, settling into a comfortable tee and a pair of sweatpants. He dries his hair methodically, swiping the first aid kit from his bathroom cabinet, an ice pack from the fridge and his plastic bag of items from the store.

He settles on the cot and cleans out his wounds with antiseptic. One of the cuts is deep enough for stitches, and he clenches the muscles in his jaw as he passes the needle through his skin. It's a task he's done countless times before, usually without anesthetic. He finishes the job neatly, snipping the thread and dabbing it with antiseptic before wrapping up the whole thing in gauze bandages.

He works on the bruising on his torso next, which is covered with black and blue. He rubs salve over the worst of them and bandages the rest.

His leg is last, his ankle throbbing from the walk home. He focuses on the part that's swollen and red, grimacing as he alternates between pressing the ice pack to his ankle and the bump on his head. He's fairly certain it's not bad enough to be a concussion but it's giving him a headache. He makes sure to keep his ankle elevated and rifles through his purchases, pushing the conversation with René out of his mind.

He's starving, hasn't had anything to eat all day. He's too exhausted to muster up the energy to get back up to heat his frozen dinner, so he leaves the lasagna for now and grabs the cupcake instead.

It's minuscule, barely the size of his palm and covered in bright yellow icing. Little blue sprinkles are scattered on top. He unwraps the white wrapper and takes a cautious bite.

It doesn't take long for him to register the taste and he spits it out, wiping his mouth on his sleeves. The cupcake is definitely stale, rock hard and inedible. Imagining Alfred's disapproving face makes him grin.

He decides that at least alcohol is worth getting up for and heaves himself off the cot. He's careful with his ankle, maneuvering his body to ensure that most of his weight is on his good leg.

He scoops up the frozen lasagna from the floor and heads to what substitutes for his kitchen, containing just a tiny fridge and a microwave. He puts his meal in a microwave safe dish and watches it as it cooks, grabbing a spoon and a can of beer while he waits.

The friendly beep signals that it's done, and he curses when the plate burns his fingers slightly as he walks back to his cot. He studies the books kept carefully organised on his shelf, picking one at random.

Finally he settles, sighing in relief when his twisted ankle is cushioned and iced once more. He pops the lid and takes a satisfying swallow, putting it aside to eat the lasagna.

Happy birthday to me! He thinks sarcastically. The lasagna is warm but doesn't even come close to some of the after-school snacks Alfred had made him when he was 13.

He digs through his food, pausing momentarily to flip through the book. His heart hardens when he realizes that it's a battered copy of Gone With the Wind. Memories flit through his head, Bruce reading it to make him fall asleep and Dick taking him to a library to renew his borrowed copy for the billionth time.

He figures that it's poetic enough for the occasion and opens it up to page one.

“Scarlett O’Hara was not beautiful, but men seldom realized it when caught by her charm as the Tarleton twins were. In her face were too sharply blended the delicate features of her mother, a Coast aristocrat of French descent, and the heavy ones of her florid Irish father. But it was an arresting face, pointed of chin, square of jaw. …eyes… brows… lashes… magnolia-white skin…so prized by Southern women… bonnets, veils, mittens… against hot Georgia suns.”

He smiles at the familiar words, nostalgia overtaking him as he reads.

___________________________________

iv.

Steph and Cass were the first to bring it up, crashing into his current safe house like they owned the place.

He will grudgingly admit that it isn't entirely unwelcome, spending time with his sisters makes him feel less like a bastard.

That didn't mean the topic was a good one, and Jason is willing to ditch his very nice safe house in an attempt to escape.

"Please, Jason? For us?"

Steph is practically begging at this point and Cass is looking more and more like a kicked puppy every minute.

"No. Not a chance in hell."

Steph rolls her eyes. "C'mon big bro, live a little! It's not like it'll kill you."

Cass, the little devil that she is, grins at that while he groans.

"You did not just bring up the death card." He stabs a finger in her chest. "I'm the only one who gets to use the death card."

She blows a raspberry at him at him and winks. Cass tugs on his shoulders.

"It'll be fun."

Jason snorts. "Yeah right. Spending a whole evening with my greatly extended family for a birthday bash sounds exactly like fun to me." sarcasm drips from every word as he puts air quotations around "birthday bash".

Cass hits him and glares at her.

"Alright, ow, you don't have to be mean!"

Steph grins. "Does that mean you'll come?"

Jason shakes his head and dodges the expected blow from Cass. He smirks. "No, that means I'll consider coming."

Step shrugs. "Good enough."

Thankfully that's the worst of it and they spend the rest of the time eating chips and playing Mario Kart.

His luck doesn't last though and Tim is next. They're barely halfway through staking out a weapons drop-off when the interrogation starts.

"So, your birthday's Sunday huh?"

Jason lets out a laugh. "Subtlety was never your element."

"Everyone's hoping you'll-"

Jason waves him off. "Yeah, yeah, show up at the manor out of the blue and spend the evening with you guys, Cass and Steph already gave me the rundown."

Tim smiles at that. "I'm not surprised.” He frowns thoughtfully. “I am surprised that you didn't agree right away though, those two are fierce when they want something."

"And I'm not?" Jason can't stop himself from asking or the annoyance that comes with it.

Tim puts on a mock expression of sadness. “Don’t worry Jason, I’m sure the street thugs are still scared of you. But face it, Cass is a full blown assassin, you couldn't compare in the slightest.”

Jason shoves the younger teen and Tim cackles. “Fuck off!”

As Tim regains his balance the truck beneath them finally starts its engine. He knows Tim still wants to continue the conversation but he brushes him off hastily.

“Too bad, guess we’ll have to finish this later!”, He sings, unable to contain his smugness.

Tim scowls. “Whatever dude, but don’t come crawling back to me when Dick finally makes his move.”

And with that happy thought the pair are off into the night, conversation forgotten almost immediately.

As the week progresses he isn’t surprised to see Dick’s number ringing on his cell in the middle of a turf war. He ducks behind a car as the gunfire gets progressively louder as he groans out loud.

“Dickiebird, make this quick. I’m kind of in the middle of something here.”

“Are those guns?”

Jason smirks despite his situation. “Nah, just some moron doing fireworks in his backyard.”

“In the middle of the day?”

“Who are you to judge, going out in spandex at night-”

“It’s not spandex, dammit, how many times are we going to argue about this-”

Jason cuts him off again. “Whatever dude, told you, I'm a little busy-”

His brother snorts at the end of the line. “Sure. What a busy life you lead, without a day-job and any personal relationships that haven’t been forced onto you by your loving family.”

Jason grins. “Hard day at the police station, Officer Grayson?”

Dick sighs audibly. “We’ve had three complaints filed at the station for incidents relating to this one stupid cat who invades people’s backyards. The little guy’s a menace and has no owner. I’ve been talking to angry neighbors all day today and i’m pretty sure Rowell broke the coffee machine too but he won’t admit it and I haven’t had any goddamn coffee all day today-”

Jason rubs at his eyes, trying to quell the headache that’s already forming. “Slow down, you’re starting to sound like Tim. Remind me why you work at the police station again?”

Dick sighs again and the sound flashes Jason back to Bruce after he used to return from a long day at Wayne Enterprises.

“To help people legally”, Dick drawls, annoyance creeping into his words.

Jason snaps his fingers intentionally knowing his brother can’t see him. “Exactly! If you weren’t so hell-bent on being a good person you might be less miserable on a daily basis!”

“Shut up, Jason.”

“Make me. Any reason you’re calling me in the first place?”

“Just wondering if you have plans for Sunday-”

Jason hangs up.

He’s starting to tick off the family he has left, he doubts that Bruce or Alfred will approach him and that leaves Barbara, Damian and Duke.

He decides to grab some coffee and a croissant before heading out for the day, stomach rumbling at the thought. For once he’s not in a hurry, so he smiles at the woman at the cafe who brings him his order and settles down to enjoy it on one of the park benches.

He’s taken his first bite when Damian slides in next to him, trying not to choke at the sudden appearance of the youngest Wayne.

Damian notices his reaction and smirks like the little shit he is, folding his hands neatly in his lap. After he gets over his shock he’s taken aback at how casually Damian’s dressed.

“You look relaxed”, he points out, sipping his coffee.

Damian scowls. “Tt. Jonathan’s convinced I need to blend in using civilian attire.”

Well that makes him grin. “Jonathan Kent huh?” He elbows his brother in the ribs. “Spending a lot of time with him lately, aren’t you?”

The shade of red peppering Damian’s face is gratifying and he can’t stop himself from laughing out loud as his brother fumes silently.

"There's nothing going on between me and Kent, you imbecile, and even if there was-"

Jason puts his hands up in surrender. "Alright, alright, jeez. But if you ever need advice or someone to talk to, I'll be here."

The offer seems to take Damian aback and his shuts up, looking thoughtful. "We'll see," he finally mutters.

Jason claps his hands. "Awesome. I'm guessing you're up next to torture me about my birthday?"

Damian nods. He puts a warning hand on his arm.

"Don't even think about running away. I'm a trained assassin, I will find you."

"Having fun is hard for you isn't it?" Jason replies idily, staring up at the blue sky.

Damian ignores the jibe. "Think about Bruce's face, Todd. He'll think he's finally gone delusional if you end up showing up."

Jason opens his mouth with mock surprise. "Are you trying to bribe me with the opportunity to give your own dad a heart attack?"

The younger boy sniffs. "He can handle it. The others just want you to be there."

He doesn't include himself in that sentence but Jason gets the message. Damian wouldn't be here if he didn't care.

Oh, how he hated to disappoint.

Damian shakes his head resolutely, a gesture so Bruce-like it gives Jason deja-vu.

"I thought that'd be your response. Which is why I came up with a back up plan."

Well fuck if he doesn't like the sound of that, recalling Damian's earlier threat when he consideres running away for the hundredth time. Damian bends over to rummage through the bag he brought with him, and Jason smiles when he sees the amount of knives instead and something that resembles a katana sheath.

Eventually his brother finds his phone and presses a few buttons, handing it to Jason with a smirk as it rings steadily.

Jason contemplates dropping the phone and stamping on it until it shatters when the person on the end picks up.

"Master Jason, I assume that's you?"

He freezes like a deer in headlights and Damian's smirk grows impossibly wider. The little shit! He knew this was going to be a deathtrap.

"Master Jason, you know it's rude to leave someone waiting."

The british accent is one he hasn't heard in a while, and the familiarity of it makes him want to tear up. He holds the phone up to his ear with a shaky hand.

"Hi, Alfred."

"Ah, you're alive. I'm assuming Master Damian has explained what this is about?"

He shoots his brother a dirty look, the other inspecting his fingers smugly.

"Yeah, he may have mentioned it."

"Excellent. You'll be at the manor on Sunday then?"

His throat is dry. "Or course."

"Wonderful. Come no later than 7, Master Jason, the others will be delighted."

"I'm sure they will", he mumbles.

Alfred hangs up after they exchange goodbyes and he hands the phone back to Damian.

"You're a cheater."

Damian shrugs. "Honestly, you should have expected that to happen eventually."

"Demon spawn," he mutters under his breath.

"Piece of shit," the younger retorts.

Jason raises his eyebrows but can't exactly say that he's surprised and resigns himself to his fate, but not before delivering some well-deserved pay back.

"So, about Jon-"

Damian shoots him a warning glare and leaves.

"Karma's a bitch little wing!" he yells at the quickly retreating form, ignoring the annoyed looks of the people around them. Jason sighs and finally finishes his croissant in peace.

So now he's standing in front of Wayne manor, trying to school his features into something that doesn't look like apprehension. He's wearing casual clothing, jeans and a sweater. A part of him wanted to wear his full Red Hood suit just to get under the idiot's skins but there was no way he was wearing full bullet proof armour all evening long.

He jogs past the fancy garden sculptures and fountains, letting himself into the unlocked house. He makes his way through the foyer, finding his family huddled around an Xbox playing Call of Duty: Modern Warfare.

The group is laughing, smiles all around as they banter back and forth. His heart aches dimly to be a part of that something, an intense yearning to be integrated into their family dynamic. It looked so easy.

The moment's ruined as soon as Dick spots him and wraps him up in a hug. "You made it!" The grin on his face is blinding. "Guys, birthday boy has arrived!"

Fuck this. This family sucks.

"Jesus Dickface, get off-"

"You're crushing him Dick", Barbara says, tone reproachful.

And jeez, literally everyone is there. Tim, Duke and Steph are crouched on the floor, still engrossed in the video game. Damian is standing beside Dick, looking too smug for his own good. Barbara and Cass are right behind them.

Someone starts to ruffle his hair as they walk past. He's about to shove the hand away when he sees who it belongs to.

"Aunt Kate?"

Kate grins. "Good to see you kid. Happy birthday!"

"I wasn't expecting you to be here."

Kate shrugs. "Life's been slow recently and besides, there was no way I was going to miss a Wayne party!"

He laughs at that, making his way over to give her a hug. Kate has always been one of his favorite people, he distinctly remembers the chocolate she used to smuggle to him when Bruce wasn't looking and she hung out during patrol.

Bruce and Alfred are next to enter the room, and Jason smirks when he sees Bruce stop his sentence abruptly when he sees his second son. Jason catches Damian's eye as he winks.

"Hey Bruce."

Bruce cautiously steps forward, unease rippling across his features. Things have been better lately but some wounds take longer to heal then others. He squashes the guilt as Tim's bloody face flashes beneath his eyelids.

"It's good to see you Jason."

Jason spreads his hands. "It took some convincing," he replies, words directed at the others. Tim smiles and Dick laughs.

Alfred wastes no time drawing him into a tight hug, one that no one comments on after Jason gathers his composure.

Alfred smiles brightly at all of them, and fuck, Jason knows that coming was worth it.

"Dinner will be served shortly, if you all want to follow me to the kitchen?"

There's a mutter of agreement around the room and Jason is soon swept into various activities. Dick grabs the plates while Bruce helps Alfred with the dishes. Cass and Duke chat as they swipe cutlery while Tim and Steph set the table. Damian carries the knives, rather ominously in Jason's opinion but no one bats an eye.

There's some jostling as everyone finds a seat, Damian and Tim shoving each other to get the chair next to Dick. Cass finally sighs and switches with Tim, whose face brightens considerably.

He chats to Dick quietly about things in Blüdhaven, Bruce resuming his conversation with Alfred and Tim. The girls talk about school, Damian bringing up the art show he's participating in next week. The food is as good as he remembers, roast paired off with potatoes and countless salads, sauces and side dishes. Unfortunately there's no alcohol but he eats enough for two.

As the food is cleared away and multiple praises are directed Alfred's way for the meal, they drag Jason to another room. He grins when Steph pulls out the alcohol.

Damian and Tim groan out loud and Kate shoves them. "Don't worry, I'm sure there's juice in the fridge", she teases. Damian scowls at her.

Alfred informs them that he'll be in the kitchen preparing dessert and he leaves promptly, Damian following him to the fridge.

Bruce raises an eyebrow at his daughter. "We do have better drinks."

Steph shrugs. "I'm convinced there's a difference between getting drunk on fancy red wine and getting wasted on cheap beer that's past its expiry date."

Bruce relents, an incredulous look on his face. They sit in a circle, passing chilled bottles around.

Steph grins. "We're gonna play 'Most Likely'."

A mixture of gasps of delight mingle with complaints as the room descends into chaos again.

Steph raises a finger and whistles piercingly. "Ah ah ah, no buts. We're playing. It's simple, one person says a scenario and everyone else chooses a person in the group who they think is most likely to do it. The person with the most votes takes a drink."

Duke opens his bottle and takes a gulp, laughing at Dick' expression, Damian returning with cranberry juice for Tim and himself.

Cass laughs. "I'll start. Most likely to set the manor on fire?"

Bruce chokes at that one, eyes flashing dangerously. Jason grins. The votes are casted here and there but when he counts most of them are on Kate.

The woman in question smirks and gives a mock bow as she takes a swig of her beer.

"Can't say that I disagree."

That makes a bunch of them nod and laugh out loud. Kate swallows and starts the next question. "Most likely to get punched in the face by a stranger?"

Jason can count six other hands pointing at Dick, including his own.

The five others are pointed in his directions, but like Kate's answer earlier he can't really argue. He's gotten punched by tons of strangers, usually people undercover for Roman Sionis or other drug dealers he's managed to piss off. He takes a mouthful of beer, smiling from the burn.

"What are you talking about?" Dick complains. "I'm a nice person!"

"Sure, but you're also oblivious as fuck-"

"Language." Bruce mutters.

"-and you can't catch a hint to save your life. I can name some of the girls and guys who've flirted with you and didn't get a reaction," Tim finishes.

Dick pouts dramatically and takes a drink. "Most likely to giveaway hints by accident while playing poker?"

That one causes an uproar and Jason can't really choose who gets this one. They're all pretty decent liars, they have to be in their line of work. He ends up picking Barbara, only because she's had trouble keeping Batgirl a secret from her dad.

He's not the only one who brings that up and the votes are tied between her and Duke. The pair each take a drink.

Duke chews his lip as he thinks, brow furrowed in concentration. His face lights up when he figures out what to say.

"Most likely to use their kids as an excuse to get out of commitments?"

Simultaneously, everyone points at Bruce, who looks guilty and amused at the same time.

"How many times did you tell Wayne Enterprises I was sick as a kid to leave a meeting early, B?" Dick asks with a raised eyebrow.

Bruce smirks. "Not nearly enough times, those meetings give me migraines."

He unscrews the cap and takes a long swallow, his kids cheering. He shoots Steph a look. "You prefer this to red wine?"

Steph grins and nods, Cass and Barbara agreeing along with her.

Kate claps him on the back. "That's more like it!"

Bruce smiles and proceeds with the game. "Most likely to kill someone out of spite."

Jason counts two fingers pointing in his direction, one at Tim while the rest point to Damian.

The youngest Wayne scowls, raising his glass and taking a grudging sip of his juice, eyeing Dick's bottle wistfully. Dick gets the memo and pulls his beer away from his younger brother, tightening his hold just in case.

The game continues for the next hour, all of them getting progressively more drunk as the sun sets. Tim's declared to be the 'one who's most likely to be a criminal mastermind', Bab's 'most likely to run for president'. Alfred steps in just in time to win 'most likely to manage to survive while being stranded on an island'.

Overall, Jason is happy and sleepy and wasted.

The cake is brought out, cheers ringing out as plates and forks are passed around. The cake is shoved in his hands, and he takes a moment to blink with surprise.

"You made a cake in the shape of my helmet?"

It's really the only possible explanation, the cake is absolutely drenched in red frosting. It's in the shape of an oval, frosted white slits substituting for where his eyes would be. It's bigger than his actual helmet, and Jason turns it around to inspect it from all angles. A single candle glows brightly on top.

He stares at them. Dick and Alfred are squeezing his shoulder supportingly, Tim and Duke flashing him grins. Kate looks nostalgic as she hands him a knife, Damian's face carefree. Barbara starts to sing happy birthday softly, Steph joining in while Cass gives him a hug.

"Happy birthday chum," Bruce whispers, eyes bright as they reflect the flames. He smiles in response and blows out his candle.

Tim nudges him. "What did you wish for?"

To stay here forever.

Jason snorts. "I wished that one of those birthday presents you all suck at hiding contains a new gun."

Dick laughs at his response and Alfred smiles. Cass gives him a comforting look however, and not for the first time Jason's taken aback at how well she can read him.

It doesn't take long for everyone to settle down with a piece of cake. Jason takes his first bite and sees stars. It's just moist enough and the icing melts perfectly on his tongue. He gives Alfred an appreciative nod.

As the plates are returned to the kitchen they all find themselves in front of the TV, arguing on which movie to watch.

"For the last fucking time Dickface, no one wants to watch Dumbo because it makes you cry every single time his mom gets taken away!" Jason retorts.

Tim opens his mouth hopefully.

Damian cuts him off before he can even speak. "The same goes for you, asshole. No more Lion King fiascos."

Tim shoves Damian and he stumbles, both of them tackling each other to the ground. Kate claps slowly while Bruce breaks it up.

Jason takes the opportunity and steals the remote, grinning with triumph.

"It doesn't matter what you losers want, it's my birthday so I'm picking." There's a chorus of groans and Jason's smile widens. He scrolls through the Netflix suggestions and finally decides on Pride and Prejudice and Zombies.

Steph yells with excitement and throws a pillow at Duke who groans, Cass's features morphing into one of confusion.

Barbara shrugs. "It's a classic."

Jason whoops as the movie starts, all of them fighting for popcorn and soda. Halfway through the film the mood gets increasingly more relaxed. Dick’s head is on his shoulder, Damian’s fighting for more leg room with Tim on his other side. The girls are spread out on the floor, Cass’s head in Steph’s lap, Babs sitting comfortably in her wheelchair beside the couch. Duke is falling asleep on Bruce, who Jason realizes is already asleep, snoring lightly into the cushions. Kate’s perched on the edge of the sofa’s armrest, watching the movie with interest. The only person who still looks dignified is Alfred, lounging in a chair he’s pulled up.

The movie marathon continues with Steph’s suggestion, Mean Girls, and they’re halfway through King Kong when they finally shut off the TV. Alfred wakes Duke and Bruce, Cass and Tim pulling Jason through the room for presents.

The pile of presents is larger then he would have guessed, boxes covered in shiny wrapping paper and small parcels. Everyone scrambles to sit around Jason, pushing their gifts forwards. He doesn’t know if he should be amused or terrified at the looks of eagerness around the room.

Kate gives him her present first, grinning slyly at her cousin. Bruce frowns, knowing he’s not going to appreciate what’s in the package. Jason tears the wrapping paper and lovingly pulls out one of the knives from its sheath.

He holds it out and tests the balance. “Well these’ll be useful.”

Steph hands him his present next, the weird object decked out in black wrapping paper with comic style font all over it. He squeezes it and scowls immediately. “Please tell me you didn’t.”

Steph shakes her head, eyes bright with mischief. The plushy Jason’s holding is a frog that looks like it’s seen better days, a dirty brown color that may have originally been green. One of the buttons used for eyes has popped off and he's pretty sure the hole at the bottom has been leaking stuffing for years.

He holds it up to face her and she smirks. The others are laughing as well. "What the hell is this?"

"Your birthday gift!", she sings. "Found him at a thrift store last week and I couldn't just leave the poor guy there, his eyes are so full of love, you know?"

"You mean eye, singular,” he points out.

"So he's a cyclops, why does it matter? Turn it around."

He does, biting back the urge to start laughing uncontrollably. The front of the sorry looking toad indicates that his name is Jason. He groans out loud when he sees the tell-tale smear of sharpie under the frog's name.

Jason Toad.

Dick throws his head back and laughs, while Babs gives Steph a high five.

"Yeah, yeah, very funny. Now shut up or I'll leave him here." He abandons the plushy and grabs the nearest gift instead.

The package is soft and he crinkles the wrapping paper as it tears. His breath catches when he finally sees his present in its full glory.

"Whoever brought me this is automatically my favorite sibling." his gaze slides over to Damian and Tim and reconsiders. "Unless it's Replacement or Demon Spawn, they can be promoted to third."

Tim rolls his eyes and Damian shoots him a disinterested stare.

"Be nice Master Jason", Alfred chides lightly.

Duke puts a hand on his shoulder. "Guess I win then."

Jason grins at the other man. "Thanks dude, way better choice then the toad."

He wastes no time pulling on the soft leather jacket, stretching his shoulders out comfortably and digging his hands into the pockets.

Tim's present turns out to be a key-chain with a mini chainsaw attached, because "Bruce wouldn't let me buy you a real chainsaw."

All of his other gifts are just as good, Alfred gives him Bluetooth headphones, a brand new copy of Life of Pi from Dick plus boots and eyeliner from both Barbara and Cass respectively.

Damian's present is one of the last and when he pulls apart the wrapping paper he’s left with a thin rectangular box. He stares at his younger brother.

“If this is jewelry it better be nice.”

Damian shakes his head, a small smile forming on his lips. “Better than jewelry.”

The gift turns out to be bullets, all of different sizes and shapes. They’re organized carefully, each with a label attached underneath.

Jason studied one that’s sleek and silver, little slits in the sides. The little lettering in the case lets him know that this one is filled with gas. He grins.

“Are these personalized?”

Damian nods. “Each and every one, tailored to your favorite gun. I modified the version father uses for his Batarangs and transferred it to work with bullets.” He shrugs. “I figured they were more your style.”

Jason stares at him, silent for a beat before turning back to the weapon. “Fine, I guess you can be my fourth favorite sibling.”

Tim huffs. “I helped him with the tech.”

Damian elbows him smugly.

He almost doesn't register Bruce standing in the back until the chatter dies out. His adopted dad looks like a kicked puppy and Jason feels an unexpected fondness shoot through his heart.

"You have something for me Bruce?"

Suddenly something is roughly being shoved into his hands and he stares at the thin object for a second. The room goes silent, the entire group fixated on Jason and Bruce.

The slips of paper are familiar and he swears he's held them before. He turns them over to read the minuscule writing.

Gotham City Knights vs Gotham Giants

Featured in Gotham City Stadium

Mon Aug 31 2020 7:30 PM

“You got me baseball tickets?”

Bruce clears his throat and presses on, looking uncomfortable. “You used to love going as a kid, and I brought two so you could take someone with you if you wanted.”

Jason’s voice catches and he swallows around the lump in his throat. “Sure, are you free Monday?”

Bruce’s “Yes” sounds more like a croak but it’s there, an open invitation to spend some time together. It’s not an apology but it’s a start, and he’ll take it. Jason’s heart swells.

After that they all goad him into sleeping over, an offer he would have declined if not for Alfred’s stern glances. They decide to grab some pillows and blankets and settle on the floor, everyone comfortable and sleepy.

Well, if anything, it’s not the worst birthday he’s ever had.

#jtbdayweek #Jason Todd #Dick Grayson #Tim Drake #Damian Wayne #kate kane #clark kent #Alfred Pennyworth #bruce wayne #Duke Thomas #barbara gordon #cassandra cain #Stephanie Brown #Happy Birthday Jason!

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ionlyreadfivebookslastweek · 5 years

Text

Bless the Broken Road - 17

Spencer finished filling the tank and looked around. Jane was nowhere in sight.

He walked over to the dumpsters where she had gone to answer Jack’s call and his stomach lurched. Jane’s phone was left on the sidewalk next to a spattering of what looked like blood.

Trying to stay calm, he quickly pulled out his phone and called the team, telling them to get there as soon as possible.

The team arrived to find Reid pacing back and forth, running a hand through his hair over and over again impatiently.

Morgan ran over to him.

“She’s gone! She was over here taking a call from Jack while I filled the gas tank and then I turned around and she was gone!”

“Kid, calm down. We’ll find her,” Morgan assured him. “She’s smart and she’s strong. She’ll be alright. But you need to focus in order to work to find her.”

“I messed up, Morgan. I really messed up.”

“You had nothing to do with this. It wasn’t your fault.”

“I know that, but she was upset with me. There were girls at the strip club that flirted with me and she told me that I should go back there and get it out of my system and I, I told her that maybe I would. That’s the last thing I said to her!”

Morgan sighed and put a hand on his shoulder. “She knows you didn’t mean it.”

When Jane regained consciousness, she found herself tied to a chair in what looked like a basement of a house. A man stood in front of her, staring at her. She quickly recognized him as the gas station worker who was taking out the trash.

“What do you want with me?” she asked him.

“I couldn’t help but hear your conversation on the phone. It’s obvious you neglect your son and prioritize your work over him.”

Jane shook her head, wincing as she realized that that was a bad idea. “I don’t have a son. I was talking to my brother. You’ve made a mistake.”

He scowled at her. “You’re lying,” he claimed.

He raised his hand and began hitting her until she fell unconscious again.

“Alright, here’s what I’ve found,” Garcia began, on speaker with the team. “All of the victims other than Jane had children.”

“A stripper, a workaholic, a drug dealer, an alcoholic and a gambler. What if the UNSUB takes women he believes neglects their children by having these flaws?” JJ suggested.

“Then why take Jane?” Morgan asked. “She was talking to Jack on the phone,” Spencer spoke up. Everyone turned to look at him. He’d been quiet for a while now, still in shock by what happened. “The UNSUB could think she was talking to a child.” “We have a profile. Let’s hurry to deliver the profile,” Hotch ordered.

When Jane came to again, the UNSUB decided to beat her some more, clearly enjoying the torture he inflicted.

“Why are you doing this?” Jane asked.

“Your son deserves better. He needs someone who loves him and doesn’t neglect him like you do.”

Jane had given up on denying having a child. He was too delusional to believe her. Based on what she learned, she guessed he had a neglectful mother and that’s why he was targeting mothers he deemed neglectful. She only hoped the team would come to the same conclusion, and fast.

Garcia finished combing through the security footage and was able to find the same man at the casino and the strip club, but there were no cameras with a good angle at the gas station to see if it was the same man.

“What about footage inside the gas station?” JJ suggested.

“I will search and get back to you lightning fast!”

No more than ten minutes later, Garcia called back with results. “I found him! He’s a worker at the gas station. It looks like he hasn’t been to work since Jane was taken.”

“Do you have a name?” Morgan asked.

“Yes. Aidan Campbell, age 38. Looks like his dad died of cancer when he was 6. At the age of 9, he came home from school to find his mother passed out drunk on top of his 4-year-old brother, Caleb. Unable to push her off of him, he suffocated and died.”

”Where’s the mother now?” Rossi asked.

”She was in jail for the death of her son. Looks like she also was a drug user and worked as a prostitute back in the day.” Garcia paused as she typed. “She had a parole hearing a few weeks ago, shortly before the first murder to be exact.”

”That’s the trigger,” Hotch stated.

”He had to take care of his brother because his mother was incapable. Now he wants to punish mothers he believes treat their children poorly,” JJ said.

”I have a home address sent to you now!” Garcia informed them. “Now go bring our sweet Jane home.”

The team arrived at the house and Morgan kicked the door in. They ran in and quickly cleared the whole house. There was no sign of the UNSUB and no sign of Jane either.

Spencer ran out of the house, frustrated.

JJ followed after and found him staring at the ground. She pulled him into a hug and told him, “We’re going to find her. We’re not giving up.”

Aidan Campbell reached for Jane’s clothes and she bit at his hand.

“Don’t you dare touch me,” she spat.

He chuckled, darkly. “I’m so scared. Please don’t hit me,” he laughed.

He began to undress her, cutting her clothes so they’d be easier to remove. Jane tried her best to remain calm.

Once he had her naked, he grabbed an outfit from a drawer to dress her like a prostitute. He had to untie her feet to slip a thong on her. When he did so, she kicked him.

He groaned and slapped her in retaliation, hitting her to knock her out again so she couldn’t fight while he finished dressing her.

“Garcia, look into his past. Are there any other places he could be?” Hotch asked.

“There’s the house he grew up in. It was given over to the state after his mother was arrested but it looks like it remains empty.”

“Send us the address.”

Garcia obliged and they hurried to head out again, hoping this time they had the right location and that they’d make it in time.

The next time Jane woke up, the man wasn’t in the room. She looked down to see he’d dressed her like the other victims. She wrestled with the ties on her hands and noticed he hadn’t tied them tight enough after changing her clothes.

Quickly, she undid her feet but kept the rope around them to make it look as if she was still tied up.

He entered the room just after she put her hands back.

“The whore’s awake,” he greeted her.

He approached her and slapped her face. “Dirty bitch. What kind of mother neglects her child? You’re disgusting.”

He moved past her and opened a drawer, pulling a gun out of it.

She needed to act now.

Moving fast, she stood and came up behind him, knocking the gun out of his hand. He whipped around and grabbed her, pushing her back. She yelped as her head banged against the wall. He shook her, hitting her head multiple times. She dropped down and slipped under his arms but he caught her and pinned her down on the ground.

“Aiden Campbell, FBI,” Jane heard Spencer yell.

The team filed into the room, Spencer at the front of the pack with everyone else behind him.

Campbell grabbed the gun off the floor and pulled Jane to her feet, restraining her with an arm around her throat and a gun against her temple.

“Let her go. She’s done nothing wrong,” Spencer ordered, doing his best to stay calm.

“Yes, she has! She neglects her son!”

“She doesn’t have a son. You’ve made a mistake. She’s innocent.”

“No. You’re lying. She’s an evil woman. She has to pay for what she did!”

Jane’s eyes began to close as she started to lose consciousness from being knocked around so much.

They didn’t have time to reason with him anymore. Campbell continued to yell about why Jane needed to be punished. When he moved his body just enough away from Jane for it to be safe, Spencer took the shot.

Campbell fell to the floor, dead.

Spencer rushed forward to grab Jane, who had gone unconscious.

“We need a medic in here!” Morgan yelled.

The EMTs, whom they had ready on standby outside, rushed into the room and helped carry Jane out of the basement and outside onto a stretcher. Spencer insisted on riding along in the ambulance.

“She’s fading!” one of the EMTs yelled as they raced to the hospital.

Spencer sat next to her but stayed out of the way of the EMTs as they worked to save her.

Spencer’s breathing hitched in his throat as he heard the sound of the heartbeat monitor flatlining.

The EMTs gave her a shock to revive her. For a second, nothing happened. Then she gasped loudly as she woke up.

“Jane, my name is Kyle. You’re in an ambulance on the way to the hospital. It’s going to be alright,” the main EMT told her.

Spencer moved forward and took her hand.

Once they got to the hospital, they rushed Jane to the ER and Reid was forced to stay in the waiting room.

He collapsed into a chair, head in his hands. He didn’t even notice the rest of the team come in.

“Spence,” JJ spoke.

He stood up and she embraced him. He broke down, sobbing into her shoulder.

“They just took her back to the ER.”

“She’ll be alright,” Morgan assured him.

The team settled in, waiting to hear news on what was happening.

A couple of hours later, a doctor came out and approached them.

“She was touch and go for a while but now she’s been stabilized,” he told the group.

The team collectively breathed a sigh of relief.

“She’ll make a full recovery but it’ll take some time. She has a few broken ribs that punctured her lung. Also head trauma and lots of cuts and bruises. Two people at a time can go back and see her.”

“I’ll go with you,” Morgan said to Spencer.

Spencer stood and finally found his voice again. “Doctor, what do you mean by ‘touch and go’?”

The doctor frowned, looking reluctant to tell him. “Her heart stopped three more times.”

Spencer’s eyes widened.

Morgan gave him a gentle push forward and they headed back to Jane’s room.

Spencer immediately took a seat by her bed and grabbed her hand.

Jane opened her eyes and tried to speak but ended up having a coughing fit.

“I’ll go get you some water,” Morgan offered, exiting the room.

“What happened?” Jane asked when she finally stopped coughing.

Spencer filled her in on her injuries, hesitating to add that she had to be revived, but did so anyway.

“Did you catch the guy?”

“Sorta.”

“Reid shot the bastard,” Morgan clarified, reentering the room.

Jane took the cup of water from him and drank it.

JJ entered the room. “Spence, Hotch wants to speak to you.”

“Alright.” He turned to Jane. “I’ll be back.”

He exited the room and JJ and Morgan moved closer to talk to her.

Morgan’s phone went off a minute later and he left the room to answer it.

“Bella! It’s so good to see you,” Rossi cheered, coming into the room.

Jane smiled at the use of Italian. “Likewise,” she replied.

Spencer came back in a minute later with Hotch.

“Jane, take all the time you need to recover,” Hotch told her.

Morgan filed back in as well, holding his phone with Garcia on facetime.

“Jane Addison! You scared me so much! Never put me through that again!” Garcia scolded.

Jane laughed weakly. “I’ll do my best not to.”

“I can’t wait for you to come back home so I can squeeze you tight.”

A nurse came in, interrupting them. “I thought the doctor told you only two people at a time!” she nagged.

“I’m sorry,” Hotch apologized for the team.

“It’s almost the end of visiting hours anyway, we should head back,” Morgan suggested.

“We’ll be back in the morning,” Spencer told Jane. “Everyone else is going to head home tomorrow, but Hotch is letting me stay back with you until you’re well enough to fly home,” he explained.

Everyone took turns giving her gentle hugs goodnight before leaving for the hotel, allowing her to get some rest.

~~~~~~~~~~

Bless The Broken Road Masterlist

~~~~~~~~~~

Tag List:

@cynbx @neon-deanmon @drw0301bieber @notsosmartbutcute @banananna99

#criminal minds #cm #criminalminds #spencer reid #ionlyreadfivebookslastweek #bless the broken road #spencer #dr. spencer reid #reid #oc #multific #multipart #spencer x oc #spencer reid x oc #dr. Spencer reid x oc #reid x oc

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littlemiss-saria · 5 years

Text

&&. word has it ( saria young ) was just spotted around the city. ( she ) is a ( 21 ) year old affiliated with ( the irish mafia ). it’s been said that ( she ) resembles ( freya mavor ). ( she ) has been said to be ( loyal & creative ) but also quite ( clumsy & shy ). ( she ) is currently serving as ( an exotic dancer / waitress ). // ace

( saria young ) would describe ( herself ) as a ( summer ) person and would identify as a ( neutral good ). ( her ) birthday is ( october 16th ), making ( her ) star sign ( libra ) and ( her ) animal sign the ( the butterfly ). ( her ) biggest pet peeve is ( people who are unkind for no reason ), and ( her ) theme song is ( washing dishes by jack johnson ). finally, ( her ) primary goal is to ( find her place in the world ).

There are never any stories that seem to be as tragic as those belonging to the children who grew up in the foster care system. But Saria Young had never known any different, and didn’t think she ever would. Once upon a time, a young woman — a girl born to an upper class family in New Orleans — fell in love with a man who had been deemed too low for her to marry, unaware of his involvement in much more sinister things. This man came with a reputation for charming women into his bed — There wasn’t a woman who didn’t fall victim to his charms. The girl thought she might change him, thought she might entice him with her love and her powerful family, might convince her parents to see him the way she did. Her advances seemed to work, and with her heart filled with joy, the two slippe=[ between silk sheets. Yet, come morning, the freckled young woman was no different than all of his other triumphs. He was gone, leaving nothing but the memory of his skin against her own. Once upon a time, a girl became pregnant with the bastard child of a nobody — and that nobody doomed both his lover and unborn daughter.

Try as she might to hide the growing swell of her stomach, her parents would discover her secret, and sweep her into hiding until the child was born. The young woman grew ill as the date grew closer, and by the time her daughter was born, the freckled young woman had lost her life. The child was a demon in her grandparents’ eyes. A murderer, spawn of the man who’d killed their daughter, and bastard with the piercing blue eyes of her father. From the moment she’d come into this world - red faced and wailing for her mother — Saria Young had been destined to be abandoned by a family she would never know.

The only reason Saria found her way into the system was her resemblance to her dead mother. Freckled cheeks and a mop of blonde curls, it was what ultimately saved her life, for her grandmother was consumed by guilt. She couldn’t dispose of the small bundle, for it resembled her own daughter as a babe…she found the nearest hospital and left her upon its steps. It was the only kindness her grandparents would ever show her— they couldn’t love a child who had her father’s blue eyes and unworthy status. She would damage the very reputation they’d worked so hard to get. From that moment on, Saria would bounce from foster home to foster home - a total of twelve in her life - a ward of the state of Louisiana. It was hard to make friends when you constantly moved between foster homes, and harder when it caused Saria to become shy and closed off, unwilling and unable to find her voice and a family to call her own.

We just can’t handle her, they’d say. She’s doesn’t interact. Doesn’t make friends, she’s too shy... It became a painful, sickening routine. Each time she thought she’d found a mother and father to call her own, they’d bring her back, too worried they were at fault for her shy nature to sign the papers and make her their daughter. People wanted a child — a laughing, giggling, ray of sunshine — and unable to be such a girl, It caused her to close in on herself even more, alone and afraid, the little girl would soon become as fragile as glass. As time went on, Saria accepted this fact, and found herself becoming content in the group homes of New Orleans, where she didn’t have to feel bad about her shyness and could spend her days cooking and mastering the unique foods found in the French Quarter instead of pursuing relationships and a family. She would age out of the system one day, open a restaurant, and be happy with the cards she’d been dealt.

But soon, even the meek grow restless. Every orphan begins to question why her family abandoned her. Sooner than even Saria thought — with nothing but her last name as a hint of her past, Saria began searching for some sort of clue to who or what her parents might have been. She dove into countless files, stumbling again and again upon dead ends, until one day — just two years before she would be done with the foster system — she found something that would ultimately change the entire fabric of her life.

The day she turned eighteen, Saria felt like her lungs had exploded. With a burst of courage, she packed up the few belongings she had and clutched a paper in her hand — a list of credit card transactions linked to an Aiden Young, the only man with such a name who had been in New Orleans at the time of her birth she’d somehow found online. According to the little information the government had on her, that connection was the only thing that seemed plausible. Saria headed straight to New York — because she had to know the reason why she was so alone.

Miraculously, Saria managed to make it into the city on her own. It was difficult — nothing like the place she'd grown up. Scary, loud, and dangerous. It crawled with sights and sounds that still terrify her to this day. But, after securing a job at a small bakery cafe beside the famous Garden Hotel and a small space to call her own, she started asking questions. Searched leads, looked up co-workers and old jobs in a desperate attempt to find the family she’d been missing her whole life. Soon enough, her questions managed to catch the attention of a member of the Irish Mob — an arms dealer who remembered this Aiden Young, how he’d taken off with a wad of Irish cash, gotten a girl pregnant, and then disappeared without a trace. In his wake, Aiden left behind a sinking hole debt… and Saria would have to fill it.

The Irish Mob was a force to reckon with. She doesn’t know if it was pity they felt for her, or if she was yet another investment, but for whatever reason Mr. Barrett and his mafia thrust her into a world she never dreamed of. Drugs, alcohol, violence — a network of underground crime that the police could only see the surface of. Saria was given a pair of heels and a pole, and the next thing she knew she was a dancing until the sun came up, feeding the information she heard whispered on boozy breath of powerful businessman back to the Mob. To her relief, she was never asked to give more — never needed to give away the parts of her she’d always kept close. She worked her nights on tips alone, and waitressed away the days. Three years later, Saria had grown comfortable with the dancing, and has found a sort of home with the Irish. Despite the dangers of the club, she’s grown loyal to the crime ring, not knowing when (or if) the debt will ever be paid off. But they’re the only ruminates connected to a despicable father — and the only family she has. Where would she go if she ever gained freedom from her father’s sins?

#tdrintro #{about}

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forgettinggirlinterrpted · 5 years

Text

5/8 - 5/13/19

It’s so easy sometimes to forget why I’m here. That’s my problem- I forget things. I forget my keys, I forget to turn my car off when I get gas, once I even forgot I biked somewhere and ended up walking home.

But worse than that, I forget emotions. I forget how miserable not having AC in my car makes me until late April rolls around, I forget when I’m mad at someone, I forget how happy I felt during some of the most important moments in my life. Most importantly- I forget when I’m sad.

I have brief moments that pop up in a sea of darkness that allow me, for just a moment, to laugh and feel like a real person. These moments happen a lot. I can see light and laughter during a panic attack before the flip switches and my brain turns back into a train running off static electricity and black mold. The fog clears for just a brief stop on the tracks and the mold crawls back to its host.

But same as the the fog clears, eventually so does my forgetfulness. My ability to forget is just as weak as it is powerful. Slowly but surely those mold covered trains start moving again with no clear destination. The black creeps in as I sit in the real world, hunched over, grasping onto my surroundings- yet failing to grasp onto any sort of consistent breathing pattern. I can forget sadness, but I can just as quickly forget happiness.

So here I am, in the day room of a psychiatric hospital, surrounded by people just like me. We have become our own ragtag group of misguided grownups. When I arrived here 7 days ago almost a year after my last admission to this hospital, I felt the trains moving at full speed through a pile of sludge. I stared at the painting on the wall and began to fear that here, I may not be able to utilize my warped superpower: my ability to forget.

But slowly, the other patients and I have begun to forget together- somehow forgetting without truly forgetting. Together, we can laugh not through the pain, but alongside it. This is the place where I don't have to feel bad for my moments of forgetfulness. Moments of comic relief and simple enjoyment. I don’t need to feel like my laughter negates my 10-year-old depression diagnosis.

Here, we are embracing those moments. We embrace the moments of happiness and sadness- in whichever order they decide to arrive. In a room full of people so different it looks like the set-up to a bad joke, we can forget in a place that is simultaneously forcing us to remember.

When I got here, my doctors told me to embrace the community. “If you don’t want to talk about your anxiety and depression, then just listen.” So I listened. And then I started talking.

One night, we all gathered in the day room, attempting to avoid the loneliness of our windowless rooms. As a Die Hard sequel blasted in the background, the addicts in the room discussed their journey through meth addiction. I asked questions. They answered. We all laughed. A heroin addict around my age told me, “seriously, don’t touch meth.”

The man next to me, Nate, said through the bustle of conversation and laughter, “are you here cuz of a drug?” I said no, and in his thick, mumbled, country accent he asked me, “then why you here?”

I told him that I’m sad.

He sighed, looked down at his folded hands and said, “yeah, I’m sad too.”

Nate loves movies and reading, M&M cookies, and meth. Up until he injected 3 grams of “ice” in a suicide attempt, he has been living on the streets. I halfway listened to the ongoing conversation about how incredible and horrifying hard drugs can be as he told me about a time he was arrested after ending up inside a university dorm building thinking he lived there. We all took a brief break to laugh even more when another patient, also coming from a recent suicide attempt, tried to enter the conversation by saying he had only ever “done weed once.”

Later, in his mumbled speech, Nate told the group about when he was high and stood in the middle of park downtown for 4 hours with a knife in his hand. We asked him what the hell he was doing just standing there.

He simply replied, “lookin’.”

I think we were unable, or even unwilling to truly focus on the scary reality behind Nate standing in a public park, knife in hand, waiting for cops that neither we, or even Nate, knew for certain were even coming.

So we just kept laughing.

As the night and following day before his release passed, I kept talking to Nate. I shared my extra cookies with him, and forced him to come paint in recreational therapy with me. But I couldn’t stop thinking about how genuinely scared I would be if Nate tried to open my dorm room door in the middle of the night. Or if I saw him middle aged, 6’2”, with a bald head, tear drop tattoo, and the psychique of a retired bouncer, standing in park, knife in hand, having the time of his life.

I asked him if it scared him to be out of control like that. He said that was his favorite part; he didn’t mind losing control. Between him telling me about his attempt to end his life and the meth fueled antics that cost him both his new job in Florida and his boss’ iPad, I realized Nate was funny, knowledgeable, and vaguely socially aware.

During one of our conversations, we found ourselves trapped in a seminar about nutrition. He slapped his hands on his thighs and said, “well, time to go.” I whined and asked him to stay. My insistence on attending every activity offered was at odds with Nate’s style. A style that told me that maybe once he did have my naive enthusiasm towards recovery, but lost it somewhere along the way. He said “you want me to stay?” and plopped back into his chair. He knew I wanted him to be there, just as I had begged him earlier to attend a journaling group session- declining my invitation with a non-committal hand gesture and a “nah.”

We sat through the nutritionist explaining “My Plate,” an updated version of the food pyramid. Nate leaned sideways and quietly grumbled, “is that like MySpace,” and I chuckled quietly in a way that reminded me of my habit of exchanging bad jokes in attempts to survive a boring lecture. When the nutritionist asked what could be used as a meat substitute for protein, Nate shouted out every type of bean he could think of. She asked if anybody had eaten eggplant and he shouted, “oh hell yeah, I had an eggplant lasagna once and that shit was delicious.” His southern drawl made everything he said more melodic, and added a level of enthusiasm he often didn’t like to show- unless he is shouting expletives about his incredible experience with eggplant lasagna.

After I had completely tuned out the nutritionist and began to draw in my notebook, Nate leaned over and asked if we could be friends on Facebook. I sneakily handed him paper for him to write his name down. As he wrote, he told me he may not be able to respond for about 30 days.

It happened again. I had forgotten.

I had spent that day arguing with Nate about whether the book or movie version of One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest is better. This was an especially unwinnable argument given that I had never seen the movie and only gotten 100 pages into the book, and Nate had only ever seen the movie.

He had given me movie suggestions, quoted Carrie, and given me shit for thinking a Pink Floyd song playing on the radio was by the B-52’s.

He ranted about the symbolism behind the music video for Another Brick in the Wall as he painted a birdhouse that he could have easily crushed by closing his fist.

So I forgot. I forgot when he interrupted my conversation with a social worker to mime towards my extra cookie I had leftover from snack time. He had already eaten the first one when I offered, and originally declined the second.

I was happy he asked for this one though, since I had only asked for the extra cookies so I could give them to him.

But he didn’t know that.

His casual mention of the 30 days made me chuckle, but also made me remember. Remember where I was, why I was here, and who I was talking to.

I remember that when we first met, Nate told me his father had been in this same hospital almost 23 years ago. He also told me he killed himself right after being discharged. He tried to tell me it didn’t bother him, but shrugged and mumbled, “I mean it prolly does but I don’t know.” I want to say he said it casually, but that wasn’t it. He wasn’t laughing, but he wasn’t crying either. Mainly, he seemed defeated. Tired, like this was just the beginning of a long list of bullshit he has tried to deal with in his own way.

He looked at me, but never fully turned his body.

He told me the only thing he truly remembers about the day his dad died.

During checkout, his dad checked a box on his discharge forms stating yes, he did think his time there had helped him. But his father made it clear to Nate that he didn’t think it helped his depression. When he asked his dad why he lied to the doctors, Nate’s father told him, “I just want to go home.”

This all flashes back, and I remember that despite a potential Facebook friendship, this was the last time I would see him. Mainly, I was forced to remember that I have no control over his sobriety- and that 2 days of talking and painting with a depressed 24-year-old is not going to keep him from running back to the life he is used to the moment things get difficult in his new facility.

I began to think about my plan of action if I see Nate in 30 days, 3 months, or 3 years from now, standing downtown waiting for a dealer, or embarking on one of the never-ending walks he takes to kill time when the meth steals his ability to sleep.

Would I stop for him? Am I prepared to know fully and truthfully that this attempt at sobriety had failed? That the system had failed? Am I ready to accept the fact that I live in a world where kind, smart, and funny people just aren’t given the chance at life they deserve?

I asked him why he thought this shot at sobriety would work, and he said, “I’m just tired man, this ain’t no life.” So again, I remember. I remember why he is here in the first place- Nate had tried to kill himself. What happens if this doesn’t all go according to plan? What’s next?

His favorite part of the drug he wants to quit is the lack of control, and his drug-fueled delusions grant him his own ability to forget. Nate wasn’t ashamed to tell me his stories, but made it clear he wasn’t particularly proud of them either- with an ambivalence that is both inspiring and troubling.

I fear the thought of everything he hadn’t had time to tell me about. I worry about what will happen when he begins to allow himself to remember.

During our first conversation, I told Nate I was afraid to leave the hospital because I thought the real world was scary. Without fully looking at me Nate shrugged and said, “it’s only as scary as you let it be.”

Before he checked out, I gave Nate my copy of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest to read in rehab.

Maybe one day we can finally finish our debate on the merits of each version of the story.

Selfishly, I mostly did this so Nate would remember me. But even if he throws the book away, I just hope he remembers to take his own advice. The world really is only as scary as we let it be.

In our groups sessions this past week, we have talked a lot about forgiveness and second chances. For the past 6 months, I have struggled to handle my anxiety and depression, making my constant battle between forgetting and remembering unbearable.

I’ve learned I need to give myself a second chance, and allow myself to to let go of the things that fuel the trains in my head.

Nate and I are both giving ourselves our own second chances- ones that might end up with us both back in this hospital. Ones that will be scary.

Whether or not we crash and burn, these are second chances I think we both truly deserve.

The trains in my head will never fully stop, and that’s ok. I feel ready to go home. I feel ready to attempt to live in a world without fear.

And, for the sake of Nate and every single way our short friendship changed me- I just want to allow myself to forget, but always remember to remember.

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charteredaccountantjanakpuri · 3 years

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45TH GST Council Meeting Discussion & Recommendations

A press release was issued concerning the 45th GST Council held on 17th September 2021 in Lucknow, chaired by the Honorable Union Finance & Corporate Affairs Minister Smt. Nirmala Sitharaman. The recommendations made in the council covered some reliefs in view of the COVID Pandemic situation, compensation cess utilization, changes in GST laws and procedures, interest on ineligible ITC and many more.

These recommendations would be given effect through issuing circulars and notifications as and when deemed fit.

Here, in this text, we have tried to briefly cover all the highlights of the said press release and other significant recommendations made by the council.

1: Relief measures, given the COVID Pandemic situation-

Concessional rates were being charged on some Covid treatment drugs up to 30th September 2021. The period now has been extended till 31st December 2021.

Rates on some other Covid treatment drugs would also be reduced to 5%.

2: A recommendation was also made to change the rates of some goods.

A list of goods was released mentioning the change in tax rates on goods like cancer medicines, Cartons, boxes, bags, packing containers of paper, Specified Renewable Energy Devices and parts, and some other items.

Mentha oil being supplied by an unregistered person would be covered under reverse charge mechanism, and in case of its export, refund of ITC should only be allowed against LUT.

The composition scheme would also cover brick kilns (threshold limit-Rs 20 Lakhs). Bricks without ITC would attract the rate of 6%, and with ITC would attract a 12% rate of tax.

3: A problem of accumulated ITC was faced by the dealers of footwear and textiles due to the wrong inverted duty structure on them. This incorrect inverted duty structure is now being rectified by changing the applicable rates of GST. This change would be brought w.e.f. 1st January 2022.

4: The council also had a discussion over the matter of petroleum products to be included or not under the purview of the GST Act. It was decided that it is not appropriate to take this step at this point.

5: Exemptions and change in rates of tax in case of a supply of services were also taken into account, and among them, some of the worth noting exemptions and changes were-

The exemption on the transport of goods by vessel or air from India to a place outside India has now been extended up to 30th September 2022

Electronic Commerce Operators (ECOs) are being made liable to pay tax on the following services-

1: Transport of passengers by a motor vehicle

2: Restaurant services (with some exceptions)

6: Clarifications in relation to rates on goods and services. Some important points to be considered are-

Coaching services to students provided by coaching institutes and NGOs under '‘Scholarships for students with Disabilities” are exempt from GST.

Supply of already manufactured ice-creams by ice-cream parlours would attract the rate of 18%

''Carbonated Fruit Beverages of Fruit Drink" and "Carbonated Beverages with Fruit Juice" would attract 28% of GST and 12% of Cess.

A uniform rate of 18% would be charged on all paper and paper board containers.

Overloading charges at toll plazas are exempt.

Entry tickets in amusement parks would now attract 18% GST, and if casino facilities are being provided, then the rate will be 28%.

Alcoholic liquor is not to be considered as food, and the job workers providing the services related to alcoholic liquor is liable to pay the tax at the rate of 18% instead of 5%.

A presentation was made on the issue of usage and exhausting of the compensation cess collection from June 2022 to April 2026. It was decided that the amount should be used in respect of the repayment of borrowings and debt servicing made to bridge the arising gap in 2020-21 and 2021-22. Council also thought it through to set up a group of ministers to look into the matter of inverted duty, rationalizing rates and exemptions under the GST Act.

ADVICE ON GST LAW AND PROCEDURE

Relaxation in filing FORM GST ITC-04 (Details of goods/capital goods sent to job worker and received back)-

1: The report is to be furnished once in six months, in case the annual aggregate turnover in preceding financial exceeds Rs 5 crores.

2: The report is to be furnished annually, in case the annual aggregate turnover in preceding financial is up to Rs 5 Crores.

Retrospective change in the law that the interest to be paid by a taxpayer will be on Ineligible ITC availed and utilized instead of ineligible ITC availed. The rate of interest will be 18% with effect from 01.07.2017A change may also be introduced in the provisions of transfer of unutilized ITC balance in cash ledger between distinct persons without going through the whole process of refund.

It was also discussed and decided to issue clarifications for removing ambiguousness through circulars for the taxpayers to benefit from. The issues and disputes are related to-

Scope of intermediary services

Interpretation of “merely establishment of distinct person” in case of export of services.

Some other clarifications related to debit note issuance date need of carrying a physical copy of tax invoices under Rule 48(4).

Provisions regarding procedure and time limit for filing refund of tax paid wrongfully.

FACILITATING AND STREAMLINING OF GST COMPLIANCES

1: Aadhar authentication has now been made mandatory for taxpayers wanting to take the refund and applying for revocation or cancellation of registration.

2: A refund of GST will be made in the same bank account to which the PAN is linked.

3: The late fee for Form GSTR-1 will now be auto-populated in the next return in Form GSTR-3B.

4: A registered person shall not be allowed to furnish FORM GSTR-1 if he has not furnished the return in FORM GSTR-3B for the preceding month. (w.e.f. 01.01.2022)

These recommendations were made after thorough deliberations and discussions. Many issues were brought up in view of the current COVID situation, problems related to GST structure, ambiguity and hardships that a taxpayer goes through. Many steps are to be taken which will prove to be beneficial and welcoming for the taxpayers.

The above-mentioned points were made only in the form of recommendations and are yet to be enforced through issuing notifications and circulars.

Authored by CA Manish Gupta & assisted by Khushi Khandelwal

For any queries or suggestions, reach at [email protected]

Disclaimer-The information given above by the author is to provide a general guidance to the readers. This information should not be sought as a substitute for legal opinion.

Source:https://www.manishanilgupta.com/blog-details/45th-gst-council-meeting-discussion-recommendations

#45TH GST Council Meeting #GST

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jobsearchtips02 · 4 years

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Live Stock Exchange Tracker Throughout the Coronavirus Pandemic

California and Texas got one of the most small-business relief funds.

Cash from the Small company Administration’s Income Security Program, which lacked funds on Thursday, streamed greatly to California and Texas, with building and construction companies and makers getting the largest variety of loans, instead of harder-hit retailers and restaurants, according to new data

The almost $350 billion in the Paycheck Protection Program also disproportionately flowed to states that have suffered fewer infections and deaths under the virus, like Kansas, than to harder-hit states like New York and New Jersey, when changing for the size of the small-business economy in each state.

The brand-new information, which include loan approvals through Thursday, show accommodation and food service firms have actually received less than 9 percent of the money from the program, about $305 billion, though they have suffered the largest job losses of any market throughout this recession. Building firms received the largest share, at simply over 13 percent, or about $45 billion.

The program was intended for banks to distribute the loans, which the federal government will pay off in most cases. That structure benefited companies with existing relationships with banks.

S.B.A. authorities included data on the biggest loan provider in the program, though they were not identified. The leading lender distributed more than $14 million in loans with a typical size of more than $500,000 per loan– recommending that the organization was offering loans to reasonably large services.

Stocks leap as financiers rally behind the idea of resuming the economy.

Image

Few people are seen during the midday shift change outside the Boeing plant in Everett, Washington. Credit … Ruth Fremson/The New York Times

Stocks in the United States rallied on Friday, with efforts to resume the economy taking center stage and investors undeterred by more information revealing the economic damage of the coronavirus pandemic.

The gains came after President Trump told guvs on Thursday that they could start resuming services in their states by May 1 or earlier, and Boeing— among the nation’s biggest makers– stated it prepared to produce 27,000 workers back to operate in Washington State to resume aircraft production.

The announcement is the very first attempt at large-scale resumption of organisation activity by a U.S. corporation considering that the coronavirus break out required business and federal government officials to shut down most unnecessary work. Boeing’s shares increased 11 percent on Friday.

Some European automakers– including Volkswagen, Volvo and Daimler– are planning to reboot assembly lines next week, staffed by workers in masks and protective clothes, sometimes separated from one another by plastic screens.

Opel, an unit of the French automaker PSA, stated it would reopen its German dealers on Monday after the German government announced that it would slowly ease lockdown constraints.

The S&P 500 increased nearly 2 percent by midday. European markets rose 2 to 3 percent higher after a positive day in Asia.

After international stock markets nose-dived previously this year, they have actually been rebounding given that late March, as investors have actually regularly looked past proof of the damage brought on by stay-at-home orders and business shutdowns, and instead focused on hopes for an ultimate healing.

On Friday, the rally followed China reported that its economy– the world’s second-largest after that of the United States– shrank for the very first time in decades. And data on car sales in Europe showed they collapsed.

Some also saw hopeful check in a report by the medical news website STAT that a drug from Gilead Sciences revealed early– and, so far, unproven– promise in fighting the coronavirus. According to STAT, the antiviral drug, remdesivir, has assisted patients with extreme symptoms recover rapidly in a clinical trial at a Chicago health center.

Still, without data from rigorous trials with control groups, it is impossible to know how efficient the drug in fact is. The National Institutes of Health is carrying out a trial in which patients get remdesivir or a placebo. The results will be understood within weeks.

Two weeks ago, Gilead altered 2 of its trials midstream. It increased the size of a study of patients with severe disease from 400 clients to 2,400 and increased the size of a trial of patients with moderate illness from 600 to 1600 clients– relocations that might enable the business to identify subtle effects if the drug was not making a significant distinction in results.

More news media outlets lay off employees.

The news media market continues to be shellacked by the miserable advertising market as services remain shuttered throughout much of the country. The New york city Times now estimates that approximately 33,000 workers in the media industry have actually been affected by prepared layoffs, pay cuts and furloughs, up from 28,000 recently.

The magazine business Condé Nast announced on Monday that it was cutting the pay of nearly half its work force by 10 to 20 percent. The paper chain Advance Resident– which shares a corporate moms and dad with Condé– stated this week that it would furlough staff members for one to two weeks.

Digital sites, whose subscription businesses are typically immature or nonexistent, continue to enforce cost-savings as a method to stanch the bleeding in the advertisement market. Slate, which converted its membership program, Slate Plus, into a paywall last month, is cutting all workers’ pay on a sliding scale. Vox Media, which acquired the legacy brand, New York Media, last year, is furloughing roughly 10 percent of its labor force and cutting the pay of high-earning workers.

The Los Angeles Times, among the nation’s largest newspapers by blood circulation, revealed internally this week that it was furloughing 40 non-newsroom employees and cutting senior supervisors’ pay. It also shuttered three community weeklies, laying off 14 people, consisting of guild members.

The paper was previously believed to be fairly insulated from the present environment, because– like other outlets, such as The Washington Post and Bloomberg Media, which have yet to make cuts– it is owned by a benevolent benefactor, Patrick Soon-Shiong, a regional business owner who bought the paper together with The San Diego Union-Tribune and other residential or commercial properties 2 years ago for $500 million.

The ride-sharing business has actually collapsed.

In February, Uber stated it had actually expected to bring in $16 billion to $17 billion in income this year. On Thursday, the business stated it could no longer forecast what will take place.

Lyft has not yet made a comparable announcement, but there’s no factor to believe it faces a various fate.

Drawing from aggregated debit and credit card purchases of countless U.S. consumers, for instance, the analytics firm Second Step discovered that spending on Uber’s flights dropped about 83 percent in March. And revenues tracker service Gridwise, utilizing information gathered from more than 30,000 drivers nationwide, found that the average per hour earnings of drivers dropped 36 percent from the beginning of March to the middle of the month. By the end of March, incomes started to recuperate a little, but were still down 24 percent.

So how are the companies dealing with the slump? In the meantime, the method appears to be: Wait it out, and deliver food– as much of it as possible.

Uber’s money-losing food delivery service, Uber Eats, more than likely went beyond Uber’s ride-hailing service in sales by mid-March and jumped about 27 percent for the month, according to 2nd Measure.

Although Lyft had no food shipment company prior to the pandemic, it created a momentary one to deliver meals and groceries for trainees and seniors. And on Wednesday, Lyft broadened the program to 11 major cities, consisting of Atlanta, Houston, San Francisco and Seattle.

A surge in orders has actually wreaked havoc at Amazon– and confusion for customers.

Because the coronavirus outbreak reached the United States, Amazon– a business constructed on the promise that individuals will constantly want more products, quicker– has struggled to react to a surge in orders In some cases products remain in stock. Sometimes they aren’t. Its popular page featuring Deals of the Day, once a popular function, has been buried. The business is even trying to tamp down need.

For consumers, the modifications have produced confusion just as individuals have turned more than ever to online shopping to assist safeguard themselves from the infection. The business tells clients that some items will show up in weeks, instead of hours or days. And the sense of limitless bounty on the site has actually eroded.

” It is nearly like a run on the bank, when there is a report you can’t get your cash out and everyone runs to the A.T.M.,” said Guru Hariharan, whose business, CommerceIQ, encourages big consumer brand names with their Amazon organisation.

How to choose whether to file early for Social Security.

Over the past decade, much more workers who are eligible for Social Security have actually been waiting to file, often significantly increasing their life time yearly benefits.

However the stunning task losses in the pandemic-induced recession might bring this pattern to a crashing halt, as all of a sudden out of work older workers without significant savings scramble to meet living expenditures.

Even in excellent times, there is no simple, one-size-fits-all answer when it comes to timing a claim– your durability, cost savings and any other pension earnings are very important aspects. Now the choice is complicated by the extremely unsure outlook for the economy, tasks and monetary markets.

However even if you need Social Security earnings instantly, you might have alternatives worth considering that can enhance life time advantages. Our Retiring writer, Mark Miller, strolls you through the crucial questions to consider.

What to learn about the proliferation of frauds around the coronavirus.

Scams around the coronavirus include companies selling intravenous vitamin C drips to “increase immunity” to the virus, sites using masks that never ever show up and even reports of fake drive-up screening websites, where impostors swabbed individuals’s cheeks in exchange for money.

Here are some concerns and responses about coronavirus-related fraud:

How can I safeguard myself from coronavirus scams?

First, comprehend that there are presently no F.D.A.-approved vaccines or treatments for the coronavirus, said Noah Joshua Phillips, an F.T.C. commissioner. That will, hopefully, change– but you are not likely to hear about it initially by means of a shady robocall. The very best thing to do if you get a suspicious call is to hang up, he stated.

What if I am anticipating a government stimulus payment?

Many people don’t need to do anything to get their financial stimulus payments, which the federal government is releasing to help people facing money difficulties because of the virus. Those payments will be deposited into your bank account instantly, the I.R.S. stated.

” The I.R.S. isn’t going to call you asking to confirm or offer your financial information” so you can get your payment faster, the head of the firm, Chuck Rettig, said in a statement this month.

I saw a social networks report about virus-related scams happening door to door. Is this real?

Agencies consisting of the F.B.I. have actually provided public cautions about individuals offering fake infection test packages and “unapproved treatments” on “door-to-door check outs.” The inspector general for the Department of Health and Human being Services also warned of “scammers” going door to door offering Covid-19 tests in exchange for individual information, like Medicare details.

European cars and truck sales dropped in March.

New data on Friday offered the very first concrete indicator of how badly European carmakers were hit by coronavirus lockdowns, and it was every bit as bad as feared.

New vehicle registrations in the European Union fell 55 percent last month compared to a year previously, the European Auto Manufacturers Association stated, as dealerships closed their doors and purchasers were stuck in their homes. Owners signed up 570,000 brand-new cars during the month, down from 1.3 million in March 2019.

Sales all but evaporated in Italy, the European nation that entered into lockdown the earliest, falling 85 percent. Spain and France likewise suffered decreases of around 70 percent.

Carmakers that depend upon southern Europe for sales likewise suffered one of the most. Fiat Chrysler sales dropped 77 percent. PSA, whose brands consist of Peugeot, Citroën and Opel, suffered a 68 percent plunge in sales.

German carmakers BMW, Daimler and Volkswagen fared marginally much better, with decreases of less than 50 percent.

Catch up: Here’s what else is occurring.

Walmart stated that it had worked with 150,000 workers since March 19, and it vowed to employ 50,000 more The seller said it had actually received more than a million applications considering that its preliminary hiring statement. The new workers will be employed on a temporary basis, it stated, including that numerous had been furloughed from other companies and were looking to bridge the gap until they returned to their original jobs.

The organizers behind San Diego Comic Con, the yearly popular culture event, announced on Friday that the occasion was canceled, the very first time in its 50- year history. Fans who bought badges can ask for a refund or transfer their badges to next year’s event.

Ford Motor said it anticipated to report a $2 billion loss for the very first quarter, on profits of $34 billion. The statement was available in a regulatory filing ahead of a full quarterly report on April28 The automaker said previously today that its first-quarter wholesale volume was down 21 percent from a year earlier, generally since of the break out’s influence on production and need. It said last month that it was suspending its dividend and any share buybacks.

General Electric’ s aviation leasing department stated it was canceling 69 orders for Boeing‘s bothered 737 Max jet, which has actually been grounded for over a year after two fatal crashes. Boeing got 150 Max order cancellations last month. In the very first quarter, it took in four times as many order cancellations as brand-new orders.

Procter & Gamble, the consumer items giant, reported a big dive in sales for the quarter as consumers stockpiled on paper towels, bathroom tissue and diapers. P&G reported that natural net sales increased five percent to $172 billion. The company said increased deliveries in North America and some parts of Europe offset declines in some Asian markets.

The coronavirus outbreak has brought China’s extraordinary, almost half-century-long run of growth to an end The nation’s National Bureau of Data said on Friday that the financial output diminished 6.8 percent from January through March compared to the same duration last year. It’s the very first financial shrinkage acknowledged in official stats considering that 1976, when the nation remained in the last days of the Cultural Transformation.

Reporting was contributed by Daisuke Wakabayashi, Davey Alba, Gina Kolata, Jack Ewing, Abdi Latif Dahir, Simon Marks, Karen Weise, Julie Creswell, Marc Tracy, Elaine Yu, Kevin McKenna, Nelson D. Schwartz, Kate Conger, Katie Thomas, Erin Griffith, Emily Flitter, Alan Rappeport, Brooks Barnes, Keith Bradsher, Amie Tsang, Geneva Abdul, Niraj Chokshi, Vindu Goel, Carlos Tejada and Mike Ives. Yiwei Wang and Coral Yang contributed research study.

Upgraded April 11, 2020

When will this end?

This is a challenging question, since a lot depends on how well the infection is contained

How can I help?

The Times Neediest Cases Fund has actually begun an unique campaign to assist those who have been affected, which accepts contributions here Charity Navigator, which evaluates charities using a numbers-based system, has a running list of nonprofits working in neighborhoods affected by the outbreak. You can offer blood through the American Red Cross, and World Central Kitchen has actioned in to distribute meals in significant cities. More than 30,000 coronavirus-related GoFundMe fund-raisers have begun in the previous couple of weeks. (The sheer number of fund-raisers suggests more of them are most likely to stop working to satisfy their goal, however.)

What should I do if I feel ill?

If you have actually been exposed to the coronavirus or think you have, and have a fever or signs like a cough or difficulty breathing, call a physician. They need to offer you advice on whether you need to be tested, how to get checked, and how to seek medical treatment without possibly infecting or exposing others.

Should I use a mask?

The C.D.C. has advised that all Americans wear fabric masks if they head out in public. This is a shift in federal assistance reflecting brand-new concerns that the coronavirus is being spread out by contaminated people who have no symptoms Previously, the C.D.C., like the W.H.O., has recommended that normal individuals don’t need to use masks unless they are sick and coughing. Part of the factor was to protect medical-grade masks for health care employees who desperately need them at a time when they remain in continually short supply. Masks do not replace hand washing and social distancing.

How do I get checked?

If you’re sick and you believe you’ve been exposed to the new coronavirus, the C.D.C. advises that you call your healthcare service provider and describe your signs and worries.

How does coronavirus spread?

It appears to spread out really quickly from individual to person, particularly in homes, hospitals and other restricted areas.

Is there a vaccine yet?

No.

What makes this break out so different?

Unlike the flu, there is no recognized treatment or vaccine, and little is understood about this specific infection so far.

What if somebody in my family gets ill?

If the family member does not require hospitalization and can be cared for at house, you must help him or her with basic requirements and monitor the signs, while likewise keeping as much range as possible, according to guidelines provided by the C.D.C. If there’s space, the sick family member ought to stay in a separate space and utilize a different restroom.

Should I stockpile on groceries?

Plan two weeks of meals if possible. However individuals should not hoard food or products. In spite of the empty shelves, the supply chain stays strong. And keep in mind to clean the handle of the grocery cart with a disinfecting clean and clean your hands as quickly as you get house.

Can I go to the park?

Yes, however make certain you keep 6 feet of distance between you and people who don’t reside in your house. Even if you just hang out in a park, rather than choose a jog or a walk, getting some fresh air, and ideally sunshine, is a good concept.

Should I pull my money from the markets?

That’s not a great idea.

What should I finish with my 401( k)?

Viewing your balance go up and down can be scary. You might be questioning if you must decrease your contributions– do not! If your company matches any part of your contributions, make sure you’re at least saving as much as you can to get that “free money.”

from Job Search Tips https://jobsearchtips.net/live-stock-exchange-tracker-throughout-the-coronavirus-pandemic/

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kurobizzlewrites · 7 years

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Leaps of Faith

Chapter 2 - Worth Fighting For

Fandom: YouTube RPF/Markiplier (with hints of Five Nights at Freddy’s)

Pairing: Mark Fischbach x Reader

Story Summary: You’re a multi-universe jumping secret agent, specializing in video game universes and out to prove you’re more than just a legacy. He’s a famous YouTube star who’s assigned to be your new partner thanks to his expertise in the horror game genre. You don’t know what’s worse: putting your trust in this weird dork or falling in love with him.

Genres: In-game reality, AU, romance (specifically ‘rivals to friends to lovers’), comedy, action-adventure, & horror

Chapter Summary: You try to convince Mark that working with you would be the worst thing ever. As usual, nothing goes according to plan.

Warnings: Swearing, explicit language, reader acting like a dick, mention of maybe child death

Words: 2665

A/N: Let’s keep the ball rolling with another new and improved chapter. Again, if you wanna read the all the chapters I have so far (all are going under revision, especially you chapter 3), then click here. Otherwise, continue on my wayward folks. Special thanks to @angelwrote to being sweet and lovely and ugh you’re the best Ange

—

Not to toot your own horn but you had always considered yourself a badass. You’ve dealt with drug dealers, Nazis, zombies, Nazi Zombies, aliens, and even dragons thanks to your line of work so you had quite the resume to back your confidence up. That’s why it was such a blow to your pride when you went to such lengths to avoid one measly guy. It wasn’t out of fear; there was no way you could be scared of Mark Fischbach. No, you avoided him because he made you feel things. Gross things. Like guilt. And a bit of shame.

The first day after you had discovered your terrible luck of being his neighbor, you did all you could to show how horrible of a partner you would be. You gave him dirty looks, cold shoulders, and distanced yourself as much as possible whenever you came across him inside and outside your building (which was surprisingly a lot). But every time you walked by with your most intimidating stare, Mark would always reply with a cheery smile and a wave.

Where was the apprehension? The anger? You were acting like complete dick to him, weren’t you? Dammit, he was making you question the intimidation skills you took so long to perfect. Plus, he was making you feel super guilty for doing all this. You never felt guilty! How dare he!

When your first plan ended up in failure, you decided to go with a different idea: never make contact with him ever again. Maybe if you avoided him long enough, he would forget about alternate realities and secret organizations long enough for you to find a more suitable partner. However, taking this course of action resulted in you staying at your office much longer than most of your co-workers, busying yourself with a variety of work. When not jumping to different universes, you were usually tasked with paperwork. Most of it involved research into what games were trending now and charting them out on fancy graphs or figuring out what Beta Universes had to be maintained in order to stop any negative bleeds from coming in. You also took some time to look into your first big assignment since your relocation by playing through the game. And boy, did Chuck really nail it in the head.

This game was terrifying.

It wasn’t the monsters or the atmosphere of playing inside a haunted children’s restaurant that scared you (they were just creepy at best). What got to you the most was the waiting. The game kept you on the edge of your seat as you waited for the clock to hit 6 AM, the only things protecting you from murderous animatronics were a flashlight and a bunch of cameras. You also kept flinching at those stupid jumpscares, especially when it was that dumb puppet. It almost made playing at your cubicle rather embarrassing but it was a thousand times better playing with a bunch of people around you than at your apartment by yourself.

Tonight, you stayed even longer than expected since you were completely engrossed with defeating the final night. A crowd had gathered around your cubicle to watch you play with many of them shouting or screeching whenever they saw any sign of Freddy or his friends. Eventually, you completed the final night after your 21st try, earning you a round of applause from your co-workers. You coolly brushed off the pride but couldn’t help the blush dusting your face as you waved good-bye to the people that remained at the office. By the time you stepped out of the building, the full moon was already overhead. You caught the next bus home and successfully snuck up to your apartment without any incident, practically giddy with your success-filled evening. Your mood did a complete 180 the moment you opened your refrigerator door to find nothing inside.

When was the last time you went grocery shopping? You thought back to previous dinners from the last few nights and remembered that you’d been ordering take-out. A glance at your garbage confirmed this as your stomach began to growl. It was probably too late to have anything delivered from a decent restaurant so you begrudgingly settled on going to one of those 24-hour fast food places close by. Sighing sadly to yourself, you dragged your feet out your apartment and began to lock the door behind you when a delicious smell drifted under your nose. You quickly spun around to find the source of the smell only to make accidental eye contact with Mark.

Fuck.

“Uh, hey.” You ended up greeting awkwardly despite yourself.

“Hey there.” Mark casually greeted back as he pulled out his keys. “Going out?”

“Yeah, I need to find dinner…” Your eyes drifted to the plastic bag hanging from his hand and your mouth began to water without warning. Mark followed your gaze and soon let out a chuckle when he put two and two together.

“Want some? I always order a lot so I can have leftovers later but you’re welcome to have that share.” He offered. You looked back up at him in surprise. Was he serious? For a few moments, your eyes traveled back and forth between Mark and his plastic bag of goodies as you sorted out the pros and cons of this decision. If you took him up on his offer, you would end up talking to him, something you really didn’t want to do for a number of reasons. One of them was because you’d be playing right into Evangeline’s hands about socializing with people outside of work. You also didn’t want to remind him about the job offer or be bombarded by questions about the position or alternate realities. But on the other hand, you might be able to convince him that the consultant position was not worth his life (or yours). And dammit, you really wanted to eat whatever he bought. It smelled too good to pass up.

“Okay,” you finally answered, “I’ll join you for dinner. But only because I don’t want to wait forever for the bus.” Mark perked up and grinned a toothy grin.

“Great! Come on in!” He exclaimed as he unlocked his door and held it open for you. You headed inside, your stomach leading the way and found his apartment almost an exact replica of yours, save for his furniture choices and personal belongings. Mark closed the door and placed the bag on the coffee table in the middle of the room.

“Just take a seat on the couch. Want anything to drink?” He asked as he headed over to the kitchen.

“A water is fine.” You replied back, taking a seat along the edge of the couch. There was no way you could relax here, no matter how hungry you were. You had no idea what his deal was or why he would invite someone he barely knew into his home. No one was that trusting.

Minutes later, Mark came back with two cups in his hands and set them on the table before plopping down beside you. “Now let’s see…” He mumbled as he pulled the plastic towards him and dug inside. “Do you want teriyaki chicken or sweet and sour pork?”

“Whatever you don’t want, I guess?” You answered with a shrug. Giving him first pick was the least you could do. You watched as he looked at both containers before handing one over to you along with a pair of chopsticks. “You know how to use these, right?”

“Of course, it’s not like I’ve never had Chinese food before.” You responded with a light glare as you accepted the food and utensil.

“Hey, how should I know? I don’t know anything about you.”

“Why don’t we keep it that way?” You immediately regretted those words and quickly glanced up to see his reaction. Mark had turned his attention to opening his food but couldn’t hide the hurt look on his face. You bit the inside of your cheek, the familiar feeling of guilt rearing its ugly head.

“Sorry, I’m just not one for personal conversations, ya know? I really do appreciate this so… thanks.” You weren’t sure if you sounded as sincere as you felt but once you saw his lips turn up into a small smile, you let out a sigh of relief.

“It’s fine, I get it. You should hurry up before your food gets cold.”

“Oh, right.” It was a bit hard to eat with the tense, awkward silence surrounding the two of you but you somehow managed. About halfway through your container, Mark finally had the bright idea to drown the silence out with some mindless television as he grabbed the remote and turned on his flat screen.

“What do you wanna watch?” He asked as he flipped through channels. You were going to reply with a ‘whatever’ when you saw a flash of something familiar between channel flips.

“Wait, go back.” Mark complied and flipped back to the previous channel where a red-haired anchorwoman was reading the news.

“-has been missing for about 48 hours. Mackenzie is the second child that has gone missing this past week, the first being Carter Adams.” Two pictures appeared on the screen, one of a little girl in braided pigtails and the other a little boy with a dimpled grin.

“Shit.” You cursed as you placed your dinner on the table, your appetite long gone. Two kids already? The game had only been out for a couple of days.

“What’s wrong?” Mark asked but turned his attention back to the news when the woman continued to speak.

“Just like Carter, Mackenzie was last seen leaving a local pizzeria with her friends but never made it home but police have made no connections between the restaurant and the missing children.” You saw the color drain from Mark’s face as he too dropped his food on the table when a picture of the said pizzeria came up.

“No… it can’t be.” He whispered in disbelief.

“It is.” You replied solemnly. “It’s not an exact replica but it’s definitely an effect from a bleed.” Although the name of the restaurant was blurred out, you could still make out the silhouette of a bear hanging above the sign.

“So, there’s a bleed coming from the Five Night’s at Freddy’s universe?!” Mark practically screeched, seconds away from a major freak out.

“Yeah, it’s all thanks to that stupid sequel. Or prequel, or whatever it’s supposed to be.” You answered, digging into your pocket to fish out your phone. You had to call Evangeline and see if she knew about this.

“No one’s gone through the game and put up the walls or whatever they’re called?”

“Everyone who’s tried is dead. I’m supposed to be the next Agent to give it a go but Evangeline is still screening potential partners for me. Won’t let me go without one.”

“Then I’ve made my decision. I’ll be your partner.” You fingers stopped moving as your body went cold. You spun around and faced a determined-looking Mark.

“Hell no you’re not.”

“Look, I might not have the training but I know this game inside and out. I can hel-”

“No, you can’t!” You snarled, making the dark-haired man flinch but he quickly collected himself and steeled his gaze to match yours.

“What is your deal? What is it that you don’t like about me? My face? My attitude?”

“Everything.”

“Yeah? Then why the hell are you here? If you really hated me, you wouldn’t have stepped foot inside my apartment, much less accept my peace offering.”

“I…” Your anger began to subside in the face of Mark’s logic as an embarrassed blush creeped onto your face. Dammit. You let out a long sigh, releasing not only air but a good amount of your rage, leaving you an exhausted lump.

“Fine, I don’t hate you okay?” You admitted, looking down at your hands as the guilt you had locked away took over. “I was just trying to make it harder for you so you wouldn’t accept the job. I don’t need someone dragging me down.”

“I beat the game, I know how it works.” Mark stated, his tone softer than before. Probably backing down now that you weren’t growling at him.

“I’m sure you do, you wouldn’t have been sought after by my boss. But this is a life or death situation and I don’t know if I can trust someone who’s never been out in the field, especially if that said someone just recently learned about all this crazy shit.” Silence followed soon after and you glanced up after a few moments to read Mark’s face. The mixture of emotions made it hard to pinpoint what exactly he was thinking but you could tell that he was torn up about this. Finally, he began to speak.

“I feel responsible for what happened to those kids.” He confessed in a soft voice. You raised an eyebrow, not expecting that to come out of his mouth.

“What are you talking about?”

“I helped spread word about the game through my videos.” He explained as he rubbed the back of his neck, a pained expression on his face. “I uploaded the last one yesterday and I’m pretty sure they’ve all reached about two million views by now. Dammit!” You jumped when his fists suddenly slammed against the coffee table as Mark’s face contorted from guilt to anger.

“There’s nothing I can do here! No one would believe me if I went to the cops so the only way I can stop any more kids from getting kidnapped and possibly killed is if you let me go with you to that universe!” His eyes bore straight into yours, the fury clearly shining through before they slowly turned into desperation after a few moments.

“[Name], I promise I won’t drag you down. I’ll listen to whatever you say and do whatever training I need to do so please, let me help.” You looked at Mark for a good long while, studying every inch of his face with your trained eyes. You were searching for some kind of crack, a lie beneath his anguish but you couldn’t find anything. He was truly shaken up by the fates of those two kids, no, two complete strangers, and seemed determined to make things right. To do so much for someone he didn’t know…

It was fucking inspiring.

You haven’t met anyone, in or out of the Agency, who would jump into danger for someone they didn’t know in a long time. Chuck was onto something when picking this guy for the position. Maybe you could trust him, just a little bit.

“7 AM.” You finally announced as you stood up.

“What?”

“We’ll leave here at 7 AM for the office so we could start on your training. You need to at least get used to universe jumping before we go face Freddy and his gang.” You ignored Mark’s bumbling as you started for his door but stopped short when he called out to you.

“Wait! Does that mean…?” You glanced over your shoulder and gave him an even look.

“Yeah, I’ll take you as my partner. But remember, you made me a promise. And I hate people who break their promises.” Mark blinked, probably surprised over your change of heart, before giving you the brightest, sincerest smile you had ever seen.

“I won’t let you down.” He replied warmly and you felt your breath hitch just the tiniest bit. You brushed away your strange reaction and gave Mark a simple nod.

“Good. See you tomorrow.” You walked out of his apartment, hearing his good-bye just as you closed the door behind you. As you crossed the hallway to your door, you placed a hand over your chest, feeling it’s quickened pace beneath your shirt and skin. You furrowed your brow in confusion as you headed inside.

What the hell was that?

#markiplier #mark fischbach #markiplier imagines #mark fischbach imagine #reader insert #fanfiction #reader #mark fischbach x reader #kurobizzle writes #markiplier fanfiction

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renegadepharmacist · 4 years

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How Chemists, Chinese Factories, and ‘Dark Web’ Dealers Spread Fentanyl Across the US

Ben Westhoff’s Fentanyl, Inc. is one of the first books to address what the Centers for Disease Control has called the “third wave” of the opioid crisis.

By Daniel Kolitz

TODAY 7:00 AM

Tablets suspected to be fentanyl are placed on a graph to measure their size at the Drug Enforcement Administration Northeast Regional Laboratory in New York, 2019. (AFP via Getty / Don Emmert)

The Wizard of OxyContin—where is he now? That nickname, revealed in leaked documents, belonged to an employee of Abbott Laboratories, which partnered with Purdue Pharmaceuticals to sell the drug. Starting in the late 1990s, he and his colleagues canvassed clinics around the country, hard-selling doctors on their flagship product. Purdue wooed doctors taught to distrust pain medications with steaks, vacations, and a stunning range of swag: Oxy-branded clocks, pens, beach hats, even swing music compilations. They were told that, unlike other opioids, OxyContin was addiction-proof; its time-release coating assured a steady, measured dose and would thwart attempts at abuse. Unmentioned by those reps—but known by their bosses from day one—was the ease with which this coating could be removed. As doctors began prescribing the drug in ever-larger numbers and Oxy’s sales soared into the billions, this glitch would devastate families, ravage towns, and before long spark the worst drug crisis in US history.

BOOKS IN REVIEW: FENTANYL INC: HOW ROGUE CHEMISTS ARE CREATING THE DEADLIEST WAVE OF THE OPIOID EPIDEMIC

By Ben Westhoff

Buy this book

Purdue eventually gestured toward fixing this problem, after 14 years of lucrative dithering. In 2010, a few years before its patent was set to expire, the company prolonged it with a new formula. This revamped Oxy was harder to abuse, and while its effectiveness has been debated, rates of prescription drug abuse have declined, aided by “pill mill” raids and stricter prescribing guidelines. But the wreckage that Oxy left behind is still being felt: In 2017, more than 47,000 Americans have died of opioid overdoses, the highest number on record. That same year, fentanyl became a household name, surfacing in local news segments, policy-website explainers, and thousands of toxicology reports. When the original Oxy vanished from the streets, many of the people addicted to it turned to heroin—and now it emerged that much of the heroin available in the United States (along with fast-rising quantities of cocaine) was laced with fentanyl. The advantage, for dealers, was price: Fentanyl costs less than heroin and is easier to acquire. It also happens to be 50 times more potent.

Often lost in the early news reports was the fact that fentanyl alone wasn’t killing people; many different kinds of fentanyl were. Since its invention in 1959 by the Belgian chemist and doctor Paul Janssen, fentanyl has seen more than 1,400 analogues: twists on the original formula whose origins and effects vary widely. Carfentanil, for instance—100 times stronger than fentanyl—was until 2018 FDA-approved for use as an elephant tranquilizer. It is here that the opioid crisis intersects with (and amplifies) a newer scourge: NPS, or new psychoactive substances, molecularly tweaked stand-ins for traditional street drugs. The best-known of these is probably K2, or Spice, the ostensible marijuana substitute whose high bears little resemblance to the real thing and whose side effects include blood-clotting, kidney failure, and instant death. But there are hundreds more, and likely thousands in development. Mini-pandemics have erupted across the country, as when, in the course of a single week last year, over 100 people in New Haven overdosed on what was later determined to be AB-FUBINACA, yet another synthetic cannabinoid.

Ben Westhoff, in Fentanyl, Inc.: How Rogue Chemists Are Creating the Deadliest Wave of the Opioid Epidemic, charts this progression in harrowing detail. We are now dealing, he writes, with “the harshest drug challenge in our history.” His book is one of the first to address what the Centers for Disease Control has called the “third wave” of the opioid crisis: first OxyContin, then heroin, and now fentanyl and its analogues. Earlier accounts of this crisis—Sam Quinones’s Dreamland: The True Tale of America’s Opiate Epidemic or Beth Macy’s Dopesick: Dealers, Doctors, and the Drug Company That Addicted America—had in Purdue Pharma the benefit, structural and dramatic, of a villain. More or less everyone can agree that pharmaceutical companies should refrain from wantonly pursuing profit at the expense of public health. Dopesick is rarely a pleasant read, but Macy’s account of Purdue’s first major court battle—which culminated in criminal convictions for three executives and $600 million in fines—provided at least some measure of catharsis.

Westhoff, reporting from the flayed, despairing center of this crisis, can’t offer any comparable relief. Purdue Pharma is now dead, and responsibility has devolved, in this third wave, to thousands of loosely affiliated actors: Dark Web distributors, small-time dealers, chemists whose skills and moral scruples vary widely. Like the cryptocurrencies that mask countless NPS transactions, these networks are decentralized: Members taken down are just as quickly replaced. But there is consolation in clarity, and the achievement of Westhoff’s book is to press this sprawling cast and the forces that gave rise to it into something like a coherent narrative, forming legible patterns out of widespread chaos.

As Westhoff points out, many of the most dangerous NPS were developed under completely legal circumstances, by tenured professors at prestigious universities. These experimental compounds—as well as the steps taken to produce them—were written up in small, peer-reviewed science journals and more or less forgotten, until the underworld began to repurpose these articles as recipes for recreational drugs. David Nichols, the utopian chemist who once dreamed of a drug that would end all war, now finds himself faced with the grief of parents like Eric Brown, whose son Montana overdosed on 251-NBOMe, which was brought into the mainstream through his research.

If Fentanyl, Inc. does have a primary antagonist, it’s the Chinese government. Virtually all of the fentanyls that have flooded the United States in recent years have been manufactured in China, where many NPS are legal, an arrangement that allows legitimate businesses to churn them out on a scale inconceivable to illicit drug makers in North America. This process has been heavily underwritten, as Westhoff demonstrates, by “lucrative tax incentives, subsidies, and direct financial support” from the Chinese government, as part of its breakneck bid to expand the country’s biotechnology sector.

The extent to which Chinese officials are aware of what they’re funding is unclear—some of these companies produce hundreds of products, churning out fentanyls alongside collagen, pesticides, and erectile-dysfunction meds—but the blind eye they’ve turned toward the export of these chemicals has yielded a number of complaints from the United States. The companies, meanwhile, know exactly what they’re doing: Fentanyls and NPS that are legal in China but banned in the US are often shipped in disguise, packaged as dog food or high-gluten wheat flour bread. In addition to an urgent public health crisis, this is an issue of international trade, which means that President Donald Trump seems authentically to care about it. In April, under pressure from his administration, China instituted a blanket ban on the production of all fentanyl variants. The majority of Westhoff’s reporting was conducted before this announcement was made, but, as he argues and as recent developments have borne out, it is “far from clear” if these new regulations have had any impact.

To illuminate this deadly, improbable cycle—in which drugs developed at American universities are mass-produced in Chinese factories and then sold to North American dealers, occasionally winding up, as party drugs, on the very same campuses whose endowments funded their creation—Westhoff ranges widely, logging time with each link in the chain of production. Eventually, in the book’s intrepid centerpiece, he manages to infiltrate two Chinese chemical manufacturers. At one of them, undercover as a cautious buyer, he encounters a roomful of cheerful twentysomethings blithely Skyping with potential customers to organize deals. It’s an uncanny moment: With fentanyl components swapped for cheap razors or custom-made mattresses, this could be any number of US start-ups, right down to the strained cheer and punishing work hours (though with the further difference that all of these people live together, in a motel adjacent to their office). But the book’s most revealing encounter takes place back home, when Westhoff, still posing as a buyer, is asked via Skype by one of these young sales reps why exactly people buy a chemical called NPP. Westhoff explains that it’s used to make fentanyl.

“I know Fentanyl,” she continued, “but why [do] people use it?”

“It’s highly addictive,” I said.

“Yes, I know it is a bad ,” the saleswoman admitted, “but I still sell it, so sometimes I feel guilt. NPP is not forbidden in China, so we can sell. I sell it, because I want to earn money, earn a living.”

Westhoff lets this exchange stand on its own, but a whole world throbs beneath it. Like many Chinese companies, the one this woman works for—called Yuancheng—began exporting its products to the United States only after China joined the World Trade Organization in 2001. That development cost millions of Americans their factory jobs and helped speed along the opioid crisis, as thousands of newly unemployed workers started selling their surplus Oxy to make the rent or maintain their own supply. Asked to justify themselves, they might have said something similar. Neither party—the laid-off factory worker selling Oxy out of his foreclosed home; the Yuancheng saleswoman working six-day weeks to keep the room she shares with six coworkers—can really be blamed. That the latter has progressed to killing the former suggests a failure, or an apotheosis, of two miserably enmeshed systems.

Stemming the flow of drugs from China is important, as is working, somehow, to curb the spread of NPS. But this problem isn’t disappearing soon, and there are people who urgently need our help. The relative whiteness of those affected by the opioid crisis has softened the old approach—jail the dealers, jail the addicts, remind young children that drugs are bad—but as Westhoff demonstrates, we have a long way to go. If we are to treat opioid-use disorder as a disease like any other, then here-and-now treatment must be our first priority, and Fentanyl, Inc. closes with a tour of some organizations taking that imperative seriously. Most of them are located outside the United States, a country whose fervent commitment to prolonged and needless suffering largely precludes the safe-injection sites and drug-testing operations that have saved countless lives in Europe. There have been some signs of progress—Westhoff highlights Grand Forks, North Dakota, a small conservative city that has liberalized access to Narcan, clean needles, and medication-assisted treatment—but harm reduction has yet to take hold as a national strategy. Which is unfortunate, because no other strategy works.

Daniel Kolitzis a writer living in Brooklyn.

#opioid epidemic

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stone-man-warrior · 5 years

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August 17, 2018: 4:35 pm:

August 17, 2018: 4:21 pm:<br><br>It's been quite an interesting few days ... StoneMan .Warrior - 2018-08-17 16:35:25-0700 - Updated: 2018-08-17 16:35:25-0700

August 17, 2018: 4:21 pm: It's been quite an interesting few days since my last post. I seem to have stirred up terrorists all the way into the White House, and the Pentagon, and the FBI, and a host of other top-level crooks, thieves, mass murderers, drug dealers, scum bags, addicts and scally-wags of all kinds, from the Oval Office to the Post Office to the shipping office to the back office, the terrorist bastards have come. Does anyone know the whereabouts of Jeff Sessions? Does anyone know the whereabouts of James Comey? It has been interesting and educational. I can gather from the events of the past few days that the coup on the White House is underway now. Damage control representatives have been sent from the highest authority in the land to delete this page, and kill me. The bastards have been successful only at deleting a small portion of this page, just a few entries. They were important entries. I am confidant that there is someone out there who copied the information that was posted and then deleted by terrorist Vatican Screen Actor Guild soldiers. ========================================= The text below is today's entire correspondence from the White House in Washington DC. This White House correspondence is loaded with Seventh Day Adventist secret code. I will make comment about the items later today. ========================================= The White House • August 17, 2018 ‘Made in America’—the results so far President Donald J. Trump ran for office on a simple idea. Too many politicians, especially on the left, insisted that America must adjust to a new age of slow growth and declining influence. Instead, the President innately understood Charles Krauthammer’s words—delivered in 2009—to be true: “Decline is a choice.” So is American renewal. Better trade deals open markets for American farmers and protect American workers. Lower taxes on families and employers reinvigorate American businesses. Fewer regulations put more power back into the hands of American citizens and their local governments. There’s another key ingredient: “We want to make more products and say ‘Made in America’,” the President says. “‘Made in the USA’ is a global symbol" of excellence. Now, America is making things again. Almost 200,000 manufacturing jobs were lost under the previous Administration; more than 400,000 have been added since President Trump was elected. The latest jobs report reveals that 37,000 manufacturing jobs were created last month alone. Manufacturing wages are expected to rise at the fastest rate in more than 18 years. Evident in this hiring and wage surge is soaring confidence among American producers. According to the National Association of Manufacturers, 95 percent of manufacturers have a positive outlook on their companies—the highest on record. Get the facts: America’s economic resurgence under President Trump Watch: President Trump to steelworkers: “America is OPEN FOR BUSINESS!” Aretha Franklin, 1942–2018 As news of the legendary soul singer Aretha Franklin’s death broke yesterday, President Trump spoke about her legacy at the top of his Cabinet meeting. “I want to begin today by expressing my condolences to the family of a person I knew well,” he said. “She’s brought joy to millions of lives, and her extraordinary legacy will thrive and inspire many generations to come. She was given a great gift from God: her voice. And she used it well.” Watch the President pay tribute to Aretha Franklin. ‘Obamacare forgot about you. But Trump didn’t.’ “For all the discussion of Obamacare since its passage, it is too rarely known that the law effectively split the United States’ individual insurance market in two,” Health and Human Services (HHS) Secretary Alex Azar wrote this week. On one side are those with subsidies; on the other are Americans who must bear the full cost of their coverage. “In other words, Obamacare has forced unsubsidized Americans to choose between unaffordable insurance and no insurance at all,” the Secretary continued. The Trump Administration is providing relief for millions of Americans burdened with Obamacare’s rising premiums. Recently, HHS expanded an affordable insurance option to give customers more choice, allowing them to buy short-term, limited-duration insurance for up to a year. Secretary Azar: Obamacare forgot about you. But Trump didn’t. ==================================================

Shared with: Public

+1'd by: Bryan Milen

StoneMan .Warrior - 2018-08-17 17:56:08-0700

August 17, 2018: 5:21 pm: Today's White House Correspondence viewed through a MKUltra Secret Agent Decoder Ring that I found in a old box of Cracker-Jacks, Movie Size. As Follows: ============================================== ‘Made in America’—the results so far President Donald J. Trump ran for office on a simple idea. Too many politicians, especially on the left, insisted that America must adjust to a new age of slow growth and declining influence. Instead, the President innately understood Charles Krauthammer’s words—delivered in 2009—to be true: “Decline is a choice.” ============================================== On the surface, the item above is about "Made In America". Only on the surface though. The first sentence is missing punctuation. The period symbol is not there. This could mean trouble for a female somewhere. Could be a missing female terrorist White House representative/operative. The next line indicates that Mr. Trump ran for office on a simple idea, however, nowhere in the paragraph is their any reference to that idea. As I recall, Mr. Trump had a number of ideas that he ran on. Slow growth... in the next sentence; Declining influence; Adjust; on the Left: This suggest a sideways notion and an insistence to curb advancements. The final note in the paragraph is about a quote of Mr. Krauthammer: “Decline is a choice.” In legal jargon, even first year law school students know that when a "Show Cause" is on the table, there are a set of items listed, part of the "Show Cause" is to either "Admit, or, Deny... Decline". This is important, the terrorists are entertainers, they are SAG members, so, they consider their brand of terrorism as a "Show". The "Show Cause", according to my MKUltra Secret Agent Decoder Ring from Cracker Jack's Popcorn Snacks, is the cause of the show. In other words, this sentence is an instruction, from the "insistence" of the president, "to be true", that is, to be loyal to the cause... and further, to decline, deny, or otherwise lie about events and details of terrorism if caught, side-ways sometimes means "to lie down". The punishment for insubordination is "The Chuck Krauthammer", and is "innate" or will come naturally as a result of agreeing to be a terrorist in the first place. The punishment is something like the equivalent of a personal visit from Arnold Schwarzenegger wielding a sledge hammer... think "hamburger" or "schnitzel" and you will be on the right track. Personally, I have endured the terrorist wielding a sledgehammer service more than once... it hurts. The significance of the statement "—delivered in 2009—" is not clear to me, or the secret decoder ring. ========================================== And that is how I read the first paragraph of today's White House correspondence with the help of my trusty MKUltra Secret Agent Decoder Ring that I found in a old box of Cracker-Jacks, Movie Size.

StoneMan .Warrior - 2018-08-17 19:15:20-0700

August 17, 2018: 6:25 pm: The next item in the White House terrorist secret Vatican Screen Actor Guild Seventh Day Adventist command chain instruction Communication From the office of Donald J. Trump. As Follows: =========================================== So is American renewal. Better trade deals open markets for American farmers and protect American workers. Lower taxes on families and employers reinvigorate American businesses. Fewer regulations put more power back into the hands of American citizens and their local governments. There’s another key ingredient: “We want to make more products and say ‘Made in America’,” the President says. “‘Made in the USA’ is a global symbol" of excellence. =========================================== The item above has two parts. The first paragraph starts abruptly. In Hollywood secret code, there is a notion that things can be "inny-outy", "topsey-turvey", upsey-downey", "black as day", "onesey-twosey", and a variety of other silliness that indicates reversal is often how things are discussed. Reversal in one sentence, or statement, can be re-reversed in the next statement to make things right-side-up. To wrap that up, starting abruptly can also mean ending abruptly, such as in two pieces, or in terrorist terms as a "two-piece", which is a physical description of a human that has been cut in two separate pieces, like this article portion is. --------------------------- Mr. Trump made a remark at a cabinet meeting that was aired on YouTube by an account called "Tech-View" yesterday. Toward the end after the man with the giant red tie gave a short speech containing bunch of really good news, the President made a verbal remark that demonstrates secret code, "Hollywood Style", in which he phrased his remark about water, and it's relationship to smelt (yes, smelt), as "coming up from the North, or, down from the North". The communication I am referring to and an explanation as to it's significance can be found here: <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GuVVjyAOk6A>

(look for two comments by StoneMan .Warrior there for explaination.) --------------------------- Now back to the reading: There is a reference to "better trade", "farmers" and "protecting American workers" in the second sentence of this paragraph. Farmers is about Seventh Day Adventists. American Workers are enslaved American victims who are currently held captive by the Seventh Day Adventists. This reading comes on a notion that there is turmoil among the terrorists, so this part of the communication is about telling the Seventh Day Adventists to protect the Victims who are being held in captivity. This protection could very well be an instruction to kill any victims who are being held, and in that way would protect them from being found by National Security personnel. The statement about "Better Trade Deals" is a statement about treason. Trade = treason in terror talk. Open Markets is a way of saying to be creative with the American Victims being held captive, anything goes, no rules, dispose of at will. The third sentence in this article paragraph is in regard to "Lower Taxes", which means to stop attacking for now. "Reinvigorate American business" is about disposing of victims held in captivity again, and is suggestive of "getting new life later on", "Reinvigorate", out with the old, and in with the new... but later, after things cool down. The final sentence here seems to be an instruction to allow the terrorist occupied cities, such as Grants Pass Oregon, and parts of Wisconsin, to perform activities that are considered to be "the American Way", which is quite contrary to the way the terrorist bastards do things. It is also an instruction not to take more prisoners or do any more unnecessary killing out in the public areas, and to perform local government tasks as per the way the job requirements for such local government operations are specified in their individually prescribed codes of conduct. Again, such an idea of codes of conduct being honored is contrary to the terrorist ways. The second part of the is two-piece statement: Basically, that part simply says "don't forget about our goals", "we are after Global Dominance", "made in the USA is not enough until the USA is a global state." So, in summery: "Dispose of "partners" and slaves, protect the terrorist ways from exposure in whatever way is necessary, don't get caught, take a break from the terrorist activity, and never forget what we set out to do, we will be on track again shortly." is the way that reads through MKUltra secret agent decoder tools. And that wraps that up.

StoneMan .Warrior - 2018-08-17 21:17:04-0700 - Updated: 2018-08-17 22:11:28-0700

August 17, 2018: 8:46 pm: Continuing with the reading of terrorist news from the head terrorist, Donald J. Trump. Third paragraph as follows: ======================================== Now, America is making things again. Almost 200,000 manufacturing jobs were lost under the previous Administration; more than 400,000 have been added since President Trump was elected. The latest jobs report reveals that 37,000 manufacturing jobs were created last month alone. ======================================== This paragraph is straight forward in terror terms. First, to understand, you must realize that word articulation is of utmost usefulness in crafting terrorist communications. They call the notion of articulation "Word Magic". With that in mind, remember that Mr. Trump's administration keeps changing. The appointees in his cabinet are like people trapped in a revolving door. The White House personnel office is like a popular thrill ride at a major theme park where there are people lined up to ride the ride for a while, then they move on to a different part of the theme park. So, when they talk about "The current administration", that just means the list of staffers as it stands today, verses the way the list looked the last time someone was hired or fired, which under the leadership of Donald Trump, the ""current administration" literally means one that has been in place for just a few hours. The paragraph says that under the previous administration, which would be since the last time a staffer or cabinet member was added or subtracted from the personnel list, since before then, 200,000 Americans who worked in manufacturing were murdered by terrorist soldiers under his leadership. It goes further to say that after changes were made to the current White House Staff, under those conditions, and additional 400,000 victims of terrorism have been added to the 200,000 that were killed just a few weeks ago. Then, the article indicates that in just one month, last month, more than 37,000 jobs opened up. The reason is through attrition. When terrorists kill an individual, then, that individual is no longer employed, and thus, a job opening is created. This report is only about manufacturing jobs and does not include job openings due to attrition in other professions caused by death resultant of terrorism under the leadership of Donald J. Trump. So, in conclusion, more than 637,000 Americans who worked at manufacturing jobs have been murdered by terrorist soldiers under the leadership of Donald Trump, the President of the United States of America. This accounting only includes those who have been killed by representatives of Donald Trump who worked in manufacturing and does not include any accounting of those Americans who were killed by representatives of Donald J. Trump who worked in other fields of employment. Also, this accounting only includes those manufacturing victims who were killed during the current administration, and the previous one, which would have been that last time that someone at the White House was either hired or fired. Basically, over the course of two months or so. This part of the communication from the White House is a Ego Booster for an extremely ambitious terrorist dictator. Think of it as a resume' that will be a part of history for all of eternity. That is what this is about. The first sentence in the Ego Booster section of today's White House terror correspondence letter says "Now, America is making things again." This is most likely a reference to "things", where the "things" are human beings. Human beings for this purpose are American citizens who have been captured, farmed for their assets, and then surgically made into a custom ordered rendition of something that defies definition. They are people. They have been mutilated. The mutilations are done surgically. Famous, Screen Actor Guild members are able to fill out an order form, like custom ordering an entertainment center. Your custom ordered entertainment center might have drawers, secret compartments, doors that open and close, a hidden television that pops up with the push of a button, it might be made of wood, or stainless steel, or granite, it could have a special decorative set of knobs, there might be four speakers, or eight speakers. Your custom ordered entertainment center will be absolutely unique. And, in this same way, Hollywood celebrities custom order what are known as "Partners". They are "pet people". They have been custom ordered and surgically altered to the specifications of say, Axle Rose. Or, David Letterman. Slash has two Partners. Dianne Sawyer orders new ones bi-annually. Matt Lauer, Katie Curick, the entire cast of the television show "Three's Company" has partners. Whatever movie actor, rock star, country music personality, news host, talk show host, band member or government official that you can name, has a partner at their house, or uses them for entertainment and then disposes of them after words. Partners are also referred to as "companions", "side-kicks", and "gymps", among other more colorfully descriptive words. And that sums up the third paragraph, right? Human partners are built at a place they call "The Pleasure Dome", and other similar underground surgery centers. "The Pleasure Dome" is located beneath a neighborhood of single family residence housing in Medford Oregon. The entrance is through the office of Doctor Brett Quave on Black Oak Drive. If Dr, Quave no longer is there, then it is at the place that was his office in 2012. The Pleasure dome is protected with high security. Men wearing white hazmat suits armed with Thompson and Mac Ten machine guns are there in number. In the waiting room at Dr, Quave's office there are some bottles of Grey Poupon Mustard. In terrorism communication, Grey Poupon Mustard bottles are used to indicate that a facility is protected with Mustard gas. That is why the soldiers there where the hazmat suits. Be advised... caution is advisable if visiting the office of Dr. Brett Quave. Also, Anti-Mustard gas apparatus and protective gear is highly warrented for considering accessing "The Pleasure Dome" in Medford. There are other ways in and out of the underground dome areas. I don't know where exactly those access points are, however, they built this place in a big crater of an excavated hole in about 1985, then, they built houses on top of it. Terrorist watch dogs live in or other wise occupy those residences. My experience and investigative intel has concluded that "The Pleasure Dome" is high technology and was funded and built by Bill Gates of MicroSoft. I sure wish I had some back up, or some friends. This is dangerous to report.

StoneMan .Warrior - 2018-08-17 22:31:04-0700

August 17, 2018: 10:20 pm: So I looked at the rest of the communication from the White House today and could write more, I could expose more. The rest of the information is mostly about ObamaCare, or the replacement of ObamaCare. It's mostly just more about dead American Victims and serves as "insult to injury". It won't benefit me or anyone else to decipher the rest of this. The idea can be summed up as follows: The information contained in the remainder of the correspondence is so very disappointing and horrible that any attempt to decipher the coded messages will only reveal insults to the person or persons involved with reading it. The notion that things are as bad as they are will simply lower the moral and suck the will and the life right out of anyone who has been involved in law enforcement or national security simply due to the fact the these things have been going on right in front of everyone... and in fact, on television and for so very long. So, rather than participate in an effort to cause undue heartache or grief, I'll choose to digress here, while waiting patiently to find someone, or a group of someone's who can and will aid in the thwarting of this terrorist coup. StoneMan continues to pledge to stop terrorism on the spot and without hesitation wherever terrorism presents a threat. Take the pledge.

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mysamanthaseconds · 5 years

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The Winding Road to Prison

When I was a young girl living in a home filled with abuse and domestic violence I dreamt of being swept off my feet by a handsome, young prince who would save me from my life which was filled with fear, confusion and despair. I also dreamed of becoming an actress who would one day make enough money I would be able to provide a safe home for my mom and brother to live. As I reached high school age, my dream morphed, and I thought it might be great to become a lawyer. In some ways I thought that would mean I would be able to practice law and save people from injustices such as, Martin Luther King. I was a child of the 60’s and a teenager of the 70’s but my homelife was nothing like that which I saw on TV back then. Not once, in the 18 years I spent in my abusive and violent home did I ever think I would grow up to be a criminal. Yet, that is what I became not so long ago.

Growing up I always thought most people became criminals were addicted to a substance or desperate. That’s not too much off the mark, but as an adult I learned there are some criminals who don’t fit either of those categories and some don’t fit any category at all. I learned that first hand by living, eating and sleeping with them during my stay at The Federal Correctional Complex Camp located in Coleman, Florida.

It all started with a one lie. In 2011 in a desperate attempt to keep my business afloat and make money to meet my family’s financial needs, I took on more and more clients that previously I wouldn’t dreamed of trying to assist. Mainly because I did not have the skill sets needed to assist them. Much to my surprise and relief, I found out that because I made a very good name for myself in one industry, I could begin to ‘sell’ my skill in another industry I knew next to nothing about. As a technical writer of over 25 years, I had extensive experience working for and on behalf of a growing list of companies. Over the 10 years I had been in business for myself, I had earned a decent reputation for performing good work at reasonable rates, so my business continued to grow and expand. All of a sudden in 2011, not only did my company not grow, it stopped almost altogether.

In 2011, my children were still very young and while my husband made a decent living which landed us in middle class, I carried some of the responsibility to keep that status quo. When I wasn’t able to keep almost any of what I felt was my responsibility and duty in terms of salary or revenue from my company, I doubled down in trying to pick up new customers. I was finally able to get some new clients through a couple of my contacts in Chicago. I had only met these two gentlemen contacts a couple of times when I was in town for business meetings, but they came highly recommended and had a big portfolio of clients they could send my way. All I had to do was give them 10% commission on each successful customer placement they sent me and help the customers they sent me in any technical writing jobs they needed. On the surface, it was a win-win for all three of us and for my husband and family as I would finally be bringing in money we all needed for various and ongoing home and children expenses.

After I signed and firmed up the 10th client from helpful gentlemen contacts and paid my 10% to them for their services, I set out to discover what technical writing jobs these customers needed. Most of the work required by the 10 customers, I had extensive experience in and felt quite comfortable performing. However, each of these 10 clients needed something I knew nothing about. They needed ‘investment’ funding from investors who are termed, ‘angels’ as these investors are usually wealthy and high-profile investors who like to help out start-ups and worthy companies partly because it is goodwill to pass it on and partly because they can become part owner of a cutting-edge company that they normally would not be cognizant.

When the two gentlemen from Chicago asked me if I could perform that portion of the service, I lied. I told them I could absolutely do it as I knew a lot of ‘angel’ investors from my 25 plus years of technical writing. Part of that statement was true, I did know a lot of company leaders, movers and shakers from doing business in the corporate arena over 25 years. However, it was the part of the statement which was a lie, that got me hooked on the line for a lot more than I could ever get myself out of once things started falling apart.

It true, I may have known of some of these company leaders and had even worked various accounts for their companies, but I did not know them. In an effort to correct this, I did put out an all-out email barrage trying to find out what I could about their personal and corporate information such as email, personal address, phone number or anything that I could get so I could send them the information on each or all of the 10 company clients. No effort I tried or subscription service I bought or contact I reached out to could help me get the ‘real’ email addresses, phone numbers, etc. that I needed to make an angel investment pitch. When I look back in the 20/20 hindsight everyone has, I realize that all I had to do at that point was tell my two gentlemen friends from Chicago that I could not perform the services requested by the companies and could they give my back my 10% commissions back that I gave them so I could return all the money the customers had paid me. It came to a total of $77,000. But instead of telling anyone I couldn’t do what they wanted I not only lied again, I created a bigger web of deceit and created fake emails and phone numbers for angel investors I told my customers were interested in learning more about their companies. Of course, I was the one at the end of all those phone calls and wrote all the ‘fake’ emails to the 10 customer company contacts.

When one of the 10 customers figured out what was really going on he contacted the FBI. The FBI came to my home at 5:00 a.m. one spring morning in 2012 to retrieve all cell phones, computers, folders and files. Within 10 days, I hired an attorney, told him I was guilty and was ready to tell the federal judge that as well. Because the federal government doesn’t work very quickly, I pled guilty in the winter of 2012 and was sentenced in the spring of 2013 to 30 months. In the federal system, a sentenced person is allowed to ‘self-surrender,’ which in layman’s terms means I was responsible for turning myself into the Coleman Prison Camp in the summer of 2013.

In preparation, I watched a popular show at the time called, “Orange is the New Black,” thinking this would be what prison will be like, so it will help me to know how things work and happen at a federal prison. I thought the show was terrifying and that I probably wouldn’t survive a week if that is what I was about to experience.

However, as it is in life, prison on TV shows vs. prison in real like are nothing alike. Some things were worse than portrayed on “Orange is the New Black,” and some of the types of people and events weren’t ever present at the Coleman Prison Camp in Florida.

When I arrived, they made me strip down just like the do in the TV shows and movies which have prison scenes in them and that in and of itself was enough for me to take multiple self-vows of I never will, never again promises to myself and God. The prison guards who perform this service are some of the scariest people you could ever meet. I am sure they are that way because they have seen it all and if I met them in a grocery store today, they would probably be a nice as they could be, but do not think for one minute they will be nice to you during the process of turning yourself in to begin whatever sentence a judge gives you regardless of whether or not you are a drug dealer, white collar criminal or rapist. They don’t care. To them, you are simply an ‘inmate,’ and they will give you a brand-new inmate number and picture to go with your name to prove that point.

I was then told to report to a particular building at the end of the ‘campus’ where I was to see my ‘case worker’ who would assign me a bed. Prior to walking to the end of the campus to report to my case worker I was given two sheets, two sets of khaki clothes, three socks, three underwear’s and bras with a pair of work boots that were one size too big. To top it off they gave me one very scratchy wool blanket and sad looking pillow. Somehow, I was to carry all of this with me without a bag to carry it in and forget about asking anyone where this ‘building’ I was going to was as I assure you no one (not other inmates or guards) is ever going to speak to you much less help you.

I stumbled around, stopping every few minutes to rearrange my load of items or pick up ones that dropped from my hands and finally found the building I was looking for and stumbled through the door. Let me tell you nothing, nothing and nothing can prepare you for the sights, smell and activity you see going on around you when you walk through the door of a living facility that is housing federal female inmates. There were women yelling, screaming, laughing and crying and sitting at almost every table and/or chair that is set up in what is called the ‘common’ area. There were six TV’s about 24 inches long hanging up high so if you wanted to watch TV, you sat on your ‘assigned’ chair, cranked your neck so far back that by the time even an hour-long show ended, the crick in your neck would not be worth the effort. In fact, it was so not worth the pain that came with it, I watched less than two or three hours of TV the entire 20 months I was there. But walking into a building with such strange smells with a noise index I had never heard before was something I will never forget. I remember asking a couple of women who my case worker was, as I was supposed to see them to be assigned a bed. I was told I would have to write a request to see the case worker and she/he would see me whenever. I think I stood there for 10 minutes with my mouth hanging open as I had no idea how to write this request, where I would put it once I did, how I would write it since I had no pen, pencil or paper and to top it off I still had no idea where I would sleep that night. I stood there unsure what to do when all of a sudden someone came in and yelled as loud as they could beside me that it was ‘count time.’ Since I had no idea what count time was or what I was supposed to do, I just stood there. After about 10 or 15 minutes, I looked around and I noticed it was very quiet (which even then I could tell was unusual), and I was the only one standing in the middle of the room. Everyone else had disappeared into their ‘rooms.’ So, I watched and waited….

I didn’t have to wait long as before I could turn around to find someone else who may help me, a guard was yelling at me that he was going to ‘write me up,’ as I wasn’t in my room. When I told him, I didn’t have a room yet, he yelled at me, “‘is that my problem or yours?”

When I told him, it seemed to be my problem he told me was going to write me up for backtalking to him. This all happened to me in the first 60 minutes after I self-surrendered. I just stood there looking at him and crying. Actually, I never stopped crying for about three weeks after my self-surrender, but after the second week, I got pretty used to crying, taking breaths and speaking when I needed to, so I could be understood. At the beginning, I couldn’t even do that. During this guard’s interrogation of me, I was told to, ‘wait in the office’ where he would ‘write me up’ after he finished count. Since I had no idea what office he wanted me to wait at since there are several at the entrance into the building, I just stood in the hallway, holding and dropping my assigned clothes, sheets, pillow and boots and waited. When he came out and saw me standing there yet again defying his orders, he cussed, called me a lot of names, that I later read in the ‘inmate rights and policy handbook,’ he is not allowed to call me and finally took me to a woman who had watched this whole thing and never said a word while she worked at her desk. I find out from her that she is my caseworker.

Just in case you think having a caseworker in prison is anything like having a caseworker in the ‘real world,’ let me correct that thinking straight away. A caseworker in prison holds your life in her/his hands. She/he submits your visitation list, your release date, your medical requests, etc. But most of them don’t care one bit and if they turn in your requests the first six months you are there or in the first three years, it truly doesn’t matter to them. If you aren’t nice to him/her and respectful and cheerful, they will eat you up and spit you out. I witnessed it many times. But I was very lucky. I got one who at first impression, I felt, had sat there and watched this whole debacle with the guard with disinterest and disdain. However, unbeknownst to me, she had been taping the officer the entire time he was in my face. Did that make it better to find out months later? No, not really. But I will say that Ms. Gardener was very kind and nice to me when I did have to turn in anything for her to process and when she had to submit something for me (i.e. visitation list or my release papers), she did it almost as soon as I requested it. For that small mercy I was grateful. She assigned me a bottom bunk in a room with three other women. The room for four grown women was the size of my master bedroom closet at home. But I got three good roommates who started to fill in the gaps of information you don’t really want to know but need to survive.

I learned the smell came from the microwaves, which were beyond disgusting on the inside and out combined with the bathrooms. Two odors you should never put together is cooking food and bathroom smells. The loudness never, ever goes away, except after the last ‘count’ which was 11:00 p.m. in which you still have to stand and be counted even if you were sound asleep. If you ever missed a count because maybe you were in the bathroom throwing up, as soon as you got out of the bathroom you would be written up and put in segregation to be sent to the ‘real prison.’ I figured this was the ‘real prison’ and it was bad enough, so I had no intention of ever missing a ‘count’ and I never did. They also filled me in on how to order supplies from commissary and pay for them on a strange account your family has to set up for you and other such things. They gave me toothbrushes, toothpaste, combs, real soap, and countless other things until I could get processed and situated with money and commissary items. They listened to me cry and relay my story as they cried and relayed theirs to me. They offered me comfort when I deserved none. Hope when I had none. Faith that this too will pass when I was convinced that time was standing still, and I would never get home.

I am still friends with them today years after my release as only they know and understand the nightmare, horror, shame, guilt and despair we felt every day for doing this to our families, our loved one and ourselves. I found that if others only see you as a number, you start seeing yourself as less than human as well.

It’s true I could not feel sorry for myself as I had brought this on myself. Its also true I deserved to be punished for my actions. It’s even true that I should wear the scarlet letter of ex-inmate for the rest of my life. However, that being said, my family did nothing wrong and they were treated just as badly when they came and saw me. The only thing they had done was love me. To most of the guards and staff they would have to meet at every visitation they were treated with about as much disdain and arrogance as I was each and every day. That’s what broke my heart the most. I had already hurt my wonderful and beautiful family and they were being punished right along with me because they not only loved and missed me, but they had to be degraded every time they visited me.

I can honestly say nothing in my life prepared me for this experience, but I am convinced nothing in life could prepare anyone for this experience. What got me through was the love and care my family gave me from the outside and it reached all the way through the walls of that prison camp and held me when I felt I couldn’t take it another day. I learned to care immensely for the women in my room who shared and opened up themselves, so I could learn that I was stronger linking my arms with them and climbing the mountain we had to climb each day than I ever would have been on my own. Most importantly I depended on my faith in God and forgiveness of my sins to help me start to believe that while my victims may never forgive me, I could apologize to each and every one of them and make sure my restitution was paid as soon as I could do so. I did do that on both counts.

In the end it wasn’t about how or when I could pay back the money I owed or about how many times I said I was sorry to my family, loved ones, friends and victims. It was about me learning to love myself. I had never learned how to do that growing up. I never learned it being a wife and mother. I love fiercely and protectively my children, husband and even friends. But I never included myself in that group. I was in the group of those I don’t love. I barely liked myself and I am still learning who I really am. It took months and years of therapy and mindfulness for me to come to a place in my life where I am learning to love myself. That doesn’t mean that anyone out there in the world should care nor does it justify what I did to innocent people. But I do think it represents what can happen if anyone out there does not seek help if they grow up in an abusive and violent home through therapy of some sort. Healing oneself, even from someone else’s actions is a healthy thing to do and one that has offered me a future I never imagined and its not a new car or house or trip to a fancy beach. It’s peace. Peace with myself and peace with my past. That is the greatest of all presents I give myself and to my family.

Samantha Seconds

#life choices #prison #domestic violence #child abuse #love #hope #mistakes #death #loss #tomorrow

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