#now im trying to remind myself to keep an eye on the production team for that film madeline was gonna be in
Text
How did I manage to get myself in this situation? 😩 Part 2
Keishin Ukai × fem!reader
Tags: SFW,, slight anxiety
Tw: age difference, third year × coach ukai
Word count: 1000+
This actually reminded me of a time I had confessed to a much older guy. At least reminded me of the anxiety that I felt. 😅
*Alarm blares*
Your eyes shoot open but you just lay there immediately immersed in your thoughts.
It's a strange thing liking someone thats so much older than you. I guess at least you're 18 so that makes it legal right? But does that really matter when you're still in high school and have fallen for you favorite teams new coach? How could you go so long without having a crush on anyone to being completely flattened by the weight of your feelings for this man only by just having seen him.
You let out a brief sigh and get up. Your walk to the kitchen quiet as ever since your parents are always gone away on "business trips". "UGHH!" You grunt smacking your hands down on the counter from all these intrusive thoughts playing inside your head. "Might as well go for a jog since theres no school today." Keeping busy should be able to clear your head. Time to put a hold on all the wishing today was another school day so you could confess right away. Oh well.
You set out for your jog, you usually do this on your days off anyways so might as well keep with the pace. You pass a couple of neighbors greeting them for the morning, the usual. But this time your feet took you on a different path than before. Time for a change in scenery you thought to yourself. Blasting your music you continued on singing your favorite song to boost your confidence. That is until you happen upon a little convenience store. You felt a little thirsty and had forgot to grab your water before you left. So it must be fate that you came this way.
As you walk in the doors the word "fate" echoed in your head as you seen coach Ukai sitting behind the counter. He looked up and greeted you as you came in. The weight in your chest getting heavier as you hear him speak. "Good morning, coach. I didn't know you worked here." You tried to break the ice in this very noticeably awkward situation. He nods and goes back to reading. You sigh and continue on to grab a water and head back to the counter.
"I wasn't aware you lived close, or were you doing something for school?" He asked as you put the water down. "I live fairly close. This is my first time jogging out this way so I wasn't even aware of this store til now." He chuckles, "Guess you haven't lived here long to not have known about my store." You look down a little embarrassed "I've actually lived here since middle school. I just never had a reason to come this way before." He looked at you a little puzzled "So whats the reason to come this way today?" The word fate popped into your head again almost making you cringe.
"My feet just took me this way. Kinda funny coming up on a store when I had forgot my water," you laugh a little nervously and throw out the word, "must have been fate that led me here to quench my thirst." Immediately embarrassed by the words that came out of your mouth you try to hide your face. And he laughed "If I didn't know better I'd think that you were trying to flirt with me." You looked back up at him and with every bit of courage you had and said, "And what if I was?" The unlit cigarette he had just put between his lips dropped. He didnt know whether to laugh or take this seriously. By the look on your face he continues seriously "Well then Id have to tell you that I don't date minors and-" you interjected almost yelling "Im not a minor though! Im 18 and soon I'll be 19 in a few months." You looked down at the floor a bit in awe of how much courage you've managed and being able to keep yourself from bolting out the door.
Looking back up all that courage and bravado went out the window unable to read the expression on his face. Your heart sunk again, you wanted to make a run for it but you have to hear it. You have to be rejected in order to move on from this. He begins scratching the back of his head and looks at you, a little blush crossing his face, "Look, I don't know about it. The age gap is still pretty wide. How would your parents feel knowing you're with someone so much older?" The pit in your stomach completely disappearing hearing these words. "I'm the product of a relationship with an age gap. My dad is 10 years older than my mom. So I dont think they'd mind." You smile at him genuinely and continue, "Let me do this a little more properly. I like you coach- no Keishin. I've liked you since I first seen you. Which is rather odd since I've never liked anyone before. I'm not sure Id be a good girlfriend since I have no experience dating but I would like for you to go out with me. Please?" Its pretty obvious hes nervous about all this from how he gulped so hard to covering his mouth with his hand.
You stood there quietly waiting for his answer. Finally it dawned on you, "If you cant answer now at least think about it. Ill come back here the next time I go for a jog and you can tell me your answer then." You turn and walk out the door completely forgetting about your water. As soon as your outside you set your pace and began home. A little happy and a little sad at the same time but it wasnt ever an immediate no. Maybe- "Hey!" your thoughts interrupted by coaches yelling. You turn around to see him holding your water up waving you to come back. You jog back to him with only the intention to thank him and grab your water when he pulls you into him.
"You didn't even wait long enough for me to put everything into words," the palm of his hand back against his face, "but your answer is yes." It felt as if your heart was flying through the sky. Without a second thought your arms were around his neck pulling him down into a kiss. You pull back just as immediately, "Ah- sorry. I didnt mean to be so forwar-" he cuts you off with another kiss a little more sloppy but it gets his feelings across just fine. You can tell hes been just as in his emotions about you as you have been for him. Probably even feeling guilty as hell for having thought those though about someone he had assumed was a minor. Thats probably the reason hes avoided looking at me. He pulls back a little smile across his face from finally being able to do that. "So does this mean Im your girlfriend now?" you ask with the biggest smile youve ever had stuck to your face. He nods. "Lets exchange numbers then, please~" he nods again handing you his phone. Of course saving yourself as '♡Girlfriend' Once you're done you say your goodbyes, peck him on the cheek and begin your jog home again,
this time your heart a flutter.
4 notes
·
View notes
Text
I said this in a post recently that the division winners should be 1 and 2 and the reseed accordingly. If I was a leafs fan I hate the fact my team had a great season and has to play the second best team in the conference and then potentially the best team in the league (both without home ice adv.) in the second round if they want to make the ECF. We should really be the three seed.. Except there was the opposite of a huge backlash. Their sales spiked, the drive thru lines were around the block. The "huge backlash" was already the exact same people who hated him anyway and were already not the type of customer buying Nike. The hard question is one we aren even close to answering 무안출장마사지 why do these stimuli affect us differently, and why do we form differing memories and experiences from them? He uses the example of a houseplant. You might see one and think nothing of it, where I might see one and be reminded of my mom, who loved houseplants, and then decide to get one for myself, because it might brighten up my apartment. How does our consciousness form these experiences? I been thinking about it a lot.. I can upload you some of my Hallstatt photos I took a few months back if you want. The place is beautiful per se, a bit overridden with tourists though, the neighboring little places such as St. Gilgen are much more authentic Austrian if that what you interested in.. 무안출장마사지 I interested in buying my panels outright (as opposed to Solar City old model). I also expect my electric usage to increase in the future, as I like to do things like buy an electric car eventually and install electric heat. So I not sure whether I should buy the capacity all at once and pour back into the grid at wholesale price, or buy more panels later.. In Corsica, immortelle is used by the older generation, who point out its ability to help reduce bruising and treat burns. These properties are now used to advantage in aromatherapy. Other than that it seems to be not much different than most other creams. Oh wow i didnt know that embryolisse has a bb cream, i might like to try it! sheer to med buildable and matte natural finish? sounds good to me! im not sure about the tint though. Im around N25 30 in mac. I cant quite remember what shade in GALSF that i tried that was nice. I been in touch with my case manager both on my insurance side, and a patient advocate with my health center side. They tell me to have my doctor send referrals and they try to work with the surgeon I request, but they been having no luck establishing a contract. Harrison Lee is on my list of surgeons to have my insurance contact, I glad to know he accepts insurance. It a REALLY low dose and even still I have to ease into it. I have a hard time finding products that don irritate/break me out. Using Curology I know exactly what in it and it doesn bother me. LOC Liquid Shimmer Shadow I glad I chose this sample. The pigmentation is just OK but the product can be layered while wet if you careful. There was a little creasing by the end of the day, though my eyes are hooded and in the grand scheme of things this held up pretty well. Oh definitely. I live in LA so porn is legal here, I think that prostitution if legalized would neeed to be heavily regulated to ensure no human trafficking happening. I definitely understand the states issues. AC is something that looks great on paper, but fails hard in the actual gameplay. There are a few reasons for that. For example, even if an enemy can hit you on nat 20 only, if 10 of them keep swinging at you you will not be able to avoid taking hits.
1 note
·
View note
Note
hey girl r u still working on part 3 of the trc/tfc crossover? please don't feel pressured by this ask omg im just popping in after reading part 1 & 2 again and telling u how much i luv it! have a nice day x
(love you, love your patience, you deserve 100 gold doubloons, but I hope this part 3 will do in the meantime)
The maserati peels through the deep-water evening, the cabin of the car black and still as the restless back of a movie theatre. The radio’s switched off and Nicky and Aaron were clipped quiet after the third time Nicky tried to wrestle Andrew into a conversation about superheroes. Neil watches Andrew’s profile in the domino light from passing headlights, the complex green glow from the dashboard. They’re caught in that ear-ringing kind of silence that feels like it’s submerged underwater.
A cat-eyed BMW changes lanes without signalling, and Neil watches it pull close into their side on the divided highway. He knows that the maserati is powerful, a sleek black tank, but the BMW would rob them and leave them on the side of the road if the driver wanted a race.
And he can tell that Ronan very much does want one; the way he’s sawing the car up from the speed limit to Andrew’s version of the speed limit to something that doesn’t look like a limit at all.
Neil recognizes the feeling of a car chase rubbing up against the side of the car and leering until you speed just to get away from it.
They stay in uncomfortable stasis, two sides of a jammed zipper, ripping down the road as one shiny dark monster. Five minutes pass and the BMW takes a slick lead, revving tauntingly as it shifts gears and pops into their lane. Andrew takes one lazy hand off the wheel and hands Neil his phone from the cupholder.
“Call Adam,” he asks. He puts his hand back on the underside of the wheel, driving with a thumb. “Remind him what following is.”
Neil stares dumbly at the phone in his hand, and abruptly it rings at him, the shrill bleat of the default tone.
“Unavailable name and number,” Neil reports. Andrew nods once, and Neil flips the phone open and presses it to his ear.
“Sorry that Ronan doesn’t know how to drive,” a woman’s voice says. There’s a muffled scratch of fabric and a laugh and then, “And sorry I invited myself along. I heard that Ronan and Adam were being tested gladiator style, is that right?”
Neil raises an eyebrow, and Andrew looks at him, away from the road and the Virginia license plate eating its way out of view.
“Who is this?”
“Christ. Blue. Obviously. So are you hazing them or what?”
“She wants to know if we’re hazing her teammates,” Neil murmurs, not bothering to cover the mouthpiece.
“She?” Nicky asks, leaning forward heavily, to the limits of his seatbelt.
“Blue,” Neil responds.
“Yes?” Blue says.
Neil frowns, uncomfortable with the whole misshapen misunderstanding. “We don’t haze people.” It’s so juvenile and absurd that he almost doesn’t recognize the words in his own mouth.
“Yeah! We’re not the lacrosse team, thank god,” Nicky chimes in, craning further over Neil’s shoulder.
“She’s with them?” Andrew asks. A nod. An almost imperceptible tightening of knuckles. “Ask for Adam.”
Blue continues, “Well I’d like to know why the rest of us were left out of whatever you’re doing, then. Doesn’t seem like great team-building to start segregating early.”
“Can you put Adam on the phone?” Neil asks, and Blue makes a small, affronted noise.
“I asked you a question,” she says evenly.
“You stated two facts,” he corrects. “I asked you a question.” He knows there’s no emotional headroom in anything he’s saying. He’s only half invested in the direction that this evening is going, but he knows that Andrew should be navigating this conversation, moving his own chess pieces.
The line shifts, but it’s still Blue ten seconds later, and she says, “It seems to me that luring two out of five of us out of the city in our first week doesn’t play like a friendly gesture. I don’t know if you’re picking favourites or least favourites, but I can guess. I know you want to speak to Adam, and I’ll put him on the phone, but I want you to know that we’re all worth speaking to. We’re all foxes, now.”
A jostle over the receiver, a look between Neil and Nicky, and then a longer, heavier look between Neil and Andrew. Something about this gaze is hard to carry.
“I didn’t realize that invites were only distributable by Andrew,” Adam says coolly.
“Adam,” Neil says, for Andrew’s benefit.
“Neil,” Adam returns. “Is this going to be a problem?”
“Your inability to listen? Probably.”
Adam doesn’t say anything, and Neil can hear Ronan asking questions, agitated, just beyond the sound of Adam’s breath.
“You invited me and Ronan. You didn’t ban Blue.”
“Tell them,” Andrew says, eyes forward, “to get behind us.”
Neil repeats this message down the line, and Adam snorts. The gait of the BMW in front of them skips even faster.
“Ronan doesn’t follow very well.”
“Then he shouldn’t be on our team,” Neil says tightly. There’s a pause that kicks and punches, and then Adam says,
“I have to say that you don’t lead very well, either. Maybe we’d do better under a more competent guide.”
“It wouldn’t be hard to do better than whatever it is you’re trying to do on court.”
Behind him, Nicky hisses like he’s been pinched. “Geez. Making friends, Neil?”
“Maybe not,” Adam says. “Better is attainable for us, but I’m not so sure about your vice-captaincy. I really don’t think you know how to command attention without hurting people.”
Neil goes hot. He’d forgotten how slippery humiliation feels, like a live thing on his skin.
“We’ll see you at Eden’s Twilight. Don’t worry about trying to catch up,” Adam adds, and hangs up. Neil leaves the phone at his ear, momentarily treading in his own surprise. He sees a slip of movement, and then Andrew’s hand is palm up between them.
He snaps the phone closed and drops it in Andrew’s waiting hand, mechanical.
“They’re meeting us there.”
“After that conversation?” Aaron asks. “They’re masochists.”
“That’s not what I asked for,” Andrew says, ignoring his brother, and Neil shrugs. He knows Andrew wants the whole production of a night in Columbia. He wants the string of teammates trailing out of his pocket, he wants the free entry and the parking pass, the psychological knife to the secretive neck, he wants control between his teeth.
“Well this is going to be a fun night out,” Nicky says sarcastically. “We’re not actually planning on drugging all three of them, are we?”
“No,” Neil says immediately, and Andrew says, mild,
“They’ll drink whatever we give them until we know why they need a dead language to keep their secrets.”
“Andrew—” Neil says, but Andrew turns needle eyes on him.
“I will do worse,” he says, his words chopped and peeled open. “If he tries you again.”
He doesn’t respond. Andrew’s been sitting in the middle of hot, repressed feeling since Ronan punched Neil. His regret has been blistering enough that it’s making Neil wilt next to him.
He’s just worried that these new ravens will try to pry open their closed ranks. He’s worried that the next piece of violence will graze Andrew. The rubbed-raw tension over the phone is syncing with the old feeling of anxiety from his first trip to Columbia.
He swallows around nausea and watches the bend in the road thread their car into the city limits.
_____
They don’t really stand out, but their faces give them away when they turn fretfully in the swaying crowd at the bar, closed and uncomfortable where everyone else is playing happy or sexy.
Neil can see the instability in Ronan’s scowl, the way the joints of it tighten when he scans the room, and loosen when he looks back at his friends. Adam is aloof and unthreatening in a pale crop-sleeved collared shirt, but his eyes are a landslide. Blue’s mouth opens — apparently pleased with the slide of lights and the dancers drenched in glitter — and closes when men look at her.
Andrew prowls into the kernel of the crowd encircling Roland. If they were alone, Neil would put his hands to the soft hair at the base of Andrew’s skull and press into the weak points until his shoulders slumped.
He can see Nicky waving at the ravens from the corner of his eye, and annoyance sinks its teeth into something in Neil’s brain when Blue waves back.
“Do you have to be so welcoming?” he asks bitterly. Nicky sighs, but touches his shoulder briefly, like he’s trying to be comforting.
“They’re called social niceties, and I’m setting an example for you.” He looks pointedly at Neil, then shoulders ahead to reach the trio before the rest of the group. He whispers to them, hurried and earnest, a bleeding heart soldier rushing into enemy territory to warn them of a coming attack.
Neil frowns. Ronan’s sizing them up, something limply threatening about his stance but truly unsettling about his eyes. It’s familiar, the expression that says he only recently found something to lose.
“Ah, friends, cousins, foxes. Good to see you,” Roland says, voice raised over the music. Nicky leans over the bar and air-kisses both of Roland’s cheeks, going for serious and suave and cracking up instead.
“It’s that time of year again,” Nicky tells him. Andrew gestures at the three newcomers and tilts his head at the bar. Roland winks.
“Finally, a challenge.” His eyes slide over the new recruits. “You three good to keep up?” Ronan snorts, and Roland smiles warmly at him. “Oh, this one’s confident. And cute.” His eyes slide over to Adam. “And this one! What exactly are your recruitment requirements again?”
“Get the ball, be angry about it,” Blue supplies, drumming chipped purple nails on the bar. Roland smiles wider. He’s pouring shots now, liquor tripping between glasses, one after another until Neil’s head pounds looking at them.
“Must be all that brooding athleticism that gives you your glow,” he jokes, pouring mix into a tumbler with one hand and rummaging for limes with the other. “Hey, if you guys are looking for a private interrogation corner, there’s the table farthest from the dance floor.” He nods in its direction, and Andrew turns immediately for it, parting the crowd, leaving an unborn fight behind him.
Neil festers in the way Ronan and Adam look at Andrew leaving and then at each other, like they know anything about him. He turns and follows Andrew after a beat, unable to stomach it. Everything about this fight is uncanny and unpleasant, wrapped up in privilege and misunderstanding and enemies that look too much like reflections. He prefers villains who know that they’re villains.
Andrew looks at him, eyes slitted gold.
“I don’t like this,” Neil admits. Andrew waits for an explanation and Neil struggles to find one. “I don’t like feeling like we’re starting from scratch with five fresh problems.”
“I would’ve thought you’d be comfortable with waves of problems given that you are one.”
Neil purses his lips, hikes himself up onto the tall chair, and indulges him. “But I was the only one.” Andrew’s hand curls on the table top. “And I know this bothers you as well, Andrew, you’re not hiding it very well.”
“I’m not trying to.”
“No, you never try, do you,” Neil says, and feels righteous anger balloon at the same time that shame crawls down through his body. It leaves him off kilter, like one ear popped but the other is still dull. Andrew stares at him.
Truthfully, all Andrew ever does is try to affect indifference and keep all the lids on all his boxes and strategize the safety of others by becoming a more tempting target.
“That was such shit. I’m sorry. It was—“
“I think it’s Ronan,” Andrew interrupts, drawing idle circles on the table with his thumb. “He’s the secret that they’re keeping, the gun in Adam’s hand.” Neil blinks, chewing this information over.
But he doesn’t have time to swallow it, because the rest of the group is oozing into the seats around the table, Aaron with a comically over-full tray held aloft, Nicky laughing at something a crooked-smiled Blue has said, Adam calm, Ronan furious.
They drink, for a while, Andrew distributing the spiral of glasses in an unfathomable order. The conversation is shouted and confused as if spoken from two separate sides of a great wall. Ronan tosses whiskey down like he knows it and hates it, loping beside Nicky and Aaron, who drink in search of the upper limits of drunk.
Blue drinks with her eyebrow crooked and her mouth wet, always. She often looks like she’s remembering something that pricks.
Adam doesn’t drink at all.
Neil can see his hand on Ronan’s back and his eyes on Blue, and his gears change to do the opposite from minute to minute, transparently concerned with whatever the people around him are doing or planning or ignoring.
“You don’t drink?” he asks Adam carefully. Adam takes a sip of water and shakes his head.
“I’m driving.”
“You’ll stay at our house,” Andrew tells him, and Adam pauses before he shakes his head again.
“No, I don’t think we will.”
Andrew shrugs. “I disagree.”
Adam’s eyes bounce from Andrew to Nicky, then Aaron, searching for an explanation.
“We don’t do whatever you say,” Ronan says. “We actually have opinions of our own, you know, strength of will? That thing that doesn’t exist in your company?” He looks at Andrew, then meaningfully to Neil.
“Hey,” Nicky warns. “If you think Neil isn’t opinionated, then I don’t know what sports channel you’ve been watching.”
“Have a drink,” Andrew says, ignoring everyone but Adam, pushing a sweating glass towards him. “It’s tradition.”
“We’re not big on tradition,” Blue says, suspicious and slow.
“Neither are we,” Nicky says quickly. “But we have our moments. We’re not going to hurt you, we just want to do something nice. After all the— uh. Not so nice.”
“One drink,” Adam agrees cautiously. He pushes the proffered glass back towards Andrew with two fingers. “But I’ll pick my own.” He slips off of his chair, hand pulling from Ronan’s as he fades back through the crowd to the bar.
“Why are you pushing this so hard,” Ronan asks, face blank for the first time all evening, looking out into the waves of people like Adam is a single ship on a flat horizon. Neil can see Andrew raising his chin at Roland, and something in his chest fizzles.
“We’re making peace—“ Nicky starts.
“No,” Ronan says. “I think you want something from us, and the only way you know how to get it is to get us fucked up first.”
“Wouldn’t it be counterproductive,” Andrew says, “to be drinking, ourselves?”
“He’s only on his first glass,” Ronan nods to Neil, then pins Andrew with chilly eyes.“And I think you can hold your liquor.”
“How generous,” Andrew says. Blue makes a small, irritated noise.
“Can we stop antagonizing one another, please, I’m getting a headache.”
“You wanted to come along, dude,” Ronan tells her.
“Yes, wanted,” Blue agrees. “Before I realized that we were gearing up to the world’s most violent pissing contest.”
“We’ll play nice if you do,” Nicky offers, going to throw an arm around her shoulders that she blocks.
“That’s not how you win,” Neil says.
“There’s no winning in polite conversation, Neil, buddy.”
The whole table shoves suddenly sideways, glasses skittering and liquor spilling in thick rivulets over laps and down to the sticky floor. Adam catches himself heavily on Ronan’s thigh.
“You’re— have— the bartender? You fucking—“
“Adam,” Ronan says, soft and urgent as hummingbird wings. He cups Adam’s face, but Adam’s so off balance that Ronan’s hands end up being the only things holding him up. Adam shakes his head in his grip, touching his own mouth, then Ronan’s, eyes blurry and scared.
“Don’t drink anything.” His eyes crash into Blue next. “Don’t drink,” he repeats.
“Did you—“ Ronan stops, mouth moving, too incredulous to swallow properly. “You drugged him?”
Andrew doesn’t respond, so Ronan kicks the table over directly into him — it hits his abdomen heavily and rolls off to the side. Andrew goes down with it.
“Oh fuck,” Nicky says, standing shakily out of the way. Something moves next to Neil, fast, and he thinks distractedly that it’s his patience rotting and dropping from the tree. He steps into the fray, reeling back to punch Ronan in the face twice in quick succession, hard enough to split the skin at his knuckles. Blue grapples with his elbow as he does it, cursing, biting, until Neil falls back far enough that she can drag her friends out of his reach.
The last thing Neil sees before he drops down to check on Andrew is Ronan holding Adam up by the waist, eyes cracked open, thunderous.
“Drew,” Neil says quietly. He knows his face is tightly pulled, a mask with the strings cutting his circulation. “What’s the plan here?”
Andrew’s obviously winded when he says, “show them—” a stuck breath, “—that we’re the same kind of monsters that they are.”
“What?”
“Um. Neil,” Nicky says.
Neil looks up. He realizes first that Aaron has disappeared, and second, that he was the only other person who sprang forward when Andrew was downed.
“Fuck,” Neil says. He stands, trying to pinpoint the familiar gleam of blond, the fast, blocky movements that he shares with Andrew.
He sees Ronan first, inspecting Adam’s eyes in the real light from the propped men’s room door. Blue seems to be acting as lookout, and the minute Aaron storms into their space, she holds a folded switchblade up at him. It’s like half of a threat, more confusing than frightening.
Neil starts pushing towards them, but he can see Aaron dodging Blue and taking Ronan to the wall, hard.
“Aaron,” he calls, when he sees hands go to Ronan’s throat. “We still need them.”
“For what?” Aaron snarls. “To make an example out of them? To keep stringing them along until they lash out harder, draw blood?”
“To use,” Neil says. “And train.”
Aaron looks back at him, wild-eyed, and Ronan twists out of his grip, holding Aaron’s wrists at odd angles. Neil sighs and yanks him out of reach, putting a warning hand up between them.
“No fucking chance,” Ronan says. He looks at Adam and his jaw clenches. “We’re out. We don’t need to be here, we’re not like you.”
“You are,” Neil argues, looking at Ronan with his issues seeping through the ill-fitting bandage of his bravado, Adam with his brow furrowed against the drugs, Blue with her jaw jutted like Allison and her hair cropped like Dan and her hands steady like Renee. “That’s why you’re here.”
“So now you wanna be friends?” Blue asks, disbelieving. “Did you finally realize we were human beings?”
“I don’t care about being your friend,” Neil says honestly. “You need to realize that friendship and teamwork are different.”
“You can’t threaten us into a corner and then act like you taught us a valuable lesson by putting us there,” Blue says. Neil wonders if she knows that she’s placing herself just a little bit forward, her hands creeping out in front of her friends.
“Threaten implies that it was one sided,” Andrew says, slotting himself in between Aaron and Neil. Nicky falls in behind, sheepish.
“You— you had the bartender make sure I wasn’t a threat at all,” Adam struggles to say.
Andrew looks unimpressed. “And?”
“And there’s a difference between fighting to win, and fighting because it feels good to break your fists,” Ronan says. He juts his jaw like someone who was raised in the gym, not the streets.
“Is there?” Neil asks, moving forward, feeling Andrew’s presence at his back like a lighter catching. “Fighting is always fighting, no matter what you get at the end. I can’t tell if you really think you’re helpless victims or if you want moral high ground so badly that you’re climbing your own shitty ladder to get there, but if you’re this concerned with winning, then we can use you. Can you use us?”
Blue and Adam look at each other, a lopsided glance. Ronan’s gaze is unwavering.
“We can,” Adam urges. “There— I. Know. The sort of people who never fight. For themselves. And I don’t want to be… near them anymore.”
The column of Ronan’s throat moves, and the corners of his eyes go tight. “They took away your self control and acted like it was a fucking favour.”
“It’s not the same,” Adam says quietly, swaying on his feet but otherwise looking remarkably sober. They’re putting hands to an ugly memory that no one else can see.
Neil looks back at Andrew and then squares his shoulders, bolstered by the clear day he finds in his face.
“They’re a nightmare,” Ronan says, with finality.
“Funny. Do you know what’s in our nightmares?” Nicky asks, too plainly to be a joke.
“Ravens,” Neil finishes for him.
Ronan flinches, a pale twitch of a thing. Ravens mean something very different to him, but Neil’s not entirely sure that it’s a good thing. His eyes linger on Adam leaning against the wall, his face grim, damp with sweat, and smiling so slightly. Blue nods cautiously.
“I’m not a big fan of ravens either,” she says conspiratorially.
“Bullshit,” Ronan says, but his tone is lifting like hoisted blinds.
“Let us— let us—” Adam breathes hard. “We prioritize. I know you want us to be a team. But if my family’s a part of that team, then I cover them first. I fight for them first.”
“Now you’re speaking Andrew’s language,” Nicky grins. “We look after our own.”
Andrew doesn’t interject, and Neil knows then that this whole evening was engineered to fail. He stares at the side of Andrew’s face, the indifferent slope of his profile. The more you defend yourselves, the more you expose the things that matter.
“Okay,” Ronan says. “This has been fucked up. We’re going back to the dorm.” He doesn’t say ‘home’, but in a way that makes the absence of it is heavy. Neil bows his head.
“You can actually stay at our place, if you’re not sober,” Nicky suggests. “Kevin’s not around, so you can share his room.” He starts gesturing people towards the exit, pushing them around without pushing them around. It’s a strange, twitchy skill of his, walking and talking with such confidence that people feel compelled to catch up.
“Why do you have a place in Columbia?” Blue asks curiously, falling in awkward step with the gangly group of them, tense and angry in truce, too many of them to stay together in the throng.
“Why does Gansey have a villa in Spain?” Andrew replies. Neil’s mouth curls. He always knows too much, in a bored sort of way.
Adam scoffs, then frowns at his own reaction. Neil can tell that he’s exactly as undone as Andrew wanted, sloppy enough that his suppression is loose and imperfect.
“Are you also obscenely rich?” Blue asks drily. “Because that’s why Gansey has most things.”
Nicky scoffs, Aaron says something mean and true, and the weight of the conversation finally finds its way onto wheels and rolls itself out of the club. Roland waves as they go, and Ronan flips him off viciously.
“You can stop waiting for us to fail,” Ronan tells Neil as they totter out into the parking lot, sweat and adrenaline drying, leaving alcohol to warm and wobble them over uneven pavement. “We’ve survived worse than college Exy.”
“So have I,” Neil says. “And I still feel like I’m failing, constantly. Confidence is dangerous.”
Ronan looks at the ground. Neil can hear his jaw working, see his hand jumping to twist his wristbands. Neil’s hand goes to his own armband, instinctive.
“Thanks for—ditching the lying bullshit, at least,” Ronan says through his teeth. He looks ahead, to Aaron watching Andrew for pain, to Adam strung up between Blue and Nicky. “Lying slows people down.”
Neil almost smiles. “So do secrets.” Ronan’s shoulders tense, and Neil rolls his neck, lazy, the maserati hoving into view up ahead. “Ronan.”
Ronan turns eyes on him, low-intensity, idling.
“I’ll trade you,” Neil offers. “Truth for truth.”
Part One Part Two
#fuck i know there are mistakes but i can't physically look at it any longer here have it! put it in your brain!#aftg#the foxhole court#the raven cycle#andreil#pynch#crossover#tfc fanfic#trc#mine#Anonymous#ask
582 notes
·
View notes
Text
I Promise - PT.1
Prompt: In a Heartbeat
Ship: James X MC
POV: (Point of View): James
Word Count: 1511
Artist Comment: SO LIHHH, this is my first fan fiction! Woooooooh, perfect for people to look back and see where I’ve come. 😅
But I chose to write something like this because not only am I always curious about how significant others react if their spouse get hurt, and to see how much they reeeallllyyy care, but I wanted some angsty sad stuff with this being my first one. I’m still learning how to actually portray a character’s personality, so hopefully I did them justice. Plussss I also wanted to see his reaction, being in a somewhat similar situation. Like this. IM SORRY BAE, you don’t deserve this torture.😩
11:03am
“Well, when observing last month’s trends, it’s clear that everyone’s topic of interest leans towards midterms.”
Are you 100% positive you won’t need to stay? I can take a day off. Reyna wouldn’t mind covering for me at this morning’s meeting.
“When it comes to midterm finals, all the students go crazy trying to find quick crash study ideas, sir!”
I’m fine James, it’s just a small cold. Nothing I… *sniff* can’t handle! Plus you’ve been been with me since Monday, I got this!
“And the worse thing they can do, is look up Buzzfeed articles on: Ways to Pass Finals Without Studying!”
*Muffled laughter erupts from the staff amongst themselves*
And I don’t regret it, but okay. I just wouldn’t bare with myself if I didn’t ask.
“Uh… I think we should break off and do some researching.”
I’ll be okay James, I promise.
I love you.
Geez, so mushy, Heh!
She smiled up at me. You were to think she must’ve been carved by a true artist at their craft… because her smile was so mesmerizing. God, her laugh was so contagious. It dissolved any stress I thought I held in myself still. It seemed as if my mind lost its train of though just being able to hear her voice. Let alone, thinking about her. She was just genuinely captivating. I had to take her word for her word, I just needed to get through this meeting…
… but I love you too, my darling.
An uncanny smile glided giddily on her face, as my smile grew larger, and more effortless. It’s been a year, and she still remembered the “pet name” I opted for us to call each other. She was so disappointed she couldn’t just call me “Jamesies”, but-
“Um, James?”
And with a blink, I was drawn back in the library, standing in-front of the conference table; empty. I hadn’t noticed that everyone, once watching me; had moves toward separate tables & computers alike, fast at work. I was then able to distinguish the voice.
“Hey Reyna, sorry. I assumed I spa-“
“Spaced out? Yes, in the middle of the meeting.”
Had I really let my thoughts consume me that much? Normally, I’m able to regulate my thoughts enough to multitask. I’m able to focus on more than one thing, on the rare occasions that I do; and work productively.
“No one really noticed, I was able to stir things in the right direction. I let everyone know to go ahead and research on midterm finals and student procrastination with it.”
She was trying to reassure me. Reyna always had such a calm spirit underneath her steadfast & determined perseverance. She truly reminded me of myself, or in ways, something similar to Vasquez and I. Mentor and colleague. When the time comes, she’ll be capable to take MC’s place when she moves into my position. I’m blessed to have had MC’s help to hire her as a journalist to our team.
“Thank you Reyna,” She seemed to relax more after my reassurance. Patting her shoulder, I headed towards a vacant table. “Let me go do something productive, but I may need your help a little later with an interview ab-“
“Are you alright, James?”
I froze midway. Looking back at her, even from a distance; the concern was still very distinguishable. Could she notice? I had been pretty good at keeping my facial expressions indecipherable. It’s difficult for others to pick up on my feelings, if only but a guess. MC told me herself, that she found the task a challenge, although now, she has it down to a science. I really must be more worried than I assumed I had been.
“Pardon me?” She seemed to grow more hesitant at my surprised expression. Cautiously, she set her papers off to the side and took one step closer, growing more urgent.
“Um,” Clearing her throat, she took a breath, trying to expel what nerves she had left dwelling. “Well Mr. Ashton, not to be too forward, but I noticed that MC hadn’t attended any meetings all week. You mentioned that she’d be here today, but she’s not... Is she okay?” Yeah, she most definitely can pick up on it. For a moment, it seemed intriguing to see her investigating skills pick up on minuet things like this. “She’s out for today, she caught a small cold. So, she’s resting. I was going to pick up on her tasks for today.” She seemed to sprout more worry. “Is there anyone there watching her?”
“She’ll be fine. Her roommates checked up on her periodically while I stayed for the past few days. And one’s going to be keeping her company today. I’ll be stopping by to see how she’s doing after we’re all done here.” She nodded, finding enough strength to work up a smile. I wanted to diminish any worry Reyna had. She had taken a liking to becoming friends with MC, and it was clear to see she was weary of her health as well.
I lean forward and hand her some papers. “These are some templates. All I’ll need you to do today is interview a sample of students & teachers; get some comments of their experience with midterm finals. If you can get it to me by the end of the weekend, that would be great!” Nodding, she grabbed her laptop from the table, and looked back at me. “Just, if you don’t mind, giving me an update on her? From, a concerned friend?”
“Will do.”
Smiling genuinely towards her, I waved goodbye, grabbing the rest of my papers. The unoccupied table I was originally going to was still empty. Some of the students cluttered together at different tables; some discussing & showing off information they found from credible articles, and others looking up articles to gain a collective opinion. I made my rounds toward each table, giving constructive criticism, and approving work. By the time I reached the table I wanted, I had already felt semi-drained.
It wasn’t a simple task; to tuck away my anxiety. Every minute that past, calling MC raced my thoughts, even walking out to go to her aid grew more and more into an option. But, once you show worry, it travels to the majority your staff. I realized how frequently I had been checking my phone.
11:50am
This would be the best time to bury myself into my work; that’s all I need; a good distraction. I reached for my phone, and held on to the side for a few seconds.
-Slide to power off-
I slide on the screen with my thumb subconsciously, and put my phone at the side of the table. Instead of working up more worry in myself, checking the time every second, I’m going to lose myself in my work. By the time I check, it’ll feel like the time flew by. I just need to keep working, and look forward to getting lost in her voice again.
•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
“I’ll be okay James, I promise.”
•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
My head flew up from its steady surface.
A few blinks later, and my vision cleared into light. I had been still seated at the library table I was at this morning. I looked around an empty room, Then down to my laptop. It had taken the same notion as me; the screen was black. After taping on one of the keys, I typed in my password. I must’ve been more exhausted than I anticipated. Maybe I should take it easy... but the newspaper club depends on me, they’re Head to run everything smoothly.
Sighing, I ran my hands down my face, trying to reawaken myself from my drowsy position. I couldn’t have been asleep for that long. The sudden brightness caught my attention, as the screen came to life, pulling up my novel I’d been working on. My eyes glided to the corner.
6:38pm
No…
My eyes darted up, scanning for any window for reassurance. Confirming my accusation, the sun had been setting outside. I could tell just by seeing the libraries reflection on the glass.
I moved my books to the corner, pulling my phone from underneath a stack of papers. After several attempts to turn it on, I came to the obvious realization & lapse of judgement:
I turned it off earlier
As I muttered swears and insults to myself, I began hoping & praying that she’d been okay.
She was okay.
She has to be okay.
She is okay.
The phone breathed on, and I froze. All I could do was stare, stare at my screen; and for what felt like forever, nothing was there. Nothing had popped up. As my phone screen went black, it suddenly began vibrating repeatedly, notification light flashing like a strobe light as the screen cut on and a multitude of notifications flew down it.
The feeling of repulsive guilt and anguish engulfed me as my phone continued vibrating.
MC 👑😂☺️👫💕 Missed Call (10) & Voicemail
MC 👑😂☺️👫💕: Text Message
MC 👑😂☺️👫💕: Text Message
MC 👑😂☺️👫💕: Text Message
MC 👑😂☺️👫💕: Text Message
Building the courage to scroll down, I noticed phone calls & texts from Kaitlyn. Guilt plaguing me enough to avoid reading & listening to MC’s first, I opened hers, anxiety clearly working to my disadvantage.
“Uh, James? I’ve been calling you from MC’s phone. She’s not okay…”
I dropped my phone on the table as I stuffed my books into my messenger bag.
“…um, were at the hospital right now, we had to leave a little after 2:15,”
I pulled my lanyard from around my neck and grabbed the keys from them, shutting my laptop closed.
“I don’t think it’s just some cold, she hasn’t woken up since talking about you earlier. That was around 11:30 this morning, when you get this, come asa-“
Her voice began to muffle as I stuffed my phone straight into my pocket, running through the library doors towards my car.
My mind fell blank, with only one thought racing:
Please, let her be okay.
6:45pm
•NEXT
#AWWWW#I FEEL SO BAD FOR HIM#HAD A NICE OL DAY#AND IM RUINING IT#All for the reblogzz Jamesie#no#but fr#this is sad#;(#pixelberry choices#pixelberry#choices#playchoices#play choices#choices the freshman#choices the sophomore#tf/ts#the freshman#the sophomore#choices James#the sophomore James#james ashton#james ashton fanfic#choices fanfiction#the sophmore fanfiction#fanfiction#james x mc#imperfectedchoices#choicescreates#choices creates
46 notes
·
View notes
Text
Tom I don't believe in grammar but I just want you to know that I've loved you for as long as I've known you and wrote so many poems about you and when I hear songs they make me think of you. I hope you see this.
Last week when you picked up Solis you kinda slapped my arm in the way you do when you make that “pshhhh” sound. Last year on Christmas you handed me something and I felt your hand on mine and I swear I could feel the warmth from you like you intentionally exchanged energies with me but you’ve disciplined yourself to keep from giving me anything. The time you touched me before that was when Chris died. I couldn't tell if you wanted to hug me but God it felt good and I didn't even mind that we didn't say anything. Before that it was you begging to kiss me. For the first time you begged for me, couldn't accept what I was saying. It was the first time I really thought that maybe you could spend forever kissing me.
You could have spent forever kissing the person I should have been. The feeling of warmth comes to me in my dreams and sometimes I wake up and remind myself that you're gone. I have dreams of you knowing who I am. I have dreams that you're apart of this family I've built for myself and for Solis. When I had Solis I was in no way sophisticated enough to understand how deeply flawed and unprepared I was to be a mother. Deciding to have Solis was never about keeping you. I wanted a love that would never die, how selfish was I? I knew I had something special inside of me and I couldn't resist that feeling of being a creator of my own world. What was inside of me could never leave me because she is tethered to my flesh, my blood, and my labor. How wrong was I? You and I facilitated someone who does not belong to either of us. I couldn't stand the thought of her not needing my body for sustenance, I couldn't stand the fact that she wasn't mine, but she was ours, but she wasn't. Do you understand? I remember taking a nap after she was born. I woke up to you next to me holding Solis. It was joyous. I always had these little pockets of hope that we could do this together, whatever together meant.
Theres these messages I remember. You told me you wanted to be friends, and my response was “we’re not friends.” What did that feel like for you? My body felt like a dumping ground and you were a dumping ground for my pain that caused me. You were my friend. I was always so intimidated by you, amazed by you, entranced by you. At 15 you stood out to me. Your cute hair and your teeth I liked the way you laughed but you didn't really say much, that was okay to me. You played with my hair. You had a pull and I think if you were to think back maybe you would tell me that you felt the same way. You told me the other day that I have amnesia, I thought it was funny because I pretty much remember every single moment with you. The thing is, I for so long thought my anger and my rage was righteous. I was confused, I didn't understand why you were ashamed of me or why you hid me why you wouldnt call me your girlfriend, why I was expected to behave like an adult. In between those feelings there I was, causing chaos, losing myself in bitterness and self loathing. It was all my fault so I would punish myself but when I was faced with consequences of my hurtful and unhinged behavior I would punish you.
For years, up until very recent years, I couldn't see myself. My body was disposable, I wrote a poem about myself as recycled trash. You can't know your own pain until you look It in the eye. The last few months of dating Karlos I couldn't afford my rent anymore, and couldn’t afford my downpayment on greektown house. I had to turn myself off to survive. I started going to the women in my life and coming to terms with my abuse, getting help for my abuse, Im still working on it very hard and it'll probably stay with me forever. But this is the lesson. I'm responsible now for that pain. Will I let it make me small or will I accept the support of my community who did everything they could to help me, and help myself while being lifted by love, and grace. I have blamed you for my pain for a long time, but there has never been a time I haven't wanted to heal from that with you, and I think that is the problem. I didn't want to heal with Karlos, if I believed in police system , he would be in jail right now for what he did to me. But for me to heal from you is to heal from myself.
I remember the cruel things I said to you, just like Ill never forget how your touch feels on my skin Ill never forget the way I weaponized things you trusted me with and attacked you. I’ll never forget the way I would try and try and try to make you so angry to get a reaction. I put words into your mouth and created my own realities. It must have been exhausting, more than that... the point was to make you hurt like I hurt. That was always the point. I wanted you to love me and my delusions told me you didn't any you never would.
You told me I needed therapy and I agree with you. We all have broken bits. I look at you now and see that beautiful smile and that way about you that I see in myself and in Solis. I knew I would see her in you and there's been no greater gift than this life we have all been able to provide Solis. I had troubles, those I hope you can forgive me for and understand me for. I couldn't get out of bed and Solis was my only will to live. I hadn't been able to harness that pain yet. I hadn't practiced ownership and self accountability. The pain I've felt from you is mine to carry and I promise you, I only carry lessons, lessons I'm applying. For Solis, for my chosen family, and for myself.
I wish I could send you the poems I used to write about you, and some more of the things I would write Sol when she was in me. I always saw you in the brightest of lights and nothing ever dimmed that, not even my own lies I told myself about you. Biggest lie is that you didn't love me. When you said you wouldnt let me hurt you anymore I didn't know if you still felt anything about me. Like I was just some human you see sometimes that existed before but its just a ghost now. I don't want to be remembered as that Lexei from you. The more I told myself you didn't care about me the more I pushed you away. Instead of calming down and being rational I turned to creating problems . Is it too late Tom? Have the lights turned off for you? Do you know what I would do to just sit with you, like normal people, and talk about our good memories and the joy we felt together and what you taught me and who we are now. I miss you so much Tom. Look at everyone who's in my life, they've been there for as long as you have. They're family to us. We wanted you here during quarantine. We want you to be a part of this family. Sometimes I dream about being together with you but I know that's just a delusion of grandeur. We could be friends. We were friends. I think I’ll always love you and always I will extend my apologies to you and I know it can be healing to hear “I'm sorry” from someone who has hurt you. I know its recent but Im coming back to me. Im passionate about learning how to be a healer and mindfulness and it has always brought me back to you. You still pull me tom. You showed me so much gentleness, you formed me in so many ways that I can't explain. We manifested a product of ourselves and she is the most perfect, flawed, complex, kind, smart girl who emits golden light into this world. She's a reflection of all that is good in us. You only want to talk about Solis and I get that. Im not sure why I keep extending but I keep seeing you in my dreams and I keep seeing you in Solis and I keep seeing you in real life and I can't take my eyes off of you. Sometimes I worry about you like you keep so much in, I wonder if you could ever trust me again but, Im here, and I love you. Ive made myself a safe place for people. You and Solis helped me in ways you'll only know if you see me through eyes of forgiveness.
I don't know what the point of this is. You make things Clear to me all the time, but sometimes you flirt with me and I think sometimes you might be flirting with the idea of me. Flirt with it more. We can be a team, a real team. Not married mom and dad but, come be with the chickens and the family and you'll feel at home because when we’re together we are home.
“oh how I love you, in the evening when we are sleeping.”
I remember every song we listened to, I remember every fight, every time we played and played and played, and the piano fingers on my skin. Watching you play gently on the keys making such powerful noise. Thats why you're a good cook I bet. It’s all in the gentle finesse. You're a gentle dad and a gentle man and I'm so sorry for bringing that chaos and lack of privacy into your life, I didn't get it then and you did everything you could to make me understand. I wonder why though, you never let me go and why it takes you to treat me almost like I'm not a human, in your words “nothing” to be able to stomach being near me. Is it resistance or is is disgust? Ive done a lot of stupid things... make some stupid mistakes. The fucking phone dude... didn't even cross my mind. Its your job to catch me on those things and tell me to cut it out. Im learning that we all need to pick each other up when we’re slipping. I love you tom. Im so proud of you, and I will always be rooting for you. I will always love you in a special way too. More than love like family. I want to touch your hand sometimes so badly and just grab you and hold you and smell you like the time in the harbor. Its hard to dream of you.
There are so many things I need to be sorry. You didn't deserve what you've had to go through. I wish we could hug man.
0 notes
Text
PAGE x PAGE ANALYSIS — ‘THE SHADOW STRIKES!’ #13 (1990)
PUBLISHED: DC Comics, October 1990
SCRIPT: Gerard Jones
PENCILS/INKS: Eduardo Barreto
LETTERS: John Workman
COLORS: Anthony Tollin
EDITORIAL: Brian Augustyn
THE SHADOW STRIKES! is high on my list of favorite ongoing series ever. As far as I’m concerned, of the many four-color iterations of The Shadow, this is the one that truly gets it right. The Shadow of STRIKES! is a lurking, manipulating hybrid of The Phantom of the Opera and John Wick, the action of the series playing out mainly through the perspectives of his agents and his criminal quarry. This book is tight, hard-edged, and restrained; it avoids a lot of hacky pulp comics pitfalls because it understands that the original Walter Gibson Shadow novels weren’t “trying to be pulpy” — they were trying to be lean, lurid action thrillers. This is almost entirely down to writer Gerard Jones, but it works better than anywhere else in the issues drawn by the artist that defined the look and feel of the series — Eduardo Barreto. STRIKES! sometimes suffers from being the type of lower budget 80’s/90’s DC book where the fill-in issues can be sloppy to unreadable and the truly great issues mainly succeed by virtue of being the product of creators who weren’t really being watched that closely, but that doesn’t mean I’m grading on some kind of a curve when I say the truly great issues are truly great.
Today, we’re looking at one of those issues — the second installment of an amazing four-part storyline that sees The Shadow, along with his most trusted agent Margo Lane and the begrudgingly complicit Inspector Cardona, taking his private war on crime from their habitual New York haunts to the streets of Chicago. In this analysis, I’ll be looking at how tightly Barreto’s pencils and inks hew to Jones’ script, and how the diligence of colorist (and Shadow historian) Anthony Tollin actively facilitates the near-seamless transitions between the plot’s many storylines. This is a full comic that never feels crowded, a dense comic that keeps light, and a very comic booky comic book that never loses sight of the emotional reality of what it’s depicting.
THE SHADOW STRIKES! #13 and all characters contained therein are property of DC Comics and/or Conde Nast Publications, reproduced here solely for educational purposes.
COVER
I love how conceptually simple this cover is. Graphic, understated buildings. A mostly obscured main character. Smoke and mist wafting around for a little atmosphere. There’s only one thing that’s clearly rendered — a tommy gun, unfired. The Shadow is usually depicted using handguns, so him holding this universal visual signifier for “MOB STORY” immediately lets you know what you’re in for. And that’s even without the blurb at the top. You wanna see The Shadow fight the Chicago Mob? I know I wanna see The Shadow fight the Chicago Mob.
PAGE ONE
Something THE SHADOW STRIKES! does particularly well is maintaining the balance between mainstream comic book sensibility and HBO subject matter without making either seem out of place. We open with a prime example — the hand acting in panels one through four clearly conveys uncomfortable reality of a woman having sex she doesn’t enjoy with a man she doesn’t like. This transitions to her reaching over to grab a cigarette and light up in panels five and six (along with the barb “what was even quicker than usual” for those in the back). This establishes her as our POV character for the scene, something every scene going forward will have in some form or another. The point of this opening scene is to establish bad guy mobster Anthony ‘Half-Step’ Sbarbarro as a detestable macho prick in his personal as well as professional life. By identifying with this woman, we share her lack of fulfillment and, soon, her ongoing victimization. We quickly learn to hate Half-Step by seeing him through her eyes. We also see a hint of a gun in a shoulder holster, in case you didn’t realize what kind of comic you’re about to read.
PAGE TWO
This page validates the bad feeling we got about Half-Step on the previous page. Not only so we establish the leg injury that gives him his nickname, we show how petty and violent he is. Note how loose his fingers are as he strikes her in panel four — it’s a casual, low-effort act in between tying his tie and pulling on his pants, and it absolutely demolishes her. Half-Step is a powerful man who callously uses that power to abuse those weaker than him. The scene ends on her, leaving us stewing in the emotional trauma Half-Step leaves behind him. Imagine a version of this scene that focuses on him instead of this nameless woman; his hands on the first page instead of hers, him walking out into the hall in this last panel instead of her crying into her pillow. One version of the scene encourages you to identify with Half-Step, or, jesus, maybe even thrill in his violent savoir faire. This other version shows him for the monster he is by humanizing the people around him.
PAGE THREE
Chick Heck — a dynamite name — catches us up on the events of the previous issue and shows us pictures of the main players so we’ll recognize them when we see them later. While Joe O’Hara is mainly just a quippy mannequin to help Chick with the recap, there’s some great staging between him and the showgirl in the first couple panels. She’s way too smart for him, and even though she’s constantly placed in positions of power in her panels (larger than him in panels one and three, walking past/in front of him in panel two) he just keeps checking out her legs with the unearned confidence of a white man with a little hair.
PAGE FOUR
More concise, well-written recapping, which Barreto livens up even further with a variety of camera angels and some cool lighting and drapery. We see Half-Step (who I keep accidentally and only quasi-understandably calling “Johnny Stomp” before correcting myself) near the end of the page, connecting this scene to the last and reminding us how much we would like for somebody to kill him. Chick does us a final narrative solid by setting us up for the next page with a great dramatic line.
PAGE FIVE
And now, after getting to know the distinct personalities and motivations of five characters across four pages, we get our title page. The Shadow stretches out onto the scene, speaking like goddamn Dracula and dressing the part. Between Barreto’s smoky effects* and Tollin’s icy, atmospheric coloring, The Shadow really feels like a different kind creature than anything else in the book. Also worth mentioning is John Workman’s great work on the issue’s title, with the rigid ‘B’ adding extra viciousness to the sketchy, violent ‘UTCHERS.’
*I was curious how exactly Barreto achieved this affect. I consulted with Jesse Hamm and Lukas Ketner, and the consensus is that Barreto probably drew these pages on coquille board, using graphite or lightly-applied colored pencil for the smaller areas of texture and watercolor sponge with white gouache, or possibly even just correction fluid, for the large smokey areas. If any collectors or collaborators of Mr. Barreto know otherwise, please let me know. I’m still curious.
PAGE SIX
This page does a great job of immediately changing the focus of the scene from The Shadow to old man Romanowski. The Shadow is a non-character who will never learn anything new about himself or struggle with a decision, so the drama of the series usually centers around how ‘normal’ people react to him. In this case, it’s the equally resolute Romanowski, whose whole motivation is neatly laid out in the first three panels. “And I will owe NOTHING... to NOBODY...Not even YOU,” Mr. Devil-Man With A Gun.
There’s a nice leftward motion as Romanowski tries to hustle this intruder out of his house, followed up by the overwhelming rightward motion of The Shadow as he silences the old man and makes his final pitch. This panel’s layout, its placement on the page, and even Tollin’s blue coloring all loosely mirror the Half-Step slap on page two; I think this is the first instance in the issue of the creative team setting up parallels between the two men. The Shadow also possesses a frightening degree of physical power, but he uses it carefully. He’s scary, but not dangerous. Or at least less dangerous. He’s not actively a woman-beater, how about that. The two panels in question, so you can draw your own conclusions:
Continuity note: the money on the floor in panel two carries over from the previous issue — Tad came to his father asking for money to pay out his gambling debts, and Romanowski, enraged at his son’s weakness, grabs glass jars containing his savings and smashes them to the floor, yelling “take it! Take it!” He uses jars because he doesn’t trust the banks — having his own money during the stock market crash was what allowed him to grow his business to what it is today. This goes further toward establishing that Romanowski sees himself as a man who doesn’t owe anything to anybody. This scene here doesn’t rely on that information, but it’s useful garnish, no?
PAGE SEVEN
Tad’s brief show of spine on the previous page immediately melts once The Shadow leaves — Barreto keeps him wobbling and weak while his father is still and resolute. The scene transitions from being about Romanowsky the senior to being about Tad, tears in his eyes as he speeds away. The last panel switches it again to the Shadow, watching silently from high above. Note how Barreto makes liberal use of the graphite shading, but leaves The Shadow’s hat and Tad’s car flat, highlighting them by omission. And man, how insane is this angle? We somehow see the train and the car at the same time without it feeling forced. The complexity of the El Tracks The Shadow’s hanging on might at first seem punishingly complicated, but I think it’s actually the parallel beams of that structure that makes the warped perspective visually legible in the first place. Using something difficult to depict something impossible. Eduardo Barreto. I tell ya.
PAGE EIGHT
This page gives us what I like to call ‘an artificial action beat.’ The Shadow catching a ride on this train is hardly a conventional action set piece, but it’s a splashy, physically extraordinary Thing That Is Happening and it breaks up a couple of dialogue-heavy scenes. It also gives us a private moment from The Shadow, helping us like him as our macroprotagonist by seeing him successfully doing something difficult. How do we know it’s difficult? The acting in his face in panel two, plus the fact that he loses his hat. On some level we know he can’t fly or teleport, but seeing him actually have to put effort into getting around helps us identify with him, without sacrificing too much of his mystery.
At the bottom of page: the return of shaky Tad. Jones does a good job of keeping small NPC type characters around, like the singer in panel four, making their Chicago feel full. It’s easy for large-cast crime comics like this to start to feel like the only people in the world are the people involved in the case in question; bizarrely, this can actually serve to make the case seem less important. What’s so bad about bad guys if there’s no society at large to be threatened by them?
PAGE NINE
Georgie Katomeris’ office (containing Georgie, Tad and Half-Step) and Frank Nitty’s drawing room (containing Nitti, Jake Guzik, and Half-Step again after some passage of time) are indistinguishable from each other as Barreto draws them, but are still kept distinct by three things. One is Jones’ dialogue — the ellipsis in that precedes Nitti’s panel three dialogue indicates a jump in time. Another is Nitti’s smoking jacket — he wouldn’t be going out in it, so we must have changed locations from the office to his private residence. The last and most effective is Tollin’s coloring — the grey of George’s office gives way to the green walls of Nitti’s drawing room. I admit this transition felt abrupt to me at first read, but these three clues let me easily find my footing again.
PAGE TEN
We spent the first two pages of the issue showing Half-Step to be detestable; now we show him to be truly dangerous. His patience and planning further draw him into parallel with The Shadow — having him tell a story that essentially ends with “I could have killed the President of the United States but didn’t want to because of my deeply held principles” does a great job of showing us his crazy ego and, more importantly, his ambition. The point of the end of this scene is clear: this is not someone who’ll willingly stay in a subordinate role forever. But he’s not just going to throw his weight around. He’s going to be smart about it. Note how he goes from very small in panel five, cut off by the top of the panel, to large in panel six, crowding Nitti into the corner.
PAGE ELEVEN
Half-Step dominates his half of the page. The heavy shadowing on his face in panel three indicates there’s something dark going on in his mind. The other half of the page is all about The Shadow. We finally have the two of them in the same location here, with the Shadow placed in a position of power — the low angle of his glory shot in panel five, the fact that Half-Step doesn’t know he’s being watched. They’re even sort of almost facing each other down, with Half-Step facing left in panel three and the Shadow creeping in towards the right in panel five. But like Half-Step, The Shadow won’t just smash in guns ablaze— he’s playing a longer game. This page really sets them up as worthy enemies, with a lot of good, or at least better, people caught in the metaphorical crossfire between them.
PAGE TWELVE
Here we finally catch up with Inspector Cardona, Brenda Shield, and Margo Lane, who Chick Heck introduced us to by proxy in his earlier scene. This page has what for my money is the only real misstep this issue makes; although Margo and Cardona are both name-checked on this page, Brenda is not, and it’s been so long since the Heck scene that it’s asking a lot of the readers to remember her by sight — especially since there isn’t really much going on with her design to visually distinguish her, big polka dot bow or not. That said, this page does still somehow manage to give us that cool, spacious three-panel sequence of Cardona walking away from the ladies only to be waylaid by The Shadow while still leaving room for a nice big ‘Identify With This Character Please’ shot of Margo in the penultimate panel. Jones also manages to give us clear ideas of both Margo and Cardona’s characters, their dynamic with each other, AND their individual dynamics with the Shadow while he’s at it. Lastly, I like Tollin’s choice to give Margo a Green color scheme, making her instantly as visually distinct in the issue as the Shadow in his blacks and reds. For a page that makes the issue’s one arguable mistake, it sure does a hell of a lot right.
PAGE THIRTEEN
Half-Step is back, haunting the plot just like the Shadow does. Seems to be a theme of men preying on women in this issue — let’s keep an eye on that going forward. Note how much real estate on the page is given up, letting the panels float around; this is used in the top half to separate Half-Step from the other guys in the car, painting his “Like I’m gonna break this city down” line as an unthinking quasi-crazy utterance, as well as to separate Margo and Brenda from the gossiping nightclub crowd in the bottom half.
PAGE FOURTEEN
Here we explain Brenda’s stakes in this scene. Even if you don’t empathize with her high-society worries, it’s worth noting that Jones has made clear through action and dialogue that every character in every scene has something they want, need, and/or fear, and Brenda is no exception. Tollin draws attention to the dreaded encroachment of gossip in the last panel with a change in background color from a neutral yellow to a threatening orange.
Now, bear in mind, Margo might be genuinely supportive here, but all of what he’s saying about herself is a lie. There is no Dick. She's never met the Hartes. She’s working Brenda as per the Shadow’s orders — she and her fellow agents are basically Ocean’s Eleven if Danny Ocean decided to start dressing like Doctor Sax and fighting crime, and if that means pulling a hustle on a pie-eyed heiress, then I guess that’s just what's on the agenda for the evening.
(Fun personal trivia: This comic came out the month my girlfriend was born. She also sort of has the face Barreto gives most women he draws. Coincidence? One wonders.)
PAGE FIFTEEN
Margo is the only person in this issue who gets an internal monologue, which she uses here to reveal the way her charade chafes, but also the freedom she feels from being anonymous, from being unconnected to her past mistakes. So, of course, enter: the man who knows all her secrets, here to spoil her reverie. This scene takes place in the ladies room — another example of a man trespassing against a woman, except that while our gangsters are doing it for personal gain, the Shadow (here unsexed and dehumanized to the point of being almost a silhouette) does it in service of his theoretically higher calling. He dominates panel four, almost encircling her. Margo’s body language tells it all — not afraid, but very uncomfortable. We keep the scene in her perspective by cutting from the Shadow in panel five to Brenda in panel six, both more or less in her literal point of view. Note again how Barreto employs negative space above and below the final panel to create a zoom-in effect on Brenda’s eyes.
PAGE SIXTEEN
More Big Sister Margo; see how she controls Brenda’s body in panels one through three. Half-Step is inside now — I think we’re supposed to infer that he’s responsible for loosing the rumor that’s upsetting Brenda. A slightly abstract example of a man invading a female space? I might be reaching, there.
Barreto does a great job of changing locations by making panel five a round panel with poor Joe Cardona on the right of the frame, contrasting with Half-Step’s leftward placement in the square panel opposite. Tollin helps with a cold color shift. The last panel might not seem like it does a lot, but it actually sets up two things for later in the issue: One is that it makes for the second time we see The Shadow and Cardona together, so when we see them together again at the end of the issue it benefits from a satisfying ‘rule of threes’ thing. The other is that it sets up one of The Shadow’s later appearances — I’ll touch on why this was necessary when it comes up.
PAGE SEVENTEEN
A great falling line of action as Tad stumbles and falls across the top four panels. Employing steadily lengthening panels like this is something Barreto does so well, and here it has the side benefit of giving Half-Step room to really loom over Tad in panel four. Meanwhile, I’m glad Half-Step’s poor, mistreated girlfriend had a good lay. She deserves it.
PAGE EIGHTEEN
Barreto is so good at clothing and drapery that you start to take it for granted — and then you remember it all over again when he draws a disheveled suit like the one Tad’s stuffed into. As soon as Nitti shuffles Tad out of the apartment, Half-Step’s attention turns to the woman. We get super close to him, the rendering becomes denser, meaner. Tollin even gives him an angry rage-flush. He’s huge in panel four, crowding her to the edge of the frame. His dialogue transverses panel five into panel six, implying he’s following her as she tries to get away from him. The final panel puts us back in her shoes, as Half-Step’s rage is directed straight at us.
PAGE NINETEEN
Panel one to panel two is the kind of cut we don’t see much in comics, despite it being incredible effective. We get the point of her abuse without — man, I guess the phrase I want to use is cheapen it by showing it explicitly on the page. Clearly implying something and then cutting away can be even more effective than showing it outright. If we were to see this scene play out, we’d still know in the backs of our heads that this is, essentially, a superhero comic, and that it’d be possible that when we turned the page, The Shadow might show up to save this woman. When the scene is over and the hero never appears, we might be left wondering, “Christ, then what was the point of seeing all that?” This method here conveys what happened with a haunting finality, but without any creepy exploitation.
On a characterization front, the thread that culminates in this scene is massive. Half-Step treats this woman like an appliance, but claims he’d kill any man who touched her. He actively entraps her into this weird “gotcha” self-cuckold and then punishes her for falling for it. This shows us so much about the depth of his bizarre self-loathing, his warped pride, the outright evil of him. And yet, again, staging these as events in her life keeps her from being just a prop to let us know how super duper bad this story’s bad guy is. She has an internal life outside of him. This all actually makes these displays of his violence more effecting because we’re seeing its effects on a “real person,” not just some Real Doll who doubles as a speedbag.
Note also how well panel two and the butcher hanging up the cow in panel three frames the interaction between Romanowski and his debtor, Karl. Size continues to equal power as we get the huge foregrounded gangster (rendered into one monotone shape by Tollin’s colors) making the bright, full-figured Romanowsky look smaller and more vulnerable than he realizes.
PAGE TWENTY
The empty room in panel one gives us a moment to breathe as we head into a tense scene. At the same time, we know we’re getting close to the end of the issue, so an entire panel dedicated to an empty room makes us slightly nervous — we’re aware we’re running out of time. Which, by design or by happenstance, is the Shadow’s point at the end of the page. Tad is consistently rendered in a clear, clean comic book style, while The Shadow is rendered in planes of light and darkness, making him seem elemental, powerful, spectral.
PAGE TWENTY ONE
This is the best page in this comic. I lost my mind when I saw this page. It’s AWESOME. Look at how well rendered Romanowski is in panel one. The oppressive dark architecture in panel two, drawing the eye to the small, bright Romanowski. That unnecessary but oh so cool-looking graphic black-out in panel three. The hatching on Romanowski in panel four. The callback to Half-Step’s leg injury, set up nearly twenty pages ago. The cascade of action across those last three panels. Tollin’s colors across the whole damn thing. I love this page. This page is why they have comic books.
PAGE TWENTY TWO
Look at Romanowski’s face in panel one, highlighted by the falling glasses. The FURY. The reveal of Half-Step is so pat, so understated. The little throw-away line to himself further cements him as a bona fide evil psycho criminal — one more reason we want to see him go down. The circular panel inside the square field of panel five, a technique I can’t ever remember seeing before, gives the impression that a notable amount of time has passed since the glasses fell — glasses that Barreto made sure to pointedly re-establish as a visual signifier for old man Romanowski in these last few pages.
So, The Shadow shows up late. This is why it was important to set up The Shadow’s intent to see Romanowski in that panel at the end of page sixteen; to have The Shadow appear too late would come off as arbitrary, or even as an intentional delay on his part, if we hadn’t established The Shadow’s intentions beforehand. Or, put more simply: in order to show a character failing at something, you have show they were trying to accomplish that thing in the first place — especially when so much work has gone into conveying that character’s competence.
PAGE TWENTY THREE
The Shadow respects Romanowski’s principles. Of all the characters in this story, the two of them are the most alike in that regard. But while Romanowski was a stubborn old butcher and easy prey for Half-Step and his guys, The Shadow is an unkillable psychic murder man.
Panel two is full of space, both geographic and negative, giving us another much needed moment of breathing room. All the gangsters present have distinctive color cues, easily letting us get a feel for the size of the gathering as opposed to an amorphous clutch of same-colored “GANGSTERS (tm),” which often happens in comic book scenes depicting groups of men in suits. They can become like zebras if you don’t take the time to make him distinct, as they are here. Half-Step’s buggy zooms into panel four from beyond the page, a nice way to emphasize that the vehicle is coming at them from out of nowhere.
PAGE TWENTY FOUR
The tommy gun EXPLODES through panel one, dissolving the panel border itself. Those carefully color-coded mobsters from the previous page all catch bullets, which wouldn’t mean as much to the reader if they weren’t distinct from one another. “A bunch of gangsters got shot” becomes “several men were brutally murdered by machine gun fire.” Said gunfire chases Guzik from left to right in panel three — note the diagonal line that tracks his presence in panels two, three, and four, making his plunge to the ground in panel four seem like an extension of his movement in the other panels, even though the they happen on radically different parts of the page. Barreto keeps the same angle on Guzik in panels four and six, cementing him as the lone survivor of this drive-by and the default POV character for the scene. Or, to put in visually:
This is some seriously solid craft.
PAGE TWENTY FIVE
The Shadow is HUGE on this page. This drawing of him the biggest thing in the entire comic — the same size as he is on the cover. He bookends this story, dominating it. Cardona’s fear and uncertainly help sell the terrifying finals words of his boss, seen here in full on What-If-Hannibal-Lecter-was-Batman mode. This drive-by was easily the biggest act of violence in the issue, and the heavy blacks of The Shadow on this last page emphasizes him as this dark presence bringing doom to the Chicago mob. This page cements what we can expect from the next issue: The Shadow’s done his ground work. He’s ready to start making some moves.
FINAL THOUGHTS
Despite having three more pages than your typical modern comic, the page for page action is always dense and well-paced. Every scene feels necessary and the story never lingers long on any one place or character, and yet it never feels overstuffed or rushed. It takes time for some impressive visuals to break up the action, but never to the point of self-indulgence. There’s always something happening, even in a scene that basically boils down to ‘Two women go a club and a third woman talks shit.’ I talk a lot about Barreto — and I would, he remains one of the best artists of all time — but I don’t think enough can be said for Jones’ masterful pacing and lean yet conversational dialogue. These are two creators at the top of their game, with a solid coloring/lettering/editorial team backing their play. Almost thirty years after its publication, there’s still a lot to learn and even more to admire in these pages. This is definitely the kind of read that makes me want to up my game.
When possible, I’ll be placing links at the end of these so you can buy better copies of the comics I’m analyzing with out my words getting in the way.
Retroactively, here’s Comixology links for the comics I covered in my first two reviews:
BATMAN: GOTHAM ADVENTURES #17
PETER PARKER: SPIDER-MAN #13
As far as I can tell, THE SHADOW STRIKES! has never been collected in print, nor does Comixology doesn’t carry it, so I’ll link to another great Shadow story by someone else who really understands the material: Matt Wagner’s GRENDEL vs THE SHADOW, with Brennan Wagner on colors. I’ll also throw in a link to another Eduardo Barreto DC comic I’ve always dug, written by this issue’s editor, Brian Augustyn: BATMAN: MASTER OF THE FUTURE.
As always, feel free to check me on any mistakes I might have made, add your own commentary, or share similar examples of good comics done well. I’ll be back next week with a different comic to peruse.
#The Shadow#The Shadow Strikes!#Analysis#Educational Purposes#comics#pulp#DC Comics#Eduardo Barreto#Gerard Jones
11 notes
·
View notes
Text
No clue who this is addressed to, nor what the purpose of this is/will be, but feeling exasperated that nothing helps me feel better, how about I give venting via writing a shot.
Here’s the deal. I’ve been involved with this guy for about 5+ years. Lets call him owl. Its the first thing I looked at in my apartment trying to come up with a code name instead of publishing this guys name who any of you reading most likely already know his name via any of my fb posts in the last 5 years. I met him my freshman year at UD. Ballroom dance team. To this day I dont even know if I can explain what drew me to him. He was cocky and confident, cheeky, and cute. He danced. He was a Marine. He seemed so out of my league as a dorky, naive, super awkward freshman that didn’t know anything about college culture. I learned quick that a few dates does not mean we’re dating, and that he was a man of many many ladies. I learned quick that he did not really take my feelings into consideration but I would put them aside and accept any interactions or affections that were given. We had a connection and I had fun with him. I just wanted to go with it.
I went with it for all four years of college. Always waiting for when he’d finally be ready to commit. Or see how much I do for him. How I’m always there, good times and bad. Even when he really really pisses me off. Waiting for him to see that I was his best friend the way I saw that he was mine. Waiting for him to stop messing up with me, appreciate me, cherish me, want to show me off.
I’m gonna be honest, that never came. Not in college. I didnt date anyone else. I didnt get involved with anyone else more than a few months, and those involvements were usually the product of me and owl being in one of our phases where we were on the outs and he was not talking to me. but once we were good again sure enough I’d lose interest in whoever it was that I was entertaining in that time. I regret a lot of that. Not giving others real chances, because they actually deserved them and wanted them.
But with him it was always like a game, like a chase, never ending, suspenseful, thrilling, exciting, passionate, never a boring moment. Always keeping me guessing. I hated it but I loved it. He didn’t respect me, and he didnt respect my feelings, but still I stuck around. It’s only now that I’m seeing that I had slowly been losing respect for myself, so what incentive would he have for respecting me when I was being a hypocrite? Our dynamic was one of push and pull. There were the times he’d pull me in and never want to let me go, and then without warning he would push me away and leave me feeling abandoned and confused as to what I did to deserve it.
He hurt me a lot. Never physically. Never. Never forced himself on me, I never once was physically scared of him. But emotionally. Every year there was at least one incident. One big fight that seemed like the be all end all. That would leave me in my dorm crying with my roommate wondering how he could be so cold and harsh towards me after everything I’ve done and everything we’ve shared. Always wishing that he would miss me and realize everything and change. It was a clear cycle, and I’m not stupid, I was very cognizant of it, but idk, i liked it and i was still waiting. What I had with him was so different and special I couldnt let it, or him, go.
Last year, October, we had a big falling out. That was really the be all end all. I knew because, and as stupid as this is or sounds, in all of our fights we had never unfriended each other on facebook or done something as extreme or defining as that. We always left doors open. But with this, he burned all bridges. He made a facebook status about me. He wanted all of my things out of his place. He 100% snapped. It was over, he broke things off and our 4 years of being together but not really together, was over.
I spent the next 5 months in therapy and trying to keep busy with friends and classes and trying to find myself again. So much of my identity was dependent on him and associated with him. All of my memories included him. Even dance reminded me of him. I was so lost. And missed him so much but had motivation to work on myself and for once be comfortable and happy with being on my own. I remember one particular session with my therapist in which she told me that if I still have hope that we will reconcile one day, I need to completely let go of what we had. Put it to rest, let it go, mourn it, and leave it in the past, because there was too much to be fixed and too much wreckage to salvage anything. That if we were to ever reconcile it would have to be a completely clean slate. Free of the past transgressions. So that night I blocked him. I blocked his number, his facebook. his snapchat, everything. It was hard and scary but I did it in hopes that thats what I needed to do even if temporarily and symbolically leave our 4 years together in the past.
2 days later was Valentines day. I was supposed to go to a devils game with a friend and she cancelled last minute because she was sick. I reached out to everyone in my phone to try to find someone to go with me because I did not want to spend valentines day in bed thinking about him and missing him. Nobody could come to the game. I was offered a shift at work and almost took it but someone hopped on it before I could. So i was left with chinese food and netflix. I let myself cry and be upset, and feel the hurt remembering our past valentines days together. And then my mom came to my room and let me know that jake was coming to the house. shit i said his name. whatever. she let me know that he asked permission to come and clear the air, and that he would be there in 40 minutes.
He was there in 30, and we sat down, with my best friend as a third party, and we talked for 5 hours. About everything. Anything. All the grievances we had with each other. What we realized. What we regretted. And he told me that he loved me. That he needs me in his life, and said all of the things that I had waited 4 years for. I kept thinking about how right my therapist was, about letting go and letting them come to you, about starting fresh, about leaving the past in the past.
The months that followed were the epitome of a honeymoon phase. My god. we were finally doing things right. He was showing me off, appreciating me, never wanted to let me go, it was everything. I dont think I’ve ever been so happy. We were so in love with each other, so excited, couldn’t wait more than 2 weeks to visit each other again. We moved in together. We made an apartment a home together. We started new jobs and set goals. We motivated each other, supported each other, and wholeheartedly loved each other. I finally felt like I was in a functional and healthy relationship. I felt so loved every single day and I finally understood what people meant about that unbelievable feeling of being in love with someone who was just as in love with you. We did and learned so much together. We had setbacks, and tiffs here and there, but we worked through each one.
Theres a lot in between then and now, but I don’t think it’s worth getting into or explaining. All I can say is that I don’t know how we went from that, to this. Not speaking. Not looking at each other. An apartment that was once so full of love and laughter now only has silence and tension.
He has problems. And to be honest. I’ve always known that but never wanted to accept it. I have problems too because I am very compliant. The relationship became emotionally abusive. I am mentally abused. And he has left me hating myself when I dont even know who I am. I don’t regret staying with him. I don’t regret getting back with him last year. I dont regret anything. All i’ve done is love and give as much as I possibly can. Im not angry. More than anything, i’m disappointed.
I thought he was it. Actually. I know he is. If he were to get the help that he needed. But in a normal relationship, when there is an issue, you don’t feel that your partner becomes a completely different person. That’s not normal. And right now, I don’t know who he is. For the past 2 weeks I have been wishing I could just snap him out of it. Grab him by the shoulders and shake him. Show him a photo of us and see him come back to me. I have written heartfelt letter after heartfelt letter. Debating giving one to him in hopes of softening him up and coming out of this haze of anger and hatred hes in right now. But thats not normal. I shouldnt have to snap him out of anything. I shouldnt have to wish he’d come back. I shouldnt have to plead and beg for him to remember our good times to soften up. None of it is normal. He dissociates. And when i look at his eyes hes not there. I know this sounds dramatic but it’s true. It’s scary, it’s hurtful, it worries me, but it’s true. He completely detaches, and it’s as though he never knew me. As though we never shared a single experience together. And nothing I do can bring him out of that place. As I write this, I feel like I’m writing or remembering someone that died. And thats because essentially, that is how I feel. the man i spent the past year with loving and learning and GROWING died. He’s gone and I dont know why or where he is. And i’m left with this fraction of myself that doesn’t know how to cope with any of it.
He’s not good for me. Its not worth it. I deserve better. I’m going to be so much happier without him. These are all words that an infinite number of friends or loved ones can say to me but the fucked up part of all of it is that I don’t want better, I want him. I know that I will never be able to fully let him go. It’ll never be fully over. And i will always love him. I care about him more than I care about myself. Which is a big part of the problem.
I don’t know where to go from here. Or how to cope. I don’t know what to do. All i know is that I miss him with every fiber of my being. I can’t open my phone gallery because the last photos I took were with him and I can’t look at them. I made a new facebook to run away from it all. Nothing I do makes me feel better. Friends. Work. Gym. Margaritas. Movies. Its all a distraction from missing the person who made me smile ear to ear every morning, and exhale peacefully every night. Even now as I write this, hes walking around the apartment and its as though Im a ghost. He doesnt see me. Acknowledge me. Notice me. And while I used to see him and feel overwhelming love, I now just feel hated. Complete hatred. As though I ruined his life, when all I ever tried to do was make his life better.
So friends, that is my story. I don’t know how it’ll end but I can tell you for sure that I will never be able to hate him or be angry with him. And I will always love him. What comes next for me, I have no idea. I thought writing all of this out would maybe help me have some sort of epiphany but no epiphany came.Sometimes I wish I could have my mind wiped clean of all of this so I wouldnt have to deal with this pain. But I cant. So this is going to suck. For a long while. I’m going to be upset for a long while. I hope at the end of this I can find myself and be a version of myself that has value and pride. I want to be the Bren that loves herself, respects herself, values herself, and is proud of herself. The bren that marched on washington for womens rights in the world needs to march for her rights in her life. More than anything though, I hope he finds himself. I hope he does what he needs to do. I only ever wanted him to be happy. Even if it was at my expense.
1 note
·
View note
Last Seen Blogs
