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pineaberry · 5 years

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Fictober: #31

SWTOR

STARRING: Darth Malgus (RETURN OF THE BURNT POTATO!)

This one goes out to @doomhamster and @fluffynexu. I still owe you the rest of this fic, but I hope this will tide you over until I get to it! Also @sunsetofdoom. She’s always down for pron!

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Existence was a cruel, sadistic thing with a twisted sense of humor.

His entire life Malgus had fought for power and control heedless of the consequences. He knew what lay at the core of every sentient being: chaos. Deep down, they were all of them savages and the strongest would rule the weak. War was the perfect model for his philosophy. It was the logical conclusion of everything the Sith represented. To emerge victorious was to hold the chains of fate itself.

Friendships, family... love… he burned them all in the altar of war and cauterized his weaknesses to form a protective callous. After decades in the bloodied forge, he thought himself untouchable. Like the Vitiate of old he saw the rot spreading in the dark halls of the council chambers and vowed to raise a new Empire up from the maggots.

Illum had seemed like child’s play. Unlike Lord Scourge, Darth Marr’s new pet Wrath was young, eager to please, and so helpful it bordered on the naive. His first impression was that she was not worth recruiting. She was a symptom of a greater sickness: the Sith’s waning strength made manifest. He dismissed her as a feeble-minded slip of a girl, prone to manipulation. She had no place in his new Empire save to be used and discarded.

It had been a serious miscalculation on his part.

One of many.

Over the years he had many long hours to contemplate his failure and it all began with that single error. He mistook her smile and amenable nature to be the signs of an idiot. He saw her give her opponents a chance to surrender and thought her soft. He found her wanting and then put her from his mind.

He was too busy claiming his throne; too busy preparing to rule the galaxy to see the warning signs. He ignored her as his allies were decimated; cut down by wheat. Darth Serevin’s death weighed on his mind. While he had believed the wrath to be a flickering shadow, she in turn executed him for his betrayal and kept Talsa-ko’s decapitated head as a trophy. Something about that encounter had ignited the Wrath’s rage and they had paid the price.

He failed to see her splintering his barricades one by one and leaving only corpses behind. He failed to see the Wrath’s wrath.

The irony of it made his lips twist in a self-deprecating smile.

Blinded by his own visions of a throne well within his grasp, he did not act until she stood before him. She had been a strange contradiction of vivid hues and blackened aura. In the end, his own hubris became his undoing. Wasn’t that always the way?

In his defeat, Malgus found a better understanding of what it meant to be in chains. He was not given the dignity of an honorable death. No, he was taken back to Dromund Kaas and dragged into the bowels of the citadel where the council’s butchers awaited.

He learned his lesson there in the darkness amidst a new definition of pain. But even locked away from the stars he could not escape her. The inquisitors spoke in hushed whispers of a Wrath that came thundering down on Makeb and crushed the Hutt and Republic alike. In between his torments, he heard of Rishi and Yavin and Revan. He heard of Marr’s close partnership with her and of Vowrawn’s unlikely ‘friendship’. He heard of an Imperial always dogging her step and her habit of gifting him the severed hands of Sith and diplomats alike that failed to respect his personal space. A blatantly obvious sign that the man was her lover.

He listened and felt the caustic burn of envy.

Perhaps, if he had not been so quick to dismiss her, she might have joined him. Illum would have gone a thousand different ways if he’d had Vowrawn’s silver tongue or Marr’s charisma. It became all the more galling with the fall of Zakuul.

They were more alike than he gave her credit. In a few short years she built her own army and her own loyalists taken from the disillusioned masses. Even the fallen emperor Arcann broke under her grip and came to her on his knees to pledge his allegiance. The throne was as good as hers the moment she reached for it.

It had taken her less than a decade to do what Malgus had planned for a lifetime. It was as though she’d taken a quick glance at his work and then decided she could do it better.

Even her defeat broke differently than his. She still commanded a formidable power. Mere Sith no longer, she was referred to as The Commander and she bowed to no mortal being.

They met again on Ossus, both of them fulfilling the same mission. The difference being, it was her choice to be there. When he stepped out of his living coffin, he expected her mockery and disdain.

Malgus had been completely unprepared for her bright smile and pleasant words. She was as neon hued as ever and greeted him like an old friend instead of a foe she hadn’t quite killed off.

At first he believed she was taking a page out of Vowrawn’s book and hiding her hatred. But the more time he spent with her the more he realized she was genuinely pleased to see him. It occurred to him that the nastiness on Illum had never been personal to her. It was as though she had forgotten all about it.

When Ossus was completed, she praised him and once more left him without a dignified response. Her reasoning was beyond his understanding. What did she hope to achieve?

His thoughts were interrupted when his implants activated. Malgus winced in discomfort. It was time for maintenance on his hardware and he was being summoned.

His body moved of its own accord and he was too weary to fight the programmed obedience. He’d always despised the image of a slave being brutalized and now it seemed he was destined to die in captivity.

Vowrawn had been the first one to ‘visit’ him in his cell. The Pureblood had gleefully noted how they had hunted down his power base as he used medical instruments to forcefully remove Malgus’ cybernetic augments. It was Vowrawn who took away his motor skills and repurposed him with new parts. It was Vowrawn who fashioned his cage and locked him away in a body that no longer listened to him.

It was Vowrawn who made a point to remind him just how low he had fallen with every touch that lingered far too long in between bursts of sheer agony. Vowrawn who reduced him to a cheap whore be it out of spite or boredom.

Marr visited exactly once. Malgus remembered hanging from the ceiling, surrounded by medical tubes as restraints were welded into his skin. Marr’s unreadable mask cloaked his expression, but Malgus could feel the loathing and disgust radiating from him. For a brief moment, Malgus believed Marr would end his existence but the man was never one for mercy. Instead, he ordered the nearest guard to summon Cytharat to the council chambers and was gone without a second glance.

He didn’t know how long he lived in that special type of hell. He was kept alive to serve as an example, as a lesson, as a tool for intimidation.

“This is what happens to traitors.”

“Don’t end up like Malgus.”

“This is your fate if your hubris costs me my victory.”

The days and faces all blurred together. Only his firm grasp of the Force kept him from going insane.

The door automatically closed and locked behind him as he stood defiant as he glared at the medical bed. He had grown to detest the scent of kolto and the cold touch of metal on his skin. Discomfort laced with fear radiated from his form. There was nothing he could do to avoid it; no feasible way to escape his fate.

Acina was the first to realize his potential. Or perhaps Zakuul had simply decimated enough Sith that she was desperate enough to use him. Whatever the reason, it was she who rebuild his limbs and turned him into a weapon. She was not one for finesse and enjoyed letting the droids work on him until he was reduced to screaming in agony.

As his robes and armor fell away, he bore the marks of her handiwork etched crudely into her skin. The pain focused him, it kept his senses keen. Every step, every motion, every breath, felt as though it were cutting into him. To live was a war, and one he constantly won. He had to believe it was so or else he would be driven mad by it.

The last of his armor was cast off and he spared a glance to his captor. He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised that the commander had taken possession of his obedience codes, after all, she had some of the best slicers in the galaxy under her employ. After their confrontation on Illum, it was understandable that she wished to inflict her own version of punishment. Funny, he hadn’t thought it was her style to be vindictive.

Calm blue eyes stared back at him with an unreadable expression that was unnerving. Cruelty or malice he could understand, but this passive response was beyond him. He broke eye-contact and lay down on medical bed as ordered. It was better than a metal table, but it did little to put him at ease. The sound of his respirator seemed too-loud in his ears as he waited for pain or humiliation or some sickening combination of the two.

Instead he felt a gentle touch on his arm and a pinprick before something warm flowed through his veins. Confusion clouded his thoughts as he felt the constant pain melt away into a blissful numbness.

“That’s better isn’t it? No need to be scared,” she smirked and he eyed her warily as she set aside the injector. Her small hand rested over his chest and it felt like a searing mark against his skin. His throat emitted a sound that was a cross between a snarl and an enraged growl.

“Scared, me? You lack the capacity to inspire such an emotion,” he snarled..

He didn’t need her coddling. He was not a child nor a fool to believe her comfort was genuine.

Tremas didn’t so much as flinch as her touch continued to rest over his sternum. Medical droids scanned his body and displayed readings he could quite make out from his vantage point. Tremas lips curled into a scowl as the results displeased her.

He wanted to say something scathing or acrid to her but the retort died in his throat as he felt her delicate fingers touch his inner thighs and firmly push his legs apart. Adrenaline surged through him but he was not allowed neither flight nor fight as his programming kept him restrained. He stared at the ceiling cursing the respirator that echoed his quickening breath in a deafening rasp.

“Now just breathe. There’s structural damage and this might sting a bit...”

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Read More About Tremas HERE!

Original Fictober Promp List HERE!

#SWTOR #Darth Malgus #Tremas Cidran #she collects trash ok?.#AND THAT'S A WRAP!#No more writing for me!#All my energy will be dedicated towards reading #ENTERTAIN ME FOR A CHANGE!

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j-whirl44 · 4 years

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Before it’s forgotten or taken away.

y’all knew this was coming.

Jon and Martin own my entire life at the moment and i really wanted to get something out before 162 ruins me.

Read it on AO3! (x)

Song from (x)

NOTE: Most of the dialogue (literally like 99%) was taken straight from 161 and therefore written by Jonny Sims and not me! I take no credit!!! I just wrote around it!

ALSO: MAJOR Spoilers about 161 read at your own risk! Stay safe out there!

Enjoy!

Martin couldn’t sit by the windows anymore, the whistling winds of the terros outside were too loud and the hairs on his whole body stood straight up whenever he got too close. So he’s taken to sitting on the floor and tries to not spend his days staring at the door of the small safehouse. He wanted to do something. To make things right. For everyone. For Jon.

He shouldn’t have left Jon alone that night. It’s not like he wanted to take walks alone anyway, ever since being pulled from The Lonely he’s really not wanted to spend any time alone, but Jon needed a statement and Martin really needed tea, so he went anyway. He remembered feeling a hollow pit form in his stomach as he was in line at the shop to check out. His skin burned hot and he swore he saw the spiders crawl down the cashier’s desk and out the door. Accompanied by screams from a distance outside. He dropped everything and rushed back to the safehouse, but it was too late. He found Jon passed out on the floor, hands over his face. The skies above them seemed to open up; the clouds created a spiral shape.

That was, by Martin’s attempted count, only three weeks ago and whatever hope he had of this blowing over quickly fizzled out. As if that was ever really an option in the first place.

He read the statement before Jon could stop him and the fear and rage bubbled over in him so violently he remembers puking onto the floor. Since then he’s only thought of one thing: Killing Jonah Maguns-or Elias-whoever. He didn’t quite care at this point. As he thought about it he laughed. He supposed he already had the chance to do it, and in hindsight, if that had stopped whatever this was, had stopped Jon from hurting, he would’ve done it with only faux hesitation.

Maybe that should scare him now. His sudden willingess to murder, but maybe Peter rubbed off on him far more than he cared to admit. Or it was something else in the bitter air that now covered the atmosphere.

He didn’t remember a lot of his time inside The Lonely until now as it started to creep up on him in his dreams.

He’s been waking up freezing and his chest hollow a few times now. Each time he came to, however, he’d register the warmth of Jon’s arms around him and then he’d be grounded in whatever reality was again.

Last night, he remembered clearly how he told Jon he loved him. He blushed, wondering if Jon remembered that too. If he did, Martin was a mixture of both thankful and worried that he hadn’t brought it up.

Regardless, they were together now, that much he knew. The first night they were here Jon kissed him. It was quick and gentle and left Martin a bigger stuttering mess than usual. Jon even joked he wouldn’t do it again if that’s how he was going to react every time. Now more than ever he wished he could go back to that moment and just keep them both there.

He felt silly worrying about things like this during the end of the world. But dammit he thinks he’s earned it.

Nevertheless, he can admit Jon here with him helped. If nothing else so Martin can keep an eye on him and make sure he’s okay. It can’t exactly feel good to know you started the end of the world and Martin wants to help him in any way possible.

Though not through tea anymore, apparently.

Martin had begged him not to listen to the tapes that mysteriously came with the deceitful statement. That nothing good would come out of it and though Jon promised he wouldn’t but Martin heard him listening to them later when Jon must have assumed he was asleep. He couldn’t be mad, he didn’t have the energy to be.

But now he was still listening to them. Over and over Jon was torturing himself and Martin just couldn’t take it anymore. It’s been too long; he hasn’t heard anything from Basira since the only phone box available was outside and he was worried. The Institute was probably safe from this but the true radio silence didn’t help his nerves.

He knocked on the door as Jon finished listening to his birthday tape again.

And then it turned into another conversation of Martin trying to get Jon to sleep. He knew he hadn’t and It hurt Martin to see Jon so defeated. To hear it in his voice. See it in his face.

Then he heard Gertrude’s tape. He was shocked at first, from the mention of Sasha to the way Gertrude had it all figured out. How she seemed to have a plan that was going to work.

Except it didn’t.

If only she’d been here to help them. For a second Martin felt completely lost until he saw that same feeling echoed onto Jon’s face.

“Can you imagine,” Jon said, “if we had this-”

“But we didn’t though, did we?” Martin said back with a bite that wasn’t expected by either of them.

Jon’s shoulder dropped as he lowered his head, “no.”

“So there’s no point in dwelling,” Martin said, Jon sighed, “this isn’t healthy.”

“Healthy?” Jon said with a bitter laugh, “I am an avatar of voyeuristic terror who’s unquestioned craving for knowledge has condemned the entire world to an eternity of torment healthy it’s not-”

“Fine fine I get it,” Martin said.

They’ve had this conversation before, probably a dozen times. Martin wanted so badly to shake the self loathing and pity from Jon and get him to wake up and see that this can’t be the end. It can’t be. Martin spent so much of the past year cutting himself off from everything he loved-and he’d just gotten it back. He was in no position to wallow and accept it like Jon had and he didn’t want to. That wasn’t him anymore. It never really was.

“It’s so…” Jon started again. At this point they were sat close together. Martin held Jon’s hands in his lap and squeezed as he wordlessly pleaded with him to leave, “It’s so loud out there. The agony, the terror I can see it all so much more clearly,” he said.

Martin’s heart dropped and he squeezed their hands together a little bit tighter, “I’m sorry,” he said with all the sincerity he could muster. Martin’s head was spinning, the same tickling rage he had about killing Elias crept up inside him again.

“No it’s,” Jon said with a sigh. His eyes were shut and Martin watched him intently. Then Jon’s eyes shot open, “I love you-I just-” another breath, “I need more time.”

Martin fully believed neither of them registered what was just said. Jon was exhausted, not thinking, surely he didn’t mean to blurt it out in that way.

His rage from earlier quickly melted as he felt his heart beat pick up, but now wasn’t the time, and he had to say something of intelligence before the silence lingered too long, “It’s alright,” he said, “It’s alright I’m good at waiting,” and of course Martin meant that, his whole life had been waiting for Jon.

He watched Jon’s face to see if realization hit anywhere in it, then there it was. Jon’s eyes went just a little bit wider for a moment and the softest of smiles crept onto his exhausted face, “thank you,” he said.

Then it was back to business, back to talking about the apocalypse. Back to realizing the sentience of the tape recorders. A moment between them never lasted too long, but that made them all the more special.

They laid in the small bed later, hands held in one another’s, Martin looked over to see Jon seemingly asleep. His breathing felt steady enough at least and the constant creases that lined his face were softer than usual. So Martin took in a breath, now was as good a time as any.

“I love you too,” he whispered and then closed his eyes. He felt the hand in his squeeze slightly. Martin smiled.

#The Magnus Archives #Martin Blackwood #Jonathan Sims #i wrote this.

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hiccup-is-left-handed · 6 years

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Royai Week Day 4: A Good Day for Rain

A/N: temperance. touching. angst. ishval.

"... it was a massacre ..."

"The Flame Alchemist saved us all. If not for him, I don’t know what would have happened."

The murmurs were everywhere. Riza took them all in as she moved through the camp, Her hood hid her face, but her expression was unreadable anyway. No one save Roy Mustang would have been able to guess his thoughts or feelings. She had worn her heart on her face once, on the day they had reunited. She would not make that mistake again.

She turned towards Mustang's tent; she had already been planning to see him, but now she knew she had to. As she neared her destination, she saw Captain Hughes headed that way as well. He had caught sight of her as well, and he raised a hand in greeting as she quickened her pace to join him.

He waited to speak until she had pushed back her hood. "I'm assuming you heard?"

"Impossible not to. Were you there? "

"No." His mouth was set in a grim line. "Though from the sound of it, maybe I'm glad I was not."

Riza's own mouth tightened in response. They walked the rest of the way in silence, Riza striding forward to enter the tent ahead of Hughes.

Her heart sank. Hughes stepped in behind her and sucked in a breath through his teeth. "Dammit."

The tent was dark, one lantern set in the corner providing the only illumination. The blankets on the bed were in disarray, his trunk knocked over. Roy himself was slumped at his one, small table, his head in one hand and a bottle in the other. From the glass around his feet, it was clearly not his first. He did not appear to hear them enter, but they could hear the breath shuddering in his lungs from feet away.

Riza moved towards him, stepping around the bottles scattered across the ground. "Roy."

He jerked violently as she set to hand on his shoulder, almost knocking the bottle over as he turned to look up at her. She nearly mimicked Hughes's intake of breath at the sight of the alchemist's face--his eyes were sunken and bloodshot, his skin nearly ashen under his tan. His hair looked like it hadn’t been washed in a week. "What--" His voice cracked, and he had to clear his throat before trying again. Even when he managed to get the words out, they were rasped in a hoarse imitation of his normal voice. "What are you doing here."

"Worrying about you, idiot." Hughes joined them. "What the hell happened to you?"

Riza retracted her hand, instead of clenching it in a fist at her side. "I was here to confirm our station for tomorrow, but now I've got the same question."

"Nothing. I'm fine. "Roy straightened, trying to push back his hair, but they could clearly see his hands shaking.

Riza groaned and turned away. Hughes swore, his hand slamming the table hard enough to make Roy jump. "You're really gonna lie to the only two people you trust with the truth?" he asked, his voice strained.

"I'm fine," Roy growled, glaring up Hughes. "You don’t need to be here."

"You're damn right I don’t. I've got my own men to worry about, I do not have time to deal with you. So save us both the trouble and tell us what happened."

"Another day in this hell," Roy replied, his slurred speech filled with a venom and loathing that neither of them had ever heard there before. He reached for the bottle next to his right hand, drinking deeply with no thought to the taste.

"Don’t insult me, Mustang." Hughes snatched the bottle away, and Roy growled as the liquor spilled down the front of his shirt. "Another day in this hell does not make you do this. Unless there's something you wanna tell me.”

Roy grabbed for it, but Hughes alerted Riza and tossed the bottle to her. Roy glared at both of them, slumping back in his chair. "Does it need to be said?"

"Yes."

The emotion in Riza's shaking voice made both men look at her. "Yes it does. Because the longer it stays locked up in your head, the more it destroys you. And no amount of this-- " she held up the bottle-- “will fix it."

She paused to search his face, her own a mixture of grief and anger. "You do not get to keep this from me. Not after everything I've given you."

He stared at her with his bloodshot eyes, and she could see how sluggishly his mind was moving behind them. Then he scrubbed his hands over his face, his head dropping slightly. His voice sounded like broken glass. "Two hundred."

Hughes and Riza both took sharp breaths; he swore under his breath, but she said nothing, instead moving back towards Roy.

He flinched away from her, his breath catching in his lungs. His eyes fixed unseeing on the ground. "I killed two hundred people today. Humans. Men Women. Children." The last word contained such agony and hate that it made the air hard to breathe. "And it was easy."

Neither of his friends spoke. There was nothing to say. Much as Riza wanted to say she was sorry for giving him the ability to do this, she knew it meant nothing. Nothing she could say or could she change the fact that he had done something horribly wrong in a way words could not explain.

She locked eyes with Hughes, reading the empathy in his eyes. They both understood that taking human life did to a person. But they were right--Roy could not do this to himself. He was also in no condition to hear that right now.

"Have you eaten?" Riza asked.

"Why."

"Because you need to keep your strength up and we've got a long day tomorrow."

"I'll be fine."

Riza laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Really? You're trying that again? "

"What else am I supposed to do?!" He rounded on her, his vehemence almost making her take a step back. "Sit here and let you coddle me, like everything's fine? Like I deserve it? "

"I never once said you deserved it and I never said anything was fine." Riza stepped closer and lowered her voice, careful of the people outside. "Nothing about this is fine. We are going to be responsible for the extermination of the Ishvalan people. Children will read about this war in history books and they will be reading about us, and no matter what those books will say, we are not the heroes of this story. You're not special. None of us deserve anything."

She knelt and looked directly into his eyes, her voice as hard as steel. "I'm making sure your basic needs are met because out here, our only options are living and dying, and we deserve much worse than death."

Roy stared at her, his eyes still hazy, but shock overtaking the pain and self-hatred. Not a sound was heard. They seemed barely to breathe. Then, slowly, Roy tore his eyes from hers. Reaching under the table, he pulled another, nearly-full bottle of liquor and held it out to her. "... I haven’t eaten," he said quietly.

She took it. "Think you can handle food without throwing it all up?"

"Be honest," Hughes added from above them. For the first time that evening, there was an undertone of amusement in his voice. "I'll know if you're lying."

Roy glanced up at him, then looked back down at Riza. "... Not much food," he admitted.

"Then get to bed." She stood. "We're up early tomorrow."

"Why are you doing this?" He looked up at her, his eyes bright and anguished, his drunk mind uncomprehending.

Her gaze softened. "... Because a young man with ideals gave me something to believe in when I had nothing left, and I owe him everything for that."

Roy stared at her for a moment more. Then he nodded, his head dropping forward with complete and utter exhaustion. Riza looked at him for a moment, debating with herself. They were soldiers now. She couldn’t just step forward and hold him the way she might have when they were kids. But with his head bowed, she couldn’t help but remember nights when he had awoken from nightmares and clung to her until his reality shifted back to normal. She pressed her lips together, the final battle raging in her head. Then she did exactly what she'd promised herself she wouldn’t do.

She stepped forward, letting him rest his head against her stomach. She put one hand on his back and let the other bury itself in his hair, working through a few of the tangles.

"Goodnight, Roy," she murmured. "See you in the morning."

Pulling away took everything she had, but she managed it. She turned to Hughes. "He's in your hands, Captain Hughes. Have a good night."

Hughes returned her gaze steadily for several seconds. Then he nodded. "Goodnight, Hawkeye. Don’t die out there."

"You either."

With that, she moved past him and out of the tent. Hughes moved towards Roy, whistling quietly. "She really cares about you."

"Huh?" Roy raised his head slightly, his eyes so bleary it was a wonder I've managed to see at all.

His best friend shook his head. "Never mind. Let's get you to bed.”

Riza had to admit she was impressed when she found him the next morning. She doubted anyone else would be able to tell that he had tried to drink himself into unconsciousness the previous night. He was on his feet and moving around, and he had clearly washed since she'd seen him last. She moved towards him, cautious of the soldiers surrounding them. She regretted what she had said and done last night, if only because she had acted on emotional instinct in front of Captain Hughes and made herself aware of feelings she could not afford to understand. Now he knew something about her that she wasn’t fully sure she knew about herself.

She shook all that from her mind as she reached his side. "Morning, Major Mustang," she said. "You put yourself together fairly well."

"Morning, Hawkeye." He didn’t turn to look at her, instead squinting at the horizon. He had drawn the hood of his coat over his head, pulling it as far forward as he could to shade his eyes from the sun that shimmered on the sand around them. "You only say that because you can't see my headache."

She chuckled. "Still, it's good to see you up and about."

"Thanks to you."

He still wouldn’t look at her. Her smile faded. She turned her gaze to the horizon as well. "Listen, about last night--"

"I needed to hear it." The statement was matter-of-fact, containing little emotion.

She waited, but he said nothing else. Maybe he didn’t remember what she’d done. "Alright."

He took a breath, and she was just close enough to hear how it caught in his chest. "... I wish it would rain."

"Don’t we all."

"Mustang!"

Roy turned slightly towards the distant call, spotting the soldier gesturing him towards the command tent. He took two steps forward, then paused, his hand just briefly reaching out to wrap around Riza's. His eyes finally met hers, and her breath caught. He remembered.

"Don’t die,” he said, emotion finally entering his voice.

She suddenly found it hard to speak. "You either."

He nodded, then let go. A minute later, he disappeared inside the command tent. Blinking eyes that stung, Riza glanced up at the sky.

There wasn’t a cloud in sight.

#royaiweek18 #roy mustang #riza hawkeye #maes hughes #fma #ishval #tw: alcoholism #stories with hiccup

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queercapwriting · 7 years

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Okay but how about Maggie trying to calm down Alex after the thing with mon el

Come over.

That’s all the text says.

That’s all it says, and that’s all she’s heard from Alex all day, which is unusual, but she’s not surprised.

Not surprised today, because today was her dad’s first day back in the DEO.

Today was all about Jeremiah, all about Alex, and Maggie is alright with that.

Of course she is.

But when she gets her text – her simple text – she rushes.

She knocks, because she could let herself in, but today was bound to be emotional, and today was bound to be hard.

She’s surprised when Alex just says “yeah.”

When the door is unlocked.

Because Alex Danvers never leaves her door unlocked.

But Maggie doesn’t know – not yet, not yet – that Alex texted Maggie and drank her way through a quarter bottle of liquor, straight.

Maggie doesn’t know – not yet, not yet – that Alex left the door unlocked because she trusted Maggie to rush. And she didn’t trust her legs to be able to get her to the door smoothly by the time Maggie gets there.

”Hey,” she offers as she steps inside, locking the door softly behind her because she knows Alex feels better that way. Hell, she feels better that way.

Alex doesn’t turn toward her, and part of Maggie relishes the trust they’ve built in just a few months. The other part of her stomach sinks as she walks around to try to get a look at her girlfriend’s face.

The other part of her stomach sinks as she sees the liquor bottle that she happens to know was much, much more full this morning.

”What’s wrong?”

Alex says nothing, and Maggie braces herself on the counter with a shaky hand.

“How was your dad’s first day?” she asks, her voice soft, her voice nervous, her voice just this side of apologetic.

Alex answers by draining her drink – draining it long and hard and completely – and Maggie’s eyes watch the way Alex’s hands are oh so slightly unsteady, the way her eyes are oh so slightly unfocused.

The way her eyes have been refusing to meet hers this entire time.

“That good, huh?”

She shifts onto the stool in front of Alex, grateful for the way Alex responds to her touch on her calf, the way she automatically moves her foot so Maggie can sit down.

Grateful, at least, that Alex seems to want her there. Seems to accept needing her there.

Even if she won’t speak.

Even if she won’t look at her.

She goes to pour herself another, and Maggie’s heart clenches.

”Whoa whoa whoa, okay. Hold on.” She guides Alex’s hands away from the bottle and Alex just retreats into herself, looking for all the world like a small scolded child, in that little grey hoodie, shoulders rounded, arms limp, body as tiny as she can make it without actually scrunching up.

It breaks Maggie’s heart. But not, she knows, as much as Alex’s heart must be breaking.

”Hey,” she says, and Alex still won’t look up. Maggie touches her arm softly, softly. “I’m here. Okay? You can tell me anything.”

Alex nods, but she still won’t look up, and Maggie’s left hand reaches for her, almost of its own accord, and her index finger settles gently, tenderly, softly, under Alex’s chin.

”Hey, look at me.”

Alex does, and there is nothing but raw defeat in her eyes. Raw pain. Raw agony. Raw torture.

It stops Maggie’s breath, and she tilts her head to keep herself together. Tilts her head to keep her eyes soft, her breathing regular. Because she needed Alex on Valentine’s Day and Alex had held her and listened to her and soothed her all night long.

And tonight is Alex’s Valentine’s Day.

Fathers. Fathers. Fathers.

”What happened with your dad?”

Her voice is soft and her eyes are earnest and Alex takes a shuddering breath in, and Maggie’s heart breaks more than it is already broken.

Alex’s lips tremble and she glances up at Maggie’s eyes, on her own for the first time since she walked in, and Maggie knows.

Knows that her eyes are her words, right now, and that’s all she needs.

She stands and she pulls her close.

”Oh, sweetie. Oh.” She pulls Alex’s face into her chest, draws her back into her body, settles the side of her face onto Alex’s hair, and soothes her, soothes her, holds her, as she starts to cry.

As she starts to sob.

No.

As she starts to weep.

The first two shuddering breaths she takes, Maggie thinks her heart might burst from the pain of it.

And then her voice catches in her tears, catches in her growing hysteria, and Maggie turns her face more toward her, expressionless, expressionless, because her own heart, now, is numb. Because if she allows herself to feel the pain, the rage, the agony, of hearing Alex Danvers, feeling Alex Danvers, come completely apart like that in her arms, she would be the one unraveling.

And her baby needs her. Her sweetheart needs her.

She’s grateful when Alex grabs onto her, more than just a hand on her arm, but her other arm wrapped completely around Maggie’s back and grabbing at her shirt.

Grabbing at her shirt like her grasp and her grasp alone can keep Maggie holding her, can keep Maggie close, can keep Maggie from disappearing.

But she needn’t worry, because Maggie wouldn’t leave her right now, or ever. Not even with the most powerful forces on earth standing against her. Not even with all of Cadmus’s worst weapons trained at her head –

“I…” Alex is gasping, but it comes out like a yelp, like a scream, like a plea, and Maggie kisses her hair and rubs her back.

”I’m here, sweetie, I’m here, shhhh, breathe, Ally. Breathe, breathe, breathe.”

Alex gasps again, yelps again, and Maggie’s face remains motionless.

She swears to herself will murder Lilian Luthor for what she’s done to Alex the first chance she gets, Kara’s feelings for her daughter be damned.

”I coul – I couldn’t kill him, Maggie, I couldn’t… I couldn’t kill him,” she’s gasping, she’s pleading, she’s praying, she’s begging, and Maggie kisses her hair again, again, again, rocks her slightly, holds her face close into her chest.

She doesn’t tell her that she doesn’t understand, doesn’t tell her to slow down and start from the beginning, doesn’t tell her to regulate herself.

Because she loves her, loves her, loves her, and it doesn’t matter if she has all the pieces to the Jeremiah Danvers puzzle just yet: all that matters is that she holds the pieces of his broken daughter together, safe, loved, with her bare hands.

”Of course you couldn’t, Ally, he’s your dad. He’s your dad, he’s still your dad,” she whispers, because she doesn’t know, but she can imagine, and her vow to destroy Lilian grows that much stronger.

”He said…” She’s gasping again, and Maggie nods as she rubs her back and kisses her damp forehead, because Alex’s entire body is shuddering with agony, and Maggie is so proud of her girl for letting it out.

So grateful that she trusts her enough to cry to her like about Jeremiah the way Maggie had cried about her own father.

Fathers. Fathers. Fathers.

”He said he was doing it for me. Betrayed everyone I… I love… for me.”

Maggie’s heart breaks, because she knows Alex.

She pulls back and Alex grabs at her desperately, and Maggie gives her a small, broken smile. “I’m not going anywhere, Al, but look at me.” Alex won’t, and Maggie lifts her chin again tenderly, softly, lovingly.

Alex’s eyes are beautiful, even swimming in torture, even swollen with tears, even red with agony.

”Hi,” Maggie whispers, and the ghost of a smile dances across Alex’s features.

”Alex, whatever he’s done – whatever he’s doing – it is not your fault. It’s not your fault that he started in the first place, and it’s not your fault that you let him go.”

Alex scoffs and tries to reach for the bottle again, but Maggie brings her hands to her lips instead, and kisses each knuckle in turn as Alex watches, as Alex cries silently.

”You are an incredible, powerful, brave, smart woman, Alex. You know – you know – that this isn’t your fault. That none of this is on you. You know what the brave thing was, Alex? Not pulling that trigger. The brave thing was compassion. The brave thing was empathy. The brave thing was looking out for your soul, because you never would have forgiven yourself if you killed him, Alex, and you don’t deserve to live with that. The brave thing was trusting the people you love – the people he betrayed – to fix this. With you. As a team. What is it Kara’s symbol means, stronger together, right? The brave thing was trusting that, Ally. Trusting the people who love you best.”

She pauses and she watches the hope growing in Alex’s eyes, watches the self-loathing seep out of her shoulders, out of her jawline.

She has never been in love like this.

”Trusting me,” she adds in a voice so small she barely hears herself say it.But Alex hears it. She hears it and her eyes widen and her breath pauses and her lips part slightly.

“I do,” she whispers back, her voice raspy with tears. “Trust you.”

Maggie stares at her, trying to read her eyes, trying to read if the word trust is, right now, a substitute for something else. Something like love.

“I trust you, too, Alex.” Another long pause, and Maggie swears Alex is trying to figure out the same thing she is.

“We’re going to fix this. Together. You and me and Kara and J’onn and James and Winn. You have people who love you, Alex, to the ends of the earth and so far beyond. I promise you, we’re going to fix this.”

“I don’t deserve you,” Alex murmurs, leaning forward to rest her head again on Maggie’s chest.

“You deserve everything wonderful and nothing less, Alex Danvers. I promise you that.”

Alex sighs and snuggle closer into her, and warmth courses through Maggie’s boiling veins.

“Stay tonight?” Alex pleads into her shirt softly, softly, softly.

“I’m here, Ally. Always.”

#sanvers #sanvers 2x14 #sanvers minific #supergirl 2x14 #sanvers hurt/comfort

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ambrosiaplease · 7 years

Text

Congratulations, I Love You

There must be a reason Baekhyun befriended him.

He pities him. I even pity myself. What else to lose?

He sincerely cares about him. I keep my hopes up in silence. This could be a lie, a false hope.

No matter the real reason, Kyungsoo is sure about one thing. When Baekhyun leaves, he will be shattered into pieces.

***

A tranquil room that once had a pure white walls, neat and organized table beside a single bed became a stark desolate wasteland. The empty room is now filled with unspoken thoughts, memories of the person who used to stay here as Baekhyun roamed inside the room. He was stunned after seeing the several poems written on the walls. His hands are starting to become cold and sweaty when he walks closer to the wall. He even hears the beating of his heart loudly as his eyes squints on the messy handwriting on the wall.

Being with you was the only cure that I had You were there when I was close to fade away Until when will I wait? No one can understand me, except you

Blood, it was written with blood. He could not take his eyes away from the wall. The writings were all in dried crimson to brownish hue, the color of blood when it dries and it looked like the one who did these was in excruciating pain because of the rugged and shaky strokes of each letters. Baekhyun can't believe what he is seeing right now.

*Make it stop,

make this pounding in my head stop

Fill my lungs with air,

I understand right?

That he's not coming back

He wants to run away from this place but his whole body feels so heavy, paralyzed. Baekhyun needs to see these. He should see all of these.

Before you came into my life All I wanted was to vanish Everything was falling apart Knowing you made the blade under my pillow unused Having your presence stopped my eagerness to die You were my last string of hope to keep me whole Untied me from my misery Nothing was left, even you

Sweat poured down his body as he stayed still looking at the bloody poems on the wall. Baekhyun tried not to breath but he knew it was impossible when he figured out to whom all the poems were written for.

*Take everything away from me, Silent angel

the sharpness of the blade whispers blood at my very core As I cling to my memories of you

He slowly feels the cold tears streaming down on his face. His life being an intern flashed before his eyes. His first day on his internship, his newly gained friends, including the owner of this room. He remembers those times when he visits Kyungsoo. The latter was always sitting on his chair writing something. After their conversations, Baekhyun always had a folded paper in his pocket courtesy of Kyungsoo, when he secretly put it without Baekhyun knowing.

Your voice, my favorite confection so sweet Your voice, wakes me up good morning

Your smile, the brightest so bedazzled Your smile, gives me energy I'm electrified.

His nails started digging into his pale skin but he didn't care. His teeth still chattering in guilt, disappointment. This was all his fault. He walks to the abandoned desk that started to be devoured by rusts. There are several crumpled papers on it. This was the owner's favorite spot whenever Baekhyun visited him. Baekhyun saw the initials that is still engraved in the lower left side of the desk. D.K.S. He feels a sudden pang in his heart.

"Kyungsoo-ya"

He whispers as he touches the engraved initials. He opened all the crumpled papers on the top of the desk, one by one.

*Were the last words that I wrote for you, enough to tell you That in my death, the light that shone through my painful darkness Was a blinding vision of your eternal smile?

*If my words even reach you, I'll assume you don't care Never knew that silence could cut so deep or that you could twist the blade Now I curse all of your beautiful lies... I love you and goodbye..

Byun Baekhyun

Baekhyun

Baekhyunie

Baekhyun.....don't leave me

I wanted love but apathy was given

Are you happy? You better be without me...

Baekhyun's face dropped in remorse after reading the crumpled papers. His energy to stand still was fully drained. He unconsciously sat down on the chair. All the sweet smile, deep voice, and childish pout, the giggles every time he slipped the paper secretly, little did he know that Baekyun knew it from the start. These moments flashed on his mind again. He was pretending to be clueless so that he can see Kyungsoo's cheeky smile that time.

He can no longer control the tears to flow down. He is silently loathing his self, degrading his whole being into different levels as he stares at the crumpled papers that are now folded properly.

There were loud thuds when Baekhyun bumped his forehead on the desk several times. He is now numb to feel any pain from the impact of the slamming. He stopped when the drawer under the desk was slightly opened. Baekhyun checked what's inside the drawer and saw an unsealed white envelope with his full name on it. He heaves before opening the letter.

Byun Baekhyun

Dear Baekhyunie,

*I hope when you are reading this you will still find it well as these endless thoughts drip from my soul

I've been waiting for a year now to hear your quirky knocks outside my door. I miss you it. The 1 knock 2 knocks 3 knocks pattern, when will I hear it again? I remember I was admitted here because I was what? suicidal? or some people thought I am a psycho or what not. Well, whatever you call it. This place was is so horrible until now. I hate staying here because I feel like I am going crazy. But I also remember the first time you walk into my room. You were so bright. I thought that would make me blind. Your frequent visits ignite my hopes to be myself again. You became my very first friend, best friend. You treated me like I was a real friend and I appreciate that.

Life has always been unfair to me. I'm not saying that it should be fair because that is plain stupid. But I want you to know that even I have no idea where you are right now, I hope you are happy. I also hope to see you smiling at me again because you are my only friend. I just hope that one day, things will work out for me too.

You know what, Baekhyunie? I know there's a part of you that pitied me. I can see it in your eyes sometimes. At first, I don't want someone to pity me because I've been doing that all my life. It's like a part of my routine. But I realized that pity was the only thing that you can give me. But it looks like even your pity can't stand my existence.

You taught me how to live again, You helped me find my lost dreams and revive my dead hopes. *But You took them all too. I watched you steal them and had to see you smile. You made me understand so many things in life. Like how I loathe myself for making you the only star in my sky, leaving my eyes to marvel on you thinking that you should be mine. I miss you so much to the point that my heart constricts every minute waiting its time to explode. Every night I dream of you. Your bright smile was the only cure to my tortured soul. Every morning I am forcing myself to wake up hoping that you'll come back. You don't want me to be cured. Do you?

Can you tell me if you will visit me again? Can you visit me for the last time? I don't know what's happening with me but these past few months without you, I'm starting to feel the frigid air that leaves me breathless. I am having a hard time breathing because of the pain I'm feeling in my heart. I have no idea why am I like this. It scares me. It scares me that you'll leave me. Agony is filling my lungs as I try to scream your name on the window hoping that you would hear me. I thought I am whole again but I was wrong. I'm broken by your silence. You did really left me.

I remember I promised not cut myself again. You said that all I need to do when I get depressed was to call you so that you can hold my hand tightly. But where are you? Maybe this blade has won by default as my only friend then. Sorry for breaking my promise Baekhyun. But my hands are shaking terribly, aching to touch the blade and slowly cut my wrist to know if the pain didn't fully numb my whole being. I never thought that too much pain will make you numb or more like a living dead.

Enough of this, maybe you're getting bored. Maybe the reason you're not here anymore is that you're bored.

If ever you see this letter, and if ever you've reached this part, all I want to say is thank you so much. You made me live a little longer than I expected. You helped me prolong my life, made me experience what real happiness was. Thank you for teaching me how to love myself for a short period of time.

Thank you for letting me love you and this is for the rest of my life maybe until I die. I might hate myself again but one thing is for sure, I may get tired and stop from living but I will never stop loving you.

I'm tired, Baekhyun. Sorry for giving up. I want to wait a little longer to see you smile and hear your voice that I really like the most for the last time but I'm already tired.

To my first and last love, goodbye.

Do Kyungsoo

Baekhyun almost had a mental breakdown. He tried to regain his stance but he collapses on the wooden floor, swollen with raging emotions that attacks him deeply. His knuckle is still close, holding the letter that was crumpled easily.

***

A year ago

Baekhyun was being called in the middle of his duty by the head nurse of Goyang Mental Hospital. It was so sudden, he didn't have any idea why. He was still clueless when he entered the head nurse's office. The head nurse named Joonmyeon, asked him to sit down for a while. He handed the brown enveloped to Baekhyun without saying anything. The latter shows his confusion so the nurse told him to just open it.

Completion of Internship Form

Baekhyun was shocked. He was only on his fourth month as an intern in this hospital. He still has two months before he completes the number of hours needed.

"Sir, I still have two-" Baekhyun tried to reason out but the head nurse cut him.

"I know that Baekhyun. Your internship here in GMH is over so you have to apply for another hospital now. You can be deployed to Incheon Mental Institute once I endorsed you." Jonnmyeon explained. Baekhyun frowns because he can't understand what is hapenning. The head nurse noticed that the confusion on Baekhyun's face is still there then he cleared his throat.

"Doctor Park observed that our patient Do Kyungsoo started to be more and more dependent on you, Baaekhyun. And according to him, this will not help the patient. They had an emergency meeting yesterday regarding about this and the only solution to not make things worst is to deploy you to another hospital so that you can still continue your internship." Joonmyeon explained bluntly. Baekhyun can't think of anything to say. Yes, it's true that he already established a connection with Kyungsoo and he thinks that Kyungsoo is trying his best to be better. He wanted to be with him and witness the moment Kyungsoo will be discharged.

"Being a nurse, you should know that. Never establish a deep connection with a patient. Worst comes to worst, the patient will always be on the losing side on this kind of game so be professional. If you want what's the best for Do Kyungsoo, then you will do the right thing." Joonmyeon reminded him the truth that he forgot on the very first day he laid his eyes on his first patient.

*Lyrics from some Alesana songs

#congratulations i love you #final #oneshot #do kyungsoo #angst

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lim-lifeinmotion · 5 years

Text

The Silence: The Legacy of Childhood Trauma

By Junot Díaz I found a story amidst my delving into the depth of childhood trauma, I suppose I just wanted to know what someone else had been through and if they managed to somehow over come it. It’s unusually comforting to read the feelings he had, the same “cut-off” of disassociated presence he felt with not only himself but with everyone else around him. To shed light on the sexual trauma he experienced and how it mirrored my own sexual intimacy blocks. Among all the amazing things he created from this experience it was really hard to hear the profound affect it was still having on him decades on. Perhaps this is just me now, forever? I suppose it was all well and easy to say I wouldn’t change it for the world because it has made me who I am today, beautiful, kind, gentle, and above all, a dedicated and passionate lover, but to think I will live with this for the rest of my life, that Perhaps i may never be able to break down these barriers even with professional help, thats not something I would want of anyone, not of myself. Perhaps if i could rewind it all I would change everything, I may not be who I am today but perhaps I’d be able to give and receive love openly from others and to myself, even if I was a complete asshole, a close minded, non-empathic person, to be happy and free from all of this pain i carry, is all I ask from the world. I wan’t to be able to love myself so damn badly, but I can only keep on trying until one day I do finally make it because I will, it’s not living otherwise.

Last week I returned to Amherst. It’s been years since I was there, the time we met. I was hoping that you’d show up again; I even looked for you, but you didn’t appear. I remember you proudly repped N.Y.C. during the few minutes we spoke, so I suspect you’d moved back or maybe you were busy or you didn’t know I was in town. I have a distinct memory of you in the signing line, saying nothing to anyone, intense. I assumed you were going to ask me to read a manuscript or help you find an agent, but instead you asked me about the sexual abuse alluded to in my books. You asked, quietly, if it had happened to me.

You caught me completely by surprise.

I wish I had told you the truth then, but I was too scared in those days to say anything. Too scared, too committed to my mask. I responded with some evasive bullshit. And that was it. I signed your books. You thought I was going to say something, and when I didn’t you looked disappointed. But more than that you looked abandoned. I could have said anything but instead I turned to the next person in line and smiled. Out of the corner of my eye I watched you pick up your backpack, slowly put away your books, and leave. When the signing was over I couldn’t get the fuck away from Amherst, from you and your question, fast enough. I ran the way I’ve always run. Like death itself was chasing me. For a couple of days afterward I fretted; I worried that I’d given myself away. But then the old oblivion reflex took over. I pushed it all down. Buried it all. Like always.

But I never really did forget. Not our exchange or your disappointment. How you walked out of the auditorium with your shoulders hunched.

I know this is years too late, but I’m sorry I didn’t answer you. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you the truth. I’m sorry for you, and I’m sorry for me. We both could have used that truth, I’m thinking. It could have saved me (and maybe you) from so much. But I was afraid. I’m still afraid—my fear like continents and the ocean between—but I’m going to speak anyway, because, as Audre Lorde has taught us, my silence will not protect me.

X⁠—

Yes, it happened to me.

I was raped when I was eight years old. By a grownup that I truly trusted.

After he raped me, he told me I had to return the next day or I would be “in trouble.”

And because I was terrified, and confused, I went back the next day and was raped again.

I never told anyone what happened, but today I’m telling you.

And anyone else who cares to listen.

That violación. Not enough pages in the world to describe what it did to me. The whole planet could be my inkstand and it still wouldn’t be enough. That shit cracked the planet of me in half, threw me completely out of orbit, into the lightless regions of space where life is not possible. I can say, truly, que casi me destruyó. Not only the rapes but all the sequelae: the agony, the bitterness, the self-recrimination, the asco, the desperate need to keep it hidden and silent. It fucked up my childhood. It fucked up my adolescence. It fucked up my whole life. More than being Dominican, more than being an immigrant, more, even, than being of African descent, my rape defined me. I spent more energy running from it than I did living. I was confused about why I didn’t fight, why I had an erection while I was being raped, what I did to deserve it. And always I was afraid—afraid that the rape had “ruined” me; afraid that I would be “found out”; afraid afraid afraid. “Real” Dominican men, after all, aren’t raped. And if I wasn’t a “real” Dominican man I wasn’t anything. The rape excluded me from manhood, from love, from everything.

The kid before—hard to remember. Trauma is a time traveller, an ouroboros that reaches back and devours everything that came before. Only fragments remain. I remember loving codes and Encyclopedia Brown and pastelones and walking long distances in an effort to learn what lay beyond my N.J. neighborhood. At night I had the most vivid dreams, often about “Star Wars” and about my life back in the Dominican Republic, in Azua, my very own Tatooine. Was just getting to know this new English-speaking me, was just becoming his friend—and then he was gone.

No more spaceship dreams, no more Azua, no more me. Only an abiding sense of wrongness and the unbearable recollection of being violently penetrated.

By the time I was eleven, I was suffering from both depression and uncontrollable rage. By thirteen, I stopped being able to look at myself in the mirror—and the few times I accidentally glimpsed my reflection I’d recoil like I’d got hit in the face by a jellyfish stinger. (What did I see? I saw the crime, my grisly debasement, and if anyone looked at me too long I would run or I would fight.)

By fourteen, I was holding one of my father’s pistols to my head. (He’d been gone a few years, but he’d generously left some of his firearms behind.) I had trouble at home. I had trouble at school. I had mood swings like you wouldn’t believe. Since I’d never told anyone what had happened my family assumed that was just who I was—un maldito loco. And while other kids were exploring crushes and first love I was dealing with intrusive memories of my rape that were so excruciating I had to slam my head against a wall.

Of course, I never got any kind of help, any kind of therapy. Like I said, I never told anyone. In a family as big as mine—five kids—it was easy to get lost, even when you were going under. I remember my mother telling me, after one of my depressions, that I should pray. I didn’t even bother to laugh.

When I wasn’t completely out of it I read everything I could lay my hands on, played Dungeons & Dragons for days on end. I tried to forget, but you never forget. Night was the worst—that’s when the dreams would come. Nightmares where I got raped by my siblings, by my father, by my teachers, by strangers, by kids who I wanted to be friends with. Often the dreams were so upsetting that I would bite my tongue, and the next morning I’d spit out blood into the bathroom sink.

And in no time at all I was failing everything. Quizzes, quarters, and then entire classes. First I got booted out of my high school’s gifted-and-talented program, then out of the honors track. I sat in class and either dozed or read Stephen King books. Eventually I stopped showing up altogether. School friends drifted away; home friends couldn’t wrap their heads around it.

Senior year, while everyone was getting their college acceptances, I went another way: I tried to kill myself. What happened was that in the middle of a deep depression I suddenly became infatuated with this cute-ass girl I knew at school. For a few weeks my gloom lifted, and I became utterly convinced that if this girl went out with me, if she fucked me, I’d be cured of all that ailed me. No more bad memories. I’d been watching “Excalibur” on heavy rotation, so I was all about miraculous regeneration. When I finally got up the nerve to ask her out and she said nope, it felt as though the world had finally closed the door on me.

The next day I swallowed all these leftover drugs from my brother’s cancer treatment, three bottles’ worth.

Didn’t work.

You know why I didn’t try again the next day?

Because my one and only college acceptance arrived in the mail. I had assumed I wasn’t going anywhere, had completely forgotten that I had any schools left to hear from. But as I read that letter it felt as if the door of the world had cracked open again, ever so slightly.

I didn’t tell anyone I tried to kill myself. Something else I buried deep.

I often tell people that college saved me. Which in part is true. Rutgers, only an hour from my home by bus, was so far from my old life and so alive with possibility that for the first time in the longest I felt something approaching safety, something approximating hope. And, whether it was that distance or my bottomless self-loathing or some desperate post-suicide urge to live, that first year I remade myself completely. By junior year, I doubt anyone from my high school would have recognized me. I became a runner, a weight lifter, an activist, had girlfriends, was “popular.” At Rutgers I buried not only the rape but the boy who had been raped—and threw into the pit my family, my suffering, my depression, my suicide attempt for good measure. Everything I’d been before Rutgers I locked behind an adamantine mask of normalcy.

And, let me tell you, once that mask was on no power on earth could have torn it off me.

The mask was strong.

But as any Freudian will tell you trauma is stronger than any mask; it can’t be buried and it can’t be killed. It’s the revenant that won’t stop, the ghost that’s always coming for you. The nightmares, the intrusions, the hiding, the doubts, the confusion, the self-blame, the suicidal ideation—they didn’t go away just because I buried my neighborhood, my family, my face. The nightmares, the intrusions, the hiding, the doubts, the confusion, the self-blame, the suicidal ideation—they followed. All through college. All through graduate school. All through my professional life. All through my intimate life. (Leaked into my writing, too, but you’d be amazed how easy it is to rewrite the truth away.)

Didn’t matter how far I ran or what I achieved or who I was with—they followed.

Do you remember how during our chat at Amherst I talked about intimacy? I think I said that intimacy is our only home. Super ironic that I write and talk about intimacy all day long; it’s something I’ve always dreamed of and never had much luck achieving. After all, it’s hard to have love when you absolutely refuse to show yourself, when you’re locked behind a mask.

I remember when I got my first girlfriend, in college. I thought that was it—I was saved. Everything I’d been would officially be erased, all my awful dreams would disappear. But that’s not the way the world works. Me and this girl were into each other something serious, were in our narrow college beds all the time—but you know what? We never had sex. Not once. I couldn’t. Every time we would get close to fucking the intrusions would cut right through me, stomach-turning memories of my violation. Of course, I didn’t tell her. I just said that I wanted to wait. She didn’t believe my excuses, asked me what was wrong, but I never said anything. I kept the Silence. After a year, we broke up.

I thought maybe with another girl it would be easier, but it wasn’t. I tried and I tried and I tried. Took me until I was a junior before I finally lost my virginity. I saw her first in a creative-writing class. She was an ex-hippie ex-hardcore sweetie who wrote beautifully and had a tattoo on her head and the first time we got in bed she didn’t even ask if I was a virgin; she just pulled off her dress and it happened. I almost threw a party.

But I should have known it wasn’t going to be that easy. Me and J⁠— dated for two years, but I was always acting, always hiding. The mask was strong.

I’m sure she sensed I was all sorts of messed up, but I’m guessing she chalked it up to typical ghetto craziness. She loved the shit out of me. Brought me home to her family, and they loved me, too. It was the first truly healthy family I’d been exposed to. Which you would think would have been a good thing.

Wrong. The longer we were together, the more her family loved me, the more unbearable it all got. There was only so much closeness a person like me could endure before I needed to fly the fuck away. I had long bouts of depression, drank more than I’d ever drunk, especially during the holidays, when they were all at their happiest. One day, for no reason at all, I found myself saying, We have to break up. There was absolutely no precipitating anything. I had just reached my limit. I remember crying my eyes out the night before (in those days I never cried). I didn’t want to break up with her. I didn’t want to. But I couldn’t stand to be loved. To be seen.

Why? she asked. Why?

And I really had no answer.

After that it was C⁠—, who did a ton of community work in the D.R. And then B⁠—, the Seventh-Day Adventist from St. Thomas. Neither relationship worked. But I kept going.

And that’s how it went for a while, from college to grad school to Brooklyn. I would meet intimidatingly smart sisters, would date them in the hope that they could heal me, and then the fear would start to climb in me, the fear of discovery, and the mask would feel as if it were cracking and the impulse to escape, to hide, would grow until finally I’d hit a Rubicon—I’d either drive the novia away or I would run. I started sleeping around, too. The regular relationship drug wasn’t enough. I needed stronger hits to keep the wound inside from rising up and devouring me. The Negro who couldn’t sleep with anyone became the Negro who would sleep with everyone.

I was hiding, I was drinking, I was at the gym; I was running around with other women. I was creating model homes, and then, just as soon as they were up, abandoning them. Classic trauma psychology: approach and retreat, approach and retreat. And hurting other people in the process. My depressions would settle over me for months, and in that darkness the suicidal impulse would sprout pale and deadly. I had friends with guns; I asked them never to bring them over for any reason. Sometimes they listened, sometimes they didn’t.

Somehow I was still writing—about a young Dominican man who, unlike me, had been only a little molested. Someone who couldn’t stay in any relationship because he was too much of a player. Crafting my perfect cover story, in effect. And since us Afro-Latinx brothers are viewed by society as always already sexual perils, very few people ever noticed what was written between the lines in my fiction—that Afro-Latinx brothers are often sexually imperilled.

Right before I left graduate school and moved to Brooklyn I published my first story, about a Dominican boy who goes to see another boy, whose face has been eaten off, and on the way he gets sexually assaulted. (Seriously.) And then in one of those insane twists of fortune I hit the literary lottery. From that one story I got an agent, I got a book deal, I appeared in The New Yorker, I published my first book, “Drown,” which sold nothing but got me more press than any young writer should ever have. Anyone else would have ridden that good-luck wave straight into the sunset, but that wasn’t how it played out. I clearly wanted to be known, on some level, had been dying for a chance at a real face, but when that moment finally arrived I couldn’t do it; I clamped the mask down hard. After “Drown,” I could have stayed in N.Y.C., but I fled to Syracuse instead, where the snow never stops and the isolation was a maw. I stopped writing altogether.

Entire literary careers could have fit into the years I didn’t write. In the meantime I met S⁠—. If Black Is Beautiful had a spokesperson it would have been her; S⁠—, who would have thrown away a thousand years of family to make it work. Didn’t matter; we never were able to have sex. The intrusions always hit where it would hurt the worst. Never knew who I could have sex with and who I couldn’t until I tried. S⁠— found someone else, ended up marrying him. I moved on to other women. The years passed. I never took off the mask; I never got help.

And for a while the center held. For a while.

No one can hide forever. Eventually what used to hold back the truth doesn’t work anymore. You run out of escapes, you run out of exits, you run out of gambits, you run out of luck. Eventually the past finds you.

What happened was that I met someone: Y⁠—. In the novel I published eleven years after “Drown,” I gave my narrator, Yunior, a love supreme named Lola, because in real life I had a love supreme named Y⁠—. She was the femme-matador of my dreams. A state-school girl raised in Washington Heights who worked her ass off, who never ran from a fight, and who could have danced Ochún out the fucking room.

We clicked like crazy. Like our ancestors were rooting for us. I was the Dominican nerdo she’d always dreamed about. She actually said this. She didn’t have a clue. I fell into her family, and she fell into mine. And her mother—Dios mío, how the señora loved me. I was the son she never had. And before you could say “Run” I had created another one of my romance stories, but this one was more elaborate and more insane than any I’d ever spun. We bought an apartment together in Harlem. We got engaged in Tokyo. We talked about having children together. Even the writing started coming again. Negroes I’d never met before were proud of our relationship and told us so. Two “successful” Dominicans from the hood who loved each other? As rare and as precious as ciguapas.

Of course, there were signs of trouble. I spent at least six months out of the year depressed and/or high or drunk. We could have sex but not often—the intrusions often jumped in, a hellish cock-blocking ménage à trois.

Sex or no sex, I “loved” her more than I had ever loved anyone. I even told her, in an unguarded moment, that something had happened in my past.

Something bad.

And because I “loved” her more than I had ever loved anyone, and because I had revealed to her what I revealed about my past, I cheated on her more than I had ever cheated on anyone.

I cheated on her como un maldito perro.

I knew plenty of men who lived double lives. Shit, my father had lived one, to my family’s everlasting regret. And here I was playing out the patrimonial destiny. I had a double life like I was in a comic book.

Y⁠— got as much of the real me as I was capable of showing. She lived with my depression and my no-writing fury and with the rare moments of levity, of clarity. The other women saw primarily my mask, right before I ghosted them.

The mask was strong.

But no mask is that strong. No one’s G that perfect. No one’s love that dumb. One day Y⁠— didn’t like an answer I’d given her about where I’d been. I’m sure she’d been having doubts for a while—especially after one woman showed up at a reading of mine and burst into tears when I said hi. Y⁠— decided to go snooping through my e-mails, and since I wasn’t big on passwords or putting old e-mails in the trash it took her less than five minutes to find what she was looking for.

A heartbreak can take out a world. I know hers did. Took out her world and mine.

Another woman might have shot me dead on principle, but Y⁠— simply printed out all the e-mails between me and all my other girls, all my bullshit seduction attempts, all the photos, had the evidence of my betrayals bound, and when I came home from one of my trips handed them to me.

When I realized what she’d given me I blacked out.

Which is what tends to happen when the world ends.

A few months later, I won the Pulitzer Prize for a novel narrated by a Dominican brother who loses the Dominican woman of his dreams because he can’t stop cheating on her. When I found out I’d won the prize my first thought wasn’t “I’m made” but “Maybe now she’ll stay with me.”

She didn’t. A few months later Y⁠— got her head together and kicked me out of her life completely. She kept the apartment, the ring, her family, our friends. I got Boston. We never saw each other again.

When I was a kid, I heard that dinosaurs were so big that even if they received a killing blow it would take a while for their nervous systems to figure it out. That was me. After I lost Y⁠— I moved to Cambridge full time, and for the next year or so I tried to “walk it off.” For a little while I seriously thought I was going to be fine. The mask had exploded into fragments, but I kept trying to wear the pieces as if nothing had happened. It would have been comedic if it hadn’t been so tragic. I tried to use sex to fill the hole I’d just blown through my heart, but it didn’t work. Didn’t stop me from trying.

I lost weeks, I lost months, I lost years (two). And then one day I woke up and literally couldn’t move from bed. An archipelago of grief was on me, a wine-dark sea of pain. In a drunken fit I tried to jump from my friend’s rooftop apartment in the D.R. He grabbed me before I could get my foot on a nearby stool and didn’t let go until I stopped shaking.

In the treatment world, they say that often you have to hit rock bottom before you finally seek help. It doesn’t always work that way, but that sure is how it was for me. I had to lose almost everything and then some. And then some. Before I finally put out my hand.

I was fortunate. I had friends around me ready to step in. I had good university insurance. I stumbled upon a great therapist. She had dealt with people like me before, and she dedicated herself to my healing. It took years—hard, backbreaking years—but she picked up what there was of me. I don’t think she’d ever met anyone more disinclined to therapy. I fought it every step of the way. But I kept coming, and she never gave up. After long struggle and many setbacks, my therapist slowly got me to put aside my mask. Not forever, but long enough for me to breathe, to live. And when I was finally ready to return to that place where I was unmade she stood by my side, she held my hand, and never let go.

I’d always assumed that if I ever returned to that place, that island where I’d been shipwrecked, I would never escape; I’d be dragged down and destroyed. And yet, irony of ironies, what awaited me on that island was not my destruction but nearly the opposite: my salvation.

During that time I wrote very little. Mostly I underlined passages in my favorite books. This line in particular I circled at least a dozen times: “Then darkness took me, and I strayed out of thought and time, and I wandered far on roads that I will not tell.”

And then there was this section from my own novel:

Before all hope died I used to have this stupid dream that shit could be saved, that we would be in bed together like the old times, with the fan on, the smoke from our weed drifting above us, and I’d finally try to say words that could have saved us.

But before I can shape the vowels I wake up. My face is wet, and that’s how you know it’s never going to come true.

Never, ever.

It’s been almost a decade since the Fall. I am not who I once was. I’m neither the brother who can’t touch a girl nor the asshole who sleeps around. I’m in therapy twice a week. I don’t drink (except in Japan, where I let myself have a beer). I don’t hurt people with my lies or my choices, and wherever I can I make amends; I take responsibility. I’ve come to learn that repair is never-ceasing.

I’m even in a relationship, and she knows everything about my past. I told her about what happened to me.

I’ve told her, and I’ve told my friends. Even the toughest of my boys. I told them all, fuck the consequences.

Something I never thought possible.

So much has changed. But some things haven’t. There are still times when the depression hammers down and months vanish out from under me, when the suicidal ideation returns. The writing hasn’t come back, not really. But there are good stretches, and they are starting to outnumber the bad. Every year, I feel less like the dead, more a part of the living. The intrusions are fewer now, and when they come they don’t throw me completely. I still have those horrible dreams every now and then, and they are still foul as fuck, but at least I have resources to deal with them.

And yet—

And yet despite all my healing I still feel that something important, something vital, has eluded me. The impulse to hide, to hold myself apart from my colleagues, from my fellow-writers, from my students, from the circle of life has remained uncannily strong. During the public talks I’ve given at universities and conferences, I’ve sometimes commented on the intergenerational harm that systemic sexual violence has inflicted on African diasporic communities, on my community. But have I ever actually come out and said that I was the victim of sexual violence? I’ve said elusive things here and there but nothing actionable, no definitive statements.

Over the last weeks, that gnawing sense of something undone has only grown, along with the old fear—the fear that someone might find out I’d been raped as a child. It’s no coincidence that I recently began a tour for a children’s book I’ve published and suddenly I’m surrounded by kids all the time and I’ve had to discuss my childhood more than I ever have in my life. I’ve found myself telling lies, talking about a kid that never was. He never checks the locks on the bedroom doors four times a night, doesn’t bite clean through his tongue. The cover stories are returning. There are even mornings when my face feels stiff.

And then at one of my events, another signing line—this one at the Brattle Theatre, in Cambridge—a young woman walked up and started to thank me for my novel, for one of its protagonists, Beli. Beli, the tough-love Dominican mother who suffered catastrophic sexual abuse throughout her life.

I had a life a lot like Beli’s, the young woman said, and then, without warning, she choked into tears. She wanted to say more to me, but before she could she was overwhelmed and fled. I could have tried to stop her. I could have called after her me too me too. I could have said the words: I was also raped.

But I didn’t have the courage. I turned to the next person in line and smiled.

And you know what? It felt good to be behind the mask. It felt like home.

I think about you, X⁠—. I think about that woman from the Brattle. I think about silence; I think about shame, I think about loneliness. I think about the hurt I caused. I think of all the years and all the life I lost to the hiding and to the fear and to the pain. The mask got more of me than I ever did. But mostly I think about what it felt like to say the words—to my therapist, all those years ago; to tell my partner, my friends, that I’d been raped. And what it feels like to say the words here, where the whole world—and maybe you—might hear.

Toni Morrison wrote, “Anything dead coming back to life hurts.” In Spanish we say that when a child is born it is given the light. And that’s what it feels like to say the words, X⁠—. Like I’m being given a second chance at the light.

Last night I had another dream. It wasn’t a bad one. I was young. Just a boy. No one had hurt me yet. A plane was dropping flyers announcing an upcoming Jack Veneno match, and all of us kids in Villa Juana were racing about in great excitement, gathering the flyers in our arms.

I barely remember that boy anymore, but for a brief moment I am him again, and he is me. ♦

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