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theoriginalcarnivorousmuffin · 3 years

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You wrote your opinions on the Order of the Phoenix, what about the Death Eaters? That's another way of saying Lucius, Bellatrix, and anybody else. I honestly feel that we're running out of HP characters for you to write your opinion and reasoning about, so yeah~

We honestly are. When people start asking me questions about Harry’s nameless and faceless classmates I feel like we’re scraping the bottom of my barrel of Harry Potter opinions.

Though, that said, this is still a very large ask if you want me to analyze very Death Eater ever or even the Death Eaters as a whole (which is worthy of its own post).

So, we’ll compromise, and I’ll just look at the two you name dropped.

Lucius Malfoy

To me, Lucius is by far one of the more intelligent Death Eaters. He’s the guy who makes them almost look classy. I say almost, because Lucius is still a racist domestic terrorist and as the series goes on Tom gleefully drags him into being less classy by the minute (his house becomes a POW camp and housing for the dregs of society, Lucius just sobs, trying to be thankful he’s somehow still alive).

Lucius is rich, sophisticated, and is probably the most politically powerful man in the country. He has a beautiful wife he has... a son (sorry Draco, but you do not live up to your father) the guy has it all.

Which makes it very surprising that he got dragged into this mess. But you see, Lucius is paying for that tragedy we call youth.

Also, as a caveat, I’m about to headcanon hard and will not bother to get into the details of why I think x, y, or z in this post.

Ten years prior to the start of canon, Lucius is a very young man, probably very charismatic, certainly believes he’s intelligent and probably gets decent grades, but nonetheless the kind of stupid you see in men ages 15-25.

He’s likely chafing under his aging father’s strict guidance, knows he’s not going to be Lord Malfoy for years yet, wants to get out there, prove himself, and make a difference for his country. More importantly for Lucius, there’s this hip, exciting, new thing that all his cousins and friends are getting into called “The Death Eaters” (yes, I don’t believe the Knights of Walpurgis/Death Eaters 1.0 ever happened, I think it’s ridiculous that fandom and JKR does, I could go into why but not in this post).

The Death Eaters are led by the single handedly most beautiful, charismatic, man in Britain. (Yes, I headcanon Tom’s still blindingly attractive at this stage, because it makes much more sense to me but we’re not getting into that here.) A mysterious man by the name of Voldemort, Salazar Slytherin’s long lost heir, who has come to resurrect the wizarding world’s true heritage and purge the land of the muggle stain. (Yes, I do believe that no one, not even Lucius who is later given the diary, knew who Tom really was. I believe Regulus’ had only the vaguest idea, informed mostly by Tom’s use of Kreacher to place the locket.) This is the most exciting thing to have ever happened, the rallies probably consist of rich kids drunk out of their minds and maybe even high on a little wizard cocaine, and Lucius is down for it precisely because his father says “Lucius, this is stupid, please don’t embarrass the family.” WELL LUCIUS IS GOING TO EMBARRASS THE FAMILY, DAD! WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO ABOUT IT?!

And for a while, it looks like Lucius made the right choice. Things are happening, they’re actually going out and killing the mudbloods! Unlike Regulus, Lucius never has that “wait a minute” moment as he realizes that Voldemort’s actually far more efficiently eliminating pureblood families and sowing dissention in what was once a unanimous force among the Wizengamot (the other pureblood lords aren’t necessarily pro muggleborn, per se, but they get a bit queasy at the thought of blowing them up or Merlin forbid actually blowing up their own public venues wizards use).

And then October 31st, 1981 happens, and it all comes crashing down. Lucius has to desperately lie his ass off, having only the flimsiest lie to rely on, has to hand out a shit ton of bribes, and manages to squeeze his way out of being imprisoned in Azkaban.

I’m sure Abraxas looked at his son, with his tattoo on his arm that makes him another man’s slave, at the utter destruction of the Black family, and just shook his head going, “Clean up your mess, Dumbass Son”

And Lucius does to the best of his ability. While some will always suspect him of being a Death Eater, while some know it, he’s able to climb very high in influence in their ridiculously tiny community. Granted, I do think he messed up, and could never for example run for minister given everything (if Crouch can’t rerun then Lucius certainly can’t). He also shows us that in some ways he is not above the law, he’s very afraid his house will be searched without warrant in The Chamber of Secrets, and this is in part why he dumps Tom Riddle’s diary off onto Ginny.

However, he wields total control of the Prophet, has a seat on the Wizengamot, has the ear of the current Minister, is on the Hogwarts’ Board of Governors, and has his hands in pretty much every pie he can.

I imagine during this period Lucius grows up. He brushes the indiscretions of his youth under the carpet, gleefully leaving it all behind him, and the only real friend he maintains contact with from that period is Severus, the least zealot like of all of them. (Crabbe and Goyle Sr aren’t friends, they’re minions).

Don’t get me wrong, he’s still a racist slime bag, and I don’t think he really regrets the domestic terrorism. He just regrets nearly getting caught and putting his entire family’s security on the line. He witnessed first hand what happened to the Blacks.

And then the worst thing happens: Tom Riddle rises from the dead. He rises, impossibly, from the dead when Lucius has his own hand caught in the cookie jar.

Lucius has been living a life of luxury and influence while his great master, the man he had pledged everything to, was dead. Worse, Lucius took what was described as a treasured item to be protected at all costs, and not only threw it away but sent it to Hogwarts where it caused massive havoc and was ultimately destroyed.

And Lucius, I imagine, no longer wants to serve a master.

But he has no choice. And so begins Lucius’ descent into misery and hell as he’s given an increasing set of impossible, horrific, tasks in punishment that involve him watching as his wife and son are put through hell.

I believe Tom holds a special place in his cold, black, passive aggressive heart for Lucius Malfoy.

First, Tom makes Lucius’ house his headquarters. Oh, Lucius, you have a very nice, very large, estate? Why don’t you host your beloved, mad, cousin, her equally mad husband and brother-in-law? Oh, Bellatrix threatened to cut off your ear? Well, she’s just so passionate!

Second, Lucius is told to go get the prophecy. Well, this is easier said than done. He nearly succeeds but then it all turns into the world’s largest clusterfuck that ends in two notable things. First, the prophecy is lost forever, shattered. Second, the government admits that Voldemort is truly resurrected. Both of these things are very bad in Tom’s book. And the blame can easily be put on Lucius’ head.

In response to this, Draco is now given an impossible task that Draco is too stupid to realize is designed to cause him (and his family) as much misery as possible. Draco is to assassinate Dumbledore.

Likely, Tom was already informed by Snape that Dumbledore was dying. The blackened hand was too obvious a tell coming from too obvious a source for the pair to have hid it. I think trying to hide such information would have immediately blown Snape’s cover. So, Tom knows the man is dying, and doesn’t see fit to tell Draco this.

Instead, he tells Draco, “Kill Dumbledore as soon as possible or I deliver you to Fenrir Grayback.” Draco, however, is young and stupid, so he honestly thinks he is doing this to restore the family honor, earn glory for himself and for the cause, and is expected to do this entirely by himself. As a result, when Narcissa begs Snape to aid Draco, Draco blows them both off and only accepts help from Bellatrix because HE CAN DO THIS ON HIS OWN! DRACO IS A MAN.

This, of course, doesn’t work out either. Draco doesn’t deliver the killing blow, Snape does, but Tom decides to give him a pass.

Instead he moves on to his next plan which is making the Malfoy manor his torture chamber and POW camp. Even Draco, at this point, realizes this all kind of sucks.

And then Voldemort finally dies a second time, and I’m sure Lucius just stares numbly at his malformed corpse, wondering if it will really take this time.

So that’s Lucius for you, paying always for his mistakes, and pretending he’s just as much of a nutcase as Bellatrix to fit in.

Bellatrix LeStrange

God, compared to the novel that is Lucius’ ridiculous life, I really don’t have much to say about her because I feel like there’s not much too her.

Bellatrix reminds me a lot of the Manson family, she gives off those same vibes. Point being, I think even before Azkaban (while Azkaban certainly didn’t help), she was insane and a little too worshipful of Voldemort.

I guess I can start there, I don’t think Bellamort is a thing, at all.

Tom may have, probably did, have sex with her before he died but afterwards? In that body? Forget about it.

That said, I’m sure Bellatrix both wanted to have sex and is convinced she did have sex to produce whatever the hell Delphi even is. It just wasn’t with Tom, and probably was Rodolphous with a Halloween mask on his face as they got a little too into role play.

And there we go, I suppose, I can’t take Bellatrix seriously. You often see her portrayed as sexy femme fatale Death Eater, the most competent of all of them, if a bit of a sadist.

Oh she might be a very good duelist but she’s... Bellatrix.

She prances around in corsets, shrieking madly, and just what part of that is supposed to be femme fatale? I literally cannot take her seriously on any level. When I even try to write her seriously, in very serious stories, I end up with lines like the following:

"My lord, if there's anything you need… Anything from me, specifically, as a woman…"

- Bright Eyes

That was my best attempt. That was the best I could come up with. It’s still something that belongs in a comedy.

So, I don’t think Tom really corrupted her. I think without Voldemort she still probably would have been blowing up Diagon Alley, just in a much less organized manner.

Even in canon she does ridiculous things. For example, Bellatrix, frankly, could have easily avoided prison.

For weeks after the dark lord fell neither she, her husband, Barty, nor her brother-in-law were arrested. Bellatrix in grief and utter disbelief that the dark lord could ever do something so mortal as die, said “remember that other house our lord mentioned, THEY MIGHT HAVE INFORMATION, LET’S GO MURDER THE LONGBOTTOMS!” They torture and kidnap Frank, demanding he tell them where their master is, THEY KNOW HE KNOWS. He doesn’t know. They go too far and torture the man into being a vegetable. “Shit, GET THE WIFE!” They go get the wife, do the same thing, with the same results.

They now have no information on the dark lord, two well regarded aurors tortured into brain damage, and are quickly caught and brought before the court with absolutely no “I was imperiused” excuse they can give out.

How am I supposed to take her in any way seriously?

I mean, to end your life killed in a duel with Molly Weasley. That just says it all.

#ask #anon

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yourdeepestfathoms · 4 years

Text

Clipped

[Wings AU]

Wing Reference

Tw: Discrimination

———————

“A TV show? Really? We’re getting a TV interview?” Cathy said, wide-eyed.

“Yes!” Anne said excitedly. “The director told me! Isn’t that amazing? I mean, I knew we were popular, but not THAT popular.”

“Wow.” Jane looked up thoughtfully, like she was trying to imagine herself on television. “That’s wonderful! When is it?”

“This Friday,” Anne told her. “So everyone, get your best wing accessories!”

“Well, not everyone is gonna need some.” Kitty tittered.

“Hsst.” Aragon flicked her with one of her wings.

Nobody ever talked about why their music director didn’t have wings. Some of them assumed they had been cut off when she was younger for whatever reason, as she didn’t have any while she was a lady in waiting, but Cathy’s running theory was that she wasn’t born with any at all.

Instead of wings, Joan had awkward little wingbuds curling from her shoulder blades. And today, they looked the exactly same as yesterday: Small, tightly curled, and iridescent silver, with a gem-like gleam beneath the taut layer of flesh wrapped around them.

The wingbuds twitched at Kitty’s comment and everybody glanced at Joan, but if the comment bothered her (which it almost 100% does) she didn't show it on her face. She just straightened herself up some more and exhaled a sharp breath through her nose.

“Anne is right. We all have to look good for this.” She said. “And be ready to answer questions. You know how interviewers are.”

—

When Friday rolled around, the queens and Ladies met their interviewers, a robin named Carrie and a cardinal named Russel. They both seemed friendly enough and their wings were constantly snapping with energy, perhaps thanks to their job as anchors on a talk show, or perhaps they were just always like that.

The show started out with a performance of Ex-Wives and Six mashed together, thanks to Joan, who slaved herself over making the song. When that was over, the queens and Ladies took their seats on the studio stage and got to the questions.

The questions were normal- What’s it like being in such a big show? What’s your favorite song? If you could switch places and play a different queen, who would you choose? Was Henry really as bad as history says he was or was he worse?- and there were even some directed to the ladies in waiting, but then things took a turn for the worse when Carrie turned her attention to Joan and made a very bold move.

“I’m sorry if this sounds rude,” She said, and the queens and three other ladies in waiting all tensed up, already knowing where this was going. “But what’s wrong with you?”

Joan is very stiff from where she’s sitting, hands clasped together tightly in her lap. Her jaw is set firmly, but her eyes reflect a great amount of hurt and humiliation, and red flames flickered on her ears. Her wingbuds twitch slightly on her back.

“Well-”

“Don’t you eat?” Carrie went on, cutting Joan off, although it’s hard to tell if she meant to do it or if she did it on accident because Joan took a moment to finally speak up.

“What exactly are you supposed to be?” Russel chimed in, tilting his head at Joan as if she were a peculiar butterfly he found sitting on his windowsill.

“I’m-” Now Joan was really embarrassed. She looked down, stammering on a response. “I-I’m, umm...”

Although it was said quite rudely, nobody could really blame the hosts for asking such a thing. Avians were said to be magical, mostly because they can fly. Since everyone now seemed to be one, the government had to regulate the air space to keep them from crashing into each other and flying too high for safe breathing. Clothing was made with special flaps in the back to accommodate the extra appendages, much like sleeves. Avians decorate their wings like they would their hair, dyeing them different colors and accessorizing. Some people even pierce and tattoo their wings, even though the skin there is the most sensitive on their entire body.

But Joan didn’t look magical. She just looked like a defective toy on an assembly line of correct products- an eyesore that wasn’t thrown out.

“I’m...” Joan tried one more time to muster up an answer, but nothing came out. She looked down, wringing her hands in her shirt.

“I couldn’t imagine not having my wings,” Carrie said woefully, and her robin wings ruffled on her back to enunciate her point. “What a sad life you must live.”

Joan winced and shrunk in her seat. If she had wings of her own, then she definitely would have been using them to shield herself. But, then again, if she had wings, then she wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place.

“Are you one of the wingless?” Russel asked, leaning forward in his seat.

“Don’t you see those things on her back?” Carrie said. “Clearly she’s SUPPOSED to have wings. She just doesn’t.” She turned back to Joan, her eyes lit up in curiosity. “Why didn’t yours grow when you were born?”

Joan looked absolutely helpless. She glanced around her, at the queens, at the others ladies, even at the camera crew and live studio audience, but she didn’t seem to find any support in anyone. None of them could relate to her; they all had wings.

They were all normal.

“I don’t know,” Joan whispered.

“Don’t be rude.” Aragon spoke up. She tipped her glistening golden pheasant wings at the hosts, but they barely seemed affected by the action.

“What a bore it must be to not be able to fly,” Carrie mused. “I bet you feel like half of a person. Hardly a person at all. Such strange little bumps on your back, though.” She tilted her head at the wingbuds as if they were gemstones growing from Joan’s back.

“They’re called wingbuds.” Anne said.

“They have actual names?” Carrier goggled at the parrot. “How weird!”

“Can I touch one?”

“NO!!”

It was unknown as to who looked more horrified: The queens, the other three ladies in waiting, the hosts, the audience, or Joan.

“They’re sensitive,” Aragon quickly said to Russel, who had asked. “So they shouldn’t be touched.”

“Ah,” Russel said, nodding knowingly, despite probably not knowing that at all. “I see.”

“They’re sensitive?” Carrie echoed. “Then they might come in soon.” She gave Joan a sickly sweet smile. “Pray for that, little bird!”

Joan slumped and nodded dejectedly. She wouldn’t pray, though. That never got her anywhere.

———

If there was one thing that Joan really, truly hated it was the stark belief by everyone around him that the world was black and white.

Black and white. Good and Evil. Angels and Demons.

Right from the moment he was old enough to understand the concept, he had been told the same damn thing, over and over again.

If you weren’t an angel then you were a demon. If you weren’t a demon, either, then you weren’t a person.

In a world where everyone had wings, Joan was wingless.

In a world that believed that all people with bright, colorful bird wings were angels that wouldn’t hurt a fly but were often sanctimonious and arrogant, Joan was nothing.

In a world that believed that all people with crow were demons, cruel and twisted but with so much more passion than their counterparts, Joan was less than nothing.

Beast.

It was a name that even outstripped the title of coward that her mother and father had been given for fleeing their pale-winged snowy owl son and malformed daughter. The same title she had earned when she entered court, where she had been surrounded by wings swathed in gemstones and chains and silk. But then, no one expected a beast, something more like an animal than an avian, to understand loyalty and honor could they?

In her past life, it was years later that she’d learn that Peter only married her for the challenge, the adventure of taming the wild beast that lived in the court. She wasn’t much of a beast in that respect, too quiet, too shy, and too content to spend his days spinning wool and playing the harpsichord- she’d been a disappointment from the first day.

He hadn’t loved her. Her mistresses didn’t love her, although she had hoped they would. Her parents didn’t love her, either. The only person who ever loved her for who she was was her brother, John.

John was the only person Joan knew who accepted her for all her faults and failings. For her cowardice, her shyness, and her lack of wings. Joan loved him and, in a moment of terror at the thought of being the cowardly lame beast again, she betrayed that love. And he left her. He flew away on his own.

It would be centuries before she found someone who could accept her as she was again. Centuries of darkness of meeting people who either looked at her with disgust (secure in their superiority), fear (of the beast she was) or pity (for the poor, lost creature that tried to be an avian but couldn’t possibly be). She tolerated those that feared her far more than those that pitied or were disgusted.

But the robin and cardinal who had hosted the TV show? She didn’t even know what their reactions were. They seemed to be more in awe at her deformity, but not in a good way. They ogled her in a way that made her want to shrivel up in a ball and just die.

Their stares seemed to linger on her for the rest of the day. And that sort of stress is what made her back hurt more than it usually did.

No matter how much Joan scratched her shoulder blades, the itch won’t go away. It always prickled in her back, and she tries to force it away, she really does. She itches and itches until it looks like cat scratches down her back. She presses against the backs of chairs when no one is looking, wool and wood rough against her back. And still, the itch doesn’t go away, only lessens, just barely.

It’s maddening.

———

“It’s for you,” Jane said tiredly, trudging away from the door. Her huge harpy eagle wings were dragging on the ground; she must have been ready to sleep if she weren’t lifting them.

Aragon watched her go in amusement before walking towards the front door. There, she found the little wingless fledging who she had taken under her wing, into her nest, awhile ago.

“Hello, Joan,” She greeted warmly. “What are you doing here at this hour?”

“U-umm…” Joan gestured for her back.

Aragon frowned, knowing exactly what that meant.

“Of course, my darling. Come on. Take off your shirt when you’re in my room.

Shyly, Joan followed Aragon up into her bedroom, wrestling off her shirt once she was inside. She sat down in front of Aragon on the bed.

Aragon hummed worriedly when she saw how red the wingbuds extending from Joan’s back were.

“They feel a little inflamed,” Aragon said, carefully prodding around one of the buds.” How long have they been hurting?”

“A few days, I think.”

Aragon frowned deeply at that.

“Honey…” She sighed, “Why didn’t you tell someone?”

Joan shrugged.

“Didn’t want to worry anyone..”

Another sigh.

Aragon began to gingerly knead the area around the wingbuds, making slow, deliberate circles with her thumbs against the distended shoulder blades. Even with her careful moments, Joan still winced and flinched a few times, but held still as best as she could.

“C-can you go down a little bit?” The fledging asked shyly.

“Here?” Aragon pressed just beneath one of the buds and Joan nodded. She massaged carefully in that area.

“Your muscles are really stiff, love.” Aragon said, "Think you can flutter your wingbuds for me? It might get some of the tension out.”

“I’d rather not,” Joan breathed.

“I know, sweetie, but your back is really locked up. It probably isn’t very comfortable.”

Joan gave in and flexed the wingbuds, which sent strings of fire shooting through every nerve. Aragon helps her through it by gently rubbing her back to try and loosen some tenseness in her muscles.

“Shh, shh,” Aragon murmured when she heard a tight whimper, “You’re okay, darling. You’re okay. You’re doing so good, you know that?”

Joan shook her head a little.

“Well, now you do,” Aragon said, “Would you like me to go get a cool rag? Would that help?”

“N-no. P-please don’t leave me.” Joan whimpered out, “Please, Catalina…”

“I’m not going anywhere, Joan,” Aragon assured her, “You must be tired, huh? Do you want to try to sleep or should I keep-”

“Sleep.” Joan said. “Please.”

“Alright.”

After pulling her shirt back on, Joan laid down next to Aragon, feeling her soft golden pheasant wings bundle her up. Slowly, she’s able to drift off.

—————

The next morning, Aragon woke up to Joan trembling in exhaustion and pain.

She says she’s fine.

#wings au #bird wings au #six the musical #six the musical au #six the musical fanfiction #six the musical fanfic #six fanfiction #six fanfic #catherine parr #anne boleyn #jane seymour #katherine howard #catherine of aragon #anna of cleves #joan on the keys #tw: discrimination

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linkspooky · 5 years

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family memorial stone dabi visits his family grave and sees the name Todoroki Touya carved in the stone / For @villainmonth / edit by @inumaqi fic by @linkspooky

Inhale. Snowflakes, glittering, dancing and the color of white. Exhale. Ashes, flaring, aching, and the color of burnt crimson. He needed to breathe. As his insides burned and black clouds formed inside of him desperate to escape. He breathed fire. He tried to breathe air, but the flames escaped from the corners of his mouth, and the top of his head and both are burning now. He tasted fire. Tasted like ash clogging the back of his throat, tar coating the insides of his lungs, and his bones burned all the way until they turned black. The scent of burnt meat filled the air, like flesh slowly being burned and stripped off of the bone until there was nothing left.

He knew at the end there would be nothing left of him. He would be bones, buried in a pile of cinder. No one would pick out the bones from his cremation pile, and he would die leaving nothing behind, not even a name. He was fine with that. The fact that he had lived so long despite how malformed he was at birth, was just an embarrassing scorch mark on his life. All things burned. All things burned, even him.

All things considered… If burning up in his own flames was inevitable then why right at this moment was he trying so hard to live? Dabi crossed his arms making the flames around him spiral in a vortex. The flames are licking his entire body all over, but licking is too gentle a word. Sparagmos, the act of being dismembered by a crowd, hands touching his body all over ripping his flesh away from him. Omophagia, the eating of raw flesh. He feels himself being consumed by fire but he pushed against the flame with everything he had and forced it to obey him. There is something beyond the pain he believed, and that was why he fought. Fire meets ice, and becomes white hot steam, and everything, everything, burns him but Dabi stared straight into the flames. He pushed back an entire avalanche falling on him at once.

Geten does not have a face under the hood of his parka, and even if he did have a face Dabi would not care, because all of that flesh is going to melt off when Dabi is done. His eyes are like two pale moons sharing the same sky in a pitch black night. But Dabi’s flames burn bright. Bright enough to blind. And for a moment he caught a glimpse of that face. Colorless hair, colorless eyes. The reason snow glittered as it fell down was due to the crystalline structure of the snowflakes, light could pass through it, and bend, and refract. Dabi saw a face, white as freshly fallen snow. A person he was terrified to touch because he might melt her. He remembered his fear. Pyrophobia. Fear of fire. But he could not let go of the fire, even if he despised it, even when he despised himself capable of nothing more than burning, and even when fire seemed to despise him from the day he was born. He could not let go of the pain, the suffering, the burning, because it was all he had left. His eyes contract. His pupils become tiny, trembling. He hesitated. He should not have stopped burning. Then Geten would be dead by now, then the pain would have stopped. .

“If you don’t have a strong special ability, then why bother living?”

“Well that’s just sad. Die.” Annoying. He kept talking, so annoying. Dabi’s pupils shrunk, and his eyes were half lidded and he gets the feeling they might roll back in his head any time, and he could barely listen because it took all of his mental effort to stand. “Well, that’s just sad. Die.” Shut up already. No more annoying chatter. Dabi would burn, his lips, his tongue, the bottom half fo his face right off until there was nothing left but an exposed jawbone. “You’re the one who’ll be dying here, wielder of blue flames. Your body has been reeking of burnt flesh for awhile.”

His body was covered in cracks. He had been broken, since the day he was born. Then a man hit him, and made all the cracks worse, they deepened into his skin, went all the way down to his bones. And Dabi knew there was a fire inside of him. He struggled all he could, trying to keep it back so only his insides were the ones burning, but it kept escaping through the cracks. It seeped out of him, and then combusted when it touched the outside air. If Dabi let that fire escape he had a feeling that it would never stop burning.

Shit, it smells like bacon. He thought awkwardly, as he shook his hand trying to make the smoke escaping from his stitches go away. He saw blood falling out from one of his staples, it fell on the white hot ash beneath his feet. To Dabi, it looked like pure white snow stained red with blood. Red, he despised the color. Red made everything dirty, unclean, a stain on his body. Geten thinks he is going to die soon. Haha. Dabi wants to spit out that blood in the boy’s face, and laugh. He was already dead. He was dead flesh, shriveled up, and rotting, and stretched over bone, and held together with staples. He was body parts stolen from a grave, and sewn back together into a monster.

It didn’t matter how much of a special boy Geten thought he was, he could not kill a corpse.

After the fight, Dabi walked around in a long black coat, and a pair of sunglasses. If he has his coat zipped up all the way, it’s almost like you can’t see that most of the flesh of his face is missing. In front of the mirror list night, he pried out a few staples with a pliers and then had to staple his flesh all over again. He had fresh burns on his body. The twisted and half melted staples found their way into the trash. Fucking piece of shit staples. The next time the back alley doctor gave him gold ones, Dabi was going to fry him. Gold melted too easily. No matter how good it looked. Damnit, he had looked good for once too. Burnable trash, just like him.

So easily thrown away.

He had no idea what he was doing out in public again so soon. He just knew he had to get the flash of white he had seen out of his eyes, or he would never stop thinking about it. Dabi always thought white was beautiful, but he was too afraid to touch it. His burnt up fingers, would just scratch that woman’s skin raw, and she was already in so much pain.

Dabi once wished those cold white hands would touch his face. Maybe then the burns would stop aching. But, not being comforted made him stronger. He was no longer afraid of the pain. All he knew was pain. It’s snowing that day. Dabi almost wants to take his coat off, because snow would feel like a cold embrace wrapping around him. But he doesn’t. He stood there in a field of grass. In front of him was a black memorial stone. There were rows upon rows of similar stones. This was a graveyard, but no bodies were buried in the ground, because all of the bodies had been burned up a long time ago.

Dabi. Cremation. He looked at the name carved out in the stone in front of him. He pulled a hand out of his pocket, and brushed his fingers around the indents of the characters. He had lost the shape, and form of his name a long time ago. He no longer remembered, what it sounded like to his ears, what it felt like on his tongue. Todoroki Touya.

It was ironic that this boy was the one to die. Touya had a family, a younger sister and two younger brothers to take care of, a mother he wanted to protect, he had every reason to live and yet he died. Why did Dabi continue living? He was like a corpse who had forgotten he was dead. His memorial stone was right here, his family could visit and leave flowers and they would not feel ashamed of the burnt up lumps of flesh, torn apart pieces of their dearly departed brother sewn together than had survived.

PIece of shit. Just burn and die.

Dabi held an umbrella over his head, his fingers curling around the handle. He wanted to hide his face from the snow, like he was ashamed.

“You have to learn my flash fire, it was the reason you were born.”

“Even a small fry like you should be able to handle this! It’s my special move passed down from father to son.” “You’re not in pain, stop running away! If your body is too weak to handle my flames then you’re better off dead anyway.” Damnit. Why the hell was he getting choked up by memories that did not even belong to him? If he really wanted to be a pissbaby and cry, he should have done that a long time ago. If he wanted to sit around thinking about what a poor little victim he was, he never should have killed people. The memories of a family belonged to this body, but they did not belong to him. He was nothing more than cremated remains.

Someone was here. Someone else was here. He knows the feeling of being watched. “Yeah, I know I look like a fucking freak. Come on, gimme whatever clever comments you’re thinking about right now about how I’m bacon, or whatever…let’s see if I’m in the mood to laugh.” He was not in the mood. He was pissed off enough to kill someone just to shut them up, but he would like to think he was not that far gone yet. Maybe, he should feel sad in front of a gravestone, but he stopped feeling sad a long time ago, and tears evaporated when he tried to cry.

“Oh…” A femine voice, just lightly floating there like falling snow. “I’ve never seen anybody else visit his grave. I thought it was a family secret. Were you.. A friend of his?”

Dabi’s eyes contract. He saw white hair, with flecks of red, tied up messily behind her head. Colorless eyes. When babies are born their eyes are usually grey and gain color over time, but some eyes stay grey forever. He remembered a pair of tiny colorless eyes staring back at him as he held her in his arms, and him prayer that they would always remain that color. He did not want the color red to ruin her, like it had ruined him. “I don’t have any friends,” Dabi choked out the words somehow. “Yeah, you don’t look like the type” She claps her hands together, as if forcing herself to be optimistic. “Still, it’s nice to see someone else visiting him. Natsu gets too angry when he comes here, so I feel like I’m the only one who ever visits him.” Just standing in front of her, he is suddenly standing on ice over a frozen lake. Everything is slippery, and the ice cracks, and breaks apart, and he can no longer tell if he is going to die of hyper or hypothermia. His vision is a pure white, and his body is still moving, and his lips are saying something but he can no longer tell if he was inside of it. He was like a ghost possessing a corpse, but now he was drifting away from his own body. He cannot recognize the person that reflects in Fuyumi’s eyes, his shape, his form, what he looked like, what others saw him as. The moment he reaches out to try to claim it, it melts away in his hands. There’s a voice echoing in his skull. It could be his own voice, for all he knows. He cannot recall anymore, what his body looked like when it was not this burnt, shriveled up thing. He does not know how different he looks now. His chest expands and contracts and he’s breathing too fast, like he’s forgotten it, forgotten how to be alive, and his ribcage is bring cracked open as his lungs try to expand and keep breathing. He needed more, more, more air. He needed to breathe, he needed to be calm. That kid was dead. A useless kid like that deserved to die. He would have preferred it if he was bured in an unmarked grave where nobody could see him. He had already forgotten what his own face looked like so… Why did it bother him so much that this girl did not recognize him? He felt like he was dying all over again. Family gave him life, and family took that life away. He remembered what it was like, being so hot, he no longer felt the sensation of burning, he could not tell if it was hot or cold anymore. Losing everything to the fire, his face, his name, all burned up at once.

Suddenly, there was a hand on his face. Her pure white fingers, touched one of his burns. He felt pinpricks of cold on his long dead skin. “Were you in some kind of accident? My brother knows some people who are working on experimental skin graft procedures for treating severe burns like this-” Fuck off. Gross. Don’t touch me.

“No thanks.” His voice is deep as possible, to disguise it. “Walking in the snow without an umbrella, did you feel like freezing your tits off or something?” “Oh, I’ve never minded the cold.” Sometimes, Dabi wished he was born with white hair and colorless eyes. If he had been born with a different pair of eyes, would he have seen the world a little differently? Would anything have changed? Dabi thought about it for a moment. What it would be like to cool down, to stop the fires, the pain, but then he remembered that there was still a fucker he had to kill. Even if he wanted to forget, the burns on his skin had sunk down all the way to his soul.

Dabi shoved the umbrella in her face. . “Take the damn umbrella.” He felt like he was running away, like a scared little kid. Maybe one day if he got stronger. Strong enough to kill his former self. Then maybe he would stop being that scared brat. It was a little bit sad. Todoroki Touya killing himself.

But that was better than being killed by his father.

Family made him want to live. Family killed him.

#dabi #dabi is a todoroki #touya todoroki #fuyumi todoroki #villainmonth #villainmonth2019 #zeldi drabbles tag #dabi todoroki #tw: self harm #tw: abuse mention

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malcolmwhitly-bright · 4 years

Text

Your, Mine... Ours

Chapter 2: Uh-oh

----------Month 3------------

“What’s this?” Malcolm stands proudly on the other side of her desk. She’s a little sleep-deprived and she’s attempting to nurse away the headache making itself known at the base of her temple. Yet, with each ding of her computer, the sound of each new email coming in, it’s getting harder and harder to ward off. Not to mention the proud smirk across Malcolm’s pale lips and the half perched leg he has on her desk so he can sit. He’s done it a thousand times before, sit on her desk, but right now it’s grating her nerves.

He tilts his head, squinting in a way that tells her he expected for her to make the impossible connection with the strange purple fruit on her desk. Rather than keep her waiting her fills in,” it’s a plum!” He touches it with the tip of his finger, rolling it so that it bumps up against her wrist. She scowls at it. “You know…” he says, eager for her to understand where he’s going with this but nervous when she fails to understand. “Dani,” the way he says her voice is disapproving. As if he were the responsible level headed one and she was the idiot that gets hurt all the time and runs into danger without a second thought. “Didn’t you get that app!?”

The app. Two weeks ago Malcolm had made some comment about a baby app but, if she’s honest, she wasn’t really listening. He was manic, besides himself with energy and misplaced anxiety. He was talking a mile a minute, his gestures so animated JT had to duck one of his thrown out hands. It wasn’t important, her mind supplied and paid him little to no attention.

In her opinion, it’s still not that important but it’s irking him now that she didn’t listen so at least she’s a little sorry. “No,” she mumbles and she feels a strong, overwhelming mix of anger and sadness. She’s upset that she didn’t listen, that he’s feeling upset too. The anger is at herself for those feelings. Unreasonable, stupid… pregnancy feelings. “I… forgot,” she lies and his eyes, sad blue oceans of his thoughts, betray his hurt. He knows she lied. “Can you…” she’s not sure why the app matters or even why the fruit does but it matters to him. “Malcolm, please explain to me the importance of this…” she gestures to the fruit, already having forgotten its name.

He smiles sadly,” plum.”

“Okay,” she nods. “Explain to me the importance of the plum, please.”

He looks adamant and she hates that she’d allowed him to feel inadequate, unheard. He fidgets, rocking himself in a way she recognizes as self-soothing. In the way, he does when he’s anxious. “It’s a plum,” he mumbles more than says. His right hand comes to his mouth but he pulls it away. “The app,” he keeps rocking, worrying with his fingers. “You said you were having trouble tracking your progress but the app catalogs it for you. It tells you how far along you are and how big the baby is.” He nods to the plum, cheeks flushed. “This morning the app said your baby is the size of a plum.”

Tears swell in her eyes. His thoughtfulness making her chest tight, her stomach hurt. How is it that he cares so much for her and all she does it turn around and hurt him? “Really?” She can’t keep her tears at bay and the sight of them makes his face pale and his mouth open. “Malcolm,” the sudden emotional heaviness of the moment is made worse by the use of his first name. She always calls him Bright. “A plum?” Her hand goes, reflexively, to her stomach. Fingers ghosting over the tiny bump that hadn’t been there three months previous.

“Dammit dude,” JT mumbles as he walks through the cluster of their desk. He frowns softly at Dani, no doubt feeling awful for whatever Malcolm has said that has turned her into a gooey, crying mess. “What’d you say,” JT doesn’t even hesitate, just pulls her against his side. She breathes in his comfort, the warmth and solidity of him versus the raging unbalanced instability in her.

Malcolm simply blushes harder stuttering over,” the baby is the size of a plum.”

Dani feels ten times worse because now he’s going to shy away from talking about the baby at all. She’s probably scared him.

“Fuck sake,” JT mumbles as her tears start coming harder. He rubs her back and she feels ridiculous. Emotionally, she’s a mess and beyond that, it’s not a huge change for physically and mentally. She’s messing everything up. “Come on,” JT says softly, his arms still around her. “Come lay on the couch.” He guides her the whole way, gentle in a way she knows he reserves for Tally and victims. She sinks into the couch and allows herself to be pulled into a nap as JT settles the blanket from over the back of the couch over her.

----------

“Malcolm,” JT warns, he can see Malcolm ebbing closer to Dani silently working. It’s not a ‘getaway’ but more of a ‘for the love of God don’t make her cry again’. The message is more or less received. Malcolm nods his head and offers an anxious smile before shuffling into their circle the rest of the way.

“Bright,” Dani greets, she’s been working none stop since her nap. Pausing only when JT asked her about a case he was filing. Needing her better memory for detail he simply couldn’t conjure from his mind. Her progress was being halted, still is, by a single comment Malcolm made. “This morning the app said your baby is the size of a plum.” Had he downloaded the app and if so, how far had he gone out of his way this morning to deliver her a plum? A plum that was supposed to carry significance to her but only spoke measures to how wrong he had been about their friendship.

He shifts on his feet, another anxiety riddles habit. She curses herself for causing him discomfort. “Uhm, I was gonna go for a walk…” he clenches his fist and before she can stop herself she glances at his trembling hands. He’s absolutely unnerved. “E-Exercise,” he stumbles,” helps. It’s proven to help in delivery and easy back pains and fatigue associated with pregnancy.”

There he goes again knowing way too much about pregnancies but she’s not going to push it. She looks at her screen, she’s got about five minutes of work left. “Can you wait just a minute, please?”

He nods.

It’s colder than she remembers it being this morning. The sun is hidden behind thick clouds nearly the color of the sky. “It’s going to snow,” Malcolm observes, his eyes looking up at them too. She’s amazed by the conviction in his voice. She glances at him and pauses, captured in how young he suddenly looks. His age, she realizes. He’s not being worn down with the memory of his father or his malformed coping mechanisms. Just a man, caught in the clouds.

He snaps back to her, to Earth and away from the clouds. He smiles at her attention,” what?” All of his anxious movements are absent. His hands are in his coat pockets, his feet keeping a steady movement as they walk. She takes a minute too long and his cheeks fill with heat.

“You just looked…” all the words that cross her mind are not appropriate. Attractive is what she says but happy is what she says. Her answer must be good because he smiles one of those earth-quaking smiles and glances at her. She tries not to make it obvious the knots that smile ties her stomach in.

He glances back up,” I… I love the snow.” It feels like the first time he’s truly told her something. Not immediacy, the fake intimacy of half-truths. Something real and true and she can see it in his eyes. “Gil,” the smile is turned to her now. “He hated the snow but he always took me out. Let me get soaked to the bone and we’d go back to Jackie.” He keeps glancing back over to her,” she’d get us in warm clothes, fussing in Spanish the whole time.”

She can picture it well enough. She’d met Jackie a handful of times after her overdose back when Gil believed anything could be fixed if you sat in a squad car long enough. Jackie was beautiful even with silver hair and always made Gil promise to have Dani back to her house before it got too late. Sometimes even packing them both snacks. She imagines that Gil, happy and light, with the Malcolm pictured on Gil’s desk.

Malcolm laughs softly,” I miss her.”

Strangely, Dani does too.

They pass a block in thoughtful silence. Malcolm seems to always make the silence natural, comfortable. He bumps into her shoulder, his attention split between walking and looking at the stores as they pass. “Have you gotten a sonogram yet?”

There he goes again with those questions she’s just not sure how he came up with. She shakes her head, embarrassment. “No,” and admit that she has a child to raise on her own?’ Her mother is disappointed in her choices, in her childlike behavior that has lead to this: going back to Estime. The others don’t know yet but when they do… “There are some problems with my insurance and…”

Malcolm stops walking, his face pinched in confusion. It takes Dani a moment but she stops too, backtracking so she’s standing by him. “Your insurance isn’t good,” he asks, head tilted and face still pinched. She shakes her head and he makes a sound at the back of his throat. “You could use mine.”

“Malcolm-”

“No,” he mutters but his conviction is strong. He shakes his head,” you need good insurance so you can be healthy, right?” He doesn’t wait for her answer so much as her eye contact. “You need good insurance so your baby can be healthy.” He nods his head like he’s finalized the thought,” I can put you with mine. It’s not like money is a problem. It wouldn’t even be hard.” Sensing her distrust of this idea he softens his tone from convicted to pleading,” please, Dani.” A thought comes to mind,” call it my baby shower gift.”

Except, she knows it won’t end there. “Fine.”

[When you forget to update the chapter on Tumblr but the second chapter has been on AO3 since forever and now you’re almost done with chapter 3 *fake author guilt*]

#Martin Bright #brightwell #brightwell fanfic #dani powell #jt tarmel

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mewhenhorrormovies · 4 years

Text

You swine. You vulgar little maggot. You worthless bag of filth. As we

say in Texas, you couldn't pour water out of a boot with instructions

printed on the heel. You are a canker, an open wound. I would rather

kiss a lawyer than be seen with you. You took your last vacation in

the Islets of Langerhans.

You're a putrescent mass, a walking vomit. You are a spineless little

worm deserving nothing but the profoundest contempt. You are a jerk, a

cad, and a weasel. I take that back; you are a festering pustule on a

weasel's rump. Your life is a monument to stupidity. You are a stench,

a revulsion, a big suck on a sour lemon.

I will never get over the embarrassment of belonging to the same

species as you. You are a monster, an ogre, a malformity. I barf at

the very thought of you. You have all the appeal of a paper cut.

Lepers avoid you. You are vile, worthless, less than nothing. You are

a weed, a fungus, the dregs of this earth. You are a technicolor yawn.

And did I mention that you smell?

You are a squeaking rat, a mistake of nature and a heavy-metal bagpipe

player. You were not born. You were hatched into an unwilling world

that rejects the likes of you. You didn't crawl out of a normal egg,

either, but rather a mutant maggot egg rejected by an evil scientist

as being below his low standards. Your alleged parents abandoned you

at birth and then died of shame in recognition of what they had done

to an unsuspecting world. They were a bit late.

Try to edit your responses of unnecessary material before attempting

to impress us with your insight. The evidence that you are a

nincompoop will still be available to readers, but they will be able

to access it ever so much more rapidly. If cluelessness were crude

oil, your scalp would be crawling with caribou.

You are a thick-headed trog. I have seen skeet with more sense than

you have. You are a few bricks short of a full load, a few cards short

of a full deck, a few bytes short of a full core dump, and a few

chromosomes short of a full human. Worse than that, you top-post. God

created houseflies, cockroaches, maggots, mosquitos, fleas, ticks,

slugs, leeches, and intestinal parasites, then he lowered his

standards and made you. I take it back; God didn't make you. You are

Satan's spawn. You are Evil beyond comprehension, half-living in the

slough of despair. You are the entropy which will claim us all. You

are a green-nostriled, crossed eyed, hairy-livered inbred

trout-defiler. You make Ebola look good.

You are weary, stale, flat and unprofitable. You are grimy, squalid,

nasty and profane. You are foul and disgusting. You're a fool, an

ignoramus. Monkeys look down on you. Even sheep won't have sex with

you. You are unreservedly pathetic, starved for attention, and lost in

a land that reality forgot. You are not ANSI compliant and your markup

doesn't validate. You have a couple of address lines shorted together.

You should be promoted to Engineering Manager.

Do you really expect your delusional and incoherent ramblings to be

read? Everyone plonked you long ago. Do you fantasize that your

tantrums and conniption fits could possibly be worth the $0.000000001

worth of electricity used to send them? Your life is one big

W.O.M.B.A.T. and your future doesn't look promising either. We need to

trace your bloodline and terminate all siblings and cousins in order

to cleanse humanity of your polluted genes. The good news is that no

normal human would ever mate with you, so we won't have to go into the

sewers in search of your git.

You are a waste of flesh. You have no rhythm. You are ridiculous and

obnoxious. You are the moral equivalent of a leech. You are a living

emptiness, a meaningless void. You are sour and senile. You are a

loathsome disease, a drooling inbred cross-eyed toesucker. You make

Quakers shout and strike Pentecostals silent. You have a version 1.0

mind in a version 6.12 world. Your mother had to tie a pork chop

around your neck just to get your dog to play with you. You think

that HTTP://WWW.GUYMACON.COM/FUN/INSULT/INDEX.HTM is the name of a

rock band. You believe that P.D.Q. Bach is the greatest composer who

ever lived. You prefer L. Ron Hubbard to Larry Niven and Jerry

Pournelle. Hee-Haw is too deep for you. You would watch test patterns

all day if the other inmates would let you.

On a good day you're a half-wit. You remind me of drool. You are

deficient in all that lends character. You have the personality of

wallpaper. You are dank and filthy. You are asinine and benighted.

Spammers look down on you. Phone sex operators hang up on you.

Telemarketers refuse to be seen in public with you. You are the source

of all unpleasantness. You spread misery and sorrow wherever you go.

May you choke on your own foolish opinions. You are a Pusillanimous

galactophage and you wear your sister's training bra. Don't bother

opening the door when you leave - you should be able to slime your

way out underneath. I hope that when you get home your mother runs

out from under the porch and bites you.

You smarmy lagerlout git. You bloody woofter sod. Bugger off, pillock.

You grotty wanking oik artless base-court apple-john. You clouted

boggish foot-licking half-twit. You dankish clack-dish plonker. You

gormless crook-pated tosser. You bloody churlish boil-brained clotpole

ponce. You craven dewberry pisshead cockup pratting naff. You cockered

bum-bailey poofter. You gob-kissing gleeking flap-mouthed coxcomb. You

dread-bolted fobbing beef-witted clapper-clawed flirt-gill. May your

spouse be blessed with many bastards.

You are so clueless that if you dressed in a clue skin, doused yourself

in clue musk, and did the clue dance in the middle of a field of horny

clues at the height of clue mating season, you still would not have a

clue. If you were a movie you would be a double feature;

_Battlefield_Earth_ and _Moron_Movies_II_. You would be out of focus.

You are a fiend and a sniveling coward, and you have bad breath. You

are the unholy spawn of a bandy-legged hobo and a syphilitic camel.

You wear strangely mismatched clothing with oddly placed stains. You

are degenerate, noxious and depraved. I feel debased just knowing that

you exist. I despise everything about you, and I wish you would go

away. You are jetsam who dreams of becoming flotsam. You won't make

it. I beg for sweet death to come and remove me from a world which

became unbearable when you crawled out of a harpy's lair.

It is hard to believe how incredibly stupid you are. Stupid as a stone

that the other stones make fun of. So stupid that you have traveled

far beyond stupid as we know it and into a new dimension of stupid.

Meta-stupid. Stupid cubed. Trans-stupid stupid. Stupid collapsed to

a singularity where even the stupons have collapsed into stuponium.

Stupid so dense that no intelligence can escape. Singularity stupid.

Blazing hot summer day on Mercury stupid. You emit more stupid in one

minute than our entire galaxy emits in a year. Quasar stupid. It cannot

be possible that anything in our universe can really be this stupid.

This is a primordial fragment from the original big stupid bang. A pure

extract of stupid with absolute stupid purity. Stupid beyond the laws

of nature. I must apologize. I can't go on. This is my epiphany of

stupid. After this experience, you may not hear from me for a while.

I don't think that I can summon the strength left to mock your moronic

opinions and malformed comments about boring trivia or your other

drivel. Duh.

The only thing worse than your logic is your manners. I have snipped

away most of your of what you wrote, because, well ... it didn't

really say anything. Your attempt at constructing a creative flame was

pitiful. I mean, really, stringing together a bunch of insults among a

load of babbling was hardly effective... Maybe later in life, after

you have learned to read, write, spell, and count, you will have more

success. True, these are rudimentary skills that many of us "normal"

people take for granted that everyone has an easy time of mastering.

But we sometimes forget that there are "challenged" persons in this

world who find these things to be difficult. If I had known that this

was true in your case then I would have never have exposed myself to

what you wrote. It just wouldn't have been "right." Sort of like

parking in a handicap space. I wish you the best of luck in the

emotional, and social struggles that seem to be placing such a

demand on you.

P.S.: You are hypocritical, greedy, violent, malevolent, vengeful,

cowardly, deadly, mendacious, meretricious, loathsome, despicable,

belligerent, opportunistic, barratrous, contemptible, criminal,

fascistic, bigoted, racist, sexist, avaricious, tasteless, idiotic,

brain-damaged, imbecilic, insane, arrogant, deceitful, demented, lame,

self-righteous, byzantine, conspiratorial, fraudulent,

libelous, bilious, splenetic, spastic, ignorant, clueless, EDLINoid,

illegitimate, harmful, destructive, dumb, evasive, double-talking,

devious, revisionist, narrow, manipulative, paternalistic,

fundamentalist, dogmatic, idolatrous, unethical, cultic, diseased,

suppressive, controlling, restrictive, malignant, deceptive, dim,

crazy, weird, dyspeptic, stifling, uncaring, plantigrade, grim,

unsympathetic, jargon-spouting, censorious, secretive, aggressive,

mind-numbing, arassive, poisonous, flagrant, self-destructive,

abusive, socially-retarded, puerile, and Generally Not Good.

#oh my word #my friend found this #she said ‘oh my word look at what i found! lets send it to savannah’ so we sid #but i wanted to share it with yall not because i dont like yall but because you could send this to somebody you hate #have at it

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spacebrick3 · 5 years

Text

The Malformation AU: Part 8

Slowly but surely, things are coming to a head. Talya and her new ally, preparing to face off against Anechoi plus @writerofwriting‘s incredible entity of sentient magic - the Malformation!

Chapter 8 (Talya):

“Talya Lewis.”

“Syrus Almas-Daviau.” He does look like Anechoi, she notes. The same brown eyes - those that Anechoi no longer has, now that Eris has taken her over - in a different face, frowning as they take in the scene. They are standing on a ridge overlooking the train tracks, Syrus’ flyer resting with engines still glowing. “I won’t say you look terrible,” he continues, “but what the hell happened? What did you say was going on?”

It’s true. Her suit, already torn from the fight with Eris, had been further ripped open by the onslaught of the dust storm. She’s done what she can, but she can barely stand from the cold. A red light has been repeatedly blinking on in the corner of her vision, and she thinks it might be the oxygen light. “It’s - it’s a little hard to explain.”

“Right,” he says doubtfully. “Why don’t we go back to the flyer, then? It’s heated, and I have some food and stuff. How long have you been out here?”

Too long. She nods, grateful. Even just the short walk over there feels like forever, the muscles in her legs aching and protesting at each step. But she makes it, ducking through the door and slumping down into one of the chairs with a sigh of relief. Six Cities, look at this thing. All silver lining and fancy backing. Somebody’s rich. It’s a weak sentiment, ore out of habit than anything. After all, he did come out here, didn’t he?

He doesn’t say anything as he pours steaming liquid into a mug, handing it to her as he sits down in the chair across. She takes a hesitant sip - it’s sweet and hot, and she can feel the life starting to bleed back into her. “What is this?”

“Emerald hot chocolate. They say the Martian soil gets rid of the bitterness. You’ve never had it?”

She shakes her head, wincing as it burns her tongue. “Never - never got the chance. Too expensive.”

“Oh.” He looks away, embarrassed. “So…what did you say was going on? Something with Anechoi, something bad…?”

She tells him. It’s nice to be able to, to finally explain the chaotic mess - chaos, that’s right, because that’s what it wants - that seems to have claimed her friend. And he listens, too, stepping in when she falters or simply can’t find the words for what she saw. “And…that’s when you got here,” she finishes. “An- Eris threw me off the train, I called you, hours passed, you got here.”

Concern creases his brow, and he rubs his nose distractedly. “So…what are we gonna do? It sounds like this…Eris could rip us apart without trying.”

“Well…yeah,” she admits. “But I think there’s a chance, to make it not be Eris anymore, to get Anechoi back.”

“There’d better be,” he agrees. “I’m not losing my sister to some…thing that’s managed to broken-magic its way inside her head. But…sounds like she was pretty far gone, also.”

Talya can’t deny that. But she knows what she saw, too, that momentary hesitation. “I’m still here, aren’t I? Eris didn’t kill me when she had the chance, and she was planning to. Anechoi’s still there.” She sees his doubt and presses forwards. “I fought her, and I made it out alive. You have money and influence - I have magic. If we work together, because we have to to save Anechoi - we can fight her and win.”

He sighs. “I’m probably already losing the company,” he mutters, “so what’s the suicide mission to save my sister matter to that?” It’s not really a question. “Nothing. I’m in.”

“Great!” She offers a small smile, though it’s hard to muster any real feeling behind it. “First order of business: figure out where Eris is heading.”

“Aquamarine, right?”

She shakes her head. “Too late for that. You have the news in here…?” She looks around, searching for a screen that could connect to the satellite network. Come on, he’s rich, he’s gotta have it somewhere…

With a press of a button, one of the panels swivels to reveal a single flatscreen display. It blurs with static for a second, then jumps to the image of where Aquamarine should have been. “-conflicting reports of the attack,” the computerized voice reads, “with most confirming that it was a single attacker who destroyed the outpost, although the damage sustained-“

“Yep. Too late,” she finishes as he turns the news back off. It seems to have shaken him almost more than the news about his sister. “Where is she going next?”

“You said it wanted chaos, right?” he asks slowly. “Then it’s heading to Diamond.”

“Diamond?” she asks. “I would have said Emerald. Take out the water, then the food…”

But he’s shaking his head, running through the options in his head. “No. Diamond’s better. Without water, Emerald is gonna die anyway - why waste the effort? Only thing that could stop that is the import of water, and that has to happen through Diamond. So take it out. And it needs the people here, so killing Diamond kills the evacuation. Without the spaceport, nobody without a private rocket is getting in or out of Mars.”

“That’s…scary.”

“Believe me,” he says with a shrug. “When you grow up with my parents…well, you can see why she left.”

Anechoi never talked about it. Talking to Syrus, she can start to see why. He has money, yes, but…is that money really worth it? Clearly, she didn’t think so, and it looks like he might be having second thoughts as well.

Problems for another time. “Right then,” she says. “To Diamond.”

——————————————————————————————————

They have three days, at most. Aquamarine is around five thousand kilometers from Diamond, a quarter of the way around the planet. But Eris is freshly energized, and she has the pick of any of the vehicles abandoned by the outpost. Seventy kilometers per hour is more than double what most humans can sprint at, but there’s no question that she can maintain it.

As soon as the flyer lands, they split up. He can provide money but precious little else to her efforts, and she can’t help with what he needs to do. He follows the familiar path to the mayor’s offices in the tallest spire, the same route his mother would take every time she came to argue import prices. If only that were the problem they were facing now.

A few assistants try to stop him, but even attached to ’Syrus’, the Almas-Daviau name still carries weight. He storms into the private meeting room, where the mayor is meeting with a pair of businessmen in suits. “Get out,” he tells them, leaving no room for debate. They hesitate, looking to the mayor for guidance.

“Give us a second,” Mayor Rachel Kellstrand tells them, fixing him with a flat glare. “…Syrus Almas-Daviau. What do you think you’re doing?”

He gives an apologetic gesture. “I apologize for the rude intrusion, but it’s important. You need to evacuate the city.”

“…I need to what?” she asks incredulously. “You realize what that means, right? Hundreds of thousands of people-“

“-who could be dead if you don’t,” he finishes. “Look.” He pulls the tablet from his jacket and slams it down on the desk, rattling her computer. A map of Mars is shown, a thin strand connecting the two cities of Diamond and Aquamarine. “Twenty minutes after the attack on the outpost, an exploratory rover began tracking north at a hundred kilometers an hour. Traveling due north, directly towards Diamond. At current speed, she will reach here tomorrow evening.”

Kellstrand takes the tablet, frowning. “She? This is likely just part of the outpost evacuation, anyway.”

“Except no rovers are reported to be part of the evacuation, and all personnel are accounted for. Dead or alive,” he counters. “You saw what happened to Aquamarine. Do you want that to happen to Diamond?”

At least she seems to understand the danger of the situation. “That sounds suspiciously like you have something in mind, Mr. Almas-Daviau.”

“I do,” he admits. “But in case it doesn’t work, people need to get out of the city. I don’t know how much we’ll be able to contain.”

“Diamond has security forces. They could join you,” she says, already starting to tap out orders. “I need to call a meeting…” she mutters, “confirm the sighting and trajectory…but start limiting the inbound flights…”

“No. No security forces. That would just make it worse, and they need to help get people out of the city.”

She nods stiffly. “I will need to convene the council before a decision is made. If what you say is true…well. We will do what we can - including defenses. But they will be instructed not to interfere with your plan. Good luck, Mr. Almas-Daivau, and please try not to destroy my city.”

“We’ll try,” he says, already running out the door.

——————————————————————————————————

Talya gathers a group of engineers from the docks around her. She’d like to say that it was due to the selfless desire to protect their city, but just in case she’s also offered quite a bit of Syrus’ money in return for their help. “Alright. You all know what’s coming, and I need you to help me try and stop it.”

An older man raises a hand in the back. “How the bleeding fuck do we stop something like that?” There is a general murmur of assent from the people clustered around him.

“Glad you asked. I’ve fought up close and personal with it, and I can say definitively that it functions as an anti-magic entity. Thus we can stop it-“ She snaps her fingers, and the tiny bits of metal taped there rub against each other- “with magic.” A blue spark leaps from her hand, bursting in a shower of light. Never underestimate the power of theatrics.

“But we’re not magic,” a red-haired girl points out.

She nods. “Right. Not many people are, and I wasn’t expecting it. I can provide the magic-“ fuck it’s gonna be a long few days, then- “but if I’m doing that then I can’t do much else. That’s where you come in.”

“So what are we doing?”

I’m getting there. She’s reminded why she doesn’t work with many other people. “Right. Anyone here who works with electronics, circuits, all of that?” A few hands go up. “You,” she says, pointing at one. “Go find all the lasers you can and bring them back here, then the others can fill you in.”

The engineer she’s indicated moves to go, then stops. “What type of laser?”

“Um…HeNe or CO2 should work, not anything too heavy-duty,” she tells him. Turning to the rest, she hands the front one a tablet containing a set of blueprints. She managed to sketch them out on the flyer, pulling the LIMES design from memory. “Print or make these circuit boards, then bring them back to me for the Design. After that, you gotta build that there, making sure you connect the wires in that order or it won’t synch. Got it?”

They all nod, trickling out of the group towards the electronics workshop. She takes a deep breath, spinning on her heel to face the mechanics and engineers that remain. “You all, you’re gonna be working outside. Building Designs around each entrance because that might let us trap it.”

The same red-haired girl rolls her eyes. “What part of ‘not magic’-?

“I know you’re not magic!” she snaps. “That’s why I’m here! What’s going to happen is that I’m gonna get beams of metal and carve the lines into them - see, I’m the one being magic - then you are going to go out and arrange them into the Design, making sure the lines connect. Understand?”

I really hope this works.

——————————————————————————————————

“I need your help,” Syrus starts off, not even waiting for the customary greetings. “It’s important.”

The person on the other side of the line sounds annoyed. “I don’t care how fucking important it is, it’s the goddamn middle of the night and I need my sleep.”

He doesn’t have time for this. “You run the ODSF, right?”

“What? Yeah, sure.” The salesman voice comes on. “‘Mars, right next to the asteroid belt, is in constant danger from impacts. For only a small price, you can ensure that your residence doesn’t become the next victim’. God, it’s a load of shit. The chance of anything hitting is like zero, and I don’t even know if we could-“

“Not important. I just need to know if you actually have the orbital railgun satellites.”

“Worst investment ever made, but y-

“Great. Look, I need you-“

His onetime friend sounds annoyed. “What’s going on, Syrus? Why are you calling me from Diamond?”

“Can’t tell. Listen, I need a favor. If you get a message from me, two days or so from now, I need you to use them. Everything that’s in range, shoot at Diamond.”

For once, he’s speechless. “What? You want me to-?”

“I’ll take the blame. The city’s gonna be evacuated, and you shouldn’t have to do it. But…something’s on its way to Diamond, and I can’t risk it getting further than here. For everybody’s sake.”

“…I hope you know what you’re doing, Syrus,” he says before the transmission goes dead. He sighs, leaning against the cool, blank wall that is ubiquitous throughout Diamond. He doesn’t want to do it, but he can’t be sure. He can’t know that they’re going to get Anechoi back, and the risks if they don’t are too high.

He shouldn’t have to use it. But he wants the option.

Well. We’ll just have to see how things play out in the next chapter, won’t we?

Tag list (if you want to be added or removed, just let me know!):

@lady-redshield-writes, @no-url-ideas-tho, @ratracechronicler, @ken-kenwrites, @ravenpuffwriter, @cirianne, @lonelylibrary @maxbeewriting, @endlesshourglass, @thebloodstainedquill, @anip-ocs, @dreamwishing, @incandescent-creativity, @fatal-blow, @danafaithwriting, @wri-tten

#malformation au #:)#some things…are plot important #and some characters…make their return #malformation #anechoic #writerofwriting

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the-voice-of-hell · 3 years

Text

Rent is Theft, part 16

Read from the beginning here, read the previous chapter here. Note: My MC is a Filipina trans woman and I am not. If you have notes on that or anything else, hit me up.

***

“I dunno… Is it OK if I take a shower?”

“Is it OK if I help out?”

“Um, I just want to get clean.”

I stood up and took her in my arms. “Aw, it’s no big deal. Sex can be kinda messy and embarrassing. You should be proud of yourself. That was awesome.”

“But you didn’t...”

“I’ll get mine, Leimomi. We have all the time we want.” I kissed her cheek. “Go shower up, be quick. I’m gonna straighten myself out too.”

She nodded and went through her bedroom into the bathroom. I washed my face and hands in the sink, then went to figure out what to do with my clothes.

The low lights in the room made a mirror of the big window, but a dim one. I checked myself out in it, hand on a hip, ooh la la. But something about the darkness just made me look old and skeletal. I decided to put on all my clothes.

Momi was taking long enough that I had a bored minute, so I went to intercept. I didn’t want her to shy away after she was done with the shower, figured I wouldn’t let her get the opportunity. I stood outside her bathroom door and waited.

She stepped out and I spread my arms. “I missed you. C’mere.”

“Uh, OK.” She inched closer and I folded myself around her.

“We’re good, right?” I searched her eyes.

“Oh course, Courtney.”

“Good.” I pecked her lips once. “Let’s relax on your bed. Come on.”

She nodded. I got onto the bed quick, resisting the temptation to bounce in like a kid. To my disappointment, she started putting on her pajamas. Oh well. I took the moment to surreptitiously watch her luscious body as it disappeared into cloth. Click went the camera of my memory, then I looked away so she wouldn’t notice.

Momi got into bed beside me and pulled the blanket over us. It was the blanket that came with the unit. Her apartment must have been less ravaged by the allergy episode than mine was. I got close, hugging her with my whole body, then looked her in the eyes.

“Hey, you mind if I feel you up? Just for a minute. I like the way your bod feels through the clothes.”

“Mm, just a minute. I mean, I just took a shower.”

I laughed like a movie villain and rubbed her all over. It was a good time, but I didn’t want to be too self indulgent, so I settled back into laying beside her pretty quickly.

I felt something slipping at my scalp - the scarf came loose, and Reverse Courtney immediately started in on us. “Momi! Momi! We don’t belong here, baby! Get out while the gettin’s good! Don’t trust Courtney! I can’t believe you trusted Courtney! This is your life baby!”

I was mad. “Hey! Hey!” I pawed at the back of my head and she nipped me with painful bites. I checked to make sure they didn’t draw any blood while she rattled on.

Momi looked startled and upset at first, but then realized the culprit - some of her hair had wormed free of the scarves, and pulled mine off. The strand was whipping around her head, trying to pull off the rest of her wrap.

We both fell about the bed, wrestling with ourselves, lending each other hands as needed. I felt like a cowboy at a demented surreal porn rodeo. At last, we had our heads bound again, and fell in beside each other - this time sitting up, uncomfortably sweaty, romance exhausted.

She sobbed once into her hands. “What can we do? What can we do?”

I held her close. “I’ll figure it out. I did last time, I’ll do it again. You’ll see.”

“But how? Allergies is a thing that happens. You can do something to that. Nobody turns into a monster.”

“We’re not monsters honey, but you gave me a good idea. We can look up books about monsters. If the other thing had an answer, I bet this does too. It has to. It does.”

“...I guess.” She let me comfort her with embraces. I loved it.

“Hey. Ever since I messed up before, ever since we had that hard night, I felt sick. I was sure I’d never feel OK again without you, sure I loved you.”

She couldn’t look at me, feeling too intense, face red.

“I love you, Leimomi. I wanna be your girlfriend for life. I never wanna let you go.”

She still couldn’t talk, just pulled me back under the blankets and held me close. I don’t know why we cried. We cried a lot. Life is the worst.

***

The first date was a kind of test to see if the volatile feelings would break into conflict and push us apart again. We spent that night sleeping together. Well, I slept eventually, but had been awake for more than an hour, just watching her.

After that, I felt great. That turbulent energy was still there the next morning, but everything we did, every moment that passed helped to iron it out. I invited her to my apartment for breakfast, did the housewife thing again. Every time we were close, we touched.

We sat across the kitchenette island from each other as we ate, talked about little things like nail polish and annoying neighbors. She didn’t care for Perry, but the man was intentionally off-putting, so reasonable feelings all around. We laughed nervously at each other’s jokes.

As I went to put our dishes in the sink, I noticed the couch I’d dragged into the bedroom since my bed flew out the window. That’s no place to make love. I needed a real bed. I remembered noticing her bed was the one that came with the unit, and that reminded me there was another unit on the floor - with another bed in it. I could just drag that into my place. Bing bang boom.

I sat across from Momi again and a feeling began to come over me slowly. Time still existed. I still needed to do things within that unfortunate continuum. What would she do with herself? If she was half as jittery as me, having nothing to do would be unbearable.

She noticed my concern. “Are you OK?”

“Yeah,” I put my hand out and we touched. “Just being annoyed that there’s shit to do in the world. I’ve gotta get a job, gotta research werewolves, that kinda thing.”

“Huh. Sorry. Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Mm, sometimes maybe? Probably not now. I’ll be too distracted if you’re here.” I smiled big. “You make me crazy, girl.”

“Sure,” she rolled her eyes. “I guess I can go bug Marcie.”

“If he’s around, maybe you could get to know Deandre. He’s young, bet you have a lot in common.”

“Uh huh.” She slipped away from me and stood up to leave.

I scrambled around the counter to meet her with a big hug. “I love you too much, baby. I’ll see you real soon. Kiss me.”

She complied, making me feel weird about it. Why did I make a command of it? Like Dracula or something. I tried to make the most of the kiss and squeezed her tight. I resisted the urge to smack her sexy ass as she left. I’m a bad person.

I got the laptop running, went into my e-mail, checked my notes. I didn’t have enough bites to justify spending a lot of time massaging the leads, had to generate some new ones. It was tedious work, but mostly less nerve-wracking than trying to get an interview.

But as I went about it, my mind rebelled. Fuck this shit. Before I knew what I was doing, I was making a spreadsheet listing out important information about the floor. Column A - names. Column B - blank. Column C - rent. Column D - what to call it? I settled on “curses.”

Courtney - - - $000 - mouth on head tries to defeat me

Leimomi - - - $000 - hair like crazy snakes causing trouble

Graeme - - - $200 - port-wine stain? red hands and arms

Marcie - - - $200 - something on her chest

Richie - - - $000 - hair catches fire

Perry - - - $000 - don’t know

Patrick - - - $200 - don’t know

Methadone Mike - - - $000 - turning green

Deandre - - - $100 - don’t know

Olivia - - - $000 - neck pops up

Knobby - - - $000 - floor shitting werewolf? not exactly bipedal, at minim.

I leaned back and considered the screen. Maybe there’s a werewolf cure that isn’t a bullet, but what about me? Worse, what about Momi? She was so sad and afraid. I hated it.

There’s an obvious enough cure, I thought, with a voice not entirely my own. What’s the one thing happening here that is unusual, that no one ever does? It has to be the cause, right? The building is allergic to you. Leave the fucking building.

Yeah. I know. Just give me a damn minute. Maybe we could cure everybody just by giving up the place and leaving, but we needed more money, income sources, before that would be a safe thing to do. Meanwhile, we needed that werewolf under control.

To that end, I committed to getting a job ASAP and to muzzling the dog. I minimized my spreadsheet and went at the job crap with the energy of anger.

I couldn’t bear a full two hours of it, but didn’t want to seem weird by bugging Momi yet, so I went to get the bed out of 1207. I brought the big key ring, clink clink. The door seemed eager to open, almost flying out of my grip.

I clutched the knob for dear life. The whole apartment was fucked apart, the wall between the bedroom and living room wobbling in the breeze, a vast puckered hole in the windows stretched across both rooms.

More than anything I was tempted to get out in the hall, pull the door closed, and pretend I’d never opened it. But I wasn’t getting sneezed out the window yet, and it was probably a good idea to know more about what the hell was going on. The air pressure began to equalize between the hall and the room, allowing me to let go of the handle and walk inside - with careful, halting steps. Behind me the door flapped irregularly in the wind.

The fourth of the apartment closest to the hall was the least malformed, but it still had a creepy pulse, a softness that allowed it to bow in and out. It was coated in a thin sheen of mucus. As the apartment neared the windows, it got progressively worse. The laminate was warped apart. The underlying plaster and concrete of the building seemed translucent, organic, exuding thicker streams of gelatinous slime in some areas, blistering out into red sores in other areas. It was warped and folded and breathed with more dramatic motion than the area by the door. At the outer edge of the apartment, it barely hewed to the window, and the window itself had bulged into a wheezing rippling orifice big enough to drive a truck through.

The ground beneath me shifted and I stepped quick to renew my footing. The places my feet had been touching the floor were now bleeding sores. So this is what happens without the allergy medicine. Fucking hell. The kitchenette island was a bulwark against the worst of the outer reach of the apartment, something to cling to if the place sneezed, and I hid behind it with hands gripping the top, raising welts.

How about that bed? I glanced to the furniture. Over the countertop I could see the living room furniture had slid around, was half upended, but was intact and not too bizarre. It was hard to see the bed from my angle, but I knew that even if it was in good shape, it was too risky to try to move it out. Probably covered in nasty-ass mucilage anyhow.

“Oh my LORD!” Perry was at the door, hanging from the frame, looking fit to fall and break his hip.

The massive hole in the window breathed in, rippling luridly as if to taunt him - or suck him out on the back draft. I took the risk of startling him by hustling to the door in a hurry, gently shoving him out, holding him up against the wall, closing the door with my foot.

His face looked forlorn, unworldly. Ghost-blanched, eyes searching for Heaven but only finding ceiling. But as the air pressure in the hall returned to normal, those eyes came to rest on me, the expression stern. “Just what in hell are you tryin’ ta do to us?”

“I’m just trying to help, Perry. Really.”

“People tryin’ ta help. All the time,” his voice was so damn loud, “I hate it!”

I eased off of him, trying to make sure as I did that he could stand on his own. “Yeah, that’s fine, but maybe you should go take a nap, man. It’s been a hard morning, right?”

He swatted away my support with his massive but frail old hands. “I hate you all.”

Did he have an extra knuckle on each finger?

***

I had to do that research, but that shouldn’t have been too hard, so I decided to take Momi with me. I found her in her apartment. She looked eager to get out, but had to get dressed first. We looked a little ridiculous with our head wraps. No culture in the world does it as dorky as we were doing. Necessity is the mother of bad fashion innovations.

I might have walked if I was going alone, but I didn’t want to wear anybody else out. We took the bus. I held her arm and leaned my head on her shoulder. I kissed her cheeks and just doted on her as much as she’d allow.

Every moment felt good, but in a strange way, like a balloon about to pop or a dam about to burst. If the explosion happened, what would it mean? I hoped it wasn’t from some inner awareness that it couldn’t last.

We must have given the impression of people in mourning. We were emotionally worn out and physically comforting each other. I didn’t notice any homophobic glares. But then, I wasn’t noticing much besides her. I wished I could see her pretty hair again.

I’d have preferred to buy her something nice to eat, but we got cheap wrapped sandwich halves from a drug store and split a bottled water. After wolfing that down on a cold concrete bench, we hiked six blocks to the library.

Most of the new library was avant garde modernist architecture with cold antihuman materials, angles, proportions. The walls were a lattice of brushed steel beams and bulletproof glass, the floors marble that weirdly ended a foot short of the walls so that if you made the mistake of stepping too close, you’d break your ankle. The irregular plastic drop ceiling and lights alternated between too short and too tall, too bright and too dark. All the furniture was too narrow to sit in comfortably for anyone slightly wider than my skinny ass. The whole effort seemed like it was intended to discourage homeless people from falling asleep, even sitting up.

Most of the library was like that, but if one felt bold enough and clever enough to navigate the maze of narrow escalators, they could reach a dark wood lounge at the top level - with comfortable leather furniture and well placed, warm reading lights. The place had a classist air that acted like an invisible doorman and despite the lack of an actual security presence, only a very few hobos lounged up there amid tense college kids and old people that quietly radiated old economy money.

I knew about that lounge, despite the rest of the building’s efforts to repel me, and I dragged Leimomi up there by the hand. We came out of a narrow royal orange plastic corridor into the warm dark space and she visibly relaxed. There was some cool daylight up there as well, filtered through the distant steel and glass cage. The floor here ended twenty feet shy of the wall, one short bannister all that separated people from a mortal plunge to some random lower floor. But the isolated platform layout just made the lounge even more cozy, like a carefully crafted bird’s nest in a crook of a high building ledge. We found a love seat and sank into it.

Momi didn’t know if she was allowed to talk until she overheard someone else chatting in low tones. She spoke very quietly. “How did you know this nice place is up here?”

“A guy took me here on a date when the place first opened. Anyway, I remembered the rare book collection is up here, and thought to myself, old books about monsters. That’s the place to look.”

“What do you even think you can find out? I never heard of nothin’ like this.”

I rubbed my head fingers bumping into the head wraps uncomfortably. “Well, I am confident one thing will cure all of us, and that’s leaving the building. But it’ll take time to scrounge up the income to get out, have somewhere to go. So until then, I just want to focus on one of us - the werewolf.”

“The werewolf. Who is a werewolf?”

“I think it’s Knobby, the way he’s stooped over? And some other things... Anyway, some other tenants in the building have been talking about some kind of big dog or hairy man out in the halls, making a mess and causing trouble. That puts us all at risk. If I get any more mouths I can wrap myself like a mummy. But the werewolf is out of control.”

“I guess that’s why you’re gonna try to fix him instead of us.”

I rubbed her shoulder. “I have a plan to fix us already. I’m gonna get a job so I can afford for us to move. This stuff should clear right up, I bet.”

She nodded and looked at her lap.

“Well, I don’t think you’ll get in trouble for slouching and catching a few winks, because I’ll be next to you. Just don’t snore too loud, right?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll be as quick as I can.”

“Yeah.”

I felt bad for bringing her, but a change of scenery was still probably good for her, even if it was boring. I left her to find some old werewolf nonsense, see if there was such a thing as an exorcism for it. Fortunately the digital catalog turned up one promising result right away - a book from 1912 titled “Werwolves.” I brought the beat-up old book back to the loveseat quickly for perusal.

The subject of exorcism came up quickly in the book. “Is it possible to exorcize the evil power of metamorphosis possessed by the werwolf, or, as those would say who see in the werwolf, not the possession of a property, but a spirit, ‘to exorcize the evil spirit’? For my own part, and basing my opinion on my own experiences with other forms of the superphysical, with regard to the success of exorcism I am sceptical.” Fuck. I kept reading.

“I am not only dubious as to the powers of exorcism generally, I am also dubious as to its effect on werwolves. I have come across a good many alleged cases of its having been successfully practised on werwolves, but in regard to these cases, the authority is not very reliable, nor the corroborative evidence strong.” Well tell me about the cases, genius.

The book was written in a conversational style - not much sense to the order of it. But it was easier to skim than you’d expect with the pretentious style, and eventually I found some examples - and some actual rituals. I copied them by taking pictures with my phone, using a book as an improvised monopod. But since it would be easier to peruse the relevant sections from the book itself - and it wasn’t available for checkout - I took advantage of our time at the library to do it.

“Nearly all the methods prescribed embrace the use of some potion; such, for example, as sulphur, asafoetida, and castoreum, mixed with clear spring water; or hypericum, compounded with vinegar--which two potions seem to have been (and to be still) the most favoured recipes for removing the devilish power...

The ceremony of exorcism proceeded as follows: The werwolf was sprinkled three times with one of the above solutions, and saluted with the sign of the cross, or addressed thrice by his baptismal name, each address being accompanied by a blow on the forehead with a knife; or he was sprinkled, whilst at the same time his girdle was removed; or in lieu of being sprinkled, he had three drops of blood drawn from his chest, or was compelled to kneel in one spot for a great number of years.”

Fuck. We didn’t have that kind of time, and the less we had to mutilate a boy, the better.

“The rites that were performed in connexion with this ceremony (and which I understand are those most commonly observed in exorcizing all manner of evil spirits) were as follows...” The routine was elaborate, and there was a version that only involved shin kicks, so less knifey. That was nice. I closed up the book when I was satisfied and wound an arm around Leimomi, careful not to loosen her head wrap.

“Hey kiddo. You wanna chill for a little longer, or get going? We don’t have to go back home right now. Maybe we can take a bus to Mars and chill.”

“Mm, Mars is good.”

***

Read next chapter here.

#Rent is Theft #part 16 #honestly not sure when i wrote this #but i finished the first draft #nanowrimo july 2021

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tessalivesandbreathesbooks · 7 years

Quote

It was very hard for me to learn how to fly,” he said. I didn’t dare respond. “Most Illyrians learn as toddlers. But … I assume Rhysand told you the particulars of my early childhood.” I nodded. He finished the one hand and started on the other. “Because I was so old, I had a fear of flying - and did not trust my instincts. It was an … embarrassment to be taught so late. Not just to me, but to all in the war-camp once I arrived. But I learned, often going off by myself. Cassian, of course, found me first. Mocked me, beat me to hell, then offered to train me. Rhys was there the next day. They taught me to fly.” He finished my other hand, and sat on the shore, the stones murmuring as they shifted beneath him. I sat beside him, bracing my sore palms faceup on my knees, letting my wings sag behind me. “Because it was such an effort … A few years after the War, Rhys brought me back a story. It was a gift - the story. For me. He - he went to see Miryam and Drakon in their new home, the visit so secret even we hadn’t known it was happening until he returned. We knew their people hadn’t drowned in the sea, as everyone believed, as they wanted people to believe. You see, when Miryam freed her people from the queen of the Black Land, she led all of them - nearly fifty thousand of them - across the desert, all the way to the shores of the Erythrian Sea, Drakon’s aerial legion providing cover. But they got to the sea and found the ships they’d arranged to transport them over the narrow channel to the next kingdom had been destroyed. Destroyed by the queen herself, who sent her lingering armies to drag her former slaves back. “Drakon’s people - the Seraphim - are winged. Like us, but their wings are feathered. And unlike us, their army and society allow women to lead, to fight, to rule. All of them are gifted with mighty magic of wind and air. And when they beheld that army charging after them, they knew their own force was too small to face them. So they cleaved the sea itself - made a path through the water, all the way through the channel, and ordered the humans to run. “They did, but Miryam insisted on remaining behind until every last one of her people had crossed. Not one human would she leave behind. Not one. They were about halfway through the crossing when the army reached them. The Seraphim were spent - their magic could barely hold the sea passage. And Drakon knew that if they held it any longer … that army would make it across and butcher the humans on the other side. The Seraphim fought off the vanguard on the floor of the sea, and it was bloody and brutal and chaotic … And during the melee, they didn’t see Miryam skewered by the queen herself. Drakon didn’t see. He thought she made it out, carried by one of his soldiers. He ordered the parted sea to come down to drown the enemy force. “But a young Seraphim cartographer named Nephelle saw Miryam go down. Nephelle’s lover was one of Drakon’s generals, and it was she who realized Miryam and Nephelle were missing. Drakon was frantic, but their magic was spent and no force in the world could hold back the sea as it barreled down, and no one could reach his mate in time. But Nephelle did. “Nephelle, you see, was a cartographer because she’d been rejected from the legion’s fighting ranks. Her wings were too small, the right one somewhat malformed. And she was slight - short enough that she’d be a dangerous gap in the front lines when they fought shield to shield. Drakon had let her try out for the legion as a courtesy to her lover, but Nephelle failed. She could barely carry the Seraphim shield, and her smaller wings hadn’t been strong enough to keep up with the others. So she had made herself invaluable as a cartographer during the War, helping Drakon and her lover find the geographical advantages in their battles. And she became Miryam’s dearest friend during those long months as well. “And that day on the seafloor, Nephelle remembered that her friend had been in the back of the line. She returned for her, even as all others fled for the distant shore. She found Miryam skewered on the queen’s spear, bleeding out. The sea wall started to come down - on the opposite shore. Killing the approaching army first - racing toward them. “Miryam told Nephelle to save herself. But Nephelle would not abandon her friend. She picked her up and flew.” Azriel’s voice was soft with awe. “When Rhys spoke to Drakon about it years later, he still didn’t have words to describe what happened. It defied all logic, all training. Nephelle, who had never been strong enough to hold a Seraphim shield, carried Miryam - triple the weight. And more than that … She flew. The sea was crashing down upon them, but Nephelle flew like the best of Seraphim warriors. The seafloor was a labyrinth of jagged rocks, too narrow for the Seraphim to fly through. They’d tried during their escape and crashed into them. But Nephelle, with her smaller wings … Had they been one inch wider, she would not have fit. And more than that … Nephelle soared through them, Miryam dying in her arms, as fast and skilled as the greatest of Seraphim. Nephelle, who had been passed over, who had been forgotten … She outraced death itself. There was not a foot of room between her and the water on either side of her when she shot up from the seafloor; not half of that rising up at her feet. And yet her too-small wingspan, that deformed wing … they did not fail her. Not once. Not for one wing beat.” My eyes burned. “She made it. Suffice to say her lover made Nephelle her wife that night, and Miryam … well, she is alive today because of Nephelle.” Azriel picked up a flat, white stone and turned it over in his hands. “Rhys told me the story when he returned. And since then we have privately adapted the Nephelle Philosophy with our own armies.” I raised a brow. Azriel shrugged. “We - Rhys, Cass, and I - will occasionally remind each other that what we think to be our greatest weakness can sometimes be our biggest strength. And that the most unlikely person can alter the course of history.” “The Nephelle Philosophy.

A Court of Wings and Ruin by Sarah J. Maas

#a court of thorns and roses series #a court of wings and ruin #sarah j maas #quotes #books #book quotes #az #azriel #shadowsinger #feyre #feyre archeron #feyre cursebreaker #high lady of the night court #the nephelle philosophy #fly #flying #flight

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mindfulwrath · 7 years

Text

Silver, Part IV

I am going to ship this man with literally everyone and there’s nothing you can do to stop me.

Words: 3559 Warnings: Typical Victorian no-homo-ing Part I Part III

Jasper had been thinking for a long time. Actually, he had been thinking the same thought, over and over and over again. It had not gotten him very far. He was still in the burnt-out husk of his room. He had managed to sit down on the bed, only because he felt his knees wouldn't hold him.

The thought was, Oh dear.

In fairness, it had gone through just about every conceivable permutation of tone, from flustered to frightened to despondent to delighted, round and round, back and forth, up, down, and sideways. His lips were still tingling. His face was still hot. His stomach was still slimy with shame. Rachel would be expecting him back at some point. She would notice immediately that something had happened. He would have to explain. There was no question of lying to her. She would know. She would know and she would be gravely wounded by it.

Oh dear.

Then there was Mr. Hyde to worry about, that manic man of mystery who had so gleefully whipped up the Society into a frenzy, so eagerly led the charge of violence against Moreau. He had, technically, saved Jasper's life last night, bringing down the creature that was out for his blood, but the action had seemed somehow removed from Jasper's existence. Hyde had killed the thing because it had been conveniently within killing range, and instantly afterwards had forgotten about both it and Jasper in favor of bigger game. Was he a jealous man? A dangerous man? He'd certainly seemed to take a vicious joy in violence. If Jekyll's face in the immediate aftermath had been anything to judge by, he certainly wouldn't be a happy one.

Oh dear.

Jasper could still faintly smell the peppermint, especially when he closed his eyes. He could taste it lingering on his lips. A phantom handprint glowed on his face, phantom fingers gripping his own, strong and comely and impeccably graceful. He shivered at the heat in his chest. He shrank from his own mortifying awkwardness, looming up malformed and wolfish in his memory. What an ass he'd been, what a blind fool! And poor Jekyll, poor brilliant incredible Henry, doing his level best to maintain his impossible professionalism, so stunningly captivated, so beautifully enraptured, by him, by him, by ordinary, gangling, clueless Jasper!

Oh dear.

Jasper put his face in his hands. Every inch of him was squirming, pulled between extremes of guilt and fear and heady jubilation. It was too good to be true. It was too terrible to be real.

It was a damned difficult position to be in.

He laughed into his hands, because it was either that or cry, and he'd done his crying for the day. He also considered screaming, but that might have worried someone, or worse, drawn attention. The last thing he needed was someone walking in on him like this, asking him what was wrong.

Right on cue, there was a knock at his door.

Oh dear.

"Mm-hm?" Jasper squeaked, unable to lift his face from his hands due to the abominable blush coloring his cheeks. He heard the door squeak open.

"Mr. Kaylock?" Dr. Bryson said. "My dear boy, is everything all right?"

He shook his head. Pretty much nothing was all right. At least he was being honest.

"Should I . . . pretend I never saw you?" Bryson asked. "I am adept at pretending I never saw things. For example, I have already pretended not to see someone else fleeing very urgently away from this very same room."

Jasper fervently wished he could evaporate on the spot. It just kept getting worse.

"I shall take your distressed silence to mean that I should make a quiet exit," Bryson said.

"No," Jasper blurted. The last thing he wanted was to be left alone with his thoughts any longer. He might simply come apart, shredded from within by the opposing stresses.

"Ah," said Bryson. Footsteps crunched in the ash, and the door squeaked closed. "May I sit with you?"

Jasper nodded. Bryson settled in near him, but not too near. For a moment, Jasper had a sudden, striking, stupid vision of what might happen if Bryson tried to kiss him. It was so incongruous it almost made him laugh. What came out instead was closer to a sob.

"I'll be very quiet," Bryson promised, "unless you would like me to talk. Otherwise, I am here to listen, if there's anything that needs to be said."

Sniffling, Jasper managed to pry his face far enough out of his hands to speak.

"It's just," he said, "how d'you tell a girl you know has got a—a thing for you that you've kissed someone else?"

Bryson took a long breath through his nose, then sighed it back out.

"Well," he said. "Honesty is, as ever, the best policy, but its best implementation is via tact, which is a significantly more difficult proposition."

Jasper looked up at him, shocked more by his composure than anything.

"I . . . I s'pose," he said. "But I don't even know where to start."

"Have any . . . promises been made?" Bryson asked. "Any exchanges of . . . shall we say exclusive implications? With either party?"

"Well," said Jasper, rubbing the back of his neck, "no, not exactly. Not at all, really. It's been pretty obvious, though. From—from both sides. Both the girl and me, I mean."

Bryson nodded sagely. "And would you like to continue this courtship?"

Flushing, Jasper shrugged, squirming under the frankness of the question.

"Y-yeah," he said. "I think I might. Yeah."

"And with the . . . interloping party?"

The blush became furnace-hot.

"I . . . I dunno," he admitted. "I don't guess so. I think probably not."

"Ah, wonderful," said Bryson. He nudged Jasper with an elbow. "Open with that."

Jasper cracked a smile, then rubbed it off his face. He sniffled.

"What if she hates me, though?" he said.

"Then I suppose she will hate you, and that is her prerogative," said Bryson. "Thus far, from what you've said, you've been perhaps . . . unwise, but certainly not dishonest. The one is forgivable. The other, less so. Whether or not she chooses to forgive it is entirely up to her. The most that you can do is bring whatever you have to the table, and allow her to bring what she has, and if the two should happen to meet in the middle, then—wonderful! And if not . . . well, at least you've not wasted much time."

Jasper chewed his lip. Bryson nudged him again.

"Try not to go into it with any hypotheses," he suggested. "It isn't science, and if you treat it like it is, you will make things infinitely worse."

"I can't even imagine," Jasper said, shaking his head.

"And if it all goes immensely wrong, you can always flee the country," Bryson offered. "I'll loan you a balloon."

Jasper cracked up again. Bryson chuckled.

"Dr. Bryson?" Jasper said. "How d'you—sorry, not to sound rude or anything, but how d'you know all this?"

Bryson raised his eyebrows.

"Mr. Kaylock," he said. "Do you think I've never had any girl troubles in my thus-far storied life?"

"I—well," said Jasper, thrown for a loop. "Yeah. I sort of figured everybody at the Society was . . . a bit detached from all that stuff. Embarrassed at best, or clueless at worst, or just too busy for it. At least too busy for my—my girl troubles."

"My dear boy," said Bryson, shaking his head. He gestured expansively. "Life is a vast, complex, messy sort of a thing. It would be impossibly hard if any of us tried to face it alone. And it would be unbearably dull if we attempted to devote ourselves entirely to our science. We've got to do silly, stupid, unwise, ugly things from time to time, whether they involve girls or otherwise. It's what keeps us on the near side of mad."

"I guess," said Jasper. "Seems like things might be a lot simpler if it was just science."

"The only things in this vast and awesome cosmos that seem simple are things we don't understand," said Bryson. "Sometimes you learn a great deal more by getting it wrong than you do by getting it right, in life as in science. Sometimes mistakes are necessary to make any progress whatsoever. Sometimes, Mr. Kaylock, you've simply got to royally screw up."

Jasper snorted. A glob of snot came out of his nose and splattered across his mouth, and he hurriedly hid it behind his hand, mortified. Bryson handed him his handkerchief.

"Thanks," Jasper mumbled, wiping his face. "Sorry."

"I have over forty of them," Bryson said. "For just such occasions. You can return it at your convenience, preferably at a moment of significant symmetry."

"I'll keep an eye out," Jasper promised. "Um. Thank you."

"I do it all the time," Bryson confided. "You're right, most of the people here have all the emotional competency of a teaspoon. It's something about Jekyll, I'd wager. Like seeking out like, you know?"

At mention of Jekyll's name, Jasper went hot all over, burning from his scalp to his toes. He bit his lip to push the tingling out of it. It was a wonder his ears didn't spontaneously combust.

"Mm," he said. Bryson raised an eyebrow at him, but then judiciously looked away.

"You're welcome," he said. "And best of luck, my boy. Take care of yourself."

"Mm-hm," said Jasper.

With a final sympathetic wince and a pat on the shoulder, Bryson left him, shutting the door quietly behind him. Jasper put his face back in his hands.

"Bollocks," he mumbled.

It took far more whiskey than Lanyon would have expected for Jekyll to pass out in his chair, and he was loath to help Poole carry him up to bed for fear it might wake him. His apprehension proved baseless, however—Jekyll was sleeping the sleep of the dead, and Lanyon could probably have amputated one of his fingers without waking him. Nonetheless, he insisted on staying with him, at least for the first few hours, in case of complications.

"Complications, sir?" Poole said, frowning.

"The man hasn't slept in days and he's got eight drinks down him, Poole," Lanyon said. "Eight drinks at least, because I don't know that I believe his accident explanation, and he has been known to indulge in a bit of solitary wining in the dark."

Poole made a constipated expression and avoided looking at either of them.

"Very good, sir," said Poole.

Lanyon narrowed his eyes and folded his arms.

"Is there something you'd like to say, Poole?" he asked.

"I shouldn't, sir, it's beyond my station," said Poole.

"I'm asking you to," Lanyon said. He added, more softly, "Please."

Poole fidgeted for a moment more before hanging his head.

"I heard some sort of . . . argument," Poole admitted. "Between Dr. Jekyll and—well, someone. It was brief, but very heated. That's why I came to check on him, sir. I heard raised voices and then the shattering of glass."

"My God, who was it with?" Lanyon demanded.

"I'm afraid I don't know, sir," Poole replied, shrugging. "He was alone when I found him. I never heard the other voice, only Dr. Jekyll's. I thought it very strange, sir, very strange indeed, being that—well, only a few moments had passed, between when I heard the glass shattering and when I let myself in. I was very concerned, you see, otherwise I would never have barged in the way I did, sir. I was concerned Dr. Jekyll might have been injured in some sort of—altercation. But there was no one there, sir, not a soul, just Dr. Jekyll sitting in his chair and the front of his cabinet smashed. He was nearly insensible, sir."

"What do you mean, insensible?" Lanyon asked. "Don't spare me the details, Poole, I am acting as his doctor now."

"Well, sir, it was this way," said Poole, uncomfortable. "I thought at first he had hit his head, sir, or something of the sort. He had that look about him. Dazed, sir, mumbling all his words and speaking mainly nonsense. When I saw no obvious wound, I thought perhaps he'd been at the drink, sir, as you mentioned, but there was no smell of it on him at all, and no opened bottles anywhere that I could see. I don't know what had come over him, sir, but I know it didn't come away again until you arrived, and if I may, sir, I'm very glad it did. I didn't dare to ask him who he'd been arguing with. I was afraid he might. . . ."

Poole trailed off, leaving endless implications hanging in the air like yellow London fog. Lanyon looked back at Jekyll. He was lying on his side just as they'd left him, his hair mussed, his limbs askew. There were dark, blue-gray circles around his eyes. His cheeks were still flushed with drink, his nose red. Blood had seeped through the bandages on his hand, rusty and spotted.

He didn't look mad. He looked exhausted, worn through, used up, and drunk, but he didn't look mad.

Lanyon wondered if he really knew what madness looked like. He swallowed down the bitter taste in his mouth and turned back to Poole.

"I imagine we shall have the truth out of him when he wakes up," he said. "In the mean time, it's best to let him sleep it off. Do try and keep the rest of the house quiet, would you Poole?"

"Of course, sir," Poole said, sketching his little half-bow.

"Good man," said Lanyon. "Off you go!"

Poole took his leave graciously. It became so quiet in his wake that Lanyon could hear Jekyll's breathing, slow and deep and steady. Carefully, Lanyon brought the room's chair to the bedside and settled into it. With one hand, he smoothed the hair back from Jekyll's forehead, as gentle as he could be.

"Oh, Henry," he sighed, an iron fist around his heart. "What am I to do with you?"

Jekyll made a soft noise in the back of his throat. Lanyon froze, two knuckles deep in his hair and petrified.

"Henry?" he squeaked.

"Mm," Jekyll said, without moving.

"Are you . . . awake?" Lanyon hazarded.

Jekyll did not respond, apart from a minor twitch of the face. Lanyon relaxed, and continued running his fingers through Jekyll's hair.

"Dreaming," Jekyll mumbled, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Lanyon could have slapped him. "Clearly."

"Clearly," said Lanyon, equal parts annoyed and charmed. "Pleasant dreams, Henry?"

"Mm," Jekyll said again, shifting in his bed, leaning his head ever so slightly into Lanyon's hand. Lanyon rolled his eyes and carried on petting his hair, which was very soft.

For a time, this pleasant state of affairs continued on uninterrupted. Just as Lanyon was beginning to wonder if Jekyll had fallen back to sleep, he mumbled out something else.

"Always thought you had very attractive hands, Robert," he said.

"You are still drunk," Lanyon said, quickly muffling every other thought and feeling that threatened to well up.

"Dreaming," Jekyll corrected. Lanyon's fingers brushed a particular spot behind his ear and he melted. One amber eye cracked open and regarded Lanyon with catlike bliss.

"There is to be no dreaming with your eyes open," Lanyon scolded, yanking his hand back.

Jekyll's mouth curled into a smile and his eye drifted closed again.

"Dearest Robert," he sighed.

If there was meant to be anything else, it never came. Lanyon waited for several minutes, but it seemed that Jekyll really had dropped off again. Lanyon sat back and sighed, shaking his head.

"You poor fool," he murmured.

He wasn't sure if he was talking to Jekyll or to himself.

"Um."

Rachel looked up. Jasper was hunching in the doorway, rubbing his arm, staring at his feet.

"Oh, no," she said. "That looks like bad news."

"Um, sort of," he said. He shrugged. "Yeah."

"Well, the good news is, I've made cookies!" Rachel said, trying her damnedest to be bright. "And they're all for you. Did . . . did you lose much?"

"My notebook," said Jasper. Rachel had just opened her mouth to pour out her sympathies upon him when he kept talking regardless. "Um. Look. There's . . . there's something I've got to talk about with you. And it's sort of really important."

"All right," said Rachel, baffled and apprehensive. "What is it?"

He rubbed his arm. He shuffled in and shut the door.

"Um," he said. "I know there hasn't been, like, any . . . anything, with you and me, or anything, but I sort of was thinking I might like there to be, and I thought maybe you'd like there to be, too, um. . . ."

"Oh," said Rachel, heat rising from her chest to her face. "That. Um. That sounds good. Yes. I think that's the, um, the ideal. Goal. Sort of thing."

He looked up at her and flashed a sheepish grin, then rubbed at his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Hah," he said, and then cleared his throat. "It's just that, er, well, that being the case, um, there's something I really ought to tell you, because I feel like you . . . you deserve to know."

"What, is the werewolf-ness transmitted through kissing?" Rachel asked, cocking an eyebrow and folding her arms.

"What? No," said Jasper. His face went slack with panic. "At least—at least I don't think so. Oh God. What if it—oh God."

"I was joking, Jasper, I was kidding," Rachel said. "That's not a thing."

"Right," he said, sagging. "Right, no, yeah. Um. Well. So. Speaking of kissing, um."

"Yeah?" said Rachel, while her heart made a determined bid to kick its way out of her chest.

"I've sort of . . . kissed somebody who isn't you," he mumbled.

Rachel blinked. "Oh," she said.

"And it's not—it's not like it's going to be a-a-a thing, it's not going to be a thing," he assured her, his face the very picture of earnestness. "It just sort of happened, but it's not going to happen again, and I thought you really ought to know, but I don't want you to think that it's—that I've—that I'm not—"

Rachel leaned an elbow on the counter and propped her chin on her hand. Jasper was blushing so hotly it was visibly making him sweat. She smiled, fighting down the needling pain in her heart.

"My, you do get round, don't you," she said. "So who was it, then?"

Jasper's face went white. His eyes flicked to the window. He gulped.

"I—I dunno, I really shouldn't," he said. "I don't want to cause any—any problems, I don't want to get anybody in—in trouble, or anything. Cause any feuds, or—or anything like that."

"Nah, come off it," said Rachel. "You've said it's not a thing, it's fine. Besides, I'm already good friends with all the women here, I'm sure it won't be too much of an issue. And I couldn't possibly blame anybody for wanting to kiss your adorable face."

Jasper promptly buried said face in his hands. Rachel grinned and tossed a cookie at his head.

"Come on," she said, "fess up. Was it Miss Flowers? You're probably her type."

"Wsnt a wmn," Jasper mumbled.

"What was that?" Rachel said.

"It . . . wasn't a woman," Jasper said. Rachel's eyes got very big.

"Oh, wasn't it!" she cried. To her surprise, she was actually having a great deal of fun. "Was it Archer? I bet it was Archer, he took a real shine to you."

"Rachel, please, I really shouldn't," Jasper moaned.

"Nobody's going to care, Jasper," she said, waving a hand at him. "What happens in the Society stays in the Society. Everybody already thinks we're destroying their Good Christian Values, we've all pretty much decided to go for broke."

"What? No, that's not—that's not it at all," said Jasper. "It just—it can't leave this room, all right? Can you promise me that? I really, really don't want to get anyone in trouble, is all."

Rachel sighed, rolling her eyes. "All right," she said. "My lips are sealed. Now tell meeeeeeeee."

Jasper fidgeted. A shy smile tugged at his lips. He rubbed the back of his neck.

"It . . . it was Doc—Henry," he admitted.

Rachel went frigid.

"What," she said.

"Um?" Jasper squeaked.

"When?" she demanded. A lump was already rising in her throat, furious tears welling in her eyes.

"Just—an hour ago? I dunno!" said Jasper.

"What did you do? What happened?"

"I—it was—I don't know! It all happened really fast! We were talking and then I gave him back his coat and then, I dunno! It just sort of happened! It wasn't my idea!"

Rachel upended the entire pan of cookies. Jasper shrieked and dove beneath the nearest table.

"That snake!" she cried, her voice cracking shrill with the strength of her emotion. "That scheming bastard!"

"Rachel—"

She fled from the kitchen before he could see her crying.

#tgs #the glass scientists #silver #fanfic #coming in very early today because i don't have to work!#oh shit i have to prep for d&d later aaaaaaaahhhhhhh wHOOPS

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the-empathetic-daydreamer · 6 years

Text

When it comes to doctors we put our trust in them while setting high expectations that most normal people can’t even deliver. It’s those amazing doctors that change the world – or at least us. But the “quacks” (as my mother would say), show us another side of humanity. One that we wish we could just forget and go back in time to never have arrived at that appointment and put our lives in their hands. Unfortunately I was not immune to the sea of neglectful doctors even though I left with beneficial information, yes even life changing… in more ways than one.

I have no right to complain because by seeing an orthopedic specialist I was able to get some testing done and find out what was wrong with my knees. For almost two decades no one was able to give me answers or help other than anti-inflammatory medication and physical therapy; I thought my life was finally going to turn around as I placed both my life and my trust in this said doctor’s hands. But his unprofessionalism is what took me by storm. My case was so severe that he gawked and he called all his staff into the room to see as he moved my leg all around causing pain to radiate through my body. Physical therapy, a knee brace, and MRI were in the works. The MRI revealed that when I was in my mother’s womb, my knee caps didn’t properly form. The grove that helped stabilize the knee was severely impaired – it barely existed at all (more than likely the decades of being morbidly obese deteriorated whatever bone that actually existed). Not only that but my knee caps were sideways (patellar subluxation); I suffered all of my life with the burden of those painful knees but never knew why or that it was a medical condition. Surgery was not an option after he received the results (however the specialist I saw after him said that if my pain worsened again to the point of not being able to function I would indeed have to have surgery – a bone graph to repair my knee(s) completely); it would be painful and pointless because my knee cap would not stay in the position that they would physically move it to. There was no quick fix and ultimately internet databases doomed me to a lifetime of possibly severe pain.

If I had not fallen down the steps (my knee went out and then it twisted and I fell down about three or four, maybe more, steps) and tore my ACL and could barely walk or move after my knee ‘went out’ (I do not know the medical terms –instability?). I couldn’t get off the floor but was grateful I had already put my son to sleep (in his crib) already. I thought I had broken my leg; I was in unbearable pain and cried. I dragged myself to the entertainment stand to try to pull myself to standing but discovered I could barely walk. Until I reached those measly dozen steps or so, I screamed and cried while trying to pound on the neighbor’s wall for help. Every step hurt and I was dragging my leg. When I after it to the couch after getting ice and something to drink, I collapsed as the pain overtook my body. It would be that way for months. I couldn’t drive and even in the snow you could see by my footprints that I was dragging one of my feet (and therefore leg). In the store I was stared at as I tried to get around shopping. I cared, but yet I didn’t because it was still painful to walk. Physical therapy helped immensely but there were more challenges to endure. I did find, however; that I loved the exercises at PT and ended up joining the gym and pushed myself as hard as I could (which added painful tendonitis to the list of knee problems).

One moment in history had yet again changed my life. Isn’t that what it takes – just one moment? That was the story of my life. All of those one moments that added up to mountains and cliffs that I wanted to jump off of. I just felt like there was a storm (not just rain) cloud over my head by this point. What I didn’t realize is that those moments that overtook me and made me despondent would only increase.

I exercised hard, and I mean hard. I got my heart rate up higher than I used to and pushed myself. I hated going out in public but I also hated staying home. I knew my knee had to be strengthened and I took advantage of the gym to do just that, and more. I began to lose more weight and I was thrilled after having gained thirty pounds. The exercise came with a price; the leg that had severe malformation and pain was only aggravated more by the exercise and a new pocket popped up that created even more pain. When I asked what it was the answer was clear and simple. I was pushing too hard and my knee now had tendonitis. When I quit doing my actual physical therapy exercises but was still at the gym, the pain returned. The nurse said I needed to find a balance so that the tendonitis wouldn’t flare up but I needed that exercise. It was my coping skill and it made the world disappear as I focused only on my breathing, heart rate, and number on the set of weights.

At my final visit there was no looking up my chart on the computer and it seemed like the doctor didn’t remember who I was. Never once in the office was I called by name and perhaps he was tired of seeing a patient who was helpless. So he threw his hands up in the air, metaphorically speaking. For the tendonitis and surrounding knee pain he offered to give me a cortisone shot. I was terrified and my gut said not to do it because I was driving alone, with my son as a passenger. In the end I decided that even though I had extreme anxiety over the situation, I had to try something for relief. The pain just kept getting worse and I didn’t want to be in as much pain as I was in the beginning (if that was even possible I didn’t know). My apprehension was warranted and I clearly could remember the immense pain from the last needle that went into my knee; my agony was made worse by my parents and doctor laughing at me because the procedure was almost over and my irrational screaming was not necessary (but neither do I find it comical).

When I was in 6th grade I had to have the fluid drained from my knee with what felt like a giant needle; for the umpteenth time my knee had gone out but this time the swelling did not subside. I didn’t watch, I just felt. I screamed in pain for them to stop but they were already in and refused. I remembered that pain and I didn’t want another needle in my knee. So why the hell did I agree to do this? Pain outweighs sanity any day. So I gave in. The doctor asked me several times if I wanted the shot and I said “Yeah, I guess.” He made sure to find consent in the word “yes” and it took him several tries. He waited for my answer to reflect a yay vs. an unenthusiastic and mediocre decision to ‘try it.’ Perhaps we (the doctor and I) were both reluctant to what lay ahead. Even though he was only steps away from me, his feet seemed to move in slow motion which only caused my heart to beat even faster.

I almost never go by my gut instinct and I cannot express how many times it has blown up in my face and had negative outcomes. A person should learn after the first several times but apparently I’m not only horrible and inconsistent with decision making but also stubborn.

What happened next I wish I could forget, no pun intended. He gave me the shot directly into my knee and my heart was throbbing; it beat faster than I could count. Before the shot he put something on to ease the pain, but when my entire leg went numb during the shot I panicked. They asked me if I was okay and once again I gave a half assed answer. To some effect I blamed my anxiety and was told to sit there on the table and breathe. With my head crouched down and cradled in my hands, I sat forward with my eyes closed tight. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale… and then it happened. The whole world went black.

I passed out and hit my head two times on the way to the floor. When I opened my eyes the bright lights were rudely arousing. At first first I didn’t know where I was, either plane or field. Finally someone’s voice broke through my mind’s silence, “Sara. Sara,” he called. I muttered in a quiet and disturbed voice a perplexing question of my own, “Am I in the floor?” I had a hard time getting up and could barely move. My body seemed to be crumbled up on top of itself. I opted for a pillow and lay on the floor with my knees up until I could sit up, and then stand, and then walk. What felt like minutes took nearly an hour and somehow my son sat silently watching my doom unfold.

He, my two year-old son, was in his stroller for the duration of my appointment and luck would find it that his father was at work and I had no sitter. I always put his seat near me while I sat on the high, long exam table but luckily the doctor had moved it, otherwise I would have done more than just hit my head on it as I fell. I would have flipped his stroller with him in it too. But instead I hit my head on the stroller, then on the tile. I had scrapped skin off my shoulder and my face. I had a lose tooth and a cut on my face that was also bleeding (in addition the blood in my mouth from my tooth). I had a brown knot bulging off my forehead and the scraped skin under my nose revealed the next layer that was beneath it. I was a miserable mess and to outsiders probably even an embarrassment. The cortisone shot was already helping or I was in excessive denial. I felt no pain in my knee initially but the rest of the world was spinning as I tried to process what just happened to me.

When I filed a complaint with the company, the office denied the existence of blood even though it was the assistant himself who both pointed it out to me and wiped it off my face. He reported asking me if I wanted them to call someone but seeing that I had no one to call, I don’t remember the question to begin with. I didn’t consider going to the hospital so I waited until I felt I was just about strong enough and then I drove home. Yes, I drove my toddler son and I home and even though nothing happened to us on the trip there I still breathed a huge sigh of relief when I pulled into our parking lot. We made it… safe at last, but later found out that it wasn’t a simple and shut case of fainting but neither was it a provable suit of medical neglect.

Had stopped here

A few days later I caved and found myself in the Emergency Room because I was in so much pain. It turned out that I sprained my neck and had a concussion. I couldn’t watch television because the action on it made my head and eyes spin. Noise made me want to withdrawal into my body and covering my ears wasn’t enough. It took months to fix the shoulder that was out of place because it wasn’t something the chiropractor noticed until my neck sprain was under control even though I did feel lopsided. I called the knee doctor’s office and left a message asking for medication because I was in so much pain throughout my entire body. Without a fight I was notified through text that they did send a prescription over to the pharmacy. And oh how I needed those pills to make it through the first few weeks. My skull hurt and so did the muscle going down my neck from my head (the sprain – cervical neck sprain). The CT was clear. No bleeding, all was well inside my body. It was just the outside that ached so badly I just laid on the couch every second I could.

I was in so much pain but it would take me days to realize just how severe the blows to my head were. My ear hurt, my cuts hurt, my head hurt. But then I started forgetting things. I felt stuck in time. I didn’t know where I was going when I was driving – it was amnesia times two, or maybe even ten. I was terrified I’d leave my son somewhere because I just wasn’t with it. I couldn’t concentrate or focus and multitasking made me want to cry. It was a daily battle. I never knew what day it was or what was going on. Ask me what I ate that day and I couldn’t answer; just as I always felt like there was somewhere I was supposed to be. I felt off. It was frustrating and I wanted to cry. I messed words up and switched them with words that either started with the same letter or sounded similar. I couldn’t write my book. I felt worthless and like I couldn’t function. Well technically I couldn’t, at least not nearly at the same level as before.

I saw a headache doctor because now I had migraines several times a day. I wanted help and more tests but I didn’t get the answers I wanted even though I took my mother in law with me to make sure that I remembered what was said and because she was more knowledgeable on this subject or something. Since Cleveland Clinic offered me no hope even though I begged for medication and tests, I tried University Hospital for a second opinion. I saw not just a neurologist but one that specialized in concussions, in addition to other areas of the brain.

Even though it was a drive, and not in my usual medical vicinity, to put myself out there once again as I searched desperately for answers to questions that I didn’t even know, it was worth it. What I found out was that I wasn’t entirely crazy; there was some normality to everything I was experiencing (and would experience). He was optimistic I would recover but was also wanting and willing to run a battery of tests to give us additional answers by looking inside (and outside of) my brain.

The word to best describe my persistent symptoms and therefore answer to some of my problems was called “post concussion syndrome.”

The first year of being diagnosed with post concussive syndrome was cluttered with headaches, forgetfulness, and chronic mental and physical problems. I couldn’t write, think, or feel. My psychiatrist told me there was no link to my head problem and my mediocre empty mood but I would learn on my own that she was more uneducated than she preferred to believe. I had a MRI and neuro-psych test but the rest really is history. History in my medical records that document countless visits (that I don’t remember) to the ear doctor, neurologist, chiropractor, psychiatrist, counselor, and family doctor but no one could fix me. A band-aid, a metaphorical band-aid is all they could do. The neurologist was the most helpful and he did expect me to recover but to what degree would be unknown as any progress was thwarted by severe anxiety that made me question my successes and dwell on my failures. But regardless at how I looked at hap and circumstance, my life was a blank screen.

I desperately wanted someone to remind me who I really was. I felt like I was living in shadows, but of who I didn’t quite know. I couldn’t accept who I was now because I was too busy mourning the past but I wasn’t ready to face the future either.

Something changed. Me, it was I that had changed. I looked in the mirror and wasn’t sure if I liked the person that was looking back at me. I was living in someone else’s body, forced to remember details to someone else’s life it seemed. I didn’t like my photo taken and I was more than a little confused when I looked at old photos on the wall because I no longer was that person. The photograph was of me, and yet it wasn’t. I was stuck somewhere between denial and acceptance of this second, or third, or fourth chance (who knows by this point) I was given to live life. I didn’t have the focus or attention, let alone memory to facilitate the same dreams and desires but I didn’t have new ones either –unless you count wanting my life pre-injury back. I was stuck. Lost, it felt. I was an empty shell and I didn’t know how to rebuild or create myself. I didn’t know which one I wanted let alone which was possible. Could I continue to fight to be someone I wasn’t? But even though a fresh start just might have been what I needed, I had no idea where to begin to pick up the pieces and move forward. Change is not something that has ever been easy for me and the personality changes that followed my concussion only personified that quality, exacerbating it if you will.

Where do I go from here? I was left to sort through life and its pieces to figure out what was important and what wasn’t. But since I had no idea who I was, it was like tripping over two left feet because I constantly found myself mentally flat on my face and struggling to get up without falling again. If I thought having mental illness was hard, try having a mental illness with personality, focus, and memory issues that didn’t vanish with time (as I previously expected them to). I would have to rejoice in the simple accomplishments but I had set the bar too high. Anything less than perfect was unacceptable and therefore I was once again just a giant failure, story of my life. But if I was going to continue to see myself in that light then I would never get past the hurdles that blocked my life.

Stress activates a piece of my brain that I’d rather not see and I disappear into the wood work as it works overtime to compensate. With stress comes anxiety, which triggers depression as well. Before long I am downgraded to tears, which only stream from half my face. Confusion then sets in and memory loss isn’t far behind. Realizing how damaged I am only brings on more tears; cue the stress and anxiety cycle to restart. Some days are nothing more than a battle and a fight for existence. At those times the silence of sleep is beauty hidden in all its majesty and I can only hope that when I wake my brain will be rested and refreshed, ready to battle the next challenge that comes my way. But when it’s not, dear God help me because I don’t have the strength to do it on my own.

So many times I sobbed and wanted to throw in the towel. My head hurt; no, it spun. I couldn’t focus, concentrate or remember details from even five minutes ago. The more pain I was in, the more I wanted to be alone. But when I was alone, I felt REALLY alone. The burden crushed my spirit but at least there was no one I could hurt (except myself) with my snide comments and newfound inconsiderate personality. Where was the strength inside me that had kept me alive all these years? I was dying at an alarming speed and without medication to stop me from taking my own life I was left to figure out for myself just how ‘strong’ I really could be.

But for now I stare at the photos lined on the mantle and as I wonder, I try to remember. I look at myself pre-gastric bypass and post-injury and tummy tuck and there is little evidence to support that it is the same person. It is hard enough trying to come back from a head injury for one person, let alone two that share the same body and mind. I feel trapped inside a shell that has been my solace for decades. I know those pictures are me just as I know that every thought I’ve ever had belongs to me in some fashion. But is it me? Therein lies the problem, I am completely and utterly clueless as to who the person my reflection boasts is. And it is in her mind where I sit static, waiting for answers.

One word would describe my life, “empty.” The New Year, 2016, came in quietly and with void as 2015 escaped in a wisp of cold air. I no longer knew anything. I didn’t know who I was or how I’d survive and the pleasure that life once brought me was now exchanged for tears. And after months, no a year, of not being able to cry after my concussion, I found the tears streaming down one of my cheeks as I sobbed. Yes, just one and it wasn’t because of the way I was laying but some strange response my brain now put out after having multiple blows to its repute and character. I should count my blessings that I was even alive let alone able to finally cry more than a tear or two at a time. But the only thing I was counting were those tears that steadily fell from my face onto whatever fuzzy blanket I was using at the time. Each tear robbed me of my grace and left me further dazed and confused. I had no idea who I was or what life was supposed to be about. This can’t be it; it can’t be. I just repeated the statement to myself as I found myself suicidal every several hours. The days dragged on with no propensity of happiness.

You see, off meds I was (no– am) a mess and would find myself threatening to go to bed if I was having a bad day (in my house my bedroom is like the forbidden cave of wonder and I was not to be found there unless it was nearing someone’s bedtime, a sexual rendezvous or ick-was cleaning). My three-year-old son would pull on me and say “no bed mommy.” Furthermore, his curious questioning of my tears on those days had the capacity to pull every guilt string. “Mommy, are you happy?” he’d ask me as tears steam rolled down my face. Maybe I should have lied; maybe I should have never shed a tear. But inside I showed my son my human side and wiped my tears away to try again as I replied quietly, in almost a whisper, “no, mommy isn’t happy.” But unhappy wasn’t the word for it. Time felt as if it were in a standstill. A standstill of misery and one minute was no better than the next.

Would my life always be up and down –hills, mountains, and valleys? It similarly reflected the scale that I so battled for what felt like eternity. The holidays brought with it persistent weight gain and perpetual hopelessness. I wasn’t even able to pull it together for my kids on Christmas Day. What I thought was the result of overreaching and over-researching into my mother’s death, was much more complicated. And the despair only birthed more emptiness. I looked on, at my life, at my reflection and cringed with pain as I empathized with whoever was looking back at me. I had always been afraid of my eyes; perhaps afraid isn’t the word. Eons ago I mentioned how by looking into my eyes I could see the scars, terror, and flat out pain. It made my heart heavy (dead weight even) and my burden troublesome to even acknowledge those piercing near-black eyes. But now as I age, I can see something more. I can see the demons inside me.

I had no idea of my identity or quite frankly, anything else about me and it didn’t help that I was playing pretend. Pretending to be someone I wasn’t and pretending to be capable of extraordinary changes. I was pretending to not only be Evelyn Hatfield, my pseudonym, but I was pretending to be strong. The walls of my home were plastered nearly from top to bottom with photos of my ‘adoring’ family. But not only was I a fake, so was the life I created. Between the post concussion syndrome and lies, I couldn’t even remember anymore how old my children were, or even me for that matter.

And every time I put my book on hold to try to live life I was left utterly disappointed and the little girl inside of me, my own Peter Pan, thoroughly disapproved. Confusion became second nature to me and the harder I tried to smile, the more I cried. The only thing I knew to do was put one foot in front of the other and keep fighting, and keep writing. If things would ever be different I didn’t know but I had to start somewhere and the place that I felt the most fulfilled was at my laptop with pages of text before me.

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leslie-red · 6 years

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The Damaged boy chapter 4

Two clowns and a puppet

Mona is dead...He feel so alone again..Until these strange mens come to him for something good or bad ?

He hear some steps,just across from him,He straightens up abruptly,staying near Mona's body.What he's gonna do ? Leaving her here,on this sidewalk alone,letting what it remains from her,decompose over time ? Steps get close and he hear some groans and cries.Men crying.They are two.One of them is big,thin,black hair,wearing a black jacket and brown pants.The other one is more short,a little fat,but dressing in the same way.He move back suddenly,staring them bemused.Who are they ?

" Oh lord poor her...Poooor Mona...Do you realize Al ? The other man nobbed quickly,groaning more and more.He is find them so weird "Do...You know her ? " Knew her he should said he know that.But he can't.She is still here. " Oh yes of course..Everyone knew Mona,this so sweet lady.Right Al ? " This Al doesn't say anything,he just keep to cry.Like a big baby. " She didn't say anything about you.She said she felt alone,that she was alone..Both of you should have help her. " He doesn't know these men,but he feel so much anger that he try to control. " We have just enough for ourself..But god we really wanted to help her...Right Al ? " " Oh yes ! Terribly ! we are so sorry ! " Al's face become pink from crying. He doesn't move,standing before them,watching them,confused. " Me and Al we are so glad that a boy like you,so gentle,stayed with her.You are brave...Oh my name is Clive and him.." " Al..I know thank you. " " And you my boy ? "Always the first thing human do want to know.His so called-name.Why ? Because it's polite,natural to ask ? None human can't live without a name ? The truth is,he doesn't hide it anymore.Especially to these two clowns.He is not embarrassed : " I don't have name. " Clive put his hand on his mouth,shocked : " Really ? We can give you one if ... " No,no..I don't really need to have one.Others hu..People used to call me " Boy "..." Kid "..Things like that.Obviously." Or puppet.... " This is soo sad poor boy.No name,and sorry about that also.." Clive designate his stump,while this Al look at it very discreetly like he was a guinea pig." Now i understand why you and Mona were friends..Accident ? " Why all these questions,he really expect from me to answer so easily,his eyes are so wide waiting really my answer.For none reason,i do..I answer : " Malformation " .Clive keep to be really curious : " And your eyes they...." " I am..What i am. " He try to stay now calm and patient.They are just a little stupid not necessarily mean.No like this drunk. " This is so cruel ! No left hand,no name..Almost Blind !" Yes...Really stupid.Clive take a tissue and blow his nose.In fact he wonder if he is really the most " malformed " of the three of them.This situation is more strange with Mona..Still dead with them.What is missing now is a post-mortem photo.He feel so bad now with this mordid thought. " It's soo cold here...I mean i talk about this cold night not the cold body.." He feel like pain in his fake chest : " Respect her please." Clive raise his hands alerted : " I do.I swear it brave boy.Tell me..You can't stay here in the cold alone now that..I mean don't be...Alone." That's sure,they don't know what he is really.What he's gonna to do with these mens..He was good with..Her.Mona. " We can't leave her here " She is dead,she doesn't need anything.Not anymore.But this is just disdain to leave the one who was so kind with him.Clive take a deep inspiration and exhale : " Indeed.We can't but we will,because i remember,she told to us one time " This place is her home and she wanted to die here because it's was peaceful after..Her so awful life. " He look at her,totally sad and pained.She is the first person toward he feel compassion.He learned to feel it.Clive claim in a dramatic way : " Poor boy we're gonna take care for you,you can't stay alone in the cold,go with us to our favorite coffee shop ! He can't say the fact to stay with these idiots make him really glad.But he remember , he must discover.learning. " Well..I don't drink." " You'll have hot chocolate ! Clive smile cheerfully with his big eyes. " Are you agree...Al ? " " Oh yes ! The kid stay with us and....We stay with him and....I'm hungry." " Well let's go ! " Clive salute Mona : " Rest in peace dear Mona. " Al do the same thing,without any word,fastly and go join Clive.Him...He stay with her..Just for some few seconds.He won't ever see her again.Ever...Ever.Ever is a horrible word. He raise his head and look at the moon.He don't know why he say that.But he does : " I hope she is with you.Take care for her.And listen to her "

Clive and Al take him to " The black Aquarium " where the decoration is amazing.So much light on the walls like dark blue,purple,even some pink.People seems also really nice when he see their smile and hear their laugh.Now he wish stay here.Also some jazz music are played.This is the first time he hear this sound.This is particular.A sound expressing emotions,like it's alive.Cocking his head,he watch his hot chocolate's mug,Clive drink his coffe,while Al eat a really big ice cream.He heard a lighter noise and see Clive smoking : " I have two reasons why i love this place,we can smoke and..There is so beautiful women." " This is not good for you...The smoke.." " When i'll die my boy,i'll still have a cigarette in my mouth..Here ! Look at this pig and his sweets ! He put his life in danger,he will surely die from obesity but still..He loves eating.This life is the only one we have.Enjoy it.C'mon drink your hot chocolate.Savor." Savor...How can i...I can't drink..And yet,this man still wait i do drink it.Something can happen to me if i drink this thing.But it's smell so good. He take then the risk,touching the mug with his only hand,very slowly.It's very hot but he staring at this beverage like hypnotized.He close his eyes,pouring the liquid in his mouth.This is so soft,hot,so delicious,he feel like floating on clouds.He can drink.He doesn't need it but he can.He drink then really fastly. " Easy boy,don't burn your tong.Enjoy it,don't do the same thing like this idiot next to me..Because you are a idiot..Right Al ? " Al answear,full mouth : " Oh yes ! I'm a idiot but i'm so happy right now ! " He put his mug in the table,with some milk in the corner of his mouth,and wipe his face.Delicately.Like a wise boy. " It's was so good..Food and hot chocolate are good things right ? in this world." " Of course ! And not only that ! And c'mon...Are you happy with us ? " He nod slowly.In fact he is not completly happy to be with them.Clive can be very strange,and Al...Is a idiot.None conversation with him is possible.But he doesn't want to be alone..Not after Mona.Beside this place is so comforting. " I have a idea ! we could go visit...." Clive look at Al with a little smile " Adelma ! " Al stop to eat ,expressing his joy : " Adelma !! Really ?? " Clive reply,clenched teeths : " Yes it was planned don't you remember ? But we have a little surprise for her now. She will be so pleased. What do you think ? " " I think..She will ! " He didn't say anything . He doesn't know what to thinking clearly.He is invited at unknow woman's place..By them.Should he accept it ? " Who is Adelma ? Is she nice like Mona ? " Mona.....Mona...Just Mona in his mind." " Adelma is like a mother to me and Al.She is really devoted my boy.And you need a mother." " A mother ?...I don't know how it feel to have one.." He whisper these words looking lost. " Such sad life..But it will change now.No street anymore,no cold and dark night anymore.You'll see,Adelma will take care of you,like she did for us.And you wouldn't think we'll leave you alone.Are you ready ? " He doesn't have choice anymore.He feel like disiorented,he is new in this world and everything change so fastly.He's gonna to see a mother.He did not think spend his first night like that.Meet already so many people.So he can be more confident with himself.Life is full of surprise..Right ?

Ao3link

#The damaged boy #chapter 4 #dark disney #pinocchio #story #dark story #fiction #ao3 #ao3 update #read it #my story #my writing

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jewelrymkr · 7 years

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Hello Luvs,

Back in 1999, I left my career as an Interpreter for the Deaf and had to go on disability. I was approved first attempt and that doesn’t happen often. When I was set to go to the appointment with the physicians from the SSDI, they called the day prior to my appointment and spoke to my husband. They told him that they received my team of physician’s reports. They let him know that I did not have to attend that appointment because they said “Suzanne is the worst case of childhood trauma/abuse that we’ve seen in the past 36 years. We don’t want her to have to tell her story to even one more person.” I was approved and then things got medically worse from there. In 2002, I was in the car with my husband, on our way to have a little dinner out alone together & a man ran through a red light. Within seconds, our lives changed forever!

I was unconscious for about 20 – 30 minutes, I am told. I awakened a couple of times in the ambulance and again at the hospital. But I have no other memories of that day except for extreme pain and hearing my own screams during the X-ray exams. I was really lucky that my husband was unhurt and that the kids were not in the car. I spent the next 3 years in daily brain injury rehabilitation. Also, I spent the following 8 1/2 years in Physical and Occupational Therapy along with going through approximately 8 or 9 surgeries. I had knee surgeries, open shoulder surgery including 2 screws in my left shoulder, 2 torn rotator cuffs and then Adhesive Capsulitis. There were mouth, jaw and left facial surgeries, along with 2 pacemakers and total pectoral reconstruction. I endured many hours of MRI’s and other more invasive tests. After the pacemaker, I had to undergo the painful, barbaric and old CT Arthrograms in both shoulders and both of my knees. I can no longer have an MRI due to the pacemaker. As far as aids for daily living, I ended up with 2 AFO’s (ankle foot orthotic braces for foot drop), a shoulder brace (for nerve damage, pain & winged scapula) for very painful Long Thoracic Nerve Neuropathy, wrist brace (R), 2 forearm/hand/wrist braces for night time, a wheelchair, seated walker, motorized scooter, forearm crutches and a cane. All of which are still used today intermittently, depending on the activity.

In 2003, I got a pacemaker because I’d been fainting constantly. I was found to have a heart issue called “Sick Sinus Node Syndrome”, along with Dysautonomia, POTS (Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome) and Prinzmetal Angina. Later in 2005, I had a heart attack. They found it to be a very real heart attack, but it was caused from something called “Broken heart Syndrome”. For this I won’t go into details, but I was also diagnosed with Atrial Fibrillation and was put on blood thinners. Then in 2006, I suffered a CVA or a stroke due to the A-fib. I was put on a higher dosage of the blood thinners. Then in 2007, I had right foot surgery and came out with worse pain than before I went in. I was told that I had RSD/CRPS or “Complex Regional Pain Syndrome” in my right foot at my 6 week, post-op check up. I couldn’t believe it! After I read up on the disease, I decided to get a second opinion. The foot/ankle Orthopedic Dr. agreed with that diagnosis and he sent me directly back to the pain clinic. I had first gone to the pain clinic for: cervical and lumbar herniated/bulging discs, Degenerative Disc disease, Scoliosis, Long Thoracic Nerve Neuropathy, PolyNeuropathy In Collagen Vascular disease (*which is really the same as EDS type IV-Vascular) & Chiari I etc.,right after that car accident. I went through epidural nerve blocks, trigger point injections and much more. The pain clinic saw me for those first several years but later turned me over to my G.P., because I was a patient with true high pain issues but not a candidate for an SCS (spinal cord stimulator) or an intrathecal pain pump because it was determined that I have C.I.D. or “Combined Immune Deficiency Disease”. I can contract an infection in my spine more easily than the average person and/or become paralyzed. I was put on pain medication that I had tried to refuse several times; because I was afraid of it at first. Sometimes we are afraid of the unknown and I’d never had pain medication prior to that time except for during my C-Sections. I received a letter from the pain clinic’s, Pain Psychologist, stating that “I do not have an addictive personality”. I took the pain medications and after many many attempts with bad side effects, swelling, vomiting, fainting etc.; we finally found some pain medication that helps me and it lowers my chronic & CRPS pain.

Luckily, the auto insurance paid for drivers to take me to and from the TBI rehab and all of my numerous medical appointments. I suffered a Traumatic Brain Injury and had to endure several of those long Neuro-Psych testing sessions for years. They always ended with the same comments, which were: “short term memory is in the toilet, problem solving difficulties, emotional difficulties (because I cry more easily), concentration is very low “, and more. Nothing has improved very much, in those areas since that time. As far as the TBI goes; I’ve just learned to live with it and adapt. At the time of the car accident, I was in the middle of reading the 5th “Harry Potter” book. I could not & cannot read those books any longer. When I put down a book and go back to start reading it again; I find that I’ve forgotten everything I had already read. I do best with articles and short stories now and that’s just how it is and how I’ve had to adapt. The TBI or Brain Injury Rehabilitation center did not cure me, but did teach me how to adapt and live with my brain injury. Nobody who meets me can tell that anything like that is wrong with me. But the persons around me often or those who live with me can clearly see the differences from before the MVA and now. I cannot remember movies and can see the same movie several times. If you tell me something today, I won’t remember it next week and probably not tomorrow. I cannot remember anything short term, unless I write it down. I don’t remember appointments or some other information that I’m told. I feel very bad when I meet new friends, especially online “friends”. When people have similar names, I get confused and feel embarrassed. They’ll say “remember me, from —?” But I truly don’t and I feel so bad. But if I feel comfortable, I just tell them about my TBI and ask for clarification. It’s sad because even new physicians will say “Well, at least you look good”! Or they’ll put on their report that “patient doesn’t look sickly”. What a stupid thing to put on a Dr.’s report! I have recently been diagnosed with Gastroparesis and you can’t see it! Suppose a person has a heart &/or lung condition, you would not “SEE” that and they might appear to be “not sickly”. It is what’s happening on the inside, that is important.

The brain injury has caused several of my medical problems/issues as well. I was evidently born with “Arnold Chiari Malformation I” because they found it on the MRI’s s/p the MVA. But it was “sleeping”, they told me; and after the accident, it was “awakened”. Since then, it’s been difficult to hold my head up for long periods of time without pain and weakness. I get something called “Chiari Migraines” in back of my head and neck; which are very painful and cause nausea and at times vomiting. I also have eye/vision problems due to the TBI, including: a Convergence Insufficiency, lowered vision, extreme dry eyes and Nystagmus. The Convergence Insufficiency means that my eyes won’t work together as a team and get fatigued easily. The other issues are self explanatory, except the Nystagmus. It means that my eyes sometimes shake a bit, when looking to the right, left, upwards and downwards without moving my head. I’ve had punctal plugs put in my eyes several times and had prisms in my glasses s/p the MVA for a couple of years.

I went to University and graduated with honors in Sign Language Studies/Interpreting. I worked for a local school district’s Hearing impaired program and at a Major University hospital as an Interpreter for the Deaf; prior to my TBI & other injuiries. I went from being an Interpreter for the Deaf, to a Hearing Impaired person with 2 hearing aids. Prior to the TBI, I remembered phone numbers and other data. Now I depend on my smart phone, using: Google, reminders, Notepad and “Siri” on a daily basis, along with the Calendar features.

I try to be a person who uses “Hope” as a verb. That is my slogan, as I’d said in one of my other articles. You must “do” something in order to help yourself “Keep Hope Alive”. This is a venue for me to hopefully help as many other chronic pain patients as possible. I try to be as positive as I’m able to be. But on any given day, I can feel negativity creep in as some of you do. I know we can all have that happen. It’s what we do with that negativity that matters. We can lash out at others like my ill mother did. Or we can take the negative thoughts and throw them out the window as far away from us as possible!! Sure, there are those darker days, but like a Phoenix, we must rise up against this monster called “Chronic Pain”.

From Interpreter for The Deaf To Hearing Impaired, in 10 Seconds! Hello Luvs, Back in 1999, I left my career as an Interpreter for the Deaf and had to go on disability.

#auto accident #brain injury #Car Accident #disability #Health #hearing aids #HEARING IMPAIRED #information #inspiration #Interpreter for Deaf #Life #medical #MVA #Phoenix bird #support groups #TBI #traumatic brain injury #truth

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