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twdmusicboxmystery · 4 years

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Water Symbols and Ties Between Grady and Terminus: “A” Rewatch by @wdway

This is another re-watch from @wdway. She totally saves my butt on busy weeks when I don’t have time to write new theories, lol.

Here are her observations:

Hi ladies! I hope you're both doing well. I did a rewatch of s4e16 A, series number 51. I think it's important to mention that this episode was co-written by Scott Gimple and Angela Kang.

It starts out with a flashback of the prison and then we have Rick, Carl's and Michonne talking about how hungry they are. Later, they catch a rabbit in a snare. I thought about how much rabbits were featured in this back half of s4. It emphasized the size when Rick says, "A small one." Later, Michonne mentions again it was a small rabbit. This made me think of Lennie talking about the little ones.

I'll skip over the Claimers, other than the car scene where Daryl and Rick were talking. Daryl brings Rick a bottle of water. There's no label. It's just clear. It's actually a good size bottle and he sets it down in front of them. He brought water = Beth into that scene. They brought Beth into the Terminus part of the episode with the use of symbols that we were totally unaware of at the time. We gradually realized them as the seasons went on, the water being a huge symbol.

This is right after they jumped the Terminus fence and found this door propped open. Notice it says that it's a fire door, a way to escape. I think this can be considered a water symbol, just as a fire pull or ceiling sprinkler would be. I cropped this shot so that you could read the sign on the door a little easier. I do want to mention that Daryl is next to Rick and they are the only two in the shot.

Rick and co come out into a common area or plaza and are about to get a plate full of meat when Rick notices objects from people from the prison. He takes a guy to use as a shield against the sharpshooters.

I just mentioned how the door was the symbol of water, even though it was a door. Well, this is similar. That red object against the wall is a fire hose holder. I know this because I noticed it at the end of Us when Maggie and her group first came into Terminus. I noticed how it said fire hose. You can also see the fire hydrant next to it and if you look closely at the base, it's just a prop. There's a bottom section that should be buried or would be connected to some type of piping if it was real, so these are not objects that were already at this location. That means they're symbols.

Notice how this little corner is visible during the majority of this scene. We see it to the side or behind Rick almost the entire time. So, we have a fire hose and a fire hydrant. Both Beth symbols because they = water.

Look straight above the fire hose stand. There are 2 diamonds at the top of the building. I don't think they’re original to the building because of the shadowing around them. They appear to simply be tacked up, serving no particular purpose other than being diamond shaped, which = Beth.

Now look at the corner next to the hose and hydrant. There is a sign on the brick wall that I believe refers to the hose or hydron. It reads, “emergency water key, replace when used.” Just in case we didn't know this was a water reference, they wanted to make sure that they let us know, but I really like the fact that it's a water key.

I just needed to point out Daryl's Poncho which, ironically, he didn't notice, but Rick did.

The three small pictures underneath it are original sketches of the Native Americans’ Thunderbird.

Our little group starts to run for their lives. We follow them as they run past a boneyard, turn different corners, and then all of a sudden we see this shot.

Notice the fire hose stand, a tire, the yellow objects, the abandoned car with a shattered windshield and these stacked train cars. During this shot, we hear a female voice calling for help. Here's the funny thing: we never see our group running through or past this, so this is staged simply to show us symbols. In one of the five flashbacks was of Rick coming into the prison with Beth/Judith sitting on the steps, Patrick was sitting on the floor in front of Beth's cell, making something out of Legos. Carl is cleaning his gun. Rick stops to talk to Patrick and Patrick thanks Rick for picking up the Legos and he makes a comment about that they are for ages 4 through 12. I've always thought that was somewhat odd.

I just want to throw out an idea to you. This might actually be a comment about the story arc lasting from season 4 through season 12. I'm not talking about the series ending at 12, I'm simply thinking that this storyline, Rick, Beth, Daryl and Carol will continue through season 12.

@twdmusicboxmystery:

Love it all! I especially liked the fire and water stuff you pointed out at Terminus and how they brought Beth into it. The combination of water and key is especially interesting. You did spark one idea from me.

And I know I sound like a broken record on this point, but could Terminus have foreshadowed the helicopter group? (Yes, I know I’m saying this WAY too often, and all the things I point to and consider probably do NOT directly equate to the helicopter group, but think of it as a mindset shift on my part. I’m kind of considering all things in light of the helicopter group.)

I was thinking that Terminus was where all the train tracks met, right? And we’ve seen more than one representation of the train tracks representing character paths. So, it would have made more sense if all the characters had met up at Terminus. And most of them did. Beth was the exception. But if this was a foreshadow of all character paths converging at some future point, then that would make sense. Because Beth is the one that’s been gone for a long time, but since then, others, such as Heath and Rick, have also disappeared.

So, all paths need to converge at some point, and we believe that will happen in some way via the helicopter group. See why I’m thinking this? I think what you’ve found here backs this up.

Another insight? Remember in 5x09, we see some train tracks with the camera moving forward along them, and the tracks disappear into the woods up ahead. Maybe those tracks represent Beth’s path, and the fact that it’s going to disappear for a while. But it will reappear and meet up with other character paths at some future point.

Which also reminds me of a kind of famous passage in the book of Revelation about a woman who gives birth to a child but then goes into hiding in the woods. Most scholars interpret it (a total analogy) as that the true gospel Christ taught would go into hiding for a while (Dark Ages) but re-emerge later. I don’t know if this is what they were going for or even considering, but it’s what I thought of. Might be a similar template. Anyway, great rewatch. You always have eagle eyes.

@wdway:

I cannot tell you how much I agree with you. I definitely think Terminus was tied to the helicopter people or, more precisely, that Terminus is connected to Grady and it is Grady who had a connection with the helicopter or what the helicopter group was at the beginning of the turn. I believe it's around a year-and-a-half into the turn when Beth was brought there, and I believe they have evolved over the 10 years.

Dawn pretty well confirmed that there was a group coming soon, so it makes total sense that it could be a military-type organization. I'm going to show you some shots that will totally bring back what I've been obsessing about all the seasons.

Top one is Hansen, Dawn's Superior until he went crazy. I know the second shot is really dark. This is the best I can do with trying to lighten it. Do you remember this at the end of No Sanctuary, where they give a bit of a backstory of Terminus being taken over by this big guy who terrorized them? I believe this guy is Hanson.

Isn't it strange that they tell a backstory about a group that TF has taken down and that they go to a lot of effort to make this person hard to see?

That's right. I think the crazy guy from the train box car is none other than Hanson. If you look at Slabtown and Coda, this person is discussed several times. An awful lot of screen time is taken up with a story of how Hanson went rogue. What's the need of that when Grady is about to be left behind and, more importantly, why do we repeatedly see a picture of him?

The first picture I showed above has his badge next to it. Another question of why do we need to see that? I'm going to throw out a crazy idea. Why not, haha. In the very dark picture below, the guy seems to be wearing some kind of large belt buckle. I think it might be a gun or something stuck in the front of his pants, but I think there's a badge there.

I guess there's a definite yes to me, believing that all of this relates to the helicopter people. More importantly, the new series The World Beyond apparently did not want to start until after we see episode 16. I've said this before. I think at some point, not necessarily the first episode, but I think somewhere within it we will see Grady, pre-Beth.

@frangipanilove

I love you take on Hanson. I totally agree that they alluded to something that we haven’t quite seen yet, and I would love to see Grady tied to the helicopter ppl somehow. I have wondered a lot about the tattoo guy from Terminus and what the deal was with him, and your pics show a remarkable resemblance between Hanson and the crazy terminus dude.

@twdmusicboxmystery:

It would explain the defunct cop cars at Terminus, if Hansen left Grady and arrived in them. And as you’ve said, the weirdness of some of this that hasn’t yet been explained.

That’s it for today. Anybody have any thoughts on these insights?

#beth greene #beth greene lives #beth is alive #beth is coming #td theory #td theories #team delusional #team defiance #beth is almost here #bethyl

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storytime-hoe · 5 years

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Tough Love Ch.14

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x O/C

Summary: Story picks up during season three as the group goes into Woodbury to rescue Glenn and Maggie from the Governor. However, they pick up another prisoner of Woodbury, Emma (O/C). She is a thief who fears friendships after her hard losses. She stays on the move, studying communities from afar and then robbing them blind. She has stayed alive this way for a while until the Governor catches her in the act. Now she finds herself with the group from the prison in a mission to kill the Governor for what he has done to her. She plans on stealing supplies from the prison group after the Governor is killed, but she might be growing a little too close to the groups members, especially one man in particular: Daryl Dixon.

Warnings: Slow burn, language, usual twd violence, mentions of abuse/rape

Authors Note: So I just decided to add that first part last minute and this is super long now but oh well at least it’s something. I also did not even spell check the first part so sorry but I don’t have time and I do not want to keep people waiting since I promised I would be on track from now on.

Previously: Ch.1 Ch.2 Ch.3 Ch.4 Ch.5 Ch.6 Ch.7 Ch.8 Ch.9 Ch.10 Ch.11 Ch.12 Ch.13

Returning from the run in a car with Sasha and Glenn made me anxious. I looked ahead for Daryl’s motorcycle every ten seconds, just to make sure that he was still with us.

I was shaken to the core after the scare he had given me. I knew he could tell something was off with me the entire time he was struggling to save me. Thankfully, however, after I got off of his damn bike, he was much more gentler with me. There was no more giving me shit about how I did things like he had done the rest of the trip. I think maybe his anger about me running off on my own the day before had finally worn away. Or for the most part at least.

He didn’t say much else to me as we jumped back on our vehicles and made way fro the prison before it got dark. We had planned on bringing home much more than we had, but we still all had our backpacks stuffed with food items and supplies. And we were all alive still, so that was a plus.

As I stumbled into my cell room, pulling the thin drape that was the door closed behind me, I couldn’t help the shaking in my hands which was growing worse with every breath I took.

Daryl was all I could think of. He filled every inch of my mind. It was like I needed to make sure he was okay all the fucking time now. Like when I did try to lay down and get some sleep, I stirred with images of him being ripped apart by the dead the same way that my little brother had been. It was haunting me.

I had just about had enough as I jumped from my bed in a fury, the sweat that coated me made my clothes stick to my skin. I had to do something or else I was going to drive my head into a fucking wall.

I needed to see him.

I needed to make sure he was still breathing just one more time tonight, then I could go to sleep. Yeah, that was it. If I could stroll by his cell and peer in and see him all fine in his bed, then everything would be good. I would rest well knowing he was safe. Right?

I calmed my racing heart slightly and threw open the drape in the doorway with a violent swish. But I froze in place at who faced me.

Daryl was staring at me wide-eyed with a shocked look on his face. What the hell was he doing here? I was supposed to be the one coming after him. Actually, I liked this much better.

Daryl regained composure before I did, rubbing a hand down his face and preparing himself to explain why he was lurking in front of my room.

“Sorry,” he grumbled, not meeting my eyes. “I- I was just checking on ya. Ya seemed pretty out of it after- ya know...”

He trailed off, the tips of his ears turning an adorable shade of pink.

I blinked a few times, struggling to find my voice at first. My mind was still trying to comprehend that he was checking up on me. Me, the girl who he talks shit about all the fucking time.

“I- yeah- I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be fine? Done this shit a million times.”

And it was all true. I had run into herds and had more close calls and run ins with death than I could count. But then again, I didn’t almost lose someone I though so strongly about back then. This was different than anything I’d ever gone through. And of course Daryl knew that. He seemed to always know fucking everything about me. What a prick.

He chewed on the skin by his thumb at my response. “Sorry ta bother ya then.” He started to take hesitant steps away from my door and back towards his own room. “Jus worried ‘bout ya I guess.”

I swallowed thickly and eyed him. He looked so fucking cute standing there all bashful. He was trying to show a nice gesture, something I could have been jumping at after the way he had been treating me, but I couldn’t get my big fat fucking ego to calm the fuck down.

“Well,” I said, hating the dullness in my voice. “Don’t.”

Usually, Daryl keeps a neutral look on his face, so I can never read what the fuck he is thinking, but this time I saw a flicker of something. A flicker of hurt. Hurt that I was causing again.

He nodded once and went away, leaving me standing in my room alone. Alone was never a good thing for me at a time like this.

What the actual fuck was wrong with me? I had just admitted to myself that I had feelings for the son of a bitch and here I was pushing him as far away from me as possible, and when he was trying to be there for me too. I was shutting down. I almost lost him and the fear of being hurt at losing someone like him was making me do things I would regret. I wish to God I could just drop the tough guy act and fucking behave like a normal human being in these types of situations. No, normal wasn’t a thing anymore.

The tremor in my hands was back as I closed the drape once more. I couldn’t do this. I had to fucking stop acting like I was strong enough to take on the world. Because I sure as hell am not. I am not and never will be. So what was I supposed to do if I couldn’t be strong for myself?

I’ll tell you what, right all I fucking needed was Daryl God damn Dixon.

I ran out of my room again down a few rooms until I was staring at the closed duration of Daryl’s room. I knew he was in there; Rick wouldn’t let him keep watch after coming back from a run like that, even if he wasn’t happy about being forced to sleep, he would obey Rick.

My heart was in my throat as I looked straight ahead to the curtain. Just do it. Open the door and talk to him. Talk about what? What was I supposed to say to him? I would probably start crying when I saw his face, especially if it had that hurt look on it still. Oh fuck, this was a bad idea. But all my ideas are bad ideas.

I held my breath as I yanked back the curtain and stumbled into his room.

He was already laying down on the bunk, staring blankly into the air above him with his hands under his head.

When I barged in he sat up not an elbow, scanning me up and down with wild eyes. He probably thought there was an emergency, that someone was hurt and that Rick and the others needed him. But when his eyes finally fucking rested on mine, his expression softness and it made me melt. He understood. I didn’t have to fucking say anything for him to see that i was crumbling to pieces after that run. But Daryl would never judge me for that, I don’t know how I could have though he would before. He was someone I could let my walls down with and vice versa. He was always fucking there for me, no matter how I treated him or how we fought. We would come back to each other in the end. Always.

We just stared for a minute, my chest tight and heaving with the pressure of emotion weighing me down.

“C’mere,” was all he said with a small nod of his head. He knew I couldn’t be alone tonight. I needed to be right next to him to make sure he was real and alive and that nothing would happen to him.

His simple mumble was all it fucking took for me to unglue myself from the floor and crawl up next to him in the bed. I laid down on the very fucking edge of the bed, not letting myself touch him. We were both tense beyond belief for a solid minute or two, but when he let his arm fall over my stomach, I felt us both relax more with each breath, and I eventually pressed up against his chest, my hand over his beating heart.

I wanted to say something to him, to tell him how it made me shit myself to think about him being out of my life forever, and that if he did die on that run that I would’ve lost my fucking mind. I opened my mouth to speak a few times, but I always chickened out. I didn’t know how to tell him how much he actually meant to me, and of course there was that fear that he would take it wrong and reject me.

So, I kept my mouth fucking closed for once in my life and let him hold me that night. I let myself feel peaceful in his arms. But that was not exactly where I woke up.

When I did open my eyes again I had forgotten that I was sharing a bed with Daryl. That was until I became aware of the added weight on top of me. Daryl’s head was on my chest and shoulder, his face turned away from me into my hair. His arm was strewn across my body with his leg tangle around mine.

I smiled to myself, thinking back to the night we had stayed outside together after my panic attack. I had woken up all onto of him, but now our positions were switched. I decided to tangle my hand in his hair, enjoying how it felt woven around my fingers. Hey, if he was allowed to lay on me like this, then he couldn’t give me shit for wanting to feel his hair.

After a few more quiet snores from Daryl I pushed myself out from under him. He stirred and woke up, but I was out of his room before he could say anything to me.

I got dressed in a hurry and went out of the gate to start my morning search. Yes, alone. Rick had said I could do whatever the fuck I wanted, and even if I was starting out the journey by myself, I had a strong feeling that someone would be following me out. And another strong feeling that that someone would be Daryl. Because everyone knew we couldn't leave each other alone anymore.

But, I started the day not thinking about anything but the Governor. I needed to find him and make sure he was dead. He ruined me, made me feel things I could ever recover from. I wasn't about to let him do that to anyone else.

Even if a trip like this in the early mornings was useless, it made me feel better. It was a chance to get back out in the world. It was a chance for me to kill as many Walkers as I wanted and be as dirty and careless and wild as I pleased with no judgment.

It wasn't until I was about an hour out that I got the feeling that I wasn't alone; Daryl sure took his time following me out. I didn't have time to act on that hunch, however, before I was grabbed from behind. A Walker had ahold of my hair, trying his best to sink his teeth into me. I sliced through him with a machete just before turning to cut down his friend.

Before I knew it, there were dozens of them coming at me from all directions. I really thought that if it was Daryl that was following me, that he would have come to my aid by now. I never thought he would let me get so close to danger with all the Walkers swarming me. Then again, we hadn't really talked about the last argument we had had. He said he was worried about me last night, but maybe he was giving me space and letting me handle myself. He would step in if I really needed him. Right?

I cut down the last of the group of Walkers with much effort and an exhausted grunt. I felt the Walker blood dripping down my neck and soaking into my clothes. I turned to look into the trees behind me in the direction that I knew Daryl was hidden, watching me.

Knowing he was found out, Daryl stepped towards me out from behind his place in a shrub.

"Enjoying the show," I breathed out with the pile of bodies laying lifeless around me. He took a few more steps towards me before stopping to look a the Walkers with his crossbow in hand. "What are you doing here?" I asked him at his silence, trying to keep my voice light and welcoming, not wanting to sound like I was complaining about the company.

He finally met my eyes and the answer that I wanted to here was silently confirmed. He was watching over me. Despite everything, we were back to our old ways of being friends. My heart skipped a beat at the thought that I hadn’t pushed him too far away. I was like a nervous teenager on the inside, but being the stubborn ass that I am I scowled down at him slightly, not letting him see how excited I was that he was here.

"I can take care of myself," I let him know for the hundredth time.

He shrugged, a hint of a smile playing at his lips. "I know."

Pleased with his answer I had to surprise my own lips from turning up at the corners. I faced away from him to hide my failed attempts and walked deeper out into the woods.

"So why ya out 'ere?" He questioned as I started back on my path, this time he followed close behind me, not bothering to stay out of my sight anymore.

"You know why," I said darkly, only for him to nod.

He knew I couldn't rest with the Governor still out there. A part of me knew that he couldn't either.

"Michonne's out ‘ere too," he grumbled to me, letting me know that I wasn't alone in wanting the Governor gone for good.

"Why don't you go bother her then?"

He never answered. I had a feeling that he enjoyed my company better than he did Michonne's. We needed this time too. Not to talk anything out or get into another fight, but we needed that silence with each other. Where we could walk around for hours and just soak in the company of the other without a word. The silence mending what I thought I had broken. The silence also helped us forget how awkward we might have felt after having shared a bed. But that was besides the point.

Getting up with the sun to look for the Governor everyday became routine for me, as did making my way to his bed every night. I sort of just followed him in when it was time, and he was always expecting me to also. And it wasn’t awkward or uncomfortable after that first night, we got used to needing to hold onto someone and to helping each other through the restless nights.

I never asked Daryl to come with me when I got up to look for the Governor every morning, and I never told him when I was going out after I had disappeared into my room to get ready, but he was always there waiting for me.

Every day I woke up, not getting the amount of sleep I should've been getting, and got dressed and usually grabbed some sort of breakfast bar, if anything at all, before I bounced outside to see him already leaning against the fence with his crossbow propped on the ground next to him.

I do have to say, turning the corner every morning to see him leaned against a wall with a lit smoke between his lips, and the sun rising behind him giving off a magical gold color to the air, was what fucking kept me going. He took my breath away sometimes and the saddest part was that he didn't even fucking realize he was doing it.

Days and weeks went by like this. We would follow the Governor's trail right where we had left off the previous day, coming back in the evenings only to go up and keep watch together then retiring to bed in his room.

We spent every second together almost, and sometimes it got to us. We snapped at each other a lot for pointless shit. We both possessed strong personalities and they clashed more often than not. Pushing the others buttons was something we had become masters at. It was a fun little game to piss Daryl off. He would shit talk back at me and we would go on and on. It usually either ended with him screaming at me before storming off, or with him giving me the silent treatment.

But just like always, the silence fixed everything. It let us cool down and forgive without having to say anything. Before we knew it we were back to chatting like friendly people again as if nothing had ever happened. When we weren't fighting we could find peace in the silence of each others company. I reveled in simply him being around with me. Neither of us needed to talk and that was another thing that made him close to perfect, he didn’t expect anything from me.

***

Taglist:

@daryldixonandfrogs @jodiereedus22 @xchrisxevansx @bvbwestfall

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twdeadlysins · 6 years

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Tell It To The Frogs

Season one, episode three (1/1)

Pairing: Eventual Daryl Dixon x Reader

Word Count: 3,092

Warnings: slow burn, the usual walking dead violence, language, blood, and such. possible typos.

Author’s Note: I don’t own anything from The Walking Dead, so all credit goes to their respective owners. This is a twd series rewrite with the reader inserted into the mix. I did and will continue to use some dialogue from the actual show because I want it to be similar to what you’ve already watched, but obviously have the reader in it.

If you want to be tagged in this series rewrite, don’t hesitate to send me an ask or message me and I’ll add you. The same goes for any other fics! I’m in no way, shape, or form a writer. Any feedback is appreciated, but hate is a different story. Thank you and enjoy!

Catch up!

TWD Series Rewrite

After cruising down the highway for a while, the van finally came into view and you accelerated even more, going about seventy miles per hour. When you passed by, you yelled out of excitement and Glenn shook his head, but smiled, watching you fly down the road. The alarm was still blaring and you about had enough, so you frustratedly pulled at some wires and it finally stopped leaving you to enjoy the music.

It didn’t take long to arrive at their camp that was located at a quarry. You trailed far behind to enjoy the last minutes you’d have of the car before you had to meet the rest of group. Once you reached the destination, you parked the car behind the truck and sat there lost in thought. What were you and Rick going to do now? Stay with this group or leave to find his family?

Before you could stress yourself out even more, there was a knock on the hood causing you to look up at the source of the sound. Glenn stood there looking at you worriedly, but then smiled when you made eye contact, you could see his orbs still flooded with concern.

“You okay, Y/N?”

“Uh … yeah,” you clear your throat, “I’m fine.”

“Okay, well come meet the rest of the group … Rick is waiting, so we can introduce you guys together.” Glenn lended his hand after opening the door and you gave him a tight smile, accepting his offer. After you closed the door, Glenn squeezed your hand before heading in the direction of their camp, leaving you alone again.

Rick came over after he hopped out of the truck and engulfed you into an embrace.

“Y/N, you about scared me to death,” he whispered. His chin settled on the top of your head while one arm was around your waist and the other at the base of your neck.

“I scared myself,” you half chuckled and snaked your arms around his waist glad to still have your best friend with you. He was your best friend and one of the only people who befriended you, the new kid in school. If you lost Rick, you wouldn’t know what to do. The moment was cut short when Morales shouted for you two, helicopter boy and lunatic girl as he put it.

Rick kept his arm around your waist and you did the same as you two walked to join the group to meet the rest of their people, but paused when you noticed a woman kneeling in front of a child. You heard Rick’s breath hitch, it was Lori and Carl. He slowly dropped his arm from your waist and stared at the boy who then made eye contact with him.

“Dad!” Carl screamed, sprinting towards his dad while Lori was frozen like she had seen ghost, but joined her two boys in complete and utter shock. They had thought he was dead this entire time, but in reality he was actually with you. You started crying happy tears while Rick reunited with his family, your family. Lori’s eyes landed on you and she immediately left Rick and rushed over to you almost making you fall over.

“Hey, to you too,” you joked, which made Lori tighten her grip around you even more. She slowly pushed herself away to get a look at your face and she smiled through her tears.

“I … I thought you were dead too,” she sobbed. She rubbed the sides of your face making you close your eyes at the touch. Lori hugged you again making you open your lids to see Shane standing a couple feet away, holding a gun against his shoulder. He shyly grinned when his eyes met yours and your smile widened, happy to know he was alive too. You almost dismissed where his eyes were before he caught yours, he was looking at Lori. What was that all about?

***

The group settled around the campfire listening to Rick explain how he felt waking up in the hospital and you finding him. Your chin rested on top of your knees as you were hugging them against your chest while zoning out every so often from the story to your dark thoughts. You were beyond grateful that you and Rick found Lori and Carl, but you couldn’t prevent yourself from thinking abou Jolene and Chris. Being around the campfire sent shivers down your spine even with the warmth radiating from it. The last happy memory you had with them was around flames and then it turned into a bad memory in a blink of an eye.

Before you could let the tears fall, Shane had gotten up and strided over to the other campfire and warned a guy named Ed to rethink the log he just put in. Ed gave you bad vibes and he was completely rude especially to his wife, ordering her to pull the wood out. You frowned and turned your attention back to your own fire before you overheard Shane refer to the woman and her daughter as Carol and Sophia. When Shane rejoined the group, Dale brought up the question about how Daryl Dixon would feel about his brother being left behind.

“I’ll tell him. I dropped the key, so it’s on me.” T-Dog glanced at the ground before wandering his eyes at everyone. It wasn’t his fault … it was an accident and you didn’t want him to take the blame for it.

“I cuffed him, that makes it mine.”

“Guys, just stop,” you sternly said while resting your elbows on top of your knees. “Merle was out of control and would’ve gotten us all killed if we didn’t do anything about it. You two aren’t the only ones who contributed to him being left behind … I did too, so just stop.”

“I stopped long enough to chain that door.” Your eyes landed back on T-Dog with surprise, Merle is still alive? “He’s still alive and handcuffed on that rooftop, that’s on us.” T-Dog got up with guilt and left without another word leaving you there thinking about how his brother is going to handle the news when he gets back from his hunt.

Glenn informed you that you could sleep in the tent near his, but mentioned it was Daryl’s, great you sarcastically thought. After you said your goodnights, you entered the tent and settled your bag near the opening to retrieve your pair of black shorts and a t-shirt to change into. You folded your dirty worn clothes and placed them in front of your bag with a sigh, you were exhausted and just wanted to get sleep. You wiggled underneath the covers and rested your head on the pillow looking above at the tent trying to meet sleep, but it never came no matter how tired you were. Every time you shut your eyes you saw the same images you always saw, the night you first experienced the wrath of the undead and lost two of the most important people in your life.

***

The sun woke you from your slumber making you rub your eyes, you didn’t remember how you fell asleep, but glad you did. You noticed a neat pile of clothes you’ve never seen before replace your dirty ones, so you pulled the covers off to get dressed. You buttoned up the skinny jeans and pulled a black spaghetti strapped top over your head before plopping down to put your black combat boots on. While exiting the tent, you secured your holsters in place before making your way to the heart of the camp.

Carol was folding clothes while Lori was hanging the wet ones talking to Rick when you spotted Dale, Morales, and Jim stripping the black sports car you used to aid in the escape yesterday.

You lightly jogged over to them and stood next to Glenn who was pouting at the sight. His arms drooped along his sides and he shook his head, “Vultures. I thought I would be able to take it for a spin.” Glenn’s voice was laced with disappointment and you patted his back hoping to cheer him up.

“We can steal another car one day.” You withdrew your hand from his back and stuffed your hands into your back pockets watching the car being scavenged.

All of a sudden you heard a scream and you went into action, sprinting to the source passing everyone and went underneath the tin can alarm system, not caring for the shouts of your name from behind you. When you approached a small clearing in the woods, you saw a walker hunched over a deceased deer, feeding on it. You were frozen in place, the scene in front of you reminded you of Jolene. A nudge on your left arm startled you and you snapped your head to see your machete being offered by Morales. You took the weapon with a tight smile, but it fell instantly as you started to cautiously get closer to the walker; your brows knitted in confusion when you saw three arrows sticking out of the carcass.

The walker’s attention was now set on you and the men, so when he turned around and growled, Rick struck him with a shovel sending him to the ground. Dale, Jim, Morales, Glenn, Rick, Shane, and you continued to beat the walker with their weapons and your foot until you sliced its head off with your blade. You were breathing heavily and your cheeks felt wet from your tears you didn’t know were spilling which earned a worried expression from Rick, but you ignored it.

“That’s the first one we’ve had up here. They never come this far up the mountain.” Dale wiped the sweat from his forehead while you just stared into the oblivion still feeling the adrenaline pumping and not caring to erase the tears from your face.

“Well, they’re running out of food in the city.” You peered at Jim and saw him put on a brave face, but you knew he was just as terrified as you were.

You decided to head back to camp to hide away in your temporary tent, but a branched snapped in the forest followed by some rustling leaves causing you to stop in your tracks. Shane aimed his shotgun in the direction of the movement ready to kill the next walker who dared to come up here, but a man with a crossbow came into view making everyone relax and lower their weapons.

“Son of a bitch. That’s my deer! Look at it, all gnawed on by this filthy disease-bearing bastard!” The man was beyond furious and kicked the walker’s headless body a couple times and huffed in frustration. “I’ve been tracking this deer for miles.”

He stepped over to the deer and angrily plucked the arrows from its body. There was no way anyone could eat the deer, couldn’t risk anything after the walker had a taste. Luckily, the man hunted a dozen or so squirrels which was better than nothing. You didn’t know if his reasoning for being pissed was because he tracked the animal for miles and it turned out to be for nothing or he was disappointed he couldn’t feed the group a good filling meal.

The walker’s head started snapping and you realized you forgot to stab the brain. The man shot an arrow through the eye and placed his foot on its head to retrieve it back.

“Its gotta be the brain, don’t y’all know nothing?” You rolled your eyes at his comment and watched as he escorted back to camp yelling for Merle. Everyone quickly followed after him and Shane asked him to slow down a bit, earning a puzzled look from Daryl. Shane proceeded to inform him that it was about Merle and there was a problem in Atlanta.

“There isn’t an easy way to say this, so I’ll just say it.”

Daryl trained his eyes on Rick with confusion, “Who are you?”

“Rick Grimes.”

“Rick Grimes, you got something you want to tell me?”

“Your brother was a danger to us all, so I handcuffed him on a roof to a piece of metal. He’s still there.”

Daryl was livid and threw the rope of squirrels at Rick about to attack, but Shane body slammed him to the ground with his forearm before he could do so. Daryl drew a knife, got up and swung it at Rick, but missed completely as Rick dodged it and punched him in the gut. Shane grabbed him from behind, putting him in a chokehold while they tried to get him to cooperate. He seemed to relax and agreed he wasn’t going to do anything. Not seeing him as a threat anymore, Shane released his hold on Daryl making you relieved that no one got hurt.

“It’s not Rick’s fault. I had the key, I dropped it.” T-Dog spoke up and you closed your eyes wishing he didn’t open his mouth, fearing there might be another fight attempt.

“You couldn’t pick it up?”

T-Dog glanced at his hands, “well, I dropped it a drain.”

“If it's supposed to make me feel better, it don’t.” Daryl pulled himself up with tears threatening to spill from his eyes and you gazed away, feeling guilty and upset for him, but you kept telling yourself there was nothing else you could’ve done to stop Merle.

T-Dog explained how he chained the door with a padlock, so the walkers couldn’t get to him which had to count for something. Daryl wiped his tears out of his eyes asking where he was, so he could go get him. Rick announced that he was going back to rescue Merle which led to Lori angrily retreating to her tent. If Rick was going to save Merle, then so would you.

***

You stood quietly making yourself invisible from Daryl who was cleaning his arrows which was a good thing considering you didn’t want to have a conversation with him, at least not right now. He never noticed how you were inspecting how his muscles moved when he wiped down his arrows with his rag. You had no idea why you were so intrigued with him, but he was mysterious to you and you had a feeling that he was a big softy at heart.

Rick and Shane’s voices started to become clearer as they carried their intense conversation where you stood and Lori questioned if Rick’s big plan was just him and Daryl. Rick turned and eyed Glenn who sighed knowing he was the only one who knew the way and can get in and out, no problem.

Shane shook his head in disbelief and scoffed, “That’s just great. Now you’re gonna risk three men, huh?”

“Four.”

Everyone focused their attention on you making you a little uncomfortable, but you stood there with your arms crossed with a serious expression.

“Why you?” Daryl questioned rudely.

“I have my reasons.” Before he could respond, T-Dog insisted on tagging along since he had a part in putting Merle in that situation to which Shane complained about. He argued how all of you were putting everyone’s lives at stake and needed to protect this camp especially since a walker came up earlier.

You understood his frustration, but you felt that this camp would be fine for a little while. It wasn’t like you all would be gone for a couple days, it would just be for a couple hours.

Rick began to defend his reasoning and educated everyone that it wasn’t just a rescue mission for Merle, but for the guns you two left behind when you got swarmed with the herd of walkers by the tank. Lori was not having it and you couldn’t blame her since she just got her husband back, but you couldn’t leave a human being to die from exposure and dehydration even if it was Merle Dixon. Rick sealed the deal and reminded you in the process that the walkie-talkie that matched Morgan’s was in that bag and you needed to get it … knock two birds with one stone, you thought.

***

The ride to the city was awfully quiet and uncomfortable because Daryl would sometimes take a glance at you, one time he even stared, but you didn’t let him know you saw him. You wondered why he trained his eyes on you considering that you weren’t his favorite person, no one was in the van, but maybe he was eyeing you out of anger or trying to read you. Whatever the case was, you kept your eyes focused on your machete as you cleaned it along with your knives.

Once you got to the railroad tracks, Glenn pulled the van to a halt saying that you’d walk from here. You reached the opening in the fence that Glenn used for his trips and opened it just enough for the guys to go through without any trouble. You ducked slightly to follow and jogged to catch up with them heading to Merle since he was closer than the gun bag.

You’re back in the sales floor of the department store on the path to the roof when you all heard shuffling ahead. Rick got Daryl’s attention and gestured to where the ruckus was coming from and you followed closely behind, gripping your machete near your waist, ready to strike if needed. The walker was a couple feet away, so you stood still and relaxed knowing Daryl would get the kill.

“Damn, you’re one ugly shank,” Daryl commented and in went his arrow into her skull.

After the path was clear, T-Dog led the way to the stairwell and once you reached it, everyone sprinted up the flight of stairs eager to get to Merle. He went to break the chain that bolted Merle in and the walkers out. When the job was done, Daryl kicked the door open and rushed onto the roof calling out for his brother, but there was no answer.

Maybe Merle passed out and that’s why he wasn’t answering, you thought, but that thought was soon forgotten when you reached the spot where Merle was cuffed at. Except, there was no Merle. What was left was a mini trail of blood leading up to a hand, Merle’s right hand, chopped off beside the handcuffs and hacksaw that were now covered in blood. Daryl paced back and forth, screaming, and all you could do was try and decipher where Merle ventured off to.

Taglist:

@jodiereedus22 @sourwolf-sterek32 @jll72-blog @momothepeachgirl @mtngirlforever @haleypearce @nikkipea

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mugsywrites · 5 years

Text

Fic Update

Friends I’ve been out of town the past week because my uncle died and I had to drive my dad (who’s in terrible health himself) back to our home town for the funeral. I haven’t spoken to my uncle in over 10 years and we were never close but I’m still heartbroken for my dad. Plus I fucking hate being in my hometown (the locals aren’t quirky, they’re racist and the town is so small every time I go out I’m at risk of running into my fucking ex). So I haven’t gotten around to writing much. But here, have a taste of something I started because I was in a negative frame of mind: (eventual Jaaryl)

The Unquiet Grave

Over thirty years after Daryl Dixon was murdered a small fleet of construction trucks show up on the ridge just above his grave. He isn’t sure of the exact date until one day while drifting through the site he sees an open newspaper—September 21, 2010. Boyd Guthrie and the rest of the Savage Sons had beaten Daryl to death behind Willie’s bar on October 5, 1979.

Daryl keeps waiting for the construction crew to uncover his bones but much to his relief they never do. When he first died he’d been trapped in his body—one minute the world was slowly fading out as Boyd stomped the back of his head again and again the next things snapped into focus. “Oh geez Boyd,” Ashley Morrow was saying as he stared into Daryl’s dead face, “You killed him.”

“Fucking queer deserved it,” Boyd replied.

“Merle ain’t gonna be happy.”

“He’ll get over it,” Boyd said easily.

They wrapped his body in a tarp and threw it in the back of Ash’s pickup truck where Daryl spent several terrifying hours in blackness before hearing Merle’s voice screaming, “I want to see him! I want to fucking see him!” The tarp vanished and Daryl was looking up into his brother’s tear-streaked face. “Oh my sweet Jesus,” Merle whispered. He laid a shaky hand on Daryl’s cheek and Daryl realized he could feel it. Could feel the whiskery kiss that Merle pressed against his forehead. Boyd was jabbering away, saying he was sorry but what did Merle expect him to do when his queer brother tried sucking his dick? What the fuck was any man supposed to do?

Daryl could see Merle’s eyes, could see that Merle didn’t believe the bullshit coming out of Boyd’s mouth and that even though he said, “I understand. Tried beatin’ it out of ‘im myself since he was little,” that Boyd was not forgiven. Merle kissed him again and tenderly replaced the tarp over Daryl’s face.

After that was hours of driving over bumpy back country roads. They stopped and he could hear the scraping of earth, then he was dragged out of the truck and thrown into the ground. Daryl had calmed down a bit but started panicking again at the first feeling of the weight of earth thrown on his remains. The men burying him said nothing but Daryl still knew one of them was Merle.

No Bubba don’t let them, he screamed internally as the weight of earth grew greater, in his panic reverting to his childhood word for his big brother. More weight, the noises from the outside world fading until he could hear nothing. He was imprisoned in darkness and silence and could do nothing but scream helplessly and pray for madness oh god this was hell, worse than any fire or demons or—

The world shifted and Daryl was standing outside in a dark woods at night. Merle was kneeling down at Daryl’s feet, palm flat against the disturbed earth and breathing raggedly.

“Merle?” Boyd’s voice, “We best be on our way.”

“Need a minute,” Merle said in a thick voice, “He was my brother even if he was a queer.”

“Fine,” Boyd muttered, “I’ll be in the truck.”

Daryl was too relieved to be free from the earth to be angry. He could move, he could turn around, and when he looked down he saw he was dressed in the simple black t-shirt and jeans he’d worn to Willie’s that evening.

“Thank you fucking Jesus,” Daryl muttered. He heard the door to the truck slam shut, “If that prick didn’t want to waste his evenin’ up here he shouldn’t’ve bashed my head in.”

Merle let out a choked sob, hand going to his face. Daryl reached down and squeezed his shoulder, surprised that he could do it, surprised that he could feel the leather of Merle’s jacket beneath his hand. It didn’t go both ways; Merle took no notice of his brother’s comforting gesture. Merle’s fists balled up into the earth and he growled out, “Fuckers will pay for this, baby brother. I swear to you on everything.” Then he was getting to his feet and walking back to the truck.

Daryl never saw him again.

He watched the truck as it faded off into the distance. The woods were black but Daryl could still see, and he drifted over to his grave. There was a bit of metal flashing in the moonlight, and Daryl bent down to examine it. He saw it was the Zippo lighter Merle’d brought back from ‘Nam; on the side a hand-engraved skull and the words, 15 KILLS IF YOU ARE RECOVERING MY BODY FUCK YOU. He’d laid it on Daryl’s grave as a miniature tombstone, and later Daryl would wonder if that simple act had been what had freed him from the ground.

He supposed he’d never know.

Three decades later he watches the construction crew trample over his grave again and a-fucking-gain he wonders what would happen if his bones were ever discovered and given a “proper burial”. Wonders if he’d pass over into the Great Beyond or start haunting whatever pauper’s grave is his new resting place. Neither option is particularly appealing—he knows where he’s going if it’s the former and it isn’t the place with the harps and angels floating on fluffy clouds. If it’s the latter he’s not interested in hanging around for eternity in the graveyard of Mountain View Baptist next to his Daddy. He doesn’t know if graveyards are full of ghosts or if he’d have to actually talk to Will Dixon and isn’t interested in finding out.

Daryl is perfectly content to stay where he is. He’s not exactly happy, but he’s at peace. The area around his grave is a beautiful spot, and Daryl can think of worst places to spend eternity.Daryl spends his days wandering through the woods cataloging the flora and fauna and marveling at the endless variety of life teaming in this corner of the Southern Appalachians. He finds everything from black bears to blue ghost fireflies; the latter flickering to life for only a few weeks in wet summers.

On the rare occasions he feels lonely he goes to the stretch of the Appalachian Trail that is just inside the boundary of his haunt. It can get fairly lively depending on the time of year, there’s an overnight shelter in Daryl’s range. Solitary hikers stop and sometimes read and Daryl can look over their shoulders. He only gets a chapter or a two at a time this way, random glimpses at a larger story he’s cut off from. Still it’s something. Whenever he gets bored or depressed he just switches off for a bit and when he returns to the world days or years later he’s refreshed.

Daryl would like to switch off for the duration of construction but he can’t, much to his annoyance. There’s too many people for too much of the day. He’s not sure exactly what causes him to come back to the world after switching off—there’s no rhyme or reason to it—but having people around seems to have something to do with it. He’s never had this many people around, never had them this close to his fucking grave. Heavy workmen’s boots tromping everywhere as they tear down his trees and scare off his animals.

Daryl can affect the physical world. It requires a great deal of sustained concentration and effort for not a lot of results but since he can’t fucking switch off he has nothing better to do. Workers lose their keys, are startled by loud bangs, equipment breaks down, wood piles are toppled over. He follows the construction foreman around, placing his hand on the back of the man’s neck. This is the hardest thing to do and he doesn’t always succeed but when he does the foreman stops dead in his tracks and shivers all over.

“Tobin?” says one of the crew, “You alright, boss?”

“Something just walked over my grave is all,” the guy replies, looking spooked.

“Motherfucker you’ve been tromping over my grave all fucking month,” Daryl snarls, “Let’s see how you like it.” He places his hands on the back of Tobin’s neck and pours every ounce of concentration and anger he has into it. He breaks out the big guns, remembering the night he was murdered, every thrown punch and desperate attempt to survive before he was overwhelmed.

“Boss!” the worker says, and lunges forward to catch Tobin before he can collapse. The beefy guy is pale and his eyes are glassy and he looks on the verge of passing out. Daryl feels savagely triumphant, but only for a moment. It’s replaced by guilt so intense he’d give anything to be able to just switch off and not have to deal with his thoughts or the bright lights of the world any longer. Wants these people gone so he doesn’t feel the pull of his grave so strongly and can leave. Wants to just be able to fucking rest. It’s not this fucker’s fault, he’s just doing his job.

“Sorry,” Daryl mutters, even though the guy doesn’t know he’s there and can’t hear him even if he did, “I’m bein’ a dick.” He decides to leave them alone from that point on, wandering among the fringes of the site, following what animals haven’t been scared off. Watches the building come together—it’s a log cabin with enormous picture windows looking out over the valley.

In the end it turns out to be a good thing he can’t switch off. He might have missed when Aaron showed up for the first time if he had been.

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rhetoricandlogic · 6 years

Photo

Second Person, Present Tense

— by DARYL GREGORY —

If you think, “I breathe,” the “I” is extra. There is no you to say “I.” What we call “I” is just a swinging door which moves when we inhale or when we exhale. —Shun Ryu Suzuki

I used to think the brain was the most important organ in the body, until I realized who was telling me that. —Emo Phillips

When I enter the office, Dr. S is leaning against the desk, talking earnestly to the dead girl’s parents. He isn’t happy, but when he looks up he puts on a smile for me. “And here she is,” he says, like a game show host revealing the grand prize. The people in the chairs turn, and Dr. Subramaniam gives me a private, encouraging wink.

The father stands first, a blotchy, square-faced man with a tight belly he carries like a basketball. As in our previous visits, he is almost frowning, struggling to match his face to his emotions. The mother, though, has already been crying, and her face is wide open: joy, fear, hope, relief. It’s way over the top.

“Oh, Therese,” she says. “Are you ready to come home?”

Their daughter was named Therese. She died of an overdose almost two years ago, and since then Mitch and Alice Klass have visited this hospital dozens of times, looking for her. They desperately want me to be their daughter, and so in their heads I already am.

My hand is still on the door handle. “Do I have a choice?” On paper I’m only seventeen years old. I have no money, no credit cards, no job, no car. I own only a handful of clothes. And Robierto, the burliest orderly on the ward, is in the hallway behind me, blocking my escape.

Therese’s mother seems to stop breathing for a moment. She’s a slim, narrow-boned woman who seems tall until she stands next to anyone. Mitch raises a hand to her shoulder, then drops it.

As usual whenever Alice and Mitch come to visit, I feel like I’ve walked into the middle of a soap opera and no one’s given me my lines. I look directly at Dr. S, and his face is frozen into that professional smile. Several times over the past year he’s convinced them to let me stay longer, but they’re not listening anymore. They’re my legal guardians, and they have Other Plans. Dr. S looks away from me, rubs the side of his nose.

“That’s what I thought,” I say.

The father scowls. The mother bursts into fresh tears, and she cries all the way out of the building. Dr. Subramaniam watches from the entrance as we drive away, his hands in his pockets. I’ve never been so angry with him in my life—all two years of it.

The name of the drug is Zen, or Zombie, or just Z. Thanks to Dr. S I have a pretty good idea of how it killed Therese.

“Flick your eyes to the left,” he told me one afternoon. “Now glance to the right. Did you see the room blur as your eyes moved?” He waited until I did it again. “No blur. No one sees it.”

This is the kind of thing that gets brain doctors hot and bothered. Not only could no one see the blur, their brains edited it out completely. Skipped over it—left view, then right view, with nothing between—then fiddled with the person’s time sense so that it didn’t even seem missing.

The scientists figured out that the brain was editing out shit all the time. They wired up patients and told them to lift one of their fingers, move it any time they wanted. Each time, the brain started the signal traveling toward the finger up to 120 milliseconds before the patient consciously decided to move it. Dr. S said you could see the brain warming up right before the patient consciously thought, now.

This is weird, but it gets weirder the longer you think about it. And I’ve been thinking about this a lot.

The conscious mind—the “I” that’s thinking, hey, I’m thirsty, I’ll reach for that cold cup of water—hasn’t really decided anything. The signal to start moving your hand has already traveled halfway down your arm by the time you even realize you are thirsty. Thought is an afterthought. By the way, the brain says, we’ve decided to move your arm, so please have the thought to move it.

The gap is normally 120 milliseconds, max. Zen extends this minutes. Hours.

If you run into somebody who’s on Zen, you won’t notice much. The person’s brain is still making decisions, and the body still follows orders. You can talk to the them, and they can talk to you. You can tell each other jokes, go out for hamburgers, do homework, have sex.

But the person isn’t conscious. There is no “I” there. You might as well be talking to a computer. And two people on Zen—“you” and “I”—are just puppets talking to puppets.

It’s a little girl’s room strewn with teenager. Stuffed animals crowd the shelves and windowsills, shoulder to shoulder with stacks of Christian rock CDs and hairbrushes and bottles of nail polish. Pinups from Teen People are taped to the wall, next to a bulletin board dripping with soccer ribbons and rec league gymnastic medals going back to second grade. Above the desk, a plaque titled “I Promise . . . ” exhorting Christian youth to abstain from premarital sex. And everywhere taped and pinned to the walls, the photos: Therese at Bible camp, Therese on the balance beam, Therese with her arms around her youth group friends. Every morning she could open her eyes to a thousand reminders of who she was, who she’d been, who she was supposed to become.

I pick up the big stuffed panda that occupies the place of pride on the bed. It looks older than me, and the fur on the face is worn down to the batting. The button eyes hang by white thread—they’ve been re-sewn, maybe more than once.

Therese’s father sets down the pitifully small bag that contains everything I’ve taken from the hospital: toiletries, a couple changes of clothes, and five of Dr. S’s books. “I guess old Boo Bear was waiting for you,” he says.

“Boo W. Bear.”

“Yes, Boo W!” It pleases him that I know this. As if it proves anything. “You know, your mother dusted this room every week. She never doubted that you’d come back.”

I have never been here, and she is not coming back, but already I’m tired of correcting pronouns. “Well, that was nice,” I say.

“She’s had a tough time of it. She knew people were talking, probably holding her responsible—both of us, really. And she was worried about them saying things about you. She couldn’t stand them thinking that you were a wild girl.”

“Them?”

He blinks. “The Church.”

Ah. The Church. The term carried so many feelings and connotations for Therese that months ago I stopped trying to sort them out. The Church was the red-brick building of the Davenport Church of Christ, shafts of dusty light through rows of tall, glazed windows shaped like gravestones. The Church was God and the Holy Ghost (but not Jesus—he was personal, separate somehow). Mostly, though, it was the congregation, dozens and dozens of people who’d known her since before she was born. They loved her, they watched out for her, and they evaluated her every step. It was like having a hundred overprotective parents.

I almost laugh. “The Church thinks Therese was wild?”

He scowls, but whether because I’ve insulted the Church or because I keep referring to his daughter by name, I’m not sure. “Of course, not. It’s just that you caused a lot of worry.” His voice has assumed a sober tone that’s probably never failed to unnerve his daughter. “You know, the church prayed for you every week.”

“They did?” I do know Therese well enough to be sure this would have mortified her. She was a pray-er, not a pray-ee.

Therese’s father watches my face for the bloom of shame, maybe a few tears. From contrition it should have been one small step to confession. It’s hard for me to take any of this seriously.

I sit down on the bed and sink deep into the mattress. This is not going to work. The double bed takes up most of the room, with only a few feet of open space around it. Where am I going to meditate?

“Well,” Therese’s father says. His voice has softened. Maybe he thinks he’s won. “You probably want to get changed,” he says.

He goes to the door but doesn’t leave. I stand by the window, but I can feel him there, waiting. Finally the oddness of this makes me turn around.

He’s staring at the floor, a hand behind his neck. Therese might have been able to intuit his mood, but it’s beyond me.

“We want to help you, Therese. But there’s so many things we just don’t understand. Who gave you the drugs, why you went off with that boy, why you would—” His hand moves, a stifled gesture that could be anger, or just frustration. “It’s just . . . hard.”

“I know,” I say. “Me too.”

He shuts the door when he leaves, and I push the panda to the floor and flop onto my back in relief. Poor Mr. Klass. He just wants to know if his daughter fell from grace, or was pushed.

When I want to freak myself out, “I” think about “me” thinking about having an “I.” The only thing stupider than puppets talking to puppets is a puppet talking to itself.

Dr. S says that nobody knows what the mind is, or how the brain generates it, and nobody really knows about consciousness. We talked almost every day while I was in the hospital, and after he saw that I was interested in this stuff—how could I not be—he gave me books and we’d talk about brains and how they cook up thoughts and make decisions.

“How do I explain this,” he always starts. And then he tries out the metaphors he’s working on for his book. My favorite is the Parliament, the Page, and the Queen.

“The brain isn’t one thing, of course,” he told me. “It’s millions of firing cells, and those resolve into hundreds of active sites, and so it is with the mind. There are dozens of nodes in the mind, each one trying to out-shout the others. For any decision, the mind erupts with noise, and that triggers . . . how do I explain this . . . Have you ever seen the British Parliament on C-SPAN?” Of course I had: in a hospital TV is a constant companion. “These members of the mind’s parliament, they’re all shouting in chemicals and electrical charges, until enough of the voices are shouting in unison. Ding! That’s a ‘thought,’ a ‘decision.’ The Parliament immediately sends a signal to the body to act on the decision, and at the same time it tells the Page to take the news—”

“Wait, who’s the Page?”

He waves his hand. “That’s not important right now.” (Weeks later, in a different discussion, Dr. S will explain that the Page isn’t one thing, but a cascade of neural events in the temporal area of the limbic system that meshes the neural map of the new thought with the existing neural map—but by then I know that “neural map” is just another metaphor for another deeply complex thing or process, and that I’ll never get to the bottom of this. Dr. S said not to worry about it, that nobody gets to the bottom of it.) “The Page takes the news of the decision to the Queen.”

“All right then, who’s the Queen? Consciousness?”

“Exactly right! The self itself.”

He beamed at me, his attentive student. Talking about this stuff gets Dr. S going like nothing else, but he’s oblivious to the way I let the neck of my scrubs fall open when I stretch out on the couch. If only I could have tucked the two hemispheres of my brain into a lace bra.

“The Page,” he said, “delivers its message to Her Majesty, telling her what the Parliament has decided. The Queen doesn’t need to know about all the other arguments that went on, all the other possibilities that were thrown out. She simply needs to know what to announce to her subjects. The Queen tells the parts of the body to act on the decision.”

“Wait, I thought the Parliament had already sent out the signal. You said before that you can see the brain warming up before the self even knows about it.”

“That’s the joke. The Queen announces the decision, and she thinks that her subjects are obeying her commands, but in reality, they have already been told what to do. They’re already reaching for their glasses of water.”

I pad down to the kitchen in bare feet, wearing Therese’s sweatpants and a t-shirt. The shirt is a little tight; Therese, champion dieter and Olympic-level purger, was a bit smaller than me.

Alice is at the table, already dressed, a book open in front of her. “Well, you slept in this morning,” she says brightly. Her face is made up, her hair sprayed into place. The coffee cup next to the book is empty. She’s been waiting for hours.

I look around for a clock, and find one over the door. It’s only nine. At the hospital I slept in later than that all the time. “I’m starved,” I say. There’s a refrigerator, a stove, and dozens of cabinets.

I’ve never made my own breakfast. Or any lunch or dinner, for that matter. For my entire life, my meals have been served on cafeteria trays. “Do you have scrambled eggs?”

She blinks. “Eggs? You don’t—” She abruptly stands. “Sure. Sit down, Therese, and I’ll make you some.”

“Just call me ‘Terry,’ okay?”

Alice stops, thinks about saying something—I can almost hear the clank of cogs and ratchets—until she abruptly strides to the cabinet, crouches, and pulls out a non-stick pan.

I take a guess on which cabinet holds the coffee mugs, guess right, and take the last inch of coffee from the pot. “Don’t you have to go to work?” I say. Alice does something at a restaurant supply company; Therese has always been hazy on the details.

“I’ve taken a leave,” she says. She cracks an egg against the edge of the pan, does something subtle with the shells as the yolk squeezes out and plops into the pan, and folds the shell halves into each other. All with one hand.

“Why?”

She smiles tightly. “We couldn’t just abandon you after getting you home. I thought we might need some time together. During this adjustment period.”

“So when do I have to see this therapist? Whatsisname.” My executioner.

“Her. Dr. Mehldau’s in Baltimore, so we’ll drive there tomorrow.” This is their big plan. Dr. Subramaniam couldn’t bring back Therese, so they’re running to anyone who says they can. “You know, she’s had a lot of success with people in your situation. That’s her book.” She nods at the table.

“So? Dr. Subramaniam is writing one too.” I pick up the book. The Road Home: Finding the Lost Children of Zen. “What if I don’t go along with this?”

She says nothing, chopping at the eggs. I’ll be eighteen in four months. Dr. S said that it will become a lot harder for them to hold me then. This ticking clock sounds constantly in my head, and I’m sure it’s loud enough for Alice and Mitch to hear it too.

“Let’s just try Dr. Mehldau first.”

“First? What then?” She doesn’t answer. I flash on an image of me tied down to the bed, a priest making a cross over my twisting body. It’s a fantasy, not a Therese memory—I can tell the difference. Besides, if this had already happened to Therese, it wouldn’t have been a priest.

“Okay then,” I say. “What if I just run away?”

“If you turn into a fish,” she says lightly, “then I will turn into a fisherman and fish for you.”

“What?” I’m laughing. I haven’t heard Alice speak in anything but straightforward, earnest sentences.

Alice’s smile is sad. “You don’t remember?”

“Oh, yeah.” The memory clicks. “Runaway Bunny. Did she like that?”

Dr. S’s book is about me. Well, Zen OD-ers in general, but there are only a couple thousand of us. Z’s not a hugely popular drug, in the US or anywhere else. It’s not a hallucinogen. It’s not a euphoric or a depressant. You don’t speed, mellow out, or even get high in the normal sense. It’s hard to see what the attraction is. Frankly, I have trouble seeing it.

Dr. S says that most drugs aren’t about making you feel better, they’re about not feeling anything at all. They’re about numbness, escape. And Zen is a kind of arty, designer escape hatch. Zen disables the Page, locks him in his room, so that he can’t make his deliveries to the Queen. There’s no update to the neural map, and the Queen stops hearing what Parliament is up to. With no orders to bark, she goes silent. It’s that silence that people like Therese craved.

But the real attraction—again, for people like Therese—is the overdose. Swallow way too much Zen and the Page can’t get out for weeks. When he finally gets out, he can’t remember the way back to the Queen’s castle. The whole process of updating the self that’s been going on for years is suddenly derailed. The silent Queen can’t be found.

The Page, poor guy, does the only thing he can. He goes out and delivers the proclamations to the first girl he sees.

The Queen is dead. Long live the Queen.

“Hi, Terry. I’m Dr. Mehldau.” She’s a stubby woman with a pleasant round face, and short dark hair shot with gray. She offers me her hand. Her fingers are cool and thin.

“You called me Terry.”

“I was told that you prefer to go by that. Do you want me to call you something else?”

“No . . . I just expected you to make me say my name is ‘Therese’ over and over.”

She laughs and sits down in a red leather chair that looks soft but sturdy. “I don’t think that would be very helpful, do you? I can’t make you do anything you don’t want to do, Terry.”

“So I’m free to go.”

“Can’t stop you. But I do have to report back to your parents on how we’re doing.”

My parents.

She shrugs. “It’s my job. Why don’t you have a seat and we can talk about why you’re here.”

The chair opposite her is cloth, not leather, but it’s still nicer than anything in Dr. Subramaniam’s office. The entire office is nicer than Dr. S’s office. Daffodil walls in white trim, big windows glowing behind white cloth shades, tropically colored paintings.

I don’t sit down.

“Your job is to turn me into Mitch and Alice’s daughter. I’m not going to do that. So any time we spend talking is just bullshit.”

“Terry, no one can turn you into something you’re not.”

“Well then we’re done here.” I walk across the room—though “stroll” is what I’m shooting for—and pick up an African-looking wooden doll from the bookshelf. The shelves are decorated with enough books to look serious, but there are long open spaces for arty arrangements of candlesticks and Japanese fans and plaques that advertise awards and appreciations. Dr. S’s bookshelves are for holding books, and books stacked on books. Dr. Mehldau’s bookshelves are for selling the idea of Dr. Mehldau.

“So what are you, a psychiatrist or a psychologist or what?” I’ve met all kinds in the hospital. The psychiatrists are M.D.’s like Dr. S and can give you drugs. I haven’t figured out what the psychologists are good for.

“Neither,” she says. “I’m a counselor.”

“So what’s the ‘doctor’ for?”

“Education.” Her voice didn’t change, but I get the impression that the questions annoyed her. This makes me strangely happy.

“Okay, Dr. Counselor, what are you supposed to counsel me about? I’m not crazy. I know who Therese was, I know what she did, I know that she used to walk around in my body.” I put the doll back in its spot next to a glass cube that could be a paperweight. “But I’m not her. This is my body, and I’m not going to kill myself just so Alice and Mitch can have their baby girl back.”

“Terry, no one’s asking you to kill yourself. Nobody can even make you into who you were before.”

“Yeah? Then what are they paying you for, then?”

“Let me try to explain. Please, sit down. Please.”

I look around for a clock and finally spot one on a high shelf. I mentally set the timer to five minutes and sit opposite her, hands on my knees. “Shoot.”

“Your parents asked me to talk to you because I’ve helped other people in your situation, people who’ve overdosed on Z.”

“Help them what? Pretend to be something they’re not?”

“I help them take back what they are. Your experience of the world tells you that Therese was some other person. No one’s denying that. But you’re in a situation where biologically and legally, you’re Therese Klass. Do you have plans for dealing with that?”

As a matter of fact I do, and it involves getting the hell out as soon as possible. “I’ll deal with it,” I say.

“What about Alice and Mitch?”

I shrug. “What about them?”

“They’re still your parents, and you’re still their child. The overdose convinced you that you’re a new person, but that hasn’t changed who they are. They’re still responsible for you, and they still care for you.”

“Not much I can do about that.”

“You’re right. It’s a fact of your life. You have two people who love you, and you’re going to be with each other for the rest of your lives. You’re going to have to figure out how to relate to each other. Zen may have burned the bridge between you and your past life, but you can build that bridge again.”

“Doc, I don’t want to build that bridge. Look, Alice and Mitch seem like nice people, but if I was looking for parents, I’d pick someone else.”

Dr. Mehldau smiles. “None of us gets to choose our parents, Terry.”

I’m not in the mood to laugh. I nod toward the clock. “This is a waste of time.”

She leans forward. I think she’s going to try to touch me, but she doesn’t. “Terry, you’re not going to disappear if we talk about what happened to you. You’ll still be here. The only difference is that you’ll reclaim those memories as your own. You can get your old life back and choose your new life.”

Sure, it’s that easy. I get to sell my soul and keep it too.

I can’t remember my first weeks in the hospital, though Dr. S says I was awake. At some point I realized that time was passing, or rather, that there was a me who was passing through time. I had lasagna for dinner yesterday, I am having meat loaf today. I am this girl in a bed. I think I realized this and forgot it several times before I could hold onto it.

Every day was mentally exhausting, because everything was so relentlessly new. I stared at the TV remote for a half hour, the name for it on the tip of my tongue, and it wasn’t until the nurse picked it up and turned on the TV for me that I thought: Remote. And then sometimes, this was followed by a raft of other ideas: TV. Channel. Gameshow.

People were worse. They called me by a strange name, and they expected things of me. But to me, every visitor, from the night shift nurse to the janitor to Alice and Mitch Klass, seemed equally important—which is to say, not important at all.

Except for Dr. S. He was there from the beginning, and so he was familiar before I met him. He belonged to me like my own body.

But everything else about the world—the names, the details, the facts—had to be hauled into the sunlight, one by one. My brain was like an attic, chock full of old and interesting things jumbled together in no order at all.

I only gradually understood that somebody must have owned this house before me. And then I realized the house was haunted.

After the Sunday service, I’m caught in a stream of people. They lean across the pews to hug Alice and Mitch, then me. They pat my back, squeeze my arms, kiss my cheeks. I know from brief dips into Therese’s memories that many of these people are as emotionally close as aunts or uncles. And any of them, if Therese were ever in trouble, would take her in, feed her, and give her a bed to sleep in.

This is all very nice, but the constant petting has me ready to scream.

All I want to do is get back home and take off this dress. I had no choice but to wear one of Therese’s girly-girl extravaganzas. Her closet was full of them, and I finally found one that fit, if not comfortably. She loved these dresses, though. They were her floral print flak jackets. Who could doubt the purity of a girl in a high-necked Laura Ashley?

We gradually make our way to the vestibule, then to the sidewalk and the parking lot, under assault the entire way. I stop trying to match their faces to anything in Therese’s memories.

At our car a group of teenagers take turns on me, the girls hugging me tight, the boys leaning into me with half hugs: shoulders together, pelvises apart. One of the girls, freckled with soft red curls falling past her shoulders, hangs back for awhile, then abruptly clutches me and whispers into my ear, “I’m so glad you’re okay, Miss T.” Her tone is intense, like she’s passing a secret message.

A man moves through the crowd, arms open, smiling broadly. He’s in his late twenties or early thirties, his hair cut in a choppy gelled style that’s ten years too young for him. He’s wearing pressed khakis, a blue Oxford rolled up at the forearms, a checked tie loosened at the throat.

He smothers me in a hug, his cologne like another set of arms. He’s easy to find in Therese’s memories: This is Jared, the Youth Pastor. He was the most spiritually vibrant person Therese knew, and the object of her crush.

“It’s so good to have you back, Therese,” he says. His cheek is pressed to mine. We’ve missed you.”

A few months before her overdose, the youth group was coming back from a weekend-long retreat in the church’s converted school bus. Late into the trip, near midnight, Jared sat next to her, and she fell asleep leaning against him, inhaling that same cologne.

“I bet you have,” I say. “Watch the hands, Jared.”

His smile doesn’t waver, his hands are still on my shoulders. “I’m sorry?”

“Oh please, you heard me.”

He drops his hands, and looks questioningly at my father. He can do sincerity pretty well. “I don’t understand, Therese, but if—”

I give him a look that makes him back up a step. At some point later in the trip Therese awoke with Jared still next to her, slumped in the seat, eyes closed and mouth open. His arm was resting between her thighs, a thumb against her knee. She was wearing shorts, and his flesh on hers was hot. His forearm was inches from her warm crotch.

Therese believed that he was asleep.

She believed, too, that it was the rumbling of the school bus that shifted Jared’s arm into contact with the crease of her shorts. Therese froze, flushed with arousal and embarrassment.

“Try to work it out, Jared.” I get in the car.

The big question I can help answer, Dr. S said, is why there is consciousness. Or, going back to my favorite metaphor, if the Parliament is making all the decisions, why have a Queen at all?

He’s got theories, of course. He thinks the Queen is all about storytelling. The brain needs a story that gives all these decisions a sense of purpose, a sense of continuity, so it can remember them and use them in future decisions. The brain can’t keep track of the trillions of possible other decisions it could have made every moment; it needs one decision, and it needs a who, and a why. The brain lays down the memories, and the consciousness stamps them with identity: I did this, I did that. Those memories become the official record, the precedents that the Parliament uses to help make future decisions.

“The Queen, you see, is a figurehead,” Dr. S said. “She represents the kingdom, but she isn’t the kingdom itself, or even in control of it.”

“I don’t feel like a figurehead,” I said.

Dr. S laughed. “Me neither. Nobody does.”

Dr. Mehldau’s therapy involves occasional joint sessions with Alice and Mitch, reading aloud from Therese’s old diaries, and home movies. Today’s video features a pre-teen Therese dressed in sheets, surrounded by kids in bathrobes, staring fixedly at a doll in a manger.

Dr. Mehldau asks me what Therese was thinking then. Was she enjoying playing Mary? Did she like being on stage?

“How would I know?”

“Then imagine it. What do you think Therese is thinking here?”

She tells me to do that a lot. Imagine what she’s thinking. Just pretend. Put yourself in her shoes. In her book she calls this “reclaiming.” She makes up a lot of her own terms, then defines them however she wants, without research to back her up. Compared to the neurology texts Dr. S lent me, Dr. Mehldau’s little book is an Archie comic with footnotes.

“You know what, Therese was a good Christian girl, so she probably loved it.”

“Are you sure?”

The wise men come on stage, three younger boys. They plop down their gifts and their lines, and the look on Therese’s face is wary. Her line is coming up.

Therese was petrified of screwing up. Everybody would be staring at her. I can almost see the congregation in the dark behind the lights. Alice and Mitch are out there, and they’re waiting for every line. My chest tightens, and I realize I’m holding my breath.

Dr. Mehldau’s eyes on mine are studiously neutral.

“You know what?” I have no idea what I’m going to say next. I’m stalling for time. I shift my weight in the big beige chair and move a leg underneath me. “The thing I like about Buddhism is Buddhists understand that they’ve been screwed by a whole string of previous selves. I had nothing to do with the decisions Therese made, the good or bad karma she’d acquired.”

This is a riff I’ve been thinking about in Therese’s big girly bedroom. “See, Therese was a Christian, so she probably thought by overdosing that she’d be born again, all her sins forgiven. It’s the perfect drug for her: suicide without the corpse.”

“Was she thinking about suicide that night?”

“I don’t know. I could spend a couple weeks mining through Therese’s memories, but frankly, I’m not interested. Whatever she was thinking, she wasn’t born again. I’m here, and I’m still saddled with her baggage. I am Therese’s donkey. I’m a karma donkey.”

Dr. Mehldau nods. “Dr. Subramaniam is Buddhist, isn’t he?”

“Yeah, but what’s . . . ?” It clicks. I roll my eyes. Dr. S and I talked about transference, and I know that my crush on him was par for the course. And it’s true that I spend a lot of time—still—thinking about fucking the man. But that doesn’t mean I’m wrong. “This is not about that,” I say. “I’ve been thinking about this on my own.”

She doesn’t fight me on that. “Wouldn’t a Buddhist say that you and Therese share the same soul? Self’s an illusion. So there’s no rider in charge, no donkey. There’s just you.”

“Just forget it,” I say.

“Let’s follow this, Terry. Don’t you feel you have a responsibility to your old self? Your old self’s parents, your old friends? Maybe there’s karma you owe.”

“And who are you responsible to, Doctor? Who’s your patient? Therese, or me?”

She says nothing for a moment, then: “I’m responsible to you.”

You.

You swallow, surprised that the pills taste like cinnamon. The effect of the drug is intermittent at first. You realize that you’re in the back seat of a car, the cellphone in your hand, your friends laughing around you. You’re talking to your mother. If you concentrate, you can remember answering the phone, and telling her which friend’s house you’re staying at tonight. Before you can say goodbye, you’re stepping out of the car. The car is parked, your phone is away—and you remember saying goodnight to your mother and riding for a half hour before finding this parking garage. Joelly tosses her red curls and tugs you toward the stairwell: Come on, Miss T!

Then you look up and realize that you’re on the sidewalk outside an all-ages club, and you’re holding a ten dollar bill, ready to hand it to the bouncer. The music thunders every time the door swings open. You turn to Joelly and—

You’re in someone else’s car. On the Interstate. The driver is a boy you met hours ago, his name is Rush but you haven’t asked if that’s his first name or his last. In the club you leaned into each other and talked loud over the music about parents and food and the difference between the taste of a fresh cigarette in your mouth and the smell of stale smoke. But then you realize that there’s a cigarette in your mouth, you took it from Rush’s pack yourself, and you don’t like cigarettes. Do you like it now? You don’t know. Should you take it out, or keep smoking? You scour your memories, but can discover no reason why you decided to light the cigarette, no reason why you got into the car with this boy. You start to tell yourself a story: he must be a trustworthy person, or you wouldn’t have gotten into the car. You took that one cigarette because the boy’s feelings would have been hurt.

You’re not feeling like yourself tonight. And you like it. You take another drag off the cigarette. You think back over the past few hours, and marvel at everything you’ve done, all without that constant weight of self-reflection: worry, anticipation, instant regret. Without the inner voice constantly critiquing you.

Now the boy is wearing nothing but boxer shorts, and he’s reaching up to a shelf to get a box of cereal, and his back is beautiful. There is hazy light outside the small kitchen window. He pours Froot Loops into a bowl for you, and he laughs, though quietly because his mother is asleep in the next room. He looks at your face and frowns. He asks you what’s the matter. You look down, and you’re fully dressed. You think back, and realize that you’ve been in this boy’s apartment for hours. You made out in his bedroom, and the boy took off his clothes, and you kissed his chest and ran your hands along his legs. You let him put his hand under your shirt and cup your breasts, but you didn’t go any further. Why didn’t you have sex? Did he not interest you? No—you were wet. You were excited. Did you feel guilty? Did you feel ashamed?

What were you thinking?

When you get home there will be hell to pay. Your parents will be furious, and worse, they will pray for you. The entire church will pray for you. Everyone will know. And no one will ever look at you the same again.

Now there’s a cinnamon taste in your mouth, and you’re sitting in the boy’s car again, outside a convenience store. It’s afternoon. Your cell phone is ringing. You turn off the cell phone and put it back in your purse. You swallow, and your throat is dry. That boy—Rush—is buying you another bottle of water. What was it you swallowed? Oh, yes. You think back, and remember putting all those little pills in your mouth. Why did you take so many? Why did you take another one at all? Oh, yes.

Voices drift up from the kitchen. It’s before 6am, and I just want to pee and get back to sleep, but then I realize they’re talking about me.

“She doesn’t even walk the same. The way she holds herself, the way she talks . . . ”

“It’s all those books Dr. Subramaniam gave her. She’s up past one every night. Therese never read like that, not science.”

“No, it’s not just the words, it’s how she sounds. That low voice . . . ” She sobs. “Oh hon, I didn’t know it would be this way. It’s like she’s right, it’s like it isn’t her at all.”

He doesn’t say anything. Alice’s crying grows louder, subsides. The clink of dishes in the sink. I step back, and Mitch speaks again.

“Maybe we should try the camp,” he says.

“No, no, no! Not yet. Dr. Mehldau says she’s making progress. We’ve got to—”

“Of course she’s going to say that.”

“You said you’d try this, you said you’d give this a chance.” The anger cuts through the weeping, and Mitch mumbles something apologetic. I creep back to my bedroom, but I still have to pee, so I make a lot of noise going back out. Alice comes to the bottom of the stairs. “Are you all right, honey?”

I keep my face sleepy and walk into the bathroom. I shut the door and sit down on the toilet in the dark.

What fucking camp?

“Let’s try again,” Dr. Mehldau said. “Something pleasant and vivid.”

I’m having trouble concentrating. The brochure is like a bomb in my pocket. It wasn’t hard to find, once I decided to look for it. I want to ask Dr. Mehldau about the camp, but I know that once I bring it into the open, I’ll trigger a showdown between the doctor and the Klasses, with me in the middle.

“Keep your eyes closed,” she says. “Think about Therese’s tenth birthday. In her diary, she wrote that was the best birthday she’d ever had. Do you remember Sea World?”

“Vaguely.” I could see dolphins jumping—two at a time, three at a time. It had been sunny and hot. With every session it was getting easier for me to pop into Therese’s memories. Her life was on DVD, and I had the remote.

“Do you remember getting wet at the Namu and Shamu show?”

I laughed. “I think so.” I could see the metal benches, the glass wall just in front of me, the huge shapes in the blue-green water. “They had the whales flip their big tail fins. We got drenched.”

“Can you picture who was there with you? Where are your parents?”

There was a girl, my age, I can’t remember her name. The sheets of water were coming down on us and we were screaming and laughing. Afterward my parents toweled us off. They must have been sitting up high, out of the splash zone. Alice looked much younger: happier, and a little heavier. She was wider at the hips. This was before she started dieting and exercising, when she was Mom-sized.

My eyes pop open. “Oh God.”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine—it was just . . . like you said. Vivid.” That image of a younger Alice still burns. For the first time I realize how sad she is now.

“I’d like a joint session next time,” I say.

“Really? All right. I’ll talk to Alice and Mitch. Is there anything in particular you want to talk about?”

“Yeah. We need to talk about Therese.”

Dr. S says everybody wants to know if the original neural map, the old Queen, can come back. Once the map to the map is lost, can you find it again? And if you do, then what happens to the new neural map, the new Queen?

“Now, a good Buddhist would tell you that this question is unimportant. After all, the cycle of existence is not just between lives. Samsara is every moment. The self continuously dies and recreates itself.”

“Are you a good Buddhist?” I asked him.

He smiled. “Only on Sunday mornings.”

“You go to church?”

“I golf.”

There’s a knock and I open my eyes. Alice steps into my room, a stack of folded laundry in her arms. “Oh!”

I’ve rearranged the room, pushing the bed into the corner to give me a few square feet of free space the floor.

Her face goes through a few changes. “I don’t suppose you’re praying.”

“No.”

She sighs, but it’s a mock-sigh. “I didn’t think so.” She moves around me and sets the laundry on the bed. She picks up the book there, Entering the Stream. “Dr. Subramaniam gave you this?”

She’s looking at the passage I’ve highlighted. But loving kindness—maitri—toward ourselves doesn’t mean getting rid of anything. The point is not to try to change ourselves. Meditation practice isn’t about trying to throw ourselves away and become something better. It’s about befriending who we already are.

“Well.” She sets the book down, careful to leave it open to the same page. “That sounds a bit like Dr. Mehldau.”

I laugh. “Yeah, it does. Did she tell you I wanted you and Mitch to be at the next session?”

“We’ll be there.” She works around the room, picking up t-shirts and underwear. I stand up to get out of the way. Somehow she manages to straighten up as she moves—righting books that had fallen over, setting Boo W. Bear back to his place on the bed, sweeping an empty chip bag into the garbage can—so that as she collects my dirty laundry she’s cleaning the entire room, like the Cat in the Hat’s cleaner-upper machine.

“Alice, in the last session I remembered being at Sea World, but there was a girl next to me. Next to Therese.”

“Sea World? Oh, that was the Hammel girl, Marcy. They took you to Ohio with them on their vacation that year.”

“Who did?”

“The Hammels. You were gone all week. All you wanted for your birthday was spending money for the trip.”

“You weren’t there?”

She picks up the jeans I left at the foot of the bed. “We always meant to go to Sea World, but your father and I never got out there.”

“This is our last session,” I say.

Alice, Mitch, Dr. Mehldau: I have their complete attention.

The doctor, of course, is the first to recover. “It sounds like you’ve got something you want to tell us.”

“Oh yeah.”

Alice seems frozen, holding herself in check. Mitch rubs the back of his neck, suddenly intent on the carpet.

“I’m not going along with this anymore.” I make a vague gesture. “Everything: the memory exercises, all this imagining of what Therese felt. I finally figured it out. It doesn’t matter to you if I’m Therese or not. You just want me to think I’m her. I’m not going along with the manipulation anymore.”

Mitch shakes his head. “Honey, you took a drug.” He glances at me, looks back at his feet. “If you took LSD and saw God, that doesn’t mean you really saw God. Nobody’s trying to manipulate you, we’re trying to undo the manipulation.”

“That’s bullshit, Mitch. You all keep acting like I’m schizophrenic, that I don’t know what’s real or not. Well, part of the problem is that the longer I talk to Dr. Mehldau here, the more fucked up I am.”

Alice gasps.

Dr. Mehldau puts out a hand to soothe her, but her eyes are on me. “Terry, what your father’s trying to say is that even though you feel like a new person, there’s a you that existed before the drug. That exists now.”

“Yeah? You know all those OD-ers in your book who say they’ve ‘reclaimed’ themselves? Maybe they only feel like their old selves.”

“It’s possible,” she says. “But I don’t think they’re fooling themselves. They’ve come to accept the parts of themselves they’ve lost, the family members they’ve left behind. They’re people like you.” She regards me with that standard-issue look of concern that doctors pick up with their diplomas. “Do you really want to feel like an orphan the rest of your life?”

“What?” From out of nowhere, tears well in my eyes. I cough to clear my throat, and the tears keep coming, until I smear them off on my arm. I feel like I’ve been sucker punched. “Hey, look Alice, just like you,” I say.

“It’s normal,” Dr. Mehldau says. “When you woke up in the hospital, you felt completely alone. You felt like a brand new person, no family, no friends. And you’re still just starting down this road. In a lot of ways you’re not even two years old.”

“Damn you’re good,” I say. “I didn’t even see that one coming.”

“Please, don’t leave. Let’s—”

“Don’t worry, I’m not leaving yet.” I’m at the door, pulling my backpack from the peg by the door. I dig into the pocket, and pull out the brochure. “You know about this?”

Alice speaks for the first time. “Oh honey, no . . . ”

Dr. Mehldau takes it from me, frowning. On the front is a nicely posed picture of a smiling teenage boy hugging relieved parents. She looks at Alice and Mitch. “Are you considering this?”

“It’s their big stick, Dr. Mehldau. If you can’t come through for them, or I bail out, boom. You know what goes on there?”

She opens the pages, looking at pictures of the cabins, the obstacle course, the big lodge where kids just like me engage in “intense group sessions with trained counselors” where they can “recover their true identities.” She shakes her head. “Their approach is different than mine . . . ”

“I don’t know, doc. Their approach sounds an awful lot like ‘reclaiming.’ I got to hand it to you, you had me going for awhile. Those visualization exercises? I was getting so good that I could even visualize stuff that never happened. I bet you could visualize me right into Therese’s head.”

I turn to Alice and Mitch. “You’ve got a decision to make. Dr. Mehldau’s program is a bust. So are you sending me off to brainwashing camp or not?”

Mitch has his arm around his wife. Alice, amazingly, is dry-eyed. Her eyes are wide, and she’s staring at me like a stranger.

It rains the entire trip back from Baltimore, and it’s still raining when we pull up to the house. Alice and I run to the porch steps, illuminated by the glare of headlights. Mitch waits until Alice unlocks the door and we move inside, and then pulls away.

“Does he do that a lot?” I ask.

“He likes to drive when he’s upset.”

“Oh.” Alice goes through the house, turning on lights. I follow her into the kitchen.

“Don’t worry, he’ll be all right.” She opens the refrigerator door and crouches down. “He just doesn’t know what to do with you.”

“He wants to put me in the camp, then.”

“Oh, not that. He just never had a daughter who talked back to him before.” She carries a Tupperware cake holder to the table. “I made carrot cake. Can you get down the plates?”

She’s such a small woman. Face to face, she comes up only to my chin. The hair on the top of her head is thin, made thinner by the rain, and her scalp is pink.

“I’m not Therese. I never will be Therese.”

“Oh I know,” she says, half sighing. And she does know it; I can see it in her face. “It’s just that you look so much like her.”

I laugh. “I can dye my hair. Maybe get a nose job.”

“It wouldn’t work, I’d still recognize you.” She pops the lid and sets it aside. The cake is a wheel with icing that looks half an inch thick. Miniature candy carrots line the edge.

“Wow, you made that before we left? Why?”

Alice shrugs, and cuts into it. She turns the knife on its side and uses the blade to lever a huge triangular wedge onto my plate. “I thought we might need it, one way or another.”

She places the plate in front of me, and touches me lightly on the arm. “I know you want to move out. I know you may never want to come back.”

“It’s not that I—”

“We’re not going to stop you. But wherever you go, you’ll still be my daughter, whether you like it or not. You don’t get to decide who loves you.”

“Alice . . . ”

“Shssh. Eat your cake.”

#Daryl Gregory #Second #Person Present Tense #short story

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ikkleosu · 7 years

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just curious, 'cause I love your speculation... what are you expecting from episode 10? Like what are your headcanons/hopes, Caryl-wise? And how certain are you that we'll get a confirmation of Daryl's love for Carol in 710?

Apologies for taking so long to answer, Anon, I’ve not been feeling up to metaing. And, no-one panic, I only mean physically - nowt to do with my feelings for caryl, which are as buoyant as ever.

And ooooh what loaded, lovely questions. :D Expectations and hopes are, as ever very different. I’ll try to keep them separate.

I expect that we’ll get a taste fairly quickly of Daryl’s devotion to Carol when Richard reveals his plan to kill her. I think it will be a slow dawning on Daryl, realising who he’s talking about, and then he goes to town on Richard’s face, as in the trailer.

My HOPES are that he asks Richard to describe Carol. I don’t know why, I just like that idea. :D I hope Richard mentions Ezekiel has a thing for Carol and we see sparks of jealousy from Daryl over that. I like to imagine the scene from the X-Files episode Beyond the Sea, when I think of Daryl telling Richard he’d better leave Carol the fuck alone.

“If he dies because of what you’ve done, four days from now, no one will be able to stop me from being the one that will throw the switch and gas you out of this life for good, you son of a bitch!“

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j7ZpxhwddC8

I have no clue what the Ezekiel scene will be, whether he comes to warn Carol her friends were here, or that Daryl is STILL there. Or if it’s totally unrelated.

I hope whatever his reasoning, she makes clear once again she wants to be left alone and chucks him out. Then shortly after, there’s a knock at the door again and she answers it angrily, about to give Ezekiel a piece of her mind when WOOPS it’s Daryl. :D

I expect the hug to be initiated by Daryl, simply because Carol’s in a WTF mode and doesn’t want anyone to find her. Whereas Daryl will be delighted to find her alive.

I am looking forward to HOW exactly Daryl explains his presence there, alone. I presume he’ll spin some story about a supplies run or something. Although how he’s going to explain where his vest and bike are, I dunno. I HOPE Carol notices. I also hope she notices he’s just beaten the crap out of someone. :D

I expect Daryl will ask for dinner. I expect there to be some cute banter in the early part of their interaction.

I have NO CLUE what they talk about. I expect we’ll get at least 2 scenes of them in the house, talking. I am assuming, as Carol doesn’t change her mind while Daryl’s there, there she doesn’t talk about Lizzie and Mika.But I could be wrong on that, i just don’t feel THAT much is going to be unloaded in these scenes, especially given we know how much Daryl is holding back in telling HER stuff.

I hope there’s a mix of cuteness, angst and awkwardness in these scenes. I want them to reminisce, and have in jokes, but I also want Carol to talk about her reasoning (I think she will as Daryl seems to come away understanding what she’s going through). I’d LOVE for her to talk about how she can’t “love”, and for there to be some awkward eye contact or pause when she says that word. :D I also hope Daryl gives her some reassurances, verbally that she’s a good person, not a monster - because I think that’s the kind of thing she needs to hear. Also I hope they both sit on the couch together, and there is an awkward - or not awkward at all, hand touch. :D

Then, when Daryl leaves, I expect Daryl to make clear he’s not done with her. ;) and for him to tell her to take care. Then I expect him to grab her in the biggest, most intense hug ever. I expect it to be clear from the hug that neither wants to part from the other, though they know it’s what’s best just now.

I expect the hug to go on just that little bit too long, and for there to be a moment of self-awareness that comes over them both. And THAT is the moment that will make the audience go, oooooh what do we have here?

I HOPE it’s even more clear in that moment that what is rearing it’s head, is romantic feelings trying to break free.

i have no idea how they will actually part, though i expect Carol will pull away first. I have this vision of her shaking her head and crying like “no, I can’t do this…” and pulling away tearfully. Then Daryl walking away, maybe looking back but she’s already closed the door and is leaning against the other side of it sobbing.

I am no convinced we’ll hear a verbal confirmation of Daryl’s love for her (but boy do i hope so), but I DO expect that the episode will show one after the other multiple times of Daryl SHOWING how much he loves Carol in his deeds. From his reaction to Richard, to his feelings about Ezekiel, to his understanding of her situation, lying to her, and giving her space but making sure she knows he wants her home. I hope he asks her to come home.

*sigh* I just want it ALL. There’s SO MUCH to come from this episode - even the stuff we know about ti above and beyond anything we’ve had since seaosn 5, and there’s still so much we DON’T know about.

It’s going to be a fun time.

#caryl

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flauntpage · 6 years

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Giannis Antetokounmpo Finally Has the Space He Deserves

Giannis Antetokounmpo spent the first month of his fifth season consecrating his own mind-melting ability. Just 22 years old, already nearing the end of his paralyzing transition from phenom to titan, Antetokounmpo wielded every statistical benchmark you'd find in an MVP, mutilating box scores without hesitation. He exploded off the starting blocks by averaging 30.6 points (with a 57.8 field goal percentage), 10.0 rebounds, 4.6 assists, 1.9 blocks, and 1.6 steals per game. (If you want to get weird and talk like Elon Musk, Antetokounmpo became basketball’s very own alien dreadnought before our very eyes.)

Until opponents adjusted by coaxing more unremarkable jumpers, the kind that provided a prayer’s chance relative to his unstoppable production at the rim, Antetokounmpo mixed laudable agility with violent power and a 7’3” wingspan to hold the NBA hostage. His dominance popped on both ends. But as the year went on, defenses took a deep breathe and found relative “success” slowing him down, be it with consequential hustle back in transition or an even more urgent willingness to help off teammates in the half-court.

Sometimes neither strategy worked, even when executed to near perfection. Antetokounmpo's evolution was that overwhelming:

Now, almost an entire offseason removed from a disappointing first-round loss against the depleted Boston Celtics—a series someone in Antetokounmpo’s talent bracket should’ve dominated—the Milwaukee Bucks have made several moves to stimulate their franchise player in ways that mirror those carried out by one of the league’s best teams two summer summers ago.

In 2016, the Houston Rockets failed to put a second star (Kevin Durant, Al Horford, Mike Conley, etc.) next to James Harden. Instead—right after Kent Bazemore spurned them to re-sign with the Atlanta Hawks—Daryl Morey signed Ryan Anderson (four years, $80 million) and Eric Gordon (four years, $53 million) to deals that were longer and more expensive than many anticipated.

Both agreements were criticized for various reasons, but Morey knew that leveraging his most important player’s all-around craftsmanship in space would let Houston be the very best possible version of itself. The result was 14 more wins and the point differential of a legitimate championship contender.

What we’re seeing in Milwaukee almost qualifies as a marginalized version of that same approach. They added nobody on Gordon’s level, or a transparent specialist like Anderson. No new contracts will crush their cap sheet for years to come, either. But the bottom-line similarities should foster a situation where Antetokounmpo is finally able to play in space; if all goes according to plan, the Bucks should almost always have a center who can shoot threes by his side. The days of Greg Monroe, Miles Plumlee, Zaza Pachulia, and Larry Sanders will feel one million miles away.

In comes Ersan Ilyasova, just signed to a three-year (the third year is non-guaranteed), $21 million contract. (Ilyasova was Antetokounmpo's teammate for the first two seasons of his career, before Giannis became an impact player, hardly ever at the five.)

Ilyasova isn’t a complete player but, as someone who doesn’t get destroyed on the defensive end, can be a nuisance on the glass, and knock down open threes, it’s not surprising to see his on/off numbers be so positive over the past few years—particularly on offense. Lineups that put him as a stretch center next to Giannis, Khris Middleton, and just about any backcourt combination Mike Budenholzer wants to deploy, will be a nightmare. And, frankly, replacing Jabari Parker with Ilyasova should solve some unwanted problems.

The Bucks were bad when Parker and Antetokounmpo shared the floor last season, with the point differential of a team that could’ve picked third or fourth in the draft. Parker didn’t make his season debut until February 2, and coming off two ACL surgeries in the same knee it wasn’t fair to expect much. But enough was seen over the past few years to at least question their fit as long-term collaborators.

With Parker gone, addition by subtraction is a distinct possibility. The former second overall pick does not view himself as “the help,” and watching Antetokounmpo run high pick-and-roll from the corner wasn’t a sustainable way for him to function. He engaged himself with well-timed cuts along the baseline, but too often would trade purposeful movement with a restless boredom that destroyed Milwaukee’s spacing. It all bubbled into a palpable tension on more than one occasion; he was clearly upset with a role that forced him to play off Giannis instead of the other way around. Look how disgusted Parker gets below:

Parker is better than Ilysasova, but on this team, next to Antetokounmpo, in Budenholzer’s system, it’s not hard to see whose minutes would be more beneficial. There are, of course, so many different ways for Antetokounmpo to positively impact Milwaukee’s offense—be it as a putback monster or diving big man—but taking the ball out of his hands ultimately does the opposing team a favor.

When he wasn’t frolicking in the open floor, the Bucks loved to gift Antetokounmpo with a ball screen from one of their guards, a strategy that dissuaded a switch and let him get downhill. Unfortunately, running this too often with their center in the dunker’s spot, and non-shooters spotting up on the weakside, was less than ideal.

These sequences always had the right idea, but were often foiled by Milwaukee’s own detrimental personnel, whether it be Tyler Zeller or John Henson’s man who made it feel like the game was five on four.

The next man up is Brook Lopez, whose ideal role in Milwaukee should be as the fulcrum of its second unit, someone who can force double teams in the post and carry the offense for small stretches when Antetokounmpo is sidelined early in the second and fourth quarters. But run the actions seen above with him standing in for Henson and suddenly the Bucks are that much harder to guard. Lopez nearly shot 50 percent from the short corner and a third of all his shots last season were wide-open threes—he made 36 percent of them.

Imagine him on this play below, either available for a kickout or dragging Serge Ibaka to the perimeter.

Henson tries to make himself useful by setting a back pick on Kyle Lowry, but Ibaka could not care less about Antetokounmpo's vision (he's not Ben Simmons, LeBron James, or Harden), or Henson floating to the weak-side corner. Only four of Henson’s 552 shots were beyond the arc last year, according to Cleaning the Glass. He isn’t a bad player. Whenever his man would load up on the strongside to thwart Giannis in the post, he’d cut into an open pocket and either make himself available or drag a help defender off someone else.

But, at the end of the day, that’s not good enough. Every single person who Milwaukee pays from this moment forward needs to make Antetokounmpo’s life easier in an obvious way. Right now, it's preferred that help come from players who're just as effective without the ball. Lopez and Ilyasova will either unlatch driving lanes or find themselves launching a whole bunch of open threes; at least one of them should always be on the floor.

Against defenses that knew what he wanted to do, Antetokounmpo averaged 11 drives per game last year, a strong number relative to his position and size, but pretty weak once you consider how often the ball was in his hands, his skill-set, and how many minutes he played. Some of this is on him, to tighten up his handle in traffic and be less willing to settle for a long two when the defense turns the restricted area into a moat. But some of it's thanks to a noticeably cramped floor. That should change next season.

There will come a day when, just like the Rockets needed to add a ball-handling star like Chris Paul and more two-way wings, the Bucks will have to acquire talent at different positions, with more varied skill-sets, if they want to make a serious run at the title. What they've done this summer is a step in the right direction, but it’s not that. Middleton, Malcolm Brogdon, and Eric Bledsoe are all unrestricted free agents in 2019, and even if the Bucks noticeably improve under Bud with more space and a fluid half-court offense, locking any two of the three up long-term will essentially cement what they are through the rest of Antetokounmpo’s current contract, which expires in 2021.

Smart money might be on trading one before this year’s deadline, letting another walk next summer (a la Parker), and then re-signing the last man standing to a fair deal. Depending on who fits which slot and what they get back in a potential trade, the Bucks can open max cap space (and then some) in the offseason before Antetokounmpo’s contract year. Until then, he's one of the most underpaid players in the league, on a team that's finally making a transparent effort to build around. It'd be a shame if the Bucks don't ever capitalize.

So much can change between now and a few years, but if Milwaukee wants to keep their best player for the rest of his career, it behooves them to bring in another legitimate All-Star sometime over the next two years. For now, tinkering around the edges with sensical companions who'll open the floor is a pretty good strategy. What happens beyond that is anybody’s guess.

Giannis Antetokounmpo Finally Has the Space He Deserves published first on https://footballhighlightseurope.tumblr.com/

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amtushinfosolutionspage · 6 years

Text

Giannis Antetokounmpo Finally Has the Space he Deserves

Giannis Antetokounmpo spent the first month of his fifth season consecrating his own mind-melting ability. Just 22 years old, already nearing the end of his paralyzing transition from phenom to titan, Antetokounmpo wielded every statistical benchmark you’d find in an MVP, mutilating box scores without hesitation. He exploded off the starting blocks by averaging 30.6 points (with a 57.8 field goal percentage), 10.0 rebounds, 4.6 assists, 1.9 blocks, and 1.6 steals per game. (If you want to get weird and talk like Elon Musk, Antetokounmpo became basketball’s very own alien dreadnought before our very eyes.)

Sometimes neither strategy worked, even when executed to near perfection. Antetokounmpo’s evolution was that overwhelming:

In comes Ersan Ilyasova, just signed to a three-year (the third year is non-guaranteed), $21 million contract. (Ilyasova was Antetokounmpo’s teammate for the first two seasons of his career, before Giannis became an impact player, hardly ever at the five.)

Imagine him on this play below, either available for a kickout or dragging Serge Ibaka to the perimeter.

Henson tries to make himself useful by setting a back pick on Kyle Lowry, but Ibaka could not care less about Antetokounmpo’s vision (he’s not Ben Simmons, LeBron James, or Harden), or Henson floating to the weak-side corner. Only four of Henson’s 552 shots were beyond the arc last year, according to Cleaning the Glass. He isn’t a bad player. Whenever his man would load up on the strongside to thwart Giannis in the post, he’d cut into an open pocket and either make himself available or drag a help defender off someone else.

But, at the end of the day, that’s not good enough. Every single person who Milwaukee pays from this moment forward needs to make Antetokounmpo’s life easier in an obvious way. Right now, it’s preferred that help come from players who’re just as effective without the ball. Lopez and Ilyasova will either unlatch driving lanes or find themselves launching a whole bunch of open threes; at least one of them should always be on the floor.

Against defenses that knew what he wanted to do, Antetokounmpo averaged 11 drives per game last year, a strong number relative to his position and size, but pretty weak once you consider how often the ball was in his hands, his skill-set, and how many minutes he played. Some of this is on him, to tighten up his handle in traffic and be less willing to settle for a long two when the defense turns the restricted area into a moat. But some of it’s thanks to a noticeably cramped floor. That should change next season.

There will come a day when, just like the Rockets needed to add a ball-handling star like Chris Paul and more two-way wings, the Bucks will have to acquire talent at different positions, with more varied skill-sets, if they want to make a serious run at the title. What they’ve done this summer is a step in the right direction, but it’s not that. Middleton, Malcolm Brogdon, and Eric Bledsoe are all unrestricted free agents in 2019, and even if the Bucks noticeably improve under Bud with more space and a fluid half-court offense, locking any two of the three up long-term will essentially cement what they are through the rest of Antetokounmpo’s current contract, which expires in 2021.

Smart money might be on trading one before this year’s deadline, letting another walk next summer (a la Parker), and then re-signing the last man standing to a fair deal. Depending on who fits which slot and what they get back in a potential trade, the Bucks can open max cap space (and then some) in the offseason before Antetokounmpo’s contract year. Until then, he’s one of the most underpaid players in the league, on a team that’s finally making a transparent effort to build around. It’d be a shame if the Bucks don’t ever capitalize.

So much can change between now and a few years, but if Milwaukee wants to keep their best player for the rest of his career, it behooves them to bring in another legitimate All-Star sometime over the next two years. For now, tinkering around the edges with sensical companions who’ll open the floor is a pretty good strategy. What happens beyond that is anybody’s guess.

Giannis Antetokounmpo Finally Has the Space he Deserves syndicated from https://australiahoverboards.wordpress.com

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twdmusicboxmystery · 4 years

Text

Predictions and Musings for 10b (Mostly Musings ;D)

Okay, let’s talk predictions. The big question everyone is asking is whether I think we’ll see Beth in 10x10, or, more broadly, when I think we’ll see her.

I’m not willing to rule out that we’ll see her in 10x10. If we do, I think it will be minimal. Like an after-the-credits scene where only the audience sees her, but none of the characters do. That said, as we head into 10b I’m feeling more and more like she won’t actually surface until the season finale. Again, not ruling out 10x10, and I’d be happy to be wrong. But that’s not my strong, gut feeling either.

I’ll explain why. And I’m going to frame this post in terms of clocks. We’ll talk about the clock in Edwards’ office in 5x08, the 10:16 clock in 7x08, and how I see the rest of the season playing out.

Let’s start 7x08. I’m not sure how me and my fellow theorists even got started on this, but we’ve been discussing it for the past week or two. It may just have been that someone (it really wasn’t me) remembered the clock.

So here’s the thing: when Daryl escapes the Sanctuary in 7x08, he runs into Dwight’s room after a vat of pickles spills in front of him. He hides there for a time before escaping. Behind him, when he runs down to the corridor is a clock that read 10:16. Now, during s8, most of us were still hoping Beth would appear sometime during or near the end of All Out War, so we weren’t seriously considering S10 for her reappearance at that time. So we weren’t sure what the clock represented.

Now, as we’re in S10, and we’ve had all these ridiculous clues that she’s about to reappear, the 10:16 clock becomes really interesting. Because 10x16 will be the season finale of this season.

Remember that in this scene, when Daryl goes into Dwight’s room, there’s a ridiculous amount of Beth symbolism. He eats peanut-butter, he looks at the chess pieces, several of which are reminiscent of Grady, there are fish on the wall (water), we see his scars, etc. And of course this is him escaping his imprisonment, which has heavy parallels to Beth being imprisoned at Grady. So everything about this scene screamed Beth.

But let’s talk specifically about what happens in front of the 10:16 clock. Daryl is trying to escape and some Saviors who are evidently handling food supplies drop a glass jar of pickles and it breaks, spilling across the corridor. That’s why Daryl runs into Dwight’s room. These Saviors talk about cleaning it up and he doesn’t want to be seen. He waits until they’re done cleaning up the mess and the corridor is empty again before making a break for it.

So, do you remember what’s up with pickles? Via the St. Nicholas/Pickle story (X, X, X) there should be three resurrections at some point. Daryl’s “I Never” line in Still about Santa Clause probably points to this. What Santa Clause/St. Nicholas will bring him is a resurrected Beth.

(We also had a big emphasis on pickles during S7 via Eugene.)

But the myth says that St. Nick resurrected not one, but three boys/children/people depending on the version. I’ve theorized that the three resurrections will be the three remaining death fake out couples. (Glenn is dead for real, so not him.) I think the resurrections will be Beth, Rick, and Ezekiel. We haven’t seen Ezekiel’s death fake out yet, but I still think we will. And per Jerry’s shoe thing in 10x09, I think he’ll be involved.

Do all three resurrections have to happen simultaneously? I don’t think they HAVE to, but they COULD. And given that there’s a good chance that Beth and Rick are in the same place (helicopter people) I think there’s a good chance they will.

But the point here is that Daryl sees the pickles in front of the 10:16 clock. The way I’m interpreting that is that St. Nicholas will bring Daryl his gift at least in episode 10x16. So that’s why I think it’s less likely that we’ll see actually see her in 10x10.

Also, @wdway found something interesting in Slabtown that may support this:

“This is the scene where Beth has just come from Dawn's office and she is stopped in the hall by Dawn. It's always been strange about how this number was featured. I also want to point out the envelope type hang on the door if you enlarge it you can see that it's a pink (Pink Theory)…. Back to the number 5+5+6=16. So we have a 16 there's no true way of knowing if it's directed to this episode 16 or not.

Let's play around with what 16 and what these numbers in TWD world might look like as far as episodes. In s5e16 Conquer. In s5 series episode 56 was Self-Help. (Both very Beth-centric symbolism episodes.) Looking at 16, series number 16 was s2e10, 18 Miles Out (Beth’s suicide attempt). S1e6 was TS-19, the episode where TF was at the CDC eventually blew it up. (For this reference, see @angelthefirst1’s meta HERE.) By the way in the little library in the facility during a scene with Lori and Shane there is a 10-10 clock in the bookcase.”

But what does that mean for 10x10?

Well, let’s talk about the clock in Edwards’ office in 5x07. We’ve never done a very convincing job of figuring out what this clock points to. The hour hand points to the 10 while the minute hand points to the 8. Again, back in S5, we were definitely NOT thinking this pointed to S10. So there’s that. But even if we do so now, it seems to point to 10x08, the MSF. And MAYBE that’s a thing. I think there’s one way it could be, but overall it’s not terribly convincing. More on that in a minute.

But here’s the thing:

I actually think this clock may point to episode 10x10. Let me explain why. Warning: it involves math.

Due to Jesus’ death, we figured out that an hour represents a season as a whole, rather than the individual numbers pointing to episodes. That doesn’t work as there are only 12 numbers and 16 episodes. We saw the 9:30 clock behind Jesus and Carl in S7 and Jesus died in 9x08, which was exactly half-way through the hour/season. So I got out my trusty calculator and did some math. I tried this several different way and WAY over complicated it for myself. The easiest way to do it is this:

If you divide 1 hour 16 ways (by 16 episodes) each episode would be represented by 3.75 minutes. So if they want to point to something in episode 8, they would do 3.75 minutes multiplied by 8 episodes and you get 30. So they would point the minute hand of the clock toward 30 minutes (as they did with Jesus) to represent something happening in the MSF (episode 8). I hope that makes sense.

If you’re a visual person, check out this pie chart. If the minute hand is pointed at the 8 (40 minutes) then you divide that by 3.75 minutes for each episode, and you get roughly 10. Now, it’s not exact. It should be pointed at 37.5 minutes rather than 40. And honestly, it might be. This clock is very blurry because it’s in the background, and it may point to slightly before the 8. It’s just too hard to tell for sure.

Hence, I think this clock points to 10x10.

Now, anyone who reads @frangipanilove’s posts knows her theory is that the 10x10 clock actually points to 10x11 for various reasons. (Read HERE). And I can totally get behind that. I don’t know how it will all play out but she’s got some amazing evidence and it won’t bother me at all if this is actually pointing to ep 11 rather than 10. What she and I have kind of settled on is that both episodes (10 and 11) are sure to be super-important.

Different clocks truly do need to be interpreted different ways. For example, the 10:16 I mentioned above. Applying the number system I laid out above to it doesn’t produce anything specific. So I really think that clock, which reads a time of 10:16, literally points to episode 10x16. For the 10:10 clock, this system KIND of works. It obviously wouldn’t point to 10x10, but it would be 10x02 or 10x03. Both those episodes had lots of TD symbolism in them, but nothing much beyond that. But of course 10x02 plays into your 2 and 11 theories, and the fact that 2x10 was 18 Miles Out.

And then there’s THIS POST about how the time 10:10 on a clock has historically represented when certain famous assassinations happened. So, it’s possible we shouldn’t be reading into the numbers on this clock at all.

I can totally see tptb using different systems for different clocks, specifically to throw us off and make the symbolism insanely hard to interpret.

But what will be in episode 10 and/or 11?

Obviously this is all speculation, but let’s return to this scene in 5x07 and some things I’ve mentioned earlier in the week. Beth goes into Edwards’ office to ask what medicine she needs to give Carol to save her. He tells her, and then she walks into the dark tunnel/hallway. They also talk about Beth having the “key” to the drug locker.

So I’m thinking what we’ll get in 10x10 or 10x11 is the “key” to where Beth is and it will have a lot to do with healing. Part of it is healing Carol. (I’ll talk more about Carol tomorrow because there’s a LOT going on with her right now and it ties directly into Beth’s return.) But I know a lot of people have theories that Beth will bring a cure for the zombie virus as well. I don’t harp on that overly much, but I think it’s a real possibility, especially with what we know of the helicopter people and them purifying water. So this scene in Edwards’ office was a direct foreshadow of when/how/in what manner Beth will return.

For me, I think it will be directly tied to Connie. I’ve been saying since the beginning of the season that 1) Connie would get a death fake out. We’ll have to wait and see what Daryl finds, but I think this episode was the beginning of Connie’s death fake out. I think he’ll either not find her and Magna at all (just gone) or else maybe he’ll find blood and her sling shot or something else that makes him think she’s dead. Eaten by walkers. So I think he’ll believe she’s dead and for him it will be a major replay of Beth’s death.

So if anything along those lines happens, I think that in episode 10/11 he’ll find out that she’s alive and where she is. You know how I keep saying he and Carol will jump on his bike and go look for someone, and I’ve said I think it will be Connie? Yeah, it’s really kinda happening that way, guys. I can’t say for sure they’ll go on his bike, but much like back in S5, they’ll leave together to go find someone who’s (most likely) been taken hostage by another group. In S5 it was Beth. Here, it will be Connie. And we’ve solved the problem of why Carol would go with Daryl: because the cave in was her fault and she has super-heavy guilt over it.

And I think Connie will end up where Beth is in some way and will help bring Beth back to Daryl, fulfilling the symbolism from 10x01 where she brought Dog to him on the beach. So I’m thinking we’ll learn Connie’s whereabouts in ep 10/11 and while it won’t be about Beth in an obvious way, it will lead to her. And maybe Daryl will finally come face to face with Beth in 10x16. That’s what I’m hoping for, anyway. But again, these are just predictions and could prove to be wrong.

More random-but-compelling evidence for 10x16? This also from @wdway:

“While I was looking at all this from I remembered something that I played around with a while back and I even mentioned it I think to you guys but now that it's closer to us it might mean more. At the end of the episode Coda we have the fire truck and that number on the side the 82. Coda series number = 59. 82+59= 141. S10e10 will be series number 141.”

This may not entirely fit into what I said above, but maybe we’ll learn what happened to the fire truck, or just what happened during the missing 17 days, in episode 10x10? No idea. Just a thought.

This is more general, but in terms of episode structure, consider this: Beth disappeared in ep 8 and the music box woke up in ep 10. I know Connie won’t technically disappear until ep 9 but the catastrophe leading to it happened in ep 8 and Beth was technically in 5x09. So having Connie “show up” again in some capacity in ep 10 makes sense. Just saying.

One more note: given that we are already experiencing a death fake out for Connie, and that I think she’ll end up where Beth is, and by extension, where Rick is, it has occurred to me that she might be the third pickle resurrection, rather than Ezekiel.

Maybe.

Overall, I still lean toward Ezekiel. Why? Well, mostly because he’s one of the four death fake out couples. And while I love Connie, she’s not AS mainstream a character as Ezekiel. I don’t think she’s had enough time on the show, enough depth of character to qualify as the 3rd pickle resurrection. But I also mentioned Jerry because of the shoe thing in this episode. And of course Heath and Jadis/Anne are still missing as well. So there might be several minor character returns that go along with the three big ones. But I still think overall the big ones will be Beth, Rick and Ezekiel. We’ll just have to wait and see.

Okay, other predictions.

Episode 14:

As I said, I’ll talk more about how Carol fits into all of this tomorrow, and there are a lot of ties, but here are some basic speculations about 10x14.

We know people often die in episode 14 of a season. (4x14: Mika and Lizzie; 5x14: Noah; 6x14: Denise, etc.) Some of my fellow theorists have thought for some time that Father Gabriel will die before Beth returns.

Why? Because he’s the embodiment of the Sirius symbol.

Okay, this becomes a really interesting discussion about the Sirius symbolism and the characters who embody it. Remember the Sirius symbolism has to do with dogs, stars, and having only one eye. I can’t think of a character who embodied the Sirius symbolism in 5b, after Beth was shot. Noah, perhaps. Honestly, nothing about him screams Sirius to me. Other things to do with Beth symbolism? Yes. But Sirius, not so much. Although there is that shot of him looking at the blue dog collar in Them after they eat the wild dogs.

In S6, Denise showed up. She had both eyes, but there was a motif about her glasses and her being kinda blind. Not to mention, she died by being shot through the eye.Though she didn’t died BEFORE Carl lost his eye, she died soon after. She also saved his life.

At that point, Carl, with his one eye and many ties to Beth, becomes something of a Sirius embodiment.

In S8, Carl dies. And right about that same time, Father Gabriel loses his sight in one eye, in an episode that ALL kinds of callbacks to Still, Alone, and Coda. Since then, he’s been the embodiment of the Sirius symbolism.

See why we suspect he might die before or right around the time Beth reappears?

It’s also interesting to note that he was perhaps the last one to speak her name. He talked to Maggie about her in Them, and while we saw Beth in Sasha’s flashback in that, and since then in the portraits hanging at Hilltop over Maggie’s desk, no one has actually said Beth’s name since FG did in Them.

In other words, the last person to have spoken Beth’s name is now the embodiment of the Sirius symbolism.

Other stuff on episode 14:

It’s important to note that we don’t KNOW any of this stuff about episode 14. People in the fandom are simply speculating on it. We know there will be an episode entitled “Look at the Flowers” and given that that phrase was so heavily emphasized in 4x14 with the girls, it would make sense for it to be the title of 10x14.

This from @wdway:

“People have been speculating for the last couple of months that episode 14 will be the episode at the hospital that was used in Slabtown. We also have had sightings of the King in the city which makes people think it might have to do with the story line that has been set up with his thyroid condition.

I want to show you a shot that's taken from earlier this season where the king is on the Hilltop radio waiting for Carol to come and he's going to tell her about his condition but before she gets to the radio he stops and leaves. This is a shot of the radio.

Look up the number at the top the very top one is 145. Now we know that the comic book issue of 45 is when Andrea wakes up from being shot in the head. And here's the radio set at channel 145 and the King is about to talk to Carol and it's concerning a medical issue. You probably know what I'm about to say serie number 145 will be S10e14.”

To me, this also backs up the idea of Ezekiel’s death fake out. The 145 ties directly to Andrea’s death fake out in the comic books.

I’ll end there. I think I’ve rambled enough for one day.

Disclaimer: I wrote this over a week ago, before Ep 9 even aired. So yes, I know that due to spoilers, some of the stuff I’ve written above is already invalid. For example, it doesn’t look like we’ll see Connie in 10x10 or find out anything about the missing 17 days.

I didn’t want to change anything in this post, partly because I’m lazy 😋 and partly because, as far as these being possibilities we’re considering, they’re still valid, even if they don’t happen in this coming episodes. Just think of them as food for thought.

So, thoughts? 😉

#beth greene #beth greene lives #beth is alive #beth is coming #td theory #td theories #team delusional #team defiance #beth is almost here #bethyl

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4evernalwaysgrrl · 7 years

Text

Beginning or end?

These nights are getting longer with all of this running through my head. I turn and being to stroke her porcelain skin, running my finger along her bare side. My mind still reels with the past night’s event and odd occurrences. I reach for my comforter wrapping it tightly around me as I approach my window. The rain is howling outside as the storm rages on and I’m here in comfort of my one true love’s embrace. Why aren’t I leaping with joy or basking in the glory? The most beautiful woman I’ve ever known lay beside me in my arms sleeping peacefully. My mind wonders back to last night as a single tear trails down my cheek….

I wake to a loud ring beside my head. I shake myself awake and reach for my cell, Just whom could be calling at this hour? “Hello?”

“Hi…” the line goes silent for several moments then the small hoarse voice speaks once more, “I had a dream about you, I miss you.” My head tilts in confusion, who would do this at this hour? It suddenly hits me as a small smile creeps upon my face, the thought of my sweet baby blue sleeping soundly as she dreams.

“I missed you too…” My words quiver as the fall from my lips. My mouth begins to go dry and lips become chapped as bitter cold tears stream down my cheeks. Just as I’ve begun to forget she was there lingering in my heart and head she returns once more, right front and center. Can I handle this once more? The idea of watching her with this odd character I’ve seen plastered across her social media makes my heart squeeze tightly and slow in pace. It’s slowly killing me, slowly making me change whom I am. I’m not sure I can just be that friend, the one she knows she can rely on no matter the situation. Not after all this time.

“Melly?” her velvet tone rings in my ears bringing me back to reality. “Did you hear what I asked?” she almost seems hurt.

“Yes, Yes I did. Of course you can come over. Is something bothering you Baby Blue?” I swallow the lump in my throat and think of all possible scenarios that could occur all ending in a heart break nonetheless. I can almost feel my heart leap from my chest with the weight of what I’ve just agreed to. It was too late to turn back now; she had already hung up without my knowledge.

I collapse onto my couch and close my eyes in a very poor attempt to rationalize what could possess her to want to see me after six months of no contact what so ever. Within minutes there is a knock on my door. I take a deep breath just to have swept from my lungs at the bittersweet site before me. Her hair is a mess, her clothes are disheveled and her make up is smeared. I can’t control my actions even in my own state of despair. I gather her in my arms and rock us gently. No words ever needed to be traded between us when one or the other was upset. It just came natural to us to comfort as the other wished. I take her hand in my own and lead her to the bathroom. I’m afraid to speak for I may given in to my own desperate needs but I do just to soothe her shuddering frame.

“It will be alright, Let’s get you cleaned up huh?” my head tilts slightly with curious and concerned eyes searching her for any signs of physical distress. My body goes ridged at the site before me. Behind the make up lay two black eyes and a busted lip. My thoughts begin to swarm my mind, hatred filling every crevasse of me. Who could lay a hand on my beauty? Who would be as bold to do such a thing to such a woman that wouldn’t harm a fly unless absolutely necessary? I see her start to cower at my change in demeanor. I sigh once more and go to my shower running the water for a bath. “Will you need help?” My tone barely audible above the water flow, she just nods in return. I step closer and hold out my hand. “We’ll start with your shoes.” I motion for her to sit on the toilet seat since it’s better then trying to stand and remove her sneakers. I let a chuckle out under my breath when I see what shoes they are. “Couldn’t get rid of them, could you?” I look up at her and smile lightly as I untie them and gently attempt to shake them loose from her feet. The “Daryl Dixon” on opposite sides is barely visible and smudged but still readable. Some old habits never die I presume. I nod my head up motioning for her to stand. “I’ll help with your jacket, do you want me to leave so you can fully undress?” the fear that arises in her eyes at my words makes it so much harder not to just hold her until the pain subsides for her. “Beautiful I’ll just be right outside the door, but only if you want me to leave.” I have seen her nude multiple times but manners always overshadow my own urges and wants. She winces as she speaks.

“No, please stay, I’m afraid I won’t be able to get everything by myself.” The pleading look she shoots my way catches me off guard. She never was one to ask for help let alone admitting she couldn’t do something on her own. I nod and pull the jacket off her shoulders and down her arms careful to watch my placement for potential bruises and cuts even. I want to look away as the tears begin to fall from her eyes but I can’t. I have to make this better; never will I allow her to be in this shape once more. She doesn’t deserve this sort of treatment, she deserves to be happy and deserves to with someone who will treat her as though she were his or her world. Tossing her coat to the side, I stare at the bruised and defeated young woman before me. So much comes to the front of my mind as all the pieces begin to latch into place.

“How long…. I’m so oblivious. I’m so sorry I didn’t notice before.” Turning away momentarily tears begin to escape my own eyes. Slowing lifting my gaze to hers I gingerly place a hand to her cheek. Her skin cold and damp from sweat possibly. “Why didn’t I realize this before?” I shake my head and begin to mentally scold and ridicule myself. Her hand lands on my own and leans into my touch.

“I hid it well, Fake smiles go far I guess.” Her bitter laugh shows her own anger. I reach out grazing the slender arms that are now nothing more then black and blue. One cut perfectly outstanding the other flesh on her pale figure. I trace it knowing it was much older then the bruises. “You couldn’t do anything, we were young and there was nothing more we could do beyond tell a legal adult that would just brush it off.” She must have been observing where my eyes had landed. She spoke of how the scar got there long ago and it begins to ring out in my ears. I smile lightly mesmerized just by her touch. My hand cups her cheek once more as my lips land tenderly on her forehead.

“Stay the night, that way you can get some rest and we can talk tomorrow?” the concern most evident in my voice now that the knowledge of what has occurred is at the forefront of my mind. She just nods again to respond, almost afraid to disobey. I look down and back up trying to hide the disappointment. “No is a more then acceptable answer. I understand if being here is awkward and weird for you.” She shakes her head furiously and hugs me close whining lightly a each movement. I pull her back ever so slightly and place a small kiss on her lips. She doesn’t move, doesn’t react just stands there blinking unsure. “I’m sorry!” I back up shaking my head and frantically back tracking my present actions. “I just I can’t stand seeing you in such a state. I can’t even stand seeing you frown let alone half dead with no color to you what so ever. You mean so much to me and this just kills..” Her lips cut the last of my speech

“Melody, calm down it is quite alright. I just didn’t expect that. I know you care I care for you too. No actually I love you. I always have, it’s just taken this separation for me to see I need you in my life.” Her lips quiver and the waterfall streams across her face. Stunned I’m still as a tree. Is this just my imagination going wild? There’s no way this is happening now of all times. I look down at my engagement ring and back at her. Realization crosses her face and I hang my head. “I’ll it’s obvious I shouldn’t have come.” She tries to move past me but I stand tall and block her way. I look at the ring once more and place it on the counter.

“Let’s just get you a bath and we’ll talk.” I move to lift her shirt and cringe myself at the purple discoloration all along her ribs. “Arms up if you can please?” I whisper lowly careful not to startle the beauty before me. To my shock she has no bra and even her bare breasts are discolored. My stomach churns at the potential variations of the cause. Tugging at the belt loops of her jeans as the worst part, it’s as though no part of her perfect skin had gone unscathed. I pick her up bridal style as cautiously as I can and lower her into the soapy water. Handing her a washcloth, she looks at it blankly and it hits me. The pain is so unbearable that she can barely do anything herself. “Am I allowed to help?” She just shrugs. “I won’t unless it’s okay.” Her huff tells me all that is necessary.

Arms wrapping around my waist break my train of thought. “Good morning beautiful” her hoarse rasp of a morning voice carries me back to reality. I try to conceal my concern and turn in her arms.

“Good morning Miss Sue, did you get some genuine rest?” I smile grimly trying my best to be strong for her sake. I knew better but it was worth attempting. She caresses my cheek and worry forms in her whole being.

“Melly, what’s wrong?” Her bright blue eyes shining bright in the dawn’s light. I look away unable to continue my stance with her looking at me like that. She pulls me closer and directs my eyes back to her immediately. “Please tell me, is it me? Do I need to leave?” I shake my head furiously and gather her face in my hands. I need the reassurance, I can’t continue like this without her invested fully in us. I search those ocean blues for some doubt; some fear that this isn’t what she really wants. When none is to be found I kiss her deeply burying my hands in her hair. Her body presses flush against my own enlisting a whimper from me. I pull away momentarily unsure if this shall continue…. My mind wanders back once more.

I gather the washcloth in one hand and begin washing the curves I’ve craved so deeply. Between body parts I have to look away gathering my own wild emotions swapping from anger to awe. All the different colors forming on her skin sickens me but the woman before me has never seemed more intriguing. She cringes lightly when I lightly brush her neck. My jaw clenches, and releases as I challenge myself to continue looking at this pained and weak version of the girl who once stood before her father facing the inevitable beating ahead due to her mother’s cowardice. How could it come to this? I keep telling myself if I knew I could’ve done more. How could I not know? Her clearing her throat shocks me into the gruesome scene before me.

“Stop. It is only my fault, and my fault alone,” Her voice almost inaudible as she strains her throat. My head hands in some form of remorse. She tries to reach for my hand but her injuries are too extensive. I look up in fear of her doing m ore harm then good.

“Don’t harm yourself, I’m still dazed by how long this could have gone on. How long was I this oblivious to the girl I hold so close to my heart” I return to washing her body and rinsing the blood from wounds I didn’t know were possible. As she winces in pain I lose myself in my own world of lust. The idea of caressing and touching her tender skin, feeling her body beneath my own; Once more I shake my head clear. I reach to lift her out of the tub, knowing I’ve gotten myself into a horrible situation. “Can you stand so I can dry you off?” I swallow hard; this is a bitter test of my own self-control. All I want to do is reach out and stroke her, making her wounds disappear with my touch. She just nods in response eyeing me suspiciously. This can’t be the time or place to be fantasizing about her body. I sigh and wrap her in one of my plush towels hoping for my own sake that I can contain myself just for tonight the ache grows as my mind runs wild once more. Closing my eyes and reopening them looking into her baby blues pulls me into the trance I’ve always had with her.

“Melody,” She reaches for my cheek shivering slightly as her poor effort to hold her towel fails and it falls. She blushes deeply and covers herself. I chuckle lightly and place my hands on hers.

“Yes my Queen?” I smile slightly and remove her hands. Her face is bright red as the cold gets the better of her body. Her full breasts glimmering with water or sweat, unsure which it is I reach for her sides, My fingers tracing the outline of the bruises decorating her chiseled stomach.

“Am I that ugly that you can’t look at me for a long period?” my heart sinks at her question. A tear slides down her cheek, as I am quick to swipe it away. I sweep her off her feet, forgetting that she is bare. I place her on my bed and I lay beside her ignoring all my body’s instincts.

“Do you want my honest answer?” I cock my eyebrow at her and look dead into the eyes that entice me daily. Her fidgeting shows she’s unsure of how to answer. “Not once in my life have a met such a goddess of a human like you. I look away to prevent myself from touching you and starting something else entirely.” She begins to shiver as I speak and gather in my arms while continuing my story. She relaxes into my being and rests her head on my shoulder. I grab the blanket laying beside my bed and drape it over her body. “When we met your looks weren’t you, they were who you were trying to be. The girl everyone else wanted to see. All the make up and the extensions were just you trying to please everyone else. I knew that from the beginning but I loved you even then. I knew you did everything for someone else. You lived for others. Still to this day you do but you’ve learned to try to find happiness…” my voice trails off at the thought of who she has been with for almost three years now. Taking a deep breath as I continue “Gave yourself to who you thought loved you unconditionally then got addicted to the feeling of being useful in that sense.” I twitch slightly realizing just how useless she feels on a daily basis. “Using your body for all the things you thought you couldn’t achieve otherwise. Not giving anyone the opportunity to judge you based on anything more because you assumed. You assumed they would judge you for the life you’ve lived not who you are and the beauty that lay beneath your vibrant eyes, full breasts and luscious curves. You wouldn’t let anyone in. It was too late though, someone has already settled in your heart. Already seen the frightened and lost girl beneath.” Tears spring to her eyes as I finish my speech. She clings to me and I just wrap my arms tightly around her all my defenses to try my best to hide what I want gone in a split second. I lift her chin looking deeply into the eyes of the one girl I long for. Finally the fear has disappeared in all ways. I no longer am thinking. I lean in and kiss her with all the energy and strength I have. Sliding my hand up her neck to cup it and deepen the kiss. I pull back momentarily still unsure but it’s quickly ended as she pulls me back into a heated embrace. Nipping at her lower lip I enlist a small whimper, which falls from her lips. This just heats me to the core as I flip her onto her back and begin kissing along her jaw line with my hands exploring her silky skin. Fingers tracing every inch, I hesitate when my hands begin to caress the breasts I’ve dreamt of since my freshman year of high school. I glance at her to see the look of pure lust, love and bliss whirling in her eyes. Only smirking I begin massaging as my mouth begins to venture lower and lower leaving no inch of her untouched. Leaving no curve unloved. My mind reeling, the only thing keeping me from my heart from leaping out of my chest is my primal instincts to please. I stop in the valley of her chest and lick a trail to one nipple sucking and nibbling lightly on the bud, Pinching on the other. My hand absent of anything to do slowly drags down her naval and onto her thigh. Digging my nails in, she gasps in anticipation, I trace with my index around her aroused sex. She groans and breathes out heavily. She clutches my back digging deep into my flesh racking her nails down. I moan and stiffen altogether temporarily paralyzed by her touch. She takes this opportunity to flip me onto my back a glimpse of excitement seeps through both of us as we realize just what we are doing. She smiles brightly at me for the first time since she arrived and whispers hoarsely

“You are so beautiful.” Within minutes that smile fades into what almost seems like pure concentration and focus.

#story #love #basedontruth #blueeyes #blueeyedgirl #relationship goals #basic

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