#Tube Cleaning Machine

[hydrojetenergy]

Hydrojetenergy: Leading Rotating Shaft Tube Cleaning Machine Manufacturers

Hydrojetenergy stands as a leading force in the realm of industrial cleaning equipment, specializing particularly as Rotating Shaft Tube Cleaning Machine Manufacturers. Their dedication lies in engineering innovative solutions tailored specifically for the thorough cleaning and maintenance of rotating shaft tubes in various industrial settings.

With a focus on precision and efficiency, Hydrojetenergy's machines boast cutting-edge technology designed to effectively remove contaminants and deposits from shaft tubes, ensuring optimal performance and longevity of critical machinery. As Rotating Shaft Tube Cleaning Machine Manufacturers, Hydrojetenergy prioritizes quality craftsmanship, reliability, and customer satisfaction, positioning themselves as trusted partners for industries reliant on precise and efficient cleaning solutions.

Visit for more info : https://www.hydrojetindia.com/manufacturers/tube-cleaning-triplex-pump.html 

Address : Hydro Jet Energy, 29/2, Parishikhar Cottage Industrial Estate, Near Ramol Toll Plaza, SP Ring road, Ramol, Ahmedabad-382449,Gujarat,India

Mail : hjesales@gmail.com

Phone no : 8686862582

[orchideae]

Alive and awake but at what cost, really?

[myjackwilliamblog]

Innovations in Tank Cleaning Devices: How Rotary Jet Mixers Improve Efficiency

Efficient tank cleaning is a critical component of maintaining industrial operations, especially in sectors where hygiene and safety are paramount. Recent advancements in tank cleaning technologies, particularly the Rotary Jet Mixer, have revolutionised the process by significantly enhancing both speed and efficiency. This blog explores how these innovations, alongside other industrial equipment such as Gasketed Plate Heat Exchangers, Flue Gas Economizers, and Hygienic Ball Valves, contribute to a more efficient and streamlined operation.

The Importance of Efficient Tank Cleaning

In various industries, including food and beverage, pharmaceuticals, and chemicals, the cleanliness of storage tanks directly impacts product quality and safety. Traditional tank cleaning methods often involve time-consuming manual labour, which can result in longer downtimes and higher operational costs. With the advent of modern cleaning technologies, particularly the Rotary Jet Mixer, the industry has seen a significant shift towards more automated and efficient cleaning solutions.

Rotary Jet Mixers provide a powerful, targeted cleaning action that reaches all internal surfaces of the tank, ensuring thorough sanitation. This innovation not only speeds up the cleaning process but also reduces the consumption of water, energy, and cleaning agents, making it an environmentally friendly choice.

How Rotary Jet Mixers Enhance Cleaning Efficiency

Rotary Jet Mixers operate by rotating high-pressure jets within the tank, creating a powerful swirling motion. This dynamic action ensures that the cleaning solution reaches every corner of the tank, effectively removing residue and contaminants. Compared to traditional methods, this technique offers several advantages:

1. Comprehensive Cleaning Action

Unlike static spray balls or manual cleaning, the Rotary Jet Mixer ensures a 360-degree cleaning coverage. This comprehensive action guarantees that even the most stubborn residues are removed, which is essential in industries that require strict hygiene standards.

2. Reduced Cleaning Time and Costs

The efficiency of the Rotary Jet Mixer means that tanks can be cleaned in a fraction of the time required by older methods. This reduction in cleaning time translates to less downtime and, consequently, lower operational costs. Additionally, the precise action of the mixer reduces the need for excessive amounts of cleaning agents and water, further cutting down on expenses.

3. Environmentally Friendly Operation

With growing concerns over environmental sustainability, the Rotary Jet Mixer offers an eco-friendly solution by minimising water and chemical usage. This is particularly beneficial in industries aiming to reduce their environmental footprint while maintaining high standards of cleanliness.

Integrating Rotary Jet Mixers with Other Equipment

The efficiency gains provided by Rotary Jet Mixers can be further enhanced when integrated with other advanced industrial equipment. For example:

Gasketed Plate Heat Exchangers

These devices are essential in maintaining the optimal temperature during the cleaning process. When paired with a Rotary Jet Mixer, they ensure that cleaning solutions are delivered at the ideal temperature, enhancing their effectiveness.

Flue Gas Economizers

Used primarily in energy recovery, Flue Gas Economizers can be combined with Rotary Jet Mixers to recycle heat during the cleaning process. This not only saves energy but also reduces the overall cost of operation.

Hygienic Ball Valves

As a Hygienic Ball Valves Supplier, ensuring the integrity of valves during tank cleaning is crucial. These valves prevent contamination and allow for precise control over the flow of cleaning agents, ensuring that the Rotary Jet Mixer operates under optimal conditions.

Finding the Right Equipment for Your Needs

If you are in the market for a tank cleaning machine for sale, or seeking a reliable tube type heat exchanger supplier or distributor of centrifugal pumps, it’s important to choose a supplier that understands the unique needs of your industry. A good supplier will offer not just the equipment, but also the expertise to integrate these devices seamlessly into your existing systems.

In industries like LNG, where a gas combustion unit for LNG and an Industrial Fired Heater are essential, integrating a Rotary Jet Mixer into the cleaning process can dramatically improve efficiency and safety.

Conclusion

Rotary Jet Mixers represent a significant advancement in tank cleaning technology, offering improved efficiency, reduced costs, and enhanced environmental sustainability. When paired with other state-of-the-art equipment such as Gasketed Plate Heat Exchangers and Hygienic Ball Valves, the benefits are amplified, leading to more streamlined operations across various industries.

We hope this article has provided valuable insights into the innovations in tank cleaning devices. If you have any questions or would like to share your experiences, we invite you to leave a comment below.

[cleanpap]

How to Use a CPAP Tube Cleaner

Using a cpap tube cleaner is essential for maintaining your CPAP machine’s hygiene and performance. Start by disconnecting the tube from the CPAP machine and mask. Rinse the tube with warm water to remove any loose debris. Then, attach the CPAP tube cleaner to one end of the hose. Gently push the brush or cleaner through the tube, ensuring it reaches all areas to dislodge and remove built-up residues. Pull the cleaner back through the tube and rinse it again with warm water. Allow the tube to air dry completely before reconnecting it. Regular cleaning with CleanPAPᵀᴹ ensures your CPAP machine functions effectively and promotes better respiratory health.

Read More: Let’s know the features of the best CPAP Cleaner

[ari-ana-bel-la]

Hi Pookie

I wanted to request A Max daughter one like Max and Kelly had the baby and the reader is like 16-17 (she can drive) and she gets into a really really bad car accident (like so bad she was in a coma or something) and the hospital calls both but they don't answer since they're busy with the baby. they have been neglecting her. Until they called another driver and they went to her and like they lecture Max and Kelly.

Unanswered Calls

Part 2: Answered Calls

Yn gripped the steering wheel with shaky hands, her breathing uneven as she blinked back the sting of exhaustion. The streetlights blurred as rain splattered against the windshield, the rhythmic thudding of wipers doing little to clear her vision.

She was used to being on her own.

It wasn’t like she hadn’t asked. Earlier that afternoon, she had stood at the kitchen counter, bag in hand, waiting.

“Mom, Dad, I have ballet at six,” she had said, shifting her weight awkwardly as Kelly rocked the baby in her arms and Max tried to calm Penelope, who was throwing a fit about something.

Neither of them had even turned toward her.

“I can’t right now, sweetie,” Kelly had murmured distractedly, adjusting the baby’s tiny blanket.

“Ask your mom, I—Penelope, please, stop screaming,” Max had muttered, rubbing his temple as he tried to negotiate with his six-year-old daughter.

Yn had nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat. She didn’t ask again. She was used to this—being the afterthought, the independent one, the one who didn’t need attention because she never demanded it. So she had grabbed her car keys, not trusting herself to be upset.

Now, barely an hour later, everything was going wrong.

Her tires hit a patch of water, hydroplaning before she could react. The world spun. A blaring horn. The sharp, crunching sound of metal on metal. A shock of pain. Then, blackness.

Daniel was halfway through dinner when his phone buzzed. He almost ignored it, expecting it to be some stupid spam call, but something made him glance down.

Unknown Number.

Frowning, he wiped his hands on a napkin before answering. “Hello?”

“Is this Daniel?” A woman's voice, professional but urgent. “Daniel Ric—”

“Yes, yes, who is this?” He sat up straight, suddenly alert.

“This is St. James Hospital. Your goddaughter, Yn Verstappen, was in a severe car accident. You were listed as an emergency contact. We’ve been trying to reach her parents, but—”

Daniel was already on his feet, chair scraping against the floor. “Where is she? What happened?”

“She sustained significant injuries, including lung trauma. We had to place a chest tube to assist her breathing. The doctors have decided to keep her in a medically induced sleep for a few days to help her body recover.”

His stomach twisted. “And Max and Kelly? Her parents?”

“We’ve called multiple times. No answer.”

Daniel clenched his jaw. “I’ll be there in ten.”

The hospital smelled of antiseptic and something too clean to be comforting. Daniel rushed through the corridors, his pulse hammering in his throat as he found Yn’s room.

Nothing could have prepared him for the sight.

She lay there, pale against the hospital sheets, her face bruised, her arm wrapped in gauze. Tubes ran from her chest, connected to a machine that beeped steadily.

A nurse—young, with kind eyes—stood by the bedside, adjusting the IV. She looked up as he entered. “Are you Daniel?”

He swallowed. “Yeah.”

“I’m Nurse Emily. She’s stable for now.”

He approached the bed slowly, his heart aching. “Jesus, kid…” He ran a shaky hand through his hair before sitting beside her.

For a moment, he just stared at her. Yn, who had always been so full of life, so determined to carve her own space in a world that never seemed to make room for her. Now she lay still, fragile in a way he had never seen before.

He reached out, brushing her hair from her forehead. “I’m here, Yn,” he whispered.

Emily hesitated before speaking. “You’re the first person who answered.”

Daniel frowned. “What do you mean?”

She sighed. “We called her parents over and over. No answer. No call back.”

Daniel’s hands curled into fists. “They didn’t even pick up?”

Emily shook her head. “Not once.”

Daniel let out a slow, furious breath. Then he pulled out his phone and called Max.

Voicemail.

He tried Kelly.

Voicemail.

Grinding his teeth, he left a message. “Max. Kelly. Your daughter is in the hospital. She was in a bad car accident. Call me back. Now.”

An hour passed. Nothing.

Two hours.

Three.

Four.

Yn remained unconscious, her chest rising and falling with the help of the machines. Daniel stayed at her side, his anger growing hotter with every minute.

When Max and Kelly finally walked through the door, he was ready.

Kelly looked tired. Max looked confused.

“Daniel, what’s going on?” Max asked, frowning.

Daniel stood up slowly. “What’s going on?” His voice was too calm. “You tell me, Max. Kelly. Where the hell have you been?”

Kelly blinked. “At home, we—”

“At home?” Daniel let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Your daughter has been lying in this hospital bed for hours, and you were at home?”

Max’s expression darkened. “We didn’t get any calls.”

“Bullshit.” Daniel pulled out his phone and waved it. “I called you. The hospital called you. They tried for hours. But I guess you were too busy to notice your own daughter almost died.”

Kelly paled. “Died?” Her voice wavered as she looked at Yn. “Oh my God.”

Max took a step forward, but Daniel blocked him. “Don’t.” His voice was steel. “You don’t get to come in here now and pretend you care.”

Max’s jaw clenched. “Of course we care.”

Daniel scoffed. “Do you? Because she drove herself to ballet since neither of you could be bothered. She’s seventeen, Max. A kid. But she didn’t even ask twice because she already knew the answer.”

Kelly looked away, shame creeping into her features.

Daniel continued, voice shaking with anger. “She was alone when the accident happened. Alone when they brought her here. And when the doctors needed her parents, where were you?”

Silence.

Daniel exhaled sharply. “She’s used to this, you know?” His voice was quiet now, but no less furious. “She’s used to being second to Penelope, to the baby, to everything else in your lives. She doesn’t complain. She doesn’t make a fuss. She just… deals with it.” He swallowed hard. “But this? This she couldn’t deal with alone.”

Max ran a hand down his face, guilt creeping in. “I—”

“I don’t want excuses,” Daniel snapped. “I want you to do better.”

Kelly’s eyes filled with tears. “Can we see her?”

Daniel stepped aside. “She’s been waiting long enough.”

Max walked to the bed, his hands trembling as he reached for Yn’s fingers. “Oh, sweetheart…” His voice broke.

Kelly sat on the other side, her hand covering her mouth as silent tears slipped down her face.

Daniel crossed his arms, watching.

They could cry all they wanted. But the real question was—would they change?

And for Yn’s sake, they damn well better.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♥︎♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Authors Note: Hey loves. I hope you enjoyed reading this story. My requests are always open for you. No Part 2 requests, please.

-🩷🎀

[rockwood790]

Introducing our latest addition – LM-50 Series CNC Precision Leveling Machine. Explore your metalworking precision with this advanced technology.

[subzerosol]

Pneumatic Tube Cleaner | Subzero Solutions

Subzero Solutions provides quality tools and service to the heat exchangers, boiler manufacturing, and re-tubing industry. We are Manufacturer of tube cleaning machine in india . Our Electric Tube Cleaner represents our most commonly used package for cleaning chiller tubes. Subzero Solutions offers a wide range of tube cleaning brush to match your specific tube cleaning need. There are various types of brushes. nylon brush, brass brush, stainless steel brush. We Subzero manufactures pneumatic tube cleaner which is shock resistance- especially for distillery plant & where electric equipment is hazardous. machine speed/torque can be controlled as per the application..For more details visit our site .

[st4rg8te]

The Villainess' Redemption (P. 1?)

Various! Yanderes X Ex-Villainess! Reader

✦✧✦✧

Synopsis: You were once the villainess from some poorly-written romance novel, and somehow, you’ve ended up taking the place of a girl who shared your name—a girl who died while reading your story.

This world is different. Here, you’re no longer tied to a script or doomed to a villainess’s fate. Can you rewrite your ending, and find a place for yourself in this new reality? 

(aka cliche villainess reader gets transported into the modern times and suffers a lot)

✦✧✦✧

✦✧✦✧

The last thing you remember is the swing of the executioner’s blade against your neck—a fitting end for all the terrible crimes you’ve committed. 

Or so you thought.

When you wake up, it’s not the fiery pits of hell that greet you, but a room unlike any you’ve ever seen before.

Through blurred vision, you make out walls impossibly smooth and white, gleaming like polished marble. The light above burns unnaturally bright. The air is sharp and clean, carrying a faint, acrid tang that prickles at your nose.

Was this the afterlife?

Thin tubes are attached to your skin, running from your veins into strange machines you can’t begin to understand. A spike of panic grips you, your breath quickening as your mind scrambles for an explanation.

What if you weren't dead? What if they kept you alive to make you suffer more?

Your trembling hands brush over your body, and your face burns when you realize they’ve stripped you of your former clothes. You’re left in plain, white garments—clean, but thin and exposing.

The indignity is almost as much as the confusion, but you swallow it down, determined to unravel the mystery of this waking nightmare.

On the table beside you lies a book, its presence almost unnoticeable in the room. Yet something about it draws your attention, an unspoken pull that makes your hand reach out despite the unease in your gut.

The front is adorned with a vivid illustration: a man and a woman locked in a tender embrace, their faces soft with affection. There’s something hauntingly familiar about their faces, though you can’t immediately place why.

The title, etched in bold, flowing letters, reads: Enchanted by Fate.

You flip the book open, its pristine pages cool and crisp beneath your trembling fingers.

At first, it seems harmless—a typical romance, the kind that young noble ladies often liked to read. But as your eyes skim the text, a dreadful recognition dawns.

The names leap off the page like venomous snakes: his name—your old lover—and her.

Your heart pounds as anger flares, spreading through your chest. You can almost see her face again, the one who orchestrated your downfall, the one who plunged the blade into your back long before the executioner ever did.

Then your fingers freeze.

Your name.

Paragraphs upon paragraphs detailing your life, your crimes, and your eventual execution. The words blur as the memories resurface—the blade, the crowd, the jeers. Your breath hitches, and the sterile air suddenly feels suffocating.

You slam the book shut, the sound echoing unnaturally in the room, and throw it across the floor. It lands with a dull thud, pages spilling open like a gutted beast, taunting you from where it lies.

That book knew everything. It was impossible. Yet it was real.

With your mind still reeling from what you've just read, you fail to notice the woman entering the room.

Then, the sound of her voice cuts through the fog.

“She’s awake!”

You must have been right. This is your own personal hell.

✦✧✦✧

Human beings are resilient.

So, despite the mental blows you've suffered in a single day, you slowly begin to adjust to your strange new existence in the hospital over the following weeks.

There's so much about this world that you don’t understand, and begrudgingly, you admit that it still frightens you. You can’t shake the feeling that this is all some form of witchcraft.

The nurses, though kind, remind you of your old maids, their faces polite but distant as they introduce you to odd contraptions you can't begin to comprehend.

They call it technology, and they show you things like a 'television,' a box that displays moving images as though alive, and a 'toilet' that can swallow waste with a single flush—something that still seems impossible to you.

They find your lack of knowledge a little concerning, but none of them have the courage to say anything about it, chalking it up to a side effect of your memory loss.

It’s humiliating beyond words to be treated like a clueless child. The condescending tones, the endless explanations of things that feel like they should be second nature—it grates on you until the frustration threatens to spill over as tears.

In your past life, you were always the one in control. You were the influential daughter of a noble family—admired and feared by many. Now, all of that feels like a distant memory, a cruel joke played by fate.

You feel lost.

But the worst part—the part you can never quite confront—is the stranger in the mirror. The face staring back is not your own. You're told she shares your name, but that doesn’t make it any easier.

You can't help but avert your eyes every time you see reflections of yourself.

“[Y/N], are you doing okay today?”

The deep, gentle voice pulls you out of your spiraling thoughts. When you look up, a handsome man comes into focus.

It’s Your Doctor ♡.

Initially, he took an interest in you purely out of professional obligation. Your case was unlike anything he’d encountered before. He had treated patients with amnesia in the past, but never one as severe as yours. Especially considering the circumstances of why you were admitted in the first place. You reminded him of a wild animal—eyes darting with mistrust and fear, shrinking away from your surroundings. And yet, against his better judgment, he found himself drawn to you, compelled by the need to unravel the mystery of your mind. While you lacked even the most basic understanding of modern conveniences, certain skills and knowledge seemed to come to you effortlessly. You could converse fluently in multiple languages. You knew the names and precise uses of every piece of cutlery, from fish forks to soup spoons, and could recount their placement in a formal table setting. It was truly strange. He began to set aside his busy work, stealing moments during breaks to visit your room. It became a routine—teaching you; how to use a water dispenser, explaining the functions of a phone, or describing the significance of certain holidays and traditions.. He relished the way your face would light up in awe at the simplest things. The wonder in your eyes made him feel like he was witnessing the world anew, through your gaze. He still chuckles quietly to himself when he remembers your reaction to the television. The way you gasped, wide-eyed and almost frozen, as moving images flickered across the screen—it was unforgettable. “Pft.” The sound escaped him, soft but audible. A nurse passing by stopped in her tracks, stunned. She had worked with the doctor for years and had never seen him laugh—let alone blush. Yet here he was, smirking to himself like a schoolboy with a crush. After that, whispers began to circulate through the halls: that the hospital’s famous bachelor had fallen for someone.

"I'm feeling fine. Thank you for asking, doctor."

"I'm glad to hear that," he replied, his tone warm. "And you don't have to be so formal with me."

He sits down by your bedside, eyes curved upwards in a gentle smile as he begins to speak again.

"You're being discharged this afternoon. You'll be able to go home soon."

"Home?"

Would that mean that you would have to meet the body owner's family?

Throughout your entire stay at the hospital, not once had anyone visited you except the doctor and the nurse who attended to you daily.

A knot of nervousness forms in your stomach at the thought of finally meeting those people. What if they found your behavior too strange? What if they saw through you?

They didn’t know the truth—that their daughter was gone. Replaced by a stranger.

The doctor seems to notice the shift in your demeanor. Without hesitation, he reaches over, his hand warm and steady as it rests over yours. The gentle squeeze pulls you back to reality.

"Don’t worry," he says softly. "If you feel any pain or discomfort, please don’t hesitate to let me know. And I can give you my contact information—you can call or text me if you need help with anything."

"I... I’ve troubled you enough already," your eyes are fixed firmly on the bedspread, unable to meet his intense gaze.

Maybe it is normal in this world for women and men to touch eachother so casually like this.

"Nonsense," He replies with a chuckle. "Helping you is my job, after all ♡."

In the end, you are sent off with a small bag containing all your belongings and a crisp white slip of paper in hand, the string of digits scribbled neatly on it.

He watches you walk away, his gaze never wavering. A part of him wishes you had stayed longer.

He exhales a long, quiet sigh, his lips curving ever so slightly into a smile. You’ll call him soon.

And when you do, he’ll be there, ready to help.

✦✧✦✧

To your surprise, a nurse leads you to what they call a “car” parked in front of the hospital entrance—a carriage without horses. You feel a small flicker of pride in yourself for remembering the term.

It moves faster than any carriage you’ve ever known. And as the scenery blurs by, you can’t help but press your face to the window, eyes wide with wonder. Towering buildings scrape the sky, their glass and steel glinting in the sunlight. The bustling streets are filled with all kinds of people from all walks of life.

The driver eventually steers the car away from the bustling scene, guiding it into a quieter neighborhood. The streets narrow, and the towering skyscrapers give way to smaller, more subdued structures. Finally, the car comes to a halt in front of a large, old building.

"Have a nice day, miss."

"Ah… thank you," you say softly as you step out, your voice tinged with uncertainty.

The car drives off, and then you're finally left alone.

You turn to face the building, its weathered facade staring back at you. Compared to the grand mansion where you spent your entire life, this place feels cramped and shabby, its age evident in the peeling paint and creaking steps. Rows of numbered doors line each floor, stretching upward in a vertical maze.

Navigating the unfamiliar hallways proves to be a challenge, every turn leaving you more disoriented. When you finally find the staircase, you hesitate. The nurse had mentioned “elevators,” those strange boxes that carried people between floors. But the thought of stepping inside one fills you with unease.

Shaking off the idea, you take the stairs instead, the journey upward feeling longer than it should. Your legs ache with every step, and by the time you reach the supposed floor you live on, you’re out of breath.

At last, you find your door. Apartment 303. The brass plaque gleams faintly in the dim hallway light.

"Hello?"

You knock on the door, but only silence greets you. Anxiety begins to coil in your chest, tightening with each passing second. You glance around the empty hallway, hoping for a sign, a clue—anything. But nothing comes.

Your gaze shifts to the pad mounted beside the door. The arrangement of numbers stares back at you. It should be easy, you tell yourself. Just enter the code.

You press the first digit, then the second. It feels right—like you’re doing what you’re supposed to—but when you hit the final key, the pad lights up red and emits a harsh beep.

Locked.

Your heart sinks. You try again. But the result is the same: a flash of red and that sharp, cold beep.

Again.

Each failure making your frustration rise. Tears prick the corners of your eyes as the sudden overwhelming pressure of everything catches up to you.

The tears spill over, warm streaks running down your cheeks as quiet sobs escape your lips. You feel pathetic.

You miss your family.

You hadn’t allowed yourself to think about them until now—not fully. But their faces stay clear in your mind.

You miss your father’s embrace, your mother’s soothing voice, the way your brothers would tease and protect you in equal measure.

But they are gone. All of them, condemned to death because of your stupid actions.

And now, here you are—trapped in this foreign land, surrounded by incomprehensible machines and alien customs. The people here don’t know you, and you’re certain they never could. You’re an imposter in a world that feels as if it’s actively rejecting you.

And for the first time since you woke up in this strange world, you let yourself finally admit the truth.

You don’t belong here.

✦✧✦✧

"Holy shit lady, are you okay?"

The last thing Your Neighbor ♡ had expected after coming home was to find you sitting on the floor, sobbing uncontrollably by your apartment door.

The two of you have exchanged pleasantries a handful of times, maybe a nod or a muttered “hello” in passing. But it had still worried him a little when he hadn’t seen you in months. Hell, he even figured you’d finally had enough of this place and moved out for good.

"Do you… need help?" he asks, stepping closer cautiously.

Your face burns with embarrassment. You quickly wipe at your tear-streaked face with the sleeve of your shirt, sniffling as you try to compose yourself.

"I just… I can’t get the door to open.."

His eyes flickers to the lock and then back to you. "What, the code’s not working?"

You nod, avoiding his gaze. "I… I’ve tried it so many times, but it keeps locking me out," you say, your voice wavering. "Do you know how to open it?"

"Yeah, I can take a look. Just give me the code."

As he steps closer to the keypad, you wipe at your eyes again, trying to salvage what is left of your dignity.

What is wrong with you? Your mother would have been disappointed at you acting like this.

"Hey," he say after a moment, glancing at you over his shoulder. "Don’t sweat it. This lock’s a piece of crap. Happens to me all the time."

"Um... do you know if anyone else lives in this place with me?"

The man tilts his head, a flicker of confusion crossing his face. "I don’t think so."

A part of you feels relieved. The idea of facing her family—the family you now supposedly belong to—had been gnawing at you since you left the hospital. At least you don’t have to pretend to be someone you’re not.

But at the same time, the thought of living alone makes your stomach twist. You’ve never been on your own before. In your old life, you were always surrounded by people—your parents, the servants, ready to spoil you rotten. You never once thought about what it would be like to have to manage on your own.

This is your punishment.

The irony isn’t lost on you. The gods must have seen how you mocked her—your father’s bastard. You used to laugh at her and make fun of her upbringing. Now you can't help but think that she would have done much better if she was in your situation.

"Thanks." you mutter finally, your voice barely audible.

She wouldn't have cried over some stupid door like this and humiliate herself in front of a random man!

"Anyway, that's how you do it. If you need help with anything else, just knock on my door-"

BAM!

Before he could finish his sentence, you were already gone.

✦✧✦✧

Your Neighbor ♡ thought that would be the last time you two would really talk to eachother.

Every time he saw you in the hallway or from across the parking lot, you’d scurry away like a startled rabbit, avoiding eye contact. He figured you were just shy—or maybe embarrassed about how you’d met. Either way, he didn’t expect to hear from you again.

So, he was surprised when, a week later, there was a knock on his door.

When he opened it, there you stood, cheeks flushed an indignant pink, holding a neatly folded napkin in your hands.

"What’s this?" he asked.

"I made it for you," you said, thrusting it toward him. "It’s a gift for helping me that day."

He unfolded the napkin and blinked in surprise. His name was carefully stitched onto the fabric, surrounded by flower motifs.

"Holy shit. You made this?"

It was the sweetest gift he had ever received.

I-I noticed you seem to… sweat a lot. Whenever I see you. I thought it might help," you added, the words tumbling out in a rush.

It took him a second to register what you’d said, and when he did, he couldn’t help but laugh. "Oh, that’s because I go to the gym a lot. Not because I’m just… sweating everywhere."

Your eyes widened, mortified. "Oh! I didn’t mean—"

He grinned, cutting you off. "Relax, it’s thoughtful. Thanks."

There was an awkward pause before he gestured behind him. "You want to come in?"

That moment marked the beginning of something—he wasn’t quite sure what to call it. Friendship? Maybe. But that night, over tea, you finally opened up and told him about your memory loss.

A protective instinct had sparked in him the day he found you crying outside your apartment, and it only grew stronger as the two of you started spending more time together.

Before long, it became a routine—going back and forth between apartments, sharing meals, and finding small ways to help each other.

You didn’t know how to cook, so he often brought over dinner and started teaching you how to make simple meals. At first, you were hesitant, your pride making you stubborn, but he patiently guided you through every step.

Grocery shopping became another shared activity, with him pointing out what to buy and explaining things you didn’t recognize. Though he did like to tease you whenever you added far too many sweets to the cart.

One day, he had casually mentioned his interest in learning an instrument, and before he could blink, you’d practically leapt at the opportunity to teach him. Your enthusiasm embarrassed him at first, but he couldn’t say no to you.

When you discovered the dusty electronic keyboard he’d tucked away in a storage box, your eyes had lit up like it was treasure. From that moment on, you became his self-appointed music tutor, insisting it was your way of repaying him for everything.

“Why do I feel like you’re only spending time with me for the keyboard?” he jokingly asked after yet another lesson.

You huffed, crossing your arms. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m doing this because I want to help you.”

He couldn’t hold back his grin.

The more time he spent with you, the harder he fell. You were blunt and prideful, but also sweet and endearing in a way that caught him off guard. When he told you about his job as a club bodyguard, you had compared him to a knight, which made him burst out laughing.

On his way to the gym, a nosy neighbor had stopped him. “So, are you two dating yet? I remember her asking around about your name once.”

He blinked in surprise before the memory clicked. It must have been when you made that embroidered napkin for him. The image of you nervously going door to door asking around, too shy to talk to him directly, made his chest tighten.

Without thinking, his hand drifted to his pocket, where he still kept the cloth. He was on cloud nine the entire day.

Ah, he’d ask you to be his girlfriend soon. That much he was sure of. If only you weren’t so wary of relationships—and that other man who kept hanging around you. How irritating.

The man claimed to be your doctor, but what kind of doctor visited his patients so often? He wasn’t naive, and he could see the way the guy looked at you, the way he lingered too long in your presence. He knew those signs well enough.

Well, no matter. He’d just have to keep a closer eye on you.

After all, you were his to protect.

✦✧✦✧

EXTRA:

After slamming the door in the man’s face, you sighed in relief.

Finally, some peace.

Turning to the apartment, you fumbled around for the light switch. When the bright light flickered on, it hit you—and so did the sight in front of you.

"What the hell?!"

The walls were plastered with posters��of him. Your old betrothed. His smug face stared back at you from every direction, alongside her, the woman who ruined your life.

You froze, taking it all in. It wasn’t just posters. There were figurines, framed photos, and even a pillow with his face on it.

It didn’t take long to figure out the awful truth. The girl whose body you’d taken wasn’t just any stranger—she was a die-hard fan of the book you came from.

✦✧✦✧

A/N: I hope you guys enjoy this wacky gift for New Years. I plan to introduce 2 more love interests if I ever get to writing the second part. They're like color coded. Anyway, this was like massive compared to my other works.

I'm still writing Twisted Affections Pt. 3, but some pieces of smut are probably going to come out before that. Thank you for patience!

✦✧✦✧

[fear-is-truth]

IN NOMINE PECCATI ( IN THE NAME OF SIN )

— CHARLIE MAYHEW x f!reader

tags — mature content﹒porn with plot﹒doctor + priest charlie mayhew﹒fem!reader﹒cnc﹒somno﹒oral (f!receiving)﹒unprotected p in v ﹒wc : 1.5k

THE DOORKNOB TURNS, allowing a sliver of yellow light to slip into the quiet house as charlie mayhew steps inside. with practised ease, he hangs up his coat and sets his keys down without a sound, as he’s done countless times before. his eyes fall on you, lying sprawled on the couch, bathed in the blue flicker of the television. you’re wearing nothing but a grey t-shirt, the hem brushing the tops of your bare thighs, one arm draped across your stomach, the other lying beside you. he notices the familiar band logo stretched across your chest—you’re wearing one of his shirts, hanging loose over your frame.

the sight tugs at something deep inside his chest, an ache tempered by affection.

an infomercial flickers on the tv, with over-excited voices and pristine images of miracle kitchen gadgets that promise to “slice, dice, and change your life!” charlie reaches for the remote and lowers the volume, careful not to let it die completely—its glow is enough to keep the room from sinking into total darkness. he treads lightly toward you, feeling a bit like an intruder in his own home as he crosses the room. when he finally stands by the couch, looking down at you.

he takes a moment to study you—no, admire you. your face is slack with sleep, lips parted slightly, lashes casting faint shadows across your cheeks. a loose strand of hair has fallen over your face, and he carefully reaches down to brush it away, fingers lingering against your skin as he cups your cheek. he drinks in the sight of you in the eerie blue light, noting every rise and fall of your chest, the slight flutter of your eyelids. there’s an ethereal quality of your slumber, a serenity. so lost in dreams, undisturbed by the world around you.

his sleeping beauty.

he reaches down again, brushing a thumb over your cheek, a featherlight touch as he marvels at the smooth softness, in juxtaposition to the harshness he’s known all day. you stir slightly, murmuring something incoherent, but he holds still, waiting until you settle again. unable to resist, he leans down, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead, lips warm against skin. then he climbs onto the couch, carefully positioning himself above you with his forearms braced on either side of your body, his weight held carefully. his face hovers inches from yours, his gaze tracing every detail—the slight curve of your mouth, the way your lashes fan across your cheekbones, the softness of your expression in sleep.

carefully nestling himself between your legs, charlie’s mind drifts (a bit morbidly) back to the icu, the patients lying motionless in their beds, tethered to tubes and machines, barely clinging to life. hours spent witnessing the slow erosion, orderlies turning over comatose bodies to prevent bedsores—wipe, clean, repeat. he’s grown cynical about them over time, but here, with you—your skin soft, alive, bathed in coloured light—he feels the difference.

fingertips trace your collarbone, meandering through the valley of your breasts,delving to your stomach and finally their destination in between your thighs. no panties, that have been your mutual agreement.

in your dream, there’s warmth, first. heavy and unyielding, a heat that settles over you like fire, burrowing into your skin like ultraviolet rays. your senses wake slowly, your cheek brushing against something coarse, unfamiliar. dark fabric clings to you, wrapping you in heavy folds, thick wool scraping against your neck and wrists like penance. your eyes open to an unnatural red glow that bleeds across the vast, vaulted space, spilling from the stained glass in vivid torrents. it bathes the walls, fills the air like smoke. shadows stretch and twist across the stone, curling toward you as if drawn by some unholy force. the air reeks of incense—an earthy, heady scent invades your lungs,

and then, there’s him.

above you, a figure looms, like a dark angel descending. his face is half-shrouded in shadow, lit only by the crimson light that paints his regal features in blood-red relief. a white collar gleams against the black of his robes. a priest’s collar, you realise.

charlie is dressed as a fucking priest.

your eyes meet, and the face of your lover is a study in contrasts, softened by the lurid red light but edged with shadows that deepen every line, every trace of restraint he’s barely holding onto. hands frame your face, roughened palms warm against your skin, and then his mouth is on yours, a kiss that is equally reverent and devastating, as though he’s whispering a prayer between your lips.

his weight presses you down, rooting you to the altar, cold marble biting into your back and only feeding the heat pooling low in your stomach. his mouth captures yours, lips parting to coax you open. when his tongue slips in, it’s unhurried but intentional, roving over your hard palate and tracing against your tongue. his hands cradle your face, thumbs grazing along your cheekbones, grounding you in an act that feels like the quiet theft of something sacred.

charlie pulls back, lips parting from yours which leaves you breathless and aching in the sudden absence. his gaze holds yours for a moment, then he shifts, hands trailing down your sides, fingers pressing gently against your hips, before he slips down from the altar entirely, lowering himself onto the floor at your feet. his hands rest on your ankles, thumbs tracing over the sensitive skin there as he looks up at you, his eyes darkened in the crimson light. from where he kneels, he seems to take you in entirely, a reverence in his gaze that skirts the edge of blasphemy.

fabric clings to you, unfamiliar and restricting. you glance down, catching a glimpse of black, long and heavy against your arms. the realisation dawns slowly, seeping in with the blood-red light: you’re wearing a nun’s habit. heat coils through you, unsettling, molten desire dripping into your loins like honey. you know what you share right now is both holy and desecrated.

your head drops back against the altar, cool stone pressing into your scalp and your spine arches in a slow, involuntary curve. skilled fingers curl in a languid manner, breaching that sweet spot inside you. a broken moan slips past your lips, and the last vestiges of your willpower dissolves under his touch, leaving only the warmth pooling low in your belly and the faint tremble in your breath. charlie continues to devour your forbidden fruit, claiming it without guilt or hesitation. each swipe of his preachers tongue in and out of your searing cunt carries reverence, as if he’s sampling something holy yet wholly his.

“mghm.. charlie…”

charlie’s head lifts at the soft sound of his name murmured from your lips, breaking the silence of the room. a slow smile spreads across his face as he watches you, noticing the way you shift, lips parted, fingers curling faintly as if reaching for something just beyond reach. licking his arousal-coated lips, he leans in, carefully easing himself back onto the couch, moving with a quiet intent. his legs nestle between yours, fitting into place as he settles. the t-shirt has slipped off your shoulder at one point, revealing the delicate curve of your clavicle. charlie dips his head, letting his lips brush against your temple. fingertips lightly graze your side, tracing the hem of your shirt, feeling the steady beat of your heart.

somehow, miraculously, you’re still asleep. carefully nudging your legs wider apart, he tilts his pelvis to the precise position. charlie bites down on his bottom lip to silence a groan as he eases himself inside you, inch by agonising inch until he’s fully sheathed inside you.

lashes flutter, a soft gasp slipping from your lips as he bottoms out, a tingling sensation spreading from the base of your spine to your thighs, his cock nestling deep within you. filling every inch of you with a sacred fullness.

charlie buries his face into the junction where your neck meets your shoulder, placing languid kisses up the column of your throat as his hips rock steadily against yours. the glorious stretch coupled with the way his hands and lips are all over you—fondling your breasts and nibbling at your earlobe coaxes out another mewl from you, tightening your grip on his shoulders and leaving pink, crescent indentations. he pauses mid-thrust to mumble an “i love you,” against the corner of your mouth.

velvety walls pulsate around him, milking out charlie’s orgasm as he succumbs to the white-hot pleasure, hips stuttering before he spills himself inside you, warmth spreading low and deep, radiating from your core like an ember kindling to life. waves of pleasure flows through you—a blessing you’d missed, returning to you as if by divine grace.

all around, the shadows seem to swell, the red light growing deeper, darker, as though hell itself waits just beyond the cathedral walls.

MASTERLIST

 fear-is-truth 2024 — all rights reserved. do not modify, repost, translate, or plagiarise my content.

[niqhtlord01]

Humans are weird: Cats

Alien: Thanks for inviting me over. Alien: I’ve never been in a human’s home before so this will be- *sees cat sitting on couch* Alien: What is that? Human: That is Fred. *Turns to cat* Human: Say hi Fred. Fred: *MEOW* Alien: I was not aware you had a roommate. Human: What? Human: No, he’s my pet. Alien: You keep a sentient being as a pet? Are you a monster? Human: No; but Fred is. Fred: *MEOW* ----------------------

Alien: *goes to sit down, accidentally steps on fluffy ball* *Cat’s head shoots up* Human: You need to run. Alien: What? Why? Human: You just stepped on Fred’s favorite toy. Alien: So that means I am in danger? Fred: *low growling sound* Human: It’s too late….. --------------------------

*Thirteen stitches later* Alien: How can something so fluffy be so angry!?!?! Human: Domestication probably. Alien: Is that not meant to breed out the violence? Human: Normally yes, but with cats it just condensed it. ------------------------

*Next day* *Door slowly opens* Alien: Is it safe to come in? Human: Let me check. *Picks up Fred and holds him in front of alien* Fred: *Low growling noise* Human: No it is n- Alien: *Slams door shut quickly* ---------------------

*Two days later* Alien: *Sipping drink* Alien: What can I do to win over your furry slave? Human: First off, he is a pet not a slave. Human: And even if that was the situation I technically am Fred’s slave. Alien: *Surprised* You are one of the most advanced species in the galaxy; having mastered space travel and the manipulation of matter itself. Human: And yet I am the one cleaning up his shits. Alien: *Opens mouth to counter, then sips instead when nothing comes to mind* ----------------------

Human: Why does it matter that you want Fred to like you? Human: I thought you hated him? Alien: Were he not an animal I would have sworn a blood oath to destroy him and his family for what he has done to my face. Human: I ask again; why does it matter? Alien: Because for reasons beyond my understanding I feel compelled to have that little death machine love me. Human: Welcome to being a cat owner. ------------------------

*Three days later* *Door slowly opens* Alien: Are you ready? Human: I’ve got Fred. Alien: And you’re sure this will work? Human: Positive. *Alien walks in and Fred starts growling* Human: Get ready; I’m releasing Fred. *Puts Fred down who begins sprinting towards alien* *Alien holds out tiny tube with goop pouring out end* Fred: *MEOW!* *Stops murder sprint and begins sniffing and licking tube enthusiastically* Alien: So you bribe him with food? Human: Works on us humans as well. ------------------

Alien: Do you think I have won him over? *Fred walks up and brushes against Alien* Human: I think you’re good.

Alien: It felt like being embraced by the goddess herself. --------------------

Alien: So besides eating, sleeping, and acts of disproportionate violence; what else do they like to do? Human: Fred loves to play. *Picks up laser pointer and flashes it around room* *Fred’s head shoots up, does the butt wiggle, then lunges at the laser* Alien: What fascinating technology. Human: Yeah; we also use this to guide missiles for air strikes in wars. Alien: Your pet enjoys playing with tools of death? Human: I think that’s one of the reasons he enjoys it so much. ------------------

Alien: *Looks down at shirt* Alien: What is this? Human: Oh yeah, forgot to mention he’s a heavier shedder. Human: Sorry about that. Alien: Do not worry, for I too shed my skin. *Proceeds to peel off skin until raw muscle and bone is left* *Casually tosses aside empty skin suit which Fred walks over to and cuddles in* Human: Thank you for that fresh nightmare material. Alien: *slurring words due to no lips* Yoooou’re welllllcoommme.

[hydrojetenergy]

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Visit for more info : https://www.hydrojetindia.com/manufacturers/rotating-shaft-tube-cleaning-machine.html

Address:Hydro Jet Energy, 29/2, Parishikhar Cottage Industrial Estate, Near Ramol Toll Plaza, SP Ring road, Ramol, Ahmedabad-382449,Gujarat,India

Mail : hjesales@gmail.com

Phone no: 8686862582

[carriondell]

mechanic reader who fawns over boothill's machine body with torrents of praise worthy of the sappiest romance novels—but doesn't even consider the man attached to all those gorgeous wires and fine pistons and elegant hydrolics and ooh, what an efficient system of dynamic pseudo-muscle memory!! you're so honoured to work with this beauty, to innovate upon it, even!

boothill, meanwhile, is fighting for his life to be acknowledged.

exhibit A:

he's laying on a metal slab in your lab, half of his chest popped open, your fingers fiddling inside with the tubes that feed into a fuel tank. you acquired top-grade Neutrinoil(TM) and you simply HAD to deep-clean and upgrade his plumbing. so he has to watch and bear it while you're straddling him, hands in his guts, cooing about how perfectly efficient he's about to be, how much energy he'll have, how that "awesome new engine's gonna exploit every last drop, not an inkling wasted, and this beautiful machine will run for ages."

"if ya like it so much, why not drop by my ship later? i could show ya a trick or two. put that new energy to use."

you perk up with excitement, and for a glimmering instant he thinks he's got it in the bag, until you gleefully announce, "oh, no, let's do it in my workshop! i'll hook you up to the scanners first, i must collect as much data as possible!! wait, is it a physical trick or should i also plug in the peri-mental data receptors?"

[myjackwilliamblog]

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We also specialize in sanitary ball valves and offer tank-cleaning machines for sale, including advanced rotary jet mixers. Additionally, Ideologie's centrifugal separators ensure optimal performance for your operations. Choose Ideologie for reliable, innovative industrial equipment in Kenya.

[abbotjack]

⠀˖⠀⠀⠀✶⠀⠀⠀JACK ABBOT TATTOO HEADCANON (wc : 1757) ˖ ✦⠀

Jack Abbot has one tattoo.

It covers nearly his entire back — thick black ink pressed deep into the skin, running from the base of his neck down the length of his spine. A gothic cross, built wide across the shoulders and heavy through the middle, the lines rough-edged from the start. Not sloppy — just deliberate. Meant to hold. Meant to last.

Behind it, broad wings stretch low and battered across the blades of his shoulders. No soaring angles. No graceful lift. The wings look like they've been dragged through hell and stayed standing anyway, snapped at the ends where scars have broken the ink, feathers ragged, blackening into the burn-scored skin.

It isn't a decoration.

It isn’t a statement.

It’s a brand.

It’s a map of a man stitched together out of survival and failure and the kind of duty no amount of discharge papers can strip out.

He got the cross first.

Late 2003. Afghanistan.

Jack had just finished his first back-to-back rotation.

He was twenty-seven and already carried himself like someone older — shoulders squared against the weight of shit he didn’t have the time or the luxury to process.

He wasn’t a grunt, not exactly.

Combat medics never are.

His job was to keep people alive long enough to die somewhere cleaner.

Tourniquets. Decompressions. Chest tubes jammed through ribs slick with blood and dirt. Dragging men out of wrecked Humvees with their legs hanging by threads. Holding arteries shut with bare hands. Telling men who knew better that they were going to be alright even when Jack could already see it in their eyes — the knowing.

When they died, Jack made sure the bodies went home right.

Flagged caskets. Dusty salutes on the tarmac. Honor, at least, if nothing else.

But what nobody told you was what stayed behind — the blood that didn’t wash out of the sandbags. The personal effects that never made it onto the inventory lists. The things they never trained you to carry.

He didn’t go out drinking with the others when they got home.

Didn’t crash motorcycles or get in bar fights trying to feel something.

Didn’t call his family, not even once.

Didn’t tell them he was back.

Instead, he drove forty miles outside of Columbus, Georgia in the middle of the night, past the closed gas stations and darkened diners, until he found the place someone in his unit told him about — a concrete block of a tattoo shop, all flickering neon and cracked windows.

The artist was an older guy. Ex-infantry. The kind of man who looked Jack over once and didn’t say anything stupid like, “You sure about this?”

Jack stripped off his jacket. Turned his back to the counter.

Said, flat and unflinching: "Cross. Centered. Big."

That was it.

No explanation.

He sat down in the chair and took the pain without a flinch, the buzz of the machine burning low into his bones.

Three hours.

No breaks.

When it was done, Jack paid cash and walked out without glancing at the mirror.

He didn’t need to see it.

He already knew it was there.

For a while, the cross was enough.

It wasn't about God. Jack stopped believing in anything higher than the people bleeding out in front of him years ago.

The cross was a mark. A ledger.

The weight of every body he couldn’t save.

Every face he couldn't scrub out of memory.

Every time he held pressure over a bleeding chest and knew it wouldn’t be enough but stayed there anyway because you don’t let go until someone else makes you.

The cross is the line between standing and falling.

Between duty and despair.

It’s what he chose when he realized coming home didn’t mean coming back clean.

A reminder that there are weights you carry even when nobody else sees them.

He didn't talk about it.

He didn’t show it.

He didn’t even think about it most days — the way you don’t think about breathing when you’ve done it long enough.

It just was.

Then Iraq happened. 2005.

Jack had been attached to a mechanized unit, running convoys through streets that changed loyalty every two hours.

He wasn't supposed to be in the blast radius.

Wasn't supposed to be on that street at all.

But orders change, radios go silent, and Jack went where he always went — where the bleeding was loudest.

The explosion ripped through the front of the convoy, tossing the first Humvee into the air like a kicked can and sending debris raining down onto the asphalt. Jack was moving before the dust even cleared, tourniquets slapping onto stumps, IVs jammed into collapsing veins, adrenaline and muscle memory dragging him forward.

He didn’t make it out clean.

He doesn’t remember the blast that took his leg.

Just waking up in a field hospital in Baghdad, throat raw, leg missing below the knee, an unfamiliar medic looking down at him and saying:

"You're still here."

Like that meant something.

Recovery was hell. Not because of the pain.

Jack could take pain.

It was the slowness that killed him — the waiting, the crawling pace of days stacking up like bodies you couldn’t bury.

Learning how to walk again wasn’t heroic.

It was survival, stripped down to its ugliest parts.

He got his prosthetic.

Did the work.

Moved forward.

Because there was nothing else.

When he was cleared to leave, Jack didn’t go home.

He went back to the shop.

Same cracked concrete. Same flickering neon.

Different guy behind the counter this time — younger, trying too hard to look tough.

Jack didn’t explain anything.

He pulled off his shirt.

Turned his back.

Pointed once at the black cross burned into his spine and said, voice low: "Add wings. Heavy ones."

No more words.

The artist didn’t ask what kind. Didn’t offer designs.

He just nodded, pulled on gloves, and started building them straight into the skin.

The machine buzzed steady over old scar tissue, dragging new lines over broken skin.

Jack sat through the whole thing in silence.

No grimacing.

No posturing.

No fucking catharsis.

Just pain.

Real. Clean. Useful.

They spread low across his shoulders, broken at the ends, snapped where the ink drags over old shrapnel scars.

They aren’t wings built for flight.

They’re built for burden.

Jack never wanted to soar.

Never wanted to be lifted out of the dirt and the blood and the endless fucking work of keeping people alive long enough to break again.

The wings carry weight.

The wings remind him — every time the prosthetic clicks against the tile, every time he feels the stitch of old wounds under new movements — that some things you don’t escape.

Some things you live with, whether you want to or not.

When it was done, Jack pulled his shirt back on and left.

Now, twenty years later, the ink rides over every scar the surgeons couldn’t smooth out.

The cross still holds fast over his spine.

The wings still stretch wide across his back, battered and blackened, torn at the edges by old shrapnel wounds and skin grafts.

He never touched it up.

Never will.

The breaks are the point.

The fact that it held together — not perfectly, but still standing — matters more than any clean line ever could.

Nobody at the Pitt sees it.

Not unless they catch him stripped down in the locker room after a shift gone bad — the kind where blood stains deep into the seams of his scrubs and there’s no pretending you can just walk out without washing it off.

Not unless they’re careless enough, stupid enough, to glance over at the wrong moment — when Jack pulls his top over his head with the sharp economy of a man who doesn't waste movement, exposing the thick black lines burned into the wreck of his back.

Even then, most of them don’t realize what they’re seeing.

They look away fast.

Learn not to ask.

Jack doesn’t invite questions.

He doesn’t offer answers.

He peels the ruined scrub top off, tosses it into the biohazard bin, and steps into the biting rush of the locker room shower — washing off blood that isn’t his, wounds he can’t name, losses too old to mourn.

The water stings where the skin splits open again along old scar lines, where the ink feathers into the broken places, but Jack doesn't flinch.

Pain is familiar.

Pain is simple.

He scrubs until the pink water runs clear.

Pulls on clean black scrubs with his back turned to the rest of the room, working around the ache in his knee, the stubborn old prosthetic that never fits quite right when the humidity climbs high.

The tattoo isn’t about grief.

It isn’t about forgiveness.

It isn’t about the dead.

It’s about what you bear when no one else will.

It’s about standing up when every goddamn inch of you has been telling you to stay down.

It’s about the blood you wash off and the blood that stays under your skin no matter how many times you scrub.

It’s about the debt you can’t ever pay back because there’s no one left to take the payment.

It’s about surviving when surviving means dragging the dead with you — not out of guilt, not out of penance, but because it’s what they deserve.

Because they deserved someone to remember.

And Jack remembers.

He remembers every tourniquet that slipped under his fingers.

Every heartbeat that flatlined under his palms.

Every name he never let himself learn because it was easier to bury strangers than brothers.

He carries them all.

Quiet. Heavy. Without complaint.

The tattoo rides the same way.

Not a badge. Not a wound. Not a plea for understanding. Just a part of him. Fixed in the bone. Written into muscle and scar tissue.

Same as the limp he pretends isn’t there.

Same as the uneven thud of his boot against the tile — a sound no one dares to call out.

Same as the empty silences he leaves between sentences, where everything real still lives.

Jack carries it.

Has carried it for twenty years.

Will carry it for twenty more if that’s what’s asked of him.

Without complaint.

Without prayer.

Without hope.

Because that's what you do when the cost isn’t yours to decide. When you survive and you shouldn’t have.

You carry it.

You stand up.

You move forward.

And you never, ever forget.

Even when the rest of the world does.

[halfmoonaria]

when you weren’t here

pairing: tara carpenter & female reader

summary: tara sought escape in all the wrong places, never expecting reality to catch up with her

warnings: graphic violence/injury; stabbing, blood, coma-related discussions

author’s note: someone asked for more angst and i’ll deliver. actually love this one.

Tara had gotten used to hospitals.

The way the air always smelled faintly of antiseptic and something sterile, like it had been scrubbed too clean. The way the lights buzzed quietly overhead, flickering just enough to make her wonder if they were about to go out.

The way voices echoed in the halls—doctors speaking in calm, measured tones, nurses hurrying past with carts that rattled against the floor. She knew the sounds, the smells, the feeling of hospital sheets stiff against her skin, the weight of bandages pressing into wounds that had barely started to heal.

She had been here before. Too many times.

The first time was when she was six. She still remembered the sharp snap of pain in her wrist when she fell off the monkey bars at school, how she hit the ground so hard that for a second, she thought she had cracked the earth beneath her.

Sam was the one who carried her to the car, her voice tight with panic as she told her to hold still, just hold still. Tara had cried the whole drive there, cradling her arm against her chest, the pain radiating all the way up to her shoulder.

She had stopped crying when the nurse handed her a lollipop, but the ache lingered for weeks after, even beneath the heavy cast wrapped around her arm.

The second time was worse.

Woodsboro.

She had spent weeks in a hospital bed, stitches holding her together while the bruises darkened and then faded, while her body fought to get stronger, to recover from the way a knife had torn through her, over and over.

She had learned how to sleep in hospital beds, how to breathe through the pain, how to smile and pretend she wasn't terrified every time a nurse walked in, half-expecting the glint of a knife instead of the dull shine of a clipboard.

And then, she had come back. Not as a patient, but as a visitor.

Chad had been in the hospital for weeks after the attack. He had survived, but just barely, and Tara had spent so many afternoons at his bedside, watching him try to act like everything was fine even as he winced with every breath. Mindy, too. Tara didn't know how many times she had walked into one of their rooms with a stupid joke on her lips, trying to make them laugh, trying to make the place feel less suffocating than it was. But she hated it. The smell, the sounds, the memories pressing in on all sides.

Then came New York. A fresh start. A way to move past everything that had happened.

But the past had followed her.

Hospitals had followed her.

And now, she was back.

It shouldn't have affected her so much.  She had gotten used to hospitals after all.

But this one was different.

This time, it wasn't her in the bed.

She had gotten used to the steady beeping of the monitors beside her. Steady, rhythmic. A constant in the background, something that had faded into white noise over time. It was the same sound she had heard for months.

The same sound she had heard that first day. Or that day

She remembered the day too clearly.

She had been told what to expect before she stepped inside—that you wouldn't look the same, that there would be wires and tubes, that there was no way of knowing when or if you would wake up. The words had been clinical, rehearsed, meant to prepare her. But nothing could have.

Because when she stepped into that room, everything in her just... stopped.

The world outside the door felt like a different place. A different life. One where you were still you, where your voice filled the spaces between words, where your laughter tangled with hers in the air like it belonged there.

But in here, in this room, there was only the hum of machines and the too-sterile scent of antiseptic. There was only you, still and quiet in a bed that wasn't yours, wrapped in too much white, your face almost lost beneath the harsh fluorescent light.

She hadn't moved at first. Couldn't.

She just stood there, staring, because none of it made sense. You didn't look like yourself. Too pale, too still, too much like something fragile, something breakable. She hated it. Hated the way the sheets swallowed you up, hated the way your hand looked so small against the stiff hospital blanket. Hated that you weren't looking at her.

Somewhere, deep down, she half expected you to wake up right then. To blink up at her with that same sleepy smile you always gave when she woke you up too early. Because that was supposed to happen. That was how it was supposed to go. She would walk in, and you would see her, and everything would be okay.

But you didn't.

You didn't move at all.

And for the first time since it happened, she felt the full weight of it settle into her chest.

You weren't just sleeping.

You weren't going to wake up. Not now. Maybe not ever.

And she didn't know how to breathe through that.

You hadn't just been sleeping.

You hadn't been going to wake up. Not then. Maybe not ever.

And she hadn't known how to breathe through that.

For a second—just a split, desperate second—she had caught herself thinking that it had to be some kind of joke. That any moment now, you'd sit up, laughing until your stomach hurt, teasing her about the look on her face. You'd tell her it had been a prank, a huge, sick joke, and she'd have been pissed, but she wouldn't have cared, not really, because at least you'd have been you. At least you'd have been here.

But you hadn't woken up.

You hadn't moved.

You had just laid there.

Tara had only stared. She had seen you a million times before—had seen you grinning with flushed cheeks, had seen you rolling your eyes at something dumb she'd said, had seen you looking at her like she was the only thing in the world that mattered.

But that? That hadn't been you.

Your face had been too pale, too still. Your lips had been cracked. The glow you had always had, the warmth, the life—it had been gone. The person in front of her had looked like a shell, like someone wearing your skin but missing everything that had made you you.

And Tara hadn't been able to accept it. She wouldn't have accepted it.

Not that. Not you.

Her hands had trembled as she had forced herself to move. She had taken a step forward, then another, but every movement had felt wrong, like she had been walking into something she hadn't been meant to see. Like if she had gotten too close, if she had looked too long, she'd have had to admit this had been real.

She had sat down in the chair beside your bed, but not without hesitating. She had hesitated with every move she had made.

Her fingers had clenched against her jeans. She had gulped hard.

And then—slowly, silently—the tears had started falling.

She hadn't even realized she had been crying.

It hadn’t been you.

It couldn’t have been.

But it had been.

Her breath had hitched as she had reached out, stopping just before her fingers had touched yours. She hadn't wanted to feel it. Hadn't wanted to know what your skin had felt like now, what it had meant for you to be this cold.

But she had done it anyway.

Her hand had covered yours, careful, almost fearful.

You hadn't moved.

Your fingers hadn't curled around hers, hadn't squeezed back, hadn't reacted in any way at all.

And you had been cold.

Tara had sucked in a sharp breath, blinking fast, trying to keep herself together.

She had told herself it had just been the hospital, that rooms like that had always been freezing, that it hadn't been you, not really.

But the truth had sat heavy in her chest.

You had been cold because your body hadn't been living the way it should have been.

Because your heart had been beating, but you hadn't been there.

She had swallowed past the lump in her throat and had whispered, barely above a breath—I'm here.

And then she had just sat there, her hand over yours, watching, waiting, hoping.

Convincing herself that it hadn’t been forever.

That you would wake up.

That she'd see your eyes again.

Bright with laughter, maybe even squinting as you smiled, the way they always did when you were really, really happy.

Because the last time she had seen them. Really seen them. Was in the moment she found you, bleeding out on the floor.

They had been wide with shock, glazed over with pain, staring up at her as blood pooled beneath you.

They had searched for her—pleaded with her—before fluttering shut, before your body went still, before everything collapsed around her.

That wasn't how she wanted to remember them. She didn't want that to be the last image burned into her mind—the dull, fading look in your eyes, the way they lost focus as your body went limp.

She tried to push it away, to replace it with something else, something better.

But no matter how hard she tried, that was the version of you that haunted her.

She wanted to remember your eyes the way they used to be—warm, bright, alive.

She wanted to remember the way they squinted when you smiled, the way they gleamed with mischief whenever you teased her, the way they softened when you looked at her like she was the only person in the world.

She wanted to remember how they flickered with something unreadable when she kissed you—how your lashes fluttered for half a second before you melted into her like you had been waiting for it.

But when she closed her own eyes, when she let herself slip for even a second, that wasn't what she saw.

She saw them wide with fear.

Glassy. Unfocused. Darting between her and Sam as she held onto your wrist, fingers trembling because she knew what she was asking you to do. Go. She had said it again and again, her voice sharp with urgency, her grip tightening like that alone would be enough to make you listen. But you hadn't—not at first. You had shaken your head, refused to leave her, your voice cracking as you told her you weren't going anywhere.

And god, she had wanted to hold onto you, to tell you she wouldn't leave either. That you'd get through this together.

But she couldn't.

Not when she had no idea what was coming next. Not when she was standing there, her pulse hammering, her body braced for something—the inevitable moment Ethan and Quinn would make their move, the moment they'd step out from the shadows and turn this entire fucking night into something even worse than it already was.

She had forced you to say it. To repeat it back to her—those three words that still echoed in her head.

I'll walk away.

She could still hear the way your voice had cracked on the last word, how quiet it had been. She could still see the way your fingers had twitched by your sides, the way your throat had bobbed like you were trying to swallow down the fear pressing up into your chest. You had looked at her like you wanted her to stop you. Like you wanted her to change her mind.

And she had almost—almost—reached for you again.

But she didn't.

Her fingers had curled into fists at her sides as she forced herself to nod, to meet your eyes one last time and tell you it was okay. That she would come back to you, that she'd find you the second Ethan was dead, that she'd be right behind you before you even had the chance to start panicking.

That you'd be safe.

That everything would be fine.

She had believed it. She had believed every single word she said to you.

But she had said it all too loudly.

And Quinn and Ethan had been listening.

She hadn't known it then. She hadn't even thought about it.

She had just stood there, her hands shaking as she tried to steady her breathing, her mind racing with a dozen different thoughts at once—how long they would have to wait, how Ethan would show himself, how Quinn of all people could be Ghostface, how quickly she and Sam could get this over with so she could go back to you. She had been so fucking sure that was how this would go. That Ethan and Quinn would attack, that she and Sam would fight back, that they would win.

She hadn't known that while she was standing there, preparing for a fight that hadn't even begun yet, they had already found you.

She hadn't known.

She hadn't known that while she stood there, gripping the handle of a knife so tightly her knuckles burned, you had already collapsed to the floor. That while she braced herself for Quinn and Ethan to make their move, you had already felt the first sharp, brutal tear of a blade slipping between your ribs.

She hadn't known that while she sucked in a slow, steadying breath, yours had been knocked out of you. That your fingers had clawed at the wound in your stomach, hot blood spilling between them, painting your hands in red that you barely registered because—fuck—it hurt, it hurt so bad.

She hadn't known that while she took a step closer to Sam, her body tensing in anticipation, your legs had given out beneath you. That the floor had rushed up to meet you in a way that felt almost unreal, your head spinning so violently it was hard to tell which way was up, which way was down, which way was—

Her.

Where was she?

Your lips had parted, the effort of forming her name too much when your throat was already thick with blood, choking you, drowning you.

But she hadn't heard.

Because she hadn't known.

She had stood there, heart pounding in her chest, waiting, waiting, waiting for something to happen—unaware that it already had.

She had lifted her knife, a sharp inhale burning its way down her throat, seconds away from lunging at Ethan—while you lay just meters away, blood pooling beneath you, slipping through the cracks in the floorboards.

She had ducked when Quinn swung for her, twisting her body at the last second—while your fingers barely twitched at your sides, weak and useless, unable to do anything but slip in the mess of red beneath you.

She had slammed her knee into Ethan's stomach, her breath sharp, body thrumming with adrenaline—while your chest barely moved, every breath shallower than the last, drowning under the weight of it all.

She had shoved a fucking knife into his mouth.

And she had laughed.

A short, breathless thing—sharp with relief, with victory, with the overwhelming certainty that it was over.

That you were okay.

That the only thing left to do was find you.

She had turned, her fingers still curled around the handle of the knife, ready to run back to you, ready to wrap her arms around you and hold you, ready to breathe again because she could, because you could, because you were—

Her body had frozen.

Because you weren't there.

Because the spot where she had left you, the place where she had told you to go, was empty.

And then she saw it.

A hand.

Limp. Pale. Blood-slicked fingers barely curled.

She followed it.

Followed the trail of blood smeared across the floor, the crimson soaked into your sleeves, the mess of it seeping into your hair.

And then—

She saw your eyes.

And she wished she hadn't.

Because they weren't the same ones she had been so desperate to see again. They weren't shining with laughter, weren't squinting slightly at the corners as they always did when you smiled at her. They weren't warm, weren't alive.

They were glassy. Unfocused. Half-lidded, as if keeping them open was already too much for you.

And fuck—

There was so much blood.

It coated your skin in streaks, in smears, in pools. It had soaked through your clothes, clung to you like a second skin, painted your lips a deep, terrifying red. There was some on your chin too, like you had coughed it up, like your body had already started failing you.

Your lips trembled.

You were trying to say something.

She knew what it was.

Her name.

But it didn't come out.

Because you couldn't force it past your lips, couldn't get enough breath into your lungs. Because you could barely even move—the only sign of life being the weak, desperate twitch of your fingers, the way your hand, the one that wasn't splayed limply against the floor, pressed against your stomach, trying—failing—to stop the bleeding.

You had tried.

You had tried to help yourself, tried to push down against the wounds, tried to fight.

But there were too many.

There was too much blood.

And she wasn't thinking anymore.

She dropped to her knees so fast she barely registered the pain of the impact, her hands pressing over yours, her fingers curling over your own like she could somehow give you her strength.

Your body flinched under the pressure.

A sharp, agonized wince twisted your features, and Tara felt her own face crumble, a shaky breath pushing past her lips because—fuck, she didn't want to hurt you, but she had to.

Your body was shaking. Your breath came out in short, quick pants, your chest barely rising.

She could see you slipping away.

She could see it happening, right in front of her.

And her lips parted.

A scream tore out of her throat, raw, desperate.

She screamed for Sam.

Screamed louder than she ever had in her life.

And within seconds, Sam was there.

Sam, who had still been gripping her knife, ready to fight. Sam, who had barely even taken a breath of relief after Ethan before Tara's scream had ripped it away. Sam, who froze the second her eyes landed on you.

Because she had thought it was over.

Because Tara had thought it was over.

Because you were supposed to be safe.

And yet—

There you were.

Bleeding. Dying.

Tara didn't know which one of them had moved first, but the next thing she knew, Sam was beside her, already pressing down, already shaking, already pleading with you to stay awake.

And Tara—

Tara couldn't breathe.

She felt like she was drowning.

Her hands were soaked with blood—your blood—and it was warm and thick, seeping between her fingers as she pressed down harder, tighter, trying to keep it inside you where it belonged. Her breaths were sharp, ragged, her chest rising and falling too fast, too fast, her vision blurring as she blinked furiously, trying to keep her focus on you.

Sam—

Sam, call 911.

Her own voice barely sounded like herself. It was strangled, hoarse, somewhere between a plea and a demand, but she didn't even know if Sam heard her because she was already moving—already pulling her phone out with shaking hands, already fumbling with the buttons.

And Tara—

Tara was left with you.

With your barely-there breathing.

With your trembling lips, stained red.

With your fingers, twitching so weakly against hers that she wanted to scream.

Stay awake. Stay awake. Stay awake.

Her voice shook as she said your name.

She begged.

Told you it was okay.

Told you she had you.

Told you she wasn't going to let you die.

And maybe it was a lie.

Maybe she knew it was a lie.

But she had to say it anyway.

Because your eyes were slipping shut, and she couldn't let them.

Her hand moved from yours to your cheek, fingers smearing warmth against your skin as she cradled your face, her thumb brushing against your jaw. She tried to smile, even though her lips were trembling, even though her lungs felt too tight.

"Hey, baby."

It came out too soft, too small. Like her voice had caved under the weight of her panic, like it was shattering inside her chest.

She sniffled, blinking back the hot sting in her eyes, forcing her lips to curl up a little more, forcing herself to keep it together.

"It's okay. You're okay."

You blinked. Barely.

Your eyes were losing focus again, shifting away from her, but she wouldn't let you go.

Her grip tightened against your cheek, forcing your gaze back to hers, forcing you to look at her.

"That's it. Just keep looking at me, okay?"

Her throat was tight, aching, her pulse hammering so hard she could hear it in her ears.

Sam was talking to the operator.

There was a rush of static, a frantic voice on the other end.

But Tara didn't hear it.

Didn't listen.

Because you were staring at her.

Like you wanted to say something.

Like you needed to.

She leaned in, pressing her forehead against yours, whispering so softly that only you could hear—I love you, I love you, I love you.

And then—

Your lips parted.

Barely.

A single breath.

A single, broken word.

Love you.

And then—

Nothing.

Your breath stopped.

Your lips stilled.

Your eyes—

Your eyes slipped shut.

And Tara—

Tara lost it.

She didn't mean to scream.

Didn't mean for it to tear out of her like an animal caught in a trap, raw and broken and filled with something so deep and unbearable that it didn't even feel human.

But she did.

And then she was grabbing you, shaking your shoulders, trying to wake you up, trying to pull you back, trying to make you breathe again.

But you didn't move.

Didn't react.

Didn't do anything.

Her whole body shook as she let out another choked sound, barely even words, just something painful clawing its way out of her throat. She pressed her forehead against yours again, like it would do something, like it would keep you here with her, but your skin was so cold now, your breath completely gone, and she—

She knew.

But she couldn’t accept it.

Not yet.

Not when the ambulance hadn't even gotten here.

Not when she could still hold you.

So she refused.

Refused to let go.

Refused to move.

Refused to stop begging.

She kept calling your name over and over, her voice cracking with every syllable, her hands shaking as she tried to press down harder, tighter, anything to stop the blood from slipping through her fingers like sand, anything to keep you here.

Sam was still there—somewhere in the background, talking frantically to the dispatcher, telling them to hurry, hurry, hurry, but it had already been too long.

Tara felt like she was outside of herself.

Like she was floating, completely weightless, completely detached, like none of this was real, like any second now she'd blink and it would all be over.

She wanted to shake you harder.

Wanted to snap you out of this.

Wanted to undo it all.

Because this wasn't the plan.

You were supposed to walk away.

She was supposed to come back to you.

You were supposed to be safe.

She was supposed to keep you safe.

And now—

Now she was holding you as you died.

Something inside her snapped.

She barely even registered the sound of sirens.

Barely noticed when the paramedics rushed in.

Barely heard anything at all, except for her own sobbing as someone—several someones—pried you away from her.

She fought them.

Of course she did.

Her hands were clawing at the arms that grabbed her, her voice raw as she screamed at them, screamed at everyone, trying to keep you with her, trying to go with you.

But they wouldn't let her.

She struggled against Sam's grip, sobbing, thrashing, desperate to follow, desperate to get to you as the paramedics swarmed around your body, pressing oxygen to your lips, pushing down on your chest, yelling to each other.

But Tara couldn't hear them.

She could only see you.

Could only see them lift your body onto the stretcher, see the way your arms limply bounced at your sides, see the way the blood had soaked through every inch of your clothes, see the way your head lolled to the side, exposing the cut along your throat—not deep enough to kill you instantly, but deep enough to steal your breath, to steal your voice, to steal every last chance you had of surviving if they didn't move fast enough.

And they—

They weren't moving fast enough.

Tara felt it—felt the exact second she knew you were already gone, felt it tear through her like a physical thing, knocking the air from her lungs as she screamed again, her body sagging against Sam's as she watched you get carried away.

And she knew.

She knew that would be the last time she ever saw you alive.

She knew she wouldn't make it to the hospital.

She knew you'd be pronounced dead before she ever got the chance to say goodbye properly.

She knew she wouldn't see you again until—

Until your funeral.

Until you were in a coffin.

Cold and gone.

And when the ambulance doors slammed shut, locking you inside, separating you from her completely—

Tara broke.

Tara didn't remember getting to the hospital.

Didn't remember the car ride.

Didn't remember the moment she and Sam rushed through the doors, demanding answers, begging for updates, shaking as they pressed their hands over wounds that weren't even theirs.

She only remembered sitting in a waiting room that smelled like antiseptic and old coffee, staring down at her bloodstained hands, feeling the way the dried, sticky patches of it clung to the creases of her palms, the way it coated her fingernails, the way it was still under her skin even after Sam had tried to scrub it away in the hospital bathroom.

Hours had passed.

At least, Tara thought they had.

Time felt warped, stretched too thin, like the entire world had stopped the second the ambulance doors slammed shut and left her behind.

She hadn't moved since then.

Hadn't spoken.

Hadn't done anything but sit in the same plastic chair, hunched over, her fingers clasped together so tightly they ached, like holding onto herself was the only thing keeping her from falling apart completely.

Sam sat next to her, just as stiff, just as quiet.

She had tried—at first—to say something, to get Tara to drink some water, to get her to breathe, but Tara couldn't.

She couldn't do anything.

She could only wait.

Wait and hope and pray that at any second, some random, exhausted doctor would walk through those double doors, look her in the eyes, and tell her you were alive.

And eventually—

After what felt like an entire lifetime—

Someone did.

Tara's head snapped up the second she heard your name, her chest tight as she stared at the doctor in front of her, unable to breathe, move, think.

She wanted good news.

Needed it.

But she knew better.

Even before he spoke, even before she saw the look in his eyes, she knew there was no happy ending.

"The patient stabilized in surgery."

A pause.

A hesitation.

"But she is in a coma."

The words slammed into her.

Coma.

Coma.

She heard Sam exhale sharply beside her, heard the way her sister's body tensed, but Tara—

Tara felt nothing.

Or maybe she felt everything at once.

Because she should be relieved, shouldn't she?

You weren't dead.

You weren't six feet under.

You weren't a name carved into a headstone.

Your heart was still beating.

Your body was still here.

There was still a chance.

She should be grateful.

She should be grateful.

But all she could do was stare.

Stare at the doctor.

Stare at the fluorescent lights buzzing above her.

Stare at her own hands, still covered in your blood.

Because how the fuck was she supposed to accept this?

How the fuck was she supposed to accept that you weren't here, not really, not anymore?

How the fuck was she supposed to live with the fact that you might never wake up?

The first time Tara walked into your hospital room, she thought she was going to be sick.

Because it was you—

It was you.

Your face, your hair, your body—

But at the same time, it wasn’t.

Your skin was too pale. Your lips were too dry. Your body looked too small under the weight of the hospital blankets, like there was less of you now, like the attack had taken something she could never get back.

And worst of all—

Worst of all—

Your eyes were closed.

Not like when you were asleep, not like when she could nudge your arm and whisper your name and hear you grumble in response.

This was different.

This was wrong.

And Tara couldn't fucking stand it.

So she did what she always did when she didn't know how to cope—

She stayed.

She stayed through the first night, sitting at your bedside, refusing to let anyone move her.

She stayed through the second, through the third, through the fourth, through every single hour, every single shift change, every single moment that passed where you didn't wake up.

She was always there.

Always.

No matter how much Sam begged her to go home, to get some actual sleep, to take care of herself for once.

No matter how many times the nurses told her she needed a break, that she couldn't sit there forever, that you weren't going anywhere.

She didn't care.

She couldn't care.

Because what if you woke up and she wasn't there?

What if you opened your eyes and she wasn't the first thing you saw?

She couldn't let that happen.

She wouldn't let that happen.

So she stayed.

And she talked to you.

She talked to you about everything.

She read her texts out loud—Mindy's updates, Chad's stupid jokes, Sam's endless concerns.

She told you what was going on outside, what she saw from the hospital windows, how the city looked the same even though everything had changed.

She braided your hair, just to have something to do with her hands, just to feel like she was taking care of you in some way, even if you didn't know it.

She curled up next to you in bed, not caring if she was uncomfortable, not caring if her body ached from lying still too long, not caring about anything but being close to you.

And some days—

Some days she was angry.

Not at the doctors.

Not at the Ghostfaces who had done this.

Not at herself.

But at you.

Because how the fuck could you do this to her?

How the fuck could you just lay there while she was falling apart?

How the fuck could you not wake up

She would sit at your bedside, gripping your hand so tightly it left marks, whispering please, please, please through clenched teeth.

Some days she would beg.

Some days she would yell.

Some days she would just cry.

But every day—

Every single fucking day—

She would stay.

But then.

It happened on a Wednesday.

Or maybe it was a Thursday.

Tara wasn't sure anymore. Time had stopped making sense a long time ago.

All she knew was that Sam had been relentless—pressuring, bribing, threatening, begging her to go home.

And at first, Tara refused.

Because how the fuck was she supposed to just leave? How was she supposed to walk away while you were still lying there, unconscious, unaware, not even able to notice she was gone?

She had told Sam no.

Over and over and over again. OVER AGAIN

But somehow, some way, Sam had gotten to her.

Maybe it was the exhaustion.

Maybe it was the way her own clothes had started to feel stiff with dried blood and days-old sweat.

Maybe it was the way the nurses kept looking at her, like they were worried, like they were waiting for her to break.

Or maybe it was the fact that, deep down, she knew Sam was right.

So she left.

Just for a little while.

Just to shower.

Just to change.

Just to pack some extra clothes—yours too, just in case. Because when you woke up, you wouldn't want to stay in a hospital gown. You'd want real clothes, something comfortable, something normal.

She even let herself picture it for a second—

The way you'd sigh when you saw what she brought, the way you'd tease her for picking something too baggy or too tight or not what you would have chosen.

The way you'd sit up, bleary-eyed, still weak but there, and she'd help you get dressed like she had a million times before.

That's all it was supposed to be.

A quick trip.

A moment of preparation for the future she was sure was coming.

But then—

Then she laid down in her bed.

And she couldn't move.

She told herself it was just for a second, just to rest her eyes, just to feel something that wasn’t a stiff hospital chair.

But that second stretched into a minute.

Then an hour.

Then a whole fucking night.

And when she woke up—

When she woke up, she was supposed to go back.

She was supposed to be at the hospital right now.

But she couldn't.

She couldn’t.

Because the image of you lying there—pale, still, lifeless—was burned into her fucking brain.

And she wasn't sure she could see it again.

Because it didn't even feel real anymore.

It felt like they were lying to her, like the doctors and the nurses and the beeping machines were all just some elaborate trick to stop her from completely falling apart.

Like you were already dead and they just didn't want her to know.

And she didn't think she could handle looking at you, knowing you were technically alive but still feeling like she had already lost you.

So she stayed home.

And she told herself it was just for a little longer.

Just one more hour.

Just until the afternoon.

Just until the evening.

Just until tomorrow.

And then tomorrow came.

And she told herself the same fucking thing.

It wasn't supposed to be like this.

Tara knew that.

She wasn't supposed to be here. She was supposed to be there, in that tiny, sterile room with the too-bright lights and the never-ending beeping of your heart monitor.

But she hadn't been there in—

Fuck.

How long had it been?

A week?

Maybe longer?

She didn't know anymore.

The first few days had been the worst. Every morning, Sam would ask her—Do you want me to come with you?—and every morning, Tara would say the same thing.

I'll go later.

Later.

Always later.

But later never came.

Because there was always an excuse.

She wasn't feeling great. She had too much homework. She needed to sleep.

She had plans with Chad.

Or Mindy.

And Sam never called her out on it.

She never said I know you're lying, never forced Tara to get up and go, never made her face what she was trying so fucking hard to avoid.

She just nodded, lips pressing together, like she was holding back a lot of things she wanted to say.

And then there were the hospital calls.

They didn't come every day. But when they did, Tara never picked up.

She could imagine what they were saying.

How it must have been strange to them—

How she had spent days refusing to leave your side, only to suddenly disappear, like she had given up.

And maybe—

Maybe that's exactly what she had done.

Because in the beginning, she thought being there meant something.

She thought that if she talked to you, if she held your hand, if she begged you to wake up, maybe—just maybe—you actually would.

But you didn't.

You didn’t.

So what was the point?

What was the point in going back?

It wouldn't make a difference.

You wouldn't wake up just because she was there.

You wouldn't even know.

And she—

She wasn't sure she could handle looking at you, knowing that.

So sometimes, Tara tried to pretend you were just away.

On a trip somewhere, maybe.

She'd picture you on a beach, stretched out in the sun, laughing at some dumb joke a stranger had told you. Or maybe in a different city, wandering through streets you'd never seen before, texting her updates every few hours.

She'd tell herself that you were fine, that you were just busy, that you'd be back soon.

But it never worked.

Because the second she turned on her phone, there was another reminder waiting for her.

A missed call from the hospital.

A thinking of you text from Anika.

A question from Chad—When's the last time you went to see her?

And Tara hated it.

Because every time someone asked, they assumed the answer was yesterday.

They assumed she was still going.

And she hated that, too.

Because it made her feel like she should be going.

Like she should still be sitting at your bedside, still talking to you, still believing that maybe, maybe, you would actually wake up.

But she wasn't.

And she didn't.

And she was tired.

Tired of people looking at her with that soft, sad expression, like they were waiting for her to break.

Tired of Sam and Mindy and Chad and everyone else acting like they knew you'd be okay.

Tired of the fucking hospital calls, the fucking questions, the fucking hope.

And sometimes—

Sometimes, she was tired of you.

For not waking up.

For making her feel like an idiot for believing, even for a second, that you ever would.

And she hated that she felt that way.

Because it wasn't your fault.

But she still wanted to blame you.

She wanted to be mad at you, wanted to yell at you, wanted to shake you and demand to know why.

Why you had to get hurt.

Why you had to leave her here like this.

Why you weren't waking up.

Why you never would.

It had been weeks now.

Weeks since Tara had last walked through that hospital corridor.

Since she'd last sat by your bed, waiting for something to change.

Since she'd last let herself HOPE.

She told herself that it was fine. That it was normal.

That you wouldn't want her to spend every second of every day sitting in that damn chair, waiting for a ghost of a movement that would never come.

That you'd want her to go out, to be around friends, to breathe for once instead of drowning in the same thoughts over and over again.

And Chad—Chad made that easy.

He distracted her.

Dragged her to parties, pulled her into conversations, gave her something to focus on that wasn't the memory of you lying still and silent in that fucking hospital bed.

And she let him.

Because it was easier to be here, laughing at one of his stupid jokes, than it was to be there, watching you not wake up.

And every time that guilt crept in—every time she thought about how you were still there while she was out here—she reminded herself that this was what you'd want.

That you'd want her to be happy.

That you'd want her to be okay.

And if she just kept telling herself that—

Maybe one day, she'd actually believe it.

___

It took a lot for her to get here. More than anyone knew.

Because nights like these—loud music, too many people, voices blending together until they didn't even sound like words—used to be something she loved. Before. Before the hospital. Before you.

But now, everything felt different. Too loud. Too fast. Too much.

Because it wasn't just a party—it was leaving. It was stepping out of her room, out of her head, out of the cycle she'd been trapped in for weeks. It was choosing to be somewhere else, somewhere that wasn't a hospital waiting room or the inside of her own thoughts. And that choice felt heavier than it should have.

She had almost backed out a hundred times. When she stood in front of her closet, staring at the clothes she hadn't worn in weeks. When she slipped on her shoes and felt how unfamiliar they were, like she had forgotten what it was like to go anywhere but home. When she grabbed her jacket and stopped in the doorway, telling herself that if she left now—if she really left—then it would mean something.

Tara had almost turned around the second she stepped inside. Had almost let the pulsing beat and the heat of the room push her right back out the door. But then someone had handed her a drink, and someone else had pulled her toward the couch, and she'd let it happen—because that was easier than thinking. Easier than remembering the other nights she'd spent alone, staring at her phone, knowing exactly where she should be and refusing to go anyway.

Someone shoved a drink into her hand, someone else pulled her toward the couch, and she let it happen. She let herself be here, because that was easier than thinking. Easier than wondering if she should be anywhere else.

So she sat. She stayed. She let the noise settle around her, let the weight in her chest dull just enough to breathe.

And maybe that was why, when someone sank onto the couch beside her, when their knee brushed hers, when their voice—steady, familiar—cut through the noise, she didn't immediately pull away.

She didn't have to look to know who it was.

"Hey, T."

Chad's voice was easy, familiar—like nothing about this was strange, like it was just another night. Tara turned her head slightly, enough to see the lazy grin tugging at his lips, the way he slouched back against the couch like he belonged there.

"Didn't think I'd see you here."

Tara turned her head slightly, enough to catch Chad watching her, a lazy grin playing at his lips. He had a drink in one hand, the other slung casually over the back of the couch like he had been here for a while.

"When'd you get here?" she asked instead of answering.

"Like an hour ago," Chad said, tipping his drink toward her in some half-formed gesture. He leaned back against the couch, exhaling like he'd been here for a while, like this was just another night. "Mindy's already yelling at people over their taste in horror movies. She's been going off about Hereditary for the last ten minutes."

Tara huffed a quiet breath. "I'm surprised she hasn't gotten banned from parties by now."

"Give it time."

Chad smirked, nudging her knee with his, and for a moment—just a moment—this almost felt like how things used to be.

But then the silence crept in. Not real silence—music was still thudding through the walls, voices still blending into the background—but the kind that settled between words. The kind that gave room for thoughts she didn't want to have.

And she could feel it.

Because this was the part where you would've jumped in. The part where you would've teased Mindy's dramatics, the part where you would've slung an arm around Tara's shoulders, warmth and confidence and energy spilling over into everyone around you. You loved parties. Maybe even more than she did. You were always the one pulling her onto the dance floor, the one convincing her to stay just a little longer, the one filling every night with something bigger than just music and drinks and meaningless conversations.

If you were here, this night wouldn't feel so empty.

If you were here, Tara wouldn't be sitting stiffly on a couch, holding onto a drink like it was the only thing grounding her. You'd be tugging her toward the dance floor, laughing against her ear, telling her to loosen up, babe, it's a party. You'd be pressing up against her, hands on her hips, turning a casual sway into something that meant something. And eventually—eventually—you'd be pulling her away from the crowd, finding some empty bedroom, letting her press you against the door with her lips against yours.

That's how tonight was supposed to go.

But you weren't here.

And Chad—he was thinking about that, too.

She could tell by the way he shifted beside her, by the way his grip tightened slightly around his cup, by the breath he let out, like he was bracing himself to say something he wasn't sure he should say.

Tara already knew what it was. She knew before he even opened his mouth.

He was going to ask about you.

And she couldn't do this.

She didn't want to hear his voice shape your name, didn't want to see that soft, careful look in his eyes, didn't want to be reminded that everyone knew—that they all knew exactly where you were, what had happened to you, what had become of you.

So before he could say it—before he could ruin this moment, this fragile distraction—Tara lifted her drink and knocked back the rest of it in one long pull. Let the alcohol burn its way down her throat, fast and sharp and necessary.

She needed to get out of her own head. Needed the edges to blur, just a little.

And when she set her empty cup down, her hand was already reaching for another. Some half-finished drink left on the table in front of them, someone else's, untouched long enough that it didn't really belong to anyone anymore.

She didn't care.

She just wanted to forget.

Just for tonight.

And she did.

A few hours passed in a haze of too-loud music and too-smooth drinks, slipping through her like water.

She had loosened up. Had let herself sink into it, let herself laugh at things that weren't funny, let herself tilt her head back and feel the bass thrum through her bones like it was the only thing keeping her upright.

She had spoken to people, barely remembering faces, barely remembering names. But none of them had mentioned you.

Maybe they had forgotten.

Or maybe it was just easier to pretend. Because it wasn't like you were gone. You were still here—in whispers, in thoughts, in the space that people hesitated to step into. But you weren't really a person anymore, not in the way you used to be. You were a memory, a tragedy, a thing that people danced around, careful not to get too close.

And so Tara danced, too.

Without you.

It felt wrong. It felt like breaking something sacred. But it was easy to ignore that when her limbs were light, when the alcohol softened the edges, when no one was looking at her like they were waiting for her to fall apart.

And eventually—eventually—she found herself back on the couch, back where the night had started, back where Chad was still sitting.

Her body felt light, her head a little heavier, but not in a way that mattered. Not in a way she cared to notice. The music wasn't as loud anymore, or maybe she just wasn't listening. Voices blurred together, but none of them sounded like yours, and that was enough. That was all she needed.

Chad glanced over when she sat down, tipping his drink slightly in her direction like some kind of wordless toast. His eyes flicked over her outfit, and he smirked, leaning in just a little.

"You look good in black.”

Tara huffed out something that could've been a laugh, stretching her legs out in front of her.

"Yeah, well, I always wear black."

"Still," Chad shrugged. "It suits you."

She rolled her eyes but didn't argue. Didn't say anything, really. Because her skin was warm, her limbs felt light, and the weight in her chest—the weight that had been pressing down for weeks—wasn't as heavy anymore.

She let her head tip back against the couch, let herself breathe. Let herself exist in this moment, in this space, without thinking about where she should be, or who should be here with her.

It was easier that way.

He smiled. And maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was the warmth of the room, maybe it was just that she was tired—but something about the way he was looking at her felt different. Not bad. Just... different.

For a moment, she just looked at him. At the way he was watching her—not expectantly, not like he was waiting for something. Just LOOKING.

She didn't know why she noticed it now, why it felt DIFFERENT now, but it did. Maybe because it had been a long time since someone looked at her like that. Like she was more than just tired eyes and half-finished sentences.

Like she was here.

Not in a hospital room. Not sitting in the quiet, waiting. Not halfway stuck in something she couldn't change.

And maybe it was stupid, maybe it was just the alcohol, maybe it didn't mean anything—

But she didn't move when he shifted closer.

Didn't pull away when his gaze dropped to her lips.

Didn't say anything when his fingers brushed her jaw, so barely there it almost didn't feel real.

She knew what was coming.

And she should stop it. She should turn her head, she should say something.

But then his lips were on hers, and—

For a second, her breath hitched.

For a second, something cold curled in her chest, something sharp that made her almost pull away.

Maybe she should have. Maybe some part of her wanted to.

But Tara was tired.

She was tired of the weight pressing down on her chest, of the way everything felt wrong all the time. Tired of the dull ache in the back of her head that never really went away.

And tonight was the first time in weeks that it hadn't been there.

So when Chad's fingers brushed against her jaw, when he leaned in—slow, careful, like he was giving her a chance to pull away—she just... didn't.

And when his lips met hers, she let him.

She didn't think. Didn't analyze it, didn't pick apart what it meant, didn't try to figure out if it should mean anything.

She just let it happen.

Because thinking was exhausting. Thinking meant remembering, and remembering meant you.

And tonight, she just wanted to exist outside of that.

So she kissed him back.

And she didn't feel guilty.

Not at first.

And maybe that was the strangest part.

Because she should have. Should have felt that sharp sting of regret, that pull in her chest telling her she had done something wrong. But it never came.

Instead, she just felt...lighter. Like something inside her had finally shifted, like something had clicked into place in a way she hadn't expected.

And it didn't stop there.

She let Chad pull her closer, let his arm rest against the back of the couch, fingers grazing her shoulder. She let him lift her legs, shifting them into his lap, his hands lingering at her ankles, his thumbs brushing against the exposed skin there. She let him say nice things, flirty things, let herself listen without the immediate instinct to brush it off.

Because stopping felt weird.

Because she couldn't stop anything else in life, could she?

She couldn't stop what happened to you.

Couldn't stop the way things changed the second you weren't there. Couldn't stop the way the world kept moving forward without you in it.

So why should she stop this?

Why should she pull away when everything else had already been taken from her?

And an hour later, when she and Chad were standing side by side at the beer pong table, when the last ball landed in the final cup, when he threw his arms up in victory—

She didn't stop herself then, either.

Didn't stop her hands from reaching up, from grabbing his face, from pulling him down into a kiss.

It wasn't a conscious choice. It just... happened.

They won, right?

That was all it was. Just a moment. Just a win.

And when he kissed her back, when his hands settled against her waist—

She let that happen, too.

She let him guide her upstairs.

Through the hallway, past half-open doors and muffled voices, past the sound of the party still pulsing downstairs.

She let him press her against the bedroom door the second it shut behind them, let his hands grip her waist, his mouth on hers, warm and eager and wanting.

She let him push her onto the bed, his body over hers, his weight pressing her into the mattress.

She let him kiss down her neck, over her collarbone, let him pull her shirt over her head.

She let herself moan.

She let his hands roam, let his lips trail lower, let herself arch into the touch, let herself forget everything else except this.

She let him push himself in.

Let him thrust.

Let herself take it.

She let it happen.

Because stopping felt impossible. Because stopping meant thinking. And thinking meant remembering.

And she didn't want to remember.

Not tonight.

Tara knew what she should have felt after that.

What she should have done.

She should have pushed him off of her the second it was over, scrambled for her clothes, left the party without looking back. She should have gone straight to the hospital, straight to you, should have cried by your bedside and apologized over and over and over—even if you couldn't hear her, even if you never woke up to hear it.

She should have thrown up from the guilt, should have felt it twisting deep in her stomach, making her sick, making her sorry.

But she didn't.

She laid there instead. Stretched out on the bed, chest rising and falling, skin warm, heartbeat slowing. Chad lay beside her, one arm lazily draped over his stomach, breath steady, like this was just—normal. Like it was nothing at all.

And that's what she told herself too.

That it was nothing.

It didn't mean anything.

It was just a party. Just alcohol. Just loneliness.

And that excuse—at first—was enough.

But somewhere in the back of her mind, a voice whispered: It stopped being nothing the second you let him take off your bra.

She ignored it.

She didn't leave. Didn't pull away when Chad rolled onto his side, looking at her with that same easy, familiar smile.

And when he said something—low, teasing—she answered.

She talked to him.

Laid there, stayed there, and let the minutes slip past.

It shouldn't have happened again.

Tara knew that.

She knew it the second she left the bedroom, clothes rumpled, skin still warm, the air of the party pressing in around her like a reminder—like a weight. She knew it when she went home that night, when she stepped into the quiet of her bedroom, when she curled beneath the covers and stared at the ceiling, waiting for the guilt to settle.

But it didn't.

Not really.

And that was the problem.

Because it should have crushed her. It should have eaten her alive, kept her awake, filled her with a twisting, ugly sickness that left her gasping. It should have sent her to the hospital the next morning, should have put her at your bedside with tears in her eyes, whispering apologies to the silence, to the beeping machines, to the part of you that might still be able to hear her.

But she didn't go.

She didn't cry.

She didn't feel enough of anything to stop herself when it happened again.

And again.

It was supposed to be nothing. But nothing wouldn't have made her text him the next day, wouldn't have made her go looking for him at another party, wouldn't have made her say yes when he asked if she wanted to go somewhere quieter.

She told herself it didn't matter.

Because what was she supposed to do? Tell you?

She couldn't tell you.

You wouldn't hear her.

You wouldn't look at her, wouldn't cry, wouldn't scream or push her away or force her to see what she was doing. You wouldn't do anything.

She couldn't allow you to do anything.

You weren't supposed to be able to hit her, to yell at her, to leave her.

And maybe that was why it was okay.

Maybe that was why this was okay.

Because Chad was safe.

Because Chad wasn't you.

Because when she was with him, there was no weight, no pressure, no fear that she might destroy something fragile and real.

So she saw him again.

Let herself fall into the easy rhythm of his company, let herself forget.

It was different now.

She wasn't just seeing him at parties, wasn't just stumbling into his space, wasn't just kissing him because she was drunk and the music was loud and she wanted something to drown everything else out.

Now, she knew she would see him.

Now, she didn't drink as much. She didn't need to.

Because when she found him, when she sat next to him, when his arm stretched along the back of the couch or his knee pressed against hers, she could pretend that this was what she chose.

Not what she fell into.

Not what happened because she didn't know how to stop it.

She wasn't supposed to want this.

She wasn't supposed to want him.

But when he texted, she answered.

When he called, she picked up.

And when he kissed her, she kissed him back.

Like now.

A week after the party.

Another week without you waking up.

Another week where nothing changed—where she walked into that hospital room, sat by your bed, held your hand, and whispered words that never reached you.

Another week where she left, where she didn't go straight home, where she let her feet take her somewhere else.

Somewhere she could breathe.

Somewhere she could forget.

And now—now, she was doing just that.

She was in his bed, her body moving with his, their breaths tangled in the stillness of the room, the only sound the quiet creak of the mattress beneath them. His hands were on her skin, sliding over her waist, up her ribs, gripping her hips as he thrust into her.

And she let him.

Let her head fall back against the pillows. Let her fingers grip his shoulders. Let herself feel everything but think about nothing.

Because it was easier.

Easier to sink into this.

Easier to chase pleasure, to gasp against his mouth, to moan when his lips dragged over her throat.

Easier than facing the weight of another empty day, another silent visit, another reminder that nothing was getting better.

That you weren't getting better.

So she moved with him.

Let him pull her closer.

Let herself let go.

Her release tore through her, a sharp, shuddering thing that left her gasping, her body tensing before melting back into the bed. A loud moan escaped her lips, her head tipping back against the pillows, her limbs weak and shaking.

Chad followed soon after, groaning as he buried his face against her shoulder, his grip on her hips tightening for a moment before finally slackening.

And then it was over.

He rolled off her, collapsing onto his back, both of them a mess of sweat and heavy breaths. Tara stared up at the ceiling, her skin still tingling, her body still pulsing from the aftershocks.

She'd lost count of how many times it had happened tonight. Twice, maybe three times. It didn't really matter.

What mattered was that she still didn't feel better.

Chad turned his head, looking at her with a lazy, satisfied grin. She didn't look at him. She kept her gaze fixed on the ceiling, blinking up at the shadows cast by the dim light in the room.

"Getting better, aren't I?" he said, his voice low, teasing.

Tara let out a short, fake chuckle.

It wasn't funny.

He wasn't getting better.

You weren't getting better.

She wasn't getting better.

Nothing was getting better.

But then.

The sound of her phone buzzing cut through the quiet, sharp and insistent.

Tara barely thought before reaching for it, her hand fumbling along the bedside table until her fingers wrapped around the device. The screen lit up in the dim room, notifications flooding her vision—

A text from Sam, the words

ANSWER ME!!!

standing out in harsh, capitalized letters, punctuated with exclamation marks.

Her brows pulled together as she swiped down, revealing more—three missed calls from Sam. And below that, another string of missed calls, this time from a number she recognized instantly.

The hospital.

Four times. No—five.

Her stomach twisted.

She had their number memorized by now, burned into her brain after calling it over and over in the past, desperate for updates.

Still, her first thought wasn't that. It wasn't you.

It was that the hospital had been calling to check in again. Maybe to ask when she was coming back. It had been a while since she last went, and she knew how the nurses had gotten when she stayed away too long.

Beside her, Chad shifted, voice thick with exhaustion as he mumbled something—"What's wrong?”

Tara didn't answer.

Her fingers moved on instinct, tapping Sam's name, pressing the phone to her ear.

It rang once.

Twice.

Then—Sam picked up.

The line barely had time to connect before Sam's voice hit her, urgent and breathless—"Have you heard?"

Tara froze.

She couldn't tell what emotion was laced in Sam's voice. It was everything at once—shaken, unsteady. So she assumed the worst.

Her chest tightened.

The hospital. The missed calls. Sam's voice like that—fuck.

Her mind spiraled, flashing through every possibility, every horror.

You were dead.

That's what she thought.

That the shell you had become had finally broken. That your body had given up, collapsed in on itself, unable to keep going without you inside of it.

She could already feel her throat closing up, her vision growing blurry. Her lips parted—

"No," she said, barely a whisper. "What?"

Sam hesitated.

The world felt like it had stopped turning, the air thick and unmoving.

Then—Sam's voice, breaking through the static.

"She's awake."

Silence.

Tara's heart dropped.

The next words came softer, lighter, like a breath of relief—

"Y/N woke up."

[icu-fetish]

What happened to me?

This surgical cap is quite comfortable. Cold sensors are attached to my forehead – sticky electrodes pulling thin wires, like a spider web catching my every breath. The hair, damp with sweat, no longer bothers – it has been neatly removed so that the medical devices can work without hindrance. On my chest – other sensors, their smooth edges chilling the skin, and the wires descend to where the heart beats unevenly, as if succumbing to the rhythm of alarming signals. I hear the squeak of the monitors – a quiet, monotonous sound that whispers that my condition is stable… for now.

Sometimes the air becomes thick, as if I am swallowing it with force. My chest tightens, and each breath is a struggle, causing sweat to appear on my temples. I've been pricked with needles – countless times, the sensation of sharp metal under my skin still throbs in my memory. Lidocaine, morphine, something else – I've lost count. But there is no relief, only heat in my veins and trembling in my fingers. The oxygen cannula sits firmly under my nose, its plastic tubes chilling my skin, and the oxygen flows into my lungs – dry, but vital. I don't know what's wrong with me. Maybe it's my heart giving out? Or my lungs, which betrayed me at the worst moment?

Nurses constantly check my condition, their fingers – quick and cold – glide over my skin, adjusting the sensors, measuring my pulse. Their eyes, hidden behind masks, seem indifferent, but I feel fear gripping my throat. What if I become a medical vegetable – immobile, dependent on these humming machines around me? Will I fall into a coma where everything disappears? Will I be fully connected to the machines – tubes, wires, needles becoming a part of me? I try to push these thoughts away.

Breathing is still difficult – the air seems to get stuck in my chest. I've been fitted with an oxygen mask – its plastic fits tightly against my face, chilling my lips, making me feel vulnerable. At first, it's annoying, but then… the oxygen penetrates my lungs, cool and clean, like a foreign whisper bringing me back to life. Breathing became easier, and I feel warmth slowly spreading through my body, although the fear remains with me.

I dozed off – briefly, intermittently, as if falling into darkness that receded only for a moment. I woke up to a presence – nurses and a doctor are near me again. Their voices hum quietly, but the words blur, not reaching my consciousness. They removed the regular oxygen mask, and I felt a chill on my lips where the plastic still retained the warmth of my breath. Instead, they put something else on me – a different oxygen mask, attached to a thick hose. Oxygen bursts into my lungs – strong, sharp, as if foreign lips are forcibly breathing life into me. And that sound… the low, rhythmic hum of the machine nearby. Is that it? Artificial ventilation? Is it really that bad?

Their hands are on me again – quick, relentless. A new injection – the needle pierces my vein, cold liquid spreads under my skin, leaving heat and a slight tingling. What is it – a sedative? Painkiller? Will I be able to fall asleep, escape this nightmare into soft darkness? Or maybe it's the last thing I'll feel before…

Did I wake up again… This tube… A breathing tube in my throat – cold, foreign, like a harsh kiss from an artificial device. I've been intubated. I feel this tube – hard, plastic, it presses against my tongue, makes my larynx tremble with each mechanical breath that the machine drives into my lungs. The artificial device makes a noticeable sound – a low, rhythmic hum that fills the room, as if its breath has become mine. I can't move – my body is still connected to wires and sensors, as if I've become a part of this medical room, its living detail. My condition… is it finally terrible? What happened to me? My memory blurs like fog, and my heart pounds under the cold plates of the electrodes. Will I remain like this forever – trapped in the embrace of this machine, dependent on its rhythm…?