#at first he would freeze and dissociate and/or panic but in present time... hes able to push past that. sometimes. it makes him dangerous

[towerofluin]

wait a minute hold on wait wait wait wait wait hold on hold on hold on oooohhhhhh i need a minute i just noticed something and im gonna cryyyyyyyyy

extended stay au

dons neck has a scar on it now :( it wasnt there before :( :( howd he get it??? :( :( :(

broski this whole au makes me feral to the nth degree i cant even put it into words how much i adore it i just hafta point at your amazing art and scream incoherently

He's always had an issue with Karai-bots

(Thank you!!!! I love seeing you in my notes and in my inbox I always get super stupid excited lol)

[humanitys-strongest-bamf]

saw you might be taking requests? can you do a drabble where y/n is a survivor of domestic abuse and levi ends up raising his voice at some point and y/n gets triggered and levi comforts them? pls skip if ur uncomfortable with this!

absolutely LOVE that my very first aot request is heavy angst

You're Safe | Levi Hurt/Comfort Oneshot

✧ word count ➼ 1.6k (i think this word count is just my standard at this point lmao) ✧ content/warnings: mentions of abuse, panic attacks, dissociation, canon!verse, reader is a survivor of domestic abuse, levi being comforting in his levi way, all the not fun stuff that comes with being a survivor, please let me know if i missed any trigger warnings! ✧ notes ➼ I know that everyone's experience with being a survivor is vastly different. If you would like it portrayed in a different way, feel free to send me another ask and I will try my best to match it :) Not sure if this needs to be said, but if you ever need support or solidarity, my ask is always open!

You could tell that something was off the minute he walked in through the door. 

While Levi was rarely in a “good” mood after expeditions, you could tell that this most recent one must have gone much worse than anticipated. It was already getting late into the night and your anxiety was already elevated, having been waiting for Levi to arrive back home all day. The debrief must have taken much, much longer than usual, which was never a good sign.

You came out of your study to meet him in the living room, your heart dropping when you saw the dark look on his face and how ruffled his uniform and hair was. 

“Levi?” you asked quietly as you approached him. 

You could tell that he was exhausted and incredibly stressed at the same time. He looked like he was about to collapse down onto the ground and that it was taking all his energy to keep going.

You reached out slowly and placed your hand on his arm, gently holding him. 

“What happened?”

“Nothing,” he grumbled, shrugging you off. “Just a long day.”

You gave him a small, half-hearted smile, knowing that it was definitely not “just a long day”. However, you knew that it took Levi much longer than a normal person to process distress and decompress and given the fact that he was in the Scouts and took regular deadly expeditions outside of the walls, distress was a constant in his life.

“You know that’s not true,” you said quietly, turning towards him as he walked past you. “Talk to me, Levi.”

He stopped walking and you heard a soft sigh come from his mouth. 

“Not now, _____.”

You frowned at him, knowing that “not now” easily translated to “not at all”. Although you knew to give him space, you also knew that if he went to bed in distress tonight, then he would wake up even worse tomorrow, which would make him detach even more, leading into an endless cycle of self-destruction and stonewalling.

“Levi, please,” you said, approaching him again. “What happened? Talk to me.”

He stopped walking and quickly glanced at you with irritation showing in his eyes.

“I said not now, _____!” he yelled out, a bit louder than he had intended to.

You felt yourself flinch and freeze as your blood ran cold. The sudden and drastic change from near silence to his voice bouncing off the walls immediately brought your mind from the present reality and into a dissociative state as you felt your eyes lose focus and your ability to perceive the room around you began to dissipate. Your breathing destabilized as you took a step back away from him.

Given your current state, you weren’t able to see Levi’s eyes widen as he realized what had just happened. You couldn’t see his face pale upon seeing your reaction. You couldn’t see him walking towards you as you quickly turned away, maintaining distance from him. You couldn’t see him open his mouth to speak or hear any words that were meant to come out after.

“I need to go to the restroom,” you muttered quickly as you rushed to the bathroom in the most composed way that you could, as tears began to cloud your vision.

Once you were in the bathroom, you shut the door behind you and leaned over the sink, unable to keep the tears back any longer. You shut your eyes as disturbing memories, ones that you thought you had stored away for good, emerged. You shook your head in an attempt to get them to go away and took a sharp inhale, your breath getting caught in your throat. You vaguely heard that your sobbing was audible due to your unsteady breathing and you quickly covered your mouth in an attempt to muffle yourself.

You felt the world begin to spin around you as you cursed at yourself in frustration. You didn’t understand why you were like this. What had happened was a long time ago. You knew that Levi wasn’t that person. You knew that he wouldn’t hurt you. You knew that, even when he was frustrated, he would never take his anger out on you. 

So why the hell do I still feel this way?!

You opened your eyes again once you heard a gentle knock on the bathroom door with it slightly opening since you hadn’t closed it all the way. You saw Levi approaching from the other side of the door and you immediately looked away, quickly wiping the tears off your face in a vain attempt to keep him from seeing your crying, although there was no hiding your swollen eyes or how red your nose had become from sniffling.

There was a solemn look on Levi’s usually expressionless face. He knew what was running through your head. He knew about the rampant thoughts that must have been plaguing your mind. His heart had dropped once he saw your reaction, but at that point, it was too late to take back what had just happened.

“Hey, _____,” he said, his voice gentle and soft.

You continued to look away, averting eye contact. 

“I’m fine, Levi,” you said with a flat tone, desperately trying to mask your vulnerable state.

You saw him place his hand down on the sink near you without actually making physical contact.

“Can I come closer?” he asked, still keeping his voice low, never taking his eyes off you.

You were quiet for a second as you continued to try to control the tears that were gathering in the corners of your eyes again. You shakily nodded at him as you slowly turned towards him again.

He slowly approached you, pausing for a second before gently placing his hands on your shoulders. He had approached you slowly, noticing that you slightly flinched again when he raised his hands. The most important thing to him right now was to ground you back to the present moment, and indicate that there was no danger.

After he felt you slightly relax upon his touch, he pulled you into a tight hug, placing his hand at the back of your head to hold you in as you buried your face into his chest.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered to you. “I shouldn’t have raised my voice.”

Upon hearing that, you weren’t able to hold your tears back anymore as you gripped at him, with your sobs becoming audible. You pressed your face against him, as if you were desperately trying to hide.

“N-No,” you said quietly, with your voice slightly muffled. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I still act like this. I don’t want you to feel like I don’t t-trust you or that I’m afraid of you or that I-”

“Stop,” he whispered, cutting you off. “It’s okay.”

He gently ran his fingers through your hair in an attempt to soothe and comfort you, placing a kiss on the top of your head.

You continued to press yourself against him. Although you were still sobbing and soaking his shirt with tears, your breathing had stabilized and you no longer felt like there was a storm tearing through your mind.

You both stood there for a minute as he continued to soothe you and ground you back into the present. 

Once he heard you take a deep breath, he spoke again.

“Come,” he said quietly, pulling away slightly, and gently directing you out of the bathroom and into the living room, leading you to the couch.

He sat down, pulling you in as you followed suit. 

You curled yourself into a ball, resting your head against his chest, taking comfort in the gentle rhythm of his heartbeat and the warm touch of you leaning against him. You still felt incredibly embarrassed from getting so heavily triggered and continued to hide your face in him.

After a few minutes of silence, you finally took another deep breath and pulled away slightly to look up at him.

“I’m sorry,” you said, wiping away any residual tears that had gathered on your cheeks. “I feel pathetic.”

He looked at you, his eyebrows slightly coming together as worry entered his eyes at your statement.

“Well, you don’t have to, but I know it’s hard,” he said quietly, gently brushing his fingers against your cheek and tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear so that he could see your face better. “It’s okay.”

He placed his other hand on your waist, giving you a gentle squeeze as a method of reassuring you of his prolonged presence.

You gripped at his shirt to ground yourself. You were here with Levi. The person you lived with currently was not your abuser. The person you found yourself being held by was someone that loved you unconditionally, in the best way that you wanted to be loved. This person cared and would never bring harm to you. You knew that. 

Slowly, a small smile appeared on your face as you parted your lips to speak again.

“Thank you,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

He returned the smile, pulling you into a gentle kiss that lasted for more than a few seconds. 

You allowed yourself to relish in his scent, his touch, the sound of his breathing, the feeling of his hands against you, and how, despite him being relatively small as a person, you felt engulfed by him, as if his presence was able to wash away all of the chaos that resided in your mind.

He pulled and rested his forehead on yours.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he whispered, matching your volume. “You’re safe.”

[eclecticvalor]

7 Things I experience as a DID System. Mental Health Awareness Month.

In light of May being America’s mental health awareness month, I wanted to talk about something that has consumed my entire life for the past year and a half: Treatment and healing from a disorder that is stigmatised into the ground by poor representation and misunderstandings both socially and in the medical field. Those who are close to me know first hand how my symptoms and experiences have shaped the way I interact with the world since starting treatment, but aside from my closest friends and family, and the people I live with, I don’t normally talk about the fact that I have Dissociative Identity Disorder, and what that means to me. 

Hi. My name is Atlas, some people call me Cadyn, and I am the primary host of 26 fragmented parts of my consciousness. I am not dangerous, none of my parts or alters are dangerous, and no, it is not like “Split”. 

Dissociative Identity Disorder is a trauma based dissociative disorder listed in both the DSM IV and V,  and is recognized as an uncommon disorder characterized by two or more distinct personality states existing within the same consciousness. These personality states come to be when natural childhood development is disrupted by severe, continued, or repetitive, trauma, the child has a natural inclination towards heavy dissociation, and a lack of adult or parental support to develop the means to cope with the things happening to them.

Unfortunately popular mental health media has seen an uptake in people viewing DID as a quirky “trait”, the ability to have functional imaginary friends living in your head... but in reality DID is a lot darker, a lot scarier, and isn’t something I’d wish upon my worst enemy. Because of this media spike I wanted to share 7 things that living with Dissociative identity disorder means to me

1. Amnesia

Living with DID means that I miss out on a lot of my life. A primary symptom of DID is amnesia. I have no solid memories before the age of 13, and the memories I do have are often skewed, incorrect, or completely false as my brain fought for a way to fill in gaps and cope with the loss of memory. I forget a lot, and not just things like forgetting where I left my wallet and keys, or forgetting the day - those do happen, but I also mean forgetting big things, important life experiences and things I wish with all my being that I could remember like my highschool graduation and my wedding reception. 

I often forget important day to day things that make it difficult to maintain life as an adult, like doctors appointments, work schedules, meetings, and important daily tasks. I’ll forget that I’ve eaten at all that day and risk going days without eating, or overeating due to having no recollection of the last time I’d eaten. I forget birthdays (especially my own), anniversaries, and important holidays. 

To an outsider, who has no idea what’s happening inside my head, this can come across as though I’m thoughtless or unreliable. That I am cold for forgetting an important date, or simply that I just don’t care when this very much is not the case. 

2. Alienation

Oftentimes DID comes with a sense of alienation from people who you’re supposed to know. For me a really clear example of this is when I previously mentioned my childhood memories being skewed - I have a clear memory of a conversation I was having with some blood relatives a few years back in which I mentioned that one family member I had happy childhood memories of, and remembered playing together as kids, but with another family member they were practically a stranger to me. I had, and still have, no memories of ever spending time with them growing up, no memories of having any kind of relationship with them at all. My understanding of our relationship was that it was “forced” because we were family and our parents expected us to exist in the same space as we grew up, but that we never talked. But I was informed by a separate member of the family that I was very wrong, and this “stranger” was actually someone I had been close to growing up. This is a common experience with DID patients, and also a very frustrating one. It creates feelings of “You know me but I don’t know you”, and it’s extremely difficult to trust your own judgement of the people you know, because you often can’t tell if your judgement is skewed by your memories or lack thereof. 

3. PTSD and Flashbacks

A diagnosis of C-PTSD (Or complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder) is required for a diagnosis of Dissociative Identity Disorder. This means that while the individual symptoms of DID can be frustrating, scary and sometimes depressing, the most difficult aspect of DID, and the most important to focus on in treatment is the PTSD symptoms. 

PTSD symptoms in DID can be extremely powerful due to the additional dissociative aspect. This can mean that for a lot of DID patients, flashbacks can produce full blown body sensations, hallucinations and terrifying delusions. This is One thing that I find incredibly difficult to talk about, but I also believe is extremely important to understand. It can be embarrassing, shameful and while I only speak for myself in saying this, can cause a lot of guilt and grief. There have been times where I have been experiencing powerful flashbacks and did not recognize my own husband, resulting in lash outs and fear towards him being delusioned into thinking that he was out to hurt me, or had harmful intent for just existing in the same space as I was. 

For me, a single wiff of a familiar smell, hearing a sound, a certain color, an idea, a name, a passing thought or comment can throw my previously stable mental state into one of pure panic, hyperventilation, hallucination, delusion, fight-flight-freeze and reactionary responses. Through treatment I’ve developed adaptive and healthy coping skills and management responses but trauma responses can be so quick, and so unexpected that I don’t always have time to process my coping skills before my body and mind respond in negative ways. 

4. Decision making and skewed Behavior

Because living with DID, means living with a shared or fragmented consciousness, this often means that while I may not remember, my life is still being lived during my time of memory loss. Alters or parts will take control and operate my body, reacting to things, interacting with people, completing tasks and functioning. But oftentimes parts who take control are very different from myself, and make choices and decisions that I wouldn’t normally make, and sometimes decisions I wouldn’t *ever* make. An example of this is the fact that technically I am a conservative voter, despite myself as an individual having leftist or NDP views, or decisions to leave or apply for jobs and work positions that I have no interest in, or that I don’t even have the qualifications or physique to do, or leaving ones that I personally loved and excelled at. This also reflects a lot in everyday life in more subtle things, decisions like what food to eat, things to buy, activities to do shift between parts while they’re in control. 

To outsiders this can look a lot like impulsivity, lack of self-control, or lack of a sense of identity. This is a huge reason why a lot of DID patients are often misdiagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder or Bipolar Disorder because the behaviour between alters can be so drastically different that it can look a *lot* like manic or depressive states. 

5. Denial and Dismissing Trauma

A very common experience among DID patients is denial and being dismissive or disregarding the things that happened to them. I often find myself in a state of questioning whether my symptoms, my disorder, and even my trauma were ever real to begin with. In therapy I find myself saying “It’s not that big of a deal” or “It wasn’t that big of a deal” more times than I’m actually saying anything productive. A huge part of this is why I wanted to make this list, because the media, and a lot of medical circles deny that DID exists or believe it’s impossibly rare and those, while both false, can cause intense feelings of “Maybe I’m just doing this for attention”. DID is a very real, very difficult disorder to diagnose, to treat, and to live with disorder, and while it is uncommon, statistics show that approximately 1-2% of western population is diagnosed, and up to a suspected 7% are living with the disorder undiagnosed because of these misconceptions. It is not common, and it’s not something that everyone is going to have, but it is a very possible response to very real trauma and is a valid diagnosis to give to those meeting the criteria. 

6. Hidden Symptoms

DID is often referred to as a “covert” presenting disorder. What this means is that most commonly outsiders, friends, family, employers and even the patient themselves can have a nearly impossible time recognizing the symptoms, and it often goes unnoticed until an event destabilizes the function of the person’s life. This can lead to a lot of backlash or denial coming from peers and family close to the person. This leads to the patient hearing a lot of:  “I’ve never noticed personality changes”, “You don’t act like you have it”, “You couldn’t possibly have that”, “No, I would have noticed”, “You have to be mistaken”, “There’s no way, it would have been obvious”. And so, so much more. The reality of DID is that it’s *not* noticeable. It’s a safety response that the brain created to protect the psyche from the intense damages that come with long term trauma experiences, so it’s often designed to hide itself from abusers or perceived threats as a way to compartmentalize trauma memories and maintain the ability to survive through stress and unstable situations. Not being able to “notice” is kind of the point in most cases.

 7. Wandering and Dissociative Episodes

Living with untreated or unmanaged DID can potentially be dangerous due to episodes of dissociation, “wandering” experiences (where the patient will wander away from home, family, or life in a confusion, attempt to return to a perceived life never lived, or in a state of belief that their current life is unsafe). For me this took a head last year, and was actually an event that led to the solidification that this disorder was the explanation to my experiences. According to nurses and my husband, I had wandered into the emergency room of a hospital in the middle of the night, with no idea who or where I was, with no idea how to return home, or even where home was. I was wearing a t-shirt, and it had been raining, and my body was so cold they needed to retake my vitals nearly 6 times because they were unable to get an appropriate reading. After discovering my identity, my husband was called to take me home. Working with a therapist helped to develop a safety plan during events like this to prevent harm from coming to my body, or from ending up in newly traumatic environments, but I was lucky. These situations can lead to re-traumatization, victimization, it can lead to kidnapping, assault, it can lead to being injured or harmed by environmental factors and so much more and it is so incredibly important that DID patients work with their therapist to develop solid safety plans proactively to make sure that the patient doesn’t experience any worst case scenarios during episodes like this. 

Conclusion

My experiences are individual to me, and to my psyche. Not everyone will experience the disorder the same way, because not everyone experiences or responds to trauma the same way. I am so lucky, and extremely privileged to be able to access consistent care and treatment, that I found a professional who trusts me, and is focused on stabilizing and supporting. Too many people living with this disorder have no access to supportive mental health care because of the misconceptions that parts of the medical field hold regarding the legitimacy or frequency that the disorder develops, and too many peers and circles of people outcast or disregard the very real, very difficult experiences because they don’t understand the disorder, or believe it doesn’t exist, or believe it looks like split. If you, or someone you know is struggling with Dissociative symptoms, or dissociative identity disorder do not be afraid to reach out to a professional for support, and educate yourself on the reality of the disorder. 

[maxdark158]

Chapter 4!! WOOT! Check out the OG creator, @ozmav as the first day in her Damian Wayne fic is still canon in mine so far

tw for panic attacks

Characters are probably OOC because MLB is a kids show

Ps: I AM doing a partner fic to this from Damian’s POV and I AM doing a sequel to both of these, stay tuned

Angel in Gotham: Part 1 ~ Part 2 ~ Part 3 ~ Part 4 ~ Part 5 ~ Part 6 ~ Ao3

Demon in Gotham: Part 1 ~ Part 2 ~ Part 3 ~ Part 4 ~ Ao3

Fanart for AiG: Riddler ~ Joker thank you @thegreysman

Please tag me in any fanart you draw for this guys ^^

Enjoy!

oooOOOooo

Her hotel room was bland. There’s a creepy painting of two children in a bucket on the wall. The bed was stiff and the sheets are scratchy.

Marinette wasn’t sure when she got to her hotel room. She couldn’t remember walking in. She didn’t know what time it was or how long she stood outside in the first place. She was a puppet on strings. She didn’t know who was pulling them.

Distantly, she heard someone talking. She knew it had to be Tikki, nobody else was in her hotel room, but she didn’t have the energy to answer or to even fully listen.

Damian Wayne was Robin.

Of all things, she recognized his voice. He almost called her Angel during The Riddler incident too. She didn’t know why it clicked then, perhaps the similar wording?

It was easy to deduce the identities of Gotham’s other heroes after that.

Tim was obviously Red Robin. He complimented her ability to solve The Riddler’s riddles when he rescued her and was questioning her IQ as Tim after that. Jason clearly went easy on her during their spar, because Red Hood had many more skills than he showed then – not that Marinette cared about the spar now. Or anything else really.

Nightwing must be the brother she didn’t officially meet, though she did see him on her first day here at Wayne Enterprises. And Bruce Wayne was Batman. Marinette hadn’t met all the Gotham heroes or all the Waynes, but what she knew matched up.

She ignored the sheets, the bed, the painting, and the room for a moment. “Tikki,” her voice was hoarse – how long had it been since the goodbye? – “How did I figure out Damian was Robin when it took me so long to figure out Adrien was Chat?”

“I’m sorry Marinette,” Tikki’s voice sounded far away, muffled. “The magic of the miraculous must have tampered with your reasoning for Adrien. I assume that since you know it’s him now, there was no use of it anymore. You likely would have known Adrien was Chat from the beginning if it was never there.”

Tikki might have said something else, but she didn’t know. The ringing in her ears was louder than her kwami. The hotel room seemed to fade away, and she was trapped in the hollow darkness.

Marinette was a horrible person and friend.

Dread was ice water coursing through her body. It was freezing, she wasn’t sure if she had any real blood anymore.

It was her fault. It was her fault that she knew Damian was Robin, she has no right to know that he’s Robin when he’s clearly keeping it secret to protect himself and his family. Marinette didn’t deserve to know.

Guilt was the crushing weight chaining her to the ground. It got heavier and heavier. She struggled to stay upright.

Why did she have to be such a screw-up? She and Damian even discussed this, they talked about how friends didn’t have to tell each other everything. Marinette didn’t deserve to be his friend.

Sadness was mint in her mouth and wetness on her cheek. The wetness was real though, surrounding her and drowning her. She struggled in it, her movements sluggish under the pressure.

She betrayed his trust. She found out something he wasn’t comfortable with her knowing. Marinette was worse than Alya.

Her throat felt tight.

Marinette should have never tried to have friends again, not when she always screwed up. Damian didn’t deserve to have someone as awful as her as a friend.

Her lungs ached.

Damian deserved better.

She couldn’t breathe.

She wasn’t breathing.

Distantly, Marinette thought that she didn’t deserve to.

“Marinette, please calm down please,” the voice sounded desperate. “Marinette you’re having a panic attack and you aren’t breathing, please-”

She gasped for air as if she had been drowning. Her breaths were heavy, her body desperate to gain back the oxygen she deprived it of. Marinette tried to calm herself, she needed to stop herself from dissociating, from spiraling.

Deep breath.

She needed to focus.

Deep breath.

The sheets are scratchy. The fabric was clearly cheap, she often saved her allowance to try and afford better supplies when she designed.

Deep breath.

The bed was stiff. Marinette wished it had more pillows like hers at home. She wished it was soft, more relaxing. It was hard sleeping on it, but it was hard sleeping anyway.

Deep breath.

She could see the creepy painting of two children in a bucket on the wall. It was black and white except for the blue color of their shirts. Their eyes were wide in surprise or fear she didn’t know.

Deep breath.

Her hotel room is bland. The off-white color of the walls matched the off-white carpet and the off-white sheets. The furniture was also all white. It was a little bright, but it needed more color. More design to it.

Deep breath.

“Marinette?” Tikki asked.

Deep breath.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “I’m sorry I-”

Tikki shook her head. “Are you alright?”

Marinette shook her head. She hadn’t had an attack that bad in years. Not since-

The memories came hurtling back, and she gripped the sheets as if they could save her. She didn’t want to remember don’t make her remember please don’t please-

Deep breath.

She was disassociating again. She needed to find a way to stay present.

“Why don’t you try designing?” Tikki’s voice was far away again, but Marinette clung to it like a lifeline.

She might have nodded. She didn’t remember. She didn’t remember moving. But suddenly she was sitting at the white desk with her travel sewing machine and her sketchbook. She had the fabric she bought here before The Riddler incident. She and Damian dropped it off before going for ice cream.

Deep Breath.

Her sketchbook was open but her brain wouldn’t let her process what was on the page. It was colored though, red and black. She bought red and black fabric for her ladybug inspired jacket, but she had no problem using it now.

She wanted out of her own head. Designing, making clothes, those things grounded her.

Tikki was telling a story in the background, of what Marinette didn’t know. She couldn’t pay attention right now, she wasn’t even fully aware of what she was making.

But it was calming her. She was able to focus on her movements instead of her thoughts, go through the motions of something she loved.

Lila had taken many things from her, but she never did take her joy for designing.

The measurements she was following were on the page. She wasn’t conscious of what they actually were. But she measured, she cut, and she sewed.

She could feel the fabric under her fingers, the coolness of her sewing machine. Her vision was blurred and her cheeks were wet.

Measure, cut, sew.

She needed to make it up to Damian somehow. Should she reveal herself to him – a quid pro quo?

Measure, cut, sew.

No. She didn’t know how many villain fights or what type Robin got in but if he accidentally told anyone she would be in danger. Whether another villain made a deal with Hawkmoth or somehow got akumatized – her identity was secret for a reason.

Measure, cut, sew.

She had to protect her family first and foremost. But Damian… she ruined her friendship with him. She made a huge, unfixable mistake and there’s no way he would ever want to be around her anymore once he knew.

Sew. Sew. Sew. Sew. Sew. Sew.

That’s to say… If he knew…

Sew. Sew. Sew. Sew. Sew.

But Marinette couldn’t do that! That would be even more of a betrayal of trust to keep a secret about him from him, and she personally would like to know if she compromised her identity…

Sew. Sew. Sew. Sew.

If Hawkmoth wasn’t a threat anymore, she would tell him. He clearly knew how to keep a secret, though her figuring it out wasn’t exactly a good moment.

Sew. Sew. Sew.

And she did have that plan for getting rid of Hawkmoth, the one she got from the Gotham City Heroes and Villains Museum. She became inspired by Damian and his family to track the akuma and find Hawkmoth.

Sew. Sew.

Fight him face to face. End the terrorism and suffering once and for all.

Stitch.

Marinette blinked through her tears. It seemed they finally stopped. Her half-baked plans paused, and she looked at what she created.

A hand immediately flew to her mouth to stifle the new wave of sobs rising in her throat. A fresh wave of tears fell, spilling onto the fabric in her other hand.

She made the Robin hoodie.

She made the Robin hoodie that she designed.

It was red, though the bottom hem of it was yellow. The sleeves were black and the torso part of the hoodie was red. The string to the hoodie was also red, but it has thick yellow stripes, like the yellow marks down the middle of Robin’s suit.

The cuffs of the sleeve were green and had little cloth triangles on them. The triangles were smaller than the ones Robin had on his gloves, but the cardboard in them helped them stick out as they did on the hero's costume.

The hood, like the sleeves, was black, but the inside was yellow, much like Robin’s cape. Robin’s label was on the shoulder, black and yellow.

Marinette glanced at the sketchbook page that she was going off of. It sprinkled in wet marks – likely her own tears – but the measurements she remembered writing.

She remembered writing them when she and Damian got lunch before ice cream.

She remembered trying to estimate his measurements without asking for them.

She remembered adding a few centimeters just in case…

She made Damian a Robin hoodie. She made Damian a hoodie of himself.

She glanced back at the hoodie, recognizing the yellow and green fabric. It was from the old sweater that she brought in case she got cold at night… she didn’t even remember getting it out…

Of course she made this of course her subconscious is aware of how awful she is. She’s despicable and doesn’t deserve Damian-

“Marinette?” Tikki’s voice was quiet. Tired.

“I’m okay,” she said, mentally digging her heels into the present moment. She could not dissociate again. She could not spiral again.

Deep breath.

Marinette carefully hung up the hoodie she made in the small hotel room closet. She threw away the sweater and saved whatever scraps of fabric left behind – maybe she could make a hat.

“I’m sorry Tikki,” her voice was wobbly and hoarse. “I’m so sorry I-”

“Marinette,” Tikki flew to her, face full of pity – no, understanding. Sympathy. “It’s not your fault.”

“But-” it was! She found out his identity she ruined their friendship and anything else they could have had and it was all her fault-

“Panicking and anxiety is normal,” Tikki told her. “You don’t have to apologize for your emotions.”

Marinette nodded. What Tikki said made sense. She needed to compartmentalize her emotions for the moment and get herself together.

She couldn’t make this up to Damian, and she didn’t deserve to. It’s her fault and he shouldn’t be around someone as awful as her.

It would hurt her more than him, but she needs to save him. She’s too much like her classmates, like Alya and Lila, to continue as his friend. She didn’t want to hurt him.

The room was stifling. She wanted out. She couldn’t leave the hotel though, that would be too dangerous – and she might run into Dami- Robin.

“I’m going to go downstairs,” Marinette mumbled to Tikki. “See if I can get anything out of the vending machines. You stay here, I don’t want to accidentally talk to you around others.”

Tikki nodded, clearly not happy about it but understanding. “You wouldn’t want to wake anyone up.”

“What?” Marinette turned to the clock on the desk and-

Four A.M. She lost eleven hours to an attack.

Deep Breath.

Marinette squared her shoulders. She would go downstairs to get a snack, come back up and try to fall asleep. With any luck, she would miss the class’s trip to GothCorp tomorrow if she turned off her alarm…

She moved like a zombie in the halls. Her room key was in her Tikki-less purse with some stale cookies. She had her slippers on. She hadn’t changed completely into her pajamas, as she still wore her white crop top, but her pajama bottoms were on instead of the overalls. She didn’t have her phone.

Marinette arrived at the lobby and walked to the vending machine area. In her hand was a few US dollars with the green and the old men’s faces. She figured she could maybe afford one of the candy bars here. Damian mentioned liking things with dark chocolate – despite not liking the, “too sweet,” chocolate ice cream at the parlor. He was going to get the salted caramel until-

She paused, mentally reining herself in. If she thinks about Damian, she’ll spiral again. She needs to get the candy bar and head back to her room.

That’s it.

Marinette began to walk again. The lights were on behind the desk, and the vending machines had light. Other than that, the rest of the lights were off. She didn’t really mind though, simply going over to the machines.

Her ears picked up on someone moving around in the dark, near the couches in the lobby. She turned, immediately getting into a fighting stance when-

“Have you been crying?” A sickly-sweet voice said, and Marinette knew immediately who it was. The girl walked toward her, stopping a few feet from Marinette so she was visible in the light. She turned away from Lila and back to the vending machine, ignoring the footsteps behind her.

When Marinette didn’t answer Lila took it as a sign to continue.

“You know, when you passed here earlier you seemed really out of it,” Marinette straightened out her dollar bill.

“I was waiting down here to comfort you, thinking you would return, but I fell asleep on the couch.” She didn’t know how much of that was true. She put the bill into the vending machine.

“I just wanted to see if you were-”

“You can stop lying,” Marinette’s voice was still wobbly from crying, but she didn’t care. “I haven’t bought any of your crap yet, no need to continue selling it to me.”

There was a moment of silence. More footsteps, but they sounded further away.

“Fine then, Dupain-Cheng,” Lila growled. “I wanted to warn you.” Marinette tried and failed to refrain from rolling her eyes as Lila talked.

“You think that when you leave this school, when you graduate early, I’ll be gone?” What button should she press?

“Your useless sheep classmates will always be wrapped around my fingers, coming to my every beck and call.” The label next to the dark chocolate Hershey’s bar said B2. She pressed B then 2.

She heard more footsteps. They sounded closer. Lila was probably trying to intimidate her.

“You’ve even lost Adrien,” Lila sounded haughty about that, but the words relieved Marinette. “You are nothing, Dupain-Cheng.” The Hershey’s bar fell to the bottom of the vending machine.

“Are you done?” she asked, leaning down to get her prize. “I couldn’t care less about any of what you just said. Might as well talk about Physics if you want me to pay attention more.”

She looked over to Lila-

Wait.

Lila stood in the same spot as she was before, looking flabbergasted that Marinette didn’t care about her power trip tirade.

She hadn’t moved.

More footsteps, even closer than before. Not as close as Lila was.

Marinette grabbed her chocolate bar and stood up slowly. If someone else was here…

“What do you mean you couldn’t care less?” Lila suddenly shrieked.

“Lila, calm down,” Marinette saw shoes appear at the very edge of where the light from the vending machines reached. Shoes and the hems of purple pants.

“You think that if you just brush me off, pretend you don’t care, that I’ll go away,” Lila hissed. “I am your worst nightmare, Dupain-Cheng. You will never escape me!”

“Lila-”

“No! You will listen to me!”

She heard movement. They were moving. Without thinking she reached over and grabbed Lila’s arm and yanked her behind where Marinette stood.

A spray of liquid erupted from the shadow, hitting where Lila was once standing.

“Why so serious, little girl?” there was a giggle, and Marinette suddenly deeply regretted leaving her phone upstairs.

“Call the police,” she mumbled. She heard Lila desperately searching through her pockets.

If this is who she thinks it is… Ice water ran through her body instead of blood, but the buildup of dread kept her shivers at bay.

“Looking for this?” A gloved hand displayed Lila’s phone in its orange case.

Marinette held Lila back just in case. “Please!” the lair called desperately. “S-several people have me as their emergency contact, Clara Nightingale, Damian Wayne, Jag-”

The hand threw the phone to the ground and the shoe stomped on it.

“I wish your little friend didn’t pull you out of the way,” the voice dawdled. “It would have been fun to see you with a smile on your face.”

The feet stepped forward.

Purple pants.

Purple suit.

Green undershirt.

Purple tie.

White plastic flower.

White face.

Green hair.

Crazed eyes.

The Joker stared at them, smile just a bit too wide. It didn’t reach his eyes.

“When I heard you beat The Riddler at his own game,” Joker’s tone was full of amusement, but Marinette didn’t feel like laughing. “I decided I just had to see what you were made of myself.”

He tilted up his flower. “Get ready to smile!”

[rhinestonerespect]

The Story I Hate to Tell

TW rape, violence

Yeah- don't read this if you don't wanna. For me this is an exercise in narrative. I've been stuck on poetry for many years and it is not working for me right now. My stories are in dire need of some clarity. Luckily I have diaries and conversations with friends to reference to make sure I have this right. I remember well. Too well.

My body still remembers it's trauma this time of year. It's been 5 years.

Part one:

The person that raped me was not the person who first attempted to rape me. The first actual rape attempt I experienced as an adult was a mutual friend of my roommate's. I had maybe five people over my mother's house drinking one night. Not heavily. Just a casual evening among legal college people. This guy had eyes for me so bad the whole night; it made me squirm. I did not feel attracted to him. When he asked if he could stay a little longer after my friends left, I said, "I'll be right back. Gotta pee." hoping he would just leave. (It is here that I cringe at myself for not just saying no.)

When I came out of the bathroom he was in my bedroom. I had not invited him in there. I walked in trying to figure out how I was going to say that I was tired and going to call it a night, but he grabbed me immediately. He forced a kiss and held me by the throat, squeezing more and more on my airway very slowly and started to fumble with the button on my pants.

I struggled for some seconds that I remember. But then THIS is precisely where I black out. I don't know if I lost consciousness from him choking me or if I have a short gap in my memory, but the next thing I know I am straddling him on my bed with the searing hot red lava lamp in my hand held over his face. And I'm saying "Get. The. Fuck. Out."

He then apologizes over and over and over and slinks away from me and grabs his keys and is gone. I had dropped the lamp on the floor. I remember it burned a little spot in the carpet. The burn on my hand took time to heal. I couldn't feel it at all until minutes after I saw his car leaving my street.

The person who did actually rape me was a friend. I had known him for years, but not intimately. After I dropped out of college we had the same crowd. Wasn't a healthy crowd for me. Party animals. Dissociated and shallow. They liked me because I was pretty and permissive. At the time, I was so low on self-esteem and agency that it literally gave me a life to hang out with them. I was like a doll. They dressed me up and watched me flail. I had felt like a reject and a disappointment, but they accepted me. And gave me lot's of drugs. Played all my favorite jams and asked me to twerk upside down against the fridge while they cheered. I am wondering now if I can still do a headstand.

It was on a late frigid night in January (January the 24th 2014 actually) that we had gathered in the trailer to do our usual damage. My girlfriend "A" was there. She'd had a fight with her boyfriend and wanted to get drunk and cut loose. There was a boy there who slowly throughout the evening warmed up to capitalizing on that mood of hers. Other than that, just the three people who lived there were present by the time our psychoactive substances started to kick in. We were drunk, also.

My 'friend' and I had drunkenly made out twice before. Both times I had declined going further and he was ok with us just snuggling and falling asleep. He actually fell asleep first on both occasions. That night he was very wide eyed. He kept grabbing my face to kiss me, which is generally a thing I enjoy from a lover's standpoint.

Things started to get bad when I 'decided' (I had a lot of coercion here) to go and get the 'moon rock' my ex lover had given me to make into an engagement ring. It was at my dad's place where I was staying. He came with me to retrieve it. I drove - which was extremely dangerous. I was out of my mind on the drugs. On the way back, he was groping me heavily. I remember yelling at him about it because I was scared to crash. I wanted to get back to my friend A because she was drunk and sad and I was supposed to take her home in the morning.

I did crash. A combination of being under the influence, being groped, and the black ice all over the roads.  We spun around and crashed into the riverbank; my back wheels were on the frozen river spinning uselessly. The front end of the car was lodged tilted upwards in a snowy bank of cattails. We hadn't been going fast so the shock of the moment was not too terribly dramatic. However, I realized later that the characteristic bruises on my chest in particular were from my seatbelt.

It took us about 15 or 20 minutes of spinning wheels, pushing, and pulling to SOMEHOW MIRACULOUSLY dislodge my car from that spot. I still think it's insane that we were able to. My car was only dented in a few spots and had cattails hanging off of a few places. I remember, I lost some things in the snow out of a makeup bag I had packed to stay the night. I picked my dress I wanted to sleep in out of the snow, but left whatever else it was- eyeliner pencils and things.

When we got back to the trailer A was asleep on top of the guy who had wanted to take advantage of her being drunk and mad at her boyfriend. I should note, that I'm fairly sure she also took advantage of that situation. So my friend and I went into the bathroom to continue our business. We were making out when one of the people that lived there burst in on us and then laughed and went back to bed. We were still mutually enjoying each other at that moment.

Shortly after something changed. I did not expect it at all. I pulled back as I had done before when I wanted to stop and it was as if he suddenly had lost all patience with me. He grabbed me hard by the throat and slammed me back into the shower wall. There was a metal towel rack that badly bruised my back. It hurt in that moment very badly even with all the drugs. I was breathless and frozen in place for a moment.  After everything that had happened that night, I had finally started to panic.

Then I told him I wanted to just go to bed in the living room. I was not tired. I was, at that point, deeply in shock and afraid of him. I went into the living room where our friends were sleeping. He pulled me down onto the mattress on the floor. I was worried about being quiet because it was so late. Still I said "Stop" and "I don't want to" and I can remember saying those things perhaps only because at that point it was as if I were watching myself say them. Uselessly. Like I had left my body on the floor underneath him and was watching from the ceiling just over us.

He shushed me. I remember that too. I remember how badly the spot on my back hurt. And my body in general.

He bit my mouth closed after a minute so that I couldn't keep protesting and then took my pants off and forced himself on me. Quickly and then done, but painful. Everything felt so painful and wrong. I bled on that mattress. I stopped struggling once he was done. He rolled off of me and then after some moments that were as timeless as anything, I heard him snoring.

I carefully got up so as not to wake anyone and tried to find what of my belongings I could. My coat. My car keys. My shoes. I left my purse and some clothes. Then I went outside. It was freezing and I didn't have pants. There was blood on my bare legs and walking was very difficult. My body kept seizing up and I had to try hard to deliberately put a foot in front of the other.

There was a walk down an icy hill to my car and as soon as I got outside, I saw that there was a cop parked right in front of my car. It was around 4 in the morning by then.  He was idling there just to be off the street.  It’s funny because every other time I've seen a cop in my life, I generally panic, but this time I was hopeful.  I knew that I wasn’t ok.  I did not want to drive.  I did not want to go home.  I wanted help.

I took careful steps down towards the cop and saw his face look up at me.  He put his car in gear perhaps thinking that I was one of the cars parked behind him and needed to leave.  So I WAVED.  I waved at him and I know he saw me. He was looking right at me.  I kept walking towards him and waving.

He drove away.  

And so I got in my car and drove myself back to my dad’s house.  I took a bath for hours.  When the water got cool, I’d let out a little and just fill it up again with super hot water.  Eventually when I got out I realized I would not be able to face my family like a normal being and would have to leave the house again before anyone woke up.  I didn’t have my phone so I couldn't try to contact any of my friends for help.

I got on my computer and sent a message to my friend M’s boyfriend who was on Facebook.  I knew he would see it and tell her to contact me via messenger.  He did quickly and she then told me to come over.  So I got dressed and went over there.  I found his stolen Dolce and Gabbana sunglasses he had left in my car.  My friend A was already there at M's house as well.  I told them what had happened.  At that moment, it was very easy for me.  I was still in shock and hadn't fully formed emotions towards what I had just experienced.  They had almost nothing to say in response.  I later realized that they didn’t really believe me.

After I left M’s house, I went back to the trailer and got my clothes and wallet and phone.  I saw the spot of blood I had left on their mattress in the living room.  It was not very small.  That was the last time I saw my friend S (who lived there).  She was getting ready for work and had no idea about what had happened.  She barely said good morning to me. Once she was told his version of events - which was that we had consensually hooked up but then I was jealous that he started dating his girlfriend (who I guess they started dating the very next day/I literally had no idea about any of this) and so I must have lied and claimed he raped me.

That sentiment was adopted by everyone else in that circle of people.  They completely disowned me as a friend, as an acquaintance.  When I returned to confront him a few days later - I brought the stolen D&G sunglasses he had left in my car.  I had taken hours to carve the words “Fuck you, you motherfucker” across the lenses. Very deep with a sharp knife.

He was standing with his new girlfriend and a few others outside the trailer smoking.  I drove up the hill and left my car running.  Walked over to the group. No one spoke to me.  They all went silent and looked stern.  I walked right up to him and said “These are your sunglasses.” I handed them to him and he said nothing. Everyone stared at me like they had no idea who I even was. Like they had never seen me before. Then I got back in my car, drove away and never spoke to any of those people again.

Part Two to come later....

[metallicdawn]

Cᴏɢɪᴛᴀᴛɪᴏ. — A Hᴏsᴛ Sᴏʟᴏ.

Cogitatio.

Cogitatio, Reflection, is natural for most everyone. At some point in time, all would spare a few moments of time to cogitate upon the past. Learning from one's past is essential in order to progress into the future. In an ideal world, humans operated like such: machines that can adapt based upon past experiences. Humans are not machines. Humans are stubborn and emotional, blind to both past and present. The very nature that allows them success brings about their very downfall. Recalcitrance ceases all progression as humans ignore the lessons learned. Those blessed with power scorn those above them, and spurn those below them, loosening the weak ground that holds them afloat in this sea of madness known as reality. Strings become tangled as webs of deceit and lies soon become the very noose that terminates the life’s work of one. Rumination becomes the only hope of clearing the path of any obstacles set about by our own twisted nature. Reflection is vital, and yet, reflection bears the threat of mental domination. Dwelling within the past chokes out any chance for thriving in the present, restraining one from ever truly living. Whether a blessing or a curse, Reflection is an action that must be taken to further the narrative of life.

Winds of change blew throughout the study in which the Host occupied. Never did the narrator of reality expect himself to be drawn into the ever-growing Chaos that near all his companions brewed of their own accord. As his position commanded, his sole role within the universe was to maintain the upkeep of Balance. The chaotic energy spewed by the many darker entities now taken form must be countered with the abundance of Order emanating from the blindfolded storyteller. Gentle scents of candle smoke and literature of old drifted throughout the air, providing the comforting lull the narrator aimed to retain within his study. Tender shadows swayed throughout the library as candlelight flickered from above. Within the study, all was well. Balance was forever upheld, and peace could be achieved within the confines of the alcove. As the setting remained a tranquil constant for the narrator, thoughts of many nature swirled about the Host’s mind similar to that of a raging storm. Worries plagued his heart, and fear clawed at his mind. Was all truly well? Or was such simply a repetitive lie spun only to provide minimal comfort to the storyteller?

The study served as a sanctuary of reprieve, designed to isolate the Host from the constant action of reality. While comfort was its primary aura, the Library had begun to felt constricting. It was perfect...too perfect. A migraine settled over the narrator, misconstruing his thought from their normal rationale. Mirroring the nature of his thoughts, the winds of change blew rapidly around the narrator, yet disturbing none of the peace of the library. Not a page upon the desk of the narrator was disturbed as a force far beyond the Host willed this uprising of manipulation over reality. Consumed by the pain in his head, the storyteller focused not upon the surrounding winds of Chaos that swirled about him. It was within a mere second, the narrator had vanished from the library, lifted, not by his own accord, to a place in which true Cogitatio could be achieved.

“Snapping from his state of dissociation, senses were attuned to survey his surroundings. Shock filtered out all other emotions as the Host noted he was now in a place differing from his study. Questions sprung about within his mind. He knew not how he had been transported from his own sanctuary of reality nor was he knowledgeable of his current location. The aura of the place was of dual fashions: both familiar and hostile. An air of reminiscence hung high above his whereabouts. Surprise was forced from though, replaced by a curiosity to delve further into the setting in which he currently occupied. A deep breath was drawn as the Host’s mind eye was opened to obtain a better sense of the landscape now inhabited. As the narrator’s blind gaze peered across his surroundings, a realization was made. No. No. How was he /here/? Who, or even What, could have delivered him to these hallowed grounds? Fear pumped through his veins like blood, freezing up all movement spare the hushed narrations that passed his lips. Before him, a structure ever so sacrosanct in a twisted manner withstood the test of time. It was the shed. It was /his/ shed from days long past.

Coercing his muscles to comply with his thoughts, careful steps were taken towards the shed. Each stride was unsure of itself, soaked with doubt and perturbation. Twigs and leaves cracked underneath his footsteps, echoing around the lonesome forest. The evergreen trees that towered above the Host ushered forth a sense of confinement. He was alone, trapped with his own thoughts. There were none to fall back upon if  the situation at hand was to go awry. A shaking hand was lifted to settle upon the splintering wood of the shed, gentle pushing against the dissevered door to reveal the room inside. Floorboards creaked beneath his footsteps as the narrator ventured into the shed. Once fully within the shed, a gust of frigid wind blew the wooden door shut, prompting the Host to spin around rapidly. Something was wrong. Reality, for the first time in many long years, worked against the narrator to seal him away in the sole location prone to provoke great anxiety. A trembling hand was raised to run over bicolored gel hair as shallow breaths were taken. Moments passed, and the paralyzing terror that overcame his body was propelled from his aura. All was well. The storyteller would repeat the phrase verbally to himself as a strengthened sense of control was gained over his situations. The Shed held no power over the Host. The chains of the past had long since been shattered, fragmented by the aura of the narrator as it fully developed into the entity now known as the Host. The shed was but a physical reminder of the life once lived. This place was merely a realm of Cogitatio - Reflection.

The floor once more grated under his weight as he trekked further into the shelf, calloused fingers grazing over the items once so familiar to the narrative entity. Traces of his desk and the screens that provided the static necessary to drown out all other distractions awoke memories of old within the narrator. Indeed, it was within this shed that hid scrapped literature, stashed away and crumpled as no the eyes of no one might be able to find them. Vanity had plagued his mind like a virus those many years ago, engendering a drive to only produce the best writing humanly possible. The crowning of each novel of his as a “Best Seller” only extrapolated the pride, rather arrogance, of the Author. Never would be he satisfied with his work. Any work less than perfection was to be scrapped, never to be read again. He was the universe’s scion: a chosen successor to manipulate reality at his whim through his writings. Daniel was the perfect subject. Every action and inaction of his brought ushered in vigor into his stories. Each story devised was a great success until Daniel was forcibly seized to be held in a mental institute. The effects of being the Author’s prized central character had warped the other’s mind beyond repair, leaving the writer to scramble for a meager replacement at best: Ryan. Unlike Daniel, cooperation was not a strong suit of Ryan’s. Anger flared within the narrator as he watched his precious writing crumble before his very eyes. Action must be taken to counter the destruction mannerisms of Ryan - his story must be salvaged. Nothing could be imperfect. With the aid of blunt force trauma, the Author had sealed Ryan away in this very shed, threatening his eternal imprisoning if cooperation was not reached soon. All was to be well. Everything was beginning to align perfectly until...until the shot that would forever alter the course of time for the Author. Nothing would ever be the same after that moment.

Staggering forth, the Host gripped the desk beside him. The large scar that spanned a majority of his back burned upon reflecting over the memory of being shot. Spikes of pain shot forth through his nerves. It was almost as if the injury had been sustained yet again, despite the fact none inhabited the shed alongside him at this time. The scent of copper permeated through the air, dominating the aroma of wood. Ichor freely trickled down the cheeks of the narrator as the events of the past increased speed. Flashes of pain, fear, and desperation erupted within the narrator’s mind. The Host’s knuckled began to turn white as his grip upon the ledge of the table grew impossibly tight. The deafening ringing of a certain being drowned out all sound. Panic froze all rationale, sealing the Host in a realm of his own trauma. The shed exerted the aura of death. Hastily gasping for air, the storyteller was met with another gust of frigid wind. This wasn’t real. He wasn’t dying. This was but only cogitatio. Biting his lip, the Host aimed to clear his senses with a jolt of true pain, not that of his imagination. The freezing temperature of the shed provoked a moment of clarity for the narrative entity, aiding in his return to reality. The Host was fine. He was not dying. All was well.

Slowly relinquishing his tight grasp upon the ledge of the desk, the Host straightened himself to his full height, quivering hands smoothing out the folds in the tawny fabric of his trench coat. As stressed senses balanced themselves out once more, the sensation of frozen temperatures lingered. A chill ran down the spine of the Host as a presence unknown brushed past the narrator, traversing across the shed to the opposite corner of the room: a shadow. Caution settled over the Host as he cautiously searched the aura of the latter being. The colors of energy surrounding this entity near matched the storyteller’s, only differing in the core. Before another step could be taken to approach the shadow, the being began to speak in a tone colder and crueler than the Host’s.

‘Yᴏᴜʀ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜᴛs sᴇᴇ ᴛʜɪs ᴘʟᴀᴄᴇ ᴀs ᴀ ᴘʟᴀᴄᴇ ᴏғ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴛʀᴜʟʏ, ᴛʜɪs ᴠᴇʀʏ ʟᴏᴄᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ɪs ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴘᴏᴡᴇʀ ᴡᴀs ʙᴏʀɴ. Uɴɢʀᴀᴛᴇғᴜʟ ғᴇᴀʀ ᴘᴏɪsᴏɴs ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴍɪɴᴅ. Iɴ ʜᴇʀᴇ, ᴡᴇ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ɢʀᴀɴᴛᴇᴅ ᴘᴏᴡᴇʀ ғᴀʀ ʙᴇʏᴏɴᴅ ᴏᴜʀ ɪᴍᴀɢɪɴᴀᴛɪᴏɴ.’

Shock struck the Host abruptly as the words of the other pierced the thoughts of his. This being spoke as if he was the narrator as well. The anger that coated his words provoked a defensive nature from the Host. Ungrateful fear. Never did the Host imagine himself as ungrateful for his strengthened manipulation over reality. This entity spoke of his former self as being weak, irrelevant to the present. While the Host was aware his younger self did not possess his level of abilities, he had come to accept the Author as a part of him, vital to the growth the Host made as he become his own entity.

‘While this is a room of life, the death of another must be revered as it was my own many years ago. The future is not possible without the past. Everyone must learn from their experiences to better themselves in the future. Even beings beyond humanity, like ourselves, must recognize that we are only an accumulation of our past choices.’

The shadow drifted towards the Host, guiding the frigid wind closer to the narrator. The energies of each respective being collided with one another, clashing in silent tension as the two being faced opposite of each other. Masked anger began to crack through the shadow’s calm exterior. A snarl escaped the being’s throat as once more his sharp voice rang out through the isolated shed.

‘Hᴜᴍᴀɴɪᴛʏ ɪs ᴡᴇᴀᴋ ᴀɴᴅ ᴘᴀᴛʜᴇᴛɪᴄ. Dᴇsᴘɪᴛᴇ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ᴍᴀɴʏ ᴄʜᴀɴᴄᴇs ᴀᴛ sᴜᴄᴄᴇss,  ᴛʜᴇ ᴠᴇʀʏ ɴᴀᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴏғ ʜᴜᴍᴀɴɪᴛʏ ɪs ᴛᴏ ғᴀɪʟ. Tʜᴇʏ ᴀʀᴇ ʙᴜᴛ ᴄʟᴜᴛᴛᴇʀ ᴜᴘᴏɴ ᴛʜɪs ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪs ᴏᴜʀs ᴛᴏ ᴄᴏᴍᴍᴀɴᴅ. Tʜᴇʏ ᴘʀᴏᴠɪᴅᴇ ɴᴏ ɪᴍᴍᴇᴅɪᴀᴛᴇ ᴘᴜʀᴘᴏsᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ sᴛᴏʀʏ ᴡᴇ ᴛᴇʟʟ. Iᴛ ɪs ᴏᴜʀ ʀᴏʟᴇ ᴀs ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀ ᴏғ ʀᴇᴀʟɪᴛʏ ᴛᴏ ᴄʟᴇᴀɴsᴇ ᴛʜɪs ʀᴇᴀʟɪᴛʏ ᴏғ ᴛʜᴇ ᴠɪʀᴜs ᴏғ ʜᴜᴍᴀɴɪᴛʏ. Oɴʟʏ ᴛʜᴏsᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴅᴇᴍᴏɴsᴛʀᴀᴛᴇ ᴛʀᴜᴇ ᴘᴜʀᴘᴏsᴇ sʜᴏᴜʟᴅ ʙᴇ ᴀʟʟᴏᴡᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴡᴇʟʟ ᴡɪᴛʜɪɴ /ᴏᴜʀ/ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ.’

The shadow hissed its words at the Host, aiming to coerce the narrator into siding with his twisted views of the world. The storyteller found himself growing ever fearful of the shadow existing before him. The hatred and power that radiated off the creature was enough to harm reality in an increasingly serious manner. Forcing his fear to remain hidden under a mask of neutrality, the Host began to counter the shadow verbally,

‘Each person, human or other, has its own story to tell, its own life to live. Robbing entire populations of their ability to exist is cruel and torturous. Everyone deserves a chance at the life they are given. It is the role of narrator of reality to uphold the balance to allow these creatures to thrive in this world. Your views are twisted, my friend, and shall never come to fruition under my watch. I hope with passing time you shall learn that each being possesses worth within the narrative of reality.’ “

Upon hearing the words of the narrator, the Creator merely uttered a chuckle a pity. The shadow would laugh at the naivety of the Host. The storyteller had grown soft due to his prolonged interactions with those unworthy of their attention. Blinded by his care for those not of their power or skill, the Host would willingly allow those unfit to survive to poison the reality they strove to uphold. It was indeed pathetic to watch the Host scramble for logical reasoning to defend his points. Amusement flourished within the Creator as the Host spoke of ceasing the shadow’s action if the situation arose to such. What a pitiful child, believing the two were separate entities rather than one in the same.

“With a twirl of his wrist, the spirit mused in a mocking tone,

‘Iғ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪs ᴡʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ʙᴇʟɪᴇᴠᴇ, ᴛʜᴇɴ I sʜᴀʟʟ ʟᴇᴀᴠᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴏ sᴏ. Wᴇ sʜᴀʟʟ ʙᴇ sᴘᴇᴀᴋɪɴɢ ϙᴜɪᴛᴇ sᴏᴏɴ, ᴅᴇᴀʀ Hᴏsᴛ. Eɴᴊᴏʏ ʏᴏᴜʀ sᴛᴜᴅʏ; ɪᴛ·s ᴄᴏᴍғᴏʀᴛ sʜᴀʟʟ ɴᴏᴛ ʟᴀsᴛ.’

As the final words of the shadow seared the air surrounding the two, the being’s form dissipated from sight. Upon the dispersing of the shadow, frigid winds would rise up, swirling around the Host madly as all other senses were suffocated by the howling gusts of air. The Host's grip upon reality was slipping through his hands, leaving the narrator truly blind without connection to reality. Shouts of desperation escaped the narrator’s throat, yet nothing could be heard but the roaring storm encircling him. It had all become too much for the Host, forcing the storyteller to slip beneath the waves of consciousness.”

Once the Host lost his grip upon reality and delve into unconsciousness, the frozen winds of Creator’s essence once more transported the Host throughout reality. Setting the motionless narrator within the chair of his study, the winds of change soon dissolved. Creator’s work had been carried out as planned as the memories of the encounter between the two were robbed, sealed away for the Creator to use as he pleased. Indeed, a moment of reflection had passed. This act can be characterized as both a blessing or a curse: a curse that can usher forth an era of death and destruction for both the self and the world surrounding it.

Make no mistake: the act of reflection is no friend of any, existing only to remind many of wounds left untreated.

Reflection of this nature only has one true name:

Cogitatio.