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kaizoku-gary · 3 years ago

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Don't take my sunshine away

Characters: Buggy x g/n reader

Word count: 1241

Genre: angst, fluff

Warnings/Tags: reader with health problems, soft-buggy kinda, unconfessed feelings.

Summary: The reader has a very joyful personality and a very particular sense of humor that never fails to amuse Buggy. One day, because of health problems, the reader just stops functioning, but Buggy is there to comfort them and offer them his help.

A/N: request from @buggytheclown-ishot

Hi friend, I hope this is what you wanted. Enjoy it :)

Read it on AO3

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Ever since you knew about the feared Captain Buggy you felt bound to join his crew. So, the day you saw his ship approaching the docks while you were taking a walk, you instantly decided to take your chance, not willing to take a “no” for an answer.

You sat on the floor and waited patiently. The approaching noises from the crew and the high-pitched commands from Buggy made your heart jump in your chest. You couldn’t believe you were actually gonna meet the man of your dreams infamous Captain Buggy and his vicious pirate crew.

Buggy’s crew members stepped down from their ship, laughing and yelling, unable to hide their excitement to break havoc in a new town. The captain followed them close, laughing from the top of his lungs as he admired the landscape. This place was going to be added to his expanding territory whether its inhabitants wanted it or not.

The sound of his laugh was like music to your ears, and you began to walk towards him, lured by his natural charm. Buggy examined you with a contemptuous look on his face; ready to snap at you if you continued to come closer.

“Ahem… Captain Buggy?” you finally dared to speak as you continued walking. “I really wish to… join your…” Your eyes were focused on the floor and your voice was barely audible. You heard guns and swords being drawn and swallowed loudly. If you were gonna die right there, at least you could die trying.

Why isn’t anyone shooting already? You thought as you lifted your face to meet the captain’s eyes. His hand was held up signaling his crew to wait.

“Woah! You really have a big red nose!” you let out in a completely clear and loud tone. Everyone froze in place and their joyful expressions turned to raw fear. Buggy’s eyes went wide, and his face was contorted with anger. In a matter of seconds, you were laying on the floor with him on top. The cold blade of his knife was pressed against your throat.

“It’s beautiful,” You confessed completely ignoring the fact that your life was in imminent danger. “May I kiss it?” you added with a hopeful smile.

Your words made the whole crew gasp in unison. Everyone was taken by surprise, especially Buggy, whose cheeks went redder than his nose before he split into pieces floating away from you.

“You really have a nerve, huh?” Buggy finally spoke after reattaching himself. “What’s your name?”

*********

After a year of being a member of the Buggy Pirates, you still can believe your luck. The crew has already become your new family and the time you have spent sailing with them has been the best of your life. And much to your surprise and joy, the feared captain has become very fond of you. Although he still doesn’t admit it, Buggy likes having you around, mainly because you’re extremely funny and he loves the sound of your laugh and how smart and brave you are.

More often than not, you spend hours talking with Buggy after the crew has gone to sleep. Just the two of you on the deck, staring at the stars and sharing stories and memories. The captain already knows almost everything about you, and you trust him more than your own shadow. Your feelings for him are also stronger now, and with every passing day, they become harder to ignore, still, you don’t dare to confess for fear of scaring the man away.

One day, all of the sudden, you start talking less and your contagious laugh is no more to be heard. You don’t take part anymore in the crew’s usually free-time activities and prefer to lock in your room whenever you are off duty.

Buggy may be impulsive and violent, but he worries for his crew, and witnessing the change in your behavior saddens him. He wishes he could help you, but still doesn’t dare to ask what’s bothering you, thinking you will eventually come to him when you’re ready to talk about your problems.

Days pass and your situation worsens. You don’t talk anymore, and your appetite decreases to the point that you barely eat at mealtimes; you also stop showing up for your daily night conversations with your captain. Buggy is nothing but heartbroken. He doesn’t know what to do and it makes him angrier than usual. He misses the real you, your -very often- dark jokes, and the way you try and fail to hide your crush for him with clever comebacks and insults.

But today, you don’t even show up for breakfast and that is the straw that broke the camel's back. He slams his hands on the table, kicks his chair away, and storms out of the room; his fists are closed at his sides as he stomps towards your room.

To anyone else, it looks like he’s about to kill you, but no one dares to stop him out of sheer fear. Little do they know his anger isn’t aimed at you, but at whatever it is that is bothering you. If this is someone else’s fault, he’s going to kill them in the most painful way he can imagine.

Buggy rushed into your room and found you staring at the ceiling. Your expression was blank and your face pale.

“Y/N! What…?” He says but stops immediately not knowing what exactly he should say. The only thing he is sure about is the cold sensation creeping inside his body and the indescribable pain he felt in his chest the moment he saw you.

Your eyes move to him, but your expression doesn’t seem to change.

“B-Buggy,” You whisper. Your voice is hoarse, and you realize how sore your throat is.

“What’s wrong, Y/N?” Buggy says while kneeling next to your bed as he grabs your hand. “Please tell me.” He adds with a worried frown.

A tear runs down your cheek as you hear the sadness in his words and after a moment, you began speaking slowly, trying to ignore the pain as you explain what you’re going through, what made you disappear, and what is keeping you from being your true self.

Buggy listens closely, squeezing your hand every time your voice breaks, and offering you reassuring words. Tears began pooling in his eyes, but he quickly wipes them away. He knows he needs to be strong for both of you right now.

The captain finally sits next to you on the bed and you take a deep breath, his scent makes you feel safe. Buggy begins to caress your cheek and stroke your hair as you continue speaking.

“I can’t say I understand what you’re going through,” The captain finally speaks. “But I want you to know that I’ll be here as long as you need me…” He makes a pause to cup your cheek in his hand as he leans down to place a tender kiss on your forehead.

“And I’m going to do all I can to help you recover.” He whispers against your skin, and you manage to smile as his words shed a light on your suffering.

You close your eyes and the both of you remain silent. Buggy never leaves your side until you finally fall asleep, feeling slightly better than before. The fact that you don’t have to fight alone anymore eases your burden if not a little.

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#buggy x reader #buggy the clown #captain buggy #buggy one piece #one piece #one piece fanfiction #no beta read

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axwalker · 5 years ago

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Tears in Heaven 8: Revelations

Synopsis: Alexis O’Brien is about to get married but memories of her old life are coming back to haunt her.

Pairings: Liam x MC Drake x MC (TRR)

Warnings: NO ONE UNDER 18 should read this story. This is an 18+ blog.

This story will deal with very dark subjects such as death, severe depression and suicide attempt (among others) if you’re triggered by any of those issues, PLEASE DO NOT READ THIS STORY

To catch up: Masterlist

Disclaimer: All characters belong to Pixelberry.

Word count: 6,495

Songs inspiration: Tears in heaven by Eric Clapton

Thank you, @burnsoslow for being the absolute MVP of this chapter. You helped me find my story back. And, of course for correcting my numerous English mistakes ... 😋 @mskaneko for creating the amazing GIF of Drake and Alexis. @pedudley Thank you for beta reading and your great feedback. I LOVE YOU ALL ❤️❤️!!

Liam adjusted his tie and put on his suit jacket. He sat on the bed next to Alexis, who was still sleeping, and ran the back of his hand over her cheek, careful not to wake her up. He had arrived late from Valtoria the night before, so they hadn't had a chance to talk after Bertrand's party. Since Drake's return, Liam was worried about Alexis and their relationship. She seemed different, nervous, on edge. He hadn't seen her that agitated since she had left the clinic three years ago. To make matters worse, Tom's birthday and that damned conciliatory hearing were taking place soon, only days from each other.

What if it was too much for her? What if seeing Drake brought back her old feelings for him? Maybe he should contact Rashad and ask him if the hearing was the only way to get the divorce. Liam couldn't bear the thought of losing her. After 10 years of loving Alexis, he would be damned if he was going to let Drake ruin their wedding and life together. Not now that Alexis finally loved him back.

Alexis stirred on the bed and opened her eyes. Liam smiled at her.

“Good morning, love." He leaned in to give her a soft kiss. "Were you able to work last night at the coffeehouse?"

Alexis knew that Liam wasn't going to be pleased about her afternoon with Drake. Liam was still jealous of him, and her old marriage was a sore subject between them. But she refused to lie.

Alexis brought her knees against her chin and hugged herself. "I didn't work much. I ran into Drake, and we talked for a while."

Liam stiffened. His eyes narrowed as he spoke to her. "What do you mean, 'you ran into him'? Is he following you?"

Alexis rolled her eyes. "Please, Liam. Of course not. It was a coincidence. We just talked."

"About what?" Liam inquired.

"About our jobs, our new lives. Nothing important," she answered, uncomfortable with the questioning.

Liam observed her eyes darting; there was something Alexis wasn't telling him. "That's it?" he insisted.

"Yes, that's it." Drake touching her face hadn't meant anything. Liam didn't need to know about it.

Liam took Alexis's hand. "To be honest, I'm a bit nervous about that court hearing with him next week. I'd prefer it if you never had to see him again, darling."

"It'll be fine, Li. According to Rashad, the hearing is fast. In one week, we'll sign the papers, and then you and I will be able to marry. Don't worry," she reassured him with a smile.

Liam nodded. He took her hand and kissed it. "How are you feeling with… with everything else?" he asked, frowning.

Every year, when her son's birthday arrived, she broke, relieving his last celebration over and over again. Every year, Alexis wondered if she really had been that utterly happy or if her mind was idealizing her old family life. Every year, in the days preceding that date, Liam walked on eggshells trying to avoid the subject. Sometimes Alexis asked herself if it wouldn't be better if he'd force her to talk about her son. But it wasn't in Liam's nature. And she didn't want to burden him even more, so neither of them spoke about it openly.

Alexis tried to comfort him. "I'll be fine, Li. Thank you for everything you do for me. I mean it." She tugged Liam's hand, pulling his body to hers, and kissed him. "What time do you need me to be at the university for the Opening Ceremony?" she asked.

Liam aimed to improve education in Valtoria by creating as many schools and universities as possible. One of Alexis' duties as the future Duchess was to make an appearance on the day of the opening, cut the inaugural ribbon, and smile for the press: a job she hated but did to make Liam happy.

"At 11:00 sharp, darling. And I say this with all the love in the world: Please don't be late. Hana will be there waiting for you. Frantz will take you to Valtoria; he's the best driver there is."

"I can drive to Valtoria myself; I enjoy the road," Alexis said as she stood up and put on her robe.

"I'd feel better if he takes you, love. It's safer. And you'll be on time."

Alexis sighed; she was exasperated but didn't want to start a fight. "As you like. See you tonight at Valtoria for Leo's welcome dinner."

"Are you going to be alright with Milos there?" Liam asked, worried, again.

"Liam, please. I'll be fine." Alexis kissed him before stepping into the shower. "I better start getting ready."

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Hana Lee had been working for the Duke of Valtoria for five years. She was Liam Rhys' right hand. He was the person Hana admired the most in the world. Liam was handsome, intelligent, and worldly but extraordinarily kind and generous. He wanted to improve Valtoria in ways that Constantine, the former duke, hadn’t even imagined. Liam's enthusiasm was contagious; he truly loved his duchy, his people.

Hana would've loved to see him engaged to someone who shared his passion. The future duchess didn't seem very happy with her new role. Actually, Alexis never seemed completely happy anywhere. Hana had heard of her tragedy, like everyone else in Valtoria. She pitied her sincerely, but she wished that Alexis was more involved in her future husband's life. The duke was a formidable man. And his future wife didn't seem to appreciate him as much as he deserved.

Emily Black, Hana's assistant, was waiting for her with a coffee and the guest list for the event. They had been working together for three years, and more than her assistant, Emily was a close friend.

"Is she coming?" Emily's contemptuous expression told Hana that she was talking about Alexis.

"Yes, Emi, the future duchess is coming. The duke told me she'd be here at 11:00."

"She's always late. She's so lucky to have this life and share her bed with that delicious man, and she doesn't even realize it," Emily criticized.

Hana scolded her, "Emily! Please show some respect. That is the duke and the future duchess you're talking about, and there are some things you don't know about Alexis."

"Sorry! I just meant that the great and honorable Duke of Valtoria is extremely hot." Emily giggled. "Admit it, Han, you think so, too."

Hana shook her head, laughing. She would never confess it to her assistant, but she found Liam Rhys much more than attractive.

At quarter to eleven, Alexis came into the university in an elegant burgundy suit with nude heels and soft makeup.

"Alexis might hate to be a duchess, but she looks the part. She's gorgeous," Hana told Emily, slightly jealous. Of course Liam was in love with a woman like Alexis; he would never see Hana as anything else than his loyal right hand.

Emily shrugged. "Yeah, she's not ugly, and maybe today she looks fine, but she's not you. You're much more beautiful and poised, Han. You'd be a perfect duchess," Emily claimed, convinced.

Hana blushed. Making a difference in Valtoria was essential to her. But the handsome duke was her forbidden dream, and she would do anything for him. Including helping his fiancée.

"Ms. O'Brien. Good morning," Hanna said respectfully, when Alexis finally reached them. Emily excused herself.

"Please, Hana, as I told you before, you can call me Alexis. We'll have to work together often," Alexis said. She would've liked to have been closer to Hana. After all, they were the same age, and Hana seemed agreeable and smart. She could make a good friend when Alexis would be forced to move to Valtoria after the wedding. But Hana had always put a distance between them, and Alexis wasn't able to get past it.

Her old self would have been able to befriend Hana. Drake used to tease her because she loved to be friends with everyone she met. But Alexis' new personality wasn't happy and charismatic anymore. It was sad and bleak, tainted by tragedy. Alexis shook her head, sick of feeling sorry for herself.

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Drake woke up in good spirits, almost hopeful. For the first time in years, he would be able to practice as a veterinarian again. He hadn't realized how much he missed his career. Drake had been up all night going through his textbooks, files, and old cases. He was determined to be the best again. Before getting out of bed, Drake picked up the picture on his nightstand and sighed nostalgically. It had been taken two months before Tom's death, on a camping trip. In the photo, Drake had Tom and Alexis in his lap. He remembered laughing at Alexis' silly attempts to make Tom smile for the picture. Looking at it was painful, but the photo reminded him why he kept living, why he was fighting. Tom was gone, but Alexis was still there, alive. He took a cold shower and put on a blue shirt and a pair of jeans.

Before going downstairs, Drake stood in front of Tom's old room. Sadly, he thought that he would have to empty it. It wasn't healthy to keep it as a sanctuary forever. His heart tugged when he realized that he'd have to speak to Lexie about it. On the other hand, it might be a good thing for her to face reality instead of running from it. In any case, he'd have to talk to Alexis; it was a decision that they had to make together.

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After the opening ceremony at the university, Alexis decided to call Olivia and Maxwell. They agreed to meet in a bar downtown for cocktails.

Thirty minutes later, the three friends were sitting in a trendy pub with a dDirty mMartini, a glass of whiskey and a Cosmopolitan.

Olivia took a sip of her martini. She observed Alexis, who was absentmindedly fidgeting her engagement ring. "How are the wedding preparations going?"

Alexis flicked her hair. "Regina is in charge of almost everything. Li and I wanted something small, but the guest list is already up to 200 guests," she said, annoyed.

"In old Connie's defense, a 200-guest wedding is small for him. According to Father, Constantine and Regina got married in front of 500 people," Maxwell said while he stirred his Cosmopolitan.

Olivia arched her eyebrows. "Who cares? The point is that you don't want a big wedding, Alexis. I don't know why you don't say anything. The Lexie I knew would have never taken this shit."

"The Alexis you knew doesn't exist anymore," Alexis retorted.

"Yes, she does. Liam has convinced you that you're weak now and that you can't take care of yourself. But that's not true." Olivia paused to let her words sink in. "Look, I know that he means well. Li is a good man who loves you. And I understand that he's so protective of you, especially after you tried to … well, you know."

Maxwell gasped, interrupting her. It was the first time in three years that they had openly discussed the subject.

"Come on, Max, it's not like she doesn't know this." Olivia turned back to Alexis. "Liam saved your life, and since then, you've been playing these weird roles. You're the defenseless princess, and he's the knight in shining armor. And it suits you both. Liam gets to marry you, and you can finally stop living. You gave him all control of your life."

"What do you mean, stop living?" Alexis asked.

"Last time, Maxwell lectured me for an hour, so I'll try to say this as gentle as I can." Olivia took a deep breath. "You're not living your life anymore, Alexis. You're like a robot. You never talk about Tom. You're in a job you don't enjoy. You're committing yourself to a life that we all know you'll hate. You are with Liam because he makes you feel safe. Because you know he can't hurt you like Walker did. That's why you're with him. Which, excuse me, seems pretty damn selfish to me. You both deserve better."

Max shook his head. "That's gentle, Liv? What the hell!"

Olivia rolled her eyes. “I’m not apologizing for saying that. I just want Alexis to be the strong, independent woman she was before all of this. And for her and Li to be happy.”

“Do you think I enjoy this? Do you think I like feeling like this? I feel like my life ended five years ago. Most days I miss my son so much I can’t get out of bed. I’m aware I’m not the same strong woman that I was before. But believe me, Olivia, I’m trying.” Alexis paused to give herself the courage to say the rest. "You have to respect my relationship. And Liam." Alexis sighed. "Of course, it's not the same passion I felt for Drake when I was 19, but I'm not 19 anymore. My love for Drake almost killed me. The main reason I tried to end everything that day was because of my son, but a big part of me also wanted to die because Drake had left. The heartbreak of knowing that I had lost him forever almost killed me, too. Drake and I are over. That's final," Alexis stated.

"I know you’re trying, darling. And, I'm not saying that you should get back with Drake." Olivia saw that Alexis was going to defend Drake, so she raised her hand. "I get why he left." She squeezed Lexie's hand. "I can't even imagine how he felt when you said those horrible things to him. But I called Drake three months later, I told him how desperate you were, he promised to come back, and then he didn't. So, Drake doesn't deserve you, Alexis. The point is that you shouldn't marry someone you don't love when you're still clearly in love with someone else. Maybe you should be alone for a while," Olivia advised, as she had many times before.

"If you'd been in the cabin that day, you'd understand why he never came back. I broke him, Liv." Alexis' eyes watered. "Of course Drake hated me. I would never forgive myself for what I said to him. Never. But he's part of the past. A past that I'm trying to leave behind. Liam … Liam is my future," Alexis said, trying to convince herself more than her friends.

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Alexis had arrived at Valtoria that afternoon. She was reading in the duchy's library when Leo's eldest son entered the room. Milos was an adorable four-year-old. He was dragging a teddy bear and seemed lost.

Alexis closed her book and took him into her arms. He giggled when she lifted him.

"Hi, Milos! Are you lost, babe?" Alexis asked.

Milos nodded shyly. Alexis spun him around the room, and he laughed. "You like this, don't you, little bean?" She gave him a nose kiss. "You're so cute, Milos."

"I love you, auntie!" Milos screamed happily.

Her heart tugged. Milos' laughter was both blissful and painful. Images of her own son giggling and smiling as she played with him washed over her. Tears welled up in her eyes, but she was happy to spend a few minutes with her nephew. The Rhys assumed that playing with Milos was too much for her, so they tried to keep the boy away. Alexis understood. Only one year ago, the mere thought of seeing a boy that age would've broken her. However, now that she was feeling stronger, she liked to spend time with him.

Liam walked in, and his heart sank, seeing Alexis with Milos in her arms. Every time after playing with him, she felt a bit sad and nostalgic. Liam believed that both feelings were a trigger for her. He took the boy out of her arms.

"I'm sure Leo and Amanda are looking for this little devil." Liam grinned at Milos. "I'll take him to them, my love; I'll be back in a few minutes."

Alexis wished that Liam wouldn't worry about her so much. Sometimes, his concern made her feel suffocated. And Olivia was right, she was an adult woman, capable of making her own decisions.

She stood up and took Milos back. “I’m going to be fine, Li. We’re just playing, aren't we Milos?”

The boy nodded happily. “Yes, auntie. I want to draw trees!”

“That is so cool, Milos!” Alexis kissed the top of Milos’ head. “Let’s go look for a piece of paper and some colored pencils.”

“I don’t think that is a good idea, my love,” Liam whispered.

“I do, Li. Trust me. It’s time.” Alexis kissed his fiancé and left the room with Milos in her arms.

Liam watched her leave the library visibly worried. As much as he wanted to, he didn’t think Alexis was strong enough yet.

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A week later, Alexis was getting ready for her court hearing. She looked at herself in the mirror and ran her hand over the dark circles around her eyes. She hadn't slept all night thinking about her son's birthday.

Liam was worried; he thought that seeing Drake was only adding to her stress. But Alexis was relieved to be seeing the only person who understood precisely what she was feeling.

Drake put on a grey shirt and a pair of black pants and went downstairs. As he poured coffee into his portable mug, his eyes set on the calendar glued to the wall. In two days, Tom would have turned eight. The memory of his last birthday was still alive in his mind, almost burning. He was grateful to see Lexie today: the only other person in the world who knew what he was going through.

Alexis and Rashad entered the family courthouse and found Drake already there, sitting on one of the benches.

"Hi," Alexis said shyly, as she tucked her hair behind her ear. Suddenly, she felt like a 19-year-old teenager all over again.

"Hi, Lex," Drake replied, smiling. His heart was beating abnormally fast.

"No lawyer?" she asked softly.

Drake shrugged. "I don't need it."

"Me neither!" she answered quickly. "Liam insisted. Rashad is only here in case we need him. Plus, he's a friend. He's Max's future husband; they're getting married in two weeks, at the beach in Portavira. The ceremony will be beautiful," she rambled.

Drake smiled at her reassuringly. Lexie always rambled when she was nervous. He extended his hand to Rashad. "Nice to meet the most patient person in the world," he said, smirking.

"There's been some talks about making the title official." Rashad laughed. "I'm crazy about him, though," he added.

Drake smiled. "I'm happy for you both; Max is one of the best people I know."

A marshal came out to the hallway. "Mr. and Mrs. Walker?" he called.

Alexis' heart leaped. She blushed crimson red, hearing her old last name.

"It's us," Drake answered with a firm voice and placed his hand on the small of Alexis' back to let her pass. The movement was soft and brief, but Alexis felt a jolt going through her body, awakening every nerve. She blushed again, ashamed of her reaction. Drake noticed it and smiled to himself, hopeful.

They entered a conference room. The judge was sitting at one side of a round table with her assistant next to her. Alexis and Drake sat across from them.

"Good afternoon, I'm Judge Gina Connors," she said, smiling.

Drake and Alexis answered back, so the judge proceeded, "First of all, I want you to know that this is a safe space. Nothing you say in here will leave this room." she paused to make sure they understood. "The purpose of this hearing is to figure out whether or not you can save your marriage. I'll ask you some questions, we'll talk, and at the end of the hearing, I'll leave you alone for a few minutes. I'll give you my assessment, but the final choice belongs to you. If you're not ready to make a decision at the end of the hearing, the court will give you one week to think about it. If your decision to get a divorce is final, we'll agree on the terms. If everything goes smoothly, my assistant, Tess," she nodded at a small woman with red hair and big glasses who was typing into a computer, "will send you the divorce papers in one week. Is everything clear?"

They both nodded. The judge looked at them over her glasses. "Let's start. I'll repeat your complete names for the record. Mrs. Alexis Jade Walker and Mr. Drake James Walker. Is that correct?"

Alexis and Drake answered in perfect unison. "Yes, Your Honor." They looked at each other and exchanged a small smile.

Gina Connors was 58 years old and had been a judge for almost two decades. She had seen hundreds of couples come and go out of her office, and she prided herself on having an impeccable instinct. Something about the Walkers told her that they still had a chance to save their marriage.

The judge read the papers that Rashad had sent her. "So you got married 10 years ago, in 2009. Is that correct?"

Drake nodded. He turned to watch his wife, but Alexis was suddenly occupied toying with her ring. Drake sensed her nervousness and almost reached out to hold her hand, but he restrained himself.

"You have a son, Thomas Scott Walker …" Suddenly, Judge Connors stopped talking. The room went silent while she read the boy's death certificate. The judge lifted her head and saw that Alexis was looking down, trying very hard not to cry. Drake had immediately covered Alexis' hand with his and was rubbing it with his thumb soothingly. Feeling instantly calmer, Alexis took a sharp breath and looked at the judge again.

"I'm deeply, deeply sorry. Most couples have trouble adjusting after the loss of a child, but I can give you the number of an excellent therapist who might be able to help you," the judge advised with empathy. Her chest tightened with sadness for the young, broken couple in front of her.

Alexis talked through the lump in her throat. "Thank you, Your Honor, but that won't be necessary." She folded her arms over her chest.

"In the documents that Mr. Domvallier filed, it's stated that you separated in 2015." The judge took her glasses off and leaned against her chair. "What happened exactly?"

Alexis rubbed her eyes and took a deep breath. "It was my fault."

Drake shook his head firmly. "It wasn't your fault, Lexie."

Alexis raised her hand. "Please, Drake, let me speak. I've wanted to say this for a long time, but I didn't know how." Her eyes watered as she turned to look right into his eyes. Drake's heart broke, watching her struggle to speak. "I'm sorry. I was so angry at life and at our fate that I needed an outlet." Her voice broke, so she took another sharp breath. "But please, Drake, you have to believe me; it wasn't your fault. I don't blame you. I really, really don't. I know how much you loved him. Love him. I know you'd never have done anything to hurt him." Alexis started crying, and Drake couldn't take it anymore. He raised his hand and, very softly, brushed his thumb on her cheeks to wipe her tears.

"Shh, it's fine, Lexie. I know. Don't cry, I know." Drake tried to comfort her, but Alexis couldn't stop crying.

Drake took her hand and squeezed it. "Lexie, you have nothing to be sorry about. I know you don't blame me." Her eyes were still fixed to the floor, so he insisted. "Hey, Lex, look at me." Finally, her brown eyes met his. "I know, baby. Please don't blame yourself either."

The judge observed the exchange silently. After a few minutes, she asked, "What happened next?"

Alexis spoke. "I left our home because I didn't know how to deal with the death of our son. Drake tried to do everything he could. It was my fault.”

Drake shook his head. "Please, Lexie, stop protecting me."

The judge interrupted them. "I'll admit that I don't have a lot of couples in here who fight to take responsibility for the divorce." She gave them a benevolent smile. "Let's make this simple. Who left the marital home?"

They both answered at the same time. "I did." The judge smiled again.

Alexis added, "I did first. We fought, and I left. Drake must've thought that I wasn't going to come back, and he left for Spain." She looked sideways at Drake.

Judge Connors looked at Drake. "Is that true?"

"Yes. It is, Your Honor." He turned to Alexis. "I was a fool. I thought you were gone for good."

The judge nodded. She kept going through the documents. "In June 2015, you were committed to a psychiatric clinic," the judge looked at Alexis, "and Mr. Walker couldn't come back."

Alexis looked at Drake, puzzled. "What does she mean you ‘couldn't’?" she asked him.

Drake rubbed his beard. "Olivia called me to tell me how bad you were. I was desperate to see you, but the night before my flight back to Cordonia, I got into a stupid fight. I was sent to prison for almost a year; that's why I couldn't come back earlier."

Shock. Confusion. Surprise. Anger. Sadness. A mix of emotions invaded her. For four years, Alexis had lived convinced that the person she loved the most in the world had abandoned her because he hated her. Not one night had passed without her reliving the night she had lost him, over and over again.

Alexis was unable to talk. After a few minutes, she looked at Drake, wide-eyed. "You couldn't," she murmured. "That's why you didn't come back, because you couldn't." Her eyes teared up again. "Why the fuck you didn't tell someone, Drake? Max or Li? Someone?!"

"No one could help me anyway," Drake answered. "I wanted our friends to be focused on helping you."

Alexis ran her hand through her hair angrily. "Do you know how many nights I cried myself to sleep because I thought you didn't care? How many times I crumbled because I was sure you hated me?" Her eyes were filled with tears; her voice was trembling with rage. "I would have done anything to help you, Drake." Alexis threw her hands in the air. "Anything. You didn't have to go through that alone. And I would've known that you didn't hate me. It would've changed everything."

"I thought you hated me back then too," Drake replied simply.

"Why?" she asked, almost seething.

"Why what?"

"Why did you have to get into a fight the night before coming back? What was so important?"

Drake knew that he needed to be honest. It was going to be hard to talk about his feelings, but if he wanted a real shot with Alexis, it was the only way. "It wasn't about that. It's like you said, I was so fucking angry all the time that I needed an outlet. I hated myself, Lexie. The guilt was too strong; it became so unbearable that the only way to be able to breathe was to drink and fight. The physical pain made the grief easier somehow. When Liv called, I tried to leave that same day, but there weren't any flights available. I shouldn't have gone out that night; I wasn't thinking straight. I only wanted one drink to take the edge off the idea of seeing you again. But one drink became two and then three and then a bottle. And once the fight started, I lost all control of myself. I'm sorry, Lexie."

- It breaks my heart every single time I look at you. You're hurting me. You killed my son -

Her own horrible words came back, rushing at her. "No one knows better than me what it feels like, Drake. I'm sorry, too. It's just that I can't believe you went to prison. That you had no one there to help you." She paused, thinking about all the things they had lost. Alexis turned to the judge apologetically. "I'm sorry for my outburst, Your Honor."

Judge Connors smiled at her playfully. "I'm a family judge. If someone doesn't yell at a hearing, I feel like I'm not doing my job correctly." She turned to Drake. "Continue your story, Mr. Walker," the judge demanded.

"I came back to Cordonia when I was released, but Lexie wasn't ready to see me," Drake explained.

Alexis shook her head in disbelief. "Excuse me? What are you talking about?"

Drake pinched the bridge of his nose, reluctant to tell the truth about Liam. Again, he decided to be honest. "I came back when you were about to leave the psychiatric clinic, but Liam thought that it was better if I didn't see you. I agreed," Drake said, placing his hand on his chest, "so I went back to Spain."

"You came back," Alexis muttered. "You came back for me. Liam knew how much I missed you. Why did he do that?"

Drake's heart leaped in his chest. Alexis had been waiting for him all that time, and he had failed her. He should have known better. "Of course I came back, Lexie. You were the only thing on my mind all that time. I didn't think about anything else. I tried to be the perfect inmate, so they'd let me out sooner and I could come back to see you. You have to believe me that when I was in prison, I didn't know that you had tried to --” Fuck, it was hard to say. “ -- to kill yourself."

Alexis nodded. "I believe you, Drake." She hesitated before asking, but she needed to know. "And Liam knew? All this time, he knew?"

Drake knew that Liam was Lexie's rock. He didn't want her to feel lost, so he decided to leave the suicide letter out of the story. "Liam didn't know I had been in prison, Lexie. And I'm sure that he honestly thought that it was best for you if we didn't see each other. I believed it too," he answered honestly.

"So, both of you decided for me what I wanted, what I needed?" She was beyond angry.

"We were just trying to protect you."

"From you? You were the only one who could've helped me." Her voice broke again.

Drake's heart jumped at her last words. "No, not from me. From strong emotions. You weren't ready."

Alexis didn't reply. She needed to speak with Liam.

"Well," the judge finally intervened, "after what I observed here today, I don't think you should file for a divorce so fast. I'll leave you alone for a few minutes, but my professional opinion is that you shouldn't make any decisions today. As you know, you can make a request to postpone the decision for a week, or, better yet, suspend the process altogether." The judge stood up and left, followed by her secretary.

Alexis stood up and opened the window. She needed fresh air. Drake stood up as well and cut the distance between them.

"Are you okay, Lexie?" Drake asked, worried.

Alexis nodded. "It's just that all these years, I was so sure of everything. I thought you hated me. I thought Liam was perfect."

Drake shook his head. He had to be very careful if he didn't want to scare her off. He took another step and raised his hand, slowly placing it on her face. "I could never hate you, Lexie." She didn't move, so Drake raised his other hand as well, cupping her face. "I love you, Alexis. Like crazy, like a madman. Even more than 10 years ago." He sighed. "I miss you so fucking much, baby. I miss everything about you. Give me another chance. Give us another chance."

Alexis' heart was beating so fast that she was sure that Drake could hear it. He was only a few inches from her. His manly presence was intoxicating her, making it impossible for her to think straight.

And for a minute, she considered it. She thought about leaving everything behind and running away with Drake. But Liam's image popped into her head. Despite his lie, he had done everything for her. He had saved her; he had helped her to come back to life. She took a step back.

"I'm sorry, Drake. It's too late now. I can't do that to Liam."

Drake took a step in her direction. "You're the only reason I still fight, Lexie." He looked at her, at her flushed cheeks, at her nervousness, at the way she was avoiding his eyes. "I know you still love me too, Lexie."

"I don't." Her trembling voice betrayed her. She darted her eyes to the window. Drake took a step towards her.

Drake took her chin with his hand and raised it to him. "Repeat that looking at me."

Her breath hitched; they locked eyes with each other, both knowing that she wouldn't be able to repeat it.

Drake loved that Alexis was still using the same cherry fragrance that she used when they were together. He smiled, thinking of the numerous times he had inhaled her scent while he made love to her. Drake would do anything to kiss her again. To feel her again.

Drake's eyes turned to her lips. He leaned in and whispered, "I'm going to kiss you now, Lexie. If you want to stop me, just say the word and I will."

Heat rose from Alexis' stomach to her chest. Drake's lips were getting closer, and her heart skipped a beat; the smell of sandalwood was mesmerizing. His large hands were tenderly rubbing her face, but she felt them everywhere. Alexis parted her lips and felt Drake all over her, filling all her senses as the taste of him nearly silenced all her guilt.

Drake's heart pounded in his chest as every breath he took smelled like cherry. He pulled her in, claiming her mouth again, hungry and intense, until her knees gave in. She tasted precisely as he remembered. Her lips felt so soft on his. As his tongue explored her mouth, he decided that he was never going to let her go. Alexis was his, and he was hers. It couldn't be any other way. Alexis got lost in the kiss for a few minutes until Liam's face came back to haunt her.

She gently pushed Drake away. "I'm sorry, Drake. I can't. It's too late now. Liam-"

"I know. You can't do this to him," Drake said, disappointed.

"No, I can't! Liam not only saved my life, but he fought day and night to make me happy again. Liam lied, yes, but he doesn't deserve this. I'm not going to leave him, Drake. I'm sorry." Alexis felt her heart breaking, but she added, "It's too fucking late for us."

"Just one week."

"What?" she asked, puzzled.

"Just give me one week. You can't possibly make a decision right now. Not after everything you just heard. And you can't lie to me, Lexie. I know you're not happy." Drake looked at her. "I'm just asking you to take one week and really think about this. If, in the end, you're still sure that you love Liam and want to divorce me, I swear, I'll sign the papers."

Alexis tucked her hair behind her ears. She couldn't resist Drake’s pleading eyes. "Alright, one week, so we get used to the idea. But that's it."

Drake shook his head no. "You have to promise me that you'll think about everything that happened here today; please, Lex."

"Ok, I promise," she assured him.

Judge Connors and her secretary reentered the room and sat in their chairs.

"Did you reach a decision?" the judge asked.

"We'd like to take one week to think about it," Drake replied. He couldn't help the hopeful tone in his voice.

Judge Connors smiled. Her intuition never failed. "You have one week to reconsider. At the end of that week, if you still want to, you have to come back here to sign the agreement for the divorce," she paused and added, smiling, "but if I'm honest with you, I prefer if I didn’t see you ever again."

She stood up and shook their hands.

They both went out of the building in silence. Rashad was waiting for Alexis.

"Was everything all right?" he asked.

"Yes, Rash, thank you. I'm sorry that you had to come here for nothing."

"Well, I have to verify the divorce agreement. Is it ready?"

“No, it’s not. We asked for one more week,” Alexis replied without further explanation.

Rashad arched his eyebrows. He hadn't known them as a couple, but even after a few minutes with them, their chemistry was palpable. He worried about Liam, though; the duke wasn't going to be exactly happy about the news. "All right, let me know what you decide."

"Rashad, please, don't say anything to Liam yet. I'll tell him in person, but he's in Valtoria today," Alexis pleaded.

"Don't worry, Alexis, I won't. It was nice to meet you, Drake."

"Same, man; give my best to Max," Drake replied.

"I will! Bye, darling." Rashad kissed Alexis on both cheeks and left.

Drake looked at her, unsure of what to say. They were both exhausted. Alexis probably needed time to process everything that she had heard that day. Drake walked her to her car.

"Are you okay, Lexie?"

She nodded slowly. "I am."

"I know you're strong, but this was a lot to take in."

Alexis bit her lip: her universal sign when she hesitated to say something.

"What's going on, Lex? You can tell me anything."

"His things." Alexis turned to Drake as she played with her ring again. "What are you doing with them?"

"I was actually thinking about emptying his room. What do you think about that?" Drake asked carefully.

She nodded with tears in her eyes. "I understand. I don't know how you do it, to live in the cabin with his room still intact." She surprised herself by asking, "Can I be there?"

Drake gave her a sad smile. "Of course. When do you want to do it?"

"I don't know." She hugged herself, feeling suddenly cold.

Drake had to actively stop himself from hugging her as tight as he could. "I thought that we could do this on his birthday. We hate that day anyway. Maybe it'll be less horrible if we're together."

Alexis nodded slowly. "Maybe." She thought about it for a few seconds. "I agree. Let's do it next Wednesday. We'll see each other only for that." She looked at Drake knowingly and he nodded.

She looked for her car keys until she found them at the bottom of her bag. They stared at each other; Drake leaned in to kiss her on the cheek as he brushed her face with his fingers longingly.

"See you Wednesday, Lexie."

She smiled, flustered. "See you Wednesday, Drake."

Alexis got into her car and drove away.

Drake was right; she had a lot of things to consider and think about. But at that moment, she was more furious than anything else. Alexis couldn't understand why Liam had lied to her all those years. She decided to go to Valtoria immediately. Her conversation with Liam couldn't wait another day.

PERMATAG (Drake x Alexis): @ac27dj @twinkle-320 @kimmiedoo5 @marshmallowsandfire @loveellamae @burnsoslow @mskaneko @pedudley @lauzales @debramcg1106 @ravenpuff02 @pug-bitch @princessleac1

TIH: @ao719 @yukinagato2012 @kingliam2019 @texaskitten30 @cordonia-gothqueen @bebepac @nomadics-stuff @cordonianroyalty @hopefulmoonobject @msjr0119 @forthebrokenheartedthings @bascmve01 @marshmallowaremyfavorite

#axwalker writes #tw grieving #tw child death #tw depression

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curious-wildflower · 4 years ago

Text

Elizabeth Siddel Part 3

Since there is a tendency to focus on the supernatural elements associated with Siddal, she is commonly viewed as a ghostly figure more than a real woman. As this sort of shadow figure, it becomes easy to project rumor and myth onto her and accept them as true.

One of the ideas that persists is that she was the inspiration for the character of Lucy Westenra in Bram Stoker’s Dracula. Some even take it so far as to claim that Stoker was present at Siddal’s exhumation, an impossibility since when the deed took place Stoker was twenty-two and still a student living in Dublin.Bram Stoker lived in the same neighborhood as Rossetti and he was a friend of Hall Caine, who at one time was Rossetti’s secretary. Stoker dedicated Dracula to Caine, with a nickname used by Caine’s grandmother (“to my dear friend Hommy-Beg”). Stoker may not have included the story of Siddal’s exhumation in his notes, but due to his closeness with Caine he had to have heard an account of it at some point and he had probably read Caine’s book Recollections of Dante Gabriel Rossetti (1882).

The belief that Stoker used Siddal as inspiration is bolstered by his 1892 short story The Secret of the Growing Gold. The ‘growing gold’ is the hair of a dead woman, the very tresses that had been her most striking feature in life. Her hair grows persistently and with a purpose; her intent is to haunt her husband and avenge her own death. The similarity between Stoker’s story and the claim that Siddal’s hair continued to grow and fill her coffin after death is unlikely to be a coincidence.

The Secret of the Growing Gold

By Bram Stoker

When Margaret Delandre went to live at Brent's Rock the whole

neighbourhood awoke to the pleasure of an entirely new scandal.

Scandals in connection with either the Delandre family or the

Brents of Brent's Rock, were not few; and if the secret history of

the county had been written in full both names would have been

found well represented. It is true that the status of each was so

different that they might have belonged to different continents-or

to different worlds for the matter of that-for hitherto their orbits

had never crossed. The Brents were accorded by the whole section of

the country an unique social dominance, and had ever held themselves

as high above the yeoman class to which Margaret Delandre belonged,

as a blue-blooded Spanish hidalgo out-tops his peasant tenantry.

The Delandres had an ancient record and were proud of it in their

way as the Brents were of theirs. But the family had never risen

above yeomanry; and although they had been once well-to-do in the

good old times of foreign wars and protection, their fortunes had

withered under the scorching of the free trade sun and the "piping

times of peace." They had, as the elder members used to assert,

"stuck to the land," with the result that they had taken root in it,

body and soul. In fact, they, having chosen the life of vegetables,

had flourished as vegetation does-blossomed and thrived in the good

season and suffered in the bad. Their holding, Dander's Croft, seemed

to have been worked out, and to be typical of the family which had

inhabited it. The latter had declined generation after generation,

sending out now and again some abortive shoot of unsatisfied energy

in the shape of a soldier or sailor, who had worked his way to the

minor grades of the services and had there stopped, cut short either

from unheeding gallantry in action or from that destroying cause to

men without breeding or youthful care-the recognition of a position

above them which they feel unfitted to fill. So, little by little,

the family dropped lower and lower, the men brooding and dissatisfied,

and drinking themselves into the grave, the women drudging at home,

or marrying beneath them-or worse. In process of time all disappeared,

leaving only two in the Croft, Wykham Delandre and his sister Margaret.

The man and woman seemed to have inherited in masculine and feminine

form respectively the evil tendency of their race, sharing in common

the principles, though manifesting them in different ways, of sullen

passion, voluptuousness and recklessness.

The history of the Brents had been something similar, but showing

the causes of decadence in their aristocratic and not their plebeian

forms. They, too, had sent their shoots to the wars; but their

positions had been different, and they had often attained honour-for

without flaw they were gallant, and brave deeds were done by them

before the selfish dissipation which marked them had sapped their

vigour.

The present head of the family-if family it could now be called

when one remained of the direct line-was Geoffrey Brent. He was

almost a type of a worn-out race, manifesting in some ways its

most brilliant qualities, and in others its utter degradation. He

might be fairly compared with some of those antique Italian nobles

whom the painters have preserved to us with their courage, their

unscrupulousness, their refinement of lust and cruelty-the voluptuary

actual with the fiend potential. He was certainly handsome, with that

dark, aquiline, commanding beauty which women so generally recognise

as dominant. With men he was distant and cold; but such a bearing

never deters womankind. The inscrutable laws of sex have so arranged

that even a timid woman is not afraid of a fierce and haughty man.

And so it was that there was hardly a woman of any kind or degree,

who lived within view of Brent's Rock, who did not cherish some form

of secret admiration for the handsome wastrel. The category was a

wide one, for Brent's Rock rose up steeply from the midst of a level

region and for a circuit of a hundred miles it lay on the horizon,

with its high old towers and steep roofs cutting the level edge of

wood and hamlet, and far-scattered mansions.

So long as Geoffrey Brent confined his dissipations to London and

Paris and Vienna-anywhere out of sight and sound of his home-opinion

was silent. It is easy to listen to far off echoes unmoved, and we

can treat them with disbelief, or scorn, or disdain, or whatever

attitude of coldness may suit our purpose. But when the scandal came

close to home it was another matter; and the feelings of independence

and integrity which is in people of every community which is not

utterly spoiled, asserted itself and demanded that condemnation

should be expressed. Still there was a certain reticence in all, and

no more notice was taken of the existing facts than was absolutely

necessary. Margaret Delandre bore herself so fearlessly and so

openly-she accepted her position as the justified companion of

Geoffrey Brent so naturally that people came to believe that she

was secretly married to him, and therefore thought it wiser to hold

their tongues lest time should justify her and also make her an

active enemy.

The one person who, by his interference, could have settled all

doubts was debarred by circumstances from interfering in the matter.

Wykham Delandre had quarrelled with his sister-or perhaps it was

that she had quarrelled with him-and they were on terms not merely

of armed neutrality but of bitter hatred. The quarrel had been

antecedent to Margaret going to Brent's Rock. She and Wykham had

almost come to blows. There had certainly been threats on one side

and on the other; and in the end Wykham overcome with passion, had

ordered his sister to leave his house. She had risen straightway,

and, without waiting to pack up even her own personal belongings,

had walked out of the house. On the threshold she had paused for a

moment to hurl a bitter threat at Wykham that he would rue in shame

and despair to the last hour of his life his act of that day. Some

weeks had since passed; and it was understood in the neighbourhood

that Margaret had gone to London, when she suddenly appeared driving

out with Geoffrey Brent, and the entire neighbourhood knew before

nightfall that she had taken up her abode at the Rock. It was no

subject of surprise that Brent had come back unexpectedly, for such

was his usual custom. Even his own servants never knew when to expect

him, for there was a private door, of which he alone had the key, by

which he sometimes entered without anyone in the house being aware

of his coming. This was his usual method of appearing after a long

absence.

Wykham Delandre was furious at the news. He vowed vengeance-and

to keep his mind level with his passion drank deeper than ever.

He tried several times to see his sister, but she contemptuously

refused to meet him. He tried to have an interview with Brent and

was refused by him also. Then he tried to stop him in the road, but

without avail, for Geoffrey was not a man to be stopped against his

will. Several actual encounters took place between the two men, and

many more were threatened and avoided. At last Wykham Delandre

settled down to a morose, vengeful acceptance of the situation.

Neither Margaret nor Geoffrey was of a pacific temperament, and

it was not long before there began to be quarrels between them. One

thing would lead to another, and wine flowed freely at Brent's Rock.

Now and again the quarrels would assume a bitter aspect, and threats

would be exchanged in uncompromising language that fairly awed the

listening servants. But such quarrels generally ended where domestic

altercations do, in reconciliation, and in a mutual respect for the

fighting qualities proportionate to their manifestation. Fighting for

its own sake is found by a certain class of persons, all the world

over, to be a matter of absorbing interest, and there is no reason to

believe that domestic conditions minimise its potency. Geoffrey and

Margaret made occasional absences from Brent's Rock, and on each

of these occasions Wykham Delandre also absented himself; but as he

generally heard of the absence too late to be of any service, he

returned home each time in a more bitter and discontented frame of

mind than before.

At last there came a time when the absence from Brent's Rock

became longer than before. Only a few days earlier there had been

a quarrel, exceeding in bitterness anything which had gone before;

but this, too, had been made up, and a trip on the Continent had

been mentioned before the servants. After a few days Wykham Delandre

also went away, and it was some weeks before he returned. It was

noticed that he was full of some new importance-satisfaction,

exaltation-they hardly knew how to call it. He went straightway to

Brent's Rock, and demanded to see Geoffrey Brent, and on being told

that he had not yet returned, said, with a grim decision which the

servants noted:

"I shall come again. My news is solid-it can wait!" and turned

away. Week after week went by, and month after month; and then there

came a rumour, certified later on, that an accident had occurred

in the Zermatt valley. Whilst crossing a dangerous pass the carriage

containing an English lady and the driver had fallen over a

precipice, the gentleman of the party, Mr. Geoffrey Brent, having

been fortunately saved as he had been walking up the hill to ease the

horses. He gave information, and search was made. The broken rail,

the excoriated roadway, the marks where the horses had struggled

on the decline before finally pitching over into the torrent-all

told the sad tale. It was a wet season, and there had been much snow

in the winter, so that the river was swollen beyond its usual volume,

and the eddies of the stream were packed with ice. All search was

made, and finally the wreck of the carriage and the body of one horse

were found in an eddy of the river. Later on the body of the driver

was found on the sandy, torrent-swept waste near Tasch; but the body

of the lady, like that of the other horse, had quite disappeared, and

was-what was left of it by that time-whirling amongst the eddies of

the Rhone on its way down to the Lake of Geneva.

Wykham Delandre made all the enquiries possible, but could not

find any trace of the missing woman. He found, however, in the books

of the various hotels the name of "Mr. and Mrs. Geoffrey Brent." And

he had a stone erected at Zermatt to his sister's memory, under her

married name, and a tablet put up in the church at Bretten, the

parish in which both Brent's Rock and Dander's Croft were situated.

There was a lapse of nearly a year, after the excitement of the

matter had worn away, and the whole neighbourhood had gone on its

accustomed way. Brent was still absent, and Delandre more drunken,

more morose, and more revengeful than before.

Then there was a new excitement. Brent's Rock was being made ready

for a new mistress. It was officially announced by Geoffrey himself

in a letter to the Vicar, that he had been married some months before

to an Italian lady, and that they were then on their way home. Then

a small army of workmen invaded the house; and hammer and plane

sounded, and a general air of size and paint pervaded the atmosphere.

One wing of the old house, the south, was entirely re-done; and then

the great body of the workmen departed, leaving only materials for

the doing of the old hall when Geoffrey Brent should have returned,

for he had directed that the decoration was only to be done under

his own eyes. He had brought with him accurate drawings of a hall in

the house of his bride's father, for he wished to reproduce for her

the place to which she had been accustomed. As the moulding had all

to be re-done, some scaffolding poles and boards were brought in and

laid on one side of the great hall, and also a great wooden tank or

box for mixing the lime, which was laid in bags beside it.

When the new mistress of Brent's Rock arrived the bells of the

church rang out, and there was a general jubilation. She was a

beautiful creature, full of the poetry and fire and passion of the

South; and the few English words which she had learned were spoken

in such a sweet and pretty broken way that she won the hearts of the

people almost as much by the music of her voice as by the melting

beauty of her dark eyes.

Geoffrey Brent seemed more happy than he had ever before appeared;

but there was a dark, anxious look on his face that was new to those

who knew him of old, and he started at times as though at some noise

that was unheard by others.

And so months passed and the whisper grew that at last Brent's

Rock was to have an heir. Geoffrey was very tender to his wife, and

the new bond between them seemed to soften him. He took more interest

in his tenants and their needs than he had ever done; and works of

charity on his part as well as on his sweet young wife's were not

lacking. He seemed to have set all his hopes on the child that was

coming, and as he looked deeper into the future the dark shadow that

had come over his face seemed to die gradually away.

All the time Wykham Delandre nursed his revenge. Deep in his heart

had grown up a purpose of vengeance which only waited an opportunity

to crystallise and take a definite shape. His vague idea was somehow

centred in the wife of Brent, for he knew that he could strike him

best through those he loved, and the coming time seemed to hold in

its womb the opportunity for which he longed. One night he sat alone

in the living-room of his house. It had once been a handsome room in

its way, but time and neglect had done their work and it was now

little better than a ruin, without dignity or picturesqueness of any

kind. He had been drinking heavily for some time and was more than

half stupefied. He thought he heard a noise as of someone at the door

and looked up. Then he called half savagely to come in; but there was

no response. With a muttered blasphemy he renewed his potations.

Presently he forgot all around him, sank into a daze, but suddenly

awoke to see standing before him some one or something like a

battered, ghostly edition of his sister. For a few moments there

came upon him a sort of fear. The woman before him, with distorted

features and burning eyes seemed hardly human, and the only thing

that seemed a reality of his sister, as she had been, was her wealth

of golden hair, and this was now streaked with grey. She eyed her

brother with a long, cold stare; and he, too, as he looked and began

to realise the actuality of her presence, found the hatred of her

which he had had, once again surging up in his heart. All the

brooding passion of the past year seemed to find a voice at once

as he asked her: -

"Why are you here? You're dead and buried."

"I am here, Wykham Delandre, for no love of you, but because I

hate another even more than I do you!" A great passion blazed in

her eyes.

"Him?" he asked, in so fierce a whisper that even the woman was

for an instant startled till she regained her calm.

"Yes, him!" she answered. "But make no mistake, my revenge is my

own; and I merely use you to help me to it." Wykham asked suddenly:

"Did he marry you?"

The woman's distorted face broadened out in a ghastly attempt

at a smile. It was a hideous mockery, for the broken features and

seamed scars took strange shapes and strange colours, and queer

lines of white showed out as the straining muscles pressed on the

old cicatrices.

"So you would like to know! It would please your pride to feel

that your sister was truly married! Well, you shall not know. That

was my revenge on you, and I do not mean to change it by a hair's

breadth. I have come here to-night simply to let you know that I

am alive, so that if any violence be done me where I am going there

may be a witness."

"Where are you going?" demanded her brother.

"That is my affair! and I have not the least intention of letting

you know!" Wykham stood up, but the drink was on him and he reeled

and fell. As he lay on the floor he announced his intention of

following his sister; and with an outburst of splenetic humour told

her that he would follow her through the darkness by the light of

her hair, and of her beauty. At this she turned on him, and said

that there were others beside him that would rue her hair and her

beauty too. "As he will," she hissed; "for the hair remains though

the beauty be gone. When he withdrew the lynch-pin and sent us over

the precipice into the torrent, he had little thought of my beauty.

Perhaps his beauty would be scarred like mine were he whirled, as I

was, among the rocks of the Visp, and frozen on the ice pack in the

drift of the river. But let him beware! His time is coming!" and

with a fierce gesture she flung open the door and passed out into

the night.

***

Later on that night, Mrs. Brent, who was but half-asleep,

became suddenly awake and spoke to her husband:

"Geoffrey, was not that the click of a lock somewhere below

our window?"

But Geoffrey-though she thought that he, too, had started at the

noise-seemed sound asleep, and breathed heavily. Again Mrs. Brent

dozed; but this time awoke to the fact that her husband had arisen

and was partially dressed. He was deadly pale, and when the light

of the lamp which he had in his hand fell on his face, she was

frightened at the look in his eyes.

"What is it, Geoffrey? What dost thou?" she asked.

"Hush! little one," he answered, in a strange, hoarse voice. "Go

to sleep. I am restless, and wish to finish some work I left undone."

"Bring it here, my husband," she said; "I am lonely and I fear

when thou art away."

For reply he merely kissed her and went out, closing the door

behind him. She lay awake for awhile, and then nature asserted

itself, and she slept.

Suddenly she started broad awake with the memory in her ears of

a smothered cry from somewhere not far off. She jumped up and ran to

the door and listened, but there was no sound. She grew alarmed for

her husband, and called out: "Geoffrey! Geoffrey!"

After a few moments the door of the great hall opened, and

Geoffrey appeared at it, but without his lamp.

"Hush!" he said, in a sort of whisper, and his voice was harsh and

stern. "Hush! Get to bed! I am working, and must not be disturbed. Go

to sleep, and do not wake the house!"

With a chill in her heart-for the harshness of her husband's

voice was new to her-she crept back to bed and lay there trembling,

too frightened to cry, and listened to every sound. There was a long

pause of silence, and then the sound of some iron implement striking

muffled blows! Then there came a clang of a heavy stone falling,

followed by a muffled curse. Then a dragging sound, and then more

noise of stone on stone. She lay all the while in an agony of fear,

and her heart beat dreadfully. She heard a curious sort of scraping

sound; and then there was silence. Presently the door opened gently,

and Geoffrey appeared. His wife pretended to be asleep; but through

her eyelashes she saw him wash from his hands something white that

looked like lime.

In the morning he made no allusion to the previous night, and

she was afraid to ask any question.

From that day there seemed some shadow over Geoffrey Brent. He

neither ate nor slept as he had been accustomed, and his former

habit of turning suddenly as though someone were speaking from behind

him revived. The old hall seemed to have some kind of fascination for

him. He used to go there many times in the day, but grew impatient

if anyone, even his wife, entered it. When the builder's foreman came

to inquire about continuing his work Geoffrey was out driving; the

man went into the hall, and when Geoffrey returned the servant told

him of his arrival and where he was. With a frightful oath he pushed

the servant aside and hurried up to the old hall. The workman met

him almost at the door; and as Geoffrey burst into the room he ran

against him. The man apologised:

"Beg pardon, sir, but I was just going out to make some enquiries.

I directed twelve sacks of lime to be sent here, but I see there are

only ten."

"Damn the ten sacks and the twelve too!" was the ungracious and

incomprehensible rejoinder.

The workman looked surprised, and tried to turn the conversation.

"I see, sir, there is a little matter which our people must have

done; but the governor will of course see it set right at his own

cost."

"What do you mean?"

"That 'ere 'arth-stone, sir: Some idiot must have put a scaffold

pole on it and cracked it right down the middle, and it's thick

enough you'd think to stand hanythink." Geoffrey was silent for quite

a minute, and then said in a constrained voice and with much gentler

manner:

"Tell your people that I am not going on with the work in the hall

at present. I want to leave it as it is for a while longer."

"All right sir. I'll send up a few of our chaps to take away these

poles and lime bags and tidy the place up a bit."

"No! No!" said Geoffrey, "leave them where they are. I shall send

and tell you when you are to get on with the work." So the foreman

went away, and his comment to his master was:

"I'd send in the bill, sir, for the work already done. 'Pears to

me that money's a little shaky in that quarter."

Once or twice Delandre tried to stop Brent on the road, and, at

last, finding that he could not attain his object rode after the

carriage, calling out:

"What has become of my sister, your wife?" Geoffrey lashed his

horses into a gallop, and the other, seeing from his white face and

from his wife's collapse almost into a faint that this object was

attained, rode away with a scowl and a laugh.

That night when Geoffrey went into the hall he passed over to

the great fireplace, and all at once started back with a smothered

cry. Then with an effort he pulled himself together and went away,

returning with a light. He bent down over the broken hearth-stone to

see if the moonlight falling through the storied window had in any

way deceived him. Then with a groan of anguish he sank to his knees.

There, sure enough, through the crack in the broken stone were

protruding a multitude of threads of golden hair just tinged with

grey!

He was disturbed by a noise at the door, and looking round, saw

his wife standing in the doorway. In the desperation of the moment

he took action to prevent discovery, and lighting a match at the

lamp, stooped down and burned away the hair that rose through the

broken stone. Then rising nonchalantly as he could, he pretended

surprise at seeing his wife beside him.

For the next week he lived in an agony; for, whether by accident

or design, he could not find himself alone in the hall for any

length of time. At each visit the hair had grown afresh through the

crack, and he had to watch it carefully lest his terrible secret

should be discovered. He tried to find a receptacle for the body of

the murdered woman outside the house, but someone always interrupted

him; and once, when he was coming out of the private doorway, he was

met by his wife, who began to question him about it, and manifested

surprise that she should not have before noticed the key which he now

reluctantly showed her. Geoffrey dearly and passionately loved his

wife, so that any possibility of her discovering his dread secrets,

or even of doubting him, filled him with anguish; and after a couple

of days had passed, he could not help coming to the conclusion that,

at least, she suspected something.

That very evening she came into the hall after her drive and found

him there sitting moodily by the deserted fireplace. She spoke to him

directly.

"Geoffrey, I have been spoken to by that fellow Delandre, and

he says horrible things. He tells to me that a week ago his sister

returned to his house, the wreck and ruin of her former self, with

only her golden hair as of old, and announced some fell intention.

He asked me where she is-and oh, Geoffrey, she is dead, she is dead!

So how can she have returned? Oh! I am in dread, and I know not

where to turn!"

For answer, Geoffrey burst into a torrent of blasphemy which made

her shudder. He cursed Delandre and his sister and all their kind,

and in especial he hurled curse after curse on her golden hair.

"Oh, hush! hush!" she said, and was then silent, for she feared

her husband when she saw the evil effect of his humour. Geoffrey in

the torrent of his anger stood up and moved away from the hearth;

but suddenly stopped as he saw a new look of terror in his wife's

eyes. He followed their glance, and then he, too, shuddered-for

there on the broken hearth-stone lay a golden streak as the points

of the hair rose through the crack.

"Look, look!" she shrieked. "It is some ghost of the dead! Come

away-come away!" and seizing her husband by the wrist with the frenzy

of madness, she pulled him from the room.

That night she was in a raging fever. The doctor of the district

attended her at once, and special aid was telegraphed for to London.

Geoffrey was in despair, and in his anguish at the danger of his

young wife almost forgot his own crime and its consequences. In the

evening the doctor had to leave to attend to others; but he left

Geoffrey in charge of his wife. His last words were:

"Remember, you must humour her till I come in the morning, or

till some other doctor has her case in hand. What you have to dread

is another attack of emotion. See that she is kept warm. Nothing

more can be done."

Late in the evening, when the rest of the household had retired,

Geoffrey's wife got up from her bed and called to her husband.

"Come!" she said. "Come to the old hall! I know where the gold

comes from! I want to see it grow!"

Geoffrey would fain have stopped her, but he feared for her life

or reason on the one hand, and lest in a paroxysm she should shriek

out her terrible suspicion, and seeing that it was useless to try

to prevent her, wrapped a warm rug around her and went with her to

the old hall. When they entered, she turned and shut the door and

locked it.

"We want no strangers amongst us three to-night!" she whispered

with a wan smile.

"We three! nay we are but two," said Geoffrey with a shudder; he

feared to say more.

"Sit here," said his wife as she put out the light. "Sit here

by the hearth and watch the gold growing. The silver moonlight is

jealous! See it steals along the floor towards the gold-our gold!"

Geoffrey looked with growing horror, and saw that during the hours

that had passed the golden hair had protruded further through the

broken hearth-stone. He tried to hide it by placing his feet over

the broken place; and his wife, drawing her chair beside him, leant

over and laid her head on his shoulder.

"Now do not stir, dear," she said; "let us sit still and watch.

We shall find the secret of the growing gold!" He passed his arm

round her and sat silent; and as the moonlight stole along the floor

she sank to sleep.

He feared to wake her; and so sat silent and miserable as the

hours stole away.

Before his horror-struck eyes the golden-hair from the broken

stone grew and grew; and as it increased, so his heart got colder

and colder, till at last he had not power to stir, and sat with

eyes full of terror watching his doom.

***

In the morning when the London doctor came, neither Geoffrey

nor his wife could be found. Search was made in all the rooms, but

without avail. As a last resource the great door of the old hall

was broken open, and those who entered saw a grim and sorry sight.

There by the deserted hearth Geoffrey Brent and his young wife

sat cold and white and dead. Her face was peaceful, and her eyes were

closed in sleep; but his face was a sight that made all who saw it

shudder, for there was on it a look of unutterable horror. The eyes

were open and stared glassily at his feet, which were twined with

tresses of golden hair, streaked with grey, which came through the

broken hearth-stone.

#long post #elizabeth siddal #lucy westenra #bram stoker #dracula

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chronicallylatetotheparty · 5 years ago

Text

Fractured Foundation: Scorned Soul

Ch.2 Corruption

Based on @gale-of-the-nomads Fired AU.

--------------------------------------------------

Something was wrong with Adrien.

Everyone could see it. When Nino came up for their usual morning fist bump Adrien returned it mechanically. Ever-present smile replaced by what would become a permanent scowl.

Frowning, Nino dropped his fist slowly. "You alright, bro?"

Pausing for a moment Adrien walked past him, toward the school doors and answered almost indifferently. "No."

Blinking in shock, Nino hurried to catch up with him. "Wait! Dude!" Blocking his best friend's path to the stairs, Nino placed his hand on Adrien's shoulder. "What happened, bro?" Worry evident in his tone. Adrien never admitted when something was wrong.

Averting his eyes Adrien tensed at the physical contact. Grip tightening on the strap of his messenger bag. "I don't want to talk about it."

Brow furrowing as his concern grew Nino dropped his hand. "Well... Okay. But if you change your mind, you know you can tell me anything. Right, bro?"

"... Right," Adrien agreed, not looking at him. "Thanks, Nino." With that he stepped past his best friend and headed towards homeroom.

Leaving Nino more worried than before.

---------------------

Chloe noticed Adrien's change but didn't understand what it meant. Assuming he would get over it in a few days and everything would be back to normal. Which is what led her to "invite" him to one of the Mayor's events.

"Adri-kins!" Chloe called, placing herself in Adrien's way. "Daddy's throwing a party this weekend! You'll be there!" Chloe smiled, pleased with herself.

Annoyed at the command in her tone and Chloe taking for granted that he'd do whatever she said, his scowl deepened. Adrien stepped back as Chloe got in his face. "No, thanks."

But Sabrina was there, blocking his path. Smiling like she usually did whenever she thought Chloe's plans were particularly good. Always loyal. Always faithful.

Always with nothing to show for it!

Jaw clenching as simmering annoyance boiled into the beginnings of rage, it pooled in Adrien's chest and made it's way up his throat.

"Don't be silly!" Chloe waved her ponytail dismissively. "Of course, you have to show!"

Fists curling, Adrien dug his fingernails into his palms. Leaving new imprints next to the old. "I don't feel like being around people right now."

"But I have the perfect dress that will look great next to your latest suit! I'm going to be even more stunning with you-"

"I'M NOT AN ACCESSORY!"

The courtyard was stunned into silence. Every classmate stared, drawn by Adrien's outburst. Surprise, confusion, even a hint of fear, all of their reactions mixed in Chloe's wide eyes. Mirrored by Adrien's.

A different kind of heat burned in his chest. Shame. He'd screamed at Chloe. That wasn't... You didn't... Lowering his gaze Adrien hurried away.

Blinking, Chloe stared uncomprehending at Adrien's retreating back. Whispers already starting. She could feel them all around her as their classmates speculated on what she could have done to finally make Adrien snap. Some even expressing pride in his outburst.

Refusing to give them any satisfaction, Chloe raised her head haughtily as she left their whispers behind. Sabrina, as always, on her heels.

Marinette stared after Adrien. A sense of dread filling her at the display. She didn't understand. Adrien was kind and patient and loyal to a fault. He wouldn't do that. Not even to Chloe. But what could she do?

----------------------

Lila heard about the incident when she came back from doing "charity work" later that week. Naturally, she would offer some much needed emotional support! And Adrien would be ever so grateful.

Spotting Nino talking to Adrien, the latter with his back to her, Lila smirked as she approached them.

"Come on, bro. We haven't hung out in ages." Nino practically pleaded. "I'm... worried about you, man."

Adrien's icy expression melted slightly. "I know. I'm-"

"There you are!" Lila exclaimed, tone too saccharin to sell the "concerned friend" act she was going for.

Adrien stiffened at the sound of her voice.

"Hey, Lila." Nino greeted with a strained smile.

"I heard about what happened!" Lila molded her features into a look of sympathy, hands reaching for his arm. "If you need someone to talk to, Adrien, I took a psychology course at my old school and my instructor said-"

Adrien turned toward her and Lila froze, the words dying in her throat.

Disgust twisted his perfect features. Contemptuous glare expressing his hatred for Lila in no uncertain terms. Body jerking away from her repulsive hands, Adrien marched past Nino with a muttered goodbye, putting as much distance between him and the liar as he could.

Standing where he left her, Lila blinked in surprise. Nino was apologizing and making excuses for his best friend; she barely listened. Eyes narrowing at the ungrateful jerk. How dare he! She was just being considerate! After all the chances Lila had given him, this is how he repaid her!?

Refocusing on the wannabe DJ, Lila lamented how she was only trying to help. Making sure her voice was loud enough to get their passing classmates' attention. Emphasizing how Adrien obviously wasn't in his right mind. As Lila soaked up their attention she hid a satisfied smirk behind her hands. If Adrien wanted to treat her like an enemy then she'd return the favor.

Observing from across the courtyard Marinette felt agitation and unease growing in her chest.

---------------------

Alya slid onto the bench next to Marinette with a sigh. Her energetic attitude unusually subdued. "Hey, girl," Alya greeted tiredly.

Marinette took one look at Alya and her face fell. "No luck with Nino?"

Frowning, Alya shook her head. "Says Adrien hasn't told him anything either. They've barely talked!" It frustrated her! As a reporter Alya should be able to find answers! ...As a friend she should be able to help...

But she couldn't. Alya wasn't someone who backed down easily. Yet, whenever Adrien was near she found herself avoiding the ice cold air that followed him around. A chill that seemed to grow colder each passing day.

And she wasn't the only one. The whole class could feel it. Intense pressure around Adrien that only seemed to grow. Like it was getting ready to blow. No one wanted to be around when that happened.

Marinette knew what Alya was thinking. She voiced her opinion often enough the last few weeks and Marinette's own thoughts followed the same track. It wasn't something Marinette liked dwelling on.

Still, this was Adrien. Her friend and unknowing crush, but that didn't matter right now, what mattered was helping him through whatever this was and that meant talking to him about what he needed, and Marinette was going to help at least one friend because if she didn't then-

Taking a deep breath Marinette stood up a bit too quickly. "If we can't find out what happened from Nino, then maybe we need to be more direct."

Alya frowned in worry. "You gonna ask him?" By which she meant Adrien. Adrien who Marinette had a hard time composing herself around, Adrien who held her best friend's heart in his now perpetually clenched fists, Adrien who rebuffed every attempt to get him to open up.

Marinette heard the concern and doubt in Alya's voice. "I have to try. Even if he doesn't want to talk to me, I have to try. Let him know we're worried about him. That I-" She shook her head. "That we, miss him..."

Alya smiled softly. Nodding, she stood and wrapped an arm around Marinette. "Alright then." Her best friend had that look in her eye. The one Alya knew from experience meant Marinette had made up her mind and would not be changing it.

They hoped Adrien would listen.

-------------------

Marinette knew it was her idea but standing in front of Adrien she couldn't help but hesitate. What if she said the wrong thing? Or couldn't get the words out? Or Adrien brushed her off? Or-

"Did you need something?" Adrien shifted uncomfortably in front of Marinette, eyes downcast.

She'd called out to him and now stood blocking his path. He didn't want to be rude to her yet, lately, Adrien had been nothing but rude. Carefully cultivated patience vanishing like one of Rena Rouge's illusions.

Was everything about him fake? Did his vapid smile really hide nothing but pain and rage? Is that why his friends avoided him? Because they finally saw the real Adrien!? Hollow, boring, broken Adrien?

Such intrusive thoughts plagued Adrien constantly. Keeping him up at night, ever since- Fists clenching and frown deepening at the memory, he tried to stem his rising anger. Tried to focus on the present.

Gazing at his tense posture Marinette felt her indecision give way to her concern. "We're worried about you," she said softly.

Adrien froze, eyes widening slightly, still avoiding her gaze.

"I'm worried about you!" Marinette continued, voice trembling slightly. "You won't talk to Nino. Even Chloe avoids you. Something's wrong, everyone can see it and I..." She took a deep breath to steady herself. "Adrien... What happened?"

He couldn't move, could barely breathe. Chest aching with the memory. Something was wrong? Yes. Plagg was gone and his so-called "Master" was responsible! Half his freedom taken away! Why? Because Fu didn't even give Adrien the common courtesy of a single conversation before writing him off as a lost cause!

Fists clenching tighter, his knuckles turned white as Adrien forced the words out. "... H- Have you ever had something you loved ripped away from you?"

Marinette's eyes widened at the heartbreak in his voice, shaking her head slowly. He didn't seem to notice.

"No warning, barely an explanation." Adrien tried to keep his tone level. "Someon- Something you love so much it becomes a part of you and they took him!" His voice rose. "People you trusted!" Anger rising with it. "They took him a-and you didn't even get a chance to say goodbye!" His voice broke as Adrien replayed those hated moments again and again.

"They just... They just..." He trembled, trying not to scream, his whole body burning. Adrien turned away from Marinette's pitying gaze, wrapping his arms around himself. "Please... leave me alone. I don't want to..." Lash out, hurt you, say something I'll regret. Like he'd already done to his other friends.

Confusion filled Marinette, she didn't know what to do. First Chat, now Adrien? She had to help him! Needed to help him. Despite what Adrien said she couldn't leave him. Her heart broke for him, yes, but it wasn't just that. With such powerful grief it was only a matter of when before Adrien attracted-

A black butterfly fluttered towards them.

"ADRIEN!"

His head snapped up. Eyes widening at the akuma, Adrien jerked back... Just as it anchored itself to him.

"Scorned Soul, I am Le Papillon!"

"NO!" Adrien clutched at his head shaking it desperately as if that would loosen the akuma's invasive tendrils from his mind.

"The people you trusted most have betrayed you!"

"I WON'T!" Adrien insisted falling to his knees. "I WON'T, I WON'T I WON'T!"

"They've taken something precious from you! Denied what was rightfully yours!"

Adrien tried to blot out Papillon's words, push back against the encroaching darkness at the edges of his mind. But his resolve was beginning to crumble. Weeks of holding back his rage, bottling up his hate... He was so tired... And the darkness offered sweet freedom...

"With the power I give you everyone will face your Justice! Even those who presumed to Judge you!"

Lowering his hands, Adrien stared straight ahead. Papillon's image engulfed his vision as his mental walls shattered.

"In return you will bring me Ladybug and Chat Noir's Miraculous!"

Adrien smiled sinisterly as he rose to his feet. "Yes, Papillon."

Darkness consumed Adrien. And Scorned Soul was born.

--------------------------------------------------

AO3

Sorry, about not having a Read More, I'm on mobile.

#ml au #ml angst #adrien agreste #akumatized adrien #fractured foundation #ml fanfiction #long post #ao3 fic #ao3 #ao3 fanfic #nino lahiffe #alya cesaire #marinette dupain cheng #chloe bourgeois #lila rossi

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bravebones-archived · 5 years ago

Text

TASK 003.

BASIC INFORMATION

Full Name: Amelia Susan Bones.

Nickname(s): Am, Amy, Mel, Lia.

Age: 20.

Date of Birth: 12 April 1958.

Hometown: London, England.

Current Location: London, England.

Gender: Female.

Blood Status: Half-Blood.

Pronouns: She/Her.

Orientation: Bisexual.

Religion: Agnostic.

Affiliation(s): Order of the Phoenix.

Occupation: Auror Trainee, Ministry of Magic.

Living Arrangements: Shares a two-story with other aurors-to-be, as is required of all trainees. Once her training is completed, she’ll be moving back in with Edgar until she settles into a flat of her own (although he is currently unaware of these plans).

Language(s) Spoken: English, French (semi-fluent).

Accent: British/Cockney.

PHYSICAL APPEARANCE

Face Claim: Zoey Deutch.

Hair Colour: Brunette, with auburn highlights.

Eye Colour: Hazel.

Height: 5′4″.

Weight: 49 kg.

Build: Petite, with slight muscular tone in her arms and legs.

Tattoos: A butterfly on her right wrist, and a bumblebee on her left one. She also has a tattoo that reads ‘Veritas Aequitas’ (Truth and Justice), which spreads across her lower ribcage.

Piercings: None. She’s just never been particular inclined to piercings, particularly now that she’s about to be an Auror.

Clothing Style: Amelia has always preferred comfort over couture. The contents of her wardrobe consist of oversized shirts, an abundance of jeans and pant suits, for the rare occasion that more formal attire is required.

Usual Expression: Having always believed that a day without laughter is a day wasted, Amelia is found with a beaming smile on her face, more often than not. Animated and authentic in her expressions, her facial features are reflective of whatever emotions are brewing just beneath the surface.

Distinguishing Characteristics: While there is much about Amelia that distinguishes herself from others of her likeness, the most common is the colour of her hair. The latter is something that she changes with considerable regularity, whereas there is little than can be done to change the former, apart from wearing high heels (and she’d sooner be caught dead than wear those).

HEALTH

Physical Ailments: N/A.

Neurological Conditions: N/A.

Allergies: Dust, pollen, and anything that comes with the changing of the seasons. She also is allergic to dairy, although it only really bothers her if she consumes products where it is highly concentrated.

Sleeping Habits: It is all or nothing, when it comes to Amelia’s sleep patterns. She will go for days sleeping for maybe 5 hours a night, and then crashes for an upwards of 12 hours (usually on the weekends or after a night of pub-crawling with Edgar). She is also known to fall asleep just about anywhere, and does so quite frequently.

Eating Habits: Having to maintain some degree of mindfulness about her diet because of her job, she tries to fuel her body the way it needs to be. She’s also got a massive sweet tooth and a killer metabolism, both of which don’t particularly lend themselves to making the most nutritious of choices.

Exercise Habits: Since she was a small child, Amelia has never been able to stay in the same place for very long. It is rare and entirely uncommon for Amelia to go a day without exercising, whether that is through her training drills with Alastor or early-morning races with Edgar. Part of her consistent fitness routine is due to professional obligation, but a bigger part of it has to do with the fact that she truly enjoys being active.

Emotional Stability: 8/10. While not without her struggles in this area (particularly in light of the challenges of adulthood and the growing war), Amelia has always been adaptable and well-adjusted, and her emotional well-being is reflective of that.

Sociability: Coming from a relatively big family and an equally large social circle, Amelia can count on her right hand the number she has actually been alone, and she much prefers it that way. The very definition,

Body Temperature: Cold, cold, cold. Definitely sleeps with three comforters in the middle of August.

Addictions: Caffeine. She has also started to develop a slight dependency on calming draughts, although her need is far cry from an addiction.

Drug Use: Pot, and nothing more. Her usage is strictly recreational, and the instances where she does light up are few and far between.

Alcohol Use: Amelia drinks with some regularly (about 2-3 nights a week), although her indulging is mostly a social matter. She has acquired a taste for hard liquor since her training started and has a relatively generous stock of whiskey and bourbon at the flat.

PERSONALITY

Label: The Audacious, The Recruit, The Truth-Seeker

Positive Traits: Audacious | Strong-Willed | Virtuous

Negative Traits: Competitive | Impatient | Stubborn

Goals/Desires: A free-spirit to her core, she is too preoccupied with what is in front of her to consider what will be in front of her one, two or five years down the road. But if she had to name one, it would be to play a part in helping win the war, and to secure a future worth living for her friends and family.

Fears: Being alone, dark and confined spaces, spiders and thunderstorms.

Hobbies: Quidditch, Exploding Snap, weekly visits to the pub and spending time doors (especially running, swimming and playing football).

Habits: Cursing, hitting people when she gets excited, tapping her right foot and smoothing her hair, in the odd event its not in some form of an updo.

FAVOURITES

Season: Summer.

Colour: Purple.

Music: Queen, or ABBA when she and Edgar go out for karaoke.

Movies: The Aristocats. Edgar and Amelia still bond over this film regularly.

Quidditch Team: Puddlemere United, despite Edgar’s constant attempts to persuade her that the Chudley Cannons are the far superior team.

Beverage: A woman of varied tastes, it all depends on her mood. Sometimes she fancies a shot of Dragon Barrel Brandy, whereas others she prefers a glass of elderflower wine.

Food: Literally anything from Mum’s kitchen. On any given day, the leftovers from her weekly visits home comprise about 90% of the contents of her fridge.

Person: Edgar Bones.

FAMILY

Father: Jacob Bones, 60. The apple of his eye, There is just something about the relationship between a father and his daughter, particularly when she is the only one of his children who is female.

Mother: Amira Bones (nee Proudmore), 59. While they are the spitting image of one another, there isn’t much else they have in common. Their relationship was a bit tumultuous during Amelia’s teenage years, but their dynamic has since

Sibling(s):

Nicholas Bones, 24. They have never gotten on - not as kids, and definitely not now. Out of all the Bones siblings, their relationship is the most contemptuous, and she can’t stand the sight of him.

Jeremiah Bones, 23. Their relationship is indifferent at best. She doesn’t dislike him, but she’s not going out of her way to spend time with him, either. For whatever reason, they just never seemed to click.

Edgar Bones, 22. Best friend, closest confidante and favourite sibling, all rolled into one. Amelia could never contemplate the idea of an existence without Edgar, and their relationship is the most important one in her life.

Children: None.

Pet(s):

Othello, an Eagle Owl. A gift from her father when she turned 11.

Toulouse, a Munchkin cat. Warm and affectionate, he really lives up to the name of his breed.

Family’s Financial Status: Her family is more financially set than most, but Amelia has always been conservatively modest when it comes to the matter of money. She could rely on their financial support with no issue, but instead chooses to support herself on her own income/resources.

EXTRA

Zodiac Sign: Brave | Independent | Impulsive

MBTI: ENTP (The Debater).

Enneagram: The Opportunist (7, W8).

Temperament: Sanguine.

Camp Half-blood: Themis Cabin (34).

Moral Alignment: Chaotic Good.

Primary Vice: Pride.

Primary Virtue: Diligence.

Element: Fire.

#about #praedontask #only took me five days but here it is!!!!!

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carmenlire · 6 years ago

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Don’t Let Me Be Gone

read on ao3

How things change, Maryse thinks.

It seems like only yesterday that she felt the quickening under her patrol uniform. Eighteen and terrified, she’d stay up long after Robert had fallen asleep each night. Lingering in the living room of their tiny apartment in Idris, Maryse had talked in soft, soothing tones to her baby bump-- to Alec-- long after midnight had come and gone.

Singing a French lullaby that had been her own favorite as a child, Maryse had spent those dark, silent hours wondering how the hell she was going to survive. The noose around Valentine’s neck was tightening with every day that passed and she knew-- deep down she knew-- that it was only a matter of time until the Clave found her family.

She prayed that she’d be spared-- that her child would be spared, at the very least.

Maryse had always wanted to be a mother. While her own parents had been stoic shadowhunters to their core, she’d dreamed of how she’d do things differently. She’d be a softer mother than her own.

So young, she thinks now, to feel like the weight of the world was crushing her shoulders. Still, Alec’s always been her saving grace. From the very first moment Maryse had realized why she’d been sick every morning for two weeks, Alec’s been a dream she’d held onto with everything she had.

Somehow--and for a very long time-- Maryse had forgotten that.

During the trial and the worry that she’d be executed in front of the cold, unforgiving eyes of the Clave, Maryse had clung onto the hope her child gave her. She’d almost passed out when she’d learned her sentence had been commuted. Serving a life sentence at the New York Institute had been a blessing from Raziel himself.

Settling into the Institute had taken ages. Maryse never felt at home in the cold, unforgiving building. Still, she’d thrown herself into becoming the best damned Head of the Institute anyone had ever seen.

Maryse can still feel the ghost of the backaches she’d suffered as she’d kept long hours even as her delivery date loomed closer. Most of her time was spent in her office, pouring over paperwork and setting things to right. Everyone had been so distrustful, so contemptuous, and while Maryse would never admit aloud that she’d sought respite behind the closed doors of her office, she knows that’s what it was.

Walking along the corridors, standing in the mission center giving orders, Maryse had often kept upright through sheer force of will. Her swollen feet had ached, headaches had plagued her, and not even resting a hand under her bump had been enough to offer any sort of comfort.

Still, she was a Lightwood by marriage and a Trueblood by heart. She was made of sterner stuff and Maryse had damned well refused to give her subordinates the satisfaction of seeing her weak.

Robert had been less than useless, even all those years ago, and so Maryse had largely been left to take care of things on her own while her husband was distracted with other pursuits.

She was heavily pregnant, after all, and far more focused on work and Alec than her husband. That’s what Robert had thrown out when confronted, at least. It had been one more weight that had threatened to break her back but Maryse had been young and still so naively in love.

Alec had been born two weeks early and had filled Maryse with so much terror and fear when she’d first heard his wailing cries. Robert was nowhere to be found and so Maryse had went through labor and delivery by herself, with no one but the infirmary medics to guide her.

Oh, but how the world had fallen away when they’d placed her darling boy in her arms, Maryse remembers.

Nothing had mattered but the small, achingly fragile life in her hands. Alec had quieted down almost immediately upon being placed in her arms, turning boneless in a move that had made Maryse’s heart stop for a second before she’d fallen in love.

He’s perfect, she’d thought, and had let out a tiny, sobbing laugh. She was eighteen and the mother to the most perfect child in the universe, she’d marveled.

When her son, her perfectly perfect child, had gripped her finger with his tiny little fist, Maryse had been delighted and so proud. She’d vowed to protect the bundle in her arms with everything she had.

As she thinks back to that afternoon for the millionth time, something in Maryse grieves for how things had turned so terribly, devastatingly wrong.

While she’d wanted nothing more than to stay in solitude with Alec, Maryse had taken a scant three days to recover before dragging herself-- and Alec-- to her office. Exhaustion had ridden her hard for weeks-- months-- as she’d tirelessly worked her ass off, balancing being a new mother and the Head of the Institute. It was overwhelmingly and oftentimes Maryse got through days going minute by minute with white-knuckled determination.

Alec had stayed in a little bassinet she’d put together right next to her desk and it seemed like a never ending cycle of feeding and changing and signing off on reports and reading missives.

Alec had been her only spot of brightness for ages. Sometimes her eyes were so blurry she couldn’t see straight but she’d take an hour in the evening and carry Alec up to her bedroom. Rocking him to sleep, Maryse had felt something clutch at her heart whenever big hazel eyes looked up at her, happy and open and full of love.

Something had shifted, though. Slowly but surely Maryse had lost sight of what made her heart sing. She’d thrown herself full tilt at work, trying desperately to outrun her mistakes and polish her name back from its tarnished ruin. She’d wanted Alec to be proud to be a Lightwood-- and a Trueblood-- and that had been her guiding hand for years.

For far longer than it should’ve ever been.

Lost in thought, Maryse remembers Alec’s third birthday. She was pregnant with Isabelle, though she hadn't known it at the time, and had decided in a rare indulgence-- her last for decades-- to spend the day with Alec.

Going to the nursery wing, Maryse had watched as Alec had picked his outfit for the day. He was a happy boy, always smiling, always so full of wonder. Biting her tongue to keep silent, Maryse had sighed a little to herself as her toddler picked green shorts with turtles along the edge and a light blue t-shirt. It didn’t match but it was colorful, that much was a given.

Alec had always favored bright colors-- until he didn’t.

Pushing away from the doorway, Maryse had grinned as Alec’s eyes lit up when he saw her. Gesturing for him to lift his arms, Maryse had dressed her son, kissing his cheek when she was finished.

“Mama,” Alec had asked, staying admirably still while Maryse tried to comb his hair into some semblance of order.

“What is it, baby?” Her voice had been distracted with her task when he’d replied.

“Why don’t you ever wear your hair down anymore?”

Stilling, Maryse had looked down at him at a loss for words. She’d grown so used to throwing it in a ponytail or bun to keep it out of her way. It’s been ages since she wore it down. She’s a little surprised Alec remembers at all.

“I don’t know, Alec. Why?”

“You look pretty with your hair down, is all.”

Something tightens around Maryse’s throat at the innocent words. She won’t notice for years but it’s a crossroads of sorts. Maryse supposes that she could’ve laughed and taken her hair down for the day. She could’ve changed out of the dress that was firmly part of her Head of the Institute wardrobe and tried to look softer, more like a mother than a leader.

Instead, she laughs it off and tickles Alec. His laughing gasps are music to her ears and as they walk around New York, Maryse can’t quite remember a better day.

The sun is shining in the late fall and they feed the ducks in Central Park, Alec delighted as the animals eat the bread crumbs dutifully after each toss.

Things change so quickly after that, though. Maryse realizes she’s pregnant and all of a sudden she has to lead her people-- she has to prove herself-- when all she wants is to crawl into bed and sleep for a year.

Alec’s an energetic boy who’s always reaching for her and as her pregnancy continues, it gets harder and harder to keep up with him. Add that to her job and Maryse feels like she’s drowning, like she just can’t quite manage to keep her head above water.

It’s exhausting.

But Maryse always feels eyes on her-- the Consul, who could rescind the offer at any moment, the Clave who wants to see her fail with a desperate glee she can’t make sense of, and her subordinates who have railed against her command for the past three years.

They’re coming around-- she’s making them come around-- but it’s a painstakingly slow process.

Then Isabelle is born, healthy and glowing. Maryse feels her world fall away for a second time and can’t contain her excitement when she introduces her daughter to her brother.

Alec, always curious, stares at Isabelle with wide eyes. He’s happy, though, and so damned patient. Maryse is ashamed of it now, but she’d taken advantage of Alec. Alec had listened so earnestly as Maryse had explained just how important Isabelle was to the family and that if Alec wanted to be a good big brother, he’d need to protect her and look after her.

Alec had nodded so sternly-- she’d laughed a little at his expression, really, before wincing in pain-- and had promised to be the best big brother ever.

There have been more times than she’d like to admit that Maryse has regretted her words but from that moment on, Alec had taken Isabelle under his wing.

He’d called her Izzy and had been a constant companion to the newest edition to the Lightwood family. Maryse had caught Alec in Izzy’s crib, both of them sleeping with their thumbs in the mouth. Isabelle had been inseparable from Alec. She’d cry for him-- more often than she ever cried for her mother, Maryse knows without a doubt.

And Alec had always been there.

Two peas in a pod, Maryse had figured and she’d left them to their own devices while she lost herself in work.

It seemed like all she ever did was work. She worried about budgets and reprimanded her shadowhunters and turned the New York Institute into one of the best offices in North America. It had taken so much hard work-- more than she’d ever thought herself capable of-- but she’d risen to become a trusted, valued shadowhunter.

She always heard the wolves in the distance, though.

The invitations to attend meetings in Alicante had been slow to extend. She’d held her breath the first time she’d stepped on Idris soil for the first time in five years, tears stinging her eyes as she’d walked past places she’d thought she’d never see again.

Things hit a stride and life settled into a routine. And then Jace came along.

Maryse had welcomed the boy with open arms, feeling for him and wanting to show respect to a once dear friend. It hadn’t taken long, however, for unease to grow in the pit of Maryse’s stomach.

For a very long time, Maryse prided herself on knowing her son better than she knew herself. She’d watched Alec spar with Jace with sharp eyes and tension bloomed in her spine.

Oh, Alec, she’d thought.

She knew what those looks meant. She could see the way her son’s eyes followed Jace around the room when he thought no one was looking.

Maryse still loved Alec with every piece of her heart but a piece of her-- a stupid, hateful piece-- had mourned. She’d grieved the life her son could have had.

The life she’d wanted him to have.

She’d never said anything but Maryse sees now how she’d changed yet again. She lived in fear that her carefully built house of cards would come crumbling down at any minute. Robert could hardly be dragged from Idris, no matter that they'd just had a third child in a stupid, desperate attempt to salvage their marriage and every time Maryse looked at Alec, all she saw was another inevitable stain on the Lightwood name. She’d grown colder, harder. She’d demanded perfection and been unforgiving when it wasn’t delivered.

She’d kept a careful eye on the pair and had breathed a quiet but fervent sigh of relief when Jace had asked her son to be parabatai. She doesn’t know if Jace ever realized Alec’s feelings but if so, he never let on.

As far as she’s concerned, it's a blessing that Alec had found someone who promised to always be in his corner. Angel knew that Maryse hadn’t done that. She suspects that Jace might have even protected Alec from her on occasion.

Sighing shakily at the thought, Maryse carefully dabs at her eyes, loathe to ruin her makeup.

She’s no longer young. She’s not ancient, is far from being relegated to an old, musty office in the bowels of the Clave’s building in Idris but, still.

Maryse is no longer that frightened eighteen year old or determined twenty five year old.

She’s a grown woman who’s lived enough to have a mountain of regrets and some more besides. There are things she’d do anything to change and so much of that revolves around the man currently dancing in the middle of the crowded ballroom.

If it had been her who’d been subjected to such abuse, Maryse doesn’t think she could forgive her mother. Alec’s always been a surprise, though, and his greatest weakness has always been his family.

How things change, Maryse thinks again. Sometimes when she was being particularly cruel to Alec, there had been a voice in her head, railing at her to stop. Take a deep breath, apologize, try to salvage the relationship that she was ruining with every cutting word and dismissive glance.

She was a terrible mother and her list of faults are never ending. Maryse knows that without a doubt. When Alec had told her about his betrothal to Lydia, Maryse had been over the moon. She’d become someone that she didn’t recognize and all she could see was the Clave’s approval and another line of the family dynasty secured.

It hadn’t mattered to her that she couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen Alec smile. It was of no consequence that she’d known damned well that Alec didn’t love Lydia-- that he couldn’t. She’d seen his sacrifice as the gesture it was and it had warmed her goddamned heart to see Alec rising to the occasion and putting the family’s needs above his own.

The thought sickens her, now. As she watches the scene in front of her, Maryse mourns another incarnation of Alec-- the one who didn’t defy her and choose himself.

Distantly, she hopes that Alec finds Magnus in every universe because it seems such a tragedy to deprive the world of so much happiness-- and her son of so much joy and love and peace.

Alec keeps perfect time to the orchestra’s waltz and he looks so happy that Maryse almost wants to look away. That depth of feeling seems so private and as Maryse studies Magnus, she wonders how she can ever repay the man who stole her son’s heart-- and, quite possibly, saved his life more times than Maryse can ever count.

Her son’s a married man. Maryse feels the past twenty five years dripping through her fingers like golden grains of sand, each one precious even if she was far from the mother her children needed.

She replays a million memories from a kicking stomach in the middle of the night to a laughing baby in the bathtub to a solemn little boy with wide, serious eyes.

Alec grew up and became the man he needed to be, despite Maryse’s best attempts at sabotage.

She can’t ever forgive herself for abandoning Alec-- and Izzy and Max-- when they most needed her. There won’t ever be a time that regret doesn’t strangle her when she thinks of all the ways she messed up and ruined things that she worries can’t ever be repaired.

Working every day to be the mother her children need is the only job Maryse is interested in these days. Taking a sip from her champagne flute, Maryse leans against Luke’s side and relives dozens of memories, mourning the dozens she didn’t care enough to make at the time.

Still, when the waltz ends-- with Alec kissing Magnus to within an inch of his life, much to the wedding guests’ amusement-- Maryse smiles brightly as her son makes his way towards her.

He holds out a hand and Maryse laughs a little as she sets her glass down and takes Alec’s outstretched hand.

Leading her to the middle of the dance floor, Maryse’s ears strain to hear the starting piece of the music. When she does, her eyes fly to Alec, who’s watching her with intent eyes.

An orchestral version of the French lullaby plays for their mother-son dance and Maryse’s eyes tear up as Alec leads them.

“Congratulations, Alec,” Maryse says softly as they take a turn around the room.

She watches as Alec’s face lights up more, if that’s even possible. She sees the way his eyes seek out something across the room and Maryse doesn’t have to follow to know who’s found his attention.

Still, Alec’s gaze snaps back to her a few moments later and he studies her for a moment in a move that makes Maryse the tiniest bit uncomfortable-- Alec’s always had such a serious, prodding stare-- before he smiles.

It’s not a grin. It’s something softer, a faint upturn of his mouth. She’s just getting ready to ask if there’s cake on her face when Alec says softly, “I like your hair down, mom. It makes you look happy.”

The back of Maryse’s throat aches at the words, at the careful delivery as though Alec’s afraid that he’s offended her.

“I am happy,” she replies just a quietly. Alec probably has to strain to hear her over the music and the crowd but Maryse can’t speak louder, doesn’t want to ruin this fragile, lovely moment between them.

“That’s good,” Alec says somberly. “I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t happy today.”

Taking a bracing breath, Maryse smiles at Alec. It’s bright and real and just a touch nervous. The song ends and the two of them glide to a stop back in the middle of the dance floor. There’s chatter all around them and it feels like they’re the only two people in the world for a minute.

Pulling Alec close, Maryse wraps her arms around her son, holding on with everything she has.

“Of course I’m happy, Alec,” she whispers. “I am so proud of you for fighting for love and today’s one of the best days of my life, seeing my son get his happily ever after.” Pulling back, Maryse swallows her own tears even as she sees one in the corner of Alec’s eye. She wipes it away with a careful thumb, still smiling. “It’s all a mother should want for her son and I feel blessed by the Angel that I was able to see today. I love you, Alec.”

“I love you too, mom,” Alec chokes out and then he’s pulling her close and they’re hugging again.

Maryse doesn’t know how long the two of them stay like that, letting the rest of the world fall away. Alec shifts after a moment, though, and as Maryse looks up, her breath catches.

Her eyes lock with Magnus’s against the room and she watches as he studies the two of them, smiling as he absently sweeps his thumb over the ring that now adorns his finger-- the only ring he’s wearing today.

With a shaky breath, Maryse nods at Magnus. It feels like the passing of a baton, no matter that Alec hasn’t been hers in far longer than she cares to think about.

Still, Magnus nods back, expression serious, and Maryse knows that her son has found a love she can only hope to have one day.

Maryse has a lot of regrets and she knows that she’ll take them to her grave. By the grace of the angel, though, she’s found her way back to where she belongs.

With her family.

For the thousandth time, Maryse promises herself that she won’t ever forsake them again, that she’ll work every day to be the mother her children needed so long ago.

It’s a long way back, she thinks.

But how lucky for her that she has the rest of her life to fix her mistakes and prove to her children just how much she loves them.

And really, Maryse can’t think of any other way that she’d want to spend her life than doing just that.

#don't let me be gone #maryse lightwood #this was supposed to be short.... turned out much longer than anticipated lol #my writing

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ameliacareful · 6 years ago

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Sam and Dean and Psychopathy

Years ago I found meta on Sam and Dean and the way they relate to others. Sam and Dean approach others with very different but in the case of people they want to interview (victims, witnesses, suspects) often complimentary ways. Dean is charming but often blunt and if the occasion deserves it threatening. Sam is the Good Listener™ leaning forward and talking softly, comforting. Much of the time there is an argument to be made that this is performative. Watching Soulless!Sam particularly, it is fun to see him perform the actions with Dean, putting his hand on Dean’s knee and saying ‘Safe space,’ for example.

The meta I found postulated that Sam responded out of his own experience and that Dean was actually better at empathizing since Sam could only reflect back things out of his own experience. That meta went on to suggest that Sam was a psychopath.

Years ago I had a boss who was probably a diagnosable narcissist. As a result I became obsessed with certain personality disorders, including psychopathy. I am not a professional. I get therapy for depression, I don’t counsel anyone else and I don’t diagnose.

A lot of work most cited in psychopathy has been done by Robert Hare who studied psychopaths and created the psychopath checklist. It’s a diagnostic tool.

Robert Hare’s Checklist of Psychopathy Symptoms:

1. GLIB AND SUPERFICIAL CHARM — the tendency to be smooth, engaging, charming, slick, and verbally facile. Psychopathic charm is not in the least shy, self-conscious, or afraid to say anything. A psychopath never gets tongue-tied. He can also be a great listener, to simulate empathy while zeroing in on his targets’ dreams and vulnerabilities, to be able to manipulate them better.

2. GRANDIOSE SELF-WORTH — a grossly inflated view of one’s abilities and self-worth, self-assured, opinionated, cocky, a braggart. Psychopaths are arrogant people who believe they are superior human beings.

3. NEED FOR STIMULATION or PRONENESS TO BOREDOM — an excessive need for novel, thrilling, and exciting stimulation; taking chances and doing things that are risky. Psychopaths often have a low self-discipline in carrying tasks through to completion because they get bored easily. They fail to work at the same job for any length of time, for example, or to finish tasks that they consider dull or routine.

4. PATHOLOGICAL LYING — can be moderate or high; in moderate form, they will be shrewd, crafty, cunning, sly, and clever; in extreme form, they will be deceptive, deceitful, underhanded, unscrupulous, manipulative and dishonest.

5. CONNING AND MANIPULATIVENESS: the use of deceit and deception to cheat, con, or defraud others for personal gain; distinguished from Item #4 in the degree to which exploitation and callous ruthlessness is present, as reflected in a lack of concern for the feelings and suffering of one’s victims.

6. LACK OF REMORSE OR GUILT: a lack of feelings or concern for the losses, pain, and suffering of victims; a tendency to be unconcerned, dispassionate, coldhearted and unempathic. This item is usually demonstrated by a disdain for one’s victims.

7. SHALLOW AFFECT: emotional poverty or a limited range or depth of feelings; interpersonal coldness in spite of signs of open gregariousness and superficial warmth.

8. CALLOUSNESS and LACK OF EMPATHY: a lack of feelings toward people in general; cold, contemptuous, inconsiderate, and tactless.

9. PARASITIC LIFESTYLE: an intentional, manipulative, selfis, and exploitative financial dependence on others as reflected in a lack of motivation, low self-discipline and the inability to carry through one’s responsibilities.

10. POOR BEHAVIORAL CONTROLS: expressions of irritability, annoyance, impatience, threats, aggression and verbal abuse; inadequate control of anger and temper; acting hastily.

11. PROMISCUOUS SEXUAL BEHAVIOR: a variety of brief, superficial relations, numerous affairs, and an indiscriminate selection of sexual partners; the maintenance of numerous, multiple relationships at the same time; a history of attempts to sexually coerce others into sexual activity (rape) or taking great pride at discussing sexual exploits and conquests.

12. EARLY BEHAVIOR PROBLEMS: a variety of behaviors prior to age 13, including lying, theft, cheating, vandalism, bullying, sexual activity, fire-setting, glue-sniffing, alcohol use and running away from home.

13. LACK OF REALISTIC, LONG-TERM GOALS: an inability or persistent failure to develop and execute long-term plans and goals; a nomadic existence, aimless, lacking direction in life.

14. IMPULSIVITY: the occurrence of behaviors that are unpremeditated and lack reflection or planning; inability to resist temptation, frustrations and momentary urges; a lack of deliberation without considering the consequences; foolhardy, rash, unpredictable, erratic and reckless.

15. IRRESPONSIBILITY: repeated failure to fulfill or honor obligations and commitments; such as not paying bills, defaulting on loans, performing sloppy work, being absent or late to work, failing to honor contractual agreements.

16. FAILURE TO ACCEPT RESPONSIBILITY FOR OWN ACTIONS: a failure to accept responsibility for one’s actions reflected in low conscientiousness, an absence of dutifulness, antagonistic manipulation, denial of responsibility, and an effort to manipulate others through this denial.

17. MANY SHORT-TERM RELATIONSHIPS: a lack of commitment to a long-term relationship reflected in inconsistent, undependable, and unreliable commitments in life, including in marital and familial bonds.

18. JUVENILE DELINQUENCY: behavior problems between the ages of 13-18; mostly behaviors that are crimes or clearly involve aspects of antagonism, exploitation, aggression, manipulation, or a callous, ruthless tough-mindedness.

19. REVOCATION OF CONDITION RELEASE: a revocation of probation or other conditional release due to technical violations, such as carelessness, low deliberation or failing to appear.

20. CRIMINAL VERSATILITY: a diversity of types of criminal offenses, regardless if the person has been arrested or convicted for them; taking great pride at getting away with crimes or wrongdoings.

Watch this space if you’re as fascinated by psychopathy as I am because I am going to go through the checklist, at least as it applies to Sam (and Dean) in a series of posts. Block #psychopath Sam and Dean if you are pretty sure you want nothing to do with this.

Warning, you want nothing to do with this. I will not pretend I don’t have an agenda.

Part 1. Glib and Superficial Charm

Part 2. Goodlooking and Bored

#spn #psychopath Sam and Dean #meta

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theanoninyouraskblog · 6 years ago

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Well, well, well.

@erasermic-aus

Looks like henry and windy are at it again. Lets give them hell shall we.

Mmm look at that delicious hint. Alright you know the drill lets look at obvious stuff first.

1: We’ve got a recording microphone. Specifically based on the shape it looks like we either have a condenser mic (specifically a large condenser mic) or a Ribbon microphone. Knowing what we do about Present Mic canonically (He has a radio show) we can assume this Mic also has a radio show (or a vlog, we’ll get to that later) which means he’s probably using a Ribbon Microphone given that they’re said to have the most natural sound and are usually used for recording human voices.

But we can take this further.

Hizashi’s Microphone is a mounted mic on stand... obviously (they help with audio quality). And he appears to have a pop filter on the front (basically it makes audio not sound like shit or in the words of an expert: “One of the simplest recording gadgets is the humble pop filter... positioned between the vocalist and your microphone to block plosives – those percussive P and B sounds that cause annoying low frequency bumps.”- a random fucking website, I did this research myself, I’m not sighting it if I don't have to.)

2: Red eyes. Now Hizashi canonically in the Bnha comics has read eyes, it was changed for the show... for atheistic reasons I guess? This isn’t some measly one off, because Windy and Henry aren’t sloppy. Lets take a look at what versions of Mic have green eyes. The mad hatter. Waiter Hizashi. That's it... there aren't that many full color pictures of hizashi with his eyes colored/open.

But lets look at who has red eyes. God’s Abomination, specifically when it’s villain mic and hero eraser. (there's no fully colored version the other way round so I’m just sort of assuming his eyes are green when it’s hero hizashi and villain eraser, would make my job soooo much easier being able to draw that conclusion) BUT NOPE I can’t make that clear decisive cut of red means evil, because guess what... HERO MIC HAS RED EYES IN SCREECH’S AU.

But you know what we do know.

Mic isn’t a hero. Henry told us as much.

Odd emphasis on not there... implies he’s a villain. But we wont rule out civilian yet.

Now we get to talk about this:

Firstly, that one eye visible one eye not is a fucking trope in the art world.

Want to know why?

Nah, I’m joking it’s been around a lot longer than him. But the glasses glare and the one eye is a very common theme. Don’t believe me?

That hiding one or both eyes on dangerous characters thing? Also a fucking trope.

Want a list of popular anime character with only one eye showing??? I have one!! https://www.ranker.com/list/best-anime-characters-with-one-eye-showing/ranker-anime Want a whole fucking page about it? https://www.animecharactersdatabase.com/tags.php?id=1085 Here's the data base!!!

Want videogame examples? Undyne (undertale), Sans (undertale), Garry (Ib)! The list goes on!

And doing something with a character’s eyes is always a trope! Character got possessed??? Guess what you can change the eyes to clue your audience in! You’re character just went fucking feral? SLITTED PUPILS ARE THE WAY MY DUDE. Aizawa Shouta just activated his quirk? Zoom in on them eyes, change color and do a weird color fracture.

Super powerful character has eyes flash? Totally normal, robot character’s eyes change color when scanning? One eye changes color?

Heterochromia is also super common.

This implies that Hizashi is dangerous, since it’s not happening before a fight as far as I can tell, it just implies he’s a dangerous man and not to be messed with.

Also remember how I mentioned vlogging? There is the off chance Hizashi is blogging and that’s why his attention isn't on his microphone. Or he could be looking at photos, or something... maybe a kidnapped and tied up Aizawa... who knows.

3: Now lets look at that dialog.

“He was amazing!” We can infer that the he in this situation is probably Aizawa... though it could technically be anyone. But we’re going to stick with Aizawa.

He was amazing? Well sounds a bit like Hizashi talking about Hero Aizawa, having seen Aizawa on patrol or even having fought him. One this is for sure, this is probably an obsessive mic. The sort that fixates on Aizawa or the like. Seems to me like a villain obsessing over a hero. Now, subtler details.

1: Lets take a look at this background. That’s glass right there which means this isn't Hizashi’s house, this is a recording studio. And Hizashi is either the host or is being interviewed, and we can rule that out due to the fact his feet are up and it’s fucking rude to do that if your being interviewed.

Now this could also be a police interrogation room, but the chair lends to it not being so, as does his posture and the mic itself. No this is a recording studio which means Mic defiantly has his own show.

Not only that, he’s a public figure. And probably a villain!

2: Hand guestures are something distinctly Hizashi. As someone who speaks with their hands the same way he does, expressing with hands isn’t just a thing for other people, you move your hands by yourself, reminding yourself to put on socks with motions, etc. But that, that's an odly specific position.

Now talking with your hands is a common phenomena, books have been written about it, it allegedly conveys strong leadership and the like... however it’s also a trait sociopaths and psychopath are known to mimic in order to endear people to them. Now let me put up a sociopath/psycopath checklist (The tests are very similar and I didnt feel like doing both) and lets look at Present Mic as a character.

GLIB and SUPERFICIAL CHARM — The tendency to be smooth, engaging, charming, slick, and verbally facile. Psychopathic charm is not in the least shy, self-conscious, or afraid to say anything. A psychopath never gets tongue-tied. They have freed themselves from the social conventions about taking turns in talking, for example. ✓ Hey, look Charm? Never gets tongue tied... hmmm

GRANDIOSE SELF-WORTH — A grossly inflated view of one’s abilities and self-worth, self-assured, opinionated, cocky, a braggart. Psychopaths are arrogant people who believe they are superior human beings. ✓ This one is a little harder to check off, because he’s not nearly as self centered, but cocky? yeah... yep, so he gets half a point here.

NEED FOR STIMULATION or PRONENESS TO BOREDOM — An excessive need for novel, thrilling, and exciting stimulation; taking chances and doing things that are risky. Psychopaths often have low self-discipline in carrying tasks through to completion because they get bored easily. They fail to work at the same job for any length of time, for example, or to finish tasks that they consider dull or routine. ✓ I dunno if you’ve met Hizashi, but this fits in rather well.

PATHOLOGICAL LYING — Can be moderate or high; in moderate form, they will be shrewd, crafty, cunning, sly, and clever; in extreme form, they will be deceptive, deceitful, underhanded, unscrupulous, manipulative, and dishonest. ✓ If he’s a villain he checks this easily. Especially if he’s a public figure AND a villain.

CONNING AND MANIPULATIVENESS — The use of deceit and deception to cheat, con, or defraud others for personal gain; distinguished from Item #4 in the degree to which exploitation and callous ruthlessness is present, as reflected in a lack of concern for the feelings and suffering of one’s victims. ✓ See above

LACK OF REMORSE OR GUILT — A lack of feelings or concern for the losses, pain, and suffering of victims; a tendency to be unconcerned, dispassionate, cold-hearted, and non-empathic. This item is usually demonstrated by a disdain for one’s victims. Ehhh… I really need to see more of this version of Hizashi to determine that.

SHALLOW AFFECT — Emotional poverty or a limited range or depth of feelings; interpersonal coldness in spite of signs of open See above.

CALLOUSNESS and LACK OF EMPATHY — A lack of feelings toward people in general; cold, contemptuous, inconsiderate, and tactless. Once again see above

PARASITIC LIFESTYLE — An intentional, manipulative, selfish, and exploitative financial dependence on others as reflected in a lack of motivation, low self-discipline, and inability to begin or complete responsibilities. Nope.

POOR BEHAVIORAL CONTROLS — Expressions of irritability, annoyance, impatience, threats, aggression, and verbal abuse; inadequate control of anger and temper; acting hastily. ✓ Acting hastily? Yep.

PROMISCUOUS SEXUAL BEHAVIOR — A variety of brief, superficial relations, numerous affairs, and an indiscriminate selection of sexual partners; the maintenance of several relationships at the same time; a history of attempts to sexually coerce others into sexual activity or taking great pride at discussing sexual exploits or conquests. Cannonically this would make sense but we wont check it.

EARLY BEHAVIOR PROBLEMS — A variety of behaviors prior to age 13, including lying, theft, cheating, vandalism, bullying, sexual activity, fire-setting, glue-sniffing, alcohol use, and running away from home. Dunno yet.

LACK OF REALISTIC, LONG-TERM GOALS — An inability or persistent failure to develop and execute long-term plans and goals; a nomadic existence, aimless, lacking direction in life. This man wanted to be a radio host. That's not a fucking stable job Hizashi. This is poor planning. ✓

IMPULSIVITY — The occurrence of behaviors that are unpremeditated and lack reflection or planning; inability to resist temptation, frustrations, and urges; a lack of deliberation without considering the consequences; foolhardy, rash, unpredictable, erratic, and reckless. ✓ No duh

IRRESPONSIBILITY — Repeated failure to fulfill or honor obligations and commitments; such as not paying bills, defaulting on loans, performing sloppy work, being absent or late to work, failing to honor contractual agreements. ✓ if He’s a fucking villain.

FAILURE TO ACCEPT RESPONSIBILITY FOR OWN ACTIONS — A failure to accept responsibility for one’s actions reflected in low conscientiousness, an absence of dutifulness, antagonistic manipulation, denial of responsibility, and an effort to manipulate others through this denial. ✓ if He’s a fucking villain.

MANY SHORT-TERM MARITAL RELATIONSHIPS — A lack of commitment to a long-term relationship reflected in inconsistent, undependable, and unreliable commitments in life, including marital. Nope

JUVENILE DELINQUENCY — Behavior problems between the ages of 13-18; mostly behaviors that are crimes or clearly involve aspects of antagonism, exploitation, aggression, manipulation, or a callous, ruthless tough-mindedness. Dunno yet

REVOCATION OF CONDITION RELEASE — A revocation of probation or other conditional releases due to technical violations, such as carelessness, low deliberation, or failing to appear. Dunno yet

CRIMINAL VERSATILITY — A diversity of types of criminal offenses, regardless if the person has been arrested or convicted for them; taking great pride at getting away with crimes. …..✓

Let me spell this out for you, Hizashi is displaying an oddly exaggerated handmotion, even for the most exuberant of hand talkers. (Generaly talking with your hands never gets outside of a box, here I’ve drawn the box on mic for you.)

The larger box is where most people talk and people why are shy or have been bullied/are self conscious of their hands talk in the smaller box.

He as a character ticks of most of a psychopathic checklist and if he is indeed a psychopath he could have learned that hand motion endear people to you. Now I’m not saying he is a psychopath, most people tick off at least 4 of those boxes, I’m just saying it’s possible.

3 yep that eye is still confusing me, he defiantly seems like he’s looking at something and the more I look at that smug expression the more I think it’s Aizawa tied up and gagged in a chair with his own capture weapon glaring at him.

4: That's a nice chair. That's a nice chair. Not interrogation I guess. But something about that chair irks me.

Alright nitpicky now.

Posture:

That's not fucking relaxed posture. That’s posturing to give of the air of being relaxed. Mic may have been relaxed when he crossed his legs but those arms are not relaxed. Look at the stiff angles. That’s a man who’s up to something.

And lastly, no, no I could not figure out what kind of shoes Mic is wearing, and I don't think it’s relevant.

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lil-rosequartz-princess · 6 years ago

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Profile Of A Sociopath

Glibness and Superficial Charm

Manipulative and Conning They never recognize the rights of others and see their self-serving behaviors as permissible. They appear to be charming, yet are covertly hostile and domineering, seeing their victim as merely an instrument to be used. They may dominate and humiliate their victims.

Grandiose Sense of Self Feels entitled to certain things as "their right."

Pathological Lying Has no problem lying coolly and easily and it is almost impossible for them to be truthful on a consistent basis. Can create, and get caught up in, a complex belief about their own powers and abilities. Extremely convincing and even able to pass lie detector tests.

Lack of Remorse, Shame or Guilt A deep seated rage, which is split off and repressed, is at their core. Does not see others around them as people, but only as targets and opportunities. Instead of friends, they have victims and accomplices who end up as victims. The end always justifies the means and they let nothing stand in their way.

Shallow Emotions When they show what seems to be warmth, joy, love and compassion it is more feigned than experienced and serves an ulterior motive. Outraged by insignificant matters, yet remaining unmoved and cold by what would upset a normal person. Since they are not genuine, neither are their promises.

Incapacity for Love

Need for Stimulation Living on the edge. Verbal outbursts and physical punishments are normal. Promiscuity and gambling are common.

Callousness/Lack of Empathy Unable to empathize with the pain of their victims, having only contempt for others' feelings of distress and readily taking advantage of them.

Poor Behavioral Controls/Impulsive Nature Rage and abuse, alternating with small expressions of love and approval produce an addictive cycle for abuser and abused, as well as creating hopelessness in the victim. Believe they are all-powerful, all-knowing, entitled to every wish, no sense of personal boundaries, no concern for their impact on others.

Early Behavior Problems/Juvenile Delinquency Usually has a history of behavioral and academic difficulties, yet "gets by" by conning others. Problems in making and keeping friends; aberrant behaviors such as cruelty to people or animals, stealing, etc.

Irresponsibility/Unreliability Not concerned about wrecking others' lives and dreams. Oblivious or indifferent to the devastation they cause. Does not accept blame themselves, but blames others, even for acts they obviously committed.

Promiscuous Sexual Behavior/Infidelity Promiscuity, child sexual abuse, rape and sexual acting out of all sorts.

Lack of Realistic Life Plan/Parasitic Lifestyle Tends to move around a lot or makes all encompassing promises for the future, poor work ethic but exploits others effectively.

Criminal or Entrepreneurial Versatility Changes their image as needed to avoid prosecution. Changes life story readily.

Other Related Qualities:

Contemptuous of those who seek to understand them

Does not perceive that anything is wrong with them

Authoritarian

Secretive

Paranoid

Only rarely in difficulty with the law, but seeks out situations where their tyrannical behavior will be tolerated, condoned, or admired

Conventional appearance

Goal of enslavement of their victim(s)

Exercises despotic control over every aspect of the victim's life

Has an emotional need to justify their crimes and therefore needs their victim's affirmation (respect, gratitude and love)

Ultimate goal is the creation of a willing victim

Incapable of real human attachment to another

Unable to feel remorse or guilt

Extreme narcissism and grandiose

May state readily that their goal is to rule the world

(The above traits are based on the psychopathy checklists of H. Cleckley and R. Hare.)

NOTE: In the 1830's this disorder was called "moral insanity." By 1900 it was changed to "psychopathic personality." More recently it has been termed "antisocial personality disorder" in the DSM-III and DSM-IV. Some critics have complained that, in the attempt to rely only on 'objective' criteria, the DSM has broadened the concept to include too many individuals. The APD category includes people who commit illegal, immoral or self-serving acts for a variety of reasons and are not necessarily psychopaths. DSM-IV Definition Antisocial personality disorder is characterized by a lack of regard for the moral or legal standards in the local culture. There is a marked inability to get along with others or abide by societal rules. Individuals with this disorder are sometimes called psychopaths or sociopaths. Diagnostic Criteria (DSM-IV) 1. Since the age of fifteen there has been a disregard for and violation of the right's of others, those right's considered normal by the local culture, as indicated by at least three of the following: A. Repeated acts that could lead to arrest. B. Conning for pleasure or profit, repeated lying, or the use of aliases. C. Failure to plan ahead or being impulsive. D. Repeated assaults on others. E. Reckless when it comes to their or others safety. F. Poor work behavior or failure to honor financial obligations. G. Rationalizing the pain they inflict on others. 2. At least eighteen years in age. 3. Evidence of a Conduct Disorder, with its onset before the age of fifteen. 4. Symptoms not due to another mental disorder. Antisocial Personality Disorder Overview (Written by Derek Wood, RN, BSN, PhD Candidate) Antisocial Personality Disorder results in what is commonly known as a Sociopath. The criteria for this disorder require an ongoing disregard for the rights of others, since the age of 15 years. Some examples of this disregard are reckless disregard for the safety of themselves or others, failure to conform to social norms with respect to lawful behaviors, deceitfulness such as repeated lying or deceit for personal profit or pleasure, and lack of remorse for actions that hurt other people in any way. Additionally, they must have evidenced a Conduct Disorder before the age of 15 years, and must be at least 18 years old to receive this diagnosis. People with this disorder appear to be charming at times, and make relationships, but to them, these are relationships in name only. They are ended whenever necessary or when it suits them, and the relationships are without depth or meaning, including marriages. They seem to have an innate ability to find the weakness in people, and are ready to use these weaknesses to their own ends through deceit, manipulation, or intimidation, and gain pleasure from doing so. They appear to be incapable of any true emotions, from love to shame to guilt. They are quick to anger, but just as quick to let it go, without holding grudges. No matter what emotion they state they have, it has no bearing on their future actions or attitudes. They rarely are able to have jobs that last for any length of time, as they become easily bored, instead needing constant change. They live for the moment, forgetting the past, and not planning the future, not thinking ahead what consequences their actions will have. They want immediate rewards and gratification. There currently is no form of psychotherapy that works with those with antisocial personality disorder, as those with this disorder have no desire to change themselves, which is a prerequisite. No medication is available either. The only treatment is the prevention of the disorder in the early stages, when a child first begins to show the symptoms of conduct disorder. THE PSYCHOPATH NEXT DOOR (Source: http://chericola57.tripod.com/infinite.html) Psychopath. We hear the word and images of Bernardo, Manson and Dahmer pop into our heads; no doubt Ted Bundy too. But they're the bottom of the barrel -- most of the two million psychopaths in North America aren't murderers. They're our friends, lovers and co-workers. They're outgoing and persuasive, dazzling you with charm and flattery. Often you aren't even aware they've taken you for a ride -- until it's too late. Psychopaths exhibit a Jekyll and Hyde personality. "They play a part so they can get what they want," says Dr. Sheila Willson, a Toronto psychologist who has helped victims of psychopaths. The guy who showers a woman with excessive attention is much more capable of getting her to lend him money, and to put up with him when he strays. The new employee who gains her co-workers' trust has more access to their chequebooks. And so on. Psychopaths have no conscience and their only goal is self-gratification. Many of us have been their victims -- at work, through friendships or relationships -- and not one of us can say, "a psychopath could never fool me." Think you can spot one? Think again. In general, psychopaths aren't the product of broken homes or the casualties of a materialistic society. Rather they come from all walks of life and there is little evidence that their upbringing affects them. Elements of a psychopath's personality first become evident at a very early age, due to biological or genetic factors. Explains Michael Seto, a psychologist at the Centre for Addiction and Mental health in Toronto, by the time that a person hits their late teens, the disorder is almost certainly permanent. Although many clinicians use the terms psychopath and sociopath interchangeably, writes psychopath expert Robert Hare on his book 'Without Conscience', a sociopath's criminal behavior is shaped by social forces and is the result of a dysfunctional environment. Psychopaths have only a shallow range of emotions and lack guilt, says Hare. They often see themselves as victims, and lack remorse or the ability to empathize with others. "Psychopaths play on the fact that most of us are trusting and forgiving people," adds Seto. The warning signs are always there; it's just difficult to see them because once we trust someone, the friendship becomes a blinder. Even lovers get taken for a ride by psychopaths. For a psychopath, a romantic relationship is just another opportunity to find a trusting partner who will buy into the lies. It's primarily why a psychopath rarely stays in a relationship for the long term, and often is involved with three or four partners at once, says Willson. To a psychopath, everything about a relationship is a game. Willson refers to the movie 'Sliding Doors' to illustrate her point. In the film, the main character comes home early after just having been fired from her job. Only moments ago, her boyfriend has let another woman out the front door. But in a matter of minutes he is the attentive and concerned boyfriend, taking her out to dinner and devoting the entire night to comforting her. All the while he's planning to leave the next day on a trip with the other woman. The boyfriend displays typical psychopathic characteristics because he falsely displays deep emotion toward the relationship, says Willson. In reality, he's less concerned with his girlfriend's depression than with making sure she's clueless about the other woman's existence. In the romance department, psychopaths have an ability to gain your affection quickly, disarming you with words, intriguing you with grandiose plans. If they cheat you'll forgive them, and one day when they've gone too far, they'll leave you with a broken heart (and an empty wallet). By then they'll have a new player for their game. The problem with their game is that we don't often play by their rules. Where we might occasionally tell a white lie, a psychopath's lying is compulsive. Most of us experience some degree of guilt about lying, preventing us from exhibiting such behavior on a regular basis. "Psychopaths don't discriminate who it is they lie to or cheat," says Seto. "There's no distinction between friend, family and sucker." No one wants to be the sucker, so how do we prevent ourselves from becoming close friends or getting into a relationship with a psychopath? It's really almost impossible, say Seto and Willson. Unfortunately, laments Seto, one way is to become more suspicious and less trusting of others. Our tendency is to forgive when we catch a loved one in a lie. "Psychopaths play on this fact," he says. "However, I'm certainly not advocating a world where if someone lies once or twice, you never speak to them again." What you can do is look at how often someone lies and how they react when caught. Psychopaths will lie over and over again, and where other people would sincerely apologize, a psychopath may apologize but won't stop. Psychopaths also tend to switch jobs as frequently as they switch partners, mainly because they don't have the qualities to maintain a job for the long haul. Their performance is generally erratic, with chronic absences, misuse of company resources and failed commitments. Often they aren't even qualified for the job and use fake credentials to get it. Seto talks of a patient who would get marketing jobs based on his image; he was a presentable and charming man who layered his conversations with educational and occupational references. But it became evident that the man hadn't a clue what he was talking about, and was unable to hold down a job. How do you make sure you don't get fooled when you're hiring someone to baby-sit your child or for any other job? Hire based on reputation and not image, says Willson. Check references thoroughly. Psychopaths tend to give vague and inconsistent replies. Of course the best way to solve this problem would be to cure psychopaths of their 'illness.' But there's no recipe for treating them, say psychiatrists. Today's traditional methods of psychotherapy (psychoanalysis, group and one-on-one therapy) and drug treatments have failed. Therapy is more likely to work when an individual admits there's a problem and wants to change. The common problem with psychopaths, says Sets, "Is they don't see a problem with their behavior." Psychopaths don't seek therapy willingly, says Seto. Rather, they're pushed into it by a desperate relative or by a court order. To a psychopath, a therapist is just one more person who must be conned, and the psychopath plays the part right until the therapist is convinced of his or her 'rehabilitation.' Even though we can't treat psychopaths effectively with therapy, it doesn't mean we can't protect ourselves, writes Hare. Willson agrees, citing the most important factor in keeping psychopaths at bay is to know your vulnerabilities. We need to "realize our own potential and maximize our strengths" so that our insecurities don't overcome us. Because, she says, a psychopath is a chameleon who becomes "an image of what you haven't done for yourself." Over time, she says, "their appearance of perfection will begin to crack," but by that time you will have been emotionally and perhaps financially scathed. There comes a time when you realize there's no point in searching for answers; the only thing is to move on. Taken in part from MW -- By Caroline Konrad -- September 1999 THE MALIGNANT PERSONALITY: These people are mentally ill and extremely dangerous! The following precautions will help to protect you from the destructive acts of which they are capable. First, to recognize them, keep the following guidelines in mind. (1) They are habitual liars. They seem incapable of either knowing or telling the truth about anything. (2) They are egotistical to the point of narcissism. They really believe they are set apart from the rest of humanity by some special grace. (3) They scapegoat; they are incapable of either having the insight or willingness to accept responsibility for anything they do. Whatever the problem, it is always someone else's fault. (4) They are remorselessly vindictive when thwarted or exposed. (5) Genuine religious, moral, or other values play no part in their lives. They have no empathy for others and are capable of violence. Under older psychological terminology, they fall into the category of psychopath or sociopath, but unlike the typical psychopath, their behavior is masked by a superficial social facade. If you have come into conflict with such a person or persons, do the following immediately! (1) Notify your friends and relatives of what has happened. Do not be vague. Name names, and specify dates and circumstances. Identify witnesses if possible and provide supporting documentation if any is available. (2) Inform the police. The police will do nothing with this information except to keep it on file, since they are powerless to act until a crime has been committed. Unfortunately, that often is usually too late for the victim. Nevertheless, place the information in their hands. Obviously, if you are assaulted or threatened before witnesses, you can get a restraining order, but those are palliative at best. (3) Local law enforcement agencies are usually under pressure if wealthy or politically powerful individuals are involved, so include state and federal agencies as well and tell the locals that you have. In my own experience, one agency that can help in a pinch is the Criminal Investigation Division of the Internal Revenue Service or (in Canada) Victims Services at your local police unit. It is not easy to think of the IRS as a potential friend, but a Swedish study showed that malignant types (the Swedes called them bullies) usually commit some felony or other by the age of twenty. If the family is wealthy, the fact may never come to light, but many felonies involve tax evasion, and in such cases, the IRS is interested indeed. If large amounts of money are involved, the IRS may solve all your problems for you. For obvious reasons the Drug Enforcement Agency may also be an appropriate agency to approach. The FBI is an important agency to contact, because although the FBI does not have jurisdiction over murder or assault, if informed, they do have an active interest in any other law enforcement agencies that do not follow through with an honest investigation and prosecution should a murder occur. Civil rights are involved at that point. No local crooked lawyer, judge, or corrupt police official wants to be within a country mile if that comes to light! It is in such cases that wealthy psychopaths discover just how firm the "friends" they count on to cover up for them really are! Even some of the drug cartel biggies will scuttle for cover if someone picks up the brick their thugs hide under. Exposure is bad for business. (4) Make sure that several of your friends have the information in the event something happens to you. That way, an appropriate investigation will follow if you are harmed. Don't tell other people who has the information, because then something bad could happen to them as well. Instruct friends to take such an incident to the newspapers and other media. If you are dealing with someone who has considerable money, you must realize that they probably won't try to harm you themselves, they will contract with someone to make the hit. The malignant type is a coward and will not expose himself or herself to personal danger if he or she can avoid it.

#sociopath antisocialpersonalitydisorder staysafe abusiverelationships psychology

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readgreat-thinkbig-blog · 6 years ago

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The Echoing Tale (The Story of Echo)

This is an original short story, with several hand-drawn illustrations. It aims to help you discover the interesting cultural meaning behind English vocabulary, and learn more about the source of magic of English language.

“O, I am so in love with you… please come out! Come to me!”

She heard that wistful moaning again: his voice over-flown with longing, he called out to the water, just as he had done yesterday, the day before yesterday, and the day before… She tried to track time, but quickly lost count. He had stayed here too long—so long that she almost forgot how her life had been before he came.

Yet she remembered the day he came—a flash of a bow drawn, a swish of an arrow shot, a yelp of frustrated effort, the shadow of a lithe figure, the light of an exhausted smile—vague memories flickered like dim tatters, ragged shreds of blurry remembrance scattered across her foggy mind. But at times, some pieces flared up in brilliant sparkles—and she caught them before they faded forlornly away—such as the moment she was struck by him and had since then fallen helplessly and hopelessly in love: when he beamed and declared, joyously, “O, I love you!”

The violent force of reminiscence battered her heart; for an instant she was knocked out of breath. Bitterness welled up inside her, and she had to bite her lips to damher burning tears. Then coldness gripped her in its iron fist, twisting and squeezing her entire body until she was shaking terribly, in immense, desolate grief.

She collapsed onto the ground, sobbing, eyes stinging from countless days of agony. She loved him so, so dearly; but he seemed ignorant of it.

He cared about nothing, but himself.

His never left the pond side; his eyes never moved from the image of himself reflected in the watery mirror. Every word spoken by him was about his love for himself; so was every sigh, every smile.

He pined for his own self.

Narcissus…! She wanted to cry out, and yank his attention away from that cursed water. But when she opened her mouth, there was only a hollow, wheezing sound, void of substance, straining to create meaning.

She couldn’t speak.

How many times had she forgotten her curse, and how many times had she been reminded of the painful reality of it yet again, after her vain struggle to talk to her lover? Narcissus didn’t love her; he was repulsed by her presence. And he didn’t even bother to know her.

She thought of the disgust in his eyes. Such revulsion! Malice glittered like blades of obsidian, dangerous and sharp; dark flames of arrogance breathed into loathing, casting interweaving shadows of condescension and repugnance. His contemptuous dismissal of her entirety was imbued with such intense abhorrence that it cut wounds into her simple little soul: those wounds never healed, re-opening again, and again, upon his sole concern for himself.

He had screamed, “leave me! Leave me alone!” She had been exceedingly puzzled, wondering at his stormy complexion, the way his eyes bore into hers, and those maddeningly flashes warning of malignity and spite swirling inside. She remembered thinking, foolishly, of how Zeus’ lightning bolts must resemble the raging wrath in his eyes, extremely menacing, yet astoundingly beautiful. O, she had thought in admiration, how he looks like a god!

He roared again: “Go away, you detestable creature! I don’t love you! Do you hear me?”

Then her tiny heart shattered. Shards of broken hope crashed within her body, slashing at her flesh, hamstringing her. Her senses were cut dull; she was shocked into numbness, rendered immobile as if another curse was cast upon her. Perhaps she had been dead ever since: her will to survive had withered away like wilted flowers.

But she still loved him, despite his cruelty, his ego, his obsession of his own image. It is her own fault, she thought, to mistake his words addressed to himself as some profession to her of his adoration.

No, a damned creature like her doesn’t deserve his noble feelings; so what a wishful thinking it is to deem herself ever fortunate to secure the noblest feeling of all—love!

She thought of the day her fortune failed her. She recalled Hera’s wrath—the Queen of the gods was so furious at her tricks that she was shivering with rage. Her eyes burning with indignation, the goddess shrieked: “You! You detestable creature! How dare you! To lie! For Zeus!”

She had been grovelling at her feet, too terrified to look up. But the aura of power and godly strength around Hera was shimmering in golden waves of energy, clashing at her with horrifying force. She felt herself being clamped against the cold, hard ground.

Hera paused. Slowly, she said: “I will bestow a gift upon you, Echo.”

She was stunned. But before she sighed with relief and thanked the goddess, Hera chimed: “You shall never speak your own words again; you can still speak, but only in repetition of others—your companions shall despise your strangeness, so one by one, they shall leave you. You shall die, in your own time; but surely you shall perish in loneliness and regret.”

A blinding light flashed; then Hera was gone.

She had since spoken others’ words, and everything Hera had promised came true.

Except for death.

“O, I am so in love with you… please come out! Come to me!”

Narcissus’ voice cracked, his face lined with pain. In tears, she observed him—his face was gaunt, his eyes hollow, his expression excruciating. O, her only lover, what kind of spell had left him in such a trance of self-obsession, and such folly of self-love!

She watched him crumple to the ground.

She rushed to his side; but it was too late—Death had taken him away.

She wept silently, too frail to make a sound. Her lover was dead. Why, she asked Death, why have you not taken me?

Something was glimmering beside her. She lifted her tear-streaked hands, and choked at the sight—she couldn’t comprehend what she saw—Narcissus was dissolving; his body was crumbling into thousands of shining star-dust.

He disappeared completely. Soundless. Traceless.

She sobbed again.

A tiny flower sprouted from the spot where he had knelt and died—a white bud, bursting into pure, startling beauty—a snow-like bloom starred with gold patterns at the centre.

Trembling, she cuddled the flower, murmuring, “O, Narcissus! O, my love!”

Then Echo fell to the ground, holding the flower to her heart.

Exhaustion coursed through her body; and she prayed, against all hope: Mercy, Hera! Let me have him…

She lay on the grass, her flesh disintegrating into star-dust.

Finally, she thought, smiling, I could stand by his side…

In Oxford Dictionary, the word ‘echo’ means ‘the repetition in structure and content of one speaker's utterance by another’. Repeating what others have said is exactly the curse Echo had to suffer in endurance of Hera’s wrath. That’s why the word means as such.

Meanwhile, the word ‘narcissism’ means ‘excessive interest in or admiration of oneself and one’s physical appearance’. Narcissus, who loved his own reflection in the water, died of unfulfilled passion which consumed his entire body and soul, is the origin of the word ‘narcissism’. The self-obsessed behaviour of Narcissus gives the term ‘narcissism’ powerful meaning.

I took inspiration from the retelling of this myth by Richard Riordan in his book, ‘The Mark of Athena’. Echo’s unrequited love for Narcissus was tragic enough, not to mention her fate being doomed long before her encounter with Narcissus, her sad story already penned down at the moment when Hera cursed her.

Echo’s story (particularly the part about Narcissus) is familiar to many of you, however, I’ve been quite unsatisfied with how Greek Mythology is often told from an omniscient perspective—because subtlety of feelings and complexity of emotions are usually lost as a result of this story-telling technique. Therefore, I decided to render this old tale in a new way, animating these characters by exposing their minds.

I’ve chosen to write in the viewpoint of Echo, since I find her more interesting than Narcissus (forgive me, but this guy seems only able to care about his own self). Moreover, I used flashbacks to insert important pieces of information to aid readers’ understanding: Echo’s first encounter with Narcissus and her falling madly in love; and Echo’s curse due to Hera’s rage.

I hope that it’s been an enjoyable read for you—you learn more about Greek Mythology, and about the origins of English words (and their root words). Above all, I hope that you could find English, as a language that bustles with life and continues growing,interesting and rich. It’s a mode of communication, yes, but it also contains so much cultural meaning—it’s a collection of the most powerful and amazing imaginative ideas in human history.

Learning English, therefore, is not solely about familiarising yourselves with grammatical rules and linguistic structures; it’s more about sensing the pulsing energy of the language, loving the breath of it, enjoying everything it pertains to.

English is lovely, and that’s why I love learning it.

I hope you enjoy my writing.

#greekmyth #pjo #greek quotes #greek posts #greek #story #short story #literature #classic

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obscurehistoricalinterests · 7 years ago

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Was Saint-Just really handsome?

Much has been made about Saint-Just’s supposed angelic beauty, to the point where it’s been taken for granted - of course he was handsome! Otherwise he would have never been named the Archangel of Death!

But was he really?

We only have a few suspected portraits of the young revolutionary, and only one of which we know with absolute certainty that it represents him (the Lebas pastel).

And while the person depicted in that portrait is not unattractive, I don’t think he’s the stunningly handsome youth posterity has made him out to be.

David used Saint-Just’s portrait lent to him by Le Bas’ widow to create this medal:

Élisabeth Le Bas, who had personally known Saint-Just, approved of the medal and said it looked like him. So we have a direct portrait and a post-mortem profile to guide us. In his excellent biography of Saint-Just, Bernard Vinot writes:

Rarely has the physical appearance counted so much for a statesman. History has seized his archangel image and since then, all sensibilities are kneading this hermaphroditic beauty, at the discretion of fantasies or interests.

This beauty is convenient for his admirers. Why should they be embarassed by the feminine appearance of a hero of which Lamartine wrote that he charged into battle at the head of the republican squads and threw himself into the melee with the recklessness of a young hussar? Is it forbidden to be beautiful when one is brave?

This beauty is also convenient for his detractors. If he had been ugly, they would have compared him to the devil, but if he was beautiful, they could present him as the incarnation of the devil’s tricks and never ceased to underline the impressive efficiency of vice when associated with grace.

So, was Saint-Just really beautiful?

His contemporaries’ testimonies do not always coincide. His sister Louise evoked his “great beauty” to her young children, while Lejeune, the friend from his youth, spoke only of his “honest physiognomy”. His colleague Levasseur de la Sarthe called him “weak of body” while Camille Desmoulins insists on his rigidity: “You can see in his gait and his bearing that he regards his head as the cornerstone of the Republic and wears it on his shoulders with the respect reserved to a holy sacrament.”

Finally, Paganel, a member of the convention, offers us a more detailed portrait: “Of average size, a healthy body, proportions which expressed force, a big head, thick hair, a bilious complexion, small and lively eyes, a contemptuous gaze, regular features and austere physiognomy, a strong but veiled voice with a general hint of anxiety, the somber accent of preoccupation and defiance, an extreme coldness in tone and manners, this is how Saint-Just appeared to us, not yet thirty.”

Outside the familial tradition, all these memories are not very convincing. Others were gathered much later from the survivors of the revolution. Thus Mignet said: “He had regular face with big features with a strong and melancholic expression; a penetrating and fixed gaze; his hair was long, flat and black.” Lamartine also insists on his “hair falling on both sides on his collar, on his shoulders.” If Erkmann-Chatrian sees him as “small and blond, with a very beautiful figure and generally very well dressed, but rigid and prideful” Lamartine shows him “unmoving at the tribune, as cold as an idea, (...) the calmness of absolute conviction spread over his almost feminine features, compared to Saint John the messiah of people by his admirers.”

Bernard Vinot draws attention to the fact that most people who had known the young revolutionary personally and had described him during his lifetime (including his close friends) were not really in awe of his supposed beauty - in fact they did not describe a stunningly handsome man, but rather someone who looked acceptably handsome and had youth and a good sense of fashion on his side. His sister had loved him and lost him when he was still a young man, and one is always inclined to see loved ones, especially those tragically departed, through a kinder lens. The inevitable conclusion is that the farther away we get from the Revolution, the more angelically handsome Saint-Just becomes. Bernad Vinot continues:

Certainly, the literary testimonies are highly ambiguous! In the years following the revolution, beauty and youth would often be associated with Saint-Just. Without any doubt, paintings and engravings depicting elegant young men, with or without cravats, were qualified as “presumed portraits of Saint-Just”. This is probably the case of the beautiful picture attributed to Christophe Guérin, preserved in the Carnavalet Museum, of which nothing indicates that it has a connection with Saint-Just.

However, the numerous representations made after the death of the young revolutionary - such as the medal and bust by David d’Angers or the engraving of Bosselmann the Younger, ordered to serve as illustration of Lamartine’s History of the Girondins - they all attest to the fact that the myth of the archangel had already imposed itself.

The Bonneville engraving should also draw attention. This artist was specialized in drawing the revolution’s most famous figures, and his work is precious nowadays. The portrait he made of Saint-Just is the only one, to this day, which designates him by name, title and place of birth (albeit incorrectly) and year of death: it is thus without a doubt almost contemporary.

Saint-Just is portrayed with his neck bared, his features hardened, his nose strong, resembling that of his father, with an expression dominated by vulgarity. In this image, we recognize the model of David or Greuze but aged (especially since the word is applied to a tired 27 year old man) and without his usual cravat. Furthermore, this engraving which came out in 1796, in the middle of the Thermidorian reaction, has the merit of being without favoritism. [...] Perhaps unintentionally, Bonneville has done Saint-Just a service by showing that his neck was not marked by cold humors, as Michelet called them (infectious manifestations caused by tuberculosis), which his detractors attributed to traces of debauchery.

So we have several portraits depicting Saint-Just in various stages of fatigue, with his earlier ones showing him at his best. But can we judge for ourselves whether they were accurate? We certainly can. Let’s begin with his family. Portraits of Saint-Just’s father, mother and sister survived to this day, allowing us to get an idea of his genetic material:

As we can see, both his parents had long faces, with strong noses and chins. Saint-Just’s sister Louise inherited these features:

We can even go one generation down, in 1856 - behold a portrait of Saint-Just’s nephew, Constant Camille Decaisne, the son of one of his sisters:

Of course, the Saint-Just genes are here mixed with the ones of Mr. Decaisne’s father, but one can recognize perhaps the long nose and chin so typical of Saint-Just’s family. Bernard Vinot concludes that Louis-Antoine had inherited the “big features” of Saint-Just and Robinot, his parents: long face, long nose, long neck, softened by youth and beautified by a confident clothing style. Without a doubt, age would have deepened these features. If he had lived, he would have resembled his father more and more, and would have gained the masculine, strong and serious - but not beautiful - allure of Louis-Jean. This natural evolution, accentuated by the harassing days and sleepless nights at the Committee of Public Safety and the armies, was probably visible in 1793. Furthermore, the personality was sufficiently mobile and the expression was sufficiently changed by the momentum of passion and burden of responsibility to be perceived and reflected differently. It’s only normal that Saint-Just’s portraits were not perfectly similar.

In conclusion, it is most likely that Saint-Just was not particularly beautiful or feminine. If anything, Saint-Just would have probably been dismayed that his physical appearance is one of the things people remember him most for - this is not the immortality that he was imagining when he was writing: I despise the dust that forms me and speaks to you. This dust you may persecute and kill, but I defy you to rob me of that independent life I have given myself in the ages and in the heavens.

He wanted to be remembered as a man of character, action and virtue, not as the effeminate pretty boy we have turned him into. Do you want to do Saint-Just a favor? Stop mentioning the angelic good looks he very likely never had. Mention how incredibly brave he must have been to throw himself into battle, he who was essentially a government official, in a time where you could expect a lifetime of physical pain at best from acquiring a battle wound. Talk about his genius for organization, his unwavering loyalty, his temper, his occasional dishonesty - give him credit for what he wanted to be given credit... his life’s work.

Fame is an empty noise. Let us put our ears to the centuries that have gone: we no longer hear anything; those who, at another time, shall walk among our urns, shall hear no more. The good - that is what we must pursue, whatever the price, preferring the title of a dead hero to that of a living coward.

#louis antoine de saint-just #french revolution #history #saint-just

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unsettlingshortstories · 5 years ago

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The Demon Lover

Elizabeth Bowen (1945)

Toward the end of her day in London Mrs. Drover went round to her shut-up house to look for several things she wanted to take away. Some belonged to herself, some to her family, who were by now used to their country life. It was late August; it had been a steamy, showery day: At the moment the trees down the pavement glittered in an escape of humid yellow afternoon sun. Against the next batch of clouds, already piling up ink-dark, broken chimneys and parapets stood out. In her once familiar street, as in any unused channel, an unfamiliar queerness had silted up; a cat wove itself in and out of railings, but no human eye watched Mrs. Drover’s return. Shifting some parcels under her arm, she slowly forced round her latchkey in an unwilling lock, then gave the door, which had warped, a push with her knee. Dead air came out to meet her as she went in.

The staircase window having been boarded up, no light came down into the hall. But one door, she could just see, stood ajar, so she went quickly through into the room and unshuttered the big window in there. Now the prosaic woman, looking about her, was more perplexed than she knew by everything that she saw, by traces of her long former habit of life—the yellow smoke stain up the white marble mantelpiece, the ring left by a vase on the top of the escritoire; the bruise in the wallpaper where, on the door being thrown open widely, the china handle had always hit the wall. The piano, having gone away to be stored, had left what looked like claw marks on its part of the parquet. Though not much dust had seeped in, each object wore a film of another kind; and, the only ventilation being the chimney, the whole drawing room smelled of the cold hearth. Mrs. Drover put down her parcels on the escritoire and left the room to proceed upstairs; the things she wanted were in a bedroom chest.

She had been anxious to see how the house was—the part-time caretaker she shared with some neighbors was away this week on his holiday, known to be not yet back. At the best of times he did not look in often, and she was never sure that she trusted him. There were some cracks in the structure, left by the last bombing, on which she was anxious to keep an eye. Not that one could do anything—

A shaft of refracted daylight now lay across the hall. She stopped dead and stared at the hall table—on this lay a letter addressed to her.

She thought first—then the caretaker must be back. All the same, who, seeing the house shuttered, would have dropped a letter in at the box? It was not a circular, it was not a bill. And the post office redirected, to the address in the country, everything for her that came through the post. The caretaker (even if he were back) did not know she was due in London today—her call here had been planned to be a surprise—so his negligence in the manner of this letter, leaving it to wait in the dusk and the dust, annoyed her. Annoyed, she picked up the letter, which bore no stamp. But it cannot be important, or they would know . . . She took the letter rapidly upstairs with her, without a stop to look at the writing till she reached what had been her bedroom, where she let in light. The room looked over the garden and other gardens: The sun had gone in; as the clouds sharpened and lowered, the trees and rank lawns seemed already to smoke with dark. Her reluctance to look again at the letter came from the fact that she felt intruded upon—and by someone contemptuous of her ways. However, in the tenseness preceding the fall of rain she read it: It was a few lines.

Dear Kathleen: You will not have forgotten that today is our anniversary, and the day we said. The years have gone by at once slowly and fast. In view of the fact that nothing has changed, I shall rely upon you to keep your promise. I was sorry to see you leave London, but was satisfied that you would be back in time. You may expect me, therefore, at the hour arranged. Until then . . . K.

Mrs. Drover looked for the date: It was today’s. She dropped the letter onto the bedsprings, then picked it up to see the writing again—her lips, beneath the remains of lipstick, beginning to go white. She felt so much the change in her own face that she went to the mirror, polished a clear patch in it, and looked at once urgently and stealthily in. She was confronted by a woman of forty-four, with eyes starting out under a hat brim that had been rather carelessly pulled down. She had not put on any more powder since she left the shop where she ate her solitary tea. The pearls her husband had given her on their marriage hung loose round her now rather thinner throat, slipping in the V of the pink wool jumper her sister knitted last autumn as they sat round the fire. Mrs. Drover’s most normal expression was one of controlled worry, but of assent. Since the birth of the third of her little boys, attended by a quite serious illness, she had had an intermittent muscular flicker to the left of her mouth, but in spite of this she could always sustain a manner that was at once energetic and calm.

Turning from her own face as precipitately as she had gone to meet it, she went to the chest where the things were, unlocked it, threw up the lid, and knelt to search. But as rain began to come crashing down she could not keep from looking over her shoulder at the stripped bed on which the letter lay. Behind the blanket of rain the clock of the church that still stood struck six—with rapidly heightening apprehension she counted each of the slow strokes. “The hour arranged . . . My God,” she said, “what hour? How should I . . . ? After twenty-five years . . . ”

The young girl talking to the soldier in the garden had not ever completely seen his face. It was dark; they were saying goodbye under a tree. Now and then—for it felt, from not seeing him at this intense moment, as though she had never seen him at all—she verified his presence for these few moments longer by putting out a hand, which he each time pressed, without very much kindness, and painfully, on to one of the breast buttons of his uniform. That cut of the button on the palm of her hand was, principally, what she was to carry away. This was so near the end of a leave from France that she could only wish him already gone. It was August 1916. Being not kissed, being drawn away from and looked at intimidated Kathleen till she imagined spectral glitters in the place of his eyes. Turning away and looking back up the lawn she saw, through branches of trees, the drawing-room window alight: She caught a breath for the moment when she could go running back there into the safe arms of her mother and sister, and cry: “What shall I do, what shall I do? He has gone.”

Hearing her catch her breath, her fiancé said, without feeling: “Cold?”

“You’re going away such a long way.”

“Not so far as you think.”

“I don’t understand?”

“You don’t have to,” he said. “You will. You know what we said.”

“But that was—suppose you—I mean, suppose.”

“I shall be with you,” he said, “sooner or later. You won’t forget that. You need do nothing but wait.”

Only a little more than a minute later she was free to run up the silent lawn. Looking in through the window at her mother and sister, who did not for the moment perceive her, she already felt that unnatural promise drive down between her and the rest of all humankind. No other way of having given herself could have made her feel so apart, lost and forsworn. She could not have plighted a more sinister troth.

Kathleen behaved well when, some months later, her fiancé was reported missing, presumed killed. Her family not only supported her but were able to praise her courage without stint because they could not regret, as a husband for her, the man they knew almost nothing about. They hoped she would, in a year or two, console herself—and had it been only a question of consolation things might have gone much straighter ahead. But her trouble, behind just a little grief, was a complete dislocation from everything. She did not reject other lovers, for these failed to appear: For years she failed to attract men—and with the approach of her thirties she became natural enough to share her family’s anxiousness on this score. She began to put herself out, to wonder; and at thirty-two she was very greatly relieved to find herself being courted by William Drover. She married him, and the two of them settled down in this quiet, arboreal part of Kensington: In this house the years piled up, her children were born, and they all lived till they were driven out by the bombs of the next war. Her movements as Mrs. Drover were circumscribed, and she dismissed any idea that they were still watched.

As things were—dead or living the letter writer sent her only a threat. Unable, for some minutes, to go on kneeling with her back exposed to the empty room, Mrs. Drover rose from the chest to sit on an upright chair whose back was firmly against the wall. The desuetude of her former bedroom, her married London home’s whole air of being a cracked cup from which memory, with its reassuring power, had either evaporated or leaked away, made a crisis—and at just this crisis the letter writer had, knowledgeably, struck. The hollowness of the house this evening canceled years on years of voices, habits, and steps. Through the shut windows she only heard rain fall on the roofs around. To rally herself, she said she was in a mood—and for two or three seconds shutting her eyes, told herself that she had imagined the letter. But she opened them—there it lay on the bed.

On the supernatural side of the letter’s entrance she was not permitting her mind to dwell. Who, in London, knew she meant to call at the house today? Evidently, however, this had been known. The caretaker, hadhe come back, had had no cause to expect her: He would have taken the letter in his pocket, to forward it, at his own time, through the post. There was no other sign that the caretaker had been in—but, if not? Letters dropped in at doors of deserted houses do not fly or walk to tables in halls. They do not sit on the dust of empty tables with the air of certainty that they will be found. There is needed some human hand—but nobody but the caretaker had a key. Under circumstances she did not care to consider, a house can be entered without a key. It was possible that she was not alone now. She might be being waited for, downstairs. Waited for—until when? Until “the hour arranged.” At least that was not six o’clock: Six has struck.

She rose from the chair and went over and locked the door.

The thing was, to get out. To fly? No, not that: She had to catch her train. As a woman whose utter dependability was the keystone of her family life she was not willing to return to the country, to her husband, her little boys, and her sister, without the objects she had come up to fetch. Resuming work at the chest she set about making up a number of parcels in a rapid, fumbling-decisive way. These, with her shopping parcels, would be too much to carry; these meant a taxi—at the thought of the taxi her heart went up and her normal breathing resumed. I will ring up the taxi now; the taxi cannot come too soon: I shall hear the taxi out there running its engine, till I walk calmly down to it through the hall. I’ll ring up—But no: the telephone is cut off . . . She tugged at a knot she had tied wrong.

The idea of flight . . . He was never kind to me, not really. I don’t remember him kind at all. Mother said he never considered me. He was set on me, that was what it was—not love. Not love, not meaning a person well. What did he do, to make me promise like that? I can’t remember—But she found that she could.

She remembered with such dreadful acuteness that the twenty-five years since then dissolved like smoke and she instinctively looked for the weal left by the button on the palm of her hand. She remembered not only all that he said and did but the complete suspension of her existence during that August week. I was not myself—they all told me so at the time. She remembered—but with one white burning blank as where acid has dropped on a photograph: Under no conditions could she remember his face.

So, wherever he may be waiting, I shall not know him. You have no time to run from a face you do not expect.

The thing was to get to the taxi before any clock struck what could be the hour. She would slip down the street and round the side of the square to where the square gave on the main road. She would return in the taxi, safe, to her own door, and bring the solid driver into the house with her to pick up the parcels from room to room. The idea of the taxi driver made her decisive, bold: She unlocked her door, went to the top of the staircase, and listened down.

She heard nothing—but while she was hearing nothing the passé air of the staircase was disturbed by a draft that traveled up to her face. It emanated from the basement: Down there a door or window was being opened by someone who chose this moment to leave the house.

The rain had stopped; the pavements steamily shone as Mrs. Drover let herself out by inches from her own front door into the empty street. The unoccupied houses opposite continued to meet her look with their damaged stare. Making toward the thoroughfare and the taxi, she tried not to keep looking behind. Indeed, the silence was so intense—one of those creeks of London silence exaggerated this summer by the damage of war—that no tread could have gained on hers unheard. Where her street debouched on the square where people went on living, she grew conscious of, and checked, her unnatural pace. Across the open end of the square two buses impassively passed each other: Women, a perambulator, cyclists, a man wheeling a barrow signalized, once again, the ordinary flow of life. At the square’s most populous corner should be—and was—the short taxi rank. This evening, only one taxi—but this, although it presented its blank rump, appeared already to be alertly waiting for her. Indeed, without looking round the driver started his engine as she panted up from behind and put her hand on the door. As she did so, the clock struck seven. The taxi faced the main road: To make the trip back to her house it would have to turn—she had settled back on the seat and the taxi had turned before she, surprised by its knowing movement, recollected that she had not “said where.” She leaned forward to scratch at the glass panel that divided the driver’s head from her own.

The driver braked to what was almost a stop, turned round, and slid the glass panel back: The jolt of this flung Mrs. Drover forward till her face was almost into the glass. Through the aperture driver and passenger, not six inches between them, remained for an eternity eye to eye. Mrs. Drover’s mouth hung open for some seconds before she could issue her first scream. After that she continued to scream freely and to beat with her gloved hands on the glass all round as the taxi, accelerating without mercy, made off with her into the hinterland of deserted streets.

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hirstories · 8 years ago

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Abraca—switch! Or The Tale of Edward Elric vs. the Mischievous Body-Snatcher

Chapter 5

A succulent dinner in the company of loved ones; Winry knew there wasn't anything else she could ask for in life. She wasn't trying to be corny or silly in her way of thinking, and she wasn't trying to be overly dramatic either. She had reasons, solid reasons for thinking—and even feeling—the way she did.

Time at the table had been something she used to hate. For years silence had been her loyal companion at breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Food did tend to taste better whenever her grandmother joined her at the table but those were rare occasions because Pinako wasn't a chatty person by nature. Then the day came, after years of questing, when the brothers finally were home, and she finally began looking forward to gatherings around the table. Edward and Alphonse, and their silly antics had a way to liven up the atmosphere—and they still did—but now that Mei Chan joined their gatherings, everything sort of became perfect like when automail components come together to make-up one extraordinary piece of machinery.

Winry's reverie was cut short by sounds coming from outside. She blinked several times as she settled back into the present moment. “What was that?” she asked the group because she thought she heard something else besides Den’s barking. Seconds later, ‘that something’ was heard loud and clear.

“Looks like Den made a new friend,” Granny said after taking a long drag from her pipe.

Alphonse’s brows bunched together in worry. He pushed back the chair and stood up. “I’m going outside,” he said before hurrying out of the dining room. Quick steps turned into a hasty stride as he went down the hallway to reach the front door.

Mei stood up and went after him. The older Elric scooped up some ice cream and pie and shoved it in his mouth. Winry was still undecided about going outside or staying inside like her grandmother and her boyfriend had done.

“Dammit Den!” Edward growled again, “Just let me go already!”

The front door slammed open. Alphonse stood in front of the stairs looking around to see where Den and the cat were at. He happened to look down, and to his right, and that’s when he saw Den holding the cat in his mouth.

Edward knew the scene unraveling before his brother’s eyes looked far worse than it really was. Somehow Den had recognized him even in his current form. The dog slobbered him with kisses before picking him up like a puppy.

“Den! Put that cat down this instant!” Alphonse demanded.

The dog didn't heed his warning so he rushed down the stairs to save the cat. “Let go!” He cried as he grabbed Den’s snout and forced it open. Den whimpered. Alphonse only let him go when the cat landed safely on the ground.

Den raised his eyes at Alphonse and whined again, but Alphonse shot back a cold glare. Den’s ears flattened against his head and he began pedaling backward.

Mei rushed past Alphonse and went to Den’s side. The poor dog looked confused so she sank to her knees and tried to console him.

“What on earth is going on?” Winry asked as she looked over the balustrade. She rushed outside when he heard Alphonse yelling.

Mei looked up. “Den was holding that cat in his mouth,” she said, pointing in the general direction of where the cat was.

Winry followed Mei’s finger and saw Alphonse with a golden-haired cat in his arms. He was sheltering the cat as if it'd been hurt. Her eyes narrowed a fraction then she shook her head. “That's impossible. Den would never do that,” Winry said as she returned her attention to Mei.

“Well he did, Winry,” Alphonse snapped.

Winry turned back to Alphonse, who was still resting a protective hand on the Edward’s back. She was glowering at Alphonse but her angry expression made her look like she was pouting.

Winry’s glare amused Edward, it wasn’t everyday that he got to see her unleash her fury at someone other than himself. Out of nowhere, she turned her full attention on him, catching him by surprise. Why the sudden shift? Edward thought. Maybe she sensed that he’d been observing her. A moment later, he caught a familiar gleam in her eye that made his breath catch in his throat. To him, Winry’s stare felt as if she was peering into his very soul. But that couldn’t be... Unfortunately for Edward, he didn’t get a chance to process what was happening because Don Paco decided to grace them all with his presence.

The man stepped into the balcony and made his way to the balustrade. Standing between Winry and the stairs, he looked down like Winry had done minutes ago. His face drew down in a fearsome scowl the moment he spotted him.

Edward scowled back at the man who stole his body with the same intensity. That’s right, fucker. I’m home, he wanted to say but didn’t.

. . . Edward scowled back at Don Paco, the man who'd stole his body and trapped his mind and soul inside the body of a cat.

Edward, that is, Don Paco, curled his hands tightly around the handrail.

Den happened to look up and growled. Mei had to hold him back or he would've charged his way upstairs.

Alphonse turned his head when he saw movement. His face twisted with furious disbelief. “Stop it, Den!” he yelled. The dog lowered his head and whined. But not even this was going to calm Alphonse. “What's the matter with you boy?” he spat.

Mei let go of Den and watched him run to his doghouse. Sighing, she rose up to her feet and approached Alphonse. Her ebony eyes confronted his glare. “Alphonse-sama...” She offered him a gentle smile. “Please calm down.”

“What is all the ruckus about?” Pinako asked as she joined her granddaughter and the impostor on the balcony.

“Den caught a cat roaming around,” Winry said, her snappish tone betraying her apparent composure.

“’Caught’?” Alphonse snapped back at her. “More like he was going to have the poor thing for dinner.”

Winry gripped the handrail hard. “You know Den’s not like that!”

Don Paco the impostor, reached around Winry and pulled her close to him but Winry was so rattled by all the squabbling that she jerked away.

Alphonse narrowed his eyes at Winry. “Well Den”—he spitefully emphasized the dog’s name—”has been acting strange ever since Ed got back. Did you forget already how he nipped at him when he tried to pet him?”

Edward’s feline eyes rounded. He could feel his brother's emotions through the hairs of his fur. And right now what he was registering wasn't good. He looked up at Winry. Like his brother, she too was reaching the limit of her patience. He couldn't help but look away. The two people he loved most in this world were fighting with each other; this too was his fault. He looked up again but this time he directed a pointed stare at Don Paco. For some strange reason that went beyond logic, Don Paco was actually trying to calm Winry just like Mei had been doing for his brother.

And they haven't been successful, he concluded. It was up to him to make things right.

Edward had served as referee many times before. Alphonse had acquired a bit of an attitude after he returned to his original body. Blame it on puberty; maybe he was always supposed to be this way. While his brother often butted heads with him there were a few occasions he took the fight to Winry. And she always welcomed the challenge. It would be so easy to put a stop to their bickering if they could understand him, but he was stuck in the body of a cat.

That got Edward thinking. Alphonse was a sucker for cats—defending him is what got him into trouble with Winry in the first place. Right now he was nestled in his brother’s arms. Cats purr, he thought. He'd seen Alphonse melting into a puddle of mush before, so purring might work on him.

Edward looked up. The muscles of Alphonse’s neck were as taut as the strings of a violin. Well that sucks... Alphonse was far too gone to sense anything. He lowered his eyes to the ground.

What could he do? The answer came to him instantly.

Mewling was going to be something that would haunt him for years on end, but for Winry and Alphonse, he would swallow his pride and do it.

So Edward cleared his throat—and coughed. He sounded like he needed to cough out a hairball. The coughing must've been quite bad because Alphonse’s worried eyes were now on him. Think fast!

Edward held Alphonse’s gaze. His hairy eyebrows shot up and his eyes rounded; flickered. He held that sad face until it had an effect on his brother. Ten seconds was all it took for Alphonse to turn into putty.

Yes! That was a huge victory for him.

“What is it, kitty?” Alphonse moved his hand to the side of Edward's jaw and rubbed it. Shivers ran down Edward’s spine. Oh, that’s good...so good. He couldn't help but close his eyes and lose himself in the moment. He purred.

“You should get rid of that mangy cat, Al.” Don Paco’s contemptuous comment brought everything to a screeching halt.

Alphonse stilled his hand. He looked up, his eyes filled with confusion, his mouth struggling to form words. “What—? No, Brother!” He finally said when he snapped out of it.

Edward felt Alphonse's indignation through the hairs of his fur. He glowered at Don Paco. The fucking idiot. That man didn't know the type of mess he’s gotten himself into.

“Look at it! Who knows where that thing has been!” Don Paco pressed on.

Alphonse frowned. “I don't care!” He held Edward tighter against his chest. “Can't you see he needs our help?” Don Paco couldn't help but sneer.

Winry scowled at the impostor. “What's the matter with you?”

Until that moment, Edward only cared about exacting revenge against the man who stole his body. But watching Don Paco panic was proving to be morbidly entertaining. “Way to go, asshole!” he gibed.

Mei’s eyes widened. She slowly turned to the cat and stared at it for a brief moment before shifting her gaze toward Alphonse. His face didn't show any signs of alarm, nor did anyone else's for that matter.

Edward didn't catch Mei’s reaction. He was much too preoccupied with Don Paco to care about anything else. He kept his eyes trained on the man, who just happened to step into Winry’s personal space.

“Winry, my love, I just want the best for all of us,” the impostor cooed. He even went as far as to cup a side of her face. “That cat could be carrying some terrible disease for all we know,” he added while rubbing his thumb over her rosy cheek.

That arrogant sunnovabitch! Edward felt the hairs in his nape bristling. “Hey, asshole! The only sick thing around here is you!” If Edward hadn't been so riled up he would've heard Mei gasping.

A red-faced Winry took the impostor’s hand in hers and lowered it. She searched his eyes, then after a pause, she said, “Ed, you've never cared about things like that before.”

“I never have...cared?” the impostor fumbled to find the right words. Moments later, he was smiling with sheepish amusement. “I guess I never have, haven't I?”

Ah c’mon! “You just had to go and act stupid.” Edward sneered, hating that Don Paco was making him look like a chump in front of Winry.

Mei inhaled a sharp breath.

Alphonse turned to his girlfriend. “Are you okay?” Mei was staring at the cat with wide, unblinking eyes. She glanced at Alphonse and gave him a quick smile before returning her attention to the cat.

Edward heard Alphonse’s chest rumbling. He looked up and caught his brother staring at Mei. He too stared at her, but she averted her gaze when she noticed him watching her.

“If Al is okay with it, then I'm okay with it,” said Don Paco.

Mei clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a scream.

Edward raised his eyebrows. Mei had a look of frozen dismay written all over her face as if she had made an important discovery.

“Al you can keep the cat. And you will assume full responsibility for it,” Pinako said.

Edward put his thoughts on hold and turned his attention to Granny just like everyone else did.

Alphonse looked pleased with the verdict. But his triumphant smile was shot down by Pinako’s pointed glare. “You better apologize to Den,” she said just as Alphonse’s expression was returning back to neutral.

Chuckling nervously, Alphonse turned to Den who not long ago came out of his doghouse to become a silent spectator. He offered the dog a genuine smile, and said, “Sorry, boy. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings.”

Den’s hips swung from side to side fueled by the force of his wagging tail. His silly dance came to a stop when he rolled onto his back for a belly rub.

Edward jumped out of his brother's arms and moved out of the way. Alphonse stared at him, but then Den barked. He returned his attention back to the dog, who was wiggling on the floor like a worm. “Okay, okay,” Alphonse said, chuckling and shaking his head as he approached the dog. He knelt on the ground and rubbed Den’s spotted belly.

Edward sat on his hind legs while he watched everyone from the sidelines. Alphonse laughed while he goofed off with Den. Winry joined in the fun and soon was taking over for Alphonse. Granny Pinako gave his impostor a pointed glare—the dumbass probably did something stupid to piss her off. And Mei—well—she had been slowly inching her way towards him. When he met her gaze, he saw worry crisscrossing her delicate features. But all thought disappeared from his mind when the princess, out-of-the-blue, decided to scoop him up.

Turning to the group, she said, “Alphonse-sama I think the poor kitty is hungry.”

Alphonse looked at Mei, then the cat, then back at Mei. “Sure,” he said as he walked towards her.

Mei switched the cat to her left side and grabbed Alphonse by the hand. “Hey slow down!” Alphonse exclaimed when she started pulling. But Mei didn't stop. She did shush him, though. “Less talk, more walk,” Mei said in a harsh whisper before tugging at his hand again.

She led Alphonse around the house of simply going through the front door to reach the kitchen. The impostor followed them with his eyes until they disappeared from sight.

"Okay, Mei, will you tell me what's going on?" Alphonse asked while Mei let the cat down on the kitchen floor.She made a shushing sound then looked at the entrance to the kitchen before setting her gaze back on Alphonse. "Something weird is going on," she whispered.Alphonse shook his head. "The only weird thing in here is you." He glanced at Mei then let out a tired sigh.Edward knew that sound all too well; his brother didn't want to get involved in another fight.Alphonse left their side and headed to the cupboard where he grabbed a small saucer from one of the top shelves. He then went to the refrigerator and took out the milk. After filling the saucer halfway, he set it on the floor. "Come here kitty!" Alphonse said as he crouched next to the plate.Edward ran towards his brother. He stuck his head in the plate but immediately pulled back; Alphonse raised his eyebrows at him. So Edward pushed past his hate for milk and decided to take another shot at drinking the vile secretion.

Meanwhile, Mei approached Alphonse. “Didn't you hear it?”

Alphonse let out another sigh. “Hear what?”

Edward perked his ears. Alphonse had tried to sound calm but irritation was evident in his voice.

Mei ignored Alphonse's pissy attitude. She looked again at the kitchen entrance before whispering, “Al, the cat can talk.” She set her eyes on Edward. “Not only can the cat talk but he also sounds just like your older brother.”

Edward choked on his milk; Alphonse let out a loud cackle.

“Keep it down!” Mei scolded Alphonse in a harsh whisper. Her eyes darted to the kitchen entrance again.

“Mei, that's the most ridiculous thing I ever heard!” Alphonse said as he wiped mirthful tears from the corners of his eyes.

“Alphonse-sama!” Mei screeched in indignation, but Alphonse cut her off.

“Listen, I know our trip has been rough. Maybe three days of rest isn't long enough to feel fully recharged.”

“But Alphonse-sama,” Mei interrupted, but Alphonse was having none of it.

“Mei, please stop this nonsense!” He snapped at her. A second later, he said in a softer tone, “I think you're still feeling exhausted—I know I am.” He paused a moment, then added, “Don't you think you could've been hearing things?”

Mei curled her hands into tight fists. “I know what I heard!” she snapped back.

Edward sauntered towards Mei, then, while looking directly at Alphonse, he said, “You should listen to your girlfriend, dumbass.”

Mei snapped her head down and looked at Edward. “There! Did you hear it?” She cried out.

Alphonse offered her an uneasy smile. “The cat meowed. That's what cat’s do.”

So only Al’s girl can hear me, Edward thought. It would've been nice if Alphonse could hear him too, it definitely would've made it easier to take Don Paco down if he did.

Just when despair started clouding his head, he remembered what Matilde said before he departed from the Far West.

“Gaea!” Edward cried out. “You can tune in to Gaea!” He said as he turned to Mei.

“Gaea?” Mei repeated.

“Yes, Gaea—Mother Nature!”

The excitement of the discovery made Edward forget about his situation for an instant. He spun around in a circle, sat on his hind legs one moment only to stand up the next. Unfortunately, he only noticed what he was doing when Mei started giggling.

Mei dropped to her knees to be closer to Edward. “Do you mean the Dragon’s Pulse?”

“Yes, that thing you said!” Edward felt like leaping excitedly around the room but he sat on his hind legs to save himself from more embarrassment.

“Mei, really?” Alphonse scoffed, his eyebrows raised in utter disbelief.

Mei let out a frustrated sigh. “Alphonse-sama, try blocking out the ambient noise like I've taught you.” Alphonse’s eyes brows hiked up higher. “Just do it!” Mei yelled at him.

Alphonse frowned. “Okay-okay.” He closed his eyes and drew in a long breath, which he released slowly. He opened his eyes and looked at Mei. “There.”

“Talk to the cat.”

Alphonse was about to complain but Edward shut him up. “Gee, Al, you sure can be a real handful when you want to,” he said, then shook his head. ”And people say I'm the pig-headed one.”

Alphonse’s eyes grew wide, and his mouth gaped open. A few heartbeats went by before he managed to suppress his shock. “What in the—?” Alphonse mumbled, and looked towards the kitchen entrance like his girlfriend had been doing. “How in blazes are you doing this?” he asked when he returned his attention back to her.

“I'm not doing anything!” Mei retorted.

“Listen, Al,” Edward intruded, trying to capture his brother's attention. He waited for Alphonse's eyes to be on him before continuing. “This is really happening,” he added.

Alphonse's scrutiny was intense. Edward knew his brother was going to react in one of two ways: either Alphonse was going to take things calmly or— “Al, don't freak—”

Alphonse let out a sharp gasp. “Hot dogs on a stick!”

Edward was now certain that his brother’s calm and calculating disposition had been left with the armor. Still, he was expecting an entirely different reaction to the one Alphonse had. “’Hot dogs on a stick?’” he asked with a raised eyebrow. “No ‘oh shit’ or ‘what the fuck’?”

Alphonse snapped out of his shock. “You know I don't like to curse, Bro—” He began admonishing, but then shut his mouth closed. His silence didn't last long. “This is crazy!” he cried.

Edward walked towards his brother and stopped when his front legs were about to touch the tip of Alphonse's shoes. Edward sat on his hind legs then he looked up. “Al, I know this is freaky—hell—I'm still freaking out myself.”

Alphonse shook his head. “But how?”

“Alphonse-sama...” Mei took one of her boyfriend’s hand in hers.

There was much Edward needed to tell them both so he spun around and headed for the table—hopefully, the would follow. He jumped on top of the table, then sat down. After taking a deep breath, he started telling his story.

“Magick,” he said in a somber tone.

“What do you mean by ‘magic’?” Alphonse was quick to interrupt.

“’Magic—k’,” Edward corrected by stressing the sound of the letter ‘K’ in the word. “Magick with a ‘K’ is not the same as magic without the ‘K’, as you can see.” He stood up and modeled around the table to drive the point across.

Alphonse pressed two fingers to his temple.

“Edward, who did this to you?” Mei asked.

Edward’s expression darkened. “A sorcerer.”

“A sorcerer?” Alphonse repeated.

“As in the kind that can cast spells and shit,” Edward explained, then he fell silent. His thoughts went to the moment before passing out. “But this one can also use alchemy,” he added after he returned his attention to them.

Edward knew, by the look of complete shock drawn on their faces, that he needed to elaborate, so he continued. “He has a Sanguine Star—a Philosopher’s Stone.” He paused to give them enough time to absorb the new bit of information. Then he said, “He might've used the stone to do this to me.”

Alphonse groaned; and Mei put her hands on his sagging shoulders.

“Are you—?” She began but stopped talking abruptly. Her eyebrows arched and her expression darkened.

Edward understood her perfectly. Shaking his head, he said, “I'm not a chimera, Mei, but I think Don Paco used the same process of affixing the mind and soul onto something else, in this case, his cat.”

“Dammit, Ed! How could you be so careless?” Alphonse bellowed.

Edward looked away in shame. Alphonse and Mei also avoided looking at each other. And the seconds stretched out in silence.

But the stillness didn't last for long; Edward’s stomach roared with the fierceness of a lion. Both Alphonse and Mei turned their eyes back to him and caught Edward with his ears flattened against his head.

“Al, I haven't eaten much in two days...I'm starving,” Edward said in a mortified tone.

“Brother...” Alphonse muttered. His face softened quite a bit and so had his tone of voice.

Alphonse motioned to pick up the saucer. “Um, since you're a cat now—”

“Don't you fucking dare serve me more milk!” Edward hissed. He could still smell that stinky secretion all over his snout. “I only drank some of it because I was starving.” He shuddered, then shuddered some more.

Alphonse let out a snicker. “Got it. No more milk for the kitty.” He waited for Edward to glower at him before continuing, “We still have some leftovers from the other day.” A pause. “It's beef stew, by the way, but since you don't want any more milk, and the stew has milk in it—”

Edward bared his fangs at him. “Do you want me to scratch your face?”

Alphonse burst out laughing, so did Mei.

“One beef stew coming up!”

Edward did well in telling Alphonse and Mei to sit down before telling the rest of his story.

“Okay...” Alphonse started but fell silent. The tale of a body-snatcher sorcerer from the Far West had been hard to digest. Edward had managed to explain things well but there were still some loose ends in the story. Alphonse looked at Mei and saw in her face that she was thinking along similar lines.

“Don Paco took my body for himself,” Edward said, his words left both Alphonse and Mei stunned.

Xiao Mei, who decided to join the group a while back, approached her companion. She sniffed one of her hands before rubbing the side of her face against it. Mei gathered her in her arms.

“How?” Alphonse muttered to himself. Turning to Edward, he said, “That sorcerer had us all fooled, Brother. I mean, he knows things—private details of our lives.”

Edward remained silent for a brief moment. “I don't know how he's doing it,” he admitted, frowning. “This man is more dangerous than I ever anticipated.”

Mei stopped petting Xiao Mei. She looked at Alphonse then at Edward, and said, “Gomenasai, Edward, I shouldn't have suggested coming back inside. That creep is right now out there with Winry and Granny...I just hope they're okay.”

Xiao Mei’s ears perked up, then she started growling at the kitchen entrance. Edward snapped his head in that direction too.

“Hey, guys!” Don Paco said as he stepped into view. Edward and Xiao Mei bristled while Alphonse and Mei jumped out of their chairs.

Don Paco put his hands on his hips and grinned. “Sorry to interrupt your meeting but you two”—he pointed a finger at Alphonse then at Mei—”were taking so long that I decided to get you.” Then he turned his full attention to Edward. “Cano,” he called, his grin transforming into a wicked one. ”Were you fibbing about me?”

#fmabb17 #fma #fmab #story update #reblog please #fmachallenges

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