anewvoid

[anewvoid]

"Omg the gays are the spawn of all evil!"

It only took one person to make me dislike the entire community. I was 11. I was 12. I was 13. I was 14. I was 15. I was 16. I was bitter.

I stayed bitter until college, when my bisexual roommate and a lesbian couple gave me the smallest reason to want to live after planning to die.

You've never met and never had an honest conversation with a gay person in your goddamn life, so don't insult me with the hatred you've been spoon-fed by someone who is even more ignorant than you.

Happy Pride Month.

May your days be brighter, one day soon.

-- your faraway heterosexual.

[anewvoid]

Tumblr Brand Sex Ed Because Your School Was Too Weak To Teach You Anything But Abstinence

(If you're not old enough to have had your first sexual education class in senior high, please do not interact with this post.)

Inspired by a user on Reddit asking for help. I might edit it as I think of more, but:

You should never be having sex if you do not understand consent and cannot stop yourself if your partner is uncomfortable. Sex should be fun for all involved parties, and if you're not into that, gtfo.

Related note, consent: a) is given by both parties, b) can be taken away by either party at any point, c) does not involve the use of mind-altering substances such as alcohol or molly, d) does not involve acts of coercion such as guilt-tripping or threats of violence*, e) is enthusiastic.

Abstinence is effective. But teenagers (and most people, let's be honest) are especially stupid when horny. Use birth control and limit the damage. Romance can be heartbreaking enough. Don't throw childbirth and STDs on top of it.

"Can I get pregnant from x?" Unless a man ejaculates inside your vagina, the answer is always no. Ladies, I am begging you, learn about your own anatomy.

A vagina is not made of rubber. I know we like to say the vagina is elastic, easy misconception, but it is a muscle, a substance which also happens to be elastic like rubber. If anything, by Sigma Chad Logic™, a vagina that gets used more frequently squeezes tighter. Just think about this for more than 2 seconds - if we applied the "use makes it loose" logic to your anus (another contracting muscle), everyone would be shitting themselves 24/7 just because big turds are a thing. Some men might argue, "I've had virgin p*ssy and it's tighter I tell you." Well, guys, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you're enjoying a woman's fear and anxiety. (And if that anxiety is actually the real allure of f*cking a woman for you... either get help, or again, gtfo)

I know people can be h*rndogs in middle school. But you really shouldn't be f*cking around until you're old enough to be in high school at the least. (I mention this partially for the high schoolers who are trying to date middle schoolers).

Men are ready for sex in a second. Unless otherwise specified by the woman, women are only ready after 15 minutes of foreplay. Do not skip the foreplay. Enjoy it.

Communication, communication, communication. You cannot expect to have good sex without talking about what both of you are comfortable with. Yes, it might be boring to talk instead of doing it. Have the conversation before you're in the mood if you're smart.

P*rnography is not faithful to reality. Sex is awkward. You will have problems at some point. Your boyfriend might have a problem keeping it up because of performance anxiety. Your girlfriend might have a problem getting wet no matter how h*rny she is. Work with them on it; don't shame them.

In the same vein, do not, and I repeat, do not attempt to replicate things you see in the p*rn industry unless your partner is OK with it and understands any risks involved.

While women are classically known for shunning p*rn, it isn't necessarily because they don't like sex/sexual material. Women aren't usually satisfied by the simple act of insertion or completion. They want the gritty details, the emotions, and most importantly, the build-up. This is why we have a slew of men who are flabbergasted by the downright nasty details in smut, commonly read by women. Remember what I said about not skipping foreplay? That goes for their brains, not just their bodies. Take it from someone who wrote smut for women for over a year.

Little nerve lesson: the interior of the vagina isn't that sensitive (relatively speaking), and the fabled G-spot is not present in all women. I'm not saying women don't want penetration regardless, like god knows it does something like ahhh, but if you're going to have a woman begging for more, you give their clitoris (look up a diagram) lots of attention unless they say otherwise.

Women have three holes downstairs. Not one. Not two. Three. Men might piss out the same hole they c** through; women do not. Actually look at a woman for once.

5 inches is nice. 8 inches is pushing it. 12 inches is not going to feel good. I know the extremism in fantasies is like "omg it'll never fit~<3" but that would never work for you in real life. Even below-average d*cks that are 2-3 inches are sufficient since spoiler alert, your fabled g-spot is only about that deep. Don't size-shame.

Big breasts are heavy and will cause back problems. And don't ever say "I'll hold them up for her ;)" because you know damn well that would never work in reality. Give your partner's breasts love regardless of whether they're an A cup or an E cup. You don't like it when we talk about your dick size, so again, don't size shame. It is not that hard.

A guy has to be pretty strong to f*ck you while holding your entire bodyweight off the ground. Don't expect it unless you're dating a bodybuilder who feels confident doing that.

A 69 is not a feasible sex position for most people (height + flexibility differences) unless you really enjoy being edged.

Pleasure zones are not limited to the genitalia. Explore. I know the heat and blood makes it feel like a race, but it is not a race. Give the inner thighs a light brush. Blow against their ear. Graze your nails up their back. Kiss their neck. Be playful. Make them beg a little and make them really want it..

Be safe! Some activities carry greater risk than others, particularly in the kink sphere. Do appropriate research before attempting any activity that may cause harm to your partner. And no, that does not mean "look up a p*rno with it."

In case I haven't emphasized it enough, you must talk to your partner to understand what they want. Some men like to be bitten, some don't. Some women like to get their hair pulled, some don't. Every sex manual in the world can give you every tip under the sun to try, but you're not going to know if your partner actually likes it until you ask.

If you're not comfortable with something your partner wants, you 1) say it, and 2) the other party respects that. If they don't, dump their ass right then and there. Do not pass go, do not collect $200, dump them. That goes for women and men and nonbinaries of all sexualities. A partner who doesn't respect your boundaries deserves to be trashed.

*To any BDSM fans out there, yes, I see you, but that is a whole other advanced conversation about communication and boundaries that is out of the depth of this little crash course.

[anewvoid]

I think I've had enough "incel logic" for today.

[anewvoid]

Yes, that's my cat. Today is his birthday.

Although we aren't sure when his birthday was in summer, June 6th is the day I choose to celebrate it (alongside OM! Lucifer's birthday). Here's to my momma's boy of a cat that thought he was a human-dog hybrid.

Best $15 ever spent for 15 years of sitting on my legs, begging for food, zooming around the house at 2AM, pissing on the edge of the litterbox, scaring our black lab into submission, fur in my face, and most importantly, lounging around the house with everything exposed because he liked the stretchy stretch and the belly rub.

I will always miss you, Fluffykins, Momo, Moomoo, Maomao, and every other variety of name I called you other than your actual name. May Satan himself adopt you and spoil you forever <3

[anewvoid]

6 | Seiðr

WC - 2800+

When I woke up, I was disoriented. The biggest reason being that, as I looked at the wall, I was remembering that I had tried to tried to kill myself last night, and that certainly had not been a dream. I couldn't remember getting back up to my bed. Unless... someone found me and carried me... back...

My blood curdled. My mother. My mother or my father. They had seen the note I had left on the table, and one of them had carried me back to my room to sleep. They had seen. They knew.

I felt like I was suffocating, and I didn't move from my spot. I hoped my mother wouldn't call me when it was time for me to get up for school. At least it was still dark outside. At least I still had that time.

But... time for what?

Now I'd be sent to a psych ward, and I'd never be able to handle anything sharp. They'd try to fix me. They'd tell me I was an idiot. They'd bully me into accepting this shitty existence of day-in and day-out inadequacy. They'd tell me I hadn't suffered. They'd criticize me. They'd hate me.

You never suffered. Not once.

I suppose that's why, even in this situation, the tears wouldn't come, even though I wished they would. I would have felt much better if I could have cried. If I could have had some kind of evidence of my sadness and pain and loneliness. But there was nothing. Only my unwillingness to ever move from my spot on the bed, as if that would solve a single thing.

I tried not to flinch when I felt the gentle hand on my shoulder. Maybe I'd just been moved. Maybe my dad hadn't left—because it had probably been my dad. He didn't have to know. I didn't want him to know. It would be less painful for both of us if he didn't know.

"You don't have to pretend you're still asleep," a saccharine voice murmured against my ear, and, startled, I sat bolt upright to find myself staring at the same face which had greeted me in my lowest hour. Lawrence Agrippa, in every bit of his demonic glory. Up-close, it was a little shocking to realize that he wasn't an animation, but rather an east asian model with raven black hair, messily combed back on one side to reveal his forehead and his startling, bright pinkish-red eyes. His black-gloved hand, surprisingly warm on my arm, had not left, and I tried to stare at it in my confusion whilst still being hypnotized by his face. "You really had me worried for a second..." the man sighed, and I flinched as his fingers drew over my neck, and I let out a sharp hiss. Pain. A line of pain. "I'm glad I was able to get to you so quickly."

"For what?" I asked, my heart leaping in my throat as I slapped my hand over my neck and felt... a scab. It was wider than I expected.

"To save your life, stupid," he grumbled, and I raised eyebrow. That... didn't sound like Lawrence talking. "Just what compelled you to take a knife to your neck?"

"What compelled me?" I asked slowly before my anger started to mount as the question fully registered in my mind. "What compelled me? You think living this way is easy? You think I can keep living like this?" My voice broke a little bit, but I continued regardless, "What the hell makes you think living is bearable for me? I live every fucking day feeling like a hollow shell of a person, dyed in my own black hatred of people who happily live in this miserable world! I live, stuck between being too scared to die and too scared to live, and you think I can breathe in a world like that?!"

Lawrence was surprisingly taken aback, and he merely stared at me in silence as if he needed to process that he was the one who had put me in this position in the first place. Admittedly, I was still processing the fever dream standing in front of me.

"Becoming human truly has broken you," he murmured, quietly enough that I became immediately conscious of the fact that I had just shouted at the ripe hour of somewhere around 6 in the morning, and my neck hurt.

"Human? What time is it? Did you take my note too?" Wordlessly, Lawrence held up the envelope, but he didn't let me take it from him, flicking it away from my outstretched fingers.

"It's three in the morning," he answered softly, much to my surprise, but he wasn't finished. "And it is a Thursday." I blinked at him.

"Thursday...? Thursday was yest..." My fingers strayed back up to the scab. "...ter...day..."

"You were in a coma, Cerys." My brain started to murmur, then rapidly build into all kinds of screams at the implications of that statement. If I was in a coma, why am I in my bedroom and not a hospital? I skipped an entire week of class. What about my parents? Have they just been fussing over me? Do they not even know?

"What? How? I didn't even—"

"One at a time," he interrupted gently. "A lot of things happened to you that night. I did manage to stop the knife from hitting the artery you were aiming for, but... you still lost a fair amount of blood, and on top of hitting your head, I strongly suspect you suffered from heart failure." I stared at Lawrence, wide-eyed.

"You're kidding, right?" A head shake. "How did you even figure that out?"

"Arrhythmia." I blinked at him. "It's a little concerning, really. The prevalence of heart conditions within your age group and sex is quite rare. To be honest, I'm half-debating whether or not the cause of your heart failure was magical in origin."

"Magica—are you crazy?" I asked, before I realized what I had just said and to whom. He raised an eyebrow at me.

"Yes, I suppose that's right; the concept of magic is foreign to you." Lawrence sighed, and without a moment of hesitation, he grabbed my chair and sat down, and my eyes lingered down the length of his long legs as he authoritatively crossed them. That felt more like him. "This is going to take a long time, so you might as well lay back down."

And, like a nerd that was too curious to refuse the allure of a lore dump, I obediently laid down and crammed my questions back into my mouth. Among other things, they were coming out in a jumbled mess.

"I will begin by saying that magic is the main reason I am here," he said slowly. "From the beginning, or at the very least, for as long as I have walked this plane of existence, the nebulous term you humans define as "magic" has also existed. Technically speaking, I suppose we could define it as science from my perspective, since we understand much of how it works. Some of the authors of this world would also define it as science, since they, without ever having seen it, have managed to theorize its existence in its entirety." Lawrence paused. "That is not the type of magic I am here to speak of."

"O...kay?"

"The magic I'm here to speak of is something neither I nor anyone else understands. And it's also something you and only you possess."

"What am I, the chosen Harry Potter?" I snorted. And I guessed that would make Lawrence analogous to Hagrid in that scenario, which wasn't funny at all.

"No," he replied without a hint of a smile, apparently not enjoying his comparison to Hagrid. "You're not a child born with a gift your future nemesis left you by accident. You're a god born with a curse."

"I beg your pardon?" I blurted before I remembered my neck still hurt.

"Goddess," he corrected after a moment. "I think that would be the most apt human term. I suppose in order to explain that, I have to explain who I work for. Many, many years ago, it was common practice for the gods to hire what were known for a very long time as "valkyries" to do several tasks. The first was to unfairly participate in wars of which the gods had chosen a particular side to succeed. The second, and more interesting of these tasks, was to act as a kind of secret service, if you will. If the gods had determined there was an individual who needed to be killed for knowing too much, or if there was someone the gods wanted to treat favorably, they sent the valkyries to do their work." Those do not sound like valkyries... I thought privately. "I am a vassal of one of those valkyries—specifically, the Queen."

"...so, Freya?" I suggested.

"No, although they are believed to be related. Hun Som Bestemmer Oss, Aina Fortvile is her name." How many names is... "Meaning, 'She Who Rules Us, Aina Fortvile'. Her last name is, in itself, a form of title which connotes a great despair which would ravage all who have the misfortune of laying their eyes upon her."I think it was about that point where I realized I was being scouted for my grand fever dream of a destiny by the bad guys, not the good guys. Well, not that I really cared that much, in hindsight.

"Okay, and why am I important here? So I'm a cursed goddess or whatever, so what? What does that even mean?"

"Well," Lawrence said slowly, "recently, there's been a series of coups d'etat. The gods the valkyries once served are no longer alive."

"...I don't want to be the arbiter of fate," I replied dryly.

"That's not where I was going."

"Oh." My cheeks warmed.

"The problem is that the valkyries are under even worse management than before, and her ladyship has decided she's had enough. Frankly, she had decided it was time for a change from the moment she discovered the truth about her mother's death, but the situation has been... complicated."

I let my eyes crawl over Lawrence's pained expression, and I watched with some interest and confusion as he played with his hands. Also something that didn't feel like Lawrence. Although, maybe it's a little weird to expect him to match his anime equivalent to a T... I mean, I'm looking at a live action model in a trench coat.

"Complicated... how?" I prodded, and the demon threw a hand through his hair with what I could only conclude was discontent. Damn, did he look hot when he did that.

"Well..." Lawrence drawled again before he suddenly looked much older and much more tired, despite having the face of a 25 year-old. "A certain asshole of a god has his filthy mitts on something very precious to her ladyship. Unfortunately, we don't understand how, because the only way we know is due to a very particular magic her ladyship possesses. This is where you are important, because you possess the magic which is our last resort. The Seiðr." 

"And... okay, assuming I'm even interested in helping you, that Sayther does what exactly? Does it kill gods? Let me gain control of the elements? Do I need to go through some kind of training arc?"

"We don't really understand what it is," Lawrence replied, offering me a sheepish smile. "There are only a few things we do know. I do not know if it deserves this definition or not, but the Seiðr is commonly believed to be a magic that manipulates fate." I blinked at him. I thought you said I wouldn't be the arbiter of fate? I thought about asking but curiosity won out over my irritation.

"What does that even mean? Opportunities? Time? People's choices? Fate is a pretty complicated concept, magically speaking." Lawrence glanced at me in surprise. "...at least in the stuff I write." He smiled at me, and I was startled by its genuineness. Lawrence? Genuine?

"You're perfectly correct. Fate is ambiguous, and as such, controlling it is also ambiguous. And that is the part we don't know. We know that the Seiðr is a beyond powerful ability, but we do not know how or to what degree it manipulates this nebulous concept known as 'fate.'"

"Then why..."

"It is powerful, Cerys. So powerful that no one, no god, no demon, no spirit, no form of magic, could ever overcome it. It is an absolute ruling given to the world, no, the universe, that no one may defy. If you were to use it for us, then we would be able to destroy that pesky god's influence, once and for all." So I am the chosen one. Whoopdee-fuckin-doo. Thank god this must be a dream.

"I hate to break it to you, but if I had that kind of power, I would have used it to make myself happy, thanks," I grumbled, agitation building in my voice again. Lawrence gave a rude laugh at that. There, that's the asshole I know.

"Used it for yourself? Perish the thought; you are a human girl who hasn't even reached adulthood; I would have killed you myself if you had begun to use it whilst you dreamt of some passing fancy that would have erased the whole of existence." Despite knowing that he was right—I mean it was only pragmatic—I found myself getting irritated anyway.

"Yeah? And what are you going to do if I don't feel like helping you, kill me?" I spat out resentfully.

"I was thinking more of a carrot approach first, but it serves me no purpose right now to kill you. We need you alive." I glared at him, but he wasn't looking at me, his gaze instead staring into the darkness of my room. "Which brings me to my next point. What do you want?"

Despite the fact that I had felt the question coming before it was out of his mouth, I froze up. It was a question I had written many, many times in all of my works involving Lawrence and all kinds of malformed versions of me, in many different varieties. A question that always led to a broken relationship with Lawrence headed for my certain destruction, because Lawrence could never care for me. And like a fool, I answered it the way I had practiced answering it in prose, time and time again.

"...you," I mumbled, and his startled face whipped around to face me in surprise that didn't belong to any of my narratives. Lawrence, my Lawrence, always knew that was what I wanted, and he wanted to humiliate me by saying it, and yet... this one stared at me in shock before lapsing into a neutral expression.

"Me?" he asked carefully, and I slowly nodded as I sat back up.

"You. I want you to... just pretend that you love me. Fuck me. Hold me. Kiss me. And when everything is done and over with, I want you to kill me." It was as if I were talking about someone else with such a level tone, and yet my adrenaline-dosed hands said otherwise.

Lawrence was silent, and even I, as someone who had a habit of obsessing over someone's expression in a particular moment, couldn't tell what kind of emotions were swimming through his otherworldly brain in response to that.

"Is that really what you want?" he asked quietly, suddenly dragging out every word. "Why not ask for me to find love for you?" Why is he saying that? Why him? Doesn't he want me, after everything?

"Because I—" I cut myself off. Because I love you? Was that what I felt? How could I call something twisted like that "love?" I don't love you. I just love the idea of you. I love that you wouldn't betray me, because that would go against your ironclad sense of pride. Because the art of deception is more important to you than anything else. Even though the "you" I'm talking to now may be nothing like the "you" I've known these past several years. "...fine. Fine. Find love for me. I don't care. It's a dream and false promises anyway, just like it was on Valentine's Day."

"It's not a false promise," Lawrence replied sternly. "If that is your desire, then I shall fulfill it." Lawrence stood and took my hand in his, his eyes fixing on mine as he knelt before me, as I had seen him do so many other times before for other women. "Cerys Annobeth, you have made a wish of me." His eyes flashed magenta. "And in exchange for my service, you must do exactly as I request for all that relates to my own wish. Do you agree to these terms?"

I stared at him. I thought about saying no. I thought about saying "go fuck yourself." I thought about getting up, walking away, and throwing myself down the stairs. But my lips moved and said:

"I accept."

After that, a sound like a great door shutting behind me crashed against my eardrums, making me flinch as bright pink circles inscribed with pentagrams flooded the air around me until my vision was completely pink. And, through the sound, I could swear I heard someone's obscured voice say:

"One d... wait... me." 

[anewvoid]

I love people who talk about eating that good "natural" or "organic" food is super healthy, solve all your problems, etc.

Hear hear. Stop drinking that manufactured trash they call dihydrogen monoxide and start drinking all-natural cow bile!

[anewvoid]

Related to something I saw on someone's tumblr recently :)

[anewvoid]

My actual reaction.

(Specifically in response to this video on Film Theory)

[anewvoid]

PyTorch is saving my ass.

Yes, I do believe in a world where AI isn't used to replace important things.

[anewvoid]

So much pain🙃

[anewvoid]

I'm sure it's been done to death already but...

That braincell keeps getting thrown out T^T

[anewvoid]

5 | Bottleneck

WC - 2200+ (This goes from 20 to 100, folks. You've been warned.) ---

“Jesus…” my dad muttered, and I glanced at him in his chair. “Some small place in Texas. They had another mass shooter yesterday.”

“School?” I guessed, but he shook his head. 

“Coffee shop.” I was honestly surprised it had made the news, not that I really cared, considering how many miles away from Texas we were. Not to mention the fact that I hated pretty much everything about Texas. It was just another stupid state, and it was one of the stupidest states with its climate and irritating accent and everything. The whole thing just screamed ‘I’m one of the shitty jocks in your high school with an extra dollop of narcissism’ “They say it was probably a machine gun, but the people were pretty badly mangled. They can’t seem to find a trace of the bastard who did it.” My dad rubbed his face and let out a low, loud, sad groan. “Why must people be so violent?”

“Ruddy good thing you weren’t still there,” my mother chimed in, and I nodded in agreement. 

“They should have been able to defend themselves since they’re so adamant on carrying stupid guns everywhere,” I complained. “Morons.”

“There are plenty of nice people in Texas,” my dad insisted, and I tried not to roll my eyes. He was being too nice, like how I was always too nice. He gave everyone the benefit of the doubt, but they didn’t deserve it. “My biggest complaint about the place remains that I had a hell of a time getting vegetables.” Another reason I hated Texas.

“Well, hopefully they find the killer, I guess,” I grumbled, glancing back at the open story on my writing profile. 400 people had seen the first chapter so far. Unfortunately, I and even the most popular writers on this platform were lucky to keep even half of those people. Probably only 40 out of those 400 would actually make it to the end if I kept my update schedule the way it was. It was honestly really disheartening, even if I was writing because it was the only way to distract myself from my constant desire to feel the nebulous love that had eluded me for so long. 

I twitched as I remembered yesterday. I shouldn’t have reminded myself of that. I could only feel that way in a dream. Like Randy and Nathan and Josef said, I needed to lower my expectations. I needed to throw out those stupid delusions of love—because such a thing did not exist. 

I filled my ears with the sound of my long and overused playlist, the current song conveniently landing on my favorite of that month: Brittle Mind. A discordant, stepwise echo at first, like the notes had become raindrops in an empty room. And then, each raindrop exchanged its echo for a kind of feathering effect, as if someone had smeared the droplet rather than allow it to be a perfect circle. The crowning part, the soft-spoken opera singer with melancholy on the edge of breaking—

“The sun and moon burn me slowly / let me at least weep in darkness…”

God, the way she hit that note was so beautifully painful. I had listened to this single piece probably twice a day every day for this month, but it seemed as if it would never really get old for me. 

“...how on Earth… can I return to the aether?” 

I rubbed my knuckles against my spinal column, wincing. You sit too long. You get no exercise; you’re worthless. 

I started to write:

How the feminists must screech and wail at me for my view of the world. I, Gwyneth Moore, am nothing without a man. I want a man. I need a man, for it is only a man who can fill this heart. It is only a man who may fill the void between my legs. I am not interested in breasts or softness; I am not curious. 

I want a man to ravage me. 

I want a man to end my miserable life. 

Men are good at that, aren’t they?

I paused, then completely deleted the line rather than striking it through. Let’s not make this one another suicide story… 

I want Lawrence. I want to take fistfuls of his beautiful black hair while he nips at my lip. I want him to hold me tightly, to pick me up onto his waist and drag me where he wants. I want to see the desire in his eyes as he rips my clothes off, licks his lips and goes down on me. I want him to overstimulate me. To break me. To tear his claws in my thighs and rip them bloody. And yet I’ll still be screaming “yes, yes, yes!” because he’s too busy telling me how much he loves me for me to care. He pretends so well. He pretends so much better than humans. 

I don’t care if he rapes me. At least he would be gentle and pleasure me if I begged, because the guilt and shame would be enough to keep him going on his infernal high. He pretends so well. 

I closed my laptop and closed my eyes, running my fingers over my face. The living room was dark, and my parents had already gone to bed at some point. What had I written, a paragraph? In two hours? 

You’re pathetic, my mind whispered, and I stood up and made my slow, careful way up the stairs, ignoring its usual creak and quiver. He pretends so well, the phrase lingered behind, and I remembered a particular scene from the manga as I opened the bathroom door and slipped my toothbrush out of the holder. 

That infamous scene, where he seduced a woman he needed to use. People in the fandom often contended he had raped her, but I disagreed. The point had been to emphasize Lawrence’s callous nature, but not in such a straightforward way as rape. 

She had agreed, not because he had cornered her, but because she had desired comfort. And he gave that comfort to her, full well knowing that she would hate herself for enjoying it. He would relish in the fact that she would be so consumed in self-loathing and guilt because she would come to know that her self-indulgence would lead to the death of her family. For the sake of his own enjoyment, he had calculated that he could inflict more psychological torment upon her by getting her consent—even if it was only a small amount.  

He was evil. 

I laughed soundlessly to my mirror-self as my white toothbrush stuck out in the near-nonexistent light of the bathroom. It was a sordid, insane laugh. Of course you love a fucking psychopath who just enjoys torturing people. That’s what he does to you now. Even if he did exist, he’d be getting off on you pining for him. On you asking for him. Your emotional turmoil is nothing short of beautifully delicious to that bastard. Why do you love him? Why?

(He pretends so well. He pretends—)

 I spat violently into the sink as the foam of toothpaste threatened to swallow up my throat, and I suppressed a gag as I accidentally sucked slime back into my mouth. To think I had such a good dream yesterday. To think I had cried yesterday. Lawrence was nothing but an asshole. I wanted to kill him. Kill him for everything he put me through. He would kill me first, after I gouged out those pretty eyes, but it didn’t matter. 

It didn’t matter because he wasn’t real. 

I left the bathroom, and before I was really thinking about it, I tiptoed into my room and slowly, agonizingly opened the top drawer of my desk and withdrew the envelope. The envelope addressed: “To whom it may concern.”

My fingers nervously fluttered as I flipped open the unsealed envelope, and I took out the sheet of printer-paper I had neatly folded inside. For some reason, as I looked at the words on the page, I felt my hands grow steady.

“I think the first thing that should be said is an apology. I know I’m wrong for doing this and causing you so much pain. But I also couldn’t continue the way I was either. The least I can do is attempt to help you understand the things I kept hidden from you for years. 

“I have always been lonely. That wasn’t your fault, and to be honest I don’t really think it’s anyone’s fault but mine. Human connection somehow eludes me. Even when love is offered to me, it doesn’t seem to reach me. I don’t feel it. I’m sorry for saying this to you, who have loved me all my life. I’m sorry that I’ve never felt like I belonged anywhere…” 

I stopped reading, and I simply stared at the handwriting on the page. And I glanced down at the wet, crinkled circle which had defiled one edge of my horrid words.  I pressed my lips tight and squeezed my eyes shut. 

You could. But you’re too much of a coward. You could. Everyone’s asleep. It’s one in the morning. You could. But you won’t, because the pain terrifies you. Because you know that to succeed, you have to be silent. You have to pray you die quickly enough that no one will wake up and get an ambulance. 

Hah. 

Selfish fucking bitch. 

I bit my lip harder and harder, and in a fit of blind anger with myself, I took the note and the envelope with me, making my careful yet agitated way back down the stairs. Back into the kitchen. Mechanically pulling the largest knife out of the block and taking it with me into the back porch, the room farthest from anyone’s bedroom, besides maybe the unfinished basement. 

I stared at the blade, barely glinting in the absence of the moonlight, and I wondered, as my hands started to feel clammy, if I really could do it. Maybe I should really try to find a way to hang myself instead. That’ll give me 3 minutes to survive, and there’s no way my parents could get here in time for that if they heard me scream.

No. I can do it this way. I’m tired. This is what I want anyway, so why not just do it? Why not right now? I’m fed up with school anyway, and I don’t have any life plans. I don’t want to live here anymore. I can do it. I can do this. 

My hands betrayed me as I laid the blade against my neck, feeling for my pulse for a moment to make sure I had part of the carotid under the edge. I adjusted my grip and sucked in a deep breath, feeling my bravado seem to wisp away by the second. The blade felt so sharp—if I hesitated even a little bit and missed, I might not die, and everyone would see I had tried to die. And then I’d never have this opportunity again. 

The blade pressed harder, and my breath quickened. I could feel my beating heart thumping through the German steel. Thump! Thump! Thump! I would just rip my hands to one side, and that would be it. It would be over. I would be done with all of it. Goodbye to trying to learn to drive. Goodbye to getting a job I didn’t want. Goodbye to going to college. Goodbye to the people I couldn’t call friends in good faith. Goodbye to my own inadequacy and constant torment. 

Only the pain in my joints told me how hard I was gripping the handle, and I realized with some shock that my knuckles were white, and I was shaking so badly it was amazing I hadn’t cut myself by accident. I’m scared. I’m really scared. What if there’s an afterlife and I go to an even worse place? What if I can be happy in this life? What if I can be happy tomorrow? What if… I shook my head and re-tightened my grip. No. It’s been too long. I can’t keep doing this. I can’t. I can’t. 

I squeezed my eyes shut, and I moved my white-knuckled hands with all my might, but… they didn’t move. 

The knife dropped from my hand, and I stared up, wide-eyed, into a pair of bright, fuchsia orbs which seemed to consume my being. I stared up into a disapproving face that belonged, not to family, not to friend, but to fiction. The adrenaline wore away, and my body started to ache as if it hadn’t been just the muscles in my hands that had stiffened up. 

My head filled up with dizziness and uncomfortable prickles of hot and cold, and even my limited vision faltered as a feeling of deja vu rippled in my mind. That was right; I had seen him before, back in November. I shouldn’t have been this shocked. I should have known he had been lingering in my shadow all this time. Waiting to gloat. 

“Can’t you even let me die?” I barely whispered as my sitting position faltered and let me fall, my head painfully hitting the floor. “Kill me, you bastard. Kill me…” I begged with pitiful abandon, and yet those hateful, beloved eyes never left mine as my voice grew faint with my weakness. 

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This fantastic DL crack (and DL's fire soundtrack) are the reason I can still watch this broken anime lmao

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This was going to be a mildly nsft meme but goddamn I miss my cuddle time rn :,)

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True story.

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(To any DL fans, this was before I actually went beyond HDB+MB. Still, Jesus Christ, Rejet.)

The worst part is I now have to explain to people why I have a complicated love-hate relationship with this dumpster fire.

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(This video if you're curious enough)

I'm really glad I got into Matpat's Film Theory because Boisvert's stuff is creepy as hell but really cool at the same time.