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[solcarow]

“You just want me gone because you don’t love me.” It does not afford him even a glance. “Don’t be stupid. If I did not love you, I could have dumped you at any corner of this cursed city when you were still a baby.” “Like you did with the foetuses or the dead women you took them out from?”

his mother says all the love in the world might not be enough for him.

– (1430) 1/1, friday night (also on ao3)

My mother did her best.  Once, she said     there will never be enough love in the world for you, but in the dream          she meant it fondly.

– acie clark, intoning

Rationally, Jay knows it has been just two days (or one and a half, really), yet he cannot help but check for the results. He has to press the laptop charger with a book to make sure it stays steady; otherwise, the old brick will shut down at once. Then, the website loads on forever.

And he has to refresh it right away. He refreshes the Wayne Foundation academic mobility scholarship application page twice, thrice, the screen blinking with its contents– Only for him to once again be faced with the bold red letters. His hand trembles slightly as he clicks on the mouse frantically. The same. 

He jumps to his feet and opens the door to the big room; the only appropriate name for what contains a kitchen, doubles as a living space and serves as a makeshift bedroom, the areas and functions blending into each other. He takes a breath in, fidgeting in the threshold. Despite its humble size, the room is meticulously organised, even the dim lightning coming from strategically placed small lamps instead of the main, ceiling one.

“Mom?”

“Mhm?” Sheila is seated on the sofa, engrossed in a magazine. There are rollers in her hair, and she’s dressed in a neatly ironed collared blue dress, so she might be planning to go out later tonight. Which means maybe he should have taken the initiative to make dinner himself instead of waiting for her summons. But that’s a problem for later.

“The website says the documents were not received.” 

She reads on, replying only after turning a glossy page: “Hm. Maybe they haven’t updated it yet.” She still does not look up at him: “Besides, you already got into that Star school, didn’t you?” 

The realisation sinks in.

"You didn’t do it,” he stutters, “You said not to post them because you’d bring them in person— And—" His voice catches with emotion, and he hates it, but he cannot help how the confusion blends with an immediate, raw sense of betrayal. It’s the knowledge he could have taken care of the matter himself, and yet– He left it in his mother’s hands, stupidly, because despite her undeniable lack of enthusiasm, she promised.

“It’s the better option, that Queen scholarship. The location. And even a preparatory summer school included-”

But that was plan B. The fact that he applied there first was just an issue of the application timelines- He swallows, his throat suddenly dry. He wants to stay in Gotham. He wants to stay in Gotham so badly his face gets hot all over with emotion. 

Jay blinks rapidly to prevent the tears from welling up in his eyes, not trusting himself to speak. Instead, he stumbles forward. On a drawer, there is a vase so ridiculous that the antique shop almost gave it away for free. His mother always acted like she was made for the finer tastes, despite not being born into them or being able to ever afford them. He pushes it away to access the stack of envelopes and find the one with the Excelsior’s logo, similarly ostentatious. 

He feels as immature as helpless when he slides the letter out to start tearing it. The pristine, thick paper falls to the shabby, lacquered wood of the floor. 

"We have a PDF of that, you know." Sheila's response is typically delayed and typically pragmatic, punctuated by a slight raise of eyebrows. Her calmness makes it all seem inevitable.

His throat is clenching. The accusation barely manages to make out of it:

“You just want me gone because you don’t love me.”

It does not afford him even a glance.

“Don’t be stupid. If I did not love you, I could have dumped you at any corner of this cursed city when you were still a baby.”

“Like you did with the foetuses or the dead women you took them out from?”

In the following bout of silence, Jay expects his mother to stand up. He expects it so readily that he can almost see it in real time. He expects her to slap him, because there was a time when she would, and short years have not served to prevent the sting in the cheek, even the purely imagined one. In that instant, he almost wishes it was real. 

She does not make a move. She does, however, finally look up at him.

“That was crude,” she huffs.  

He doesn’t care about crudeness. He cares about staying home.

“Dad would never-“

“And where’s your daddy?” 

“I’m going to see him,” he announces, turning to the door.

“You’re going to walk to Blackgate,” she says, unimpressed.

“Yes.” He grabs his jacket.

“At 9pm,” she adds, even though it’s barely 8. “Outside of the visiting hours.”

“Yes,” he repeats. He can’t suppress his tears anymore, so that final confirmation is more of a weep than an articulated response. Sheila’s grey eyes bore into him with the same hardened indifference they usually do the second he starts crying. It is only marginally better than the open frustration he could be met with.

He shuts the door and skips every two steps. The bottom of the stairs is cold to touch as he sits down, putting his father’s stiff denim on and curling in. The tears now fall earnestly. The corridor smells mildly of dampness, maybe even mould. It is almost silent, only muffled voices from the ground floor flats for his company, and he allows himself the first two sobs to echo, before hiding his head between his knees. 

Jay wants Dad. He can’t have Dad until next week. It makes him resent him, just a bit, just for a moment, because mom was right; he is not here for Jason; not now, nor truly ever. Bringing up Dad in a fight was no more efficient than betting on a losing dog. He always does it anyway.

But there was plenty more Jason could add; for example: I would rather have Cathy than you. That, he never says. Thinking about Cathy makes his breath catch violently, and cry harder anyway. Dad’s in prison, and Cathy’s dead, and he’s running out of both tears and parental figures to turn to. 

He reaches into his pocket to take out a loose, slightly crumpled cigarette and a lighter. It tingles his throat even before he even takes a drag. The actual drag makes him cough.

“These women would rather be dead than mothers,” was what Sheila said once, right after Jason found out. Sometimes recalling that defence comforted him; it did not ease the irrational guilt, but it did mean that he, at least, was not unwanted enough for her to entertain other ideas. On other days, the easy sympathy with which these words were laced haunted him instead. He chews them over again, for what feels like forever, their taste sour.

“What did I say about stealing my cigarettes?”

He startles at his mother’s voice and nearly drops it, but Sheila quickly grasps it before it burns his fingers. She extinguishes it against the wall. It was already yellowing from all the indoor smoking anyway.

“Come eat dinner.” she says, her tone curt. Her hair is relaxed. She waits patiently for him to wipe his blotchy face and follow her back. He does. The anxiety curdling in his stomach stings as he walks upstairs, watching the elegant curve of the back of her dress. 

The dinner on the table is frozen pizza, because it’s cheap and because his mom hates cooking, and a green smoothie, to compensate for the quality and the lack of nutrition. And next to that bizarre meal there’s a transparent folder. The text on the paper is still blurry to him, letters spilling away from his vision, but he recognises them for what they are; the documents requested by the Wayne Foundation along with the application form. An unfair taunt.

“I will hand it in tomorrow morning. They will accept it,” his mother says.

“And what if they don’t?” 

“Then I will speak with Wayne himself.” 

Jason half-sniffles, half-chuckles. 

“What’s so funny, hm?” she asks, reaching to gently brush his curls out of his face. The touch is so light it’s barely there. But the coldness of her hand relieves the headache he has not yet noticed, probably a result of dehydration. He takes a sip of the smoothie first. It tastes spinachy, and strangely bitter–sweet.

“Sometimes,” his mother says, her shadow dark beside,  “I feel like all the love in the world wouldn’t be enough for you.” 

She might mean it fondly.

[solcarow]

English added by me :)

[solcarow]

[solcarow]

while you were studying girls i was kissing the blade

[solcarow]

🗒️ 26.04.2024 ⋅⋅⋅ ❄️

previous post without the vertical mirroring and background n______n uhh. utena !!! on ice. adolescence of yuri. revolutionary yuri !!! girl yuri on adolescence. yuri, REVIVE!!! at times love is everything on ice uuuh we call everything on ice yuri. the REAL yuri!!! on ice. is this anything. yuri!!! on yuri wait no i mean yuri girl utena no i mean revolutionary ice on girl i mean girl on girl NO WAIT I MEAN YURI ON

[solcarow]

1863!yoohan post compilation

[solcarow]

hi falin hiiii (titties out vr on twitter)

[solcarow]

died and came back exactly the same but something was so so so wrong with me before and now I have an excuse to really lean into it

[solcarow]

thesis: calling things "biblically accurate" isnt funny anymore

antithesis: saying "none of these words are in the bible" isnt funny anymore either

synthesis: theres some level of biblical relevance that will make jokes funny but we havent found it yet

[solcarow]

The sick reality is that many of the renowned academics and writers among Gaza's thousands of martyrs will, in twenty years time, be quoted and memorialised by the same universities and institutions that have denigrated them and enabled their slaughter.

[solcarow]

the right hairstyle for your face is the one that makes you smile when you see yourself in the mirror btw.

[solcarow]

im getting my oil changed and i heard the mechanic go "tee hee hee". whats happening

[solcarow]

reblog to pet prev

[solcarow]

reblog to pet prev

[solcarow]

reblog to pet prev

[solcarow]

Yoo Joonghyuk's '■■' is 'hormone replacement therapy'