#BUT NOT RIGHT NOW I AM PHYSICALLY SHIVERING AND IT IS 1AM AT NIGHT

[randaccidents]

I HAVE

I HAVE DERAILED OUR RP ENTIRELY

IN TWO TRAP CARD PLANS THAT I TRIGGERED I HAVE DERAILED OUR RP IT IS GOING IN AN ENTIRELY UNPLANNED DIRECTION

OH GOD OH NO IT IS ALL GOING DOWNHILL BOYS

[eyes-of-fanfiction-green]

Find Me (Part 2)

Cop!Dean x kidnapped!Reader

!!PART 1 here!!

!! PART 3 here!!

MASTERLIST

Summary: Dean and his K9 Unit are helping with the investigation of the serial kidnappings and murders case. But this isn’t the typical case he was expecting, with love and life-threatening danger thrown at him along the way.

Warning: This has a thriller movie kind of vibe at some parts.

A/N: eep! I actually am like planning ahead the storyline on this one, yay!! I’m really excited about this story.

Dean quickly jogged through the entrance of the, now very much awake and bustling, station heading straight to Detective Hendrickson, who was huddled in the back corner talking with his group of people. He glanced over and caught Dean’s eye, waving him over urgently.

“Winchester, good. I’m glad you’re here. We’re on the clock again.” Hendrickson started rifling through the files in his hands, passing a few to Dean as he spoke. “New victim: [Y/F/N] [Y/L/N], physical description is in the file, reported missing this morning around 0600 when her friends noticed she wasn’t at her early morning shift at work and went to check on her. They said they reported it right away because of hearing about the past victims in the news. Victim was last seen being dropped off at her apartment the night before by her two cousins, they stated they were bar-hopping together until 1am last night. For now, we are categorizing her apartment as the crime scene and kidnapping location.”

Dean nodded critically as he took notes of the information.

“The address for the apartment is in that file,” Hendrickson continued, “I want you to head over there with your K9 unit and assist the investigation with the on-scene forensics team there. We need to know exactly what happened last night.”

“Yes, sir.” Dean took the last file grimly and headed right back out to his car, picking Indie up from the police kennels where he just dropped him off minutes before along the way.

He sat in the front seat for a moment, going over the rest of the information as quickly as possible. He knew it was important for him to get over there as fast as possible, but he also knew that he needed all the knowledge of this victim that he could get before going in.

His eyes swept speedily through the pages in front of him before faltering slightly at the sight of the victim’s picture.

She was lovely.

Her hair was silky, and her eyes were vibrant. She was laughing at the camera in the middle of what appeared to be someone’s party, her teeth were flashing into the most genuine smile and for a moment Dean almost felt himself smile back.

Gazing at her joyful face, Dean felt a dull stab in his chest knowing that wherever she was now, she most definitely wasn’t smiling. She was probably terrified. And alone…

Dean huffed out a breath and piled the files in the passenger seat. He turned on Baby’s engine and looked back at Indie to give him a sad, little smile before tearing down the street towards the apartment.

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

You shifted in your bonds, rolling your shoulders back to ease out the crick that was forming.

Welp. This wasn’t good.

You couldn’t really remember what happened last night, though the crusted blood at the back of your head was a tell-tale sign of why that was. You vaguely recalled getting home pretty tipsy from hanging out with your cousins.

You had gone into the kitchen to grab some water. You’d heard a noise…then nothing. It was blank.

The ropes were digging into your wrists as you tried to ease pressure off of the raw skin, but it was no use. You leaned your head back against the wall with a sigh.

You weren’t an idiot. You had heard about the other kidnappings-turned-murder and had a pretty good idea of what was going on. It may not be helping keep the panic in your chest at bay, but hey, at least you knew.

One good thing, or maybe not, was that your captor had taken off your blindfold the last time he had checked on you, he wore a mask, of course, but now you could take stock of your surroundings better.

The cellar-type room that you were currently being held hostage in was disgusting. The cobbled-stone floor was slimed over with mud, feces, and blood. Oh joy.

There was a little commune of rats huddling maliciously in the corner, you were actively ignoring those little buggers, but other than that you were alone.

Well… at least you were…

The metal door hinges screamed as your captor chose that moment to enter your “cell”.

“Oh! Fancy meeting you here!” You tried to quip, although the roughness and cracking in your voice probably wasn’t helping portray the false bravado.

“Don’t be snide sweetheart, it doesn’t suit you.”

You felt your head whip to the side as he slapped the crap out of your face. Damn, now your face was on fire.

“Need to make sure you’re nice and settled in before I go mingling about outside…”

There was a clanging sound as you felt him lock iron chains around your wrists and ankles, before cutting off the now unnecessary ropes.

He patted the side of your stinging face, and you caught a glint of maliciousness in his eyes peaking through the mask, “I’ll be back soon precious. Don’t worry.”

You felt a shiver crawl up your shiver as he walked out and locked the door behind him.

Escaping would be a really good idea right now…

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

Dean ran a frustrated hand through his hair, tugging at the ends as he gave the apartment one last once-over.

They couldn’t find anything.

He and Indie had been working with the team there for hours and still nothing. There was no sign of forced entry. No sign of a struggle. Everything was clean and precise. Almost too clean.

Whoever they were dealing with was certainly clever, that much was obvious from the fact that they were on their fifth victim and still hadn’t gotten caught.

Dean huffed out his frustration, the image of the girl’s face flashing before his eyes. There had to be something here.

So, he kept looking.

An hour or so later, everyone had left and gone back to the station, but Dean just pursed his lips and kept looking. He scoured the living room, the kitchen, the bedr-

He stopped.

In the back corner of the carpet of the bedroom was… Dean squinted and crept closer, crouching down to get a better look.

Footprints.

He almost jumped for joy as he quickly pulled out his phone, snapping a picture and sending it to forensics before examining it further. Just the slightest indentation of …size 11?... boots lay imbedded in the carpet. The kidnapper must have been waiting for her, standing in this corner hiding for hours.

Okay. Evidence. And a shoe size.

Well at least that was something. Which was more than they’d had before.

Dean grinned down at the boot prints. They would catch him in time. He was sure of it. After an hour later and nothing else turning up, Dean decided it was time to head back to the station and give a proper report.

He practically bounded down the building’s steps, Indie on his heels, humming a little AC/DC under his breath. He went over to the back right door, letting Indie jump into his kennel, before going over to the driver’s door.

He hopped in, started up his Baby and…

He froze.

There, sitting innocently on the top of his dashboard was a note.

He carefully slipped on his gloves and picked it up. There was dread forming in the pit of his stomach. This was just sitting in his car. His LOCKED car.

He bit his lip nervously as he opened it, hands shaking only slightly.

--“I’m bored.

You’re smart.

Let’s play a game, shall we?”—

Dean’s eyes widened and he swallowed hard. He heard Indie whining worriedly from the backseat, smelling the terrified energy rolling off of him in waves.

“Fuck, Indie. We are so in over our heads…”

——————————————————————————————————

PART 3 here!

Thank you for reading!! Please let me know what you thought so far in the comments!! And if you want to be added to my tag list!

@22sarah08 @cocklesbelli @chook007

Also, little tid bit. I named the dog Indie after Indiana Jones (and the dog he was named after) cause I just needed this little canon where Dean is an Indiana Jones fanboy dork and I love it. No regrets.

[artificialqueens]

For Your Safety, Chapter Five (Branjie) - Kite

A/N : Sorry this chapter is late! TW: anxiety/intrusive thoughts

“Easy does it. Feel free to slow down.”

“I got this.”

“Just make sure you’re keeping an eye on the speedometer.”

“I am.”

“Nessa, slow down!”

“Calm down, Mary!”

“Okay, sorry. You’re right, you’re doing gre– JESUS FUCK! Use your turn signals!”

In hindsight, offering to teach Vanessa how to drive wasn’t one of Brooke’s best ideas.

When Vanessa had told her that nobody had ever taught her how to drive, Brooke had been eager to volunteer, thinking it would be a good way for them to spend more time together. She also hoped that if Vanessa could drive, she could get to know the city a little better and maybe it could feel more like her home. When she’d first had the idea, there really had been no down sides.

But now, as Brooke clutches onto the fabric of the passenger seat of her car whilst Vanessa barrels down the highway, she’s beginning to rethink. She really should’ve seen it coming, since Vanessa is physically incapable of operating at anything less than a ten, but maybe she was just blindsided by her crushing desire to make her happy. Unfortunately, the very things that Brooke adore about Vanessa - her fiery temperament, her unrelenting energy, her inability to act on anything other than impulse - are all the things that make her the world’s worst driver.

Okay, maybe not the world’s worst, she hasn’t caused an accident yet, but she’s definitely up there.

But every time Brooke considers cutting the lesson short and insisting that they swap seats, she looks over and sees Vanessa’s face. She sees the ear to ear grin, sees the younger woman practically glowing with excitement, and Brooke just can’t bring herself to tell her to stop.

“You’re doing great, baby.” She says reassuringly, relishing in the blush on Vanessa’s cheeks, but silently praying they make it home in one piece.

Gradually, she directs Vanessa further and further out of the city, onto the more quiet roads. So what if it will take them longer to get home afterwards? There’s nothing else Brooke would rather do today. Eventually, Vanessa seems to relax and it shows significantly in the way that she drives, so Brooke lets out a soft sigh of relief.

“Let me know if you want me to take over.” She reminds her, as she relaxes into her seat for the first time and allows Vanessa to decide where she wants to take them. -x- Brooke would be lying if she said living with Vanessa is turning out exactly how she wanted it to, but for the first time in her life, she’s genuinely, truly happy. The first night that Vanessa had visited her home, all those months ago, Brooke had idly though that Vanessa had filled some kind of void that she hadn’t known existed. That seemed to be true now more than ever.

Having someone around waiting for her when she got home from work, someone to taste the food whilst she cooks, or someone hang out with when it’s too rainy to go outdoors… the little things - that what Brooke’s been missing. What she’d been craving.

It doesn’t matter that they aren’t together romantically. That they can’t be together romantically.

Or, at least, that’s what Brooke tells herself.

In Brooke’s mind, the reason they can’t be together is that she knows she’s become someone Vanessa relies on. If she wouldn’t have let her move in, Vanessa would’ve had very few other options. Brooke is acutely aware of this whenever she toys with the idea of just saying ‘fuck it’ and letting Vanessa know exactly what she wants.

She worries that, if she were to make a move, Vanessa would feel obligated to reciprocate out of a fear that Brooke would kick her out if she didn’t. Even the slightest thought that Vanessa could think that made Brooke feel sick. So, she reminds herself that she can never risk putting pressure on her and forces herself to resist.

She has to keep holding onto the thoughts of all the ways that Vanessa has made her life better, whenever she’s having a bad day. In the past couple of months that they’d lived together, Brooke had had her fair share of bad days, as she quickly began to realize that being a cop living with a sex worker brings with it a whole list of complications.

The first problem is that Brooke knows that the way Vanessa earns her money is illegal, and she’s definitely not supposed to be taking illegal earnings as rent, so she’s forced to turn a blind eye to Vanessa’s work. The unofficial story for if Vanessa ever gets picked up by the police is that she responded to Brooke’s advertisement for a roommate and that Brooke never asked what she did for a living. It wasn’t entirely plausible, but it was certainly better than Brooke saying “I tried to arrest this woman eight months ago but her charm and beauty wore me down and now not only am I in love with her, I am willing to risk my job so that she doesn’t have to go back to Tampa.”

The biggest problem, however, is that whenever Vanessa comes home from a night working, dressed in her revealing outfits and smelling like a combination of sex and bad aftershave, it makes Brooke’s skin crawl.

Brooke has started smoking indoors more to mask the scent. It doesn’t work.

She hates feeling jealous and bitter, when she could focus on all the ways in which Vanessa breathes life into the apartment every day, but she just can’t help herself.

One night, she snaps.

“You smell like cheap whiskey.” Brooke mutters from where she sits on the sofa as Vanessa stumbles through the door at 1am.

“Well pardon me for not drinking the fancy stuff.” Vanessa laughs, then hiccups as she fumbles to take off her shoes.

“Don’t leave those shoes in the middle of the room.”

Vanessa rolls her eyes and kicks them a few inches closer to the wall. “Better?”

“No. And you need to stop being so loud when you come in late at night.” Brooke doesn’t know why, but she’s trying to pick a fight.

“You were up anyways.”

“Doesn’t mean I enjoy listening to your drunken stumbling.”

“What, so I aint allowed to drink now either?” Vanessa laughs brashly.

Brooke exhales sharply in frustration. “That’s not the problem.”

Suddenly, the smirk drops from Vanessa’s face and as quick as a flash, her eyes darken with anger. “Then what is the problem, bitch?” She yells. Brooke flinches away from the unexpected noise. She opens her mouth to speak but Vanessa carries on.

“You think I don’t notice that every time get back from workin’, you wanna treat me like a piece of trash?”

Brooke tries to protest, but doesn’t get the chance.

“Don’t you be denying it, cause you know it’s the truth. You’re down to kick it and kiki through the day, actin like we best fuckin friends, but when I get home at night you’re reminded that you invited some hood rat to live under your roof. I know you’re disgusted by me and what I do but let me remind you, mama, that you asked me to live here. You did that. You made your bed and now you gotta fuckin sleep in it.”

Brooke’s breath catches in her throat.

Vanessa is unrelenting.

She can’t handle people yelling because it makes her feel like she’s drowning. Like all the air has been sucked from the room and replaced with a tidal wave of fear.

So, she does what she does best and pushed her emotions down, forcing herself not to cry.

“I don’t have a problem with what you do, Ness.” She stammers, feeling her entire body trembling as Vanessa’s piercing eyes watch her like a shark.

“Then what is it, hmm?” She shouts back.

Brookes hands are shivering, but Vanessa’s entire body is vibrating with emotion. She’s like a roaring fire, consuming all the energy in the room.

Brooke knows she’s responsible for this. She was trying to pick a fight and she got one. Maybe she’s been doing it for longer than she realized. Chipping away at Vanessa. Pushing her to the brink of an eruption.

She can’t bare to be in the room any longer, wallowing in the midst of what she’d brought on to herself, so she stands up and walks away quickly, not stopping to look back.

“Just take a fucking shower. I can’t stand the smell of cheap whiskey.”

-x-

Later that evening, Brooke scrubs away at her skin in the shower so hard that it’s almost painful. She’s overcome with a terrible mixture of guilt and shame.

“I know you’re disgusted by me.” Vanessa had screamed at her.

Brooke doesn’t know if she just said it in the heat of the moment, or if it was something she’d been feeling for a while, but either way in made her stomach churn. Had she really let her jealousy and bitterness go so far? Had she really, even for a minute, let Vanessa believe that to be true?

She’s disgusted by the idea of some dirty, sleazy man, roaming his hands over Vanessa’s body, breathing his hot, stale breath against her lips, but she would never be disgusted by Vanessa. Brooke has never, ever, judged her for the choices that she makes. She needs to tell her that so badly it hurts. She’s so angry with herself for bottling up her feelings and being unable to say what’s on her mind.

Brooke is so wrapped up in her thoughts that she doesn’t hear the bathroom door opening. It’s the cold draft of air rushing over her skin that makes her realize what’s happening.

Through the frosted glass, she can see Vanessa entering the room in her robe. Brooke open’s her mouth to tell Vanessa that she’s in here, but she knows that she knows.

She drops the robe.

Slowly, and silently, Vanessa pads across the room and slides open the glass door.

“What are you doing?” Brooke whispers, keeping her eyes fixed on Vanessa’s.

“You told me I gotta take a shower.” She whispers back, stepping into the cubicle and sliding the door shut behind her.

Brooke can’t breathe. Their bodies are inches apart, but she forces herself to keep her eyes on Vanessa’s face. Due to their height difference, Vanessa has to crane her neck back slightly so that she can look up at Brooke through her thick, luscious eyelashes. She blinks slowly once, then again, then wordlessly takes Brooke’s hand that rests by her side.

At the unfamiliar sensation, Brooke’s eyes snap downwards, and she’s suddenly able to take all of Vanessa in.

Her body is glorious. It’s like she was sculpted by the gods themselves. Small beads of water track their way down her beautifully tanned skin. Her breasts, her stomach, her thighs. Mapping a route of where Brooke wants to kiss and lick and stroke. Without meaning to, she moves closer.

She then feels Vanessa tugging at her hand gently, pulling it upwards. She moves where Vanessa guides her, allowing her to raise her hand to her face. When Brooke’s fingers make contact with the skin, Vanessa’s own hand falls away. Instinctively, Brooke adjusts her hold, moving to cup the younger woman’s cheek. She softly brushes she pad of her thumb over Vanessa’s lips and her eyes flutter closed.

Kiss her, Brooke’s mind is screaming.

But she can’t. Not yet.

She can’t keep suppressing her emotions for much longer. It’s tearing her apart inside.

If this is going to happen, it can’t be just some tension relieving fuck in the shower that never gets brought up again. It can’t just be a response to a fight. It can’t be the thing that destroys what they’ve got.

For once in her life, Brooke needs to lay all her cards out on the table and just be fucking honest.

“Look at me.” She says softly, hooking her forefinger under Vanessa’s chin and tilting her head upwards. Brooke has to clench her jaw to stop herself from trembling when Vanessa’s eyes connect with hers.

She takes a long, deep breath, then another, then a third.

Never breaking eye contact.

Never dropping her finger from beneath Vanessa’s chin.

The tension is so thick that it threatens to swallow them both whole.

“I’m in love with you.”

Vanessa’s lips are on hers before she can take a breath. Her hands come to either side of Brooke’s face, pulling her closer, crushing their lips together in a passionate fury. Brooke moves the hand from beneath Vanessa’s chin to tangle her fingers in her hair and curls the other strongly around her waist. Their bodies are flush together, but it still isn’t close enough.

Usually, Brooke needs to be the one in control, but she yields to Vanessa, allowing her to dominate the kiss. There is none of the softness that should come with a first kiss. It’s fiery and uncoordinated, practically wild. Carnal. It’s the type of kiss that can only come from months and months of pent up desire.

The taste of Vanessa’s mouth is something Brooke craves. It’s gorgeous.

She’d rather suffocate than pull back to breathe.

Brooke curls her fingers deeper into Vanessa’s hair, then drags the fingernails of her other hand softly over the skin of her back, eliciting a deep moan in response. Brooke then takes the opportunity, when Vanessa’s lips relent, to spin them round so that the smaller woman’s back is pressed up against the cold tiles of the shower wall. She squeaks out a soft noise of surprise at the impact.

One moment, Brooke registers that her neck is straining from stooping, then the next, she’s leaning down to cup the back of Vanessa’s thighs and lift her up so that their faces are level. Brooke didn’t even realize she has the strength to pull it off. In reality, she probably doesn’t. It’s like adrenaline alone is enabling her strength.

It feels like her body is on autopilot. She’s not in control anymore.

Vanessa is quick to curl her legs around Brooke’s waist, hooking her ankles together behind her back, and her hands grip Brooke’s shoulders, as though she’s afraid she might fall.

They’re kissing so hard, so vigorously, that Brooke start to ache, so reluctantly, she pulls away from Vanessa’s mouth and instead connects her lips to her neck. But if she thinks that will be her chance to catch her breath, she’s wrong. Vanessa’s moans deepen as she trails her mouth across her neck.

Brooke is only spurred onward.

She sucks at the skin forcefully as Vanessa moans, then drags her teeth harshly over the same spot. Vanessa gasps in response.

Brooke runs her teeth over the sensitive skin once more. “Fuck.” Vanessa hisses sharply.

Overcome arousal at the sound of Vanessa cursing, Brooke takes the skin between her teeth and applies some pressure and Vanessa hisses again. As she goes to repeat the movement however, she feels Vanessa shake her head and squirm beneath her. “Brooke, stop. You’re hurting me.” She says quietly.

At the sound of her words, Brooke snaps out of her lustful haze.

“Fuck.” She breathes out, then lowers Vanessa so that she can stand. “Fuck. I’m so sorry.”

There’s a dark purple bruise forming on Vanessa’s neck where her lips had been.

Tears begin to burn at the corners of Brooke’s eyes.

“It’s okay, baby.” Vanessa tells her softly. “I was liking it ‘till the teeth” she adds with a smirk, then leans up for another kiss, but Brooke flinches away.

She shakes her head softly as Vanessa tries to kiss her again. “Brooke, its okay.” She whispers. Brooke can feel her trying to tilt her chin so that she will look her in the eye, but she can’t take her eyes off the bruise.

She did that to her.

Vanessa deserves to be treated like a goddess, to be caressed and loved, but instead she marked her skin with her unbridled desire.

Brooke’s fingers move to delicately trace the skin below the bruise. “I’m so sorry.” She says, feeling her breathing quicken. She’s going to cry.

Vanessa smiles up at her and and brushes her fingers over Brooke’s cheek. “Hey Mami, don’t go getting upset over no damn hickey.” She’s speaking in a tone so gentle and quiet that it makes Brooke’s heard ache. It’s the tone that’s reserved only for moments like these.

Brooke doesn’t deserve her.

“I hurt you.”

She can feel her lip quivering. She doesn’t deserve Vanessa’s comfort right now, because it’s not just a hickey.

She’d heard Vanessa’s moans turn into hisses of pain, but she was too overcome with lust to register that she was hurting her. If she’d been focused on Vanessa, like she should have been, she could’ve realized sooner. How can she claim to love this woman if she can even fucking listen to her?

Brooke knows she’s spiraling, but she can’t stop. “I can’t do this.” She blurts out.

Vanessa sighs a little, then nods her head warmly back at her and strokes her cheek again. “That’s okay, baby, we can just go to bed–”

“No I mean I can’t do this.” She repeats, but gestures between the two of them this time. “I’m not right for you.”

She turns away before she can see the look on Vanessa’s face and pushes her hand away as she leaves the cubicle.

Vanessa is warmth and energy and light.

Brooke is darkness and pessimism and doubt.

She finds a way to let her anxieties creep into even the best of places. She ruins things. She hurts people.

It can never work.

[driftingbutstillbeating-blog]

plz ignore this thanks

   CONTENTS

      ADVERT

  EDITOR’S NOTE

      Welcome to the first issue of FANGZINE, a collection of short stories, silly articles and general tripe, with some serious social commentary thrown in from time to time as well.

    2016, by all accounts, was not a good year. Countless celebrity icons kicked the bucket, an unelected uber-bitch seized power in Westminster, the high watermark point of the post-war neoliberal consensus was realised with Brexit, and the bloke from The Chase was the highest selling recording artist in Britain. Oh yeah… Donald Trump happened, too.

    So, with all these horrors behind us, can we take comfort in the fact that this is a new year, a fresh start for the world and for ourselves? Well, no. There’s nothing remarkable about it being 2017, it’s just an arbitrary rotation of the world around the sun. Bad shit’s still going to happen, isn’t it? Come on now, really- don’t kid yourself.

    With that in mind, see this zine in a way as a distraction from the terrible events that this year will no doubt spew forth. This is a celebration of the creative, comedic and trivial side of life, so please, read on at your leisure and enjoy!

  2016 OBITUARY PAGE

  TOM INVESTIGATES

        CAPS-LOCK ON: A NEW HAT

 The first of a dark trilogy, heartbreakingly based on true events and personal experience, by Stephen Spiers

Weeks and weeks ago, in a galaxy far, far up north, a troubled young soul was drinking his way through Leeds on a warm summer’s evening. Little did he know that he was about to be consumed by a vicious addiction from which few, if any, have been known to emerge from. Read on and take heed, for the events in the following tale could happen to anyone…

 “Whose cap is this?”

“Dunno mate, someone must’ve left it.”

‘Jackpot’ I thought to myself as I stumbled from inside one of the many nameless pubs on the Otley Run’s agenda into the balmy late summer Leeds air.

“Ere, they’re all over here, you can ask.”- Jack was gesturing towards a low wall where the rest of our troupe were sitting, having a smoke.

A hat is a wonderful thing on a night out. I’d never really liked wearing hats, even at a young age, but after 5 pints and a couple of ‘fat trebbies’, such an accessory can provide one with endless fun. Drunken girls’ attentions can be caught, hilarious Jay-Z impressions can be made, and if nothing else, a little warmth can be provided at 4 in the morning when you’re sobered up and shivering, waiting for that taxi that should have arrived 20 fucking minutes ago. These were the kind of thoughts that were running through my mind as I shouted back over my shoulder:

“Fuck ‘em, I wanna wear it”

With that, I placed the plain black hat on my head and strode purposefully towards the next pub. It’d just be a laugh for one night, I thought. If only I knew of the descent into a world of addiction and self-loathing upon which I had just embarked.

The very next morning I was frantically scrambling around my room, packing my bags for a trip to Budapest with some friends, and generally regretting my decision to go out the night before. With my head pounding, and all of about 3 hours of alcohol-induced sleep under my belt, my newly acquired piece of headgear was the furthest thing from my mind. However, after several minutes of rooting through various items of my wardrobe looking for this and that, I found myself face to face (brim) with their newest addition: the little black baseball cap. There it sat, peering up at me from underneath a pile of unwashed clothing. ‘Go on, pack it’- I heard an unfamiliar voice in my head- ‘You’re going on Holiday, everyone wears hats on holiday’. Why was I persuading myself to take this hat? I didn’t even like wearing caps, and never had, plus I looked like a twat in it anyway. My head was round enough already without removing my poorly-styled quiff from the equation. ‘You’ll probably not even wear it’. I don’t know where it came from, but an unfathomable urge to pack it suddenly came over me. I grabbed it, shoved it in my bag and set off to the railway station.

12 hours, 3 trips to Ryanair’s customer service desk and a flat tyre later, we were dropping our bags off in our tiny Budapest apartment and getting ready to hit the bevs to kick off the holiday. Just as I was slipping on my trusty denim jacket, I heard the voice again- ‘Wear the hat. Go on, just once, just to see what it’s like’. I span round and sure enough there it was, barely visible, lurking in the murky depths of my holdall. And then it was gone. I stood for a moment, confused. Had I actually packed it? Or had I just imagined the whole thing? Then I re-focused. There were more important matters at hand. I could solve this mystery later, during time that couldn’t be better spent drinking copious amounts of beer. Invigorated by the promise of alcohol, I marched from the kitchen into the hallway where the others were waiting, wallet in hand.

No sooner had I stepped into the hall however, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror on the wall and my heart sank. I turned and stared in dismay at myself staring right back at me with an equally horrified expression. There was no wild imagination at work here, and no magical disappearing hat either. I was wearing it. And not only was I wearing it, I was wearing it backwards. I looked like a cross between one of those chavs I’d seen walking around Bradford in their matching tracksuit tops and bottoms, gobbing on the pavement as they went; and one of those hipster roadmen you can find populating the streets of Leeds, trying their best to look cool by wearing decidedly uncool clothing. I had become everything that I hate in this world. But that was just the thing. I didn’t hate it. I fucking loved it.

Make sure you grab the next issue of FANGZINE to find out what happens next to our unfortunate, newly becapp’d friend!

      HOLLY PIECE

After having volunteered at the Ipswich Night Shelter during the winter of 2015, and spending a night sleeping rough on the streets of Norwich in 2016 to raise money for the St. Martin’s Housing Trust, Holly Free offers an insight into the plight of the homeless in Britain today, and voices her concern over the apparent lack of empathy the general public shows towards them.

As I walk through the streets of Norwich at 1am, I glance to those not at immediate eye level. There seems to be some form of confrontation between a homeless individual and a Tesco security guard. I walk over, and the man appears to be on Spice, known as the most popular legal high that became illegal in May 2016. The security guard is visibly angry, and I am immediately shocked by his threatening stance towards the man who is barely able to stand, talk or function like a human being. The individual is not being aggressive, however the guard is using unnecessarily strong language towards him. The guard, in a dire need to justify his actions, turns to me – “He’s like this every fucking week. I’m sick of it.” Unable to bite my tongue, I respond hastily with “well, that quite clearly shows he needs help, don’t you think?” I want to educate this man and make him question what he knows about this individual’s life, and how he has ended up in this situation…  But I receive a response in the form of a patronising laugh and a filthy look, and my own rage silences me.

Everyone around me is mute, and all I can hear is my thoughts rage. An anxious episode? Silently raging at the stigma and ignorance surrounded by poverty and drug addiction? The sudden realisation of throwing away money on alcohol that I will most likely vomit later? All I do know is that the shame I feel is becoming unbearable, and I tuck my money into the pocket of the man who is now physically inept on the floor with three other homeless individuals. For the rest of the night, I feel consumed by worry for the man and his friends, unable to refocus my thoughts on having a night out. “Poor privileged me” I say to myself.

After volunteering at the Ipswich Night Shelter in winter 2015, I witnessed the harsh reality of homelessness, and I cannot sugar-coat it for the sake of those it may upset whom have a roof over their head, food in the cupboard and a general sense of stability. With the high probability of an individual without a home having mentally ill health, distressing family circumstances, or are trying to cope with a bereavement and addiction, it is so much more than just being a nameless face on the ground. It is not knowing when your next meal will be, or if you will ever have a home again. It is the fear of being judged, of ‘faking it’ or being labelled as that ‘helpless heroin addict’ and nothing more. It is being a statistic, not a human being. It is selling The Big Issue and being told to ‘get a real job’ by passers-by. Sometimes, it is going to sleep praying you will not wake up and being disappointed when you do. It is watching some of your friends die. It is crippling stomach cramps after weeks without a substantial meal, it is fatigue, and in worst cases, it is death.

I watch people crowding around sale areas of shops like vultures to roadkill, and most likely due to my own illnesses, my tunnel vision only enables me to see the negative. Money being spent on luxuries that we don’t really need, or actually want. I’m no angel myself – when pay day comes I act like the richest person alive, and then I realise the shit I have bought wasn’t needed at all. I’m not trying to deny people of their fun or own personal enjoyment, but there are times when all I want is for society as a whole to take a step back and look at the somewhat useless things we invest in.

When observing people making snide remarks whilst walking past someone who is quite clearly wasting away, mentally and physically, I wonder if deep down, it bothers them as much as it bothers me. Entering a dissociative state, I question whether anyone out there wants to genuinely help, or if it really is every man for themselves. “You have to cut yourself off from it” “You’ve done all you can” “Focus on yourself” “You’re too kind” Am I? Or is it not basic humanity to care for those in need and help where help is necessary? Maybe my immaturity and mental illnesses warp my idea of compassion… But I don’t want to walk on by, and I certainly don’t want to “draw the line somewhere”. The word compassion, to me, seems to have lost its true meaning, since now it is used to describe random once in a while acts of kindness. Don’t get me wrong, a little kindness is better than none at all, but surely in this increasingly poverty stricken society what we need is a continuity of care if this epidemic is ever to get better.

This doesn’t mean giving your money away to every homeless person you see. It doesn’t mean buying food for every homeless person you see. It can be as simple as a five minute chat, human contact being one of the biggest luxuries for someone without a home or a family to talk to. You never really consider what that contact can do for someone who has been alienated from the rest of society. You might just be saving a life.

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