#But they were both terminal diseases and they would be suffering until they died

[theforesteldritch]

Some people suck so much there’s an Instagram account of a (really cute and silly) cat with cerebrellar hypoplasia, so the part of his brain that helps control movement isn’t fully developed so he’s pretty wobbly when moving but he is a happy, healthy cat. There’s an (again very adorable in an orange cat way) video of him just demolishing, absolutely obliterating a tuna treat, and of course he’s wobbly because he has CH! But the comments are full of people saying he should be put down. And like. This cat is fine. It is not suffering. And it just reveals what people think of disabled humans too because if people are so mad about disabled animals existing and being alive because they can’t fathom that disability and happiness and quality of life can coexist given proper accommodations and supports, what do you think about disabled humans? It’s not that far of a leap from thinking eugenics is good in animals to humans.

[myhauntedsalem]

Poltergeist Trilogy Curse

Since the first Poltergeist movie hit the big screen and the iconic horror film trilogy has been scaring the pants off people ever since! Even if you haven’t seen any of the movies, the very image of young Carol Anne kneeling in front of a static-y television uttering those two, horrifying words in that innocent sing-song voice is enough to invoke an innate sense of fear.

But why is it so scary? We know its just a movie, right? Of course, but like any good horror movie classic, the very circumstances surrounding the film itself are wrought with legends and alleged true paranormal activity!

Let’s take a quick look at some of the eerie coincidences that are often cited as evidence of the Poltergeist curse:

Deaths of Cast Members:

Years ago, it was rumored that everyone who worked on the film met an untimely end. Obviously, that isn’t true, but there were at least four notable deaths of cast members that occurred during or slightly after the six year run between the release of the first and last Poltergeist movie. Two of these deaths were not highly unusual. Julian Beck, who played Kane in the second film, died after an 18 month battle with stomach cancer. Will Sampson, who played the shaman died from complications after a heart/lung transplant. Both actors were older, not in good health, and had been battling terminal issues for some time before their respective deaths.

The deaths of Sampson and Beck are still tragic, but not necessarily evidence of a curse. Instead, most people point to the very untimely deaths of two other stars: Dominique Dunne, who played the oldest daughter Dana, and Heather O’Rourke, who played Carol Anne throughout all three movies.

On October 30, 1982, Dunne, who was 22 years old, was confronted at her home by her ex-boyfriend, John Sweeney. Sweeney had come to reconcile, but when Dunne refused, he attacked her, choking her for an estimated 4-6 minutes. Dunne passed out and lapsed into a coma. She died on November 4. Sweeney was convicted of voluntary manslaughter, and served less than six years in prison.

Heather O’Rourke was just 12 years old when she passed away in February of 1988. Believed to have been suffering from the flu since January of that year, Heather continued to get worse until fainting at breakfast one morning. On the way to the hospital, she went into cardiac arrest. It was later discovered that she had an intestinal blockage, a condition brought on by her previously diagnosed Crohn’s Disease, and was experiencing sepsis. She underwent surgery to remove the blockage, but the toxins coursing through her blood stream were too strong and she died on the operating table on February 1st, shortly before the release of the third film. Because she died prior to the release of the film, it is debated as to whether or not she had actually completed filming all her scenes. Her parents claim that all scenes were completed the previous June, but producers claimed that subtle changes had to be made to the script to accommodate her passing.

Other Creepy Stuff:

There were some other interesting things that happened on set or to actors during the filming of the movies, again, most notably the first. During the first movie, Oliver Robins, who played Robbie, nearly died when one of the mechanical clowns malfunctioned and began choking him. At first, it was thought that he was a really good actor, but when he actually started turning blue, it was realized that he was in serious trouble.

JoBeth Williams, who played the mom in the first movie, had her own supernatural experiences off set. She claimed that when she’d go home in the evening, all the framed photos on the walls of her home would be askew. She’d fix them back, but find that the next evening, they’d again be out of place.

The above points are the evidence that is often presented when the curse is discussed, but why would this movie be cursed? Many people believe that there is a very simple reason for this, but very, very creepy!

Remember the pool scene in the first movie, the part where all the human skeletons pop up, confirming that the subdivision was built atop a cemetery where the headstones were moved but not the bodies? Those were real human skeletons. Seriously. At the time, it was much cheaper to purchase human skeletons than ones made of plastic.

Obviously, the cast wasn’t too thrilled with this revelation. A film about the dangers of treating the bodies of the dead with disrespect using real human remains as props is rather ironic and even prompted Will Sampson, who was a medicine man in real life, to conduct an exorcism on set.

Whether or not the souls of those whose bodies were used in the filming of this series came back to wreak vengeance, or whether or not you believe there is any type of curse associated with this trilogy, its still interesting to think about all the coincidences and spooky things that keep popping up with not just this movie, but so many other horror movies out there. In any event, with Halloween barreling its way towards us, the Poltergeist trilogy will inevitably hitting the small screen on at least a few different channels. If you choose to watch, just remember that the pool scene has a couple of un-credited extra actors involved!

[invincible-selfxmade-punk]

you said it's not up to us to decide to take ourselves out. so a person who is in constant pain, who has nothing to live for, for whom being alive is literally constant psychological torture, should just endure the suffering until something external finally puts them out of their misery? I don't think that's ok. I don't want to suffer anymore. its been over 35 years now. people are allowed to do whatever they want, including abusing me for their own personal gain, but I'm not allowed to even get to stop hurting?

Hello again and on. I must confessed that your last ask caught me in the middle of the night with very little sleep and was such a surprising thing because while I used to get those kind of ask all the time it has been many years since I've gotten one.

Once again I feel maybe I'm not the best person to ask because I have a deep love of God.

I believe that in most all situations God is the only one who should have the authority to take a life. However I do see things from your point of view and I think my advice to you as an adult would be a little different than my advice to you as a teenager who is not gone out and experienced life.

I will say that I have been through every type of abuse except for sexual period I have somehow managed to live through all of it and I have found my own separate piece with things.

And while I believe that God is the only one in most situations that should be able to take a life I also don't believe that suicide is going to send you to hell. But again since I've never died I can't tell you that for sure. The thing that kept me alive the most is thinking what if I went through all this horrible stuff and I killed myself and there were more horrible things waiting for me on the other side how crappy would that be?

I know what it is like to feel trapped, I know what it is like to have no family that knows what you're going through or cares, I know what is like to have friends that don't take you seriously or no friends at all.

I am very curious as to why you are asking me for my permission to let you kill yourself. If you are dead set on it I'm not sure what the words of a stranger could do for you if you've already made up your mind. But like I said I have lost so many people. Most importantly my niece who is only 5 years younger than me and we grew up like sisters. When she was 35 she took her own life after her stepfather had taken his own life. This caused my sister to die and it also caused my nieces younest son to die as well.

Before any of that happened our mutual best friend was basically murdered when she went in to have her first baby and the anesthesist in charge of her delivery was high on drugs and killed her and her unborn child.

My niece and I went through parallel lives. We were both terribly abused both as kids and as adults in our adult relationships. Neither one of us had parents to back us up. But it f**** me up in every way possible to know that I thought my way through it and she didn't.

Being an undiagnosed artistic for the first 45 years of my life another reason that I never killed myself is because at the time I had no idea what was wrong with me but I knew something was and I really feared that I was just completely insane. And I knew that if I killed myself that's what everybody was saying about me oh we always knew she was a weirdo yeah it's pretty typical that she would do that she was probably crazy. And I wasn't going to give them that satisfaction.

After everything that has happened in my family absolutely will not give you my blessing to kill yourself. I can't.

The only time I would ever say that is okay is if you were dying from cancer or another terminal disease. I just found out that one of my friends who has suffered horrible medical conditions for the last six or seven years for every day she lives is a little bit worse than the day before because of two extremely rare conditions she is found out that she has had and on top of all this she just found out she has stomach cancer.

If that pain from that disease was so bad that she decided to take herself out of it then I could say nothing bad about that. To go out on your own terms in that situation to me is a right. And I realize it is a stupid double standard to say that physical pain is worth the psychological pain. Or that cancer is worse than abuse.

I wish I had some kind of psychological degree that I could give you more help on this but I am just a punk rock school teacher who is trying to get by her own self.

I am so sorry for all that you have been through whatever it has been. No one deserves abuse, no one deserves to be hurt, no one deserves to be gas lit. Everyone is valid. Everyone is deserving of love.

[littlesmartart]

is your last post to say that nmj and nhs's moms are/were together in the modern au 👀👀

anonymous asked: I wanna know about all the modern AU 3zun raise Jingyi parents but I'm especially interested in the Nie moms' headcanon you have

okay so there are multiple ways you can translate the vague details we get about the Mamas Nie in canon (which seem to indicate either consecutive wives, or a wife and a concubine) to a modern AU - I considered Mingjue's mum dying when he was young and Papa Nie remarrying to Huaisang's mum, but @guqin-and-flute and I decided that there's enough big parental angst going on already, and SOMEONE'S gotta have a framework for healthy romantic relationships in this throuple! so we settled on Papa Nie + Mingjue's Mum + Huaisang's Mum being in a poly relationship themselves. I am as yet undecided whether I prefer their triad forming by Huaisang's Mum joining the other two, who are a married couple, or whether it's Papa Nie being invited to join the relationship of the other two.

not only is this fun and cute in itself but also I think it retroactively explains a lot about our thoughts on canon Mingjue; mostly irt how a character who is very... rigid in his opinions, and tradition-focused, could be so open and comfortable with a relationship that would be considered pretty unconventional by the society around him, but also explains his frustration with people obscuring the truth or masking their feelings - healthy poly relationships require a great deal of communication and honesty, so if Mingjue grew up in a household with that as not only the norm but the expectation, I can imagine he'd find Lan "My Emotions Are A Burden On My Loved Ones" Xichen's and Meng "If You Saw My Weakness No You Fucking Didn't" Yao's attitudes.......... aggravating dsfkldsfjksl

unfortunately nearly everyone in this fucking story suffers from Dead Parent Disease, so the collective Parents Nie do wind up dying when Mingjue is in his teens. we haven't decided exactly what the modern version of qi deviation is, but it's some sort of terminal hereditary condition that is greatly exacerbated by stress. Papa Nie knew that his father and grandfather died of it, but was so caught up with the family business that he brushed off any attempt at persuading him to slow down and have it looked into - until a bad flareup in his condition inadvertantly causes a car accident that kills both Mamas Nie but leaves him physically unscathed. that's pretty much the beginning of the end for him; whilst he goes from hospital to clinic to specialist trying to find something that might help, he's too far gone, and dies only a few years later in his forties. Mingjue personally believes that it was the guilt that killed him more than anything else. he also gets a metric BUTTLOAD of dad-issues from this that rear their horrible horrible head when Xichen officially adopts A-Fu... but that's another story.

[n1kolaiz]

"You want to know what death is? I'll tell you. Death is the loss of life. Despite everything doctors like me attempt... a patient's life can still fall through our fingers. You think death lies in the apex of science? Anyone with such little regard for life will die by my hand."

Character Analysis: Yosano Akiko

Age: 25 || Ability: Thou Shalt Not Die

BSD CHAPTER CHAPTER 65-66 SPOILERS

table of contents:

1. Author counterpart.

2. Yosano's history.

3. 'Angel of Death' defined.

4. Yosano and Atsushi.

YOSANO BRAINROT!*(#&!*@#($

1. Author counterpart.

Having been given the “Sho Ho” at birth, Yosano Akiko’s counterpart—the real-life author—was known for her zealous take on both feminism and pacifism.

Side note: Once again, to avoid confusion, I will use the name Sho Ho in reference to the real-life author, and Yosano in reference to the BSD character.

Sho Ho's writings were pretty much out-of-the-ordinary in her time, and despite being suppressed by the social norms of gender hierarchy, she sought to reform society’s view on the cultural perspectives of women and their sexuality (She expressed her love for a woman in one of her poems, but many still argued on whether she identified herself as queer or not.)

"Thou Shalt Not Die," Yosano's ability, is actually named after one of Sho Ho's most famous, controversial poems. She wrote it for her brother, who was a soldier in the war between Russia and Japan (1904-1905). In her poem, she expressed her general distaste for war and how her brother was a part of it.

O my young brother, I cry for you Don't you understand you must not die! You who were born the last of all Command a special store of parents' love

Would parents place a blade in children's hands

Teaching them to murder other men Teaching them to kill and then to die? Have you so learned and grown to twenty-four?

- excerpt from Sho Ho's poem, "Kimi Shinitamou Koto Nakare"

Her words were blunt enough to inflict guilt on her brother's conscience, as she wasn't afraid to express her disapproval over how her brother took part in the typical violent bloodshed and manslaughter of war. Such opinions perturbed the authorities, and her work was eventually banned from the public for a period of time. Later on, it was used as an anti-war statement.

2. Yosano's history.

Now, as for the character in BSD, Yosano is seen to be generally strong-willed, and later on, we see that she is terrifyingly compassionately ambitious in the way she treats her patients. She treasured life itself, and hated the thought of losing a patient.

Yosano had developed her relations with Mori Ougai back in the Great War, when she was just 11 years old. Her ability was a great benefactor in saving lives. Realistically speaking, she was used for her ability to heal injured soldiers and diminish the effect of any casualty acquired.

Initially, she wasn't aware of this, until one of her close friends pointed it out by subtly accusing Mori of manipulating her to participate in the War under the close-to false pretence of 'saving lives.'

As much as her ability did save lives, it also forced soldiers to return to the frontlines and suffer injuries over and over again. The soldiers were never given the opportunity to return to their families because of her ability. This obliged them to carry on in the war without any excuse, inserting them into a vicious cycle they had no escape out of.

Metaphorically speaking, Yosano's hatred for Mori sort of mirrors Sho Ho's disdain for war and fighting, don't you think? The way Kafka materialised Yosano's past was quite interesting because he used chapters 65 and 66 to explain Yosano's dislike for Mori, reflecting how Sho Ho used her poem to explain why she condemned the idea of war and how her brother was part of it.

Before the effect of her ability was fully understood, however, every soldier praised and thanked her for what an angel she was. One of the soldiers she had befriended and gotten close to even kept a tally of the number of times she had saved him. He was the one who gifted her the butterfly hairpin she wore all the time.

The weight of the truth that her ability was a curse rather than a blessing fully dawned on her when her soldier friend ultimately committed suicide, because the fact of being indefinitely trapped in the throes of war agonised him until his spirit gave out. This drove Yosano to loathe her ability, or rather, how it was used.

In the time she participated in the War, Yosano was given the alias 'angel of death' due to the control she retained over the battlefield, but I thought that perhaps Kafka had a reason behind giving her this title, so I did my research.

3. 'Angel of Death' defined.

Side note: I wouldn't want to disrespect any culture or religion, so if my citations are inaccurate and/or disrespectful, do feel free to correct me/let me know! I did research out of pure curiosity, and I don't intend to twist the significance of any of the interpretations.

I had to grow up learning about the basics of religious stuff, so it's kind of nice to study something out of the box, and very much against my father's rigid belief system :D

ARCHANGEL ARIEL

(archangel: an angel of higher rank)

I came across the few characteristics of angels/goddesses and their roles, and the one which really caught my attention was the female archangel, Ariel, the angel of nature.

[ source ]

In Hebrew, the name Ariel means 'altar' or 'lioness of God,' and her role is to heal. In addition to that, she is also recognised as a helper to another one of the seven main archangels, Raphael, whose role is to provide physical and emotional healing, too.

She is the protecter of the environment and the animals therein, and is bestowed with the duty to oversee the order of heavenly bodies as well as earth's natural resources. She assures the sustenance of food, water, shelter, and supplies of human beings, much like how a nurse is to a patient I suppose.

In relation to Yosano, I think this part is pretty self-explanatory, or perhaps this is blown out of proportion HA, so take this as a suggestion rather than a fact, because I'd like to believe that Kafka had a reason for giving Yosano a title as such.

In the past, I've come across the angel of death only to perceive it as a female grim reaper of some sort, so it was pretty cool to find that the word 'angel' and 'death' made up a title of a someone like Ariel, one of the purest forms of humility and compassion.

GREEK GODDESS PANAKEIA

For my beloved (wannabe/or not) students of Greek mythology (much like myself, let's make a cult!), you've probably heard of Panakeia, the goddess of healing. Medicine finds most of its vital significance in Greek history, and in its mythology, Panakeia is actually known for her ability to heal any kind of sickness.

[ source ]

Her name means 'panacea,' which is actually defined as a remedy for all diseases. Terminal diseases and injuries lead to death, right? This would bring us back to Yosano's ability to nullify any injury's effects on a person, keeping them from death itself.

Now, we know that in order for Yosano's ability to work, her patient, or victim, has to be in a near-death condition in order for her treatment to take effect. This can't exactly fit into the description of resurrection, but it can be described as some sort of rebirth.

GREEK GODDESS PERSEPHONE

So another goddess which reminds me of Sho Ho/Yosano, is Persephone, the goddess of spring and rebirth. Before Hades, the god of the underworld, fell in love with Persephone to take her to live with him, Persephone lived a happy life.

Hades, with his nature of darkness and the like, was captivated by how pure Persephone was, and stole her away from her former life to live in an environment which differed sharply from her natural aura of purity.

[ source ]

Remember when Yosano's friend left a note behind before he killed himself? The note said nothing except for, "You are too righteous." Take that as you will, but figuratively speaking, you could say Mori takes the role of Hades in the story, while Yosano can be portrayed as Persephone.

Sho Ho can also be a parallel of Persephone, in that she had to adapt to the realities of war and disharmony, while Persephone had to adapt to the raw darkness of the underworld with Hades.

Sho Ho stood against society's norms and decided to reform it, making her one of the most well-known feministic pacifist in history, while Persephone managed to escape from the underworld to return to her former position, earning the title the 'Bringer of Life,' or the 'Destroyer of Death.'

Furthermore, the way Sho Ho's anti-war poem took its effect later on, reflects the way Persephone restored balance in the world after returning from the underworld.

4. Yosano and Atsushi.

chapter 66; Yosano: "It's my fault that those close to me died... Is there some place where it's okay for me to live?"

chapter 8; Atsushi: "If I have any chance of saving them all, of returning them home safely, would that mean it's okay for me to keep on living?"

I couldn't help but think of Dazai and Atsushi back when I was reading through these panels. Ranpo (my beloved), along with Fukuzawa, accepted Yosano as she was, despite how her ability was a cause of despair and misfortune.

Ranpo looked past her mistakes and the entirety of how dark her past was to welcome her into the Armed Detective Agency. Dazai, on the other hand, knew who Atsushi was and what his ability had made him do before anyone else, and still decided to provide a safe place for Atsushi to find his sense of belonging, journeying with him as he learned to use his ability properly.

For more info about Dazai and Atsushi's dynamic, you can check out the analysis I did for Dazai :D

Atsushi desired to save people to prove his right to live, while Yosano made her wish to achieve the recovery of all her patients the reason for her existence.

Others would prefer to accuse both Yosano and Atsushi of having a saviour complex, but the reason why they pursued to save people with utmost dedication, stems from the nature of what their past was like. You know the saying 'from broken to beautiful?' Yeah, it's something like that.

The way their pasts were written out gave them a desire to change, which was, I daresay, initiated by the people who took them in: Ranpo and Dazai. Their abilities were demonised because of how they were used, but once they broke from their abilities' effect over their lives, they honed their skills to control them for the right cause instead.

In a less cynical point of view, I believe both Yosano and Atsushi stood for what was right, and wanted nothing but to achieve peace and harmony in whatever way they could, even if it meant risking their own lives to save others.

So yeah, that's it for my rants today. Thank you for reading, and if you have anything to add, go ahead! I'm open to discussions ;)

[shimmersing]

Constellation

Part One | Part Two | Interlude | Part Three

Rating: General Audiences Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply Categories: F/M, Gen Relationships: Female Jedi Consular | Barsen'thor/Male Republic Trooper, Jedi Consular | Barsen'thor/Republic Trooper Characters: Female Jedi Consular | Barsen'thor, Jedi Consular | Barsen'thor, Qyzen Fess, Yuon Par, Parkanas Tark-Lord Vivicar Additional Tags: Angst, Tython, Emotional, Mentioned Mutual Pining, Fluffy, Sad, Melancholy Returning to Tython after shielding the last master suffering from Vivicar’s Force plague, Aitahea is faced with more struggle in her efforts to heal the Order and keep the Force in balance. Tired, injured, and longing for someone she can’t have, perhaps ever, the lines of her responsibility as a Jedi and her own convictions begin to blur. As Aitahea nears the end of her quest to save Yuon Par and the other Jedi Masters, she’s confronted with painful revelations and answers that only give rise to more questions. Shouldering the lives and minds of Jedi across the galaxy – alone – may prove to be more than Aitahea can bear.

Part Three

AN: I highly recommend you read Impending, a once-upon-a-oneshot that snuggles right into Constellation here, between parts two and three. Enjoy!

May the Force be with you.

Standing in the airlock, Aitahea let the echo of Erithon’s voice roll over and through her, like she might flow through saber stances during practice. Six syllables, like the spiral of a breath, a last sigh of hope to cling to in her fierce exhaustion and anguished determination.

It was the first time they’d spoken since Alderaan; everything else had been missed calls and quickly dashed-off messages. She’d mentioned her return to Tython, but not her weariness, loneliness, or how since leaving Alderaan, the only dream she’d remembered on waking was of him, humming Star by Star and stroking her hair. As far-flung as they’d been, she had doubted he’d see her injuries in a grainy holo.

Instead, she’d simply listened.

Erithon’s mother and sister had given him no end to their questions about the “princess” - as his youngest niece had gleefully declared - having seen their gala appearance splashed across the holonet. He’d explained with proud reticence that he had been harassed into calling to say hello for them, but he hoped she was doing well, of course.

See-Too had whirred politely in the common room entryway, a subtle warning that the other crew had begun stirring in response to their arrival. Aitahea had gently interrupted Erithon a final time, thanking him for calling, but she was needed urgently. He’d nodded, evidently used to the same, and then… “May the Force be with you.” She hadn’t even had a chance to reply, to wish him the same, before the call had disconnected, and she’d been alone again in the dark.

Minutes later, the Luminous had docked to Vivicar’s stolen ship, though Sia had only done so under protest.

“I don’t fucking like this, Ai.”

“There’s no other way, Sia. I trust you to keep the Luminous safe.”

“Yeah, me too, but what about you?”

Aitahea had pressed her lips into a tight line and turned away from her friend, unable to offer anything more to assuage Sia’s concern or her own guilt. The Progress had made all reports on time, presumably under Lord Vivicar’s control, so no one in the wider Republic knew that anything was awry.

Qyzen had refused to let her board alone, though she’d helplessly argued for it. They both knew she was still healing, only maintaining the shielding by a hair’s breadth. Vivicar’s ruinous intrusion on the ritual had done more damage than Aitahea had been willing to acknowledge. Sia had muttered under her breath something about needing to get a kolto tank installed in the med bay.

The Progress was shrouded in flickering darkness, the black of deep space. The stars still glittered, but coldly, distantly. Aitahea wasn’t certain what they’d find on board; there were many lives, but they writhed beneath a shadow grown powerful. Qyzen waited beside her as the airlock cycled to admit them to the hijacked ship.

The first rush of soldiers took her off guard; she flinched at the sight of Republic insignias below fevered eyes and slack faces. A growled warning from Qyzen brought her back to the task of disabling them with as little harm as possible.

It all horrified her, this perversion of so many things she held dear. The horrible stain of the dark side flowed on the ship and everyone aboard. She could barely hold it in check, growing steadily more vulnerable as her shielding was meticulously assaulted.

Vivicar was blessedly silent until Aitahea reached the first computer console. When he finally spoke, it was like being plunged into dark water. The consular reeled, fighting to keep her fingers on the control panel and not digging into her own temples.

I wasn’t sure if you’d be foolish enough to come aboard, Aitahea. But I can sense your presence.

Aitahea swallowed hard against a wave of nausea. “And I sense a man tormented by the past.”

You are blinded by the light side. You can’t understand what you face.

Biting back a sharp retort, Aitahea shoved away from the console – she didn’t possess the necessary slicing skill to coax open the blast doors from there. She could cut her way through the thick durasteel with her lightsaber, but time felt too precious.

Nearby were a few barrels, each with a combustion risk label splashed across it. She could fling them into the door using the Force, but it would be violent and destructive.

Oddly, Aitahea found she didn’t mind that so much right now and lifted a hand. The explosion was terrific, throwing back her hood. The wave of heat quickly grew so intense Aitahea had to shield herself and Qyzen until it abated.

As they stepped through the hissing, superheated breach, Vivicar’s voice echoed in a hateful thrum. Come to me, Jedi. I’ll show you how light can be snuffed out.

Aitahea swayed briefly, closing her eyes. There was no part of her that wasn’t in anguish. If this wasn’t already snuffed out, what could possibly be worse? She felt alarmingly close to knowing exactly what.

May the Force be with you.

It was Erithon’s voice this time, no tainted whispers, just her own beautiful memory. A light in the dark. She could follow that through this horrific present; through anything, perhaps. Aitahea opened her eyes, signaled her companion, and forged ahead.

Most of the unwitting fighters in their path could be stopped with a Force wave, tumbling them unconscious but mostly unharmed to the floor; but the squad leaders would be hardier – she knew from experience.

The first squad leader, a hulking being of indeterminate origin, was waiting for them at the first intersection, alone. The soldier didn’t fall for Qyzen’s feint and instead hoisted his cannon toward Aitahea, spraying cryogenic fluid. She flicked it away, readying her lightsaber to deflect any shots from the holdout blaster she knew he’d be hiding.

Qyzen shifted into an effortless and decisive strike, taking advantage of a seam in the trooper’s armor. Aitahea shuddered, feeling the soldier’s perception flare out, leaving nothing but gleeful darkness seething in every shadow.

“Herald?”

“I’m fine,” she bit out. “Let’s proceed.”

After navigating a few more hallways, they located the secondary computer terminal. She’d barely set her fingers to the keypad when Vivicar splintered her thoughts.

Tell me, Aitahea, what was it like? Letting your life force drain away to shield a stranger from me - how did it feel?

Aitahea frowned at her suddenly balled-up fists, unclenching and resettling her fingers on the keys before replying. “Painful, but I endured it.”

Pain makes us stronger. And the pain I have endured is beyond your comprehension.

That is why I have won.

Her throat seized, but even after swallowing hard, no words came to her, all her skillful, diplomatic platitudes absent.

“Hunt is not over until beast is skinned, dark thing,” Qyzen rumbled. The console began blaring a klaxon warning, and droids began pouring into the room.

You will understand soon. If you live that long.

“Your power and tactics have brought you this far, but no further.”

Until now, Aitahea had imagined Parkanas Tark as a youth, bright with potential and the Force. But the being that turned to face her as she dragged herself toward the bridge was aged, wretched, and twisted by the dark side.

“This battle was decided before you stepped aboard.”

“I’m tired of your delusions,” Aitahea hissed, past exhaustion and numb with pain. “Explain yourself.”

Vivicar gave her a mocking bow. “As you wish. My plague isn’t just a disease; it siphons power from its victims. With the proper rituals, that power can be channeled. Soon, the combined strength of your Masters will make me the most powerful Force adept who has ever lived.”

The pressure against her shielding intensified, thousands of threads – lives, she realized – suddenly pulled taut. Trembling with the strain, Aitahea took a step forward. She hadn’t come here to bicker; she’d come here to help.

“Turn away from this path, Parkanas. The Order can help you.”

Vivicar laughed.

“Oh, Aitahea.” This time, she visibly flinched when he used her name. “Parkanas Tark died long ago. Even ‘Vivicar’ is merely a skin to be shed. Parkanas offered himself to me on Malachor Three, to crush the Order that destroyed us. He embodied my spirit.” He lifted his hands, a seething glow thick with the dark side writhing around him. “I am no lost Jedi, no ordinary Sith Lord. I am Terrak Morrhage.”

“You can turn away from this path, Parkanas,” she beseeched, fumbling for words while he stalked toward her. “The Order can help you. Just… just come home.”

“No one can oppose me, certainly no child, barely more than a Padawan.” He grinned, ghoulish and without remorse as he ignited his lightsaber. “I am beyond flesh… beyond death!”

Aitahea realized tears were slipping from her eyes, her vision blurring. She was so tired. “No one is beyond the will of the Force,” she whispered, uncertain who the platitude was meant for.

Morrhage laughed again, a sound like plasteel shredding. “I will crush you, Aitahea, and your shattered body will fuel my rebirth!”

For a fleeting moment, she thought of running. Simply turning about, dashing to the safety of the Luminous. She questioned the choice she’d made on Tython, to come here carrying so many injuries, so much guilt and fear. Should she have stayed to heal? She remembered what the Noetikon of Secrets had explained, that the Jedi Master who had created the shielding technique had given his life to end Morrhage’s first plague. Was Morrhage right? Had the light blinded her?

Aitahea took a breath.

The light didn’t blind. Light revealed, left no shadows to hide in. Light nourished; light gave everything yet lost nothing. Light was right now in this moment, not in the past, and would always be in reach in the future. If light called, light would answer.

Aitahea called out.

“Parkanas! I know you are there; I sense you!” Morrhage ignored her outcry, continuing to advance. Aitahea sucked in a breath, ignited her lightsaber, and took a defensive stance. “Help me stop this monster, Parkanas, please!”

Morrhage attacked with spectacular brutality, thousands of years of rage and hatred against Aitahea’s weakened shielding, against her physical self. The Jedi parried and dodged, evading strikes she couldn’t hope to block. Qyzen Fess did what he could to aid her, but Morrhage was fixated on Aitahea. Her body quailed under the assault, shredding her determination. There must be another way…

Morrhage’s next attack struck true, and Aitahea lost a few moments to fiery agony searing across her left side. Reckless with pain, she flung out a wild, violent Force wave that sent Morrhage to the floor and left several nearby panels crushed beyond recognition. A few precious seconds passed while she waited, panting, for her vision to clear.

The fallen Jedi, the false Sith lord, struggled to his knees, glaring death toward Aitahea as she approached.

“Impressive, Aitahea, but my victory is already complete. My plague has spread farther than you can imagine. Jedi Masters across the galaxy are succumbing to it as I speak. The plague binds these Masters to me. Hundreds of them… the heart and soul of your order.

“You feel it, do you not, Aitahea?”

No lies this time; Aitahea could indeed feel the mingled torment of hundreds more Jedi as Morrhage siphoned their lives for strength. Every crack in her shielding, down to the smallest hairline fracture, screamed in agony.

“Kill me, and you will kill every Master I have ever infected. Every one! Shielded or not, they are still bound to me.”

Aitahea dispassionately placed the blade of her lightsaber at his throat. It felt like someone else doing it. She spoke in clipped tones, her voice unrecognizable in her own ears. “Free those Jedi, Morrhage. Now.”

“And if I refuse? Will you cut us down? What choice do you have? You cannot let me live, and I am deathless.” Morrhage leered, his dark victory seemingly assured, and took one more jab: “Your shielding talent cannot harm me. You’ve lost!”

Everything went silent and impossibly still. Your shielding talent cannot harm me. Of course not. It was never meant to harm, only to heal, to offer a path toward the light that anyone could take at any time, without judgement, without conditions, just… a welcome home. The path that she’d longed for, that she’d tried to circumvent over and over, a path she could not offer until she, too, chose it.

Aitahea lowered her arm and deactivated her lightsaber. “I can save you, Parkanas.”

Morrhage reeled back as Aitahea drew the Force around her. The effort would not be without risk, but it was the path that lay before her. Another stillness enfolded her, this time of peace, willingness, and release. Fighting had never been her forte or focus; she was a healer, with words and hands and her lightsaber only when absolutely, undeniably necessary.

Now, she isn’t simply performing the shielding ritual; she is part of it, wholly within and throughout, a numinous space that feels like a Coruscant ocean, like the forests of Tython, like warm sun and a hand to hold on Brentaal, all at once.

Now, she realizes how to bring it full circle; she must allow the Force its will, stop trying to control it, and just let go. Light spills through the cracks in her shielding, and everything is suddenly and wonderfully illuminated.

May the Force be with you.

Parkanas – and it was with every certainty him; the sudden burst of hope where none had been the moment before was unmistakable – went flying backwards, away from Aitahea and leaving the vulnerable spirit of Morrhage isolated before her.

The spirit howled in fury. “No, this body is mine! Damn you, Jedi!”

Aitahea noted with detached amusement that she was levitating, Morrhage’s furious tirade a soft rumble in the background. She felt untethered, undefinably light. Closing her eyes, Aitahea exhaled a long breath and stepped softly down to the floor.

“When my strength returns, no matter the years – I will destroy you,” Morrhage snarled, but Aitahea was already walking toward Parkanas, feeling her own strength returning. She brushed past the raging specter, and in a few more moments, it had disappeared.

Qyzen had already lifted Parkanas Tark to his feet. He had a hand to his head, and Aitahea allowed a thread of sympathy to unwind, a guide to the path she hoped he would be able to take, too.

Parkanas Tark stared at her with open disbelief. “I’m… still alive. You spared me.”

She half-smiled. “Healed you.”

“My mind is…” Parkanas shook his head again. “Clearer now. But – it was your duty to kill me and destroy Morrhage.” His eyes – still smoldering amber, revealing a bitter internal strife – begged for an answer. Why?

“Too many Jedi have been lost already.” Aitahea lowered her gaze, the barest of brief moments to grieve for those lost. “Including Parkanas Tark.”

“Perhaps he deserves another chance, but…” Parkanas’ voice trailed off, adding in a pained whisper, “I cannot return to the Order.”

Swallowing hard against the lump in her own throat, Aitahea pressed. “Tython has its hidden places. Its forests.” That half-smile danced across her lips again, and for a flickering moment, she was light years away. “You could find peace there.”

“I could… go home.” Parkanas grew still, eyes distant and filled with evergreen leaves and rushing water. After a moment, he startled, reaching out to grasp her hands. “But first, Jedi, listen. Take this warning in exchange for my life: You can’t trust the Order. Or the Republic.” Aitahea drew breath to contradict, but he continued. “You may be their heroine now, but they will abandon you, too.”

Aitahea pulled away from Parkanas’ frantic grip, shaking her head while she scrabbled for a coherent thought. “Why…What do you-” Nothing coalesced, leaving her once again a diplomat with no words.

Parkanas held her gaze. “Remember that.”

“We felt it! A massive shift in the Force. The Masters you saved have reported a sudden improvement in their condition. The plague is over, thanks to you.

“And… I sense Parkanas Tark. For the first time in many years. How can that be?”

Aitahea nodded at Master Syo and glanced sidelong toward Parkanas, who was being assessed by Tharan and Holiday. “You can ask him yourself, Master. When he returns to Tython, he can answer all your questions.”

Her companions had dashed through the ship as soon as she’d signaled their safety. Bringing medical equipment to help with the injured and traumatized crew, Prelsiava Tern had even dragged along a protesting See-Two.

“I told you there’d be plenty for you to do; look at that console! It’s completely trashed! Go on, get on it,” Sia had ordered, and the affronted droid had conceded, tottering over to examine one of the smashed panels.

With the logistics managed, and a scant few moments to tuck away the memory of Parkanas’ unsettling words, Aitahea had commed the Council, Master Syo answering with his victorious statement: We felt it!

“Well done, Aitahea. The Jedi Order owes its survival to you.”

Relief swept over her like a wave. “It’s my privilege to serve.”

“Hurry home. We’re waiting for you.”

Aitahea felt nearly presentable again by the time they arrived on Tython. She’d had her injuries treated. She’d eaten and bathed. She’d slept, mostly dreamless but for dappled sunlight and burbling water.

As they touched down on Tython, Aitahea marveled at the incandescent radiance of the Force within the hallowed walls of the Jedi Temple. Each Jedi shone like a bright star, a constellation she’d missed terribly beneath the weight of the shielding. Even Qyzen shimmered, kindling with satisfaction and pride. Beneath all, the grand symphony of Tython itself soared.

In the Council chamber, Master Yuon, Master Syo, Master Satele, and Master Jaric were waiting. Schooling her expression into practiced serenity, Aitahea dropped into a bow, only lifting her gaze when Yuon spoke.

“You have saved untold lives through your defeat of Lord Vivicar and destruction of the plague.” Aitahea felt Yuon’s pride in every syllable.

Even Master Jaric was smiling. “There’s a title reserved for the most prestigious among us, whose wisdom and skill safeguard the galaxy. It hasn’t been bestowed in thousands of years.”

Aitahea became keenly aware of her flushed cheeks, suspended between delight and disbelief, and nodded in vague acknowledgment.

“You have proved worthy,” Master Syo declared. “Now, the Council names you Barsen’thor, warden of the Order.”

Absurdly, Aitahea’s thoughts turned to how much she’d enjoy reading about the other Barsen’thor that had preceded her. Would the archive even contain that knowledge? How many thousands of years? Who were they, who had they set out to be, and what had they done to arrive where Aitahea herself now stood? The Force bloomed with assurance. “I will do all I can to live up to this honor.” Aitahea clasped her hands, sweeping into a low obeisance.

“I never imagined your potential would take you so far.” Yuon beamed, and Aitahea returned the expression as she lifted her head.

Yet concern laced Master Syo’s next words: “And not a moment too soon. We have need of you. The Council has received word that the Republic is facing a new threat.”

“We need time to prepare a war council,” Satele clarified, much to Aitahea’s unspoken relief. “The Supreme Chancellor himself will be attending.”

“I stand ready, Master,” Aitahea assured.

Accepting her pledge with a nod, Syo nodded towards the doors. “Take time to record your journey in the Jedi archives. History must know of your actions.”

Aitahea blinked, more surprised at her own surprise than anything – of course there should be a record of the current Barsen’thor as well; that’s the first place to start, obviously – and almost missed Master Syo’s final words. “We will contact you when the war council is ready. For now, the entire Order will know that there is a new Barsen’thor among us.”

After a round of congratulations from each of the Masters, Aitahea and Qyzen left the Council chamber, ostensibly to bring her story to the archives.

“Scorekeeper smiles, Herald. Is great honor your people give you.” He gestured broadly, sending a few initiates scurrying out of the way. “Points beyond measure!”

Her heart sang with gratitude. She’d trusted him as her ally, her second, her friend; and he’d returned that trust hundredfold. Questioned and advised her, criticized and coddled her, but never judged her. Steadfast and patient, always. If what they had done brought points-beyond-measure to her, he’d have the larger portion by far. “We hunt together, my friend. Whatever my score, you share it.”

Qyzen paused, abruptly turning to face her. Traffic streamed around them; Temple life carried on. “Is… a noble thing you say. My thanks, Herald.”

“My thanks to you as well, Qyzen. Thank you for…” For protecting me? For challenging me? For warning and guiding and validating me? For seeing me when even I could not? “…for everything.”

“Must share the story of this hunt with your Order. It is good to share knowledge.”

Aitahea thought of the Noetikons, the immense value of them for so much beyond the lore and history of the Jedi. Even after becoming one with the Force, they had set alight a path for so many Jedi after, herself included. Like she might, generations from now.

Blinking back tears and knowing full well she couldn’t have hidden them if she’d wanted to, Aitahea smiled. “Then I must make yet another request of you: that you tell the story with me.”

Qyzen regarded her for a long moment, long enough that she began to fret that she’d somehow stumbled into an insult. “You are Scorekeeper’s Herald,” he said solemnly, “and you are true Jedi.”

Aitahea nodded, feeling and breathing and illuminating the Force around them.

“I’m home.”

Part One | Part Two | Interlude | Part Three

[thanatophobia-thoughts]

Trigger warning: Suicide.

One of the death anxiety groups I’m a member of has banned all talk of suicide. Even the allusion to suicide. Given that plenty of people with thanatophobia also suffer from suicidal ideations (I’m not one of them), I find this to be strange that suicide would be banned from the conversation, but nothing else, like health anxiety, the passing of other people, etc., is.

I do not encourage suicide in any circumstance, however I’m not here to police anyone against it, either. Many humans want a dignified death, and we offer this to our pets through euthanasia, thinking we are making the “right decision” for them. Having been previously suicidal, and understanding the pain of dignity loss, terminal illness, and much else, I am not here to say suicide is bad in every single circumstance. I will say that it is not a choice I encourage, and I would rather people find alternatives, but life is what it is, and I’ll not take a dignified death, or a choice, away from a person, either.

Sometimes, that choice is all that keeps us going.

So I am here to talk about how the choice to die is important today, and why I think that discussion needs to exist, in general.

I tried to kill myself when I was much younger, multiple times, for what I now consider very stupid reasons. Among them was, in fact, to punish the people I thought should care more about me in life, knowing they would suffer if I died, and realize how important I was to them. Others were the more usual, the pain of growing up and changing roles, status, and much else, in life. Everything was out of whack, and I didn’t have a good support group back then, nor was I telling anyone what was wrong with me. Despite wanting to punish people for not caring, I never let them know that I wanted them to care more, that I needed more, because I was caught up in stoic ideations of never letting anyone know you have weaknesses.

I’ve grown past that.

My dad’s told me he’s considered suicide, when he was a caretaker for his father. I’m aware, as well, that he doesn’t want to be in the same state as his father, and would rather commit suicide – this, while professing to want immortality, and being afraid of death.

He’s more afraid of having someone wipe his ass for him, than he is of death. He’s more afraid of losing his dignity, and having people remember him in that final, worn down, disease destroyed, state.

I would rather wipe his ass, and have him carry on to see what comes next, although, I’d really rather not be in that position, either. I know the kind of mental drain that will be. The emotional drain, to see my father reduced to that – but there was a time in my life when he was changing my diapers. Fair’s fair, right?

I know that him knowing he has that choice is important to him, and I’m aware that he might take it one day. It won’t be a reflection on how well I took care of him, or even of how little I meant.

In some ways, it will be because I meant too much for him to inflict the burden of himself on me any further.

It’s a thought that’s hard to cope with, when my brain goes off on imagining scenarios of the future, where we all end up at our worst.

I think he might last a while longer, because he knows it is an option. Because he knows he can, I believe, he won’t, for quite a while.

It’s hard to explain that contradiction to someone who hasn’t experienced it.

When I was getting over my suicidal ideations, I found power in knowing I could. I found power in writing characters who suffered similarly, knew they could, and found reasons not to. Created timelines, “I should live this long, to see this movie, and then I can check in with these thoughts again”. “I should wait until my cat dies”. “I should” “I should” “I should”.

I should became a mantra that turned into I can.

And “I can” is powerful.

I can commit suicide. Yes, I can. I absolutely can, any day, any time, for any reason. I have no desire to do it, but I can, if I ever have that desire.

But, if I ever do have it, I should wait for my cats. They’re only 6 years old now. I think they have 10 more years, at least. I should live that long, because I made a promise to them that I would be their forever home. So I will be.

And then ten years pass. I can commit suicide – but now I’m 41. Maybe my brother has children, or maybe I’m finally preparing to visit Japan. Maybe I started a new book series. I should attend to these things first, and then maybe, maybe, maybe.

And then I’m 81.

I can commit suicide.

But, maybe I should first go get breakfast at IHOP with the family on Sunday first, and hear my nieces and nephews make fun of me for drinking decaf.

And then I’m 85, and I have cancer. I can…but maybe I want to try and be 100, now that I’ve been told I can’t. And then I die at 87, from cancer, no choice of my own �� and yet, it was, all along. Because at any moment I could have made the choice to stop things early.

I’m afraid of death.

I don’t want to die, although I have craved it in the past. I know others who are afraid, and crave it, at once. I don’t envy them – but I think they can find power in knowing it is a choice, even when it doesn’t feel like it at times.

Even when the pain seems insurmountable, and it feels like the only choice is to end it – it is a choice. And I think “I should” statements are powerful in those moments, to remind us of the choice, and help us make the best one in the moment.

Even if it’s “I should wait until I have finished my drink”, “I should wait until I have cleaned the dishes so someone else isn’t dealing with the mess”, “I should take a shower first”.

A mantra of “I should” can keep you going forward.

And so I think, discussion of suicide should be a part of thanatophobia, because of the people who suffer both. Because someone in one of the groups committed suicide and couldn’t talk about it, because any allusion or mention of it, was banned. Because this dual suffering of fearing death and thinking death ends all our pain, is a terrible thing to endure alone, especially when the fear creates so much pain, and is so constant, so unending, that death seems preferable even when it is our greatest fear.

[vermillionage]

[So I just got inspired by a conversation I had with @silver-wield about this Cloud&Tifa video below I blogged 2 days ago already, how deep Cloti's connection really is displayed, and how watching it made me feel even more convinced that we totally get endgame feels for them in these various scenes comprised. The video just shows canon material and uses only original dialogue. It made me wonder if the same feelings would be evoked by a video of Cloud and Aeriths Scenes and dialogues.]

Besides English isn't my first language, please overlook grammar and spelling mistakes. I'm sorry it there are too many.

There are many opinions who belongs with whom.

Many people who covered this also and I love and respect most of their analyses on it. Not even sure if I added anything new but here are my thoughts on Clerith endgame qualities (& a bit Cloti).

I like Aerith and she is very important. I just don’t see her as the intended endgame partner for Cloud.

This is all an opinion in the end:

Don't get me wrong this relationship is heavy with feelings as well. But it's no endgame. Cloud and Tifa belong; for various reasons we all discuss daily ;). Clearith's core story is heartwarming and heartbreaking all at once. For me it's a tragic relationship on both sides.

Aerith sees a familiarity in Cloud, something reminding her of, & letting her hope for better days. She sees a strong person who resembles Zack so much. He is handsome and his eyes have the same quality.

She desperately wants to belong (like all of our 3 heroes) because she was alone most of her time. Zack was her first love and a friend. But he is gone. She is heartbroken. Even though she is beloved in the slums by many and has Elmyra, she still feels alone. Zack was someone she confided in. She can't tell anyone the extend of these feelings. Not in the beginning. Always trying to cover up with that flirty cheery attitude. She wants to move on...that much she has uttered to Cloud...but saying and going through such a loss actually are two different things. In OG it was more ambiguous and Aerith was much more determined on Cloud.

Remake gives us (or me)much more clarity. She seems to be aware that it all is flawed..her feelings ..his feelings. (I suppose she even was able to feel that something happened to Zack since she has a connection to the life stream. And it is heartbreaking.) While in OG that was not prominent. You can tell how much she likes Cloud still in the Remake ...but also how much she knows she doesn't belong with him. When she sees the flower in Tifa's Bar, when she sees Cloud and Tifa interact.. when she asks Cloud about Zack indirectly.

Clerith to me is like 'could have/ would have' all the time. If she wouldn't die. If Zack was still alive.. if Cloud actually would be able to connect the dots of Zack being her first love.. if Cloud regaining a glimpse of his past wasn't blocked by the barrier of his fake persona so often, always interrupting progress of remembering Zack, of remembering what happened. Would it be Clerith?

It more seems like in the Remake she is aware now (due to parallel time lines/timetravel...whatever) that her part in this story is not that of Clouds love interest. That's why we get that resolution scene with her. It is scripted that way for a reason. As well as the part where she spots the flower or tells Tifa to follow her heart at the pillar.

Maybe there is a wish in her to be with Cloud if only the circumstances were different. But they aren't and she is no egotistical monster bitch. She kind of backs away. And I love that the devs made me lean to believe this.

Cloud on the other hand also lacks/ misses out on many things:

5 years of his live, his home his family. He lived through torture if barely and severe trauma. He put up a fake persona to shield him from all this grief. He made himself that numb, that he rarely connects to any strong feelings a person would have usually.

Like people on anti depressants. Numb to the very high and the very low array. Just being indifferent. We meet him like that in the beginning of OG/R. When he meets Aerith in chapter 8 he already started to open up a bit to the Trio and Tifa, Marle and others. Meeting Tifa opened the Door. She is essentially his drive to move on ever since their childhood, same this time. But Tifa is more subtle in her approach. Her personality is warm and grounded, but she respects that Clouds needs space and is treading lightly, cautious because she seems to feel he is different than in their childhood. We get that in the rescue Johnny scene f.ex..

Aerith's overwhelmingly positive, coaxing personality contrasts this but also opens this crack in the door even wider. Like I said she is important. He is affected, he feels drawn to it/her.I am convinced he is, because he has no association with her. No past. It is light and bright and also not real. She, trying to overcompansate her sadness. Him, rarely being able to connect to his true self and feelings. He is unaware, she is though to a certain extend (like I mentioned above ) is aware.

His attraction also is spurred on because she is more fragile (Than Tifa and others)..he wants to protect. He is loyal. He wants to be strong and he wants to be acknowledged. Aerith asks for help, is clumsy and looks even helpless sometimes( Walk from the church over the roof tops f. ex.). I don’t say she is weak but her asking for help, he feels like he really is that persona he created for himself. And such feelings can turn into love quite easily. But these feelings to be as good as a Soldier 1st class, to protect and be the hero root in his true self's desire to be all that for Tifa. We can’t discard this either. He also helps Avalanche because Tifa asked.

So again..a pinch of could have/would have..it's heartbreaking.

And in the end it's a dead end for Clerith. Not only because she dies. But because he regains access to his true feelings again (lifestream scene)..and they are with Tifa.

Man~even while he has no access to them he is like a hen around its chick with Tifa.😊 Touching, watching, eye contact all the time (just watch this posts video below).

If anything, Aeriths death brought him further away from being with Tifa completely because he feels he failed yet another important person. A person he even might have loved because she was a friend. He hates this feeling and he blames himself for all the deaths, especially Aerith's. And he is so afraid to lose Tifa like that as well. That's why he keeps his distance later especially in Advent Children. Even though we have the Night under the High Wind.

Because if losing a person like Aerith, yes all lovely and sweet and bright and a friend, but if losing a person after several weeks, can do that to him, what would Tifas death do to him?

He doesn't want her, Marlene or Denzel to suffer if she sees that he has a supposedly terminal disease.

He doesn't trust himself to be really enough for her. He can't face her and leaves and has another episode of self isolation and self doubt. In his mind (?) he talks to Aerith ( and Zack is there as well,yaay) he seeks for forgiveness until he realizes he has to forgive himself first. Aerith and Zack reunited in the life stream, his friends, like his big brother and sister or like guardians watching over him, encouraging him as well to trust in himself the future and his loved ones. He sure loves Aerith, but it feels like a different kind of love from his love for Tifa. And this is fine. I would never say he doesn’t love Aerith. But it’s not in a romantic way. Maybe there was an attraction building when they met in sector 5, a curiosity. But for me his bond with Tifa overpowered this in various scenes before and after that section.

So Cloud leaves, nearly ghosting his family and Tifa, and as a fan of Cloti that was hard to watch, but seeing his reasons I came to accept and understand that he needed this.BIn the end yet again their bond is strong enough for pulling them back together again. He goes to stand with Tifa, his family his friends.

In the End Tifa welcomes him back and he finally starts to believe things will be better.

So for me there is no gravitational romantic pull between Aerith and Cloud but between Tifa and him.

This is a bit all over the place and I didn’t put in sources to prove my points because many others here in the fandom did in their analyses. I took a bit of additional intel from everyone's impressions and my own conclusions on the canon.

I just wanted to give my impression.

https://youtu.be/-Dn3SI4RVco

Visit her channel ❤

[tribeworldarchive]

Worldview on PREGNANCY - Part one.

Over the next two weeks we take a look at pregnancy in the real world and compare it to pregnancy in the world of The Tribe.

There have been four pregnancies in the main cast of The Tribe from series 1-3.

PHOTO 1 - Trudy with new pride and joy - BRADY

Trudy was already pregnant when we first saw her and soon delivered her baby in the Mall with the help of some of the Mall Rats.

Zandra discovered that she was pregnant with Lex's baby but died in the explosion on Eagle Mountain.

Salene suffered a miscarriage after she fell down the stairs.

And now Amber is about to deliver in a barn in the middle of nowhere with the sounds of an ominous airplane overhead.

The first signs

Most women discover that they are 'with child' when they miss their period but this is not always due to pregnancy. It is really important for a woman to see a doctor if she misses a period. Next comes the morning sickness although again, this doesn't always affect every woman. The sickness doesn't just happen in the morning either - some women are quite sick all day long for the first few months of their pregnancy. A suspected pregnancy needs to be confirmed by a doctor. If the woman has done a home pregnancy test she should still consult her doctor. This will help her to make informed decisions as to whether she wants to keep or terminate the baby and to make sure that both she and the baby are monitored closely for health reasons if the pregnancy is to continue.

How is it that a woman can not actually realise that she is pregnant?

There are some girls who have not even started their periods when they become pregnant and so do not notice any difference in their body. That combined with not getting morning sickness might hide the fact that there is actually a baby in there. Sometimes girls who do not know much about the facts of life just don't realise they're pregnant until they're in labour. Even at this stage they might believe that the pains they are experiencing are the result of food poisoning, a strained muscle or a stomach bug.

Phantom pregnancies

Is it a ghost? Is it a spook? No, it's the belief that there is a baby in your belly. Sometimes women desperately want to become pregnant and think about it so much that they convince their bodies that it is actually carrying a baby! Other women have all the characteristics of a pregnancy but there is no baby there. Just a mass of cells which grow and grow and this can be very dangerous indeed. Other 'pregnancies' are ectopic where the fertilised egg starts to grow in the Fallopian tube until it reaches such a size that it bursts and can cause death. These points make it very obvious that if there is ever a change in your body that you need to go and see your GP or your family planning clinic as soon as possible so you know that everything is normal.

Health issues

Pregnant women need to be really careful with their health so as not to harm the baby. Smoking, drinking alcohol and, of course, drug substances travel right through the umbilical cord from the woman straight to the developing foetus. Every year there are too many babies born with deformities caused by the mothers' abuse of these substances and they lead a very painful life, if indeed they live at all. Food is also an issue with pregnant women. Simple things like eggs, soft cheese, paté and seafood need to be avoided because of the risk of food poisoning which could kill the baby.

PHOTO 2 - a very pregnant Amber with Bray, leaving town

Tribal pregnancies

Tribal life must be like going back in time in many ways and the Tribal girls must have found it very hard to be pregnant in this post apocalyptic world. No family support, no pain relief, no doctors, and no ultrasounds or blood tests.

Of course, this is the way that women have given birth since time began but many women and babies have also died in the past due to the lack of medical help.

The Tribal girls would have been hard pushed to find enough healthy food to eat during their pregnancies. Plenty of iron (which is found in red meat and green vegetables) is important so that the mother doesn't develop anaemia, which would leave her feeling very faint and unwell.

Other problems would arise if the mother was diabetic or suffered from high blood pressure. Both these conditions can be fatal if not monitored and treated properly.

PHOTO 3 - Trudy with new born Brady, but feverish already

Trudy suffered terribly after the birth of Brady. She developed a puerperal fever (or childbed fever) which could have been fatal had Dal not been able to find some antibiotics. This fever was actually the biggest killer of women before the Second World War. Trudy then developed postnatal depression and luckily had the help and support of the Mall Rats to get her through this dark time. Some women get so depressed after they give birth that they harm themselves or the baby.

Salene miscarried after falling down the stairs and it was lucky that she recovered well from this. Some women have severe complications after losing a baby and need to have an operation to make sure that the uterus has been cleaned out properly to stop the risk of infection.

Amber lay bleeding in the last episode of Tribe 3 and this can obviously be a very bad sign in childbirth. Hopefully the labour will progress normally and Bray will be able to help with a successful delivery.

A problem the Tribal mothers could encounter after the birth include breastfeeding. Some women develop an infection called mastitis and this needs to be treated quickly with antibiotics. Other women find out that they are just not comfortable or have problems with breast-feeding and so need to bottle feed their babies. And they then need to find formula milk and bottle sterilising equipment. Some babies are allergic to cow's milk and need to have soymilk.

PHOTO 4 - A very proud Daddy - ZOOT holding Brady in his arms

It takes two to tango...

Of course we have to remember that a woman doesn't just become pregnant on her own. The father of the child becomes as involved in the pregnancy, decision making and the upbringing of the child as his morals will allow. Imagine having Zoot as your father! Bray, Ryan and Lex were all happy with the thought of becoming fathers and Bray was very supportive of Trudy during her time of need. In fact Zoot was blown away when he found out that he was a father but we will never know what kind of a daddy he would have made as he was killed soon after this discovery.

Teenage pregnancies

There are many teenage pregnancies all around the world and the Tribal girls were all still teenagers themselves when they discovered that they were pregnant. Some girls find it incredibly hard to make a decision about the best plan of action when they discover they are pregnant. Some decide to terminate their pregnancy but this should never be treated as a form of contraception. Some decide to have their baby adopted. And some decide to battle on and raise the child themselves. Any decision would be a difficult one and should not be made lightly as this is a life in the making. Some girls have great support from friends and family whereas some are not supported at all. Those who become pregnant need all the help and support they can get as well as further education about contraception and safe sex. The Tribal girls were all very lucky to have the help and support of their partners and friends.

Remember...

If you are pregnant and worried about it, please see your GP or go to a Family Planning Clinic as soon as possible. Tell a friend or a teacher at school. But most importantly, tell your parents. This might sound easier than it is but you need the support your parents should offer and they should ultimately respect you for trusting them with the truth. Of course, some parents cannot offer this kind of support and then it is really important that you find somebody else who you trust and can help you through a stressful time. There are support groups throughout the world that have been set up to help pregnant teenagers. Your GP, family planning clinic or school should be able to point you in the right direction.

Other concerns

There are so many sexually transmitted diseases that can be picked up through unprotected sex as well as the HIV virus. Pregnancy is just one concern. What starts off as a bit of harmless fun can develop in to just another unwanted and unloved child in the world or the contraction of a deadly virus. If you are mature enough to have sex, you should be mature enough to realise what the possible consequences of your choice are...and deal with them. There are strict laws in place in most countries about underage sex and the male involved can be arrested and prosecuted for statutory rape.

[iamanoneyemouse]

Olly

I’m not sure how many years I’ve had this account for, but this will be my first post, so I thought I’d make it count. I want to make this a very special post about our cat, Olly. 

At 11am today we took Olly to the vet’s practice in Leeds for the very last time. I’d like this post to service as a humbling reminder about the importance of resilience, love and kindness; all of which Olly had in abundance. 

So, let’s start with a little about Olly. He was hand-reared by Rachel’s Dad and his wife; he was the kitten of an unexpected pregnancy and they took him in as he was the runt of the litter. He is a half tabby, half Maine Coon cat, with a beautiful mixture of dark stripes spread across golden brown fur. He has white fur socks, a white mouth/nose combination with soft green eyes that only ever looked at you with dopey kindness. 

I first met him when I first visited Rachel’s Dad’s place in the Hertfordshire area. He was surrounded by two crazy Chihuahuas and a rather grumpy smaller cat called Jake. What first struck me about him was how docile and patient he was; he was completely hounded by these two crazy little dogs, and whilst he clearly was harassed to a point, he would often put up with it until they were bored or ran off - mostly he would try and stay on the kitchen counter surfaces and out of their reach! He was so affectionate and loved the attention. Over the coming months Olly and I formed a real “bro” friendship and he’d lap up the fuss I’d make over him whenever I’d visit. Rachel’s Dad had said a few times that when I bought my own place he could come and live with me. 

So when Rachel and I bought our own place in January 2018 he came to live with us - it was brilliant. He was a fantastic character; dopey, clumsy but full to brim of love with a playful nature (note - his idea of playful always involved claws!). There was never any malice in anything he did, and he was such a vocal cat! I’ve had cats all my life, but never had a cat chirp at me as if to say “hello” when you walk through the door. He loved to brush up against you and be near you, but he wasn’t a cuddly cat; he hated being picked like a baby, so he always enjoyed being near you on his terms only. He’d either lay next to, or on you, if it was to his benefit! Haha. He had a fetish for dirty clothing - we have too many videos of him rolling around in clothes from the wash basket, and even a picture of Olly entangled in my boxer shorts! He took his time to establish his territory, as he clumsily went about upsetting the multitude of cats in the neighbourhood that had clearly spent a long time establishing their boundaries, with our garden being a pathway to most of them. Eventually, he settled on a territory, which would then be shared (again) with the arrival of Jake as Rachel’s Dad moved to start a business further north. He loved food. A lot. To the point where he would wake us up at unruly hours meowing in readiness for his breakfast. To fix this issue we bought a timed food dispenser so he’d get regular food at set times. He never quite got the hint that we were no longer the food providers, and continued to wake us up quite often, only to run downstairs when he heard the food drop at 7.30am like clockwork... !!

His health did seem to plague his life, as he always seemed to have something wrong with him. It’s a good thing we had insurance, although sometimes it felt the amount they’d insure of Olly reduced by the week! When we first moved in he had a urinary tract infection, probably driven by the stress of moving; then he needed an operation on his eyelids as they were ingrown and causing him grief. He was sensitive to certain foods, so we put him on an exclusion diet to stop it causing aggravation (he would scratch his face until it bled sometimes!). Little did we know that, amongst all the surface-level chaos that were involved in what seemed like monthly visits to the vet (with the bills on top), that there was another deep rooted issue lurking that would prove to be terminal. 

It all came to light as we were selling our house. Olly was subdued for a couple of days, which wasn’t completely unusual behaviour given the turbulent year he’d had having an eye operation and infections. He would usually be his buoyant usual self after a day or two, but once he stopped drinking this time it became clear was a very different case. Rachel took him to the vets, where they discovered his breathing was rapid, he was severely dehydrated and there was fluid in his lungs. He nearly died that night, but the vets managed to save him and he was transferred to the larger veterinary hospital for overnight care. He was kept in for two days in total whilst they stabilised him. It was then they were able to examine him properly and discover that he had a heart murmur caused by a genetic heart disease, which was common with his breed. He would need to be on 5 pills daily for the rest of his life. It was worrying news.

The vet was unsure of his life expectancy at that point “you could have him for a few months, or a few years”. This wasn’t what we wanted to hear; he was 6 years old and up until this point had been full of life. He was our very own dopey dose of positive energy each day. At this point we were relieved that he was alive and there was a chance all could return to normal if the pills worked. That was a big if... we’d had experience already of how much he hated having eyedrops after his operation the year before. There was added complication of being told the side effects of the pills that would stop his heart from clotting would also suppress his appetite and dehydrate him. It was going to be an uphill struggle. 

I went to pick him up whilst Rachel was at work. As I let him out of his basket it quickly became apparent that he was not quite himself. He stumbled into the kitchen to his water bowl, which is where he stayed for the rest of the day. I watched as he tentatively lapped up some water occasionally and then rest. He was exhausted and very flat; no purring, none of his usual energy - it was like a part of him had already died.

He didn’t eat anything that day, which was worrying given how much he had loved food up until this point (he was a notoriously greedy shite who would eat until he threw up). Giving him pills at first was very traumatic for him, because the YouTube video we’d settled on following showed the guy (a vet) putting the pill at the back of his cat’s throat after simply opening the jaw. Unfortunately Olly did not play ball quite in the same way, refusing to open his mouth. With him being so weak and hardly putting up a fight, it was horrendous to know we were putting him under such stress; and there were a couple of occasions where it took so long to get him to take the pill that they’d started disintegrating and left his mouth with a horrible taste and foam coming out of his poor mouth. We had to come up with another battle plan: hide the pills in food and treats he’d like so he wouldn’t realise he was being drugged. We tried hiding the pills in his favourite Felix jelly pouches, but he quickly started to sniff them out and then rejecting Felix altogether. Quite quickly he was losing interest in other foods that had previously worked too. We were starting to run out of food he would eat, and also any ideas to get him to take them (it felt like he was losing trust in all of the food we were giving him, and rightly so!).

Some mouldable treats arrived, which worked for a few days, but he soon wised up to those as well. Rachel then ordered a special syringe that would squirt both water and the pill into his throat - we still had to get his throat open, but it became the most effective, albeit still stressful, approach. We soon noticed he was eating less and less food, to the point where he wasn’t eating any solids at all; If we could get him to eat one pouch per day of any type of food then we had done well, compared to the 4 he’d easily gobble up beforehand. He’d always been a big, chunky boy, but for the first time we could feel the bone along his back. As he ate less each day, over the next couple of weeks it became very clear he was wasting away in front of our eyes, and there was seemingly less and less we could do about it. We made an appointment with the vet for Friday 2nd October and they sent his blood off for a comprehensive test to see if there was anything else underlying. They were clearly concerned as he’d lost 25% of his bodyweight and wasn’t eating any solid food - their tone said it all: that it wasn’t looking good for Olly. We were told they’d contact us Monday or Tuesday with the results and that we should discuss a plan for him then.

It was the Monday that we received the call. His kidneys were failing under the pressure being put on them by the drugs to keep his heart working, and the  weakened state of his body. His organs were now working against each other, and he had all but stopped eating. On the Tuesday they had prescribed potassium liquid to take and another liquid to improve his appetite, both to be taken once per day - the poor boy was now up to 7 potentially traumatic pills/liquids. The vet was very honest with us that it wasn’t looking good, and we should consider our options at this point if it doesn’t work. At that point we thought we’d see how it went for the week and give it until Wednesday 14th October and if there was no improvement then we’d bring him back and give him the peace he deserved, but Olly’s reaction to the first dose was really not good. He clearly hated the taste of the appetite inducing liquid, and it seemed to have the opposite effect. Rachel and I didn’t want him to suffer unnecessarily if it looked like it wasn’t working. By Thursday’s doses things had only gotten worse, he now was barely drinking, and we could only get him to eat Sheba liquid treats; even that was once or twice per day. His calorie and liquid intake was extremely low, so by the end of Thursday we had both agreed that we didn’t want him to suffer anymore; it simply wasn’t fair on him. It was heartbreaking to see that even the simplest of exercise would now tire him out easily - even getting up and enjoying a stroke would result in him sitting down after a couple of minutes looking subdued again.

Olly hadn’t been the same since he came home from the veterinary hospital. We’d seen flashes of his beautiful personality and happy nature, but it was becoming too few and far between that he was himself. We agreed to call the vets on Friday and stop his medication. It was important to try and make Olly’s final day or two as comfortable as possible, and the trauma of receiving pills now seemed an unnecessary pain for him. Rachel didn’t give him the medication on Friday morning, and called the vets to arrange for Olly to be put to a peaceful sleep at 11am on Saturday. And now Olly’s terminal countdown to a peaceful sleep had now begun. 

The entirety of Friday 9th October was spent with both of us at home with Olly, giving him as much care and love as he would put up with. We brought out the catnip, which he went wild for until he got tired and sat back down. We brought out his favourite cat brush, which he lapped up until he once again needed to sit back down. He enjoyed some Sheba treats and even disappeared outside until midnight (resulting in me walking the streets calling for him, only for him to return on his own accord, meowing like he used to outside the front door). It was the first time we’d seen him consistently more happy and comfortable for a number of weeks.

It was far too quickly that Saturday 10th October arrived (today). I woke up before 7am feeling sick. I went out to the landing and sat with Olly, who was in his usual spot by the top of the stairs, which had been his residence for the past couple of weeks. I looked into the bedroom to see Rachel and Jake asleep peacefully. I let Olly have a whiff of some catnip, which he enjoyed but it was short-lived compared to Friday. After a while of chilling with him, I got up to head downstairs and he followed. I gave him 2.5 Sheba liquid treats, which he lapped up. He seemed energetic, so I let him outside... and he leapt over to Margaret’s garden next door! That was nothing unusual for a healthy Olly, so it was lovely to see him bounce over the fence like a gazelle once more. As time went on we started to worry that he may be about to repeat last night and not come back until later on! As I began to panic and consider wandering the streets again, Rachel pointed out that he had in fact returned and was chilling at the back of the garden in amongst the plant pots. I was relieved at first, but it was now past 10am and I knew that when he walked in from the garden, that would be the last time he’d ever step foot through what was his territory. This was starting to become a reality for me selfishly, and he was blissfully unaware of the fate that lie ahead. 

Rachel was at the top of the stairs where Olly had settled back into his usual spot. She was giving him a good old brush, which he was loving. I came upstairs to join them and took a photo of the moment; he looked relaxed and happy, it was lovely to see. I sat on the top few steps and started brushing him; his purr was radiant and loud - louder than we’d heard it for a number of weeks - and in that moment it all hit me... this beautiful, kind little boy was about to be cruelly taken through euthanasia for something completely out of his control. I broke down in tears and couldn’t carry on brushing, placing the brush down near Rachel and tearfully declaring “I can’t do it” before crumbling into a blubbering heap on the stairs. Olly, being the happy little git he was, stood up at this point, and nuzzled his head into my head as I lay there crying. It set me off even more; trembling with a bittersweet mixture of joy and hysteric sadness, I was moved to even more tears by how affectionate he was still able to be, which also then set poor Rachel off. I’m a realist, but in that moment I felt like he was saying “hey it’s OK, I’m OK with this”. It was such a beautiful moment, it broke my heart - I should have been comforting him, but instead he was comforting me and Rachel. 

Before we knew it, it was quarter to eleven and we had to go. We tearfully placed him into the catnip-sprayed basket, and left for the vets. When we got there, they took him in and we waited outside whilst they attached the drip to him. They then invited us in, where we sat down, they brought him out and placed him on my lap with a towel to wrap him up. He was clearly anxious about being back at the vets but we comforted him best we could as the vet started the anaesthetic. Fighting tears and trying not to shake with sadness, we comforted him until his head suddenly dropped and he stopped moving. Within a minute, he was completely gone. I couldn’t contain my emotion. Our beautiful boy had passed peacefully in my arms whilst Rachel and I comforted him. He was now at peace. He’d never have to make an effort to breathe, eat, drink, fight or feel any pain again. Our Olly had been set free. His ashes will be scattered at the communal area of the crematorium. We have tufts of his fur from where we brushed him, which we’ll put in the picture of him that’ll end up in our new kitchen. He will never be forgotten.

Olly, I didn’t just lose a pet today, I lost a pal. I lost a member of my family; we were part of a pride. You were such a pure and wonderful character, I’m not sure how anyone ends up with a personality like yours. I will miss your conversational chirp as I walk through the door after a day of work. I will miss your violent “claws out” approach to being playful. I will miss you making us laugh with your unique way of living. I will miss your clumsiness. I will miss your greed. I will miss sunbathing with you. You brought joy to so many of our friends and family. You will always be loved, and very much missed. Rest in the peace that you deserve Olly. You will never be forgotten. All my love.

[myhauntedsalem]

Poltergeist Trilogy Curse

Since the first Poltergeist movie hit the big screen and the iconic horror film trilogy has been scaring the pants off people ever since! Even if you haven’t seen any of the movies, the very image of young Carol Anne kneeling in front of a static-y television uttering those two, horrifying words in that innocent sing-song voice is enough to invoke an innate sense of fear.

But why is it so scary? We know its just a movie, right? Of course, but like any good horror movie classic, the very circumstances surrounding the film itself are wrought with legends and alleged true paranormal activity!

Let’s take a quick look at some of the eerie coincidences that are often cited as evidence of the Poltergeist curse:

Deaths of Cast Members:

Years ago, it was rumored that everyone who worked on the film met an untimely end. Obviously, that isn’t true, but there were at least four notable deaths of cast members that occurred during or slightly after the six year run between the release of the first and last Poltergeist movie. Two of these deaths were not highly unusual. Julian Beck, who played Kane in the second film, died after an 18 month battle with stomach cancer. Will Sampson, who played the shaman died from complications after a heart/lung transplant. Both actors were older, not in good health, and had been battling terminal issues for some time before their respective deaths.

The deaths of Sampson and Beck are still tragic, but not necessarily evidence of a curse. Instead, most people point to the very untimely deaths of two other stars: Dominique Dunne, who played the oldest daughter Dana, and Heather O’Rourke, who played Carol Anne throughout all three movies.

On October 30, 1982, Dunne, who was 22 years old, was confronted at her home by her ex-boyfriend, John Sweeney. Sweeney had come to reconcile, but when Dunne refused, he attacked her, choking her for an estimated 4-6 minutes. Dunne passed out and lapsed into a coma. She died on November 4. Sweeney was convicted of voluntary manslaughter, and served less than six years in prison.

Heather O’Rourke was just 12 years old when she passed away in February of 1988. Believed to have been suffering from the flu since January of that year, Heather continued to get worse until fainting at breakfast one morning. On the way to the hospital, she went into cardiac arrest. It was later discovered that she had an intestinal blockage, a condition brought on by her previously diagnosed Crohn’s Disease, and was experiencing sepsis. She underwent surgery to remove the blockage, but the toxins coursing through her blood stream were too strong and she died on the operating table on February 1st, shortly before the release of the third film. Because she died prior to the release of the film, it is debated as to whether or not she had actually completed filming all her scenes. Her parents claim that all scenes were completed the previous June, but producers claimed that subtle changes had to be made to the script to accommodate her passing.

Other Creepy Stuff:

There were some other interesting things that happened on set or to actors during the filming of the movies, again, most notably the first. During the first movie, Oliver Robins, who played Robbie, nearly died when one of the mechanical clowns malfunctioned and began choking him. At first, it was thought that he was a really good actor, but when he actually started turning blue, it was realized that he was in serious trouble.

JoBeth Williams, who played the mom in the first movie, had her own supernatural experiences off set. She claimed that when she’d go home in the evening, all the framed photos on the walls of her home would be askew. She’d fix them back, but find that the next evening, they’d again be out of place.

The above points are the evidence that is often presented when the curse is discussed, but why would this movie be cursed? Many people believe that there is a very simple reason for this, but very, very creepy!

Remember the pool scene in the first movie, the part where all the human skeletons pop up, confirming that the subdivision was built atop a cemetery where the headstones were moved but not the bodies? Those were real human skeletons. Seriously. At the time, it was much cheaper to purchase human skeletons than ones made of plastic.

Obviously, the cast wasn’t too thrilled with this revelation. A film about the dangers of treating the bodies of the dead with disrespect using real human remains as props is rather ironic and even prompted Will Sampson, who was a medicine man in real life, to conduct an exorcism on set.

Whether or not the souls of those whose bodies were used in the filming of this series came back to wreak vengeance, or whether or not you believe there is any type of curse associated with this trilogy, its still interesting to think about all the coincidences and spooky things that keep popping up with not just this movie, but so many other horror movies out there. In any event, with Halloween barreling its way towards us, the Poltergeist trilogy will inevitably hitting the small screen on at least a few different channels. If you choose to watch, just remember that the pool scene has a couple of un-credited extra actors involved!

[chaoskirin2]

As a long time Queen fan, is there anything you know about John Deacon that most fans are unaware of or forgotten? Any misconceptions? There is a lot about him but I hear all sorts of rumors like the stripper story.

I wish I could answer this with actual information. It would be great if I had something to bring to the fandom. Cool facts. Amusing anecdotes. But I don’t.

What I can say is this:

You can sense a lot about a person by how they present themselves. I think on some level, everyone has an empathic connection with the people they admire. Sometimes we find kindred spirits or people we look up to. We always want to say “My fave would never!” but the truth is, the people we look up to are human, too. They have their flaws and vices just like everyone else does.

Because people aren’t just black and white. We’re not all separated into “hero” and “villain.” There’s no alignment chart that encompasses whole populations. Sometimes bad people do good things. And sometimes good people do bad things. We should always look at the whole, and see any individual as a complete, balanced person.

We can identify and praise the good, but we can also examine and denounce the bad.

It’s important to not turn a blind eye to the bad things. But I think we also have a responsibility, before we attack, demean, or cast someone out, to verify that those things about them are true. The internet brings us into a world where published accusations have no filter, reach masses, and spread like wildfire. Before rumors can be contained and lies extinguished, too many people get absorbed into a groupthink mentality and lock themselves in an echo chamber where reality doesn’t shine.

I looked into the story of John and the adult club with an open mind. I knew I might find that it was all true in the end, and that would have been disappointing. But the important thing is that I didn’t trust the writings of an infamous, sensationalist tabloid and did the necessary work to uncover its veracity. I didn’t want to pry into John Deacon’s private life, but I think as his fans, we owe it to him not to spread false information.

And it wasn’t an easy process. In my original conversations with Sophisticats, I was told they wouldn’t talk to me unless I was seeking an audition. In fact, I didn’t hear back on the answers to my questions until months later, long after I published the original debunking. (I’ll post that under a read more below.)

In the end, I think Deacon has given us an indescribable part of himself that can’t be quantified or be given a price tag. And we owe him his privacy. We also owe him the courtesy to not seek out scandal just because he is a quiet, private man.

My original debunking of the Sophisticats Bullshit:

After carefulconsideration, I've decided to fact-check the story about John Deacon's forayinto strip clubs, titled "Queen's Boring Bassist," published in theDaily Mail on January 30, 2005.

 First, looking at theDaily Mail's track record, it is considered to be an unreliable, far-right(conservative) newspaper. According to readers on Quora, it "has zerocredibility" and is "sensationalist nonsense." User GraemeShimmin states that he uses the Daily Mail as a reverse fact-check: "if the Daily Mail says something is true thenI assume it is untrue."According to Media Bias/Fact Check (mediabiasfactcheck.com/daily-mail/) thepaper has a "poor track record with fact-checkers.) The Wikipedia articleabout the Daily Mail states that it is unreliable and biased, and has also beencriticized for instances of copyright violation.

 It has also come underfire in the past for its powerful bias. In the 1930s, the Daily Mail ranseveral articles praising Nazism and Fascism. Virgin Trains recently stoppedstocking the Daily Mail due to its strong-right stance as beinganti-immigration and anti-LGBT, among other things.

 Most notably, severalcelebrities, including Diana Rigg, Elton John, and J. K. Rowling, have brought successfullawsuits against the Daily Mail for publishing false information. Of particularinterest, and almost directly related to the subject matter of this fact-check,Melania Trump received a settlement based on allegations published in the DailyMail stating that she had been an "escort" in the 1990s.

 Wikipedia will also notallow the Daily Mail to be used as a source.

 The article itself ispoorly-written, is riddled with grammatical and punctuation errors, andcontains a general lack of impartiality. Any publication with integrity willhave a preference for neutral language which does not lead its readers to aparticular conclusion. It also contains heavy speculation pertaining toDeacon's decision to not tour or give interviews related to Queen.

 It makes the medicallyinaccurate statement that Freddie Mercury "died of AIDS." (it isimpossible to die from AIDS. People who suffer the disease die due tocomplications from AIDS' attack on the immune system. In Mercury's case, hepassed away due to bronchopneumonia related to AIDS.)

 Lastly, there are nocorroborating sources - no other articles in any publications mention that JohnDeacon ever visited a strip club or had an affair. Compare this to theextensive coverage of Brian May's marriage problems with his current wife,Anita Dobson. Needless to say, it is extremely important that multiple sourcesverify any information for it to be considered true. Of note, other far-rightsources that publish articles with no corroborating sources include BreitbartNews and the Westboro Baptist Church.

 It was very interestingthat the Daily Mail has a quote by Opposition dancer Jenny Fewins, but it isnot attributed. I found the quote's source by accident, when looking forinformation about her and her credibility. The quote in the Daily Mail wasstolen from a book called Queen: TheEarly Years by Mark Hodkinson, with no credit given. This was a surprising,but welcome, confirmation of the sources that state that the Daily Mail hasbeen cited for copyright infringement. The part about Freddie Mercury arrivingat the wedding wearing a feather boa, as well as Roger Taylor's assessment ofDeacon's personality, are also from the same book, and also uncredited.

 Both anecdotes are alsotruncated and incomplete, and spliced with false paraphrasing. For example,Roger Taylor did not say, "We were so over-the-top, we thought thatbecause he was quiet, he would fit in with us without too much upheaval."The correct quote from the original source is, "We thought he was great.We were all so used to each other, and so over the top. We thought that becausehe was quiet, he would fit in with us without too much upheaval. He was a greatbass player, too -- and the fact that he was a wizard with electronics was alsoa deciding factor."

 I cannot find any sourcefor the quote by Robert Ahwai, nor much about him, other than the fact that itseems he is a real person. His quote in the article, if it is real, is alsospeculative, and from a person who only knew Deacon from college and had noassociation with him at the time of Freddie Mercury's death.

 Unfortunately, whilesearching for information about whether or not Deacon's relationship withdancer Emma Shelley was, indeed, an affair (as well as whether or not sheexisted) I had to compare information about the affairs of Brian May and RogerTaylor. The reason behind this endeavor is to set the bar for how much information ispublished about the personal lives of Queen members. In my search, I foundseveral articles about May's affair with secretary Julie Glover, as well as ahandful of candid photographs. I also found a few articles, and one picture,about Roger Taylor's affair with Fay Lawrence. Despite celebrities' attempts tokeep extramarital affairs secret, there are always a few photographs thatappear, especially in the UK, where tabloid press is viciously always on thelookout for gossip. Paparazzi can earn quite a bit of money from an exclusivephoto.

 When Simon Langer and hispartner, John McKeown, took over the Sophisticats strip club in 2001, heestablished several club rules, which directly conflict with information fromthe article. First, that clients in the strip club are not allowed to have anycontact whatsoever with the dancers. The article states that Shelley was a"lap dancer," which would, of course, require some pretty close contact.

 Second, dancers are notpermitted to accept addresses or phone numbers from clients. Clients whoacquire personal information are not permitted back into the club, and thedancers are terminated.

 I attempted to findcontact information for Mr. Langer or Mr. McKeown, however, I was unable tofind any current addresses or phone numbers. In hopes that an email would reachthe proper entities, I sent a message to the account set up for bookings andauditions, which was the only email address listed on the site.

 I wished to ask about howstrictly the rules are enforced. I also found it odd that apparently Mr. Langerhad no problem with giving out client information to the Daily Mail,specifically stating that he knew Deacon visited the establishment. Even more shocking,he gave out information about his employees - someone named "Olga"with no last name given, as well as Emma Shelley. This seemed like a breach oftrust to me.

 The strip club that Johnis said to have attended, Sophisticats, does indeed exist. As Sophisticats hasno contact information on their website, I messaged their page on Facebook,asking as to whether they employed any women named "Olga" or"Emma Shelley" circa 2000-2001. I also located an email address aftersome extensive searching, and sent the same question to that email, as well.

 Unfortunately,Sophisticats declined comment to my inquiry. The only response I received askedwhether or not I planned on auditioning.

 The strangest thing aboutJohn Deacon's alleged affair with Emma Shelley is that one particular photo isposed, as if taken with his permission. Considering the fact that multiplesources (including the Daily Mail, which published the photo) state that Deaconis secretive and reclusive, he would not pose for a photo with a mistress if hewished to keep the affair secret. This photo is also blurry, which is atechnique of photomanipulators who have severely edited a photo. Had Deaconactually posed for this photo, there would be no need for it to be blurry, asthe photographer wouldn't have had to rush to take it. Interestingly, it isalso impossible to tell whether or not the man in the photo is actually JohnDeacon.

The answer to this point might seem obvious - the photos were taken in secret.However, with the saturation and contrast in these photos (a point I willexplore in more detail shortly) they must have been taken with a flash. Whileit might have been possible to take such a photo with a high ISO, the entirepicture would have been extremely bright and grainy. If you check the photos,you'll see that there is absolutely no grain indicative of a high ISO, nor isthere enough blurriness to support a conclusion that any grain was removed. Thebrightness of the subject matter and the extreme black background can only meanthat a flash was used.

 Which Deacon would havenoticed. As would have the dancer in the photos. The person who took the photoslikely would have had his camera confiscated, and would have been escorted outof the club - they would not have had the opportunity to take one photo, thenmove, and take a second photo.

 And... This is as far as Igot with the research before I stopped working on it. As I was unable to getany further information (including from another club that may have beeninvolved - Stringfellows) I could not continue my research. Take from this whatyou will.Sorry about the incompleteness of this. It's all I was able to accomplish.

[the--sad--hatter]

Name Calling (47)

FANDOM - MARVEL MCU, DEADPOOL & X-MEN

PAIRING - BUCKY X READER (female reader, no physical descriptions)

WARNINGS - ALL OF THEM, SMUT, VIOLENCE ANGST

DESCRIPTION -  

Vernichtung - Destruction, Annhialation.

It was what you were named and what you were supposed to be but the only thing you wanted to destroy was Bucky Barnes.

The ongoing and bloody war of words between you and Bucky turns in your favor when a disgruntled one night stand of his lets slip a secret when you run into her in the elevator… Now you have all the ammunition you need to destroy your enemy but you don’t plan on killing him quickly. Oh no, Bucky Barnes was going to suffer and you were going to enjoy every second. You just didn’t count on enjoying it quite so much.

But when your past catches up to you in the form of the mad scientist who made you, Bucky might be one of the only things that can save you from yourself. You can’t run from what you are but with his help, you can fight back.

Current Word Count -  127,743

MASTERLIST  or   Read on Ao3

Moodboard by @talesofakindredspirit

Chapter Forty-Seven - The Doctor Will See You Now

Jack Docherty, like all men was born with the potential for good and evil. There was no deciding factor ingrained in his DNA. At 06:24 am on December 3rd 19 1951 he was born a blank slate and his fate was to be decided by the man and woman the midwife handed him too.

Ian Docherty was a man of faith, a God fearing man. To him, the squealing babe in his arms was another miracle of the lord.

Emma Docherty was a woman who felt she was forsaken by God and her husband. To her, her infant son was nothing more than another burden.

The first three years of Jack Docherty’s life were unremarkable. Seven months into the third year, everything changed.

“Your father is sick. God is punishing him.” His mother told him.

Jack crept into his fathers room and peered at him over the top of the bed. His once vibrant father was nothing more than a bag of bones lying on the bed, his skin sallow and sunken in, stretched over his skeleton. His chest rasped and wheezed as he tried to breathe. Jack reached up and with his little fist, grabbed his fathers hand.

Almost like magic, colour bloomed across his fathers flesh and life returned to him. For the first time in days he opened his eyes. There was a small thump from the next to the bed and he looked down.

“Jack? Jack? EMMA!” He yelled.

Emma Docherty rushed into the room, falling onto her knees next to her sons prone form. As soon as she touched the boy her skin took on a sallow palour. And so at three years and seven months old, Jack Docherty healed his father and killed his mother.

“God knew my wife was poisoning me and gave me a son to heal me and punish her for her sins.” His father told the church.

At first nobody believed him but when his son lay hands on old Mrs Carver and she was healed of her blindness they knew the truth. It didn’t matter to them that Jack was now blind. It didn’t matter to his father. Until he realised that the next person Jack touched would inherit the blindness.

That was the day his father started buying rats. It was also the day Mrs Carver saw her husbands transgressions with the neighbour and killed them both.

Not even four years old and Jack Docherty was dragged to churches up and down the country to heal the sick, no matter how much pain it caused him. And everywhere they went there was a trail of dead rats and ungrateful people.

When Jack Docherty was seventeen years old he laid hands on a man with a painful, terminal disease. And instead of passing it to a rat, he passed it to his father.

“When you see God, ask him why he would do this to me and not expect my revenge.” Jack hissed to his dying father.

Evil is not born in the womb, it festers over time, through tragedy. And humanity was evil, Jack Docherty knew this to be true.

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

Leaving Bucky behind was the only way to keep him safe, if you hadn’t then he would be in a cell next to yours and while you loved him, you weren’t quite that co-dependant. Besides, if you were going to get out of this then you wanted Bucky out there, looking for you.

So you went quietly, letting Docherty lead you to the helicopter. You had planned to kill him as soon as you were in the air and you knew Bucky was safe but he had planned for that and as soon as you stepped onto the craft you were hit with several tranq darts and tazed for good measure.

When you woke up again it was in a cage almost identical to the one you had grown up in, the only difference was the room around it. This room was dark and musty and your grandfather was sat waiting for you to wake up.

He’d never been much of a talker before, apparently he had a lot to share now though.

Of all the tortures Docherty had subjected you to over the years, this was by far the worst. You shoved your hands in your pockets and gave him a bored look.

“So you’re a mutant?” You asked casually, it had been the only part of his story that had picked up your interest.  

“It never occurred to you I might be?” He asked, as if genuinely surprised you didn’t know.

In retrospect, it made sense. Your mother was a mutant, she had to have got it from somewhere. It also explained how he had poisoned a mutant with healing abilities.

“Honestly I never really gave much thought to why you were such a dick and I gotta say... Cool backstory, you’re still an asshole.” You responded with a shrug.

“Such fire. Stark was good for you.”He said mockingly.

“You thought if you could raise me like you were raised I would turn into a psychopath like you did? Well I bet you feel like an idiot now because guess what Docherty? It wasn’t your upbringing that made you the way you are, you’re just a dick.” You mocked back.

“I saw the depravity and selfishness that people posses. They don’t deserve to live.”He hissed.

“I saw it as well, courtesy of you and agree to disagree. There are good people in the world. I’m one of them, despite your best efforts.” You rebutted.

“Ungrateful child. My best efforts made you what you are, into a god! You have no idea what I had to sacrifice to make you into Vernichtung, to bring the world to it’s knees and make people pay for their depravity!”

“Sacrificed? You mean your daughter? My mother. The one you kept locked away, waiting for the right moment to kill?” You snarled.

He looked taken aback.

Locked in another cage by him, you didn’t feel as brave as you sounded. But you were channelling Tony because this pathetic, snivelling excuse of a man would never see your fear again. So you would trade barbs with him and rile him up and you would do it with a smile.

You thought of your father and he gave you the strength to smile at the man you hated above all else.

You thought of Bucky and he gave you the strength to stand tall in the face of your abuser.

“Sorry, did you want to dramatically announce that? Go ahead, I’ll even fall to my knees in slow motion when you do.” You quipped with a signature Stark grin.

“Yes, I killed my daughter. I needed the healing mutation she had but she was weak. So I gave Vernichtung to you, your natural mutations and super soldier serum made you strong enough to survive the multiple volatile mutant abilities in your veins.” He explained calmly.

“She wasn’t weak. All those years and she still remembered me! She loved me!” You exclaimed furiously, determined to defend her memory.

“She was a slave to her heart, to her emotions. She wasn’t like me so all she was good for was her DNA. She died to help make you into what you are supposed to be.” He said callously.

“You’re right. You went to a lot of effort, sacrificed so much and for what? You’re an old man who has achieved nothing. I’m never going to destroy the world.” You scoffed.

“But you will. When you let that mutant escape I saw an opportunity. I let you go, let you be free. And I never stopped watching, waiting. You needed to have it all before I could take it from you.” He said, holding up a picture of you and Bucky, the one of you on the balcony.

“That was your master plan? Let me befriend Earth’s Mightiest Heroes and then steal me away from them? They will come for me. Whatever dank hole you have us hiding in, they will find us.” You vowed.

He chuckled and walked over to a button on the wall, pressing it. You winced as the wall in front of your cell rose and the light blasted in. As soon as your eyes adjusted you looked out of the window.

“Motherfucker.” You swore.

This was why nobody had been able to find Docherty, he wasn’t hiding. You were looking at Stark tower, it was a literal stone’s throw away. Three, maybe four blocks at most. He’d been right under your nose the whole time.

“Do you see? You never escaped. You never could.” He told you.

You couldn’t look at him, you turned your back on him as you tried to get your breathing under control. This whole time, he’d been right here. Those first days at the tower, learning to trust Tony... He had been down the street. Every moment you spent at the compound, Docherty was here where he could get to Pepper. You weren’t afraid anymore. Not even close.

You were pissed.

“Are you with me?” You growled.

“I’m always with you.”He answered.

“I wasn’t talking to you.” You said turning around with a feral smirk.

You raised your hand and blasted the cell door open, sending it spiralling across the room in pieces.  

“Vernichtung.” He breathed out reverently.

“Sorry grandpa, it’s still me.”You snarled.  

“Impossible.” He gasped.

“No, it’s not. Because all of me hates all of you.”

You stood tall and let the black veins ripple across your skin but your eyes remained clear. You and Vernichtung were united as you advanced on him, ready to tear him apart and put an end to him once and for all. In this, in your hatred of him, you were one with your darker self.

For you, for your mother, for every innocent he had ever hurt... He was going to pay.

“The thing about Vernichtung my dear is it is not a natural mutation.” he snarled and grabbed your wrist.

As soon as he touched you, the veins fled down your skin and onto his hand, rippling up his body.

“It’s a disease. That’s why it turns your blood black.” He said victoriously.

“No!”

You could still feel her in your mind, snapping at the man stealing her power. He convulsed as it overtook him.

“You need the healing mutation to survive it. You’ll be ripped apart.” You warned him.

“Not before I rip apart everyone you love, and then you will have nothing. Then you may have your power back and you will finally be ready to use it.”

“I won’t let you do this.” You said desperately.

He only laughed and you were thrown backwards, the Deathwave being unleashed on you and rupturing you from the inside out.

Your broken body landed in a pool of your own blood and you realised there was nothing you could do, he was going to rip apart New York and with it, everyone you loved.

And then he would get his wish, because you would destroy the world if you lost them.

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

Dun dun dunnnnnnnnnnn.

The next chapter is the penultimate chapter, the big battle, the explosive finale before the dust settles. So strap in folks, next chapter is going to be long and painful.

Also... Jake Peralta: Cool motive, still murder.

@nerdandproud-86 @harrison-shot-first@thejourneyneverendsx @thelostallycat @inquisitor-selvala@the-corruptor @iovher @kendrawr-kitkat @phoenix-whiskey-tears @the–real-wombat @buckitybarnes@fairislesheets@angieptt @meganjonezzzz@dugan365@fluffeh-kitty@memanda17 @krystallynx@theonelittleone@piscesbarnes@free-as-fishes@tarastudiesalot@captainamericasbeard@dropthepizza346@jaynnanadrews@likes-to-smell-books@drdorkus @life-wanderer@metalarmlover @animegirlgeeky@jsmith509

[lain-solus]

(JUDE LAW / 43 / HE/HIM ) – (Dr. Lain Solus) has been spotted in the castle. they said to originally be from Royston, Hertfordshire (UK)  and is often seen to be (stubborn) but seemingly (innovative). After being in Wolfenstein for (5 years), they’ve come to be (hesitant of the council) in their own way. They work as a (pharmacist) and are known around these parts as (the alchemist). better watch your back with that one around.

A LIST OF (AT LEAST) 6 AESTHETICS FOR THIS CHARACTER: 1. A wet specimen of a Rhesus Monkey fetus preserved in a dusty old jar. 2. A grimy lab coat stained with blood and various reagents. 3. A round bottom flask bubbling over with fluorescent aqueous mixture. 4. A book of anatomical illustrations, all pages yellowed from age. 5. Broken mirrors. 6. Equations and calculations haphazardly written on walls. 7. Liquid mercury. 8. Two hands, palms open and then superimposed on each other, a visual representation of a chiral molecule. 9.  Bio-luminescent E.coli pumped through a series of clear tubes to light up a room.

Hey yall my name’s Chloe and I’m here to fuck shit up.

THE SONG YOU SEE AS THIS CHARACTERS THEME: Yellow Box - The Neighbourhood

I'm dying to live again I'm doing my best

I got a feeling And it ain't leaving, no, it ain't leaving Hard time believing if I don't see it Like a secret, you lie to keep it, oh

(AT LEAST) THREE HEADCANON: (character headcanons) TW: ILLNESS, TW: DEATH, TW: OVERDOSE, TW: DRUG USE

An early infatuation with comprehending how things work has been the primary drive over the course of Lain’s life. He was adopted when he was a year old by an older couple that were unable to have children. He was fortunate enough to grow up in a household that encouraged his desire to seek to understand the environment around him. Being considered gifted in the areas of math and science came with additional pressure to succeed, to not let such a gift go to waste.  His mother and father did their best to ensure that Lain received only the best education, sending him to a private STEM based boarding school when he was eight.  Living away from home was incredibly difficult, but making friends was easy considering he was now surrounded by other nerds with similar interests.  He went on to attend Cambridge University, seeking an undergraduate degree in nuclear engineering.  But the second semester of his freshman year, his picture perfect life burst into flames.  His mother was diagnosed with ALS, a terminal disease with no known cure.  A brilliant mind, trapped in a rapidly failing body.  The doctors gave her a year to live; she made it six months.  Lain nearly flunked out of school, he turned to drugs and alcohol as a means to escape the suffering that was reality.  After waking up in the hospital after an intentional overdose, he was given an ultimatum by his father: go to rehab and get clean, or he would no longer be paying for his education. During his rehabilitation, he began to heavily question the path he was taking in his life, why everything seemed to spiraling out of control.  He switched majors when he returned to his studies, instead choosing to pursue organic chemistry. He made it through undergrad and went on to attend pharmacy school, obtaining a doctorate in pharmacology from Cardiff University.  Lain went on to conduct pharmaceutical research at a private lab in Ireland for the next decade.

He was at a conference at the World Health Organization in Geneva, Switzerland when the lines of transportation were cut. Some of the world’s greatest minds gathered to compile their discoveries in desperation that someone knew how to stop the virus. When the announcement came that everyone in the complex was now stranded, panic and chaos soon followed.  Riots broke out, data was stolen, many died fighting to defend their discoveries from the hands of thieves.  Weeks had passed before the first helicopters arrived, rations and moral at an all time low.  An offer was extended to Dr. Solus, come to Austria and continue to research a compound that would halt the extinction event in its tracks.  With his back against the wall, Lain made his choice.  So he carefully packed the few items he could salvage from the ransacked laboratory into a suitcase and came to Wolfenstein.

Carrying what feels like the weight of the world is beginning to take its toll on the pharmacist. A castle full of survivors in need of medications, some of which are impossible to manufacture given Lain’s rudimentary laboratory.  Meanwhile, beyond the stone fortress, the infection continues to spread like wildfire from host to host.  With every precious second that slips away, humanity drifts closer and closer to imminent extinction looming on the horizon. Every minute breakthrough the pharmacist makes raises many more questions than actual answers.  He is constantly experimenting with both organic and synthetic compounds to try to formulate a vaccine to halt the spread of the virus. As he searches frantically for a cure, Lain cannot help but feel as though he’s aboard a sinking ship.  If a solution is even possible, is there anyone left outside the stronghold worth saving?

A pharmaceutical researcher turned clandestine biochemist, Lain can usually be found in his laboratory when he’s not assisting at the hospital.  Since he’s been at Wolfenstein, he has been able to craft a handful of drugs (most of which were synthesized from plants and fungi) that are capable of easing pain and stopping the spread of some infections.  But the cure for the virus continues to exceed his grasp.

He is fully aware of the expectations laid upon him, yet strives to exceed far beyond them.  He treats his body like a damn machine, often forgetting to take well earned breaks and will continue to push onward until he is physically unable to do so.  He’s always going and going and going, because once he’s idle the self-doubt and intrusive thoughts come creeping in.  Talkative, driven, obsessive and selfless are all words that can be used to describe Dr. Solus.

He is distrustful of the council, but understands that it is a necessary evil.  While he appreciates that they would try to keep democracy alive (or at least the facade of it) by allowing a select few to aid in decision making, however, he thinks that is unfair that voting rights are not extended to all members of the compound.

He is currently in the process of training an apprentice (hello wanted connection) in case something happens to him.

He can probably put your character to sleep just with his excessive talking, but if that doesn’t work, there’s always morphine!

[mr-lancers-english-class]

Waiting to Die

Part 1: Six Times Not Dead (AO3)

The first time Sam thought she was going to die, and consequently her earliest distinct memory, was when she was four years old. Grandpa Manson had died after a stroke related to a heart problem. Although her own mom and dad hadn’t told her anything, declaring she was too young to understand what was going on, Grandma Manson had explained, in as much scientific detail as Sam asked for, that Grandpa Manson had coronary heart disease, which had clogged up his arteries. She explained about his chest pains and struggles with breathing and how he’d had it for years. A week later, Sam used four-year-old logic to assume she was going to die in the middle of the mall when she suddenly couldn’t breathe and her chest started aching. After much dramatic sobbing, angry whispered arguments between her parents and her grandma, and a doctor's visit, it was determined that Sam had asthma, not a terminal heart disease.

The second time Sam thought she was going to die was near the beginning of her freshman year. Aside from her first asthma attack, she’d had vague moments of maybe coming close to injury, but it wasn’t until then that she had actually, truly, deep down thought she was going to die. She and Danny and Tucker had been looking at the portal in Danny’s basement when she had dared them to go into it. It wasn’t on, it didn’t even work, but the idea of a door to another realm gave the dare enough weight. Being teenage boys, they had taken her up on it as long as she did too. The picture of them had come out pretty well, matching white hazmat suits Mr. and Mrs. Fenton had made in the hope that Danny and his friends would get involved in ghost hunting before they grew much more. When it was her turn, she’d made it a full three steps into the gaping hole before she managed to trip on a who-knew-what, stumble into the wall, and hit the little green button labelled “on.” In the half-second before the machine actually responded, Sam thought she was going to die. She didn’t think anything once the electricity actually began to shoot through her body, stopping and restarting her heart, fusing her cells with the pure ectoplasm; she couldn’t. She could hear a scream, probably hers but also maybe the boys’, but she couldn’t think. She could only wait to die.

The third time Sam thought she was going to die was less than a week later. She wasn’t sure how she had survived in the portal, but all three of them were too scared to tell the Fentons that they had been messing around in the lab. As such, when she first fell through the sidewalk on the way to school, she had panicked and thought she was dying again. It took another week of carefully asked questions phrased so as to not give away anything to determine that Sam had, in fact, died in the portal, and was now a ghost. When Danny relayed this information to her, she, like any logical teenager presented with the news that they have been dead for almost a month, ran the hell away. Tucker finally found her that night hiding under the footbridge in the park, tossing rocks into the small stream. After a tense conversation among the trio, they reached three conclusions: First, it didn’t matter that Sam was a ghost, she was still their friend. Second, if Sam could figure out how she had fallen through the sidewalk, and maybe try all those other thing Danny’s parents had told him ghosts could do, their freshman year was going to be a lot more fun than they expected. Third and most important, no one else could ever know.

The fourth time Sam thought she was going to die was a lot less stressful than the last two, oddly enough. She’d finally gotten the school board to try a new menu, focusing on organic and sustainable options bought from local farms. She had expected some sort of recognition or award. She had not expected an evil dead-not-dead-maybe-dead lunchlady to attack the school and try to kill her and her friends. Buried under a pile of meat, she had decided she wanted to die all the way and not come back, because dear God did it smell bad. In a moment of pessimism, she thought she actually would die all the way. Without warning, she was no longer buried in the meat, but was instead flying through the roof of the school. After a little more trial and error, Sam began to actually steer, before flying back down into the school and fighting an old lady over lunch.

The fifth time Sam thought she was going to die was when she got trapped in an alternate dimension, stuck in the 1950s or 1960s in black and white like the old films she sometimes would watch with Grandma Manson in the basement theatre. Her body was stuck in her dimension with some dead nerd walking around in it, and nobody seemed to notice. After sitting stuck in a locker for almost an hour, she whispered to no one in particular, “I’m going to grow old and die here in this world and nobody will know,” before she started to cry quietly. It didn’t take her as long as she expected to make it back to her body and beat the ghost responsible. It took her longer than she would have liked to acknowledge she wasn’t actually fully dead, but was a “halfa,” whatever that meant. Danny said it meant that when she was in her ghost form, she was dead, but when she was in her human form, she was alive, because it’s impossible to be both alive and dead at the same time. Tucker said it meant that she was a reanimated corpse possessed by her own spirit. Sam chose to ignore both of them. She had spent two months thinking she was dead, and had no intention of doing so again any time soon.

The sixth time Sam thought she was going to die was not when she got stuck in detention for three hours with Dash hitting on her the entire time. It was, surprisingly, not when Amity Park was sucked into another dimension and she had to fight the king of all ghosts himself for the fate of humanity. It was when she looked into her own laughing eyes, friends and family seconds from death themselves, and she knew she was going to lose. Her mind worked faster than it ever had, faster even than when the portal had turned on, and she decided that when Mom and Dad and Danny and Tucker and Jazz and the Fentons and Mr. Lancer where gone, she would try to find a way to join them. She was already half-dead, it couldn’t be worse to go all the way. It was better than becoming that thing laughing at her suffering from within the thermos.

The seventh time Sam thought she was going to die was slower than the previous six. She hadn’t even realized what was happening until Tucker posed a theoretical question in chemistry class and Danny made a bad joke. Clockwork hadn’t said anything when she asked him, and Undergrowth had brushed off her concerns about her health, saying she probably was coming down with some human disease or another. Sam hadn’t had so much as a runny nose since she had half-died two years and five months ago, but she didn’t want to push her luck. Undergrowth was distant on the best of days and mean on the worst. It was just her luck to have the only other ghost in the world like her be not at all interested in anything related to her. She learned as much as she could from the other plant ghost, but he was only teaching her as a favor to Clockwork and they both knew it. So when Tucker asked a clarifying question about ectoplasmic radiation and its effects on humans (an oddly specific topic, but something that had been added to the Amity Park high school curriculum the previous year), and Danny whispered to her that based on his parents’ cooking, he should be dead one, Sam had the sinking feeling that she was going to die.

Slowly.

Second phic phight story. Based on the Reverse Trio AU prompt  “Sam is slowly being killed by her plant/nature core. But Undergrowth seems unwilling to teach her how to master it. Will she manage to convince him otherwise or will not only her life end but all of Amity Park!?” by @tonis-writings Hoping to continue this one a little further!

[bluewatsons]

H. D. Chalke, The Impact of Tuberculosis on History, Literature, and Art, 6 Med Hist 301 (1962)

If men could learn from history, what lessons it might teach us! -- S. T. COLERIDGE

Introduction

Disease has had an incalculable influence on the history of mankind. The earliest records tell of plagues and pestilences which devastated whole countries and had profound effects on social structure, contributing to unrest, famine, migration and wars.

But 'history is the essence of unnumerable biographies' and so individual ill health, both mental and physical, has had a great impact on world events, and on the Arts-literature, poetry, painting and music. A study of the biographies of the famous shows how often they have been dogged by illness of the mind or body, and it is interesting to speculate as to the effect this may have had on their outlook, productivity or scholarship. Consider also what those geniuses in the world of poetry or music who died young might have achieved had they lived! There is no doubt, either, that illness and early death of the parents plays a part in determining the habits and character of the children. Tuberculosis when it was in its epidemic phases in this country exemplifies this. The story of tuberculosis gives us, perhaps, as good a picture as any of the impact of disease on life and culture. Apart from leprosy, western civilization has known no communicable disease which may run such a protracted course, affecting almost any part of the body and giving rise to such long periods of ill-health and disablement.

History

No one can tell when the tubercle bacillus first became a parasite of man, or how infection began. There are at least some grounds for the supposition that it was of bovine origin, but whatever its source, man and his animals seem to have been affected a very long time ago. As a communicable disease, its spread would have been restricted until isolated groups of people began to adopt a wider community existence, sharing their dwellings with the sheep, pigs and cattle that had become domesticated (? c. 12,000 years ago), and extending their outside contacts. Movement farther afield as trade routes opened up (the horse, domesticated much later than the other animals, helped to make this possible) and the growth of centres of barter at the junctions of these routes and at the sea terminals, would aid the passage of infection. The human drift in search of game and better pasture was intensified as population increased; and with greater numbers at risk, in the less hospitable climates to the west and north in the wake of the retreating ice, more and more people would be prone to pulmonary complaints.

About 10,000 B.C. Neolithic man was moving into Europe, by 5000 B.C. leading a community life in lake dwellings. It seems that horseflesh was no longer used as a human food (the horse was not apparently as subject to tuberculosis as the cow or pig which were eaten in its place), and cow's milk became part of the diet. The thoracic vertebrae seen in a Neolithic skeleton found at Heidelberg, show collapse, strongly suggestive of tuberculous infection. The basins of the Nile, and the Tigris and Euphrates, cradled civilization in 5000-3000 B.C. It is understood that tuberculosis is not mentioned in the Ebers Papyrus, nor in the code of laws of Hammurabi of Babylon (2250 B.C.) (Burke). Elliot Smith found evidence of tuberculosis in five out of I0,000 Egyptian skeletons, the earliest dated 3500 B.C. and, quite recently, palaeopathology has revealed spinal caries and a psoas abscess in a mummy of the XXIst dynasty (c. 1000 B.C.). But the ancient Egyptians left no accounts of tuberculosis: the standard of health was high, as Herodotus (c. 400 B.C.), the traveller and descriptive writer, confirmed-though some centuries later.

Neither the Old nor the New Testaments give acceptable information of a disease such as the respiratory tuberculosis of modern times (Fraser). It is not to be found in the Mosaic Code, but the description in the Talmud of caseous nodules in the lungs of animals is noteworthy. Frazer (The Golden Bough) says that the Hindoos in Vedic times (I500 B.C.) sang: 'O consumption fly away with the Blue Jay': but 'consumption' in relation to those days may be a vague appellation. Did they-if indeed they knew phthisis in that era-receive the infection from the East or from the West? The latter appears to be the more probable in view of the early lines of communication between the two. It must be noted that, according to Francis, tuberculosis was common in domesticated wild elephants in ancient Hindoo times.

Cattle

A treatise on animal diseases written in A.D. 420 describes cough and emaciation, or consumption, as a serious disease of cattle. A tomb in Asia Minor, of a child offour and a half years dying in the third century B.C., records death from disease of the testicles, foot and intestines, with wasting of other parts: 'I have left the hated consumption as a heritage to my survivors' (Meinecke). The movement of herds of Lombardy cattle across Europe which commenced in the thirteenth century, and steadily increased, could conceivably have been linked with the high incidence of scrofula and other manifestations of bovine tuberculosis in man which continued until the present century.

Recent Discoveries

Theories about the beginnings of tuberculosis as a disease of man, and suppositions as to its first vectors, must be modified in the light of recent findings in palaeopathology, and the more accurate determination of the age of human and animal remains which carbon-14 estimation has made possible. Of  outstanding interest in this connexion is the discovery of Pott's Disease, and rib deformity believed to be evidence of tuberculous disease of the chest, in a Californian skeleton (c. 400 B.C.) (Roney).

It is said that America had no aborigines, and that its first men crossed from Asia after the palaeolithic period (c. 15,000-I0,000 B.C.) when the two continents had only a short stretch of sea between them. After that time they appear to have been cut off from the Old World for many millennia. They had no domestic animals (the bison was untameable), and there was probably negligible tribal contact in a continent so vast, and so sparsely peopled. Was the disease already present among those who crossed from Asia to Alaska, and was the infection brought by the white man something they had known before? Among the first British allusions are those by Taliesin, the sixth century Welsh poet ('phthysis is one of the three tedious diseases'), and the Physicians of Myddfai who gave mouse dung for blood-spitting (Red Book of Hergest, 13th century). Evidence of probable tuberculosis in early Saxon skeletons is discussed by Brothwell.

Thus, whilst there is little doubt about the antiquity of non-pulmonary manifestations the extent and distribution of respiratory tuberculosis in ancient times is far more speculative. Yet, one wonders what part it may have played in the demise of those ancient civilizations whose history is lost. The balance of evidence suggests, however, that originally, phthisis was not an important disease of hot climates.

But there are more authentic facts about tuberculosis in classical antiquity, when phthisis-a wasting sickness with cough-must have been common. It was Hippocrates (400 B.C.) who gave the first clear description of consumption, and his writings have been quoted by doctors ever since, not always accurately, and often with the doubtful assumption-because of the frequent references to it in his works-that tuberculosis was very widely prevalent at that time. Its infectivity was suspected even in those remote days at least 2,200 years before Koch discovered the organism: Aristotle (d. 322 B.C.) wondered why those in contact with sufferers took phthisis, but did not do so after contact with dropsy.

Saxon and Medieval Britain*

Little is known about phthisis in Saxon and Medieval England, an epoch not remarkable for advances in medical knowledge. The killers of the age were epidemic diseases such as plague, typhus, smallpox and the sweating sickness, which removed many of those who might have succumbed to the more chronic phthisis. The country was sparsely populated, travel was limited, and industrialization had not begun. But although there is nothing to suggest that consumption was a major disease, it seems that leprosy was. Brought to Europe by the Army of Pompey in 61 B.C., by A.D. 620, according to the chroniclers, it was common in England: in the thirteenth century soldiers returning from the Crusades brought more infection with them, but in the next 300 years it slowly diminished and eventually disappeared altogether, to be replaced by its first cousin, consumption, which may now be following the same path.

Scrofula-the King's Evil

There is much more to be learned about a non-pulmonary form of tuberculosis, tuberculous adenitis or scrofula (from scrofa, a sow 'because these animals are subject to it'), which seems to have been abundant at that time. Supposed to be curable by the touch of a king, it was called the King's Evil. William of Malmesbury, the eleventh-century historian, records the royal touch as early as Edward the Confessor's reign. The physician to the Court of Edward II, John of Gaddesden, who wrote Rosa Anglica in 1320, exhorted sufferers from scrofula to apply for the Royal Touch if 'sovereign remedies' such as the blood of a weasel or dove's dung did not bring speedy improvement. Pepys and Evelyn give graphic descriptions of the ceremonies during Stuart times, when the press of people was so great that many were crushed to death: John Brown, surgeon to Charles II, calculated that the king touched nearly 100,000 between 1660 and 1682. Brown believed deaths from scrofula to be 'the highest ever', an increase he associated with the king's absence. Richard Wiseman, Serjeant Chyrurgeon to Charles II, noted that the blood of Charles I gathered after his execution 'on chips and handkerchiefs' had the same healing powers.

Dr. Richard Morton, 1689, who added much to knowledge of tuberculosis, separated scrofula into tuberculous and non-tuberculous forms; the tendency to spontaneous improvement to which he drew attention, and inaccuracy of diagnosis, must have accounted for many of the miraculous cures. Misconceptions about the aetiology of this complaint lasted a long time, and confused the new pathology of tuberculosis so ably demonstrated by Matthew Baillie a century later. (As late as I89I, in a Manual of Domestic Medicine by 'Physicians and Surgeons of the Principal London Hospitals' it is stated categorically that scrofula though often confounded with tuberculosis is quite distinct from it despite the occasional similarity of symptoms.) But despite diagnostic confusion, the evidence suggests a high prevalence of disease of bovine origin at that time. There is a descriptive passage in Macbeth: "Tis called the evil . . . strangely visited people all swoln and ulcerous, pitiful to the eye, the mere despair of surgery.'

Samuel Johnson was a sufferer. Queen Anne, the last English monarch to practise the Royal Touch, touched him when he was five years old, apparently without benefit. Johnson is an example of a genius whose characteristics should be considered in relation to his disability. He had a huge body, much disfigured by scrofulous scars, and a mighty mind, but 'disease of the spirits'; in his own words: 'There are perhaps few conditions more to be pitied than that of an active and elevated mind labouring under the weight of a distempered body.'

The Growth of Phthsis in Britain

The student of epidemiological history is hampered by the absence of accurate statistical facts. Bills of Mortality began in London in 1532, a plague year, and continued intermittently to begin with until I836, when the Births and Deaths Registration Act was passed. Notification of all forms of tuberculosis is as recent as 1912. The Bills gave only the proportionate mortality and not the death-rate per unit of population: the recorded cause of death was that given by the old women who acted as searchers, who have been described as drunken, venal and ignorant, easily bribed and ready to write 'consumption' when paid to conceal the presence of plague. Despite these inaccuracies, much can be deduced from the Bills. John Graunt (I662), a pioneer statistician, made the comment that the searchers could not tell whether emaciation and leanness were from phthisis or 'hectick fever'. By I799 consumption was given as the cause of one out of every four deaths in London. W. Woolcombe, M.D., in I8I8 published a masterly analysis of the data and also of figures obtained from parish registers and public dispensary returns. He found that the absolute and relative mortality from consumption had increased in many parts of the country since I 700-'the rate was so high as almost to exceed belief'. In a secluded Shropshire village, for example, the parish registers revealed a comparative mortality of one in six between 1750 and 1759, which in the next ten years rose to one in three. In other places, also, local epidemics were occurring. It seems that this was an epidemic phase in England, which showed little decline until the 1830s.

Causative Factors

What were the factors contributing to this spread of tuberculosis? There are many possibilities. The Restoration brought profound changes in the English way of life. The country became more prosperous, there was an improvement in the state of society and travel became easier; yet, within a century misery and wretchedness abounded and 1,200,000 of the 8,000,000 inhabitants were receiving parish relief.

The influx of susceptibles from rural England to London after the 'poore plague', consisted chiefly of persons 'at that period of life deemed most liable to invasion of phthisical disease'. For a time, we are told, there was a large number of weakly children reared who 'in a less improved state of society must have perished in infancy'. If it is agreed that the key to adult tuberculosis is to be found in childhood infection, the infants of that time may have laid the foundations of the adult consumption which later on spread over Britain.

Race and Environment

Housing, nutrition, habits, overcrowding, income, climate, occupation, psychological factors and racial susceptibility have time and again been cited as influences affecting phthisis morbidity and mortality, but as yet the role of the individual items has not been ascertained with any accuracy. The skein has not been unravelled. It will not be overlooked that the rise in tuberculosis started long before the Industrial Revolution of the 1780s, and began to fall at a time when hygiene and sanitation were of a low order, cholera and typhoid menaced the country, and maternal and infant deaths were excessive. Life was harsh and cheap: the only legislative welfare service was the Poor Law, subject to the Cambridge Core terms of use, available at H. D. Chalke Brownlee, commenting on the rise and fall of epidemics, thought that germs may undergo mutation and that the generation of an epidemic depended on the right mutation, corresponding with a suitable disposition of the population at risk. Today, can much more be said?

Young in a signal contribution to medical literature (1815) showed how the phthisis mortality varied in different parts of Britain and in other countries. There may be significance in the fact that the more isolated places-parts of Scotland, Wales and Ireland-do not appear to have met tuberculosis in epidemic form until more than 100 years after urban England. The decline in these countries has been correspondingly delayed. In places such as Nepal and Puerto Rico, tuberculosis is in epidemic form today. (The mass radiography of Gurkha soldiers reveals an incidence of 14-8 per 1,000.) Brownlee found that in Pembrokeshire a line could be drawn across the county, above it the tuberculosis rate was high, below it, low. In the north the people are Welsh of Iberian stock; those to the south are the descendants of the Normans. The anthropological characters are still evident, the place-names and language are different. Mining (coal, lead, slate, etc.), under-nourishment and tuberculous cattle, weighted the scales against the susceptible Welsh.

In due course some influence comes into action, which Newsholme thought prevents the excessive tuberculosis which an adverse environment evokes. He cited Ireland, where housing improvements did not retard the rising phthisis mortality; for some time in the U.S.A. it remained excessive, despite better living conditions-a higher racial resistance had not yet been acquired, and as happened to many other races, the Irish were not yet able to withstand the massive and repeated infection which beset them in urban life. The wider question of the origins, antiquity and recent incidence of tuberculosis in the several races of the Americas, New Zealand, Africa and eastern countries is of great interest, but it is too large and complex to be discussed here. More primitive peoples may be suffering from exposure to a new infection, or an old infection reintroduced, to which immunity has been lost. They are fortunate in having new methods of prevention and treatment to aid them, and in being able to take advantage of the experiences of those countries, which after centuries of struggle, are at last coming to terms with tuberculosis.

Other Sources of Information

Fortunately, there are sources of information ancillary to the statistical, which may be sought in contemporary literature, biography and art: some of these have been mentioned already as the sole record of the position many centuries ago; others, of more modern times, must be reviewed in a little more detail, in particular literature-biography, autobiography and fiction-from the beginning of the eighteenth century.

Shakespeare (died 1616) was exceptionally well-informed on medical matters and it is difficult to find any great author, not a doctor, who so often refers to the healing art (Bucknill). His infrequent allusion to 'consumption' and the rare references to its classical symptoms are, therefore, pointers to the impact of this disease on the life of his times. This lends support to the view that it was not until after his death that the sharp rise in incidence began. It is true that 'wasting disease', 'phtisick' (phthisis), 'rotten lungs', 'wheezing lungs' and 'lethargies' are spoken of in many of his plays, but the words seem to be applied indefinitely, relating to syphilis, ague and other conditions as well as to tuberculous disease:

... a rascally phtisick so troubles me ... I have a rheum in my eye too, and such an ache in my bones. -- Troilus and Cressida.

Consumption sow in hollow bones of man. -- Timon of Athens.

I was told you were in consumption. --Much Ado About Nothing.

Side stitches that shall pen thy breath up. -- The Tempest.

Pale primroses that die unmarried ... most incident to maidens. -- The Winter's Tale.

After 1700, novelists allude to symptoms and effects more often and descriptions of the pale heroine languishing in a decline are not hard to find, but usually the writers avoided the dreaded word 'consumption'. Consumptive children, said a writer in a popular work of the nineties, are the novelists' favourite little heroes and heroines, who appear like fairies to gladden the hearts of parents and friends for a short season. Victorian song writers also liked them. It is only in the past few decades, as the stigma has slowly disappeared, that tuberculosis has been named with any frequence; nowadays no details are spared of the early symptoms, the rigours of sanatorium treatment, and the dramatic episode of the sudden haemoptysis. (E.g. The Plague and I, Betty Macdonald; The Print Petticoat, Lucilla Andrews; Three Comrades, Erich Remarque.)

Swift, in The Tale of a Tub (I689), does describe languishing consumption, 'whose tainted breath destroys unhappy infants'; so does Fielding in Tom jones (I 740). Samuel Richardson, the author of the first English novel (I 740) makes Clarissa, in the book of that name, die of a decline, aged nineteen. Elaine in The Morte d'Arthur of Malory (1470) may well have been the first young lady of the English romance to have been so afflicted. The decline associated with the emotional disturbances of an unhappy love affair was a popular theme with Victorian novelists like the Brontes and Jane Austen, who were themselves tuberculous. You will remember Helen Burns in Jane Eyre (I847) who died of semi-starvation and neglected colds; and 'the vanished bloom and wasted flesh' in Shirley (I849), also written by Charlotte Bronte, about her sister. There were many more who 'faded like any flower in drought'. The closing scenes were usually happy, quite unlike those occurring in real life (there are no major crises in Jane Austen's works and no deaths). In considering these characters, it is to be noted that many authorities today believe that emotional and mental upsets act as exciting causes of active tuberculosis, and Kissen and others speak of a break in the 'love-link' in this connexion. One other youthful victim should be mentioned, poor Smike in Nicholas Nickleby, 'with sunken eyes too bright and hollow cheeks too flushed'.

Smollet, who had no success as a doctor, wrote admirably, despite his ill temper and vindictive nature: he had tuberculosis himself and wrote of it in many of his books. This passage is from Roderick Random (1748), about a sick parade at sea: '... one (sailor) complained of a pleuritic stitch and spitting of blood for which the doctor prescribed exercises at the pump to promote expectoration. In less than half an hour he was suffocated with a deluge of blood.' (When tuberculosis was rife, the early symptoms of lassitude and a dislike of work were often mistaken for indolence.) Tuberculosis was long an occupational disease of seamen: an epidemic occurred in the fleet blockading Brest in 1809. Washington Irving writes about the pressed sailor who dragged his wasted body homeward to repose and die (England's Rural Life and Christmas Customs). Unsatisfactory, overcrowded quarters, were conducive to contact infection, and when 'a long sea voyage' was a popular therapeutic measure for the consumptive, sources of infection were not lacking. Charles Kingsley (he had chest disease all his life, dying in 1875) shows how readily infection was spread in those days, when people like the ploughman's consumptive daughter slept in a stifling lean-to together with members of her own family, her baby and a newly married couple (Yeast). Kingsley's publisher and friend was Daniel Macmillan (40) who had to contend with the millstone of tuberculosis all his life.

One more novel is selected, this time from France-La Dame aux Camelias by Dumas fils (1848). It is based on the real-life story of Marie Duplessis, a kept woman, who had what she described as 'one of those diseases that never relent. I shall not live as long as others, I have promised myself to live more quickly'; she died at twenty-three.

Katherine Mansfield, in her letters, gives a realistic picture of her conflict with an ailment which ended with a haemorrhage.

Tuberculosis Among Writers

Numerous literary celebrities were themselves tuberculous; others may be presumed to have been affected, but biography often hides the truth and before the days of bacteriology and radiology, diagnosis must have been in doubt very often. Here are some names:

The Brontes (29) (30) (39); Jane Austen (41); Katherine Mansfield (35); R. L. Stevenson (44); D. H. Lawrence (45); LI. Powys (55); Sterne (55); Smollet (50); Mrs. Henry Wood (73)-she had spinal disease and wrote from a wheelchair. (In Channings Jenkins had a 'Churchyard cough . . . a sort of decline, my wife and brother died of the same thing sir'.) Kingsley (56); Orwell (46).

And from abroad:

Edgar Allan Poe (40); Thoreau (45); Whittier (85); Washington Irving (76); Chekov (44); Schiller (46); Balzac (52); Moliere (51); Prosper Merimee (67).

Poets

Poets are prominent in the list and more of them died young than other writers. Poets, unlike most other geniuses, do not need a long life to achieve immortality, a few lines may suffice. Those who had consumption seem to have written with a hectic urgency, as though knowing that their time was short; a certain melancholy, symptomatic of their illness, is not unusual. Descriptions of the decline, always clothed in poetic euphemism, are to be found in great number: e.g. 'Where youth grows pale and spectre-thin and dies' (Keats); 'And melancholy marked him for her own ... he gave, to misery all he had, a tear' (Gray).

The list of English poets is headed by Lovelace (40) who 'grew very melancholy, which brought him at length into a consumption'. His circumstances became so reduced that when he died in 1658 he was in rags and lived with beggars.

Others, with dates of death, are: Oldham (38) 1688; Philips (32) 1708; Hughes (42) 1719; Gay (47) 1732; ? Littleton (64) I773; Keats (24) I821; Shelley (30) drowned 1822; Hood (45) I845; Gray (23) 1861; E. B. Browning (55) 1861; Symonds (53) 1893; Thompson (48) 1907; Flecker (31) 1915; W. E. Henley (54) 1903, who was lame following the amputation of a tuberculous foot, was the prototype of Long John Silver, in his great friend R. L. Stevenson's Treasure Island.

Dylan Thomas (39), the modem poetic genius, did not suffer from tuberculosis, but, according to a biographer, he imagined he did; a belief which may have served as an excuse for his alcoholism. Death is near in all his verses and he had an obsession that a poet should die young and 'live in such a way as to risk his own destruction'.

These few names are of poets who, despite short lives, lasted long enough to become famous thanks sometimes to their ability to move to a more equable climate abroad; in others biographical details are obscure, but suggestive; many more must have died young and unknown.

Close contact in the home has always been the most potent means of passing on the infection, and many of the famous people under discussion were members of tuberculous households, among them the Brontes, Keats, Baillie, Hood, Smollet, Chekhov, Trudeau. De Quincey, Rembrandt, John Hunter and others in this category seem to have escaped active disease. The home-life of the members of these families was disturbed by poverty, the loss of a parent, the despairing atmosphere of long drawn-out sickness and the fear that they themselves might be similarly stricken. Tuberculosis, then, must be included among the causes of an unsatisfactory upbringing, leading to a feeling of insecurity, which is at the root of behaviour problems making their appearances later on. Poverty was the usual accompaniment of early years in the literary and artistic fields and this and an unsettled way of life favoured a lowering of resistance at a time when none could avoid infection. Sometimes drugs and alcohol were superimposed on the toxins of the tubercle bacillus.

Edgar Allan Poe may be cited: he lost his father when he was a year old, his mother after a lingering illness when he was three and a half, his frail, exquisitely beautiful wife Virginia, also tuberculous, died shortly after a marriage lived in penury and squalor. She appears frequently in his poems:

.... respite and nepenthe from the memories of Lenore.

.... the wind came out of a cloud by night, chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

Musicians

Purcell (37), who died in 1695, is the earliest English composer on the list; he caught a chill, said a biographer, after being kept outside his house by his wife as a punishment for keeping late hours! Many circumstances have been blamed for the onset of phthisis, but none as naive as this. Chopin (40) is the classical type and his temperament is clearly reflected in his music. Nevin (39), a lyrical genius who wrote The Rosary, struggled without avail against his ill-health. There are more names, including those of instrumentalists and singers. Mimi in La Boheme and Violetta in La Traviata are operatic consumptives.

Painters and Paintings

Relatively few artists appear to have been afflicted (although many must have died young before time was allowed them to achieve fame, their deaths accelerated by the conditions under which they lived); there are at least three notable exceptions:

Watteau (37), perhaps the greatest eighteenth-century painter, had an unhappy life. He was ill-fed and worked with feverish haste for long hours, painting exquisite romantic scenes which were in sharp contrast to the gloomy melancholy of his own life. He died in 1721.

Modigliani (36), an original genius, who died 200 years after Watteau, lived imprudently and defiantly, sustaining himself with alcohol and drugs and subsisting on a diet which, it is said, consisted mainly of sardines. His portrayal of young ladies with slender necks, slanting shoulders and peach blossom complexions-Mlle Victoria, the English girl, was the model for many of them-is characteristic.

Aubrey Beardsley (27), was an unconventional black-and-white artist, the originator of a new cult. Seldom has anyone produced so much in such a short time, his friends attributing his abnormal activity to a desire to forestall death and leave a legacy.

Portraits

Portraiture supplements biography. There can be few galleries lacking a canvas or two showing a possibly tuberculous subject. The tuberculous type has long been recognized. Hippocrates wrote of those most liable, as having smooth, fair, ruddy skins, blue eyes and shoulders projecting like wings. The nineteenth century writers gave pictures of the same kind. One of the most colourful is in Lavengro (1851), believed to be George Borrow's own biography; he describes his brother in these terms:

... a rosy angelic face, blue eyes and light chestnut hair ... it partook to a certain extent of the Celtic character, particularly in the fire and vitality which illumined it. So great was his beauty in infancy that people would follow .. . and bless the lovely face. Perhaps it will be asked here what became of him. Alas! his was an early and a foreign grave.

He became a painter, and was 'pale and unwell' on his last visit to his home.  Unfortunately the reader is not told how and where he died. Another writer (1891) noted that:

Children prone to tuberculosis are generally pretty, slim, fair-haired with lithe active figures, delicately formed limbs, slender chests and waists, blue eyes and clear red and white complexions. They are intelligent, quick, volatile and a source of pride to their mothers and nurses. The tubercular children are pretty, the scrofulous children ugly.

Children of both types are to be seen on many a canvas, but, regretfully, the fate of the sitters is seldom known.

Experience in a twentieth-century tuberculosis dispensary hardly supports such a dogmatic opinion,* which confused predisposition with the visible effects of active tuberculosis, and was based on the premise that the disease was hereditary. These oft-repeated statements are, notwithstanding, of great interest, and there are many geniuses such as Shelley, to whom the description applies.

Fortunately the portraits of many persons-especially young ladies-known to have been tuberculous, are available for study. Models often chosen by the Great Masters for their beauty, languor and appealing sadness of expression, were often in the sickness of tuberculosis.

Botticelli, in his Venus and other paintings, idealized Simonetta the Florentine beauty, who died tragically in 1475 at the age of sixteen. Her counterpart was popular with many of his successors. The ethereal type became so fashionable that young ladies sought to emulate it by eating sand or drinking vinegar and lemon-juice to destroy their appetites (Dubos). This must have been a disastrous procedure in the days when tuberculosis was epidemic. Fashions do not seem to have changed much, but fortunately the teenagers of today with too much eye-shadow and mascara, which make them look fatigued and debilitated, run less risk of tuberculosis infection: we see them on television, sometimes, in plays and advertisements.

The pre-Raphaelite painters of the mid-nineteenth century (the founders of the aesthetic movement, which included Dante Gabriel Rossetti, Burne Jones, Holman Hunt, Millais, as well as John Ruskin and the poets Swinbume and William Morris) depicted pale, distraught young women, with sad and tired faces; the painters, like the poets, favoured morbid melancholy, which-without knowing, perhaps, the pathological reasons-they found in the young adult consumptive. One such was the beautiful Elizabeth Siddal, a tragic and temperamental beauty (Ruskin gave her DIPo a year to enable her to go abroad for her health), painted many times by Rossetti (The Annunciation, Beata Beatrix). He married his model, but after two unhappy years she died of an overdose of laudanum. She appears in pictures by Millais-Ophelia is her best likeness-Burne Jones and Holman Hunt. William Morris's wife, Jane Burden, another supposed consumptive, sat for his friend Burne Jones (Circe and ? Cophetua), and also to Rossetti (Queen Guinevere).

Rembrandt, a keen student of the human face and its changes of expression, was deeply affected by the loss from phthisis of his wife Saskia (33) and son Titus (28). His portraits of them leave little doubt about the correctness of the diagnoses.

The Linleys of Bath, a gifted musical family, knew to the full the tragedy of tuberculosis, which left hardly any survivors among twelve children. There are many paintings of them by Reynolds, Gainsborough and Lawrence, which like all masterpieces must be seen in the original to be appreciated. The two elder sisters, Elizabeth (Mrs. Richard Brinsley Sheridan) (39), and Mary (Mrs. Tickell) (29), were opera singers, and among the beauties of the time, who are shown together in a wonderful picture by Gainsborough, which immortalizes the delicate beauty and fragility of their disease. Elizabeth was the model for Reynolds' St. Cecilia and The Nativity. The progress of the decline, the ultimate result of which they foresaw only too well, was similar, step by step, in both sisters; children of both of them also succumbed in infancy.

Doctors 

Phthisis has not spared doctors. Laennec (45), famous for introducing the stethoscope, was himself diagnosed by his own method of mediate auscultation. Kipling tells a delightful tale about him (Marklake Witches) in which, as a prisoner-of-war in England, he learned the use of the tube of holly wood from a witch wizard and diagnosed a young girl with 'cheeks pale except for two pretty pink patches . . little gasps at the end of her sentences as though she had been running'. Baillie (62), who wrote the first English textbook on pathology, describing the grey tubercle, was delicate, but worked at a feverish pace. He died of consumption. His mother was a sister of the greatJohn Hunter; she and five of her brothers and sisters died of phthisis: 'the genius of the Hunter family, like that of the Brontes, was much frustrated by this disease'.

Thomas Beddoes, a notable physician who died in i8o8, gave much to the literature of tuberculosis. He advocated treatment by inhalation (which afterwards he abandoned), and it is interesting to note that the superintendent of the pneumatic institute, as it was called, was Humphry Davy, who whilst there discovered the anaesthetic properties of nitrous oxide.

Genius

The researches of Havelock Ellis revealed that tuberculosis was the cause of most of the deaths of the more eminent men who died young; some poets and a few others excepted, great men live long, because they must do so to achieve eminence. The high proportion of philosophers, thinkers and reformers among tuberculous geniuses is noticeable. In their survival to middle age and beyond, they fought a hard battle against their affliction:

Spinoza (45); Descartes (54); Rousseau (66); Butler (68); Locke (72); Kant (80); Voltaire (84); Emerson (79); Ruskin (81).

Doctors and scientists include:

Priestley (71); Black (71); Matthew Baillie (62); Hans Sloane (92); Dettwaller (67); Trudeau (67). 

Descartes, the father of modern philosophy, after living a secluded life for twenty years, went to Sweden at the invitation of Queen Christina. His weak constitution, writes a biographer, was overcome by the hard Scandinavian winter, and 'the exposure involved in waiting upon the Queen at five every morning for an hour's philosophic instruction'!

Spinoza. His sickly constitution forced him to devote the whole of his life to study. He learned the craft of lens polishing, and because he would accept no financial help, this became his only means of sustenance. His illness progressed steadily, aggravated, no doubt, 'by the glass dust from the lenses, which had done its worst'.

Sir Hans Sloane was always delicate; he had haemoptyses between 16 and 19 years of age, but he lived a careful and prudent life, reaching the great age of 92. He left 80,000 specimens, zoological and botanical, which formed the nucleus of the new British Museum. He followed Newton as President of the Royal Society.

Edward Livingstone Trudeau, the founder of the world-famous sanatorium in the Adirondacks, developed extensive tuberculosis at 25, infected, it is said by his brother whom he nursed during his fatal illness, a little time before. His own daughter was also a victim-Trudeau never recovered from the shock.

John Ruskin. At 21, at Oxford, 'he was seized with a consumptive cough and spat some blood', but unlike so many of the young geniuses of the time, this was not in his case the death warrant, for after two years' sojourn in Switzerland, Italy and other places, he seems to have recovered completely, out-growing 'his tendency to consumption'.

Cecil Rhodes (49) was another whose 'health broke down' in adolescence, and again at Oxford. Destined for the Church, his poor health was the reason for his abandonment of this career and instead joining his brother in Natal. At 21 his chest condition was such that a London physician gave him six months to live. He was impressed by 'a sense of the shortness of life' which must have had a profound effect on his character and activities.

Joseph Priestley, the discoverer of oxygen, had to give up school for a time because of ill-health. Whether or not he had tuberculosis cannot be affirmed with certainty; it is worth noting, however, that he lodged at one time with the Linleys of Bath, and was closely connected with the family affairs. His sister was treated by Dr. Beddoes when in the advanced stages of consumption: the protean treatment of those days is well illustrated by the tale that she found almost every symptom alleviated (temporarily, no doubt) on the second night after a stay in the cow-house!

It has been said that the toxins of tuberculosis stimulate the creative instinct and promote literary brilliance (Moorman, Marks); some go further, asserting that the quality of writing declines with quiescence of the disease. R. L. Stevenson believed that this happened to him, but he could hardly speak from personal experience, for the miraculous quiescence which he said brought him back from semi-death to life, if it did occur, was short-lived: and in his last years in Samoa his literary powers showed no signs of waning-neither, perhaps, did the activity of his pulmonary lesion-although the cause of his sudden death is uncertain. The characteristic urge to produce, and produce at speed, whether due to toxaemia and pyrexia, or the fear that the tide is fast ebbing, was shown by Stevenson, when, extremely ill and bedridden at Bournemouth, he wrote Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde in three days. It will be recognized also that for Stevenson and very many like him, no domestic stability was possible during a lifetime of movement from one place to another in the illusory search for surcease of ill health.

A delicate constitution in early life, not rare in those who later became famous, restricts physical activities, giving a preference for the study to the playing field, with ample time for contemplation and scholarship. A feeling of physical inferiority may guide the thoughts down the pathways of reform or embittered revolt; a vein of gloom and melancholy running through the writings of certain of the poets is symptomatic, yet a few, like Hood, were able to laugh often and say: 'Here lies one who spat more blood and made more puns than any man living', as he lay in bed propped up with pillows, 'and grave and dejected of mien'.

It is intriguing to give play to the imagination and to consider what geniuses like Keats, Chopin and Watteau might have given to the world had they lived on, and to think of what mankind would have lost had tuberculosis cut short the lives of such as Shakespeare, Milton, Newton, Rembrandt, Beethoven, Rutherford or Fleming.

Others

The grim catalogue has many more entries, not only of personalities in the realms of literature, science and the Arts, but of men and women--honoured and dishonoured--in other walks of life. Then there is that incalculable number of unknowns that makes up communities and nations, whose personal and collective ill-health has conditioned national life and economy. This, the most important group of all, would need much more time to discuss than is available. Again, there are people of widely divergent backgrounds, such as Grace Darling (27), the heroine of the Fame Islands; Charles Byrne (22), the gin sodden 7 ft. 7 in. giant (his skeleton hangs in the Royal College of Surgeons) whose last days were spent in fear-which despite his lead coffin, proved to be justified-that his body would be snatched for John Hunter's dissecting table; and, quite recently, Gilbert Harding, who submitted to treatment with reluctance; the self-denying Simone Weil (43) in 1943.

Individuals Who Have Made History

The pages of history are not lacking in names of men and women, famous or infamous, in whom sickness of the mind or body has governed behaviour. Tuberculosis has played a part, and this paper would be incomplete without a selection of those who by their conduct or early death have changed history.

Hadrian, who died in A.D. 138 (62), was supposed to be tuberculous, but his last illness, during which his character changed and his good was forgotten, was more probably heart failure. =

Lucius, the young eccentric dilettante he named to succeed him, was soon wasting from consumption and died of a haemorrhage shortly afterwards. (Marcus-the great Marcus Aurelius-took his place.) Virgil's lines were quoted by Hadrian: 'This hero Fate will not display to Earth, Nor suffer him to stay' (Perowne).

Edward VI, who died in 1553 (15), had a visible and swift decline and a violent cough which nothing would relieve. His death was attributed to 'quack nostrums on a consumptive frame'. Northumberland acquired great influence over the ailing boy, to name Lady Jane Grey to succeed him. Had Edward not died, England would have been saved the bloodshed of Mary's reign.

Madame de Pompadour (43), the butcher's daughter, died after a rapid loss of weight and extreme emaciation. Her influence over Louis XV was disastrous for France in wars, loss of colonies and depletion of the exchequer. She overthrew the political systems of Europe. 'What remains of this woman', said Diderot, 'who cost so much in men and money?' She helped to bring about the French Revolution. Rousseau, another (?) consumptive, paved the way.

Napoleon's son (21), brought up in Austria, was frustrated and bewildered. Always delicate, he was pale with a constant cough, and later, fever, rigors and blood-spitting. Until almost the end he was diagnosed as suffering from a liver complaint, and persisted in arduous military activities until just before death. Had he lived and become Emperor-as a large section of the French population hoped-France might have been saved years of turmoil. (The necropsy on Napoleon at St. Helena showed 'tubercles on the lungs but ... a vast cancerous ulcer at the pylorus.')

Gavrillo Princip (22), the young Bosnian Serb whose assassination of the Archduke Franz Ferdinand at Sarajevo in July, 1914, was the immediate cause of the First World War, was a small, thin, delicate youth with early phthisis, unfit for military service. A ready tool in the hands of the revolutionary Black Hand Society, his spes phthisica was a martyr's crown. His companion in crime, Chabrinovitch, attempted, unsuccessfully, to kill the Archduke with a bomb before Princip fired. He also was in poor health; discontented, bad-tempered and unhappy at home, he knew he had not long to live and was impatient to carry out the deed and take the cyanide which the plotters gave him. He was captured and died of tuberculosis in prison in I9I6, two years before Princip. In infamous immortality they achieved the recognition for which they craved.

Before and since, there have been many young criminals with a similar background and outlook; fortunately, their deeds have seldom had such appalling consequences.

Conclusion

This brief review has presented only a broad picture of the tuberculosis scene over the centuries. Inevitably much of it is hazy, for a disease so ancient has left scant record of its origins, early incidence or distribution; it follows, therefore, that, like the world history of which they are a part, the happenings of long ago are full of speculation, and what little evidence there is has been acquired indirectly. Despite the paucity of fact, there is a likelihood that the infection (which may have been of bovine origin) spread from the east, carried by man and his animals-in the drift to the colder and damper climates to the west and north-west, where, some historians say, he was prone to affections of the lungs.

The written records of successive civilizations yield more information, both positive and negative, and there is a mass of knowledge about Greco-Roman times, but, unfortunately, the Hippocratic school had no statistical method. Far less is known of the thousand years that followed-the Dark Ages when medicine made little progress. During the Renaissance, when modem history commenced, events began to be chronicled more frequently and more faithfully in lay and medical writing. But we have had to wait much longer for an acceptable statistical record and even now this is by no means complete. The historical record would have been even more meagre had it been restricted to medical treatises; fortunately, it can be supplemented by biography and contemporary literature: portraits, too, may help fill in the gaps, and even cave pictures and figures on pottery have something to offer. Evidence of spinal caries in Neolithic skeletons and Egyptian mummies has confirmed the antiquity of the disease: with the advances being made in palaeopathology much more information may become available soon about the location and date of early tuberculosis in man and animals.

The biographical field is itself limited. Next to nothing is known of the lives of many poets and others who were cut off early; even when the biographer has more to relate, there may be the vaguest of references to health or a predilection to avoid the use of gross words like 'consumption'. The perplexed medical historian sees the force ofStendhal's dictum that a part of every man's biography should be written by his doctor. The sketches made here are limited to certain celebrities whose personal stories are well authenticated; some illustrative passages from authors whose observations are believed to be reliable have also been given.

But the immortals form a minute part of the multitude of consumptives-the undistinguished, the ordinary men in the street-whose biographies have never been written (except in medical books, and in sanatorium and tuberculosis dispensary files of this century). Other than as prototypes of fictional characters, sometimes, they are only recognized in the mass, on account of their collective influence on national health and welfare. Tuberculosis, a chronic complaint, has been with the world for a long time, and its insidious repercussions though less dramatic than those of, say, plague, typhus or the sweating sickness, have been no less serious. Ill-health restricts working time, lowers productivity, calls for expensive medical care and influences national prosperity. Economic depression is a reason for emigration, which takes the fit and leaves the afflicted behind, and, conversely, immigration has more than once brought fresh sources of infection to this country. More than anything else, a poor national health standard, with its attendant misery, has always been the foe of happiness and contentment which are the pillars of a successful and peaceful community existence. 

Whatever may have happened in the remote past, it is certain that the behaviour of phthisis in this country, and in western Europe generally, during the last three hundred years is without precedent. The sudden upsurge, the long phase of sustained activity, the slow decline and now the more rapid abatement as treatment has become effective, give a true picture of tuberculosis as an infectious disease, which differs from that of epidemics of acute infections only in time. Saturation of infection has ended, as herd immunity has increased, to be replaced by small foci, which are capable of being obliterated if detected early. The main reservoir is found in older males-a phenomenon which may be a reflection of living conditions at the turn of the century. At long last, thanks to vigorous action, intensified during the past decade, the century old menace of infected cattle has almost disappeared.

The epidemiologist of today is fortunate in having morbidity and mortality tables, tuberculin conversion rates and radiographic surveys to help him, but essential though they are, they tell only part of the story. Figures are impersonal, revealing nothing of the deep effects these changes have had on people, homes and communities. It is here, again, that the biographer, novelist and historian come to our aid and allow comparisons to be made between the distressing situations of yesterday and the happier state of affairs today, as a great burden is being lifted gradually from society and the words 'consumption', 'phthisis' and 'decline' are becoming ever less descriptive.

This is not the place to discuss why all this has come about, nor to try to enumerate and assess the relative importance of the many interacting contributory factors, which, if they have not yet vanquished the tubercle bacillus, are, at least, enabling man to come to terms with it.

The grim story of the past should not be forgotten; it should serve as a spur to a united effort to try to give the coup de grace to this invader from which the world has suffered so severely and for so long.

* Recent examinations of 290 skeletons in the Roman-British cemetery at York-'the largest and most significant find of its kind ever made'-yielded no evidence of tuberculous disease. Eburacum, Roman York, H.M.S.O., 1962, I.

t Population: 1066: 3 1/2 million; 1500: 5 million; 1625: 7 million; 1714: 9 million; I837: 26 million

* Careful recording over many years, of physical characters of patients with early tuberculosis did not suggest a preponderant type, but racial types (e.g. Irish and Welsh girls) with low resistance were noticeable in many clinics in urban England.

t The pre-Raphaelites always 'painted from the real thing', and it is said that the cold bath in which she sat as a model for this picture 'nearly killed her'.

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