#THAT SCREAM IN CICATRICE......

[gglitchshit]

wahh finally checked out another gris album and i am experimenting absolute bliss. oh my god.

[urusheiol]

THE ABC'S OF D̵̟́̋ͅȨ̵̡́̄A̴͍͍͒͌T̷͓̫͛H̷̛͎̹: R IS FOR REVIVAL. calyx combed, hive-like- cicatrices to the stem, to the forefinger  &  to the wain of the over watered roots.   propagation is i;    furtive,  over-fed  &  still the soil is dry,  hungry   (wasted).    the green is expectation,  insipid as the chlorophyll stained skin of me as succulent   [..]   browning recompense.  

“   you murdered my children.  ”        the body of it;    vines unfurl in nauseating breaks,   opening the sternum of the begging man,  veins pulsing the green of corresponding   &   festering as nothing but open as a pig-carcass.  

“   so,    i’ll take them back from you.   ”     lip curled in guarded fury,   the glaze of her eyes  &  reflection of agony turn flat;   matte as reduction.  it is the cutting,  the grafting;   garrotting as revival,  as hamose serration through the prise of his dermis,   rending  &  stretching around the veinous systems of stalks expanding in the red of his torso.  

lachrymose as her rage,    as her revenge.      outward,   one hand extends  carnose reality,  indulgent of the screams  &  dead end of cardinal rain as the leaves detail the death rattle of unverifiable ill   [..]    he is nothing but sponge-like viscera,   sustenance of the vines that rise in place of the ash.   the shards of the greenhouse,  razed  &  ash-dethroned.  in parts,  he will become her new garden   &  his bones will fertilise the soil of what he stole.  

[hcwlss]

marco temporal: madrugada del 14 de octubre.  lugar: la terraza del hotel. tw: intento de suicidio, pensamientos negativos. 

I'm screaming, I'm struggling, and my eyelids are swelling                                       but you're still holding me close, and won't let go                                                                                                           so I'm okay

Una... dos... tres... son las gotas que caen de la botella vacía de vino que tiene suspendida en el aire justo encima de su boca abierta; en su defensa, pensó que todavía quedaba un buen trago de vino dentro de ésta, pero, tal parece ser, que esa era la cuestión en el trago anterior a este y simplemente lo olvidó. Deja la botella en el piso y esta rueda un par de metros lejos de él, situación que lo hace reír de la forma más helada que existe, ni un gramo de emoción se logra escuchar en esta; le parece gracioso que hasta una maldita botella vacía se aleje de él, justo como hicieron sus compañeros, sus amigos, su propio novio. Mierda, necesita otra botella.  

El alcohol y el tabaco (sustancia que, definitivamente, no tendría que estar consumiendo por la salud de sus pulmones) son las únicas cosas que lo han mantenido a flote estos últimos dos días. Se ha embriagado, desembriagado y vuelto a embriagar tantas veces que ya olvidó lo que es estar sobrio, levantarse sin que la cabeza le dé vueltas y caminar sin perder el equilibrio. Supone, mientras se deja caer de espaldas en el piso (ni siquiera siente el golpe), que sentirse así de adormilado es mejor que estar alerta. Le gusta este sentimiento de estar flotando, anestesiado, ajeno a cualquier sensación física.

Está tan débil que apenas puede acomodarse sobre su costado para evitar que el frío piso de la terraza le haga (más) daño a sus pulmones por el contacto indirecto con su espalda. Tose un poco, el pecho le duele y la garganta también, debe ser por el tabaco que no debería estar inhalando o quizá porque lleva horas expuesto al frío y sereno de la madrugada de Vancouver. No lo sabe, no le importa. Es más, entre más daño físico pueda causar a su persona, mejor.  

¿Qué mierda estás haciendo, ___? —  Se pregunta a sí mismo, manos apoyadas en el piso a sus espaldas. — Deberías estar allá abajo, intentando enmendar las cosas con los edra, con miya, con las personas a las que todavía consideras amigues. Deberías estar sediento por venganza, listo para dar tu todo en la siguiente misión y regresar a la tabla de posiciones como en un principio estuviste. ¡Deberías enfocarte en recuperarte para poder dar tu cien por ciento en la competencia y cumplir ese sueño que tienes! Deberías... — Dios, su cabeza lo tiene agotado, es por eso que necesita más alcohol, para callar sus pensamientos de una puta vez. Es consciente que debería estar haciendo mil y un cosas pero no puede, no tiene la fuerza emocional para hacerlas. Tampoco quiere hacerlas, está cansado, agotado de esta maldita competencia que solo sabe darle cosas para después quitárselas de la forma más cruel, como un villano que da un dulce a un bebé solo para terminar arrebatándoselo.  

Tampoco ayuda el hecho que su cuerpo se encuentra magullado por todo lo que ha sucedido. Apenas puede respirar, las manos las tiene sensibles al toque, ni hablar de las cicatrices que ahora cubren distintas partes de su cuerpo, dermis cuyo único problema en el pasado eran las pecas que heredó de su madre. A pesar de tener todas sus heridas cicatrizadas, él se siente como una herida abierta en general, no sangra, pero eso no significa que no duela, tampoco cicatriza porque no tiene tiempo para sanar como debe.

Cuando australiano sale de sus pensamientos, hay lágrimas en sus mejillas, unas más secas que otras. No tiene idea cuánto tiempo lleva llorando, si solo unos segundos o quizá una hora, es posible que jamás sepa la respuesta pues está a solas en esta terraza. Ahora que lo razona, ha estado solo desde hace días. No es culpa de las personas en su vida, para nada... es culpa suya. Todo es culpa suya.  

Las heridas hacia Miya fueron su culpa, por egoísta es que Ripper lo golpeó y ahora no pueden ni acercarse (aunque las razones todavía son desconocidas para él). Que edra esté tan separado es su culpa, si tan solo no hubiera golpeado a Maddox, ahora estarían celebrando su cumpleaños todos juntos. Que Atlas ya no quiera ser su amigo también es su culpa, si tan solo hubiera mantenido distancia con él desde el principio. Su soledad en esta terraza también es su culpa, si tan solo dejara de insistir a sus compañeros que está bien... pero igual no es como que hayan preguntado.  

Está de pie cuando vuelve a espabilar los pensamientos. Sus pies, pesados como dos ladrillos, se mueven con torpeza hasta llegar a la orilla de la terraza, golpeando al grupo de botellas de licor vacías en el proceso, el sonido no logra hacer más que emitir un pitido odioso en su oído izquierdo. No importa —piensa — igual el oído ya lo tenía lastimado por uno de los tantos golpes que ha recibido en la vida.  Sus manos frías se aferran al barandal, la ciudad de Vancouver se ve preciosa desde esta altura, ¿a cuántos metros de la acera se encuentra? ¿los suficientes para tener un paro cardíaco antes de que su cuerpo toque el piso?  

Vamos, ____. Solo necesitas subir un pie y después el otro, cerrar los ojos, lanzarte al vacío... Cuando los abras todo habría terminado. El juego, tus deudas, el pesar que cargas contigo desde los seis años, la culpa. Es tentador, ¿no? Se escucha tan fácil, solo son un par de pasos a seguir y la remuneración será más grande que la que Alew prometió darte de ser el próximo ganador. Si tan solo... Si tan solo no fueras tan cobarde. Si tan solo no tuvieras ese miedo paralizante a las alturas que te impiden hacer cosas que los demás aman como subir a un avión o ver por la ventana de tu habitación. No puede ser, hasta para elegir la forma en la que quieres terminar tu vida eres cobarde.

“ Basta. ” dice en voz alta. Tiene los nudillos blancos por la fuerza con la que está aferrándose a la barandilla, a la vida misma. “ Ya deja de llorar. Basta. ” se repite, una y otra vez hasta que las palabras saben extrañas en su boca.  Su mirada es nublosa gracias a las lágrimas que se rehúsan a caer, su quijada tiembla un poco por el frío (quizá fue mala idea subir a la terraza después de nadar, literalmente, en su ropa), el pecho le duele. Todo le duele. El cuerpo, el alma, el orgullo. Solo quiere que deje de doler. Por favor...  

Sus piernas flaquean y así es como termina de rodillas contra la baranda, sus manos todavía aferradas a la parte superior pero es cuestión de tiempo para que brazos también se cansen. Eventualmente termina sentado con la espalda pegada a la barda, sus hombros subiendo y bajando por la fuerza del llanto en el que se ve atrapado, como un tornado que lo succiona con fuerza. Dedos tiemblan al desbloquear su teléfono y llamar a la única persona que le queda, la única persona a la que no ha alejado con sus estupideces. “ Por favor contesta. Por favor... ” Murmura, rostro escondido en la palma de su mano libre.  

Uno... dos... tres..  son los timbres que bastan para que su llamada sea atendida. “ ¿Nir? ” Murmura con la poca voz que le queda, el tabaco y el llanto han acabado prácticamente con esta. “ Yo— No pude hacerlo. ” Un sollozo escapa de entre sus labios. “ No pude, pero quería. ” Dios, se siente patético, espera que mayor no piense lo mismo. Por favor que no piense lo mismo. “ L-Lo siento si estás ocupade o te desperté, pero... ¿Podrías venir a la terraza? No — No quiero estar solo... Necesito tu ayuda...  ”    

Cierra sus ojos y deja que el sonido de la llamada terminada ocupe el silencio. Sus párpados pesan por el cansancio y el llanto, los brazos le duelen, la cabeza le da vueltas, pero al menos sabe que al abrir los ojos no se encontrará con sus padres, sino con la única persona a la que no ha alejado por completo de su vida.... 

[ungojirasapiente]

so, i wanted to create an OC for Ice Scream, so i decided to make Rocma's mom, she's a bit of an asshole, a fight addicted, blood thirsty, hunting loving, edgy polar bear woman who values strenght above everything, even family, she isn't against fighting her own daughter and trying to kill her, just to prove she's stronger, she's so addicted to fighting and hunting, that she's willing to hurt herself just to get some sort of satisfaction, yeah, some of those scars didn't come from other people. (she doesn't have a name for her yet) ------ así que, quise crear un OC para Ice Scream, así que decidí crear a la madre de Rocma, ella es una hija de puta, una mujer edgy, adicta a  las peleas, sedienta de sangre, amante de la casería, quien pone a la fuerza por sobre todo, incluso a la familia, ella no tiene problema con pelear en contra de su propia hija e incluso intentaría matarla, solo para probar que es mas fuerte, esta tan adicta a la caza y la pelea, que incluso se haría daño a si misma solo para sentir alguna satisfacción, si, algunas de esas cicatrices no vienen de otras personas. (ella no tiene un nombre todavía)  --- Ice Scream (and Rocma) by Funamusea

[eastlabyrinth]

Conócete a ti misma

En esta última mitad de mi vida he descubierto cosas como:

Mis manos son pequeñas y mis dedos cortos y gruesos, no "preciosos dedos largos de pianista", como me decían de pequeña. Imagino que sería porque era muy delgada y las manos me crecerían más rápido que el resto del cuerpo... y luego dejaron de crecer proporcionalmente. Y por eso muchos guantes no se me ajustan bien.

Mis tobillos son anormalmente gordos (pantobillos). Debí haberlo sospechado cuando hace años pedí en una mercería cinta para hacer tobilleras y el tendero me dijo: "te pongo este largo, que es el estándar para un tobillo". En mi casa vi que quedaba corto pero lo que pensé fue "el tío me ha engañado".

Mis pies son demasiado grandes para una mujer CIS, aunque esto ya lo sospechaba porque casi nunca hay modelos de mujer en mi talla y muchas veces directamente busco las tallas pequeñas de hombre.

Mis pantorrillas son raras, hacen bultos/huecos feos. De joven alguien me insinuó que no las tenía como las demás chicas, pero yo no entendía a qué se refería porque no teníamos internet y no existían los selfies.

Mi nariz es grande y los poros son muy visibles. Pero no son puntos negros y por eso no conseguía "quitarlos" con tiritas ni exfoliación en casa. Se pueden minimizar algo con mucho tratamiento, pero siempre van a ser bastante visibles.

Mi cabeza es muy estrecha y pequeña. Lo descubrí al ir a hacerme gafas y ver que todas me quedaban mal. En una óptica me lo confirmaron y explicaron que mi tamaño aconsejable era el de "cadete". Aunque debí haberlo sospechado porque ni las diademas ni gomas de pelo se me han ajustado nunca bien.

Sin embargo mi cadera es ancha y gorda. Así que la proporción cabeza/torso/caderas es ridícula. Cuando me quedé embarazada me dijeron "¡Al menos dar a luz será fácil!". No lo fue, acabé en cesárea de emergencia. En esa desproporción, no me puedo esperar comprar conjuntos de ropa que me queden bien, porque tengo una o dos tallas menos en el tronco superior con respecto al inferior.

Mis ojeras son genéticas, y va a dar igual lo que duerma. Siempre las tuve y nunca se arreglarán. De joven, el hermano pequeño de un amigo me decía que tenía cara de "el malo de Scream".

Siendo mujer biológica, parece que tengo paquete, y aunque a algunos hombres les gusta un "monte de venus" prominente, a mí me parece horrendo.

Mi sudoración es anormalmente excesiva. Especialmente en cara, axilas y pies. Ahora comprendo por qué con calor se me empapa la cara (y que si no le pasaba a las demás no es por su maquillaje), por qué me es imposible llevar sandalias sin que se manchen exageradamente, y que me cayeran grandes gotas de sudor desde las axilas en la época del cambio adolescente no era tan "normal".

Los asquerosos "lunares de sangre" que me salen son genéticos también, y no se pueden evitar. Tampoco los lunares normales gordos y abultados (y hasta con pelo). Según avanza mi edad más me seguirán saliendo.

Mi piel, además de ser asquerosamente blanca y, en algunas zonas, hasta el punto de transparentar venas y capilares, es tendente a hacer horribles queloides, en lugar de cicatrices normales.

Mis pezones son casi planos, y lo descubrí dolorosísimamente durante el intento frustrado de lactancia de mi hijo.

Mis dientes, además de amarillentos por los antibióticos que tomé de niña, son anormalmente blandos por dentro, lo que los hace muy propensos a caries profundas. Esto pudo ser por las muchas fiebres que tuve de pequeña. Y menos mal que pudieron ponerme ortodoncia mis padres, porque si no seguirían además deformados hacia adelante como las dentaduras de los burros.

Quizá no es normal que mi celulitis duela tanto. Hasta en los empeines. Y eso junto a que se me hacen moratones en las piernas con un roce, me hace pensar que tengo algún tipo de trastorno extra. Pero esto estoy en proceso de descubrirlo y confirmarlo aún.

Ya está. Sólo quería desahogar lo asquerosa que me siento a veces mientras sigo asumiéndolo, normalizándolo y superándolo. FIN.

[charles-04]

También tengo cicatrices, nadie me pregunta por las mías

… Se refiere a las de cuchillos 🔪

Scream 4

[verdazure]

For the past two decades, I have lived in the void of below-mortal lethargy. I was made to believe that the warmth of heavens is only meant to touch those of velvet skin and sultry lips, and I was made of post-war trauma. I have abstained of any form of devotion for harmony is a privilege I am not worthy of. I have buried myself in my pit of bullet shells and wished my heart would beat louder than my forlorn madness. I wished for it to swallow the fit of rage of the child I failed to save. I have consumed shame after shame for not being able to pull the trigger. I have long accepted that to die in vain is to be buried with all my demeaning attempts to belong in a cosmos of frost-crisped quietude. Yet with all the fresh and healing bruises, the new cuts on top of old cicatrices, and the damaged soul with only little colors seeping through the gaps, you found me. With your eyes wide open, innocent, and impartial, you chose to wear your heart on your sleeve even after tasting what I am made of, unfazed by how crude the taste of mania in my fingertips is, unnerved by the screams echoing through your walls, waking you before daylight.

In the comfort of your embrace, I found my religion. And if I have to suffer some more in your palms, I beg, take root. I live for you to eviscerate.

Verdazure — "TASTE OF MANIA" (2023)

[hel-levators]

besa mis cicatrices, hazme saber que no te importan.

[the-fandom-is-now-my-life]

Sagau but readers still keeps one of the game mechanics, no it isn't changing or stopping the time or being able to take off artifacts and weapons from the characters but rather their cooking heals, regardless of quality or quantity of ingredients.

The ability depends on the time taken transforming the food, for example a peeled apple that took one minute can heal bruises or cuts but nothing more but soups that take hours or days to make can even revive someone.

In the villain au after many hours of attempting to hunt a squirrel you manage to make a basic stock slowly you get more energized and your bruises leave as do the aches around your body. Maybe you get recognized after a hunter sees you eat a peeled apple and your cuts cicatrice quickly

If you were to meet the traveler and they recognized you I can imagine your bag being filled by carved apples, as I said the quantity of the item doesn't matter so as long as it took a while to make. It's a common sight for the traveler to see you with a tiny carving knife inside the tea pot whenever they tell you they are going to fight a boss or in any adventure you can't follow ( or when they visit any city honestly)

Xiangling is the most interested by this, even following you direct steps when you cook but the food she makes can't even make bruises disappear.

Diona feels like she holds some kind of favor because of this, as we saw in her hangout event even if the traveler followed get direct directions it wouldn't taste good so she feels it's somewhat similar to how it only heals if you make it

In the post-villain au the people who wronged you the less are sent to ask you for food when their medicine doesn't work totally or someone important is near death.

From mondstrat they could be klee and albedo, diona or Barbara. Albedo heard rumors and made klee move with him to dragonspine for a while while he decides if you are a fake or real.

Diona simply thinks it's a drunkards tale, given how 99% of mondstrat drinks regularly she wouldn't believe it unless it was traveler who said it.

And Barbara might have turned her back to help you explain yourself when she found you in the forest but she healed you a little and left without telling anyone about you ( she didn't want to help you but her heart ached seeing someone bleeding out)

From liyue qiqi, xinyan and Marchosius are sent. Baizhu was hesitant to send qiqi to look for you given that she could forget about you being 'bad' and he would lose his assistant.

Xinyan was neutral to your case, did never claimed to be the creator but she couldn't take another hit to her reputation if she told her opinion about it.

Marchosius was the sole reason you could escape xiangling, as he turned around burning where xiangling was standing and her scared scream alerted you with enough time to run away.

Inazuma has only one person that being sayu who, as everyone in the shuumatsuban was given the same mission of killing you she accidentally got in the way of everyone's assesination and saved you

[hellokerly]

[scream-madhouse]

[princesscaliban]

Caliban x Cheerleader | 2

Notes: A little adult-y at the end but that’s about it. Yes, part 3 is already started. That’s if you like part 2. I tried not to rush it but some parts aren’t as detailed as I wanted. There’s pictures included because I love visuals. x

Part 1

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Zelda brushed her hands on her skirt, cleaning them of any sweat that may have gathered during their quick meeting, “Stamattina, prima dell'alba, cancella i ricordi delle ultime notti, dalla mente di tutti.” Her hands pointed forwards towards Greendale and a gush of air hit the three witches to signal it had worked.

Ambrose had gathered Addy’s mother’s body and Caliban had volunteered to banish her father to Hell. All that Greendale would know is that Addy’s father never moved to Greendale and her mother passed of heart issues. She was buried in a local cemetery with a beautiful ceremony, Addy helping Sabrina lead her mother to Heaven with a few final words.

Then it came time. Time to tell Addy of her family lineage and test her blood to see what she was. 

“It’s a simple cut, fill the vile, Sabrina will heal you and we will know once Hilda mixes the potion.” Zelda slid the knife across the table to Addy, who grabbed it with shaky hands. 

Sabrina sat next to her, “It will only hurt for a second, once it’s full you’ll be healed, I promise.”

“Why do I have to do it myself? Can’t someone else do it while I’m not looking?”

“The subject does it themselves so there’s not chance of enchantment on the blood spilling into the vile.” Zelda explained, “We haven’t much time dear, we need to find out so we know what to do.”

Caliban stood behind Addy, his hands on her shoulders, “Brina is right here to fix it, you can do it Addyson.” 

The knife was millimeters from her hand and she froze, breaking down in tears, “I can’t get myself to do it. I want to, but I can’t.”

“I’ll do it with you.” Caliban offered, grabbing a knife off of the countertop behind him, “I’ll cut my hand and fill a vile, she can heal you and then me.”

“Yeah, you can do it together on the count of three.” Sabrina suggested, “Do you want me to count?” Addy took a deep breath and nodded, gripping the knife tighter, “On three… one..”

She looked over at Caliban, who held a knife to his hand as well, “Two….”

She looked up at Zelda and Hilda who stood with two empty viles, ready to catch their blood.

“Three..”

Without thinking Addy sliced her hand open, shrieking at the pain, clenching her eyes closed as Zelda guided her hand over the vile until it was full. She heard Sabrina talking, “Guarisci questa ferita, elimina la cicatrice, rendilo com'era prima.”

She went from pain to her hand feeling tight and with no thought she pulled it into a fist. It was completely healed.

Sabrina held her hands over Caliban and his cut seemed to mend itself back together as Addy watched. 

“In a few hours we will check the color of the brew, it will let us know.” Hilda smiled, walking towards the kitchen.

Hours later and Hilda was on the hunt for Sabrina, astral projecting herself to Dorian’s where Sabrina sat with Nick at the bar. “I need you back at the house immediately, this is not going as we thought.”

“Is Addy ok—

“Ms. Addy is fine, but Caliban is.. just… just come back.” She disappeared, leaving Sabrina and Nick confused.

“Do you want to come back for the reveal?” She joked, laughing with Nick, “It’s  like a mortal gender reveal, boy or girl? Witch or mortal?”

They appeared in Sabrina’s room and made their way downstairs, checking on the guest bedroom that had become Addy’s to see if she was still asleep. And there she was, tucked in front of Caliban, his arms wrapped around her, “Is it done?” he asked, eyes wide open, not even the slightest thought of sleeping.

“Not sure. I’ll come get you when it is.” She smiled, quietly closing the door. “So Caliban cut himself with Addy so she wasn’t afraid, Hilda must have went ahead and tested his blood..” She whispered to Nick as they walked down the stairs.

Hilda sat at the table with two viles in front of her, her eyes were glossed over as she kept looking at them back and forth. “Sabrina go get your Aunt Zelda.”

“I’m right here, Hilda, what’s the matter?”

“This is Ms. Addyson’s…” She pointed to the left, “This is Caliban’s.”

None of the others understood the layers of colors that sat in the viles. Addy’s was a vibrant green at the bottom half and a dark blue at the top, Caliban’s was the same green at the bottom but a light orange on the top quarter of it.

“Orange is demon, blue is mortal, green is witch or warlock.” 

They all went silent looking at Caliban’s green and orange vile, “So Caliban is..”

Hilda glanced up the stairs to check the door was still closed and leaned closer to the group, “He’s part warlock.”

Ambrose ran to his room, digging for books he then scattered on the table downstairs. After a few minutes holding onto Caliban’s vile of blood he was led to a certain page of a certain book, pointing to a name.

“Sycorax, the ‘blue-eyed hag’, a witch from the 16th century, she was impregnated with a baby by their coven’s worst enemy, who was a demon and she was being banished from her Algeria coven because she would get rid of it.” Ambrose trailed off, muttering words to himself, “She ran for a while before being found. They took her back to the coven and killed her for keeping the demon-child. Before they got to her she made a deal with another demon to watch over Caliban until he was older.”

“That is preposterous.” Zelda snapped, “A witch having a demon’s baby?”

“That’s good though, we can welcome Caliban into the coven, have him on our side, with our rule, he’d be the same as us.” Sabrina got excited at the possibilities, “And Addy can have a Dark Baptism to join our coven under Hecate and go to The Academy—

“Even if Caliban does join the coven, he’s still part demon, we can never rid of him of those powers.” Zelda explained, “I don’t know how I feel about a part-demon being inside of our coven.”

“He practically already is.”

“But what is his intention?”

“He wanted to take over the throne in Hell until he met the girl, now he is one hundred percent focused on her.” Nick chimed in, “I didn’t know the guy had actual emotions but I think he laughed with her the other day.”

“He’s smart, we can make him a teacher at The Academy.” Sabrina said, “Who else could teach Demonology better than an actual demon?”

Nick slowly put his hand in the air and Ambrose agreed, “I’m with Nicholas on this one, he shouldn’t be teaching Demonology, he could hide secrets that hurt our coven in the future.”

Their arguing, agreeing and whispering downstairs was interrupted by a scream from upstairs. 

“Addy! Addy! Are you okay?” Sabrina was first up the stairs, followed by everyone else. “Caliban, what’s going on?”

“Lasciarla sola, non in questa casa!” Caliban yelled, directly into Addy’s eyes. “Lasciarla sola, non in questa casa!” He repeated, holding her hands away from hitting him, “Tarak ‘ahlamuha wahdaha, la talus Biealzubul aleizam!” 

Addy’s body collapsed and he caught her, trying to catch his own breath at the same time. Sabrina ran and laid Addy back on the bed, “Caliban, what happened? What did you just say?”

“She was asleep.” He pushed his hair back, looking down at the now peaceful, girl. “She began having a nightmare, she was moving and talking and I… dream walked in her dream and she was being attacked by Beelzebub, he was trying to take over her body.”

“Beelzebub?!” They all exclaimed, “He kept telling me he wanted to help me dethrone Sabrina, he wanted to take over Addyson’s body in secret but… I-I…”

“You used a demon spell against a demon, banishing him from her dreams.” Zelda said. “You didn’t even realize you could do it.”

“No.. I.. I don’t even know what I said.” He shook his head.

“If my translating is correct, it’s a little rusty, but I think it was something of leaving her dreams alone and stop touching her.” Ambrose guessed, “Arabic.”

“I speak Arabic?” Caliban asked, “I.. I don’t even—

“Come down stairs, Caliban. We’ve got a lot to tell you.” Zelda left the room, the others following behind. 

“I’m going to put an enchantment on her, she will be completely safe.” Sabrina helped Caliban up and put her hands over Addy, “Dormire in pace, null put svegliarsi, null put superare.”

Now that Caliban was sat around the table Ambrose began to explain to him his history. His mother, her coven, her secrets, “It’s why you don’t remember your past, she didn’t want you to remember the fighting of her coven and the banishment and her death.” 

“But she did it all for you.” Hilda grabbed his hands, “She left her coven, went on her own, so she could have you.”

Caliban sat in silence, looking at the scribblings in Ambrose’s book. “It’s why you’re fine in Hell or any other realm. It’s why you randomly spoke Arabic when you needed to. You have a lot to learn, probably more powers from a warlock stand point, a lot of decisions to make.”

“But Addyson…”

“She’s another Sabrina, part witch, part mortal.”

“How… how do I tell her… how do I tell her I’m.. a demon? Part demon?” He looked up at Hilda, desperate for answers. “What if she—

“Don’t think ahead, let’s just see what happens.” Ambrose pat his back, “If Addy is anything like I think she is, she’ll be accepting. But this is all new to her, so it’ll be a shock.”

Sabrina excused herself and went to get Addy, taking her a glass of water, chatting with her and quickly braiding her hair before taking her downstairs.

Caliban stood up and pulled his chair out for her. Without a word she sat next to Hilda and Sabrina took the chair next to her. 

“Well, Ms. Addyson, we’ve got some news for you.” Hilda smiled, “Your father’s family is still in your DNA, you’re half witch, half mortal. Just like Sabrina.”

“So I… I’m a witch?”

“Yep, welcome!” Hilda giggled, “You’ve got a lot of decisions to make soon but for now, we’re going to leave it at that. Half and half.”

“Ask all questions you want, I’m an open book.” Sabrina said, “We’re the only two like us.”

She forgot about Caliban behind her and jumped as he put his hand on her shoulder. “I’ve got something to tell you.”

“Caliban’s also a… mixed… breed..” Hilda cringed at her own wording and excused herself from the room.

“You’re not a witch.. warlock?”

He took Hilda’s chair and turned Addy to face him. He rest his hands on her knees, “When I cut my hand with you, Hilda went ahead and mixed my own vile and I found out.. I found out my mother was a witch.”

Addy smiled at him, pushing his hair from his face, “So you’re a warlock.”

“And a demon.” 

Addy’s smile fell, her hand froze mid-air, “A..a.. what does—“

“He’s half witch and half demon.” Sabrina said, “He’s just found out, we’ve all just found out.”

Addy sat up in her chair, looking back at Caliban, he could see the fear in her eyes, “Aren’t demons bad?”

“Most are, yes, but Addyson there is no way I could ever hurt you. Please trust me.” He grabbed her hands, “You are.. I would never even consider it.”

“And as the current Queen of Hell…” Sabrina muttered behind her, “If he does, he has to deal with me.”

“Queen of Hell?” Addy asked, turning her head around, “You’re… Queen of Hell?”

“It’s a long story, I promise I’ll tell you about it. My dad is Lucifer and my mom was a mortal, I was raised by my Aunties and since the throne is passed down in families I was next in line.”

“She’s fine, she’s good. Sabrina’s a good Queen, nothing bad will happen to you.” Caliban assured her, “I will never let anything happen to you.” He kissed the top of her hands.

“I’m going to go help my Aunt Zelda with a few things, I’m going to leave you here.” Sabrina pushed her chair in and smiled at them both. 

Holding hands Caliban and Addy walked around the Spellman’s backyard, barely talking. She saw their cemetery in the distance, reminding her of her family, “I can’t believe my parents are gone. I haven’t even cried or anything.”

“Zelda did an emotion control spell on you so you wouldn’t. They wanted you to focus on what’s happening now and your future. You have to find a familiar, think about a Dark Baptism, join the coven, think about The Academy, learn spells—

“Stop.”

“You have the best teachers and coven, they have done.. a lot. They’re powerful.” He spun her to face him, resting his hands on her cheeks, “You’re going to be fine. Everything will be okay.”

“What about you?”

“I have a lot to learn as well. But I’m happy..” He smiled, “Demon and witch relationships are extremely frowned upon in this realm.”

“Relationships?” Addy giggled, “But warlock and witch relationships are fine?”

“Nick and Sabrina, Prudence and Ambrose, need I say more?”

“But what’s the rule on half witch, half mortal and half demon, half witch?”

“It’s a first.” He bit onto his lip, watching her face blush and her eyes look into his, “We can make them up as we go.”

“Thank you, Caliban.” She whispered, “For everything.”

“No thanking me.”

“You saved my life… multiple times.” Her hands fell onto his sides, gripping onto the shirt he wore, “I think that justifies a thank you.”

“Just kiss me, Addyson.” He gently led her face closer to his, watching her eyes close before their lips met. 

It was pure euphoria. Every cell in her body tingled as she pulled herself closer to him. She pulled back out of breath and he kissed her forehead before pulling her close to him, her face dug into his chest. “You’re welcome.”

And for the first time, she felt safe. She had no clue how to work her own powers but she fully knew Caliban would do anything to protect her.

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

“Agatha, stop following me.” Caliban demanded, for the fourth time that day. “I’m not going to see her, I’m not astral projecting to see her, I’m keeping away.”

“Prudence told me to watch you all day, so that’s what I’ll do.”

“I just want to be alone before we go to the woods.” Agatha shook her head no, pacing back and forth in front of the doorway to Ambrose’s room that Caliban had been stuck in all morning. 

“Have you ever been to a Dark Baptism?” He shook his head, “It’s beautiful. A little gory when it comes to the sacrifice, but beautiful. Addy is about to become a full witch, part of our coven, it’s such an important time in a young witches life. I remember every detail of mine, the dress—

“I don’t care, Agatha.” 

“I mean it’s your Dark Baptism too. Your welcome to the world of witches and warlocks. You both will—

“Agatha, please stop talking.”

“Fine. Blackwood would never have let a half-breed like you have a Baptism anyway.”

“Well then it’s a good thing that I run the coven now, isn’t it?” Zelda stepped in the room and Agatha’s face blushed in embarrassment. “Agatha, go help your sisters and Sabrina get Addyson ready.”

“But Prudence said—

“Agatha.” She pointed to the door and Agatha left. “Nicholas and Ambrose have gathered a black suit for you to wear, they’re on their way back now.”

“If you would have asked, I could have told you I have a black suit.” He whisked is hand from the floor to his face and a black suit appeared on him. It was perfectly Caliban with a few studded and belted features. “Can I see Addyson now?”

“The girls will bring her downstairs when we are ready to leave. You can… wait down there with Hilda.”

As much as he wanted to sneak a peek into Sabrina’s room as he walked by, he didn’t. He sat in silence while Hilda read a book, trying to be patient.

Addy had soaked in the bath with the traditional mix: milk, egg, rosemary, agrimony, vanilla, John the Conquerer root, tans and other herbs. She dried herself off with a decorative towel and Prudence did her makeup while she sat in a gold robe.

Dorcas did her makeup, the ingredients filled with herbs and potions from Hilda’s garden. “There’s something relaxing about a makeover.”

“It’s the transformation before the transformation.” Sabrina said, painting a dark red color on Addy’s nails, “It does feel like a wedding day though. Keeping you both separate, getting you in a fancy dress and all fixed up.”

“All while Caliban simply changes his clothes and is ready.” Prudence laughed, “I can’t wait to see his reaction to you in your dress and all done up.”

“Addyson, you look beautiful.” Sabrina tried to mock his accent, making them all laugh. “Ravishing, fabulous, perfect.”

“Thanks guys. For all of this. For everything.” Addy smiled, “I would have been so confused doing this on my own.”

“That’s what a coven is for. We’re a family.” Sabrina assured her. 

Minutes that seemed like hours later and The Weird Sisters came down the stairs, Sabrina following and Addy after her. The whole house stood and looked at her.

Her blonde hair in a loose halo braid, her eyes smoked out, her lips colored the darkest shade of burgundy and the dress fit her perfectly. The flowing material followed her down the stair case as each witch she passed put a necklace on her, covering up the skin showing at the cleavage. 

Addy looked down at the six necklaces, all with different charms for different meanings. She looked up and saw Caliban at the end of the line, his hand stuck out towards her, “You look gorgeous, love.”

The feeling of chills going up her spine took over her body just as it had done the first time she met him. Without a thought she pulled herself up by his shoulder to kiss him. “You’re welcome.” He smiled, leading her out the front door.

As they entered the woods Addy’s familiar that had chosen her, a black owl, hovered on a tree near her. Below the owl was a small fox, the familiar that had found Caliban in the woods the day before.

Candles seemed to take over the woods as witches and warlocks gathered in a circle around them.

Zelda held a book and stood before them, “We are gathered here together, in these woods, in the presence of our coven, all of the souls living and dead. The most unholy order of Hecate which teaches us there is no law beyond. Do what thou, wilt.”

In unison the crowd spoke and Addy squeezed Caliban’s hand, “Covina noster novus hospitio.”

“With our coven to witness, we hail Addyson Faye Camelli, descendant of the Camelli family and Caliban, son of the strong and honest witch, Sycorax to the Order of Hecate.”

The coven spoke again, raising candles into the air, “Hecate, vigila semper nostri seculi finem. Tum observabimus animarum interitum.”

Sabrina approached with a bowl of blood and Zelda’s them dipped into it. Caliban and Addy knelt before her as she drew crosses on their foreheads, mumbling lines to herself. 

Animal sacrifices, herb spreading, candle lighting, more incantations, the sacred signing of the book and a time for each witch, if they wanted, to say something to the new members of their coven.

Sabrina stepped forward at the end, placing her hands on Addy’s head and moving her lips as she secretly spoke an incantation to her. 

Addy’s body felt like a shock went through it and she held onto Sabrina to stay up, “What.. what did you do?”

“I’ll tell you later.” She smiled and winked. 

“And with that, we conclude this Dark Baptism of Addyson Faye Camille and Caliban. They are welcome to our coven with open arms, open souls and watching eyes.”

And a gust of wind went by, blowing every candle out in the woods. Leaving them all in the dark to wander home or wherever they wanted.

Addy and Caliban were last to leave, slowly walking hand in hand towards the Spellman house. “I don’t feel any different.” She complained, looking at her hands and body, “I thought I would feel different.”

“You don’t know any incantations or spells, that’s the key.” He laughed and flicked his hand at his clothes, changing into jeans and a t-shirt right in front of her. 

“Rimuovere.” She pointed at his shirt and spit out a word she didn’t even know she could pronounce and Caliban’s shirt was off and on the ground at their feet. A smile grew on her face as she looked up at him and pointed, “I can do a lot—

“Addy! Calib— oh, sorry if I’m… interrupting.” Sabrina cringed, “I forgot to tell you I did a knowledge transference spell on you. Everything I know, you now know. Just think and use the spell that comes to mind.”

“Now you’ve made her dangerous, Brina.” Caliban laughed, pointing at his shirt on the ground. 

“I’ll let you deal with that.” She waved, disappearing from where she stood.

“There are so many spells going through my mind right now.”

“Portaci in profondita. Dove dormo.” Caliban grabbed her hand and they appeared in a dark room, lit only by a few candles on the walls. “Since you’re a witch now, welcome to Hell.”

“This is… a bedroom.”

“Oh, she’s a smart witch.” He laughed, grabbing her waist, “Have I told you that you look beautiful today?”

She wrapped her hands around his neck, “About a hundred times. But I’m not tired of it.”

“I expected you to look good in your Dark Baptism dress. But you came down the stairs and.. you.. you looked.. hot.” She hid her face in his chest, “The see through part on the bottom? The cut-out sleeves?” He trailed his finger down her chest, over the stack of necklaces, “This part…” 

Addy giggled, grabbing his hand, “Did you want me to be bothered all day?”

“It wasn’t my first thought, but it did cross my mind while trying dresses on.” She bit on her lip, “Prudence even asked me what you’d think. I said you’d like it. She said you’d have it on the floor in seconds.”

“Prudence knows me well somehow.” He shrugged, searching his hands around her back to find the zipper. 

Addy winced in pain, grabbing her hand and looking. It felt like a constant scratch as letters appeared:

~Spellman house by midnight. -S~

She read it and watched it disappear, “What is that?”

“Enchanted pen. Sabrina writes on her hand it shows up on yours.” He pushed her hands down, “Midnight means we’ve still got a few hours here.”

“You never actually explained where we are.”

“My living quarters.” He pushed her dress down and it fell to the floor, “In Hell.”

She stood before him in a matching set of lingerie, all black, all lace. Her backside showing just the perfect amount as he took her finger and spun her around. “What do ya think?”

“I can’t think.” He grabbed her waist and pulled her closer, pushing her hair back and holding onto her chin.

Before he could even get his lips on her there was a knock at his door. One wave of his hand and it opened, Beelzebub was standing there alone.

At just the sight of him, Addy tensed up and grabbed onto Caliban. “What do you want?”

“To meet the Misses.” He bowed.

“As if you haven’t known who she is.” Caliban held onto Addy, who was standing in just her undergarments. Not just any undergarments but the ones Prudence made her put on ‘just in case’. “You leave her alone. Never touch her.”

Without taking a step Beelzebub appeared right next to them, his finger trailing down Addy’s bare arm. Her fingers dug into Caliban’s sides, definitely leaving marks. “How do you expect me to ignore such a…. specimen.” His eyes scanned her whole body which was now shaking. “Our Prince of Hell brings a witch back and we don’t even get a chance?”

He appeared on the other side of them, “I just need a few minutes with the beaut and you can have—

Caliban grabbed his hand that was about to touch Addy again, “You know my power. And I’m not afraid to use it on you.” He pushed Addy behind him and stood chest to chest with Beelzebub. “If you do so much as enter her dream or even have a thought about her, I’ll know and I’ll banish you from Hell myself.”

A quick move of his hand and Caliban had pushed Beelzebub from his room and into the hallway. He tried to run back in but the door slammed and locked.

Caliban was filled with rage, his fists were tightly locked as he took a deep breath. “Addyson I’m sorry about him.” He immediately relaxed when her hands touched his skin, sliding around his sides and to the front of him. “He will never get to you.” She kissed his back and his hands grabbed onto hers, “He’s useless.”

“Prince of Hell?” She questioned, whispering into his neck, “That’s a sexy title.” 

Caliban turned around to see her smiling, “Protecting me from him..” She grabbed his hand and slowly walked towards the huge bed at the back of the room. Black sheets, black pillows, black candles; she pushed him to sit down, “That was … so hot…”

He shook his head at her antics, “Rimuovere.” She repeated again and laughed, pointing at his pants that fell to the floor.

He pulled on the string of her bottoms until she moved forward and straddled his lap, “If you use that one more time, I’ll have to start using it on you.” 

“No need to use it if I’m willing.” 

“You’ve become quite confident since you’ve known you’re a witch.” He groaned and flipped her over so he was on top of her, “But it’s easier to tease you.. when you have them on..” His hair tickled her neck as he left a row of bites down her collar bone, “More surprises.” He kissed the middle of her chest, “For me.” He left a sloppy kiss on her stomach before kissing the top of her underwear, pulling them back with his teeth.

Her hands grabbed his hair and she tried to move around but he held her still, “Oh you’re going to be like that, are you?” He moved back up and kissed her lips, beginning a careless makeout that distracted her as he undid the clasp to her top.

Her legs tried to squeeze around him but he wouldn’t allow it, laughing at her whining as he slowly pulled her top off. “Perfect.” He glanced up at her, slowly leaning down towards her chest, “And all..” He kissed her neck once more, “mine.”

[origamidepalabras]

La Perra

Hubo una época en la que la palabra “perra” era un adjetivo peyorativo, como cuando alguien decía que su jefa era una perra. Desde hace un tiempo, este concepto se resignificó de varias formas, pero hay una que me interesa particularmente: aquella que propone que “perra” es sinónimo de ser la mejor. Ahora, si escuchas que  Danna Paola es “muy perra” o que Sharon Needles se ve “más perra que humana”, no las están deshumanizando, sino aplaudiéndoles.

Pero, ¿qué te hace ser esa perra? Hay muchas posibilidades: arquear la ceja, burlarte de alguien en su cara o usar el sarcasmo agresivamente, vestirte muy bien, hacer comentarios ácidos todo el tiempo, tener una cara preciosa, un cuerpo envidiable, contar con mucho dinero, despertar envidias, tener ocho tetillas, cagarte donde no debes, salir corriendo cuando abren el zaguán…ya sabes, esas cosas. No tienes que reunir todas estas características, pero si cumples con alguna, probablemente seas una perra.

La construcción de la figura de “la perra” se hace basándose en la superioridad. Pero, ¿quién nos enseñó lo que es una perra? Yo, por lo menos, recuerdo mi primer contacto con este arquetipo gracias a la cultura pop. Hemos visto a “la perra” miles de veces en la televisión y en el cine: las Heathers de ‘Heathers’, Kathryn Mertueil de ‘Cruel Intentions’, Chanel No. 1 de ‘Scream Queens’, Blair Waldorf de ‘Gossip Girl’ y la lista podría seguir. Sin embargo, hay una que le habló directamente a mi generación: Regina George de ‘Mean Girls’.

Desde que nos presentan a Regina, sus compañeros de escuela nos hacen saber por qué es tan perra. Es perfecta, tiene dos bolsas Fendi y un Lexus plateado, su pelo está supuestamente asegurado por diez mil dólares, se dice que hace comerciales de coches…en Japón, su película favorita es ‘Varsity Blues’, una vez conoció a John Stamos en un avión y él le dijo que era bonita y, por último, si te golpea en la cara, es increíble. En resumen, Regina George es perra porque es mejor que tú.

Esto es lo que se dice de ella, pero durante el transcurso de la película, descubrimos otras cosas que la avalan como la perra número uno. Además de cuestiones elitistas y superficiales como su cara y su cuerpo, la compulsión por comprar ropa y su enorme cuarto del tamaño de un departamento, hay otras características que terminan de hacerla perrísima. El estatus de la perra más fiera de la jauría lo gana por completo cuando invalida los sentimientos de sus amigas, se mete con los intereses amorosos de las demás y juega con las inseguridades de quien sea.

Estoy seguro que cuando Tina Fey escribió el guión de ‘Mean Girls’, no quiso enviar el mensaje de que deberíamos aspirar a ser como Regina George y, a pesar de esto, muchas adolescentes corrieron a comprarse algo rosa y decirle algo espantoso a alguna de sus amigas. No las culpo, ¿quién no quiere ser la chica más popular de la escuela, tener un novio guapísimo y un séquito de rubias obedientes?

Regina George no solo apeló a las aspiraciones de algunas niñas, sino a las de bastantes hombres gays. Por alguna razón, hay homosexuales que quieren jugar ese papel, aunque este mismo personaje se burlara de Damien por ser “demasiado gay para funcionar”. Si bien hemos visto a la figura de “la perra” en su formato gay con personajes como el abogado que le pide a Elle Woods que no le taconée con sus zapatos Prada de la temporada pasada en ‘Legalmente Rubia’, uno no quiere ser como ellos porque están en segundo plano. Uno quiere ser el que protagoniza, al que admiran, el dominante y al que no solo respetan, sino que temen.

Hay muchas cosas que nos unen a los homosexuales y las mujeres y, una de ellas, es cómo algunxs lidian con los problemas que tienen con los demás. Mientras que a los hombres heterosexuales se les permite confrontar abiertamente a otros y ser transparentemente agresivos, en las mujeres y los gays está culturalmente mal visto. En cambio, manifestamos la ira y la frustración de otras maneras, de modos más sutiles, pero no menos violentos. No estoy diciendo que los homosexuales y las mujeres no puedan enfrentar el conflicto de frente o que no se agarren a golpes…todos hemos visto como se ponen los gays en los descuentos de Zara. Ese fue un chiste de estereotipo, perdón, no se vuelve a repetir. Fuera de broma, lo que sí es cierto es que, aunque hay quien trata con sus emociones directamente con la fuente del problema, muchas veces elegimos expresar nuestros sentimientos a través de una violencia a hurtadillas.

He conocido a varios Reginos Georges (¿cómo se escribe en plural?) a lo largo de mi vida. Yo también he sido Regino George en algún momento y no es algo de lo que me sienta orgulloso, pero es la verdad. Eso sí, nunca había conocido a un Regino George como el asistente de producción con el que trabajé en un Reality Show. Para proteger su identidad, lo llamaremos Lancelot. ¿Sabían que hay gente que en la vida real se llama Lancelot? Un amigo escuchó a una señora llamando a su hijo en el Starbucks por este nombre. Wow. Pero ese no es el punto.

Desde que llegué al proyecto, Lancelot me hizo saber de inmediato quién era la abeja reina. Cuando tomaba apuntes para después entrevistar a los participantes del programa, se sentaba a mi lado y me rayaba el cuaderno, como si estuviéramos en la primaria. Se burlaba todo el tiempo de que hubiera pasado gran parte de mi adolescencia en Coapa, de los lugares en los que había trabajado antes (aunque fueran producciones de primer nivel), de mi físico y de mi forma de vestir. Todo era una oportunidad para hacerme saber que yo era inferior. Esta Regina George tenía a su Karen y a su Gretchen, un par de vestuaristas con las que me llevaba bien cuando él no estaba, pero, ante su presencia, también se reían de mí.

Trabajar con Lancelot se volvió una pesadilla. De verdad qué chistoso que le llamemos Lancelot, pero ya, perdón. Siempre que me cruzaba con él, sabía que me iba a insultar, pero obviamente “de broma”. Esto es bastante común entre hombres heterosexuales: como Alan Downs apunta en su libro ‘The Velvet Rage: Overcoming The Pain of Growing Up Gay In a Straight Man’s World’, muchos gays utilizan el humor como medio para sacar la ira o el enojo que llevan dentro. Entiendo por qué los hombres gays cargamos con tanta rabia: la mayoría de nosotros hemos sido silenciados, atacados, violentados y nos han tratado de volver invisibles. Comprendo perfectamente por qué cargamos con muchísima furia, lo que no comprendo es por qué la descargamos con alguien que ha recorrido un camino similarmente doloroso.

Otra cosa que me tardé en entender, o más bien en asumir, era por qué Lancelot me odiaba tanto si ni siquiera me conocía. Yo no le había hecho nada. Un día, miré a mi alrededor y comencé a imaginar las razones por las que Lancie me tenía tanto coraje. Él y yo éramos los únicos hombres gays. Además, ambos teníamos más o menos la misma edad y ninguno tenía autoridad sobre el otro, o sea que estábamos a la par. Lo único que lo ponía por encima de mí, aunque no realmente, es que él trabajaba de planta en la productora y yo era un freelancer. ¿Sería que no le gustó que yo le cayera bien a casi todos desde mi llegada? ¿Sería que la gente estaba reconociendo mi talento? ¿Sería que, tal vez, me veía como una amenaza?

Aunque yo nunca respondí a sus provocaciones, había algo que tenía claro y que me mantenía tranquilo. Como la misma Cady Heron hubiera reflexionado: Lancelot podía burlarse de mi apariencia, pero eso no lo iba a hacer más guapo. Podía burlarse de mis notas, pero eso no iba a hacer que los demás reconocieran su trabajo. Podía burlarse de mis shorts sobre leggings (ok, sí me pasé esa vez), pero eso no lo haría estar mejor vestido. Y, sin embargo, atacándome conseguía lo que buscaba: que yo no me pudiera meter con él. Lo curioso es que yo nunca lo hubiera atacado, pero así lo temía Lancelot.

Por eso mucha gente busca ser “la perra”; sí, el poder se siente rico, pero, sobre todo, para que no se puedan meter con ellxs. Los momentos en los que Regina George se vuelve la abeja reina están muy claros en la memoria colectiva, pero hay algo que parecemos dejar de lado. Regina George, igual que el resto de las chicas, vive oprimida por el machismo. Tiene un papá que la juzga por lo que decide ponerse, una mamá superficial que glorifica que se vea de cierta manera, hombres que buscan estar con ella únicamente por su físico, está eternamente preocupada por no engordar, etc. En algún momento debió aprender que, para ser validada, tenía que verse y comportarse como lo hace. Es decir, Regina George no es otra cosa mas que una niña herida. También entendió que, si perpetúa estas conductas tóxicas, nadie más le puede volver a hacer daño.

En el caso de los hombres gays, yo lo veo así: la mayoría de nosotros nos sentimos lastimados y, sobre todo, el daño se ha hecho en espacios que no están diseñador por nosotros o para nosotros. Las cicatrices del pasado vienen, en gran medida, de sentirnos excluidos. Por eso, una vez que algunos asumen su sexualidad, ven a la comunidad como una posibilidad de revertir los roles y experimentar el poder, poniéndose encima de otrx. Sobre todo, si bufamos, insultamos a los nuestros y dejamos claro que, por la razón que sea, somos superiores a los demás, ya no nos van a poder herir.

Eventualmente, Lancelot escuchó cómo entrevistaba a un participante del reality y se dio cuenta que era bueno en lo que hacía. No sé si fue por esto o si simplemente se relajó, pero dejó de molestarme después de ese día. Supongo que se dio cuenta de que, en efecto, podía tratar de hacerme sentir mal todo lo que quisiera, pero eso no me iba a detener de hacer un buen trabajo. Me gusta pensar que quizá se dio cuenta de que las cosas son suficientemente difíciles allá afuera como para que también entre nosotros nos estuviéramos haciendo la vida un infierno.

Esta es solo una historia mía, pero he vivido y sido testigo de infinidad de casos donde el gay se vuelve “la perra” y se comporta como Regina George: desde gente que hace comentarios agresivos a sus propios amigos (pero sólo está “bufando”), personas que divulgan fotografías privadas de otrxs (sin duda el internet es el nuevo Burn Book) y hasta quien te insulta soezmente por no estar de acuerdo en que su drag queen favorita es la mejor de Rupaul’s Drag Race. Entiendo que esta violencia nace de la carencia, pero retomando mi última idea sobre Lancelot (jijiji, “Lancelot”), no puedo dejar de pensar en lo siguiente: si lo que te hace rabiar es que Naomi Smalls haya sacado a Manila Luzon en All Stars 4[2] y no la discriminación que nos lastima a diario, creo que sería bueno revisar tus prioridades y tratar tus emociones.

No creo que debamos renunciar del todo al concepto de “la perra”. Se vale reconocer cuando alguno de tus amigos hizo algo muy bien y, además, es muy liberador decirle: “qué perra mi amiga”. No me parece mal que, cuando tu amiga obtiene un ascenso, le des crédito por su logro preguntándole si no quiere llamar al antirrábico para que la vacunen porque uffff qué perra. Lo que creo que está mal es la idea de que ser nocivos e hirientes nos hace perras.

Por eso, para mí, la más perra es la que lucha contra la homofobia, la que alienta a su gente cercana, la que intenta aprender y desaprender todos los días, la que educa un poco a su papá y a sus tíos para aligerar su misoginia, la que se gana una cubeta de cervezas en un concurso de quién imita mejor a Amanda Miguel y luego las comparte con sus amigos, la que es amable, la que es rebelde, la que resiste, la que busca ser mejor persona. Por lo menos esa es la perra que quiero ser yo. También es el tipo de perras de las que me quiero rodear. Para todas esas, las espero con los brazos abiertos y su plato de croquetas.

[myth01s]

Mercy || Self Para

TW: slavery implication, torture implication, blood, violence and gore.

There was a monotonous rhythm of chains rattling as he walked, the heavy metal scraping against his skin around his neck and his wrists and ankles. His cheeks sunken from malnourishment, looking like a walking rotten corpse than a living being. Well, as much of a living being an un-life could be. His eyes unfocused, merely following wherever he was led to by his Master’s carriage, dragging his feet with each step that he took. He would sometimes lose his balance and fall onto the muddy ground, letting himself be dragged alone before standing back on his feet. His hair unkept, bald patches here and there from where his Master had pulled his hair too hard, and some parts were cut haphazardly. He wasn’t given any clothes except for the clothe that covered his groin to humiliate him, exposing the mark under his right collarbone that he belonged to his Master, along with cicatrices from sunlight burnt and whips from his Master’s treatment, bites and claw marks and scars from fights he was involved in that didn’t quite heal.

He was now merely a shell of a man that he once was.

Days turned into months, then years turned to decades. Before he knew almost a century had passed. The heavy chains around him used to burden him greatly that he was unable to move a muscle became merely a nuisance now, and his Master had never bothered to remove them since he saw the strength that he had garnered. He was sure he saw the fear in his Master’s eyes once he learned of this, perhaps the reason for the scarce feeding over time. He relished on the idea as he clenched his hand into a fist, clinging foolishly onto hope despite the decades of abuse that there was still hope for him to escape before it faded into the back of his mind, becoming nothing more than a pipe dream.

There is no way to escape.

The realisation hit him hard, and he was once again reminded of the hopelessness that he felt, the ache in his chest that grew unbearable until he became numb with pain. What fuelled his retaliation against his Master’s abuse and the hope to escape this man-made Hell grew dimmer as the years stretched on, until he stopped hoping altogether and let the abuse continued, turning those hopes that he once had into something darker. That his Master’s abuse would be too much even for his body to bear, broken beyond repair that even his healing ability wasn’t able to fix.

His death would be welcomed then. But knowing his Master, it wouldn’t be as easy.

Sometimes his Master would praise him for his beautiful brown skin, his exotic feature that could never be found across the colonial country. His hands would reach out to him with open arms, a gentleness that belied his cruel intention. He would flinch whenever his Master tried to touch him, which soured his Master’s mood and resulted in his beating. He would be left in the small room for his body to heal what’s broken, lying on the cold hard ground without being able to move. He’d be fed with rotten corpses or dying werewolves or sickly bastards who dared to wrong his Master, and out of desperation and hunger he would feed upon them, only to be sick afterwards. He considered those to be the good days, since his Master remember to feed him.

His ears perked up at the hushed voices ahead. Two vampires. Guards. They were talking. Something about a mob in front of them, waiting. A group of hunters, larger than they had ever seen. Close to fifty. No. a hundred perhaps. Waiting deeper in the woods for them. An exaggeration. Perhaps, perhaps not. They couldn’t be sure until they investigate further.

Hunters. He’d encountered them before, when humans were brave enough to hunt down his Master. He would kill them in his Master’s stead, the promise of their blood to feed himself hung above his head than his own morale. He’d always leave one survivor, mortally wounded but not enough to end their lives. He told them, compelled them, to find him and his Master if they wanted revenge, risking his Master’s wrath just for that glimpse of hope that they would follow through. He wasn’t even sure that it worked, foolishly he had been hoping that it would. But after several more attempts and none of them had returned for him and his Master, he’d given up on the notion entirely.

The carriage stopped, and one of them tapped on the door, letting his Master know what awaited them. “My pet can handle them,” his Master’s voice rang through the night, and the guard looked at him, pity in his eyes, before looking back at the carriage. He tried to convince his Master that it was best for them to scout further ahead. “Are you underestimating me?” he felt shiver ran down his spine at the shout, panic rose inside his chest as he tried to make himself smaller, desperately hoping that he would survive this ordeal. It was funny to him, how his mind so often thought of death and dying, but when the situation presented itself, he became a coward and clinging uselessly onto hope.

“Fine,” he tuned back into the conversation, catching the last bits of what was being said. There was relief in the guard’s voice, looking back at him again before joining the other guard. Words were exchanged, and one of them slipped through the night to confirm their suspicion.

He tapped his thumb on his index finger to mark the seconds that passed, having something to focus on as he waited. He would need to kill again, from what he heard from his Master. That was fine. He was feeling hungry, anyway. He didn’t remember the last time he was fed. Was it few days ago, or was it last week? He couldn’t recall. It was leftover from his Master’s feeding, that he remembered. The corpse was fresh, and he lapped on the guzzling blood as much as he could. If he was careful, he could have his fill with these hunters, and it would last him for a few more days, perhaps.

Minutes passed, and there was still no sign od the guard returning. “What’s taking him so long?” His master grew restless, he could feel it in his skin and in the air, and he recoiled. It wouldn’t be long now.

There was a gunshot being fired, and shouts of several men. Had he been discovered?

His Master got out from the carriage, cursing loudly as another gunshot was heard, then another. The gunshots would not cease. Shadows moved between the woods, and it made him wonder how they hadn’t noticed them before. Then he realised that they had cover their scent with dirt and something else. Blood? Magic. Did they kill witches before they hunt the vampires?

The carriage wouldn’t protect his Master now, and he heard him cursed again. The chains that tied him to the carriage was released, but not those on him. “Kill them,” his master pulled the chains around his neck, his lips twisted into a smile. “They dare to challenge me. Come, I’ll let you feed on their corpses. Tonight, we’ll leave their corpses in our wake!”

He was then pushed aside, taking a step back as his Master challenged the shadows that lurked, their guns pointed at them. Didn’t they know guns were useless against them?

Another gunshot was fired, and his Master screamed in pain. He had never heard his Master screamed like this. he looked up, barely enough time to notice inside him as another gunshot was fired, saved only by his body moving instinctively. His mind grew blank as he moved through the woods, using his chains to wrap around one of the hunter’s neck and snapping it in half with ease. He crouched between the trees, watching as his Master moved erratically avoiding the bullets aimed at him. Bodies fell where his Master was. Blood gushing out and bathed his Master red as he fed.

But the healing was slow, and the bullets kept coming.

Gunshots were fired. The bullets made his Master screamed.

The bullets made his Master screamed.

They were prepared.

They could kill his Master and him.

His Master could be killed right here and now. This was his chance. His hope.

but he needed to be quick. The bullets would run out soon enough, and his Master would have time to recover. He needed strength and speed to match his Master and to avoid the hunters. But most of all, he needed to survive this. He wanted to survive this.

He desperately hoped to survive this.

He tore into the corpse, blood dripping from his chin as he gulped greedily. He felt his strength returning, but not enough. He needed more. So he grabbed the gun and fired at the next hunter, using it as a meat shield as he fired the next bullet at his Master. It missed, but it caught his Master’s attention. Confusion marred his face before shifting to rage, screaming his name as he charged forward.

And he was ready for him.

They fought while fending off the hoard of hunters. Guns fired and swords clashing at the speed human eyes couldn’t comprehend as they traded blow. It's a suicide mission, and he wasn't even sure if he would survive, but he didn't care. He wanted his Master dead. And he failed now, he wouldn’t get another chance. It was now or never.

One misstep was all he needed, and his Master faltered, not as battle worn as he was. He pushed the sword into his chest, pinning his master to the ground with his chains. “You bastard!” his Master spat, clawing at the heavy chains around his neck. “Release me! You dare defy me?! Release me!!” his Master landed a punch on his chest, his face, but he was relentless.

The hunters didn’t matter now. Their bullets would only hurt him, but it wouldn’t kill him. And they would run out of bullets soon, he was sure of it.

What matters now was his Master. Alexander.

His hatred boiled to the surface, and he was only seeing red. He wrapped the chains around his fist and slammed it against Alexander’s face, bashing his skull in. Blood splattered across his face. But he didn’t stop. He continued to land blow after blow until he was satisfied. Until Alexander was barely recognisable. Until his scream that echoed through the forest became a sob, a grunt, and then silence.

His body healed the wounds and still Tuah swung his fist until his own knuckle bruised and sore. He leaned back, watching as Alexander’s body tried to heal itself. He then grabbed the sword that he pinned Alexander with and pulled it across his chest, and Alexander’s scream renewed. He swung his fist once more, this time on Alexander’s chest where his heart would be, breaking the ribs that protected the precious organ. He squeezed the heart in his hand, his eyes locked onto Alexander’s as he screamed, before ripping it from Alexander’s chest.

“Hutang darah pasti dibayar dengan darah (blood must be paid with blood).” His voice sounded strange even to him, long had he spoke in his native tongue. He watched as light faded from Alexander’s eyes, but he could never be too sure. So he grabbed the sword and got up, the heart rolled from his hand and onto the ground with a squelch. Tuah grabbed hold of Alexander by the hair, the sword raised above him.

With a clean swipe, Alexander’s head was separated from his body.

Finally, he was free.

But his freedom felt hollow. There was no cheer or warmth that he came to expect from taking back what was his. He looked down at his chained wrists. Was he truly free?

He didn’t realise that the hunters had stopped their firing, waiting with bated breath as they witness to the vampire’s cruelty.

Tuah looked up, throwing Alexander’s head to the ground careless. He finally noticed that the night was starless, the eleventh month bringing biting cold that he wouldn’t have survived if he was still human. He felt a droplet on his face, then another, before November rain started to shower them. Fog started to cover the forest ground in no time.

He looked down at the headless body, taking both the sword in Alexander’s chest and in his hand and strolled towards the remaining hunters. "Are you going to stop me?" His question was met with a cock of a gun and a bullet flew pass him. He sighed, not wanting to shed anymore blood than he already had. He could’ve let them go, but he couldn’t risk of them chasing after him when he had only had his freedom.

When dawn came, when others were brave enough to venture into the woods, they would find bodies scattered across the floor, some mutilated beyond recognition, others were cleanly cut. There was one body that was badly burnt. And they would wonder what had happened the night before.

“May your God have mercy on you,” he told them, moving to pierce the sword onto their chest, watching the fear in their eyes faded as life slipped away. “Because I will not.”

This was the price of his freedom.

They never found the answer, as there was no witness to retell the story.

[rawmacc]

the love i wanted

now projects on my skin

the slits, your wounding words

sting my skin, my heart

scrapes, your commitment

fade away, with time

they disappear, one heals

the other leaves me screaming

cicatrices, your absence

beginning- always hurt

cured by the end

permanently leaving;

a scar within.

[theeverlastingshade]

A few weeks ago Respire dropped a new single called "Cicatrice", and it's the second taste of their upcoming third LP, Black Line, which is due for release on 12/4. "Cicatrice" begins as an all-out, punishing assault of red-lining, spiraling guitars, a seismic low-end, and pulverizing percussion all tethered together with frontman Egin Kongoli's piercing shriek. After nearly a minute of this onslaught the instrumentation is pared down to minor key violins and clean electric guitar strums with passionate gang vocals replacing the bludgeoning screams that erupted out of the gates. The band continue to build on this anthemic groove with a shuffling tom drum beat and increasingly agonized singing until the initial onslaught returns to the fore with a heightened sense of urgency.

Respire have straddled the line between searing post hardcore/black metal/noise and orchestral post-rock since their inception, but "Cicatrice" is the sharpest example of their increasing cohesion between the two disparate poles of their sound. The pacing is sublime, and even through the prettier guitar passages Respire retain a sense of tension that allows the crescendo to land with a heightened potency. "Cicatrice" is a bold refinement of everything that makes Respire a compelling band while hinting at some new places that they could take their music. Respire have never played with such precision and ferocity, and along with BL's first single, "Tempest", "Cicatrice" makes a strong case that BL will be one of the year's last great records.