#The elderly enchanter {Millie}

[misfitsandmischief]

*** Tag Dump

[theanoninyourinbox]

Longstar AU Three to Tango part 1

Howdy y’all, I’m back at again with the AU - I can’t promise one a day lore dumps after this, because I only have up until the Battle against the Dark Forest - and then it’s just little details and disconnected thoughts at the moment, but I’ll give what I’ve got until it’s complete.  And thanks for the likes and follows - it’s really flattering for someone not in my direct friends/family to like my stuff.  Anyhoo enough feelings lets goooooo!

Biggest difference, Skyclan.  Wasn’t reformed just yet, but I’ll get to that shortly.  Longstar’s sight is beginning to fail him, but he can still see the colors of his grandkit’s pelts.  Another difference, because of the cross-clan-relationship-agreement, the Three are well aware of their parentage - he visits at least twice a moon, and was there to see them apprenticed off.  They’re well loved, have plenty of support from families in both clans, especially their aunt Foxflight and Uncle Shrewleg.  Those two have been trying for kits, but Shrewleg’s injury may have left him unable to father any kits - but they don’t mind it too much.  Maybe someday.  And Whitestorm, beloved Deputy, has stepped down.  His age is starting to catch up, and he’s happy to help out, but he knows leadership just isn’t in his future.  He suggests Brightheart, who happily accepts as Cloudtail and Whitewing cheer ecstatically!  Pretty sure the Tribe heard that!

Lionpaw apprentices to Darkmoon, with Fireheart acting as support mentor if needed.  Jaypaw gets two mentors, Brightheart for his regular training, and Snowthorn for working with his senses - Brightheart translates Snowthorn’s sign language when his words just don’t work as well.  Eventually Longstar joins the sessions when his vision dims.  And Hollypaw isn’t as much a stickler for the Code, understanding that rules can change, and she stands as evidence of that.  She’s aiming for Deputy, hopefully Leader, but is content to support her clan how she can.  Canon continues until...

At the Gathering, Jay hears Mousepaw flirting with Minnowpaw, and wonders if there’s going to be another cross-clan couple.  But as he’s telling Hollypaw, there’s a commotion at the back of the crowd.  A pair of mollies appear - it’s the long thought dead Sandstorm!  And some kittypet but Sandstorm yaaaay!  Foxflight nearly knocks her over in excitement, and Longstar greets his missing clanmate.  Coldlight actually shows an emotion! The Gathering disperses, and Greystripe offers to escort the kittypet, oh your name’s Millie?  An honor madame I am -enchanted- to meet you.  It’s apparent immediately that they’re making heart eyes at each other but it’s cute!  Millie and Daisy have a giggle about how cute and chivalrous he is.

When Sandstorm settles back in, she grabs Longstar, Fireheart, Flamewish, Darkmoon,  Foxflight, and Swiftpool and tells them her adventure.  She was adopted by a twoleg who owned Millie, and the two escaped fairly quickly.  She met an elderly tom named Skywatcher, and founded Skyclan again, leaving Leafstar in charge, and receiving a prophecy about Three of Flame and Fire’s kin.  It’s agreed to keep it quiet until they’re all sure about who it’s about.  Could be Swiftpool, Foxflight, and Whitewing?  Cloudtail no probably not him.  After the conversation,  Canon continues until...

The competition!  Lionpaw’s back at camp, and Jaypaw’s having a rest, Lionpaw has a vision of Hollypaw and another dark-pelted cat falling, and feels choked by dust and dirt, and Jaypaw sees the vision as a dream.  The two call for aid, and Hollypaw and Breezepaw are rescued from the old fox den.  Jaypaw is suspicious, but maybe it’s a triplet thing?  He and his sibs have always been super close.  Hollypaw and Breezepaw begin a very odd friendship, as Crowfeather is his father, but only as a surrogate for Nightcloud - those two are just good friends, but Breezepaw wants a close relationship.  The unlikely half-sibs decide to meet up every few nights, in secret, as insisted by Breezepaw.  He doesn’t want his mom to know he’s being -social-.  Canon continues until...

Late after one meeting, Hollypaw, who told her parents about the meetings because she’s not a fool, wanders through a part of the forest that looks unfamiliar.  She hops over a root, and two large brown tabby toms are waiting for her - Tigerstar and Brambleclaw!  They try to woo her into training with them, promising to make her a great warrior.  She blinks, and then laughs right in their faces, like absolutely loses it.  Why would she want to train with two cats who lost?  Like really badly lost?  Ohohoho how funny!  She leaves, chuckling, and the next thing she knows, she’s in her mossy bed, in the apprentice den.  What a weird dream!  Meanwhile Tigerstar and Brambleclaw are seething, but vow to try again at a later night. 

And that’s it for tonight!  Tune in next time for Riverclan gets invaded by toddlers. the Tunnels is the worst waterpark ever, and the Tribe asks for Storm and Brook back.  Thanks for reading!

[elisabettacormac]

Virginia Woolf: Mrs Dalloway in Bond Street

Virginia Woolf

Mrs Dalloway

Mrs Dalloway said she would buy the gloves herself.

Big Ben was striking as she stepped out into the street. It was eleven o'clock and the unused hour was fresh as if issued to children on a beach. But there was something solemn in the deliberate swing of the repeated strokes; something stirring in the murmur of wheels and the shuffle of footsteps.

No doubt they were not all bound on errands of happiness. There is much more to be said about us than that we walk the streets of Westminster. Big Ben too is nothing but steel rods consumed by rust were it not for the care of H.M.'s Office of Works. Only for Mrs Dalloway the moment was complete; for Mrs Dalloway June was fresh. A happy childhood--and it was not to his daughters only that Justin Parry had seemed a fine fellow (weak of course on the Bench); flowers at evening, smoke rising; the caw of rooks falling from ever so high, down down through the October air - there is nothing to take the place of childhood. A leaf of mint brings it back: or a cup with a blue ring.

Poor little wretches, she sighed, and pressed forward. Oh, right under the horses' noses, you little demon! and there she was left on the kerb stretching her hand out, while Jimmy Dawes grinned on the further side.

A charming woman, poised, eager, strangely white-haired for her pink cheeks, so Scope Purvis, C.C.B., saw her as he hurried to his office. She stiffened a little, waiting for burthen's van to pass. Big Ben struck the tenth; struck the eleventh stroke. The leaden circles dissolved in the air. Pride held her erect, inheriting, handing on, acquainted with discipline and with suffering. How people suffered, how they suffered, she thought, thinking of Mrs Foxcroft at the Embassy last night decked with jewels, eating her heart out, because that nice boy was dead, and now the old Manor House (Durtnall's van passed) must go to a cousin.

'Good morning to you!' said Hugh Whitbread raising his hat rather extravagantly by the china shop, for they had known each other as children. 'Where are you off to?'

'I love walking in London,' said Mrs Dalloway. 'Really it's better than walking in the country!'

'We've just come up,' said Hugh Whitbread. 'Unfortunately to see doctors.'

'Milly?' said Mrs Dalloway, instantly compassionate.

'Out of sorts,' said Hugh Whitbread. 'That sort of thing. Dick all right?'

'First rate!' said Clarissa.

Of course, she thought, walking on, Milly is about my age--fifty, fifty-two. So it is probably that, Hugh's manner had said so, said it perfectly--dear old Hugh, thought Mrs Dalloway, remembering with amusement, with gratitude, with emotion, how shy, like a brother--one would rather die than speak to one's brother--Hugh had always been, when he was at Oxford, and came over, and perhaps one of them (drat the thing!) couldn't ride. How then could women sit in Parliament? How could they do things with men? For there is this extra-ordinarily deep instinct, something inside one; you can't get over it; it's no use trying; and men like Hugh respect it without our saying it, which is what one loves, thought Clarissa, in dear old Hugh.

She had passed through the Admiralty Arch and saw at the end of the empty road with its thin trees Victoria's white mound, Victoria's billowing motherliness, amplitude and homeliness, always ridiculous, yet how sublime, thought Mrs Dalloway, remembering Kensington Gardens and the old lady in horn spectacles and being told by Nanny to stop dead still and bow to the Queen. The flag flew above the Palace. The King and Queen were back then. Dick had met her at lunch the other day--a thoroughly nice woman. It matters so much to the poor, thought Clarissa, and to the soldiers. A man in bronze stood heroically on a pedestal with a gun on her left hand side--the South African war. It matters, thought Mrs Dalloway walking towards Buckingham Palace. There it stood four-square, in the broad sunshine, uncompromising, plain. But it was character, she thought; something inborn in the race; what Indians respected. The Queen went to hospitals, opened bazaars--the Queen of England, thought Clarissa, looking at the Palace. Already at this hour a motor car passed out at the gates; soldiers saluted; the gates were shut. And Clarissa, crossing the road, entered the Park, holding herself upright.

June had drawn out every leaf on the trees. The mothers of Westminster with mottled breasts gave suck to their young. Quite respectable girls lay stretched on the grass. An elderly man, stooping very stiffly, picked up a crumpled paper, spread it out flat and flung it away. How horrible! Last night at the Embassy Sir Dighton had said, 'If 1 want a fellow to hold my horse, I have only to put up my hand.' But the religious question is far more serious than the economic, Sir Dighton had said, which she thought extraordinarily interesting, from a man like Sir Dighton. 'Oh, the country will never know what it has lost,' he had said, talking of his own accord, about dear Jack Stewart.

She mounted the little hill lightly. The air stirred with energy. Messages were passing from the Fleet to the Admiralty. Piccadilly and Arlington Street and the Mall seemed to chafe the very air in the Park and lift its leaves hotly, brilliantly, upon waves of that divine vitality which Clarissa loved. To ride; to dance; she had adored all that. Or going long walks in the country, talking, about books, what to do with one's life, for young people were amazingly priggish--oh, the things one had said! But one had conviction. Middle age is the devil. People like Jack'll never know that, she thought; for he never once thought of death, never, they said, knew he was dying. And now can never mourn--how did it go?--a head grown grey . . . From the contagion of the world's slow stain, . . . have drunk their cup a round or two before. . . . From the contagion of the world's slow stain! She held herself upright.

But how jack would have shouted! Quoting Shelley, in Piccadilly, 'You want a pin,' he would have said. He hated frumps. 'My God Clarissa! My God Clarissa!'--she could hear him now at the Devonshire House party, about poor Sylvia Hunt in her amber necklace and that dowdy old silk. Clarissa held herself upright for she had spoken aloud and now she was in Piccadilly, passing the house with the slender green columns, and the balconies; passing club windows full of newspapers; passing old Lady Burdett-Coutts' house where the glazed white parrot used to hang; and Devonshire House, without its gilt leopards; and Claridge's, where she must remember Dick wanted her to leave a card on Mrs Jepson or she would be gone. Rich Americans can be very charming. There was St James's Palace; like a child's game with bricks; and now--she had passed Bond Street--she was by Hatchard's book shop. The stream was endless--endless endless. Lords, Ascot, Hurlingham--what was it? What a duck, she thought, looking at the frontispiece of some book of memoirs spread wide in the bow window, Sir Joshua perhaps or Romney; arch, bright, demure; the sort of girl--like her own Elizabeth--the only real sort of girl. And there was that absurd book, Soapy Sponge, which Jim used to quote by the yard; and Shakespeare's Sonnets. She knew them by heart. Phil and she had argued all day about the Dark Lady, and Dick had said straight out at dinner that night that he had never heard of her. Really, she had married him for that! He had never read Shakespeare! There must be some little cheap book she could buy for Milly--Cranford of course! Was there ever anything so enchanting as the cow in petticoats? If only people had that sort of humour, that sort of self-respect now, thought Clarissa, for she remembered the broad pages; the sentences ending; the characters--how one talked about them as if they were real. For all the great things one must go to the past, she thought. From the contagion of the world's slow stain . . . Fear no more the heat o' the sun. . . . And now can never mourn, can never mourn, she repeated, her eyes straying over the window; for it ran in her head; the test of great poetry; the moderns had never written anything one wanted to read about death, she thought; and turned.

Omnibuses joined motor cars; motor cars vans; vans taxicabs, taxicabs motor cars--here was an open motor car with a girl, alone. Up till four, her feet tingling, I know, thought Clarissa, for the girl looked washed out, half asleep, in the corner of the car after the dance. And another car came; and another. No! No! No! Clarissa smiled good-naturedly. The fat lady had taken every sort of trouble, but diamonds! orchids! at this hour of the morning! No! No! No! The excellent policeman would, when the time came, hold up his hand. Another motor car passed. How utterly unattractive! Why should a girl of that age paint black round her eyes? And a young man, with a girl, at this hour, when the country-- The admirable policeman raised his hand and Clarissa acknowledging his sway, taking her time, crossed, walked towards Bond Street; saw the narrow crooked street, the yellow banners; the thick notched telegraph wires stretched across the sky.

A hundred years ago her great-great-grandfather, Seymour Parry, who ran away with Conway's daughter, had walked down Bond Street. Down Bond Street the Parrys had walked for a hundred years, and might have met the Dalloways (Leighs on the mother's side) going up. Her father got his clothes from Hill's. There was a roll of cloth in the window, and here just one jar on a black table, incredibly expensive; like the thick pink salmon on the ice block at the fish monger's. The jewels were exquisite--pink and orange stars, paste, Spanish, she thought, and chains of old gold; starry buckles, little brooches which had been worn on sea-green satin by ladies with high head-dresses. But no good looking! One must economise. She must go on past the picture dealer's where one of the odd French pictures hung, as if people had thrown confetti--pink and blue--for a joke. If you had lived with pictures (and it's the same with books and music) thought Clarissa, passing the Aeolian Hall, you can't be taken in by a joke.

The river of Bond Street was clogged. There, like a Queen at a tournament, raised, regal, was Lady Bexborough. She sat in her carriage, upright, alone, looking through her glasses. The white glove was loose at her wrist. She was in black, quite shabby, yet, thought Clarissa, how extraordinarily it tells, breeding, self-respect, never saying a word too much or letting people gossip; an astonishing friend; no one can pick a hole in her after all these years, and now, there she is, thought Clarissa, passing the Countess who waited powdered, perfectly still, and Clarissa would have given anything to be like that, the mistress of Clarefield, talking politics, like a man. But she never goes anywhere, thought Clarissa, and it's quite useless to ask her, and the carriage went on and Lady Bexborough was borne past like a Queen at a tournament, though she had nothing to live for and the old man is failing and they say she is sick of it all, thought Clarissa and the tears actually rose to her eyes as she entered the shop.

'Good morning,' said Clarissa in her charming voice. 'Gloves,' she said with her exquisite friendliness and putting her bag on the counter began, very slowly, to undo the buttons. 'White gloves,' she said. 'Above the elbow,' and she looked straight into the shop-woman's face--but this was not the girl she remembered? She looked quite old. 'These really don't fit,' said Clarissa. The shop-girl looked at them. 'Madame wears bracelets?' Clarissa spread out her fingers. 'Perhaps it's my rings.' And the girl took the grey gloves with her to the end of the counter.

Yes, thought Clarissa, if it's the girl I remember, she's twenty years older. . .. There was only one other customer, sitting sideways at the counter, her elbow poised, her bare hand drooping, vacant; like a figure on a Japanese fan, thought Clarissa, too vacant perhaps, yet some men would adore her. The lady shook her head sadly. Again the gloves were too large. She turned round the glass. 'Above the wrist,' she reproached the grey-headed woman; who looked and agreed.

They waited; a clock ticked; Bond Street hummed, dulled, distant; the woman went away holding gloves. 'Above the wrist,' said the lady, mournfully, raising her voice. And she would have to order chairs, ices, flowers, and cloak-room tickets, thought Clarissa. The people she didn't want would come; the others wouldn't. She would stand by the door. They sold stockings--silk stockings. A lady is known by her gloves and her shoes, old Uncle William used to say. And through the hanging silk stockings quivering silver she looked at the lady, sloping shouldered, her hand drooping, her bag slipping, her eyes vacantly on the floor. It would be intolerable if dowdy women came to her party! Would one have liked Keats if he had worn red socks? Oh, at last--she drew into the counter and it flashed into her mind:

'Do you remember before the war you had gloves with pearl buttons?'

'French gloves, Madame?'

'Yes, they were French,' said Clarissa. The other lady rose very sadly and took her bag, and looked at the gloves on the counter. But they were all too large--always too large at the wrist.

'With pearl buttons,' said the shop-girl, who looked ever so much older. She split the lengths of tissue paper apart on the counter. With pearl buttons, thought Clarissa, perfectly simple--how French!

'Madame's hands are so slender,' said the shop-girl, drawing the glove firmly, smoothly, down over her rings. And Clarissa looked at her arm in the looking-glass. The glove hardly came to the elbow. Were there others half an inch longer? Still it seemed tiresome to bother her perhaps the one day in the month, thought Clarissa, when it's an agony to stand. 'Oh, don't bother,' she said. But the gloves were brought.

'Don't you get fearfully tired,' she said in her charming voice, 'standing? When d'you get your holiday?'

'In September, Madame, when we're not so busy.'

When we're in the country thought Clarissa. Or shooting. She has a fortnight at Brighton. In some stuffy lodging. The landlady takes the sugar. Nothing would be easier than to send her to Mrs Lumley's right in the country (and it was on the tip of her tongue). But then she remembered how on their honeymoon Dick had shown her the folly of giving impulsively. It was much more important, he said, to get trade with China. Of course he was right. And she could feel the girl wouldn't like to be given things. There she was in her place. So was Dick. Selling gloves was her job. She had her own sorrows quite separate, 'and now can never mourn, can never mourn,' the words ran in her head. 'From the contagion of the world's slow stain,' thought Clarissa holding her arm stiff, for there are moments when it seems utterly futile (the glove was drawn off leaving her arm flecked with powder)--simply one doesn't believe, thought Clarissa, any more in God.

The traffic suddenly roared; the silk stockings brightened. A customer came in.

'White gloves,' she said, with some ring in her voice that Clarissa remembered.

It used, thought Clarissa, to be so simple. Down down through the air came the caw of the rooks. When Sylvia died, hundreds of years ago, the yew hedges looked so lovely with the diamond webs in the mist before early church. But if Dick were to die tomorrow, as for believing in God--no, she would let the children choose, but for herself, like Lady Bexborough, who opened the bazaar, they say, with the telegram in her hand--Roden, her favourite, killed--she would go on. But why, if one doesn't believe? For the sake of others, she thought, taking the glove in her hand. The girl would be much more unhappy if she didn't believe.

'Thirty shillings,' said the shop-woman. 'No, pardon me Madame, thirty-five. The French gloves are more.'

For one doesn't live for oneself, thought Clarissa.

And then the other customer took a glove, tugged it, and it split.

'There!' she exclaimed .

'A fault of the skin,' said the grey-headed woman hurriedly. 'Sometimes a drop of acid in tanning. Try this pair, Madame.'

'But it's an awful swindle to ask two pound ten!'

Clarissa looked at the lady; the lady looked at Clarissa.

'Gloves have never been quite so reliable since the war,' said the shop-girl, apologising, to Clarissa.

But where had she seen the other lady?--elderly, with a frill under her chin; wearing a black ribbon for gold eyeglasses; sensual, clever, like a Sargent drawing. How one can tell from a voice when people are in the habit, thought Clarissa, of making other people--'It's a shade too tight,' she said--obey. The shop-woman went off again. Clarissa was left waiting. Fear no more she repeated, playing her finger on the counter. Fear no more the heat o' the sun. Fear no more she repeated. There were little brown spots on her arm. And the girl crawled like a snail. Thou thy worldly task hast done. Thousands of young men had died that things might go on. At last! Half an rich above the elbow; pearl buttons; five and a quarter. My dear slow coach, thought Clarissa, do you think I can sit here the whole morning? Now you'll take twenty-five minutes to bring me my change!

There was a violent explosion in the street outside. The shop-women cowered behind the counters. But Clarissa, sitting very upright, smiled at the other lady. 'Miss Anstruther!' she exclaimed.

[wonderlandinrope]

Not All Monsters Part 11

Masterlist

Sam X Reader

Summary: Adjusting to life with the Winchester while dealing with her own brand of PTSD Aris finds a unique way to keep her mind clear.

Warnings: Violence, talk of abuse, 

Please leave a comment anything to let me know what you guys think.

Just as quickly as the Impala had pulled into the garage Aris was out the door, tossing her bag to Sam who hadn’t even managed to stand all the way. The bag hit his stomach causing him to let out an ‘umph’ sound. Dean got out of the car watching with some amusement as his brother chased Aris over to the bike that had once been Dorothy’s. Holding his keys he let them talk knowing that Sam would be in soon.

“We just got back!” Sam Waved one hand around gesturing to the bunker. “If you want alone time come in and rest, I won’t bug bother you. You haven’t slept in two days.”

Pushing down on the clutch the bike roared to life. It had become her choice of mobility when the chance arose something about the open air, accompanied by the way the way the bike moved with her body took all the troubles away. It felt great being back, on the beautiful machine.

Looking up into those galaxies called eyes, Aris smirked. “I’ll be back late. Don’t wait up.” Placing a peck on his cheek. Before he could protest further she took off.

Running his hand through his hair Sam couldn’t help but enjoy the view of Aris smiling a lightness to her that hadn’t been there since the first week she’d moved in. There was no more talk of the scar or her past with Darn. While she wouldn’t say where she had been disappearing to the past few weeks, it was good for her. That was the fact he couldn’t argue, so he didn’t. Aris could take care of herself. Besides she was back to the happy, bubbly, smart-ass that she was meant to be.

Waiting until she was completely gone from view before following his brother into the bunker. Dean was already sitting at the table pie in front of him two open beers, offering one to Sam. Cas was reading a book written in an enchant language, scribbling translations into a notebook.

“Off again,” Dean commented between bites.

“Yeah,” Sam called back. Dropping the bags in front of the washing machine a faint buzzing sound came from Aris duffle bag. Searching around he pulled out the phone she had forgot. George scrolled across the screen. Not wanting to be intrusive he ignored the call but brought the phone with him to the war room placing it on the table.

“She tells you where she’s going this time?” Dean asked handing his brother a beer,

Sam shook his head. “No. But hey it makes her happy so I’m not going to push the subject.”

“You aren’t at all curious to see what she has been up too. If I were you my mind would be running wild with possibilities.” Swinging his fork around he pointed it at Sam. “She could be out drinking, causing trouble. Who knows maybe she’s got a lesbian lover.”

“You are so immature you know that.” Sam laughed despite the comments.

“Oh, yeah I forget your hairs long enough for you to be the women too.” That one crossed the line a bit but Dean got the response he was looking for. Sam reached over taking a scrap of paper from Cas crumpling it up he chucked it at his brother.

Being mildly annoyed with the two interrupting his work, Cas looked up narrowing his eyes, directing his gaze at both. “I understand this is part of your normal bother bonding. However, it would be appreciated if you left me out of it.”

Both chuckling Sam watched again as the phone he had placed down on the table began to buzz again. Once more George came across the screen, it hadn’t occurred to him that Aris was keeping in touch with her old friends. If he called again Sam promised he would call the extra cell Aris should have kept on her.

“How about you Cas. She tell you where she disappeared to?” Dean just couldn’t drop the subject. Not just out of common curiosity but also because he had grown to see Aris as a little sister. Knowing that she was vulnerable on her own made it difficult to let her go off like she did.

Sam shook his head disapproving. “Would you drop it.”

“It’s not my fault that I worry. Hell out of the two of us you should be worried.” He countered. “So Cas she tell you her big secret.”

Cas put down his pen, knowing full well that he wasn’t going to get any more work done. “If she did tell me or I found out by other means I wouldn’t tell you. It would be a betrayal of her confidence.”

“See, It’s not a big deal.” Sam said taking a sip of his beer. “Wait what do you mean found out through other means?”

Dean laughed, a mouth full of pie, as Sam’s uncaring did a 180. Turning into a combination of concern and intrigue.

Entering the house it was dark all except a light that crept through a door at the end of a hall. Women could be heard chanting together in unison, it was a prayer. As Aris came through the door rushing in she hadn’t noticed that her clothes were still stained from the hunt. Blood splattered her shirt, from when she had taken a machete to the vampire. The prayer stopping as she walked in, eyes of five women of various ages and backgrounds fell on her.

It had been three weeks since she had joined the group. Thankfully up until that point none of the hunts had interfered making each meeting on time.  She hadn’t told Sam or Dean about the meetings not wanting them to view her differently, simply say that she had to have time to herself. It seemed to be enough for them. However, Aris got the feeling that Cas knew based on his sudden need to defend her or give her a little extra support here and there. Either way it wasn’t something that they spoke, there was an understanding in his eyes that told her she didn’t have to worry about him spilling the beans to Sam.

“Is there something you’d like to share with the group Millie?” An older plump woman with short Grey hair, rosy cheeks, and shining blue eyes asked cautiously. Addressing Aris by the fake name she had given them.

“Sorry, I’m late… work.” Aris watched the eyes fell on her shirt. She looked down. “Oh! Ummm it's kool-aid.”

“This is a safe space you know you can talk if you want to.” A younger woman in her early 20s squeaked. She looked as her voice sounded, small, frail frame, her eyes taking up half her face.

“Really its ok.” Aris insisted, wrapping her leather jacket around her to cover the shirt.  

Shrugging off the concern, the conversation turning to one of the women who went by the name Denise. In the past week, things had been getting worse for her at home, her husband coming home and instantly going into a tirade nearly every night, throwing breaking things, screaming at her, kicking the dog. But the fear of leaving overshadowed the need to escape. His unpredictability made it nearly impossible to know how much worse things may become.

It wasn't the type of group to pressure someone into doing something that they weren’t comfortable with but give support reminding each other that they weren’t crazy or that their instincts were usually right. In aris case it was a way to remind her that what she had gone through was real to validate they way she felt and reminder that when she had moments that caused a flashback or unintended reaction, such as pulling away from Sam when he touched her scar, it was just another way she had learned to survive.  And that was ok.

“If you want I can help you move while he’s at work.” Aris offered to Denice, who reminded her almost too much of her old self.

She shook her head letting out an exhausted exhale, “No, I don’t think so. His brother is across the street. He would call. I can’t.”

It was a strange realization of how far she had come. To know that she was capable of leaving when others couldn’t. How now the idea of a brother watching over her, wasn’t an ominous force, but a caring person who had only her best interest at heart. She was lucky, it was no longer a real person that set out o hurt her only the one that lived in her memories.

Before more could be said a timer went off indicating that meeting was over. As always it seemed to end too soon, no one wanted to go back to the reality of living in fear, standing on eggshells.  Saying a quick goodbye Aris walked out to find the motorcycle that she had borrowed from the garage. Before she mounts the bike, A soft warm hand rested on on her shoulder.

It was Zoe the elderly women that had been running the group. Her face held a depth of understanding as she took a drag of her freshly lit cigarette, “If you need somewhere to stay. You are always welcome here.”

“I’m fine really. Better than I have been in ages, to be honest.” Aris held on to the handle of the bike ready to get back home. The words were truer than she had ever considered.

Zoe looked up at her through a pair of glasses raising the eyebrows not completely believing her words. “I’m sure.” She tugged at Aris shirt plucking it then releasing it where the blood spatter was. “This ain’t my first rodeo kid.”

“Really, I’m fine. You should be talking to Denice, not me.” Aris looked around dismissively. “That girl was where I was a year ago. She needs to get out.”

Zoe nodded. “Can’t say I don’t agree. Alright, well have good night Millie.”

“You too Zoe.” Aris jumped on the bike, relaxing into the seat as she took off into the night.

Halfway back to the bunker, the bike begins to slow the light on it goes out leaving the darkness as her only company. Pulling off to the side Aris puts down the kickstand sitting back on her bike,  she let the cool wind play with her hair lifting it, pulling it in different directions. The dim moonlight illuminated the barron street. It wouldn’t be long now til someone came along. She waited patiently for the comforting sound or the roar of an engine.  

Climbing down she stood at the edge of the road looking as pathetic as she could muster. The first two cars that past didn’t even slow down, the third stopped but Aris waved the family on saying that there was someone on the way. Offering to wait whith her,  Aris shook her head. Just up the road, she saw the big rig that she had been waiting for.

“Here they come now.” She let the anticipation creep into every cell of her body. Let the excitement fill her every pour. As the family drove off it wouldn’t be a matter of if the truck would stop but when.

She had been after him for a week now, each time missing just by a few minutes. Would he come back this time? Or would he stop the first time he passed her by. It didn’t take long to get the answer, the screeching of brakes was followed by the click of a door opening up. Up in the cabin was a greasy man with an unkempt beard and potbelly. He was larger than Aris had originally thought him to be but jumped in nonetheless.

“Lost Darlin?” His voice was grease as he was. His eyes moving up and down her body, pausing a moment at her low cut top. The light was too low to reveal the blood on her shirt. “I can give you a ride.” There was a double meaning to his words.

“Thanks, my bike died. Been stranded for hours, so glad you stopped.” The charm in her voice purposely egging him on she shut the door but didn’t put on the seatbelt.

Every few minutes his eyes flickered back to her staring down her chest then falling to thighs. Aris shifted in the seat trying to force away from the adrenaline but felt it building inside her. She waited to know soon enough she would get what she was looking for. The truck turned off a dead end road with no street lights.

Playing dumb Aris looked around. “Why are we stopping?”

“I heard something bump.” He opened the door. “Give me a hand would you?”

“Alright.” Climbing down the hair on the back of her neck began to stand, a knot in her stomach. She pushed it aside knowing fully that it was all too accurate. “What can I help you with?”

As she walked around the front she was literally hit with the reality of the situation. A fat fist to the gut knocked the wind out of her, reaching for the front of the truck to balance herself. The hot hood nearly burning her hand. Sucking in a sharp breath Aris regained herself just in time to dodge another blow. Ducking them sweeping her leg the mountain of a man crashed to the ground letting out a groan in pain. Pulling the dagger from her boot she moved on him ready to carve into his chest.

But the large man was faster than he would appear, scrambling to his feet he stood a hint of amusement and delight danced in his eyes. “It’s been awhile since I got to play. So let's play little lady.”

Moving more carefully this time Aris readied herself for a good fight. He had nearly seven inches on her, at least 120 lbs. But it wasn’t as if she hadn’t taken on bigger pray before. He swung at her then again, missing each time. The knife grazed his side cutting threw his shirt blood fell from his side. He screamed taking a moment to look at his wounds, the amusement had gone, leaving rage in its wake.

“Ya fuckin’ bitch! I was gonna leave you lookin pretty but hell I don’t mind turning you over instead.” This time when he charged he faked a swing kicking at her leg instead.

Stepping back she missed judged the loose gravel tripping backward, falling on her back. Hitting the ground she held tight to the knife but a boot came down on her hand, the pressure of it making her loosen her grip the knife went flying out of reach. The boot then moved to her throat, crushing her airway instinctively she clawed at the man’s leg. He only laughed reaching down pulling her up by her hair.

“Ain’t you somethin’ else.” The grotesque smell of cheap cigars and rotten teeth permeated the air around them.

“You don’t know the half of it.” Aris spat in his face. He closed his eyes for a moment just long enough for her to get the upper hand. Using the hand he held her by as leverage she pulled her leg back swinging as hard as she could, her foot making contact with his groan he fell to the ground gasping for air. “Steel toes feel good doesn’t it.”

She walked over picking up the knife that had been knocked down before. “See from what I understand you’ve done some bad shit. Hunting down girls, selling them to the highest bidder. Keeping a few for yourself, it were up to me we would do this nice and slow. I would make sure you felt every hit, every scratch, every violation you put those girls threw.”

“Fuckin’ whore.” it was the only word he could muster through the pain.

“I don’t have time for that, however. People waiting for me back home and all that. But don’t you have someone waiting for you too.” Aris raised the blade plunging it thru the man's heart.

The light faded from his eyes, leaving nothing but a hollow shell. She looked at the work she had made of him, enjoying every passing moment only returning to her sense as thunder cracked across the sky. A dampness in the air that clung to her skin ,a weight lifted off her chest. Digging through his pockets she found a wallet and a set of keys taking the cash she tossed the wallet on the body. Walking around the back the doors swung open hitting the side. Three timmid women cowered in the back. Aris didn’t bother to talk to them just left the doors swinging as she made the hike back to the bike.

It was the fight, the adrenaline that coursed through her veins, an addiction that she needed to feed. Better than any drug out there. While hunting with Sam and Dean helped fill the whole a little it wasn’t the same feeling as being completely alone with only herself to rely on. It was another secret that she kept from them one that Sam would never approve of. He worried about her too much as is. One day maybe she wouldn’t need the fear to feel normal, or the excitement it brought. But for now, it was what kept her sane.