#and id always have trouble not being cold with people because i cant force myself to feel bad for them

[maaaxx]

11 & 19 for the ask game ❤

ask game :)

11 has already been answered here

-

19. "Tell me a story about your writing journey. When did you start? Why did you start? Were there bumps along the way? Where are you now and where are you going?":

Short answer:

From the time I could vaguely write I was writing "books" (or as much of a book a child that young can make)

I entered my first writing contest when I was 9 or 10 and I got 5th place in my school

A year later I started my first major wip that got me invested into writing as a hobby

A year after that I started another wip that most of my current wips are branches off of and also started posting bits and pieces on wattpad

When I was 14 I had my writing skills tested for early college admission and scored in the top 5 percent in my state (still very proud of this)

Entered and won a couple writing competitions besides that stopped writnig

Then a couple years later I started writing fanfiction

Currently pondering working towards actually publishing some books one day.

Long answer under the cut :)

I remember making "books" since I could write. Like I would staple paper together and I remember one specifically that had something to do with sea horses but i dont remember the plot.

My mom has boxes filled of these "books" with all of the words and even my name misspelled and poorly illustrated characters and stuff.

When I was in like 4th grade (9-10 years old) my teacher had an assignment to where we made up a story and applied whatever type of literary technique we were learning about that week to it. So like if we were learning about similes the assignment would be come up with 5 sentences that include similes that pertain to your story and include one or something like that. At the end of the year we were supposed to have 4-5 pages of this story. I think I finished with like 10-12 or something like that. She made me summarize it 💀

If I remember right I think that my story was about this set of twins where one was born with some type of super power that only the other twin knew about and the superpowered twin got kidnapped by some scientists that wanted to expirement on her and my story followed the other twin and this like 12 year old girl dedicating her teenagehood to finding the lost twin. I think I made it so the dad actually ended up hiring the kidnapper and the dad and kidnapper both got arrested. I want to find this again because I dont remember a lot about it.

That same year my teacher ended up having me enter a poetry contest and I think it was a tri-county thing. I didn;t like poetry (I still hate writing it, love reading it though) so I half assed it and I think I got within the top 5 (??) of my school. (just elementary school) so that was neat.

(This specific teacher was one of those really strict teachers that no one else liked but my little undiagnosed autistic self LOVED her because i always knew what to expect yk?? but is also the one who really got me into reading and writing and stuff and I dont think I'll ever not me extremely grateful for her)

The next year I started forming this one wip. Its definetly my longest and most elaborate and sentimental one because it opened so many different doors for me.

There was no plot but it pretty much followed this group of like 20 teenagers that had very different lives and were all really traumatized and during the "story" they're all like 15-18 trying to figure out how to move on from their childhoods and maintain healthy relationships with eachother and their individual support systems.

Some of them are neurodivergent and some of their stories are centered around that.

One of the characters name is Jack. Jack is bipolar and so is his mom and so because of his moms mental illnesses and stuff he was in and out of fostercare from like 5-13. Hes probably the 'main' character in this.

Hes also went deaf from a tmi from when he was like 9.

Then theres Allison who is autistic and she is your stereotypical 'gifted kid burnout' 'graduated at like 15' type of autistic. but this leads to a lot of issues with her and her main thing is kind of working through that.

Travis comes from a VERY religious (almost cultish) family and is develops schizophrenia at like 16 I think and he's also pansexual and his parents go through his phone and find some texts from his partner and kick him out so hes homeless and has to deal with that.

But like I said theres like 17 more of these characters and its very elaborate. It goes into the parents childhoods and deals with generational trauma and how mental illness can affect parenting.

The 'story' mostly follows Jack and Allison (theyre love interests) and everything is kind of through their pov and their relationships with the other characters and stuff.

But like 11 year old me started writing this out in composition books and between then and when I turned 15 ish and got a computer, I filled I think close to 30 composition books with this story.

But I started researching mental disorders and stuff for this story so I could make their stuff as realistic as possible and that kickstarted my spin on psychology, which led to me wanting to be a social worker which is my major. It also meant that I was really ahead in also my psyche classes. Im *technically* going into my 5th year of college and I started taking psyche classes my second year and I didnt start getting into stuff that I didn't know until the year that just ended so 11 year old me really knew what she was doing.

I remember making my mom buy me textbooks and those articles that are behind a paywall for birthdays and Christmas's

I'm getting off track

A year or two after that I started developing this other wip with kids with superpowers and there was a whole lot of worldbuilding and stuff to this one and its what got me into fantasy which is the main genre I write outside of fanfic. (my hecles wip is loosely based on this one)

(part of this one is on wattpad somewhere)

When I was 14 I took a test that determined whether or not I would be able to start college early and part of this test was writing skills. There was a fiction and a nonfiction portion and then they combined those two scores and averaged them out and my score was in the 95th percentile (top 5 percent) of everyone who takes the test (so on average like 17-19 year olds usually and then some outliers) so I see that as one of my biggest writing achievments.

(i scored shit on the math and reading comprehension portions though)

I stopped writing and stuff for like two years besides entering writing contests.

I've entered like 5 and won 2. One was tri-county and I got first place and the other one was a little bigger but it wasnt a state contest, I think it might have been regional but I got third place. I consider those both big accomplishments too.

And then when I was 17 I started writing fanfiction.

I think fanfiction is what actually got it in my head that maybe I could write an actual book one day. Like before I just saw it as like a hobby because I was scared of the commitment of writing a whole book but ive written almost 200,000 words of one of my fanfics and it wasn't that overwhelming and I think that usually a decent sized novel so why not give it a try?

Idk if that answered the question or if I got TOO off track but oh well :)

[jessefandomunited]

Visiting hours  (part 1)

Spencer Reid X Reader

You can’t believe Spencer got thrown in prison and when your forced to take sick leave you have to go to see him.

I’ve been numb ever since Reid was put in that damn prison, and it showed in my work. For a while Penelope put me on the night shift on paperwork duty because I was no help, but even that wasn’t working. Emily cleared her throat behind me , “ hey, my office , please.” I slowly got up and cracked my fingers, I glanced at the phone and my heart stopped, I had started my shift at 3pm, it was about 5am now. I swallowed and slowly made my way into Emilys office. “ Please sit,” She said looking at me with intense pity. “Listen I ...I didn’t realize what time it was,” I began to explain but she held a hand up to silence me, “ I know , I know that this has been hard on you, you two were very close, and because of how you’ve been lately, I'm putting you on medical leave.” I stood up, “ what!? I’ve been doing my job, what more do you want!? I'm not sick!” “ Mentally you are,” Emily said firmly , then she softened, “ Listen, take the time off, visit him a few times, heal.” “ How...if i’m not working, if i’m not doing anything it won’t help him at all,” I stuttered holding back tears. “ Please, just a couple weeks at least,” She urged. I bit my lip and nodded. I got up and left the office.

As I was driving home I realized that I couldn’t go home. I looked down at what I was wearing a old fashion peter pan collared blouse with a coffee stain and my longer pleated skirt. Not the thing one usually wears to visit a prisoner but  it would have to do, I couldn’t put off seeing him anymore.

The visitations didn’t start till 10 so when I got there at about 9 they made me wait . The guards inspected me and made snide comments. I ended up putting on my glasses to hide how dark the circles under my eyes have gotten. I couldn’t sleep, any time I closed my eyes I just could imagine what they were doing to him and id end up looking through the web for anything to do with Scratch. Then Penelope moved me to the night shift, so I didn’t sleep at night or during the day. “ Come on,” A guard yelled breaking me out of my trance. I hugged my bag close to me and took a note out before handing it over. They led us into a surprisingly open room that had rows of desks with a small piece of plexiglass in between. I awkwardly sat swinging my legs till the door opened. My head popped up and I watched the inmates walk in. A few of the guys eyed me up and down and there were a few wolf whistles but I didn’t care once I locked eyes with Spencer. A weary smile tugged at his lips and I stood up trying not to cry as he walked over. I went for a hug but a guard yelled, “ NO TOUCHING!” there were a few snickers from other inmates but I ignored them. “ I’m not going to ask how you are, but honestly I don’t know what to even say that will make you feel better I know this sucks I should be out doing something anything ,” I rambled rubbing at my eyes. He looked bad, unshaven unruly hair and he didn’t look like he was sleeping well. “ What are you doing here,” He asked, “ i’m, glad to see you but they usually send people on Monday right?” I rubbed my neck nervously and locked eyes with him before saying, “ Emily...has put me on medical leave. I’ve been working the night shift , on paperwork, and I tend to stay there a bit longer than I'm supposed to and ...” I stopped because he looked distressed, “You’re not sleeping...are you?” “ Not in the strictest seance of the word,” I almost whispered. “ I’m so glad to see you, but i’m...scared for you, it’s not safe and the men here,” He said trying to grab the right words. “ Spencer I can’t just sit at home and do nothing,  I wont ‘heal’ at home, and they wont let me back at work so I want to be here with you , as often as I can , I want to make sure you’re alright. And it drives me mad that I cant do anything because I ,” My words trailed off , I was going to say I loved him , here of all places. I bit my lip, my hands were shaking with rage and I felt hot tears in my eyes, “ It’s not fair.” “ No,” He said simply and I wiped my eyes feeling stupid, “ Sorry, this isn’t what you need to see from the outside world. I uh… wrote you a note, They wont let me give it to you but I know you’re a fast reader.” I held it up. It was me just rambling about things Penelope had said and how we have a big party planned when this is all over and how much we are all working to get him out of here. He nodded his eyes red , “ thankyou, that was really sweet.” “ Look at that little mama with Mr. Reid,” Someone jeered. I saw Spencer stiffen, “ you really shouldn’t be here, really it isn’t safe.” “ Spence I don’t give a fuck,” I whispered so the guard wouldn’t snap at me, “ you’re in here and I will be here as long as it takes to remind you that we haven't given up on you and you shouldn’t either! As for all the guys in here I couldn’t care less what they say, they’re mostly talk.” I winced a bit then added, “ well maybe not for you, but I really doubt they can hurt me out there.” He looked around nervously and swallowed, “ please just be careful.” “ I will I promise,” I said with the first real smile I could muster, “ now what is the one thing you’d want most in the world once you get out, it can be anything.” He seemed to relax a bit with my casual tone, like he’d just be getting off a shift at work, “ maybe a bath, and a few good books.” I smiled brightly and winked , “ that wont be a problem at all.” He tried to hide his blush and I quickly changed the subject to a book he had recommended to me a while ago, and it felt like we were talking back at the office till , “ VISITING HOURS ARE OVER!” We both blinked a couple times like we were pulling ourselves back into reality. “ Bye...Spence,” I said sadly , “ I’ll be here tomorrow.” He visibly became a bit more distant and cold and just slightly nodded. “ Miss i’m going to need you to leave now,” One of the guards insisted . “ Yes… sorry,” I said a little absent minded. I spun around and left without looking back, I couldn’t look back

….

I was sitting outside by myself when they approached me , “ Hey Reid, cute little mama you got there hu?” I really did not want to talk to them in general but especially not about her. I got up and started to walk away but two of the guys grabbed me roughly and turned me to face the other. “ You didn’t answer now thats just rude,” He said in a sickly sweet voice, “ Now I feel like my boys here need to teach you a lesson on respect.” I forced my face to stay stoic, this was just any other usub looking for a weakness to strike at. “ Now,” He continued, “ that lovely lady that came in, she got a name.” “None of your business,” I replied instantly causing one of the guys to punch me in the stomach. I gasped and tried to wriggle out but they held fast. “ Now that’s strike two,” He said shaking his head, “ You know i’ve got some contacts on the outside, one that could turn her world upside down, in fact maybe the next time I see her, i’ll just jump her myself, what are they going to do , put me in solitary?” “ You won’t lay a finger on her,” I snapped . He laughed, “ okay okay, I won’t, but you have to tell her, to her face, that you don’t want to see her again, and if you tell her why, i’ll still jump her, got it?” “ I don’t think you can do that,” I hissed through gritted teeth. The guy punched me again then threw me to the ground, “ I guess you’ll have to find out.” I didn’t want to take that chance but I hated the thought of her not coming, that was the first time in a while I remember smiling or felt like a real person. I shook my head, I was being selfish, this was her life at stake. I took a deep breath and started thinking of a plan.

…

I was able to sleep a little that night, I think physically seeing that Spencer was still Spencer was a big relief even if he did seem more tense. I read a bit of another book he recommended to me the next morning so that i’d have something new to talk about, then it was back in the car driving to the Prison. I had almost forgotten to change before I left, I pretty much collapsed when I got back yesterday and just starred at the ceiling. Today I chose a more neutral outfit , high waisted brown corduroy shorts and an oversize green turtleneck sweater tucked into them. It was a bit more casual that I usually dress in fact I don’t think I have ever dressed this casual with Spencer before, even when we went out to the movies or the planetarium or some other random thing none of the others wanted to go to, I always dressed up for him. I wanted him to feel important but I realized that it didn’t matter what I wore more that I was there, so I decided to test my theory today. I tapped nervously on my backpack as I waited for them to call me in. My palms were sweaty and I felt a lump in my throat, I thought i’d be excited but being surrounded by dangerous men made me anxious. They called us in and I went. I sat at the same table waiting anxiously. I felt like I was going to cry again but I shook that thought out of my head. The door opened and I noticed almost every inmate looked at me as they went to their seats. I felt suddenly very exposed. I heard someone whisper very softly, “ she came baaackkk.” I felt a bit faint, I was definitely in some sort of danger. “ Hey,” I jumped at the sound of Spencer's gentle voice but then relaxed, “ Sorry...I...” I looked around and leaned in, “ i’m….in trouble aren't I ?” Spencer placed his hand firmly on the glass  making me jump again. I saw the words “, you’re in danger, sorry.” “ Spence I,” I started but he snapped loud enough for the others to head, “ listen now and listen good, I do not want to see your face here ever again, is that understood.” The guards walked over to us. “ Understood,” he said darkly. I felt my heart crack a bit and I nodded quickly. I stood up and I heard one inmate say, “ bye bye pretty girl.” I whipped around and kicked the table he was act and fixed him with a cold glare, and then I was drug out of the room. It wasn’t necessary but I had just gotten my best friend taken away from me again and there was literally nothing I could do about it.

[oswald-privileges]

Loudmouth

(I wrote some statement fic. It’s been a heck of a while since I wrote anything for fandom.)

Statement of Ulla Ness, regarding, um... a peculiar transformation. Original statement given March 14th, 1999. Audio recording by Christopher Peake, in an… unprofessional capacity. Statement begins.

I still don’t see why I had to come to you. I know you have an email address, so wouldn’t it have been easier to just scan the form and send it to me? Hell, I would have taken a physical copy sent to me in the post. It would have been slower, but it would have meant I could have stayed at home. But no. I asked, and you just gave me a lot of waffle about how you have ‘strict acquisition policies’, alongside directions that had been copied from google maps. Which I know, because I checked.

It’s not that I’m lazy, you understand, far from it. I used to have what I regarded as quite the active social life. But recently that’s become impossible for me to maintain, for a number of reasons. Which are also the reasons that I’ve come to talk to you.

I used to be quite a religious person. Still am, I suppose. I’m not entirely sure. I was a member of the congregation of Saint Mary’s, a small anglican church in a small, anglican village up in Lincolnshire. Not everybody there was particularly devout, but it wasn’t one of those places where it especially mattered. It was more about the sense of community we had. Catching up with each other after communion on Thursdays, singing in the choir, arranging cake sales or coffee mornings as fundraisers for whatever bit of the building had fallen off now. I’ve been attending since I was little, and more or less grew up with the congregation.

I miss it quite badly, if I’m being honest. I’ve always been the sort to need other people, but I didn’t realise quite how much losing them would affect me. You don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone and all that, I suppose.

It started with another fundraiser, a jumble sale this time. I had volunteered to help manage the event, so I was in charge of sorting through the items that people had brought in for us to sell. Like I said, not everyone there was strictly devout, and didn’t always take care with what they decided to donate. Some people seemed to use it as more of an excuse to toss legitimate junk in our direction and call it a good deed.

This was definitely the case with Mister Ashley. He attended purely because his mother was too old to walk by herself, and I rather think that she insisted that he stay with her throughout the service. It was definitely at her behest that he took part in any communal activities. She would always announce that he would be happy to run stalls or make tea or some other menial duty, while he sat by her side, stony-faced, and saying nothing at all.

The only time I remember him giving any sort of reaction was when when his mother announced that her Jamie would be happy to donate some of his shop’s excess stock for the jumble sale. I remember, he turned to her with the strangest look on his face. At the time, I thought it was one of badly suppressed outrage. I assumed that she had simply gone a bit too far in volunteering his services; Mister Ashley was a second hand book seller, and owned the Jabberwock Bookshop just off from Memorial Square. It can’t have been all that easy to turn a profit. Thinking back on it now, though, and I wonder if his expression was something sharper than just anger. If it could have been alarmed, almost panicked. But I believe that is likely be nothing more than hindsight colouring my memories. If he had had some way of knowing, had been frightened of something like that which came to pass, then… well. I cannot honestly say I ever truly liked James Ashley, but neither can I believe that he would be as cruel or as cowardly as to not have said or done anything.

As it was, he brought the books to the side room the next day, where I was going through the donations and sorting the sellable items from those things too broken, torn, stained, or just plain unusable. I had just set aside yet another jigsaw- this one with almost two thirds of the pieces obviously missing- when he knocked on the outer door. In spite of the heavy rain, he wasn’t wearing a coat, hat, or boots. He didn’t say a word to me when I opened it, just shouldered his way in, dropped a heavy cardboard box on the floor by the unsorted donations, and walked out again. He did this three more times, leaving the door swinging behind him, letting in strong gusts of wind and rain, and reinscribing a damp trail of rainwater on the carpeted floor. Then he was gone as abruptly as he had arrived.

Ashley had taken better care to protect the books from the rain than himself. The cardboard was soaked through, but the books inside had been wrapped in several layers of plastic sheeting. They were stacked upright, and had been fitted in without any attempt to force too many into a single space. They were all, without exception, worn, faded, and almost completely without interest. Paperback romances long since out of print, old text books, children’s encyclopedias. It was rather a relief, if I’m honest. I could just reach into the boxes, grab a book, give it a flick through, and place it on the “for sale” pile.

I was about halfway through the last box when my fingers brushed something that did not feel at all like paper. It was dense and yielding, and ever so slightly damp. I recoiled, shock and disgust crawling their prickling way up my arm. My fingers looked clean, but the ghost feeling of something sticky still clung to them.

My first thought that it was some nasty practical joke. That Ashley, stung by his mother’s willingness to give away his stock, had put something disgusting in there by way of relieving his feelings. But that would have been ridiculous- he was a grown man, for goodness sakes, not a slighted child. It was more likely that the plastic keeping the books wrapped up had slipped, and allowed the rain to seep in through the sides. That was the more likely explanation.

It seemed as though I was right when I looked into the box properly, and saw nothing there but more books. But when I reached in again, all I felt was rough, dry paper. Confused, I went through the contents more slowly, looking where I placed my hand and at the books I chose.

I didn’t feel it again until the fifth book I picked up, that same almost-damp feeling. It was broad and set in landscape, almost like a sketchbook. It was dense with pages all jammed together- dense and heavy. It flopped bonelessly in my hand, and I needed to support it from underneath before I could read the title.

Hymnal, it read. The gold letters gleamed wetly on the slick cover.

It appeared to be full of sheet music. No titles or lyrics, just scratched staves and notes that meandered up and down the lines as though drunk. The smell that rose from the pages as I turned them was odd and unpleasant. I wondered if the leather binding them hadn’t been properly cured. Those areas of page that weren’t covered in music were full of sketches, but so dense and overlapping that I couldn’t tell what they were supposed to be. And, I realised with an unpleasant start, the cover beneath my hands was warm, as though I was touching a live thing.

Suddenly, I’d had enough. I was sitting here, working myself up over an old, graffitied book for no good reason. I shut the thing hurriedly, and it snapped closed with a heavy slithering of pages. I caught the soft part of my forefinger on one of them, and a tiny bead of scarlet began to well from the wound. The stinging was welcome- it gave me something to focus on, mundane annoyance drowning out the confusion that had been threatening to become fear.

I dropped the book onto the discard pile. I couldn’t sell something like that, that much was obvious. Then I picked it up again, and dashed through the rain to the rubbish bins outside. I tossed it in, and followed it up with as much of the discard pile as I could bag up in one go, burying the thing underneath threadbare scarves, broken plastic dolls, and half used art supplies.

I felt a little better when it was done, but not much. Whatever those hymns were praising, I don’t think it was Our Lord.

The cut on my finger didn’t heal like it should. It stopped bleeding without any trouble, but the edges became raised, reddened and sensitive to the touch. I dabbed at it with antiseptic and did my best to put it out of my mind. I succeeded at first. I had plenty to keep me busy, both at church and at my workplace, and for a day or two, I completely forgot about it.

At least until it opened up again.

I don’t remember what caused it, or if anything caused it at all. Just that I was reaching for something, and there was the feeling of… unpeeling, almost, the cold feeling of fresh air on wet skin. I checked to see if the cut was bleeding again.

Instead of a cut, I found myself looking at a tiny, fully formed mouth.

The raised, reddened edges I had thought were a sign of infection had become minute lips. They were slightly parted, and behind them I could see the tiniest slivers of white. And behind that, a dark space where something wet shifted.

I didn’t look at it for long. Already I was reaching for the first aid kit, hastily covering the cut- the mouth- with a plaster. I was already convincing myself that what I’d just seen was some kind of infection I was too squeamish to look at, and that since I couldn’t feel any pain, I should probably go to the doctors, in case it was nerve damage or something. The impression of having seen a mouth rather than a cut was an unpleasant trick my mind had played on me, and one I didn’t feel like closely examining. I told myself I had imagined it.

I hadn’t, though. I could taste the soft fabric patch on the plaster.

I really did mean to go to the doctors. Mouth or no mouth, whatever was happening to the cut on my finger worried me. I even got as far as making an appointment. But the next day I went into work, and there was an accident involving a slippery patch of floor and a very, very sharp knife that I was carrying at the time. I ended up with a nasty slice parallel with the underside of my ribcage.

This time, it was obvious how quickly it stopped bleeding, how it was practically dry before I even changed the gauze once. How the scabs began to flake before I even touched them, leaving nothing but those raised, reddening edges around the cut itself.

I didn’t go to that doctor’s appointment. I don’t think it would have helped me if I had.

It took longer for the second cut to open, but when it did, I could stand in front of the mirror to properly see the flat, white, human teeth, and the tongue that moved behind them.

It didn’t feel alien. That’s what surprised me most. I was scared, of course I was scared, I was growing new bits, opening up in places that I shouldn’t- but that was just it. It was my body doing this, not some… weird infection or surgery. Whatever was happening, it felt like an extension of myself.

I could move them, I found. Not as consciously as I could my original mouth, the one in its proper position on my face, but sort of like moving a limb after it’s fallen asleep. It took concentration, like I was working through partial numbness. Like I needed to focus to wake them up.

I didn’t spend very long doing that, though. I would realise with a start that what I was doing wasn’t normal, it wasn’t sane. I would pull my shirt back down or re-plaster my finger with a feeling almost like shame. I wasn’t as scared as I should have been, and that in itself was somehow a lot more frightening.

I’m not clumsy. I can’t be, considering the sharp tools I have to handle at work. But I started to accumulate injuries. Innocuous things at first. Paper cuts from the prayer books during mass, scrapes from the edges of the metal benches at work. And then other things. Pushing down a door-handle would lay my palm open as though I’d been struck with a metal ruler. The pressure of my jacket across my shoulders would tear the skin. I woke in bed one morning to discover that the folded sheets around me had left cuts going from my hip to my collar bone.

Every single one of them bled, reddened, and opened.

The mouths started to become restless as their number grew. They tried to chew on the clothes I wore to cover them, and if I didn’t focus, they would let out soft, but audible moans or sighs. I tried to quiet them. I even tried feeding them, though I only did that once. It seemed to help, but the mangled sensation of swallowing with a throat that seemed to be lodged under my right kidney was so disorienting I couldn’t bring myself to do it again.

I hadn’t stopped going out altogether. I left the house less, certainly, but as uncertain and uncomfortable as my changing existence was, I didn’t want to give up the company of other people altogether. I get lonely easily.

So, one Friday, when when there was so little skin left under my clothes and gloves that no new mouths could easily form, I patched my face and neck with gauze, and went to take my place in the choir again.

Nobody really seemed to notice anything different about me. I had all the right stories lined up for when I was asked about what had happened to my face, but almost nobody did. A few condolences, a few jokes, and that was it. People apparently preferred to gossip about the death of Mrs Ashley, and how her James had stopped coming to church now, and how they had known his heart wasn’t in it all along.

It felt awful. There I was, standing in the middle of them, skin to skin almost, with the most fragile disguise imaginable hiding a secret that would ruin their perception of the world for good- and they were too wrapped up in their own smug assurance of their own piety to notice. I offered up a brief prayer for patience, but like all my prayers lately, I don’t think I was offering it to the God whose praises we’d all gathered to sing.

And when we raised our voices together for All Things Bright And Beautiful, and I opened my mouth to join in, and then opened my mouth again, and opened my mouth again, and opened my mouth again- I wasn’t singing praises to that God either.

I didn’t realise that the others had stopped at first. It wasn’t until I glanced to one side, and saw Julie Wright staring at me with her powerless mouth open and unmoving, that I realised I was singing in harmony with myself.

I broke off, suddenly embarrassed and frightened by the way that they were all looking at me. There was something like awe in their expressions, but there was something else there too. Something that shuddered and recoiled. I desperately tried to remember the words I’d been singing, if I had gotten them right. I had the horrible sense that I might have subverted something holy.

Adam Bromley was the one to break the silence.

“Well now. You never told us you were getting private training!”

And just like that, the spell was broken. The unexpressed disgust sank back beneath their faces, and the others took up the idea almost with relief. A beautiful voice, they told me, what trick did they teach me to make it resonate like that? I forced a smile and said something non-committal and when we took up the tune again, I was careful to sing only the words that were on the page in front of me.

My own relief was short-lived. When I got home, I found the skin I had left was being pulled apart by the restless movements of the mouths. Blood stained the underside of my shirt, and I couldn’t stop the moans and hissings any more than I could have controlled a spasm or a muscular tic.

I didn’t sleep that night, and called in sick to work the next day. I lay on the bed, and stared up at the ceiling, trying very hard not to move.

It wasn’t any use. My skin had become so fragile that even getting up and walking to the kitchen caused it to split, the blood barely having time to dry before the wound began to twitch and whisper. All my fascination was gone now, as were all my attempts to ignore what was happening. All I did was lie on the bed, and let myself slowly drown in my own body. I lived like that for a week.

When next Friday evening came, my entire body burst into song.

I writhed and moaned and hummed without will, without choice, throwing out snatches of hymn before discarding them as not what I wanted, not right. And for the first time, the indistinct murmurs and whispers grew louder, began to form words. Prayers that had been chewed out of shape, pleas for more, more mouths, more brothers and sisters, to come out of hiding and join the great curdling of flesh.

This went on for the entire night.

That was when I decided that I needed to do something. I’d let… whatever this was go on for too long, long beyond the point of saving myself. But I wanted to tell someone first. So I dragged myself to my computer, and searched as best I could. It’s difficult to type with only a confusion of tongues.

And that’s where you came in. You aren’t special. You were just the closest place that didn’t either ignore my emails, or reply with not so gentle suggestions that I see a psychologist.

I don’t think I’ll be leaving my home again, once I get back. I doubt I’ll even bother uncovering, although there’s no-one there to see me. For all that I wanted to let someone know, I don’t want to be seen.

The cupboard below the stairs locks from the inside. I can push the key out from underneath the crack in the door.

Whatever is happening to me, I won’t allow it come to fruition.

Post-statement follow-up: There wasn’t anyone under the stairs when I went to check. The lock on cupboard door was broken, and so was the one on the back door. Either Ms Ness was, um… successful in her attempts to… halt her transformation, and a housebreaker with some seriously questionable motives took what was- what was left of her. Or she wasn’t. And her resolve either waned or the situation was, um. Taken out of her hands. Or. Whatever she had instead of hands.

I wasn’t… going to record this. It’s not my job, strictly speaking, but I was reading some of the old statements, and this one just… sort of caught my eye. And I’ve seen the Archivist and some of the others do recordings, and it just looked so… I wanted to try it out. I’ll be taking the tape with me, though. None of the others need to know about this.

[lovemesomesurveys]

On MySpace, what was in the last bulletin you posted? Most likely it was a survey. Man, I wish I could still access those. 15/16 year old me survey answers... yikes.

When and where was the last time you took a picture of yourself? In room a few weeks ago.

Have you ever been scolded by a mall cop? Not scolded, but one told me to take my hoodie off once. ha. He was cool about it.

How often do you catch yourself daydreaming? I zone out a lot.

What’s your favorite thing to think about as you’re falling asleep? I don’t have much control over where my brain goes. It likes to go some weird, random, and sometimes dark places.

Is there anything that you want to do, but you won’t do because you’re too afraid? A lot of things.

Who was the last person to yell at you? Not sure. I don’t get yelled at, but like my parents and I have our disagreements and get frustrated with each other sometimes.

Who gets up the earliest in your household and what about the latest? My dad gets up the earliest everyday even on the weekends when he’s off work. The latest is me.

Have you ever had a pet walk across your keyboard while you were typing? No. My dogs have always been too big to do that.

Which political issues are you most passionate about? I don’t want to get into politics.

You’re going to your favorite foreign country, so what landmarks do you go see? I’d love to check out many places in Sweden.

What’s the longest amount of time that you’ve spent away from your home? A week.

Did the last movie you watched have any emotional affect on you? I just saw Glass on Saturday, which was pretty crazy. In a good way.

What motivates you to go to school? I’m done with school, thank goodness.

How much caffeine have you consumed in one day? I used to always have coffee first thing and then a can of soda later on. Sometimes more coffee later that night. I haven’t had soda; though, in over year. Well, minus the sip I take with my medicine (I have to crush my pills and soda is the only thing I can take it with). Now I’m just about the coffee, twice a day. Nice, warm, big, delicious cups of coffee.

Are you more hyper and up-tight or laid back and relaxed? Hyper and upright don’t seem to go together in the way you paired these things, but I’d say I actually come off laid back to people who don’t really know me and probably just cause I’m pretty quiet, but really I’m more tense and anxious.

When was the last time you heard someone talking about you? *shrug*

How did you pick out your last outfit? I just grabbed some leggings and a sweatshirt. Not much thought went into it.

Are you embarrassed to bring people into your bedroom? I would be now.

When was the last children’s birthday party you attended? It’s been a couple years.

Are you good at reading other people’s body language? I think so. I could be taking it the wrong way sometimes, though.

If you’re sick, do you go to school or do you stay home usually? It depended on how sick I was. Typically, I’d power through, but there were times where I just couldn’t. There were times in college before I had a pretty big surgery for something where I was sick a lot and went to school with a fever and chills. I’d have to pop some Tylenol before class, sometimes even during, and just push through. Weak me today can’t relate.

Does chicken noodle soup really make you feel any better? No.

What’s one meal that you like to eat whilst sick? Usually I’m not much into anything because my taste buds are all messed up and everything tastes bland. And then depending on what kind of sick I am, I may not want to eat anything, really. I have to force myself to eat toast or soup in times like that.

Thinking of the last survey you filled out, did you enjoy it? It was okay.

Have you ever fed bread to ducks or geese? Yeah, before I learned how terrible it is for them. <<<< Same. :X

Is it hard to imagine you were ever as small as a one or two-year-old? Yeah. Such a long time ago. D:

What set the tone for your mood today? It’s only 1:56AM. So far; though, I feel pretty crappy cause of this cough and cold thing I have going on.

Have you ever set out to ruin someone else’s day? No. I would never intentionally do that.

Have you ever felt like the whole world was against you? Just like life in general, ya know?

What was the name of the last video game you played? Life is Strange.

What was the name of the last board game that you played? I don’t remember, it’s been too long. I love board games.

What was the last thing that you told yourself? *shrug*

How many times a day do you wash your face? I actually don’t. I just apply moisturizer sometimes.

If someone throws hot coffee on you, how do you react? Uh, well, I’d react to something HOT being thrown at me and be like WTF? I’ve spilled hot coffee on myself on accident, so I know it’s not a pleasant feeling.

Is there a high school or college that you would rather be attending? I’m doneeee with school.

Have you ever lived in an apartment or duplex home? Duplex.

Has anyone ever commented on your weight? Yes. I get told how I’m “too skinny” all the time.

What’s a show from the ’90s that you miss? I mean, I still watch a lot of my favorites from that time.

Who provokes your sarcastic side the most? My brother and I sarcastically joke around all the time.

Have you ever thought about joining the military? No. I couldn’t anyway.

When you were little, did you ever stare at disabled or “different” people? I was/am disabled and am quite familiar with the stares.

Could the contents of your bedroom get you in any trouble? No...

Do weather patterns sometimes have an affect on your health? Rainy, cold weather can give me headaches and make me achy. Hot weather makes me just absolutely miserable.

If it snows a lot where you live, do you experience cabin fever? It doesn’t snow here. :(

When was the last time someone disapproved of something you were doing? I feel like my family disapproves of me not doing things I should be doing pertaining to my health. I know they get frustrated with me for that.

Do you consider yourself to be approachable? I’m not sure.

How do you respond to cheesy pick-up lines? Laugh. I’ve been asked the whole, “aye girl, what’s your sign?” before.

How was the service at the last restaurant you visited? Fine.

Are you ever jealous of happy couples? No. I may feel envious sometimes, but not jealous.

How would you describe a thought that’s sticking with you today? I’ve been thinking about how crappy I feel.

Lately, who has spent the most time on your mind? No one in particular.

In a car, air conditioning or roll the windows down? Air conditioning.

Is there a new song or band you’ve discovered? I’ve come across some new music recently. I don’t really listen to music a whole lot like I used to, so I went on Spotify the other day and checked out some new stuff to add to my playlist.

What teacher gives you the most homework?

What type of personality do you find most annoying? Cockiness and arrogance.

Are you punctual? Yes.

Have you ever howled at the full moon? ...No.

Have you ever seen yourself on camera? Yes. EW. The most torturous thing ever was back when I for some reason took this “acting for the camera” class and we’d have to do monologues and skits that were filmed. The WORST part about that was the professor would play everyone’s tape in front of the class and we were to give constructive criticism. Omg it was horrible.

Do you give any consideration to what’s said in your horoscope? I don’t even read those anymore. Back when I used to, I was so opposite of how a Leo is always described. They’re always said to be confident and outgoing people and I’m just like, ahahahahah.

When was the last time you felt like you were being followed? Yikes. I used to feel that way sometimes whenever I had to go to the bus stop or was going home from the bus stop.

[thebrightestringaroundthemoon]

anyway time to use this blog for what i created it for i guess and type out a big long thing about how im a worthless piece of shit and should pour myself a nice big glass of creamer, sugar, and clorox. i literally serve like? no purpose? in life? at all? im a completely directionless failure that operates with about the complexity of a fucking roomba, running into the same goddamn couch over and over again and slightly redirecting. if i get lucky, i run into a different couch, but nothing fucking changes. i do the exact same thing over and over again: surround myself with wonderful, fantastic people, fuck it up and make them hate me, and then spiral into a pit of my own pointless fucking despair until i realize im such a fucking failure of a person i cant even muster the energy it takes to fucking die so i just get up again in the morning and go again. rinse and fucking repeat. and its not like i have some horrible life or anything, im just profoundly unfit to exist on this planet. i have wonderful friends who actually, honest to god care about me and its evidently not good enough for me?? so i just respond to everything by assuming the worst, spiralling, and being too much of a dumb bitch to fucking talk to A N Y B O D Y about A N Y T H I N G cuz i guess i’d rather make a dumb edgy tumblr blog named after the lyrics to a fucking asia song than actually solve any of my problems. i guess its too much to solve a problem when the fundamental core of who you are as a person is the fucking problem. i mean, there is a solution, but ive already covered why nobody needs to be worried about me doing that! bnobody needs to be worried about me doing anytuhing! accomplishing anything! ever becoming anything! ever managing to do much more than drag myself out of bed in the morning and inspire a profoundly sad mixture of pity and annoyance in everyone iv’e ever come into fucking contact with! im sitting here debating fixing the fucking apostrophe in the last sentence and its driving me fucking mad while real people have real fucking problems and my cardboard cutout ass bad edgy teen novel stupid bitch excuse for a person ass is sitting here doing THIS with my fucking time. I have things i shuold be doing, could be doing, but this is legitimately all i can bring myself to fucking contribute to society at this point. the surest sign that the people around me are fucking saints is that theyve stuck around this fucking long but honestly i dont fucking undeerstand. i guess thats the whole point of shit like saints, you arent supposed to be able to understand, its superhuman compassion, even for those who dont fucking deserve it. or maybe its just because i fundamentally dont work. i dont have any sort of actual power when it comes to my life. these are the idle musings of a bewildered spectator, the one person who comes to the party, stays sober, and sits on the sidelines and watches the fucking idiocy unfold. except instead of drunkenly stumbling around and telling my friends how much i love them, im stone cold sober and sitting on the sidelines watching myself fail to take even the most basic fucking steps towards fixing literally any problem that im dealing with. broken. non functional. i dunno if i was born a failure, though. i think that might be giving myself a little too much credit. other people were dealt infinitely worse hands than i was and they turned out fucking wonderful. i know a couple of them. no, i think im the way i am because of me. i probably had all the chances i needed to become something resembling a human being, and instead im whatever i am now. how can i be excited about some sort of future for myself when i can barely manage a relatively privliged day to day existance? i have friends, im not starving, im in college, i have an apartment. im far from rich but im able to afford to go to college. that should be enough. why the fuck isnt that enmough. why cant i just be fucking satisfied why cant i muster some sort of positive fucking emotions why does joy last a few moments why can i do this so much easier than writing anything positive about my life why does this flow like it does like a fucking river why cant i stop my hands why why what the fuck why why am i like this why was i born why am i who i am it flows so easily it just comes out but i cant tell anyone and i cant rely on anyone because im not anyone in noone im the fucking nobody that people keep around them to make themselves feel better and the only reason i have the slightest bit of doubt about that is that i love my friends too much to ever accuse them of something like that but then again does it fucking count when its someone like me do i qualify as a fucking person does it count as hurting someone’s feelings or using them when that someone isn’t a someone is just an empty fucking shell that was only gifted with the capacity to retain HURT thats all i can fucking remember thats all that sticks with me HURT i cant fucking be rid of it and its not some sort of innate inherent biological failing its who i am as a person i did this to myself i do this to myself i dont know that i will ever stop doing this to myself. all i can hope for is that one day i gain the strrength the fucking self esteem and self respect to kill myself. maybe it isnt self respect i need for that but respect for my friends. its selfish to put them through me. the pain they’d feel from my death would last a short time if at all. it would be so much better than forcing them to know me for however long this failing fucking body will carry my empty shell of a spirit onwards thjrough a world that i dont deserve to fucking inhabit. my inner monologyue put on paper sounds like a fucking evanescence song and i hate myself for it so much jesus fucking christ. i fundamentally do not like myself. as a person. on any level. i do not like myself. i wouldnt be friends with me, and ironically i hate myself for that too. but who would? who the fuck would? why does anyone? do they? maybe thats my one fucking talent. convincing people im likable. worming my way into their fucking lives until they trust me only to realize that i am not a human being. im an empty shell, a fucking roomba of a person. i can tell when ive run into something and back up so i can run into it again. i cannot solve my own problems. i cannot even conceptualize them. im something below a human cursed with the fucking ability to think at the level of one. my ocd is really really desperately trying to get me to scroll up and fix all the spelling and grammar errors but i dont know if itll hurt more to ignore them or to have to read the dumb ashit i just wrote. earlier i said that i wanted this to flow less easily and here we are i guess. though earlier i meant it in the context of only being able to properly conceptualize negative feelings and never being abkle to hold onto anything piositive i feel, and that hasn’t been magically fixed or anything, im just having trouble feeling anything at all now. im a completely blank slate. i havent even cried once troday. i cant. i cant care about my own fucking inadequacy and failure as a very basic human being enough to even fucking cry. i cried about an anime a couple nuights ago. i can muster emotion for that. but as soon as i look inwards i dont see ahyuthing thEres NOTHING FUICKING THERE THERE IS NOTHING FUCKING THERE THERE IS NOTHING FUCKING THERE I AM NOT A HUMAN BEING I AM NOT A HUMAN BEING I AM BROKEN I AM EMPTY I AM A {PLAGUE ON WHOEVER HAS THE PURE FUCKING MISFORTUNE TO BE A GOOD ENOUGH PERSON TO TAKE PITY ON ME i dont want to die, even. too many steps, too much feeling, too much. i just want to stop. to end. i want to no longer be. ill lock tghat away with all the other things id love to happen but know never will. that ones at the forefront though. it always will be. until i grow the fucking compassion to put others out of my misery. my roomate just texted me an innocuous questiona nd i texte d bacjk normally emojis and all im normal dont you see everyone im normal nothings wrong with me. oh sure sometimes i have a bad day but im fine everybody IM FINE you aren’t you have to put up with me ill fucking worm my way into your life and convince you im a real human being you can hold a congersation with only to snatch the fucking rug out from under you as soon as you actually attempt to engage with me on any level and i just end up eiother hurting you or revealing accidently that there is no such thing as luna thats not a fucking person its a name assigned to a loose collections of disorders, bad habits, and a gaping emotional black hoile from which nothing can fucking escape, jammed into an ugly broken body thats going to kill me early and doesnt even compensate by making me hot. wHEE. and of course, unable to be happy with anything, i will simultaneously complain about my own impending death due to horrific nutrition, subastance abuse (just the fun kinds so people dont realize anything is wrong WHEEEE) and some fucky illness that ive now gone and stopped medicating because im a stupid worthless bitch, AND I WILL COMPLAIN ABOUT THIS WHILE SIMULATENOUSLY WANTING TO DIE what do i want? who the fuck knows! not me! that’s a redundant statement, of course “me” doing know bercause thats not a thing im not a person! id love to blame it on my complete and total internal faliure as a person that i always end up hurting people, but honestly its probably because i dont put enough fucking effort in. even right now,. literally hours after a good friend of mine ostaroted feeling like shit in a way that is almost for sure my fucking fault, im doing THIS instead of trying to right the situation (to b fair she made a point of not inviting me but inviting the rest of the group?) or did she am i just reading into this? who knows! who the fuck knows! everyone but “me”! ejveryone else knows! becayuse its probably REALALLY FUCKING SIMPLE BUT NOOOOO I CANT EVEN MANAGE THAT CAN I I CANNNOT EVEN FUCKING MANMAGE TO MANAGE THAT CAN I thats too much for lil ol me! i am aggressively pointless! i am the single least important collection of fucking atoms on this planet! every last fucking rock i stepped on walking to and from the class that i skipped half of today is more important and has contribtued more to the grand scheme of things than i ever have or ever will, and thats jkust the inanimate fucking objects on the ground. lets not even get started on all the actual people whose time my existance waste, who i am a fucking affront to  by sheer virtue of being in any way associated with them at any point in time ever. i guess this is it, this is what i get when my entire personlaity is a loosely cobbled together collection of self deprecating jokes and a fake ego, desperately attempting to patch over an interior that has holes in it less than it just is one giant fucking hole. i was, am, and will be nothing, not even enough to earn the use of “I” at the beginning of the sentence. dinner is in 15 minutes. my friends will be there. im paralyzed. i belive every word i wrote above so why

would i inflict myself upon them but i 

i cant not

i so deeply want to

to go sit in uncharacteristic silence and hope somebnody notices and asks me whats up so i can give them a dumb, abridged, mostly fake version and get the sad pity looks and then feel bad about exploiting them and then

rinse

repeat

because i am not a person