#circle of vena cava

[siphonophorus]

portrait of VENA CAVA by my friend @trashootie / @mutimatuti ! thanks for this lovely depiction of them. :)

[lesbianlothcats]

An anatomy lesson for anyone writing about The Lawless.

Disclaimer: I’m not a doctor, but I am an anatomy student and healthcare worker. I’ve also been staring at The Lawless and anatomy diagrams for an hour.

Satine is stabbed through the epigastric region, containing the inferior vena cava (the largest vein in the body), the abdominal aorta (the largest artery), the pancreas, liver, stomach, the edges of the kidneys, the duodenum (what connects the stomach to the intestines). There was likely damage to the spinal column and cord at the low thoracic and high lumbar vertebrae and thus possible paraplegia. Her cause of death was likely severe haemorrhage and shock. Acute trauma to the lungs and heart are unlikely.

Under the cut is some of my working out and some more detail.

First I took a screenshot of Satine being held because it had the best view of her body.

I then overlaid a frame from before Maul drops her to find the wound, then circled the approximate area. I matched it with her neckline and belt for the full body image.

From there I took anatomical drawings and overlaid those. I lowered the opacity to show how it aligns to her shoulders and waist in particular. Because she is a cartoon character with mostly realistic but still cartoon proportions, I had to narrow the anatomical drawings slightly. I didn’t need to manipulate the spinal column much, but I aligned it using her pelvis as a reference point.

Now to take those drawings and approximate placement of the stab wound alone for better visibility.

Using these images and the nine abdominal sections we can ascertain that Satine is stabbed is approximately the epigastric region, which does NOT contain the lungs or heart. It’s UNLIKELY there was direct damage to those organs. Damage to the spinal column is extremely likely, and spinal cord damage is likely, but not definite. The damage would most likely be at the T11-L3 region, but allowing for margin of error the highest I would say would be T8 level, indicating paraplegia. Spinal cord injuries are very complex and I’m definitely not an expert so the most I’d say is paralysis of the lower limbs is possible. I would say damage to the lungs is unlikely. The blade may have nicked or burned the edge of one, but I doubt there would be serious trauma to the lungs.

I have taken into account that it looks like there’s some angle to the blade, but it’s difficult to tell because her body is folded over the blade somewhat. I think it appears there’s a sharp angle, but it’s just the perspective. Regardless, even a sharp angle upwards likely wouldn’t have changed much in terms of internal organ damage.

The abdominal aorta and inferior vena cava are the largest arteries and veins in the body, excluding those right next to the heart. The former supplies oxygenated blood to the abdomen and lower limbs, while the latter returns de-oxygenated blood back to the heart. Both range from 1.4cm (0.55″) to 3cm (1.18″) wide. Damage to those is severe and often lethal. The superior mesenteric artery is close to both, and is one of the major suppliers of blood to the abdominal organs.

Organs in the epigastric area are the liver, pancreas, stomach, spleen, duodenum and kidneys. Only parts of some organs are in that area (most of the kidneys, the stomach and the intestines), with the rest in other regions. The liver filters blood, and while vital, you can live with damage to it. Kidneys filter waste from the blood and again, ideally you should have both, but you can live with one. That’s a very basic explanation of both. Damage to the kidneys in particular will allow waste products to leak into the abdominal cavity.

The same is true for the stomach and duodenum. The stomach processes food and contains acid. When perforated, it will leak acid, partially digested food and bile, increasing infection risk. The duodenum (one third of the small intestine) connects the stomach to the colon (large intestine). It mostly contains the same as the stomach, but perforation may risk faecal matter leaking into the abdominal cavity, and extreme infection risk.

The spleen filters and stores blood and white blood cells and contributes to the immune system. It’s non-essential, but will cause immuno-deficiencies. The pancreas aids the digestive system, and most importantly secretes insulin. You can live without the pancreas, but will likely develop diabetes and require insulin injections.

The spinal cord is best known for controlling the limbs and sensation, but it also affects other organs. It affects the urinary system, the digestive system and respiratory and cardiac systems. The higher the damage to the spinal cord, the more that will be affected. There are four regions to the spinal column which the spinal cord corresponds to, though damage to the cord is typically slightly higher than the vertebrae. The spinal column begins at the base of the skull at the cervical vertebrae, of which there are 7. The thoracic vertebrae begin at the base of the neck, and there are 12. The lumbar vertebrae are from the middle curve of the back to above the buttocks, and there are 5. There are also 5 sacral vertebrae, beginning at the top of the buttocks to the bottom of the pelvis, ending at the coccyx. C1-4 damage typically causes full quadriplegia and a loss of most bodily functions. C5-8 injury may still have control of their arms and breathing. T1-5 will often cause paraplegia of the legs, with possible loss of full function of the arms. T6-12 varies dramatically, but typically causes varying degrees of function loss of the lower limbs. L1-5 and S1-5 will likely retain use of the lower limbs, but loss of control of the bladder and bowel.

Thank you for coming to my TED Talk.

[virinchihospitals90]

Liver hospital in hyderabad - Virinchi Hospital

Liver Transplant Operation in Hyderabad's Premier Hospital

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Understanding the Liver Transplant Procedure:

The liver transplant process is intricate and demands precision. The procedure commences with an incision made by the best liver transplant surgeon in Hyderabad. This cut gives the surgeon access to the liver and surrounding structures.

The next steps involve the isolation and transection of various critical structures, including the inferior vena cava, the portal vein, the hepatic artery, and the bile duct. Following this isolation, the diseased liver is meticulously removed.

Once the unhealthy liver is extracted, the new healthy liver from a donor is placed. This step is crucial and showcases the expertise of the liver transplant surgeon in Hyderabad.

Re-establishing arterial flow is the next challenge. This ensures that the newly implanted liver receives adequate blood supply, allowing it to function seamlessly.

Life after a Liver Transplant in Hyderabad:

Post-surgery, patients are often amazed at the swift return to their daily activities. Of course, regaining full strength may take a little while. However, with a disciplined regimen and healthy lifestyle choices, the journey back to optimal health is streamlined.

Virinchi Hospital, a renowned liver hospital in Hyderabad, not only provides top-notch medical services but also ensures that the cost of a liver transplant in Hyderabad remains affordable. This commitment makes it an obvious choice for that requiring liver transplant surgery in Hyderabad.

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Hyderabad, with its state-of-the-art medical facilities like Virinchi Hospital, has emerged as a hub for liver transplant surgeries. The presence of some of the best liver transplant surgeons in Hyderabad ensures that patients receive world-class care at affordable rates.

In conclusion, when it comes to liver transplant surgery in Hyderabad, Virinchi Hospital stands out, offering unparalleled medical expertise and patient care. The affordable cost, combined with the proficiency of the best liver transplant surgeons, makes it the ultimate choice for those in need.

Address: Virinchi Circle, Rd Number 1, Banjara Hills, Hyderabad, Telangana

Phone.no: 040 46999999

Website: https://virinchihospitals.com/transplant/liver-transplant/

#Best liver transplant hospital #Best liver transplant surgeon in Hyderabad

#liver transplant surgery in Hyderabad #Liver hospital in Hyderabad

[genvy]

would u mind giving metal band recs? i’m open to most things, but i personally really don’t like goregrind/metalgore/any adjacent genre, the vocals are overstimulating and gross. i really just want to expand my own taste beyond what my dad listens to(metallica+megadeath unfortunately,,,,). thanks!!

of course i wouldn't mind! it's no issue with the no goregrind thing, i don't like goregrind either. i'll split some of my favorites up into subgenres and then give some of my personal favorite songs from each! this got slightly long so it is all under the cut ^_^

gothic metal (my personal favorite):

tiamat (love in chains, cain, carry your cross and i'll carry mine)

lacuna coil (closer, heaven's a lie, swamped)

theatre of tragedy (cassandra, venus)

my dying bride (a sea to suffer in, the cry of mankind)

type o negative, which is a point of contention because while they are super iconic and important in the gothic metal genre, the frontman had..........some opinions. he's dead, so it's not like he's getting money from your streams, but it's your decision if you want to listen to them while knowing that or not (burnt flowers fallen, it's never enough, iydkmigthtky (gimme that))

him (your sweet six six six, wicked game)

alternative/nu metal:

my ruin (beauty fiend, miss ann thrope)

deftones (feiticeira, you've seen the butcher, headup)

kind eyes (lady liberty, cruel world)

a perfect circle (magdalena, pet)

slipknot (the heretic anthem, custer, disasterpiece)

industrial metal:

angelspit (100%, vena cava, kill kitty (kmfdm remix))

kittie (do you think i'm a whore?, charlotte, brackish)

nine inch nails. some might say they don't count but i think they do ♥ (happiness in slavery, starfuckers inc, the hand that feeds)

sister machine gun (sins of the flesh, torture technique)

ministry (thieves, lava, lay lady lay)

other subgenres:

morbid (black metal with gothic influence) (wings of funeral, from the dark, my dark subconscious)

mayhem, which is also one of the most controversial metal bands ever. if you're cool with listening to a band where some of them killed each other, they're very good (black metal) (freezing moon, chainsaw gutsfuck, necrolust)

dethklok (death metal) (ghostqueen, face fisted, andromeda)

bloodywood (metalcore with indian folk influence) (ari ari, machi blasad)

acid bath (death/sludge metal with gothic influence) (cassie eats cockroaches, the morticians flame)

[shadythetortie]

You might not be able to answer this but the curiousity has me

On the 3rd and 4th radiograph of the cat you just posted what is the shaded black area on the left just under his ribs? Is it an organ or poop or something? (Feels a bit too high up the torso to be poop tbh)

Those are lungs!

Here's an xray of the other half of a cat's body (not the same cat)

The two arrows are pointing at the two big vessels that go from the heart to the rest of the body - the aorta on top which brings oxygenated blood to the rest of the body, and the posterior/inferior vena cava on the bottom, which brings deoxygenated blood back to the heart from the back end of the body.

The line separating the lung field from where you see the abdomen start is the diaphragm. The only other thing you can see fairly clearly here is the liver, which is that little half circle with the big pointed part in the bottom right of the xray.

[beauty-rebel-dgafblog]

Trust I never

Can't you hear me?

Can't you hear me singing,

singing from the soul,

singing from the heart,

Trust I never go, you're all I want to know.

Shall we never part. Aorta Vena Cava flowed right through my heart.

Trickled down its atrium, beats into the valves.

Pumped to the arteries, circling around. The love is never bound. It carries these words now.

Can't you hear the sound?

Singing from a soul,

Beating in its valves. Pumping it with pressure.

Aorta Vena Cava the love who stole my heart.

So song I have been working on, with my piano. I have melody to it but I did not write a full instrumental for it yet.

[silentauroriamthereal]

2020 fic year in review

I was tagged by my lovely @khorazir! Thanks, you! 

Total number of completed stories: Three, but two of them were fairly long? I wrote: 

The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse: John/Sherlock, 50,689 words, explicit, John POV. Set in New York, because I was itching to go there and couldn’t, and setting a fic somewhere is the next best thing. Probably my most political fic to date, this one was a deliberate reversal of the fake-couple-for-a-case trope, aka I wanted to create a setting wherein John and Sherlock become a couple during a case but need to keep it a secret for the sake of the case. So I set it at a massive, anti-gay conference in the US. Naturally. :P 

Sine Nomine: John/Sherlock, 45,626 words, explicit, mostly John POV with sections of Mycroft and Sherlock POV as well. In fact, though the sections aren’t equal in length, it’s symmetrical: it goes Mycroft POV/John POV/Sherlock POV/John POV/Mycroft POV. This story has a dark premise and a particularly dark setting for one section. It’s based on the concept of Mycroft rewatching the footage of John beating Sherlock in the morgue for the hundredth time or so and revisiting the question of whether John had been the making of his brother, or made him worse than ever. He’s definitely come to the latter conclusion, but decides to give John one final chance in the form of a test. John, for his own reasons, makes what Mycroft deems the incorrect choice, and Mycroft basically sends him into a death trap. The setting of this place is officially set in Serbia with indirect hints at events similar to the Srebrenica Genocide in Bosnia, but the actual setting is Syria, which I’ve just spent the past year studying intensely. Putting a slice of that into the dark core of this story, albeit disguised as another place, was strangely cathartic for me. The title, which is Latin for “no name”, is a double reference to the village here, which Sherlock and Mycroft never name, ominously referring to it only as “the village”, both to each other and to John, as well as John’s never-named or owned feelings for Sherlock. This one is close to my heart for a lot of reasons, but most of all because of Syria. Also, the vast majority of the time in my writing, I choose a singular POV and stick to it very closely for the entire story. Choosing to rotate between these three men essentially allowed me to show how they’re all justified in their own decisions here, and to examine the relationships between all three of them. It’s a story about reckonings and eventual, hard-won reconciliations. 

The Secret of Hazel Grange. Sherlock/John, 18,181 words, explicit, Sherlock POV. I’m going to claim that the reason I only managed to swing three fics this entire year is partly that I put another project on hold in order to write this one, lol. This is the third Christmas fic I’ve written and I’m happy with how it came out. It’s also the only story I’ve written that’s explicitly set during this pandemic, and during the second London lockdown, which is eerily similar to the code red lockdown my own city is in, so it just felt right. It’s been a somewhat miserable holiday season for me (so many reasons, including unhappiness at work and an illegally high rent increase that my apartment building is putting through, on top of the pandemic and all of that isolation and all of those cancellations), so writing some happy endings for someone else was pure escapism for me. Hopeful for others, too! 

Total word count: 114,496 words of posted fic. 130,796 if we’re counting my work-in-progress that got interrupted for the Christmas fic. :)

Fandoms written in: BBC Sherlock.

Looking back, did you write more fic than you thought you would this year, less, or about what you’d expected? I wrote about what I thought I expected to be able to write. Right now, I have a full-time job, a part-time job, and then freelance work, all to attempt to make ends meet, so I have very little spare time to write in, unfortunately. So getting over 100k words in is actually somewhat miraculous to me. It feels like not very much when it’s just three stories, but I guess it still amounts to a fair number of words? 

What’s  your own favourite story of the year? Picking favourites is always tough, but for the Syria connection, I’d have to go with Sine Nomine. 

Did you take any writing risks this year? I suppose that going so hard on the whole Republican anti-gay groups thing could be considered “risky” in some circles, but not really hereabouts! LGBTQ+ rights is one of my areas of advocacy (in fact, I’m a founding member of the Rainbow Equity Council at my workplace and spent a crap ton of time this month drafting governance documentation for it), but genocides are the issue that are really closer to my heart, so the Syria connection, even if it wasn’t named outright, could also be seen as a “dangerously” political stance, I suppose. But compared to other writing choices (like Scars, which features actual rape, or any of my Freebatch stuff, or any of the stories where Mary is an overt terrorist (rather than “just” a freelance assassin, lol)), I don’t really think I was terribly risky this year. 

Do you have any fanfic or profic goals for the new year? The first item on the agenda is to get back to work on Nocturne, my WIP. After that, we’ll see. That said, I STILL would like to get back to searching for an agent for my novel, which is strongly based on Against the Rest of the World. I would also like to write that Johnlock cookbook I keep vaguely promising (it would feature recipes from my fics), and in a quirky “other” sort of project, I also wrote a heap of haikus about Republicans this fall that I’d like to see about getting published. Want a taste? Sure you do. I give you: 

Brett Kavanaugh

Brett has a face like

a snarly little hedgehog.

He likes beer, okay?!

Mitch McConnell

Moscow Mitch is a

corrupt turtle who keeps his

balls in his neck pouch

Most popular story of the year? Well, the longer a story is posted, the more time it has to collect hits, kudos, bookmarks, and comments, obviously, so that makes The Four Horsemen the clear winner here. 

Story of mine most under-appreciated by the universe, in my opinion: From this year or in general? :P I often find that my plottiest, most detailed, most researched stories that I personally think contain some of my most thoughtful writing are the ones that get the least attention. For instance, after series 3 aired, I wrote three back-to-back intensely-detailed series 3 fix-it fics (which all, to their credit, do get plenty of attention, though none so much as Vena Cava, the third of the three). Then I wrote a light-hearted, almost-crack porn fic, more as mental relaxation than any sort of literary genius, and that fic - Best of Three - remains my most wildly-popular story of anything I’ve ever written. It used to frustrate me, but now I’m just grateful to have anyone read anything of mine. But along that theme, yeah: the most complex of this year’s stories (Sine Nomine) is probably the one I feel is the least appreciated, but that’s also fine. No complaints here - I’m very lucky to have the readership I have!! 

Most fun story to write: Sine Nomine, for all the reasons I talked about above, though I’d also call this the most emotionally-invested story of mine from this past year. That said, setting any story in Manhattan is always going to be fun, and I loved researching approximately 500 holiday rental properties in various parts of England in order to finally just create my own, aka Hazel Grange, lol. 

Most unintentionally telling story: Ha, well, if you weren’t sure about my stance on gay rights, marriage equality, or Republicans in general, The Four Horsemen should clear that up pretty distinctly, lol! 

Biggest disappointment: Just that I haven’t had more time to write. 

Biggest surprise: Possibly that I felt so able to represent all three POVs in Sine Nomine as equally as I did. By that, I don’t mean being able to write in their perspectives, but rather in presenting their arguments with (I hope) equal persuasion: Mycroft thinks that John’s entire presence in Sherlock’s life has spelled nothing but disaster for Sherlock. He’s arguably not wrong. He decides that John is out of chances, and that he’s justified in being the one to make that call. Sherlock disagrees, hard, and he’s not wrong. John makes the choice he makes for his daughter, not for the choice Mycroft gives him between choosing either Mary or Sherlock once and for all, and he’s not wrong to have done that, or unjustified in wanting to go and demand some answers from Mary, who isn’t dead after all, here. But then I think that their various reasons for reconciliation are all equally justified, too. I hope! Usually when you stick to one perspective, the story naturally gears itself to persuade the reader to identify with that one character and to take their side. Here, I hope I manage to juggle the balance fairly equally. 

I don’t know who’s been tagged in this already, but I’ll tag: @totallysilvergirl, @blogstandbygo, @nade2308, @weneedtotalkaboutsherlock, @hubblegleeflower, and anyone else who writes. 

[sprnklersplashes]

not beyond repair (9/?)

AO3 warning: mention of violence

September bleeds into October, nights grow longer, skies grow darker, and for the students of Westerberg high school, class gets tougher. Homework piles up and every class ends with a reminder that an essay is due on Friday or their test is next week. Stationery shops are restocking as fast as they can, the school aisles of supermarkets and department stores almost bare. Everyone from the freshman wanting to make a good impression on their parents to the seniors worrying about meeting the requirements for college are feeling the stress, along with the heavy fear sitting in their guts that this is only the beginning.

Which is how Veronica ends up lying across her boyfriend’s bed, her study notes abandoned on the floor, JD rubbing circles on her bed, which turns into a full blown massage relatively quickly, his fingers working against the knots in her back and neck. It’s not exactly what she’d like him to be doing to her in his bedroom, but it does feel like heaven, and it’s exactly what she needs right now. She reaches down and turns another page, staring blankly at a diagram of the human heart, jabbing at each section with her finger.

“Left atrium, acts as a holding chamber for blood coming back from the lungs,” she announces, closing her eyes tightly so as not to peek at her notes. “Right atrium does…. Something… which I can remember…” She clenches her fist so tightly it begins to shake, as though she can will the answer right into her hand.

“Receives deox-”

“Deoxygenated blood through the vena cava!” she shouts, her head snapping up, only to be met with a pain her neck from hanging over the side of JD’s bed for more than half an hour. She pouts and rubs at the sore part while he runs his fingers down her spine.

“I think someone’s a little sleep deprived,” he teases while reading over his messy notes.

“I’m a little everything deprived,” she admits, sitting up, her back groaning in protest, and pulling her knees against her chest and resting her cheek on his shoulder. She half-reads over his sprawling handwriting on his book, the black ink occasionally interrupted by green or red. His hand comes up her back and tangles in her hair.

“Why don’t we take a little break?” he asks gently. “Go for a walk, get some food, let you see the sweet light of day again-”

“Believe me when I say I’d love that,” she sighs. “But I can’t.”

“Yes you can,” he insists. “I see how hard you’re studying. We have study hall together remember?”

“Yeah, how hard I work when you aren’t there to distract me,” she says playfully, tapping his nose with her finger. It’s true, more often than not they sneak off to the “bathroom” together, one leaving thirty seconds before the other, and end up sitting against the window together, toes just barely scraping the floor.

“I’m just making sure you take breaks,” he says, kissing her head. “Pace yourself.”

“If only Harvard, Duke and Brown were letting me pace myself,” she sighs, lying back on his bed. He follows her, laying on his side, his hand intertwining with hers and resting on her stomach. “I still need a recommendation letter.”

“I can write one,” JD offers. “Veronica Sawyer, excellent student, perfect friend, wonderful girlfriend. Special skills include doodling and breaking into houses.” Veronica sniggers. “Or Claire can, given how much she adores you. She might end up trying to foster you as well as me. Besides, why are you worrying? Didn’t you say the deadlines are in January?”

“Yeah.”

“Veronica… it’s October.”

“I know,” she sighs. “But I don’t want to leave things to the last minute, you know.”  He hums in acknowledgement, his thumb rubbing circles on the back of her hand. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“I haven’t even asked, where are you applying?”

“Oh. That,” he says, heaving a sigh and shifting until he lies on his back. “I haven’t really thought about that. To be honest, I’m not sure I’ll bother.”

“You won’t?” she asks, propping herself up on her elbow. She wants to ask why not but sees the wall her boyfriend builds around himself and isn’t sure she’s daring enough to climb it. He looks down at their intertwined hands, moving them back and forth playfully.

“Nah,” he says. “I mean, I just don’t think it’s for me, you know? Just stay here, get a job somewhere.” His tone is flippant, casual, as though his future’s too far away to even think about.

“You think you’ll stay here?” she asks him. She hadn’t given it much thought; all she knew since she was 15 was that she was leaving Sherwood, Ohio in the dust, and when JD came along, she had assumed she’d take him with her, in the rare time it ever crossed her mind.

“Probably,” he says, a familiar coy smile on his face. “Maybe, maybe not. Wouldn’t be so bad, I guess.”

“It wouldn’t?” she asks. He shakes his head just slightly, pursuing his lips. He looks up at her and quickly moves and plants a swift kiss on her lips. As usual, she smiles against him, butterflies briefly taking off in her stomach as her fingers curl into the fabric of his covers. “What was that for?”

“To tell you not to worry,” he tells her. “I’ll always come up to see you at Harvard. Or Duke. Or Brown. Wherever you end up.”

“If I get into them,” she sighs, scooting closer and tangling her legs in with his. She blinks heavily and under different circumstances, she could fall asleep here.

“Oh, you will,” he assures her. “Of course you will.”

“Not at this rate,” she says, sitting back up and picking up her notebook off the floor. “I can’t get another B in biology.”

“You won’t,” he says softly, hugging her around her waist. “But maybe if you took a day off…”

“You’re sweet,” she says. “I’ll think about it.” She looks over JD’s shoulder, the red numbers on his alarm clock coming into focus, making her jump off his bed. “But not now, because I have to go. I have to be home in ten minutes.” She sets about shoving books into her bag without any real rhyme or reason and picking up her jacket.

“Hey, I can ask Claire if she can give you a ride back,” JD offers, following her down the stairs.

“No, it’s fine,” she says. “If I run, I can make if before my parents get mad.” She turns just as she reaches the front door, leaning against the wall with her hands behind her back and JD barely two inches away from her. “I’ll see you on Monday?”

“See you Monday,” he agrees, kissing her forehead. “And for God’s sake, take a break!”

“I will.”

“You better.”

“Or what?” she teases, grasping his shirt and pulling him towards her. He left his coat discarded upstairs in his room, now just in a grey t shirt and blue shirt. She wonders if he knows how different he looks without it.

“Or I’ll come into your room and sit on you until you take a nap,” he deadpans.

“You know I weirdly don’t mind that idea.” She grins as he moves closer, her hand still buried in his shirt. He moves in and kisses her, slow and soft. She wraps her arms around his neck, taking a deep breath in as she kisses him again, grinning against his lips.  She chases his lips as he moves away, his fingers trailing along her waist. She pouts at him until he nods in the direction of the hall, and she finds Claire standing with a mug of coffee in her hand and a pink hue to her cheeks, matching her sweater.

“Don’t mind me,” she says. “Just going to the living room. Pretend I was never here.”

“The implications in that are kind of gross, to be honest,” he shouts into the living room. Veronica chuckles into his shoulder.

“Okay I should really go now,” she says as he steps aside and lets her get the door. “I’ll see you later.”

“Take a damn nap,” he tells her as she leaves.

“Do your damn homework,” she replies, giggling on his porch, the cold October air raising goose bumps on her legs.

“Do you need my jacket?” he asks.

“Gentleman. I’ll be fine,” she assures him. “Good night, JD.”

“Good night, Ronnie.” He closes the front door, his silhouette still in the lit window. She gives him a small wave, unsure if he’ll see it, and turns down his path and down the street to her house. It’s darker than she thought it would be, yellow glow from the street lights guiding her back home. She comes to the realisation that it might be time for her to put the short skirts away, or maybe invest in a few pairs of tights. She won’t admit it to the Heathers, but she’s grown quite fond of the style. It might be the only thing she keeps from them.

Even if she goes miss the comfort of her oversized sweaters and denim jackets.

“I’m back,” she calls as she opens her front door.

“Hi sweetie,” her mother says as she steps into the kitchen. “How was studying?”

“Hard. Long. Boring,” she sighs, slipping her bag off her shoulder and rolling it around, wincing as pain shoots through her.

“Aw, honey. It’ll all be worth it in a few months,” her mom assures her, pushing her dark hair that’s so similar to her own off her shoulder. “You know this time next year you could be eating dinner in your dorm at Harvard.” Her mom’s voice breaks and Veronica fights the urge to roll her eyes. At least it’s better than with the Heathers; back then she kept her face stoic and her arms fidgeting by her sides, sometimes being permitted a cruel smirk or a raised eyebrow.

“Don’t get sentimental on me, Mom,” she says. “You know I’ll come back.” She means it, even if the words feel heavy in her mouth. Sherwood, Ohio is going to follow her around for the rest of her life, dragging herself back for Christmas and Thanksgiving and birthdays. At least twice a year she’ll have to trade the bright city lights she’s dreamt of since she first realised she could go for a small town she knows like the back of her hand. JD would say, and he has said, that she’s lucky to have somewhere she can call a hometown, shrugging as he says he can’t even remember where he was born or where his first school was. Maybe he’s right, but that won’t stop her from building a life far away from here and seeing the rest of the world.

Okay, she thinks as she watches her mom cooking, maybe that’s a little harsh.

“Are you hungry?” she asks.

“Yeah.” All she had eaten at JD’s was the candy they’d bought at the little store on the way to his house and an apple.

“Okay, this will be ready in a few minutes. Which friend were you with again?”

“JD,” she says, looking in the fridge for a drink.

“Nothing sugary, not before your dinner,” her mom reminds her. Like she could forget. “So, which college is he planning on going to?”

“Um, he isn’t exactly sure yet,” she says, closing the fridge, the pitcher of juice in her hand, and pouring out a glass for herself. “He might wait a bit, you know.”

“Well, whatever suits him,” her mom says. She pauses putting pasta bake on the plate, frowning slightly. “Ronnie, didn’t you have a friend called JD when you were a kid.”

“Yeah, for a bit.”

“Hm. What are the chances of that? It’s an unusual name.”

“It’s a nickname,” Veronica explains, taking a full plate from her. The mere sight of the pasta, white sauce leaking out of it, is enough to make her mouth water. “His full name’s Jason Dean.” She sits herself at the table, scooping pasta up with a fork. “And anyway, it’s not that weird. They’re the same person.”

“It is?” her mom asks, setting the spoon down. “This JD is the same JD you were friends with as a kid?” Veronica nods, her mouth full of pasta. Her mom wrings the towel in her hands for so long that Veronica frowns.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah, fine,” she says, smiling even though it doesn’t quite meet her eyes. “That’s odd, that he ended up coming back here.”

“I guess,” Veronica agrees, pushing her pasta around the plate. “Just one of those big coincidences.” Her mom hums in agreement and turns her back to her and Veronica shoves more pasta in her mouth, wishing that she could go just a week without the feeling that there’s something she’s not getting; a puzzle piece that’s missing in her life and leaving a hole, however small, inside her.

“Evening, Ronnie,” her dad greets as he comes in, carrying his jacket in the crook of his elbow and his briefcase dangling from his hand. “Oh, that looks good, hon.” He kisses her on the cheek and takes a plate to the table, sitting across from her, and her mom follows. “Oh hey honey, I got a little something.” Veronica watches as her dad pulls a white envelope out of his jacket and hands it over to her mom. “While in the office I got a call from Uncle Rodney. His wife’s finally pregnant!”

“Aw, how lovely!” her mom sighs. Her mom has a thing for babies, as evidenced by the numerous photos of Veronica as a baby hanging around the hall and along the stairway like Hansel and Gretel’s breadcrumbs, despite her pigtails and PB&J years being long behind her. Veronica realises how glad she is that she hasn’t brought JD home yet and wonders if it’s at all possible for her to keep him out of her house forever. The last thing she would want is for her mother to be showing off how cute her little one year old diaper less booty looks in her photos. “They’ve been trying for so long. They must be so happy.”

“They are,” he agrees. “So much so that they’ve invited us to their baby shower. I wrote down all the details in there.” Her mom opens up the envelope, her face falling as she reads it.

“Their baby shower in Nelsonville,” she says with a resigned sigh, showing her dad the envelope. “That’s three hours away. There and back. We’ll have to leave early…”

“Well, they have offered to put up anyone who would need to stay overnight in a hotel,” he offers. “And it’s a really nice hotel!”

“I don’t doubt that,” she says, frowning slightly. “And you know how I love Rodney. And Lizzie. But staying overnight… Well, Veronica I guess you’ll have to come with us.”

Oh God please no is all Veronica can think. The last thing Veronica needs right now is a family getaway. For one, it would be next to impossible to study in a car, or in the middle of a baby shower full of relatives she hasn’t spoken to since… probably Uncle Rodney and Aunt Lizzie’s wedding when she was eleven. Then there’s the other part which is that she doesn’t feel like spending a Friday night around people who last saw her when she had braces and pimples. She might be a loser again but she’s not that much of a loser. She hopes.

“Come on, honey, Veronica’s seventeen. She’s old enough to hold down the fort by herself for a while, right Ronnie?”

“Yeah,” she agree in a flash. “Yeah, I can stay here by myself.”

“I don’t know,” her mom sighs. “You’re still just a kid.” Veronica bites back the fact that Heather Chandler’s parents and Ram’s parents and Kurt’s parents and Heather Duke’s parents all trust them to stay at home alone. Granted, they’re pretty terrible examples, given that at the one sleepover she had been to at Heather Chandler’s house, Duke got very drunk and vomited in Chandler’s bathroom and then there was the Party That Shall Not Be Named at Ram’s house (as JD had taken to calling it, rather dramatically, but she barely minds).

“Mom,” she says instead, choosing her words carefully. “It’s just one night.”

“And she’s nearly eighteen,” her dad agrees. “And she’s responsible. You won’t do anything we’d disapprove of, right sweetheart?”

“Of course not,” she promises. Her mother keeps frowning, so much so that Veronica wonders if frown lines will permanently etch themselves into her mom’s face. Chandler had told her that happens when she had seen Veronica frowning at… well, at something. Veronica sends her a silent look that hopefully conveys the message she wants it to, mainly please trust that I am a responsible adult who can take care of this house for a whole 48 hours.

“Oh, all right,” she sighs and Veronica breaks out into a grin, her fist punching the air under the table. “But we’re laying out a set of rules, young lady. And we’ll be checking in on you.”

“Done. Yes, whatever you say,” she says almost breathlessly. “Thank you, thank you!”

After dinner and homework and late night TV, Veronica sits against her headboard with her diary sitting out on her lap, biting her lip and wiggling against the pillows, her toes curling into her sheets as she writes that night’s entry.

Dear diary,

I haven’t reached 18 yet but uncork the champagne I’ve reached adulthood!

Wait that’s 21. Never mind.

Point is my parents are letting me have the house to myself for a night while they go off to some baby shower across the state. And I can make my own dinner and turn off the lights before going to bed and lock the front door.

Wow that sounds really boring when I write it down like that. But I guess it’ll be good practice for college. And it’s just good to know that they (eventually) trust me enough to stay at home alone. And it’s also nice to know I don’t have to hang out at a baby shower.

If I was Heather, or even still A Heather I guess, I’d probably end up throwing some huge party here. With alcohol and probably weed and around 20 people ending up passed out in the back yard. Maybe I’ll finally get some of that English studying done. Or maybe I can get JD to come over and maybe end up making sense of it all.

Before the ink has even dried on the page, an idea pushes its way into Veronica’s mind. One that almost makes her drop her pen, her mouth hanging open half in shock and half in excitement, with a little bit of she doesn’t even know what. She can picture the lightbulb going off above her head.

Or maybe if he came over we could… not exactly study?

She knows her parents wouldn’t approve of it. But then again, they don’t necessarily need to know. Hell, they don’t even know he’s her boyfriend. And in her defence, this is tame compared to what she’s done recently behind her parents’ backs. They still don’t know about the weed she smoked at Ram’s party. Or the exact circumstances of how she and JD met. Compared to that, what’s a movie night (possibly, no, definitely, Halloween themed) with her boyfriend?

Dear diary, is this my life now? I’m not exactly complaining, but hot damn.

                                                                                               ******

For the first time, Veronica catches JD; it’s too cold to sit outside and wait for him, so she heads into the school as soon as she passes the gate, where she finds him at his locker, lost in some book backed in brown paper. She slows down her pace, her heart fluttering as she creeps along the hall, her hands curling, bending just slightly, ready to pounce, all the while her boyfriend remains lost to the world, stuck in the pages of his book.

So cute, she thinks.

“Boo!” she shouts, jumping behind him and grabbing him by the shoulders. And if that wasn’t enough to make her laugh (read: cackle), his reaction sure is; he jumps out of his skin, his book clattering to the floor as he whirls around, coat flying, to see her. He’s even slightly out of breath; you could think he had just come out of PE rather than had his girlfriend give him a bit of a scare.

“Mean,” he says, jabbing his finger lightly into her chest. “Very, very mean, that’s what you are, Veronica Sawyer.” She giggles and grabs his hand, lacing her fingers through his and swinging them lightly. “And in a very good mood. Anything in particular?”

“Yep,” she says, stepping forwards and closing the space between them. His arm comes around her shoulders and squeezes gently. If other people are watching, she finds she doesn’t care. “So my parents are going out of town next weekend… and I thought you could come over? We could watch movies, eat popcorn, watch more movies…”

“Maybe a little more than watch movies?” he asks cheekily, grinning down at her. She stands up on her tiptoes to look him in the eye, and in anticipation of something she guesses (hopes) is coming her way.

“Depends if you’re a good boy,” she replies, brushing her nose against his, then her lips, then kissing him in the middle of the hallway, her hands trailing along his waist, burying in the fabric of his coat. His lips are impossibly soft against hers, moving seemingly at her command.

“Miss Sawyer!” a shrill voice snaps from behind them. Blushing furiously, Veronica turns around to see Miss Fleming glaring daggers at the pair of them. “Mr Dean. You should be aware by now that there is a school policy against public displays of affection as such.”

“Yes ma’am,” JD mutters, his fingers wrapped around Veronica’s wrist, his thumb running against the side of her hand. “Sorry ma’am.”

“It won’t happen again,” Veronica promises.

“I should hope not,” Miss Fleming warns. “Otherwise it’s a detention.” She casts another disapproving glare at them before hurrying away, her long green skirt billowing above her brown boots.

“Can she really give us a detention for kissing?” JD asks, smirking slightly.

“Probably,” she replies. “I’d rather not risk it.”

“As you wish.” Veronica giggles, remembering her conversation with Martha over the weekend. She pictures him in a Westley costume and it’s a very, very nice thought. JD frowns at her grin, his fingers brushing over her cheeks. “What?”

“Nothing,” she says. “Just… One of the movies we watch needs to be The Princess Bride.”

“Isn’t that that movie Martha loves?” he asks.

“It is a very, very good movie,” she tells him.

“If you insist. Although I think in the spirit of Halloween, there should be at least one scary movie on the list.”

“All of them can be scary movies,” she promises. “With the obvious exception of The Princess Bride.” Their hands join as he walks her to her homeroom, their steps deliberately slow. The closer they get to her homeroom, the more Veronica cringes, Fleming’s disapproving look clear as day in her mind. “Hey… Can we go somewhere else?”

“Not up for homeroom right now?” he asks. “Don’t blame you. Come on.” She secretly wants to ask if they can go out to the garden-their garden, she nearly naively calls it, but by the time they get there they’d have hardly any time at all. Instead she lets him take her up the stairs and he sits up on the windowsill, the huge window overlooking the front courtyard. She sits down next to him, their knees touching.

“I also think that in the Spirit of Halloween, we should dress up,” she says. His laughs seems to ring off the walls as his smile lights up his face.

“Wish you’d given me more notice,” he sighs. “I could have put something really scary together if I had had more time. I’d have made you scream your little socks off.”

“You mean what I did to you just two minutes ago?” she teases.

“Okay, fair,” he admits. “But I’m sure I can whip up something equal parts scary and sexy for this weekend.” Veronica laughs, watching his face; he moves his lips with no sound coming out, like there’s a whole story waiting to be told. She brushes her elbow against his, hoping to coax whatever it is he wants to say out of him. “I used to be real good at Halloween. One of the old places I lived in, there was this costume contest in town. I was 15. And I won. Dressed up as Dracula. I spent weeks rereading the book to make it accurate.”

“Oh,” she groans. “That is just so nerdy.”

“Look who’s talking, little miss study cards,” he says, realisation dawning on him. “Wait is this your way of taking a break?”

“A little,” she confesses. “Just you know… maybe you kind of had a point.”

“I did,” he says, smirking. “And I’m glad you took it, baby.” He presses a tiny whisper of a kiss to her temple.

“So they’re leaving on Friday morning… so maybe we could walk home together? Grab a stash of candy from the store.” At the mention of Friday, his face falls slightly before he tries to cover it up with his usual disarming smile. Veronica really loves that smile, the dimple in just one of his cheeks, the way he raises his eyebrows slightly. It makes her giddier than she has any right to be, but she can’t help but be concerned with it as well. Over the weeks, she’s come to realise that it can-and nine times out of ten does-mean he’s hiding something from her.

“I don’t think I can,” he says, threading his fingers through hers. “I have a thing after school on Friday. With Claire. She’d kill me if I missed it. What if I just meet you at your place instead? With candy in hand.”

“Sounds great,” she says, scooting even closer to him and resting her cheek on his shoulder.

“So what are your folks leaving for?” he asks.

“My uncle and aunt’s baby shower,” she replies, pulling a face.

“And they trust you to not burn the house down?”

“Are you surprised?” she asks, giggling slightly. “You think I’m going to burn the place down?”

“Of course not,” he says with a smile. “I just think it’s impressive that they trust you so much.”

“Not too much,” she sighs. “There was a bit of grovelling and begging on me and my dad’s parts. And they said they’re going to write out a list of instructions for me. And I’m pretty sure my mom is freezing pasta bake and lasagne as we speak.”

“So she’s a fan of Italian food?” Veronica snorts and nudges him in the chest with her elbow.

“It’s just… I can cook myself.” JD raises an eyebrow at her. “Okay kind of. Sort of.” He raises his eyebrows even higher. “I can make burgers! Case in point, I do not need my mom making me some and freezing it! Or telling all our neighbours that I’m home alone so they can check up on me.”

“She’s just looking out for you,” he tells her softly. “You know? You’re her little girl and all that.”

“Okay, now you sound like her,” she says. “She’s also writing out a list of rules that she’s going to pin to the fridge.”

“Is ‘no boys’ one of those rules?” he asks. “Because if it is, I may have to side with your mom on this one.”

“Oh, Mr Rebel over here is going to give me a rule following lecture,” she says, poking his cheek to show she’s not serious. He pulls a face at her; closing his eyes and scrunching up his nose. “And it would be, if they even knew that you’re… you know…” She waves her hand around in the air as JD looks on amused. “My boyfriend. Although it still might be.” She used to talk about Ram and Kurt and they knew she had gone to their homecoming party. Realisation slowly dawns on her that her parents might actually suspect she might be dating one of them and it’s enough to make her shudder.

“So as far as your parents are concerned, I’m just a really good looking friend in a big coat who sometimes walks you home from school?” he asks.

“Yeah,” she says, biting her lip as anxiety begins creeping into her gut and sinking its claws into her. “I promise I’ll tell them, it’s just…”

“Hey, Nica,” he interrupts in an easy voice, cupping her cheek. “Don’t be sorry about it. Take all the time you need.” She puts her hand over his on her cheek, sighing as the storm in her mind calms.

“Thanks,” she says. “I just want to keep them out of this for a little longer. Once they know I have a boyfriend…” She rolls her eyes. “They’ll be all over us. At least Claire’s calm about it.”

“You only think that because you don’t live with her,” he tells her. “And don’t have to drive in the same car with her where she sits with that dumb ‘I know exactly what you’re doing and think you two are super cute together’ face.” Veronica snorts again and even JD manages to smile, fighting against his cool, slightly irritated exterior.

The bell for homeroom rings through the hallway, attacking their ears. Veronica wrinkles her nose and groans as she and JD jump off the wall. She still blushes at the idea of having to face Fleming. At least no one else in her class knows, but she knows and that’s enough to make her stomach drop every time she thinks of looking at her. Still JD kisses her head and bids her goodbye before walking up to his own homeroom, so that softens the blow. Sort of.

She looks out the window and sees the red and brown leaves falling off the trees and scattering across the wall. September’s gone and past now and they’re well into October. And with Halloween looming, November is approaching fast. Almost two months of senior year down, she realise, and eight left to go.

                                                                                               *****

On Thursday afternoon, JD offers to walk Veronica some of the way home from school. He gives her a red liquorice from a white paper bag in his pocket and she takes it, letting it dangle out of her mouth or from her hand as they walk through the chilly streets of Sherwood. Veronica thanks God she had the good sense to dig out a pair of black tights from the back of her wardrobe. Still, the cold is an excuse to cuddle into her boyfriend, who seems to never leave the house without that black trench coat. She wonders if he’ll still be wearing it during the summer. He kicks up a pile of leaves as they walk, making her laugh as they rain down on her. She runs her hand through her hair, hoping she got them all out. He doesn’t make an effort at all, and so there’s a red leaf stuck to his dark curls. She decides she won’t tell him; he looks cute that way.

“Hey, look,” she says, pointing at one of the houses they pass. The front porch is adorned with four pumpkins; one that’s probably meant to be the “Daddy” pumpkin complete with a moustache, a “Mommy” pumpkin and two little baby pumpkins. Aside from that, there’s a scarecrow, with an emphasis on ‘scare’, in the front yard; his head cocked to the left at an unnatural looking angle and a wide grin. Fake cobwebs hang from the awning, as do large fuzzy spiders. To top it all off, there’s four little broomsticks propped up against the wall.

“Wow,” he says, letting out a low whistle. “Someone’s going all out for Halloween.”

“That’s the Addamses,” she explains. “They go all out every holiday, but for some reason they put extra effort into Halloween.” She tugs on his hand and they keep walking so that her neighbours don’t call the cops on them. “When I was a kid, I was so jealous that they got all the cool stuff.”

“You wanted a big creepy scarecrow?” he asks, wrinkling his nose.

“Yes!” she squeaks. “Okay, maybe not the scarecrow. But all the broomsticks and crap. My parents don’t have any of that. We’ve got a spooky banner and a toy bat sitting in the window. And a pumpkin that needs carving. But they’re leaving before we can get it done.”

“Is Veronica Sawyer a Halloween nerd?” he teases, making her roll her eyes fondly. “If you want, we can carve the pumpkin tomorrow night.”

“Really?” she asks. “You want to spend your Friday night carving pumpkins with me?”

“Why not?” His smile dips slightly, his hand tightening around hers, and Veronica feels her heart clench in her chest. She can read him by now, and she knows that this is a warning sign. “Speaking of tomorrow…” He can’t come, he’s ditching because he doesn’t want to spend his Friday night with me on my couch watching movies. “Can I make a request?”

“Sure.”

“Whatever movies we watch… can we try to make sure there’s not a lot of explosions?”

Oh. That’s different.

“I know it’s a weird request, I know. It’s just… um explosions kind of make me…uh…” He talks quickly, avoiding her eye. “I just don’t like them and um-”

“Hey.” She steps closer to him, cupping his face with her hand. “It’s okay, J. You don’t want explosions; we won’t watch anything with explosions.”

“Really?” he says, his voice thin and breaking, his eyes wide.

“Yeah. Really.”

“Thanks, Ronnie.” He leans in for a moment, his arms moving around her waist, and she opens her mouth just slightly, her toes curling in anticipation until he stops at the last moment, pulling himself back. “Thanks.”

“Of course.” The rest of their walk back to her place is fine, full of easy and light chatter and flirting and a whisper of a kiss on her head as he leaves her just before she reaches her gate, but as she watches him walk away, she gets more and more worried about him.

Dear diary, she writes that night as her parents get ready for their trip.

I know JD has his secrets. But is it wrong that I want him to open up to me anyway? I know it’s none of my business why he doesn’t want to watch anything with explosions but I can tell he’s hiding something from me. And I know he’s allowed to do that-heck we’ve only been together for a month-but… I don’t like him not telling me something, even if I shouldn’t feel that.

Maybe I want to take care of him. Maybe I want to be his shoulder to cry on.

Jesus, she realises with an impending sense of dread weighing down her stomach I sound like Fleming.

After school on Friday, Veronica runs through the candy aisle of the local supermarket with more enthusiasm than should be allowed given her age. She swings a basket in her hand and holds a twenty dollar bill in the other, trying to work out the right amount of candy needed to keep her and JD happy and also keep the little trick-or-treaters of her neighbourhood satisfied. She’s seen what happens to houses who don’t give little 13 year old boys enough candy to see them through to December, and she’s determined not to fall victim to them. Climbing up a tree to remove toilet paper from the branches or wiping egg from her living room window don’t sound like very romantic activities.

She drops a bag of fun size mars bars into her basket, then another bag containing bags of M&M’s, sitting alongside a packet of fun size store brand chocolate bars and a bag of Chupa Chubs. She taps the plastic basket against her leg, cocking her head to the side and mentally weighing up the pros and cons of Snickers versus Skittles and trying to reason with the little voice telling her to get both. JD had told her to just “get whatever” when she had asked him yesterday, playing with her hair and telling her that he trusts her judgement. It makes her smile, really, to hear that. But it also makes her wish he was here so she could smack his head against the wall and make him pick a god damned candy. Rather than be at his mystery appointment he still won’t tell her about.

She shakes her head, banishing that thought from her mind, pushing away the anxiousness that had started slithering into her stomach. For tonight, all she will allow herself to worry about is whether or not she has enough candy and if her video player will eat the videos that she still has to rent.

She frowns at the basket, noticing how there seems to be one gap in her little sugar-filled metropolis. Surely one more little bag wouldn’t do anyone any harm, right? She looks around at her options before her eyes are drawn down the aisle, away from the packaged candies with brands she could recite in her sleep. A large orange plastic sign hangs over a shelf near the end with black, shaky lettering and cobwebs drawn in thick lines advertises a special deal; half price for any of the Halloween themed cookies. Veronica chuckles to herself, picking up two boxes, one containing shortbreads shaped like ghosts, complete with black-icing eyes and open mouths, and gingerbread ones shaped like grinning pumpkins. After some deliberation, she puts the pumpkin shaped ones in her basket, hoping to match the pumpkin in her house, and her mouth watering at the thought of warm gingerbread.

Two hours later, she realises she made the right decision when her and JD are munching on those gingerbread pumpkins while carving a pumpkin of their own. Well, co-carving. Well, if she’s honest, he’s doing a lot of the carving. But she drew the face, so she decides it was a team effort.

What wasn’t a team effort was their costumes. She had just pulled a black dress out of her closet, drawn on some whiskers with eyeliner and put on a pair of black cat ears she picked up while candy shopping and renting videos, not thinking twice. JD, on the other hand, probably thought more than twice. She opened the door to him leaning against her doorframe in a pair of tight leather trousers and a slightly-open white shirt with sleeves, a black waistcoat with gold buttons and gold thread weaving an intricate pattern around them. Even his trusty trench coat that she could use as a way to find him in a crowd was gone, replaced by a black cape (lined with red) he had since draped over Veronica’s own shoulders. To complete the look was a black mask around his eyes, and a red neckerchief sitting under his chin.

“Stand and deliver, your candy or your life!” he had declared when she opened the door, stepping inside as she fall against the wall giggling.

“Wow,” she had said, taking in the entire ensemble. Seeming to read her mind, he gives her a spin to show it all off. “That is quite the get-up. Let me guess; Dread Pirate Roberts?”

“No,” he had replied, looking slightly offended. “Dick Turpin. Famous 18th century highway man? Ended up being hanged for his crimes?”

“Dick Turpin,” she had said, the name sparking something in her mind. “Didn’t he have a horse called Black Bess or something? And was meant to be like, really hot.”

“He probably did have the horse,” he had told her. “But she wasn’t called Black Bess.”

“Well, at least you’re still hot.”

Now she kneels on one of the chairs surrounding her kitchen table, watching the intensity in his face as he carves out the face in the pumpkin. With the coat gone, she can just about see the muscles in his back moving beneath this shirt. His tongue sticks out of the corner of his mouth and he makes no effort to push back the hair that falls in front of his face.

“What?” he asks, his eye catching hers and realising she’s been watching him rather than his pumpkin.

“Nothing,” she says. She jumps off the chair and comes up behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist and kissing his shoulder. She rests her chin on his shoulder and looks at his half-finished pumpkin. He’s carved one eye and half a mouth so far. “I’m just really glad my parents went away for the weekend.”

The fully carved pumpkin sits next to the fireplace in Veronica’s living room, a candle glowing inside him (JD insists it’s a him and also insists that his name is Wilbur Dean-Sawyer, first of his name). Veronica and JD place an overflowing bowl of candy in between them and a stack of videos at Veronica’s feet. JD opens a packet of M&Ms and throws one in the air and catches it in his mouth with a wink. If he was trying to impress her, he did succeed. Veronica leans against him as the opening credits of Nightmare On Elm Street come on.

“Have you seen this one before?” she asks as his arm comes around her.

“I saw it when it came out,” he says. “One of the bigger kids snuck me in.”

“So you illegally saw it?”

“Oh are you a cop?” he jokes, planting a quick, candy-flavoured kiss on her lips. “Don’t worry, it’s not too scary.”

“Are you kidding?” she asks. “J, I’ve watched this it’s so scary.”

“Aw don’t worry, Nica,” he says gently, rubbing his cheek against her hair. “I’ll be here to protect you.” Veronica nuzzles ever closer to him, as his knuckles run up and down her spine, his cheek resting on her hair. He tightens his grip on her in the scene with the girl in the boiler room. She figures she must look more scared than she actually is, although there is something in the way that he holds her that sends her the message that it might be the other way around. From where her head is on his chest, she can’t see his face, but she thinks she could guess what it would say if she could. Or she could be overthinking things.

She plants a soft kiss to his hand, just in case.

Around the third movie, which ends up being An American Werewolf In London, Veronica begins feeling the sugar rush slipping off her. She rolls a Snickers between her fingers mindlessly, the paper crackling beneath them as her body weight sinks further and further into the sofa. She has no intention of eating the thing, her stomach full enough and squishing and groaning slightly She blinks heavily and murmurs involuntarily, the soft noise escaping from the back of her throat. The weight of JD’s arm against her chest is better than any blanket, and her side has been pressed against his for so long that she imagines them sewn together. Any attempt to break it would be complicated and messy, so why bother? She rubs her cheek against him as drowsiness begins to settle into her bones, all the while watching the movie unfold before her.

That is, until the kitchen phone rings and sends a shock directly to her heart.

“Fuck!” she yells, jumping away from JD. The break in contact makes her feel cold and clammy on that side, her body wanting nothing more than to melt back into him. Her brain still feels fuzzy and disoriented, like a TV on static, and her heart has jumped from pumping at a soft gentle rhythm to going at probably a hundred miles an hour. She runs a hand through her hair and over face, groaning as the phone continues ringing through the hall. “This better be important. Otherwise I’m going to flip.”

“Was it interrupting something important?” he asks, leaning heavily on the arm on the sofa and smirking. She chuckles and presses a kiss to his hair.

“Very.” The phone keeps ringing, pounding against her brain, and she wants to scream. “Can you pause the movie for me?”

“Sure.”

Veronica half-walks, half-stumbles into the kitchen, the phone continuing to ring and ring and ring like a nagging kid tugging on her arm until she gives it her attention.

“Hello?” she asks into the receiver, leaning against the cold white wall.

“Veronica?” a small voice asks on the other end. Veronica pushes herself off the wall and stands on her own two feet. She recognises the voice, of course; only Heather MacNamara could have a voice so small and so delicate. Except it’s also thick and shaking and she can hear her breathing heavily on the other end and that’s so far from what she’s seen of her so far, the small storm clad in a yellow skirt. The one with a kind smile but a cruel steel underneath. “Veronica?”

“Heather?” she asks. She turns slightly and sees JD leaning against the doorframe, frowning.

“Veronica, I need help,” she says. “Can you come pick me up?”

“Pick you up?” She turns and glances at the kitchen clock. “Heather, it’s almost 11:30.”

“I know, I’m sorry.” She gasps on the other end of her line, dissolving into snuffles and sniffs and tiny wet coughs that make a lump form in Veronica’s throat. “I just need help right now.”

“Okay, okay,” she says gently. “Slow down. Where are you?”

“I’m… I’m near Ram’s house. I’m at the end of Ram’s street. You know where they payphone is? Outside the Chinese take-out place. There.” Veronica visualises it in her mind, vaguely remembering passing a take-out place on the way to the Homecoming Party of Death. She concentrates harder, trying to force herself to recall any detail that might make it clearer.

“The one with the cat in the window?”

“Yeah. Yeah I’m there can you just please come and pick me up? I know you’re probably busy and all I just, I need help.”

“It’s okay,” Veronica assures her. “It’s okay. We’re on our way, we’ll be there as soon as we can. Just hang tight. I don’t have car, but can you walk back to my place?”

“Yeah, yeah I can do that.”

“Okay, well just hang tight and we’ll be there really soon to get you, okay?”

“Okay. Thank you.”

She hangs up, her breathing shaky, and turns to JD, who is in turn biting his lip, his face a shade paler.

“That didn’t sound good. What was it? Who was it?”

“Heather,” she says. “Heather Mac. I don’t know she just-she sounds like she’s in trouble and she needs help.” She makes for the front door. “I’m going to pick her up, my parents took the car and even if they didn’t I can’t even drive. I’m just going to walk her back here. It’s not even that far. You can just stay here and-”

“Are you out of your mind?” he asks, draping her coat around her shoulders and holding his own in his hand. “Veronica, I’m not letting you walk around alone at this time. There’s all sorts of creeps and weirdos out there. Plus, Heather might feel safer with two of us there rather than one.”

Despite everything, Veronica smiles and reaches up to kiss his cheek.

“Thank you.” She puts on the coat properly and opens the door, lifting her key from the rack. “Now come on. Sooner we leave, sooner we can come back.”

It’s not difficult for them to spot Heather. In her yellow minidress (emphasis on mini) and matching bunny ears, she stands out amongst the dark sky and silhouettes of houses. Her slight frame is curled in on itself, and when they get closer Veronica can see her hugging her elbows. It’s only when they’re next to her that she sees the violet bruise below her eye, the scarlet scrape on her chin and the mascara-tinged tears over her delicate cheeks that Veronica feels the candy she feasted on earlier turning sour in her belly.

“Heather?” she whispers gently. Her breath forms smoke in the glow of the streetlight. “Heather?” Heather makes a meek noise that Veronica takes as a response. Her hand sits in front of her, halfway between her and Heather, feeling cold and clammy and dead at the end of her arm, unsure of what to do. “Heather, it’s Veronica.” Heather’s head turns to her, the bruise catching the light.

“You came,” she states in a small voice.

“Yeah,” she says softly. She decides to take a delicate approach, like Heather is a small wounded animal. She gives JD a nervous glance and he nods, his eyes still fixed on Heather, his expression still confused and shocked, but somehow it makes her feel less wrong. “Come on. We’ll walk you back to my place.”

“We?”

“Yeah, JD’s here too.” Heather turns slightly and looks at him, probably just seeing him for the first time.

“Oh,” is all she says.

“It’s just us. We’re going to talk you back to my house and then we can work something out okay? You can call your parents to come pick you up or something? Sound good?” Heather nods, her movements so small Veronica is sure she wouldn’t have seen it if she hadn’t been standing so close to her. “Okay, let’s go.”

Behind Heather, JD takes his cloak off and drapes it around her shoulders. Her face remains a fixed, stony mask, her eyes empty and faraway, but her fingers, decorated with yellow nail polish, grasp the edges tightly, her shoulders burying into it. Veronica gives him a grateful look, to which he responds with a quick half-smile, before they start walking back home, Veronica in front and holding her hand, JD behind her with a slight grip on her shoulders, and sometimes acting as Veronica’s eyes when she’s too nervous to take her own on Heather.

Getting home easier said than done, especially with seemingly shell-shocked Heather in tow. Her steps are small and slow and she wobbles in her kitten heels, which is odd for her. Veronica has witnessed first-hand her trotting around school in similar little shoes, never having to look down to check, gliding around as easily as Veronica would in her slippers. She doesn’t look drunk and there’s no smell of alcohol on her, but she can’t help but wonder. A single tear runs down Heather’s face and she sniffles gently, accompanying the sounds of a party going on not too far from them and a fireworks display going on, the sparks lighting up the sky.

Selfishly, she wishes she was watching fireworks with JD instead of doing this. And then she hates herself for thinking that.

When they get to the house, JD runs ahead and opens the door for them as she helps Heather in. The TV is switched off, an open, empty video case lying on the carpet and their candy abandoned in the bowl. Their pumpkin lantern has gone out now and the cushions are sitting askew from when Veronica pulled her legs up on the sofa and kicked them around as she tried to get comfortable.

Veronica helps Heather sit down. She seems slightly better now; her breathing more regular, her hands no longer shaking, but they still grab onto Veronica for dear life, like she’s the last lifeboat on the Titanic. JD taps Veronica’s shoulder lightly before disappearing out the living room door, heading in the direction of the kitchen, where she hears the sound of the tap running.

“Heather,” Veronica asks, focussing on the girl in front of her. “Heather, what happened?”

“I-it’s nothing,” she mumbles, looking down at her hand. She gasps suddenly, her head snapping up to meet Veronica’s eyes with such ferocity Veronica can feel her own neck cracking. “I’m so sorry. I ruined your and JD’s night and you had to walk all the way out there in the cold and it’s over nothing and I should just-”

“Heather. Heather!” Veronica tries to keep her voice as calm and quiet as possible, but it’s hard when Heather is frantically talking over her and her shoulders are squirming beneath her hands as she tries to leave. “Heather, please. Just tell me what happened.” Heather falls still just before they reach the door and Veronica’s glad for it; she really didn’t want to have to man handle Heather onto the couch. Her little pink mouth opens and closes like the goldfish Veronica had when she was a kid.

Behind her, the door creaks open and JD sidesteps around her.

“Here,” he says, handing her a glass. “Got you some water. And these,” He waves a bag of frozen peas. “Found them in the freezer. That’s not too bad but it’ll still need some ice.”

“Not too bad?” Heather asks, hope lining the edge of her voice as she takes the bag.

“I’ve seen worse,” he admits with a shrug. “I’ve had worse.” Heather huffs a laugh, probably thinking he’s joking. Veronica on the other hand turns to look at him, her fingers brushing against his. If they didn’t have more pressing issues, she would definitely be digging into that.

“Heather,” she says instead. “What happened?”

Heather looks down, her lower lip beginning to tremble. All sorts of horror stories fill Veronica’s head as she looks at the bag of peas held against Heather’s eye. Anyone who was anyone at Westerberg was at that party and that leaves a wide range of suspects. Including one mythic bitch with a red scrunchie. Veronica scolds herself, telling herself that while Chandler’s bad, she can’t be that bad. Right?

“Kurt,” she says eventually. “Kurt happened.”

“Somehow I’m not surprised,” JD mutters.

“It was… we were at the party,” she explains. “We were dancing, having fun. And Kurt and I started kissing a little-sorry you didn’t need to know that.” Her cheeks turn pink at her admission. “Anyway, I got bored fast. I stepped back; said I needed some air. And I wanted to get another drink. Really I just wanted to stop kissing him. And he didn’t really like that.”

Veronica feels as though her chest is collapsing in on itself and her skin is crawling with ants. A shiver runs down her back and JD wraps his arm around her waist. She leans into the embrace, more grateful than she could be able to say right now. She’s not sure she can speak at all.

“So I walked away and he grabbed my hand. Asked for just a few more minutes.” She takes a big gulp of water. “I said no. I pushed him off and went to find Heather. Or Heather. Or just… anyone. Then he started yelling stuff at me.” She frantically wipes tears away from her face. “I didn’t listen. I knew if I just ignored him he’d stop but then- then he pushed me.” Veronica flinched, feeling an invisible punch in her stomach. Heather herself winces, at the pain from the cut or bruise, she doesn’t know. “That’s how I got these. And everyone was looking at me. And then Heather-Heather Duke came over and told me to go clean up. And they were all staring and people were pointing and my heart started beating real fast-” She gasps loudly, her shoulders shaking as she cries. “And I just knew I had to leave!” She takes another long drink of water, trying to calm herself down. “And I didn’t know who else to call but you.”

Veronica doesn’t know if she should feel flattered or scared or outright furious. JD seems to be furious enough for the both of them; his hand curls into a tight fist at his side and his mouth is set in a thin line, his breathing coming out shakily and his shoulders tight and tense.

“Heather… I’m so sorry,” she whispers. “Kurt… he’s a jerk. He’s such a jerk.” Heather nods quickly, trying and failing to compose herself with deep breaths. Veronica tries to think of some logical course of action, the heavy responsibility pushing down on her shoulders. “Um, maybe we should call your parents? Get them to pick you up?”

“Yeah,” Heather says, nodding. “Yeah, yeah. Um, can I use your phone?”

“Of course.” Veronica leads her into the hall, flipping the light on so she can see better. It’s the only light they have on in the whole house and it makes her blink a few times and Heather squint and nearly fall into the wall. She makes to walk back into the living room, but her feet stop in the doorway instead and her body leans against the doorframe as she listens to Heather dialling the phone.

“Daddy?” she hears her ask. She winces at how impossibly small she sounds; how much she sounds like a kid and unlike the tempest she is at school. This doesn’t sound like someone who would eat at the Heathers’ table it sounds like someone Chandler would spread nasty rumours about. “Daddy, can you come pick me up? I’m at my friend Veronica’s house. No, I just left the party early. Nothing happened.” The lie sends a shiver running down Veronica’s spine. “The address? It’s um, 6-”

“652 Wilbert Way,” Veronica whispers into the hall.

“652 Wilbert Way,” Heather repeats into the receiver, shooting Veronica a grateful smile. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. Thank you, Daddy.” She hangs up quickly and leans her forehead against the plastered wall, letting out a long breath. Veronica wrings her hands, feeling like a dead weight in her own home. Heather approaches Veronica slowly, her brown eyes wide and afraid. “My dad said he’ll be here in ten minutes.”

Those ten minutes may just be the longest of her life. JD puts the frozen peas back in the fridge and asses Heather’s eye under the hallway light, telling her it’ll be gone within a few days. “Just put some make up on it” he says, “Concealer and a little setting powder.” She doesn’t ask how he knows that. Heather stands in front of the window, picking at her nails and jumping at ever car that passes while Veronica sits on the sofa, gripping the edge so tightly she wonders if she’ll leave a permanent dent. JD comes back in and sits beside her, running his hand up and down her arm. She leans into it just slightly and even then she feels bad about it. She’s far from the injured party here, but that doesn’t take away the feeling like there’s a heavy, cold weight sitting in her chest, dragging her whole body down. And the longer she looks at Heather and that bruise on her eye, the further down it takes her.

Heather jumps away from the window as a pair of bright white headlights approach, turning to Veronica, who takes it as her cue to stand. She rushes over towards her with her arms out and Veronica expects a hug only for her to stop that the last minute.

“Thank you,” she sighs. “Thank you so much. You didn’t have to-”

“It’s okay,” she replies. “You’re welcome, I mean. I mean, I did have to.” Heather looks like she might burst right here in the living room, giving a small smile and letting out a short breath.

“Thank you,” she says again. Veronica walks to her to the door and doesn’t stop watching her until she gets into her dad’s car and the car peels out of her driveway and down the road, back to their nicer neighbourhood and their bigger, cleaner house.

And then she lets herself fall apart.

When she stumbles backwards, she isn’t even surprised that JD is there behind her, wrapping her in an embrace and kissing her head. He reaches over and closes the front door before leading her into the living room, his arms wrapping around her shaking shoulders.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks.

“They’re such assholes,” she whispers, shocked at the venom laced in her voice and then she realises she isn’t upset or scared-at least not as much as she thought she was. She’s angry. “Kurt. Ram. Heather Chandler. Heather Duke. They’re all fucking assholes.”

“Don’t need to tell me twice,” he agrees, kissing her head once, twice, three times like each kiss can calm her down.

“I just want-” It doesn’t matter what she wants, she realises. She might never see it. JD wraps his arms tighter around her and kisses her neck, sighing against her skin. “I just want high school to be a nice place. I want people to talk to each other and I want everyone to get along and I don’t want stupid cliques and football players who slut shame girls and slap them around for not kissing them!” She realises she’s screaming by the end, so hard her throat is getting raw. She curls in so that all of her fits into JD’s lap and her head is under his chin. Her cheeks flush red and she wants to get up and straighten herself out and stop crying over something so stupid, but with JD’s arms around her and him kissing her head, she’s not sure she can. She feels every bottled up emotion and flicker of pain she’s felt watching this happy kids turning into vindictive monsters over the course of four years finally build up and release all at once. “They weren’t always like this.”

“Oh?”

“They weren’t.” She shakes her head against his chest. “Back in kindergarten, they weren’t like that. Kurt, Ram, the Heathers… none of them. We just got along with each other; you know. We were all friends.”

“Then what happened?”

“High school,” she grumbles into his shirt. “We all got bigger and everything went to hell.” She draws circles on his shirt, her cheek pressed against his heart. “Can you stay over?” She presses a kiss to his chest. “I’m sorry, but I just don’t want to be alone right now. Not after-after that.”

“Fairly certain this goes against all your parents’ set rules,” he teases, kissing her hair. “Let me call Claire.” They keep a tight grip on each other’s hands as they wander into the hall, the light still on from when Heather had called her dad, and JD dials the number with one hand. He swings their hands gently as they wait, coaxing a small smile out of Veronica.

“Hello there, it’s me,” he says into the phone. “Hey Claire-yes I know-just, can I stay over at Veronica’s?” He rolls his eyes as Claire talks on the other end. “No, I know what you said just… look Veronica doesn’t want to be home alone right now?” He takes a small glance at her, mouthing ‘I’m sorry’.

‘It’s fine,’ she mouths in reply.

“Something happened and she doesn’t want to be left alone. No, her parents aren’t home, I told you they’re out of town.” Claire says something and JD bows his head and rubs his forehead looking over at Veronica anxiously.

“J, if you can’t stay, it’s okay,” she whispers. “It was stupid to ask; I’ll be fine on my own.”

‘No,’ he mouths, shaking his head. ‘It’s fine.’

“Claire, I’ll take them first thing when I get home…. Okay fine, home before ten. Thank you.” He hangs up the phone and turns to Veronica with a grin. “I’m all yours baby.”

In other circumstances, Veronica would love hearing those words. He’d say that and she would probably grin wickedly and close any distance between their bodies. She’d press a kiss to his lips, tangling her fingers in his dark locks before taking him upstairs and making every part of him hers. That’s what she’d probably do, if she were hearing those words in an ideal situation.

Instead she stumbles forewords into his arms, wrapping herself around him. She blinks heavily, both drying her tears and fighting her own exhaustion, and mumbles something incoherent against his shoulder.

“I think it’s time to call it a night,” he says gently. He doesn’t have to tell her twice. His arm comes up under her legs and he lifts her up, carrying her up the stairs.

“So chivalrous,” she jokes as they climb the stairs together, but her laugh is empty. Despite him carrying her, she doesn’t feel helpless like maybe she should.

He kicks open her bedroom door and she wriggles out of his arms and climbs onto her bed, slipping out of her dress and pulling on her pyjamas. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees JD looking out the window as she changes, apparently fascinated by her mother’s flower beds.

“It’s not like you haven’t seen me naked,” she teases. He looks back to her, with a chuckle.

“No, but like you said, Ronnie, I’m chivalrous.” She grabs the front of his shirt and pulls him down on top of her, tickling his nose and mouth with tiny kisses. They come to a comfortable position with her right on top of him, her head in the crook of his neck and her legs in between his and her arm flung across his waist. He keeps his fingers running through her hair at a steady, soothing rhythm which does nothing to help with the fatigue that’s weighing her down and making her sink into her bed. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“I just want everything to go back the way it was,” she sighs. “Before high school. Before middle school, even. Before we all decided that being popular and pretty and rich was more important than being a good person.” She groans into his chest, cringing at herself. She made that decision once herself and she can’t forget it. “I know how stupid I sound.”

“You do not sound stupid,” he assures her.

“Things were just better back then,” she goes on. “And I keep thinking maybe we can be like that again. Maybe. And then stuff like this happens and the real world comes in.” A faint blush creeps over her cheeks. “Sorry for unloading this all on you.”

“Don’t be,” he tells her. “What else are boyfriends for?” She smirks against his chest and blinks rapidly. She feels the pressure of a kiss against her head. “Now go to sleep, Ronnie.”

She snuggles into him, one arm coming around his back and holding him tightly as her breath starts to even out and she treads the fine line between awake and asleep. Somewhere in her tired, drained mind, she realises that in a few short days, October will turn to November and she’ll have two months of her senior year, her last year in Sherwood behind her. Slivers of different emotions and trains of thought begin to trickle int other mind and nearly wake her, but she pushes them away, in part due to her overwhelming tiredness and also, she suspects, to the light feeling of her boyfriend’s fingers on her back. She gives into it gladly, falling sleep with his fingers in her hair, letting out a small whimper as she curls up into some sort of ball, with no assholes jocks or mean girls or crying ex-friends able to scare her or freak her out in here.

So much for her night off.

[sasorikigai]

inner circle symbols . || @pxlariis || accepting 

○ - for one of my muse’s biggest regrets.

Viciousness hums through the thick fog clogging his arteries, for properties of his cryomancer blood makes his synapses flood. Instead of the muddled thoughts of his past, with all the insubordinate sludge of uselessness weighing down his ankles as Tundra all gone, Kuai Liang’s mind flourishes with only intrepidity and faith that follows with the velocity and tenacity of his ever-agglomerating powers. How his halcyon crystallization, his energy and its beastly fervor beneath him synchronizes from clashing elements of parallel universe, where jabbing coldness of his disappointment, etching forth the ruthless absolute zero without the compassion, warmth and comfort which he had provided to Frost ever since Raiden had introduced her to him.  

Kuai Liang’s heart isn’t as frozen as so many deem it to be; if one should fingerprint his heart, one will only find remnants of his suffering, still effervescently burning, going at him with a speed of sound even when his demolished heart should have no fuel whatsoever to burn. Yet, the vena cava of his heart still burns with eternal hope and dreams, even with impending doom as his company, that would signify his denouement so many times as the journey on this Earth have ended, and have began with his resurrection. Through his phlegmatic composure, the sorrow seems to be mellowed out, almost unaffected; yet, there is a wintry feeling in this cold breeze of immovability when he locks himself and self-flagellates beneath the entombed prison of the frozen lake. 

Harsh disappointment and hardened complexion brings shiver upon his spine - of course, the gelid stretch of the Arctika’s winter has no effect on him whatsoever - but something entirely else. He had provided so much for Frost, yet he’s met with much less bargain as all that he was faced with was looming threat of death; its finality, its malice, with his intents and sympathy gone astray beneath the entropy and loss of understanding and intuit perception. 

He does not owe her anything; for his mentorship had only strengthened her power, despite her having disowned him in every way possible. Yet, she feels like Kuai Liang’s burden, his failure; even amidst trying to rebuilt her ever since her first treacherous act of trying to kill Hanzo in their bad blood; even knowing that he could to little or nothing in the regard, that very descend towards subjugation of humanity and towards mutilation and enhancements. The echoing reverberations of what has been lost - and what could have been between them - still plagues his psyche.  

[singletales]

Death

It lick me fi 6.

We've had our run ins over the years and we were never friends.

It has hurt me on many occasions.

Bullied me in many a ways.

This time it just straight up flat out walked up to me with a twelve inch daggar and stabbed me in the center of my chest.

Piercing through the aorta and vena cava in one fatal sweep.

Stepped back and smiled as the blood dripped from the end of the blade.

Whistles away as I stand there bleeding... Hurting.

It's hurt me too many times now. Moving around me in circles.

As u can tell I have to live on with the pain. What I just described was totally fictional.

It was more so I fell to the ground and sobbed bitterly as my mother wailed on the other end of the cell phone.

I crawled to the bathroom where my lover consoled me and relieved me of locomoting like a 7 month old.

It hurts most because I knew she loved me real love. Regardless of sexuality and looks and what I did or say. She loved me. She was too good for this world.

Many a memories as a child, playing in her hair, making fun of my food choices helping me with home work.

You were really there for me whenever I needed u.

In ur last days u tried to show me I could be honest n open with u n I denied u that.

I had built my walls so high and I left like no one needed to know.

I could just live my life.

No one needed to know but maybe I needed to say it.

To free myself of my self built prison. What if I had told u. Would that someone change the ripple of time. Could a minute change in conversation change space time continum?

Your name deserves to be said. Lesing u were a great friend to my mother as u were my mother's friend. But u were an awesome woman to me who u didn't even have to business with.

No one can do what u have done for her.

All her life in all her ups and downs and losses and gains but I pray peace for her.

As u were always the person to remove her daggars and dress the wound.

My job here is to continue to make u proud as the others. The burden I carry is heavy not for the living but for the dead.

What does that say about me.

I wonder if he isn't tired to see me. I am surely tired of him.

As I heal and I go along live's journey I live in fear.

I cannot hate him as he only does what he must.

But it is whenever my gaurd is down and life seems sweetest.

He comes.

You were an amazing soul.

Please Rest In Peace.

-for Lesing, Daddy Sam, Sir Will, uncle Sonny and Johnny, uncle Froggy, granny Worris, aunty Pat, Miss Icy, Grandma.

- for Jason, Prezy, Eggy n Kitty

For all the ppl I never thought would die or just wasn't ready to loose. RIP

[middlemistgrey]

Love In The Time Of Influenza

Summary: Dating is hard when you're hiding it from everyone. And boy, do slip-ups happen. [This is all thanks to @briefzombiechild ! It was her marvelous idea.]

A happy, fluffy fic to make up for all the sadness I caused you guys with my leukemia one-shot. Enjoy!

_________

Then.

They met when the Pneumonococci attacked the body. He saved her thrice that day. During the third time, she said —

“White Blood Cell, forget about idiots like me and run!”

But I can't; you won't understand, he thought as he told her to run left.

This is not my first time meeting you, AE-3803. I can't leave you.

… .. .

Now.

They sat together in one of the marginating pools in one of the small veins. She took off her uniform jacket and he folded it for her. Some platelets were washing the fibrin nearby and they giggled as they saw them together.

“Do you think they know...about…this?” she said as she made a circle in the air around themselves.

“I don't know…they’re just children and children giggle all the time.”

Unknown to them, a camera clicked.

… .. .

Then.

She asked whether they would meet again or not.

He blatantly said no. A beat later he amended his statement and gave a vague answer about cells being numerous and how it would be virtually impossible for them to meet again.

He was not going to tell her that she was reason he was what he was today. He was too subtle for that kind of talk.

… .. .

Now.

They were walking together through the Vena Cava when his receptor started beeping. She kissed his forehead quickly and sent him off, praying to God that he comes back safe.

Snap, snap, snap went the camera.

… .. .

Then.

Catching her had been easy as she went falling through the abrasion.

It's you, her eyes had said, as if unbelieving of the fact that yes, they did meet again.

He loved the slight tinge of pink on her cheeks as he pulled her up.

… .. .

Now.

“I love you,” she blurted out as they ended their embrace.

He had just come back from a day long battle with the Influenza A virus (which had attacked yet again). She had hugged him as soon as she saw him, bloodied clothes and all.

He looked at her for a long moment before his eyes softened and he caressed her cheek.

“I love you too,” he said and kissed her.

Snap!

… .. .

Then.

Being trapped in fibrin wasn't so bad when she was pressed up against Neutrophil U-1146.

Oops, wherever had that thought come from?

… .. .

Then.

The other Red Blood Cells jostled with them for space. Somehow in the midst of the chaos, her forehead hit his.

“Ouch!” they both cried out unanimously before suddenly becoming aware of the close proximity they were in.

… .. .

Then.

It wasn't a cliché when they said that time stopped during moments like these, she wondered as she stared right into U-1146’s eyes. All the noise and the cells pushing up against her became secondary.

She knew that she was blushing. He was blushing too — a little — just like before when she had come to tell him that she had arrived there to see him first before the other Red Blood Cells arrived.

Somehow courage found her and she closed the distance between them.

He complied.

… .. .

Now.

He had come back to their marginating pool after a long fight with Influenza. She smiled as she served him dinner.

“What are you smiling at?”

“Do you remember how you left me when we got freed from the fibrin? I woke up alone and you took away my cap too, leaving yours behind!”

“I was just embarrassed back then. It was awkward and you know it. But I'll never leave you now.”

“Never?”

“Never.”

… .. .

Then.

“Ah, there you are!” she shouted as she spotted him sulking in one of his resting spots in the brain.

He looked at her with surprise and wonder, eyes wide and all.

“I thought I would never see you again…” he muttered after a short while.

Her stance grew awkward too; how could she have thought that they would easily get over what had happened between them in the firbrin network?

She sat down beside him, took his face in her hands and said, “Well, I guess we are stuck together, fibrin or not.” She kissed him on the lips and ran away.

Did she just propose to me?

… .. .

Now.

She watched as the one of the formerly Naive T Cells killed the last infected cell. The city around them was in chaos but the crowd cried tears of joy. She sighed in relief. Now she could find what she was looking for.

She sought only one face in the crowd — his.

… .. .

Now.

He was bloodied and bruised and lying on the ground. Some cells were gathered around him. Not caring for their reactions, she cut right through the circle to go to him and went to sit beside him.

This was nothing unusual for the cells; they already knew these two were best friends and that they stuck to each other like mucosa through thick and thin.

But when she bent down to kiss him square on the lips, they gasped. The crowd broke into hushed murmurs.

“U-1146 and AE-3808 are together?"

“They're in a relationship?”

“They're more than best friends?”

“What is going on!”

“I'll tell you what's going on,” a voice spoke loudly. It was Dendritic Cell, looking as stately as ever in his emerald green uniform. A platelet beside him smiled.

“U-1146, you need to recover and what's better than some cytokines to cheer up the soul!”

White Blood Cell immediately started panicking at his words. This couldn't be good, this couldn't be good —

— and it was too late.

The photos spilled out.

[obotligtnyfiken]

The best explanation for what happened when Mary shot Sherlock

It took me a while to find it again, but finally my googling payed off. Here it is, still the best explanation for what happened when Mary shot Sherlock: https://shamrockrovers.livejournal.com/13721.html

I know nothing about medical stuff, but this explanation convinces me, both anatomically and story-wise. The short version is, if I understand correctly:

Mary tried to shoot Sherlock straight in the heart.

She was standing with her arm straight out, not bending it at the elbow and supporting it with her other hand, which means that she was about to shoot right away. Sherlock likely recognised this sign that she was about to kill him.

Sherlock starts moving to the left as she shoots, which saves his life: the bullet doesn’t go into the heart, but nicks the sack around it.

When Sherlock’s heart stops beating, he is not going into cardiac arrest . His heart itself is fine, but it can’t beat because the sack around it has filled with blood.

When Sherlock comes back to life, it is because the pressure on his heart has lessened for some reason - possibly the hole to the sack around the heart has become larger from the doctors jostling him about, and the blood has drained out of the sack.

The wound from the operation is consistent with an operation treating injury to the chest, not the abdomen, which would be the case if the liver or the inferior vena cava had been injured.

There we are. Mary is - still - a killer, no matter what S4 tried to tell us. I don’t think I will ever stop circling back to that fact for as long as I’m in the BBC Sherlock fandom! :-)

[virinchihospitals90]

Best liver transplant surgeon in hyderabad - Virinchi Hospital

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[mcatmemoranda]

This pt has a collapsed lung on the left. I got it right! :)

If you look at the left lung, you can see the outline of it (yellow arrow). You can see lots of black space between the left ribs (blue circle) with no lung markings there. That's how you know it's collapsed. Also, the question said that the left hemidiaphram was flattened--that's because the air in the intrapleural space is pushing it down. He also had decreased breath sounds on the left and a respiration rate of 34.

This pt has a collapsed lung on the left. I got it right! :)

If you look at the left lung, you can see the outline of it (yellow arrow). You can see lots of black space between the left ribs (blue circle) with no lung markings there. That's how you know it's collapsed. Also, the question said that the left hemidiaphram was flattened--that's because the air in the intrapleural space is pushing it down. He also had decreased breath sounds on the left and a respiration rate of 34.

The image with the white arrows shows a large left pneumothorax. The arrows outline the "pleural line" that can be traced in the setting of a pneumothorax. Note that distal to this line, there are no vascular markings. Sometimes the compressed lung tissue can appear as a mediastinal mass, so it is important to make sure to trace the vascular markings out to the periphery to differentiate between mediastinal mass and pneumothorax.

Pneumothorax occurs when extrapleural air is introduced into the intrapleural space. Patients will present with dyspnea, unilateral chest pain, decreased breath sounds, increased resonance on percussion, and decreased tactile fremitus (palpable chest vibrations during vocalization, which usually increases with lung consolidation). Viscerosomatic changes may be palpable in the paraspinal muscles from T2-T6, representing lung pathology.

Classic radiograph findings will reveal a thin white line (pleural line) in the affected lung field with no vascular markings distal to it, as described above. COPD is a disease process closely linked to pneumothorax. With progressive destruction of the pulmonary parenchyma, formation of large bullae, or thin-walled air-filled cavities, within the lungs are prone to rupture and can cause pneumothorax. Bullae are also classically present in young, thin males, which predisposes them to spontaneous pneumothorax. Pneumothoraces are typically managed with supplemental oxygen and chest tube insertion into the pleural space. The chest tube is placed on "suction" so the excess air in the pleural space is pulled out and the negative intrapleural pressure is restored.

Tension pneumothorax typically occurs in the setting of trauma. Essentially, it occurs when air is introduced into the pleural space and continues to accumulate with no way to escape. This continuous increase in intrapleural pressure can cause mass effect on the mediastinal structures, including the heart, aorta, superior vena cava, inferior vena cava. Patients will present with progressive respiratory distress, tachycardia, and hypotension. The most common radiographic findings of tension pneumothorax include mediastinal shift (to the contralateral side), ipsilateral rib cage expansion, and ipsilateral diaphragmatic depression. This occurs due to the progressive increase in intrapleural air that is unable to escape. These are emergencies and need to be recognized immediately. They are managed with urgent needle decompression, typically in the second intercostal space along the midclavicular line.

Bottom Line: Pneumothorax presents with dyspnea, unilateral chest pain, and decreased breath sounds over the affected lung. Chest radiography will show a "pleural line" with increased lucency distal to it. Make sure to look for mediastinal shift to assess for tension pneumothorax.

[heyamandahey]

CAT to ER to ICU

Thursday, April 25, 2019

After dragging my feet through the land of ZocDoc, I booked an appointment with a primary care physician since I did not really have one all these years. When ever I have had health insurance in the past, it has always felt sufficient to see my dentist and gynecologist regularly. I rarely get more than one cold per winter, maybe strep throat if I’m going through a traumatic breakup, but that’s it!

After getting approval for a CT scan through my primary doctor, I informed my office I would be getting a scan over my lunch break, but I should be done in time for our afternoon meeting.

The radiology clinic attended to me in a relatively timely matter. I received some sort of iodine drip to increase the contrast of the scan. They warned it may make give me feelings of needing to urinate or a metallic mouth flavor. My groin got sensationally warm.

CAT SCAN An unfamiliar sci-fi machine lay ahead of me with a Battlestar Galactica Cyclon-like eye beam, menacing red horizontal laser against a dark rectangle at the bottom of a large donut-shaped contraption. Mm, doughnuts. Its shape reminded me how I have been fasting for four hours. I mildly wondered if I would have time to pick up a sandwich before my meeting back at the office.

While the donut structure stayed static, the platform bed I laid upon slid back and forth. Gears inside the torus spun faster than a washing machine. It amazed me we could get imagery of any kind this way, and while I have wondered what it would be like to get a CT/CAT scan in the past, I did not expect to do so at this point in my life. It felt too early.

After getting the IV removed and dressed back in my normal clothes, I waited for my results. I expected the radiologist to sit down with me to explain the situation. The receptionist hands me a few papers, plus a CD that must contain my scan. Hah, CDs. I dimly think about how I have no CD drive at home.

After about fifteen to twenty minutes, a man enters the waiting room to confirm my identity. “Are you Amanda? You poor thing!” Oh, no.

This man had apparently already spoken with my PCP on the results of my scan, and I was to go to him straight away for further instructions. The radiologist continued on to say he has seen my doctor before as well for “a thing on his back” before reassuring me everything would be all right. He raised his hand for a high-five. I returned it.

PCP Visit Dr. Adams did not sit down with me to go over the CT scan as I had expected. Instead he had already spoken with the doctors at a nearby hospital and instructed me to head straight to the ER. I should take a cab. He handed me a square of paper.

All right. Definitely not making that mid-afternoon meeting. Probably no time for a sandwich either.

ER In the cab ride over, I called my parents to update them on my situation, but I kept it light-hearted. “Feel better, kiddo!” my mom consoled. I expected to go in for another test or two. I did not know I would spend the next two nights at the hospital. Upon entering the main entrance of the hospital, I feel my sense of control slowly start to crumble. The gravity of the situation suddenly feels immensely heavy. I had expended my last bit of self-control in convincing my parents that my present condition is not a big deal. In truth, I was no longer sure. I have never been to the ER, let alone received explicit instructions to go into one.  

Security guards lined what I expected to be a receptionist desk, but there is no office worker in sight. Tears start to well up in my eyes. All of the surrounding signs say unhelpful things like Green Pathway or Blue Pathway. None of this makes any sense. What’s going to happen to me? What am I doing? Where am I going? Is my eyeliner running?

One security guard reassured me, “Take your time, take your time. Where do you need to go?” He politely looked away while I struggled to fight back tears. After fumbling something about a thoracic surgeon, I remember that I need to go to the emergency room. Go outside and farther down to the right.

In a fog I enter the next unmarked door. A kind-faced man tells me it is about a fifteen-second walk more to the right. How did I get this bad at wayfinding? A wave of idiocy washes over me when I finally see the huge and clearly-defined letters that read, “E M E R G E N C Y – R  O O M” outside.

After checking in and traversing a few tunnels, all windows and natural light disappear. My vitals are taken in one room. I follow another medical professional through sterile hallways, lined with painted cinderblocks, fluorescent lights, and double-doors accessible only via an identification card. Dozens of hospital beds with grey faces and sullen looks line a central cluster of office desks. Behind each computer screen sat someone in a solid-colored scrub, completely unfazed by the organized chaos.

I am led to Bed #56. Is this corner of the room meant for me, or is someone else going to need this bed? I sat down like it’s a couch. Surely someone will come by to conduct another test or two, and then I can just go home. Maybe I can still make it to my gym class to fit in another workout.

A flurry of people stop by my bed, separated only by a curtain partition. What brings me to the hospital? How did my symptoms start? How long have I had this cough? Let me take those printed materials and CD from you.

Two thoracic professionals show me the results of the CAT/CT scan. Based on previous Google searches, I had expected a 3D-model but instead they’re aerial snapshots, slice by slice. Look at the dark spot in the center. That is my trachea. Like a reverse full moon, as we see pictures that approach the center, it turns almost into a sliver before waxing back into a full circle.

Over the course of the evening I learn that I most likely have lymphoma. There is a kind that tends to afflict younger women in the mediastinum or the space between the lungs. This rather large unknown mass most likely has been pressing on my superior vena cava (SVC), which would explain the neck and facial swelling, as well as my trachea, which would explain the coughing.

I don’t have allergies or cold or cough or sinus infection or bronchitis. I just have a tumor. See, guys? I was never contagious.

ICU Because I am essentially not bleeding to death, I will be moved to the ICU in a couple hours. They have deemed my condition unsafe to sleep at home, and I must be monitored at all times. I may have to stay at the hospital “several days” or at least through the weekend.

It is only Thursday night. I take out my phone to cancel my gym class.

The ICU ends up being on the fifteenth floor, and I receive a room all to myself. I don’t think I have been inside a hospital since I visited my paternal grandmother at one back in the Nineties. I did not think I would be at one regarding my own health for another decade or two. It is already a comforting change to see a window to the outside world, despite my occasional disdain for the sun.

I am scheduled to receive corticosteroid injections every six hours. A blood pressure cuff will measure my pressure every fifteen minutes before midnight, then switching only to every hour until morning. Occasionally my veins are flushed with a saline solution to keep the IVs clear. Its cooling sensation is rather pleasant, and it’s what I generally imagine Marvel superheroes feel when power courses through their veins.

Sleep is sparse, but I find rest. I have been instructed to fast, so I contemplate my next meal, eventually finding the Food Network to quell my hunger through a twisted sense of exposure therapy.

[kushtrimthaqi]

I can hear him. He is there. Always whistling at his pigeons. He has 18 of them, I think. I imagine their white feathers in constant motion, going in circles, and always returning to him; to that same pillar of smoke coming out of his joint.

You are here with me. Maybe you hear his whistle, too. Maybe you don't; Synchronicity...

I can feel your arms coming from behind me, touching my chest, then moving to my neck. You are here. Always. You never leave.

I want to turn my head and look at you. I want to kiss you.

(I can't turn my head.)

If I turn, I will ruin the spell.

It's fine like this...

I light a cigarette.

"Every cell in your body regenerates in 7 years period."

I never light that one, but I know it's always there.

When you wrote that thing, I never thought that we'd get that close; I had a feeling I would know you for a long time, but not like that.

Things change. Things change again.

It's hard loving someone so great alone.

I will have to create a book to share all of this.

Vena Cava.

I saw you.

I see you.