#does this make sense for cold water mermaids? no. but I am ignoring it. maybe WH is like PEI.

[sare11aa11eras]

Wylla Manderly as her house sigil for MerMay!

[ravs6709]

These Feelings Inside (How Deep Do They Go)

Chapter 3- Too Many Questions

Masterlist. Previous. Next chapter.

Read on ao3.

Let's go! Chapter 3 of the fic for the @kotlc2021collab !

I had larger plans for this chapter tbh, but I ended up stretching one of the scenes, so the chapter became very long (over 3k words). It was fun though!

Uh, warnings. (Censored) swearing, Sophie thinking about what would have happened to her if there wasn't a siren lure (the thought isn't completed, but still). I don't think there's anything else?

Anyways, enjoy!

•~•~•~•~•~•

Sophie woke to a feeling of intense cold. Heavy rain was pouring.

Wait, where am I?

The rain made it hard to see her surroundings, but it didn't take long for her to figure out that she was outside, in a beach-like setting. She wasn't on the mainland- she was on a mini-island with a small cave.

What happened?

She tried to think about what had happened earlier. She remembered Fitz backing away, and her needing to go outside for air. But what happened after that? How did she end up here?

Breathe. You need to breathe.

She took long, deep breaths. She was in an unfamiliar place, and if she let panic overtake her now, it'd only make things worse.

Okay, first things first. It's raining and there's a cave. You should go dry off.

She moved to go inside the cave, only to nearly step on a person. Wait, a person?

On closer inspection, the person was pale, and had messy blond hair. They were somewhat slender, yet still muscular and- 

"Holy sh*t!" Sophie shrieked, because she finally properly took in the revelation that there was someone else on the island with her.

How did they get here? Then again, she didn't even know how she got there either. How long were they there? Were they… were they dead? She vaguely remembered the feeling of falling. Maybe she managed to survive unscathed, but what if this person wasn't so lucky?

Check if they're alive. One thing at a time.

She looked at them, and found it weird that they didn't have a shirt on.

Don't get distracted!

They seemed to be breathing, but just to make sure, she put a hand to their neck to check their pulse. She sighed in relief when she could feel it easily.

"Uh… hello?" she called out. "Hello?"

They didn't stir. Were they unconscious? Her first instinct was to put water on them, only to once again remember that it was raining. If that didn't wake them up, she wasn't sure what would.

"Are you okay?" she asked once more.

She didn't know if poking them would be a good idea. She looked back towards the mainland. It didn't seem too far- however swimming wasn't particularly Sophie's strong suit. It was either swim, or wait and just hope that somehow the two of them would be found. Who knows how long that would take though? It would have to take at least a day.

What are mom and dad gonna say if I get home so late? What about Biana and Fitz? They'd be concerned, right?

She thought about Fitz again. Would he… how long would it take him to notice that I wasn't there?

Sophie turned back towards the person, who was still lying unconscious. 

"Okay," she murmured to herself. "I'm going to swim, and then I'll get some help. That doesn't seem too hard, right?"

As she made her way to the water, there was a groan. She whirled around again, and saw that the person was moving. Their eyes fluttered open, then focused on her. Or well, their gaze altered between looking at her chest and legs?

"What the f*ck?" she asked. "Stop staring at me!"

They hummed, then stood up, their legs trembling. The action reminded her of a baby making its first steps.

"Careful!" she said, rushing over to help them when they tripped over their feet.

"Okay sweetheart," they said, flashing a grin at her. Then their gaze flicked towards her chest. "Would you mind explaining what's going on?"

Sweetheart? Also why are they staring at me like that!?

"Who are you calling sweetheart?" she grumbled, pushing them away from her. "My name is Sophie Foster. So use my name. And quit staring at me."

They didn't look offended at all, they only smirked and Sophie felt like she was about to regret everything. "Okay, Foster. Why are you here?"

"I fell and washed up here?" she replied, trying to keep the annoyance out of her voice because they called her 'Foster.' "Aren't you concerned as to why you're here? Are you okay?"

They shrugged. "I know why I'm here, I'm not sure as to why you're here. You shouldn't be." They gazed down again, and she had the urge to hit him because that was really uncomfortable.

But she resisted that urge, and only raised an eyebrow. "What does that mean? It's not like you know me."

They sighed. "Can't you tell that something's wrong? Your heart's still glowing."

"What do you mean my heart is glowing?" Was that why they kept looking at her like that?

"Look… come in the water, I need to see something. Something's wrong."

She had no idea what they were talking about, but she followed them to the water. Before they could get there though, they tripped. 

"Next time I see ver, I'm telling ver that walking is overrated," they grumbled, before getting up and continuing.

"That's the second time you fell over," she remarked. "You sure you're okay?"

They turned around to face her. "Aww, you worried about me, Foster?" Then they winked.

She had two very conflicting reactions to that. On one hand, they seemed a little cocky, and the flirting wasn't really helping. On the other, they were attractive, and she hated the fact that she noticed that. Their ice blue were sparkling, and the messy blond hair only made them look better. (She was very consciously trying to ignore the fact that they were shirtless).

Focus on something else! Like… like how I've been able to hold a conversation. Or literally anything else. 

"For someone who was bothered by me staring at them, you sure have been staring at me for a long time."

"Look, I-"

"Never mind, we don't have time for this." They grabbed her wrist, pulling her into the water. 

Because the action was so abrupt, she tripped over her feet, and fell. She opened her eyes and tried to surface, but there was something off about her legs. She could feel down there, but her body refused to separate, as if glued together. 

Why can't I- why can't I move?

"You can breathe, Foster," the stranger told her. "You're not going to drown."

Before her mind can tell her that actually, that is exactly how you drown, her body took a breath. Strangely, it felt okay.

No longer fearing that she was going to drown, she was able to notice her surroundings. Her vision was clear, just as good as it was on land (which was weird). She saw the stranger, and again, their eyes were looking down at her legs. 

She was about to yell at them, until she finally realized something. They had a tail. It was ice blue, matching the shade of their eyes. 

"Uh, what is happening?" she blurted. "Why do you have a tail?"

To her surprise, they laughed. Then they gestured to her. "You should look at yourself first."

Sophie looked down, and instead of seeing legs, she saw a tail similar to the stranger's. Instead of blue, it was a bright red.

"What the f*ck!?"

What was happening? Seeing the tail on the stranger was shocking, but in a way, it wasn't that surprising. Sophie had been a very large fan of mermaids, and had gone through a time of her life where she had wished that they were real. She was still a fan of them and wanted for them to be real, but after her life had gotten better, that desire had lessened.

So if she happened to meet a person who happened to be washed up on an island, it wouldn't be too surprising that they were somehow a merperson. 

The true question was- why did she have a tail?

"What did you do to me?" she yelled.

They swam a little closer. "Foster, I-"

"Stay away from me!" she screamed, thrusting her arms forward to push them back.

The water distorted, and then they were launched backwards. They recovered quickly, moving with ease.

"What did I just do?" she demanded, because she just pushed the water. "What is going on?"

"Look Foster, before I can explain, I need you to take a few breaths. Your heart is flashing too much and it's drawing attention. You're too overwhelmed."

"Well I wonder why!" she snapped. "It's not like I'm suddenly a mermaid or something!"

"First off, you're a siren." 

"Well thanks, that helps a lot," she muttered.

"Second, sirens can see the hearts of other humans. For some reason, I can still see your heart, and it's flashing all sorts of colours right now. The last thing that we need is for you to draw too much attention." Their tone was slow, and any of the humor or confusion was gone. "I don't expect you to understand, I just need you to be calm enough to listen. Can you breathe?"

They didn't approach her this time, giving her some space. She took a couple of deep breaths. "Okay, please explain."

"It's going to be a lot to take in. Are you going to be okay?"

Sophie shrugged. "I'll try my best."

"Okay, I'll get started. Right now, we're sirens. We're not quite what you hear in the stories. Being a siren is both a blessing and a curse. How this all works, it's a cycle. A human has a broken heart, a siren has the power to seek out those broken hearts. A siren makes the offer for the human to let go of their life, and the human agrees. The siren becomes a human, and the human becomes a siren. Does that make sense?" They had used their hands to make motions in the water, which helped out a lot.

"I think? Why are sirens seeking out broken hearts?"

"It's not fun being a siren. We lose our memories of our human life. For the most part, we just swim in the water alone. There aren't many of us, and even if we do find someone, we're not meant to stay with each other for long. It's a life of isolation. Becoming a human again is the only way to escape."

"Oh," she murmured. "The heartbroken person hears the offer, and accepts it, because they want to escape from their pain, right?"

They nodded. "Exactly. Are you starting to remember what happened now?"

There was some gap between her being outside, her falling, and then being washed onto the shore. "Remember what?"

"You had a broken heart. Did someone you love try to abandon you?"

No, she told herself. Don't think about that again.

"That doesn't matter. Continue."

They paused, as if trying to consider how to phrase what they were going to say next. "I'm a siren. You were a human with a broken heart."

It finally sank in. "You tried to turn me into a siren. Except… this happened."

I was heartbroken enough to the point of throwing my life away.

"Yeah, kinda, but to be fair, our siren song is designed to make your feelings worse." 

What if there was no siren to lure me? What would I have done? Could I have… could I have-

"Foster, neither of us knows what happened earlier. Whatever you're thinking, I doubt that's the case. I don't know what happened, but you managed to not be turned completely. Doesn't that matter?"

She blinked, then took in the words. "How did you-"

"A heart glows different colours based on different emotions. I don't see fear often, and it's honestly kind of stressing me out."

"Do you know how to change me back?"

"Not until you can figure out why the curse didn't affect you fully."

She crossed her arms. "Did you just say 'you'? This is your fault, and now you're leaving me to deal with the consequences?"

"Well, my plan was to just kiss you and leave!"

"You kissed me?"

Their eyes widened and laughed nervously. "Well, that's how you initiate the exchange. It's not like I remember it much."

She backed away a little bit.

They sighed. "Look Foster, it's not like we get a choice. You can have a whole debate about the issues of the situation, or you can go try and figure this out."

"Again. You're leaving me to do this? We are going to figure this out. You've been a siren, and you said that sirens lose their memories, right? You wouldn't have a home then." She paused, swam forward a bit, then added, "You should come live with me."

"You want me to come live with you?"

She nodded. "Yeah, I mean, that way we can work together. And you're going to need a home. We should go, my parents are going to be worried. Oh crap, what do I tell them?"

"You live with your parents?"

"Yeah, I do. I don't have any plans on moving out either, I help them with work. I don't want to make them worry, so I'm going to have to make an excuse as to why you're living with us."

"Can't you just say that a distant family member reached out?"

"That won't work. Let's head back, and hope that by then I can think of something. Okay… wait, do you have a name?"

"Sirens don't know their identity, so we choose our own. My name's Keefe, I once heard from someone that it means 'handsome'."

She rolled her eyes. "Of course you'd choose a name that means that. Do you have pronouns? Mine's she/her."

"I use they/them."

"Okay, we should actually go now."

It took a little while to figure out how to move properly, and to be honest, it was a much needed distraction from everything that was now going on.

"You know Foster, how did you plan on getting back home? Swimming?" Keefe asked once they reached the mainland.

"Uh, yeah? It's not like it took long," Sophie replied, checking to make sure that there was no around before getting out of the water. "I can't believe I'm saying this but I actually miss having legs."

"Well I don't," they muttered, slowly making steps, their legs trembling. "How do people manage this? I'm freezing!"

She was about to make a somewhat mocking reply, before she realized that it was cold. The temperature was already quite low, and the rain- that had just recently subsided to a light drizzle- didn't make things better.

"You'll be fine with walking, right?"

"Don't worry Foster, I can walk. It'll just take me a bit to adjust, just like you had to adjust to swimming."

"Yeah yeah. Oh, you should probably take my sweater, it'll be weird if you walk around shirtless, and my dad will definitely be suspicious if he sees you like this."

"It won't be weird if I'm wearing your sweater?"

She shrugged. "Not like I have any other choice." She took off her sweater and gave it to them. It was a little small on them, but not as bad as she thought it was going to be.

"Okay, let's go."

Sophie was bad with directions, but she was lucky that she recognized the area. So, it didn't take too long to find the flower shop. Since the back entrance was closer, that was where she went. It only took a few seconds after she knocked for the door to open.

"Sophie!" Edaline called out, immediately hugging her. 

Sophie hugged her back, and heard more footsteps. Grady came running, a relieved expression on his face. He wrapped his arms around the both of them, putting them in a warm, protected embrace.

After it was over, Grady asked, "Sophie, who's this?"

She turned to where Grady was pointing to, momentarily forgetting that Keefe was there.

Oh, I completely forgot to make an excuse.

"That's my friend Keefe!" she told them. She knew that wasn't going to be enough, so she mustered the courage to make eye contact with Edaline (she would be less skeptical about her excuse, so Sophie would be less stressed about worrying whether they could see through her lies or not). 

"They're a friend I made online. I went out for some air today, and came across them. They don't really have a home to stay in, so I offered to let them live with us."

There, that (mostly) wasn't a lie.

"They don't have anything on them, but they'd be willing to work in the shop. Right Keefe?"

She turned towards them, half hoping that she could telepathically tell them to agree. 

They nodded. "Yeah, I'll help out."

"I'm sorry that you're in a situation like this," Edaline said.

"We're willing to let them live with us," Grady continued. "We'll have to deal with the issue of having a piece of identification, if we wanted to pay them-"

"Put whatever you pay me in Foster's name. It'll be easier that way."

Sophie turned back towards her parents, and saw that they were sharing a look (it reminded her of the way that they would look at each other whenever Jolie was indirectly brought up, back when Sophie had only just learned of her.

"Okay, we can do that for now. Now, the both of you should come inside, you're drenched. Eda, get some towels."

They went inside, and Sophie noticed that Keefe was staring around in awe. She walked up to him. 

"It's a flower shop," she whispered to them. "That's what you'll be helping out with. They'll probably not ask too many questions now, but there'll be more in the morning. Got it?"

"Got it. Also, are there supposed to be more peo-"

"Okay, we should be good," Biana's voice echoed through the shop. "We'll go looking for- Sophie! You're back!"

Sophie turned towards her, just in time to see Biana run up towards her.

"Are you in the mood for a hug- oh… you're drenched. Is everything alright?"

"Biana?" she murmured. You're… here… what about-

The sound of even more footsteps jolted her from her thoughts, and she looked and saw Fitz. Before she could say anything else, he ran up to her. She could see his face much more clearly, his eyes looked red, and his hair was a mess. Had he been crying?

"Sophie, I'm so glad that you're back," he whispered.

"Everything was fine though!" She hoped that her voice would be believable, but the sudden proximity and the words he spoke were making it harder to think.

"You can tell us what happened, but you and your friend should get changed," he said.

Sophie took Keefe upstairs, and found some of Fitz's clothes and gave those to them so they could get changed.

"Oh, they're a bit big on you," Sophie remarked after they both finished. Fitz was taller, and had more weight.

They stretched casually. "They're comfy. Your crush has good taste."

She sputtered. "What?"

Keefe smirked. "Really Foster, do you seriously think that I couldn't tell based on the way you two were staring into each other's eyes? Besides, your heart was glowing pink. That usually means love."

"Look-"

"Yeah yeah, I'll behave. You gotta go tell them that story again. Seriously though, what a lame story."

"I'm really bad at being put on the spot, alright? I had to make it believable!"

"Well, can't do anything about it now. I just have to roll with it."

They went back down, and she once again explained her excuse as to what had happened, and why Keefe was with her. It was easier to explain this time, because she now had the story in her head. All she had to do was make sure that she didn't contradict herself.

"So, Keefe's staying here?" Biana asked. "Okay, I'll go show them around. Come on Keefe!"

Sophie watched in amusement as Biana grabbed Keefe's arm and pulled them up the stairs, the blond protesting about "being able to walk by myself."

"Are you hungry?" Edaline asked. "Do you want us to take out dinner for you?"

"That would be nice, thank you." Now that it was mentioned, Sophie did feel hungry.

Both her parents went to the kitchen to reheat the meal, and now it was just her and Fitz in the room. 

"I know that it's more complicated than what you said," Fitz whispered, taking her hands in his. "You don't normally go out for a walk by yourself unless you're upset. I'm sorry that I didn't notice it when I was the last person to see you."

I felt bad because you left. I thought you didn't want to be my friend anymore. But... you're still here.

She didn't want to worry him though, so she kept quiet.

"If Keefe gives you trouble, or if something's wrong, you can tell me, okay?"

"It'll be fine. But okay, I'll tell you if it's not."

And things would be fine. They'd have to be.

•~•~•~•~•~•

Taglist- @keefeinnit @impostertamsong @my-swan-song @subrosasteath @tiergan-andrin-alenefar

Want to be added/removed from the taglist? Just let me know! (You can also specify whether if for all kotlc fics or just this one story)

[honestsycrets]

Soiled VI: The Shieldmaiden, Gunnhild.

❛ pairing | hvitserk x reader

❛ type | multi

❛ summary | in the aftermath of the attack, jonakr doesn’t react how you might expect. of course, that doesn’t mean you’re happy.

❛  warnings | mention of death, assault, angry hvitserk, elements of misogyny.

❛ sy’s notes | another chapter as requested by... i feel like @alicedopey​ did at some point.

x x x

A few stabs. Ten, fifteen, twenty swishes of an ill-fated blade. Maybe a hundred. It’s a great big blur of red-- of just how many times your sax met his limp body. Only that your blade snaps into two, leaving you clinging onto the handle of horn, shaking. A bloodied hunk of meat in your tower. The blood streams in rivulets from the puddle of blood freely, and as you stand, your miserable sobs break from your lips. Come tomorrow— Jonakr would see what you had done. You lack remorse for killing this man. But Jonakr… he was different from his brother. A man of honour.

You would feel for his loss. Even if this man— Valtýr sickened you to the bones. 

On his belt, you find keys slippery with blood. Your fingers tremor, making quick work of the castle door. This doesn’t make sense— you tell yourself, why princes had to fight over someone who was so clearly not worth it. You were a daughter of slavery, no matter where you went, it chased you to the ends of the earth. You swing the door open. There you find Jonakr standing on the steps, his large fists turned over one another. Your one and only instinct— run. 

You slip down the steps. He doesn’t dare, nor his men, to stop you.

Once out of the tower you found Hvitserk’s camp beside the brothers’ own. Your feet carry you within his camp despite the succession of voices shirking, like a woman in childbirth, within the tower. “Hvitserk,” their voices weave among one another. A thrall guides the flaps of his tent back. He sat with his cup to his lips, and he stops, jerking up to stand. 

“What are you doing here?” he says. 

“Clothes.” 

“Why do you need--” 

“Hvitserk,” you whirl about. “Please. His blood is seeping into my skin.”

“His blood?” Hvitserk prompts as if he could not articulate the gravity of the situation completely. He steps back, allowing for you to strip out of the sodden, iron dress. He lurches out to draw the flaps of his tent shut, barking your name. 

“(Y/N),” he curses your name. You would too if you could. Curse the very day you were born. Because now you were here, living and breathing, knowing you want neither to live nor breathe for what you’ve done. The gods might see it as just, but all the same, your maiden’s dress is nothing to be thankful for. “What have you done?” 

“Shut up Hvitserk! Shut up!” you pace, your fingers picking and lifting the matted down blood on your cheek. Hvitserk looks off to the flaps, then back to you, sweeping up a bucket of water. A cloth bobs in the water. He seizes it-- and brings it to your bloodied cheek. 

“Stop just-- hold still. There, that’s it.” It’s cool by now. The water that had once been boiled and warm frosts your skin. In small circles, Hvitserk bides his time. The warm tears spilling over your cheeks help loosen up the blood.

“I killed him,” you say. “I killed Valtýr.” 

Hvitserk remains silent, keeping to his work. His patient, caring eyes serve as the only indication that he heard you-- truly heard the tremble in your voice. “Jonakr will come to kill me next.” 

“You know he won’t.” 

But you wish he would. You wish he’d come put an axe through your head, because at least then-- for that split second of pain, there would be no more anxiety of knowing what might be coming next. That if you lived, who could tell what poor, awful man might treat you next? Hvitserk’s toy, the brothers’ little wife, and still-- what next? Hvitserk ran the cloth down your chin before walking to the roll of clothes over his makeshift bed. He unrolled a deep green tunic and offered it to you. 

“It’s a little short,” he says, almost humorously, and helps you into it. 

A knock at the wooden post is short-lived. Then, bending within the tent, you spot Jonakr. His large frame overwhelms the door, filling it like a great bear. Although, instead of charging forward, he tilts his head. Your lips part posed to say something, not for yourself. For his sorrowful eyes. Hvitserk shifts in front of you. Blood stains Jonakr’s muddy tunic red, painted in long streaks, as if by the god’s own hands. He holds up his hand to stop you from offering condolences. Or excuses. 

“You needn’t do that. I’m not here for revenge,” Jonakr says, shifting his head to look around your shoulder. “I knew why he went to your tower. He told me what he planned to do.” 

You glance up, staring at his large bloodied hands, then beyond him to the pale tend behind him. You wonder how it would look, bloodied, splattered. Take a step back. “What did he plan on doing?” Hvitserk prompts his question. 

Jonakr ignores him, takes a step closer. “It’s not your fault.” 

“Maybe,” you say noncommittally because there is no part of you that believes that. It’s a lie. Pain follows you like a second skin. Even now, the moments only hours ago feel like a distant dream, hazy like the blood over his belly. “But that doesn’t make him any less dead. You should do it-- you should…” 

“No,” he says, a slight frown furrows his brow. “He wasn’t in his right.” 

Wasn’t he? He said it himself. A woman wasn’t her own. She belonged to her countrymen. That was why what happened was such a sin. Your eyes flit back from the tent behind him, over to him, his eyes somehow cold and somehow warm all in one. He wasn’t looking at you but through you. Maybe some part of him was torn between what he wanted to do-- and what he couldn’t do.

“He wasn’t.” He repeats. “It… I’m is not right for a man to slaughter a woman. Whatever the reason, the gods chose you to live. I know you don’t want to marry me. Perhaps it isn’t… it… It’s better to let you go. I give you your freedom.” 

Your arms fell at your sides, peering up toward him, astounded by the offer and perhaps, distrustful. You’re smart enough to know that a Viking didn’t mean his words. But a man like Jonakr is different. Perhaps he does not want to meet the wrath of the gods for killing an innocent woman. 

Perhaps he was punishing you further by sending you back home. Back where Ivar the Boneless was with his corrupt rule. Where Thora would be stomping around, showing off the product of her beauty-- stealing away the man that you thought, and knew, and loved as yours. 

“If that is decided, we pack to sail home,” Hvitserk readies his roll. At that moment, Jonakr turns, starting toward the door. Without thinking you rush forward, fisting Jonakr’s braid, and tug him back. Hvitserk drops what he works on, barking your name ostentatiously. 

“What are you doing, woman?” he barks. 

“Don’t you do that. Don’t you stand there and treat me like a lady after what I’ve done.” You bark out, snapping his braid around your fist tight. You rope it around your fist, forcing his head to your knuckles-- shaming him further. So what, you think, what have you to lose? Hvitserk calls out to you, your name rolling off his lips like a curse.

“Let him go.” 

“I am not going back home to Kattegat. The gods-- they’ve shown me. I want to learn to fight. I want to be a shieldmaiden.” You snap your head toward him. His expression was soft as butter, and almost wounded, as if the same sax you ran Valtýr through with had turned upon him, carved his heart out. It was easy for him to make that face, you told yourself. He got all that he wanted. Thora, the fight, you. It all fell into place for him. Everything always fell into place for the sons of Ragnar. 

“What are you talking about?” he asks. 

You loosen your grip, allowing for Jonakr to stand upright, careful and measured he looks down upon you. “I am a warrior. I can’t show you to be a shieldmaiden. You would need the shieldmaiden Gunnhild.” 

“Who is she?” 

Hvitserk crosses the room, snatching your hand upon Jonakr’s hair, and forces your fingers to give. His voice is clipped and concise. Jonakr stands upright at your side. “I left her in Kattegat for you.” 

“A shieldmaiden who left for Norway. She married an earl in York,” he continues. Your chest pulls, an excitement so distant and strange there, and Hvitserk rolls his eyes, carrying on as you return to Jonakr. An earl, you repeat, turning against him again. At that moment of a heavy heartbeat, Hvitserk grasps your waist, whirls you around. 

“(Y/N), don’t do this. Come home, be with us. We can find a way. A shieldmaiden? You’ve never wanted to be a shieldmaiden.”

Perhaps its that instant. The instant your hand connected with his full cheek, blotching over, then caressing the space as if you never struck him. It’s that moment that you caress him, and purse your lips against his forehead, that he understands. His hold on your waist loosens. Disheartened, disenchanted. Somehow, he accepts it.

“You won’t do it.” 

Your press your lips to his, cradling his jaw like an after thought. Tense in his surprise, Hvitserk brings a hand to your side,keeping you there in place against him. Your warm breath trickles over his lips between soft, sweeping kisses. His facial hair scratching you occasionally through the kiss. You begin to draw back when he tugs you forward again, maybe for the last time, with a kiss that simply pleads for more. For the time being, you humor his kiss, allowing him to take you in a way that’s light and soft. He pulls away, half-lidded, resigned. 

“I’m sorry, Hvitserk. I can’t do it.”

x x x

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[bluepenguinstories]

Remoras Full Intermission II: Holding Back the Ship

(Takes place after the events of chapter 37 and before “Captain Acab” arrives at the diner in chapter 39)

Day One:

Dear Diary,

Or whatever. However it goes. Look, I got a journal so I can try to keep track of the days. Not because I’d be lonely out at sea. Nu-uh. Do I look like someone who gets lonely? Yeah, that’s what I thought. Not only do I not get lonely, but I don’t need to write in a journal, either.

...It’s just something I’m doing so I don’t get bored. That’s all.

So let’s recap: I bought a boat so I can sail back to the arctic and save everyone at the diner. And so I can see them all again. Before I set sail, I visited that facility that Wendy told me about. It was really creepy with how empty it was. At the time, I expected to be attacked by that mysterious person I had to fight in that alleyway. But that didn’t happen. Thank goodness.

No, instead, I found some rocks stashed in the back of a room. There didn’t seem to be very much, but I took what I could get. Those rocks, or “minerals” for the more sophisticated mind, were materials known as Angel’s Essence. Said to be fragments of a cosmic entity’s own body. In fact, while they cannot harm such beings, they seem to bring harm to a person who has become a host to the entity. Even then, the person can heal or regenerate from such wounds, but normal weapons and bullets may not do any damage at all by comparison. So weapons infused with those minerals have a higher chance of killing the host and sending the entity away than conventional weapons.

Anyway, I didn’t really have much to work with, so I just crafted a spear from a steel pipe and shards of the Angel’s Essence for the tip. It probably won’t do me much good, but without my rifle, I gotta make do with what I have. I can never know whether I’ll be attacked at sea, or attacked on my way back to the diner. Either way, I need something to defend myself with.

Day Two:

So I set out to sea yesterday. Yeah, I spent that long intro right before actually taking off on my ship. You know, like a dummy. I promise you I don’t make those mistakes often. Also, I feel like I can drop the formalities. Sorry ‘diary’, but you’re not that dear to me. You’re literally just a journal.

My first day at sea wasn’t very notable. In fact, it was quite boring. Just as I thought it would be. Gee, isn’t it great I have you? Or isn’t it great to have something to put my thoughts down? That’s all you are. Something to put my thoughts down. I promise, I don’t have very many thoughts. So you can rest assured that you won’t be used very often.

I caught a fish. Used a rope and made my spear into a harpoon. I’ve got months worth of snacks, so I need to be thankful that I’m not allergic to peanuts. All through the day, I shivered and...yeah, that’s nothing new. Let’s move on.

It’s a cold day today. It was a cold day yesterday. I wonder how far north I will have to go until the weather matches how I always feel. My guess isn’t long. I’m sure there will be some strong winds ahead. Some high tides, unstable waters.

I’ve never done this before. The whole sea thing. I feel like a pirate. Or a sailor. Except I’m not stealing anything and I have no sense of direction. It...it just dawned on me that there’s a very real possibility that I end up sailing in the wrong direction. This could go very wrong. Very wrong indeed.

Day Four:

Yesterday was just like the day before. There’s nothing new to note. I think I should have brought some books with me. Maybe buy a console, play some video games. I could have bought movies, a mini-TV, ANYTHING. Instead you’re all I have and I’m so lonely.

No. Ignore what I said. Please? Ok. Gonna cross it out now.

There. Done. Now no one will know.

Day Five:

Hi. How are you? I’m good. Let me re-introduce myself: I am Remora. Or Rhea. But I think when I see them again, I’ll be Remora again. I think I’d like that. Not the seeing them again part, but the Remora part. It just seems nice. Hey, I wonder if I’ll meet an actual remora while out at sea. It’s very possible, isn’t it? Maybe I’ll befriend a shark…

Never mind the last bit. I won’t cross it out, but this is just how things have been since out at sea. All around me is water. I can look out in every direction and I will just see water. Every now and then there’s a small bit of landmass. Like islands. Except they’re so small that NOTHING IS ON THEM.

You know what? That’s fine. That’s what an ocean’s supposed to be, right? A whole lot of water. If it wasn’t a lot of water, then what the hell kind of business does it have being called an ocean? Hmm? Something to think about. Anyway, I’m going to take a nap, try not to throw up. I’m finding I might be seasick, on top of constantly cold. Yeah, not so dignified for the once professional killer. That stoic, no-nonsense, whatever other adjectives. I’m not a weirdo. OK?

One thing I don’t understand about this, about myself as well, is why I’m putting in so much effort. I remember being alone before. Many times. I’ve enjoyed it, too. That solitude. That sense that I could be undisturbed, do things for myself, and live out the rest of my life alone. Now I’m going back. For others, no less. It’s just...this isn’t me, is it? It certainly feels like the me who first arrived to this world and the me now are two different people, and that person I was in the beginning...did I kill her? Did meeting those people kill the old me?

Day Six:

For the record, I don’t mind that I’m different than I used to be. In fact, for the longest time, I wanted to feel something, and have a connection with others, but I just never thought it possible. Is it still impossible? I’m not sure. I feel like I have emotions, though. Maybe that’s debatable, but I think my emotions are there somewhere.

There’s a lot of introspection to be had while out at sea. Alone. I’ve never really been that good at introspection. Or maybe it’s just something that happens regardless of good or not. I’m sure I’ve thought about myself a lot. Or at least I would hope so. For the longest time, I thought I was the only person I was able to care about.

...I think the truth is that I didn’t even care about myself. So many times I would take an injury as an excuse to die. Just be done with the shivering. Done with the coldness. Done with having to deal with myself. I think it’s not even that I didn’t care about myself, though. I think I cared about myself and it was because I did that I wanted an end to the constant discomfort. The constant pain. The parts of me that I wish never became. That killer, that lack of regard for the lives of others. If I just had some means of release, then I’d be free. No more pain, just a final, pleasant moment.

Anyway! I think one thing I ate today was trout. Couldn’t say for sure. I don’t think I can identify fish. If only Demetria was here with me. Not that I want her to be, just that she could help identify the fish I catch. No, I think I like being alone on this ship, actually. No one can tell me anything or say what’s “common sense”. As if I don’t know what common sense is. Not to mention, being all isolated like this where no one can see means that I can piss out into the ocean if I want to. No one can stop me.

Day Seven:

It’s been a week. I think. I swear the days aren’t slipping from me.

I’ve been thinking of new names….Noelle Fence? Like “No Offense”? Does that work? Maybe it doesn’t. Back to the drawing board. Why am I doing this? For fun. I don’t care about names, except the names that I like. Jeanne Denim? Hmm...no, I don’t think so.

I think I could go for some oysters. How do I catch them? I don’t have a net. This is so sad.

Day Ten:

I think I saw a seagull today. Or a dove. It could be a good sign. Or it could just be that it was a bird. Birds aren’t signs, they’re birds.

The past couple of days, I haven’t had any motivation to write in you. You’re toxic, I’m going to tell you right now. Just think about it: if I’m not careful with you, I’ll end up spilling some deep, personal stuff, and I’m not ready for that. I just want to pass some time while I make it to the arctic.

So what I do is nap all day. Nap and eat and stretch around. Do some sit ups. Imagine some scenario in my head. Sometimes I just think about some sea related things. Like mermaids. How big of boobs do mermaids have? Do they wear shells or are they full tits out? These are important things to think about when alone, out at sea.

Day Fourteen:

Sirens, mermaids...I know they were said to drag people into the depths, but has anyone ever had sex with one? No, it’s not a dignified thought. In fact, it’s not even a sanitary thought. Do you know how long seaweed grows to? How much algae is in the ocean? How salty it is? Now, I’m not saying I would...with a mermaid...but if I were to, they’d have to get aboard my ship. I’m not about to...with a mermaid...in the water. No thank you.

I think it’s been four days. But it might have only been a couple. Despite writing in this I think I’ve lost track of the days already. Don’t be mad at me, OK? There’s only so many nights and mornings I can take before they all bleed into each other. This is what a phone is for. Or a computer. Something. Alarm clock.

Day Fifteen:

How many more days? I think I saw some ice or something the other day. That would be thirteen days, right? Um...I wouldn’t mind licking a block of ice. Maybe a snow cone.

I’m still sane. As sane as I’ve always been. That should be noted.

Day Seventeen:

Let’s just pretend that numbers don’t exist. They don’t matter. Sometimes the sun comes up and sometimes it’s the moon. It’s going to be a month before I get there, huh? If I get there at all. Yeah. That’s a very real possibility looming over my head: the idea that I could never make it. That I could starve or die of dehydration. Or maybe, like I mentioned before, I’ll go the wrong way. Maybe I should just go south, just for fun. Who needs time? Who needs places?

I’m sorry. I don’t mean it.

Wait. What am I apologizing for? To whom? The Whomth?

Day Twenty-Five:

I’m still alive. Believe it or not. Yeah. Pretty impressive, huh? It’s been almost a month. I really can do anything all by myself. I can build myself a house (done it before, I can do it again). I can hunt alone. I can be alone. My whole life’s been defined by isolation, so this really isn’t anything different. That’s right: I’m the queen of isolation. The cold doesn’t bother me, anyway (except it does. It very much does. It bothers me all the time. To the point where it’s hard to sleep. If I get much sleep at all, it’s a broken one. Yet I’m so damn tired much of the time to the point it’s hard to keep my eyes open. Then there’s the shivering, the constant discomfort. Oh god. Why would I say that I’m fine when I’m most obviously not ever fine? It’s so obvious, too. Everyone can tell. I can’t even try to hide it and I hate it. It’s like please don’t notice me. Don’t perceive me. Don’t even have fantasies about me).

OK. I think if I stay on this page any longer, I might try to cry. I say “try to” because I don’t know if I will or if I can, just that if these thoughts go on much longer, I might want to. I can’t explain it any more than that.

Day Twenty-Seven:

I’ve done a lot of thinking these days. I know it was over a hundred years ago or so, but my mind drifts to the Titanic. It’s like, that thing crashed into an iceberg and that’s why it sunk. But I’m just thinking, like, it’s kind of the ship’s own fault, isn’t it? That iceberg’s just there minding its own business when a ship just decides to crash into it. Kind of rude on the ship’s part, don’t you think?

Not to mention, might I add, what kind of terrible ship doesn’t have good steering that it can’t just steer out of the way of the iceberg? I’m just thinking, like, even if there was a fog, they had to have seen it, right?

But, OK. Fine. So they tapped an iceberg. It couldn’t have been bad enough to make it sink, could it? Unless the Titanic was just feeling a little tipsy. We’ve all been there.

I suppose, I think, it was some kind of tragedy, and I guess it was sad for some people. Probably. I actually know very little about the Titanic. All I know is that there was a movie and French Girls, and Celine Dion, but I don’t think it was in that order.

To anyone who sees this: I’m sorry. But also why are you reading this? This is a private journal. I’m literally just out here, ALONE, in the middle of the fucking ocean, just sitting here. EXISTING. There should be no reason for you to read my journal.

Day Twenty-Eight:

I thought about tomatoes and I started to cry.

I didn’t actually cry, but I thought it would be cry-worthy. Like if it was going to go into a cry compilation, it may as well be tomatoes. It’s just...the make ketchup and tomato soup. That’s amazing stuff. How are we so blessed to have tomatoes? Oh, and don’t get me started on potatoes. I’ve never been a big potato fan but I wish now more than ever that I could just bite into a potato.

Day Twenty-Nine:

I’m starting to believe being alone isn’t as cool as I thought it was. Well, that’s the whole reason I’m out at sea in the first place, isn’t it? Because I want to see people again. People...people...Tigershark, Sunny, Ray...D...D...Dicksquad.

Sorry. I know what ‘D’ I’m thinking of and it has nothing to do with dicks. I just had to. I saw an opportunity and I took it.

Day Thirty:

I don’t know why I didn’t think of it the first time, but now I’m considering it: What if I’m supposed to be the iceberg? What if I’m supposed to throw myself overboard, then float along the surface of the water and wait for my ship to crash into me.

I know I shouldn’t think these thoughts. I just don’t have a very big imagination.

Day Thirty-Five:

I considered going a whole week without writing in this. I have to be independent. I can’t rely on things like journals to keep me company. It doesn’t show good character. Does it? I don’t know.

But, like, for the sake of argument, imagine me as a character for just a moment. Would you like me as a character? No, probably not. I don’t have much going for me. Sure, I have a backstory, I guess. But I think people with far more ordinary backstories probably have better characters just by virtue of being more of a person than me. That’s right: I’m not much of a person, let alone a character.

These tides are getting a bit wild. I’m thinking that my boat, no, ship, could rock, and the water will come onto the main deck and pull me in. I’ll be washed away as my skin will corrode and fade. Then...I’ll wash ashore, no pulse, on an island that nobody’s ever inhabited.

But let’s not think about that. Let’s think about how there are people out there in a cold place. People who are important to me for reasons I don’t quite understand but am ready to accept anyway. It’s still hard to believe I’m willingly going to a cold place. Like, yeah, me. Just go ahead and embrace the part of you that you hate. Why not?

Hate’s a strong word. I think there are things I hate more. I can’t think of what those things are right now, but I probably will tomorrow…

Day Thirty-Six:

Hate it when I don’t understand things. Hate when people lie or mislead me. Hate when people try to be a part of my life.

No. I don’t. I thought I did. It just annoyed me back then. I didn’t want any part of it. But I wish I did. I hate how sometimes I don’t know what I want or sometimes I want something that I didn’t want before. I hate that I want to understand things and sometimes the answer seems so clear and yet it doesn’t add up to me. Here. Let me elaborate:

IF I care about people, HOW do I care about people? How am I able? How is it possible? How can I tell that I care about people if it doesn’t become apparent?

There’s something else that I hate. It’s something else about myself. And maybe it’s not even a hate, but it’s something I don’t like: when I can’t tell something about myself, I just assume that it’s not something about myself, or it’s not possible. That line of thinking makes no sense, though. Like, imagine I’m gay. Like Demetria. No, I’m not saying I like Demetria. I’m saying, imagine. OK? Imagine I am.

You’re imagining, right? What I mean is, like, imagine I am a woman. And there is a woman. And I am attracted to that woman. And even if I don’t know I am attracted to that woman, or if I don’t know that I’m attracted to women at all, that doesn’t mean that I’m not attracted to women, right? That just means that I don’t know that about myself.

But that’s the hard thing! How do I know if I don’t know because if I don’t know, then I don’t know?! Like if I’m sad and I don’t know I’m sad I’m still sad. But how do I know I’m sad if I don’t know I’m sad? It’s just like, maybe I think I’m not when I am? But I still am.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

Day Thirty-Seven:

Happy thoughts. Happy thoughts.

I hate that you can’t un-kill people.

Fuck. Those weren’t happy thoughts.

I’ve got a complicated relationship with my past. Something that’s probably easy to tell. I mean, it’s really affected how I feel about myself in the present, hasn’t it? My complicated relationship with...taking lives, and...it being a job.

I’m not sure if I feel remorse or if I just want to feel remorse. If I do, I can’t tell, but I don’t want to say I don’t, because I’ve made that mistake before. Thing is, if I do, it’s a little too late, isn’t it? It’s not too late to feel regrets or remorse, no, but it still feels too late. Because I never stopped to think much about the people I killed. Whether or not that I should have.

I know there’s something fundamentally wrong with me. Yet I still want to keep living anyway. This must be selfish.

Day Thirty-Eight:

Today I thought I saw a person. But I think it was just a porpoise. Or a manatee. Or seal. Or narwhal. Do narwhals actually exist? I don’t know.

I think if I saw a narwhal, I think I’d think they were pretty. Pretty narwhal of them. Don’t you think? I think they’re pretty narwhal, all right.

Day Thirty-Nine:

When I get there, I think I should put on a disguise, take on a new persona. No one’s expecting me back, and if I do present myself, then the one who’s targeting them, targeting me...the others could get hurt worse. I don’t want that to happen.

Besides, I bought a fake beard, I bought this sailor jacket and a sailor hat. I don’t want these things going to waste. I’ve even gotten myself fake sideburns. That ought to count for something, right?

Still, when I think about it...will anyone even want to see me again? I know how I left. It’s kind of my fault that they’re in the mess they’re in. I left them when I knew, or at least suspected, that our troubles weren’t over. It’s careless of me. Poor judgment. But now I’m going to return, return to what is apparently now a foggy wasteland.

What’s it even going to look like? Will I find my way there? I hope so. I miss them. I probably don’t even deserve to see them again, they may want nothing to do with me. I’m half-hoping that’s the case. I think I’d understand. Even still, I want to see them again. I want them to be safe. Even if I deserve the worst of the worst...they don’t. They just don’t.

I’m sorry. I really don’t like being alone.

Day Forty:

I’m going to die out here, aren’t I?

Day Forty-Two:

If I’m going to disguise myself as a sailor, I need a sailor name, don’t I? Problem is, I don’t know too many sailors. Fictional or otherwise. Maybe there’s Popeye. Dude sure loved his spinach.

OK. Let’s brainstorm, you and I.

There’s that Dick book. The one about the whale. Captain...Ahab, I think? Yeah. That sounds right. So what if I was...Captain Amab? Afab? No. That doesn’t sound right. Amab sounds like Mab, like Midsummer Night’s Dream. Queen Mab. Afab sounds nice, like “a fabulous person” but I just don’t know…

I think Acab will work. Kinda sounds like taxi cab, but not. Also, his enemy was a dick, right? Um...a whale. Named Dick. Moby? Moby was a Dick? Yeah. Sounds right. So I should have my villain origin story. I mean sailor. Look, being a character is hard.

So I don’t know why that guy had whale problems. Like that’s just normal people problems, I guess? Not really. I don’t see how someone could hold a grudge against a whale. A whale isn’t human, even if they are a mammal. Now, a duck sounds truly fearsome. You never quite know what a duck is thinking. Yet they quack all the same.

“For whom the duck quacks. It quacks for thee.”

So Moby Duck sounds much better. Much more respectable. I think I could write a novel. Probably better than whoever wrote Moby Dick. Make way for the Duck, people.

Ducks aren’t people. Some people are real dicks, though. Hmm...I wonder if that’s where the term comes from.

Day Forty-Three:

I see land! Or an iceberg!

I guess you’ll have to find out tomorrow. If I don’t write anything tomorrow, then you can assume the worst. I’ve never been one for last words or anything like that. I always just figured when the end comes, it’ll just come and that’ll be that. For what it’s worth, I always figured the end would come at any moment. Or hoped so. Now I don’t want it to come. Not just yet. But the end doesn’t care for what we want, does it?

Day Forty-Four:

You. You’ve been there for me during this whole journey. For that, I couldn’t be more thankful. Even if it was really just myself...talking to myself...it’s enough to know I had something with me. I’ll remember you. But probably not for very wrong.

Anyway, you can probably guess why I’m writing in this. It’s true: I arrived. No, not at the diner. Just on land. But I recognize some of the area. Or I think I can. If I’m wrong, well...maybe you’ll know. But I’ m hoping you won’t. Because I want to be right.

Also my ship crashed. It was a big storm and it was hard to get by. For some reason that feels secondary to everything else. After all, I survived. So I’m going to leave you behind. Right here within the wreckage of my ship. It’s really a good thing I never named her. But now I think I know why ships get called ‘she’. I think it’s just a symptom of loneliness.

[im-coming-to-you-live]

SpongeBob- Truth, or Reality?

Truth, or Reality? Summary: SpongeBob invites his friends to play a game of ‘’Truth or Dare’’ at his house. Rated: T for Teen; 13+ Characters: Squidward, SpongeBob, Patrick, Sandy Pairing(s): None Genre: Friendship Word Count: 7, 280

‘’My mouth tastes like nuts’’ was based on this picture: https://superhotbeam.tumblr.com/post/162920602400/thank-you-ms-paint#notes

Fic belongs to me.

SpongeBob Musical belongs to Kyle Jarrow (who wrote the book).

SpongeBob © Nickelodeon.

[X-posted from deviantART]

‘’Have you ever noticed that when you’re swimming it seems like you’re standing still, but you’re really moving?’’ SpongeBob began. ‘’And when you’re on a plane, it seems like you’re going by so slow but actually you’re moving really fast?’’ Children made the strangest observations. ‘’What are you talking about?’’ ‘’Fish might not notice water, and we might not notice time. But those are our realities,’’ SpongeBob explained. ‘’If we move fast, then time will move slower. So for a runner, the time is moving slower than someone who is walking.’’ Squidward only rubbed his temples in annoyance. ‘’What does this have to do with anything?’’ ‘’Silly Squiddy, weren’t you listening?’’ He wasn’t. ‘’It’s all got to do with reality versus perception. That’s what Sandy calls it anyway. Cool idea, huh?’’ ‘’I don’t need a kid to tell me all this.’’ 

‘’That’s just it,’’ the boy said as he sat up, ‘’I was at Sandy’s today and I observed a beetle trapped in a spider’s web. The beetle kept struggling to survive, but it couldn’t get out. Sometimes it would seem like the beetle would give up, but when the small black spider would come down from its hiding spot and try to attack it, the beetle would try even harder to break free, shaking the web. This dance would continue for hours. Sandy told me not to interfere but I ended up setting the beetle free. It was all very interesting when it came to life, one struggling to live. The beetle was maybe three times the size of the spider, and even a big thing like that would end up in a mess, and how we can be controlled by our environment, or manipulated, as in this case the web, and the spider, the controller. But there could be many other metaphors from this as well, life and death, struggle—‘’ Squidward sighed and draped his bony arms over his eyes, in a sore attempt to drown out SpongeBob’s nonsense. He stopped listening after awhile, because he couldn’t make sense of how this all logically connected together. This was not unusual for Spongebob. He had the tendency to jump from one topic to another, thus confusing the helpless listener who tried to follow along. ‘’SpongeBob, please,’’ he begged. ‘’Shut up, I can’t take it anymore.’’ ‘’Sorry,’’ SpongeBob apologized. ‘’You’re having one of your migraines?’’ SpongeBob had witnessed Squidward’s deadly headaches on more than one account, so he recognized the signs almost immediately. Squidward felt tempted to plug his ears. He didn’t know why he found himself lying on his back on this idiot’s bed to begin with. He had a rough day at work, having to deal with those bloody, chatty customers. The last thing he needed was SpongeBob chewing his ear off about philosophical questions he didn’t give a shit about, so he didn’t know what possessed him to let himself be dragged along like this. ‘’Make yourself useful and go find Sandy and Patrick,’’ he ordered. ‘’The sooner we can get this over with, the better.’’ ‘’I think they went downstairs for refreshments.’’ ‘’Well, they’ve been down there an awful long time. What are they doing, painting the Sistine chapel?’’ With that, Squidward slid off the bed, which caused his already throbbing head to pound unforgivably so. ‘’Never mind, I’ll fetch them myself.’’   ‘’You look exhausted,’’ SpongeBob pointed out. No shit, Sherlock. ‘’Maybe you should lie down. I’ll go get them.’’ ‘’I’ve been lying down,’’ Squidward snapped. ‘’I’ve been lying down for years, don’t make much difference now, does it? I’m fucking tired, all the time. I gotta get up now, otherwise I’ll fall asleep.’’ SpongeBob remained very quiet for a moment, then said, ‘’You didn’t have to come if you didn’t feel like it. I would’ve understood. I just hate seeing you lonely all the time, but if you’re tired, that can’t be helped. You can go home and rest, if you want.’’ No, he wasn’t getting rid of him that easy. ‘’Oh, come off it, I’m alright,’’ said Squidward. ‘’Besides, I’m tired of being stuck in the house on a Saturday night, even if it is your bloody house.’’ And with that, Squidward trudged downstairs, feeling the fatigue hitting him like a shower of stray bullets. Damn, he felt more tired walking around than he did lying on SpongeBob’s bed. What was the matter with him? Is that why he so begrudgingly accepted SpongeBob’s invitation? Was he sick to death of going to bed early on a weeknight like some elderly man in a retirement home? He was only 45 for crying out loud. He should have the energy of a bull. Hell, Mr. Krabs seemed to have more energy at his age, and he was 70! To make matters worse, it was only 8:00 PM and he felt like crashing. No, he would will himself to stay awake, stay up late playing with these stupid kids till at least 12:00 AM. He could prove he was still young. He wasn’t old! And he certainly would not be beaten out by some 70-year-old man. If Mr. Krabs could do it, then so could he. He sauntered into the kitchen, expecting to find Patrick and Sandy, but it was empty. In fact, SpongeBob’s entire house seemed to be empty, and quiet. Too quiet. Maybe they had gone into the living room? But when Squidward checked, they weren’t there either. What the Hell? ‘Don’t tell me they went home and left me here all alone with that nuisance,’ Squidward thought, and truthfully he couldn’t blame them if they had, but sure enough, he heard a fit of laughter outside the front door. When he went to go look, Sandy and Patrick were chilling on the porch. Squidward just watched them for a moment, before stepping outside and making his presence known. ‘’Hate to interrupt you lovebirds, but SpongeBob and I been waiting for you upstairs for a hundred years,’’ he said, almost disinterested. He half hoped they had gone home, so he could have an excuse to retire for the evening. ‘’Oh, howdy, Squidward.’’ Sandy greeted him as she turned around. ‘’We’ll be up in a sec, I just needed some air is all.’’ He saw Patrick mouthing something to him over her shoulder but he couldn’t rightfully make out what it was. ‘’What?’’ he demanded. ‘’What?’’ Patrick echoed back. ‘’I didn’t say ‘hot flashes’.’’ Sandy turned to Patrick with a glare. ‘’I ain’t having none of that. Why is that when a girl needs some air, that automatically means she’s having PMS? I just needed some air. I’m a mammal, after all.’’ ‘’Yeah, whatever,’’ Squidward declared. ‘’I’ll just tell SpongeBob the two of you are too busy having a romantic night out.’’ He turned to go back inside, closing the door behind him, which muffled an exchange of bickering, before heading back upstairs. When he did, he found SpongeBob sprawled out on the floor over a Mermaid Man and Barnacle Boy comic. Did he ever do that at that age? No, Squidward reasoned, he was done reading comic books by the age of twelve. ‘’Sandy and Patrick are snogging on your porch,’’ Squidward said sarcastically in that same monotone, bored voice, ‘’Thought you ought to know. So I guess I’ll go home now.’’ ‘’Shut up,’’ SpongeBob said as he looked up from his comic. Squidward looked taken aback for a moment, and was about to demand why the heck he told him to ‘shut up’, but then he remembered ‘shut up’ had a completely different meaning for today’s generation. ‘’See for yourself,’’ and Squidward pointed to the window. Of course, SpongeBob fell for it and rushed to see what Squidward was talking about. While he was distracted, Squidward saw the opportunity to escape. But as he exited SpongeBob’s bedroom, he was met with Sandy and Patrick coming up the stairs. ‘’Hey, Squidward,’’ he heard SpongeBob’s voice call from his room, ‘’I don’t see anything! They’re gone.’’ ‘’We’re here!’’ Sandy shouted back. ‘’You weren’t leaving, were you?’’ Patrick asked, but before Squidward could answer, he felt the other grip his shirt collar and drag him back into the room. ‘’Hey look, we found Squidward!’’ Patrick beamed. ‘’Great, so I guess we can get started,’’ SpongeBob said gleefully. Squidward had no idea what a bunch of young adults usually did on a Saturday night, but he didn’t want to stick around and find out. He thought about running for the bathroom, but Patrick still had a hold of him. He felt Patrick drag him down as he was forced to sit on the floor and form a circle with the rest of them, Sandy directly across from him, Patrick to his right, and SpongeBob next to Patrick. He wondered what game they would be playing until he saw Sandy take out an empty wine bottle she had been carrying in a satchel. Squidward just scowled at the bottle. He knew exactly where this was going. By God, why did it have to be this game? He hadn’t played this game since he was sixteen, and it was an awful experience from what he remembered. It was at some summer camp his mother forced him to attend in order to ‘’make friends’’. ‘Gee, mama, you were wrong about that one, too.’ He remembered being crowded into a cabin with young, semi-naked, drunk individuals, five boys and four girls. They had gone night swimming before the game, and no one bothered to dress themselves fully. He was the only one who refused to take off his clothes, instead preferring to hide behind a baggy sweater even though the night air wasn’t cold. He was painfully shy, and didn’t have very many friends. He was always the weird, quiet kid who sat by himself at lunch, drawing pictures, so he was surprised the ‘’cool kids’’ invited him to play their game at all. Of course, he didn’t suspect foul play. And they weren’t particularly mean to him. They just tended to ignore him during most of the summer, so he didn’t know why he suddenly became visible enough to be noticed for ‘’Truth or Dare’’. Surely, there were plenty of other kids at the camp who could have participated. But no, they asked him. He recalled that he had a huge crush on one of the girls playing, and suffice to say, it didn’t end well. ‘’Erm, can’t we play something else?’’ Squidward suggested. ‘’Y’know...maybe cards? Charades or something?’’ ‘’But we play ‘Truth or Dare’ every Saturday night,’’ SpongeBob clarified. ‘’It’s tradition.’’ ‘’Yeah, man, can’t break tradition,’’ Patrick added. ‘’But now that we got four players this time, it’s gonna be extreme fun.’’ ‘’Yay. I’m so excited, I can’t wait, I’m pissing myself with joy,’’ Squidward moaned. ‘’Oh, cheer up, Squiddy,’’ SpongeBob giggled as he reached across Patrick to pat Squidward on the knee. ‘’It’s not like anyone ever died played this game before.’’ ‘I did,’ Squidward thought to himself, but wouldn’t dare admit this out loud.   ‘’So ya’ll know how to play this game, right?’’ Sandy asked. ‘’But for those who don’t, or who haven’t played it in twenty-some years,’’ she gave a knowing look towards Squidward, ‘’Here’re the rules: we take turns spinning the bottle. Whoever it lands on, we ask ‘em a simple ‘Truth or Dare’ question, to which the victim’s gotta choose. Once they choose which one, we challenge ‘em. That’s pretty much it.’’ ‘’Aaaand the limitations,’’ SpongeBob prompted. ‘’We gotta have limitations.’’ ‘’Right. The players have limited amounts of truths per player. Five each. And as far as dares go, nothing too raunchy. I ain’t counting on SpongeBob’s supply of condoms here, if ya catch my drift. Let’s keep it PG, people. Any questions before we start? Speak now, or forever hold your—’’ ‘’Oooh ooh me me!’’ Patrick enthusiastically raised his hand. ‘’I have a question!’’ ‘’What is it, Patrick?’’ ‘’What’s PG stand for? Is that, like, ‘Party Game’, or something?’’ ‘’No, it stands for ‘Pretty Gay’,’’ Squidward remarked. ‘’Now are we gonna waste anymore time, or is someone gonna spin sometime tonight?’’ ‘’Alright, alright, don’t get your thong in a bunch, Mr. Tentacles,’’ Sandy puffed. ‘’So I’ll go first, Squidward second, then Patrick, then SpongeBob. Sound fair?’’ ‘’Whatever,’’ Squidward said as he crossed his arms over his chest. He prayed to Neptune above that he could get through this night without murdering someone. Without further delay, Sandy reached between the circle, and placed the bottle in the middle of the floor. They watched carefully as she spun the bottle. It went around and round until it slowed to a halt at none other than...Squidward. He frowned. Of course. ‘’Watch out, Squidward, she plays mean!’’ SpongeBob laughed. Thanks for the warning. ‘’Truth, or Dare?’’ she asked, not without a devilish smirk of her own. Now, this question presented a lose-lose situation, because anyone knows that to be cool you have to choose ‘’Dare.’’ And if you do choose ‘’Truth’’ then you are punished for not choosing ‘’Dare’’ by being forced to answer the most scandalous question possible. The question, he knew, was likely to be whether he had French-kissed a boy. In his experience, he had been asked this question. If ‘’Yes,’’ he would be peppered with follow-up questions about every detail, which would require serious on-the-fly lying and brutal concentration. But ‘’No’’ would be even worse: he would be branded as ‘’un-cool’’ and ‘’un-frenchable’’. The choice was clear: choose Truth and tell the Truth, choose Truth and lie, or choose Dare. ‘’Dare, I suppose,’’ Squidward sighed. Truth was waaaay too complicated. ‘’So,’’ Sandy said with a mischievous eyebrow raise, ‘’I dare you to choose, out of the three of us, who you would hitch,’’ and here she dramatically paused, ‘’Screw,’’ another pause, ‘’Or murder.’’ ‘’I think you mean ‘Marry, Fuck, or Kill’,’’ Patrick pointed out. Sandy shrugged. ‘’Eh, same difference.’’ Squidward sighed again. This was the worst Dare imaginable. Maybe he should have gone with Truth after all. Twenty-nine years ago, the girl he liked had been dared this very challenge when it came to her turn. She happened to name him as the guy to kill. Back then, he was super sensitive (kind of like SpongeBob, he supposed) so as soon as she said his name, he stormed out of the cabin in a fit of rage. Of course, someone went after him, but it was in a dark forest in the middle of nowhere, with nothing but the sounds of sea bears lurking about, and he almost got lost. It was one of the scariest things that ever happened to him. Eventually, one of the boys convinced him to come back, but when he did, he never looked at that girl again. Sure, it was just a game, and maybe he took it too seriously, but all hopes of any possibility of her liking him back, all prospect of a summer romance, were dashed. After all, he didn’t know what he did to that girl to make her say she would kill him off. She never even spoke to him. Squidward felt like getting up and storming out right now. This game was so mindless. He swore he was losing brain cells every moment, but at least he didn’t have to think too hard on this one, especially since it was all for shits and giggles anyway. Without batting an eye, he said, ‘’Marry Patrick. Fuck Sandy. Kill SpongeBob. Er, no offense.’’ He braced himself, hoping SpongeBob wouldn’t have the same reaction as his sixteen-year-old self. He knew how sensitive SpongeBob was. Bloody hell, maybe he should have thought this over a little more. Maybe he should have switched up the choices. Well, he certainly didn’t want to fuck Patrick, that was out of the question. Maybe he should have killed him instead. But he wanted to kill SpongeBob more, even if it meant having to marry Patrick. He didn’t want to marry SpongeBob either, he was too impossible to live with as it was. And he certainly didn’t want to fuck him. Maybe he should have married Sandy, fucked SpongeBob, and killed Patrick, but honestly, neither option sounded all too appealing. If he had a choice, he’d marry, fuck and kill Sandy straight across, as she was the least annoying of the three of them. Was he even allowed to do that? Much to his relief, Sandy and SpongeBob burst into laughter and fell on top of each other while doing so. Apparently, this happened before at some other party, and they expected this answer. Squidward failed to see the humour in all this. Patrick, on the other hand, remained very thoughtful, or at least he looked that way. With his dopey expression, it was hard to tell. ‘’Why would you marry me?’’ Patricked asked. ‘’If I answered that question, wouldn’t that technically be breaking the rules? I chose Dare, not Truth.’’ ‘’Yeah, but, I’m not asking you to tell me the Truth, I’m just...curious,’’ Patrick shrugged. ‘’I don’t know, Patrick,’’ Squidward threw up his hands, ‘’It’s just a stupid game, alright? I mean honestly, I’d kill both you and SpongeBob, but since I can only kill one, I’d kill him first, marry you, then probably file for divorce the very next day, or murder you on our wedding night. I’m not taking any of this seriously, and neither should you!’’ For some reason, this caused Sandy and SpongeBob to laugh even harder. ‘’I was just askin’, sheesh,’’ and Patrick indicated the bottle. ‘’Uh, who’s turn is it?’’ ‘’Think it’s Squidward’s,’’ SpongeBob said between chuckles, as he wiped away tears. Once Sandy and SpongeBob managed to compose themselves, Squidward spun the bottle. He hoped it wouldn’t land on Sandy. Not that he had any reason to exact revenge on her for her challenge, but he didn’t want to feel like his spin was biased. His prayers were answered, when it landed on SpongeBob instead. Great. Not exactly a blessing, but oh well. He’d bite. ‘’Oooooooh,’’ Sandy and Patrick chimed together. ‘’Oh, grow up, you two,’’ Squidward instructed, before turning to SpongeBob, who just smiled at him, waiting for the question. ‘’Well, SpongeBob, you know what to do.’’ ‘’Okay, um...’’ he chewed his lower lip, deciding on his fate for a moment before he said, ‘’Truth.’’ Squidward just blinked. No one chose ‘’Truth’’. And he was hoping he wouldn’t say that. He was a fool if he was trying to look ‘’brave’’. Choosing ‘’Truth’’ was just stupid. Again, he was brought back to that fateful night, when he, himself, had been challenged with ‘’Truth,’’ when he was too ignorant to know it was ‘’un-cool’’. And the question was, ‘’Where do you see yourself in twenty years?’’ Squidward bit on his tongue. Damn it all, he didn’t mean to think that out loud, but before he could take it back, it was too late. He watched SpongeBob purse his lips, that same look he always got when deep in contemplation. When Squidward answered the very same question twenty-nine years ago, he said he could see himself on Broadway, or at least a successful artist with his own gallery. Squidward had to laugh now. How stupid and naive he was. In reality, he ended up working at the Krusty Krab at 36, the dream slipping further and further away as the years wore on. He couldn’t begin to imagine what SpongeBob would say. ‘’In twenty years,’’ SpongeBob finally replied, ‘’I’ll be your age. I always kinda wanted to be like Squidward, so yeah. When I’m 45, I’m gonna be just that. I’m gonna be Squidward. I’m gonna work my ass off, take pleasure in the more sophisticated things life has to offer, like sitting at home on my day’s off with a good book, and I’ll be graceful and dignified, and wise beyond my years. And maybe there’ll be a nice twenty-something kid-next-door that’ll look up to me, the same way I look up to Squidward.’’ The room was quiet for a moment, before Patrick let out a slow clap. ‘’Nice one, buddy,’’ he complimented. Squidward just stared at SpongeBob, utterly dumbfounded. In truth, he fought the urge to punch that smile off his face. No, no, no,  he didn’t want to be like Squidward. He didn’t want to be so drained of energy that it was a struggle just to get out of bed every day. He didn’t want to face the never-ending disappointment in himself that he couldn’t be more than what he was. He didn’t want to be so lonely and empty that he cried himself to sleep each night with nothing but painful memories to keep him company. Most of all, he didn’t want to be tortured by someone so full of life, that it was a severe reminder of the youth and happiness he lost, a reminder that he was the dead among the living. Squidward couldn’t blame him, he supposed. When he was 16, he was stupidly optimistic of what the future held, too. He had to pity the misguided fool. ‘The poor bloke,’ he thought. ‘He hasn’t a clue.’ ‘’Well,’’ Squidward said, turning to Patrick. ‘’Your turn.’’ Patrick did as he was told and spun. The bottle landed on Sandy. Now it was SpongeBob and Squidward who let out an ‘’Ooooooh.’’ Squidward didn’t know why he joined in, but he had to admit, the whole situation was bleeding hilarious, especially with how he found them laughing together at Neptune-knows-what on the porch earlier. Who knows? Maybe this would be Patrick’s opportunity to ask her if she really was having hot flashes. Okay, that was lame, but seriously, Squidward was starting to sort of feel like a kid all over again. Maybe there was more to this game after all. ‘’Oh, grow up, you two,’’ Sandy echoed Squidward from earlier, then waved a hand at Patrick. ‘’Go on and ask me then.’’ ‘’Truth, or Dare?’’ Sandy just smiled. ‘’You know me. I always like a good dare.’’ Patrick smiled in return. ‘’Then I dare you, Sandra Jennifer Cheeks, to...um...’’ He looked around the room, searching for a naughty idea, when his eyes suddenly rested on SpongeBob. ‘’To kiss....um...’’ But at the last minute, he looked at Squidward and blurted out, ‘’Well, since he wanted to fuck you, I dare you to kiss Squidward Q. Tentacles! Sorry, I don’t know what the ‘Q’ stands for.’’ Squidward’s little bit of fun was suddenly crushed into dust. ‘’Oh, come on,’’ he pleaded. ‘’Why don’t you make her kiss SpongeBob? He’s asking for it!’’ ‘’Now, now, Squidward,’’ Sandy teased, ‘’It’s Patrick’s dare. He makes the rules.’’ As she came crawling towards him on her hands and knees, he instinctively backed away. Again, he was plagued by a bad memory of the time he was dared to kiss a girl who had previously been dared to lick a toilet seat. It was the least pleasant kiss he ever had. ‘’Stay back,’’ he said. ‘’I mean it...I, uh...’’ And he tried to come up with some lame excuse to get out of it. ‘’I didn’t want to bugger you for real, I just said that, you know. I think you’re repulsively ugly!’’ ‘’Uh huh,’’ she rolled her eyes. ‘’I-I had garlic for lunch!’’ ‘’And I had a rotten cantaloupe. I’m sure there’s no germs swimming in your mouth that can even come close,’’ she said as she continued to come nearer. ‘’Play nice, Sandy,’’ SpongeBob cautioned. ‘’I think you’re scaring him.’’ ‘’Oh, he’ll live,’’ she said, and finally grabbed him, pulling him into a kiss. He tried to close his mouth, but it was too late. He felt her slobbering all over his face, as though she were trying to eat him, and then he felt her try to expertly slip him the tongue. He pulled back and cried out, ‘’What the blazing Hell, woman?’’ while wiping her saliva from his face. Purple lipstick smears came off on his arm instead, causing SpongeBob and Patrick to howl like hyenas. Sandy only shrugged, not bothering to wipe away her smeared lipstick. ‘’Didn’t know you were such a stick in the mud. What are you, some kissless virgin?’’ ‘’And what are you?’’ Squidward shot back. ‘’Some rocky mountain savage? You kiss like a grizzly bear! And why does my mouth taste like nuts?’’ ‘’Oops,’’ Sandy snickered. ‘’I guess it wasn’t cantaloupe after all.’’ ‘’Whatever,’’ and he angrily turned to SpongeBob who was rolling on the floor with laughter. ‘’Well, spin, dammit!’’ ‘’Squidward, chill out, dude it’s just a game!’’ Patrick tried to reason. Oh, sure. To them it was just a game, but they had no idea what he had to go through. And the humiliation. Worse of all, he was so young and carefree back then. He wasn’t tired all the time. And he did have fun. He wanted so much to just let loose and have fun. Be a kid all over again with no worries in the world. Why couldn’t they see that? Why couldn’t they understand that someday they would be old and miserable, and this game would be a bad dream? But then suddenly, he remembered what SpongeBob had told him earlier, about reality versus perception. He didn’t think he had been listening, but he was suddenly reminded of those words. What did he say again? That when you’re swimming, it seems as though you’re standing still, even though you’re really moving? That time moves in the very same way, that it moves so slow, that you just don’t notice? And maybe that’s why he was so much happier twenty-nine years ago. He just didn’t notice. And how could he? Maybe that’s all it was. Life was like a plane ride. It didn’t seem to move at all. And before you know it, you reach your destination, and...what was that bit about the spider and the beetle? Something about life, and death, and struggle? Squidward shook his head. ‘Nonsense,’ he thought. ‘It’s all nonsense.’ He let out a sigh, feeling more calm now, and took his place in the circle. SpongeBob waited for everyone to settle down before he took his turn. He eagerly watched the bottle spiral around, until it stopped before Patrick. ‘’Okay, Patrick, Truth or Dare,’’ he chuckled. ‘’Dare,’’ Patrick responded, without a moment’s hesitation. SpongeBob raised an eyebrow. ‘’You sure?’’ ‘’Uhh...I don’t know...’’ Patrick furrowed his brow in confusion. ‘’Then I dare you to—‘’ ‘’Wait!’’ Patrick stopped him. ‘’I changed my mind. Truth!’’ ‘’Is that your final answer?’’ SpongeBob laughed. Patrick began to sweat a little as he struggled to make a decision. ‘’Wait...I dunno, this question’s too hard.’’ Squidward was growing increasingly irritated watching this exchange unfold like some ping-pong match that would never end. ‘’Oh, stop confusing him, and just let him choose what he wants,’’ Squidward cut in. He couldn’t stand the way SpongeBob played with Patrick’s stupidity, although he meant no harm. Still, it wasn’t right to take advantage of a simpleton. He didn’t know any better. ‘’Alright,’’ SpongeBob agreed. ‘’Patrick, it’s your call, buddy.’’ ‘’Uh, Dare...I guess.’’ That’s it, Patrick. Play it cool. SpongeBob grinned from ear to ear. ‘’I dare you to go into your kitchen and rearrange everything in the food pantry... in alphabetical order.’’ They waited for SpongeBob to deliver the catch, but apparently, he had nothing more to add. That was it? What a lame dare. On the contrary, Patrick reacted as though the world was ending. ‘’All of it?’’ he asked. ‘’All of it.’’ Patrick looked like he would melt into a puddle right there and then. It was at that point he probably realized that any kissing question was better than this. ‘’I can’t do it,’’ he said. ‘’Then do you choose Truth?’’ This is how the game always goes. You just can’t win. Patrick swallowed hard, then nodded. ‘’Yeah. Truth.’’ Squidward didn’t know why, but he felt a little sorry for Patrick. There was always going to be one in the group who got the short end of the stick. But maybe SpongeBob would go easy on him. They were best friends, after all, so SpongeBob couldn’t possibly ask him anything he knew would upset him.   SpongeBob considered for a moment, before asking, ‘’Do you think you’ll get married someday?’’ Patrick just blushed and stuttered, ‘’I-I guess...I mean...I don’t think I’d find anyone...special enough...but...sure...I guess...maybe it’d be nice...but...I don’t know...there’s not too many people that I...well...’’ Squidward found himself studying Patrick as his face grew redder by the second. He was visibly embarrassed by the question. Kids these days, even twenty-somethings, were always thinking of getting married and having kids of their own someday. Settling down, if you will. Becoming their parents. It was weird and scary. Squidward knew right off the bat that at Patrick’s age, he wasn’t going to get married. ‘’Oh, you’ll change your mind,’’ they said. Look at him now. Still a swinging bachelor. Sure, Squidward had to admit there were times he considered himself a hopeless romantic. But he was pretty set in his ways. He didn’t want to end up like his parents, not at all. SpongeBob could see that the ‘’Truth’’ was making Patrick feel a tad uncomfortable, and so he reached for his friend, squeezing his hand. ‘’It’s okay, Patrick,’’ SpongeBob reassured. ‘’You don’t have to say more than that.’’ Sandy decided that now was the opportunity to take her turn once more, and she spun the bottle. It landed on Patrick again, by all strange accounts. Patrick hadn’t fully recovered from his prior awkwardness and stood abruptly to excuse himself. ‘’Um, sorry, I gotta get...some air...uh, it’s not like, I’m having hot flashes, by the way,’’ and he left the three of them alone. ‘’Er, I can take his turn for him,’’ SpongeBob said. ‘’Fine by me,’’ Sandy nodded. ‘’Truth or Dare?’’ ‘’Dare.’’ Squidward stopped paying attention after that. He quickly realized that he was far too old and far too pessimistic for this sort of thing. He kept thinking about why Patrick acted so strangely to a simple question, but then he remembered how delicate he had been when he was young. Sure, SpongeBob didn’t mean to embarrass his friend, his intentions were purely innocent. He couldn’t have known how nervous Patrick would get. Hell, if he had been Patrick, he probably would have run out of the room, too. He had, actually, only on someone else’s turn. Maybe now it wasn’t just a game? Sure, the fun of the game was to ask each other silly questions, and no one would tell if you were being completely honest or not if you hid it well enough, so you could answer however you pleased, but some questions might run on a more personal level, triggering something that shouldn’t be triggered. Squidward had no idea that he was actually putting his own future on the line, and when he couldn’t live up to those expectations that he set for himself in a game twenty-nine years later, he began to despise the game, as though it was the game’s fault. Well, he had to blame something. Laughter interrupted his thoughts and he looked up to find SpongeBob standing on his head, and trying, but failing, to touch his nose with the tip of his tongue while singing the alphabet backwards. ‘’C’mon, you’re pathetic!’’ Sandy cried. ‘’Z, Y, X, W, V, uh...S...oh shit,’’ SpongeBob faltered, then started again. ‘’Z, Y, X, W, V...U...’’ he almost got his tongue to his chin, but not quite. ‘’Where was I? U, T, S, R...um...’’ ‘’Keep going,’’ Sandy encouraged. Alas, he got all the way up to ‘M’, before he had to start over again. Squidward just continued to observe them. He didn’t know why they invited him to begin with. He always felt a tad out of place hanging out with a bunch of kids. Was watching them supposed to remind him of his youth and make him feel younger? Because in truth, he felt more tired and old just watching them. He just couldn’t keep up. And though they often protested that he wasn’t old, that wasn’t the point. He felt his age, maybe older.   ‘’What’d I miss?’’ Patrick said as he returned, and took a seat beside Squidward. ‘’Not much,’’ Squidward admitted. After fifteen more seconds, SpongeBob could stand on his head no longer and gave up. But at least he finally managed to touch his nose with his tongue, even though he couldn’t sing the entire alphabet backwards. ‘’Don’t tell me I made that look easy,’’ SpongeBob laughed, and held his head between his hands, which was no doubt spinning. ‘’That was hard!’’ Squidward remembered it was his turn and reluctantly spun the bottle. Last round, then he would go home. He was sick of this game. The bottle, for a third time, favoured Patrick. He hoped Patrick would want to skip his turn again, but he looked eagerly at Squidward, and so Squidward had to ask the same old question, although he didn’t really ask, he groaned, ‘’Truth, or Dare?’’ ‘’Dare, this time.’’ Did Patrick learn nothing? Squidward pouted. ‘’I dare you to skip your turn.’’ Then he stood and announced, ‘’I’m going home. Thanks but no thanks. ‘Night.’’ ‘’Oh, c’mon, Squidward, you can’t quit now!’’ they whined. ‘’It’s only 10:00!’’ ‘’Yeah, exactly, normal people are in bed at this hour. I’m out,’’ and he made his way to the door. ‘’At least dare me before you leave,’’ Patrick pointed out. ‘’That’s not really fair, y’know.’’ Squidward rolled his eyes and turned back towards the group. ‘’Fine.’’ And he made direct eye contact with Patrick, hoping he would cower. ‘’I dare you, Patrick Star, to name your first child after the person to your right. There, happy now?’’ Patrick just blinked. ‘’That...wasn’t even a dare. That was just stupid.’’ ‘’You’re stupid, and I’m going home, now.’’ As he opened the door to step outside, he heard the bottle being spun on the floor, and Patrick’s voice saying, ‘’What do you know? You’re it, again, Squidward. Truth, or Dare?’’ ‘’How can that be?’’ Squidward demanded as he spun around again. ‘’I’m not even in the circle!’’ But sure enough, the neck of the bottle was pointing directly at him. ‘’Truth, or Dare?’’ Patrick asked again. ‘’I’m done!’’ ‘’I’ll let you go home if you answer.’’ ‘’Fine. Truth.’’ He didn't have time for silly dares. ‘’How many children would you have?’’ ‘’Oh for crying out loud,’’ Squidward said, slamming the bedroom door closed. ‘’Honestly, Patrick. Look at me. I’m fucking 45, do you think I’d be having kids at this age? I don’t need kids! I got the three of you dunderheads, and you’re a handful as it is!’’ The three of them just looked at him in stunned silence, not sure whether to laugh or cry. Finally, Sandy said, ‘’It’s just a game. Don’t have to get so pissy. But since you answered, you’re free to go.’’ The three remaining players turned back to each other and waited for SpongeBob to spin the bottle. Squidward was about to turn out for yet a third time when he heard Sandy go, ‘’Oh…well, I guess you can spin again since Squidward’s not playing anymore.’’ Squidward glanced over his shoulder and saw the bottle pointing at him again. Was the thing cursed? SpongeBob began to reach for the bottle again when Squidward stopped him. ‘’No,’’ he said. ‘’Just ask me again, and I’ll be on my way.’’ Why Squidward wanted to continue playing, even after all that, he had no idea. But something about the way the bottle kept stopping at him made him all the more curious. SpongeBob just looked at him for a moment before he said, ‘’Truth, or Dare?’’ ‘’Truth.’’ ‘’Do you hate this game?’’ ‘’Yes,’’ Squidward admitted. ‘’Yes, I loathe it. I despise it. It’s supposed to make me feel young? What a laugh. I just feel old playing it. I feel old, and behind the times, and…and I don’t know why I came. It just brings back bad memories.’’ He watched as SpongeBob spun the bottle again, and unsurprisingly, it pointed at Squidward. ‘’Truth, or Dare?’’ ‘’Truth.’’ ‘’Why did you come then?’’ ‘’I don’t know,’’ Squidward sighed. ‘’I just wanted to feel a part of something. Y’know, join the world of the living! Geez, I live my life dying. The three of you get to have fun. But where’s my fun? It’s just a game to you…but to me…it’s more than that. I answered things about myself…twenty-nine years ago…that didn’t turn out to be true. And I…well, it hurts, SpongeBob. It hurts. And to see you all laughing…and having fun…but I can’t do that anymore. Because I know what’s ahead. And you don’t. You have no idea.’’ Again, SpongeBob took another turn on the bottle, and again, it landed on Squidward. He didn’t even ask this time. Instead he just blurted out, ‘’Even if you didn’t know what was ahead, would you regret it? Would you regret playing this game when you were 16?’’ ‘’SpongeBob,’’ Sandy said, putting a hand on his shoulder. ‘’He only gets five ‘Truths’ and he’s answered three already. Just let him go home.’’ But SpongeBob wouldn’t stop staring Squidward down until he answered. Squidward just swallowed back a lump in his throat. ‘’I guess not. I guess I don’t regret it.’’ ‘’Why?’’ ‘’Because…because now I know things about myself then, I didn’t know before. Sometimes I wish…even then that I could see the future. Maybe I would have answered differently. Maybe I would have done things I wouldn’t have done now. But I guess no one can see the future, can they?’’ SpongeBob was about to spin the bottle yet again, but there was no use for it now. Instead, he just asked, ‘’Reality is truth. Reality, however, is not always known.’’ ‘’Or noticed,’’ Squidward pointed out. ‘’While it’s true that everyone perceives reality differently, reality could care less about our perceptions.’’ ‘’So when you’re asked ‘Truth’, is truth reality, or is reality truth?’’ ‘’I don’t know how to answer that,’’ Squidward whimpered. ‘’Because…it’s just a struggle. Like that…story you told me…about the spider and the beetle. I didn’t know what it meant…but now I guess it makes sense. The problem arises…when people…stubborn people like me…refuse to accept the reality…like that beetle. He wouldn’t accept his fate. He kept fighting. And you saved him…but like Sandy said, maybe you shouldn’t have. Because then how…how does life continue if we’re always interfering? It can’t be created or altered. It is what it is. We can’t always be delivered from it, because we have to discover it.’’ Squidward didn’t even know what he was talking about anymore. But something about the way SpongeBob looked at him with unwavering strength in his eyes caused him to burst into tears. ‘’Actions have consequences,’’ he cried, ‘’And I ignored it for so long. Because the truth is harsh, and I didn’t want to feel the pain anymore. I’d like to have fun like you guys…I’d like to play again like a child… I wish my little self-delusive world wouldn’t be upset by such a trivial matter as truth.  I don’t want to worry about the consequences I may have to deal with tomorrow; I just want to feel good today. Like all of you. It’s not fair...because I perceived my life so differently...and this is the reality...and it’s not what I imagined it to be.  Twenty-nine years ago, I assumed I’d be happy today. I didn’t know I was deceiving myself...I didn’t know...anything...’’ He could speak no more because his tears had choked him up. He didn’t care if they were watching him anymore. He felt like a 16-year-old all over again and buried his face in his hands, and wept and wept. It wasn’t long before he felt warm arms wrap around him. It took him a moment to realize there were six arms around him. Six, of all different shapes and sizes. When he finally opened his eyes, he found himself in the embrace of his friends, or at least the only people who considered themselves to be his friends. And they were all crying with him. They probably didn’t even know why. They probably didn’t even comprehend his nonsensical ramblings, but their hearts went out to him. They empathized. For some reason, they wanted to suffer with him. Why would a bunch of people with their whole lives ahead of them care about the existential crisis of a middle-aged man? But maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe that’s why they asked him to play with them. They just wanted him to be with them, in the same way they were with him now. And he was too preoccupied with wallowing in self pity of better days that he failed to realize that. Again, he just didn’t notice. So maybe his life didn’t turn out the way he planned. But at least now he had friends who cared enough. He couldn’t say that when was he was 16. Back then, he had no friends, so was he really happier after all? Maybe he got this whole reality versus perception mixed up. It wasn’t the principal of reality versus perception. It was reality versus the perception of reality. Twenty-nine years ago, he perceived his life to be happier, despite the reality that he was alone. Twenty-nine years later, he perceived his life to be awful, despite the reality that he had friends. Damn it all, he perceived wrong. He could have been happy this whole time. But much like swimming, he just didn’t notice, because much like time, it seemed to move too slow, when in reality, it was passing by all along. And he refused to accept it. He refused to get caught in that spider’s web. He was accepting it now. Because now he was trapped in the embrace of a six-armed monster, and he didn’t want it to let go. The beetle couldn’t accept death. That was fine. Who does? But the web was his reality. And this was Squidward’s reality. He had been deluding himself this whole time. Trying to make it through life without a solid grasp of reality is like stumbling around in a dark room laden with land mines. He didn’t want to be like that.  Maybe it was time to question everything and be willing to give up cherished notions, even if it meant suffering discomfort. But as long as he could still have friends, wouldn’t his life be a little more fulfilling if he could admit responsibility for his poor life choices? At least he would be satisfied, if not entirely happy. Slowly, he lifted his arms and willed himself to return the embrace of his friends. They all seemed to stop crying, and so did he. No words were needed. A silent understanding seemed to pass between them. They decided to stop playing the game, and they didn’t need to ask questions. Around 11:30 that same night, they all sat down in SpongeBob’s living room to watch a movie instead, and Squidward could safely say he finally felt content. He felt content to just be with them, and maybe that’s all he needed. Maybe they didn’t completely understand all that life threw at him, and maybe they’d find out someday. But as long as they could all keep an open mind of what was to come, they would have the courage to accept it. The one thing that will never be affected by our respective views of reality is reality itself. And the reality was that they were together, right now, at this very moment, and so nothing else mattered.                                                                                  Fin

[meditationsinausterity]

Self Care on a Shoestring: Hair

Let's talk hair. It is no secret to those who know me, or hell, even just follow me on Instagram, that my hair is essentially my pride and joy. I am at my happiest when washing and brushing my hair; I find the ritual of it relaxing and when I'm at my most low, sometimes even doing this can be enough to change my mindset and make me feel more motivated and like getting on with things and being part of the real world.

I grew up absolutely hating the naturally curly texture of my hair; I flat ironed the crap out of it from the age of about fifteen to, ooh, about 20. I cut it into a blunt fringed lego bob, and I dyed it black for almost all of my teens. Blame the goth phase, followed by the electroclash/bloghouse phase. Think all black lace slowly morphing into metallic American Apparel spandex and charity shop handbags. I should cringe at my younger wardrobe, but actually I looked pretty on point, especially as the Big Girl in my group of mates. The only thing I cringe about is the hour of my life I lost on the regular GHDing my way to split ends and a fringe that never quite lay flat, not to mention the endless tenners spent on box dye with stupid names, and the endless damage to perfectly innocent bath towels. Don't even get me started on the roots. The absolute state of the roots.

 I did also go through a redheaded phase after my masters, when I found grey hairs and panicked that my life of village pub employment and being in a serious relationship with a primary school teacher were making me boring, so I reached for the box dye. I moved to London a redhead, and stayed that way until my late twenties, but by that point I'd embraced my natural curl and texture. The redhead phase meant I commanded attention immediately, which naturally I loved, and my natural pallor meant I pulled it off. I took it so light I almost touched blonde at one point. But again: age, laziness, and self acceptance kicked in, and I started growing it out around about the time I could get away with it looking like an intentional ombre job. The last vestiges of the red disappeared when I worked at the Blues Kitchen in Camden; our Halloween fancy dress theme was the 27 club, and I bandaged my tits with the top of a pair of nude tights, lopped my hair off at the shoulder, and shirtlessly bartended as Jim Morrison. Great night for tips, that one.

Since then I've done nothing to my hair, dye, or styling wise. I have some greys, but I let it airdry into its natural curl, and let the colour change with the sunlight. I don't need the alert of that flash of red anymore, being confident enough to command whatever attention I need by myself, and I decided a long time ago that my time could be better spent than swearing at a mirror and burning my ears while attempting to defy nature. I think the initial decision was made to extend drinking time, now I just want more time in bed or to cook./ In some respects, My hair regime is incredibly low maintenance as a result, but in the washing, and inevitable wet brushing that comes with my hair type, there is a certain element of ritual and technique, that is both beneficial and incredibly relaxing. And specialist curly hair products can be pricey, so I thought I'd delineate how I manage to keep my hair in good nick while spending basically fuck all. Let's do this:

(My hair in it's full natural textured glory at the beach - I do let it get maybe a little too long in the summer but this is proof if it be needed that there's no need to mess with nature)

Cut

I have had some amazing hairdressers in the past. My favourite was Rosie, at Brooks and Brooks in Holborn, who used to cut my hair, ostensibly as a freebie (I tipped majorly though, I value skill, and think it should be rewarded) and do a bang up job of getting the bounce into my curls. Sadly, I no longer live in London, nor do I earn London bank these days. Also sadly, I do not trust most hairdressers with my curls, because most of them do not know enough about the hair type to do anything beyond butcher it. So I cut my own hair. I wear it long, in long, loose layers, and the curly wavy texture means a less-than-perfect line is pretty well forgiven when all's said and done. I have a pair of hair scissors I've owned for about five years, bought from Sally's Beauty Supply, sharpened regularly on a steel I use for kitchen knives, and used for Nothing Else, Ever.

My cutting technique is ridiculously simple. I wash and brush my hair, then turn my head upside down and brush my hair straight. all I do is cut along the bottom in a straight line, then hold the scissors vertically and chop a little bit into the line to thin out the ends (probably about a half centimetre). I always cut at least an inch less than I need to, because I know as my hair dries the curls will bounce up, unlike a lot of hairdressers I have had in my life. I aim to do this about every six weeks, but I'll confess in summer I get lax, because I want long mermaid hair, and always regret it come about September, when I have to cut off 2 1/2 inches or so in order to get rid of the sun-damaged, ratty ends due to my neglect and love of sunbathing. I will learn, next year, I promise (every year).

My hair thus stays as tame and breakage free as it's going to get. I'm fortunate in that I'm happy with the natural texture of my hair and therefore don't need a complicated cut. I do follow fashion, and am interested in style, but I don't slave to trends, and my long hair has become something of a calling card,but I'd recommend this as an easy money-saving maintenance trick for pretty much anyone who has any natural texture to their hair. It looks better, at any rate, than wispy, crazy lady ends.

(They can't all be winners - if I don't use enough oil on my hair in summer the humidity makes it go pretty major)

Wash

You wouldn't think washing your hair would be anything other than simple, would you? I'll lend you mine for a week and we'll see how you go with that attitude, eh?

I can only brush my hair when it's wet or I literally ruin all my definition and look like Hermione Granger. But I can't wash it every day because it dries out so quickly. So I operate on an every other day basis, sometimes skipping a day if my schedule is a bit much, but if I leave it any longer than that, the brushing is a task in itself, so I try not to.

I don't choose my shampoo amazingly carefully. Basically whatever is on 3 for 2 and says 'dry', 'damaged', 'curly', that kind of thing. I'm currently using L'oreal extraordinary oil, and it's just fine. Most shampoos basically do the same job anyway. The key with shampooing is all in the technique. I only ever apply it to my scalp, as you eliminate overwashing and breakages that way. I do however lather for at least ten minutes; the reasons for this are manifold: one being that I read somewhere as a teenager that actually shampooing for an extended amount of time will actually allow the active ingredients in your shampoo to work, which just makes sense, no? The other reason is that it stimulates circulation to the scalp, keeping it healthy and promoting growth. Not to mention, it is really relaxing, and as somebody who is not good at mindfulness for it's own sake, really concentrating on using the pads of my fingers and thumbs on my scalp and breathing in the scent of my shampoo allows me some time in my day to just be. A more direct plus point to this is that it relieves the tension I very much carry in my temples from constantly grinding my jaw. I really wish I could learn my way out of that, but until then I'll compensate for it in my beauty regime.

A further note, is it's worth mentioning clarifying shampoo. I do love a clarifying shampoo, used at least once a month, to remove build up and restore bounce. Sadly it's only the pricier brands that seem to make them, so I mostly hack one by adding a couple of tablespoons of baking soda to my shampoo and massaging as usual. It does create a pleasant tingling sensation, and really removes any buildup from the roots of the hair, but can be drying, so is best used sparingly.

(I do actually literally zen out after my hair is freshly washed. It's not even fully dry in this picture.)

Condition

Conditioner, to the thick-haired, is the holy, holy,hail mary mother-of-holy grail of products. If somebody told me I could only have one beauty product for the rest of my life, I'd be clinging to my conditioner bottle before they'd even finished their sentence. My hair would structurally be NOTHING without it. I go through a bottle at three times the rate I do shampoo. This is where the exploitation of the great 3 for 2 comes in handy; you can stockpile products you know you are going to pace through. Almost every time I buy hair products there'll be at least two bottles of conditioner in my basket.

The technique is essentially the opposite of shampooing. Almost totally ignore the roots, concentrating on the ends and shafts. In my case, particularly the point at my crown that inevitably snarls due to my work topknot being a near-permanent fixture. Leave on for at least ten minutes, usually longer in my case as I crack on with leg shaving, exfoliating, and so on. The wash-out process should involve only gentle combing motions to remove tangled hair, of which, if your hair is only able to be brushed when wet, there will be a lot, as you naturally shed what you would when brushing. I probably don't rinse my conditioner out that thoroughly, because my hair is basically the equivalent of aubergine, in that it will soak up any oil you throw at it, indefinitely.

I'm an advocate of the cold-water rinse. Freezing cold, to seal the cuticles. You can tell me it's a myth if you like, but I have a friend called Joe who has the glossiest long hair I've ever seen in my life, and he swears by it, so I'm going with what I can see. I notice the difference in shine when I may be feeling delicate on a December morning and skip it. It's a good way to jolt yourself awake, especially if you've zenned yourself out with a head massage, and in that department I need literally every helping hand I can get. It costs literally fuck-all but the difference is noticeable. 

(The ever-present work top-knot. It does actually cause almost all my tangle problems, but it's the only way I can keep it out of the way of everything for hygiene reasons at work)

Brush/Style

This is the mastery section. I have absolutely nailed brushing curly hair over the past thirty years. To the point where when I was staying with my friends at the beginning of this year, their little girl would seek me out to brush her incredibly cute curly blonde locks because I applied the Kirsty method, and used my magic products. And this was a girl who previously threw a hurricane-force tantrum at the sight of a hairbrush. No judgement from me; my earliest childhood memory is fighting back the tears at the futility of my mother snapping at me to keep my head still while she yanked at clumpy knots with a paddle brush.

You do need the right kit for this. I'll improvise with a hospital comb if needs be, but i'll suffer for it, and so will my hair, and let's not even talk about how fucking long it takes. I had a Tangle Teezer for ages, but lost it somewhere along my path in life. I would, previously, have sworn by it, and proffered no alternatives, but that was because I hadn't tried anything comparable , and it worked so well. I'd still say that for a tenner it's relatively good shout for curl maintenance when you break it down to cost-per-use, but I also have a mini WetBrush that I carry in my bag for dirty stopouts, and despite being smaller than my hand, it works a treat. Not to mention I recently replaced my Tangle Teezer with a clone from WIlkinson, that cost me under two quid and works just as well, is just as washable, and let me re-state, COST ME JUST UNDER TWO QUID.

Why all this faff over a brush? well, because tearing your hair is going to damage it and cause breakages. It's also going to cause a world of pain, and given how much of a meditative state I put myself into in the shower, the swearing, eye-watering, slap in the face that is attempting to tackle clumpy tangles with a rigid-bristle brush is entirely counterproductive. They do say you're supposed to use a wide toothed comb, but in my case, that would be like trying to rake Hyde Park with a fork. I rarely have that kind of time. I NEVER have that kind of patience.

Let's also take a minute to sing the praises of spray conditioner. I do tend to favour the Aussie hair care one, a pioneer in it's genre, and therefore readily available (much like the early craft brewers' wares these days), but I will use whatever's to hand, and cheap. I section my hair, starting to brush at the ends and working my way up. If I encounter a particularly large knot i'll gently brush it from the bottom and work up, too. Starting at the root and dragging it through the knot will be painful, rip out a load of hair, and probably not actually be any faster. It does take time, but I usually use it as an opportunity to put on music that's been in my head over a few days and sing along while I work. Because I'm cool. Once all the tangles have been worked out, a good brush from root to tip all over is pretty fundamental to catch any missed bits, and work over the scalp once again.

To finish, I apply a cream product. Anything that says for curly, dry, or damaged hair will do. I'm currently using L'oreal's Extraordinary Oil-In-Cream, but I've previously had success with a lot of other brands, Frizz ease and Schwarzkopf,and Toni and Guy are some relatively affordable 3-for-2 stalwarts that spring to mind. Just look for something that doesn't specify it's for heat styling, and prioritise looking for curly hair products. I section my hair and apply it from maybe just above the ears downwards, then use the leftover product on my palms and hands to gloss over the surface from the roots down.

I also always apply an oil product to the ends of my hair, to stop splits, and again, I'm not brand loyal, currently using L'oreal extraordinary oil, but I've used everything, from Argan oil from the 99p shop, to a bulk bottle of jojoba oil, to my beloved coconut oil. As the driest part of my hair, especially in not weather, the ends tend to benefit from a little extra TLC. Not to mention that this kind of treatment prolongs the lifespan between cuts. I section my hair into roughly four parts then apply to the ends, from about three/four inches up.

Then let it air dry. Simple.

(I literally do take pictures if I have a good hair day. I have literally always been about gratitude for the little things in this life)

 Additional notes

The multiple uses of hair oil

So I've mentioned hair oil in passing. it is the most versatile product ever. I use it to massage my scalp before a shower sometimes if I'm feeling particularly tense, or if my scalp is dry. I chuck a shot into my conditioner occasionally if my hair is feeling particularly dull and rough. I apply it to my dry hair to minimize frizz. I used to use all manner of serums and whatnot, but when one product does so much, I cease to see the point of buying so many single-purpose products. If you're using a natural oil like jojoba or coconut, you can also use it on your skin, and your cuticles and lips as well, so for versatility, oil really does cut it.

Masks

I do love a hair mask, and I am not massively brand-loyal. At the moment the one I'm really digging is for Afro-Carribean hair, and is by Free Your Mane. It's a curl enhancer, and I use it maybe every two weeks. I tend to either use masks that I'm given as samples, have snagged as part of a 3-for-2, or bought on the cheap at Sally's. I wouldn't say Masks are a vital part of proceedings, but my hair will literally take any oil thrown at it, so the extra moisture shot is amazing, and taking the time to do one makes me feel like i'm looking after myself, so if I have one in the cupboard it counts as a freebie.

 Finally, a little slutty trick

Spray a bit of your perfume on the roots of your hair at the nape of your neck. This place naturally gets warm so the fragrance will rise everytime you move, plus if you play with your hair as much as I do, the scent will naturally release when you're flirting. Thank me later.