#i am scooping this feral child into my arms and giving her a blanket and several therapists

[haunthouse]

also, because i'm still thinking about the disco elysium kids:

i think the difference in how people react to cuno vs cunoesse is really so indicative of peoples' reactions in general to trauma survivors. they're both kids who scream at you and call you slurs, but cuno will open up to you a little if you talk to him the right way and pass the right checks and give him time. and you can go to cuno's apartment and find out exactly what's caused him to act that way; you can see his dad and hear about how his dad acts and go "well, his behavior is still shitty, but he's 12 and i know why he acts that way, so it's fine", and then harry can take him back to jamrock with him and presumably into a life that's at least slightly better than his life in martinaise.

but i've seen (mostly outside of tumblr) a lot of people who play the game absolutely hate cunoesse, and i think it's because you don't get such an easy explanation for why she acts how she does? she screams and calls you slurs, too, but she won't let you get close to her. she freaks out if you even walk near her and accuses you of trying to hurt her. you don't get to find her house or her parents or an easy explanation, and she's not about to give you any potential ammo to hurt her further with by explaining what's happened to her. and it's pretty clear if you look for it — a 10 year old isn't just gonna accuse any adult who walks near her of attempted assault unless some real bad shit has happened to them — but because she isn't able to be can-opened by harry, isn't willing to calm down and talk to you, isn't able to let her guard down to give the audience insight into her mind, she's immediately seen as less sympathetic. people empathize more with those who respond to trauma with sadness than with anger, even when both of the subjects are little kids, and i think it's fucked up that just because she's angry cunoesse gets less sympathy from the audience than cuno does!!

(also not to mention like. the additional axes of gender, and of her being from outside of revachol, and of the different types of abuse at play for each of them. because i'm sure that all also plays a part in the differing reactions in-universe and on an audience level!)

[megan-is-mia]

27 from the Yandere!Monster prompts list will malleus in his dragon form?? I want some double dick action ughhh 💦💦

(Hopefully this will be to your liking)

27."Why live such a mundane life when I can give you one beyond your wildest imagination?"

(Yandere! Malleus Draconia x Fem! Reader)

(WARNING NSFW AND NON-CON AHEAD)

Being rejected by the love of his life was not how Malleus expected this evening to go down. He thought he’d planned out his proposal to her perfectly: the atmosphere was perfect, the location was perfect, his darling was perfect! 

So why then? Why was she not looking at him? Why was she shaking her head? Why was she quivering like a frightened animal? Malleus kept his expression schooled into a look of calm but on the inside he was ready to explode.

“I’m touched Malleus really I am but I...” (Y/n) trailed off her hands clenched together as she shifted nervously from one foot to the other as she thought. “This is all to sudden, I can’t accept your proposal. We haven’t even dated, we’re just friends!” She added hurriedly.

“We can go on a date after you accept my proposal child of man” Malleus replied smoothly, his gaze still fixed on (Y/n). “I want you by my side always and the best way to make that happen is to make you my wife” he continued and smiled faintly at (Y/n) to encourage her to accept his proposal.

“I... we... we’re from two different worlds Malleus. Not just literally but figuratively as well! You’re a fae prince, I’m a normal human girl. We go together as well as oil and glue, which is to say terribly” (Y/n) said shaking her head and taking a few steps back from the fae.

“That doesn’t matter to me, none of that matters to me! I love you (Y/n), with everything I am. I’d destroy worlds for you, just say the word” Malleus half-growled through his teeth. His anger was building fast and his draconic instincts were urging him to just take the girl despite her objections.

“I don’t want that! I would never ask you to do that! Malleus listen to me, our union would not be a happy one. You think you love me because I’m exotic to you, you’ll fall out of love with me before much longer” (Y/n) said softly daring to reach out to pet the hair of the still kneeling Malleus.

“Then what do you want my beloved child of man? Tell me what you desire and I’ll give it to you” Malleus insisted even as a blush formed on his face from the petting. He stubbornly tuned the second part of her statement even as his instincts became louder and louder. At this rate he might end up tossing the girl on the grass for quickie.

“I want to go back to my own world, back to my family, back to my friends. Maybe find someone nice to settle down with in a few years and have children someday” (Y/n) said her voice becoming dreamy as she reached the end of her statement. “Anyways I should go... we can talk tomorrow” She blinked slowly and turned red with embarrassment at her own musings as she turned her back on Malleus.

That was a big mistake as the moment her back was turn to him, the fae went feral. Body contorting, wings spreading, and fire falling from his lips as he cast a sleeping spell on his retreating love who went down like a tree once the spell was complete. Gently, ever so gently he scooped her up in his now scaly arms arms and flew to the dorms.

When (Y/n) regained consciousness she found her arms and legs bound the the bedframe of the bed she was one. Furthermore there was some kind of giant lizard sleeping on the bed with her, its head resting on her chest as it snored softly. It a way it was cute, a strangely  familiar way. Memories of a conversation months before came back to her mind.

“Tsu...Tsunotarou? Is that you?” She used the affectionate nickname hoping that if she was right it would improve his mood. Slowly the creature stretched out like a cat before opening its eyes to appraise her. Familiar, intelligent green eyes gazed back at her as the dragon-man sat up.

“I was wondering how long it would take for the spell to wear off. I didn’t want to start until you were awake to enjoy the experience with me” Malleus said rubbing his smooth snout against (Y/n)’s cheek with a purring sound escaping his lips. It was only now, with his scales rubbing against her and stealing her body heat that the girl realized she was naked.

“I still don’t understand why you seem intent on delaying the inevitable (Y/n). Why live such a mundane life when I can give you one beyond your wildest imagination?” Malleus cooed squeezing her breasts hungrily, careful not to impale her tender flesh with his claws. His tongue flicked out to taste her skin and he positioned himself between her legs without much fuss allowing his twin cocks to drag against her thigh.

“M-m-muh-malleus! Please! You aren’t going to?! It won’t fit! I’m begging you I’m a virgin!” (Y/n) babbled out hoping to discourage the fae but her confession seemed only to fire him up further. Malleus continued to tease (Y/n)’s chest with one hand while the other busied itself between her legs.

No matter which way she moved her hips, Malleus’s finger followed until it was eventually joined by four more and she was stiff with an incoming orgasm. Yet at the last moment the dragon-man denied her as he pulled his fingers free and brought them to his mouth to clean.

“I apology for teasing you like that (Y/n) but I need you to be as relaxed as possible so I don’t hurt you during our love making” Malleus purred, his one hand still on her chest teasing and his other now around his cocks bringing them to full hardness. Once he’d brought his shafts to satisfactory stiffness he pressed himself against the entrance of her cunt. 

“Just relax and let me take the lead (Y/n)” Malleus said and that was all the warning she got before her pussy was being forced to accommodate his girths. To distract (Y/n) from the pain of stretching the fae took her neglected breast into his mouth and began sucking gently as his free hand took hold of her hip to steady her. The combination of sucking and teasing of her tits was eventually enough to make the girl relax so Malleus could slide in deeper.

“That’s my girl, I’m almost all the way in just keep relaxing for me and I swear I’ll make you feel so good in just a moment” Malleus promised softly as he finally sheathed himself completely in (Y/n)’s cunt and let out a low appreciative growl. He pressed a soft kiss to her lips as he placed his other hand on her hips and pulled out a little before thrusting back in. True to his word, the dragon man was focused on pleasuring (Y/n). His cocks dragging against her sensitive insides and hitting her sweet spot with each inward movement.

It wasn’t long before (Y/n) was moaning out in pleasure. Encouraged by her response, Malleus picked up speed but still hitting the sensitive nerves inside (Y/n) that make her sing like a bird. The fae was determined to make sure his love reached climax before he did so he redoubled his efforts and cut the ropes binding her to bed to curl her body into a better position for fucking. To his surprise, (Y/n)’s hands chose to find purchase around his horns and sent an additional pleased shiver down his spine.

With a high-pitched wail (Y/n) came violently and almost passed out right then and there but she managed to stay conscious to feel Malleus cum deep inside her. Both parties panted loudly for a long moment after until the fae man finally pulled out with both cocks still dripping with jizz.

With his lust sated, Malleus shifted back to his normal fae appearance and pulled the covers of the bed down so he could tuck himself and (Y/n) under the blankets to sleep. The girl tried to put up a weak fight against him but she was truly to tired to care.

For his part Malleus nuzzled his nose against (Y/n)’s neck and began purring contently. His last thoughts were about what kind of engagement ring would best suit his darling child of man...

THE END

[silverdecepticon93]

Okay, based off another person's fanfic, and it can be in headcanon form: Headcanons for older!Pro Hero!Midoriya, older!Pro Hero!Bakugou, older!Pro Hero!Todoroki, and older!Pro Hero!Kirishima having a kid with a villain (a la Roy Harper and Jade)?

I am making the reader a responsible parent and I also want Jade in a dometic lifestyle where she can be HAPPY WITH HER FAMILY! BECAUSE I LOVE HER TO DEATH!

Izuku Midoriya:

     When he first finds out he had a kid with you is when you appear at his door, dressed in civilian clothes with an odd worried look on your face, as well as a blanket that bundled something in your arms.

     “(Y/n)?” He gasped in disbelief, what were you doing here?

     You looked away from him in shame before holding out the bundled child in your arms, “I...I need you to do something for me. It’s a lot to ask for and it      might be a bit hard to swallow...but it will be temporary...”

     “What do yo-” His eyes widened when he saw two chubby hands reaching out, a baby cooing and gurgling softly at him.

     He had your (e/c) eyes, your fair (s/c) skin, but Izuku knew that curly green hair from anywhere. Then he looked at you in disbelief.

     “(Y-Y/n) is this...is he?” You cut him off when you shoved the child into his arms gently as sirens started to sound from the distance.

     “Yes, he is. Don’t worry, after tonight, I can promise you won’t see him or me again.” You growled before bending down and pressing a kiss to the baby’s forehead, “Mommy will be back for you, Kioshi.”

     The sirens got louder and Izuku could hear the shouting of someone calling your name through a megaphone, then he looked back at you with a disappointed look in his eyes.

     “(Y/n)....what did you do now?” He questioned in concern. You stared at him in disgust, “As if I have to tell you anything, just watch my son. I have to lie low for a while.”

     Before he could say anything else, you used your shadow manipulation to hide within the darkness, leaving him standing at his doorway with a bumbling baby in his arms. He looked down at the child, his child, and smiled softly as he stared into it’s (e/c) eyes that looked so identical to yours.

Izuku isn’t ashamed that he had a child with a villain, he loves you, and he always will. He also loves his child.

If he could, he would definitely go public with it, but he knew you wouldn’t appreciate that. It really hurts him knowing he has to keep it a secret.

The more time he spends with his son, the more he becomes attached to him and the idea of you three being a family, and doing normal family activities.

Isn’t sure what he’s going to do when you come back for Kioshi, whether he’ll give him to you or try to convince you to turn away from your life of crime and take your rightful spot in his life.

It keeps him up at night, knowing if he let you take Kioshi that he would very much never see you two again.

Please, say yes to him. Please, accept the idea that he wants to be there for you and his son.

He wants to be with you and he wants to help you take care of your child.

“Dada?”

“That’s right, Kioshi! I’m your dada, who loves you and your mommy very much.”

Shoto Todoroki:

     While being a father had always been a huge concern for him, he’s very annoyed when he realizes you didn’t even allow him the chance to try. He meets his daughter, Kimi, when he was visiting you at the containment cell you were currently being held at.

      “Then I drew a picture of us together! Our family, see, mommy? Just me an’ you!” She beamed as she held her photo in front of you. You smiled brightly at your dual-haired daughter before you saw her father walk in and a scowl quickly made it’s way to your face, “Yeah, Kimi...just you and me.”

     You stood up to your full height before looking at your warden, “I think you should get her out of here.”

     The warden nodded before urging your daughter to come over by her and leave your containment cell. You flinched as she walks past Shoto, sending him one of her cheerful smiles you didn’t think he deserved, while Shoto’s eyes widened as his gaze followed your little girl.

      “Close your mouth, Shoto, you’ll catch flies.” You scoffed. He turned his head towards you, “Who- Is that- when-...”

     You sent him a sad smile, “That’s Kimi, she’s your daughter, and as for ‘when’ I think we both know best then to discuss that night on camera.”

     He stares at where the girl exited before looking back at you, a pained look in his face. “(Y/n), you should’ve told me.”

     “I figured you didn’t want the world to know you had a kid with an evil villain.” You snarled, turning away from him.

When you usually get arrested, there is an interrogation that follows, and it’s always Shoto who interrogates you. However, instead of the typical flirting, he demands to know everything about Kimi.

He also memorizes her visiting hours as well, trying to strike up a conversation between the three of you while you snap at him for dragging your daughter into this.

Much like Izuku, he sees that Kimi brings out a good side in you, and he wishes that it’d be enough for you to realize you don’t have to be a villain.

As for Kimi, she’s oblivious to it all, but she knows that you and Mr. Todorki argue like an old married couple but she can’t say that out loud because you get upset.

Everyone knows Shoto has feelings for you but you don’t show you have feelings for him, although it’s clear to only the both of you that you do, but you don’t wanna ruin his public image.

After all, you know that he worked hard to get where he’s at. You and Kimi weren’t gonna be held responsible for wrecking that dream.

If only you know that Shoto didn’t care about his image, he only cared about the three of you becoming a family, a loving one that he always wanted.

“Hi, Mr. Todoroki! Look at the picture I drew for mommy today!”

“That’s very nice, Kimi, I’m sure she’ll love it.”

Katsuki Bakugo:

      You and Bakugo were infamously known for your devastating battles, one that often left whatever part of the city you two were fighting in ruins, but no one knew about the passion you two held for each other. A passion that resulted in the birth of your son, Atsushi.

      “No! No! Don’t take her! Don’t take her!” A young blonde shouted angrily as he slipped past the other police officer and over to you.

      Bakugo, having always been a little too quick to protect you, scooped up the feral kid in one arm and tried to keep him away from you as the police lead you into the car. The kid kept screaming and wailing, shouting over and over again ‘Don’t take her! Don’t take her!”

     “Geez kid, calm down. Don’t you know that’s (Y/n) (L/n)? She’s a villain.” Bakugo tried to explain as he set the kid down but kept a firm hand on his shoulder.

     “She’s not a villain! She’s my mommy and she’s not bad! You’re bad!” The boy shouted.

     “Atsushi! Atsushi! Please be good, okay? Mommy’s gonna be gone for a bit, alright?” You assured him. While he kept struggling against Bakugo’s grip, “No! Lemme go! Don’t take my mommy!”

      Your heart was beginning to break at the sight of your son trying to fight against the pro hero but it didn’t shatter completely when you saw the shocked look in Bakugo’s eyes as he put two and two together.

      “Mommy?” He mouthed to you, you merely turned away and slunk back in the backseat of the police car.

Bakugo will actually be an asshole and refuse to let you near your child unless you promise to turn your back on evil and marry him because he wants you to be apart of his life.

You bet that he’ll visit you as fast as he can to shout at you about everything. When did it happen? Why didn’t you tell him? How dare you think about raising his son without him?

Out of everyone on the list, he’ll take a more aggressive approach and force your ass to the light side. He does this by making Atsushi exclusive, telling everyone that he was proud of his son and that he’ll do all that he can to make sure you can be properly reformed so you could be the mother Atsushi needed.

You aren’t very happy about this and express your displeasure when he visits you next time, except he’ll merely state that it had to be done.

Likes hanging out with his son, Atsushi reminds him of himself at a young age, but he also seems to hold you in high regard despite you being a villain.

Bakugo likes to listen when Atsushi talks about the good times you have with him, how much nicer you are, and why he thinks you’re the ‘bestest mommy in the world.”

Bakugo isn’t sure who he’s more jealous of, at this point. You will always be Atsushi’s first love while Atsushi will always be the thing you love most.

“You don’t think my mommy’s really a villain, do you?

“Nah, kid, I know you’re mommy can be a good person when she wants to be...”

Kirishima Eijiro:

      Akane very much resembled her father in appearance, something you found bittersweet, but that didn’t mean you loved her any less. Meanwhile, Kirishima has been noticing that your crime activity has been around a certain area and an elementary school was in the center of it.

      You wouldn’t harm kids, though, that’s not you. So Kirishima decided to go undercover for a while and just casually show up around the school, trying to catch a glimpse of you to see what was so important about the school.

      “Akane! Don’t forget your lunch!” Your voice shouted, immediately catching his attention. He sees a little girl with crimson red hair run over to you as she takes the lunch box from your hand, “Thanks, Mommy!”

      M-mommy? You were a mom?

      It isn’t until your supposed daughter smiles a sharp-toothed smile does realization hit Kirishima like a wrecking ball. That wasn’t your child, well...it was, but it wasn’t just your child. It was his, too, wasn’t it?

      When you two battle against each other later that day, he skips the playful and flirty banter.

      “(Y/n), is Akane my daughter?” He asks, making you stop your attack. Your (e/c) eyes shine with fear before you step back from him, “Akane isn’t any of your business, Red Riot.”

      “It is if she’s my daughter,” He frowns, “how could you do this to me? I want to be apart of her life, too.”

     You were taken aback but you quickly recovered, “Well, she doesn’t need you in her life and neither do I.”

You don’t mean it, he knows you don’t mean it, but god those words still hurt him.

He felt very unmanly that he not only knocked you up but he wasn’t even there for his own daughter’s birth, he doesn’t blame it on you since he should’ve been responsible and checked up on you. Texted at the very least.

But no, he didn’t do any of those things, and now he missed out on what was supposed to be moments you two would make together with Akane. From her first words to her first steps, and it hurts him to think about it.

This doesn’t mean he won’t try to be apart of your lives now, he will, and he’s not gonna give up. No matter how many times you shout that he shouldn’t concern himself with you or your daughter.

The elementary school she goes to? There’s recently been a huge monetary donation made that allowed the school to buy more advanced technology to educate their kids.

So while Akane is excitedly showing off her new touch screen tablet that was owned by the school, you are conflicted about whether or not you should feel annoyed with a certain pro-hero.

You choose to be annoyed when he shows up during parent-teacher conferences, PTA meetings and even became a tour guide for a museum Akane’s class was going to and you had chaperoned.

“Woah! We have the same smile! Look!”

“Yeah, I guess we do kinda have the same smile. Yours is better, though!”

[p-artsypants]

Longest Night (42) Speaking

Ao3 | FF.net

“So, it’s been two weeks since Dr. Boucher removed your vocal nodules. Have you spoken to anyone yet?” 

Adrien shook his head.

This was his first therapy session. Dr. Robin Zollar, a woman that exuded warmth and kindness. Her voice was sweet and a little silly, and she reminded him of the fairy godmother from Cinderella. That may have been why he was responding to her so well. 

Besides speaking, of course. 

“Does your throat still hurt?”

Shake.

“Have you actually tried speaking?”

Shake. 

“And I’m guessing you really have no desire to either, right?”

Nod.

“Okay. Talking with Marinette, it seems like she’s been speaking a lot on your behalf. That’s fine and all, but you will need to develop a voice of your own. Do you feel like you have no need to speak?” 

Nod.

“Because Marinette speaks for you?”

Shake.

“No? Well, that is a lot different than I expected. I would like to know a little bit more about that. Would you be willing to write down what it is that you’re feeling, if you won’t say it out loud?” She pushed a pen and pad of paper towards him.

He stared at it for a long while.

—

“You’re serious?” Marinette crossed her arms and frowned at him. 

Gabriel held a tennis ball in his hand. “I mean, it wasn’t my idea. But my therapist said it might be a good way to connect with Adrien.” 

“Catch. With his arm in a sling.”

“That’s why it’s a tennis ball.” 

Marinette sighed and looked at Adrien. “What do you think, kitty?”

He sat at the end of his bed and shrugged. 

“A little physical activity isn’t going to kill you.” Gabriel admonished. 

“Yeah, but it could pull his stitches if he’s not careful.” 

“Do I look stupid, Marinette? It’s not even catch, we’re just tossing it back and forth.” 

Marinette frowned at the man, while Adrien gave a weak grunt. 

Gabriel tossed him the ball, and Adrien caught it, throwing it back. 

“Sleep alright last night?” 

“The usual,” Said Marinette, on her phone while she sat on the couch. 

“I was talking to Adrien.” 

“Right.” 

Marinette listened as the ball was tossed back and forth a few times. Before Gabriel repeated again, “Did you sleep alright last night?” 

Adrien didn’t respond. 

“I said, did you sleep well?”

There was a grunt. 

“Shrugging and grunting mean nothing to me. The doctor gave the okay, you can use your voice now.” 

“He doesn’t want to talk,” Marinette pressed. “Don’t force him.” 

“Marinette, again, I’m talking to Adrien.” 

She chuckled darkly, knowing his efforts were fruitless.

“I have someone who’s coming to visit soon. And your Aunt Amilie and Felix want to come and visit too. That will be fun, won’t it?” 

Marinette closed her phone and sat up, looking over the back of the couch to watch this awkward one sided conversation. 

“Felix himself emailed me and asked me about you. He wanted continual updates, since they didn’t get the same news broadcast over in London. He really cares about you.” 

Adrien just pitifully watched the ball, but did little else. It was obvious Gabriel was not happy with his body language, so he steeled himself into a neutral, professional posture. 

Marinette hated it. 

“Nathalie was helping with the company while I was busy with the investigation with you. Now that you’re safe, she’ll be taking a little vacation. But she assures me that she’ll be back soon, and that she can’t wait to see you.” 

The ball was tossed, caught, tossed. 

“Isn’t that nice? Nathalie missed you.” 

Toss. Catch. Toss.

“I said, isn’t that nice?”

“He’s mute, not deaf.” Marinette drawled. 

Gabriel turned and looked at her. “Look, if you keep talking for him, and encouraging this behavior, he’s never going to speak. It’s learned helplessness at this point, and someone has to train it out of him. So shut up.” 

The tennis ball hit Gabriel in the head.

“Excuse me!?” Gabriel whirled at his son. 

Adrien hissed at him, like a feral cat. 

Gabriel scoffed in disgust. “You’re not an animal! If you are angry with me, I expect you to use your words in a level tone.”

“We were treated like animals for weeks.” Marinette bit. “Sorry, it’s hard to think otherwise.” 

“Out,” Gabriel nearly shouted at her. “You’re not helping. Go bother your parents for a while.” 

With tears in her eyes, Marinette stood and started from the room. 

Adrien whined and tried to follow. 

“No!” Gabriel ordered. “You stay here! We’re playing catch!” 

Outside the room, Marinette started down the stairs, but got weak and had to sit. 

“Yikes, cringe.” Said Plagg, coming up to her side. 

“You saw that huh?” 

“I’ve been trying to give you both space and privacy, but that doesn’t stop me from wanting to watch over Adrien like the little fairy godfather I am.”

“Was Gabriel right? Am I talking for Adrien too much?”

“Ehhhh, I tend to believe that that man is never right. Even when he’s right he’s wrong. But in this case, he’s wrong wrong. You guys are only two weeks out of the hospital. A month out of torture. I’m still trying to catch up with all the footage, and he’s trying to rush the recovery process. But when you do that, it makes everything worse.”

Marinette exhaled, feeling at least vindicated. 

“Marinette, even if you do something ‘wrong’ right now, no one should blame you for it. Sure, we’ll reprimand you, but you’re dealing with a lot of shit, and your mind isn’t totally clear. Don’t feel guilty for trying to protect Adrien.” 

“Thanks Plagg. That helps.” She glanced up at Adrien’s bedroom door. “I better get back in there.” 

Marinette climbed the stairs again, coming up to the door. 

As she opened it, she stared in horror as Gabriel stood over Adrien, a finger in his face, nearly spitting in anger.

Adrien’s expression was completely zoned out. A defense mechanism that he had adopted in their hellhole. 

He was gone. And would probably continue to be so for a few hours. Did his mind go blank? Or did he retreat into a daydream? There was no way of knowing. 

She shouldn’t have left the room. 

“…not only is it disrespectful, it’s counterproductive. How are we supposed to help you if you won’t talk to us? You never had a problem speaking your mind before!” 

Marinette slid onto the bed next to Adrien, grabbing him around the waist and pulling his head to her shoulder. “It’s okay. I’m here. I’m here.” 

Adrien didn’t respond.

Plagg got between them and Gabriel. “You’re done.” 

“I’m only trying to help.” 

“You put him into shock. How does that help him? You’ve removed him from this plain of reality. Great job. Dad of the year.” 

“Look, I just wanted to—“ 

“Are you still here?” Marinette snapped. “Get out. Now!” 

“I’m not going anywhere! This is my house, and Adrien is my son!” 

“He’s my husband!” 

Gabriel clenched his fist. “That wedding was a sham. You’re as much of his wife as you are a ball and chain around his ankle. He’ll never get better with you dragging him back!” 

The door swung open, banging against the wall. Marinette jumped at the noise and held onto Adrien. 

Tom and Sabine entered, having been sent for by Tikki. 

“Can you give us a moment?” Gabriel asked like he hadn’t just verbally punched Marinette in the gut. “We were having a discussion.”

Sabine said nothing, but slapped Gabriel across his face. “Be glad it was only a slap.” She bit. 

“That’s assault!” 

“And I bet the judge will be real sympathetic to you after what you said to our daughter and son-in-law.” 

Gabriel just scowled at them. “I feel like we’ve had this discussion before.”

“We did, and last time, Adrien started crying. We can continue this discussion out in the lobby.” 

“I’m not done talking to Adrien!” 

Tom cracked his knuckles. “Oh, yes you are.” With one swift scoop, Tom had Gabriel draped over his shoulder like a sack of flour. 

“Put me down! I can walk!” 

“This is what I used to do with Marinette when she was a child and threw tantrums in a store. You’re going to act like a child, we’re going to treat you like a child.” 

“I’m not a child!” Was the last thing Marinette heard before Sabine shut the door. 

“Are you alright honey?” Sabine asked, sitting beside Adrien. 

Marinette swallowed back tears. “I knew it…I want to help Adrien…but I’m making everything worse…” 

Sabine looked to heaven. “Lord, I’m going to kick that man’s ass.” She shook her head. “No, no Marinette, Adrien needs you right now.” She delicately pet Adrien’s hair. “He feels safe around you, and you understand him the best. Gabriel is lost and frustrated right now. He has no idea how to act. And believe me, it’s hard for us too. I worry every day about what the right thing to do is.” 

“But you don’t…you don’t yell at me.” 

“Because yelling at you never helped in the past. We’ve talked sternly to you when you were in trouble, and we did groundings, and the occasional spanking when you were very very bad. But yelling only made you afraid and distrusting. I suspect that’s the attitude from Adrien he’s used to.” 

Adrien didn’t respond in any way, just continued to bore a hole in the floor with his dull gaze. 

“The doctor said that you being together was good. And what does Gabriel know about this kind of stuff? He designs clothes.” 

Marinette cracked a smile. 

“Your father and I will sit him down and have a good stern talking to him. He’s the one making things worse.” 

Marinette breathed a calming breath. “Okay.” She let go of Adrien, only to take hold of his face and guide him to look at her. “Kitty?”

He blinked owlishly at her. 

“You with me?” 

Another slow blink. 

“Is he alright?” Sabine asked. 

“No, he’s—“ Marinette clenched her eyes shut. “He was like this back in…”

“That place.” 

“Yeah, he…when things would get bad, he sort of…shut down. Salo said it was a sign of death. I think he’s trying to protect himself.” She pet his hair, and kissed his cheeks. 

“What can I do to help?” 

“Can we move him to the couch?”

Sabine nodded and stood, wrapping an arm around his waist. 

Despite being mentally checked out, he was still respondent to movement. As they pulled him to his feet, he stood on his own, though still weakly. They guided him slowly over to the couch and had him sit down. 

“Here’s a nice warm blanket. Do you want some tea?” 

“Yes please, maman.”

Plagg spoke up from where he was silently watching. “I think Adrien would really enjoy a coke.” 

“Are you sure?”

“He might only have a few sips, but it’s his favorite drink.” Then he whispered conspiratorially, “but his dad never lets him have it.”

“Okay, I think I’m following.” 

“Marinette, you play video games, right?” Plagg asked. 

“Uh, yeah?” 

“Good. I’ll put in his favorite game, and you play it, and see if that rouses him.” 

“Good thinking!” 

Plagg floated over to the TV, and turned on the console while Sabine left to get them snacks.

Marinette leaned over and placed another kiss on his cheek. 

The drum beats started up as the main menu came up. 

Marinette groaned. “Skyrim...” 

“What? Don’t like it?” 

“I’ve never played it!” 

“You’ve never played Skyrim?!” Plagg nearly shouted in mock offense. He didn’t actually care, but old Adrien would have. 

“I know the memes, Sneak 100, ‘I took an arrow to the knee’ but I never actually sat down and played it. It’s so long!” 

“Well, you got a lot of time on your hands now. Might as well start!” 

“Yeah, might as well...” 

She modeled her character to look like Ladybug, with red paint over the eyes to replicate a mask. 

As she started playing, Sabine came back and left the snacks. 

Marinette paused the game to help Adrien take a few sips of his drink. She placed the can in his good hand and brought it to his lips. Then she tilted the can slightly, watching as he drank on his own. 

It didn’t rouse a response. 

“If this goes on much longer, I’m going to call the doctor.” Said Sabine. “I’m worried.” 

“Me too.” Said Marinette, sweeping the bangs from his forehead. 

Sabine stayed and watched the game, wincing when Marinette sliced someone’s head off with a sword. 

“This is pretty gory, are you doing okay?” 

“Yeah, it’s almost cartoonish. I...I did much worse.” 

Marinette continued to sneak glances at Adrien. He seemed to be watching the screen now, instead of looking through it. His eyes followed her character, and Sabine took it as a sign that he had mostly come back around. 

“Feeling a little better, Adrien?” She asked. 

He hummed.

So she left them alone. 

Tikki sat on Marinette’s lap, while Plagg nuzzled into Adrien’s hair. The room was quiet, the volume on the game turned down, and only soft ambient music was heard. 

“I love you.” 

Marinette blinked. The voice was so soft, so rough, and wavering, she didn’t think she heard it at first. But she turned to look at Adrien, seeing that he was looking at her. Her breathing picked up, as she waited, begging him to speak again. She bit her lip to keep her from speaking and interrupting if he did say something. 

“I didn’t know what else to say.” 

She shook her head at him, and turned her body to face him. “Say whatever you want. You know I won’t judge.” She leaned in, staring deep into his eyes to prove he had her full attention. 

Adrien rested a hand on hers, squeezing slightly. He met her gaze, holding it with his breath. 

“You…” He began, only to pause. 

“Yes?” She urged. 

“You…are really bad at this game.” 

Marinette nearly collapsed on him, she was laughing so hard.

—

Adrien recalled this very special moment with his lady after the therapist handed the notepad. So he had lied. He had spoken to someone. His other half, his partner, his soulmate. But it felt a lot less like ‘finally speaking’ then it did sharing a secret. He had confided as much in her then. He still didn’t want to talk, but with her it was different. 

With her, he felt safe, free, and wanted. He could talk for hours, or say nothing. Either way, he was comfortable. 

“Adrien?” The therapist asked delicately, as he hadn’t written anything. “If you prefer not to answer, that’s fine too. We have a half an hour left in this session.” 

He was inclined to write out his feelings just as much as he was to speak. It was hard to find the words. Much less ones that were worthy of being spoken.

Finally, he admitted what he didn’t want to.

Why bother speaking if no one will listen?

—

It was evening when she arrived. The sun was just about to set, sending La Grande Paris into glittering gold and orange light. 

Though it felt weird to be staying in a hotel when her home was just a block away. 

Disguised with sunglasses and a handkerchief, Emilie was escorted upstairs to the nicest suite available. 

And inside awaited her dearly beloved husband. 

“Gabriel?” She asked softly.

She heard his breath caught in his throat. “Emilie…” In a few quick strides, he was on her, embracing her, kissing her, weeping on her. “I’ve missed you so much…” 

“I’m here darling, I’m here…” She whispered, shedding tears of her own. 

They stayed that way a long while, just in each other’s arms. Occasionally sharing kisses and words of love. 

Finally, Gabriel pulled away to look her up and down. “You must be exhausted.” 

“I’m actually not. I slept on the plane, and then I’ve been nervous ever since landing.” 

“Nervous? About what?” 

“About being gone, seeing you again, what I’m going to see…” 

“Oh.” He huffed. “Well, did you want to shower? Are you hungry?” 

“Yes to both.” 

“I’ve packed some clothes for you. Why don’t we get you all settled in, and then I’ll tell you the whole sad story.” 

“And Adrien?” 

“He’s home.” 

“When will I get to see him?”

Gabriel gnawed on his bottom lip. “Well…soon, I hope. But, he’s changed a lot.” 

“So have you.” Emilie pet his hair. “You’ve gone gray.” 

“I think I look distinguished.”

“You look old.” 

“You haven’t aged a day, my love.” 

Emilie smiled softly, leaning in to give him a small kiss. “Flatterer.” 

“But about Adrien…you see, he’s not speaking to anyone. I’m hoping that seeing you again will give him that spark.” 

“Does he know what happened?”

“…not quite.”

“What does he think happened to me? Does he think I’m dead? Would seeing me shock him?”

“I think it might be a little shocking, but he just thinks you disappeared. Makes things a little easier to explain.” 

“Speaking of explaining…” 

“Shower, dinner, then I’ll get to it.” 

--

At 3 AM, Gabriel hustled out of La Grande Paris, having done far too much damage. Good thing it was dark, or half of Paris would have questioned why the Gabriel Agreste was leaving a hotel late at night while a mysterious woman screamed obscenities at him from a balcony. 

[literarygoon]

So,

I’ve decided to publish another story from my manuscript.

This one’s called “Post-funeral”, and the main character is named Joel Bishop. He’s a friend of my main characters Paisley Troutman and Neil Solomon, and in this story his older brother has just committed suicide after running for political office in Garibaldi. It’s the 10th story in Whatever you’re on, I want some.

It’s raw.

The Literary Goon

Post-funeral

by Will Johnson

FIRST WE swallowed bitter shards of MDMA, spent hours slip-sliding over each other’s bodies giddy and feverish. I’d been staying at my brother’s mansion with my ex-girlfriend Kylie, up in Garibaldi, for nearly two weeks. We wandered the streets shirtless, dove into foggy backyard pools that didn’t belong to us. We did blow off the toilet tank. We sipped mushroom tea, pinkies erect, then watched Jurassic Park while we waited, dopily dragging on cigarettes and ashing on the freshly installed carpet. We smoked salvia and hash, hot-knifed thumb smudges of tar-black ooze. We were doing okay, food-wise: salmon steaks, cheese-drowned Tostitos, frozen blueberries. We drank Black Label and Bailey’s-infused coffee. Some days we binged on Chinese food and pizza; more often we wandered the linoleum barefoot and mind-fucked, sniffling and twitching, having forgotten what hunger feels like.

And whenever we got bored we circled the neighbourhood spearing my brother’s campaign signs onto unsuspecting people’s lawns, just to fuck with them. Vote for Joshua Bishop, indeed. 

One night Kylie fled. I careened along shadowed boulevards in my brother’s minivan just after 3 a.m., wearing sweatpants and a pair of Santa Claus slippers, chain-smoking cigarettes to keep my headspace level. The night dew-misted my forearm hair from the open window. When my headlights slashed across a lawn three blocks over I glimpsed Kylie under an expansive, shadowed oak with thick, threatening arms. She was curled fetal, wearing red bikini bottoms, dollar store flip flops and my Garibaldi Elementary GRAD OF 2004 hoodie. As I lugged her limply off the grass a dog-walker in a peacoat paused on the sidewalk.

“She had a little too much to drink,” I explained. “We’re all good here.”

“And who are you to her, exactly?” he asked, cell phone palmed. “It looks like she needs some assistance.”

“We’re fine, honestly. I’m just taking her home.”

“I don’t know if that’s the best idea.”

Kylie moaned in my arms as I lift-shoved her into the passenger seat. Her legs slackly dangled towards the concrete as I gathered up her feet and slammed the door shut behind her. Peacoat man flapped his arms, distressed and honking.

“If you fuck with me,” I said. “I’ll kill your little dog and drink its blood.”

I don’t remember what he said after that, but I do remember the electric surge of hatred that blood-dumped through my veins. This man’s banal existence, his uncomplicated morality, the look of fearful revulsion on his face—all of these offended some feral version of myself I’d unleashed during those weeks. I battered my chest, squeezing out wild tears, and roared in his face until he retreated with his little dog yipping.

Kylie wore a thick-padded bra with metal crescents scooping under each fleshy handful. She whined as I undressed her, paranoid of the oil-like substance pooling on the walls and overflowing into the living room ceiling. I worked my fingers under each goose-pimpled boob, inhaled her chest glister. Kylie wasn’t mine exclusively, but our experiences were our own. I took her earlobe in my mouth, her weight supported in my arms, and worked it with my tongue like a soother. We’d tired of our porn-inspired routines and were finding creative ways to exploit each other’s bodies lazily, gluttonously. A tweaked nipple on mushrooms is like a chest-explosion, while a firmly gripped dick on acid can change your life. Cheek to arm pit, sole to shin, elbow to pelvic bone, we chest-banged and hugged, childlike, in the trenches of our sweat-soiled blankets.

Then we slept.  

Sometimes I get brain whispers from my former self, little buried guilt yelps from the Christian kid I used to be. He’s horrified. Kylie struggles to believe I used to be religious, that I used to keep a prayer journal, that I was once scandalized by swear words. She can’t visualize it, can’t reconcile it with the version of me that she knows: a hipster rich kid with no moral code to speak of. She can’t understand that it’s all the same impulse, that God is nothing more than the Drug of all Drugs, that the hardest thing I ever had to kick was Christianity. Driving by St. Catherine’s I’ve got multi-year histories flashing across my vision. Our youth pastor Trent Stonehouse sings at the front of the sanctuary, takes kids on missions trips to Tijuana and Brazil and the Downtown Eastside of Vancouver, and then there’s all the kids I knew—Amber, Turner, Paisley, Neil and Ty—they’re all memory-cached, worshipping with the Agape Soldiers onstage while I sway awkward in the pews and try to figure out how come I’m the only one who does’t seem to feel it. Sure, I’ve felt the Holy Spirit before—or at least I believed I felt it at the time—and I’ve been one of those ultra-pious kids seizing on the ground, overcome as the Church Moms lay blankets over our God-blissed teenage bodies. Slain in the spirit.

But spiritual awakenings wear off. Slowly, one day after the next, I felt the emotional intensity drain. Outside the context of the St. Catherine’s sanctuary all the meaning dribbled out until I had to go back, soul-hungry, for more. Being a disciple of Christ meant living this special type of life, meant elevating yourself from the mundanity. At Camp Evergreen, around the campfire, we sang “Jesus, I am yours” and two hours later Rachel Peachland gave me a hand job behind the girl’s cabin line, a frantic and gasp-filled spectacle in the shadows. I was a little perv, shame-soaked but undeterred, obsessed with girls but convinced that every lustful thought was a freshly disgusting sin, something to beg forgiveness for. Do you know how exhausting it is to be ashamed all the time? To spend your life hearing how sinful and hopeless you are without Jesus?

Turner used to say the whole point of grace is you don’t need to feel guilt, that God’s already forgiven you before you even dream up our next transgression.

But who said we need to be forgiven at all?

“If you could go back and be Christian again, would you do it?” Kylie asked, morning squinting in my brother’s bed, her voice grumbly from sixteen hours of sleep. I gripped sleepily at my dick while urine hammered into the shower drain.

“I think about that every day.”

“And?”

“Are we talking like a lobotomy-type solution here? Like would I have to give up part of my brain?”

“No, just say you believed again.”

“The thing is, to make that happen I’d have to give it up.”

“What?”

“My doubt. My fucking reason. I’d have to give up my whole personality.”

“Not necessarily.”

“Yes necessarily. Unless God fucking prances in here and goes ‘hey, Joel, I’m fucking real’, this shit isn’t going to happen.”

I slump into her lap. Kylie was born in a Burmese orphanage, got adopted by white Canadians. Didn’t find that out until three months into our thing, when I met her crazy Mom. She kept all that to herself, and I understood why. People project shit, put labels on you. Who wants to be the starving kid from one of those World Vision commercials? She didn’t want pity; she just wanted to be Kylie.

I liked her way more than I realized.

“But what if the thing with Trent never happened?”

“It wasn’t about him. I stopped going to St. Catherine’s way before all that shit in Mexico, before any of those other guys.”

“Do you think he raped anyone you know? Like anyone in the youth group?”

“Fuck, what’s gotten into you?”

“I’m just so curious. I’ve never met someone who knew a real child molester.”

“You talk like it’s a movie star or something.”

“Or a serial killer.”

“So what do you think? Do you think he was doing like pervy, Catholic-style shit?”

“Honestly, I don’t know.”

“But what do you think?”

“I mean they say he molested this Mexican kid, right? Or two of them? That’s why he got arrested originally, in Tijuana. But they never came up with any Canadian victims.”

“Who’s they?”

“Investigators or whatever. He was down there for eleven years years, and it’s kind of like why press charges and do all that work if he’s not even in Garibaldi?”

“Shit.”

“But eventually they figure he’ll be back, right? I mean, the Mexicans can’t keep him forever.”

“When is that going to be?”

“The system’s so corrupt down there. Guilty til proven innocent, all that.”

“Turner told me he got letters.”

“From Trent?”

“Yeah, a while back he was telling me stories about Trent. He told me the letter said ‘you can’t turn your back on God’ and ‘don’t let this be an excuse to lose your faith’, all this shit.”

“Are you serious?”

“From prison he was giving him a sermon!”

“Fuck.”

“I mean, we were smoking a joint but I’m pretty sure he was telling the truth. Wasn’t he like Trent’s little favourite? Do you think it was him Trent messed with?”

I’ve considered that plenty of times, but it’s different to say out loud.

“Trent had a weird thing with Paisley Troutman, one of the girls in the worship band. People were gossiping about that for years.”

“But doesn’t he fuck little boys?”

“Yeah, but maybe he’s just like a non-discriminating deviant, right? Just raping whoever, wherever. Dudes’ fucking evil.”

“I heard there’s some people that think he’s still innocent.”

I light a cigarette, roll across the bed and go looking for blow.

“I’m not one of them,” I say.

Kylie sat cross-legged and hungover in the minivan’s passenger seat, reorganizing her purse while we descended the Sea to Sky. Cliffs draped with steel netting loomed to our left. To the right was nothing but open, cloudless sky. The road slalomed along the mountain slope, twist-rising and falling just as quickly. Ocean air swirled around us. A grey thumb of stone emerged in the distance, thrusted up hitchhiker-style, with a few stubborn bushes defiantly alive atop it’s wind-blasted summit forty feet above the road.

The mansions along the highway—stilted and gleaming in the trees—reflected the Pacific’s blue glow from giant mirrored windows. These were the people in my brother’s voting district, who had proudly displayed his campaign signs so they would be visible for commuters passing through the construction progress below. Vote for Joshua Bishop.

No more.

“The last shit we got from Turner was dirty,” Kylie mumbled. “Fucking weak.”

“That wasn’t his regular guy.”

“Says him.”

A bored, sunburned teenager wearing a Solomon Development Ltd. uniform waved us off the highway, past some pylons and orange fencing, and towards the razed shoulder currently being paved. Steamrollers grumbled a few kilometres further on, while in front of us six men guided a crane-suspended concrete median into place. I parked beside a line of trucks facing oceanward, overlooking Howe Sound, and texted Turner. Within a few minutes he appeared, knuckle-rapping the window, and Kylie unlocked the sliding door behind her.

“You two’ve been voracious lately,” Turner said. “You’re outpacing my coworkers, even.”

Kylie ignored him, sullen.

“I’ve got five hundred here, that’s two for last time and three for now,” I said.

“And you’ve got time for a couple lines now?”

An ice-blue sky populated with drifting gulls appeared as I took my first hit. Their beak-tips were dolloped with bright red. I thumbed a nostril for leverage, snorted with all my might, and sucked back. It filled me like sunlight. Wave-crests built frothing and burst into chaos amidst the rocks below.

“That feels better, huh?” said Turner. “I’m gonna fire through my afternoon.”

“I don’t know how you do this dip-shit job, man.”

“Whatever.”

“I would feel like one of those historical Chinese guys they used to dynamite the tunnels, you know? Like some expendable pawn they use for the hard labour. A slave they can just blow up whenever they feel like.”

“Yeah, so what’s your fucking job, Bishop?”

Kylie dabbed residue on her gums, sucking her finger. The world continued outside our windshield, introduced a dangling silhouette to our view-scape. It took me a moment to take this character in: parachuting past with some magical floating canopy, he was trailing an unfurled sign that read NO OLYMPICS ON STOLEN NATIVE LAND while filming with a camera strapped to his wrist. He was wearing those stupid shoes with individual toes, the ones rich men wear, and spandex head to toe—like some gravity-defying ninja spirit. I almost laughed.

How long had he prepared for this moment? What did he imagine he would see, hanging suspended and superior over us? The afternoon wind carried him sideways, tilting.

“Look at that piece of shit,” said Turner. “Look at him flying high.”

On the way back to town, Kylie asked if we could swing by her friend Lauren’s place. She lived in one of the new townhouses by the highway, Garibaldi Estates, on the fifth floor.

“This bitch owes me like a hundred bucks,” Kylie said as we rode the elevator up. “She’s always doing shit like this, and I can’t let her get away with it. You know what I mean?”

I shrugged.

The hallway hung silent following Kylie’s door-battering, but after a minute or two the door rattled and opened. A girl wearing a short pink bathrobe leaned into view, her bed-shagged hair streaked a similar hue. Her eyes were half-closed.

“Uh huh,” she said.

“You gonna let us inside?” Kylie asked.

“I’ll come out’n talk,” she said, pained.

I pretended to ignore them while they argued in the hallway, and watched as a dishevelled crow shifted uncomfortably on the edge of the roof, its talons clicking, just outside the window. Kylie paced shouting while Lauren listened bored with her beautiful brown legs.

Eventually Kylie turned back to me, exasperated. “Let’s go, Joel.”

Once we got back on to the Juan de Fuca Hill she held out her palm, two chalky pills cradled in the creases.

“This is supposed to be boss stuff. It’s K. She didn’t have any cash.”

How can I capture that moment? Kylie halfway-swivelled against the seatbelt, her forehead salmon pink from the sun and her white palm-skin outstretched. The grassy bluffs leading up towards the towering dominance of Mount Garibaldi were stretched out behind her, floating and blurred, while within the carpeted boundaries of our little vehicle we were safety-bathed by the air conditioning. I swallowed the pill. We hurtled towards our future.

“Will you put some more signs up with me later?” I asked. “After?”

“Of course.”

“There’s still so many, babe.”

“We can put up as many as you want, babe.”

Sixteen years old I thumb-dabbed my goggles, donkey-kicking, my headphones tucked under my swim cap. The finals heat for the 100 butterfly at provincial championships, and I was the one standing in front of Lane 4. Ty was there, Sketch and Neil too. I spat air, flailed, my feet splashing on the tiles. I expected to win my whole life, always anticipated easy victory—what does that say about me? I had this daily suspicion that I was a little more interesting than everyone else, a little more talented. My brother Josh was the same way, and all during the campaign I wonder if he had any idea how wrong things could go, how easily his future would evaporate. Vote for Joshua Bishop. I can see his temp’s bemused face, the self-satisfied sneer, as he ruined my family’s life with every fucking word he spoke. As soon as my brother’s news went public, our family scattered into our own grief trajectories, none of us sure how to handle the sudden scrutiny. And before we could decide whether we forgave him, before we could prove to him that being a part of the Bishop family means more than some sex scandal, some political campaign, before my father could even talk to him, he was gone. The ocean will take us all, I figure, but we were left with his body, shower-dangling, at his mansion in Garibaldi. That house! White carpets like cat fur underfoot. This is where I belonged, not slave-waging away in Vancouver.

Underwater is where I feel best, dolphin-kicking streamlined. Life made sense at 16, when my evening revolved around 58 seconds of frenzied exertion. Fuck real life and the future and the present moment too because I’m suspended mid-dive, dripping, while around me the bleachers erupt with cheering. Ice-wind slashes my cheekbones and stings my eyes shut.

Rotting clumps of mown grass collected on my boots as I worked my way up the St. Catherine’s lawn, past the youth trailer in the parking lot, up towards the stained glass window at the apex of the sanctuary. As kids we played this game called Gestapo where the youth leaders would chase us through the streets of Garibaldi with flashlights while we raced from Diefenbaker Park to the safety of the church. I scanned the treeline for spectators, but I was alone. I was thinking about this thing Turner once told me, about how we’re all just energy morphing from one form to the next. In reality, he was the first one to ditch on Jesus. He was braver than I was, less scared of the social consequences, or maybe he was just more honest.

“When I die and go to Heaven, I’m going to walk into the throne room of God and I’ll have three simple words for him: what the fuck?” Turner told me, perched in the Sky Train window, when I asked him about why he wasn’t coming to church anymore.

“If you had kids, what could they do to stop you from loving them?” he asked me.

“Nothing, I guess.”

“So why are we worshipping a deity who routinely condemns whole swaths of society to Hell? It’s so fucking arbitrary, Bishop! You’re born in India, you’re fucked. You’re born in China, you’re fucked. But if you’re a white Christian dude, everything will be fine and you’ll be a happy little saved boy.”

I didn’t know what to say then, and I still don’t now.

“A God like that doesn’t deserve my love.”

The way Turner talked, he didn’t miss religion. He didn’t miss understanding everything, having that communal reassurance. He liked to be an outlier, a rebel, a heathen.

“You can’t spend your whole life pretending,” Turner said. “Sooner or later you have to admit we wasted our teenage years on a medieval crock of bullshit.”

All that meaning, all those years of prayer, all that struggling and learning—for what? I speared the first campaign sign firmly beside St. Catherine’s front entrance, another one beneath its stained glass, and the final one at the top of their hilly lawn. My brother’s plastic face smiling from each one. Then I sat, butt-damp in the grass, and lit a cigarette. My brother was 33 years old when he died, the same age they nailed Jesus to a fucking cross, but he wasn’t dying for any reason. He didn’t get to close his eyes knowing he’d made some huge sacrifice, knowing that he left the world a better place than when he arrived. My brother died tormented and hopeless, kicking against the porcelain, and who deserves that? How come he got hand-picked for that fate? I felt personally robbed of decades of experience, of the chance to see his face wrinkle, his voice change, his hair go white like Dad’s.

“I really wanted to believe in You,” I told the looming, dark church. “If I had a choice, I’d still be here. You know that.”

I couldn’t believe I was praying. I was still high.

“If there’s something more to this, something I’m missing…I guess what I’m saying is if you’re going to keep me around, You’re going to have to do something.”

I sat there quiet, wondering what God could do, short of flashing across the sky in all His radiance, to convince me of His presence. I heard this quote once, attributed to a 16th century hymn writer: “a God comprehended is not God”. If that’s true, then why even attempt to grasp the mystery? Why call out to Him, why pray, why devote yourself to a deity who can’t (or won’t) respond? When I was a kid I used to make little faith bargains, sending mental requests for God to manipulate the circumstances around me. (“If you really exist, make that kid put something in the garbage can as he walks by.”) Sometimes it even worked. It was like having an Almighty, imaginary friend. But now I’m an adult, a real person, I’ve read fucking Nietzsche. I won’t be so easy to convince. A warm feeling in my chest won’t be enough, a whispered voice deep in my psyche was completely inadequate. I needed something tangible, a Burning Bush-style sign, and I would accept nothing short of a miracle. Maybe my brother could bound out of one of his election signs, let me know this was all an elaborate dream sequence, or maybe Trent would materialize in front of me and explain what happened down in Mexico all those years ago. He’ll tell me our youth group’s implosion was part of some larger, mystical scheme, that St. Catherine’s has some continued role to play in my life. 

Or what? An angel! A demon! Anything. These sorts of visions end up in sermons and heartfelt testimonies, in parables. These experiences alter people’s entire lives, give them purpose and direction. Why not me? Why couldn’t I, just once, be allowed a glimpse of something beyond all this? Why couldn’t I be the one with the faith, the one who understands the light while everyone else stands in the dark?

“Will You speak to me?” I said, my voice trembling. “Are You there?”