#i get nauseous even thinking of the goddamn intro

[hh0320]

𝐈 𝐠𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐚 𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐲 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐥;

part three of the velvet opiate series. part one, part two.

pairing: rockstar! hyunjin x reader (+ minho, felix, chan)

word count: 4.6k

genre: visual gothic rock band, romance, dark smut, hurt/comfort, toxic skz, set in the late 90’s-early 00’s.

warnings: profanity, mature themes, drug & alcohol abuse, foursome, unprotected sex, filthy talk, light bdsm play, light sadism.

🏷: @ughbehavior, @cb97percent, @svintsandghosts.

tunes: radiohead (go slowly), mareux (the perfect girl).

Recordings for the new album lasted for a month and a half.

In those forty five days, none of them could move an inch away from the studio, without Joon breathing down their neck, threatening to kick them out the band. Some nights they would sleep in there, dreaming of riffs, and melodies.

Felix had lyrics. But lyrics were nothing but pretty poetry without the music, and Velvet Opiate were not looking to sell books—Chan was very aware of that.

He hadn’t been sleeping properly, if at all. Notes came to him organically, he could get inspired by anything, had a natural talent in song making, and got paid good money to keep it up—yet, he was fucked.

They needed a title track, and all they’d made so far were B sides. And it was on him. It was his fault, because he was so busy running around saving his band mates from themselves, that he’d had no time to sit down and produce. The one thing that was truly of any significance, for them, but to him, especially, solely.

Bang Chan had his music, entirely. Without it, he was just an entitled clown with a drum kit. The company needed a title track, and he’d provide, even if it killed him.

Nothing else mattered.

“From the top!”

The four of them inwardly groaned, fingers raw, sweat dripping from their hair. That was the fifth time they had to repeat that damn song, and they were fucking sick of it.

“Jail would be better than this,” Felix muttered under his breath, throat dry.

Minho chuckled, discarding his wet, sweaty shirt, bass propped on his thigh. His hair stuck to his forehead, dark circles around his brown eyes; he looked like he’d escaped hell.

Maybe he had, Hyunjin could never tell with his older friend.

“What do you know about jail, sunshine?” The purple haired man asked, sarcastically.

Felix rolled his eyes, a devilish smile on his lips. “I know that I’d drop the soap for you, handsome.”

Minho smirked, leaning forward. “All you gotta do is ask, sweetheart.”

“Please stop flirting, it’s making me fucking nauseous,” Chan interjected, a disgusted look on his face.

Hyunjin laughed, going through the tabs. “D’ you think they’ve already fucked, Bang? The tension is palpable.”

“He wouldn’t be able to handle what I give, doll face,” he concluded with a wink, and Hyunjin shook his head, smiling.

“What are you into these days, anyway? Satanic summonings?” Felix widened his eyes, in emphasis.

“Boys, get serious,” Joon said, through the microphone, on the other side. “Again.”

“Lix, shut the fuck up, before he ties you to a goddamn cross.”

Felix pft’ed, while Hyunjin started playing the intro of the new song. “He wouldn’t—”

“Oh, I would,” Minho warned, staring at the singer. “Careful what you ask for.”

Felix swallowed hard, and started:

‘His eyes were heavy

He carried a gun…’

Minho was bored.

His whole life, it seemed, was a mundane routine of waking up to uneventful days, eat, breathe, piss, fuck, repeat. Such was the mortal existence; to have your little time on earth, and then fuck off to whatever afterworld you believe in.

How mediocre—plain. Lee Minho refused to succumb to the monotonous, the tedious. That is why he joined Velvet, that’s why he is the way he is.

Tragic fucking backstory aside, since who the fuck really cares, Minho won’t blame the orphanage beginnings, or the loveless child trope that he’s carried throughout the years.

Juvie at fourteen, mental rehabilitation institute at sixteen, the freezing streets of the capital when freshly eighteen—could he condemn his bad luck? Ignore the responsibility of his fate?

Minho was many things, indifferent to everything, numb to surprise and pain, but he had a sense of responsibility for his actions—he’d never inconvenience anyone, especially the people he associates with the most, because of his own self destructive tendencies. His personal life was his, and his only.

That was the kind of picture Lee Minho painted. A rational one; a competent, sane person, albeit a little unreliable as a narrator.

Some called him a heartless son of a bitch.

Alas, no one was perfect.

It was well after midnight, a Friday on their second week of recordings, when they spotted the fans they’d been warned about.

They were waiting patiently on the side of the exit door, girls in their early twenties, masks hiding their faces, giddy eyes searching for their beloved artists. Joon had given them black caps, and advised the band to keep their heads low, and wave.

Felix broke first, but he later swears it was only because of their long time fan, and founder of his fan club, holding out a gift for him. He hugged her, and signed some pictures for her next giveaway.

Felix was like that—thoughtless, whimsical. It wasn’t exactly a fault, Minho thought, though Chan had reprimanded him quite a bit for his capricious actions.

That night, Minho had a craving. It was an urge, a thirst he couldn’t shake off. And what Minho wanted, Minho had—absolutely.

His gaze had caught the brunette on the far left of the group. She noticed him looking at her, and lowered her eyes immediately, succumbing to his intense stare.

She’ll break easily. That was fine by him, he wasn’t searching for a challenge, not tonight.

A nudge and a knowing look to his bodyguard, and he entered the van after Hyunjin, who’d nearly ran there.

He texted, ‘and her friend,’ to his not so little helper, and smirked down at the screen, feeling Hyunjin’s curious eyes.

“Fuck me,” the blonde boy rolled his eyes. “Just fucking—keep them quiet, will you? It’s a hotel, not your goddamn torture chamber.”

Minho chuckled sinisterly, watching everyone get in the vehicle. It was somewhat unfortunate he didn’t have his…toys with him, but if he was being honest, his patience had ran thin after all the work stress, and not being able to be at the comfort of his own home.

He just needed…release. And they’d have to fucking do, for now.

“I make no promises, doll face.”

Felix turned to that, confused. “Wait, what?”

“Shit, Minho don’t fucking tell me—” Chan started, annoyed.

Hyunjin snorted, lighting a cigarette. He could hear the girls yelling goodnight’s, and I love you’s, and absentmindedly smiled at the words.

“It’s true,” he mused, crossing his arms over his chest, and leaning back against the seat. “Minho’s gonna bless our ears, and get his dick wet.”

“Charity work, boys. You’re welcome,” the perpetrator finished, amused by the attention he was getting.

Chan groaned, while Felix scrunched his nose, wanting to retaliate.

“We’re gonna get kicked out, again. Fucking watch.”

Hyunjin had gifted Minho a pair of Vivienne Westwood pearl earrings for Christmas. It was her original design, and he’d gotten them as a last minute thing, a thank you for all the times the older boy had covered for his ass to their manager.

Hyunjin would follow Lee Minho inside a burning house. He would, if only to see what invisibility truly was. Minho was deathless, a distant form of a man that got away with everything.

His cunningness, his endearing personality that made you blindly follow him to the edges of the sharpest cliffs—where Hyunjin would free fall, searching for any kind of high, Minho could convince people to jump in his place, manipulate them into thinking they’ll be okay once they reached the bottom.

You had to really know the question mark, to know the fairytales it spewed. And Minho did tell a lot of stories. It depended on the kind of person you were—what you did and did not deserve to find out. For some, dragons have been slayed, princesses rescued—others know of the tales of the cavernous forest; about the tough fight against the darkness, how it stole everything, fed on his soul—

How he lost that soul, and what it cost him in the end.

There were a lot of stories, all of them fake. What was Lee Minho in his essence—a con man, hiding inside a thousand mirrors, each one containing only an echo of the small, scared boy he still was, deep down.

Hyunjin caught a glimpse of those earrings, dangling in the bright lights of the long hall leading to their rooms. Hair shining an intense purple, Minho disappeared behind his door, voice lost and now trapped against the four walls, no doubt a warm greeting to his guests for the night.

Chan was leaning against the railing, smoking one of his rare cigarettes. If nicotine was involved, Bang Chan was fucking stressed. Valid, considering.

“I’m worried about him,” he admitted, running a hand through his silver hair.

Lighter already in hand, Hyunjin copied his band mate. He stood next to him, silent for a while, wondering how could anyone worry about a snake.

The level of danger depends on the kind, but most snakes are adaptable, secretive creatures. They shed their skin when they’ve outgrown it, are reborn stronger, stealthier. A snake cannot truly die. If Hyunjin had to guess, Minho would be a saw-scaled viper, quick to attack, so you never see him coming.

He could survive anything, because he always put himself first. No exceptions, unless specified.

“These walls are paper thin.”

Chan sighed. “I could fucking care less about that, I’ve seen him fuck and get fucked forty different ways. I’m talking about his coping mechanisms—” he lowered his voice, glancing around.

Joon had their entire floor cleared, so it was only the four of them staying there, but some things Velvet Opiate kept close to their heart of hearts, never daring to speak about them out loud. It was an unwritten rule.

“Ever since his accident, her death—he’s never been the same again. I couldn’t possibly know what the fuck he’s thinking now, if I ever did back then.”

It was true. Minho had been in a fatal car accident, a couple years back. He ended up with several broken ribs, a fracture, and a broken leg, but the truck had come into impact with the passenger seat first. His then girlfriend was pronounced dead as soon as the paramedics arrived at the scene.

Perhaps, his most severe wound had been her passing.

The band had gone on hiatus for three months, and Minho didn’t once leave his house during the entire time, except to attend the funeral. And that had been a horrible thing in itself—the freezing cold mask he wore accepting condolences, the ghost that’s followed him ever since.

Lee Minho is the burning house. He’s been in flames ever since he was four years old, and the fire has only grown worse overtime. Hyunjin could only hope he knew how to put himself out before it was too late.

But wasn’t he the same way? Didn’t he also have a time limit—a certain amount of fuck ups before it was game over? What the fuck did he know?

Hyunjin exhaled smoke, nodding at the words his friend had said. “You have to walk through the pitch black darkness, to come through the other side.”

Chan finished his cigarette, shaking his head. “Hyun, he’s fucking drowning. You two are more alike than you think.”

The two boys looked at each other, brown on brown. Hyunjin could see the effort it took for Chan to be this vulnerable about his thoughts—he’s always been the crutch, the lifeboat.

The glue that held everything together.

“Maybe you could pull each other up,” he said, patting Hyunjin’s shoulder, and turning to walk to his room, three doors down.

Hyunjin would follow Lee Minho blind. He mused over the stick between his fingers, slowly turning into ashes, how it would always burn, always reduce itself down to the butt—there was no other outcome, no other way.

Predictable. That’s what Hyunjin was becoming. Inevitable.

He thought of you, and the way your skin felt underneath his own, how your eyes looked up at him with the brightest glint, the angel, the untainted. The holy.

You were probably waiting for him at that bleeding bar, wondering how long until he came back to sweep you off your feet. Tasting him in everything, laying awake panting, dreams of him stuck on your eyelashes. He hoped. He wished.

The damned have their prayers and their credulous hopes.

How expected of him to be this weak. Unsurprising.

What other fucking way does Hwang Hyunjin know, except the dark, thorny one? Except the mud, and the monsters, and the hopeless fight?

There’s only one story for him.

He gets up, knocks on the white door. Pearl Vivienne Westwood earrings greet him, an insouciant Minho blinks at him once, and moves out the way.

Hyunjin enters.

The lighting was dim, atmospheric.

One girl was tied on the headboard, the other on the floor, on her knees waiting, gaze downwards.

Both naked.

Hyunjin momentarily wonders if they were aware of Minho’s sexual preferences. Judging by the girl on the bed, her content face, he decides they probably don’t even care—too happy to be near their favorite idol.

Minho nods over to the vanity desk, thin white lines laid out, a credit card, and a bill next to them. A bottle of whiskey was open, three glasses empty around it.

This was the scene. The car accident, the neon lights, the siren. The death over and over—the self destruction was a suicide. The eventual joining, on the other side.

Hyunjin was familiar with this best of all, because he’d been guilty for it too. Only for him, there would be no rejoicing, no motive. No reason beyond the high.

Minho had moved to the mattress, sitting next to the gagged girl, that had been whimpering and fighting against the restraints. He spoke low to her, almost a whisper; his mouth was sinful, his language filthy.

“How wet is your cunt right now, love? Sprawled like a fucking whore for us. It’s what you wanted, right? To be fucked by a couple rockstars?”

The woman’s thighs rubbed against each other, no doubt aroused by the scenario.

Hyunjin had his eyes set on the submissive one on the floor, though. She had made no move, no sound, ever since he’d entered. She remained perfectly still, deliciously compliant.

He hadn’t used in three weeks. That was a record for him, though he couldn’t entirely put it on himself—everyone’s been micro managing him, monitoring his every move. His phone had been taken from him, all contacts removed.

He hadn’t fought it—he’d actually wanted to give sobriety a try, if for nothing but the sake of the band. But Minho had seen right through him, apparently, had spotted the beast inside Hyunjin, and promised to take care of it.

How expected of him to be this weak. Unsurprising.

Cocaine wasn’t his drug of choice, but anything is food to a starving man. He snorted a line, and rubbed his nose.

Then got close to the girl. Her hair was long and black, a curtain around her face. Hyunjin got on one knee, lifting her chin with his thumb.

Watery eyes stared at him, innocent and willing. Like yours.

“You’re being so quiet, sweetheart. Such a good girl,” he praised, taking in her body.

Perky breasts, tiny figure, hands balled into fists on her thighs. It wouldn’t take long at all—this girl was already broken.

Hyunjin loved broken things. There was no reason to be careful with them, at all. He fisted her hair, inspecting her reaction. She blinked at him, lips parting.

“You know what’s gonna happen, don’t you, pretty girl?”

She nodded weakly, never once breaking eye contact. Oh, she’s fucking done this before alright.

His other hand slapped her cheek, once. Softly, testing the waters. She flinched closer, but there was no pained look, no widening of the eyes. Just plain, unfiltered desire for more.

“Turn around, on your hands and knees,” he ordered, unbuttoning his shirt.

It was a split decision, her mouth opened—

“Can I touch you?” She regretted it as soon as she said it.

The second slap was harder, his palm leaving a red mark on her pale skin. She bit on her lip to keep from crying out, and scurried to get into position, afraid of worse punishment.

Hyunjin had no limit when it came to this—he would take it as far as his partner was willing to go, no second guesses. It was the only thing that gave him control, the only thing that truly gave him pleasure.

Feeling someone physically and mentally submit to him, connecting through inflicting pain on them… he’d been wired that way, it seemed. Violence got him fucking hard, the detachment, the deep emotions of the one receiving—the sweet release. All of it was incredibly arousing.

You had been the only exception, in all his years. With you, he wanted to take his time, defile you slowly, take care of you properly.

You were his angel, untouchable otherwise. You were different.

He pulled this girl by the throat, bringing her back flush against his own naked chest, mouth next to her ear.

“You’re fucking helpless. This is for me, and only me. You better keep fucking quiet, and take it, do you understand?”

She nodded frantically against him.

“Now, what’s your safe word?”

“Burn. It’s burn.”

Burn… This fucking girl.

“A true fan,” Minho commented, amused.

He was fucking the other girl’s mouth, both hands holding her face still. She was struggling to breathe, a slobbering mess, but there was no voice to her.

“I wrote that song, beautiful,” he winked at Hyunjin’s girl, and she blushed, before going back down, position resumed, lesson learned.

“That’s a good fucking girl,” he slapped her ass.

Sliding two fingers in her cunt, he found it soaking wet. Cursing, he fucked her like that for a while, making sure she’d keep to her word and make no noise. Her face was pressed against the carpet, arms barely holding her up.

He grabbed them, holding them behind her back, and removed his fingers. She clenched around the loss, juices running down her milky thighs.

What a fucking slut.

Hyunjin entered her roughly, using her arms to get deeper inside. She screamed, and then apologized immediately, her whole body tensing up, waiting for punishment.

“Didn’t I tell you,” he groaned, drilling into her, “to keep fucking quiet?!”

The girl on the bed was crying by this point, Minho relentlessly pounding her ass, hands still tied, a black scarf covering her eyes. It was like he was deaf to her screams, not present, as his movements quickened, her knees giving way, falling flat on her face, and yet never once shutting the fuck up.

Hyunjin glanced at his friend once, noticing the stoic expression, the hard lines of his mouth. He wasn’t there mentally, he was dissociating. It was what usually happened when Minho was high—he had no restraints, no way to stop, not unless he got what he wanted.

“Get on the bed,” he pulled his girl’s hair, slipping out of her.

She tripped, but did as told. He circled an arm around her waist and placed her right next to the moaning myrtle. The need to gag her was overwhelming, but Hyunjin knew Minho left her like that on purpose. To block his mind; static noise.

He slammed back inside her, cunt now a sloppy mess, lifting her legs over his head. Holding them with one hand, he fucked her brutally, exorcising the thought of you.

Minho stopped, as if awakening suddenly. The girl came hard, spasming violently. He pulled her up by the throat, and bit her shoulder.

“Join them. Let me see you.”

The two women started kissing, completely fucked out, while Hyunjin continued his pounding—close, so fucking close. Eyes shut, you’re there, a vision in black, red all around, getting fucked by him against a wall, like a fucking whore.

His whore. Hyunjin holds you up, your cunt heaven, a church he build to hide inside, praying to your name on his knees. Important, bigger than life, your half naked frame filling his mind, driving him over the edge.

“Burn! Burn! Fucking burn, fuck!”

He spilled inside her, growling, head falling on her stomach. She shook him off, pulling away, wrapping her arms around her knees, exhausted, tears streaming down her face.

You’d hate him for this. But you didn’t understand, yet. He’d make sure you never found out.

“All yours,” he says to Minho, getting off the bed.

“Don’t be scared, kitten,” Minho reasoned with her. “You didn’t think we’d go easy on you, did you?”

Hyunjin quickly slipped into his pants, remaining shirtless. He saw as Minho tamed both women, his voice level and soothing. It’d be a long night.

Pouring himself a drink, he downed it in one go, lines tempting him again. But he could already feel his high, and he really could care less about cocaine, so he left, right as Minho took out a vibrator—

Kinky motherfucker.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Minho called out to him, as the door clicked shut.

For the first time in his life, Hyunjin listened.

Back in his room, he showered off the sex smell, and sat by the window smoking, clad in nothing but a pair of pajama bottoms.

He thought of you. Your scent, your soft hands, the way you reached for him. The way he’d scared you by attacking that scum. It’d been too long since then, and his need to see you, to touch you, only grew stronger.

But his life was a golden cage, and he remained a prisoner. Hyunjin had the least freedom of them all, and he had nothing but his addictions to blame.

Grabbing his guitar, he played through random notes, smoke burning his eyes. His fingers settled over a strumming pattern, and he repeated it, a faint melody coming together.

Hyunjin went through it again, and again, building on it, the music descending on his heart, painful and familiar. Reminiscent of the way you said his name.

He hummed along, and where lyrics failed, they now came to him freely, devastating.

‘I tried counting

Her smiling pain…’

He shot up from his seat, cigarette long forgotten, hanging limply from his mouth, and run out of the room, two doors down. Chan’s door was always open, because he never fucking slept.

He was in front of his equipment, free styling on the keyboard, when Hyunjin burst in and stood in front of him, grinning from ear to ear.

Chan squinted up at him. “Are you high?”

Hyunjin shook his head, guitar in hand. “Never mind that. I got us the title track.”

At that, the silver haired boy’s eyes widened, and he leaned back in his seat, intrigued.

“No shit. Never thought I’d see the day, Hyun.”

It was true. Hyunjin never wrote songs—there’d never been anything inspiring, until he met you. And he was so sure of you, his brave girl, so enamored by what you showed him, by what he felt.

“It’s called Knife.”

Chan gestured for him to sit on the bed. “Let’s hear it.”

Hyunjin played.

It was a bit past four in the morning, when Minho’s groupies left. Disheveled, and bruised, shoes in hand, they tiptoed to the elevator like thieves, giggling to themselves.

Hyunjin and Chan were taking a break out in the hall, and watched as they let out similar high pitched screams when they noticed them there.

The black haired one screamed, “I love you Bang Chan!” She looked drunk.

Chan chuckled, waving at her. “What’d he do to them?”

“You want the politically correct answer to that?” Hyunjin asked, taking a drag of his cigarette.

“Never mind.”

They both looked down at the lobby, and met the security guard’s gaze, as the two women passed by him. He probably thought, fucking rockstars, thinking they can do whatever the fuck they want, and he’d be right.

Sometimes they did the most excessive shit for the hell of it. Money and fame gave them the right to do so. What was a hotel’s security guard going to do about it?

Look the other way. They all did.

“What the fuck are you looking at, asshole?” Chan provoked him.

Hyunjin smirked, elbows resting on the railing, letting the scene unroll before him.

“Go back to your rooms,” the guard told him, scowling.

Chan scoffed, laughing humorlessly. “And what if we don’t, tough guy? Are you gonna spank us?”

At that, Hyunjin snorted. Chan had the worst temper of the four, and he loved getting riled up. Shit talking was his favorite pastime, only second to making music.

They had only gotten kicked out of a hotel twice before; once when Minho’s birthday orgy got out of control, and then back when they first became well known, for vandalism. That’d been Hyunjin’s fault—he’d been high as a fucking kite, and decided trashing his room and knocking on every door of his floor, screaming lyrics from their debut song was a great idea.

He got arrested for private nuisance, and fined three thousand dollars for destroying property. He’d barely made it to their first concert in America, and Joon was mad at him for a month after that.

He hoped this wouldn’t be the third, but did nothing to prevent it from happening.

The guy talked in his walkie-talkie, no doubt requesting back up. Hyunjin doubted he’d need extra men, but then again, Chan was known to be unpredictable when messed with.

“What a little bitch. Do you need me to show you, fuckface? Have you ever properly fucked a woman before?”

The receptionist came into view, looking up at them. “Sir, I advise you to calm down, or we’ll have to call the police. Please go back to your rooms, or you’ll be escorted out of the premises.”

Right on time, Minho and Felix came out, curious faces staring at their band mates. Hyunjin sighed, tugging on Chan’s sleeve.

“Do you really have to start shit, Bang? This hotel’s been pretty flexible with us.”

“What the fuck is going on?” Felix asked, rubbing his eyes, looking down at the lobby.

“I’m calling Joon. Chan, fucking calm it, before we’re front page news again,” Minho warned, opening his flip phone.

Chan hit Hyunjin in the back, taking a deep breath, and nodding at Minho.

“You’re right. But let me just—fuck you!” He shouted to the guard, a maniacal smile on his lips.

“Okay, I’m done. Fuck, that felt good.”

Felix laughed, following him to his room. “Fucking Bang Chan…”

Hyunjin stayed behind with Minho, who was on the phone with their manager, explaining the situation.

“So much for laying low,” Hyunjin mocked Chan’s words from earlier that month.

Minho smirked. “We’re Velvet fucking Opiate, doll face. We don’t lay low.”

The blonde smirked back, and put his arm around the older’s shoulders. “Sounds about fucking right, honey.”

“I wrote a song, by the way!”

“About fucking time. We all just thought you’d be a pretty face forever.”

“Fuck you, Lee.”

“Next foursome, doll.”

A week later, the new publication for ‘Nicola’ magazine was out. It was the go to for every teenager in Japan, and Velvet Opiate had been a regular issue on their pages, mainly for their fashion appearances, and hot gossip.

This time it was the latter.

The title read as such: ‘Velvet Opiate fans confess—we slept with the band! EXCLUSIVE’

“Guys!” Joon yelled, reading through the article anxiously.

The band gathered around their manager, peaking at the magazine, curious.

“Fuck,” all four collectively exclaimed.

They were in deep shit.

[brokentoasterrr]

i try to never show vulnerability on this blog because i am simply Like That, but i wrote piece of creative writing (ish) about my best friend and i want to share it so here we go

tw for death, implied smoking and drinking and a bunch of other shit. read at your own risk, essentially.

He hates onions. Onions and mushrooms. Still, he eats the noodle stir-fry I make him, with onions and scallions. And the pasta Carbonara with chickpeas instead of bacon, because I'm vegetarian and I like to cook. He eats it despite the uneven pieces of onion speckled throughout creamy sauce that clings to the pasta.

He loves liquorice. I hate it. He buys a bar of liquorice with a caramel center, urges me to try it, so I do. And I like it. But I never eat it again.

He buys a chocolate bar. I'm terrified of germs so when he asks me if I want a bite, I shake my head. The next time he buys a chocolate bar, he lets me break away a piece myself before he does, so I can eat without the anxiety. 

I'm terrified of germs, I'm terrified of becoming ill. I use hand sanitizer until my hands dry out and the skin cracks, wash my hands until my cuticles break apart. He buys me a medium fry from McDonald's, and when I use my hand sanitizer, he doesn't even look at me twice. He stretches his hand out and asks for some. When I don't eat the piece of the fry that my fingers touched, when I put them on a napkin and ignore how anxious it makes me, both to eat and to waste, he nods towards them and says, "Can I eat that?" 

When my hands start to shake because I forgot to eat before I left the house, he drags me to the supermarket. He pays for a chocolate bar, says, "It's better than nothing."

He loves orange and chocolate ice cream. Buys a five litre tub and pays £5 to share with all of us. Ten people. He ends up eating most of it, because no one wanted more than a spoonful or two. I am supposed to go vegan, but I eat some anyway.

He walks around with a lizard made out of fabric and sand in his pocket. Says it's there to keep him company. There's a homeless man at McDonald's. He gives the man the sand filled lizard, and says, "Keep it. So you won't be alone anymore."

I'm angry with my mum. She's left me and my older brother alone again. There's no food in the house and I've eaten pasta with frozen peas and ketchup for three days in a row and I'm angry. I feel neglected and alone. He offers me cigarettes, and acts like a drain in which I can pour all of my problems. He says my feelings are valid, says that love doesn't cancel out the neglect. He puts on some music and makes me laugh.

He never says hello. He says, "Good morning." He never says goodbye. He says, "Good luck."

I'm homeless. Well, not quite. I live in the spare room in my grandma's house, young with no money other than the weekly allowance that I spend on cigarettes. He lets me stay at his house for five days, lets me roll cigarettes with loose tobacco because I can't afford another packet this week. He says, "Do you want to start a business? Two pounds per packet. You get a pound if you help me roll." It sounds borderline illegal, but it's just cigarettes, isn't it? I nod. 

He owns an ATV. It's started snowing but the air is still warm enough that it doesn't lay as a loose powder over the streets, but packs together. The perfect texture for sledding. He ties a sled to the back of his ATV, gives me a helmet. I sit on the sled, he drives. It's the best thing I've ever done in my entire life.

I'm struggling in school. He says that he'll hopefully get a job in another town. The town where I want to go to highschool. He says he'll get a flat, says that maybe we should move in together. One room each, I can cook and do the dishes, and he'll clean and do laundry. He helps me with my homework. He helps me see the end of studying, and gives me something to work towards. A home with my best friend, a school I'll enjoy.

My body doesn't feel like my own. My head says he and him, my body says otherwise. He's the same. My body feels wrong and I want to crawl out of my skin. He knows exactly how it feels. I haven't showered in a week. He tells me to try to shower with the lights off. I don't smell sweaty and my hair isn't greasy anymore.

He loves orange juice. If he could, he'd probably stop eating and only live of off orange juice. I buy him a litre for his birthday, and he grins and laughs. Empty cartons stands around his room, and his fridge is filled with it. I don't like orange juice, but I like apple juice. So I buy the same brand, different fruit. 

He likes to sew his own clothes. Scrap bits of fabric, floss and some free time, and he's patched up a pair of trousers that he decorates with more patches, writes on them, sticks chains and random items onto them. I've never seen anyone sew with floss before, but he does.

He loves dogs. Walks around with dog treats in his pocket in case he runs into a good boy or girl to love for a few moments. 

He loves punk. Listens to it loudly on a Bluetooth speaker and screams along. He dances. I dance and I scream with him and I don't care who watches. When we listen to our song, we stand face to face, jump forward and backwards and scream the lyrics in our faces until we can't breathe. I hear the intro and I slap my thighs in excitement, stand up immediately. "It's our song! Come on!"

I love to ride the bike. He does too. We ride our bikes all over town, listen to our music and feel the wind hit our faces. Mine is pink and purple. Because it's not mine, it's my sister's. His is red, rusty and old. It's his mother's. 

He wears his hair in a mohawk. It's either blue or black, standing straight up, tall and stiff. My hair is green but still boring. He helps me comb it up to liberty spikes. We wear patched trousers with loud chains and soda caps that hit against one another with the tell-tale metallic jangle. People stare and take photos when they think we can't see. We stand up taller, laugh louder.

He feels alone. He's sad, and angry, and alone. It's my turn to act like the drain. So he talks and talks, smokes cigarette after cigarette and I nod as he speaks. Smoke my own cigarette and says that he's valid. What he's feeling is valid.

I move into a group home. My ceiling lamp hangs too low and I'm only 5"4 yet I bump my head against it. He helps me hang it up properly. Jokes and talks about nothing and everything as he hoists it up until I don't bump my head against it anymore.

We make chocolate truffles. Butter and oats and sugar and cocoa powder. A Swedish thing. We cover them in more chocolate and they taste better than anything we've made before.

He hates Christmas. But he buys battery driven fairy lights and sticks them into his mohawk, down to his trousers. He walks around like a goddamn Christmas tree. Because he hates Christmas but other people love it and he wants to make them happy.

He's drunk. It's Christmas Eve and he's so drunk that he has to hold onto the wall to stand upright. I'm on the balcony and he's on the ground and he looks up at me. "I'm so happy," he tells me. "Kevin, I'm so happy. I always want to be like this." I tell him to go home, drink some water and to sleep it off. He goes.

It's New Year's Eve and I'm at my girlfriend's. We drink non-alcoholic wine and cider, kiss when the clock strikes twelve. We're both tired and we go to bed before one in the morning. He calls me, he says that we're going to start a band. Our friend's new partner has a studio and it's one town over but it's okay because we're moving there anyway. "I love you," he tells me. And I tell him, "I love you too."

Our friend texts me the next day. She asks if I had seen him, if I had heard from him. I tell her no. And I send him a text. I hope you're alive, I write, call me. He never does.

Instead it's our friend, the next day. I've just showered and I'm eating breakfast with my girlfriend and her dad. My phone rings. Our friend. My friend. "Axel's dead," she tells me. "They found him in the attic." I scream. I cry. I tell her no. No, he's not dead. It's not true. She's playing a stupid fucking prank with me, she's lying. But when she says that it's true the third time, I believe her. And I break down.

I cry in the car ride home. I make a promise to myself that I'm going to live for the both of us. For three hours, I cry. I listen to music and audiobooks and nothing works to stop the he's dead, he's dead, he's gone. And I cry some more.

I cry when I wake up the next morning because I don't want to wake up in a world without him. 

I stop eating. I stop drinking. I'm nauseous all the time and the ache in my stomach consumes me and I can't eat anything because I am terrified of throwing up.

I cry so much that after three days, I get skin rashes by my eyes from scrubbing my eyes too much. Crying hurts but not crying hurts more. Every breath I take rattles and shakes and I only leave my bedroom to smoke. The staff at the group home tells me to let some light in. I pull my duvet up to my nose.

Axel means shoulder in Swedish. Every time he met someone new, he said, "Hi, my name is Axel and I'm always by your side." He never said that to me. And he never said goodbye, he said "Good luck." 

I get a tattoo. It says good luck on my wrist in his hand writing. And he remains by my side.

[rockettransman]

Rocketman Watch #4 Thoughts

i have so many MORE thoughts can you believe it wow here we go

(i wrote these as i watched it so they’re in order im p sure)

man, his intro monologue during group therapy is just as gripping as it was when I first watched it. And the transition to the bitch is back is so fuckin good. My palms are sweating.

There’s some commentary about forgiving and loving your inner/past child, but I don’t have the words for it at this moment. In the beginning he’s staring down, confused and scowling at his child self, but at the end, he embraces him in a way his father and loved ones never did.

Was he in therapy/rehab WHILE touring and doing music? Stomping into the room in his regalia would have me believe so. I know group therapy was a medium for storytelling. Was it just signaling the very beginning of his story, because we go through different stages through his actions and clothing changes?

Lmao I imagine it must take some pretty cool parents to allow their, like, six or seven year old child to be in this movie. He said bitch so many times.

Took me a hot second to realize the orchestra he’s conducting is playing Rocket Man. The violins are so pretty. Imagine being picked to be in the orchestra on set and getting smile up at the tiny little kid who played Elton. My heart would absolutely swell seeing a little kid being so fantastic at this really intense job.

Kit Connor did amazing in his role. He’s fifteen and he’s already done so much! Imagine growing up knowing you played Elton John as a kid. Getting to work alongside him and his husband and the dozens of incredible actors. Wowie. I’d never shut up about it.

I LOVE how 12 year old Elton is playing the piano SO HARD and is trying to rock out as hard as he can while playing classical music. The boy wanna ROCK dammit.

HE GLANCED UP THE TINIEST BIT WHEN THE MAN ASKED IF ANYONE HAD A FAG (slang for cigarette)

SATURDAY NIGHTS ALRIGHT GIVES ME CONSTANT CHILLS FROM THE START TO FINISH

WOOOW SEVENTEEN YEAR OLD ELTON IS CUTE AS HEEELLLL. The hair, glasses, and front tooth gap fit Taron so well. Goddamn I hope I look like 17 year old Elton some day.

The choreography for this number is absolutely breathtaking. You have to get that many people all in sync! We followed Elton running through the crowd and AAHHH it was a lot! The athleticism! And they did it in the rain! Wow I’m blow away.

Elton is JAMMIN in the back of the stage. It’s really sweet to see his smile and enthusiasm and his brain thinking and working.

That guy in the back peed a LOT lmao

I was wondering where thank you for all of your loving came in.

Charlie Rowe plays Ray Williams, and he also plays LEO ROTH from Red Band Society!!! The first time I watched the movie, I KNEW him from somewhere, but I couldn’t place it and it was driving me nuts. Man. RBS was a big crutch during the worst lows of my ED. Had no idea he was English.

Love to see how shy Elton was as a teenager. It’s a hot ass mood. Also, those silk scarves? Ascots? idk but they’re a LOOK.

“One frothy coffee, no froth.”

The acquaintances-to-best-friends montage set to Border Song *chefs kiss*

Rock And Roll Madonna Is A Perfect Song Send Tweet

Lmao Elton is NOT phased at all when he gets accused of being gay. He’s just like. “Nah. I’m like. Not.” Not overly defensive and surprised, like I’m sure other people would be lmaooo

STUMBLING HOME DRUNK WITH YOUR BEST FRIEND IS A MILESTONE IN TEENAGEHOOD!!!!!!!

“You are a ssSSHHIIIITT HOT piano player—”

So delicate of Bernie the way he politely denied a kiss from him. It wasn’t weird or tense at all. Just a gentle “love you, but not that way. It’s okay” Some people may not be able to handle it that well even today.

Taron’s got nice thighs. That robe & underwear getup is a nice look.

Love love LOVE hearing him experiment with Your Song on the piano to find a melody that worked.

Honestly what the shit do these songs even mean. Bernie sometimes these words don’t make any sense. Don’t worry, they still slap. “See I’ve forgotten if they’re green or they’re blue” like what

AMOREENA IS A PERFECT SONG SEND TWEET

Doug flirting with Bernie makes me snort every time. “Oh, really? That’s.. cool.”

THE TROUBADOUR OUTFIT IS GOOD AS SHIT!!!!!!!!

“NO, BERNIE. YOU ARE UNDERREACTING.”

Taron was right. The overalls do make his ass look massive.

A week ago before this movie I was sick and fuckin TIRED of crocodile rock but now I can’t get enough of it. The movie transformed a lot of old songs I was sick of for me.

Imagine being a kind of shy, nervous kid, terrified to go on stage, but two and a half minutes later the entire venue is LOSING IT because they love the jam YOU WROTE. how cool for Elton.

I want a best friend platonic cheek kiss :(

Hmmmmm I’m wondering if they used the studio recordings that went on the album for the movie or have different movie-specific recordings. Tiny Dancer sounds a teeny bit different in the movie version.

Goddamn I sure hope Taron got to keep that jacket.

“So you liked the song, then?” “Not as much as the singer” *Elton glances away in gay panic*

LMFAO John said some weird colorful words to Elton that barely made sense and he was like OH FUCK GOTTA KISS HIM GOTTA KISS HIM

I’ve talked so much about the sex scene I don’t need to go on about it here. Go search the rocketman tag on my blog for my extensive gay thoughts about it.

Now I know glasses come OFF during sex

oh oh oh I was wondering where Hercules fell in the movie. I love how the songs he’s writing or getting notoriety for is played over the transition scenes.

Elton’s hand on his hip, knowing smirk as John enters the studio. “Hello.”

Bernie is like “HELLO are we RECORDING or are y’all gonna FUCK in the CLOSET?”

*vibrating* Honky Cat Honky Cat Honky Cat Honky Cat

Damn, the flowy white button down with the red pants really is a LOOK

The gestures, staring up at each other, leaning into each other, hands on each other’s chests, damn it makes me feel some typa way. Maybe their love WAS good and fun and exciting while they rode the high of everything before it all went so so bad.

Elton searching John’s gaze while he’s talking and looking like he’s not really paying attention, just looking for a kiss on the couch.. GOD I remember the honeymoon phase of my relationships. So much fun.

His dad going “N-Not really my thing.” That was a metaphor for his SEXUALITY TOO, huh.

Damn. He went to his dad’s to come out to him and he never even got to get to that part. He was just like “....nice shoes....” and even after all this time, didn’t show any interest in his music. If he never was into what he did, how could he even talk about being gay? I’m sure during that scene there were a lot of metaphors to sexuality but I didn’t bother to think much about them.

The eyebrow quirk after his dad says “ah—no. Could you make it out to Arthur?” DAMN Elton was like .. “really. This is what’s happening? Okay. Awesome.”

“What do you have to do to get a fucking drink around here, eh?” *cuts to Elton drinking straight from a bottle*

“Elton—” “Elton!”

John saying “don’t you ever put your hands on me” when he was the one who yanked him from the phone booth AND directly after punching him... woof man. What a shitty dude.

Damn, just noticed John talking very quietly and closely to another man right before he goes on and plays Pinball Wizard. Was this the first sign of him having fun with other men when Elton was indisposed?

Pinball Wizard is absolutely intense and loud and fun, but it DOES carry the tone of “god im SO miserable” under it all. You knew Elton wasn’t having fun.

“It is next week.” Jeezus.

LMAO I just caught the “mom, you’re ON my GOWN” when he reluctantly complies to give the Anderson’s a tour.

Damn, flowy, loose dress shirts with the first few buttons undone is a LOOOOK.

How did they do the overdose scene, you think? Surely the pills Taron took had to be like. Empty. Or placebo affect drugs? Idk. He did take a big drink directly after stuffing his mouth with them. I don’t think he spit them out.

God, there is SOMETHING symbolic about how he meets his child self at the bottom of the pool. Rock bottom? Apologizing? Wishing he could be better? Telling him he’ll never be better?

OH I watched a behind the scenes cut about the pool scene, and none of it was CGI. Taron was weighted under his robe and a SCUBA diver was on standby to provide oxygen. The singing and bubbles coming out of his mouth and stuff underwater was all real.

Dying to know about the choreography around the second chorus, about the undressing and twirling and dressing and injection and handing off of the bat and stuff. That sequence was incredible.

Bennie and the Jets. Damn. It fucks. I listened to it almost the entire time on my run today. (Five miles; I felt like garbage the entire time but it was good anyway.) The scene is wild. He’s in the middle of a drug induced haze orgy. He SHOULD be having the time of his life but he’s so goddamn miserable. (Also, the juxtaposition between Chris Fleming’s Bennie and the Jets is so funny.)

Part of the problem was that John never understood Elton. But, Elton broke it off with John, not the other way around like he said it was. He wasn’t the victim in that regard. John did treat him like shit though.

Victim of Love plays right after that lmao

Renate and he aren’t even close when they do the duet to don’t let the sun go down on me. They’re separated in different rooms, mirroring literally how closed off their relationship was.

The shot with them waking up in different rooms.. damn

His shirt is so LOUD I’m going crazy

Watching Taron down that orange juice made me a little nauseous I gotta say

“Not really I’m gAy”

It’s CRAZY to watch Elton and his mom interact at the dinner scene. He gets accosted and accused of so much by his mom, claiming SHE’S the victim of his actions, making it all about HER and then he turns around and does and says the exact same shit to Bernie.

He yells “Oh, don’t be so dramatic!” at Bernie as he gets into a taxi. THE PROJECTION!! THE DEFLECTION!!!!

I know there’s only so much they can put in two hours, but I wish they showed more of Elton’s eating issues. He had bulimia for sixteen years before he got help. It’s Absolutely the Man With Anorexia in me, but seeing that even men deal with eating disorders quells the lonely aching something in me. I feel that much less alone, you know. Eating disorders aren’t a “woman’s disease.”

How do you think they did his hair? A wig adds more hair, not take it away. He didn’t get his hair cut for it did he?

Seeing Elton’s first love fall apart because John was such a selfish, heartless prick in reality makes me sad.

Elton hugs his inner child when he reconciled with everyone in his past. Goddamn. He found peace and forgiveness for himself, who he was, even after all that time.

When Elton asks him not to go, Bernie refuses, saying this is something he had to do on his own. Healing comes from within alone. No one can help you do it. People can guide you, but you have to work at it. It’s fucking lonely sometimes, but it’s so, so worth it.

I used to loathe I’m Still Standing since i heard it so much at work, but the movie changed my entire perspective on it. I love the slow build up as he exits the rehab center. You don’t get thrown into something so happy and fast paced and fun after a cathartic climax you need to drink in. And the pan to his hat with the rainbow stripe to his smile. I get chills every time. Elton feels so right and secure and happy in himself. At first I thought it was a bit cheesy, but accepting your sexuality, especially after all the hell he went through during his life, grappling with unresolved trauma and fear of abandonment, he absolutely should wear it loud and proud. It’s easy to think times are much easier now being gay, and it shouldn’t be such a big deal. Relative to 1975, it is easier. But it doesn’t mean it’s not such a rough personal thing to work through if you’ve been spit on and resented all your life. Being gay, coming out, and accepting and being comfortable with that fact must’ve been such a HUGE milestone in Elton’s recovery and self-esteem.

Love me again after I’m still standing is perfect. The credits make me tear up every time. Jeez. What a good movie. What a good movie. Hit me up if you wanna talk about Rocketman because I absolutely will with you.

[nenestansunsthings]

Shelf Life

back at it again at krispy kreme! or, technically, on tumblr. but! it's flash fiction friday, and that means stories! i'm really proud of this one!

( @cawolters and @bookenders hello! you know how i said krispy kreme at the start of this little intro? i might have taken that a little too literally.)

anyway it's time to start! go, go, go!

.

.

You're running out of food.

That's fine! Really! At least, you're trying to think that. There's still some ingredients in the back. You counted yesterday. There's a sack of flour, half a dozen eggs, sugar and yeast and salt and water enough to keep you going. Maybe. For now. For a while.

You're terrified.

"You have to go find something soon," Simon says. He looks just like he did before you had to lock yourself in here. He looks just like he did before the world went to hell. That's to be expected, you think wryly. You're only imagining him, after all.

You're starting to really hear his voice. You think that might be a problem.

"Oh, sure. Tell me of all people that. Simon says go look for something," you snark back at him. Your voice might be a little too loud. There's a snarl by the door, through the blessedly bulletproof glass, and if you still thought there was a god out there keeping you safe you'd thank them that you're still curled up behind the counter. Maybe some half-forgotten bakery wasn't the best place to hide. Not like you'd dare to leave now. "Simon says you don't have enough."

"Simon says there's an expiry date," your hallucination says softly, still kneeling down in front of you. He thinks- you think- of the expired food you'd eaten yesterday, of the way you still feel nauseous whenever you move too much. He's too clean to be real, you think in the back of your mind. But god, god, at this point he feels more real than you.

"That's fine," you insist, turning away from his kneeling form. You know exactly what expression he's making regardless. It makes you want to hurl. "It'll be enough. We don't have to go out there."

"No, it's not-"

"It is, Simon! It's fine! Just leave it be!" You glare up at him furiously. It doesn't even feel like it matters anymore. "Just- we have enough, don't we? You don't need to eat. There's enough for me. The oven's still working, this whole place is solar-powered- I can charge the electric blanket in the closet, for crying out loud! Aren't we fine?"

The look he gives you says everything.

"We need to get more," Simon says softly. He's been saying it for days now. You can't bear to listen. "It's- it's terrifying out there. I know. But isn't it better than wasting away in here? Isn't it better than knowing our own expiry date is right around the corner?"

"Don't you talk to me about expiry dates," you snap. You've been trying everything to extend your food's shelf life. And what has he been doing? Nothing. Nothing but telling you to go out into a world where everything wants you dead, a world where you'll end up in the stomach of someone who had a fucking life-

You try not to think zombie. You end up thinking it anyway.

"Since you seem to be ignoring them, I think maybe I should." Simon's remark is just as sharp. It's a clearer voice than yours. "Come on. We have to do something. We have to move. We have to stand up, to get out, to do something better than die here-"

"If it's so goddamn easy," you cut in, "stand up and walk out yourself."

The room falls silent.

You and your hallucination lock equally blank eyes. You know exactly what he is. He knows just as well as you that he's hallucinatory, the last attempts of your desperate mind to keep you talking and sane. Still, he's kneeling behind the counter with you, safe and out of sight as anyone could possibly be. He's nothing but an extension of your subconscious. He's nothing to the things outside.

He's nothing but an extension of your subconscious. And yet he still can't bring himself to stand up.

"Simon says you're a hypocrite," you snap. "Just let me be."

"I don't want to do that," he says, his voice breaking in a way that almost makes you reach out to comfort him. "I- I don't want to die. I don't want you to die. I don't want to die hidden behind a counter, too scared of facing possible death to try and stop my certain death here. Please- please..."

"I can't do it," you say. You feel more than see Simon flinch.

You know your expiry date. It lines up with your food's. And yet, and yet...

"I don't want to die either," you admit. It feels like nothing but useless words in the emptiness of this abandoned bakery.

"At least we agree on that," Simon quips. His tone is blanker than you've ever heard before.

"I'm sorry."

"You are." Your hallucination doesn't say you should be. You don't know if you should or shouldn't apologize anymore. "If it's worth anything, I am too."

The silence in the room feels sickening. You can't bring yourself to break it.

"I'll ask again tomorrow," Simon promises. It's a gesture you appreciate, if anything. "Please... agree with me tomorrow."

"Stand up tomorrow," you shoot back. "Then it's a deal."

And your expiry date still ticks closer, day by day by day.

[kyetalksshit]

Update for the first time in SO LONG

Hey guys! 

So it’s the 4th of july and I’m tipsy. Happy shitty ass holiday to all of u who care about it. I don’t. Fireworks are boring and sound like gunshots and loud ass cis white republican christian people get louder than usual about how “great” this country “used to be,” and get to celebrate the day this country was founded on native american genocide and rape and began an era of slavery and racism and a bunch of other motherfucking goddamn bullshit. 

Anyway. 

I told a storytime on my youtube channel about my ex who I called Gregg (bc he looks like Gregg Sulkin, or at least I thought he did back then. It’s actually a two parter so far. I have yet to get to the part where he dumped me over text and then tried to be friends with benefits with me, I refused, I tried, he refused, we fought a lot, repeat cycle. Wow that was a fucking shitstorm. Finally unfriended him a couple of months ago because of a shitty ass facebook post and I just didn’t have the energy anymore. Plus, he has a girlfriend now, and at this point any desire to communicate with him was based on a pure physical attraction and/or wanting to have some sort of intellectual conversation with him because, as much as I honestly still kind of resent him, I do admire his brain. Anyway.) 

So when I told the storytime, I spent a good hour going through my tumblr for posts about him (and his, for posts about me, which I remember desperately hoping for back when I was still with him or right after we broke up) and it kind of made me miss blogging. 

This has been the longest intro in the fucking world. Oh my god. Ugh. 

Anyway. 

I just kind of wanted to get on here and talk a little bit. 

I don’t remember what my original pushing thought was, since again, I’m tipsy, and I got so sidetracked talking about “gregg” (though let’s be real, if any of you watch that storytime and have followed me for long enough, you know exactly who I’m talking about. He doesn’t even follow me on tumblr anymore. He unfollowed me a long time ago, actually. And now that I’m talking so much about him I’m kind of tempted to text him, which would obviously be a fucking bad idea, but you know. I’m a masochist. We’ll see what I do later I guess. I don’t know.) 

I’m kind of miffed today. And by that, I mean I’m actually hurt but too prideful to say I’m hurt. My family is very clearly celebrating for this shit holiday, which they don’t know that I don’t care about, by the way, and no one even invited me. Yeah I was working most of the day but I got off at 8, and anyway I hadn’t told them I was working. My mother probably just “assumed I had to work and couldn’t make it” again. Even though she promised to make more of an effort to invite me to things. My heart hurts. 

Yeah I don’t care about fireworks, but I love my family and I miss my niece and my sister isn’t talking to me because apparently I’ve changed and she misses “Amber,” not “Kye.” (Oh yeah, I go by Kye now. Just, btw.) 

What she doesn’t seem to realize no matter how many times I tell her, is that Amber, that girl she grew up with that she apparently misses so goddamn much, she doesn’t exist anymore. She was a fucked up piece of shit too, if I’m being honest. I call my past self Amber instead of “past Kye” because I don’t know her anymore. You know why? 

Because I’ve been through so much motherfucking goddamn bullshit since then. I was raped. I left my family for a goddamn year over some slightly shitty but WAY overexaggerated bullshit (that, let’s be real, I’ll never fully forgive myself for) that was twisted into a horror story by the evil ex whose name I can’t even fucking SAY because it makes me feel fucking nauseous. I almost killed myself a couple of times. I cut over and over and motherfucking over again because I was so goddamn depressed, I got kicked out of TWO apartments (once because my roommate was just a bitch and wanted any made up excuse she could find, the other because my alcoholic roommate who sexually assaulted me MY FIRST NIGHT THERE and who is STILL my dm for one of my dnd games and tries to pretend he fucking cares about me, hallucinated our neighbors trying to kill us and made me take him to the hospital and file a police report when it was just his goddamn mind). I’ve been so broke for the past couple years I was a camgirl for awhile. I did live camshows for money. I also sold photos and videos of me naked, sometimes taking requests. It made me fucking miserable and gave me flashbacks but I was jobless and had to pay rent. I’m not going to lie, I’ve been considering starting again because I’m broke as fuck and I want to cry from how stressed I am most of the time, but I haven’t yet. You know why? 

Again, I was raped. And sexually assaulted, not just by that roommate, but also by two family members (like when I was a kid) who will remain unnamed (who never even said I’m sorry, by the way, even when I brought it up. I still hang out with one. How fucking sick do I have to be to still hang out with a family member who sexually assaulted me and apologized to my sister for touching her, but not me?). But also because I’ve been in this deep disgusting ass pit of self fucking loathing recently. I feel fat and ugly and nasty more often than not, every time I get a crush or a lust-crush on someone I start to feel guilty about it because how dare I burden someone with the weight of having to deal with my affection? I feel lonely and also selfish for feeling lonely, I miss my family but I also avoid them. And then I get upset when they don’t invite me to things. 

This is the last holiday I’m ever going to spend living in North Carolina. Connor and I are leaving for Los Angeles on August fucking 5th. I’ll be around for my brother’s and my cat’s birthday (incidentally they’re both on August 2nd), but then I’m gone. I won’t be able to make it to Christmas this year because let’s face it, I won’t have the money. The soonest they’re going to see me after I leave is MAYBE Christmas 2018, and I’m not even sure that’s going to happen. Hell, I’m not even christian anymore, celebrating it feels weird. 

Also, going back to this whole name shit and “I’ve changed” bullshit, Amber was an asshole. She made racist comments and used to say the “n” word back in high school. She literally laughed in boys’ faces when they asked her out if she wasn’t attracted to them, not even just because they were “out of her league” because she (rightfully) didn’t believe in “leagues,” but just because if she was going to say no, she was going to be a bitch about it. I remember one of my best friends’ little brothers asking me out in 9th grade, and he was in like 7th. He was OBVIOUSLY too young for me but I should have been fucking nice about it. Instead, I laughed at him, literally fucking laughed at him, and just said “omg bye.” 

She also didn’t know how to stand up for herself. She was mousy and depressed and anxious and small and hated herself and so who gave a fuck if people used her because what good was she herself anyway? Like yeah, Kye is fatter and her mental health has gone down the fucking drain (no really, my counselor thinks I’m borderline and I really need to be medicated honestly because it’s so hard to function I’m scared I’m going to fail at trying to be alive) but at least she can mostly say no, and she can cut people out her life when she wants to. At least Kye can pinpoint when people are trying to manipulate her (though if we’re being honest here, and holy fuck we really are, since the fucking evil ex aka my rapist, my mind is warped as fucking hell and I don’t know what’s real anymore. The amount of manipulation I have imagined and overreacted to is insane. My uncle wallace won’t talk to me because I overreacted when he had a shitty opinion and posted it on a status of mine, and I took it as him attacking me. I want to cry every time I think about it but I already sent him one long message explaining why, and then the next day I sent a really long apology message. I don’t know why I keep fucking things up with everyone I care about. It feels like Connor and my cat are the only ones I have anymore, and even Connor can drive me crazy sometimes because obviously, that’s how people are who live together and have known each other for 8 fucking years, and I’m so hard to live with and deal with because of the bpd and the fact that my anxiety shows itself in irritability and the amount of times I’ve snapped at them for fucking nothing is absolutely ridiculous. I’m mad that they still haven’t learned how to drive and we’re moving in a month and it’s looking like I’m going to have to drive by myself from one coast to another while they blissfully chill in the passenger seat and doze off or play on their phone or whatever, but in reality they’re probably really anxious about it too and they probably feel bad but can’t make theirself do it and it’s just I feel so shitty all the time oh my god). 

I don’t even know what the point of this post is, I just think I needed to vent somewhere that I don’t have to be careful what I say because no one reads this shit anyway. The second I vent where ANYONE in my family can see it, they’ll all jump down my throat for being “disrespectful to my parents” or some other bullshit. They fucking love bandwagons. One of their favorite phrases is “my army is bigger” and honestly that shit scares me because yeah, it is. And that goddamn army is too fucking prideful (like me) to accept when they maybe should hear someone out, and they will literally cyberbully you if they can. It may sound whiny, but I really do feel like I was cyberbullied that day with uncle wallace. I’m not even kidding (and again, no one reads this so I don’t feel bad saying this because it’s tru) I legitimately wanted to kill myself that day. Everyone was jumping down my throat AGAIN over something I said that hurt my mom when I didn’t even know it hurt her. If I had, I would have taken it down and apologized. They were also attacking me for an immature snapchat saying “fuck you and your shitty ass opinions” which was about my uncle, and yeah I deserved a little of that bullshit but I admitted that was wrong very shortly after. He wouldn’t even hear me out, but I was the bad guy, the disrespectful, ignorant black sheep who treated everyone like shit. I keep trying to pretend I’m over the whole thing but I’m so not. I won’t forget who said shit to me and who didn’t. Because that shit fucking hurt. 

I don’t want to tell Connor how mad I am over something they may not be able to control, I don’t want to fucking rub my sister’s face in how ‘not’ Amber I am (also, just, sidenote, the main reason I changed my is really because I hated Amber and wanted some control over my life and it really has made me happier, but also honestly it was partly because my fucking rapist has never called me “Kye” and so when I’m having fucking rape flashbacks I can separate myself from it so when she insists that Kye is horrible and she hates me now (she didn’t say that but she said I wouldn’t be in her life if I weren’t family and let’s face it, I’m not in her life rn anyway and I may as well not be family with how I’ve been treated recently, not that it’s not partly my fault, but still) and that she misses Amber, who she grew up with, who is the one she misses, not me, not who I am now. Honestly, when we were fighting it felt like she only said that because she needed a concrete reason to be mad at me so she grasped onto the fact that I’ve changed, which my whole family complains about, but

Look at all the motherfucking goddamn fucked up shit I’ve been through in the past few years. OF FUCKING COURSE I’VE CHANGED. It hurts like hell that my ENTIRE family is mad that I’m not the same girl who left them for an abusive fiance. Like yes, I’m kind of a bitch now when I need to be, and yes I overreact to things BECAUSE I’VE BEEN THROUGH TRAUMA U DON’T JUST FUCKING GET OVER THAT, and yes I changed my name and I’m not the motherfucking goddamn same but how dare you want me to be? 

I WANTED TO DIE. EVERY DAY OF MY LIFE. I HAVE NEVER HATED MYSELF AS MUCH AS I DID THEN. I HAD TWO EATING DISORDERS, AN ADDICTION TO CUTTING (for which I’m now getting urges so I’m going to end this soon), I HATED EVERYONE I KNEW, I WAS FUCKING SO DEPRESSED I COULDN’T EVEN, UGH, I WAS ONLY SLEEPING ONCE EVERY TWO NIGHTS SO I WAS HALLUCINATING, I PUSHED AWAY EVERYONE WHO EVER GAVE A SHIT ABOUT ME, I SNAPPED AT EVERYONE WHO WAS NEAR ME WHEN I WAS ANXIOUS AND I DIDN’T KNOW MY TRIGGERS. NOW I CAN AT LEAST SEPARATE MYSELF FROM THE SITUATION SO I DON’T HURT PEOPLE AS MUCH. I DON’T TALK ABOUT THE VIEWS I HAVE THAT CONFLICT WITH EVERYONE ELSE’S SO I DON’T HAVE TO ARGUE WITH ANYONE. I HAVE MADE MYSELF SMALL, THEN MADE MYSELF BIG, AND REVERT TO SMALL WHEN I’M AROUND THEM, BUT IT’S STILL NOT FUCKING ENOUGH FOR THEM. 

WHEN, please fucking tell me WHEN, when will I be enough for them?