#i let them ramble on their own. most people think they are deranged and sick anyways and for a good reason

[idiosyncraticrednebula]

Trying to have a reasonable discussion with a r****m is a lost cause, specially on social media. They have already made up their minds about the world and how it affects them. They are immersed too deeply in that ideology due to years and years of trauma, disappointment and loss. It's gotten to the point that it has manifested in STRONG and DEEP hatred, anger and bitterness. This isn't easy to get rid of. The vast majority of them have actually been ingrained stuff like this since childhood because most came from either extremely rigid or chaotic households with all types of fucked up and toxic ideas being taught to them. This resulted in repressing or desperation, which led to them getting exploited and abused by others outside of their family. To be honest, they need to be re-born in order for them to truly abandon an ideology as twisted as r*****l f******m.

[blushing-starker]

Insanity brings me truth and you

can you guess what Peter's doing to not be understood by the guards?

It's not easy, being crazy. There are expectations to run away from, a bar to limbo under, a specific number of people one has to betray and scar. The unknowable becomes knowable, so you have to skirt the edge of that Venn diagram very carefully. Or very recklessly. Either way, it's a complex thing except for when it's not. Jesus, how infuriating to think about. The point is, the paradox that crazies carry on their shoulders? It's a fucking hassle, a tricky one and Peter is tired of it.

He sighs, lets gravity bend him backward, legs slipping dangerously off the blanket he's hung as a hammock inside his cell. Act like a psycho and you're predictable, don't act like an ax wielding murderer and whoops! Predictable. It's the downside of being insane; you leave the weary capitalist consumer mask out in the world, probably set that shit on fire and make yourself sick with the fumes. But you just replace it with the one labelled 'danger to society' and get forced to play along with that. He did what he did to avoid the world and its predetermined fate, its standards.

Peter closes his eyes, thinks of the nauseating smell on his left. Rupert, the guard that dared graze him while he came back from the shower naked, has a broken nose thanks to Ned and his loyalty to him. The idiot barely cleans the open wound and the whole cell reeks of pus because of it. He does the math of how long it's been going on for and shudders in disgust. His bare calves slip a little more.

An inhale near the front of his cage. Slow, but controlled. Not the usual. Thank God for a circus family and heightened senses.

The doctor is paying attention to him.

"Doctor Stark. Gnittor gnihtemos llems ouy nac?" Rupert grumbles from his perch on the second floor, curses a hare brained psycho that's incomprehensible. Peter hums, pleased to know that after ten months, nine days, twelve hours, and...

Breathe in. Breathe out. Focus on sinking deeper into nothing, into a yawning void. The blanket shakes and his thighs are starting to tremble. Blood is rushing to his head, veins most likely beginning to protrude. Irrelevant.

His favorite guard Stan wears a Swiss watch his wife got for him on their fortieth anniversary. It sings to him now, smooth and cool like a river. A skipping stone is thrown, tic, a fish heads towards the sound, toc. Above all the other stimuli in the room, the watch announces itself. Ten fifteen.

Ten months, nine days, twelve hours and twenty minutes into a game, his tiny gnat still hasn't caught on. Not like the charming doctor. He sees him then, behind closed eyelids, as clearly as a sweet nightmare. Tall, taller than Peter, but less strong. Wide shoulders that morph into a slim waist and a delectable ass he aches to sink his teeth into. Shapely calves from running, curiously delicate looking ankles.

Down and back again. A full head of dark hair with a dusting of silver. Dangerously clever mouth, what his aunt would call a noble nose. Agreeable cheekbones. Piercing eyes that tear his walls down, rip apart the bricks and mortar until he's scrambling on the other side, desperately, clumsily attempting to reinforce them for the millionth time. Those eyes saw the trick, the mirror reflection on his second day here, Peter offhandedly talking in reverse with Ned when they passed the new doctor. A dark gaze had pinned him in place, a spider fixed in place with its own silk against the cold dissection table.

Ned had rambled on, Peter had met a worthy playmate and the doctor had seen all he needed in that eternally prolonged glance. That very afternoon, a psychiatrist signed on as his very own voyeur.

Doctor Stark seems to be as interested in cutting him open to peek inside as Peter is in taking a dagger and comparing their hearts. He does this a lot; wonders how fate and the absence of lucky fate led them here. On opposite sides of a prison when perhaps it should be the other way around. Or perhaps there should only be Peter and Doctor Stark.

He feels himself falling, plummeting ever downward into fantasies and hazy dreams. It's not until the good doctor sharply calls out his name that he realizes he's also plummeting towards the floor. Now, MJ had warned him; had specifically said that the hammock being ten feet off the concrete ground was a bad idea. Ned had said he'd be fine and Peter loves the guy, ok? He has to do everything he can so that his best friend wins a bet over his other best friend.

Peter slightly regrets that when he's forced to arch his body backward, flip right side up in order to hit the floor on his feet instead of his face. The impact chokes the air right out of him, shakes his bones, but he doesn't react. Cracks his neck and that's all. Most of the guards were kind, some shade of understanding. They weren't harmless, though. He knows what he looks like, knows how many hours these men are cooped up with the scum of the earth.

"To answer your question," Peter leaps onto the bars of his cell, slithers higher than any sane person would and somersaults off the vertical slits, sinks into his trustworthy hammock with its trustworthy knots (MJ and Ned had tied them, one each), "yes, I do. It's less potent this time."

He stills, frowns. "How? There haven't been any changes. External or internal." No need to act like the Mad Hatter when the conversation could be had normally. Quicker and more reliable with meanings. But the doctor pauses, enunciates his next words slowly.

"Ti koot uoy erom emit yadot." God, he loved hearing Doctor Stark talk that carefully and smoothly. It was as comforting as it was uncomfortable. (He and sex don't particularly get along. It's like a headache that comes and goes; with the right medicine it can dissipate and evolve into something soothing, pleasant. With the majority of medicine, it blossoms into pain and soreness, a dry throat clogged by a thick syrup that won't leave him be no matter how much water MJ and Ned encourage him to drink. Peter isn't yet completely certain which side of his scale the doctor falls on, but he's guessing it's likely the first.)

(The man seemed to live in the grey areas; fitting that with this, too, he'd reside in the in between.)

The reverse effect is in play and he grins, genuine and wide, when he catches it. "Monsters are visiting more frequently, taking up space in the light." His nightmares had intensified recently, and they're starting to accompany him even in moments Peter knows are real; shapes drifting by the corner of his eye. As a coping tactic, he rips parts of his nails off. Not entirely, just the corners. His mind could concoct lots of things, but in his dreams his hands are always pristine.

(He hasn't caught up with it, hasn't noticed that although his nightmares have a clearness to them, a bright intensity, Peter can't shift enough focus to realize his hands aren't his own. They never are. But he usually has more pressing bodies to deal with than the good doctor's.)

Another pause, this one being done by Tony Stark, doctor and healer of men, instead of Doctor Stark, curious keeper of deranged souls. "I'm sorry to hear that. Maybe this will help." Peter peers over the edge of the grey hammock, watches with interest as the doctor approaches his cell with a glass bottle of clear liquid sloshing inside. The other man stops an inch away from the bars, looks up at Peter.

There's a slow tension simmering between them, something as thick and addictive as honey. There's scientific curiosity, a desire to seek out and maybe comprehend the unknown lurking inside their mirror image, as other and as alike as oneself. But there is also a gleam of something he's afraid of acknowledging in Doctor Stark's eyes. A madness once tucked away steadily unraveling itself with each glance they share.

Peter returns the look, unblinking and thinking. " 'If you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.' " A lesson Nietzsche offered to those wise enough, sane enough to live blind.

The doctor raises an eyebrow, is otherwise still. Sometimes, if Peter considers their current predicament for too long, his grasp on his masks loosens, and the Spider begins to spin its deadly thread round and round its very own body. He sees a guard exchange money with a partner; the crazy quota has, he guesses, been filled for the week. And they had such a nice streak going on, too. Oh, well. This web is unavoidable anyways.

He pitches himself forward, is the one who controls the descent instead of gravity this time. Letting the air rush up to meet him, he inhales, tastes a distinct sharpness around him. Crouching, Peter takes it all in, every last detail. Looks, really looks, at the doctor and suspects.

As if he were none the wiser, he calmly heads to the front of the cell. Meets the doctor at the divide and wonders what it'll be. Wonders if he'll rise higher than ash and flame, an acrobat testing the fates by flying just seconds ahead of death. Doctor Stark hands him the bottle and he can see now, tiny pieces of lavender. A distraction for the guards. "That should keep the monsters in the dark. Use it before you got to sleep and tuck away your hair."

Like a schoolgirl with a crush, he self consciously brings a hand to his curls. They're getting a bit long, but the warden only allows haircuts once a month or two. "I don't have anything to use." Digging into his lab coat, the other man retrieves a single black stick.

Well, to everyone else it's a hair pin. Peter knows the truth though, can see it and smell it and very nearly touch it. As it is, he gently plucks the items out of elegant hands and refuses to look at them. Looking draws attention. Doctor Stark gazes at his face, eyes flickering in a rehearsed way around his own, but not into them. That's alright, he understands.

"The lack of movement around your face should also help." The question of why is out before he can reel it in and act as a sane, normal person. Christ, he could handle crazy, not rude. He would have to practice being in control so as not to slip up when the doctor is around. Said doctor cocks his head, doesn't have to do anything more for Peter to get the message: go on, ask the devil why he made the deal.

Peter B Parker does not back down when intrigued. "Why are you helping me sleep better?"

Why help me escape?

"It's my duty." Three words. Not the explicit declaration of affection typical, normal, dull people receive from an admirer or partner. Not a grand proclamation of wanting what the heart wants, or a sonnet regarding the connection between star crossed paramours. Simple, short, concise; enough to turn to religion, to sanctity and salvation if it means hearing it again. He'd do anything, including putting on a discarded mask from his past if it gets him what he desires. Peter would suffer through sanity for this man. He would if it means hearing what sounds silent to those around them.

You're my duty. Whatever happens tonight, Doctor Stark believes it's his duty to see it through. To see him through, in a way.

"Why would you accept?" Ah, silly doc thinking any of his principles have changed since the first time they met, since the first time he brought fire to life and gave death in return. Peter smiles, brings forth the prisoner that had not seen the light of day in almost a decade.

(His uncle often said Peter's greatest gift to the world was his smile, his true smile. His aunt said it was the final move needed to capture a king and make him his pawn.)

"Why, doc, you know I hate to be bored." Call him a psycho, a freak, a sick, pitiful creature. Call him anything and everything and maybe those words would ring true. But Peter will never allow himself to be bored, not when there's so much fun to be had. Especially with a doctor as crazy as he is. "This looks...promising."

" 'He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster.' " The first part of Nietzsche's warning.

"Nietzsche didn't understand; those who fought monsters were already fated to become what they struggled to defeat. They believed salvation could be found by killing the monsters outside, but all they did was feed the ones inside."

Anthony Stark, the truest version, grins at him, all glinting eyes, sharp teeth and a crooked smile. Peter Parker, armed with a match, gasoline and soon to be glass shards, grins right back. In this instant, being crazy isn't such a hassle. After all, he has someone to share the crazy with now.

[applesfallingfromblondehair]

I'd love for you to go more in-depth about Joker. 😌

I’m very glad and very sorry at the same time that you want to listen to me rant about that fucking piece of shit of a movie. I’ll just go ahead and paste the review that I wrote a few hours after coming out of the movie theatre--it’s very passionate and very rambly in pieces, but I still stand by every single thing I wrote:

***

I wish I was exaggerating when I say that coming out of the theatre felt like coming back from the dead. I spent two full hours in Hell watching this movie.

In general, Joker tries to be so many things, and miserably fails at every single one of them. The only really undeniable plus about it is Joaquin Phoenix’s performance, but the plot is a whole damned trainwreck. Please find attached an (inexhaustive) list of reasons why.

1. This is, by a country mile, the most cringeworthy depiction of mental illness I think I’ve ever seen in a Hollywood movie. Arthur’s evident condition is first inflated—we’re driven to think that it’s what makes his life so difficult and miserable (re: the scene with the kid on the bus)—only to then be diminished and almost set to the side—funds for his treatment are cut, he stops taking his medication, and suddenly the fits of laughter are less and less frequent… and the murderous sprees become his way of coping. Which conveniently brings me to my second point, aka…

2. Gratuitous violence. I’m guessing every soul sitting around in the theatre will have been familiar with Heath Ledger—if not, I’m very sorry for you—and his magistral interpretation of the Joker in Nolan’s The Dark Knight. His Joker was absolutely bonkers and incredibly scattered, but equally as calm and collected and calculating. I believed that Joker. I believed he would be capable of the never-ending pile of awful things he was making happen in Gotham City. And here’s, I think, the root of the problem: I don’t believe this Joker. I must admit I came incredibly close to doing it during his speech at the talk show. That was very Joker—and, incidentally, very Heath Ledger’s Joker, which is probably the whole reason why I found it convincing. Other than that, Joaquin’s character is the sole protagonist of a huge pity party around a rare and crippling condition—which is (pardon the pun) laughed at and diminished to the point of making his life a living hell, and which results into him harbouring a whole goddamned lot of very conflicting feelings. Add to that a generous sprinkle of good old Second Amendment rights—aka, let a malicious co-worker hand him a revolver in a brown paper bag—and what you’ll get is a randomly murderous clown. Who quickly gets addicted to killing people, since it’s his only outlet to cope with everything that’s happening in his fucked up life. Fighting fire with fire. Wow. Groundbreaking.

3. The justification of said gratuitous violence by said mental illness is also something that makes this movie so wrong in my eyes. Sure, you could argue that it’s society that made Arthur the Joker—people kick him when he’s down, no-one understands him, his lifelong dream of becoming a professional stand-up comedian is shattered on national television, funds for his treatment are cut and he’s left, quite literally, to his own devices—but the depiction of it is just way beyond any possible excuse. This film wants you to cheer for the poor, god-forsaken, deranged middle-aged man, who was abused as a child (but doesn’t really remember it for two thirds of the movie), who has to take care of his sick and equally as delusional mother, and who simply cannot deal anymore. So it’s only natural we must cheer for him thriving by putting bullets into people, suffocating them with pillows, and planting sharp scissors into their carotids, right? Why, of course it is. And no, by the way, I’m absolutely not justifying the violence in Dark Knight solely based on the fact that Heath Ledger’s interpretation was all-round much more credible. I’m just saying—every incident in that film was meticulously planned and rehearsed, and it felt twisted but also thrilling. Arthur in Joker is just a homicidal madman without a plan. And we’re still supposed to hail his “accomplishments”—a few accidental kills and a string of more or less meaningful vendettas, that (on top of everything) come out of the blue at the best of times, and are depicted way-too-graphically? Nah, sorry, mate. Can’t do.

4. The whole thing is then flipped on its head when the same society that single-handedly and purposefully rejects Arthur, his obvious problems and his inherent incapacity to integrate, becomes the whole rhyme and reason behind him wanting to keep on living instead of going through with his suicide bid live on national television. Sure, one could definitely argue that class struggle is a big part of this story—Thomas Wayne raised as the sole source of Gotham’s every problem, the whole Kill the rich shtick, the sea of masks adopted as an ostensible symbol of rebellion appearing after literally one man dressed as a clown accidentally found himself in the situation of having to defend himself on a subway train, and the men he ended up killing were accidentally part of the mean old finance industry (Thomas Wayne’s employees, no less! Who’d have thought), and they so deserved to die—but, in my eyes, it’s ultimately so overdone that the whole thing ends up feeling artificial and forced. The descent into chaos that Gotham goes through in the span of a few hours, coupled with raising a literal nobody in triumph for what are effectively terrorist acts just feels so mind-bendingly wrong. I’m aware that this is an origin story movie for a vicious villain, so it would theoretically make sense to glorify him for the wicked things he does—except these people have just spent one hour and a half making us believe that this is just a poor man who’s been abused by society and that it’s not really his fault, the poor thing. Which is what makes the celebration of his acts so inherently terrible. It validates that side of him that was dormant and still random, and it makes it bloom into a whole other thing.

A few (maybe a bit petty) dishonourable mentions that did not make the actual list:

1. The scene where he dyes his hair is very cool. Except, at the risk of bringing up clichés, brown hair simply doesn’t dye green that easily.

2. The already iconic scene of Arthur as his new Joker persona dancing on the steps, is completely shattered by the two policemen starting to pursue him. He sees himself in danger, and he’s yanked back to poor, frightened Arthur in the blink of an eye. Doesn’t help me believe in this Joker in the slightest.

3. The whole incredibly fucking dumb implication that Arthur might be Thomas Wayne’s son—which would effectively make him Bruce’s half-brother. Christ, was that really necessary? Especially since it’s obviously left on an ambiguous note. Just a cheap-ass plot device, solely there to try and tie the movie in with the Batman canon. Pointless as all hell.

4. I’ve had the pleasure to observe that one of the last frames of the movie contains a scene that we’ve never, ever seen—the murder of Bruce Wayne’s parents in the back alley of the theatre is truly such a new and refreshing piece of cinema, isn’t it? For fuck’s sake. As the minutes rolled by and the movie looked like it was slowly but surely coming to a close, I’d somehow let myself believe that, at least, maybe such a lazy plot point would not make it into the final cut. Turns out I was very much mistaken. They couldn’t even get this right.

The fact that this is probably going to win a lot of awards just makes me so very bloody mad.

What a disgrace.

***

I usually love being right, but in this case I was really sad I was. Fucking Joaquin ended up stealing all the awards away from the one man who deserved them last year and, like I said, I will die mad about it.

Also, I’d like to add something that in the spur of the moment I hadn’t thought of but that I realised a few days later: in the movie, Arthur gets away with everything that he does because he’s white. Imagine for a second if the protagonist of this story had been a black man. 

I’ll let you take your time. Tell me when you’re ready.

...

Yep. I know.

*major shrug emoji*

[19umbrellas]

Villain I appear to be || Klaus Hargreeves x Reader

Description: You were the eighth member of the infamous Umbrella Academy. Your adopted father, Reginald Hargreeves, had raised you and your seven other siblings to fight crime and stop evil, however, as you grew older you found yourself straining farther and farther away from the life of a hero your father always wanted you to be.

This will be a One-shot series or something? I don’t really know what it’s called. It’s like, same title and concept but different stories and pairings per chapter. If that makes sense. ùwú

Pairing: Klaus x Reader

Word Count: 3701

ONE-SHOT

"Klaus? What are you doing?" Diego asked, annoyed when Klaus suddenly stopped in front of a wall. He had his hand rubbing his chin as he nodded every now and then like he was in a conversation or something. Diego gave him a look but Luther stopped him before he could get closer to their curly haired sibling. "Wait, he could be talking to one of her victims." he said but Diego wasn't so sure. For all they knew, Klaus could be talking to a dead hooker or something.

An elderly Chinese man stood in front of Klaus, crying and rambling in his own native tongue with a large cut on his throat. Klaus tried his best not to vomit as blood squirted out the gash every time he spoke all the while truing to decipher what he was trying to say. He glanced at Ben, hoping that he might have understood even a little of what the poor soul was saying but he only looked back with shrug, clearly Ben was more confused than he was.

Deciding that his two days of using Duolingo wasn't enough to prepare him for a conversation with an actual native speaker, he silenced the ghost, apologizing in what little Chinese he knew and told him he didn't speak well enough Mandarin to understand a single word he was saying. The ghost nodded sadly then started to dissolve into nothing. Klaus sighed in frustration as he rubbed his forehead and Ben looked at him concerned. "Maybe it's time to call it a day Klaus." the phantom suggested but Klaus shook his head and kept quiet.

"Hey Klaus." Diego called and Klaus turned to them. "Did you get anything?" Luther asked and Klaus shook his head. "I don't speak dumpling." his replied earned the confused and annoyed looks from his brothers. Diego turned around in frustration as he continued to walk down the street, huffing that this was a waste of time. Luther looked at Klaus with pleading eyes, "Klaus, we've been walking for hours. You really haven't found anything on her yet?" Klaus threw his hands in the air. "Sorry, can't help you." Luther nodded disappointingly.

"Let's just keep going." Klaus said as he began to walk but Luther stopped him. "Maybe you should get back to the house for tonight." Luther said and Klaus looked at him up at him with distaste. "Are you benching me?" he asked, feeling offended. Luther just shook his head "This is a very dangerous mission okay?" he said carefully. "This is (y/n) we're talking about. We don't know what she might do and I don't want to put you in any dange-"

"Don't give me that bullshit Luther." Klaus snapped surprising both Ben and Luther. "Look, I know may not have been much help tonight but I know she's here somewhere." her argued. "If it wasn't for me, you wouldn't even know where to start looking. Do you really think you can find her without me?". Seeing Klaus blow up like this was a rare sight. He wasn't exactly the type to get angry, hell, everyone thought he forgot how to be angry after years of putting all kinds of substances in his body. But, even so, Luther stood his ground and refused to let him come any farther. "Fine..." Klaus huffed and turned around. Ben was following behind him, all the while glaring at Luther.

Ben felt bad for Klaus, he really did. Seeing him get all serious like this was a little unnerving if he was being honest. In truth, Ben was the only one who understood how important this mission was to Klaus. He knew how close you two were even after you left the academy you two still made it a point to keep in contact of each other each day. You were one of the few if not the only person Klaus truly cared about other than himself. Which is why Ben understood his brother's devastation when the news of your death circled around the media.

Around a week ago, while Klaus was still in Rehab, he was laughing with the other recovering junkies in the cafeteria with the TV on in the background when he heard the sound of your name being mentioned by the news anchor. He turned his attention to the screen, feeling a bit excited when they mentioned you but he quickly felt his stomach drop when they rolled the gruesome footage.

At first everything was dark. There was a squirming silhouette in the middle of the shot but what it was exactly was unclear. Suddenly a light flashed from the camera and the mysterious shadow was revealed to be you. Your arms and legs bound with a tight knot and a dirty cloth circling around your mouth. Klaus stood up and he watched in horror as another figure entered the shot making you jerk backward as he ran a hand down your chin. Tears were visibly streaming down your face at this point as the man went behind you and grabbed a handful of your hair, pulling out a sharp knife. "No..." Klaus whispered. Your head was shaking as you cried out onto your gag before the man sliced your throat open and blood spurted out. Your killer let your body hit the floor as he made his way to the camera and wiped away the blood on the lense and he smiled. "I love you, (y/n)" he said before slicing open his throat as well and the video ends.

Ben felt sick after watching that, who the hell was that guy. He looked at Klaus, unsure what his reaction might be and prepared for the worst. But, after a moment, Klaus didn't move. He was frozen on the spot, staring at the screen, processing what he have just seen. Now the anchor was back in the shot explaining that the man behind your murder was a deranged stalker who had been following you for quite some time and was said to have a twisted obsession over you. Apparently that video was already a week old but only surfaced a few hours ago when one of the detectives at the police station received an email from a throw away account. The worst part was about this event was, until now, the police still couldn't find your body or any of your remains.

That night, Klaus escaped rehab and fled back to the academy in tears before he stayed up inside your room, trying to conjure your spirit until the sun rose but he was not successful. When morning came, Grace was the first to find him sobbing in your bed. She hadn't even notice him some in last night when he did. She sat next to him and Klaus cried into her shoulder as if he was a child once more. Pogo was watching silently until he retreated to his master's study.

Reginald was staring out the window, newspaper resting on his desk, the headline read: The Siren has been silenced by an obsessed stalker. Her body has yet to be found. Pogo approached him and was about to reach for his plate only to find that Reginald has barely touched his food. He retracted his hand and asked if He needed anything. "Call the sculptor." he said. "We will have a sculpture in number 8-" he coughed, correcting himself "(y/n)'s honor and I want it done by next week." Pogo nodded and exited the room.

As days went by, the siblings slowly came home to the academy to pay their respects to their fallen sister and stay for a week for the funeral. First to arrive was obviously Klaus. The next day it was, Luther and Vanya. Diego showed up two days later. And finally, Allison. The siblings grieved together in the living room as they shared stories about you with Grace and Pogo as they all laughed and reminisced in your memory.

At the time of the funeral, the family gathered at the backyard, in front of your statue that stood next to Ben's. Everyone said a few words and a few prayers before they all retreated back inside one by one when it started to rain. Klaus was the last one outside, his hair and clothes were already drenched as he tried, once again, to call you back from your grave. He fell to his knees when nothing happened. Ben was leaning on his own statue as painfully watched his brother lose the person he loved the most.

As Klaus sobbed under the rain, Luther suddenly burst out the door and told him to get inside. He needed to see this. He was dripping on the floor as he ran inside with Luther leaving a long trail of water and mud from the backyard. Klaus went over to Allison who showed him a video titled, The Siren lives again on her phone. In the video there was a floating (height), (h/c), (s/c) girl singing in the docks as five men followed her to the edge. At first the cameraman was in awe at the sight, telling the viewers how cool this was but when they all jumped into the cold deep blue he quickly put down his phone and ran over to their aid. In the description it said that many tried to rescue them, pulling them above water level, but the men all fought them off and eventually drowned with smiles on their faces.

Everyone looked at Klaus as he ran a hand through his hair. Now he understood why he couldn't conjure you, your soul has been corrupted with hate and fear, so much so that it has twisted the sweet girl you once were into this horrific monster who's only instinct is to kill. Klaus had met many spirits similar to you, ghosts who desire revenge and haunt the people who had wronged them, but he never had the guts to actually face them and most of the time he just ignore them. There was something about you, however, that didn't feel right to him. You seemed far more sinister than the previous ghosts mentioned. He saw it himself, you used your powers to lead those men into their watery graves. He had never seen a spirit cause an end of a mortal life, until now.

"We have to stop her." Luther said, breaking the silence. "Before she kills anyone else." Allison looked up at him, "How exactly do we fight a ghost? I don't think we're well equipped for a mission like this." she glanced down at her phone before putting it back in her pocket. "Maybe we should focus on finding her, yeah? She could be anywhere." Diego said, obviously. The three discussed an action plan but eventually argued amongst themselves. Vanya looked at them worriedly while Klaus was quietly talking to Ben.

"Why don't we try talking to her first?" Vanya suggested quietly. The three ceased their yelling and Diego looked at Vanya. "Oh, yeah, totally, in fact, I think we should throw a tea party, y'know, to make it more fun?" Diego sneered sarcastically. "We can talk about movies, bo-"  Allison had heard enough and nudged Diego on his side, hard, making him shut up as she glared at him. "What do you mean Vanya?" she asked more gently as she looked at the other remaining girl in their family. "I just thought that, since Klaus, can talk to the dead, maybe he could try summoning her so we could try to calm her down?" Vanya was a little unsure of her words but it actually gave them an idea. "You're going to invite an evil spirit into our house?" Diego asked sharply. It was Klaus' turn to glare. "She's not just an evil spirit, Diego. She's still our sister if that even means anything to you." he snarled.

"Klaus is right." Allison said, she never thought she would live to see the day she actually agreed with Klaus. Luther nodded and looked at Klaus "Can you really conjure her?" he asked and Klaus bit his tongue before he nodded. He decided to not tell them about his past failed attempts and just really go all out on his third attempt. After all, he has never been this sober since he was a teenager.

Later, Klaus went around the academy, looking for objects that you might hold a significance to. He gathered everything in your room, making a small shrine on your vanity mirror and lit eight of your favorite scented candles. Each one of the siblings gave Klaus at least one item you had given them and waited outside the door as they watch Klaus kneel before the (y/n) shrine. The first hour there was nothing. Klaus was still on his knees, eyes closed as he tried to concentrate. The rest of the siblings decided to take turns to keep an eye on Klaus and right now Allison was just pacing back and forth in the hallway. When she heard Klaus speak finally she rushed towards the door only for it to slam in her face. She tried to turn the knob but it wouldn't budge. She frantically banged on the door as she called out to Luther and the others. Him and Diego showed up mere seconds later and they both rammed on the door but it was stronger than they expected. What is this door made off?" Diego exclaimed. Luther tried kicking the door open but it didn't even leave a scratch.

Their father had heard the commotion and went to his three panicked children. "Step away from the door." he ordered calmly. "Klaus is still in there!" Allison said but Reginald didn't flinch. "Are you questioning my authority Number 3?" he asked, making Allison step back. "Dad, we have to do something, (y/n) might hurt Klaus." Luther tried to reason with him, explaining their plan and how you came back as an angry ghost, but Reginald just shook his head. "Your brother is handling this. There's no need to worry." he said as he turned around. "I don't think we're talking about the same Klaus here, Dad." Diego said and Reginald glanced back at them.

"You're brother is much more capable than you think Number 2. If you think Number 8 will hurt her family even in death then perhaps you don't know her as well as you thought." he said before walking away. The three looked at each other before hesitantly going back to the living room where Vanya was waiting. The when the sun rose Vanya was the first one awake. She went up to their corridor where their rooms were and knocked on your door. "Klaus? Are you okay?" she asked before opening the door with ease and peaked inside. The first thing she saw was Klaus scrawled on your bed, sleeping peaceful with your (f/c) blanket wrapped around his body. Then Vanya looked at the wall and her eyes widened.

"Oak Street." was written in big red letters, almost covering the entire wall. Vanya ran down and woke up Allison who quickly went to investigate. She studied the letters, swapping a sample of it on her finger. "This is lipstick." she said in relief and then brought it closer to her nose. "(f/flavor). This was (y/n)'s lipstick."

Once everyone had awakened, they all questioned Klaus about what had happened but he said he couldn't remember. That afternoon, the three boys all went to Oak Street in search of you. Klaus had to talk to a lot of ghosts, many of them were your recent victims, asking where you were but sooner or later he ran into a dead end.

That leads us back to now. Klaus was walking home in defeat and when he reached his room he just plopped face down into the sheets. Ben was just standing in by the window and looked down at the empty street below. They both said nothing for the longest time until Klaus sighed and walked out the room, saying that he was going to take a soak in the tub. Ben didn't move but he heard what he said.

Klaus stripped his clothes and went inside the warm water of the old tub. He grabbed the headphones he brought with him and plugged it into a cassette player and started listening to music. He swayed in the water, splishing and splashing as his hands smacked the surface as if it was a drum. Klaus had his eyes closed the entire time and he didn't see the shadow manifesting itself withing the water in front of him. A hand reached out, slowly at first but whenit grabbed his wrist it quickly pulled him down into the deep.

Klaus shot up and gasped for air as he crawled out of a puddle. He found a (f/c) blanket near him and decided to wrap it around his waste before anyone saw him being indecent. Speaking of ,where was he? He looked at the metal roof that was basically falling apart as well as the building's rusty interior. He came to a conclusion that he was in an old, no-longer functional warehouse and from the sound of waves and hawking sea gulls outside he had guessed it was the old docks just outside the city.

"Klaus." A voice suddenly came from behind him. he whipped around and saw you. "(y/n), oh my god, is that really you?" he asked as he approached you. You seemed different from the you he saw from the video. The sinister atmosphere you showed was no longer there. Instead he only saw you. He swiped his hand on your face but instead of it just passing through, like he had expected, his hand lightly slapped your cold cheek. He jumped backwards at the sensation. You smiled at him. "Surprised?" you asked and he stuttered out, "Are you... Not dead?". You laughed at this and shook your head. "Oh... I'm very much dead Klaus." you said solemnly.

"How..." Klaus was confused but you just shrugged. "You're the one who can talk to ghosts. You tell me." you kept your smile on your face but it quickly fell when you looked down. "Klaus, I... I need your help." you admitted and he nodded. "What is it?"

You paused for second before you spoke. "I'm pretty sure you already know what I've been doing recently, huh?" you asked. Klaus thought back to the video of you luring people to their deaths and he nodded. "... Why did you do it?" he asked and you looked him in the eye sadly.

"I..." you tried to explain but it took you a minute to find your words. "When I... Came back I didn't know what was going on. Everything was dark and cold and I felt nothing but pain." you started to shake. "For the longest time, that was all I felt... I was alone... Until I heard your voice. You were calling out to me and I followed your voice until I saw the light. I was standing right in front of the academy. I was about to go in but then I heard the news from a radio of a car parked outside. They said I was murdered and I thought, that can't be right. I'm standing right here. That was when I started to remember." As you went deeper into your tale you started to feel angry, your hair began to float, your eyes slowly became black, and your feet were hovering above the ground. "I felt.... I felt so Angry when I remembered what had happened to me. I was consumed with hate and I wanted to make the man who did this to me suffer. I want to make everyone suffer."

Klaus was silent, he grabbed your wrist and making you look down at him. You started to calm down after looking into his hazel hues and he pulled you into his arms. He stroked your head, "You don't have to do this (y/n). I know what happened to you wasn't fair and I can't even imagine what you're going through right now but I know you. You're a kind person. Possibly, the sweetest person I've ever met and that's why I love you. Please don't let the only woman I love die too."

His words made you tear up as you cried into his chest. He tightened his grip around you as he kissed your forehead. You repeatedly mumbled "I'm sorry..." through tears. He whispered, "It's going to be okay." the two of you stayed like that for a few minutes before you started to calm down. Klaus pulled away slightly and placed his hands on the sides of your face and wiped away your tears with his thumb. He leaned down a little bit and stopped when his lips brushed yours. You closed the gap between you two and you both closed your eyes into the sweet kiss. When you finished you pressed your forehead on his and looked into his eyes. "I love you too." you whispered softly and pecked him one last time before stepping back. "Call me?" you said with a chuckle as you wiped your wet face. Suddenly a been of light shined through the broken roof and you were carried up onto it. You looked at Klaus ones last time before you disappeared with a poof.

Klaus smiled, feeling a huge weight leave his shoulders and he turned around to the exit. But before he could move he noticed a door at the corner of his eye. Something was telling him that he should go check it out and that's what he did. When he opened the room he your dead body lying on the ground with a clean white pillow supporting your head. The wound on your neck was stitched and your body looked clean as you wore the same dress you wore earlier. Candles and flowers surrounded your body and a bouquet of (f/flower) was placed under your hands. He smiled at how peaceful you looked before going out to find a telephone booth to tell the family of his discovery.

AN:

So, here's Klaus! Might do Allison or Vanya next idk haha. Hope you all enjoyed this one. This is like twice as long as the Diego one haha. I just got really carried away Huhu. If you guys have any suggestions or criticism you want to share please tell me in the comments so I can make better stories in the future.

Hope you all enjoyed and see you lovelies in the next one. uwu

[thatbangtanbloom]

house of cards | kth v. jjk [8]

House of Cards

The Prologue | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6|Chapter 7

Subtitle: V for Valiant  

Characters: Taehyung x Reader x Jungkook (Mentions of Jimin x Reader in the past)

Categories: Fluff, Angst, Suspense

AU(s):College!AU, Stalker!AU, Best Friends!AU

Word Count: 2,959 

Sypnosis: Some people see life in black and white, and others see it in brown and blue, but Kim Taehyung only sees it in red and you.

• ° °•○•° °•○•° °•○•° °•○• ° °•○•° °

The impending thought of why is what swallows Jungkook whole as he sits, handcuffed, to the table of the interrogation room. He can barely begin to breathe, let alone speak with how suffocating the appearance of it all was. How was he? What logic was misconstrued for him to be here  - instead of Taehyung?  

The questions Jungkook asked himself were futile because all of them raced back to you. He could not once contemplate or pinpoint how he could even protect you when he was sitting in the county jail for a crime he did not commit. And oh fuck, what about his family? His friends? His fucking scholarship?  

The thought alone makes Jungkook dry heave.  

As though to ease his pain, Jungkook lays his head against the cold metal surface of the table. The fringe of his hair covers his eyebrows and how expressive they are – how angry he is at what is being done to him. How was he to be interrogated when he was innocent? Could they not see how you pushed Taehyung away with hesitation? How you cried for him? How you begged to not take him away? Jungkook felt himself nearly dry heave a second time.  

"Ah, Jeon Jungkook," He hears the voice before he can piece it to a face, not that Jungkook wants to. The only thing he can think of his family – the surprise they will get when they hear of their athletic son arrested for stalking, a conspiracy of murder, and battery? It was fucking insane. "Born in 1997, in the month of September on the First?" He asks.  

Jungkook nods in utter silence.  

"From Busan, correct?" The officer persists, walking around the table. He scrutinizes Jungkook's every action as though he were an animal in a petting zoo and not an actual human being. Jungkook nods, utterly defeated and dejected. "And I take that you attend National Seoul University?" For the third time, Jungkook nods. "Speak, Jeon."  

Jungkook looks up to meet the eyes of the officer and nods curtly. "Yes, officer Kim." He brings his head back down.  

"Look at me when I speak to you." He hisses before rolling up the sleeves of his white button up and taking a deep breath. "Do you have any idea of the trouble you have gotten yourself into? Stalking? Conspiracy of murder? Aggravated battery?" He clicks his tongue. "The best university in the nation's golden boy getting it stuck to him? The prosecution will have a field day."  

Jungkook remains silent, knowing that if he were to speak, he would no doubt say the most derogatory things known to man.  

The officer frowns at the lack of compliance from Jungkook and clicks his tongue. "So... why'd you do it?"  

"I did not do it. Y/N is my best friend. I would never hurt her." Jungkook says in a small voice. As much as he longed to worry about his scholarship and what this would mean, he could not help but worry about you. Would he make a drastic move on you now that Jungkook was gone? Would he try to hurt you? Jungkook didn't want to know the answer.  

The officer sighs loudly before plopping down into the chair and clicks his tongue in response before leaning forward. "There is no point in you lying. This is a serious offense that I refuse to take lightly, Mr. Jeon Jungkook," He pauses to lick his lips. "These accusations are crucial to your current state of freedom and I am inclined to think that they are true."

"What are you talking about? I would not stalk my best friend! She's my best friend. I don't need to stalk her. Yes, there are times when I want to be with her, but she's also very annoying too. Do you think I long to see her even when I don't to the point where I would feel the need to STALK her?" Jungkook yells, finding his patience waning thin with the police officer. As he speaks, the officer hastily nods to the people behind the glass. "The person who you should be arresting is Kim Taehyung – Kim motherfucking Taehyung. He's a deranged lunatic!" He says while pointing to himself.  

The officer blinks at Jungkook's words and glances behind the young male to the glass knowingly and pulls a chair to sit down. "Kim Taehyung...?" The name sounded oddly familiar. The officer motions to the men behind the glass.  

One of the men behind the glass was Kim Seokjin – one of the leading investigators within the interrogative unit – with his accompanied partner, Jung Hoseok, who typically specialized in cases such as these. The two share a glance at one another at the name.  

"Kim Taehyung?" Seokjin asks his partner, Hoseok, who eagerly types away from the letters feverishly as he thinks. He furiously types, awaiting from more from Jungkook.  

"Yes! Kim fucking Taehyung." Jungkook yells, finding it hard to breathe suddenly. He feels as though the walls will close in on him and takes in deeper inhales and exhales. "He was a senior to Y/N and I and was best friends with one of my soccer seniors, Park Jimin." He glances at the floor.  

"Kim Taehyung and Park Jimin?" The officer repeats, like a broken record, and Jungkook swears that he will lose his mind.

"Yes! Kim Taehyung! He went to the same school as me and I think he goes to the same school as Y/N and me." He takes in another deep breath. His hands shake ever so slightly at the idea of losing it all because of someone of the likes of Kim Taehyung. "I-I'll tell you everything."

This makes Officer Kim lean forward, eager to hear a confession from the boy.  

"Do tell," Officer Kim says as he fixes the glasses on his face and one of his dimples protrude at the pursing of his lips.  

Jungkook nods, closing his eyes, "Ever since high school began, I always felt like I was being watched." He begins as he glances down at his handcuffs and frowns. "Y/N-ah always reassured me that I was being paranoid, but I knew I was." He stares down at his hands. "One day, I was leaving home from practice and there was Kim Taehyung staring at me from across the street. He never once said anything that day, but he looked at me as though he loathed every fiber of my being- "

As Jungkook was speaking, Hoseok's brows furrow in confusion at what he sees. He glances at Seokjin. "I need you to come look at this, hyung," He comments as he nods Seokjin over.  

"Wouldn't he loathe you for stalking his girlfriend and best friend? I can not help but think that you are trying to take his place and cement yourself into his own." Officer Kim Namjoon says dejectedly as he leans closer to open up a file. "I have a list of reports regarding L/N Y/N and your name always accompanies hers."

Jungkook's brows furrow. "Well, of course, they would. She is my solace as I am hers. She never once wanted to entertain the idea that she had the stalker, but I told her time and time again that she did. That man, that Kim Taehyung," Just saying his name makes Jungkook spit venom. "-he is not fit to be walking free. He is the one who tried to hurt her last summer. He is the reason why she doesn't remember the accident."

"Accident?" Officer Namjoon asks, brows furrowing. "Why would you remember the accident that she did not? Were you present at the time? And I have no records... of this accident,"  

Jungkook can tell by the accusatory voice that he has yet to believe him.  

"No fucking way.." Seokjin mumbles to Hoseok as the two meager over Kim Taehyung's file. They share a glance before glancing at Jungkook sitting in the seat and immediately nod to Namjoon to leave the room immediately.  

"Sir... I can assure you that I would never stalk her. Please, you can ask her yourself. Kim Taehyung is who is to blame. He's delusional – deranged." Jungkook rambles as he glances at Namjoon who looks disinterested in the conversation. "T-the way he looks at her, it's not normal." He stutters over his words as he keeps his eyes locked on Officer Namjoon's.  

Namjoon closes the file and closes his eyes tightly. "I'll look into what you have to say," He says with a reassuring smile to Jungkook, though it is utterly fake. Anyone with eyes could see that Jeon Jungkook was not all there – he must have been very fragile considering his background. To even fabricate a story in that way? Despicable.  

Namjoon glares at Jeon Jungkook one last time before he shuts the door close to glance at Seokjin and Hoseok with a confused look in his eyes. "What is it?" He comments.

"Kim Taehyung's the Chief's son," Hoseok says as he points from the grainy picture of Taehyung's father to that of the smiling student. "When first looking at his records, he appears fine. But then I could not help but notice the mention of Park Jimin."

"Park Jimin? Why have I heard that name before?" Seokjin asks aloud as he turns to Namjoon.

Namjoon pauses to think. He does his best to try to muse why the name does sound familiar. Yet, his thoughts are cast aside at the sound of Jungkook dry heaving onto the floor of the interrogation room. Seokjin immediately dials for the medics to come collect the younger in an instant and his heart softens at the sight and he frowns deeply. Poor sick bastard. "Park Jimin..?"

"That's the name of the boy we never found! His name was on the missing persons' list a couple of months ago after he was found not guilty in-" Hoseok howls as he stands up. "Remember the student-athlete who was brought into questioning on counts of stalking, a conspiracy of murder, and-" He begins before the three stare at each other.

"Holy fucking shit -" Namjoon says as he runs his fingers through his hair. "And was Kim Taehyung not the star witness? For that girl – what was her name?"  

"Lee Hyejin?" Hoseok asks as he stares at the computer.

"That's the one," Namjoon says as he leans huddled over his shoulder. "We should call the operators, just to hear the 911 phone call." He suggests reassuringly.  

Seokjin pauses, glances at the other two. "Guys... He's the chief's son. The chief could have our asses if we tried to make a case out of speculation like this."  

"Isn't that how we brought in that kid?" Namjoon replies to Seokjin hotly and sighs. "I don't think that kid did it... and those parallels match up too perfectly. Both are athletes, both went to National Seoul University, and it features Kim Taehyung as a key witness." He muses at the others. "But it doesn't make sense... why?"

Before Namjoon can earn himself an answer, Jungkook doubles over, heaving onto the floor the contents of his dinner from the night before. The young male gags onto the floor, tears streaming down his face as the pressure mounts on him. Was he really going to be sentenced for something he didn't do? What would happen to his family? His scholarship? You?

The three young officers turn, deep frowns settling in their contours before scrambling to assist Jungkook. Perhaps he could be a witness, given of course he would be able to testify in a meaningful matter.  

"Jeon Jungkook, are you well?" Seokjin asks as he glances at the crumpled boy on the floor. The usual confident and somewhat reserved student-athlete looks dejected and utterly torn down – much like a puppy who had just been kicked.

Tears lace Jungkook's cheeks as he continues to stare down at the tiled floor. He allows the specks to blur together as he pants. "P-please believe me... Please protect her," he whimpers faintly before he dry heaves once more.

"We should call someone for him," Hoseok suggests in a faint tone as he glances at a shivering Jungkook.

Seokjin nods as if to say 'I'll be on that' before taking his leave to go retrieve a trained medic. He slips out of the room, only to be met with the chief of the police department – the man who approved his checks, secured a roof over his head, and put in a good recommendation for a promotion – and most of all, he was Kim Taehyung's father. "S-sir," He bows ninety degrees out of pure respect.

Chief Kim stares down at Seokjin and glances in the direction he came from. He had known all too well that Jeon Jungkook, the prized athlete, and gem of National Seoul University's recruitment program, was only feet away from him. "Don't call a medic." He tells him.

Seokjin sputters, "But sir – the stress is obviously getting to him-" He says, unsure and confused as to why the chief was responding to the situation this way. Yes, Jungkook may have been a suspect, but he was still innocent until proven guilty in the court of law.

"You should not disregard the orders of your superior," Chief Kim hisses to Seokjin. "Take him back to his holding cell. I will further question him tomorrow." He makes a point to glare at Seokjin and he look in his eyes nearly makes Seokjin shiver himself. "Be sure to heed to my orders if you would like to continue working here." And with that, he leaves as quickly as he left, leaving Seokjin in a dazed state and a feeling in his stomach that something was terribly wrong.  

Taehyung can barely breathe as he paces back and forwards in the small apartment that he lived in off campus. He tugs at his brown hair incessantly – your words penetrating his every thought despite it being hours since he had last seen you. Why did you have to look at him like that? Like he was scum or dirt on your shoe? Was he not worthy after all that he done for you? Could you not see how terrible Jeon Jungkook would be to you? Were you that blind?  

It does not help him as another part of him trembles at the thought of you remembering him. He of course, never wanted to you to find out in the way that you did, but he felt that more than anything, it as better than you not knowing before. Though, it would mean that you would be more cautious about him. You would undoubtedly run away from him... to Jeon Jungkook... the thought alone drove Taehyung up a wall. He could not have that.

Taehyung knows what he must do next.  

It does not take him long to pile into his old pick up truck that his father had passed down to him years ago and take the drive down memory lane to that of his old stomping grounds – it had been the hospital thatHyejin and him volunteered at when university proved to be daunting; and lately that had been all the time.  

He trudges up the stairs, praying that Hyejin is not there for him to face. He can not handle the look of her or any other woman for that matter. All he wishes is to see you, but he knows that you will deny him. There is no thought that crosses his mind that you will. You were a headstrong girl after all – he'd have to recruit forces.  

So this is where Taehyung finds himself now, hovering over a smaller figure. The figure is bent, crouching down and hugging himself with matted hair. The very sight of the being in front of him makes Taehyung's skin crawl and he rubs his arm out of bad habit. "YAH!" He yells before poking him with his foot. "Wake up,"

The smaller male stirs, laying on the ground while clutching his stomach.

"I said, wake up." Taehyung hisses before kneeling down to grab him by the chin. "Come on Jimin-ah, would you rather sleep forever?"

Jimin stares up at Taehyung with furrowed brows. "H-hansung?" The black-haired boy asks with a shaky tone as he stares up at Taehyung. He knew things were often going good when he saw him.... or that it was the beginning of the end. Everything blurred for Jimin these days – Hansung especially.  

Taehyung's bottom lip trembles at the innocence of Jimin and forces himself to smile. "It-it's me," He repeats his stutter and kneels down in front of Jimin. "I-I have a favor to ask of you. Can you do that for me?"  

Jimin blinks at Hansung in confusion. Favors were never good coming from him. Jimin's judgment may have been clouded, but the way that Taehyung looked at him was inhumane. "Why?"

"It's about Y/N-ah," The sound of your name immediately softens Jimin's features and he leans forward in response. It had been months since he last spoke to you, but Taehyung often updated him whenever he saw fit. "She's in danger."

"Danger?" Jimin asks in confusion. The cotton of his patterned matching hospital suit scratches at his skin and he forces himself to not scratch it incessantly. "What's wrong?"

Taehyung swallows, glancing at Jimin. "Jimin-ah... our Jungkook-ah isn't well... I can't protect her anymore," He says as he glances at Jimin through his eyelashes. "I need to you help me protect her from him... I know how you always cared about her..." His voice trails off.

Without hesitation, Jimin nods obediently to Taehyung. "I'll help."

And behind the sympathetic smile that Taehyung sends him, a sinister smirk settles on Taehyung's lips. If he couldn't have you, no one can.  

and the story continues.... 

   sorry for the long wait! I had writer’s block for a long time and I was not sure on how to return to this story, but I finally learned how I could. Please don’t be a silent reader and have a nice day :) 

[magical-agatha]

Don't read this. Keep scrolling i need help this is a terrible way to go about it. Please just keep scrolling. I know i could post this privately but i won't and that surely says a lot about the nature of this post and the purpose of it. Don't read this post. Don't reply to it. Definitely do not message me with practical advice. I'm already seeing professional help. I don't kghrn. Don't read this.

No matter what i do i can't keep my glasses completely clean and it is legitimately upsetting. This is not a goof. It's messing with my ocd and it's hard to explain? It kind of hurts?? And it's like. I can't solve this problem so I'm just gradually getting more and more upset. And there's all this emotion building up that i don't know how to express because I'm all fucked up in other areas. If you ever meet me in person and we have an argument I'll have a really hard time because I'll start to panic and struggle to respond because I'm scared of saying the wrong thing because if i do you'll just pick it apart and use it against me. So I'll panic more and say something dumb and then you'll use it against me and I'll panic and say something cruel or something that's unfair, so that you'll get upset and leave. Because if you keep pushing me I'll just get more panicky and it'll get harder and harder to think clearly. And it'll end badly. I'd never hit another person but there's a dent and a hole on my bedroom wall, where my mum has attacked me and I've panicked and my stupid brain has told me it's fight or flight time but there's nowhere to run so i either hit myself or the house. It doesn't happen often but i feel like scum when it does. I always try to hit the door frame because i know i can't damage it. I've got to stress that it's not anger. I'm not angry. I'm usually terrified and crying. Because I'm a crazy person who's inherently broken inside. I'd never ever hurt someone. I hate violence. I get upset when someone squashes a spider. I mean I'd probably punch a nazi or someone who really deserved it. But i hate it when i panic like that. It makes me feel like I'm less than human. That if i hit a wall or break things, i always try to do it to worthless things like paper or sometimes I'll bite my hands. If i do those things i could hurt a person who didn't deserve it. I'm so scared of hurting someone. I can't convey how much it scares me. It comes down to my feelings on life. Life is special in a very specific way. If you take a life you can't give it back. From that we can also say that hurting someone is a reprehensible thing, because while it's often possible to recompense the victim, you can't return what you took or broke. And something somewhat relevant. I struggle to understand other people who self harm. Everyone else seems intent on being found out or caught. They cut their arms and legs, or some will even burn themselves with matches. I don't understand why you'd let yourself be caught like that i. It's probably just me. I'm scared of having discussions that go too deep because I've been hurt by that before. My mind is constructed in regard to and follows several core rules I've learnt from what I'm realising lately was years of subtle and not so subtle abuse at the hands of my mother. Of course I'm scared of calling abuse because What If She Heard Me Say That???? But i guess that's what it is. I also struggle to call her abusive because while she fucked up in a lot of ways raising me, she's broken too, and she was also raised by an abusive mother who was trying her best as well, but was still broken. Basically I'm 3rd generation and that makes it hard to place blame. But part of me wants to hate her. Does having good intentions excuse you if you fuck up?? There's a saying I'm fond of. "Save us from good intentions" and also "hell is paved with good intentions". But one of the rules hardwired into my brain is that if i ever show a weakness or let myself be vulnerable someone will use that weakness to hurt me. Part of that is that i can't make mistakes or I've Failed and I'm worthless. But this rule tells me that if i were to cut someone would either ask questions, use it against me, or pity me. Despite a lot of things and a lot of logic i am both incredibly proud and have almost no self esteem. So when i self harm i do invisible things. I bite my hands, especially the loose skin on the joints of my fingers and that bit of skin between the thumb and forefinger. And I've learned how to flex muscles in a way that hurts a lot. Not over stretching them or anything. It's sort of a combination of tensing conflicting muscles and then you do this thing where you tell the muscles to move but also stay still?? Hard to describe. That was a lot of rambling. I'm trying to determine something. Am i actually worthless? Or more specifically. If I'm miserable and struggling, and i want to give up on something until I've overcome certain other things. Specifically I've been doing a game design course for four or so weeks now. It should be my dream course. This is what I wanted. But there's a number of factors which are ruining it for me and exacerbating my misery. The travel is awful (5hrs a day 5am start 7pm home), and i had to start almost a month late because someone else fucked up, so I'm struggling with the work enormously, i can follow along and mimic what everyone else is doing but i don't understand how the code I'm typing works. But my brain is telling me i HAVE to enjoy this course and i HAVE to excel. But this conflict between struggling with the course, unrelated misery, and unreasonable unrealistic even cruel expectations i have of myself. The part of me that's in the background and just is, the same part that's dictating those rules, is convinced i have to be incredible at anything i do or I've failed and should mentally punish myself. It doesn't listen to reason and i can't argue with it or even ignore it. If i try and I'm not amazing i feel guilty. I feel miserable and like I've wasted everyone's time. It tells me I'm pathetic. And the hard part is that nothing is good enough. And the bit that makes me want to laugh the same way some who has just condemned themselves laughs?? The way you laugh before they take you to hell and install you in some greco styled sisyphean torture??? Nothing is ever good enough!!! I'm chasing infinity!!! I cannot succeed!!! EVERYTHING I DO RIGHT IS UNDERMINED AND DISREGARDED!!!!!!! AND I'M THE CULPRIT!!! I'M RUINING MY OWN LIFE! MY BRAIN WANTS ME TO DIE MISERABLE AND ALONE. IN MY LASTS MOMENTS I BET IT WOULD SEND ME A THOUGHT AND I'D FEEL THAT I WAS PATHETIC. I COULD HAVE DONE THIS OR THAT BETTER. LOOK HOW PATHETICALLY I'M DYING. The deranged sode effect of this is that ninety nine times out of a hundred i give up without starting or never really try. Why should i bother. WHY SHOULD I BOTHER. Why fucking bother. If i can't ever succeed!! It's just pure cruelty. You know i always tell myself I'd never commit suicide. After all my greatest fear is entropy. Time passing, wasting time. Living with limited time and not using it perfectly. So of course since i don't believe in an afterlife despite really trying to get religious. Of course I'd never waste the only life i have. Surely being miserable is better than not existing. Of course. But i was waiting for a train, and i started looking at the tracks and thought about it. Immediately i corrected it to thinking about how can i step into traffic or in front of a train without dying. Because i have no other capability or capacity to tell people just how sick i am. But for a second i really wanted to die. Which terrifies me. What terrifies me more is that i have to force myself slightly not to give up. That part of me is so ready to give up totally. I can't think about that moment any more. If you read this i don't have much to say to you. This is my only way to say how unhappy i am. Because i can say that no one will read this. This is safe. But it's difficult. If someone does read this and sends me a message or something it's difficult. Because i lack the capacity to really admit I'm not okay. If you message me I'll just explain it away or reassure you I'm fine. This is in simplest terms a cry for help. I could and maybe even should just save this as a draft or post privately. This is my message in a bottle. I can convince myself for long enough that no one will reply. Even if they do, so what. There's only so much a kind person's kind words can do. I'm too good at shutting myself off. And no one here knows my real name except for maybe one person who i used to be close with. But he knows me by some old iscribble username. He probably doesn't remember my real name. Point being that even if you reading this want to help, you can't do enough. I'm too smart for my own good. I've found a way to call out for help, but I'm also intentionally sabotaging myself. It's ridiculous. That's what's it's like living in my head. I can't ask for help because then I'll be vulnerable and if I'm EVER EVER vulnerable something BAD will happen. I've explained it to a psych before, or tried. My brain never specifies the threat it says exists. It's always just something bad, but the kind of thing where you know that means so bad it can't be imagined or put into words. It could be death?? It could be everyone you ever meet or know hating you and laughing at you?? It could be always being a pathetic failure?? It could be anything!! It's genius! I don't even know what the threat is!! And my brain never has to worry about whether the threat is realistic because it's not specified! What a nightmare. What a convoluted mess i am. The most ingenious and sadistic torturer couldn't devise something like this! Design pales in comparison to the sheer stupid thoughtless luck of something created naturally without a goal in mind. Now i sound like I'm bragging so I'm nervous about that, that someone will discredit this entire post and send me a hurtful message. Or something WORSE! Now I'm trying really hard to hold onto my frustration and not let anxiety take over. Look at this! I'm such a fucking joke!!! Thank goodness i don't believe in a god. If i did believe in one what would that make me? If intelligent design is real and a man in the sky controls everything, what do i make of that? For one I'm the greatest practical joke ever told, and another this god clearly doesn't care about us. Or worse, he does care but he's powerless to help us. But that's potentially even more terrifying!! Who or what is more powerful than a supposed god??? I'm so tired of all of this. This revolting nightmare of self hatred that lives in my head. Could you really blame me for wanting to give up, or for wanting someone to save me? I guarantee if you living in my head you wouldn't function. If you had this trash suddenly thust on you with no warning and no time slowly learning to cope. I don't want to sound like I'm being edgy. I'm nervous about this paragraph and scared i sound like I'm bragging. Goodness gracious I'm sick of all of this.

[casualarsonist]

American Psycho: A review for people who are scared to read it.

I have a theory that American Psycho was something of a literary template for The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time <cue howls of indignation>. Let me finish – I know that psychopathy is not autism, although the conditions can share some personality similarities, and I know that there is nothing more stigmatising and incorrect than to conflate the two, but from a textual point of view, let’s consider this for a second: both are written from a first-person perspective, narrated by characters who categorise the world around them in meticulous analytical detail. Both characters spend a lot of time explicitly explaining their actions to the viewer in a clinical, methodical way. Both novels devote entire chapters to musings on pop culture. Both novels depict their characters’ struggle to interact with the world around them as a result of their conditions. Obviously I don’t think that Mark Haddon sat down to read American Psycho and thought that he could write Patrick Batman-lite, but there is an interesting familiarity in reading American Psycho in terms of how it’s structured, and in how Bateman details his world. So perhaps my ‘theory’ is more of an interesting coincidence, but it stands that American Psycho is, at its core, a fantastic character study of a man who feels little connection to the world around him, and a vicious skewering of conspicuous consumerism. It has also been hugely misunderstood and misinterpreted by critics and the public alike for the entirety of its existence.

American Psycho is a 1991 novel by Bret Easton Ellis, centred around the obscenely wealthy New York yuppie, Patrick Bateman; a self-confessed ‘fucking evil psychopath’. It follows his life over a period of a couple of years (although the amount of time that passes between the various scenes is vague at best) as Bateman guides us through whichever experiences he chooses to show us. Now I know what you’ve heard, and don’t get the wrong idea - the majority of the novel simply depicts the superficial banality of Patrick’s life - vacuous conversations with his friends over dinner at expensive restaurants (or over drinks and cocaine at exclusive clubs), detailed dissections of certain musical icons, meticulous descriptions of the clothes and things owned by the people around him, and his liasons with various women in his social circle as they sleep, eat, drink, and do drugs with each other without any respect for established ‘relationships’. And that’s ‘relationships’ in inverted commas, because these people are self-centred-ness made manifest. Consumed by their obsessions with money and possessions, all of the characters seem incapable, undesiring, even, of forming genuine emotional connections to anyone around them. Their loyalties to their friends are tenuous, to their lovers even more so, and their conversations revolve almost entirely around fashion etiquette, which restaurant is the most chic (certainly not the same one that they’ve eaten at that one time in the last two weeks), and which piece of meat (apologies, ‘woman’) they’d like to have sex with.

But the novel is controversial for a reason, and there are certain parts of American Psycho that contain some of the most repellent and detestable things I have ever read. There was more than one occasion where I simply had to put the book down, cursing internally and aloud the lack of artistic merit and the pure sadism of these sections and the actions contained within. But it also stands true that the more reactionary among us will read these parts, or hear of them, and damn the book as misogynistic torture-porn, and will miss the point entirely. I can’t excuse the scenes of violence, and I still struggle to understand why they must exist in such a way. Perhaps they’re there to make the reader feel ashamed – to lure them into a trap with promises of titillation and taboo bloodlust, and then horrify us into self-reflection? But to boil the purpose of the novel down to these moments is far too simplistic. The characters and their actions are misogynistic, yes, because American Psycho is an apocalyptic look at America’s lust for wealth and reverence of the god Economy, forsaking all other virtues along the way. It is money as a substitute for masculinity. These men are disgusting, and their actions are disgusting, but at the centre of every single one of them lies nothing of value. They are pathetic - empty shells existing only for an induced high, for the hollow prestige of things that serve no purpose other than to be gaudy and far-too-expensive. They repeatedly order high-priced drinks and meals that they don’t touch and entertain themselves by abusing and belittling homeless people in the street. They’re pitiful, and prey on the equally vacuous women that surround them, bouncing from mate to mate, from drug to drug. American Psycho forces the reader to take a look at an unvarnished and extrapolated depiction of what corporate America desires most, and absolutely savages it in the process. The novel won’t let you relax - the rate of murders and the horror of the descriptions escalate in its latter half and it certainly makes it a difficult slog to the end, and just as you think you’re becoming complacent towards the nastiness, it ups the ante and leaves you feeling angry and repulsed all over again, but the truth is that other 90% of its 380-odd pages are really just filled with meticulous descriptions of things. To this end, and spoiler-free, it all feels a little pointless upon its conclusion. But perhaps that’s the point? It revisits a scenario that it has portrayed a dozen times before, and the text could be word-for-word copied from any one of a number of other points earlier and it really feels a little boring, a little underwhelming. And it should, because no matter the lengths Patrick goes to in order to stimulate himself, to make himself feel something – anything – other than boredom and disgust, neither he nor his friends can escape the empty repetitiveness of their lives.

If there were a narrative, it would be that we follow Patrick’s unravelling sanity as time progresses. He admits within the first few pages that he is a psychopath, but for a long time we only get hints here and there of his deviant actions. Then, one by one, and almost too casually, we are introduced to his disconnections from reality, and then his murders. They come without warning and unpredictably. He begins to hallucinate more vividly and frequently, and the novel reaches a point where one can doubt almost everything he says. At one point he describes in a rambling stream-of-consciousness his deranged ravings in the streets as he goes shopping one afternoon, assaulting people in public and screaming and banging his briefcase along a wall, eating his melting hair-gel and standing for an hour in a trance in a shop. At another point much later on he leads police on a chase through the city as he murders at will and blows up police cars. Whether or not he actually performs any of these actions is left almost entirely uncertain, and all confessions of his crimes are misheard or taken by others as jokes. He kills an associate and claims to drag the corpse through the street in a sleeping bag; he is even investigated for the man’s disappearance by a private detective, but then months later someone claims to have lunched with the man only a short time prior. Did Bateman really kill the man, or was it a hallucination? One can’t ever know, as all his friends look the same and they all frequently mistake one-another for other people; in this very conversation, the person who claims to have lunched with the dead man has mistaken Bateman for someone else. This is the level of unreliability that the novel operates on. The most stark degradation of his lifestyle is exhibited in the way his home life changes from a militaristic adherence to his beauty regimen to literally eating viscera on the floor of a blood-soaked apartment, and this is all interesting enough to read until we are jerked back abruptly to another table at another restaurant with another fancy meal and another asinine conversation.

Patrick Bateman’s life is hell. His environment is affluent, but it is hell. He knows this, and yet he wouldn’t tolerate the idea of another way of life as he’s so enslaved by his own mental state that he barely even realises that he hates everything about it. Easton Ellis takes us through this hell, bludgeoning us with mundanity and violence alike, until we understand that what Patrick Bateman has is not something worth dreaming of, that America is sick and Wall Street’s unfettered lust for money is a blight, a cancer. It’s at times sickening, at times humourous, and at times rather tedious, and that’s the point. You aren’t meant to read this novel and think ‘damn, I’d like some of that’. You’re meant to feel disgusted and kind of bored. You’re meant to see this extreme depiction of an affluent life it for all that it is, and all that it isn’t. The memories of the abhorrent actions fade surprisingly quickly, given the horror they invoke, which is the only reason they are bearable, and I’m not sure that it’s good for the sanity to read this novel repeatedly, but it is certainly one of a kind, and one of the most savage indictments of greed-soaked materialism ever put to paper.