#i literally stab myself with a needle every week!!!

[hamburgerking]

How tf am I barely nervous for tattoos but I'm shaking thinking about getting my ears pierced later 😭

[solarpunkpresentspodcast]

Hope, but not right away

This is more of a half-formed thought than a complete article, so bear with me, but I wanted to put it out there especially on this gloomsome spring day, where the sun is mostly hidden by clouds that will not resolve into anything so reliable as precipitation.

Spring is often a time of joy, full of bright pastels, celebrations of life, rebirth, renewal, the return of green things to our lives. I think part of the reason that we put the focus so much on these things is their singularity within a world that is more often full of mud, grey skies, and barren trees. The snow melts away to reveal a rotting corpse, as it were, for the first few weeks of spring, at least around here. Branches stab at the sky and are not so much full of potential as skeletal imagery.

The solarpunk lens of rumination on this would focus on the way that the rotting detritus of last fall is composting, pregnant with possibility, working to become the literal ground from which life will spring. But I worry that, in that focus, we too often skip over the dull feeling of drear that can come between the absence of snow and the advent of greenery.

Ugly feelings, to poach a phrase from theorist Sianne Ngai, are very valid and worth acknowledging. Especially when the world around me is ugly, I have some pretty ugly thoughts. I mourn the fact that the double-whammy of climate weirding and El Niño meant that we didn’t really get a winter at all in these parts. I resent the rawness of the wind, too cold when the sun isn’t shining, and still wet as hell and - it seems - tailored to produce the most amount of misery in the least amount of time. I am frustrated by the fact that every single one of my coats (ranging from heavy-duty winterwear to light rain jackets) are needed within the span of a week, and yet none of them are truly adequate for the weather conditions I walk through. I think dark thoughts about the humans of this city when I walk the trails and see the incredible amount of litter - plastic bags/bottles, old Timmies cups, cigarette butts, wrappers, and other detritus - on the sides of the path, now revealed by the melting of the snow.

These are all problems that I know will pass, or that at least my brain will skim over. Take climate weirding and El Niño for example - I can’t do anything about weather patterns, and I’m doing my best right now to tackle climate change and catastrophe given my situation; they’re not going to go away any time soon, and they are a reality that I can accept, like the shitty wind. Doesn’t mean I’m not going to change my behaviour or do something about them, but it’s not like I myself can just nip the problem in the bud. Given past experience, I know that temperatures will continue to climb, solving my multiple coats problems. The City has already emailed me and many others subscribed to its newsletter that it is time for an annual spring community clean-ups: and if one registers with a group, they will provide gloves, grabbers, and garbage bags for each person, along with a tips sheet about safety, especially with handling any sharps such as broken glass or discarded needles.

So I can pass pretty quickly on to feeling fairly okay about my immediate situation. As I’ve said before both here and on the podcast, I really do believe that solarpunk is about looking around at the detritus of the early twenty-first century, then choosing deliberately to roll up one’s sleeves and get to work making a better world using the materials at hand, despite all the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. However, moving rapidly away from negative feelings does them a disservice, and more importantly, may be doing solarpunk a disservice. Let me explain.

This is because solarpunk’s investment in optimism and hope is explicitly not a dismissal of badness, but instead a deliberately positive affective orientation arising from negative conditions, and so I am of the firm belief that there is room in the solarpunk movement to acknowledge and sit with the terrible truths of our existence.

I confess to being extremely inspired and deeply affected by JD Harlock’s conversation with Christina in our second season, especially the bit where he baldly states that he has no hope that the conditions in Lebanon will improve, and yet he still calls himself a solarpunk and works towards a better future anyways. It reminds me of an article I came across while doing research for my masters - this time explicitly about hope within the environmental movement, and the first part of the title says it all: “Hope, But Not for Us”.* It is by scholar Gerry Canavan and it came out in 2014, years before the Jonathan Franzen article. The basic gist is that yeah, there’s plenty of hope for people and animals in the future, even if we ourselves are stuck in this time of the Anthropocene, so we cannot see or access that future place of hope, but we can contribute now to making conditions better for beings we will perhaps never meet.**

If solarpunks were solely interpreted as liberal individuals fantasizing about a better world that they themselves will get to enjoy, the skeptical charge that solarpunk is naively optimistic would be pretty accurate. In that estimation, there is no room for negativity, for accepting the world as it is, for allowing for people to feel kinda crappy sometimes, for acknowledging that serious mental health struggles with depression can’t be cured by just getting a plant or going outside for a walk on the regular, et cetera. There’s no room for the actual reality of being human. The solarpunk strawman (strawperson, really), has zero nuance or grounding in the actual lived experience of being human in 2024.

That is why I am such an ardent proponent of holding space for negative emotions: whether that’s through seeing a climate grief counsellor or chaplain, attending climate grief circles, simply talking to friends and loved ones about fears about the climate, creating art about it, venting in a Discord channel, et cetera. Note they’re all community actions. Solarpunk is a deliberate reaction to and disruption of the status quo in which we are mired: pretending that we’re not experiencing terrible things is not going to get us anywhere, literally and intellectually.

I confess I don’t actually know how to end this. Academic articles tend to build towards a triumphant or at least neat conclusion and I’d like to leave you with more than just a mess. Perhaps it’s appropriate, though, since emotions, especially the negative ones, are messy and complicated.

Don’t feel bad for feeling bad, I guess? It’s from that ground that radical solarpunk action is grown.

*The full title is “Hope, But Not for Us: Ecological Science Fiction and the End of the World in Margaret Atwood’s Oryx and Crake and The Year of the Flood” and given that my master’s major research was interpreting the MaddAddam trilogy through the lens of posthuman feminism, it was pretty much exactly up my alley. This also, sidenote to the footnote, was one of the articles instrumental in my feeling extremely alienated from my peers who weren’t also taking Masters courses in ecocriticism, because nobody around me / on the corners of the Internet that I frequented at that time seemed to be talking at all about climate breakdown, or even admitting that maybe global warming was a problem (except the environmental activists, of course). It was a weird, WEIRD time.

**I imagine that this is how society as a whole used to think about doing noble things like building housing and implementing social policies for the sake of future generations, which seems to have largely exited the concern of the majority political discussion these days around everything except perhaps climate change, since it forces people to think according to a scale of deep time. (I’m aware of the fact that most Indigenous groups on Turtle Island tend to have a tradition of thinking/principle about how actions taken now will reverberate seven generations into the future, but settler society isn’t exactly taking that cue up)

[jojotier]

got needle anxiety so bad i literally have to treat myself like a wild horse every week for my t shot. literally stroking my own thigh going 'there, there' ust in case i get skittish and run the next few miles to the nearest target to hide in their easter displays behind the giant resses eggs that exist solely to make you hate the noble medium of peanut butter and fill the baskets of the soulless rabbit statues reflect back the similarly dead-eyed stare of whatever white suburbanite is listlessly filling up their carts with pastel baskets and a mounting urge to feed their addiction to tormenting retail workers. desperately eating sunflower seeds out of my own hand as if the brush of my own teeth against skin will distract me from the weekly stabbing. putting ice on the area first usually helps. you get how it is

[autism-rants]

When I started taking testosterone, I got a choice between a gel I could rub on my skin every morning and an injection I could take once a week. I chose the injection.

I would literally rather stab myself with needles than try to incorporate something into my routine.

[cathrrrine]

RUN | Pietro x Reader

Originally from my Wattpad

CHAPTER 15 - GHOST

----

[2009.]

Cold, unforgiving metal met the tender skin of my arm as I blocked his punch. That's going to leave a bruise. His blows were getting stronger, faster. He was testing my skills, they wanted to see how far I could be pushed. Although I wasn't far from the edge, I wasn't going to let myself fail today either.

"Focus!" He yelled.

I grimaced, ducking under his arm and landing a punch to his gut. Rookie move, but it was all I had at that moment. He grabbed my arm, quick as lightning, and dragged me by the chin so he could look me in the eye. My fists were still clenched but the exhaustion was starting to take a toll on me. I panted heavily as I tried to mask how drained I was.

With my arm still in his grasp, he said, "Who are you fighting for?"

It was almost a mantra that I was forced to reiterate every single time I fucked up. "Hydra."

He said it again, louder this time, his grip on my hand growing tighter. He could break my wrist if I didn't deliver. Hell, he could break every single limb I had. I couldn't fail.

"Hydra!" I scoffed. I belonged to them. I had to die for them. Hydra ran through my blood, and if it was ever spilled one day, it would be justified in their name.

That's what they told me.

Who was I to question them? I was nothing but a vessel, a weapon for these people. If I failed to deliver what was asked of me, I'd be killed. How ironic was that? To kill or be killed.

I hated it.

As soon as he let my arm go, I thrusted the top of my head into his face. I heard what sounded like his nose breaking and true enough, as I regained my balance and faced him, I found him wiping blood from his nose with the heel of his hand. It was satisfying, to say the least, to see that I finally made a dent.

"Perfect." He nodded.

God, it wasn't over yet.

He pulled his knives out of the holsters he wore, spinning them in the air and catching them both flawlessly. It was his signature trick. Honestly, I thought it was a bit too dramatic. But what can I say? Hydra loves their drama.

"Pay attention." He pointed the tip of the knife towards me. "Or you'll bleed."

He pounced, spinning his knives like they were toys and not murder weapons. He thrusted his right knife in the vague direction of my shoulder, I took a half-step back and circled around so I was behind him. It only took a second for him to whip around again, but I expected that move. So, I threw my leg up as soon as he did and I kicked the weapon out of his grip.

The knife spun around threateningly in the air before falling onto the concrete across the room with a thump. He didn't seem to pay any mind to his fallen weapon. That's when I remembered he had another. He twirled it around his fingers before gripping the handle and thrusting his right arm with full force, the gears of his metal arm whirring as he did so.

I thought I had it. I jumped back so he wouldn't catch my rib, but he was quick to calculate my movements. I should have known.

The pain was searing.

Blood oozed out of the newly-made wound on my calf, the knife buried to the hilt. I screamed uncontrollably as the pain of it kicked in, my body going limp immediately.

"That's enough, soldat."

Tears were falling down my face against my will. You know how sometimes your body does things you don't want it to do? I know, logically, tears were just how your body reacted to certain things. For example, being stabbed in the goddamn calf. But I knew, despite literal fucking science, the people around me took it as a sign of weakness. That's how messed up in the head they are.

But I wasn't weak. I just got through 2 hours of intensive training with the Winter Soldier while they just watched.

I'd like to see the lot of you fight him and manage to not get killed.

One of the medics went over to my side and helped me up. The Winter Soldier stepped aside and watched me with disdainful eyes. I knew I disappointed him. That alone could have fucked up my assessment. How did I not see it coming? How did I miscalculate that movement?

The Commander leaned in to talk to him as he watched me limp away. I made eye contact with both of them. The Commander's lips were moving but I couldn't make out a word of what he was saying.

Through pain-ridden eyes and a half-delirious mind, I could almost make sense of what the conversation was about.

Girl...Mission...Out...Threat.

Next thing I know, I was being treated by Dr. Nolan in the Medical Room. I don't think I processed anything yet. My brain felt numb. My eyes were glued to the knife — now on a metal tray — that I failed to dodge.

My mind flickered through all the different scenarios that I could have went with. I was beyond frustrated with myself and with my complete and utter failure. What were they going to do with me now? They couldn't really kill me...could they?

My mind reeled back to the conversation I saw that the Soldier and the Commander had earlier. What were they talking about? Did they finally decide what to do with me? The defective agent?

I wasn't perfect. I tried to be, but I wasn't. Somehow I always found myself disagreeing with their rules and their missions, even if I carried them out anyway. Although, sometimes I couldn't help but protest. I had to. Even if the consequences would hurt me. If they knew that I'd gone against more than just a few of their regulations, there's no doubt I'd be dead within the minute.

Footsteps came through the corridor, yet I didn't even think to look up.

"Your mission." The familiar faded black of a case file was thrown into my lap carelessly, the papers crinkling in protest as it landed. I looked up to see an annoyed expression that was attached to the face of one of the high-ranking agents.

"Mission? I thought I failed the assessment." My thumbs flicked through the papers almost automatically, scanning through the details quickly. I didn't miss the red stamp on the front. This wasn't just any mission.

He–David, I think–shrugged, "The Commander asked me to hand this to you. You're leaving in an hour."

"What?"

I was...thrilled and appalled at the same time. The whole point of the assessment was for them to see that I was worthy enough to be placed on important missions like these. If they trusted me with it, that means I succeeded.

"In an hour?" Dr. Nolan chipped in. "She hasn't fully recovered from her stab wound yet. You need at least two to three weeks of rest."

The red star-shaped stamp looked even more brighter in that moment, even if the room was poorly lit. "I've had worse. I can survive a limp."

"You won't even be able to walk." He raised an eyebrow at me in disagreement. Somewhere deep down, I knew I should listen to him. I wasn't in the best shape for a fight, let alone a mission like this one.

David huffed, "Orders are orders."

Then my brain clicked back into place. David was right. I nodded once. "I'll be at the hangar in 30 minutes."

"You better gear up by then. They wont wait up for you."

Dr. Nolan sighed and shook his head before wrapping my leg up with bandage. "Fine. Don't say I didn't warn you."

———

Snow was blowing in my face. The cold seeped through my coat, prickling my skin like tiny little needles made of ice.

"Any minute now." He spoke through the earpiece.

We were supposed to ambush a S.H.I.E.L.D operation that was a threat to Hydra. I wasn't entirely sure why I was sent along with the Winter Soldier, but I wasn't in the place to argue. Not when I just barely survived the assessment.

"Get in position." I crouched down, trying to smother a whimper that threatened to escape my throat. My calf was burning, but that wasn't a priority right now. Everything was always burning somehow, and I learned to ignore it overtime. I scanned the area through the scope of my sniper rifle. As soon as a car came into view, I steadied my hand on the trigger.

"Now."

Four continuous shots for each tire. Every single one blew out and the car spun out of control, spinning from left to right. It was a narrow road, the plan was bound to work to our liking. After a few nasty turns, the car swerved off the cliff, leaving nothing but dust and debris in it's place.

"They're not dead yet. Keep an eye out."

It was quicker than I expected, but I spotted two figures climbing out of the wreck after a while. Their movements were slow and staggered, but alive nonetheless.

"Target acquired."

I watched through the scope as he stepped out of his position in the shadows. One of the figures moved in front of the other, shielding them with their own body. I knew it was useless. He'd kill them both anyway.

A single shot rang out. I could picture the bullet going through one body to the other. They both dropped to the ground, dead.

"Target eliminated."

"Roger."

He didn't say a word. I didn't hear the usual rustle of his movements through the earpiece. Silence engulfed me. Usually, I wouldn't be so unnerved. He was always silent. But this time it felt...strange. I stayed where I was, unmoving. Something in my head told me I shouldn't move, shouldn't speak.

It seemed too easy.

I don't know what it was, but I didn't take my eyes off him. Something about this whole thing seemed...off. He could have completed this mission alone.

Why did they ask me to go with him?

He turned away from the bodies and faced me. I gulped, hands trembling as I held my rifle reluctantly. What was he doing?

"Sir?" I managed to say. Everything was telling me to RUN. NOW.

Slowly, he raised his gun and pointed it towards me.

Girl...Mission...Out...Threat.

My whole body trembled at the sight before me.

"Take the girl on your next mission. I need you to take her out. She's a threat to us, soldier. She's defective. Eliminate her. "

I was right.

Bang! The sound of a gunshot snapped me back to reality. It was real. They wanted to kill me. The Winter Soldier was standing ten feet away from me with a gun in his hand, ready to kill. To eliminate the threat.

Out of reflex, I pulled the trigger of my rifle that was pointed to his head, only to find it empty.

Four bullets. They only gave me four bullets and nothing more.

Without thinking, I ran. I dropped the rifle and ran as fast as my legs could take me. I heard another gunshot, closer this time. That's when I started to feel a strange sort of stinging at the back of my leg. The pressure felt strenuous as I continued to sprint in the snow.

Oh, God...Dr. Nolan was right.

I could feel the pain taking over once more as my stitches started to pop. Warm, thick liquid ran down my leg and seeped through the pants of my uniform as the wound on my calf bled out. Between the stinging cold and the stinging pain, I was starting to feel hopeless. I couldn't possibly go against him.

Bang!

Closer this time. I was running blindly into a vast, wide-open landscape of infinite snow. Not only that, but I was also leaving behind a trail of blood behind me. Deep scarlet upon stark white. What a contrast. Was this Hansel and Gretel or some shit?

"You cannot run forever." His voice was crisp, threatening. I couldn't take the fear that ran cold through me. If I stopped running now, I wouldn't ever get up again. He was the embodiment of fear, and he was chasing me.

I tore off my earpiece and threw it behind me. How could I have been so foolish today? Of course they sent him out here to kill me.

All along I thought I was playing the part perfectly. But, maybe I didn't hide my doubts of Hydra as well as I thought I had. Did they find out about everything I've failed to do?

How could I have killed those innocent children? How could I have murdered that innocent family? Or that innocent man who just so happened to stumble across a Hydra operation?

I was fine with the blood and the gore. I was used to that. The only thing that never sat right with me was when the innocent had to be slaughtered. The first time I went through with it, they haunted my dreams. Their animalistic cries for mercy, their howls of pain...I couldn't live with myself.

They were right. I was defective. I didn't have the makings of a Hydra agent. I wasn't as ruthless as I should be.

I ran and ran, hoping that he was far behind me. The snow was getting thicker by the minute, it was getting harder for me to see and to navigate.

I ran until my aching feet hit the pavement of a road that led to a small village. It looked homely, with houses and shops lined up along the road. Lanterns hung from roof to roof, providing light in the heavy snowfall. If I didn't know any better, I'd try to hide there. But I knew he would only tear it apart and kill everyone on sight just to eliminate me.

Then I sensed footsteps behind me. There was no time to think. It was my only option.

I sneaked through the worn paths of the area, trying my best to lay low. It didn't help that I was sporting a mean limp and bleeding all over the place. People saw me and they avoided me. I started to wonder why I thought heading here would help me. I scanned the area for anything, anything that would help. A weapon, a car, a spot that I could take shelter in...

Then, out of nowhere, I bumped into a woman.

"Oh!"

I held onto her arms as I tried to keep us both from falling. The woman was wearing a niqab. Her piercing green eyes looked right at me, distracting me from my original plan for a moment.

"Are you alright?" She asked, gently.

I must have looked horrible. Sweaty and bloody with panicked eyes. I didn't notice that her arms were still locked on mine, keeping me upright.

That's when I felt it, the surge of energy suddenly coursing through me. It was a peculiar sensation, but I welcomed it. Her green eyes widened. I knew she felt it too.

"You're-" she gasped, trying to pull away from me. I held onto her tighter, not wanting to let go just yet.

"Please." I begged. "It won't hurt."

I had to go before he came.

I heard gunshots behind me. I couldn't let him get to me, not when I just found the key to my escape.

"Who are you?" The woman whispered, struggling against me.

"Someone you’ll help escape death." I looked into her eyes, trying to let her see how desperate I was. I didn't want to take anything else from her but this.

Her eyes jumped from mine to behind me, before flickering back to look at me again. "You're like me, aren't you?"

"You don't need to do anything." I assured her. "I just need to leave."

It took a second of hesitation for her, but slowly, she nodded. She opened her mouth to say something, but I never heard what it was. Because that's when the screaming erupted.

I closed my eyes and teleported myself the fuck out of there.

[porcelain-soupspoon4]

You’re Not So Bad (Isaac Foster x Reader)

A/N: I finished Angels of Death a few weeks back, and it was so good! I just had to write a short story about it. I’m not the best writer, but hopefully my first writing of this anime is somewhat close to Zack’s character.  

Warnings: Cussing, Blood Mention (it’s Zack)

You never expected to meet someone like Zack until he arrived on Floor B2. You assisted Reverend Gray, acting as another guardian of B2 after he took you in when he found you as a homeless teen, sleeping on the outside steps of his building. He wasn’t the best father figure you could’ve had, but he still treated you better than the streets did. When hearing the elevator on your floor ding, you wanted to see who was there, but Reverend Gray stopped you, warning you to be careful of the people you may meet. When you asked why, he described the people that held the names Isaac Foster and Rachel Gardner. In all honesty, you didn’t think they were actually as bad as he made them sound, considering that he over exaggerates his descriptions of people to you to keep you safe. Also considering the other psychotic people he had as guardians on the other floors, you could trust your own gut when you met the duo. You stayed hidden in the background while you watched Reverend Gray journey with Rachel to Dr. Danny’s floor. Watching them leave from the end of the hall, you saw a man in a dark brown hoodie and a scythe laying on the ground. That must be Isaac Foster. You could tell that he was bleeding out badly, a pang of guilt and empathy coursing through you. You were hesitant to approach him, remembering that the Reverend said he was dangerous to meddle with and there was a high chance he could react violently to you if you dared to try and talk. But seeing him looking on the verge of death, you couldn’t help but walk slowly toward him. It may seem unreasonable to walk right into danger, but you knew you could take care of yourself. Reverend Gray provided you with a weapon of your own, a basket-hilted sword. He helped you to perfect every swing and stab. Not only that, but you weren’t too bad at fighting hand-to-hand either. Luckily, Isaac Foster appears to be too injured to try and fight back anyway. I honestly don’t think my sword would be able to block his scythe well, I hope he doesn’t use it on me, you thought. As you got closer and closer to the strange man, he fidgeted a bit. You paused your movements, clutching the handle of your sword in its scabbard. He weakly turned his head towards you, his eyes opening slowly. 

“Who the fuck are you? You gonna try and kill me?” he questioned, a sharp tone in his voice. You noticed he made no effort to reach for his scythe, so you let go of your sword’s handle. 

“No.....I wouldn’t try to kill someone if they’re already dying,” you responded. He let out a dry laugh. 

“I hate to break it to ya sweetheart, but I’m not dying any time soon. Monsters are hard to kill. Besides, good ‘ol Rachel’s gonna fix me up. But enough of the chitter chatter, you didn’t answer my first question. Who the fuck ARE you? I thought there’s only one guardian on each floor, unless Reverend Shithead cheated,” he spat. You let out a small chuckle, finding his way of talking a throwback to when you were a teen. Although, he seemed to be around the same age as you, twenty or twenty-two years old. His bandaged face looked confused to your lighthearted reaction. He scowled, “Hey, what’s all that laughing for? I didn’t even say anything funny.” 

“Oh nothing, just thinking of my teenage days. But to answer your first question, I am another guardian of this floor. My job is assisting Reverend Gray on this floor, though I’m not really allowed to interact with the people who come here. But I uh, couldn’t help feeling a bit bad for you, seeing you bleed out like that,” you finally confessed. Letting out another dry laugh, he looked at you with a smirk. 

“Feeling bad for me, huh? Not the best decision. Don’t know if you can already tell, but I’m a cold-blooded serial killer. If I wasn’t feeling shitty at the moment, I’d cut that pretty head of yours off. Seeing you this calm around someone like me really pisses me off,” he said. You only let out another small chuckle, which irked him even more. 

“I’m sure you would, Isaac Foster. Although, I don’t think a fight between the two of us would end so quick. My weapon may be smaller than yours, but I can hold my own very well. If I could survive majority of my childhood and teen years being alone in the streets, I think I could survive you,” you calmly said. His temper apparently sky-rocketed because the next moment, he was yelling. 

“The name’s Zack, you bitch! Don’t go being so confident in yourself, it’s sickening to watch. I bet my ass could ruin all that confidence with just one land of my scythe. I’ll have you begging for your life, just you wait ‘til I’m in a better state to kill ya. Ugh, now I have two bitches to kill!” he groaned, then coughed loudly, more blood oozing out of his wound. You felt guilty again, wanting to at least stop the bleeding for a little while. 

“I carry some bandages and patches with me in case there’s a time I ever need to fix myself. If you need some I can-”

“Just leave it alone, will ya? I already got Rachel getting shit for me back on the other floor, I don’t need your damn help! Why the hell does everyone wanna help me?” 

“M’kay, but you’re bleeding pretty badly, by the time she comes back, you’ll most likely be passed out-”

“I said leave it alone! Stop tryna play nurse, your stuff probably won’t even do shit.” 

“But it’s better to stop the bleeding as soon as-”

“Will you shut up? You’re gonna make me go into shock.”

“I just wanna help-” 

“I said I don’t want any damn help!” 

“Well you won’t be much of a monster by bleeding out all over this damn floor! If you wanna at least live long enough to kill that girl Rachel, you could at least be somewhat decent and let me patch you up before you go all out, getting your own self killed instead! Now shut the fuck up and let me help! Geez! How does that blonde girl deal with you?” you shouted. Your yelling got him to close his mouth and shut up, surprised that he got someone as calm as you to get angry. How can I get her angry, but not scared shitless? It’s like she wasn’t even phased by my damn appearance, he thought. There was a short silence in the hallway, until Zack finally spoke up. “Didn’t know you had all that anger in ya. Heh, to be honest you even got my crazy self startled. I have no clue how Rachel deals with me, but all I know is her messed up head wants me to kill her. So I’ll do it. If I want to keep my promise to her.....I guess you should do what ya want. But don’t be a pervert about it.”

A small smile formed on your face as you took out your supplies in the small medical bag you carried around. 

“How the hell are you smiling after all that? Sheesh, I’m starting to think you’re even weirder than Rachel is,” Zack let out noises of disgust. You scoffed, rolling your eyes at his childlike behavior. 

“Tell me something.....,” he began to say, “why haven’t ya mentioned anything about my appearance? I’m literally covered in bandages and burnt underneath. Don’t I freak you out at all? Why aren’t ya scared?” 

“Well, I’ve seen crazier. I also don’t like to make a judgement about someone based on only their appearance. Sure you’re not ordinary looking, but I know there’s more about you than what I see on the outside,” you replied. Everything that you needed to help him was taken out. You didn’t have any type of alcohol or a sewing needle and thread to fully cover what you believed to be a deep gash in his abdomen, but it was all that could be done for now until Rachel got back. You reached over towards his wound, but hesitated. You looked him in the eyes, as if you were silently asking for permission. He nodded slightly, his breathing hitching a bit when he saw the look your eyes held. You looked so genuine, not one hint of fear in you. Was that.....kindness? No, it couldn’t be. Why would anyone show kindness to him? You unzipped his hoodie, a faint blush on your face. Sure he was an asshole, but it still felt.....somewhat intimate? Not in an inappropriate way, just in a trustworthy way. The fact he had so much trust in one stranger to help him like this.....it was odd. You undid the bandages already on him that were worn out. His wound was revealed, and so was his skin. Wow....is all of him burned? You shook your thoughts away. You grabbed a bunch of gauze sponges you had and grouped them together, beginning to apply pressure to his wound. Zack hissed at the pain, saying almost every curse word you think is in the dictionary. You let out a soft “Sorry” as you continued to clean up the big amount of blood on his body. Once you began to bandage him up tightly, Zack started up another conversation. 

“You’re different from the other guardians.....why aren’t ya trying to kill me? Isn’t that what you guardians do?” he asked curiously. You showed him another small smile. That damn smile, why does she smile so easily at me? It’s not like Rachel’s forced ass smile. What’s up with this bitch? Why is her smile so.....familiar? 

“Well, like I said before, I just assist Reverend Gray on this floor. He’s the main guardian. I’m just someone he happened to take in after he found me sleeping on the steps of this building. Heh, teenager me. Homeless after my parents abandoned me as a toddler. I’m not sure what made Reverend Gray want to keep me. Sometimes he acts like a father, but then I remember how self praising he is,” you sighed, “I know the people on the other floors kill so you expect me to be the same, but I don’t want to kill someone if they aren’t totally out of their mind.” 

“So is that why you didn’t try to kill me? Cause ya think I’m not totally out of my mind? Heh, well I’m pretty sure me killing people for fun isn’t sane either. I hate seeing people happy, sooooo I kill ‘em. What’s not psycho about that?” Zack stated. 

“Well for starters, I didn’t try to kill you because you were already injured, so it wouldn’t have been fair. And you can’t be totally out of your mind if you let me help you with your injury.” Zack scowled at your reply, knowing you were right. Even as a serial killer, he had morals. He hated lying, and he himself would never tell a lie. 

“You remind me of him too much,” he grumbled. Your head perked up. 

“Did you say something?”

“I said you talk too much.” 

“No, you definitely said something else.” 

“No I said you talk too much.” 

“Doubt it, tell me what ya really said.” 

“That is what I really said.” 

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Zack.” 

“Ugh, I said you remind me of him too much,” he said softly. 

“Him?” you questioned. Zack sighed. “There was this man I met when I was younger, a blind man. He let me stay at his place for a couple days. Even after I told him I killed a guy, he still had that dumb smile on his face. He always had that smile on his face around me. It was annoying, him being so calm around someone like me. Pissed me off, but I didn’t kill him. He fed me and everything. I mean he already died cause of something else, but it doesn’t matter anyway. Are ya done with my bandages yet? It feels like it’s been hours!” 

You rolled your eyes at his commentary. “Well, whoever that man is, he had quite the patience with you.” 

“Hey! I was giving you a compliment! Geez, way to be rude!” Zack crossed his arms, turning away from you. You only chuckled once more. You finally finished wrapping enough bandages as you could, making sure it was snug enough. 

“Happy now, angry boy? I’m done. They’ll still get bloody, but at least the bandages are fresh and not worn out,” you said, giving him another smile just to annoy him. 

“Thanks,” he mumbled. “I never caught your name. Since I told ya mine, it’s only fair you tell me yours.” 

“It’s (Y/N),” you said. 

“Well (Y/N),” Zack rubbed the back of his head. “You’re not so bad.....maybe I’ll keep ya alive.” 

[themetaphorgirl]

in which Emily makes a poor choice

HEY Y’ALL I AM BACK!!! WITH A PATRON SAINT DRABBLE!!

Y’all can thank @linguinereid for this one!! Sweet Bee suggested this and I ended up writing part of it while I was in line for rides at Epcot. 

I’m excited to be writing and posting again!! Please tell me what y’all think of this one, and tell me what I’ve missed in the past couple of weeks!!

---------

Emily poked at her ear, trying to twist around to get a better look in the mirror. “Shit,” she mumbled, wincing as she prodded a sore spot. She leaned across the bathroom counter, almost sitting in the sink. “I think I fucked up. Shit.”

“That looks infected.”

She jumped in surprise and fell off the counter, hitting the faucet on her way down and splashing water across her shirt. “What the fuck!” she exclaimed. Spencer stood in the bathroom doorway, head tilted and eyes wide like a very small owl. “You little gremlin, you scared the shit out of me! What are you doing in here?”

“You left the door open,” Spencer said. “What’s wrong with your ear?”

She fumbled to turn off the faucet and pick up Hotch’s knocked-over toothbrush. “Nothing.”

“It’s red and swollen,” he said. “That’s a sign of infection. What did you do?” His eyes went wide. “Did you get that piercing after Hotch told you it was a bad idea?”

She smoothed her hair down over her ear. “Nope,” she said. “Why would you think that?”

“I heard you guys arguing about it,” he said. “Hotch said it was against dress code, and you said you didn’t give two fucks about dress code, and he said you were shit at cleaning the piercings you already have and you’d fuck up your ears, and you said-”

“Okay, okay, you and your eidetic memory can stop at literally any time,” Emily said, rolling her eyes. “It’s not that big a deal. There was a girl at the party last weekend who said she’d pierced like everybody’s ears at camp last summer, and she’d always wanted to try an industrial, and-” She paused. “Why am I explaining myself to you? You’re ten.”

“Nine.”

“Close enough. Why are you here, anyway?”

Spencer shifted his weight. “I have to pee,” he said.

“All right, I’ll get out,” Emily said. “But not a word to Hotch, understand? Not a single word. He cannot know about this. You know how smug he gets when he right about something.”

“Is he right, though?” Spencer said. “Did you fuck up your ear?”

“Okay, no swearing either, Alex will murder me if you pick up on me swearing,” Emily said. She stepped out of the bathroom and gave Spencer a little push inside. “Seriously, though. Don’t tell Alex either. You know she’ll be pissed at me too. I’ll- I’ll buy you that Star Wars lego set you want as long as you keep your mouth shut.”

Spencer brightened. “The Millennium Falcon?” he said.

“Sure, sure, why not, just keep your mouth shut!”

She closed the bathroom door and went back down the hall to the common room. It was Derek’s week to pick for movie night; he was having a great time with whatever Will Ferrell comedy he’d chosen, but Hotch was focused on his homework and Alex was reading a book. Emily sat down in her usual spot, tucking her legs underneath her. Her ear was still burning, but she brushed her hair over it surreptitiously. She could keep it a secret, as long as Spencer did. It would be fine.

By Tuesday, she realized it was not fine.

Her ear continued to swell and throb, the skin red and stretched tight around the barbell in the cartilage. She’d had to actually style her hair every morning instead of throwing it up in a messy ponytail or bun, or asking JJ or Alex to braid it for her. It wouldn’t take long for Alex to catch if she kept this up- she was famous for rolling out of bed at the last minute, getting up early to do her hair was drastically out of character. But she wasn’t sure who to be more afraid of catching her, Hotch or Alex.

She sat down at their usual table in the dining hall and pulled her hair back behind her ear, hissing when her nails brushed the irritated skin. “Oh, fuck,” she mumbled under her breath. It wasn’t good. It really wasn’t good. 

Spencer climbed up on the chair beside her. “Are you doing okay?” he asked. 

She sighed heavily. “How bad does it look?” she asked. 

Spencer knelt on the chair so he could lean his elbows on the table. “Pretty bad,” he said. “Ew, is it oozing? I think it’s oozing.” He wrinkled his nose. “You should tell somebody.”

“Like hell I will,” she said, pulling her hair back into place. “This is a hill I will die on.” She paused. “This...this won’t kill me, will it? I won’t actually die on this hill?”

“Probably not, but infection was one of the leading causes of death during the Civil War,” he shrugged. “Try rinsing with saltwater, that might help.”

“Really?”

“Couldn’t hurt. I mean, in a manner of speaking. It’ll probably hurt a lot.”

Emily blinked. “That wasn’t reassuring, babe,” she said.

Hotch walked over to them and set his tray down. “What are you two talking about?” he asked as he sat down and cracked the top of his yellow Red Bull.

“Nothing,” Emily said quickly, dropping her fork in an effort to pick it up fast.

Alex set a glass of milk down on Spencer’s tray. “Sit on your butt or you’re going to fall on the floor again,” she said. 

Spencer tilted his head back to look up at her. “I wanted chocolate milk,” he objected. 

“Plain first, darling,” she said, bending to kiss his forehead. “Now sit down before you fall out of your chair.” Spencer obeyed, sliding down from his knees to sit down. 

Emily poked her fork around in her scrambled eggs. They were way too yellow and a little watery around the edges, and her stomach turned. “Emily, are you okay?” Hotch asked. 

“Yeah, fine, why do you ask?”

He gestured towards her tray with his Red Bull can. “I don’t think I’ve seen you eat anything since you came back from the party on Friday night,” he said. “Are you still sulking because I told you not to pierce your ear?”

“I don’t sulk,” Emily scoffed.

“Yes, you do,” Hotch said. “You’re pissed because you know I’m right, and it would be a terrible idea to get an industrial. Especially since you don’t have a guardian over eighteen to sign off on it, so it’d be illegal.”

Emily stabbed her fork into the eggs. “I’m fine and I’m not sulking,” she said. “But you’re wrong. I’ll be fine if I get my ear pierced.”

She met Spencer’s gaze. His hazel eyes were wide, glancing over first at Hotch and then at Alex, but he kept his mouth shut. Her ear throbbed, but she wasn’t going to give anyone the satisfaction of knowing they were right. 

By Friday, she knew they were right, and she hated it, but damn, her ear hurt. 

She huddled in the corner of the library sofa, her history textbook open on her lap but long forgotten. Her ear was an ever-present pain now, too sensitive to touch, and oozing something disgusting. 

The library was quiet and peaceful, rain tapping steadily on the window. James was sorting through his anatomy flashcards while Dave pretended to write a paper while he was really working on the novel he claimed he wasn’t writing. Spencer was lying on his tummy on the floor, absorbed in a book far above his grade level. The rest of the kids were at clubs or practices, and Alex passed by in her own paths as she shelved books and answered questions.

She glanced up to see Spencer watching her poke at her ear; she dropped her hand and glared at him. “Don’t say anything,” she said to him sharply in Russian. “Remember the Millennium Falcon.”

He sighed heavily. “Your ear looks really bad,” he said. His Russian wasn’t as strong as his Italian, and his accent was terrible, but at least James and Dave wouldn’t understand them.

“Not a word!” she said.

Alex plunked down on the opposite side of the couch, jostling Emily and making her scowl. “I’m taking a break,” she sighed. “The sophomores are working on their poetry projects and I don’t want to discuss Ezra Pound anymore.”

Spencer pushed himself up from the floor. “Alex?” he said. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course, dearest,” she said, taking his hands in hers. “What’s up?”

“If I told you I wanted to do something and you said no, and I did it anyway, would you be mad at me?” he asked.

Emily shot him a dirty look, but he ignored her. “Well, I might be a bit disappointed, but I don’t think I’d be mad,” Alex said, squeezing his hands. 

“If I did the thing anyway, and I ended up getting hurt, would you be mad at me?” he asked. 

“No, I wouldn’t,” Alex said, drawing him onto her lap.

“And you wouldn’t tell me you told me so? And you’d help me?” he continued. 

She frowned, clearly concerned over this line of conversation, and hugged him. “Of course I’d help you, baby,” she said. She stroked his hair away from his forehead. “What’s wrong? Did something happen?”

Spencer leaned around Alex’s shoulder to make direct eye contact with Emily. She sighed heavily. “So...you know how I wanted to get an industrial piercing, and you and Hotch said it would be a bad idea?” she said hesitantly.

Alex’s eyes narrowed. “Yes,” she said. “Why?” Emily tucked her hair slowly behind her ear. “Emily, holy shit!”

“It’s pretty bad, huh?” Emily said glumly.

Alex moved Spencer hastily off her lap and leaned over Emily to take a better look at her ear. “Oh my god,” she said. “James, can you come take a look at this?”

James pulled his headphones off. “Hm?” he said. “Oh shit! Emily, what did you do?”

She submitted reluctantly to his poking and prodding. “So a girl at the party last week offered to pierce my ear,” she said. “And it...kind of went wrong.”

“That looks like it hurts,” Alex said, smoothing her hair. “It looks super infected.”

“Yeah, that’s the medical term for it,” James said. “Holy shit, Prentiss, I can’t believe you pulled a Parent Trap.”

“A Parent Trap?”

“Yeah, when Hallie pierces Annie’s ear with a sewing needle, an apple, and...you know what, never mind.”

Emily winced as the earring shifted. “Can you just...make Hotch promise that he won’t say I told you so?” she said. 

“I think he’ll agree that you’ve suffered enough,” Alex reassured her. 

Spencer hovered at her elbow. “I would have said something sooner, but Emily said she’d buy me the Millennium Falcon set,” he said.

“Please don’t scold me for bribing the baby, either,” Emily said. 

“Okay, I might scold you about that one.”

[chargetheintruder]

This is who I am right now.

Fair warning: you’ve got a long, epic personal post and things will get “too real” real quickly.  And this will squarely be in “OK Boomer” country for many here.  This will be an awful experience.

The short of it is: I’m awful at being a person lately.  I’ve been on a downward spiral since August 2018 when I was forced to move out to a strange new apartment nearly out-of-town in a neighborhood I didn’t understand.  I had just gotten back on meds (for my prostrate issues and mood disorder both, alongside blood pressure) and was running on 70 percent composure (as good as it gets under the “not allowed to recover clothes or furniture” circumstance) when this damned bat virus from Hell and/or China literally crippled the whole of Planet Earth to the delight of Xi Jinping and his horde . . . of kept corporate landlords here in the United States.  So to be real here? Public housing here where I live had already disrupted the hell out of me and broken me once (because out-of-state, corporate landlords said so), my ruined credit didn’t help, and now this pandemic’s just plain broken me.  Everything else is commentary and probably divisive.

Edit LONG after the fact:  Things have gotten slightly better, as I am still alive-ish.  If you’re this patient with me I owe you an update.  The pain part was an infection, and after a couple of weeks of strong antibiotics it’s died down mostly.  On the Self-Hatred?  That DID eventually get me in the local psych ward mainly because folks didn’t understand the problem was 80 percent physical, 10 percent exhaustion and 10 percent mood disorder.  I was able to straighten up and get clear of that in about 5 days.  I’m on a new med for the mood disorder and it’s helping NOW, but it took 2 whole months to titrate and kick in finally.  I am caught up on rent for the time being.  Things are sort of better but I haven’t made a lot of progress.  Still just existing really.

The info below the cut is mostly just venting and outdated now, sorry to put you through that.

--First of all, my attempts to “get help” and see doctors about my issues have all failed.  It’s that simple.  I literally can’t sleep more than 2 hours at a time, tops, without being disturbed by a Needle In My Urethral Nerve In My Penis caliber sharp-stabbing pain demanding I “go pee” whether my bladder cooperates with that or not.  When I am up and out of bed, that business accelerates to once an hour to once every half hour and this keeps me from trivial tasks like a) cleaning myself up and/or b) getting dressed.  Never mind more involved things like doing laundry, cleaning house, taking a bus trip across town TO these doctors and finding my way to their offices ON TIME.  The whole business is exhausting even when I can urinate constantly like my body demands--a few ounces every hour or so amid strain and pain.  When I can’t, the pain is THE PAIN, and I go half-crazy with self-hatred because my body literally hates me at that point.

It’s a shame too.  My urologist is a gifted, decent man who knows what he’s doing.  My once-primary care provider was a teaching doctor who deserves a way more reliable and less flaky client than myself.  And I can’t even get to them.

--And about that pain.  This shit’s going to kill me dead, sooner than I’d like, regardless of what I want out of life at this point.  The mood disorder isn’t relevant now.  My kidneys hurt from the nonsense my prostate and bladder put me through, particularly the left one.  This will kill me dead in a few months tops because I can’t get it together enough to get proper help.  I can’t get enough sleep to rise at a useful time during the day, and once I’m up I also can’t keep it together long enough to clean up and get dressed without risk of pissing myself in public and humiliating myself, again.

I would call 9-1-1 but I tried that already the last time my bladder froze up and refused to do anything.  I got blown off once I was at the hospital.  I was given a horse-pill dose of a bladder pain-relief med and told to walk and take the bus home at around 9 p.m. at night?  Yeah.  Sure they looked for kidney stones and the like and didn’t find any.  But still, even with my feet and legs swelled up like balloons from muscle irritation and lymph fluids they still would likely make me “walk it off” a second time and my body’s too wrecked now to do that.

I’m literally going to have to eyeball it and wait until I’m 1-2 days away from death before I can get people to NOT psychologize my physical health issue, in plain English.  Because that’s how “modern medicine” works in ‘Murica, every implicit bias ever is a short-cut.  If you’re fat?  That gets blamed for everything first (and I am fat).  If you have a mental health issue?  That gets blamed for everything too (and I have deptession).  If I were trans currently (another post altogether) that would get blamed next.  So I’m going to have to wait until I’m nearly dead anyway.

--And about the Self-Hatred.  I hate my body and my junk when they fail me.  Lots of folks who know me tell me that’s the words of my abusive parents--the violence of my own dad--talking through me.  And that’s probably right, if only part of the story.   Point is, last night I was unruly to myself--smacking the hell out of my lower abdomen (my bladder area in particular), threatening my junk with Biblical levels of excision if someone downstairs didn’t fucking comply already.  And it was late at night.

This is the context of that: I live in public housing currently.  There’s expectations of peace and quiet, sure.  And one of my neighbors violates that constantly by blaring his stereo all hours of the night, and/or by abusing and beating the woman in his care.  The one on the other side of me?  He smokes it up in a “Non Smoking Building” until his apartment, half of my apartment and the HALLWAY are all polluted with his shit.  Like, every weekend.  Half the time during the week too because pandemic. But nah,  I’m the one getting the Police called about me, last night.  To the point that “Officer Friendly” is doing interviews up and down the hallway at 6 a.m. with the morning crowd.  I guess it’s about my being the new guy?  And also my not having a party with this?  Point is I was scared shitless this morning because people who are known to be mentally ill, we’re 16 times more likely to be shot by Police than the average person.  And yes, People of Color have it worse: they’re 20 times more likely to get shot dead.  So I’m having to explain myself here, somewhat: “I’m not well, might be dying here, not because I want to but because my body isn’t letting me sleep or function worth a damn, I really do hate my body right now because I’m growing old and I suck at it, I’m a noob at this thing.  And yes, I was loud and growly about it last night on a floor where LOTS of people do worse and get ignored for it.  Now maybe don’t put the bullets in Mr. Mope over here, meaning myself?  No?  You’ve got a quota of sub-citizens to butcher?”

(more in a bit)

--Also keep in mind that I am slightly behind on my rent, and that the Eviction Moratorium ends today, while landlord-ism resumes first thing tomorrow and Sunday morning (hell of a cheap shot, that).  This is nothing I can’t pay--I have leftover stimulus money, IF I can get it together, get dressed, get out there and do damned errands.  That was supposed to be today, but yesterday (Friday) went badly (pest control shenanigans, getting groceries delivered properly, and apparently my body’s being a jerk every time there’s ANY stressor whatsoever).  So tomorrow, I hope, before people show up handing out notices?  Yeah.

Thanks a lot President Biden, Congress, and every other passive-passive so-called “liberal” that goes limp whenever traitors a.k.a. “Republicans” show up.  Thanks for doing nothing about evictions, student loans, keeping Delta Variant out of nation, forcing redneck traitors to get their shots (I somehow managed to snag mine, God knows how or why), and more.

--Also note: I no longer have any local friends.  A lot of this is a bad case of other people’s moving on, where I didn’t.  Nobody’s fault there.  I am still in touch with one person who had to move out of state, with her husband and family,   But that’s about it.  I have nobody local to cover my back should things go badly--should I pass out, go into a coma, get disappeared by Police, whatever.

--And yes, I am a pathetic, sad, twisted bastard.  =))  When I was in better health and younger, I was a bit of a Mad Scientist and a bit infamous with finding online flirts and girlfriends.  And all that dried right up and left me with no real-world skills, never mind the specialized skill set you need to have a social life in a pair of cities that are rancid with radical feminists and others who look at older, ugly guys like myself and go “OMG THREAT” and cross the street to be away from me, roll up their windows and lock their doors to shut me out, and just generally do all they can to send the “Go AWAY” signal.

Is a lot of that class-based?  YES.  A lot of this is “we only talk to men with JOBS who have MONEY and who bathe in MONEY and. . . “ and that sort of thing.

--But to be honest?  Everybody else HAS what they’ve wanted.  Those Out-of-State, corporate Landlords?  They got to kick me out of zip-code enough that I’m permanently disrupted, and thanks to this pandemic, I’m already shut-in, have zero social life.  I am UNDER the Solitary Confinement you landlords demanded of me even if I’m not literally out in the weeds.  What Else do you want from me, besides more money and my death?  You’ll get both soon.

Likewise. . . I’m effectively neutered by this prostate issue.  Socially castrated, marked as “too old and frail” in addition to being too ugly and poor and awful and on and on.  Father’s Day already has been the worst holiday of my life--reminding me that I’ll NEVER be a father or have kids or know love.  And FYI, I’m stuck being straight, mostly.  I can’t trust men.  My father was too violent and antisocial, tried to kill me too many times, actually raped me too many times, and I can’t do the gay thing.  Even if I wanted to, I can’t.  And that’s before my prostate goes bushwick on me over the whole “You want to do WHAT, WHERE now??” issue.  Yeah.  So I’ve already BEEN shut out of the gene pool, will never date, know love, have sex or spawn.  You’ve won, radical feminists, TERFs and worse.  You’ve won, gloat over it, throw a party.  What more do you want from me?  Dumped in a landfill?  Isn’t that what a Potter’s Field IS actually?

Point is, everyone else, and especially everyone who hates me sight unseen, gets everything their so-called hearts desire.  What do I get, again?  Nothing.  Maybe you can see why this makes me bad at being a person, or why this makes me down on human beings as such, in their natural state. I’m sorry I’ve been alive too long.  I am.  I regret hitting the “nothing fucking works now!” stage in my life right now, and that everyone and the police too, get to see all that.  If this were a video I’d cue the face reveal but I don’t put pics of myself online.  People reject me over that.  As usual.

Regards, Bradley Poe

[unokins]

No Truth Left - part 4

CW: violence, possession, gross monsters

Link to Archive

"I'm sorry- I just-" Chie cut herself off with a click of her teeth and focused again on breathing steadily. In… out. In… out. Breathe. She could feel tears pricking at the corner of her eyes. Just calm dow-

It gurgled again, shifting where it lay on the floor, and Chie felt panic spike through her veins.

Come on, Chie, Maverick pushed. It won’t stay there forever.

“Right,” Chie whispered, clutching the knife with both hands. She inched backwards towards the monster, shoes dragging on the ground. “You’re right. It- It would have killed me, without thinking twice.” 

Or worse.

“Or worse.”

Her bare leg brushed against the thing’s skin. Its slimy mucus clung to her, cold and wet and sticky. Disgust shuddered through her. Slowly, Chie turned, staring above the creature than at it. Purple blood stained the stone wall, streaking down in thin rivulets. 

It hit its head before going down, Chie realized. That must be why it was still out. She got lucky. 

Squeezing her eyes shut, Chie next to the monster. Knife poised, blade down, she turned her head away, hiding her nose and mouth against the sleeve of her shirt. There was no comforting scent of laundry detergent. Just mud that smeared her face.

You need to look at it. We need a clean hit. 

With whimpering reluctance, Chie opened her eyes and beheld the creature’s full visage. Her breath caught in her throat as the world swayed. 

The first comparison that came to Chie’s mind, which did no justice to what it actually was, was that this thing was a cross between a rotting human corpse and a fish. Its shriveled skin was a sickening grey and clung to the thing’s body as if vacuum-sealed. Its upper arms, shoulders, and legs boasted dense musculature, striations visible under the tight skin, while its white stomach, feet, and hands succumbed to bloat not uncommon with drowned corpses. The skin on its neck was feathered and flabby - gills, Chie realized - and webbing bridged the gap between long, thick fingers and toes. 

Dull blue and green scales clumped over its body, collecting densely at its face. Bulging, watery eyes stared upwards, the dull yellow of the irises thinned to small rings around yawning black pupils. Its large mouth hung slack-jawed, and Chie saw several rows of sharp teeth, orange with the plaque that rotted them. It gurgled again, water frothing from the back of its throat. 

She saw two of them, then three, as her mind reeled to comprehend the monster. “Oh… Oh fuck…” Chie breathed, pressing her hand hard against her forehead. Her breath hitched, and more tears tracked down her face- had she been crying this whole time?

The faster you kill it, the faster you won’t have to look at it anymore. Maverick needled her with impatience.

"Shut up." Shaking her head, Chie forced the world back to clarity. She raised the knife again. The monster’s thick throat lay bare, and she carefully brought the knife down, gauging where she needed to strike. The blade's tip scraped scales covering a prominent Adam’s apple. Chie took a deep breath, and held it as she drove the knife into its neck.

Animalistic and furious, it tried to screech. But the knife blocked any sound beside a weak whistling. Chie pulled the knife out, blood spraying out of the wound-

Again! Stab it again!

-and brought it down again. Maverick's violent screaming overpowered the dying monster’s weak moaning. Its eyes were wide with malice. She stabbed it again. It thrashed, clawing at Chie, ripping feebly at her skirt. She stabbed it again. She stabbed it again. She-

Chie. Chie! That’s enough! It’s practically decapitated.

Chie jolted and froze, knife hanging in the air. The blade trembled in her hands, and the monster’s blood dripped off it, landing on her bare leg with a chill. Her eyes fixed steadily on the wall above the monster, drenched in purple blood. Slowly, her gaze trailed down.

Don’t look at it, Maverick ordered.

Chie’s eyes snapped back up. 

It’s not something you need to see. You’re already… Maverick faltered, then sighed. It’s just not going to be pleasant.

“Do you think any part of this experience was pleasant?” Chie asked weakly. Her legs refused to fully cooperate so she dragged herself from the corpse. Purple blood covered her arms, clothes and legs. She tried wiping it off, but stains remained.

You have a point. Maverick paused, as if trying to give Chie a moment of peace. No sense in prolonging the unpleasantness, then, he continued. It’s time to head deeper into the caves and get our answers.

Chie sheathed the knife, biting back a reply. She stuffed it in the backpack, exchanging it for the flashlight. With a quiet click, light down the back of the cave, and relief washed through her as she saw the ground. It was probably ten, maybe fifteen, feet down, but at least it was there.

“Should we hide the… the monster?” Chie asked, taking the rope from the bag. She moved to tie it around a rock but faltered. 

I doubt you have the guts to move it. Here- wait. Let me.

Chie’s hands moved automatically again, and she watched, mouth agape, as another expert knot tied the rope securely in place. 

Toss it down the hole and get moving. We’ve wasted enough time here.

"A 'please' would be nice," Chie muttered as she did so. With the flashlight in one hand and rope in the other, she began her slow climb down. 

“For someone who remembers almost nothing,” Chie started, pausing to test a foothold, “you sure do know a lot about what’s going on.”

I literally don't. Maverick scoffed.

“You called this place the Devil’s Reef. You knew that thing could smell me, and that there are more of them here.”

There was a thoughtful hum before Maverick responded. Suppose so.

“What else can you remember, then?” Chie asked. She continued down, hissing when a sharp stone scraped her palm.

Careful, Maverick warned. He was silent for a moment, and Chie could almost feel him remembering. I know those monsters are called Deep Ones, and they’ve been around the world - not just the Devil’s Reef- for a long, long time. Effectively immortal-

“But we just-”

Unless they're victims of physical violence. Maverick’s voice grew louder as he tried to talk over her. Chie huffed, annoyed. I think there was an incident back in the twenties or so. The feds got involved. Pissed a lot of people off. Another pause. I don’t remember how I know that, or why.

“Hm.” Chie turned this information over in her head. “Who would get mad over those things dying?”

Their worshippers. 

The purple blood on Chie’s hands gleamed menacingly in the flashlight’s glow. She grimaced. Best to wash that off, first chance she got.

“Okay, so what about us?” 

What about us?

“Well,” Chie started, then paused. Water droplets echoed off the rocks around her, and- was that a groaning she heard? She continued quieter. “How long have you been in my head?” 

I think it’s been around two weeks, Maverick recounted. Yeah, yeah. About two weeks.

Chie shuddered. That was about when her memory problems started. “Have you been doing things to me? Like what you did with my hands and my legs?"

Every now and then. Controlling you takes a LOT of focus, Chie. It wears me out, especially if I take full control. Twitching a muscle, or tying a knot is simpler. 

“So you’ve been using my computer, and arguing with my roommate.”

Sounds about right.

The flippant way Maverick spoke twisted Chie's stomach into a knot. The uncomfortable warmth of anger bloomed in her muscles. So it had been him, not her. The strained relationship with her roommate, the confusion at work, the compounding stress. Had he seen her when she showered? Did he do anything to her while he controlled her?

Chie’s feet hit the ground, breaking her train of thought momentarily. She stepped away from the wall and looked up. Best to leave the rope. If she had to make a fast escape, it could save her life. 

Get moving, Chie.

The corner of Chie's mouth twitched down. This ended now. No matter what had happened to him, this was her body, not his. “Maverick, you're going to stop controlling me.” Chie's voice was steady and firm.

Like hell. If your incompetence gets us in trouble, I’m doing what needs to be done to get us out.

“Oh, so that was the case over the past two weeks, huh?” Chie snapped back, moving down the tunnel. She felt him, almost like seeing someone square their shoulders, and spoke first. "No, it wasn't." 

Maverick seethed.

Her flashlight beam illuminated smooth, black rock. The tunnel had strange striations on it, like it had been carved from giant claws. At least she didn’t see any other Deep Ones. "You could've talked to me on day one. Whether or not you chose this, you still invaded my life, violated my privacy, and kept it secret. So until you prove yourself reliable, I'm calling the shots." The beam wavered slightly as her hand shook. 

Maverick's voice radiated rage. Prove myself reliable?! It felt like an earthquake rumbling in Chie's brain. I AM reliable! If it wasn't for me, you'd be fucking dead!

"If it wasn't for you, I wouldn't fucking be here!" Chie yelled back. She immediately clamped a hand over her mouth as her words echoed against the stone. When nothing happened, she continued in a whisper. "I don't care what happened to you. You want to live? Then you don't control me. I will fight back tooth and nail, Maverick. And that'll get us both killed."

Maverick didn't respond. 

"Did I make myself clear?"

You're too weak to commit to that. 

"Excuse me?!" Chie demanded.

A deep rolling laugh reverberated in Chie's head like far off thunder. You heard me. You couldn't move when that Deep One almost grabbed you. Stop me? At the price of your life? Don't make me laugh.

Just you wait, Chie thought to herself as she continued walking. Annoyance panged when she realized she couldn't leave him behind. "Insufferable prick," she spat.

Whiny bitch, Maverick returned.

Not bothering to respond to that, Chie continued down the tunnels. The more she thought about the fact that this stranger was inside her, seeing what she saw, manipulating her like a puppet, the more violated she felt. 

Where did he get off? Chie thought. First chance that presented itself, she'd toss him from her mind like the trash he was. Acting high and mighty because she was reasonably scared of a literal monster. Asshole!

The tunnel turned slightly, then branched off in two directions. The one to Chie's left tilted upwards slightly. The walls were covered in a tarry slime, clumped together like chewed up bubble gum. The one to Chie's right dipped down at a gentle slope. Standing water sat in pools shaped disturbingly like large footprints. Swinging her flashlight up, Chie illuminated loping carvings and symbols etched into the walls.

Go… left, Maverick said.

>Go Left >Go Right

[another-aspiring-writer]

Maybe the Dinner Date was a Mistake

Hi! Thank you all for your support so far! This week has been really busy for me, but I managed to fit some time in for writing. So, here’s the next part of my story.

CW: guns, threats of death, stab wounds, blood, drugging

I think that’s everything, but please let me know if I missed anything!

“I don’t think my legs have ever fallen asleep this badly before.” Enara shifted in her seat, trying to stop the sharp, tingling sensation running up and down her legs.

Theo laughed, “Yeah, I was thinking the same thing. Did they really have to say they’re not coming back for three hours?”

“Literally, they could have just done an hour. Maybe an hour and a half. Eli and Zoe must be asking for it.”

“I’m honestly about to follow my legs and fall asleep myself,” Theo sighed. He stretched as best he could with only one limb free. “It’s been, what? Two hours?”

Enara nodded, “About that. It gave us plenty of time to plan payback. I really hope they aren’t uncomfortable in small, dark spaces.”

“Oh, you think they would get mad if we dropped some spiders in there?”

Enara grinned. The possibilities for what they could do were endless. Many of them would result in serious repercussions when they got back to base, but they weren’t landing on using those. Not yet at least. It would depend on how far Eli and Zoe took things.

A gunshot echoed from outside the room. Enara tensed, her free hand closing around the fork on the table — the only weapon she had. Across from her, Theo did the same. There was a second shot, a third, then a fourth. The atmosphere in the room became tense as silence fell in the building.

The door swung open after what felt like an eternity, revealing two men armed to the teeth. Eli stood between them, his hands on his side. Blood was leaking out between his fingers to stain his hands and shirt.

“Shit!” Theo leaned as far as he could, trying to get out of his restraints. “Eli, what, what happened?”

One man shoved his shoulder, sending Eli stumbling to the ground. He fell with a shout, landing at Enara’s feet.

“Eli!” She cried, straining in her restraints.

“I’m okay,” he whispered in between ragged breaths. “Ow, fuck. No, I’m- this fucking hurts.”

The man laughed, “Look at that. They’re all wrapped up for us already.”

The other man stepped forward, a hand casually resting on his gun. “Try anything, and the blond one gets a bullet in his head to go along with the stab wound.” He pointed the gun at Eli, “And put the forks down. It’s a valiant effort, very cute. But if you want him to live, you’ll go with us. Cataclysm wants you, but the director didn’t specify how many needed to be breathing. So, don’t try any tricks.”

Enara glanced at Eli. He was too pale. If her team had more experience fighting Cataclysm, maybe they would stand a chance. But as they had never met any of their agents on the field, she had to do what these men said until she got a chance to fight back. At least the men didn’t appear to have Zoe. That gave them a fighting chance. Enara set her fork on the table and glared at the men.

The man waved the gun at Theo, “You too, lover boy. Put the knife on the table and then place your hand on your chair.” Theo’s hand tightened around the fork, knuckles turning white before he complied. “Good. Now, my associate and I are going to cuff your hands behind your back and you are going to let us. Capeesh?”

They moved quickly, undoing the cuffs on the chairs with a key ring clearly taken from Eli. Enara and Theo were pulled to their feet, their wrist cuffed again behind their backs, and then gags were shoved into their mouths. Enara’s legs burned at the sudden movement, every nerve sending sparks through her body as the circulation flowed uninterrupted again.

Eli cried out as he was pulled from the ground by his arm. The man tightened his hand around Eli’s arm and pressed the gun to his head. “Walk, slowly. Don’t try anything and do exactly as we say. All three of you will survive this if you just listen.”

The other man pointed his gun at Theo and Enara as they walked out the door. There was a short hallway between them and the doors to outside. Their footsteps on the tile floors and Eli’s heavy breathing were the only sound in the building. Enara tried to think of something, anything she could do to stop them. There had to be something. She just needed to think.

Zoe would appear soon. She’d come in, guns blazing, and save them. Then they could get Eli to a hospital. She had to be there. She had to just be waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Enara knew Zoe wouldn’t abandon the team. Would she?

Theo pushed the door open with his shoulder before turning to the men. They gestured to a nondescript black van with some sort of logo on the side. Maybe for a florist? Enara blinked, her vision blurring. When had she started crying?

One of the men opened the door to the back of the van, and Eli was forced into the back. Enara felt something pinch her neck before seeing the men throw two empty syringes onto the cracked concrete. She stumbled into the side of the van, suddenly unable to keep her balance. They hauled her into the van, dropping her on top of Theo.

“We just gave you a little something to keep you docile. It’s not enough to knock you out, sadly, but you won’t have any balance for the next few hours.” the man smiled before closing the doors. The last thing Enara saw before they were plunged into darkness was the empty parking lot light by a flickering street light.

The engine started with a rumble and the van took off. Enara rolled off of Theo, pushing herself against the side of the van. Her jaw ached from the gag tied too tightly around her head. Everytime the van hit an uneven stretch of road, Eli cried out from the movement. Enara wasn’t doing much better herself. It felt like she was trapped on a roller coaster that had no exit. Every bum on the road, every turn or stop made her dizzier until she was sure she would throw up.

“I’m sorry,” Eli whispered. “If I had-ah- hadn’t agreed to Zoe’s plan then we wouldn’t have been there. S’my fault we got caught. And then I told Zoe she could go back to the hotel to take a shower. I should have told her to stay. She could’ve … she, she could’ve done something to stop them. We could have taken them. Fuck. Or she would have gotten killed. My fault, all my fault.”

Enara shook her head. This wasn’t his fault, but there he was, blaming himself. She wanted so badly to tell him that, but the stupid gag wouldn’t let any words out. Her wrists ached from the cuffs, arms now falling asleep almost as soon as her legs stopped feeling like there were ins and needles in them.

It was better that Zoe wasn’t there. She would find them, she had to. Another team had already gone missing in the fight against Cataclysm. If anyone could find them, it would be Zoe.

She hoped she was right, but another part of her brain, maybe the more logical side, told her she wasn’t. Secondary location, she thought. It was never good to end up at a secondary location. The chances of being found after were significantly lower. This wasn’t good.

The van jerked to a stop, sending Enara across the floor of the van. Warm liquid seeped into her shirt — Eli’s blood. This was bad. She didn’t know how long stab wounds took to bleed out. Suddenly, that field medicine class she’d been offered two years before sounded like a good idea. Why had she turned that down and taken parkour lessons instead? The reality of her situation was crashing down around her. She’d taken her safety for granted when she was younger. Why would she throw herself into danger so recklessly before? Enara certainly didn’t feel invincible now.

Dim light filtered into the back of the van as the doors were opened. She flinched, closing her eyes at the addition of new senses to her already overwhelmed body.

The men laughed, pulling her out of the van before unceremoniously dumping her onto the ground. Her shoulder slammed into the concrete, ripping a scream from her.

Theo pulled weakly against his restraints as he was led from the van. It looked like he was on the verge of passing out. Enara thought that wouldn’t be such a bad idea, a nap sounded amazing.

There were footsteps and then they were surrounded by more men. Heels clicked on the cement before a woman stopped inches from Enara’s head. She looked down at Theo and Enara with a smirk.

“Hello little lovebirds,” she smiled, blood red lips parting to reveal perfectly white teeth. “Welcome to Cataclysm.”

Taglist: @ashintheairlikesnow

[coastaldragon]

Dragon Diary 1/7/21

So...this is my resolution for the year.

I wanted to start a kin-related diary. I found myself missing how often I used to muse about myself and my experiences here, and have long since felt...detached from myself. Stuck in the loop of going through the motions of “human.”

A week late on my first entry, but so it goes.

These entries will just be flow-of-consciousness blabbles for the most part. I’ll talk about any kin-related thoughts I’ve had that day, how I’ve been feeling, how my otherkinity has affected my day, etc.

I have a lot of catching-up to do with you all, so the first few entries may seem disjointed and a little long. Lets get started. This is long. And a bit negative. But hopefully they won’t all be.

cw for death and drug mention and health talk like needles and stuff

I don’t quite remember why I dropped Tumblr like I did. I think I was getting annoyed at all the UI changes, and just overall very busy with “real life.” These things happen. I slowly drift away from a platform. Sometimes for weeks, months, or years in this case. Then I’ll drift back. Kind of like a scrap of wood on the waves.

In the time I’ve been gone life has been...interesting. The source of the stress that caused me to awaken in the first place is gone. He OD’d in...2014? 2015? Some time around there. My grasp of time is worse than ever.

We hadn’t even known he’d be using anything. Turned out he was stealing my late father’s remaining fentanyl supply. One of those guys who preys on widows like my mother. He lied about everything. His entire past as we knew it was a lie. And he was just leeching off of us.

It was...hard. I was the one who found his body upon getting home from work. My mother is still traumatized, even now. Even after all he did. She did love him.

I think all that hardened me quite a bit. And I’m sad for it. I’m still trying to soften myself again, but my trust has never been shattered like that before or since.

My now health is...poor. I had a great job working at an independent pack-and-mail sort of place for a few years. Very laid back, when the customers were nice. Helped me build a lot of strength and muscle. Quite enjoyed showing off by hefting 50lb boxes onto my shoulders. Helped me feel less weak in this squishy human body of mine.

But about...2 or 3 years ago [again, time is a myth to my brain] I woke up and my shoulders were just.

Locked.

It felt like someone had stuck paint spanners under my shoulder blades or something. Not only that, but I was weak. I barely had the strength in my arms to lift a half gallon of milk in the morning.

We thought I’d just hurt myself showing off, somehow. So we gave it some time. Took ibuprofen, used pain creams. Took a few days off work.

But it didn’t get better. It got painful. And the moreso. And moreso. And then my back began to have trouble as well. It was spreading. I felt...ill.

So. Doctors. Tests. More bloodwork than I’ve ever had in my entire life. [10 vials at once for one appt!]

My primary, who is a garbage person I never wish to see again, insisted it was just a sprain. Or something. Whatever. But I knew it wasn’t. My mother knew it wasn’t. Everyone I knew knew it wasn’t.

Specialist time! At the behest of my cousin, who has a litany of autoimmune disorders, we hooked up with a rheumatologist. Who I will call Dr.M. 

Dr.M is an angel on Earth. I am convinced of it. A full year he spent with me, ordering tests, trying treatments, working with me to figure out what the hell was going on. And we did. And what a mouthful it is.

Ankylosing spondylitis. No, it’s not a dinosaur. [Though I do think I’m ‘hearted for ankylosaurines...I don’t think it’s related lol!]

You can look it up if you like. But basically: My immune system is fucking crazy and attacks all the things. Most places describe it as being a lower spine disorder, and while that is certainly where its centralized in most folks, that’s not all it is.

For example mine is, obviously, centralized in my shoulders and upper back. But it does aaaaaaaaaaall sorts of crazy shit. Every day is different. Joint pain, exhaustion, GI trouble, stomach upset, lack of appetite, murderous migraines. The usual for an autoimmune illness. But also wacky shit like costochondritis [painful inflammation of the cartilage of the ribs], random organ inflammation like in my kidneys [not fun], lungs [I had a 3-month stint of chronic bronchitis last winter], and even my heart [very not fun.] Sometimes it likes to attack my “integumentary system” aka shit like my skin and hair meaning I’ll have weeks where my hair just. Sheds. Like a damn cat. It gets everywhere and w/ my long-ass quarantine hair it’s so annoying.

This attack dog immune system does mean it’s unlikely for me to catch little bugs like your common colds and stuff, which is appreciated. But it also likes to maul anything else it deems foreign. Like medication! I took Humira shots for a few months and had a “paradoxical reaction” aka it did the literal opposite of what it was meant to, because the injections pissed off my immune system so much it went scorched-earth on whatever it could. Mostly my thighs, since that’s where the injections were. I still get stabbing pain in them and it’s been over a year. [No, I don’t think I can sue Humira over this. Though I have discussed it w/ my Dr.]

This also means that if I do get sick, it’s bad news. Something strong and unique like COVID? Death. Deaaaaaaaaath. Would likely trigger something called a “cytokine storm” aka my immune system nukes everything and my organs die and so do I.

So guess whoooooooo’s been locked up at home for almost a full year now? :’)

I luckily am able to work from home, though it barely pays the bills, and my health has suffered from a lack of being able to Do Stuff I normally would.

As a result I decided to get back in touch with myself.

It started with Second Life, because of course it did. A new dragon avatar came out. Shiny and mesh and easy [by SL standards] to modify. So me and a few friends [some kin, some not] made a group for sharing stuff for the av and just hanging out. It’s fallen by the wayside unfortunately but those nights spent chilling in SL with a bunch of other dragons roaring and goofing off felt really really good.

And then I made a kin Twitter. [And found some exceptionally cool kinfolk in the process.] 

Then came Othercon the virtual otherkin convention and OtherConnect, the Discord spawned from the community that rapidly formed within the con. Othercon felt incredible. Panels and lectures about the history of otherkinity and alterhumanity and how we are today and rep in the media and just so! Much! Cool! Stuff! And tons of great kinfolk too! 

To not only be within a community but seeing others like me and speaking with them, not just typing back at words on a screen. It was...so very, very reaffirming. It felt like a second awakening almost. I wanted to cry for finally, truly not feeling alone.

And now I’m here. Because I need to be. Because something, deep down, is telling me I’m going to be needing myself sometime soon. So I’d better get started.

I hope I don’t drift away on the tide again. I’ve missed this site, worse for wear as it is.

But I’m a bit tired today. A nasty headache lingering from yesterday’s nastier flare up. Accursed cold fronts. I used to enjoy them but not so much these days. Ah well.

I know there wasn’t much kin talk in this first entry, but as I said, we had a lot of catching-up to do!

[jessefandomunited]

This Day Was Going to be Perfect Part 5

TW( needles and light torture)

~When the reader , who’s had a long time crush on Spencer, finds out Cat Adams is getting out of Prison on parole and wanting to talk to Spencer, she can’t help but be a bit suspicious.~

This fic was inspired by the song “ This day is going to be perfect” - MLP. enjoy

tag list: @raggabashie

I woke up dizzy and with a pounding headache. I opened my eyes slowly and found myself in a small dark space.  My wrist were bound in front of my and so were my legs, it felt like ductape though, which could be taken off easily. It also felt like I was moving very quickly. I was definitely in a car, I tried my best to focus but my head was swimming. “Spencer, we are saving Spencer,” I mumbled and began kicking in the direction I thought the break-lights would be . I heard a small pop and a stream of light entered the trunk. I slowly lifted myself up and jammed my taped hands against my stomach, breaking the tape , the legs I could do later. I pivoted my body slowly and gently poked out the taillight so it wouldn’t be seen by whoever was driving. I was in a town a vaguely recognized, I think it was an hour or two from where I was but it was public. I saw a few cars pass and I tried to get their attention but they seemed in their own world. I sighed and pulled my hand back in and felt along the inside for the latch. I’m sure they thought i’d sleep the entire trip because the car had a latch to open up the trunk from the inside. First I had to get my legs free. I pushed my legs up the side of the trunk a bit and placed my hands together and positioned them in-between my legs aimed the gap in the tape. I forcefully pushed down separating the tape while also hitting my head on the roof of the trunk. I groaned a bit, my headache was getting worse. Quickly I pulled the rest of the tape off and grabbed the lever, I was going to have to move quickly. I looked out the tail light hole and checked for cars, none. I took two deep breaths and quickly opened the trunk and jumping out and put my arms over my head. The car had been going pretty fast and I felt that on the first impact. I cringed and forced myself to look up through the grit and pain, there were still no cars luckily and unluckily at the same time. I limped off the highway and began making my way to an off ramp. However one look behind me and my blood ran cold, the car was backing up. I took a few deep breaths and began to run. The pain was unbearable but I kept going, pushing myself more and more. The town was getting closer and my heart soared then my arm was yanked back. I let out a yelp and was now face to face with one of my captors , I hadn’t seen him before but he must have been a friend of Cat or Scratch. I tried to wriggle out of his grasp but he just laughed and pushed me into the back seat of the car and sat next to me. There was nothing I could do the doors had no handles and no lock visible I could try and fight back but I had literally just jumped out of the car. The man took out the ducktape and began rebounding me as the other guy began driving. “Where are we going,” I asked simply. “ Away, we will be stopping for the night soon though ,” He said simply. “ Great,” I said knowing i’d get another chance to escape. “ Don’t get too excited we have some things to keep you at bay,” The man next to me chuckled pulling out a syringe. I couldn’t do needles and I tried to kick back at him to move away but he just grabbed a hand full of my hair and stabbed it in my neck. I landed a punch straight to his nose and he tossed me back into my seat causing me to hit my head on the door. As I tried to sit up, I couldn’t my entire body felt almost lifeless. “ Wha….waa,” I tried to ask but my words slurred and spun away from me as the world once again darkened.

Had it been a day or a month or a week, I didn’t know. They kept me dosed so much that I only was lucid a few time every day. I was actively trying to find a way to escape , the team had to be wondering where I was and Spencer, I just hoped he wasn’t married yet. Today the guys had been gone a very long time, in fact I could actually move. I slowly sat up and noticed I was in the car still. I easily got out of my bonds just like last time and took a brief look around and didn’t see them at all, we seemed to be in a hotel parking lot. I slowly went into the drivers seat and immediately felt pain everywhere. I tried my best to ignore it but it was rough. I took out part under the searing wheel and tried to remember if I could hot wire this type of car, it seemed old enough so I could try, Spencer had told me all about hot wiring one day while we were on our lunch break. It was only a couple months ago but it seemed like forever. I’m coming Spencer!

I tinkered with it a bit and suddenly heard the engine roar to life. “ Thankyou Spencer,” I whispered. I sat up and looked around just in time to see the two guards running down the stairs. “ No you don't,” I yanked the car into drive and peeled off. I was so excited that I had gotten away that I forgot that I had no idea where I was, and a casual glance at the fuel gauge informed me I was pretty much out of gas. I hit the steering wheel in frustration but kept going the way I was hoping for something. It was pitch black out and the only thing opened were going to be gas stations. I took a few deep shaky breaths and tried to center myself, one thing at a time, first find somewhere that looks open and go from there. In a mile I saw a huge mega store that said “Open 24 hours” on the side, perfect. I hadn’t seen any cars following me but I still parked in the very back and snuck in through the garden center. I saw a couple employees talking to each other and immediately stop when they saw me, I must have looked terrible. “ Help,” was all I was able to get out, my throat felt like sandpaper and the drugs were still bogging me down a lot. They quickly called someone over the loud speaker but didn’t even attempt to touch me. I took a shaky breath and stuttered, “ I..i.. was kidnapped.” Their eyes got very wide at that and they beckoned me to follow them.

I was sitting in a back office with no windows which made me a little less nervous, a girl brought me a cup of water and asked if there was anything she could do while we waited for the police. I didn’t want the police there at all, If Spencers wedding was either happening or already passed I had to get him out of that. It was easy enough to get an annulment especially if the wedding had just happened but that wasn’t what was important, it was the simple fact he was being forced into something he couldn’t consent to properly. I want his wedding to be something he’ll remember and look back fondly on , not cringe. I came back to the moment and asked, “ what’s the day?” “  Oh it’s Friday uh..June 26th,” She said softly. “ THERE IS STILL TIME,” I yelled , his wedding was tomorrow, “ Please can I borrow your phone I have to call someone.” She nodded and hesitated before handing it to me. I luckily had memorized the number of the exact person I needed right now, Penelope Garcia. “Hello i’m awake,” A groggy Penelope answered. “ Oh my goodness it’s so great to hear your voice.” Penelope perked up immediately and yelled my name so loud I had to hold the phone away from my ear. “ yes it’s me do you know where I am please,” I begged I really need to get to Spencer before the wedding. “ Yeah about that, Spencer told us you freaked out on Cat and you said you were leaving for good,” Penelope said, “ we’ve all been trying to call you but there was nothing and when I tracked your phone you were just at you apartment.” My stomach dropped , the illusion they constructed was quite intricate. “ Listen first , no I was kidnapped after I realized Cat’s plan, I’m assuming Scratch is in on this too just , I need you to hack into my phone there is a video on it that explains pretty much all of it,” I explained . “ OMG ARE YOU OKAY WHERE ARE YOU ,” She said frantically and I heard her already typing . “ I don’t know can you track me on this phone too. “ Oh oh no,” She mumbled , “well bad news you’re about six hours from here, good news your only a thirty minuet ride to the wedding venue .” “ PERFECT,” I said jumping up. The door opened and about  four policemen came in, “ less perfect , I got to go.” I handed the phone back to the girl and stated my name as formally as I could adding in, “ FBI analysis at your service.”

[peggysousfan]

Anomaly Misfire

This is the fic add on to the edit I had posted previously to do with Bellarke. The Anomaly sends Bellamy back in time to Earth after Primfaya, what will happen when he sees Clarke? This is based on a gif set I saw on Tumblr lol its amazing and looks so real, I wish it were.

"It's been 58 days. By now, Monty should have the algae farm producing." Clarke speaks through a makeshift radio while eating a few berries she found in the valley. Compared to algae, berries were better. "How bad does it suck? No offense Monty." She stops speaking but only hears static. She never gets a reply to her calls. "And I found berries, a whole field of them! They're not very sweet, but they're beautiful. I think that's what they used to make the paint for-"

As Clarke speaks through the radio and turns her head aside to look at the paint on a house, an illuminating green swirl appears seemingly out of no where. A small crackle of lights move through before the green mist vanished, leaving behind something- or rather someone. She stands up from her chair and cautiously steps closer to the man left behind by the mysterious green swirl.

"Clarke?" He whispers with his hands out stretched, unsure how to proceed. Her hair is longer than it was at Sanctum, and from the looks of his surroundings he's back at Shadow Valley.

"Be-Bellamy?!" Her voice cracks a bit as she looks around unsure if she's hallucinating from the radiation and dehydration. She did just discover the valley not too long ago after all.

"Wher-uh... I'm back on Earth? How..." He looks around and walks but before he's aware, a pair of arms wrap around his torso, blonde hair now fills under his chin. He chuckles and embraces her back, but what he doesn't expect is her to panic and start dragging him to the rover. "Clarke? What are you-"

"We have to get you to Becca's lab before the radiation sets in and kills you! Bellamy..." She turns around to face him, worry etched in her face. "It hasn't been five years. Its not safe for you to be here."

He chuckles lightly and halts to a stop, confusing Clarke. She pulls him more but he continues to laugh.

"Bellamy!?"

He takes her hand in his and walks back to the table where she was sitting before he had appeared. He then notices the radio and sighs. Madi was right, she did call to him while he was in space. At this thought he looks around.

"Where's Madi?" Now Clarke is even more confused.

"Who's Madi?"

"Your daughter..."

His words barely process through her mind as they stand near each other. But as Bellamy sees the perplexed expression over Clarke's face, he realizes they haven't met yet. That is, if he's thinking correctly about where and when he is in time.

"Bell I don't have a-" But before she can finish her sentence, she stops and looks to her left. A child stands from a distance and watched them. "Oh my God..."

The little girl runs off and before Bellamy knows it, Clarke runs after her. "Clarke!" But its no use, she can't hear him.

With a huffed breath he runs after her. He catches up to her within moments, trees and branches hanging in his face as he tries to smack them away. Its been a long time since he's been on earth, when things actually made since then. Clarke shouts in Trigedasleng to grab the girls attention, but she keeps going further into the woods. Bellamy stops running when he sees Clarke stop, she's looking at a child with crazed hair from afar. That has to be Madi. He thinks. But in the blink of an eye she runs off again. Clarke doesn't hesitate to run after her and so Bellamy follows them with a roll of his eyes. How can a small child run this fast? Clarke is still ahead of him but her voice echoes through the trees.

"Wait! Are you alone? Are there others?" She stops running to look at her surrounds and stops when she sees the little girl staring at her on the trail. Clarke speaks in trig once more.She says, "You're a nightblood, right?"

Clarke steps forward cautiously, trying to talk down to the girl, but she doesn't move. Instead Clarke does and eventually steps into a bear trap. She screams out in pain from the metal piercing the skin of her leg. Bellamy hears and runs faster. The little girl attacks Clarke in the mean time, attempting to stab her with a knife. She avoid most of the blows but her arm is cut, leaving black to trickle down her arm.

"Clarke!" The valley girl looks up at Bellamy and runs in the opposite direction, but seeing as Clarke is screeching in agony, his main focus on her. Bellamy bends down and helps her out of the bear trap, then carries her back to the village, but not without  fight. He sets her down after a while and she limps into one of the houses.

She grabs her bag on the way to sitting down on a table, ripping her pants leg as she does so. Bellamy tries to help but isn't sure what to do. "Its okay, Bellamy. I-I got it." Her words come out in a stutter as she hurriedly grabs a thread and needle.  At first she hesitates, but proceeds to stitch up the gashes on her leg. The only thing Bellamy can do is sit and listen to her agonizing sounds. After she's done, she passes out from the pain, but not before Bellamy rushes to her side and catches her head.

Clarke stays unconscious for several hours, so long he starts to worry about her. He periodically checks the wound and takes the liberty of cleaning it up as much, and as gently, as he can. But after several more minutes of waiting, and dozing off himself, Clarke wakes and startles at the pain in her leg.

"Hey hey hey! Easy... don't hurt yourself." Clarke jumps slightly before remembering Bellamy's presence. It takes a few moments before she realizes he isn't burning from radiation.

"You're... you're okay?" Her arm reaches out to him, inspecting the skin on his neck, hands, and face.

"Me? Of course I'm fine. You're the one that stepped into a bear trap."

Clarke thinks for a moment as the memories flood back into her mind, but right now the tap isn't her main concern. "No, that's not- Bellamy... how are you still alive? The radiation levels aren't safe. And how did you even get back?"

"Uhh... well I can answer one question." He shrugs and smiles, though she's still unhappy with his answer. The glare from her face tells him that very thought, though it is also contorted in pain. "Abby injected us with nightblood before returning to Sanctum." But as he says this his eyes widen and he flinches. "Sorry I didn't mean to... I'm sorry."

"For what? And when did my mom make you a nightblood? You went off to space because the blood wasn't tested. I was the only one who took the syringe and injected myself." It was then he realized that Abby was still alive in the bunker. Clarke hadn't lost her yet. He feels like he should warn her, tell her whats coming, but then again who knows what will happen if he does. "And why are you looking at me like that? You still haven't answered my question of how you got here." Bellamy freezes and looks away from her.

"Look, Clarke, I don't know how I got here. One minute I'm in the Gabriel's tent holding Octavia after she's stabbed, then I'm taken by invisible people through the anomaly. I fought them off and I ended up falling and then landing here."

For several moments she sits quietly trying to process everything Bellamy has just said, and yet none of it makes sense to her. "What!?!? You were just in space with Monty, Raven, and the others. Octavia is still in the bunker and I have no idea who Gabriel is or what the 'Anomaly' is either. And what is Sanctum?"

"Uhh... shit."

"Bellamy?" She presses for more answers but he doesn't budge.

"It's complicated, okay?"

"Complicated." She echoes his words before trying to stand up. He asks what she's doing but shrugs it off. "You wouldn't understand. It's too complicated." She bites back, causing him to startle.

"Clarke come on. Its not easy to explain."

"Really? Then what is?" She turns to look at him over her shoulder and he freezes in place unsure what she means. Clarke scoffs at his confused look and sits facing him. "Bellamy we were born in space, sent to earth with no knowledge if it was inhabitable, then set up camp and fought a war with savages for land. Then Mount weather happened, I was on the run from literally very clan that existed only to be stuck in a worse situation fighting an AI and having to become a nightblood and fight off a whole city of innocent people. Then after almost dying I  find out the world was once again going to burn down into nothing, which left us having to choose and send hundreds of our own people to their deaths! Which left me one of the only people left on Earth above ground. But no, I wouldn't know complicated."

Bellamy inhales a deep breath and sighs, knowing everything she said is true. But what happens next is even worse than what they've faced before. Everything on earth were trial runs building up to Sanctum and the war raging on there.

"You really wanna know?" She gives him to look and he chuckles. Of course she wants to know. "Well, believe it or not I'm from the future."

"Future? Seriously?" He laughs at this and sits back in the chair he occupied before she woke up.

"Yeah. Seriously." Clarke looks at him through the moonlight and does realize he seems different, but she couldn't' think of how much time had changed since then. "Earth becomes uninhabitable within a matter of weeks after 6 years pass by. Once that happens we leave. Travel in our sleep to another planet where...things are the same as Earth. Trouble every where we go. We tried to be peaceful, civil even, but-" As Bellamy stops talking his voice cracks. The memory of figuring out Josephine taking over Clarke's body still haunts him.

"But what?" Her voice is soft and light, curious at why he stopped talking.

"They tried to kill you. I thought you were dead, Clarke." At this Clarke sits up straighter, trying to ignore searing pain in her lag as she does so. "To me and everyone else, you died and there was nothing we could do. There was nothing I could do! Peace was the goal and even though we tried to not.. to- dammit!"

"Bellamy..." She reaches out to him as he jumps from his chair and combs his hand through his hair. His mind fills back with the emotion, the dread, of thinking he had lost her forever.Clarke reaches out and touches his arm, grounding him back to reality.

"I tried, Clarke. I tried to keep the peace but... it didn't work out." he explains everything he could. From the mind drives, to nightblood and its connection, to Russel, Josephine, the Primes, and Sanctum. As well as the rebellion and the strange Anomaly that had taken Octavia back. Bellamy told her everything. As he does so, she sits back and groans from the pain. He reaches out to her but she says she's fine. "Clarke?"

"I-I don't know what to say to that, Bellamy. But now I understand why you apologized for mentioning my mom." He sighs and reaches out to her again, this time she accepts and holds his hand. "So all of this happens and what? We can't change anything can we?"

"I don't think we can."

Silence falls between them as the whirlwind of information is absorbed between them. For the rest of the night nothing else is said, they simply stay, hands together, and content on this moment.

For Clarke it has only been 58 days, but for Bellamy it has been over 70 years with a moment of content silence between them. A lingering, unsaid, feeling moving through the air. In his time living in space, Bellamy never thought he would end up with Echo, and yet he did. His mind says he cares for her, but his heart yearns for another, and still their relationship lingered on. But forces beyond his control tell him that its up to him to take fate in his own hands and be with the one he truly cared for-  the one he truly loved- and to do that was to atone for their past mistakes, if only to create a path for their future.

[whumping-newbie]

BTHB: Choking

 @badthingshappenbingo​

So thanks once more to @straight-to-the-pain​ and @scath001 for this idea tbh. More whumper gathering stuff!

Let’s just say that this one is set juuuuust before the piece I wrote for S’s birthday last week. I kind of broke them in that one, but I liked the idea that S made about the whumpee protecting a smaller/younger/weaker whumpee during the hunting, and decided that my whumpee needed just a touch more rebellion than I allowed them in that piece.

As usual this is longer than I planned it to be BUT who cares about that.

Warnings: shock collar, dehumanisation, hunted, choking.

My bare feet stung against the rough gravel that littered the pathway I was sprinting down, every loose stone dug into my skin with a sharp singe of pain that felt like tiny needles stabbing at the soles of my feet. The scratchy sound of the gravel as I ran over it was almost musical, an intrinsic pattern brought on by each and every footstep of mine in rapid sucession. I was running so hard against the gravel in my frenzy that I didn’t care about the pain of the stones against by sore and tender feet, not right now.

I was out of breath. My lungs were on fire, burning against the bitter cold air in the woodland I was sprinting through, away from them, as fast as I can. Admittedly I was not in the best physical state to be doing this - not that I had much choice in the matter. I was almost skeletal compared to what I once was, the pang of hunger in my stomach was insatiable in comparison to the stabbing pains in my feet. I almost preferred the assault on my feet, it didn’t seem as permenant. When was the last time I ate? Two days ago? I can’t remember.

I heard sharp breaths to my left, and I darted my vision in the direction of the source. I couldn’t see a thing over there, it was so dark here. To my left was a mass of bushes and flowers, their vibrant colours still visible even in the moonlight. The plants looked healthy, well cared for, I envied them - they didn’t have a mark on them, their petals and leaves unblemished and taunting me with just how nice they looked. I saw a dark figure amonst the brush, and I could hear the telltale sound of rapidly sprinting footsteps on twigs bolt away from me. I was grateful that it was one of us, not one of them.

The moon was the only thing illuminating my pathway forwards, and even then I had to strain my eyes to see two feet ahead of me. I ground to a halt, out of breath and realising I had reached the edge of a large pond. I would have given anything to dive in right this moment and relish the moment. To wash off, to drink the water, to cool down. I didn’t care that there were leaves and algae and lilly pads dotted across the surface, decorating the water to make it look as inviting as possible to me, the plants rested gently against the unbroken surface of the water. There were loose petals from the land flowers on there too, they must have escaped on the wind, enjoying their freedom on the surface of the pond. The sheer tranquility of the water was enticing, it looked wonderful. I wish I could jump in and enjoy the cooling, refreshing feeling of the water on my skin.

But I couldn’t do that.

“Run, run, run, as fast as you can!”

An almost cheerful voice somewhere far behind me called out, catching my breath in my throat. I stared back at the path I had emerged from, realising my error in staying on the path. I had practically gift-wrapped myself to them.

No, can’t let them find me.

I ran around the pond, leaping over a bush on the side of the path, trying to stay out of sight. There was a mass of trees over there, enough that I could probably stay hidden behind them whilst they look for someone else. I crouch down, slowing to an almost silent set of footsteps as I reached the trees. I put my back against the rough trunk, pulling my knees to my chest. I covered my mouth with my hand to silence my own trembling breaths, filled with dread and just a hint of panic. I tried to make myself as small as possible, hoping they would just miss me here, that they would move on from here and allow me just a little bit longer here. I daren’t move a muscle when I heard the footsteps get closer and closer. They didn’t seem in any particular rush, I heard them jogging, and they slowed down at the pond edge, I presume.

“I’ll soon catch you, you’ll be part of my plan!”

The singsong voice was truly sickening, and I dread to think about what they have in mind if they catch me. I shuddered breathlessly, willing them to go away.

“You’ll be part of my plan, and I’ll hurt you as much as I can!”

I saw a flicker of light pass over the environment around me, coming from behind me. A torch beam. I closed my eyes, hoping I was still invisible to them. If sheer will power could keep them away from me, I was almost certain that they would never catch me.

A scream rang through the trees and permeated my ears. It was a desperate screech, a terrified sound that was truly heartbreaking to hear. It was somewhere close, sort of ahead of me, and I snapped my eyes open. The torch light stopped hovering around my hiding spot and started looking for the source too, before the footsteps started jogging again, kicking the gravel up as they did. They got closer, closer to me before going quiet again. They hadn’t stopped, they had merely gone around the pond, unknowingly passing me in my hiding spot. At least, I hope they didn’t know I was here.

I gripped the collar around my neck so hard that I could feel my knuckles whitening, digging my fingernails into the palm of my hand. I felt the prongs on the inside of the collar - the nodes that buried themselves painfully against the nape of my neck, that could cause me serious pain at a moment’s notice. It was restricting, and I hoped and prayed that I was out of the range of the remote. Having that damned remote set off the collar would be disasterous, I truly hoped that they didn’t choose to make things easy for them by setting it off, forcing me to reveal my own location.

I waited until I couldn’t hear the footsteps again before creeping out of my hiding spot, caked in the dirt from the ground. I hated this, I hated this entire little game of theirs. I felt like some kind of rat, being chased around and around. This game was truly a testament to how twisted everything was here, letting us run around and then hunt us down for their entertainment.

Oh, but there was an incentive to not get caught first. “Where’s the fun in that?” they had said, “whoever gets caught first is really going to suffer, so try not to get caught! Whoever lasts the longest will get rewarded, so get going!”

I tried not to think about what kind of punishment I would have to endure if I was caught first. What any of us would have to endure if we were caught first.

I crept away as silently as I could, away from my original hiding place, in the opposite direction from the scream. They would all be heading in that direction, probably. I hope, at least.

A twig snapped ahead of me and I froze, holding my breath to try and not make my presence here known, as much as I could. I tried to stay as still as I could, listening out for what that noise was, and what could have caused it. Was it one of them? Have they found me? Trying to lull me into a false sense of security before springing their trap?

No, it can’t be, because the source of the noise was just as frozen as me.

The figure was just beyond another bush, watching me carefully with wide eyes. They were very young, easily no older than 19. They were on their tiptoes, trying to remain silent after their momentary lapse in judgement caused them to reveal their presence to me. I remember them - big, scared, brown eyes. Short hair. Pale complexion. Caked in colourful bruises. Painted with scars.

We didn’t even need to say a single word, because their eyes spoke volumes more than words ever could. There was terror, there was begging, there was panic. I could see them implore me not to say a word, almost forgetting that I am in the same situation as them.

I slowly brought my index finger to my lips, a careful gesture that they didn’t need me to remind them to heed. I pointed at them, then at the bush they were stood behind - get down. They nodded in understanding, and dropped soundlessly to the ground, concealing themselves amonst the plants. If I didn’t already know they were there, I would not have seen them by just looking at that bush. They were almost invisible to me. I crept towards them, keeping my footing as light as possible, and it was painful moving so slowly. I had my eyes on the ground, keeping an eye on the branches, stones and leaves that littered the dirt in my path. I wanted to keep away from them, because who knows what kind of trouble both of us would be in if they caught both of us together.

Another cry from somewhere in the distance halted me. That was close, that was much closer than the other scream. Someone else had been caught, but that was the scary thing. They’re close, they’re getting closer and closer, and if I’m found here, I am in for a world of hurt.

That cry of pain was accompanied by another sound. It sounded almost... triumphant. It was muffled by the distance, but it sounded like the one who had caught them was celebrating their catch.

How sickening.

Of course they would want to catch us as quickly as possible. Get to hurting us for longer. That’s their reward for whoever catches one of us the fastest, but our reward is getting hurt less.

The sheer idea that this is allowed to happen was nauseating. These people... they kidnap us, abuse us, mutilate us and then torture us for their own entertainment. Yet no one here seems to want to help us out of this situation. Why is that? Why is there no one that shares a shred of empathy with us? Why do they enjoy bringing us pain, no matter what we do to try and stop them?

I was literally shocked out of my thoughts by a sudden influx of agony. Pure, crucifying agony that tore through every fibre of my being, and I cried out, dropping to my knees as the shock wore off, taking deep heaving breaths as I tried to ride out the subsiding pain.

I realised what had haddened a moment later, clambering to my feet as I heard someone ahead of me. I saw the wicked grin plastered over their face, even from this distance, and I could only think in that moment about the young one hidden just a short distance away from me. Did they know they were there? I daren’t cast a glance in that direction, what if they took such a simple thing as confirmation that someone else was here? I couldn’t do that.

I took off in the opposite direction. I had been spotted now, I didn’t need to worry about sound being my enemy. Not now, my primitive panic took the reins and I could only ride it out and hope for the best, hope that I can outrun my pursuer. I heard a deep, dark laugh echo from behind me.

“Run, rabbit, run!”

I didn’t need telling twice.

I didn’t see anything ahead of me, I had no trouble in pretending that nothing was in my way. My pursuer was having the time of their life, and I was fighting for mine. I didn’t care about the dull ache in my legs from overexerting myself, I didn’t care about the fire in my lungs and chest, I didn’t care about the stabbing pains in my feet.

This was their game, and I was playing by their rules.

Except they weren’t playing fair either.

I screamed and fell face first into the dirt as the shocks ripped through me again, unrelenting and ceaseless, dizzying and disorienting. The moment the collar stopped issuing its pulsating, agonising effect, I tried to scramble back to my feet, to get up and keep running, except I didn’t have that chance. Between my heaving breaths, I felt a heavy boot slam down on my back, forcing me back down onto my stomach. I could only breathe - not even from relief. My vision was murky from the adrenaline that clouded everything, there was no running anymore.

---

“Well, wasn’t that fun?”

That voice belonged to the owner of this estate. All of us had been recaptured, chained up against the wall like misbehaving dogs that needed to be taught a lesson. The hunters, our owners, were stood opposite us, self-satisfied grins etched over each of their faces. I refused to look my owner in the eyes. I knew that they would punish me for finishing as early as I did later. I could see the little box that was the remote to my collar hanging on the loop of their belt. It seemed to be taunting me too - if it wasn’t for that, I probably wouldn’t have been caught when I did.

I cast a glance at the other prisoners, comparing us to them. Their faces were full of a terrible pride, and yet ours were canvasses of fear and anticipation.

That young one that I met in the woods was quaking against their chains, not looking up at them. One of the bigger ones, the stronger one, their face was stoic and totally ready for whatever they were going to throw at us.

One of the other ones, I remember them from the auction, they were lot 1. They were the first one to be sold that night, I remember their calm acceptance of their situation was utterly terrifying to consider. I remember the fact that they were so blindly obedient that they didn’t even wear a muzzle like the rest of us.

Well, they were here, and they were apparently the first one to get caught. I didn’t even realise they had been captured, because they didn’t scream like the others. I was the fourth capture, out of seven, because Lot 1 didn’t resist as they allowed the hunter to end their temporary freedom. I didn’t know whether the young one I had seen was caught straight after me or not, because I don’t recall seeing them being dragged back to the manor like the others. We were blindfolded for that - keeping the suspense alive for all of us after we saw who had already been captured.

Who was going to suffer first, and for longer, than the rest of us.

Truly, the composure of Lot 1 was the work of an oscar-worthy actor - they remained knelt on the ground with their back perfectly straight, but kept their eyes to the ground, their hands on their lap. Blind obedience.

“So! Let’s get down to the prizegiving, shall we?”

The owner of the estate crept closer to Lot 1, who remained as still as an old, worn down and beaten gargoyle. I saw that the owner was hauling a mass of rope, looped over their shoulder to their waist like a sash. They pulled Lot 1 to their feet, as the rest of us could only watch as they were forced to stand in the centre of the room, waiting for the owner to do something. I heard a soft release of breath from them as they were looked over. I could hear the young one let out a small choking sound, and when I looked at them, they had screwed their eyes shut and buried their face against the wall, desperate not to watch.

I hadn’t noticed this yet because I was so fixated on everyone else, but it was at this moment I noticed the chains hanging from the ceiling, just behind Lot 1. I have no idea how they escaped my notice until this moment, it was probably just because they were almost invisible when compared to the other instruments that lined the walls of this room. The owner pulled down on the chains and cuffed the manacles to the wrists of Lot 1, who was now restrained with their hands behind their back. The loud clunk of the fastenings locking into place was so final that it was intimidating to think just what they are going to do to them. Dislocate their shoulders? Whip them? Burn them?

“So, you lost your game. You know that means you have to be punished, don’t you?”

They remained steadfast in their silence, even as the owner stroked the side of their face. I wasn’t able to see their expression as their back was turned away from me, but I could only imagine that it remained as neutral as I remember it. An empty shell, a mere thing with an ability to feel pain, but not to fear it.

The owner gripped their hair and yanked downwards, and I heard a terribly disguised groan of pain as they did so. The owner called out to someone, to one of the others, and I saw just what those chains on the ceilings were made for. They pulled the wrists of Lot 1 upwards, higher and higher, and all they could do was lean further forwards in an attempt to adjust to the position change. How much must that hurt? The other owner stopped cranking the chains upwards, but they didn’t seem as high as they should have done. Weren’t they going to dislocate their shoulders? That was what my initial belief was, but the fact that they left Lot 1′s shoulders slightly relieved of pressure, it seemed more like setup for something much, much worse.

The owner unravelled the loop of rope that they had over their shoulder and held it in front of Lot 1′s downward facing head, letting them see what they were going to use on them. For what, we were all about to find out.

The owner held one end of the rope in one hand, and used the other hand to wrap it around the neck of Lot 1 quite a number of times. An uncomfortable amount, I am positive of that. Every time they looped it around their neck, I watched Lot 1 squirm - they tried to dig their feet into the floor as much as it would allow, knowing there was nothing more that they could do.

And there was nothing we could do but sit back and witness the punishment for losing the game.

Even with a lot of rope left, the owner tied it in a knot as tightly as they could manage without totally choking Lot 1. I could hear their breaths become wheezy, I could tell they had opened their mouth for this - probably because there is absolutely nothing they could have done otherwise. I can’t imagine what kind of fresh hell that is - trying to breathe under all that constricting rope. The intent not to kill, but to torture, knowing that access to something that they need to survive is so very painful to think about. To think that the air they need to breathe is now in someone else’s control - their malicious, sinister control - and they could do nothing but hope that they would earn mercy for just going through with all of this without fighting them.

“Well, your punishment for losing the game?” the owner announced - both to us, and to Lot 1, “you get to watch us whilst we punish the others. Every time you look away from the punishments, I’ll tighten that rope around your neck. Just think on that I have no value for broken toys. I’ll let you die if you are disobedient now. Maybe next time you’ll think about this before trying to take the punishment for one of those other little rats over there.”

I frowned. Not even worrying about the prospect of being punished, but at their words. I always thought that Lot 1 was just... so broken, and compliant, and done with everything that goes on, that they would obey their commands without question. But to hear their owner talking about how they are taking the punishment for “one of us”. Did they... get caught first on purpose?

I had no way of knowing, because the owner turned away from Lot 1, and began facing us. I felt my head go light under their hungry gaze - they were out for blood, I could tell.

“Now then, who wants to go first?”

[sup-hoes-its-me]

Intertwined (Jack x Reader)

A/N: sup. Its me, kelly, back again with another one shot. Supernatural this time, which I  just picked up again after taking a long break after season 11. I just love jack so much he is a cutie and i needed a fluffy soulmate au with him since there arent enough. Thanks and enjoy reading!!!!

word count: 5, 500~

The bell was loud and overwhelming in my skull as I sat in the very back of the class next to the speaker. Not to mention the teacher yelled all his instructions and the students all screamed when the dismissal bell was sounded. It was the same every single day to the point where I never got a break from my migraines. Everyone was just so fucking loud.

Today was exceptional, though. I felt like screaming. My head ached so terribly, it felt like I was dying. Each and every little sound to ring out made me want to shout with pain, or slit my throat just to end it all. It got to the point where it felt like needles were stabbing into each inch of my skull.

During lunch, I went into the locker rooms and cried. I held my head in my hands in the echo of the room and sobbed for no one but me to hear. 

The pain. It was too much. I’m not weak. I deal with these on a daily basis, but...this was too much for anyone, not even the strongest human alive.

By fourth period I was convinced my head was about to explode. My heart beat rapidly against my ribcage, so loudly that I swore the kid beside me could hear. He kept glancing over at me worriedly, and the teacher even asked if I was doing okay; if I needed to get a drink from the water fountain.

Turns out I had sweat running down my forehead like the falls.

 I just stayed in class, wanting to get through the day. I couldn’t go home early. I didn’t have a car, number one; secondly, my father would have my head on a stick for leaving school. He didn’t believe in my migraines, or any of my issues at all. He was the “suck it up” kinda man that I always despised.

So I did. I bucked up throughout the day until the last bell. I sat in the room until everyone had left, to make sure I didn’t get any unwanted attention. The teacher even left before me, thinking that my head on the desk indicated I’d fallen asleep. Frankly, he didn’t care if I caught my bus or not. Bastard.

I caught my breath as I stood up, or I tried to. It got caught in my throat. I choked on air, clutching at my neck. Was I going into anaphylactic shock, I thought miserably. I fell to the ground with a thud, my head knocking painfully against the metal chair leg. The ground was cold against my skin, and hard on my burning temples.

I couldn’t scream. I couldn’t make a sound; my throat was shut. All I could do was, what I assumed, die. I was in agony and dying alone in a cold, dusty history classroom.

The room faded to black around me. There was nothing to be done now. I was a goner.

_________________________________________

“Are you sure she’s alive?” a deep, rough voice asked through my blurred thoughts. I couldn’t move or see, but I heard it.

“Yes, Dean. She has a pulse,” another man sighed deeply, and I felt he was close. Heat from someone was radiating around me, and I was scared. These men, they didn’t sound professional, like doctors. Nor did this area smell clean, like a hospital. It was musty and antique, and their voices were coarse.

But it was so warm. Wherever I was was comforting and warm. There was also something draped over me, soft and furry. I prayed it was a blanket.

The best I could do was a low croak like noise from my lips, and a flicker of my lashes. “Hello?” I rasped, my eyes flashing open for a moment using most of my strength. I caught sight, for the shortest second of a very attractive man standing to my side, staring down at me with what I felt were familiar green eyes.

But I noticed one thing. My headache was dull. It was barely even there. I could have cried in relief. After weeks of relentless pain, it was nearly gone.

Something happened. Something big had to have changed in me. Or I was on strong drugs. I couldn’t be sure at the moment.

“Hey,” the second voice called, a bit more concerned than anything. “ Hey, she’s waking up.”

I pushed myself up onto my elbow and rubbed my eyes with my other hand, wiping away the mucky crust along my lashes keeping them shut. Slowly, I cracked my eyes open to see that I was indeed in a place far from a hospital, surrounded by three men who strongly differed doctors at all.

Two big men in flannel surrounded my bedside while a dark haired man in a suspicious coat stood at the foot of my bed, his eyes staring right into mine, as if he was seeing into my mind and soul. I already hated it, the mind digging they seemed to be doing without even muttering a word to me.

“Who the fuck are you?”

What a starting question, I scoffed. I glared up at the man with the green eyes, whom I still considered very familiar. In fact, this entire thing seemed like a vague memory. I’d never met these men, I knew that for a fact...but I remembered them. I know that makes no sense, and I sound insane, but I just...I’ve seen them before and heard their voices and I’ve seen this room. Dammit.

“I’m Y/N?”

“No, I asked who the-”

“Dean, that is enough. She won’t tell you anything if you just scream at her,” the man at the edge of the bed said. He seemed wise, but his voice was so low and gruff, like a chainsmoker’s. Now, I knew for a fact I’d listened to his voice time and time again, but I couldn’t fucking place it. It was on the tip of my tongue. Hearing him speak again only heightened that sense, “She appears to only be a child,” he spoke softly.

The man by my side, with longer brown hair nodded and placed a hand near mine, his huge goliath hands which I just realised could easily surround my neck and snap it if he so chose to. I was vulnerable, and these men were terrifyingly large and intimidating, with their strong voices and their big hands and broad shoulders.

I was in deep shit now. Dammit, Y/N.

“We just need to know who you are. Tell us and we won’t hurt you...Y/N.”

I was starting to like this kinder one, the one with the big hands and the long hair. He seemed smart, reasonable in a way. The other one was irrational and loud, so abrupt that it scared me. This whole situation wasn’t a bit comforting, but he was a big fear factor.

My eyes scanned over all of them and down to my body. I was nestled in a blanket, a big fluffy brown one which was no doubt conserving all my body heat. My bangs stuck to my forehead, sweat drenching them, so I quickly took my hand and swiped them back behind my ear to rid the sticky feeling.

When I was done looking around, my eyes slid to my lap. “I-I don’t know what to say. I’m just Y/N L/N, I swear.”

“Fine. What are you?” the rude man piped up this time, seemingly done with my shit even though I’d only been awake for like, a minute tops.

I gaped at him like a fish out of water. What the hell did that mean? “H-Human... Is there anything else?” I whimpered. My ears were burning red under their assuming glares. What if they thought I was lying? Would they torture me? I felt my heart race and my breaths get caught in my throat.

Don’t do this now, Y/N. Hyperventilating will only make me seem guilty of something.

“Listen, somehow you got into this bunker, which we thought was impossible. You being human doesn’t explain much.”

“I don’t know how I got here at all. I kinda assumed when I woke up and saw strange men that I was kidnapped because the last thing I remember is passing out on the floor of my AP World class and just...I-I...I’m sorry-” I choked on my last few words, my rambling having come to a quick, sad stop. I pressed one of my hands to my lips to keep in my sobs. I didn’t want them to get angry at me.

I was just so terrified. I was in a foreign place being threatened for the first time in my life. I couldn’t do a thing about the upcoming tears to rush over.

Then, to make matters worse, water was splashed in my face.

“Dean, seriously, what the hell? She’s really scared, dude!”

“Well, we know she’s not a demon.”

“DEMON?” I cried loudly, my eyes going as wide as saucers. I pressed my face into both of my palms and practically screamed into them. Was this what hell was? Being kidnapped and accused by these men, and then mention of real demons?

A gentle hand placed itself on my shoulder, and I peered over through my fingers to see the man at the edge of my bed earlier, the one in the sketchy coat. “Please, stop crying. As long as you explain to us everything in detail, we can make sure you are safe. Even so, we can’t hurt you. You obviously have some ability that even you may be unaware of,” he said calmly.

I bit my lip, small whines leaving through my teeth. Tears still fell down my face, but I felt soothed by his presence by my side. There was something different about him. At this point, I had forgotten about my aching migraine and was completely focused on him. His eyes had stolen every bit of my attention.

“I’m just a senior in high school. The last thing I remember is having a really bad migraine and my throat closing up. I think I hit my head on my chair when I fell on the floor. After that, it just all turned to black. I-I swear to you, I was in my history class before this,” I took a deep breath. “I really have no idea where I am or who you guys are. I’d literally rather be anywhere then here right now, trust me. I’m not a threat. If anything, I’m scared he’s going to kill me.”

I nudged my head in the direction of the aggressor at hand. He growled, his arms crossed over his chest after the other man had scolded him.

“This is perplexing, to say the least.”

The kind one scanned over my quivering form once again, his puppy like eyes showing only sympathy for my case. “Could she possibly be under a spell? Rowena and her coven is growing,” he suggested. Now he was talking about spells and covens. This couldn’t be real, I thought to myself over and over. I had to be in a dream, or going insane. This had to be it. Maybe I was dead. Maybe that’s what this was about.

“It could be why, but that doesn’t explain why Rowena would want to send a random teenage girl into our bunker. She’s obviously weak and harmless.”

“Looks are deceiving. Her soul is incredibly strong. Although it is not big, it is very intense and bright,” trench coat man sighed, standing as stiff as before. “Her soul is almost acting as if its looking for something.”

I took a breath, one brave deep breath before speaking. “If I’m going to be here, can you at least tell me who you are. You all are shady enough, talking about spells and demons, you know,” I muttered, fiddling with my hands in my lap, tugging on the fur of the blanket.

“Should we really-”

“I’m Sam Winchester and this is my brother Dean,” he pointed to green eyes with a stressed smile. “That is our friend Castiel. This may come off as strange to you, but we are hunters. Of the supernatural.”

And suddenly, it all clicked in my head.

Sam and Dean. Castiel. Hunters. Demons. All of it. It made sense. Even the fucking flannel shirts all over the place.

Supernatural.

I placed a hand over my eyes and groaned loudly. “This can’t be happening to me. No fucking way. No way. Nope. God, no.” Supernatural was a tv show that I watched in middle school. That was it. There was nothing real about it. These guys were actors. I stopped watching it around season 10, and there was no fucking way these dudes magically became real.

“What’s wrong? Did you remember something?”

I wouldn’t look at them. It would only prove to me how much they really looked like the characters. Dean Winchester with those intense green eyes and strong jaw. His brother Sam, tall and handsome with that long hair and soft smile. And my favorite character, Castiel, the not-so-perfect angel with piercing blue eyes and a strange voice.

With a huff, I mumbled, “It’s just, you guys can’t be real. I have to be dreaming.”

“Can’t be real?”

“Yeah. What’s that supposed to mean, kid?” Dean asked me. I felt like my chest would explode at any moment from the pressure. The Dean Winchester was speaking to me, directly, calling me ‘kid’ and everything.

Finally, after a moment of deliberation, I dropped my hand from my eyes and peered at the men. They were exactly how I remembered them on late night television, watching reruns with my mother. “I’m not sure how this works, but well, you guys, in my world, are from a tv show. It’s called Supernatural, and it’s about your lives and I know everything about you.”

“Bizarro world?! You’ve got to be kidding me! How did she end up here?”

Before anyone could start arguing over me, a soft voice broke the silence. It was not my own, instead, it was from the doorway. We all glanced over to be met with the curious eyes of a boy around my age. He had soft brown locks and dark green eyes, and they stared right into mine.

My headache was gone. I barely noticed its final passing but it had dissipated in less than a second. Maybe it was just my imagination, but I was caught in a net by this boy. I couldn’t bring my eyes away from his, nor did he seem to want to look away from mine.

“I just wanted to know if the girl was doing okay…” he said softly as he entered the room. Something was beckoning him to come closer. I wanted to reach out and touch him, to feel him beneath my fingertips and in my palms. He was handsome, but more importantly, he made my chest feel lighter than air and my mind to drift into utter peace. I felt enlightened, in a way.

“She’s fine, but you really shouldn’t be in here. It’s not safe,” Sam told him, only to be shot down.

Castiel held up a firm hand. His voice was quiet, but I could hear him. He was very serious. “It’s fine, Sam. Let him come closer.” And so the boy did. He drifted through the room until he stood at the very foot of my bed. He was even more beautiful up close, and his presence felt like pure heaven.

“Hi, I’m Jack.”

“Y/N.”

And just like that, I was sucked in completely. There was no getting myself out of his vortex that absorbed me. It was too strong. I felt connected to him, and not in the childish way. Not in a humanly way. It was a foreign type of bond formed so purely, through words and shared eye contact.

Castiel’s eyes flicked between us, almost in a calculating way. He was analyzing something. I felt subconsciously that I should be asking him if something was wrong, yet I couldn’t tear myself away from this boy yet. Jack, a character I had yet to see on the show; he had such enchanting eyes. I harshly bit my lip and tore away my stare, shutting my eyes tightly.

Get a grip, Y/N.

I turned to the angel at my side. “What are you thinking? What’s wrong? Do you know why I feel like...well, this?” I waved my hand, as if to show what I meant. I was sure he knew what I was saying. He had that look on his face, the one he got when he was thinking but frustrated.

“It’s your souls. They are intertwined.”

“Excuse me?”

“You and Jack. The reason why you were brought to our universe is because you are, as you humans would call it, ‘Soulmates’,” the man put it as if it were simple. We were soulmates, apparently. I didn’t even know this kid. I was only on season 10 for fuck’s sake. How the hell was I supposed to retain this information?

With my head now hung, I prayed, my lips barely mouthing the words. “Oh, sweet Jesus, help me.”

“Wait, wait. Explain it to me again. They’re soulmates? Those exist?” Sam asked, knocking me out of my thoughts. 

He sighed, but nodded. “Not everyone has a soulmate, in fact, they are incredibly rare. It has only happened about ten times in human history, counting this one,” he told us. “It can only happen when a single soul is broken during creation, split between two individuals.”

“So, he reason she has only a fragment of a soul is because Jack has the rest of it?” Dean confirmed.

“Exactly, and the only way the soul can be satisfied is by finding its other piece. Despite being born into different universes, Y/N and Jack have been made of the same soul, an incredibly powerful one,” Castiel finished, his eyes sliding once again between us young people in the room.

Sam let out a hum of approval. “Naturally, the universe has its way of restoring the natural order of things.”

“So, this girl, she’s a normal chick with half a soul.”

“More like an eighth of a soul, but yes.”

That was news to me. I couldn’t bit my tongue any longer. This craziness that these men were spouting was only making me upset and for my stomach to turn. And finding out I barely had a soul was the last straw for keeping my mouth shut. I screeched, “Only an eighth?! You’re telling me I’ve been practically soulless for my entire life?!”

“Yes.”

The boy at my foot smiled shyly, his lips turned up just slightly like he barely knew how to. He spoke in a gentle voice, one that was calm and full of hope. “But it’s okay, right? I can share mine with her now? Since we found each other?” For a moment, I was almost taken completely by his words. Fortunately, I still wore my head.

I flailed my hands in the air wildly, and cried to him, “Why are you so accepting of this, dude? You don’t even know me!”

Again, he smiled, although I could tell he wanted to let it fall. “I know we are meant to be together, and that is really all that matters. I’ve only just met you, but I can feel a connection.”

My heart nearly melted at his kind words, his loving and caring words. No one had ever said something to me that was so meaningful, so innocent either. I wanted to accept him into my heart right then and never let go, but I had to be wary. I was new to this world, that is, if I wasn’t dreaming. Anything could be a threat to me.

“So what does this mean? What do we do with her?”

“Y/N, would you like to stay here with us for now, until we figure this whole thing out?” Sam asked me kindly, unlike his brother, who I could tell was not trusting in the slightest. Not only did I get vibes that he disliked me, but Jack as well. It was a mutual resentment toward both of us.

I sighed. “Do I have a choice?”

No. Of course not.

__________________________________

After I arrived, I soon realized I would stay here much longer than anyone expected. It took months for anyone to actually approach me and say I wouldn’t be sent back to my universe. They expected me to cry. To go into my room and sob about missing my home and my family and all my friends.

But I was glad. I was happy to never have to return back to that hell hole. My father hated me and I had a disturbing lack of friends. The only thing I would miss was my phone, but luckily I was transferred through universes with that stuffed in my jacket pocket.

Basically, I wasn’t bothered a bit that I was never going back to the normal world.

Castiel took me out to buy clothing from the thrift store with what little money that could be spared. I bought things for my bathroom that smelt fresh and clean amongst the intense testosterone overload in the bunker. I painted the walls of my bedroom a dark blue, hung up posters, and got a new comforter with a nice design on it. I fluffed my pillows up and sewed nice cases for them. I even got the chance to fill up my own personal fiction library on the shelf above my bed.

I liked my life in the bunker, after I got adjusted to living with the boys. Sam was easy to be around. As long as you didn’t bother him when he was working out or studying, then you were alright. Castiel thought I was intriguing and often helped me with all my issues, whether they be emotional or even girl ones, which he was clueless about. Dean was harsh and judgemental at first, but after a few weeks of worming my way into his head and soon his heart, I had him wrapped around my little finger.

He even took me out one day to drive Baby, which I knew he didn’t just let anyone do. We had the windows down and the music blaring as I drove down a dirt road with him, laughing and slurping up sugary drinks. He was like the older brother I never had and always wanted.

Jack was different. I felt sick around him, in the best possible way. He made my cheeks turn red from how awkward and cute he was. I adored his soft smiles from across the room. I loved sitting in his room watching movies on late nights when we couldn’t sleep. I liked bringing him to my favorite restaurants and sharing meals, or drinking milkshakes together with two straws like corny couples from old movies.

Except, we weren’t a couple. After a month of being at the bunker,  I told Jack that I thought we should just be close friends. Companions, if you want. It was for the best. There was too much drama going on, and getting into a relationship in another universe just felt so overwhelming.

He said it was fine, so I had no idea how it really affected him. I didn’t know, but he was hurting inside.

Our souls craved each other. It was that simple. We were meant to be, but it wasn’t the right time, I decided.

So selfish.

And then I caught myself falling in love with him. Sure, I was young. Barely eighteen years old and just out of high school, but I knew what love was. I could feel it each time my fingers skimmed his, each time he came home from a hunt and I held his face in my palms to gaze in his broken eyes, and each time we lay beside each other in bed watching a movie and I thought of how easily I could kiss him.

I thought about loving him more often than not. But it could never be, I swore to myself. I convinced myself. They say if you repeat something enough times, you begin to believe it.

I sat in the bunker map room at the table, munching on some chips while the boys were off doing whatever. I think they were out of town for a mission, but I didn’t ask where they went as said goodbye. They would be back in a couple days. Yeah, right. Try a week. They always get off track, those damn hunters.

I sipped at my tea, taking a long breath when the warm liquid slid down my throat. It was nice, being at peace like this. Living with people who cared for me, who protected me. Sure, this life wasn’t safe, but it was just comfortable enough for me.

Footsteps creaked the floorboards behind me, and I didn’t turn around. Instead, I waited for his lovely voice to ring out in my ears.

“Y/N. What are you doing up this late?” Jack asked me, coming up to my chair and pressing his hands to the back of it, right above my shoulders. I only smiled and turned to look up at him, my eyes no doubt sparkling. I was so happy, and seeing Jack made everything so much better. He skipped a lot of missions nowadays for safety reasons, and I couldn’t be happier.

That meant he could be with me more.

“I don’t know. Just living a little.”

“Living? Aren’t you always alive-”

I laughed and shook my head at his naivety. Gently, I corrected him, “I mean, I’m doing something different for a change. Drinking tea at midnight and eating junk food in the living room where Sam would normally kick my ass.”

He nodded, as if understanding only partially. So, with that being on his mind, I stood from my spot and whisked myself off to the bookshelf where the old record player also happened to rest. My soft fingers slid along the dusty box as my eyes scanned the thick pile of albums. I spied through them for minute before pulling out my favorite, one that I believed would light up the night.

As the music began to play, I turned around and swung my hair over my shoulder playfully, sending my best friend a flirty smile. We’re just friends, I reminded myself. Only sometimes, you have to live a little; and if that means to flirt with the boy you’re miserably in love with, then so fucking be it.

I swung my hips from side to side as I approached him, my eyes tearing him apart dangerously. He leaned back, not exactly sure what to expect out of his situation. He definitely wasn’t expecting for me to snatch up his hands in my smaller ones and clutch them tightly.

“Y/N-”

“Dance with me. Come on, it’ll be fun,” I giggled, already swinging our arms back and forth. He gave me one more wary look before letting out a sigh and smiling. This made my entire face light up with pure joy. Just seeing him happy and relaxed like this made my entire day, maybe even my whole week. I loved him that much.

I swung his arms back and forth to the beat, slowly pulling him to the center of the empty space so we could move around a bit more. My feet slid along the floor, my fluffy socks helping quite a bit with that.

Eventually, I got lost in the music, in the dance itself. The album kept playing although songs has changed, and we never paused. I laughed along with him as we swung around. I even let go of one of his hands to pull him into an awkward twirl, and an even more ungraceful spin out.

His fingers felt right, curled in mine, locked in that tight embrace that was so familiar yet so forbidden in my eyes. I never wanted the songs to end, just so I could keep him in my grasp.

I felt comfortable until certain words spilled from his lips in the rush of emotions we felt. “Y/N, you look so beautiful when you laugh,” Jack confessed, his cheeks bright red from laughing and moving around for so long. I think, in that moment of bliss, we both forget who we were. What we were supposed to be.

Friends.

I pulled my hands out of his abruptly. “Jack, you know, I-”

“I know.”

And then it was quiet. The needle had run off the record and the album stopped playing. We were officially alone, and it felt painful, like I was being restrained. Was I torturing myself? Possibly. Was my soul aching like a bitch? Definitely.

Who knew loving someone could hurt so fucking bad?

“Castiel and Dean, they always tell me that you will change your mind. That you will come to accept that we are soulmates. You just keep sending me these “mixed signals”. That’s what Dean calls them,” he paused. I’d never heard him be so direct with his emotions, well, the ones he held for me. I had no idea that Castiel and Dean were talking about me to Jack behind my back. I wasn’t angry, just confused.

“I want to know how you feel about me, Y/N.”

I felt my heart drop in my chest. I didn’t think he would be so bold as to ask me that. I hadn’t exactly planned an answer in preparation. I hadn’t prepared a lie.

Even back home, I was never a good liar.

“It doesn’t matter how I feel about you.”

He was quick to argue, hurt crossing his features. “Yes, it does. It matters to me.” I hated that look across his face, the one of pain and loss, rejection. He didn’t deserve that. Jack Kline was too good for me. Too good to belong with someone like me, a normal person with flaws and no special powers.

But, humans are so selfish.

“And if what I said changed everything between us, would you be so desperate to know?”

“Yes, because then I wouldn’t be so confused when you’re with me,” he replied, almost like a child. He made everything seem so simple. Maybe I was overthinking this.

Fuck it.

“Jack, you’re my soulmate. Of course I love you. We’re both young and we’ve never been in love before, but this is real and it’s so intense and dangerous. We could get hurt. I just...I’m so selfish, and I couldn’t keep myself from falling in love with you.”

His smile grew, despite all the negative things I’d said. He heard what he wanted to. He smiled down at me, his hands going to rest on my upper arms. They were so warm, so comforting. I wanted to just collapse in his arms and never get back up. “Castiel said you felt that way,” he chuckled, flashing a bright toothy grin.

My head fell to stare at the floorboards. A grumble escaped my pouting lips, “Dammit, Cas.”

“It’s okay. Dean told me that if you did say that, that I was supposed to do this,” he stated vaguely. I only had enough time to blink before he had leaned down to press his lips to my own. I shut my eyes tight to avoid looking awkwardly into his open ones. He didn’t move. Just stood there against me with his eyes open.

I pushed him off and bit my lip. Admittedly, I wanted to kiss him. Yet, it was obvious Jack had zero experience with kissing.

“Does that mean you love me too?” I questioned.

“Of course. I thought I made it obvious.”

I laughed, shaking my head. Maybe being happier was better than being stable. Risks are meant to be taken after all. Swiftly, I grabbed his wrist and tugged him down the hallway behind me. He followed blindly and before he could open his mouth to ask, I answered.

“We’re going to my room so I can teach you how to kiss me.” He nodded brightly, smile wider than ever. I really loved him, and he really loved me. Our souls intertwined with beautiful flourishing hearts to match.

[debbie-tanthorey]

65 DAYS IN MAY

CHAPTER ONE

Cosmic irony.  A dentist saved me. You read that correctly – saved my LIFE, albeit inadvertently.  An action as mundane as having one’s teeth cleaned, set fate in motion. Was the week of Thanksgiving 2019, bi-annual check-up.  Dentist does his thing after the hygienist finishes. You know the drill (pun intended).  Only this time he uncustomarily offers me a hand-mirror, tells me to look in my throat, asks me if I've had my tonsils out.

“No”

“You have a white spot back there, see that?” My eyes shift toward the mirror – I LIE – say I see it (don’t have my glasses on, PRIDE won’t let me admit I can’t see any white patch)  He continues, “If you don't mind, am referring you to an oral surgeon for a biopsy.”  The nefarious B-word; brain fires a warning shot.  B-word leads to the C-word. 

Alone now in my car, I fall apart.  Hi, I'm a hypochondriac; I don't handle health challenges well despite the jovial persona folks see.  A paralyzed-with-fear hypochondriac.  Foremost in my thoughts is a long-time friend from high school, currently dealing with a devastating throat cancer diagnosis; I know not to minimize this.  (R.I.P. Grady, August 8, 2020 😔)  Get to my desk, dial my primary physician immediately, which is a big deal for introverted-me; set up an appointment for a second opinion.  The Thanksgiving holiday means I can't be seen until the following week.  What is normally a fun, family-gathering time of year, is effectively fogged in with dread, I go through the motions.  All-consuming thoughts ruminate incessantly - I'm dying.  Yeah, it's what hypochondriacs DO, we ‘dive off into the deep end,’ thrash, drown in ‘what if’s??’

The next week, my doctor smiles after he peers past my tongue into my throat, “Where?” Looks twice, insists I relax, “It's nothing.” He knows me well, adding, “if it would make you feel better, let's follow-up in three months.”  His reassurance tempers my panic . .  life resumes. 

CHAPTER TWO

December 2019, January, February, 2020 the winter that wasn't.  Work that was. Mid-February Housing fair at Ohio University's Walter Hall Rotunda.  Event coordinator, Donna, introduces herself to Dave and me at our display table. Lively-soul, (I admire extroverts) she explains she recently transferred to this area from Columbus and, among other things, is a Stage 4 breast cancer survivor.  Woman is spunky. Piques my interest. I share my sister's email address with her, explaining Cheryl is an 18-month soldier waging the same battle.  

March approaches and the little nagging voice in my head reminds, “3-month follow-up, Deb, just do it.”  Did.  Friday, March 6.  Confirmed, no dumb spot. Ha!! Your basic normal appointment. Crisis debunked. As visit concludes, Hillary, his nurse, scrolls through my medical record, turns to mention it's been more than a couple years since my last mammogram, they’ve all been clear, but I'm due, and would I want to set up one. 

“Sure” 

My youngest, Leah, works in this same medical facility, stop at her desk near the lab to say ‘hello.’  She’s my last to leave home, miss her in my house still. Always good to see and talk to her.  She and Ian were married 18 months ago.  Her desk-mate, Jordan, coincidentally one of Leah’s friends from her high school days, sets up my mammo appointment for Monday.

MONDAY, MARCH 9.  Say ‘hello’ again to the girls at their desk.  Check-in. Take a seat, wait my turn.  Have had plenty of these 'grams in my lifetime, no big deal, no dread.  Bare 'em, squash 'em, and get back to work.  This time though, the tech knows my sister, and as I dress when we are done, from behind the screen she casually asks how old Cheryl was when she got her diagnosis and how’s she doing. (60. She is doing remarkably well, maintaining) 10 minutes later, I’m back at my work desk, phone rings, the mammo-tech is on the phone, needing me to return the next day for “a couple more, 'maybe clearer' pics, and an ultrasound.” That’s never happened before.  A fleeting shot of panic surges, but since my most recent dread has been unfounded, I attempt to not over-react.

TUESDAY, MARCH 10.  Keenly study the radiology-tech’s face for clues when she comes to fetch me from the lobby, I examine her demeanor as if I’m a police detective on a high-profile murder case and she’s my prime suspect.  She's calm.  So I'm cool. Rescan first, ultrasound second.  Not especially pleasant the latter, (idiotic thing to say, was wholly unpleasant ) having your chest unceremoniously smashed in a circular motion against your ribs.  The techs are studious, the room silent, I stare at the ceiling. Last time I had an ultrasound was 26 years ago and I was pregnant. Today, no fun at all. Understand now why my sister mentioned she is not a fan of these during her breast cancer struggles.

CHAPTER THREE

SATURDAY, MARCH 14, a knock on the front door, mailman is standing on my front porch and in the time it takes me to scribble my name on a card, I'm staring down at a certified letter in my palm, the return address of the clinic lunging off the paper at me. There's a low, barely-audible, foreign sound in my head.  It's 'control', in human form, and is protesting/whining as she’s being forcibly dragged away from me.  Remind myself I'm somewhat sane, an adult - just open the envelope.  I do.  And there it is, in black and white, the word -

ABNORMALITY

The rest of the weekend is a blur, debunking the need for concern with my daughters.  Every excuse, every plausible explanation of why a letter like this would be mailed.  A mistake, surely so.  Just a glitch in the system.  “Mom, if it was bad, they wouldn't notify you by letter,” Leah insists.

MONDAY, MARCH 16, my primary physician calls in regard to my somewhat-panicky email fired-off to him on Saturday, the day the letter arrives. He speaks in calm tones, explains he was on vacation the past week, is sorry he could not talk to me before the notice arrived, he's seen the offending spot on the film, offers it's so small, unlikely any cause for concern. “Indistinctive,” he assures. Forwarding to a surgeon for review.

CHAPTER FOUR

TUESDAY, MARCH 17, mama-daughter call . . normal stuff .. she’s working today at the clinic. She mentions the aforementioned surgeon has office hours today, maybe I could be squeezed in.  I’m in luck, they can.  So in a couple hours, I am shaking the hand of the head of surgery.  Personable guy, he tells me he's reviewed my pics, if the radiologist had not circled the area, he would not have noticed it right away.  Optimism duly noted. He thoroughly examines that body part, pokes and prods, asks me if I feel a lump. “I have not.” Today he doesn't either.  Every woman knows about lumps. I absolutely know about lumps. I would never ignore one.  Fact of the matter, there is NO lump! 

We go over my less than stellar immediate family history of C. (HATE that word). Lung, breast, leukemia.  He recommends biopsy to rule out any true problem. The B-word again.  This day I say, ‘ok'. 

Right here is where COVID-19 makes it's bizarro presence known, personally impacts ME. Doctor advises local surgery center is now closed due to the virus and procedures are limited to emergencies only but he is willing to go before the Board to plead my case.  ????  While thankful he is willing to intercede for me; I am tamping down anxiety fighting to rise up, mentally jumping up and down, stomping on it, both feet.

Couple days later I get the call the Medical Board approves me for a needle biopsy.  Control-of-my-life, she is sitting on the floor in a fetal position, rocking, whimpering in a locked padded-room somewhere.

CHAPTER FIVE

TUESDAY, MARCH 24, Jess drives me to Jackson.  I don't need driven. Appreciate my oldest’s company though.  COVID rules necessitate only a patient be permitted to enter any facility; Jess has to wait in the car.  At the door, am screened for symptoms, this is the Twilight Zone.  And it's too quiet in here.  The place is dark and weird and I don't want to be here.  I'm the ONLY person in the entire surgery center, I overhear the staff talking, they weren’t on the schedule today, I’m the only patient. hhmmmm, why am I so important??  Creepy.

Am ushered into the procedure room, nurses are professional, put me at ease.   Entering, it’s impossible to miss my film aglow on the lighted-box on the wall; she asks if I want to see it.  (NO!! I don’t want to see it!!)  In reality, robotically, walk over to look.  There it is, plain as day.  The previously described small-likely-nothing indistinctive spot.  Yikes, it's a glaring, ominous, bright white glob with literal tentacles reaching out, it’s in the middle of my precious flesh.  No denying this now. Thing’s staring back at me.  The only way I know how to describe the rest of the appointment, is that I am having an out-of-body experience, it’s not happening to me.  No . . . is not.

You know the lifts in a garage of an auto repair shop?  That's what this is. Clumsily climb aboard, assume a  face-down position. There's no delicate way to explain the procedure.  There's an enormous hole in the table, chest area, your beloved body part dangles and the table is raised, surgeon accesses it from below.  Area is securely taped, prepped and numbed.  Needles are fun, aren't they??!  (eye roll)  Am told the table will vibrate, surgeon cautions me to lay perfectly still or the laser will slice me.  (no problem, I float away, not even present in the room)  And it begins.  Computer guides a gatling gun of needles as it commences to stab the tumor, withdraw specimens of cells.  Sounds horrific, but it isn't, numbing tends to that. Divert my eyes from the red, fleshy goop siphoning into the container, my eyes clamped shut much of the time. Lasts just a few minutes, dress, then am on my way.  Visit the same surgeon in a week for the results. Will not come back to this location, by then this center will also be closed by the pandemic mandate, next appointment is at a nearby hospital.

CHAPTER SIX

APRIL 1, 2020, APRIL FOOL'S DAY.  First time I have ever visited this hospital, enter alone, virus protocol at the door.  Surgeon’s office on the second floor, take the elevator.  Few folks in the building, those that are, like me, are wearing masks.  As I wait, pilfer on my ipad.  Name is called, off I go.  Today I find out this thing is benign, that I have been spazzing for weeks over nothing, naturally. Don't wait long for the Dr., I remain seated as he enters, greets me.  He begins  talking as he walks across the room, lays down my chart, then turns, making eye-contact, “you are so lucky to have had this test, mammogram did what it was supposed to do; we've caught it early.”  

IT 

“...(I go effectively deaf)  blah-blah-blah-blah-blah CARCINOMA.” A cataclysmic concoction of consonants and vowels strung together into syllables, words, in sentence form, delivered matter-of-factly.  What happens here is nothing short of BIZARRE.  Always imagined if I heard the words, “you have cancer,” I would react BADLY.

I would -

be angry

weep

go to pieces

vomit

all of the above

In reality -

I did not cry

I did not faint

I did not scream

Instead, sit calmly, silently.  Stoic. Utterly, absolutely, wholly dumbfounded. ( this isn’t real - my head hurts - is this a stroke!?)  REALITY  Brain cells scramble to focus, I listen intently to every word, nod occasionally.  Hearing all, absorbing little, during this a crash course on three types of breast cancer and treatment options available.  (drifting off  - I like him, he gestures with his hands as he speaks of surgery options.)  Reconstruction; their plastic surgeon is top notch. The decision is mine.  The doctor adds simply, “you know what will happen if you do nothing.”

I do

Unceremoniously and without a second’s hesitation, I react, “Get it off me,” hand on my chest. (subconscious protesting, “I feel FINE!!!!  THIS. IS. STUPID!!”)

He nods in acknowledgement of my words, continuing, discusses recurrence rates on the opposite breast. Fuzzy math. Right here I interrupt him with the wave of a hand, “Get them both off me!” For good measure, I repeat it.  Decision made, bilateral mastectomy it is, ASAP.  Hands me a print-out with my diagnosis, I roll the paper up like a diploma and slip it in my bag.  Stare down at the bag I take to work everyday . . (new-reality thoughts commence) or did … back when life was normal.  

“Lousy April Fool’s Day, ya gotta admit.” I mutter out-loud to him as I rise to my feet, reach for the door.  (how am I walking??!)

Ah, but COVID-19.  Global pandemic, if it were a person, he’d be a cold-hearted, merciless jerk.  I have to wait 14 days, be symptom-free in order to be permitted in their surgery unit or risk contaminating the whole place.  Condemned to live with my killer for 15 more days, let it sleep with me, go to work with me, hang out with me while I visit my kids, grandkids.   Melodramatic? You betcha, but the truth.  All the while knowing the beast is growing.  

I don’t exit the building until I am pre-registered for surgery, receive copious instructions, am assigned a day, APRIL 16.  Next to the radiology waiting room, there I message my sister, she is the first to know.  I have breast cancer.  There’s lab work, x-ray, EKG.  Am a zombie.  A polite zombie with cancer making idle chitchat with techs who have no freaking clue my unremarkable and average life has evaporated in the last 45 minutes.  

Poked, prodded, scanned and x-rayed - my walk across the parking lot is a 1,000 mile trek.  Open the door, slide into the seat, fasten the seat belt, inhale deeply, fill my lungs with air just so I feel alive and less numb.  Stare at my hands. Wish I could scream without attracting attention.  Vomiting would be a blessing about now.  I seem to be the same person that got out of the vehicle two hours before. No, am not the same at all. HOW do I do this????! Any of this??  

HOW??????????!!!!!

In the days that follow, I will unroll my biopsy report, familiarize myself: invasive lobular carcinoma, 1.6cm, grade 1, ER+PR+HER2-. (translation = hormone fed)  I will become versed about the enemy within, that if left untreated, would put me in the ground. Knowledge is power.

CHAPTER SEVEN

How do you tell the people you love, you have cancer? How do you toss a live emotional-grenade in a room? As terrifying as it is for me, I have to watch the realization sink in, the fear in their faces.  Jess and Leah, my girls, having initiated a video chat with me as I wait for labs at the hospital. “Mom...well, how’d it go??” Not necessary to share details out loud, I crack, my eyes said all there was to say. Tough to hide that.  Awful is the fact I’m in a public waiting room as they ask, am trying to hold it together, not disintegrate, explode into pieces.  Watch them absorb what they now understand.  I can’t help them.

Morning of April 1, the plan was to go back to work after the appointment. I don't. I aim the car toward home.

But first, I stop at my mom's house, to reveal the diagnosis to her and George.  This is the first time I will say the words.  Standing in the middle of her living room, my mouth opens and the emotion-less words fall out, “I have cancer too.” It is weird to hear it voiced and I feel bad for her.  (her sister, my dad, my brother, my sister, now me) Explain to her what I plan to do and comfort that it'll be alright.  She supports my decision: show no mercy to the beast. 

Head home.

Turn onto my county road, Jameson calls, asks how the Dr. visit went.  Avoiding answering, instead, ask if they are home, that I will be right there.  Am thankful I am not them.  He ‘knows’ from my tone, detects from the question.  My son and wife, Patty, live 1/4 mile from my house, I arrive at their place in only a couple minutes, walk into their living room where they both were, learn the kids are upstairs, state the fact to the both of them, and I sit down for a bit.  Just like that. Keep it light and matter of fact.  

Life is insane. 

CHAPTER EIGHT

What follows is 15 days trapped in a state of in-between.  Desperate for normalcy yet knowing I can’t have it.  What to do. What. To. Do.  Staying right-minded is the aim.  Crave it.  C-word rarely leaving my thoughts. Every day ‘hospital Jessica’ calls me to ask a series of Covid-19 related questions and asks my body temperature that I am tasked with taking each morning upon waking.

What I CAN maintain right now, is routine.

COVID locks my office door in mid-March, am the only one staffing there.  OU student move-in/move-out day is May 3.  I’m the one in charge of this, making sure everything is ready. Can’t cancel it . . it goes on with or without me.  Scheduling surgery mid-April, slashes two weeks off my prep time for this once-a-year event.  Realize the timing could not be better, if there IS such a thing, I have little free time to ponder what’s coming, am too busy.  Every day I plow through my work to-do list.  Go home too tired to indulge doom and gloom.  

Away from the office too, I quickly find another diversion, researching and shopping for items I might need after the surgery.  Soft tops with inner pockets for drains management, ice packs, hot packs, special propping pillow.  A miracle they all arrive on time because Amazon Prime has been waylay-ed by the corona virus.  A sick and twisted ‘Merry Christmas to me’ as each package arrives.  In some small way, gives me a semblance of control.  

Sleeping is not an issue during these days.  It’s my safe place.  Sleep deep and well, courtesy of a little purple pill discovered years ago.  (thank you, menopause) Each and every morning, have about 30 seconds of ‘normal’ before I remember what demon is living in me.  

An entertaining activity during this time is staring in my lingerie drawer at the start of every day, choosing which style, what color bra for one last travel in the rotation.  I waffle.  At first, suffer pangs of melancholy while looking at the neat row of vibrant colors and lace.  Then chuckle, cups are large enough to be made into hats for small children.  No one wants to discuss my boobs, but this is an important part of the process of letting go.  Acknowledgement.  A girl spends what seems like her whole life waiting for these body parts to materialize; coveted, we dress them up, suspend them with steel reinforcement, make the best of them.  They feed our children, we rock our babies/grandbabies against them.  They’re part of who we are.   Mine are set for execution.  It’s them or me.

Time ticks by. 

CHAPTER NINE

WEDNESDAY, APRIL 15.  Mastectomy Eve, am something I have never been, radioactive.  True.  This day go into the hospital ALONE, pass through the covid-19 gauntlet; escorted to a quiet room with a massive machine, bet it was a CT scanner, I don’t ask, I lay down on a metal table and a needle is inserted in my chest region, right side (still find it weird to use the word ‘breast’) and a radioactive tracer is placed in my body at the sight of the tumor.  I’d researched the procedure a little (LIE . . I researched a LOT) beforehand, and read it would be EXCRUCIATING.  So expect the worst.  Naturally.  Tech is kind and reassuring; small talk.  I notice what great hair he has.  Stare at the ceiling as I lay there. Then the doctor comes in, says I’ll feel a stick (had read the area is numbed first)  expect that.  Did.  Not horrendous - that’s an exaggeration, barely felt anything.  Assume we wait for the numbing to take effect before he drills through to the core.  What I DIDN’T expect, is him to say, “you’re done.”  Meaning that tiny prick was it.  Say what now?  Before the morning’s surgery, I’ll come back to this table, and will find out if the cancer has leeched into any lymph nodes.  I dress and exit the building.

ESCAPE! The rest of this day IS MINE. I take my dreary thoughts, my diseased chest, the ‘DD girls’ , and we hit the road, took the long way home.  Gave ‘them’ the best darned last-day-alive you could ask for.  Was the least I could do considering what I was consenting to do to them.  Pitied them and wanted them DEAD at the same time. Them or me.

Flowers waiting for me when I got home, the first time I sobbed in earnest. A torrent of tears.

CHAPTER TEN

THURSDAY, APRIL 16, 2020.  DtoDD DAY.  Death to DD’s Day.  (and my Mom’s 81st birthday) Eerily calm. I grab my packed bag, stare at my freshly-made bed as I turn to exit the bedroom.  Oh here comes one of those bizarro thoughts I have at times like this. Glancing around, mutter, “when I return, nothing will be the same.  Gee, I hope I come back.”  Melodramatic to a fault I am.  Patty drops me off at the hospital door at a ridiculously early hour.  Did I mention this is during a pandemic so no one can come in and that the hospital is spooky-empty and hushed??  Well, it is.  Apocolyptically-quiet.  Surreal.  Check-in is swift and efficient and a surgery-nurse retrieves me promptly, accompany her to the prep area. this is real?

This unit has a circle of several cubicles, all but three are empty though.  Settled in, changing into hospital gown, then I have three hours to ponder the fact that the last time I had surgery was 26 years ago and I am not as young as I used to be, and nowhere near ready to die, and lordy, I am no fan of pain.   I feel FINE . . how can something deadly be in me yet I feel this HEALTHY??

In the hours I wait, return to scan-room to see if this thing has reached my lymph nodes.  Dark room, humming machine.  Same tech lets me watch the screen, bright lights like tiny fireworks become visible. No clue what I am watching.

My appointed time arrives, was about 9:30 a.m.  Accompanied by a surgical nurse, I walk down the hallway to the O.R., my IV pole in tow. this isn’t real  Three surgical staff are busily prepping. Funny how apprehension makes one awkwardly talkative with strangers, more so than normal.  I greet them and cannot shut up, blather, “you know how kids took home tonsils in a jar?? (clutching my chest)  you have a gallon jug I can take these home with me?”  (yes, I really did say it)  Laughter from them, that’s good. Am offered a stool to climb onto the table.  I do.  My God, to the gallows, ‘girls’

Jettisoned into the Twilight Zone right here.  In the time it takes me to scoot, get comfortably horizontal on the table, sterile people descend on me, all over me doing things.  Arms, legs . .  belt around my abdomen.  Am picturing masked-ants.  Busy, busy.  Big light on the ceiling lowering, settles above my upper torso and head.  I feel FINE  Am here, but not here.  Oh God.  Gentle voice to my right, as a mask is fitted over my nose and mouth, “take a couple deep breaths.”

Blackness.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I’m struggling in deep water, not diving down - but up, shooting to the surface of the water, I need air.  Regaining consciousness, a jostling, repeating,  “Debbie, wake up.  Can you hear me?”  Awake.  Literal first conscious thought, drenched in relief -

“... NOT DEAD” 

Body is being tugged, moved, but I’m not doing it.  Realization hits me, where I am and what's happened.  Conscious, I no longer feel fine, unrelenting waves of nausea wash over me.  I give myself over to whichever medical professional wants to tend to me. They can have me, I don’t want me.  Not this me.

End up in a hospital room, no recollection whatsoever how.  Silence interrupted only by BP cuff on an ankle, inflating noisily at intervals reminding me I’m alive.  Not moving.  Lord, what have I done?  Ice packs under both arms.  Detest feeling this gross.  I hang onto the sheets for hours, ride out the nausea.

As terrible as that was, and it was horrendous, it ends abruptly once I am fully awake later in the afternoon. In fact, feel remarkably good - considering. Any pain is well-managed. I can move, even lift my arms. I can walk to the restroom, tend to myself.�� Am hungry and eat a good dinner. Pleasantly surprised at this half of the day.

Curious. Here’s where I gingerly lift the blanket to get my first look. DD-girls are gone, replaced by a thick layer of bandage all across my chest, tubing, two drains, and . . . oh my lord . . . HOW long has my belly been that size??????!  God bless boobs, they divert one’s attention from a myriad of flaws. Geez-louise.

Thank you, Covid-19, for the hospital stay’s solitude, I don’t mind, I welcome not having to share this day with visitors.  Am only interrupted intermittently by nurses and the doctor.  No big deal.  Not much to tell.  Post on facebook that I survived.  Was released to go home the very next day with surgeon’s, “no restrictions. See you in a week, will have lab results for you then.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

FRIDAY, APRIL 17. HOME.  Here’s where it gets funny.  Seriously.  Humorous.   Reality.   My youngest, Leah, volunteers to stay for the first few days.  Plan on not needing much in the way of assistance.  Stubborn.  Not too uncomfortable, prop on pillows, watch tv, pain meds.  First-night, decide my bed is where I will sleep, let her have the couch.   Undeterred in the middle of the night, manage to get myself to the bathroom alone. Good for ME!! Ah, but then the sun comes up. Right here I discover Super Woman I am not.  Attempt the same maneuver and the stabbing pain angrily asserts, “NOT THIS TIME, SISTER!”  Ah, bladder is bossy and insistent. But Pain is in charge.  “#*&@*#&$}” a little too loudly (translation) “Leah!! Help!!”  She comes trotting and I’m laughing, trapped in my own bed.   Arms frozen at my sides, literally cannot move under my own power without an instant excruciating reaction.   With urgency (full bladder loudly protesting) instruct her to wring a bed sheet, get to the foot of the bed, hold the ends, let me grab the middle . . . PULL!!   It works!!  Whew, lesson learned, until I could get up and down on my own unaided, I didn’t sleep there again.  

Drains.  Grateful to only require two.  Three times a day they need emptying.  Unceremoniously, Leah’s job.  When large portions of flesh are removed, one’s body compensates by attempting to fill the space with fluid, drains are typically inserted to draw off this fluid, speeding recovery.  These ‘things’ (drain hoses) are just under my skin across the width of my chest, a stitch holding them in place at the hole (yikes) where they exit on either side.  The bulbs at the end of the 12 inch lines are clear grenade-shaped receptacles collecting wound-juice.   (you winched at the visual, didn’t you?  haha)  They get full.  Necessary to milk the line first, with sterile gloved fingers of one hand, she grasps and steadies the line where it exits my body, with the other, she slides her pinched fingers down the tubing, pushes the ooze and any clots to the end. Pops the top of the bulb, empties 'ick' into a measuring cup, and logs the amount and color.  Squeezes the bulb as she closes the lid so siphon will commence. My only job is to 'enjoy' the vigorous suction.   eek

I sit dutifully still on a stool while she goes about her ‘work’, chit-chatting about this and that, am intentionally not watching the gore slipping, dripping into the bulb. She's not hurting me but every now and then will feel a subtle tug, a movement of the tubing.  (shudder)  Sunday evening she taps the bulb’s bottom on the table, remarking, “darned clot won’t fall through.”  (rap, rap, smack)  “Eww, that’s gross,” she says, “clot (tap) won’t (tap) let go ( jiggling it, the dangling, stringing bloody blob just hanging there, swaying back and forth).”  My skin is warming . . . interesting sensation . . getting hot.  Really HOT.  She is sitting right next to me, is talking but her voice is fading.  Am looking her direction, but she is drifting away in a misty vapor . . . waaaaaaaaaaaay over there now, voice, can’t hear her.  Vision going and the room is moving ever so slightly.

I see my girl in slo-mo, she realizes what is happening, "Mom, Mom ... MOM!" (my mouth no longer works, cannot respond) hear her excited, “DAD!!!! Come quick!! Help! Mom’s passing out!!!”

Didn't. (did get to the couch . . sat still for an hour, feet up . . w/ice pack alternating on my neck, forehead) Didn’t vomit, so that's a 'WIN" for the day.

I learn to do it myself once she goes home. No big deal.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

THURSDAY, APRIL 23.  A week passes, mostly uneventful.  Sick leave, lounging, medicating, tracking excretion of Deb-juice, healing.  Tough to remember the days in March and early April when I felt GOOD.  I feel terrible.  Blah - which to me, IS terrible.  No fever, no signs of infection, just a general feeling of malaise. (such a descriptive word, ‘malaise’)  Post-op visit, a follow-up with the surgeon. Oldest daughter Jess, chauffeur for the day.  The entire drive down to Gallipolis, I imagine they’ll take one look at my sorry self, react in horror, re-admit me immediately.  I have to be dying, something has to be terribly wrong. No one can feel this bleak and survive. 

Mull my life over for that hour drive, did I live it adequately, what is left that I have not done, am I going to throw up IN or OUT of her car . . oh woe is me . . my thoughts are rambling, disjointed, grim.  (BEYOND melodramatic) LOL  Get to the hospital, I have to admit I cannot even walk in under my own power.  I have no power, drained dry.  Jess requests a wheelchair and I feel how I imagine being 150 years old and feeble feels, reliant on a stranger for transport up to the waiting area.  Pitiful.  I hate this.  Too puny to care.

And remember COVID . . Jessica can’t come in with me.  My mummified remains parked in a desolate waiting room.  sigh  I need a transfusion.  I need a transplant, I need SOMETHING . . want my life back.  Where’d Debbie go??!! 

Eventually wheeled into the exam room (decrepit thing that I am) to wait.  Surgeon enters, his normal perky self, smiles my direction.  I lament the state of (absence of) well-being and inability to go to the bathroom for DAYS.  (how embarrassing)  “Sweetheart (NO, he did not say 'Sweetheart’) it’s your pain meds doing this to you.  STOP THEM.” 

huh?????! 

Examines the 12-inch incisions on either side of my torso. Both doing well. No stitches to remove, interior stitches will dissolve on their own. Exterior sterie strips will fall off in the next week. He studies my drain-log, then simply remarks, “looks great, amounts are decreasing steadily. You want them (drains) out today?” (glimmer of hope) Instantly agree, so without ceremony and with a quick snip of a stitch and a wiggle of the tube and a firm TUG, one Jackson Pratt drain is out. Nasty thing now coiled on the exam table. OUT!!! The other follows swiftly. Oh dear lord . . feels soooooooo good to be rid of those things. Best part . . expected to have them at least another week, that the extrication of same, would be horrendous. Wasn’t. Didn’t hurt actually. Bandaids applied to my newest holes. No stitch, no nothing. “See ya in a month. No restrictions.”  Surprised he didn’t pat me on my sorry head.

Trip home is infinitely better, envision the tunnel and light shining in the distance. aaaahhhhh

Not another pain pill crosses these lips . . the man is a genius.  (epilogue: my decline was indeed induced by the pain meds . . out of my system - recovering was a breeze.  TIP: get off them as soon as you can)

P.S. Almost forgot the most important part!!!!! Lab results!!!  Geez . .the tunnel, the light . .  THIS IS WHY!!!  TODAY I learn I am CANCER-FREE‼️‼️‼️ Well, I would hope so!!  Nearly six pounds of flesh sacrificed / removed . . CLEAN MARGINS around the tumor. Lymph nodes are CLEAR!!! Sentinel node removal a bit messy, seven others unable to be separated from it, come out as well.  Sobering fact is that I, nor the surgeon, felt a telltale lump - but it was there.  In black and white, sobering words, “STAGE TWO”. Appointment  with oncologist in May to discuss options.  Why???  Here's the thing about breast cancer, sometimes IT COMES BACK. 

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Want to tell you the euphoria was warmly welcome and long-lasting.  Yes and no, in that order.  Sharing with friends that surgeon ‘got it all’ was met with copious genuine exclamations of ‘thank God!’ and ‘hallelujah’.  For good reason.  Pathology report of clean margins and clear nodes is a positive outcome. IT’S GONE!!  And like me at this juncture, believe that’s the end of it.  Too few days of relief pass swiftly -  the reality that it may not be over, steadily seeps back in as I educate myself.  But with a stubborn childlike optimism, trust the oncologist will study my diagnosis, pronounce my journey with this evil thing over. “Deborah, congrats, you’re finished with it and it with you. Have a nice life.” Let’s go with that.  I want it.

Just a couple more weeks to find out.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

In the meantime, at home I’m getting bored.  ‘Bored’ is WONDERFUL.  It’s normalcy.  And a strong signal that it’s time for life to go on.

I am well enough to attend to work emails, becoming more frequent as students prepare to leave Athens officially, the stalwart diehards who came back after Spring Break despite the lockdown that commenced mid-March.  Boredom, the impetus, that gets me out of the house.

TUESDAY, APRIL 28, 12 days post-op, several days free from pain-killers and feeling almost back to my old self, I slide behind the wheel of my car, new precious pillow between sensitive chest and the seatbelt and drive to work.  Man oh man, how I missed 70′s radio . . sing all the way.  I last at my desk for 4 hours this first day, mindful to recognize limitations, cut the day short, but go home triumphant.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN 

THURSDAY, APRIL 30.  Meet-my-oncologist day.  (mentally mark off THAT on my ‘Life’s List-of-Dreads’) First things first, why am I here??!  Surgeon recommends I have a chat with the man . . rule out the need for anything further.  Youbetcha. Today is THE. DAY!!  Fully expect to be ‘blessed’ and sent on my way . . “Debbie, you were lucky, it’s all gone.  Your cancer journey was intense and brief and now it’s over. Go live your life, girl.”

Check in.  Hunker down at the back of the vast lobby, comfy chair.  I absorb the room.  Oh you know I don’t want to, but I do.  A few patients are here.  One unhealthy looking older lady on a hospital stretcher over there.  Another slightly-weathered woman near the wall, wearing a turban.  And there’s me.  Odd-man out, pain-killers now out of my system: (yes yes, am minus the ‘girls’) full head of thick hair, kinda sorta minimally wrinkly, feeling strong and healthy . . . like me again.  

Name called.  BP and weight.  Perks of the day . .  bp is good, especially good for me.  Literally-asked-the-nurse-to-repeat-the-numbers good. And am down 10 lbs.  I’ll take it!!  Gee, this visit is headed in the right direction! 

Lead to an exam room, given a questionnaire.  Ugh.  Bottom of the page.  Please list details of immediate family members . . . health issues, explanation.  Here we go . .  Melvin / dad / died in 2000 @64 / lung cancer (scribble to the side ‘life time smoker’ . . like it somehow negates the dying)  Tim / brother / died in 2000 @39 / leukemia (again, the scribbling, master mechanic, hands in chemicals)  Stephen / brother / died in 1957 @6 weeks / S.I.D.S.  Bottom of this page is an OCD nightmare, ink scribbles in every direction, sad that I ran of space. Add, “Cheryl / sister / is 61 / @60 stage IV breast cancer (’maintaining’ . . didn’t add, but wanted to, “THANK YOU VERY MUCH!!”)   Janice / mom / is 81.  Terry / brother / is 55.”  Finishing up, as MY oncologist enters the room.

Brief introductions . .  Cursory physical exam of surgical site.

Oncologist reviews the information I provide, studies my chart.  Two verbal inquires of me - 

do you or have you ever smoked? “no”

do you drink alcohol and how much? “rarely” 

He pauses.  He can ascertain I’m not fudging the details.  “Never?” he queries again.  Shake my head in the negative.  Sincerely he adds, “this makes NO sense. Risk factors are not there for breast cancer.  No sense at all.” 

Dr. Hamid relates there is a genetic test that can be performed using my tumor tissue, (eewwww, they still have it!!)  the results determining whether or not chemo therapy would be of any benefit to me.  Again - I am confused why a person who is now disease-free, minus seven pounds of her best flesh, needs ANYTHING additionally.  I consent.  He jots down for me the chemo recipe that I would receive if it’s indicated.  Metaphysically burns my fingertips as I take the slip from him. (chemo??! stifling a scream)  If not, I would be prescribed a pill to stop my body's remaining production of estrogen.  Anastrazole is the drug of choice, there are a few common side effects: bone/joint pain, fatigue, etc.  Majority of women experience no side effects of any kind, he assures.  (mental note of an over-achiever: I will be one of THOSE)  Dr. adds, “Lab work takes about two weeks to get back.  Come see me in two weeks please.   Oh wait . .  you drive quite a distance to get here, right?  Just call my office on May 13, we can handle this over the phone.”

uh huh  . . .  so much for being blessed and sent on my merry way.  CHEMO, sub-set item under 1. CANCER on  ‘Life’s List-of-Dreads’.  TRULY . . . there is nothing I enjoy MORE, than waiting on test results.   (epic eye-roll right here, stomach twists in knot)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

This is the last chapter of ‘65 DAYS IN MAY’ (today it’s February 25, 2021) I am a procrastinator.  Am still me, after all.  My instructions were to call oncologist’s office on Wednesday, May 13, 2020, to learn whether or not chemo therapy was the next step in my cancer treatment.  By now I have little recollection of the blur of days between April 30 and when Dr. Hamid called me with my genetic testing results, my Oncotype score.  Every day seemed endless, recovering well, feeling progressively more like myself.  I let work duties bulldoze me through those days, thoroughly occupied. I was thankful to have nearly 300 college students moving-out and moving-in on May 3rd.  Grateful to be bone weary at the end of each day, having little time to thrash about the prospect of chemo - that, and staying safe as COVID rampaged.

TUESDAY, MAY 12, at my desk, alone in a pandemic-locked-down office.  One last day not having to call, know anything.  Ignorant bliss.  Phone rings, spy caller I.D., uh-oh, cancer center.  I stop breathing.  Lift receiver, ‘Hello, this is Debbie.’  Not breathing.   HERE WE GO  (9+ months later now, still recall the catch of my breath and pounding heart.  Am not exaggerating when I tell you time froze.)  Dr. Hamid’s voice was soft, he wasted no time relating my Oncotype score plus chance of recurrence is low and chemo is not necessary in my situation. He’ll call in an Anastrazole script for me, it cuts my chance of recurrence to less-than 5%.  Only question I had, “what exactly was my number?”  17    “See you again in 6 months,” as he ends the call.  Stare at the phone receiver clenched in my hand.

NO CHEMO . .  with exorbitant gusto, I EXHALE

Celebration fireworks in my head, both hands in the air, stifle an audible, triumphant HALLELUJAH!   For the moment, issued a reprieve.  I soak it up.  Once composed, swivel chair to my right, run my palms slowly, purposefully over the desk calendar, lift the pages, studying, absorbing.  Begin to count . . . .

STINT IN PURGATORY - 65 DAYS IN MAY

EPILOGUE

(stay tuned)