#i slipped on wet gravel because my dog saw something she wanted her teeth to meet

[existennialmemes]

Me: [slips and falls]

My nervous system: MAYDAY MADAY WE ARE UNDER ATTACK Deploying Defensive Maneuver- Get Dizzy And Pass Out

Me: Really not seeing how this is helping

My Nervous System: IT'S NOT HELPING LAUNCHING PANIC ATTACK

[playinonaloop]

Chapter 4: Save us

Warning throughout the series: (mentions of) smut, violence, drugs, alcohol, guns, maffia stuff, ya know!

Story masterlist

A warm wind blew onto Daniels ‘s face as he ran out into the garden. He blew out air through his nose while he crouched down. To torture you was one thing, but to kill you? Daniel knew that only would bring death and destruction to his family. His body became hot as the world started to spin around him. Daniel’s heart started to race, blood pounding in his ears. He sat down and tried to grab the small stones of the gravel path beneath him.

Thoughts were spinning through his head; his mother had really gone mad. She was really planning to kill you, for something as simple as money. Daniel knew that there was more to it than just money. He knew his family was tied up into something bigger than he could ever imagine. Why did you get left behind? Was this a way to get underneath the skin of his parents? Why didn’t they leave Joey? Were you something your family thought of as less, just as his family did?

Everybody in the Ricciardo family knew that his sister, Michelle, was going to be the next one to lead the family. Her being older, and perhaps more twisted, aided to that. She fitted right into the way his family portrayed themselves. Daniel didn’t use drugs like they did, he didn’t drink alcohol. He didn’t enjoy torturing like they did. In every aspect he was different than them. Joe, his dad, was in many ways like him but, because he married Grace, he changed to her liking. And with that, Joe didn’t hold her back in the things she did.

Daniels ‘s breath slowed down again as he got a grip of the stones beneath him. He threw them away from him as he took deep breaths to calm down again. After a short moment, he stood up and turned around to take a look at the house. His brown eyes scanned the house, taking it in. The big windows, balconies with lounge sets on them. A curtain that blew out of a window. Daniel walked back a bit to see the enormous roof with some small towers on top of it. He knew that it wasn’t normal to live in such a mansion. With that thought on his mind, he walked back inside.

--

Soft whimpers left your mouth as the pain became unbearable. The sun was now high up in the sky which meant that Daniels ‘s visit had been a few hours ago. You hadn’t had food or something to drink in a while now, in combination with being tortured it made you feel awful. The smell of dried blood was starting to make your head spin. As you looked down you saw that your jeans were drenched in blood. This made you close your eyes shortly; you knew you had lost a lot of blood.

When you opened your eyes, you knew you had slipped out of consciousness for a bit. The sun was starting to set. It marked the end of day four, making it almost five days since you saw your family. God, you hated this situation. A frustrated groan left your mouth as you thought about the last moments before you went on this stupid mission. Eating breakfast with your parents and Joey, giving your dog Katy a last cuddle before leaving. Tears started to well up in your eyes. You knew that you were going to die here if your family didn’t show up tomorrow. As a family you had mutually decided that, if there wasn’t an option to save one of them within the first five days of being kidnapped or left behind, you didn’t get saved. It took too much risk to come and save someone who might actually be dead due to starvation, torture or even murder. Yes, it was a very hard choice to accept. But it had to be done, to save the family.

The door behind you opened. It made you sit up, hoping someone came to bring you something to eat and drink. You realized that it wasn't a food delivery by the way the person moved through the room. Another set of footsteps joined.

"We're giving you another chance to 'fess up"

Michelle her voice cut through the air, a shiver running up your spine as Grace walked towards the windows. You quickly saw the gun she was carrying. It made you realize this could end in two different ways. You could either tell them or die. A smile played your mouth as another idea popped up in your mind.

"Okay"

"Okay?"

It made Michelle walk towards you, Grace turned around with a frown on her face.

"Yeah, I'm dying either way"

Grace scoffed and smiled. She let go of the gun.

"Clever girl..."

You told them this big story, how your parents decided they would legalize weed as they grew it on the farm back north of Queensland. To what degree they went to flood the now legal market. How they profited of it, making them become wealthier than they had ever been. You told them in detail where the farm was, Michelle left the room to send an investigator up there. Grace just stared at you. In dismay.

“I can’t believe you would betray your family like that.”

“Well, they left me here to die. Didn’t they?”

Hatred fueled your eyes, and they believed your story.

“I’ll make sure they get your regards”

Grace left. You took a deep breath in, shaking your fear out of you. The farm you talked about was an empty shell. Your family didn’t use it, as it used to be an old family home. It was completely empty. A giggle left your mouth, it was all a lie. The Ricciardo’s weren’t going to win in any way. You were going to die anyway, now or in 80 years.

You looked out of the window, staring into the abyss as a few hours passed by. It turned completely dark outside. The door behind you opened but you were too tired to respond.

It was Daniel that sat in front of you. A knife in his hands. You knew it was time. A tear slipped out of your eye, making you nudge your shoulder to your cheek. He didn't look at you.

"So ironic that you are the one to..." You scoffed softly.

Daniel looked up at you. Your eyes met and it was electrifying. Now that he was sitting here in front of you, you had time to take him in. Thinking that he would be the last thing you would see because you weren't sure if there was anything like an afterlife, your eyes slid over his head. You could see how messy his curls were, almost identical to how they were this morning. A number of curls had slumped to the side, as if they were too heavy to hold. You would always remember his sun-tanned head, that's how he used to look. The wrinkles around his eyes that no doubt came from laughing all the time. The beard that made him look older than he was. You looked further down. A muscular body, dressed in a simple black t-shirt and shorts. Daniel didn't wear socks, also something he never did. You now saw the rose on his hand, you recognized it from somewhere.

"How long do you have that rose?"

"I don't know, since 2018 I think, why?"

"No, it's nothing, thought I recognized it"

"Oh"

The silence came back, and it became unbearable.

"If you aren't going to kill me, just do it"

He stood up, playing with the knife. Daniel looked back and forth between you and the door. It made you want to cry, because he made your ending so much longer than it needed to be. That also made you angry. You could feel death lingering over you, his hands were playing with the knife as if it was a lego block, something as innocent as that.

“Can’t you see how fucked up this is?”

“Well how am I supposed to go on then?!” You looked up at him, despair in your eyes. This was the moment that would break or make your or his family.

Drawing blood from his hands as he twists the knife in his hands and looked away at the closed door.

You were starting to get annoyed with him. He was prolonging your life for what?

"Daniel, look at me damn it!"

He finally looked at you. Really looked at you. His eyes weren't blank anymore. Instead, you saw something you didn't recognize.

"I remember swimming with you and your brother, you know. Almost every summer behind the cliffs where we used to ride to from your house."

You raised an eyebrow as he started talking about something from the past. He continued.

"I remember playing hide and seek while our parents had meetings together. I recall sitting with you on the swing."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"A few years ago, I had the most wonderful night. It was a night out with friends. After a few drinks I decided to get on the dance floor. The club played the greatest hits but also a few from the past. While dancing, I saw the prettiest girl. High heels, a sleeveless dress, just up to my liking. Long legs, long hair and smelled like freshly cut watermelon with a hint of smoke but it didn't overwhelm me. "

You knew where this was going. Daniel was now face to face with you, close. Now you recognized the smell, sweet like a candy shop but also the saltiness from the sea.

"We danced for quite a bit, my hands roaming her body freely. Kissing her neck. She grabbed my hand, where I had a rose. A rose just like this one."

He shows you his hand. Not too close to your face to make sure he didn't cut you with the knife he held.

"It was a fake tattoo at the time, you know, some a temporary tattoo that you stick on with a wet cloth."

Daniel smiled as he bent down.

"My friend whispered to me that I was dancing with the devil."

A chuckle left his mouth. He sat on the floor in front of you.

"I was dancing with you, he had seen your face and made me leave. Again I was disturbed in being who I wanted to be. I wanted to be carefree, to live without the responsibility of being a member of the fucking maffia!"

His hand drove the knife into the wooden floor. It cracked. You tried to shuffle your chair backwards, afraid he would drive the knife in your leg next. Daniel looked up at you.

"My parents do not find me important enough to take me with them in most of the family meetings. They take Michelle. But in the last few days I've realized something. It's okay that they don't. Because I do not want to be like them."

Daniel pulled the knife out of the floor.

"I. Want. Out!"

He spoke through gritted teeth, moving the knife towards your leg.

"So, this is the plan. I will act like I killed you but obviously will not kill you. Then I will wrap the blanket, that's laying by the door, around you and I will carry you to the car. I'll go back inside to tell my parents that I am going to dispose of your body. I'll show them a picture of you in the blanket. In my car I have two fake passports, because we need to talk."

Daniel cut all the ropes around your feet, body and wrists. You were speechless to say the least. He walked to get the blanket and grabbed another bottle of something.

"Can you lay on top of it, I've got some fake blood I will put on your chest and onto the knife and then some on the blanket so it will be realistic."

You just looked at him, rubbing your wrists. The wounds on your stomach hurt.

"Why are you saving me?"

"Because, I reckon, you want out too. Now lay down, we don't have much time"

Daniel put a hand on your shoulder and softly pushed you towards the blanket. You sat and laid down carefully. He put some fake blood on your chest and on the knife. A little pool of blood was quickly created, but it was mixed with your own. Some of the cuts on your stomach opened, making you groan.

"Okay, okay, eyes closed; just a second."

He took the photo and put it in his back pocket.

"So just lay there for a minute. I've got some medical stuff to help you with the.. duh.."

Daniel looked visibly distressed.

"You don't have to talk about it"

Your voice was soft, making him look at you instead of the cuts. He grabbed Betadine and some bandages.

"It might hurt"

"Just do it, the proces of making them hurt even worse"

He looked hurt at the way you snapped at him.

"Sorry"

"No, it's okay"

Daniel gave you his hand before he put the Betadine on. You squeezed it hard, making you clench your jaws as he cleaned it a bit. He then bandaged it.

"I'm now going to wrap you up and carry you to the car"

Before you knew you were in the trunk of the car. It was dark, cold and to be quite frank; scary. You laid there for a bit, refueling yourself with small bites of the sandwich Daniel made and drinking a bit of water. The car started to drive away, making you grip the flooring of the trunk to hold on. You rest your head against the bag that laid in the trunk too. After a while, you slipped into a nap.

"Hey, you still with me?"

You opened your eyes and met Daniel who was very close to your face. It made you shuffle backwards. "Sorry, I'm just glad you're awake. Shall I help you get out?" "Yes, uh, please." Daniel grabbed your hands and helped you up. He briefly shielded your head as you came up and nearly hit the edge of the trunk. "I brought you some clothes to put on, because what you're wearing now can't be called clothes anymore." He handed you a bag and then walked away to the lookout point where we were parked. You looked around briefly before opening the bag. The bag was full of clothes, short-sleeved shirts, long-sleeved shirts, sweaters, jeans, sweatpants. You name it or it was in there. The cold had now crept into your bones, so you opted for layers. A short-sleeved shirt with a sweater over it. Jeans with a sweater over it. Daniel had even thought of clean underwear.

"You can turn around now, I'm dressed."

Daniel turned back to you and took you in.

His face showed signs of complete horror. "I'm so sorry." A tear rolled down his cheek. He collapsed, causing you to walk right up to him. He cried. Tears also slowly streamed down your cheeks. He put his arms around you. You cried together. After a while the tears were gone.

"What now?" "I need to let my parents know that I'm fine and that I'm free." "And after that?" "After that we'll see what we're going to do"

He smiled at you, it made you smile back. You were free, you were safe. Daniel saved you and himself in the proces.

"Can I suggest one thing we can do?"

You looked at him with a raised eyebrow.

"What?"

"Can I kiss you?"

His voice was soft and nervous. Daniel kept smiling a little, with a little blush on his cheeks.

"Yeah"

"Yeah?"

You nodded.

"Okay"

Daniel stepped closer to you, the space between you now almost non existent. His hot breath fanned over your face. He looked down at you, scanning your eyes again. You took in that rich smell of cologne that he wore. It was as if the night at the club continued. But then in silent. His eyes looked into yours. They seemed lighter in color in the moonlight. The dark ring around his iris was a great contrast to the amber color inside. His pupils were large because of the lack of light in the area. Daniel surprised you by letting his lips gently touch yours. His hand found its place on your cheek, he gently rubbed it with his thumb. He tasted fresh, almost like he just brushed his teeth. It made you realized he had a mint before. Daniel had planned everything which made you giggle against his lips.

[johaerys-writes]

Playground Love, Chapter 10: Wilted Wildflowers

Fandom: Dragon Age

Pairing: Aran Trevelyan/Tristan Trevelyan

Summary:

Aran and Tristan are childhood friends. Best friends. Brothers, almost. They’ve been inseparable since the moment they met, one rainy autumn day underneath the maple tree in the school playground.

Best friends don’t fall in love with each other. Surely not.

The new chapter of mine and @oftachancer​’s collaborative fic, featuring her OC Aran and my OC Tristan is up! Where being in love with your best friend turns out to be more complicated than initially thought, and Tristan would very much like to make sense of it all now, please.

Read more on AO3!

****

The wind whipped through Tristan’s hair as his bike rushed down the steep slope. The warmth of summer was waning, but a sweet, mellow breeze still lingered. It smelt of salt and sea.

The polo coach had let them go an hour earlier than expected- Tristan hadn’t even stopped to change out of his riding clothes before setting off for Aran’s house. He hadn’t seen Aran since the day before and he already missed him. Which was to be expected, he supposed. With every day that passed, he missed him more and more, wanted to see more of him, hear more. Touch more. Ever since that time Aran had stayed at his for the night…

Tristan felt his cheeks warming. They hadn’t talked much, since that day. It was more so because they’d both been busy, he told himself; Tristan’s first polo match of the season was coming up, and Aran had more than enough assignments to occupy him. Yet, the fact that Tristan’s last few texts had gone unanswered, and that the only response he’d received from Aran to the poem he'd sent him the previous night was a meme of a dog rolling on its back did not help very much. Tristan had spent the better part of an hour combing through his books to find that poem, and he’d picked it just for him. Aran could have at least chosen a better meme to send him. At least.

He frowned, squinting against the bright sunlight when the wooden fence that circled the ranch came into view. The outer gate was ajar, Max’s truck stopped right before it. Aran’s eldest brother was tall and broad of shoulder, the skin of his forehead bronzed from the sun, his golden hair cropped short. He smiled brightly at him when he saw him getting off his bike.

“Tristan!” he greeted him cheerfully as he loaded a square bale of hay on the back of the truck. “Give me a hand with this, will you?”

Tristan returned his wide smile with a more reserved one of his own before inclining his head politely. He disliked touching the hay. It made his skin itch. Still, he set his bike against the fence and helped him haul the last of the bales, stacking them neatly against each other. He gingerly drew his kerchief from his back pocket to wipe his hands when he was done, watching as Max lifted and secured the truck’s tailgate.

“How’s Almond? Is she treating you well?”

“She’s doing great. Yes, she’s wonderful. A delight, really. She and I placed first in the show jumping trials two months ago, did Aran tell you?”

“That he did. I had no doubts. She’s a fine mare, one of the finest we’ve bred. We wouldn’t give you just anything, eh?” He laughed heartily and patted Tristan on the shoulder. “I’m off now. Your pal’s up at the house. Don’t keep him waiting.”

“Okay. Thanks, Max.” Tristan got on his bike, waving as the truck drove off. He pedalled leisurely down the long gravel drive, then brought the bike to a stop when he reached the flower garden before the house. It was Aran’s mom’s work, and the rose bushes were neatly trimmed and fragrant this time of year. Patrick was lounging on one of the floral padded armchairs on the front porch, his long legs sprawled on the low table. Tristan’s stomach tightened when Patrick lifted his gaze from his phone to look at him. His eyes were the same hue as Aran’s, summer sky blue, but they had none of the warmth, or the kindness.

“Trevelyan,” he said flatly, his expression wooden and thoroughly unimpressed.

“Patrick.” Tristan straightened his back, returning his look levelly. “Is Aran home?”

The older boy regarded him in silence for a few moments - moments that Tristan stood there awkwardly, trying his best to look as bored and mildly bothered as he- before standing up with a long suffering sigh and walking to the door. “Wait here,” he commanded, then disappeared inside the house.

Tristan itched his earlobe as he waited, released and re-gathered his hair, studied the red clapboard and the sloped black roof of the house. It wasn’t a large building, but it was homely. The warm scent of the roast they had for lunch reached him with the passing breeze. Tristan never spent too much time there, and neither did Aran, if he could help it. Still, he liked it when Aran’s mum came out and offered him a biscuit or something else she’d made whenever he came to pick Aran up. She wasn’t much of a baker or a cook, but she was always nice to him. He hadn’t seen her in a while.

Muffled talk from inside drew his attention. It sounded rough and agitated, but Tristan couldn’t discern who was talking, or what they were saying. A man’s low rumble, then a woman’s voice- was that Aran’s mum? The voices grew louder and sharper, but the steady buzz from the TV rendered it impossible to make out any words. Patrick’s voice knifed cleanly through it as he said something that sounded much like his usual insults, though Tristan couldn’t tell who it was directed at.

He thought he heard the shuffling of feet coming closer to the front door, then what definitely sounded like pushing and shoving. Tristan’s ears pricked up when he heard Aran’s telltale high pitched infuriated snarl, followed by Patrick’s mocking laugh. His temper flared by instinct; he set his bike down and took a decisive step forward, when the door was flung open and a red-faced Aran stormed out.

“Aran-”

“Let’s just go,” Aran snapped, grabbing his bike that was leaning against the steps of the porch and promptly taking off. Tristan followed him silently as he took off at dead speed. They didn’t exchange a word until they were well away, past the farm and the apple orchard beyond it, until the lake’s still waters were visible, glittering in the distance. It was more of a large pond than a lake, really, and he and Aran often went there when the weather was good. It was usually quiet and peaceful, and that day was no different. Only a paddling of brown backed mallards glided on the water, the iridescent green feathers on their long necks catching the light as they moved.

Aran tossed his bike aside as soon as he dismounted, letting it fall to the soft grass. Tristan set his own down beside it, then came to stand next to him at the pond’s bank. He was tense and wired, a string ready to snap. His hands were shoved deep into his pockets, his nostrils flaring with every panting breath he let out.

“Hi.”

Aran dropped to his knees and buried his head in the water, loosing a scream that echoed through the still surface and sent the ducks skittering into flight. He sat up, shoving his wet hair from his face and stared at the ripples as they receded. “Hi,” he panted in answer, scrubbing at the water dripping from his nose, leaving a smudge of mud in its place. “How was practice?”

Tristan shrugged, "Good. I stole the ball from Johnston and he chased me down the field while the others cheered. Coach didn't like that very much." He slid his hands in his pockets and rocked a little back and forth on his heels. "How's the water?"

“Warm. You want to swim?” The fresh mud in his hair made a handful of it stand out to the side. “I could swim.” He rubbed his nose on the back of his arm. “Something wrong? You usually don’t finish until later, right?”

"Coach said he had to pick up his daughter from the dentist's. Dunno. I think he was just sick of Jonhston and me taking the piss so he let us go early." There were fat drops of muddy water running down Aran's forehead and into his eyes, and he rubbed at them, sniffing and wrinkling his nose. Tristan smiled despite himself as he reached for his handkerchief. "Come over here," he said, drawing him close to wipe the mud from his cheeks, the side of his nose. Then he cupped his neck and leaned down to steal a kiss. "Missed you," he murmured against his lips.

“I missed you, too!” Aran wrapped his arms around him tight, “I hope your match is worth it. Endless bloody practices. Can’t you just win and be done with it?” He tugged him towards the tree. “Best two out of three for all the marbles. Kiss me again.”

The pond water had left a slightly bitter aftertaste on Aran's tongue, but Tristan kissed him eagerly as he let himself be drawn to him. "We will win. But then we'll just have to practice more to keep up, and then win more matches, and even more practice..." He closed his teeth over Aran's bottom lip, pressing him back against the tree trunk. "As if it would make a difference to you," he said sulkily. "You hardly ever respond to my texts anyway. If I hadn't come today, you would have forgotten all about me."

“You’ve caught me,” he snorted. “I’m always forgetting you. Thank the Maker I see you all the time or I’d be lost.” His fingers were slick with mud and chilled from pond water when they slipped up beneath Tristan’s jersey. “Remind me, eh?”

"Yes, but-" Tristan shivered as the cool, pesky fingers travelled up his stomach, caressing his sides. He sighed, kissing Aran deeply, forgetting everything he'd been about to say. So what if Aran hadn't responded to a text or two, or if he replied to his poems with dog memes? He still wanted him. He'd still missed him. Every smile, every touch, every smooth glide of his tongue over his own pushed Tristan's thoughts and worries further and further back in his mind. It was good, what they had. No doubt about it. "Wait," he said, drawing back. He laughed at Aran's confused stare as he unslung his backpack. "I brought something." The small bouquet of wildflowers he had gathered on his way to Aran's house was slightly wilted, despite his best attempts to keep the blossoms from getting bruised during his bike ride. Even so, he held it proudly before Aran's face, beaming. "For you."

Aran leaned back against the trunk, blinking down at the flowers. “Okay.” He itched his nose with his knuckle. “...what am I supposed to do with this?”

Tristan's smile melted away. He stared at Aran, the warm fuzzy feeling he'd had only moments before turning sour in his stomach with every second that passed and Aran made no move to take the flowers. "You… you don't like it?"

“I mean-” He squinted, taking the flowers with a skeptical look. “Now what? What’s the game?”

"There is no game." Tristan frowned, "You're supposed to keep them. Or- I don't know, set them aside and take them with you before we leave, or-"

“Are they medicinal?” he asked, peering down at them with sudden curiosity. “Something you read about?” He plucked at a leaf and nibbled at it.

"No, they're not- I just passed them by and thought they were pretty, and-" He stopped abruptly when he felt his cheeks growing uncomfortably hot. "You don't have to keep them if you don't want them, of course," he said indignantly. "I simply thought- it doesn't matter what I thought." He crossed his arms before his chest, looking away.

“Sure it does.” Aran stuck his tongue out, spitting the nibbles of leaves out. “Thanks for showing me. They’re pretty. Could have just shown me where you found them.” He tilted the flowers to the side, peering at them. “You didn’t have to kill them.” He wiggled the flowers at Tristan, chuckling, “Too pretty to live!”

"I didn't kill them- Maker-" Tristan swatted the flowers away, scowling at him. "Just forget about it, alright? It was a stupid idea anyway." He turned around, pacing towards the pond. It had been a stupid, stupid idea. Whatever had he been thinking. It had seemed like a nice thing to do at the time, when he'd stopped to pick up the flowers and arrange the bouquet. A romantic gesture, something- something boyfriends did. Cardew gave Martina flowers all the time, and she always laughed and threw her arms around his neck, but Aran wasn't Martina. And Tristan wasn't Cardew, and what they had wasn't- He took a deep breath, chewing on the inside of his lip. "Just forget it."

“This one tastes pretty good.” A sprig of the white tufted flowers wiggled in front of his face. “Like almonds. You like almonds.”

"I don't like almonds," he mumbled petulantly. He glanced at Aran over his shoulder, "And you don't like these flowers."

“I do. I do like them.” He took a mouthful of the white flowers, crunching them, grinning like a goat. “See. Delicious. Now Tristan chaser.”

Tristan laughed, shaking his head. He hated that Aran could always make him laugh, even when he was mad. "I'm not kissing you with those things in your mouth." He took the flowers from Aran's hand, or whatever was left of them, anyway. "And you're not supposed to eat them, you know."

“I didn’t know that. I asked what I was supposed to do with them.” Bits of greenery and fluffy petals fell from his lips as he spoke. “Kisses. I like the flowers. Have some.”

Tristan scrunched his nose, brushing leaves and petals from Aran's mouth. "You're gross," he said before leaning in with a grin. "That tastes like shite, by the way," he mumbled against his lips, "not at all like almonds."

“You’re getting too many leaves. More flowers.” He wound his arms around Tristan’s neck, leaning against him. “You need more flowers. I like you.”

Tristan sighed, pressing his forehead against Aran's. "You do?" he asked quietly. "You mean it?"

“Why would I say it if I didn’t mean it?” Cornflower blue eyes like the reflection of the sky in a still pond peered up at him. “You after wanting to show me where you found them? We can go roll around there.”

"They were just… by the side of the road. Past the chemist's. A mile or so from here maybe. There's a few of them on the way to the pier, I think. But it doesn't really matter." He reached up to brush a spot of mud from Aran's temple. His coppery blonde curls were just starting to get dry, wisps that kissed his forehead. "Can I ask you something?"

“Hm?”

What are we? What are we doing? He stared at Aran for a long while, unable to ask the questions. Perhaps they didn't need any answers. Perhaps Aran didn't know them either, even if Tristan asked. They'd been friends since they were children, and now they were something else, and that something was new and bright and exciting in so many different ways- and Tristan felt completely out of his depth. He let out a soft sigh. "Nevermind." He opened his fingers to let the wilted stems fall to the ground. "Race you back to my place?"

The grin split Aran’s face, brightening his eyes, and a moment later, he was scrambling to his bike, wheels spinning in the mud as he took off.

[survivingafterus]

String of Consciousness

CW: Rape mention, child abuse, poor living conditions, mention of pedophilia, mental illness, self harm

Trying to conjure memories from the dust of traumas and misfortunes is aimless. Sometimes with a smell I feel sharp intakes of time flooding back to me, holding nothing but a vague idea of the memory tied to it. My earliest memory is from behind the bars of a play pen. I am being given gold fish crackers. I can’t be older than four. 

The deep, dark smell of Pepsi in the largest Texico mug you’ve ever seen winding into one with the comfortable chemical smell of Zippo lighter fluid. My father. 

It is immeasurably hard to recall the details of a moment in which your consciousness is disconnected to your body. I laughed. It was funny. Watching a grown woman jump up and down, screaming. Her face was red and she spit as she screamed, red hot frustration. Her teeth were yellow and streaky, like an unwashed egg. Her hair was wild and greasy, the result of inadequate parenting before her and sulfur-heavy well water. She is terrifying. When asked how I was abused I used to tell people it was never physical. I had been taught that hitting your child in the face and head was acceptable. 

I grew up without clean drinking water. I stole and hoarded food.

Salt and spices scoured our tongues before we hid the evidence and threw the bouillon cubes behind the propane tank we sat on. It was hot and we were young, poor, and desperately starved for entertainment. We wanted fun. The feeling of ice cold AC air on my bare legs as I lay on the love seat in the farthest corner of the house. Laying here is always a gamble, because spiders love to gather around the AC, and in Missouri the spiders kill you. 

The acrid smell of stale piss and rotting food hit me in the face each time I come through the door. There are ants in the bottom of the gallon of chocolate milk after it was left open. It’s hard to distinguish where the piss smell originates from, is it her 5 year old still in diapers or is it the smell of too many animals in one house? Maybe it’s the smell of negligent obesity and the limitations it set on self care, or maybe the desire for it? My best friend lived in this house. I spent most of my time in this house as a child. Marissa was the cheapest babysitter in town and my mom was busy. The sound of Rob Zombie music is played over the muted television, showing a healthy balance of SciFy and professional wrestling. Seeing her skin pulled over her fat body was shocking. Seeing his huge ass was traumatizing. When semi-professional wrestlers want to act hurt they cut their faces with razor blades. It was hot in the van and the smell of rotting food and trash only made the van ride more uncomfortable. JD was supposed to see his dad today and we had all driven together to drop him off. His dad never came to get him. Stains decorated the light blue walls, from food, from art supplies, from human feces. Staring out the window I focused on making it through the night. I was a paranoid kid. I was terrified. Stirring on the cot that had been set up in one of the children’s rooms I focused on making it through the night.

When I was around the age of five I thought that one could stretch their limbs out and suspend themselves under the bed, so if someone looked under the bed the person would be over their line of sight. I was always practicing hiding. Digging my way underneath my parent’s bed I’d watch my mother’s feet pass by, unconcerned with where I was. The thick weight of fur coats against my face as I hide inside my closet, thinking that as long as I had a barrier of outerwear I was invisible. I was safe. I knew that spiders lived in that part of my closet and still I practiced hiding there. The satisfying click of the pull string bulb in my mother’s closet rewards me with darkness as I push my way further into the mass of my mother’s wardrobe, wedging myself between elaborate lingerie outfits, dress-suits, and glitzy dresses. My mother always wanted to be seen. I just wanted to disappear. I was terrified of my room and my big bed. A wooden headboard beautifully carved cradled my twin size mattress, which in turn kept me frozen in fear at the shadows cast by trees in my windows. I saw myself sleeping, there in my bed, but I don’t remember the rest, or if there is “the rest”. My dad had a file of naked photos he had taken of our fifteen year old babysitter. 

Memories of Versaille float through the air, like scents that can’t be identified, fleeting and undefined. A waterfall. Other kids. All the world was green. I remember being scared. I remember sleeping in the rain in a tent with my best friend and her family. I get the memory of us looking over the crowds of tents and the scene in Harry Potter where they’re looking at a scene of tents mixed up. An albino peacock is something to awe at. 

It is hot and the door is open, leaving a thin gnarled screen as a filter to deter bugs. The Summer nights still hang within the nineties and the house is humid and wet. The sound of cicadas is a nice background to the hushed sounds of my mother speaking to her friend outside. She left that night and I was left to sleep on the couch. It looks like she’s peeing, the woman on the centerfold of Playboy. She sits on a fountain and sports very little, but just enough, body hair. The boy showing it to me is two years older than me, and his brother who is a year younger than I am stands with us. This Playboy is one of many in the trailer outside the house I slept in last night, where their grandfather spent the majority of his time (and may have lived there.) When I came home from my visit I told my mother I had showed people my boobies, because I felt like I had to. I was four. She then explained to me sexual assault and rape. Afterwards I told her I had been raped, she laughs it off as my having mixed up the definitions. I don’t know what happened, but I do know I was always a very smart kid. 

Life was a movie, and I was it’s disocciative director. Walking through life, narrating my adventures, even looking at the camera and speaking outloud. “Ah, my favorite show is on.” I would say and rub my hands together and make my way downstairs. The ornate stained glass lamp that sits on my grandfather’s antique rolltop desk illuminates my shadow and I imagine what I must look like descending the stairs. I am five or six. I sit at the bottom of the stairs and listen to my parents’ war. It’s shouting, he’s drunk, and she’s mean and desperate. Glass crashes as my father swings our dining room chair through the air, onto our kitchen table, breaking our chandelier and leaving a large crack running through the left side. Our side cupboard door never shut the same after he ripped it off it’s hinges. 

The smell of chickens gags me, as I cower in the hutch. I sit atop cracked and eaten eggs, one of our dogs had made short work of the nest. I am thirteen, maybe, and I am terrified. I sob into my knees and curl into myself and try to escape hell, but I never make it out of the hutch. It is hot and the bugs fly around me and get in my face. My face stings from sobbing and i feel red hot. My mother finds me in the kitchen and starts to scream at me. I am lazy. I am stupid. I am useless. I am being pulled through the kitchen by my hair, which falls down my back, sharing the shade and texture of my mother’s. When she does this I shut down. I don’t have an option. I can take anything as long as I can’t feel. 

There is a framed dollar bill in the girl’s locker room office in the basement of my elementary school. I imagine this field when I think of the Lovely Bones.

I never tried to hide it, I wanted to be seen. An arm, pale, dusted with freckles opens the door to the hall, the arm opposite stings with each small movement, breaking the thin scabs and sending fresh blood to mingle with the crusted blood from the hour before. It’s hard to count how many vertical lines have been opened on my skin, even if my arm weren’t covered in blood. I am reported to my high school nurse. She does nothing.

I walk down the five miles of gravel that connect us to Town. In my pocket is a cute kitty pouch with x’s for eyes. Inside is a varied collection of razor blades gathered from cutting apart my mother’s disposable razors. I cut as I walk, my whole arm is covered in blood. The dust sticks to my skin and sets on my wounds as cars pass me walking in the road. There are no sidewalks here. I make it just past the horse farm before my mother and little brother find me in their car. She doesn’t notice at first. She is mad at me for leaving to walk the five miles to look for my cellphone, which my mother threw out the window trying to throw it at my head. The lights on my Sony Ericson change color and help guide me to find it back. I don’t remember if I ever found it. My mother demanded I get in the car and my brother tells her I’m bleeding pretty badly. She starts to scream at me and tries to hit me in the head, demanding my razor pouch, this she also throws out the window. My skin turns orange as my mother roughly scrubs turpentine onto my split skin, telling me it should be burning. She was confused, turpentine does not burn when applied to skin. She wanted it to burn. There was a terrifying black and white portrait of a young girl around ten in a dress. It had to be taken in the late 1800s or early 1900s and it curled and started to sink in it’s frame. The ceiling my mother meticulously applied ornate paper to cracks and yellows and starts to sag. Dust covers everything so quickly, and what was a beautiful well kept home slipped to a kept enough, slipped to a dusty, dirty, clutter filled space, to a completely coated with dust and bird feed crumbs and powder. 

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This essay was written for a college course. It’s intent is to use descriptive language to lay out scenes. It is also a huge mess of an essay, but I feel the descriptions are good.