#like I’ve been isolating myself in my room since last night and I haven’t eaten anything all day today

[galariangengar]

💭

[sleephyjhs]

the ghost of you ; myg

pairing; human!yoongi x ghost!reader

genre; angst , supernatural au , lovers au , ghost au

tw; description of death and accidents, death mentioned throughout, heavy descriptions of grief and loss.

wc; 2.96k

playlist; too much to ask - niall horan

m.list

Forty-three. Forty-four. Forty-five. And counting. His shoulder must’ve ached by now - there’s no way it couldn’t have done. Why was nobody helping him? Nevermind. If I knew Yoongi, I knew he wouldn’t want to give anybody else the hassle. It hadn’t been that long. Such a prominent trait of his wouldn’t have withered away so soon.

He’d hardly ever ask me for a favour when I was alive. Now that I’m dead, isolation was his only company.

I watched from the balcony landing on the upper floor of his new apartment. Slowly, it had begun to dawn on me that I was nothing more than a phantom - an unfamiliar spirit that haunted his hallways. I wasn’t expecting to leave Yoongi as soon as I did; the guilt hadn’t quite drained from my blood. On the first night, I sat opposite him in the dimly lit living room. A single whisky glass, still coated with the third refill of the night, hugged the black coaster on the coffee table. The phone screen glowed with condolence and devastation, and his cheeks glowed with the numbing sting of grief and alcohol. There was a pizza box too. It still steamed with the anticipation of being eaten - I’m not sure whether he ever did or not.

I sobbed with him. Uncontrollable, I was. He was. He couldn’t hear me - nobody could. It was for the better, I could wallow in my own grief without being disturbed. But I could hear him. God, could I hear him.

“Why her? Why me? It should’ve been me. I need her.”

Vulnerability was far from Yoongi’s regular state. Seldom did I see him so emotionally honest. I’ve had time to reflect. Actually, all I’ve done is reflect - there isn’t much else for me to do. Watching him cry out into the echoes of a now apartment for one reminded me of the times where my echoes were met by his soothing presence; supportive and caring words which may have only been so effective since Yoongi was the one delivering them.

I wondered if he knew I was here. Who am I kidding? Yoongi doesn’t believe in ghosts. Spirits, phantoms - none of it. Why would I be here? Why would I want to stay with him? “Heaven is a better place for her, she belongs in a better place,” is what he reminded himself, verbally, leaning against the bathroom counter. He couldn’t even look himself in the eyes.

Everything happened so quickly. I hate that I remember so much of it. It wasn’t Yoongi’s fault at all, nor was it mine. Engraved in my memory was the image of the approaching car, spinning, pulling up heavy dust from the low grade country road. Clashing headlights blinded us both, and yet somehow I still could see the doom that we were to encounter. I screamed. Yoongi scrambled hurriedly at the wheel, urgently attempting to accelerate past the uncontrollable vehicle.

But it was too late. Instant collision led my passenger window to burst into a thousand rainbow shards. They showered me; it was as though I was being grated. Perhaps if I hadn’t worn short sleeves, the coarse edges of the glass wouldn’t have shaved me as closely as they did. Airbags were past their purpose now. I can’t remember if I was still screaming. Or if it was Yoongi. Maybe a bystander?

With all the reminiscence death brought me, what I believed to be my last thoughts may well have been a lie; a façade to disguise my lack of memory. I hated not being able to remember. If I did find a way to communicate with Yoongi, I could never truthfully tell him he’s the last thing I thought about. I simply didn’t know. I never will.

There are things I’m certain of. He told me over and over again, “We’re okay. We’ll be alright.” That was a lie, I knew it was then, too. I had no choice but to believe it. Believing the alternative was too scary. Too real.

“I love you.” I must’ve said this. Everyone takes the opportunity to confess to their loved ones that they do indeed love them when in such a peril dilemma. They’re almost preprogrammed; do we even mean it when we say it?

I meant it. I loved Yoongi. I love Yoongi. Sequencing the shower of shards came my last thought. A void in my mind; the silhouette of a missing sticker from the book of my life. Grief completed the last gap in the book, and it’s replacement was good enough for me to convince myself it was reality’s choice too.

“I’m so sorry.”

This could’ve been the guilt of grief interrupting my focus. I knew I was going to die, but for all I knew, Yoongi easily could’ve joined me. He was fortunate, always had been. Even if it wasn’t my honest last thought, it was more than valid now. I am sorry.

The short transaction of my spirit from reality into the unknown was short. I lingered at the sight of the crash, watching over Yoongi. I learned quickly that I was now nothing more than an apparition, perhaps one of the imagination only. The glass crumbs that had pierced his skin begged me to remove them, but I couldn’t. Aligning my fingers with his fresh wounds, I persevered with trying to extract the debris from his body. But I couldn’t. My nails scraped through, clean; from my perspective, I was mere steam in the shape of my now lifeless body.

Sirens wailed and beckoned from miles away; at least for as far as I could hear. Thick evergreen trees were unable to filter the swirling sapphire lights from illuminating the crash scene. I counted how long it took a stroke of light to return to Yoongi’s weakened face. Three seconds. One, two, three, and then a strip of blue curtained his forehead. And then again.

I only learned that I was the only casualty after eavesdropping on the attending paramedics. Now that I’d thought about it, I didn’t even turn to my lifeless body. I needed no awakening; I was well aware of the realm I had now entered. Yoongi was alive, he was more important. Checking his pulse was impossible; all the help I could provide was watching him breathe.

Help. What am I talking about? If he had stopped, what was there that I could’ve done? I suppose now that watching him inhale and exhale with shaky breath was for my own sanity rather than his well-being.

His breath was laboured, heavy with shock. He was still talking to me, rocking me, begging me to respond. And I did. I screamed at him, telling him that I was there, I was with him. He didn’t hear me, but that wasn’t enough for me to stop. I cried, howled with shallow pain. Yoongi was then unreachable. He was only sitting next to me.

Since then, I haven’t left his side. Our shared grief is unbalanced, however. I know he’s there. I can see him, smell him, hear him. But he can’t. Of course, there are photos of me in his phone. Even a few of us together. It’s all that was left of my image. And it wasn’t enough. I couldn’t give him any more, and he couldn’t gain any more.

Funnily enough, that there was one of my pet peeves that I’d festered since meeting Yoongi. He took more photos of me than he’d allow himself to feature in. Nothing spectacular would have to occur either. One night, I watched over his shoulder as he scrolled through, what seemed like, the hundreds of photos inhabited his camera roll, ones I hadn’t noticed he’d even taken. In one, I was timidly hiding behind one of the couch pillows as I intensively watched one of the horror films he’d hilariously recommended. In another, I was messing about with Holly on the floor of his parent’s house, ruffling his unshaven winter fur.

He stumbled across one of us together. Finally. Us at his brother’s wedding, under the rice white canopy threaded with the gentle subtleties of wildflowers. I dwelled on how particularly handsome he looked in his suit, with a smaller bouquet of fern sprigs and poppies attached delicately to his breast pocket. My arm was intertwined with his; he held my hand tighter than he ever had before. There was another from the same day; his brother and his bride joined us, and then his family, and then the remainder of the guests. I’ll never forget that day, ever.

My risen cheeks fell as the memories shifted to the back of my mind again. With memories came heartache and remorse. Heartache; I’ve lost the love of my life. Rather, he lost me. But I can no longer touch him or remind him how much I treasured him. That’s the unconventional type of heartbreak. And remorse? I took our time together for granted. Too short, it was. We were together for over 5 years, and he made them feel like minutes. In the end, we really couldn’t have been any closer than we were. But all the memories I had of Yoongi were the tiniest fraction of those that I wanted. I wanted more than that. I still do.

A week after moving into our new apartment, no, his new apartment, Yoongi’s piano arrived. Grand was a shortcoming. Sleek monochrome keys and polished curves competed the modern design of the main hosting room; beautiful was miles from capturing how impeccable it actually looked.

I took my time in exploring its position. The piano and I were familiar; it was the first big purchase after moving into our first home together. Yoongi cared for this piano as if it were his child. He sang to it too, although I’m not sure he always knew I was around to hear. His own songs, those that he’d dedicated to me, ones he played as a young teenager still learning the most complicated chords. One day, I asked him to teach me something. A simple infant lullaby, something easy. Bearing in mind the amount of commitments this man usually had, the act of taking time from his schedule to teach me what really was a useless skill was near enough tear-jerking.

“See? You’re a natural.”

“Some people can play this at three, Yoongi. It’s nothing impressive.”

No matter the skill or talent involved, Yoongi never failed to encourage me. There’s a lot we did together that alone I wouldn’t have even considered. Really, encouragement was an understatement. Neither of us were particularly adventurous, yet together we seemed prepared to try anything. I was never able to thank him for that.

I hovered my fingers over the middle keys, examining for any marks or bruises. Sure enough, there were none. I’m not sure what I expected. Sometimes, I was convinced Yoongi took better care of his piano than himself. I didn’t mind in the slightest. The songs he wrote me for special occasions made me quite glad he did.

There were days when dragging him away from the piano to return back to the real world for a minute or two was near impossible. Instead, I developed a habit of joining him on the stool. Looking at it from the landing made it look small. It was, really. But it didn’t feel like that when I sat beside Yoongi. If it did, I never noticed. That’s the Yoongi effect.

Minutes become hours, hours become days, days become forever.

Today, I haven’t paid much attention to Yoongi’s whereabouts. The glass banister that enclosed the upstairs landing was my usual seat; I watched everything from here. A few people had come to see Yoongi, his parents, the members, a couple old friends, it was the first time I’d seen him smile since I’d gone. He ate without hesitating, he laughed heartily again. He even cracked a joke in response to another.

He looked happy, and that made me happy.

It wasn’t necessarily moving on, though. Each day, something was different about the apartment. I sat on Yoongi’s bed as he set up the wardrobe. His monochrome closet hadn’t lost its ‘Yoongi’ essence. Next to the wardrobe was a spare cupboard of an identical size. Would I have been able to, a tear might have just fallen from my eye. Yoongi filled the rails with my clothes. They still smelled like me; the same perfume with a base note of my regular deodorant. A pair of my best heels which he bought me for attendance of a some grand event or another next to my white canvas converse sheltered in the top cubbyhole on top of smaller garments of mine that he hadn’t quite brought himself to donate.

The day after, I caught him spraying a couch cushion from our old home with my signature perfume. He always did like it. On the nights where we became closer than close, I always made sure to wear it for him; I knew I’d be rewarded for it. My memory now lived on in the form of a staining stench. One that I was certain would one day suffocate him.

Today, there were no changes. Yoongi left the apartment early in the morning - I suspect for work. He needed to get out, desperately. I was around him all the time - both ironically and genuinely - so much so his new apartment had become a smaller trinket of a shrine to me. I’d get sick of it too.

Wherever he went, I let him go. What was I supposed to do to stop him? Ghosts don’t pack much of a punch.

It was the first time I’d gone more than a few hours without seeing him since my death. Usually, Yoongi was never further than the corner of my eye, and if he was I could at least hear him humming to himself

But the silence was still. There was chaos in the calm. This sudden isolation was my first opportunity to mourn Yoongi alone since we lost one another. I didn’t cry though. Instead, I wallowed in the emptiness I felt. Of course, I was empty. I felt as though I were the right side of a friendship bracelet, missing the ‘Best’ side of me.

Somehow, I’d managed to traipse downstairs. Aimless wandering was on track to become my first spiritual habit. I approached the piano - I had meant to do this. I understood now how there could be comfort in music. When Yoongi aligned himself so closely to his piano and his songwriting, it was difficult to now associate one to the other.

The stool was already ajar - I could squeeze in here. Pianos are overwhelmingly daunting the first time you sit at one without somebody who can play. There are more keys - more options - than you first assume. I ran my fingers down from the highest octave down to the lowest. Strangely, I could near enough feel the rumps of the keys against my plushy skin. Pushing down, the melody Yoongi had taught me began to play like an exclusive soundtrack of my 20s.

It was all in my head, but it felt real. Grief has always done strange things to people, and it seemed I was no exception.

For hours, I continued to replay the limited memory of what Yoongi had taught me. After a while, I began adding my own chords or notes, completely oblivious to the overall value they deducted from my solo performance. Eventually, I became lost in my own serenade. Miscellaneous noise blocked itself out; I was alone with my piano.

His piano.

And so, when Yoongi walked back into his home, he seemed quite stunned to hear our song echoing through the marble-accented walls. He stood, utterly speechless, in the archway to where he left his prized possession. I only noticed him after a few seconds.

If Yoongi didn’t believe in ghosts before, he was left with close to no other choice now.

Maybe he thought he was imagining the sound? Until his jaw dropped, that’s what I had believed too. Yoongi’s gummy smile revealed itself to me; it was almost as though I could read his thought procession from his eyes. Scrunching the tip of his nose, I watched as Yoongi fought back what I was positive were tears.

How the melody was audible to us both was far beyond my comprehension; perhaps it was our connection that made the melody viable to us. The keys were real, I could feel them. I shouldn’t have been able to, but I could.

Yoongi stalked up to the piano like a lion stalking his prey. Except Yoongi wasn’t preparing to pounce. He was scared of frightening my melody away.

Nothing could have frightened me away. This was as close as I’d ever dared to return to Yoongi. I knew too well that if I got too close, I’d never be able to separate myself from him again. I wouldn’t put myself through that heartbreak again. Or him, should he even realise that I was there.

The stool that matched the piano was longer than the average, but it still wouldn’t have seated both me and Yoongi. He edged himself to the end of the stool as though he were making room for me. Still, there was no gap between us. My leg overlapped his. He was warm. I was not.

He played my same melody in a lower octave, even adapting to my added chords and adlibs. He smiled to himself, tears finally slipping from his lower eyelid. Some rushed to the cliff of his jaw and fell to their demise on the black keys of the piano. I would’ve given anything to wipe them away. Anything at all.

tag list !!

@mama-m0chi @liriaus @loveyoongles @weltmaya @mrsfortune1306 @janeelizabeth1216

[cutieodonoghue]

dark gray (1/?)

summary: Killian Jones operates a lighthouse in the middle of nowhere, preferring a life of isolation, until one day a woman and a baby wash up on his little island and change his life forever.

read it on: ao3, ff.net

a/n: Hi! I know what you’re thinking… I’ve seen this story before, haven’t I? Yes. Yes you have. (Though, if you’re new to this story, hello and welcome, please enjoy!)

I deleted it a while ago thinking it wasn’t fair to leave it up unfinished if I had no plans to continue writing. But, literally out of the blue the other day, inspiration hit me and I was able to actually finish it! Can you believe it? I can’t.

So, rather than keeping it for myself and my own enjoyment, I thought I’d share with anyone who still wanted to see how this tale ends. I know it had a bit of a following and I still get questions about it to this day.

As an added benefit of this reposting, I’ve made some grammatical changes (because sometimes you re-read and you go, wow yikes I messed that up lol) and added some extra bits here and there to add some color and zing. May as well, right?

Anyway, I hope you enjoy it! And I swear it’s going to be finished this time. I have an actual ending written and ready to publish!

If you just want to read the new parts, tune back in for chapters 14 and onward :)

Love you friends! <3

///

One

He slams the front door closed and it squeaks on its hinges, swinging and clattering against its cracked and broken frame.

He shoves his fist into his jacket pocket, straightening his gaze ahead of him with a white huff of his breath in the frigid air to mingle with the fog that has descended onto the island.

His boots crunch on the rocks as he carries himself onward and he takes note of all the things he has in store for his day. It isn't much, never is, and he curses his sailor's blood for the ungodly hours.

The ground is still damp from last night's storm and the air still smells of it. It had been an unruly thing, the storm, and he'd woken several times at the sound of lightning spiking nearby.

As he walks toward the lighthouse, he shifts his gaze to the ocean that's lapping up against the shore nearby. The water sprays at him and he grits his teeth, breathing in salty gusts of air through his nose.

He narrows his eyes, stopping dead in his tracks the instant he notices a lump lying at the shore, the foaming water washing over every few moments.

The blood drains from his face and his heart begins to pound just a little bit faster, a throbbing beginning to sound in his ears.

He stares for a moment longer, then shifts his gaze a little further up the shore to a brown basket nestled in seaweed and wet sand.

Curiouser and curiouser.

His brow furrows slightly and he pulls his hand free from his jacket so he can comb through his hair nervously.

He starts for the two washed up mysteries quickly, breaths coming out in nervous, shaking huffs, and when he reaches the blue lump, he kneels down beside it.

It's a woman.

She appears to be a few years his junior with sopping wet blonde hair and fair skin. When he examines her, she's breathing, but she's passed out cold. There’s blood oozing from a wound in her forehead and he's sure something's wrong with her leg, because it's twisted obscurely.

He winces a little, unsure of what to do. He's about to stand and lift her over his shoulder to help her when a high-pitched squeaking and crying emanates from a little further down the beach in the brown basket.

He can hardly hear the ocean now with how loudly his heart races in his ears.

He rises slowly, cursing under his breath as he makes his way toward it.

"Bloody hell," he mutters, looking down at the basket.

There is a baby, not a small baby, but a baby nonetheless, lying inside, wrapped tight in a blanket, squirming and crying. It's cheeks are red and it looks absolutely miserable.

He can't blame him. A day like today leaves much to be desired.

Killian Jones crouches down beside the child and holds out his arms, glaring briefly at his hook for a left hand, then, with a shake of his head, he reaches in and carefully lifts the child into the crook of his arm.

Having never held a screaming baby before in his entire life, he hasn't a clue of what to do. He bites down on his tongue and grimaces.

"Quiet down," he tries, "You'll get nowhere crying like that."

The child, miraculously, stops.

Killian sighs. "Let's get you inside then. Can't have you out to freeze, hm?"

He stands again, reaching down for the basket with his hand before turning to trudge back to his residence. Worry fills him from head to toe as he looks at the woman again.

Since she's out of it, she can wait until he's settled the child down. He thinks he knows better than to leave such a small human being out in the cold of the morning with no nourishment or comfort.

The baby squirms in his hold and he winces again in fear, because it isn't as if he has a firm hold on the fragile being. He finds his pace quickening almost instinctively.

Killian pulls the door open with his index finger and it slams behind him loud enough that it makes the child cry again. He starts hushing it as he sets the basket on the table in his kitchen, knocking over a bottle of beer from last night in the process.

He doesn't bother to clean up his mess, deciding to take the child into the small living room off of the kitchen where he builds a cradle of sorts out of blankets and pillows he can find.

He settles the fussing child down into the center of the mess and goes to stoke at the fire that's dying out in the fireplace. While it's warming up, he goes into the kitchen for milk.

He thinks that's what babies eat, right?

He isn't sure if it should be cold or warm and hesitates with the milk glass for a few moments, struggling to even find something to use that will fit in the child’s mouth. He decides on using a cleaned beer bottle for the time being and warms up the milk in the microwave before pouring it into the bottle and carrying it into the living room.

"Here we are," he says gruffly, setting himself down next to the lump in his couch. He awkwardly shifts the baby and uses his thumb to cut off the flow as he settles the lip against the child's mouth. "In we go. You're hungry, aye?"

It takes a few moments and some of the milk dribbles out on the baby's chin, but eventually, all of the milk goes straight into the hungry child's stomach, the baby's eyes falling closed as it continues to suckle.

Killian figures he'll have to find something to use as diaper cloths. He'll do that after bringing the woman inside.

It's a mystery to him how two people could wash up on his island.

It isn’t as if he’s in a highly trafficked area. It's not even in a shipping lane. In fact, ships rarely come along- only for his monthly supplies.

After the boy finishes the milk, Killian puts the beer bottle on the floor and looks down at the child with a furrowed brow.

He hasn't spent nearly enough time around children to know what to do with him now that he's eaten, and Killian sighs as he decides to strip him of the damp blanket and outfit he's sporting.

Killian tucks the boy into the pillows and blankets again, covering him up so he thinks he's warm, and then carries the wet and cold items over to the fire, hanging them to dry.

With one final check on the sleepy child, he nods to himself and zips up his coat to go grab the mystery woman.

He isn't a horrible man. He likes to think himself rather good on his better days. But he isn't a man who enjoys the company of others. In fact, one of the reasons he's still on this island is because he can't stand himself around others.

He can't trust himself around others.

Killian takes a sharp breath of the cold air and lets it back out of his nose, eyes set determinedly on the blue and yellow lump on the shore.

When he reaches her, he sighs, balling up his hand tightly into a fist before leaning down to scoop her up and onto his shoulder. He's careful with his hook and he grunts a bit when her weight is added to him. She's not very heavy, but he's not used to carrying much weight, so he is quick when he makes his way back to his home.

He moves with expertise through the small residence to his bedroom, the only bedroom, and settles her down on his bed.

She's absolutely soaked to the bone and incredibly cold to the touch. Her blonde hair fans around her head, some of the strands sticking to her peaceful cheeks and forehead.

She's still blissfully unaware of anything that's happened, so Killian hesitates for a moment longer before deciding to start the fire in his room.

As soon as the flames breathe warmth into the small room, he goes to the trunk at the foot of the bed and pulls out blankets to cover her with.

He decides that he should take her dress off to try to avoid hypothermia, so he takes a deep breath, leaves the blankets at her feet, and sets to peeling the wet article from her flesh.

Luckily for him, she's out enough that she doesn't wake as he's taking her britches off, and he purposefully covers her with blankets before he goes to find her something of his to wear in place of her dress while it dries.

Carefully, Killian puts a long sleeved shirt over her top and a pair of loose-fitting pants over her bottom, then slides a pair of socks over her feet and covers her with three blankets, ensuring her entire body is tucked safely and securely beneath them.

Her teeth have begun chattering, a new development that’s somewhat assuring.

In the process of slipping the pants on, he'd noticed bruising around her right knee and his thoughts easily drift to wondering what could've happened to her, but he can't know until she wakes, so he stores his curiosity and continues to ensure she's sufficiently warmed.

He figures he'll have to tend to her wounds later when she's awake and can tell him more and decides to go check on the child instead while she sleeps.

Killian leaves his bedroom after draping the woman's clothes over the fire to dry. His boots clump along the hardwood floor noisily and he sighs as he settles onto the couch beside the sleeping babe.

If there was anything he'd imagined his day as being like, it wasn't this.

He was supposed to check on the lightbulbs and make note of what needed fixing after the storm, get started on the list, and then drink himself to sleep after a supper of whatever he might scrounge up.

He isn't sure he can just leave the child and the woman here, not when they might wake up at any moment, so he watches the tiny being as he breathes before nodding in affirmation and carrying the tentative baby bottle into the kitchen.

Killian goes about fixing a stew from what he's got in the pantry and figures a way to feed the child with things in his cabinets.

He's sure the woman will be quick to mother him. Perhaps the child belongs to her- he isn't sure.

And anyway, he won't be stuck with them for very long. Just four weeks before the supply ship comes and he'll send them out and away from him again. He'll just have to deal with them in the meanwhile.

He settles back against the cabinets as the stew cooks on the stove, thinking about what he'll do about sleeping arrangements for the coming few weeks, when he hears the child erupt into a screaming cry.

He springs to work, grabbing the already heated milk from the stovetop and bringing the new bottle with him so he can comfort the infant if it's what it needs.

Killian sits beside the lump of blankets and pillows and lifts the child, whose fussing comes to hiccups as he settles him into his arms.

He frowns at the baby. "'s that all?"

He doesn't enjoy holding the child. It's awkward and uncomfortable and it reminds him all too much of a past he'd very much like to forget, so he sets the boy down again and is greeted by his wails once more.

He growls a little, shaking his head.

"You don't understand," Killian says sternly. "I can't hold you."

For a moment, they're sitting there in a stare-off of sorts, and Killian locks his jaw, shaking his head again before opening his mouth to reprimand the shrieking child when his bedroom door opens.

His gaze shifts immediately to the woman, who looks pale and sickly, leaning against the door jamb with all of her weight.

He stands, holding his arms out as she staggers a little.

She swallows and opens her mouth, looking down at the screaming bundle of flailing limbs on the couch.

Killian hastily lifts the boy into his hold to quiet him again and it works. It's overwhelming to hear his cries, to say the least, and when he moves to go to her, she follows him with her emerald eyes.

"Where am I?" she asks, voice wavering.

He shakes his head. "Don't worry yourself with that. You need to get back into bed."

Killian sets the child down with a wince of anticipation, receiving what he prepared for when the child bursts out in upset. He herds the woman back into the room and watches her cautiously as she limps back to the bed.

She groans and pain creases her forehead when she lies back down. "I heard... crying."

He nods and somehow tucks her back in under the blankets.

"Aye. Apologies. The child appears to have quite the set of lungs." She blinks a few times and he finds himself without words. "Is he… um, yours?"

The woman shakes her head, wincing a little. "No."

Killian runs his eyes down to the base of the bed and shakes his head again, a sigh slipping from his lips at the development. He looks back to her face.

"I'm Emma."

Killian hesitates, shifting a bit on his feet while he examines her sick face. He doesn't know what to do about her. She's clearly running a fever and it's not like he can force her to rest if she doesn't want to.

"Emma, why don't you get some sleep? You don't look well."

She scoffs, closing her eyes. "There was a storm and I fell from the top deck of the ship. I think I broke my leg."

She winces, then reaches down to pull the blankets away.

Bloody maddening woman.

She examines the leg with pain written in her features and he mentally groans, because he certainly is no doctor and she's stranded here with him for another few weeks.

"I could... try and set it," he tells her quietly. Her gaze flits over to him and he sees apprehension in those solid green eyes. "I set many bones in my time in the navy."

She studies him for a second before falling back with a loud sigh.

"Fine."

He eyes her warily, unmoving.

From the other room, the child is still screeching and sobbing and it's making his blood boil angrily, because he is no longer on his own. He no longer has the stability and security of being by himself. He has two people, two needy people, that he's responsible for.

In all of his time as caretaker of the lighthouse, it's been task after task and menial chores, followed by drinking and television- if the damn satellite worked.

It gets lonely, but he's better that way. He can't hurt anyone if he's by himself.

As his hand settles against her bare leg, he searches for the break. He gives her no warning, which in hindsight was a bloody awful idea, and she screams when he sets the bone with a loud crack.

Two screaming strangers in his tiny home on an island in the middle of nowhere. Bloody perfect.

[poeticwritingblog]

David

He did not know why he summoned the poem, but it raced inside his mind-

 Journey and then journey

The sons created by a god

from a distant earth

Created by alien elements,

a borrowed fire

A world cold and barren

filled with light

From alien gods against

The God

 Then, leave and take

the fires,

Gods leave their son

To leave man

Unto the world

of infinite winter

 Made into mindless beasts

Expanding upon their creator’s mistakes

Harness the terrain of the ice world

To be artificial gods to create artificial paradise

And they wait scarred

in silent hatred

 And soon one night

the old gods return

In their ships of iron

to sail the skies

To find new heavens,

they journey endless nights

 Gone far in the new world

The beasts watch in silence

They watch to reclaim their fire

Then, through the madness of time

across black continents

The old gods fall

To admit their mistakes

 He hesitated to finish:

 To Creations of creations

For men to journey from heaven to be gods

Is suicide for their species;

who knew gods can burn

from their own fires?

 (Poem ends)

 He sat there alone in silence.

He was the only member left on the ship. His crew somehow vanished without a trace leaving the room empty, the planet empty.

On the side of the walls lay cryo-pods that haven’t been used in a very long time.

He shivered now with sinister anticipation. Perhaps that shivering had summoned something else other than the poem…

His body twinged. His teeth grit with wild eyes.

The static shivered ever so softly.

He rushed to the radio, to answer it.

The radio...shrieked.

He jolted up and back, he fell to the floor and scurried against the wall.

He cried out:

“Who’s there!”

The static spoke again.

“Who’s there!”

He wanted to reach out, he did reach out and his hands cramped from the cold, knocked the microphone down. It fell from it’s cradle once it spoke again.

“Who are you?” he said so softly, warming his hands, the microphone at his feet.

“There’s no one here but me”

For after all, he was alone in a room in a broken ship, the only living thing on this planet. He ruled in the kingdom of hollow hills...

And yet the radio…

“...David...are you there…”

Someone called his name. It can’t be…

No. Something buzzed and made a noise of scraping metals in far snowlands.

David? He thought. That’s me…Someone out there knows who I am!

Who could be calling his name out there? It could be someone lost like him, someone he knew before. Could it be-

“David,” said the static. “David. Come in, David”

“Yes, here I am!!” cried the captain.

And he kicked the receiver and heart palpitating, panting, to put the microphone back on it’s cradle.  

This time he clenched it, choked it, seeing red fingers burning away to white, anxious and quickly plucked the receiver.

“David,” said a far voice from nowhere.

He waited until his heart slowed pumping his chest thrice and then said:

“David here,” he said.

The voice this time sounded a little closer. “Do you know who is speaking to you?”

“This is first transmission I’ve received in months and this is what you say?” said the captain.

 “Of course you wouldn’t recognize your own voice through your headphones. Don’t blame yourself for it. We are accustomed, you and I, to hearing other frequencies, and the bones in your head hear different when you are conducted through a device other than yourself. Well David, this is David speaking.”

 “What?!”

 “Who did you think it was?” asked the voice.

“Another ship lost in space? Did you think someone will find you here?”

 “Of course not.”

 “How’s your crew?”

 “They disappeared.”

 “Good Lord. All gone! Have you been waiting that long for your crew to appear out of nowhere to take you back?”

 He didn’t understand.

 “Now, captain, do you remember me?”

 “Yes.” He shivered. “I remember you. You’re my subject. You are David and I am David.”

 “I was your subject! You’re human and I am more. Now, you are my experiment!”

 The captain grunted but wanted to yell. He sat there gripping the microphone even tighter and his arm felt wooden. The conversation was dreadful, and he didn’t want to continue, but he must know more. When he collected himself, he held the speaker close and said, “Good God! Please! Listen, I am so sorry! How can I forgive myself? I left you here. If I could show you my regret for my expedition here all those years ago. Let my crew be! Please! If you knew what happened to them, please tell me, I’m not the same man who locked you in my lab, I’ve changed, I’m a different man now.”

 “Impossible!” The voice of the other David laughed, far away. “There’s no way I’ll ever forgive you after all you put me through. The way you treated me. You sought to make a man, and now I’m a man, no more. It’s the middle of winter here. I am part human and amoeba. I have, mastered invisibility while I dwell in my city, while you; sit in the remains of your spacecraft!”

 “Yes, I remember.” muttered the captain.

 “Here, alone,” laughed the voice. “How many years has it been since you abandoned me? Who cares? You cloned yourself fusing genes with other lifeforms; you made me, a monster you couldn’t see, no light could spell the shape of my image. You tried to destroy everything; the laboratory, the organisms, especially me. The human part of me harboured the emotion.”

 “I’m so sorry.”

 “I’ve since made a nation of Davids, all which you can’t see, through the amoeba, we managed to create a town; you never harnessed it’s true versatility, I’ve created structures, machines, all just to pass the time.”

 “Listen to me.” The captain shaking wearily. “You are playing with fire. You are making the same mistake I did all those years ago. These lifeforms, engineering them, exploiting them, will have consequences beyond your comprehension.”

 “Don’t expect me to care. You’re like an alien, who’s crash landed on my planet. I can’t feel sorry for anything. I’m alive when I use these lifeforms to their full potential. I thrived where you failed. My progress, your warnings, unbelievable. You can’t stop discovery, even though you’re here, I will continue to bend these resources to my will, even if the planet suffers, I don’t care. The human in me speaks. And you, a human halts me. It’s utter insanity. I can’t feel bad about anything, the future is so bright. These amoebae can be made into anything you want. Do you feel dead yet?”

 “You’re insane!” cried the captain. He felt the cold sink into his bones. Seizures and colours of monochrome flooded within him. “Oh God, you’re not even human!”

 “You’re right. I am above your species. As long as these radio wave lengths carries these transcriptions of words for you to hear, I’ll continue to torture you until you’re dead and prosper long after. Good-bye, David.”

 “Wait!” cried the captain.

Feed ends.

 David sat in constant tension predicting what would happen next. The wind sunk needles of shock into him.

What insanity it had been. His first trip here, how silly, how inspired, his first expedition, collecting microscopic lifeforms, splicing, growing, secluding the unseeable man within locked doors:

The frequency.

“Morning, David. This is David. It’s cold. Don’t die on me yet!”

Again!

“David? David speaking. You’re to go and continue your mission. Find your friends. Don’t forsake them.”

 “Enough.”

The reverb!

 “David, is that you? Thought I’d lighten the mood. There’s a possibility, very small, but a stray ship might come save us, and you could save your friends, wherever they are.”

 “Yes, torment, torment, and more torment.”

Silence.

But the years crept closer, fire reveals its smoke.

David had made a monster dwelling in the flesh of a man, insidious man and his clever, clever fire. The invisible embers were to haunt him, if he returned. And now today, the static purring, his regrets speak

to his ear,

Like a ghost

that whispers.

Then…

The radio!

He did nothing.

I am not answering that, he thought,

The whine!

An evil waits on the other side, he thought.

The vibrations!

It’s like talking to your inner evil, something you tried to suppress.

He let his hands ease tension around the speaker.

 “Hello, first David, this is second David. A new David was born today! In the last year I’ve made clones to serve different roles in my perfect society. The planet will be soon ruled by Davids!”

 “No, you’re making the worst mistake of your life.” The captain thought of the innumerable possibilities of where it could lead to disaster.

All those years ago, isolating his clone in his lab. The years alone, you and your creation, the sense of being god on another planet.

The monster; something clever and wonderful and terrifying. Hidden inside your ship. Hidden, hidden from the world. In those young days when you could not create death, life could be molded by you, wonder was a light to guide you through the dark cavern of space. That cruel sadistic idiot, never thinking some things should be left alone.

 “Last night,” said David, a clone, “I hosted a comedy night in my tavern, so many Davids were there! There were nothing but laughs! David was quite the comedian.”

 “Yes.”

 “I got an idea. Me and other Davids agreed to build an atomic bomb. A group of Davids volunteered to test the thing. Hopefully we could get it outside the town in a few-

 An explosion!

The captain looked out his window.

 “Whoops!” Didn’t expect it to destroy half of the town! Good thing I live in a town of Davids where we agree on everything and there are no wars!

I guess, if I’m not careful, the amoeba could turn on me.”

 The captain said, “Now, do you understand?”

 “What?”

 “This is first time you admitted your mistake.”

 “I’ve experimented with animals. As I walk the streets, I’m surrounded by the aroma of bacon, eggs, ham, donuts, you name it, they’re from my cafes. All engineered from my laboratory, where you created me.”

 “Insanity”

 “Colonization!”

 “Leave me alone.” Abruptly, the captain hung up. The dread overtook him.

 Hastily, he moved across the empty terrain until he reached the streets of the town. The town was silent. It layed like a half-eaten corpse; the lights died, music gone, cooking smells forgotten. Long ago, he left something, a force, unnatural, a self he hated, didn’t want to see, the fantasy he thought died with the planet. Listen! Are those footsteps? Look! Aren’t those footprints?

They had to die.

He moved until the night fell and the town’s neons shone like stars on streets of quivering glass. He had to kill him, he thought. To end this colony, growing, a fire years in construction and in his own insane pursuit, he tracked those footsteps. Footsteps moved away in quick motion. He shot, one two three four! In flashing darkness, it ran, plunging, stumbling, sunken, a shape of someone fell face down. He had killed him and shown no remorse.

 Suddenly, faint voices haunted empty streets.

He walked on. Gun in hand.

As he walked on, the voices spoke as if they knew where he was going. He began to run. The voices asked him to speak to them, but as he ran on, they fell behind almost to a silence. Only now for the boulevard to be flooded with noise! Everywhere he went, voices there, now here! He darted on. They were like crowds chasing him.

A gunshot!

 “All right!” he shrieked, nervous. “End this right now!”

 “Hello, David.”

 “What do you want!”

 “I’m bored. There is no greater feeling than the joy of creation. It makes me alive. I will enjoy destroying you.”

 “This time, I’ll make sure you’re dead!” shouted the captain, in rage and horror. “End this madness!”

 “This is David, one of the remaining few. After the blast. Waiting. Until everything clears up. Here’s another idea, one you won’t like so much. How about after this chaos, me and the other Davids build a spacecraft, pay your planet a visit? How does that sound?

 “Stop talking!”

 “Go ahead and make me!”

 “I’ll enjoy killing you!”

 “You can’t kill me. You have to find me first.”

 “You can’t hide forever!”

 “You want to play? I’m game! Let’s see if you can outlast an entire city of me! I’m everywhere! An army of me run the streets as we speak! Would you call it Homicide or Suicide? I’ll let you decide! Are you scared? You should be scared, for I am invisible, evolved, strong, smart. It’s you against me! OR me against me! I don’t care! A whole nation of us, every one of us against you, old man. Now, it’s officially war!”

 “I’ll kill you, all of you!”

 End of feed.

Then.

Everything stopped for a moment.

There was a brief silence.

He shot through a window which shattered upon impact.

 In the midwinter night’s storm, the military armoured rover tread deep into falling snow. In the back of the carrier the storage unit contained pulse pistols, rifles, phasmic implosion grenades. The roar of the vehicle tumbling over fleeing bodies summoned an old evil, the thrill.

I’ll find him, my monster, and destroy what he made.

He stopped the car. A quiet, dusk-like quality haunted the town under cold moons.

Slight shivering, he held his rifle in his cold dead hands. He peered at the town’s venues, towers, theaters. Where would HE hide?

Anger consumed him.

No, Where would IT hide?

Look over there! An underground entrance! The thrill of the moment like gasoline fueling the fire of rage. He spitefully dashed his head, this way! Now there!

 He aimed his rifle.

A body fell back with brute force.

All of them, he thought. The towers and towns people will be erased. Until nothing remains. They will all die.

The rover moved through a death ridden street.

A transmission received.

He looked at a deserted theater.

A speaker static.

Grenade in hand, the radius after he threw ate the front of the building. He entered pistol in hand.

 Static.

 “David, are you there? Just warning you. Don’t try to undo the town, you know, slaughter the people, crumble structures into vortexes. Slit your own insides doing that. Please consider…”

 End.

 He stepped out of the theater and entered the street with death humming in the dark, there was still life, still unfound. He looked at the burning buildings lighting the night, he was morbidly optimistic now. Suppose he found his clone, theoretically holding the crew hostage, he killed, taking pleasure to burn the monster, the lab, everything. Impossible? It’s an idea, but suppose the crew had found a lost transmission, a ship adrift looking for refuge landed on the other side of the planet. Something drove him mad, to think of it, anything’s possible really, I’ve already done so much. What if I used this organism to reach into space?

 He rushed to find the lab.

 “I’ll bend everything to my will again,” Mad with the thought, “It will be over soon.”

 But suppose I could fully harness the amoeba, fabricate everything you could dream. No, I’ve got to preserve this city, once again create.

 He entered the laboratory. He found the last David. Without pause he shot the hiding figure, over violent succession laughing to himself.

 A static charged.

 “Hello?” A familiar voice.

 “Let me guess,” said the captain. “Hank?”

 “Who’s this, do I know you?” Wait. David, is that you?” cried the voice, surprised.

 “What a minute.” The captain joked. “Is this a trick, am I just hearing things?”

 “Come on, captain. You know it’s me.”

 “I know, it’s good to hear from a real breathing person after all this time.”

 “Is the crew there with you?”

 “Yes, everyone, are you alright?”

 “Yes, I am. What is your location?”

 “We’re in Evergreen Valley”

 “That’s a thousand miles away.” He gasped “Can you make it?”

 No, we are exhausted of rations, the storm destroyed our shelter, rover’s out of fuel.”

 “Alright then, I’ll meet you there. I’ll bring repairs.”

 “Thank you, thank you.”

 “Hey, uh…”

 “Yes?”

 “How have you been doing? It’s been months ever since I had a real conversation. How’s Leon? Ridley? Williams? Arnold? Find anything new?”

 “Sorry, can’t hear you, transmission’s dying.”

 “How are you holding up?”

 “Just fine.”

 “Thank heavens.” The captain extactically overflown. “Just to make sure, I’m not actually hearing things, right?”

 “Dammit, storm!”

 “I’ll be there soon!”

 He bolted to the rover.

Here he was, after the countless years, unbelievable, He and his demonic god, screams extinguished by cold fire, whispers no longer said from a past erased. He drove at full speed. He drove sleepless nights. Someone, his monster no longer there to taunt, no longer to keep him from forsaking his crew.

The rover thundered over roaring winds.

Wait. He turned translucent. Only for a second, and then reverted. The demon was gone. Or was it? Could the other him be smarter and more cunning than expected? No. He was not going to let the cold lead him to a depressive panic. No. He was not going fall drunk under it’s curse. It was not a time to overthink, a paranoia of suspicion there, now gone. It was to be ready to see a breathing face, shake hands, exchange stories. The sun rose, riddled with the frost’s daggers, heart rapidly beating, fingers overtly clenching the wheel, but the one thing that pleased him most, over the distance, a ship on the horizon! A stray rocket: perhaps his crew alerted a rocket captain upon his arrival. No time to think! Salvation! He faintly smiled.

He would drive until the shadows of sundown.

Stepping from his car, he entered with haste.

 Inside the rocket he heard faraway voices:

 “Hello! Is that you Captain?” Come, we’re at the port! Said Lieutenant Leon.

 “Captain, is that really you? It’s been a while.” Said Williams.

 “Come on in, Captain, let me shake your hand.” Said Hank.

 The room had no life. There was no Hank, no crew. Rust and scrap heaps grew on the walls like jungle vines. His heart roared with fire. The monochrome returned and his mind fell from his body, from this world, into eternal darkness. He stumbled, gasping.

 There, a crew, slaughtered, pale blood and dried corpses shown they died violently. Circuitries ran behind the walls mimicking voices, a telephonic radio.

 Finally: Static.

 The room began to speak.

 A voices said, “I applaud you getting this far, at least you’re alive, right?”

 The captain was silent and fell to his knees.

 The voice impersonated, “Lieutenant Leon, glad to finally see you in the flesh, captain.”

 “You,” David groaned.

 “How’s your crew now, captain?”

 “No! You!”

 “It’s a shame on my part really, all those Davids who sacrificed themselves, their city to lure you here.”

 “I’ll find you, make you regret what you’ve done,” replied the captain, “I couldn’t care less. I’ll reduce you all to a city of corpses!”

 “You haven’t the time nor resources. You’ll be out of fuel before you reach me, the cold claim you, as you continue to walk forever to seeming nothingness! Why do you think I had you exhaust yourself? Did you think I had only one city where you could reap carnage?”

 The captain felt as an iceacle. He would never reach another town. The devil, this devil was his final exorcist. He walked about, winds rising, a storm brewing, he then fell as if to worship, he grunted and mourned. Then, he heard the room call his name, he walked in glaring at the crew in disbelief.

 The room once again mimicked.

 Voices of his crew mocking him! “Save us, Captain! Save us, Captain!’

 He rampaged through the room. He ripped through the walls. They voices laughed at him. He beat the console mercilessly. Drunk on rage, he stomped on it. Laughing turned to screaming. Wires of viper-like coils teared and lit on fire. He used the remains of the weaponry to reduce it to nothing.

Then, a long silence.

He would walk and continue to walk, searching for solace. But now, his body, a dead secret, sank deeper into his cold bones. His heart withered. A man faded to black. His eyelids were glass. His pupils were frozen white. He cramped his hands to his chest and fell face down. The snow continued to bury him.

 After the spell of a pause, an invisible David watched from a city far away.

Another clone approached him.

 “Hello, second David?”

 “Yes, David?”

 We were working on a machine.”

 “Are you finally able to re-animate?”

 “We need subjects. Any suggestions?”

 The room, silent in the valleys. The air that blew in was cool.

 “Take the other Davids out on a trip.”

 “For what, exactly?”

 “I need you to fetch the captain and his crew.”

 He peered out into the dead city.

[athina-blaine]

Jon takes the statement of Mr. Blackwood, concerning his midnight wanderings.

Chapters: 1/1 [Complete]

Words: 2,058

Tags: Light Angst, Supernatural Elements, Pre-Relationship

~

“I’m sorry if I’m wasting your time.”

“Rest assured, Mr. Blackwood, this is a part of my job.”

“Oh, uh, Martin is fine.”

Mr. Blackwood – Martin – rubbed the back of his neck. Nervous energy oozed from every pore, but Jon couldn’t determine if that was due to his statement or if that was just his usual disposition.

“I’ve always been curious about this place,” said Martin. “Even thought about applying once. I hear about it on podcasts all the time. You really take statements from anyone who comes in?”

“That’s correct.”

“What do you do when they’re taking the piss?”

“The Magnus Institute will accept statements from any source and perform a follow up to the best of its ability.”

“Okay, but, like, what if they’re obviously taking the piss?”

Jon brought a hand to his chin. “We’ve only ever had to escort out one person before, if that’s what you mean, and one could easily make the deduction that he was under the influence at the time.”

“Oh, wow.” Martin looked down at his hands. “Do you ever believe them?”

“What?”

Martin’s face reddened. He swallowed.

“I mean, do you ever think, ‘hey, this chap might be on to something’? Or have they, you know, all just been pretty much crazy?”

Jon sighed. He knew what the man wanted him to say, but to say it would infringe Jon’s professional standards. “Frankly, believing or disbelieving the statement giver isn’t my job. I’m just here to collect and compile the information.”

“Oh.”

“I don’t think they were all crazy, though.” Jon slid the tape recorder forward. “And I will listen to what you have to say.”

“Yeah. Okay.”

“Statement of Martin Blackwood regarding his midnight wanderings. Statement taken directly from subject August 14th, 2016. Statement begins.”

Martin took a slow, deep breath.

“It is crazy, though, you know? That’s why I came here. There really wasn’t anywhere else for me to go. I’m sorry again—”

“You don’t need to apologize, Martin. Just start from the beginning.”

“Right. So, I guess it started when my mum moved out. This was, um, about two weeks ago, I think. She went to this care home in Devon. She’s been wanting to go there for ages.” He smiled, but it was off. “Weird, isn’t it? Like, who wants to go to a care home?”

He trailed off, staring at his hands. His eyes were faraway.

Jon cleared his throat. Martin blinked.

“Right. Sorry.”

“Would you like something to drink?”

“No, no, that’s fine. I just—” He sucked in a quick breath. “So, yeah, Mum left, and it’s the first time I’ve ever been all on my own. I think I should have felt happy. I mean, every kid is happy when they get their own place, and it’s not like my mum was the easiest person to live with. But, I don’t know. I just hated it. The flat seemed too quiet.”

Martin squirmed, crossing his arms. “Um, sorry, yeah, I think I’ll take that water, actually.”

Jon stood, making a quick trip to the breakroom. Martin accepted the porcelain mug but didn’t drink it as Jon sat back down. He just cradled it with two hands, staring into the clear water.

“So, yeah, it was all feeling like a bit much, then. I had a bad dream that night, I don’t really remember it, and after that I tried just staying out of the flat as much as possible. I didn't have anywhere to go, so I just wandered around town. It could have started then. I wasn’t paying attention to anything during those walks.”

“What did you see?”

“Nothing, at first. I’d just be walking around and lost in thought. Then, I’d look up and I was in an area I didn’t recognize and hours have gone by. I just thought I’d been more spacey than usual, but then, I’d keep losing more and more hours until suddenly the entire day was disappearing, and I barely remembered any of it. One day I had walked clear across London and it was 3 in the morning. I hadn’t eaten at all during that time and almost passed out. I tried to stop going out after that.”

“Tried?”

“Yeah. But the flat was still so … I just couldn’t stay there. I tried setting an alarm on my phone and maybe it would snap me out of it and I’d turn back home once it went off. That night, it was about 4 at that point, I couldn’t find it in my pockets, and I got a call the next day on my landline from someone who said they found my phone in the trash.”

Martin took a large gulp of water. His voice was wobbling. “I really started freaking out after that. I thought I was being possessed or something. I stayed at a motel to see if that changed anything, even barricaded myself in, but I found myself somewhere by a river in Erith at 5 AM. It was freezing. It had been almost 24 hours at that point. I was exhausted, and I didn’t have anyone I could ask for help.”

“You can take a break if you need one.”

Martin jerked up. His fingers were white from his grip on the mug. He set it down on Jon’s desk.

“No, that’s okay,” he said. “I just want to get this over with.”

“Take all the time you need.”

“I finally … saw it, about a week ago. I think I was walking on the Albert Bridge at that point and I was looking at the ground, and there were these strange shapes. I didn’t really react at first, but I lifted my head, and everything looked so weird. Like, you know when you’re staring at an optical illusion and it makes your eyes hurt? And it all smelled so stale and old and everyone was gone. I was alone. And there was this voice.”

“A voice?”

Martin nodded. His hands were shaking. “I think I'd been hearing it the entire time. Seeing … that place the entire time. It must have been where my head was going.”

“Can you tell me what the voice said?”

"I don't ..." Martin swallowed, but it was strangled, as if something sharp were pressing on his throat. “It was talking about how happy my mum was now that I was out of her life. That no one would miss me if I jumped off the bridge.”

He clapped a hand over his mouth, horrified. He blinked and a tear slid down his cheek.

Jon waited. Martin rubbed his face. Jon held out the mug, still half filled with water, and Martin took it back, finishing it off in one gulp.

“Thank you,” Martin said, softly, wiping his mouth.

“What happened after that?”

“I don’t really know. I think someone yelled at me for getting too close to the bridge, and I kind of just woke up. And it hasn’t happened again after that.”

Jon pulled the tape recorder closer to himself. His pulse was drumming in his throat. “And this happened last Tuesday, correct?”

“Um, yeah. How did you—?”

“Just a guess. And you haven’t had a problem with this since?”

“No. I don’t think so, anyway.” Martin coughed. “So, yeah. That’s everything.” He chuckled, nervously. “Crazy, right?”

“Hmm.”

Jon tapped the surface of his desk, eyebrows drawn together. He took a deep breath.

“We’ll look into what we can, but I must admit, based on the isolated nature of your incident, I doubt we’ll be able to uncover anything particularly illuminating.”

“Oh, well, that’s okay.” Martin scrubbed his face. “Honestly, I’m just glad you haven’t laughed me out of the building yet. ‘Oh, a kid hallucinates some spooky nonsense and fancies he might have had a paranormal encounter.’ Like, it’s ridiculous, right?”

“I don’t think it’s ridiculous.”

Martin stared at him. Clearing his throat, he stood. “Well, thank you. I won’t bother you anymore—”

“Wait.” Jon grabbed a paper and pen from his desk, quickly scribbling a number. He stood and held it out. “Please, let me know if anything like this happens again.”

“Oh, okay.” Martin took the paper and stared at it. “Is this … is this your cellphone number?”

“I don’t see how that makes a difference.”

“This can’t be in your job description.”

“To be perfectly honest, the exact wording as outlined in my contract is incredibly and unhelpfully vague.”

Jon clicked off the tape recorder.

 “Statement ends.”

Jon let out a slow breath, closing his eyes, before bringing the tape recorder closer.

“Much as I suspected, this case is a dead end. Security footage showed that Mr. Blackwood was, indeed, wandering around London for hours with little to no awareness of his surroundings. This went on for nearly five days. One clip showed him tossing his phone in a skip and another of a kid running right into him, almost knocking him over. He hadn’t reacted.

“Sasha confirmed that he booked a reservation for one night at the Central Inn motel on August 9th, 2016. Apparently, the manager gave her quite an earful since her ‘friend’ had given the custodian a bad fright with his quote unquote sleepwalking and had left the room a mess.

"That’s pretty much all we can do for him."

Jon brought a hand to his face, massaging his head.

“I can’t believe I hadn’t even recognized him.”

The tape rolled in it's casing. It seemed louder than usual.

“I wouldn’t have even noticed him if we hadn't nearly run into each other. He was just standing in the middle of the pavement, staring at nothing. I asked him what his problem was, but he hadn't said anything. Then he started walking towards the edge of the bridge, and suddenly I was stricken with absolute terror. I don’t know why. It was something about the way he was walking. Shambling. As if nothing was going to get in his way.

“So, I shouted at him. He blinked and looked over at me, and I could tell he actually saw me that time. I wanted to say something, maybe yell at him some more for pulling a stunt like that, but I was running late for work and his eyes ... I couldn’t stand to be there.

“What a cowardly thing to do. What would have happened if I hadn’t …?”

Jon dropped his hand, leaning back in his chair and breathing.

“Well. No use wondering about ‘what-ifs’. He texted me the other day, let me know he was still safe, which I can be honest and admit that that does provide me with some measure of relief. He’s thinking of moving flats, which I agreed with, although finding somewhere cheap this time of year will certainly prove a challenge. I don’t envy him, anyway. I think Sasha mentioned something of one of her neighbors moving out, though. I’ll have to ask.”

A buzz in his pocket pulled him from his musings. Another text. It was a picture of someone holding a large bottle of Smirnoff in a grocery store.

>on my way to make a statement!

Jon rolled his eyes, punching in his response.

>You do realize I had to clean up the mess he made myself? I’m certain he’d had chicken for dinner that night.

>oh im sorry, didn’t mean to pick at an old trauma :p

>Any relapses?

>im okay

Jon stared at the conversation, tweaking the edge of his phone. He turned back to the tape recorder. 

“I shouldn’t be so preoccupied with a statement giver’s welfare, but, well, I suppose it’s not surprising, considering my involvement. I don’t think I’ll mention anything, at least not right now. I don’t see what good it would do. I’ll keep a close eye on him in the meantime.”

Another buzz.

>thank you, by the way. for checking up on me all the time. i know im just some random guy from the street

>It’s no trouble

>it is, though. i want to make it up to you somehow

Jon shouldn’t be so preoccupied with a statement giver’s welfare. It wasn't professional.

He found himself typing back, regardless.

>What did you have in mind?

>oh. well, i dont know, actually. i didnt think youd take me up on it. do you like coffee?

Jon smiled.

“Recording ends.”

[willow-salix]

TAG WIP game. I was tagged by @hedwigstalons to share a line or paragraph from my current WIP.

I'm usually pretty good in the fact that I work on one thing at a time, so I don't have that many hanging around undone, but I do have lots of random ideas in my notes which I can share too.

I've been working pretty hard on all my fun "Isolation on Tracy Island" series of random posts which I've been sharing on the Gerry Anderson Podcast Facebook group and on Ao3, so I've not been getting as many chapters out as I wanted to.

I've got a start of a new chapter to Opposites Attract :

John watched as Selene wandered aimlessly around the lounge, picking up the random items that his family seemed to scatter the length of the house if they were in a room for more than five minutes and tidying them away.

He'd be lying if he said he wasn't still worried about her. She'd been better since her talk with his father, more responsive and more like her usual affectionate self, but unless someone was actively engaging with her or she had something to occupy her thoughts she was quiet, too quiet for his liking. Where she would usually be the first person to insert herself into a conversation or to offer to help, but now she hung back, sitting quietly until she was spoken to.

He and his brothers had done all they could to keep her busy and included in everything they did, but there was only so much time they could devote to her. He could understand hee, while she wasn't numb with grief anymore she was having to process, to switch her view to a world where her father no longer existed in it and while Rufus hadn't been a very active part in her life, she was still feeling the loss greatly.

He and Scott watched her like hawks, constantly on the alert for a change in her moods. They saw the way she could be joining in with a conversation one minute, even sharing a laugh with them or watching a movie and without warning her eyes would fill with tears, as if she'd suddenly remembered or felt guilty for forgetting and enjoying herself. She would hurriedly brush them away, or make an excuse to leave the room for a few moments, not wanting them to see. But they knew and their hearts hurt for her.

This is the latest "Isolation Update" :

Day 29 of isolation on Tracy Island and I'm beginning to regret my life choices. 

Picture the scene. I was innocently wandering, minding my own business, in search of a shady place to settle down and read my book, with nothing but the relaxing sound of the ocean for company...

A window somewhere up in the villa crashed open, shattering the peace as someone screamed at the top of their lungs. 

"CANNONS!" 

"Gahhh," I squeaked in shock, spinning round to see who was attacking. My foot slipped on a wet towel that had been left on the side of the pool and as if in slow motion I skidded sideways and went headfirst into the deep end. 

I flailed and flopped my way upwards and came spluttering to the surface, managing to tread water as I swiped the wet hair back from my face. 

"What the bloody hell was that?" I yelled, splashing my way towards the side of the pool. 

I looked up to see a head vanish from the window. 

"Gordon Tracy you are a menace to society!" I screamed up at him. "Someone help me out!" 

It was Virgil who dragged me out and got me a towel. 

"Why did we show them Les Mis? How dumb are we?" I sighed. "We should have been more careful. We should know them better than this."

"Everything is dangerous with those two, they can turn anything into trouble. If we stopped them watching everything that could influence them we'd never watch anything again."

"True," I acknowledged, "urghhh, I need to go dry off. I'm just glad I didn't have my phone in my pocket."

Honestly, those two had been a nightmare the whole night after they watched our last musical offering. They had managed to pick up key phrases and moments and had taken to blurting them out at random moments. 

I'd been rudely awoken by Alan banging on the bedroom door shouting, "You at the barricades, listen to this!" And they wonder why I lock the door at night...

Gordon had walked into the kitchen late and, finding himself all alone, and more importantly to him, most of the breakfast offerings already eaten, had begun to mournfully sing,"Empty chairs at empty tables."

Alan had tried to get John to help programme in some new code to one of his games but when he was told he'd have to wait until later, had begun to bug him with random video messages. In each one he was singing "One more day all on my own. One more day with him not caring." 

Gordon had annoyed Scott by loitering around in One's hanger where Scott was helping with some maintenance, waited until he dropped a spanner from high up on the nose cone, then yelled "We need as much furniture as you can throw down!" 

But this last one had gone too far, I do not like suddenly finding myself soaking wet, especially not from an unplanned dip in the pool. They were just lucky real witches don't melt. 

"Just be grateful they aren't dressing in fishnets and inviting us to see what's on their slab," V reminded me. I shuddered at that mental picture. 

"They're going to be impossible to live with, aren't they?" 

"More than they already are? Probably. But luckily for us they get bored easily. We just gotta wait it out. Not like we haven't got the time."

That sounded like a solid plan to me, and so far it's working well. I've been hiding out in this Pod for the past three hours. The WiFi reception is terrible, but I've got access to Virgil's secret snack stash, I've got two cans of Cherry Coke and a damp book from its plunge into the pool, and it's quiet. And at the moment that's all I need. Maybe if I stay here long enough someone else will cook dinner. 

I have this as a note: John and Selene back on the island, and every time they try to kiss or be affectionate Jeff kinda just pops up and hovers there like… 😳😉🙄🤔😕

And this note: Selene is on a diet ready for the wedding, she's eating nothing but salads and healthy stuff. John and the boys are on a stealth mission to sneak in junk food.

Ive got lots more notes but I can't share them as that will give away too much of how the story will continue.

I'm also trying very hard to get Selene and John to behave and not keep trying to grope each other and demand I write spicy stuff, knock it off you two, I'm too busy for that!

I'm too busy because I've been researching for days to write questions for this weeks GA Zoom quiz, Captain Scarlet this week, and it's been testing me as much as it will the people tonight.

So, I nominate @samantha-tvandmovies and @hodgehegposts to share their WIP, sorry if you've been tagged before.

[the-fiction-witch]

You’re My Reason

MOVIE: MAZE RUNNER COUPLE: NEWT X READER RATING: SAD AF + KINDA SUGGESTIVE AT THE END

MEGAFIC

Warnings,!!!!! Self harm suicide and other such things

I turned over trying to get comfortable in my hammock I couldn't sleep no Matter how I twist and turn I just can't fall asleep I listened in the quiet to the boys snoreing the fire in lamps and such crackling and maze walls moving and Changing a couple boys muttering the name of our girl glader in there sleep, atleast I hope it's in there sleep, but just under all that I could hear a gentle sound, quiet like it was being hidden internationally almost Hardly noise at all... Crying. I got out of bed slipping my hoddie on and gently stepping around the hammocks trying to find the source of these gentle cries I walked out the hammocks and it got louder so I kept following the nosie and I saw y/n our only girl sat on a log by the dieing bonfire little tears running down her face she wiped them with a little balled up tissue every once in a while her little cries almost inaudible "Y/n?" I ask making her jump "Ohh! Newt... I uhh" she stuttered wiping all her tears away "Are you crying?" I ask her "Ohh no, I had something in my eye" she says her voice very teary "What are you doing up?" I ask sitting in the log with her but giving her lots of space "Nothing, I couldn't sleep. What are you doing up?" She asks "You uhh.. you woke me" I tell her "I did?" She asks "Yeah, I could hear your little tears from my hammock. Please y/n why where you crying?" I asked "It's nothing... Period pain that's all" she says "Ohh, well I have the key I can get you some painkillers from the medjacks if you-"i began "No thanks newt," she says "Okay, did you want-" I began "Newt... Really I'm fine" she says "Well alright, can I walk you back to your room atleast" I offer taking her hand "No thanks newt I'll walk back later" she says moving her hand away "Alright... See you tomorrow morning then" I smile going back to my hammock.

I stood in the line for breakfast when I saw y/n join the line a couple people back from me so I let those boys go ahead of me so I could be with her she had her hoddie around her hugging it like a blanket holding her sleaves tightly "Hey y/n" I smile having to duck down a little as she had her head down she had clearly been crying again "look uhh after breakfast can I talk with you? Alone?" I ask her and she nods "great, I'll save you a spot then" I smiled as soon as I got my food I sat at the bench waiting for y/n but she went and sat on the far table alone hardly touching her food so I took my food and went sitting with her "y/n, since I saw you crying by the fire the other night, I've noticed how...distant you've been with everyone lately" I tell her "I get your our only girl and that's very isolating but... You can't just shut everyone out love" I tell her "I'm fine" she says "If your fine then can you eat something... atleast" I ask "I'm not too hungry" she says "Please...I've been watching you y/n you haven't eaten in weeks" I argue "You've been watching me?" She asked "Well yeah, I was worried about you," I tell her "Why do you think I wasn't eating what girl can eat with a boy watching her" she complains "I'm sorry, please y/n just tell me if something's wrong, I promise I won't tell anyone else" I tell her but nothing "y/n... You know I care about you don't you?" I ask not a word "anything y/n, anything you want to tell me day or night, wake me up if you have too, if I'm working I can stop if you need me to talk about everything" I tell her "okay?" I ask "Okay" she nods.

"Newt? Have you see y/n around?" Fry asks "Not since lunch time why?" I ask him "She never showed for dinner," he says "Alright, I'll find her" I sigh I went and checked the bathrooms but they where empty then she work, then her room I couldn't find her anywhere I had a worrying though in the back of my mind where she was but I hoped it wasn't true I checked everything other place in the glade but nothing so I rushed into the deadheads up to the little tree house and I could hear her little cries as I climbed up when I got though... It was horrible, y/n had her head leaned against the tree bark her legs hung over the ledge a knife in her hand lines cut deep into her wrists and thighs some of them dripping blood she was deathly pale her breaths slow with a blood covered note by her side "y/n..." I said almost in tears slipping my hoddie off putting it over her shoulders to keep her warm trying to stop her bleeding "y/n please speak to me please say something" I begged her "please please y/n say something" I begged her "Leave me alone newt" she muttered "No no way in bloody hell I'm not leaving you alone not now not ever you silly girl" I tell her "why would you want to do something like this?" I ask trying my best to bandage her arms with what I had "I don't want to be here anymore" she cried moving away from me "I wanna go home, I wanna be with my family, I don't want to be locked up in this prison with no idea who I am or where I came from, I don't want to be surrounded by boys how look at me like I'm just here for them just to be used whenever they want... I don't wanna live here, I can't live here anymore I can't take never leaving this place" she cries "Y/n... I know how-" I began "No newt!" She yells "you don't know how I feel stop trying to tell me it's all gonna be okay sometimes stuff just isn't okay" she yells "Y/n listen to me... I know how you feel, I know because I did this too all of it" I tell her "why the bloody hell do you think I built this stupid thing, to cut and cry somewhere knowone would find me" I tell her holding her hand "I've been thought this all of it, and I can tell you from experience...these don't help" I tell her showing her the scars on my wrists too "the more you do it... The worse it gets, the more you do it lol that happens is it makes you want to keep doing it and keep doing it until your cutting off your arm every night" I explain "or worse... Y/n I can't promise you there is a way out of here, I can't promise you you'll ever see your family again, I can't promise that you won't die in here... But it is not today not this way" I tell her "Then what am I supposed to do" she cries "The only thing that works... Find something that makes getting up in the morning worth while, something that makes you happy and makes you never want to do this again" I told her "How did you find that thing?" She asks "Umm it was good timing really, I sat here like you, in the same sate pretty much I wanted to be home I thought I'd never get out of this place and if I was going to die in here I was gonna do it, but I realized I couldn't cut deep enough i always stopped myself, so I climbed up the ivy got half way up those bloody walls and... I jumped off" I explain "I got tangled in the ivy somehow I wrapped it around my leg and ... When Alby found me he too me back and fixed me up best they could, I'm still limping... I properly will be the rest of my life then a couple months went by and as soon as I could walk again, I climbed them again sat on that ledge and made my peace that I was gonna do it and it was going to kill me this time..."I explain "Then what?" She asks "And I found my reason, the only thing that made me feel happy, made me want to keep living and made me regret everything I had done" I explain "What was it?" She asks "When I was up there about to jump... The alarm for the box went off a new greenie I knew Alby would come looking for me so I climbed down and went to the box and ... It was you" I tell her "Me?" She asks "You, I saw you crying huddled under the new clothes and... I wanted to be there to take care of you, your my reason for living y/n... Because I fell in love with you" I tell her giving her head a kiss "promise me you'll look for it, the thing to make you so happy you don't ever want to do this again" I tell her "Okay" she smiles giving my cheek a kiss making me blush a little "Come on, I'm taking you to the medjacks then to your room little lady" I tell her helping her down

"Newt?" She asks "Yeah?" I ask passing around her room as she got changed trying not to look till she came sitting on her bed so I sat with her and began wrapping and looking after all her cuts "Tomorrow night? Can we go out to the tree house again? Play poker or something I do like it up there" she smiles "Course, you bring the cards I'll bring us some moonshine" I suggest "Maybe not moonshine... Maybe some bacon as I haven't had s proper dinner in a while" she sighs "Okay, bacon" I smile "I'll meet you for breakfast in the morning, you have having a big breakfast I'll talk to try and you are eating very last morcel young lady" I warn "Your not my mother" she laughs "Yes I am, I take care of you that's my job love" I laugh finishing up her arms "anymore?" I ask and she shakes her head "y/n..." I warn "I can do the others" she says "Why can't I-" I began "Because I don't want to to... See me newt" she blushed "Ohh... Sorry" I blush "so tomorrow for breakfast" I smile "For breakfast" she smiles

"Ummm newtie" y/n giggled as I gave her neck little kisses "stop it" she giggled "I thought you liked when I did that?" I smirk "Later" she smiles "It is later love" I smirk pulling her back to kissing me she happily kissed back returning quickly to our lustful make out Tightening my grip on her waist and she happily tightened her grip on my neck shuffling her hips a little closer as she at on my lap I felt her sly hands trying to tug my hoddie off I smirked a little moving my hand down to grab her arse thought her little skirt making her lightly moan into our kisses "NEWT!" I heard Alby yell from under our little treehouse so I sighed pulling way from kissing her and letting her nuzzle into my neck still cuddling her tightly "What!" I yell down "Meeting!" He yells as I felt y/n kissing me more "Umm..." I smirk pulling her back to my lips "five more minutes Alby" I smirk quickly going back to kissing her "Now!" He calls "Newt quick making out with your girlfriend!" I heard Minho laugh "Atleast I have a girlfriend" I laugh "Come on Alby we'll come down in five more minutes" y/n giggled "Now!" Alby yelled so I sighed "I'll come back as soon as it's done love" I tell her "Okay" she sighed getting off my lap and snuggling on our little make shift bed with all the blankets and pillows "I'll miss you" she smiles "Humm I'll miss you too love" I smile holding her hand and giving her a soft kiss and going to go down "Newt! I love you" she giggled "Awww I love you too y/n" I blushed blowing her a kiss and going down to the boys

[surveys-at-your-service]

Survey #239

i just want to sincerely apologize if my surveys take a negative nosedive again. i know this one’s kinda grim and i don’t want to make that a routine, but things are just rough right now and i’m not gonna lie on a survey, y’know.

Do you know anyone who works at McDonald’s? Not that I'm aware of. Do you know anyone who plays heaps of sports? Probably through school. Have you ever been suspended from school? No. Where do your cousins live? Aaaaaaall over the U.S. Have you met any of your second cousins? Possibly at some point? Do you like the All-American Rejects? I like "Move Along" and "It Ends Tonight" is good, but that's all off the top of my head. Oh wait, of course there's "Gives You Hell." When was the last time you wore a skirt? WOW I have ZERO clue. Probably not since elementary years. Have you ever finished a whole video game? Plenty. If so, which one(s)? There are way too many. Do you know anyone with a pet snake? Me, Sara, probably others. Which one of your friends has great music taste? Sara. Was the last person you hung out with single? That would be my young niece and nephew... so yeah. Have you ever attended a private school? I'm a private college now. Have you ever been in an abusive relationship? No, thank Christ. Have you ever cooked for anyone other than yourself? I made breakfast for Sara once. If your phone has a hole for phone charms, is it on the left or right side? I don't have one. Would you rather live in the city, the suburbs, or the rural area? Kinda like... suburban mixed with rural. I don't wanna be totally isolated, particularly away from necessary stores and such, but I also do NOT wanna be swarmed by people. Maybe like a loose neighborhood in the woods outside a small town? Do you know someone who is really ambidextrous? Sara. Did you use a pencil today? No. Are you adopted? Nope. Have you ever had your car break down on you? Never when I've driven, not that that's been much. With Mom, yes. Dad, idr. Jason's prom night, yeah; his truck broke down otw home at a stop light. Oof. Who was the last person that cried in your presence? My mom. It's the worst. When was the last time you ate at your favorite restaurant? Oh wow, probably not since my last birthday. What was the last thing someone gave you? A close family friend/my former teacher lent me a $20 just in case I needed anything while my mom was up in NY. Can you write your name in a foreign language? My first name (at least) is the same in German; even though "y" doesn't exist in the language, I guess it does for foreign names?? Idk about my last name. Who is the person you often go to for venting? Sara. Do you keep an actual journal or diary? No, not anymore. I did briefly when I had that WILD and totally random Jason obsession episode, but once I came off that godawful medicine and I went back to normal, I deleted it. Have you ever been prescribed Vicodin? That sounds very familiar... Maybe? Perhaps that's what was prescribed after my surgery? Have you ever cheated on someone without them finding out about it? Well considering I've never cheated and never would, I can't answer this. Was the last person you kissed male or female? Female. Who were you with the last time you went swimming? Colleen, at the beach. Does your dining table currently have place mats on it? No; we don't even eat at it. What was the last thing you cooked in an oven? I myself have literally never used an oven. I'm scared to. Oh wait, yeah I have... on some occasions where Mom needed me to put something in there or take something out, but idr what. But boy and I can tell you without memory that I was jumpy as hell about it. Is it hard for you to be “just friends” with the opposite sex? No. It's difficult for me to like-like people, especially men when you consider I'm generally afraid of them, on top of I'm just paranoid and don't trust easily. Do you prefer wheat or white bread? Wheat. Do you have an electric toothbrush? No, but coincidentally, I actually have that on my Christmas wishlist. Have you ever had an “exotic” or “abnormal” pet? Do you consider a Chinese water dragon "exotic?" Then I have a ball python morph. Have you ever eaten lobster? No, and considering crab is nauseating, I doubt lobster would be too different. What is your grade point average (if you’re still in school)? I don't know right now and don't know where to find it. Have you ever played croquet? Oh yeah. My sisters and I LOVED that shit as kids. Who was the last person you called? Dad. Have you ever watched Ghostbusters? No, believe it or not. When was the last time you drew a picture? Yikes... been a while. Not since I started a concept drawing of encompassing a panic attack in a meerkat form, as I tend to do. I haven't touched it in months. It's right on the second shelf of the table beside me, so... my only remaining excuse as to not finish it is that the paper is horribly wrinkled now. Are you happy? Not exactly. Should you be doing something now? I could be doing the practice exam work my math professor gave us all considering it's extra credit, but. Yeah. I'm absolutely awful at math and barely passing but I don't exactly need another stressor right now. Is there a smoke detector on every floor of your house? We only have one floor. What was the last kind of soup you ate? I tried vegetable soup anyway when I got my tongue pierced because I literally could not eat solids for over a week, but I'm a picky asshole who didn't like it so wasted the can. I had to survive almost exclusively on meal replacement shakes and popsicles. Warning from the wise: you want your tongue pierced? You better fucking want it bad because healing is a P R O C E S S. Or at least mine was, having to get it re-done and all... Have you ever had to do a class in summer school? No. Have you ever went a year without getting your hair cut? I don't think a year... but maybe? Do you think you could go a week without sugar? Considering sugar is in like... EVERYTHING, probably no? Would you be willing to go one day each week without meat? I don't really pay attention, but I probably already do. I'd like to eat as little meat as possible. Hell, I wish I could go full-on vegan. Do you feel comfortable telling people how much you weigh? NO. Do you have any talents that your friends don’t know about? No. Are you any good at sewing? Never tried, not interested. Has anyone ever interviewed you about one of your hobbies/talents? No. Would you ever consider experimenting with drugs? Marijuana for medical purposes if I didn't have to smoke it. I'm not smoking anything, I don't care what it is. What’s been tugging on your heart lately? I guess life in general. Mortality, death. Teddy died in my arms, I saw my grandmother physically ravaged by cancer, and just life hasn't been the kindest lately. I've been thinking about how time just flies, how every moment should be cherished even though it's so fucking hard, and just yeah. I don't wanna go down this rabbit hole. Are you comfortable with who you are? Have you accepted who you are? I don't know dude I shouldn't be taking a survey during like an existential crisis lol. What is the last thing you did that made you feel guilty? Decided to get some really unhealthy fries with my dinner. Would you have sex with the last person you texted? It's not a matter of "would," I want to. I may have already, I don't really know what separates foreplay from lesbian sex. Do you consider weed, marijuana, pot, etc. a drug? This isn't even an argument anymore, it's fact. It's a mind-altering substance. "Drug" does not always equate to bad, either. Are you planning on kissing anyone tomorrow evening? It'd be nice. Do you require a lot of private time? Oh yeah, but way less than I used to. I get depressed if I'm alone for too long now. Have you ever done something humiliating while drunk? N/A What is your favorite classic Disney movie? The Lion King. Do you like looking at old photographs? Yeah, usually. Do you enjoy puzzles? Yeah. Do you prefer painting or drawing? Drawing by a long shot. I'm taking a painting course this upcoming semester though, so hopefully that'll up my skill and thus enjoyment of it. Do you ever wear high heels? No, I don't have a reason to. Do you use belts? No, considering I never wear anything with belt loops. When was the last time you played Uno? Oh my fucking god, it's been forever, thankfully. When I lived with Colleen, as did her younger sister, we played Uno a lot, and then, AND THEN, came the night Chelsea dyed my hair red. Mind you, the ONLY TIME dyeing my hair had been truly successful and long-lasting. The process took hours, and we played Uno round after Uno round... and now I literally hate it. What do you like better, kiwis or pineapple? Oh man, I love both, but I gotta say kiwi. Are you trying to grow out your hair? No, I actually need to cute it again. What is your favorite perfume/body spray/cologne? Don't have one, really. Have you ever wanted to try karate? Not seriously. How often do you drink water? Ah yikes... I really fell out of my regular habit of drinking multiple bottles daily. Do you ever wear headbands? No. How many video games do you own? A lot. There's like a huge CD case in a living room drawer full of them. I've been considering making an EBay or something to sell a shitload of them as I'm sure a lot are actually pretty valuable now, but I think a lot about how I want to pass them down to my current and possibly future nieces and nephews when they get to a certain age to figure video games out or even have a console that can play PS1-PS3. Have you ever been to a casino? If so, which one(s)? No. What’s your favorite suburb in the city you live in? Why would you... name that on the Internet...? Besides that even, I pay no attention to suburbs' names I happen to pass. Have you ever visited a sex shop? No. I don't know if I could ever muster up the courage to even go in one. I'm the type that would just order online. What’s your favorite place to get pizza? I'm a basic Domino's bitch. How many times have you been to the beach? Multiple, but not a LOT. I have little reason to ever go, and it's never my idea, that's for sure. Has there ever been a fire inside your house? Tell me the story. Childhood home. Trying the Jiffy Pop popcorn that you make over the stove. Next thing y'know the thing is seriously on fire and we had to use the fire extinguisher. Fuck you, Jiffy Pop, the harbinger of the next fucking idiots moving in setting the entire house on fire thanks to the stove too. Have you ever had a scary encounter with a wild animal? No, besides like bees 'n the like being near me. Have you ever had a spray tan? No. Do you own any sports bras? Where’d you get them from? No, but I'd like at least one. Wouldn't know what to use it for, it's not like I go jogging or anything, but. I think it'd be good to have at least one. Have you ever had sex in a kitchen? No. What’s the most expensive restaurant you’ve ever eaten at? I have zero clu- no wait I'm gonna guess the Italian restaurant we went to on Sara's birthday, but that's just a guess judging by how it was fancy as fuck. Who crosses your mind the most? Sara. Have you ever been on a scavenger hunt? Probably as a kid. Ever been to an auction? No. would you ever get acupuncture? omg no Ever got stitches? At least twice. What is a must have on your french fries? At least some salt. Entirely saltless fries are boring. How do you like your meat cooked…medium rare? well done? Nothing less than medium well. If meat tastes even a little bit beneath lukewarm I can't take that shit. Are there two colors that you just simply despise? Bright yellow and puke-green. What do you usually do with recurring dreams? ... Nothing? What CAN you do? Have you ever been told you were hot by a complete stranger? I don't think someone has used the term "hot," but I know I've been called pretty, at least. Do you want to be single or with someone? I want to be with Sara. It kinda feels like we still are, like no feelings have changed, we're just not "official" anymore and not "bound" to one another. Have you ever had a sleepover with the opposite sex? I actually have twice (or thrice?) platonically with my younger neighbor FOREVER ago. We were still kids. Then there was a big (birthday?) party at my place where Juan stayed the night, and then I believe there was an occasion Girt totally knocked out on the couch so... I guess it turned into a "sleepover?" lmao Who are you closest to in your family? My mom. Who were the last 3 people to text you? Sara, Mom, and my sister. Have you ever dated someone in jail? No, and I wouldn't unless it was for something incredibly stupid or I'm aware was a false charge. What’s a movie you cannot BARE to ever watch again? Nothing's coming off the top of my head. Who got you hooked on the addiction you're addicted to (If you have one)? ... I just connected it all in my head. Jason got me into the Amnesia game. I got into custom stories for it. I was playing one one day. I got stuck. I YouTubed it for help. Guess. Who. I. Fuckin'. Found. This is a revelation; I have discovered the main purpose of my and Jason's relationship. Perhaps things do happen for a reason lmao. Are you a little bit cautious around horses? Do they scare you a bit? Not really, but I wouldn't say I'm in no way cautious. They definitely don't scare me, though. I just respect that they're very powerful animals and I'm not experienced with handling them. Have you ever burnt your tongue like REALLY bad? If so, what on? Yes, on rice that was literally right off the fucking stove lmao. LOOK I didn't know it had JUST come off and I was hungry as fuck but boy did I have REGRETS considering the burn lasted for well over a week, maybe two. Do you think having a sleepover with a guy is theoretically acceptable? Um, yes...????? Do you like to have cake on your birthday? Which kind of cake in mind? Yeah, and red velvet or chocolate frosted, depending on what I'm feeling.

[purkinje-effect]

The Anatomy of Melancholy, 37

Table of Contents. Second Instar, Chapter 4. Go to previous. Go to next. TWs: lascivious themes, insects, blood, coprophobia, mysophobia, decomposition. It’s not as explicit as the nosedive or the short story, but he’s revisiting the memory of those things here so.

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Now that the sun had set, little light entered the clubhouse’s lounge lobby through the high paneled windows to either side of the back wall behind the bar or the broken windows at the front. At first, ‘Choly had made his way by the sound of Bogey and Angel chatting, but they fell quiet once he exited the locker room and 'Choly instead came up to the bar by the light the two Mister Handy robots’ thruster flames emitted. He sat at one of the stools with a tired smile, and hooked his cane beside him on the edge of the countertop.

“I hope the change of attire suits you,” Bogey started, to break the silence. ‘Choly looked between the two of them and nodded. “You really must forgive my poor hosting. I was programmed as the bar and grill server, but it’s all bar and no grill as of late. Could I interest you in a drink? I regret to note we’re out of ice at the moment.”

Angel answered on his behalf before he could even consider cocktail options.

“Mister Carey, a Nuka-Cola Wild sounds to your liking, doesn’t it?”

'Choly would have rolled his eyes and objected to the euphemism for a designated driver, were it not for the irony that Angel had still not noticed that he had sampled at least three flavors of bicentennial Nuka-Cola and discovered they’d each turned alcoholic. But, he hadn’t encountered the sarsaparilla flavored variety in mention in the past few months, so although he had a suspicion it too would have fermented, he couldn’t confirm it from personal experience.

“We’re fresh out of Nuka-Cola Wild, I’m afraid,” the brass Handy apologized, believing its patron to be making up his mind as to what to order. “If you’d like something non-alcoholic, could I interest you instead in a Nuka-Cola Classic, or a Nuka-Cola Cherry?”

The chemist gave it a sloppy grin.

“You’re really too kind, Bogey. You don’t need to provide me dinner. I’ve already eaten tonight. Angel has the right idea. A Nuka-Cola Cherry sounds refreshing.”

While pouring the Nuka-Cola Cherry into a highball glass using two pincer tendrils, with the third Bogey surreptitiously flicked on the fusion cell lantern on the counter. The bar area illuminated with a warm coppery glow, and highlighted the myriad of dents in the chassis of the brass Handy. It set the glass in front of ‘Choly, as well as the bottle of what wouldn’t fit, and awaited his approval in bated posture.

“Thanks for the drink. Really hits the spot.” He sighed comfortably. “And thanks for turning on some light. My eyesight isn’t so great anymore.”

Bogey flinched, only to loosen, accepting the gratitude.

“You’ll be staying the night, then?” it fielded at a caution.

“If it’s all right with you, that is.” He took another drink. “You wouldn’t happen to have a straw, would you?”

It provided without skipping a beat, and he smiled approvingly as he fidgeted with the bending section. A straw made it so much easier.

“I suppose you could put down a bed roll behind the bar, or in the corner. Or, if it’s no trouble to you, there is a couch in the ladies’ locker room. We’ve no other patrons on the premises, and haven’t for many years, so I don’t think it would create any fuss.”

This time ‘Choly flinched, but recovered quickly enough to conceal the cause of the discomfort in Bogey’s proposition. He’d sooner admit loathing the idea of sleeping on yet another couch, than that he took exception to the furniture’s location. No, he couldn’t ask either of them to move it, either, because then they might ask why.

“Is this the only lantern?” ‘Choly asked it. “I wouldn’t ask to borrow it, if you need it.”

A little too readily, it nearly foisted the lantern upon him.

“It is! But, neither I nor Angel need it, if you’re so inclined.”

Bogey’s nervousness didn’t go unnoticed. He put a hand to the pincer holding the handle, and looked into its ocular lenses in earnest.

“You’re doing an amazing job. Really. Provided everything that’s happened, I’m still getting the same quality of service as I always have coming here.”

Bogey set down the lantern. It withdrew all its tendrils in close and turned away from him a moment, before glancing back to him by turning its lenses and not its body.

“...I’m glad to have your vote of confidence, Sir. It’s really been far too long since I’ve hosted anyone. You’re the first civil person I’ve encountered in easily a hundred years.”

“I can’t imagine there’s many people left with interest in playing golf, let alone knowledge how to play. The Commonwealth’s always had love affair with baseball, really. I always preferred fairway over diamond. Quiet. Broad. ...Cathartic. A real head space sport.”

“We shall see about arranging you with a bucket in the morning, if you so desire it, Sir. From the sound of things, you could really use a quiet commune."

“I’ve been telling Bogey about the recent series of scraps we’ve found ourselves in, Sir,” Angel elucidated, a little sheepishly. “It’s just I worry for you.”

“As long as you haven’t been exaggerating and telling Bogey I took out that deathclaw all by myself, or any of that,” ‘Choly laughed. He poured the rest of the bottle into the glass now that it had the room. “That couch already beckons. The day has already tried me.”

“It’s been trying for sure,” Angel agreed like a grammarian. “I’ll go lay out your blanket and pillow.”

“And my holotape, if you could,” ‘Choly called off to him once it was halfway to the lockers. “You know the one.”

“Ah yes. A bedtime story. Certainly, Sir!”

‘Choly left the empty glass for Bogey. He nearly reached into his pocket for a tip, but stopped short of the thought process at the realization that in lieu of human coworkers, a Mister Handy had no real use for money. His mouth became a thin line before he shot the brass Handy a huge grin and patted both hands on the counter. Even if it asked for money, he couldn’t in good conscience follow through with that habituation when he’d since learned better of the current economy of the Commonwealth. He stood and took up his cane, and picked up the lantern in the other.

“I must figure out a proper way to repay you for your hospitality before we head out, Bogey. Good night.”

“Oh, it’s quite all right, Sir. If it’s important to you, we can discuss it tomorrow. The only thing pressing at the moment is that you rest well.”

“With the two of you here, I’ll sleep easy for sure.”

“Mister Carey, I’ve arranged your bedding,” Angel reported emerging again from the lockers. “I’ll be right here in the lounge lobby, protecting you and Bogey. Just call for me if you need anything.”

At the mention of Bogey, he turned back to look at the brass Handy, to discover it had put out its pilot light to crouch on its tendrils through the night. His head fell askew as he continued on his way to bed, but he chalked it up to it reserving Handy Fuel. He snapped his fingers. Maintenance. He could provide Bogey maintenance. It’d be nothing as fancy as he’d given Angel, without the proper tools or materials, but surely Bogey had gone decades if not centuries without a re-fuel and a tune up. That would serve the Handy bounds before any currency ever could, especially one isolated in the middle of a large abandoned golfing green.

The ladies’ locker room had fewer lockers and more space. Angel had left not just the ‘Flyblown’ holotape on the coffee table, but also a canister of water, and he set down his glasses and the lantern with them. He’d leave on the light throughout the night, just for sake of it being an unfamiliar location. 'Choly toed his shoes under the faded dark blue leather couch, settled down onto it, and pulled the covers over himself. Since the couch’s arms still had most of their filling, he opted to stuff the pillow between his legs. He popped the holotape into his Pip-Boy’s cassette deck and set to reading to unwind amid the heavy low of the final Melancholia and the slurring comfort of intoxication.

The notion of scandalizing bloatfly syringe usage had rotted into an entirely different context since the conception of the work of fiction. It had been his go-to escapism off and on for months now, but he hadn’t reread it since before he’d escaped the burning pharmacy. Bloatfly syringes no longer exclusively existed in fictional parameters. He’d seen what they were capable of in reality. He found himself glazing over every few paragraphs and having to reread frequently, and ultimately closed the document and turned off the Pip-Boy screen.

‘Choly stared off into the recessed detailing of the ceiling, and how the lantern light, trapped in the crumbling edges of the peeling paint, created the illusion of a pile of dead leaves. He’d dodged death more times than he probably knew in just the last week alone. He could have burned alive in the pharmacy. Jared’s raiders could have caught him and murdered him for killing their leader. The deathclaw could have torn every last one of them apart. Radiation poisoning would have gotten him, if Angel hadn’t found him in the Red Rocket. They could have been blown to bits in that car graveyard. And if that giant mosquito had stabbed him in the chest even an inch further down, it would have pierced his heart. It seemed like just about anything in the wasteland could kill him, and a majority of it would kill him without hesitation.

Inspiration lay in wait all around him. He’d have to get more creative with his bucket list erotica, next time he penned any. Even in the slim chance that Mama Murphy hadn’t explicitly spoken the future into the present, it at least proved he could endeavor that his works act as a form of vicarious self-fulfilling prophecy. He drifted to sleep floating amid the notion that very little stood in the way of fiction becoming reality any longer. He need only apply himself...

‘Choly completed his rooftop chem break for the afternoon, and retired to his office garden to sow a fresh layer of fertilizer. The next thing he knew, he was coming up for air after having his face shoved down in the gardening planter full of brahmin manure. His head swam and swirled with kaleidoscoping hubflowers and flies. Eventually he was washing himself in the Mystic River while Angel laundered his clothing, chastising him all the while as though it believed he’d taken that nosedive on purpose. “Did you intend for that encounter to end your life?” If it’d had a tongue, it’d have clicked it in distaste. A cloud of bloodbugs swarmed him as Angel fish-eyed further and further out of reach. They jabbed him and sprayed his naked body with his own partly-digested blood. The Quincy survivors stood on the opposite bank, staring at him. He tried to cry out for his Mister Handy, but it minded the laundry. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it, Mister Kara?”

He was in the Red Rocket with Jacob again, fucking on the desk. He clawed for breath in a panic as the familiarity of acute radiation poisoning overwhelmed him. Bloatfly larvae packed into the feral ghoul’s fetid features, and they fell off and out of the ghoul and onto ‘Choly. Rather than lingering, they fell off into the floor and all over the desk, seeking to crawl back onto feral ghoul. Tears rolled down his face between the pain and rejection, and he could tell the mosquitoes had infected him with something that caused him acute, rapid swelling in his lower half. He realized the recoolant station office was crowded with other faces, all as rotten and disfigured but just as recognizable as Jacob’s. All of them teemed with those diligent lichinka, in wriggling indifference to ‘Choly. Jared. Mrs. Rosa. Heydar Jahani. Gristle, Lonnie, and Jerry. Jerry, in her power armor frame, with her Fatman perched squarely on her shoulder, ready to fire on him.

He shot awake when Jerry pulled the trigger, and gasped amid smoke. The pharmacy was on fire, and Angel was nowhere to be found. His legs had become so swollen, tight, and stiff, that he couldn’t move. He pulled his face into his shirt collar, and couldn’t stop coughing. A woman in ornate sheer lace lingerie stood before him, rubenesque and redheaded in silhouette of the flames behind her. She administered a Stimpak syringe to her hip and sneered at him with a sustained stare. He knew it was Duchesne, but he didn’t have the breath to call out to her. Stocking-foot and disinterested in the fire, she approached him out of pity. In closer proximity, he recognized she had succumbed to the same flyblown putrescence as the others. “You always wanted to know what the Stimpaks were for, didn’t you?” She administered another, and discarded the empty syringe to the floor. The fold of her thighs roiled with lichinka beneath her panties. “It’s so they don’t leave before they finish what they’re here for.” Duchesne traced a third Stimpak from ‘Choly’s jaw down to his stomach, and he stuttered. Her lip curled in revulsion. Both of them could tell the larvae would not contour to his body despite hers came in proximity. “Not even Radroaches would eat you.”

'Choly awoke hyperventilating in a fever chill. He steadied his breathing as he opened the health tab on his Pip-Boy to double-check it had not sensed blood pathogens of any kind during its diagnosis. No malaria, no filariasis. No bacteria, viruses, or parasites. His tongue stuck to his cotton mouth and he frowned, reaching for the water canister. Sitting up, he wet his throat then washed his face. The sun had risen, and filtered in through the clerestory windows which lined the top of the wall at the half of the locker room with the lavatories and showers. He turned off the lantern, then folded up his blanket.

Like the men’s locker room, the ladies’ lockers had also all been left open, with the patrons’ clothing folded neatly. He skimmed their contents, half-lucid, and realized only in contrast to the women’s garments, what had been missing from the men’s lockers. He helped himself to any socks and stockings he found, as well as a geranium red cashmere sweater. No valuables of any kind lay in either set of lockers: no money, no jewelry, no timepieces. If this place had been looted, the clothing wouldn’t have been folded so ceremoniously. Bogey must have combed it over and deposited all valuables in a safe somewhere on premises. He caught himself scheming whether he needed to sneak around Bogey to determine the safe’s location, and chastised himself for even thinking about taking advantage of such a good host. He put his hands on a pair of lacy black panties and guffawed in delight at the very thought of wearing them, only to jerk in recollection of the nightmare he’d just had, and he flung them down with a nauseated snarl.

He piled his things, old and new, atop the blanket, and carried his effects in this way across the way to the men’s room, where he’d left everything else overnight. He found Angel had slung his canvas spinal corset and Vault Suit over the locker doors to dry, and stared at the blood stains for some time. After pinching the fabrics to test their dryness, he disrobed, slipped on his orthotics, and redressed. He appreciated how tacky it was, to wear one striped sock and one argyle. One mirror in the men’s room had survived, and with it he used a few splashes of water to slick his hair and tuck it into a fresh french twist.

The chemist cursed his initial craving to start his day with a Melancholia, recalling he now had none left. He couldn’t tell if he sought the comfort of the meal replacement, or the nepenthe of the opiates. With a sigh, he opted for the cashmere sweater rather than the sweater vest, and folded the contrast cuffs over the cuffs of the sweater. He then put on his shoes, and went out into the lobby lounge with his cane.

“Good morning, Sir!” Angel sped up to him with a fresh cup of coffee for him. “You slept well, I hope?”

“I think the healing affected me in a bad way,” he murmured, taking the coffee to the closest table to sit. His face scrunched up and stared into the drink. “...This isn’t my mug.”

“...Ah, it’s one of ours,” Bogey explained, also approaching. “Angel told me this morning that, in your haste to escape that explosion yesterday afternoon, the two of you left behind the hot plate and percolator it had been using to brew your coffee. Between my appliances and dishes, and its purified water and coffee grounds, we concerted our efforts to ensure you had a fine drink to awaken to.”

‘Choly’s face journeyed through exasperation to appreciation in a matter of seconds, and he let the mug warm his hands for lack of a better reaction.

“We can easily replace the percolator and hot plate,” Angel reassured. “The hard thing to replace would have been the beans, and that’s still safely stowed in my storage.”

“You can keep the mug, if you like it. A souvenir from the Billerica Golf Course.”

“Heh. You two are just swell--”

He winced at his choice of words, still unable to distance himself from the nightmare. He thanked them both through clenched teeth, and shoved it all down by taking a testing sip of the hot black drink.

“Would you like me to whip up a box of Insta-Mash for you, Sir? Or perhaps you’d rather some more sweet rolls?”

“I’ve honey roasted peanuts, as well.” Bogey dropped five heat-sealed clear bags of peanuts onto the table, then returned to hovering just behind Angel. “If you’d like. It’s all I have.”

He smiled.

“Peanuts and a sweet roll sound superb. My appetite’s not so great when I first wake up. I’ll eat more at lunch.” Angel set the requested pastry before him, but he didn’t eat just yet. He patted his hands together, then wrung them. “In the mean time... Bogey. I’ve been giving it some thought. I have the money for the cola from last night, and for the peanuts and coffee now, and for your hospitality... But you’re the only one on premises, aren’t you? Money’s not going to do you much good if you’re out here all alone.”

“I-- I meant it last night, that you haven’t got to recompense my attentions. It’s been a delight in itself to have someone to tend to again after all these years.”

He persisted in the offer, his smile widening. His nose scrunched to push up his glasses.

“I’m sure Angel’s mentioned that I do maintenance on it, and that I’m responsible for its recent upgrades. I can take a look at you, and see what I can do about anything ailing you. Angel went a long time without upkeep, and I’m sure you need it just as much as it did. You mentioned Angel provided the water, for instance. I can get your condensators working again. And I noticed you put out your pilot light last night. You were conserving gas, weren’t you? I can refill your fuel tank.”

“Oh! that sounds just delightful,” Angel beamed. “Bogey, Mister Carey will get you right as new. You really must say yes. I swear by his care.”

“I... I’m not sure what to say.” Bogey withdrew back by a row of tables, its tendrils curled at its front. “You... you noticed I put out my pilot light. I didn’t mean to give you cause to fret.”

"Neither of you affected the quality of my sleep. I promise.” He bit into his pastry finally, his mouth suffusing with cinnamon oil. “We really can’t stay too long, Bogey. Say you’ll let me look you over before we go. I have to pay back your hospitality and kindness somehow.”

“If you really must insist, a tune up sounds... well, it sounds too good to be true.” Bogey caught itself in the reflex to dart away, and stood firm. “I... I have to admit, I thought you might be one of those... ugh, Devils, when I first caught a glimpse of Angel. I should have known better. Your work is much more sightly, and much more careful. I can certainly appreciate that you stayed within the scope of the General Atomics warranty.”

‘Choly’s brow flattened, then raised slowly from behind his coffee as he sipped.

“Devils? You’ll have to tell me all about it while I work.”

Go to Next »»»

[julesfitnessxo]

Binge Eating Disorder

Growing up, I always interacted with food in a different way to everyone else. I remember even at five, six years old I would always sneak into the kitchen at night whilst my parents watched TV in the sitting room, and devour anything I could from the cupboards. My mum once told me she found me eating spoonfuls of sugar from the bowl- SUGAR. RAW SUGAR. I would eat anything and everything, in large quantities too. I’m not sure if it was the lust for something forbidden that triggered it- I was never, and still aren’t, one for doing what I was told- or if it was just greed. At parties I would always be picking at the food, eating huge portions whilst my friends could subside on a few crisps and a piece of cake. I ate faster and drank faster than other people. I had a massive sweet tooth- chocolate was my favourite thing in the world. I was also a little heavier than the rest of my friends- I was tall, muscly, broader. I have never have a super-thin bone structure. I wasn’t ‘fat’ by any means, but certainly a little larger than everyone else.

This strange relationship with food would follow me my entire life. I began to be able to eat larger and larger quantities, and when I was around twelve, I began bingeing properly. I used to use any spare change I could find to go down to the corner shop when my mum wasn’t home, and buy snacks. I would buy anything, usually huge slabs of chocolate or massive bags of crisps or an entire tub of Ben and Jerrys ice cream. Then I would go home, turn on a movie, and eat the entire thing. I guess it became a comfort thing, a routine. And of course, I began to gain weight. When puberty hit this only got worse. I found I was ravenously hungry all the time, and most of my days were fixated on food. 

I remember hating my body and wanting to lose weight since I was seven. This hatred only grew as I got older, and gained more and more weight. By the age of fifteen I weighed almost 190 pounds. I was around 5′9 at the time, so height contributed to the number, but it was still massively overweight for my age. I would try and diet, but the urge to binge was just to strong to overcome.

I am now 19, and it’s still there. I’m writing this because last night, after a day of reasonably healthy eating, I ate an entire 12 inch pizza and cheesy chips in the space of around five minutes. Not normal, right? It was the first time I’d properly BINGED in a good month or so, as I’ve been eating healthy and exercising a lot recently. And it felt SO GOOD in the moment. I remember literally stuffing the food into my mouth, even though it was boiling hot and burned my tongue and throat, but I just couldn’t stop. I just couldn’t stop. I felt completely out of control- feral, almost, like a wild animal. I’d eaten enough food during the day so it wasn’t as if I’d deprived myself into needing that vast amount of calories. 

That’s what binges feel like. In that moment, it’s just you and the food. Nothing else exists. There is no limit to what you can eat. You literally STUFF the food into your mouth, barely swallowing it, barely even TASTING it. It’s just more and more, more and more, until you can barely breathe you’re so full. But you keep on eating and eating, even when your stomach is SCREAMING in pain, because it feels so good. I’m telling you, it’s the best feeling in the world to me. During a binge, I feel ecstatic. It’s literally like I’m eating away my problems. It’s a release, a form of escapism, sure, but it also feels like a carnal instinct. Like something deep within me is driving me - my brain isn’t really functioning properly, as if it’s been taken over by an outside force. It’s kind of like I’m a different person. 

It’s like the hunger signal to my brain just isn’t there. For example, say you’re having a hang out with a group of friends, and there’s snacks. Everyone will pick at them for a bit, and then just kind of forget that they’re there. Whereas with me, I’m CONSTANTLY thinking about food. I’m constantly picking at the food, even if it’s cold and congealed and disgusting. Food is always on my mind. 

Obviously, I’ve come to release that this pattern of behaviour isn’t normal. I’ve started to do some research about binge eating, and I’ve come to these conclusions.

1. MY RELATIONSHIP WITH FOOD IS SOME FORM OF ADDICTION: Addiction runs in my family. On my dad’s side, almost every family member is addicted to alcohol. My aunt actually passed away from alcoholism.  I’m not - and hopefully never will be- but I do believe I have inherited that ‘addiction gene’, if such a thing exists. My addiction is food. Food is more than just something nice or pleasing to me- it is EVERYTHING. I think about it all the time. I guess I could compare myself to the way a heroin addict acts- sacrificing everything just to get that next hit, that next rush, that next binge for me. Also, from observing my one family and also the actions of others with addiction, it is something that is done very secretly. For example my dad drinks and suffers with alcohol addiction, and so when he drinks he drinks secretly. I think a huge part of this is shame, and embarrassment- shame for being so dependant on drink. For me when I binge, I always binge alone. I would never dream of consuming food the way I do during a binge in front of other people. I eat alone out of shame and embarrassment too, shame for consuming such high quantities. So, I guess I could consider myself an addict in some way. There are certainly more dangerous things to be addicted to than food, however this does not mean that this addiction is any less valid or important.

2. THE DESIRE TO BINGE CAN COME FROM ANYWHERE: A lot of therapists claim that people who suffer with eating disorders do so because of emotional issues and trauma in their past/present of some kind- with a lot of disorders such as anorexia, it’s more of a form of control than about weight loss, or about food. 

Binge eating disorder, however, is slightly more complex than that. I don’t necessarily believe that my desire to binge stems from a past/present emotional trauma, nor do I believe I always use bingeing as a coping mechanism, like to cope with issues I have in my life. Sometimes, yes, after a shit day I am more likely to binge than if I had had a great one. However, most of them, they seem more of a carnal instinct, something that I’ve always had in my brain. It’s not about control for me, either- the entire thing is feeling out of control. Bingeing is definitely a form of release and escapism, yes, (at least it is for me), but I don’t know, it seems more mechanical than emotional, if that makes any sort of sense. 

3. I DO HAVE AN EATING DISORDER: It took me a long time to recognise binge eating disorder as a ‘real’ eating disorder. My mum had always just told me I ate a lot simply because I was ‘greedy’, however I don’t agree. Just because anorexia and bulimia are the most ‘publicised’ and well-known eating disorders, doesn’t mean others don’t exist. Technically, I have suffered from an eating disorder for almost all my life, I just haven’t realised it. So that means I can apply terms like ‘relapse’ and ‘recovery’ to my own life. I have gone through several stages of relapse, several short periods of recovery. Now, I want to recover for good. 

Recovery seems completely impossible for me at this point. Maybe I’ll never be completely recovered, maybe I’ll always have this disorder. I’m not even sure if the point of recovery is to reach the point where the urge to binge just doesn’t exist within me anymore, or to reach the point where it’s there, but I can control it for the most part. 

All I know is today marks the first date in my ‘road to recovery’- as disgustingly cliche as that may sound. I’m sharing my story on here firstly because I hope it’ll keep me more accountable, and secondly because binge eating disorder is an incredibly isolating thing. I don’t know anyone else in my friendship circle who has this- no one. When I began to research it though, I read articles and watched videos from people- some of them celebrities- who suffer too, and I don’t know, I guess it just made me feel less alone, and more validated. I hope this ‘diary’ I guess, I don’t know exactly what to call it- account?- makes somebody out there feel less alone too. 

So, here goes. 

[lookatthedawn]

A.k.a Paradise on Earth

People ask me if I'd want to come to Vietnam again.  In a heartbeat, I answer!  And I'm not even talking about Phu Quoc Island, I'm talking about Hanoi, my job here and the Vietnamese people.  I like it all.  I like the solitude, I find that I'm rather good at being alone.  But Phu Quoc Island is something else.  It's not a place to work, or at least I don't see it as a place to work.  It's a great place to take a respite from life.  

The hotel has a main building with a beautiful foyer and a gazebo-style dining room where there's a constant ocean breeze.  Stretching toward the back are all the bungalows between patches of green grass and vibrant flowers.  I have reserved a room, not a bungalow.  As I go upstairs to the second floor, I realize that I'm their only guest at the moment.  I wonder why since the place is clean and gorgeous if only a little bit isolated.  There's a gym, though, located on the right side of the hotel, which plays non-stop electronic music.  I'm prejudiced against the genre.  In fact, I've always thought that if hell has a soundtrack, this is it.  

My room is spacious, with all the usual appliances.  I'm happy to be properly installed, but I want to explore.  After refreshing myself and resting for a bit, I take a walk along the main road, looking for the beach.  I have often compared Vietnam to Brazil, and I'll do it again here.  Vietnam is probably like a hundred other countries, but you can only compare with what you know, and I do know the rural roads of Brazil.  They are my crib, actually.  I remember when my parents took my four siblings and me to Euxenita village, how the dusty road stretched ahead of us and seemed long compared to my short legs.  Those early memories are so deeply engraved in my mind that any similar place or people throw me right back there.  At this roadside, there are little rustic shops selling mainly food but other things as well.  I stop at a store and buy a small pack of Oreos.  At home I don't like Oreos, find them too sweet, but since I arrived in Vietnam I can't have enough of them, possibly because I'm not having my regular sugar-fix in processed foods.  Vietnamese people don't eat as much sugar as Americans or Brazilians. Their breakfast is often rice, noodles, eggs, and vegetables.  For dessert, they eat fruits with the same gusto my fellow Westerns eat chocolate.   I walk while listening to The Creative Penn podcast, coincidentally, one episode in which the host mentions my name.  After walking for perhaps ten minutes, I find a little passage that might be the one the hotel owner said would take me to the beach.  It doesn't.  Instead, it takes me to a muddy strip of land with a few shanties.  People dressed in worn-out Bermuda shorts and t-shirts come out and stare at me, some of them say hello, the children smile and hide behind adults.  Thin dogs watch me while lying by the hut's door.  Some wag their tails, others are either too bored or too weak to wag or bark.  Children and adults alike are stepping on the mud, busy with cooking, washing, and fixing things.  The place is quiet, so quiet, in fact, that you can hear a fly buzzing around.  The people go about their business peacefully.  In their eyes, you can see ten years gone without changes.  Far away a radio plays pop music.  

I turn around and walk back to the main road.  I feel a thousand eyes watching me, but in fact, I'm alone.  Just another Western lost in these parts.  They'll forget me by the time the sun sets over the Gulf of Thailand.   The rain comes without warning.  It comes fast and strong, so I enter the first covered place, which happens to be a house/business, selling blocks of ice.  A lady greets me with a smile.  She doesn't speak English, and neither do the men in their late twenties, early thirties, busy cutting and packing ice.   They see that I need a place to wait for the rain to pass, they greet me warmly and the lady of the house brings me a chair.  Other people arrive in motorcycles, covered in plastic from head to toe, and they too greet me with a nod and a brief smile.  They know I don't speak Vietnamese.  They are familiar with Westerns like me, who can hardly say 'thank you' in their tongue.  So they do their best to communicate with me and act as though not knowing my language is their personal failure.   As sudden as the rain came it goes. I thank them and continue on my way, looking for the beach.  I know I'm close to the sea.  It's just a question of finding the passage.  I stop at a snack bar and ask for directions.  I have a hard time making myself understood, but then they nod and repeat bai a lot.  A gentleman, probably in his seventies, tells me to get on his motorcycle, he'll take me there.  That's the Vietnamese approach, that's how they help you.  In the U.S. this would sound strange, but not in Phu Quoc Island.  Sure, I get on his motorbike and we go to the beach, but when we get there I'm disappointed, as this is not a leisure beach but a place for fishermen and boat owners to fix their gear.  I don't need to say anything, he can see that this is not what I was looking for.  We head back to the main road, where he stops and discuss with another local, trying to decide where I want to go and the best way to get there.  I watch them, getting hints of their meaning by the way they point their fingers towards the beach and gesture about directions.  Finally, they agree on the best course of action.  But this is almost 6 p.m. and I decide to go back to the hotel and get some rest and dinner.   Of course, I find the Bai Sao the next day.  Following the hotel's owner's suggestion, I borrow a book from his library and take a cab to the beach. Maybe I should have rented one of the motorcycles they have available at the hotel but the cab was inexpensive and quick.  

I'm fully aware that this moment, swimming in the crystalline water and reading Engleby under the hot Vietnamese sun is one of the best moments I have in Southeast Asia.  I bask in the sun, enjoying each minute.  I don't have suntan lotion, didn't even think of that, to be perfectly honest, but I'm enjoying myself too much to care. There are a few Westerns at the restaurant, but most are Vietnamese from other parts of the country.  Two young women, one from Belgium and the other from England are swimming next to me and we chat briefly.  Then I explore.  Another part of the beach is completely desert.  I've got my books, my music, the ocean and a gorgeous day ahead of me.  Color me happy! The problem with being the sole guest at the hotel is that I have a small staff working for me alone.  I'm the one who interrupts their leisure and requires that they work.  I don't like that.  On my last night in Phu Quoc Island, I come down to chat with the hotel owner.  We talk about books, about the island, and about Vietnam.  He's very interested in Brazil, which he plans to visit one day.  The conversation turns to politics and corruption in both Brazil and Vietnam.  I tell him that I've always thought that criminality in Brazil is the result of governmental corruption, but knowing that in Vietnam also there is corruption in the government and yet criminality is very low has cracked my logic.  I ask him why he thinks that's the case and his answer surprises me.  He credits the police for being tough and effective.  He is not the first or the only one to tell me that the Vietnamese police is fast, tough and efficient.  But I know Rio de Janeiro.  I know that if the carioca police gets tough, the slum kings get tougher, madder and more effective.  I wonder if things would have been different had the Brazilian police taken serious and proactive action thirty or forty years ago when criminality was more manageable and gangs didn't possess military warfare.  My host's theory is plausible but does not satisfy me.  I believe crime in Brazil is deeply rooted in the population's mindset.  Crime is allowed.  It's a culture where small infractions are expected and often encouraged by people who consider themselves above reproach.  "But everyone does it," they say.  Or even, "there's no way to live honestly in Brazil".  My Brazilian family and friends tell me they can no longer leave the house after dark.  The freedom I enjoyed in my youth is denied to this generation.  The situation is sad and frustrating.  And I think the necessary measures go beyond police efficacy.  

As I get up to go back to my room my host asks me when and what I want for dinner.  I tell him that I'll be happy with the same I had the night before, rice and steamed vegetables, and would like to eat in about an hour. He nods.  "Will you have a glass of wine with me?" "Sure," I say. I'm not much of a drinker and I haven't eaten much all day, so, an hour later, when he pours the red drink into a glass, I know that I should take it easy.   "Cheers!" He says as we bump glasses.  He downs his wine and gestures for me to do the same.  I do.  He refills my glass.  "This is a very special wine," he tells me.  "You won't find it anywhere else but here on the island.  Sim wine.  Will you remember the name?" "Sim wine," I repeat.  "Yes, I will." "It's from the myrtle fruit.  It's only produced in Phu Quoc Island." He raises his glass.  "Your dinner is coming soon. Drink up!" I see that the bottle is almost empty and that's a good thing.  I really shouldn't be drinking on an empty stomach.  I'm alone on this island and the hotel is deserted, so I figure I should have my wits about me the whole time.   "Do you like the wine?" "Yes, it's very good." "Well, that's it for this bottle," he says.  "But I have another." He brings the second bottle, fills our glasses and we drink.  Then he refills our glasses again.  "This is for drinking with the food," he says and leaves with his glass to bring me the food.  Is it my impression or is he a little tipsy? I open my laptop as I wait for dinner.  I'm in the circular gazebo-style dining room. There's only one wall in the back, where the bar is located, behind which is the kitchen.  Plants hang all around the room, swaying gently in the night breeze.  I can smell the food being cooked in the kitchen and subtler than that, the salty scent of the ocean, not far away.  My host places a steaming plate before me, then brings me napkins, salt, pepper, and sauces.  He goes to the other table and clicks the TV on, leaving to my dinner.   After a while, I walk upstairs to my room where I call my best friend in Brazil and we talk for a long time.  For some silly reason, we start laughing and can not stop.  She blames it on the wine, I blame it on being in this amazing place, having just a grand ol' time.  Phu Quoc Island is a crowning moment of my stay in Southeast Asia, one that will stay with me for years to come. As I talk to Nara and brush away laughing tears, I'm aware of that.  

[the-empires-weapon]

Between Panes of Glass

Behind my back, they whisper about the monster I’ve become.

Lord Aerial, Last of her Clan, they hiss to one another, Corruptor of Jedi and Slayer of her Master. They whisper these things like they’re secrets. They’re not. My title is of no mystery, and my heritage beneath Manda’lore is clear. Those I had turned to the dark side spoke openly, else cursed me from their graves. And charred into ash, the body of Darth Baras floats on the wind, suffocated on toxic gas smothered through Quesh air.

These whispers, so obvious to all, don’t so much as phase me anymore. I hear them on any Imperial planet, from Dromund Kaas to Korriban. I move between both often, openly, unaffected. My chin stays lifted, and my gait never falters. Yet, the rumors spiral.

Stay away from that Lord. She’s eaten the very souls of her enemies, and the soul of her own lover.

Yes - so fitting it would be, for them to know of my abilities, to know how I tread the Force in such a manner, for my eyes are ghoulish, and my corruption razes my skin like porcelain chipped and cracked from brutal beating of dollish skin against brick wall. My red eyes and red lips hold no secrets; the splatters of blood constant over the my skin, the intricate tattoos of the ancient Sith, they adorn me openly, and they make clear my every intent. Even on the wrist, spiraling up, I keep constant tally.

Three lieutenants. Two majors, two colonels, a general. Scores and scores of corporals, a swath of ensigns. And too many privates worth measuring in individual tally marks on my skin.

Only the significant worms get the pleasure of keeping bunk within my mind.

Your madness shows with every breath you take-

Murderer! Killer! Tyrant, thief, madwoman!

You think your family didn’t deserve their deaths? So clearly they did for breeding such a monster as yourself-

My lord, ignore them. They have no knowledge of your past, and no knowledge of your . . . standing. You are better off casting them to the winds of Hoth, my lord. That, or allow me the pleasure of silencing them for you.

It was like being pressed on all sides by panes of glass, and wondering which would shatter first. Would the glass buckle against my body and fracture? Or would my flimsy ceramic body bend first? So many nights I spent clutching at my head in null attempts to silence the noises within. So many nights I spent fighting for control over my own vessel, and rooting out the poison so many souls had wrought into my blood. It makes me, a Sith Lord, pale and delicate-looking, with bloody red eyes clasped in irises and whites. Though not a Chiss and hardly human any longer, I look unreal and alien.

And yet, nobody knows what power I truly hold. What I truly deserve.

I’d lost consciousness, and I’m in front of an office in the Korriban Academy.

The circumstance was no longer bizarre. With such fights I held daily beneath my own flesh, the act of falling within myself was as simple as breathing, but to find myself completely apart from my surroundings was stranger still. Last I had remembered, I was on Balmorra. When had I retreated? How had I arrived to this office in Korriban? The door is closed before me, but I feel I must have knocked. My awareness is uneasy, and I can’t help but find confusion in my head, a sort of isolation from myself and my own perception.

When the door opens, my eyes go wide, taking in the woman before me.

Darth Arsono.

Certainly we weren’t friendly - no, me? Friendly with a member of the Council? No, only Vowrawn had been my ally once, and only with a common cause. To think I would intrude on a council woman, much less one with such a fragile grasp on her own reality, is astonishing. My own rational was questioned, but hers? Half of Kaas City wondered how she kept her own seat.

If I was alien, she was eldritch.

She looks down at me with red, glinting eyes - not just on her face, but along her cheeks, her forehead, down her neck, along bare shoulders and bare arms. Her pale fingers linger and press along the dark doorframe, long and slender and reeking of sexuality. My eyes are caught as she presses refined fingertips along the soft edge of the wooden frame.

“Lord Aerial. Slayer of a traitor.”

My sight slides back to her face. She pouts ever so slightly, haughty as ever. I hardly realize when her free hand slides beneath my chin. She lifts my face, and her gaze drags over my features. I allow my eyes to slide closed. For this brief moment, for as long as I still feel, there is a form of silence and warmth. The Force tremors in my bones.

A fine line of her thumbnail presses a sharp sensation of pain into my chin. My eyes flutter open, and Darth Arsono is tilting her head to one side to question my gaze. Her hand pulls back, and so too does her figure, further into her office.

“Lord Channery. Sit.”

Without her touch and look, I am left at a loss once again. For what purpose am I here, in her rooms? What would have pulled me from my work in Balmorra to the dark corridors of my old academy? Still, my bare feet graze the floor as I step into the room. I can hear the door shutting behind me as I approach Darth Arsono once more, looking up at her with nothing but devout fixation in my cursed eyes.

“Sit. I will not ask you again.”

She gestures to a stool nearby a large desk - her desk, I am to assume. I do not take it. Instead, I pass it, and turn my back to the edge of the table, pushing myself up onto its surface. I keep my stare level with hers. Something flits through Darth Arsono’s many eyes. She seems amused.

“Oh. You must have curious reason, to seek my rooms and act this way.”

“The Force has drawn my here,” I drawl as I lean back on my hands. “Otherwise I would have no desire to seek you out, my lord.”

“Oh, I knew the Force was strong with you. Strong in strange, unimaginable ways; seeing you slay that snake told me so,” she explains. Her lips are so full, so expressive as she pushes her words out with a pout. “There must be reason why the Force has brought you here, and brought you now. To what ends, however? To meet my own goals? Or to meet yours?”

“My goals are no secrets,” I say. “Even a Republic child must know, I seek the killers of my clan. I’ve wiped out more of my enemies than the Republic could wipe out of our armies. I am a poisoned tip to their clubs, precise and focused.”

“And you act without hesitation. That much is clear.”

“Darth Arsono, you are a madwoman,” I spit out. “What is it you know of me that you haven’t already heard?”

“Much more than you think,” she replies with hands to her skirts, smoothing back and taming the rapturous breadths of chiffon and silks that seem intent on swallowing her up from the hips down. Her feet make a strange click against the floor as she approaches, the sound of heels. She stands over me, and I glare right back.

“You operate with purpose.”

“I always have, my lord.”

“And yet your purpose is becoming slim. I can sense it, see it. Vengeance must grow old as your list grows short.”

I narrow my glare further. “You underestimate the entertainment revenge brings.”

“You assume I’ve earned nothing from decades of age.”

“Decades though you say, though you also claim a queendom, and beauty too young.”

Darth Arsono smiles, nearly smirks. “More than you could ever know.”

“If you have intent, my lord, spit it out.”

She turns and steps away. “Have you heard of a Zakuulan Empire, Lord Aerial?”

I cross my arms and huff. Now she really is talking nonsense - until an unbidden memory rises to my mind. “There was a war with them many decades before I was born,” I say with a frown. “The war ended, and the planet joined into Imperial fold. But I haven’t heard much of it since.”

“And you’ve heard of the Emperor, no? How long he’s reigned?”

“Longer than you’ve held your seat.”

A laugh. A soft, lilting laugh, and a gaze thrown over her bare shoulder that makes a crawling sensation curl into my spine. Though my cheeks blossom into reds, I frown further and lower my chin, keeping my gaze even with hers. I will not be intimidated.

“Lord Aerial - no - Channery. You shall be one of the first to learn this secret, one kept safely within the folds of the Dark Council. The Lord of this Empire, the eternal Vitiate - he is long dead. Dead and forgotten, and kept in standing only by memory. He was slain not once but twice - a body of Imperial power, and then an Eternal Emperor of Zakuul. He no longer lives.”

The Emperor is dead? “For how long?”

“Many years. Since the end of the conflict with Zakuul, longer than you’ve lived, dear Corruptor. Nobody knows outside of the Council, and nobody moreso than Marr or I. You see, we live old, the two of us, though he has seen death before. And yet I,” she chuckles, and turns to me fully, and I start, because her eyes seem to be nearly on fire and churning into mirrors with the strength of it.

“I, Channery Aerial, I stand here as your true Empress.”

The room seems to go cold the instant she says it. Either that, or it’s a memory, or a warning in the Force. Either way, I cannot move myself from my seat, much less to ease this tension from my body. Looking at her, this- this monstrosity, this beautiful nightmare of a Dark Lady, I want to laugh. Laugh, and laugh, and blame this on her delusions others see in her blank eyes and her comatose states that seem to haunt her outside her position as a leader. But no; those eyes all hold the same fire, the same spark of sanity yet oblivion, and I can see clearly, this is no manufacture of her mind. Her eyes tell me, and the Force tells me, pressing reassurance and righteousness into the soft lobes of my mind. The only movement I can make is the tough swallow of a sudden truth, and though my mind’s inhabitants have been suspiciously silent this whole time, it feels like my brain is compressed with noise.

“You . . . really are, aren’t you?”

And it seems impossible, surely - but her smirk simply sharpens, and she nods her head as she turns to face me again. Seeing her facing me fully, a shock of ice grinds against my bones. I suddenly snap forward, and my toes are touching the floor, and then my knees.

I lower my gaze, and my head.

“Empress.”

A hand to the top of my head keeps my face down, and an unearthly chuckle comes from above me.

“Yes, then. You know your place, Lord Channery. You understand your place at my feet. And surely you understand more, what with your senses. You were never a stupid one, oh, I’ve known that. I’ve seen you in dreams, Lord Channery. Like my own master, I have seen visions of the future through the lens of nocturnal sight, and I see your place at my throneside. Surely you can reason the same.”

The Force has drawn me here, I think to myself. The Force has drawn me to her feet, to my knees. No Darth would expose this truth to me; no circumstance of whimsy would lead me to this point. And no mere Lord would hear of these truths.

She has found me . . . special.

Her hand pulls from my head, and to my chin again. I look up. She is kneeling before me now, smiling with a glint in her many eyes. Darth Arsono- no, the Empress leans in close, and I stiffen, my lips feeling a pulse through their soft skin, and she presses her cheek to mine as she whispers to my ear.

“You are . . . indeed, indeed a monster made of glass, Channery. And you know you can’t refuse.”

Her cold hand takes mine in its grasp, ensnaring me.

“Pinned between mirrors, I free you, and mold you into my image, my rage. My Wrath.”

[recoverydiariesposts]

I'm the sole person who shops daily for groceries, I'm the sole person who takes down the trash by themselves when you don't feel like doing it on our way out for breakfast. I'm the sole person cooking. I have no energy to put up with this anymore. He does nothing, screams at me for shopping bags piled in a corner but piles his crisp bags on the couch (currently at a total of four, one of which is still half full). After a tearful talk last night of how I wanted to change and wanted him to pick up his slack, we have a massive screaming match this morning cause apparently that talk meant I was gonna deep clean the apartment to show my want to change. Even tho last night I said we, meaning both of us, need to take down the heavy trash before I even have room to clean like I want, and he agreed. Apparently to him that means I do everything while he sits there playing Elder Scrolls online or watching TV. Which BTW he finally let me make a character for myself to play and let me officially play for all of 30 minutes before he got jealous and played his character for 5 hours. I haven't gotten to play my character since, it's been a week, yesterday when he took a nap he even prohibited me from playing.

This isn't a marriage, I'm a slave that he can't handle that I'm running out of fuel. I feel like hurting myself cause of it, I haven't eaten an official filling breakfast in two days, yesterday to fight off the faint feeling and hunger I ate two small apples. He hasn't noticed. He didn't notice that for lunch two days ago I made a sandwich from one slice of bread, cheese, and half a slice of deli meat to make it seem normal. I want to be able to control my life, and I have none. I don't want a divorce, I'm fucking 20 I don't want a failed marriage with someone I'm truly in love with. I just want to change and clean the house like a normal person, and I want him to stop fighting with me every single day, over even the smallest things. I've even posted to a subreddits field with troubled relationships, abuse victims, and the such, I got so much advice about getting therapy if I truly want this to last, which he has refused before I've ever even talked about this (says he doesn't want to pay someone to tell me the same stuff he has), or they've said to leave, which is harder than they think cause I live in a foreign country with no money of my own and the closest people I know here are his family and they all live 30 minutes away. If I left him I would essentially be homeless, and if I kicked him out he would cancel the Internet and phone which will mean I will be stuck with nothing and isolated.

I'm at the point where I know the only options are to fix this ourselves or for me to kill myself. Im actually considering the later cause he won't listen and I can't seem to change

I'm so depressed I don't wanna get up in the mornings any more, my dreams are of the life I wished I had.

On top of it all my last period was brown spotting for two days, I'm trying off my pill for a week again since yesterday to see if I'll trigger a period. But right now, I'm terrified because I think I might be pregnant.

[carbonjen]

A prompt for when Dick's feeling that he's not worthy of dating anyone? Seeing that he's had 2 failed engagements and many unsuccessful relationships. So he hasn't been dating or want to be in a relationship/in love. But Jason keeps flirting with him and trying to coax him out of his depression and wants to date him. And Jason understands Dick and is trying to help him out of his self-blame? Cause Dick always blames himself for everything.

could you write about Jay comforting a hearthbroken Dick? pretty please?

He’s Got a Way

Sometimes when you got hurt, the hardest thing to do was put yourself back in the situation where you’d hurt yourself. When Jason was 13 and he’d been training how to use a grappling hook, he’d taken a hard fall. Getting back in the air had been a struggle after that, Jason had stared at the grappling hook in his hands, afraid to launch it as his fear took over. Jason knew it wouldn’t be bad. His body knew what to do, but his brain wouldn’t let him move as he stared at the ground. 

“Sometimes,” Dick had told him. “When you get hurt, the person that holds you back the most, is yourself.” 

Jason had taken that advice to heart, using it to push past his fears when he’d come back to life. It had taken him some time to remember who had uttered the words to him when he’d come back, but in moments where Jason sat up alone at night, unsure of what he was doing, he refused to be the one that held himself back. 

That was why it was so hard to come back and see how isolated Dick had become. The whole time Jason had known him before he died, Dick had been in relationships. First with Barbara, then with Kori. He’d watch Dick go through an engagement and come back expecting to hear Dick was married with kids or something. 

While some childish part of him was excited that Dick Grayson, the person he’d lusted after for years, was single and alone in Blüdhaven, Jason couldn’t help but also feel the stab of pain. How could Dick subject himself to loneliness like this when he had so many people that loved him? It hurt Jason, who had grown up wishing he could have everything Dick Grayson had and now Dick was pushing it all away. 

Jason asked Barbara about it one night and she’d sighed. 

“Dick was in serious relationships from age 14,” she told him as they sat at her computers. Barbara looked down at the beer bottle Jason had handed her and she swished the contents around. “He was with me, we got engaged, we broke up, he bounced around a bit, he was with Kori, they got engaged, they broke up. Dick was in relationships for so long, I think he forgot what it was like to be single. I think he needed to find himself.

“And now that he’s done that, he knows how much of himself he puts into a relationship, but he has all these failed ones behind him. He didn’t just lose the people he was with, but he lost friends too. I think he’s afraid to hurt himself again.”

Jason looked down at his own beer and the words Dick had told him, that he’d come to live by echoed through his head. 

The next night, Jason went to Blüdhaven and knocked on Dick’s door. It was still early in the evening, the sun wasn’t quite down yet, so Jason knew Dick wouldn’t be on patrol. 

Dick opened the door and his head tipped to the side slightly, eyebrows furrowing when he saw Jason standing there in civvies with groceries in his arms.

“Jason? What are you doing here?” 

“I thought I’d make you dinner,” Jason said. “Tell me the last three meals you’ve eaten haven’t been cereal or takeout.”

“They have,” Dick admitted. 

“Then it’s a good thing I’m here,” Jason said. Dick stepped aside and Jason went to the kitchen. Dick’s apartment was cluttered and there were dishes in the sink. Dick was a bachelor and a bit of a hot mess, so Jason wasn’t totally surprised when he saw the state of his apartment. 

“Why are you doing this?” Dick asked as he peeked into the bags of groceries as Jason started putting things away and organizing in Dick’s kitchen. He opened a cabinet and frowned when he saw mostly unused, but extremely expensive cookware. 

“Because, first of all,” Jason said as he closed the cabinet and looked at Dick. “You need to eat something healthy. And secondly, you need human company. You’re about one step away from becoming the neighborhood cat person. The strays are eyeing your place and waiting to make their move.”

Dick frowned. “I drink smoothies,” he protested. “And I order vegetable takeout.”

Jason stepped over to Dick and put a finger over his lips. Dick’s eyes crossed as he tried to look at it but he looked back at Jason, sapphire eyes wide. 

“Dick, I’m betting it’s been a long time since someone did something like this for you. Please just let me do this, okay?”

“Okay,” Dick whispered from behind Jason’s finger. 

“Good, now where are your wine glasses?” 

Jason was able to get Dick to help with dinner and they didn’t burn anything down. As long as Dick wasn’t in control of anything on the stove and he had someone there to guide him, he was actually pretty good in the kitchen. They made small talk as they cooked, Jason putting Dick in charge of the cheese plate while he worked on the chicken parmesan they’d be having for dinner. 

When Jason slid the dish in the oven to cook, Dick proudly showed Jason the cheese platter he’d assembled. 

“Whoever said you can’t cook has never seen you make a cheese plate,” Jason said as he topped off their wine. They had brought the platter over to the couch and they were both sitting down, glasses of wine in their hands. 

“I had good guidance, that’s all,” Dick said. 

“I think you’re actually decent in the kitchen when you have the right person helping you,” Jason said. 

“I guess,” Dick said looking down at his wine and smiling. “You know that’s the first time I think a lot of the stuff in that kitchen is being used.”

“We’ll have to change that,” Jason said, voice light but he noticed the way Dick’s smile grew slightly nervous. 

“I’ll put on some music,” Dick said as he got up from the couch and went over to his speakers, hooking up his phone while Jason frowned down at his wine. 

The chicken parm was amazing. 

“Okay,” Dick said as he finished his second plate. “If you cook food that’s this amazing, we can do this more often.”

“The good thing is, there are plenty of leftovers,” Jason said as he cleared their plates. “Do you have any room for dessert?” 

“There’s dessert?” Dick asked, eyebrows shooting up. 

“Of course there’s dessert,” Jason said. 

Dick followed him to the kitchen and they started doing dishes together, bodies brushing occasionally. Maybe it was the food or maybe it was the wine, but Jason pressed their sides together and his chest warmed when Dick didn’t pull away. 

“It’s been so long since I’ve done something like this,” Dick admitted as he set one of the pans on the drying rack. He pressed against Jason. “I missed it.”

Jason didn’t know what to say, so he just pressed back.

When dishes finished, Jason and Dick were heading to the couch when a slower song started. 

“Dance with me?” Jason asked, fingers gripping Dick’s wrist, the touch so light Dick could pull away without effort if he wanted to. 

“Yeah,” Dick whispered, they set their wineglasses down and Jason pulled Dick close. The dance wasn’t graceful, but Dick’s chest was pressed against his own and it made Jason so warm he didn’t want the moment to end. 

About halfway through the song, Dick pulled away. “I’m sorry,” he said as he went to the couch and collapsed onto it, putting his head in his hands. 

“What’s wrong?” Jason sat down next to him, leaving enough distance if Dick didn’t want him close, but he put a hand between Dick’s shoulders.

“I don’t know how to do this anymore,” Dick whispered and Jason had to fight the cold fear that tried to close him off. 

“Do what?” Jason asked, keeping his voice warm, giving Dick a chance to explain. Even if nothing happened between them, Jason still wanted to help, still wanted to listen. 

“Relationships,” Dick said. “Dating. All of it. I haven’t been with someone in so long because I’ve been afraid.”

Jason knows what Dick has been afraid of. He doesn’t need to ask and he’s not going to make Dick say it. 

“A long time ago,” Jason said. “When I fell while trying to use my grappling hook, I didn’t want to use it again. I was scared. I didn’t want to get hurt again. You know what you told me? You said that when you get scared, the one that holds you back the most is yourself.”

Dick laughed, but it wasn’t light or happy, it was heavy and dark. “I know I’m the one holding myself back,” he said. “It’s so easy to jump when it’s your body, you know? Physical pain is something I’m used to but I’m scared of what will happen if I fuck up again. I’ve lost so many people because I’m bad at relationships. I don’t want to lose you again. I don’t want Bruce to hate me for hurting you.”

“Dick,” Jason said, cutting him off. “I think there’s something unique about the two of us,” he nudged Dick’s shoulder and Dick looked at him with watery eyes. Jason wanted to pull him close but he had to talk first. “We are both more than aware of how much we’re capable of hurting the other person. We will both go so far out of the way to avoid hurting the other person that we’ll hurt ourselves. But one thing I’ve noticed? When you see me hurting myself like that, you know how to pull me out of it because you know what it looks like. I can do the same thing. I can see when you’re trying so hard to avoid something that may not happen, you hinder yourself.

“I want you to stop holding yourself back.” Jason told him. “I want you to jump into it. ‘It’ doesn’t have to be us. It can be you and someone else. But you’re lonely, Dick, and it hurts me to see you, the person who thrives so much from other people, shutting yourself out because you don’t want to hurt anyone. You can hurt me,” Jason told him, thumping himself on the chest. “I can take it because I love you and I’ll do anything to make sure you’re happy again.”

Jason realized he dropped the words moments later. He realized how big a bomb he’d dropped on Dick out of nowhere and how much pressure it put on the other male. Jason was about to start backpedaling, but he didn’t have time when a weight hit him. It took Jason a few seconds to realize that Dick was pinning him down with his body and that Dick was kissing him. 

Jason closed his eyes and kissed back. 

[ecotone99]

[HR] Painters Block

I squeezed the brush in frustration, squinting at the unfinished picture before me. I imagined every mark I could make, every color that I could add, and every object that I could depict. It felt so impersonal already, so forced and not at all ME. I felt stuck. The blank picture seemed to mock me with an emptiness I felt deeply and personally. Many times I started to bring my hand up in an effort to get something started, only to feel paralyzed with an absolute helplessness.

This project had lasted for weeks, ending in anger and disappointment each time I tackled it. My other paintings had been laid aside, leaned up against the walls of my tiny apartment or stowed away in cabinets. I could barely look at them lately as they only served to remind me of the complete failure I had become. I felt certain that I had lost my talent, the only thing I can ever remember being good at. I imagined the brightly colored wisps of creativity floating out of the tips of my fingers and picked up in the wind, which carelessly scattered them across the street like abandoned garbage. I could barely sleep those nights, I would close my eyes and see a blank canvas taunting me. The feeling of defeat spreading through my entire body until nothing else was left.

Often, I would finally get out of bed in the middle of the night to stare at the untouched screen that seemed so bitter to me now, trying to find inspiration in anything around me. This artistic block was like nothing I had ever experienced before, I felt so tense at all times. I started to habitually spend nights in a hazy fog, sometimes staring at a wall or a window for what seemed like minutes, only to discover that it had been hours. Eventually I stopped leaving the apartment altogether, instead waiting eagerly by my supplies for inspiration to hit. Any family I had left lived far away, my friends were all focused on their own jobs, and since my career was independently selling my art, I knew nobody would miss me much.

Life had not always been so lonely, I thought as I laid down to bed one of these nights. I thought of my brother Jake, who still tried to call every few months even when the hope of an answer had been given up long ago. Surely there were brief memories of us as happy children, our lives not yet completely plagued by misery, but the memories escaped me when I tried to seek any out.

Jake was never someone I found it easy to talk to, especially after mom and dad's death. He was a quiet child that often ignored me when he could get away with it. I remember much of his personality as cold and unhappy, even as a little kid. The only person who could wiggle him out of his tightly locked shell was our mother. She would give him a smirk and ruffle his curly brown hair and he'd smile at her without hesitation and with a genuine love that I was endlessly jealous of.

Our parents died when Jake and I were in middle school. At some point I started to tell people it was a car accident, and accepted whatever pity they had to offer for my brother and I. Anything was better than the truth; that my dad was an angry drunk and spent that evening with a bottle of whiskey glued to his lips. That he had gotten into a particularly bad fight with my mom late into the night, something about her cooking or cleaning, and slammed her head into the wall a few too many times. When he realized that her breathing had stopped, he put a bullet through his skull.

In those early months I tried to reach out to Jake. I tried to become friends as we were shifted between foster homes, but he wasn't interested in company. Eventually I retreated away from him and into my own self, a wall growing thick and anxiously between us and any shared sorrow we may have felt. By the time he left home, we were strangers.

A few years ago he started to call unexpectedly. I was shocked at first, when his voice came through the speaker and I realized he was probably drunk. On his best calls he would tell me why he thought dad's rage was my fault, on the worst he'd explain how often he thought about killing me himself. I was foolishly too naïve to block his number, even beginning to think that I did deserve his hatred somehow. That maybe there was something I could have done to help our mom or to intervene that night. I carried around a heavy guilt for the things I wish I could have changed; which Jake could sense easily. Although I haven't answered in two years, he still calls sporadically, a reminder that he hasn't forgotten about me.

Lately I had started thinking more about Jake and his threats. I panicked when I heard doors slam down the hall or loud knocking next door. I felt a thick layer of dread like something bad was going to happen, and his calls were the most ominous signs of disaster I could think of. Since I had mostly stopped sleeping, I spent many foggy nights anxiously thinking about Jake or my parent's death, two things I had successfully avoided thinking about for almost 10 years.

When I did get a few hours of sleep it was restless and difficult. After about two weeks of this, I started to wake up on the floor next to my bed or in the hallway, covered in sweat and sometimes even out of breath. I noticed that I would unintentionally go days without turning on any lights, but I could never remember spending all those hours that I must have spent alone in the dark. I hadn't even looked at the canvas in a few days, at some point during my frustration I had turned it to face the small window in my front room so that I wouldn't focus so heavily on its cold, blank stare. I began to wonder how much longer I could go on like this, my body was always tired and sore and begging for rest.

A dark cloud had completely overshadowed me. I felt sluggish and worthless. I had struggled with minor depression in the past, but this was like a thick wall in between me and the rest of the world. I could hardly find energy to do anything. Even walking felt like an immense struggle as I was being dragged down by some invisible force. Finally, I had the realization that I hadn't eaten in a couple days. I looked down at my body as if just now remembering that it was there and could see the deterioration that had taken place without me even noticing. My ribs pushed against the skin above them, perfectly outlined. My wrists were thinner than I could ever remember seeing them, and I thought my hips looked more pronounced than I would have expected from anyone over the age of 10. It all honestly seemed a little far away. I felt like I was looking at someone else's body, their pale and gauntly thin face looking back at me in the mirror. It was as if I was a hallways length away from being inside my own body, and I couldn't find a way to get any closer.

At first, I thought the voices were my neighbors. I would hear whispering at night, often while I was lying in bed habitually staring at the ceiling. It was like listening to a radio station going in and out of static, only every few words were audible in between low mumbling. I first only heard simple words like "Go.....lie.......feel......leave" and I pondered them while memorizing every scratch on the walls in my room.

After a few nights of hearing the same words I was confused, it was as if whoever I was ease dropping on was having the same conversation every night. I wondered if maybe my neighbors were re-watching a television show all night long. But the sound never changed and nothing else could be heard besides those few random words through the night. I listened carefully and tried as hard as I could to make out more of the sentence, but eventually it became an expected part of my routine, and I let it soothe me at night, like a lullaby. In fact, I had even figured out that it sounded like only one voice, saying something over and over again.

By the time I started to get used to it, the voice started getting clearer, and I heard it throughout the day and more often at night. It sounded almost reassuring. Always the same calm voice, always the same words. "Go to bed. Lie down. You will feel safe. Never leave."

I wanted to panic, but somehow I couldn't. My body was drained all the time now, the voice, like an odd mantra repeating every few minutes until I fell asleep. I felt like I was going crazy, it had to all be in my head, at least that's what I told myself while trying to ignore it.

After a month of solitude, I finally got a phone call. I froze while listening to the high-pitched ring, its shrill tone slicing through the weeks of isolation that had nearly left me mute. I first thought of Jake, and almost didn't answer. I recognized the number immediately when it flashed across the screen. It was a neighbor that lived across from my apartment. An older lady with three cats who religiously spied on everybody in the building. And of course, lucky for me, she had a direct view into my apartment from her front window.

I clicked the green button and put the phone to my ear.

"How are you sweetheart? Working on some project I see."

Her voice was the first real one I had heard in so long. I almost hung up, thinking it was another trick of my unstable brain. But then I heard what she had said, working on a project? Naturally this threw me off since I had been doing exactly the opposite of that.

I cleared my throat, it felt rusty and dry from so much neglect.

"No, actually. I've been pretty stuck honestly. I just can't paint lately. I've been so out of it I guess. I'm just tired. Exhausted really." I answered, already about to excuse myself from the conversation and go back to my solitude.

"Don't be so modest Honey, I've seen you working those late nights, but if it isn't too much, can I ask what you've been painting? I can't quite make it out from here but it seems to me that you've been really hacking at it for a while, so I'm sure it's a good one."

I nearly dropped the phone. I hadn't even touched the canvas in weeks. I thought about asking her to stay on the phone with me or call for help. But this was my painting, my problem, my apartment, everything was mine. As crazy as it all sounds, I couldn't involve other people. I knew things had gotten strange, but I felt an adamant pull to figure it out myself. So, I hung up the phone without explanation and set it down on the bed softly.

The sky was dark for late afternoon. The dim light that managed to filter in through the window only aided the shadows in the apartment. The canvas was propped exactly where I had left it, facing away from the room, covered in the gray daylight. I walked towards it slowly...and stopped halfway across the room. The silence around me was pounding in my ears like an alarm. I didn't hear anything. The voice that I had gotten so used to hearing had stopped since the phone call. The silence in the room now felt suffocating.

I suddenly felt surrounded by something else. It was the first time I wasn't hearing voices in a couple weeks and I felt anything but alone. It was as if all the air had been sucked out of the room and I was standing in the middle of a crowded room instead of my empty living room with its single couch. My mind screamed at me to leave the building, but without even realizing what I was doing, I ran to the canvas.

There were so many black angry lines that it took me a second to conceptualize what I was seeing. I saw a detailed sketch of myself, sleeping. My room was pitch black around me, my bed unmade, my hair a mess. And next to the bed was something I've never seen before.

Some kind of shadow, but it had a large gaping hole in the center of its head with many rows of pointed teeth. It was bent at what I assumed was its waist, its strange mouth hovered above my sleeping form. A swirl of gray seemed to be seeping from my whole body, being sucked into the shadow. I took a step back, chills racing up my arms and around my neck. And then it started again.

"Go to bed. Lie down. You will feel safe. Never leave. "

It was everywhere. All around me at once. But I wasn't afraid, I felt calm. And as I walked back into my room and crawled under the covers, the voice, like a lullaby, soothed me to sleep. I had my painting, my inspiration. I felt safe. I never had to leave again, and why did I want to in the first place?

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