#like do i hadn wash it??? is it fine to go in the washing machine and then air dry???

[kindheartedgummybears]

Ok so um anyways guess who's cleaning like 5 Halloween mask they collect and love rn at 1:30 am because their cat peeded on them😍😍

Ummm does anyone have tips on how to clean them properly?? Most of them are plastic but 3 of them have LEDs in them and one of them is silicone I THINK and has hair/fur

[xxx-cat-xxx]

Behind closed doors

i have a little prompt for Avengers days, maybe after Ultron Tony gets really sick and Pepper is away and Rhodey is unavaible but he doesnt tell the Avengers because he feels a bit like an outsider and like they're distancing from him and the last thing he wants is for them to think him weak so he hides ir and gets injured on a mission. Eventually an Avenger (you can pick who) finds out and helps him (from AO3).

I´m sorry that it took me light years to finish this, but on the up side, it got exceptionally long and somehow features nearly everyone (I even wrote one dialogue with Bruce before remembering that there´s no way I could have him show up at this point of time). I hope it was worth the wait! Leave comments if you like it.

Contains emeto, quite some pain and bit of angst

Tony wakes up to his own muffled scream. For a moment he lies there in the dark, trying to catch his breath, while his most recent nightmare replays in front of his inner eye in all its detailed beauty. He knows that he has gotten less sleep than good for him, but something in his stomach feels vaguely uncomfortable, enough to keep him awake.

He doesn´t remember drinking enough to make him sick, but this in itself is no proof for anything. His brain is slower than his hands, which are searching for Pepper on the other side of the mattress before he recalls what happened the previous night.

The details are a little fuzzy, but they´d had an argument. There had been drinking, and accusations, and then he´d missed the point where he could have apologized and she´d been fine after half a day of angry frowning, and things had gone from bad to worse. They had shouted at each other, louder and longer than in a while now. She´d left for the board meeting in L.A. with tears in her eyes, and this was bad, because Pepper does not cry, not when things are still fixable.

Tony gets up to check his phone. No misscalls, just a message from her - I reached. See you on Thursday. Anthony Stark isn´t one to make first steps, so he shrugs the dark thoughts away and shoves the phone into his pocket, ordering the coffee machine to do its magic while absent-mindedly cradling his upset stomach.

The workshop is Tony´s to-go-place to not deal with problems and emotions he should be dealing with, but today he can´t really find the motivation to move there. He gets back into bed, half-heartedly watching news on the holo screen at the ceiling.

Half an hour later the discomfort in his stomach has turned into a gnawing ache, and by now he is sure that this is not just a hangover. He´d been feeling off the day before, and it would just fit into the way this morning is going down if he´d caught a bug somewhere. The smell from the untouched coffee on the table is enough to slowly make him nauseos.

Another fifteen minutes later Tony barely makes it to the washbasin in his private bathroom before the residuals of last night´s drinking binge come up in forceful splashes. It takes him a ridiculous amount of effort to force himself to stop gagging and breathe evenly. When he washes his face with shaky hands and checks his own reflection in the mirror, he looks pale, sweaty, and easily ten years older than usually.

He spends the morning dozing on the couch in front of the TV, a screwdriver and one of the gauntlets in his hands, not finding the energy to do much more. He throws up twice more, and each time is more painful than the previous. Any attempt of keeping down painkillers or even ginger ale turns out to be fruitless.

When the pain keeps on increasing, he briefly considers calling someone. But Pepper is not an option, not after yesterday. Rhodey is attending some top-secret military congress in a top-secret location (Warsaw, as Tony found out after three minutes on his phone) and not to be disturbed. There has been no sign of Bruce since Ultron.

And the other Avengers...someone might be in the tower, or in close proximity at the upstate facility, and it wouldn´t be the first time they accompany each other to the ER. But since Ultron -

Tony´s thoughts are interrupted by a call to assembly blaring through the speakers. The volume is making his head throb.

“Friday, honey?” he prompts while pushing himself up from the coach with a moan, “Fire up the quinjet. Let´s make ourself useful.”

---

“You alright, Tony? You look like shit.” It is not an accusation, not coming from Clint, but Tony still feels like he has to get defensive.

“Always a delight to talk to you, Barton,” he replies, “What are you even doing here? Thought you had retired. And don´t you have your kids to mother-hen?”

“Hey, calm down. They´re on a family holiday with Laura´s parents.” Clint shrugs, looking a bit uncomfortable. There´s a knowing smirk playing around Natasha´s lips at his words. Tony is tempted to ask for details, but Steve interrupts with the mission briefing.

“Okay, everybody, listen. We´re dealing with a hostage situation. Around a dozen civilians are being held in the 10th floor of an office building.” He taps on the conference table and the 3D-model of a skyscraper appears.

“It´s nothing new to us, but the targets are unusually heavily armed. Stark and Barton, I suggest you draw them out and keep them busy from above, while Nat and I go in and get the hostages out safely - Stark, are you even listening?”

Tony, who has been trying to focus on Steve´s voice through a haze of pain, is sitting hunched over, cradling his head in his hand, probably looking ready to doze off.

“Spangles, I understand that you love everyone gazing at your pretty face, but I´m actually capable of listening without looking at you,” he snarks, which brings a suppressed snickle from Clint. Steve shoots him a look, but continues the briefing.

Tony does his best to sit up straight for the rest of the briefing, which brings more nausea with it. No puking in front of his teammates. Not like he hadn´t done that before - they all had, to be honest - but usually there were concussions to blame it on.

A few months ago, he might have said something, cracked a joke and secretly hoped that someone would realize what´s going on. But Ultron has changed things. Not that anyone would name it, but he knows, from Steve passing by the lab at odd times to ask how he is doing - and looking around for anything resembling another vicious AI, another Ultron, as if Captain America was capable of identifying one even if it was jumping right in his face. From the way Clint checks his SI-custom-made explosive arrows twice before using them, from the fact that conversations nowadays barely ever move away from mission-related topics. Things have changed.

They might not even realize it themselves, and Tony doesn´t actually blame anyone. Trust is something he doses carefully, and he won´t judge others for not giving it away freely. But this doesn´t mean it pinches less to realize how everyone is slowly drifting apart.

Tony tries his best to keep his shit together, but they are near their destination when the bile he´s been continuously swallowing down won´t stay there anymore. He feels like his stomach is sitting in his chest. He brushes past Nat, avoiding her curious gaze, and makes for the bathroom.

He closes the door, opens the toilet seat and bends over, spit pooling in his mouth, just to startle when a familiar voice speaks up.

“Sir, I must inform you that your body temperature is elevated to 101.7 degress.”

“Friday! Didn´t I mute you in the quinjet?”

“The exact words you used were `shut up while anyone is around´, Sir. Since this room is soundproof, I took the liberty to address you in private in here.”

“Oho, we´re having sexy bathroom conversations now?”

A wave of nausea takes over and he bends over the bowl, coughing weakly. Spit dangles from his lips.

“Sir, given your worsening symptoms, I strongly advise you to inform the other Avengers -”

“Not happening, Friday.” he cuts her off.

“I am not yet well-acquainted with your behaviour patterns, but I am convinced that no harm will arise from telling your team members-”

“Gosh, you don´t get it. Shut up.” Tony loves all his AIs, but sometimes he really misses Jarvis. He´d have understood, Tony is sure.

“Am I detecting trust issues, Sir?”

“Oh, don´t you start on me... I´m just not fond of company in this state -” he´s interrupted by a gag that pushes bile up his throat.

There´s hardly anything to bring up anymore, but that doesn´t stop his stomach from forcefully trying to evacuate his body. Tony digs his fingers into his trousers when the retching dials up the pain.

“If you had wanted to be alone, Sir, you would have muted me already.” Friday continues the conversation, and there is nothing Tony can say against that.

When he returns, there´s a bottle of Gatorade and a packet of mints sitting on his seat. Natasha and Clint exchange a knowing glance when he pushes them away. Even the thought of anything entering his mouth right now is enough to set him off again.

They have nearly reached the drop-off point when Steve breaks the silence.

“Alright, get ready to attack. Stark, Barton, we´ll let you out at the opposite building. Try to spare lives whenever possible, but don´t be gentle.”

“Let´s beat them up.” Clint translates, earning a disapproving glance from Steve.

“Stark, wouldn´t this be the time to suit up? Where´s your armour?” Clint asks.

“Well....” Tony puts on his showman grin, trying not to wince while he slides into the seat next to the exit. He plugs his finger into the concealed mechanism and Clint can´t contain a whistle when the Iron Man suit starts unfolding itself over Tony´s body.

“Let´s kick their asses,” he grins, then the hatch below slides open and he falls into the sky above New York.

---

Maneuvering the suit brings on a new level of pain. Every instinct tells him to pull his knees up to his chest and curl into a ball, but unfortunately he needs his legs stretched and his body in full tension in order to fly precisely. Tony goes straight for a headdive and moans when the change of altitude brings agony and a new wave of nausea.

It doesn´t stop him from kicking their asses, oh no, he screws them up just fine. Maybe a few of his beams hit harder and provoke more windows to blow up than intended, and maybe the pain makes him just a bit more aggressive than he typically would be, but he accomplishes the mission alright. Iron Man isn´t stopped by the stomach flu. No way.

Even if it´s not a stomach flu. Tony has just covered Steve´s entry into the building when the pain flames up harder than before, and this time it´s concentrated in the lower right of his stomach, prompting him to press a hand to his armour in a fruitless attempt of comforting himself. He understands the implications a second before Friday tells him.

“Sir, based on your statistics and the local concentration of pain, it seems very probable that you have appendiscitis. I advise to seek medical -”

Which is when he mutes her and grits his teeth together. They have nearly gotten the upper hand, and once he´ll be done with the mission, there should be enough time to get to the tower on his own before dealing with this problem. At least he knows what´s wrong with him.

Then an explosive hits him into the stomach, strong enough to leave a dent in his armour.

Tony feels like he´s been kicked by an elephant. He doubles over in mid flight, gasping for air, and involuntarily fires a repulsor beam from his gauntlet that barely misses Clint on the opposite roof top.

“It´s great that you want to show off your stunts, Stark, but please don´t try to kill your teammates.... again.”

The bitterness in Cap´s voice feels like another kick in the gut, but Tony can´t spare the breath for a comeback. He makes it to the ground in a tumble-flight, hoping noone observes him, and doubles over behind a large rock. He can barely get the faceplate up before he is retching again. He is pretty sure that he might very possibly be dying, because it hurts, every movement feels like being stabbed into the abdomen with a fucking knife. There´s no way he´s getting up right now, so he grants himself a few minutes, knowing he needs to return to the fight soon -

“Stark? What the fuck is going on?”

Nat is standing over him, all adrenaline and anger. Tony can't answer because he is still dry heaving, the sheer force of it driving tears into his eyes.

“Well?” she looks him up and down.

“It´s...never mind.” Tony forces his breathing to slow down and drags a metal glove over his mouth, doing nothing but spreading bile all over it. He realizes that he´s shaking, whether it is from fever or pain, he doesn´t know.

“Weren´t you supposed to be somewhere...not here?” His thoughts are not exactly coherent at the moment, but he is pretty sure that Nat should be inside the building right now, not in front of it.

“Well, sometimes we change plans when we realize that our teammates are hiding things from us. Things like....appendiscitis?”

“How the fuck do you - “

“You´re not the only one capable of extracting information from computer systems, wonder boy.”

“There´s no way you hacked Friday-”

“We had a little talk, from girl to girl. She was in the mood of chatting.”

“What the...”

Traitor. He´ll have to have a word with his AI, for sure, and remind her of her loyalties. After he stops dying, that is. Nat is still glaring at him, and there is no need to voice her accusation for Tony to know what she´s thinking.

“I'd have gone and fixed it in the tower.”

She starts to respond, but at that moment Tony spots two very unfriendly looking drones racing towards them at breakneck speed.

“Nat, down!” he shouts while firing a repulsor beam from his gauntlet. He only hits one of the drones, but it´s enough to get the other off its course for as long as it takes Nat to gun it down.

“That´s what I call teamwork,” he rasps, clutching his side, “See, I just saved your life, stop being mad.”

“You need to get to a hospital, Tony.”

Wow, he must actually be looking worse for wear for her to use his first name.

“Yeah...I´ll get on my way, just - just give me a moment.” He tries to get up, but his knees buckle and he groans in pain.

“You´re not going anywhere alone right now.” Nat states. “And anyways, you´re in no state to maneuver that suit. You´ll probably end up crashing into a skyscraper or something.”

She points at his armour. “Can you open this?”

“Ugh.”

He somehow, slowly, gets out of the suit, and every movement rips through his stomach like a blade. Nat supports him till her motorbike - he doesn´t know how she manages this, considering that he weighs probably twice as much as her even without the armour - and then starts maneuvering them through the streets of debris.

Tony allows himself to zone out. The adrenaline of the battle is wearing off, and it´s harder to concentrate on anything but the agony he´s in. He doesn't want to, but his head lands on her shoulder when he curls into himself for a tiny bit of comfort. Nat would usually slap him for this, or worse, but given that she doesn´t even comment, he must be in a pretty pathetic shape right now.

Ten minutes into the ride the motion seeps into his bones and he can´t keep his stomach in place anymore.

“Hey,” he weakly taps on her back, “Stop, Nat, I need to puke -”

She brings the bike to a standstill with a swerve that turns Tony´s stomach even further, and it´s all he can do to aim away from her leg when he bends forward  and retches. He´s long empty, but the dry heaving doesn´t stop, every ragged breath spiking pain in his abdomen that spreads through his back and his legs. He digs his fingers into Nat´s waist as not to topple over.

“Stark, it´s enough. Breathe now.”

There´s no pity or compassion in her voice, and Tony is grateful for that.

---

When they reach the hospital, Nat deposits him in a plastic chair in the waiting area and goes to handle the formalities. He tries to focus on his breathing and ignore the pain, but it´s hard.

In, out, stab. This is ridiculous, Iron Man being taken down by appendiscitis.

In, out, stab. He wishes he doesn´t throw up again.

In, out, stab. He wishes he still had his suit and Jarvis to distract him.

In, out stab. Or Friday, he´s not picky anymore. He´d settle for Dummy at this point.

In, out, stab. He wonders what Pepper is doing. If she misses him. Then he realizes that his thoughts are turning whiny, and focuses on mentally drawing up the design of an iron watch gauntlet.

He doesn´t catch much of what is happening through the waves of pain, and  he must have zoned out a bit again, because the blood tests are completed faster than seems possible, and suddenly he´s in a hospital bed, ready for surgery.

“You´d make a good PA, anyone told you that yet?” he asks when Nat makes him sign a form.

“I was being nice because you look like death, but there´s a limit, Stark.”

“Ah, that´s my little assassin. Was starting to miss you....”

---

The first thing he sees when he wakes up is a strand of red hair floating somewhere at the edge of his vision.

“Pepper?” he asks, more hoping than actually assuming it to be her.

The disappointment is still real when he recognizes that the red is wrong, too aggressive, that it's Nat´s. She raises her eyebrows sarcastically, but he catches a tiny hint of sadness playing around her mouth.

Tony props himself up a bit to look around. His mind is still hazy with painkillers, and the world is spinning quite a bit more than he´s comfortable with, but he is pretty sure that he isn´t hallucinating three Avengers around his hospital bed, clad in full battle gear and all.

“Am I a terminal cancer patient?” is the first thing he can think of.

“You won´ t believe that, but for you, we actually show up even if you´re in no immediate danger of kicking the bucket.” Clint replies.

Tony honestly hadn´t expected to see them here. Not after Ultron. He swallows down a disgustingly sweet surge of emotions, caused solely by the drugs in his blood-stream, nothing else, and searches for something to say.

His eyes find Steve´s face, on which bruises are beginning to show.

“You look beat up, Cap. Battle didn´t go so well without me?”

“They won, actually.” Nat states drily.

He should come up with something sophisticated now, but the meds must have reloaded, because his brain feels slow and muddled, as if it´s wrapped up in cotton.

“Oh,” he manages, then his vision tunnels, and the last thing he wonders before unconsciousness takes over is whether anyone has told Friday that he is okay.

The next time he comes to, it´s still not Pepper who is sitting uncomfortably on the tiny plastic chair next to his bed, but at least Steve has changed into a less-shiny civilian outfit.

"Hey there. I'm back, I guess." Tony greets hoarsely, his throat still a little rough.

"How are you feeling?" Steve asks, setting a glass of water with a straw on the bedside table.

"My mouth tastes like the last time I ate was back in 1940, my head´s pounding, and knowing that you were watching me sleep is creepy enough... But all considered, pretty relieved, with one appendix less to carry around."

Steve only gives a weak smile. A few minutes of slience follow in which Tony sips on the water and then proceeds to examine the surgical gauze taped onto his lower side.

Steve is the one to address the elephant in the room.

"Okay, now. This is just as unpleasant for me as it is for you, so let´s get over with this quickly. I don't have to tell you that you endangered the mission - ," he cuts of Tony's protest with a raised hand, "or how disappointing it is that you felt your health issues are concerning noone but yourself - “

"Rogers, we both know that you won´t get me to pour out my life´s secrets. And looking at the team, I'm by far not the only one who doesn't exactly open up to others."

Something dark crosses Steve's face, an expression Tony can't quite place, one he's not sure he should ask about.

"Point taken." Steve concedes. "But it has to be clear that you can´t compromise the missions. Next time you´re unable to fight - yes, appendiscitis counts into that - you have to report it. No compromise on that."

"Aye aye, Cap." Tony brings a hand to his forehead in a mocking salute, but he's still uncoordinated and misses by several inches.

Steve gives him a pointed look, but the tension slowly vanishes from his expression.

“We tried to contact Pepper, but we were unable to reach her,” he changes the topic, “She´s not at the tower?”

“She's busy. On a busy-ness trip." Tony replies. He somehow finds the pun much funnier than it deserves.

Steve frowns at him.

"Just leave it.” Tony deflects, avoiding Steve´s eyes.

“If you want to call her personally...” he pulls Tony´s mobile out of his jacket and sets it on the blanket. “I´ll be outside, get some coffee.”

Tony nods his approval and waits until Steve has closed the door before taking the phone. He twists it in between his fingers for a few times, his thumb hovering above the call icon with Pepper´s photo.

“Friday, you´re there?” he finally asks.

“Yes, Sir, and I am glad you are recovering.” the AI´s voice says from the phone speakers.

“Turn up AC/DC.” he instructs.

Then he sinks back into the pillows and listens when the music doesn´t quite manage to drive the silence away.

[imaginesofoverwatch]

Could you do genii and zenyatta (separate or poly whatever you prefer) finding out that their future s/o is stuck in an abusive relationship? And like the flinch when people try to give then high fives or fist bumps and stuff?

Again, didn`t specify so i`m doing small ficsI`m doing it separate cause i honestly do not know how to make it work in poly ;-; Btw, thanks for requesting! I fell asleep before i could finish the Zenyatta one haha

TRIGGER WARNING! THIS POST FEATURES ABUSIVE RELATIONS SHIPS.

Genji:

You had just gotten done with a mission and was on your way out of the hq to your car, when Genji came running up to you“Hey, you did really well today!” Genji said in a cheerful tone, lifting his hand to smack you across the face, you closed your eyes, preparing for impactWhen you didn`t feel anything you opened one eye and saw that Genji was actually just holding his fhand up for a high five… Oh…You let your hand smack his, letting him lower his hand, so that it didn`t start getting awkward… Never mind, it was pretty awkward already.“So, i wanted to see if you maybe wanted to go out for ramen this thursday?” Genji said, completely ignoring that whole… awkward moment that happened just now“I`m sorry Genji, but i`m in a relationship at the moment” You laughed nervously, Genji`s posture changed slightly to one that seemed a little less, confident.“Oh, Sorry! I didn`t know,” Genji apolagized looking down scratching his neck, even though he probably didnt need to, he was part machine..“It`s fine Genji!” You smiled, It was nice, he kind of made you forget why you were outside.To be honest you dreaded going home… More than anything..“By the way, why have you never told anyone about your relationship? I mean.. Are you guys a new couple or..?” Genji asked, genuinely curious, and maybe onto something..“We`re… Kind of… It`s complicated.” You said, your mind reaching for ways to exuse yourself out of the conversation.“Anyway, i need to go home, bye” You waved, stepping into your car..Fuck… You couldn`t let him find out.. this was the only way out…Once you got home beer bottles littered the floor, on the couch was your partner, passed out..A vodka bottle on the coffee table. Time to clean…

Once you managed to clean everything up without waking your partner, you had to go grocery shopping.This was the only part of your chores you liked, cooking.It was always fun to think of what to make, looking up new recepies to try.Today, you wanted to make lasanga. You mostly made things with meat cause your partner could yell if you didn`t make anything he liked, and all his favorites were meats…Once you got home again you notice that the sleeping figure wasn`t on the couch anymore.

“Where have you meen? Bich” Your partner screamed from the kitchen in slurred words..“I had to make dinner mysellf!” They yelled, you bearly had anything in the fridge.. whatever they made… can`t be good..Come on! Eat. They came over and grabbed your arm, dragging you to the kitchen. they sat you down in front of a plate of… soup? on a plate?You stared at the… concauction.. not sure if it was safe to eat or not…“Eat.” They demanded again.. Their voice more threatening.. when you didn`t start eating they got up.. uh ohThey grabbed your spoon forcefully and forced a spoonfull of their “food” down your throat. That tasted fucking horrible..“Don`t fucking pull that trick again now eat.” They yelled. God no… I think i`m going to throw up..You did just that, throw up on the carpet, which you had to clean afterwards..What was in that thing??“You ungratefull little fucking brat, you think you can just do that to me?"They yelled at you, kicking your side. It fucking hurt, but that was probably because they had already bruised your sides..

After a night of hell, you were back at the headquarters… But a lot more covered in clothes..¨You greeted your co-workers before reporting to the office. "Hi, S/O, your old uniform is a little… ragged so we got you a new one.” Morrison announced to you, giving you a box“You can change in the lockers, i`ll send someone to see how it fits you to make sure its good” you nodThis can`t be that bad, it`s just a new uniform!

It is bad… Holy fuck is it bad… It showed off part of your arms before covering the rest with gloves.. fuck, you could see the bruises..you sighed, pulling a jacket over your arms..You walk outside of the lockers to find Genji standing there“Hello! The new uniform looks amazing on you! but what`s with the jacket?” Genji asked, a single sweatdrop rolled down your face. fuck“I just think the parts around my arms don`t fit correctly…"I partially lied, i mean they did FIT, but not like how i wish they were..Genji was in your face in a blink, "Well i guess i`ll have to see the part around your arms then”“n..no it looks horrible, it`s embarassing” You liedgenji tugged on your jacket, exposing a part of your arms, before throwing it off you“Why are you so bruised?” Genji asked, inspecting your arms“You know, being in battle and all that” You tried to lie your way out of it“Yes, but Angela and her team could easily fix this…” Genji then stopped inspecting your arms and went to face you, staring straight into your eyes.“Was this done by that "partner” you haven`t told any one about?“ Genji asked, keeping his cool.”… no" You whispered

“Do not lie to me..” Genji said, lifting your chin to look at him“Yes.. it was them..” you said, like a guilty child found in the middle of the act of something they weren`t supposed to do.“Why did you not tell anyone? This is horrible… you don`t deserve being treated like… this!” Genji said, for the first time ever, you saw him even remotely angry..You just frowned not having any words to say..“Look.. you don`t need them if they act like this towards you, leave them” Genji said, sounding like he was pleading“But.. i don`t have anywhere else to go! I live with them” you semi yelled, not because you were angry, you just felt miserable in this talk..“I`ll make some agreement with Morrison, or at least take you into my home! I don`t want you going back to a house with someone like that waiting for you..” Genji said, his voice actually sounded like he was about to breakdown..“Why do through the trouble for me? you dont have to..” You said looking away“Yes, i dont have to, but i want to. So let me help you” Genji pleaded, taking your face and facing it towards himself“Why?” You quivered.. why would he care so much?Genji looked away for a second, detaching a part of his face plate, his face showing.. You have never actually seen genji`s face, heck, you didn`t even know he still had a human one.He then pressed his lips against yours, at first you were taken back, but soon melted into it..

Genji ended up finding a really cheap apartment, big enough for two, you two moved inn and started dating immediatlyHe made sure to tell you how amazing and beautiful you are each day, to remind you that this is what a good relationship is like.

Zenyatta:

You had decided, you couldn`t just keep going in a relationship like this…So you made up your mind, you were going to tell Zenyatta, he was pretty much your best friend.Plus, he is so calm in any situation, so he probably has some good solutions.How do you tell someone you`re in a abusive relationship?Pou sigh, this is going to be harder than you thought, but you were up for the challenge, for once.Just need to find out when you and him can be alone, toghether for long enough…The day went by and you still hadn`t found a way… damn..That`s when your phone buzzed, it was a text from your partner..“You`re going to be home alone. Don`t fuck over the house while i`m gone bitch.” Ugh…i just resonded with “fine”, no need to making angier than he already always is..

You came up with the brilliant idea of inviting Zenyatta over to your house!You looked around, hoping to spot the omnic and to your luck, he was on the other side of the room, talking to Genji.You walked up to them “Hi Zen, Hi Genji” You waved to them, a smile on your lips, this might be your only chance.They both turned to you and said hello at the same time.“Hey, uhm, Genji, I need to talk to Zen for a bit, is it fine if you..” You trailed of“Haha, Of course, i was just about to go and bring something up with Jesse, Bye S/o, Bye Master”You and Zen both waved him off“So, what was you needed to talk about, S/o?” Zenyatta said, turning his attention to you.“It`s kind of private, you could come over to my house and we could talk there?” You asked, unsure if he`d be interested“Sure, I`ll come over, but i don`t really now your address..” Zenyatta Said, laughing slightly“Oh, are you doing anything for the rest of the day?” You asked Zenyatta“No” Zenyatta replied, you smiled, great!“Then i can just drive you over to mine now, i`m not doing anything else today anyway” You smiled, finally!“Ok then, i`ll follow you” Zenyatta nodded, you turned and started walk out the exit, Zenyatta following behind you

Once you both had gotten home is when you remembered, what if the place is littered with beer bottles…You cross your fingers as you open the door, the smell of beer hitting you in the face“I didn`t take you as this much of a drinker” Zenyatta said, looking inside seeing all the bottles.“No, those are my partners… They have a drinking problem.” You sighed, and started cleaing up.You then heard the sound of mettal hitting glass, You turned around to see Zenyatta picking up bottles too.“You don`t need to help me” You said, but still grateful, Zenyatta is too good for this world“Of course, i want to.” Zenyatta replied, “where shall i out them?” Zenyatta asked you“I`ll show you” You smiled, he followed you to the kitchen where you had a big black garbage bag, You just threw the bottles in there and washed your hands.“Now, What did you want to talk about?” Zenyattan finally asked“My partner… They are… Horrible to me” You said, better to get it over with, talking about it is the hardest part.“I guessed so… by the bottles… Why have you not left them?” Zenyatta asked“They threaten to hurt themselves if i dont…"You said looking at the omnic, A frown playing on your lips"They need help, they are probably dealing with their own problems, I`m not justifying the fact that he is adusing you.. But i think he needs professional help” Zenyatta concluded, you had never thought about it that way… huh“Then how?"You asked "How to we get them help?"You asked, you still cared about your "partner” even though they were horrible, you just kept thinking back to the start of the relationship. They were so nice and everything was fantastic.“Well just call the psychiatric hospital, It`s the best we can do for them” Zenyatta said.You nodded, hugging the omnic.His arms wraped around you and you two stayed like that for a while.“What about this house? Will you be able to keep it?"Zenyatta asked."Yup, my partner didn`t have a job actually, it was me paying the rent..” You sighed, happy that your bad way of living is over.

Later, you and Zenyatta started visiting eachother more, He even helped you paint your house, You wanted to renovate.Zenyatta then moved inn with after a year of dating, and you two are both so happy toghether.

[thiscatsbell]

"The Girl with the gaslight"

I'm 15 when I see Viv for the first time.

I'm at wrestling practice, warming up for a long day of drilling in two pairs of sweats so that I can make weight tomorrow. In my mind I'm imagining myself as something else: a cartoon rabbit. Most days at practice I imagine I'm something else. Somewhere else. Anywhere and anybody but a corn-fed teenage boy trying to make weight for a saturday meet. Most days I can lift off from my body during practice and enter into a dreamworld so vivid that it feels real.

"I am a bunny rabbit," I think to myself. I try to imagine the ears, the feeling of my tail against the mat each time my wrestling partner takes me down.

"That's bullshit," Viv says, tugging at my waistband.

She's a lithe girl: 14, maybe 17 at the most. Dresses in black skater-punk wear. Jet-black, flatironed hair. Wallet on a chain. I'm sweating and desperate to get back to my bunny rabbit fantasy but she follows me, hangdog and bored, both hands locked into my waistband.

"Why do you bother?" she asks.

My teammate works through a new takedown. Stand up. Let the guy hurl me to the floor. Stand up again.

"You don't want to be here anyway."

She paces around the circle as I get tossed over and over again.

"You don't even like this sport."

She's right. I only got into wrestling because the bullies did it. I got better than them. The bullying stopped. Survival has a weird way of motivating you when you're 15 and feel like an alien in your own body. Familiar, too. Befriend your bullies and you won't be bullied. Get stronger than your bullies, and never be bullied again.

But Viv? Viv is something new. She slithers around the mat, stalking me. "It's not like you can escape this anyway. This is who you are: going through the motions because it makes people like you as a person. That's all this is to you, innit? A ticket to punch for a few moments of admiration?"

A break. The coaches are talking. I close my eyes. Breathe. I wish I were a bunny rabbit.

I feel Viv lean on my shoulder, her breath hot on my neck. Her lips touch my ear.

"You don't really want that. You just want to be gone.

"You should just end it."

I write my first suicide note that week. As a kid with an active imagination I kept a piece of computer paper folded up in my pocket at all times. I'd jot down notes there, and when the paper filled up it'd join a heap of other papers on my desk, mostly to be forgotten. But that day, Viv followed me home from practice. Whispering. Always whispering.

"You hate yourself."

"I hate myself."

"You wish everything would stop."

"I wish everything would stop."

"You don't matter anyway," she added with a thin smile. "You never mattered because you can't get anything right. Not like it's going to get better anyway. This is what life is for you."

"This is life for me."

"Good boy," Viv says, patting me on the head. I feel empty but calm. Clairvoyant, even, in the knowledge that this didn't matter.

I discover two things that week.

One: my stepmom snoops around my room. The note sat on top of the pile. She tells my father, and they sit me down for a talk. I don't tell them much. Anything I say can and will be used against me in some later argument. This is the nature of things. They get a friend of the family to give me samples for Zoloft. We don't talk about it again.

Two: Viv is right. I can't even write down my own thoughts without fucking it up.

I learned how to fight Viv by screwing up the house rules.

Chores, for me, means three things: laundry, cleaning the room, and dishes. Unless someone forgot to take out the dog. Then that's my chore as well. Unless I missed a spot on the glass. Then it's like I didn't do the dishes at all. I cannot do these chores right.

A child is not allowed to be loud when a parent has a migraine. An itemized list of any perceived slight performed by me during this time will be presented to Dad to deal with later.

A child is not to be too quiet. The family will remember every time the kid chooses to spend time by themselves. This information can and will be used against them at any time, during any argument, no matter the context.

Everything I say is wrong. Even when it is right, or sourced, or just a benign opinion, it is wrong. The family will find ways to get me to say wrong things so that they can be dragged out in the open and mocked properly. Failure to comply will trigger the not-too-quiet rule above.

To be not wrong requires fighting. Not with debate or discussion. Raised voices, at first; and fists if all else fails. I choose to learn to be okay with being wrong.

Write everything down. If it isn't written down I don't remember it right. When I want something the family doesn't, and people start raising their voices, I'm wrong. At first it takes time to convince me that I'm wrong. But in time I learn not to trust what's in my head.

I try to follow my notes to the letter. "No spots on the glasses." "Laundry folded and put away." "Dog must be taken out at least once a night." "Do towels if there are less than 4 in the closet."

Family ridicules me for writing it down. "You can't remember to do your chores? How dumb do you have to be?" But even if something in the notes turns out to be wrong I know that I wrote them down. I know they existed. Sometimes the notes I wrote are wrong even if I remember writing them down, and I remember every word. I just didn't hear things right. That's all.

Anger is not right. Anger makes the family angrier, and when the family is angrier my memory is even less right than it usually is. Better to be an empty vessel. Don't ask for things; ask what the family would prefer I do. I don't trust my memory and my wants. My memory is almost always wrong when challenged.

I can only be right if I am successful in a way that invites praise from people in town. Every tournament won in wrestling is a night where I get to be right. Sometimes, if the parents are feeling generous, an A will earn me a few hours of being right.

By the time Viv comes around I already know how to argue. She speaks. I listen. Even if I don't think she's right, she's probably right. My mind just gets things turned around; that's all.

I am sixteen and printing off a binder of theology research. There is no school project behind this. My wrestling teammates found out I didn't believe in god when we went to a summer training camp. They kept me up for 2 nights trying to convert me, stopping only after I got the teacher involved.

Standing my ground felt right. I remember that clearly. Laughing as they started taking shifts telling me about the good news. Trying to sleep as they kept mumbling on about why I should accept Jesus into my heart. I felt... clear, really, in a way I hadn't before. No matter what my friends tried to say it was at least consistent. I could rely on their candor. Peg talking points against their passion.

When the town got word the house had a new rule: "You have to think about being Christian." At school: kids in school handing me tracts and bibles. Teachers hinting about what they know. Parents and volunteers mentioning churches.

And here I am, scouring the internet to build a bibliography of articles for and against being a Christian. It was either this or talk it out with the parents. At least when it's written down I can feel like I got it right, even when I'm later conviced it's wrong.

Viv sits on the washing machine behind the family computer, arms crossed, her lips pouty. Bored. She swings her legs to kick the back of my chair and knocks her heels against the machine. Thunk-thunk, thud-thud, thunk-thunk, groan."

"Don't you get it? There are rules to being liked. You just can't seem to learn them."

I click through yet another Baptist website. Print. Skim. Highlight sentences. In the margin: "Obedience is how we show love to God." I'm good at obedience.

Why am I not good at being right?

I leaned back from the printed pages so that my head can rest in her lap. "Am I just this stupid, Viv? Everyone else seems to get along fine. I'm the only one fucking this up."

"Possibly. Nothing else has worked so far, right? And you're right. Sis seems to have found an equilibrium. The stepbrothers just do as they please. But you?"

She chuckled and cupped my chin in both her hands.

"You're too stupid to even do belief right."

"I know."

"Have you even won an argument before?"

I thought about it. "If it's about things, sure. I'm good at things. People, though."

"Exactly." She looked up to the lights. Tilted her head. I closed my eyes and relaxed into her lap, the softness of her hands, the warmth of her body.

"You're never going to be worthy of their love."

"House rule?"

She stroked my cheek. "House rule."

One more rule: my computer is my citadel. It is a piece of junk cobbled together with duct tape and spare parts. I am not followed there. Files are encrypted, password protected. I learn to code and work on little computer projects to give me an excuse to avoid family time.

Inside the computer there are other voices just like Viv. They're all bunny rabbits and cats and foxes, and all of them say that they're real too. I talk to them, sometimes, about how I don't understand why I'm so wrong all the time.

Later, when I'm not living at home, I'll even meet some of the people behind foxes and bunnies and cats and such. Some will even become my family. Viv hates them for that, but she tolerates it for the attention. The validation. It's nice to be the sad one sometimes.

But here and now, I worry them. I'm not sure how to process that emotion. Worry? Why worry? It's not like I'm going to embarrass them. Most don't even know my real name.

Viv scoffs when I talk about the other voices.

"If they knew you they wouldn't feel so sorry. The truth would come out. You know how this goes. Poor, sad little Cinderella story online crumbles when given context. They'd find out how many house rules you broke, how you missed spots on the dishes, how you forget to finish your laundry. Then they'd think better of it.

"You're just bad at being a person. That's how it's always been."

Once I was on the zoloft folks thought I had my head back on straight. That's not true. Viv taught me better.

The pills were never about making me feel better. They were about the perception of feeling better. Nobody really gave a shit if I was sad or happy so long as I could put on the act. Viv loved this. I loved it too: there's something just decadent about walking through life with a smile on your face with "I should kill myself" as a mantra.

Knowing you are useless dead weight liberates you from any entitlement to feelings or needs. Favorite food? "Whatever you want to order." What do you want to do? "I don't have any preference." What do you think? "Not really important."

Life's a lot easier when you take the damn pills and let Viv do the talking.

I am 17 and driving out of town. Viv is in the passenger seat. I work a lot of hours at a diner downdown; more time I spend there, less time I spend at home. The windows are down and I'm singing along with the radio. For a moment, I'm happy.

"Next car," Viv says. She's in the passenger seat sulking. Today she's wearing a rubber dress and drenched in chain-link necklaces. As cars zing past she nods at each one and leans in. "There. There. There. Next one—there."

Her hands are on the wheel, pushing me left. I countersteer. Left. Right. Left. Right.

She's right, I guess. Next car. It has to be the next car.

"Why?"

"Why ask?" Viv says with a smile. "You'll just get it wrong anyway."

I am 20 and laying on the grass in a small-town Indiana Park. On my left, my girlfriend. ON my right, Viv. I'm staring at blades of grass and trying to find the words.

For the past month I've spent the weekends in another town so that I can dress up in girl's clothing. I got ma'amed for the first time this past weekend and it left me feeling strange. It felt... right, somehow, even though I knew that had to be wrong. When I tried to talk about it my words twisted in my mouth, made my heart seize up in my chest.

We're laying in the park. I feel trapped. When this happened in the past I deferred to somebody else. Can't trust my own brain, after all. Better that someone else makes the call. But here, laying on the grassy ground and rubbing my temples, I couldn't ask.

Viv leans into my ear. "Keep it zipped."

My girlfriend rubs my back. "You seem to have a lot of fun dressing up."

"Yeah," I say.

"She's not your friend."

"Is it more than that?"

"I don't know."

Playground swings creak. Kids laugh. I star deeper into the blades of grass. Maybe I can hide here. Just stall her out, you know? It's only a matter of time before someone proves my brain wrong anyway. Why say anything if it's not going to mean anything?

"Do you want to be a girl?"

"Keep your mouth shut," Viv says. Her arm locks into mine and tugs, hard. "She's not going to help you. Nobody is going to help you. You're just a freak. You know this. Second it gets out, everyone will turn on you. Just keep your mouth--"

"I think so," I say. A weight lifts from my chest. For a brief moment the world seems brighter. Manageable. I breathe - really, truly breathe; a breath that goes all the way down to my toes - and let it out in a long sigh. Muscles unknot. Of course I think so. I've always thought so. Even if my brain is wrong it knows what it wants to be.

Viv screams. Then she reaches under one arm, grips my jaw, and works me like a puppet.

"But maybe I'm okay with being in the middle. I mean, I'd make a terrible girl, right? What do you think? It's just a stupid idea."

Then Viv holds my lips shut until, exasperated, the girlfriend gets up and leaves. "Close call," Viv says, wagging her finger in my face.

It seems silly now but Viv helped me make sense of everything. When my brain says one thing and the people around me say another I get confused. And when I can't win arguments I look to her to make both ends meet. Here's what comes out:

Alex is a broken person who is incapable of doing anything right. She is either too emotional or too rational, depending on the day, and too sensitive when people tease her. Sometimes she even cries when someone points out missed spots on dishes - I mean, how fragile do you have to be to do that? Any time she stands up for herself it's for the dumbest reasons. Some mean joke sets her off, or she's writing a story where her family isn't 100% supportive of what she does, or she makes a choice that the family despises and still expects respect and dignity. Given time and ridicule she'll roll over, though, and everything will turn out all right.

In short: things would be better for everyone if she just kept her damn mouth shut.

I am 22 and everything is wrong. My girlfriend is driving us to a home she just purchased. I'm still a guy even though it's been two years since I admitted the truth. I didn't want to buy the place. My brain screamed that it didn't want the place. But I didn't say no. I protested, sure, but that was just my brain being wrong. When she pushed back I just let it happen.

Viv is in the backseat of the car. She's kicking at my seat: first with little nudges, and then with giant kicks from steel-toed boots. She's rocking a lacy white dress that'd grown musty and dingy from being left in storage for too long.

"This is what you deserve," she says. Kick. Kick kick. "You hear me?"

I don't have the strength to reply. I want to say something. Anything. I want to open the car door and tumble out onto the road. Maybe I'll die. Maybe I'll just be really injured. Picture it: door opens, I dive. The skin on my shoulder melts as it rubs pavement at seventy miles an hour. I'm smiling. Laughing, even! The pain gives way to a dull pleasure. Closure. No more house! No more relationship! No more feeling like an alien in my own body!

You can't fire me, world! I quit!

The kicking stops. "That's more like it," Viv says. I look into the rear view mirror. Our eyes meet. There's a wicked grin on her face. Her hands grip my seat and begin to shake it. She laughs. Cackles.

"Come on, Alex! Shit's not gonna get better any time soon! It's now or never! Once you get to that house it's over!"

My fingers slide into the door handle. The energy of madness courses through my veins. After years of sleep I'm finally awake! The blood in my veins! Stale air in my lungs! It all begins here, right here, on the side of I-70. Pop the seatbelt! Lean out! Throw open the door!

"She's just going to tie you down, Alex. Ten years from now you're going to be a husk in middle-of-nowhere Indiana with a stupid-long commute, yelled at whenever she feels sad, taken for granted, ignored when you dare speak up about how you feel.

"Stop being a pussy about this and open the damn door. It's the only way out."

But I hesitate. Viv groans. She grabs for the seatbelt and starts wrapping it around my neck. Once. Twice.

"I'll do it myself."

The belt tightens. It takes my girlfriend a few seconds to realize what I'm doing. She swerves toward the shoulder. Unbuckled the belt. Screams at me until I realize my brain was wrong.

The world snaps back to reality and I'm looking at myself in the side mirror, fresh friction burns on my neck, trying to piece together what just happened. I tell her about the door. About wanting to die.

"We can talk after you paint the house," she says, and puts the car back on the highway. As she gets up to speed I hear the car door locks engage.

When I look to the back seat Viv is just laughing. Why wouldn't she? I can't even kill myself right.

Viv started using pain at a bowling alley in Virginia. I must have been 12 or 13. The family is still mostly whole. I can't get anything right: the extended family in Virginia thinks I'm awkward, the family isn't sure if they can poke fun or take me seriously. In a few months Viv will help me write my first of many suicide notes.

It's not the family's fault, to a point. I just can't figure out how to make them happy. Everyone else seems to get it but the second I open my mouth it's shut down. My feelings get corrected. My conversation doesn't connect - it's met with jeers and jokes. But Viv, Viv listens.

The alley is blacklit. A rock band plays in the center of the alley. I'm... tired. I definitely remember being tired. Anxious, too, but the me at the alley doesn't know how to word that yet. That's present-me, realizing how panicky and anxious I was as a kid. Second-guessing every little thing I did had a knock-on effect for my stress levels.

Somewhere between awake and asleep Viv sidles up onto the bench facing me. She's older here - college kid, probably - wearing a bowling shirt and platform boots and studded leather bracelets. When it's my turn to bowl she slaps me on the face, hard, and points to the lane.

"Seriously, you're worthless as shit. Did you really just get in front of everyone and tell the duck food joke? The family warned you how bad it'd be. You did it anyway."

Stand up. Bowl. Sit down. Drift. Viv starts yelling, arms flailing, eyes stern.

"They're just trying to protect you. They know you better than anybody. Why can't you just get it? That's all they ever want from you. Stop being awkward and get with the program, dope."

It's my turn again. Bowl. Catch some flak for telling terrible jokes. I'm tired. Low. I want to talk about it with somebody but every time I bring this up I'm too sensitive. Boys don't cry, and all that shit. Better that I suffer and silence and figure out how to handle my shit than risk being called out on the carpet as the sensitive boy again.

I cock my arm back and slap myself in the face, hard. The haze lifts for a moment.

"Feels good, doesn't it?"

I smile. Another slap. Yes. Good is the word for this. I deserve this pain. I'm the one who can't get shit handled. I'm the sensitive boy who can't get anything. If nobody else is going to beat this out of me it's on me to fix. So I go to town - slap, slap, slap, laugh, slap slap. Viv joins in too, praising me for the harder shots, laughing with me through the pain.

"That's more like it. This is what you deserve, Alex. Pain and misery, pain and misery. Doesn't it feel good?"

When we leave the alley my face is red and welted. I chalk Viv up to a dream from being too tired, too stressed.

Nobody notices when Viv steps in. I'd hit myself, Wrestle on a busted back until I couldn't walk, belittle myself when I made the tiniest mistake. If someone so much as whispered a note of criticism or anger my way I'd take it to heart, rolling over immediately and giving them whatever they wanted. But nobody gave a shit. It was heroic, or perfectionist, or just Alex being Alex.

It's only when I try killing myself that people listen. When I talk about suicide I'm paraded around all the friends of the family. Look at all the good parenting we do, everybody! Our darling son is sad and we're taking care of him! See all these pills we're giving him! See how we reach out to everyone and tell them how sad he is? Aren't we just grand?

And in a week we're back at square one: I hate my guts, and only Viv takes the time to notice. Sure, she may hate my guts. She certainly didn't help. But Viv listens. Viv makes me feel like I can control something even if my brain is always wrong.

I am not in control and Viv keeps me from feeling sad about it.

Want to know my secret? I always want to kill myself. There is no secret sauce, no triggering event. Every single day of my life Viv comes to visit and suggests I kill myself. It's goddamn clockwork.

I am 32 and in the bathroom of my cushy tech job. My wife and I just shared breakfast and coffee in the spacious kitchen of our new condo. But Viv show up in the stall with me, all of five years old, and pokes at my belly.

"You're never going to be a pretty girl. You should kill yourself."

"You should have talked to this business user sooner. You should kill yourself."

It's not about telling Viv to take a hike. She'll never listen. Surviving her is about learning to not listen.

Two days after I tried to kill myself with a seatbelt I'm painting the house I hate. The girlfriend is... somewhere else. I can't remember where. I'm unemployed and one month away from starting transition; things got a bit hazy in the transfer. But I remember painting this living room in a sea foam green color that I just despise, focusing on breathing. Breathing is hard.

A week ago I went out as a girl for the first time in a long time. It felt... it felt real in a way that life hadn't felt in a long time. I felt like Cinderella at the ball; lost in the ecstasy of a body that matched what was going on in my mind. I danced with strangers. Laughed. Admired my image in the mirror.

And here I am, back in guy clothes, back in my straight relationship in a house I didn't want with a woman I knew was bad for me.

Around this time of my life I'm having a panic attack per day. The girlfriend is demanding I find a new job. Mortgage isn't going to pay itself. I can feel the walls closing in around me. This is my future. This house, this relationship, this body -- they are my prison bars, my bare bed, my metal toilet with lukewarm tap water.

(Viv gets a kick out of this, by the way. She's walking around the living room I'm painting and painting a mental image. "You'll have your first kid here. And - oh! - you'll probably spend a lot of time on this couch soothing her when she has a breakdown!" Just walking through the house, pointing out every ding and every dent in a house you didn't want in the first place.)

When the girlfriend comes home I'm in a full-on panic attack. She starts up about the job, I think. Talks about mortgage payments. I excuse myself to the basement. She doesn't follow.

I tried to kill myself two days ago. She does not follow.

My heart is on fire. The basement is cold and dead. I laid my head on unfinished concrete and try to breathe. It catches in my throat. I want to run. Scream. Drive away, something.

Viv sits at my side. She puts a hand on my chest. The other hand plays with a box cutter. "Your prison," she says, flipping the cutter around the first kunckle of her middle finger. "Just like I promised. Just like you deserve."

I want to run. Blood runs hot in my veins. I stand up. Pace. Do pushups until the sweat runs freely down my chin. If I'm exhausted I can't run. If I can't run I can go back to understanding that what's in my head is wrong, and what the girlfriend is saying is right. Of course I need to find a job. Of course I need to relax. Of course she's looking out for my own good.

Viv hands me the box cutter.

"You're never going to get the chance to be a girl," she says. Her fingers encircle mine and she runs the cutter over my arm, tracing the pulsing veins with a gentle caress. "You think she's just going to be okay with all this? Hardly. You didn't speak up in time, Alex. Just like always. And now your future wife just up and bought a freaking house! You can't leave now. She needs your help.

"She'll always need your help."

"Yeah."

"You know I'm right."

"I guess."

"But you know," she says, pushing the knife harder against my skin. "You could go out with one hell of a bang. That'd show her! Close the books, kid. Once and for all show her you're the fucking boss of your own life. One good cut and it'll be over."

"Yeah." I relax. She's right: it's just a little knick. There was a drain in the concrete below my wrist; if I amed it right the blood would drain right in. No mess. No muss. No fuss.

My family would throw a great funeral. Maybe they'd say nice things about me. Friends walking past the casket, sobbing. The girlfriend, stuck with the house, struggling. Yeah. That'd fucking show her. My brain may be wrong but my body has power. Weight, even, once the life was gone.

Besides, I didn't want this male body.

I pushed a bit harder. Scratches started to show on the skin. Pearls of blood poked up where the knife had started to pierce skin.

This male body.

"I have to try," I said. I think I cried. Fuck, the whole thing's a haze now. I floated above my own body. Fingers wrapped around the blade. Viv stroking my hair, cooing sweet nothings in my ear. I'm wearing a sweat-stained shirt from the all-male college I attended. I'm pale and a little jaundiced from drinking myself to sleep for the past week. I'm thirty seconds and one flick of the wrist away from watching my blood drain into a hole in the middle of fuck-all Indiana, alone, throwing up the biggest middle finger I can think of to a world where I could never, ever be right in the eyes of others.

And then I stop.

"I have to try," I say again. It's louder this time. "It's either try, or die right here, right now."

Viv does a double take. "I'm sorry. For a second there I think you said you wanted to live."

I pull myself to a sitting position and face her. This is... well, it's new, for sure. Usually Viv just has her way with me. Snippy comments in one ear, demands in the other. And usually I know better than to trust what's going on in my mind when it's not in line with what Viv says. But in that basement, sopping up bits of blood with the tail of my t-shirt? I felt defeated. Completely, totally defeated. Viv won; I was a horrific piece of shit, beyond redemption, a life form whose blood should have been in that drain a long time ago.

I don't know. Maybe knowing I was ready to lose everything made me ready to win something.

"I could try hormones," I said with a weak smile. "You know, see if I can chase that dragon I found when we went dancing."

"That dragon is fucking gone, man. You're the one who walked into the house with eyes open. You're the one who got your ass fired from that school."

"And if nothing comes of it, I come back down here and kill myself. Not like there's a time limit on this, right? I'll go try the hormones and if--"

"--when--"

"--if/when they fail I end it then. No harm, no foul."

Vis stood and crossed her arms. She started to yell. "There's going to be a ton of harm! Imagine when you go home and start telling people you're a girl. How's that going to work out for you, sweetcheeks? Trying to trust your brain like you know anything. Fuck. Just... take the cutter. Two minutes, tops, and then we're done."

I stand. Look her in the eyes. She's crying; big, wet tears that traced the contour of her scowl. To her credit she only stood in the doorway long enough to say she put up a fight; when I nudged her she stepped aside.

"I think you just need to settle in to the new place," the girlfriend says. It's been a week since the box cutter and the basement. My therapist just cleared me for hormones. In a week my life is going to run on the rocket fuel that is a body that matches what my mind expects.

"I mean, it's not a good idea. We just bought a house together! How are you going to get a job? Can't you just, well, think about it some more?"

"I've thought about it for years," I snap back. This isn't like me. When someone says my mind is wrong they are almost always right. But here I am, ramping up into the full-on shouting match I'll ever have, and my mind insists that it's right. I'm not a man. And it's time to either accept this fact or let the blood run down the drain.

"I have to try," I say by way of apology. She scowls. This is one of our last conversations.

Two weeks later I'm taking my first shot of estrogen. To the outside world this is a snap decision: a fit of pique in which I took on the next fun minority identity.

But I'll tell you this: Viv didn't talk to me for a whole month after the first shot. Even as my relationship fell apart, even as I watched my family implode, even as the remaining vestiges of a stable life caught fire and fucking burned to ash, Viv kept her distance.

I'm 24 and the bottom has fallen out of my life. I'm out. Trans, visibly and unmistakeably so. Genie's out of the bottle. Layoffs are starting to ripple through my workplace. In a month I'll have a layoff notice of my own and be one paycheck away from losing the apartment. It's late. Christmastime. My friends are all with their families. I'm eating box mac and cheese and chasing it with terrible vodka.

Viv sits on my computer desk, her legs dangling over the side. She's fifteen again: goth makeup, short pants, flannel. She's tapping her fingers on the lip of the desk and looking around the room, impatient. I'm writing - one of the novels I started around transition-time that crashed and burned with the stress of blowing up my personal life - and my only roommate is none too happy.

"I told you this was going to happen," she says. "The second you revealed to the world just what a freak you are, that you hid it from everyone instead of giving them a chance to prove you wrong? That's when this went to shit.

"You deserve all of this."

"I did talk to my friends before I talked to the family," I say. Not to Viv, per se. I'm talking to myself, my journal, the family holiday pictures Facebook wants me to remember. We are happy in the pictures. Smiles and arms around shoulders, bright faces, huge spreads with baked macaroni and cheese that I never bothered to learn to make.

Yesterday, with my dad and his family, I got handshakes and hesitant hugs.

"I lied to them," I say.

"You most certainly did."

"I tried so hard to keep it down. I lost. Now I'm a freak and a liar."

So many chances to be open and honest, wasted. Now I had a group that took my needs at face value. A group that believed in me. They didn't know the real me. They couldn't have. The family - they knew me better. Family saw me with the warts and everything. The happiest highs, the saddest lows. They knew how fucked up I was deep down.

Maybe they'd have sent me to a camp. Maybe they'd yell. It always made sense when they yelled.

Viv slides off the desk and skips across the empty living room. She dives into the bathroom. I hear rattling in the medicine cabinet. Then: two skips to the tiny kitchen, rustling in the drawer.

She returns to the desk with a dull knife and blood thinners. "Maybe you should try to kill yourself again. Make an effort this time - land in the hospital. They listen when you do that."

I wince. When I moved into this apartment I'd taken great pains to remove every blade from the home. (What can I say? Viv can't persuade if she doesn't have tools.) But here, eating mac and cheese and drinking bottom shelf vodka on Christmas day? Viv got desperate.

"Come on, baby. One more spin. I'll get the tub running. Shouldn't take more than a minute or two. Then it'll be over. I promise."

I'm 24 and hiding in my apartment. Outside, my ex is banging on the door. Screaming "I just want to talk." Viv reaches for the handle.

But I know what happens next. I let her in. The limited self-confidence I had built in the past month would fall apart. She'd take one look at the place, insist I come stay the night, and start whispering sweet nothings. With time I'd learn that my mind was wrong; she was right. The house wasn't so bad. Being a guy wasn't so bad. Not great, but I could survive if I stopped trying to make sense of what's in my head and just let other people tell me what to do.

I could have broken it to her better. I could have taken her with me to talk to the therapist. Could have brought her along for my first shot. Could have... could have talked more instead of burying everything deep.

I let her bang and bang. The phone rings. I ignore it. When she leaves I have a big, long cry.

Viv fetches the knife.

I'm 25 and on a chatroom with a man I consider to be like a second father. He's a novelist and an autoworker in the midwest who has mentored me since I was a teen. When times were tight in college he sent checks that he insisted I spend on nice things for myself. I'm laying on a mattress without a frame and typing to him on a netbook I picked up with my limited income as a helpdesk tech. I tell him how happy I am now, despite Viv's insistence on keeping the knife close by.

I have a new roommate. She moved across the country to help me move forward with my transition. In hindsight this is bonkers; in the moment it is sane.

But this man - a guy who has seen me grow up for years from the outside; a guy who has read everything I've written since I was fifteen, where all my deepest insecurities and fears were given form - he's trying to talk me out of taking my next shot.

To him, the girl-thing is just another persona to hide in. He's not alone. Everyone in my family who is willing to talk to me is bringing it up. "Maybe you're better off gay." "Maybe this is just a phase." "Maybe you aren't in a position to make this decision." "It's not like you." And yes, they're sort of right. I was a bit of an asshole when I came out. Doubly so when I invited strangers to help me make big decisions.

Viv loves these people. She plays them against each other in my head, reveling in the splendor of a world where my mind can never quite get right. She runs through every little mistake I made in disclosing my trans status as she works the dull knife in the space between my fingers, her hand covering mine, stabbing faster and faster.

But this guy cuts the shit and gets to the point.

"You seek domineers," he says at length. "The girlfriend, the wrestling. Things and people that tell you what to do."

This catches Viv off guard. I feel her chin resting on my shoulder as the messages come in.

"You've been denied validation. You seek fragile, inconsistent love that was withdrawn to manipulate you. And up until now your method of toughness, your method of dealing with these domineers, had been to accept the scars and pain."

"He can't know that," Viv says. "He's just a guy on the internet. Everything he hears goes through your filter. You manipulated him."

"Break this cycle, Alex. You can't keep accepting pain and scars forever."

"You fed him lies!" Viv bangs on my back. She's shouting now; impetulent screeching that echoes off the bare walls of my apartment. "All those stories, all those Cinderella-esque tall tales. Lies!"

"Male or female, above sll else, watch out for the domineers. You must break this cycle, or it will break you."

"Lies!" Viv paces around the apartment. Punches a wall. Grabs her head with both hands and squeezes hard. "You fed him all these fucking lies and he bought it.

"You weren't abused. You aren't special. You're just a stupid little shit who can't do anything right."

I still strugle with it - domineers, that is. Years of therapy and a handful of novels helped me find the confidence to recognize it and work to stop it. Hell, one of the first conversations my wife and I had as a married couple was how to hash out our differences without tripping over Viv's baggage. I vet every new friend and am quick to revoke access to my personal life from anyone who decides to be a dick. I don't do it to be mean or elitist; I do it to survive.

Because when a domineer comes along - when someone in my life plays a tune that Viv can vamp on - I can fall right back into that basement with Viv, knife in hand, not sure what is real and what is a lie.

I am 30 and finally on anxiety medication. For years I stuck with the family tradition for dealing with mental health issues: drink your problems away. Viv liked things better that way; once I was calmed down enough to think she could rehash every stupid mistake I made, break me down, bring out the knife.

I remember, once upon a time, my sister and I trying to get mom to go to bed. She was leaning up against the kitchen counter and counting out pills. "It's not a problem," she keeps saying to me. "I'm fine. I can stop whenever I want." Whether she was plastered because of some medication conflicting with alcohol or simply because she drank too much that night, I don't know. But I do remember how she kept counting her pills, pushing my sister and I away, insisting she was fine. There wasn't a problem.

I remember not wanting to start drinking because of what I had seen growing up.

I remember having my first drink at 17. We were at a party with some friends of the family. I had this can of sprite - a treat during the wrestling months where I had to cut weight. I walked away from it, returned, and noticed it tasted funny. "Did my sprite go bad?" I say, passing it around. My parents shake their head. Giggles around the room. My stepmom lets the cat out of the bag: "It's just whiskey. Lighten up! It's not going to kill you."

I remember having my first drink by choice at a TKE party. Some guy poured a margarita shot straight into my mouth. It's sweet. I remember feeling terrified, like I'd just taken a hit of acid and was waiting for the buzz to catch up with me. The room starts to spin. I step outside and call my mom. "I finally got drunk!" I said, laughing. I remember feeling proud, like my finally cutting loose and doing like the rest of the family was something to celebrate.

I remember - well, don't remember - blackout nights with cheap rum. I was teaching high school and having full-on panic attacks a couple nights a week. The rum kept me on an even enough keel to function but I definitely still got canned from that job at the earliest opportunity.

I remember saying I was going to cut back at least five times this year without much success. Sometimes, sure; I make it a month or so without too many slip-ups, but then I'll come home from work feeling terrible and grabbing a drink to take the edge off.

Fuck, maybe this is Viv's long con. If she can't get me to do the deed she'll kill me slowly instead.

Viv chuckles when I write that.

I am 25 and finally figuring Viv out.

It's been two years since I've spoken to my mom on the phone. I have a calendar reminder to call her every week, even if only to record a voicemail. THe family doesn't send invites to anything, anymore. I find out about births, marriages, and life changes through facebook friends of friends. Viv loves to point out all the big events I'm missing.

It's Christmas time. I fucking hate Christmas. Christmas was a thing I did with Mom. Now I'm calling her once a week in vain hopes of getting a response. I hate hearing about how the family is doing. I hate... I hate hearing the names, seeing the faces, hate that these people get to continue their lives without any repercussions while I'm tagging along with friends for the holidays like some goddamned boat anchor.

Christmas, man. Fucking hate every second of it.

After the phone call I'm reading email. I'd grown tired of these calls and decided to write down what I was feeling. The response leaves me in tears. It's not really for public consumption - lots of "I can't bear to look at your pictures or hear your voice" - but what Viv leans on comes at the end of the email: "How dare you issue ultimatums. I'm entitled to my feelings too. I feel like I lost a son."

Viv whistles and pats me on the shoulder. "Tough luck there, kid. She's hurt. I don't blame her; you didn't give her space to figure this out."

"It's been two years."

"But you have to give her all the time she needs."

"That's not true," I say. I'm not angry. Not desperate. Not bargaining. Just matter-of-factly disagreeing with the girl who is always poking me in the side.

"Says who?"

"Says my therapist."

The word makes her cringe.

"See here, though." She points to a line in the email. "'I just wish you weren't doing this transgender thing.' It's not like she's trying to gaslight you. And you did know this would happen, so--"

"That opinion doesn't invalidate my feelings. If the net result of what has transpired is that I've been abandoned by family, then I'm allowed to feel abandoned." I turn to her and smile. "That's how facts work."

"Facts. like how you sprung this trans thing on everyone? Like how you acted so goddamn happy about being trans those first few months? Like how you demanded that everyone be supportive of who you are, and cut out the people who dared ask critical questions?"

"Facts like those. And yes, I may have been a little rash here and there, but I didn't have the tools to separate what I felt from what others said I was feeling. I had to be firm."

"You could try not being trans, you know. That'd help you earn your way back into the family."

I stand from the computer, walk to the kitchen, and open a beer. Viv smiles at me. "You could be drinking with the family if you'd just get off your high horse. You know, at the Christmas party they're having. You saw pictures from last year. Looked fun."

"I'm okay."

"You know better. The family is great! Remember all the campfires you had in the backyard? The sing-offs in the kitchen? Euchre with your aunts? Board games with cousins? How there was a good joke or witty crack at just the right time?

"They loved you, Alex. And you turned your back on them."

She rapped my chest with two fingers to make her point. I brushed it away.

"No. That's not how it happened."

"You could have kept a lid on this. Stayed in the closet. Then you wouldn't be drinking beer here alone. You wouldn't have broken her heart."

I put the can down. "You could at least try to make sense. You were there. You held the blade to my wrist.. There wasn't another option."

"But they're good people."

"Who refuse to see that I'm happy and fufilled for the first time in my life. Who get angry when I make my opinion known. Who want very specific things as a condition of our continued relationship. Spare me, Viv."

"Your dad still loves you."

"Yes," I say with a shrug. "And he would have put me in a camp if he found out I was trans while under his roof. But he's trying. He knows the choice I made: death, or this.

"Want to guess what how mom would have wanted, given the choice?"

Viv doesn't have a response for that.

I can't blame mom for mourning her dead son. I see her as dead too; the memories I have of this person who I loved and respected belong to a person I can no longer be around. We may have talked every single day, may have shared tons of traditions, may have sang quodlibets over the holidays, may have shared songs at the piano, but that was then.

I am 31 when I marry the love of my life. I send an invitation. No RSVP. No attendance. I don't cry. I come up with a riddle: "What do you get when you put ten years between a parent and a child?"

"I don't know," Viv says.

"Strangers."

I am 27 when I discover r/raisedbynarcissists. It is also the first time I see people talking frankly about cutting contact with a parent. Their stories - short, raw, brutal stories - they may not match my own but by God do they ever rhyme. Reading knocked loose memories that I'd lost before - memories that found their way to this story.

I spend half a year asking myself if I grew up with a narcissist. Was it toxic narcissism? Was it abuse? Did my family's particular brand of domestic fucked-upiness lead to such a diagnosis? Certainly there are stories in my life that support it - most of which aren't mine to share.

I am turning 28 and going in and out of therapy. Turns out I was asking the wrong question. Does it matter if my home life was good or bad, or is it more important to ask questions about why Viv is in my life? Why did I need her for validation?

I'm 28 and fucking off to Chicago. No jobs for a trans woman in Indiana, for one, and for two I'm tired of being reminded of the life I had before. They can keep the city for all I care.

I'm 33 and writing this story while Viv watches over my shoulder. I've only thought about suicide 3 times this week, and I'm trying to write this sober. She's presentable today: wine-colored blouse, slacks, everyday flats. She pulls up a chair and watches the cursor pass from left to right, top to bottom. Sometimes she speaks up. Sometimes she protests. But for the most part she's resigned to see what comes next.

When we get here she leans toward me with a sad scowl on her face. "Listen," she starts. "I think we need to sit on this one."

"What?"

"You know. Sit on it. Save it in a folder and keep it to yourself."

"Okay, I'll bite." I spin around in my chair to face her. "I'm not a child; I"m 33 now. Fuck it. Let's have it out. Tell me why I should stuff this one."

"You know your memory isn't spot-on. Never was. And you threw away all the evidence; the journals, the scribblings, the old stories. No proof. Remember how you wanted to just forget everything? What if you did forget it?

"What you're seeing right now is worse than a memory; it's a Cinderella story, made up from whole cloth.

"Maybe you were just a shithead. You know you talk too much. Still do. It's every time you talk over people. Every time you change the subject because of some factoid you're reminded of. And you're sensitive about the stupid shit."

"That's fair."

"I'm just saying you shouldn't trust this feeling. The righteousness in your heart; the clarity of your hindsight; the sharpness of your anger. Hell, you already shifted things around to match dear old Frytag's triangle. What's to say you... well."

She laughs. "What if you gaslit yourself?"

And she's right. I don't have the evidence. I can't prove anything. Shit in my head's too broken to put back together. You have to understand that. Everything you read here could be another lie. I can never know for sure. But that's how Viv survives: the slightest bit of doubt and she's kicking on the back of my chair, gleeful and full of life.

"I want to break it off," I tell her.

"I'm sorry. That's not how this works. You don't just get to leave.

"It is now. I wrote you into existence. I gave you form so we could have this talk."

She laughs at me. "I'm not real."

"I danced around you for so long, Viv. Met all your cousins in stories. But man, every time I tried to write about you there was... there was one of your friends there you could hide behind. A real life story turned on its head in a novel. A little piece of my ex here, a picture of my mother there. Never enough to be identified directly. Plausible deniability. But never quite you.

"Now you're real. Now I can fight you."

She turns away from me, towards you, and puts an arm around your shoulder. It's heavy. Hot with anger. "You sure you want them watching?"

"Yes." I look to you with hard, watery eyes. "I want you to see this. I won't trust myself without a witness."

I'm really sorry about this, by the way. If I worked this out in my head I'd have talked myself out of my feelings later. It has to be this way. Me, pulling Viv onto the page, and you watching me having this conversation. Take notes. Even if it's wrong I know I wrote it down.

"I'm not the kid I used to be. I grew the fuck up, Viv. Broke it off with my old life. And yeah, I can't prove anything for sure. But I have people who can double-check what I'm seeing and what I'm feeling. Maybe it's gaslighting. Maybe it's a lack of conflict resolution skills.

"But it's real, Viv. And I should be entitled to my own emotions."

She shrinks away from you, from me. Backpedals out of my office. We follow her downstairs. In her hand, a picture of one of the few times I've gone home since coming to Chicago. Happy, smiling family faces look up at me from the photo.

"But you still love them."

"That's an odd word. Love. And yes, I still do. Even if they're bad for me they're my family. Even if they're dead to me they're still family. I still have good memories. Bad ones, too. But I can still love them for who they were and what they did in my life, warts and all, even if I know I can't go back.

"See, I love my chosen family, too. My wife, my close friends, the Chicagoans who reciprocate my love with compassion and respect. It's healthy, Viv. And now that I've tasted healthy love I have standards."

"Heh." She lets the photo fall to the ground. Don't pick it up after her. She's doing a bit.

"I guess you don't care about your family."

"My therapy bill would disagree," I reply, chuckling. "Try harder."

"Offer's still on the table," she says. She goes to the kitchen and pulls a knife. It's much, much sharper than the ones I had in my twenties. "Give me two minutes and I'll give you an out. Stick it to those mean biddies who gave you so much pain!"

"And what would happen to my wife? The mortgage? The friends I have here?" I take the knife and hand it to you. My eyes are misty and my hands shaking. Please. Hold onto the knife. Just for a while. Just for tonight.

"I want to live now, Viv. For the people who love me. For the good things I can do. For... fuck, Viv. For spite. My teens and twenties tried to kill me. And the forces that did that can take a long walk off the short bridge.

"See, becuase I'm onto you. You win when I feel worthless. I matter now. You can't convince me otherwise."

She shrugged. "You should still kill yourself."

I roll my eyes. "I'll take it under advisement."

Viv kicks at the ground. Don't indulge her. I'm serious. It's part of a bit. You indulge her and she'll start doing backflips. Please. I know it's awkward. But you've stuck around all this time. We can talk about it later. Promise.

"What happens now?"

"Simple." I walk to the front door and open it. "You walk out. Then I close the door and lock it. And when you want to come back I can read this story and remember - really remember."

She walks out. She's in the hall now, still wanting to get in the last word. Closing doors on people is still terrifying to me. I've only done it three times in my life. Once on my ex; once on my mother; and Viv here and now. I never get used to it.

Please, come here. Put your hand on the door handle. If you want to; I know I've alraedy asked a lot of you as a witness. Just like that. I just need to close it. Then we can go back to writing fun science fiction and fantasy.

Viv shoves her finger in my face."You know you got it wrong. Hell, you have to call in your backup to close the door. And when I come back you're going to welcome me back with open arms. You'll be writing one of your shitty books, or pretending you can throw a decent party, and when you go back over every little mistake you made I'll be right there, needling you, knife in hand."

"I know I'll get it wrong. But when I do you won't be there."

"Why not?"

"Because I know you now," I say. Push with me - yes! just like that! "And when you come around next time you'll have to knock first."

The door latches shut. I scramble for the deadbolt. Just... just give her a few minutes to clear out before you go, okay? Would be just like her to wait for you to leave before she slips back in.