#like. my brother was always favoured at home and i was completely isolated at school and i had like no friends for most of my childhood

[fleshdyke]

shdjdnbd

[izumi-07]

PUPPET - 1

Yandere!Stepbro Sakusa x Yandere!Brothers Best-friend Atsumu x brown coded Y/n

TW! : emotional manipulation, power dynamics, obsession, dark themes, emotional abuse, isolation, degradation, intimidation.

Sometimes it’s better to be silent in the face of adversity, when no ones in your corner it’s hard to stand against storms without being pushed down easily my stepbrother was that storm. Sakusa Kiyoomi the prodigal son, first in everything he pursued it was like he was praised for merely existing, and I would love to say it’s an exaggeration, but it wasn’t people fawned over him like it was a competition to earn his favour the few minutes of his notice was like it’s own reward to most. Kiyoomi was bashful in front of the people that mattered in terms of opinion and who could be useful to him, always a front with the humble golden boy exterior, too shy to string his appreciation together and oh did people eat it up, he was cruel too in a strange, unsettling way when it came to the people he loathed, I was one of those people. At least I assumed I was.

Kiyoomi's father was the old money wealth, people always dream of becoming but this was the sort of thing your born into and when you marry these sorts of men you just know that leaving them isn’t an option anymore be it your own greed or self-importance it didn’t matter what made you stay only that leaving was stupidity, the new diamond shackles they sung songs around your head where so strong that it was a matter of a year to a few months since he managed to swoon my mother into his arms, he had that same look his son had completely hungry when he watched her, slowly he became obsessed with my mother they married when I was just old enough to understand he would be taking us away from our home, we would then leave for Japan for good, new culture a fresh start in his domain of control, they started out as online friends and then he coincidentally happened to be the same philanthropist investing in my mother’s old companies new technology he then just so happened to be staying in our country for a while longer then usual, he knew too much; all her tells and favourite things she was dancing happily into his arms in record time.

I was young and had survived a horribly isolated and desolate childhood of course I had been happy enough to see my mother laugh more than she ever had when we had been in that house with my father and his family who had dominated every second of her life prior to divorce who always had something terrible to say about both of us I needed this promise of peace even if it wasn’t real. Maybe that’s why I was so weary around Kiyoomi before the emotional abuse and minor attempts of physical harm started, he reminded me of my father, cruel and precise he did everything meticulously and every time he did it, he’d get away with it and I’d be left to endure the reality. Mom used to believe everything I said she was my defender, protector and had fought so long and hard to keep us safe for so long I had to understand that kind of endurance took its toll on her and she slipped into the web of lies Kiyoomi trapped everyone else in, over time she grew to love him more than me and I didn’t even feel like faulting her for any of it anymore of course I was angry I was so angry for so long but I knew how Sakusa men worked I had a feeling my step-father was about as worse as his manipulative son both of them lorded over the household neither had any tolerance for my opinions. 

Volleyball was a common topic at home, he was one of Japan’s rising stars after all why wouldn’t it be spoken about? and because no sport or activity I ever did could compare Kiyoomi liked to 'playfully mock' how lazy and stupid I was. I never laughed at the things he said the way my mother and step-father did he knew I was aware of his insults too and I guess that irritated him even more he could never get me to break. He’s four years older than me so during high school all I’d ever hear were things related to Kiyoomi, it made sense he was the ace of his team for any high-schooler any in with the popular crowd was a good chance to widen connections why would they pass up the opportunity to approach any siblings of said popular kid and Ace to get in his good books? If only they knew it didn’t matter how hard they sucked up, Kiyoomi had a select group of friends, and he was anything but kind to outsiders poking around where they didn’t belong.

High-school is where I met the only person I could ever trust he was probably the only person I ever felt safe enough to relax around, Katsuki Mitsunari sleep deprived Mitsu who had met me in the clinic when Kiyoomi’s girl friends of his little inner circle took a joke too far and I’d gotten hurt enough to cry trying to fight off the pain, Mitsu who patched up my knee and offered me his energy drinks and went straight back to sleeping in one of the cots bundled up like a cat. He knew about Kiyoomi and was blunt about the situation he warned me that it would only get worse the more I stuck it out and that if he were me, he’d find a way to leave for good and quickly. Eighth grade had been so long ago and I’d called him silly saying it wouldn’t be this way forever that Kiyoomi was just having a hard time accepting the new changes, it’s only now at eighteen on my final year in high school did I realize nothing was going to change the more I endured the more hurt I was going to get and by the way Kiyoomi has been behaving I knew something terrible was going to come from waiting this long to finally leave.

"Did you apply for college yet imouto?", I lift my head up from the plate of food I’d been mindlessly pushing around while the conversation carried around me, I hadn’t expected to actually participate today in whatever was being spoken about, Kiyoomi was home after all why would anyone even ask me anything? "y/n your Oniisan's asking you a question are you purposely ignoring him?", I gave my mother a look of confusion that got an eye roll in return to which Kiyoomi and my step- father laughed lightly at her words, “Obaasan you shouldn’t be so hard on her, y/n’s always been a bit slower than most", more laughter I resumed eating quietly and could almost feel his stare on me the entire time, “Well I just hope she manages to get into your college Omi, she’s been so set on the others when ideally she could save herself so much trouble if she just moved to were you were studying", of course that’s what my parents were hoping for it would give Kiyoomi more control over me if I studied in Tokyo with him, the thought of being isolated and dependent on Kiyoomi was terrifying, “We’ll just have to pray you get in the right imouto?", I nodded like I always did I didn’t want to meet his face didn’t need him to see the disdain in my eyes that I could never hide.

The next day I had expected to come home to an empty house, when Kiyoomi was home he never was present during the day when my parents were at work which I was grateful for what I didn’t expect was to hear voices and see people I didn’t know crowding around the living room there was the smell of food from the kitchen that made my stomach growl as I’d left early to not have to have breakfast and ruin my morning. "Oi Omi-Omi! There’s a chick at the door I think you forgot to ditch from Kuroo-sans party and she followed you home!", the cackling blond was familiar to me seeing an identical black haired twin walk out of the kitchen with Kiyoomi refreshed my memory of the Miya twins, they hadn’t gone to my high school but once when Kiyoomi had forced me to attend one of his games I’d been awe struck at the raw athleticism performed by the duo brothers on the opposing side.

“That’s my step-sister idiot like I’d ever be stupid enough to give some random whore my parents’ home address", when I was younger I’d been intimidated and easily frightened by the way Kiyoomi spoke when my parents backs were turned it was like the threat of violence without any direction, now I don’t even bother being surprised by anything he says, “Your home late, what are you waiting for standing there like a house plant come say hello", it’s a demand not a suggestion his friends where probably on his college team or old friends from his glory days in high-school, all of them looked at me curiously and some grinned in a mocking sort of way like they knew exactly who I was.

"I actually seem to have forgotten I have extra classes today, I’ll be back in an hour or two so-", I hastily began slipping my shoes back on every second I wasted was another he’d find a way to make me stay, maybe humiliate me and there were strangers in this house men I didn’t know or wished to know. "Y/n come here", no I didn’t want too, the silence was deafening and I couldn’t pretend I hadn’t heard him, his heavy footsteps slap against the wooden floors as I count his steps to the erratic speed of my heart banging against my chest, “Are you ignoring me imouto?", my hand was gripping the door knob he was right beside me it was just a matter of who was faster and even if I did make it out the door he was a fuckin volleyball player I had no chance outrunning him, it was enough to make me cry I didn’t want to be here stuck with the worst person in my world. "I can hear your heart from here Y/n what’s the matter? Is something wrong did something happen Y/n? Are you scared?", his fingers began to shackle around my arm long slender digits grip harshly and pull me away from the door and into his chest blocking me from everyone else’s view.

"Take your shoes off and come inside if you run, I’ll just catch you and tell mom and dad what you did how you embarrassed them it’s honestly so annoying how you act like someone is going to fuckin kill you every time your around us, I just wanted to spend time with you is that so fuckin hard? Do I disgust you that much?", there had been times I wanted to make the stupid attempt to try and understand him, why did he insist on hurting me what did it gain him in the end? Some people didn’t need some life changing reason to behave the way they did some just did it and some were just born with that twisted intent to seek out something, somewhere, someone to take the anger out on what Kiyoomi had to be angry about just didn’t make any sense to me he’s perfect he’s loved he’s seen and yet I still, like an idiot heed his words slip off my shoes and make the embarrassing walk across the living room to the corridors leading to my room.

Spending time with Kiyoomi and his guests just meant being the in-house maid, I’d been washing the dishes since I was pulled away from my homework after an hour passed and I didn’t come out of my room and honestly it could have been worse he could have made me entertain his friends and that would have been even more embarrassing. This would have been an easy thing to do in order to avoid having to interact with him had I not had the unnerving feeling of the blond Miya twin currently watching me while his spoon scrapped the bottom of the bowl every few minutes. He’s been leaning against the back of the counter opposite me his height a little below Kiyoomi’s and yet still more than enough over my own, he was staring at me, and it was creepy like something slimy crawling up my shirt. "Yer in fifth year aren’t yer?", I nodded and plunged the dish into the soapy water on one side before rinsing it in the other, “Omi wasn’t kidding you’re an actual mute? Are you that dumb is that why you can’t talk? Yikes yer parents must be in debt trying to put you through school aye sweetheart?".

Heard it before, Kiyoomi’s friends sort of picked up the confidence to push me around like he did it made sense someone like Miya Atsumu wouldn’t have a problem pushing around someone his friend deemed as insignificant. He leaned in to my space taking me by surprise and dropping his empty bowl into the soapy dish water his face right in front of mine as his big hand took hold of my soapy one gripping the steel surface. "It’s okay though if yer kinda dumb with a face like yours bet you’d get by if yer gave up yer ass for a couple bucks", this had never occurred to me that even if Kiyoomi said hurtful things and pushed me around in general that I’d ever feel like I was in real danger if his friends decided to take it to the extreme would Kiyoomi even help me? "What’s going on?". He gives me one last long stare and licks his lips grinning and leaving my side hands in the pockets of his jeans as he walked away towards Kiyoomi who side eyed him I turned away as they exchanged a few words I couldn’t hear and I tried to finish up so I could head to my room I hadn’t eaten yet either and with people around especially Kiyoomi and his friends I doubt I’d be able to take anything that was left without getting bullied out of eating at all, I didn’t care what him and his shit friends would say it still bothered me despite there being no truth to it. "What were you talking about?", "School", he snorts and I feel a painful flick to the side of my head, “He must have done most the talking never shuts up that one but maybe you could learn something from him people like him because he’s got a good personality and he’s not a dead brained idiot who does everything’s he’s told", the smell of fruit scented air expels beside me in thick white visible waves enough for me to choke by the sweetness of the smell, he doesn’t use the pen when our parents are around but he always smokes it when he’s home sometimes he’ll force himself into my room and blow out enough air in my enclosed space for me to choke on it.

"Finish up and come join us I said I wanted to spend some time with you I meant it.....you know that right?", I nodded and he laughs again I resist the urge to gasp when he stands behind me pressing into me his hands come from beneath me and guide my own towards the hand wash, “When we were kids I’d help wash your hands just like this, you’d always smile while I helped and back then you were just learning how to speak Japanese your accent was so cute but do you know what word I loved hearing from you the most?", he squeezing drops of sticky pink washing soap into his hands before taking my own and gently threading his fingers through my own, I was crushed against the sink it’s too close, too much, “Oniisan you’d say it when you were upset, when you were happy whenever you saw me that’s what you’d call me and then you just decided to stop one day", he put pressure on my hands till I began to fidget and then he stopped going back to soaping bother our hands up, “You just woke up one day and decided to be an idiot you just stopped listening to me and I let it go on too long but that’s okay because soon you’ll go back to being that cute little imouto you just need to do well and then once you get accepted I’ll start taking care of you again away from all this nonsense that’s gotten into your head".

I don’t cry till he’s gone, and I feel like scrubbing skin raw......

[stan-joonies]

Medication

I am so so so proud of this piece of work!

You can't even remember how this stupid fight started. All you remember is coming home and going up to your room and being shocked to find that Patrick had snuck into your bedroom and dug his knife into your beautiful curtains and ripped them to shreds in anger.

Unfortunately this is something you were used to. It happened more times than you could count.

You knew Patrick was bad.

Actually, he was worse than bad. He was evil, Psychotic, devilish, inhumane, selfish, sadistic and a maniac.

But you stayed.

[[MORE]]

Partly because you knew him when you were babies. Your parents were close friends and that prompted you to become close.

You loved him dearly, but you were always fearing your safety.

Since you got together, and you use that term very loosely, you lost all your friends. He isolated you from everyone. When something was Patrick's nobody could ever have it, even when he was done with it. You knew that now, after accidentally putting a boy in hospital after Patrick saw you helping him with his homework.

The isolation killed you inside. In your early teen years you always told everyone that you just wanted to be left alone, prayed to get just a few hours of 'you time'.

However, hours turned to days that turned to weeks that turned to months and would soon turn to a year.

A full year of complete isolation.

God, it killed you inside.

And now he was shouting, cursing, threatening. The knife he used to beat your curtains was still in his hand and he was thrashing it through the air dangerously.

You could feel yourself shaking and crying in absolute fear. He looked ready to murder you and you didn't even know why.

Then, the unthinkable happened.

The unimaginable.

The unforgivable.

His hand came down on you, thankfully the one free of the knife, and slapped you against your cheek.

The impact made you fly into the wall you were backed up into and tumble to the floor.

The air had stilled as you stared at the carpet, your eyes wide open in disbelief.

The tears came down quicker and stronger now, the echoing sting in your cheek prompting them.

You tried to lift yourself up but you immediately came crashing down to the floor.

You looked up, astonished to see that he seemed to keep on having a go at you, ignoring his previous actions in favour of getting in your face. You were thankful that all you could hear was a shrill ringing.

Then, your door was kicked down and the large silhouette of your brother bounded in and tackled Patrick to the ground in a flurry of punches.

Patrick was threatening, his threats were real and he had a dark sense of humour. But he was not the strongest. He was strong, but many people in the school could take him on physically.

So your brother easily knocked him out.

Then, once he was sure he wouldn't be waking up for awhile, he checked on you. His eyes held a passionate fire and he mumbled something you couldn't hear.

-

You would never have thought you'd be here...court.

Patrick was awaiting the virdict, and you sat back on the opposite side of the room with not only your parents but his aswell.

There were shocking revelations on both sides that seemed to shake Derry to it's core.

A sick part of you wanted to go to his side, defend him and help him. Forgive that action and go on with your lives.

But you were worth more than that...so much more.

So when the jury came out and told the judge their virdict and the judge took his seat , you straightened your back and readied yourself.

-

You couldn't help but shake in your shoes.

Conflicting emotions shoved at eachother in your stomach.

He was being locked away...but not in prison. He had confessed about his fridge, his brother, his...insanity.

So he was being sent away for medical help for a couple years.

People assured you that he'd get his punishment, but with his medical history there wasn't much they could do.

You felt...nothing.

You were...glad? Glad he was getting help?

You were...angry? Angry that you did not get the justice you felt you deserved?

Those conflicting emotions seemed to level you out.

But now you just felt empty.

-

Four years.

Four years you hadn't seen him and then here you are.

In a shopping mall of all places.

He changed, his hair was now cropped and he had a little shadow on his top lip. He was bulkier, and that chilled you slightly. He wore a button up shirt and dark blue jeans.

You just stared at eachother in disbelief.

"Patrick?" You questioned, taking your hands off the item you reached for.

"Y/N..." he sighed.

Silence over took them again.

"Babe?"

You turned, smiling shakily at the man who called you.

"Just a minute!" You turned back, watching Patrick tense up while looking at your boyfriend's retreating back. You immediately became self aware. Images of him following you to your car or chasing after your boyfriend and pumelling his face in.

He let out a deep breath before smiling shakily.

"Y'know i actually planned to reach out and ask you out for some coffee...not as a date but a catch up and...to apologise." He looked at you, his eyes shaking. "You see, back when...that happened i didn't apologise and i just laughed. I recently kept thinking about it and was going to ask my psychiatrist if it was sensible to do. Then i realised that the day i kept thinking about it was the day i was sentenced. It was crazy really. But i decided i had to apologise face to face. And if you didn't feel comfortable then i would do it under supervision with something between us. But here you are and it kind of ruins it." He laughed tightly.

You stared in astonishment. This man...he looked so much like him but acted so different. Then you laughed in your head...of course he acted different. He spent four years in a ward. That changes people.

"How are you?" You asked quietly, hiding the hand behind your back to mask the shaking.

"I-i'm good. I've got a long way to go and I'm on medication for life. But i feel better. Freer. I'm still on a tight leash, relapses can happen and i can falter slightly but I'm...Im good, you?"

"I-i'm ok,"

"I..uh...i actually heard that Henry was sent to prison wasn't he?"

"He actually went into an insane asylum. He killed his dad Butch and the missing kids."

Patrick hummed almost dismissively and mumbled under his breath.

"Anyway," you smiled shakily. "I need to get back to my car,"

"Oh! Yeah, of course! It was great to see you again..."

You smiled and began walking away.

You felt slightly melancholy. This felt like closing a chapter of a book that you'd eventually loose and never find again.

This felt like a goodbye, an ending.

One of those ending that is the best outcome for all characters involved but not quite satisfying for the reader.

But you weren't the author of this particular book ...

[fullmetalscullyy]

hit and run - chapter 2

summary: Riza Hawkeye is a thief who is trying to get by in Victorian Central. Hard times fell on her family, tuberculosis claiming her mother and then her father when she was barely a teenager. Now, femme fatale Riza steals to put food on the table for herself, her canine companion - an abandoned puppy who just won’t leave her alone - and two brothers with circumstances similar to her own. However, dipping her hands into the pockets of the rich and famous is always a dangerous game.

rated: m | words: 2943

title: “hit and run” by lolo

read on ao3 and ffnet

“Riza!” Alphonse cried in relief as she walked through the door to their home. It was incredibly small, but it worked. In the winter months it invited a draft, but she’d fixed up the gaps with boards and other scrap pieces of wood she found on the streets – from dilapidated fences to empty barrels from the nearby inns.

This house was old, but it was selected because it was joined to a crumbling building, hence the holes in the wall. It was isolated and quiet, which was what Riza needed. The rubble out the back used to belong to the condemned bank next door. Where there should have been a nice back garden with a tall brown fence surrounding the grass of this old inner-city terraced house was now nothing but dust and rubble. It had been reduced to ash in the fire that had ravaged half the city decades ago, left to nature to reclaim it because no one bothered with the slums.

Their living room was in the centre of the house, housing a clean sofa Riza had haggled from the inn down the road, a slanted coffee table, and an empty cupboard with a false back which hid Edward and Alphonse’s personal belongings. In the slums nothing was safe. Their most precious of belongings was hidden underneath the floorboards in their room, same with Riza’s in her own bedroom.

The brothers had their own bedroom in the back of the house towards their escape route – a tunnel that had been conveniently built at some point, years ago, which ran about a mile underground and came out in the sewers towards the outskirts of the city. Riza’s bedroom was at the front and had access to the roof, where she could stay as a lookout just in case a job got too risky and she’d been followed home.

Most nights, while the brothers slept – and definitely the nights where she’d sought out her next victim and succeeded – Riza remained up there to keep watch over the rubble at the back of their home, in case anyone was feeling bold enough to follow her in search of their belongings. There had been a few people she’d scared off. Riza slept in short bouts anyway, unable to make it past the four or five hour mark, mostly because she’d previously never had the luxury. She still couldn’t afford to as she now had the two teenagers under her charge. Riza felt personally responsible for their welfare, and that had only begun after living together for two months.

When living on the streets like this, strong bonds were forged. Two years later and the feelings still remained.

At least tonight she wouldn’t have to stay on lookout. She’d already been confronted by the person she’d stolen from. A chill went down her spine at the memory of her conversation with Madame Christmas. Riza had learned her name very shortly after their initial confrontation.

“Where have you been?” Alphonse asked worriedly, ringing his hands in front of him. Edward stood behind his younger brother, peering over his shoulder, face concerned. Although less open about his emotions, Edward still worried about her. They both did, just as she did them.

Riza had found them on the streets two years ago. One of the drunks from a nearby inn was hassling the two orphans, trying to rile them up and get a reaction from the older brother – and it had been working. Just as things begun to get out of hand, Riza spotted it as she passed by, stepping in to defend the two children.

“Are you really going to provoke and fight a child?” she had asked angrily.

“What’s it to you, thief?” the man had drunkenly cried, earning a laugh from his friends.

“I won’t tolerate drunken assholes trying to fight and swearing at children, especially when they’re concealing a knife.”

He’d blinked in surprise as she’d revealed his hidden weapon. Then, the man’s face twisted in anger and lunged. Safe to say it was a short fight. Riza simply sidestepped his drunken charge and he careened into a pile of stacked, empty beer barrels, knocking himself out cold. His friends quickly scarpered after that.

“Do you two have anywhere to go?” she asked the brothers. They had been thin – too­ thin. Edward’s hair was long but hung limp around his dirty face. Alphonse’s hair was cut short, almost a skinhead, but was caked in grime and muck.

Edward had watched Riza with narrowed eyes, saying nothing. It was Alphonse who answered her. “No, we don’t.”

“Al,” Edward hissed, glaring at his brother who jumped at the sudden outburst, opening and closing his mouth worriedly.

“It’s okay,” Riza reassured them with a soft smile. She crouched to Edward’s level, wiping away some of the dried blood off his face with a handkerchief. She understood their lack of trust. The poor in this city were not treated kindly. There was one orphanage but that had been at capacity for years, since before Riza had lost her parents. Luckily, she’d been a few months shy of her eighteenth birthday so while in a holding lodging the orphanage owned – a place where they put kids to be forgotten about because they had no room for them – she’d escaped one night and never looked back. No one searched because they had no room and no money to care for her. Simple as that. Riza stumbled across her first home and lived there by herself for a few months, stealing food to survive.

It was on her twenty-first birthday that she attended her first ball and begun to steal from the rich.

“I have some food nearby if you’re hungry?” Both boy’s eyes lit up at the offer, however Edward’s expression was quickly schooled into distrust once more. Riza offered them a kind smile. She understood their plight better than anyone and didn’t want them to suffer. “It’s not poisoned. I promised.”

“Edward, do you think –”

“Al!” he hissed again in horror.

Unable to help herself, Riza’s kind smile turned into one of sympathy.

“Hello Edward. Hello, Al. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Edward’s whole body stiffened as she addressed them by their names. Obviously, this was a fact that he wanted to keep hidden, but his little brother had blown their cover. Upon first meeting them Riza had guessed they were between twelve and fifteen, and she wasn’t far off. Right now, Edward was fifteen, Alphonse fourteen. When Riza had met them, Al had only been twelve. Now, he’d begun to sprout up so fast and was taller than his brother.

Knowing their story, it was a hell of a thing they’d been through at such a young age. Riza knew all about that kind of suffering, so she offered comfort and support to them both, offering her own story as a peace offering, showing she trusted them both and that they could trust her too.

“I understand your hesitancy,” Riza told them, looking them both in the eye. “And I also understand your plight.” She raised an eyebrow at Edward who scoffed as she uttered that statement. “More than you could know. So, if you want shelter for the night, I have a house near the river, in the slums. It has a weathervane on top of it. It you wish to sleep in a comfortable bed tonight, along with some hot food –”

“Why did that man call you a thief?” Edward asked after a moment of contemplation, completely disregarding her offer for the moment. “Are you really a thief?” His question was fair enough, but there was an edge to his voice, as if he didn’t approve of her way of life. Riza didn’t blame him, but she had no other choice.

“Yes,” was all she offered, rising from her crouch. “The offer still stands. You know where to find me, should you accept.” Riza turned and strode off towards her home, wondering if they would follow.

They did.

An hour later they showed up at her door looking even more tired and hungry. Without another word, Riza welcomed them in, wrapping both boys in a thick blanket each and offering them half of her pot of soup, telling them to help themselves to more if they needed it. The pot that would have lasted Riza a few meals was gone in one sitting, but both boys were full and had a smile on their faces.

After that, they just kind of stuck around. Two years later and Riza was still glad they had.

After a spot of trouble, they’d moved from down by the river to this crumbling, forgotten about, house by the old bank. They’d been living in this current one for just over a year. Normally when Riza fell into trouble they moved, but she didn’t think she’d get the chance to this time. The Madame hinted very heavily that she knew Riza’s story very well and while that may have been a bluff, her confidence made Riza doubt that thought.

“This is my city, darling.”

Riza knew the name Madame Christmas. Everyone who dabbled in Riza’s line of work did. She was very high up in the underworld. The elusive Madame Christmas was rarely seen however her presence was always felt and she had a hold over the city that politicians could only dream of.

“I’ve been at the ball,” Riza stated, answering Alphonse. She hated lying to the boys. Despised it actually, but this trouble was her burden to bear, not theirs. There was no way she was dragging them into her mess.

She would just need to pull in a few of her favours for this job.

“The ball finished hours ago,” Edward piped up as she walked by them to enter her own bedroom. Riza faltered in her steps, not anticipating that Edward would know about that timeframe.

Shit.

“Where were you Riza?” he asked. Turning, she saw the slightly narrowed eyes, the barely there turn of his head that suggested he knew she was either up to something or in trouble.

“It’s nothing for you to worry about –”

“Yes, it is,” he challenged. Alphonse’s gaze flicked between them both, watching them both worriedly. The boy was incredibly perceptive, Riza had learned, so if Edward thought something was off with her, Alphonse would know for sure. “If you’re in some kind of trouble then we have a right to know about it too.”

She took a deep breath, mentally preparing herself to come clean. For years it had just been her with the very occasional input from partners she worked with, so she never had to share her motives, her plans, or her reasons with anyone. With two perceptive teenagers in her home it was difficult to keep hiding them.

But Edward was right. If this ended badly then they had a right to know what she’d gotten herself into. They wouldn’t be getting involved, but they had a right to know because, ultimately, it would affect them in the long run.

“Honestly, Edward, it really is nothing to worry about. I was… approached tonight. After the lift. I have a new business proposition on the horizon that I need to consider whether or not to accept.” Well, there was no choice, she would have to accept, but she really did need to seriously sit down and replay what had happened tonight.

Starting with how the hell she’d been caught so off guard.

Well, if the woman was working with Madame Christmas then she would be an expert in stealth. The Madame trained fucking shadows. Interesting, though, that her own son was so hopeless at it…

“Are you in trouble?” Alphonse asked, voice quiet and worried.

“I don’t know,” she replied honestly. If she obeyed every command then no, she wouldn’t be. She would get the job done and be free of this mess. Maybe she’d move east. East City is supposed to have a lovely climate all year round. One thing was for sure, after this shit show she’d gotten herself roped into was over, she would be out of Central for good. She was becoming sick of this damned city.

“Is there anything we can do to help?” Edward asked.

“Not right now. I have a few favours to pull in first then I’ll let you know. I’d really rather not get you both involved.”

“But –”

“Edward,” she half begged. They had this argument almost every time a new job came up. “Just let me get organised first before we have this argument again. Please?”

The boys were qualified. Years of living on the street and surviving already put a fighting instinct in them, but Riza had also trained them in combat herself. she was more than confident in their abilities, but the truth still remained that they were children and Riza wouldn’t let them get dragged into this mess.

Edward was silent.

“Of course,” Alphonse cut in. “Take all the time you need Riza.”

With a tight smile and a quick nod, Riza turned and entered her bedroom, sitting heavily down on the bed. After a moment’s silence she kicked off her boots and shed her waitress’ clothes from tonight, tossing them into a heap in the corner. After changing into something more comfortable she opened the hatch to the roof and climbed out into the night air, letting it wash over her as she sat on the tile.

If only her troubles could be washed away so easily. Getting comfortable, she looked out across Central, taking in the lights of the city before her. As she sat there in the cool air, she replayed over the events of the ball and her conversation with the Madame.

“So, how about we talk terms?”

Riza eyed the woman, gauging the credibility of her threat. Either way, if it was a threat or not, she was still stuck in this chair with no way out. Riza nodded.

“Excellent. Since you ruined this opportunity for me tonight, you will work with me to regain my target’s trust and steal the information I need. The means are not important,” she added, giving Riza a pointed look. She shifted in place, indignation rising in her chest. So what if she sometimes used her body to get what she wanted? Life was a bitch – current situation case and point – and she needed to survive. She’d do whatever she could to make sure that happened.

It wasn’t her fault men fell over her so easily when she played that part. In all honesty, it made her uncomfortable if she didn’t prepare for it. She was reserved and had been isolated for a long time. But she needed to survive.

“I just need that information.”

“What is this information?” The Madame chuckled, remaining silent. “Right, need to know only?”

“You learn quickly,” the Madame quipped. “Next, you will leave personal lives out of this. Do not torment my son like that again while working for me. He is your partner in this, as are all my employees, so don’t fuck this up for us. After all, we wouldn’t be in this mess in the first place if it wasn’t for you. Remember that,” she smirked and Riza felt her stomach drop. Never had she felt so small and insignificant in that moment. That smirk told Riza the woman could have her killed with just the snap of her fingers.

“Now, I need you to venture into The Vaults underneath the city.” If it were possible, Riza’s stomach dropped even further and she felt herself pale. “That’s where you should begin. Look for information about a man called Solf J. Kimblee. I need something he has and since you jeopardized the easy way this evening, it’s your responsibility to retrieve it. Do you understand?”

No, anywhere but The Vaults.

“Miss Riza?” the Madame snapped, expecting an answer.

“The Vaults?” she choked out.

“Yes. You don’t think I would send my own son in there, do you?” she scoffed. “The woman who fucked me over though, now that’s fair game if you want to remain unscathed from my end.”

Riza swallowed as the Madame eyed her carefully.

“Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes,” Riza whispered, unable to make her voice stronger.

“Very good.” She nodded. With a jerk of her head two men appeared from Riza’s left and right, approaching the chair. Panic set in momentarily that they might kill her there and then, but they loosened her ties and freed her wrists.

“The barman is one of mine. Ask for a Mr. Marco when you arrive. The man has dealt with Kimblee in the past so that’s where you should start.”

Anywhere but The Vaults.

“Tell him Madame Christmas sent you.”

Riza eyes widened. No way… This was the infamous Madame Christmas… She didn’t miss how Christmas was watching her reaction very carefully. No doubt to see how far her influence reached but…

Holy fucking shit.

“Understood,” Riza choked out, standing from her chair. Absentmindedly, she rubbed her wrists.

“You’re one of us now, Riza Hawkeye.” The Madame’s eyes flashed as Riza’s head shot up. How did she know her last name? Riza went through great lengths to ensure no one ever knew that name was related to her. “Welcome to the family.”

Some fucking welcome.

Riza hugged her knees, pulling them tight to her chest as she continued to gaze across the city.

You’re well and truly fucked now, Riza.

A single tear escaped down her cheek in a moment of weakness, but Riza didn’t move to wipe it away.

[almostdepraved]

Reignite (Present!Carol/Reader (OC)) - Chapter 1

A/N: Hey guys! I’m writing my first fanfic. It took me a lotta courage to actually post it, so I hope you like it. Tell me what you guys think <3

Ever since you could remember, you were never certain of your emotions. It was much easier to manipulate feelings rather than wasting energy to solve such a trivial mystery of your mind. That particular strategy, however odd, had been the main factor for not only your success in life, but you assume of your entire family. Varying media had slapped on countless titles like geniuses, progressive-minded, genetic and family goals. Using any silly, eye-catching terms to feed to the public. And they’d eat it up; they always do- like a junkie getting their hands on anything to get a fix out of reality. It’s sad, but the truth can be just that. No one wants their reality, not even yourself.

 You, Lauren Troy, graduated from high school at 12 years old, successfully earning your double major degree in psychology and business by 16 before adding a degree in nursing and completing its master program at the age of 22, and finally working as a regular staff nurse. You, the daughter whose mother is one of the world’s best surgical oncologist, your father, the owner of one of wall street’s most profited firm five years running, the niece of a senator, and a CEO of New York’s number one hospital. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know that you could lead a life that is untouchable and almost without consequences. However, it does seem to take a fucking genius to figure out that that life is excruciatingly isolating.

 It wouldn’t surprise anyone from your family though, they’re smart enough to know that something stupid’s bound to happen. So went that ‘something stupid’ thing did happen, which was of you being found directly responsible of several patients’ deaths that were under your care, they just expressed fair amounts of disappointment and without another blink, would have proceeded to make the phone calls needed to fix the legal problem and handle whatever journalists that’d try to scoop up anything and make it a story.

 What they didn’t expect was that you wanted to go to prison, and you wanted to serve the time the judged had given of four years. It confused your father the most. As dirty as he might be playing and winning in the money-making game, he loved you too much to have you stain your record and ruin your own future. You had persisted, barely at the edge of sanity from feeling so bothered by your own emptiness. You did something heinous, and you should face the consequences of it. You thought maybe then you’d be fixed. Finally, he had agreed but made an appeal to the judge for you to be placed into maximum security, away from any potential enemy that your family’s legacy might have made. Fortunately, serving your sentence went as smoothly as prison life could offer, and because of good behaviour and reputation, the board gave you an early release- two and a half years early. That night, you had laid down on your bed back in your expensive family home, forcing yourself to cry from just about anything- nothing happened.

 Perhaps you felt slightly guilty when you realised how easy it was for you to get a job. It almost felt like nothing had changed. Like you weren’t hold up in a cell and only had an hour a day to see partial sunlight for 18 months. Like you hadn’t purposely overdosed vulnerable people and watch as they take their last breath. You ought to feel offended, you thought a second before accepting the offer of becoming a hospital CEO. Bonus point was having your brother as a colleague. Double bonus points for being able to resign comfortably at the age of 32.

 So what if you definitely are an empty, emotionless being? You now have the money and time that could keep you cosy for a decade, and that’s without giving much thought to the calculation.

 “Damn Laure, you’re really going for it huh? Got a plan for after?” Your brother brought your attention back to earth with the tone he used. There was a hint of jealousy that was laced in his first question, and you raised an eyebrow at him, intrigued that he’d feel that way. He wasn’t like you. He liked money, especially a shit ton of it to spend ridiculous things on. “Yeah, I doubt it’ll last long anyway. I get bored too easily.” “That’s true.” You were both just exiting the hospital to head over to a nearby restaurant for some late lunch when your brother phone’s ring. The ringtone was different than usual; it was a pop song that was playing. This meant that it was one of the girls he’d hooked up with called. You snicker at his confused look as he answers it.

 “A babygirl of yours forget the rules or something? Or is she a new one?” You teased. He throws you a death glare before he walked away to have the conversation with some privacy, lifting his index finger for you to wait on. You turn your attention to the street in front and began people-watching. A fun activity to waste time, plus, it makes you think, and you like thinking. This suddenly made your mind run over the memories you had whilst in prison. You realise you didn’t have to do much thinking there. No stimulations, or puzzles, or mysteries that held your attention for long.

 Except for one.

              Pieces of scattered memory flashes in your mind: steely blue eyes; a pair that could read you like how you read your favourite books. Death grips; the kind that’s so painful that you would feel alive in. Greying blond hair; something you didn’t know you have an itch to feel gently against your fingertips, almost like old pressed up leaves. And jumbled up letters that you think forms a name, what was it?

 Cathrine?

 Cassie?

 Cornelius?

 Cape town?

 Cornstarch?-

 “Hey Laur, we need to get back inside.” Your head snaps quickly to where your brother was, almost jogging shortly to reach you. “Why?” Cheekytita? You think the C’s that are endlessly popping in your head are going to frustrate you to no end. “Remember Linda from MCC? Corporate prison people that would be better in prison?”

 “You’re one to talk, but yeah I remember.” It would also mean that your brother had banged her a couple of times and the realisation made you feel repulsed. Cate Blanchett?

 “She’s brought in someone from Max. Inmate suffered extreme blood loss, and is in a fucking coma right now.” You were confused by the lack of context. You hated not knowing something. “Then let the medical handle it. I don’t get why you’re like this.” He bites his bottom lip, hesitant to answer. “I owe her a favour, and now she’s claiming it. I’m worried because not only is her ass on the line, but my ass is dependent on this prisoner’s survival. Linda’s got major dirt on me, and I intend on not having it spread.” You nod, the gears in your head turning. Your brother starts to head to the ER room that the prisoner and Linda is. You follow him in quick steps. Half-shouting another question. “What does she want then? You said the guy’s alive?”

 “She wants full recovery. Guy better be better than before he was stabbed. But she wants it hushed, as far away from bad PR as possible. A prisoner’s gonna get his own dedicated team or some crazy shit like that.” Both of you were close now, a couple more turns. “And you’re actually considering to follow every request?” The door’s to your left, and you automatically wrapped your hands around it before stopping yourself. “Sorry, you do it.” You take a step back for your brother. “Exactly, I have to.” He mirrors your words as he opens the door and steps inside.

 As your mind recognises Linda’s face, you felt a wave a disgust and turn your gaze elsewhere. Your brother can sort this out, you convince yourself as his voice fills the room as he greets the black-haired woman with fake warmth. The hospital bed was to your right, and you see the outline of a body at the corner of your eye. You mind thought of multiple scenarios at once for a prisoner to be in this position, now completely filled with curiosity. You head over to see the luckily unlucky man. What was it?

 Gang capture gone wrong? Then there should’ve been multiple sent here.

 Cage fight? No cages there, cell fight more like it.

 Castration? Obviously not, but it does start with a ‘c’.

 What it was had frozen your body and mind; an upward curve at the torso, thin, pale hands at the sides with veins that pushes high against the skin, lined complexion- wrinkles. Shoulder length dull blond hair, it seems to be greying. Something in the back of your head began pounding to be released. A locked information that you wanted to know as well but can’t recall. Something had reflected light into your eyes. A glint from beside the bed and your eyes searched for the source. Big framed glasses, it reminded you of a style you barely recognised, like in the 80s.

 A piece of a puzzle manifests in your mind. Whether it’s the final or the first, you don’t know.

Oh, wait- oh no.

 C is for Carol. Carol Denning.

[natsthinkitythinkthinkthonk]

natsspammityspamspamRANT

For the next two weeks, I’m going to be a complete mess because (warning: incoming first world problem) I'm not going to the Philippines this year. I used to go every year, and I would go see deranged family that would play fake, but the experience always makes me realize what I have back home and not to take it for granted. I also do occasionally appreciate seeing my relatives alive. I like the experience of going to my favourite places. It truly feels like a second home for me. I've gone there nearly every year since I was six years old, so I've grown attached to everything there. With all of that said, I can't go this year. My allergies have gotten worse, and last year I broke out in hives, I couldn't breathe too well, and my eyes were swelling up, so I figured it was not the best decision for me to visit since the only place we can stay at has 20+ cats (I wish I was kidding but I'm not, and I'm extremely allergic to cats). I had to stay in an isolated room for 2+ weeks with no wifi. Still, I'm really upset that I'm not going to the Philippines. I enjoy being immersed in Tagalog for a couple of weeks a year because then I learn a little. I like eating food that I can't have back home (SEAFOOD FOR THE WIN). I like going shopping for electronic stuff that's too expensive back home. I like getting t-shirts for my pyjamas and the occasional gag gift for a friend.I'm going to really miss all of that. My grandma (since my grandpa is already dead) is sort of... how should I put this... is very old and not too well. I talked to her on the phone, and she didn't speak to me in English. I could understand what she was saying in Tagalog since it was very basic stuff, but she was incoherently repeating the same things over and over again. I don't want to remember my family like this. Right now, they're calling each other insane and stabbing each other in the back to the point where when I was at the hospital, my uncle called my mom blaming her for missing a meeting of theirs because she chose to be by her child's side in their time of suffering.

People often think that people who go to university are smart, and they have more sophisticated and logical arguments. Those people might be right, but in this case, you couldn’t be farther from the truth. Almost all of them are university educated with some being engineers while other are eye surgeons and former architects, yet they are vile, hostile, and believe that whoever shouts the loudest and gets the last word is ultimately the winner. It’s almost as if they are in an arena thirsty for one another’s blood. They manipulate the odds to be in their favour, and they truly believe that the ends justify their cruel means. It’s toxic. It’s heartbreaking to see. I wish it would stop.

I'm going to be left at home for two weeks now in a life that's already on-edge. I feel like I'm spreading my negativity everywhere (and nobody wants that). I'm alone at home with my brother who's generally okay (but rather insensitive) and my dad who is one of the most difficult people I've ever met. My mom usually monitors him, but with her gone, he gets to go nuts. He gets offended when I don't want to eat his cooking, but he uses rotten ingredients (too cheap to buy fresh ones) which makes my stomach and my soul upset. That's just the least of my worries though. He likes to pick at insecurities and revels in the pain of others sometimes. My relatives in the Philippines also don't believe in mental illness even though a few of them are or have gone through it. I know one aunt who has OCD, but she doesn't like putting up with my anxiety or depression. It's sort of like that there because nobody cares about your problems. My aunt just rants to my mom (and me) for the two weeks that we're there. On top of that, I'm just suffering from the everyday worries, anxiety, depression, and a sea of first-world problems that is my life. As I’ve probably mentioned before, I deal with many problems that a strong person could probably take on, but the truth is, I’m very weak in all areas of life. From convincing myself that I’m worthy of life to telling myself I’m not “fat” to telling myself everything will be alright to just accepting that school won’t accept me for who I am to just saying that even though there are things wrong with me, I still can live life with people who love me problems and all.

With my overall dread that I already feel within the first hours of this ordeal, I pray that I remember to sleep, eat, and generally perform tasks that a normal human being should do. I already forget to sleep, eat, and bathe, so this is going to be quite the experience. Let’s see that I make it to the end of this! *nervous laughter*

[megadarkbouquettidalwavethings]

Brits 2018: The real winners and losers

Stormzy and Dua Lipa both took home two trophies at the Brits, but there’s always more to the show than the awards.

On a night of joy and disappointment, X-rated confessions and spectacular performances, who were the real winners and losers at the O2 Arena?

Most dress – Dua Lipa

So much dress, in fact, that it took two or three people to move it around.

Dua’s baby pink tiered Giambattista Valli gown was an extravaganza of ruffles – but she wasn’t being precious about it.

“There’s a lot of it, so if it gets damaged I can pick up a piece from somewhere else.”

Best mum – Emma Bunton

Emma Bunton’s kids were disappointed they couldn’t come to the Brit Awards, so she threw them their own awards ceremony on Tuesday.

“We had orange juice, they did a little performance, and they won best male and best group.”

Biggest snub – Ed Sheeran

He might have sold 12.8 million albums last year, but Ed Sheeran was shut out of the Brits. His only prize was the global success award, which recognises commercial success, while best male, best album, best single and best video all went to other artists.

There’s certainly a sense that the industry isn’t on his side right now – he was similarly overlooked at the Grammys – but it’s hard to work out what he’s done wrong.

Perhaps voters felt his latest album, ÷, was too safe, or cynically commercial, to deserve a prize. Or maybe they just really, really hated Galway Girl.

Either way, it feels odd that the star couldn’t catch a break in his home country.

Sauciest confession – Cheryl

Photo: ITV

During the ceremony, pop couple Cheryl and Liam Payne were confronted by presenter Jack Whitehall, who had a question about Liam’s upcoming performance with Rita Ora.

“You’re performing later, you’re doing a song from the Fifty Shades of Grey movie,” he said. “Sounds pretty saucy, is there a safe word?”

Liam gallantly threw the question to Cheryl, saying: “She knows that.”

Without batting an eyelid, she leaned into the microphone and said two words. “Don’t stop”.

Stormzy’s performance was a show-stopper, and not just because it literally came at the end of the ceremony.

Still beaming after winning best album, the star showed the full range of his talents in a performance that encompassed the heartfelt gospel of Blinded By Your Grace and the tongue-twisting wordplay of Big For Your Boots.

But in the middle, he did something special – a ferocious freestyle verse that took aim at the government’s response to the Grenfell fire.

“Yo, Theresa May, where’s the money for Grenfell?” he rapped. “What, you thought we forgot about Grenfell?

“You’re criminals, and you got the cheek to call us savages? You should do some jail time, you should pay some damages. We should burn your house down and see if you can manage this?”

In true Stormzy style, though, the rap wove the personal into the political, and he went on to talk about his pride in seeing other black British stars succeeding, including model Jourdan Dunn and actor Daniel Kaluuya.

“When Dan Kaluuya won the Bafta, I could have cried,” he grinned.

Speaking to the BBC afterwards, the rapper said he wanted to use his platform “to say something bigger” than “yeah, it’s the Stormzy show”.

“This isn’t about me. It’s about Grenfell, it’s about all the things I said in that lyric.”

Narrowest escape from injury – Taylor Swift

Technically this happened three years ago but we only found out about it tonight, and it’s our public duty to inform you that Taylor Swift narrowly escaped a black eye at the Brit Awards.

Mike Kerr from Royal Blood revealed the incident, while grassing up his musical partner Ben Thatcher as the culprit.

“We went into her dressing room to say hello, and Ben opened a bottle of champagne,” he recalled. “The cork nearly hit her in the face and knocked her out”.

“I get a little overexcited sometimes,” said Ben, sheepishly.

Greatest hook-up – Haim and Nile Rodgers

Out on the red carpet, we introduced disco legend Nile Rodgers to Este Haim, who essentially exploded with glee.

“You are the funkiest man I’ve ever heard,” she gushed as the Chic guitarist greeted her with a hug.

“I’m literally… I wish I was wearing a diaper right now,” she said.

When they record an album together, you can thank us.

Most outrageous robbery – Harry Styles

The video for Dua Lipa’s New Rules is unquestionably brilliant. Its message of women supporting women chimes perfectly with the times; and the iconic choreography inspired hundreds of tributes and covers.

Last week, it clocked up its one billionth play on YouTube. At 22, Dua is now the youngest female artist ever to reach that milestone.

So why wasn’t it in the running for best British video? Because the Brits opens that category up to a fan vote, which meant Dua was dumped from the longlist in favour of multiple videos by former members of One Direction.

In the end, the not-very-good video for Harry Styles’s not-very-good Sign Of The Times won. A complete travesty.

Nicest surprise – Jack Whitehall

Hosting the Brits is a poisoned chalice. The audience aren’t listening, the artists aren’t interested and the script is perennially awful.

But, amazingly, Jack Whitehall pulled it out of the bag with a series of acid-tongued one-liners. Like these ones:

On Rag ‘N’ Bone Man: “The man with the voice of an angel and the beard of a wizard”. On Sam Smith: “If you like Adele songs, but find them too upbeat, you’re in for a treat as Sam Smith will be performing!” On The Voice judges: “It’s a knight of the realm, an Oscar-winner and… Olly Murs.”

Biggest metaphor failure – Kendrick Lamar

Kendrick Lamar performed Feel, a song about how stardom left him feeling isolated, while a dancer smashed an orange Lamborghini with a baseball bat.

His intention was to make a statement about the emptiness of status symbols and the trappings of fame. But, with most viewers unable to hear his lyrics, it came off as “I’m so rich I can afford to smash up this very expensive car live on TV.”

Biggest softies – Dave Grohl and Dua Lipa

Dua Lipa brought her little brother and sister up on stage when she won best breakthrough artist, because she wants them to follow their dreams.

“I told them to believe in magic, because it’s real,” she said. “And this is the closest I’ve come to it – so I wanted them to experience it first hand.”

But she wasn’t the only one thinking about family. Dave Grohl might have picked up the Foo Fighters’ fourth Brit Award for best international group, but the highlight of his night was getting Stranger Things star Millie Bobby Brown to record a video message for his daughter.

“My daughter is such a huge fan of Stranger Things that she draws pictures of Millie Bobby Brown and puts them up around her bedroom,” he told BBC 5 live.

“She also shaved her head to look like Millie Bobby Brown – so when she gets home from school and sees the video I just took, it’ll be the biggest thing that ever happened.”

Best dressing gown – Leigh-Anne Pinnock

We never got an adequate explanation for Leigh-Anne’s sartorial decision. Maybe she just slept in.

Whatever happened, Little Mix were available to give us an update on their fifth album, which they’re aiming to have ready for the end of the year.

“We’ve only done a few sessions so far,” said Jade Thirlwall. “And we go back to work next week, all the way through March.”

The band will “hopefully” have a new single in time for their stadium tour this summer, she added.

“That’s the aim: To have something ready by then. But we don’t want to rush things.”

Least drunk ‘drunk woman’ – Este Haim

While Jack Whitehall was interviewing Liam and Cheryl, TV viewers spotted an “absolutely plastered” woman in the background mouthing the words “Call Me”.

Only it wasn’t a random record company executive, it was bass-playing pop phenomenon Este Haim.

“Not drunk, just living my truth,” she tweeted.

Source: BBC

The post Brits 2018: The real winners and losers appeared first on Breaking News Top News & Latest News Headlines | Reuters.

[trendingnewsb]

The Boy With the Perpetual Nervousness review a tale of betrayal by the church

Graham Caveneys defiant, important memoir details how the Catholic establishment fails abuse victims

Pope Francis has taken great strides in challenging all sorts of entrenched attitudes and prejudices in the Vatican that have given the Catholic church such a bad name of late. Progress has been disappointingly slow, however, on the commission he appointed in 2014 to tackle the appalling scandal of clerical sexual abuse. In March of this year Marie Collins, the last remaining member of the panel who was a survivor of abuse, resigned after a Vatican department failed to comply with the commissions recommendation that it respond to every correspondent who writes in with allegations that they have been a victim. If the curia is resisting such simple steps, how to have faith that they will tackle the bigger underlying issues?

Reluctance to face up to the consequences of clerical abuse remains hard-wired into the structures of the church: an instinct to protect the institution at the cost of the individual who has suffered, and a brick-wall resistance to addressing the profound questions about the nature of vocation posed by such abhorrent behaviour. And so church leaders not all, granted; certainly not Pope Francis tend to speak of historical allegations whenever victims find the courage to speak up 20, 30 or even 40 years after events that are not for them in any way historical, but are a psychological and emotional trauma they will live with until their dying day.

Individuals like Graham Caveney. The Boy With the Perpetual Nervousness recounts with great courage and candour how, in the 1970s, as the clever, awkward, nerdy, only child of devoutly Catholic working-class parents in Accrington, Lancashire, he was groomed by a priest at his local grammar school in Blackburn, and then sexually abused by him.

A casual glance might suggest he has managed to put it behind him he has a successful career as a writer on music (the sounds of the 70s are one thread of this well-structured, rounded memoir) and biographer of William Burroughs and Allen Ginsberg. But as he describes, without self-pity, Caveney dropped out of university, struggled to form adult relationships, turned to drink and drugs to blot out the trauma, and on occasion attempted suicide.

The abuse leads you to fuck up yourlife, he reflects bleakly but unsparingly, and a fucked-up life means that youre a less credible witness to the abuse that fucked you up in the first place. Its an ironic trick of memory and survival: abuse makes you want to forget the abuse.

John and Kath, his mum and dad, had no idea what was wrong. They watched their beloved boy, in whom they had invested so much hope that he would have more life opportunities than them, change first into a sulky, angry adolescent who refused to go to mass, and then into a messed-up wreck, beset by panic attacks.

They died in 1998 and 2002, still none the wiser. They continued to direct their flailing son back towards his old headteacher for wise counsel, never suspecting that Father Kevin ONeill had sexually abused him as a 15-year-old and set off the downward spiral.

The Caveneys had believed that the youthful, relaxed Rev Kev the Catholic equivalent of a trendy vicar was doing their boy a favour by taking him to theatres, cinemas and restaurants, broadening his mind. Whatthey couldnt know was that on the way home, the priest they looked up to would turn his car into quiet side-road and force himself on their son. Later, when he invited young Graham to go on holiday to Greece with him and a group of others, John and Kath enlisted the help of relatives to scrape together the cost, but it was just a pretext for more abuse.

Its them that I cant forgive you for, Caveney writes, addressing his abuser in the pages of a book that must have cost him dear to complete, the way in which you made their hopes and aspirations the tools of your own needs. Its them who spent their lives worrying if it was something they had done wrong to make their boy turn out the way he did.

Given how much Catholic grammar schools from the 1950s through to the 1970s were the route by which generations of working-class Catholic boys and girls got on in life the Irish Christian Brothers in my own home town of Liverpool boasted that they took the sons of dockers and made them into doctors it is impossible to believe that the betrayal of Graham Caveney and his parents is an isolated case. How widespread it is, however, remains impossible to know because every bit of information has to be dragged out of a compulsively secretive church that recoils from thinking in terms of deep-rooted, complex patterns of abuse.

And what happened when Caveney identified his abuser in the early 1990s to Father ONeills religious order, the Marists? Id just slashed up my arms, he adds, by way of context. The priest was challenged, apparently confessed his crimes, but was referred to a US therapy centre rather than the police. In 1993, he retired with full honours as headteacher. Kath even sent her son a cutting about the celebrations from the local paper. You were always one of his favourites, she reminded him. The report told of ex-pupils lining up to sing the priests praises, little suspecting how they too had been betrayed.

ONeill died in 2011, the serious charges against him covered up to the grave. He still doesnt seem to appear on any register I can find of abusive clergy. What distresses Caveney almost as much as the churchs failure to involve the police and courts is that he now can never confront his abuser, save in this raw, defiant but important memoir. A part of him, he confesses, still thinks in his darkest moments that what happened was somehow his own fault.

What was it about me? he asks. You see, theres a bit of me that still believes Im unique, that I really was your prime number, indivisible only by myself. I dont want to think of myself as part of a pattern, just another victim.

ONeills old school, St Marys, Blackburn, today has a drama block named after him, an honour accorded despite the Marist order having been told about Caveneys allegations nearly 20 years earlier. Is it plausible that there is no one who knew of them who could have spoken up? Or did they consider that whatever good he had done at the school cancelled out sexually abusing a 15-year-old in his care? It is part of the same impossible-to-fathom and offensive attitude that now apparently stops Vatican officials answering letters from those reporting abuse, in defiance of the pope.

Quite how long it will take for that prejudice to be defeated, I dont know. But after they have read The Boy With the Perpetual Nervousness, the school governors might at least like to revisit the naming of their drama block, which rubs salt into open wounds.

Peter Stanford is a former editor of the Catholic Herald

The Boy With the Perpetual Nervousness by Graham Caveney is published by Picador on 7 September (14.99). To order a copy for 12.74 go to bookshop.theguardian.com or call 0330 333 6846. Free UK p&p over 10, online orders only. Phone orders min p&p of 1.99

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The Boy With the Perpetual Nervousness review a tale of betrayal by the church

Graham Caveneys defiant, important memoir details how the Catholic establishment fails abuse victims

Pope Francis has taken great strides in challenging all sorts of entrenched attitudes and prejudices in the Vatican that have given the Catholic church such a bad name of late. Progress has been disappointingly slow, however, on the commission he appointed in 2014 to tackle the appalling scandal of clerical sexual abuse. In March of this year Marie Collins, the last remaining member of the panel who was a survivor of abuse, resigned after a Vatican department failed to comply with the commissions recommendation that it respond to every correspondent who writes in with allegations that they have been a victim. If the curia is resisting such simple steps, how to have faith that they will tackle the bigger underlying issues?

Reluctance to face up to the consequences of clerical abuse remains hard-wired into the structures of the church: an instinct to protect the institution at the cost of the individual who has suffered, and a brick-wall resistance to addressing the profound questions about the nature of vocation posed by such abhorrent behaviour. And so church leaders not all, granted; certainly not Pope Francis tend to speak of historical allegations whenever victims find the courage to speak up 20, 30 or even 40 years after events that are not for them in any way historical, but are a psychological and emotional trauma they will live with until their dying day.

Individuals like Graham Caveney. The Boy With the Perpetual Nervousness recounts with great courage and candour how, in the 1970s, as the clever, awkward, nerdy, only child of devoutly Catholic working-class parents in Accrington, Lancashire, he was groomed by a priest at his local grammar school in Blackburn, and then sexually abused by him.

A casual glance might suggest he has managed to put it behind him he has a successful career as a writer on music (the sounds of the 70s are one thread of this well-structured, rounded memoir) and biographer of William Burroughs and Allen Ginsberg. But as he describes, without self-pity, Caveney dropped out of university, struggled to form adult relationships, turned to drink and drugs to blot out the trauma, and on occasion attempted suicide.

The abuse leads you to fuck up yourlife, he reflects bleakly but unsparingly, and a fucked-up life means that youre a less credible witness to the abuse that fucked you up in the first place. Its an ironic trick of memory and survival: abuse makes you want to forget the abuse.

John and Kath, his mum and dad, had no idea what was wrong. They watched their beloved boy, in whom they had invested so much hope that he would have more life opportunities than them, change first into a sulky, angry adolescent who refused to go to mass, and then into a messed-up wreck, beset by panic attacks.

They died in 1998 and 2002, still none the wiser. They continued to direct their flailing son back towards his old headteacher for wise counsel, never suspecting that Father Kevin ONeill had sexually abused him as a 15-year-old and set off the downward spiral.

The Caveneys had believed that the youthful, relaxed Rev Kev the Catholic equivalent of a trendy vicar was doing their boy a favour by taking him to theatres, cinemas and restaurants, broadening his mind. Whatthey couldnt know was that on the way home, the priest they looked up to would turn his car into quiet side-road and force himself on their son. Later, when he invited young Graham to go on holiday to Greece with him and a group of others, John and Kath enlisted the help of relatives to scrape together the cost, but it was just a pretext for more abuse.

Its them that I cant forgive you for, Caveney writes, addressing his abuser in the pages of a book that must have cost him dear to complete, the way in which you made their hopes and aspirations the tools of your own needs. Its them who spent their lives worrying if it was something they had done wrong to make their boy turn out the way he did.

Given how much Catholic grammar schools from the 1950s through to the 1970s were the route by which generations of working-class Catholic boys and girls got on in life the Irish Christian Brothers in my own home town of Liverpool boasted that they took the sons of dockers and made them into doctors it is impossible to believe that the betrayal of Graham Caveney and his parents is an isolated case. How widespread it is, however, remains impossible to know because every bit of information has to be dragged out of a compulsively secretive church that recoils from thinking in terms of deep-rooted, complex patterns of abuse.

And what happened when Caveney identified his abuser in the early 1990s to Father ONeills religious order, the Marists? Id just slashed up my arms, he adds, by way of context. The priest was challenged, apparently confessed his crimes, but was referred to a US therapy centre rather than the police. In 1993, he retired with full honours as headteacher. Kath even sent her son a cutting about the celebrations from the local paper. You were always one of his favourites, she reminded him. The report told of ex-pupils lining up to sing the priests praises, little suspecting how they too had been betrayed.

ONeill died in 2011, the serious charges against him covered up to the grave. He still doesnt seem to appear on any register I can find of abusive clergy. What distresses Caveney almost as much as the churchs failure to involve the police and courts is that he now can never confront his abuser, save in this raw, defiant but important memoir. A part of him, he confesses, still thinks in his darkest moments that what happened was somehow his own fault.

What was it about me? he asks. You see, theres a bit of me that still believes Im unique, that I really was your prime number, indivisible only by myself. I dont want to think of myself as part of a pattern, just another victim.

ONeills old school, St Marys, Blackburn, today has a drama block named after him, an honour accorded despite the Marist order having been told about Caveneys allegations nearly 20 years earlier. Is it plausible that there is no one who knew of them who could have spoken up? Or did they consider that whatever good he had done at the school cancelled out sexually abusing a 15-year-old in his care? It is part of the same impossible-to-fathom and offensive attitude that now apparently stops Vatican officials answering letters from those reporting abuse, in defiance of the pope.

Quite how long it will take for that prejudice to be defeated, I dont know. But after they have read The Boy With the Perpetual Nervousness, the school governors might at least like to revisit the naming of their drama block, which rubs salt into open wounds.

Peter Stanford is a former editor of the Catholic Herald

The Boy With the Perpetual Nervousness by Graham Caveney is published by Picador on 7 September (14.99). To order a copy for 12.74 go to bookshop.theguardian.com or call 0330 333 6846. Free UK p&p over 10, online orders only. Phone orders min p&p of 1.99

Read more: http://ift.tt/2uy6WI5

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