#multiple empty markers thrown away a month

[bmpmp3]

SO i tried putting some sketchink lotte in a platinum preppy marker and its working out really well as a nice thick refillable waterproof marker!! pretty wet but that might be because of the heatwave, plus i like wet markers and pens hjkdflsdjfkslds

[heavenunderthemoon]

GROWING PAINS- Spencer Reid {CHAPTER 3}

prologue, chapter one, chapter two

DECEMBER 2011

Derek rolled his eyes, slinging an arm around your shoulder roughly, his cheeks rosy with an alcoholic glow. The pint of beer in his hand sloshed dangerously, threatening to tip over the side until you righted him, shaking your head at the man's actions.

"Oh come on, not one anecdote of your childhood with our resident genius? I need to know what the kid was like, I mean, did he wear sweater vests as an eight year old? Did he always talk as fast as he does now? How did you two even meet?"

Your eyes rolled playfully.

"Please, Y/N, we've been dying to know what our Boy Wonder was like as a kid." Penelope took another long pull of her drink- probably too long of a pull given the amount that she had already had. Everyone had been drinking that night, which made sense provided that the team was at a bar. The case had ended fairly quickly, the unsub playing right into the waiting hand of the Behavioral Analysis Unit, and it had sent you all home within a couple of days.

Penelope had been the one to suggest a bar. Her waiting figure had been posted at the elevator doors, a rather pointed look thrown in your direction, one that screamed 'You can't get out of this even if you tried', and you had looked to Spencer almost immediately. You had noticed yourself doing that these past couple of months because, even with all of the history weighing the two of you down, pulling you like sinking stones to the bottom of the murky, muddy water, the two of you hadn't said much to each other at all. In fact, you could probably count the number of interactions since that first day on one hand.

That first day.

You poked at the olive at the bottom of your brink ruefully, popping it into your mouth, relishing in the remnants of the vodka lying on the glass.

OCTOBER 2011

"Are you just gonna stare at me from behind that fridge door or are you gonna say whatever it is you're thinking in that big brain of yours?"

The coffee in your mug warmed your hand, which worked well for you. Your body was still attempting to find itself accustomed to the dreary weather surrounding Quantico, and you would be damned if you were to say you were entirely de-thawed from that morning's walk in the gloom.

The scent of the stale coffee sloshing around in the navy blue mug was enough to make you want to toss it into the trashcan all together, but you knew good and well enough that you would force yourself to drink it all the same. The coffee you had that morning was wonderful, good enough to make you long for it as you gazed into the mass-produced black coffee from a Mr. Coffee machine that looked like it had seen better days.

Spencer Reid righted himself from where he was previously crouched in a position in which he thought to be rather stealthy.

He had been waiting all morning for the perfect opportunity, waiting an agonizingly long time, sitting through dozens of handshakes, introductions, desk tours, all of which he had stayed painfully silent through. The team had watched as your initial greeting had made Spencer's face pale, how your eyebrows had scrunched at the lack of response from the Reid man, how the two of you seemed to skirt around each other- well, that wasn't entirely fair. You weren't doing the skirting. It was Spencer.

Spencer was the one who was avoiding you like the plague.

And, you had noticed, of course. Just like you had noticed how his eyes had followed you as you stood from your newly claimed desk, empty of any personal markers, void of any personal belongings, and made your way into the break room for what he knew was your second cup of coffee that day. He had seen you grab that first one, he knew that now.

As if you were a magnet, Spencer had found himself standing, his feet directing him toward you as if he had no control over it. No control at all, and it suddenly felt like he was no longer in the FBI building. He was no longer wearing his converse, sweater vest, and FBI badge that sat proudly on his chest. No longer did he feel as though he were 29 year old man, 6 feet tall, 2 inches. No. No, now, he felt as though he were that tiny little child who still hadn't hit their growth spurt. That small child whose best friend was taller than him, a fact he found a bit embarrassing because she was a girl and just about every book he read portrayed men as the tall, strong protectors and he was dutifully failing that role and his best friend seemed to have no trouble picking up the slack.

He felt as though that tiny little child had replaced him in just that instant, reverting back to the small boy who would've followed you anywhere without question, without hesitation, because he trusted you that much.

All those moments of trust, the moments of dancing in basements, or you encouraging him to jump off a high tree branch, or even showing him how to do a neat trick on his bicycle (he had fallen quite badly after that one, but he hadn't even let you apologize because the problem did not lie in your teaching methods, it simply laid in his inability to do anything remotely active). It all came rushing back to him, echoes falling upon his ears as he attempted tp act casual, hiding behind that fridge door and pretending to inspect the contents. Well, that is, until you had spoken.

His lips pursed, eyes flickering up to peak over the top of the fridge and peer at you. His fingers twitched, closing the door and reluctantly rising from his hindsightedly awkward crouched position. Your eyes fell to his fingers, lips almost quirking at the corners when you noticed they still did that thing.

That thing they had done almost since the day you had met him. That thing where they moved, like re-wiring a bomb, or turning the pages of a book only he could see. The things where they danced upon the moth air, catching your attention and letting you know that his nerves were at an all time high. When you were children, it acted up whenever the boy was uncomfortable, spiking when the two were surrounded by bullies, or when he had to go home early (he didn't quite enjoy being home all too much back then). The memory of the Reid's slender fingers dancing that same dance almost made hers begin her own. Her hand twitched, as if to reach out and grab as she did so many years ago, as she had always done. Her hand longed to reach out and grab his in her own and give him that smile- knowing and reassuring, letting him know that she was there, that he was safe, and that he had no reason at all to be nervous.

But she didn't. Her hand remained at her side, and Spencer shoved his hands into his pockets just as soon, rocking on his heels awkwardly.

It was quiet for a moment, only the hum of the newly purchased refrigerator to fill the abyss blanketing the two agents. The old one had given up almost three weeks ago. Spencer could still remember the smell it had reeked when the team had discovered just how broken it was. Penelope had told them when they had gotten back from a case, ranting about how her milk had gone bad, cheese going rotten and they hadn't quite believed her. "Are you sure it's plugged in?" Rossi had asked teasingly to which the blonde had scowled and turned on her heel, Derek nipping at her stilettos.

They had soon discovered that the tech analyst was, in fact, correct, the smell putrid and intense  enough to make the Reid man's eyes sting when he opened the fridge. Hotch had to make room in the budget but he had chosen almost an exact replica of the old fridge. The only difference was that this one was new.

"I never thought I'd see you again." You broke the silence. It was true. Because you couldn't quite remember the last time you had thought about him. Those months after he had left he had been all that you had thought about. Your best friend. Spencer. Your Spencer. And he had just...left. Just as you had always known he would, so you couldn't even particularly act surprised about it, but you could act 'mopey' as your father had called it with a grumble.

He was all you had thought about because best friends don't just stop being friends just because one moves away, they stop being friends because eventually someone loses interest in the other and right now you couldn't quite remember if that had been you or him.

Spencer's lips screwed up into that uncomfortable smile that he had done as a kid and now looked even sillier on his fully-grown and matured face. "Me either."

It was hard enough for him to get that sentence out and it was two words. Two words and three syllables and it was enough to make him dizzy because he just felt so...bare. He felt vulnerable and insecure and slightly embarrassed because here, in this building, in the Behavioral Analysis Unit he was.. well, he was Spencer Reid. He was boy genius, the kid who was a child prodigy, could read at incredible speeds, had multiple PhD's, and seemingly knew everything about anything. He was a superhero. Okay, maybe not a superhero, but at least in this building he could imagine that some people actually thought of him that way.

They admired him for his intelligence and they didn't see him as that dorky kid from Nevada with a schizophrenic mom who sometimes forgot to feed him. And now, you did. You, who had played cops and robbers with him in his backyard or returned books back to him with the pages dog eared that always drove him nuts, or picked out peanuts from your ice cream because you hated them. You would see him that way. As the way that he had tried so incredibly hard to bury, and Spencer felt his throat close up at the notion.

"Did you follow me here?" It wasn't what he meant to say. It wasn't what he wanted to say at all. He wanted to ask where she had been. What she had done, who she had met. He wanted to know it all but what had come out was a snarky remark that implied the girl had nothing better to do with her time than follow around a boy she had met so many years ago and while he was hopeful she wouldn't take it as such he saw that familiar twitch of her brow and narrow of her eyes as she let out a scoff.

"Funnily enough, they recruited me, are you sure you didn't stalk me and send in that paperwork yourself?" Your words were light, light enough that any passerby might have thought the two were joking around but he knew you. He knew that the fierceness in your tone was a warning, an indication to your ever-growing temper that always had a tendency to flare up at both the worst and best moments was in the process of rising.

Spencer's eyes widened. "I didn't, I wouldn't- I haven't thought about you in decades, actually-" Your lips pursed and the Reid man's hands flew form their place of rest in his pants pockets and began to fly in the air around him as he tried to fix his mistake but he had never been quite as skilled as you with the whole social interaction side of friendship and very quickly the man felt himself making things worse. "That's not what I meant. Look, I just find it a bit strange that you're here-"

The coffee stirrer in your hands halted in their movement as you pulled it from the light brown pool of liquid sitting in your mug. Your fingers flicked it into the trashcan, nodding stiffly. "Well then." Your hand tipped your glass to the man who was trying entirely too hard to conceal the panic racing through his mind. "I don't mean to make you uncomfortable. JJ offered to give me a tour of the place, I think I'll take her up on that-"

"Y/N-" he hadn't moved form his spot, despite his brain yelling at his feet to move. Spencer could've been glued to the floor for all he knew but what he did know was that he simply was not budging. You turned with a confused look on your face, one that made his stomach churn because his behavior had caused it.

"It's fine, Spencer, we were friends as kids, doesn't mean we have to be now." His mouth opened, lips parting to say something, anything to keep you from walking into the bullpen, unaware of his internal conflict to you bring in the building rather than just thinking he was the world's biggest jerk, but nothing came out and your hand waved in the air passively. "It's okay, Spencer, seriously."

And with that, you had left.

-

DECEMBER 2011

The team stared at you expectantly, awaiting the answer to Penelope's inquiry and you threw a glance over your shoulder, landing on the genius to your left. You had all chosen a booth to sit at, close enough to the bar to retrieve drinks and far enough away to avoid the issue of crowds. The Reid man was pressed against the wall side of the booth, eyes glued to his drink of choice- a water, as far as you could tell but you didn't question it (Had you questioned any of his decisions in the last couple of months? No, that would have required talking.)

Your hand dropped the olive skewer softly, easily placing a faux smile that hurt your lips to create, eyes on the child prodigy shrinking his body so far into himself you thought he might collapse entirely.

"He was a good friend."

Penelope rolled her eyes, Emily booing as Derek through a pretzel that landed squarely in your curls. Hotch and Rossi watched in interest, JJ giggling at the teams antics but you weren't watching them.

You were watching him.

The stiffness that had taken over his posture, the stillness in his breaths.

"A good friend? That's it? Oh come on, sweetheart, we're gonna need a bit more than that, give it to us." The Morgan's eyebrows danced upon his forehead in a way that made you laugh, your eyes closing for the briefest of moments. But the moment was fleeting enough to let Spencer look at you, eyes flitting from the condensation on his water glass he had been concentrated on for the better half of the night to you. Your head tilted back, neck exposed as you chuckled. Your eyes were closed, just that happy grin consuming your features and he could imagine that he had been the one to cause it, just as he had done so before all those years ago reading the back of popsicle sticks and Laffy Taffy wrappers in funny voices because he knew that it made you laugh no matter what. He could imagine that he hadn't screwed up all those months ago, that he had pestered you with the questions that had stormed his mind that day and continued to flood him everyday since and that he was sitting next to you as he should be now. That the two of you were... the two of you once more. As you should have been. As it always should have been.

But then the moment was over and your eyes were opening to find Spencer staring at his glass once more.

"I don't think I will." Your smile drained at the sight the man and you deflated slightly, letting out a puff of air before holding up the empty glass, focusing your eyes back onto the Morgan. "But I will grab us all another round."

The chorus of boo's followed you like a billowy cloak wrapped around your shoulders and you turned on your heel without a second thought, heading to the bar for another drink.

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[novantinuum]

Intake, Ch. 2

Fandom: Steven Universe

Rating: Teen Audiences 

Words: 3600~

Summary: While waiting in the van, Greg reflects on the current state of his son’s mental health, and his many questionable parenting decisions.

This is set multiple months pre The Future, and is a bonus Greg-POV follow up to a previous one-shot I wrote. No context of that is needed to understand this.

If you read this and enjoy, I’d greatly appreciate your support through reblogs here, or kudos/comments on AO3 as well. AO3 link will be provided in the reblogs. Thank you! <3

____

Animated fireworks flash on Greg Universe’s phone screen, virtual fanfare for the virtual victor, as he clears the last king from the tableau. His brows shoot upwards in delight when he sees the final count of the timer. Wow, under three minutes. That’s close to a personal record. Not too shabby for a man who swears he finds a new strand of grey each and every week.

Another day, another successful round of solitaire in the bag.

Sighing, he almost clicks for a new deal, but then realizes it’s almost noon, and that his son is set to finish his first session any minute now. With that in mind, he switches off his phone and nestles it in the empty cup holder at his side, making sure it doesn’t touch the sticky soda stain covering a portion of the plastic. He’d kinda like to be paying attention when Steven exits the therapist’s office, rather than lose himself in a mindless distraction only to be startlingly yanked back to reality by timid knocks on the van door.

Timid.

If any word could be used to describe the way Steven dances around interactions with him these days, this one fits the bill. The boy will sometimes talk to him, sure, but it’s all small talk, short and curt responses, half-hearted shrugs. He’s positive there has to be more to his reluctance to fully engage, to even embrace him, but if so he’s not seeing it. At this point, the last time they had a true heart-to-heart conversation was on their road trip, before the crash. What on Earth happened? They used to be close. They used to share everything with each other, before he moved in with the Gems. Years later, he assumed they still did. And yet, after Dr. Maheswaran showed him the blunt reality of the X-rays on Steven’s chart... those dozens of healed-over fractures, speaking to a litany of injuries sustained throughout childhood, injuries he never knew about, all leading to trauma he never saw the signs of... he realized that, at some point, the two of them had drifted apart. When he was younger he thought he was correcting from his parents’ iron rule, letting his son have all the freedom he wanted. But was it too much? Was he that neglectful a father?

When did he stop paying attention to Steven’s emotional needs enough to miss his steep slip into mental distress?

He sighs, guilt lining the inside of his stomach like the burn of hard liquor coating one’s throat.

It’s not about me, he reminds himself. I can’t make it about me.

It’s the same mantra that kept him stubbornly pushing forward through waves of anguish and remorse weeks back, when his poor boy was roaring, slashing his claws at anyone that dared edge close, years of buried anger and pain thrown to the forefront in a veritable explosion of scales and thorns.

He glides his hand across the faux wood paneling on the dashboard as he consigns himself to recent memory, letting both his fingertips and his mind trace every dip and ridge of its grain. That was probably the most terrifying thing he’d ever witnessed in his life. His own son, disappearing in seconds into this... this monstrous thing, like all the corrupted Gems he used to see them fight from a distance but so, so much bigger. So much rawer. He genuinely thought he’d lost him forever that day. His own panic aside, he can’t even imagine what that experience must have been like for Steven. Remembering those heartbreaking three words he said before it happened, though, glowing pink on hands and knees, he’s not sure he wants to.

“Greg,” Dr. Priyanka Maheswaran says sternly as he exits the thrashed examination room, toting a clipboard under her arm. Her gaze, while undoubtedly sympathetic to the plight of the boy who’s currently changing back into his clothes in privacy, regards him with a fiery sort of reproval the likes he hasn’t squirmed under since he was a child himself. “We need to have a frank conversation about your son’s wellbeing.”

From the corner of his eyes he catches a blur of pink and faded denim blue pushing through the small office’s exterior door. Greg jolts to action, wiping what he fears is a self-pitying look off his face and attempting to replace it with something that looks halfway encouraging. Part of him’s terrified that no matter what he changes, it‘ll never be enough. He’s admittedly still at a loss for how to most helpfully interact with someone struggling with, erm... well, let’s be blunt— with long-untreated mental illness— but he’d do anything for his son’s sake at this point, even if that involves the hard work of addressing his own habits and convictions. He unlocks the van just as Steven walks up alongside.

He can’t help but briefly hold his breath the moment the passenger door opens.

The teen appears no different than he did when Greg left the office to sit in the van an hour and a half ago— his eyes are downcast, drawn with exhaustion, expression unreadable— but to be fair he supposes it’s silly to expect any drastic shift in mood after only one session. Right?

“Now, to be clear, I’m not licensed to diagnose mental disorders,” she explains, glancing up from her notes, “but from everything I’ve witnessed, tested, and heard from him today I have a strong suspicion that he’s dealing with post-traumatic stress.” Mouth pinched, she drops her clipboard on the counter beside them, its dull clap as it hits the laminate punctuating the sheer gravity of her words. “There’s my prognosis,” she says bluntly, palms spread wide. “This looks like textbook PTSD, ignored and overlooked for months.”

Greg lets the bitter reality of those four letters sink in, his eyes burning, throat dry, his heart cracking with despair at the very thought of— he only barely holds back what he’s sure in this circumstance, host to the scolding of a medical practitioner, is a pathetic sob— of his Steven, suffering through all these turbulent emotions for goodness knows how long, no one the wiser, no one noticing his silent cries for help, no one—

He... god, he didn’t know. He didn’t know! How could he have been so stupid to not have noticed?

“You do understand how serious this situation is, yes?” she continues when he doesn’t vocally respond. “How- how irresponsible it is to have never taken your sixteen-year-old son in for even, what? A simple check up? And, and—“ she holds her hands up before he can blurt out a response. “I know what you’re about to say. I know he’s half-Gem, I know he’s different than anyone else on this planet. But he has human needs, too, Greg! I just—!” Priyanka inhales deep, pressing her thumb against her temple as she pauses to catch her cool. “Pardon me. I’m sorry for snapping. I know you love him, and mean well with him, but at this point, we need to face the truth. That boy is hurting, badly. And if he’s going to have any chance of recovering from this, he needs your full support now more than ever.”

The passenger seatbelt clicks, the door already closed. Steven sighs under his breath, sinking into the time-worn, faded seat back. Greg studies his son’s face for a moment, noting with concern the lines of stress creased under his eyes.

“Hey, bud,” he says, his hands shifting to the wheel, nervously fidgeting as he waits for a response, any response.

“Hey,” he mutters, already pulling out his phone. (Probably to text Connie, if he has to guess. Greg counts himself thankful that he has this solid friendship to help anchor him at such a difficult point in his life. Simultaneously, his heart aches knowing the stress that girl’s surely gone through by choosing to be a support for him.)

“How... erm, how’d it go?”

He gives him a big shrug, his fingertips blazing across the screen in an almost dizzying display of dexterity. “It went.”

Greg’s fingers rap against the sun-stained leather. “You still game for gettin’ some food?”

“Yeah. That’s fine.”

Okay. Good. Lunchtime is a go, then, he thinks, diverting his notice to the keys in the ignition. Despite this, there’s a shade of disappointment that tints the atmosphere within this space. Unable to shake the harrowing feeling that he failed some sort of unspoken test with his son, he starts the van and— mentally plotting a course to that good Thai place Steven discovered a few months back— carefully pulls out of the cramped parking lot onto the main road, hoping that this extension to their time together may eventually chip away at the ice that’s formed between them.

Some classic rock plays on the radio as he drives, a band Greg distantly recalls hearing via his classmates in high school but can’t remember the name of. The singer’s mellow tenor effortlessly fills the gaps left behind in their timid silence. Briefly glancing away from the road, he catches Steven’s fingers tapping against his phone to the beat as he waits for a reply to his text, lips drawn. It’s an almost minuscule display, so subtle that any untrained eye might miss it, but witnessing this proof that his son is still very much capable of finding pleasure in music, however small said source of pleasure may be, he can’t help but smile. Soon enough, he passes the crooked street lamp on the corner of Glover and 4th that he always uses as a mental marker when navigating around the small town of Seaside, and takes a quick left at the next stoplight. It’s funny... this place is only twenty or so miles away from home, but given gas costs and his habitual frugalness, he hasn’t explored this county enough over the years to form a good internal map beyond Beach City. Perhaps now, with his son coming to this town every week for therapy, that will change.

The song ends on a sleek guitar riff, and quickly transitions back to the station’s upbeat radio personality.

“You’re listening to Dragon’s Hoard FM, your home for all of music’s greatest treasures! Next up, a trip down memory lane... to a fan favorite from the 1971 best-selling artist... welcome to the party, Kerry Moonbeam.”

Static pours through his nerves as the next number begins to play, (why now, why now, what cruel cosmic timing is this??), robbing all sensation from his fingers. His knuckles grow uncharacteristically pale as he clutches at the wheel, wrestling for dominance.

“Looking for your place in the universe...”

He doesn’t dare shift his gaze from traffic this time, but all he can see in his mind’s eye is that glowing, nauseatingly bright pink. The unwavering tension hanging over them, thick as smog, as their conversation grows terse and grim. His son at the helm, the demons of their past steering their trajectory far out of anyone’s control, as— angered and upset over what he now accepts are entirely rational things— he openly calls out his failures, his lack of structure, lack of attention, his—

“Don’t you know the universe is looking too~ Looking for its place in yo—“

And with the twist of a knob, it’s over. Some local station replaces those tense airwaves, bringing him relief from tainted memory in an instant. His hand quivers as it returns to command of the wheel. In the passenger seat, Steven glances up from his text conversation with that instinctual concern he’s so prone to, eyes blown wide and colored with equal parts confusion and sympathy.

Notably, there’s not a sign of pink.

Swallowing hard, Greg considers saying something in explanation, but in the tangled complexity of their current relationship he can’t think of anything worth saying. Eventually, his throat runs dry in his own silence. His son stops gawking at him like another problem to be fixed, attention drifting back to his phone. His muscles loosen in sheer relief.

He sighs under his breath as he slows for a pedestrian at the crosswalk. Willfully, he buries himself in the mindless drivel of the local talk show he switched to for the rest of the drive, allowing their distant voices to cover the aching, lonely gap torn in his heart.

____

They put in their order when the waitress arrives, Steven settling on pad thai with egg and tofu, and Greg falling back on an old favorite with fried rice and pork. She jots this down on her notepad in a jiffy, pours them some water, then hurriedly scuttles behind the curtain that separates the kitchen from the remainder of the restaurant. It is the lunch rush, after all.

Thankfully though, even amongst the rush the two of them were lucky enough to be seated at a cozy table nestled against the back wall, affording them a decent amount of privacy. There’s enough ambient chit-chat bouncing around the room that Greg doesn’t feel eaten alive by that aching isolation he endured on the almost silent drive over, but not enough that these people’s presence feels suffocating. Steven slowly sips at his water as he politely listens to his updates on Sadie and Shep’s blossoming music career. He’s not saying much in response beyond asking the appropriate follow-up questions and then nodding his head at his answers, but in the end, that’s fine. Even if the recent lack of depth to their conversations bothers him, even if his son’s silence shatters his heart, in his mind it’s not fair to pressure him to interact in a manner he‘s not ready for yet. Greg just needs to be patient. He’ll open up to him when the time is right. There’s no need to push so hard that the remaining threads stringing their relationship together snap altogether, which is— if he’s honest— the future he fears the most.

The one where he becomes no better than his own over-controlling parents.

With his fingers obsessively rapping alongside the side of his glass, he continues to make substance-less small talk, anything to aid in the illusion that the two of them can still carry a conversation together.

“So yeah, that’s where they’re at right now,” he says. “They said they’re gonna put a pause on the touring, and start working on a full album.”

“Nice. Good for them,” Steven responds, the lines under his eyes betraying his underlying exhaustion, even if it appears he’s trying his hardest to mask it. (But for who’s sake?) “And you, you’re still gonna...?”

“Be their manager, yes. That’s still the plan.”

“Cool, cool.“

Their words fade amongst the ambient chatter, neither immediately leaping to comment further.

He softly clears his throat. “And, uh... in the end, I’ll be there whenever they need me, y’know? They might decide they want someone else supportin’ them along some day, and that’s fine.” He wrings his hands together atop the table, watching his son closely. “I only want the best for them.”

The teen’s hollow glance flits across the restaurant, landing from person to person, his leg bouncing nervously under the table all the while. Upon sensing this, it suddenly hits Greg that this is the first time Steven’s been out in busy public beyond the familiar faces of Beach City. For a second he can’t help but fret that all this activity— therapist’s waiting room, awkward car ride, going out to a busy restaurant at noon— will only serve to stress the poor kid out, but then again... pressing his silent worries onto the situation won’t help anyone. The only thing that’s important right now is for his son to know he’s always loved. Always heard, always seen, from this moment on.

After all his failures as a guardian in the years prior, it’s the least he can do.

And then, as Steven’s gaze shifts back into focus, Greg can wholeheartedly sense that he’s mentally engaged, delicate machinery in his mind whirring away as he processes every facet of this conversation, this moment, this place. He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and then opens his mouth to speak.

“With Sadie and Shep, well...” He scratches at the back of his neck, not quite sustaining eye contact. “I’m sure that... no matter what the future holds, they’ll always appreciate the support you did give them. Even if some of that support maaaybe wasn’t exactly what they needed at the time,” he adds as an afterthought, voice falling soft.

Something within his chest unshackles upon hearing these words, their double meaning more than clear to him. He blinks hard, desperately trying not to utterly break down in front of his own kid. “Steven, I—“

His attempt to piece together a heartfelt response is interrupted by the arrival of their lunch, steam wafting off each plate as the waitress sets them both on the table. They both offer their thanks, and unwind their utensils from their napkins. He’s quick to dig in to his fried rice and pork, having not eaten a full meal since last night. Steven, on the other hand, picks and prods at his entrée, something he’s noticed has become a concerningly common occurrence in recent weeks. He still eats, thank the stars, but not with zeal.

Greg is already midway through his plate before by the time his son‘s just started to put a dent into his own. The teen twirls his chopsticks around a clump of noodles and bean sprouts, seeming more lost in thought than usual. A moment passes, and he opens his mouth as if he’s about to speak up, but quickly shuts it again.

His brow creases with equal parts worry and curiosity. “You got somethin’ on your mind, bud?”

Steven frowns, abandoning his otherwise proficient chopstick skills to stab the tip of one of them into a hunk of tofu. “I guess it’s just that... well... nothing about that appointment was what I expected,” he says, and lifts his utensil to take a bite.

“Oh, yeah?” he prompts, and leans into the table with a surplus of attentiveness. All the while, he’s waging a desperate internal battle not to seem like he’s clinging to his each and every word. (Just let him open up at his own pace, Greg. Don’t be suffocating. Encourage him, but give him time.)

“It wasn’t like, bad,” he murmurs softly, his blank gaze drifting across the ornaments and framed art strewn across the restaurant walls. “But we barely even talked about the last few months? I thought we would, but we didn’t. Instead, he just asked a lot of questions about you, the Gems, Beach City, what it was like growing up. Some clarification on the history of the Diamonds, and the war. I dunno,” he shrugs, and twirls his chopsticks through his pad thai again. “It was kinda strange.”

Greg reflects for a moment on his son’s words, recalling with a slight grimace the first conversation he and the Gems had with Steven about considering therapy. At first he was strongly resistant to the idea, almost indignantly so, claiming that he could “sort this all out by himself” given time, that no one could ever relate to his exact problems enough to be of any help, and that he didn’t want to make his stupid life someone else’s burden in the first place. And even when they managed to convince him to give it a try, he still admitted worry about finding someone who knew enough about Gems to be qualified to treat him. So in that case, he can understand if the teen feels a little nervous, being asked so many questions about his complex lineage.

“Yeah, I hear ya’,” he nods, and then— catching the inside of his cheek between his teeth, rapidly weighing the pros and cons of risking a more in-depth comment— “With what Dr. Maheswaran’s told me about therapy, though, that sounds about normal for a first session, for anyone.”

Steven visibly perks up, perhaps in relief that for once his experience isn’t a unique exception like many other things in his childhood... schooling, housing situation, etc. etc... have been.

“Really? What- what did she say about it?”

“Mostly that it’s important for therapists to build context so they can better understand their client’s current state, or something like that.”

“Huh,” he says thoughtfully, sitting back in his chair. “Well, I guess that makes sense.”

“In the end, you’re definitely not the only one in this boat, Schtu-ball. And that‘s gotta be a little reassuring, yeah?”

He smiles in response. It’s small, merely a slight upward tilt of his lip, but it’s there. “Yeah. I suppose it is.”

____

Their conversation fades back into small-talk after that, but by that point Greg doesn’t feel so bothered. Instead, he feels as if a colossal weight’s been lifted from his chest. He’s not sure Steven fully understands the gift he’s given him today, opening up a little about his inner life after so many long weeks of self imposed silence, but the reassurance it’s offered about the state of their bond is astronomical. It promises healing, a brand new chance to listen and understand.

To change and grow in relationship together, father and son.

“Hey, Dad?” he asks hesitantly as he climbs into the passenger seat.

“Yeah, bud?”

He diverts his attention from the dashboard for just a moment, just long enough to catch a glimpse of the teenager. Clutching their leftovers in his lap, Steven’s eyes land on the stack of CDs tucked into the door pocket.

“D’ya think we can listen to one of your albums on the way back?”

With a watery smile, he switches the van’s radio to disk mode.

“Take your pick.”

[forgottenvoice]

I have finally finished finals this semester and will now try and do some more writing. To all of my new followers because of the HASO story, like I said before that was a one off story, however I think I am going to do a rewrite of it because I am not entirely satisfied with the state and flow of it at current.

Quick context for this one, I am/was an army brat and so this is half personal experience half an amalgamation of the experiences of all my friends. Dont necessarily take this as exactly what it's like for everyone as experiences may vary.

Also if any of you like a specific part of this story let me know. I can write at least this much on any subsection of this story alone. So if something catches your eye I am more than happy to write on it.

..........

I sit in a pool of memories slowly drifting from thought to thought. Moving time is upon us and in preperation it's time to purge all unnecessary items from the house. I flash back to when I was younger, my mom is holding up a cheap drive-thru toy. She looks at me expectantly waiting for a response to a silent question.

"Let go," I say as she drops the item in a box bound for good will only to hold up another object of mine.

In years past this process of sorting through all of my belongings was a team effort between my parents and I, but now since I am older and my younger brother needs the help, I am left to my own to sift through my possessions.

I tip over a box of assorted things and wonder through my past lives. Each object acts as a mile marker through my life and each move a save point. Any thing that I have kept until now, my 10th move in 16 years, has, if not clearly designed for enjoyment or play, held some significance to me. Almost nothing out of this box is discarded because as the years go on the importance of these objects only increases.

Not only is this process a reminder for me of all my past appearances, it serves a highly functional purpose. The first is that the government will only pay for so much to be moved and we typically own more than they are willing to pay for, so we cut back. The second reason is in acknowledgment of a harsher reality of the world, people don't care about kids stuff. Unless one takes great care to prepackaged or show that the objects in a child's room are fragile, everything from toys to trophies will all be haphazardly thrown into a random box.

I move on carefully looking over my display case looking for anything that could easily break if not properly stored. My eyes come to rest on a fake flower made out of fabric by my mom. The pain of high school love torn apart bites at my mind. This flower was the partner to the corsage that I gave to my date to prom. I remember being so excited to go with her because I am homeschooled and never thought I would get anything like a prom. But it doesn't matter now, her family moved in the opposite direction that we were going about 4 weeks ago. I almost leave the flower there, resolving to let fate decide if it is valuable, but as I am turning a away my hand reaches out on seemingly its own and drops the fake plant into an old cigar box for protection. I guess I will control fate this time

.......

The house is empty and clean. Everyone is doing one last walk through of this place to make sure nothing is left behind even though something always is. As I look for anything I also remember everything making sure to not leave a single memory trapped in the walls of this temporary home of mine. As I tramp down the stairs, in my head I am gliding gracefully on a piece of a box after moving in. Mom insisted on being safe and I can now almost see the pile of stuffed animals and pillows that my brothers and I had piled at the end of the make shift ramp to satisfy her worry. As I jump into the nonexistent pile, I drop into the living room, where, despite all the cleaning we did, I can still see the spots on the carpet from the feet of the sofa, a sofa my mom was confined to for the better part of our time here while she was busy kicking cancer's ass. A darkness sets at the edge of my vision slowly consuming all I can see as my head is bombarded by negative memories from those days. As I hit the door, the light from outside shatters the dark over my mind like a hammer through glass. As we pull away I want nothing to do with that house again, not even looking back one last time.

....

I lay piled under the stiff covers of the hotel. It is the night before we leave for the airport and I start to unpack the last few days. They have gone by like a blur but I know I will remember them for years to come. First there was my eagle scout ceremony where I reaped the reward of all my hard work over specifically the last few months but really the past 6 years. It was the last time I will see most of those people given that none of them were military and I plan on never ending up back here. Then there was chapel. The last service at this place where I tried to just act like everything was normal, just a regular Christmas sunday. I showed up 2 hours early just like every week, where I then took my place in the sound booth mixing the best sound that the chapel had in years or so I have been told. It all went wrong though when the preacher leaned his head into the booth telling me to turn on his mic for one quick last announcement, where I was called up on stage for a farewell. However, the one "last time" that I really will miss happened earlier in the day when I hung out with my friends for the last time. The group had shrunk considerably by that time due to a huge fallout between members and others were taken by the army but what remained was solid. As I left them I said seeya because you never know when the army will bring friends back together. Well for that reason and one other. In the days leading up to the move you see everyone at different random times and so you never really know when you will see them for the last time. It is always easier to say a casual goodbye everytime and never actually have a formal one than to treat every farewell like the last one and live the pain multiple times. However, less pain doesn't mean no pain. I blank my mind for the rest of the night gathering all emotions and putting them in a cardboard box to unpack later in more healthy time.

.....

On the plane something magical happens. You see noone but a select few get to rewrite their lives every few years. During transition, when the body and mind are free of the last place, a morph occurs. This change is unseen by all because your family already knows the real you. However you get to change yourself completely before landing at the new place. You get to change what information you share with everyone and by selecting how you act and what you reveal you can choose who you are to everyone. The best part is there is noone from your old life to mess it up and break the illusion and throw a wrench into the act. You can become whomever you want to be. It takes skill to execute properly, it requires that you craft a mask so intricate and durable that noone questions its authenticity and no shock can damage it, but I have had a life times worth of practice. Who will I become only I know and who I was is only stored in the memories of objects in boxes and the minds of people thousands of miles away.

....

It's been almost 4 years since that move yet it still sticks out in my head. I did not know it at the time but it was the last move I ever made with my family. My plans changed and I started my life before i had originally planned and now moves like that are a thing of the past, a memory held in objects. Unfortunately with growing up requires one last mask switch, this one more permanent. Hopefully my experience beyond my years set my up better than my peers at finding the correct one. Who knows what it will look like when it is finished. I have been working on this one for the longest time of any, nearly 2 years now, much longer than a single plane flight. It won't be done for at least another 2 but we will see. I can only hope I will be happy with this one because unlike the cyclic replacement of masks in my youth, when I decide to put this one on who knows when it will come off.

[starshineskyandthepowerofrock]

Evening Announcements

Part 10 of Starshine, Sky, and the Power of Rock.

The dreams are getting worse, somehow. This one gets me so bad I hit my head trying to escape my casket. I make it halfway out before reality catches up with me and I sink to the floor, trying to calm down some.

"Is this going to be a nightly thing with you?" a voice hisses from the other side of the room. Gossamer Glade, face lined in moonlight, is sitting up in her own bed. Her lacy eye mask is pushed up to reveal big green eyes that glare at me with pure fury.

I feel around on the nightstand for my CD player. "Can you at least wait 'til I'm wearing a bra before you start getting on my ass?"

Gossamer throws herself back on one of her many silk pillows, her arms above her head in the most dramatic pose I've ever seen. "I don't appreciate having my internal clock thrown off because you can't handle bad dreams. Do you realize I've been getting tired while the sun is up? My body thinks it's nighttime while I'm at school. You're confusing my body and if this keeps up it'll affect my grades."

Ignore her. Ignore her. I rummage through my treasure trove for the right CD. Blood in the Ducts? No he introduced me to that one. Chains on Bone? No he whistled track four all the time...

"But I imagine you're not one to care about grades, are you, vampire?" Gossamer says. "My father says you're doing very poorly in his class."

I could say something right now but... No, keep looking, keep looking... Grave's Dust... Black Morning... No Answers —  What?

The clear jewel case shakes in my hand. A once-blank CD stares back at me, the name No Answers scrawled in marker on plain white in my handwriting. We made this song together. We made a lot of songs together. They'd almost joined the bonfire I'd built for my Band of Darkness uniform but I have this thing about destroying art. Plus I hear the fumes from doing that are dangerous and I didn't need any of the animals near me getting hurt. So I'd settled for leaving them all at home. At least I thought it was all of them.

"This has been the worst month of my life. How am I supposed to spend four years living like this?" Gossamer whines into her pillow.

"The feeling's mutual," I say, finally picking a CD and sliding my earbuds in place.

💙💙💙

Assigned seats make sense in this place. I normally hate them but I get it here. Bands should sit together so all the teachers have, well, sat us together. Mr. Glade basically did this too. Almost.

Alright so first day of the first "Academic Week" was already gonna be a bummer because we get no music classes. Not to mention I wasn't thrilled to meet the guy halfway responsible for the demon spawn I've been forced to room with. But then I finally walked into his class, only to find out my seat was nowhere near anyone else's in my band. I didn't feel like starting a conversation with him so I waited for everyone else to sit and found the only empty seat was all the way in the back. And it had my name on it.

I went up to his desk. "Mr. Glade?"

"Yes?" he asked, his back turned to me.

"I can't sit back there."

He chuckled. "What makes you say that?" he asked, then turned around. His smile snapped into a scowl the moment he'd realized who he was talking to.

"I, uh, have albinism," I said. "It makes my vision real bad. I'm supposed to sit near the front in all my classes-"

"Oh, you're 'supposed to,' are you?"

Instincts told me to stop but I kept going. "Yeah, I put it in my application and they said there'd be accomoda-"

"If your sight is so bad, why don't you wear glasses?"

"I-I'm wearing contacts but they don't fix everythi-"

"Are you giving me attitude?"

"No, I just-"

Gossamer stood up. "Could you stop?"

That's when the whispers came. Eyes on me from the whole class. I turned to Star but she wasn't about to argue with a teacher. So I've been sitting back here ever since and I haven't been able to read a single thing on the board. I also don't have a large-print textbook in here like I'm supposed to. And I'm a slow note-taker so I've only been getting bits and pieces of his rapid fire lectures down. And now I can't make out the quiz right in front of me.

No way he didn't know what he was doing. I'm having a hard time believing kids with 20/20 vision could read this, the print's so small. My eyes dart up for a moment (last time I lifted my head I got accused of cheating) and I look around. Kids are squinting some. A few have to bring the paper closer. But they work through it. At least they can read this.  And of course there's no multiple choice questions because I could have at least guessed on that.

I bring my head closer and closer to the desk until the tip of my nose touches the paper. The words blend together in a mass of spotty black. I still can't tell where one letter ends and the next begins. Alright this is hopeless.

For question one I put, "I'd answer if I knew what this said." For the rest I put, "See question one." I'll get a zero and he'll say it's my fault but we'll both know what's true.

💙💙💙

For the past couple weeks I've been hearing snippets of whispered conversation from the older kids. "Poor First Years." "They don't know what's coming." "Glad that's behind me." "Aw, I thought it was cool!"

I try to listen in every time, but of course they quiet down and scurry away when they notice the vampire's near them. There's been a spike in these whispers lately. Even Star let something slip.

"Dinner can't come soon enough," I'd told her during transition today.

She'd giggled and said, "Honestly, I'm kinda dreading it."

"Why's that?"

She panicked. "Um, no reason!" Then she changed the subject to how to get rid of my dark circles.

Now I can't focus on dinner at all because the older kids keep rubbernecking every First Year that walks by their tables. Odds are I won't get anything out of Star but it's worth a shot.

"Something happening tonight?" I ask her.

Crescent chimes in with, "Yeah, kids keep talking about the First Years. What's going on?"

Star picks at her smoked salmon. "What? What? What are you talking about?" she asks, not looking at either of us.

"I'll take that as a yes," I say.

Crescent leans in. "Spill!"

Before Star can answer a hush falls over the room and is soon replaced by a chorus of "Your Majesty"s. Kids left and right bow and curtsy as Queen Sunshine enters. She nods her head of bright yellow braids, holding a microphone and making her way to the cleared-out center of the room. Following her is a guy holding what looks like a big, old-looking box of some kind. Sunshine taps the mic and clears her throat to make sure everyone's listening. We are.

"Good evening, students," she says.

"Good evening, Your Majesty," everyone says in unison. It's a big change from the usual scattered mumbles I've seen most principals get after saying that.

Sunshine continues. "You may have heard from whispers around, but tonight is a very important night for our First Years."

Everyone was listening before but now the First Years perk up even more. Even Pearl looks up from her lunch and I haven't seen her act like she knows anyone's there since the night I found out her name.

"Now, First Years, I wouldn't be surprised if you were wondering: just how are you supposed to lug around and care for what can be very cumbersome instruments? When the Band of Darkness can attack at any moment, how are you supposed to be ready in time? Even seasoned members of the Band of Light had been wondering the same thing for years, until the innovators in magical technology behind the Soul Key created this." She gestures to the box, which the guy holds up for everyone to see.

Kids are standing, stretching, some are putting their feet on their chairs to get a better look. A merboy nearby says, "That's what this is about!" to his buddy. A catgirl whispers to her band, "I don't see what people are freaking out over, this is awesome!" Crescent bounces in her seat, squealing to herself. So I guess I'm the only one who doesn't know what I'm looking at.

Sunshine smiles. "Yes, yes, I'm sure all of you have been anxious for this moment, and I won't waste your time with formalities." The formalities would have been appreciated if they meant I knew what she's talking about. "Star," Sunshine calls.

Star immediately stands at attention. "Yes, Mama."

"Would you like to demonstrate?" Sunshine asks.

Star barely holds back a squeal as she makes her way to her mother. She unhooks her Soul Key from her skirt and raises it high for everyone to see. Then she slides the key into what I guess is a lock on the box and cranks it a few times. So it's a music box.

The only sound in the room is the tune coming from this box. No one can take their eyes off it, including me because I wanna know why everyone else is so invested.

Then the top of the box cracks open, a brilliant hot pink light spilling out. Star excitedly reaches in and pulls out a midnight blue cassette player accented with pale pink and purple gems and stars. She holds it up and the whole room cheers.

"Congratulations, Star," Sunshine says. "You're one step further in your journey to being a rock star."

Star hugs her mother then happily accepts praise all the way back to her seat, waving, curtsying, blowing kisses and more. I can't imagine what that feels like. Once she's next to me again and Sunshine starts calling bands up, Crescent and I both want a better look at her new cassette player.

"Ohmigoodness," Crescent whispers as more kids get their own sparkly music players. "The Heir to Light's Soul Player is right in front of me! They're gonna put this in a museum one day!"

"What's a Soul Player?" I ask.

Star explains, "Its a magical device that provides you with the instrument you need to fight the Band of Darkness whenever you need." A wide grin lights up her face. "And it gives you a super cute outfit to go with it! I wonder what you guys' will look like." She gasps. "I wonder what mine will look like!" She holds the Soul Player to her chest, probably seeing something real frilly in her mind's eye. "But yeah, you basically need one if you want to call yourself a rock star around here."

Interesting. That sounds like it'd shave off a lot of valuable time getting ready to battle. No wonder the Band of Light was there so fast to save Star and me after we got ourselves in trouble.

Watching kids get their own Soul Players I see they don't only come as cassette players. They can be MP3 players, CD players, a few kids even get small boomboxes, which don't seem very practical. They also come in a rainbow of pastels and sparkles and cute shapes like hearts and stuff. They sure love form over function here, and back home come think of it, but what can you expect from kingdoms run by performers?

Soon it's the rest of our band's turn. Too many eyes bore into me as we make our way up. Gossamer shoves past me and uses her gilded Soul Key first. She pulls out a yellow and green MP3 player from a burst of green light then goes back to sit with her sisters without a word to any of us. Crescent gets a candy colored wireless speaker. Pearl gets a turquoise tablet encrusted with shimmering shells.

Now it's my turn. The room quiets down like they did for Star but for a very different reason. As if I didn't know before, I'm suddenly really aware that I'm the only monster here. Feeling the whole school stare, I unhook my Soul Key from my belt loop with trembling hands. Far off whispers lick the back of my neck. I'm doing something wrong, aren't I? I'm gonna screw this up somehow. I'm wasting their time, how did I even get accepted into this school-

"Ms. Acdalur?" Sunshine says.

"Huh?" I've just been holding the key here in front of the box. The whispers get louder, like bees buzzing, ready to sting. The key slips from my clammy hands and I just barely catch it. Now they're snickering. Stone face. Stone face. Don't show a thing, Sky. Stop shaking, what's wrong with you?

Sunshine leans near me to say in an undertone I hope only I can hear, "What's wrong, hon?"

I shake my head. My voice doesn't work right now.

Sunshine doesn't speak for a second, instead staring at my key. "That's a lovely Soul Key you've got there," she says. "You know, you're the first monster to ever have one. And I'm sure no one would've expected it to be so beautiful. It makes me wonder what your Soul Player will look like."

That's right, I guess it's supposed to reflect my soul or something. I do really like the way my Soul Key looks, which is surprising. I wouldn't really consider anything about me beautiful, let alone my soul. Well, my ex called me beautiful. But she was crazy.

I'm stalling. I guess getting it over with will get everyone's eyes off of me. I hope.

I slide the key in the box's keyhole, and crank the way I've seen everyone else do it. The tune is as long as it's been every time, but this time it feels way longer. Finally, the box cracks open. I'm flashed with a bright pink flash of light that I have to look away from to keep from hurting my eyes. When I'm able to turn back, there's a CD player sitting in the box. It's glossy black, accented with a pastel rainbow spiderweb design. In the middle is a big, translucent, hot pink heart. I reach into the box. It's really warm in there. In fact, I flinch once my fingers touch the Soul Player, because it's pretty hot.

Kids won't stop whispering to each other the whole way back to my seat, and I can only imagine what they're saying.

Star clamors to get a better look at my Soul Player. "Yours is cute, too! They're all so cute!" At least I know someone has something good to say about what just happened.

Once all the First Years have their Soul Players I'm just about ready for dinner to go back to normal, but Sunshine stays put in the center of the room, even after the guy with her leaves and takes the music box with him. I figure she's just there to say some stuff about how it's the next stage of our something something blah blah blah, but she's still standing there even after saying all that. The older kids are back at it with the whispering.

"There is... another announcement for our First Years," Sunshine says tentatively.

We all lean in a bit closer.

"See, we have a little tradition here that's older than anyone in this room. The First Years are sent into Hillside's Serpentine Forest-"

An uproar is sent throughout the First Year tables, which doesn't bode well for whatever's going on in this forest.

Sunshine winces at the response then continues, "You will camp out there overnight-"

An even bigger uproar.

"Okay, yes, I understand your concern," Sunshine says. "When I was your age, I wasn't too thrilled to go through with this either. But I came to understand its importance as a bonding exercise. That's why, ever since I've been in charge, I've updated it to make things a bit easier on you. You will be provided with all the necessary supplies, including your Soul Player for self-defense purposes. If you do not find your way back to the palace after 24 hours, we'll send for you."

Over the chorus of complaining First Years I say to Star, "What's so bad about camping?"

"Yeah, that sounds like fun!" Crescent says.

Star shakes her head. "The Serpentine Forest is not fun, trust me."

I can't get myself too worked up over this, honestly. My family goes camping every year and you don't wanna know the kind of stuff lurking in the woods on the Isle of Isolation. What's the worst this kingdom of pastels and sparkles can throw at me? Granted I've already almost been killed this year... but I survived that, didn't I? Because Star and I make a pretty good team. So we'll be fine.

Sunshine says, "One last thing about that: you and your roommate will be camping in a team of two."

"WHAT?" Gossamer shouts, standing straight up. Her head snaps to me, filled with rage, as if I was the one that decided this.

Suddenly, I'm as upset as everyone else.

[queerly-belov3d]

Things I don’t want to forget

I visited my grandmas house for the final time on March 25th, 2017.  I felt a lot of emotions, but most of all, an overwhelming wave of grief and finality.

This was it.  She doesn’t live here anymore.  She will never live here again.

After I walked out the door, I texted myself every detail I could remember about what I had just experienced - just so I could hold onto it a little longer.  Two days later, I received a blank text in the same conversation I had created with myself for that very purpose.  I’m not sure what I believe in, but I think that was my reminder to move such a memorable experience to a better location.

So here it is.

It smells like church in the living room, and in a most fitting fashion, a picture of Jesus is the only thing still hanging on the walls.  The living room is empty, bar the piano and the headboard my mom wants me to take.  The random assortment of carpets are still down, the frayed edges still duck taped to the floor to prevent her from finding a way to trip over them.  However, everything else is gone.  The couches, the entertainment set, the TV, the Christmas decorations... all gone.

The room with the red carpet that I spent hours playing in has been purged of all my toys.  At some point after I moved to college it had been re-purposed into a laundry room, but all of my toys had remained packed on the shelving to the side of the room - along with the copious amounts of chips she would get on sale and pack away to give to me during my next visit.  But now the bookshelves full of papers, antique toys, board games, and snacks were gone.  

The other guest room, that used to be my great aunts bedroom, holds only a lamp now.  This is where I had slept when I last visited her.  Where I packed up my things and left thinking I’d still get to see her again, only a week before she would pass away. 

Her room is what gets to me the most.  What was once a chaotic array of various items that were fond to her is now an empty shell.  The TV whose remote I had to reprogram so many times I cannot count is gone.  The computer we sat at for hours together while I frustratingly tried to teach her how to use it has since moved on - the only sign of it’s existence being the modem plug still hanging from the wall.  In fact, it’s the only thing still on the wall.  The pictures she had once printed out (a few of which had been on normal printer paper, but most from disposable cameras - as she loved those the most) are now gone.  The photo from “The Secret of the Watermelon” youth group event, the picture that had post it notes of prayers she needed to make, and the various other elements that had hung on her wall that had made her room full of her love and joy are now all gone.

And of course, most importantly, her bed is gone.  The small set of stairs she had pushed up next to her bed so her little dog could easily join her at night has vanished.  The headboard that used to hold her alarm clock that seemed to be set to go off at all sorts of random hours of the day has been thrown out.  The white comforter with a patterned arrangement of colorful flowers has moved on.  She doesn’t sleep her anymore, and that’s finally set in.

I peek into the bathroom and notice that this room still holds multiple possessions of hers.  Her pink comb for her thin hair sits in the green cup she had used to hold her various bathroom belongings.  There are a few sticky notes with reminds still floating  around near the sink and the mirror.  But these things don’t allow me to live in the illusion she’s still here.  There’s still too much missing from this room, too.

As I’m leaving the bathroom, I notice the hallway closet I always overlooked.  This is where she had hung my arts and crafts project from my very first day of Sunday school in 1996... or maybe it was ‘95... regardless, she had been so happy for me to be going to church.  Even though I don’t go now, and I’m not sure what I believe in anymore, if there was a God, she’s been the only person in my life to radiate that kind of love.

When I trek to the kitchen my heart drops.  All of her appliances are gone.  I’ve never seen this room so exposed.  What saddens me the most is the absence of the fridge that had always held photos of Rodger, newspaper clippings (including the picture of herself planting tomatoes when she made it onto the front page), or other notes and miscellaneous fun artifacts, pinned up by magnets of all varieties.  One of them used to be a magnet from the Sears tower, which had been a gift from me after my trip to Chicago in 2015. 

Also missing is the gas stove - a reminder of how much she loved to provide for others via her cooking, even when asked not to.  Sometimes I’d eat a second dinner to appease her, because I knew how much it meant to her (and she was going to make it regardless of my level of hunger).  This makes me reflect back to middle school, when I’d bring friends back with me after school and she’d bring out all the food she could muster for all of us.  Those days are over now.

I take a look out of her kitchen window to her back yard and am not surprised to see that the black swing is gone - although I’m not sure why this is important to me.  Other than one mysterious black Croc shoe, her back porch is completely empty.  The flowers, decorations, and wind chimes have all been migrated to my parents house.  My heart aches as I remember how she had wished to go out on her back porch one more time.  She had been doing so much better that she had even been getting up from bed and making her own meals.  I had been home the day her hospice worker discussed how next week, they’d both go out and sit on the back porch together.  But that day never came.  That same night, she had a mini-stroke.  It was too hard on her body, and she didn’t recover.  She passed two weeks later.  Pushing that memory out of my mind, I focus instead on the few ornaments that still scatter the back yard.  My eye catches on the garden hose - bright green with a yellow stripe - and I can almost see her holding it, sporting sun hat and gardening gloves, waving to me, but it’s only a memory.

As I pull away I notice she has labeled the screens inside her windows with indications of which area they belong to.  South K, this one says.  I’m not sure what this means, but I know she did.  She knew her systems.  I remember there was a brown block puzzle she had owned that she had given to me to solve.  When I finally did figure it out she wanted to make sure we could always solve it again, so she wrote letters in black marker on the sides of the pieces, where if the letters matched on two different pieces those sides must go together in that spot.  She might not have ever fully understood how to use the Internet to Google something, but she sure was clever.  Years of taking care of others made her that way.  She was a problem solver, and she’d always try to help find a solution - even if that solution was duck tape, which it usually was (dubbing her the title Duct Tape Queen, even prior to my mom finding a book buried in the basement called The Duct Tape Book a few months back).

My mom beckons to me to see the basement, and I follow her.  As early in my life as I can remember, the basement was always filled with canned goods at the bottom of the stairs, and everywhere else filled with archived memorabilia.  I know it will be empty now, but in my gut I feel as though the basement couldn’t possibly be empty.

As we descend the stairs, I do not see the shelves that used to hold the canned goods.  When we reach the bottom of the stairs, I turn on the light and am awestruck.  There’s nothing left.  My mom has gotten through it all, which shouldn’t be surprising now that 10 months have passed.  I smile a little, thinking of how my grandma had always claimed she had my moms tonsils saved somewhere down here, and how my mom had never found them.  Had she gotten rid of them a long time ago and forgotten?  Were they in some other secret space, a surprise for the next inhabitant of the house?  Who knows.

I take a look at the space of floor and wall I never knew existed and imagine everything else she had kept here.  My mom had shared a few of these items with me.  Stuffed animals from my moms and uncles childhoods, my uncles boy scout uniform, the newspaper from the JFK assassination... what else had she kept here?  Whatever it all had been, I knew she had kept it for a reason.

When we get back up from the basement, I take a peek into the garage - now the holding place of many various items my mom has yet to remove.  I see a small wooden chair with a patch of brown duct tape on the top of it.  I remember this chair.  Everything else in here, not so much.  As I am about to turn off the light, I notice there is a mark on the garage wall that looks lighter than the rest.  It’s the letter ‘R’.  I had never noticed this before, likely because the walls used to be covered with lawn tools or other items.  I wonder if it was for ‘Ridgway’, but I don’t ask.  I’ll let the house keep this mystery.

As I stand in the living room one more time, I stand by the piano.  My grandma had bought this for my mom so she could learn to play as a child, but now it was going to auction as we had no place for it to go and we knew someone else could take better care of it.  I remember when I was a child, pushing back the wooden cover from the keys and aimlessly pounding away at the keys, thinking I was a master pianist.  My grandma would just smile, not annoyed or perturbed by me.  The cover is pushed back now, exposing the keys to the room.  I wonder if my mom has been playing it.  Something inside me urges me to play a note, but I feel that the noise alone might break my heart.  Instead, I turn around and look at where the TV used to be.  This is where we would always watch Wheel of Fortune together.  When I visited in college, I’d try to always make sure to be here at 5:30 so I wouldn’t miss it.  Even the last few times when she couldn’t stay awake through the whole thing, I’d turn it on and play along.  It was our game show.

I look out the large window in the living room, taking a deep breath as I try to muster a goodbye for the house.  I recall how she would stand here, watching people walk by with their dogs.  I remember one time during the last few months when she sat on the couch next to her dog, sitting on her knees and leaning up on the back of the couch, just looking outside.  The yard that spanned in front of the window used to be covered in a chaotic array of flowers, because she loved all of them too much to just pick any particular flower.  Now, at the end of winter, the yard looks sad.  My mom has removed the yard ornaments, and the flowers are obviously not in bloom.  I take a step back and run my hand along the old, yellowing curtains that would cover the window at nighttime - never during the day.  They smell like her.

As my mom and I leave the house, I remember that my initials are carved into the driveway.  I bend down and take a picture that encompasses both the house and the initials, and let myself cry one more time.  As we get into the car, I begin to write down these final memories, because I don’t want to forget them.  As we leave, I take one last look.  It was a ritual that any time we left Grandma’s house, we would wave at her while she waved back from her living room window, and we would beep the horn twice.  I remember even making my SO’s or friends perform this ritual if they had drove me here.  But this time when I look, there’s no one waving, and we don’t beep goodbye.

I know someone else will be moving in soon.  I know she will likely want a shower instead of just the pale green bathtub.  I know she might not value the soft, white, cloth curtains that hang in the master bedroom.  She might also not understand the mysterious codes written on the window screens.  I know she will change it, but I know she will also bring life to it, and I know this house deserves life.  After years upon years of life, love, and pure joy, it’d be unfair to not let it manifest once again.

So I write down my final day inside my grandma’s house, knowing I won’t see it again, and if I do it won’t be like this anymore.