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pedripics · 7 months

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"He is still the same as when he was 5 years old. That's the best thing about him."

(via Revelo - July 2023)

"Now I'm not going to be able to mess with him or make jokes. I'm not going to be able to hit him, because if he's going to hit me back...", laughs Rubén Delgado when we talk about the strengthened physique of Pedri, whom he coached between the ages of 9 and 12 at U.D. Tegueste, when he was a " just small boy, but what he had from a young age was great footballing ability". Pedri has always said that Rubén is the coach who taught him how to compete.

"He arrived at Barça with 60 kilos, very little, and when he completed his first season with Barça he had already gained three or four kilos. With Koeman, he started to do the same work as he does now in that first year, with three days a week of more strength training. Then two, then one, because he arrived as a youngster and there was even the possibility of going out on loan; he even had offers from Bayern to go out on loan. What happened was that when Koeman saw him train, everything changed. From 'we're going to give him a work plan of three days a week' he became a starter, playing every three days, he played everything and, obviously, you then can't have three days of strength work, it's impossible," explains a person close to the midfielder, whom we will call E.P.

"This year is the first time that he has had a real five-week holiday. De la Fuente wanted to take him to the Nations League, but in the end, Barça and the Federation came to their senses and understood that the best thing was to let him rest, have a normal summer for the first time since he is at the highest level and take advantage of it to train, because in the end that way you can see his evolution. He's had five weeks in which he's been able to rest but, above all, to train, because in competition the muscle is eaten away, especially in the lower body. Maybe Tchouameni, who has a great physique, can do more. What Pedri has is a lot of endurance. When he was a kid, he also did athletics at school as an extracurricular activity, and he was very good. That resistance lacked to generate muscle. Chema Martínez has one type of muscle, Usain Bolt another. He had a more fibrous muscle and now he had to gain a bit more volume for 1v1s, and also at the lower body level. The image that has made an impact is that of the arms, but the work above and below has been compensated and worked on following a guideline set by Barça", says E.P., who puts Pedri's current weight at 67 kilos.

The Tenerife native has gained two kilos with that physical work done this summer and is not recommended to gain "more than one". "To take him to the 70 would be too much. That would be the limit. What all parties consider is that he is a player who has to gain muscle mass but he shouldn't change his physiognomy completely. He is a lightweight footballer. His mental rapidity leads him to have quickness of movement, to have some dribbling. If he is heavy with the size he is, 1.74m., he would become in quotes, a 'barrel'," explains E.P., who is clear about what is not the goal in the work that the Barça midfielder is doing: "The objective is not to turn him into a muscular beast because he is not like that. He has a similar physique to Messi. Messi is obviously the best, I hope he comes as close as possible, but he will never be able to be Cristiano. Neither Messi nor Pedri could be Cristiano. Neither does he have the physique of Gavi, who has a more powerful lower body, but Gavi's style of football demands more of that than Pedri's game. It would be a mistake", reflects E.P., who specifies that the Tenerife native has done "a lot of cycling, eccentric pull-ups - those where you go up and then you have to hold on when you come down - and work on the pitch, above all".

'Four Friends'

Those who have closely experienced the physical work and nutritional diet that Pedri has followed during these five weeks have been Dani Carreras, Fran Llarena and Rubén Suárez, the three best childhood friends of the footballer, ex-players of Tegueste, where they were under Rubén's orders.

The 'Four friends', like David Trueba's novel, have shared a summer in a villa in Adeje (Tenerife), although their coexistence has been stricter and based on rest, physical work and a rigorous diet that they have all followed. "In the villa, we had a cook who prepared the food for Pedri's diet. Lots of vegetables, lots of vegetables with spices and fish, sometimes meat. But above all, lots and lots of vegetables. I wanted to eat more, but well, we've adapted to him", says Dani, a striker in the team that Pedri played for from "4 to 16-17 years old".

"It has been a hypercaloric diet, with a high intake of calories to be able to compensate for the expenditure of energy and to be able to evolve the muscle. It depends on the day, the work to be done, the moment, but it has been over 3,000 calories," says E. P. with a figure that is far from the perception of Pedri's friends.

"We ate a lot but, of course, few calories in reality: a lot of vegetables, obviously more than five pieces of fruit a day, when it was time for pasta we ate a lot of pasta, but always in measured quantities. We could skip it a bit because the diet wasn't really for us but for him. Everyone followed his diet...", laughs Fran, Pedri's friend "practically since they were born". "My mother put me into a small football team when I was 3 and he was put into the same football team from 3 to 5 years old. We also lived super close here in Tegueste, about 200 meters away, and we've always been friends since we were kids," says Fran, mediocre "like Pedri, but a bit further back. "

They played together until they joined the youth team, when Fran was signed by Tenerife. This summer, as well as being a friend, he has acted as a personal trainer to the Culé footballer. "He has worked every day: in the gym, he worked five days, rested on Saturdays and Sundays, and outside of it is true that he worked more because we went to the football pitch almost every day for speed training and cardio. We went here in the south of Tenerife, to Tenerife Top Training - where I am also told that Courtois occasionally goes - to a field called T3, and there we worked with cones. I helped him with explosiveness, if I had to pass him balls, put the cones on him... I helped him and trained with him. There was a day when he killed me to run with him and I said: 'No more'", recalls Pedri's friend, with whom he has also shared afternoons of paddle tennis and paddleball.

They have hardly left the village for anything other than training or eating out one day a week. In Adeje, they have enjoyed the swimming pool, "we have played a lot of Monopoly and Catan, and cards, baraja española (spanish card deck); al Presidente", says Dani.

It's been days based on the physical and nutritional discipline that Pedri has been fulfilling to the letter, with a self-demanding attitude that has grown as a result of the injury he suffered last February against Manchester United in the Europa League. In a solo action, he injured the rectus anterior of his right leg. It was the 41st minute. He himself asked to be substituted. That day was a before and after for the player, explains Fran: "He is very demanding because he has already had several injuries and since then he has changed his training and eating patterns to try not to relapse. His nutritionist was on top of it, because there have been many injuries to the same muscle in the 2-3 years he has been in professional football, this would be his fourth, which is noticeable at the end of the day; the 70 games he played in his first year at Barça are going to take their toll on him now, at any time. He's always taken care of his training, but this time it's more exaggerated".

A task in which he is helped by his disciplined personality. "He has never, never, never been a soft drink drinker, he always drinks water or isotonic drinks, sports drinks", Dani explains. Rubén recalls that "he has never been one for sweets either". "He likes chocolate, but chocolate products are another thing that has completely disappeared: sweets. In fact, he goes to events and takes his heavy, calibrated snack, his fruit, grapes with I don't know what nuts... And, look, one thing he loves, a healthy vice, is pistachios. He loves them, but he can eat very little because it's a good source of energy, but the ones he eats he eats without salt and so, zero problems. There is another food that he has been eating since he was little, obviously, which is bananas. He can put bananas in everything, it's incredible. Before Plátano de Canarias was his sponsor, when he started as a professional, he put a banana in his boot. Now he eats, but the range of fruits has expanded a lot. And another thing about Pedri is that he never drinks coffee. We've joked with him once or twice: 'Oh shit, if you drank coffee, you'd get nervous from time to time and you wouldn't be the same anymore'," says E.P. anecdotally, who also reflects a striking feature of Pedri's personality that is helping him to follow a disciplined life: punctuality.

"He's hyper-punctual. You say 'This is a Canarian, a relaxed guy...', and yes he has that relaxation, that pause, that semi-Caribbean Canarian tranquillity, but in terms of punctuality, he's a fucking German. He has many points of discipline but before they weren't united in anything. Now everything has some guidelines, it's blending and uniting well," reasons E.P., who says that Barça, "at least since the arrival of Xavi", forces them to have lunch or dinner at the Ciudad Deportiva.

Rosi’s Croquetas

But there is a common denominator between the four voices that paint Pedri's sporting and nutritional life: the croquettes of his mother, Rosi, which the Tenerife player himself mentioned on Saturday during Barça's American tour when asked about his physical change. "Above all, not eating my mother's croquettes," said the player.

"His mother is a spectacle, she's a machine. Her croquettes are a different story," Dani laughs. "The only treats are his mother's food or going out to eat. I had one meal a week off, so maybe we'd go out to eat somewhere, healthy food too, but eating differently from what your diet is. And it is true that he ate pistachios, he usually eats a lot of them, because he likes them, but healthy ones, of course, without salt. And little else", explains Fran.

"He has always had a fairly balanced diet and well, above all, the famous mother's croquettes, he was very well fed," says Rubén, who assures us that "you need to take time to try them because they are delicious." "They offer a variety: chicken, cod... They have it all. I can vouch for it, I recommend it," he says with a laugh.

Rosi is Pedri's mother and cook at the Tasca Fernando, which she runs with her husband and the footballer's father "at the entrance to Tegueste on the Nacional", explains E.P. "It's the typical small-town place, traditional, where you eat very good homemade cuisine, with very good produce. And of course, Pedri ate there every day until he went to Las Palmas, where he stayed in the residence, in La Casa Amarilla. They could make him slightly different dishes, but in the end, he ate what was available. It’s a normal, ordinary, hard-working family. When they go to see him in Barcelona, they also cook for him, but now the whole family is very conscientious and they are helping him a lot", he says.

His brother Fernando has played a key role in his healthy eating since his arrival at FC Barcelona. "He lives with his brother in Barcelona, near Ciutat Esportiva. As the first year they were at Barça was the year of the pandemic, they went to live together. Fernando studied cooking. He is two years older but as Pedri was always ahead of his time, they played football together for many years. They are like friends and brothers at the same time, and he cooks for him".

"Skinny and tiny"

Talking to Dani, Fran and Ruben has been visualizing the Pedri who started playing football in Tegueste in his earliest childhood, when their lives came together and it was clear to all three of them that that "weak and small" child would go far. "He had something," says Rubén, who always told his partner and his parents, to those around him. "It was to be expected," Fran says. His coach recalls how the three, Pedri, Dani and Fran, "were very good, were the best, and super nice people."

"He has always had a mentality that is not cold, because he is not cold, but a very relaxed mentality, so to speak. If the game is at 100, he would stay at 25, to give you an idea. And that control, and especially at the ages that I coached him, it was very difficult to see a child who controlled the guidelines of a match as much as him; who knew that if the match was very, very tense, he would take it to his own ground and take it to where he wanted it to be. And it's very difficult to find that at that age. Obviously, today you see him and it's even more difficult because you see him inside a stadium with so many people, and with that calmness that he shows and that relaxation and that control of his state, it's very difficult to find that in a player and, above all, as young as he is, who is only 20 years old", recalls Rubén, the coach who moved Pedri's position from the front to the centre of the pitch.

"From a very young age, he stood out from the rest. He did things that a normal 9-year-old didn't do. I always highlight one thing about him and that is that on a footballing level, he obviously had spectacular technique, quality and physique. Because despite being so small he was the first to attack, the first to defend, a spectacular sacrifice towards his teammates... But if there's one thing I've always highlighted about him, it's the footballing maturity he had at the age of 9. He knew how to position himself, he knew where he had to be at all times, which even nowadays professional players work on and not all of them are practically ready. And he, at 9 years old, already knew how to read a game, he already had a very adult sporting maturity for the age he was", says the coach proudly.

"I remember that when in one of the many games in which he was playing and he was killing it and doing things that were not normal, of course, the game ended and at that time I asked him: 'Hey, why did you decide to do this?', and any other child would have said to me: 'Well, look, I did this because I saw it like this…'. And he came in with the little soft voice he had and said, 'I don't know, Ruben, it just came out of me. ' And my colleague and I looked at each other like: 'It just came out of you?, but I didn’t even do that at 25 years old…", recalls the coach.

A similar situation to the one we experienced in the 2021/22 season, when on April 3 Pedri gave Barça a 1-0 victory over Sevilla and placed Barça second in the table. "He cuts once, twice, three times and then hits it with his left. He said he didn't know what he had done, that it just came out of him like that," remembers Rubén, who confesses that when he had the opportunity to talk to Pedri he told him: "Man, that was the same thing you said to me when you were 9 years old."

"The problem for me is that as I've known him all my life, I'm not surprised by what he does. Yes, on the one hand, he surprises me sometimes, when I realise and say: 'Woah, my friend is doing this' and I see him in a different way, but only for a moment because then I remember that it's him and that it was to be expected. From the minute he stepped on a professional pitch he remained the same. He doesn't care who he plays against. Even when we were little, we played on a court, in a pavilion, and he would tell me: 'You play with me', and the brother, and we would play against 20-year-olds, and we were 14. And they'd say, 'Well, come on, but just for a bit.' There were three teams and the one that won was still there. So we got with the team, we were 14 years old and some were 16 and 17, and we beat kids who were 20, 21, 25, and of course, they were shocked. They said: 'But what about these kids?', and especially with Pedri, because he was the youngest and the best. If you see him doing that on the pitch from a young age, with 20-year-olds, knowing that he doesn't care if he gets kicked, or if he gets his body thrown around, or if they take him out, because that has adapted him to professional football, it doesn't surprise you" recalls Fran about a physical and sporting stature that has always accompanied Pedri. Just like the Barcelonismo, which he also lived from his cradle. His grandfather Fernando founded the Peña Barcelonista de Tenerife-Tegueste.

"He is still the same as when he was 5 years old. He's the same person. That's the best thing about him. He also has a very good family that helps him keep his feet on the ground. When you're with him, you say: 'And this guy is playing for Barcelona'. Also, one thing he has is that when he gets picked on... Maybe you say to him: 'How few goals you score'. Me, for example, I'm a big fan of screwing with him. Yes, yes, I don't know what, but you don't score goals', I say things like that. And when he's picked on, he always gets it. And this year is going to be quite important for him and for Barça. He's going to start to be one of the leaders, I think. He already is, but his character is not that of a leader, but the way he plays. He's a very fundamental player, but he doesn't feel like a leader. No way, no way, that's not the case", admits Dani, who reveals Pedri's joking character. "He seems shy, but he jokes a lot, he's always joking around, with everyone in general. I'm always calling him silly and stuff like that," he laughs.

Calm, familiar, punctual… and with a low heart rate

"The important thing is that you have clear ideas, because at the end of the day, that life is not easy. It's very easy for many things but it's not always easy to carry all of it, not being able to go out, that kind of thing. That he knows his priorities and that he doesn't get too carried away, that's the key for me, beyond a kilo more muscle or not, because you have to be very good in everything and that luck is with you, but if you're not focused, success will not last long. He is familiar, calm, with a low heart rate. May he continue like that", asks E.P. for the future of Pedri, who is going to live an important year this season after the departure of Busquets, the arrival of Gundogan and his demanding summer to get back in top physical shape.

"When he has been asked the typical question: 'What do you need to improve on,' he has never said anything other than these concepts: more goals and physical improvement. In five months, he scored seven goals. If he hadn't been injured, he would have doubled that. This year he should have at least 10-12 goals. Xavi asks him to do that and he will always work to the maximum", explains E.P.. When the competition begins we will see how he establishes his physical form on the pitch. His appearance is already improved, muscular, in a "work of prevention and evolution" that his friends hope to see in sporting terms, in the present and in the future.

"Remember that he is still only 20 years old, normally a footballer explodes at 25, 26, 27, 28 years old. And that's the beautiful thing, that he still has fifteen years of football left and hopefully he continues to rise," says Fran.

"You know what happens? He has the gift of knowing how to win people over. He has a great gift for companionship. So, he is lucky that if he says 'everyone around here', I think they will follow him. Why? Because he has that gift, he has the personality he has, a personality that engages, that transmits good vibes, as they say around here. He is still a bit young to perhaps be a leader, but it is true that I think that at "Barcelona they have noticed that his presence on the field helps the team play in one way or play in another. And I think that is being a leader," Rubén reasons.

Winning leagues, taking Barça back to great heights in Europe, winning a European Championship or a World Cup are some of the challenges that the four protagonists outline around Pedri, but one stands out above all: after having lifted the Golden Boy 2021, it would be to win the Ballon d’Or. "It would be a dream for all of us," says Rubén with a huff. "It’s just that this kid surprises you every day, you don't know where his ceiling is, he's only 20 years old," stresses Fran.

E.P. has this to say on the matter: "It's not something that torments him or keeps him up at night, he prioritises the collective trophies, but obviously it's a consequence of everything, it's an evolution. Neither Iniesta nor Xavi managed to win it, none of his idols have been able to do it. Rodri has done very, very well and his team has performed very well. There is already talk that Rodri could or should have a Ballon d'Or. If Pedri continues to be one of Barça's flagship players, as he practically already is, and Barça regains its usual status of the last 20-25 years and the national team is up there, then why not, but that's a long way to go. To win a trophy of this type, you have to have powerful collective trophies, because Haaland or Cristiano could win it if they score 50 goals, but it's different with him. Let's see, for the moment, how he settles in this new season in which he wants to have continuity again".

And it’s up for the future to see how his new physique responds, but if there is one thing that does not generate doubt among his friends it is his name: "With this new bodybuilding, is it going to be necessary to call him Pedro instead of Pedri at some point?" I asked. Dani laughs before remembering that Pedri was given the name when he was 8-9 years old, "because there were two Pedros in the team and the other one was much bigger than him, so they kept calling him Pedro and him, who was much smaller, Pedri". "For us and for everyone he will always be Pedri," adds Rubén. "He is Pedro González López. Maybe when he is 55 and playing dominoes in his village they will start calling him Pedro, but in the meantime, I doubt he will stop being Pedri", reflects E.P. "Pedri is and will always be Pedri", says his friend Fran.

#pedri #pedri gonzalez #fc barcelona #barça #fc barça #*interview

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melit0n · 4 days

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Delicate Is The Flesh - Chapter 6

- Synopsis: On the brink of the bustling new city of Rosholt lies a forgotten palisade of abandoned homes, shops and streets that sit mummified after a chemical outbreak in the 70s, leaving the city uninhabitable.

Over the years however, the place has become a hotspot for urban explorers and crime junkies alike.

Whispers of reanimated bodies stalking the dead streets and brutal murders worm their way into your friend's ears and, having nothing to do on your Winter break, you reluctantly agree to go exploring the abandoned city with them.

What could go wrong, right?

- Chapters ->

Prologue

Chapter 1: For Whom The Bell Tolls

Chapter 2: Corvus and Krater

Chapter 3: Belly of the Beast

Chapter 4: Something Forgotten

Chapter 5: Citrus and Cinnamon

Chapter 6: Mumbling Conscious (you're already here!)

- Obessive!Demon OC/Reader

- Word Count (for chp): 6.9k

- Warnings (for chp): None.

- Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/55444003/chapters/150657787

“So, are you sure you don’t want to tell me about this little love story of yours now?”

Helen giggles softly behind you. It echoes loudly in the cracking concrete bowels you trek through.

“Yes. I can assure you, the only way you will be hearing it is if you come back to Greece with me.” Something snaps under someone’s foot, either glass or the dried remains of some bug.

You both know very well it’s a thinly veiled act of persuasion, a not-so-subtle play on your curiosity. So, somewhat determined to get whatever she had been keeping secret out of her, you put on your best pout and turn to her.

She walks right past you.

Shaking her head back and forth with a hidden knowing smile, she replies, “Making sad faces will get you nowhere, I am afraid.”

“So mean…” you grumble. Considering Helen's typical openness in her thoughts and experiences, you were genuinely intrigued. While it wasn’t mandatory, it was rare she’d hide topics she’d happily chatter about if given the chance. That said, your main aim–hidden under glass and dust–was simply to keep a conversation going. You’ve learnt very quickly that you don’t like the silence here, either. For both of your benefit, you’d much rather keep aimless chatter bouncing off the walls instead of some distant radio show. Keep your mind focused on replies and not the sickly sweet stench of flowers blooming in the middle of winter.

Of empty sockets that stare right at you.

Helen shoots a hand out, “Careful.” Puzzled, you send her a confused glance.

However, the moment she puts a foot down on the wood, you get your answer: the floorboards creaking and groaning loudly with the simple weight. While it wasn’t unexpected–every step you’d taken for the last hour or so had been accompanied by a loud squeak–what catches your attention is how far the wood visibly bends. That, and how damp it is. Damp enough that the moisture shines under the light of your torches.

Stretching your own leg out to test them, you’re unsurprised to now physically feel how deeply they bow under your weight; whining something foreboding with each kilo you put down. Through the soles of your shoes, you can practically feel the fibres cracking.

You sigh to yourself, half out of exasperation and something else you can’t quite pin down.

Looking up from the rotting floor, you’re not surprised to see the rest of the story was in a similar state.

More household items are scattered across the main hall: old stuffed animals poking their saturated heads out of screeching doors. Legs, maybe once holding up sturdy tables, lean against the walls. Sodden, deflated cushions lying haphazardly on the floor slowly melt into the woodwork; plush becoming indistinguishable from the flooring.

All create a waterlogged tapestry of the past.

The wallpaper, colours faded and mixed with old graffiti not unlike a fresh watercolour, reappear in diseased patches across the walls. Even vines from downstairs creep and crawl through the crumbling structure, anchoring themselves to whatever they can find. From the withering leaves, however, you guess they aren’t having as much success as they are downstairs.

A floorboard wails loudly from beside you. “This does not look too good.” She steps forward–really only a half-step–and begins to test the strengths of the planks in front of you. Then, she takes a full one forward with sounds from the floor that have you partially reaching your hands out, as if to catch her. You watch with a building level of unease as she attempts to spread out her weight.

Even the air is heavy. Heavy with the calm before a storm: petrichor and an electric buzz that lets you know you shouldn’t be here. Somehow, it overpowers the dust–which you’re sure sits in foetid clumps wherever the rain and wind sees fit–and worms its way into your lungs.

It’s nothing like the air downstairs: while that was fresh, still holding hints of petrichor, this was thick. Like oil. It’s somehow worse than the stagnant air from the basement.

Eyeing the wood, you hesitantly do the same. “Yeah.”

Something viscous is at the back of your throat. Tastes like how decaying autumn leaves smell.

The thin walls–either on this floor or one of the many others–waver in the wind, and you’re starting to affirm to yourself that Jeanne’s promise of the place being ‘structurally sound’ was another one of her half lies.

Four floors high, including the ground floor–five with the addition of the basement–and you’re sure you’d snap your neck. Bleed out on that ugly cream carpet with wooden wings splayed out beside you. Your only consolation is that you’re pretty sure that the main structure is made of solid concrete, sitting silently under the wood.

The gaping plaster wounds in the walls–rippling wooden muscles and creaking metal bones taught underneath–make you doubt yourself.

At best, you’d break or twist an ankle. At worst, you’ll be a bloated carcass strangled by weeds. A rotting warning to all those who enter.

No way in Hell is this safe.

You take a few more cautious steps forwards, ears perked for the tell-tale noises of crumbling wood that would rather collapse than hold your weight. “If the rest of the floors are like this, I say we stop.” One creaks loudly, a bit too loud for your taste, and you take one backwards. “Wouldn’t be surprised if we fell straight through.”

Helen’s head lowers to stare at the floor, probably contemplating whether the risk of going crashing through four or five stories was worth taking the chance. “I think,” she takes a step forward, graceful as an onyx chess piece slid across the board. “We will be okay.” She turns to you, optimism in her eyes. It makes your shoulder sag. “We just have to keep our eyes out for any wood that is especially dark, or looks wet on the surface.” Another step forward, and you sigh as you begin to follow behind, dutiful as ever. “Is that okay?”

Kind of hard to do when all the wood looks wet, you think. Even so, you keep your nervous thoughts concealed beneath a cool facade. “Whatever you say,” you feel the cold of the water sink into your soles. “You’re paying my hospital bills if I break something, though.”

It’s sarcasm, but she still takes it somewhat seriously. “It would be my fault, so I would not mind.” She shrugs, before pausing, her weight spread between a few different planks. Then she raises her flashlight.

The centre-piece window–which never fails to draw your eye–is broken: jagged teeth glinting in the light.

A soft hum glides up her throat, “The wind and the rain from the North probably comes in here quite harshly: it is no wonder this place is so wet. Either way, I am surprised this place hasn’t fallen like, what is it- paper mache?”

It’s a simple description, one you’d easily take for an answer if not for one simple fact: both windows on the other floors were broken. Both windows faced North, as all the rest of the windows above you.

So why weren’t those as dilapidated as this one?

Wearily, you take a few more steps, trying to follow her invisible pattern of semi-promised safety. “But what about-” that is, before your feet knock into something. Something solid.

Expecting the worst, you look down with a strained look on your face. You’re met with the sight of a porcelain doll. The pale, once pretty, type you almost always see in charity shops.

And horror movies.

Part of its silky pallor is cracked and smashed in, leaving an empty void where half its face used to be. Curly blonde hair frames what’s left of it, fading blue eyes rolled absently to the side.

“Are you scared of it?”

There’s a bit of blush on its face, too. Faded, like everything else is at the hands of time and neglect, but still there.

“What?”

It reminds you of something freshly dead. Eyes and body empty, yet still holding onto the warmth in its fingertips.

Helen crouches down in front of it, repeating herself. “Are you afraid of it?”

You’re surprised the wood holds her weight.

Before you can say anything–let a garbled and probably incoherent answer out of your mouth–she picks it up. Handles it more like a living baby rather than a porcelain resemblance. When she cradles its head, resting stiffly in her palm, one of its eyes rolls. Rolls out of its vacant skull to stare right at you. Glossy and unblinking and reflecting flashing blue and yellow that blinds you.

Beneath light fatigue and a growing sense of alarm that refuses to go away, something rings.

“You’ll get a demon or something attached to you if you hold on to it.” You joke, eyes darting up from the glass one you’re sure sees right through your skin. Or, maybe, sees right past you.

She takes your avoidance as an unspoken yes. She isn’t wrong: if you saw that thing at the end of your hallway in the middle of the night, you’d happily give your apartment up to it.

She fiddles with the stained lace that edges the sleeves and the hem of the forget-me-not dress. “Why?”

It’s a good question–like all of her questions are. You roll thoughts around in your head, seeing how they taste on your tongue. You’d say it’s something embedded in you; embroidered into the intricate tapestry of each twitching muscle and thumping pulse of your heart. You’re afraid of the doll the same way something in the back of your mind, a knowing voice neither old nor young–simply alert–tells you to be afraid of the dark. Tells you to be wary of things that creep and slide.

Tells you to be fearful of things that try to be human.

“Probably because I’ve watched too many shitty horror films with Jeanne.” You reply. Helen simply shakes her head, and you think she knows you aren’t telling the entire truth. Either way, she doesn’t bother to pry a more self-aware answer out of you.

Gingerly, she places the doll back down where she’d found it. Its eye rolls back up into its head, having seen enough. For a few brief moments, you don’t blame it. The untouchable night that resides in its hollow head is probably a more comforting view compared to the sodden floorboards.

Both of you carry on with your hushed agreement to explore the other apartments. Helen glides across the floor with wisp-like grace, barely making a noise, while you stumble over each creaking floorboard and spend every two seconds wondering if you’re going to fall.

You stagger through a few different apartments, eyes skimming over whatever was visible and then moving on, more focused on not falling than searching for anything of interest.

After traversing the hall somewhat aimlessly–chattering to Helen along the way–you find your way into another apartment. One side of the floors has swollen, and the entire place reeks of festering mould.

A question strikes your mind, worming its way out of your mouth as the conversation threatens to fall flat. “Hey, Helen?”

With growing confidence, you carefully step forth. The living room is lifeless; void of any furniture. It also happens to be the side where the floors rise–something very old and very slow trying to breach the surface–so you make the decision to leave the bedroom unexplored. You value your ankles a bit more than that.

“Yes?”

The kitchen is in a similar state. Woodlice crawl between the splitting wood, and a low wind meanders through the rooms like a death rattle. Between what remains of a cabinet and the wall, a cobweb hangs, weighed down by the ever present moisture that seems to loom over the entire floor.

Its weaver is absent.

“Do you believe in ghosts?” Considering her lack of reaction to your joke earlier, you’d say her answer would be a no. Either that, or she wasn’t afraid of the dead leaning over her shoulder.

“I think so. To believe in ghosts, you have to have a belief in some sort of life after the one you live, yes?”

Eventually, you find a somewhat sturdy path towards the bathroom and storage room. Much to your displeasure, the bathroom is locked tight. Even though the wood crumbles under your hands, it refuses to open. In fact, after a few tugs, the doorknob comes right off, small screws clattering to the floor.

Almost as if to spite you, the lock stays intact.

“What do you think of it?”

So, you end up trying the storage room. It’s gutted of all furniture.

“Of what?”

The air is stagnant. Brackish. You guess it hasn’t been opened in a while.

“The afterlife. What do you think comes after all this?” Backing up, you attempt to follow your steps back out into the hall.

“I am not entirely sure,” she hums. As each floorboard keens under your weight, you realise that Helen is practically silent as she walks through different apartments. You only really know she’s doing so because of her voice; ebbing and flowing like a warm summer wind from the hallway. “I believe each living thing has a soul, but I am unsure on how long that soul can last.” Her voice becomes louder, “but, I think it may stay after it does not have a body to support it.” and then quieter. You don’t see her walk past your door. “Perhaps they stay because they forgot to do, or say, something before they went. Maybe they stay because they miss home too much.”

Peeking your head out of the doorframe, you can’t spot her. She must’ve already gone into another apartment.

Looking down, you find a stuffed animal imitating you. Or, rather, you it.

You scoff, walking out into the hall and examining the different doors. “What’s home to someone who’s already dead? You’d think a ghost would want to go wherever they please since they have no physical restrictions.” With long strides–you’re sure you look like some sort of awkward stick bug–you pass the elevator. The twin doors are wide open, and even your flashlight can’t illuminate the rubber veins that crawl along its throat.

“Home is not always a place, I think.” Her voice is closer now.

Each door is in varying states of decay: those closer to the window in the hall are mere fragments, while those nearer to the main stairs retain some semblance to actual entryways.

Your eyes catch onto one near the elevator: number forty-six. It’s one of the few on the floor still holding on to its once shining number, this floor being numbers thirty-three to forty-eight. Although, the four is crooked–slanted to the left like a loose skull–and the six is ever so slightly lower than it should be.

“What else could it be?”

With a jostle of the knob, you also realise it's one of the few doors that’s locked. The weight in your pockets brings a smile to your face, and you can only hope you have the right key.

“A person.” Her voice has moved again, now on the opposite side of the hall.

You pause, if only for a second.

You’d never really thought of it that way.

With warmed metal under your fingers, you wonder if you’ve ever seen home inside another person. Your thumb glides over engraved numbers, hidden from your eyes underneath years of rust and oily fingers.

Maybe in Jeanne? Or Helen? Noah? A past lover?

“If you were to die,” you bring a key closer up to your eye, the number indistinguishable. “Away from ‘home’, do you think you’d try to find your way back? Or would you find somewhere else to haunt?”

Maybe…maybe in him.

“I would want to go home, definitely.” Floor six, apt eighty four… “When I do pass, I think it will be nice to be where I grew up. I would want to see the sea again, too. I would not mind staying there after I have passed.”

If so, home is long gone. The grass is dead, and there’s no soft light in the windows anymore.

Just flashing blue and glass in between in your fingers. In your skin.

“And what,”…Floor eighteen, apt two hundred and seventy-nine…not this one either. “What if you’re the type to see home as a person?”

She stays quiet for a few moments.

…Floor three…

You squint.

“Then I trust I will find them, and them, I.”

…apt forty-eight. Shit.

Your shoulders fall.

“Just…uhm, let me know when you make a decision about coming with me, okay?” Helen’s voice fades and flickers like candlelight. There’s almost an echo: a second whisper layered underneath her warm tone.

Wait a minute.

You look back down at the key. Apt forty-eight.

Slowly, your head turns to the left.

The last door by the stairs.

You frown. “Yeah, no- of course.” Answering absentmindedly, you begin to stalk over to the door. You trace invisible lines with your feet, and all seems silent.

Easily, you find yourself in front of number forty-eight, your light greeting the door: a circular glimpse that pierces through the darkness.

You feel like you’re sensing a pattern.

It’s closed, and, with a gentle tug, you find it locked as well.

Half expecting another talking radio, or maybe a miniature desert for this one, you hesitate to even use the key you had been wanting to make use of. You turn it over in your hand: there’s nothing special about it, nor the door itself. Both are in similar stages of disrepair, the door swollen with water and the key elongated with rust. Looking at it closer, you doubt it’ll even open the lock. Hell, the lock itself has probably rusted shut. Either that, or the knob will fall right off, just like the bathroom door’s did.

You look between the door and the key.

Well…as the saying goes, curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back.

The key slides in, and the mechanism opens with a quiet click. Seems the building has decided to grant you a bit of good luck.

The door opens with an ominous creak. Loud and anguished.

When light finally enters the morose cave, you’re more than pleased–although admittedly a little disappointed–to see nothing abnormal. No radios, no luscious ferns, and best of all, no buzzing flies.

Plus, it seemed to house more furniture than the last. The windows are layered thickly with grime and algae, and, even with your torch light, the whole place still feels utterly drenched in darkness. Blinking, it’s as if a thin haze–a light mist–hangs over the room. Or maybe just your eyes.

Tentatively, you step forward, keeping a careful watch on the floor.

The floorboards whine underneath you, rising and falling like valleys and hills under your feet.

The first thing that catches your eye is a large, embroidered armchair in the living room. Like the doll, it has dark, frilled edging–colour indistinguishable–at the end of the fabric. While it’s faded, the colours of the threads bleeding into themselves, you can just about make out a floral pattern; deep viridian in the centre, framed by jade and mulberry.

The legs are made of sturdy wood–not cracking and splintering like the floor–which curls inward at the feet like a snail’s shell. An endless spiral unfurling from itself. It’s exactly the type of chair a grandfather, or maybe some old-money, rich man, would have sitting by the fireplace. You can practically see a soft cat curled up on the seat, slowly nodding off as the wood cackles and crumbles into cinders.

Quietly, you wonder if anybody in this building had a cat. Or a dog, for that matter.

A board bends underneath you, and you take a step back before continuing.

Someone must’ve, right? Your own apartment had a policy on them: no pets allowed aside from fish–and the odd reptile, though that depended on how much paperwork you wanted to fill out–but maybe this one didn’t.

The door to the bedroom opens easily.

You wonder if they had to leave them behind when those chemicals got out. If they did, you hadn’t seen–nor heard–any once loved strays on your way here. Then again, nature, aside from her plants, seems to have abandoned this place. Left it to the hands of Time and the ever changing faces of the seasons.

Much to your surprise, the main bedroom is almost fully furnished. The bed frame is still intact. Well, you think it is, until you notice it’s leaning on one side. Looking closer, you find one leg had rotted off, the rest in a similar condition. There’s a tall wardrobe on the left wall and, opening it, you find it empty. That is, if you don’t count the dust. Running your index finger over the flat surface, you find it comes off in one thick clump that sticks to your finger. Reminds you of the gum people always stick under the desks.

With a look of disgust, you wipe it off and continue looking around.

A soft wind coming from the smashed balcony doors is the only noise you can hear.

You wonder what Helens’ doing.

Then, there’s something in the air. Nothing like the dust or the scent of chocolate, but a noise. It’s some sort of chime; light and soft like the call bell downstairs.

You cross through the main bedroom entryway, intrigued and more awake than you had been a few minutes ago.

Who knows, maybe it’ll be this floor’s anomaly.

You wonder where it’s even coming from: quiet as a breath, it disappears behind each thump of the blood in your ears. Maybe from the storage closet, or the bathroom? Whatever–wherever–it was, you determine it must be close.

Doing a double take, you quickly discover that the kitchen floor was very close to caving in.

Ah.

Well, now you know why the ceiling was dipping on the other story.

Seems the bathroom and storage room are off limits, then.

Ding.

You turn your head. There it is again.

With only one other traversable room left, at least in this apartment, you find your way into the second bedroom. It’s smaller, and without a window it feels as if you’re staring into the endless throat of space.

The wood hums endless tunes underneath you, and there are shapes dancing in your vision, trying to convince you that they’re stars. Stars, and not hooded eyes of indistinct figures.

In the centre, backed up against the far wall–painted a stormy grey–is a cot. It used to be white, paint now peeling off of the wood and curling like angry fingers. There’s a small heart carved into the headboard. It’s obvious it wasn’t a part of the original design; scratchy, as if done with some knife instead of a well-trained machine.

You like it better than the carbon copies, though.

Above it hangs another reminder of one of the parent’s handiwork: something halfway between a traditional wind chime and a baby’s mobile. Falling apart as it is, you can still see the wood carved with pure love and twine threaded with nothing but adoration. Sanded wood and glass clink together, the wind from the hallway their conductor.

There’s a few animals carved into twirling plaques, as well. At least, you think there is. There’s what looks to be a bird with a comically large beak–maybe a woodpecker?–and another that just looks like a homunculus with stick legs.

It’s so utterly odd looking that it gets a chuckle out of you.

Asides from that, the only one that vaguely looks like anything living is one near the centre; a pig. It has sharply drawn trotters and floppy ears that cover its eyes. It spins endlessly in some subtle wind you can’t feel, glass frosted with the endless damp that coats everything in place of dust.

But, from the darkness, something whispers.

You pay it no mind and continue staring at the cot and the home-made baby mobile. Each chime sounds like a baby’s wail: soft and nothing. It sparks something unknown in your chest. Maybe it's mourning. For who and what, you don’t really know. Provoked by some sort of empathy, perhaps.

You’re about to call for Helen–considering the large lack of somewhat interesting things here, you’re sure she’d like this–when there’s another whisper. It's closer this time.

What is that?

At first, you try to shove it off–there’s more broken windows than unbroken in this place. In the dark, it doesn’t take long for a person's mind to convince them that the wind is undead whispers, after all.

There’s a humming in your ears. Not the sharp ring that usually finds you in calm silences and in the warmth of a sunny street, but constant all the same. It ebbs and flows like a breeze; the low mumble of a class yet to start: the distant hum of cars on the motorway: the eerie clatter of trees in the beginnings of a summer storm.

It’s not distracting or intrusive like those invisible flies downstairs–buzzing ceaselessly around your ears–but not like the voices from the radio, either.

Sceptically, you walk out of the second bedroom with a growing frown on your face. The elastic of the mask’s straps dig into the back of your ears.

Staying still, quieting your own breaths and trying not to focus on the constant thumping from the walls, you attempt to decipher what’s being said.

You come up fruitless. It just sounds like an endless string of gibberish to you: too quiet to pick up and too muddled to unravel.

Maybe you need to get your ears checked, too.

Sliding your flashlight under your arm, you press down on a part of your ear, temporarily blocking out the noise. All you hear is the faint thrum of your body: each pulse of your heart, each twitch of your crooked fingers. Taking them away, the noise reappears.

It’s somewhat of a relief to know that the noises weren’t phantoms created by your tired mind. But still, it begs the question of what, exactly, it was. Let alone where it was coming from. It could be an apartment on this floor, or maybe on one of the others. The staircase wasn’t exactly closed off, after all.

Even so, you’re still sure it's close. A thin wall or two away close.

So, you lightly step back to the main bedroom, expecting to pick up on some sort of change.

Nothing happens.

A gentle gust of wind scrapes against the broken glass, and for a split second, you try your hardest to convince yourself that is all it is; the wind.

A gust pushes you forward and, wondering if the noise was coming from the bathroom or storage room, you try the kitchen.

Well, you get as close as you can to it without falling through.

Still no change.

Mind busy with the hushed buzz, you temporarily disregard your fear of the boards underneath you and peek out into the hallway. As you swivel your head left and right–half searching for the source of the noise and half looking for Helen–you find nothing but air and rotting walls.

Your light illuminates the staircase, almost hoping to see someone hiding in the darkness. It’d scare the shit out of you, Helen or stranger aside, but you’d rather find an obvious source than be left–quite literally–in the dark.

You find no one.

Then, you try the other end of the hall. The lambent glow of the moon seems centuries away.

Still no one.

“Helen?” Your voice cracks in your throat. “Helen! Do you,” You swallow something down. A clump of twitching nerves and bile. “Do you hear that?”

You wait a few moments for a response. You’re greeted with heavy silence. It’s deafening; somehow worse than being told a direct ‘no’.

Wearily, you step out of the doorway, out of your damp burrow, and into the hallway. The creaking of the floor–of the walls–feels so quiet.

Has it gotten any louder? Are you getting any closer?

Your light darts in and out of the different apartments. “Helen?”

Or is it getting closer to you?

“Helen! Where are you?”

Passing by another apartment, you still can’t manage to find her. Either your eyesight is going, or she’s suddenly become one of the best hide and seek players you’ve known since primary school. That has to be it. She must be hiding from you for some reason, ready to jump out at you any moment.

Inside, you’re divided. Part paranoid, part annoyed–what if she just left you here?–and part confused. Both at the noise, and her sudden disappearance: you don’t remember her being a relative of Houdini.

“I’m meant to be the one doing the scaring here!” You raise your voice, hoping to reach her. The faint whispers are your only response. “Jeeze, do you really hate me that much?” You try to play on her empathetic side, draw her out with offhanded self-deprecation that always makes her rebuke, but even that wields nothing.

Brows furrowed, you begin to make another round. This time, you hastily search inside the different apartments too, hoping to catch a glimpse of her silky hair or the toe of her trainers.

You examine another apartment, almost skidding on the wet wood. There’s the flat face of a table leaning against a wall–legs missing–and another grimy, smashed window.

After practically running up and down the hallway, you can’t help the way your heart jumps in its marrow cage when you realise the volume of that uncanny noise hasn’t changed. At all. It’s not louder, nor quieter; just that same, off-putting, low mumble.

“Helen! Come on, this isn’t funny. Just come out already.” You say it with a worried smile on your face and end it with a pathetic half-laugh.

Where could she be? You know you’re only skimming the apartments, wandering in and out of each room like a pacing animal, but with how many you’ve searched, you should’ve seen something by now. Plus, with how long you’ve been calling out for her, she would’ve come out of whatever dank hole she was hiding in.

If you were searching for Jeanne, you would understand. Unless you were gravely injured, she would continue playing her game for as long as she could. She was a proud winner who liked losing as much as she liked getting an injection: doing her best to avoid it by any means necessary. But this was Helen. Helen who doesn’t like silence. Helen who hates the dark.

There’s nothing in the next apartment, either.

It strikes you then and there that the only other reason that she wasn’t responding was because she was hurt. Hurt to the point of being knocked out.

With the revelation, it doesn’t take long for your mind to dive into a worried spiral. What if the floor finally gave way? What if she’s already on the ground floor? Neck bent like your fingers. Face contorted with some unheard screech you’d been too distracted to hear. Broken and soulless, and bleeding and turning that ugly cream carpet red.

Suddenly, warm air blows over the shell of your ear, something teasing that sends a sharp spike of fear through every muscle.

You jolt, veins thrumming with fear and relief, “Helen, you-”

Your flashlight illuminates nothing but air.

That jumbled mumbling, that damned whispering, has risen: gotten louder without you even noticing it. It pounds against your eardrums and buzzes under your skin. It feels so close, yet so far, echoing out from every crevice. Coming from everywhere and nowhere.

With a war drum in your chest, you beg yourself to just calm down. All you’re doing by overthinking is making things worse for yourself, and probably Helen, too. It’s just the wind–just a creation of your overly-active imagination. Just that stupid, stupid effect Noah was talking about.

What scares you, though, is that you begin to hear words.

Last time you checked, the wind didn’t speak to anyone other than those fated for tragedy. As far as you were aware, you were no Orpheus.

It’s like the radio all over again, yet somehow worse.

Thick, clotted air fills your lungs. Inhale and exhale. Stop yourself from getting so worked up: just inhale and exhale-

-But it’s so loud.

You have a walkie-talkie in your pocket, don’t you? How about you put it to use? That’s what it’s-

-Louder.

If she’s hurt, you’ll probably have to call-

-And louder.

You knew you shouldn-

-and louder.

“Shut up!”

All goes quiet.

After all the noise, it feels wrong.

In the blink of an eye, the class quietens, the motorway stands still, and the trees omit themselves to a vow of silence.

There’s only you. You, your flashlight, the keys and your panicked breaths. It comes out in mist-like puffs in front of your face.

You don’t remember dropping your flashlight. You don’t remember pressing your hands to your ears, either.

You take a few deep inhales. “I’m losing it. I’m absolutely losing it.” Bringing a hand to your eyes, you rub them, as if trying to dispel the lingering fingers of some sort of mania. You do it much more harshly than you really meant to. Feeling the soft tissue squish and scrape against the cavities of your skull, you hope it brings some sense back to you.

You crouch down to grasp your flashlight again. You see your face, distorted, in a puddle on the wood. With your back constantly to some sort of darkness, you feel yourself teetering on some sort of edge, standing stock still as not to fall. Still as those looming trees that pray to Gods your mind is too young to even know the name of.

A red hot blanket of indignation drapes itself over your fear for a moment. Whoever the Hell this was, whatever dim-witted asshole and their friends, was going to get an earful. Maybe even a right hook, if you were feeling ballsy.

You scan the halls up and down, keeping a careful ear for any sort of movement, any sort of amused giggle. You almost expect a TV show presenter to appear with a bunch of cameras or something. Even something as outlandish as that would ease your mind.

Anything that gives you a logical explanation as to what you just heard.

You begin to even search the walls, almost expecting to find grinning eyes staring at you from behind the rotting pipework. What an absurd thought.

Then you see something move.

It's from the corner of your eye, and you pray to see Helen, or just someone, there.

You don’t.

A chasmal wound sits before you, cracking at the edges like spindly fingers clawing their way up the walls.

Something skitters. Something dark and fat. Something with beady eyes and tiny feet.

There's droning under the floorboards. A muted thrum that, for a few seconds, only your feet can pick up.

Then you see a tail.

And a foot.

And a snout.

And you realise with horror that there is something in the walls. Something that is speaking to you.

At first, it’s as indistinguishable as ever; that same endless murmur from before as thousands of voices speak over each other.

But, slowly–like a church choir–they all come together, whispering in their whiny voices one great chant.

“We are small. We are many.”

And you finally begin to understand the words.

“We have teeth. We have tails.”

And all you can really do is stand in silent terror.

“We were here before. We will be forevermore.”

Over and over and over they repeat it: an unending mantra accompanied by chattering teeth and pattering feet.

You can’t even bring yourself to move, body completely unsure how to react. It’s like the flies; worming their way into your ears and resounding off of your skull.

There’s laughter there, too. High-pitched, shrill sniggering. Sniggering of a thousand strangers that you’re sure are mocking you.

And they just keep getting louder.

What are you even meant to do? You have to be hallucinating at this point–encouraged by a weird mix of sleep deprivation and sloping paranoia.

You feel like you’re in some type of morbid comedy, and the joke is absolutely on you.

It doesn’t take long before your synapses finally snap into action, forcing your legs forwards. It begins with a brisk walk and easily turns into a jog. You aim for the staircase, unsure whether you’ll be going up or down.

Abruptly, their chant changes, a few voices slow to catch onto the shift.

“India, Tango-”

It almost makes you stop dead in your tracks: even more confused with the seemingly random words they begin chittering.

“-Kilo, November-”

You refuse to listen, just blocking it out. No need to make yourself more fearful than you already are.

“-Oscar, Whiskey, Sierra-”

And you’re almost at the staircase, when-

SNAP.

-The floor finally collapses under your weight.

“Y/N!”

You feel your head slam against the wet, wooden flooring. For a split second, no longer than a blink, everything goes blank.

Then there’s a strain in your ankle. And water soaking into your hoodie.

And you are very much so awake.

“Γαμώτο- Y/N? Y/N! Are you alright?”

Your brain throbs underneath your sweat sheened skin. Something wet slides down your cheek, and you wonder if it's blood. Looking up, partially balanced on your hands, all you can really do is stare at Helen with a mixture of utter horror and confusion. You open your mouth. Your jaw whines like one of the doors, and you taste wood on your tongue. “What the fuck.”

She hooks her arms under your shoulders, mumbling apologies under her breath as she drags you forward like a limp corpse. Easily, your foot is freed. Back on your feet, you wipe any residue off of your hands and face with frantic fingers.

Turning and looking down, you see that your luck had quickly run out: the wood had finally broken through.

Knowing that there’s concrete under it doesn’t bring you as much comfort as you thought it would.

A cold buzz overtakes the hot pain.

“Is your foot normal? Does it hurt?”

You swing your head back around. “Where were you?”

Her face twitches in surprise, not expecting your harsh tone. “Where were you? I was asking for you to see if you wanted to go up to the next floor to see if it was like this one. I couldn’t find you so I went up to see if you were there: I came down when I heard the wood snap.”

You watch her for a moment, thinking. ‘I came down when I heard the wood’, not ‘I came down when I heard you calling for me.’

Did she…did she not hear you?

Did she not hear that?

You think your ankle should hurt a lot more than it does. You think there should be pain jumping up your leg when you put your weight down.

“I was…” Swallowing, your eyes search the floor for something you don’t know the name of. Your flashlight has skidded to the foot of the staircase. “...I was in the last apartment by the staircase.”

Her brows furrow. “Why did you not come out when I asked?”

Your mouth is dry.

You desperately want to explain it to her. Tell her you’d be calling out for her for the last who knows how long, stalking up and down the hall. Tell her that there is something in the walls and you fear they know things you’ve tried to bury. However, the moment you re-run the memories, think over how to even begin to describe what just happened, you realise you sound mad. The epitome of it.

As supportive and believing as Helen was, there was no way she was going to believe you.

“I just…”

There’d be that look on her face. It’d be there for a second, but you’d still see it. It’d be on Noah’s face when she tells him–clear as freshwater–as well.

“...got scared by some rats.”

You may be human, and it may be right to accept help when you’re hurting, but you still refuse to be seen as mad.

Sick.

Her face softens. Still somewhat annoyed–for a fair reason from her perspective–but lesser so.

Nobody likes not being believed, after all.

“Rats?”

You nod.

“I have never liked rats,” there's a smile in her eyes. You think it’s meant to comfort you. “Maybe we should leave if there’s more?”

You hope you do. You pray to Gods who have long averted their gaze from this place of endless night and thumping walls to allow you to leave.

“Hm…well, we do not scare easy, do we? We aren’t afraid of the dark or,” she pauses for a moment. You don’t know if it's for effect or not. “Rats, are we?”

Something in you wilts when you realise she’s trying to encourage you. Encourage you to go through with things. To overcome what she thinks is just a minor fear.

You spite August winds and cigarette smoke for sewing your mouth shut.

There’s an attempt at a smile underneath your mask. It doesn’t reach your eyes. “Yeah.”

Smoothly, her fingers intertwine with yours. She feels blisteringly warm.

“Is your foot and ankle okay?”

You can’t bring yourself to lie.

-----------------------

In all their ‘nonsensical’ murmuring, the words the Things speak do have some meaning behind it, if you look close enough.

IMPORTANT: If you, or any of your friends, are going urban exploring, and stumble upon a building like this (incredibly damp, rotting wood, mould etc.) do not enter. Please do not risk an injury, or your life, for the sake of an experience or some cool photos. Further, if you visibly see your friend get injured, actually check them over to make sure they're genuinely okay.

On note of updates: expect an update every three weeks on a Friday. If it doesn’t come then, expect it on the Saturday, and, if it doesn’t come until then, expect that I’m busy and won’t be able to update until next week. As much as I’d like to write to my heart’s content, I unfortunately don’t have all that time :’]

- Γαμώτο = Damn it

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scientia-rex · 11 months

Text

How Much Does Water Weigh?

It's not a trick question. One liter of water weighs one kilogram--the science is set up that way.

How much is a kilogram? Approximately 2.2lbs.

How much of you is water? Approximately 60%, though this varies by organ type.

If you're about 70 kilos, or about 154 pounds, that means you have around 42 liters of water in you--about 92 pounds.

You cannot function with less water than your body needs. Many people, when they think they're losing or gaining "weight," think they're talking about fat when they're actually talking about water. The underlying structure of your body doesn't change that fast. You didn't "sweat out" fat. You dehydrated yourself, and since water weighs quite a bit, that made the number of the scale smaller. Your body is the same, except it works worse when it's dehydrated.

It is normal to see shifts in weight over the course of a day, because your hydration status changes. You wake up and you've been using up water without replacing it, so you're lighter. You have a salty breakfast? The salt gets pulled into your bloodstream by the digestive process and then, thanks to osmosis, more water goes into your bloodstream. Your weight goes up. Fluctuations of multiple pounds are not a sign that your diet is succeeding or failing--it's a sign of the salt content of what you're eating and whether you're drinking enough water.

Diuretics are frequently abused to increase short-term weight loss. Again, the only weight this can take off you is fluid. Diuretic abuse can lead to life-threatening complications, like kidney failure; kidneys need to see fluid constantly to filter your bloodstream, and if they don't get it, imagine a wetlands where you choke off the water supply and silt chokes the channels. It's bad. Kidneys are very bad at healing. Damage can be permanent. You can also give yourself a condition called hyponatremia, which is not at a chemical level a lack of salt, as the name might suggest, but an excess of water--your body dumps so much urine that it takes salt with it and now you don't have enough to go around how much water is still in you. Guess what you need salt for? Neurotransmission. If you go hard on diuretics, you can fuck up neuronal transmission so much that you need to be in the ICU and/or die.

Recognize when "weight loss" bullshit is actually a diuretic, because those motherfuckers do not care if you are seriously injured or die as long as they get their profit off whatever "purge" tea they've just sold you.

(Things that make you shit yourself "thin"? Same deal. By the time food makes it through your intestines, you've reabsorbed all the nutrition you're gonna, even if you're shitting lava thanks to a laxative tea--but what you're shitting out is a lot of water, so yeah, your scale tells you you're thinner.)

#the attending dr. kristophine #eating disorder cw

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thetinypngs · 3 months

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Coming here AGAIN

Thinspo blogs: DONT LIKE, DONT REBLOG, DONT FOLLOW ME

Rant under the cut

I also suffer from ED and seeing those kind of blogs specially when I have the mentality of a 0 TO 4 YEAR OLD Is REALLY TRIGGERING

Im angry! I’m so angry!

I expected the occasional nsfw bot or blogs

But seriously? I never expected to HAVE to make this post

It’s on my banner, I made it clear to see and read, I even put the alt text, and you still thought “yeah, I’m a child-safe blog” you are not!

I’m sorry you are a victim of this body-shaming, fatphobic, patriarcal society.

I totally understand that the way you consume/produce this kind of media is (you like it or not) self harm and how you can regress to actually cope instead of harming yourself

But it doesn’t give you the right to trigger me!

Im fat! I’m a fat girl! I weight around 70+ kilos! (Around 154+ lb)

My clothes are mostly (a Brazilian) L !

I used to be underweight, I used to barely eat because I was so depressed I didn’t have the energy to it!

And you want to know a secret? I was mocked for being underweight and mocked for being fat! People will always judge you, no matter what, and yes it does suck, but doesn’t mean you are ugly!

Beauty comes in many forms, it’s not just one single pattern

And you invading my safe space, my little silly photos blog, just HURTS

Be more kind to others, do better.

#tw rant #tw vent #ed mention #ed ment tw #agere vent #sh mention #sh ment tw #౨ৎ blossom babbles #not pngs #agere community #agere sfw #sfw agereg #sfw agere #age regression #agere blog #safe agere

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slavic-roots-western-mind · 9 months

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Chinese Measurement Units Guide

At first glance the Chinese clothes sizes make little sense (they still make not that much sense even at the 15th glance as well to be honest). And the fruit and veggie prices are also no odder.

Then I realized that China has its own local measurement units, so here are some unique measurement units you should look out for plus an odd one out.

1. Weight

Kilograms are used (confirmed this during my medical exam, which is a story in itself), but for things like fruits, veggies etc. 公斤 is used, which is basically kilos divided by 2.

一斤 (yī jīn）= 500g

两斤 (liǎng jīn）= 1kg*

*Even though 斤 is translated to as pounds sometimes, it's actually kilos.

This is also used for clothing sizes (on taobao at least), so if you want to get an accurateish estimate you need to convert your weight to kilos, multiple by 2 and then select a size that fits within the range.

For example: if you weight 70 kg, you then multiple that by 2 = 140斤. Clothes will usually have size ranges e.g. 120-145斤, so that could fit into the L (Large) category.

Note: Sizes vary across stores, so an L in one shop can be an XL in another store or an 2XL in a different store so be ready to contact the seller asking for more specific measurements if not too sure.

2. Length

Usually kilometres and metres are used, but there's also a local system.

0.5 km - 1里 - lǐ

1 km - 2里 - lǐ

3. Area

Same as the previous one, the western measurement units are used but there's also a local system. Not very common from what I've heard, but still pretty handy and interesting to know.

1 km² -15顷 - qǐng

4. Volume

Volume is the same as the metric system, with it's own name so no surprises here.

1 L - 1 升 - shēng

The only major issue I've had has been with the weight measurement and its conversion, but other than that there aren't many issues.

5. Contact lenses

Maybe it's a location thing, but the eye diopter thing here is slightly different.

If your prescription is -4.00, then here it'll be just -400 or just 400 without the minus if buying on Taoboa. It should be obvious (farsightedness of +4.00?? with people studying and working that much??), but it threw me off the first time I had to get my contacts here.

They range from 0 to -8.00 but with one value for the entire package, so if you have significantly different diopters in each eye e.g. -2.00 in your right and -3.00 in your left, then you may have to buy 2 packets, 1 for each eye.

#chinese studyblr #mandarin langblr #chinese langblr #chinese language #learn chinese #chinese #college #college life #student life #aesthetic #student #studyblr #study blog #study motivation #china #study in china #travel blog #slavic roots western mind #measurement

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budi-sebican · 4 months

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I'm finally reaching my first goal weight tomorrow 😫😫😫 i'm 0,1 k away from GW1!

I'm really restricting food intake and working out every day. I also ordered some running shoes, i'm planning on going for a run around 6 o'clock, going to work which is also physically intensive and then going to the gym in the evening.

I feel so much better physically already i'm so excited, i have just under three months left to hopefully reach 70 kilos. So i gotta lose 25 kilos in 3 months lmao. Its a lik crazy but i know i can do it i'm sure i'm not the first one to do it

My UGW is like 60 kilos but it depends how i look when i reach it, if theres still some flubber i'm going lower

#guy thinspi #male ed #male thinspi #ana male #malespii #malespø #ed inspo #i will reach my ugw #i will be a skeleton #i want to be slim #i wanna be weightless #i wanna be skinnier #i wish i was skinnier #i wanna lose weight #i want to be small

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gostuck · 6 months

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The first few kilos are gone, but it's not fast enough. I don't see any difference. It's probably because I'm still fat and gross and overweight and ugly, and all that. I need to be below 70 kg by the end of April. It's 3 weeks to go and around 7 kg. I can do that.

If I got below that, I can be even more motivated to get below the 65kg and 60kg.

55kg is the goal, my lovely human beings. 🦋

#weight loss #low cal restriction #thiinsp0 #th1gh g@p #tw thinspi #th1n$pø #thinspø #th1nsp1ration #th1nspø #thin$po

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dailyanarchistposts · 5 months

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A.2.18 Do anarchists support terrorism?

No. This is for three reasons.

Terrorism means either targeting or not worrying about killing innocent people. For anarchy to exist, it must be created by the mass of people. One does not convince people of one’s ideas by blowing them up. Secondly, anarchism is about self-liberation. One cannot blow up a social relationship. Freedom cannot be created by the actions of an elite few destroying rulers on behalf of the majority. Simply put, a “structure based on centuries of history cannot be destroyed with a few kilos of explosives.” [Kropotkin, quoted by Martin A. Millar, Kropotkin, p. 174] For so long as people feel the need for rulers, hierarchy will exist (see section A.2.16 for more on this). As we have stressed earlier, freedom cannot be given, only taken. Lastly, anarchism aims for freedom. Hence Bakunin’s comment that “when one is carrying out a revolution for the liberation of humanity, one should respect the life and liberty of men [and women].” [quoted by K.J. Kenafick, Michael Bakunin and Karl Marx, p. 125] For anarchists, means determine the ends and terrorism by its very nature violates life and liberty of individuals and so cannot be used to create an anarchist society. The history of, say, the Russian Revolution, confirmed Kropotkin’s insight that ”[v]ery sad would be the future revolution if it could only triumph by terror.” [quoted by Millar, Op. Cit., p. 175]

Moreover anarchists are not against individuals but the institutions and social relationships that cause certain individuals to have power over others and abuse (i.e. use) that power. Therefore the anarchist revolution is about destroying structures, not people. As Bakunin pointed out, “we wish not to kill persons, but to abolish status and its perquisites” and anarchism “does not mean the death of the individuals who make up the bourgeoisie, but the death of the bourgeoisie as a political and social entity economically distinct from the working class.” [The Basic Bakunin, p. 71 and p. 70] In other words, “You can’t blow up a social relationship” (to quote the title of an anarchist pamphlet which presents the anarchist case against terrorism).

How is it, then, that anarchism is associated with violence? Partly this is because the state and media insist on referring to terrorists who are not anarchists as anarchists. For example, the German Baader-Meinhoff gang were often called “anarchists” despite their self-proclaimed Marxist-Leninism. Smears, unfortunately, work. Similarly, as Emma Goldman pointed out, “it is a known fact known to almost everyone familiar with the Anarchist movement that a great number of [violent] acts, for which Anarchists had to suffer, either originated with the capitalist press or were instigated, if not directly perpetrated, by the police.” [Red Emma Speaks, p. 262]

An example of this process at work can be seen from the current anti-globalisation movement. In Seattle, for example, the media reported “violence” by protestors (particularly anarchist ones) yet this amounted to a few broken windows. The much greater actual violence of the police against protestors (which, incidentally, started before the breaking of a single window) was not considered worthy of comment. Subsequent media coverage of anti-globalisation demonstrations followed this pattern, firmly connecting anarchism with violence in spite of that the protesters have been the ones to suffer the greatest violence at the hands of the state. As anarchist activist Starhawk notes, “if breaking windows and fighting back when the cops attack is ‘violence,’ then give me a new word, a word a thousand times stronger, to use when the cops are beating non-resisting people into comas.” [Staying on the Streets, p. 130]

Similarly, at the Genoa protests in 2001 the mainstream media presented the protestors as violent even though it was the state who killed one of them and hospitalised many thousands more. The presence of police agent provocateurs in creating the violence was unmentioned by the media. As Starhawk noted afterwards, in Genoa “we encountered a carefully orchestrated political campaign of state terrorism. The campaign included disinformation, the use of infiltrators and provocateurs, collusion with avowed Fascist groups … , the deliberate targeting of non-violent groups for tear gas and beating, endemic police brutality, the torture of prisoners, the political persecution of organisers … They did all those openly, in a way that indicates they had no fear of repercussions and expected political protection from the highest sources.” [Op. Cit., pp. 128–9] This was, unsurprisingly, not reported by the media.

Subsequent protests have seen the media indulge in yet more anti-anarchist hype, inventing stories to present anarchists are hate-filled individuals planning mass violence. For example, in Ireland in 2004 the media reported that anarchists were planning to use poison gas during EU related celebrations in Dublin. Of course, evidence of such a plan was not forthcoming and no such action happened. Neither did the riot the media said anarchists were organising. A similar process of misinformation accompanied the anti-capitalist May Day demonstrations in London and the protests against the Republican National Congress in New York. In spite of being constantly proved wrong after the event, the media always prints the scare stories of anarchist violence (even inventing events at, say Seattle, to justify their articles and to demonise anarchism further). Thus the myth that anarchism equals violence is perpetrated. Needless to say, the same papers that hyped the (non-existent) threat of anarchist violence remained silent on the actual violence of, and repression by, the police against demonstrators which occurred at these events. Neither did they run apologies after their (evidence-less) stories of doom were exposed as the nonsense they were by subsequent events.

This does not mean that Anarchists have not committed acts of violence. They have (as have members of other political and religious movements). The main reason for the association of terrorism with anarchism is because of the “propaganda by the deed” period in the anarchist movement.

This period — roughly from 1880 to 1900 — was marked by a small number of anarchists assassinating members of the ruling class (royalty, politicians and so forth). At its worse, this period saw theatres and shops frequented by members of the bourgeoisie targeted. These acts were termed “propaganda by the deed.” Anarchist support for the tactic was galvanised by the assassination of Tsar Alexander II in 1881 by Russian Populists (this event prompted Johann Most’s famous editorial in Freiheit, entitled “At Last!”, celebrating regicide and the assassination of tyrants). However, there were deeper reasons for anarchist support of this tactic: firstly, in revenge for acts of repression directed towards working class people; and secondly, as a means to encourage people to revolt by showing that their oppressors could be defeated.

Considering these reasons it is no coincidence that propaganda by the deed began in France after the 20 000-plus deaths due to the French state’s brutal suppression of the Paris Commune, in which many anarchists were killed. It is interesting to note that while the anarchist violence in revenge for the Commune is relatively well known, the state’s mass murder of the Communards is relatively unknown. Similarly, it may be known that the Italian Anarchist Gaetano Bresci assassinated King Umberto of Italy in 1900 or that Alexander Berkman tried to kill Carnegie Steel Corporation manager Henry Clay Frick in 1892. What is often unknown is that Umberto’s troops had fired upon and killed protesting peasants or that Frick’s Pinkertons had also murdered locked-out workers at Homestead.

Such downplaying of statist and capitalist violence is hardly surprising. “The State’s behaviour is violence,” points out Max Stirner, “and it calls its violence ‘law’; that of the individual, ‘crime.’” [The Ego and Its Own, p. 197] Little wonder, then, that anarchist violence is condemned but the repression (and often worse violence) that provoked it ignored and forgotten. Anarchists point to the hypocrisy of the accusation that anarchists are “violent” given that such claims come from either supporters of government or the actual governments themselves, governments “which came into being through violence, which maintain themselves in power through violence, and which use violence constantly to keep down rebellion and to bully other nations.” [Howard Zinn, The Zinn Reader, p. 652]

We can get a feel of the hypocrisy surrounding condemnation of anarchist violence by non-anarchists by considering their response to state violence. For example, many capitalist papers and individuals in the 1920s and 1930s celebrated Fascism as well as Mussolini and Hitler. Anarchists, in contrast, fought Fascism to the death and tried to assassinate both Mussolini and Hitler. Obviously supporting murderous dictatorships is not “violence” and “terrorism” but resisting such regimes is! Similarly, non-anarchists can support repressive and authoritarian states, war and the suppression of strikes and unrest by violence (“restoring law and order”) and not be considered “violent.” Anarchists, in contrast, are condemned as “violent” and “terrorist” because a few of them tried to revenge such acts of oppression and state/capitalist violence! Similarly, it seems the height of hypocrisy for someone to denounce the anarchist “violence” which produces a few broken windows in, say, Seattle while supporting the actual violence of the police in imposing the state’s rule or, even worse, supporting the American invasion of Iraq in 2003. If anyone should be considered violent it is the supporter of state and its actions yet people do not see the obvious and “deplore the type of violence that the state deplores, and applaud the violence that the state practises.” [Christie and Meltzer, The Floodgates of Anarchy, p. 132]

It must be noted that the majority of anarchists did not support this tactic. Of those who committed “propaganda by the deed” (sometimes called “attentats”), as Murray Bookchin points out, only a “few … were members of Anarchist groups. The majority … were soloists.” [The Spanish Anarchists, p. 102] Needless to say, the state and media painted all anarchists with the same brush. They still do, usually inaccurately (such as blaming Bakunin for such acts even though he had been dead years before the tactic was even discussed in anarchist circles or by labelling non-anarchist groups anarchists!).

All in all, the “propaganda by the deed” phase of anarchism was a failure, as the vast majority of anarchists soon came to see. Kropotkin can be considered typical. He “never liked the slogan propaganda by deed, and did not use it to describe his own ideas of revolutionary action.” However, in 1879 while still “urg[ing] the importance of collective action” he started “expressing considerable sympathy and interest in attentats” (these “collective forms of action” were seen as acting “at the trade union and communal level”). In 1880 he “became less preoccupied with collective action and this enthusiasm for acts of revolt by individuals and small groups increased.” This did not last and Kropotkin soon attached “progressively less importance to isolated acts of revolt” particularly once “he saw greater opportunities for developing collective action in the new militant trade unionism.” [Caroline Cahm, Kropotkin and the Rise of Revolutionary Anarchism, p. 92, p. 115, p. 129, pp. 129–30, p. 205] By the late 1880s and early 1890s he came to disapprove of such acts of violence. This was partly due to simple revulsion at the worse of the acts (such as the Barcelona Theatre bombing in response to the state murder of anarchists involved in the Jerez uprising of 1892 and Emile Henry’s bombing of a cafe in response to state repression) and partly due to the awareness that it was hindering the anarchist cause.

Kropotkin recognised that the “spate of terrorist acts” of the 1880s had caused “the authorities into taking repressive action against the movement” and were “not in his view consistent with the anarchist ideal and did little or nothing to promote popular revolt.” In addition, he was “anxious about the isolation of the movement from the masses” which “had increased rather than diminished as a result of the preoccupation with” propaganda by deed. He “saw the best possibility for popular revolution in the … development of the new militancy in the labour movement. From now on he focussed his attention increasingly on the importance of revolutionary minorities working among the masses to develop the spirit of revolt.” However, even during the early 1880s when his support for individual acts of revolt (if not for propaganda by the deed) was highest, he saw the need for collective class struggle and, therefore, “Kropotkin always insisted on the importance of the labour movement in the struggles leading up to the revolution.” [Op. Cit., pp. 205–6, p. 208 and p. 280]

Kropotkin was not alone. More and more anarchists came to see “propaganda by the deed” as giving the state an excuse to clamp down on both the anarchist and labour movements. Moreover, it gave the media (and opponents of anarchism) a chance to associate anarchism with mindless violence, thus alienating much of the population from the movement. This false association is renewed at every opportunity, regardless of the facts (for example, even though Individualist Anarchists rejected “propaganda by the deed” totally, they were also smeared by the press as “violent” and “terrorists”).

In addition, as Kropotkin pointed out, the assumption behind propaganda by the deed, i.e. that everyone was waiting for a chance to rebel, was false. In fact, people are products of the system in which they live; hence they accepted most of the myths used to keep that system going. With the failure of propaganda by deed, anarchists turned back to what most of the movement had been doing anyway: encouraging the class struggle and the process of self-liberation. This turn back to the roots of anarchism can be seen from the rise in anarcho-syndicalist unions after 1890 (see section A.5.3). This position flows naturally from anarchist theory, unlike the idea of individual acts of violence:

“to bring about a revolution, and specially the Anarchist revolution[, it] is necessary that the people be conscious of their rights and their strength; it is necessary that they be ready to fight and ready to take the conduct of their affairs into their own hands. It must be the constant preoccupation of the revolutionists, the point towards which all their activity must aim, to bring about this state of mind among the masses … Who expects the emancipation of mankind to come, not from the persistent and harmonious co-operation of all men [and women] of progress, but from the accidental or providential happening of some acts of heroism, is not better advised that one who expected it from the intervention of an ingenious legislator or of a victorious general … our ideas oblige us to put all our hopes in the masses, because we do not believe in the possibility of imposing good by force and we do not want to be commanded … Today, that which … was the logical outcome of our ideas, the condition which our conception of the revolution and reorganisation of society imposes on us … [is] to live among the people and to win them over to our ideas by actively taking part in their struggles and sufferings.” [Errico Malatesta, “The Duties of the Present Hour”, pp. 181–3, Anarchism, Robert Graham (ed.), pp. 180–1]

Despite most anarchists’ tactical disagreement with propaganda by deed, few would consider it to be terrorism or rule out assassination under all circumstances. Bombing a village during a war because there might be an enemy in it is terrorism, whereas assassinating a murdering dictator or head of a repressive state is defence at best and revenge at worst. As anarchists have long pointed out, if by terrorism it is meant “killing innocent people” then the state is the greatest terrorist of them all (as well as having the biggest bombs and other weapons of destruction available on the planet). If the people committing “acts of terror” are really anarchists, they would do everything possible to avoid harming innocent people and never use the statist line that “collateral damage” is regrettable but inevitable. This is why the vast majority of “propaganda by the deed” acts were directed towards individuals of the ruling class, such as Presidents and Royalty, and were the result of previous acts of state and capitalist violence.

So “terrorist” acts have been committed by anarchists. This is a fact. However, it has nothing to do with anarchism as a socio-political theory. As Emma Goldman argued, it was “not Anarchism, as such, but the brutal slaughter of the eleven steel workers [that] was the urge for Alexander Berkman’s act.” [Op. Cit., p. 268] Equally, members of other political and religious groups have also committed such acts. As the Freedom Group of London argued:

“There is a truism that the man [or woman] in the street seems always to forget, when he is abusing the Anarchists, or whatever party happens to be his bete noire for the moment, as the cause of some outrage just perpetrated. This indisputable fact is that homicidal outrages have, from time immemorial, been the reply of goaded and desperate classes, and goaded and desperate individuals, to wrongs from their fellowmen [and women], which they felt to be intolerable. Such acts are the violent recoil from violence, whether aggressive or repressive … their cause lies not in any special conviction, but in the depths of .. . human nature itself. The whole course of history, political and social, is strewn with evidence of this.” [quoted by Emma Goldman, Op. Cit., p. 259]

Terrorism has been used by many other political, social and religious groups and parties. For example, Christians, Marxists, Hindus, Nationalists, Republicans, Moslems, Sikhs, Fascists, Jews and Patriots have all committed acts of terrorism. Few of these movements or ideas have been labelled as “terrorist by nature” or continually associated with violence — which shows anarchism’s threat to the status quo. There is nothing more likely to discredit and marginalise an idea than for malicious and/or ill-informed persons to portray those who believe and practice it as “mad bombers” with no opinions or ideals at all, just an insane urge to destroy.

Of course, the vast majority of Christians and so on have opposed terrorism as morally repugnant and counter-productive. As have the vast majority of anarchists, at all times and places. However, it seems that in our case it is necessary to state our opposition to terrorism time and time again.

So, to summarise — only a small minority of terrorists have ever been anarchists, and only a small minority of anarchists have ever been terrorists. The anarchist movement as a whole has always recognised that social relationships cannot be assassinated or bombed out of existence. Compared to the violence of the state and capitalism, anarchist violence is a drop in the ocean. Unfortunately most people remember the acts of the few anarchists who have committed violence rather than the acts of violence and repression by the state and capital that prompted those acts.

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