#return of the shitty bat son (affectionately)

[virvendir]

Drawtober 2023 - Day 6

Looks like Faluthei encountered a slight breeze

[harmonictechnicality]

Eddie's Memory Log: Day 30

part 1 here | part 2 here | part 4 here | part 5 here | part 6 here

(ao3 link here)

After one whole month of documenting Eddie Munson’s semi-fucked memory levels, Steve has come across a few crucial bullet points:

Eddie never forgets his own name.

If Eddie’s pain levels are bad, so are his memories.

Eddie likes the lime jello better than the chocolate pudding, except he always forgets.

Eddie’s memory is worse after the weekend, but it gets better throughout the week.

Eddie can hum the theme songs to all of the shitty soap operas (even on bad days).

Eddie’s memory is at its best if he’s had multiple visitors the day before.

And maybe the most important bullet of them all:

Eddie always remembers three people (Wayne, Dustin, and Steve).

Memory Log: Day 31

It’s Monday, which means Steve hasn’t seen Eddie all weekend. The knuckleheads and Hellfire lemmings take the weekend shift since they don’t have school. Steve should be grateful for the time off, but he can’t help but wonder how Eddie is feeling - if he’s throwing hissy fits or being confectionery sweet to all of his guests.

The curiosity and concern has settled its way into Steve’s routine during his days off. That’s just how it is.

And that’s exactly why Mondays are becoming Steve’s (secret) favorite day, despite Eddie’s brain managing the slightest soft-reset after the weekend.

“Is he a Hyde or a Kathy today?” Steve asks the nurse at the visitor check-in counter.

He knows the majority of the staff by now, and they’ve all adopted his Eddie Behavioral Lingo. Steve is getting far too cocky about being the hospital trendsetter.

“He’s um…” the nurse's gaze drifts up to Eddie’s door.

Shit. Steve bursts into the room because he already knows exactly what that translates to.

It’s a high-pain day. Eddie affectionately calls them Grendel Days - he finally decided to play along with their lackluster literary references.

Oh yeah… Eddie remembers Beowulf

“Hey, hero.” Steve speaks in a lower volume because loud noises are brutal on days like this. “I heard that Grendel crashed the party today, huh?”

Admittedly, Steve had Dustin retell the important chunks of Beowulf to him cause there’s no way in Nerd Hell that Steve was going to read that fantasy bible of theirs.

Eddie squints one eye open to look at Steve. “That son of a bitch is trying to slice open my goddamn kidneys, I swear.”

“Should I get my nail bat?”

“You’re what?”

Damnit.

Eddie remembers zero fucking percent about their monster battles (and it’s probably best to keep it that way while he’s still recovering).

“Not important.” It is but whatever. Best to just change topics. “Can I interest you in any pain distractions?” 

“What are you gonna do exactly - open your letterman jacket and offer me a lollipop?”  Eddie snorts at his own joke before slumping over, holding his sides.

Steve wags his finger at him. “See, that is karma for being so mean to me all the time.”

“That?”

“All this pain you’re having.”

“Actually, I think it’s because I’m some type of Demonic Tinker Bell.” Eddie offers, fake coughing into his hand. “If not enough people are calling me freak, I start to die.”

It’s just a joke, but Steve is not so keen on his friends joking about things like Mortality anymore.

Still, he laughs. Plays along easily. “All hail the freak.”

Eddie stops his fake coughing fit.

“And just like that, my wings of darkness have returned.” Eddie flicks his wrist theatrically, giving Steve the weakest smile. “See? Much better.”

But it’s not Much Better. Eddie spends the rest of the visit seething with internal pains. Switchboard style - one area inflicting jolts of throbbing agony, then another. Eddie grabs wherever it hurts the most. Sometimes he can’t touch every pain point, it’s just too widespread.

Maybe Steve should… No. He’s not sure his hands could stop the hurt any better. He’s not a doctor and he’s not fucking magic. Steve is just the guy that wears offensively bright sweaters and watches Eddie’s torture spectacle from a front row seat.

They don’t talk much after that. 

Eddie can’t talk through the pain. And apparently… neither can Steve.

Memory Log: Day 35

The pain has been monstrous all week long. They’ve had to plug Eddie’s heart monitor back in because his heart rate tends to skyrocket when waves of pain hit. It used to be easy to forget that Eddie suffered anything other than head trauma.

Not anymore. Not with his room beeping like a terminal metronome at all hours.

Steve stops asking Eddie’s novel-based behavior levels because he already knows the answer. Wishes he didn’t.

“Munson?” The lights are off, which helps with Eddie’s headaches. That’s good. Less pain in his head, behind his eyes. Small victories.

“Go home.” Eddie’s breathing sounds labored.

Steve settles into his chair anyways. “Can’t.”

“I’m not in the mood.”

“Me neither.”

“Steve, I swear.”

“Like a sailor.”

Eddie chuckles. “Hurts to laugh.”

Seeing Eddie like this is god awful. He should be shredding on his guitar or mocking Dustin senseless for his clashing pattern combinations. He shouldn't be wrapping his arms around his torso, confining the pain that’s mangling him from the inside out.

“We’ve gotta find a way to get Grendel out of your system, man.” Steve bends down to Eddie’s eye level. “Cause this fucking blows.”

Eddie opens both eyes this time - they’re so sunken in. “… Grendel?”

Shit no.

If Eddie’s pain levels are bad, so are his memories.

Steve tries again anyway. “You know… from Beowulf?”

“Sounds cool.” Eddie eye’s close again. “Are they a band?”

Eddie doesn’t remember Beowulf.

“You think everything sounds like a band name…” Steve mumbles, ignoring the disappointment pinging in his mind.

Eddie reaches for the guitar pick on his neck - one of his bandmates brought it by a couple weeks ago. He rubs his thumb over it as if he can transfer memories through fingerprints.

“Hometown Slut.” Eddie sends a sideways smile over towards Steve. “Snatching virginities and record deals.”

Okay. Fuck. Eddie remembers inside jokes. That seems like a big fucking deal.

Steve attempts to not overreact with this revelation. Avoid another hair ruffling/thumbs-up situation. “Did you have to use the word ‘snatch’ in your weird little slogan?”

“Oh the word choice was very unavoidable, Stevie boy.”

Steve shuts the notebook, focuses on keeping Eddie distracted from his pain. “What about your band?”

“What about it?”

“Do you remem…” Steve searches for another phrase. “Do you think you can tell me the name?”

“Alright, please stop treating ‘remember’ like it’s a dirty word.” Eddie whines. “I’m not the fucking cable version of Breakfast Club. Stop censoring yourself around me.”

“Right.” Steve opens the binder back up.

Eddie doesn’t remember…

“Corroded Coffin.” 

Phew. Eddie does remember his band.

“Do you remember what instrument you play?” Steve puts emphasis on the un-censored word.

“Accordion.”

“Be serious.”

“Polka is dripping in sincerity.”

Steve pinches the skin between his eyebrows. Truly, it’s impressive that Eddie can still manage to be a massive prick, even when he’s writhing in pain. It’s like he’s going for the goddamn gold medal of assholery.

“Guitar.” Eddie dangles the pick around, somewhat peeved. “Now can we chill with the third degree for today, officer?”

Steve notices Eddie’s monitor is beeping faster than it was when he first entered the room. That sobers him up from his irritation.

“Yeah, sure.” He sighs. “No more questions for today.”

Eddie cuts him a devious look. “Well I didn’t say that now, did I?”

“Huh?”

“Oh the vapid look is not nearly as cute as you think it is.” Eddie lifts himself up slightly from his stack of pillows. He flattens them out and into a pillow wall as he sits upright. “How about I ask the questions today?”

“Why? I’m not the one who’s struggling with brain stuff.” Steve walks over to give him a hand. Eddies seems to be struggling with his strength, which is to be expected after becoming a fucking bat buffet.

“That’s debatable.” Eddie mumbles.

Steve’s close enough to feel his breath as he pushes the pillows comfortably around Eddie’s new sitting position. 

It’s not weird, the close contact or the breath. Steve has been helping Eddie with gross shit for a month - holding his hair when he starts puking or coughing up blood. Unraveling him from tubes and cords because Eddie is notorious for twisting himself into a medical straight jacket with this shit.

It’s not weird… it’s just weird how aware Steve is of Eddie’s breath. How warm and jagged it feels, even through his layered clothes.

Maybe Eddie is aware too, because he starts breathing through his nose the longer the silence is drawn out between them. Steve finally takes a step back, creates a non-breath-touching distance once again.

“Humor me then.” Eddie fills the tense pause.

Steve crosses his arms. “Don’t I always?”

“No. Usually, you aggravate me.” But see, why do Eddie’s eyes get all shimmery when he says snarky shit? And why does Steve suddenly use words like shimmery to describe Eddie Munson?

Why does it remind him of those sequined dresses that girls wear to homecoming dances when Eddie’s eyes do that shimmery thing? It’s like his mind is taking the insults and turning them into compliments, which is so bizarre.

“Steve?”

Shit, right. Say something instead of thinking about Eddie’s sequined eyes, goddamnit. “Yeah?” 

Real original, asshole.

“Just… look.” Eddie taps his fingers against this side of his bed. “There’s sharp pains shooting through every fucking limb on my body right now. I just need a distraction today - not a pop quiz.”

Yeah, Steve offered the distraction idea at the beginning of the week. But really, that’s not what he’s here to do. He’s here for the kids. He’s here to fill his jobless life with a meaningful task. Help Eddie the way he couldn’t help him in the Upside Down.

But the kids have no idea what it’s like every day. How some days, they are friendly and comfortable with one another. How some days, there’s a verbal boxing match between them - and on those days, they’re both the losers.

How some days, Steve is the one getting flustered instead of Eddie (who’s usually being called out for staring at Steve’s hair or arms or whatever else his eyes decide to fixate on).

Nobody else knows how many climates this hospital room can hold. Nobody besides Steve and Eddie.

“Fine.” Steve decides after mulling it over for far too long. “I’ll be your distraction.”

“Careful, Steve.” Eddie breaks the non-breath-touching distance, poking Steve’s wrist. “You almost sound flattered.”

“Hardly.” Bad time to bring up the word hard - when they’re seesawing between taunts and flirtations. Thank god for the binder Steve’s holding, obscuring any part of his anatomy that could potentially betray his coolness at the moment.

“Go ahead, Munson.” Steve backs away from Eddie’s touch. “Ask your questions.”

Eddie runs the entire thing as if he were a late night talk show host. Uses his hospital side table as his interview desk. Pretends his empty jello container is his microphone. Calls Steve his ‘special guest’ the whole time. Steve scoots his chair right next to Eddie’s bed, just to keep up the talk show charade. 

An hour into it, they’re both feeding off one another’s energy and attention. Steve can tell by the way Eddie’s fingers unclench from his sides and his teeth stop gritting together, that his pain is subsiding - or perhaps it’s no longer at the focal point of his mind. His heart monitor is at a tempo that seems ideal - less fast and less choppy. More like a ballad than a pop song.

Eddie’s questions range from common to outright strange. He asks Steve shit like, ‘what’s your favorite breakfast food?’ And then follows it up with, ‘okay - but if you could only eat scrambled eggs for dinner, would they still be your favorite breakfast? Or does time of day play a vital role in your food preferences?’

“Does it fucking matter?” Steve rolls his eyes. More than annoyed by Eddie’s constant need to play devil’s advocate.

“Nothing matters, Harrington.” Eddie replies. “And please stop answering my questions with more questions. This isn’t a goddamn improv game.”

Eddie remembers how to be a pain in the ass.

Steve doesn’t write it down, doesn’t really need to. “What the hell is an improv game?”

“I swear to Johnny Carson, I’ll kick you off my show.”

“Whatever.” Steve isn’t any less confused, but what’s new. “I guess time of day does matter a little bit.”

“Ha! Knew it. You’re so predictable.”

“And you’re a fucking handful.”

“That’s high praise coming from such an esteemed guest of the show.” Eddie’s hand is splayed over his chest, over his heart. The heart that’s beating like a ballad and not a pop song according to his monitor.

Okay stop.

Steve knows this is a game. A shtick. So why is his face heating up? Why are his palms sweatier than they were twenty minutes ago? Why does Steve keep wondering what Eddie’s eyelashes feel like against his cheek when he flutters them in that overly dramatic way?

The clock interrupts his questioning. Probably for the best.

They exchange goodbyes. Eddie always gets a little concerned that Steve might not show up again. Steve always tucks his bitchiness away to reassure Eddie that he’ll be back on Monday.

It’s their routine. Not just Steve’s routine. It’s theirs now.

Memory Log: Day 38

It’s Monday. Soft-reset day. Steve’s new favorite day.

“Hey, Steve.” One of the nurses stops him on his way to Eddie’s room. 

Her name is Sam - Steve likes Sam the best because she lets him stay longer on days when Eddie feels his shittiest. She also gives him gum to help with his nerves. 

Hospitals do that sometimes. They just activate his nerves like glow sticks. Snapping and crackling the radioactive colors that make his stomach churn.

Anyways, the gum helps.

“What’s up?” Steve asks.

“Just wondering,” Sam gives him a pleasant smile. “Do we have a code for Eddie’s good days?”

“Good days?” They don’t hear that phrase often around here. “I don’t think so.”

“Maybe you should think of one.” She starts flipping through some files. “He’s been in great spirits for three days now.”

Three days? Steve rarely gets three hours of Eddie being in great spirits. The guy is a perpetual ghoul, so this is definitely something to celebrate.

Steve makes a pit stop to the vending machine. Grabs them a couple of root beers and candy bars for the occasion. Look, it’s not champagne and hors d’oeuvres, but it’ll suffice. Besides, Eddie doesn’t strike him as a ritzy kind of dude anyways. He’d probably make some joke like, ‘you mean to tell me that a whore made these d’ouevres?’

Jesus christ, Steve’s been hanging out with Eddie for too long.

“There’s my favorite lady killer.” Eddie is already grinning as Steve walks in the door. 

Still remembers Steve is a Hometown Slut (of all the things that would stick to his brain… why that?)

“Seriously, you look sharp today.”

Steve’s knees lock at the compliment. “Um. Thanks. So do you.”

And the crazy part is, he means that. There’s a peachy color returning back to Eddie’s skin. The bags under his eyes are a faded gray instead of an Almost Black. 

And his hair. Eddie’s hair is actually untangled. His curls are fluffed out, sort of feathery at the ends. Maybe somebody trimmed all of the dead pieces off because it looks... Well, it looks nice.

Steve kind of hates to admit that.

“Guessing your pain levels are better?”

“You guess right.” Eddie nods. “Whatever meds they gave me Friday night finally kicked Grendel’s lousy ass.”

Eddie remembers Beowulf again.

“Glad to hear it.” Steve is trying to process how great things are going. Eddie’s complexion. Eddie’s memories. It’s never this clear on Mondays. Steve tries to just be grateful to have a day like this, but he can’t help but wonder why.

Why now?

“Eggs for breakfast?” Eddie is fiddling with his necklace again.

Steve jerks his head up. “You… didn’t forget?”

“Don’t get too excited.” Eddie gestures to Steve’s pants. “Because I wish I could forget those ridiculous khakis that you always wear on Mondays.”

“Shit, really?”

“What’s the deal with that anyways?” Eddie’s nose scrunches up at the question. “Laundry day or something?”

“I…” Yes.

“Or do you think your ass just looks better in lighter colors?”

“Well…” Also yes.

Eddie winks. “Looks like your ability to complete a sentence is just as fucked as my memory, huh Stevie?”

Steve nervously runs his hands through his hair. “This is just a lot to process, sorry.”

And it is. Steve starts jotting everything down before he starts to forget:

Eddie remembers Steve’s favorite breakfast food.

Eddie remembers Steve wearing khakis on previous Mondays.

Eddie remembers Steve’s Memory Fucked inside joke.

Eddie remembers a shit ton about Steve.

Eddie remembers.

Very lightly, Steve scribbles on the corner of the page:

Eddie notices Steve’s ass…

The rest of the visit is pretty awesome, one of the best ones they’ve ever had. Eddie recalls practically everything from Friday, which is blowing Steve’s mind. They talk about his visit with Dustin on Sunday, and how excited Eddie is to see Wayne on Thursday. Steve doesn’t even bother with taking more notes because Eddie remembers it all.

They talk like real friends today. Friends that occasionally notice other friend’s asses or get lost in their sequined eyes, but still. It’s somewhere in the ballpark of friends, right? Whatever it is, it’s better than ripping each other apart with insults. That’s gotta count for something.

Eddie falls asleep an hour before visiting hours are over. He falls asleep still smiling from the last joke he told before dozing off. Steve studies his facial features because he can finally see more of them (Eddie’s bangs were trimmed too, thank god). 

He’s still pretty banged up. Cuts that overlap and bruises that change gradient the further up they spread. As if the softer parts of Eddie are still freshly wounded. That’s not how it works, Steve has been beaten up enough to know that people don’t bruise like fruit. Not really.

Steve can just see more of Eddie now, which is proving to be a dangerous road to travel down. Way too many detours to let his mind wander. Think. Overthink.

He thinks Eddie is attractive. That’s the detour he’s taking tonight. And if this person didn’t already occupy so much space in his mind, that detour might be more shocking to him. But it’s barely registering on the shock-meter.

Eddie’s unharmed features are highlighted in attractiveness against the purples and grays and reds. It’s almost impossible not to notice that he’s attractive when his face has this many colors. This much character.

Steve doesn’t know what’s going on. This could all be his exhaustion kicking in. Or maybe Eddie’s great spirits has twisted Steve’s outlook on things. Or maybe it’s an illusion from the Better Day they’ve shared together.

The only clear answer that Steve has right now is that Eddie remembers him. And that fucking means something.

Steve stops by to tell Sam the good news on his way out.

“I think he’s getting better.”

Sam nods once. “He definitely feels better, I’ll give you that.”

“Sure, but…” Steve begins. “I think his memory is getting better too. He remembers the littlest details about me.”

“Steve.”

“That’s huge, right?” Steve is so awestruck. “Like… I don’t know, Sam. Maybe he’ll get to go home soon.”

She doesn’t respond right away. Her eyes just keep shifting between Steve and Eddie’s door.

“I think I need to show you something.”

That can’t be good. Her tone is very, ‘speak with me after class, young man.’

They quietly walk back into Eddie’s room. Sam motions her head for Steve to approach Eddie’s bedside. Cautiously, Steve does.

She gently pulls back Eddie’s thin blanket, and Steve feels the air vacate his fucking lungs.

Eddie’s arms. There’s tape and IVs and tattoos and scars - all of the usual stuff. 

But then there’s writing. Eddie is covered in black ink, scribbled notes filling in all the gaps of his pale skin. Steve can’t make out most of the words - it’s all messy.

But there’s one word he spots over and over again.

‘Steve.’

It’s all messy, sure. But it’s all about him.

“Holy shit.” Steve whispers, quickly looking towards Sam. “Sorry, didn’t mean to swear.”

“No, that’s an appropriate response.” Of course she’d be cool about him swearing.

Without waking up Eddie, he begins to decipher the notes as best as he can: 

Scrambled eggs. Extra hold hairspray. Hyde or Kathy. Yellow sweater. Khakis on Mondays.

There are notes on things they haven’t talked about as well. Things that Eddie has just observed:

Steve visits Mon-Fri.

Steve laughs at all of your jokes, even the mean ones.

Steve applies chapstick when he’s nervous.

Steve will untangle your wires without making it weird.

The name Steve no longer sounds the same after reading it fifteen times over.

“I’m so sorry, sweetie.” Sam places a hand on Steve’s back. “It’s not that he’s remembering everything again.”

“Oh.”

“He just doesn’t want to forget you.”

No. That can’t be right. That can’t be possible. Of course Eddie knows who Steve is. Of course he does.

Steve finds a shitty excuse to get the hell out of this place. He’s polite about it because Sam is a kindhearted person, but this is so fucking unfair. Every last bit of it, down the last ink stain on Eddie’s nondominant arm.

Max isn’t awake. Eddie still has a skim-milk memory. Nothing has gotten better?

Well that shit ends today. Because whatever detour Steve’s mind discovered tonight, it’s leading him down a fucking freeway of tenacity. He’s fueled by whatever attraction or feelings he’s developing for Eddie. Whether it’s friendship or something more, it really doesn’t matter. Not after tonight.

Steve just cares about Eddie way too much to let his mind rot away like this. He’s too close, too connected to the problem to let it go unsolved forever.

As soon as Steve gets home, he calls Robin.

“Really, dingus?” Robin answers the phone like that. Annoyed and groaning already. “It’s late and I’m neck-deep in a John Hughes marathon.”

“It’s about Eddie.” Steve gets right to it.

“Is he okay?”

“I don’t know.”

“Oh fuck.” She exhales loudly. “How can I help?”

“You’re friends with his bandmates, right?”

“Yeah, kinda. Why?”

Steve flips through the memory log. Locates one of his crucial bullet points:

Eddie can hum the theme songs to all of the shitty soap operas (even on bad days).

“I need you to ask them to make a mixtape of Eddie’s favorite songs.” Steve requests. “And it should be in chronological order. From stuff he liked as a kid, to stuff he’s into now.”

“Okay…” Robin pauses. “And you think this will help?”

“I don’t know.” Which is true, it could be a big waste of time. “But I’ve gotta try something.”

This might be dumb. But music helped them defeat(ish) Vecna. So there’s a possibility it could massage the knots in Eddie’s mind. Relax him enough to remember his life. All of it.

“Oh, and one more thing.” Steve adds before hanging up.

“What?”

Steve hits the accelerator on his freeway of tenacity.

“I need my fucking car back.”

[leviblum]

↪ brief introduction to levi blum.

BASICS

full name: levi aksel blum. nickname(s): lev. age: twenty-nine. date of birth: 15 september 1992. zodiac sign: virgo. place of birth: san diego, california, united states. ethnicity: white, ashkenazi jewish.   nationality: american. gender: cis male. sexual orientation: pansexual. romantic orientation: panromantic. religion: levi grew up practicing judaism alongside his family and though he doesn’t practice as strictly as he did when he was younger he still tries to attend temple as often as he can, tries to keep a kosher diet, etc. education: bachelor’s of fine arts in photography from the university of southern california. occupation: he’s a professional surfer though he’s taking a break from the sport while he recovers from an injury; to make money outside of that he’s a freelance photographer. language(s) spoken: english, hebrew, yiddish.  accent: he definitely has what people might consider to be a “stereotypical” southern california accent– of the sort that surfers have on television but if you asked him he’d be fairly adamant that he doesn’t have an accent at all.

PHYSICAL APPEARANCE

face claim: logan lerman. hair color: dark brown. eye color: blue. height: 5′9″. weight: 159 lbs. build: athletic. tattoos: he has an ocean themed sleeve on his left arm ( here ) & a tattoo on his chest of a cresting wave ( here ). piercings: he has a septum piercing and two lobe piercings in his left ear. distinguishing characteristics: people tend to comment on his sleeve tattoo when he can wear clothes that show it off, his demeanor – he’s a relatively mellow person, how passionate he is about his work.

PERSONALITY

label: the thalassophile. positive traits: adventurous, affectionate, ambitious, compassionate, confident, creative, easy-going, empathetic, fearless, genuine, loyal, passionate, persistent, quick-witted, relaxed, sincere, thoughtful. negative traits: boastful, flippant, gullible, impatient, impulsive, irresponsible, jealous, opinionated, petty, possessive, sarcastic, shameless, stubborn.   goals/desires: to recover from his injury and get back to surfing, to make the best of the time he’s in providence peak, to be open to any new experiences life throws at him.  fears: that surfing won’t ever be the same after his injury, that he’ll never feel fulfilled doing anything else when his surfing career is over.  hobbies: screwing around editing in photoshop, listening to podcasts, skateboarding, hanging out with his dog, playing guitar, watching foreign films, watching old american films, going to temple, facetiming with his sisters, going out with his friends, drinking, surfing, learning new photography skills, people watching, sex, scrolling through dating apps when he’s bored, collecting skateboard decks, cooking, going to the beach, swimming, traveling, finding creative ways to keep a kosher diet, smoking pot.   quirks: he talks with his hands when he’s excited about something, he’ll invariably mention surfing at least once in any given conversation without thinking about it, he always seems to have some top 40 song or another stuck in his head, he chews on his fingernails when he’s anxious, he always seems just a little too relaxed in any given situation.  likes: visiting places he’s never been before, doing tourist-y stuff in new cities, meeting new people, talking about surfing, skateboarding, spending time with friends, dad jokes, hanging out with his cousin, good beer / good alcohol in general, mexican food, coffee, watching nature documentaries, true crime podcasts, cheesy action movies, foreign films, old hollywood films, the beach, adrenaline highs, sex, people he can be totally relaxed around.   dislikes: dealing with shitty people, anyone who wants to talk shit on what he’s chosen to do with his life, not being able to surf, physical therapy, missing temple, being away from the water for long periods of time, wine, anti-semites, not seeing his family for most lengths of time, bad pot. 

FAMILY

father: gabriel isaak blum. mother: astrid marie blum ( née bronson ). sibling(s): abigail, hannah & naomi blum. pet(s): he has a six month old husky puppy named kelly ( after kelly slater ). financial status: upper middle class.

BIOGRAPHY

When Astrid Bronson and Gabriel Blum met on a sunny afternoon in Los Angeles it seemed even to the friends who’d introduced them that something in the universe that had longed to settle down had finally clicked into place. Their backgrounds were wildly different– Astrid having grown up in Hollywood with family who had been involved in the both the entertainment industry on one side and the media in general on the other; and Gabriel hailing from a small community in the Sierra Nevada’s that had never been home to more than three hundred people during the length of his life there and still managed to be one of the most wonderful, accepting places he’d ever known. In Gavin’s mind it had been a waste of his first two weeks at UCLA to not have met Astrid any sooner than he’d managed to and it seemed to him to be a stroke of luck of the highest sort that Astrid was just as smitten with him as he was with her– to their friends it seemed that there wasn’t a more perfect match in the world for either of them and when they started dating no one batted an eye. By the time their respective degree programs were drawing to a close they were engaged and Astrid was pregnant with their first child— leaving behind the sprawling city for the suburbs of San Diego where they hoped to raise their family in an environment that would be well suited to anything their children might want to do with their lives.

In the end it would be the third Blum child who developed such an intense fascination with the ocean that Astrid and Gabriel made it a point to allow him to pursue any and all water based activities he wanted as he grew up and proved to be precocious and headstrong and passionate in all the same ways his parents were and then some. Levi, ultimately the only son the Blum’s would have out of their four children, was borderline obsessed with visiting the seaside whenever he could– begging his parents to take them on weekend trips as often as possible and, when he was seven, begging his uncle to teach him how to surf– something he’d wanted to do since he was a small child. Everything in his life seemed to click when he was on the water and Levi quickly developed a love for surfing that, to hear his family tell it, was matched only by the natural talent he seemed to possess for the sport. He spent endless hours surfing in La Jolla with his friends as he got older and though he was an equally gifted student he’d made it clear to his parents that surfing was all he wanted to do with his life and by the time he was fourteen he was competing in tournaments all over the world with his parents wholehearted support.

Levi finished school online to earn his GED at the age of sixteen and from that moment on threw all of his attention into competing– he racked up sponsors, magazine covers, and even at the junior level was expected to be a credit to the sport all around when he finally made it to the majors to surf with people he’d admired since he was a small child. It was only after a long conversation with his parents that he considered pursuing anything resembling a college degree after he’d been gifted a camera to honor his first tournament in the pros when he aged out of the juniors bracket. He wasn’t wholly convinced he could manage a full degree almost entirely remotely but after considerable conversation with professors in schools in California he’d considered attending, he enrolled at USC with the intention of earning his degree in photography while he continued to compete professionally. It was difficult on his best days but when he walked the stage to graduate four years later with a degree in something he was just as passionate about as surfing, well, Levi wasn’t sure he’d ever done anything in the world that made him prouder.

As the years passed Levi’s skill and passion for his career in surfing earned him a small handful of victories in major tournaments and even more in major opens and it seemed to him that nothing in his life could ever be better– at least until he blew out his knee in a tournament and found a season ending injury staring him in the face. It was devastating to him in more ways than he could count and rather than return to his home in San Diego he made the decision to seek out a place to live in Providence Peak at the behest of his cousin who had lived there for several years. There was no surfing to be done there but Levi hoped it would make it easier for him to focus on his rehab if there was nothing for him to do to exacerbate his injury– since his move to Providence Peak he has had surgery and is recovering from his injury, working as a photographer to keep himself busy in the mean time. It wasn’t the worst spot he’d ever found himself in but with months of recovery staring him in the face he still found his thoughts drifting towards the ocean and the sport he can’t wait to return to.

[milomeepit]

Diamond In The Rough: Chapter Ten

Roman has always wanted better. Has always believed that there’s a better life, a better world, just out of reach. Just beyond the veil of shitty teachers who don’t care, angry classmates that scream insults and slurs at each other all day, and drug-hazed parents who are more concerned with their next hit than looking after their ten year old son.

When he runs away after a particularly bad night at home and finds a quiet little cafe/bookstore tucked away in a back alley of the city, the sweet couple who run the joint (an odd pair; a quiet, gloomy man with a wry sense of humour and a cynical gleam in his eye, and a bouncy man who smiles like sunshine and laughs like a storybook king) help show him that maybe- just maybe- he really can have the life he always dreamed of.

Masterpost (to be added soon!)

Word Count: 1338

Chapter Warnings: food, stranger danger v2, daydreaming, anxiety, foster care mention, parent abuse mention, yelling (mostly from Roman), crying (also mostly from Roman)

Roman drummed his fingers on the tabletop of his usual table near the counter as he watched Virgil flit around the room, offering refills and recommending books to customers as they wandered around the cafe. He sipped his own drink, a tall glass filled to the brim with a frothy, sweet hot chocolate, and grinned. Virgil deftly stepped over a spilled drink, snatched the mop from the corner and wiped the floor clean on his next pass without ever missing a beat. Roman still wondered sometimes if Virgil really was a fae of some sort. He was so... graceful.

The front door slammed shut, and a tall man appeared at the top of the stairs. Roman had seen him around the cafe quite a few times, he seemed to be a regular. Patton and Virgil would usually sit with him and chat for a few minutes, and then return to their usual flow of running the cafe. Roman tried to remember his name. Liam? Landon?

"Heya, Logan!" Patton greeted him cheerfully from behind the counter.

Ah. So close, and yet so far, Roman mused as he took another bite of his sandwich.

"Hello, Patton. Would I be able to speak with you and Virgil? Privately?" Logan asked quietly. "It's quite important."

"Well, of course! V, hon, can you come here for a minute?" Patton called, making the taller man pause in his rhythmic pattern and look towards them.

"Yeah, coming," Virgil responded. He ruffled Roman's hair affectionately as he passed.

Roman noticed Logan watching the brief interaction closely, and felt a shiver run through him at the stony expression on his face. Something felt wrong, but he was sure Virgil and Patton would sort it out. They seemed like they could solve any problem the world threw their way.

He sighed dreamily as they disappeared into the kitchen, his mind already wandering to a pleasant daydream. His parents had always waved him away if he asked for help with homework, but he was sure that Virgil and Patton would be able to help if he ever had difficult homework.

Patton was really quite clever when it came to history, Roman had learned. He enjoyed watching programs where people dug up pots and bones and old houses, often talking to Virgil about the significance of the items discovered, and Roman listened intently. Virgil, meanwhile, was incredibly quick at math, rattling off customer's totals without batting an eyelid, or helping Patton figure out how much of this or that he needed to make bulk batches of food.

This, of course, only further fueled Roman's theory that the two of them had stepped off the pages of a fairy tale. Any issue thrown their way would be quickly conquered by their combined might! He giggled quietly to himself as he imagined Virgil fighting a dragon, big and bristling as it swiped at him. It would be no match for him, naturally, and he would quickly fell the foul beast, rescuing the kidnapped victim- Roman- and sweeping him into a tight hug.

He was distracted from his wandering thoughts by the chair across from him being pulled out. “Hi, Vir-” He froze as he looked up, seeing the brown eyes and angular face of the dragon Logan staring back at him. “... Oh. It’s you.”

“Hello, there, Roman,” Logan greeted him pleasantly. “How are you going today?” He clasped his hands together on the table and smiled.

Roman looked around for Patton or Virgil, but neither of them were visible. They must still be in the kitchen, he realized as he turned back to Logan. “Um... good. How are you?” He asked hesitantly.

“I’m quite well, thank you. Do you mind if we talk for a bit?” Logan stared at him evenly, and Roman shrank back in his seat.

“Uh, I-I guess,” He mumbled as he grabbed his hot chocolate and drank from it. His gaze dropped to the table, unwilling to meet his eyes. “What about?”

“Well, I wanted to ask how you know Virgil and Patton.”

Roman’s stomach dropped. “... Why should I tell you? Who even are you, anyway?” He snapped.

“Well, my name is Logan Kennard. I’m a social worker, one who works with children in...” He paused for a moment. “... Less than ideal circumstances. I know a bit about you, and I know you’re a long way from home, Roman. I wanted to ask you what was happening before we do anything about the whole... situation.”

“Don’t get them in trouble!” Roman blurted out loudly. He clapped his hands over his mouth as several customers glanced over at them at his outburst, his face red.

Logan raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to continue.

“They, um, they haven’t done anything bad!” Roman insisted in a softer voice. “I... they helped me. I didn’t have anywhere to stay, and they let me come to the cafe, and-and then Virgil came and found me after I ran away, and he talked to me, and they offered, and I wanted to go with them. They didn’t take me or anything bad like that. They’re really nice, I promise!”

Logan nodded, scribbling into a small notebook. “Right.” He snapped it closed and set it down on the table. He leaned forward a little, his expression softening. “Roman, you know they should have called the police, right? People can’t just take in kids off the street, there are rules about this kind of thing.”

“Yeah, I know,” He mumbled. “But they’re really, really nice. And I really like them.”

“I know. But you can’t stay with them.” Logan drummed his fingers on the table lightly. “Why are you out here, anyway? Your parents must be worried about you.”

They wouldn’t be. “I ran away,” Roman shrugged, curling in on himself again. “I didn’t want to be there anymore.”

“... Are your parents abusive to you?” Logan asked, his voice softer than Roman had ever heard it.

Well, they didn’t hit him or anything, and that’s what abuse was, right? He’d seen it on TV shows that his mother watched, crime shows with angry husbands and terrified wives and brooding detectives. “No,” He shrugged. “I just... don’t like it.”

Logan sat back and looked at him. His gaze was sharp and appraising, and Roman squirmed under the weight of it. It was a few uncomfortable seconds before he spoke again. “Well then, Roman, we need to send you home.”

The lump in his throat solidified into a rock in his stomach. “W-what?” He stuttered. “Back to my parents?”

Logan nodded. “If there’s problems once you get settled back in, we’ll be able to look at you being placed into foster care and finding a better home for you.” He picked up the notebook and started to stand.

Roman jumped to his feet, ignoring the tears forming in his eyes, and shouted as he swatted at Logan’s chest. “I don’t want to go back! I want to stay! You stupid-!”

A pair of strong arms wrapped around him, pinning his arms to his sides, and he shrieked, starting to cry as Patton appeared in front of him, shushing him and stroking his hair. “It’s okay, kid, everything’s gonna be okay,” Virgil murmured in his ear from behind him.

Logan watched them, his expression unreadable, and Roman hated him for it. He hated his round glasses and his cold eyes, hated his notebook and his straight shoulders and stupid tie. Why couldn’t he just listen? He was as bad as everyone else Roman had met, not like Patton and Virgil.

He stifled another sob as Virgil scooped him up, holding him close as Roman trembled. “Come on, buddy, let’s go back to the apartment,” He said softly.

“But-but what about the cafe?” Roman whimpered. “It’s only lunchtime.”

“Patton can close up and follow us home later. We need to go grab your stuff.”

“But, I don’t-!”

“I know, bud.” Virgil shook his head, already striding across the cafe towards the staircase, a frown on his face. “I know.”

[reesesxxpieces-blog]

Johnny William My Brother’s Keeper:

There are some sounds in this world that defy all others for no other reason than their implications. They deny all reason or logic. They are no louder or stranger or in any way more pleasurable to hear. Yet, they make ones ears ring with their conception and leave themselves nestled in your brain stem. Senses alive and time slowing. The scent of hot asphalt and sweat. The sun beating down red hot against light skin that seemed to only know the rise and fall of 28 winters. Eyes open yet seemingly blind to the pass of scenery as he was only reacting. All human impulse of reason and propriety gone in that windless day but his ears, his ears were still alive. His son was screaming. Muffled through the closed and locked window and door where he could still hear those little lungs belt. His oldest child who had seen too much left to see further and screaming for his father as if he knew what was going on outside. Knowing that an odd and primal sense of nervousness was most likely eating away at him as the little boy became able to compute more and more each day yet what he was seeing in truth could not be understood by him. He heard the swing of air as yet another weapon slashed the air in his direction. Interjecting as his pupils seemed to dilate at the sight of the sharpened fire poker being forced at him. Breaking the direction of the firepoker as he had seemingly three dozen times since as he forced the three foot level with all the force he had in a baseball swing into the ribs of the man who held it. Dropping him immediately where he’d complete that swing to nothing but wind.

Blood covered his t-shirt and jeans. An outfit he had never meant to dirty in such a way as it was all purely accident. A blackening eye, a cut lip. All minor injuries on a man wearing the blood of others who had come in multitudes. Five packed cars holding four to six rival gang members each that had come out of thin spring air. Dozens upon dozens of men all charging the front lawn at different speeds taking on only two men. Attempting to make up the difference with a construction level, a baseball bat and resolve. The James boys were by no means new to this sort of thing. They had been getting jumped since they could walk. Beaten up in school, church and every place in between. It had given them thick skin and thicker knuckles. Learning how to fight as they learned their letters. One of which taking better to the physical arts than the school ones. The other one liked words but he never completely forgot who he was. Never more so than in that moment when the truth was literally punching you in the face. They were James’ and they always would be. No matter how many millions were or were not in their bank account. No matter how many awards or accolades decorated the fireplace and how many children called them ‘father.’ This was what they were born to and this was what they were to be or lose it all.

Allowing his back to slouch briefly, Johnny was catching his breath in the interim as he watched the injured and bleeding masses crawling back to their cars. Round after round of this. Numerous knocked clean out scattered the front lawn of the same man’s family home. His kids and wife inside somewhere while the front door was barricaded shut from the outside and locked from within to keep the woman from running out for him. Wanting his kids to be secured and nothing else as the two of them had the outside. Leaving the backdoor open in the case they’d need to evacuate. The Pagans were familiar with the low-ranking Hispanic gang leaking in from the perimeters of New Jersey yet keeping them off of their shores. Yet, there they were and taking advantage of the first Pagan they saw. Getting two for the price of one on that memorial day weekend in what was intended to simply be a jumping. A message. It was all now a full out brawl. A royal rumble on a front lawn where for once, the two had never asked for it. Both of them were watching to see if a new round of the men would charge. All held together oddly by a female who seemed to be leading the attack.

Discharging a man who’d wrap around one of the cars. The fight was now drawing the attention of all of the neighborhood as Johnny finally dropped his level. It all seemed to be dwindling. Wiping the blood from his nose with his sleeve before Judas’ eyes caught a figure drawing in from the blindside of his younger brother all while one crept up on his own. “John!” he’d call sharply, pointing towards the approach where a knife was being swung at his side. Ironically, the same side he already held marks of such an attack on. He’d turn sharply, intercepting a swinging arm with one of his own. Blocking a forearm with one of his own before sharply head butting the approach. Disorienting him for long enough to take a sharp upper cut to the ribs. Another one and another one after that until he could wrench the knife from his hand. Doing what he should have done a year before and tossing it off into the grass as the opponent dropped before there was one of those sounds. One of those sounds you’d never forget. One that he’d never forget for as long as he lived as he had never heard it before and those true rare firsts were incredible in itself for such a versed man.

It wasn’t a scream or a yell but it wasn’t quite a groan either. A volume-filled grunt of sorts followed by the sounds of glass shards raining onto the ground. Almost knowing not to turn around. Time stilling and slipping through his fingers as another sound was given. Knowing the sound was erupting from the vocal chords of his brother. Johnny had been the strength of his brother for so many years. So many overdoses and sicken nights turning to days. The shivering, the violent retching when there was nothing left. Carrying him from streets to hospitals and back again. Holding his blood and bones inside of him. Judas knew he’d be dead without his brother but it was in that moment that the debt was paid and now Johnny would be dead without Judas’ watchful eye that had warned him while distracting himself. He’d turn around to spot the woman scrambling from the scene. The same who had abandoned her mission to scramble up the side of the lawn and throw a now broken beer bottle that littered the scene. Attempting to get up, to run off. The sounds of police sirens ripping through the block as one by one, her cars were leaving her. One remaining idling as the door was left open but John was having none of it. Grabbing the firepoker from the ground and filled with a blind rage that could only be known as protective and filled with his failure, he approached the woman leading operations. For once, no care as to the state of her sex as a heavy boot at the ribcage launched the woman onto her stomach. Two hands at the firepoker as he drove it over his own shoulders forward. Directing all his force into the iron that drove itself through flesh like a hot knife. Slicing through sinew and tissue and pinning the ground on the other side of her. For once, he had missed. A strike intended for the heart and ribcage forced through a shoulder that would no doubt let the woman live but keeping her pinned to the scene as he dropped to the side of his brother on his knees. The last car taking off as he pulled the larger man onto his back. Balled into his knees with his head to the ground, hands to his face where he could see the blood filling through his knuckles. Pulling him back where the man protested in an entirely unfathomable cry of pain.

“Judas…Judas…” John would scream at the man who he had never failed before. A man whose everyday was filled with pain yet he’d never let it lose. Knowing it had to be bad as he gripped one hand. Attempting to force it back where he would not give. Allowing him but little sight he could get where the bottle had hit his brow bone and send shards of glass collecting against and around his eye. “Judas, I need to see!” he’d yell at him again, needing to know if he was applying pressure on something or leaving it alone but he was ungiving. Another pain filled howl as his Judas’ own realization set in at the blood filling his sight.

“I can’t - I can’t see.”

Spencer James A black dress wasn’t something Spencer had ever associated with sadness.  It was a staple in most women’s closets, referred to affectionately as a ‘little black dress’.  It was something that went along with heavy make up and flashy earrings.  Shoes were carefully selected to go with it, but weren’t ever limited to only being in the same color.   A black dress meant drinks.  A black dress meant a good time was to be had.  A black dress meant conversation and often times led to sex.  But on May 28, 2017, a black dress meant a funeral.  It meant sadness.  It meant loss.  It meant regret.  

The phone call had come in as Spencer returned home from an already shitty day.  She hadn’t even gotten to express what had happened there or what was to come before she was answering a phone call that would bring her entire life to a screeching halt.  The thing was, she knew she wasn’t fair to her mother.  She knew her mother had only ever wanted what was best for her.  Her mother had only ever wanted to hold her family together in whatever way that she could, which was something Spencer could relate to first hand now that she had a family of her own.

Addison Spencer Reese had lived in a world that was not exactly what it once was.  At one point in time, her husband was an esteemed police officer and she was a kindergarten teacher.  They lived in a nice, suburban home, and had fought for years to have a child.  It was an endeavor that had been long and strenuous, filled with losses of its own, but in the end, they would have their little girl who she would give her own maiden name to as her first name in tribute to her line while pairing it with her husband’s last name to form a name that would forever have questions beside it as to whether the child was male or female, but it always seemed to suit her just right.  When Brock was injured in the line of duty, everything changed for Addison.  She went from living a comfortable life to wondering how the next bill would be paid.  Every dime the two had, had gone into their daughter, not leaving much by the way of savings, thus throwing them all into financial despair when her husband’s medical bills started flowing in beyond even their insurance’s coverages.

The daughter they had raised so well would pull through for them in ways that Addison never could thank her for.  An adult herself, she had moved home to save money and allow all of her own income to flow into the family’s fund.  She picked up extra shifts and worked security at night.  There might have never been a time they were more proud of their daughter than in those first months after Brock’s injury.  It continued on until there was no more that could be done for her husband there in Dallas and the two set out to go to Philadelphia, encouraging Spencer to stay, to keep her position in Dallas, to be where her home was, but their daughter wouldn’t hear any of it, once again proving just who this little girl turned woman was, finding it all to be a testament to how she was raised.  There was much Addison Reese didn’t know, but perhaps the biggest thing she didn’t know, nor would she ever fully understand was just how it was that the move would change everything.

Within a few months of moving to Philadelphia, living in an apartment that was less than fitting of the family, their daughter had dropped the news that she had married a man that had never asked for Brock’s permission and thus was the beginning of the divide between the two people she loved the most in this world.  It took months to get the two to speak once again, but finally repair was being made until all at once, the fragile glass walls would be shattered once more in a hospital hallway when Brock and Spencer had gotten into it over her husband once again, Brock’s intentions always of Addison’s understanding, yet his mannerisms on the topic were never on point.  That day, they found out they were expecting their first grandchild, of which they’d never get to meet.  

In hindsight, Addison would have done something in that moment to change the trajectory of all that would take place over the next few months.  She would have done something to keep her husband away from the hospital that day and given their daughter time to come around.  She had been so sure that she would come around, as she always did.  Family was engrained in Spencer from her earliest moments and to that, Addison knew her daughter would return.  It was just going to take time.  But time was limited and would expire long before she was ready to admit.  In the first few weeks of Brock’s incarceration, Addison would reach out to Spencer, attempting to speak with her, to help her understand what her father had been doing and why it had gotten taken so far, but Spencer would hear none of it.  She was as strong willed as the man that now sat behind steel bars and she could turn her emotion off in exchange for the heat of her hatred at any given moment.  Addison felt the heat even through phone lines, knowing her well enough to know not to push further, but she couldn’t stop herself.  She was fighting for her family when it was clear her family wouldn’t fight for each other.

When the call came in just a week ago, Spencer had expected it to be confirmation of death, but not the death of her mother.  She had expected it to be the call telling her that an investigation was officially being opened against her again, for the third time in two years.  She expected to be told that her suspension was now termination.  She had many expectations of that call, but she did not expect to be wearing a black dress that went to her knees, lacking heavy make up, lacking flashy jewelry, with matching shoes.  It would be the first time she’d face death so close to her and as the only child of the woman, with no spouse available for such arrangements, they all fell to Spencer to figure out.  Navigating a world that was foreign to her, an obituary was fashioned with the help of a funeral home director.  A funeral was planned, though it would be small at best.  With no plots purchased, nor ties to Philadelphia, Spencer would make the decision to have her mother cremated as her wishes were not known, thinking she could return to Dallas and return those ashes to the place her mother had been born and raised.

Two days later, Spencer was more than ready to do something that would take her outside of her own sadness.  Although she wasn’t entirely herself, she was putting on a good enough front for the boys and anyone else she might come in contact with, allowing the depths of her sadness to only be seen by the man she knew would hold her as she cried and offer no judgment on the tears that would stain her cheeks.  But today was meant to be a good time.  

Family these days meant John, River, and Rhys, as well as Judas and his new wife, Sophia, as well as Jade, whenever she could make it by.  It was a relatively small group, but it filled the James home with laughter and story telling, a bit of sibling rivalry and shit talk, as well as the happiest people under three feet tall.  Sophia’s stomach seemed to grow more and more by the day now as it was clear that very soon, there would be another in the mix of things, though she was keeping tight lips on the sex or if a name had been chosen yet, keeping a bit of mystery about the entire thing if only to entertain herself with something being just hers and Judas’ for the moment.  Jade had come and gone in true Jade form, and a short while earlier, Sophia had felt ill and had Judas take her home.  It wasn’t until they had gotten back home that she’d realize she’d left her bag there at the end of the sofa and Judas agreed to go back for it, to which Soph was fairly certain it had something to do with those two little boys that he couldn’t seem to get enough of.  

Spence had been cleaning up in the backyard from the cookout earlier as the boys were upstairs taking their naps, or supposed to be anyway.  Rhys was fast asleep while River was ‘reading’ to himself in his bed, but both were occupied and taken care of while Spencer helped John with the clean up.  Not long after, Judas had returned and John had gone to greet him at the door while Spencer was picking up the last of the paper plates left on the patio table and disposing of them, making her way through the house with a trash bag when the door was abruptly closed.  It didn’t take long before she’d see just what it was that had prompted John to close the door that way.  It was locked and secured, but half of her heart was on the outside of the door, with no protection and no real weapon.

River started to fuss as the door slammed too loudly and he associated it with his father leaving for work or Spencer doing the same, but either way, a closing front door meant someone had to go and their family was incomplete.  Spencer ran up the stairs, leaving a bag of trash on the floor by the front windows to grab River and check in on Rhys.  Her heart raced as she drew River into her arms, rubbing his back as she whispered softly to him.  “It’s alright.  Daddy doesn’t have work tonight, and neither do I.  We’re all home tonight, buddy.  He just had to go outside with Uncle J.”  Her words were soothing enough if they were only words, but paired with that nervousness in her throat, they’d come forth jagged to which the little one would easily pick up on and feed off of, inconsolable as she held him, pacing the upstairs floor with him.  Knowing he’d wake Rhys, she had to get River to the lower floor or she’d have two crying little ones and there was no way she was putting one down for the other at this point in time.  She drew a breath and walked down the staircase carefully to the lower floor, her eyes to that window where she could catch a glimpse of that which was taking place on the lawn, yet keeping River’s eyes from seeing the sights outside of their home.

The only thing she’d see that had any relief in it for her was the fact that she had yet to see a single firearm, though she was witnessing her husband and brother in law taking and giving a beating that sent pains through her stomach at every blow.  Trying to calm River, it would be to no avail, but she wouldn’t give up trying.  She could have called the cops, but she knew how this went well enough by now.  No cops.  And if they were called, it would be by another bystander, and not by John’s wife.  She knew it would only be a matter of time, but she couldn’t help but hope that it would come to pass sooner rather than later, knowing that it would send the others fleeing before the police could arrive, and put an end to that which she was having to watch through a double paned glass window with a sobbing toddler on her shoulder.

Just as she knew it would be, sirens were heard in the distance and vehicles started fleeing, but not before Judas went down and John was making quick steps across the yard wielding a fire poke at his shoulder.  She knew those steps he would take.  He was determined and outraged and it was no longer about the situation as it was.  On the receiving end was a woman, something that she knew to be off limits to the man, yet as she watched him drive the fire poke through her shoulder, pinning her to the ground, she knew the man had seen nothing but red in that moment and the fact that she was a woman hadn’t even mattered.  Spence’s eyes clenched shut as she turned her back to the window, not meaning to allow River that sight, but thankfully his own eyes were closed as tiny tears rolled down his cheeks with the soft word ‘da’ at his lips only wanting his father to come back inside.  

The next time she turned around, it was to find Judas on the ground with John there over him, the older James boy clearly injured though Spencer couldn’t tell from where she was just how severe it was.  With police now coming onto their lawn, an ambulance was radioed for and would arrive in minutes,  while within the house, she was there at the door, unlocking it and pushing against the exterior to find that she couldn’t force the door to move.  John was smart.  Too many people didn’t give him credit where credit was due, but the man knew his wife could not be contained by just door locks and would attempt to open that door at some point in time.  River’s cries seemed to stop as Spencer got to the door, knowing that she’d open it and they would find his father, and yet as much as she tried, that door would not give.

-May 30, 2017