#star told me the last time i showed her my cork board that it puts her in physical pain that i poke pins right through my prints

[hua-fei-hua]

the 10 yuegui stickers i ordered from @brackenfernsart arrived last night...!! 9 are for a friend but the last one now sits upon a throne on my cork board uwu

[girlactionfigure]

Last of the Red Hot Mamas

The Queen of Jazz

Sophie Tucker was a singer and comedienne whose powerful voice and brassy wit delighted audiences for over six decades.

Sophie’s Jewish parents had to escape from Russia in 1886 after her father had deserted the Russian military, and she was born on the boat to America. The family settled in Hartford, Connecticut where they ran a kosher boarding house and restaurant. Sophie and her three siblings worked hard in the family business, waking up at 3 am every day to peel and chop vegetables before school. After Sophie got home she waited tables and washed dishes.

From almost the moment of birth, Sophie had a huge and magnetic personality. She was confident, sassy, and uninhibited. Jewish vaudeville stars often stayed at her family’s boarding house and she was fascinated by them and their lives. She always knew she was destined for a life in show business. Her parents absolutely forbade her to join the paskudnyaks (rascals) who stayed at their rooming house. Sophie still found a way to perform – she started singing for their guests as she served them. “I would stand up in the narrow space by the door and sing with all the drama I could put into it. At the end of the last chorus, between me and the onions there wasn’t a dry eye in the place.”

Desperate to leave home, she eloped in 1903 with local beer truck driver Louis Tuck. When they returned, her parents organized a traditional Orthodox wedding for them. They had a son, Burt, in 1906, and lived with her family, where she was back to her old role of cooking, cleaning, and serving customers. Meanwhile a frequent guest was Willie Howard, a popular vaudeville comedian and the first to use openly Jewish content in his act. He was impressed by Sophie’s natural talent as an entertainer, and he urged her to move to New York and break into show business. Sophie’s husband Louis did not share her enthusiasm for the stage and after she told him she wanted to move to New York, he took off. Soon, Sophie left Burt with her family, telling them she was going to New Haven for a short vacation. Instead, she moved to New York and never returned. She was 19 years old. Burt was raised by Sophie’s family, and Sophie kept in frequent contact with them over the years.

Sophie arrived in New York with a letter of introduction to a famous composer from Willie Howard, but the composer wasn’t impressed by her singing. She was quickly able to find work singing at coffeehouses and saloons. At the German Village, a popular beer garden, she sang 50-100 songs a night for $15 a week. She was such a hit that she was soon making over $150 a week in pay and tips.

Sophie was generous with her money. She sent most of what she made to her family, and lived in a shabby boarding house where the other residents were prostitutes. A nice Jewish girl from Hartford, Sophie had never encountered this type of woman before, but she wasted no time making friends with her neighbors, and started a longtime practice of giving free women-only concerts in bordellos. Sophie shared her money and belongings with the call girls, and hid the money they made from their pimps. She later said, “Every one of them supported a family back home, or a child somewhere.”

At the time, $150/week was an impressive salary for a single woman, but it wasn’t enough for Sophie, who wanted to get out of the restaurant business once and for all and make it big in vaudeville. She got her first break in 1907: a chance to audition for impresario Chris Brown’s Amateur Night. After her audition she overheard Brown say, “This one’s so big and ugly, the crowd out front will razz her. Better get some cork and black her up.” He told Sophie that she passed the audition and would be featured in the show. However, she had to do it in blackface. Sophie was aghast at the suggestion, but Brown and the other producers insisted that her only chance for a career in show business was in blackface. She agreed to do it.

Sophie’s first vaudeville gig was at Tony Pastor’s on the Bowery where she was booked for a pre-show before the matinee. When she took the stage, the theater was empty. She started singing, but as people entered the room they completely ignored her, chatting noisily as they awaited the main event. She suddenly stopped the show, and started berating the audience for being so rude to her. Sophie had what Jews call chutzpah – audacious self-confidence – and she displayed so much humor and spirit that the audience fell in love with her. Nobody made a peep for the rest of the show, and they demanded three encores.

She was booked onto the New England Vaudeville circuit to sing African-American spirituals, and got rave reviews everywhere she went. It wasn’t just her big voice audiences loved, it was also her big personality, her confident swagger combined with self-deprecating humor. Sophie had a sharp wit and a voice that didn’t need a microphone to fill a room.

Audiences adored Sophie’s minstrel act, but she hated performing in blackface. Finally, at a performance in Boston, she’d had enough. She told the producer that her blackface makeup and costume were lost in transit, and before he could argue she marched onstage as herself. She told the shocked audience, “You-all can see I’m a white girl. Well, I’ll tell you something more: I’m not Southern. I’m a Jewish girl and I just learned this Southern accent doing a blackface act. And now, Mr. Leader, please play my song.” She never performed in blackface again.

Some of Sophie’s songs were bawdy, filled with innuendo and double entendre, while others were sentimental. Her most popular songs included “Some of These Days” and the Jewish favorite, “My Yiddishe Mama.” Initially Sophie only performed “Yiddishe Mama” in front of mostly Jewish audiences since much of the song was in Yiddish, but she soon found that all audiences loved the song. Even if they didn’t understand all of the words, they could appreciate her heartful singing about her devoted mother.

Sophie did a European tour in the 1920’s which was a huge success. When she arrived in England in 1922, she was greeted by fans with a huge sign reading “Welcome Sophie Tucker, America’s Foremost Jewish Actress!” Looking back at her career later in life, she described that sign as her proudest moment. Sophie performed for King George V and Queen Mary at the London Palladium in 1926. She greeted the monarch with a hearty “Hiya King!” The Daily Express described Sophie as “a big fat blond genius, with a dynamic personality and amazing vitality.” Yiddishe Mama became an international hit, and she was asked to perform the song in Berlin by the Berlin Broadcasting Company in 1931. Two years later, when Hitler came to power in 1933, all copies of the recording were destroyed.

Comedy writer Bruce Vilanch saw Sophie Tucker perform when he was a child. He remembered, “She’d make you laugh like crazy. She would belt. She still could blow the roof off the joint. Then she would do something incredibly schmaltzy, she would turn on a dime and make the audience weep… As soon as you were done crying, she would turn around and do some bawdy song… Everything she said was with the force of a judge making a sentence. She didn’t speak, she made policy statements.”

Throughout her career, Sophie chose songs mostly written by black and Jewish songwriters from Tin Pan Alley, including young Irving Berlin. She was close friends with her fellow Vaudeville performer Bill Robinson, known as Bojangles. When Sophie invited Bill to her sister’s wedding in the 1920’s, the doorman wouldn’t let him in, telling him to go through the kitchen. Sophie heard this and immediately pushed the doorman out of the way, closed the front door, and told the guests, “OK everybody goes through the kitchen.”

Despite her act’s raciness, she said “I’ve never sung a single song in my whole life on purpose to shock anyone. My ‘hot numbers’ are all, if you will notice, written about something that is real in the lives of millions of people.” Her songs included, “I May Be Getting Older Every Day (But Younger Every Night),” “I’m The Last of the Red-Hot Mamas,” “I Ain’t Takin’ Orders From No One,” and “When They Start to Ration my Passion, It’s Gonna Be Tough on Me.” She often made fun of her size, calling herself a “perfect 48.”

She kept improving her act, and after a decade as a solo performer, she created a back-up band of black jazz musicians called the “Kings of Syncopation.” They recorded several albums together, all of which were hits, and toured the country playing to enthusiastic crowds. In Chicago they played 15 weeks at the Palace and then at every other theater in town. Crooner Tony Bennett called Sophie “the most underrated jazz singer that ever lived.”

After a few years as the self-styled “Queen of Jazz,” Sophie re-imagined herself again, as a cabaret performer, accompanied by piano player Ted Shapiro. He became part of her act as they developed a snappy banter. Over the years she did some film, radio and TV work but what she loved most was interacting with a live audience.

Sophie married two more times, but neither husband liked being “Mr. Sophie Tucker” and both marriages failed. She said, “Once you start carrying your own suitcase, paying your own bills, running your own show, you’ve done something to yourself that makes you one of those women men like to call ‘a pal’ and “a good sport,’ the kind of woman they tell their troubles to. But you’ve cut yourself off from the orchids and the diamond bracelets, except those you buy yourself.” Throughout her life, Sophie was known for her generosity, and she gave away much of what she made to a variety of philanthropic causes. She established the Sophie Tucker Foundation in the early 1950’s, and endowed hospitals, synagogues, actors guilds, and several charitable organizations in Israel.

Sophie continued performing until the end of her life, even after getting lung cancer. While undergoing treatment she was still doing two shows a night. Sophie died at age 80 in 1966, during a months-long theater engagement. As she lay on her death bed, she asked the nurse to “bring me my chiffon hanky, bring me my wig” and she did bits from her act until she took her last breath. Thousands of mourners attended her funeral at Emanuel Synagogue Cemetery in Wethersfield, Connecticut. Known as the “Last of the Red-Hot Mamas,” Sophie’s act inspired later female performers such as Mae West and Bette Midler.

For entertaining audiences around the world for sixty years and giving generously to others, we honor Sophie Tucker as this week’s Thursday Hero.

Accidental Talmudist

[blackbabybird]

Forgiven - Chapter 4 - An Event 

warnings: self hating bruce mostly and bad words. this is a long ass chapter, #sorrynotsorry kind of got carried away. however, we learn new things more and more everyday ;) also i think isley’s job fits her and bruce v v v well. enjoy:)

I get those goosebumps every time, yeah, you come around, yeah You ease my mind, you make everything feel fine

~ Goosebumps by Travis Scott

I parked my car in front of Cork County Middle School. The school itself was a large brick building in the middle of a corn field. It used to be an insane asylum. I grab my bag and get out of my car to head toward the doors of the school. Once I get up there, I pull on the door. It’s locked. I look at the wall near the doors, they have an extremely fancy security system. I buzz the door. 

“Hi there! What can we do for you?” a happy voice rings through the intercom.

“Uh, my name is Isley Thomas. I have an appointment with Headmaster-,” I look down at my phone, “Guille.”

“Give me one second, dear. I’ll get those doors open for you,” her sickly sweet voice came through again. 

A second later the massive doors swing open. I’m greeted by two men in riot gear. “Any weapons must be surrendered before entry into property. This includes, but is it not limited to guns, tazers, pens, and ninja-stars.” speaks the large guards. 

“Pens?” I ask. 

The other guard nods curtly. I shake my head and grab all my pens out of my bag. They take them and put them tightly in between their bullet proof vests. “Follow us.”

What the hell is this place? I walk silently in between the two. We arrive at large double doors with a Medusa head engraved into the doors. The two walk around me and open the doors synchronously. I walk through them towards what looks like the office. That same god-awful sweet voice rings through the hallways, “You must be Ms. Thomas! You’re shorter than I expected. Hm, anyways, follow me.” 

So I do. “I never caught your name, Ms...?” 

“You needn’t worry about me, sugar. Names get in the way. I’m simply the next vessel for Headmaster Guille. Oh, we’re here! Knock twice then let yourself in, alrighty?”

I nod quickly and do as she said. The room I walk into is white and pristine. Nothing, and I mean nothing is out of place. There’s just a desk and two chairs in the room. No computer or even a cup of coffee, weird. “Please, sit Ms. Thomas.” says a voice from my left. 

I sit down in on the chair across from the desk. Slow, loud clacking walks pass me. A woman sits in front of me. She has on black classic pumps, a pencil skirt and a white blouse. I finally make my eyes to hers and that’s when everything starts clicking into place. Her eyes are gouged out in an attempt to recreate Oedipus. “I am headmaster Guille, Ms. Thomas.”

“Thank you for agreeing to meet me Headmaster. I know you have plenty of other more pressing things to do.”

She turns her head, “Why, my dear, nothing is more important than finding one of my sweet, obedient students.” I nod in agreeance despite my weird feeling towards her and this place. “Why don’t you tell me more about yourself?”

“Well, I’m the owner of IT Investigative Services. We do freelance investigative work and are outsourced for police work occasionally.” I explain. 

“And your business here, is it freelance?” 

I feel my heart dip in a weird way, “No ma’am. The Cork County Police Department needed help and they outsourced me and my company to help with a missing persons case.” It wasn’t necessarily a lie. 

“I see.” she says. Her non-existent eyes felts like they were boring into my soul and making a home. “Well, I will say that we told the police everything, not sure what else I could say.”

“Anything helps. Especially when it comes to a missing child,” I say. 

“Ask away,” she says splaying her hands outward. 

I start asking the basic questions. Just small things I could compare to the recordings that I borrowed from the Cork County Police. Everything was going relatively fine until I seemed to strike a nerve. “So, I noticed that Amos actually lived in Andan County. That’s a 3 hour drive to Cork County. Why was Amos going to school here?”

She opened her mouth a few times with replies, but she eventually settled on, “Amos was a special boy. As are most of the students that attend here. However, he needed correcting. As do all of the students here,” she gives a tightlipped smile.

Now we’re getting somewhere. “Why did he need correcting? Did he do something bad?” I ask simply. 

“As with most 13 year olds, he was ill-mannered and bad tempered. He had to be corrected,” she repeats.

“Fair enough,” I nod. Time to go for the kill.“Yet, there is one more thing I’m confused with. Amos was an orphan. One that lived 3 hours away from this county, so who told you he was being a nuisance?” 

If this woman had eyes, I know she’d have a look that could kill. Her eye sockets bend slightly. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave, Ms. Thomas. We have an assembly soon that I must attend.” 

“Of course, Headmaster.” I say as I start packing up my stuff. I walk to the door, feeling her cavernous holes in my back. I go to pull the door open, but then I stop. “One last question,” I say. She looks up at me, “Who reported him missing?”

Bingo. Question answered.

The smile she gave was cruel and mouthy, “Some questions needn’t be answered. Have a good day, Isley.”

I walk out the door and head back to my car. 

/// 

When I arrived back at my car after successfully getting my pens back, I scrutinized the building. Being in there fucked with my mental state. Something was off about the place and I wanted to know more. My phone starts buzzing. It’s Phoebe so I click answer.

“You bitch! I can’t believe you,” Phoebe’s voice screeches through my receiver. 

“That’s one way to talk to your boss,” I deadpan.

“Boss or not, you’re literally the worst person I know.”

I scrunch my nose at her insult, “Let’s say hypothetically that is true, what exactly did I do to deserve such a title?” 

“Beside be a size 10 in shoes when I’m an 8?” I roll my eyes, “You also never mentioned that THE Bruce fucking Wayne of Wayne Corporation invited us to a fundraiser in Gotham City.” 

I sit there listening to her, “How’d you know about that?”

“I was going through your emails and there’s an invite. Also, pause, you knew?” she huffs.

I shrug even though she can’t see me, “It’s just a Wayne Event. It’s not a big deal. I didn’t even know it was a fundraiser.”

“Yeah, he’s going to try and get the Gotham socialites and old heads to give money for a-,” she stops talking and there’s some slight shuffling in the backgorund, “Ah! A metahuman trafficking recovery center. It would be an extension of Arkham Asylum.”

I feel my heartbeat get 10 times louder, “Pheebs, I need to call you later. I’m still here at Cork County Middle and I need to finish some paper work before I drive back tonight.”

I don’t wait for her to say goodbye before I hang up. I start dialing Bruce’s number. 

///

One. Two. One. Two. Jab. Hook, hook.

“God fucking damnit,” Jason exclaims. 

“The fight not going well?” I ask.

“Bruce. Manny Herechio has to win tonight.” Jason starts.

“Has?” I interject. 

He rambles over me, “HAS. I have so much money on this fight. Like, my future children’s money kind of money!”

I shoot him an amused look from my book. “I’m sure he’ll pull it out. Underdogs have a weird way of doing that.”

“OH MY FUCKING GOD. HE DID IT! HE FUCKING DID IT MAN,” Jason shakes me. 

I smile at him, happy that he’s happy, but then the scene changes. I’m now Batman and I’m holding Jason. He’s barely breathing and there’s so much blood. “You did this. You did this to me.” He breathes out angrily. 

“Jay, what? No, I didn’t! What do you mean?” I explain.

“You, the fucking Batman of all people, should have saved me. I’m dead because of you!” He’s now yelling at me. 

I feel the panic flutter throughout me. I should’ve saved him. It should’ve been me. 

The clatter of my phone hitting the floor shakes me out of my daydream hard. Less of a dream, more like a nightmare. The phone goes off again and I grab it from the floor. Isley Thomas flashes across the screen. I press accept. 

“Isley? Hello?” 

“Have you lost your goddamn mind?!” she seethes through the phone. 

I pull it away from me. “I can’t catch a fucking break today,” I grunt out. I put the phone back near my ear, “It’s possible I have, but depends on what this reason is,” I joke. 

“This event, party you’re throwing is for the business proposal that was between us privately. What the hell, Bruce?” 

I can tell she’s upset at what I tried to make a surprise. “It was supposed to be a surprise.” 

“A fucking surprise? For why?” she all but yells into the receiver. 

“I presented it to the board,” I didn’t. “And they didn’t like the idea of Wayne Enterprises being the face of metahuman trafficking support centers,” I explain. “Having a fundraiser will show that people, specifically people with money, are interested in defeating the metahuman trafficking.”

I can hear her breathing. “You could’ve just told me that the board rejected it,” she pauses, “I would’ve dealt with it.”

She’s not incorrect. However, I needed a win for today, “You told me that this was Staya’s dream. I just wanted to do everything I could to try and make it come true.”

She doesn’t reply anything. For a second there I think that she’s just hung up on me. “Okay. Next time, let me know ahead of time, please, Bruce,” is all she says. Then she adds, “I have to work. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

I hear the click of call ending and put the phone down. I bury my face in my hands. I walk to my door and walk to Sonya’s desk. She looks at me with a smile, “Mr. Wayne! What can I do for you?”

“Sonya, I’ll be unavailable for the rest of the day. See that the fundraiser details get figured out. I want to no hiccups, understood?” She nods, typing furiously. I continue, “Perfect. Thank you.”

I walk to the elevator and press floor one. I lay against wall in sheer exhaustion. Between my guilt from Jason and my repressed feelings about Isley, I needed to punch something. 

/// 

I took another sip of my coffee and continued typing on my computer. I was trying to find information about Cork County. “With the way you’re hunch over your computer, we’ll have to get massages before heading to Gotham,” Phoebe said pointedly. 

I roll my eyes, “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Fair enough. Enough investigating today boss lady. If we want to make it to Gotham in a decent hour and avoid traffic, we need to go,” Phoebe insists as she shuts my computer. 

“I made us a reservation at some fancy hotel. It offered nails too, what a deal. And, ooh, our dresses were delivered!”

“I thought we were going dress shopping today?” I say scrunching my nose at the implication of Phoebe picking out a dress for me. 

“Oh no you don’t. We were yesterday at 4, but someone,” she squints at me, “was a bit forgetful.”

I inhale, “Okay, that’s my bad. I’m sorry, this case just keeps making new turns every second. I feel like I’m drowning.”

“Well, tonight, no missing children to worry about.” 

I nod and smile at her. If only it was that easy. 

///

“Master Bruce, people will be arriving in less than 30 minutes, what on Earth are you doing?” I heard Alfred call for me while I was in the Batcave. 

I kicked the bag again. Focus. I kick again. 

“Master Bruce?” I hear Alfred again. I shake my head. Focus, Bruce. I kick the bag again. The chain breaks and bag flies across the room. 

“That is the 8th bag you’ve broken this week, Master Bruce.”

I exhale deeply. “It’s unimportant.”

“Perhaps to the ghosts of this cave, but not you. Never mind all that. You must shower and get dressed immediately,” Alfred says pushing me quickly towards the stairs.

“Can I at least take the elevator if speed is what we’re going for?” I grumble. 

“That privilege was lost once you made me trundle down those godforsaken steps and come get you!” I trudge up the stairs his insistent demands. 

When we arrive at the top, “Mr. Maurice, sorry to keep you waiting, Master Bruce is insolent when it comes to other’s time and efforts,”

I shoot Alfred a dirty look at his insults. He simply flicks his hand and I’m being taken by the tailor. Who starts showing me different fabrics and colors for tonight’s event. “What do you feel tonight Mr. Wayne? Navy or Black? I have grey also, but it has not been a fan favorite for the year.” Maurice explains quickly. 

I look at the colors. The black always speaks to me, but tonight was different. Because Isley will be there. I ignore my thoughts, “Let’s take a walk on the wild side, shall we?” 

“My thoughts exactly, Mr. Wayne!” 

I go to hop into the shower and prepare myself for tonight. 

///

I can hear the people downstairs. Drinks are flowing and soon enough the cash will be too. I hear my door open. “Only man I’ve ever known to be fashionably late at his own home.” It’s Dick. “Also, I don’t know what the fuck those little sausage balls are made with, but they are delicious. Woah-”

I turn and look at him, his mouth is wide open with the same bits sausage hanging in his mouth, “What? Also, please close your mouth.”

“This suit...who are you and what have you done with my best friend?” Dick jokes.

I just grunt and turn back around fixing my tie. I hear Dick’s laughter stop, “Okay, I’m sorry, here let me help with your tie. It’s more crooked than Cobblepot’s teeth.”

He fixes my tie and I can’t help but think about Jason. Dick searches my face, “You been thinking about him?”

I turn back to look in the mirror to inspect the knot he made. It answers his question. I know he wants to say something, he just doesn’t know what. No one ever does. “Master Bruce, Mr. Grayson.” Alfred’s voice turns us both around. “Almost all the guest are here. It is time to make an appearance.”

“Well, thank god I didn’t throw the party. I’m gonna find some pretty ladies and some more of the sausage balls.” Dick chippers happily and leaves this room. 

Alfred turns to do the same, but not before saying, “Mr. Todd is a great man. Just because you’re choosing to move on, doesn’t mean you’re forgetting him.”

“Don’t you mean was?” I ask.

“No. I meant is. What’s that saying you always tell the board members when you’re not present? Oh, yes, physicality is not the only way to be present.” With that Alfred mules out of the room.

I follow after him. I make it down the stairs, “Man of the hour. Mr. Bruce Wayne.” I hear some rich old guy yell at me. He grabs my hand and shakes it furiously. 

I do this for about an hour before I clink my glass and everyone quiets down. “I want to thank you all for being here,” I start, “Tonight was a bit last minute, but I am so glad to have the ability to host such things that bring us together. Tonight is about us expanding Arkham Asylum to host those affected by metahuman trafficking. Donations, as always, are tax deductable and can be written to the Wayne Corporation. Again, we are going to make a difference.” I raise my glass and every one claps. “But please, keep enjoying the booze, gives me an excuse to buy more!” I add with laughter. 

I make my way through the crowd towards one of the balconies. There’s just a woman out there. “What a speech,” she says as she comes out the shadows. 

It’s Isley, but she looked...beautiful didn’t even begin to describe it. Her hair is  straight rather than its usually curls. She has on a silk baby blue dress that ends at her mid thigh. Her dark eyes are blown wide with the chill air and small goosebumps litter her dark brown skin. “Isley,” I breathe out, “Thought you bailed on me.”

She turns her head like a curious cat, “Me? A flake? Never.” she says with fake ingenuity. “Although, I was very late. Phoebe loves to take her time with me.”

My eyes scan her face, “Well, she did an amazing job.” I compliment.

A smile grows on her face, “Why thank you, Mr. Wayne. You clean up nicely yourself. A navy blue suit? How daring.”

“Dick already made fun of me for it, I thought it was time to step out a bit.” 

She steps close enough to grab one of the lapels. “Dick? Also, it reminds me of prom. Senior year,” she whispers. 

I grab her wrists, we’re extremely close now. “Well, look who I found hiding in the shado- oh?” 

It’s Dick, again. I breathe out slowly, “Dick, meet an old friend. Isley Thomas.”

[deamstellarus]

In Viata Asta (1)

Pairing: Stucky x Reader

Summary: It was possible you’d been on your own for too long. Maybe all you needed were two boys from Brooklyn to help you find yourself again.

Word Count: 4.5k

Warnings: Uhm...some violence, language I guess?

Series Masterlist

A/N: So I started this fic last summer and I just got around to editing it, but I hope you guys like it. It starts in 2018, and we’re gonna ignore the main MCU plots after Age of Ultron (also Clint does have a secret fam but they’re his sister and nieces/nephews because it literally makes so much more sense). Definitely some canon-divergence. And I’m trying for a slow burn. Anyways... enjoy.

__________

You struggled in the dark, kicking your legs as hard as you could, trying to get close to the light you saw at the surface of the water. Your legs were useless, your body felt like lead, dragging you deeper into the abyss. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t reach the top. Just a little more…

Then you saw his face, his eyes wild. And his hand reached out toward you. You stretched for it, your fingers grazing his. He tightens his grip around yours, sending you that nervous smile he reserved for when you were in desperate situations and he wanted to reassure you. Even when it was all going to hell. You felt a tug upward, your body being pulled toward the surface.

Then there was a bullet hole in his forehead.

His hold on you was gone. His eyes frozen wide open.

You opened your mouth to scream…

You gasped awake, jolting up in bed. Panting, your hand flew to your chest. Your eyes darted around the cabin, confirming it was another nightmare. You squeezed your eyes closed. Ten, nine, eight, seven... an attempt to slow your heart rate. You shouldn’t be surprised at this point. You had the dreams often enough, your subconscious morphing the memory, each time more disturbing than before. 

When you could take full breaths again, you flopped back onto your pillows, staring up at the stars that peaked between the leaves through the skylight. You wished they could stop making such a common appearance in your nightly routine. Your sleep schedule was shit, and if you were being honest, it had long since taken a  toll on you. 

Maybe your friends were right, a change of scenery might be just what you need.

__________

A creak sounded from the front porch. Your head snapped to the door. It wasn’t exactly uncommon for the local wildlife to make an appearance on your front steps, curious about the structure in the middle of their forest and sniffing for food. It was, however, unusual for creatures to come around in the middle of the night, they were more likely to come wandering through just before sunrise. 

Your eyes slid to the digital clock on the small nightstand beside your bed. The time confirmed your theory, still a few hours until daybreak - far too early for anything other than trouble. Another groan from the wood boards of the porch and some shuffling had you leaping out of bed and reaching for the knife next to the clock -- one of several knives you kept around the cabin. Through the windows, you could vaguely make out a few shadowy figures in the obstructed moonlight.

With the smooth blade in your hand, you slowly crept down the stairs leading from the loft and toward the kitchen drawer that held a couple hand guns; your blade hand poised and ready to strike when the time called for it. Your eyes never left the door. Your fingertips had just brushed against the handle of the drawer when you heard the quiet snitch of the latch and the door creaked open. 

You threw out of instinct. 

A hand shot out, catching the knife by the handle. With the door wide open now, the silhouettes became more distinct. You counted three bodies, but you couldn’t be sure there weren’t more surrounding your cabin. You took a step forward with your gun now in hand, fully intending to strike, until a sliver of color caught your attention. You squinted. The dim light made it hard to see but you’d recognize that copper hair anywhere. In fuller light, you suspected you’d see her signature smirk. 

“Is that any way to treat your friend, zvezdochka?” You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. Flicking on a light, you made your way to your old friend.

“Fuck Tash, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were coming by.” You pulled her into your arms for a much needed hug. She jerked beneath you upon contact. That wasn’t normal. You released her, searching her for injuries. She had a large gash in her abdomen, and while the bleeding had stopped for now, it would have to be fixed immediately.

“Yeah, it’s a long story, Blue. Sorry we didn’t give you a heads up.” 

“I hate to be rude, but can we get out of the cold?” A voice said.

Just that quickly, you’d forgotten about the other two people in your company. A man with warm brown skin and a metal pack of some kind strapped to his back stood behind Natasha. Next to him was a man you’d seen on the news several times. The TV stations didn’t do the man justice. Captain America was in your cabin in the woods, and you were suddenly very aware just how little you were actually wearing at the moment. You tugged at the hem of the over-sized shirt you’d stolen from Clint months ago.

“Sorry! Please, come in.” You ushered them passed you and locked the door behind them. 

“Guys, this is Blue. Blue, meet Steve Rogers and Sam Wilson,” Natasha said, setting your knife on the coffee table in front of the couch.

“Sorry about intruding, ma'am.” Captain America was apologizing to you. That's sweet. 

“Don't you worry your pretty little head about it.” That earned you a blush from the blonde. “And I'm far younger than you. 'Ma'am' is not necessary, Captain.” 

“Steve. You can call me Steve.” The pink on his cheeks spread down his neck, and if he were to take his suit off, you were sure his chest would be sporting the same rosy hue. 

“Fair enough. It’s nice to meet you both, and I would say it’s great to see you again, Tash, but it seems like it’s under… difficult circumstances.” Natasha waved you off.

“Minor shootout on a mountain. Nothing we haven’t done before.”

“Minor shootout, she says,” you scoffed. “You need to be more careful. Come on.” You grabbed her by the elbow and pulled her to the kitchen. “There’s a bathroom through the door on the right, if you guys want to clean up,” you pointed behind you.

You could hear the shuffling of their feet as they dispersed through your home for the past year. You made Natasha sit on a stool by the overhang counter, while you rummaged around in a cabinet for your first aid kit. You peeled the top of her suit down and pulled up the tank top she wore underneath. The large gash looked uglier exposed in the light but nothing you couldn't work with for now. You soaked a cotton ball with alcohol and wiped the area clean as gently as you could. She hissed upon contact but didn’t say anything. You slid a bottle of whiskey to her before you pushed the tip of some surgical thread through a needle. She took a swig and you started to sew up the wound. You could feel her eyes on you. When you were done, you smoothed on antiseptic ointment and covered it with a bandage. It would have to do for now. You turned to put the kit away and washed your hands. She still hadn’t said anything to you. You sighed.

“I can practically hear you thinking, you know.”

“I see your aim hasn’t changed, zvezdochka.” Here it comes. It was only a matter of time. “You could be putting your skills to good use.”

“Natasha, khvatit. We’ve been over this. I’m not going back.” 

You slid a cutting board from its place along the wall before gathering ingredients at random. You quickly diced an onion and minced a couple cloves of garlic, sautéing them in a saucepan on the stove, before pouring in a couple cans of crushed tomatoes. A bit of tomato paste, along with oregano, salt, pepper, and a couple of bay leaves, and you had your go-to sauce mostly done.  You gave it a stir and covered it, bringing down the heat to a simmer when it showed signs of boiling. You glanced behind you when you hadn’t heard anything from Natasha. She looked frustrated, her brows furrowed, but held her tongue. You pulled the cork on a bottle of sweet moscato and poured her a glass, replacing the whiskey bottle in front of her. 

“Look, it has nothing to do with you. You know I love you and I miss you and Clint. I actually just texted him yesterday but he hasn’t responded yet.”

“Yeah, he’s on an op in East Asia right now.” She paused. “You should see his hair, he uses more product now than ever.” Her tone was light, the previous topic dropped for now. You chuckled, Clint had always used heavy amounts of hair gel. You’d teased him endlessly about it once upon a time. 

“Hey, can you go tell your friends there are some of Clint’s old shirts and maybe a few pairs of sweats that might fit in my dresser, if they want to change. This’ll be ready soon.”

“Sure.” You flinched at her closeness, not expecting her to be so close to you. She pecked your cheek and threw her arms around you, squeezing you as she would have before, had she not been freshly injured. She released you and sauntered out of your kitchen, leaving you to your thoughts. In another pot, you filled it with water, then set it on the stove to start heating it up. 

Your mind wandered as you waited for the water to boil. You didn’t miss that Natasha hadn’t told you where the three of them had been on their mission. Nor why they’d been on a mountain in the first place. In all fairness, she didn’t have to, couldn’t if she were following S.H.I.E.L.D. rules. 

But it did make you nervous. You doubt anyone would have followed them to your location in the middle of the thick wilderness in northern Washington. But then again, they had been near enough your location that Natasha thought your safe haven of a cabin was the best option. That unsettled you, but she wouldn’t have given up this location if it wasn’t absolutely necessary. You were going to have to keep a look out if there were unsavory people in the area.

The water started to boil, so you threw in a few dashes of olive oil and some salt. You felt the presence of someone behind you as you dumped the linguine into the bubbling water. 

“You know, it’s not polite to stare, Captain.” 

You peeked over your shoulder. You’d only just met him but making America’s Golden Boy blush was becoming your new favorite hobby. His face had been cleaned of dirt and the few cuts on his face were already healing. Must be that super soldier serum you’d read about. He was wearing an old white t-shirt that was definitely a size or two too small, and a pair of sweatpants that you were certain would show off his ass nicely if he turned around. And yet, he looked far more relaxed than he’d been when he first stumbled through your door.

“I, uh... thank you, for letting us crash here,” he stuttered. You gestured to the bar stool Natasha previously occupied and he sat down. 

“It’s not a problem, Steve. Anything for the friends of Natasha and Clint.” You took the lid off the sauce. Steam billowed into your face as your stirred. 

“How do you know them anyway?”

“Ah ah, that’s a story for another time, Mr. Rogers. Now, do you want cheese on your pasta?” He smiled and nodded. You handed him a slicer and a block of parmesan after you showed him how to make cheese curls.

By the time Natasha and Sam stepped into the kitchen, the two of you had just finished filling the bowls around the table.

“Mmm, something smells amazing,” Sam said. He, too, looked more comfortable out of his combat mission-wear. He landed heavily into the chair next to Steve at the table, a strong contrast to Natasha's elegant descent next to you.

“It should be. It’s one of my go-to recipes. I hope you like it.” You pushed a bowl in front of him. He all but inhaled the first few forkfuls, switching between moaning and taking in sharp breaths from the heat of the food. 

“Girl, this is amazing.” You nodded your appreciation. To Natasha and Steve, he said, “Can we keep her?” Your cheeks warmed. Natasha smirked. 

“Maybe if you ask nicely.” 

Her eyes were playful. She seemed much better from the last time you’d seen her around Christmas. Natasha and Clint had been brief in their visit, having stopped over long enough to bring you a few gifts-- a fuzzy blanket, thick socks, and a beautiful new knife-- before leaving abruptly for another mission they couldn’t miss. She had been tense then, frown lines gracing her face. Observing her now, there was a certain slack visible in her shoulders, and the creases in her forehead had given way to smile lines around her mouth instead, faint as they were. She was still beautiful as always though, still your pseudo big sister. 

“Maybe I’ll come visit New York soon, Bird Man.” You bit back a laugh at his outrage at the nickname. 

“Has she been talking to Barnes? Geeze, can’t catch a break,” he grumbled.

“Sorry, I don’t have a great filter sometimes. But you are the Falcon, right? It’s fitting.” You shrugged. “Suppose I can think of something else if I’m not being original enough for you.” Sam just rolled his eyes.

“This really is great, ma’- ah… Blue?” Steve’s comment came out like a question.

“Yeah, Clint’s nickname for me. Blue Moon, like the ice cream? I had blue hair when we met. I kept it up for a while and the nickname stuck. Everyone used to call me that.” You shrugged. “I guess I’ve gotten used to it.”

Steve nodded. You finished your pasta and rinsed the bowl in the sink. “Anyway, I’m sure you guys are exhausted. There’s not a ton of room here, but a couple of you can take the back room, the bed should be big enough for two. And my loft is available, if you don’t mind a little climb, just watch your head. There are extra blankets and a couple pillows in the linen closet. Please make yourselves at home.”

“What about you?” Steve asked. 

“Don’t you worry about me, Captain.” You knew you weren’t getting sleep any time soon, the small couch in front of the fireplace calling your name. “I’ll be just fine.”

__________

They didn’t fight you on it. Two hours later, Natasha and Sam were cuddled together in the bed in the back room. You found that interesting and made a mental note to bring it up with her later. Steve on the other hand was curled into your bed in the loft. The low ceiling made him look like even more of a giant within the small space, especially with your favorite plush blanket draped over him. From your place on the couch, you could see half his face behind the slotted railing of the loft. Even asleep, it seemed like he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. At least you could allow him this reprieve. 

You tiptoed to the side door a few minutes later, a fresh mug of tea in your hand. You were careful not to wake Steve up as you slowly slid the door open, softly latching it behind you. You sat on one of the chairs on the deck, settling in for your morning routine. Clint had told you the reason he chose to build the cabin in its current location was for the view. He couldn’t have been more perfect in his choice. The cabin sat on the edge of a small lake in the middle of a thick forest that butted up against a range of mountains. You’d learned the best part of your nightly predicament was being awake to watch the sunrise over the water, the beams of light breaking through the gaps in the leaves of trees and the crevices of the mountains. The reflection of the morning sky colors in the ripples of the water were beautiful. It seemed this view was the only version of a body of water you appreciated, from a distance at least. You weren’t jumping in anytime soon. 

You sipped your tea as the warm hues spilled over the horizon. The forest started to wake up, birds doing their morning calls and squirrels and rabbits scurrying over the forest floor. The breeze picked up a bit. It rustled the leaves and caused shallow waves in the water in front of you. Mornings were definitely your favorite, if only because they were always slow and peaceful here. 

“That’s a gorgeous view.”

You whipped your head to the intruder. Steve leaned against the door frame. Orange and red tones lit up his face like a painting. He wore a small smile. He was beautiful in this light. You looked back to the lake.

“Yeah, it really is. Best part about this place. Sorry if I woke you up. I tried to be quiet.”

“Nah, it wasn’t you. Honestly, didn’t even hear a thing. It’s just my internal alarm clock. I’m used to getting up and running first thing with the sun, and believe it or not, I never get used to the different time zones.” You hummed and nodded.

“So when do you guys have to leave?”

“Tired of us already?” Steve teased.

“No.” Truthfully you weren’t. You were bracing yourself for when you’d be alone again. “Just trying to plan ahead. Maybe I’ll make something for you guys for the trip back.”

“Oh...” He was silent for a moment, his face unreadable. “You could come back with us, you know. If Clint’s half as happy to see you as Nat was, it seems like it’d be a great reunion. Plus, you could meet the team.” 

He had a point. You did miss Clint, and you had wanted to go back and visit New York again. You supposed meeting the famous Avengers would be interesting. If not daunting. But that would mean putting yourself in range of Fury and you weren't ready for that yet. “I’ll think about it.”

“Fair enough.”

"Would you like a cup?" You raised your mug in his direction.

"I'm alright." His smile sparked made you feel the warmth you wished the sun would give off.

"Well have a seat at least. You're making me anxious." 

He plopped into the chair beside you, his long legs stretched out in front of him. His elbows propped on the arms of the wood lounger, his interlocked hands resting on his stomach. He flash you another small smile and looked out toward the water. You took a moment to really study him. 

You weren't stupid- you were well-aware how much the media wanted Steve- no, Captain America- to be portrayed as flawless and perfect. And in every instance in which you'd seen him on a screen, he was. In person, the reality of what he must go through, not only as an Avenger, but as a national icon, is ever apparent. There’s a line in his forehead, as if it’s constantly creased, which is plausible. The fine lines around his eyes revealed his weariness, and at the rate you guessed he’s constantly in missions, it made sense. 

"You know, it's rude to stare." Blue eyes flicked to yours. 

"Yeah well, I don't have a lot of company." You took another sip of your tea, now definitely too cool for your liking. "But can you blame me? I'm in the presence of a celebrity." 

A corner of his mouth tucked up. 

"Yeah yeah."

"Still watching sunrises with blondes, I see?" Natasha's head poked out on the sliding door, Clint's old sweatshirt hanging off one shoulder. 

"Still too nosy for your own good, I see?" You quipped back. She grinned at you, looking younger than you've seen her in a while.

"Of course, zvezdochka." She winked. You sighed, standing up.

"I better get some coffee started and then I'll head into town if you all will be staying for a while. Not exactly equipped to feed superheroes."

"I can go with you." Steve got his feet, stretching his arms over head, the action lifted his shirt just enough to give you a glimpse of his well-toned abs. He practically towered over you.

"Erm, are you sure? It's over a half hour drive into town." 

"Well, it wouldn't be right to let a dame like you do all the work while we're crashing with you unannounced " He sounded so genuine. It must be some of that 40′s charm and etiquette Natasha had told you about. 

"If you're sure then."

__________

That's how you ended up driving down the winding roads together with trees and steep drop-offs on either side. Steve flipped through station after station of static on the radio before you took pity on him and switched on an indie rock CD. 

"There aren't many radio stations out this far so it's hit or miss when we're close enough to catch anything."

He hummed, nodding along to the music, and watching the trees rush by. He had a far off look in eye. You let him be, content with the silent company for now. Who knew how long it's been since he's had time to just think without being needed.

You pulled up to the general store in the closest town almost forty minutes later. There weren't many cars in the lot, but there hardly ever were. You bit your tongue when you saw Steve had donned a discarded cap from the back seat. If he thought that would disguise him, he would be sorely mistaken. Or maybe not. To be fair, there weren't a lot of people in this town, and even less were likely to recognize him at first glance.

A couple teenagers stood behind the registers near the entrance, popping gum and flirting most likely, from the blush on the girl's face at least. You grabbed a cart, Steve following closely behind you. You passed an older woman in the produce section, tossing items in as you went by. 

"Is pick up soon or should I get stuff for dinner too?" When there wasn't a response, you turned around. Steve was helping the woman grab the parsley off the top shelf. He was so genuinely nice, it was so easy to see him as the national icon you assumed most people learned about in school. You shook your head and continued down the aisles. He could catch up; it's not like there was too much area to cover if you got separated. You nodded at a man in a black jacket nearby when you made accidental eye contact, and made a beeline to the cereal aisle. The decision to treat yourself to sugary cereal was too great, especially since you had no self-control and it was always the first to run out at home. You reached for your favorite brand, going up on your toes to grab it off the top shelf. Before you could though, a hand settled on your lower back and Steve pulled the box from the shelf effortlessly. 

He smirked, dangling the box in front of you.

"Thanks." You rolled your eyes, snatching the box from his grip. He chuckled behind you as you shuffled down the aisle. 

"You looked like you were going to climb the shelves." 

"I would have. I usually have to-" You stopped abruptly. Steve stumbled into you. The man at the end of the aisle was watching you. No, blatantly staring at you.

"Blue?"

You ignored him in favor of the man. The staring wouldn't have bothered you on a normal day; you don't come to town often so people tend to be nosy and keep an eye on the outsider. But the hair on the back of your neck was standing on end and you had a sinking feeling in your stomach that your casual day with new friends had come to an abrupt end.

"Blue?" 

"How many people are near the exit?" You said in a quiet voice. Steve tensed beside you. He finally looked to where your attention was drawn to at the end of the aisle. "None at the moment."

"The old lady?" You murmured, backing up slowly when a second man, the one in the black jacket you had just passed, rounded the corner to stand next to the first man.

"Two lanes over by the soup." You were thankful his height gave him the advantage to see over the shelves. 

"We're going to have to make a run for it if we want to keep the civilians safe. Creep and Creepier are definitely packing." You let go of the cart, reaching into your hoodie pocket for your car keys. 

"On three, we make a break for it," Steve said. "One-"

"Three!" You turned on your heel and took off toward the entrance, Steve serving as a human shield behind you when a gunshot sounded. How you wish he'd brought his official one with him. The glass of the door shattered in front of you but you barreled through, holding your arms over your head for cover. Dodging bullets, your raced to your Jeep. You jumped in and shoved the key in the ignition, taking off before Steve even had the door closed. 

"How did they recognize me so quickly?" Steve gasped. He turned around in his seat, eyes on the road behind us. You rolled your eyes.

"Right, because a baseball cap is going to disguise your six-foot-plus frame in a town of less than a hundred people. Sure." You glanced in the side mirrors. A grey SUV followed you. Raindrops crashed against the windshield. "Fucking great," you muttered to yourself. You needed a plan. Well you had a plan, but it was going to be more difficult than necessary if the clouds were any indication of the water they held. "Steve, the glove box."

He gave you a quizzical look but did as you asked and pulled out the gun you kept stashed there. He rolled down the window, rain pelted his face as he leaned out the window. He took aim and shot at the SUV. They swerved on the road, attempting to avoid the bullets but Steve was able to hit a tire and the SUV made a hard turn into a large tree. 

You let out the breath you’d been holding. That much fuckery without substantial food in your system was definitely bringing your mood down. But you couldn't deny the rush of adrenaline that coursed through your veins.

"Romanoff," Steve spoke into his watch. "I've been made. We're on our way back now."

"Fuck," you breathed. "Can’t catch a break, huh Cap? That was obnox-"

You didn’t even see it coming. The hit to the passenger's side caused the car to flip and roll several times, eventually rolling you over the edge of the road and down a steep incline. You closed your eyes and braced against the handle grips on the door and the steering wheel. Every impact of metal to pavement and forest floor jarred your body. 

Then the airbag deployed and the world shut off.

[Part 2]

A/N: Gonna try to post every Thursday or Friday, so fingers crossed I can actually stick to that schedule. Let me know what you think so far!

[artificialqueens]

E.V.O.L Prologue (Trixya) - VicThirteen

A/N: Hi! So this is my first fic ever. Which also means I’ve never posted anything before. And I think it’s worth to mention English is not my first language. I really appreciate opinions and comments! This is another cis girl au inspired by Marina and the Diamonds’ album Electra Heart. I really hope you like it! The prologue is just an introduction, but chapter one is already on its way.

Also, I’d like to thank the italian bundle of awesome that helped me beta this. Thanks Bubbles bby <3

Prologue – Primadonna Girl

This was it, her last chance. If Trixie didn’t complete her internship hours in the next six months, she wasn’t graduating with her friends. She couldn’t stand the embarrassment of being left behind. And she simply couldn’t afford another semester worth of debt. She managed to get a few jobs doing hair and make-up for other students’ projects and some off-off-off-Broadway shows, which, luckily, counted for her mandatory internship hours. But she still had at least three months worth of work left to do and no signs of getting anything at all.

Trixie was as frustrated as she could be. She was born to be a star, to shine on a stage, to sign her pictures anywhere she went, to have her name shouted by crowds. Her life had been planned around this one and only goal. She could dance, she could sing and she looked like a living doll. Everyday she woke up at least an hour early to have her long blonde hair perfectly curled, her face sculpted with make up, her body embraced by the best look she could put together. There was no one like her. And yet, she wasn’t excelling. Not even in her classes, no one admired her. She wasn’t the best at anything. Only “good”, always just “good”. It killed her inner light everyday a little more. That’s why, when Kim walked into their over-decorated dorm room to tell her the news, she had to force a smile on her pink lips.

“I got the job!” Kim hugged her while bouncing slightly with excitement. “I’m starting next week! I am officially a make-up artist for a real fashion magazine!”

“Congratulations, honey!” Trixie smiled, using the best of her acting abilities.”I knew you were getting it, you deserve it!”

“Thanks! I am so happy, you have no idea, Trixie. I told you our dreams were gonna come true, didn’t I?”

Trixie sighed, her cheeks hurting lightly to keep her smile up. “Yeah, you did. I mean, you and Pearl just… got there. It’s really happening.”

Pearl had been hired as an assistant music producer at the studio she had interned in. If she wasn’t already the coolest girl in town, she was definitely conquering the title. Now, Kim was becoming the real deal too. Truth is, Trixie used to be the queen bee of the trio. And being out shined was huge no-no. There was a reason she had cut outs of Marilyn Monroe and Barbie pictures on her vision board. She was no opening act, she was Britney, bitch.

“Girl…” Kim looked at her with a concerned face. “You’re not getting in that defeated mindset again, are you? I’ve told, you have to be patient.”

“Of course not!” The blonde scoffed with an exaggerated wave of her hands. “I’m cool, Kim. I mean, I have bigger ambitions, so it takes longer to get there, right?”

The taller girl blinked slowly and pretended not to notice the arrogant undertone of what she heard. Trixie tended to do that – when she felt bad about herself, she tried to hide from the world, only the place she usually chose to hide was all the way up her own ass.

“Yes, that’s true” Kim agreed patiently. “There’s a lot coming your way, Trixie.”

–

The next morning, Trixie was up and ready in the blink of an eye, so she decided to get herself a croissant and a chocolatey frapuccino as a reward for not crying herself to sleep last night. While she waited for her breakfast, she looked around the café, scanning a cork board covered in party flyers, notes asking for help with school projects and weird job proposals. On the bottom right, a blue piece of paper caught her attention.

Art studio needs intern

You can have coffee all the day and use the studio space for your personal projects in your free time.

Applications to: newbies@zamostudio.com

Trixie chuckled at the e-mail and pulled out her phone. This wasn’t what she had in mind, but at this point there was no time for choosing. She took a quick look on the studio’s website, just to make sure it wasn’t some psychopath’s trap, then sent in her résumé. About half an hour later, she was just finishing her coffee and scrolling through instagram, her phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Hi! This is Tatianna, from Zamo Art Studio. Can I speak to Trixie Mattel, please?”

Whoa. That was fast.

“This is her.”

“Oh, hello, Trixie! So, you applied for the intern position, right?”

“Yes.” The blonde girl had her fingers crossed under the table.

“Are you available for an interview today?”

“Yes!” She almost screamed in excitement. “Yeah, I’m totally free after two!”

“Great! So, can you be here at three?”

“Yeah! Let me get a pen to write down the address” she reached into her bag, slightly bouncing off her seat. She wrote it on a napkin and hang up with a happy “see you later”.

“Well” she thought, “life’s giving me lemons, so let’s make lemonade.”

[squittenwrites]

Snapshots of a Girl Drowning

A nonfiction piece about my struggle with mental illness. 1,700 words. 

Thirteen.

I sit in the office, the door slightly open, the soft sounds of the house getting ready for sleep drifting in, and I contemplate running the rusted exacto blade on the desk in front of me over my wrists. I pick it up and test the point with my index finger, then run it down the blade. I press the edge lightly against my skin, then a bit harder, but it's too dull to cut, to even make a mark.

I grab my earlobe between two fingers and twist until it stings.

;

Twenty.

I press my nails into my palm for long moments, leaving crescent slivers of silver that quickly turn red. I’m sitting at the table next to the pharmacy window at Ingles and one of my medications isn't in. I'm going to be out in a few days. My girlfriend has to hold my hands to keep me from making more indents in my flesh, more sharp points of pressure and pain and distraction.

A month later, and I dig my nails into my arm so hard that I scrape away skin while she talks to me in soft tones. I don't even notice how hard I’m embracing myself and it isn’t until after the panic attack passes that I realize. I show her and she begins to cry.

I think she’s so upset because she also knows what it's like to want that pressure, that pain, that distraction. She's told me she'll bite the flesh between her thumb and index finger when she's driving home some days. Other days, she'll turn the music up loud and sing at the top of her lungs with the windows down to relieve the urge.

Other days, she'll call me.

;

Fifteen.

Fifteen and I have my first panic attack — or the first bad one. Not really the first one I remember, but the first one I can recall in detail.

The bass is thrumming through the studio and pulsing inside my ears, shaking my body into pieces. I'm already on-edge, already two steps toward the precipice because the instructor is trying to teach all of us — all of the students in my section of the drama summer camp — a hip-hop dance routine.

My teenage body isn't gangly; I’m short like my mother and my figure is beginning to widen as more fat packs itself onto to my hips, my stomach, my breasts. (I won’t figure out that the weight gain is a side effect of my medication until years later). I'm self-conscious in my work out clothes — there are no other overweight girls in my section — and my body won't move the way it's supposed to. A good three or so classes have already gone by and I still can't quite keep the beat or remember the right movements.

The panic attack isn’t like a dam breaking; it doesn’t happen as soon as the music turns on. Instead, it's a slow build up that goes until I can no longer breathe and my thoughts are vibrating apart. I run out of the studio and collapse on the concrete floor of the stairwell outside as my legs begin to give out.

No one follows me; no one comes out, even after I've been gone for half an hour — 45 minutes? An hour? An indeterminate age which is spent hyperventilating, tears sliding down my cheeks and snot dripping from my nose. It’s an ugly cry at first, but even after I lose energy for that, the tears keep coming. I imagine dark, dripping, writhing shapes on the ceiling that match how I feel inside: knotted and choked and viscous. I’m sure that I’m one step away from hallucination.

No one is coming to save me; I know this because so much time has passed. I also know that I am broken, and I’m sure that the only way I will be put back together is with help from a doctor. Doctors fix what's fucked up about your body, but I'm not coherent enough to realize that it's not my body that’s fucked up; it's my brain.

I am choking, sobbing, breathing too shallowly and too fast as I stumble toward the nurse's office. I’m not even sure where it is. A stranger sees me and walks me there. He helps me sign in at the front desk.

I don't know how long I sit curled up in the waiting room chair, tears dripping slowly down my nose. I don't know how long I wait in the exam room. I know that I don't sit on the exam table and I don't sit in one of the chairs. I know that I sit curled up in one corner, a chair wedged in front of me like a shield, staring at the blinking green light of the smoke detector, but I don’t know how long I do that for either.

The doctor who eventually comes in has to contact my mother to get her permission to give me a Xanax. After that, it takes another 20 minutes for the drug to kick in. During that time, I am left alone in a dim room and encouraged to go to sleep. After awhile, my body feels heavy enough and my head murky enough that I do.

;

Nineteen.

I stay up until 3 am and sleep ‘til 1 pm. It’s Wednesday and I’ve already missed one of my classes. I don’t get out of bed and my bladder barely protests; I’m probably dehydrated.

By 3 pm, I’m still reading on my phone, plunged into a fantasy world of warring kingdoms and illicit loves. My father texts me, as he does somewhat regularly. “Just thinking of you! How are you doing?” is a common message I receive from him. Other times he’ll ask about my classes or tell me what my siblings have been up to.

Today I message back, “I haven’t gotten out of bed.”

The ensuing conversation happened in fits and starts of text. In the intervals in between, I let myself get sucked back into my reading; it’s easier than thinking about my father’s messages.

He asks if I’m safe, if anything triggered my mood, if he can help. He mentions his own depression and the song “Be Safe” by the Cribs. I’ve never listened to it, but it starts “One of those awful black days/When nothing is pleasing and everything that happens/Is an excuse for anger.”

I don’t feel angry like the singer does, like my dad does; I feel empty.

Eventually, he calls me. He literally talks me through the process of getting out of bed: Sit up, legs over the side, one foot on the ground, then the other. Stand.

I hang up so that I can go to the bathroom. I brush my teeth, comb out my tangled hair, and wash my face. I go through the motions.

;

Sixteen.

I get put into Art III because all of the Art II classes are full. The teacher is laid back and I spend more time doodling than learning techniques or doing specific assignments. By the end of June, my favorite piece is still one I’d done early in the year:

Up in the left hand corner of the paper, a pill bottle spills its contents out onto the rest of the page. Pills of all different shapes and sizes float, untethered, next to ringed planets and diamond stars. The bottle cap drifts listlessly to the side and a large planet takes up the bottom right corner. Pills sink into the planet’s surface, creating little ripple effects across its exterior.

At this point in my life, I’m taking four pills a day. I know the names on the bottles better than I know the generic terms: methylphenidate, viibryd, aripiprazole, aviane.

I think they help, but I still feel invaded.

;

Fourteen.

I begin to peel paint off the wall next to my bed.

The jungle green that I'd painted my room when my sister moved to the next room over is bubbled in places, imperfect. I pop one with my fingernails and slowly tear away strips. I do this for years, letting the pieces fall in the crack between the bed frame and the wall. They collect on the floor like the carcasses house of flies accumulate on the window ledge of an ill-kept house.

No one ever told me to stop.

(Last time I went to visit my parents, I noticed that the long patch of lavender is still there beneath my cork board. It’s easily visible, even if you aren’t looking for it.)

;

Twenty.

I pick at my face now instead. Every imperfection — every bump or blackhead or pimple — is a victim to my vicious fingers. It feels satisfying — cleansing — to feel the pus pop out of one or to squeeze it out in a long string.

Sometimes there's nothing to discharge though. Sometimes there’s only blood.

Occasionally my face is clear and while I revel in the idea of perfect skin, my fingers still quest over my cheeks, my chin, my forehead in search of relief.

;

What's another memory; another age?

They all blend and blur together. There times that I lay in bed and stare at the wall. There are times when I draw and draw and draw and all that comes out is sickness: the scratchy, mangled forms of people and animals and things that are entirely unnameable writhing on the page. There are times that I read until it’s four in the morning and I still don’t want to go to sleep because I don’t want to wake up. There are times that I curl into a corner and hyperventilate, my thoughts buzzing around my head like locusts. There are times that I don’t want to touch my girlfriend because her body is too human — too warm and fleshy and real.

There are times — like tonight — that the bad memories obscure the good ones.

There is no happy ending to this piece. On nights like tonight, I cannot find one.

But I take solace in the fact that one day I may be able to.

;