#tw death by cop mention

[imsosocold]

I love seeing people talking what they’d do if they were part of the Mandela Catalogue universe. Like good for them, I wouldn’t even notice that anything was going on.  My sleep deprived, memory loss having short ass would get myself killed and not even by an alternate. I’d probably say or do something dumb and suspicious and get shot by the police.

[one-time-i-dreamt]

I made an illegal u-turn to get on some kind of exit ramp, kind of accidentally cut someone off but they just pulled around me and sped away. A little further down the road I come upon that same person pulled over by a traffic cop, see their hand sticking out their window pointing at me, then the cop gestures for me to pull over also. I thought I was gonna get a ticket but the cop just wanted to referee while we fought to the death.

[watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees]

He dreams of revenge pt. 1

Dallon

this is going to be a two chapter story, inspired by this dream I had

word count: 2.7K

masterlist

TW: sibling death mention, suicide mention, referenced captivity and torture, suggestive themes (nothing 18+/nsfw happens, but there's a vibe), choking, fade-to-black ending, gun mention (hopefully i got all of it? lmk if i missed something)

I'm going to kill Wesley Shaw tonight.

I tried to accept it as a fact, doubting it would only bring about a load of unnecessary anxiety, and I didn't need anything that could potentially poison the success of this mission.

We had been planning the hit for months now, everything had to be perfect. Every step had been thought through well, we had plan Bs and Cs for each and every one of them. By the end of the night that monster would be dead.

Before we entered the convention centre, Bailey and I went over our cover stories and aliases, quick, as if we were reciting a a well-learned poem.

The only good thing, I could honestly say I liked about her, was that she spoke fast. Sure, she was a great cop, with a steady aim, and she was awfully insightful, she just never shut up, and I could never get over that.

I fought the assignment hard, when the project started, I'd have been willing to work with anyone, but her. If there was a chance for a slip of a tongue compromising the mission, I would want to prevent it, even if it ruined my reputation as a good partner to be assigned with.

Fuck Bailey. I planned on doing this right, thankfully our cover stories let us spend the first half of the evening separately. It was a safety measure we took, we pretend not to know each other, so if anything goes south, we don't drag each other down. I was entirely convinced this was put in the plan for my safety, I would never let myself get in trouble like that.

She got out of the car a block away from where I did. I was to arrive from another direction, at a different time.

"You're gonna do great, Dallon!" I heard the captain's voice throught the earpiece, I would discard immediately upon arrival. We didn't wish for luck on high stakes missions like this one.

"I know" I replied with full conviction. I was going to do great and Shaw would die and it was going to be perfect.

I got out of the car just in time to spot Bailey saunter inside, flashing her wristband to the security guard. I heard her laughter from where I stood, and felt an uneasy shiver run down my spine at the thought of having to "accidentally" run into her inside and rejoin forces for the takedown.

Phase one, I go inside and mingle. I already hated it, every ounce of willingness to talk had evaporated from me, as Bailey entered the building before I did. I still had a list of conversation starters and a hell of a great ability to lie my ass off going for me. I would not enjoy a second spent in this phase, but I'd do well enough.

It was too bright inside. My skin crawled with how many bodies pressed to my side as I tried to push through the crowd. I had to keep my eyes open and actually look, which took tremendous effort to keep up against the onslaught of sensations.

My heart jumped every time I saw a feature that slightly resembled the one haunting me in my nightmares. Every glimpse of light reflected from a pair of glasses, every face with black stubble on set me off to no end.

Phase two started, when I finally spotted him. He stood off to the side, surrounded by a close circle of people with a glass of champagne in hand, a horrendously smug smile on his face. The latter might have been my imagination, he could only have been smug if he considered himself the winner of the fight already, and he didn't even know about the operation. At the end of the night I planned to make that expression, while he bleeds out on the ground and I claim self-defense.

It started off easy, I positioned myself in the crowd so that I could keep an eye on Wesley at all times. This made it significantly harder to find my partner, who should also be looking for me after she found the target. He was hard to miss and however annoying Bailey was, she was a lot more comfortable getting lost in a crowd and had a decent amount of precision to spot him, maybe even faster than I did.

It wasn't time to get closer just yet, I needed to find Bailey, and start a conversation innocuously. For that to happen I needed to actually talk to people.

I joined a larger group, where a few others seemed to be just as much of an outsider as I was, so it isn't too weird that I joined. I laughed when the others did, tried to get a word in edgewise here and there, but I wasn't paying much attention.

I was scanning the crowd for my partner's outrageous golden dress and bright ginger hair. Against all odds, she was a lot harder to spot than Wesley Shaw, in his simple black suit. We locked eyes, it seemed she had found him as well. We had entered phase two.

We had to find our way to him. Not do dwell on the details, Bailey joined my group, then we went for drinks and pretended to introduce ourselves. We weren't missed after we left and let the crowd carry us to Wesley.

He wasn't surrounded as exclusively as I imagined, he was just an attendee like we were. It made our job all the more seamless.

When we joined the conversation he was a part of, we entered phase three. Get him alone and find something to arrest him for. We had a list of everything Wesley had ever done, incriminating himself, but it would be much easier, if he gave us a reason. I wasn't one for planting evidence and such things, that was usually below me. Not this time. Wesley Shaw was going down one way or another.

His voice was deep, I could feel it rumble in my stomach and if I didn't know who he was, I would have even enjoyed it. Maybe... It was hard to say. All I could think about was Marci and the way she looked at me when we found her, and that I'm so close to making the fucker pay for it. I hated waiting.

"Do I know you from somewhere?" Wesley aimed the question at me, looking me up and down. I shivered.

"No, I don't think so" I smiled politely, and reached a hand out for him to shake. "Max Brown" It's Dallon Burke, and I'm going to kill you.

"Wesley Shaw. I swear I feel like we've met before" Do you even remember Marci? Here's a hint you, kidnapped her and tortured her for almost a year.

"I guess, I have one of those faces" She was my twin. We looked alike before you destroyed her.

"Yeah, probably" She killed herself. Did you even know that?

I had no way of keeping time as it passed by. People came and went, someone brought drinks at one point. I never left Wesley's side. The conversation was superficial, we chatted away about events, fundraisers and the dresscode, and I spoke to the best of my knowledge of what I thought Max Brown would say.

He didn't like strict black and white attires, much like the one Wesley wore. He preferred some frill and colour, as demonstrated by my dark blue, satin button-up.

I forcibly smiled as much as I could. I was used to doing it all the time, especially throughout the preparation process for this operation, because I didn't want to let everyone know how much I despised having to work with Bailey. I had reached my limit that evening and my jaw started to hurt.

I flirted with her and she with Wesley. We agreed on this beforehand, because there was no way in hell I would be able to keep up the facade for him, at least with her, I could practice beforehand.

She was smart to leave for a little while, so we didn't raise suspicion, as far as everyone else was aware, we we're strangers to each other as much as we were to them. After she got back, stumbling and slurring her words a little, acting drunk - at least I prayed it was an act, a rather prejudiced thought on my part - we set phase four into motion.

"Would you two care to join me for another drink?" the monster asked. Bailey stood close to him, leaning slightly on his shoulder, giggling like it was the best night of her life. Even though I knew it was fake, the sight left a sour taste in my mouth. "Maybe somewhere more private?"

"This place is crammed with people, do you know of some VIP area we hadn't been invited to?" I meant for the question to sound light, I think it came out a little awkward. He didn't seem to mind. Arrogant prick.

"I have a suite booked in the hotel next door" he replied smoothly. Bailey inched even closer to him, batting her eyelashes with not-so-secret intent.

"A suite? Are you rich or something?" She played dumb well. Her voice, usually sharp, even grating at times, was not soft and feminine. I wished she spoke more like that.

Wesley Shaw laughed and pulled her close by the waist. His hand didn't wander lower than it was appropriate.

"And you, Max?" He raised an eyebrow, as he inquired, I found it sort of comical as the frame of his glasses obstructed the view of the lower one. The sight of this monster of a man with only half a brow gave me enough material to laugh and smile in his direction.

"I'd love to" I made my voice deeper on purpose, so it sounded like I was actually into the idea.

We made our way back to the gates and walked over to the hotel. We locked arms with Bailey from both sides to keep her upright. I was starting to doubt whether she was actually sober.

Wesley Shaw's luxury suite was on the fifth floor. He invited us to sit in the living room, and opened up a bottle of wine from a wine cooler.

I wondered if he had brought that with himself for this occasion, or it was the courtesy of the hotel staff.

"Will you excuse me for a moment?" Wesley stood up abruptly, just after filling our glasses and making himself comfortable. "I have to make a phone call, it can't wait" He apologized again. I nodded, sure, it was fine, I was understanding. He walked into the bedroom and pulled the sliding door panel shut.

As soon as he was out of our line of sight Bailey straightened up and poured out half of what her glass contained on a plant next to the couch.

We heard as he picked up the phone, he paced the room. We couldn't hear much. Bailey immediately relaxed back against the cushions, when we heard him walk closer.

"This is going to take a while" Wesley came back to the living room, covering the microphone with one hand, he was half whispering. "You could make yourselves comfortable in the bedroom until then, my laptop is out here"

"Are you sure?" I asked with fake concern. Max Brown wouldn't want to be a rude guest. "We can leave and catch up later"

"I'm sure" He smiled warmly. It burnt my face. "Ten minutes at maximum, I'll try to make it in five, though" Wesley winked at me. I wanted to strangle him, but instead, I grabbed Bailey by the arm, maybe a bit stronger than it was necessary and pulled her up to come with me to the bedroom.

I pulled the door in, leaving it open an inch, so we could hear better.

Bailey was tense again, no sign of the alcohol induced lazy relaxed version of her. She sat on the edge of the bed, listening, still as a statue.

I concentrated as well. And when I finally picked up the thread of the conversation, I looked at Bailey in disbelief.

It couldn't have been this easy. He was dictating account numbers into the phone, with names and places. Wesley Shaw started phase five by himself.

The microphones sewn into our clothes were sensitive enough to pick all the sound up. We needed to get at least one of the devices out of here, so it can be traced immediately. Bailey was the one delivering it, I was tasked with keeping him there, using force if necessary, until we get the okay to arrest him.

Bailey put the drunken act back on. She stood up, swaying a little on her feet and walked out of the room. She whispered incoherently, from too far away and Wesley waved her off, apparently way too lost in his laptop screen.

She was out. I undid the top two buttons of my shirt and sat on the edge of the bed. I thought about how I should have drunk that glass of wine at least. Not like I needed the courage, I felt determined now more than ever. All I had to do was pull my gun, that had been safely tugged into it's strap on my ankle under my wide-legged dress pants...

I didn't feel the weight of it as I lifted my leg up. I tried the other, since I'm bad with directions, because maybe I just forgot.

There was no gun. I desperately tried to find the last moment I remembered having it. In the surveillance van I checked before I headed inside and then nothing.

Wesley had stopped talking, I realised a second too late. He was standing in the doorway, with a questioning look on his face. I looked terribly awkward, patting the side of my ankles, looking for my gun. I hoped he was drunk enough not to notice, though I didn't remember him having a single sip of any glass of beverage he had in his hands through the night.

I don't know why or how, but that set me off, and I knew that he knew. Still I tried to save the situation. If ot came to it, I would kill him with my bare hands.

"Ba- Ashley f-felt sick, she said she'd, she'd be back later" I gulped. I fucked up, I was panicking and he knew "I- I told her not to come back, if, if she gets suck" I stammered. He merely hummed and crossed the space between us with three long strides. I was sitting on the bed, he looked tall.

I really thought I was a good liar. I had been a flawless one all night, why do I have to fuck it up the single most important minute?

"Maybe it's better like that, I'd hate to have to get rid of her, if she witnessed what's happening here" Wesley lifted my chin with a finger so I had to look him in the eye. I was frozen under his gaze. At least he didn't figure Bailey's cover out.

"You look so much like her, Dallon" he leaned down. He turned my face around to inspect it from every angle.

"I didn't think you would, but it's like she's right here. I don't know why you expected this little plan of yours to work"

"I'm going to kill you" I finally found my voice again. I pictured Marci's face, that was a carbon copy of my own, beat up, bruised and pale as a ghost. I looked healthy, no bruises or scars, maybe a slight tan I got from visiting our mother back home.

I was nothing like Marci.

"Sure, you will" Wesley laughed and his hand slid down from my chin to wrap around my throat.

"If only you had your gun" he whispered in my ear, hot and sticky, and he pushed me down on my back.

My hands flew to claw at the grip on my throat, but it was futile. I felt dark spots starting to dance around the edges of my vision, and they grew and grew until it all faded to black.

[catkin-morgs-kookaburralover]

"yes im so fine"

*researches whether i can get my hands on ipecac*

[trans-axolotl]

have not left bed today + found out another friend got locked up + want to beat up every single adult that saw what was happening to me and looked away or actively made it worse

[this-world-of-beautiful-monsters]

consider my age, please don’t take me at this stage

Damian Wayne stands in a room of dead children and tries to remember that he’s not one of them. Not right now, anyway.

(Coda to Streets of Gotham #7)

____

@amonthofwhump‘s 12 Days of Whumpmas Prompt: Christmas Wishlist

Titles taken from the song O'Death by Amy Van Roekel.

You can find resources related to the current Roe crisis on my sideblog here.

(tw vomiting, discussions of graphic violence, past child abuse, internalized victim blaming, unreliable narrator, child death, graphic corpse description, implied decomposition, dissociation, mental health issues, trauma)

You can also see this on Ao3.

________________________________________________

“Have you been a good boy this year?” Dumpler asks, blinking at Damian from the shadows of the Arkham wagon. He’s still wearing that ridiculous red suit, pale ruff tickling his chin like a mockery of a beard.

Damian stares back at him. The standards of “good” and “bad” have been rearranged rather abruptly for him since last winter, after all. He’s not sure how well he would perform, by either his mother’s standards or his father’s, if it was all tallied up.

Well...his eyes flick past Dumpler’s head, towards the mock-orphanage and the shadows of police officers moving in and out. Grayson is still in there and Damian is out here, sent to “watch” Dumpler, as if the man’s got anything resembling fight left in him right now.

The aftertaste of vomit stings in his mouth, bitter like shame. He has a good idea of what both of his parents would think of his conduct tonight. 

It’s not like he’s a novice with corpses--he’s made plenty of his own, after all. Dead children shouldn’t bother him any more than dead adults would; there’s absolutely no excuse for his disgraceful conduct. Grandfather would probably beat him for it, and Damian would deserve every blow. 

Dumpler’s humming Christmas carols and Damian suddenly can’t stand this anymore. He squares his shoulders and turns abruptly away from the wagon, marching back towards the lit doorway like he’s going off to war. He’s not afraid, he isn’t.

When he steps inside, teeth gritted, the first thing that hits him is the smell--a mix of melting ice, a shame-inducing waft of cooling vomit, and the first dark wisps of rot. The cold had kept the corpses preserved up until his and Grayson’s idiotic blunder, but not the space is filled with light and heat. The place will smell like a charnel house, like the proving grounds at high noon--

Enough. Damian clenches his fists at his side, palms sinking into his flesh hard enough to leave marks. He forces his gaze down over the bodies, tracing the outline of bruised flesh and crooked limbs.

Dumpler had washed the bodies, hidden them in shadow, but there was a lot he couldn’t get rid of. Now the lights are up, every one, dead children laid out like a feast. The toys watch at their sides like sentries, jewel-bright eyes blinking.

Deep breaths--one, two, three. Assume command of the scene.

Mother’s hand on his shoulder, breath warm in his ear. He takes care not to look over his shoulder, because her eyes are glowing green again and the sight makes him nauseous. Look at the faces. Tell me what you see. 

I see my father cutting through the crowd like a shark.

I see the target’s eyes when she watches her wife.

I see my cousin’s face smashed in with a rock. Mara’s father was never the favorite child--I had to start brushing maggots away before Grandfather deigned to bring her back.

I see dead children and one of them is...

“Robin?” He stiffens a little, glancing up. Grayson and two police officers whose names Damian doesn’t care to remember are coming from a back room, closing the door on more bodies, more children. “I told you to watch Humpty.”

“Dumpler is fine,” Damian snaps, crossing his arms over his chest. It’s not just Dumpler they’re talking about, and they both know it. Grayson bites his lip, but thankfully has enough self-restraint not to get into things in front of the police.

One of said police is turning to look over the corpses. “Dumpler fits the bill,” he declares. “There’s probably enough of his DNA in here to fry him--”

“Because he took care of the bodies after,” Grayson points out.

“He says he did,” the cop shoots back.

Grayson huffs. “Humpty’s mental state--”

“He didn’t do it,” Damian cuts in. “They did it to each other. Some of them, anyway.”

They both look back at him. Damian bites his lip, trying not to feel pinned down by their gazes. Keep it together.

“See those handprints?” he says, gesturing to one boy’s throat. “Too small for Dumpler’s--or any adult or teen’s, for that matter.” He curls his hand over markings, lets them see how small they are.

He hits a man in the throat, and he falls back, twitching. The mark he leaves is smaller than the one his instructor did when she showed him how to do it.

“She’s missing hair,” Damian says, pointing to another girl. “And judging from corresponding length, texture, and coloring, he’s got some of it under his nails,” he explains, gesturing back at the other boy.

Mother cried out the first time he tried to yank on a strand of her long, dark hair during a fight. He let go on instinct and the pain vanished from his eyes, instantly placed by a triumphant smile. “You cannot let your enemy’s suffering distract you,” she’d told him afterward as they bandaged each other up.

“Small fist here, with no training.” He waves at a child’s cheek, the only part of their face not covered by matted brown hair. “The opponent broke their fingers.”

He does not remember where he learned to throw a punch--the same place he learned to wield a sword, that strange, hazy part of pre-memory.

“Robin--” Grayson asks. What is his problem? Damian is calm, calm, calm. Words fall from his lips like stones, cold and hard, laid out neatly for perusal.

“They didn’t know what they were doing. There are much more precise ways to fracture a skull.” He gestures to the side of a girl’s head, smashed dark red and twisted, before moving to the raggedly sliced neck of the body. 

“And these cuts are sloppy. Most of them were holding weapons too big for them.” Damian’s cuts are never sloppy but the sight of a too-big blade in a too-small hand leaves distinctive marks that he knows all too well.

The officers are looking at him the way Drake used to, fear edged with a hint of contempt. Damian ignores it.

Mother gave him an island once, then left him on it, weaponless, for three months. He almost died many times that first month and discovered he was happier with animals for company than people.

The second month she started sending people in to kill him and he discovered how many times you have to bash someone’s head in with a rock until they stop twitching. After the third month he had to relearn how to speak. That made her unhappy, although whether out of disappointment or sorrow he never dared to ask.

“Fighting over food, maybe?” one officers asks the other other. “Or drugs?” Neither is directly at Damian; he suspects that his presence makes them uncomfortable. This happens a lot.

“What kind of kids would do this to each other?” One of the cops, he can’t tell which. There’s confusion in his voice, maybe even horror.

What kind of child indeed.

“Kids who have no choice,” Grayson snaps. “None of the fatal handprints are from adults, but there are bruises from larger hands, and some are almost as fresh. They were...dragged.”

Shoved. Pushed. Stumbling onto hot sand, holding a blade tight. Everyone is watching. His shoulder aches and the fight hasn’t even begun.

“There are bruise marks from cage bars, too,” Grayson adds. He takes a step towards Damian and Damian’s legs twitch with the sudden urge to move back, to cover his exits. “Like they were kept somewhere and then released.”

Damian has the vague sense he’s supposed to nod but can’t entirely remember how. “...Yes.” The handprints on the wrists or shoulders are large, the ones on the throat are small. The nail marks, gouged frantically through each other’s skin, are small. He can see the small, small shimmer of teeth come loose, buried in flesh.

You could put one under your pillow, Grayson says as they look down at Damian’s tooth. Damian can’t imagine being foolish enough to openly invite a stranger into their home.

“They didn’t think about what they were doing,” Damian tells the corpses. “They weren’t thinking clearly.” It’s something Mother would say, and he can’t decide where that would put him on a list like Dumpler’s. Good or bad?

“They couldn’t,” Grayson says, deliberately gentle. Chiding, maybe? It’s hard to tell. 

“Too much all at once for a gang initiation,” Damian says. “More like a...” Blood splashes across his feet. “...fighting ring.” Show us what you can do.

An al Ghul would never fight for the entertainment of the unwashed masses. But that does not mean the al Ghul’s would never fight for anyone’s entertainment. Damian can feel his grandfather’s eyes burning into his back. Unless it’s the police looking at him instead. Or the dead children, glassy-eyed and dull, like a fish display.

He doesn’t want to look. He has to look. Watch or die. Damian’s face is reflected in every child’s eye, every glimmer of melting ice. He brushed bugs off Mara’s face as she rotted in the sun, while Dusan begged Grandfather for the right not to deem his daughter a failure, to let her be brought back. Her foot had skidded--it could have happened to anyone on the dusty fighting grounds. It had happened to Damian before.

“We’ll need to look at shelters, foster homes, see who’s missing,” Grayson says. His voice curls into something--anger, maybe, or frustration, directed nowhere in particular. “Who wouldn’t be missed. This is a--business--that needs a steady supply of product.”

He sits with her because he feels he must. He’d stabbed her because he felt he’d had to. One of those actions was some kind of moral weakness, he’s sure of it, or maybe both, but he can’t remember which one.

Follow the trail. See who holds the strings. Mother, Father, Grayson. In the end, they all sound the same.

"Some of the cuts are neater than others.” Damian’s voice sounds far away. He can see them, poking out through the layers of bruises and brokenness, older, sloppier marks folded on top of each other, to the red flowers beneath them. “Especially on the older ones, or the better-fed ones, with injuries to the knuckles or hands than the face. The ones who won more fights. They rose higher and higher until they faced--”

After he fights Mara, he fights Dusan, face blank with fury that will never be directed at Grandfather. He wins, but barely, and is left shaking and bleeding. Then Grandfather decides to spar, and Damian’s memories are all green fire and screaming afterwards

“Someone who knew what they were doing.” The words sound so cold, so empty. The words of someone 

Damian usually fought adults, not children, as befitting one of his position. There were other children in the League, of course--it was a good way of bolstering their numbers from the best stock--but he was mostly kept apart. Sometimes he trained them, or was set against a pack of them

or was ordered to punish a particular one for the sins of their parents

but none of them were started quite as early as he was, none finessed from the womb like he was. Not even Mara, skilled as she was.

Damian was greater than the children, greater than the adults. He was the best, he had to be. He’s beyond this stinking room, these cold, staring bodies. Or he should be, but he still looks down and reads the corpses like his own history.

“The cuts are precise, designed to cause suffering,” he tells them. “To draw out the display as long as possible.” Pay attention, Grandson. This is how you make it hurt. The knife sinking into his flesh, the knife he uses to sink into someone else’s. It all feels the same. “The watchers stop betting on who wins and start betting on how long this one will last.”

Mara jabs her blade into his ribcage. The traitor screams as Damian breaks her child’s neck between his palms. Everything tastes of blood and ice.

"They are told that the strongest, bravest, fiercest of them will be allowed to survive, but none of them get that far. There is always someone better, someone greater, waiting in the wings. It was set against them from the beginning; they got blood on their hands for nothing. Foolish to--”

“Robin.”

Damian blinks. Grayson is kneeling in front of him, light glinting off his white eye coverings. His hand hovers in the air like he’s going to touch Damian’s shoulder, but he isn’t sure if he should.

It dawns on Damian that at some point, he’s shifted into parade rest. Why is he in parade rest? Grayson hates it when he gives reports in parade reset.

“Robin, can you look at me?” Grayson says, voice soft.

He is looking at Grayson. Isn’t he? Or is he still looking at the corpses, laid out so carefully for his perusal? Body after body after body. Smashed, broken, too, worthless to both sides.

“The more precise cuts all come from a downwards angle,” Grayson says, voice soft, eyes burning into Damian like hot coals. “An adult was responsible, not a child. An adult was watching and let it happen. This was done by adults. The kids didn’t do anything wrong. They were just trying to stay alive.”

“I...” Damian’s mouth is dry, like sand in his throat. Exactly like sand in his throat.

The cop behind Grayson turns to his partner. “Crazy as Humpty, that one,” he mutters, jerking his head in Damian’s direction. “Last Robin was a known-it-all, but at least he wasn’t a--”

“Do you have something to contribute, officer?” Grayson’s voice is cold and sharp as glass. It’s not a Batman growl; it’s something else, something all his own and designed to cut. The officers both go still.

“My partner and I will be leaving now,” Grayson says, rising to his feet. “Thank you for your assistance.”

We have more to do, Damian wants to protest. I can look longer, I’m not weak, I’m not-- But the words are swept away in a blast of cold as the door closes behind them. Dumpler’s wagon is gone and the frost beads cold against his skin. He stands on the doorstep, feeling himself sway slightly in the breeze, but unable to stop it.

“Can I pick you up?” Grayson asks.

His lips form the words I can walk, but nothing comes out. When Grayson reaches for him, Damian can’t even make a pretense of wriggling away. His fingers are numb and tingling, his head ringing, blood pulsing behind his eyes.

He grabs for anger--anger always helps--but it slips from his fingers, fire winking out in his hands. Anger won’t bring the children back, anyway. The Lazarus Pit is a gift/curse offered to very few (and to be honest, there are plenty of nights when Damian’s not entirely sure it did its job at all).

“You’re okay, Dames,” Grayson says. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” He sounds like he really believes it.

The world slips by in a buzzing gray blur, snow and sand and ash all melting into each other. The distant press of Grayson’s fingers against his skin feels like the only thing keeping Damian grounded.

[thezodiacmemesgacha]

the next few posts are gonna be based from that one "the signs as things my dad has said to me" post (partially)

here's the ss, but if you can find it pls send me the post link:

I also queued two posts for Christmas Eve and Christmas Day that are vines

[thedevilsfamiliar]

A horror story my grandmother used to tell me so I’d behave is the story of a little boy who wondered away from his parents and into an alley

In this alley, there was a man with candy. He offered some to the little boy. The little boy ate the candy and began growing sleepy, unable to reply to his parents calls.

The man got to work quickly, cutting the little boy up and removing his organs, stuffing him with drugs and changing his clothes.

Soon, a woman came down the alley and noticed what was happening. She didn’t say anything as the man offered the dead child to her. She took the little boy into her arms and proceeded to walk to the bus terminal, smuggling drugs across the border.

The story ends with a dog sniffing the packaged drugs inside the little boy and the cop finding out that the child has been dead for a while. The little boys parents are then notified that their son was used as a drug mule.

I was like, 5? 6? When she told me this story

[ilhoonftw]

cóps called me yesterday and told me they are "closing criminal investigation into my (forced) suicidę intervention"

imagine having criminal record just because a doctor decided you can't have suicidal ideation and called ambulance and also cóps were sent ... to assist a mentally ill person??? what are they gonna do. tase me to death

i love being treated like someone who commited a grave crime. i guess being mentally ill is illegal now. 'oh you wanted to hurt yourself we have to investigate' what exactly jfc

licherally why aren't they putting the same energy into catching men who terrorize highways with their hacked bmw cars going 300km/h

it's sad how the cóp asked me if i'm doing any better so i replied 'will anything happen if i say no' and he went 'oh not really i'm just asking'

the fact they tracked down my parents who line In A Different Voivodeship to inquire about me........

[daedrabela]

how do we live somewhere where you can literally be killed for protesting, and your death doesn't just immediately stop everything. how is it that we live in such a place that simply does not value human life?

[meltysblood]

the way alucard is disgusted by suicide

[miloxhughes]

Dec. 10th / 7:35am

No one knows what it's like To be the bad man To be the sad man Behind blue eyes

No one knows what it's like To be hated To be fated To telling only lies

The heavy knocks that echoed throughout Milo’s apartment abruptly woke him up from a deep sleep. He groggily wiped his hand across his eyes and forehead, jaw clenching up tight as another series of knocks bounced off the walls of his condo. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ.” He snarled out angrily, yanking his sheets and blanket off his nude form in one harsh sweep. Milo pulled a pair of sweatpants from off the floor and threaded his fingers through his unkempt bedhead. He had no clue who was at his door, but they were about to witness a very unpleasant side to Milo. The party-loving male had a late night that wrapped up only two hours ago. It started with doing what Nathan asked of him. Stopping by Le Cirque to see if anyone out of the ordinary was sticking out. No one appeared out of place while he was there. All seemed business as usual at the club. Just as he was finishing his last drink, a girl he had hooked up with a couple times before approached his table. One shot led to another, and another, and another. The pair eventually found their way back to her place where they continued to drink and snort lines off each other. The sun was just about to rise by the time Milo stumbled into his condo, dragging himself upstairs to pass out on his bed. If he had any idea that some pain-in-his-ass would be pounding on his door two hours later, Milo would have skipped out on his romp with the girl from the club.

He lumbered downstairs, muttering every curse word under the sun with each step he took. “This better be real fuckin’ important!” Milo unlocked his front door, yanking it open, ready to raise hell with the poor soul waiting for him. Standing at the threshold to his condo were two men wearing gold badges on the outside of the coats. Panic wasn’t a sensation Milo was used to. He had learned to thrive in chaos, which in turn made him less fearful in life. Seeing two cops at his door sparked a small flame of fright in his gut. Milo’s first and only thought was they were here to question him about Nathan and Freddie. Why else would two serious looking cops be standing at his door? “Uh, can I help you fellas with something?”

“Milo Hughes?” The first detective piped up.

“Yeah, what’s the problem?”

“I’m Detective Keller and this is Detective Barns. We’re from the homicide unit out in Boulder.” He added, showing Milo their badges.

His brows furrowed tightly together. “Homicide?”

“Yes. Your mother is Jamie Hughes, correct?”

Bewilderment etched into Milo’s features at the mention of his mom. He hadn’t heard or spoken to her since she had kicked him out when he was 19. She left town not long after that.

“Yeah, but I don't know where she is if that’s why you’re here. I haven’t seen her in years.”

The two detectives glanced at each other before turning back to look at Milo. “We’re sorry to be the ones to tell you this, but your mother’s body was found a few days ago in Boulder. It appears she overdosed on heroin. We ran her DNA and you were the only living relative we could find in our system. We need you to come to Boulder and identify her body.”

Milo stood motionless as the words sank deep into his head. He had made dark jokes before about his mother dying because of how heavily involved she was in drugs and alcohol. There was always a part of him that knew she wasn’t going to be long for this world. Not unless by some miracle she managed to sober up and stay clean. He never really considered how he might feel about her dying, mostly because he chose not to think about her at all. Milo had zero positive memories connected to his mother, so there was no reason to dwell on their past. He searched within himself for some kind of emotion to connect to her death, but there was nothing to be found. “Say I do this..,what happens then?”

“If you identify her as your mother, you have the option to either claim her body, or you can wave all claims to her body and give her over to the department of Transitional Assistance.”

Milo chewed into his bottom lip. One part of him wanted nothing to do with any of this. Why should he care what happens to her now that she’s gone for good? Then there was some unexplainable part of him that wanted to go and see for himself if it was really her. Milo felt entirely confident that he could handle it. He could identify her body, sign over his rights, and never have to think about it again. “Alright. I can make the drive today.”

“We would appreciate that, Mr. Hughes. Here’s my card. I wrote the address to the medical examiner on the back. Just ask for me or Detective Barns when you get there.”

A few hours later

Milo couldn’t help from shifting about as he waited in the front lobby of the medical examiner’s office. The back of his neck had been practically rubbed raw from the amount of times his palm had anxiously dragged back and forth across it. When he finally caught sight of one of the detectives who showed up at his condo, Milo shot up from his seat, ready and eager to be done with this whole thing. He escorted Milo to the morgue, pausing for a moment when they reached the door.

“Do you need a minute before we step in?”

A short huff blew past Milo’s lips. “No, let’s get this shit over with. I got somewhere to be tonight.”

The cop gave the younger male a concerning look before opening the door to the morgue. The smells that reached Milo’s nose were new and unpleasant. He couldn’t fathom how anyone would want to work around dead bodies for a living. The medical examiner greeted the pair, walking them over to where they were storing his mother’s body. Milo ignored the way his heart started to frantically pound like a jackhammer under his chest. His fingers balled into fists, digging his nails into his palms to focus on the pain and not his nervous heart rate. The medical examiner opened the door and pulled out the sliding steel table, revealing the black body bag containing the woman that had brought Milo into this world. The sound of the zipper being opened caused Milo’s stomach to lurch. He swallowed down the bit of bile rising to his throat, digging his blunt nails harder into the flesh of his palms. The examiner pushed the flap open. Milo glared down at the pale, unmoving body. There she was. The woman he was meant to love, but grew to hate was gone. His blue hues couldn’t tear away from her thin face and sunken eyes. Her skin had been robbed of all color and nothing was left but an ashy shade. Run. The voice popped into his head without warning. Milo tugged at the collar of his shirt as his throat started to tighten. “Yeah, it’s my mom. Give me whatever papers I need to sign to get rid of her. I don’t fuckin’ want her.”

Both men in the room started in slight surprise at the harsh words leaving Milo’s mouth. The detective tried to suggest Milo reconsider, but he immediately rejected the idea. His mind had been made up. All he wanted, needed, was to get this over with and get the hell out of there. His stomach twisted and turned as he quickly scribbled his signature on the necessary papers to hand over his mother. When the paperwork was done and he was free to leave, Milo all but bolted out of the building. He only made it halfway through the parking lot before losing his fight with the nausea in his stomach. It felt like he had been sucker punched in the gut, reeling him forwards as the contents in his stomach harshly spewed forth from his mouth. He retched until nothing was left and a series of dry heaves tightened up his spine. Dizzy and weak, Milo stumbled slightly towards his car, wiping the back of his sleeve across his mouth. He all but fell into his driver’s side seat, pressing his forehead against the steering wheel. “You fuckin’ pussy. Get your shit together.” Milo angrily whispered to himself, squeezing his eyes shut. The image of his mother in the body bag flashed into his mind, forcing his lids to snap open. He needed her out of his head. She didn’t deserve to be there. Water welled in his eyes, which in turn only made Milo more enraged with himself. He sat up in his seat and knocked his fist against his jaw, grunting roughly at the hard punch. “Don’t you fuckin’ dare.” Milo refused to shed a single tear over his mother. God knows she didn’t shed any over how she treated her son. He snatched up his cell with trembling fingers and quickly texted his dealer. Milo knew exactly how to deal with ghosts from his past. The surefire cure to making all thoughts of his mother disappear. It didn’t matter how long it would take. Milo wasn’t going to stop until every trace of his mother vanished from his mind for good.

[ladyfarona]

Tw death

tw suicide mention

[magicalanimedonkeyboy]

Canadian cop on the radio saying they're buying back assault rifles because they only exist to kill people. Do you think he wants the police to give up theirs as well?