#until i got a signal that made me reexamine the rest of his work under that lense

[kittylordinfinity]

As someone who used to watch james somerton before he released his helluva boss video (a video that praises a show that has been openly misogynistic, biphobic, and just generally weird about its treatment of queer and other marginalized people, for supposedly being an ICON of queer representation or whatever the fuck) i am mentally writhing like a little piglet in joy at the new hbomberguy video

[internaljiujitsu]

RAGE INSIDE YOUR MACHINE: How Your Brain Makes You Mad

“The best way to control your anger is to control your body.” — Jiu Jitsu Master Rickson Gracie to Edward Norton (as Dr. Bruce Banner) in the 2008 film, The Incredible Hulk.

Bill Bixby terrified me. He’s the actor who played Dr. David Bruce Banner on the 70’s tv show, The Incredible Hulk. Bixby was a harmless looking guy, but when he’d flash those white pupils — signaling the surge in hormones that were about to transform him — I’d shit myself. The transition from man to monster, the anticipation of the horror that awaited, the build up to the inevitable carnage and destruction scared me to death. When the mild mannered scientist changed into his green alter ego, his brow widened, skin turned bright green and clothes tore from the out of control growth of his freakish muscles (while his pants always ended up making the perfect pair of shorts). Frightening.

I’d hide behind the couch whenever someone pissed Dr. Banner off. My older brother and sister thought it was hilarious, but I dreaded that moment. It reminded me that we lived with our own version of the Hulk.

My father, a giant in my eyes, would go from doting dad to terror inducing tormentor in a flash. He was the scariest monster I knew — I’d hide under desks and fake Illnesses when I knew he was angry. Given the choice, I would have taken my chances with Dr. Banner or the devil himself over my dad’s fury.

I thought I had inherited my father’s anger. Certainly, genetics played a part, but rage had also been programmed into me — to deal with a loud voice with a louder one. To conquer violence with violence. To shout down dissent in my own defense.

I worked my entire life to overcome what I and those around me deemed an anger management issue. It wasn’t frequent, but it was more intense than anyone was used to seeing. Level ten anger for a level four problem. The kind of anger that makes people of all ages want to hide under desks or behind couches.

Was I just mimicking what I’d learned as a kid? Did the build up I felt that led to the eventual eruption signify a flaw in my makeup or morality? Was I just an angry, abusive asshole at heart? All the therapy, books and lectures hadn’t helped. I still didn’t have control!

I’ve spent three decades searching for the source and solution for the anxiety and depression that made so many of my days miserable. I never examined the anger itself. The intense, rage filled outbursts I experienced were how everyone expressed anger in our home. I just happened to be the most intense of us all. I thought level ten anger was normal.

But it never felt good afterwards — I’d be exhausted. Not the good kind of exhausted, like after a grueling workout or savage sex. More like when Banner was just waking up, clothes shredded but somehow still on him, despite the fact that he was several times larger in his agitated state — fearful that he may have done some irreparable damage. I’d be groggy, sometimes in tears, breathing hard, wondering how my temper had gotten away from me again.

I ruined more than one Thanksgiving, pooped on plenty of parties and played the role of Debbie Downer on more occasions than I care to remember. Sure, the triggers were there, but my reactions were so unbelievably over the top that I was too embarrassed to go back and apologize — even though I always wanted to. Worst of all, the people I lost it on were often the ones I loved the most.

In my fits of anger, I became the meanest version of my father. Eyes bulging from his skull (partially because of his chronic thyroid condition), neck and forehead veins threatening to burst, a primal snarl through clenched teeth. Then, a voice louder than the horn on a battleship — violent hatred punctuating every decibel.

I’d punch walls or bash my own head against the nearest hard surface when I got angry. I’ve broken furniture, thrown appliances and crushed wine glasses in my hand at restaurants. The rage would only last for about twenty minutes — three or four episodes a year. The rest of the time, I was a tree hugging hippy at heart who wouldn’t hurt a fly.

That’s why it killed me so much each time I lost control. I wanted to be kind, and I knew what it felt like to be around someone scary. It sucked. Being on edge, walking on eggshells to avoid the explosions. Constant tension.

Some of my jiu jitsu buddies once nicknamed me “Buddha” because I appeared to be meditating when I sparred. They said that it seemed like I could take a nap in the middle of a match. On the days when I felt at peace, I conquered my internal demons by being calm in the face of physical conflict. In real life, when anxiety would hit, the reverse was true. Facing no real threat, fear would grip my body, and I would either whither away or explode to defend myself from an imaginary adversary.

My reactions were over the top because I felt so vulnerable. It always seemed that my mom was afraid I’d get hurt as a kid. I remember stories about how my family almost lost me as a baby or how my aunt saved me from certain death somehow. I felt weak and fragile. Seeing violence break out nearly every day on the streets of my childhood neighborhood only made the fear more real. Whether in a classroom, on the bus or in the bedroom I shared with my volatile older brother, I always had to be on my toes.

It’s no accident that I became a champion bodybuilder and martial artist. Though I wanted to focus on academics, I knew I couldn’t just rely on my mind. I needed to look strong. I needed to be confident in a fight. I didn’t want to be bothered and I didn’t want to be scared anymore. Back then, I didn’t know that it’s normal to be afraid before a fight. I thought there was something wrong with me because of it, so I worked to make that feeling go away.

But the extreme, explosive anger I exhibited as a 113 pound thirteen year old boy was the same I expressed in my twenties. I had grown into a 250 pound ball of muscle by then, and my devastating bite could be even worse than my terrifying bark. On the inside I was the same fragile person I had always been. To anyone that saw me angry, I was a scary beast.

So, like Dr. Banner seeking out Rickson Gracie to calm his inner beast, I sought peace through activity and non-activity. I gained more control over the outbursts. But when I began having episodes on days that I stuck to my rituals and felt good, I knew there had to be more to my anger than self-control. Until then, I had only addressed the depression and anxiety that I experienced since childhood. I had never looked at the anger directly, or at how it made me feel about myself.

Uncontrollable anger was the source of a lot of my shame. Self-control was always what I was after — the freedom to not be a slave to emotion. The power to never instill the kind of fear in another person that my father instilled in me. When I failed to control my anger, it was as if I devolved into my genetic predecessor — morphing into my father despite my best efforts — as if I didn’t have a choice. All the hard work of a lifetime would be gone in a burst of rage.

The realization that this anger persists under the surface inspired me to examine it beyond my triggers, or the deeply personal meanings I’ve attached to them. Rather than only experiencing and then lamenting these explosive outbursts, I wanted to understand why they happened. To do so would take being honest with myself about the circumstances surrounding triggering episodes, as well as a firmer grasp of the general causes of anger. This process has helped me to step outside my anger for the first time, depersonalizing the rage and allowing me to observe it from a distance.

I could finally understand how incredibly out of proportion my reactions were once I reexamined the triggers with my rational mind. This was aided by the fact that my latest episode took place in a hotel room covered in mirrors. I was forced to watch myself go through the entire thing. I had never seen my face — my eyes — at level ten anger. I think I may have scared myself straight.

Observing yourself in an explosive anger episode will either drive you deep into a depressive hole or kick you in the ass to figure out why you can’t seem to keep yourself together. This time, I berated myself for a day before deciding to figure out what was going on in my head, so that I can fix it.

GETTING IN YOUR OWN HEAD

The shameful hangover that persists after an episode of explosive rage will only go away when failure to self-regulate isn’t simply labeled a lack of discipline. Subconsciously reprogramming limiting beliefs that have kept you stuck in negative patterns is critical for change, but so is identifying the physiological markers of anger that serve to prep you for confrontation. Knowing that there is more happening in your head than meets the eye gives you an enormous advantage in correcting emotional disregulation. Only then can you train yourself to recognize when you need to course adjust , shutting down your body’s irrational reaction before it gets out of hand.

While traditional therapy and behavioral modification may be key in recovery, ignoring the chemical component of explosive anger is discounting the twisted scaffolding on which the ego is built. Brain function is the invisible variable that turns some of us from Jekyll to Hyde — Banner to Hulk.

There are two parts of your noggin that are key in processing anger:

The Anterior Cingulate Cortex has connections to both the prefrontal cortex (reasoning) and the limbic system (emotion).

The Amygdala — made up of almond shaped clusters inside the temporal lobes — is also a part of the limbic system, which governs emotion.

An inactive Anterior Cingulate Cortex or an overactive Amygdala can both lead to poor decision making and antisocial behavior .

The Anterior Cingulate Cortex (ACC) regulates rational cognitive function. This area of the brain affects decision making, empathy, impulse control, and reward anticipation. It connects your emotions to your actions and intercedes by considering the repercussions when your lizard brain wants to impulsively lash out at someone or something.

According to leading ADHD researcher Dr. Russel Barkley, clinical professor of psychiatry at the VCU Medical Center, the ACC does nothing in ADHD brains. There is no stopping to self-regulate the emotional state — no holding you back from making decisions that could be detrimental to a future you’re incapable of imagining.

Because ADHD is a failure of the inhibition system, Barkley says it’s critical to decouple events from responses. This can only happen when you stop and engage the prefrontal cortex to devise rational responses to triggers. Acting on impulse can be disastrous.

What Barkley describes as a “nearsightedness in time” leaves those with ADHD blind to the future. Unable to anticipate the consequences of their actions and incapable of self-regulation, they often impulsively act out against their own long term self interest. This can sometimes have severe financial, social and legal consequences.

Barkley suggests designing “prosthetic environments” to elicit behavior modification and assist in self-regulation. By externalizing pieces of information with hand written or electronic notes and reminders, envisioning future events and the sequence in which they should take place becomes easier.

In their book, Nudge, Nobel prize winning economist Richard H. Thaler and Cass R Sunstein describe the vast number of ways our decisions can be influenced by subtle suggestions. Strategically placing reminders to curtail or reinforce behavior, building in immediate rewards and consequences, and manually problem solving whenever possible can prop up executive function and lead to better decision making and fewer outbursts.

While the ACC takes into account consequences, the amygdala is a group of structures in the brain that process strong emotions, particularly fear — provoking an automatic fight or flight response. Amygdala hijack (a term coined by psychologist Daniel Goleman) occurs when the amygdala disables the frontal lobes (which govern reason and higher level cognition) and limits some unessential functions in order to prepare the body for conflict. Stress hormones flood your system, pupils dilate, heart races, blood vessels constrict and pressure rises. While being on high alert is helpful when facing life or death situations, putting your body through the emotional ringer on a regular basis due to everyday stress will break you down mentally and physically.

Setting off this chemical dance are the triggers that sit atop the surface of your mind like land mines hastily planted by everyone you’ve ever known — buried under all the shit you only think you remember. The stories you tell yourself set off a tingling sensation when someone reminds you of what you don’t want to be. Your thoughts travel and the feeling in your body transports you to a different time and place. The explosions go off, cortisol and adrenaline flood your system and you react as if you are there again.

Individuals with Intermittent Explosive Disorder (IED) exhibit repeated, explosive, sudden episodes of rage that are drastically out of proportion to the trigger. These outbursts can manifest as verbal or physical abuse, destruction of property or personal harm. A study published in the journal Neuropsychopharmacology looked at brain scans of patients with IED. Researchers found that the white matter connecting the frontal lobe (decision making, emotion, understanding consequences) and the parietal lobe (language and sensory input) had less integrity and density than in healthy brains or those with other psychiatric disorders.

With what is essentially the wiring between these two regions of the brain damaged, communication becomes limited. Unable to take in all the information available, you only hear the things that confirm the irrational notions of your lizard brain. Everything becomes an attack. You are looking for the insult that will reinforce the shitty way you feel about yourself. Acting as if everyone is out to get you will miraculously make people want to stay away.

In her book, The Upside of Anger, Dr. Kelly McGonigal argues that it’s our own interpretation of stress that turns it negative. McGonigal says that if we view stress as our body’s way of preparing us for whatever comes next, a rapid pulse can mean excitement instead of fear. McGonigal’s research shows that this shift in perspective leads to physiological changes. Blood vessels no longer violently constrict when the heart pumps faster. However, the organ itself is still fed more nutrients, making it stronger. As in the physical stress put on your body when you exercise, as long as you do not overtrain, the increased demand over time creates greater capacity. According to Dr. McGonigal, a heart pumping vigorously while blood vessels stay relaxed, “looks like what happens in moments of joy, or courage.”

Meditation is an invaluable tool for transforming your reaction to stress. Dedicating time every day to practicing stillness is the best training for both recognizing the onset of symptoms (by learning to notice subtle changes in your internal state) and shutting down a reaction before any negative physiological effects take hold by instantly being still. Building my meditation muscles before figuring out what was wrong with my wiring helped me find the quiet space between trigger and reaction to perceive my anger differently.

If you see anger as an alarm signaling that some potentially nasty shit is being released into your body, you may pump the breaks when you feel yourself losing control. Doing otherwise is knowingly poisoning yourself. Once you realize what’s happening inside you when you are triggered, you’ll be able to direct the process through conscious attention. The feelings won’t trigger irrational action, but thoughtful consideration. Not only of the steps to take next, but of the source of your emotional response — thereby allowing you to choose to react differently.

When the flutter in your chest and butterflies in your stomach signify fear to your mind, your body will act afraid and your thoughts will race. The bells and whistles that go off under your skin will take on new meaning if you train your body to sit still when your mind wants to sprint. With a little knowledge and a lot of discipline, you can, in the words of the late Ted Cassidy, “control the raging spirit that dwells within.”

[phantomrose96]

A Breach of Trust: Chapter 19

(Act 1: Chapter 1-9 )

(Act 2: Chapter 10-18 )

(Act 3: Chapter 19, Chapter 20)

“Teruki…how are you so incredible…?”

The voice was something soft. It was a sound Teruki loved, singsong and warm against his ear. He leaned back, snuggled closer on the lap of the one whose hand stroked gently through his hair.

“Because my mommy is so incredible, and she made me,” Teruki answered.

“Oh, oh dear, ha! You give your poor old mommy too much credit.” The arm moved from his hair, wrapped around him shoulder to shoulder. A hug close and warm enough to feel her heartbeat. “Your mommy is incredible because she has you, and she’s so excited to wake up to you every single day, Teruki, my special little man…”

…

“…Am I in trouble?”

“No. Oh dear, no. Of course not.” She crouched to his level, hands on his shoulders, a wide smile and sad eyes. “If the other kids don’t like you, it’s because they don’t understand you. Your mommy’s got your back.”

“Even the teacher doesn’t like me. She’s just jealous, isn’t she?”

Her arms moved as she chuckled.  Then she stroked her palm against Teruki’s cheek. “She’s probably jealous of me, Teruki, for having you.” Her hands rose to his head and ruffled through his hair. “My special little man.”

…

“…Hey…hey, you know what I heard? You know what my mom said?”

“What?”

“What’d she say?”

“She said that Teruki Hanazawa’s mommy doesn’t love him anymore.”

“No way.”

“What’d he do?”

“Who knows? Hey, hey he’s over there. Teruki! Hey Teruki!”

Teruki dipped his head. He stayed seated at his desk, arms wrapped around the backpack with no lunch in it. He pretended not to hear.

“Hey Teruki, is it true? Does your mommy not love you anymore?”

“Shut up,” Teruki whispered.

“That’s not nice. It was just a question. Did you do something to make her hate you?”

“Shut UP!” Teruki whipped his hand out, and a bundle of psychic snares wrapped around the boy, locking his arms against his body, his legs together. The boy fell to the floor.

The teacher snapped up from her desk. “Teruki!”

…

Teru jolted forward, covers thrown from his body as the cold, sweet night air doused him. His heart pounded, and his breath stuttered, as darkness settled into his vision. An empty apartment bedroom lay before him, desk clear, closet shut, window cracked to let the air flow in. Teru loosened the tension in his shoulders, and sat with his legs pulled against his chest while the wind blew icy against his sweat-soaked face.

Teru swallowed, and it still hurt. He raised a hand to skim around the strangulation wounds wrapped around his windpipe. They were invisible in the dark.

He rose from his futon. He loosened the top button on his banana patterned pajamas, so that nothing would be quite so close to touching his throat. The wooden floor beat cold against his sockless feet, and he navigated his way by touch through the darkness to the kitchen.

Teru pulled a single glass from the first cabinet. He set it beneath the tap until it was 2/3 filled. Teru drank it slowly, water still running. He hoped for the steady hiss of it to drown out his thoughts. He hoped the cold shock of water and wind to his body might settle the shakiness beneath, or at least ease the rawness that pained his throat.

Teru put the cup down on the counter, and he squeezed it. He wanted to push the tension out of his body that way. He wanted to grip it until he regained his calm, and the world made sense again, and he could return to sleep.

My special little man…

The glass cracked under Teru’s grip. The tiniest shard sliced his right thumb, and he pulled it against his chest, hissing.

Teru focused on an empty spot in the night air. He sent out a pulse, a single psychic signal, a call in the language of spirits. Seconds later, three spirits oozed in through the backwall, multi-eyed and multi-limbed, their bodies all warping and congealing masses no larger than a basketball.

“Got a job?” the one on the left asked.

“Yeah.” Teru moved his hand away from his chest, and he grabbed the hem of the sleeve. He yanked it back. “Go stake out Claw’s base again. I want to know if anything’s changed. Anything at all. Members. Missions. Plans. People they’re after. If someone’s lunch plan is different, I want to know about it.”

“Normal fee?” asked the one most on the right.

“Normal fee, and a 10% tip. Take it as a show of good will. Take any more and I will exorcise you on the spot.”

“Roger that, Boss.” The one in the middle spoke now, and it shifted forward. Its maw opened, revealing lines of needle-thin and needle-sharp teeth. Its jaw stretched until his whole body became little more than a serrated hunting trap.

Teru flicked his wrist. A yellow crystal of energy solidified above his palm. He didn’t flinch at all as the three spirits dove.

…

Ritsu had left his bag in the hallway.

He hadn’t been thinking about the phone when he’d gotten into the house. He hadn’t remembered to send the “I’m home” text that had become so expected of him. He’d just fallen asleep, curled up in his bed and dead to the world as his mother called him, over and over, over and over.

Ritsu never heard it.

The first thing he heard came hours later, harsh and jarring and uttered much too close to his ear.

“Ritsu!”

And then a hand grabbed him by the right shoulder and shook him, sharp from the recent dislocation.

Ritsu woke with a shout, covers tangled up around his sweat-soaked body as he snapped up, wild frantic eyes settling on the shape of his mother leaning over him, hand to his shoulder, worry twisted across her face.

In that moment, Ritsu couldn’t remember where he was or how he’d gotten there. He was hit only with the overwhelmingly certain dread that it was bad for his mother to see him like this. He pulled away, curled in on himself, reexamining the aches of his body and remembering, piece by piece, how they’d gotten there. The spirits, the student council, Teruki Hanazawa…

“Where have you been? What have you been doing? Where’s your phone?” his mother asked.

The sun had set most of the way outside, and Ritsu’s blinds were drawn shut anyway. The room was lit only by the hallway light, and Ritsu was fleetingly thankful for it. She wouldn’t be able to see the mottled bruises on his chin and cheek, the swelling around his eye, the chalkiness of the makeup which could not conceal nearly as well as Teru’s. Ritsu set a hand to his swollen cheek, burning hot where the skin was split and caked in makeup.

Ritsu looked at his mother, and she was only shadows. A pale yellow outline from the hallway light wrapped her, and shades of black contoured her face. Just barely, he could make out her eyes, her forehead, creased in worry.

Ritsu swallowed. “I got sick…”

“Why didn’t you text? Why didn’t you answer your phone?”

His mother’s hand press against his forehead, and Ritsu flinched. He could feel the sweat trickling from his hairline, and he knew his skin was inflamed wherever he’d taken blows from Teru. Ritsu only hoped it would help sell his story.

“I don’t remember where I put my phone. I wasn’t thinking straight.” Ritsu pushed her hand off. “Feverish…”

“You’re burning up.”

“I know.”

“When did this happen?”

“Right after school… Didn’t even go to student council. I came straight home. I guess I fell asleep.”

“You didn’t text.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Ritsu…”

“I’m sorry, Mom. Didn’t mean for you to worry.”

“You need to text. You should have texted that you weren’t feeling well.”

“I didn’t realize it was happening.”

“I left work early to come home.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t know where you were. Council or school or—“

“I’m sorry.”

“Maybe student council is too much for right now.”

“Mom!”

“I waited an extra hour for your text. If you were seriously sick and no one knew—“

“It’s not related to that!”

“I was afraid something happened to you there, Ritsu.”

Ritsu straightened, most of his weight supported by the headboard behind him. He tried to focus on his mother, but she remained only hazy, dreamlike. His head throbbed.

“I’ll wash the dishes every day for a month. I’ll clean the whole house. I’ll cook dinner. I’ll do anything, just let me stay in student council.”

“I never gave you permission to join student council in the first place, Ritsu. You just defied us.”

“Mom—“

“And now look at you.”

“It’s not related.”

“I’m sorry, Ritsu.”

“Niisan wasn’t—“

“Shigeo wasn’t…?” his mom prompted, and Ritsu couldn’t find the words to continue.

Ritsu stared down into his sweat-soaked covered, heart racing, thoughts coming up empty. It was as though his head had filled with cotton. Thoughts wouldn’t stick. The room still spun. Trying too hard to focus only sharpened the pain behind his eyes.

He needed to think, though. He needed to talk his way out of this.

“It’s for the best, Ritsu. Maybe next year… Just, get some rest.”

Ritsu’s eyes shot up as he felt his mother’s weight lean off the bed. She was leaving. He had lost. Before he’d even had time to catch up to what had happened. Too fast, too sudden, he couldn’t follow.

Then his eyes flickered to the corner of his room, where a blob of energy had congealed. Ritsu forced himself to focus on it, and this time he succeeded. Gimcrack’s body split into existence, like a 3D projection on a movie screen. Gimcrack floated behind Ritsu’s mother. Once he caught Ritsu’s attention, he nodded to Mrs. Kageyama.

And he dove.

Ritsu’s mother tensed, then straightened. She eased off of Ritsu’s bed entirely, movements stiff and jerking, as though she were a thing controlled by strings. She stared down at him, and even with the shadows concealing her eyes, Ritsu could understand he was staring into something entirely else.

“…Never mind, Ritsu. There shouldn’t be any punishment for getting sick. You can stay in council. Go back to sleep. I’ll be downstairs.”

Then she exhaled sharply. Gimcrack’s amorphous body slipped out her back, hovering, appraising. Ritsu’s mother shuddered once, hand braced to Ritsu’s bed, and blinked until her bearings returned.

She caught Ritsu’s wide, anxious eyes and offered a small smile. “Headrush. I stood up too quickly. Please get some sleep, Dear… I’ll be downstairs.”

Ritsu watched her back as she moved to the door. She offered him one last smile before she closed it, leaving Ritsu in the dark.

Somehow, even without a single source of light in the room, Ritsu could still see Gimcrack floating in the dark air.

…

Ritsu slept through dinner, and then through most of Thursday. He cracked his eyes open around 2 pm, at first shocked to have slept so late on a school day, and then too exhausted to properly care. He pushed himself out of bed, and moved on sore legs to the bathroom where he could investigate his reflection in the mirror. Teru’s makeup had smudged, almost comically. It made the purple bruises and the yellowing of his eye look painted on as well. He washed his face, skin still hot to the touch, and went downstairs to get food from the kitchen.

It remained dark downstairs. His parents had left for work hours ago, and hadn’t bothered to wake him. Whether it was Gimcrack’s doing, or if his parents were just unsure how to handle him when sick, Ritsu didn’t know. He’d almost never gotten sick. Mob was the one prone to childhood colds.

Ritsu slept through Thursday evening too, and Friday passed in almost the same manner, though he was surer on his legs now, and his dark bruises were yellowing at the edges. Ritsu assumed that meant they were healing. His shoulder didn’t ache as much, and the dizzy spells hit with far less frequency.

He managed to wake himself up Saturday morning, and the swelling of his face had all but vanished. Ritsu fetched the brush and foundation that Teru had gifted to him, and toiled for twenty minutes in the bathroom to smooth over the worst of the discoloration. The thin slits to his cheek from tearing through the grass had scabbed over almost instantly and healed, leaving rows of rawly pink-colored skin that were disguised easily beneath makeup. The cover wasn’t perfect, but Ritsu told himself that the remaining discoloration wasn’t out of the ordinary for someone coming off of two and a half days of bedridden sickness.

He went down to greet his parents, and the tension between them was visceral. Ritsu pulled a box of cereal from the cabinet and poured a bowl for himself. He got a spoon from the drawer, eased himself onto a stool, and kept his head down as he ate. He didn’t want to give his parents the chance to really examine his face.

They talked lightly about how Ritsu was feeling. His responses were shallow and polite, because he didn’t want to risk giving any information—true or not—that could work against him later. He kept up the conversation mostly to prove he was bouncing back from whatever cold he’d been fighting. His mom offered to buy orange juice, and Ritsu thanked her.

Throughout the conversation, he smoothed his hair over his ear self-consciously, the ear that had been gouged by Teru’s attack. He had no way to disguise that one. He could only conceal it.

By Sunday, Ritsu could look and act almost normal. He made a show of calling his classmates—kids whose names he had to look up in the class registry—to learn what homework he missed. He showered, got dressed, and did his work at the kitchen table rather than his room as if to prove his presence of mind to his parents. He hadn’t heard any more discussion of his punishment since Gimcrack overshadowed his mom, but he wasn’t sure what that meant. Did Gimcrack’s will overwrite his mother’s? Had she brought it up with his dad? Had he mentioned anything?

The rest of Sunday passed with virtually no interaction among the three of them. His mother asked him once or twice how he was feeling, and his father remarked that he looked worlds better and asked if Ritsu had caught up on everything he missed. These conversations were repeated at dinner. Ritsu cleared and washed the plates afterward. He didn’t mess with the water.

Monday morning, when Ritsu left the house an hour early for “student council”, neither of his parents stopped him. They wished him a good day at school, and told him to come home if he still wasn’t feeling well.

Ritsu wasn’t feeling well, but he was feeling well enough. He figured he had at least enough drive in him to feed the spirits in the morning. Gimcrack had been acting as liaison between Ritsu and the spirits--what remained of them after Teru’s attack--for the last several days. According to Gimcrack, the spirits had paused their search while Ritsu was not paying them. They’d be ready to pick it back up once Ritsu summoned them…

And so Ritsu did summon them. Out in the alleyway dark and stagnant before the sun properly rose. Dark splotches littered the pavement, all probably shadowy illusions or tar stains that had built up over the years. The beginning bleeding pink of the sun stained the sky above the soccer field, simmering behind the outline of a half-destroyed goal. Ritsu had seen whispers of it online—investigations into an unknown group of delinquents that had vandalized the Salt Mid soccer field.

Ritsu felt a slow rumble, something that seemed to knock against his bones like the bass of a song cranked too loud. The rumble evolved into clicks, growls, guttural hums. The air temperature dropped, and Ritsu felt himself being closed in on before the outline of two dozen spirits swam into view.

“It’s a good turn out, I’d say, considering what that blond asshole did,” Gimcrack remarked, the most solid and visceral of the two dozen spirits. His aura was calm, fed by Ritsu over the last couple of days as payment for relaying messages.

The same could not be said of the others. There was a pressure to their aura that Ritsu could only describe as “hungrier”. He swallowed at the sensation of hot breath trickling down his neck, a licking, probing sensation around his wrists which he drew protectively to his chest. He felt suddenly weaker than he had leaving the house, legs shakier, stomach anxious and queasy.

Ritsu breathed deeply. Then he extended his wrists. He flashed a crystal to life above each palm, violet so dark it was nearly black, and held both hands extended.

“One at a time…tell me what you’ve learned since Teru attacked. Then you get your payment.”

…

On Monday morning, Mob woke before Reigen.

He tiptoed through the kitchen, his feet kept warm against the tile by a pair of socks Mob still was not used to wearing. He made as little noise as he could gathering his breakfast, and that was easy enough to do in a kitchen with light. Mob grabbed milk, cereal, and an apple, which was one of a hoard of fruit that Reigen had bought yesterday on impulse. He’d dumped it all out on the counter yesterday, complaining that fruit was heavy. The apples, bananas, and oranges now lived in a glass bowl that Reigen had fished out from deep in a cabinet.

Mob settled into the kitchen table and watched the sway of the trees outside, the busy passing of people on the distant street. He got up and cracked the sliding back door open just a fraction, so that air cool and clean to could slip in and douse his face. Mob wasn’t used to that yet—the feeling of air clean and cool against his skin, which was clean to match it. Nor was he used to the feeling of clothes airy enough to let him feel the breeze, clothes that didn’t stick to his body and crust. He wasn’t quite used to crunching on solid foods, or feeling hungry enough to even want to.

He wasn’t used to any of it, but he liked it. He liked it a lot.

And he liked seeing the world without the lens of the barrier obscuring it. That was one he felt almost used to. The world wasn’t meant to be refracted and warped, tinted almost candy-colored by the barrier. Instead the world was bright and clear, and so long as Mob kept finding new things to watch, he could almost forget the sight he’d seen of Shishou—

Mob breathed deeply. He tuned his ears to the stuttering, guttural snores from the next room over. Reigen slept loudly. The loudest of any person Mob had known. It didn’t surprise Mob, considering Reigen was even louder awake.

Mob liked it. It assured him Reigen was still in the house, still alive and present. Like how it’d felt to sense Shishou’s aura but…different, better, warmer. Mob figured it was fine to let Reigen sleep. He knew Reigen had been awake late into the night, whispering into the phone so as not to wake Mob, but whispering loudly by default.

It was that same Jun person Reigen had been talking to every night. Mob could never make out enough of the words through the muffling wall to know what exactly they discussed after Mob went to bed, but he could always hear the tension and strain in Reigen’s voice. Mob had started to recognize words that cropped up frequently in these conversations. “Tetsuo” was repeated often. “Spirit” “possession” “work” were top contenders, though Mob figured that made sense, given someone of Reigen’s expertise, the world’s Greatest Psychic…

“Mogami”, though, was the word Mob heard the most. Mob’s insides squirmed at every mention as he’d listened in, head against the wall that his and Reigen’s bedrooms shared. It didn’t surprise Mob. Mob had heard Reigen for the first time in Shishou’s house, after all. Back when he was just “the colorful man” and no more. “Reigen” was someone even warmer, more alive and more kind and important than “the colorful man” had been. It made Mob worry, because the colorful man must have been friends with Shishou. And Reigen knew now that Shishou had killed himself.

Mob did not dare bring this up around Reigen. The fear that Reigen might hold him responsible was too great.

Mob paused. The snoring in the other room had stopped. Instead he heard shuffling, the scuttling of blinds being drawn and the thock of a closet being opened and one distinct “ow” for reasons unknown.

Reigen’s door eased open seconds later. His head peered down the hall to the kitchen, face relaxing when he spotted Mob. Reigen stepped out of his room, hair messy, suppressing a yawn. His pajamas were bland save for a single poorly-designed bear on the front of his shirt.

Reigen was still yawning as he walked, hand to his mouth, which he only lowered once he approached Mob. His eyes looked dull, maybe a little crusty, and he blinked.

“Sleeping til noon on a Monday. It’s like college all over again when I skipped all my morning classes. The real shining years of my life, those days.” Reigen gave Mob a once-over, studying the bowl of half-eaten cereal. “You’re up early though. You’re making me look bad.”

Mob didn’t say anything at first. He was steadily coming to understand Reigen’s strange humor. This wasn’t an accusation. It was a joke.

“I haven’t been awake for long,” Mob said, because he still wasn’t sure how to respond to jokes.

“Hmmmm,” Reigen answered, and it really didn’t communicate much. He moved into the kitchen, slamming and banging cabinets, lacking all Mob’s tact and subtly. He collapsed into the seat next to Mob with an empty ramen bowl and a spoon in hand. He slid the cereal box over to himself, poured the little wheat squares clinking into his bowl, and gouged into them with his spoon.

Reigen’s free hand rose to his shirt, then the sides of his pants, patting himself down. Mob recognized this. Reigen did it whenever he was trying to remember where he’d stashed his cigarettes.

“You’re wearing pajamas. I don’t think you have any cigarettes in them.”

Reigen stopped patting himself down. He only stared out the window, eyes still dull and crusty. “I…am not awake yet. Stop sassing me.”

Another joke. Mob needn’t apologize. He tried to smile instead, and he was rewarded by a flicker of a smile on Reigen’s face when he noticed.

“Mob, I’ve got some errands to run today.”

“Okay then,” Mob answered. He raised another spoonful of cereal to his mouth.

“And you’re coming with me.”

Mob sputtered, accidentally biting the spoon and breaking into a coughing fit. He wiped his mouth, wide frantic eyes to Reigen who looked equally startled.

“I can’t!”

Reigen blinked, and relaxed. “Yeah you can. You haven’t left this apartment since you got here.” Reigen picked up his spoon again, pulling it out of the dry cereal and pointing it toward the sliding glass door. “And you’re always staring out there. I know you want to go outside.”

“Yeah but I can’t. I can’t because the b—“

“The barrier blah blah blah.” Reigen dropped the spoon back into his cereal, and he jabbed his thumb into his chest. “Do you really think I, the 21st century’s Great Psychic, Arataka Reigen, would let something as silly as a barrier harm anyone?”

“Um.”

“The answer is no.” Reigen deflated a bit, his eyes more piercing and serious. “This is going to be a training exercise, Mob. You gotta adjust to being outside again. And so long as you’ve got me around then nothing’s gonna go bad, okay?”

“What if…what if…” Mob’s words died out. He couldn’t put the bubbling worry in his chest into words.

“If it comes back, I’ll intervene, Mob. I’ll wipe it out so fast it won’t know what hit it. That was my specialty back in the day, did you know? Lightning fast exorcisms! Didn’t matter how powerful the spirit was. They couldn’t stop an attack they never saw coming. Rumor has it I exorcised spirits so quickly that the very act of blinking made people unable to witness it!”

“…Really?” Mob asked

“Really.”

Reigen raised his bowl to his mouth and tilted it back. He crunched on dry cereal for a few seconds then coughed when it got stuck in his throat. He coughed a few more times before pushing his chair back and declaring. “I’m going to shower first, before you can change your mind. Also because I’d like a little hot water left for myself at least once.”

Mob thought about this. It was another joke. Not an accusation.

So Mob smiled, despite the anxious squirming in his chest. He didn’t have another chance to protest Reigen’s proposal before he heard the shower water turn on.

…

The drive in Reigen’s car kept Mob’s anxiety low, just at a simmer. He could watch people safely through the windows, as they wouldn’t dare approach a moving car on their own for any reason. Mob felt for a moment like the car was his barrier, but a safer one, because people knew to stay away.

People…people though. It filled Mob with a strange eager twisting feeling to see so many people up close. His memories from before his barrier were hazy. Remembering how he used to walk to and from school felt more like examining pictures—unreal, two dimensional, other. These people were different. They moved and spoke and laughed. Different hair, different clothes, heights, ages, faces…

Mob was jarred from his mind when the car stopped, and Reigen shifted gears, and killed the ignition. Reigen popped his right side door open and stepped out. He shut it, then spun to grab the handle of Mob’s door.

Mob flinched when Reigen opened it.

“You’re doing fine Mob. Look.” Reigen waved his arms around. “No barrier. You’re golden.”

Mob nodded. His throat was too dry to even swallow, let alone speak, so he got out of the car in silence.

And it was strange, having everything so open, so vast and endless on all sides. No walls, no ceiling, just a bright and clear sky, nearly too bright to look at. Reigen had parked in a lot nearly empty, tucked around the side of some gray cinderblock building. Tufts of grass budded up through the pavement, breaking through cracks that spread along the asphalt like spider webs. Reigen motioned for Mob as he turned his back on the gray building and headed for the sidewalk stretching tangent to the parking lot. Reigen stepped over the spurting grass as he moved, and Mob hurried to his side, that same crisp wind catching his hair and brushing it out of his face.

A hand dropped onto Mob’s shoulder. He recognized the weight as Reigen’s, and it worked to loosen some of the twisting nerves in his chest.

“Come on. We’re just going to walk up this sidewalk for a couple minutes, then it’s one of the stores on the left.”

Mob nodded. He focused all his attention on the hand pressed to his shoulder. He used it as a tether, proof that the barrier wasn’t up. Reigen’s right hand was firm, solid, healthy save for the four bandaids wrapped around his fingers where the knife fight had hurt him. That hand wasn’t shredded. So Mob didn’t need to fall apart.

Storefronts and buildings lined the left side of the sidewalk, the street lined the right. A blue sky started on the horizon and stretched up, above, fanning in all directions above Mob’s head no matter where he looked. A few sparse clouds drifted through the vast endless blue, but they were nothing against the sky so overwhelmingly clear and bright. The sun hovered directly above, leaving the world all but shadowless. It was an intensity of space Mob could not remember ever witnessing, and he pressed himself closer to Reigen.

They passed an outdoor café set up, small wire chairs at small wire tables with standing red umbrellas decorating the centers. Mob heard the clatter of dishes coming from inside that store, and he turned to look. It was dim inside, so Mob couldn’t see much. The attempt distracted him enough to not notice the two girls approaching them oppositely.

One of those girls clipped Mob’s free shoulder in passing, and Mob stumbled back, shocked like he’d been doused in ice-water. His breath hitched, his stomach tightened, he hardly breathed as a thousand awful explanations poured down his spine like a waterfall—

“Mob!”

The hand, firmer in its grip, shook him. And it was Reigen. His right hand. Not shredded.

Mob breathed again. He couldn’t calm the slamming in his chest so easily, but he felt the tension loosen. He turned on spot, eyes catching the eyes of the girl who’d clipped him. She surveyed him curiously, and then turned away, forgetting him.

Mob looked forward again. And he breathed.

He was careful now to notice when people passed. He investigated them, studied them, remembering what diversity existed among real, living people. A woman in a floral pink dress and sunglasses, twists of loose dark hair fluttering in her face. A man stooped over and shuffling in his motions, dressed entirely in green. Two boys racing each other down the sidewalk. Most of them stared at him too, and it set his anxiety on edge. Mob tried to endure it, at least until Reigen stopped walking, and the hand on Mob’s shoulder halted him too.

“Hang on…” Reigen muttered. He dipped his free hand into his pants pocket and dug around. He moved it to the other pocket, across his body, and rummaged. His face lit up. His hand reemerged clutching a single rubber band. “Mob, stand in front of me for just a second. Hold still while—yeah—right there—careful if anyone’s trying to get by us okay don’t stand in their way.”

Mob waited, tense, as Reigen’s hand released his shoulder. For a second Mob was weightless, untethered, until both Reigen’s hands swept Mob’s hair back out of his face from behind.

Mob felt the light pull and tug of his long hair as Reigen spoke from directly behind him. “I keep forgetting your hair’s still kind of all…not normal, like this. You look like The Grudge. At least your hair’s not knotted anymore so I can do this.”

The gentle pull and combing of Mob’s hair continued. He stayed standing, silent, trying to decide if he liked having his hair out of his face or not. It made the world brighter and wider, but it almost made him less capable of shrinking in on himself and hiding.

“Aaaaand there…. Um, sort of. It’ll do?”

Mob blinked. He set his right hand to the top of his head, and then traced it down the length of his hair. It was woven, starting at about the nape of his neck and spiraling downward, ending on a triple-looped rubber band that Reigen had stuck into the bottom.

“It’s messy and probably isn’t supposed to go all to the side like that but, like I said I haven’t messed with long hair since I was fifteen and I only ever braided it to annoy my mom.” Reigen stepped around Mob, sidling up to his left again and setting his hand back to Mob’s shoulder. “If you’re ever wondering about my own tragic backstory that’s pretty much it—I was a shitty kid and I gave my mom a lot of grief.”

Reigen titled his head to Mob, his face painted with anticipation. Mob was beginning to recognize this too—Reigen’s jokes weren’t always obvious, but he made that face when he wanted a response to one.

Mob didn’t have a response. His nerves were eating into him too much.

“Reigen… I think I should go back.”

“What? Nonsense. You’re doing fine.”

“I shouldn’t be this far out in public.”

“And why’s that?”

“Shishou said—“

“Nuts to what Shishou said,” Reigen answered, and there was a more sinister bite to his tone. He paused, then continued sternly. “I really promise you’re doing alright. If you really think you wanna stop, then fine I’ll bring you back. But I think you’ve got this.”

Mob set a hand to his hair again, to the strand that had dipped out of the braid and now hung in front of his face. He twirled it around his finger, fighting to retain the image of the barrier gone. He indulged, just briefly, in the fantasy that motivated him every day now—the one where he came home to Ritsu.

“Okay, Shishou.”

Reigen’s hand tensed on Mob’s shoulder. Mob did not catch what he said this time around.

…

The air inside the deli was unnaturally cold.

But it wasn’t the temperature Mob noticed so much as the contents of the store.

He felt a dip in his chest from the moment he walked in, a raw panic deep to his core at the sight of rows upon rows of red hacked flesh. Some cuts were drained of color, nearly white and fibrous looking, fins and heads of fish still distinct among the meat. Other cuts were starkly red and oozing, as if bleeding yesterday. Mob stopped right at the door and did not go any further, flashes of shorn-up rats cascading through his mind.

“You okay, Mob?”

Mob was still breathing. He blinked, and he could remember that the meat behind the counter was not rat meat at all. The abundance of fish-like features should have made that obvious from the start. And he remembered that the thing that had done the slicing had not been his barrier either. The hand was still there, Reigen’s hand. He was not a danger right now.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” Mob answered. He took the first step into the store, and Reigen followed.

Mob took his focus off of the selection of meat behind the counter. He focused on the layout of the store, and a handful of the people inside.

To the left, the store fell away into a handful of vertical aisles that stretched perhaps 30 or 40 feet back until hitting a back wall. To the right was the main counter, scale and cashier and butcher standing behind it among a few shelves a meat. A waiting area took of the space in front of it, filled with maybe a dozen people waiting silently for their orders. Mob watched some of them. A woman with a baby in a stroller. A single man in sweatpants shuffling the pages of a newspaper. An old man with three kids milling around him—one was a boy investigating the open aisles to the left, another boy stood on tiptoe to see the lowest row of flesh carvings behind the main counter, the third child, a young girl, clung to the old man’s leg. The butcher was a man in white sanitary garb, just behind the counter. He was in the process of operating a large slicer of sorts to skin off cuts of meat.

Reigen stepped closer to the counter. Mob stepped with him, though he felt his heartrate rise at the steady shing, shing, shing of the slicer shearing off cuts of meat. Distantly, Mob heard Reigen placing his order. The ripping of paper. The muffled tune of a deeper voice.

A tap on Mob’s shoulder. Reigen had let go.

“Hold on to this slip of paper, Mob. It’s got the number for our order. I gave the man my name, and he’ll just call it when the order’s ready, okay?”

Mob blinked. He nodded, though he hadn’t heard everything Reigen said. His heart was beating too loudly in his ears, his mind cranking hold on to the shing noise of the machine, and compare it to the exact buzzing, shearing noise his barrier made when it—

“I’m going to grab just a handful of things from those aisles, okay? Not going far. I just want you to stay here, with the paper, and pick up our order when it’s ready. Okay? It’s another exercise. I’m still here. I’m still suppressing the barrier. I just think you’re strong enough to stand here for a moment by yourself. Can you do that?”

--carved things up, sliced them, killed them…

Mob’s mind filled with static.

He nodded. It was the only thing he could think to do.

Reigen smiled, and stood up from his crouched position. He turned on his heel, toward the left side of the store. He rounded the edge of the counter, and suddenly he was gone.

Mob looked down at his hand. A slip of paper was pressed between his thumb and index finger. He hardly felt it. He hardly understood what it was, only that Reigen had made it feel important. Reigen who was gone now. Reigen who’d left him suddenly, surrounded by the walls of cut up flesh.

Mob curled his hands in. He couldn’t hide behind his curtain of hair. He backed up. And kept backing up.

77%

He wasn’t sure when he’d lost his focus. He wasn’t sure why he hadn’t been able to explain it to Reigen just now, why he’d just nodded, why he hadn’t

78%

Mob was losing sight of the things around him. He didn’t have that hand firm on his shoulder anymore. He had no proof the barrier would be held back, and he didn’t have Reigen around anymore to save him.

79%

He wouldn’t be able to stop it if—

Mob jolted, backing directly into the old man behind him. Mob’s arms pinwheeled to keep balance, and in the process the thin shred of papers fluttered away from his grip.

He’d lost it.

He’d failed.

He’d—

“Here you are, young man.”

A hand, a new one, pressed on his shoulder. Mob turned slowly, wide and frazzled eyes settling on the small hunched figure of the old man behind him. The man had one hand to Mob. In the other, he clutched the piece of paper Mob had dropped, retrieved from the ground.

“You dropped this.”

Gently, the old man eased the paper back into Mob’s hands. Mob’s fingers closed around it, firm, secure once again. He holds on tightly to the feeling of the pressure back on his shoulder. Mob can breathe again, and he began to remember where he was. In a simple deli, running errands with Reigen, Reigen who said he’d be right back…

“Thank you,” Mob managed to mutter. He looked at the face of the old man, studying the dark violet rivulets of varicose veins branching away from the man’s eyes, eyes which were sunk deep into shadowy sockets, but not unkind. They were gentle, and concerned.

“Are you alright?” the man asked.

“Yeah…yeah just, worried for a moment,” Mob answered. He clutched the paper tighter. “I don’t usually…”

Mob glanced down, making eye contact with the little girl wrapped around the old man’s legs. Her expression was different from those he’d crossed in the street—not offput, not concerned—hers was a face filled with wonder.

“Your hair’s so long and pretty,” she whispered, awestruck. The little girl unlatched from the man’s legs, here short dark hair bobbing as she moved, and she stared up at the man. “Grandpa, I’m gonna grow my hair super long too.”

“You’ll have to ask your mother.”

“Did you have to ask your mother?” the girl asked, nose pointed to Mob.

“I uh…”

Mob only half heard the question. He was too immersed in the sensation of speaking. Not just speaking, but holding a conversation, a conversation with two strangers. Strangers who could touch him and not be harmed. A child, who couldn’t be any older than Ritsu when he—

“Are you really okay, son?” the old man asked again. His eyes were creased with that same worry that Reigen often wore. Reigen who was still around, and still suppressing the barrier, just from the other side of the store.

“I…really am, yes. Thank you,” Mob answered. He held the ticket close to his chest. It wasn’t a lie.

“Well, then I’m just glad you didn’t lose that ticket,” the old man finished, and he followed it with a kind smile. His body jostled just a little as the girl grabbed his pantleg and shook it, pointing with her free arm to the deli counter.

“Grandpa, it’s your order.”

“Number 35, Ito,” the man in the white garb called.

The old man perked up. “Oh, you’re right Ai.” Ito offered one last smile to Mob, and shuffled toward the counter. Ai followed on his heels, and the two boys exploring the store were summoned to their grandfather’s side. “I hope you have a nice day, young man.”

Mob watched him go. From behind, Reigen’s hand dropped back onto Mob’s shoulder.

“Who was that, Mob? Did you make a new friend?” Reigen asked, squinting at the man. Reigen supported three tubs of something unidentifiable in his free hand.

Mob couldn’t answer. Somehow, it was too absurd a question for him to understand.

“Number 36, Reigen.”

(Chapter 20)