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wyomingescalators · 3 years

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Gatsby - chapter three rewrite

[Author’s note: I was procrastinating doing uni work and decided to rewrite chapter 3 of The Great Gatsby. It’s fairly similar to the original, but there are some differences]. Word count: 4920.

There was music from my neighbor’s house throughout the warm summer nights. By seven the orchestra arrives, the swimmers are upstairs getting changed, and the cars are already parked five deep in the drive and nearly hitting party-goers as they dash across the drive towards the entrance. Hallways, gardens and rooms are already filled with groups of people, all of whom are dressed brightly and with the intention of being seen. As each minute passes, the attendees grow looser, more relaxed, more cheerful. Alcohol continued to flow from the bars like waterfalls, with cocktail glasses never leaving people’s hands. The air became more and more alive with conversations, laughter, music and promptly forgotten introductions. As the night progressed, the lights would grow brighter, the music would grow louder and the voices would grow in volume and confidence. Laughter became easier and would echo and spill into the night, groups would melt and shift, and those dancing began to move with more conviction.

Normally at around this hour I would be stood in my kitchen, preparing dinner, trying to avoid looking out of the window at another one of Gatsby’s parties so I don’t cause another wave of loneliness to erupt within me. Yet inevitably my eyes would be drawn to the glowing crowds filling Gatsby’s estate. Their voices and laughter would reach me from within my house, practically taunting me with how lonely I am - a bachelor of almost thirty with a calendar so empty that you could have swapped it with a blank page and I wouldn’t notice the difference for a good few days.

Fortunately for me, I did not have to spend my summer alone, reminiscing over previous summers where I was more than just some nobody that occasionally made an appearance at the Buchanan’s dinner table. Early one Saturday morning, I opened my front door to find a chauffeur in blue uniform with an invitation in hand. I felt somewhat embarrassed, considering I had answered the door a matter of minutes after I woke up, meaning I was still in my dressing gown and with my hair not combed. But the chauffeur left quickly and without a word uttered to me. I looked over the very formal note as I drank my morning coffee. In the note, Gatsby informed me that he would be honoured if I attended his “little party” that night.

Shortly after arriving - dressed in a simple black suit - I discovered that I was the only one who had actually been invited. At no point did anyone request to see my invitation, nor did I see anyone else wielding one. In fact, I suspected that hardly anyone there had even met Gatsby, they simply showed up because a friend of a friend knows Gatsby’s cousin (or some other wild and dubious connection), and that vague connection gave them permission to act how they pleased once they arrived at Gatsby’s.

I attempted to find my host once I arrived, but after a few awkward interactions with party-goers who didn’t even know what the man looked like, let alone where he was, I slipped away to the nearest cocktail table. At least there I could like I had some purpose without drawing attention to the fact I had been living in this area for so little time that I could count my acquaintances on one hand.

Within my first hour being there I’d had enough drinks that the dance floor was starting to look appealing, but I wasn’t drunk enough to venture there alone. I would require a partner, someone else to dance alongside me in order to conceal my poor and drunken coordination. To my relief, as I finished yet another drip with a sharp gulp and ordered another, I finally spotted a familiar face within the crowd. Jordan Baker stood, drink elegantly in hand, looking through the sea of people with a look of almost boredom.

Fresh drink in hand, I quickly walked to her. It was probably for the best that I attached myself to someone before I made a fool out of myself by trying to make new connections with passers-by.

“Care for a dance?” I asked as I reached her.

Jordan raised her eyebrows. “Someone’s made use of Gatsby’s hospitality.”

“Pardon?” I felt my cheeks turn hot.

She laughed briefly. “No need to get embarrassed. I was just remarking that you seem like you’re having fun.”

“Oh!” I decided to take a few hearty sips of my drink rather than say anything else.

“I thought you might be here. I remember that you live next door,” Jordan continued, looking around.

“Yes. Well, this is my first time here, actually.” Each word that came out of my mouth seemed to stumble out and awkwardly fall. How much had I had to drink?

“How about we go outside?” Jordan suggested. A slight hint at how she had registered that I was not sober.

With her slender arm linked with mine, we weaved through the crowds and slipped outside. The cool, night air was welcome against my warm skin. We descended the steps and reached the warmly lit garden. The voices and music were less harsh on my ears here than they were inside. We sat ourselves down at one of the tables. Two girls and three men sat at the same table as us, absorbed in their own conversations. The general hum of chatter and music was soothing to me.

“Do you go to parties much, Nick?” Jordan asked me.

“This is the second one I have been to this summer, if you don’t include the dinner parties,” I answered.

“What was the first party?”

“Oh, just some party with Tom Buchanan,” I replied vaguely, taking another sip of my drink.

Jordan took a sip of hers, not inquiring further. She probably assumed my vagueness was because of the attendees, and while she was somewhat correct to assume that - after all, Daisy hadn’t been invited to that particular gathering - I was actually being vague because of another attendee, and more specifically what we did after the party. I don’t think Myrtle, Tom or Catherine know what happened, or even suspected. They were too focused on Myrtle’s broken nose. They didn’t notice Mr McKee and I slip away for a few hours. Though the elevator boy certainly noticed.

Consumed in thought about what had happened the other week, I had lost track of the conversations going on around me. Jordan had begun a conversation with the two girls next to me. The girls - Lucille and Essie - were discussing their experience the last time they went to one of Gatsby’s parties. Lucille had torn her dress and Gatsby had sent her an expensive replacement, which she would have worn if it didn’t require adjustments.

I tuned in as the topic of their conversation changed from torn dresses to who Gatsby was. Jordan and the two girls were leaning close together, as were the three men. I leaned in also.

“Somebody told me they thought he killed a man once,” Essie told us in a hushed voice.

This mysterious man was coming into focus. One tiny piece of the story told us that he was dangerous and rich, maybe even powerful. A thrill passed over us at the thought of such a man.

“I don’t think that’s what happened exactly.” Lucille was sceptical. “It’s more that he was a German spy during the war.”

One of the men nodded in agreement.

Essie rolled her eyes. “He couldn’t have been a German spy. He was in the American army during the war. Look at him when he thinks nobody’s looking at him. I bet he killed a man.”

We all looked around, a shiver passing over us. Perhaps it was a testimony to romantic speculation that we almost expected to find this man in our midst, with crimson stained hands and wild eyes. After all, don’t most powerful and dangerous men have blood on their hands? While Tom wasn’t as remarkable or influential as he used to be, I remembered him during his prime days in college. His hands are certainly stained red.

“Let’s get out,” whispered Jordan.

“Why?” I whispered back.

Lucille and Essie returned to their own conversation.

“This conversation is too polite for my tastes,” Jordan replied, standing up.

I stood also. “Too polite? How?”

She didn’t answer, instead walking away. I followed. Jordan then explained that we were going to find the host. She felt uneasy at how she hadn’t met him, and Lucille and Essie hadn’t helped her unease.

We went to the bar first. Gatsby was nowhere to be seen, but we finished and replaced our drinks while we were there. We could not find him outside, within the conversations at the candlelit tables. We could not find him on the steps or veranda. Nor on the dance floor, or at the cocktail tables, or by the piano that a blond, drunk man was playing.

Jordan and I stumbled upon a large, Gothic library within Gatsby’s mansion. I suspected the library had been imported from another mansion somewhere. A short, middle-aged man, with enormous owl-eyed spectacles, was halfway up a ladder against one of the towering bookshelves. He was grabbing books at random, flicking through them and then tossing them to the floor with a bang. I was concerned he would fall.

He turned to us with excitement as we entered.

“What do you think?” He tossed another book to the ground.

“About what?” Jordan asked.

I finished my drink and placed it on a large table, covered in empty glasses and discarded books.

He gestured to the bookshelves. “About all of this. They’re real!”

“The books?”

He nodded. “Absolutely real. I thought they were cardboard at first.”

“I didn’t realise whether or not the contents of Gatsby’s library are real was a matter of concern,” Jordan remarked.

He carried on, not reacting to anything Jordan was saying, a book in hand. “See! It’s real. A piece of printed material. All of these books are. What realism! He even knew when to stop, he didn’t even cut the pages. But what do you expect, really?”

Jordan and I exchanged glances as he tossed the book onto the ground among all the other books he’d thrown.

He didn’t stop talking. “Who brought you? Or did you just come? I was brought. Most people were brought.”

“I’ll have whatever he’s drank,” Jordan whispered to me.

Out of politeness, I tried not to laugh in front of the man.

“I was brought by a woman named Roosevelt,” he continued. “Mrs Claud Roosevelt. Do you know her? I met her somewhere last night. I’ve been drunk for about a week now, and I thought it might sober me up to sit in the library.”

“Has it?” Jordan asked.

“I think so? I can’t tell. I’ve only been in here an hour. Did I tell you about the books-”

“Yes.”

We politely excused ourselves and left him to it. As I closed the library door behind us, I wondered who would clean the books up from the floor tomorrow.

The party-goers were only getting drunker. Their dancing was growing more fluid and free, each song injecting everyone with more energy and life. Laughter, cheers and singing grew louder as the hours slid by. By midnight the hilarity had increased, alcohol poured down our throats easier, our limbs moved with more ease. The world felt warmer, livelier, more at ease. The moon rose higher along with the music and our moods.

Despite the cosy, lively atmosphere around us, Jordan and I hadn’t ventured into the dance floor yet. Instead we remained by the edge, half empty drinks in hand, moving ever so slightly to the music. Then Jordan was pulled into the fray of the dance floor by some girl, and she joined a group of girls, dancing together in a group. Separating me from the group were couples who were dancing together in pairs and keeping to the more civilized edge of the dance floor.

A man I was stood next to gave me a smile. “Your face is familiar. Weren’t you in the First Division during the war?”

“Yes. I was in the Twenty-eighth Infantry,” I replied, glad I could be making conversation with someone new.

We talked briefly about some gray, little villages in France. He revealed that he lived nearby, as he told me he had bought a hydroplane and was going to try it out in the morning. So, he was rich. But I was only half paying attention to the words coming out of his mouth. I was more paying attention to his appearance. He was undeniably handsome. His eyes were intoxicating to me, and I couldn’t help but be drawn into them.

“Want to go with me, old sport? Just near the shore along the sound.”

“What time?”

He smiled. I was already growing fond of that smile. “Any time that suits you best.”

I found myself smiling. I then took a sip of my drink, worried I was smiling too much. I had grown slightly nervous around him, despite the soothing alcohol flowing through me. I only sipped my drink because I needed something to do during this lull in the conversation.

“Are you having a good time?” he asked.

“I am,” I said. “This is a strange party for me. I haven’t even seen the host. I live just next door. This man, Gatsby, sent over a chauffeur with an invitation. I thought everyone got invited, but I seem to be the only one.”

The man looked at me with confusion, as if I was missing an obvious clue. “I’m Gatsby.”

“Oh! I beg your pardon.” I felt my cheeks turn hot in embarrassment. “I’m so sorry.”

“No need to apologize. I thought you knew, old sport. I’m afraid I haven’t been a very good host.”

Gatsby then gave me another smile, and it conveyed more than just him silently telling me that he understood. It was one of those rare smiles, with a comforting warmth to it. It was more than just the common, loving smiles you would gain from someone you were close to. The smile Gatsby gave me reassured me that he understood me completely, that whatever flaws of mine I revealed to him would never be capable of turning him away from me, and that he believed in me unwaveringly and wholeheartedly. His smile drew me in, and filled my chest with a heated energy I had not felt in a long time, not even during that time with Mr McKee. My heart began to beat faster. What I felt in that moment was more than some simple, primal want. It was a burst of life that erupted in my chest and spread out through my body. It was a feeling that made all the moments before now finally make sense. It was a feeling that gave my life some form of purpose in this strange, growing world.

Objectively speaking, the smile Gatsby gave me was a brief one, lasting maybe a few seconds at most before fading into a smile more small and polite, but during those few seconds I just wanted to lean in towards him and bring him closer to me. Yet I couldn’t. I was left there, less than a metre from him, startled by the wave of emotion that had just swept over me.

As I came down from that intense few seconds, a butler hurried towards Gatsby, informing him that Chicago was calling him on the wire. He then excused himself with a small bow.

“If you want anything just ask for it, old sport,” he urged me. “Excuse me. I’ll rejoin you later.”

Even if I had the nerve to tell him what I truly wanted, I didn’t have the time, as he vanished into the crowd.

I finished my drink, trying to calm myself, and that was when I noticed Jordan had returned to my side.

“What’s going on in that mind of yours, Nick?” Jordan asked.

“Pardon?”

“I saw your reaction when Gatsby smiled at you. You looked completely smitten.”

“I- It wasn’t like that. I just thought he- I was- He was being-” The words were crashing out of my mouth in a jumbled mess as I tried to come up with something to say. In my drunken state I had considered telling Jordan what happened after I went to Tom’s little party the other week, but I decided against it at the last second. While she wasn’t the most moral out of the people around us, how would she react to this?

Jordan laughed. “I don’t judge you for it! I just thought your reaction to him smiling was rather sweet.”

I wished I was capable of going more than five minutes at this party without blushing.

“Anyway, he once told me he was an Oxford man,” Jordan said to me, pushing the conversation away from me and my emotions. “However, I don’t believe it.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. I just don’t think he went.” Something in her tone reminded me of the conversation we had with Lucille and Essie earlier.

I would have accepted without question that Gatsby arrived from Louisiana, or Pennsylvania, or the lower East Side of New York. That was comprehensible. But young men didn’t - as far as I was aware - drift coolly from nowhere and buy a palace on Long Island.

“Doesn’t matter.” Jordan changed the subject again. “He gives large parties, and I like large parties. They’re so intimate. At small parties there isn’t any privacy.”

There was the boom of a bass drum, and the voice of the orchestra leader called out above the loud hum of the garden.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he cried. “At the request of Mr Gatsby, we are going to play for you Mr Vladimir Tostoff’s latest work. The piece is known as, ‘Vladimir Tostoff’s Jazz History of the World!’”

Cheers erupted from the garden. But the nature of Mr Tostoff’s composition slipped from my mind and interest as my eyes fell on Gatsby. He stood alone on the marble steps, looking from one group to another with approving eyes. His tanned skin was attractive, and his hair was well kept and tidy. I could see nothing sinister about him, no indication that blood ever dripped from his fingertips. I noticed that he was the only one here not drinking - as the hilarity increased, he grew more correct.

When the ‘Jazz History of the World’ was over, girls were putting their heads on men’s shoulders, or swooning playfully into their arms knowing they would be safely caught. But no one swooned onto Gatsby, or rested their head on his shoulder. Though I wished I could rest my head on his broad shoulder, or swoon backwards playfully, reassured by the knowledge that his strong arms would catch me.

“I beg your pardon.” His butler was suddenly stood beside us. “Miss Baker? I beg your pardon, but Mr Gatsby would like to speak to you alone.”

“Me?” Jordan was surprised.

“Yes, madame.”

She placed her empty glass on a table, raised her eyebrows at me in surprise, and followed the butler towards the house. I watched her walk away, her evening dress catching the light, and I noted that she was attractive too. Maybe each person, regardless of gender, had some attractive quality to them. The contrasting ways men and women carried and presented themselves were exciting to me. Gentle and strong voices, distinct and colourful personalities, skin that could be rough and soft, tall and short people. There was overlap, with men and women being attractive to me for the same reasons, and there were differences. Qualities one gender possesses that the other gender didn’t always bring to the table. All of them appealed to me. But in that moment, my mind was beginning to focus on one man only.

I went inside. I was alone and it was almost two. A girl was now playing the piano, and beside her was another woman, engaged in song. She was drunk - like the majority of us - and she was weeping as she sang. Anytime there was a pause, she would fill it with gasping, broken sobs before continuing to sing again. Someone then made a comment about how she should sing the notes on her face, as her tears had dragged themselves through her makeup and down her face, and as a response she sank into a chair and promptly fell asleep.

“She had a fight with a man who says he’s her husband,” a stranger told me.

I looked around. Most of the remaining guests were in arguments - women fighting their husbands, the people Jordan was with earlier - the alcohol turning their moods from friendly to sour. Then there were people bickering about how they had to go home already, as if two in the morning was far too early to be leaving, even though many respectable people were in their beds by now.

“Whenever he sees I’m having a good time he wants to leave.”

“Never heard anything so selfish in my life.”

“We’re always the first ones to leave.”

“So are we.”

The orchestra had already left by this point, along with many other guests. Some had left earlier, plenty had stumbled away into the night over the past hour, and now some people were being carried away, kicking and drunk.

I was waiting for my hat in the hall when the library door opened and Jordan and Gatsby came out together. He was quickly saying something to her as multiple people approached him to say farewell.

Jordan’s party were calling for her to hurry up, but she hesitated for a moment to say goodbye to me.

“I just heard the most amazing thing,” Jordan told me.

They were in there about an hour. It was safe to assume whatever Gatsby told her was interesting.

“But I swore I wouldn’t tell and here I am, tantalizing you,” she continued. Then she let out a graceful yawn. “Please come and see me. I’m in the phone book, under my aunt’s name. Mrs Sigourney Howard.”

Jordan then hurried off, giving me a wave as she joined her party and promptly left. I watched her go. As I watched, I spotted that some poor fellow had lodged his vehicle into a ditch beside the road within minutes of leaving Gatsby’s drive. I could hear the voices of the driver - who I realised was Owl Eyes - and the crowd surrounding him echoing back to where I stood.

“See! It went in the ditch.”

“How did it happen?”

“I don’t know. I know nothing about mechanics.”

“But how did it happen? Did you run it into the wall?”

“Don’t ask me.”

“Well, if you’re a poor driver you oughtn’t to try driving at night, or in this state.”

“But I wasn’t even trying.”

“Do you want to commit suicide?”

“You’re lucky only the wheel came off!”

While the scene unfolding just beyond Gatsby’s drive was entertaining, I decided to turn my attention away from it. I felt embarrassed and awkward, at how late I’d stayed during my first visit, I decided to have one last word with Gatsby, before I made the brief walk back to my house, in order to explain myself. I wanted to tell him I had looked for him earlier and that I was sorry for not finding him sooner.

Gatsby smiled as soon as he saw me.

“I’m sorry for not finding you sooner. I tried to find you, earlier, in the garden, and also a bit in the house. But don’t worry, I didn’t pry too much.” The words had inevitably began to nervously tumble from my mouth.

“Don’t worry about it, old sport. And don’t forget we’re going up in the hydroplane tomorrow morning, at nine o’clock.”

“Why are you being so kind to me?” I asked him. Part of me almost expected him to reveal he wanted something from me, or perhaps he would reveal an even more sinister motive. Or maybe he was just being polite. Why did I ask?

He put a hand on my shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze. I felt a brief spark of electricity shoot through me at the contact.

“I just think you’re wonderful,” Gatsby answered with sincerity.

“Really?”

“Of course, old sport! Why wouldn’t I?”

“I’m not that remarkable,” I admitted.

The butler emerged behind his shoulder, something about Philadelphia wanting him on the phone. Gatsby waved him away with an excuse. He wasn’t interested in whoever was on the phone, he was interested in me.

We began to walk. There was hardly anyone around now except for staff, and the occasional party-goer who struggled to remain vertical.

“Tell me about yourself,” Gatsby requested.

“What would you like to know?” I asked.

“Anything.”

I wasn’t sure where to start. Nothing seemed interesting enough. But I had to start somewhere. After all, Gatsby was interested. Though I knew my life would never be as intriguing as his, even though I knew little of his life in that moment.

“When I was at university, I dreamed of being a writer,” I told him.

“What happened?”

“I gave up,” I admitted.

“Why?” He seemed appalled.

“I suppose I’m not good enough.”

“Nonsense! I’m sure you’re a damn good writer.”

“You haven’t read a word I’ve written.”

“Yet I’m certain of it. Once you’re done writing whatever project you are working on do send it my way, I would be honoured to read it.”

“I’m flattered, thank you.”

Part of me wondered if Gatsby had been watching me with the same gaze I had been watching him with. Had he been looking at me just as fondly as I had been looking at him that night?

We stepped out onto the veranda, went down the steps and walked through the empty and quiet garden together. The silence was peaceful and comfortable as the world around us calmed down and settled after an exciting night, but all I could focus on was the quick thumping of my heart.

Beyond the garden was a dock, and beyond that was dark and calm waters, and further beyond that was a tiny green light at the end of some distant dock. We stood at the end of the garden together, side by side, the light from the mansion and finished party just about reaching us. I suddenly remembered seeing Gatsby alone in the garden weeks ago, presumably lost in thought. I looked out at the green light, and at the other lights from the surrounding houses and the lights of city buildings on the horizon, and for a few moments I was transfixed by these Earth-bound stars.

I began to talk, mostly to myself. “Everyone suspects himself of at least one of the cardinal values. I’ve always suspected myself of being one of the few honest people I know. But can I call myself an honest man if the only times I’m being honest about myself are when I’m drunk?”

“You’re thinking aloud,” Gatsby said quietly. “Is everything alright?”

My eyes went to the other lights. “I want to be honest, but maybe that is too difficult.”

I could sense a pair of eyes watching me carefully, and I sensed that Gatsby was looking towards something that wasn’t a distant light on a dock.

“Pardon?”

I turned my head away from the lights and found myself looking right at him, and he was looking right back at me. And we silently, truly, saw each other in that moment.

A butler then emerged at Gatsby’s side, pulling his attention away from me. I looked back out at the dark bay and I began to wonder if I was just being foolish. Gatsby had just met me, and he was merely making eye contact with me. How could it be anything more than that?

Gatsby turned to me. “It’s getting late. I ought to… retire for the night.”

The excitement in me was fading as I noticed how sluggish I was starting to feel, and it was certainly getting late. Already I was dreading the state I would be in tomorrow.

“Good night,” I replied.

Gatsby smiled at me. “Good night.”

The butler was impatiently waiting.

I began to walk away, towards my house. “See you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow.” He gave me a quick, formal wave before heading back to his house alongside his butler.

Looking over what I have written so far, it seems I have given the impression that the events of three nights over the course of several weeks during the summer were all that absorbed me. While the dinner party at the Buchanan’s, and the party with Tom and his mistress that had quite the ending, were interesting, they were merely casual events in a crowded summer. But the night that I met Gatsby remained firmly in my mind, and absorbed me in the following days. While I kept trying to push away my unrealistic fantasies, telling myself that he was simply being polite to me as he seemed like the kind of fellow who didn’t want trouble with anyone, part of me kept suspecting there was more to it than that.

After all, I was the only one who got properly invited to his parties.

#the great gatsby #natsby #gatsby

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ellebi-studies · 3 years

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Hello everyone,

Today I would like to talk about a topic which our society often neglects.

We are bombarder by motivational slogans on social networks about how important productivity is. We are committed to working harder and harder. "Push yourself" is one of the mottoes I read more often on the Internet. Also, professors and parents tell us to devote ourselves to studying or working.

These are all great incentives to express the best of us, but there is a dangerous risk of exaggerating.

Those students who want to be the best tend to take this advice too seriously, ending up studying for hours and hours without breaks.

It is what I mean by "toxic productivity". We forget our focus and the reason why we are doing it. We convince ourselves that we are a failure if we do not manage to study for too long. It becomes counter producing and ruins the joy of the process.

We should enjoy school and university. We should study because we are in love with the process of learning. We should recognise when we need a day off and take it without feeling guilty.

I think this is an underestimated problem that I no longer want to be influenced by.

Here I want to share with you some tips to scale down the argument when we lose focus. I sincerely would appreciate it if you could add some more suggestions.

Tip 1: Distinguish between what is fake and what is real

It is a general problem in our society. We tend to believe that all we see on social networks is real. But there is nothing wronger.

I post photos on Tumblr only when I am motivated. I only show the best of me. It is normal. None of us would ever show breakdowns, failures and bad days.

I like sharing my successes, giving advice and trying to motivate others through my work.

I think nobody wants to make people believe he/she is perfect. Anyhow, that is what we may assume.

When I feel afflicted by these assumptions, I always try to resize the problem by comparing it with real role-models.

I ask my best colleagues how long they are working, how they are studying, how many books they are considering, etc.

Knowing that the best in my class are not striving much harder than I is a relief. It avoids me being over judgemental towards myself.

Tip 2: Do not lose time

Sometimes we see pretty and elaborate notes, and we might be tempted by spending time creating them.

Anyways, remember that you are not supposed to be an artist (exception for art students). Your notes should be efficient and not time-consuming.

When I realised my notes did not have to be photogenic, the quality of my study improved.

Also, I cheated with myself by telling me that rewriting notes the all-day was an extremely productive activity. Indeed, it was only taking considerable time away.

The point is: it is okay if you do not study for the all-day, as long as your studying was effective. It leads to the following point.

Tip 3: set goals

You have to respond only to yourself. Set goals and respect them. If you did it, it is okay to reward yourself, even if you only worked for 30 minutes.

You are the only person who knows how demanding your tasks are. Do not measure yourself with the number of pages or the number of hours. Make your best, and be kind to yourself.

Tip 3: Listen to your body

"Do not stop until you are proud". "Do not complain: just do it". "Push yourself because no one else is going to do it for you". These are high-impact slogans, but they may be misleading.

Quit when your body tells you it is enough. When your body "complains", you should not push yourself too much.

It will not be productive: it will be frustrating. You need to rest. You deserve breaks. You can not expect your mind to stay fresh after too many hours. You will blame yourself for not having done enough while you did the possible.

You can educate yourself to increase your level of attention or to reduce procrastination. But you can not train yourself not to sleep or to rest. Again, be gentle to yourself.

Tip 4: Force yourself to take free time

When you want something too much, you may end up forgetting about everything else. You may cancel your interests, your hobbies, your friends and your love for your body in the name of productivity.

It is okay to try your best for becoming the person you dream of, but do not lose the person you are on the way to.

Here are my banal hacks not to be overwhelmed by all the Rory Gilmore we are supposed to emulate. Let me know what you think. I know it is a controversial topic, and I hope I clearly expressed myself.

(P.S.: I actually love Rory Gilmore, I just do not like breakdowns)

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cappymightwrite · 4 years

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ASOIAF & Norse Mythology

PART 1: Introduction

Laying Out the Groundwork...

I’ve been interested in all things Norse/Vikings for a long time now, so when I first read George RR Martin’s ASOIAF series I was struck by, as I think many people have been, the quite obvious parallels to Norse mythology and Viking Age culture. I’ve read a few other Norse themed metas here and there, but I thought I might have a go at adding my own two cents since I am currently doing a masters in Viking and Medieval Norse studies at two Nordic universities...despite the hellfire that is 2020.

(Am I procrastinating my uni work by doing this meta? Yes. Do I regret it? …ask me later.)

I haven’t read every single Norse/ASOIAF meta out there, but from the ones I have read, I think there has been a bit of a tendency to argue for very direct parallels between the two. For instance, claiming one ASOIAF character as an explicit parallel for a particular Norse mythological figure, or using certain mythic events, and how they are described within their medieval sources, as an exact blueprint for how things are going to play out in the books.

(Let’s all just pretend the show and its ending didn’t happen. Ok, good? Good.)

I completely understand the urge to take this approach, it is a very tempting, fun thing to do. However, I think it maybe conveniently sets aside some unfortunate home truths that rather harm this kind of reading:

[November 27, 1998, on the topic of the Wars of the Roses]

The Wars of the Roses have always fascinated me, and certainly did influence A SONG OF ICE AND FIRE, but there's really no one-for-one character-for-character correspondence. I like to use history to flavour my fantasy, to add texture and verisimilitude, but simply rewriting history with the names changed has no appeal for me. I prefer to reimagine it all, and take it in new and unexpected directions.

[February 29, 2000, on the topic of historical influences for Dorne]

I read a lot of history, and mine it for good stuff, but I also like to mix and match. That is to say, I don’t do straight one-for-one transplants, as some authors do, so you can’t really say that X in Westeros equals Y in real life. More often X in Westeros equals Y and Z in real life, with squidges of Q, L, and A.

[June 20, 2001 on the topic of whether GRRM borrows from history for the character of Loras Tyrell]

Well, yes and no. I have drawn on a great many influences for these books. I do use incidents from history, yes, although I try not to do a straight one-for-one transposition of fact into fiction. I prefer to mix and match, and to add in some imaginative elements as well.

These are just a few examples I’ve pulled out, and granted he’s talking about historical sources in all three instances here, but nevertheless I think the same thing applies to mythological sources as well: GRRM does not do ‘straight one-for-one transplants.’ Bearing this in mind, I would be very hesitant to say that Robert Baratheon equals Þórr (Thor), for example. That kind of shoehorning is not what I’m interested in with this particular meta. Instead, I want to look at how the ways in which the Norsemen’s mythological worldview might have influenced GRRM’s writing, and more specifically what we’ll eventually be facing in The Winds of Winter.

An Argument for Norse Influence…

A lot of the time when people discuss Norse parallels in ASOIAF the assumption that GRRM has read and is explicitly drawing on Norse mythology is taken as a given. The parallels seem so obvious that we don’t take a moment to consider the validity of that assumption before ploughing straight ahead with various comparisons and theories. So, before I really begin, I think it’s important to actually give some evidence as to why I agree that GRRM has read certain Norse mythological texts and is therefore consciously using them in his writing.

For starters, just trawling through some of the fan questions he’s answered in the past (NB: I was planning to go through all of them, but…there’s just so many), GRRM does make a few references to Norse myths/Vikings, e.g.:

[June 11, 1999, on the topic of Ravens as messenger birds]

[…] I also liked the mythic resonances. Odin used ravens as his messengers, and they were also thought be able to fly between the worlds of the living and the dead.

[April 23, 2001, on the topic of Wildlings in the north]

Raiding is definitely a part of wildling culture, as it was for many in the real world -- the Norse who went a-viking every summer, the ancient Celtic cattle raiders, the Scots border reivers, etc.

So, from just these two examples it is clear to us that GRRM has some degree of knowledge regarding Norse mythology and Viking Age culture. You could argue that this is just a basic kind of knowledge, which isn’t illustrative of any deeper understanding or interest. However, I think the first quote proves otherwise.

Apart from Þórr, Óðinn (Odin) is probably the most well known out the Norse gods to a non-medievalist audience; though thanks to Marvel comics/films, Loki is quite (in)famous as well. Quite a lot of people might know that Óðinn is associated with ravens, two in particular: Huginn and Muninn, whose names translate from Old Norse-Icelandic to ‘Thought’ and ‘Mind’ or ‘Memory,’ respectively. But their function, or role in connection to Óðinn, might require a bit of a deeper read and understanding.

Indeed, in the quote above GRRM notes that they are Óðinn´s ‘messengers,’ which is a detail that occurs in several Old Norse sources, namely in chapter 38 of the Gylfaginning section of Snorri Sturluson’s Prose Edda (c. 1220), as well as in the Eddic poem Grímnismál, a work that is included in the Codex Regius (compiled 13th cent., containing 31 poems), the principal manuscript of the Poetic Edda:

‘Two ravens sit on Óðinn’s shoulders, and into his ears they tell all the news they see or hear. Their names are Huginn [Thought] and Muninn [Mind, Memory]. At sunrise he sends them off to fly throughout the whole world, and they return in time for the first meal. Thus he gathers knowledge about many things that are happening, and so people call him the raven god. As is said:

Huginn and Muninn

fly each day

over the wide world.

I fear for Huginn

that he may not return,

though I worry more for Muninn.’

(The Lay of Grimnir, 20)

In fact, as seen above, Snorri uses Grímnismál as a source to back up his own claims within the Gylfaginning.*

NB: In Old Norse, Gylfaginning translates to ‘the beguiling’ or ‘deluding of Gylfi.’ It is the first part of Snorri’s Prose Edda, and is structured as a question-and-answer conversation between Gylfi — a king of ‘the land that men now call Sweden,’ though there’s no historical record of him — under the guise of the name Gangleri, and three enthroned men: High, Just-As-High and Third. In chapter 20 of Gylfaginning it is revealed that these are in fact pseudonyms for Óðinn.

Elsewhere, we see reference to Huginn and Muninn as messengers in Snorri’s other work, Heimskringla (c. 1230), a collection of several sagas about Swedish and Norwegian kings. In chapter 7 of Ynglinga saga, Snorri writes that:

[Óðinn] had two ravens which he had trained to speak. They flew over distant countries and told him much news. From these things he became extremely wise.

So, we can see that this detail about Huginn and Muninn as messenger birds is well established in several Old Norse sources, and is therefore likely to be included in any general guide or overview to Norse mythology. GRRM could have left it at that and all would be fine and dandy. But he doesn’t. He adds that ‘they were also thought be able to fly between the worlds of the living and the dead.’ For me, this is an interesting inclusion, because as you can see from the quotes above, though they are said to travel ‘over the wide world’ and ‘over distant countries,’ it isn’t explicitly stated in the Prose Edda, Poetic Edda or Heimskringla that they fly between the realms of the living and the dead.

The closest thing I can find that fits in with what GRRM is saying here is a fragmentary verse from the Third Grammatical Treatise, a text composed around the middle of the 13th century by Óláfr Þórðarson, a nephew of Snorri Sturluson (and he seems to have been influenced by his uncle’s works). The second part of this text contains examples of Old Norse-Icelandic skaldic poetry — this is where we find our reference to Huginn and Muninn:

Two ravens flew from Hnikar’s [Óðinn’s]

shoulders; Huginn to the hanged and

Muninn to the slain [lit. corpses].

[TGT]

According to this verse, from Óðinn’s shoulders, the two ravens fly to the ‘hanged’ and the ‘slain,’ so their association with death is pretty clear. The problem, however, with saying that they ‘fly between the worlds of the living and the dead,’ is which worlds? Does he mean from Miðgarðr (Midgard) to Valhöll* ´the hall of the slain’? Or to Fólkvangr ‘field of the host’? Or from Ásgarðr (Asgard) to Hel? I know what he means, I’m just being pedantic.

NB: Valhalla is a modernised version of the Old Norse-Icelandic Valhöll — in modern Icelandic, the ‘LL’ in Valhöll is pronounced sort of like ‘TL.’ So, for instance, the new Assassin’s Creed game…the Norsemen/Vikings, as well as later medieval sources, wouldn’t have referred to it as Valhalla, they would have called it Valhöll.

But back to the Third Grammatical Treatise — it should be noted that, according to Tarrin Wills, ‘of the poetic examples, a large amount of material is not found elsewhere and a large proportion of that is anonymous.’ Furthermore, the above fragment in particular ‘belongs to no known poem’ (Wills), which is probably why we don’t find this kind of detail about Huginn and Muninn elsewhere in other, better known mythic sources, such as the Prose Edda.

What I’m trying to get at here is that, in my mind, for GRRM to make the claim that Óðinn’s ravens were ‘thought be able to fly between the worlds of the living and the dead’ he’d have to have more than just a basic interest in Norse mythology, because not all guides/overviews/introductions to the Norse myths include or reference this obscure, fragmentary verse. I mean, I don’t particularly remember it coming up in my Old Nordic Religion and Belief module I did last year, so that’s why it stands out to me.

Ok, so GRRM has definitely read up on Norse mythology. Great, point proved! Ah…but then there’s this:

[January 20, 1999]

[Summary from Kay-Arne Hansen: I asked him if he had read 'Norwegian Kingssagas' by Snorre Sturlasson, and explained that I thought so on the basis of Sansa's story about Ser Arryk and Ser Erryk seeming to be the equivalent of the brother kings Alrik and Eirik, and went on to make suggestions about other possible 'inspirators' from the 'Kingssagas'.]

Ah... well... a fascinating theory, but...

I did take a semester of Scandinavian history back my sophomore year in college, which was.... hmmmm... around about 1967-8. I read a couple of Icelandic sagas during the course, and found them thoroughly compelling, but after the passage of thirty years I confess I no longer recall the titles or the names of any of the characters. It may be that chunks of them, buried in my subconscious, somehow surfaced during A SONG OF ICE AND FIRE... but it seems a long shot.

Ser Arryk and Ser Erryk were inspired by the twin knights of Arthurian myth, Sir Balon and Sir Balin, who appear in Mallory.

Sorry.

Nice try, though.

I came across this Q/A on reddit and the response was quite a few redditors feeling a tad despondent. They seemed to understand GRRM’s answer to mean that any reference/allusion to Norse mythology in his texts were just memories of a long ago Scandinavian history course ‘buried in [his] subconscious’ that ‘somehow surfaced’ during the writing process, so weren’t intentional, conscious inclusions. Even then, GRRM considers this hypothesis ‘a long shot.’

However, I wouldn’t necessary give up all hope, because the texts being referred to here are Snorri Sturluson’s Heimskringla, which we looked at above, and most likely the Íslendingasögur (aka the Sagas of Icelanders), referred to by GRRM as ‘a couple of Icelandic sagas’ he read in college.

Heimskringla does include mythological content, but as I’ve already mentioned, it’s primarily a history of Norwegian and Swedish kings — though it should be noted that GRRM doesn’t outright say he hasn’t read Heimskringla. As for the text(s) he does mention, in Egils saga for instance, there is reference to pre-Christian religion, but again, I wouldn’t look to the Íslendingasögur as a go-to source for Norse myths.

Granted, the question being asked is about historical sources and inspirations, I still think it’s telling that GRRM doesn’t mention having read the Prose Edda or Poetic Edda here. Because those are the two key textual sources that we look to for the Norse myths, and even though they were written/compiled well after the conversion to Christianity, they still arguably preserve aspects and memories of what went before. So, I really doubt he wouldn’t have come across them on that Scandinavian History course — the gradual conversion to Christianity in Scandinavia and Iceland is a pretty important period in their cultural history. Going further, I think that these are texts he’s returned to time and time again...in particular the sections that refer to the ‘Twilight of the Gods,’ aka Ragnarök.

References/Bibliography:

Snorri Sturluson, Heimskringla I: The Beginnings to Óláfr Tryggvason, trans. by Alison Finlay & Anthony Faulkes, (London: Viking Society for Northern Research, 2011)

Snorri Sturluson, The Prose Edda, trans. and intr. by Jesse Byock, (London: Penguin Classics, 2005)

Tarrin Wills, “The Anonymous Verse in the Third Grammatical Treatise,” in The Fantastic in Old Norse/Icelandic Literature, Sagas, and the British Isles: Preprint Papers of The 13th International Saga Conference Durham and York, 6–12 August 2006, ed. by John McKinnell, David Ashurst & Donata Kick, (Durham: The Centre for Medieval and Renaissance Studies, 2006)

END OF PART 1...

With that out of the way, parts 2 and 3 will be on:

The ‘Long Night’ and the Fimbulvetr

Ragnarök and the ‘Red Comet’

I’ve also go some other potential parts in the works, but let me know what you thought of this, if I should continue, or if I should just shut up, lol. I promise the next sections will be dealing with the really interesting stuff, I just wanted to strengthen my forthcoming arguments with this intro first :D

Cappy x

#asoiaf #norse mythology #game of thrones #asoiaf and norse mythology #asoiaf meta #got meta #grrm #me being a nerd and generally procrastinating uni work

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kae-karo · 4 years

Text

2020 fic roundup

howdy pardners 🤠🤠 in order to procrastinate more writing here’s my list of all the fics i posted this year (sorted predominantly by ship and mostly in order of posting) - ft a lot of dabihawks and a surprising amount of todobaku lmao. oh and my personal faves are **starred

dabihawks (x)

a lesson in romantics (x) - 66k across 4 fics - the collection of standalone memory loss fics! canon divergent and centered around either dabi or hawks losing their memories thanks to the wonderful commission :) some solid angst and getting back together content, always happy endings!!

haven’t had enough (x) - 5.7k - silly little quirkless au where dabi goes to claire’s to get his ears pierced. multiple times. bc hawks is hot

last of the real ones (x) - 2.6k - less silly, just as little, set in canon-divergence bc i couldn’t get the idea out of my head of dabi getting red wings tattooed on him before ever meeting hawks

**dancing after death (x) - 25k - one of my faves from this year, a canon divergent sort of getting together story involving nightmares, some bad burns, and a bit of dancing

if you fall (hold my hand) (x) - 7.4k - canon divergence (bc apparently i’m a slut for that) and some hurt/comfort, ft a bit of makeout-level spice

no shame (x) - 16k - ah, and here we really dive into the ‘crack treated too seriously’ category, where the league sells feet/hand/misc kink pics to fund their activities and dabi has some photography skills and a wing kink (or maybe just a hawks kink)

broken parts (x) - 23.9k - i stole my own idea for a vigilante!hawks from my tiktok, then twisted it into a severely angsty (with a happy ending) hurt/comfort fic intended to break my own heart and piece it back together. it worked

freeing icarus (x) - 1.8k - the first fic without a happy ending i think i ever wrote, because the canon dabihawks fight actually broke me. some dabi introspection

**to the stars that burn (x) - 3.9k - the second fic without a happy ending, based more around childhood friends dabihawks working at the commission together. bittersweet but without much sweet

**king of disaster (x) - 119k+ - i poured my entire soul into this series, a fantasy au where dabi accidentally binds himself to hawks (an absolute stranger) and shenanigans ensue - this has also evolved to include todobaku, shinkami, and kirideku

enemy of my enemy (x) - 2.6k - a quirkswap space pirate au that truly tested my ability to write action scenes, part of the random prompt collection i did during october 2020

without a fight (x) - 2.2k - a rival band au ft singer!hawks and a grumpy dabi, another of the random october prompts

todobaku (x)

like i’m bakugou (x) - 2.1k - it was supposed to be a MEME based on a TIKTOK but i made it kinda serious....and here we are. todobaku on a froyo date

take a bite of my heart tonight (x) - 5k - VAMPIRES lmao. honestly it was a blast to write tho lmao

**if we go down, then we go down together (x) - 9.3k - tdbk get stranded on a deserted island bc tropes are fun lmao. also todo tries to freeze the ocean like elsa which i think is where my writing skill peaked

cold rebellion (x) - 4k - quirkless au where its HALLOWEEN and theyre in a CORN MAZE and they don’t LIKE EACH OTHER BAKA (part of the october prompt fic collection)

make it spicy (x) - 5k+ - predominantly todobaku with a healthy dose of dabihawks and some shiggynatsu as well, a bakery and nightclub au (yes u heard me)

**stitch me up (x) - 35k - todo gets split into both halves of his quirks, sort of, and baku has to deal with it (and i love this au so much i had a blast working on it)

bakudeku

rescue me (x) - 11.4k - basically the concept of ‘what if baku and deku were actually childhood friends tho? aka some good wholesome content

**into the dark (x) - 3.3k - afterlife au and originally part of the random prompts, baku didn’t survive the sludge villain incident and deku’s been carrying that weight for a while. and then he doesn’t survive a villain encounter...keep an eye on this one cause i’m working on a part 2 lmao

are you with me (x) - 2.1k - future fic where baku and deku are both heroes and, appropriately, the wonder duo. lil angsty but ofc a happy ending, part of the random oct prompts collection

todobakudeku (x)

**kintsugi (x) - 117k - future fic where they’re all UA teachers, with some established todobaku + todobakudeku getting together, a lil sprinkle of erasercloudmic, a nice dose of shinkami and some great shiggy redemption arc + eri attending UA content

reunion (x) - 1.8k - another future fic lmao with some getting-back-together content. part of the random october prompts collection

kiribaku (x)

rewrite the stars (x) - 2.8k - also a mina&kiri friendship fic, a soulmate au where kiri doesn’t get the soulmate he was hoping for (part of the oct prompts collection)

the mystery gang (x) - 4.1k - tell me how i wrote this much about a scooby doo-styled fic concept lmao. anyway, part of the oct prompts, includes some bakusquad shenanigans

wasteland, baby (x) - 4.5k - bakusquad bodyswap post-apocalyptic au and yes it’s just as chaotic as it sounds lmao. part of the oct prompts collection

like the sun (x) - 2.8k - the beach episode + baku&mei friendship (which i learned is called kat and the hat???? adorable) fluffy content, part of the oct prompts collection!

something sweet (x) - 1.2k - the actual kiribaku prompt i got lmao. coffee shop meets scavenger hunt, we adore a grumpy barista baku lmao. part of the oct prompts collection

todokami/todo&kami

oh, worm? (x) - 16.5k - it was supposed to be a joke but oh my god i love the idea of both todo and denki being memelords and falling in love with each other over it

secret tunnel (x) - 3.6k - conspiracy theorist todo meets conspiracy theorist denki in college au format and it’s really just top tier content imo - part of the oct prompt collection

all i want for christmas (x) - 3.5k - it was supposed to be a crack concept but as per usual it became less cracky the longer i thought about it. todokami fake dating babeyyyy - part of the oct prompt collection

**hydrangea (x) - 2.9k - soft todo introspection about his lil dragon hoard of things that make him think of his friends, which he decides to share with denki

shiggynatsu (x)

**death of summer (x) - 28k - the first fic i ever wrote for them and the most chaotic meeting i could come up with within the realm of canon divergence lmao. todofam hosting...shmigaraki

terrible people (x) - 960 - a lil babie established shiggynatsu fic about shiggy’s bday, basically just soft and wholesome - part of the oct prompt collection

shinkami (x)

don’t want to say goodnight (x) - 3.2k - kyouka pov on a shinkami getting together lil thing that lived in my brain rent free for a long time

don’t want to say goodnight (x) - 1k - yes i’m aware i see what i’ve done lmao i see the mistake i made. anyway this one is villain!shinsou and villain!denki so it’s like,,,,,the slightly spicier version. part of the oct prompt collection

other

**twelve over, seven up (x) - 4.5k - a bit of aizawa introspection after oboro’s death, bittersweet but mostly wholesome

a danger and a wonder (x) - 2.4k - mina&tokoyami friendship and bonding over mina’s kid and hawks’ kid (who tokoyami is babysitting) - part of the oct prompt collection

fish and feathers (x) - 4.1k - my chance to flex my remaining runescape knowledge to have jirou and denki friendship via the interwebs content

a name freely given (x) - 4.2k - shigadabi fake dating royalty au where shiggy’s fae? sure why not lmaoooo. part of the oct prompt collection

kabloom flower shop (x) - 2.8k - a wrong-number tattoo shop/flower shop kirikami au that was lowkey hilariously fun to write. part of the oct prompt collection

awake me from my nightmare (x) - 2.3k - the only fic i’ve ever tagged with mcd, an among us au of all things. baku&uraraka friendship and betrayal, part of the oct prompt collection

**for the record (x) - 2.1k - shiggy&dabi...allianceship? sort of? lmao they’re angel and demon, spies, and part of like a rebellion thing. and they don’t like each other which is always fun! part of the oct prompt collection

a different kind of hero (x) - 1.1k - established tododeku future fic where todo just got his quirk stolen (and deku already lost his in an afo fight), mostly bitter with just a tiny spark of hopefulness. part of the oct prompt collection

forget me not (x) - 2.1k - kiri&uraraka friendship, amnesia and artist au like i really went off here but it was so sweet and wholesome and i had a great time. part of the oct prompt collection

**lightning in a bottle (x) - 4.5k - chaotic kamibaku getting together but they’re WITCHES it’s a MAGIC AU and BEDSHARING IS A THING. part of the oct prompt collection

passing notes (x) - 1.6k - shiggy&eri friendship which is a thing that would be hilarious if it happened in canon tbh. part of the oct prompt collection

no turning back (x) - 6.5k - shiggy&deku friendship but make it royalty au and a 5/1 trope just for kicks lmao. part of the oct prompt collection

worthy adversary (x) - 1k - baku&shinsou friendship/childhood friends au that deserved more than 1k lmao. part of the oct prompt collection

together (x) - 3.2k - denki&mina friendship but they’re allied with vampires to fight some werewolves bc why not right? also lil taste of shinkami just like tiny bit for the flavor™. i should really do a bit more with this au huh? part of the oct prompt collection

a good thing (x) - 1.2k - shinsou&aizawa friendship? fathership? sonship? u know how it is lmao. a little sprinkle of shinkami for the flavor. part of the oct prompt collection

brighter than the sun (x) - 730 - can u tell i don’t usually write miritama lmao. some soft parallels bc they are soft. part of the oct prompt collection

try again (x) - 1.4k - dabi&shouto siblingship but dabi can time travel bc i said so (actually bc the prompts said so but whatever lmao) part of the oct prompt collection

that’s it lovelies!! nearly 600k this year and some of my favorite fics i’ve ever written, and i cannot begin to thank you all enough for your incredible support, i adore you all so much 🥺🥺🥺🥺

#bnha #dabihawks #todobaku #bakudeku #shinkami #bnha fic

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cocastyle · 4 years

Text

Change - Ch. 2 | O N E

Pairing - Bill Denbrough x reader

Word Count - 13,258

A/N - super long beginning chapter for this half of the series but one hundred percent necessary! I didn’t want to split up the part where each person gets their phone calls, so I decided to make it one long chapter to kick the second movie rewrite off. I am beyond excited for what’s to come and I really hope you all enjoy this rewrite!

if you would like to be added to the tag list for this series let me know!

C H A N G E

Change Series Masterlist

* - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - *

O N E - Beginning of the End

* - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - *

Memory. It's a funny thing.

People want to believe they are what they choose to remember—the good stuff, the moments, the places, the people we all hold onto. But sometimes. . .sometimes we are what we wish we could forget.

The thing is sometimes what we wish was forgotten, what we tried to leave in the past, won't stay there. Sometimes it comes back for you.

- - -

Bill Denbrough stared blankly at his computer screen, watching as the cursor blinked repeatedly as he had yet to type a word other than the setting which was 'attic' on the paper. A copy of his latest book titled The Attic Room sat beside his computer, little slips of paper sticking out from different pages he had marked down and made notes on.

A knock on his trailer door was what finally snapped the man out of his thoughts, lifting his head in the direction of the door in a tired manner as if he wasn't quite sure if the knock was real or not. When the door suddenly opened up, Bill was quick to sit up and nod his head forward, the action causing his glasses to fall from his forehead and back onto his nose as he pretended to be typing away. "Mr. Denbrough," a soft voice said and Bill glanced over to see a woman a little younger than him with short blonde hair and a headset, "they need you on set."

It took all of Bill's willpower not to look at all surprised when he was practically screaming inside of his head. Already? Hadn't he only just sat down to write? How long had he been sitting there? Glancing at his watch, Bill swallowed thickly once he realized he had been sitting there for hours now, the day already almost over by now.

Bill could feel the woman's eyes still on him and he was quick to plaster a fake smile on his face as he looked to her and gave her a short nod. That seemed to be enough of an answer for her and she disappeared outside leaving Bill to collect his things as he tiredly took his glasses off his face.

His eyes instantly flickered to his computer and he put both hands on his face before dragging them down with a small sigh. Bill reached out and shut the computer without another thought about it and grabbed the computer and copy of his book before hurrying out of his trailer where the woman was waiting for him.

"We're just going to go this way," the woman said as she began to walk Bill towards one of the many buildings on the Warner Bros property.

Bill was trying his best not to seem as nervous as he was, gripping onto his book and computer tight enough with one hand that his other could relax peacefully by his side. He felt queasy and for a moment he wondered if he was going to be sick. He hadn't felt this nervous in a long time and Bill thought to himself about the last time he had been this nervous if not more.

For just a second it was like a image of startling e/c eyes flashed through his head, but it had vanished before he could grasp it. The image was gone as quick as it had came and Bill had no clue what he had even been thinking about in the first place.

A small frown began to make its way onto Bill's face, but it was quickly replaced by a panicked look once he saw the garage door to the set beginning to fall closed. His eyes widened and he jogged past the woman who shouted after him, but he ignored her and was quick to slide under the door just as it was closing.

"Hey, use the door!" a man exclaimed as he pointed towards the regular door that Bill could've easily walked through. "Come on! You never seen Indiana Jones?" Bill questioned, his eyebrows furrowing at the man. It had only been a joke, something to get his heart bumping in an excited and adventurous way instead of the nervous beating his heart had encountered moments before.

"Watch it!" another voice exclaimed and Bill was quick to stop in his tracks as a man walked past him with a container of props rolling across the floor. Bill shook his head slightly, already overwhelmed, and began to make his way across the room and over to where he assumed the director would be.

"Hey, hey, you a member?" a man asked, but Bill was barely able to register what he said as he walked past him. "Hmm? I'm. . .the writer," Bill finally managed to get out before he walked onto set.

Instead of finding the director, Bill was met with another sight that made him even more uncomfortable then he already was. "Bill," Audra Phillips, the leading lady of the movie who also happened to be his ex-wife, greeted him. "Hey."

He had been married to Audra for eight years before the two had ended things a year back. In all honesty, Bill wasn't quite sure why he had married the woman in the first place. He had thought he loved her, but the moment she had asked for a divorce he could only describe having felt one emotion—relief. Their marriage hadn't ended badly and there had been no problems. It was just two people simply falling out of love with each other. Audra had even started to date a co-star she had met a few months back and Bill was happy for her. After all, he had come to the realization that Audra wasn't the girl for him. He had a feeling like there was someone out there for him and the crazy thing was that he felt like he had already met her, but that she was lost. Weird, right?

Bill and Audra weren't exactly friends per say and only saw each other as business partners, knowing that neither one would be able to survive in their business without a mutual agreement between the two. However, Bill still couldn't help but think about how much he hated having to work the same movie with her.

"Do you have the pages?" Audra questioned, snapping Bill out of his thoughts as she took a step closer to him, her eyes staring intently at him in both a questioning and alarmed manner. Bill hesitated and it was then that Audra's eyes widened. However, neither got a chance to say anything before the director was suddenly lowering his seat down in between the two, his gaze on Bill.

"My friend," the director Peter began, looking to Bill in exasperation, "a film needs an ending. You do know that right?" "Oh, yeah," Bill replied, looking to Peter in slight disbelief. However, he couldn't blame him for asking. Bill had a tendency to procrastinate when it came to writing especially when it was something like this where they wanted him to change the ending of his book.

"You said that you needed another day to finish the pages and we're shooting this thing. It's tonight," Audra told him, her eyes still on Bill as she spoke in an accusing tone. "It's been seventeen hours," Bill muttered, but no one seemed to be listening to him.

"Everybody calm down, okay?" Peter said, his eyes flickering between the two as if he were afraid they would begin to fight. Despite their business agreement, Audra and Bill had been known to argue on more than one occasion and it was obvious Peter did not want to see another one of those. "I'm calm," Bill told him, unsure as to where Peter could see any hostility in what he was saying.

"I want you to be happy with the movie, you understand? I'm on your side," Peter insisted. "That's. . .that's great. Cause in my book the ending-" Bill began. "Is terrible," Peter finished with no regret or hesitation. Bill blinked in surprise and looked to the director with furrowed eyebrows. "With all due respect, people love your book. Love! But they hated the ending."

"You said you liked the ending," Bill said, looking a little defeated as he studied the man in front of him. Did people really hate his endings? "That was a lie," Peter told him bluntly while Audra glanced to Bill in a way that seemed to hold just a tad bit of sympathy. "We got to do better, okay?" Bill was hesitant before looking down at the ground and nodding his head. "Yeah," he breathed out, although he wasn't sure what to think.

"Audra, you have my notes. Could you-?" Peter questioned as he gestured towards Bill causing the man to look up and over at Audra in surprise while she nodded in response. "Thank you very much. Could you take me back to-"

Before Bill could even hear the rest of his sentence, Peter was gone and back into the film leaving Bill and Audra standing there. "You have his notes?" Bill finally questioned, turning to look at his ex wife in disbelief. “He's not wrong," Audra sighed. "You hate my endings too?" Bill asked surprised, having never heard in their eight years of marriage that she hated his endings. In fact, she had praised him on multiple occasions. Had a year of them not being married changed her perspective that much?

"Not all your endings. This just-" Audra admitted while Bill's eyes widened and he turned to walk away. Audra was quick to follow after him, knowing that he had to get the pages done in order for this movie to be finished. "What? Do you want me to keep lying to you just because we used to-" "Be married?" Bill questioned as he looked back at the women. "No, no. You just. . .you been blowing smoke up my ass for eight years? I guess I thought you were someone else."

"I have not been blowing smoke up your ass," Audra said, a look of anger crossing her face as she stopped beside Bill who was at the catering table.

"Everybody wants a happy ending. Everybody wants closure, but it's not the way life works out," Bill insisted, hesitating slightly as he felt his heart ache. For a moment he thought he felt something poking his brain, a memory begging to be let out. But it was gone just as fast as the image from earlier and he was already forgetting about it.

"I think what Peter wants and what the studio wants-" Audra began only for Bill to snap his head in her direction. "The studio?" he questioned, even more surprised than before now that he knew that everyone seemed to be talking about his book and how much the ending sucked. "When did you become the company? You're an artist. Come on. What's wrong with doing it the way it's written? The way I want it? What's wrong with being the woman I want you to be?"

Audra's eyes widened a little in anger and she gritted her teeth before saying, "Fuck you, Bill!"

"On the page," Bill sighed, not having meant it the way Audra was taking it, but it seemed the woman didn't care. "The part I mean. Not you. I don't even care about you in that way." Audra's eyes widened even more in anger and Bill swore she was about to slap him. "Shit, that came out wrong."

Bill's cell ringing was what finally saved him from himself and he went to fish his phone out of his pocket while Audra sent a glare at him before walking away. He didn't even bother yelling after her for he knew there was no point. She wouldn't want to listen and they would just end up arguing more than they just had.

Turning back to the food table so that Bill wouldn't have to acknowledge the eyes that were staring at him from all around the movie set, the man glanced at his phone to see that it was a call coming from Derry, Maine. Bill got that same feeling once again, like there was something he was missing, but he pushed it aside and instead exited out of one of the back doors so that he woundn't disrupt filming.

"Hello?" Bill questioned as he put the phone to his ear, confused as to who could be calling him that lived in Derry, Maine. "Bill Denbrough?" a deep voice said, a voice that Bill did not recognize at all. "It's Mike." Bill furrowed his eyebrows, still not knowing who this person was. "Mike who?" Bill asked.

"Mike Hanlon."

It took Bill a moment to even register what the man had said and it was in that moment that he stopped in his tracks. The nervousness he had felt earlier about talking to Peter and Audra was nothing compared to the feeling he was suddenly getting.

It was like his whole body had gone cold, so cold in fact that he was numb to all other sensations. All he could hear was a ringing in his ears before it was quickly overpowered by his heartbeat that had begun to race so fast despite Bill not knowing why. His breathing picked up its pace ever so slightly and Bill didn't even register his hand which had started to shake as it held onto his phone.

Fear, that was what he felt. But for what? He was unsure.

"From Derry."

And it was then that Bill was brought back to reality, wincing slightly as he suddenly got a flashback of a young dark skinned boy smiling at him. He had to have been thirteen years old and the image of the boy plus the name Mike Hanlon and the connection of Derry were enough for Bill to remember who it was he was talking to.

How had he been able to forget about Mike? They had been best friends up until the day Bill had moved away and for a moment Bill remembered having promised to keep in touch with Mike only to realize he never had. Now why was that?

A few more memories flashed through Bill's head and it felt as if he couldn't breath as he remembered his thirteen year old self sitting in a circle with the people who had all been his best friends—Stanley Uris, Mike Hanlon, Ben Hanscom, Beverly Marsh, Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak, and Y/N Uris.

Bill felt like he had just gotten a punch to the gut at that last name, his eyes widening as he suddenly saw an image of Y/N Uris standing before him in a field. Her h/c hair blowing gently in the wind, her e/c eyes glistening under the rays of the sun while she sent him one of those effortless smiles of hers that used to make him feel as if he were going to have a heart attack.

You make me happy, Bill Denbrough.

Y/N Uris.

Now how the hell could he forget about her?

Before Bill could think of her much longer, his hand suddenly began to flare up in pain. The man winced and was quick to look down at his hand and at a scar that ran along his palm, a scar that he didn't remember having until that very moment. And all he could do was stare at the scar while Mike's voice rang in his ear.

"You need to come home."

- - -

"Eddie, I keep telling you not to scare me like this and you never listen to me," Myra Kaspbrak complained over the speaker of the car while a shaky hand reached for the glove compartment to pull out a container of pills.

"Alright, Myra!" Eddie Kaspbrak exclaimed, knowing that there was no other way to gain the attention of his wife unless his voice was louder than hers. He held the bottle of pills up to his lips and was quick to dump his doctor prescribed amount into his mouth. "Please not now."

"You shouldn't be out there," Myra insisted while Eddie huffed in annoyance low enough that she couldn't hear. "Eddie, it's not safe to drive when the roads are slick like this."

"Sweetheart, it stopped raining like three hours ago, alright? Everything's going to be fine," Eddie assured her before the honking of a cab gained his attention. The man was quick to look out the window and yell, "Hey, dickhead! Slow traffic mean anything to you?"

"What if you hydroplane?" Myra continued, ignoring Eddie's yells. "I'm not going to hydroplane," Eddie insisted, already feeling himself becoming more and more tense behind the wheel. He was trying to keep himself calm, but that was hard. How had he ever been able to calm his younger self down when there are people like Myra always yelling at him?

Taking in a deep breath, Eddie managed to keep his voice steady long enough to reply, "It is my job to assess risks so please trust me when I tell you that statistically speaking I am much more likely to get into an accident because I am talking to you on the phone! Alright? I have to go. I will talk to you soon. Goodbye."

Eddie didn't even give Myra time to respond before he was ending the call and he let out a small sigh of relief once it was over. However, he had barely even gotten the sigh out before his phone was ringing again.

Eddie was quick to press the answer button and, thinking it was a client, he said, "Edward Kaspbrak speaking." "You didn't say 'okay, bye, I love you' like you usually do," Myra's voice came through the speaker once again.

Eddie had to resist the urge to scream as he said, "Listen to me! I can't! I'm going to be late to this-" His phone began to ring again and he glanced down at the screen before falling quiet, his eyes locking onto the caller ID which read Derry, Maine. "-meeting."

Eddie felt as if someone had dunked a bucket of ice cold water on him, the cold seeping all the way down to his bones and making his whole body ache. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end and for the first time in a while he had the sudden urge to use his inhaler.

He was afraid, but what of?

But then he saw a flash of an image, a boy with thick rimmed glasses grinning at him as he nudged his side with his elbow. And then he was hearing a voice that didn't belong to the boy with glasses whisper into his ear, soft and so familiar despite the fact that he couldn't pinpoint why he remembered it.

Eds.

He had never been called Eds before to his knowledge, having always hated it since he was a child. So why did he suddenly hear a young girl's voice whispering it into his ear? And why was that enough to calm him down and make his fear disappear?

"Say 'I love you,' Eddie," Myra insisted, but Eddie was barely listening to her, his gaze still focused on the caller ID. "Okay. I love you, Mommy," Eddie muttered as if in a trance. "What?" Myra's voice said and that was enough to have Eddie snap out of it.

"Myra," he corrected before going to end the call. "Bye." Eddie didn't even hesitate to answer the call from Derry, but when it got to speaking, he found himself hesitating longer than he should've for an unknown reason.

"Hello?" Eddie finally said, his eyes staring warily at the screen as if that would answer all of his unknown questions. "Who is this?"

"It's me. Mike," a voice replied and Eddie gulped, his eyes still on the screen. "Mike who?" Eddie questioned nervously. He was too focused on the screen to notice that he ran a red light until honking was heard and a yellow cab hit the car from the side. Eddie's car came to a screeching stop as all air bags went off.

"Eddie, you okay?" Mike asked in a panic after hearing the crash from the other side of the line.

From under the air bag, Eddie's voice croaked out. "Yeah, I'm pretty good," Eddie replied although he had a feeling he was going to be anything but okay after this phone call.

- - -

Richie Tozier gripped onto the metal stair railing the best that he could as he puked over the side and onto the ground below. His whole body was shaking as he stood there feeling colder than he had ever felt before yet sweating to the point where his glasses began to slide down his nose.

He was sick once more over the side of the railing before he managed to glance at his phone which he had been on only moments before to answer a call from Derry, Maine. He hadn't known what to expect when answering it and had honestly thought either a fan had found his number or someone was calling to try and book him.

However nothing could prepare him for Mike Hanlon to be on the other end, a name he hadn't heard of in years and a boy he hadn't heard from in just as long. He hadn't even remembered the boy until Mike had said his full name, the name jogging something in Richie's mind as he remembered the homeschooler he used to be friends with.

It was then that Richie remembered the rest of his best friends who had all dawned the group name of the Losers Club and Richie realized he hadn't thought of them in what seemed like forever. In fact, he couldn't even remember half of the things they did together, but as the minutes ticked by he slowly began to remember his best friends who he had joked and messed around with until he was pretty sure the memories had gotten too much for him that he had been sick.

It had to be the memories, right? What else could it be?

"What the fuck?" a voice exclaimed behind him causing the man to stand up and look to see his manager standing at the door that led back into the club. "You were fine like five seconds ago. Who was it? Who called?"

Richie couldn't bring himself to say anything, his whole body still shaking violently as he gripped onto the metal railing. Why did he suddenly have a feeling like something was wrong? Was it because Mike told him he needed to come home? Was it because he felt guilty for having forgotten about the very friends he used to swear he would never forget about?

"Rich?" his manager said and for a moment Richie swore he heard the nickname said in what he distantly remembered as Eddie Kaspbrak's voice. "Rich?" there it was again, but this time it sounded like a girl. It took merely a second for Richie to identify it as Y/N Uris and he swore he grew paler, but why?

"Talk to me," his manager said and it was then that Richie began to snap out of it and stood up taller as he knew that neither Eddie or Y/N were here or even still thirteen years old. "You're on in two minutes," his manger announced as he handed Richie a rag which he quickly used to wipe his mouth. "You good? Cause you look not good."

In all honesty, Richie wasn't sure if he was good or not. He had forgotten about his best friends. Mike Hanlon had called telling him he needed to come home without any explanation why. His hand hurt like a bitch because of some scar he didn't remember having. And he had a sickening feeling in his gut which he could only describe as fear. But fear of what exactly?

"I'm fine," Richie insisted, quickly leaving the alleyway and walking back into the club. He couldn't think about Derry or the Losers any more especially not when he was supposed to be doing a show. Mike would just have to wait.

"You're fine? Good. Okay. And we're walking and we're walking," his manager muttered as he quickly stepped into line by Richie's side. "Sixty seconds," a stage manager announced to the pair. "Even faster," his manager said as he ushered Richie to pick up his pace, but Richie was struggling to even stand up right at this point. "Could you get him a bottle of water maybe?"

"Bourbon," Richie corrected, knowing he would need something a lot stronger to get through the show. "Bourbon?" his manager questioned before realizing Richie was serious and nodding to the stage manager to go. "Sure. Sure." "And a mint," Richie muttered as he grimaced at the taste in his mouth.

"Showtime," his manager said as they got closer to the stage, but Richie shook his head in distress. "I don't think I can do this," Richie admitted, feeling sicker by the second. His manager began to grumble behind him, but Richie was barely paying attention as someone was suddenly handing him a glass of bourbon and a container of mints. "That was fast."

Richie downed the drink almost instantly before popping multiple mints in his mouth. Knowing he had a crowd waiting for him, Richie took in a deep breath before walking over to the door that lead to the stage but that actually happened to be the emergency exit.

"This way," his manager corrected him, directing the man down a different hallway and through a different door. "Attaboy. Okay." "Alright, how do I look?" Richie questioned, his hands violently shaking the glass and a container of mints in his hands while he forced a smile onto his face.

His manager grimaced slightly and stared at Richie for a moment before sighing, "Yeah, your hands are shaking, Rich." Richie blinked in surprise before looking down at his hands to find that they were in fact shaking. "Shit," he muttered before quickly shoving the two items into his manager's hands. It was too late to do anything else, so the man began to walk towards the stage, slowly breathing in and out to try and calm his nerves.

"Ladies and gentlemen. Please welcome Richie Tozier!"

Richie was quick to put on a fake smile and raise his hand as he walked out on stage. The crowd began to clap and cheer, a sound that usually made Richie feel at home but tonight made him feel more alone and uncomfortable than ever.

Cursing himself slightly, Richie walked over to the microphone in the middle of the stage and took in a deep breath before smiling at the audience and beginning his routine, ignoring the slight shake of his hands that he was desperately trying to control.

"Alright, how we doin' today?" Richie questioned earning a roar of cheering from the audience. It was obvious that they couldn't tell he was nervous and that put Richie a little bit at ease.

"So my girlfriend caught me uh masterbating to her friend's Facebook page and uh. . .so now I'm in masterbaters anonymous," Richie said, reciting the lines he had read off of a script for the first time the night before. The crowd seemed to like it and laughed and that laughter only made Richie feel more at ease.

"And I stand up at the first meeting and I say 'my name is Richie Trashmouth-'" Richie stopped abruptly, his whole demeanor changing as he accidentally said the nickname that he been bestowed upon him when he was younger. He hadn't even remembered the nickname up until it slipped from his mouth. Where had that come from?

Oh okay, trash the trash-mouth, I get it, he distantly heard his thirteen year old voice say in his head although he couldn't remember why he was saying that or to whom.

In a blink of an eye the memory was gone and Richie could do nothing but stand there on stage with a blank expression, the joke completely gone from his head. In fact, he couldn't even seem to remember the rest of the script he had spent hours practicing.

"Trashmouth uh. . .I forgot the joke," Richie admitted while a whistle was heard from the crowd. Before long people had started to whisper, some even booed before a woman yelled out, "You suck!" Richie faked a smile at that before looking down at his feet. He was suddenly overcome with another wave of nausea and Richie couldn't help but think back to the phone call with Mike.

What the fuck had that phone call done to him?

- - -

"Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, for letting us present to you today," an employee of Hanscom & Associates said, his eyes flickering over the table before him before he gestured towards the building model on the table in front of them. "Now this will include over a million square feet of commercial and residential space-"

"What I'm really looking for is to understand how we create even more retail opportunities," another man at the table explained, his gaze steady and calculating. "If we put in walls here and all along here-“

"Lose them," a new voice said causing everyone in the room to look to the television screen which held a video conference call with the owner of the company himself. "With all due respect, Mr. Hanscom," the original man began, but Ben Hanscom was quick to correct him.

"Ben," he insisted as he leaned back a little in the office chair he had at home. "And with all due respect, I'm getting claustrophobic just looking at this model, aren't you? Look throw up more walls, it's gonna feel like a prison. You know what people want to do in prison? Get out, right? This should be a place that brings people together. A meeting ground."

Ben's eyes flickered down to his wallet and he gently reached for it before opening it up, his fingers brushing against an old folded piece of paper that was slightly sticking out with cursive handwriting just beginning to peak out behind the leather.

Ben rested his fingers against the paper and looked up thoughtfully as an image of a wooden room filled his thoughts, laughter of children echoing in his head as he distantly remembered a group of kids that had changed his life forever.

"Clubhouse," he whispered, his eyes glazing over as he got lost in thought. "And if, while people are there then-"

A small buzz pulled the man out of his thoughts and he trailed off as he looked to his right and at his phone sitting beside him. He froze at the sight of a number calling from Maine.

It was like time stood still and he was sure his face paled. For some reason he felt a sense of dread wash over him, like something was nagging at the back of his head telling him to either ignore the call completely and never think of it again or drop everything just to answer it.

He didn't know why, but it felt like his throat was beginning to close up, his heart thumping a little faster while a prickling feeling started from his toes before moving up the rest of his body. For the first time in Ben didn't know how long, he felt scared. But why? It was only a phone call? What was there to fear?

"Excuse me for one second," Ben said as he looked back at his computer before quickly pausing the video conference. "Hello?" Ben said as he stood up, his voice shaky although he wasn't sure why.

"Ben? It's Mike Hanlon from Derry."

- - -

Beverly Marsh awoke with a jolt, the feeling of something wet against her cheek being enough to wake her almost instantly. However, when she went to rub her cheek, there was nothing there. Frowning, Beverly stared up at the ceiling with a blank expression on her face but was quickly startled once again when her phone began to buzz beside her.

The red head snapped her head in the phone's direction, her eyebrows furrowing at the sight of someone from Maine calling her, and was quick to pick up her phone and rush to the kitchen as to not wake up her husband.

It wasn't long before she was sitting at her kitchen table, the voice of one of her childhood best friends Mike Hanlon ringing in her ears. "You made a promise, Beverly," Mike said almost sadly, but Beverly could barely register it. She was still getting an overwhelming amount of sudden memories flashing through her head, memories she had thought she had forgotten.

She tried to grasp onto the memories, but each time she did they would disappear back to the depths of her mind just out of reach. It was like she was remembering, but not at the same time. She felt as if there were things she was forgetting, fragments of her past missing from her mind. Although she barely remembered anything from her past up until Mike had called, so why was she worried about it?

"I-I'm so sorry, Mike," Beverly sighed, shaking slightly as she hugged her body with her free arm. She wasn't sure why she was so cold all of a sudden or why she felt like her heart was in her throat. Why was she so afraid? She was only talking to Mike. "I don't even really remember."

"Haven't you ever wondered why you can't seem to remember the things most people should? About where they're from? About who you are?" Mike questioned and Beverly swallowed thickly for she knew exactly what Mike was talking about. People had asked her before about her past, but she had never been able to answer them. It was like part of her life was missing from her mind and she had no idea why.

"Why you have that scar on your hand?" Mike questioned once Beverly didn't respond and that was enough to have the red head freeze. She shakily held her hand out, her eyes locking on the scar that ran across the palm of her hand. She had barely even stared at it for a second before she suddenly felt a searing pain grow where the scar was.

"No one else remembered either. Eddie, Bill, Richie, Ben," Mike listed off all while Beverly stared at her hand. But at the mention of the last name, she couldn't help but freeze.

"Ben," she whispered almost in a daze for she hadn't heard that name in a long time. At least not when referring to the boy she used to be best friends with. For a moment she remembered a field and walking along a small path with Ben by her side, the shy boy hesitantly brushing his fingers against her own before Beverly had smiled and taken his hand in hers.

"You have to come back," Mike said, his words finally snapping out of her thoughts long enough for her to look away from her scarred hand and outside at the pouring rain. "You all do."

Beverly got that sinking feeling in her stomach once again, her whole body chilled down to the bone. "When?" she breathed out, her voice barely above a whisper.

It wasn't long before Beverly was off the phone and packing her bags. Her nerves were haywire causing her to frantically rush around while her thoughts jumbled around in her brain. She couldn't even think straight, so it didn't even register to her just how loud she was being until she had grabbed her packed bag and was going to leave her closet only to find her husband standing there.

Beverly jumped back out of pure fright, her eyes wide before she registered that it was her husband standing before her and not—

The red head's thoughts stopped instantly in their tracks. Whatever she had thought was waiting for her was gone and for a moment she wondered what she had been expecting and why she couldn't remember.

"Woah, you okay?" her husband questioned causing the red head to snap back to reality as she looked to him. "What's going on? It's uh. . .the middle of the night and you're packing?"

Beverly was quick to lean up and peck her husband's lips once as she began to walk past him. "I didn't want to wake you," Beverly admitted. "Honey, I know this week's been really exhausting. I just got a phone call from an old friend from Derry. I have to go back there. It's really hard to explain why."

"It's okay," he assured her as he walked over to where she was currently sitting on their bed tying her shoes. He sat down next to her, his face completely blank of emotion, but his voice soft. "You don't have to explain yourself to me. Relax." He reached out and gently took Beverly's hand in his own. "I trust you."

"Thank you," Beverly sighed as she leaned forward and kissed the man once more. She went to get up and grab her bag, but she barely got a step away before her husband was gripping onto her wrist tightly, his fingers digging into her arm hard enough to make the woman wince.

Beverly froze, a sickening feeling growing in her stomach once again but this time the fear was directed at her husband. She slowly turned to look at the man who was staring at the ground shaking his head.

"I just don't understand why you'd lie to me," he said before he looked up at Beverly with an accusing glare. Beverly began to shake her head, but the man ignored it and stood up, pulling her dangerously closer to him. "I heard you. You said the name Mike."

"Yes, my friend," Beverly insisted. "There was a group of us back then and-and we all made a promise to each other when we were kids-"

"You know trust is everything in a relationship," her husband persisted, his grip tightening before he released her in order to reach out and brush his hand against her cheek. Beverly couldn't help but move away ever so slightly from his touch. "You know it means everything to me, right?"

"I know," Beverly told him. "But this isn't-" "What?" her husband asked, letting his hand drop to his side as his gaze grew colder by the second. "Like the last time?" "I never cheated on you," Beverly tried to say as she leaned forward to comfort the man, but he was quick to grab her hair from behind, pulling her back and making Beverly gasp in pain.

"You're a bad fucking liar, Bev," he said behind gritted teeth, tightening his grip on her hair and pulling her down even more that she was bent at an odd angle. "You're not going anywhere, okay? I want you to stay right here and you're going to show me what it is you're going to do with Mike, okay?" He slammed the red head against the wall and Beverly bit her lip to hold back a scream of pain that was begging to escape.

"You're. . .you're hurting me, honey," Beverly muttered but he didn't seem to care. "No one else is going to love you like me, you know that right?" he asked aggressively, not noticing that Beverly had shakily brought her hand up to his cheek until she scratched him across the face. His hold on her instantly dropped and he yelled out in pain while Beverly stood up. Her eyes widened and she was quick to go up behind him, whimpering slightly as she whispered, "I'm. . .I'm sorry."

She didn't even have time to think before her husband was suddenly turning on her and hitting her with his belt as hard as he could. Beverly grabbed onto his arm and he gave her a deathly glare. "Don't make this fucking harder!" he growled and Beverly had to take in a shaky breath to try and calm her nerves. "Don't," she whispered, but it was too late. Her husband threw a punch that knocked her back so hard she fell onto the bed. When she turned around, he had begun to take his shirt off and Beverly felt as if she were going to be sick. Just when he was pulling the shirt over his head, Beverly thrust both of her legs out so that she kicked him back.

He stumbled back with a groan and Beverly tumbled off the side of the bed as she desperately tried to grab something. She could hear him running at her, so the red head grabbed onto a picture frame and threw it at her husband only for him to knock it aside like it were nothing. Just when he was about to grab her, Beverly got onto her feet with a glass vase in hand and smashed it against his head.

Her husband fell to the ground almost instantly and Beverly was quick to grab her things and rush out of the room. "You're nothing without me! You know that, right?" her husband yelled after her as Beverly ran down the rest of the stairs and out the door. She didn't even flinch under the touch of the rain and continued her way down the steps, placing her wedding band on top of the stair railing before walking away as fast as she could.

Beverly didn't know where she was going, the shock of what had just happened carrying her down the middle of the street. She couldn't even process the honking of the cars as she walked, her only thoughts on how she needed to get to Derry.

As she walked down the street, the rushing of water was enough to make her snap out of her senses. Beverly glanced to the side, her eyes instantly locking on the sewer drain beside her. For but a moment, Beverly felt as if there was something trying to break through the back of her memories, a voice screaming at the top of their lungs. She had never felt so uneasy than she did in that moment and Beverly was quick to walk away as fast as she could. She had to get to Derry was what she reminded herself.

Yet she couldn't help but look back at the sewer once more wondering why she felt more afraid of a sewer than she was of her now ex husband.

- - -

Birds and a weird fascination for the animals had always been a part of Stanley Uris' life for as long as he could remember. Something about them just intrigued the man and even to this day he would spend his mornings bird watching in his backyard, his cousin by his side more often than not.

Birds had become a constant theme in his life and the puzzle on the table in front of him was no exception. He stared blankly at an empty place before letting his eyes roam over the small pile of pieces he still had left. His gaze was calculating as he tried to solve the puzzle in his head, but it quickly disappeared as he looked up at the sixteen year old sitting by his side.

Greyson Uris had his gaze locked on his mother who sat beside Stan's wide Patty, the two women whispering between each other as they pointed at something on a computer screen. Stan watched Greyson for a moment, letting his eyes flicker over the messy mop of brown hair he had and the features of his face that looked so much like his cousin. He was without a doubt his cousin's son especially when it came down to his huge heart.

It was obvious by the way Greyson was watching his mother that he was worried and Stan gently nudged the young boy so that he turned to look at him. Stan gave him a soft smile before whispering, "Penny for your thoughts?"

That was enough to crack a small smile on the teen's face, but it flickered as he glanced back at his mother. "I just worry about her is all. She's been working extra shifts at the office the last couple of weeks and I know it's because she's trying to hide the fact she's a little tight on money right now. She keeps trying to act like everything's fine just for my sake, but I can tell she's tired," Greyson admitted, shifting his gaze back to Stan. "I know it's hard being a single mother, but she doesn't have to hide it from me. I just want to help."

Stan stared at the boy for a moment, a small sympathetic smile on his face as a flicker of sadness flashed through his eyes. He knew what Greyson was talking about. His cousin had been struggling to raise enough money to both keep the two up on their feet while also still giving Greyson the childhood she thought he deserved. She was tired and life was becoming heavier on her shoulders every day.

Stan blamed Greyson's father, the man having walked out on his best friend the moment he heard she was pregnant. He left her without a moment of hesitation and didn't bother helping pay child support or make an effort to be a part of Greyson's life.

He had tried once a couple of years back, but the bond between mother and son was unlike any other and Greyson who had been fourteen at the time hadn't hesitated to show the man to the door and tell him never to come back. His cousin had come to Stan crying that night over how sweet her little boy was and how much she loved him and Stan had only grown more respect for the boy ever since.

Greyson's father hadn't been in the picture since and Greyson didn't seem all too upset about it. For as long as he had his mother, he was okay. That's why he was always so worried about her because she was not only his mother but his best friend and had raised him on her own with a little help here and there from Stan and Patty. It had always just been Greyson and and his mother, so it was no surprise for Stan to hear about the boy's concerns.

"Well," Stan began once he noticed Greyson's gaze was back on his mother, "I think your mother just doesn't want to worry you is all. All she wants is for you to have a worry free childhood especially after what happened with her own parents. She doesn't want you to have to go through any of that pain like she did."

Greyson was silent for a moment before he looked to Stan almost hesitantly. "It doesn't mean she can't ask for help," he spoke softly. "All of this is just stressing her out and I don't even remember the last time I saw her genuinely happy."

Stan went silent at that and thought back to the girl he remembered growing up with compared to the woman he knew now. There was definitely a difference in her happiness, but when it came to Greyson she had never loved or cared for someone more. Greyson was what kept her from falling apart and the boy didn't seem to realize how much just being himself helped his mother through the hard times.

"I know it's hard, kid," Stan sighed as he put a hand on the boy's shoulder. "But the best you can do right now is stick by her side and hopefully she will come around. She needs you just as much as you need her." Greyson was quiet for a moment before numbly nodding his head and looking back to the puzzle. Stan took that as an end to the conversation and turned his attention back to the puzzle as well, a comfortable silence falling among the two.

It was minutes later before Greyson spoke up again, his happy demeanor back once again and the conversation from before way behind them. "Here it is," Greyson exclaimed triumphantly as he handed a puzzle piece to Stan who had been staring at a missing piece on the board in concentration.

Stan glanced at the boy before gently taking the puzzle piece and placing it in the spot. It fit perfectly and Stan looked back to Greyson before giving him a small smile, the action making Greyson smile wide in response. “This is why I keep you around," Stan joked as he reached out to ruffle the sixteen year old's hair. Greyson let out a small chuckle and smiled at the man before him, not noticing his mother's gaze from behind.

"Greyson," Y/N Uris softly called out from where she sat beside Stan's wife Patty who was currently scrolling through plane tickets on her computer. The sound of his mother's voice was enough to have Greyson turning to look at the woman and she smiled softly before saying, "Time to go, kid." Greyson instantly frowned. "Come on, Mom. Uncle Stan and I are almost done with the puzzle!" Greyson complained while Stan threw a small smirk in his cousin's direction.

Stan wasn't technically Greyson's uncle, but since Stan was pretty much like a brother to Y/N, Greyson had been calling him his uncle since he could talk. Every time he referred to Stan as Uncle Stan, the Uris cousins couldn't help but smile, and this was found true yet again as the corners of their mouths perked up slightly at Greyson's words.

"I know, Grey, and I'm sorry. However, it's already almost midnight and we've already been here an hour later than we should've," Y/N said, watching as Greyson winced slightly before giving her a shy grin. "I was hoping you wouldn't notice," Greyson admitted making Y/N chuckle as she looked at her son in adoration. The teen was quick to turn around to face his mother completely, a pleading look on his face as he looked at her. "Please, Mom. Just until we finish the puzzle? Come on."

Stan glanced at his nephew before turning around as well and giving his cousin the same pleading face her son was. The two boys then leaned in together and looked over at Y/N who narrowed her eyes at the two.

"You know I hate when you two do that," Y/N muttered as she fought back the urge to yawn. “That's why they do it," Patty chuckled while Y/N let out a small sigh. "Fine," Y/N gave in causing the two boys to smile and high five each other. "But let's pack the car up first. Then you can come back in here and finish the puzzle before we leave."

"Deal," Greyson agreed before he shot up off of the couch to go grab his things. "Don't finish it without me, Uncle Stan!" "Wouldn't dream of it, kid!" Stan called after him while Y/N watched her son race into the front hall to grab his things. Stan glanced over at his cousin and smiled as she walked over to him. "Some kid you got there, Y/N."

"I got lucky, didn't I?" Y/N whispered with a small yet proud smile on her face that Stan couldn't help but return. "We all did," Stan agreed causing Y/N to look at him. The two cousins smiled at each other and Y/N reached out to ruffle her cousin's hair. Stan was tried to lean away with a playful glare on his face and Y/N merely smiled before heading towards the front door.

"We'll be right back. Try not to miss us too much," Y/N joked as she winked back at Stan. The curly haired boy let out a soft chuckle and put a hand to his chest dramatically. "I shall try my hardest," he joked back and the two cousins chuckled before Y/N disappeared out the front door with Greyson at her side.

Stan shook his head at his cousin's antics before noticing his wife staring at him with a small smile on her face. "What?" Stan questioned, quirking an eyebrow at her amusingly. "Nothing. I just wish I had a bond like you and Y/N had is all. You two aren't even siblings and are closer than I was with any of my brothers," Patty spoke up.

"I've been lucky," Stan sighed. "Y/N may not be my actually sister, but she might as well be. After all, it's always been the two of us. For as long as I can remember, I've always had her." A distant look appeared in Stan's eyes before he smiled and shrugged his shoulders. "I guess we're so close because of how much time we've spent together and what we've been through especially with that son of a bitch she used to call her husband," Stan muttered. He was quick to shake the thought of him off and thought back to Y/N.

For a moment he thought he remembered a glimpse of them riding through town on his bike, her arms up in the air as she laughed and yelled for him to pedal faster all while Stan laughed and tried to pedal as fast as he could. However, the memory was quickly gone and for a moment he felt his hand hurt, but he ignored it. “She's my best friend," he admitted before looking over at Patty who was holding a hand against her chest as if her heart were about to burst from how adorable they were. Stan rolled his eyes playfully at his wife before looking back to his puzzle.

Knowing that was the end of the conversation for now, Patty went back to looking at her computer screen while Stan tried to mentally put the pieces where he thought they should go so that he could help Greyson once he returned.

"Should I just book it?" Patty finally asked, referring to the vacation the couple was wanting to go on. "You sure you can get away from work?" "It's summer. Why not?" Stan asked. "I'm sure Y/N wouldn't mind watering the plants and getting the mail for us. We could even have Greyson do it and maybe even pay him. He's been saving up for that new computer for his writing pieces you know." "Okay. We are Buenos Aires bound," Patty announced excitedly while Stan finally noticed that one of the puzzle pieces was missing. He was quick to look under the table and he sighed at the sight of the piece right underneath.

Stan was quick to get down on the floor to grab it and just when he had latched onto the puzzle piece, his phone began to ring. Stan stayed on the floor and glanced up at his phone through the glass table to see who was calling. However, as soon as his eyes latched onto the caller ID he couldn't help but furrow his eyebrows in confusion.

Maine? Now who could possibly be calling from Maine?

Stan sat up and set the puzzle piece down before picking up his phone and placing it to his ear. "Stanley Uris speaking?" he said. "It's Mike," the person on the other line replied almost instantly and Stan furrowed his eyebrows even more. Mike? "I'm sorry?" Stan said, hoping the man would elaborate more. "Mike Hanlon," the voice said and Stan swore his heart stopped beating completely. "From Derry."

It took but a second for Stan to make the connection of the caller to the Mike Hanlon he had used to be best friend with when he was younger. He had been a homeschooler and Stan suddenly got a flashback of an intense rock war with Henry Bowers and his gang as him, Y/N, and his other friends had saved Mike from the bullying he was receiving.

However, that one memory seemed to open up the gateway for all of his memories, everything snapping back into place in his mind like a puzzle that hadn't been completed in years. Stan could remember everything down to his life when he had lived in Derry, the summers Y/N would spend down there with him, the laughs he had with Bill and Richie and Eddie, the summer Y/N's parents had got a divorce and sent her to stay with him—Stan froze at that.

The summer of 1989. Now that was a memory he wish he still couldn't remember. Although not all of it he wanted to forget. After all, that was the summer he met Mike Hanlon, Beverly Marsh, and Ben Hanscom. That was the summer he and Y/N created a bond that made their friendship as strong as it was today. The bad memories was what he wanted to forget—the Neibolt House, the lady from the painting, It.

"Mike. God, sorry. Yes. Hi. I don't know why I. . .I didn't um. . ." Stan trailed off and it was then that he remembered something that he really wished he hadn't.

The promise.

Stan's blood ran cold at that memory, his whole body so numb that it was like he wasn't there in the moment even though he knew he was. He breathing was shaky and he felt the sudden urge to throw up. All he could feel was fear and he knew exactly why that was. But this couldn't be real. It hadn't been that long had it? There was no way.

"How long has it been?" Stan finally found himself asking, his hand gripping onto his phone tightly as his voice shook. "A long time," Mike admitted and the fact that he didn't tell Stan an exact number was enough to make Stan's stomach drop. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end and Stan gulped as he pulled himself up onto his feet. He wasn't the same thirteen year old from that summer, but for some reason he felt like the Stanley Uris who had been too afraid to walk into the Neibolt without his cousin holding onto his hand.

Maybe if Y/N had been by his side right then instead of out by her car, Stan would've felt better, but for some reason he felt as if he couldn't tell her. They had never spoken about what happened that summer and if Stan hadn't been able to remember until Mike called them Y/N sure as hell didn't remember. He did not need her worrying about that right now, not when she had a kid to worry about.

"Twenty seven years," Mike finally said after a long silence, confirming Stan's suspicions and causing the boy to stumble slightly as he tried to stand back up. Thankfully Patty was too focused on the Buenos Aires trip she was finalizing to notice Stan and for a split second he wanted to tell her to not bother for he had a feeling they would never get to go on that trip together.

"It's come back, hasn't it?" Stan whispered, his voice shakier now so that he knew Mike had to have heard. "That's why you're calling." "It's starting again, Stan. Bad things are happening," Mike admitted while Stan squeezed his eyes shut in disbelief. It was like with each second that passed, he was becoming more and more consumed by his fear. This couldn't be happening. There was no way.

"Did. . .did you call the others? I mean what if. . .what if they don't come back?" Stan questioned, hoping that Mike would say someone wasn't coming and that he could stay home and forget this whole thing ever happened. All he wanted to do was take Patty, Y/N, and Greyson and keep them away from this whole thing. He wanted to keep them in this house, lock all the doors, and refuse to come out. All he needed was to have those three by his side and he would be okay.

"Everyone except for Y/N. But we made a promise, remember?" Mike reminded him, his words causing Stan to feel even more sick than before once he realized there was no getting out of this. He wouldn't be able to just ignore this and his thoughts flickered over to Greyson and Y/N, how Y/N would no doubt go back to make sure everyone was safe and how devastated Greyson would be if anything were to happen to her. Stan knew if anything were to happen to Y/N it would be because of his own cowardice and that was enough to make Stan feel even worse.

"How soon can you get here?" Mike asked. "Well. . .uh. . .I uh. . .I would need to do a few things. I would-" Stan muttered, his eyes closing once again as sheer panic and fear coursed through his veins. "Tomorrow," Mike decided for him and it took all of Stan not to throw up right there. "We don't have much time. I'll text you everything you need. I'll see you soon, Stan the Man."

Stan didn't even have time to respond before Mike had hung up, but the man didn't move and merely kept the phone up limply in the air with his eyes closed, his face pale as he stared blankly at the wall. He didn't even notice when Y/N and Greyson had returned, the teen hurrying over to the puzzle almost instantly while Y/N look to her cousin with a smile.

However, it disappeared at the sight of him and she was quick to go to his side and place a hand on his arm. "Stanley?" Y/N whispered, her soft voice making the man's eyes snap open almost instantly. "Are you okay?" Stan looked to her at that and Y/N blinked in surprise at the look that dawned her cousin's face. She had never seen him this way, never seen him look so afraid. What kind of phone call could make him that scared? "I'm fine," Stan assured her although his shaky voice was enough to make her narrow her eyes slightly at him as she tried to read him.

Stan just gave the girl a small smile which she knew was forced and gently took her hand off of his arm before holding onto it the same way they would hold hands when they were kids. He gave it the smallest squeeze and for a moment Y/N felt as if she were back in Stan's backyard when they were younger. watching birds fly by in the early morning. "Seriously," he whispered and Y/N gave him a look that said she didn't believe him but that she would drop it for now. Stan knew they would have to talk about it eventually if Y/N had any say in it, but little did she knew that they never would.

"Uncle Stan, care to do the honors?" Greyson asked as he looked up to his uncle with a small smile, holding the last puzzle piece up in the air. Any other night Stan would've told Greyson to be the one to finish the puzzle, but he was eager to take the distraction and get away from his cousin's calculating look. He went and sat beside Greyson and Y/N watched as Stan hesitated as he stared at her son, his eyes flickering over Greyson as if he were never going to see him again and was trying to memorize this moment right here. But before Y/N could send him a questioning look, Stan had snapped out of it and was putting the puzzle piece in its place, bringing the puzzle to an end.

It wasn't long after that that the two families found themselves out on the front porch saying goodbye. They were lucky enough to only live a few neighborhoods down, but for some reason Stan acted as if they wouldn't see each other for a long time and that was enough to give Y/N an unsettling feeling that she quickly pushed aside.

"Uncle Stan," Greyson said as he pulled away from Patty's hug to look to his uncle. "I was thinking maybe we could go to the bookstore later this week. You know how my favorite author is that Bill Denbrough guy, right? He's coming out with a movie soon and released a special edition copy of his book The Attic Room that I was wanting to pick up." Stan blinked in surprise, finally putting together why Greyson's favorite author had a name that had sounded so familiar. How had he not realized it before?

Stan suddenly got a memory of looking out the window to see Y/N and Bill walk up to his house hand in hand on the day they had made the promise, the two exchanging a small kiss that left them both with goofy smiles on their faces before Stan had teased his cousin endlessly about them. His eyes instantly flickered over to Y/N, trying to see if any sort of recognition flickered across her face at the mention of her first love, but there was none. She was too busy discussing some last minute things with Patty and hugging his wife to really pay attention and Stan couldn't help but wonder how Y/N would react upon seeing Bill again.

He found himself hoping that Bill wasn't married. After all, Y/N deserved to live a happy life and the Bill he remembered would have done anything to give it to her. If Bill was still the same Bill he remembered, then he would not only be a perfect match for Y/N, but a perfect father figure to Greyson. The thought was enough to put the smallest of smiles on Stan's face despite everything going on and the thought of Y/N, Bill, and Greyson finally getting to live a happy life after It was defeated was the only reassuring thing for Stan at the moment, the only thing keeping him calm.

Stan turned his eyes back to his nephew and smiled as he pulled the boy in for a hug. "Sounds like a plan, kid," Stan told him, knowing that he had to act as if everything were okay. Greyson was quick to hug his uncle back before pulling away, allowing his uncle to ruffle his hair once before he let his mother go to Stan.

Y/N stopped in front of her cousin, her eyes hesitantly flickering over his face as if she were trying to determine if Stan was actually okay or not. Stan could do nothing more than look at the girl, swallowing thickly as he knew she was going to be in for a world of pain and that he wouldn't be able to help her. He wanted to say he was sorry for being so selfish and to explain himself right then and there, but he knew he couldn't. Y/N would try to stop him and then his reckless actions against It would get her killed. So Stan just let himself take in the girl that stood before him as he struggled to hold back the tears that he knew were begging to break free.

Before Y/N could notice that, Stan was pulling her in for a hug, the action making Y/N chuckle and hug him back instantly. There was so much Stan wanted to say, so much he wanted to tell her, but he knew he couldn't. At least not right now.

"I love you," Stan finally decided on saying, the words being a normal between the two but something that held more meaning in that moment than Y/N would ever know. Y/N hugged her cousin harder at that before pulling away to look at the face of her best friend. "I love you too, Stanley," she whispered. "I'll see you tomorrow, yeah?" She tilted her head her so slightly and gave him a grin that made his heart ache.

"Yeah," he told her, nodding despite the heavy feeling in his heart. Y/N smiled softly at that and reached up to ruffle his hair, not knowing it would be her last time. Stan didn't even try and pull away like usual and just enjoyed his cousin's touch before sending her a small smile which she easily returned.

Y/N then pulled away and began to walk down the stairs. All Stan wanted to do was pull her back and hug her again, but he knew it would only make her more suspicious than she already was. So when she turned back to wave at him and Patty one last time, Stan put on a fake smile and waved to her just like he did every other time she left. He would give her no indication that this would be the last time, no reason to hold her back from going to meet with the Losers. Y/N turned and whispered something to Greyson who smiled before wrapping an arm around his mother as they walked to the car. Stan couldn't help but smile at the sight, knowing that the two would be okay as long as they had each other.

And with that, Stanley Uris watched as his cousin got into her car and drove off, knowing that everything he was about to do was only so her and Greyson would be safe in the end.

- - -

"Bill Denbrough," Y/N muttered, confusion evident in her voice as she stared at the book Greyson was currently reading. Greyson's honey brown eyes instantly flickered to her, a small smile on his face as he brushed his brown hair away from his eyes. "Still the best author of all time," Greyson said as he sat down on his bed beside his mother. "His endings aren't the best, but they aren't bad either. I was hoping we could try and go see his new movie when it comes out?"

"Of course we can, kiddo," Y/N assured the boy as she got up and set the book down on his nightstand next to the printed copies of Greyson's work which were really just alternate endings to this Bill Denbrough guy's books, pushing aside her thoughts of how the name sounded so familiar.

That was the moment her phone decided to ring and Y/N sighed before taking her phone out of her pocket. Her eyebrows furrowed slightly at the sight of a number from Maine calling her and she glanced at her son who had already picked the book back up to read.

"I'm gonna take this. I'll come check on you in a little bit, okay?" Y/N said, knowing her son wouldn't be going to bed anytime soon since they had only just gotten back from Stan's. Greyson hummed in response and Y/N was quick to walk out of his room before pressing the accept button and putting the phone to her ear.

"Hello?" she questioned. "Is this Y/N Uris?" a voice asked and Y/N frowned ever so slightly as she walked down the stairs and towards the kitchen to grab something to drink. "This is she. May I ask who is calling?" Y/N asked. "This is Mike," the man explained and just when Y/N was about to question him further, he went on as if he had said it multiple times before. "Mike Hanlon from Derry."

Y/N stopped in her tracks at that and for a brief moment it was like she was standing in the middle of a blizzard, her whole body so cold that she could barely think straight. Her hands began to shake and she could hear her heart beating in her chest. Yet she had no idea why she was so scared all of a sudden. Why was she filled with so much fear? However, the fear began to dim ever so slightly as a sharp pain went through her head, images flashing by as she heard the distant sound of children laughing, remembering the feeling of splashing into water before playing chicken fight with the people she used to call her best friends.

She remembered them all only momentarily starting with the boy she was talking to right now, Mike Hanlon, the boy who had been homeschooled all of his life and who she had saved from Henry Bowers when she threw a rock at his head. She remembered Ben Hanscom, the boy who loved New Kids on the Block and would spend countless hours in the library researching Derry. She remembered Beverly Marsh, the fiery red head who was also the first girl best friend that she had ever had. Then there was Richie Tozier, the boy who liked to flirt way too much and say more crude jokes then one could count but who had a big heart when it counted most. There was Eddie Kaspbrak, the boy who had been like her brother and who she used to calm down during some of his little episodes. Of course there was her cousin Stanley, but she already remembered him.

And then there was Bill Denbrough. No wonder the name had sounded so familiar. She had known him. He had been her best friend and the boy she had crushed on for forever. Her shaky hands went up to her lips and for a split second she remembered a warm September afternoon and the feeling of a soft pair of lips against her own. However it disappeared just a quick, almost as if it were nothing but a dream.

How could she have forgotten about him? How could she have forgotten about any of them? How could she have forgotten about the Losers?

"Mike," Y/N breathed out in disbelief, a smile dawning her face as her fear was pushed to a back burner. "It's been so long. How are you?" "You need to come home," Mike said and Y/N furrowed her eyebrows but kept her smile on her face. "I'm sorry. What?" she questioned. “You need to come home, Y/N," Mike repeated and Y/N's smile fell from her face as the fear suddenly cane back although she didn't know why.

The girl winced as a sudden pain shot through her hand. Y/N quickly glanced down at her hand and didn't understand why she felt so sick at the sight of the scar that ran across her palm. However, she had a sneaking suspicion it was because she hadn't even known she had a scar on her palm up until that moment. "When?" she found herself asking, but she didn't ask the question that she was dying to know the answer to, afraid of what the answer might be despite not knowing it herself. "Tomorrow," Mike replied and there was a long moment of silence as Y/N tried to process everything. She honestly had no clue what was going on, but she knew she had to get to Derry. She wasn't sure why, but she just had a feeling and she knew her fear and queasy stomach would not relent until she was back in Derry.

"I'll be there," Y/N whispered, her voice shaky as she squeezed her throbbing hand shut. "Great. I'll see you there, Y/N," Mike's voice whispered in her ear and Y/N knew she should've been excited to see her friend after so long, but all she felt was another wave of nausea. She didn't even wait for Mike to hang up and did it herself before staring blankly at her phone.

“Fuck.”

- - -

"I don't understand. One of your childhood friends calls you in the middle of the night saying that you have to get to Derry which is in Maine by the way and you're just packing everything up and going?" Greyson questioned in disbelief, his eyes following his mother around the room as she frantically threw stuff into a suitcase. Y/N paused for a just a moment and gave her son a nervous look. "Yes?" she said in a questioning voice before going back to packing. She didn't know how to explain it to her son, how to tell him that she had made a promise that she didn't necessarily remember and that she had to get back. Hell, she didn't even know how to explain to him that one of her childhood friends happened to be the author Greyson admired so much.

"Mom," Greyson said and that was enough to have the woman looking over at him. The sixteen year old was leaning against the doorframe of her bedroom, his brown eyes staring at her in concern as he tried to read her, as he tried to understand despite just how tired he was. Y/N sighed and walked over to the boy who stood up a bit straighter. She gently took his hands in her own and stared at her son before saying, "Greyson, honey, I need you to try and work with me here. I honestly don't know why I'm going, but I have to, okay? It's a gut feeling. You just. . .you got to trust me on this." Greyson was silent for a moment as he stared at her and Y/N could practically see the gears moving in his head before he finally let up and gave her a tiny nod. "I trust you," he assured her and Y/N smiled before leaning forward to press a small kiss to her son's forehead. "Thank you," she whispered. "Now go finish packing your things. You can sleep in the car. It's a long way to Maine from here, kid."

Greyson nodded and was quick to do as his mother said, disappearing up the stairs to finish packing while Y/N rushed back to her own things. It wasn't long before they were loading their things into the car and Y/N had returned to her frantic state once again, completely forgetting about her cousin who had to have been going through the same thing as her at that very moment.

They were on the road less than thirty minutes after the call, but it wouldn't be until they were two hours into the drive that Y/N would realize she left her phone sitting on top of her bed at the house. It was that same phone that now had three missed calls from Patty Uris.

If Y/N had known what was going to happen once she got to Derry, she would've turned around right then. But she didn't, so Y/N just drove down the road, her nerves being enough to keep her awake while Greyson slept soundlessly in the passenger seat beside her.

Neither Uris knew what would be in store for them when they reached Derry and the horrors Y/N had witness twenty seven years earlier? They were nothing compared to what was ahead.

- - -

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mimzy-writing-online · 4 years

Note

Hey!! I was wondering if you had any advice for a character concept I've been playing with? :) long story short, my character wasn't born blind, but throughout the story she progressively becomes blind from cataracts- cortical vision impairment to be exact. Is this inherently a bad concept? I really don't want to misrepresent this, and the last thing I want is to make people mad about it. Is there a way I should go about this? Thanks!!

Later message from same Anon: Hey! Just following up on my ask of writing a blind character in the Victorian era- sorry if I missed it

Note: in a message between the first and third, anon added that this story takes place in the Victorian era.

You certainly did not miss it, I’ve just been lazy (struggling) with blog maintenance and have been procrastinating answering several asks. Historical fiction is out of my area of expertise, so this required more research than general advice.

Also, my first and second attempts at an answer were eaten away by computer/tumblr difficulties, so I had to rewrite a lot.

I think it is a fantastic idea to have your character go blind slowly over time. It is also ambitious, so it is something you need to be careful with, but it’s totally doable.

So the era throws me a little because I’ve never had much practice with historical fiction and history wasn’t a fave subject of mine. Most of my research into blind history has been after World War I, because the sudden surge of blinded veterans changed the course of history for the blind community. This and technology overall led to those huge changes.

So I did a little reading up on the recent evolutions of blindness and the world’s general understanding of it in the 1800s.

Conclusion: society was shit with disability, but I already knew that. There were some remarkable inventions and innovations for blindness in this century, which I will get to later.

So this post will be: 1. The more personal aspects of going blind over time (instead of all at once) such as acceptance vs denial, life changes, and internalized ableism. 2. Speculating on society’s perception of the blind. 3. Innovations for the blind in that era and what comes after.

So, part one. The Emotional…

As someone who has slowly lost vision over the course of years and has no idea how far this will progress, I can tell you that it’s an agonizing process of realization, denial, understanding, acceptance, adaption.

Realizing you’re going blind comes in small pieces that eventually add up to become a puzzle. And for this reason, adaption follows a similar pattern.

You identify a problem, feel conflicted about this change, wonder if you should ignore or investigate, and regardless of which path you take, you find a new way to adapt.

I’m going to use an example of my process through this, so you can see the actual thought patterns and how they circle between “this isn’t a problem” – “wait this is a problem” – “no I’m fine!” – “this is a problem.” – “I’m fine, what am I complaining for” – “I made this change and now my life is 100x easier??? Who knew? Why didn’t I do this sooner?”

Example from my life: Light is bright. That hurts but I’m fine. I get sunglasses. The pain with bright light is getting worse. Okay, that’s concerning, maybe I should talk to a doctor. Doctor says I’m fine but now I’m thinking I’m not okay. Why are my eyes doing this? Why do I hurt? Oh, and now bright lights at night are becoming a problem, and I get more headaches associated with light. I could wear sunglasses at night and indoors, but society has given me a negative and judgemental opinion of that, so I don’t want to do it. Best friend pushes me to give up on that negative view for the sake of my health. Finally I listen and life feels much better, but I’m still a little uncomfortable with this change. I feel very blind with my sunglasses, but that’s the only way to not feel pain. And now I feel blind when I’m not wearing any light protection, but I’m in pain this way. What’s wrong with me?

And this is just my internal argument with sunglasses and light sensitivity, from age 17-22. On the other side is my struggle with “do I need a cane” from age 21-22, which goes like this-

It’s August and I’m walking through a semi-familiar but gigantic and ridiculously crowded park with a group of friends. It’s bright out and I need to wear my sunglasses. And now I’m realizing there is a dilemma. I can’t see. My sunglasses are too dark to see. But going without is painful and just as bad vision wise. BUT I CAN’T SEE! I’m scared, I’m going to run into someone or something, I’ll get lost or separated from my friends and not be able to find them. I can’t see curbs or pillars or people and the only thing keeping me safe is holding onto K, who knows my current vision situation when no one else does

And I think to myself- this day would be so much easier if I had a cane.

But I haven’t needed one before, and I don’t ‘normally’ need one. Just every time I go outside on a sunny day. I don’t need it all the time, so I can’t have one, I’m fine.

But these things keep happening, where I’m outside and terrified but I think I’m still “sighted” and my only problem is some light sensitivity and not-super-great sunglasses. My glasses let me see 20/20 (or they did, which they did not a year later) so I definitely don’t need a cane at all.

Young past self, you were so wrong. You needed that.

Eventually I had a breaking point when one year later I’m seeing 20/50 with best correction (so, by legal definitions I’m not even visually impaired yet) but I’m terrified of leaving my house and can’t travel alone and am a literal danger to myself because I can’t see and can’t tell people I can’t see because of social anxiety and internalized ableism-

And the breaking point was that I finally got seriously hurt because I was in a situation where I couldn’t see and wasn’t brave enough to ask my current company to be a sighted guide. That’s the day I ordered a cane, and when it came two weeks ago, I finally remembered what it’s like to not be so terrified for my life every time I left my home.

Your character will over time find problems with her daily life that she didn’t have before, and she’ll deal with each one individually, but with all of them will usually be a repeating thought pattern that is unique to her. It depends on her internalized ableism and society’s ableism (and that era is full of it) and accommodations available to them at the time (also not great).

She’ll solve each problem at a different point that may coincide with other problems and yet still seem like entirely separate problems to them. Like how I wouldn’t relate my need for sunglasses and my need for a cane at the same time because they felt like separate battles to me with their own timelines and similar but still different thought processes.

You will have to decide on a case by case basis what accommodations or accessibility she can have at that time.

Society’s view on blindness:

It’s shit.

It’s not great now, in the world of information available at your fingertips. It’s desperately worse in history.

(TW: abuse of disabled people mentioned -thoroughly- in the next two paragraphs)

Everyone with a disability was treated like shit. Sensory disabilities (Deaf or Blind or Deafblind people) and mental illness were treated the worst. There is historical religious persecution against them, saying that they were made ill by the devil or a vengeful God. Which lead to abuse. They were seen as helpless or unproductive, defective, and so were treated as burdens upon their family and society. Because of this, abuse from parents and family members was horribly common for disabled people. Disabled people were often left in asylums by their family members because they were seen as a burden, where there was usually still more abuse to come.

There are still children with disabilities who are abused by their parents, families, care givers, or any facility they’ve been placed in. The cases of abuse are less, but by no means over.

Ableism in general is just rampant and it’s only cured through the distribution of information. Most people (today) have never met a blind person in real life, had a conversation with one. Through the internet they can find information, but in pre-internet and media eras I can’t imagine how much ignorance runs about.

Most people think blindness is something that only happens with old age, birth defects, or tragic accidents. Or that blindness is obvious in a person. Not the case, as we both know, but certainly a cause for many misunderstandings.

This section is where the development of technology and understanding of blind people begins, but there’s still some ugly history involving abuse of the disabled to come.

Technology and History

(TW: abuse towards historical disabled people in next paragraph)

In 1785 the Institut National des Jeunes Aveugles, the world’s very first school for the blind was established in Paris, France. It was opened internationally to children who society had previously deemed unteachable. Valentin Haüy witnessed acts of bullying and cruelty done to blind hospice patients and it inspired him to attempt teaching a blind beggar. He taught the boy to read through raised letters (because Braille was not yet invented). The school he founded could better be described as a trade school, because its primary purpose was to teach work skills like letter press and weaving (going back to Valentin’s childhood, whose family worked as weavers)

Due to criminal activity (he was labeled as a terrorist related to the French Revolution and was a member of the Panthéon Club) he was forced to leave the school in 1802. He later moved to Russia (1806) and began a new school upon the request of Alexander I of Russia.

(TW: child abuse mention in next paragraph)

After his leave, the school had a change in leadership and location, and subsequently quality. Sébastien Guillié became the new director and was later forced to leave because of the inhumane conditions of the facility and welfare of the children. Those children lived in a French Revolution prison that was refurbished as an asylum/school for their education. It was cold and dirty. They were kept in the dark, only allowed to bathe once a month, and poorly fed. This went on until 1821 when he was forced to leave.

Louis Braille (the inventor of Braille) was a student of the school until Guillié’s reign of terror.

The school was later moved to Boulevard des Invalides, and it remains there today. Information with this school is hard for me to access. It doesn’t have the prettiest history, so I can only speculate how much was left out of the books to save the school, and what information I could access is in French.

However, back to Braille.

Braille was invented by Frenchman Louis Braille in 1824. Before his invention, he was taught to read through raised lettering, and he concluded that raised lettering was impractical because-

1. It is difficult to read, the letters had to be printed in huge font to be fully felt out and printed on thick paper.

2. Thick paper means higher quality, more expensive. Larger font means more paper is needed for a single text.

3. This made it inaccessible due to expense and the sheer volume of a text.

4. If today’s Braille books are hard to access and giant compared to traditional books, I can’t imagine how inaccessible those raised letter books really were

Five years later The Perkins School for the Blind was founded in America, making education accessible to blind and deafblind children, and this time it focused on reading and mathematics, more education than trade school.

Though it would not have been possible for your character to attend the school herself, it could be possible that she became acquainted with a teacher or former student of either school, who might have passed on some O&M skills to her or some not so pleasant tales.

Side note: the Perkins Brailler (a typewriter machine for Braille) was developed by a wood working teacher at the Perkins School for the Blind – in 1951, so not applicable to your character’s time period, but I didn’t know this, so I must info-dump

This is before the eugenics movement of 20th century America, when the belief that people with “poor breeding” should be prevented from breeding. The eugenics movement targeted not only the disabled, but lower class and people of color.

The white cane as an accessibility tool was not “discovered” until the 1930’s by Philip Strong, who painted his walking stick white to make himself more visible. This piece of history is a little flimsy in my opinion. Techniques are discovered and lost and rediscovered all the time. You can’t prove he was the first person to “wave a stick” in front of him to find obstacles.

But he is credited for making the white cane something that could be a standard identifier to tell people (moving obstacles) “hey, I’m blind, don’t hit me with your loud vehicle” and made a movement of other people getting white canes to identify themselves.

I very much thank him for it, seeing as I’m so sighted-passing sometimes. If white canes weren’t standard everyone-must-know-what-this-means sort of thing, I think people would just watch me “wave a stick” around and think I’d lost my mind.

(TW: suicide of disabled character mention in next paragraph)

So when you see something like in Downton Abby (season 2) when Thomas and Sybil are trying to teach a blinded soldier how to use a cane to navigate… it could be possible, something that actually occurred to some people then. Although, now that I think about it, that character killed himself by the end of the episode and that still upsets me.

Downton Abby got the period-typical ableism right, I will give them that. Both the internalized ableism as well as how strangers treat you, they got that right. What they did to their disabled characters still bothers me (i.e. death and cure subplots)

(TW has been lifted, you made it past.)

But with World War 1, there was a huge number of blinded veterans entering the world and that did make way for big changes in the world of blindness-

Within a few decades guide dogs were being trained, white canes were becoming a thing, Schools for the Blind were thinking, “hey, maybe we should teach adults these skills too!” and life continued on until it eventually reached out modern world. Which, not applicable to your era, but I think it’s important to know what wasn’t available or common knowledge for your character.

If anyone has other information about historical fiction, the Victorian era, and historical ableism and disability, please feel free to reblog with your input and I’ll reblog it.

As always, this post can be found on my blog through the tags: reference, blind character, historical fiction

#writeblr #writing advice #writing community #historical fiction #blind character #writing advice written by me #victorian era #Anonymous

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t-lostinworlds · 5 years

Text

I basically ranted and this got so long so I don’t want to bother anyone so I’m putting a cut haha

Okay, as most of you know I really do take sooooo long when updating full fics or just writing them in general and I just wanted to share my thought process on writing fics. And also this is for me to really wrap my head around it because I keep asking myself:

Why do I take so long to write?

First and Foremost, the why I can't write most times:

Sometimes I don't get inspired to write. Like I know where the fic starts and how it’s going to end and what’s going to happen but I just can’t write it into words. It’s all a movie in my head and I can’t write it sometimes.

Time. I get busy and I just don't have the time.

But when I do have the time, I get stuck and just can't seem so write anything at all. Writer’s Block is my best friend you see haha

Distractions, Laziness, Procrastination. The Big Three, put them all together and boom lol

I can't write when I'm not alone, and I’m not alone most times. Truly. When my sister or parents are around, I just can't write lol. And no I don't have my own room since me and my sister share a room. Hence why I wait till she falls asleep.

I also found that inspiration mostly strikes me after hours. Like starting midnight until the morning. And that sucks because then I have to choose between writing or sleep. And that's a hard choice since I love sleep so much haha. Like I want to write but my eyes are basically burning and then my head starts to hurt so...

But when I do write and have the drive to do so, this is why I take so long:

OVERTHINKING

Yup. I overthink like a lot. When writing full fics, I want it to be as realistic as possible so I put in the time to research and really think if this is possible in real life. I'm really having a hard time in grasping that it is fictional. And that it's my fic, I'm the writer and I can do as one pleases since I basically control that world right? But nope, I keep thinking: is this realistic enough? Is this possible in the real world? Is this believable?

I like to think that my reason is that sometimes I read a non-AU fic and then I read this part and then I go like, wait how did that happen? Why did they do that? Like it's just too confusing and sometimes even dumb in a sense like in horror movies where the main actor goes into that room when they hear something and then they get killed because they should've just left the house you know? Or like when Dora keeps asking where that fucking house is when it's literally in front of her (lol kidding I love Dora.)

And I don't want my fic to seem unrealistic in that way. Do I even make sense? 😂

For example: Words Cut Like Knives 2.

I kept thinking about how on freaking earth do I make this a good enough happy ending without having the reader be naive and dumb and just forgive Shawn just because he's, well, Shawn. So I thought so hard and long about how do I make them be together but not let it be toxic you know? Like realistically, what would be the healthiest way to approach this relationship that they still end up together.

I also spent sooooo much time thinking about Shawn's reason. On how not to make it a BS reason where in real life, you really shouldn't just forgive him since he's done an asshole move blah blah, Like i don’t want to make it seem like Shawn has an advantage just because he’s Shawn. It’s just in a sense of what would actually happen if this were in a real life situation.

Another example: Duplicate.

I spent sooo much time thinking about a good enough reason on why management would want Peter to not exist in Shawn's life. Like I don't want it to be a half-assed reason where Shawn can realistically just say no at, or just an easy turn down in the real world you know? I want a reason that would make it hard to pass in a sense that it's close to no choice.

And then after I got that established, I then think about HOW on earth could they hide Peter when he's almost an exact replica of Shawn? Like surely people would notice that right especially when the live in the same area? When he's walking around the street and then a fan sees him and this happens or when Peter is with his mum in the grocery store blah blah or if I'm a family gathering they get photographed together and my mind goes batshit.

Hell even in the hospital scene. Since I haven't really spent that much time at hospitals, I have no clue what's in there. So I spent sooooo much time researching about what time are the visiting hours, is there a waiting chair outside the emergency room, are people even allowed in the ICU, what machines would be hooked for a person in a coma, what would put a person in a coma, what injuries would a person acquire from a car crash, what are the words to describe this and that, vital signs, TBI, would it be realistic for Shawn to live if he hit his head and the list goes on and on and on.

Like I want that when the doctor speaks to them, she really sounds like a real doctor and not just someone who says "broken bones, we don't know when he'll wake up" like, half-assed you know?

And now part 5 where Peter meets the PR girlfriend. The reason why I'm having a hard time finishing it is I keep rewriting it and thinking about ways on how not to make it obvious that it's PR if u get what I mean lol. Like what they should do for it to seem realistic, what NOT to do for people to think it's fake etc etc etc.

Like sure I can just tell myself. So what, it's your fic, you decide what happens. But I just can't. Like I don't want to spread the wrong information on stuff I know very little about you know? I want my fic to be as realistic as possible which is kinda stupid? since it is fiction

But it's just because I get scared that when people read it, they would be like: this is wrong. Why is this happening, it's not possible. This does not make any sense. This doesn't happen in real life. Etc.

See? I really do overthink a lot haha.

And also, I don't write a part of a fic just for the sake of writing it. I write a part of a fic as a build up for the future if ya get what I mean? Like I already have a clue how Duplicate ends but I want it to build up to there, not just happen quick and straight to the point. Or make it unrealistic where they fall in love two chapters in. I want each scene to have a purpose and how it helps the character grow. Basically Character Arcs in a sense.

So I spent so much time plotting what happens next and how I can connect one part to the next.

I have it all in my notes. I'd like to show you guys but I don't want to spoil hehe.

But then when I sit down and write it, it then goes back to the reasons up top that I've listed, along with a few sprinkles of overthinking haha.

Heck, even seeing the same word in one paragraph irks me. Which is soooo extra but I'm a perfectionist and ugh. It's tiring sometimes.

Like when I write:

She looked up at him with a smile, her eyes looking straight into his eyes as she nodded.

See that two 'look' and 'eyes' words? Yup. That doesn't sit well with me. I then change that to:

She looked up at him with a smile, her gaze meeting his as she hummed in agreeance with a curt nod.

Which does make it better but when I keep doing that in every single sentence or paragraph then it’s very time consuming.

I'm very extra aren't I? Haha.

And lastly, I also don’t think I’m that great of a writer. Yup, it’s a self esteem thing but i think that’s the very reason why I overthink so much about my works. Like i want it to be good enough for myself and for the ones who will read it. As they say, You are your own toughest critic and gosh i really do take that to heat. But maybe i can gain my confidence bit by bit and I will get to the point where i won’t worry about everything too much haha.

Anyhow, If you guys can just see how chaotic this post is, then that's exactly how chaotic my mind is when writing.

I don't know why but I just wanted to share this and maybe even make myself see on what I can do to make this easier for myself hahaha.

If you've reached the end, wow I applaud you and I will love you till the day I die ❤️

Okay I'm done. Haha. Gosh, back to writing 😂

#ramblings #about me #writing

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melalot · 6 years

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Confused Pt 1 [Rewritten]

I rewrote this chapter, and a lot did change! The beginning not so much, but the reason in the rewrite was that I thought I could write this better? And I left out a bunch of things that I felt like were needed in the story. I'm sorry for the long wait, but hopefully, I can get the last chapter out soon! Feedback is always appreciated!

Ao3 link

8 Years Old Lance was having recess outside in the school playground when he saw a group of kids circling around this boy. He noticed how all of the students seemed very interested in what one of his classmates had to say with the way their heads would lean in closer to the sound of his voice, and the way their eyes never left the boys face. He had never seen so many kids listen to someone this way, not even the teachers. Curiosity got the best of him so he trotted his way over to see what was getting everyone’s attention. When he got close enough to listen, the boy said, "And they told me they were gay!" Lance thought to himself. Gay? What does that mean? As if someone had read his mind, another kid asked, "What is that? What does gay mean?" The boy who was sharing this new word look at his classmate and began to explain. "It's when two boys date, like a girl and a boy, do. But my mom told me it wasn't normal and that it wasn't okay." Everyone's eyes went wide, they had never heard about two boys dating. Lance had never heard of this either, he doesn't even think much of dating, he's only 8. Before the conversation could continue the teachers started calling out to the students meaning that recess was over and instruction time was going to start again. As Lance started getting in alphabet order to line up for class, he couldn't help but think about what he just heard. It isn't natural the boy had said. It's not okay, the boys' words repeated in his head. And Lance thought to himself, why is it not?

xxxxxxxx 12 Years Old Lance was in 6th grade now. While all the other kids went to a regular middle school, he went to attend the Galaxy Garrison. Lance had always dreamed of becoming a fighter pilot and flying a spaceship to Mars. He got lucky enough to get into the Garrison. But, even though it was a school to prepare you to go up into Space, you still had to take the same curriculum you would normally take in a typical school. And honestly, Lance appreciated that. He needed something that grounded him to normality. He needed to be busy with work that wouldn’t be about the same thing constantly and that wouldn’t bore him to death. He had to feel like he could fit in with those that were outside of this small cramped up facility. He wanted to know about more than just Space. He wanted to endure the same struggles the people outside of the Garrison would. He didn’t want to be different. Things seemed to be going how Lance had hoped for with things being normal.

On his first day of attending the Garrison Lance had laid his eyes on this girl with shiny, short black hair and glimmering emerald eyes. His heart thumped rapidly, and suddenly he lost focus of his surroundings. This girl was cute. Lance wanted to talk to her but, the bell had rung before he could have a chance. Lance thought about what his older brother Marco had told him before he started school. He said something about him entering the age of girls and crushes and that eventually, he is going to fall for one. And being Marco, he gave him some flirting tips, and how to win a girl over. Lance didn’t think much of it at first. He thought Marco was crazy. But, then his family had chimed in and said how he must prepare. Then he thought, that maybe it wasn’t so crazy, and they were truly trying to help.

But other than his crush on Jenny, Lance had encountered bigger problems.

By that he means puberty.

And he just learned how puberty is a real bitch. Recently Lance had gone to the beach with a couple of his new friends from the Garrison. Lance had always been a social guy, he always had friends. So going out to the beach wasn’t anything new to him.

What was new to him, was this new feeling.

When his friends had hit the sand, Lance had followed behind them. They were all so eager to get in the water to cool down from the nasty heat.

He slid off his shoes and started to peel his shirt off but, something had stopped him.

Right in front of him were his friends. They were shirtless. And Lance didn’t really know why, but he started to stare. Something about seeing a bunch of guys with their shirts off and the sun hitting their skin making it glisten had set something off in Lance, and he didn’t exactly know why, other than the fact that his trunks felt really uncomfortable now.

He snapped out of his thoughts and removed his shirt while turning himself around at the same time, trying to not face the direction his friends were in. He didn’t want them to see the visible hard on going on in his shorts, so he tried to distract himself with setting up the food and towels until his boner went down.

He didn’t know why he reacted that way. He had always seen guys shirtless, what was new about it now?

Lance decided to blame it on puberty and hormones for making his body react in such a hormonal way. He felt better placing the blame on something else.

xxxxxxxx Ever since that incident at the beach, Lance dreaded the times they would have to change in the locker room. He would try not to look at other guys and became rather uncomfortable with himself yet, he found himself scared. He feared that someone would catch him staring at the other guys and that he wouldn’t recover from it fast enough. So, Lance had found a solution which was to often look at the ground and at his own shoes instead of focusing on the others. Lance was finishing up the knot of his shoelaces when he felt someone slide themselves on the bench and next to him. He stopped the movement of his fingers and looked up to see who it was. He recognized him as Tim from his algebra class. They had talked a couple of times but, not much, they usually had minimal conversations when training since they had known each other in a different class. He tried for a smile. “Hey Tim, what’s up?” Tim grinned back, but it quickly faltered as his smile had become rather uncomfortable. “Hey Lance, I just wanted to ask you about something.” “Sure, what is it?” Lance asked. Tim’s eyes looked across and he pointed at a boy with black hair and pale skin, though Lance could only see him from the back and couldn’t really tell who it was. “Doesn’t it make you kind of uncomfortable?” Lance’s eyebrows drew together as he really didn’t understand what this guy was getting at. “What would?” Tim cleared his throat and looked around awkwardly, “You know…He’s gay and he is in the boy's locker room, doesn’t it make you think he might try something?” Oh my God. Oh my god. Lance couldn’t believe he was hearing this. Hearing it on the news and seeing it in articles was one thing, but experiencing it in person made Lance sick to his stomach. How could someone be so inconsiderate and insensitive? This was exactly why Lance faced his shoes when he was in the locker room. Because of people like him. He wanted to tell the kid he is wrong for thinking that, and that he should mind his own business. But, he felt like something was preventing him, and he didn’t know what. So instead he just looked at the boy and back at Tim. “Nah, chill dude, just mind your own business and ignore him and nothing will happen.” Lance finished tying his shoes and rushed over to the track field, angry with that kid, and angry at himself for not saying how he truly felt. He didn’t know why he felt so angry. Maybe it was on behalf of that boy. However, what he did know now was that he didn’t want to deal with that bullshit. xxxxxxxx 13-14 Years Old It was that time in the school year where kids would have to strengthen their skills on argumentative essays. All the students in Lance’s class would have to think of a topic they could argue about, then they would turn it into the teacher in a sticky note. Lance being Lance had procrastinated when he was given this assignment about two weeks ago. He was down to limited time and had to find a topic fast since it was due the following day.

When he arrived at his dorm room, he saw how his roommate wasn’t there. Which he was thankful for, he didn’t want any distractions. So he pulled out his laptop and began searching topics on google. It was when he came across the LGBT section that something drew him in. He looked to both sides of his room and checked the hallway to make sure no one was around. Once it was clear that no one was around, he proceeded to do his search. Doing this made Lance think back to the times he would watch YouTube videos of LGBT people. He liked learning about what they were going through and wanted to have somewhat of an understanding of what they go went through so that maybe one day if someone needed it, He could be that someone that could empathize with them. But doing this also reminded Lance of how he would have multiple tabs open to switch around in case one of his parents or siblings happened to peek at his screen. Since his family mainly knew Spanish, they couldn’t really read what he was doing. But seeing something on a screen? They probably would know what he was doing. Lance hated that he felt like he was doing something wrong, and he was ashamed of it. It’s not that Lance was afraid of his family seeing this. He knew his family was perfectly accepting of everyone. But he couldn’t help but be scared about those few family members that seemed uncomfortable of the idea. He also didn’t want to give them the wrong idea that their son could be gay when he wasn’t. Thinking back on this made Lance realize that maybe he shouldn’t do his topic on gay rights. So he exited the page and looked for a different topic. xxxxxxx Space Over the course of a couple of years, Lance had gone through the most whirlwind of emotions he had ever experienced in his life.

Finding out about aliens and about this intergalactic war was crazy. But, seeing five mechanical lions that could form into this gigantic robot killing thing was even crazier.

What had put the cherry on the top of that sundae was the fact that four other teenagers, including himself, would become the pilots, or paladins as they Alteans liked to say, of this so-called “Voltron.”

It had taken a while to get used to being in Space, and fighting off Aliens but, it wasn’t an experience he regretted.

Even though he was homesick a majority of the time, and felt pretty lost. He found out some really cool things about himself. Like how he was a great sniper, how adaptable he became to his surroundings. How he became a much better pilot after flying two lions.

Even with all the good experiences, bad ones came too.

Being without his family had made Lance really lonely. He didn’t have his Mom’s food, didn’t have his siblings to annoy him. He couldn’t play around with his nieces, be the best Uncle he promised them to be.

He just felt so empty.

His time in Space had opened a new door of insecurities and anxiety Lance had begun to feel along with confusion.

He was always confused these days.

Lance couldn’t find an explanation as to why. He spent a lot of the days in his room staring up at the ceiling, stuffing his head in a pillow, changing his position in bed from left to right trying to figure out what exactly he was feeling.

Allura was one of the leads to his confusion.

Picking up Allura from the cryo-pod she was about to fall off of was the start of a long painful journey for Lance. He thought her multi-colored electric blue eyes were gorgeous. Her chestnut skin glowed, and her light pink v marks that were on the lower corners of her eyes, but just right above her cheekbones were definitely not human. But they were out of this world for sure.

She was pretty, it wasn’t deniable. At first, this had turned into infatuation. She was a Princess, but, the more Lance got to know her, the more he started to admire how much of a brave and selfless she was. How determined she was to fight, to end this war, how she stood up for peace.

This ultimately ended in Lance falling for Allura. Something that had formed from careless flirting, and pick up lines had started to turn into feelings. And quite honestly, Lance was scared. Sure he wanted the princess to notice him, but he wasn’t ready for the emotional stress of his feelings.

Cause who was he kidding? Once Lotor came around, he saw Allura’s type. Her type was a diplomatic Prince. And Lance? He wasn’t a Prince. So from that point on, Lance had decided to try and get rid of his feelings. To focus on his missions.

To focus on his missions.

Just focus on your missions. Things will work themselves out.

This was just another thing that had piled onto his conflicting emotions. And he really didn’t know why.

It was Keith for fuck sake.

He didn’t exactly know what it was about Keith that made his brain split into two whenever he saw him or thought about him. All he knew is that it wouldn’t stop.

Back at the Garrison, Lance admired Keith.

Even though he tried to play it off as a rivalry, he just didn’t want to be one of those annoying people that would suck up and idolize. It just wasn’t his thing.

Playing things off as a rivalry, made Lance feel like he could strive harder to try and get to Keith’s level. It made him more competitive, it required more communication with Keith. Communication was what Lance wanted with Keith.

But, it’s not like he was anywhere near Keith’s level anyway.

Despite their constant bickering, Lance liked hanging out with Keith. He liked being around him. Even though he would always say otherwise, he truly thinks Keith could be a good friend of his.

And once Lance had tried to throw away that whole rivalry bullshit and tried to be more open to Keith. Well to say the least.

He left.

And Lance didn’t know why, but when Keith brought up about the Blade of Marmora missions, Lance couldn’t help but feel a sense of loss and guilt.

When he told Keith he was going to miss him. It took him by surprise, but he knew that he somehow meant it. In this weird way, he really was going to miss making fun of Keith.

He was going to miss his impulsiveness.

His bravery.

Fighting alongside him.

His stupid voice.

His stupid mullet.

Lance couldn’t really pinpoint why he felt like this. Why he felt a void when Keith left. Why he felt so isolated and lonelier than usual with him missing. Why he felt this ache in his chest and why all the energy was sucked out of him. Why he felt so giddy whenever he heard updates about Keith from Kolivan, and how upset he got when the call would end. Why everytime he thought of Keith, guilt washed over him as he wished he could have made more out of the time they had together.

Lance only started to figure out the why’s when Keith first came back to the team. He felt so elated, so happy, so relieved to see him. Yeah Keith pushed him aside, and it hurt, but he knew there was a mission they had to focus on.

And having Keith back had made Lance feel more focused on his missions than he did prior. He didn’t feel that void anymore. His Team Leader needed him to be his right hand. He felt, completed again.

He completely figured it out after the events of the game show. Bob was an asshole but, that thing he said about Keith, he didn’t realize how much he really meant it.

He’s our leader, plus he’s half-Galra, so I think he’s, like, the future.

He was being careless at that moment, but coming to the big realization now, felt like a bucket of ice cold water was poured over him.

Those voices had started to come back again. Those voices that had haunted him since he was a kid was starting to swallow him up again. He had just gotten rid of them, and now they’re back. And it terrified Lance.

How would he get them out now?

He looked at his surroundings. He was in the Red Lion’s cockpit. No one was there. All he could hear was Space.

He was going back home.

Why were these thoughts coming back now? Why when he was supposed to be happy about finally going home?

Why was he feeling this way?

He grabbed his pillow and silently cried. Trying to get them out of his head like he always did.

xxxxxxxx Present

Fighting the war with how he felt wasn’t easy. But, he somehow managed to pull through and make it out alive. He was finally home, he was with his family. He can be free from all trauma. He can now live his life on Earth as a normal individual.

Except the voices didn’t stop.

Every day, Lance would see Keith at the Garrison and aboard the Atlas. Every day, those stupid thoughts would drive him crazy.

Multiple times, he had been poked by one of his friends that had tried to jar him out of what seemed like a never-ending tunnel of taunting voices.

He had enough.

Lance knew exactly who he should go to. He knew that this person would try to make some sense out of his complex feelings.

That’s why he was going to Shiro.

xxxxxxxx

Lance had felt anxious, to say the least, standing in front of Shiro’s doorway. He would bring his hand up on the door then immediately bring it back down. He paced around, trying to find the courage to just knock, until he finally said, fuck it. Before he could second-guess it any other, he knocked on the door. The door opened and Shiro’s silver eyes widened in surprise. His white hair was disheveled and Lance could see those permanent bags that had formed from all the stress and PTSD he had to endure all these years. But somehow, Shiro was able to maintain a welcoming smile.“Lance? What brings you here?” Lance looked at him nervously but gave him an awkward smile. “Hey Shiro, I hope you’re doing good and that you aren’t busy. I was wondering if I could talk to you about something?” Shiro’s eyebrows quirked up but he still welcomed Lance inside. Lance sat down on the couch while Shiro went over to his freestanding hot-cold water and filled two paper cups up. Shiro then set it down on the counter and sat down on the seat across from Lance and took a sip. “So, what did you want to talk about?” Lance felt every nerve flare up. He suddenly felt his leg bob up and down, but he tried not to concentrate on it. He squeezed his eyes shut in frustration, and tried to level his breathing.

Why was this so hard? He came here for help, and now he suddenly can’t speak. “Lance?” Shiro looked at him worriedly. He placed his hand on Lance’s and Lance became hyper-aware of the touch. Like it was the only thing grounding him at this second.

“I’m sorry for acting weird,” Lance started. “I just don’t know how to really say this.”

Shiro removed his hand and he folded them, nodding in understanding. “So how about we start with this. If what you want to tell me is really hard to say, then try to describe it in another sense.”

Lance thought for a moment, then he knew how he could say it.

“Ever since I was a kid, I had always grown up confused. I thought as I got older, that maybe I wouldn’t really feel confused anymore. That maybe, one day everything would make sense.” Lance fiddled around with his hands nervously and took another breath. “But everything has always just gotten even more confusing, and I really just feel frustrated, it’s driving me nuts Shiro. Why can’t it stop?”

“Why can’t what stop Lance?”

He shook his head in frustration, “These feelings! This confusion I just never know what’s real, or why I always feel so confused. Why are my feelings so twisted? I just don’t know what to do anymore.”

Shiro stood up and sat by Lance, placing his arm on his shoulder. “What type of feelings are we talking about here?”

Lance looked down at the floor. “Romantic I guess?”

“For Allura?” Shiro questioned.

Lance felt himself shrink. “No..”

This seemed to surprise Shiro, “Well is it Pidge-”

“What if it's for a guy?” Lance said cutting him off.

“Oh Lance,” Shiro said. “If you have feelings for a guy, then that’s okay. You want advice on how to act around a guy or-”

“No, Shiro, I-” Lance threw his hands exasperated not really knowing how to say it. “This isn’t normal for me Shiro, me feeling this way for guys. It’s just not- I don’t know.”

For a moment it was quiet and Lance could only hear the sound of footsteps from outside Shiro’s dorm. Shiro didn’t speak for a while like he didn’t know what to say. But then he cleared his throat.

“Are you afraid of your feelings?” he asked.

Lance looked up at him to meet his eyes, but then he looked down again, not finding the strength to keep a hold of the eye contact.

“Yeah,” he said. Though it was barely a whisper.

“How come?”

Lance stood up, finding himself not able to sit around anymore and he paced around the room frantically. “Because I’ve always liked girls Shiro. Liking a guy, it’s just weird. Like, why do I have to like guys? Why couldn’t I just bury these thoughts down any longer? Why can’t I keep them away? Why me Shiro?” Lance sighed and ran a hand through his hair in frustration.

“Do you have anything against gays or-”

“No!” Lance squeaked. “Absolutely not! Sorry if I gave off that impression, trust me, I’m not. I’ve always been accepting of others and have supported those rights and literally thrive off of how happy people are when they are in love, with whoever it is. I just, I don’t know okay?”

Shiro grabbed his cup again, “So about these voices, I think you should tell me more about them. What do they say?”

Lance sat back down in the chair Shiro was previously sitting on. “Well, I’ve had these voices since I was a kid, though why they come? I don’t have a clue. They literally like to mess around with me. I actually think I’m going insane a majority of the time.”

Shiro set his cup down. “What do they say?”

“They tell me I’m gay or something, or that I like guys. And I always try to reassure myself that I don’t, that it is just my hormones, that I actually don’t like guys. And they do go away, but they always seem to come back, and now its stronger than ever.”

Shiro pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “You want to hear my honest opinion?”

“Please..” Lance pleaded.

“Lance, I think you’re in denial. I’d say you’re bisexual, but you don’t want to accept it for some reason.”

Lance felt a knot in his throat, and a heavy weight on his chest. He felt tears starting to sting his eyes and he felt so closed up. “That’s the answer I was afraid of.”

“Why?” Shiro asked.

A tear fell out and Lance wiped it away. “Don’t you see Shiro? How people get treated for being different? Just because of who they love? I don’t want to be one of those people Shiro.”

“Lance..” Shiro began. “You know sexuality isn’t a choice right?”

“Of course.” he sniffled.

“Then why do you think you can choose what happens to you in life? You don’t control it. You never can. The same way you can’t help what happens to you in life is the same way you can’t help how you feel over someone. It’s not choice, it's a part of you.”

Lance tried to look up and instantly regretted it. The tears he had been fighting back had spilled over and started to sob. He cried and cried until he felt strong arms embrace him.

“Why can’t I just accept myself Shiro?” he choked on his sobs. “Why can’t I be happy with who I am and be accepting of my feelings. The world isn’t so bad now, why can’t I just be myself? I never thought I would have to go through this but-” more sobs. “I-I just feel so alone, and I’m tired of fighting with my brain, I can’t ever win.”

Shiro rubbed circles on Lance’s back and kept a hold of his embrace. “Shh, Lance, you aren’t alone. I understand why this can be hard for you, you’ve been scared your whole life of being different. But, being different is a beautiful thing,” he said. “I think life would work out better for you if you just learned to accept things and stopped fighting your brain. You can’t help who you are, and really? You just need to let yourself feel for once.”

Let yourself feel.

Lance didn’t think he could cry any more than he already has, but he was wrong.

He suddenly remembered why he considered Shiro his hero when he was younger. Shiro owned up to who he was every day. He wasn’t afraid to love who had been Adam back then publically, and he didn’t let anyone get in his way. He lived his by every day, spreading love. Something Lance thought he would never have the strength to do if he was in Shiro’s shoes.

He latched onto Shiro, afraid to let go of what seemed so safe. “Thank you,” he whispered.

Shiro patted his back. There was silence but, it wasn’t awkward. It was needed. Then Shiro pulled back and placed both of his hands on Lance’s shoulders.

“So if you don’t mind,” he said making Lance’s eyebrow go up in question. “Who’s this guy that’s changing things for you?”

#Confused #Pt 1 rewrite #ao3 #fanfic #klance #laith #keith #lance #keith kogane #lance mcclain #lance bisexual #bi lance #lance in denial #voltron

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correresmidestinoweb-blog · 5 years

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How to Write a Paper in One Night

Being in college is a chore. It takes a lot of work, carefully planned over the course of a week, or a month, or a quarter to make sure everything gets done with the full attention it deserves….are you laughing yet? No one puts in the time "required" to properly complete their college work. No, rather it's a rush at the end every week or two to complete a 10 page paper or learn 200 years of ancient Roman history overnight. You all do it, I did it. It's probably a better training skill than all the random stuff you "learn", because honestly in real life do you think you'll have the time to sit and schedule everything that pops into your life ahead of time. Yeah…thought not.

Anyways, for those of you just entering college from the snore inducing boredom and ease of High School, you're probably incredibly unprepared for the shear amount of work you'll have to pull out in the last second. I'm not saying it's easy just because you'll procrastinate. No, it's still hard. You really should take the time to do your work properly. You just won't, and so you need to learn how to procrastinate. It's a fine art, in which I feel I've become something of a Renoir.

First off, make sure you've got all your books and notes. If you don't go to class, which is entirely likely for those of the procrastinating ilk, make sure you get them from a classmate. Also, double check and make sure your professor doesn't have a website. They'll usually tell you, but more than once I've found a class's notes sitting in an archive online, especially now that 90% of them put everything they teach you into PowerPoint presentations and then just read it to you for an hour every day (yeah, lazy). It's usually only an extra 30 seconds out of their day to put the stuff online, and then when they receive twenty plus emails a week asking for the lecture notes, they only have to point you to the website. Well, some are a bit more facetious about their pupils not even bothering to come to class and don't openly offer said notes. However, for sick students and whatnot, they'll put them online to save paper and all it takes is a couple of quick Google searches or an email to a sick student and you've got your notes. Or…just ask a classmate. But then you're relying on them actually paying attention.

You should have your books too. If you never bothered buying them because you would just take notes or go to sparknotes, then you'd better go buy them, because BSing your way through a paper is going to take at least some resources. You can't magically ascertain the information from just being near smarter people. School would be much easier if that were the case.

So, sit down and start reading. Yup, you're going to be reading a lot the night before your work is due. But, this is better than doing all the assigned reading, because now you're searching for specific information. Instead of general learning (which would only stick around and clutter up your brain later) you're doing targeted research. An eighth the time, and none of that pesky remembering it. You should have your topic at least. If not, start surfing message boards and snag one from someone smarter than you. Don't ever take their work though. The last thing you need is to get kicked out of school for plagiarism. It's lazy and embarrassing. Steal concepts, but never words. And if you steal a concept from the middle of their work, cite them. Your university will not take kindly to cheating. You'll be so red taped and black listed, you might as well go and get an application at Jack in the Box, and trust me you don't want to work in fast food.

You can't procrastinate now. You've done that for three weeks, so I'm sorry (I know it hurts), but in terms of actual physical writing time, you'll need at least three hours to type your paper, which speaks nothing of writing it. And writing it involves finding quotations and that ever so pesky chore of thinking. Sit down, grab an energy drink and a bag of chips, close your door and put some headphones on. No television, and put your phone on the charger. Now open up the word processor and just start typing.

You probably think you have writer's block. But, writer's block is completely unrelated to having absolutely no idea what you're talking about. You're stuck with the second one right now, so just keep on reading on your topic and finding bits and pieces to put together.

The thing here that most people don't realize is that the standard writing process isn't in effect for you. You're not drafting, or brainstorming. That's the stuff you should have done two weeks ago. No, you're writing your paper, so make sure you've got your idea and just start writing and keep writing until you create a thesis somehow.

I usually start as broad as possible, and just start talking about something. If I'm writing about the Hero Quest of Pip in Great Expectations, I start by talking about Greek Mythology and the origin of the classical hero. Working my way down, I'll talk about the modern hero, then about the alterations made in the industrial age, and how Dickens rewrote archetypes for his comedy, and finally start talking about Pip. By now you should have a general idea about what you want to say. It might be general but you'll clarify in your next few paragraphs, and then come back and rewrite the first paragraph.

Paragraph one is almost always trash. Especially with this method, because your weary, angered professor after reading 30 of these lovely last minute essays will put a big red X through anything that doesn't have to do with your paper, and those first few grasping sentences are completely unrelated. But now you can start stealing from the text. Snag a quote and make a point. Snag another quote and make another point. If your thesis ends up as something incredibly broad and useless like "Pip's quest from anonymity and worthlessness into a position of wealth and power in London mirrors the classical hero quests, but works through Dickensian views of industrial England" you're still good. It sounds intelligent and has a lot of promise. Now just find specific quotes and build a narrative. Start at the beginning of his change, talk about his childhood, then go to when he changes, then compare to the Hero quests of old, then show how they're different.

Almost any paper, if written quickly can boil down to something simple and incredibly easy to write, a compare and contrast paper. You choose a prominent theme from the book you just "read". Find a source that mirrors or better yet foils this theme and compare the two. Don't just list how they're different though. That's high school stuff right there. You'll want to write exactly how the outside source changes what you think of your book. It sounds hard but jus think about it. You've got Great Expectations. It has a main character who goes on a kind of quest. Now you have a classic archetype of which there are hundreds of sources to draw on. You take a basic outline of this archetype and apply it to Pip's quest and how he fits it, and when he doesn't fit it. Now you finish your paper by describing why he doesn't fit it sometimes. Which gets you back to the Dickensian views part. You've just pretty much written a paper that says, Pip's quest is classic but different because Dickens was writing about a different time in human history. Incredibly simple; you're not telling anyone anything new, but three things will guarantee a good grade.

If you write well at all. You've got to be a halfway decent writer, which if you're in college I'll assume you are.

Professors love outside references. It shows initiative and research and makes it seem like you did extra work (which you didn't). I've written papers overnight without drafts and without ever reading them back to myself and received comments that I must have spent hours working on it. Not quite.

Confidence in your assertions. Say everything with absolute certainty, and back it up with a quote. Do this enough and even if you're wrong, it'll seem like you've made a decent point, which gets you brownie points.

Writing a paper is a tumultuous task but it's also a scalable task that can be made incredibly quick and easy if you know how. My second to last quarter of college, I wrote three order thesis papers in two days; two of them 10 pages, and one 25 pages, and received a 3.8, and two 3.7s. It's a matter of confidence and above all else an unmitigated fearlessness to be incredibly lazy.

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mrslittletall · 6 years

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Title: Keeping it together (Chapter 19) Fandom: Dark Souls Characters: Dragon Slayer Ornstein, Artorias the Abysswalker, Executioner Smough, Silver Knights Word Count: 2.637 AO3-Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16328084/chapters/42663173 Previous chapter: https://mrslittletall.tumblr.com/post/183025659429/title-keeping-it-together-chapter-18

Summary: Bad dreams and sleepless nights don't impede Ornstein from taking care of his duties.

(Author's note: I was rewriting and adding stuff to this chapter all the time, but finally I feel satisfied enough with it to publish it. A thanks to my dear @modounbubble for helping me figure out the dream scene.)

Ornstein heard the knock on the door and went to open it, letting Artorias in the room who carried the paperwork.

“Procrastinated again, huh?”, Artorias scolded and set the tower of papers down on the table.

“Come on, we were out on the field all the time.”, Ornstein groaned and got an ink pot and two quills, handing one to Artorias.

“I know, quite a few death reports to fill out.” Artorias dunked the quill into the ink pot.

Ornstein groaned again: “That is the most difficult part of being the captain of the knights... We lose so many with every dragon that falls...”

“It seems to have gotten worse after the prince left... Sorry.”, Artorias added in the instant Ornstein glared at him. He sighed and worked in silence on signing every filled out report that Artorias gave him.

“...Artorias, you used far too much ink on this.”, Ornstein said, frowning at one of the reports, the splotches were so bad that the text barely was readable anymore.

“...I haven't, what are you talking about?”, Artorias said with a quizzing look at Ornstein and then both of them stared at his hand.

“Artorias, you are bleeding!”, Ornstein said and rushed over to his friend to investigate. “Uh, you are bleeding goop?” Ornstein stared at the black sludge coming from Artorias hand.

“You know why, Ornstein.”, Artorias whispered. “Because you left me to rot into this abyss...”

A feeling of dread washed over Ornstein. This wasn't real. He was in a dream again. He pushed Artorias away from him, saw him fell onto the floor where the abyss opened up and he could see this gigantic hand grabbing him, pulling him with it, while Artorias made a noise that could only be described as an unholy screech. Ornstein took a few steps back, feeling utterly helpless, when his gaze fell onto the death report on the table.

“Artorias the Abysswalker” was written in his own elegant handwriting on the top of it.

As soon as Ornstein awoke he dangled from the side of his bed to puke into the precautionary placed chamber pot at the floor. Because Ornstein hadn't eaten anything for a good while, it was mostly only bile. He stayed a while like this, unsure if it was over, before retreating and cleaning out his mouth. He didn't feel like he could go back to sleep. His throat hurt, he still felt the bad taste in his mouth and he simply couldn't stay in his room right now, where his nightmare had taken place. He got up, slipped into his armour, grabbed his spear and practically ran out of his room, out of the cathedral, into the night, only stopping when he reached the now barren and silent Anor Londo market place.

Ornstein panted heavily, normally a run like this wouldn't have exhausted him at all, but with the lack of sleep and how little he had kept down of his food lately, he needed a moment to brace himself. “Keep it together.”, he murmured to himself between pants and straightened himself up once the fit was over, absorbing the impressions of the silent market place with his gaze.

“I never liked patrolling here.”, Ornstein said aloud to himself, starting to stroll down the market place. “Too many people, too many noises. This always has been Artorias realm.” His voice echoed along the empty street.

Ornstein slowly trudged along the paved street, only accompanied by the sound of his boots. He reached the end of the street and turned left into a side road. It was quiet of course, but it felt too quiet for Ornstein's taste, even though it was late in the night. He scanned his surroundings to see houses with doors and windows nailed shut. Abandoned, sealed shut, nobody intended to ever return to this homes. Ornstein drooped his head. He knew that many deities left the city when Gwyn didn't came back from linking the fire. And he knew that even more followed once the princess had accepted marriage and left to live with her new husband. Still, seeing it like this felt strange, it was like he had to acknowledge what Ciaran and Gough seemed to have known all this time... He kinda felt stupid for holding on this faint hope. A hope he didn't even knew what it was directed at. That the lord would come back? Unlikely. That the princess would suddenly show up again? Why should she, she had another land to rule now. That his master would show up? Practically impossible. Ornstein sighed and continued to navigate through the maze of Anor Londo's side roads, stopping in front of a particular house.

That was the house where Artorias had been raised and where his parents had lived until their death. A house he didn't like to enter, cause it was usually full of dogs, Artorias' parents had bred them for a living. He clearly remembered the first time he and Artorias had patrolled through this part of the town and his mother had stopped them, wanting to be introduced to Artorias friend. One of the only people in the world that didn't call him dragon slayer right away. Ornstein had to admit, that had made him feel incredible at ease at that moment. And then Artorias basically had dragged him inside when she invited them both for dinner and Ornstein had froze when he saw the dogs. That had been everywhere. And it took a good bit of work of Artorias and his mother to calm him down and he remembered how both of them couldn't stop apologizing to him. Ornstein smiled under his helmet about this memory, but it got clouded by a pang in his still upset stomach. A once happy memory now felt incredibly painful. Ornstein quivered, spear clutched in his hands, before he forced himself to move on.

At the corner of a street he saw something moving from the corner of his eyes. Spear ready, he followed the shadow but relaxed when it turned out to be just a stray cat, having a fish in its mouth. Ornstein remembered this cat, one of the many strays who roamed this part of town. Artorias would often feed them. Now that he took a closer look, the cat looked a bit more thin than usual. Even though Ornstein wasn't at the best terms with cats, the little animals would hiss at him whenever they could, he was thinking about bringing them some treats when he would go on his next patrol. He kind of felt like he owed Artorias at least this little gesture. He watched the cat disappearing behind a corner, made a mental note where he had seen it and moved on.

Ornstein stopped his patrol again when he had reached the statue of the four knights of Gwyn. Memories of how the statue was carved crept into his mind. He remembered that they had to change poses countless times and then actually had to stand like this. And Artorias didn't made it easier by suddenly starting to telling bad jokes, that infuriated Ornstein and made Gough chuckle and Ornstein still didn't knew how Ciaran could keep a straight face at it, even though they all had been in armour, the serious tone had been completely lost and when Ornstein complained, Artorias claimed that he just wanted to lighten the mood. While it was a pretty funny memory, Ornstein didn't feel like laughing. Instead his eyes trailed over the statue.

Each and every one of them was well done, an exact match of their living counterpart (even though in Artorias case living wasn't the right word anymore). All of them had been hewn in an action pose. Ornstein spent a brief moment looking at his statue, the spear ready, even some lightning sparks had been added, even though most of them had fallen off over the years. Then his eyes went to Gough, the largest of them who readied his bow, Ciaran with her gold and silver tracer, looking like she did stand into the shadow of the other knights and finally Artorias, sword and shield raised into the air, looking like the most heroic of them. And Ornstein knew it had been true, they always could count on Artorias, his shield would be there to defend them, he would raise his sword to fight for them. There hadn't been a truer knight of Gwyn than him and he very much had been the centre of their bond.

Now, the centre of their bond was no more. Gough sat in a tower, retired and shunned, being blinded as a result, Ciaran had sat down next to Artorias' grave and Ornstein knew she would never come back and Artorias had fallen to the abyss, lying in a grave, his soul tainted. And Ornstein was still there, the last knight of Gwyn, alone, sleepless, staring at a statue from better times in the middle of the night.

When Ornstein returned to the cathedral, morning had started to dawn but it still was too early for most of the cathedral inhabitants to be awake. He decided to take another look at the paperwork. On his way to it the only people he ran into were the silver knights on guard duty and some of the servants who got ready for their day. Each and every one of them greeted him in the usual respectful way the captain deserved and he reciprocated them. A part of him wondered if they could tell his inner turmoil just by looking at him.

Once he reached the conference room, he took a look at the paper mountains and groaned. Yesterday he had already sorted most of the paperwork, but stopped when he realized he hadn't made a new plan for the silver knights yet. He walked over to the table and got the plan, folded it and stuck it into his armour, he would need this later. Now what should he do? His gaze fell onto a very specific document... the death report about Artorias. But... remembering his dream, Ornstein felt queasy even thinking about filling this out. Instead, he decided to take a new scroll and write the mission report for his time in Oolacile, he would let Sira transcribe it later.

Just as Ornstein was in the process of describing that he found Kalameet's dead body, he stumbled upon explaining how the fierceful dragon had fell. A random Undead came through and Gough helped them to ground the black dragon for them to slay it. That would shine a good light on Anor Londo... He instead decided to write that Gough had significantly weakened the creature and it had been slain by a warrior of unknown origin. At last that wasn't even a lie. When he finished writing this sentence, he put down his quill to stretch a bit. A look out of the window told him, that the cathedral would spark to life soon, the sun was almost up. He probably should finish this report up and then meet up with the silver knights. Just as he picked up the quill, he heard the door handle and looked up, who could it be at this time of day? It wasn't like the other knights of Gwyn were still around... He was surprised when he recognized the entering silver knight as Sira who stopped dead in her tracks when she saw him.

“Oh, Captain Ornstein, I.. I am sorry, I didn't want to disturb you.”, she said, fidgeting with her gauntlets.

“Don't worry, you didn't.”, Ornstein answered. “What are you doing here so early?”

“I.. I was thinking about getting some of the paperwork done before roll call...”, her voice nearly drowned itself. Ornstein knew he had asked for the silver knight with the best handwriting but maybe he should have asked for one who isn't that shy either. Still, he couldn't help feeling like he could relate to this girl. He had been quite similar in his early silver knight days.

“I was just in the process of writing my mission report for Oolacile and it would be a great help if you could transcribe.”, he said and tried to slap on his nicest smile, unsure if he succeeded. At least he didn't seem to scare Sira away, cause the young silver knight took a seat and did as requested. The two of them managed to finish the Oolacile report before the roll call started and Ornstein requested for Sira to meet him again in the early evening.

After breakfast (Ornstein sincerely hoped that this time it would stay down), Ornstein had to meet up with Smough, the executioner. He didn't look forward to this meeting at all... At the stairs to the dungeon, Ornstein took a deep breath, braced himself and descended into the darkness below. He took a torch from the wall to lighten the dim corridor and soon spotted the large form of the executioner in his ridiculous armour, golden as his own, but far from the majesty Ornstein liked to wear. He cleared his throat to get the attention of the larger man and started to talk right away once he turned around: “Executioner Smough, I am here to schedule the closest executions.”

After Smough had finished turned around, he towered over Ornstein. Ornstein couldn't see his face but he was sure the executioner was glaring at him.

“Well well well, if it isn't the last knight of Gwyn.”, the low, deep voice of Smough sounded.

Ornstein internally sighed. As if he hadn't expected it... “Please, can we just set the schedule? I want to be done with his.”, he answered. “I have other stuff to do, you know.”

“Of course. Though, I wonder why? Maybe because your other knights left you alone?”

Jeez, that rumour had spread quickly. Ornstein felt a pang in his stomach. Keep it together, he thought to himself. You don't want to do this. Especially not in front of the executioner.

“So you are aware that we are understaffed so I would appreciate if we could get this handled quickly.”, Ornstein said, trying to keep the tone as objective as possible.

“Of course, captain.”, the words felt like they were dripping with sarcasm. “Just tell me when you have time. It is not that I haven't time. Unless someone would consider to offer me one of three open positions.”

“Smough, we talked about this countless times.”, Ornstein sighed. “As long as you don't change your, uh, habits, I can't offer you a position among the knights of Gwyn. For the executions, I would like to set them as quickly as possible. Schedule them for tomorrow morning.”

Ornstein turned around and was in the process of leaving when he heard Smough murmur: “Hmph, are you already leaving? Probably going to mope because you managed to lose two knights at one mission?”

Ornstein stopped, trembling. Under usual circumstances, he would have picked a fight with the executioner now. A comment like this would have made him boil. But today, it didn't. It just made him feel sad, made him feel like the failure he was. Smough noticed his silence too.

“What? No quip at hand this time, captain?”, Smough snarked.

Ornstein didn't turn around. Instead, he just said: “Don't. Please, don't.” He didn't wait for any answer and instead just stormed out of the dungeon, this horrible feeling of failure was stinging in his chest like a bad aftertaste. He couldn't deal with this right now, or more, he didn't want to deal with this feelings at the moment... Ornstein felt like it could be a long day. Next chapter: https://mrslittletall.tumblr.com/post/183496666019/title-keeping-it-together-chapter-20

#dark souls #fanfiction #dragon slayer ornstein #executioner smough #silver knights #littlewritesstuff #I am eager to finish this thing now #we are getting there #bare with me a little longer

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funkymbtifiction · 7 years

Text

Hi, Charity! I have been having an identity crisis lately. (Yet another of many in the past year of a lot of self discovery and doubt). I spent quite a while thinking I was either enfp or infp, after retyping myself several times from intp to intj to infj and then xnfp. But recently I became convinced that I am an infj and was right in my typing when I first learnt about the underlying cognitive functions (intx was pretty much just from online tests). I know this sounds very vague so far and I’m not giving any details of why or how.

Hey, Mar.

Wish your e-mail address had worked, so we could have this talk in private. :)

Since you were vague in your descriptions of Ne/Ni, I wasn't able to tell which one appears to be dominant, but here’s a few thoughts reaped from the post:

I struggle with seeing myself clearly, but I don’t know if it’s because of Fe or because I’ve had a tough family situation growing up where I was basically not allowed to have an identity separate from my caretakers. I am easily swayed by other people’s opinions and start to doubt my convictions but again, don’t know if it’s Fe or poor self-confidence (or both?).

It could be Fe if you allow other people’s emotions to cloud yours, or it could be the Ne-dom problem of being unable to see yourself clearly. Every single Ne-dom I've ever known / talked to, myself included, had a hell of a time finding their own type and still cannot see themselves very clearly, because Ne is so busy gaining 'outside perspectives' 24/7 and has such poor self-awareness (inferior Si) that it tends to believe whatever idea anyone throws at it about themselves, even if it doesn't match who they are. The idea just sticks to them and them being a Ne/Si, they cannot properly filter it out (Si: Hey, I’m not like that!).

I could especially relate, among other things, to that sense of impending doom and being stuck in the same situation I am currently in and no hope for a better future. Not being able to imagine a better future for myself and seeing only all the ways in which I am stuck and will be stuck stresses me out quite a lot, actually. Sometimes I obsess over it.

All intuitives feel that staying stagnant is a literal hell, so this could be Ni OR Ne. But Ne/Si tends to have a more generic 'I'm not sure what I want, but this ain't it and I hope this isn’t all I ever have from my life' approach and NiSe tends to think, 'it's time I stop fixating on this single vision and DO SOMETHING TO MAKE IT REAL” followed by fear it may fail and then they’ll have nothing, since no other dream / career / ambition has outlasted this one.

To the point that sometimes I can only find solace in fantasizing about meeting that one person who will save me from my troubles, as unrealistic, unhealthily codependent and disempowering as it sounds.

Free amateur psych advice: other people cannot save you, because other people are just as imperfect as you are. This is common in a fearful N user, who tends to idealize and fantasize about a hero coming to rescue them, because they are so uncomfortable interacting with the sensory world on their own. The answer is that you have to save yourself, since no one else will. :)

An aspect of why I believed myself to be an enfp is that I could relate a lot to your more personal posts (especially about writing) or whenever you’d offer personal examples to illustrate type. Or in doubting my introversion because sometimes I would talk to a person and get so energized by that human connection.

What kind of energy? Emotional (Fe) energy? Or I MET SOMEONE FULL OF GREAT IDEAS AND NOW I'M WIRED (Ne) energy?

Right now I’m in the middle of rewriting a novel. It changes with each draft. People change. Motives change. Ideas change. Hell, I decided to change the murderer because another possibility will clean up the plot better so now I’m having to rewrite entire sections and leave other characters out / fill the holes they leave behind. I’m fine with it. It’s fun and somewhat easy. It energizes me. That’s high Ne. “This was fine last week but now it bores me and I have a better way to approach it, so it’s all gonna change and continue changing until I find something that works.” I sometimes joke that me being me, as a Ne, I’m not ‘done’ with something until I can read it twenty-six times in the editing process without wanting to change something at its fundamental level. I know I found the RIGHT idea, after using and discarding a bunch of alternate possibilities.

(My INFJ friend basically writes her novels in head, figures them all out in advance, then sits down and writes it out and changes very little in revision. Ni.)

I struggle to see if I do actually perceive the emotions of those around me and can easily step into someone else’s perspective and I’m observant of the unspoken agreements in a social situation, or if I’m delusional and I just like to think I’m an empath because it makes me feel better about myself.

Perceiving them (Ne) or feeling them (Fe)? When you are in a group, are you watching people so you can SPECULATE on their emotions (Fi) or are you immersed IN their emotions and sometimes lose yourself in the process (Fe)? Are you GUESSING at their feelings (Fi) based on a sense of inner self (”Are they bored? She looks bored. Can’t other people see she’s bored? I would not want to be bored, so we need to keep her from being bored. How are other people not see this?” Fi thinking can actually mean, “Because this would bore ME, I’m projecting being bored onto her when she’s not actually bored.”)

Side note: intuitives often over-estimate their own skills because their intuition / imagination is fantasizing an ideal self, instead of using their real self. And coming crashing down to earth and realizing they were wrong / are not very good at that / really are not a God is somewhat crushing to their ego.

One thing that really made me lean towards infj as a possibility is realizing that, at least for me, writing is a way of expressing and externalizing my feelings.

Why is this specifically shifting you toward INFJ? INFJs do not have a corner on writing. This is equally if not more common in the INFPs. Every Fi-dom poet of the last five hundred years can testify to externalizing their feels in writing.

MY emotions get so tied up inside myself that until I get them out on paper (Te) I cannot organize them or even figure out how to say how I feel -- and that's crucial, because Fi/Te types may resort to metaphors, ducking conversations, or intense internal monologues that may never be voiced (because it takes time to organize their thoughts before they speak on an emotional level) while Fe/Ti types can usually simply sum up their feelings vocally when asked, since that's what Fe/Ti does.

So, are you externalizing to get others' feedback on your feelings and affirmation (FeTi) or are you writing because you know no other clear way to restructure and share your abstract (hard to describe) feelings (FiTe)?

Before, I believed I had Fi because I have strong beliefs about individuality and personal integrity and I passionately hate the kind of group-think that leads to lack of personal integrity in favor of what the majority wants. But at the same time I strongly believe in equality. In fact, I believe what makes us equals is (as corny as it sounds) precisely that we’re all unique and irreplaceable and have a unique purpose for our life, that nobody else could fulfill quite like us.

You should ask yourself: do I pass immediate moral judgment upon hearing new information like a Fi-dom or do I internalize / interact with the ideas before I judge their ethics like a NeFi or do I try and fit the new information into my internal worldview and see how to use it to motivate people in a NiFe way?

Another reason for me thinking Fi is that somewhere along the line I had convinced myself that I hated people and I took on the identity of a misanthrope.

Um. Why would this connect to Fi in your mind?

I have been struggling big time with having too high expectations of myself and with my overall perfectionism, which more often paralyzes me instead of making me work harder. I am studying again after a few years, and the deadlines are just killing me. They feel like life or death. I obviously don’t know how to work with a schedule, I did 90% of the workload of two weeks in the first two days and then felt burnt out and spent the next week and a half distracting myself by researching random non academic stuff just for personal amusement, like mbti and the enneagram, and how to make pumpkin pie, and the relationship between veganism and the tv series Hannibal. Procrastination is definitely something I’m good at. It’s two days before the deadline and I’m struggling with that 10% of work that I haven’t done yet, and after spending the whole day stressing out about it and not being able to write a single sentence of my essay on cave art from the paleolithic, I am writing this instead. At least, just by writing this, I’ve already gained some clarity on what’s going on inside my head, which is always helpful.

I’m 90 pages into a book on perfectionism from a psychological perspective at the moment, but Jordan Peterson has wise words for this sort of behavior: finished is better than perfect.

I too am a perfectionist, but for me it's more spewing ideas out on the page (Ne) and then anxiously trying to formulate them into some kind of structure that has an overall point (Te) and then agonizing over the details in case I got something wrong that will cause people to throw out my good ideas in favor of the misinformation (low Si) due to Ne placing unrealistic standards on this situation due to being combined with perfectionism, which is fear based (if this isn’t flawless, people will judge it harshly and not listen to what it says).

I’m sorry I could not give your type based on what you wrote, but hopefully I explained enough about my thinking process and gave you good enough questions that you can find your type by being honest about your mental processing leading to behaviors.

- ENFP Mod

#question #enfp #infp #infj #mbti #submission

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lil-lycanthropy · 7 years

Text

Belong

Words: 5,250 (or something like that)

Parings: None??? This can be read as platonic or romantic idc

Warnings: Angst, Dissociation, Anxiety/Panic Attacks, Nightmares, Flashbacks, slight Blood (nothing gory really), slight Burns (once again, not really bad or anything), Self-Loathing, Negative Thoughts, I think that’s it?

Summary: Everyone’s trying to accept Parker, and Parker is trying hard to be accepted. But the fact of the matter is, he traumatized the sides and they’re not coping well.

Notes: This is for @parkersanders as my SAD entry. It’s late (I’m so sorry) because I’m a depressed procrastinator who has to edit things 434753947 times and rewrite all the chapters. Also sorry it’s so long I have no self control, and go big or go home so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯. Anyway, hope you like it! I’m in love with your verse and hope you have a happy birthday!

Disclaimer: The fic is based on @parkersanders‘s fic Silence and Duality (read here), and I use one quote from it in here somewhere, I think in the fourth part? Yeah. Enjoy.

Roman was lounging on the couch when it happened.

Everything was fine, until he thought about Parker. The new living situation wasn’t as fear-mongering as he thought it would be, yet there were still tensions. They were all still slightly worried as Parker settled in, but were trying to hold it together so they wouldn’t trigger anything.

Parker was...interesting, to say in the least. With all their history, it was surreal with him back in their lives now. Dealing with his absence for two decades to having him be sleeping next door felt unreal. It would have been unimaginable even a couple weeks ago, and yet that was their reality now.

Then there was the whole drama of Parker escaping his prison, only to put the other through the same hell he experienced—if only for a much shorter time span. Usually Roman was more than okay with drama, but the things that happened in there, only for Virgil to be the one to save him. It left him feeling very defeated in a way he hadn’t ever been before. The shame, the fear...

Suddenly, Roman’s breath started coming in short pants and he could no longer feel the couch beneath him, the pillow under his head, or the clothes he was wearing. He couldn’t feel...anything.

It was like he was having an out-of-body experience, except that didn’t make sense, because as facets of Thomas personality, they were not capable of such things.

He went completely limp on the couch, not having the strength or mental presence to hold his body upright anymore. Focusing on one thing became impossible, his eyes darting back and forth without taking in any information. Roman didn’t know what was happening.

Roman...

Was that even his name? He couldn’t remember. Why did he even have to have a name? It’s not like he even existed...

Roman continued thinking everything and nothing at once, thoughts crossing his mind so quickly, little bits of nonsense that meant nothing.

After a time, Logan walked into the scene—the Prince, sitting on the couch, limp except for the shallow rise and fall of his chest and his eyes flashing a mile a minute.

“Roman?” Logan said, rushing over and kneeling down.

Roman glanced over, barely acknowledging the presence of the other side. “I-I don’t—”

Logan took a breath to steel his nerves. “May I touch you?”

Roman looked confused, then gave a jerk of his head that passed as a nod. Crouching down, Logan took one of the Prince’s hands and placed it on his chest. “Okay, we’re going to go through some grounding exercises to get you feeling calmer. Can you breathe in, as deep as you can?”

A shuddering breath, then a slower exhale.

“Good. Now, repeat.”

They carried on until Roman was breathing fairly regularly, but he was still far from his normal rambunctious self. “Roman, could you do me a favour?” Another nod. “Can you name five things you can see?”

The Prince looked anxiously around the room. “Um, you, the-the TV, the, uh, carpet, table, and-and the blinds over the window.”

“Four things you can feel, now.”

“Your h-hand, my shirt, the couch, and...exhaustion.”

Logan cracked a smile. “Yes, that I can imagine.”

They went through the grounding exercise until Roman was sitting up and didn’t look quite so pale. Logan summoned a glass of water, which Roman chugged gratefully.

“I know I’m not the best at dealing with emotions, but I am curious—do you know what exactly triggered the attack?”

Roman put his head in his hands, mumbling something incoherent.

“I’m sorry; I didn’t catch that.”

Roman raised his head and said, “Parker.”

“What about Parker? I know our situation is going to take some getting used to, but what about that would cause something this bad?”

Hands now shaking again, Roman brushed back his hair. “I was thinking about, how, y’know, we did all this horrible stuff to him, and then he put us through all that when he got out, and it was terrifying. I’m not saying we didn’t deserve it, but, god—”

“Roman, please calm down. You’re rambling, and I know you well enough to recognize when it’s not coming from a place of stability. You’re right; we have done some unacceptable things in the past. We’re all guilty—”

“Virgil’s not.”

“Well, I’m not going to contradict that statement. However, we’re trying to make things right. As for what you faced in there—Parker preyed on our fears. All of us. But fears are often irrational, and even if they’re not, almost any problem can be solved in some way. As long as you remember that, your fears will have no power over you.”

Roman gave a slightly tearful nod, trying to hide the drops through a smile.

Across the room, hidden by shadows, another figure was also trying to hide his tears. Not with a smile, though—with the sleeves of a faded hoodie and the long edges of his sandy hair.

Parker sunk out, retreating back to his room. Just another day where he was to blame.

There was no shortage of those.

A crash broke the relative silence in the mindscape kitchen as Logan dropped the coffee pot, spilling its contents all over the floor.

It was still early—only 9:00, still an hour before regular scheduled time to go to bed—but Thomas had once again decided to procrastinate on a video, so it was likely they both were going to be awake for awhile yet (Roman, too—no video could exist without his input).

Prolonging the inevitable was fruitless, so Logan decided he may as well start early and get some heavily-caffeinated bean water into his system to give him the energy he would require to get through the night.

Making a pot of coffee was pretty much second nature to all the sides by now. With the amount of times Thomas stayed up late, they had all gotten used to rapid-heart rate, shaky-hands, slightly-nauseated feeling. While drinking coffee in the mindscape was more of a habit than actually useful, they all still did it whenever Thomas would be up late. It was really the only way they would function (except Patton, who preferred hot chocolate and was bubbly around the clock).

However, sometimes things go wrong. Logan was distracted, thinking about both the video and Roman. He had been better since his his dissociative episode three days ago, but it had still bothered the analytical side. He was thinking about how Roman’s own mental state might affect the quality of the video (along with the worry for his friend, not that he would admit that) when he dropped the full pot of coffee, shattering it all over the kitchen tile.

As the coffee flooded the floor, they soaked Logan’s fuzzy socks (he was going for comfort rather than appearance. Just this once. One-time thing. Definitely). It began burning his feet, but worse than that was how Logan’s breath stopped.

Being a side meant not having to shower or bathe. It meant not having to go swimming or step in puddles or going in the rain. Being a side meant that dealing with water was a complete rarity, unless one enjoyed baths for leisure (like Virgil sometimes did. Roman had found that out one day, promised to keep it secret, then proceeded to tell Logan, Patton, and Thomas about Anxiety’s guilty pleasure). The last time Logan had been in water was...

The flashback was the only thing occupying his vision. He could vaguely take in his surroundings, but his immediate thoughts were get out you’re going to drown if you do not find a way to GET OUT YOU’RE GOING TO DROWN—

Gasping for breath was a painful affair as Logan forced his lungs to take in oxygen. He wouldn’t be able to escape unless he could think rationally and come up with a solution, but no matter where he stepped, water squelched between his toes and he knew he was still in danger.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a figure wearing loose clothing, a hood draped over its head. His mind immediately went to Death.

As he tried to get away, his back hit something solid. He slid down, landing in the puddle on the ground.

A wall, it’s a wall, you’re trapped and you’re going to drown and now you’re cornered—

“Logan? Logan! Can you hear me, kiddo?”

Yes, I can hear you. Who are you, though?

“Are you okay? Logan?”

Please, stop pestering me with questions. I need to think of how to escape this torturous flood.

“We’re gonna go to the couch now, okay, buddy?”

He was abruptly pulled upright, his one arm draped over someone’s shoulder. Shuffling forward, he eventually dropped onto something soft—and dry.

Dry? Soft? No water, no flooding, no walls, what—?

“Can you hear me, Lo?”

Logan looked over to see a gentle face, with worried eyes peering behind a thick pair of glasses.

“Pat-Patton?”

“Yep, I’m here.”

Logan leaned forward, placing his head in his hands. He was slowly coming back to reality, but everything still felt wrong. He was the logical side! He wasn’t supposed to succumb to irrational fears! A flashback, of all things...

But it felt so real.

“I thought I was back...in the place, the one where Parker put me when he was getting out of his own prison...”

Patton’s brow furrowed, and he placed a hand on Logan’s shoulder. “Do you wanna talk about it? Now, I know you don’t like all this ‘emotional crap’ stuff, but I’m always here for you. As your dad.”

A small smile crept out against Logan’s will. “You’re not my dad. And no, I don’t need to talk about anything. It’s stupid.”

“Kiddo, it’s not stupid. I know you think you have to be 100%, all the time, but all of us know you have emotions. Especially me. I know you, Lo.”

Logan shook his head. “I dropped the coffee pot—oh no, it probably made a mess, I should go—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, it’s fine, we’ll get it later. No use crying over spilled milk—er, coffee, right?”

At that moment, Logan realized how much his feet hurt. “I think it burned me, and I need to go remedy that now.”

“No, let me! Be back in a jiffy!”

Someone else suddenly appeared in Logan’s line of vision.

Patton spoke up. “Oh, Parker’s here, too,” he said as he raced up the stairs

Parker looked distraught, then pulled off the hood on his dark sweater. “I’m-I’m sorry. I’ll leave now.”

Logan nodded mutely, regretting opening up and being so vulnerable, not only in front of Patton, but Parker, too (though inadvertently). He felt slightly remorseful about having Parker hear what he’d said, but he was still trying to pick up the pieces.

Parker sunk out, leaving Logan alone for only a moment before Patton popped up with a first aid kit. While he could’ve easily summoned one on his own, Patton liked to have some realism in the mindscape. Said it “made things interesting”.

He flipped the top open, bandaids spilling all over the couch. “Nice socks,” Patton said, before shimmying them off.

Logan’s feet were bright pink. Patton looked them over, but it was all superficial. He slathered on some aloe vera, and put Logan’s socks back on.

“That was one of the most unpleasant things I have ever experienced.”

“Are you talking about my first aid skills, Lo?”

“Of course. But putting my socks back on after? That was low.”

“-gan.”

“Stop.”

---

Parker reappeared back in his own room, which was still almost blank, and he threw himself on his bed. Was he being selfish, making Logic’s breakdown all about him? Of course he was. Logic was the one struggling right now, all because of him.

Guilt washed over him. Even Logic was crumbling because Parker had decided revenge was better than compromise or forgiveness. At the time, he had wanted to break them, but now...

Parker knew what he did was wrong. He wished for some way to undo all the damage.

But what’s done is done. He just has to keep trying.

A couple days later, Patton was laying in bed, looking up at the fairy lights on his ceiling. The little patterns resembled stars, which usually relaxed him. He had designed his room entirely for comfort. Patton was a homebody, and his room reflected that.

However, tonight was different. His mind was replaying Logan’s little breakdown on the kitchen floor. He’d said it was a flashback.

“Triggered by dropping the coffee and getting liquid all over my feet. Roman also might’ve helped with the intensity—he had some trouble a few days ago. My best guess is dissociation. I suppose that was on my mind, distracting my focus.”

That prospect was terrifying. The most logical, grounded side falling victim to the mind’s whims? What chance did the rest of them have?

The lights dimmed as he closed his eyes, falling into an uneasy slumber.

---

Several hours later, Parker awoke to screaming coming from down the hall.

Even with Anxiety, Thomas was a pretty chill guy. Screaming in pure terror was not a very common thing heard around the mindscape, especially not this late at night.

Heart racing, Parker leapt out of bed and threw open his door.

Morality. It was coming from Morality’s room.

Parker burst in, catching sight of Morality thrashing about wildly on the bed, tears streaming down his face from his scrunched-up eyes.

“Morality, wake up!”

Parker rushed over and began desperately shaking Morality’s shoulder. “It’s just-it’s just a dream!” Tears began to flow from his own eyes.

The Heart’s eyes flew open, and he gasped in horror, shoving Parker away with a choked gasp.

Virgil appeared behind them, pushing past Parker in an urgent, but not unkind way, and gathered Patton in his arms. Usually, he was vehemently against physical contact, but he couldn’t leave Patton like that. The moral side needed comfort, and judging from how clingy—er, loving, he always was, it was safe to assume physical contact was what he needed at the moment.

Patton clung onto Virgil, bunching up the darker trait’s shirt in his hands and sobbing into his shoulder. Virgil tentatively wrapped his arms around Patton while Parker stood off to the side, looking distraught.

“Um, I got this...I think. Can you, uh, make sure Logan and Roman are still asleep? I don’t want to overwhelm Pat right now.”

Parker left gracelessly, stumbling into the doorframe on his way out.

“Hey, Parker?”

The side reappeared at the door.

“Thank you, for trying to help him.”

Parker gave a meek nod, then disappeared from view.

Virgil turned his attention back to Patton. His tears were still coming, but his breaths were at least slowing down. “I’m s-so sorry you have to see me like this, kiddo...”

“No, it’s fine. I mean, you’ve seen me during some pretty rough times, and you’ve always helped me through it. Least I can do is return the favour, y’know?”

Patton sat back up, and Virgil summoned a glass of water. He handed to Patton, who drained half the glass in one go. “Thanks, Verge.”

Virgil gulped a little, then nodded. “So, what happened? Was it, like...a nightmare?”

“Yeah,” Patton said softly after a beat of silence.

Nightmares were nothing new to Virgil. Heck, Patton knew that. Ever since he became more comfortable with the other sides, he had still really only opened up to Patton about the nightmares. He was sure Logan and Roman knew about them, but they never brought it up. But Pat said his door was always open for Virgil, any time. So Virgil had taken to going to Patton for comfort after night terrors.

Virgil leaned back, waiting to see if Pat would open up or not. Oftentimes, all Virgil wanted was some comforting after a nightmare without having to relive it. He wondered if Patton was the same.

Eventually, Pat sighed and looked up. “It was about Parker.”

Virgil’s interest was immediately piqued. “Parker?”

“Well, not Parker exactly,” Patton rushed to clarify. “Just...going through that prison again, and the others’, too. Like a mix of the nightmares Parker made for all of us. Logan and Roman told me about what they went though, so it was like a...mega-terror-extravaganza thing. I can’t really figure out why theirs were in there, I don’t exactly have the same fears as them or anything.”

“It’s because you’re an empath, Dad.”

Patton smiled at him. “Thanks, son.”

“I’m notcha son,” Virgil said, hiding a smirk behind his hand.

“Ok, whatever you say.”

The tension was broken, and even though Patton still had drying tear tracks on his face, the twinkle that was usually in his eye had returned.

But not everyone could recover so easily from emotional turmoil.

Stupid. You should’ve done better. Helping people is easy when you’re a good person, which is why you’re still struggling with it. You only ever bring bad things to the table. What’s even the point in trying to help if everyone’s just trying to push you away?

Parker curled up as his mind realized how hopeless he was. No matter how hard he tried, he would never measure up to the other sides. That’s why they locked him away in the first place, wasn’t it? He contributed nothing. Even Anxiety had a purpose, to keep Thomas safe from harm. Thomas definitely didn’t need another side helping with that.

What exactly was Parker’s purpose now? How could he make it up to the other sides and prove he belonged?

Virgil was having a bad day.

This in itself wasn’t unusual. With him being the embodiment of anxiety, he was always feeling as if his emotions were heightened in a negative way—which is why he was almost always on edge. Then there was the messed up sleep schedule, unhealthy eating habits (whether it was a “physical” feeling or just a placebo effect, the sides all felt happiest when they stuck with somewhat healthy eating, along with cookies where Patton’s involved), and a reliance on caffeine.

He was not exactly a role model regarding self care.

Since a few months ago, after they did “Accepting Anxiety,” he did feel like he belonged with the group more. They made an effort to make him feel welcome, and it did help.

However, that didn’t mean Virgil never had issues anymore.

Today was one of the days his “issues” were making themselves known. He hadn’t slept in over 36 hours, and in that time, had been drinking coffee almost non-stop. Even his body, ever used to being heavily caffeinated, was struggling. His pulse was racing and his hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

The worst was that Virgil’s mind refused to stay focused, and turned to negative or intrusive thoughts rather than the task at hand. He had been flitting around all day as a result of the caffeine, but he still felt completely drained.

He remembered how Patton would cook or bake while stressed, as a way to take his mind off things.

And that’s how Virgil ended up standing at the counter, trying to slice up a red bell pepper with a giant santoku knife for his homemade ratatouille (alright, yes, he was thinking of the movie the entire time).

But shaky hands and large knives don’t mix. One wrong move, one second of attention being elsewhere, is all it took for Virgil to miss the pepper and instead slice straight into his thumb.

Blood began to flow out of the wound, dripping onto the counter. Virgil stared at it, fixated on the deep red colour.

He looked like Thomas, in a demonic sort of way. His hair was dark, yet paler than when they were young. His skin was tinted blue and the shadows danced around him like a hazy mirage. His nails were long and black like they belonged on a monster’s hand, not his. His eyes were the scariest: black where the whites were supposed to be, the pupils a deep red instead of black.

The same crimson colour that currently flooded out of Virgil’s hand.

Panic overtook him, spiralling him into the all-too-familiar anxiety attack. This one was worse than any he had ever experienced. Along with the rapid heart rate, the growing pressure on his chest, and his throat closing up, he began to feel lightheaded at the sight of the blood.

The red that looked so much like Parker’s eyes when they first met again after fifteen years...

Tears pricked at his eyes, and every time he tried to catch his breath, it was knocked out of him again as if he had been punched. He collapsed to the floor, wheezing, desperately trying to breathe. When he couldn’t, that just made him more distressed.

It was a never-ending cycle when he got like this. Alone, Virgil was powerless to stop it. His breathing would become more useless until he passed out and his body reset itself. Which wouldn’t be so bad, except when his attacks were that severe, it usually incapacitated him for days while he tried to recover.

Passing out never did seem like a good option in these times of distress. His primordial reaction was to get out of the situation, which would make sense except he couldn’t move, he couldn’t escape the situation, he was helpless on the ground. Thoughts of death always crossed his mind because he couldn’t breathe...

A slight whimper came out against his will, using up what little oxygen he had left. He was truly, undeniably going to die like this.

“Anxiety, please, breathe!”

A voice. A voice belonging to a person. Someone familiar, maybe.

Virgil turned over and was greeted with the face of Parker.

Despite Parker’s appearance being drastically different than when they first saw him a few weeks ago, it was still him. And at that moment, him was a threat.

Rather than hyperventilating, Virgil’s breathing screeched to a dead halt. A tiny part was saying Parker’s fine, Parker’s safe, Parker’s changed for the better, the larger, instinctive part was screaming danger. Absolute danger.

“No, no, no, no, no, please breathe, don’t stop, don’t—”

“What’s happening?” a new voice boomed.

“He—he—”

“What did you do to him?! Never mind, just get out and let me deal with this!”

A face appeared in Virgil’s line of vision, close to the ground. “Verge, bud, I’m gonna wrap this towel around your hand and I need you to take some deep breaths. What’s that little pattern you do? 4-6-8?”

Virgil jerked his hand away as...Roman? Roman bundled up Virgil’s hand, holding the towel in place.

“Sorry, but I need to stop the bleeding, and...Ah! 4-7-8! We’re gonna do that, okay, Finding Emo? Copy me; in for four...”

Roman counted as he took an exaggerated breath, and Virgil followed, choking a bit at four.

“Good, Verge, now hold,” Roman said, silently counting.

“And out.”

They repeated it several more times, and Virgil slowly sat up. He clutched his hand with the towel still on it close to his chest, blood soaking through the fabric.

With a flourish of Roman’s hand, a first aid box appeared next to the pair. Roman popped it open, pulling out some antiseptic, gauze, a butterfly bandage, and the medical tape.

He held out his hand, and Virgil hesitantly placed his own in it.

Roman got to work, applying some antiseptic and the butterfly bandage to hold the edges together. He wrapped it in gauze and finished by taping the edges down.

As he was putting everything back in the kit, Virgil spoke up for the first time.

“You shouldn’t have yelled at him.”

“Who?”

“It’s ‘whom’, and—”

“Ok, I’m going to have to ask you to stop hanging around Logan so much.”

“Anyway. Parker. You shouldn’t have yelled at him. He didn’t do anything wrong; he just wanted to help.”

The Prince huffed out a sigh. “Yeah, I know. I’ll go apologize to him in a bit.”

Looking displeased, but too tired to argue, Virgil nodded his assent.

After being shoved out of the kitchen, Parker had sprinted up the stairs back to his room. His knees buckled and he pitched forward onto his bed, his weak resolve crumbling. Great, heaving sobs made their way out, his chest clenching painfully.

Everyone hated him. He made everything worse, and everyone was suffering because of his actions.

The grief was too overwhelming, and Parker didn’t know what to do. His body shut down, and he fell into a deep sleep.

---

As soon as he was unconscious, Parker’s mind flashed back to all the damage he’d inflicted.

Not only on the other sides, but his host, too. He had almost gotten Thomas killed because he couldn’t control his fear. Then, after escaping his prison, forced him to go though those horrible hallucinations when Thomas had done nothing wrong.

Pitting Creativity against an unbeatable enemy, making him think Virgil was in danger, coating the prison in blood.

Giving Logic a problem with an impossible solution, drowning him in cold water with no escape.

Putting Morality through emotional turmoil, which would be so much worse for the Heart, then falling for eternity.

And Virgil...

Virgil had stood up for him. He had refused to put up a wall, and the other sides had just thrown him in with Parker. Torturing him for five long years, going through unimaginable horrors. Virgil escaping, then having to go through that same hell again to rescue the other sides.

They all hated him now. His purpose, originally to protect Thomas and give him courage, was abolished. He had changed, going from Fear to Sadness.

In reality, he was a traumatized kid that didn’t know what he did wrong, so he was punished for it. His revenge for that had been petty and cruel.

No wonder they never wanted him around.

Parker awoke with a jolt, an unbearable pressure on his chest. He wasn’t breathing, he couldn’t breathe, he didn’t deserve to breathe.

In his mind, he was straddling the border between sleep and consciousness. Enough that he could see is surroundings, but not make sense of what was happening.

He couldn’t feel his arms, or his legs, and even the vice on his chest began to seem less important than before. It was like he was floating away from his body, back into the prison, reliving all the pain he had inflicted on himself and others. The hellish hallucinations swirled around him in his mind, feeding his panic.

It was as if he was still in a dream—no, a nightmare. He wanted to disappear, and he already felt like he was fading away, being stretched too far by regret.

A voice permeated his thoughts, but they sounded muffled for some reason.

“Parker, can I come in?”

He gave no answer. He could give no answer.

“I know you’re in there, I just wanted to, ah, apologize for my un-princely behaviour. If you need your space, I’ll go, but—”

Parker let out a gasp as he choked on air, he didn’t know what to do, he couldn’t think, and suddenly his door was being pushed open by the frantic hands of Creativity.

It was like Parker was watching things happen from an outside perspective. He could hear Creativity calling his name and shaking him, but he couldn’t respond.

“Parker, c’mon, stay with me here—Pat!”

Someone thumped down the hall, and Morality appeared at the door. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know, I walked in and he was like this!”

Tears poured out of Parker’s eyes and he was trembling even harder. His mouth open and closed like a fish, but nothing came out.

“Oh, crap, Parker, honey, can you hear me?” Patton grabbed one of Parker’s hands. “Can you squeeze my hand?”

Parker continued to heave, making no move to squeeze Patton’s hand.

“Shoot. Can you get Logan, please?”

Roman raced off, then returned with a slightly dishevelled Logan in tow. “What’s going on?”

Logan caught sight of Parker on the bed. “Oh dear. No, that’s not good.”

“What do we do?”

Suddenly, Virgil popped up at the door. “Geez, Princey, you were just supposed to say sorry to him, what could you have possibly done—”

He was cut off when he saw the situation. Parker was spasming in bed because of how hard his muscles were shaking, his face turning blue (due from lack of oxygen, not as an illusion), and he was barely breathing. The other sides were huddled around him, with Patton holding one of his hands.

“Guys, what the heck?” Anxiety said as he rushed over. “Parker, listen if you can; we’re gonna sit you up because, believe me, laying on your back makes it harder to breathe when you’re like this.”

Parker couldn’t respond, he still felt as if he was dying, and no one was trying to do anything to help. They were going to let him die.

Two pairs of hands gently hoisted him up so he was against the headboard of the bed. The pressure eased somewhat, but his body began falling forward.

“Verge—”

“I’ve got him,” said Patton.

The emotional side wormed his way in next to Parker and slipped an arm around his shoulders, holding him up. Morality’s thumb moved back and forth in mini circles, attempting to soothe Parker’s distress. Creativity grabbed one of Parker’s hands and squeezed it, trying to ground him. Logic did the same on the other side.

Slowly, Parker came back to himself, fresh tears spilling from his reddened eyes. He sobbed, utterly exhausted and full of loathing. He took his hands away and buried his head in them, his shoulders shaking with every cry. He mumbled something through the noise, then curled in even further.

“What was that?” Anxiety asked softly.

“I-I’m so sorry. F-for everything. I was h-horrible to you, to everyone, to Thomas,” he gasped out. “I’m sorry.”

Morality wrapped both arms around him. “We forgive you, kiddo. Always.” Logic and Creativity both nodded in agreement.

Anxiety grabbed both of Parker’s hands, gently pulling them away from his face. “Look at me.”

Parker glanced up, fear in his eyes.

Anxiety placed his hands on either side of Parker’s face, and brought their heads together. They rested for a minute as Parker continued to cry silently.

“We forgive you, alright? All of us. We’ve all made mistakes, we’ve all done crap we shouldn’t have. Hell, it was a mistake on these guys’ part to lock you away, and mine for not helping you get out when I did. It’s in the past, okay? And we’ll work things out. Got it?”

“Got it,” Parker sniffled.

“And we’ll always need you. You’re not unnecessary, you’re not evil, you’re not a burden. You’re you, and that’s all we could ever ask for.”

Parker began crying harder, and Anxiety placed a kiss on his forehead. The other four wrapped themselves around them, forming a cocoon of safety.

Creativity, Morality, Logic, Anxiety, and Sadness.

Roman, Patton, Logan, Virgil, and Parker.

Wanted. Good. Loved. Safe.

Enough.

#sanders sides #fanfic #quasimodo speaks #fandom #silence and duality

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