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builder051 · 3 years

Text

The talk

Chasing Ghosts

(I generally do not play in this arena; DO NOT ask for other stories with PMS, etc., as illness features. I do loosely plan to continue this thread, though. Or @mohini-musing might pick up for me.)

Warnings: weight (though not ED context), SA inc. prostitution, blood, emeto

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Tasha comes down the hall and stands like a ghost behind the sofa.

James is in the recliner across the living room, and he barely looks up from the textbook he's pretending to peruse. The quiet music he's had playing in one ear has long since captured his attention more than the multiplication of matrices. He's fairly sure he'll never use the skill lest he become a software engineer post-graduation, and the prospect of that's looking pretty slim.

He sees Tasha out of his peripheral vision, but doesn't move his head or lift his eyes for acknowledgment. She's probably drifted down from her weekend high, realized it's Sunday night, and gotten up for a Gatorade and maybe a glance at her homework.

Steve, though, who's lying on his stomach and taking up the whole of the couch, practically jumps to attention. He stands, scoots, and sits again in the amount of time it takes James to blink and make the first inhalation of a laugh.

"Sorry," Steve says, as if he's personally offended Tasha and just been called out. "I didn't mean... I was just, like, studying..."

Tasha shrugs. "Didn't come to sit with you," she says, in a voice that recalls the 'boys are gross' tone of young teenagerhood.

"What's up, then?" James asks, trying to bring back the balance of the room's atmosphere.

Tasha makes an ugly face. She opens her mouth, then shuts it. "Can I talk to you alone?"

James scoffs. "You think there's privacy in this apartment?"

"I can go, I don't know--" Steve looks around.

"Just talk," James says. He almost rolls his eyes, but the undercurrent of Tasha's affect seems to hold an air of seriousness. If there's something she needs to confess or ask for help with, he doesn't want her to feel less than secure.

Tasha lets out a breathy sort of sigh. "Blood," she says. "There's blood."

"Huh?" Steve responds first. "Where?"

James takes a little longer to contemplate the admission. Has she cut herself? There's no visible damage; Tasha's not holding an injury or howling in pain. Bloody vomit? That's nothing new, really, and even with vampire-red teeth, which she doesn't have, Tasha probably wouldn't come crying to him.

James is still thinking when Tasha points vaguely down the hall and to the left, which is, technically speaking, her side of the apartment. Or at least the bedroom and bathroom they'd parceled out for her when they'd unofficially moved her out of her dreary campus housing.

"What, in your room?" Steve asks.

"No." Tasha screws up her eyes. "I mean... I'm bleeding."

The cogs continue to turn in James's head, and just as he lands on an answer, Steve gives up, shaking his head and saying, "I don't get it."

"Fuck you," Tasha mumbles. "Both of you." She turns and starts to head back down the hallway.

"Tash." James jumps to his feet, his algebra book falling to the floor.

"You guys are fucking gay..."

"Hey!" Steve interjects.

James flaps his hand at Steve to shut him up. "Maybe we're gay, but I'm your big brother." He shoots a quick glance at Steve, hoping this won't surpass his no privacy promise. They've done some pretty wild stuff together: partying, puking, cleaning the carpet... Period talk shouldn't be too far out of their wheelhouse. At least, not if Tasha wants to talk about it.

Tasha huffs and rounds the edge of the sofa. She stands beside the arm, leaning her hip against it for a moment, before finally deciding to sit down, as far away from Steve as possible.

"I..." James starts, assuming it's his responsibility to keep the conversation going. "I assumed you hadn't been, um. You know."

Tasha's 100 pounds soaking wet. In her usual cutoff shorts and tank tops, he'd give her 95. Maybe 92 if she's detoxing. James assumes she has something like female athlete triad going on, except without the athlete. He doesn't like to think she's just too skinny to go through... normal biological processes. If he blames the drugs, sees them as wrecking her body instead of bringing her solace, then he'll have to turn eyes on himself, and there's no way in hell he wants to do that.

"Smart one," Tasha says. "And exactly how much thought do you give to the functioning of my uterus?"

Steve gives an 'oh shit' face, looking from James to Tasha and back again as if wondering how he's been so thick headed. James agrees, but is also relieved, in a way, that his boyfriend hasn't been thinking about his sister in, well, that way.

"Seeing as I have, more than once, pulled you out of an R-rated situation with iffy consent, and you have yet to become pregnant--" James starts.

"Yeah, ok, you don't have to..." Tasha shakes her head.

James decides not to stop his momentum. "Do you know how much sex you're having? How often you're using protection?"

"I said, you don't have to." Tasha glares at him. "I don't have one. A cycle, or whatever. I can't get knocked up."

"Well, I figured that, but you can still get an STD--

"I don't think you're hearing me," Tasha says. "I don't have one. I haven't. Like, ever."

"But--what?" James squints and cocks his head. "What about, what was it? Cheerleading camp?"

"That stupid summer program when I was 16?" Tasha bites her lip. "Yeah, that was a lie."

"You're losing me." Steve reminds them he's part of the conversation as well.

"What, didn't your mom send you to cheerleading camp when you were a sullen teen?" Tasha asks him, seemingly in all seriousness.

"Um. No." Steve withers a little under her stare. "There was a threat to beat it out of me with a bible when I was that age, but that never came to fruition."

"Mm. Fun times." Tasha scrubs her hair back from her face. "I told mom of the moment I started at camp, so then she couldn't go nuts about the moment I 'became a woman,' or whatever."

Tasha has always seemed like a little kid to James. Her stint at camp had only taken place... he quickly calculates... 3ish years ago. Tasha is a kid. She hasn't busted 20 years old yet. But, for the first time James wonders if other, more metaphorical factors are at play.

The idea quickly fades, though, when he remembers the actual topic at hand. "Ok, but Tash," James says. "What's actually going on right now?"

Tasha practically sinks into the couch cushions. She wraps both arms around her abdomen. "Blood," she says. "Kinda...everywhere."

"We'll clean the bathroom later," James says dismissively.

"And I'll do laundry," Steve offers. "I used to be the scrawny kid who got beat up a lot. I can do bloodstains."

"Not helping, babe," James tells him before Tasha can get a word in.

"Feel sick," Tasha admits, rather suddenly.

"Bathroom it is, then," James decides. "But, let's use mine."

Tasha seems to have turned into a shapeless blob on the corner of the couch, her chest meeting her thighs with her arms still wrapped around her stomach. Her face is in her knees, which James has to admit, would be easier to clean than the carpet.

"Come on," he says gently, taking Tasha's shoulder. "If you're gonna puke, don't do it here, please."

"But I already diiiiid," Tasha complains, drawing out the last word and adding the hiccup of a fake crying fit.

"Sorry." James hooks his flesh arm across Tasha's chest and lets her cling to him down the hall. He takes her into his and Steve's disorganized yet bleach-shined bathroom. Cleaning was practically Steve's hobby. Yet keeping down the clutter? Not his strong suit.

Unsure of exactly what kind of sick his sister intends to be, he sets her down, fully clothed, on the toilet, which, of course, has the seat up. Then he dives for the trash can and shoves it into Tasha's chest.

She gives James an appreciative glare, then sets her chin on the edge of the trash can, ostensibly to wait for an upcoming retch. James can practically see it, rising from the bottom of her spine, up her back, to her neck and throat before finally pushing a pitiful amount of spit and bile out of her mouth.

"Ok..." James sighs. If she's down to just that, she's been at it a while. Lost a lot of fluids already.

"Gatorade?" Steve asks in a chipper tone, putting voice to what James is thinking without a trace of delicacy.

"Hmph." Tasha spits. "If it'll... make it stop burning..."

"Lemme guess, vodka last night?" James tries to make her laugh. Maybe cough.

"Fuck you."

"Eh, we'll talk about that later," James says, hoping he doesn't sound threatening. "For now, how about I go with you?" James pulls on Steve's arm and heads for the bathroom door.

"Hey, you said no privacy here..." Tasha's irritated and sickly voice trails after them.

"Yeah, well, puking people aren't allowed to leave the bathroom," James says. "That's the house rule that trumps all the others."

"But I puke on the couch all the time--"

"That's because it's too hard to get your fucking limp-ass octopus body into the bathroom in the first place." James rolls his eyes. "Just sit tight."

He quickly drags Steve into the kitchen. "Ok," he says. "You have to know about this stuff. You took health class in high school, right?"

"I've lived with a woman," Steve reminds James, a little shamefully. "But Peggy was super private. You know, like inhibited, about, like, um..."

"Yeah, I get it." James shrugs. Then, "Did you know you can stem a nosebleed with a tampon?"

"Why would I?"

"I don't know..." James shakes his head.

"Why do you?" Steve looks a little take aback now.

"The field. Desert air's pretty damn dry."

"Ah. Ok."

"We'd get donations of shit from the states. Care packages, Costco overstock, you know. Just, whatever. When we got pads and stuff, whoever was unloading the box would just hold them over their head and yell 'who needs them?'"

"And I'm assuming people would just raise their hands?" Steve postulates.

"Yup." James pops the P. "No privacy. Everyone knows everyone else's bathroom habits. When you're deep in the field, there's no men's and women's facilities. Half the time the privies don't even have doors."

"Ok." Steve nods. "Experience, then. You have lots of experience."

James shrugs again. "You have to be chill, ok?" He opens the fridge and pulls out two bottles of Gatorade. He holds one to either side of Steve's neck, as if to physically cool him. "This is, like, super weird and awkward for her. She's really scared, I think, and her brave face just looks...jerk-ish."

"Yeah." Steve takes the Gatorade. "I can be good with this. I really care about her, even if she doesn't think I do."

"I know you do," James says. "It's all in the presentation right now, though. She's skittish. But, also, for some reason, willing to talk. We have to tease it out. And you can't ruin it, ok?"

"Ok, ok." Steve seems to understand, even if he doesn't appreciate the words.

They head back to the bathroom, where Tasha has, for whatever reason, decided to heave into the toilet instead of the trash. She squats awkwardly, sitting on one heel. From the angle he's at, James can see a spreading stain on the back of Tasha's shorts, which has made an imprint on her ankle and the bottom of her foot.

"Don't move," James says, reaching for a towel.

"The fuck would I?" Tasha coughs, holding her stomach and moaning.

"Well, when you're done, stand up slowly and wipe your feet."

"...Shit..." Tasha spits. "Like I said. It's fucking everywhere."

"Yeah..." Menstrual blood, James has no experience with. But blood in general, yeah. It does get fucking everywhere. There's that first moment when the entire body and all its systems are still in shock, like when the arm is first blown off, and then all he can see is red. Even the bone that was white just a second ago is lost in a sea of scarlet--

"Well, I suppose congratulations are in order," Steve says with a grin, clearly trying to be friendly, but missing out on one, or more, of the points. "You're not pregnant."

"Well, of course I'm not, you dingbat," Tasha replies, rolling her eyes so hard that James is sure it must give her a headache. If she doesn't already have one. "And besides. He used a condom."

"Wait," James says. He's been preoccupied by not looking at Steve. "You know that?" he pokes cautiously. "For sure?"

"...Yeah..."

"Every time?"

"To be honest," Tasha starts, spitting and pushing herself away from the toilet. She crab-walks to the towel, wipes her feet, then sits on it, criss-cross like a little kid. "I don't know if he actually gets off every time." She draws her mouth into a straight, defensive line.

"The fuck does that have to do with anything?" James asks.

Steve looks very much like he wants to get the bleach from the cabinet under the sink, pour it into one ear, tip his head, and see if it comes out the other.

"He pulls out," Tasha says bluntly. "And there's never any, you know. Gunk."

"Wait, he does both?" Steve's eyebrows disappear into his hair. "A condom and--"

"Ok, ok." James puts up his hands to shush them both. "And this is, what, this is your dealer we're talking about?"

"Yeah, I guess, if you want to call him that," Tasha says with a shrug.

"What else would we call him?" Steve now looks disgusted. "That'd be stupid to let him just, like, defile you every week."

"He doesn't--" Tasha starts, but then she hiccups, and maybe thinks better of what she was going to say. She still stares Steve down, though, then looks to James as if grasping at straws of support.

"He's, like, a manufacturer?" Tasha turns her gaze sideways.

"Oh, for fuck's sake." James puts his hand over his face. He'd assumed Tasha was getting her stuff on the street, through a framework of various interlopers. Now he's getting news that his kid sister is taking substances thrown together in some coed's bathtub? This is too much.

"Tash--" James starts, trying hard to keep his bubbling anger and concern from spilling over.

"He's a PhD candidate," Tasha says defensively. In Chemistry. And--" her eyes flicker from side to side as she seems to wonder what's appropriate to spill. "I won't tell you his name. But... I'll tell you that he got kicked off the football team for being too violent, but he still wears his green jersey all the time to prove how much better and calmer he's become since that happened, which was only in the freshman year of his undergrad..." Tasha babbles on.

The more she defends the guy, the more James hates him. He feels bad for him a little, slinging synthesized crack to get by. He feels better for Tasha, knowing that what she's taking is most probably pure. But the sex thing is--

"It's kinda creepy," Steve says, taking the words right from James's mouth. "Like, how much older than you is he?"

"I don't know." Tasha shrugs. "Not that much, I don't think. Started school early, finished fast. And I'm not sure this is his first post-graduate program..."

"Maybe shouldn't've added that last part," James says, screwing up his eyes. "So he's had, like, however long to prey on girls who are barely legal. Who might not even be legal..."

"Well, I'm legal, and I can do what I want." Tasha crosses her arms in front of her chest.

"Yeah," James sighs. "Unfortunately."

"But what about the thing with the handcuffs? The gang rape? Losing your bra?" Steve blurts out.

"Wait, you..." Tasha's eyes flash with anger. "You told him?"

"What did I say about privacy?" James quickly reminds her. "The non-puking kind? And, um," He looks to Steve. "Maybe a little respect?"

"Sorry," Steve mutters. "But--I really do--"

"I don't really remember that stuff," Tasha says.

James studies her face, but he can't tell if she's lying.

"Probably just party stuff that got out of hand."

'You mean you were too stoned to know the difference between your regular and some random dude off the street,' James thinks. 'What do you do at parties? And how the fuck do you slip past me?'

"He's your pimp, too, isn't he?" Steve asks, pointing at Tasha rather accusatorially, in James's opinion.

"No!" Tasha leans forward and brings her arms down to cover her clearly still sore abdomen. "Bruce wouldn't--" She swallows. "I didn't-- You didn't hear--"

James hasn't been a student long enough to know who was on the football team 4, 5, 6-odd years ago. He supposes he could look it up, crossing the name with accounts of any violent incident that amount of time ago. He's not sure he wants to, though he'll probably wind up looking it up later. Either that, or Steve will. James still has his ex-mil connections, a few of which were absorbed into the local police force. Steve, on the other hand, is better with social media and navigating the niceties of such mysteries as SnapChat and TikTok.

"Ok, fine," James says, just ameliorate his sister's panic.

"He doesn't even drug me at parties," Tasha goes on, probably unaware of how terribly young and desperate she sounds, making lame-ass excuses so she can keep her boy toy.

"And you've had other guys who did?" Steve asks incredulously, even though James shakes his head frantically at him to try to get him to shut up.

"You know Rumlow?" Tasha asks, since apparently she's now all about spilling names.

James shakes his head, but Steve screws up his eyes and says in a disgusted voice, "him?"

"Yeah..." Tasha sighs and looks down at her fingernails, which are stained rust-red at the root. "Remember the night I didn't come home?"

"Yeah, and scared the living shit out of us because your phone was off," James fills in the blanks.

"Well, I didn't turn it off."

"You mean that asshole kept you overnight without any means of getting yourself out of there?" Steve looks downright sick. "I mean, I know he looks slimy, but that?"

"I think Maria accidentally slept on the couch and found me at, like, 6am trying to stick my head in the linen closet because I couldn't find the bathroom." Tasha laughs, though the situation is anything bur funny.

"And I was so pissed at her for having you out all night..." James trails off.

"Yeah, maybe respect my choices a little more?" Tasha glares at him. "I mean, Maria's studying to become an EMT now. You can't think that badly of her."

'Great,' James thinks. 'Someone who'll drug Tasha to the gills every weekend.' She'll be less likely to overdose, but James has seen it all too often in the field. Newly minted medical personnel eager to sow off their skills and rushing into action.

"Yeah," James says, trying not to smirk. "So you got a girlfriend and a boyfriend now?"

"Ew, no," Tasha replies. "Friends with...benefits, I guess. If you even want to call it that. Folks who look out for each other, using a barter system?"

"Did you recently take World History?" James can't help but poking at her vocabulary.

"Fucking-a, I don't know. Once I pass, it's in my past."

"That's actually a good motto," Steve points out.

"Anyway," James says, bringing the conversation back to topic. "None of your...friends... are invited to this house."

"It's not like I want to bring them over for dinner," Tasha replies. "I guess drop off and pickup might happen, since, well, you know now, and I don't have a car." She shrugs. "Cool?"

James hates the idea of someone inebriated driving a car in which his sister is a passenger, despite the fact that he's done it before. Regularly, actually. Maybe he just hates the idea of the driver being someone who Tasha just fucked. The air might be heavy between them. They might smell like each other's deodorant and musk. They might kiss each other good bye. The thought makes James's stomach turn.

But, "sure," he says. "That's fine.” At least she'll come home.

James shares a glance with Steve, which seems to confirm the same sentiments, "Yeah," Steve echoes, as if his opinion counts for anything. "Fine."

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marjorieterry90 · 4 years

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What Does It Look Like When My Cat Sprays Super Genius Ideas

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Cat Urine With Blood

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texting-an-alien · 7 years

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The Welders: Chapter Six

Chapter Six: Family Reunion

The Celtic camp looked more gypsy than anything. There weren’t many adults, some were older than others, yet it didn’t look like anyone was old enough to have children. There was one woman who must have been 20 wearing a dirty orange apron and a jean button up shirt. She merely waved at Patrick and smiled at me before returning to her pot that was over a fire.

“Macei got here a week ago, she’s not even the newest. I’m telling you, it’s completely normal for new people to get here," Patrick explained.

I nodded slowly as we passed a few more lean-to’s and tents, some empty some not.

“So, this is Lee and Delia’s, that’s Ferris’s, there’s Mikey, Milo, and Maurice’s, and then there’s Flynn’s," he listed, pointing to them all as we stopped and looked across the grassy and rocky area to a line of homes. “And this," Patrick said turning back to the cloth shelter behind us. “Is Cameron Gunn and Griffin Lockhart's lovely tent."

A girl was sitting in the grass, her brilliantly colored skirt, which was contrasted against the dark ground, flared around her. Wrapped around her shoulders was a knitted scarf. Her hair was a dark brown, nearly the color of her skin, with no exception to her eyes which were so dark they nearly blended in with her pupils. Her arms were not only littered with leather and braided bracelets but also with white and black tattoos, almost like Barney. When she saw Patrick she smiled, and looked back down to whatever she was working on, her fingers moving skillfully and brilliantly.

“Is that Patty I hear?” Someone shouted from inside the small shelter. It was very scottish, different from the other voices.

“Oh shut up and get out here, there’s someone I want you to meet," Patrick retorted and rolled his eyes jokingly. The name Griffin sounded familiar, it was such an odd name that it would definitely stick in my mind.

‘Griffin’ pulled back the blanket for a door and joined the girl outside.

He had slightly long brown hair, a crooked nose with a black nose ring on the right side. He had multiple tattoos on his shoulders and neck, apparently “Welders” were very fond of tattoos which I am completely not judging for. I personally have always wanted a tattoo I just haven’t seen many people my age allowed to have the amount of tattoos I had seen today.

But what was so strange about him wasn’t the tattoos but his eyes. One was brown while the other was green.

I must have been staring because I felt a sharp pain in my ribs from Patrick elbowing me. I nearly fell over before catching myself and looking back to Griffin.

“Oh my goodness, I am so sorry. I’m Amy," I said quickly and stuck my hand out.

Griffin chuckled and took it, shaking, and saying in yes, a very scottish accent, “It’s fine, really. I’m Griffin. I was wondering who the newbie was, I noticed you walking with Patty here."

“I am not against punching you Griffin," Patrick muttered. “This is my cousin, she just found out she’s one of us."

“Oh, fun cousin Amy? Wonderful, maybe you can keep Patrick in check," Griffin teased and crouched down next to who I could only assume to be Cameron.

“Cami, this is Amy, she’s Patrick's cousin," Griffin spoke slowly while twisting and turning his hands. Even though I couldn’t understand it, I recognized it as sign language.

“Cameron's deaf and mute. She can sometimes hear though," Patrick whisper explained and a sudden sadness washed over me. It wasn’t that I felt bad for her, it was more of a mix of empathy and sympathy. I didn’t feel pity for her but at the same time I did.

“And yet she is still a lot smarter than the rest of us," Griffin said loudly while Cameron smiled and quickly signed back.

“She says hello, and that you’re very beautiful," Griffin translated and stood back up.

All I could do was smile because honestly I didn’t know what to say. I think it was suddenly hitting me that a bunch of people, who were in fact so human you wouldn’t think there was anything special about them.

“You alright," Patrick asked, touching my shoulder.

“Fine, I’m not sure why I froze. Um, it was wonderful to meet you guys," I replied, trying to back off the fact I may have spaced out for more than 30 seconds.

Patrick quickly said goodbye to them and we continued walking, this time Patrick put his arm around my shoulders. We said hello to a few other people as we walked. I was introduced to so many people that I wasn’t sure how I was going to remember anyone's name.

Everyone there had their own personality or something that was so special about themselves. Whether it was their accents, odd hair styles, the amount of siblings they had, how many tattoos were on their body, or how many fingers they had. Yes, Jared only had 8 fingers all together.

“So, everyone here is...?” I asked as we began to walk back to the trailer.

“You said it. ‘Yer a wizard Harry," he said in a very Hagrid accent. I couldn’t help but chuckle.

“I’m a what!?” I said back, nudging him and acting surprised.

“We probably should go get some dinner, it’s been like hours since you ate," Patrick said as we came to the ridged and rusted door of the trailer.

I hadn’t realized it but it had suddenly gotten darker out, the sun was actually setting. But that was impossible, I had gotten here at around lunch and now it looked like it was 6:30 in the evening.

“Have I actually been here for hours?” I asked.

“Uh, not really. You know how we were talking about our ancestors wanting stuff from the Wiccan’s? Well one of the ancestors wanted eternal life and while they couldn’t actually do that, they were able to slow and speed up time. They sped up the day and slowed our body...aging...rate. Now it's just gone to a few choice areas around the world," Patrick explained slowly because not even he knew how to explain it.

“Hang on then how come everything is normal back at grams house?”

“Well obviously because gram's house isn’t a super secret wizard hide out in the middle of a forest," Patrick said, mimicking me from earlier.

“Yeah, you’re gonna have to explain all that to me later."

“Well we have a few minutes, we’ll probably end up at Griffin’s for food, I can try to explain some things right now," he offered and opened the door.

“Well what else am I gonna do?” I sighed sarcastically and entered the hippie trailer first.

+++++++++

“Alright so, first things first, ampoules," Patrick began after handing me a water bottle from a mini-fridge. “How would you explain a welder?”

“Someone who uses metal and glass and crap and sticks them together to make...stuff," I replied.

“Sounds about right. Well way back when we began to pick up pieces of magic from the Wiccan’s, they began to trust our ancestors more and more and eventually allowed us to have some magic. An ampoule was our way of containing that magic seeing as how we didn’t and couldn’t have it in our veins. The official definition is-”

“Something to carry liquid in. Wikipedia explained," I interrupted and felt a great amount of pride for actually knowing something.

“Correct, one point Amy. Anyway, through the years we’ve continued to create or “weld” magic, keeping it in the ampoules," Patrick continued.

“Are you telling me that that glass ball that I nearly broke has actual ancestral magic in it?” I summarized, astonished at what I had been holding. Only then did I remember that the ampoule was still in Barney’s office.

“Yep. And since it is incredibly difficult to create super powerful capsules to contain super powerful magic, they’ve been passed down from from millions of years ago. At some point our ancestors put the tools down and just got fed up with creating glass over and over."

“That ampoule was my dad’s?” I carefully asked, feeling like I needed to wash my hands in some bleach.

“Uh, no. It was your… mom’s," he replied slowly, refusing to look me in the eyes.

“You said the Celtic weldy part was on my dad’s side. How is it my mom’s?”

“Your mom was also a Welder. Your dad was just more Welder. Grams and Grandpa were both Welders while your grandma on your mom's side was the only Welder. You just get more Welder from your dad," he said then added quickly, “Unfortunately."

“Well, that’s freaking fantastic," I muttered and took a long drink from the water bottle. “Just so that we can stop talking about the black sheep, if aging moves really slowly here how old are you?”

Patrick chuckled and said, “Don’t worry, I’m still 16. I spend more time out of here which means I age at a normal rate. I’m probably like a few months older if anything. Barney on the other hand…” He slowly trailed off.

I was suddenly very intrigued. “How old is Barney? Is he like 100 years old? Like a vampire?”

“Let’s just say that he doesn’t ever leave the camp. Ever.”

“Oh my gosh, he is literally Barney the Dinosaur," I whispered to myself, loud enough that Patrick could hear because he began laughing so much he had to hide his face.

“Just don’t tell him that," The blonde said, catching his breath and continuing to chuckle afterwards.

“Do you have one?” I asked. I knew he did but I just to see it.

“Obviously, we get them once we turn 8. There’s a whole blood ceremony that goes with it so you can be binded with it," he said and stood reaching over my head to an overhanging cupboard and opened it. He pulled a small engraved tin box out and opened it, revealing green velvet and a round crystal, exactly like my mothers. “We usually keep them with us but sometimes leave them in secure places."

“Because leprechauns are in so much danger," I replied as he put the box back.

I had only been here for a few hours and this already felt normal. I felt like this was a normal thing and there could potentially be a lot of this in the future. Sitting around and making jokes.. It sounded a lot like every other night at grams house.

Oh my goodness...grams.

“What are we going to tell grams?” I brought up.

“Well you won’t have to worry about me afterwards, just don’t bury me in the family mausoleum. It’s my only wish. We’ve got a cemetery exactly for this reason," Patrick explained.

I was about to ask what the wall was about but a gentle knock came from the door. Outside was Cameron, now wearing an extremely long, vintage, felt coat over her black tank-top. She only signed one thing, then turned around and began walking back to her tent.

“Foods ready," Patrick explained and began to move to the back of the trailer. “I’m going to get changed real fast. Do you want to wait here or go ahead?”

“I think I’ll wait here, not ready to meet the rest of the family on my own," I chose and stood, leaning against the door that creaked under my shoulder. Patrick shrugged then pulled back a curtain that I assumed either led to the only room or a bathroom.

When he reappeared he wore a flannel and khaki pants, I was sensing fashion among the Welders. I would have to go shopping if I was to become the next Criss Angel of Oregon. As we walked, I noticed other people joining up and bringing food to other tents and I suddenly felt very empty handed.

“Should we be bringing a casserole or something?” I asked and stuck my hands into my pockets.

“You just got here, I think Griffin and Cami will let you off this time," he answered.

“Are they like together or something? I thought they were brother and sister but they have different last names."

“Nope, just really good friends ever since Cameron showed up. Plus Griffin was the only one who knew sign language."

“That’s completely sensible. They seem nice," I replied. Patrick didn’t respond just kind of nodded and kept walking. The camp seemed a lot more active at night.

Everyone was crowded around a plethora of fires or dutch ovens. There were different assortments of smells, some I recognized, some I didn’t. I hadn’t noticed before, but there was a small stone well the the triplets were currently serving everyone in tin mugs. When I turned back to Cameron and Griffins camp, I noticed Lee and Delia were already there, huddled under a wool blanket.

“We figured you’d come here. Patrick never cooks. Even if he could without burning down half the forest, he still wouldn’t," Lee said, noticing us. I couldn’t help but chuckle, very much aware of my cousins culinary skills while Patrick only grumbled something and sat cross legged on the ground.

Griffin was the one to serve food. It was a vegetable stew with meat that appeared to be something like chicken, and a chunk of bread. Honestly, everything was amazing. It just felt very… healthy. That was one thing I was definitely not used to.

“Griffin," I asked, dipping my bread into the bowl and taking a large bite. “What kind of meat is this?”

“Fox," he replied as he took a large swig from his water bottle. My eyes widened and Patrick began to chuckle as Griffin quickly said, “Chill, it’s deer. Like I would ever kill a fox."

As I sat next to Patrick, I didn’t really need to say anything because everything seemed so calm and normal. Between eating was teasing and joking, but other than that it was just silent and everyone seemed okay with that. People from other tents came around and said hello, offered carrots and rolls, and then left. Lee got up a few times to go refill water bottles at the well, but other than that we all stayed in our spots, too cold to actually think about moving.

It was nearly 45 minutes into dinner when I was serving myself some more stew from the side of Cameron's tent. Delia came beside me and reached over, grabbing bread and carrots.

“I wanted to apologize," she said, just as I was about to put the ladle down.

“For what?” I asked, slightly oblivious and somehow still knowing what she meant.

“The way I was acting before. It was a total jerk move and I swear I am not always like that… it’s just. Actually I don’t know what it was.... just, I’m sorry," she stuttered.

Even though she wasn’t really good at explaining, I kind of understood what she was saying.

“Don’t worry about it Delia, really. I’m sorry for calling you Regina George," I apologized.

“I kind of deserved it though."

“Yeah you kind of did," I agreed and she laughed, looking back to the fire. “Is it always like this? Everyone is so friendly and sweet. It’s weird."

“Yeah, normally. On rainy days we go into Barney’s place, he’s got a massive kitchen. I guess it’s not weird for us because it’s always been like this. Well for Lee and I anyway," Delia explained.

I didn’t say anything for a moment. We were both still standing at the side of the tent, watching everyone laughing and chatting. Cameron and Griffin seemed to be in a very deep conversation and every now and then she would throw pieces of bread at his forehead.

“Are you going to stay here?” Delia suddenly asked.

I looked at her shocked before replying, “Uhm, I wasn’t even aware that was an option."

“Well of course it’s an option, we all made that choice a long time ago. You may have been here for only a few hours but what you’ve learned so far is only the beginning. You could learn how to make and even use magic. It’s honestly really exciting."

“For how long? I mean, where are all the adults. There are only like three- not counting Barney," I asked.

“They usually go back to Scotland or Ireland. After being at a camp for so long, they go back to the main source. Some because they want more power, some because they want family. My parents live in Ireland, we visit them every so often, but we’ve all just adapted to not having our parents around 24/7/ Either way, you can learn so much from everyone here. Who knows, you could become the most powerful not so Wiccan witch ever," she encouraged.

I scoffed and rolled my eyes, “You are definitely more enjoyable now."

“I’m not so sure about you though," Delia replied, smiled, then went back to her brother.

Lee looked to me, who was still smiling, and motioned to his sister in a kind of “what did she do this time?” gesture. I quickly shook my head and smiled as he went back to stuffing his face like he had been for the past hour.

It would be another 10 minutes before Patrick decided it was getting too late and that it was time that we should head back across camp. I had already figured out that everyone didn’t have a bedtime and stayed up a lot longer, it was clear because so far I was the only one having a yawn attack.

“Are you taking me home?” I asked sleepily as I leaned against Patrick, trying to walk straight.

“The trailer is going to be your home for tonight," he responded and put a supporting arm around my shoulders, pulling me up. I leaned further into him and heard him chuckle as I yawned yet again.

After tossing me a old pair of sweatpants, I laid on the couch while he went and changed. I didn’t see him reappear but I could feel myself being lifted up and set on his bed, heavy blankets being pulled over me.

“Goodnight ‘cuz," Patrick whispered as he yanked the small chain to the plastic crystal chandelier that was hanging over the bed and laid down on the couch, pulling one of the many blankets over him.

The last thing I remember is myself mumbling, “But I didn’t brush my teeth."

#the welders #thewelders #book #read #reader #write #writer #wiccan #wicca #magic #fiction #fictional #fantasy #witch

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