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kelpiemomma · 1 year

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It was a knock at the door that pulled Ingo out of a deep slumber.

It was not frantic, not a sound that had him leaping out of his bed in a panic, but it was firm. Insistent. It compelled him to emerge from the warm comfort of his blankets, piled and wrapped atop of a straw bed to block the chill of the night, and to the thin wooden door blocking the chill and snow. He stumbled in the dark, tripping over smoothed wood and catching himself on the wall of the hut. His hand grasped the coat he’d hung up before crawling into bed and he pulled it down, wrapping it around himself like a protective cloak. Still with no light, and no real thought process beyond answer the door, Ingo pulled it open.

“How may I-” he began the sentence through a yawn, cut off midway by the sight before him.

The ground was lit by the moon in the sky, bright enough that Ingo could clearly see the person who had woken him up. It was impossible to determine an immediate gender so Ingo didn’t even bother to try. Whoever they were had long hair, a light gold that nearly appeared white in the moonlight. They had a long, stern nose with a flat bridge. Their gaze was flat and serious, lips thin as they stared down - very, very far down - at Ingo. At full height Ingo was a few inches taller than those around him within the village, but this person made him feel like a child. If his head came up to their chest he would be surprised. They were dressed in what appeared to be an old-fashioned white robe, the wind carrying across the valley lifting it gently before placing it back down as though it was the most delicate fabric. Intricate golden details laced the trim. Perhaps it was the sleep but it seemed to Ingo’s mind that the trim was… moving. One moment he thought there was a sun rising over a valley, and in the next it seemed to be some sort of battle between two pokemon. Hands appeared and disappeared, a wave of appraisal and worship before sinking down into a wave.

Rubbing his eyes to clear the odd sight - and upon second glance, the delicate lace no longer slipped through design - Ingo took a second look. Their height had not decreased at all but he was able to notice something new. Something that, somehow, he had missed in his awed staring. The person’s arms were wrapped around their chest in a cradling position. A blanket, the color of which he’d never seen before, was swaddled tightly. Though the hold was confident there was also a looseness to it that sent alarm bells ringing through Ingo’s mind, waking him up further. As he opened his mouth to speak the bundle moved, a tiny fist raising itself from the blanket and pounding on the person’s chest. Barely a moment later, a piercing cry erupted from the blanket as well. The stranger did not blink. They barely seemed to notice the noise at all. Their hooded green gaze had not left Ingo’s face.

“Is that- are you carrying a child? Are you hurt? Are they hurt? Here, please- come inside, I’ll get a fire started! It’s awfully cold tonight; a baby shouldn’t be out in this weather.” Ingo reached out impulsively, grasping for a sleeve and ending up with an arm ful of wailing baby. He pulled the child close to his chest in surprise, looking down into light eyes full of tears. The infant hiccuped through their tears, arm waving furiously. He grasped the limb gently to protect his own face only for his hand to be pulled down towards the babe’s face. They immediately began gnawing on his fingers, the wail dying gradually as they found something to occupy themself. The cold was forgotten.

Something clicked into place.

“Warden Ingo,” the person before him finally spoke, pulling Ingo’s gaze reluctantly away from the baby, “I leave her to you.”

“I’m sorry? I’m- I’m not a Warden? I'm just- a guest. Why are you- are you leaving? Are you leaving your child behind?” Anger rose in his chest. Was this infant being abandoned? Directly into his arms?!

“She was never meant to join this world. She was not part of my plan. I heard the world cry and there she was.”

“Do you need help? If you can’t raise her on your own you may join the village, I’m sure. They would be willing to take in a parent in need!”

“I am not her parent. I brought her into existence but she is not mine. She never has been and never will be.” There was a darkness in the person’s eyes, a bitter sort of anger laying under those words. They were sharp, pointed enough that the baby wiggled in Ingo’s arms and let out a high-pitched whine. Immediately he rubbed their - her? - cheek, the whine slipping into a gurgle. His fingers were pulled and tugged on until the baby managed to slip a fingertip into their mouth, chewing on his limb. Ingo’s gaze never left the person’s before him, though they finally dared to look away from him. Their flat expression became something like a sneer as they looked down before it was schooled into disinterest once again.

“As you were never meant to be here either, I leave her to you. I would bid that you take care not to lose her and do not tell others where she came from.” The person slid their hands into their sleeves, the gold filigree flashing blindingly bright as the sleeves made contact. Ingo turned away to block his and the child’s eyes. “Not even I know where she may end up next time.”

When the light faded and Ingo could look again the person was gone. He took several steps forward, looking around to try and see where they had vanished to, but not even the snow gave a hint at what direction the person had gone in. Only the moon looked down at Ingo, the light solemn and soft. He turned his gaze to the infant in his arms; cheeks were being carelessly bitten by the wind and turning red, eyes wrinkled up in discomfort and watery, but his finger remained chewed on. Despite the infant’s abandonment, they didn’t appear disturbed. In fact they appeared… content. As the chill nipped insistently at Ingo’s bare feet, driving him back into his hut to pull the door shut, so did the baby’s eyes. They let out a gurgling noise, grip tightening on Ingo’s fingers, and then they began to snore.

Ingo rubbed his face, trudging back towards his bed. There were things he needed to do and yet- something pushed him towards the blankets. He pushed them to the side, keeping the infant in one hand while removing his long coat. Using it and a blanket he created a nest to cradle the little one in. As he set the child inside, covering them with one of his sleeves, they sighed in what he could have mistaken for content. One chubby fist grabbed the wristband of his coat while the other migrated to the infant’s mouth, thumb settling into place as though it belonged there. Half awake and half aware, Ingo prepared his own blankets upon his straw bed. He put the infant between himself and the wall, and then hesitated before moving them between himself and the opening of the room. Then he hesitated again- the wall would be colder, but perhaps safer, right? If the baby was facing the room it might roll out of the blankets and fall off the bed. It wasn’t a long drop by any means, but still! He swapped the child to the other side once again, wrapping another blanket around and over the nest, and then laid there.

What had just happened? Where had the baby’s parent gone? They had said they weren’t, but where else could it have come from? Had it been stolen?

Despite his concern that these thoughts would keep him awake, another force pulled Ingo’s eyelids down and he drifted off to sleep.

It was a knock at the door that pulled Ingo out of slumber.

The sound was quick and heavy, quickly joined by a voice.

“Mr Ingo! Are you awake?”

It was not so much a genuine question as much as it was a wakeup call. One that he was used to at this point. Several months among the Pearl Clan had helped him come to understand not only their language but their habits- he was needed, and so they were waking him.

Sunlight warmed the wooden floor as Ingo slipped out from under his blankets and padded across the floor. His head felt fuzzy and he felt a little confused; his jacket was not hanging up where he had put it the night before and there was a small snowdrift on one side of the door. He looked at it curiously, trying to figure out where it had come from, as he opened the door.

Irida stood before him, her gaze slightly narrowed and her brows drawn tight. Rather than angry he could see the stress in her expression, the way she held herself. He wondered what had happened.

“Good morning, Miss Irida.” ingo said. “How may I be of help?”

“Mr Ingo, it’s almost afternoon. We had a large amount of snowfall last night and need your help. Since you’re an early riser we thought you had already gone out- are you ill to have slept so long?” She asked. “We can’t have anyone else getting sick not so soon after the last wave!”

Ingo blinked, shaking his head and raising a hand. He had arrived, lost and freezing, to the Pearl Clan at the tail end of a lingering sickness. Though he had been cold he had also been healthy and immediately stepped in to help the recovering clan; distrustful members had warily guided the confused man around the territory to gather berries and check game. They doubted his memory loss but couldn’t afford to deny his aid. To many he had been a necessary evil. To some, he still was. To Irida, who was still young but in the running to lead the clan, he was a goal.

“I apologize, Miss Irida. I woke up last night after having a very strange dream. It must have taken me a while to fall asleep, if I indeed slept until noon. I will get ready to help.”

He went to close the door so he could dress, sighing out, “the moon was so bright it seemed to be daylight.”

Irida shot him a look.

“Mr Ingo, there was no moon at all last night.” She stated. “It’s why we didn’t see the amount of snow until this morning, despite the watch.”

Ingo froze.

“No,” he said slowly, “no, there very much was a moon. In fact, there was a person as well. They-”

From his bed came a piercing wail. Ingo froze and Irida jumped.

“Mr Ingo,” she said after a moment of listening to the crying child, “is that a baby?”

Pulled out of his panic by her words Ingo rushed to pick the child up. A terrible smell greeted his nose as he removed the baby from the nest of blankets and coat.

“There was a moon,” he said as he stared at the crying child, “it was full and bright, and-”

“Moon later, baby now.” Irida said, taking the infant from his hands. She paused, and then glared at him. “Baby explanation later, baby cleanup now. Where do you keep your changing supplies?”

“She was a… a gift,” Ingo replied dumbly; somehow it felt like the right description, “I have nothing.”

Irida stared at him in complete confusion and irritation before she sighed.

“Baby explanation later, finding the baby new nappies and…. ergh, new clothes now.” She exited his hut with the wailing child. As if pulled by a string Ingo followed, barely slipping his shoes on before stumbling into the soft snow that had yet to be cleared from in front of his home. He ignored the stares as Irida marched - baby held in front of her like a shield - to the home of Calaba. The old Warden was opening the door before they were within ten feet of the house, watching them approach with barely concealed displeasure. She allowed them in with pursed lips and the shake of her head.

Ingo dreaded to know what she was thinking.

As he watched Irida strip the infant to clean her, all the while narrating what she was doing as if Ingo was paying that much attention, one set of words caught his ear.

“I’m sorry, Miss Irida, I am- I am a little… a little off course. Could you please repeat yourself?”

She shot him an irritated glare over her shoulder. This one was truly angry with him; he would be sure to get an earful later. Though she was mostly fair she was also a hot-headed young woman determined to become the next lead of the clan. It was possible this had just hurt her chances.

“I said, Mr Ingo, what’s her name?”

“Her name?” He repeated, “I- I don’t know. They… she didn’t come with a name.”

“They normally don’t,” Calaba snapped from behind him, “which is why their parents give them one. She may be a little young for a name yet- she doesn’t look that old. You moved awfully quick Mr Ingo.” Her tone left no room for doubt- she believed that he had impregnated someone and left them, only for them to return the favor and deposit the baby on his doorstep.

“Warden Calaba, she’s not mine. Someone- someone stopped by last night, in the full moon, and gave her to me. Surely one of the watch noticed them!” He turned to her in an attempt to defend himself. Calaba snorted and crossed her arms.

“It was a new moon, Mr Ingo. There was no light at all. Perhaps you made your own light- did you track someone down and take their child?”

“I would never! That is- that is a horrible thing to insinuate, Warden Calaba, regardless of your affection or lack thereof for me! There were no footprints outside my door, were there? I couldn’t have gone anywhere!” He spun to face Irida. She was tying a new diaper onto the baby, ignoring the wails in her ears.

“With the amount of snowfall last night, footsteps would’ve disappeared quickly Mr Ingo.” She answered sorrowfully. She was loathe to agree with Warden Calaba and her harsh tongue.

“Do you believe I stole this child?” Ingo demanded of her.

Irida finished wrapping the infant, handing her back to Ingo. Only once she was in his arms, face buried in his chest as she gripped his tunic tightly with chubby fists, did she quiet. WIth her wails ceased the silence prevailed in the room as Ingo stared at Irida, who looked between himself and Calaba. If the warden didn’t like her, her chances of achieving leadership would drop even further.

“No,” Irida finally said, “in all the time you’ve been here, you haven’t come off as that sort of person, regardless of how others have seen you. But the baby-”

“I don’t know where she came from. I awoke to a knock at my door last night and someone gave her to me. They did not introduce themselves, only told me not to lose her, and then they left. I thought it was a dream until she began to cry after soiling herself.” Ingo said firmly. He turned to look at Calaba as he spoke, meeting her impassive gaze firmly. There was a tense moment until she grunted and looked away.

“So a mystery person dropped a baby onto a stranger’s lap.” She muttered.

“I’ll organize a search party,” Irida said, “a couple. If they were around last night then they must be nearby- the snow was falling much too heavy and quickly for them to have gotten far.”

Ingo understood the insinuation- they were, most likely, looking for a corpse.

“Until then… we should find her a home with a wetnurse, and-” Irida went to take the child from Ingo despite having just deposited her back into his arms. He tightened his grip just as Irida’s hands clasped onto her sides. Feeling the other touch the baby began to scream. Irida immediately stepped back, covering her ears, while Ingo turned away and rocked from side to side. She quieted after a few moments, gurgling quietly against his chest once more. Ingo and Irida looked at each other. She reached out to take the baby again. Ingo didn’t tighten his grasp this time, slightly holding her away from him, but as soon as Irida touched her she opened her mouth to scream once more.

Irida stepped back, expression turning to confusion. “She won’t let me take her.” She said.

Calaba scoffed.

“She’s an infant. Give her here, she’ll quiet down if you just hold her a moment.” She demanded.

Ingo reluctantly handed the baby over. Just like with Irida, as soon as Calaba had a hold of her she began to shriek her displeasure. Calaba pulled her close and began to rock her as Ingo had, but as the minutes passed on the shrieking turned to sobs. Like the night before the baby raised her fists, pounding on Calaba’s chest to express her displeasure. One of them must have nailed the older woman well because she let out a surprised breath, her arms’ hold weakening momentarily. Ingo was there in a heartbeat, reaching out to take hold of the girl.

Once she was back in his arms she began to grow quiet, wrapping a hand in his tunic as her sobs turned to crying, turning to whines that quieted into hiccuping breaths as he rocked her. Her teary eyes met his gaze with an unexpected intensity. She held onto his tunic in a way that, were she an adult, Ingo would believe to be some desperation. Don’t let me go, she seemed to be begging, don’t let them take me away!

I won’t, Ingo thought back, I won’t let them take you. I promise.

“Well,” Irida said after a moment, “I believe that she wishes to stay with Ingo.”

“Hmph. She’ll still need a wetnurse unless he’s hiding milk behind that tunic.” Calaba said the words dismissively. “He’ll also need to learn how to change her, and get her clothes, and-”

“Akari.” Ingo said, breaking the sentence.

“Who? We don’t have an Akari in the village. Is that her mother?” Irida asked, approaching. She kept a distance from the baby, preparing to step back in case the screaming started once more. Wrapped in Ingo’s arms the baby met her gaze placidly.

“No. It’s… her. Her name.” Ingo trailed a finger from the girl’s forehead, where small wisps of dark hair were already threatening to fall in her face, down over her nose. She smiled and giggled, wrapping a hand around Ingo’s finger and shaking it. Ingo couldn’t help but think she must feel excited.

“Her name is Akari.”

#Pokemon legends Arceus #PLA #Irida #Ingo #Akari #After encasing myself in dad and found dad media I had an idea #I mean I have my own lol PLA universe which includes my OCs but #I haven't touched it bc reasons but honestly #Fuck it we ball. New series with 0 pressure for me lol #Other things are still a wip but I also needed to practice uploading on AO3 #Some things did not load as they should so there is that issue...#Not a big problem with 3k words but uh.#I don't want to be combing through 20k to fix italics and stuff #Esp on such a small and limited screen #Anyway I'm rambling now. Here's some fic. Have some infant Akari #Arceus is a deadbeat dad (they're upset Akari screamed as soon as they picked her up)#(Arceus is like 'why does she not immediately love me? Time to re-home her')#Haven't decided the exact behavior of Arceus in this one but at the very least they're not as malicious as they are in #Like 99% of my other fics (sorry. I like naughty bad god Arceus)#Uhhhh personal tagging for tracking hmmmm....#OBF series #That'll do pig. That'll do.

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how-to-survive-a-factory-tour · 4 years

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How to Survive A Factory Tour - Chapter 20

A Sanders Sides / Charlie and the Chocolate Factory FanFiction

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The three of us walk through the courtyard - well, I say three, but I don’t really know about Logan and Roman, since I can’t see them - and head to the gates. Logan was right about the media being here, there are even more people here now than there were this morning. Safe to say, I’m glad we have these cloaks. I’d rather not have all these people grilling me on what happened to all of us.

“Patton!” I jump a little as I hear Roman’s voice whispering.

“Yeah?”

“I just told Logan - find your parents or family or whoever and take them to the alley just down the street to the left. Then we’ll do the big reveal to them all, out of sight from anyone else.”

I give him a nod, before remembering he can’t see me. “Got it!”

The gate’s opened slightly, I assume by Logan, and we all slip out. I immediately start looking through the crowd, trying to find my parents and Emile. As I do, I see two men being dragged through the crowd by an invisible force towards the alley, as well as Joan and Talyn being dragged the same way from the other side of the crowd.

After gently squeezing past a few people, I finally catch sight of Emile. I run over to him, and whisper. “Emile! It’s me!”

He turns around. “Patton? Where are you? Are you a ghost…?”

I chuckle. “No, but I’m invisible! I have an invisibility cloak. Now,” I take his hand, “grab Ma and Pa and get them to follow you. I need to take you somewhere before I reveal myself.”

“Okay!” he tugs on Ma’s shirt. “Ma, Pa, follow me!”

Before they can respond, Emile starts dragging them, and I lead the way. Despite my parents’ protests, we make it to the alley, where Joan and Talyn, and the two men I assume are Roman’s fathers, are standing, confused.

Suddenly, Roman’s voice speaks, shocking them all. “You there, Patton?”

“Yup!” I respond, making my parents shocked as well.

“Good!” and Roman pulls off his invisibility cloak.

“Roman!” one of his dads gasps. “What on earth happened to you?” He starts picking at the small clumps of caramel Roman still has stuck to him.

“Long story,” Roman replies, shrugging him off. “One that I’d rather not say when news reporters are just around the corner. All of us are gonna save the stories for when we get back to the hotel room. Now, Patton, Logan? You should probably reveal yourselves too.”

I try my best to shift the cloak off of me, though it’s hard with my crutches. However, I eventually get it off. As I do, my Pa pales, and Ma and Emile gasp. “What happened to your leg?!”

I shrug. “It’s not too bad. And I’ll explain at the hotel room. Ooh!” I turn to Roman. “Or, all of us could come back to our room so the three of us can explain together!”

Roman nods. “Good idea, Pat.”

There’s a pause as we wait for Logan to reveal himself. However, he doesn’t. Roman raises an eyebrow. “Um, Logan? Gonna take off your cloak?”

“Um… I-I’d rather not…”

“You’re going to have to eventually, Lo.” I give a reassuring smile in the general direction I think he’s standing. “It’ll be alright. I’m so no one will judge you too hard.”

There’s a pause, before a sigh. The cloak slips off.

Unsurprisingly, his appearance gets the biggest reaction, and Joan and Talyn are the most surprised. “What. The actual. Fuck,” Joan mumbles.

Logan’s face flushes in embarrassment, and tugs at his shirt, trying and failing to get it over his stomach to hide as much as he can. “I, um… I’ll explain later… you know, um, with the others…” He stumbles over his words, not looking anyone in the eye, choosing instead to look down at his feet. “Um… speaking of, can we please just head back to the hotel now? I really don’t want to risk anyone seeing me, and being just around the corner from a bunch of reporters is making me really nervous…”

Roman nods. “In that case, let’s g-!”

“Where’s Virgil?”

Everyone in the alley turns to see Thomas stood there at the opening, looking between us all. “Is he under a cloak or something too? Please tell me he’s here.”

I hurriedly go over to him, seeing him looking panicked. “Hey, kiddo, it’s okay! He’s not here, but he’s not hurt. He’s still in the factory because, well… he kinda won it.”

“He what?”

“All will be explained back at Patton’s family’s hotel room,” Roman responds. “Now we should probably go.”

He pulls back on his invisibility cloak, and Logan and I follow suit, Logan much quicker than me. Roman then calls out. “Okay, Patton, lead the way! … Or I guess Patton’s family because we can’t see Patton.”

Emile ends up leading, my parents still taken aback by, well, everything. The rest of us follow along, heading through the street. It’s now I notice something out of the corner of my eye, up in the sky. I look up, and oh my gosh!

It’s the lift from the factory! It’s flying! Virgil and Wonka are inside. I think about waving before remembering that I can’t be seen.

I really am going to miss Virgil. And Roman. And Logan. Especially Logan. After today, it feels so weird that we’re all just going to go back to our normal lives. Living far apart from each other, only talking over texts, calls, video chats… I hope Lo and I can make long distance work. God, we haven’t even parted yet and I’m already sentimental and missing everyone!

Though… I guess I shouldn’t say ‘normal lives’. Virgil’s is going to be far from normal now. He’s running the best factory in the world! And, um, I think it’s safe to say that Logan’s isn’t going to be normal either. It’ll probably be hard to live normally when he’s all purple and swollen. Poor guy… I’m gonna video call him every night, make sure he’s okay, reassure him I love him so so much no matter what, and just… try and make his life as easy as it can be for him, I guess.

I hope his family doesn’t use it as an excuse to treat him worse, though…

When we arrive at the hotel, we head back to my family’s room and we toss off our cloaks once the door is closed.

“Okay, can you please explain what the frick happened?!” Joan asks as we all take seats either on the beds or the couch, me slipping off my crutches.

“Okay, so, everything started normally enough,” Roman starts. “We went to a room called the Chocolate Room, which was like a meadow where everything was made of candy. It. Was. Awesome! We just got to chill, and eat whatever we wanted. ”

“Then we went to a room that was pretty similar called Dessert Island,” I add. “It was an island where everything was made from desserts and puddings, and it was surrounded by an ocean of lemonade! But, uh… I fell in the ocean, and before I could get out, I, um… got dragged away by orcas made out of marshmallow and liquorice…”

“What?!” Ma comes and kneels in front of me, checking over me.

“It’s okay, Ma, I’m okay. Well, mostly. My leg got really badly hurt, but apart from that, I’m good. Anyway, I don’t know what happened after that, so...” I turn to Logan, who sighs.

“So, um, we went to a room called the Inventing Room after that. As you can probably guess, it’s where Wonka invents his newest sweets. And, um… I interacted with an unstable machine, and it… well…” He trails off, mumbling the ending.

“You’re not gonna be able to get away without telling us, Logan,” Talyn replies, folding their arms.

“... Can’t I? Please?”

The hard stare he gets in response is enough to get him to talk. “I, um… the machine was a teleporter. I went through with a jar of pomegranate and blackberry Crofters- “

“You took Crofters into the factory with you? Into a factory that already has a bunch of food? You really have a problem...” Joan says, raising an eyebrow. “Also, you didn’t have a bag or a coat with big pockets, how’d you get it in?”

“It wasn’t mine. It’s a long story. But, uh, there was a defect with the teleporter that meant it reconstructed all organic matter together. So, my DNA was fused with that of the jam’s fruit. This caused me to, uh...to turn into a giant pomegranate-blackberry hybrid.”

“Or ‘pomeberry’, as I put it,” Roman adds.

“I’m sorry, what?” Talyn asks, looking just as confused as everyone else in the room. “What do you mean you turned into a fruit?”

“I mean I turned purple before filling with juice and swelling up into a ten foot ball. I had to be rolled away to be juiced, which was… an experience I don’t even want to get into.”

“I am actually intrigued by that-”

“Nope, Roman, I’m not talking about it. It’s embarrassi- ow!”

“Sorry,” Joan apologises, looking not at all sorry and poking Logan’s stomach a second time, listening as it sloshes in response. “It really is juice and not fat, huh…?”

“Yep… Anyway, Roman, over to you.”

“Right! So, after Logan was rolled off, it left only the three of us: myself, Virgil, and Ethan. We continued on, led by Mr Wonka, looking at other rooms. It was nice and normal, until we entered the Rock Candy Mines. It was a gorgeous place. Deep caverns filled with glistening gemstones, that were in fact rock candy. As we explored deeper and deeper, I heard a strange rumbling coming from a cavern to my right. So, I went to investigate. And that’s where I found it…

“A dragon! At least fifty feet long, made entirely of rock candy. It’s teeth and claws were as sharp as daggers.

“I knew, from the moment I saw it… I had to slay this foul beast.”

This gains a reaction from his dads. “You WHAT?!”

“Luckily there was a sword nearby and I leapt into action! The dragon put up a good fight, but it was no match for me. I stabbed it in the eye, and got on its back, ready to stab it right through the heart!

“...When I tripped. Luckily the dragon didn’t breath fire. It, uh, breathed caramel instead. I was encased, stuck as a caramel statue. I needed to be chiselled out, or else my oxygen supply would run out. So, I was taken away to be saved. However, I wasn’t quite yet.”

“None of us were,” I take back over the story. “After the whales eventually let me go, a bunch of snakes appeared and swam up to me. They wrapped around my wrists and ankles, trying to drown me.”

“Snakes kept destroying the juicer before I could be juiced. Whenever it was fixed, it would be broken again, and I was left so long I began to ‘ripen’.”

“Venomous snakes and constrictors killed all the workers who were supposed to chisel me out. Luckily after they’d chiselled me an airhole, so I could at least breathe.”

“We all could have died, but luckily Virgil went to the bathroom at this point! And the bathroom was right by the whale enclosure, so he heard the commotion of the workers confused as to why I hadn’t surfaced yet. Virgil came to the rescue, diving in and saving me! He pulled the snakes off, killed them, and pulled me up to the surface. The workers bandaged my leg and gave me these crutches. Virgil guessed that, if I wasn’t saved, the other two might not have been either. So we headed off to the Juicing Room!”

“Where I was starting to slowly ripen.”

“You keep saying that, 'ripen',” Talyn interrupts. “What do you mean ‘ripen’?”

“It would take me three or so hours to do so completely, and if I did so, there would be a fifty-fifty chance of me either being stuck like that, or… exploding.”

“WHAT?!”

“It’s fine, I did not explode, and I only got partially stuck, as you can see. Virgil arrived and killed the snakes breaking the juicer. It was fixed, and the juice that could be squeezed out was. However, there was good news and bad news. The bad was that my binder broke. The good… well…” Logan looks to me, face flushing bluey-purple. I smile in return, taking his hand.

“Since I was scared for Logan’s life at the time, I decided it was the best time to proclaim my love and kiss him… and now we’re dating. So, Ma, Pa, meet my boyfriend.”

“Way to go, Logan!” Joan grins. “Finally got yourself a partner.”

Logan flushes. “Shut up…”

Ma smiles at the two of us. “I think it’s sweet. Just promise me, Logan, you’ll treat my boy right.”

“Maaa…”

Logan chuckles a little. “Trust me, Dot, I definitely will. I mean, if he can love me despite me being part fruit, he deserves the absolute best.”

“Aww, LoLo!” I pull him close, kissing his head. “You’re so sweet…”

“Pat-”

“Get it? Sweet? Sweet like a fruit?”

Logan groans. “Aaand you ruined it.”

“Anyway, back to the tale!” Roman speaks up - I think he might be annoyed we took the attention from him. “I was still trapped in my candy prison, when Virgil and Patton ran in, Logan having passed out in the lift from exhaustion. Which is why I’m so curious about the juicing process, like how did it make you so tired?”

“I told you, Roman, I’m not saying.”

Roman huffs, folding his arms. “Fine… Anyway, they ran in, but the snakes that killed the workers began coming out of hiding. They advanced on us, and I tried to call to Virgil and Patton to warn them, but alas, my mouth was still covered. By the time Virgil freed my mouth and I could cry out, the snakes had us surrounded. It seemed, we were doomed… But then! A miracle in the form of a vat of caramel tipping over arrived, and the snakes were encased, frozen solid, just like I. We were safe, and it was all thanks to Logan, who had woken up, and pushed over the vat.”

“My hero.” I hug Logan close yet again, pressing a kiss to his cheek, and causing him to blush once more. Roman, apparently annoyed that we’re interrupting the story for a second time, quickly continues.

“Anyway, Virgil finished breaking me out, letting it slip that he found me ‘dashing’ and ‘handsome’ in the process, but then he told us that he believed Ethan may have been the one behind it. So! We went and confronted him! And Virgil was right. He was the snake in the grass the whole time.”

“Wait, so he tried to kill you…?” Emile asks, sitting on the bed beside me, and looking up at me with worry in his eyes.

“It’s okay, kiddo, we’re all okay. But he didn’t initially mean to kill us. He was actually on the first Wonka tour, and got the snake face due to an incident on it. Apparently, Wonka rigged the tour so that all but one of the kids got into ‘incidents’, the last being who he saw fit to become his heir. Ethan was mad that Wonka hurt the kids for no reason, and wanted revenge.”

“He initially wanted his parents to sue for the damages caused,” Logan takes over. “However, they refused, thinking the incident ‘cured his pathological lying’ that he suffered with as a child. Then, as years went by, things happened to all the other children who were on that first tour which increased Ethan’s desire for revenge: Charlie, the boy who became Wonka’s heir, died in an accident at the factory. A girl called Veruca’s dad’s business went bankrupt. And a boy called Augustus developed an eating disorder which took his life. When the next tour came around, Ethan planned our… ‘demises’, in the hopes we’d do what his parents hadn’t and sue Mr Wonka. He didn’t intend to kill us at first. However, that plan fell apart when Mr Wonka made us sign a contract first thing, saying he would take no responsibility for any accidents that may occur.”

“So he decided to try and kill us instead, the monster!”

“Roman! You’re being too harsh!”

“He wanted to murder us, Patton!”

“He had a scarring childhood! He’s damaged.”

“Cool motive, still murder!”

“Well, it was attempted murder; we all survived,” Logan corrects.

“And he regretted it right after, it was just too late to take the order he gave to his snakes back.”

“His snakes?” one of Roman’s dads asks.

“As well as getting a snake face, he got the ability to talk to them,” Roman explains. “They helped him organise his dastardly plans.”

“Why exactly did he jump from wanting you to sue to wanting you dead?” Joan asks, trying to turn the conversation back to where it was. “I fail to see how he got from A to B.”

“The way he saw it, if at least one of us didn’t leave the factory, and the rest of us spread word of what happened to them, people would become outraged enough for Wonka’s business to drop so much, he’d get closed down or go bankrupt,” Logan explains. “As Patton said, it didn’t hit him just how horrifying his orders were until it was too late. Luckily, Virgil saved us, so Ethan has no blood on his hands. He apologised to us, promised he’d stay away and out of our lives for good, and left.”

“Well, I should hope he’d leave you alone,” Pa says. “Should we call the police on him or something?”

“Please don’t, Pa. I think he deserves a second chance.”

“I don’t,” Roman mutters.

“I agree with Patton,” Logan says. “The world isn’t completely ‘black and white’. I think Ethan will learn and grow, given how torn up he seemed. Not to mention, as the crime took place on American soil, he’d be tried here if he were arrested, and I do not trust the American prison and law system at. All.”

“But what about Virgil?” Thomas asks. I almost forgot he was here! “If he didn’t get into an accident, and didn’t get hurt, why isn’t he here?”

“I can explain!” I take over again, mostly hoping talking will distract from the pain in my leg that just came back. And my vision’s getting a little blurry... “Wonka told us that the reason he hosted the second tour was to find a new heir, hoping someone older would be more responsible and careful, and so less likely to have an accident like Charlie.”

“We made the unanimous decision that Virgil would be the best fit,” Roman finishes. “Oh! Which reminds me, Thomas, you need to go home!”

“Huh? Why?”

“It’s gonna sound weird, but I saw Virgil with Wonka in a flying elevator when we left the factory.”

“... I’m sorry, what?”

“It’s true!” I pipe up. “I saw it too!”

“Exactly. They were probably heading to pick up you and your mother to take to the factory so you could move in. You need to go or you’ll miss them!”

“Well… if that’s the case, I guess I should head off. Virgil’ll freak if he thinks I’ve gone missing.” Thomas heads to the door, but pauses before turning back to us. “Bye, I guess. It was nice meeting you all.” And with that, he leaves.

“We should probably go too,” one of Roman’s dads says. “We’re leaving tomorrow morning, and need to get packing.”

Roman turns to me and Logan and pulls us both into a hug. “It was awesome meeting you guys. Skype call as soon as possible, okay?”

“Of course! I’m really gonna miss you.”

“I’ll miss you too, Pat.” Roman pulls away from the hug. “You too, Berry Boy.”

Logan does not look impressed. “I won’t miss you if that nickname sticks.”

“Welp, guess you won’t then. Farewell to thee!” And with that, he gives us a wave, before leaving with his fathers.

“We should probably go too,” Talyn says. “You know, since we’re leaving tomorrow as well.”

“Yeah…” Logan turns to me. “I guess I’ll text you lat-”

I pull him into a tight hug before he can finish. “I’m gonna miss you so so much! We can make long distance work, right?”

Logan chuckles. “Pat, I’m sure we can. I love you so much.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

I smile, before pressing my lips to his. I’m never gonna get over the fact they taste like pomegranate and blackberry, it’s so awesome!

“Paaaaat, you’re being gross!!!”

I chuckle as I pull away, turning to Emile. “Sorry, Em, you’re gonna have to get used to it. It’s what boyfriends are like together, and Lo and I are gonna be kissing whenever he comes round to visit.” I turn back to Logan. “You’re definitely coming to visit soon.”

Logan smiles. “I’ll be looking forward to it.”

“I love you, Lo.”

“I love you too, Pat.” Logan pecks a final kiss to my cheek, before standing up. He, Joan and Talyn head to the door, and… I think Logan waves to me? I can’t really tell… My vision’s getting more blurry…

My leg really really hurts…

Did someone just turn off the lights? Everything is going dark...

Maybe… maybe I’ll just take a nap for a bit...

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Taglist: @clone-number-1, @pumpkinminette, @i-have-n0-idea-what-im-d0ing, @jessicakennedy957, @why-should-i-tell-youu2, @lesbianimeme

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chroniclesofawkwardness · 5 years

Text

The Awful Truth

During my first three years as an undergrad at Ohio State, I stayed in the dorm closest to Ohio Stadium, the same one Jeffrey Dahmer lived in when he was a student there. Dorm-room technology had probably changed in as many ways as it stayed the same between Jeffrey’s era and mine. In the micro-fridge that had probably been in the room since Jeff roamed the halls of this building named after one of Mr. Lincoln’s acts that freed land instead of people, I don’t remember finding a singular earlobe encased in ice, or a perfectly preserved pubis devoid of flesh that may have once been a good luck charm to suggest that I’d be having friends for dinner in the same room where Mr. Dahmer may have studied the intricacies of human anatomy in preparation for his career of choice.

The first of the two rooms of my suite had corkboard filled with holes that were probably as much natural as manmade above two desks that sat catty-cornered from one another. As I began to unpack my computer and set it on the desk closest to the disappointingly barren micro-fridge, my brother told me that the Internet connection I was about to plug into was the equivalent of a firehose at a time the standard was a dialup garden hose with kinks in it every six inches.

The bedroom had two beds, catty-cornered from one another like the desks in the front room, and shelving between them that was probably installed around the same time somebody thought a micro-fridge was a good idea. I wasn’t much interested in the shelves, or rock-paper-scissoring it for who got which one. I didn’t want to piss in the corner like a dog marking its territory either, despite the fact that listening to my dad tapping the steering wheel while butchering Incense and Peppermints by Strawberry Alarm Clock on the drive up made doing stop drop and roll in traffic, or deliberately wetting myself just for the attention seem like great ideas.

All I was focused on when it came to the bedroom was putting my Rita Hayworth poster on the wall above the head of my bed using some bluish silly putty the manufacturer said wouldn’t damage the walls. Once I stuck the poster to the wall, I only pretended to ignore it, secretly hoping that someone would oblige my reference to The Shawshank Redemption by calling me Andy, telling me to guard my pickax carefully because folks around the dorm loved surprise inspections, or wondering aloud how long it would take me to tunnel through the wall with it.

The eight of us sharing the 1150s suite that year had been scattered throughout Ohio before uniting on Ohio State’s Columbus campus that fall. The only exceptions were one guy from Illinois, and one from Pennsylvania. As college freshmen, we were terrified, yet hungry for new experiences at the same time. Who felt what, when, and why probably varied from man to man. I was more terrified than hungry, yet still eager to prove to myself that I could transverse the sprawling campus without the assistance of the same transportation from the Office of Disability Services that had spectacularly backfired during orientation by either showing up late or not at all to shuttle me back and forth between placement tests.

When I wasn’t out trying to make it from point A to point B, my roommates and I were spending too much of our free time playing video games. At one point, the eight of us were playing old-school Punch-Out on our computers at the same time using emulators like NESticle to reach into the past and bring bits (bytes) our childhoods to the present. That said, most of our screen time was spent playing Madden. I don’t know how he did it, but Illinois would play as the Falcons every time, and constantly call audibles that made Chris Chandler, Jamal Anderson, and Terance Mathis look like first-ballot Hall of Famers. We were powerless to stop him, but that didn’t stop us from trying.

When it became clear that the eight of us wouldn’t try to kill each other except in Madden, we began decorating the walls of our suite’s common area with posters. Rita stayed in my bedroom not only because she gave off more of the prison cell vibe I was going for, but also because my Rita Hayworth story was both too obvious and too personal for anyone who happened by to see. I was content with the ah-ha moments and laughter that came when a near stranger comprehended the thinly-veiled reference to one of my favorite movies, but I also that hoped the same near-strangers wouldn’t be able to tell just by looking at me that I balled my eyes out every time I watched the ending.

One day, someone hung a poster displaying an awful truth in our common area. It was black and white with The Awful Truth written in all caps across the top. Below that, there were symbols you'd see on the respective signs for men’s and women’s restrooms. The female’s heart was drawn where it anatomically should have been, the male’s heart was in his dick. I got a good laugh each time I saw it, but it was also a stark reminder of how inexperienced I was with the opposite sex at age 19.

Back then, I controlled my libido the only way I knew how: constant unfettered release. My consumption of adult content wasn’t as bad as it would become as Internet connection speeds got even faster, but I won’t lie and say that I didn’t take advantage of the high-speed connection of the time for some high-speed gratification. When 19-year-old me met a real woman, I had no clue what to do, what to say, or how to act. I didn’t know who I was at that time, probably because I was setting millions of little pieces of myself free far too often. It was easier to lose myself in the pornscape than hold on to what naturally made me a man. There, I didn’t have to think of women as real people who could challenge me. There, I never had to be afraid that a woman would call me a creep if I expressed sexual interest. Women across the pornscape never said no, not even to a 19-year-old like me, and they always seemed to enjoy whatever their fellow performers did to them.

Years later, when I met the woman who would become my fiancée, she was also 19. I’d been leading the English conversation club at the American Corner in Novi Sad, where Zs. was a student at the university. I assume that’s how she found me, but I can’t be sure. I got a friend request on Facebook stating she’d added me. She had no profile picture, and of course, I didn’t recognize her name. Despite these obvious red flags, I acted per the awful truth of males thinking with the little head instead of the big one and accepted her request sight unseen. And to think, when I was 19, I thought my dad was an asshole for doing essentially the same thing at a time before social media exploded.

At first, I thought she was just picking my brain for its knowledge of English. As a student of the language, I assumed she was happy to learn whatever I had to offer as a native speaker in a place where native English speakers were as rare as walls untouched by nationalistic or phallic graffiti. The red flags became even brighter when she’d just so happen to be at the end of my street before I could cross into the city center where one of the schools at which I taught was located. Glad for the attention, neither of my heads was thinking straight. The big one began to fill with love dreams brought to music by the Hungarian composer Franz Liszt - Zs. was, after all, from a predominantly Hungarian-speaking part of Serbia - the little one and its attachment began to fill with blood. Honestly, I didn’t feel as intensely attracted to her as I had to other women. I won’t say she made it too easy, only that the ego wants to want more than it wants to have.

The interior of her apartment was as cold as her hand the first time I held it. Still, I loved waking up beside her in the morning and watching a VH1 station that played music videos as we lay beneath the covers. Daniel repeatedly tried to convince me that Zs. was working for the Security Information Agency of Serbia (BIA), which meant she was using her sex to pump me for information. He offered to put her under surveillance as often as he congratulated me on being with a nineteen-year-old. Paranoia would slowly seep into my big head as I replayed his words of utter conviction that I was sleeping with a real-life spy whenever Zs. and I were together. Predictably, my little head could not resist the temptation that I’d so often prayed God would not lead me into while growing up Catholic.

When I saw how ridiculously high her heating bill was, I began to entertain the idea of asking her to move in with me. Our relationship was as new and exciting as it was unknown; I thought I loved her. Plus, I needed someone with whom I could split the bills after escaping the Crazy House and renting an apartment that a fellow teacher had occupied before returning to Seattle. I thought it was a win-win situation for both of my heads.

But, red flags kept waving even before we decided to live under the same roof. Sex with Zs. had been nowhere near as fulfilling for me as it had been with S. Zs. and I never bonded in the same way, however briefly, that S. and I had. This wasn’t entirely Zs.’s fault. Since being kicked out of the house in Sombor and letting my thoughts run wild about my uncertain future, I hadn’t practiced yoga. To this day, I’m convinced that the practice allowed me to enjoy sex with S. so much because not only had the technical difficulties of Sombor kept me from any contact with porn, but, I’d learned to discipline my body in ways I never had before. This combination allowed me to consistently last as long as I wanted, and feel the unchartered contentment of holding S. in my arms after making love without the emptiness of a genital sneeze at the end. The contentment of the feel of her long black hair across my bare stomach as she’d rise slightly to settle herself on top of me, and kiss me upon coming back down. The ecstasy of sinking more deeply into one another’s being, the heat of the summer sun trying to burn its way through the curtains that kept us from prying eyes all the while. The rapture of neither wanting the moment to end.

Zs. did not enjoy cunnilingus nearly as much as S., another red flag. To make matters worse, as the mental and physical discipline instilled in me by yoga faded away, I lost control over my body and mind that I once had. if I could tell Zs. wasn’t into it, or I just wanted sex to be over, I’d ejaculate too early, or almost immediately after penetration out of spite. Eventually, I couldn’t withhold my seed for more than ten minutes if I tried. Since I’d gone back to regularly consuming porn, I found myself envious of how the male performers seemed to be able to both last forever, and ejaculate on cue. Since Zs. didn’t fancy cunnilingus, but could easily lose herself in British literature (she would repeatedly tell me that I just wouldn’t understand Flaubert’s Parrot by Julian Barnes), I privately wondered if I could spice up our relationship by having us pretend to be in a 1960s-themed black-and-white British porn mystery called Alfred Hitch’s Cock Presents, which would later be reimagined as a series of erotic nursery rhymes adapted for after-dark television, featuring the largest of black male talent: Hickory Dickory Cock.

The degree and forethought of my fantasies were at least partially the results of the feast-or-famine lifestyle of substitute teacher taking its toll on me. Some days I’d have three classes at multiple schools. Others, my phone wouldn’t ring at all. I’d be stuck in our apartment watching the slow, flickering death or my laptop screen, and wanting to save it more than save myself. On rare occasions when my laptop was closed, I’d be locked in a staring contest with the vacuum cleaner Zs. insisted we buy. One part of me wanted to run it, another didn’t see the point. If I didn’t do it, she’d yell at me for not helping out around the house. If I did, no matter how hard I tried, she’d be unsatisfied with the results. She’d tell me I couldn’t do anything right, and slap me across the face so hard that imprints of her fingers would be left across whichever of my cheeks got in the way of her palm. Finally, and frequently after long days at the university, she’d do it herself, and make sure I could see the contortions or her angry, embittered, I’m-going-to-kill-you face all the while.

I could have been a better lover and partner to Zs., there’s no doubt, but as both our familiarity and dissatisfaction with one another grew, her attacks became more frequent, and the polarity drained from the relationship.

The awful truth.

I couldn’t go the cops even though the police station was right around the corner. No one would have believed that my fiancée beat me up, not in a Serbian society still paying the price for repeatedly looking backward while others around it had been opening up to the world, drinking beer from tallboys, and eating lunch at noon for years. Besides, I wasn’t sure what, if any, rights I had on their turf. I like to think that that I was somewhere between the Hungarians and the fifteen layers of downward-rolling shit that separated them from the Roma in Serbian societal hierarchy, but maybe even that’s being generous.

Even as it became clear the relationship wouldn’t work, I couldn’t just hop on a plane and go home. I didn’t want to think of myself as a coward. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t entertain the thought of just turning my back on it all, and watching it burn like one of the precious books Zs. said I’d never understand. Tuesdays would have been my best chance. She had French class at 7:30 A.M. and was at the university all day. I was too scared (scarred) to run the vacuum, so instead of porn fantasies starring Zs. and me, I’d dream of packing everything in the same suitcases I’d drug behind me when I was practically homeless after getting kicked out of the house in Sombor, and never looking back.

One particular Tuesday, amidst my thoughts of flying home and seeing her jaw hit the floor upon walking into an empty apartment, Zs. came home unexpectedly. She had terrible menstrual cramps, and was practically convulsing in pain the moment she walked in the door; I’d never seen anything like it. Through clenched teeth, she managed to tell me how to ask for maxi pads in Serbian, and I went to the corner store to buy some.

The things you do for dissolution.

Even after she stopped slapping me around (her friends told her she was mean to me), I couldn’t bring myself to love her again. My sometimes-intentional-sometimes-not premature ejaculation paled in comparison to her capacity for cruelty. I questioned myself as a man for allowing such domestic violence to occur on my watch. I felt as if it was my fault for allowing her verbal and physical abuse to go on for so long. Maybe I did this because I was taught that girls don’t hit boys, and boys don’t hit girls, however untrue that turned out to be.

Zs. may have been a minority, but she was still a Serbian citizen. If I fought back, and she went to the police with even the tiniest bruise claiming to be a victim, I reasoned that they’d be all too happy to throw me in prison. If the media got wind of it, I could have easily become the new symbol of American aggression against peaceful Serbia. Even a country whose conservative political currents had had no problem looking back over 600 years to their ancestors’ glorious defeat battle of Kosovo wouldn’t have to go back that far - the 1999 NATO bombing of Yugoslavia - to find an example of bloodshed in which Americans like me could easily be blamed. I could see the title card of the Netflix miniseries chronicling my relationship with Zs. in my mind’s eye:

Američki nasiljnik for Serbian-speaking audiences, Bruise is the New Bomb for English-speaking ones.

So I waited. There were many nights when Zs. and I wouldn’t even look at each other after pulling out the sofa bed to go to sleep. I’d stare into the darkness of the ceiling above, dream of coming home in a coffin, and wonder what the hell I’d gotten myself into by agreeing to share a studio apartment of 28 square meters with a woman eight years younger who made me watch Ally McBeal reruns and romcoms until I wanted to throw up. In 2011, when she got a scholarship to study at Montclair State University in New Jersey, I knew I’d have to leave Serbia too, as she had become my basis for staying in the country.

I came home that summer. When Zs. tried to convince me to come to New Jersey and spend Thanksgiving with her that fall, I told her I wouldn’t. Not long after, we broke up over Skype, the same means I’d used talk to my family while missing out on the previous four Thanksgivings.

I laugh when people ask me if I still talk to her. I don’t think I spoke to her even once after the Skype breakup. I stopped returning her calls because I wanted her to suffer, like I did when I was alone in my room in Sombor, or solitary in the darkness of my first night in the Crazy House.

I intentionally keep my emotional distance from most people these days. Yet there are times when I’m as sick of the sound of my voice as I am the company of others. Hoping Zs. would suffer was as ill-advised as trying to recapture the contentment of intercourse with S. as we shielded ourselves from the piercing summer sun. My attachment to feelings of that kind is the root of my suffering, not the feelings themselves. My cup may never runneth over, but I’ll find ways of filling it, ways to embrace experiences instead of attaching myself to outcomes. I might even read Flaubert’s Parrot, not out of spite, but curiosity.

That’s a truth I can live with. Not because it’s awful, but because it’s mine.

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