#Bill is Deeply In Love and it's Incurable

[sinisterexaggerator]

I am not sure why I never posted this to tumblr.

Michael De Santa x Trevor Philips.

Summary: It is nearing the anniversary of Michael's "death" though he never died. Trevor is drunk, lonely, reminiscing on his life, on his lost time ... and on his unrequited love. He goes to Michael to beg forgiveness for his many sins, though his apology turns into something more ... tangible.

Warnings: Trikey. NSFW / 18+ Blowjobs. Smut. Angst. Cheating. Drunkenness. Lust. Unrequited Love. Pining. Kissing.

Word count: 2,770

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It should have been me.

The Unicorn was lackluster; Trevor was on his twelfth beer of the evening; the bartender couldn’t cut him off, it was his establishment. He felt especially low this time of year. It was close to his best friend’s deathiversary, though not really. Michael hadn’t died, he was still alive, and it unnerved Trevor to no end.

A whole decade had come and gone; came and went, and T was worse for wear because of it. He had succumbed to drugs and alcohol, to smoking cigarettes and meth. He’d pop pills, deep dive into his subconscious on peyote, snort cocaine and pharmaceuticals, even heroine. Acid, mushrooms, Adderall, MDMA; ecstasy, but nothing filled the gaping hole - his soul was empty, and his heart had broken into tiny pieces long ago.

He was purposely reckless, feckless when it came to Michael; he was his weakness, though he tried to hide it behind an open, festering sore that resided deep in his center - behind snark and sass, snide remarks that were meant to injure, words full of acidity and retribution, yet they never quite expressed what he was truly feeling. It was nearly too much to bear – especially on days like today, nights like this, his resentment melting into feelings of inadequacy and total, all-consuming self-hatred of himself.

He threw the bottle in his hand against the wall, scaring the poor woman who worked behind the bar; he tossed her a fifty-dollar bill and left; he wasn’t so cheap he wouldn’t tip, even if she was employed by him.

He searched out his keys in his tight-assed hipster jeans, stumbling through the front door and past his bouncer. The man side-eyed him, cleared his throat, meaning to ask him if he meant to drive like that, but Trevor’s wrath was second nature, incomparable to many; if he died, so be it. It was no skin off his back.

T started the Bodhi within two turns of the ignition, cursing out “Start you piece of shit!” and the truck obeyed as if afraid to incur his hatred; if inanimate objects could talk, the Canis would have many a story to tell a listening ear.

It purred to life and Trevor sat there, breathing deeply, trying to regain some sort of focus or equilibrium. It wasn’t working. He felt … sad. Depressed. Venomous. All those missed years, those long days and even longer nights. He had cried, and cried, and cried … and that’s what he felt like doing now.

Trevor burst into tears, then he floored the gas. Swerving, speeding through redlights, green ones, skirting pedestrians, and even a few cops. They couldn’t keep up with him. He was drunk, but an expert driver; he had to be to make quick getaways. He led them through the streets of Strawberry until he made the trek to Rockford Hills; Michael’s lair, his secret hideaway, going by the name De Santa even though he didn’t have anyone to hide from anymore.

The driveway was empty, save Michael’s car; he wasn’t sure, but he didn’t think his wife and kids were home. Maybe he was watching movies, eating popcorn, reciting cheesy lines written by his hero, Solomon. Whatever he was doing, he was about to get interrupted, as Trevor had a few things to get off his chest, and now was as good a time as any.

He parked around a corner, out of sight, just in case. One could never be too careful. He was coherent enough to take precautions, though only for Michael's sake.

He stumbled out of the Canis, lumbering forward, nearly falling, sobbing silently, trying to calm himself as he approached the wrought iron gate. It parted for him as if by magic; he didn’t wait, he slipped right in through the smallest crack as soon as it had opened wide enough; Trevor’s boots dragging as he tried to rub his eyes, the pain away, but he knew it was here to stay; the alcohol only made it worse.

He softly knocked at first, not knowing what he was doing, just knowing he had to talk to M; to him, the man he had fallen in love with at first sight all those years ago on a little runway somewhere up north; they’d shared a moment, or at least he thought they had.

His knocking become a fervid, ardent banging, though he didn’t mean to come off as desperate. His emotions were tied up within the sound, but suddenly his fist met air, nearly met with Michael’s chest, and he gasped as he was brought face-to-face with him.

He couldn’t help it - he was handsome, so ruggedly good-looking in his middle-age, charming, witty, and Trevor wished that he were his.

T fell upon his knees, clasping; grasping Michael’s waist and doing what he did best; beg for forgiveness – soak him in his tears. He sobbed without reservation, dirty, broken nails digging into Michael’s khaki shorts. He must have been relaxing, as he was dressed casual enough, though now he was all worked up.

“What the hell, T?!” He tried to move away, pull himself from Trevor’s steadfast grasp, put he was too powerful, his sadness giving him more strength somehow; tenfold what it sometimes was; Michael would know this from experience.

The man wouldn’t stop his heartfelt display, and Michael was worried the neighbors might hear him, jostling his legs beneath T’s iron grip, though he wasn’t going anywhere.

Trevor just kept on crying, the salty remnants leaking down his scarred and battered face, coating Michael’s clothes as he tried to pry his fingers loose.

“Trevor!!!” he finally yelled, loud enough for T’s breath to hitch inside his throat, glancing up at him with two sorrowful, reproachful eyes as the man asked him in his harshest, heavy-handed tone. “What the fuck is wrong with you?!”

Trevor nearly choked, his words catching, his voice at a loss at first, but Michael deserved an answer, even in his drunken stupor, and he said the first thing that came to mind; the truth. It was too easy. “I don’t care that you tried to kill me, M. I love you; I always have. I just wish you loved me, too.”

“W-what?” Michael became quickly flustered, caught off guard, a small hint of a blush tingeing his cheeks red. Of all the things he had expected him to say, that wasn’t one of them; far from it.

“It should have been me, not Brad. I should be dead. I wish it was me instead.” Trevor had shoved his forehead into the waistband of Michael’s shorts, his breathing hard and heavy as he began to sink down further onto the ground, lost in the tempest that was his irksome thoughts. In doing so, Trevor’s cheek lightly brushed against the soft mound of Michael’s cock beneath his clothes; it was unintentional, but it stirred within him something else; he felt desirous, even though he felt like dying.

“Trevor…” Michael paused, thinking hard, feeling guilty, and nearly jumping at the unexpected touch, the perception of his face raking against him. He thought it had been an accident, pushing it from his mind, a deep remorse overtaking him as he looked down at the top of Trevor’s balding head.

“… Don’t say that.” He let his instincts take over for a moment; T was sad. Most people would want to be comforted. He placed a hand softly atop his crown, just to rest there. That was all it took.

“I’m so… I’m fucking awful! I’m rotten. I’m a terrible person. I don’t deserve to live … Mikey … I’m so sorry. For everything.” Any attention that Michael gave him was lapped up like water by a thirsty dog; he leaned into his hand, his groin, and pressed his teeth against him. He latched onto the flaccid outline that lay in wait, sinking in his canines, his incisors, gently, awakening something there, as the silhouette began to ripen and get hard - just slightly.

“Mm-Mikey … Is … Amanda home?” he mumbled out, halfway to a moan.

The question threw him through a loop, but not as much as Trevor’s mouth, he was shocked he hadn’t waited for his answer; his fly was down.

Trevor nuzzled his nose against Michael’s blue and white striped boxers, continuing his impromptu mission, the whole of his mouth encircling his limp phallus through the thin, cotton fabric, as the beige flaps of his cargo shorts were pushed to either side.

The button remained intact as he groaned against him, Michael now partially hard, if not more than that, and Trevor was himself - those jeans of his not leaving anything to the imagination if Michael had been looking.

“Just… how drunk are you?!” What could he be thinking?! What was going on inside his head?! He thought to push him off; his fingers reaching out to grasp his shoulder blades. His nails dug in as he only half-heartedly tried to remove the man from his pursuit. “Trevor … we’re … outside for Christ’s sake… Someone’s going to see us!” He was most definitely concerned - for his reputation, the neighbors. He didn’t want to be talked about.

Trevor’s eyes rose to meet his and he suddenly released him. Michael backed away into the open doorway, nearly stumbling into his own foyer, as he caught the look of ardor held within his “best friend’s” gaze. It somewhat scared him.

Michael outstretched one wavering hand as if to ward off Trevor’s ardency, his fervent lustfulness; the drugs, the alcohol having sent him to a place of no return where his mind was overcome with passion, a zealous appetite for Michael, one that he felt he couldn’t stop nor was he sure he wanted to. “T … W-what are you doing…”

The man crawled forward on all fours, never having gotten up from his pliant position, offering himself in supplication; wanting to make up for all the years of abuse and mistreatment he had endured at Trevor’s brashness, his loudmouth, his forceful will, wanting to rob and kill despite M wanting to be a family man. He regretted pushing him far enough that he thought he had no way out, thinking perhaps a physical act of appreciation would be more than enough to show him he meant business; he had always loved him - he had said it.

His fingers clawed for purchase against the mixed red brick of Michael’s mansion, dragging his body forward, one knee after the other, his eyes wild, a burning fire dancing in their depths. His tongue dragged across his lips and Michael fell, his back pushed up against the stairwell. He meant to speak, but he was speechless, Trevor’s mouth being the one to exude words instead of his. “Now we’re inside Mikey… no more excuses.”

Trevor’s dirtied hands were at the button of his shorts; he released the clasp and pushed them down his thickset thighs. Michael was aroused, afraid, unsure of everything. He hadn’t been intimate with Trevor since their North Yankton days. If Amanda saw, if Tracey or Jimmy came home … he thought his life flashed before his eyes as his now hard, aching cock entered Trevor’s maw.

“Oh, fuck, T…” was all he could think to say. His eyes rolled back, and then his neck. He was starting to remember. Amanda could never service him like this. She had tried, he had to give her credit, but his wife had never been as good as Trevor at giving head.

Trevor’s writhing muscle licked and slathered Michael’s rigid member, his hand moving to join his efforts as it wound around him. He pumped his cock like it was his own, shoving it as far back as he could stand it, the tip tickling his tonsils, a rough growl issuing forth from out of his larynx. It vibrated against Michael’s swollen flesh, and he thought he might cum any second now. He sucked in a deep breath and muttered out a light command. “Slow. Down.”

Trevor nearly cried again out of sheer joy and neediness; the fact he was allowing him to do this. There was nothing quite like the taste of M’s dick inside his mouth; he had a distinct flavor; one he had sorely missed.

He obliged, steadying his stride. He dug a hand in underneath his quarry and cupped his testicles. He weighed them in his hand like precious diamonds, carefully massaging the sac that held his sperm; the prize he pined for.

His suction became long strokes; his cheeks were hollowing out. There was such power within his jaws that Michael began to thrust. His hips had joined him in a patient dance. The one where Michael’s penis pumped inside his eager throat.

Michael couldn’t help himself; he grasped at his little bit of hair. His fingers snaked through the short, brown locks, clawing, carding, shaking as he felt a familiar tug that started in his bowels and rose up his engorged, blood-filled erection.

“How the fuck are you so… so…” He was going to say “good at this,” but couldn’t manage to get the words out. Instead, his brain recalibrated, trying to straighten himself out – but Trevor was just too persuasive, though he chided and berated him. “You’re such a…a dick…”

Trevor was getting sloppy now, his spit dribbling down his lower lip, sliding down his chin. He hadn’t come up for air, he wouldn’t want to lose his chance. If he even so much as took one millisecond to readjust, Michael might slip away, come to his senses, make him get off of him, when T was the one who wanted to get him off; he would do so before the end of it.

Up and down, back and forth, a perfect rhythm in balance with his jerking hips. Michael succumbed to a sound; it had escaped him; one of being pleased too well, nearly beyond anything he had ever felt from a call girl, a prostitute, his wife, Amanda.

Amanda …

The headlights of a car nearly eluded him, shining through the adjacent windows; Michael almost panicked, but in that moment, he came inside T's mouth. His cum rushed out of him in a torrent, collecting behind Trevor’s parted lips. He watched as the muscles in his throat undulated, guzzling his seed with every flex of Michael’s pulsing cock. He swallowed every bit, excited for it; enthusiastic. He made a loving croon of sorts before Michael scrambled backwards and pulled himself from out of his greedy gullet.

“Trevor!! A-Amanda’s… “

The garage door opened; Trevor heard it. He had been gazing into Michael’s steely blue eyes; they were hypnotizing, but then he faltered - he wouldn’t do that to the man. He had to leave, and fast. But first, a kiss.

He wiped his mouth off with the back of one tattooed hand, gruffly sweeping away the remnants of his meal. He leaned forward, snuck to the highest step that Michael had been propped up against, and planted a long, slow sensation across his lips.

He prodded with his tongue, and he was surprised when Michael allowed it. He let him taste him; it was a tease. He heard the rattling of keys.

Trevor stood and turned, running for the door that was still wide open. He wasn’t thinking, and he had slammed it closed. It made a sound loud enough for his wife to hear, as she came in carrying bags of takeout, staring at her husband who was standing unexpectedly right in front of her, sweaty, perspiring, suspiciously out of breath. And he smelled …

“What the fuck, Michael?!?! Did you have a WHORE in our house??!”

“What?! No! I …"

Amanda threw down what she was carrying and stormed in her leather thigh-high boots to the front of their garish mansion. She threw the door open, and Michael prayed to God in heaven; he was Irish Catholic, after all.

She saw something. He hadn’t waited for the automatic gate. Trevor’s boot disappeared beyond the garden wall and out onto the street.

She sighed, held her breath, took a moment to herself. It was better than a woman, and she knew this much about them. It had never been a secret, and she might never live it down. They had always snuck around.

Amanda faced her husband in the foyer, and he had used a hand to slick his hair back. He looked around nervously and she didn’t say a word. She calmly left the room, and Michael could only expel a haggard breath. His heart was racing, but he was unsure of as to why; was he afraid of his own wife, or how much he had liked it?

#Trikey #Trevor Philips x Michael De Santa #Trevor Philips #Michael De Santa #GTAV #GTA V #Grand Theft Auto V #Amanda De Santa #Angst #Unrequited Love

[venhedish]

Ven’s Masterlist of SPN Fic

I write mostly pre-series and early seasons Big Feels™ Wincest fic. There’s a lot of angst and pining here, but plenty of love and devotion mixed in with the darkness.

I always deeply, deeply appreciate likes, kudos, comments, and reblogs!

Wincest Fic

Stand-Alone

Yesterday is a Ghost I Believe In ~4.1k, Teen, Pre-series, Epistolary, Multimedia, Experimental There's an old shoebox under Sam Winchester's bed. It's been there almost as long as he can remember. He doesn't look inside it very often, but when he does, he takes his time. A multimedia collection of letters, journal entries, pictures, and other ephemera from a life on the road. .

That Monster, Love ~2k, Teen, Pre-series, POV Outsider, POV John Winchester, John Finds Out, Angst “You think you’re doing your boys any favors, raisin’ ‘em like this?” .

To Cure My Lonesome Blood ~8.8k, Explicit, Pre-series, Pining Dean, Angst, Bittersweet Ending Dean’s been sick since before either of them was born. The disease is incurable, written into his blood – the same blood he shares with his brother. If he’s not careful, the fever will spread like a fire and consume them both. .

Like Sand, Like Water, Like Sunlight ~1.7k, Gen, Pre-series, Mutual Pining, Angst, Pre-Slash Sea birds circle overhead and Dean wishes he had a camera. Sam looks so young, all of twelve years old, and exhilarated. Dean wants to hold this image in the chambers of his heart, but his pulse just carries it along; time is cruel that way. .

The Space Between Sense and Memory ~4.8k, Teen, Pre-series through Season 1, 5-and-1 Things There are a hundred unwritten rules on all the acceptable ways brothers should touch each other. There are hardly any ways at all to break them. Or; five times they follow the rules and one time they don’t. .

Every Goodbye, all at Once ~900, Teen, Pre-series, Stanford Era, Pining Dean, Angst, Epistolary "Hey, It's Sam. If you're looking for my dad, you can reach him at 866-555-9352. If you're looking for me, leave a message." A series of voicemails Dean leaves at the number Sam left behind. .

Breathe You In (Choke You Down) ~6k, Explicit, Season 01, PWP, Scent Kink, Guilty Dean Winchester Once Sam was gone, Dean missed him in a way that was all-consuming, all the way down – so deep in his bones that he shook with loneliness some nights. And it was the familiar scent of his brother’s hair where it tangled warm against the pillows, his pulse beating under his skin and sending the fear of the hunt wafting off of him in waves that Dean struggled to hold onto the hardest. Dean really likes the way Sam smells..  .

Dawn is Coming (Open Your Eyes) ~5k, Explicit, Season 01, Hurt/Comfort, Getting Back Together In which Sam and Dean suffer new wounds and stitch old ones back together. There’s an awful storm, a dead monster, an injury, and a whole lot of feelings. .

You put the Magic in Me ~9.1k, Explicit, Season 02(ish), Sex Pollen, Porn with Plot, Casefic “This is the weirdest thing we’ve ever done for a case,” Dean says under his breath, leaning into Sam and scouting the crowd gathered around a dozen tables inside the little café. “Dude, relax,” Sam says back, eyebrows raising at his brother’s nervous energy. “I thought this would be, like, your thing.” He gestures vaguely to the women milling around inside. A long, vividly red banner hangs across the open french doors that lead into the space, emblazoned with the words The Oolong Tea Room Presents: Lonely Hearts Club Speed Dating! Feb 11-14th! Or; in which Sam and Dean learn a thing or two about chemistry. .

The Stars are not Wanted Now ~2k, Teen, Season 02, Episode Tag: s02e21 All Hell Breaks Loose, Angst, Death Rituals There was a body on the bed.  It had been there long enough that the slanting light of morning crept into the room like an unwelcome invader and washed the world in a dream-shade of palest blue.   But there were no dreams here; only death, only memory. The body on the bed was all that remained of Samuel Winchester, who had died in his brother’s arms the night before. .

Demi-Gods and Hungry Ghosts ~5.8k, Explicit, Season 03, Episode Tag: s03e11 Mystery Spot, Dark, Dub-con, Hurt No Comfort This dream-state of living on pause and rewind leads to some interesting avenues of thought that Sam doesn’t mean to travel, but after a certain number of unrelenting Tuesdays, they just become inevitable. If Dean dies every day—if his memories are wiped, or if they never happen at all—what could Sam get away with, if he wanted to? Could he dare to find out?  .

In Sanguine Vita Est   ~5.2k, Explicit, Season 04, Knifeplay, Dean’s Hell Trauma, Hurt/Comfort Everything was different now. Dean was here—back from the fucking dead—but he was a stranger in his own body. Scars gone, aches from broken bones that hadn’t set right vanished back into the void as if they’d never existed at all. He’d become a stranger to the whole world. He’d become a stranger to Sam. _ Dean asks Sam to help him heal after he returns from Hell. .

All Heartless Spectres, Happiness ~5.7k, Explicit, Season 06, Episode Tag: s06e06 You Can’t Handle the Truth, POV Outsider, Angst, Soulless Sam Lisa Braeden receives an email with the subject line, "You Deserve to Know." It contains a single video file and nothing else. .

The Rungs of Me be Under You ~1.6k, Teen, Gencest, Post-Bunker, 2nd Person POV, Queerplatonic Sam and Dean, Non-Sexual Kink What they share has never been easy to define. Why should this be any different?  .

Wincest Series The Top/Bottom Discourse Series (Ongoing) [Each story is canon compliant and listed chronologically, but they can all be read as standalone works.] This series was born originally from a silly meta post I made on Tumblr as a response to some very angry top/bottom discourse I was seeing about how only Sam could truly be A Top™, or how only Dean could truly be A Top™. I personally like to kink and let kink and not drag outdated gender politics into my fandom (Dean can't be a bottom because he's too masculine? Ice cold take, bro), so I wrote a filthy little tongue-in-cheek post about all the ways I think Sam and Dean have fucked each other over the years.

 I’m Thinking About Whatever You’re Thinking About ~5.1k, Explicit, Pre-series, PWP, Bratty Sam, Exhibitionism, Fear of Discovery Sam is such a brat, sometimes. .

 Shoot to Thrill ~6.7k, Explicit, Season 02, Porn with Plot, Hustling, Getting Back Together It's just like riding a bike. .

Burn Out The Night ~4.9k, Explicit, Season 08, Porn with Plot, Car Sex, Light BDSM, Fluff What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. .

Destiel Fic

Love Made a Martyr of Me ~500, Teen, Season 05, Endverse, Past Sam/Dean, Angst Sam says yes in Detroit, and in the space of a single syllable, there's nothing left in Heaven or on Earth for Dean to love. Cas doesn't seem to care. .

The Sharp Teeth of the One You Love ~2k, Teen, Season 05, Endverse, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Pining “Quit bein’ a baby, Cas.” Dean’s hands were covered in blood, but they were steady as always while he worked to stitch Castiel back together. “I’m sorry,” Cas growled between gritted teeth. “I don’t exactly have a lot of experience feeling pain.” He hissed again when Dean slid the curved needle back through the eight-inch-long gash that ran deep and bloody down Cas’s bicep. Castiel learns something about what it means to be human. .

Wincestiel Fic

Temerate ~700, Teen, Season 05(ish), Past Sam/Dean, 2nd Person POV, First Time Your brother is sitting in the corner of the motel room. His big hands are worrying at each other; he squeezes them together, fingertips white from the pressure of his grip. He meets your eyes and his gaze is like a lightning strike. .

Dean/John Fic

Cruore ~1.1k, Mature, Pre-series, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Blood, Intrusive Thoughts Bites, Dean could deal with – claw marks and broken bones. But this- ... a bullet was a different kind of monster altogether. .

Supernatural RPF

Il Cielo in Una Stanza ~4.4k, Explicit, Jensen Ackles/Jared Padalecki, Getting Back Together, Prequel-Gate, Polyamory, Non-AU Jared Padalecki receives a present he wasn't expecting at all for his 39th birthday. . 

Other Supernatural Fic

Bad Things, Better Reasons ~2k, Explicit, Pre-series, Dean Does Sex Work, Angst, Brotherly Love. Dean does whatever it takes to keep the bills paid while John is gone. The kid waiting for him back at the motel room is all the justification he’ll ever need. .

No Was Her Name ~1.3k, Teen, Season 12, Dean/Mary, Light Angst, First Kiss Mary Winchester was alive. She was solid—made of skin and blood and bone—and she existed in the same world as Dean. It wasn’t a dream; she walked and talked and breathed. She ate, she slept, she wandered the halls of the bunker at odd hours. She was a ghost made flesh, and Dean was haunted by her presence. .

#ven creates #wincest #wincestiel #destiel #J2 #daddycest #spn fic #fic masterlist #my fic #long post #sorry #i just wanna be able to link to it in my bio

[lisarichardsonbylines]

How to Tell Your Husband You’re a Witch

Witches we need you. Now more than ever. In the time of COVID-19 we can find respite in place-based reverence, plant magic and the divine feminine. So writes Lisa Richardson, who came to witchiness with nothing but white hetero straight-lacedness and a crush on a yoga teacher.

Lisa Richardson | Longreads | April 2020 | 15 minutes (4,084 words)

On a Friday afternoon, pre-COVID-19, my husband dropped some ice-cubes into glasses, ready to make us screwdrivers and cheers to surviving another week of working/parenting/wondering where the hell the years were going, only, the vodka bottle was empty.

“Oh yeah,” I said, my eyes sliding sideways, trying to not cause a fuss, “I used it for medicine.” The previous week, the kitchen counter had been cluttered with a giant mason jar full of oily plant matter. “Balm of Gilead!” I explained, brightly, as he wiped away the breakfast crumbs around it.

“But what is it?”

“Cottonwood tips in oil.”

His eyes had flicked, then, over to the brand-new bottle of extra virgin olive oil that was now nearly empty, as I enumerated the medicinal benefits of this old herbal remedy (and all this from a tree in our backyard!). Twenty-four years together means I could hear the abacus in his brain clicking, as he wordlessly calculated the cost per milliliter of a gallon jar of plant matter masticating in top-shelf olive oil, against the cost per unit of a bottle of generic aspirin tables, overlaid with the probability of me losing interest in this project.

First the olive oil. Now the vodka for dozens of little jars of tinctures — garden herbs and weeds soaking in now-undrinkable booze. My midlife quest to attune more deeply to the rhythms of the natural world was starting to incur unexpected, but real, costs.

He was quiet, as he opened the fridge and pulled out a beer instead.

* * *

In my defense, I could have pointed my finger at Natalie Rousseau, a yoga teacher living in my 5,000 person village, who I’d first encountered leading a solstice yoga class billed as a way to survive the madness of the holidays (in slightly more gracious language). Thanks to her offerings of insight I did survive the commercial horror of the “festive” season, and a few months later, as the new moon entered Aries (whatever that actually means), I plonked down $200 to subscribe to her online 13 Moons course — my foray into “slowing down and being more present,” as I pitched it to my husband when he inquired about the strange entry on the credit card statement.

But I did not deflect the simmering tension between us by naming Natalie as the instigator of these “kitchen witch” experiments. Even though I am not a member of any kind of coven or cult, (I don’t think book club counts), I know deep in my bones to never throw another woman onto the fire for helping you. That has been done too many times.

But there it is. The word. Witch. The wound.

* * *

Every day, after COVID-19 entered our world, Natalie Rousseau has responded with an offering, a teaching — a meditation, an ancient mantra of protection, a yoga practice for managing anxiety, a how-to video on harvesting poplar medicine. It’s as if she’s been resourcing herself for this moment to develop the richest arsenal imaginable, to navigate, not the public health crisis, but the billion personal crises each of us is forced to confront as life as we know it slams into pandemic mode. It’s not what I thought a witch would do, if I ever thought about them at all.

Natalie doesn’t look like a witch either — not in the way I conceived it for last year’s Halloween costume, with my long black skirt, dollar-store pointy hat, and heavy black eyeliner, walking alongside my 6-year-old vampire-werewolf. Natalie is petite, just a few inches over five feet, her long blond hair still evoking the decade she spent living in a west coast surf town, her chest and lean muscled arms bright with full sleeve flowery tattoos and Mary Oliver quotes. She moves like a dancer, demonstrating yoga poses as if she’s transcending gravity. As a teacher, she speaks exactly, even in Sanskrit, and guides movement precisely, padding gently and soundlessly through the room, making an adjustment here, offering an instruction there.

So, I was surprised when she used the word “witch” to launch her new online offering, The Witches Wheel. The lure was irresistible. Natalie was claiming the word “witch” without flinching, without anger, without provocation, not as a way to reclaim feminine power and stick it to the men, warranted as that may be: It was essentially an invitation to observe the cycle of the seasons.

A threshold beckoned.

* * *

Natalie, a recent empty-nester, lives with her husband Paul and two dogs in a modest townhome, with a creek and a dozen rogue gardens installed by various residents running behind it. The garage is full of motorbikes. The porch is swept clean on the day I visit, six months into the 13 Moons program, wanting to talk with her about this radical word and why, in a world still unsure what to do with powerful women, she’s not afraid that she’s exposing herself to pitchforks and fires, haters, and trolls.

Even though I am not a member of any kind of coven or cult, (I don’t think book club counts), I know deep in my bones to never throw another woman onto the fire for helping you. That has been done too many times.

A tea blend of her own mixing — vanilla chaga chai — is brewing on the stove in an open saucepan. She tends to it, as I settle in, sneaking glimpses around the room, looking for evidence of witchcraft — pentagrams, cloaks, bottled frogs. Nothing. The space is uncluttered, a throw-rug on the armchair, a couple of stark white deer skulls are mounted, European-style, on a wall against a reclaimed barn board — definitely more Soho chic than occult-goth. Her husband returns from town, where he has picked up fresh croissants for us. He’s tall and strong, with a tightly cropped red beard — he looks like a guy you’d run into at the gym, at the surf break, at the hardware store.

“So, what’s it like living with a witch?” I ask him as Natalie attends to our tea, a light-hearted question sprouting out of the great compost of fears I am thinking. Is it impossibly hard to be with a woman who comfortably claims her own power, magic, cycles, voice? What kind of a man can love and honor a witch? And lurking deep beneath it all: Will my husband be one of them?

Paul rolls his eyes, overly-dramatically, pointing up to the light fixture in the kitchen — light bulbs housed in mason jars of all sizes, evoking summer cabins and fireflies and Kinfolk magazine dinner party lanterns. “I made this for her because everything ends up in jars. Have you seen inside these cupboards?” He walks around the house, in faux-exasperation, opening doors to reveal neat stacks of jars, full of dried petals, leaves, syrups, tonics, salves, salts. “And there’s more upstairs!” If it hadn’t been for the dinner party they’d hosted the previous night, most of their apartment’s horizontal surfaces would be covered in jars, he tells me, and the front porch would have housed a dead raven and a dead Cooper’s hawk.

“She’s always sending me out in search of dead things,” he jokes. He picks up roadkill in case she can salvage feathers or skulls.

“When he first met me, I was already a skull collector, and now he goes and finds them for me and brings them back,” says Natalie. “He’s gotten really good at living with witchy stuff.”

The two of them are remarkably self-sufficient — an animal lover (“he loves animals more than people”), Paul realized veganism left him tired and undernourished, so took up hunting to procure his own meat humanely; one of the deer skulls mounted on the wall was harvested this fall, its meat now fills their freezer. They grow a garden, wildcraft, eat well. There is an ease between them — a tidal push and pull as they navigate their modest shared space and the morning routine, without evidence of fake niceness, of power trips or struggles.

Witchcraft, in Natalie Rousseau’s mind, is too non-dogmatic and non-hierarchical to submit to a single all-encompassing definition. “As a practice, it’s so highly individual,” she says, “but across the board, it is very place-based, land-based and body-based. For me, it’s about cultivating a relationship with your own body, your own mind, your emotions, and subtle sensing faculties. It’s learning how to trust your intuition. It’s about reclaiming your own instincts, but also being able to feel: this is what stress feels like in my body, this is what relaxation feels like, this is what it feels like to say yes to something out of a sense of obligation or pressure, this is what it feels like to have a boundary. This is what it feels like when I’m safe. These cues come to us from our bodies. It has to be, for it to work well, otherwise, you’re always reaching outside yourself for another authority.”

This is what she wants to help women, particularly, to reclaim: their sense that they are the first authority on themselves, that they can trust their bodies’ wisdom.

“The biggest thing I want to share with people,” says Natalie of her teaching and online courses, “is how to trust themselves. Everyone can very easily make the medicines that their household would need for common household complaints — colds and flus and chest colds and menstrual cramps — so many basic things that anyone can make very simply, quite affordably. I’m not anti-pharmaceutical. There are many medications people have to take daily to live. And if I have a serious infection, I’m going to take antibiotics; if I am seriously ill, I am going to go to the doctor; if I have any kind of trauma, I’m going to be so grateful for that form of medicine. But I believe the role kitchen medicine has is in the maintenance and prevention of illness.”

One of her biggest laments, though, as she makes videos and handouts and shares them with her online community, is that even people who have paid to do her course don’t feel that they have the time to take it into their kitchens. “Making a tincture is literally pouring vodka over plant materials and leaving it on your counter for four weeks!” she says. But it is easier for most people to just buy one online and have it delivered to their doorstep. “I am saddened by how easily women give their power over. This is the biggest thing I’ve noticed as a teacher in the past couple of years — how quickly women will say, ‘but how do you do this? I don’t know how to do this! I’m afraid to try this because I might not be good at it, I might be doing it wrong. I’m an imposter.’ I really struggle with this. Where is it coming from?”

But she knows. We have relinquished our power, over a thousand years or more, of wounding, of witch-burnings, of patriarchy either convincing us we have none or forcibly stripping it away, (hello Harvey Weinstein), until all we feel empowered to do, now, in 2020, is consume. And we’ve been doing that with all our might.

We override the listening, we ignore the nudges, we push through, like good soldiers. “Most people are running so hard,” observes Natalie. “Our culture is so focussed on productivity. We are so overly heroic — it’s all or nothing. I can’t do something unless I’m an expert. I don’t want to try. But this is a craft. It’s a path of education.”

Natalie’s invitation is gentle, and she’s crafted her online course to serve that: Start with one plant and learn its taste, its smell. Spend five minutes a day on meditation or in conscious ritual and begin to notice what’s going on in your nervous system, in your mind, in your body.

“When he first met me, I was already a skull collector, and now he goes and finds them for me and brings them back,” says Natalie. “He’s gotten really good at living with witchy stuff.”

Don’t get so distracted by the word witch, that you fail to notice that it is connected to craft. Witchcraft, for Natalie, is a path of learning “how to trust and problem solve, from within, knowing that we are in a system of power that, for better, for worse, will strip us of any ability to trust ourselves and to always feel empty so we have to keep buying more stuff.”

When she says this, a deep thrill of recognition hums in me, accompanied by a shiver of fear. Those are revolutionary things to say out loud, to cast into the open air. I recognize it viscerally as the kind of talk that gets people in trouble.

* * *

Last summer, before I met Natalie, I had stepped from my backyard patio stones onto freshly cut grass and spied the sinuous form of a wandering garter snake. I leaned in quickly, excitedly, about to call my 6-year-old over to glimpse the garden visitor before it shimmied away. But it was eerily still. Ugly slash wounds marked its body. It was dead. Innocent victim to the ride-on lawnmower. Obliterated by our oblivion.

“Oh no,” I muttered. “I’m so sorry!”

I had already begun to wake up to the natural world, it’s rhythms, it’s offerings of medicine, it’s otherness, but it had come with a shadow side, a growing despair at what we were doing to the world. Even without a malicious intention, I was causing death and destruction — just mowing the lawn, drinking my coffee, wiping my ass: My actions, all our human activity, had compounding impacts that were destroying the snakes, the ocean, the atmosphere, the forests, the icecaps — beyond repair.

I wanted my garden to be a habitat. I wanted the bees to waggle-dance directions to my sunflowers to their hive-mates, I wanted the wandering garter snakes to nest in their hibernacula through the winter and bask in the long grass in the summer, I wanted to lie on my back and watch butterflies dance through the flowers and the hummingbirds zoom in and out, I wanted to inhabit innocence again.

I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry. My penitence froze me in place, scared to make a move for fear of ruining something else. Then, regret overriding my squeamishness, I fetched the flat-bladed shovel and edged it under the dead snake. I carried her body over to the vegetable patch, and in a space between the beds, where the mower never goes, I laid her down. I picked marigolds and calendula from around the garden, where they’d been planted to keep the snails away, and lay the bright orange blossoms in a circle around her.

Grandmother snake, I whispered, hoping that some force that exists beyond the definitively dead snake at my feet, might spread the word among the entire species, “I’m sorry. We didn’t mean it. I will try to be more careful.”

It was a made-up ritual, the kind that a kid might perform deep in her dream world at the bottom of the garden, and it made my 44 year-old-self feel a little bit better. At least I’d made a gesture of repair, had expressed my desire to return into balance with the living world around me. If it had any effect, I’d never know. I went back inside, said nothing.

A few days later, out in the garden, my husband tripped over the skeleton of a decomposing snake, ringed by wilted flowers, half consumed by ants.

“That was spooky,” he confronted me. “What’s going on? Are you some kind of witch?”

* * *

* * *

Natalie has always been comfortable with the word. Now she’s having fun inviting people to consider the archetype, circle it, unpack it, stumble upon some kind of recognition: Wait a second! Maybe I am a witch!

“It’s cool how people in the western world can take a description that has been used mostly as a slur, and turn it around to use as something empowering,” she says.

For thousands of years, witch was a term used to incite violence against women. By the most conservative estimates, half a million people, mostly women, were executed in the European witch craze between 1300 and 1650. Accusations of witchcraft were used against women, says Rousseau, “in ways that were extremely dangerous and terrifying. It was really about getting power from them, and getting land back. So, to use a word like that in an empowered way, even today, you have to know you’re safe to do it. And it’s important to realize that in many places in the world, it’s still not safe for women to say that. But if we can, in safe places, take that word and turn it around, that, to me, is extremely powerful.”

I wanted the bees to waggle-dance directions to my sunflowers to their hive-mates, I wanted the wandering garter snakes to nest in their hibernacula through the winter and bask in the long grass in the summer, I wanted to lie on my back and watch butterflies dance through the flowers and the hummingbirds zoom in and out, I wanted to inhabit innocence again.

Natalie herself embodies empowerment. Not in the traditional way I have come to recognize power — as someone standing over, dominating someone else, her source of power comes from within.

She doesn’t need to take any from her partner.

“Do you find this relationship at all emasculating?” I joke to Natalie’s husband.

“I don’t. Not at all. No,” he replies.

“We’ve always given each other space to be ourselves.”

But that’s not always a guarantee of safety.

If it is dangerous to be an empowered woman in the world, then it’s dangerous, too, for the men who love them.

Lyla June Johnston is an author and activist of Diné and European heritage. Her inquiry into her disowned European heritage led to a realization: The millions of women burned alive, drowned alive, dismembered alive, beaten, raped and otherwise tortured as so-called, “witches,” were not witches at all. They were the medicine people of old Europe. Her lens, as a contemporary indigenous woman, and as a survivor of sexual violence, helped her identify that those were the women who understood the herbal medicines, the ones who prayed with stones, the ones who passed on sacred chants. And the all-out warfare of the witch burnings didn’t just harm the women. It had a profound effect on the men who loved them, their husbands, sons, brothers. She recognizes the echo of this in the story of her own time, of her own people. “Nothing makes a man go mad like watching the women of his family get burned alive. If the men respond to this hatred with hatred, the hatred is passed on. And who can blame them? While peace and love are the correct response to hatred, it is not an easy response by any means.”

How many men have kept their women down, tried to keep them at home, have become the handcuffs that the women fought against because they were answering to their own unarticulated primal instinct to keep them safe?

Natalie Rousseau speculates, “I am sure historically you had lots of husbands telling their wives to tone it down, not because they didn’t respect their power, but because they were genuinely afraid. I’d apply that to any women described as uppity — getting involved politically, or getting involved in local stuff that’s happening, fighting for the environment: Stop getting noticed so much. This could be dangerous.”

Some dangers are too great to be able to protect each other from. And so we turn the fight on each other — little domestic power-trips that distract us from the fact that we’ve relinquished all our power any way to the Great Machine.

* * *

My tentative inquiries into witchcraft, becoming fluent in my own moods and emotions, and paying attention to the seasons, barely prepared me for the abrupt slow-the-fuck-down order that came when COVID-19 landed in British Columbia, in my village, as school broke for spring break. The emergency handbrake was pulled. Everything came to a squealing stop — all my plans, canceled; all the stores, closing; the whole damn world, under house arrest and in a panic. The whiplash from the stunning speed of that shift has left my whole being hypersensitive to any sudden movement, to being jerked around. But the first things I have staked my trust in, in that space of uncertainty, were Natalie’s teachings: First, trust your body. Pause. Listen.

In self-imposed isolation with my husband and just-turned-7-year-old, I dance with anxiety and curiosity and disconnection and too-much-information. The well-trodden pathways we have all been racing along, flexing our power and exercising our entitlements as consumers, are suddenly bordered up with emergency tape. This invitation that Natalie has been dripping out, month after month, takes root. There is far more potency available to us, than shopping, driving, holidaying, consuming, endlessly moving around the planet.

There is potency in all the feelings that have been showing up at my door. Oh, good morning frustration. Ah grief, yes, I suppose you’d like a cup of tea. Hello there, existential terror, I wondered when you’d pop by. There is potency in sitting with my back against a huge cedar tree and listening, in slowing down so much that I can give my 7-year-old my full attention. There is potency even in my words, when I soothe him down from a tantrum by saying, “you know, this is a really hard time for everyone in the whole world right now because no one knows what’s going to happen and no one can play with their friends. I’m really proud of you.” And I can feel his body relax into this space of being acknowledged in his struggles and his efforts.

I don’t know if there are any medicinal properties in the tincture of St John’s Wort and valerian that I drop into water and hand my husband, to gentle his nervous system. Or in the jar of immune-boosting oxymel, that I brewed up with grated ginger and turmeric and orange peel, and shake every day. But even if it’s a placebo, there’s a relief for me in feeling I can do something, can offer my people some kind of healing intention in a little glass, that I can acknowledge that this is hard for my husband too, and that acknowledgment isn’t a concession that takes away from my own sense of struggle.

For decades, we’ve bought into the illusion that our power is as consumers. Now that stores are closing and the shelves are emptying and we have to stay home and not immediately indulge every whim that arises, we all feel powerless. But that was never our truest source of power. There’s another source that we can all plug back into, our deep relationship and interbeing with the life force. Maybe, this is our threshold moment. Maybe, this is a chance to craft a few little spells, to speak the words of the world we long to inhabit — a place where the currency of kindness and wonder flow, where humans return to a deep memory of belonging among the plants and creatures, and to brew up a cup of tea, light a candle, and dream it into existence. Maybe it’s an invitation to say, “I’m sorry, we didn’t mean to, I will try and be more careful,” and to build a little altar, even if you feel kind of cray cray doing it. Let your nervous system settle as you invent some small ritual, (just ask your inner 5-year-old for guidance, she probably remembers exactly what to do), and make a gesture of repair.

“I can’t think of anyone I’d rather have on my Apocalypse team,” I tell my husband, the night the global virus countertops 400,000. He’s been chopping wood, auditing the pantry, getting our kid across the finish line of the LEGO project that has absorbed him for four days. My husband was a farm kid. He’s always been practical, my polar opposite. Even when we have battled each other, (am I giving up too much of my power to him? If I acknowledge his pain and his needs, will that cancel mine out?) I’ve always known he would do anything to keep me safe. “Not that I can request an upgrade now,” I joke. “But I bet you’re glad to be stuck with me. One always wants a daydreamer at your side in a pinch.”

“Oh yeah,” he spoofs me: “’ The stock market is collapsing, let me just go check my Tarot cards.’”

We laugh. And hold each other. We can’t buy our way out of this. None of us. Our entire species, our global community, is being vividly reminded that we are all in this together, inextricably connected, epidemiologically entwined, in our vulnerability and our sweet potential. We didn’t need Amazon and airlines and online shopping to know what the witches have been telling us all this time. All the power we need is right here — between us, around us, within us. We just have to remember it.

* * *

Lisa Richarson

is a senior contributor to Coast Mountain Culture magazine and a columnist for Pique newsmagazine and edits the hyperlocal websites,

TheWellnessAlmanac.com

and

TracedElements.com.

She’s deep into a decade-long mission to slow the fuck down, but still optimize life for happiness and productivity. Born and raised in Australia, she has lived as a guest on the unceded territory of the Líl̓wat Nation since a ski vacation went rogue 20-odd years ago.

Editor: Carolyn Wells

Posted by

Lisa Richardson

on

April 8, 2020

https://longreads.com/2020/04/08/how-to-tell-your-husband-youre-a-witch/

[whisperingwillowssds]

Our sweet Ozzy fought the good fight. He continued to smile and have the biggest heart until the very end. He had been having health issues and it was discovered he had a very large Splenic mass that was leaking blood into his abdomen. The progression of disease had spread the cancer to his liver as well. Ozzy has been declining for a bit. We decided with his forever foster that it was time to set Ozzy free before the spleen ruptured and would send Ozzy into horrific pain. Ozzy lived with his forever foster family. Where he became an instant family member. He was loved beyond words and today they are grieving deeply for this sweet boy. He had lived with them for 4 months and they certainly wished they had more time with him. Ozzy originally had a family. His elderly Dad passed away. The family that was left did not want Ozzy. They dropped him off, didn't give any info on him, and abandoned him. Ozzy was an anxious mess. He didn't understand what was happening and only wanted love. Ozzy fell in love with his Animal Control Officer at the shelter. He came to Whispering Willows and his ACO actually became his Forever Foster parent. It was a match meant to be. Ozzy adored her. She got him on the right track. Her dedication to him and helping his anxious heart is what healed him. Ozzy received the love he had always needed. She was with him until the very end. Holding him and reassuring him. Although we wish we had been able to have Ozzy longer our mission was accomplished. Love was whispered until his last breath. He will forever be held in our hearts. We were lucky to know him and love him. Thank you to his Forever Foster family for showing Ozzy true love. He was happy and only wanted to be with his new Mom. We are thankful for the helping hands that carried out our mission allowing us to help even more seniors. Ozzy's heart had been healed and that is what mattered the most. Fly high sweet boy. 😇💗🐶🐾🌈😢😘 All of the pack is waiting for you. Please donate to help with Ozzy's incurred medical bills and medications. We did our best to keep him comfortable and well while he was alive. Any help is appreciated! Paypal.me/whisperingwillowssds (at Whispering Willows Senior Dog Sanctuary, Inc.) https://www.instagram.com/p/B4yRPJ0p5kk/?igshid=1hd73ds4kg9pv

[lighthouseroleplay]

MARGOT  GREENE

                          ( 23 ,  cis woman , she/her )

♪♫ currently listening  ⧸⧸  rose colored boy by paramore

ink-stained fingers, the clinging scent of coffee beans, long walks with only the moon as a witness. towering shelves filled with books, curling leaves, a threadbare jacket, handwriting scrawled on lined pages. the ticking of an old watch, petrichor’s taste after a long night of rain, careful, precise footsteps on creaking floorboards. many tabs open on a laptop, eyes that watch, always.

   •  ackerman has always been a curiousity to you: you would hear your mother gossiping about the strange family, some days, about their odd superstitions and the way there had always been an ackerman in the lighthouse. but she seemed average to you, or at least, no odder than anyone else. you liked answers, and she had them, about her family, about the lighthouse... maybe you asked too many questions, but you knew she was smart, you knew she, too, had a thirst for knowledge. if only she would help quench yours, instead of rolling her eyes at you and walking away, instead of keeping all she knew to herself.

    •  jasper sat at the desk next to yours on your first day of high school, taking pity on the quiet, home-schooled version of you that you were at sixteen, all uncertainty and full of knowledge. they were popular then (they still are!) and you were amazed at the way they took you under their wing, bringing you into the world of parties and adoration that they lived within. you were, to tell the truth, one of the few that they brought in even beyond their flashy, charming exterior: you’d always been able to tell when they were lying, always knew when they were working themself too hard. you would always be grateful that they’d decided they wanted you as a best friend, but you knew that they couldn’t live without you either.

taken by zoe  ⧸⧸  victoria pedretti

She could never sleep - before or after Andy - she could never calm or settle. A moment's rest was wasted time.

Margot had been in Tenebrin Port ever since it happened. She blamed it on the finances, on the debt that her mother had created and more recently left behind. But, ask anyone for the true reason why she had never left; 

Margot Greene lacked ambition. 

Margot Greene was a lost cause.

Margot Greene was obsessed. The seas of Tenebrin Port had swallowed her along with Andrea Clare four years ago.

Margot’s mind works in waves, always searching for an explanation as to what had really happened that night. A new lead would pool closer and closer towards a conclusion before crashing, dissipating and starting all over again. She would return to that same spot at Alderman’s point whenever she grew tired of her research, of all the dead ends she inevitably came to and of all the long nights of incurable insomnia. She would sit on the memorial bench and watch as the lighthouse bore light on the choppy horizon, maybe it would lead Andy home. 

You could say the position at the museum had fallen into her lap. When her research first began, Margot would take to the Museum & Archives up to five times a week, caught in a whirlwind of folklore, fable and town history. Margot was good at self-teaching, eleven years of home-schooling had proven not entirely useless. She quickly learnt the shelving and filing system, the various codes and sections a mere hindrance to her private studies. It was rare for somebody to visit the museum at all, let alone so often. One day, the head librarian handed her a paycheck in exchange for her time and it had been this way since.

Margot still resides in her childhood home, at the edge of Darcy Street, the only real asset that was mentioned in her mother’s will and a complete mortgage trap. “For a woman who taught me all I know, she was undeniably stupid.” She would tell Jasper as she pored over the month’s bills and repayments. Though headstrong, Margot is extremely passive when it comes to her future, moving whichever way the tide seems to pull. She’s content, yet unfulfilled. A toxic kind of comfort.

Margot lacks empathy, the pitfall of home-schooling. She can be insensitive, uncomfortably honest and it is not uncommon for her to offend even her closest friends. Margot hasn’t many of these, fewer who know how fragile she truly is. 

Her deepest self fears an empty life. A life of failure and humiliation, of disappointing the people she has grown to love so deeply. Margot doesn’t want to become her mother. 

Margot derives happiness from the occasional late night scotch and cigarette, from expensive forays with Jasper and trips to Joey’s. 

You will see her with dark eyes and mud on her sneakers. You will smell the coffee in her hair, the musk of old books on her clothes. If you ask her a question too early, her voice will snap back in a raspy tone. But if you wait an hour she might give you an answer - something profound yet simple. You will be glad you asked...

#greene #skel: all #greene: skel #skel: taken

[bookwormscififan]

Hireath

Hireath: homesickness for a home to which you can’t return

Chase’s backstory! It got a little out of hand! 

Any feedback is appreciated! Only one left I think is Alto.

Word count: 1831

Chase finished his last report and closed his file. Checking that nobody was around, he pulled a flask of whiskey out of his pocket and took a swig. Breathing deeply, he locked up and left the clinic.

Once home, he put his keys down and picked up his daughter, who had suddenly appeared at his side.

“Honey, I’m home!” He yelled into the house, smiling as Stacy appeared from the kitchen, wooden spoon in hand. She walked up to him and gave him a peck on the cheek. Stepping back, she gave him a look and headed back to the kitchen. Rolling his eyes and sighing, he put his daughter down and headed upstairs to change.

She could smell the whiskey on him, so he masked it with fresh clothes. Checking his reflection in the mirror, he picked up a brush to calm his straw coloured hair. Adjusting his glasses, he went back downstairs to share dinner with his family.

His wife was giving him judgemental looks from across the table through dinner while his children babbled about their day. As he ate, the food kept feeling like a large lump going down his throat. After a couple more bites, he excused himself and left the room.

Once in his office, he ran a hand through his hair and pulled his flask out of the drawer. Taking a swig, he sighed and read through his reports.

Stacy walked into the office, closing the door behind her, and sat beside him.

“Honey, you need to stop drinking. I figured my moving to the spare room would hint to you that you’re drinking too much.” Chase sighed, and reached for her hand.

“I know, but I can’t help it.” He watched, crestfallen, as she stood up and left the room. Frustration rose in his body, and he threw the reports.

Sitting in the lounge chair, he closed his eyes and embraced sleep.

He woke with a start, hearing his phone ring. Falling off the chair, he picked up the phone.

“Hello? Yes, it is Dr Brodsen. Yes, sorry I had a rough night. I’ll be there in ten minutes. Sorry.” He put his phone down and left his office.

The house was silent. Heading into his room, he changed into a grey suit and put his lab coat on. Taking a swig of whiskey, he left the house and headed to the clinic.

“So sorry, I had a really rough night. How many appointments have I missed?” His secretary looked at him over her files. She looked down, counted, then looked up.

“Seven.” Chase turned around and punched the fake potted plant in the corner.

“Shit! Did they reschedule?” His secretary shook her head. Picking up some papers, she looked at him again.

“They saw other doctors.”

 Chase groaned and entered his office.

“Send the people in when you’re ready.”

Three hours later, he washed his hands and looked into the mirror. His eyes widened as tendrils of black smoke began to crawl up the wall behind him. Turning around, the wall was empty. He looked in the mirror again, and saw the smoke had formed writing on the glass.

           Call her. She’s ready to leave you.

Fear in his veins, Chase called to his secretary to hold the appointments for a little while. Picking up his phone he dialled her number.

“What? I’m a little busy.”

“Please don’t leave. Give me a week to cut down on the drinking. Let me go to a different place. Don’t leave.” He heard her sigh.

“Fine. One week. I’ll drop off some clothes. Don’t stay here.” Chase smiled.

“Thank you. I love-” she hung up.

Sticking his head out of the door, he told his secretary to send his patient in. sitting at his desk, he sorted through his files until he got to ‘Septicie’. Funny, that’s Alto’s last name… Looking up at the door closing, he saw his second-cousin Alto stand awkwardly in the room. He smiled.

 “Hey, Alt. How are you? Is this just a normal check-up?” Alto took a seat, and ran a hand through his dark green hair.

“Chase, has anything… odd happened to you recently?” Chase looked up from his work. He closed his eyes at the memory of smoke crawling up his wall and the writing on the mirror. Opening his eyes, he took a breath and adjusted an item on his table.

“No, buddy. I haven’t. Why do you ask?” He stood up, taking his stethoscope from his pocket. Alto stood too, and lifted his shirt for Chase to check his breathing and heart rate.

“Juxta’s had some issues recently. He’s been getting up late at night and muttering things.” Chase put his stethoscope back into his pocket and took a thermometer from his desk.

“Again, nothing’s happened. Is Juxta alright? I heard from Henrik that he was a little unwell recently?” He waited for the thermometer, then sat at his desk again.

“He was really sick a few years ago, but since Henrik got here, he’s been fine.” Chase made some notes in his folder, then looked at Alto.

“It’s good to hear he’s better. You have a clean bill of health, beside your throat, which we know is incurable. Say hi to everyone for me, and I’ll see you at Christmas.” He shooed Alto out with a smile, then sat heavily at his desk.

When he finished that evening, he picked up the clothes that Stacy had left, and headed out to stay at a motel.

That night, as he lay in his empty motel bed, he watched the shadows climb up the walls. A chill ran down his spine, and he saw the shadows turn into something much more sinister. His family watched him with fear in their eyes as lions attacked them.

He closed his eyes to the image and tried to sleep, but the pictures burned through his eyes and made him toss and turn. Eventually he fell asleep, shivering in fear.

When he woke the next morning, he realised he had missed a call and message from his wife. Rolling over in bed, he read the message.

The kids don’t suspect a thing, but I think a week isn’t quite enough. I won’t write up divorce papers, just please don’t come over. I’ll leave your clothes on the porch swing.

Chase sighed, then dialled a number.

“Yep?” He took a breath, putting on a brave front.

“Hey, Jared. I was wondering if I’d be able to stay at the house for a while. Family problems, you know?” He listened to the muffled discussion across the line, then held his breath as Jared focused on him.

“Yeah, you’re all good to stay here. Nobody has been in your room since you left for college, so you can return there. It’ll be like we never left.” Chase smiled.

“Thank you. I’ll come over after my time at the clinic. Say, three o’clock?” He smiled as Jared confirmed, then hung up and went to the bathroom.

He arrived at the clinic a little bit late, so his appointments were all off by ten minutes. Between appointments, he was updated on the family from Jared through texts, and photos of his room being cleaned were also sent to him.

As the last patient left the clinic, he picked up his keys and gave his secretary a couple of notes about locking up. He left the clinic, stopping at the house to get his things, then headed for the family home.

He hadn’t been here in years. He had met Stacy at college, and gotten married afterward. He tried, but just never made it back for Christmas.

Knocking on the door, he was greeted by an embrace from Jared. He started at the mask on his brother’s face, but then smiled, and returned the hug.

“Good to see you, buddy. Wanna help me bring my stuff in?” Jared nodded and raced down the steps to grab the items from the car.

He smiled and joked with the other members of the house, then headed upstairs to set up his room.

“We fixed up a room downstairs for you to do doctor work. And Juxta locks himself in his room one month a year. He still hasn’t told me why, but maybe Malvern will tell you.” He smiled at Jared once again, and took a box from him.

“I might at some other time. Right now I’m just happy to see you all again. By the way, what happened to your face?” Jared had removed his mask while Chase was talking, and Chase took in the scars around his eyes.

“Would you believe I had a run-in with a lion? Because that is what happened. It turned out alright in the end though. Juxta has a couple. I really like lions.” Chase chuckled, then gave Jared another hug.

“As long as you’re alright. I’m going to unpack a little more, then I’ll come downstairs and help with dinner, ok?” Jared nodded, and left the room.

Chase stopped unpacking when a sudden chill filled the air. Turning around, he saw Juxta leaning against the doorjamb. Smoke crawled from his hands and lifted one of his trinkets.

“Hey, Juxta. What’s going on?” Juxta smiled at Chase, then wrote in smoke.

Welcome back. Did she not like your call? The chills grew larger as Chase swallowed heavily.

“You wrote on my mirror.” Juxta’s grin grew, almost masking the scar on his face. Almost.

I had a dream. You were being forced to sign divorce papers. I didn’t want you to be sad from that, so I let you know early. He looked at the ground, his smile fading. I thought you would be grateful.

“Jux, My worst fear is that my family will leave me for good. You almost made that come true. How would I be grateful?” Juxta moved closer to Chase, seeming to almost teleport.

Do you think that’s hard to face? College romances don’t usually last. If you think it’s hard to face YOUR fears, just wait. Wait until you see mine. Chase shuddered.

“Yours?” Juxta nodded. He had slid down the doorjamb to now crouch on the floor, looking like a sad child.

I almost died. Death brought me back, but there was a catch. One month each year, I have to take one of the family and torture them. I almost did to Malvern. You arriving here could make that worse. I don’t want to hurt Mal. I’m terrified, Chase. He stopped as tears began to flow down his face.

Chase patted his back. The two sat, sorrow in their faces, for the remainder of the afternoon. They only went downstairs for dinner.

A few weeks later, Chase was in the home clinic writing some files. He looked to his desk and saw a picture of his family. Stacy. Taking a breath, he suppressed his tears, and left the room to join the others in a game.

#jacksepticeye #jse fanfiction #swap au #Juxta Position #Chase Brodsen #Jared the Magick #Alto Septicie

[happylittlebeing]

You are a Pisces

It's impossible to understand your real motivations, because like the tides of the ocean, they change all the time. Pisces is concerned with a realm that has no boundaries. Nothing less than the source of life itself is the secret you seek. No wonder, if you fail, that your disillusionment and world-weariness can be as great as your aspirations. It's sometimes said this last sign of the zodiac contains a little bit of all the others. And no one is as much of a chameleon as you.

You have a fluidity and complexity which can be alternatively enchanting and infuriating. There are so many people inside you that others wonder when the real Pisces will stand up and be seen. Sometimes you show a strange passivity or inertia when a crisis looms. But making decisions requires choosing one thing over another, and to you all choices contain some truth. Seeing the relativity of truth is a great gift, because it makes you tolerant and forgiving - and, occasionally, incredibly lax.

That calm, wise indifference with which you greet human transgressions not only applies to your own transgressions. You can sit quietly while your lover leaves, your children insult you, your employer heaps abuse on your head, and your landlord throws you out of your house. Pisceans seem to accept misfortune as though they were born to it, expect it, even welcome it. But you know something other signs don't: all that human suffering means little when your eyes and heart are focused on a greater unity.

Pisces is the sign of the mystic. Admittedly, there are Pisceans roaming about who are almost a caricature of the rational, scientific mind. These are the Fishes who are frightened of the chaos of their own depths. But probe more deeply, and unless the defences are incredibly rigid, there is a deep spiritual longing in every Pisces. Including you. That doesn't mean religious in an orthodox way. But you have an intuitive sense of some other reality, something magical and elusive, a transcendent unity which makes ordinary life seem drab and meaningless.

You also have a deep instinctive wisdom about the futility of so many human desires. Intense ambition, powerful passions, covetousness, greed...these ordinary human motives don't usually have much power over you. Deep down, you don't really take them all that seriously. After all, as they say in the East, it's only maya - only illusion. As a water sign, you're deeply sensitive to the secret undercurrents that lie behind the mask of ordinary human behaviour.

It's hard to fool a Pisces. But where others might respond by defending themselves and accruing resentment, you will look, see, feel saddened, and forgive. You often let yourself be taken advantage of, not because you're gullible, but because you feel sorry for all sorts of people. This material world isn't the real one to you; you listen to a different drumbeat.

You move in a world where every thought and action has thousands of associations which ripple out into infinity, and nothing is ever simple and clear. It's hard for you to discriminate, to limit yourself. This can incline you to excess, which can lead to some big problems with things like food, alcohol, drugs or financial extravagance. The compensation for this disturbing lack of boundaries is your boundless imagination. Even heavily defended, hyper-rational Pisceans have this wonderful imaginative faculty hidden away.

The world of the arts, and of intuitive science (including computer science, higher mathematics and physics) is heavily populated by gifted Pisceans. You have a built-in key to the vast and mysterious realm of the unconscious psyche, and it was given to you at birth as a gift. The trouble is, once in those waters, you sometimes find it hard to come back. Coping with mundane reality can be a real problem for Pisceans. Although your intuition may be lightning-quick and your intellect brilliant, you often overlook something simple, like the electricity bill.

You're also an incurable romantic. Some Pisceans have lots of defences to hide this tendency, but romantic you were born and romantic you will remain. And romance isn't just about love affairs. You crave magic, and you get bored more easily than any other sign. The only truly consistent things about you are your allegiance to a higher, deeper reality and your love and longing for change. Never mind the safe job, the conventional social status, the budget which ensures your pension will see you through old age. You'll take hyacinths for the soul any time.

#pisces #horoscope #astrology

[12-3amproductions]

Year of the Bitch

James, 37, architect

I was one of the most successful architects in Singapore. I had a beautiful home, a beautiful wife, two beautiful kids. Life was, well, beautiful. Until I met Fanny Wong. That bitch!

It was exactly twelve years ago, the Year of the Dog. I was a happily married man. My second child had just been born. But one night, as I was entertaining some potential clients in a cabaret, I met Fanny. She was the most popular hostess there. It was easy to see why.

Fanny was beautiful; very, very beautiful. Tall and slender and fair. Her skin was white as ivory due to the night life she had, having never been in the sun.

Now I have never been what you might call an attractive man. And so I was flattered when Fanny showered so much attention on me. I found myself being drawn to her. I went back to that cabaret - secretly, alone… just to be with her.

I did not want to cheat on my wife, but that’s exactly what I did. I felt guilty, but all guilt disappeared whenever I thought of Fanny. Soon, a passionate affair developed between us.

I installed her in an apartment in Ardmore Park, it was to become our “love nest”. I began to spend most of my time there, away from my family. I bought her fine clothes, jewellery. I got her a credit card with which she landed me in debt. And all the while, I knew I was only getting myself in too deep. She was nothing but trouble and I… I could not help myself even if I’d wanted to.

My career started to suffer. And my family life was strained, to say the least. Not only was I never at home, the bank was kicking up a fuss about the mortgage on my fine house. What’s more, there were all these bills incurred by Fanny. She really went on a shopping spree with the credit card I gave her.

My wife threatened to leave me and take the children with her. I did not know what to do. When I spoke to Fanny about it, she said I should leave my wife. I should just let her go, that it was better this way. And like a fool, I listened to her. My wife left with my two children. I was never to see them again.

Things changed when I moved in with Fanny in the Admore Park condo I was paying for. Her affection for me seemed to be on the wane. The bank had foreclose mortgage on my house and I had nowhere to stay. And Fanny was making me feel like an unwelcome guest.

My overdraft was now deeply in the red. It was not long before my credit was cancelled. And with so many outstanding debts I had incurred all over town for Fanny, I realised that I was on the verge of bankruptcy.

I spoke to Fanny about this. I explained my desperate financial situation and begged her to cut down on her spending. I said that if she could just economise for a few months, I could slowly get back on my feet again. We could start afresh on a more practical scale.

She laughed in my face! She said if I could not afford her, she would find somebody else. I was deeply hurt but bore with it as best as I could.

I tried to get on with my work in order to upkeep this very expensive mistress. But I came home one night and found her with another man! Of course, I was mad with fury. But I could not take my rage out on her. I took it out on her lover instead. But he was a big man. Bigger, stronger than me. He beat me up so badly I had to be hospitalised.

When I got out, I went to Fanny, only to find that she had packed up all my stuff in a suitcase. She was throwing me out!!!

“Get out of my life, James! The sight of you disgusts me...”  

I went berserk. I seized a knife from the kitchen and attacked. I wanted to carve out her heart and eat it. She shrank away from me in terror, but grabbing a fistful of her hair, I sank the Long silver blade of the shiny knife into her throat.

“Ahh!” she screamed. But I continued hacking away. Sticking the knife in her abdomen, I pulled the blade upwards, disemboweling her. Spilling her guts out on the Italian carpet, I really carved up that bitch. Even as she lay dying, I hacked away at her pulsating inner organs, at her still beating heart. Until she was still, I hacked away still.

Of course, I was filled with remorse afterwards. I realised the horror and madness of the murder as I saw the gory remains of Fanny in our apartment, which was now splattered with blood and guts. I called the police to turn myself in.

I told them what u had done and where they could come and get me. I waited in resignation for them to come.

However, when they arrived, I just could not explain what had happened. I showed them the remains of Fanny Wong, but all that was left was the carcass of a dead dog - a bitch! She had reverted to her true form in death! I laughed hysterically as I told this to the police. They did not believe me but they arrested me all the same.

I have been locked up these past 13 years in Woodbridge (a mental institution in Singapore). Every time they ask me about the disappearance of Fanny Wong and the dead dog’s carcass in the apartment - I tell them this same story. Well, why not? It’s the truth, isn’t it?

Admins: The first mistake could be a mistake, the second mistake is a choice... 

Want to send us your stories?

Feel free to send your stories in with the title, your name or blog (you can choose to be anonymous), occupation, gender, and age.

Your entries must be horror related. Thank you for the support! :)  

#stories #s24

[1whimsicalgal]

Michael

Michael Terry McMinn July 25, 1949 - June 1, 1955

It was this week in 1955 that my beautiful young brother, Michael Terry McMinn passed away. He was six years old, mischievous, adorable, and he had a wonderful sense of humor. Michael made friends easily, and adults, children, everyone loved him. Pictured here, on his first day of school, he wears his white shirt, a white undershirt, khaki pants, and penny loafers. In hand, he carries his Indian Chief tablet and Roy Rogers lunchbox. He loved Roy Rogers. Mike went to the first grade for a total of six short weeks. When he wasn't too sick, we played together in, around, and under a tall, gigantic, very old willow tree. The base was six to seven feet in diameter and stood some fifty to sixty feet high. How we all loved that tree! Her limbs stretched far out across our property. Michael and I climbed in it all the days we were together, along with our neighborhood best pals and cousins, Bill and Debbie Eckhert. They were both our exact same ages, and also brother and sister. We spent all our days busily going back and forth between our two homes set a hundred yards apart, across a vacant field. Games and pretend went on until the sun went down, then we were back early the next morning, knocking on one another's doors.

When I entered high school drama class in 1967, my acting coach, Sally Barbay, gave me Robert Frost's poem, "Wild Grapes." Together, Miss Barbay and I prepared for my first competitions that I would attend later that year. We worked hard, going over posture, eye contact, pauses, emphasis, meaning, until I was finally ready. She could be brutal, but earning her pleased smile was joy, and finally, I wore the poem well. As good fortune would have it, I went on to win many first places in UIL Poetry Reading Competitions with Wild Grapes. It seemed to fit like a glove. In the intervening years since Mike had died, I had worked hard to disengage myself from the pain of his loss to our small family. It was the only way to survive and move on, but of course, it never truly left me. I learned to put things in certain drawers and to open them only when I had to.

Looking back I always wondered how Miss Barbay had chosen that particular poem for me. She knew nothing of Michael, his 6 years of suffering, nothing of his death from Cystic Fibrosis, or of our older brother, Curtis', who had died at eleven months before Mike was even conceived. She had no idea of the effects on our family. To read the words, it was absolutely uncanny how closely aligned the poem was to Mike's and my story. In reflection, it was oddly serendipitous that I should be gifted with those lovely words. Over the years since I have come to believe that it was my brother somehow speaking to me. Whether it's true or not doesn't matter. It's real to me. It had to be. I was comforted to know he had always remained right by my side. After his death, adults in my family dismissed the feelings a small child of only four could possibly have. I avoided mentioning him to anyone. Their own pain was so great, I wanted to protect them. It wasn't malicious on their part, or even intentional, but just the way adults felt about children in those days. My mother talked about it all the time, year in and year out. For me, it was a secret bond I knew existed between Mike and I. I felt our bond so deeply. Michael and I had been very close, together every single day and night, sleeping maybe ten to twelve feet apart. Then, suddenly one day he was no longer there, and he never returned home again. Grief worked on all of us equally. Each of us was an open wound for so many years. I am still haunted by the fact that several people told me that Mike knew he was sick and going to die and that he talked about his impending death. A six-year-old... it makes me weep.

Cystic Fibrosis is a disease that attacks the lungs and pancreas, and at that time it was ranked the number two cause of death in children after polio. It is passed on through the combined genes of both parents, and until the late 1980s early '90's considered 'incurable.' Simply put, the CF child's body lacks the enzyme to break food down and retain nutrients, therefore they essentially suffer from malnutrition. "The hallmark signs and symptoms of cystic fibrosis are salty tasting skin, poor growth and poor weight gain despite a normal food intake, accumulation of thick, sticky mucus, frequent chest infections, and coughing or shortness of breath." (Wiki) In the final stages, they can't breathe. Frantic, my parents searched every possible avenue for information. A chiropractor told my parents he believed diet was an element that should be examined and suggested they try feeding him bananas. So they did, as many as he would eat. For a couple of months, he seemed to improve, then he was down again, and it was bad. Worst of all, the doctors chastised my parents for listening to a 'chiropractor.' In those days, doctors poo-pooed all chiropractors completely and unequivocally. It would be decades after Mike died that researchers discovered beneficial drugs, or that the AMA finally admitted what many had suspected for years, that certain foods enhanced their ability to process food, retain nutrients, and keep them alive.

When parents lose a child, there is a great amount of guilt and blame that most often occurs. As a child, my mother convinced me that I, too, had been 'born with CF,' even though I had never been diagnosed and that by putting me on a 'special diet,' she had 'cured' me. She repeated the story over and over, not only to me but to any adults who came over to visit. Her grief and guilt were so immense, that for her sake, I felt I had to believe her. I had no choice but to believe her, and therefore I blocked off any questions that might refute this. As I came into my teen years, I was convinced I carried the deadly gene, and I was petrified. Years passed.

At some point in my early thirties, I began to do my own research. I found that medical evidence didn't support the story. At thirty, I went into intensive therapy, and for almost five years I began to delve. I contacted many sources, one was our childhood pediatrician in Houston, who knew our family history well. I was told, "You never had CF, never." Still, chances were that I carried the gene, since both my parents carried it. Unlike many genetic diseases, it takes both the mother and the father's genes with CF. In late '88, '89, a doctor told me they had located the gene, but the test for it was not yet available. I freely admit I spent years in confusion and anger. My dad was circumspect about ever talking of Mike to me or anyone, and he never knew what I'd been led to believe. We never discussed it until just before he passed when I was 34. It had been quite a journey for all of us.

I was to remember Mike's and my bond as time passed, but I remained essentially silent to most everyone around me. I quietly guarded the fact I probably carried the gene and my memories of Mike. The pictures and memories were all I had of him, and much too painful to share. Fortunately, now, with each year I feel closer to him. I continue to hold the essence of his memory in my heart. I love to look at his pictures, devour them, and when I do, I feel he was truly the most beautiful little boy I may have ever seen. Yes, I'm prejudiced. I know innately that he watched over me as best he could, for as long as he could. I can still hear him when I was up in that willow tree, telling me to hold on tight, "Hold on," as day after day I climbed out further and further, testing my limits, going out to the very end of the long limbs of that gigantic tree. And, with each foray, he would finally stand below and tell me to let go. "Let go, Sissie, let go! I'll catch you." And, finally, he would convince me. I would drop to the ground just as he told me to do, and I would be intact, exhilarated, and fully alive. I was happy to realize "Wild Grapes" somehow belonged to us, and that for me, it will forever. It is a lovely and haunting metaphor for the brief 4 years we spent together. My brother, Michael Terry McMinn 1949- 1955, words cannot fully express how deeply beloved he was, or how precious to all those who had the joy of knowing him. Gone but never forgotten are not empty words to me.

~~ By: Teri McMinn © Wild Grapes by Robert Frost -

http://glenavalon.com/wildgrapes.html

To learn more about Cystic Fibrosis: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cystic_fibrosis

Teri McMinn

[hookedonapirate]

Tangled Up In Blue

Enough is Enough (Chapter 27/?)

Summary: Fear for her unborn child, a bruised and broken Emma Swan is determined to escape an abusive marriage. After she drives a long way from home to a small town in Maine, she doesn’t think her life could get more complicated… that is until she ends up falling for her OBGYN, a blue-eyed British man who’s shielded his heart from love long ago. But he may be just what she needs to begin her healing process and start a new life for her child. If only nothing gets in the way.

Notes: Okay folks, this chapter is the freaking monster of all chapters. It was probably the most difficult thing I’ve written thus far, so I’m sorry if it’s a mess. There are still some questions that won’t be answered by the end of the chapter but I promise everything will make more sense in the next one.

I have to give the biggest shout out to my best friend, Lydia (@rouhn), who has helped me out so much throughout my struggles, with her ideas and endless support, and points out my stupid mistakes. According to her, it’s the best chapter of this story, so hopefully you will all agree.

All I can say is, you’re either going to love me or hate me by the end of the chapter, probably both.

Also, for those of you who are interested, I’ve posted a deleted scene of Killian’s thoughts during their first encounter. It’s scene 3 of my collection.

Thanks for reading!

*TRIGGER WARNING* Mentions and depictions of physical and verbal abuse/domestic violence

Rated: M

Catch Up: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26

Check out deleted scenes: 1 2 3

Also available on: AO3 FF.N

The ticking of the wall clock was loud in the quiet room as he grabbed his bag, glancing around to make sure he didn’t leave anything behind before heading for the door. The four walls were painted in a cheerful yellow that made his stomach churn, and the furniture was old and worn out, but he tolerated it because it was free. Besides, he didn’t have anywhere else to go.

He was opening the door and walking out of his hotel room when he heard the familiar voices coming from the front desk.

“James, I’m gonna need the money you overcharged one of our guests back please.”

The man’s curiosity got the best of him as he quietly shut the door and made his way down the corridor.

Peering around the corner, he watched the interactions between the brothers from the short distance.

James certainly looked guilty as he pulled what appeared to be a bill from his wallet, handing it over to David. “I’m sorry, but you know it’s hard to break habits.”

David snatched the money from his hand, pointing a firm finger in James’ face, displeasure written all over his features. “I’m well aware, but you can at least make an effort. The reason why I gave you this job was so you could turn your life around, not continue your conniving ways. I thought I made that perfectly clear after you stole from Emma her first night here. You’re lucky I didn’t can your ass right then. ”

Sighing deeply in exasperation, James shook his head. “I already apologized to you both. What more do you want from me?”

With a long audible exhale, David planted his hands on his hips, glaring at his brother. “What I don’t want is another apology. You need to prove to me that I didn’t make a huge mistake by hiring an ex-con. Especially since Emma’s now living with my wife and I. She’s been through enough as it is and doesn’t need the harassment; she came to this town to get away from that.”

Narrowing his eyes, James furrowed his brows in confusion. “What do you mean? What exactly happened to her?”

Making his way around the desk, David opened the cash register, returning the money before shoving it closed. A heavy sigh fell past his lips as he turned to look at James again, crossing his arms. “Mary Margaret would kill me if I told you this, so you can’t say anything to anyone, you got it?”

James nodded. “Yeah, of course, what is it?”

The man had to listen even more intently to hear what David was saying as he spoke more quietly.

“Emma ran away from Tallahassee to escape an abusive husband.”

Well, this is an interesting development.

Guilt was flashing in James’ eyes that could easily be seen from down the corridor. “I’m sorry… I didn’t know.”

Ideas were unraveling in his mind as the man took in the information the brothers were unknowingly supplying him with.  He wondered how much a heartbroken man would pay to have his wife returned to him, or how much he would pay to find out her whereabouts.

After David left the building, the man came from around the corner, stalking his way to the counter.

James noticed his presence, and warily approached from the other side, the palm of his hands bracing against the surface. “Look, I can’t let you stay here for free anymore. I’m already in enough trouble as it is.”

The man grinned, leaning on the counter and looking James in the eye. “You don’t have to work here, you know? You could always take another job. In fact I have one you might be interested in.”

~~~

Killian entered the Bed and Breakfast in haste, drawing in the warm air as he stomped his boots on the mat to shake off the snow, a weary sigh escaping his lips. As he approached the front desk, a look of desperation was wearing in his features as he ran his hand through his damp hair, brushing out some of the snowflakes that had fallen from the early winter morning sky during the brisk walk from his car.

James raised his brow in curiosity, his eyes flashing with concern as he studied Killian intently. “What’s wrong? Don’t tell me, there’s trouble in paradise already.”

Quickly shaking his head, Killian braced his hands on the counter, thoughts of last night racing through his mind. He hadn’t slept at all; he was still shaken from what had transpired.

…

Killian stared at the note in his hand, swallowing the lump in his throat. He’d been in a state of panic since he’d found the bed empty, and Emma nowhere to be seen. He was surprised that she would just up and leave, even for a short time.

Swaying Ian gently in his arms, he set the note down and called her cellphone, but it went straight to her voicemail.

…

“I think Emma’s up to something,” Killian confessed, his voice wrecked as he thought of what she might be planning.

“Why do you say that?” James asked, the area between his brows wrinkling in confusion.

“Emma went to the grocery store last night.”

James appeared to be even more confused, and of course, Killian couldn’t blame him. In his frazzled state, he didn’t think he could make sense if he wanted to.

“She left me with Ian and went to get milk.“

The other man stared at him blankly for a few brief seconds before shaking his head. “I’m not following. What’s the big deal about Emma going to the store to get milk?”

“James, if you look in our refrigerator, you’d be able to see that we already had a gallon of it before she left.”

James didn’t seem any less perplexed. “She has an infant who can only have milk. Why is it a surprise that she needs extra milk?”

Killian started to get irritated, although it wasn’t really the Nolan’s fault. He wouldn’t expect James to know a thing about babies, but that really wasn’t Killian’s concern at the moment. Knowing that Neal would be loose on the streets soon was enough to make him insane with worry. He tried not to be, but this was his family. Ian and his Swan were his world, and he was afraid that if someone dared to take them away, Killian would not be able to control his actions. In fact he would probably end up getting killed because Neal knew how to fight, and he did not. He feared that he would lose again, like he did at the bar. Neal hadn’t been much better off, but then again, he’d not been the one to incur broken ribs. “Aye, I’m well aware what Ian needs, but newborns don’t consume cow’s milk - Ian is exclusively breastfeeding.”

James’ features started to smooth out, but Killian could tell he still wasn’t quite sure what Killian was getting at.

“And that’s not the only thing that worries me… Emma has not been apart from Ian since he was taken from the hospital. Normally she hates even the idea of being separated from him, and normally she would take the time to wait for him to wake up and strap him into his car seat for a five-minute drive to the grocery store.”

James nodded; he was finally beginning to understand why Killian would be worried. “So, where do you think she went off to?”

Killian shook his head, feeling a bit depleted. He’d tried wracking his brain all night for an answer to his question, but there was only one thing he could possibly think of, and he was desperately hoping he was incorrect.  “I’m not sure, but I have my suspicions.” He didn’t want to question her about it though, for fear that she might think he was interrogating her or didn’t trust her. The last thing he ever wanted to do was have her think that he was trying to control her or disrespect her boundaries. He never wanted her to feel that way with him - not ever.

“And?” James asked, encouraging him to continue.

“And I need your assistance.” Killian couldn’t believe he was coming to James for his help again, but he was a desperate man.

Nolan crossed his arms, eyeing him skeptically. “You want me to assist you in breaking into someone’s shop again?”

Leaning closer, Killian gripped at the edge of the counter, his jaw tightening as he thought about what he needed to do. It wasn’t something that he wanted to easily admit, but the thought of a certain man he absolutely detested brought out the rage in him, and he wanted to be able to deliver that rage correctly, if need be. He would do anything to make sure that low-life piece of scum never laid a hand on Emma or Ian ever again.

“I need you to teach me how to fight.”

~~~

The incessant ringing of Emma’s phone came from her jacket pocket, drawing Mary Margaret’s and Ruby’s attention as they walked through the crowded mall. Emma was pushing Ian in his stroller, not intending to answer her phone, but Ruby dug into her pocket to retrieve it for her.  

“Here you go, Em.”  Ruby held it out for her, so Emma took it, wondering who it might be. Killian was performing surgery at the moment, so she knew it wasn’t him.

When she viewed the screen, her throat closed up, and she couldn’t breathe. Panic was coursing through her blood, her thumb hovering over the “decline” option on her phone as she gnawed on her bottom lip; it was a restricted number, but she had a feeling she knew exactly who it could be, and she really had no one else to blame except herself. She’s the one who decided to poke the sleeping giant.

“You alright, Em?” Mary Margaret asked out of concern.  

Emma declined the call and glanced up from the screen, offering a smile. “Yeah, it’s an unknown number. If it’s important, they can leave a message. She tucked the phone into her pocket as her friends accepted her answer.

“I don’t blame you. I never pick up my phone unless I know who the person is,” Mary Margaret told them as they continued to another store.

“Have you decided what you’re going to get Killian for Christmas?” Ruby asked curiously, changing the subject.

Emma shrugged in distress. Restricted phone calls weren’t the only thing making her panic. Christmas was just around the corner and she still hadn’t bought her boyfriend a present yet. “Does it make me a terrible girlfriend that I waited this long and still have no idea what to get him?”

Both of her friends shook their head. “Please, chica, you’ve had a lot going on. You have no reason to feel guilty,” Ruby assured her.

“Exactly. And besides, you’ve only started dating a few months ago. I don’t think Killian would mind at all if you didn’t get him anything. To him, you and Ian are everything he would ever ask for,” Mary Margaret added with a warm grin.

“I want to get him something though. He’s been so amazing to me and Ian, and he’s done so much for us. And yet I know he’s still going to get me something extravagant for Christmas. He probably has it all wrapped up and hidden in the house somewhere.”

Both of the brunettes didn’t hesitate to agree with both a laugh and a nod.

“You’re probably right about that,” Ruby chirped, “but no worries, we’re going to help you find something.”

Emma looked at Ruby cautiously, seeing her wicked smile and the mischief in her eyes. “Okay, but please, nothing gynecologist-related and nothing kinky, got it?”

Ruby dropped her jaw in shock, pretending to be offended. “Well of course, what kind of person do you take me for?”

It was Emma’s turn to laugh with Mary Margaret. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she managed to find something that was both,” Mary Margaret joked quietly to Emma.

“Hey, I heard that,” Ruby shot back, spurring on more giggles.

Emma managed to get through the afternoon having a nice time with her friends and son and coming up with something to get Killian while trying not to think about the phone call she’d received.

However, when she looked at her phone again later on, she saw the notification on her screen, informing her that she had a message waiting for her.

With trembling fingers she called her voicemail.

The moment he started to speak, she lost a breath. "Hey babe, you probably heard the good news already - I’m out.”

~~~

“You’re doing great, Killian… for a beginner,” James taunted with a chuckle.

“Maybe so, but it’s not good enough.” Killian stayed focus, concentrating on his target as he held up his fists, bouncing from foot to foot while trying to maintain the form that James had constantly been hounding him about. “Now, come on, Nolan, give me your best shot.”

James approached him, but Killian lashed out first, hoping to catch him by surprise, his fist aiming for his face, but James blocked Killian’s attempts, barely flinching and keeping his stance.

“Come on, Jones, that’s the best you got?” Killian had made progress, but he didn’t think he was ready quite yet. Although, this time, he managed to block everything James threw at him. He was breathing hard after two minutes, but he wasn’t heaving like he had in the beginning.

“Don’t forget to breathe,” James had consistently reminded him. “Breathe out when you strike and breathe out when you get hit.”

They’d been meeting almost every day since Killian had asked for his help, and he was a quick learner, but there still wasn’t enough time. Neal had been freed from jail the day before, and Killian was now certain, more than ever, that Emma was planning something because of how secretive she was being. He just didn’t know exactly what it was, but he was determined to find out. At the same time, he didn’t want to hover over Emma and Ian; he wanted to give them their space and the freedom they needed without having him being too protective of them.

In the meantime, James had shown him how to do the most damage within the small amount of time they had; how to form a fist, where to hit, how to keep his fingers stiff to jab them into someone’s eyes, how to grapple and throw - all the things Killian would never dream of doing before because it wasn’t him. He had never wanted to hurt anyone, but there was one man who was now an exception.

It was one of the most frustrating things he’d ever done because whenever he was fighting James, even though it wasn’t actual fighting, he transformed into something else entirely; pretending James was Killian’s actual opponent. That was how much Neal had affected him.

Killian ducked, avoiding a punch from James, grabbing hold of his forearm and pivoting around to lift the Nolan brother and send him over his shoulder and onto the exercise mat with ease.

James was on the ground, winded and looking up him with a surprised, but gratified grin as Killian extended his hand to help him up.

“See? You’re getting it. Don’t be too hard on yourself.”

In the beginning of Killian’s training, James had started him on a punching bag so he could work on the force and speed of his punch, and eventually moved him onto sparring. Before Killian had even started, he could already do most things, sort of; he had muscles and strength, he just lacked the finesse of actual fighting.

Killian helped James up and let out a pained sigh.

He could sense Nolan’s eyes on him as he strolled across the room and took a large drink from his water bottle. He swallowed it down, catching James as he watched and observing him with a concerned expression.

James came over to Killian, planting his hands on his hips and staring at Killian with weighty eyes. “This isn’t about how well you’re doing; you’re just worried about Emma, aren’t you?”

He wasn’t sure what gave it away, but James had a skill of reading body language, and apparently Killian wasn’t good at hiding his despair.

“What do you think?” There was a bit of harshness in his words; he wanted to combust, but James was not the person he wanted to take out his frustrations on. Killian looked at his feet; there was wreckage in his eyes as he spoke in a softer volume. “Emma’s been planning something and I have no idea what to do. I feel completely helpless.”

James offered an understanding nod. “I can imagine, but… there may be…” James paused and Killian lifted his eyes, waiting for him to finish. Nolan looked away, trying to decide if he should continue or not.

“There may be what?”

James shook his head. “Forget I said anything.” He turned around and started to walk away, but Killian grabbed his arm to stop him.

“Please tell me.”

With a heavy sigh, James turned around to look at him again. “There may be a way to find out what she’s planning, but you may not like the method.”

“James, if you want to talk to her, you should just do it. She’s lost a good friend, and as much as I hate to admit it, I think you’re probably the only person who could get her to confess.” Ever since James had been accused of being Neal’s spy, Emma was still weary around James, even after he helped his brother bring Ian and Kilian back to her, and Killian knew they weren’t as close as they used to be.

James gave him a cocky grin. “You know, you’re probably right about that, but… I have another idea.”

Arching a brow, Killian looked at him expectantly, urging him to continue. “I’m listening.”

“Like I said you’re not going to like it, but the best way to find out whether she’s actually hiding something is to give her the opportunity to go through with her plan.”

James was correct; Killian did not like where this was heading, but he decided not to refute, and instead allowed him to continue. “And how do you suppose I do that?”

“Okay, here’s what you need to do…”

~*~

“Emma, are you sure about this? I really don’t have to go if you don’t want me to.”

She was holding Ian in her arms, managing a feeble smile. She’d previously bundled the little guy in a onesie, a cotton seater and a thick blanket to protect him from the cold while she stood in her boyfriend’s driveway to say goodbye. “We’ll be fine. I told you, Mary Margaret and David will be stopping by to keep me company.” She could clearly see that her words didn’t do much to put Killian at ease, so she leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his lips, her son stirring quietly between them.

He drew in an unsure breath, his eyes fluttering shut as he wrapped them both in his arms, relishing in the kiss for as long as he could.

After a moment, Killian tore his lips away with great reluctance, leaning his forehead against hers.

She cupped his jaw in the palm of her hand, her thumb brushing over the apple of his cheek. “I love you, Killian.”

He lifted his eyelids, revealing his crystal blues as he finally graced her with a small smile. “I love you too, Emma… and Ian. You have no idea how much,” he spoke in a gentle whisper.

Emma had to blink back the tears threatening her eyes. He wouldn’t be gone for long, only a few days out of town for a medical conference, but still, it was difficult to say goodbye. “I think I might.”

“You promise you’ll call me if something happens, no matter what?” he asked her, his eyes full of wreckage.

Removing her forehead from his, she gave him a nod. “I promise.”

Killian kissed her one last time, and she savored the feel of his lips against hers. “I’ll miss you both.”

She had been taken off guard when he’d told her he was leaving, especially after Neal was released from jail, but Killian said that he was asked to speak at an OBGYN convention. Emma didn’t want to keep him from his career; she wanted him to keep doing what made him happy. Plus, it was the perfect opportunity to set her plan in motion.

“We’ll miss you too.”

Killian took out Ian’s small hand and pressed a kiss to his fingers. “Bye little Prince; take care of your Mum while I’m gone.” He dropped a kiss to the top of Ian’s cap-covered head, and the newborn looked up at Killian with his big blue eyes, holding a big smile on his face. Killian looked between the two of them, as though he were trying to memorize every detail before he had to part. “Bye, my loves.”

“Bye, Killian. Please drive safe,” her voice was cracked as Killian pulled away, opening the car door.

“I will sweetness.”

She watched as he got into his car and backed out of the driveway, waving her goodbye. She waved back at him and held her baby closer, brushing her lips to Ian’s forehead.

When Killian’s car disappeared from her view, she took Ian inside the house and settled him into his Rock ‘N Play Sleeper on the kitchen table before retrieving her phone from the counter. Her hands were shaking as she dialed, her breathing uneven, but she needed to do this.

The phone rang three times before he answered.

“He just left for three days. Meet me at the park tomorrow night at seven o’clock.”

~~~

Killian could see Storybrooke in his rearview mirror, cringing at the thought of lying to Emma. He didn’t want to, but he knew he had to. He knew that she was keeping something from him. She was afraid of telling him the truth, because whatever it was, he would not be happy about it. She was probably right.

Pulling into a hotel out of town, Killian was constantly keeping an eye on his surroundings.  He didn’t want to risk being caught, so he had driven far enough to not be noticed by anyone who would grow suspicious, but still close enough to get to Emma in a short amount of time if and when he needed to.

He checked into his room and carried his luggage upstairs. His heart was aching from being apart from Emma and Ian, and the knots in his stomach were overwhelmingly tight; he couldn’t even think about eating. The thought of what Emma might be up to, made him physically ill.

He waited in his room, anxious and on high alert. He was constantly pacing the room and checking his phone unable to be still for one bloody second.

~~~

It was half past five o’clock as Emma finished knitting the tiny sweater she’d been working on. Ian was growing like a weed, and was quickly outgrowing his clothes, so she decided to put the knitting lessons that Cordelia had previously given her to good use. Besides, she needed something to distract her from thinking about the nerves in the pit of her stomach. She had done everything she could to keep herself occupied. The main rooms had already been adorned with Christmas decorations, there were three stockings hanging above the fireplace and there was a Christmas tree twinkling with soft blue lights that Killian had cut down himself and brought home for them to decorate together while drinking hot cocoa and cinnamon and munching on some of the cookies she had baked with Mary Margaret and Ruby. She could honestly say that she’d never been a huge fan of the holidays, but ever since she had people in her life, other than Neal, to celebrate with - her friends, her boyfriend, her son - this time of the year was beginning to grow on her. She even bought some gifts for everyone and wrapped them up, placing them underneath the tree.  And now there was nothing left for her to do.

The entire house was absolutely spotless, and she’d made some apple pie for when Killian came home from his convention. So now she was left stewing in her thoughts, her mind frazzled; she had no idea how her plan would unravel.

Emma drew in a shaky breath as she set down the sweater and needle on the coffee table and grabbed her mug of hot cocoa as she stood from the couch, walking over to the large bay windows. Pulling back the curtain, she admired the soft snowflakes falling and covering the ground in a thick blanket of white. Her stomach was coiled in knots as she sipped the hot beverage, her eyes peering over the mug and soaking in the sight of the dark evening sky through the glass.

As she licked her lips to savor the comforting taste, she could see the Christmas lights and her son’s bassinet in the reflection of the window. She was missing Killian like crazy and she knew Ian was too. She loved their little family. Her two boys were honestly the best thing that ever happened to her. This is why she needed to do what was necessary; she needed to keep their family intact.

Emma was about to close the curtain when a dark figure appeared in the reflection of the window. When she recognized who it was, her stomach plummeted and the mug fell from her hand, falling to the floor, her drink spilling over an area of the carpet.

“Hello, Emma.”

~~~

Large snowflakes landed softly on the window as Killian drove through busy traffic, the windshield wipers working frantically to make the road in front of him visible. Killian’s heart was pounding erratically as he gritted his teeth, cursing under his breath. He should’ve left the hotel earlier.

The downtown streets of Storybrooke were always crowded and buzzing with excitement this time of year; everyone was out Christmas shopping and getting ready for the blessed holiday; not that he wasn’t a fan. It will be the wee lad’s first Christmas after all, and Killian will have the honor of spending it with him and his Swan. He was very much looking forward to it.

But, he currently had a very bad feeling in the pit of his stomach and he would not be able to rest until he verified his suspicions. He and Emma had been talking quite frequently ever since he left the day before. She would send him adorable pictures of Ian that would melt his heart and they would send playful texts to one another, but apart from that morning, he hadn’t received any calls or texts, and she hadn’t answered a single one of his phone calls.

So when his phone started ringing, his stomach flipped, and he picked it up, hoping it was her. However, when his eyes flickered from road in front of him to his screen, paralyzing fear swept through him.

He swiped the screen to unlock it and raised the phone to his ear, unable to get in a word when he heard the panicked voice on the other end.

“Killian, where are you? You need to get home now.”

Killian froze, unable to speak.

“You were right about Emma - she’s in danger.”

~~~

Emma swallowed roughly; her throat felt like sandpaper. She couldn’t move; her feet felt like they were glued to the floor as she stared back at her husband. His arms were crossed and he had a menacing smile on his face as the flames from the fireplace were flickering in his cold, expressionless eyes.

“Wh-what are you… what are you doing here?” she stammered out when she could finally gather both the strength and the words to do so.

Neal just studied her, his smile fading as a dark expression took over the rough features of his face. Emma gnawed on her bottom lip and tore her gaze from him for a second, her eyes glancing at the clock on the wall, then Ian’s bassinet, which was luckily across the room from him. She slowly moved over and stood in front of it, her hand gripping onto the edge behind her, seeking some sort of stability.

“What, I don’t get a hello?”

Emma found it difficult to think straight, the fear of him being there was more crippling than she’d ever thought was possible, no matter how many times she had envisioned having to see him again. “Only visitors are welcomed with a ‘hello’. You broke into my home,” she replied, her voice cracked with fear.

Neal laughed shortly. “Ah, you mean your Doctor’s home?” He started pacing to the other side of the room, still maintaining his distance from her as he looked around, observing the photos on Killian’s mantle. He picked up one, studying it intently - it was one of Emma pregnant and sitting in Killian’s lap, both of them gazing at one another with big smiles on their faces as he rested his hand on her belly. “Such a nice place he’s built here. No wonder why you didn’t want to leave.” He suddenly let the photo frame fall from his hands, and Emma gasped as the glass cracked when the frame made contact with the hard floor in front of the fireplace. “Did you really think I was going to fall for your tricks, Emma? Did you really think I was going to meet you at the park so you could make a scene and get me in trouble?” He tore his gaze away from the other pictures and looked at her again, tilting his head to the side. “I’m not that stupid.”

If Emma weren’t scared for her life, she probably would’ve laughed, but instead she was more worried about maintaining some semblance in her features and her breathing. “How did you even get in here?” she demanded, attempting to keep her voice even.

Again, her husband mocked Emma with a laugh that sent an unsettling shiver down her spine. “You don’t look so happy to see me. I take it you didn’t expect me to show up here?”

Emma drew in a long breath, trying to keep her voice from wobbling. “You didn’t answer my question. How did you get in here?” she asked again.

Neal chuckled. “It was easy. You know I’ve always been good at breaking locks.” He grabbed another photo, and this time, it was the one Ruby had taken in the hospital of her, Killian and Ian. He looked at Emma, holding up the picture frame. “Now I believe you and I had a deal.” Neal stepped forward, making her wince. “You and our son come with me and the doctor doesn’t get hurt.”

Emma shook her head. “That wasn’t the deal. You have to tell me how you found me first.”

“Emma, I already told you.”

“You told me it was James that called you up in Tallahassee. Is that true?”

“What, you can’t trust your own husband?” he asked, clearly offended.

She scoffed, her heart pounding sporadically in her chest. “You tell me.”

Neal’s eyes were flashing with impatience, and glazed over with drunkenness. “I can prove it.”

Swallowing thickly, Emma gave a nod, encouraging him to do so. At the same time, she was praying that Neal was bluffing.

Then he took out his phone and tossed the photo aside, letting it land on the carpet. “I still have the voice message he left the first time he tried to get in touch with me.”

“Go ahead, play it then.”

He fiddled with the phone for a moment until Emma heard a man’s voice over the speakerphone.

The message was spoken with a flat even tone, “My name is James Nolan. I found your wife, Emma Cassidy, who now goes by the name Emma Swan. If you’re interested, I’ll accept a cash reward for her whereabouts. Or if you wish, I will bring her to you myself for double the price.”

“There, is that enough proof for you?” Neal asked when the recorded message had ended.

Emma nodded, maintaining a blank expression. “Yeah, it is.”

“Now, enough messing around; get the kid and let’s go,” he commanded firmly, taking another few steps forward, causing Emma to flinch.

She wasn’t going to back down so easily though. Instead, she shook her head, standing her ground. “Not so fast. Why did you kidnap my son?”

“He’s our son!” Neal barked angrily, making every hair on the back of Emma’s neck stand on its end. “He’s not your precious doctor’s! He’s mine,” he growled, “and I wasn’t about to let someone else steal my wife and son away from me!”

The sudden volume and harshness in his voice had startled her, but Emma did her best to remain calm. “So, you hit Killian over the head, and had your goons lock him up and take Ian from the hospital?”

Neal let out an exasperated sigh, clenching his fists. “Of course I did. I have your friend wrapped around my finger. After he told me you were at the restaurant, and you got away from me, I knew you would call the Sheriff and I knew he would be on the lookout for me. I showed up at the hospital, knowing I would get arrested if I tried to take you away. It was the perfect opportunity to fake a kidnapping and make it look like Dr. Jones did it.” Neal laughed wickedly, thoroughly amused. “You wouldn’t believe how gullible the people in this town are. All James had to do was wait until your brunette friend left the room to distract the nurse at her station while Gold slipped in to take Ian, covering him in a pink blanket and cap to pass off as Collette. No one would question the respected shop owner.” Emma could see the anger flashing in his eyes again. “The whole plan was flawless up until that bastard betrayed me and let Killian escape before the Sheriff and Deputy arrived,” Neal spat, gritting his teeth.

Emma had to hold back the satisfied grin threatening her lips. “So, Gold was in on it too?”

“Of course he was. He helped James track me down. Who do you think kept me hidden all this time?”

She nodded, not surprised at all. “So, tell me, Neal… have you ever met James, besides at the hospital when you were being arrested?”

He shook his head. “Nope; didn’t need to. Our business was done over the phone, and he was always more than willing to do my dirty work for a little money.

“Hmm,” Emma hummed with a nod. “And my yellow bug? Why did you buy it from Liam?”

Neal sighed impatiently at that point. “Because I needed to ditch mine - you know me; always finding ways to survive. I robbed a few banks on the way here. How do you think I had the money to pay James?” He exhaled a depleted sigh, his eyes never leaving hers. “Without you, I had nothing Em,” his voice was softer, a little wrecked in fact. She wanted to be sick. “I wanted to come get you myself, baby. You know I don’t like other men touching you. That’s why it hurt so bad to find out that not only you came here to forget about me, but you found someone else,” he said gritting his teeth, his tone growing harsher. “To top it off, you went and pawned off your engagement ring. Do you know how upset that made me?”

She took a few deep breaths and a few cautious steps forward, trying to keep her fingers from shaking. The only thing that was keeping her sane was the sound of Ian’s cries from the bassinet. “I know… but you… you hurt me Neal,” she choked out quietly. “You could’ve hurt our baby.”

“I never meant to. You know I love you both.” He walked up to her, slowly closing the distance as he pulled something out of his pocket. “You know I’ll take care of you and our boy. I always take care of you don’t I?” He was holding her engagement ring, and she cringed looking at it.

Praying for a miracle, she turned her head to look at the wall. Time seemed to be standing still, and she started to get unbearably anxious. She glanced back at Neal, managing a small smile as she held out her hand in front of him. “Of course you do.”

“I want us to start over, Em. Just the three of us, what do you say?”

Emma nodded, forcing her smile to widen. “I want that too. I want the three of us to be a happy family.” She wanted it to be as believable as possible, so she allowed Neal to slip the ring on her finger before she lifted her hand to cup his cheek; he took it in his own, and her whole body shivered. She was hoping it wasn’t noticeable.

“Me too, Em. Now, let’s get our boy and go home?” he offered, moving closer to kiss her lips.

Emma thought she was going to vomit as she allowed him to press his mouth to hers. She could smell the wretched stench of alcohol on his breath, and suddenly the memories of having to put up with his behavior every night - the memories she had been able to suppress for a short period of time - came rushing back to her.

She tried to push them away as she pulled away from him, speaking in a pinched tone. “Let me grab our son’s bag and you can hold him, how does that sound?”

Neal’s eyes lit up and he grinned as she moved away from the bassinet. “I’ve been waiting for this moment for a long time.” He stepped forward, and Emma stood back, watching him as he looked down and reached into the bassinet.  He started shuffling around blankets, calmly at first, and then frantically throwing everything from the crib before pulling out a small device that was playing Ian’s prerecorded cries. That’s when she hit panic button by the door, triggering a silent alarm.

“Who’s gullible now, you asshole?” Emma asked sharply, trying to hide the fear from her voice. She could see the anger spiraling through him as he turned around.

His eyes were dark and his jaw was clenched. “You stupid whore.”

Emma gulped, seeing the murderous look in his eyes.

She instinctively started to run, heading for the front door, but she was still weak and not as quick as she thought she would be.

He took off after her and caught up, grabbing her hair with a hard yank. She whimpered as he pulled her back and shut the door to the hallway, pressing her firmly against it. She tried to look away from his menacing gaze but he grabbed her chin, pressing his thumb rough underneath her lip, forcing her to look at him. His mouth was inches from hers, and she could smell the alcohol on his breath, making her want to vomit as he breathed in her face. “Where do you think you’re going, Emma, huh? Did you really think your plan would work? Did you really think I would let you get away? For the last goddamn time, you’re coming home with me, whether you fucking like it or not! Now tell me where the fuck our son is?!” Neal’s shouting rang in her ear, ice cold fear rippling through her blood in a mad rush; she felt the air escaping her body.

“Answer me!” he snapped, lifting his hand and slapping her in the face. Her head whipped to the side and she cried out, holding her cheek, trying to sooth the sharp sting. “Why can’t you just be an obedient wife and listen to your husband after everything I’ve done for you?! I gave you a home when you were just a poor fucking orphan! I gave you everything and this is how you repay me!“

Before she could even attempt to speak, he wrapped his hands around her neck, tightening his grip. Emma grabbed his hands, trying to pull him away, but he was too strong. The air was growing thin and she couldn’t breathe. “You’re such a whore. I’ll bet it was some other fucking bastard who knocked you up, but you know what?” Neal’s words grew quiet as he stepped closer, her face turning beat red.  “I don’t give a fuck, because you’re both mine!”

Emma shook her head, panic swarming through her and drowning her; the room was spinning, making her dizzy. Neal’s fingers were pressed into her throat, and the terror was building inside of her, she could feel her legs giving out.

He finally released her, not waiting for her to catch her breath before slapping her so hard that she fell to the floor. She lay there choking, holding her neck as though she were still suffocating, and she sucked in as much air back into her lungs as she could. Through her blurred vision, she looked up towards the ceiling seeing Neal standing over her. She had never been more afraid of him than she was in that moment.

Before she could even attempt to move, Neal kicked her in the shin, and she howled out in pain. She wanted to curl up into a ball, but she couldn’t. Then suddenly, he took a fistful of her hair and dragged her to the sofa, throwing her onto it. Emma landed with a thud; her body was numb, and she couldn’t move as Neal got on top of her, pinning her arms down.

She tried to scream, but her voice gave out on her.

“Tell me where our son is!”

Emma was still struggling to breathe and she was weak, but somehow she summoned every ounce of energy within her to speak. “He’s- he’s not yours! You will never go near him!”

She could see the rage inside of him bubble to the surface, and he pulled his fist back, about to punch her in the face when suddenly he was being lifted off of her.

Emma caught a breath, her whole body sighing in relief.

“Get your filthy hands off of her, you fucking bastard!”

She was in a daze as she looked over, seeing Killian punch Neal in the face, complete rage in his eyes. “Killian…”

Emma struggled to sit up, and she became afraid for different reasons, hearing them struggle and throw punches at one another. She had never seen this side of Killian before. He was tossing Neal against the wall as though he were a bag of potatoes.

“Please, stop!” she pleaded, although neither of them were listening. She didn’t want Killian to get hurt.

Neal went down again at the hands of her lover. And for the first time in what seemed like ages, she saw fear in Neal’s eyes as he looked up, Killian towering over him. Everything was hurting as she tried to collect her bearings, but somehow she summoned the strength to remove herself from the couch. She started wobbling over to Killian. Neal struggled to get away, and if it weren’t for her urging hands and pleading words, Killian probably would’ve murdered him. Instead Neal got up and ran for the living room door, but was stopped by James as he stood in the doorway.

Neal panicked, surrounded and trapped as he reached into the waist of his pants and pulled out a gun. They immediately stiffened up and gasped as Neal grabbed Emma’s arm, pulling her to him and holding the barrel to her temple. “Stay back or I swear to god, I’ll shoot her.”

“Neal, please…” James begged him, holding up his hands in surrender. “Just let her go.”

Neal removed the gun from her head and aimed it at James. “Shut up! You betrayed me!”

James narrowed his eyes, confusion falling over his features. “What are you talking about?”

Neal tried to chuckle, but the fear was resonating through him, Emma could easily see it in his eyes. “Don’t play dumb. I played the voicemail you left me when you contacted me down in Tallahassee.” Neal never tore the pistol away from her friend, and the panic she felt grew more intense; it was crippling.

“Neal, it wasn’t him. It wasn’t his voice,” she choked out.

Neal stiffened and then moved the gun, this time aiming it at Killian. Emma’s breath caught in her throat and she almost cried out as she locked eyes with him. She could see the pain in his eyes, and could almost hear his shallow breathing, but she knew it wasn’t because Neal could shoot him any second. She knew it was because he didn’t want anything to happen to her.  

“Then who the hell was it?” Neal demanded.

“I’m not sure, but it wasn’t James,” Emma replied.

James’ eyes widened in realization from where he stood. “I think I know who.”

…

James stood straighter; his jaw firmly set as he crossed his arms and shook his head. “I don’t think so. I already told you I’m not interested in being your spy anymore. I have to prove to my brother that he didn’t make a mistake by helping me out.”

The man frowned, his features full of disappointment. “I haven’t even told you what the job is yet.”

Again he shook his head. The offer was tempting, but he didn’t want to go down that path again. He didn’t know why, but from the moment he met Emma, he was drawn to her. He decided he wanted to be a better man. He hated disappointing his brother, and he thought maybe he could earn Emma’s trust like David and Mary Margaret did. He hated being the bad guy who nobody wanted to be around. So he stood his ground. “Don’t care. Now leave before I start charging you for all the times I let you stay here.”

Anger spiraled through him. He couldn’t believe James was choosing to play ‘good guy’ after everything he’s done for him “Suit yourself,” the man flashed a dark smile as he headed for the door. “But mark my words, Nolan, you’ll regret turning down a job from me.”

…

Just then, the sound of a siren went off, the house flooding with red and blue lights. The air of the room shifted; Neal went stiff and the other three sighed in relief.

“Don’t move!” Neal started to panic, waving the gun around as he pulled on Emma’s arm and quickly forced her to move, dragging her toward the door. He picked up the pace and she almost tripped as they went through the door.

But it was too late.

“Lay down your weapon and remain where you are.” The sound of August’s forceful call from behind her made Neal stop in his tracks, but he didn’t release the tight grip he had on her.

“Sir, I need you to slowly lay down your weapon.”

She could feel Neal’s body tremble with fear as he turned her around so they were both facing the Sheriff.

Neal threatened to shoot her, forcing August to put his gun down before he started shuffling backwards down the hall, heading towards the backdoor. He released Emma and turned around, running. But he was stopped by Graham.

August assisted his deputy as Emma limped back to the living room, assuring Killian and James that Neal was being arrested. She flew into both of their arms, the three of them sighing in relief. Killian observed her face and neck with anger in his eyes; she knew there were bruises but she wasn’t the least bit worried about them right now. She knew, however, that Killian wished he could have killed Neal when he had the chance.

“Please tell me Ian’s okay?” he asked, his voice completely wrecked.

Emma nodded. “He’s safe. Mary Margaret and David are watching him.

Killian sighed in deep relief and drew her in for another hug, being careful not to hold her too tightly.

Just when they thought the night was over with, there was a gun fired.

The three of them panicked and hurried through the door, although it was more difficult for Emma because her leg was still throbbing.

August was on the floor, groaning in pain, his leg bleeding through the hole in his pant leg as Graham tackled Neal to the floor, putting him in handcuffs with the assistance of another officer.  The doctor in Killian took over and he tended to August as James retrieved a first aid kit so Killian could stop the bleeding.

The officers started taking Neal away when she approached and stood in front of him, looking him directly in his empty, dark eyes. Her features were hard - as icy as the evening air outside.  

The officers held him still, and she could tell he had no interest in talking to her, but she mustered up the courage and spoke anyway, pulling off the engagement ring from her finger. “Neal… I want a divorce,” she said flatly. “I don’t love you anymore. In fact, I absolutely detest you, and I never want you around me or my child ever again.”

Emma felt a lot lighter from getting those things off of her chest as she threw the ring at him, letting it hit him in the chest before it fell to the ground. She expected him to be enraged, but instead he just looked back at her coldly, not saying a word as the officers forced him out of the house.

Neal was being dragged away to the police cruiser as Graham approached her on his way to the front door, asking her if she was alright. Of course she wasn’t. She was still in shock, and her entire body was in pain. But at least, she had accomplished what she needed to. At least now Neal will be locked up for good, and she felt much safer having that kind of satisfaction.

“Not really, but I have everything on video.”

He looked at her in surprise.

“The entire house is under surveillance,” she explained to him.

“It’s true.” The sound of Killian’s voice was comforting to her as he came up from behind him. “Video and sound.”

“And I have proof that Gold helped kidnap my baby. I got Neal to confess everything,” she added weakly.

Graham nodded, clearly impressed. “Good work, Emma.”

“And I know who tracked down Neal?” James chipped in.

Emma and Killian raised a brow, eyeing him in surprise.

“Hades Underbrooke. I believe that’s the voice that left Neal that message on his phone.”

“I will check out the evidence, and I’ll need the three of you to come in for questioning.”

Emma nodded softly as Killian put his arm around her, and she used him for balance, her body pressing into his. Killian pressed a kiss through her disheveled hair, and Graham was surprised by the affection he showed her; she could tell he was mentally putting the pieces together, but of course there were more pressing matters. He offered a small smile, informing them that an ambulance was on its way before he headed out the front door.

James went to fetch Emma a blanket, as she sought comfort from Killian’s arms. They sat on the steps in the foyer, waiting for the ambulance to arrive as Killian had a look at her leg; there was a dark bruise, but it wasn’t broken.

Killian looked at her, a mixture of pain and relief lingering in his eyes as he gently cupped her cheeks in his hands.

“I’m proud of you, Emma,” he whispered gently.

Emma gazed at him, perplexed. “You are?” She was expecting a lecture from him for baiting Neal into his home, she was expecting him to be a bit pissed at her even, but she wasn’t expecting that.  

“Aye. Of course I don’t agree with your methods… you had me worried sick, but you confronted Neal after everything… and when you threw that ring at him-”

“Killian, I can explain- he got it back from Gold and-.”

“Emma, it’s okay. You don’t have to explain anything right now. I just… I just wanted to say… when you told him you wanted a divorce, I was grinning proudly.” Killian flashed a small smile as he continued. “That bravery I saw in your eyes is one of the many reasons why I fell in love with you.”

Emma’s breath caught in her throat, her heart skipping a beat at his words as she stared back at him. “I didn’t feel very brave… but I did it for you and Ian,” she managed, a small smile curving her lips. “I did it so we can be a family.”

Killian’s eyes lit up and his smile grew wider. “I know you did, love.” He kissed her lips ever so delicately and she sighed softly against him, letting herself become more relaxed.

James came back and wrapped Emma in a blanket; she laid her head on Killian’s shoulder as he leaned his head on hers, rubbing gentle circles over her back. There was so much to be said, but for now, Emma just closed her eyes, trying to process everything. For the first time all night, the adrenaline had completely subsided, she stopped trembling and everything seemed to be still as she got lost in Killian’s warm embrace.

@resident-of-storybrooke @followbatb @weplaydumbb @strawberrycupcakeprincess @shady-swan-jones @kmomof4 @ultraluckycatnd @phoenixsxul @eala-captian @teamhook @i-love-books2014 @andiirivera @piratesbooty63fan @missclois86 @fallensites @harrietmjones @winterbaby89 @wordsmith-storyweaver @andiirivera @slimacwrites @jennjenn615 @its-about-bloody-time-cs @liloproductions @followbatb @klar425 @hey-it-is-jess @ascolinwishes

#cs ff #cs ff au #cs fanfics #captain swan #abuse #violence #cs parents #tangled up in blue #my fic

[whitneyrmcguireblog]

Failures, Part 1

The walls of the room where study hall was held were decorated with engraved plaques bearing the names of those who achieved honor roll all four years and those who ascended to school prefect (student body president) status since the school’s inception in 1910. I was prepared to end up on both plaques, however, I only became immortalized on one: Senior Prefect. The year I was elected to represent the entire student body, I had experienced the most failures I had ever encountered in my adolescent life. The summer prior to Junior year, I was chastised by my father for “running up” the family cell phone bill. I was one of the few sophomores on campus to receive a cell phone in my school the year prior. The aftermath of September eleventh and the proximity of my boarding school to New York, deemed it necessary for my parents to be able to reach me in case of another catastrophic emergency. I didn’t know that two month of unanswered calls to the Bahamas, where my new boyfriend lived, would incur such a steep charge. “Don’t they have to answer the phone in order to charge you?” I asked my dad earnestly. “Hell no,” he said partially laughing through the new financial anxiety I caused him. I found no humor in the unanswered calls. As someone who has a knack for getting answers to her inquiries the sudden cooling off of the moderately passionate relationship my boyfriend and I had metamorphosed me into a hog sniffing out truffles of truth from him.

Our differences were palpable. He was from the Bahamas, born to a black father and a white mother. He had a thick Caribbean accent and a LOT of energy. In fact, it was this same energy that initially repulsed me once he arrived on campus Sophomore year. Our class size doubled that year, as they did in years past, quickly expanding our class size from 40 to 80. Dustin had soft curly hair that was closely cropped the way all the black boys hair was when they first arrived. He too became one of my braiding clients by the time we graduated. Despite his obnoxious energy, he was incredibly smart. He arrived on campus accompanied by another Bahamian black kid who also was recruited to play for our school’s Varsity Soccer team. I wanted him. He was tall, with defined features, also mixed, but with a more demure, mature, commanding presence. But my friend Jamila, (no not the first one) quickly claimed him as her crush. And even though he quietly flirted with me on occasion, I placed him on the shelf of possibly destructive decisions and left him there in order to preserve my friendship with her.

Dustin, on the other hand was very available. No one wanted him. He was shorter than his comrade. and had no interest in enunciation, or whether people understood what he was saying. My advisor, a dominant black man from D.C. took more of my life under his wing than I was comfortable with, including my dating life, setting the two of us up one night through eye brow raises and suggestions that Dustin walk me back to my dorm after we finished watching a football game at his house. A weekly ritual for all of the black kids on campus. My advisor’s behavior wasn’t questionable to me until I later became aware of his battle with alcoholism and other health issues my senior year of college. Dustin walked me back to my dorm only three times before we went on our first date. Winter formal was quickly approaching and I was all too familiar with the coldness of singledom AND winter on the hilltop. So I looked at him, really looked at him. I studied his features, the way his eye lashes curled long and full haloing his deep brown eyes. He often had a grin on his face, which cause the creases of his eyes to deepen, forecasting wisdom to come. His lips were plump and round, pink with promise and his teeth sparkled white beyond them. His skin was smooth and caramel and the more I studied him, the more I wanted to devour him. He was smitten with me from the very beginning and told me often. We maintained a sweet loving relationship, which involved some moderate dry humping at times, but for the most part was pretty cerebrally focused. We connected on our differences and he made me feel safe when he really tried. The night of Winter formal I was on day three of a stomach bug. The nurses released me from the infirmary so I could wear the salmon colored satin A-lined dress I begged and pleaded my parents to purchase for me a few weeks prior. It was a $180 dress. Despite protests by my step mother and step sister about the exorbitant price of the dress, my father and mother contributed to purchasing it for me.

Winter formal was our version of prom, except it was open to all grade levels, 9 - 12. This is the first time I became aware of my lack of genuine wealth. When conversations about chipping into the rental of a limo surfaced or the cost of dinner at one of the many expensive restaurants in Newport, my heart rate sped up and a cold sensation coated my skin. “Don’t worry, I’ll pay for it,” Dustin said, sensing my insecurity amidst the group discussion. I loved him for knowing me that way.

The night of formal, I tried to enjoy my lobster bisque, but all I could think about is how much I had to shit or vomit. Dustin also sensed my discomfort and hailed us a taxi back to campus. We were at an advantage because none of the adults on campus expected students to return so soon, so we ventured down into the basement of the dorm we both shared (girls on one side, boys on the other) where a palate of blankets, a couple of long stem roses, and a bottle of sparkling apple juice greeted me. I knew then that he was signaling to me that he was ready to have sex. But the uproarious bubbling within my gut cautioned him. “Awww! This is so nice baby, but I feel so sick.” I studied his eyes for disappointment and was met with none. Without question, he walked me to the infirmary and lied to the nurses that he had in fact caught the stomach bug too and needed to be admitted as well. The next morning I woke up to him laying next to me in the other twin bed in the room, awake, at peace, in love.

My confusion peaked when I saw him arrive on campus Junior year. I was both angry and excited to see him. The anger dissipated when I got close enough to hug him, ready to forgive him for not answering any of my calls for the entire two months of summer break. But the hug was not returned and his eyes sparkled no longer. In fact, I had to maneuver my head just to get him to make eye contact. My heart raced, my palms began to sweat and coldness once again coated my epidermis. But this time, he didn’t care. I knew that this was rejection, but had a hard time accepting that it was HIM who was rejecting me.

I broke down, publicly, one day as I was walking back to my dorm room that Fall. The black boys made a habit of hiding member’s of our group’s belongings after lunch, sending the poor unfortunate mark of the day frantically searching for their book bag, or purse causing a malicious comic relief for the culprits. I was usually a neutral party to this behavior, but became the mark that day. “WHERE IS MY STUFF?!” I screamed at them in the main common room. They snickered and feigned ignorance, some even ignoring me. I felt my breath quicken and watched their eyes dart back and forth to each other, knowingly, stifling their laughter. I repeated myself multiple times, each time escalating a decibel, eventually graduating into an all out frenzy. “WHERE IS MY STUFF?!” I felt the tears begin to accumulate at the base of my throat. My voice cracked and I started to smack each of them on the back of their heads. “Yo chill chill,” my friend Will, a black kid from Flatbush and someone I really deeply loved, repeated in a way that didn’t help. It was Will this time, who sensed that the joke was going too far and that I was becoming enraged beyond the location of my belongings. He retrieved my brightly colored tote bag from behind the pool table and I snatched it indignantly. I attempted to swallow the tears, a skill I thought I had mastered in the three years of navigating boarding school thus far, but my swallows were to no avail. The tears erupted uncontrollably from deep within my gut and I ran back to my dorm room through the relics of the school’s white male-only past, down the dark corridors and eventually into the sunshine of the courtyard joining the dining hall and common room with the driveway to my dorm. I didn’t make it into the dorm, collapsing in the driveway, emitting loud wails akin to a woman in labor. Lamaya, a Dominician senior and day student from Providence, recognized this type of breakdown and rushed to me, picking me up off of the asphalt and gave me a pep talk. I don’t remember the details of her diatribe, but I do remember was effective enough to encase my heart in the acceptance that Dustin just didn’t want to be with me anymore.

News of my breakdown spread within minutes to my friends and they came to my aide with solutions. Madeline was among the flock of both white and black girls ready to disarm my ex of any type of leverage he had in our social circle, culminating in a very satisfying act of smashing a glass pendant he purchased for me the previous valentines day. Though, I kept the poem he wrote about me and performed in my honor in front of the entire school the day he gave me the necklace. As an adult, I still read this poem, because again, he understood me.

I later learned that Dustin realized he was actually in love with his best friend back home in the Bahamas over the course of our nine month relationship and solidified his love for her the summer of unanswered calls and unrequited love. I couldn’t fault him for falling in love with someone I even grew fond of through his colorful stories of life back home. I did, however, harp on the fact that I was a black girl who was left by a black man for a white girl, a scenario I always heard my mother condemn — a scenario I would see repeated by the men in my family throughout my life. Though his coldness never subsided, resulting in him blocking me from even connecting with him on social media as adults, I learned that he eventually married this girl.

After the breakup, I threw myself into auditions for the Spring Play. This was my lane. With absolutely no theater or acting experience, I unseated the most beautiful senior from her title as the lead role in every Spring Play since I stepped foot on campus. The first year, I was cast as the pragmatic, but fed up wife in Oscar Wilde’s an Ideal Husband. The following year, the bustling, naive princess in Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night. The breakup added more weight to my need to land the lead role that year because I wanted him to be forced to look at me, under lights, talented, poised, beautiful —  a reminder of his mistake. The leading role audition monologue was meant to be delivered by a character who was grappling with slowly losing her sanity amidst the backdrop of chaos ensuing in her own home. I evoked the only example of crazy I was aware of: crackheads. When it was time for me to take the stage, I got into character by frantically scratching my neck, and arms and elbows, moving about the stage in a torrid pace, randomly stepping upstage and downstage, sporadically shouting the lines I memorized. By the end of my audition, my theater teacher, also the director of the spring play, seemed simultaneously confused and let down. A tall brunette with more academic features followed me, delivering the same lines with a slow, distant, much quieter, ease. This is how WASPS do crazy. My theater teacher seemed relieved after Britton’s audition and I retreated back to my dorm room, chanting the same prayers my mother chanted when she was anxious, under my breath.

Squeals of excitement erupted down the hall from my room and I could hear the joyful chatter of my dorm mates across the hall. I opened my door to see what they were so excited about and upon my transition beyond the threshold of my neighbor’s door, I was stopped with the ere of unwelcoming. I saw Britton on the bed, surrounded by four other girls I was not very close with, all looking at me with sympathy. I knew then, but made her say it. “You got the part?” “Yup!” she said, re-igniting her excitement, this time, not caring that it was a punch to my gut.

I tried to swallow tears once again, but they erupted bringing forth a newly familiar pang of rejection and a simultaneous icing of my veins. I was cast in the ensemble of the play, with a role that required only two lines. I also had to wear an ill-fitting frumpy nun costume for my role. Obviously this was the opposite of the vision I had for my revenge on Dustin. But sweet satisfaction showed up in a different way by the end of junior year.

At the urging of my dorm mates, dorm parents, friends, and non-friends, I decided to enter the race for School President. Only three black guys held this position since the school integrated in the 60s and only one other black young woman. I would be the second black female student body president. My campaign slogan was inspired by R. Kelly’s (cringe…i know) Remix to Ignition: “It’s the remix to ignition, hot and fresh out the kitchen.” I’m pretty sure that’s all I wrote on my posters, so you can imagine my utter surprise when my name was called during the famous all-school assembly at the end of the year.

And as if torn from a page of my personal vendetta book, Dustin bolted towards me once the assembly concluded and asked me to be his girlfriend again. I wasn’t sure if he was serious, but I had already moved on. The glory was mine and I was prepared to bask in it for the entire year, single.

[sclfmastery]

What is your opinion on the Master vs children, do you think he would hurt them?

//You know it’s funny, I was just thinking about this last night.  HELLO fellow Simm Master, btw ^_^

This is difficult to accept, I know, in loving this character so much, but it’s important to me to portray him with honesty. So here is what I genuinely believe: the Master’s alignment is Neutral Evil.  This means he will ruthlessly pursue a goal without letting collateral to innocent bystanders give him moral qualms or hesitations.  On the other hand, he does not (often) commit evil for its own sake or amusement.  It’s always with a driving singular goal in mind.  Indicative victims of this moral alignment include Bill Potts, against whom he had no particular grudge, whom he even seemed to like, but who was a necessary tool in his present scheme: to emotionally devastate the Doctor, to rescue Missy from the Doctor’s influence, and to sabotage and commandeer the Mondasian Cybermen while stranded on their spaceship.  So how does this apply to children?  

In faceless demographics? In groups, sandwiched in with adults, to reach a goal?  Yes, I believe the Master is capable of harming children.  We KNOW he is, because of the Toclafane incident, and the command to slaughter 1/10 of the earth’s human population.  That included kids.  

But take a child, and place him or her in front of the Master, and say, “here, you can shoot this kid in the head if you like, for the fun of it”? No.  I don’t believe he’d enjoy that. If baited to do so, and told, “You’re too cowardly to do it”? Maybe.  If strongarmed to do it? Almost definitely not, for the sake of being contrary. All depends on his compulsive need for control and his refusal to do what is commanded of him.  

The Master’s sadism is almost entirely fixated on the Doctor, on teaching him vindictive lessons or getting vengeance against him, ultimately for the sake of gaining the Doctor’s attention.  If a child has nothing to do with the Doctor, and if harming a child does not gain access to the Doctor in any way, that child is likely quite safe with the Master.  He just doesn’t CARE.  Beyond what is strictly demonstrated in canon, I also headcanon that the Master is squeamish with hurting kids in specific ways: that is, emotional and psychological indoctrination.  This is because it too closely reflects the psychological damage he incurred as a Time Tot of Gallifrey’s Great House Oakdown.  It also reflects his extreme belligerence in facing any higher authority as an adult.  He was made to feel helpless and insignificant by his elders from the age of eight. Never ever again.  And I don’t think he’d be keen on inflicting that on kids.  We also know from Missy that the Master once had a daughter, of whom she speaks with fondness and sadness.  I take this to mean that something happened to separate the two, and that a deeply interred part of the Master longs to be a parent again, particularly of a girl.  I also think that, ironically enough, he’d be GOOD with kids, at least the Simm Master, because he’s ….frankly a kid himself, LOL.  He displays a certain petulant gullibility about certain things (from tv shows to legends of four part guns) and I believe he would enjoy the company particularly of bright children with pluck and natural inquisitiveness.  Now, does that mean he’d be a good parent?  Lol, in general he’d enjoy a kid’s company but probably forget them at a park bench, but if it’s HIS kid, HIS blood, HIS legacy, then that possessive p ride kicks in and it’s a different story.  In some verses I explore him being invested in learning how to parent well.  And admittedly, it’s precious.  Bad people can be loving parents.  It’s a strange fact of real, multifaceted individuals.  

#meta #listenlistenlistenjustlisten #headcanons #The Master #Simm Master #Simm!Master

[mountainpostgazette]

Spirituality and Long-term Recovery

Originally posted on Futures Recovery Healthcare

Spirituality. It seems to be a word that is used more often today than 10, 15, or 20 years ago. This term, that invokes different thoughts and feelings for everyone, has become quite the buzzword today. But what exactly is spirituality? How is it different—or the same as—from religion? And more importantly how is spirituality related to long-lasting recovery, joy, and peace of mind?

Spirituality, as defined by the Merriam Webster dictionary, is ‘something in ecclesiastical law belongs to the church or cleric; the quality or state of being spiritual.’ And spiritual is defined as ‘relating to, consisting of, or affecting the spirit.’ The spirit is also known as one’s soul.

Understanding the Differences between Religion and Spirituality

So what is the difference between religion and spirituality? While there are many religious people who are spiritual and vice versa, these two sometimes incorrectly interchanged words are not the same. Someone can be religious and not spiritual and a person can be deeply spiritual and not religious.

The more common definition of religion is a set or institutionalized system of texts, practices, and beliefs related to God or the supernatural. When people think of religions generally churches, faiths such as Christianity, Judaism, Buddhism, Isalm, etc. come to mind.

Spirituality is about an individual’s relationship with basic human transcendent questions. Transcendent is something that is beyond the material world, for many this is God. Spirituality can be highly personal and not conforming to one set of religions or religious beliefs.

For many in recovery, both early recovery and those with years of sobriety, spirituality is a fundamental part and building block of not only staying sober but of having a life with peace of mind, happiness, and joy.

RECOVERY AND SPIRITUALITY: UNDERSTANDING THE CONNECTION

The spiritual experience or spiritual awakening is not a new concept in recovery. In fact, when Alcoholics Anonymous began in the 1930s, the spiritual principle was a fundamental part of this movement now found in more than 180 nations with an estimated membership upwards of 2 million.

This vital spiritual awakening, is what one of the founding members, Bill W., credited with saving his life and halting his alcoholism. As Bill sat at his kitchen table talking to a friend in recovery, he put aside his former beliefs about God (which included doubt and scorn) and became willing to believe simply in the concept of a power greater than himself or as it’s now more commonly called a Higher Power.

For Bill and so many more, this belief in something greater than themselves opened the door for a spiritual experience and began the road of long-lasting, joyful recovery. This initial concept of a Higher Power and spiritual experience has become a vital part of sobriety and recovery for many seeking a life free from the bonds of alcohol or another substance.

There are many who believe that AA is a God-based program and while for some in AA this is what they lean on, there are many too who have formed their own concept of a Higher Power and are just as successful in recovery and life.

So what is it about this spirituality and recovery that seem to work so well for so many? For many who have alcohol use disorders (AUD) or substance use disorders (SUD), they have been running their lives (and often the lives of their loved ones) solely on their own will, agendas, and often with self-centered motives.

This type of ego-driven life can actually wreak havoc on one’s mental, spiritual, and ultimately physical health. Relying on one’s own will, resources, and plans can be exhausting, stressful, and ultimately unhealthy for the body, mind, and soul. Living life in this way means an individual is always trying to run the show, often resists changes or when things aren’t going as he or she wants, and has a hard time accepting when others don’t do or behave in expected or desired ways.

All of these experiences can often cause anxiety, irritability, restlessness, anger, and depression. All states of mind and being that propel many to not only first pick up a drink or drug but also to continue to rely on substances to ease these uncomfortable feelings and states of mind.

AUD, SUD, and Letting Go

In order for many—most everyone—to begin the road to recovery and sobriety, acceptance of being powerless when it comes to their alcohol or substance addiction is the first step. This first step is the most crucial to recovery according to many experts.

An honest look back on life when using and abusing alcohol and other substances usually is quick to reveal that the power to stop, cut down, and have good consequences happen is out of one’s hands.

One way to check this is to make a list of all the ‘mishaps’ and negative experiences incurred since you began drinking heavily or regularly or using a substance. For some, this list will include broken relationships, legal issues, and health troubles. There are those too who function at very high levels even in the midst of an AUD or SUD. Maintaining high profile occupations, keeping families intact, nice cars in the garage, boast-worthy vacations and accomplishments may all be on the list, however, it’s vital to look at the feelings you have been feeling during these times. For many high functioning individuals, the outside life doesn’t reflect the inside feelings.

Feelings of hopelessness, loneliness (even in the midst of friends), and despair are common for anyone struggling with addiction issues. This, for many, is where spirituality has radically changed their journey. However, for many, this isn’t an easy first step.

Admitting powerlessness over these feelings and alcohol or substances isn’t an easy feat. Often being powerless is misconstrued for being weak. When it comes to recovery, this simply isn’t the case and this is where spirituality comes into play.

When an individual realizes they are truly powerless in these areas they are able to look at relying on a power greater than themselves to give them the power needed to begin to recover from an AUD or  SUD. Letting go of the reliance solely on oneself is the first step. Who or what an individual wants to believe in is personal and they are the only ones who need to know about this and define it for themselves.

Today, many do rely on God, however many others have formed their own concept of a Higher Power and this has been enough to get them started in recovery and sustain them for many years in long-lasting recovery, happiness, and peace of mind. All it takes is the willingness to believe in something greater than one’s self. The rest will fall into place with the right addiction treatment program, honesty, and the courage to begin recovery.

There are aspects of both religions, spirituality, and long-lasting recovery that are the same. Many of these are concepts and practices that can immediately improve one’s life and well being. If you think you may have an AUD or SUD, are living with feelings of loneliness, fear, and helplessness, or just want to improve your life and happiness, consider incorporating some of these spiritual practices into your life today.

Five Spiritual Practices for Long-lasting Recovery, Peace of Mind, and Happiness

Gratitude Being grateful and giving thanks are fundamental parts of all religious and spiritual practices. Having the humility and graciousness to not only see the blessings on one’s life but to also thank the Universe, God, or a Higher Power for these not only promotes happiness, but it also opens the door to receive more to be grateful for on a daily basis. When you are truly able to see the good in your life, your life will begin to look better.

Meditation or Prayer Most every recovery support group, like AA, Refuge Recovery, Celebrate Recovery, and more, promote the use of either meditation, prayer, or both. The regular practice of one or both of these helps to settle and calm the mind, facilitates a greater sense of peace and serenity, and enables one to look for guidance outside of the self and ego. All of these lead to happier, healthier lives.

Connection to a Higher Power Within Both religions and spiritual leaders tell us that the Universe, the Divine Creator, God, or whatever power one believes in is something that is a part of us. Religions such as Christianity often refer to the Holy Spirit being part of us here in the world and spiritual leaders tell us that the Universal Source or Life Source is also within us. Taking time to connect with our ‘higher self’ is vital to overcoming ego-driven agendas which often lead to pain and fear.

Mindfulness Living in the present moment is being mindful or living in mindfulness. From the simple awareness of what your hands and feet are touching and the sounds you hear to becoming aware of what thoughts are running through your mind, the art of mindfulness can quickly diminish anxiety, depression, and fear. There is a quote which states, “If you are depressed you are living in the past, if you are anxious you are living in the future, if you are at peace you are living in the present.’ The ability to stay connected in the present moment reaps tremendous rewards of peace of mind, happiness, and gratitude. This is also reflected in the well-known  AA saying, “One day at a time.”

Giving Back When it comes to recovery as well as any other gifts of life such as wealth, it is said you have to give it away to keep it. Giving back is a key component of both long-term sobriety and living a fulfilling, happy life. When you are able to give of yourself, your talents, and your time to others, it will satisfy you in a way nothing else does. And with this sharing of love and kindness you, in turn, will also be the receiver of more of those same things.

Whether you believe in God, Buddha, the Divine Creator, or a Higher Power of your own these five basic practices can help you in the early stages of recovery and sustain long-lasting recovery and a happy life. And while spirituality can be a powerful part of recovery, taking the first step and asking for help is all that is needed to begin the journey. If you or someone you love is living with an AUD or SUD Futures Recovery Healthcare offers help and hope. Contact us confidentially online or by phone at 561-475-1804. Recovery, serenity, and happiness await you.

  About Futures Recovery Healthcare

Futures Recovery Healthcare is a specialized addiction and co-occurring mental health disorder treatment provider with residential and outpatient programs in Palm Beach County, Florida.

Contact Futures Recovery Healthcare

701 Old Dixie Hwy Tequesta FL 33469 United States

[phone]

Website: https://futuresrecoveryhealthcare.com/

The post Spirituality and Long-term Recovery appeared first on Mountain Post.

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[newsperception]

Spirituality and Long-term Recovery

Originally posted on Futures Recovery Healthcare

Spirituality. It seems to be a word that is used more often today than 10, 15, or 20 years ago. This term, that invokes different thoughts and feelings for everyone, has become quite the buzzword today. But what exactly is spirituality? How is it different—or the same as—from religion? And more importantly how is spirituality related to long-lasting recovery, joy, and peace of mind?

Spirituality, as defined by the Merriam Webster dictionary, is ‘something in ecclesiastical law belongs to the church or cleric; the quality or state of being spiritual.’ And spiritual is defined as ‘relating to, consisting of, or affecting the spirit.’ The spirit is also known as one’s soul.

Understanding the Differences between Religion and Spirituality

So what is the difference between religion and spirituality? While there are many religious people who are spiritual and vice versa, these two sometimes incorrectly interchanged words are not the same. Someone can be religious and not spiritual and a person can be deeply spiritual and not religious.

The more common definition of religion is a set or institutionalized system of texts, practices, and beliefs related to God or the supernatural. When people think of religions generally churches, faiths such as Christianity, Judaism, Buddhism, Isalm, etc. come to mind.

Spirituality is about an individual’s relationship with basic human transcendent questions. Transcendent is something that is beyond the material world, for many this is God. Spirituality can be highly personal and not conforming to one set of religions or religious beliefs.

For many in recovery, both early recovery and those with years of sobriety, spirituality is a fundamental part and building block of not only staying sober but of having a life with peace of mind, happiness, and joy.

RECOVERY AND SPIRITUALITY: UNDERSTANDING THE CONNECTION

The spiritual experience or spiritual awakening is not a new concept in recovery. In fact, when Alcoholics Anonymous began in the 1930s, the spiritual principle was a fundamental part of this movement now found in more than 180 nations with an estimated membership upwards of 2 million.

This vital spiritual awakening, is what one of the founding members, Bill W., credited with saving his life and halting his alcoholism. As Bill sat at his kitchen table talking to a friend in recovery, he put aside his former beliefs about God (which included doubt and scorn) and became willing to believe simply in the concept of a power greater than himself or as it’s now more commonly called a Higher Power.

For Bill and so many more, this belief in something greater than themselves opened the door for a spiritual experience and began the road of long-lasting, joyful recovery. This initial concept of a Higher Power and spiritual experience has become a vital part of sobriety and recovery for many seeking a life free from the bonds of alcohol or another substance.

There are many who believe that AA is a God-based program and while for some in AA this is what they lean on, there are many too who have formed their own concept of a Higher Power and are just as successful in recovery and life.

So what is it about this spirituality and recovery that seem to work so well for so many? For many who have alcohol use disorders (AUD) or substance use disorders (SUD), they have been running their lives (and often the lives of their loved ones) solely on their own will, agendas, and often with self-centered motives.

This type of ego-driven life can actually wreak havoc on one’s mental, spiritual, and ultimately physical health. Relying on one’s own will, resources, and plans can be exhausting, stressful, and ultimately unhealthy for the body, mind, and soul. Living life in this way means an individual is always trying to run the show, often resists changes or when things aren’t going as he or she wants, and has a hard time accepting when others don’t do or behave in expected or desired ways.

All of these experiences can often cause anxiety, irritability, restlessness, anger, and depression. All states of mind and being that propel many to not only first pick up a drink or drug but also to continue to rely on substances to ease these uncomfortable feelings and states of mind.

AUD, SUD, and Letting Go

In order for many—most everyone—to begin the road to recovery and sobriety, acceptance of being powerless when it comes to their alcohol or substance addiction is the first step. This first step is the most crucial to recovery according to many experts.

An honest look back on life when using and abusing alcohol and other substances usually is quick to reveal that the power to stop, cut down, and have good consequences happen is out of one’s hands.

One way to check this is to make a list of all the ‘mishaps’ and negative experiences incurred since you began drinking heavily or regularly or using a substance. For some, this list will include broken relationships, legal issues, and health troubles. There are those too who function at very high levels even in the midst of an AUD or SUD. Maintaining high profile occupations, keeping families intact, nice cars in the garage, boast-worthy vacations and accomplishments may all be on the list, however, it’s vital to look at the feelings you have been feeling during these times. For many high functioning individuals, the outside life doesn’t reflect the inside feelings.

Feelings of hopelessness, loneliness (even in the midst of friends), and despair are common for anyone struggling with addiction issues. This, for many, is where spirituality has radically changed their journey. However, for many, this isn’t an easy first step.

Admitting powerlessness over these feelings and alcohol or substances isn’t an easy feat. Often being powerless is misconstrued for being weak. When it comes to recovery, this simply isn’t the case and this is where spirituality comes into play.

When an individual realizes they are truly powerless in these areas they are able to look at relying on a power greater than themselves to give them the power needed to begin to recover from an AUD or  SUD. Letting go of the reliance solely on oneself is the first step. Who or what an individual wants to believe in is personal and they are the only ones who need to know about this and define it for themselves.

Today, many do rely on God, however many others have formed their own concept of a Higher Power and this has been enough to get them started in recovery and sustain them for many years in long-lasting recovery, happiness, and peace of mind. All it takes is the willingness to believe in something greater than one’s self. The rest will fall into place with the right addiction treatment program, honesty, and the courage to begin recovery.

There are aspects of both religions, spirituality, and long-lasting recovery that are the same. Many of these are concepts and practices that can immediately improve one’s life and well being. If you think you may have an AUD or SUD, are living with feelings of loneliness, fear, and helplessness, or just want to improve your life and happiness, consider incorporating some of these spiritual practices into your life today.

Five Spiritual Practices for Long-lasting Recovery, Peace of Mind, and Happiness

Gratitude Being grateful and giving thanks are fundamental parts of all religious and spiritual practices. Having the humility and graciousness to not only see the blessings on one’s life but to also thank the Universe, God, or a Higher Power for these not only promotes happiness, but it also opens the door to receive more to be grateful for on a daily basis. When you are truly able to see the good in your life, your life will begin to look better.

Meditation or Prayer Most every recovery support group, like AA, Refuge Recovery, Celebrate Recovery, and more, promote the use of either meditation, prayer, or both. The regular practice of one or both of these helps to settle and calm the mind, facilitates a greater sense of peace and serenity, and enables one to look for guidance outside of the self and ego. All of these lead to happier, healthier lives.

Connection to a Higher Power Within Both religions and spiritual leaders tell us that the Universe, the Divine Creator, God, or whatever power one believes in is something that is a part of us. Religions such as Christianity often refer to the Holy Spirit being part of us here in the world and spiritual leaders tell us that the Universal Source or Life Source is also within us. Taking time to connect with our ‘higher self’ is vital to overcoming ego-driven agendas which often lead to pain and fear.

Mindfulness Living in the present moment is being mindful or living in mindfulness. From the simple awareness of what your hands and feet are touching and the sounds you hear to becoming aware of what thoughts are running through your mind, the art of mindfulness can quickly diminish anxiety, depression, and fear. There is a quote which states, “If you are depressed you are living in the past, if you are anxious you are living in the future, if you are at peace you are living in the present.’ The ability to stay connected in the present moment reaps tremendous rewards of peace of mind, happiness, and gratitude. This is also reflected in the well-known  AA saying, “One day at a time.”

Giving Back When it comes to recovery as well as any other gifts of life such as wealth, it is said you have to give it away to keep it. Giving back is a key component of both long-term sobriety and living a fulfilling, happy life. When you are able to give of yourself, your talents, and your time to others, it will satisfy you in a way nothing else does. And with this sharing of love and kindness you, in turn, will also be the receiver of more of those same things.

Whether you believe in God, Buddha, the Divine Creator, or a Higher Power of your own these five basic practices can help you in the early stages of recovery and sustain long-lasting recovery and a happy life. And while spirituality can be a powerful part of recovery, taking the first step and asking for help is all that is needed to begin the journey. If you or someone you love is living with an AUD or SUD Futures Recovery Healthcare offers help and hope. Contact us confidentially online or by phone at 561-475-1804. Recovery, serenity, and happiness await you.

  About Futures Recovery Healthcare

Futures Recovery Healthcare is a specialized addiction and co-occurring mental health disorder treatment provider with residential and outpatient programs in Palm Beach County, Florida.

Contact Futures Recovery Healthcare

701 Old Dixie Hwy Tequesta FL 33469 United States

[phone]

Website: https://futuresrecoveryhealthcare.com/

The post Spirituality and Long-term Recovery appeared first on NewsPerception.

from WordPress https://ift.tt/32Oe5ar via News Perception

#News

[allthetimenews]

Spirituality and Long-term Recovery

Originally posted on Futures Recovery Healthcare

Spirituality. It seems to be a word that is used more often today than 10, 15, or 20 years ago. This term, that invokes different thoughts and feelings for everyone, has become quite the buzzword today. But what exactly is spirituality? How is it different—or the same as—from religion? And more importantly how is spirituality related to long-lasting recovery, joy, and peace of mind?

Spirituality, as defined by the Merriam Webster dictionary, is ‘something in ecclesiastical law belongs to the church or cleric; the quality or state of being spiritual.’ And spiritual is defined as ‘relating to, consisting of, or affecting the spirit.’ The spirit is also known as one’s soul.

Understanding the Differences between Religion and Spirituality

So what is the difference between religion and spirituality? While there are many religious people who are spiritual and vice versa, these two sometimes incorrectly interchanged words are not the same. Someone can be religious and not spiritual and a person can be deeply spiritual and not religious.

The more common definition of religion is a set or institutionalized system of texts, practices, and beliefs related to God or the supernatural. When people think of religions generally churches, faiths such as Christianity, Judaism, Buddhism, Isalm, etc. come to mind.

Spirituality is about an individual’s relationship with basic human transcendent questions. Transcendent is something that is beyond the material world, for many this is God. Spirituality can be highly personal and not conforming to one set of religions or religious beliefs.

For many in recovery, both early recovery and those with years of sobriety, spirituality is a fundamental part and building block of not only staying sober but of having a life with peace of mind, happiness, and joy.

RECOVERY AND SPIRITUALITY: UNDERSTANDING THE CONNECTION

The spiritual experience or spiritual awakening is not a new concept in recovery. In fact, when Alcoholics Anonymous began in the 1930s, the spiritual principle was a fundamental part of this movement now found in more than 180 nations with an estimated membership upwards of 2 million.

This vital spiritual awakening, is what one of the founding members, Bill W., credited with saving his life and halting his alcoholism. As Bill sat at his kitchen table talking to a friend in recovery, he put aside his former beliefs about God (which included doubt and scorn) and became willing to believe simply in the concept of a power greater than himself or as it’s now more commonly called a Higher Power.

For Bill and so many more, this belief in something greater than themselves opened the door for a spiritual experience and began the road of long-lasting, joyful recovery. This initial concept of a Higher Power and spiritual experience has become a vital part of sobriety and recovery for many seeking a life free from the bonds of alcohol or another substance.

There are many who believe that AA is a God-based program and while for some in AA this is what they lean on, there are many too who have formed their own concept of a Higher Power and are just as successful in recovery and life.

So what is it about this spirituality and recovery that seem to work so well for so many? For many who have alcohol use disorders (AUD) or substance use disorders (SUD), they have been running their lives (and often the lives of their loved ones) solely on their own will, agendas, and often with self-centered motives.

This type of ego-driven life can actually wreak havoc on one’s mental, spiritual, and ultimately physical health. Relying on one’s own will, resources, and plans can be exhausting, stressful, and ultimately unhealthy for the body, mind, and soul. Living life in this way means an individual is always trying to run the show, often resists changes or when things aren’t going as he or she wants, and has a hard time accepting when others don’t do or behave in expected or desired ways.

All of these experiences can often cause anxiety, irritability, restlessness, anger, and depression. All states of mind and being that propel many to not only first pick up a drink or drug but also to continue to rely on substances to ease these uncomfortable feelings and states of mind.

AUD, SUD, and Letting Go

In order for many—most everyone—to begin the road to recovery and sobriety, acceptance of being powerless when it comes to their alcohol or substance addiction is the first step. This first step is the most crucial to recovery according to many experts.

An honest look back on life when using and abusing alcohol and other substances usually is quick to reveal that the power to stop, cut down, and have good consequences happen is out of one’s hands.

One way to check this is to make a list of all the ‘mishaps’ and negative experiences incurred since you began drinking heavily or regularly or using a substance. For some, this list will include broken relationships, legal issues, and health troubles. There are those too who function at very high levels even in the midst of an AUD or SUD. Maintaining high profile occupations, keeping families intact, nice cars in the garage, boast-worthy vacations and accomplishments may all be on the list, however, it’s vital to look at the feelings you have been feeling during these times. For many high functioning individuals, the outside life doesn’t reflect the inside feelings.

Feelings of hopelessness, loneliness (even in the midst of friends), and despair are common for anyone struggling with addiction issues. This, for many, is where spirituality has radically changed their journey. However, for many, this isn’t an easy first step.

Admitting powerlessness over these feelings and alcohol or substances isn’t an easy feat. Often being powerless is misconstrued for being weak. When it comes to recovery, this simply isn’t the case and this is where spirituality comes into play.

When an individual realizes they are truly powerless in these areas they are able to look at relying on a power greater than themselves to give them the power needed to begin to recover from an AUD or  SUD. Letting go of the reliance solely on oneself is the first step. Who or what an individual wants to believe in is personal and they are the only ones who need to know about this and define it for themselves.

Today, many do rely on God, however many others have formed their own concept of a Higher Power and this has been enough to get them started in recovery and sustain them for many years in long-lasting recovery, happiness, and peace of mind. All it takes is the willingness to believe in something greater than one’s self. The rest will fall into place with the right addiction treatment program, honesty, and the courage to begin recovery.

There are aspects of both religions, spirituality, and long-lasting recovery that are the same. Many of these are concepts and practices that can immediately improve one’s life and well being. If you think you may have an AUD or SUD, are living with feelings of loneliness, fear, and helplessness, or just want to improve your life and happiness, consider incorporating some of these spiritual practices into your life today.

Five Spiritual Practices for Long-lasting Recovery, Peace of Mind, and Happiness

Gratitude Being grateful and giving thanks are fundamental parts of all religious and spiritual practices. Having the humility and graciousness to not only see the blessings on one’s life but to also thank the Universe, God, or a Higher Power for these not only promotes happiness, but it also opens the door to receive more to be grateful for on a daily basis. When you are truly able to see the good in your life, your life will begin to look better.

Meditation or Prayer Most every recovery support group, like AA, Refuge Recovery, Celebrate Recovery, and more, promote the use of either meditation, prayer, or both. The regular practice of one or both of these helps to settle and calm the mind, facilitates a greater sense of peace and serenity, and enables one to look for guidance outside of the self and ego. All of these lead to happier, healthier lives.

Connection to a Higher Power Within Both religions and spiritual leaders tell us that the Universe, the Divine Creator, God, or whatever power one believes in is something that is a part of us. Religions such as Christianity often refer to the Holy Spirit being part of us here in the world and spiritual leaders tell us that the Universal Source or Life Source is also within us. Taking time to connect with our ‘higher self’ is vital to overcoming ego-driven agendas which often lead to pain and fear.

Mindfulness Living in the present moment is being mindful or living in mindfulness. From the simple awareness of what your hands and feet are touching and the sounds you hear to becoming aware of what thoughts are running through your mind, the art of mindfulness can quickly diminish anxiety, depression, and fear. There is a quote which states, “If you are depressed you are living in the past, if you are anxious you are living in the future, if you are at peace you are living in the present.’ The ability to stay connected in the present moment reaps tremendous rewards of peace of mind, happiness, and gratitude. This is also reflected in the well-known  AA saying, “One day at a time.”

Giving Back When it comes to recovery as well as any other gifts of life such as wealth, it is said you have to give it away to keep it. Giving back is a key component of both long-term sobriety and living a fulfilling, happy life. When you are able to give of yourself, your talents, and your time to others, it will satisfy you in a way nothing else does. And with this sharing of love and kindness you, in turn, will also be the receiver of more of those same things.

Whether you believe in God, Buddha, the Divine Creator, or a Higher Power of your own these five basic practices can help you in the early stages of recovery and sustain long-lasting recovery and a happy life. And while spirituality can be a powerful part of recovery, taking the first step and asking for help is all that is needed to begin the journey. If you or someone you love is living with an AUD or SUD Futures Recovery Healthcare offers help and hope. Contact us confidentially online or by phone at 561-475-1804. Recovery, serenity, and happiness await you.

  About Futures Recovery Healthcare

Futures Recovery Healthcare is a specialized addiction and co-occurring mental health disorder treatment provider with residential and outpatient programs in Palm Beach County, Florida.

Contact Futures Recovery Healthcare

701 Old Dixie Hwy Tequesta FL 33469 United States

[phone]

Website: https://futuresrecoveryhealthcare.com/

The post Spirituality and Long-term Recovery appeared first on AllTheTimeNews.

from WordPress https://ift.tt/2Qujxtc via All The Time News

#news

[dailyposttribune]

Spirituality and Long-term Recovery

Originally posted on Futures Recovery Healthcare

Spirituality. It seems to be a word that is used more often today than 10, 15, or 20 years ago. This term, that invokes different thoughts and feelings for everyone, has become quite the buzzword today. But what exactly is spirituality? How is it different—or the same as—from religion? And more importantly how is spirituality related to long-lasting recovery, joy, and peace of mind?

Spirituality, as defined by the Merriam Webster dictionary, is ‘something in ecclesiastical law belongs to the church or cleric; the quality or state of being spiritual.’ And spiritual is defined as ‘relating to, consisting of, or affecting the spirit.’ The spirit is also known as one’s soul.

Understanding the Differences between Religion and Spirituality

So what is the difference between religion and spirituality? While there are many religious people who are spiritual and vice versa, these two sometimes incorrectly interchanged words are not the same. Someone can be religious and not spiritual and a person can be deeply spiritual and not religious.

The more common definition of religion is a set or institutionalized system of texts, practices, and beliefs related to God or the supernatural. When people think of religions generally churches, faiths such as Christianity, Judaism, Buddhism, Isalm, etc. come to mind.

Spirituality is about an individual’s relationship with basic human transcendent questions. Transcendent is something that is beyond the material world, for many this is God. Spirituality can be highly personal and not conforming to one set of religions or religious beliefs.

For many in recovery, both early recovery and those with years of sobriety, spirituality is a fundamental part and building block of not only staying sober but of having a life with peace of mind, happiness, and joy.

RECOVERY AND SPIRITUALITY: UNDERSTANDING THE CONNECTION

The spiritual experience or spiritual awakening is not a new concept in recovery. In fact, when Alcoholics Anonymous began in the 1930s, the spiritual principle was a fundamental part of this movement now found in more than 180 nations with an estimated membership upwards of 2 million.

This vital spiritual awakening, is what one of the founding members, Bill W., credited with saving his life and halting his alcoholism. As Bill sat at his kitchen table talking to a friend in recovery, he put aside his former beliefs about God (which included doubt and scorn) and became willing to believe simply in the concept of a power greater than himself or as it’s now more commonly called a Higher Power.

For Bill and so many more, this belief in something greater than themselves opened the door for a spiritual experience and began the road of long-lasting, joyful recovery. This initial concept of a Higher Power and spiritual experience has become a vital part of sobriety and recovery for many seeking a life free from the bonds of alcohol or another substance.

There are many who believe that AA is a God-based program and while for some in AA this is what they lean on, there are many too who have formed their own concept of a Higher Power and are just as successful in recovery and life.

So what is it about this spirituality and recovery that seem to work so well for so many? For many who have alcohol use disorders (AUD) or substance use disorders (SUD), they have been running their lives (and often the lives of their loved ones) solely on their own will, agendas, and often with self-centered motives.

This type of ego-driven life can actually wreak havoc on one’s mental, spiritual, and ultimately physical health. Relying on one’s own will, resources, and plans can be exhausting, stressful, and ultimately unhealthy for the body, mind, and soul. Living life in this way means an individual is always trying to run the show, often resists changes or when things aren’t going as he or she wants, and has a hard time accepting when others don’t do or behave in expected or desired ways.

All of these experiences can often cause anxiety, irritability, restlessness, anger, and depression. All states of mind and being that propel many to not only first pick up a drink or drug but also to continue to rely on substances to ease these uncomfortable feelings and states of mind.

AUD, SUD, and Letting Go

In order for many—most everyone—to begin the road to recovery and sobriety, acceptance of being powerless when it comes to their alcohol or substance addiction is the first step. This first step is the most crucial to recovery according to many experts.

An honest look back on life when using and abusing alcohol and other substances usually is quick to reveal that the power to stop, cut down, and have good consequences happen is out of one’s hands.

One way to check this is to make a list of all the ‘mishaps’ and negative experiences incurred since you began drinking heavily or regularly or using a substance. For some, this list will include broken relationships, legal issues, and health troubles. There are those too who function at very high levels even in the midst of an AUD or SUD. Maintaining high profile occupations, keeping families intact, nice cars in the garage, boast-worthy vacations and accomplishments may all be on the list, however, it’s vital to look at the feelings you have been feeling during these times. For many high functioning individuals, the outside life doesn’t reflect the inside feelings.

Feelings of hopelessness, loneliness (even in the midst of friends), and despair are common for anyone struggling with addiction issues. This, for many, is where spirituality has radically changed their journey. However, for many, this isn’t an easy first step.

Admitting powerlessness over these feelings and alcohol or substances isn’t an easy feat. Often being powerless is misconstrued for being weak. When it comes to recovery, this simply isn’t the case and this is where spirituality comes into play.

When an individual realizes they are truly powerless in these areas they are able to look at relying on a power greater than themselves to give them the power needed to begin to recover from an AUD or  SUD. Letting go of the reliance solely on oneself is the first step. Who or what an individual wants to believe in is personal and they are the only ones who need to know about this and define it for themselves.

Today, many do rely on God, however many others have formed their own concept of a Higher Power and this has been enough to get them started in recovery and sustain them for many years in long-lasting recovery, happiness, and peace of mind. All it takes is the willingness to believe in something greater than one’s self. The rest will fall into place with the right addiction treatment program, honesty, and the courage to begin recovery.

There are aspects of both religions, spirituality, and long-lasting recovery that are the same. Many of these are concepts and practices that can immediately improve one’s life and well being. If you think you may have an AUD or SUD, are living with feelings of loneliness, fear, and helplessness, or just want to improve your life and happiness, consider incorporating some of these spiritual practices into your life today.

Five Spiritual Practices for Long-lasting Recovery, Peace of Mind, and Happiness

Gratitude Being grateful and giving thanks are fundamental parts of all religious and spiritual practices. Having the humility and graciousness to not only see the blessings on one’s life but to also thank the Universe, God, or a Higher Power for these not only promotes happiness, but it also opens the door to receive more to be grateful for on a daily basis. When you are truly able to see the good in your life, your life will begin to look better.

Meditation or Prayer Most every recovery support group, like AA, Refuge Recovery, Celebrate Recovery, and more, promote the use of either meditation, prayer, or both. The regular practice of one or both of these helps to settle and calm the mind, facilitates a greater sense of peace and serenity, and enables one to look for guidance outside of the self and ego. All of these lead to happier, healthier lives.

Connection to a Higher Power Within Both religions and spiritual leaders tell us that the Universe, the Divine Creator, God, or whatever power one believes in is something that is a part of us. Religions such as Christianity often refer to the Holy Spirit being part of us here in the world and spiritual leaders tell us that the Universal Source or Life Source is also within us. Taking time to connect with our ‘higher self’ is vital to overcoming ego-driven agendas which often lead to pain and fear.

Mindfulness Living in the present moment is being mindful or living in mindfulness. From the simple awareness of what your hands and feet are touching and the sounds you hear to becoming aware of what thoughts are running through your mind, the art of mindfulness can quickly diminish anxiety, depression, and fear. There is a quote which states, “If you are depressed you are living in the past, if you are anxious you are living in the future, if you are at peace you are living in the present.’ The ability to stay connected in the present moment reaps tremendous rewards of peace of mind, happiness, and gratitude. This is also reflected in the well-known  AA saying, “One day at a time.”

Giving Back When it comes to recovery as well as any other gifts of life such as wealth, it is said you have to give it away to keep it. Giving back is a key component of both long-term sobriety and living a fulfilling, happy life. When you are able to give of yourself, your talents, and your time to others, it will satisfy you in a way nothing else does. And with this sharing of love and kindness you, in turn, will also be the receiver of more of those same things.

Whether you believe in God, Buddha, the Divine Creator, or a Higher Power of your own these five basic practices can help you in the early stages of recovery and sustain long-lasting recovery and a happy life. And while spirituality can be a powerful part of recovery, taking the first step and asking for help is all that is needed to begin the journey. If you or someone you love is living with an AUD or SUD Futures Recovery Healthcare offers help and hope. Contact us confidentially online or by phone at 561-475-1804. Recovery, serenity, and happiness await you.

  About Futures Recovery Healthcare

Futures Recovery Healthcare is a specialized addiction and co-occurring mental health disorder treatment provider with residential and outpatient programs in Palm Beach County, Florida.

Contact Futures Recovery Healthcare

701 Old Dixie Hwy Tequesta FL 33469 United States

[phone]

Website: https://futuresrecoveryhealthcare.com/

The post Spirituality and Long-term Recovery appeared first on Daily Post Tribune.

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