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rovelae · 3 years

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Behind the Scenes of “Hologram”

Today marks exactly one year since I posted arguably my most popular fic. “Hologram” is a postgame Saiouma one-shot about escapism, loneliness, and running away from the past. I put a lot of myself into this fic and I’m blown away by all the love it’s received, not only on AO3 but in Discord servers and other social media. All that excitement made me keep thinking about it, so I thought I’d share a (very self-indulgent) behind-the-scenes of sorts about how I wrote it, as well as what I think of the story.

This essay will contain spoilers for the whole fic, so if you’d like to read it first, you can find it here. Of course, if the tags scare you off, that’s valid, but you might want to skip this post too since I’ll be quoting it throughout (so, just to be safe, expect the warnings I’ve posted on AO3 to apply here too).

If you’re a Lorde fan you’ll recognize the lyrics in the fic summary – “Nothing’s wrong when nothing’s true,” from “Buzzcut Season.” The inspiration for this fic came to me while I was on my way to an early shift at work, and I needed a good song in my head to give me the will to live for the next eight hours. Not sure why I chose that song in particular, but maybe part of it is because I like imagining stories to go along with the songs I listen to, like AMVs playing in my head, and I’d never been able to pin down exactly what this song reminded me of.

The mood of the music is really what compelled me – there’s something lonely about it, and the lyrics sound like the singer’s trying to convince herself that everything’s okay even when all evidence points otherwise. There are “explosions on TV”, and “The men up on the news / They try to tell us all that we will lose,” but “we live beside the pool / Where everything is good.” Despite everything going wrong, despite the notes of fear creeping into the pre-chorus, the character will “play along… in a hologram with you” and “never go home again.”

From there, it was an easy jump to “postgame Saiou” and that was that.

There’s a cloud of seagulls hovering in the air around him, and a dozen or so more standing just out of reach, staring him down with beady black eyes. Kokichi takes a slice of bread from the loaf he’s holding and tosses it to one of the birds, watches it catch it and stumble under the weight, watches its head bob as it tries to swallow the whole thing at once. It gets remarkably far before four other birds descend on it, shrieking wildly.

“Mine, mine, mine,” he mumbles into his folded arms, wondering if Shuichi would get the reference.

He really wishes Shuichi was here.

Kokichi upends the rest of the loaf of bread onto the sidewalk and laughs at the resulting chaos until his chest aches.

To start off, I wanted to create the same lonely mood from “Buzzcut Season” in Kokichi’s simulation. He’s not exactly trapped there, but he’s refusing to leave, because as long as he’s on the fake Jabberwock Island, he can pretend the killing game never happened. The trade-off to that escapism is that the only people he can talk to are the NPCs, who aren’t complex enough to be remotely interesting to him, and Usami, who… well, tries her best, but is more of an informational / moderation program and can’t offer him what a therapist could.

The only thing Kokichi has to look forward to is Shuichi, who he’s convinced is an extremely lifelike computer program rather than the real thing, because the real Shuichi would definitely hate him for everything that happened during the killing game. He’s so locked into this line of logic that he doesn’t let himself consider that Shuichi has forgiven him – he doesn’t even have a good answer for why the Future Foundation wouldn’t just keep the supposed Shuichi AI on indefinitely, believing it’s their way of baiting him into leaving the simulation.

It’s not a healthy or sustainable lifestyle in the slightest, but Kokichi stubbornly refuses to do anything but wander the islands aimlessly, passing the time with ice cream and feeding seagulls until the next time he can see Shuichi.

He dreams that DICE is here in the simulation with him, smiling and carefree as they explore the weird music venue. One of them has gotten the karaoke machine working, and another found a box of kazoos and maracas in the back room. Kokichi already pities anyone unfortunate enough to walk by the building tonight.

“Not going to sing, Joker?” one of his DICE asks (over the sound of their youngest member shrieking through seven kazoos at once), sitting on the bench next to him.

“Some games are more fun to watch than play,” he answers, leaning back on his hands and sighing.

“Like a killing game.”

The warm dream-atmosphere turns cold then, and Kokichi’s head snaps over to look at him—but his brother is gone and Kaito’s looking back at him instead, blood in his teeth and face ashen pale.

“You... we don’t have to do this, man,” Kaito says, but it’s a lie and they both know it, and he doesn’t want to look behind him because he knows the machine’s looming over him with its unyielding steel and slow slow slow descent—

“You’re not real,” he snaps at dream-Kaito, who doesn’t respond except to lift him up again. “Nothing’s real, none of—PUT ME DOWN! LET GO OF ME! DON’T PUT ME BACK IN THERE!”

“Death is more mercy than you deserve,” Kaito says, and Kokichi claws and bites and kicks his way out of Kaito’s grasp like a wild animal, only to end up in front of a prison cell full of—

DICE, his beloved DICE, trapped and hurt and afraid, bloodied and beaten and helpless.

“Why didn’t you save us, boss?” says his second-in-command, clutching the bars with bleeding hands. “Why didn’t you do more? Now we’re all dead and it’s because of you.”

Moments like this are my reference to Buzzcut Season’s pre-chorus, where the not-okay starts to creep into the illusion. Despite Kokichi’s valiant efforts to forget, he’s still dealing with the aftermath of seeing his family hurt and in danger, watching his friends die, orchestrating the deaths of two of them, being killed himself— and then being told every bit of it was made up to entertain an audience who sees nothing wrong with that picture. Running away is not the way to heal from trauma, and one day soon it’s all bound to come crashing down around him.

“Do you know what this … island paradise represents, Kokichi?” [Hinata] asks, and Kokichi’s really not in the mood for a lecture but he continues anyway. “Jabberwock Island … was the setting for the fiftieth season of Danganronpa. The golden anniversary, they called it. It was my season.”

Kokichi hunches over, hugging his arms over his torso and stifiling a scream. He does not want to think about this right now—

“They wanted it to be the best season of all, which, unfortunately for us, meant it was also the bloodiest,” Hinata says. “Twice as many participants, deadly traps hidden across each of the islands— they even changed the way the motives worked, like when they told Fuyuhiko to cut out his own eye so Peko could have a quick death instead of suffering for days.”

“Do I look like your therapist, porcupine-head?” Kokichi hisses. A sharp pain is pounding into his skull, and there’s a bitter, metallic taste at the back of his throat. A taste like poison and blood.

“There was so much going on that the simulation malfunctioned,” Hinata says. “When people died, their Ultimate talents downloaded themselves into me. I’m told that the stress of so many personality grafts came close to liquefying my frontal lobe. I’m lucky I woke up at all… especially considering more than half of the others didn’t.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Kokichi grates out through the static building in his head. If he opens his eyes, will he see the beach or the dull chrome of the machine closing in on him?

“Because I know how much you want to forget about what happened,” Hinata says. “Believe me, I get it.”

….

“These things that happened to us… we can’t erase them, no matter how much we want to. Some things have to be remembered.”

I’d mostly like to leave Hajime’s season up to interpretation, but there are a couple things I wanted to say about it. I imagine Danganronpa is like the Hunger Games in that it’d go all out for big anniversaries. So, there were twice as many participants for the Jabberwock Island beatdown that was probably subtitled “Bloodbath Bay” or something equally appealing. The game’s formula changed from a focus on the mystery and the trials to “look at all these kids massacring each other a la Lord of the Flies,” and since the VR system wasn’t equipped to handle that many people and their deaths, it malfunctioned, giving Hajime way too many Ultimate talents and putting half the cast into comas from which they never woke up.

Viewers either absolutely loved or absolutely hated this season, depending on whether they were DR fans because of the “blood n’ guts” factor or the “mystery and psychological thriller” aspect. Team Danganronpa faced quite a bit of backlash for actually causing the real-life deaths of half its participants, but were able to weasel their way out of serious legal repercussions because of the waivers the participants had signed beforehand (plus a lot of bribery and falling back on their longstanding popularity). So, the cast of Season 50 failed to end the killing game, but helped provide great evidence for the “Danganronpa is morally wrong” argument.

Hajime works as a victim liaison for the Future Foundation and has been trying to take down Danganronpa since he got out of it. He’s like that in a few of my fics, actually; I like the idea of Hajime acting as a big brother of sorts to the V3 cast. It’s especially entertaining to imagine his interactions with Kokichi— though maybe not so much in Hologram, since to Kokichi he’s a representation of the past he’s trying so desperately to forget and the future he refuses to acknowledge.

“SHUT UP!” He launches himself at Hinata, his hands wrapping around the other man’s throat as he uses his momentum to slam him to the ground. “SHUT! UP!”

“Ko— ghk—” Hinata coughs, eyes wide with surprise, but aside from moving his hands up to grip Kokichi’s wrists, he doesn’t seem all that worried about fighting back.

The thought only fuels Kokichi’s rage until he’s choking Hinata so hard his knuckles are white. “If you want me out of this simulation so badly, you can kill me,” he snarls. “I’m never waking up! I’m never leaving, do you UNDERSTAND ME?”

Hinata grimaces, the outline of his avatar flickering, but he still doesn’t struggle, and Kokichi hates him all the more for it, despises him with a seething malice that festers low in his stomach. He wonders distantly if he’d actually kill this man in real life. Or if he’d be able to stop himself, feeling like this.

Kokichi’s breakdown here is more out of fear than anger. Like I mentioned, Kokichi sees Hajime as another piece of what’s hurt him, and no matter how Hajime tries to help, Kokichi will always remember Danganronpa whenever he sees him.

Warm yellow-orange light casts a relaxed, cozy glow over the dining hall. It’s an ambience compounded by the flickering candles on the table, which seems overly idyllic, but Kokichi will let it slide because of the adorable way Shuichi flushed when he noticed them as they sat down. Well, if he’s being honest, everything about Shuichi right now is adorable, from the way his hair keeps falling into his eyes to the way he’s nervously fiddling wth his chopsticks. Kokichi wishes he could keep staring at him forever.

Ah, not… not in a weird way, though, just… because Shuichi’s beautiful, and when Kokichi looks at him he can forget everything bad that’s ever happened, can create some new and brighter world to exist in.

This is an idea I wish I’d had room to explore a bit more in the story— that is, just how far Kokichi will go to pretend everything’s fine. I thought about making him border on delusional, like having him talk to people who aren’t there or forget what’s actually happening around him because he’s so lost in his fiction-within-a-fiction. It would have creeped Shuichi out a whole lot.

Unfortunately, there wasn’t much room for that past the plot I’d already nailed down, so I focused on his loneliness and escapism instead. I do touch on it later in this scene, though— the couple paragraphs where he slips into fantasizing about being a phantom thief having a surreptitious meeting with his detective under the not-so-subtle supervision of his DICE. There would have been a lot more of that if I’d gone with the ‘delusion’ stylistic choice, to the point where even the readers would be confused about what’s real. Maybe I’ll look into writing something similar in a future story.

Eventually, Shuichi sets down his bowl and looks away with a little sigh, and Kokichi clenches his teeth because that’s the sigh he does when it’s time for that conversation.

“Um… Kokichi?”

Kokichi’s only response is to exhale the breath he’d been holding in a quiet hiss.

“I-I know you don’t want to, but… but I really need to talk to you about something,” Shuichi says. “Please?”

“My Mr. Detective can talk about whatever he’d like!” Kokichi says with a lilt to his tone that makes it sound more sarcastic than he wants it to. He takes the last bite of curry and wishes that it burns hot enough to hurt.

“It’s about Kaito.”

This more serious part of the date scene is meant to reflect the little bridge in “Buzzcut Season”:

“Cola with the burnt-out taste

I’m the one you tell your fears to

There’ll never be enough of us.”

It’s a part of the song that sounds especially bittersweet to me, a bit of self-awareness between the insistence that everything’s okay.

Really all I think I managed was to reference it when Kokichi’s internal dialogue comments on his drink being “so sweet it tastes burnt” and then later not tasting like anything. But hopefully the mood’s still there.

“Tell him… that I have nothing against him,” he says.

“That’s … not a lie?” Shuichi presses.

Kokichi shakes his head idly, still not raising his gaze. “I wanted to wreck the killing game and he wanted to save his friend. We both got what we wanted. I’d say the end more than justifies the means.”

Was that a lie?

(I don’t want to die Shuichi I’m sorry I’m sorry save me Shuichi please I’m sorry ithurtsmakeitstop—)

His fingers tighten into clawlike shapes, nails digging sharply into his forearms.

I really don’t think Kokichi would have anything against Kaito, even if here he’s not being completely honest with how much he’s affected by what happened. It wouldn’t make sense to him to hate Kaito for something he himself proposed, but I think there’d still be a subconscious barrier between them. Too much history.

“Don’t go, Shuichi, I’m so sorry, I— that was so dumb, what I said, please don’t be sad anymore.” He’s not sure if he can’t breathe because of the exertion of running or because of the hysteria boiling over in his head. “Please don’t go, I didn’t mean to hurt you— please don’t leave, Shuichi, I’m so sorry.”

“Oh, Kokichi….” Shuichi’s tone is strange, soft and pitying, like he sees something Kokichi doesn’t, and he shakes his head slowly as more tears follow the paths of the others.

Kokichi goes to his knees, ready to grovel if that’s what it takes, but Shuichi follows him down, closing his other hand over Kokichi’s, and then they’re both crying and he doesn’t know why, and all he can do is repeat a mantra of I’m sorry and hold on as tight as he can.

It’s horrible. Shuichi’s horrible. Shuichi’s wonderful, and kind and lovely and perfect and Kokichi hates him, Kokichi adores him, and it doesn’t matter because Shuichi’s not actually here but Kokichi doesn’t want to be alone, just let me pretend some more, please, please let me have this—

“I’ll… I’ll stay,” Shuichi says at last. “I can stay a while longer.”

You shouldn’t, Kokichi wants to say, but his mouth won’t obey him. You shouldn’t stay if you don’t want to. I don’t deserve having you here. I’m not worth your mercy.

But there on the bridge, crying tears of relief, he soaks up as much mercy as he can get and hopes it’s enough to drown him.

I wanted to create a contrast between them that highlights just how the isolation and trauma Kokichi’s experiencing has affected him. He has an almost unhealthy reliance on Shuichi as “the only thing that makes this world bearable,” and panics when faced with the prospect of being alone again so soon. Part of why Shuichi’s crying is because he’s realized the extent of Kokichi’s desperation. It’s not that he thinks Kokichi’s apology is insincere, but that he’s hardly heard him apologize for anything before, so Kokichi going this far has him realizing how bad things really are.

The door rumbles and slides open when they approach, revealing the bright light of the log-out point that took Shuichi away every time, that would wake Kokichi up in his real body if he walked into it. Shuichi stops just a step away from it, biting his lip as if searching for something to say, but before he can find it, Kokichi reaches out to tug at his sleeve.

“Shuichi?” he says, distant as the waves on the beach that he can still hear if he listens closely enough. Shuichi turns back toward him. “Before you go, can I be selfish one more time?”

“Huh…?”

Shuichi doesn’t move when Kokichi steps closer, reaches up to ghost his fingertips over Shuichi’s jaw and around the back of his neck. He lets Kokichi tilt his head downward, lets him hover inches away, close enough to feel their breath mingle in the night air. Kokichi pauses there to give him the chance to pull away. He doesn’t.

So Kokichi closes his eyes and the distance between them.

That last line is a ZEUGMA! It’s a literary device where one word refers to two more in a different way. A popular example is the hyenas’ line “Our teeth and ambitions are bared” from The Lion King. It’s my favorite grammatical trick and I’d love to see more of it in fanfic.

Slowly, he slides his hand down to Shuichi’s shoulder, using it as leverage to push himself away. That hurts even more. He can’t seem to open his eyes, and he feels so weakened, breathless, fragile. Cracked open, hollowed out.

When he finally does open his eyes, Shuichi’s are wide with some mix of astonishment and a dozen other emotions. Kokichi bows his head, taking a deep breath to ground himself. “Sorry,” he whispers. “I just wanted to know.”

“Kokichi,” Shuichi breathes, like a bullet through his heart.

“Goodbye, Shuichi,” Kokichi says, and shoves him into the light.

Shuichi’s little yelp of surprise cuts off abruptly as he falls through the door, vanishing into the glow, and all too soon, Kokichi’s alone again in a dream that suddenly seems far too vast. Alone, with the faintest taste of Shuichi’s lips still lingering on his own.

And he thinks, It was enough just to know you.

It’s a lie.

Nothing to say here except that this is my favorite scene and I’m so happy with how it turned out.

Fake sun rises over fake ocean, fake seagulls glide through fake sky while fake wind tousles fake palm fronds. Kokichi lies on his stomach in the fake grass and talks to his fake family in the fake notebook. Gives them fake names and runs through everything he remembers about them. Apologizes, over and over, wishes he could hug each of them goodbye one last time. Wonders if it would be more painful to die or to never have existed at all.

He leaves the notebook of his memories on the seat of one of the Ferris wheel cars on the fourth island, because one time he promised them they’d steal the London Eye together.

He buys a can of fake soda from the fake convenience store on the first island and sits on the fake beach watching the fake waves. Wonders when he’d hit the end of the simulation if he started swimming, or if he’d drown first.

White sand, blue sea, bluer sky. Washed out, like an amateur watercolor painting.

He opens the soda can and raises it to his mouth, but … even the thought of drinking it makes him sick to his stomach. He sets it down in the sand and flicks it over, watching the bubbly liquid run down and sink into the sand. The color’s all wrong, like blood streaked against a metal floor.

He walks the fake streets of the fifth island, passing fake skyscrapers and fake commuters and their fake conversations, until he finally stops outside the factory he’s never been able to bring himself to go into. Smells like oil, and metal and machines and he can hear the sounds and he’s immediately back in the hangar, dizzy on adrenaline and desperation and leaning heavily on Kaito so he doesn’t keel over and die then and there. Kaito says something about how maybe he should sit down for a minute, and Kokichi didn’t agree back then but he does now, goes down on all fours and dry heaves.

When his vision solidifies and he can stop gasping for breath, he sits up and presses his back against the factory wall, covering his ears and hiding his face in his knees. Tries to convince himself not to imagine Shuichi’s there with him, holding his hand again, promising everything’s going to be okay.

“I’ve got you. No one’s going to hurt you anymore,” or maybe, “Breathe with me, it’ll be over soon. You’re safe now.”

I love you.

He laughs until there’s nothing left in his lungs. He called these little daydreams obsession, before, but now they just seem sick and insane.

I wanted to indicate throughout this scene that Kokichi’s gotten substantially worse. Instead of halfheartedly interacting with the NPCs or finding something to spend time doing, he’s aimlessly wandering the islands, focused on how fake all of it is. Not even talking to his sketches of DICE can make him feel better. The suicidal ideation starts to slip in even if he doesn’t realize it— a fixation on wondering what death is like, purposefully triggering himself by walking by the factory….

The thing I want to talk about most though is the italicized I love you. I left it outside of quotation marks and dialogue tags on purpose because I wanted it to be ambiguous as to who’s saying it. If it’s Kokichi’s line, it’s sudden and almost out of place, like he couldn’t hold back from thinking it anymore. But it could be Shuichi saying it, too. Since it’s outside quotation marks, unlike the previous dream-Shuichi lines, it’s more vague, almost a whisper in Kokichi’s thoughts— like he can barely bring himself to imagine it and even feels guilty doing so, because there’s no way it could possibly be real.

Which do you think?

Eh, I don’t have an answer. When I hear it in my head, they say it at the same time.

“How did you know?” he finally croaks.

Shuichi’s breathing still sounds shaky, too. “Because you said ‘goodbye,’” he says.

Kokichi finally looks up at him in a silent question.

“You never say goodbye,” Shuichi says, rubbing his sleeve over his eyes. “It’s always….”

“‘See you later,’” Kokichi finishes for him. Despite himself, a tiny huff of astonished laughter escapes him. “I didn’t even know, not until a couple of hours ago. And you figured it all out from one word?”

Shuichi bites his lip at that. “You kissed me,” he says.

Kokichi’s stomach twists and he looks away. “I said I was sorry—”

“No.” Shuichi squeezes his hand into a fist and lets it fall to thump against Kokichi’s chest, like he’s trying to knock some sense into him. “It was so honest, and vulnerable, and… and I know how much you hate showing how you really feel.” Another tiny sob catches in his throat. “And so it felt like … like something you’d do if you weren’t going to s-see me again.”

“Shuichi….” Kokichi trails off as Shuichi muffles his cries in his hand again. He’s so breathtakingly smart. There’s no one else in the world who thinks that way, no one else who could possibly be that attentive and that clever. Not a programmer, not a team of shrinks… how can an AI manage it? How is it that Shuichi always manages to take him by surprise? How can he see straight through him when he least expects it?

Kokichi’s hand reaches up to Shuichi’s cheek. Reverently traces the path of the tears falling down it.

“I wish you were real,” he confesses in a whisper.

Kokichi’s stubborn. So, so stubborn. And he’s not used to being cared about, if the way he does everything by himself is any indication. So it makes sense to me that he’ll refuse to believe anything good can happen to him even in the face of convincing evidence. He’s pretty self-hating for someone so arrogant.

Kokichi’s weak, deep down to his core, weak for this man. Already knows he’d do anything for him, and the thought is terrifying—that one person could have that much power over him, even if he doesn’t realize it.

But what if he has realized it? Couldn’t this all be an elaborate ruse, a lie he knew Kokichi would be so desperate to believe that he wouldn’t bother questioning it?

…Shuichi’s never hurt him, though. Only that one time, when he really deserved it. Shuichi wouldn’t … betray him, even for what he thinks is Kokichi’s own good. They’re… different from each other, that way.

But still….

“I’m so scared, Shuichi.” It’s barely a whisper. “I don’t want to be alone anymore.”

“You won’t be.” It’s so hard to be skeptical, lost in his eyes. “I’ll be right there with you, for as long as you want. I won’t let you feel like this anymore.”

Promise me, he wants to blurt out. Promise you’ll stay. Promise me you’ll never leave me, Shuichi, he wants to demand, but that’s wrong, that’s manipulative and selfish and everything he doesn’t want to be for Shuichi anymore.

Shuichi, of course, says it anyway.

“I promise, Kokichi.”

…

“Kiss me again,” he says. “Please?”

Shuichi leans in close, then pauses, his brow furrowing the way it does when he catches him in a lie.

“I’ll kiss you again in the real world,” Shuichi says. “Okay?”

Kokichi shakes his head. “Shuichi, please.” Please, I don’t think I can do this. Please, I don’t want to wake up to a lie. Please, one last kiss for me to remember in case it was all fake.

Shuichi reaches out to tilt his chin up and Kokichi closes his eyes, savoring every second, burning it into his memory.

Shuichi’s soft breath ghosts over his lips.

“Trust me,” he murmurs.

Kokichi’s eyes flutter back open, searching his face. Shifting him around on the white board in his head, seeing what categories he fits into this time. Weird, of course. Suspicious, maybe not. Trustworthy?

Trustworthy….

“I do trust you,” he realizes.

Kokichi’s still hesitant to accept all of this— Shuichi kissing him didn’t magically fix everything. He’ll still doubt all the way to the log-out point, but at least now he realizes that this simulation is only hurting him— that if things are to get better they’re going to have to change, too. He’s got a long way to go before he’s all right, but he’s not going to have to face it alone anymore.

And that’s a wrap!

Once again, I’m really proud of this story, and I feel like I grew as a writer because of it. There are a few things I would change if I wrote it again, but for all its flaws it’s still my baby and I like how it turned out.

Thanks again for all your support for “Hologram,” and thanks even more if you actually waded through all this nonsense of a director’s cut. It’s a huge confidence-boost to think that people liked what I wrote, and even wanted to hear what I had to say about it. If there’s any interest, I’d love to review some of my other fics here, or theorize or brainstorm or whatever else you’re into. (Ask me what Byakuya’s Thing is in my superhero AU, I dare you 😉)

I do have a WIP in my folder of bits and pieces currently titled “boy finally gets that kiss”, and it’s a post-Hologram scene from Shuichi’s point of view to just sorta… tie it all together, have them talk things over again… and kiss, of course. We’ll see if anything comes out of that.

Until next time!

#Rov talks #Hologram #Saiouma #Oumasai #Behind the scenes #Director's cut #Fanfic review

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antihero-writings · 3 years

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If These Walls Could Talk (Ch7)

(^^ Art commissioned from Junki Sakuraba on instagram and deviantart!!)

Fandom: Castlevania Netflix

Summary: Vampires do not have reflections, and castles do not have hearts. But Dracula is no ordinary vampire, and Castlevania is no ordinary castle. If castles can fight, maybe they can think too. The series, and Adrian’s childhood, told from the perspective of the castle.

Notes: Hey all! I am SO sorry this chapter took so long to come out. My perfectionism really got the best of me with this chapter. But I saw that S4 was on its way and that really lit a fire under my butt because I really do want to post my season 3 chapter before s4 comes out. I’m highly doubt I’ll accomplish it as it almost always takes me longer than I have to get a chapter out, let alone two, but I'll try, at least.

I really really hope you enjoy it!! If you enjoy this chapter, please please consider commenting. I assure you it’ll be more likely I’ll post the next chapter faster the more people comment on this showing you still enjoy this fic. Each comment is a little shot of energy and motivation for me.

Important! This chapter is meant to have aesthetic indentation in some places. So if you want to read it as-intended, please look it at on Archiveofourown at I_prefer_the_term_antihero on your computer or tablet!!

If you get here and are thinking “Wait, what was this fic about? What were the main themes?” then this would be a good time to reread/skim back through the earlier chapters. This is the climax of the fic and will (hopefully) be more impactful the more you remember about the rest of the fic and its many themes.

Chapter Summary:

"Go back whence you came! Trouble the soul of my Mother no more!" "How? How—How is it that I've been so defeated?" "You have been doomed ever since you lost the ability to love." "Ha—Ah... Sarcasm. 'For what profit is it to a man if he gains the world, and loses his own soul?' Matthew 16:26, I believe. "Tell me. What—What were Lisa's last words?" "She said 'Do not hate humans. If you cannot live with them, then at least do them no harm. For theirs is already a hard lot'. She also said to tell you that she would love you for all of eternity." "Lisa, forgive me. Farewell my son."

Chapter 7: “Heart”

Hey there, Sunshine, the Room adds with a smile.

The Room forgot the sweet tang of breath. How gentle, how vicious. Like honey, like relief, like a cozy blanket and a fireplace. It came in great, gulping gasps, and living was painful after such long breathlessness, but hurt far less than being half dead.

The Room rushes to Castlevania, shaking it, saying, Open your eyes! Open your eyes! It’s Adrian. It’s our boy. My master. My sunlight. And Castlevania limply flickers open its eyes, for it cannot help but obey.

Obey to see the golden man standing in its doorway.

And it feels a jolt of warmth in its broken chest.

Alucard has returned home. He arrives at the doorstep with resolve in his closed fists and a sword on his tongue. The threat to the war they all knew he would be, and the Room promised it would rear him to be.

But he isn’t alone this time.

There are two humans by his side. One with fire in her fists—quite literally—the other with a barbed tongue at his hip.

Castlevania recognizes a crest on the clothing of one of them, gold and proud: The Belmonts. The ones who came with whips and scourges to defeat its master long ago. The ones whom Dracula and his Castle were bound together against in their undead war. The ones whom Dracula trusted his Castle to protect him from. The owner of the hold now beneath Castlevania. He has come to defeat its master like the rest…but this time the boy is by his side, and for that reason, the Castlevania is unsure how this will end.

“I terrify them,” the Belmont explains the plan, “Sypha disorients them, Alucard goes over the top and we support him.”

“Yes.” The Speaker confirms.

Alucard holds his sword out horizontally in front of him, unsheathes it, and speaks:

“Begin.”

Alucard is with the Belmont.

And Castlevania knows when it sees them, the fire in their eyes, that they are the intent that brought it here. That they have indeed come to kill its master once and for all. It had wished when the boy returned, it would be with the promise of hope. But there is no promise of life and the sparing of it this time.

They bring death inside with them; the war room is filled with war, blood and burns on its floors, but it is different this time, because this is not an ambiance, a continuation, a fact of life, it is a swift and fatal kiss—the end they said he would bring, once. The blood is rotten on the floors, but it doesn’t itch or burn. And the boy uses those techniques his father taught him on brighter nights about turning into things with teeth, and the ones his mother once taught him on sunnier days about how to make metal listen.

They did not bring life inside this time, not life of the same kind at least. The war, the death, has followed and swallowed them too, but not in the same way it has its master. They are not bloodthirsty. The cold the dark and the death are merely clothes they wear, they have not reached the deepest parts of them; there are still light-starved Rooms in their hearts waiting to breathe.

There is a song at their heels as they dance in rings of fire, with the wind and the moon, upon the blood and water Castlevania isn’t sure will come out of the carpet. It is a song that is all too familiar. It has been played here before, when other, more, less, holy Belmonts barged in long ago. A song of blood and tears.

Bloody tears its master cried once, for his wife when he realized they had taken something that could not be borrowed, bartered, or souled.

They’re bringing an end to the strife, and all the undead lives that facilitated it, and vice versa. They are cutting the puppet strings, and not all puppets can live without them.

Isaac fights the nameless soldiers on the staircase for its master…until he sees someone who is far from nameless.

Isaac’s reddened eyes meet Alucard’s golden ones. Alucard’s sword aims at him, but it hits the deadened flesh of the nameless instead.

Isaac runs to tell its master—Dracula, busy ripping out the heart of a nameless—who’s here; that his sun has returned, and at his side is magic and might.

Dracula knows the prophecy.

He’s willing to die—Issac. He stands before Dracula, his form barely able to shield three-quarters of Dracula’s, willing to give his feeble human life for Dracula’s indefinite undead one. He believes knowledge and will are more important than the blood of a good man. He believes in love, and loyalty is love of a sort. And it is Castlevania’s understanding that when someone is willing to live for something, they are also willing to die for it. This is the noblest of causes.

“You are the greatest of your people, Isaac. You have a soul, I think.” As Dracula says the words, he raises his hand, and the mirror shards behind them begin to rise. “Perhaps that is more valuable to the world to come than a dusty collection of books and apparatus.”

Lisa looks on from the portrait, and Castlevania thinks it is a look of pride. She always did stand for saving human lives rather than destroying them. Isn’t it funny that in what will perhaps be the deciding battle of this war, the one where his goals should possess him stronger than ever, it is the human who he values more than himself?

“Or perhaps you simply deserve a better fate than to die instead of me.”

“I choose my death, as I chose my life.” The words are stronger than iron.

“Then I regret only that I have taken a choice for you.” A hand at his shoulder.

Dracula throws him halfway across the world, to the kind of place Isaac was born in, and the kind of place Isaac least wants to die in.

Isaac believes in love. And it is for this reason, this belief, that Vlad saves his life, Castlevania knows. Saves his life, by denying the choice he so desperately wanted to make—perhaps his whole life—and had no regrets or apprehensions about making, rather a lot more in being kept alive.

And when the mirror shatters and falls, his son is standing there, like he did a year ago, though this time he is not backed by sunlight. The only light in the room is the fire glinting in his eyes.

A pause. To remember the dead.

“Father.”

A word. To remember the living.

“Son.”

This should be a reunion, perhaps. Better people would think they should happily hug each other, and say they missed each other, and that they love each other all the same. Better people would say that the sunlight should plead with the dark to come back into its embrace. All the sinners know there was no chance of that the moment Dracula scrawled fate on his son’s skin with his own claws.

Instead, there is nothing but bitter, fighting words:

“Your war is over.”

Dracula tilts his head to the side. “Because you say so?”

“It ends.” Alucard looks at his sword, the one she taught him how to use. “In the name of my mother.”

Dracula looks at his son, the one she gave him. “It endures in the name of your mother.”

“I told you before I won’t let you do it.” Alucard’s voice is so soft, yet solid and unwavering. There is no anger, but he will not step aside. Not this time. Even when the claws come. “I grieve with you…but I won’t let you commit genocide.”

“You couldn’t stop me before.” Dark assurance in soft words.

Footsteps. A cue to the magic and the hunt behind the curtain, who step out on either side of him.

“I was alone before.”

And Castlevania understands. Understands that they are not here to talk things out. Understands that they are not here to save Dracula, to appeal to the good in him, as Lisa once had, and the Room once thought. Castlevania itself even hoped, when the boy returned, the song would be a bit more inspirational. But, beaten and broken and bloody, Castlevania understands now, if Alucard stands with the intent, if Alucard brought a Belmont—

Then they do not believe there is a chance. They are not here then, to talk him out of it. They are here to halt this war in its tracks, make it rear up, lose its balance, and fall.

—(And Castlevania knows, deep down, that to do this… they must end something else)—

Alucard is bringing back the sunlight. But there is only one way he can do that, and goodnight is not quiet.

And make no mistake he does intend to bring the full, the warm, the life, and the light back, just like Castlevania and the Room wanted. But there is too much cold, dark, death, and emptiness here to do this quietly. They are here to kill Dracula—the master now puppeteered by Death’s strings rather than his own soul.

The Speaker raises her fingers to her lips as if to say a prayer, or perhaps take a heavenly name in vain for the sake of a little silence. The Belmont’s whip clinks in his hand. Alucard’s sword sings as he raises it.

Alucard drives it towards his father: a bolt of golden lightning through the room, pinning him against the fireplace as books fall to the floor. Castlevania, wincing at the pain, knows that will bruise in the morning.

The picture of his mother cracks and falls, as if she has to close her eyes for this.

Alucard, growling with fierce resolve, pushing the sword into him with all his might. But Dracula has the sword in his hand, rather than his heart. He steps calmly forward, barely having to use any of his strength to combat so much of his son’s, as if he’s about to tell him to put the toy away.

A glint of golden eyes. Alucard pulls back the sword. A slash. Two. Three.

Dracula raises his arm as if to knock the sword from his shoulder.

Instead he bashes his son’s head into the fireplace—and Castlevania cries out at the feeling, feeling its stomach burn.

The Speaker and the Belmont ready for a fight. The floor splinters—(Castlevania grimaces, tasting blood)—as Dracula flashes through the room, and pins the Belmont into the hall, against the wall, sending his sword out of his hand. He keels over onto his hands to cough up blood, the puddle crawling on Castlevania’s skin.

Castlevania never had any qualms with the blood of Belmonts on its floors before, so this hurts less, but this is different, and Castlevania still wonders if Dracula could be a little gentler with his Castle.

A flash of light at his side. He raises his cloak as the Speaker sends tongues and teeth of fire at him.

“Speaker magician!” Its master realizes.

He rushes at her, knocking her hand out of position. She creates an ice shard before her with the other.

He scratches up with a claw, sending her flying with the broken pieces towards the ceiling, and angry gashes appear on her arm as she rolls along the floor.

“Sypha!” The Belmont calls.

He must love her in some way, because in a fit of some sort of emotion—instead of picking up his sword—the Belmont uses his fists. They probably haven’t failed him before. But this is Dracula, and his punches don’t cause the king to so much as flinch.

“You must be the Belmont.”

Castlevania laughs a little at the words; it too thought the method was rather common of his line.

It’s Dracula’s turn, and his punch doesn’t just cause the Belmont to flinch, the sound is as if he hit rock, sending him into the air with the force. He doesn’t give him a second to breathe, rather reaches his claw is around the human’s neck, holding him there.

He raises his other claw level—a blade, more trustworthy than any.

“The end of your line.”

Before he can make these words true, another blade stops him: his son’s, driving itself through both his arms.

While he is pinned the Speaker, knowing this is an opportunity she will not get again, rushes forward—still bleeding, mind—a bead of fire between her fingers. Dracula cannot move to protect himself, and the magician, knowing this, lets the fire loose to lick his face raw.

Dracula drops the Belmont, attempting to get away, deciding his own life takes precedence, but it is hard to get away when your hands are tied together with metal.

The Speaker, seeing that her fire is about to hit Alucard, falters. And in that moment Dracula wrenches his arm off of the blade and uses it to knock her down, before sending his other fist into his son, who goes flying along with his sword hitting the wall. This one may not be so hard as to bruise, but, with everything aching and breaking, the smallest tap hurts Castlevania.

The Belmont pulls a blade of bone from his back-belt, and as Dracula turns he drives it into his chest.

It’s not close enough to his heart, but red distaste fills Dracula’s eyes. He thought this was a game, but they have some amount of ability, and he may have underestimated them. As Alucard and the magician get up he attempts to grab at the Belmont in quick motions, but he has some skill in dodging.

The Speaker rips off her shirt and cauterizes her wound as the Belmont and Dracula dance in the hallway, neither weapon hitting flesh.

Dracula sees the Speaker’s intent over his shoulder, and as the Belmont lunges at him grabs his arm and throws him into her, stopping both their attacks. An effective move, if Castlevania does say so itself.

Alucard sees his opening and rushes forward, pinning his father to the wall, which shatters behind them with a painful lurch.

Dracula puts his hands together and brings them down over his son’s head with such force the floor cracks.

And Castlevania coughs blood.

Alucard pushes his arms away and slaps both sides of his face, getting a grunt this time. Dracula sends him back with such force it almost seems like a shockwave, creating wind and smoke curling around them all.

The Speaker roots him in place by sending ice spears into his leg. The Belmont clears the smoke by spinning his whip, before creating more by sending that whip—the one he fed the vampires that didn’t agree with their compositions—sizzling into Dracula’s chest. There’s an explosion to be sure—a rather big one—but after the smoke dissipates, and a wait with bated breath, Dracula is still standing just as he was before—as Castlevania knew he would—like all he threw at him were words.

…At least at first, to show he isn’t taken down so easily. He does fall to his hands thereafter.

“The Morningstar whip.” The words are scratches in the carpet. “Well played, Belmont. But I am no ordinary vampire to be killed by your human magics.” The words sizzle on his tongue. “I am Vlad Dracula Tepes,” he crosses his arms with purpose. “and I have had ENOUGH!”

His voice is a shockwave of its own across the sea of stone and bone. He sweeps his hands to the sides, his cloak rising like wings as he floats into the air, and creates a ball of magma: the cheat that will end the game. He was going easy on them until now.

It rumbles towards them, eating the carpet as it goes—and Castlevania can feel the burning in its chest. The Belmont’s eyes widen with fear at last. The Speaker rises to the occasion without hesitation, and holds out her hands to stop it with the force of her magic. It’s a force to be reckoned with, for sure: at first she succeeds, but, though it may be slowing, it isn’t stopping, and her feet are slipping. The Belmont puts his back to hers, as any good friend and comrade would. Alucard phases in front of them, the burning wind rushing against his face. He calls his sword, which sings as it reaches his hand, poises it, and drives the point into the magma ball.

They each fight with all their might, the Belmont and the speaker begins to grunt with the weight of it. The ball gives a falter their way, and Castlevania is sure even three cannot match Dracula’s strength, but the Speaker gives a final push, which gives Alucard just the right amount of momentum to drive it back toward his father, who is as caught off guard by the display as Castlevania is. He needs no sword or magic to stop it, however, and puts his hands out to hold it. Gold and red push against each other, until Alucard gives a deciding motion, then another, another, each chipping away at the ball until the sword goes flying and it’s just Alucard’s arm against Dracula’s throat, and their momentum creates a sizzling tunnel in the wall.

Castlevania may not know what guns are, but it knows what it feels like to be shot.

The two burst into the library, shattering the already shattered mirror.

It was so quiet in here. Must they sully the silence with the sound of strife? They read here, once. Sometimes alone, sometimes to each other. Whispered to each other of history and mystery.

Dracula lands on the floor and Alucard floats above him in the room in which he once stood on his level and told his father calmly he wouldn’t stand for genocide.

There’s anger in his eyes now.

Dracula hisses, then gives a war cry, and the two allow their hungry fists to attempt to devour each other as best they can in the air, red and gold flashing.

The Belmont picks up a sword in the other room and, deciding it’d be best not to follow them through the tunnel—(Castlevania is glad for that decision. The wound is still raw and would more than likely sting tremendously if they walked on it)—he and the Speaker run up the stairs to follow them.

They’re on the floor now and their punches fly like starlings—their duel reflected in the shards of mirror fluttering, jittering about, ever awaiting their command, as if attempting to tap their shoulders and ask what they should do, and why they are hurting each other—until they are hitting the bookshelves they once were gentle with—lest the pages rip and the silence tear—the ones they once smiled and discussed philosophy beside.

Castlevania’s head aches, nausea in the back of its throat.

A smiling boy and his father handing him another book, saying if he liked the first he’d like the second too, are all but gone now.

Dracula throws Alucard into the ceiling, and enters the room above with an unearthly sound, in an unearthly way: only his cloak is visible, moving like slime. As his hungry footsteps lick the floor behind him, Alucard is heaving on his side that same floor, his hair falling across his face. He turns around, fear coating the sound he makes as he, without his sword, grabs the nearest block of wood that happens to have a point on the end.

Dracula laughs, like they’re playing a game—(they did once, do they remember? Humans and monsters. Sometimes there were princes, and knights, or pirates. Even a princess or two. And the wolves and the bats were free in the night wind)—and stops.

“You mean to stake me?”

“You want me to.” Alucard murmurs, turning around with some difficulty.

“What?” Dracula chuckles, still with that put-the-toys-away intonation.

“You didn’t kill me before.” Alucard breathes. “You’re not going to kill me now. You want this to end as much as I do.” The look in his eyes is almost crazed.

“DO I?!” The tone is almost crazed in response, the nonchalant edge gone, the words resounding with power and grief.

Alucard scrambles away like an animal, causing Dracula to punch the floor instead of his head—Castlevania’s body lurches. It feels a gentle touch at its chin, someone trying to wipe the blood off perhaps.

“You died when my mother died. You know you did.” He reasons as Dracula’s breathing gains weight. “This entire catastrophe has been nothing but history’s longest suicide note.”

Castlevania jerks its head up, eyes wide at these words.

And Castlevania understands.

The cold, the dark, the empty, the death. They all make sense now.

Alucard rushes at him, Dracula knocks the stake out of Alucard’s hand with ease, but, in a moment of extreme dexterity, Alucard manages to grab it from the air and drive it into his chest still. The look in his eyes is almost pleading, like he’s going to ask “Daddy did I do a good job? Did I do it right? I’ve gotten better at fighting haven’t I?”

“Not quite close enough.” There is a gurgling quality to Dracula’s enunciation.

No more playing.

He shoves Alucard so hard its into the next room.

Castlevania keels over onto the floor, it’s stomach aching and prickling.

Dracula pulls the stake out and heaves before rushing after.

Floors below the magician and the Belmont can hear them, and are trying their best to catch up, to have a say in this fight.

But Castlevania isn’t sure they have much chance of that, as they are flashing through the halls now, Alucard, a foot off the ground, zig-zagging between the walls in the narrow hall as Dracula keeps punching bloodless stone—

—(The stone may be bloodless, but god this hurts)—

Until Alucard punches him back, sending them into a room, a bedroom—(but not that one)—and the room is a pile of rubble with just that. And Castlevania can feel the splinters. That furniture was nice.

Dracula grabs Alucard’s face and shoves him into the dining room, pinning him to the table like he’ll eat him too if they’re not careful, and those chairs were perfectly nice too—

And Castlevania sees a little boy waiting at the table for his birthday surprise, and his father pulling out a burned cake, and his mother laughing. There was no fear then. Though its master was a creature of blood it never thirsted for theirs, and they knew this full well. Can they see it too? Why would they destroy this room if they did? Why would they destroy each other if they did? Are they even the same creatures as those in the memory?

At this point Castlevania is pretty sure they broke a few of its ribs.

Alucard kicks his face and gets on the table on all fours, rushing him into the next room still.

Castlevania’s bleeding, broken heart skips a beat. Surely they must have broken a few ribs, for how else could they get into Castlevania’s heart? The control room, where its gears still lie dripping, glowing as orange as a brand, once beating organs now blazing stalactites.

They punch each other along the platform, Dracula’s cloak whipping about, like a cat’s fur trying to make him look bigger and scarier.

They are framed in the paneless window—those bones have been all but broken too now. The frame where the picture—that is to say, the die—no longer sits. For Castlevania’s heart didn’t just break, it was destroyed when they brought it to this place, the place where its enemies once lived, and still stand today.

—(So why can Castlevania still feel it beat?)—

In the frame now is moon drunk on blood, a night soaked in tears—and the wind whispers to their cloaks, bidding them to whip around them.

Dracula draws in a hissing breath.

Alucard stands tall, his eyes aglow, gold melting into something new in this forge, his hair whipping about him as he raises his fist yet again.

They are getting tired. Their snarls have a weakened quality to them now.

—Can they see the father and son in this room, the father teaching his son that his Castle is special?—

But instead of just punching him, Alucard teleports beside his father, hitting his shoulder, sending a gust of wind to his face, then teleports around the room to send his fist into him over and over, from every possible angle, and some of his kick-offs create cracks in the already breaking bindings of the room.

It feels like pins and needles, but it’s okay. It’s okay.

Why?

Dracula’s grits his teeth, sharp as ever, his eyes alight with bloody determination, his hair playing about this gaze. To end it, on the next hit he grabs his face, shoving him by it onto the stone platform. He shoves him once, twice, a third, the metal cracking, the metal creaking—

Castlevania’s gut lurches, and it can taste bile and iron at the back of its throat, and it’s hard to breathe.

Then its master raises Alucard back up, holds him by the face in the air a moment, and punches him with such force he is blown across the length of the platform and through the thick stone wall into the next room—

And Castlevania vomits blood.

Dracula bolts after him, the dust creating patterns in his wake—and Castlevania could gaze in the clouds if it weren’t for whoever’s trying to slap it awake.

Alucard coughs, and it sounded deep.

Its master is nothing human now. There’s a growl in his throat as he marches towards him, and another cough in Alucard’s as he struggles to stand.

Another punch, but this one is not fast like the rest, nor is it blocked. Alucard tries to stand up, to rush towards him, but he is getting tired, and Dracula hits him again. Another growl. Alucard takes a single step back, soft against the floors. An exhale. Another of both, and as Dracula raises his fist the murmur—plea?—on his son’s lips sounds a lot like “Father,” as if he’s reached his limit, and has to stop the game.

It’s too late to hit quit now.

The vampire king doesn’t grant the plea—or perhaps even hear it; with a belabored punch he sends him into the next Room, rolling this time, instead of flying, the contents of the Room staying in tact…all except the bed, which catches the boy.

The next Room. But this one is not like the rest. It is not just a room.

This one breathes.

A gasp, another growl, a scratch against the wall, and—

Castlevania burned today in this bloody fight, on this bloody night. Its skin, its legs. Even its heart broke.

Castlevania. The thing that Vlad Tepes brought to life with a little bit of lightning, several gears, and a few words. No magic words, just words: the ones he spoke on lonely nights to the walls about how he’d like to be something more than ruthless.

Castlevania did everything it could. It lies burned and broken and unable to fight now because of it.

But none of that burned half as much as those scratches on its walls.

There have been many stories told about Dracula, and there will one day be more stories told about Dracula, books written, enough that one could fill libraries with just the retellings of his story. And Castlevania has no doubt that one day these scratches will be on their covers. This growl, these scratches are the signet of a vampire, of a monster: the disfigurement of his Castle, bloody intent directed at his son. The dark, the death, and the emptiness have overtaken completely. That is all a monster is, really. That is all he is now.

He marches into the Room, his cloak flowing, dipping and twirling in the broken wind. The sound of Alucard’s breathing fills the Room as he heaves against the bed.

Or maybe the breath is the Room’s own.

The Room has seen all that happened, it has been watching Castlevania beaten bloody till it could barely breathe, or see through the blood dripping down its face, let alone move. Castlevania could barely feel the comforting hands on it, the attempts to bandage the wounds, or at least stop the bleeding that it knew could only belong to the Room. Castlevania could barely hear the Room’s frantic, desperate calls to action, to get up, or just ask if it was okay. And now the Room stands, fists clenched at its sides. The Room wants to fight back. It will fight back.

The Room is not violent. From the very beginning it stood against all the violence, the dark, the empty, and the death. That was what it was made for, after all. As much as it would like to, it does not wrap its hand around Dracula’s throat, claws digging until it draws blood, and demand “How does it feel?! How does it feel to be on the receiving end?!”

The Room’s footsteps are soft as it comes up beside Dracula. It puts its hands over the king’s eyes and whispers in his ear, gently as it can:

“Remember me?”

Then, quietly as it came, it removes them, as if playing peekaboo, revealing that it was there the whole time, his eyes were just covered for a while.

It may as well have been removing scales, because Dracula freezes, his eyes wide, as if he’s seeing, not just the Room, but the whole world for the first in a long time—And he is. The first time with living eyes. And one sees things very differently with living eyes. And Castlevania was his world and it hopes he sees the world differently, for Castlevania is not a thing for him to beat and break. Just when Castlevania thought there was nothing left…there is something more than anger in his eyes now.

Dracula’s angry cloak quiets, falling docile at his feet: a sign of reverence towards the Room, and all it stands for.

Alucard, after allowing his breath to regain itself, looks up, his eyes widening too at his father. His father. No anger, no fear, not even determination now. Not in this Room. This Room is different. He remembers now: in the hush that has fallen across the world like freshly fallen snow, this is his father.

The Room kneels at it’s boy’s side, putting a hand on his shoulder feeling nothing but life and love, so much so it extends to the creature that created the scars on its throat, and on its boy’s chest.

“It’s okay. You can go to him now.” The Room says.

And it knows what that means.

It knows that sometimes peace comes at the price of war.

Dracula curls his hand, the one with the claw that just made marks on the walls that are written in stone, and will never be undone. Within the glow of the window, his reddened eyes too are no longer angry. For so long those eyes sat dormant, empty, and glazed in his skull and at last they contain something. The Room’s words have gotten through the glaze, shattered the glass.

“It’s your Room.”

It’s more than just a statement. He made a promise when he made this Room. This Room was to be his son’s Room. There would be no violence, not in this Room. Not ever. Not today in as much as not ten years ago. He will not hurt this Room. He will not dare touch it, for fear those claws will mark more than just the walls; that all the memories will come crashing down.

The words are not angry. They are not dark. They are not empty. They are not dead. They may seem dry, and stated, but they are dripping with such longing and loss it might fill the whole Castle.

The desk where Vlad taught Adrian of letters, and of numbers, and of the borders of the world. The wardrobe where Lisa dressed him up in fine clothes, and casual ones depending on the occasion—Dracula had so few special occasions to celebrate alone, they were a lovely thing. The bookshelf full of all the knowledge of immortals, and the stories of mortals. The carpet where the boy sat and played with his toys. The nightstand, still with a potion bottle upon it, and the cards of a game they’ve no doubt forgotten how to play, right where they left it long ago. The shelf above it with another bottle, and a tiny satchel of even tinier precious things, and a little toy lamb. The bed upon which Vlad and Lisa once sat and told stories, and sang lullabies, or else lay curled up next to him when the nightmares got too vicious to bear alone.

—(How many did he have to face alone?)—

And Castlevania can see them all. The father teaching his son to count, and to write. The mother running after her naked toddler, trying to convince him clothes really aren’t so bad. The careful pouring of the potions so they change color, or explode just right, the father smiling proudly when he gets the questions correct. The pride of the mother when her son won the game, and the way her husband said “again” like if they just played another round he would win this time. The boy playing with the lamb and the wolf; they they got along in his stories.

The control room never was Castlevania’s heart…was it?

Alucard stands—the motion fluid now—blue light caressing his face as he raises his eyes. Vlad too looks up. But they’re not looking at each other, or the Room, rather into the stars. Not the ones outside, the ones they painted—brushing paint upon each other’s noses, so long ago, and Castlevania can see that too—as if those stars hold all the bottled wishes of childhood. It always was crowning jewel of this Room.

Adrian’s eyes oscillate like perturbed waters, because he knows, he knows he’s about to lose it all. And yes, there’s a sort of childlike yearning in Adrian’s eyes, as if he’s wishing upon those stars that he didn’t have to do this, because he’d really rather find another way to spend this night.

The stars wipe the bloodstains off of Dracula’s eyes. The blood drains off the moon too, as if he is so powerful he can bid the sky to bleed.

His lips shake with long-forgotten words—(or maybe they were just buried, and not everything buried in a grave stays there)—and he holds his hands to his chest, if nothing else to stop them from hurting innocent boys and castles, and shuts his eyes.

“My boy.” The words are said like everything in him is breaking

And it is.

—(The control room never was Castlevania’s heart. Does that mean it never broke?)—

“I’m—I…” The word falls to the floor, so soft, like it’s the only apology he has to shed. “I’m… I’m killing my boy.” And the truth is so gentle and broken its almost more painful than all those punches to the walls.

He steps across the Room, and this time his footsteps are not foreboding, not marching nor stalking. They are soft. He is only walking. This boy is not his prey. Not in this Room.

He walks to the picture on the wall, the one called “Happy.”

Castlevania remembers the day they took it home. The painter really did do a good job, Lisa had said, and Castlevania agreed. Castlevania soon learned that even when they were not here, even when the boy was not small, even when they were not happy, that moment would still be captured upon the wall to return to any time they missed it. Long ago Dracula had no need of pictures and paintings. But those pictures have been everything to him, and everything left him, now that Lisa is gone. They are all the traces left of what they once were in this Castle. That picture—the one Dracula buried and tried to forget existed—that picture bottled happiness, and it gives Vlad back his happiness now. And it makes him so very sad.

“Lisa. I’m killing our boy.” Vlad says to the memory. “We painted this Room. We…made these toys.”

His eyes as they dart around the Room—to the books, to the basket with the wolf and the blocks—are glazed, but not in the same way as before, this time it is with memory, and that makes them more alive than ever, as are his words. And in that moment she is alive too, and he is Vlad, Lisa’s husband, and Adrian’s father.

“It’s our boy, Lisa.”

And then as he looks down his eyes are not glazed at all, rather they hold understanding. He understands what must be done.

Alucard’s foot pushes off the ground, bends the knee, stands, and, no, he is not Adrian, for there is a cracking, a cracking like lightning, a cracking like the world breaking.

And it is the most horrible sound either the Room or Castlevania have ever heard. More horrible than the squelching any heart Dracula ever ripped out. More horrible than the desperate pleas of his victims. More horrible than the cackles of his friends. More horrible than the crying of the child that Castlevania can still hear echoing through the Room.

—(The sound Castlevania hated so so long ago, and now longs for far more than anything else in the world, longs for that painting to swallow the universe and bring it to life again)—

Castlevania and the Room can both feel that sound like a thousand splinters and spider bites, like both of them shattering as if they were made of glass after all. Even the furniture here bleeds.

Vlad backs up, putting his hands over his face—Don’t hurt them, they don’t know what they’re doing—

—(Yet…he hurt them all. So much so he didn’t just disgrace her words, he tried to kill her gift, their son, her blood)—

“Your greatest gift to me. And I’m killing him.”

He lifts his hands from his face and looks into his son’s eyes, his own so alive, despite their glass, tilting his head to the side. Everything slow and gentle now. He is Vlad. He is Adrian’s father. Not the vampire king who put innocents on stakes. But they all know something happened to Vlad on the night Lisa died.

“I must already be dead.”

And Castlevania, burned and bleeding, understands. The final piece of the puzzle has been put into place. It has been dead too. It’s life, bound in red to its master, will break to the call of a stake. Because a reflection cannot exist without the thing it reflects.

Because…they are mortal.

That was the trade, all those years ago: immortality for mortality. Lisa would gain an immortal mind, and Dracula a mortal soul. He would teach Lisa the knowledge of immortals, the methods of healing that must be kept secret to live with a vampire like time held no grip on them. And she would teach him how to live as a man, how to travel as a man, how to care for his son, as a man, as a father. And in that moment his soul was bound to hers.

She brought the undeath in him to life, and Castlevania understands; only things that are alive can die.

It learned through Lisa, through Adrian, what it was to be alive. And it knew that undeath, while not death, is not life. Dracula was undead and his body could not die. But now that she brought him to life, he could die. His soul already died with her. He’s been rotting in an empty shell—no wonder Death could tie those puppet strings to him. That’s why the emptiness in him was so active; cold and dark and empty were only adjectives before, now they are nouns; he was emptiness, death, walking around. And that, too, is what Castlevania has become. It too is mortal. It didn’t die with her, but something in it ceased to tick when Dracula came back without a soul in his chest, and it knows, bruised and burned, broken, and bleeding that that stake in his son’s hand is calling them both.

You knew all along, didn’t you? Castlevania asks the Room, and there is no malice, no blame, there.

The Room jerks its head up to look at Castlevania, then its eyes soften and it grimaces. I hoped I was wrong. The Room replies softly. I…I hoped there was another way.

Alucard’s eyes hold some sympathy, some semblance of the boy they once knew, in fact rather too much, for both threaten to pour out of those eyes and stop all this. He doesn’t want to. But it’s too late for anything else.

Vlad eyes hold some semblance of the man they once knew, so much so they threaten to make him something more than ruthless, something that doesn’t deserve to die. He closes them tilting his head. He knows what must be done.

There is no anger in either of their eyes, no determination, not even resolve. Not anymore. Adrian wants to free his father in the only way he can.

A step forward, and this step has purpose, that stake is silently growling, drooling at his side as he stalks his prey. Another. Another. Like the beating of all their hearts, and the atmosphere is so silent that everything can only break.

And Dracula will not stop him, will not fight back. Not this time. Like all those times he let his son win, because even though he was more skilled at at the game, it was more satisfying to see Adrian smile.

He is not here to talk things out.

Alucard barely raises that stake—

A second horrible cracking, this one in flesh.

This time he aimed higher.

Dracula’s mouth fills with blood, it seeps through the cracks in his teeth. The blood from his chest drains down the stake—the broken piece of childhood—down his son’s arm, collecting on his elbow, and when it hits the carpet a burn begins to appear on the Room’s chest.

A grunt as Vlad leans forward, the blood dripping from his mouth to the floor—another angry gash upon the Room’s skin, and the Room is trying to pretend it’s okay, but it can’t hide the hurt in its eyes.

It knew what had to be done…but the violence goes against its nature.

His eyes fill with blood, but not from undead purpose. The moon is still clean. These are those bloody tears, the ones from the song earlier today. He is free, relieved…and he will never see his son again.

“Son.”

To remember the living, and those who will live on without him.

And the word is spoken very differently than it was earlier today. Then it was solid and hollow. Now it is ghostly, and so full it could hold all the world. Their world, at least.

This Room, this Castle, that word. They are their whole world.

And it is an honor to have been a world to such terrible, wonderful creatures.

“Father.”

To honor the dying, and what they once were while alive.

The word on Adrian’s tongue is the same, though more solid, more alive, and thus able to hold more pain. A faltering breath, a cracking forgiveness.

The word means something now, at the end, where before they were nothing more than titles. They are pleading with each other. They are bleeding with each other.

They don’t want to do this. They shouldn’t have to. It is far too cruel.

Mothers shouldn’t have to bury their daughters, and sons shouldn’t have to kill their fathers. It’s an unspoken rule of life.

But Alucard can’t stop there. He must finish this. The fire, the resolve regurgitates in his eyes, and he pushes harder, like with the magma ball, and, no, this cracking is worse, because Castlevania can feel it in its own chest now.

Castlevania can hear its master’s heartbeat, can feel it with the drops of blood dripping and sizzling on the floor, and it thinks it might just be its own heartbeat.

Alucard does not hate his father: there is pain on his face. But he cannot stop there.

He must end this war. And unlike those given with kisses to his forehead once, this goodnight is not gentle. Not this time.

He inhales,

closes his eyes,

and breaks his father’s chest.

That stake goes right through Castlevania, and something in it involuntary breaks.

The control room never was Castlevania’s heart. The destruction of the die was merely the amputation of both its legs, still bleeding out. This is a breaking, not of skin or bone, but of something deeper. It thinks this might just be what it feels like to cry.

And something happens in the breaking. A change of some sort. Castlevania isn’t quite sure what—pain and disorientation are the best of friends—all it knows is that the world is smaller now, and hurts less.

And as Castlevania’s heart breaks, the reflection in the painting shatters, the reflection of the bond between father and son severing with a stake.

The world is so much smaller now.

Dracula’s head jerks back and, eyes now seeing something other than this world.

Dracula is no ordinary vampire, so he does not die like an ordinary vampire. Rather than catching on fire, there’s just smoke and ash; his face drains, turning from ghostly pale to a charcoal, black without flame, before it really is ash, sliding off his face, his cloak like sludge.

There’s no orange, just the red stain, and the grey his life was marred of. Ash and smoke. The true undeath.

Alucard turns his face away, still holding the stake in place.

Dracula lifts up a hand, a skeleton hand, and Alucard turns to see the skin sloughing off around his ring. Though his spirit may have left, it seems his body won’t quite let go of this world; with mere bones Dracula reaches out, takes a step forward, as if to touch his face, to hold his son one last time, to catch the last embrace he was not afforded.

Adrian has shed that resolve, now he can do nothing but take slow and careful steps back away from the monster he has no sword or shield to fight. He the child again, the one who belonged in this Room, shying away. He is Adrian, the one who didn’t like the stories that were bloody. And in all the years the boy spent in this Room, the sheer fear in Adrian’s eyes as he looks up to see his father’s rotted face, with mouth agape, leaning bloodlessly towards him—an image that Castlevania fears will haunt him the rest of his days—is matchless.

Hurried footsteps at the door. The Speaker and the Belmont, at last, have made it to the show, though it seems they paid for only the final song. They step upon the threshold to see the rotting corpse of the king stepping towards his fearful, tearful price.

The Belmont draws his sword, and Dracula’s deflated head—the one that seemed so alive moments earlier—lies in a bloody pool on the floor. And as the neck bleeds and the Belmont watches the body fall to the floor, he isn’t sure if that was enough.

And Castlevania can’t feel its heartbeat anymore.

“Alucard. Step back.” Sypha’s voice is tempered. “Let me finish this.”

He does, the steps cautious and small, sorrow in his gaze. He holds the unbroken bedpost till his hand shakes.

Castlevania never liked children, the crying, the leaving, the guests, or being controlled.

But it did like Lisa. It did like Adrian. And—be it a sting—it did like the sunlight. And always and forever, it loved its master. A reflection cannot help but adore the thing it reflects. A creation cannot help but be a worshipper of its creator. A dream cannot help but revere its dreamer.

“You want me to.”

Smiling a little at how true the words were, in the end, Castlevania found it quite liked the relief.

Castlevania puts a hand on the Room’s cheek, smiling, and its mouth tastes less like blood now. It looks at the moon—bleeding no longer—and blue calm fills every part of it.

“What a wonderful night to have a curse.”

The Room stares at the castle, a little horrified by the sentiment.

“What…What should I do?” The Room stutters, fear and realization coating its words, for it knows what’s happening.

Castlevania smiles wider than ever, and its voice sounds softer; “The children.”

“What?”

“You should let them in. Any child who needs refuge. Along with as many guests as your master wants to welcome. And you should cry. Cry when you need to—and let your master cry too. Stay, but let him leave, if he must, knowing he will always come back. Let yourself be controlled at times, because sometimes that which feels the least right is the most right.”

“I—I don’t understand.”

“Be warm. Let the light in every window. Be full, and most of all, live. Can you do that for me?”

The Room holds onto the Castle to keep it from falling, tears already descending its cheeks.

“I—I will try.”

The Speaker lets the flame loose to eat the pieces, to engulf its master’s body in the fire he stared at all along, as if yearning for its embrace, creating a spiral of flame upon the circle in the carpet.

They were right to assume it wasn’t over, at least, because there are shapes in the flames; from the smoke and ashes rises a tower of skulls, a legion of spirits, more than a one king’s soul should hold. They’re all crying havoc, war, blood and pain from a yesterday long forgotten. Their smoke snuffs out the flame, blight covering the Room, blocking out the stars that so enraptured them earlier. Sypha and the Belmont cover their faces, but Alucard is unsurprised and undaunted by the darkness lurking in his father’s chest, and faces it without looking away. This darkness bursts out the window like a flower bloom, flows like a river out into the hall—the one cracked and bruising—flying over the war Room where the war resides no longer, and escapes into the night, fluttering, spiraling around Castlevania’s parapets like butterflies.

On the charred floor, the only thing left of the king is his wedding ring.

Castlevania sees the vampire king as he once was; young and restless. The skeletons eating stakes. Castlevania remembers what it once was: lightning, books, gears, and a few lonely words. It sees the woman with the knife at the door. It watches them build the Room. It watches the boy grow up into this beautiful thing.

Castlevania always wondered if it could breathe. It was never quite sure. The Room always seemed to possess a kind of life it never had; a life that hid in the breath.

“Take good care of him for me,” Castlevania murmurs to the Room.

“Have I ever failed you before?” The Room tries to smile, wiping its eyes.

As the sun rises over the hills, a single ray filters in through Castlevania’s window, touching it, filling every part of it, and for once it doesn’t sting.

And with the last sigh of the last ghost circling the parapets, Castlevania exhales its last breath.

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hizashis-lil-bunbun · 3 years

Text

Like a Moth to a Flame- Pt. 2

It’s been way too long since I’ve been motivated to work on this piece. But at last… at long last… part two is ready for takeoff! Once again I thank/blame @miscellaneous-bnha for inspiring this piece of monster fuckery (even though there’s no fuckery in this story… yet).

Enjoy!

Part 1

•••••

You become more distracted and nervous than usual over the next week or so. The slightest sound nearly makes you jump out of your skin and you keep making careless mistakes at work. Even your boss checks in with you to make sure you aren’t sick or losing your grip on reality. You assure him everything is fine and blame your poor performance and skittish nature on a made-up relative’s failing health. In truth, you can’t go for more than a few minutes without thinking about the blonde beast, his beautiful yet terrifying presence seeming to loom over you wherever you go. But you don’t dare tell any of your friends or coworkers about what you saw.

Who would believe you? At best, they’d think you were telling a bad joke and at worst they’d try to cart you off to the nearest mental hospital. So you keep your thoughts private, suffering in silence and staying up late to research who or what you saw that night.

And it's during one of your late-night Internet searches that you stumble across a forum dedicated to winged, humanoid creatures known as “mothmen.”

While the stories mainly originate from the Eastern United States, there have also been purported sightings as far as Japan. And though details may have varied slightly, the key features of the monsters always remain the same: massive height, glowing eyes, and of course the moth-like wings. You’d spent hours poring over your laptop that night, reading the information and accounts posted by other “mothman survivors.” Some stories were rather nice. One woman claimed the mothman she encountered was gentle, bordering on intelligent. She wrote about the gifts and trinkets it brought from time to time and it’s attempts at communication. But the majority were horrifying, with several people posting tales of the beasts attacking without provocation, leaving them injured and afraid. Someone even posted a picture of the deeply scarred claw marks on his chest and arms, claiming them to be the work of a particularly savage mothman. Regardless of their validity, one thing was for sure: the mothmen were unpredictable.

By the end of the second week, you’ve grown so desperate to stop the near constant waking nightmares that you decide to take a proactive approach to the matter. It’s a simple plan: set a trap, wait for the monster to reappear, and collect photo evidence. Even if it’s only to soothe your own self-doubts, you need to have definitive proof of its– of his existence.

On Friday night, you come home late from work, so late the sun has just barely set over the horizon. After a hot shower and a quick meal of instant noodles, you grab a shallow bowl from the cupboard and fill it with lukewarm water. One of the contributors to the website claimed that mothmen like sugar water, much like the insects they resemble. Another had proposed they might even enjoy the taste of cloth or fiber, but you weren’t about to sacrifice one of your favorite sweaters on a wild hunch.

You spoon in a generous amount of sugar into the bowl, mixing well to create a saccharine slurry before heading for the farthest living room window. Unlike the one you’d spotted the mothman from, this one is partially obscured by a rickety fire escape, the metal encrusted with decades worth of rust and snaking up the side of the building. Opening the window and leaning out of it, you place the dish of bait on one of the steps before hauling yourself back inside. You shut the window and settle yourself on the couch, a blanket and book in your lap and your phone’s camera at the ready. Hours tick by, the waning moon slowly creeping by in the night sky as you hold your silent vigil. As you wait in suffocating silence, you start to feel foolish and begin to think your “mothman” might have been nothing more than a product of an overactive imagination and one too many late nights in the office. Even with all your research, all you had to go by was a few wild stories posted by Internet strangers and a missing frying pan. You finally nod off around two in the morning, unable to keep your heavy eyelids open.

•••

WHAM!

A noise from outside jolts you awake from your spot on the couch, followed by the sound of creaking, groaning metal. The whole apartment seems to shake and an unearthly screech accompanies the final creak as you hear the fire escape give way before clattering into the alleyway. Other tenants on all floors start opening their windows and doors, shouting and swearing about the noise and the landlord “not keeping this shithole up to code.” It’s utter chaos for a few minutes and then silence falls once more, your neighbors still grumbling as they retreat back into their homes. You scramble off the couch and to the window, gazing into the alley for any sign of life. The moon isn’t as bright as last time, but you can just barely make out the mangled remains of the fire escape and the faintest glimpse of gold. Throwing caution to the wind, you grab a well-worn hoodie, your phone, and the kitchen knife. You make your way down the three flights of stairs to the alley door, opening it cautiously should you encounter an angry cryptid on the other side. But there’s no one there, so you take a deep breath and head out into the apocalyptic looking alley. Metal is strewn everywhere, with part of the railing still clinging to the side of the building like a deranged centipede. Snapped metal bars jut out at odd angles, creating a maze of twisted, rusty spikes and sharp edges. You slowly pick your way over and around the wreckage, using your phone’s flashlight as a guide so you don’t end up tripping and accidentally impaling yourself.

“Hello?” You call into the darkness, “Mothman? A-are you there?”

Your call is rewarded with a shuddering groan and the sounds of scraping metal. You shine your light on the biggest tangle of steel, watching as something large moves underneath it. The pile of metal shifts upwards and falls away, while a large, dark figure rises from the shadows. They’re silhouetted against the dim moonlight but just as intimidating as before, hunching over as the appendages on their back shake and rustle. You turn the flashlight on and find yourself looking into a familiar pair of glassy, blue eyes. The mothman stares back at you, folding his wings against his back and cocking his handsome head from side to side.

“You- you’re real.” You breathe, feeling your heart jump into your throat as you surreptitiously pull up your phone’s camera. The monster chitters in response as he sniffs at the air, stepping over a piece of rusted debris to get closer to you. You quickly snap and picture... and the alley is suddenly lit up with blinding light.

You’d forgotten to turn off the flash!

The mothman blinks in response and lets out a groan, shaking his head and squeezing his eyes shut. You drop your phone and crouch down, knife forgotten as you cover your head with your hands and prepare for him to lash out. But no claws come to tear at your flesh nor are there any angry roars or shrieks. Instead the beast starts to emit low, rumbling noise, like a growl but far less sinister. You hear metal being dragged across the concrete followed by the sound of heavy footfalls. You cautiously open one eye to see a pair of clawed feet and muscular calves, only to squeak in alarm when his face abruptly appears in your field of vision. You fall backwards in surprise, landing heavily on your rump while the mothman squats mere inches from you. His eyes are fixed on the ground, gently running his nails over the now cracked screen of your upturned phone. Even in the dim lighting you can see his curious, wide-eyed expression and it suddenly dawns on you what that noise he’s making is: he’s purring. Or near enough to it.

“W-What do you want?”

The monster looks up when you speak, cocking his head slightly before turning back to paw at the phone once more. He’s more insistent this time, his swipes becoming bolder as the phone scratches across the concrete. He gives the device a few well-placed taps before making eye contact once more, his brow furrowed as he briefly switches from purring to a chittering cry. With a gulp, you gingerly set down the blade, reach across your body and flip the phone over, the still lit flashlight illuminating the alley once more. The beast’s eye’s blow even wider, enchanted by the light shining upwards into the starry sky. You sit in silence for a few seconds, the only sounds are your heavy breathing and the guttural purrs coming from the mesmerized mothman. As your heart rate slows, you begin to notice more intimate details about the creature before you.

For one, his wings are covered in the same fur that rings his neck and, though it’s shorter and more fine, they look just as soft.

Second, he’s incredibly warm. A steady heat rolls off his body in waves that seem a stark contrast to what one might expect from a bug-centric cryptid.

But most noticeable of all is his smell.

It’s not a bad smell by any means; in fact, it’s downright pleasant. The odor is a cross between lemonade and petrichor, a soothing blend of sweet citrus and earthy musk. You find yourself unconsciously breathing more through your nose, feeling lightheaded as his scent floods your senses and making you relax into the cold pavement. As your eyes lazily drift over his naked form you see he’s holding something in his other hand, protectively clutching it against his chest. You tilt your head to get a better view, the subtle movement getting the monster’s attention and causing him to drag his eyes away from the light and focus on you again.

“What’s that?” You ask softly, almost dreamily, and point to his chest. The mothman’s eyes follow your finger down to his right hand, pulling it away to reveal your (still remarkably intact) bowl. It’s largely empty of its contents, but some of the sugar water has stuck to his fur and cooled into sweet, matted clumps. He squeaks at the sight of it, almost like he’d forgotten about the bait and dives into it to eagerly lap at the ceramic bottom. When it fails to yield anything substantial he huffs and turns his attention to his dirtied mane. He dips his head as a long, pink tongue slithers out of his mouth and curls around the largest tangle, laving over the sugar-crusted mat before quickly retreating. He chitters in satisfaction at the taste, barely glancing up at you before diving back down for more.

“So you do like sugar.” You mutter under your breath, a small chuckle bubbling up in your chest on the exhale. The mothman pays you no mind, too engrossed in his work to notice how you shift your body into a more comfortable sitting position to watch. After a few minutes, the creature stops licking at himself and looks back up at you, eyes still wide and expression almost curious as he cocks his head to the side once more. Tentatively shifting his weight forward, he extends the empty bowl to you.

“I don’t have any more.” You whisper softly, confused yet intrigued by his gentle actions. The mothman grunts and takes another shuffling step, hand still outstretched and his brow softly furrowing. He seems insistent, almost annoyed that you won’t accept his generous offer. Not wanting to anger him, you gingerly extend your own right hand, pinching the rim of the bowl between thumb and forefinger before carefully pulling it from his grip. Holding the bowl against your own chest, you take a stab at what he wants from you and raise the ceramic dish to your lips to give a noisy, pretend slurp. You feel like an adult humoring a child in a game of “tea party,” offering him a cheesy smile and an “mmm” of satisfaction as you pull the empty bowl away from your face. The creature’s own face splits in a too-wide grin, wings flapping excitedly and chittering happily at your display. A quiet gasp is ripped from you throat as you finally get a good look at his teeth.

They’re practically perfect; two rows of pearly white, blunted incisors frames by sharpened, too-long canines on either end. And the smile he’s giving you is nothing short of exuberant, beaming like a drop of sunshine made incarnate. You find yourself returning his smile with a genuine one of your own, amazingly unafraid in the face of this otherwise inhuman beast. But your relief is short-lived as the monster suddenly shifts onto his knees and bounds towards you on all fours.

“Woah, woah, woah!” You squeak, scrabbling backwards and nearly skewering yourself on a jagged piece of wreckage in an attempt to get away. “Take it easy! Down, boy!”

The mothman stops with his face mere inches from yours, clawed hands planted on either side of your hips and still grinning from ear to ear. Carefully, he lowers his golden head to rest against your left shoulder, nuzzling into the sensitive flesh and purring softly in your ear. It’s an act of unbelievable tenderness, of affection, and it stirs something deep within your jackhammering heart. Moving slowly so as to not startle him, you relinquish your hold on the empty bowl and raise your right hand to his head, gently placing it against his temple. At the feeling of your fingers in his hair, the creature freezes for a second and you suck in a quick breath, prepared to pay the price for your boldness. But simply leans further into your touch, closing his eyes contentedly and pushing against your palm like an obedient pet as his purring reaches a fever pitch.

“Good… good boy.” You exhale slowly, thumb brushing across the apple of his surprisingly warm cheek. “That’s a good boy.”

You stay locked together for what feels like ages, the only sounds your own heavy breathing and the monster’s soft purrs of pleasure as you stroke him. Finally you finds your voice again and you softly stammer out, “Do you– do you have a name?”

His eyes open slightly at your question, briefly raising his head with a small chirp. Removing your hand from his face, you splay your palm across your chest and give it two quick pats.

“Y/N.” You say slowly, enunciating each syllable, “I’m Y/N.”

The creature cocks his head for a second and pulls away from you to get into a kneeling position. You pat your chest and repeat yourself once more. The mothman then takes one of his own massive paws and places it on his own chest, mirroring your movements.

“M-Mir…” He chokes out, voice raspy but surprisingly human, like he hasn’t used it in a long time. “Mir… io. Mirio.”

“Mirio?”

Hearing his name fall from your lips elicits another bright smile from the mothman, wings giving a single flap as he curls his hand into a fist atop his sternum.

“Mirio!” He says more boldly, giving his chest two hearty thumps for emphasis.

“Mirio.” You repeat softly, “That’s a nice name.”

His eyes soften at your words, almost as if he understood the compliment. He opens his mouth once more, but before he can speak, a new voice cuts through the night air.

“Hey! What’s going on over there?”

You whip your head towards the source of the noise, moments before you feel a rush of cold air accompanied by a sharp hiss. Someone is picking their way through the wreckage to your location, their own flashlight sweeping over the heaps of rusted metal until it lands on your startled face. Squinting into the light, you can barely make out the silhouette of a man and you feel a bolt of panic shoot through you. You turn back to face Mirio only to find him gone.

“Mirio?” You speak into the darkness, as if uttering the word might make him reappear. But there’s only empty space and silence, punctuated by the heavy footfalls of the stranger coming ever closer to you. It’s only when he’s within a few feet that you can make out the telltale flash of gold on his chest: an officer’s badge.

“Are you alright?” The man asks of you, still shining the flashlight directly into your face. “Are you hurt?”

“Huh? Oh! Yes. I’m fine, sir.”

“Are you sure?” The officer asks quizzically, extending a hand for you to take. You graciously accept his offer, retrieving the forgotten bowl and phone from the concrete with your free hand before hauling yourself back onto your feet.

“Y-yes I’m sure.” You stammer out, “I just, uh… I heard a noise outside my apartment and came to investigate.”

“Awfully late to be investigating strange noises in an alley.” He says incredulously, cocking one eyebrow and shining his light over the ruined fire escape at his feet for emphasis. “Especially in this part of town.”

His light catches on something glinting at your feet and your eyes follow it to land on the forgotten kitchen knife on the ground. His own eyes snap back to you and narrow suspiciously, free hand slowly moving towards the holster resting against his hip.

“Are you alone out here?”

“Yes, sir!” You squeak back automatically, “I swear it’s just me. I live in this apartment complex.”

You gesture to the brick-fronted side of the building to your right as proof of your innocence, praying to all the powers that be that he buys your story. The officer narrows his eyes at you, muttering a quiet, “Huh. Could’ve sworn I saw someone…” before clearing his throat and straightening his posture.

“Well in any case, you should probably head inside now, miss. There have been reports of criminal activity in the area as of late and I wouldn’t want you getting hurt. What with all this rusty metal lying around.”

“Yeah, no use getting a tetanus shot over nothing!” You say jokingly, giving a nervous chuckle as the officer nods solemnly. You don’t dare go to pick up the knife, deciding it’s better to lose another kitchen utensil than land yourself in any more hot water. With a few more parting words, and a declined offer to let him walk you back home, you quickly skirt around the remains of the fire escape and into the safety of the stairwell door. Your mind and heart are racing as you plod up the stairs to the third floor, buzzing with questions without answers as you finally enter and lock the door to your one-bedroom sanctuary. Exhaling a breath you don’t know you were holding, you walk silent over to the living room windows and cast a final glance into the alleyway below. You can see the officer’s flashlight bobbing along as he makes his way around the scattered remains of the fire escape, only to switch off once he reaches the end of the alleyway and resumes his patrol of the neighborhood. But you still wait by the window for a few more minutes, wondering (and perhaps hoping) if you’d catch a final glimpse of flaxen hair or hear the steady beat of wings.

Silence reigns above all, the soft glow of the moon your only companion now.

With a heavy sigh, you peel your eyes away from the wreckage and plod off to your bedroom, stripping off your hoodie and sweatpants as you go. Curling up under the covers, you grab the pillow closest to you and hug it to your chest. If you close your eyes, you can almost believe you can still feel the warmth of his face on your neck, or smell the aroma of him lingering on your skin.

“I hope you’re alright… Mirio.”

#bnha mothman au #mothmanmirio #mothrio #togata mirio x reader #mirio x reader #mha #bnha x reader #mha x reader #bnha #like a moth to a flame

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ganymedesclock · 4 years

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outta curiosity, why do you think the bugs are human-y sized? i've seen that portrayal fairly often in fandom, but it never occurred to me during my own playthrough b/c of things like the weapons all being things like "Nails" and "Needles" (plus Cloth's huge fang club) which feel... like they're supposed to /seem/ small, if that makes sense.

Kind of a complicated web of reasons, some in-universe, some out.

The first thing I’m going to say is that I agree with you in that there is something that “feels small” about Hollow Knight’s world. When a friend of mine, @betterbemeta played the game, they spoke a bit about a “microscopic aesthetic” that they chalked to things like the amount of detail in the backgrounds. At the size we’re used to seeing the world, dirt is just dirt. From an insect’s eye view, however, individual grains are visible to a much greater degree.

This very granular nature fills the world. Nothing has the anonymity of just being dirt- it’s all shells or fossils or bits of stone and sand and glass. Our relationship with the world is intimate. We are shown spaces and the vastness of them looms, daunts. So I don’t for a second resent the impression that the scale of the world “feels small”.

What does bug me, if you’ll pardon the pun, is trying to add humans into this world as some kind of vast upper limit. Because while they wield pins and needles, nails and shears... these are not scavenged objects. This is not Pikmin. The nail is called such, but it is never a nail as we would recognize, designed to be hammered into an object. The bugs of Hallownest mine materials, and forge them into shapes that are engineered and worked artistically. The Nailsmith has spent much of his life obsessively honing his craft.

It feels arrogant, when there is no human presence in the game, to automatically slot us in an imagined supergiant slot that would trivialize the game and everything narratively important about it. It feels even more arrogant to suggest an independent culture that never shows any evidence of being dependent on humans is whimsically plucking our door nails for funny little bug sword duels, rather than that they have a culture of forging and carving their own weapons, tailored to their needs, without “divine inspiration” from anything bigger than it except its gods, which are themselves entities not in the likeness or shape of humans.

For me, I feel like it operates much better to presume Hollow Knight’s world is comparable to Nausicaa’s- it is a land of giants, rather than a land of the diminutive. A world that, if we or creatures like us were walking them, we would walk alongside Ghost, these same roads and highways, and would have this same experience of being dwarfed by the vastness of the space. I feel like if you really want to imagine humans in this world, either explicitly or for a sense of scale- we’d be on the level of the setting’s bugfolk.

Another thing worth noting is that this world is also very alien. Far moreso than, say, Pikmin, a game that does feature tiny aliens on a post-apocalyptic earth, where we can recognize much of the world and its shape even if the creatures now inhabiting it are strange. In Hollow Knight, the world is strange in its beauty and savagery. It’s really not like ours. The larger things get, the weirder they get. There’s almost no indication of mammalian life, or even, besides the bug-people having some recognizable species among them like moths, butterflies, cicadas, bees- creatures that we recognize. God Tamer is either an ant or a cockroach most likely, but her steed was originally conceptualized as a lobster- and it is an eight-eyed, quadrupedal creature with a filter-feeder mouth, large horns, an expanding translucent dewlap and neither claws nor long tail to speak of, so Team Cherry has actively avoided putting “normal creatures” in there.

This setting has a particular logic about creatures. Everything is translated through that lens, so things we would recognize come out distinctly different, and the general thrust is ‘more like a bug’. So to me, that precludes the intrigue of humans, because we have what humans would look like, with concession made to these strange rules.

They’re the characters we already see and interact with.

I dislike the idea of towering humans, because to me, the sapient bugs of Hallownest so clearly are the humans. I feel like this is a world on a divergent planet. There’s no apes for humans to come from, or monkeys to grow into apes, or even mammals for monkeys to come from- everything is bugs, so the sapient creatures come from bugs. Quirrel, in the prequel comic, even briefly holds a much smaller crawling insect and muses how it and he have similar shells, and, yet, are fundamentally dissimilar creatures. Another narrative could very easily transcribe a similar moment between a human researcher and an orangutan he spots in the bushes.

So this compels me to, in crossover contexts, put the bugs as close to humans. I feel like this is a beautifully constructed and deeply alien world, and there’s so little to gain and so much to carelessly bulldoze by adding in a sense of scale that allows us to just ignore so much of the strangeness and force our own ordinary world over it. I don’t have this problem putting in other giant or strange forces in the setting- I’d be super up to colossal forests of giant trees as a level or scene in a fanwork, for example.

But I guess that’s what turns me off of a lot of things like the bug tank AUs- the humans’ presence and society feels like a way to not just put what’s familiar to us in there, but in such a way that invalidates the refreshing novelty of the world around it. There’s no stated upper limit to Radiance’s powers- there’s nothing she can’t infect merely because it’s too large. So putting her in a glass tank wouldn’t negate her. If it was that easy to stop her, PK wouldn’t be driven to desperation and have committed a staggering amount of esoteric sin on his own children trying to find a way. It immediately undermines character plots and motivations.

Suggesting that the bugs are living borrower-style among humans and making use of their technology, likewise, cheapens the plot of the Nailsmith and his obsession, one that is shared by many, or, in the Silksong demo, Forge-Daughter’s “ancient line and honored role”.

Now, I have seen borrower-style stories and loved them! I was massively obsessed with the movie 9 when it came out, which featured tiny cloth dolls (the largest of them could be held easily in one hand by a human) surviving in an apocalyptic wasteland, and they utilized pieces of human technology cobbled together into ingenious new forms. But the thing about Hollow Knight, is it is not that world. Some weapons are large, almost oversized for their wielders- but they were still built with those wielders in mind, by other bugs, using designs developed by bugs.

Cloth’s club doesn’t really refute this by being a tooth broken from a larger creature, either- the temple of the black egg is made either from, or in the likeness of, the hollowed shell of a truly gargantuan creature.

This world has some very big things. I feel like thinking of humans as ‘the giants’ in this setting vastly underestimates the world. That somewhere in Cloth’s journey- and somewhere accessible to the kingdoms’ guards that became Husk Guards- there were vast cadavers with teeth that could be harvested is explained handily on its own by the idea that this is a world partially populated by giants- giants that play by the same lovely arthropod sensibilities of the more regular-sized denizens.

Another exciting thing worth noting is that there are ribs and spines all over this world! If these guys were truly on the scale of ordinary bugs, they wouldn’t need them- their exoskeletons would do all the supporting for them. But these guys are big enough to need at least vestigial endoskeletons. The implications of the remains that we see don’t exactly show us arm or leg bones, but rather intact limb exoskeletons. So these guys would have more complicated organs and more bones, that a bigger creature would need, but something the size of a realistic our-world ant would not.

#Hollow Knight #Silksong #readmore #thethrillof

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yukisohmasmokesweed · 4 years

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Hi! I know you don't like Kureno very much and it's totally understandable given his character!! but if ever, what sort of plot amendments or story rewrite will u give for him or u have in mind in order for him to be at least more tolerable for you? I hope this question is not very offensive for you. I like your blog and how you run it!!

not offensive at all!! i dont like kureno very much but i do think he’s pretty interesting (or, that he has the potential to be). plus i don’t mind discussing characters i dislike since i usually dislike them for a reason lol!

this is hard because i think kureno’s biggest detriment is his relationship with uo, but that’s what connects him to the rest of the cast and it’s also his motivation to do his one plot-relevant thing (reveal to tohru that his curse is broken/akito’s gender). so he would still need a person who could be his insight into the outside world to make him realize that the life he chose for himself is not fulfilling and that he should do something about it. it helps that uo ties him to tohru, but seeing that he has met tohru before and he knows her affect on the other zodiacs, i’m not sure it’s completely necessary.

i think instead of a romance arc it would be more interesting to delve into why kureno acts the way he does. i always call him boring, and it’s because he is, but i also think it’s a mob situation where he’s repressing his personality so that he draws as little attention to himself as possible/so he doesn’t have to Feel his Feelings that might start conflict. he’s meant to parallel yuki in a lot of ways, and it would be interesting to contrast yuki’s desperate wanting for himself and him clawing his way out of the sohma cage for any amount of autonomy with kureno actively deciding to numb his desires completely and trap himself inside for someone else’s sake in a deeper and more personal way. instead of realizing that the only way to be with the person he loves is to leave the sohmas, he could realize (like yuki) that his life has intrinsic value and that his expected servitude to the family is wrong and should have never happened in the first place. of course he’s so deeply entrenched in the inner sohmas that there’s nothing much he can do about it, and would go about things the same way, revealing information to tohru in hopes that it will make a difference.

the way that he comes to this conclusion is where i’m stumped though. i get what takaya was doing by giving him a love interest in the main cast because it makes the audience care about it more, so that’s why i’m a bit stuck, because there’s no one really in the cast that would make sense for him as a love interest. he could get the tohru inspirational speech treatment like the other zodiacs, but i don’t think that alone would convince him to let go of a secret he’s been holding for ten years. maybe if he was exposed to the other zodiacs more and saw how much their lives have improved since they’ve begun making outside connections and realizing that sitting on this information will harm them even more as time goes on....but even so, kureno wasn’t motivated after all that shit went down with hatori, rin, and kisa so!

i think i also mentioned in a previous post that if we wanted to do a Takaya Everyone Knows Each OtherTM thing, he could be connected to kyoko or maybe even katsuya in the past and when he meets tohru, she reminds him of them, plus he can see how much she loves the sohmas and i think that would be a decent motivator. i hate stuff like that but it’s very takaya-like lol but everyone knows kyoko so i guess it wouldnt be too out of left field if he had a random chance encounter with katsuya and tohru’s speech pattern gives him a blast to the past and a bunch of empathy.

this is a hard question! because kureno has so little screentime and so much of his arc revolves around his romance, it would end up being a completely different thing. but in general i guess i would want to exchange the romance arc with an arc focusing more on his emotional development and having his eyes opened to the possibility of a life outside through realizing his life has value and that he should have autonomy over it.

#meta???#Anonymous #takes a huge bong rip #ask

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thesaurusfr · 4 years

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Ladies, gentleman, and non-binary nobility, Midnight’s bio! The headshot was done by @torch on fr!

As you can see, it’s not totally finished, but I am done with his lore! I’ll post the full, non-screenshot version of it below:

Before his mysterious disappearance, Midnight was known throughout Sornieth for his musical talent. The Wildclaw begun showing his aptitude for rhythm at a young age, spending much of his time as a hatchling tapping rocks against the walls of his cavernous home to create sounds and patterns of repetition that had a strange, hollow beauty.

It was when one of his clan mates brought home an enchanted viola that they had found on a hunt that Midnight really got a chance to shine. After a few days of admiring the instrument, studying it's curves and carvings, and finally daring to lay a claw on it's strings, Midnight discovered that the Viola was not enchanted, but haunted, possessed by a silent spirit that could draw haunting melodies from it's polished wooded home. Although they could not communicate through words, they learned to speak to each other through the language of music, and before long the Viola's spirit began to take a liking to the young dragon. Under the haunter's tutelage, Midnight's gift thrived, and simple talent was soon accompanied by careful technique and practiced skill.

His mastery of the viola soon allowed him to rise to prominence within his birth clan, but that didn't satisfy him, and as soon as he could, he set off into the world. Everywhere he went, he enchanted people with his ghostly melodies, and in return for his songs, he asked to be presented with whatever instrument was most prominent in the local area. Although the viola would always be his weapon of choice, Midnight began to master other instruments as well, becoming highly skilled in a variety of musical styles. His musical skill, now capable of fitting whatever instrument and genre the listener liked best, was soon in high demand, and wealthy clans began to pay him large sums of money to compose and preform pieces suited exactly to their tastes. With each job, his fame grew, which only further fed his bank account.

When Midnight became wealthy enough to stop taking every job that came along, he stopped catering to the musical appetites of others and started feeding his own. He'd present these compositions in grand stadiums, to sold out crowds who packed the seats, excited to hear the famed musician finally play from the heart - but more often than not, they were left...disturbed. Amazed at his skill and the beauty of his music, yes, but still disturbed. Something was odd about his compositions - something dark and very, very strange. Still, although it was off putting to some, many praised him as a genius, and he played to a full house every time.

When there were no more instruments left to master, and when even his own haunting music couldn't still his restless soul, he set himself upon his greatest challenge yet - to create an instrument of his very own, something to speak the words that he could not, that would capture the ghastly depths of the universe itself. He stopped all public appearances indefinitely, and threw all of his vast wealth behind the mission, leaving his lavish home in the Windswept Plateau in favor of a custom built lab deep within the Starwood Strand, which he filled with a team of skilled craftsman and talented mages to aid him in his mission.

He never re-emerged, and no one on the development team was ever seen again. When search teams tried to locate the laboratory, they found nothing but an empty clearing where the building had once been.

No one really knows what happened, but it was rumored that, inspired by his dear familiar, Midnight attempted to build his new instrument to harness the magical currents of the astral plane, and the strange creatures that lived within. Some dragons whisper of a letter, sent by a member of the research staff before the laboratory's disappearance, that told a frightening story of an obsessed musician slowly losing his mind, pushing his staff to dig farther and farther into the magical void until finally, they reached something that could not be controlled. Some even say that the fabled instrument was completed, a strange and beautiful machine that manipulated the currents of reality itself to create it's ghastly sound. These whisperers tell of a first and final concert, a night when, after the device was finally ready, the virtuoso channeled the madness that had festered and flourished within his mind into one great and terrible melody, wiping the development center and everyone in it from the face of the earth and, if the stories are true, awaking something within the darkness that should never have been disturbed.

I had a lot of fun with this! I VERY LOOSELY of based Midnight on Leon Theremin, with the theremin being the instrument he creates at the end of his lore. I tried to write his bio in a more biographical style, as if it were written by an outsider giving a brief summary of Midnight’s life and accomplishments to the reader - however, this resulted in some stuff being lost, as, logically, the narrator wouldn’t know Midnight’s true feelings and motivations. This isn’t really a problem until the end of Midnight’s story.

The reason Midnight begins creating his instrument is not out of boredom or a desire to better his art, but out of fear. Midnight is terrified of death, and using his music to gain acclaim was his way of coping with that - he was very attached to the idea that he would “live on” through his music. However, when there was a lull in the constant cycle of education and composition that he immersed himself in, he realized that his ART, his LEGACY, his NAME would be what was remembered, NOT HIM. Not really. Midnight, the person (dragon) would be forgotten, idolized and therefore dehumanized, and his legacy would keep him about as alive as a marble sculpture - sure it looks pretty, but it’s really just a cold, inanimate hunk of stone. These existential musings made him desperate for a way to keep himself alive, and so, inspired by his familiar, he began looking for a way to put his soul in an object.

He’s an arrogant dragon, so of course, he couldn’t just find some spell to link his soul to any old junk that was lying around - no, he had to have the perfect vessel, and one that would grant him more autonomy than a normal possessed object - one that would grant him power. Hence, the device. The final concert WAS meant to destroy his physical form, but only that - not the rest of the lab. See, he was meddling with forces he didn’t really understand, and this outpouring of music and power and insanity into the void caught the attention of something that you probably don’t want interested in you. So when he woke up after playing the song, he didn’t find himself as an instrument, but he DID find himself with another, more...interesting way of keeping himself alive.

#flight rising #flight rising lore #flight rising g1

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beatrix-wright · 5 years

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‘JOKER’ drove at 100 kilometres per hour in peak traffic while I was tied to the passenger’s seat

This will have spoilers for Joker in it, but I will not synopsise the film. Most of this will be about my experience watching Joker rather than the story of the film itself. I greatly appreciate anyone who takes the time to read this.

Joker, directed by Todd Phillips, starring Joaquin Phoenix, wasn’t what I expected…

That’s both good and bad. I have praise, undoubtedly. I don’t think it was a bad film by any means, but I also want to say up front that I don’t think I’m ever going to watch it again. At least not for a very long time.

I have seen a number of Todd Phillips’ films, through many unhappy mistakes. Frankly, I wasn’t expecting much of the cinematography, but really, Phillips knocked it out of the park in some sections. The movie has high and low parts in this category, but overall, regardless of what was happening on screen, Phillips has tried his best to make it as visually appealing as possible. Certain shots, zooms and camera movements perfectly encapsulated the emotion of the scene or of the characters and it really helped immerse viewers. This film unquestionably has a beating, feeling-driven heart. Although its a weak pulse that many would miss if not invested, it’s there, trying desperately to claw its way out from under the vicious and cool exterior that the film puts up. If Phillips and Scott Silver, the other writer on board the project, had the poise to take the film that direction, I truly believe that it could have been a meaningful, heartfelt tragedy. But we’ll get to that later.

Something else many people have applauded in Joker is Joaquin Phoenix’s performance, and they’re right. Phoenix, while not the first to play Batman’s most iconic villain by any stretch of the imagination, has made it his own in a way that works for the tone and message of the film. Joaquin Phoenix’s passion for this project comes through so clearly in his portrayal of Arthur Fleck/Joker. There’s a humanity and empathy that Phoenix manages to build in the beginning of the film that is missing from most portrayals where the Joker is only a raving lunatic. The only time I’ve seen anything similar for the character is in Alan Moore’s The Killing Joke, which was an inspiration for the film, but even that isn’t quite as authentic as the show given to us in Joker. The heart that Phillips emphasises wouldn’t be present without Phoenix. Joaquin Phoenix really was the best part of this film and I cannot commend him enough for the tastefulness he tried to bring to the project. His portrayal of Arthur Fleck’s mental illness is really nothing to be sneezed at, which brings me to my next point.

Joker has an almost truthful, although greatly exaggerated, portrayal of mental illness, something that surprised me while watching in the theatre. I have personally dealt with depression and anxiety and found many aspects of Arthur Fleck in the beginning to be somewhat relatable. Truly, this exploration of mental illness wasn’t something I’d seen before. While Fleck’s diagnosis is not not disclosed, simple sentiments such as “I just don’t want to feel so bad anymore” really hit home and yet again Phoenix’s delivery helped to bring genuineness that wouldn’t have been there otherwise. Many other minor things that I don’t have the time to go through really sold me on the character and the performance, and Arthur Fleck truly came alive for me and the others in the cinema. The film also establishes Fleck’s laugh as a signal for when he’s feeling depressed, lonely, anxious or anything of the like and it helps to guide the viewer through the confusing reality of mental illness. Laughter, too, helps myself and many others cope with our mental illness. I find it hard to be frank about how I’m feeling without turning it into a joke of some sort. It was odd watching a film about a well-known villain and sharing a number of experiences with him, knowing of his sheer insanity from other forums. But this was what really made the first section of this film so compelling.

My praise for Joker stops here, however.

Joker has been described as “dangerous”, but I don’t think dangerous is the correct description. Joker, in the best way I can possibly put it concisely, is ill-conceived, tactless and lacking awareness. It’s a bit like driving recklessly through peak hour traffic. For some people it might be enjoyable but to many, it is generally considered poorly thought out and foolish. And oh boy, oh boy, does Joker take you for a ride. For a film that initially seemed to somewhat understand mental illness, it falls flat on its face as it proceeds to blame Arthur Fleck’s mental health problems for his violence. This isn’t to say that some people who have mental illnesses can’t be a danger to others and themselves but the sheer standardness of Fleck’s symptoms at the beginning compared to his shocking acts of cruelty later left a bad taste in my mouth and I found myself thinking ‘I’m not a time bomb’ over and over at certain sections of the film. Stigma against people with mental illnesses permeates the story and I don’t think even Joaquin Phoenix, for all of his ingenuity in playing this character, could escape the demonisation of this group of people.

I’ve seen Joker interpreted as a “cautionary tale” about how “society’s ignorance of those who are less fortunate will create a person like the Joker”, but if it really wanted to be that, Todd Phillips and Scott Silver have missed the mark by a longshot. The message ends up garbled, and comes through more strongly as ‘If we, as a society, don’t watch out for mentally ill people, we may have a real life Joker on our hands’. Despite acting like someone who thinks he knows what’s best for society, Todd Phillips can hardly bring his message about it across properly in his own film. Most of us with mental illnesses aren’t going to suddenly snap and go on a killing spree, but Joker supports the opposite and isn’t particularly concerned for the damage it might bring to mentally ill people.

Like I said, I enjoyed the accuracy of Arthur Fleck’s mental illness but the rest of the film misses something that the beginning had: taste. I support the pushing of boundaries in film. I think it is very important to test the limit and explore new concepts and ideas no matter what. But it needs to be done well, and Phillips, who doesn’t have much experience with serious and poignant cinema needs to steady his aim before firing off a film like this. Many may decry me as a softy who can’t handle serious, disturbing or confronting films, but that is simply not the case. I just propose that if you’re going to be all that, you might as well do it properly. One such confronting film is Blue Velvet (1986, dir. David Lynch) which handles a variety of heavy topics. Lynch, in contrast to Phillips, however, wove his story delicately, creating a tasteful and seriously disturbing film that is still considered one of the greatest of all time to this day. When I got into the first act, I was deeply hoping that Joker would be something like that. It held so much promise and I genuinely think the beginning is magnificent as well as certain sections throughout. Again, this isn’t a bad film at all. I just believe it mishandled some of its ideas in a way that could be potentially damaging.

Something else I find to be an issue is the view of the Joker as a hero by real people. Arthur Fleck’s drive is largely based around his mistreatment. I personally really love complex villain who have relatable incentives, but the difference is that the Joker as a character is already idolised by a number of less-than-brilliant groups. The Joker has sympathetic motivations and while he absolutely turns into a villain he’s still framed as somewhat correct in these views which turns into a larger problem when narcissists who feel they are down on their luck identify with the Joker and use their misfortune to justify terrible actions against others. While for Fleck, it’s his poverty and mental illness, for some real people it can be something like not getting a girlfriend or having people of colour “invade their country”. To most people who watch Joker, it could seem absurd how this film would encourage violence but as someone who could relate to Arthur Fleck initially, I can easily see how someone with something more wrong with them than just mental illness could identify with him throughout the film. Because it isn’t just mental illness that creates mass murderers and serial killers. Its something far more deep-seated and vile. An ingrained dismissal for the value of human life. The pit that Joker needed to dig itself out of was that of misanthropic reddit pages and 4chan posts. It would have been hard, but frankly the film did itself no favours in having a nod to “we live in a society” memes during the Joker’s monologue towards the end. I don’t think that all of this was intentional and honestly, if you’re a normal person, have no fear of being radicalised. I just don’t know if Phillips completely comprehends what he’s toying with. There was a shooting by someone inspired by the Joker in 2012 at a screening of The Dark Knight Rises. These things occur, unfortunately, and even though if something were to happen now, in no way would it be the film’s fault, we do have to be careful what sort of an impression we can leave on people with our media.

Joker isn’t a bad movie. Is it everything it’s made out to be? No, and really that comes down a lack of precision in its creation. I really can’t watch it again, due to how monstrous it made me feel but I won’t disavow anyone who wants to go see it or enjoyed it for the right reasons, because there is a lot to enjoy if you’re not bothered by those aspects of the film. It was a really interesting character study of one comics’ most mysterious and iconic characters, but I believe the message they wanted to send about said character was poorly handled. Personally, I think I’ll stick to Alan Moore’s The Killing Joke. I’d rather the Joker’s origins be a bit more multiple choice.

Also if Joaquin Phoenix is nominated for or wins an Oscar, I won’t be mad, he really was pretty great

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happiness4jane · 5 years

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The Scariest Thing I’ve Ever Done

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Well, this is terrifying. Paralyzing almost. My hands are literally trembling as I try to punch the letters on my keyboard. When I allow myself to think about the people that might read this. People I know. People I work with. Students I teach. Students I’ve taught. My soon-to-be-in-laws. My exes. Their families (they’ll say, “I told you so!”). My friends. Their friends. My family. My children. All 836 of my Facebook “friends” are potential critics. And they’ll share it with even more people that might know me or will know me, that see me around and will avoid making eye contact with me in Walmart forevermore! When I allow myself to think about that – the people that might read this – every self-doubting, loathing, shaming, insecure demon inside me surfaces in protest. BUT… but. That’s the point, after all. For people to read this. To maybe help others claw their way out of the uncompromising, crippling, and degenerative grasp of the illness known as Bipolar Disorder (no, but seriously, this scares the shit out of me and I can’t breathe).

Here’s the thing though – I shouldn’t be ashamed of it. It isn’t fair we live in a society that shames people with mental illness into silence. That calls us “crazy”. We can’t just snap our fingers and make it go away (but, oh, if I could!). We can’t just act normal, act rational. It’s not something we can tame on command. And we didn’t choose this. Who would choose this?! Who would choose to leave behind a legacy of wreckage? Well, I don’t doubt there are some who’d choose that… As for me, when I think on all the destroyed relationships, the lost jobs, the unfinished projects and departed dreams, the reckless moments that would haunt me for years, the countless days stolen away by infinite darkness… the shame, the shame, the shame – I would never choose this. And yet, despite all the chaos and ruin and regret, it took me about twenty years to get help. Why? The simple answer is, I didn’t want to be Bipolar. I didn’t want people to think I was crazy (Ha! Like they didn’t already!). So, I refused to accept it. I refused to seek treatment. And it got worse. Much, much worse.

About seven months ago, after another life-is-amazing-and-I-don’t-need-to-sleep-and-I’ll-hyper-focus-and-finish-that-novel-and-train-for-that-marathon-and-FUCK!-you-better-stop-getting-in-my-way-or-I’ll-bite-your-damn-head-off-so-feed-yourself elevated state (Symptoms of a manic episode: increased activity, energy or agitation; decreased need for sleep; abnormally upbeat) followed inevitably by a crashing-into-bed-and-plotting-out-the-details-of-my-exit-because-I-just-can’t-live-in-this-world-anymore-and-I’m-worthless-and-horrible-and-you’d-all-be-better-off-without-me depressed state (Symptoms of a major depressive episode: feelings of sadness, emptiness, hopelessness; marked loss of interest in activities; fatigue; feelings of worthlessness or excessive or inappropriate guilt; thinking about, planning, or attempting suicide), I sought the help of a counselor. So, what changed, you might be wondering? What made me seek treatment at this point, after shunning it for so many years? Well, it used to be that I had normal periods of time between the depression and the elevation. It used to be fun and ambitious and productive (euphoric but always beguiling) to be elevated. It used to be the depression came maybe a couple times a year. The unwarranted distrust and insecurity and ultra-sensitivity was fleeting. The suicidal thoughts were daunting rather than soothing. That’s what used to be. It was easier to pretend I was normal then. I was just eccentric! I was special! Like some of the greatest artists and inventors and individuals that made history. I was a mad genius just like Salvador Dali, Vincent Van Gogh, Charlie Chaplin, Ben Franklin, Sir Isaac Newton, Michelangelo (Symptom: exaggerated sense of self). I was able to ride that train of twisted thought for a long long time, because I could finish what I started then, because I was younger then, and there was always another job, another lover, another place that would accept me. But around seven years ago, that all began to change. The depression seized more frequently. The elevation became less euphoric and more agitated, even rageful at times – lashing out at and rejecting the people I loved most. I started projects but never finished them. It became more and more difficult to go to work, and when I got there, I had to convince myself out of the car and into the classroom. In the classroom, I felt like an alien. I couldn’t stay on track, couldn’t focus my thoughts (Symptom: rapid and frenzied speaking, racing thoughts). I felt like I was disconnected from everything around me, like I wasn’t real (Symptom: dissociation). And then over the past year, the episodes seemed to be crashing right on top of each another with no reprieve in-between. It was relentless, crippling. One day of unbridled energy followed by two days of extreme irritability followed by one day of bed-ridden depression and then rinse, lather, repeat. Weeks, months, a year like this. The darkness that occasionally consumed my thoughts mutated to a pervasive utter blackness – leaving a void where hope and happiness used to visit. My fiancé pleading with me to get out of bed. My 10-year-old son asking me why I was so angry. My six-year-old daughter saying, “Mommy’s sick again.” I hated myself. I couldn’t pretend I was perfectly healthy – just eccentric – anymore. I was sick. Very sick.

You see, Bipolar Disorder is a degenerative illness, and by denying myself treatment, I had enabled a progression into periods of rapid cycling, meaning I was basically Bipolar on steroids – my depressive and manic moods shifting in a constant unpredictable shitstorm. This is the way it was explained to me by my counselor (in much more eloquent terms). She said that in the same way progressive diseases like Cancer will eventually cause organ failure if left untreated, Bipolar Disorder gradually diminishes brain function if left untreated. Oh, did I mention this conversation took place just a month ago? And, perhaps you remember that I went to see her the first time about seven months ago? No, it didn’t take that long to diagnose me. It took that long for me to commit. I honored my appointments only twice before I disappeared for another two months and then for another five months after that (I was still battling my desperate desire to be “normal”). During those initial appointments, I either purposefully omitted the symptoms of my elevated states, or honestly didn’t know they were elevated states. Hard to tell. On the one hand, for most of my life the elevated states were something to look forward to. They were a tremendous relief since they often followed a long period of depression, or, they were a welcome rush of intense energy and focus and ambition after a period of normal moods and routines. On the other hand, there was a part of me that hoped, if I had to be diagnosed with something, that it be depression and/or anxiety – just not Bipolar, please, not that! For some totally illogical reason, having depression and anxiety seemed more socially acceptable to me. People posted about their depression and anxiety on social media. My students openly discussed their struggles with them in class. Lot’s of people are depressed and anxious! Poor reasoning but, I convinced myself that my elevated states were just “normal” times when I wasn’t depressed. After all, I didn’t behave like someone that was manic. I was nothing like Bradley Cooper’s character in “Silver Linings Playbook”! I didn’t suddenly become totally irrational. I didn’t spend everything in my bank account in some obsessed frenzy. I didn’t abruptly start making good on all my wildest fantasies and desires. I didn’t incoherently speed-talk and jump around from one interest to another. No, it was never that pronounced. Or, was it? I’d certainly been called Bipolar enough in my lifetime – and not in a concerned or encouraging way. More like I was being called a “crazy bitch”. It was a bad word. And I did spend [a lot] more money than I should when I felt “good”. Like, when I bought that boat with a personal loan on a 50% interest rate. Or, when I financed that international trip while negative in my bank account. And on all that professional camera equipment when I decided to be a video editor, and on this website two years ago when I decided to be a blogger (Perhaps, now, I’ll finally make use of it?). And the hundreds of dollars I invested in gear when I was suddenly inspired to run a marathon (but I did follow through on that one, thank you very much!). Oh, right, I guess I do jump around from interest to interest when I’m feeling “inspired”. I’m going to be a motivational speaker, no, a novelist, no, a personal trainer, no, a corporate trainer, no, a filmmaker, no, an entrepreneur, no… the list goes on and on. But these things felt so good. Even though I had to clean up the wreckage whenever I smashed back down on the pavement. The rubble of estranged relationships, busted bank accounts, retired jobs. So yeah, I went with depression and anxiety, masking the symptoms of mania. And I refused medication (because all I really needed to do was get my shit together, not numb myself with zombie-making pills). Until the progression to rapid cycling imprisoned me and I sulked, defeated, back into therapy five weeks ago.

After years and years and years of heartbreak and rejection and confusion and self-loathing and denial and protest, I began taking a daily mood stabilizer and seeing my therapist once a week. It took a couple weeks before there was any discernable change, and after four weeks, the change in my behavior was nothing short of striking. At that point, I realized I hadn’t been swallowed by the black void in three full weeks – a record time in nearly a year. I hadn’t lashed out in rage at anyone either. And the most surprising thing? I wasn’t the living dead. I had heard these nightmare testimonies about people with Bipolar Disorder beginning medication and going numb, like they’d been lobotomized, and that panicked me. I didn’t want to stop feeling, I just wanted to experience my feelings in a regulatory fashion. And I was, for the first time in years. Now, I want to be very careful not to sound like the poster girl for medicating. My strong belief is that we over-medicate in this country (but that’s for another post). No miracle has occurred. I’m not “cured”. In fact, there is no known cure for Bipolar Disorder. It can be managed, with a combination of medication and psychotherapy. Some days are better than others. But every day, I still battle my demons and the life-long conditioning of patterns, emotional reactions, and behaviors. My recovery is a continuous journey where no arrival point exists. But I have hope today. I wake up motivated to get out of bed without needing the boost of mania. I carry out the responsibilities and routines of the day without fighting off panic or becoming despondent. I fall asleep without the “lulling” melody of my own death dancing around my thoughts. Yes, I still get anxious and angry and sad and overly eager. The difference is in the way I’ve responded to those feelings since starting treatment. My awareness of the condition and the symptoms that accompany it, along with my medication, has helped me acknowledge my feelings before acting on them.

I hope it’s not the honeymoon period. I hope it lasts.

It’s early yet.

But if this remarkable change is here to stay [with dedicated treatment], I can’t help but feel frustration with myself for not seeking help sooner. Just to think on all the chaos and anguish I could have spared myself and others… But I’m here now, and perhaps it’s exactly where I’m supposed to be – writing this blog so that you may read it and be inspired to act now. For yourself, or for someone you know, before it’s too late. Make no mistake, this disease does kill. The suicide rate for people with Bipolar Disorder is twenty times that of the general population, and nearly 30% will make a suicide attempt at least once in their lifetime.

Don’t pity me, and please don’t fear me. I’m not very different from you. I have a family, friends, a career, hopes and dreams and struggles and fears. For those of you that know me, I’m still Jen. Maybe I’m even a better Jen – my greater and more genuine self. As a society, we need to reframe the way we perceive and speak about mental illness. Help me promote a fair image for those individuals and families that are afflicted with it – so they won’t suffer in silence. So they get help.

My name is Jen Hogue, and I’m diagnosed Bipolar II. Today, I’m in treatment. I take my medication everyday and see my counselor every week. I have a sense of hope that I haven’t had in far too long. I still don’t know if I’ll be brave enough to publish this. But I hope I will. After all, it’s often in the greatest risks we take that we find our greatest triumphs, and our greatest gifts to one another.

#happiness4jane happinessforjane mentalhealth bipolardisorder bipolar depression anxiety mentalhealthsupport

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donnerpartyofone · 5 years

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eh.

What a time this is. I hardly know how to feel about it. Ironically, I think this is happening to me because a few years ago, Tumblr flagged my blog as explicit. I didn’t do anything about it because, while it was annoying and inaccurate, it didn’t make any difference to me. I didn’t even really think about the consequences of it. Now I suspect that Tumblr is using that explicit flag (among other insanities) to easily identify blogs to be shadow banned. I might have gotten pinched some other way eventually--perhaps by the same mechanism that deleted every video I posted of my gecko, and then sent me scolding emails about distributing obscenity--but now I find myself thinking, “First they came for me, and I did not speak out, because I just, like, didn’t really give a shit!”

I’m happy to see so many of my pals on Instagram already, and a little annoyed by the feeling that I have to learn to like Twitter. I’m skeptical of the alternative platforms people are talking about, like Pillowfort, probably just because they sound cute and I wasn’t too attracted to the cuteness of Ello. But maybe it would be fun to load one of those places up with all of the content we’re all frantically exporting from Tumblr? It could be cool to see everybody’s old school content that’s been lost to the fog of memory.

While I’m waiting for my blog to finish backing up, and steeling myself for the possibility that whatever it finally spits out will be missing tons of posts anyway, I’m thinking about what this all means to me. If I had the ability to port my entire blog over to another platform (I haven’t decided whether I’m desperate enough to actually pay for Wordpress, which offers that option), then it would be pretty simple--I wouldn’t have to see any of what I’ve done these last eight-ish years, but I could still ~have~ it. I started using Tumblr in my late 20s, which was a pretty dark time for me. The new way of expressing myself that I found here, and all the amazing friends I made, were a big help to me when I was in an intensely abusive relationship, barely managing an untreated mental illness that I didn’t understand yet, and still struggling to “find myself” or something. The positive impact of my Tumblr experience on my survival, my taste, my sense of humor, all kinds of shit, is inestimable. But at the same time, do I really want to see the person I was again? I don’t love the idea of losing everything I’ve done all these years, but if I had to save it all individually, looking directly at each bad joke and pithy thought and embarrassingly overworked prose and familiarly stylized image, would I? Mightn’t it be better to just cover my eyes and plug my ears, and pretend I don’t notice that it’s all sliding off the edge of a cliff into the void?

Like, I don’t know if I would have done a fraction of the post-collegiate writing that I've done if it weren’t for Tumblr. I probably turned out a couple hundred pages of memoir and film analysis and ranting and (truly valuable) self-reflexion that are at least occasionally interesting, or at the *very* least, funny. I co-ran a blog devoted to getting people to draw even when they didn’t think they could, or didn’t feel motivated, but just wanted someone to give them a reason. I mean, maybe I would have been driven to this work without Tumblr, but the truth is that Tumblr has inspired me every day. My shrink asked me what I’m always trying to get out of this platform, and I didn’t really know how to answer that question, except to say that when I work up a sweat writing some long crazy thing here, I feel enormously satisfied and relieved in some way when I post it, even if I know for a fact that only a couple of my most devoted friends will even notice it.

I changed a lot while I was here. Not just because I was literally growing up, late bloomer that I am, but being able to see this record of what I was doing, and simultaneously being exposed to what others were up to, really helped me evolve. I went from learning to enjoy my own vanity, to being able to put away my fear of looking ugly, and from showing off the best art I'd ever made, to feeling free to make bad art as long as I was still making something. As an ASD person with high social anxiety, I don’t do well at parties, but Tumblr gave me this beautiful opportunity to talk to all kinds of different people, about all kinds of things, and those people often asked me questions about myself that I had never even considered before. Of course this place can be an insulting mess, but also, people have been really, really incredibly kind to me, for no apparent reason other than that they wanted to. A lot of them are people I probably never would have met for any other reason; people I really fucking treasure.

I’m trying to look at this as an opportunity, in some ways. Like, I don’t think I really like the way that I write, but I sure like to do it! I’d been thinking for a while, should I have made more of a push, when I was younger, to publish? To “put myself out there” and “make a career out of it”? I still think, not really, but it’s hard to say, because the instant gratification of posting to Tumblr made me pretty uncurious about the potential benefits of going out into the world and seeking my proverbial fortune, entering into the competition of daily life, clawing my way toward some more recognizable achievement. Lately, I began to imagine printing a zine of my film writing--which would give me a change to rework a lot of that early tortured bullshit--and maybe including some drawings. I could probably even meet new people through such a thing, professional contacts maybe. (By “professional” I hardly mean anything smarter than like, Fangoria or something of that order, but that would be a big deal for me probably) But now that Tumblr is making itself increasingly frustrating to use in even the most innocent way, and now that I might have to move as much as I can over to a new platform, that could be an interesting chance to review what I’ve done right and wrong over the years, to say “I don’t want to do it this way anymore/I want to do it this way from now on.” I never even cared that much about improving before. I tend to think of competition as being an outlet for the chronically insecure, people who need to compare themselves to others in order to feel like there’s any meaning to their lives. It’s a vestigial impulse, I really believe that commercial and athletic and sexual competition just compensates for the obsolescence of survival in the wilderness...but uh anyway, maybe after sequestering myself in the semi-private masturbatorium that is Tumblr all these years, I could stand to be thrown out into the street to find my fortune?

So I don’t really know what to say now. I’m not quitting just yet, but I’m also not fighting my shadow ban. It’s just so stupid, and there’s so obviously no saving this place. I’m sticking around for now, but I’m going to start crossposting with a dang old blogspot: https://donner-partyofone.blogspot.com and I’ll make it clear when I’m starting to seriously add content over there. Hopefully some folks will find it interesting, and I hope those folks will also tell me if they take their business somewhere outside Tumblr. See you in the funny papers.

#tumblr purge #tumblrpurge

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sleeplessintothenight · 5 years

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Kintsugi

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Before I knew it, I found myself lying on the ground. I sat up and saw the disaster in front of me. My roommate ran in after hearing a crash and knelt down beside me. I stayed staring forward. I couldn’t break my stare with the pile of shattered glass that replaced my vase.

My mind raced doing its best to recount all the events that led to this moment. A flurry of memories competed for attention as I attempted to sort clutter in my mind. Did this happen before this? No wait, this was first and then it caused this. But this must have come before that. I broke my glance to stare at my hands and then back again at the pile. My eyes’ focus kept shifting between my hands and the pile and back again. One thought came to the forefront silencing all the others, “Was this my fault?”

I could feel my heart starting to beat faster and faster as one tear became a flood down my face. I tried to open my mouth to say something, but it was muffled by the sobs and sniffles. I brushed my hand across my cheeks to wipe away the tears, but like a windshield in heavy rain, the wipers couldn’t move fast enough. So many questions clawed away at the insides of my head. Desperately I gasped for air hoping that one of these questions would escape and lessen the pain. The harder they fought to escape, the harder the mind held on to them, afraid of what my roommate would think of my incoherent meltdown.

My roommate slowly got up and asked, “Should I go grab the broom and dust pan? I think I’ll go and grab ‘em now.”

As she left the room, I feebly let out, “No, it’s okay. I’ll grab it later. Thanks though.”

After a few minutes I finally began to catch my breath. The tears began to dry up and my heartbeat slowed to a normal pace.

I just needed some time to absorb all that happened. I crawled forward and leaned over the pile. A distorted and muddied reflection looked up at me from the ground. I’ve had this vase for as long as I can remember. It was a gift from my parents. I found it on my fifth birthday when my parents took me through a craft fair in the park. When we got home, my mother told me to fill it up with all the things that make up me. For the past 20 years or so, I filled it with fortunes I loved, Dove chocolate wrappers, horoscope clippings, and little scraps of paper where I wrote down my goals, hopes, and dreams. I slowly sifted through the sharp edges and dug through the old memories. I unfolded a wrapper and couldn’t help but crack a smile at the quote written inside: “Everything will be okay in the end. If it’s not okay, it’s not the end.” I folded it back up and reached for a fortune: “Do not give up; the beginning is always the hardest.” It even had my lucky numbers in their recommendations. I grabbed another: “Now is the time to try something new.” I tossed them back into the pile and started to unfold a wrinkled post-it note revealing what I wanted to be when I grew up and how many kids I wanted to have. I guess at one time in my life I believed the notes I put in here.

I continued to run my hand through the broken pieces of me, feeling each edge against my fragile skin. I cupped my hands together and raised a pile up to my chest like a newborn baby. I blew a kiss and let the fragments of my past fall through the gaps between my bleeding fingers like sand in an hourglass. Once the last piece fell from my hand, I pushed the pile deeper into the corner of my bedroom. Still seated, I reached up onto my nightstand to grab a couple tissues to wipe off my hands. Next, I reached for my phone and opened the camera app. I leaned in closer again and snapped a picture. I swiped through the various filters before ultimately deciding on one. I began typing out the caption “Mood,” but deleted it to write out “My life right now.” I hit post and waited for the likes and comments to flood my notifications.

I took one last glance at the pile of broken dreams before falling backward and letting my arms fall to my side. I pulled my hood over my eyes and just lay there. I let the blips and buzzes become the background music as I let my mind begin to wander in to a much-needed nap.

As I opened my eyes I thought about sitting up, but decided against seeing the pile another time and reached for my phone. I smiled at all the likes and began to like back all the comments saying “Same.” After exhausting the comment section, I flipped through all the accounts posting depressing poetry over sunset photos. Double tap after double tap, I added to my collection the words to describe what I was afraid to tell anyone.

My scrolling was abruptly interrupted by an incoming call from a childhood friend. I hit ignore and continued to scroll. Again the incoming call consumed the screen, and again I ignored it. After I ignored the third call, he texted: “How are you doing? Let me know if you want to chat.” I could only respond with a thank you and few words about how I would figure out a way to get over it.

I sifted through the pile and wondered if I could put this back together. A pit in my stomach grew as a daunting task grew towards impossible. I frantically searched my memories for snapshots of its former self. Panic ensued as the pressure of preservation began to blur what I used to know. What hope would I have to put it back together if I struggled to remember its shape? As I reached for details, they hid deeper into the darkness that clouded my mind.

My friend texted again. Just a link to an article titled: “Kintsugi: The Beauty in Destruction.” I clicked and began to read. Kintsugi roughly translated to “golden repair.” The Japanese art of repairing broken pottery with gold or silver. It was strangely therapeutic reading that the philosophy of the art form is about embracing these “scars” as a part of its past and celebrates the imperfections of the repaired object.

I felt a calmness growing in me as I began to search for kintsugi photos. Google and Pinterest searches revealed a plethora of vases lined with golden streaks highlighting where edges had come back together. It baffled me. So many things in our lives today are easily replaceable. I could easily buy a new vase, but I knew this was about more than that. As I continued to scroll through gallery after gallery a bit of hope began to grow inside of me.

I sat up and began to sort through the wreckage to find the pieces I felt were worth saving while pushing other aside. It was going to take a while and I had no blueprint for what came next, but I knew that this was something I had to do. As I sorted through the pieces, I began to imagine how I hoped it would turn out.

I picked up a piece, examined it and then placed it in the pile to keep. I did the same with another, but placed it in another pile. Again and again and again until the mess made it’s way into almost as many piles as pieces. Some were definite keeps, some were maybes, some were ready to discard, most were somewhere in between. After an hour of false productivity, I found myself no closer to my destination then when I started. Until I was willing to make the tough choices, it would just be a game of musical chairs as pieces moved from one pile to another.

Frustrated, I pushed all the piles back together into one mess. My motivation was equal to the amount of progress I had made. The burning flame of inspiration withered away as the indecision grew. All the articles, tutorials, and photos made it look so easy. In theory it was simple, you’re just putting something back together like a puzzle held together by gold. I started to wonder if my pieces were far too broken to ever be put back together. I questioned whether what lay ahead was an impossible task.

If there’s a will, there’s a way I mouthed to myself. It was a quote that influenced so much of my upbringing. Lowering my head and grinding through challenges and tough times was a badge of honor I embodied. Giving up on this task felt like a weakness I couldn’t accept. My exhausted mind strained to run through scenario after scenario. Some thoughts were too ridiculous to work while others failed to formulate. A solution was a solution even if it wasn’t the best one.

I cupped my hands together around a collection of small pieces, and felt many of them slip between my fingers. I quickly reached again to collect the fallen pieces, but even more escaped my grasp. At that point, I understood it would be impossible to recreate my vase that had been broken. As the last remnants returned to the pile, I fell backwards and closed my eyes. A cooling tear made its way down my cheek to the edge of my ear. Reluctantly I let out a sigh of defeat.

As the breath left my lips, I noticed the tension running through my body. Shoulders scrunched to my ears. Knees locked out. Toes curled like talons trying to hold on for dear life. The sensation of tension created the illusion of effort. The tenser my body felt, the harder I felt I had worked. With a broken spirit, I lay paralyzed next to a broken vase desperately trying to formulate a path that didn’t end in failure.

Exhaustion began to spread throughout my body like a disease. The more I fought it, the more tired I grew. Before, fighting it always felt like the only option, but I was growing tired. As I desperately tried to fight off my own thoughts, I felt myself losing a battle I had been waging for far too long. Angrily I took another breath to try and clear my thoughts. With each breath of clarity, I reluctantly lowered my shoulders, bent my knees, and lastly I began to uncurl my toes one at a time. As each toe let go, I began to relinquish any hopes of accomplishing my current task. My arms lay heavy by my side as I did nothing to stop the tears starting down my face.

I pinched my eyes slightly to try and clear them. As I lay there, I thought back to the days I used to do yoga. Every session ended in Savasana (“corpse” pose) to bring the body to total relaxation. The lingering tension in my body slowly died off allowing my body to fully relax for the first time in a while. In that moment, nothing else mattered.

With an exhale, I whispered, “It’s okay.”

With the next exhale, I whispered, “I forgive you.”

I opened my eyes and sat up. It was going to be impossible recreate the broken vase no matter how hard I willed it. But that was okay. In the end, it’s going to become something different, something new, something beautiful.

#kintsugi #sleepless into the night #short fiction #microfiction #short story #broken #rebuild #healing #self reflection #finding yourself #Believe in yourself #forgive yourself

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antihero-writings · 4 years

Text

Or You May Break

Fandom: Bloodborne

Fic Summary: Little red riding hood found the wolf in the woods, yes…but she also found him at home. || A character study/in-depth look into Vicar Amelia's transformation.

Notes: I mostly wrote this after I did Amelia's fight. She's a pretty minor character, but I've always found Amelia interesting, and aesthetically one of the coolest beasts, so I decided to write about her.

She's one of the characters it's hardest to find lore on, so my apologies if any of this is inaccurate. Please don't hesitate to point me to some nice in-depth lore discussions/posts, regardless! I'd love to learn more about her character.

I know there are theories out there that Amelia actually wanted to become beast, due to her prayer, but I like to think she didn't--that she was praying against it. I saw someone say on Reddit that her beastly screams sound slightly like "I don't want this!" I know that was probably just their far-fetched interpretation, but I found it extremely interesting and inspiring. Much like I mentioned my other Bloodborne fic--(The Offspring of a Dream)--I like to see redemption in everything, and this fic will have a lot to do with my positive interpretation of event. Especially since she's a member of the church, I certainly don't think she's innocent, yet at the same time, I think it's interesting that she was very aware she would become a beast, and essentially all she could do was sit and pray, and wait for it to happen. I also think it's interesting how we actually see her transform, all at once. So I wanted to explore all that.

I'd really appreciate it if you could leave a comment!! They really make my week, and motivate me to keep writing!!

I'll put the Ao3 and FF.net links in a reblog!!

Also, I have another Bloodborne fic, the Offspring of a Dream, I'd love it if you'd check out too!! Links in a reblog!!

Or you may break:

She watched the city burn. Not back then, no…but she watched men fall victim to the beasts within. She watched her friends grow horns and teeth. She watched her congregation become slaves to the blood, and the moon. She watched helpless, clutching Laurence’s pendant, kneeling before his beastly skull.

She did the only thing she knew how: she prayed.

She prayed that the plague would leave them, sooner rather than later. She prayed that humanity would find their strength, not give in. She prayed to the gods to give her guidance. She prayed that she wouldn’t fall prey to the beast herself.

As if words were enough to save her. Words and not actions. Words, and not blood.

The blood healed them. The blood turned them into beasts.

The blood was to be feared. The blood was to be praised. In equal measure, like the best of gods. Those things which are truly sacred can bring the worst of judgment.

Surely it was their own indiscretions, their own weaknesses which brought this on. It was because they, human, were too weak to bear the blood of gods that they became, not more holy, but less than themselves.

Our minds are too young to understand the nature of the cosmos. Too green...they must be broken.

In most fairy tales the beasts wait in the woods to pounce. We fear the dark for that’s where they may lie.

Little red riding hood found the wolf in the woods, yes…but she also found him at home, disguised as her closest kin.

She’d been around beasts long enough to know, yes, there were beasts in the woods. Not just the woods; in the cities, in abandoned houses, in the schools…Even in the church yard. They were everywhere. Always watching, waiting…and sometimes they didn’t wait.

But the beasts were at home too. They were our closest family members. They were ourselves. If we dug deep enough into our chests the beast would be there.

When in Rome, do as the Romans do. But when in Yharnam…you’ll do as the Yharnamites do eventually; you would become a beast. There was no question. No choice. No say in the matter…It was inevitable. No one remained human without losing their minds.

There must be a moral in there somewhere.

So the beast most feared wasn’t the hundreds waiting in the forbidden woods…it was the one sitting in your own veins. Still waiting. Waiting to break out of your skin. Devour your flesh, reason, and soul altogether.

And if Laurence couldn’t stop it, then how could someone as weak and breakable as her stop it?

She was soft and gentle, made for domestic life; meant to preach, to teach, not fight beasts.

So Amelia sat in the church, doing just that: softly, gently, preaching to herself, waiting, hoping, dreading, praying.

She knew it was coming for her. Sometimes she thought she could see it, in the corner of her eye. Even if she locked all the doors and prayed her hardest, one day the beast would pounce from her blood. She would never know exactly when, exactly how.

Would it come slowly? Would she watch in agony as her hands, piece by piece, became claws, her skin become fur—another inch each day, feel her jaw aching as it became, day by day, a wolfish snout? The grandmother’s clothes still there, you could almost believe she was still herself…until you looked at the teeth.

Or would it happen all at once, in one moment of sheer misery, without a second to spare, to organize her affairs, or a chance to scream?

And which would be more horrifying?

The members of the church became the worst of beasts. Why was that?

She had faith she could be saved. That they all could be saved. That the city would stop burning.

Time passed, and she dared to think that maybe it wouldn’t come, maybe the gods knew mercy. Maybe their faithful servant would live to see it end.

…Then a hunter walked in the church doors.

She wanted to talk to them, to answer their questions, to ask her own. To tell them she was no beast, and would not hurt them. That she meant no harm, although maybe they ought not come any closer—

—Because—

—They smelled like the moon—

—And she wanted to lick the moon off their fingertips—

—and she might just raid Red’s basket for a taste—

She could feel it in her heart. Something in there was writhing, crawling forward on greedy, bloody knees, desperate to break out. It had always been there, sleeping in its cell, but now it was awake, ready pry out of her ribcage and gobble up the moon on their wings.

The thing pried open her skin, like she was a jar, and this greedy, bloody thing wasn’t a beast…it was her. Herself, breaking out of herself, like some Russian nesting doll of dismay. A version of herself that she didn’t recognize. A version of herself she prayed against. A version of herself she promised wasn’t there.

A part of her that they all knew needed to be hunted.

She had always been soft, always followed the rules. She never had much of a wild streak. But this thing crawling through her veins was feral and untamed. She never knew such savagery, but there was beauty in the breaking.

But emerging from herself was painful; the black, razor claws within reached forward and pierced her chest, her skin erupting, bubbling into fur. The thing crept along her arms and legs, slithered within their veins, elongating them, with jerking, snapping motions, making them into the very claws that broke open herself—(but even with these claws she would not let go of Laurence’s pendant, she would not lose herself within herself). It climbed up her neck like it had a mountaineering pick, seized her face and made it into a snout—her teeth aching, her head splitting open—her hair pulling, lengthening across her body, like a snow made out of needles. …And as she screamed her voice deepened.

It was like fire and lightning, her skin and bones cracking like glass, the room painted red…yet there was a strange ecstasy in it all. This was what she would have guessed being born was like.

Did she want this? She couldn’t quite remember…Who was she? Was she that desperate girl praying at the alter, or was she this greedy thing made of blood and teeth?

She held the pendant tighter, and tried to remember why it was so important, to remember the prayers of that little girl in white.

No. She didn’t want this. To be this. She didn’t want to be a beast. To die as one. She tried to tell this moonlit hunter that…But only screams and roars echoed from her wolfish vocal chords now.

So she only did what she could; she fought for her life, defended herself. As best she could, with her new—still too breakable—beastly limbs. And she clutched the pendant, and she prayed for healing. Prayed that this too would pass. That there was such a thing as a cure.

There was…but it was only in death now.

She lost, still. Everything over as fast as it started. Put down before she could walk the world. She couldn’t save herself in as much as she couldn’t save her congregation.

And the hunter wiped her blood off their blade, and ripped the locket from her claws, and walked into the woods to slay the monsters there…all the while knowing the blood would be their undoing: the beast was waiting for them too. Waiting to pry its way out of their own veins. That one day—no one could know when, though you might want to check the moon—they’d come home, looking for grandmother, and find only the wolf.

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beebuddyreviews-blog · 7 years

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Title: Here in the Afterglow // Author: fondleeds (@fondleeds) // Rating: Not Rated // Words: 88,649 // Chapters: 3/3 AU // Completed: 12/8/16

Official Summary: “If you hadn’t noticed, I don’t have many friends,” Louis whispers, the blossom of insecurity in his stomach unfurling and clawing its way into his throat.

Harry is silent for a long time, and then he speaks; a soft, slow uncurl that makes Louis’ stomach shake. “I’ll be your friend.”

1970’s AU. In a tiny town in Idaho, Louis’ life is changed forever by the arrival of a curious stranger.

Green’s Review: This fanfiction begins with the election of Harvey Milk and itt features an honest portrayal of the attitudes of that period. Louis is a closeted high school soccer player, Harry is new to town, and the two of them form a quick bond. Full review under the cut.

Fondleeds has written a few other fics for the Louis/Harry fandom including, I Could Dream All Night and a Rhythm in Rush. She is a diverse author with an incredible ability to depict and incite emotion and she continued this ability in Here in the Afterglow.

Here in the Afterglow is a shining star in a sea of Louis/Harry fanfiction. It captures your attention from the first sentence and does not let it go for three chapters. Fondleeds presents the issue of homophobia in the 1970’s in a raw and honest way. She creates characters that inspire anger, but also hope because you want to see them rise above their prejudices. The title is a great homage to the end of the fic when everything seems to fall into place for these two boys. They do get to sit in the afterglow of their experiences.

Here in the Afterglow is around 88,000 words. It is not an incredibly lengthy fic and yet it achieves just as much, if not more, as you would expect from a 150,000-word fic. Fondleeds manages to create well-rounded characters with understandable motives and a lot of depth. The characters are not just the villains and the good guys – there is much more to every single one of them. Louis is charismatic, as usual, and incredibly loyal to his friends and to his mom. He internalizes most of his struggles and wants to make everyone happy even if that is impeding his own happiness. Harry is a loveable and genuine kid who you begin rooting for as soon as he steps into the story. He and Louis together is something truly beautiful. They become best friends before anything else, care for each other deeply, and offer copious amounts of support to one another. This portrayal of them is one of the most vulnerable I have ever read and I wanted more than anything for them to have their happy ending.

Some villains of the story are Stan – it was interesting to see him in this light, Harry’s mother – who is not Anne, and Jimmy – an actual piece of trash. Stan’s character was very hard for me to reconcile with. He was the character I was rooting for and sadly, he does end up disappointing you. Harry’s mother, Lisa, is another character that I was hoping would surprise me and I think there is hope for her later. A few years past when this story ends, I think she could end up surprising them. In this story I was glad she wasn’t Anne and I think that was a perfect decision on the author’s part because I could never see Anne pulling half of what Lisa did.

Jimmy was always the bad guy and I am glad he got what was coming to him. One of the most powerful moments of the fic for me was when Louis enacted a little revenge on Jimmy. “I came back,” it actually sent chills down my spine and I fist pumped the air. I don’t know if I have ever been as proud of a fictional character as I was of Louis in that moment. I won’t spoil anything for the readers but it was a moving and beautiful moment.

One of my favorite types of fic is slow burn. I literally live and breathe for good slow burn fics. I’m pretty picky though, and I have a limit for how long the “slow burn” portion of the fic can last before it just becomes ridiculous. Here in the Afterglow was the perfect amount of build-up. The pacing was so solid throughout the entire story. No part of Harry and Louis’ relationship seemed rushed or too slow. It was the perfect amount of time between every stage of their relationship. AND THE TENSION. Jesus. It was brilliant. Honestly. I’ll include one of my favorite parts of the fic here, warnings for recreational drug use:

“Fuck, that’s smooth,” Louis says as he exhales, following Harry and leaning back against the tree.

Harry giggles, and his cheek is almost mushed up against the trunk, eyes bright. “Thought you didn’t do ‘this’ a lot.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Louis inhales again, sticky and sweet. When he exhales, lips wet, he catches

Harry’s eyes. They’re dark in the hazy light. “Doesn’t mean I don’t know what’s good and what’s shit.”

“I like your mouth,” Harry says suddenly, and Louis blinks, pulling back.

“What?” He says, too sharp, too bitter.

“I like the way you talk,” Harry says, lips quirking. “I like your words.”

“You don’t even know me,” Louis says. Harry holds his hand out and Louis passes the joint over, careful not to brush their skin together.

“I want to,” Harry says. “Gotta make friends, don’t I?”

“I suppose,” Louis says indifferently.

“Everyone else is…dull,” Harry says with a wave of his hand, like he’s explaining some great revelation.

“Oh?” Louis splutters a laugh. “We’re a dull bunch are we, down in Post Falls?”

“Everyone else,” Harry repeats with a purposed smile.

Their chemistry is so tangible and brilliant, even in this short preview. Their ability to work off each other just continues to improve as the story goes on. These two characters were perfectly crafted for each other. Here is another quote from a point in the story that I was very excited to get to:

But then Harry lifts a hand, his smooth, delicate hand, and runs a long finger down Louis’ cheek, coming to rest just by the hinge of his jaw. Louis stutters out a breath, gravitating closer, his eyes threatening to flutter closed as Harry touches him.

Harry rests their foreheads together gently, his thumb coming to rub at his jaw, his hand cupping the back of his neck and head. Louis’ body is covered in goosebumps, every inch of him shaking like a leaf, so nervous, so unused to this sort of touch.

I am completely here for characters being soft with each other and Louis and Harry are so incredibly soft in this scene. I think it was the perfect way for them to reach this point of their story.

Another thing I appreciated about this fic was that they bonded over great music as well. The author clearly did a lot of background research on the artists and the albums of that time and it was an amazing addition to her storytelling.

The only thing I have to say I was unsure of in this fic were the parallels between Harry’s back-story and Louis coming into himself. I do understand the reason the author took it into that territory but I’m not 100% behind it. I think she portrayed both of the instances perfectly and was able to get the desperation and hurt across amazingly, but it just didn’t completely work for me. Still, I understand the decision and I still support this beautiful fic. I recommend it to anyone in the fandom who needs a fresh story that is very well written and has well-rounded, compelling characters.

Finally, would you recommend it to Blue: Blue loves her fluff fic. She reads angst but it is usually per my suggestion – except for the Sweet Home Alabama fic, which she forced on me. However, she also loves fics that are well written and I know she would love this portrayal of Louis and Harry. Therefore, yes I would recommend it to her and warn her that the fic is a lot of angst but it’s not pointless and it does end. The ending is very happy and full of hope.

READ IT BLUE.

I have linked to the fic in the title at the top of this post. You can find the author on Tumblr at fondleeds. We always suggest that you leave the author comments and kudos because positive feedback is important! I hope that you have enjoyed my first review. If you have any comments or suggestions feel free to message me!

-GREEN.

#fondleeds #here in the afterglow #larry fic #louis and harry #harry and louis #halo fic #lourry fic #larry fic rec #larry recs #green review

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playdohtoykc07-blog · 7 years

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