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letsgetfuckingsuperwholocked · 6 years

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Words On My Skin (Part 13)

Bucky Barnes X Reader Soulmate AU

A/N: Without further ado, I present to you PART 13! WOOHOO! Also, happy 2200 followers to me! You're all the best! SORRY IT TOOK SO LONG! I had a great vacation! I’m at my bff’s house, now, and we’re gunna be writing all week, so part 14 will probably be done fairly quick!

Warnings: Feels, swears, and all that shit……… Mentions of sexual abuse as a child (googling ‘childhood traumatic memories’ and all that). I do talk about it a lot in the first half of the chapter, so if this is something you can’t - or don’t want to - read about… you’ve been warned.

Main Masterlist // WOMS Masterlist

Splashing some water on your face, you sighed in relief – the major feelings coming from Bucky through the bond starting to fade. You could still feel guilt, self-loathing, and hurt… but the feelings were starting to dull into an ache, versus a sharp pain.

As if he’d accepted the feelings.

That was almost worse than the heightened emotions.

“Friday?” You called out hoarsely, after drying your face, “Is Bucky out of his meeting, yet?”

“Yes, Ms. L/n.” The AI replied, “He is in the gym. Would you like to inform him you are seeking him out?”

“No thanks, FRIDAY.” You sighed, shoulders sagging. He must be beating his frustrations out on a punching bag, again. You could go see him in the gym… but it was kind of a little too public. You wanted to have a real talk with him, not something that should be talked about in the presence of other people. You didn’t want that, and you were pretty sure Bucky wouldn’t appreciate it. “Just… let me know when he’s in his room.”

“Of course, Ms. L/n.”

You leaned against the counter, staring at your reflection. Your face was blotchy from crying, nostrils raw from wiping your nose so much, and your eyes dull. God, you looked like absolute shit. You grabbed the towel off the rack, patting your face dry. You had taken a shower already, before Bucky had arrived back at the compound, but you felt dirty, again.

It’s your damn emotions. You just feel like shit, you don’t need another shower.

Ugh, maybe you should take a bath and relax.

Looking away from your reflection, you ripped open the cabinet under the sink, so you could procure your handy first aid kit. You needed to take care of your hand before it got infected, or something. Unzipping it, you looted around until you found the liquid bandage. You ran your injured hand under some water, cleaning the cut and the area around the wound. Luckily, it wasn’t that large, but it was going to be a bitch to try and hold closed while applying the liquid.

Somehow, you managed to apply it – wincing as the stupid liquid burned against your open wound. You held the skin together, waiting for it to dry.

Okay. What to do, now?

You could get some work done, clean your room, look at random Buzzfeed articles online, scroll through social media…

You should probably look up ‘traumatic childhood memories’, or something, and get to the bottom of your weird aversion to guns... and that weird dream… or memory… whatever the hell that was.

You had the time. Why not?

Because you probably wouldn't like what you found.

With a slow exhale, you poked at the adhesive to make sure it was dry. Once it was, you left all your belongings on the bathroom counter, making a mental note to have the handkerchief that Tony gave you dry cleaned, and exited the bathroom to flop onto your bed with your laptop.

Could one just Google ‘why did I see a memory of my father’s face after shooting a gun’?

Probably not.

You stared at the little Google sign, wondering what the hell to type in the search bar. Traumatic childhood memories? Random memories resurfacing as an adult? Were they even memories? What would be so bad that you’d forget seeing your father’s face and a bunch of blood? What was so awful that it took you years to even understand that something happened?

What happened?

You started with the first one, googling ‘traumatic childhood memories’. A bunch of random articles popped up, but most of them had to do with childhood sexual abuse and dissociation. One of the articles about sleep paralysis and childhood memories talked about how, when a child is sexually abused, they could dissociate and block out the memories in order to protect themselves from pain, but the memory still could affect them. The article talked about ‘recovering’ your memory of the original experience to help with the current problem…

But your current fucking problem was that you had the damn memory in the first place.

Plus, you were pretty sure that you were never in a situation that you could’ve been sexually abused… right?

You remembered going to the cabin… but… what about specific details? You remembered getting beers for your dad and his friends, you remembered fishing by the river, you remembered the trees… and… you remembered having fun? You remembered one summer when you got stung on the arm. There was a small memory about sitting under the stars by the campfire making s'mores while your father's friends told stories about ‘the good old days’…

What about the specific summer that the memory should’ve occurred?

What summer would that be?

What the fuck? Why were you blanking on this?

You shook your head, moving on to an article about ‘Signs You’re Repressing A Negative Childhood Memory’.

Well, get straight to the point, apparently.

“‘Specific places or situations freak you out.’” You read aloud, a frown forming on your face after.

Well… yeah.

You freak out over guns, and the sound of the gunshot triggered you into a damn episode.

��It’s difficult for you to control your emotions’… Now, that one was a toss-up. You were actually able to control yourself pretty well, in your opinion. You really only snapped if there was reason to… right?

Oh god, now you’re second guessing everything.

‘Keeping a job has always been difficult’. Nope. You were quite good at keeping jobs, actually. Next.

‘You’ve always struggled with fears of abandonment’. You had your father to thank for that one. Emotional abandonment. Next.

‘Friends often say you’re ‘acting like a child’’. Nope.

‘You always feel anxious or emotionally exhausted.’ If they had your damn life, they’d under-freaking-stand.

You clicked off the article, looking for a more professional article to read. You should’ve done that in the first place, you moron.

Wasn't the internet supposed to be helpful?

Shoving your laptop off away from you, you hopped off your bed and over to your closet in search of a specific book. The stupid DSM-5. You only called it stupid, because you hated trying to find anything in the book. It was a good reference, though it was not something you’d ever actually use. You’d just bought it for a project when you were in college.

You threw it on your bed, diving back on and readjusting your position to get comfortable.

You could look up stuff about dissociating and go from there?

You flipped through the book, looking for ‘Dissociative Disorders’ for a bit of a reference about trauma and memories. Once you found the page, almost halfway through the giant book, you started reading.

Dissociative Amnesia? Seems promising.

As you read the passage, it started to sound somewhat like what you were going through. Localized Amnesia? ‘A failure to recall events during a circumscribed period of time… is the most common form of dissociative amnesia’. That sounded close to what was going on… but it still didn’t sound completely right.

Maybe look up PTSD?

You slid your computer back towards yourself, getting back on the Google search engine.

There were a few different articles about emotional trauma and memory loss, but you were starting to become frustrated with the topic.

Maybe you should just ask your parents?

Yeah. Right.

After today’s events, your mother was likely to never speak to you, again.

“Ms. L/n,” FRIDAY startled you from your thoughts, “Mr. Barnes is back in his quarters.”

“Thanks, FRIDAY.” You sighed, laying back against the bed and flipping the book closed with your foot. “This is going to be fun.” You muttered, staring at the white ceiling.

You tilted your head, straining to see the clock on your nightstand from your awkward position.

TWELVE THIRTY IN THE MORNING?! HOW IN THE WORLD?

Apparently, your search lasted longer than you thought.

Closing your eyes for a moment, you inhaled through your nose for five seconds – holding it for a moment.

Huffing an exhale, realizing that your breathing did nothing for your growing anxiety, you rolled yourself to the side to slide off the bed.

Okay. You can do this. You jumped up and down a few times, trying to hype yourself up, before padding to the door of your room. It’s just Bucky. Even if he was mad at you, he’s your soulmate. You can talk this out.

Your door clicked shut behind you, sealing your fate. You were doing this. You were going to knock on the door.

Before you could chicken out, you knocked quickly – anxiety starting to skyrocket.

Oh god. You couldn’t do this. What could you say to him?

The door was thrown open, before you could run away in fear, and Bucky was standing there – a confused frown on his face.

He must have just showered. The ends of his long hair were damp, he was dressed in a plain tee shirt with basketball shorts, and the smell of his body wash permeated the air around you.

“Y/n?” His eyebrows pulled together, eyeing you warily, “What are you doing awake?”

“Can we… talk?” You cleared your throat, crossing your arms over your chest nervously.

He nodded, opening his door wider and granting you entrance to his bedroom. “Come on in.”

As you walked in, you were immediately surrounded by the smell of him. It was warm in his bedroom, unlike yours. The walls were the same white as your room, but – unlike your own room – the walls were basically bare. Only a television decorated the wall, looking like it was collecting dust. His bed took up a lot of space – though, it didn’t look slept in. The black bedspread was perfectly made to army standards, not a wrinkle in sight. One side of his desk was littered with paperwork, some of which you’d sent over to him, and post-it notes filled with reminders. The other half contained various guns and knives, which he looked to be in the process of sharpening. You smirked when you saw a picture frame in the corner of the desk, containing the photo of the two of you at the sushi restaurant.

“This is my favorite picture.” You murmured, tilting the frame to see the photo better.

He remained silent, continuing to stand by the door. His arms were crossed over his tee-shirt clad chest – demeanor defensive, though you could feel the guilt through the bond. His face was neutral, even though you knew exactly what he was feeling. You wanted nothing more than to run up and hug him, but you knew that it was not the best idea – after what happened in the kitchen.

You sighed, moving to his bed and sitting on the corner, wrinkling the bedspread. “I’m so sorry about what my mother said to you.” You gulped, looking down at your bare feet and trying to think of the right thing to say. “I… It wasn’t… it wasn’t right what she said.”

He scoffed, prompting you to look up from the floor. His face was scrunched up in a confused grimace, “You don’t control what she says.”

You picked at your fingernail, staring at your exposed tattoo, “I should’ve defended you more. I should’ve-”

“Wait…” He took a step towards you, feet entering your peripheral vision, “Why are you the one apologizing to me?” You glanced up at him, biting your lip in confusion as he continued, “I should be the one apologizing to you. You warned me that she was… judgmental… and I still let her get to me.”

“So… You’re not mad at me?” You asked quietly, biting your lip and not meeting his eyes.

“Darlin’…” He sighed, moving forward once more, and crouching down in front of you, “You think I’m mad at you?”

“Well… you did… kind of snap at me… and gave me a big ‘fuck you’.”

“Y/n, sweetheart, I’m not mad at you.” His voice was soft, and his hand moved to your face, gently turning it so you were looking at him. His eyes had softened, eyebrows pulled together with a look of guilt. “That little ‘fuck you’ was at your mother, regrettably. I should’ve never snapped like that.” He sighed, closing his eyes, “I should’ve never left you in the kitchen like that… I should be the one apologizing to you, not the other way around.” He took your hand, noticing the freshly dressed gash on your palm and examining it. “I am so sorry, Y/n. I’m sorry for snapping at your mom, for being rude to you, and for leaving you to clean up that mess.” He glanced up, blue regretful eyes meeting yours, “I’m sorry for letting you believe I was upset with you. I was… I was upset with myself.”

“I’m still apologizing.” Your lips lifted in a sad smile, fingers entwining with his cold, vibranium ones. “I’m sorry for, after being an asshole and ignoring you all week, I let my mother say those awful things to you.”

“I’m used to shit like that, sweetheart.”

“Well, I want you to know…” You pulled your entwined fingers to your chest, pressing your chin against the cold of the vibranium, “I don’t think anything she said is true.”

“You don’t?” He asked quietly, blue eyes shining. His adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed thickly.

“No.” You replied softly, with a small smile. “I never have, and I never will.” You reached forward with your free hand, gently laying it on his bearded cheek, “I remember when you first showed up in the news reels, after The Accords. I remember how hearing what happened to you made my heart hurt.” You gulped, tears filling your eyes and blurring your vision, “It still breaks my heart.”

He leaned his head into your hand, beard scratching against the palm of your hand. “It’s in the past, darlin’.”

“That doesn’t mean that you aren’t affected by it, every day.” You sniffed, tears sliding down your cheeks, “I hate that this happened to you. I hate that people don’t understand. I hate that people like my mother say and think awful things about you.” Your eyes closed, tears continuing to streak your hot face.

You were suddenly engulfed in warmth. He had stood, arms wrapping around you and burying your head in his chest. His face pressed against the crown of your head as he whispered, “Sweetheart. Don’t cry.”

“I’m sorry.” You sniffled, wrapping your arms around his middle, breathing in his body wash and fabric softener, “I just… I don’t like that people don’t see you the way that I do.”

He stayed silent, running his hand along the top of your back, trying to comfort you. It should be the other way around, you idiot. You should be comforting him, you jackass. You pulled back, moving so your arms were wrapped around his neck, chin resting on his shoulder.

“Enough emotions for one day.” He finally responded, pulling back and standing up fully. “Scoot back on the bed.”

“Wh-what?” You raised an eyebrow, blush warming your tear-stained cheeks as you wiped the evidence away. “Why?”

“Get your mind out of the gutter, sweetheart.” He snorted, moving to the desk and sheathing his knives with ease. “We’re watching the Netflix thing.”

“‘The Netflix thing’?” You snorted, scooting back so you were leaned up against the headboard, pillow behind your back. His bed was comfier than your bed. “I told you before, it’s just Netflix.”

“I knew that.” He grinned, grabbing the remote from the edge of the TV and moving to the bed, flopping down on it. “I just wanted to see that pretty smile.”

“Shut up.” You muttered, blush spreading to your neck. “Flattery will get you nowhere.”

“You’re in my bed, aren’t you?”

You scoffed, slapping him on the chest gently, “I thought you said you were a gentleman.”

He laughed, getting himself comfortable on the opposite side of the bed. He held the remote out to you, “Pick what you want.”

“Do you want scary, or do you want cooking shows?” You asked with a small grin, signing him in to his Netflix account, “Because we still have to watch season three of The Great British Bake Off… but I saw that The Conjuring is on Netflix.”

“What’s ‘The Conjuring’?”

“That answers that question.” You quickly flipped it on, scooting down so your head was leaned against his shoulder – as you usually where when you watched Netflix on the couch. Though, you’d never been on a bed together. The thought was… intimidating.

“Am I going to have to protect you from the imaginary demons?” He joked, moving his arm so you were tucked into his warm side, warmth seeping into your bones as you snuggled into the crook of his arm.

“I’m not that big of a baby.” You scoffed, rolling your eyes as the Annabelle doll’s face flicked across the screen. “I’m a grown woman, you know.”

“Remember when we watched that other movie? You made me walk you back to your bedroom, and you clutched at me when it was dark.”

“Okaaaay.” You cut him off, slapping him on the chest with a small chuckle, “I’m a little bit of a baby. Just shut up and watch the movie.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

Part 14

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oncewhenweweregods-blog · 6 years

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Importance of Representation

Every statement that I make is from my own experience, and my own opinions. I do not believe that everything I am about to say is true for everyone, or even that it should be true for everyone.

***

When it came to my own sexuality, I was always confused as a kid. I grew up Catholic, and I would listen to priests and parishioners speak about how wrong it is to be gay, that it is a sin, blah blah blah.

Obviously, I believed it. I was gullible like that. If someone told me something, it had to be true.

Every show or movie I watched was the same: white, straight main cast. It was normal. It was constant. Still, I would look around at my friends, the ones who definitely were not white, the ones who spoke with accents from different countries, and I would think, where are they in the things I watch?

I do not remember much from my childhood (shoutout to repression of traumatic events, whoo!), but I do remember watching my favorite television shows and movies and not recognizing the characters in all of the people I interacted with on a daily basis.

Is television a lot different now than it was, say, fifteen years ago? Absolutely, and not at all.

When I was younger, I did question why there were not any main black characters, or any main Indian characters, or why all of them seemed to come from America. But I never really dug into those question - I never actually understood why I was questioning it.

As I got older, I recognized more and more the lack of racial representation in the media. It was pointed out to be by a friend of mine who had immigrated to the United States from Haiti. She was complaining one day, rightfully, that all of her favorite American shows lacked one important detail: non-white main characters.

She told me about her niece, who was only one years old, and her fear that she would never be able to relate to the characters in a television show because these shows would not demonstrate the things she would go through. The shows she would watch as a child would not tell her about racism, or about what she would deal with - they would only narrate the lives of the white main characters.

I feel incredibly under-qualified to speak more on this, as I am white, but I do understand the importance of representation of POC, and I also understand the representation of immigrants in the media.

My family came from Portugal, from a less-than-decent life there, and sought out opportunity in America that they did not find in Portugal. They came here for a better life for the next generations of our family, and not only did they struggle to make it here, but they struggled once they got here.

They struggled to learn the language, to be taken seriously with thick, foreign accents - to get jobs with foreign names. It was not until they changed their names to their “English versions” that they were actually called for interviews.

My aunt married a man, a doctor, who once told her that he throws away applications if he cannot pronounce the name.

Where is all of this leading to?

The fact that I don’t see enough of this shit in the media.

The fact that I can’t find enough shows about immigrants, about foreign people, or even just with foreign people in the main cast.

The fact that maybe - just maybe - if my mother had watched an American show when she was seventeen and afraid that featured even just one main character that went through the same struggles as her, she would feel a little less alone.

People do not understand the importance of representation. I have complained about a television show not having enough POC, and I have been told, “there’s a black guy as the main character - how is that not enough?!”

Seriously? One main character is black, and that is somehow supposed to be enough?

How many POC do you think are in just America alone, and yet every character in a lot - if not most - shows/movies is somehow magically white? Because white people never interact and form bonds with POC and therefore they could not possible be a main character?

In response to that reply, I always think, what the actual fuck?

Of course, things are getting better. There are more POC as main characters in television shows, more shows and movies featuring people who came from other countries (has anyone watched One Day At A Time?), etc.

But until people are adding POC into shows and movies for the reasons that they should be added, and not just to “temporarily please” viewers, we will get nowhere.

Now, onto gay representation...

This is where I relate to the most. As said before, I struggled with my sexual orientation, like, A LOT.

I hated myself. I hated everyone else. I was just angry all of the time as I fought with myself over being gay, over accepting that I was gay.

I hid it from everyone until my Sophomore year of high school. What helped me accept myself and tell my mom via a game of hangman?

One of the gayest shows (in my opinion): Glee.

Before I even came out as gay, I earned myself the nickname Santana from some of my friends who had also seen the show. Was it because they viewed me as gay? No. It was because they viewed me as a bitch.

But that is probably what made it easier for me. The show did not focus on Santana as some super-butch, super out-there lesbian. They did not classify her under any stereotypes, and they certainly did not make her identity easy for her (I mean, it took her three years just to come out to her closest friend, and we all know she suffered with figuring herself out long before that).

They made her casual, and they made her angry. That was something I was definitely able to relate to (especially now, but that it an entirely different story which I will get to shortly, since apparently I am going to share every damn detail about my gayness with you).

When she came out, her grandmother turned away from her. But still, she found strength from the acceptance of her friends, and even though she still was not completely okay with everything, she moved forward.

Watching her story made me more comfortable. I saw someone like me - an angry, lost teenager refusing to accept something that she already knew was true until she was pushed by her friends.

So, I told my mom, and the rest is kind of history, although I regret coming out to my mother by playing hangman and making “Mom, I am gay” the words for her to guess.

(Three years later, though, it turned out my mom is gay, too! Holy shit!)

Anyway, my point of bringing up Glee is that I saw myself in a character. I was able to accept myself because of a gay character that was part of the main cast of a television show.

And there was so many shows and so many characters that help other people struggling with their identity. People will tell me sometimes, “I don’t see the point in adding so many gay characters everywhere - we know they exist, we don’t need to push it.”

Well, maybe “pushing it” is what kept little Jimmy from overdosing on pain pills he found when he was fourteen because he found out, from television, that there are people like him, that there are people going through the same issues as him.

(Yes, that is a true story about a friend of mine and, no, his name was not Jimmy.)

The last little bit of representation I am going to talk about here is neurodivergence.

I grew up with a severe anxiety disorder, but that is not something I am going to get into, because I would much rather get into a personality disorder - specifically, antisocial personality disorder.

I asked all of my coworkers once what they thought of when they heard the term “sociopath” (I would have used the term ‘antisocial personality disorder’, but as you will see from their response, the media has left everyone uneducated on the topic). Almost everyone replied with things like “murderers” or “psychos”, except for one of my managers who majored in psychology and actually understood the disorder.

Something I do not discuss often is my issue with lack of empathy and a seemingly “inability” to connect with or care about most people. I do not experience empathy. I experience sympathy only when around the few people I actually care about.

I was “unofficially” diagnosed with ASPD (professionally, but “unofficially” as in it was one session, I was classified as a non-threat, and I was told that I did not have to pursue therapy as treatment because I was fine with my diagnosis, and therefore I did not see that psychiatrist again). How this psychiatrist was able to “diagnose” me in one session, I am not sure (well, I may be, but that is not something I am going to get into).

Anyway, that short-lived therapy session was about two years ago.

What did I think after it?

Holy shit, I am going to end up killing someone. I am a fucking psychopath.

Was I actually going to kill someone? No, what the fuck? Was I a psychopath? By definition, no.

But I was afraid of what I believed I would “turn into” because of everything I had seen in the media. I was led to believe that because I was being grouped in with people who were diagnosed with ASPD, I would grow up (even though, technically, I was already “grown up” - but let’s be real, eighteen is not grown up to most people) to be some horrible serial killer, even though I had never even thought of killing someone.

(Also, fun fact: loving animals and being empathetic towards animals apparently does not “count” according to the psychiatrist I saw.)

ANYWAY, fast forward to about six months later. My dad and I are talking and he mentions some show called Person of Interest. I look it up, read the description, and think, Sounds gay, no thanks.

Fast forward two more months. I am on Tumblr and find a list of shows with gay main protagonists. I see Person of Interest listed, with the character name Sameen Shaw.

Being the gay asshole I am, I put the show on Netflix, but only started on the first episode that Shaw makes her appearance.

Axis II personality disorder? Am I watching what I think I am watching? A character with a personality disorder that is otherwise labelled as violent?

Okay, so maybe Root and Shaw are incredibly violent during the show, but I am ignoring that part while I write this.

They both, like me, suffer from issues with empathy. Of course, Shaw is a bit “higher” on the spectrum, a bit more “broken” if that is how you want to word it, but the fact of the matter? They both lack empathy one way or another.

And yet, they are the heroes. They are the ones that save lives. They are not the enemy, they use violence because it is necessary (for Root, let’s assume we are talking about when she starts actually working with the team, not when she was an assassin).

The show never gives them “redemption” from their personality disorders. The writers do not have some character arc where Shaw seeks forgiveness for having ASPD, where she thinks that she is completely broken from it, and that she needs to be fixed, and Root even says it.

The show gave me something that made me feel safer about myself, that made me realize the stigma surrounding people with ASPD is mostly wrong, and there are so many other disorders (anxiety, depression, schizophrenia, just to name a few) that deserve this kind of beautiful representation, because people with these disorders DESERVE to see main characters that they can relate to, that they can find strength from.

Representation is not something that show creators/writers should consider a “gift” to their viewers.

Representation should not even be representation at all. It should just be.

Because the real people are POC, LGBT+, and neurodivergent.

Shows are not meant to be real, obviously, but the characters should be. The characters should reflect the people that watch them.

Representation is important because it gives the viewers someone to relate to, because it makes the characters real.

I feel as though this goes without saying, but this is obviously the same for all types of media - novels, comic books, movies, etc.

And this is why I will make damn sure that whenever I write, I will include characters that people can find themselves in, because I have experienced firsthand just how important that is.

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skindeepmonsters · 7 years

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Chapter 1: Scene 3

Sierra was relieved to find that Gabriel was gone by the time she returned from the tour Missy had insisted on giving her. The lap around the school was a blur. She didn’t remember her locker combo or her homeroom teacher’s name. How could she? She’d just been flung head first into shark-infested waters. It almost made her want to laugh. How damnably inconceivable was this whole situation? A thousand miles and months later, she was once again face to face with her greatest fear in the flesh. She resisted the urge to scrape her nails over the scars under the thigh of her jeans. It was how she knew she wasn’t imagining it. The thing had left its mark on her. Of course they’d tried to tell her that she’d been attacked by a bear and not... whatever that thing had been. But she knew better. It hadn’t been something as simple as a rogue bear. She’d stared into its eyes, seen the intelligence lurking in them. She’d felt its clawed fingers - fingers! not paws - rip into the fabric of her pajamas. She’d heard the almost-laugh gurgle from its hideous maw as its bite mangled her leg. She gagged and swallowed down the bile that rose in her throat. He was like that thing. She’d always been told she had good instincts, why start doubting it now? That still left her with the question of what to do about it. Did he know she knew? He’d seemed pretty damn aware of her, so maybe it was obvious somehow? She’d have to find a way to defend herself. She wasn’t going down without a fight. She needed more information and a plan.

She also needed to keep herself together and put up the front she’d built in the clinic. Passive, agreeable, and sound of mind, if not a bit traumatized. That was the only way they had let her out. She’d lied and lied until they had believed she was no longer delusional or dangerous. She was a little disgusted with how good she’d gotten at it. If somehow Gabriel didn’t know that she was on to him, then that edge was something she needed to keep. Play the part of the confused, but harmless girl who knew monsters weren’t real. She needed to get through this day without incident so Roy didn’t have an excuse to keep her cooped up any longer. She didn’t need more time to heal. She needed answers.

Maybe this meeting could help her with that. Gathering her trained mask of polite and cooperative, she rapped her knuckles gently against the door to Mr. Durham’s office and was greeted with a gruff “Enter.” She came in and waited for him to look up from his paperwork. Once he was finished, he lifted his bald head and peered at her over his glasses. “Ah! Sierra. Come in. I apologize for making you wait. What can I do for you?” he removed his glasses, leaned back in his chair and folded his large hands behind his head.

“Not at all, Missy was kind enough to show me around while I waited so it all worked out.” She rifled through her bag and produced a thin packet of papers. “I just wanted to get you the vaccination records you needed. I’m sorry it took me so long to get them to you. I wasn’t quite sure… how to go about that without, you know…” She trailed off. It seemed easier for people to deal with her parents’ deaths if she didn’t directly comment on it.

“Yes, well, it’s completely understandable given the circumstances.” Clearing his throat, he took the papers and set them solemnly on his desk. “Sierra, if I may, we have a counselor here every Monday and Wednesday if you need someone to talk to. Your uncle always speaks so highly of his sister – and you. The whole community is just shocked by this tragedy. What I’m trying to say is that you aren’t alone. If you or Roy need help with anything don’t hesitate to reach out to any of us.”

Sierra had to bite her tongue to stifle a snort. Imagining a poor high school counselor or anyone in the tiny town trying to help her was morbidly amusing. Instead, she took in Durham’s stiff posture and uneasy expression, and knew she wasn’t going to get anything useful from this man. “Thank you,” she said, faking as much sincerity as she could muster. “Both my uncle and I appreciate all the support and hospitality this town has offered us.” With that Mr. Durham visibly relaxed. Clearly he wasn’t prepared to deal with a teenage girl loosing her shit about her dead parents this morning. She didn’t blame him, not really. It looked like he’d had enough trouble with Gabriel. Remembering those eyes sent a familiar and hideous wave of panic, stronger than the last one, rushing through her veins. The mask started to crack again. Was her control really this fragile? Damnit! Trying to wrestling her emotions back into something manageable, she placed her hand on the door knob. “Thank you again, Mr. Durham. If everything’s in order I think I’m just… go- going to go wait for first bell.”

“Yes, I think we have all the paperwork we need now. Uh, welcome to Libby Middle-High School and I hope you settle in quickly.” The principal stood up behind his desk as she opened the door in a rush.

“I’m sure I will,” she lied, trying to force her steps to slow down as she hurried from the office. Turning blindly into the hall she came up short against another student walking by the office, boots squeaking on the tile as they collided.

“Oh my gosh, I am so-- Oh, hey Mak!” She’d managed to run right into her childhood friend, Mak. Her roiling panic stopped its spiral and began to recede, like an angry tide called back to the ocean.

“Oof, geez, where’s the fire, Sierra?” Mak laughed and reached out, straightening Sierra’s twisted bookbag strap.

“Sorry,” Sierra ran a hand through her hair and blew out a breath, thankful it wasn’t shaky. “I’m just a little frazzled with...” She gestured broadly, throwing her hands up in the air..

“Understandable.” Mak empathized. Straightening to her full five-foot-ten height, hand on her hip, Makenzie considered Sierra for a second. “Well, at least you look great! I love those boots!” The smile she flashed was infectious and Sierra felt her anxiety retreat further as she gave an honest smile for the first time that day.

Mak took Sierra by the arm and started showing her around again, which Sierra really didn’t mind since the tour with Missy had been eaten by the panic attack. Along the way they ran into Victoria - Sierra’s other close friend from her summers here with her family - who was grabbing a muffin from the cafeteria. As they talked, Sierra mused on her two friends. Makenzie Evans, who preferred to be called Mak, was basically the high school’s queen. She was on the varsity volleyball and basketball teams. She’d been homecoming royalty twice and was a part of the student government. Impeccable style and perfect hair seemed to just follow her around. She was radiant and vivacious. And if Mak was the sun, then Victoria was the moon. Bright and dependable, Victoria Yancey was an artistic genius who somehow kept her head in the clouds and her feet on the ground simultaneously - an impressive feat for anyone, let alone someone who didn’t even reach Mak’s shoulders. Her purple and teal pixie cut and pale blue eyes gave her an ephemeral, punkish look that Sierra wished she could pull off. An old soul with a touch of spritely fire. Sierra wondered, not for the first time, how she fit in between these two poles. She had two personal celestial bodies orbiting, guarding her, but still the dread in her soul, the strain in her bones held her on a leash.

A light touch at her elbow brought her out of her reverie. Victoria’s keen, concerned eyes didn’t miss the tension in Sierra’s posture nor the taut lines of her face. Arching a brow, Victoria asked the silent questions Sierra hated thinking about: “Are you okay? Do you need more time? What can I do to help?” No. Probably. I don’t know. Instead of voicing these inadequate answers, she gave a rueful smile and shrugged. Victoria’s soft mouth hardened into a thin line, but she let it drop. Sierra wasn’t quite and stubborn as Mak, but confrontation was not Victoria’s strong point. A problem for another time.

Sierra was relieved to find she had classes with both girls. French and Art with Victoria and AP Government with Mak. They also all shared second lunch. She would have her friends with her for about half the day. That was half the day she didn’t have to worry about talking to new people or feel completely isolated or fear a panic attack. That just left Calc, English, and Physics. Good. Calculus and Physics would keep her mind plenty occupied since they weren’t her strongest classes. So, really only English would be where she might have to worry about freaking out over, ya know, going to highschool with some sort of monster, demon thing. She had to repress a shudder at the thought of Gabriel. If there was even an ounce of mercy in the universe she wouldn’t have any classes with him. Considering the small population of the school, though, she didn’t like her odds.

First bell chimed out as Mak and Victoria saw Sierra to her first class. Calculus. Hugs and words of encouragement were exchanged, as well as advice from Mak to sit in the back because everyone suspected Mr. Havert - right, that was her homeroom teacher’s name - of being a pervert. Great, more good news. As she entered her first class, she swallowed down her burbling anxiety and quickly scanned the room for a pair of strange grey eyes. Nope. One down, five to go… All eyes turned toward her as she made her way towards Mr. Havert’s desk. Clearly the whispers and rumors had already started. Psycho. Orphan. Freak. Just make it through the day, Sierra. Just one foot in front of the other. Just keep breathing...

#sdm #chapter 1

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