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robininthelabyrinth · 3 years

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Spilled Pearls

- Chapter 29 - ao3 -

“In the future, you should send your children to the Cloud Recesses for me to teach,” Lan Qiren said. He was sitting with Wen Ruohan on one of the rooftop gardens in the Nightless City, watching the moon and stars from a pavilion placed there for that purpose; their bodies were pressed close together, and it felt as if they were far away from all the things that were familiar. “You and Lao Nie both, and naturally I’ll come visit with you often as well, bringing my nephew. Between the three of us, we might even be able to teach them how to be proper human beings.”

Wen Ruohan laughed in his ear and pressed his lips to his cheek – he had taken to kissing him at random, spontaneous, as if still overwhelmed by the fact that he now had the right to do it.

“I will,” he promised. “I agree, I think they’ll turn out better that way…you would really have me educate your precious little A-Huan?”

“If I’m willing to entrust myself with you, why not him? Anyway, I can teach him music, and with the aid of the other teachers in my sect the sword in the Lan sect style, but you can teach him much more than that. You know how to look at the world and see it for what it is, and then bend it to your will, make it sing to your tune. He’ll be sect leader in the future; he needs to learn that, and you can teach it to him.”

“I can, and I will,” Wen Ruohan said, then thought for a moment and asked, “What does Lao Nie bring to the table?”

“Flexibility, mostly.”

Wen Ruohan barked out a laugh. “He certainly has that.”

He didn’t even sound bitter about it any more.

Lan Qiren smiled.

“In the meantime, I will handle the rest of it,” Wen Ruohan added, and Lan Qiren looked at him in silent question. “Come now, Qiren. Did you really think that I would allow you to remain caged in the Cloud Recesses your whole life?”

Lan Qiren paused. That was the sorest part of his heart, his most painful misery, but he didn’t think Wen Ruohan would bring it up casually. If anything, he was a bit more afraid of what Wen Ruohan might get into his head to do about it – there was very little Wen Ruohan wouldn’t dare.

“Da-ge –” he started warily.

“No, no,” Wen Ruohan said, lightly scolding. “Little Lan, be serious! I already rejected the opportunity to cage you here at the Nightless City, playing only for me, despite how much I longed to do so. I refused to do it – me, refusing myself – because I knew it would only make you sad. Do you really think I would allow other people a privilege that I have denied myself?”

Lan Qiren did not laugh, but he dearly wanted to. It might be the first time he’d ever wanted to laugh about his situation – not even Cangse Sanren had managed that. “Has anyone told you that you are extremely self-absorbed?” he asked instead. “Arrogance is forbidden. Do not be haughty and complacent.”

Wen Ruohan smirked back at him. “All true, little Lan, but don’t forget your favorite: Do not tell lies.”

Self-absorbed, narcissistic and arrogant, Lan Qiren concluded, and there was no helping it. It was clearly a terminal case.

He used his sleeve to hide his laughter.

“What are you planning, exactly?” he asked once he had recovered. “If you harm my sect, whether directly or indirectly by denying them my services, I would be even more upset than if you tried to lock me away in here.”

Wen Ruohan waved a hand dismissively. “Do you think me so incapable? I have already begun making arrangements. Discussion conferences may only be once or twice a year, being as they are tremendously irritating to arrange, but there’s no reason that we of the Great Sects should not recognize our greater duty towards the smaller sects, and not to mention our obligations to protect the mortal world –”

“You know that it exists, then?”

Wen Ruohan ignored him. “The resources of cultivation clans are limited, and the world large. There are many places which would benefit from aid that do not see any simply because they are far away or tucked in inconvenient places, and no sect lives nearby – naturally, it is our duty to fight evil no matter where it is encountered. Lao Nie has already agreed that it is critical that the sect leaders demonstrate our sincerity by fulfilling this duty in person, leading by example.”

Lan Qiren’s heart had already felt as if it were overflowing with warmth, and it felt even more so now, almost squeezed to pain by how much joy was there. More than he had known he could contain.

Bad luck in brothers, he thought to himself - but oh, he had such good luck in friends!

“I see,” he said, thankful that his usual neutral tone concealed how happy he felt. “And naturally, where you and Lao Nie go, Sect Leader Jin cannot be far behind in his eagerness not to lose out, and where three of the five Great Sects lead, naturally the rest cannot be far behind. So I, too, will be obligated to...what? Go out on night-hunts in inconvenient places?”

“The world is too large, and the number of cultivators too few – and at any rate, there’s no point in setting up a full night-hunt which draws in every person from a thousand li for a few paltry fierce corpses or a ghost or two. I propose, instead, that we would send cultivators out alone, in pairs or in small groups, to wander for a few months through the remote places in the world and clean them up. Then, at the next discussion conference, the Great Sects could jointly agree that whoever was most enterprising would receive a reward, and naturally, stories of various exploits could be exchanged – ”

“Ah. Another reason for young men and women to gather and boast of improbable exploits.”

“Think of it as giving them more opportunities to win glory,” Wen Ruohan said. “And stop talking down about ‘young men’; you are a young man. Naturally you are also qualified to go out to do such things. Required, even: if our Great Sects do not set a proper example, who will?”

“Mm. A proper example. Even if I coincidentally happen to spend more time playing music than hunting demons?”

Wen Ruohan’s eyes were bright. “Even so. And naturally, you could always bring along someone more powerful to do the demon-hunting for you…”

“How convenient.”

Wen Ruohan smirked. “Do you doubt that I will be able to make it happen, little Lan?”

“No,” Lan Qiren said, then added, honestly: “I think you could take over the world if you wished.”

“Naturally! But it would be quite irritating, I think, if I had to also ensure that both you and Lao Nie did not disapprove of my methods…” He paused, lips twitching. “By coincidence, while we’re discussing convenience, I was thinking that it would be dangerous to send all those wild and reckless young men out there without proper support. Surely it would be only reasonable to set up a few convenient places here and there, not so far away, to provide them with supplies and a place to rest and recover –”

Convenient places that would fly the Wen sect’s flag and spread its influence, Lan Qiren presumed. Lanling Jin would be furious – using wealth to buy influence was their favorite technique, and they resented other people copying it – and would immediately insist on establishing their own set of “supply stations”, and then the rest of them would have to catch up and make their own. Yet another expense, and the Great Sects would need to do more than most; it would probably wreck havoc with the Lan sect’s annual budget.

On the other hand, well the remote parts of the world really did need the help. One of the Lan sect’s newly recruited guest disciples had been talking about a place not far from his hometown that specialized in making coffin goods; it was, according to him, the most inauspicious place that could possibly be imagined…

Not a place anyone might want to go, unless they truly were intent on traveling.

Lan Qiren smiled once again. He thought he might never stop smiling.

“Indeed,” he said, trying to sound dry and rational. “Very coincidental. No one will doubt that this is nothing but a scheme to expand your reach and power, rather than any personal motive.”

Wen Ruohan did not answer, but instead, matching a smile of his own to Lan Qiren’s, pressed his lips against Lan Qiren’s once more.

After a little while of silence, Lan Qiren cleared his throat and asked, “Do you intend to tell people?”

He was not referring to Wen Ruohan’s plans for the future.

Wen Ruohan understood.

“In time,” he said. “As much as I would love to shout that you are mine and I am yours from the rooftops and perhaps have bulletins be posted to every town -”

Lan Qiren grimaced. It would be one thing if he thought Wen Ruohan was exaggerating for romantic effect, but unfortunately it would be just like him to engage in that level of over-the-top grandstanding.

“– but your position is not yet certain, and my reputation is too questionable. People would make assumptions and spread malicious gossip, and I – I would not harm you to please myself.”

“Sweet-talker.”

“It’s not sweet-talking when it’s true,” Wen Ruohan protested, although he was chuckling. “When you are more renowned as a teacher than a sect leader, when little A-Huan is old enough to have passed the worst stretches of childhood – then we will announce it, and let the rest of the world choke on it if they like. You, me, Lao Nie…hmm. Jin Guangshan will probably think we’re concealing a conspiracy and ask to join in.”

Lan Qiren gagged. “I refuse,” he said. “I don’t care if I’m not physically involved, neither you nor Lao Nie are allowed to even think about it. That man has visited so many prostitutes that one might be forgiven for thinking he believes that the road to immortality is paved with venereal disease.”

“…thank you, that was an image I did not require.” A pause. “Jiang Fengmian –”

“Remember when he punched me in the face in a fight over a girl I didn’t even want?”

“It wasn’t a serious suggestion.” Wen Ruohan chuckled once more and pressed another kiss to his cheek. “Some years ago now, I swore to your Cangse Sanren that I would do right by you. I ought to invite her here and show her that I’ve made good on it.”

“You haven’t made good on it.”

“I haven’t?”

“No. Such a promise is fulfilled through the keeping – if you want to do right by me, there is no one singular moment that would qualify, but rather a continuing obligation.” Lan Qiren smiled up at him. “I’m sorry, da-ge. You’ll have to continue to do right by me for the rest of our lives.”

“I will,” Wen Ruohan said, and smiled back. “It would be my pleasure.”

-END-

#mdzs #lan qiren #wen ruohan #my fic #my fics #spilled pearls

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aching-tummies · 3 years

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Have you ever dealt with food-restriction or ED or whatever?

I really debated answering this one. I understand that it's a sensitive topic for a lot of people, and I do go into some personal details with my struggles, so I'm going to put most of that under a cut.

I know a lot of blogs have something like "we do not stan ED in this house" and that's the extent of their address on the topic and some get pretty angry if anyone even mentions ED around them. I get it, it's a triggering topic and it can be unhealthy and maybe hearing about it or seeing it or whatever pushes someone (back) into bad habits. I understand all that. In my opinion though, shutting down the topic is problematic. I believe that destigmatization saves lives--and not just for ED. Making it a dirty little secret and something one feels ashamed of talking about or struggling with creates more problems. It doesn't go away just because someone feels they cannot talk about it. I'm on the side of destigmatization--where "how are you" is an actual question rather than a casual greeting where "good" or "great" are the only acceptable answers. No--it's supposed to be a question and we shouldn't have to feel ashamed when we are going through crap. Maybe neither party has time to get into it then and there and maybe the other party isn't comfortable/or the right person to go to with those particular issues...but "how are you" is supposed to be a genuine question, not a greeting.

Short answer to whether or not I've dealt with food-restriction or ED: yes.

I don't want to invite drama onto my blog with this...but I think it's time I said something on the topic. For one, I'm sick of how people go "we don't stan ana on this blog--GTFO" and leave the discussion at that. I don't think that is healthy. People that actually struggle with EDs and Ana maybe want to get help...but professional/formal help is not always accessible and not necessarily always the right tool for what they are going through in that moment. I understand that EDs are unhealthy and I am not trying to glorify them...but I want to say that I care about the people struggling with the stuff and I admire their resilience. There's enough shaming going on around the world and I'm not going to dish it out to someone struggling with an ED. I'm not going to make it out to be something that's taboo to talk about like it's some dirty little secret. I want to de-stigmatize it. I want a world where someone can be like, "I struggle with food/eating and I had a setback last night" and those of us listening can be like, "Alright. Is there something you need/want me to do with that information? How can I help?" Currently, I see a lot of, "Shh! That's a triggering topic! Do you want to set off all the other ED suffer-ers in here?! Don't talk about that noise!" even in my IRL friend groups and I think it's just sad. These are the same friends that are constantly reblogging, "It's okay to not be okay" and “I’m a safe person to tell stuff to” stuff but clearly they don't believe that.

The way I see it, living with EDs is like living with a pet alligator. It was once small and cute and early on maybe you made one choice: you chose to keep it. Great...well, now it's grown and it's a problem and you don't know what to do with a full-grown alligator that eyes you like you're it's next meal. Who do you talk to when everyone shuts you down and maybe there isn't an "animal control" number you can reach out to because it's expensive or it doesn't exist in your area or they're so over-booked that you'll be alligator-chum before they get to you? That's how I see ED. It's terrifying but it's still 'your' pet alligator, even if you feel more like it's pet human at times.

Onto the personal aspects.

I've never been officially diagnosed with an ED and I don't believe I've ever done something that's extremely dangerous on this front. That being said I have (and sometimes still do) struggle with intrusive thoughts about my body.

I'm "average" sized...maybe on the bigger side of average in North America...however, there's a different standard in Asian culture. Like the "Asian F". I was always told I was supposed to be smaller. I was supposed to be no more than 5'3, no more than 110lbs, have a bust no bigger than 34C, and be able to fit into anything marketed to teens and up. Yeah...I'm none of that.

I'm going to try not to rant and get angry and upset...so here goes, take 7 on trying to answer this.

I grew up surrounded by judgmental adults. I eat and I'm fat; I refuse to eat or eat less and I'm exhibiting worrisome behavior. My take away: I bring dishonour on my cow no matter what I do. Sure, there are those that'll be like, "they'll judge me whether I eat or not so I may as well eat some good food"...yeah...that's not me. Choosing to skip the meal and the company entirely is the only way I feel/felt like I 'win'...but as a child that wasn't an option.

I mostly ate alone in University, but my brain filled in for the silence of judgmental comments. If I ate my whole lunch in one sitting I'd get upset with myself. I'd pack smaller portions and I'd be aware they were smaller, but I'd still be upset with myself for finishing it...or even finishing it and still being hungry. If I caved and bought a sugary drink or a snack or something because it looked good, I'd scold myself for using up the food budget as well as the calories budget. I used to break apart individual cookies--one cookie would take 3-4 sittings/days for me to allow myself to finish because I'd only allow myself two fractured pieces at a time. Some days, i.e. weekends, I'd intentionally skip a meal or two and rationalize that I was simply indulging in kink and that I'd eat later. I always did end up eating later and going about my life as normal. "Fasting once in a while is supposed to be healthy", I'd tell myself...but I won't deny that there was some part of me that would tell me that every skipped meal and calorie ignored was gradually working toward shrinking my body.

Despite how it sounds, I wasn't actually doing noticable damage to my body. Physically, I was within the realm of healthy...maybe on the bigger side of average and definitely not mentally sound...but my body was fine. My body didn't change--I didn't gain or lose weight. I ate...I just felt bad about it and beat myself up about it. In retrospect, it was a heck of a lot of mental anguish I did to myself with nothing to show for it.

Life after University is pretty stressful. Stress doesn't agree with my tummy so I got (and still get) frequent upset stomachs. I've become pretty conscious of eating and how my stomach feels so I end up being careful to eat less so that there is less to upset my tummy. I do it because an upset stomach is inconvenient...but I do enjoy the fact that it seems I have lost a little weight. Losing weight isn't a big part of my rational though. My coworkers have mentioned that I look thinner. I don’t see much of a change when I look in the mirror...but my belt does up two notches tighter without too much fuss so I guess I have slimmed down just a smidge. I didn't intend to lose weight, I just cut down on eating because I didn't want to deal with so many upset stomachs...I think I'm allowed to enjoy the unintentional weight loss without it being a problem...but if I had a problem then I guess what I think about this situation doesn't count for much.

I wish I was thinner--just enough to fit into acceptable sizes in the women's section. Enough to not feel like "the big one" when among my friends. I don't idealize the extremes of weight-loss...like...I don't want to be able to count my ribs or have my joints be wider around than my biceps or whatever. And I don't feel like I'm obsessed with losing weight/being thinner. It's something I want...but I also want a burrito and a can of Cola. I tend to partake more than I deny myself nowadays...just in smaller portions. I’ll still get mad at myself for indulging...but I do indulge and try to lessen the mental kicking by splitting things between two meals or something. I still break apart my cookies and eat them over the course of a couple of days...but most of that is because I run out of time to enjoy the treat or because I want to ration it so that I don't have to spend money to buy another one every single time. I don't try to count calories and all that. I still see eating less as a good thing...but I'll still eat a decent portion...I won't pick at my food rather than eat it.

My opinion here, but I don't think I'm unhealthily obsessing over weight and body issues and stuff. They're a part of my life but I don't think they do enough to be super problematic at this stage in my life.

And now onto the tie-in with the content on this blog. I've answered quite a few asks about how I feel about 'stuffing' and the thing that rhymes with "Geight Wain" with "for reasons I don't want to share, I'm not comfortable with that stuff". Most of the reasons I was thinking of for those asks is covered in the personal stuff above. I'm not comfortable with stuffing and the big "double-u gee" because for all of my life I've felt or internalized some judgements about body size and weight. It's very upsetting for me. It's also why I hate a lot of the degradation talk and things mentioning chub or fat or rolls or whatever--because it brings be back to being a kid sitting amongst judgmental adults feeling ashamed of how much of the universe’s matter I took up. If other people like those tags they're free to do so...I just don't want that sort of thing shoved into my face or imposed onto me because it makes me feel bad and makes me remember bad times. I’m into tum-kink and stuff and would love to indulge IRL with an actual partner someday...but I don’t think I will ever be comfortable with putting on weight or even RPing something like that. The thought of getting bigger terrifies me and it’s not something I want encouragement for personally. You do you if that’s what you’re into...just leave me out of it.

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idgaf-what-you-call-me · 3 years

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This is the first time, outside of therapy, that I am opening up fully my past, I ask that you remain respectful.

Trigger warnings: Suicide, torture, neglect, alcoholism, … a lot listen you’ve got to be well resourced before you read this.

I know Dean, because I was Dean. I was raised to be “perfect”, I am so much like my dad, I didn’t have a childhood, I was tortured, I have lost time (dissociation not possession by an arc angel), I am fairly closeted, and I’m finally starting to get better.

Ever since a very young child, I was raised to be perfect. To look at a 99 and learn what I got wrong before I brought the grade home, otherwise, I was sent to study. I was raised to not be heard and taught to stay in my room. I was raised to not show emotion because anything more than stoic meant that I was an inconvenience. I had “fend for yourself nights” where I had to sort out what I would eat for dinner, and at inexcusably young ages, 5-6 years old. I learned to shoot at 8, and was taken fishing anytime my dad went. I was brought to the construction sites, learned how to use power tools, and eventually had my own set at home. While I wasn’t trained to hunt demons or other things that go bump in the night, I was molded to be just like my dad. My mom wasn’t around much when I was a kid, so I idolized my father. He was like a god to me. As I got older (legal), I even would drink things that my dad approved of like scotch and I smoked cigars. Often praised, “that’s my girl! Look guys, my daughter drinking scotch and smoking a cigar! Where are your kids?” The validation was like a high to me. I was desperate for his approval. Just like Dean. Talked like his dad, walked like his dad, drank like his dad, I get it.

I was blatantly ignored including being told that I was invisible by siblings. They would hold up a remote to me and say, “you’re invisible” and ignore me. I could leave the house and they would not come look for me. With my mom and dad often gone (usually working or partying we were quite poor), I didn’t have anyone looking after me since I was 4 so when my dad was around, much like Dean, all I wanted to do was make him happy and proud of me.

I was a closeted bisexual, who made so many gay jokes towards my cishet brother that I feel quite a bit of shame as an adult. I repressed every facet of desire I had for the opposite gender because being bisexual really meant that I must be gay. At least that is what Will and Grace told me, and I did not want to be gay. Things were bad enough, I didn’t need to add to my shit pile. By the time I was 12, I had no idea how to feel emotions and I had no idea how to love myself. Most days, now at 29, I still don’t know how to love myself. I am not out to everyone in my family. I don’t feel safe with everyone. All the gay jokes between the brothers, all the Dean is bi subtext, I lived a lot of it.

Torture can take the shape of many different forms but they fall under two umbrellas: physical and psychological. I was subjected to sound torture and sleep deprivation forms of physical torture that have lasting psychological effects. When you live through something like that, you don’t “rebound” in the traditional sense, and I would dissociate. My consciousness would retreat back into itself until it was safe enough to come back.

I dreaded Thursday nights as that is when it would begin. My father would bring home several cases of Michelob Ultra, from the store, and then he would start drinking. My dad didn’t measure his consumption in beers, instead he measured by the case. A form of extreme binge drinking that to this day I still don’t completely understand. While he would drink, his music would get progressively louder and louder until the whole house vibrated with noise.

There are some songs and artists that I cannot listen to anymore. They’re not songs by Metallica or Black Sabbath, instead they’re by Credence Clearwater Revival, Bob Dylan, Van Morrison and the like. Songs that people dance to at their weddings, sing at funerals, and enjoy on a road trip with the entire family. They are generally described as lively yet not heavy, yet this music was the conduit of 5 years of actual torture for me. I used to say that these were my favorite songs, but it was a way to cope with hearing them at home, and then hearing them play in the car on the way to school the next morning. In my house, the music was played so loudly that walls and floors shook and overwhelmed my senses and ability to sleep, think, do anything but have a heartbeat and breathe. It would last all night. I never learned to “fall asleep” I would pass out. To this day, I can be desperately tired, and able to drive for several hours without being a dangerous driver. Like my body learned to ignore fatigue. “I just need like 4 hours every couple of days,” yeah Deano, I’ve been there.

I would freeze mentally. Almost like a zone out but on steroids. Then I’d look around and things wouldn’t feel real to me. I would look in the mirror and see a stranger. Now I understand that I had developed dpdr as a way to cope. I don’t wish it on anyone.

My mother? She would leave the house and go clubbing. My siblings were 8 years older than me and lived on their own a great distance from where I lived. Besides, I had school to go to on Fridays. So I cooked, I monitored myself, I had to become an adult. I didn’t get to be a kid. My catharsis was angsty and fluffy Harry Potter fan fiction. You can find it on FF.net, RandHrFan I no longer post with that handle. Dean’s were movies, movies that my dad, and I’d wager his dad watched. I also love westerns just like my dad and my grandfather, there is something about them.

When Dean cries and opens up to Sam about his hell experiences, I get it. I’m so proud of him for telling Sam. To some it seems like he’s closed off but he’s not. He’s opening up as much as he mentally can. And Sam listens. Just like my sister eventually did. When Dean gets mad and yells at John and Mary, I’m proud of him, because he is fighting for himself. He knew he deserved better and he didn’t let it go. Just like I have done in my not so distant past.

All the while my parent’s marriage was fracturing and I was mentally declining. My mom began sleeping in my room and in my bed, and I was basically left to sleep on the couch. On days when my dad would drink, and my mom would go out, I could get to be in my room again. I could be on the computer (laptops weren’t a thing yet) which lived in my room. I could connect with the two other friends on AIM, but the reality of my situation I couldn’t escape. I was isolated, didn’t trust my family and I didn’t know how to ask for help.

One day I attempted to take my life. I saw no value in it. What was I doing with my life. I was a broken human who didn’t deserve love, who didn’t deserve safety, who didn’t deserve well anything. So I downed a bottle of pills. I had an iron clad stomach, I wasn’t too worried about not being successful. Except, I sent a goodbye message to a friend, and that friend saved my life. He got a hold of my sister who got to me in enough time to make me throw up. (She was a champ at that, having suffered from bulimia and taught to throw up from no other than my dad.)

I didn’t receive help afterwards. I signed a paper saying that I wouldn’t attempt again and was taken home. (I hope this isn’t how hospitals roll anymore.) I left my house, I went to school out of state and found stability, created stability for myself. But my past still haunted me whenever I went home. So when Dean has a death wish, and gets discharged from hospitals before he’s stable, I get it.

My parents eventually divorced, and I came home to a place where I couldn’t live anymore for a solid couple of months, I couch surfed, and again my mental health took a nosedive, but nevertheless, I persisted. I got my head back in the game, and finished my degree. Chemistry. I couldn’t go back home, because if I did I’d be working for my dad. I couldn’t do that, it was too painful. So I went to grad school. I got my Ph.D. I began to chart my own path. But there was a rage in me that I couldn’t escape. I lashed out at anyone and everyone to hide the pain that I felt all the time. People were afraid of me. I was great at what I did but I couldn’t make lasting connections with others.

When I was 27 suicidal ideations became dangerous, and I got about as dark. I tried to harm myself, and wanted my world to burn. It didn’t matter that I was married, with pets, and owned a home. Nothing mattered. I finally had to decide between life and death, I couldn’t continue in that state. I can say confidently that I would be dead if I didn’t get help that day. I wish Dean had this chance. He gets close to this in moments with Cas when he is honest about his feelings and experiences, he cries, he gets angry, lashes out, but Cas is there for him. From someone like Dean, I’ll tell you Cas being present holds more weight than gold for Dean.

I have been in intense therapy for a year. By intense I do mean more than once a week, regular check ins with her, and the occasional group session. She sends me articles to read, homework, and we do EMDR work, emotional integration therapy, mindfulness, etc.

It was then that I began to learn that all the rage that I had built inside me was hiding intense fear, loss, and disappointment. The rage gave way to tears, and the tears gave way to a new anger that I could make peace with. That anger comes from the person I am today. The person who fights for herself. Who doesn’t take shit from anyone. The person who says, humans don’t break, vases break, and I am a human. I see a lot of that in late season Dean. He is a fighter.

But I am still the person who receives a compliment and shuts down, there is still a side of me that doesn’t believe that I deserve nice things, good things to happen to me, but that person is getting smaller. My therapist likes to hit me with compliments when I am vulnerable as I am more likely to believe them. I still react like a dead fish when she says them, and then after the session sob for hours over it. One day my head and my heart will believe the same things about myself. I would have reacted the same way as Dean to that confession.

When the cards fall, I still know that I can depend on myself before anyone else because I had to. My life as an impoverished, unstable, depressed, neglected, and abused kid says I should be dead or amounting to nothing, but hear I am. I’ve now closely mentored about 20 undergraduate students, a handful of graduate students, and have helped them find their paths in life. I have taught nearly 1000 students. I made a difference with the life that I tried to throw away.

I have come to a place where I can love my dad. He is sober again, and yes, my love for him does depend on his sobriety. When he is drinking he is not the same person. I wouldn’t call him an A+ dad by a long shot, and hell I am so much like him that at times it makes me sick, but I do love him. I have been able to forgive him. Forgive in the sense that I can make peace with what happened. It doesn’t change what happened or how much it affected me, and I certainly don’t forget, but that isn’t what forgiveness is. I don’t hold the rage anymore. The fact that Dean is able to is personal for Dean, as it is for me, and it isn’t some “family that is what you do” type reason.

I do experience flashbacks when there are fireworks, I can’t go to a movie theatre because of the volume, when people play really loud music in their cars I typically have to peel off into a parking lot and meditate for 20 minutes to be able to drive again. There are some stores that I don’t shop at because their music triggers me. So when Dean experiences those flashbacks, I get it.

There is a belief in the psychology that monster shows help us become comfortable with our dark sides. My dark side saved me over and over again. My dark side told me to be better than them. My dark side told me to fight for me, to adopt a survivor mindset. (If you can’t tell I am a green veined Slytherin and have never been sorted into any other house even by random house generators.) The things I delight in are a bit off color. I cultivate a poison garden, consume way too much true crime, to gore I say give me s’more and so on. Dean gets to experience his dark side, and he has to make peace with it. He makes inappropriate jokes, laughs at it, but he also does talk about it.

This is the hard part: Just like Dean, I am also light. I love people (vomit), seriously though, they are more precious to me than any earthly possession. Plants bring me serenity. Animals are a comfort and companion in the worst of times. There isn’t much I wouldn’t do to protect living things. My motivations come from a place of love and a need to protect others from what I have been through. I know I can survive, but I don’t know if that is true for everyone else.

I know Dean. I was Dean. I see that every episode. Moments when he yells and screams for himself, I cheer him on. Moments where he tries to waste his life away, I understand, and am crying right with him. The purgatory apology guts me, I’ve had to make that apology more than once. The dead fish reaction, hell that is me at the end of a therapy session. I am here to say: Dean is not broken. Dean is strong. Dean is resilient. Dean doesn’t just fight for himself, he fights for the whole of creation. Dean is not a vase. He is a human.

Oh and John’s taste in beer, much like my fathers, is crap. Don’t drink shitty beer. Also, I don’t drink scotch anymore. I'm a gin girl and I drink *okay* beer.

I’m the same blogger who does drunk blogging regarding Supernatural on Saturdays. It is a lovely bit of comfort and joy for me and I won’t be stopping any time soon. We will get back to the lovely and light “Dean is Bi he he” commentary this weekend.

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crimeronan · 4 years

Note

ik youre not a therapist and i dont want like therapy or anything but im 17 and ive known i was bipolar for 3 years now and i dont know how im supposed to live the rest of my life like this. im so fucking tired. how do you stay alive

you sent this a couple days ago & i’m posting at a weird time so i’m not sure if you’ll see it but.

i’ve been looking at this message trying to decide how to respond

because i don’t know your situation, your symptoms, how you’re feeling, whether you’ve had positive or negative experiences with medication, psychiatrists, therapists, hospitals, all that related shit

the bipolar life advice i give to people is vastly different depending on the individual. it’s not a one size fits all thing. and there’s never even a guarantee that my advice will be the right choice

so since i don’t know about your situation or experiences or what you want, i’m not gonna tell you what to do. i’m gonna focus on the “how do you stay alive” question and try to pen down some personal feelings. and if they help then great, and if they don’t then... this is the most honest i can be

(you can always ask another question to get a better answer. my inbox is a coin slot and i am a vending machine of varied-degrees-of-helpfulness replies offered at varied-inconvenient-too-long-intervals)

how do i stay alive

it’s a 2-parter, actually. i pondered how to condense my thoughts/feelings, and it came down to these two things

1. love 2. spite

1. love

the spite is easier to write about than the love. love is hard to reach when i feel like shit.

spite is where i go when i want to die. love is where i go when i want to want to live.

maybe i don’t want to be alive. but maybe i wish i did. spite doesn’t help me much there. spite keeps me afloat, but it doesn’t make the floating pleasurable. there’s more to life than outlasting everything that ever hurt me. i need a reason to continue when there’s no enemy to fight

so. love

i almost wrote about the spite alone because that’s rawer, realer, more visceral. that’s the shit that CONNECTS when everything feels hopeless. but it would be a lie of omission. spite is only one of the major food groups, you’ll waste away from malnutrition if you eat it for every meal. or at least, i will.

“so you’ve got a bunch of people you love,” you say, “and you stick around for them. cry on them. support each other. like each other. fine.” you’ve heard this story before

nah.

i mean - yes. i have people i love. i live with two partners, i’ve got a third girlfriend, i’ve got a long-distance platonic life partner. i have a support net, i have a family i’ve forged, i have confidence that i’m not alone. i have, in a bare-bones checklist sort of way, fulfilled my physiological human need for connection

but i could live without every single one of them. i’m not dependent upon any of them for my survival. i’m not dependent upon them for love, given or received. (this isn’t a callous cruelty, it won’t hurt them if/when they read this. i’ve told them all this, they know. they’re glad of it.)

so. what the fuck does “love” mean, then?

the short explanation is that it’s my love of life, of things in the world. it’s all the little connections i’ve made. every time i love something, a hook tethers to the universe. hook enough tethers, and i no longer feel the need to float away. no dissolution of self today, sir

the rest of this section is some of the things i love. partially it’s to show how i connect to little things and ascribe magic to the mundane. partially it’s because i like thinking about things i love, i like typing them out, and i like that i could keep going for thousands and thousands of words.

i am laying in bed at 7:30 AM with the lights off and the shades drawn. blue light comes through the slats because it’s the better time of year, the one where i finally get vitamin D, the one where the birds chirp at 4AM, the one where the sky isn’t impenetrably black til 10PM.

there’s a weighted blanket tucked around my legs. my partner rafi bought it for us to share because it’s soothing and heavy and comforting and helps with my physical pain. right now it’s soft on my skin and if i get too emotional as i write, i can pull it over me like a cloak until i’m settled.

the apartment’s walls are blank because we’ve spent eight months intending to put art up and keep forgetting. but there’s a newly-unearthed dining area in the kitchen because i finally shifted around the unpacked boxes that were dominating the space. it’s new and it surprises me every time i walk out there. it’s open and inviting and bright and it’s a sign that we’re making this place home.

we’ll put a cheap IKEA table by the window and we’ll probably never eat family dinners there - why would we sit in hard chairs and make stiff conversation when we could all cuddle on the couch - but my partner dev will create a place to do their art and the surface will be constantly littered with drying watercolor experiments.

we’ll hang our art one of these days, too, when our collective adhd offers a miraculous combo of remembering + having time + having motivation + having inspiration. rafi has the most art because they’ve been collecting it for years. i have to start smaller. i’m not used to keeping physical objects. dev has a few pieces thrifted or bought at local artist events or painted themselves

so we’ll put art up in the living room, my single “you are magic” flower print alongside a naked monster lady that dev fell in love with when we browsed art at a yuletide event months ago, alongside rafi’s monster girls and comic characters and book characters and literature art and quotes and abstract pieces and whatever else they have hiding in boxes.

my head protests that naked monster ladies do not belong in the living room, although the picture isn’t overtly sexual. but then i remember that they do, actually, because it’s our space and we can do whatever we want with it as long as the lease isn’t broken. there isn’t anyone in the local social circles who’d be perturbed by the decor, as far as i know. i don’t have to hide anything from my parents because i live 3600 miles from them, and even though i miss my mom, the distance is good for me

there are two exquisite chairs on the porch. they fold and recline from thrones to nearly-horizontal beds. there are pillows and cupholders and trays and specific spaces for both a book and a phone. i can sit there while the morning sun rises and read or play word games or browse tumblr, cup of coffee beside me, trees shielding my eyes from stabby sunbeams

there are remnants of the last tenant’s garden in one corner of the yard. we’ve done fuckall for yardwork but plants struggle through anyway. some seem to have sprouted by accident. mushroom clusters populate the edges of the fence. the apartment squirrel (there are probably several, but i like to think it’s a single energetic creature) runs back and forth along the fence & i always lose my train of thought & then laugh my ASS off at the “SQUIRREL! XD” adhd moment. birds kick up leaf litter and play on the ground looking for insects to eat, they wiggle their tail feathers and flap their wings and sometimes they disappear and then return with friends

a little more than eleven months ago, i packed all of dev’s and my shit into a uhaul and drove and drove and drove to get to this city i’d never been in before to live with a partner i’d never cohabitated with. we were homeless for more than a month, we weathered some financial disasters, we met some great people and some shitty ones

on the drive i fell in love with the sky. i didn’t know how big it can get - actually, that’s a lie. i’d FORGOTTEN how big it can get. i’ve loved the sky thirty miles out to sea, no land in sight in any direction, just blue water and blue space above. i’ve loved the vastness and the yawning beneath me and the knowledge that everything is BIGGER than i can fathom. the depth of the sea doesn’t frighten me, it’s home. i don’t want to die, but if i had to, the ocean makes a soothing grave

in north dakota i discovered that i’ve been partially blind my whole life, which is a different tale that showed me i’ll never stop learning myself. in montana we struggled up thousands of feet of mountains with the car huffing and puffing at the trailer’s weight, and when we finally coasted downward, it felt like sudden freefall. we ended up in the pitch darkness of night on sheer winding interstates with midnight construction projects forcing detours. the mountains felt hungry, they had teeth. mountain cliffs are much scarier to me than the ocean depths

i bought a red bull and poured a little out the driver’s side door as an offering to hermes, because i’m not particularly religious but i’ll take help where i can get it. slammed that back in a few gulps and shook to bright-eyed alertness and ended up behind a slow-driving red pickup truck that guided us over about a hundred miles of mountain terrain

i thought, that’s just some construction worker driving between sites. the roads are empty at this time of night, but it’s an interstate. of course we’d end up behind someone. this isn’t divine intervention. this isn’t the benevolence of a god

i thought, but it can be a little magic. if i want it to be.

and it was. it stays with me.

god help me but i’ve been writing this stream of consciousness for more than 30 minutes and i’ve said nothing. i haven’t talked about the city, the parks, the people, the conversations, the books, the tv shows, the movies, the communities, the library, the animals, writing, reading, singing, acting, swimming, analyzing, creating, supporting, building. and i can keep going. i can come up with hundreds and hundreds of things i love and i can write paragraphs about all of them

so i’ll stop here. you get the picture. love is the life i’ve made for myself, the surroundings i’ve built, the quiet moments i can capture, the inspiration i pin, the magic i commit to memory.

i had to work so damn hard for every single bit of this.

i’ll be fucking damned if i let it go because my brain tried to trick me into thinking death is better.

2. spite

there are people who want me to die.

i don’t mean that i have a giant entourage of personalized enemies who curse my name and plan my individual demise. although there have been plenty of people who have not liked me much. probably some of them would enjoy my death. i don’t give a shit about that

there are people who want me dead because i am a dot on a grid they dislike. a faceless anonymous enemy who meets too many bad criteria with numbers and percentages and shrinking majorities and shifting public opinion

because i’m gay. because i’m bipolar. because i’m autistic. because i’m a dropout. because i grew up poor. because my spine curves and my shoulders ache. because i squandered my potential, because i didn’t have enough potential, because i didn’t love god enough, because i love the wrong gods, because i don’t worship, because i worship wrong, because i didn’t seek a husband, because i never wanted one, because i talk too much, because i can’t be controlled, because i chose to leave the fold when i realized it was suffocating me, because i’m ugly, because i’m gorgeous, because my body belongs to me

pick your poison.

this bothered me growing up, a lot. i knew i did not deserve to die. but if enough people tell you that you should, a little part of you will wonder if they’re right. that little part might become bigger the closer they get and the louder they shout and the longer they wear you down

we know the rough shape of this story, i don’t need to tell it. mine was messy and not triumphant and i survived more by chance than premeditation.

i’m older now. by and large i’m still young as shit - i’m 24 - but GOD i am LEAGUES away from 15, 16, 17. i know who i am. i know what i want. i know how to get it. and when i don’t know that, i find out. i tell the truth. i ask for what i want. i use my time how i want. i do what i want.

there are days that i can’t access the “love” side of the equation. no finding poetry in birdsong or sugared coffee for me, thank you, i feel like shit and the world is awful and everything is too big and fast and cruel and everything wants me to die and it wants everything i love to die, too. everyone i love. it’s all garbage. the good doesn’t touch me

trauma is difficult to describe. the difficulty is compounded by the fact that my trauma is influenced by my various neurodivergences, bipolar included. i never know if i’m feeling what other people do. i don’t know if i’m voicing unpalatable feelings others are afraid to express - or if i’m just othering myself, admitting i’m not as human as everyone else.

there is something malevolent and monstrous inside me. i don’t touch it all the time. but i don’t pretend it isn’t there. it sits in my chest and molders or radiates or oozes. it presses at my throat. it curdles in my stomach. it hurts what it touches, whether that’s me or someone i love or someone i hate. it sets things aflame with no regard for the precious or the fragile. it tears down walls and razes shelters and begs for apocalyptic rain.

i can give this thing names, clinical descriptors. i know what it is on a diagnostic chart, in a ponderous article, in an academic debate, in a fiction novel, in a war movie, in a memoir. there are a thousand ways to describe this thing. the descriptors aren’t important. what is important is this - i have learned that most people do not walk side-by-side with a tornado-hurricane-hellfire-weaponized-open-nuclear-reactor. this is not a “normal” expression of human emotion, this is not me trying to ascribe power to “bad bipolar feelings.” this thing lives in me and i know why it’s there and it is not designed to be held/silenced/muzzled/controlled by my body.

it does not help to pretend this thing does not exist. it does not help to try to reason it away or ignore it or tell it to stop. it wants what it wants, it does what it does. possibly if i was better at therapy or stubbornness then i wouldn’t resign myself to that

but it is fucking EXHAUSTING to try to fight something that’s part of me. to try to reshape it, rename it, pare it down, make it consumable for the masses. it’s a war i have never won and it’s a war that i will lose if i keep fighting it. i cannot fight with myself. i cannot beat my monster into submission. if we’re gonna battle like that, head to head, me trying to cut it down, me trying to be the hero, it rearing back like a fire-breathing dragon,

then it’s stronger. it’s always stronger.

so i surrender.

but that’s not where i stop.

can’t fight it. can’t kill it. can’t muzzle it. can’t reshape it, can’t disarm it, can’t contain it.

alright.

so what now.

if the surrender was a full giving-up, this is where i’d passively accept that i’m doomed to hurt and destroy everything precious to me. can’t fix it. will lose everything, will never experience or deserve happiness, will make the world worse simply by existing.

that sure does sound like impending-doom rhetoric. hop skip and a jump from some dire-ass conclusions.

so fuck that, i say.

here’s a better question.

if it has to get out, then what happens if i control where it goes?

here’s the thing.

the monster doesn’t care what it kills or destroys or hurts.

“have a conscience, care about things, remember love, stop yourself, don’t do this don’t do this don’t do this.”

losing battle. lost war.

it’s not the monster’s fault. the monster doesn’t have complex motivations or hates or fears. it exists to protect me through scorched earth. a remnant of a chemical imbalance, maladaptive coping mechanism, bipolar crazy, traumatized injury. it doesn’t know that its job is obsolete.

i can’t change the monster.

but my mind is a separate thing. my mind knows what matters, what my priorities are, what i find precious, what i want to protect. my mind remembers all the things the monster doesn’t.

my mind has learned things the monster can’t.

when i fight it head-on, the malevolence is stronger than me. but as i am, walking with it, sitting in my bed writing this while examining the void and the consciousness, describing it, quantifying it,

that’s when i’m stronger.

and with my mind as the stronger force, i can decide where the monster goes. what it touches. what it destroys. what it burns. where the ashes land.

i do not want to be a destructive person. i want to be someone who builds, repairs, changes. i want to make the world better for kids like me. i want to stop pouring more gasoline onto a fire that’s been burning since long before i was born. i want to believe - i do believe - that positive change is better than negative. i do my best to plant good things and enact that positive change instead of becoming a beacon of wrath.

but there are a lot of kids surrounded by people who want them to die, and not all of them have a protective monster.

so it’s good.

when i’m depressed, my mind loses its battles. my cognizance slips. i forget why i care. i forget what i want. i forget how happiness feels, how to find pleasure in quiet moments.

i don’t get depressed as often as i used to since my meds are adjusted correctly now. but it still happens. it will keep happening for the rest of my life.

my mind weakens and curls up and stops fighting, and the monster is always there.

it’s a very powerful thing when it wants to be.

it wants to survive.

the thing is, it knows there are people that want me/us/whatever dead. it’s been fighting them forever. die like they want? my mind says, sure, what does it matter.

the monster says, nah. our work isn’t done. and fuck them, anyway.

so we get up.

so that’s how i stay alive.

i typed this for 90 minutes and after editing i’d spent two hours on this post. i don’t know if anyone will read it all. i don’t know if it’ll mean anything. i don’t know if these thoughts even make sense, much less if i’ve conveyed the feelings i have.

i love being alive. and when i don’t, i love being a monster. it’s good. all of it is good. i’ve reconciled my uglier pieces. it’s not one or the other, love or spite. it’s symbiosis. i need both, i love both.

no guarantees that this is helpful, but based purely on my own life experience, these are my tips for survival:

you’ll have to find your own roots. i can’t give them to you.

but it’s possible to dig them in and spread them far enough that one uprooted peg doesn’t shift your whole equilibrium.

and when you’re tired, rest, and let yourself be tired, and find the reason why you’re staying in the world.

i’m positive there’s at least one.

figure out why you’re losing your battles and then change the game.

if you can’t win one setup, don’t try to beat the system. adjust your strategy.

you’ll be surprised by what you can love when you stop fighting the disparate pieces of you, and instead figure out how to use them.

#i have several other questions to answer in my inbox if you've asked me st over the past few weeks #im not ignoring it im figuring out how to phrase my reply #replies #bipolar blogging #actuallybipolar #my writing #life advice #long post #REALLY long post #it's under a read more but if mobile deletes it i apologize #c ptsd tag #suicide m #ok to reblog #Anonymous

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wild-springflower · 4 years

Text

First Impressions

I can’t get past the theory of Buck’s dad being an abusive asshole. So, here’s a thing I wrote where the team find out firsthand!

It’s a perfectly normal morning for the 118, nothing has gone catastrophically wrong yet and they are riding that shred of hope all the way through what is promising to be a good breakfast, if the smells wafting from the small kitchen area are anything to go by.

It had been a while since they’d gotten a chance to actually sit down and enjoy their meal, as they were being sent out on one call or another. Not that any of them would complain about their jobs, it just would be nice to enjoy non-microwaved food every once in a while.

Chim is in the middle of telling a story from his last call that both Eddie and Hen had missed, involving a guy who had dabbled, perhaps a little too much, in a less than legal substance, and had subsequently gotten his hand stuck in a toaster.

“So, we just walked onto the scene, and he starts screaming down at us to ‘hurry up!’ I mean, I thought he was dying based on how hysterical he was. And we get up there to find the guy had accidentally switched the toaster on while trying to get his hand out of it!”

Hen doubled over, not caring about laughing at some poor idiot who she knew was okay, because if he wasn’t Chim wouldn’t be telling the story. “Oh my god, no.”

Eddie shook his head, smiling and laughing as well, even Bobby gave a chuckle from his place in front of the stove. It had been a while since they’d all been like that, just siting and having a good time with one another. Except they were down one number.

Eddie’s thoughts had barely drifted to Buck when his phone buzzed, “Speak of the devil.” He said to himself, voice unheard over the uproar of laughter when Chim informed everyone that this moron forgot how toasters worked and didn’t know he could just unplug it to make it turn off.

Buck’s message was short, and to the point: Running late

Something about it didn’t sit quite right with Eddie, Buck was one for embellishing his texts with dorky emojis, or at least several punctuation marks too many.

“Well I guess it wasn’t that funny.” Chim commented, waving his hands in Eddie’s direction, “Yo, earth to Eddie.”

“He just got a text from his boyfriend, he’s a little preoccupied.” Hen heckled him.

“Buck’s not my boyfriend.” Eddie shot back immediately.

A devious smirk captured Hen’s lips, “Did I mention Buck? Chim I don’t remember saying Buck.”

“You most certainly did not say Buck.” Chim played along easily, smiling broadly at the expense of his teammate.

Eddie’s ears burned and he ducked his head in embarrassment but was thankfully saved by Bobby interjecting into the conversation before it could devolve any further.

“Where is Buck anyway?”

“Yeah, Buckaroo’s normally one of the first here.” Chim stated, looking around almost as if they had somehow just missed an entire member of their team.

Eddie shook his head, still looking at his phone, “He said he’s running late.”

Hen seemed to pick up on his unease because not a second later she was leaning towards him, all traces of her earlier jokes disappeared from her tone. “Is something wrong?”

“I don’t know, I’ve just got a weird feeling. I suppose we just wait and see when he shows up? We can always ask him if something’s going on.”

The others nodded, and as it turned out, they were not kept waiting long, as not ten minutes later a very tense looking Buck strode through the wide garage doors. He wasn’t alone however, a taller and older looking gentleman was following close behind, clearly agitated about something.

“You’ve been ignoring me for nearly a decade Evan you’ll have to grow up eventually.”

“I’m not-” Buck started, but quickly lowered his voice, “I’m not ignoring you. I just don’t have time right now; I have to work.”

Eddie stood from the couch and started slowly walking towards the stairs, he didn’t like the way his friend was acting, and the older man was setting off all sorts of alarm bells in the back of his mind.

“Oh, you have to work, do you? Big important firefighter that you are.” The man jeered, clearly amused.

The loud voice drew the rest of the team’s attention, and they all were glancing warily between each other and the scene unfolding before them.

Buck’s shoulders sagged, and he looked so exhausted it almost hurt. “Please, can we just not do this here?”

“Okay, then when Evan? When are you going to grow a pair and actually talk to me, because I’ve had enough of your constant excuses. So, when are we going to do this.” He shot Buck’s own words back at him like some sort of insult.

Eddie saw the annoyance turn to rage and a second later Buck was whirling to face the man, who Eddie had a sneaking suspicion was his father, the thought leaving a pit in his stomach.

Buck’s duffle fell from his shoulder and hit the ground with a dull thud, his arms spread wide, “I don’t know. Eventually! Okay? Just not right now! Sorry if the fact that I have a life is inconvenient to you!”

The man’s glare darkened, and the energy in the room turned almost electric. Then before anyone could really react, he had extended his arm in a devastating backhand that connected with a strong slap against Buck’s right cheek.

Buck seemed to just freeze, gasping slightly, watering eyes steadfastly refusing to move from the ground.

“Hey!” Eddie shouted, and not a moment later he was bounding down the steps, three more pairs of boots echoing behind him.

They weren’t there fast enough however, because by the time they got near their friend the older man already had the cuff of his shirt bunched up in a fist and was pulling Buck closer.

Buck’s breaths were coming in stuttering gasps, whole body shaking as he leaned as far away from the man as possible.

“You know better than to raise your voice at me.” He growled, voice low and threatening.

“Yes sir.” Buck whispered, the words seeming to fall off his tongue in a habitual monotone.

“Now what do you say?”

Buck swallowed thickly, still refusing to make eye contact, but when he didn’t respond immediately the man shook him by the collar and raised his hand again in a threatening gesture.

Eddie didn’t think it was physically possible for Buck to get any smaller, his voice a hoarse whisper, “Sorry sir.”

Eddie was on them a moment later, rage boiling in his stomach at the sight. No one, especially a father, had a right to make someone feel that way. “Let go.” He practically snarled.

“This is a discussion between myself and my insolent son. It doesn’t concern you.”

Eddie had opened his mouth to spit back fire at the man, but Bobby’s calming voice interrupted him first, “Actually it does. It concerned me the minute you stepped into my firehouse and physically abused one of my employees.” The way he said “my” sounded almost possessive, and Eddie was sure that wasn’t an accident.

“Now, let go of him before I have to get the police involved.”

Bless Bobby and his ever-present level head, if it had been up to Eddie alone, he would have socked the guy square in the jaw. He still wasn’t entirely sure that ship had sailed however, as the man had yet to release Buck and leave the station.

Several pairs of hands dove together with wonderful efficiency, Chim working to release the man’s grasp from Buck’s shirt as Hen tugged the shirt away and Bobby placed a warning grip on the man’s wrist.

They’d gotten Buck out of the man’s hold, but their friend seemed glued to the spot, vibrating terribly and blinking back tears.

Hen gripped his shoulders in her arms, gentle and reassuring, while Chim was rubbing his arm softly.

“You’re pathetic, you can’t even fight your battles on your own can you.” The man sneered, taking a threatening step forward and raising his fist.

Several things happened all at once. The moment Buck’s father moved Buck viscerally flinched, eyes squeezing shut in preparation of some sort of retribution. Chim’s grip on his arm tightened, and he was entirely ready to physically pull Buck out of there should the need arise. Hen stepped in front of him with a death glare, fully prepared to take a punch for her friend. But before she was in any danger of the fist connecting Eddie had intercepted the man’s arm and shoved it out of the way.

Bobby grabbed his phone from his pocket, Athena’s speed dial all queued up. “Chim, Hen, take Buck upstairs.” He commanded; voice strong but soft.

Buck’s feet shuffled with a gentle tug from his friends but one shout from his father had him clamming up again. “Evan Xavier Buckley, I did not give you permission to leave.”

“He’s not in your house, he’s in mine. And I give the orders around here.” Bobby said, “Chim, Hen, get Buck upstairs.”

“Come on buddy.” Chim whispered at the same time Hen softly cooed, “We’ve got you Buckaroo.” Their strong arms wrapped around his trembling form the entire way.

Eddie still stood, hands clenched in fists by his sides, and glaring icy daggers at the man. If looks could kill, he would have dropped dead ages ago.

“How dare you.” He hissed, rage turning to Bobby.

“How dare him?” Eddie scoffed, “How dare you!”

“Listen you petulant child, I don’t have the time or the patience for you.”

“So, what are you gonna do? Gonna hit me too?” Eddie mocked, stepping further into the man’s personal space. “Go ahead. Hit me, I dare you. Give me a good old smack, see what happens.”

A strong hand gripping his shoulder pulled his attention away and Bobby gave him a warning look, “Eddie, that’s enough. You head upstairs as well; I’ll join you all shortly.”

Eddie stood for a moment longer and just seethed, before he scoffed in disgust and turned his back on Buck’s horrible excuse for a father.

He heard Bobby, somehow still amazingly calm and collected, telling the man that he could either leave willingly or be escorted out, handcuffs notwithstanding.

Eddie stormed the stairs two at a time and started pacing angrily in front of the couch Hen and Chim had sat Buck down on. He looked completely shut down, eyes still staring almost vacantly at the ground as his body shook.

“God, who the hell does he think he is?” Eddie practically growled, “To think he can just come in here and get away with that?”

“Eddie,” Hen called, stern but quiet, “Knock it off.” And she gestured to where Buck was sitting, shaking somehow intensified.

With a pang of guilt, Eddie realized he had unintentionally scared his best friend even more. “Buck, hey I am so sorry.” His tone immediately shifted, and he knelt down in the least threatening way possible. “I’m not mad at you, I promise. Can I sit by you?” He was treating Buck much the same way he would treat Christopher when he was younger and still blaming himself for simple accidents.

It took a moment, but eventually Buck gave a halting nod of his head and Eddie was up and by his side in seconds, swapping out places with Chimney who went to retrieve the med kit; the broken skin directly on Buck’s cheekbone almost sent Eddie over the edge again.

“Is it alright if I put my arm around you?” He knew Hen was already all over the physical support area, but he felt the need to act, at least do a little something.

Buck’s nod yes was quicker that time and it made Eddie’s heart lift, if only slightly.

“Okay Buckaroo,” Chim called, announcing his presence long before he came into peripheral view. “I just need to clean that cut up a little bit, alright?”

“Um,” Buck’s voice wavered, his eyes scrunched tight, “Can you-just um, I need a minute okay?”

Chim’s voice was gentle with understanding, “Of course, you just tell me whenever you’re ready.”

“Yeah and we’re right here for you.” Hen’s words were accompanied with a gentle squeeze of his shoulder. She met Eddie’s eyes over Buck’s ducked head, seeing the sadness she was feeling reflected right back at her.

Buck tried taking several deep breaths to try and calm himself, they were all halting and uneven, but his shaking quelled a little, which was better than nothing. Finally, he opened his eyes again, but his gaze remained trained on the ground by his feet. “Um, Eddie? Can I-” He trailed off, but his fingers extended to where Eddie’s hand was gripping his thigh, just above the knee, and Eddie understood immediately what he wanted.

He didn’t hesitate for a moment, gripping Buck’s hand within his own, “Of course.”

Buck’s grasp was tight, and his hands were definitely still shaking, but the support seemed to give him the confidence he needed. He still didn’t look up, but he nodded, “Okay,” He gave Chimney the go ahead.

Chim crouched down slowly, trying to make sure Buck could see him, the last thing Chim wanted was to startle his friend with any sudden movements. “Alright, so I just have to clean it and then put a little butterfly strip on, sound good?”

“Let’s do it.”

Eddie felt Buck’s fingers curl tighter around his palm, and by the look Chim sent Hen, they hadn’t missed the change either.

“Okay Buckaroo, I’m gonna be coming in, just my hands with some antiseptic.”

Eddie took it as a good sign that Buck didn’t flinch as soon as Chim’s hands got near his face, he did hiss and pull back slightly though when the antiseptic wipe was applied.

“I know.” Hen hummed in sympathy.

Chim winced, the last thing he wanted was to cause Buck further pain, “Sorry bud. Almost done.” A second later he was gently pressing two ends of a small butterfly bandage over the broken skin. He rubbed his thumb across his lower cheek, and Buck smiled up at him ever so slightly. Chim smiled back encouragingly, “All done. I think someone deserves a sucker.”

“You have one?” Buck joked, although he sounded slightly hopeful.

Their conversation was interrupted as Bobby came trudging up the stairs, and any progress they seemed to have made disappeared as Buck reverted back into himself. He quickly pulled his hand from Eddie’s and ducked his head down, refusing to make eye contact.

Eddie stifled a disappointed sigh and moved his hand back to Buck’s knee, giving it a gentle squeeze to show his friend he was still there offering support.

Bobby saw Buck shrink from him and tried not to take it personally, he was the big authority figure of the station, he posed the most potential for threat no matter how small it was. The reaction still made his heart ache.

Bobby sat with a heavy sigh on the ground directly in front of the couch, eyes sad. He wanted to show Buck he was not a threat and getting below him in the least scary position possible seemed like a good place to start. His voice was gentle when he spoke, “Hey kiddo, I didn’t call Athena, but I can. She can help you press charges if you want, we won’t have any problem proving aggravated assault.”

Buck shook his head quickly, “No, no that would just-just make things worse. It’s fine, he’ll leave soon enough. I shouldn’t have yelled like that anyway.”

“Hey,” Bobby was quick to shut down that line of thinking. “First of all, this was in no way your fault. And no matter what you did, it did not warrant his reaction. You understand? You didn’t deserve that, and it’s not your fault that it happened.”

Buck bit his bottom lip, trying to quell the waves of tears pooling in his eyes once again. “God, I thought I was past that, past him. It’s been like seven years.”

Hen’s face crinkled in confusion, “Didn’t your dad say he hadn’t seen you in like, almost ten years.”

Buck just shrugged, as if to say, “that’s one way to deal with it”.

Eddie’s grip just tightened further around his shoulder, subconsciously pulling Buck as close to his body as possible. “Do you want us to call anyone? Maddie?”

At the mention of his sister’s name, Buck’s wide eyes shot up and zeroed in on where Chim was busying himself putting the antiseptic wipes away. “No! You can’t mention this to her!”

Chim blinked, before realization dawned, and a sad sigh rushed past his lips. “She doesn’t know.”

Buck shook his head as more tears followed the pre-paved trails down his cheeks, “You can’t tell her. Please Chim, she’ll only feel guilty and try to take the blame.”

“Seems to run in the family.” Hen gave Buck’s shoulder a gentle nudge.

He cracked a pitiful smile at that, and opened his mouth but Hen cut him off with a hand pressed against his lips.

“I swear to god if the next words about to come out of your mouth are “I’m sorry”, I’m-well I’m gonna hug you first but then I’m gonna be hella pissed.”

She pulled her hand away, and Buck almost cringed, not really sure what else to say other than, “Sorry?”

“Oh my-what did I just say!” Hen cried, all smiles, and pulled Buck into a tight embrace.

And if it lasted a little long or was a little tighter than was per usual, well no one was going to call them out.

When Buck pulled back his lips twitched slightly, eyes radiating silent gratitude. He sniffed and cleared his throat, “Well, Mr. Daniel Buckley ladies and gentlemen.”

Eddie gave an unimpressed shrug, “Ya know, as far as first impressions go, he left much to be desired.”

Buck barked out a wet laugh, the comment taking him by surprise. “You don’t say.”

#911fox #911 fox #evan buckley #Eddie Diaz #dad!bobby #9-1-1 fox #tw: past abuse #tw: abuse

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toho-literature · 3 years

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Curiosities of Lotus Asia - Chapter 11

Chapter 11: Ultra-Violet Light

Gensokyo is separated from the human world by a barrier. However, amongst the youkai there are those who can cross this barrier. On the border between the inside and outside, Rinnosuke, who was in need of fuel for his heater, was dealing with such a youkai, but... lured by a white box, his thoughts transcend the border!

Ultra-Violet Light

There was an ear-shattering clamor like nothing I’ve ever heard before.

Even though it was almost winter, the air was unpleasantly warm.

Even with my eyes closed, a flood of light pushed through.

Horrified, I couldn’t open my eyes.

The rich, colorful outdoor scenery was being blown away along with the falling red leaves, and the winter colors were gradually setting in...

The tree leaves, now red, that symbolize life are little by little becoming warped, but as far as human comprehension goes, it only means they are turning red. For most of these leaves, they won’t be able to endure their own transformation and will fall to the ground, but there are some that will become completely warped. Those leaves will transcend red, into a color that the human eyes can’t see. The inhabitants of Gensokyo call this color after the leaves have fallen “the winter color”. Humans then say that the scenery has lost its colors, but it’s possible that amongst the youkai there are some that can see these winter colors.

The interior of the shop is also painted in the colors of winter, but it’s not so bad compared to the outside. And that is thanks to human ingenuity.

I had readied one such product of human ingenuity, namely, a “heater.” However...

Knock, knock.

“Damn, it’s freezin’ outside! It’s so cold ya can’t even hibernate! ...Hey, s’cold in here, too. What happened to that heater ya always have?”

“Ah, Marisa? Well, I ran out of fuel for the heater.”

“Huh? Fuel?”

The heater I use was a discovery from the outside world, and its fuel is also of the outside world. That means that once I run out of fuel, it’s rather difficult to obtain more. I’ve always used the fuel that was in it when I found it, the fuel from other items I’ve gathered, or some other, similar liquid.

“Don’t matter how cold it is, what happened to properly greetin’ visitors?”

“I always greet customers, no matter how cold it is.”

“Ahh, if I’dda known your shop’d be like this, I wudda brought the Mini-Hakkero. Anyway, what’cha gonna do about the fuel?”

Marisa is weak against cold. The intense winter cold reduces her “sharpness” to one third its usual level.

“For some reason, almost no heaters appeared this year. That’s why I couldn’t get any fuel.”

“Maybe tha outside world’s winter isn’t cold anymore. Lucky devils!”

“I doubt there is any way their winters would be warm.”

“So what, then? Do ya plan to just freeze to death like this?”

“I think ‘hibernation’ would be more appropriate. But I don’t plan on doing either. However, it seems I’ve no other choice. I will find some way to obtain fuel before I truly become frozen.”

It’s not like there aren’t other ways to get fuel. Like going to the outside world, or getting it from some youkai. Realistically, it would be the second choice, but... that involves dealing with youkai...

“Want me to clue you in on somethin’, Kourin? There’s someone besides you with a whole bunch of stuff from the outside world. And I just so happen to be an acquaintance o’ hers. Just the other day, she was saying ‘One can speak with someone from far away if they are using this item.’ while using it to talk to her own shikigami... I was kinda suspicious about it being for real though. But I bet someone like her would at least have some fuel.”

“Is she a youkai?”

“Of course, she’s a youkai.”

Knock, knock, knock.

“Aaah, so cold, so cold! It seems it got all cold all of a sudden.”

“Ah, Reimu? Welcome.”

About now, people everywhere are making preparations for the winter season. Reimu too has certainly come to pick up some winter clothes. That’s why I’m treating her as a customer today.

“Hey, it’s cold in here too! What happened to that over-heating heater you always had?”

“Looks like it went for a long summer vacation to me.”

“Huh? You’re here too, Marisa?”

“Yeah, right in front o’ ya.”

Marisa explained to Reimu for me about me running out of fuel and how I could obtain some. Looks like Marisa really is weak against cold.

“This youkai you’re talking about... It’s Yukari, right?”

“Yup, she’s closest to the outside world. I bet that you’d know where to find her.”

“No, I don’t. I don’t even know where she lives. She just comes to the shrine when I don’t want her to, and of course, sometimes she doesn’t come when I don’t want her to.”

“...So, you never want her to come.”

“Anyway, Yukari won’t be showing up for a while.”

“Taking a wild guess?”

“It’s not like drawing ‘Great Fortune’ from the omikuji. Yukari never shows up in the winter.”

The verbal duel between Reimu and Marisa—which I could never know if it was for real or not—continued. Of course, I never actually said I was going to ask anything of this youkai. It’s just that, if I were to stay without the fuel like this, I’d really be in trouble.

“Come to think of it, if you scatter some fried tofu, she will certainly come visit. Yukari’s servant, that is.”

The next day, I tried putting some fried tofu on the storefront. I didn’t have any particular expectation; I just did it as a sort of charm.

The temperature has naturally dropped some more today. Seems it really is becoming winter. It’s very inconvenient not being able to use my heater as I always have, but it cannot be helped. Maybe I’ll have to think of another way of warming myself up.

I got this heater a few years ago. At first, I was considering putting it up for sale, but I changed my mind after trying to use it. I couldn’t possibly sell a tool so convenient. I mean, hard to use.

It could warm up every nook and cranny of the room, and it wouldn’t even feel like it was winter. And I didn’t have to bother with firewood or dirty chimneys, nor did I need a big installation like a fireplace. I even ended up not getting enough exercise because I didn’t have to move around that much. I soon started to think that it would be a shame to sell this item, or rather, like I couldn’t sell it.

However, it has been a long time since I really felt the winter. It’s cold. Have Gensokyo’s winters really been so cold...? Should I try digging up the magical heating furnace I made long ago...? Wait, I gave that to Marisa.

A knocking sound came from the shop’s entrance. Did it trap someone already?

It hasn’t been more than one or two hours since I put the fried tofu there. It must be someone that really likes fried tofu, to get caught so quickly.

...But there was no one inside.

“Ah, do you have a moment? I have some business for your master...”

I opened the door, but no one was there. And my fried tofu was gone without a trace too. Someone had certainly been there, but I didn’t think it would be someone so quick to disappear like that. Could it have been the work of a fox...?

It seems I was wrong to think I could get what I wanted without making an effort myself. Just preparing some fried tofu and putting it out is about the same amount of effort as doing nothing.

“Well, this way is a little cold... But if I do it like this, there’s no way my prey can escape the trap.”

“...So, how long have ya been standing in front of yer shop holding fried tofu? That’s not the kind of effort y’have to make.”

“Ah, Marisa. You were there?”

“Yup, right in front of you.”

“Oh, would you help me by luring in the youkai in my place?”

“And why’d anyone have to do something so stupid?”

“I’m not an expert in luring youkai, you see. I just don’t know how to do it...”

Marisa said, “Fine, fine... let’s just go inside for now.” and entered the shop.

Since I had the fried tofu in hand anyway, I left it by the entrance and went in after Marisa.

“Not even a dumb fox youkai would fall for that kinda trap.”

“Even so, a while ago it looked like it caught something.”

“Whatever. If you can’t use your heater, how can I come hang out at your place? I’ll go and search for Yukari.”

“Do you really think you can find her?”

“Even though Reimu said what she did yesterday, I’ve seen Yukari at the shrine sometimes. She’s gotta live around there, I’m sure.”

Marisa went out to search for Yukari in my place.

Do I... really want to meet this youkai? Even without the heater, I can find another way to warm up. After all, everyone else in Gensokyo is able to survive the weather without this useful device. And besides, even if I meet this youkai, there’s no guarantee that she can supply me with the fuel.

Didn’t I just want to know more about the outside world? By using an item connected to the outside world and by being interested in a youkai connected to it, couldn’t it be that I just want to get some more information?

I do deal with a lot of mysterious merchandise. And, being surrounded by all these items, I am always wondering about the outside world.

For instance, there’s this box, much smaller than a music box, and made of a white, inorganic material. My ability tells me that this box is an item that can store and play a lot of music. However, until now, it has never played any music for me. Just how do they use it in the outside world, and what kind of sounds does it play...?

I took the small, white metallic box, put it to my ear and closed my eyes. Maybe I could hear some sounds from the outside.

I got the impression that there was a conversation coming from outside. Maybe Marisa had already came back, or else a youkai had come by, lured by the fried tofu... No, I don’t think that’s it.

There was an ear-shattering clamor like nothing I’d ever heard before. I couldn’t believe such a painful sound could be made by any living creature.

I felt an unpleasant warm air all over my skin. It was as if the ambient temperature had changed all of a sudden. In a winter like this, I don’t think I would need heating.

Even with my eyes closed, a flood of light pushed through. What could be shining so brightly to do that? It’s a cold brightness, unlike sunlight or magic light.

Then I had a flash of intuition. Right now... I must be in the outside world. Riding on the outside items surrounding me, my thoughts had flown across the barrier.

But... I didn’t open my eyes. What if, after seeing the outside world, I couldn’t return to Gensokyo anymore? Humans that are spirited away almost never have a chance to come back again. On the other hand, if I open my eyes believing this to be only a visual and auditory illusion, my thoughts wouldn’t cross the border and would be back to Gensokyo, but I could miss my chance to see the outside world. Which choice would I prefer?

That’s right, wasn’t my goal to obtain fuel? I did have a clear objective. I didn’t want to get lost in the outside world, only to visit it to complete my task. I had to leave my thoughts at Kourindou—no, at Gensokyo—and let only my body cross over there. Yes, that’s a feat humans couldn’t pull off... but I’m sure I could.

For the sake of getting fuel for making my shop warm again, I slowly opened my eyes.

Hakurei Shrine. The shrine at the very edge of Gensokyo.

Marisa went there to look for Yukari. When leaving Kourindou, she noticed the fried tofu still in front of the shop and decided to take it with her, so it could be put to a more effective use.

“Heeey! Are ya here?”

“Hmm? I am, right in front of you.”

“Not you, Reimu. I mean Yukari.”

“What happened? And why are you holding that fried tofu?”

“You were the one who said she’d show up for fried tofu.”

“Well, her shikigami is a fox.”

“Exactly, and since Kourin obviously has no idea how to catch a youkai, I had no choice but to come here so you could catch one for me.”

“Oh, I see... Rather selfish of you, isn’t it? Anyway, how about we have tea while we talk?”

Marisa and Reimu drank tea while they argued about how to catch Yukari.

“Hm, Yukari... Maybe she’s already hibernating?”

“When ya say ‘hibernate’, that just means she never shows up anywhere, right? And we don’t have a clue where she lives. What if she’s actually gone vacationin’ in the southern islands?”

“That may be. By the way... Where are those southern islands?”

“We don’t hafta go that far. But there really isn’t any way to call her?”

“I guess there’s only one other way. But if I do that, she’ll get angry...”

“So there is a way?”

“Well, there is... But if I do it, she’ll show up only to tell me that it’s dangerous and I should stop.”

“But she’ll show up, and that’s all that matters, right?”

To these girls, words like “dangerous” are hardly a deterrent.

“But it means weakening Gensokyo’s border. What if the ones who are close to the outside world get sucked into it?”

There was a flood of light. It was a very bright, cold light. It was so bright I could hardly see. And there were some voices speaking in what didn’t seem to be Japanese. The hot, foul air was making my head hurt. So this is the outside world... I had seen it in things like books that drifted in, but I never imagined it would be so noisy and unpleasant.

I had to calm down and look for some fuel, and then I should calmly look for a way to go back to Gensokyo.

...My eyes were becoming accustomed to the light. This archway here was something I recognized... Is this a shrine? And there are a great number of people here too...

“Oh, this will not do! You ended up all the way here... You shouldn’t come here, because you are not human, you see?”

“!?”

The cacophony suddenly stopped. The light also went away, and I had the white box in my hand again. The surroundings were gloomy, but somehow I could see... it was the usual interior of Kourindou.

It looked like I had just fallen asleep for a little while. Since it was so dim, I lit a small lamp and put the white box back on the shelf.

If I just keep falling asleep like this, there was no way I could achieve my goal. I was curious if the fried tofu in front of the store had lured any youkai, so I opened the front door. Unfortunately, all that had happened was that the fried tofu had been taken.

“Then it was a fox’s doing, after all?”

I could see the shapes of Marisa and Reimu in the distance. And of yet another girl, who seemed to be lecturing them as they walked. Quite an unusual scene.

“Why, nice to meet you. Please call me Yukari Yakumo. Are you the person who wanted to meet me?”

The youkai in front of me, wearing gaudy clothes and carrying a gaudy parasol, had the sharp eyes characteristic of someone who isn’t human. And she had an ominous smile.

“Ahh, greetings. I was just wanting to meet you for a bit of a business proposal…”

I guided Yukari inside the shop and explained the circumstances that had led to me calling her, like the fuel for the heater.

“Is it electric? Or kerosene? Or maybe even nitroglycerin? Well, whatever the case, it’s a simple request. I have an unending supply of any of those... and we should help each other in times of need, after all.”

She wore a wide smile. I knew it was definitely ominous.

“As expected from a youkai.”

“As expected from me.”

Having said that, Yukari started to walk around the store, her long skirt fluttering silently.

“This shop of yours... It only has articles that are quite out of fashion. The latest trend, you see, is in portable objects. Portable things to speak with people far away, or portable devices that display the records of other people on a small screen...”

“We don’t particularly care about fashion here. I just deal with items that I like.”

“Ah, this white box... This is a fashionable item.”

“Oh, that... That is supposed to carry a lot of music, but I have yet to understand how to use it.”

I have the ability to know the name and the use of an unknown item just by looking at something. However, this ability doesn’t tell me how to use it.

“If you put this to your ear, you will have odd visions like the ones you had earlier. That’s because you are not a human.”

Again, the wide, ominous smile.

“Hey, turn that heater on already! It’s freezing.”

“Aren’t you a little impatient, Marisa? I have barely begun to speak to the lady.”

“Oh, I already turned it on. See, it’s full of fuel, is it not?”

Indeed, it was now completely filled.

“When did... But I was here the whole time. How in the world did you do that?”

“We should help each other in times of need.”

With that, Yukari stuffed the white box she was holding into her clothes. I was quickly regretting having met this youkai girl.

#touhou cola #curiosities of lotus asia #touhou #touhou project #project shrine maiden

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theawkwardterrier · 4 years

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things left behind and the things that are ahead, ch. 40

AO3 link here

Peggy sleeps less now. Her doctor assures her that it’s normal, a perfectly common thing that happens to older people, but she can’t help but think ruefully of all those times over the years - decades, really - when she was pushing through on catnaps and adrenaline, having ten meetings a day while still trying to get home in time to quiz someone on their multiplication tables. Inconvenient, really, that her body’s waited until now to decide it can do with less.

Her eyes open at ten past four and she can tell that she isn’t going to be able to get back to sleep, so she puts on her dressing gown and leaves Steve in bed, breathing evenly. Down in the kitchen she starts water for tea. It isn’t quite late enough for the morning paper, so she takes a deck of cards and deals herself a round of solitaire. Last night’s comfortingly pouring rain has tapered off, leaving dismal drizzle and heavy gray out the windows.

Perhaps some part of her sensed something different about this morning, though, because when the phone sounds, bright and loud in the silence, she isn’t startled by it. She picks up in the middle of the second ring, hoping that it hasn’t woken Steve.

“Hello.”

“Mom?” The sharp sound of Drea’s franticness, the suppressed panic of her breathing, is interrupted by surprise. Steve usually picks up the phone during the night. “I didn’t think you’d be up.”

“The benefits of getting older, I suppose,” Peggy says. “I assume that if you’re calling this early...?”

“We’re driving up,” Drea confirms, words piling atop each other. “Jackson’s in the shower now. Ce called at midnight, told us that it would probably take a while, but I’m going a little—”

“Of course.” Peggy can imagine her daughter’s eyes wide open in the darkness, staring at the ceiling, shifting over to check the clock. All those nights of childhood insomnia, restless nerves over tests or tiffs with friends, grown now as she waits for her child to be born.

“And I thought I’d call and...let you two know, um...” Drea breathes out, a shudder.

After a gap of silence, Peggy speaks. “Did you want to ask me something?” she says gently.

Blurting as if she only needed permission for the question, Drea says, “What if I’m not good at it?” and then seems to hold her breath.

“At what?” Peggy prods.

“At being a mother. A parent. What if I’ve just been fooling myself - Jackson’s so excited and he seems so ready, but I never wanted to babysit growing up, and I’m never the one to try to hold the babies when we’re all together, and Max always used to cry when I picked him up, and I once almost dropped Luke onto his head.”

Peggy smooths her face, even though no one can see her, and holds back a chuckle. “That’s quite a lot of worries,” she observes.

“What if I’m not good at it?” Drea asks again, whispered. “Celia’s trusting me, she’s gone through being pregnant all of these months, she could have picked anyone, but she picked us. She picked me. And I don’t want to let her down. I don’t want to let the baby down. I just don’t know if I’m good enough for this. If I’m ready. If I’ll ever be.”

This sort of vulnerability is, Peggy thinks, the reason Drea chose to call here instead of phoning her brother. Because Nate would have picked up, too, would have been just as happy for her, told her it didn’t matter that it was barely light or that Eleanor and Luke were sleeping, would have given her his perpetual calm, offered soothing encouragements and bits of parenting advice. But Drea has always been the big sister, the protector between the two of them. Peggy can still see them in that first glimpse, Drea’s small arms around Nate’s smaller shoulders, knuckles tensed just in case. She still remembers those nights, peeking through the crack in the door when she came home late, Nate held safe between the house and his sister. And as much as Nate has grown, alongside her the whole time and even, in some ways, surpassing her, as clearly as he knows her flaws and insecurities, perhaps she wants to hold on just a little longer to that idea of herself striding ahead of him, fearless.

“Celia had good reason to choose you,” Peggy tells her. She’d only met Drea’s friend once, at their law school graduation, has an approximate memory of a round-faced woman, not quite Drea’s height but close enough that she seemed tall too, with vaguely tamed wheat-colored hair down near her waist, chunky bracelets in bright colors or made of hand-carved wooden beads beneath the sleeves of her graduation robe, a perpetually gentle, encompassing smile: like someone had tried to package every free spirit cliche into one person, though Drea had assured her that it was just the way Celia was. After graduation she had apparently moved to Vermont and specialized in environmental law, as if perfectly comfortable pigeonholing herself further, and Peggy hadn’t thought of her once until Drea had called seven months ago.

She and Jackson had been married for over three years, already a year into trying to adopt, and feeling the strain of it, especially given that they been honest about the fact that Jackson was meant to be the main caregiver while Drea worked, a plan which had been greeted (still, Peggy thought, dismayed, all these years and all we’ve done later) with no little disapproval.

(It was the sort of thing that made Steve absolutely furious. It always would have, but especially after all those years working with children.

"I can't imagine," he would comment to Peggy after another phone call with Drea, "telling the kid in front of you that sorry, there's no family for them just because you don't like the job or the skin color or the sexuality of the parents who want them. Especially when there are too many people who look right on paper and should never be allowed around children.")

And then, all of a sudden, there had been Celia, sending a letter to the address she had gotten from some mutual friend. The story of a hiking trip in Maine, one night with a man from Canada, a pregnancy that she had considered ending and decided not to. How she had remembered hearing that Drea and her husband were trying to adopt and wondered if they would like to take her baby.

Peggy was dubious about the situation, thinking how messy it could be to be acquainted with the birth parent of your child, seeing the potential there for hearts shattering and difficult questions in the future. But she trusts Drea's mind, and it was made up - not quickly, but decisively.

Still, Peggy isn't surprised by the panic at this final moment. Precipices are always frightening.

"Celia made the right decision," she reiterates with firm gentleness. "I always trusted you to take good care of your siblings. You can give this baby a wonderful home and a family. And after all, you only ever almost dropped Luke."

Drea doesn't laugh. "Okay, even if I can keep the baby alive what if I don't—" Her words tangle a little, tripping on something Peggy suspects is tears. "What if I hold them for the first time and don't feel anything? I've seen people fall in love with their kids. I won't share blood with this baby, I won't have had those months of feeling them grow and move. I painted a room. I went to a few classes. I bought a bed and bottles and a chair. It's not the same."

"It is, somewhat. Those steps mean the same thing," Peggy points out, and she realizes that she's drawing from that reserve of hers that keeps her calm in meetings when she feels something stirring and tightening in her chest. Drea has certainly considered Peggy and Steve her parents for decades, and she doesn’t mean to glance against the cruelty of saying that some sorts of parents are more real than others. "You've been preparing to bring a child into your life."

"And if it's not enough?" Drea asks. Her voice is so vulnerable that Peggy feels the stirring in her chest transform. She holds the phone closer.

"Then it's enough for you to want to help the baby, to hold them close and keep them safe and cared for. It's enough, Drea. I promise." Peggy fingers the playing cards before her. The deck is so worn, the cards creased in places, soft at the edges, the occasional little tear, that she imagines they must have had it from when the children were small.

She has never really said this aloud to Steve, though she thinks he must have guessed. She needs to take in a breath before she can begin to speak the words. The pain of thinking about the children she lost might be old by now, a healed sort of wound which only gives the occasional twinge on its own, but it can still hurt when she presses on the memory of it.

"The first time I became pregnant," she says carefully, "I wasn't entirely excited about it. I knew your father would be and I took joy in his joy. I wasn’t unhappy. But I became caught up in more logistical concerns, making certain I could still work, thinking of how it would change my marriage and my physical ability going forward, and I didn't truly focus on the meaning of it. And then I lost the pregnancy, and...it wasn't that I thought my thinking had caused it, but I certainly thought that it hadn't helped. I found myself wondering about all of these other aspects of that future which we might have had and now never could.

"So the next time I became pregnant, and the next, I put so much into thinking of how our life would be changed for the better by having a child of our own. It hurt, more than I would have ever thought, when I wasn't able to bring those children into the world, to bring reality to those futures I had dreamt up. And then we found Rose, and life with her was...very different from anything I had imagined. But no matter how much things in the beginning might have been about pushing through, keeping her alive, warm, fed, settling ourselves in, it becomes more. Taking care of another person like that, it changes things. Perhaps you'll have that moment of being struck by love and perhaps not. It depends on the parent, it always does, but I promise that the love can come later. Things are allowed to take more than a moment."

(She remembers Steve telling her about the day he had gone over to Nate’s to help put together the cot before Luke was born. How as they had examined their handiwork, Nate had asked in that quiet, straightforward way of his about whether his father ever thought of what would have happened if they had had biological children, if they hadn’t needed to adopt.

“Do you wonder?” she had asked Steve, “What did you say?”

He had looked at her: those eyes, bright and hers and the same, even as age stroked at his skin.

“I told him that whenever I’ve wondered, I imagine what Rosie would be like if she’d had older siblings. I think about how we’d have needed an even bigger house for everyone or we’d have been refereeing fights every night and putting lines of tape down all the bedrooms. I told him that when I do wonder, I ask what life would have been like with all of them.”)

“You have,” she says to Drea, hoping she can promise such things, “so many moments. There will be so many moments for you and Jackson to love your child, to grow to love them. And when you do…”

She can’t speak for a moment. She thinks of Rose in the third grade spelling bee with a gap-toothed smile and hair growing out from the mangled trim she’d decided to give herself, Rose in a formal dress organizing everyone to walk down the aisle at Nate and Eleanor’s backyard wedding last month. Emma’s gaze monitoring Peggy that first moment she had held her all that time ago, and just a year ago, sitting beside Emma as she typed out her statement for her congressional testimony the next day. Nate: how those once small hands which held his stuffed animals and pulled others up from where they’d fallen on the playground now hold onto his wife and son, demonstrate technique to the children he helps. And Drea, running wild with tangled hair, her light on late as she tried to study just that last little bit more, Drea draped softly in love the day she was married, arguing with straight shoulders at the courthouse in downtown Boston while Peggy sat hidden and proud in the gallery.

“I love you too, Mom,” says Drea quietly. “Thank you.”

Peggy clears her throat. “Have you decided on a name?” she asks, a bit of rust on the words.

“Jackson likes Harriet,” Drea says. “Harry. After Harriet the Spy.” She sounds so fond. “He thinks it will help the baby fit in with the girls.”

“The girls” are Drea and Jackson’s cats, Nancy, Trixie, Judy, and Ginny. Peggy had thought that Drea’s heart had been too broken to ever get another pet following the escape of the demon Lula-Cat, with her vicious clawing of anyone who crossed her, which she considered everyone but Drea, and the deep-throated Tallulah Bankhead meow which had been the basis for her name. Apparently she’d been wrong. The four that live in the house in the Boston suburbs are much friendlier and better behaved, but Peggy still shudders thinking of all the fur.

“What names do you like?” she asks Drea, just the faintest push.

For a moment, Drea doesn’t say anything. Then: “I like Casey,” she says hesitantly. “And Cameron. We could use Cam as a nickname, maybe.”

“A name a person can take anywhere,” says Peggy with assurance. The grandfather clock in the hall strikes the hour.

“God, things are probably moving along there,” Drea says. “Even if we leave right now, it’ll be three hours or more before we can get there and—Oh, here’s Jackson.” There’s the muddled sound of conversation in the background, then Drea saying, faintly, “No, Jacks, I don’t...You don’t have to, J, I promise, I’m fine,” before she holds the phone directly by her mouth again. “Jackson’s making me hot chocolate for the drive,” she tells her mother shyly.

Peggy thinks of her son-in-law, tall and bony and soft-voiced, Texan as his preferred cowboy boots, a man who can rewire an outlet in a flat minute and sets aside money from each check to buy books. “Good,” she tells Drea. “Tell him to add some extra chocolate from me.”

When they’ve hung up, after more reassuring words from Peggy and a promise to call when they know anything else, Peggy goes back upstairs and climbs back into bed with Steve. He stirs just a bit, puts an arm around her.

“We’re going to be grandparents again,” she tells him quietly, the eagerness she couldn’t allow earlier sprouting between her words. “Maybe even by the time you wake up.”

Despite the silver sneaking into the strands of his hair, those still-broad shoulders, when she gazes at his face, she can see the boy she met all those years ago, gentle and overlooked, fierce in righteousness; he still lies at the core of her husband all this time later, the way she knew even then he would.

She thinks of the girl she was, long decades ago, older than her years with responsibility over life and death and no idea of the things the future would bring her.

The pain and the promise of it all, my dear, Peggy thinks with solemn fondness, all still before you. And she tucks herself more tightly beneath Steve’s arm and thinks of all that still lies before her and them and those they love.

More chapters here

#Steggy #Steggy fic #Steve Rogers #Peggy Carter #things left behind fic #the Carter crew #(I wonder if this one might be struck by my emotional awkwardness but ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ typical I guess)

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sabraeal · 4 years

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In Plain Sight, Chapter 2

In Plain Sight

The second post for the 600 Followers Holiday Gift-a-thon! Once again Sensitive Negotiations had to get pushed back, but it should be out next week!

Shirayuki expects elevator music, expects all our operators are currently busy, but calling in Marshal Jiang’s badge number is one of the most painless phone experiences she’s had. A woman takes her call on the first ring, sugar-sweet, and hardly a minute later, she’s assured that she’s definitely in the car with a government agent.

She grimaces. A fact she probably should have been solid on before she got in the car. Or before she kissed him.

“Well.” A smile stretches smugly across his face as she hangs up. “I was wondering when you’d do that.”

Her jaw sets, cheeks flushing as she tips the wallet back into the glove compartment. “I didn’t want to make a scene.”

“That’s mighty kind of you.” His eyebrows raise over his aviators. “Definitely would have made for the easiest kidnapping I’ve ever been a part of.”

She hunches in her seat, hoping her hair shields her burning ears. “I was told someone would be waiting. It was a logical assumption you’d be a Marshal.”

“I could have been anyone.” The smile disappears now, and she’s annoyed at how much she misses it. “Umihebi’s just as aware of protocol as we are. It would have been easy to pose as an agent, get you out the door, and then bring you out in to some nowhere field and make you disappear.”

Shirayuki tries to ignore the long stretches of nowhere fields happening right outside her window, broken up only by billboards and an occasional collapsed barn, as well as the churning sensation in her gut. “You must be a real hit at parties.”

His mouth rucks up at a corner. “Oh, Miss, ladies love a man who talks about spy shit.”

She lets out a huff. It’s believable; if she’d met him at a party, she’d have spent the night in a corner with him, asking him about every crime documentary she’d ever watched. “If we’re going to go by spy logic, you could still be working for Umihebi.”

“I could be!” he grants cheerfully, teeth flashing through his lips. “Good thinking there, Miss. Maybe you aren’t as much of a lost cause as I thought.”

Shirayuki stares. He’s happy she’s suspicious of him. “Well, it wasn’t like I could just stop and ask my b-boyfriend for his badge number anyway.”

She hoped he’d miss the stutter, that by some miracle, he’d be paying attention to-- to road signage or something-- but it’s clear by the way he grins at her first dropped ‘b’ that he’s heard it.

“Fake a text,” he says easily. “Tell me your mom needs the wifi password again. Unless--” he leans in, far too close, and she’s glad he has those stupid sunglasses, because even with them she feels her whole body light up like Christmas morning-- “you don’t think I’m the sort of man you’d bring home to mother?”

“S-shouldn’t you be p-paying attention to the road?” she manages, lungs far too tight, all too-aware that she knows exactly what that mouth feels like against hers. She doesn’t know how other people do this, just kiss people and then like it. So inconvenient. “Also, I’m an orphan.”

Most people backpedal at that, offer condolences or apologies, but he just says, “I think you wouldn’t be in this situation if that was the case, Miss.”

Ah. Well. That’s...true. Old habits die hard, and remembering she has a living dad is apparently one of them.

“Anyway,” he continues, like he can’t feel the awkward in this car though it’s nearly suffocating her, “I’m just saying, there’s ways to give information discreetly.”

She takes his point, as much as she wished she didn’t. “I suppose.”

“Don’t worry, Miss.” He flicks up his aviators, revealing the stunning amber of his eyes, and sends her one of those grins that makes her forget for a moment that he’s Marshal Jiang not-- not handsome airport boyfriend. “Stick with me, and I’ll teach you all the tricks.”

Intellectually, she knows he’s a jerk. After all, he tricked her into this car, semi-insulted her hair, and has been smugly lording all his spy knowledge over her , like twelve days in a shoebox in DC should make her an expert instead of a victim. But still --

She smiles, despite herself. “All right, Marshal Jiang.”

His mouth pulls into a grimace. “Please, don’t. Just call me Obi.” His shoulders twitch, like he’s got an itch between the blades. “Unlike everyone else here, I don’t get off on being called Marshal.”

“Oh.” She blinks. “Okay. You can call me Shira--”

“Claire,” he corrects gently. “I can call you Claire, Miss.”

“Right.” Shirayuki settles back in her seat. This is the last time you’ll hear your real name. “Claire.”

It’s only once they get past the city, turning off the interstate onto a smaller, local route, that it hits her.

“If your badge was in the car the entire time,” she says slowly, staring at the glove compartment, “how was I supposed to check it in the airport?”

“Well.” A slow smile spreads his lips. “I have my number memorized. So if we had done it the way I said--”

“Right, but if I hadn’t.” She’s getting a feel for how to talk to him now, for how to handle how slippery he is. “What if I’d just asked for it point-blank at the baggage check?”

His smile widens into a grin. “You know, Miss. In three years, I’ve never had anyone ask before the car.”

After nearly an hour’s drive and what would have surely been a crash course in evasive maneuvers had Shirayuki been able to pay attention to anything other than how her life as she knew it was over-- or the fact that she was sitting next to a man whose lip softness she could personally rate-- they roll into a nice little suburb. The houses are quaint, if a little over-large, and Shirayuki has strong feelings about expansive lawns in an area that doubtlessly goes through periodic drought, but it’s nice, quiet. A little like the neighborhood she grew up in.

They round a cul-de-sac, and for a moment she thinks they might be lost, that somehow Marshal Jiang-- Obi might have gotten them turned around, but then--

“Here it is,” he says, throwing the jeep into park. A tasteful mid-sized SUV sits in the driveway in front of them. “Home sweet home.”

She blinks. He brought her to his house? Is this is roommate’s car?

With a cursory look as he stretches to grab he bag from the bag, shirt riding up the endless expanse of his stomach, she amends that thought to girlfriend or boyfriend.

“Well?” he asks after he climbs out, rubbing his palms over his jeans. “What do you think?”

What does it matter? she nearly asks, until she catches the SOLD! sign planted firmly in the lawn, and --

Oh. This is-- it’s hers. Her new home.

She stares up at it, and her head spins. It’s a house. A house.

“I live here?” she asks faintly, taking in the Tudor-style beams and the modern, clean brick. “By myself?”

“You do,” he confirms, mouth rucking up into a smirk. “Looks like a nice little cozy house for a professor, if I do say so myself.”

It’s two whole stories and a garage, big enough to fit a tenured professor and her whole lab inside and still leave room for them to never meet. She doesn’t even know how she’ll maintain this yard, not with the amount of non-native grass, but its gardens--

The government apparently has some misconceptions about the amount of money academics make. Especially ones who are blindly hoping for a position without adjunct in the title.

“It’s perfect,” she breathes, because money worries aside, and conspicuous consumption of this lawn...it is. Just the sort of place she would dream of having, if she’d ever thought about having any other house than--

She shakes her head. It doesn’t matter. This is what she has.

“And fully furnished.” Obi is entirely too pleased with himself. “Let me just give you the keys, and--”

“Hello there!”

Shirayuki startles, head whipping around to find an older woman peeking over the fence, wide smile firmly in place beneath a pair of all-too shrewd eyes. “Are you the ones moving in?”

She stares. This is-- a neighbor. A real live neighbor, who has no idea who she is, and--

“Oh, not me, ma’am,” Obi drawls, honey-sweet, just like a regular hometown boy. Or at least, she assumes. Texas is sort of the opposite end of the country from Boston. “I’m just one of the movers.”

The neighbor runs her eyes over him, taking in the t-shirt, the jeans, the muscles, and then lets the corner of her mouth lift as she does it again. “Mover?”

Shirayuki doesn’t miss the way her gaze darts between them, skeptical.

“Sure thing,” he tells her with a smile that wouldn’t melt butter. “I’m a College Hunk.”

Shirayuki whips back around. College Hunk? If anything, he’s flirting hard and heavy with thirty, no matter how favorably thirty’s flirting back. And even if he was, she wouldn’t--

Her face goes bloodless; she knows by the way he smirks. By the time she turns back around, little old neighbor lady is eyeing her dubiously, as if she’s wondering just what sort of hussy’s been allowed in. “No, I didn’t--”

“Here are your keys, miss,” he says brightly, and he presses the ring into her hand, too heavy for just simple house keys. When she looks down, there’s the fob to match the SUV in the drive. Her SUV. Oh god.

“We’ll be in touch.” Her chin jerks up, just in time to see him wink. “Just to make sure you’ve been satisfied.”

Her jaw drops. Does he have to make everything sound so-- so-- suggestive?

“O-okay,” she manages, tucking the keys into her pocket. “Thanks.”

With a jaunty wave, he slides right back into his jeep, peeling out of the driveway-- her driveway hard enough to leave skid marks. Neighbor-lady stares after him with a faint hint of disapproval.

Handler, hm? Shirayuki snorts. Seems like Obi was the one that needed handling.

“So, young lady...”

Oh! The neighbor. Her neighbor. She was still here, a single eyebrow raised in bemusement. “Yes?”

“I take it that you are the one moving in here?” Her smile is wry, the sort that invites one in on the joke, instead of walling them out.

“Oh, yes! That would be me.” She sticks out her hand. “Hi. Hello. I’m...living here now. I, um--” she searches for something suitably adult to say-- “I let the realtor hire the moving company.”

The lady laughs, and it reminds her of the old movies Oma would put on, with women who sung from the diaphragm and walked with more class than an entire college. “Well then. Let her know I appreciate her taste.” She clasps Shirayuki’s hand, stronger than she expects. “I’m Mrs Kino. Martha Kino. I live right around the hedge in number fourteen.”

“Oh!” She peeks over, seeing a garden Eden might be jealous of. “I’m Sh--”

She hesitates, the name sticking in her throat.

“Claire,” she says finally. “Claire Roos.”

“Well, Claire,” Mrs Kino says, “I’m pleased to be the first one to meet you.”

Shirayuki’s smile freezes on her face. “You have no idea.”

#obiyuki #akagami no shirayukihime #snow white with the red hair #witness protection AU #my fic #ans #you know hilariously i still haven't even covered everything in the first draft of the first chapter #even with this #like how ambitious was past jen thinking she could get this to be short?#ahhhh memories

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jweis88 · 5 years

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Being A Consumer In the Age of Social Media

Let’s take a trip back in time. Thirteen years ago, in the year 2006, Facebook became available for everyone age thirteen and older with an e-mail address. I was fourteen years old and just starting my freshmen year of high school. I had very little interest in social media and didn’t have an easy way to access it even if I was. The idea of social media wasn’t widely acknowledged in the country community I grew up in, but as time passed and peer pressure mounted, I created my first social media account in 2009. Welcome to the world of Facebook.

I was introduced to the world of “likes”, “friends”, and “status updates”. This is what Facebook was to me when I first started. A place to share my thoughts, feelings, and what I was up to. I checked in on my friends and avoided my family. It was the social hub and adrenaline rush when a notification appeared (And I admit, I still get excited to see a notification). Within the time Facebook became available to all and when I joined the revolution, a period of three years, Facebook had gone from only a few users from the initial launches up to around 300 million users. All commenting, liking, and sharing what was going on in their lives.

Now during this same time, Facebook expanded to not only being a social media platform for individuals, but also a resource for businesses to create pages and have an online presence. This created an ease of access to consumers as well as a way for smaller businesses to spread the word of their products and services. These pages would expand and multiply to allow for the revolutionary access to products we have today.

A lot of small businesses start out with a dream of having a successful store creating a product the dreamer is passionate about. But for a lot of people, the hopes of having a physical store is out of reach due to location, expense, and other factors. It’s a large investment to create a business with no guarantee of success or access to customers. Social media and the technological advances of today have made the access to customers a bit easier. Facebook offers business pages anyone can create and use to broadcast their message and products to an incredibly wide audience. With the prevalence of digital technologies in today’s society, a large number of businesses are run exclusively on social media.

We are no longer a society of strictly physical store fronts, but a society of options and variety. I have my own business page on Facebook dedicated to the raising and breeding of species of reptiles. I’ve connected with people in several states and been able to expand my following to a much larger audience than if I were to try and attend the Reptile Shows that only happen every other month.

My aunt runs her embroidery business exclusively through Facebook. The ease of access to customers and keeping track of communications makes it easier for her lifestyle, being a stay at home mom of four. She gets to pursue her dreams of creating personalized gifts but still remains available for her family.

I’m part of a large gardening community on Facebook and the offerings from online vendors are a much wider variety than any of those found in local stores. A woman I’m friends with runs her business exclusively through Facebook as well and has for several years. Her vendors supply flower bulbs online which she is then able to offer to customers (like myself) globally. She’s located in Maine and myself in Indiana. To have the luxury of browsing online for these flower bulbs as well as the ease of communication offered by social media platforms such as Facebook, make this type of online shopping preferable to me and quite a few others.

Not only do people have their businesses exclusively on social media platforms, but many physical stores of different categories have created online presences as well. A revolutionary shift in the Comic Book Industry is occurring as I type this. I’ve been a collector for twelve years, but have always had to drive a distance (anywhere from 15 minutes to an hour) to get to a comic book shop. And I know I’m not the only one who’s dealt with this inconvenience. Comic book shops in smaller communities are just difficult to find. Until now.

One year ago, I discovered a community that was just starting on Facebook surrounding the comic book industry. They were beginning to try something new. Offering sales on Facebook business pages to pre-order and ship both old and new comics. I was amazed. I had never thought to search these stores out on Facebook, let alone any social media. I no longer had to drive forty-five minutes (at the time) to get to my local shop every Wednesday to buy my new books. I could simply pre-order them and have them shipped to my home. Amazing!

With this discovery, I also was introduced to the feature of Facebook Live. I hardly used Facebook for anything other than to post a few updates, share some funny memes, or check up on long distance family. At this time, the live feature had been around for a few years, but I had limited interaction with it. As I delved deeper into the world of the comic book industry on social media, I discovered a number of vendors were using this Live feature to conduct actual, real-time shows to sell comics. I could sit on my couch, comfortable in my own home, watching someone show me the books I wanted or needed and have them shipped to my home. I could see what I was buying and interact with the seller immediately if I had questions.

Not only did the use of the Live feature revolutionize the industry for my own life, but also for the industry as a whole. Comics had never been sold in this manner and the amount of success these videos created has launched a new era for the industry that I am incredibly proud to be a part of and has been influential to my use of social media.

We, as a society, are creating an entire shift in the way we conduct business. No longer do business owners have to struggle to keep a physical store front open. No longer do business owners have to struggle to expand their audience in small towns. We have the ability to access millions of people and create forms of business never thought possible.

Social media isn’t just for sharing selfies and what you had for lunch. Social media and the advancing technologies we have can allow for incredible advancements in business and communications. YOU can help make someone’s dream come true and be a part of a revolutionary shift in business and what it means to be a consumer in the age of social media.

This blog post was created to bring awareness to the aspects of Social Media use for business and consumers in response to my college class ENG 213 Introduction to Digital Literacies.

GIF Credits:

1. https://gph.is/1K1A4eA

2. https://gph.is/1OsXqu9

3. https://gph.is/1KbmC8T

4. https://gph.is/1iRDK1T

5. https://gph.is/2iBAMr1

6. https://gph.is/1Wg4wrn

#social media #facebook #digital literacy #the beginning #online business #english class #ball state university #first blog post

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write-havoc · 5 years

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The Glasswing Butterfly Part 8

Summary: Chuck has never thought of herself as anything special. Just an average beta living her life next door to a womanizing alpha named Negan. But her life, and Negan’s too, are turned upside down when Chuck suddenly presents as omega.

This is a non-zombie AU featuring A/B/O dynamics.

Fandom: The Walking Dead AU

Pairing: Negan/Original Female Character

Status: Ongoing

Contains: swearing, smut

Intended for readers 18+ of age only

Masterlist in my bio

After Chuck slams her door shut on Negan, she plops herself back down on her couch and scrubs her hands down her face. Seeing Negan with that naked woman has brought out pretty much every negative emotion Chuck could possibly feel. Jealousy, inadequacy, betrayal, loneliness... Not to mention that she feels stupid for even feeling all those things.

Negan was just her neighbor and her friend. Right? They weren’t linked romantically, so he can date other people. Or sleep around, since that seems more likely with Negan. But she hadn’t seen him with any women in a long time, so she thought maybe... Maybe he had changed his ways. And if he did, maybe he could be the one for her.

As a tear flows down her cheek, Chuck lets out a humorless chuckle. “What’s wrong with me?” she says to herself then wipes her eyes. “I’m so stupid. Negan wants the sexy woman that shows up to his apartment naked. Not someone like me. Of course not.” She hangs her head. “Not me,” she whispers.

Over at Negan’s apartment, he’s at a loss. He goes through his phone to see just when the last time he texted Tonya was and sees that it was, indeed, months ago. It’s a little reassuring that he’s not going completely crazy. But the fact of the matter is, he’s still in a pickle with Chuck.

He hasn’t exactly been celibate since Chuck presented and they started whatever it is that they are, but he hasn’t brought a woman to his apartment, either, opting to go elsewhere to hook up. He really didn’t want Chuck to see him as the manwhore that she used to think he was when he was having purposefully loud sex all the time just to get to her. Not that he wasn’t still sleeping around, but he didn’t want her to see it. Or hear it.

He knows he’s going to have some explaining to do to get him out of this. Especially because Chuck seemingly doesn’t believe that he didn’t ask Tonya to come over. Naked, no less. He makes plans to talk to her the next day, allowing her the time to cool off a little. Hopefully.

When Chuck gets up the next morning, she tries to put the events of the previous night out of her mind. As she goes through her normal daily rituals, she tries to convince herself that she’s actually not bothered by what she saw. So what if Negan invited a woman over. That’s his right. He’s not attached to anyone. Especially not her. They’re just friends and she shouldn’t really have any feelings about him sleeping with someone else. That’s what she tells herself, anyway.

But his weird invitation for Chuck to see his kinky sex games does still warrant some anger. Because that still seems pretty offensive to her. So that’s what she focuses on. She’s not jealous, she’s offended. She’s not betrayed, she’s offended. She’s not hurt , she’s offended.

Since it’s Sunday, Negan has the day off. In the early afternoon, he walks across the hall and knocks on Chuck’s door. She hears it from where she’s sitting at her computer desk in the living room, but she makes no move to answer it. She knows it’s Negan standing outside of her apartment and she doesn’t even want to deal with him right now.

Negan lets out a huff when she doesn’t answer. He knows she’s ignoring him. But pushing her into talking when she doesn’t want to would probably be the wrong thing to do. He’s just going to have to give her more time.

When Diane calls a little bit later just to check in, Chuck tells her about what happened.

“What a sleazeball!” Diane exclaims into the phone.

Chuck sighs. “Yeah.”

“I’m gonna drive up there and beat his ass for thinking you’d want anything to do with that!”

“You don’t need to do that.” She sighs again. “I just don’t understand why he wanted me to see all that.”

“Just when I thought he was coming around...” Diane mutters then lets out a heavy breath. “He’s a jackass and he just can’t help himself.” This new information doesn’t change the fact that Diane thinks Negan and Chuck are true mates. It just makes her worry once again that he’ll hurt Chuck in the end.

“I don’t know... Can we just talk about something else now?”

“Don’t be upset about it, sweetie. He’s...” She thinks of what to say. “He’s just... That’s how alphas are. They’re selfish bastards mostly. Don’t blame yourself.”

Chuck wishes it were that simple. “Okay, Mom.”

Negan tries again before dinner thinking that maybe he could bribe Chuck into talking to him with the promise of a home cooked meal. But there’s no such luck, she ignores him completely again. It actually kind of pisses him off a little bit. How can he make it right if she won’t even give him a chance?

Later on in the night, Chuck decides that she really should do her laundry, since her hamper is overflowing. She gets her little bag of quarters and throws them on top of her dirty clothes along with two smaller cups of detergent and fabric softener, hauling the heavy hamper out of her door soon after.

Negan hears Chuck leave her apartment and decides that’s his chance. When he opens his own door, he sees that Chuck is half way to the elevator with a hamper on her hip.

“Let me get that,” he calls out as he jogs to catch up to her.

She lets out a little huff. “I got it,” she answers without turning back to him.

“Here.” He tries to take the hamper from her but she jerks away, causing the bag of quarters and her detergent to fall to the ground. Thankfully, the cup stays closed and doesn’t make a mess.

She growls in frustration then shoves the clothes into Negan’s chest for him to hold. “Fine.” She bends down to pick up her money and soap then turns to call the elevator.

He’s getting frustrated, too, but he doesn’t say anything, not wanting to make her even more angry than she already is. Once they get inside the elevator, Negan decides to be casual to maybe get on her good side.

“You know, it’s pretty fuckin’ smart to put the detergent in a smaller cup. My dumb ass schleps the whole fuckin’ bottle back and forth every time.”

Chuck doesn’t look over to him as she stands to his left in the elevator, but she decides to be civil, too. Since he is actually helping her and being polite right now.

“I found that out the hard way. I accidentally dropped a full bottle and the cap popped off. It is surprisingly difficult to clean up soap off the ground. Especially like a gallon of it.”

Negan chuckles at her story. “Yeah. That sounds pretty shitty.”

They enter the empty laundry room and Negan sets the hamper by one of the machines.

“Looks like we get our fuckin’ pick. There’s no one in here.”

Chuck puts her quarters in the machine to start a load. “That’s why I do my laundry late.”

“I’m gonna have to do that more often. Sometimes I gotta fuckin’ fight to get to a dryer.”

As Chuck puts her clothes into the washer, Negan just stands by looking for the right time to bring up what he wants to say. When the occasion doesn’t arise naturally, he just blurts it out.

“I didn’t ask Tonya to come over like that. Or fuckin’ at all.”

Chuck lets out a groan. “I’m not talking about this.”

“Then just fuckin’ listen.”

“I’m not ‘listening’ about it either.” She slams the lid shut hoping that he’ll drop it. She doesn’t want Negan to know how much it hurt her. If she has to talk about it with him, there’s no way she’ll be able to hide it.

“You’re not giving me a fuckin’ chance to expla-“

“I don’t need to give you a chance.”

He scrubs his hands down his face. “You’re really getting on my fuckin’ nerves with this, little girl,” he growls out.

She uses sarcasm as a defense. “I’m very sorry to inconvenience you.”

That’s it. “What the fuck, Chuck?! You’re pissed at me because you think I had some fuckin’ woman over, but you won’t fuckin’ believe me when I tell you that I didn’t!”

Chuck laughs in disbelief. “I saw her there, Negan!”

He shakes his head. “That’s not what I meant. I know she was there. But she just fuckin’ showed up! On her own! And I’m the fuckin’ bad guy for that!”

“You really expect me to believe that?!”

He throws his hands up. “It’s the fuckin’ truth! I have no idea what got into Tonya.”

She leans toward him, tears building in her eyes. “Then why did you want me to see her?”

He shakes his head in confusion, totally unaware that “he” had texted Chuck last night, too. “What?”

“If that woman showing up was just random happenstance, what was it you wanted to show me last night? Huh?” she asks harshly, thinking that he wouldn’t be able to come up with a lie to cover himself. But she doesn’t know that in reality, he’s telling the truth. “Because it really seems like you wanted to parade your girlfriend or one night stand or whatever she is to you in front of me.”

He shakes his head in confusion. “I didn’t want to show you anything last night!”

She laughs humorlessly as a tear starts to fall down her cheek. “I might be able to accept that you didn’t text that woman. That she came over unannounced. But you really expect me to believe that you didn’t text me ? When I read the text myself ? How stupid and gullible do you think I am?”

Seeing her upset has Negan calming down so he can comfort her. “I don’t think you’re stupid, baby girl. But I didn’t text you.” He fishes his phone out of his pocket. “Look for yourself. There aren’t any texts to you. Or any recent ones to Tonya.”

She wipes her cheeks. “That doesn’t mean much. You could’ve deleted them.”

“I don’t know how to fuckin’ delete them. I’m not good with all this technology shit.” He keeps his hand outstretched, hoping Chuck would look at his phone and see that he isn’t lying.

She finally looks down to it. His phone is one of the cheap smart phones that usually comes free when you sign a contract. Not exactly a high end brand name phone. She takes it in her hands, figuring that he had lied and deleted the texts to try to “prove” his story. But she can dig in to recover those deleted texts. Or so she thinks.

As she brings up his messaging app, it really does look like he’s never deleted a text since he got that phone. There are tons of conversation from people and automated texts alike. It would drive her nuts if her own phone were kept like this. Of course, there aren’t any texts from last night, but she really wasn’t expecting there to be. When she tries to see what texts he’s deleted, she is surprised to find that there aren’t any. It really does seem like he’s telling the truth.

She’s shocked and confused. She really did think he was lying to her. Why wouldn’t she? Everything was pointing to that. Especially since the alternative is... what? How could she and another woman get texts from Negan’s number but those texts didn’t come from his phone?

It’s then that Chuck realizes that Negan’s phone feels hotter than it probably should. “Is your phone always this hot?” She sniffles and wipes her face, calming down slightly as her focus has shifted.

Negan is confused at the change, but still answers. “I think it’s shitting the bed. It’s been like that for a few days. And I gotta plug it in all the fuckin’ time.”

Chuck looks through his phone more until she finds something she never would have expected. Someone had apparently put software that would secretly run in the background on his phone. Software that would remotely control and clone his phone. Software that would allow someone else to send texts from his number without him knowing it.

He was telling the truth. She was wrong.

But what does this all mean?

Chuck looks up to Negan, knowing that she has to apologize for how she treated him. “I’m sorry. I believe you now,” she chokes out as she looks him in the eyes. She feels very stupid for the way she acted, so before he can respond, she covers her face and turns away from him in embarrassment as her tears start to flow.

Negan automatically takes a step forward to comfort her. “It’s okay, sweetheart.” He rubs his hands over her arms as she faces away from him. He doesn’t know what she saw that has her believing him, but he’ll take it. “Don’t worry about it.”

She sniffles. “I shouldn’t have acted that way. You were telling the truth. I just thought...”

“I don’t fuckin’ blame you.”

When she’s calms down a little bit, she turns back to Negan. “Someone hacked your phone.”

“What?” he calls out in shock.

“Someone remotely controlled your phone.” She hands it back to Negan. “That’s why your battery is hot and draining so fast. Your phone can’t really handle the extra software. And that’s where the texts came from. Someone else texted me and that lady to go over to your apartment.”

He shakes his head, trying to figure this all out. “So...” He scratches his beard. “My phone...?”

“Someone wanted to mess with you, I guess. Did you make anyone mad recently?”

Negan’s face drops as he puts it all together. “Yeah. Your piece of shit boss.”

“What?”

“You know he hates my fuckin’ guts from when I met him at that cafe. And last night. I ran into him at a goddamn bar. That fuckin’ prick.”

“You think Eldritch did this?”

“Yeah. I know Eldritch fuckin’ did this.”

Chuck shakes her head, unable to wrap her head around it. “But why?”

“Why do you think?”

She looks down and thinks it over. She honestly doesn’t even consider that she could be the reason. “Did you say something to him that day at the cafe to upset him?”

“Chuck.” He shakes his head. “It’s because he wants you and I’m a fuckin’ threat to that.”

“That can’t be...” She shakes her head. “He wouldn’t... Because of me ? That’s crazy.”

“Think about it. Who would want you to be pissed off at me? Cuz that’s the only fuckin’ reason I can think to send a naked fuckin’ woman to my door then tell you to come out.”

She really doesn’t want to believe that that’s true. “Why would he want me?”

“Look, sweetheart.” He rakes his hand through his hair, not exactly wanting to expose Chuck to a difficult truth. “You know the last time I actually saw an unmated omega that was of age before you?”

She shakes her head.

“I fuckin’ married her.”

“Oh.” She realizes that he’s talking about Lucille. And that would have been like twenty years ago.

“In case you haven’t noticed, omegas are fuckin’ rare and they get mated young. A shit ton of alphas never fuckin’ get with an omega in their entire lives. So some alphas can lose their shit when they actually find an unmated one. And some of them will do fuckin’ anything to get her.”

“Anything?” she responds quietly, not really wanting to believe that.

He nods. “ Anything .”

She looks up to Negan, just trying to process all of this. “Do you think Eldritch is ...dangerous?”

“I’m not gonna take any fuckin’ chances. I want you to stay with me tonight. And I’m gonna call my fuckin’ cop friend to see what we can do legally with all this shit.”

“God...” Chuck looks away. That news scares her a little. Should she really be worried about her boss doing something to her?

“Give me your phone.” Negan holds his hand out to her. “I don’t want to make a fuckin’ call on mine.”

She digs it out of her pocket and hands it over, both of them unaware that Eldritch has hacked her phone, too.

Negan dials his friend Rick’s number. He’s the sheriff in a little town outside of the city. He had moved up north from Georgia with his son when he caught his wife cheating on him with his partner a few years prior. When he needed to buy a new car soon after, he went to Negan’s dealership and that’s how they met. They aren’t exactly best friends, but they’ve kept in touch.

As soon as the call goes through, Eldritch gets an alert on his laptop in his apartment across the city. Knowing that Chuck rarely makes calls this late, he pulls the computer off his bedside table and into his lap, turning his speakers up to listen in.

Negan lets out a huff as the phone rings on the other end. “Come on, Rick. Answer.”

Finally, he does. “Who is this?” he growls out, half asleep.

“It’s Negan.”

“Jesus,” Rick groans as he runs his free hand down his face. “It’s past midnight.”

“Your beauty sleep is gonna hafta wait. I need to talk to you at my apartment.”

“No, Negan. I gotta be up at five in the morning tomorrow.”

Negan groans. “It’s an emergency.”

“Call 911.”

“Goddamnit, Rick. It’s not an emergency emergency. Some crazy fucker fucked with my phone and I’m pretty sure he’s stalking me and my neighbor. I need your fuckin’ cop input.”

When Eldritch hears that, a shiver runs down his spine. “Shit,” he mutters and sits up straighter in his bed. Negan and Chuck must have found the software he put on Negan’s phone and they’re telling a cop about it. Eldritch needs to cover his tracks and he needs to do it now before this cop gets officially involved.

He minimizes the program playing the audio from Chuck’s phone and opens the one used to control Negan’s phone, praying to god that it’s still turned on. When he sees that it is, he lets out a sigh of relief, but he doesn’t have a lot of time to get this done. So it’s going to have to be quick and dirty, which means wiping Negan’s phone clean of all data. Sure, it isn’t exactly inconspicuous, but they already know it’s been tampered with. This is just to save his own ass from that cop they’re talking to.

Eldritch knows that he needs to get the software off of Chuck’s phone, too. They obviously don’t think it’s hacked, since Negan is currently using it, so Eldritch has the time to delete the programs one by one and cover his tracks more discretely. Losing that window into Chuck’s life sucks, but he’d rather her not know he’s been listening in on her. He’d just have to get his info some other way.

Meanwhile, Rick lets out a huff that Negan can clearly hear on the other end.

“It’s important , okay. Aren’t you supposed to fuckin’ protect and serve, anyway. This falls under both.”

“Fine,” Rick hisses. “Give me a little bit.”

Chuck and Negan stay in the basement to finish up with the laundry. As Chuck is pulling her now dry clothes from the dryer, Negan walks up to her.

“You can fold those upstairs. Rick should be fuckin’ getting here soon.”

“Okay.”

Negan bends down to pick up Chuck’s clothes and they head back upstairs. He sets the hamper on his couch and Chuck starts to fold. Negan can’t sit still, though, and paces his living room, waiting for Rick to arrive.

It puts Chuck on edge even more. “Will you just sit down?”

Negan lets out a huff then sits next to Chuck’s hamper. He watches her fold her clothes for a moment, but it doesn’t quiet his racing thoughts. He hops right back up and starts to pace again.

He pauses his motion to turn to her. “You realize this is really fucked up, right?”

“I know it is.”

“You’re kind of not acting like it.”

Of course, Chuck is freaking out a little. Her knee jerk reaction is to believe Negan and mirror his distrust of Eldritch. But then she starts to overthink it. Sure, Eldritch made her a little uncomfortable that one time, but he was fine all the other times she’s talked to him. And there really isn’t any concrete evidence that it was him. What if she accuses him and he’s innocent? Not only would she lose her job, but she might ruin a good man’s reputation. She doesn’t realize that she’s trying to talk herself out of having to face the scary reality that someone she’s close to might want to do her harm.

“What if Eldritch didn’t do it?” she asks quietly.

“He did and you know it. He works with fuckin’ computers,” Negan lists off. “He tried to get you alone on multiple occasions. He knows we’re close.” He gestures between the two of them. “And who the fuck else would send naked Tonya to my door just so you could see her?”

Chuck shrugs. Negan is making a convincing case, even if Chuck is too scared to want to believe it.

“Eldritch wanted you to see Tonya and get pissed enough at me to run right into his goddamn arms. I wouldn’t be fuckin’ surprised if he’s planning on calling you tomorrow morning to ‘check up’ on you, or some shit. Ask you out to fuckin’ brunch to talk it out. Convince you of what a piece of shit I am so he can make his move.”

“Okay, Negan,” she calls out in an unsteady voice. Having to face the very real possibility that someone she knows is trying to manipulate her life to get close to her is upsetting her.

Negan takes a step forward to comfort her, but is interrupted by a knock at the door. A quick look through the peephole shows that it’s Rick, so Negan opens the door and ushers the beta officer into his apartment. He’s not in his full uniform, just his khaki pants and undershirt.

Rick shakes Chuck’s hand then turns to Negan, who is walking back to them near the couch. “So what’s this emergency?” he asks with some attitude.

Chuck moves her clothes so that she and Negan can sit on the couch. Rick takes the arm chair and turns it so that he can see them easily. He pulls out a notebook and pen from his pocket and starts to write.

“It’s her boss,” Negan starts. “Eldritch Ruben,” he clarifies slowly so that Rick can write the name in his notebook. “He hacked into my phone and fuckin’ texted her and this other woman pretending to be me.”

Rick looks up from his paper. “Why did he do that?”

Negan answers. “He’s an alpha and he wants her.” He gestures to Chuck.

“How long have you been dating?” Rick asks, not looking up from his writing. He clearly saw that the omega isn’t claimed when he came in, but he still assumes that the pair in front of them are a couple.

“Uh,” Chuck answers meekly. “We’re not dating. We’re just friends.”

Rick looks up from his notebook, wondering if he really heard what he thought he did. He thought for sure these two people were together, but it seems they aren’t. “Okay.” He moves his gaze from Chuck to Negan then back again. “But he has reason to believe that Negan stands in his way?”

Chuck flits her eyes over to Negan, but doesn’t answer the question.

Negan does, though. “Yeah. I interrupted a fuckin’ inappropriate lunch date they were fuckin’ having and she left with me.”

“Inappropriate?” Rick asks, directing the question to no one in particular as he continues to take notes.

Negan looks over to Chuck, who isn’t sure what to say. “Well, you looked scared,” he finally says.

“I wasn’t scared ,” she clarifies. “He was just kinda weird.”

“Weird how?” Rick asks again.

“I mean, he asked me out to lunch and I thought other people I work with would be there, but it was just us. Then he ordered my meal for me without asking what I wanted. And he was...” She looks over to Negan for a moment, “...trying to get me to have dinner with him even though I told him I had plans.”

Negan didn’t know that part. And he remembers that those plans she had were with him. It makes him have to hold back the growl threatening to escape his throat.

Rick knows that’s not amounting up to much, but he wants to be diligent. Even if this seems like it’s not going to lead to anything. “So what’s going on with this phone?”

Negan pulls it out of his pocket and hands it to Chuck. After all, he doesn’t know what the evidence is on it. “She can show you.” He turns to Rick to explain the situation as Chuck tries to bring up what she found earlier. “He texted this girl I know as me and told her to come to my apartment fuckin’ naked. Then he texted Chuck to fuckin’ come over, too, so she’d see-”

“Uh,” Chuck interrupts as she frantically swipes at Negan’s phone. “There’s nothing here.”

“You can’t find it?” Negan asks.

She looks up from the phone to Negan. “It’s not here. Nothing is here. Your phone has been wiped. There’s no data on it at all.”

“What?” Negan leans over to look at his phone. It’s just a blank screen and a blinking cursor. “How...?”

Chuck looks back down to the phone. “Eldritch must’ve put some sort of failsafe in the code or something. To coverup what he did if someone accessed it,” she figures. She has no idea that Eldritch was tipped off by listening in on her own phone.

Rick clears his throat and closes his notebook. “This isn’t much to go on,” he voices.

Negan immediately gets defensive. “Really? You don’t believe us?”

“I believe you, Negan. But my hands are tied. There’s no evidence that any laws were broken.”

“What about all the shit we told you!?”

Rick shakes his head. “Awkward lunch dates aren’t a crime.”

“And the fuckin’ phone?”

“If there’s no evidence...” Rick rubs his hand down his beard. “This isn’t exactly my jurisdiction, but... I can take the phone and ask some of the guys at the lab to look it over as a favor. If they find something, I’ll pass it off to the right people.” He pulls out his phone and searches for whose jurisdiction this would actually fall under. He writes the name and number of one of the detectives he actually knows on the back of his own card. “This is my number,” he holds the card out to Chuck then flips it over, “and this is Detective Gabby Hendricks. This would fall under her jurisdiction. And she’s a good cop.”

Chuck takes the card and nods.

Negan glares at Rick. “So that’s it?”

“My advice,” Rick comments, “stay away from this guy. If he comes to you, document it. Take pictures, video. Write it down.” Rick looks directly at Negan. “Do not go looking for him. Do not engage him. If you do, he can call the cops on you , which would complicate things.” He turns to Chuck. “If he does anything at work, go to HR immediately. Have them document it. The more evidence we have against this guy, the better.”

Negan lets out a huff, completely dissatisfied. “Are you fuckin’ saying we can’t do anything until he does? So we just wait around until he hurts her?!”

Rick nods slowly. “Unfortunately, that’s the case. He has rights, too. We can’t just lock him up with no evidence against him. I sincerely hope he doesn’t go far enough to actually hurt you guys, but...” He shrugs.

“This is fuckin’ bullshit!”

Rick looks between the pair in front of him. “One thing...” He looks to Negan. “If she was claimed, it would strengthen the case. It wouldn’t be an alpha against an omega, it would be an alpha against an alpha’s omega. And cops would be more likely to step in.”

Chuck completely misses the implication that Rick is suggesting Negan claim her and goes right to how horrible the social climate is for omegas. “Really?” she calls out in disgust. “An omega isn’t person enough on her own? She’s only worthwhile when she’s an alpha’s property?”

Negan, of course, gets what Rick is saying. But when Chuck glosses over it, he decides not to bring it up. He doesn’t exactly want to get into that conversation right now, anyway.

Rick holds his hands up in a placating manner. “I’m just saying... Laws may have changed, but the people enforcing them haven’t. Most of the guys on the bench became judges decades ago when things were different. And cops around here are no better.”

“This sucks ass, Rick,” Negan comments.

“I know.” Rick stands up. “But it is what it is. If he threatens either of you, call 911 immediately. That’s all I can tell you.” He heads to the door with Negan trailing behind.

As Negan sees Rick out, he speaks quietly so Chuck can’t hear him. “You know this can get fuckin’ ugly.”

Rick nods. “Things tend to when two alphas are competing,” he responds in a whisper.

“And Chuck could get caught in the crossfire. I do not want that girl to get fuckin’ hurt.”

Rick glances back over to the new omega he’s just met as she gets back to folding her clothes. “If you don’t mind me asking, why haven’t you claimed her? She not want you?”

Negan looks down. “It’s fuckin’ complicated.”

Rick can see clearly that Negan cares about this woman, so the fact that they’re not together is confusing. “A claim would un complicate this situation. If she was yours and he threatened that in any way, we could go after him.”

Negan shakes his head. There’s no way he’s going to explain everything to Rick right now. “I’m not fuckin’ claiming her. But I’m not gonna let any-fuckin’-thing happen to her.”

Rick nods again, realizing that Negan isn’t going to go into any detail about it. “Just be smart about all of this.”

“I’m not gonna do anything to put Chuck in fuckin’ harm’s way.”

After Rick leaves, Negan goes back to the couch just as Chuck finishes with her clothes.

He lets out a sigh as he sits down. “You can take the bed, I’ll sleep on the fuckin’ couch.”

“No. I can get the couch. You wont even fit on it.” She sits down beside him.

“No way in hell I’m making you sleep out here.”

She knows it would be useless to fight him. “Well... Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Do you need to go to bed? Since you have to go to work in the morning.”

“I’m gonna call off.”

“You don’t have to do that for me.”

“I know I don’t fuckin’ have to. But I’m going to.”

“I’m supposed to go into the office on Wednesday,” she admits quietly.

“Shit.” He rubs his hand down his face. “Do you have to?”

“Kind of. But I think it’ll be okay to go in. I mean, there are lots of people there.”

He’s not so sure, but he doesn’t want to scare Chuck. “Yeah,” is all he responds with.

She stands from the couch. “I should take my clothes over home and get ready for bed.”

Negan groans as he stands, too. He picks up Chuck’s hamper and carries it to the door. He insists on entering her apartment first, as if Eldritch were lying in wait to jump out at them. But, of course, that’s not the case.

Chuck goes into her room to change into a pair of sleep shorts and purple fuzzy slippers, leaving on the Evil Dead T-shirt that she had been wearing. Though she did take her bra off. After she brushes her teeth and washes her face, she comes back out to a waiting Negan.

He looks her over, trying not to linger on her ample breasts, since she is now braless. He drops his gaze and lets out a chuckle once he sees her choice of footwear. “Nice slippers.”

“Don’t judge.” She wiggles her toes a little. “You don’t know what you’re missing. These things are comfy.”

They go back over to Negan’s and go to bed, Negan, in just a pair of pajama pants, scrunched up on his couch and Chuck in his bed. Despite the events of the night, Chuck finds herself completely relaxed in the bed, surrounded by Negan’s scent. She rolls around on his expensive plush mattress in his high thread count sheets and seriously thinks about chucking out her entire bed and buying a new one.

“You okay in there?” Negan calls out after hearing her continued movement.

Her cheeks instantly get hot when she hears him through the opened door. “Yes. Your bed is just a lot more comfortable than mine,” she responds, trying not to sound embarrassed that she got caught. “I’m just trying to enjoy it.”

Negan tries to push the thought of Chuck enjoying herself in his bed from his thoughts. He knows she didn’t mean the way it sounded, but that’s instantly where his mind went. He takes a deep breath and wills his dick to calm down.

When Negan doesn’t say anything further, she curses herself for acting weird. “Goodnight,” she calls out, hoping he’ll forget how awkward she is.

“Goodnight, sweetheart,” he responds.

While Chuck almost instantly falls asleep, Negan can’t help but stay awake. Part of it is because he’s still in battle mode, ready to fight off the perceived threat of Eldritch. But part of it is because of Chuck, herself.

There is an omega in his bed for the first time in a very long time. Not just any omega, either. It’s the best smelling one he’s ever met. And he isn’t even sharing his bed with her.

It affects him knowing that she’s so close, but he can’t have her. Or rather, he shouldn’t have her. But it’s getting harder and harder for him to reconcile that with his overwhelming urge to keep Chuck close, to protect her, to care for her like she’s his.

He lets out a heavy breath and repositions himself on the couch, hoping to get into a comfortable position and maybe get to sleep.

The next morning, Negan wakes up at his usual time despite the lack of sleep he got the night before. He uses his home phone to call into work when he knows his boss will be there.

“It’s Negan,” he says after his boss answers.

“Gone into rut again?” Thomas Adams responds a little sarcastically.

“No. But I’m calling in fuckin’ sick today.”

Thomas huffs into the phone.

“I got the fuckin’ days saved up,” Negan comments, not much caring for his boss’s reaction.

“I guess. See you tomorrow.”

Negan hangs up the phone. “Prick,” he mutters under his breath. His job at the dealership is pretty easy for him and it pays the bills, but he increasingly can’t stand his boss. It makes him almost second guess whether he even wants to work there anymore.

He starts the coffee pot, then realizes that he needs to pee. Since his bathroom is attached to his bedroom, this means that he needs to either wait until Chuck wakes up, or go into his room while she’s sleeping. He really doesn’t feel like pissing into his kitchen sink, so he quietly walks into his room.

Chuck is snuggled up in the center of his bed looking peaceful as can be with the blankets curled all around her, leaving only her face peeking out. Negan watches her for a few moments, smiling at how cute she looks. When she starts to stir, he rushes into the bathroom and closes the door before she can realize he was there.

After he does his business, he opens the door quietly. When he sees that Chuck is still asleep, he can’t help but walk closer to her. Pushing some of her hair from her face, he runs his thumb across her cheek.

“I’m not going to let anything happen to you,” he whispers quietly.

She stirs a little, but doesn’t wake up fully. She actually unconsciously scooches closer to the side of the bed. Closer to Negan. Before he realizes what he’s going, he’s bent down, his face close to hers. He instantly straightens back up, stopping himself before he actually kisses her.

Not too long later, Chuck wakes up to the delicious smell of bacon. She hops out of bed, slipping her feet into her slippers, and comes out to see Negan standing at the stove. He turns around with a smile on his face.

“I‘m cooking up some bacon and I got a waffle in the maker. But if you want some fuckin’ Cap’n Crunch, I can go over to your apartment and grab it,” he jokes.

“Waffles sounds amazing.” She walks closer to him. “And I have a box of Apple Jacks over home now,” she corrects him in jest.

“Go ahead and sit down. This shit’ll be done in a minute.”

Within a few minutes, they’re sitting at Negan’s table eating breakfast.

“Did you sleep okay on the couch?” she asks after swallowing a bite of syrup drenched waffles.

He shrugs. “Not really.”

She instantly feels bad. “I told you. I would’ve been fine on the couch. You should’ve taken the bed.”

He looks up to her. “I couldn’t.”

That confuses her. “‘ Couldn't ’?”

“He’d have to go through me to get to you.”

Chuck stares at him until his meaning hits her. He wanted to stay by the door in case Eldritch showed up. “Oh.” She looks down. “Do you really think we should be that worried about him?”

Negan lets out a sigh. “Alphas...” He pauses, unsure of how he should word what he wants to say. “Omegas affect alphas. No matter what. No matter if the omega is annoying as shit or not what the alpha fuckin’ wants in a woman, he’ll still be fuckin’ affected by her. Even if it’s just a little. There’s that impulse. That possessive streak.” He takes a breath. “Most alphas just shrug it off because they know they can’t just fuckin’ take omegas like they used to. But some alphas don’t give a shit. They’re fuckin’ stuck with that thought that they should take what they want no matter what. They don’t stamp down that goddamn primal voice saying ‘she’s mine’ and they act on it.”

Chuck breathes heavily as he speaks. What he’s saying is horrifying to her. That alphas would see her as an object. And then there’s the little voice in her head bringing up the thought What if Negan’s no better?

“What about you?” she asks quietly. “Do I affect you?”

He looks her in the eye. “Yes.”

“How?”

“I would never hurt you,” he feels the need to stress. “I would never force you to do anything you didn’t want.”

“But you feel...” she doesn’t know what she wants to say, “you feel... possessive ? For me.”

He thinks about lying. It would be for her own good to tell her he doesn’t want her. But for some reason he can’t. “Yes.”

“Even though I’m annoying and not what you want in a woman,” she parrots his earlier words.

He shakes his head. “No, Chuck. You’re all I-“ His head whips up as he hears a frantic pounding on Chuck’s door. His adrenaline ratchets up at the thought that Eldritch is trying to make his move. “Stay here,” he barks to Chuck then goes to his door. Without another thought, he throws it open and advances on the figure standing across the hall. He only takes a couple steps before he realizes that the figure at the door isn’t Eldritch. It isn’t even a man.

Diane flips around when she hears Negan behind her, but she doesn’t really care at the moment. She turns back around to knock on her daughter’s door. “Chuck?” she calls out.

Chuck hears her mother’s voice coming from the hall, so she gets up to see what’s going on. When she gets to Negan’s door, she calls out. “Mom?”

Diane turns around to see her daughter in her pajamas coming out of Negan’s apartment. She turns her head to see that Negan is only in sleep pants, too. But none of that matters at the moment.

“Sweetie,” she chokes out as tears start to stream down her face.

“What?” Chuck knows something is wrong.

“Aaron and Eric...” Diane pauses. She doesn’t know if she can even get out what she needs to say.

Chuck knows that her uncles were covering some sort of festival in San Antonio, Texas. They work for a travel blog, with Aaron as the photographer and Eric as the writer.

“What is it?” Chuck starts to cry before she even knows what happened.

“They were attacked last night.” Diane lets out a sob. “Eric’s dead.”

“What?!” Chuck cries. Even though he was her uncle by marriage, she still loved him as a part of her family.

“Aaron was stabbed, but he’s alive,” Diane explains through sobs. “He was really lucky.”

“Oh my god!” Chuck throws her arms around Diane. “Are you sure?” she asks into her mother’s shoulder as tears fall from her eyes, hoping that there’s a chance that he’s not gone.

“I’m sure, sweetie.”

As Chuck sobs, Negan feels a tightness in his chest. He hates it. He hates seeing Chuck’s heart breaking like it is. It’s almost like it’s his own heart breaking. He has never met this guy and Chuck had only talked about him a few times, but he feels a sudden sense of loss all the same. He gently lays his hand on Chuck’s back, not really knowing what else to do to make her feel better.

As soon as Negan gets close to Chuck, she flips around and practically jumps into his arms. She didn’t even think about it, her body just moved on it’s own, seeking comfort in Negan.

He looks up to Diane, who gives him a small nod, granting him permission. As much as she would rather be the one to hold her daughter, she knows that Chuck may just need Negan right now.

“It’s okay, baby girl,” he whispers into her hair as he cradles her head with one arm and wraps the other around her. “It’s gonna be okay.” He looks up to Diane again and holds his arm out, giving her a silent invitation.

Despite their differences, she accepts it and steps forward to wrap one arm around her daughter’s back and the other around Negan. He holds both of the Langdon women close as they sob into his chest, last night’s revelation pushed to the back burner as Chuck’s emotions swirl around him.

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relbyshock · 5 years

Photo

Amy Winehouse, Princess Diana, Britney Spears, Marilyn Monroe, Aileen Wuornos, Angelina Jolie, Adolf Hitler, Darrell Hammond, Pete Davidson, Winona Ryder, Vincent Van Gogh, Tommy Tiernan….

What do they all have in common? Apart from being famous figures, they all suffer(ed) or were rumored to have suffered from Borderline Personality Disorder.

Hey, me too.

I’m over the moon to have something in common with Princess Di (apart from our shared plight with bulimia), but I have to say, I’d rather not have anything in common with Aileen or Adolf…..

Borderline Personality Disorder is a confusing term to say the least. On the borderline of what and what? Well, in the ‘30s, it meant you fell somewhere between psychosis (untreatable) and neurosis (treatable).

Great, that’s reassuring.

Come the ‘70s, BPD sufferers were described as being very emotional, needy, difficult, at risk for suicide, and to have an “overall unstable level of functioning”.

Check. *sings “Welcome to My Life” by Simple Plan*

We also have rapidly fluctuating mood swings, unstable self-image, and a fear of abandonment. This disorder wasn’t even recognized by the DSM (Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders) until 1980.

Today, we know far more about BPD – “neurosis” is no longer used in the diagnosis, and BPD is no longer considered a psychotic disorder.

So what are we then?

Crazy?

Hormonal?

According to my family, yes. But in reality, the problem lies within our brains. Let me nerd out here for a minute:

The Amygdala (Ah-mig-dah-lah) is composed of two almond-shaped parts of the brain, deep in the medial temporal lobe, that regulate fear and aggression. People with BPD have amygdala’s that are noticeably smaller than that of a healthy person. The smaller the amygdala, the more overactive it is.

Like short guys with bad attitudes, or what I like to refer to as “little man syndrome”.

And then we have the Hippocampus – no, not pachyderm college. The hippocampus is responsible for spatial orientation (not falling over), long and short-term memory, and emotional regulation. Put simply, the hippocampus chooses the correct response to environmental events: Fight or flight.

You may be wondering if I was dropped on my head as a child. The answer is yes – frequently – but the chances of minor brain trauma causing BPD are slim.

The causes of Borderline Personality Disorder are unclear. It seems to involve genetic, brain, environmental and social factors. There are rumours that people with BPD have issues with serotonin production, which has been linked to depression, aggression and having a hard time controlling “destructive urges”.

As for environmental factors, those who have been a victim of emotional/physical/sexual abuse, as well as being exposed to chronic fear or distress as a child have a high likelihood of developing BPD. This is because our relationship with our parents and family has a HUGE influence on how we see the world, and how we feel about other people.

Gals are also diagnosed 3 times as often as guys. You’ve gotta wonder if that’s due to the fact that men tend to be more weary of the doctor, therefore avoiding a diagnosis altogether. This is pure speculation.

Shall we take a dive into the “Signs and Symptoms” as listed by Wikipedia?

-Markedly disturbed sense of identity

-Frantic efforts to avoid real or imagined abandonment and extreme reactions

-Splitting (black and white thinking)

-Impulsivity

-Intense and uncontrollable emotional reactions that often seem disproportionate to the event or situation

-Unstable and chaotic interpersonal relationships

-Self-damaging behavior (ie, substance abuse)

-Distorted self-image

-Dissociation

-Frequently accompanied by depression, anxiety, anger, substance abuse or rage

We are also aware of the intensity of our negative emotional reactions, and since we can’t regulate them, we shut them down completely. What my doctor and I refer to as feeling “flat”.

BPD sufferers are also extremely sensitive to real or perceived rejection. Let’s explain with a meme, shall we:

*looking at an unanswered text from 12 minutes ago*

You: They must be in the shower or just busy, they’ll respond when they have a chance.

Me: Ok well they were active on Instagram 6 minutes ago and they just posted a snap story….they’re ignoring me, why do they hate me? What did I do? Are they mad at me? Should I send another text to get their attention or is that too needy?

If you’re annoyed just reading that, TRY LIVING IN MY BRAIN.

I annoy myself.

I feel grief, overwhelming shame and humiliation where others would feel mildly embarrassed. A minor inconvenience such as cancelled plans takes me from excited to absolutely miserable.

In the past, an unflattering photo on Facebook has caused me to reevaluate my self-worth, and even my life.

The Sickboy podcast explained it beautifully: Borderline Personality Disorder is like having a third degree burn on your emotions. I feel that. Everything hurts me just a little bit more than the average bear (or human).

Why am I telling you this? Because boys and girls, today is Bell Let’s Talk Day here in Canada. I’ll include the link at the bottom. Basically, in 2010, Bell began a new conversation about Canada’s mental health. They’ve enlisted such figures as Howie Mandel, Michael Landsberg, and Clara Hughes to share their stories of struggle and strength in the face of mental health.

I thought today was as good as any other to address the stigma surrounding mental health, but more specifically, the stigma around BPD.

I can’t pretend to know all the answers – I’m not and won’t pretend to be a psychiatrist. But this is what the world looks like through my lens.

If someone honks at me while I’m driving to work, I’m upset ALL DAY. I never want to drive again, I want to pull over and cry, or turn around and go home.

If I get a moderately rude email, my brain fills with cutting, angry, and just plain mean remarks to respond with. “I’m sorry your father never hugged you as a child” is not a suitable response to a professional email, but that’s where my brain goes.

When I make plans with friends weeks in advance and they bail 10 minutes before, I am a heap of inconsolable sobs for the rest of the evening, and even into the next day. This plays into the fear of “real or imagined abandonment”. My BPD brain does not care that something came up or you’re feeling under the weather. BPD tells me that you hate me and you never want to see me again and you were just pretending to like me this whole time and you’ve finally made your escape. My logical brain tries to tell me that it’s ok, and we’ll plan something for another time, but usually, my BPD brain wins the fight.

When I get nervous and start to ramble trying to tell a story and my mom cuts me off with “Anyways.” I want to crawl in a hole and die, but I also sort of want to throw a plate at her face. My mother is a saint, so why do I feel this way about her sometimes?

Let’s get back to the causes of Borderline Personality Disorder. Dad, Mom, maybe stop reading here…or don’t…but here’s your warning. You aren’t going to like this next part.

I was severely neglected as a child. Not physically – I had food to eat, clothes to wear, a roof over my head – but emotionally and mentally. The minor relationship I did have with my father was marked by him coming home from a long shift (as a firefighter) and starting a fight with me about my weight, my shoes at the front door, my marks in school, and more often than not, “why are you always crying?!”. My mom also worked full time at a stressful sales job. So by the time she got home, she didn’t want to have to deal with anyone else’s issues.

So when I would have issues with anything from being bullied at school to just having a ‘bad mental health day’, I had nowhere to turn.

See, my brother and I were latch-key kids. We got home from school at least an hour before my parents got home from work. He and I never got along, so some sort of fight would ensue, and by the time our parents got home, he had made me cry. I was deemed dramatic and sent away to my bedroom, while the 3 of them would eat dinner together (usually something I refused to eat – like meat – which would be another reason to fight).

I’ve voiced this to my mom before, and she remembers my childhood very differently than I do.

As long as I have been alive, I have come second to my brother.

No, honey, we can’t go to (insert activity I wanted to do) because Maxx has hockey/a book report due/needs a ride to the bike track, etc.

Every dinner or event we went to was with HIS friends and THEIR parents, who ended up becoming my parents’ best friends (still to this day). I was always the only girl; so naturally, I stayed with the adults, because the boys wouldn’t have me.

But the adults didn’t want me there either. I felt like a constant annoyance.

Thinking back on it, I realize that I may not have been as unwanted as I perceived myself to be. Remember, BPD brains are sensitive to even slight facial expressions and tones of voice. But, when I voiced this to my parents, that I felt unwanted, and why couldn’t we do things with my friends and their parents, etc. I was told that I was being ridiculous.

Enter: Invalidation

Invalidation is the number one cause of BPD, according to my psychiatrist. Growing up in an environment where nothing you do is good enough will cause you to internalize everything.

I have no memories or examples of healthy emotional behaviour or relationships. In our house, we got the point across by screaming at or just plain ignoring each other. So when I get hurt, or I feel let down, I have absolutely no idea how to deal with my feelings. Further reinforcing my belief that the world is full of bad people who are out to ruin your day and be unkind, because that’s all I’ve ever known.

Research shows that if you already experience these difficulties as a child, experiencing trauma as an adult could make things worse.

Dad - now is really the time to stop reading.

(Sometimes I feel like I live inside the DSM definition of BPD)

At the age of 21 – fresh out of college and trying to start my career in the fashion world – I was sexually assaulted. Cue the downward spiral.

I didn’t report. I didn’t seek help. I confided in a close friend, and was called a liar. But that’s a story for another time.

So I buried that part of me so deep, that sometimes I could convince myself that it never happened. Sometimes.

I reached the end of my rope in 2016. I knew that if I didn’t seek help, I would not survive. I finally went to my doctor and spent hours with her, just sobbing and telling her everything.

She hooked me up with a psychiatrist, and put me in Dialectical Behavioural Therapy, and started me on an SSRI (anti-depressant) immediately.

As of today, it has been 1172 days since the assault. I only told my mother this past summer.

Since reaching out for help, I have begun to repair the relationship with my parents. My mom and I are closer than ever, and my dad and I are working on it.

As I write this, I feel the judgements pouring in. But I have decided that this year, I don’t care. I am not ashamed of my story. I will no longer hide the things I have been through in order to make others more comfortable. I will not keep my pain to myself because it’s easier for others if I stay silent. If bearing my soul can help even one person seek the help they need, then I have succeeded, and all this pain has been worth it.

The long and short of it is SPEAK UP! There is nothing embarrassing about mental illness. If you aren’t feeling right, there are people who care and are here to help you, including me. The first step is to tell someone.

The best advice I can give is to find your people. People who trust you, who lift you up, who validate your feelings, who listen and take you seriously when you say you’re having a bad day. I have spent the past year painstakingly building my support system, because the truth of the matter is, I can’t do this alone. And that’s ok.

Today and every single day, be kind to each other – it’s the only thing that matters.

https://letstalk.bell.ca/en/bell-lets-talk-day

#TW #TWSA #Trigger Warning #Bell Let's Talk #BPD #Borderline Personality Disorder #Borderline Life #bpd thoughts #Assault #it gets better #I promise

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sending-the-message · 6 years

Text

What the blind man sees by TobiasWade

I’ll never see her face again. If my blindness only meant scrubbing this dirty world into an ocean of black mist, then I think I could learn to accept that. Stealing my wife from me before her time though — that I’ll never forgive. It’s bad enough she’s sick and fading from me already, but not being able to see her to say goodbye is killing me as surely as it is her.

I suppose it’s my fault though. I spent the last few nights leading up to my accident shifting around the rigid hospital chair beside her bed. I was so tired that I could barely walk straight, and all it took was a patch of black ice in the parking lot to pitch me to the ground. My head slammed into the asphalt and everything went dark. The black mist didn’t lift, but next I could remember I was sitting in my own hospital bed with a nurse explaining what had happened.

“…post-traumatic cortical blindness,” she was saying. “It seems like there was some damage to your occipital cortex when you hit the ground.”

“Where’s Sarah? Where’s my wife? I want to see her.”

The nurse just coughed, giving me time for my own words to sink in. “There’s a chance your vision loss is being caused by pressure on the optic nerve, which can be potentially corrected with surgery. The doctor doesn’t want to get your hopes up though. You should be prepared to adjust to life without sight.”

It’s true that I couldn’t see the nurse, or the hospital room, or even my own hand an inch from my face. But the worst thing was I could still see. It just wasn’t the same world I had left behind. I fumbled for words trying to explain the black and purple vines which dangled around me from unfathomably tall trees. How they swayed gracefully in an unfelt wind, bending across their hundreds of joints like fingers bending back and forth upon themselves. I pointed at the greasy orange sky and the swarms of softly teeming insects which obliviously paraded towards me from all sides.

“Hallucinations aren’t unheard of after acute vision loss…”

It was hard to take her seriously when her voice seemed to be coming from a giant blue flower whose bell-shaped petals seemed deep enough for me to stand in. If this was a hallucination, then it was clearer and more vivid than anything I could have possibly imagined. I tried again to explain the infinitesimal detail of the insect’s uneven carapaces, but she excused herself to leave without letting me finish. I never even got the chance to tell her that I could feel the thousands of tiny legs crawling up my body as the insect parade passed through the origin of disembodied perspective.

I was stuck somewhere between worlds. I could still feel the coarse fabric of the hospital blanket, but so could I feel the smooth gloss of each leaf and barky tree in this sudden jungle I was mired within. I pulled on one of the purple digits only to see it coil around my arm, inquisitively feeling me in return. I tore away from and tried to stand, leaning on a cold metal IV pole that I couldn’t see.

I felt like I was going insane, and there was no amount of reasonably toned nurses or insightful doctors that would convince me otherwise. I knew instinctively that I had to find my wife — Sarah was the only real thing left to ground in the world I was supposed to be in.

It wasn’t easy navigating two worlds at once. Even when I shuffled around until I found the door to my room, I still had to push myself through a thick curtain of fingers which had inconveniently infested the portal. It was slow going navigating the invisible hallways while plowing through the thick jungle foliage, and to make matters worse the blue-white sun was beginning to smolder and set in the orange sky. My hearing remained fixed to this world strangely enough, so at least I was able to hear people approaching and not run into anyone.

Once someone pointed me to the main elevator, I had no trouble from there. I had visited Sarah so many times that I could find the way with my eyes closed. It was disorienting to feel myself rise in the elevator, seemingly flying directly into the air, ducking and dodging branches as I did. I hesitated before her door to ask the passing footsteps:

“Sarah’s room?”

“Are you sure you should be out of bed? Let me go ask —”

“Is my wife in here?”

“Yes, but she should be resting too. She had another grand mal seizure last night. Hold on, I’ll go see if I can find the doctor.”

Footsteps. My hand was on the door, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to push through. Sarah had been in the hospital for the last three months, growing weaker each passing day. There had been a number of tentative hypothesis, but there has yet to be a definite diagnosis to the underlying issue. I guess that’s why I’ve been holding out hope for so long: if she could get sick without a reason, then she didn't need a reason to get better either. All those nights I’d spent beside her, watching her pale face and listening to her shallow breathing — it was all some kind of cosmic misunderstanding that would sort itself out on its own.

It was only now when I knew I couldn’t lie to myself anymore. The black and purple fingers protruded thickly like sprouting plants on the wide branch beyond, converging on a recumbent form the exact size and shape of a human. Some of them reared their sensitive tips only to plunge directly back into the mass, pulsing and squirming as they did fought one another to penetrate farthest. All too clearly I could imagine them puncturing her body or forcing themselves down her where her throat should have been. If this wasn’t a hallucination, then it was explaining an illness that an entire hospital couldn’t decipher.

“Sarah?” I opened the door. “Are you in there?”

Her gentle moan. That’s all I’ve heard from her the last week. It hadn’t made any sense to the doctors as she appeared conscious, but it made sense now. How was she supposed to speak this whole time with those things lodged in her throat?

Sickened and furious, I flung myself at the warped vines, carelessly clattering through her invisible bedside table as I did. I seized one near where her head must be and pulled with all my strength, feeling it go taunt to resist me as I did. Other vines were reacting, unwinding themselves from her to seize me by the arms and legs. I fought through it, clutching and tearing, even sinking my teeth into the rubbery thing. More fingers crawled from the branches above, circling around my arms, up my shoulders, slithering around my neck…

“Someone help! Get them off her!” I shouted.

The fingers were constricting around me, but I didn’t let go. I threw my whole body weight backwards, heaving and straining until something finally gave. Sarah was coughing and retching, the beeping of her vitals going berserk as I struggled. She was shaking so bad that the whole bed rattled, each increment of progress agonizing to watch as I knew the finger must be relinquishing its hold of her stomach and lungs, or however deep the corruption spread. All the while my bondage was secured, ruthlessly tightening to cut off blood supply to my arms and crush my throat into a collapsing pinprick.

“She’s having another seizure. Get a doctor in here!” One of the nurses. I was held so firmly in place that I couldn’t even turn toward her, not like I could see her even if I could.

“What about him?”

“He’s not responding. Get him on the ground and keep his airway clear.”

Hands unwittingly pushed their way past the swarming appendages to ease me down. The pressure slackened, some returning their attention to the knot which surrounded my wife. Blood was beginning to return to my limbs. I could feel, and as soon as I could breath, I could fight again. I was still gasping on the floor when the doctor entered the room.

How could I tell? Well there were certainly auditory clues as a gruff voice barked commands to the nurses, but more prominently was the knot of interlacing fingers which formed the shape of a human. They were spread so finely that every artery and vein must be filled, and I could clearly see them pulse and twitch as they tightened and relaxed, moving the doctor through the room like a puppet.

“Another seizure,” the doctor said. I could see the strum around his head as the things inside him opened and closed his mouth, with smaller ones inside maneuvering his tongue and vibrating his vocal chords. “Check her mouth. Make sure there isn’t any vomit or obstruction.”

“The fingers!” I shouted, aware of how mad I must appear rolling on the ground. “Get them out of her! She can’t —”

“And give him something to calm down. Diazepam, 400 miligrams should do it.”

“They’ve got him too — don't touch me — don't let him touch Sarah —"

I tried to sit up, but someone was squatting on top of me and pinning me to the ground. I jerked as a needle slid into my thigh, but the pressure only increased. Something scoured through my veins. The humanoid network that was the doctor dropped to his haunches beside me, and I felt a warm hand run down my face to cup my chin. It was getting too dark to see anything at all.

“Just a nasty hallucination, that’s all. Let’s get you back to bed and see if we can’t do something about those eyes.”

They had good news for me when I woke up. Not only were they able to alleviate the pressure on my optic nerve, but my wife had made a miraculous recovery during the procedure. I actually wept in relief when I opened my eyes on the hospital room and saw Sarah anxiously sitting over my bed. Just Sarah and the room — no fingers, no unfamiliar jungle, no crawling sensation of the insects or dodging alien trees.

They told me Sarah was talking and eating and even walking on her own, although they warned me she was still stiff and slow to react. “Stiff” isn’t how I’d describe her lurching movements though. She seems more like a marionette doll to me, tethered by unseen strings from the inside and out.

#reddit #nosleep #scary #story

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voodoo-lady · 6 years

Note

I noticed in a post you said you grew up very poor. I too grew up in a low(er) income home and have always felt insecure in my ability to “make it” in New York City. I know you live there and I was just wondering how you made that work for yourself as a single woman who comes from a lower income household. What was your upbringing like exactly and how did you make the transition to such an expensive city?

Hi! Thanks for your ask, and also for your patience as I carved out time to thoughtfully respond.

You're right, I did grow up very poor. I always lived in a cramped apartment with my single mother and two brothers, and she worked several waitressing jobs to make ends meet. My whole life we used food stamps, WIC vouchers, and Medicaid. Oftentimes I would come home and the power would be cut off because we missed a payment. Or, our washer would break so we would wash clothes in the tub. Or, our car broke down and so we walked to school. I lived in rural Louisiana, so we were a special kind of poor, haha. Even now, my parents both live in Section 8 housing and rely on government assistance. I am the first in my immediate family to graduate college and definitely earn more in a year than both of my parents.

That said, I think growing up poor has actually made me more successful in NYC. Shit is so expensive here, ALL OF IT, and so my ability to be scrappy and resourceful does me a world of good here. I am frugal to a fault, and not embarrassed that I pack my lunch, and take advantage of happy hours and $1 pizza. It is the kind of hustler attitude that I think NYC is known for. So, I wouldn't sweat it if I were you.

In addition, there are so so so so many broke people in New York. You won't be alone if you're pinching pennies. In fact, I consider myself very fucking lucky because I don't live on the streets or in the projects. You see poverty and illness face-to-face on a daily basis here, and that is one of the hardest parts of living in the city. Every kind of person in the world lives on this island. It's not all bright-n-shiny, hip fashion bloggers who work at Refinery29 or whatever the fuck. I felt that way too before I came here, but now I know (of course) that there are construction workers and doormen and baristas and struggling actors etc etc etc

As for my move, it was kind of scrappy too. I spent over a year applying to jobs and crossing my fingers and crying. I was working 3 part-time jobs while interning, and didn’t have really anything in the way of savings. I finally got my job offer while still living in NC (this is pretty rare from what I understand, and I got super lucky). The turnover time to move was super short – I think like, a month? So I quickly reached out to my whole network to let them know I was moving.

I had been fantasizing about New York for about two years at that point and had visited a handful of times. So, I had a good idea of where I wanted to live and what was affordable given my salary. They say you should make 40x your rent, and I was offered 55k to start, so I figured anything below $1200 should be my limit.

I posted on Facebook asking if anyone knew of a place in BK with an open room, and a college friend connected me to her cousin’s friend. It was many degrees removed, but it’s always nice to have a personal connection. Before that, I was relying solely on Craigslist and Streeteasy. (There are many resources for finding housing around the city that I would be happy to pass along if you don't have any friends here at the moment.)

Most landlords ask for a credit check or a guarantor. My credit check came back blank because up until I moved here, I refused to get a credit card – I was terrified I'd fuck it up.

I was asked to provide a guarantor. Well, both my parents are unemployed and buried in debt, so I had to get creative. I took out a loan for six thousand dollars, called my future landlord on the phone, and convinced him to let me pay six months in advance while I built up credit. Then, I opened a credit card and steadily used it over the following six months to accrue a score. He checked again when I renewed my lease a year later, and we are all good now. I paid off my loan in short time (since I wasn't paying rent) and now I pay month-to-month like a normal person.

If you have a decent credit score and a good salary you should automatically be in much better shape than I was.

To make the move up, I sold my car for $2500 and used that money to rent a truck and drive up from NC with all my stuff. Anything that didn't fit in the small truck was left behind. (I knew there wouldn't be much room anyway! This was a really cathartic and emotional time as I threw away huge boxes of old love letters, failed art projects, schoolwork I had hoarded, and tchotchkes I didn't need.) My best friend came with me to help me move in. I did not see my apartment beforehand, but my roommate did send me pictures.

Overall the move was a lot less painful than I thought it would be. I was overwhelmed with joy and the thrill of taking a big chance, so honestly, I was in an unrealistic state of bliss for the first few months. New York felt like a huge labyrinthian movie set full of endless possibilities, and I was high as a kite off the fact that I finally fucking DID IT despite all odds. So maybe you will feel the same.

If you want to make it, you will make it. Things will inevitably be hard. Rent is unbelievable. The trains are an unreliable, crowded nightmare. There is trash everywhere. You're going to have to pay for conveniences that, wherever you live now, seem like basic amenities (access to laundry, access to vehicles, central air and heat, etc). But if you're tough and unbothered by minor inconveniences, you will thrive. If you're resourceful and passionate about your work and hobbies, you can hit a warp button on all of those things and advance in a way that would never be possible in a smaller city. You just have to keep your chin up and keep rolling with the punches. If you're used to living without a safety net, I think the transition will be less difficult and shocking for you than my friends who can call their parents for a bailout any time.

My advice? Fucking move here. It's amazing. And you have it in you. Once you prove that to yourself, you will be unstoppable.

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eldritchsurveys · 4 years

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880.

5k Survey VII

301. List 5 things you have not experienced that you would like to experience before you die. >> Feeling real human connection, skydiving, travelling abroad, feeling at home in my body and not being riddled with dysmorphia and dysphoria, therapy that actually helps and doesn’t make me worse. 302. Will you try to accomplish any of these things within the next year? >> I highly doubt any of those things can be accomplished within the next year. 303. What do you feel controlled by? >> The effects of persistent trauma. 304. If Jesus appeared to you and told you that the moon was made of green cheese would you believe him? >> Why would I believe one dude over all the evidence collected by many humans by a variety of methods (including actual visitation of said moon)? Doesn’t matter what his name is, he’s still got the burden of proof and if he doesn’t deliver, then his word doesn’t mean shit. 305. What is one thing you are sure of? >> I’m sure of nothing, really. I’m not even sure the moon isn’t made of green cheese. I just choose to believe the multitudes of scientists that have asserted otherwise, because that makes more sense than believing a questionable apparition from a religion I don’t even follow.

306. At what part of the day do you feel the most alert? >> I guess throughout the morning and early afternoon, before the mid-afternoon slump hits. 307. Have you ever played in a band? >> No. 308. Have you ever stared into the ocean thinking ‘early creatures crawled outta that’? >> I’ve never had that thought while staring at the ocean, no. But I can see how one would, and it’s a pretty fascinating thing to consider. 309. If not, what do you think of when you are staring into the ocean? >> It depends on what’s on my mind that day. The ocean doesn’t conjure any specific thought processes for me or anything. 310. Do you like the mental challenge of chess or other games? >> I don’t know how to play chess and I don’t care to find out. 311. Do you ever think of where your atoms were before they were in you? >> In passing, sometimes. More often I think of where my atoms will end up after I’m gone. 312. Do you ever think about where your atoms will go after they have been in you? >> ^ 313. If you didn’t know that people couldn’t fly do you think that you could? >> I don’t know if that’s what I would think or not. 314. Are you someone that others call when they’re having a problem and want to talk about it? >> No. 315. When it comes to literature, do you see beyond the writing and into the meaning intended by the author? >> I usually don’t, not without prompting, or without having prior knowledge of the author’s perspective on things, life experiences, that sort of thing. For example, I know a lot about Ayn Rand’s life by now, so when reading her books, it’s a lot easier for me to see what she was expressing and why she chose to express it like that. Whereas when I first read The Fountainhead, I mostly took it at face value and the political implications kind of went over my head in the beginning. It’s just not my skill set, I guess (and is a big reason why I failed high school English). 316. Is there anything you can take apart completely, and then put back together, and have no left over parts? >> I don’t know, I don’t usually do stuff like that. 317. What are your feelings about the death penalty? >> Sometimes I think it’s more humane than lifelong incarceration. 318. If there was a god and you could ask him/her one question what would it be? >> If I wanted to ask a god a question, I’d just ask him. I don’t see what the issue is, here. 319. Do you believe that life will be found on other planets? >> I think it’s highly possible and I wouldn’t be surprised if it happened. I’d be really delighted, though, because that’s a neat ass discovery. 320. What is something worth suffering for? >> I’m not sure “suffering” is the word I’d use for this kind of thing. I think there is useful pain and good stress, but the word “suffering” particularly implies a level of unnecessariness to the whole experience. Suffering, to me, is the stuff of life that no one should have to go through, that adds nothing of value to the world, that is mainly just human cruelty perpetrated on others. Suffering is “starvation in a world of plenty” or “chronic homelessness” or “child abuse”. Whereas what I think a useful pain or a good stress is, is something like “delayed gratification” or “strenuous exercise” when in service to a personal goal or ideal, or the pain of surgery to fix something wrong, or the pain of mourning or confronting a feeling that you’d otherwise try to run from. 321. If you could put an extra eye on your body anywhere you wanted, where would you put it? >> I’d have extra eyes all over. That’s a pretty good look, if you ask me. But they’d have to be tattoos or magical projections or something, because otherwise that’d just be a terrible nuisance. Eyes are way too sensitive and prone to injury to start putting them on body parts that generally have more contact with the environment. 322. Are you in touch with the earth and nature? >> I don’t know. The conditions of my existence have put me at a considerable remove from nature, I think, along with a lot of other urban-dwelling Americans. So now capitalism sells us things and experiences meant to “get us back in touch with nature~”, because this is a hell world. 323. Would you rather live simply or extravagantly? >> I think some measure of in-between is best for me. There are some things considered “extravagant” by other people that I think would just provide me and my neuroatypical brain with a better quality of life -- like having a big bathroom with modern fixtures, or a housekeeper to do the heavy cleaning. On the flip side, I don’t want to live in great opulence, or anything. I want aesthetically pleasing, well-made things just like the next guy, but not ostentatious things, not status-symbol-y things. 324. Have you ever been camping? >> Yeah, a couple of times. Would love to go again. 325. Is your heart open when you meet someone new? >> Well, see, I have never had open-heart surgery, so-- 326. Are you able to have conversations with and become friends with people who are not like you and are interested in different things than you are? >> It depends on what levels they are different from me. I can definitely have conversations with people of varying interests and life experiences. That’s how I learn new things and new perspectives. But I don’t think I could have any fulfilling conversations with someone who refused to respect the truths of my existence, or with someone who seemed especially impoverished in the open-mindedness department. 327. Are strangers more beautiful or frightening to you? >> Er. Neither? Most of the time, strangers are just inconveniently in my line of perception and I’m just waiting for them to pass out of it. 328. What stops you from doing everything you want to do? >> Coronavirus. *rimshot* 329. Can you think of three adjective that do not apply to you at all? >> I don’t think I can, really. There are some adjectives that might only apply to me incidentally, or only to a certain version of myself (who might or might not still exist), but that means they still apply in some context. 330. How do you feel about Jeremy Jaynes, who got a nine year prison sentence for spamming people with junk email (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jeremy_Jaynes)? >> I don’t feel like reading about this person. 331. Do you know who the current premier of China is? >> I don’t remember. 332. Are you very active? >> No. 333. Is there a city that reminds you of the landscape of your brain? >> Yeah, the Los Angeles of Blade Runner 2049. Ha ha. 334. Have you ever loved someone who has loved you back? >> Probably. 335. Is it really being 'in love with’ someone if the other person doesn’t love you? >> I don’t see why it wouldn’t be, but I’m the wrong person to ask about that sort of thing anyway. 336. Do you believe that there is someone perfect for everyone or that people just fall in love with who ever they are with at the time? >> I don’t subscribe to either of those ideas. 337. Do you know secret things? >> No. 338. Have you ever fallen in love with someone you shouldn’t have? >> I don’t know what this means. 339. How do you overcome your fears? >> If I do, it’s probably because it went away on its own or something weird happened to dispel it. I have no idea how to overcome a fear on purpose. 340. What can you do better than anyone you know? >> Nothing. 341. Would you benefit from a wilder existence? >> No, I really would not. Unless you mean “wilder” in the sense of “wilderness” and not, like, “wild child”. In that case, yeah, maybe. 342. Does it seem to you like the range of socially acceptable behavior is getting smaller or larger? >> I don’t know, man. I try not to make any sweeping generalisations like this. I think some of the conversations we’re having as a society really need to happen, though, whether they’re comfortable or fun to participate in/observe or not. 343. Have you ever fired a gun? >> No. 344. Are people becoming more afraid of each other? >> As I said, I prefer not to make sweeping generalisations like this, I don’t think they’re useful or in any way accurate to actual experience. 345. If you had to choose the percentage of freedom vs. safety what ratio would you decide on (ex: 100% free 0% safe)? >> What. 346. Does safety stifle you? >> Some people’s ideas of “safety” do stifle me, yes. Other people’s ideas of it are life-affirming to me. I haven’t really given much thought to what “safety” means for me, personally. 347. Who or what needs to be stopped? >> Oh, you know. The planet, so I can get off *cue laugh track* 348. Are human beings becoming more domesticated? >> Isn’t that what the advance of civilisation is, and particularly advancements like technology and industrialisation? The process of increasing domestication, of separating Man from Nature, elevating that one above that other? Otherwise, I have no idea how I’m supposed to answer this question. 349. Do you follow the lives of the British Royal Family? >> No, I know nothing about them. 350. How did the death of Pope John Paul II (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pope_John_Paul_II) affect you? >> It didn’t. I don’t even remember when it happened.

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