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porrimalovesstories · 4 years

Text

A Love Story

dedicated to: @taylorswift, @taylors-flutterby @cruelafterglow and @swiftonic13

I hope you like the stories.

I know the birthday is tomorrow. But hey, it is nice to have it ready, isn’t it?

Beta readers: @maybeillride and @taylors-flutterby

His songs: @taylorwift “So It Goes”, “Dancing With Our Hands Tied” “Enchanted” and the Beatles, “Old Brown Shoes”

PART I: HIS STORY

He was simply standing there, watching her. Had he been able to, he would not have breathed. He was afraid that she would notice his presence, and disturb her process of thinking. She could have been writing a masterpiece, a record breaking song and because of him, she could never finish it. He would never forgive himself if that ever happened.

He had seen the similar image two months ago. Only at that time, she had been standing in front of a a display case contained with something blue; if he recalled correctly, it was a glass flask with a shape of a mouse and a snake.

Now, she was sitting at the piano. Instead of blue, the light that hit her face was pale yellow, coming from the lamp table on her left side. She did not wear any make up and her no longer bleached hair was tied to the back.

Her face had been haunting him since that night, coming to his dreams uninvited, making him unable to think straight every time he heard her name.

Had she not been the one who conquered music charts for ages, it would have been easier.

But how to forget somebody, whose face, voice and name is the talk of the town? Everywhere you go, she is there. At the cinemas, in the radio, television, newspaper.... even internet.

He scoffed. Especially the internet. He stopped reading the comments after he had read somebody call her a liar for the tenth time. This is not the way to get to know her, he thought at that time. If he ever had a chance to get to know her. If he actually did, he wanted to start with a clean slate.

A fool's dream, he told himself many times. A dream that had been shattered by images of her and her new boyfriend, which were plastered all over the place.

Suddenly she turned around. She must have heard his scoffing. “Oh, sorry. I didn't wake you up, did I?”

He cleared his throat. That pale face gave him a smile. He wished she had not done that. That smile was forced. It made her face look eerie. “No, you didn't. I have to wake up early. My flight to London is in about... oh,” he checked his watch. “Four hours.” Which he hoped it was not.

“Oh. I will be the only one that stays, then.”

“Yeah, I wish I could stay longer,” he sighed. He really did. “But I have nothing else to do here. And I kinda miss my dog.”

“You're a dog person.”

Why does it sound like it is a crime, he wondered. “Yeah....”

“I am more like a cat person.”

“My father made a documentary about Bastet once....”

“No way!” her eyes widened.

“Not exactly about Bastet, it was more about The Cult of Ra....,”

“Oh, I think I saw that movie. Isn't it the one with that Oxford Egyptology Professor … what was his name again? Oh, I would love to meet him and talk about Bastet.”

And just like that, she started telling him what she liked about the movie (he told her, she made someone at home very happy; he also made a mental note to ask his father the name of the professor) and then about the habit of her cats. One of them in particular, liked to sit in her favorite jeans – the one she normally used for traveling because it was comfortable – as if her cat had known that she would leave. “You know, I think cats are the most independent creatures. They never listen to you. They always do whatever they like.”

“Maybe because they are the descendants of the Goddess of Lion, the protector of Ra, the God of sun?”

“I've been saying that! Thank you,” those blue eyes got brightened, but then, she sighed. “I sound like an old cat lady, don't I?”

“Yeah, a bit,” he winked. “Are you sure you only have two cats? You know, just checking...”

She rolled her eyes, but her lips were smiling. Oh, those lips... he turned his face away. He really should have not thought about her. Her lips or any part of her body.

“Hey, you want some coffee?” she got up. “I could make a mean coffee.”

“I prefer tea, actually.”

“Georgia must have some tea somewhere. What do you like?”

“Peppermint tea, but I prefer hibiscus tea, if we have them.”

Her face was twisted. “Is that even a tea? Ugh. Stay away from me if you drink that colored water, otherwise I'll lock myself up in the attic.”

He laughed. Ah, this woman.... even in the days where everybody seemed to have found bad things about her, she still managed to joke around and brought laughter. “You are so overly dramatic, you know that?”

She looked at him. And for the first time, he saw something in her face that he could not really explain. It was as if the light had just brightened her face and the cloudy look in her eyes was disappeared. Perhaps that is how an angel looks like, because nobody can look that beautiful and breathtaking.

“When do you have to leave?” her question saved him from continuing glaring. One more second, perhaps his jaws would have been found on the floor.

“The flight is in four hours, but I prefer to leave a bit early. So perhaps I have two hours?”

“Then we should have our breakfast.”

Before he knew it, he was sitting at the table, eating some pancakes that she had made. Perfect round golden pancakes. They smelt so wonderful he drooled. “This is so good,” several times he commented it while shoving the pancake into his mouth. “So good. Maybe you should thinking about opening some cafe,” he teased her. “God, this is so good.”

She chuckled. “Yeah, I might. You know I love baking, right? I am very good in making cookies. My fans love it.”

“You sell cookies to your fans?” soon after, he felt goddamn stupid asking that question. Of course she didn't, you idiot. That look of shock on her face.... god, even if the earth had swallowed him, it would not have been able to save him from this embarrassment. He felt his cheeks hot. They must have been burning red by now.

“I make them some cookies when they come to my house and sometimes cake.”

To avoid any further embarrassment, he preferred not to ask any question.

“You must have known it, it is all over the media,” she continued, still in disbelief.

“I don't read that kinda stuff,” he swallowed the last piece of the pancake. A big chunk. He would rather not be able to speak than to say the wrong words.

“'That kinda stuff'” she quoted the words, “is actually part of my life.”

Those words hit him hard. He realized now how strong the blows that she had received lately. Even as an outsider, he was unable to stomach reading the comments toward her under any article, video, or post on twitter or Instagram. Imagining on her position: treated as less than a mere object, that was analyzed from every possible angle, accused, dragged, and spat on without any consideration or whatsoever... god, that had got to be hard.

Honestly, had he been her, he would not have known how to survive it, let alone, standing here in the kitchen, fixing some breakfast for a stranger. He would have spent days drinking, or using her words, locking himself up somewhere in the attic...

“I know, people think that I used my fans for marketing purposes only. But they are wrong. Fans are very important to me, you know, to develop and to enrich my music, to grow in it. I love having them in my house and talking to them. Listen to them, exchanging ideas, sharing experiences.”

He cleared the rest of the pancake with his green tea. “You are not afraid that they are being obsessed, and thinking of you as more than an idol? I mean, some might think that you are their girlfriend, or imaginary married to you?”

“Yeah, of course. I am not stupid. I take precaution against that. Learning a bit about martial art, and carry around some first aid kit.”

“Any planning to make a new album? When you have a plan to invite your fans to your house, give me a call; I'll drop my schedule and fly to you.”

She looked at him. Those blue eyes flickered.

And he felt stupider than before. That was the worst pick up line he could come up with. Was it too obvious?

“It is not easy to be seen with me,” she turned her face away. Now, those eyes were again covered with soft misty cloud. He hated it. That look made her impenetrable. It took her away from him, blocked his view with thick walls, and made her even more unreachable than before.

“Your new boyfriend apparently doesn't think so,” he growled. He realized, he sounded like a jealous ex, but he did not care.

“So you did read that kinda stuff.”

Yeah, he had. And it had almost killed him (now who was being overly dramatic, he wondered). Seeing them together, walking on the beach, on the street, at the cafe... some thought it had been a publicity stunt... yeah, he wished, somebody had told his heart that. Because every time he saw them together, he felt as if something had stabbed his chest with a flaming knife. It was hot and painful.

“Yes, I did; but I stop reading things about you after awhile.”

“Why?”

“Why I read, or why I stop reading them?”

She shrugged. “Both, I guess.”

What to say? How to say it? He wondered. Honesty? Lie? “I saw you at the MET, and I was curious,” he decided to be honest. Not entirely. Because how to say to a girl, that you are interested in her, because she reminds you to morning sky, to the time where you can be yourself and see things clearly? “All I could find is accusation, insults, name-calling – to put it lightly – so I stop. I just think it is not a way to get to know you or anybody else in general.

“I know, we are in a business, which image and reputation are very important. We can't afford to make any wrong step. We always have to fit in the image that either we create or others create for ourselves. But how far will we go? What are we willing to do to keep that image?

“My mother gave me a book, when I told her that I wanted to enroll in the drama school. It's a play from Tennessee Williams, Sweet Bird of Youth...”

“Oh, I love that movie, you know, with Paul Newman?”

“I am not sure I watched it,” he tried to remember it... The Sting, check. Butch Cassidy and Sundance Kid, check. Exodus, check. The Young Philadelphians, check. The Hustler, check...nope, not Sweet Bird of Youth. He made a mental note to get that movie somehow.

“What I want to say is, I suppose, my mother wants to remind me not to lose myself, just like Chase Wayne in the play, not to sacrifice everything in the sake of fame and reputation. Or perhaps like the Princess, not to lose our self-confidence and understanding, only because we care too much about what people might say about our arts.

“Especially in the time in which we are living. We are given the tools and opportunity to have a direct contact with our public. To hear what they have to say: either it's criticism or praise. But the question is how far are we letting them form us; how far are we letting them validating our arts, or even our existences?

“How do we tell the difference between criticism and insults? Between praise and ass-kissing? Are we going to dance to their music, or are we going to dance to our own, even with the risk, that nobody will want us anymore?”

“And? Did you find the answers of all those questions?”

He shook his head. “That's why I take the book wherever I go. You know, as a reminder.”

She sighed.

Don't do that. He begged in his mind. It was hard already to talk to her, trying the best he could not to sound starstruck, let alone to hear her sighing like that. He drank his tea hastily with a hope that it would calm down his heartbeat.

He forced himself to focus by looking at his watch. One hour to go.

“Have you been in Vesterbro before? Because if you can stay a bit longer, I can show you around....if you haven't...”

Her question almost made him jump. No! Yes! He meant, no, he had never been in Vertebro before. Doing some hours of shooting and interview were not the same with being in a place. And yes, of course he would stay longer. “When will you fly to New York?”

“Oh, I don't know if I return to New York. I might fly back home to my parents. In a week or two.”

“Let me check my schedule,” he took out his phone, checked his calendar, “Hmh, I will have to be in New York in ten days. Probably, my agent will call me Tuesday for the confirmation. So, yeah, I can stay. I rather feel uncomfortable to leave you alone, actually.”

“Mr. Allen is here and I can call my brother to come.”

Mr. Allen was her head of security. A six feet two man, all muscles, short hair cut with eyes like an eagle's. He did not say much, and always in alert. But when he talked, his voice was warm and the way he laughed, he-he-he, it changed him somehow into an adorable bear.

And her brother... he never met him. But surely he shared the same features with his sister. Blond hair, blue eyes, tall and slender, full lips, and skin like porcelain... he wondered, if her skin was as smooth as the porcelain... and he wondered how she smelt. Because now, the kitchen smelt mix of melted butter, vanilla, sugar and flour... good, and made his mouth watery... and she smelt of all of those, but certainly she would not use that combination as perfume. On second thought, he did not mind it at all.

Their eyes met.

He wanted to apologize for staring at her, but a shy little smile at the corner of her lips changed his mind. Obviously, she liked him staring at her like a starstruck boy. Otherwise, why would she invited him to stay longer? “I'll contact the airline. You have any idea what to do later?”

“Nope,” she sipped her coffee. “No coffee, no idea.”

He chuckled. Did she have to be funny as well?

That day they spent most of the time at the house, planning what to do and where to go. She talked about parts of Vesterbro they should visit, like Riccos kaffebar (the best coffee shop ever, she said.), or Blomsten, a cafe she always visited when she was in town.

“I can call the owner; they can close down the cafe just for us.”

“Where's the fun in that?” he asked.

“I can't go out without causing any spectacle, it is like the circus comes to town, and for the moment, I am the biggest circus there is.”

“Hmh,” he looked at her up and down, “as long as you are the snake lady, I am fine with it. All fierce and sexy....” he bit his lower lip. Shit, that was too fast. Her eyes were wide open. Shit, shit, shit. Now, she would get angry, and this spontaneous holiday would get ruined. He might as well prepare to call the airline again for a changed schedule and get his ticket back. He flew to London after all.

“You know what,” some extra lines appeared on her forehead. “I think you are more Jack London than Tennessee Williams. I mean, T.W was more flamboyant, but actually struggling, inert, and swallowed his angers and frustration and turned it into masterpiece. But you, you are more like that church-goer-son-in-law kinda type, but wild and hunger of adventure, just like Jack London.”

“Is that so? What are you, then? The 21st Tennessee Williams, who changes her struggles, angers and frustrations into masterpieces?” He smiled.

Her face looked thoughtful.

It was difficult for him not to sigh. How can she even look more beautiful? As if, there was a soft layer of air that covered that face. He could not tell, whether it was remorse or sadness, but the image he was witnessing right now, reminded him to the face of the woman in Monet painting, holding umbrella, under the bright blue sky, but clearly fighting against the wind.

Graceful. That would be the word. Neither remorse nor sadness, but graceful, just like Lady from Orpheus Descending: a woman who tried to live bravely and honestly, even when the world around her was crumbling down. And who was he? Val? A wanderer, a vagabond, who tried to make a place of his own in that crumbling world?

He smiled. “You are,” he braved himself, “Tennessee to me.”

She smiled. Those eyes turned into two small lines, and her nose cringed.

He felt his heart miss a beat. Was that her genuine smile? Had he really made her smile?

“Don't be too serious, London. My songs are good, I admit; but not so good that can be compared to Tennessee Williams'.”

“Did you just call me 'London'? As London with his Big Ben or ….”

“Ha!” she choked. Obviously, her coffee had entered the wrong throat. “Jack London, silly boy. Jack London, not London with his big....” she stopped her sentence. Now, her face was bright red, realizing what she was about to say.

“Tsk,” he winked. A pity, but, “I can accept that. It is an honor to be compared with Jack London. But don't call me 'boy',” he pointed at himself, “Twenty five years old... two three years younger than you, give or take?”

She shrugged. “Yeah.”

Yeah what? That he was younger than her or that she would not call him 'boy'?

Before he could ask, her phone rang. She gave him a sign not to say anything. Then she got up, and left him. Whoever on the phone was, it must have been a very special person, because he did not see her anymore until dinner time. After dinner, she excused herself to go back to her room; he could not do anything else, except saying, “Of course.”

The empty room looked even bigger now that nobody was there, and the traces of the party had been cleaned up. The books, the furniture were back to where they had been before. At the corner, beside the fireplace was a painting of a huge black and red snake: a copy of a famous Danish contemporary artist's work. Georgia went ballistic when she saw it. It was not because of the painting itself, but it was whom that painting was given to. Whoever bought that painting was no longer a friend of hers. And they would better be careful to say or do, because Georgia would make sure that they would go to hell and back.

Georgia's reaction had made him relieved. She had friends. Real friends who stood by her no matter what happened.

“Something interesting about the painting?” her voice made him turnaround. She stood at the end of the stairs that led to the sleeping rooms above. In her right hand was a big glass of red wine, and in her left hand was a green guitar. He wondered, how many guitars did she own or bring with her? Because two days ago, at the party, she had played with a pink guitar.

“I was thinking about Georgia's reaction.”

“Yeah, she is very protective sometimes,” she sat down and put the wine glass on the table. “It's nice to have a friend like Georgia.”

He nodded. “But you were also cool. I would kick whoever gave that present out of my life.”

She shrugged. “What's the point? I can't do anything right these days anyway. What are you reading?”

“Oh, a script my agent sent me a week ago. An English tradition, a story about the kings and queens.”

“Interesting?”

“Very. Only, I am not sure if I can play the character, which was once played by Fiennes. The shoes are too big to fill in.”

“Ralph or Joseph?”

“Does it matter?”

“But that's the challenge, isn't it? To make a character as your own, for better or worse.”

He wanted to ask, how did she know, when a thought came to him. She had made it in her own world; she had started from the scratch. Of course she knows the meaning of struggles in the world, that is dominated by big money and people who are not exactly kind to beginners and women.

“It's like when I sing a cover version of a song, I have to make sure that the song stays true to the original and at the same time add my own interpretation to it. Quite tricky, to be honest. Sometimes it works, sometimes not. Do you sing?”

He snorted. “Only under the shower.”

She started picking her guitar's strings. “Like this song, “I am so lonesome I could cry” from Hank Williams. It was Hank's, but played by Elvis, it became Elvis's. The emotions Elvis put in that song... God, I wish I had an ounce of it.”

“And it will be yours, when you play it?”

“Oh, their shoes are definitely too big for me, and I will not even dare to try it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Oh, yeah. Definitely. Sometimes we just have to know where our borderline is. And this is absolutely mine. Never touch Hank Williams or Elvis Presley,” those eyes suddenly became blurry. “I used to think, you know, if I expanded my borderline to widen my horizon, to include everybody, every wishes, everything would be fine. Now, I don't know anymore,” she smiled, clearly forced. And he hate it. “So, what are your most favorite songs?”

“Old Brown Shoes, The Beatles,” he answered without thinking.

“Good choice,” she started playing the tune.

Soon enough, they sang the song. As they looked into each other eyes, the lyrics felt more like mantras than lyrics. Declaring their loves, promising to each other that nothing would be the same anymore for any of them.

Or at least in his part. Each lyric was true. He was in love with her. She had stolen his heart since the first moment he saw her and he hoped, that he would not be too late, or that she would not be too late to realize how he felt about her. And he made a promise to himself, he would help her escape the zoo called social media and the press.

He found himself sitting beside her when the song ended. Their faces were so close their noses almost touched each other.

“That was a good song,” she whispered. Her warm breath touched his face.

He wanted to kiss her, desperately. Those red cherry lips were very inviting, and his blood was boiling. From the look in her eyes, she wanted it too. But he knew. She had a boyfriend. The last thing he wanted was to give her a feeling of committing a cheat...unless she made the first move. Till then, he would wait.

Slowly he withdrew himself. He cleared his throat. “Yeah, George Harrison, my favourite.” He stood up. He would better go now. He was not sure if he could control himself, if he stayed beside her any moment longer.

She caught his hand. “You were right. We should go out and have some fun tomorrow. I'll talk to Mr. Allen how to do it.”

Her finger tips were rough. The scars from guitar's strings obviously.

“Yeah, we shall do that,” he touched her finger tips with his. Smiling, he said, “Let's have some fun.”

After breakfast, Mr. Allen gave them tips and tricks to avoid being recognized in public. No credit card, no fancy clothes. Plain jeans and t-shirt would help a lot. Hats and sunglasses could help, but not necessary. People did not always wear them. And tourists attractions were recipes for disaster. It would take only one person to recognize her, and soon enough Vesterbro would be infested by hordes of paparazzi and god knows what else.

Mr. Allen would contact some people who knew some people to make sure that no journalist caught wind about her present on the street of Vesterbro.

He felt silly, realizing he only had some pound and Euros; she had only American dollars. No danish crown.

But Mr. Allen did not become her head of security for nothing. He was prepared. He always is.

Then for the next days they explored the town. It took some time to get her relaxed and not to look over her shoulder every time somebody came to them. Especially on the first day. When she walked with her shoulder slouched, her head down, and she refused to have any eye contact. At first, he thought about having a conversation about the history of Vesterbro or Denmark in general, when he realized, he did not know much about it. Besides, she might have interest in Egyptology due to the fact that she had cats. Who could tell that she had interests in history?

The thought had somehow waken him up. He knew nothing about her apart from the 'news' he read about her in the media. A mere image, that was created to serve one thing: business. Now that the image had been tarnished, what would she do? Would she hold on dearly to it, create something new or try to find the truth in her?

He hoped, she would choose the last one. And he would be there. Whether as a friend or more.

As the time went by, she was more relaxed. Nobody had approached her for signature or selfies. That was a good sign. Whether nobody recognized her, they did not care, or the Danes were simply too polite, he was not sure. Whatever it was, he hoped that it would last.

Because he loved seeing how she changed. Just like early dawn, when the sun slowly rises up on the East, her eyes started lightening up anything she gazed upon. The blushes on her cheeks were as rosy as the sky touched by the soft red shimmering light of the sun. He could not stop smiling as he saw her laughing.

How to describe the way she laughed...hmh, it was loud and high pitched. She threw her head backwards, and her slender body shook. Then, the longer she laughed, that high-pitched noise got higher and he could not hear the sound anymore. But the thing that took him the most was her eyes. Her eyes got smaller, but the light that shone from them was like the eyes of a child at the Christmas morning, sitting beside the Christmas tree, opening her present.

Oh, he would give anything to keep her laughing like that.

He would also give anything to spend the evening with her just like what they did after the long day of sight-seeing. Sitting on the sofa, with legs stretched, either – they talked about the beauty of Det Ny Theatre building, the books they saw at a second hand book store, called, Ingmars Hjørne named after Ingmar Bergman, according to the owner. He did not want to imagine what kind of books they sold, but she spent quite some time, talking to the owner, ordering some books) – or vigorously trying to find the recipe of kanelsnegle (which was a cinnamon roll) they ate during coffee break, or the hvedebrød (something he did not even bother to ask. He could not pronounce it, let alone had the idea to make it). He also loved being together in silence. He read his script, meanwhile she would be at the piano or having guitar on her lap and started strumming. Either singing some songs and writing some new songs, it did not matter.

What mattered was he was there with her. Alone. She, one of the biggest pop stars that is, the most wanted – both in the positive and negative meaning – was alone with him, in a rented house, somewhere in the center of the capital city of young tourists such as themselves. It was almost a dream comes true moment. Maybe it was.

Tomorrow, he would have to leave to London. She would probably stay. He did not know when they would have moments like this again. If they would have, that might be the more precise words. She would return to her boyfriend, and he... oh, it would sound pathetic, but he would probably focus on scripts and books that either he chose or his agent sent to him.

“You are quiet,” her voice startled him.

“I am not sure what you mean. I am always quiet when you play.”

“Yes, but your head thinks, so loud, even Mr. Allen can hear it.”

“Oh, Mr. Allen can hear even the drop of a needle at the square market, if that needle is aimed at you.”

“That's true,” she put her guitar aside. “So tell me, what were you thinking about?”

He closed his book. “Our time together and how fast it went by,” he put his head on the back of the sofa. He would miss it, that was for sure. “I know, Mr Allen has done a very good job, and I am sure I have nothing to worry about....”

The end of his sentence hanged on the air. They looked at each other. He realized he did not need to finish it. The look in her eyes told him she had the same thought. Neither he nor she wanted the days to be over.

He wished he could tell her the only thing she had to do was to ask him to stay, and he would have done it. It would be a lie, and both of them knew it. He had some schedules in London waiting, and she had schedules of her own and a boyfriend....

The thoughts made his chest hot.

“You call me if you come to New York?” her question was almost like a whisper. Obviously, they had been on the same page.

He nodded. “Hey...,” he put down his book and came to her as he saw tears roll down her cheek. “Hey...,” but before he reached her, she already ran into his arms. He held her tight. He wanted to tell her a lot of things. The promise that he would visit her in New York or any place she had her concert, or that he would call her day and night until she got bored hearing his ring tone, how much he was going to miss their days together, how much he missed her... but all those words sounded empty in his ears.

Her warm body rubbed his like flint and steel being rubbed against each other and sparked fire. He closed his eyes as he felt his heart beat faster and his lower body part got hardened. For a moment he wanted to apologize, but as she seemed not to have been bothered by it, he tightened his embrace.

Slowly she raised her face. Tears were still rolling, but she smiled. “Thank you for being here. I had such a good time.”

“We should do it again some time.”

“If you come to New York...,”

“Or you come to London....”

“You know what they say, I might write some songs about you.”

“Cool. Nobody writes any song about me before.”

“Don't say I didn't warn you.”

“Fair enough. I have been warned,” he wiped off the tears on her cheek. “I take that as a challenge.”

They spent the evening by sitting side by side; he read and she strummed her guitar. When he said goodnight, she continued sitting.

On his bed, he laid wide awake, listening to the sound of piano she played. So haunting, as if she was questioning herself about many things. How he wished to go down and sit beside her, trying to convince her that she could rely on him on many things. Everything.

But he knew, by doing so, it would look as if he questioned her ability to deal with the problems herself. She is a woman. She knew her own strengths and her weaknesses. She did not need a man to babysit her. When she needed any help, she knew how to get it. And when the time came, he would be there. He would make sure that she knew she could count on him.

Until then, he would wait. He smiled. Yes, he would wait.

Her face was as pale as the morning moon as she bid him farewell. She had not slept, she said. She had written some new ideas for some songs. Teasingly she told him, they were about him. He smiled and said, he felt honored already.

She gave him a goodbye present wrapped in green paper. “Open it when you are in the car or in plane,” she said as she handed it to him. “Go,” as he was about to say thank you. “You can thank me later, but only if you like it.”

Her figure was getting smaller as the car drove by. Her blond hair shimmered under the soft light of the sun. Wrapped in pale pink cardigan, she looked frail. But as she walked inside, he saw her walking with straightened body and head upheld high.

He smiled. As frail as she might seem, he would not dare to cross her. She was different from the woman he had seen a week ago. If that figure was only a small part of her, a woman who had been fighting for her whole professional life to be on the top, he could not imagine how she would look like when her fighting spirit returned.

Slowly he opened the present. A card with a picture of cats (his smile widened, of course, what else?), and a hard cover edition of The Iron Heel from Jack London. On the card it was written, “This is my favorite book. Let's talk about it when we see each other again. Call me.”

On the book's first page, she wrote, Don't let me be a Meredith of any story, spoiling every chance of joy. Tennessee (TNS).

He closed the book and turned around. He could not see the house anymore. But he knew, she would be waiting. Or if he was lucky enough, she would come to him. And when she did, he would be ready.

#love story #taylor swift #call it what you want #the beatles #old brown shoes #enchanted #dancing with our hands tied

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theteablogger · 6 years

Text

Bullshit

Two things:

First of all, I’ve heard through the grapevine that Andy is sharing screenshots that allegedly prove that mine are fake. For what it’s worth, I have never in my life faked a screenshot of anything, let alone a screenshot of one of Andy’s posts. The most editing that I’ve done to them is to crop out extraneous material that might identify the person who sent them to me, to join screenshots together when it takes more than one to capture an entire post, to censor other people’s names and pictures or Andy’s own contact info, and occasionally to highlight something. That’s it.

Second, I’ve recently received screenshots of a Facebook post that shows what Andy is telling his friends about what’s recently happened in LA, and how Andy awareness bloggers and tf-talk are entirely to blame for it. I’m going to share it here and respond point-by-point. I realize that Andy is talking about more people than just me, but a) there are very few of us (outside tf-talk) posting about him now, and b) I can only speak for myself anyway. This is going to be long. Sorry.

(If you’d like a quick preview of Andy’s post, he’s been saying almost exactly the same things since at least 2012, so here you go.)

One major problem with this is that the “30 second cocktail party bio” is often all that people get. His former host was very clear that he hadn’t told her about leading two cults, sexually abusing people, mentally and emotionally abusing and manipulating people, and more. What little he did tell her, he blamed entirely on mental illness and made it sound like a lot of stupid internet drama.

When he refers to “listing [his] birth name and literally every screen name [he’s] had or people have suspected was [him] since 1995,” that’s obviously about me. The reason that list is featured so prominently on my blog is that Andy has used so many aliases and screen names over the years that reading about his past can be very confusing for people. Many times, even recently, I’ve seen others express surprise that Thanfiction and Victoria Bitter (for example) are the same person, although they were familiar with most of the trouble that he’d caused under both of those names. I would never, ever mention Andy’s birth name if not for the fact that his earliest known online manipulation and lies were under that name.

Now, here’s the really big issue, for me: I have never said that Andy is a sociopathic narcissist abuser. I have never tried to label him with any specific diagnosis or even a DSM category.

Once in 2014 (before I even had a blog) I submitted a post to 1-purp0se that included something about emotional vs. cognitive empathy, positing that Andy had the latter, but not the former. I’ve regretted that part of the post ever since because I am not a mental health professional and that was only my opinion. In the years since then, I have made sure that I could substantiate everything with screenshots and I have not made anything approaching a diagnostic claim.

I have always been very clear that I have never met or personally interacted with Andy. It’s there for all to see in my FAQ. Also, I have never, ever so much as implied that Andy has abused me in any way. Anyone who thinks that I have either has not actually read my blog, or has a serious reading comprehension problem. I have never even suggested that X was anything like Andy, and have only shared those stories on my blog in hopes of being helpful to other survivors. I am disgusted by the implication that everything that I post is merely a projection of my own experiences of abuse...and at the same time, darkly amused that this is the best Andy can do to refute anything that I’ve said about him.

I have never rejected, harassed, or attacked anyone who’s contacted me about Andy. I have been attacked and harassed by people attempting to defend Andy, and I had a bit of a meltdown in 2015 when I was attempting to defend one of Andy’s friends in tf-talk.

When Andy posts social justice things, he does so in a way that shows that he has little more than a surface-level understanding of the issues, and that he’s more concerned with appearing to espouse a currently popular cause than with actually supporting it. For example, while “raising awareness” about Ferguson, he repeatedly made analogies equating black people with dogs and wild animals. He told people affected by the late-2014 wave of fake suicides in SPN fandom how they were “allowed” to feel and respond. In 2016 he made a number of posts that included misleading and false election statistics, and was very dismissive of people’s concerns about a Trump presidency. That’s the tip of the iceberg, and all that was just on Tumblr. Andy whitesplains and mansplains all the damned time.

There’s “making new friends”, and then there’s forcibly inserting yourself into a pre-existing social circle, acting like you know them all extremely well, and putting intense pressure on them to introduce you to other friends of theirs who are either connected to or actually part of the cast of the webseries on which you are currently fixated. The latter is what he did in LA, according to people who were actually there and were involved.

When Andy says good things about his friends, or other people, they are often backhanded compliments (e.g., his incredibly condescending liveblog of a friend’s SPN fic) or blatant negging (such as making extremely hurtful and gross comments about a woman’s body and following them up with over-the-top assurances that he thinks she’s beautiful). Does he do this every time he makes a positive comment about someone? I have no idea. But it happens often enough to be cause for concern.

"If people say I don’t hurt them, it’s proof that they’re brainwashed or afraid of me, etc. If friends stand up for me, that’s proof that I have created a cultish, us-against-them mentality.”

That first sentence is part of what set off my 2015 meltdown, so I’m not even touching it. I have never said anything even close to that. I have often talked about the fact that Andy has led two actual cults, and that he fosters “us-vs-them” thinking in his friends because he did and he does. Many, many former friends of Andy’s have spoken about the us-vs-them thing, and it’s evident in many of his posts over the years.

I have never said that Andy needs to tell everyone that he is “a sociopath who was intending to inflict pain.” What makes his “apology” posts fauxpologies is that he continually finds reasons to excuse or minimize acts of abuse he has committed, to explain things away as “misunderstandings”, and to deflect blame in a variety of ways. He also tends to make significant omissions and to bend the truth as far as he can unless/until he’s called out on it.

“We know the secret.” This is hilarious because that’s exactly what Andy used to tell the Bagenders and the DAYDians: “[XYZ everyday occurrence] seems insignificant to everyone else, but because we know the secret, we understand that it’s a message from Kali and Raz,” or what have you. I think there have been a handful of times that I’ve said that something Andy’s done would have sounded innocuous coming from anyone else, but takes on more sinister overtones when his history is taken into account. These things generally have to do with specific lies Andy has told, or with specific, documented ways that he has manipulated people in the past.

This is very misleading. No one has moved the goalposts; there never were any goalposts in the first place. Nobody said, “Andy, if you do these specific things, then we’ll believe that you’ve changed and we’ll never talk about you again.” I have said, and have seen other say, that maybe if he did this or that thing it might indicate that he was serious about changing, or that something that he was doing at the time was a reason to hope that he was honestly trying to change. I and many others have also said numerous times that part of the process of moving on for Andy would have to be leaving fandom for good. Andy is the one who decided that putting on a show of leaving fandom (but still sharing fanart and trying to get other fans’ and creators’ attention via mentions and fannish tweets) was the one and only thing he needed to do in order to convince everyone that he’s a different person.

And this next bit is the real crux of the issue: even if he really had “ticked all [the] boxes” on an imaginary list of criteria that Turimel, or tf-talk, or the Andy awareness blogs, or whoever had given him...it wouldn’t matter because he is still engaging in many problematic and abusive behaviors. He is “actively, presently committing abuse”, and I believe that he is still dangerous. I refer you again to Molly’s post about his recent stay with her. On the other hand, I have never made any claim that he is abusing Meg or the cats, or about “dozens of other current victims”. (Past victims that we don’t know about? Sure. Although I’m not very fond of the word “victim”.)

I won’t claim that I stand behind everything that’s said on tf-talk, or every post that every other blogger has made. But by all means, try to claim that there’s bias and twisting in my timeline, when it’s full of substantiating evidence in Andy’s own words and in the words of people who have been hurt by him.

I’m not sure where he’s getting “a dozen” from. There are maybe five of us blogging about him sporadically on Tumblr now (very sporadically, in most cases), and an unknown number of anons in tf-talk and fail-fandomanon. Our blogs and tf-talk often go quiet for long periods of time, and he isn’t mentioned that frequently on FFA anymore...until something like this happens.

I love the implication that no one who’s decided to stay away from Andy based on the many warning posts about him, the contents of tf-talk, Abbey’s blog, my blog, etc. has actually read any of it. They’ve all just made blind assumptions. But Andy’s not saying anything bad about them! Oh, no, they’re still smart, reasonable, good, empathetic, woke, and the kind of people that he wants to be friends with and work with. See what I mean about saying shitty things about people and then following up with lavish praise? This is also exactly what this anon on FFA was talking about. Anyway, based on my Statcounter and the fact that Google Docs will show me how many people are currently reading the timeline whenever I open it, I’m going to say that far more than .0002% of people actually read this stuff.

And here it is: it is ALL OUR FAULT that Andy hasn’t changed, even though he’s trying so hard. Comparing himself to a snake that’s had its venom sacs (not poison, Andy) removed is very disingenuous as it implies that it is now impossible for him to do significant harm. That isn’t true of anyone, let alone someone with a 20-year history of lies, manipulation, and abuse. And he actually did “bite” someone recently--again, read Molly’s post, and realize that all happened just a few days ago.

The truth does speak for itself. Those people in LA already had serious concerns about Andy before they read about him online, but they had been cutting him a lot of slack. Molly was already aware that Andy was, for example, trying to dredge up her memories of extremely abusive past relationships in order to manipulate her. She and his friends had already realized that he was constantly lying to all of them about pretty much everything. They’d already pegged him as a performative ally. They’d noticed that he negged the hell out of trans and plus-size people, specifically playing on issues of gender/body dysmorphia, and that he was competitive and condescending toward other men. All of this was based on their own direct observations of his behavior, before they had any idea about his history. And the person who filled them in wasn’t a blogger or someone from tf-talk; it was a close friend of theirs who realized who he was and felt the need to warn them.

(Also? Even if none of the LA people would say that Andy had actually harmed them--I don’t know because I haven’t talked to them all--it is evident that he at least tried to harm them psychologically and emotionally. None of the above behaviors can be waved away as accidents, especially given that they were happening regularly and frequently.)

So what is Andy to do? Maybe stop doing the things listed above, for a start. If what his friends read online (again, after spending time with him in person for a couple weeks) really hadn’t matched what they knew of him personally, the outcome would have been very different. But they’d already been comparing notes on his shitty behavior, and when they read the links they’d been sent, everything that had been happening suddenly made sense. That’s why they kicked him out. If you’re a manipulative asshole, people may be willing to let things slide for a while--but when they find out that you’ve been doing the same shit and worse for 20 years, yes, everything might just be snatched away from you. And that’s your own fucking fault.

Here’s a further comment from Andy:

This is fucking disgusting.

Other than the occasional tf-talk anon, the only person who has regularly (as in, more than an off-hand comment) compared specific words and behaviors of Andy’s to a past abuser of their own was Delwynmarch. And that was several years ago; it’s been a long time since he posted anything at all. Del had his fair share of insightful, on-point analytical posts, too--like his breakdown of Andy’s attempt to explain away his admission of having committed rape and sexual abuse. It’s incredibly disingenuous and dismissive to suggest that the volumes of information and analysis that others have written amount to nothing more than projection, and that we’re just a bunch of poor, ignorant babies who don’t realize how misguided we are. He feels sorry for us. Give me a fucking break.

I have been open about being a survivor of abuse and having lost people in my life to cults. While that is part of what inspired me to start blogging about Andy, that doesn’t mean that it is the entire basis for all of my opinions and analysis. Andy is fond of analogies, so I’ll use one here: This is like saying that because I was once bitten by a dog, any time that I feel the need to correct my own dog’s behavior, I’m obviously just projecting my past experience onto him, so I should just back off and let him keep shitting on the rug.

Furthermore, as much as he likes to say that we don’t know him and therefore shouldn’t act like we understand him...I know Andy a hell of a lot better than he knows me. I’ve been reading others’ words about him since 2003, and I have probably millions of his own words about his life, his mental health, fandom, and a host of other topics, dating back to 1998. All he knows of me is what little he sees on this blog.

Nice try, Andy, but I neither need nor want your sympathy. Nor do I accept any measure of blame for what happened last week. You did it to yourself.

#andythanfiction #thanfiction #andrew blake #andy blake #andrewmblake #psa #abuse #leaving fandom #andy blake defense squad

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