#this has probably been done but i was indulging myself while being literally hospitalized from one moment to the next | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

enigma-im · 5 years

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Heat of the moment

Rating: Explicit Relationship: Demon X Female!Human Warning: Demon sex, Sexual harassment, Breaking arms, Pushing boundaries, Begging, ovulation meaning heat

I wrote this story about a year ago, it was a short to a much larger story i never bothered finishing. its very indulgent on my behalf, I had fun writing this at 1am a long time ago. its about when a lady hit their peak furtility and shows signs. Her demon boyfriend then can smell it. This story is 18+ and has some boundary-pushing, so viewer discretion is advised?

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I rest my tired body on the couch, work was hellish today. Everyone was complaining or just being insufferable. My entire being aches from running around doing everyone’s commands. My lower body feels heavy and worn while my arms desire nothing more than to be still.

As I lay with my arms over my face I feel something grab my feet. The feeling, as light as it is, feels great. The hand goes from my ankle up my leg and stops at my thighs.

“You smell good,” a voice croaks out.

“I doubt that,” I grumble. I probably smell like food and sweat, which in my mind is a terrible combination. I don’t know much about demons despite living with one. I have no idea what smells he finds appealing.

“Smell sweet, and nice,” he mumbles as he pulls my body down the couch. he rests my legs on his lap and continues stroking my thigh. A sigh escapes me as he loosens the aches. Once he hears that he lets out a huff of laughter then travels further up. He makes it to my hips then adjust himself, so he is between my legs. he grinds into me and I let out an annoyed groan.

“No, I’m too tired,” I swat at his hands. He ignores me like usual and continues pressing himself against me. you would think I’d be used to his attention by now, but man got way too much love to give. I enjoy what he is doing but I’m just too exhausted to want to put any effort into fucking him tonight.

I get off the couch and slip out of his grasp. I trudge up the stairs and to the bathroom. Using the small amount of energy I have to remove my clothes and get in the shower. As I begin scrubbing myself he makes himself known by stealing the soap from me. he then immediately drops it and lets out a short yelp.

“Cold,” he groans as he turns the nozzle on the wall. I turned the shower cold in hopes of waking me up a bit, also I just enjoy cold showers. Helps the muscles tighten and less sores for tomorrow. I guess I can throw that idea out the window because he didn’t seem to care for it.

Steam fills the room and once the water is too his liking he grabs at me again. He runs his first set of hands up my stomach to my chest and the second pair wraps around my waist. He begins grinding once again into me and gropes at my breast like a horny teenager.

“Either help me wash up or get out,” I snap as I try to wiggle out of his grip. I immediately give up as I really don’t have the energy for this. I just wanna wash up and go to bed. he doesn’t really care for what I want right now because he is still smashing his cock into my back.

“Smell good,” he mumbles into my neck. I roll my eyes, he is getting real annoying right now.

“Oh yea, what do I smell like then,” I fire back.

He buries his nose into my neck and takes a big whiff, “Sin.” Ok that was a little hot but I’m still not having this. I choose to ignore him and continue on my own agenda. I grab the shampoo and squirt some into my hand. I lather it in my hair and he continues pawing at me. my arms bump against him a few times till he gets annoyed and takes control of washing my hair. I always enjoy when he does, he is very talented with his fingers.

As he massages my scalp a soft sigh leaves me. he grinds into me and lets out his own sigh. I ignore the hard on he has pressing into my back and just enjoy the pampering. He guides me under the water and lets the soap rinse out. Once that’s done he turns off the shower and rips back the curtain.

“Hey, I wasn’t done,” I shout. He as usual ignores me and wraps me in a towel before hoisting me over his shoulder. Within a blink we are in our room, god I hate when he teleports me. he throws me on the bed and climbs over. He goes back to grabbing any part of me he can and grinding against me.

“Stop it, you are acting like a horny teenager,” I snap as I push against him. he doesn’t pay me any mind as he removes the towel and admires me. I gotta admit, he does have his ways of making me feel cute. He sits straddling my hips and runs a few fingers over my torso. One hand gloss over my neck while another traces over my ribs.

“Pretty,” he mumbles. I soften a bit at his words. Fuck, why does he have to be so cute. I’m really trying not to be persuaded but his little actions never fail to warm me. I reach out and run a hand from his stomach to as high up his chest I can reach. “Pretty,” I mumble back. he leans forward onto two hands and grabs mine. he kisses each finger before nuzzling into my palm. I lean forward and peck him on the head, “Stop being so adorable.” He chuckles as he rubs his face more into my palm. He drops my hand then he lowers his head to my neck where he peppers me with kisses and nibbles. I allow him this, and only this. I really do need to get to sleep and knowing him this is going to be an all-night endeavor. After a moment I push at his chest and he lifts up with no resistance. Still he looks at me with a bit of annoyance. I shake my head at him and move to get up. He growls and tugs me back so I’m laying on his front.

“No, I need to get dressed and go to bed,” I groan. He growls again which does nothing for my fight against him. I think he knows that too, he knows I can barely resist his growls. I still stand strong and wiggle out of his grip. Once I’m standing I turn towards him. he is reaching for me again and I slap his hand away.

“No, not tonight,” I snap. He drops his hand and glares at me. with an annoyed huff he is gone. I roll my eyes at his childish behavior. I mean I’m just glad he knows no means no. you would think a demon wouldn’t have those kinds of boundaries but damn if I aint glad he does.

I get dressed and snuggle back into bed. instinctually I reach out to the other side of my bed. I sigh in disappointment. I still want him here, I just can’t fuck tonight. I roll over onto my back and huff.

“I’m sorry babe, I really have to get up early. We both know you like to make these things an all-night event. I promise we can have all the wonderful nasty sex you want tomorrow night,” I say into the empty room. I hear nothing back. fine if you want to be a child then go ahead. I roll to my side and try to get some sleep. As I’m on the cusp of slumber I feel an arm snake around my waist and pull me closer to the middle of the bed.

“Sorry,” he whispers into my back. I hold his hand in mine and rub my thumb against his. I guess I can find it in my heart to forgive him. not that it really took much.

I wake up early the next morning. I untangle myself from the demon next to me and begin my day. I get dressed, make breakfast, and gather my things. The entire time I’m doing this he is up my ass following me around. I bump him a few times as I make my way around. He doesn’t layup, he is just on me. we have been living together for a long time and this is an unheard-of behavior. Yet I ignore it because I need to get to work. This is something I will deal with later.

I get to work at the restaurant on time and begin my shift. It’s a Saturday so I’m kept on my toes moving from one table to the next. To the kitchen and back out to the customers. The morning shift wasn’t too bad. mostly elders or respectable adults, it when mid shift starts that my day begins to drop. A school bus of high schoolers comes in making business begin to back up. After that I deal with some rather unsavory business men in for lunch. It’s usual that men try to flirt with me, I let it by because they give better tips. Yet today I’m ready to sucker punch someone.

One of the well-dressed men begins straight up harassing me. He starts off small, calling me pet names. It isn’t a big deal but I’m not a huge fan. Then when his appetizers come out he gets more inappropriate. When I bend over to set down their food he blatantly looks down my shirt. I snap back up and give him a glare which he returns with a grin. Then when I pass by he drops his utensils on the floor. Making me grab them and he stares at my ass like it some sort of roast.

When I give the group their food I see out the corner of my eye his hand reaching out to grab at me. before he could make contact his hand jerks to the side with a harsh snap. I jump back and look at the man’s arm that is bending in a different direction than it should. He lets out a loud shout of pain and I also hear a soft chuckle beside my ear.

The man is rushed to the hospital and one of his buddies pays for the meal. I get questioned by my managers on what happened, and I tell them all I know. They get all they could before sending me on my break. Once I make it to the staff room I glare into the space.

“I know you’re here,” I snap. I feel hands wrap around me and I’m pulled into a hard chest.

“red looks nice on you,” he mumbles. I glance down out my red top then twist in his grip to look at him.

“You didn’t need to break his arm,” I say into his chest. He rubs my back and nestles the top of my head.

“Yes, I did,” he whispers. I sigh into his chest and shake my head. what am I going to do with this idiot?

“Thank you,” I whisper. He gives me a gentle squeeze and we just stand there. He rubs my back and pets my hair as I relax. I really shouldn’t be ok with what happened, but I know he has done worse for less. The man deserved it, hell I wanted to be the one to break his arm.

“Smell good,” he says again. I look up at him,

“Why do you keep saying that?”

“Heat,” he answers. Well, that means literally nothing to me, heat? What does that mean?

“Babe, I need you to elaborate please, I have no idea what you’re on about,” I say as I let him go. I try to step back but he just keeps me still.

“Heat, sex, fertile,” he attempts again. He has never been a man of many words and it really shows right now. I think I have an idea what he is talking about but as far as I know humans don’t go into heat. Unless you count ovulation but is that really going into heat? I guess it is but not as extreme as other creatures that go into heat.

“I smell fertile,” I joke. He nods his head as one of his hands goes down to my rear. He gives a squeeze as he grinds into me. fucking horny bastard. “why is this now a problem,” I ask.

“Not a problem,” he smiles at me. I roll my eyes as he tries to sneak his hand under my shirt. I take a step back and surprisingly he lets me.

“Go home, ill be off work in two hours. Then we can do whatever your heart desires.” He doesn’t seem so happy with that plan. He grabs me again and growls into my neck. He gropes my ass and nibbles my neck. Ok change of plans I guess, “Ill tell my boss I’m going home and then we can leave.” I hope that one works for him. instead I feel the familiar rush of being teleported. “Oh, for fuck sakes, at least let me tell my boss I was leaving,” I snap.

He wastes no time getting me undressed and on the bed. but he does take his time to make sure no part of me is without his touch. He has me pressed against the bed, his hips keeping me down. I look down at his cock and sigh in bliss. He gets on my nerves more than anything alive but god I adore his dick. Its perfectly thick and long, it isn’t over doing it but just right.

He catches me staring so he grabs my hand and rest it on his stomach. Leaving me to decide what to do next. I trail slowly down before changing course and heading up. He groans with displeasure but quickly discards it as I sit up. His hands grab at me and sets me on his lap. I glide my hands up his chest and around his neck. I pull him down and give a gentle kiss. He loves it when I’m gentle. I slowly pull away and trail soft kisses down from his lips to his cheek then down his neck. As I trail on I push him to rest on his elbows.

Once he is down I trace my tongue along the curves of his chest. I follow every contour in worship till I’m face to face with his erection. I look up at him, his mouth open in awe. I grip his cock in a soft grasp before giving his tip a quick peck.

“Pretty,” I gasp as I give a long lick from sack to tip. He lets out a shaky sigh as his head rest on his shoulder. I lazily begin stroking while I pepper kisses along his thighs. He doesn’t seem to care for my teasing for he grabs at my hair and presses my lips to his cock. I chuckle at his frustration. I give pity but not too much and just take the tip in. I suck and swirl my tongue. I slide my tongue back and forth over his slit and under the crown. I take him far enough in my teeth graze over and under the crown, so I can gently tug him. he hisses at my ministrations and jerks forward. I snap my head out of reach and smirk up at him.

He rolls his eyes before dragging me up knowing I’m going to just tease him all night. I can’t help it, he makes such adorable faces. He pulls me into a kiss not waiting to shove his tongue in my mouth. he gropes at me again, one set of hands grabbing at my ass while another is on my tits. He sneaks a hand from my ass to my front. He catches me a bit off guard as he slips a finger between my folds. Spreading my slick over my clit making me gasp in the kiss. I pull back and rest my head on his shoulder while he does quick flicks over my clit. my breath catches a bit every time he rubs. my legs bounce, and I find it hard to stay over him. he catches on and sets me on my back. he lays on his stomach between my legs. one set of hands spreads my legs while the other spread my lips. he stares at my cunt with nothing but sin on the mind.

“Pretty,” he moans out. He lazily rubs my clit with his finger before pressing a digit into me. I sigh as I feel him crook and drag his finger over a pile of nerves. He was extremely proud of himself when he found this out. I was just as excited as he was. he adds another finger and rubs over the nerves again making my breath catch and my eyes shut. I gasp out again as he picks up the pace, pressing just a bit harder. I run my finger through my hair and flex my toes. He chuckles at me before he stops his sliding and instead presses rhythmically. He bounces his fingers to an unknown beat. At this point I’m gasping and writhing. He knows it isn’t enough to make me cum but just enough to have me struggling.

I drag my hand down my body and try to help myself along. Before I could make it one of his hands grab mine. the fucker is just going to tease me. I look down at him and down right plead with him. he just smirks up at me, not laying up as I grind my hips to get some sort of relief. I know what he wants, he wants me to beg. I can’t give him the satisfaction, but god I’m so close. I shake my head at him and he frowns. He removes his fingers making me whimper. God, I know I’m going to regret being so needy later. I reach out for him to pull him close, but he isn’t having it. I reach my other hand down to finish myself, but he snatches it and forcing my hands above my head. he gets up in my face and kisses my cheek. I feel his cock nudge my folds and I gasp. I thrust my hips to catch another touch, but he forces my hips down.

“Beg,” he whispers in my ear. I groan in frustration, it really isn’t that big of a deal to beg but I know he will hold this against me later. Saying how needy I was for him. once he notices I’m not going to do what he asks he grabs his cock and nudges the tip into me. I give out a soft moan and try to bounce my hips against him. he pulls back enough so I can’t take more of him in. I seethe at his teasing, fucking asshole. He repeats his action making sure this time I’m secured to the bed. once his tip is just enough in he starts stroking himself.

“Fucker,” I grumble as I try to fight his hands and thrust up. He just chuckles then gasp as he gets himself off. His one free hand trails around my chest, grasping my tit then tweaking my nipple. He kisses my cheek and neck making sure I’m thoroughly annoyed. I hear his gasp between kisses and feel short nudges of his cock. I can’t let him finish, not without me.

“Fine, please,” I grumble. He stops his personal pleasure and looks at me. he lets a hum in question, a ‘what was that’. I roll my eyes and repeat,” please.” He looks to ponder his options before ignoring me and continuing his motions. I groan and try again, “babe please, I need you to make me cum.” He stops once again, he kisses back up my neck and gives a rather rough kiss before bottoming out. I twist my head and open my mouth in awe. God, did I mention his cock was divine, downright sinful.

He begins a slow pace building his way up. Sliding his cock all the way then gliding it back out. He nibbles on my neck over the scar he made. He picks up pace making me groan and yank against his hold. I need him to touch me, I can’t deal with this ache anymore. I nuzzle his head, licking his horn making him shudder. I whimper out, begging without words. He catches on and traces his free hand between my breast and down between my legs. he circles my clit teasing me just a bit more before giving a quick flick. I hiccup at the immediate striking pleasure. I feel him smirk into my neck before he does it again. This time I clench down making him lose his rhythm. He can’t help but chuckle and gives me what I need.

I bounce my hip in match with his as he strums my clit. I slam my head back and bite back a whimper which he responds with harsh thrust. I cry out while he rewards me with a soft bite on my neck. I don’t stop myself at this point knowing he loves hearing my moans, especially when he is the one who is making me do it. He doesn’t hold back, doing everything he can to make me cum before he does. I can feel he is getting close because he stops assaulting my neck and sticks with gasping in my ear. I hold his head close to me and grind with him. I cry out as I’m nearing my peak, the wonderful ache starting to spread. I dig my nails into his back and grip his horn as I whisper his name like a prayer. He grunts and begins just plowing into me. I feel my whole body suddenly let go, I’m feel like I’m floating before I’m crashing back down. My whole-body clenches as I bite down onto his neck. He mumbles my name into my hair before he grunts and buries himself fully. We both remain still in a state of pure bliss. Only the sound of our breathing is heard.

I’m first to unclench my jaw and let go of his shoulder. I wince at the damage for my canines, they seem to have pierced his skin. He pulls away from me and gives me a once over. then he leans down and gives me a fervent kiss.

“Beautiful,” he whispers. He then pulls out and rolls over onto his back. he drags me closer to him and wraps me in his arms. I snuggle into his side before giving a peck to his chest. As I begin to drift off he whispers, “again?” I roll my eyes, always an all-night thing with him.

#Demon x reader #Demon #terato #monster lover #monster boyfriend #x reader #exophilia #monster

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groggycascade · 5 years

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Ballbusters Anonymous, Pt. II

Continued from Pt. I, for which all credit to squishednuts. Pt. II is mine.

Tiffany chuckled softly. She looked Zoe up and down.

“Sure,” she said. “But this is maybe not the place.” She directed a meaningful look towards the group secretary. “I see you watching me, Clara,” she called across the room.

“Just don’t want you corrupting the youth, Tiff,” the secretary replied, falsely cheerful.

Tiffany rolled her eyes. Zoe looked nervously at the floor. She could feel Tiffany’s eyes on her again. The older woman’s confidence was making her feel very small and inexperienced.

“What are you doing right now?” Tiffany asked her at last.

___

They walked towards Tiffany’s home. As they made their way through the streets, Tiffany told Zoe the story of her encounter with the would-be muggers, lowering her voice whenever somebody passed them in the dark, silent street.

“I’d already castrated one of those assholes, so he was out of commission,” Tiffany told her. “Now, for most women like us,” (here Zoe felt herself blush. She was both afraid and thrilled to be included in the sorority of ballbusting women). “For most women like us,” Tiffany continued, “that would have been enough. When I felt his balls like jelly in my hands…” Her laughter echoed loudly in the street. “I don’t mind telling you, no other man ever gave me an orgasm that good!”

Zoe bit her lip, her insides fluttering.

“But I was feeling, well…” For the first time in their short acquaintance, Zoe thought that Tiffany sounded uncertain. They stopped walking. “How old are you, anyway?” Tiffany asked her.

“Twenty-two.”

Her new friend laughed. “Honey,” she said, placing a hand on Zoe’s shoulder. “You have a lot to look forward to. I guess you’ve never been both incredibly angry and incredibly turned-on at the same time, right?”

Zoe didn’t answer. They continued their walk.

“Well, when it happens, it’s like you aren’t really in control of your own body. All you know is what your body wants, what it needs. And right then in that alley I knew my body needed me to ruin these men, destroy them for all time. Take away their most precious possessions.”

Zoe could tell Tiffany was enjoying spinning out her story, prolonging the moment when the two muggers would suffer the ultimate humiliation at her hands.

“I walked towards the second guy. He was still blind from when I’d maced him, but he must have heard my boots clicking on the floor, because he started trying to crawl backwards. His pants were still around his ankles, so the best he could manage was this pathetic kind of shuffle. If he’d known what was about to happen, he’d have been a lot less concerned about his eyes and a lot more concerned about his other two orbs.” She laughed again. “I should say at this point that I have a black belt in Tae Kwon Do. Protective cups are mandatory at my dojo, ever since… actually we don’t have to get into that. I’d been attending classes for years, they allowed me to release my ballbusting urges without worrying that I’d end up neutering some poor kid who never even got to use his dick and balls with a real girl. It wasn’t much but it was… better than nothing. Barely,” she said with bitterness.

Zoe snapped her attention back to her companion. Tiffany had unwittingly touched on one of her most private fantasies: to castrate a virgin, some weak shy boy who would never, thanks to her, in his whole life feel the pleasure of being with a woman…

“The point,” Tiffany said, “is that I’ve been taught to kick quite expertly. Now, when you kick a man in the groin – assuming your intention is to put him on the ground – your best bet is to kick with the instep. It’s a large, hard area of the foot, so not only will you not injure yourself, but you have an excellent chance of striking both testicles. The average schoolgirl is more than capable of overcoming an attacker in this way.”

Zoe sensed that this was a lecture Tiffany had delivered on many occasions.

“But for real, permanent damage, the experienced ballbuster uses the point of her shoe.” As they walked Tiffany demonstrated with some snap kicks. Left leg, right leg, left leg. “The force of the kick, rather than dissipating across the instep, is concentrated entirely in the small surface area of the shoe’s tip,” Tiffany said. “Caught between the pubic bone and a hard-toed shoe, a testicle has absolutely no chance. It bursts like a grape. Even a babe-in-the-woods ballkicker like you could scramble a guy’s eggs for good in this way.” She smiled at Zoe, who felt a surge of affection for this woman. Still, she was hoping Tiffany would get to the good part already.

“So, I lined up my target. His cock and balls were jiggling between his legs as he tried to get away from me. I started to jog forward.” She laughed again, but quietly to herself this time. “I remember, through everything, being kind of disappointed his hands were rubbing his eyes. I wanted my face to be the last thing he saw in his life as a man.”

Even though awed by Tiffany’s cruelty, Zoe didn’t feel any revulsion. In fact, she was imagining herself in the other woman’s shoes, preparing to inflict the most painful, humiliating punishment imaginable…

“I kicked forward with the point of my shoe. I kicked as hard as I’ve ever kicked in my life, but that power came at the expense of accuracy. I felt his left ball briefly resist my shoe, then burst. Crunch.”

Zoe whimpered softly. Beneath her skirt, her panties were almost soaked through.

“I knew right away I’d only half-succeeded. His one testicle was complete pulp, totally irreparable. But I’d missed the other. By now the guy was screaming his lungs out, as you’d imagine. What was worse, the third guy had rolled over and started crawling up the alley on his hands and knees. I don’t know if he knew what I’d done to his friend, but he probably had a pretty good idea. I had to act quickly. I knelt down and pulled the guy’s hands away from his balls. Or ball, I should say. His right ball was clearly intact, but where the left one had been was just mush. I closed my fist around his remaining ball. He was still screaming in pain, so I covered his mouth with my free hand. He barely resisted; I think he was already passing out at this point. I bent down so that my mouth was close to his ear, and I said, ‘My name is Tiffany Tine, and while you’re in the hospital I’ll be fucking myself senseless to the memory of taking away your worthless balls. I hope you remember my name every time you can’t get your dick up, asshole.’”

“Yeah!” said Zoe. She realized she’d been holding her breath for almost thirty seconds, captivated by Tiffany Tine’s story.

“Then I started squeezing. His last testicle barely lasted five seconds. It must have been the adrenaline – when I was younger, I once squeezed my brother’s balls until he passed out, but I never did him any permanent damage. That was the first time I ever burst a testicle with nothing but my hand. Usually they need softening up with some kicks first. The feeling of power it gave me was… literally indescribable. You have to understand that all this took place in less than a minute. In that time, I’d turned two men into eunuchs. They were useless now thanks to me. Freaks, losers, nobodies.”

“And the last guy?” Zoe asked. Her voice came out husky and hoarse. All thoughts of that evening’s meeting, of her efforts to curb her ballbusting fetish, had been long since abolished. Tiffany chuckled.

“He’d gotten to his feet by this time,” she said. “He was still rubbing his eyes, he hadn’t even pulled his jeans up. Obviously he decided that the only way he was getting out of there with his balls intact was by begging me for mercy. ‘Please, just let me go,’” said Tiffany, impersonating the mugger’s pathetic pleading. “‘I can leave, I’ll just go home, you’ll never see me again…’ Blah, blah blah.”

They had reached Tiffany’s house. Under the porchlight, Tiffany jiggled her purse, searching for the doorkey. Turning to Zoe she laughed at the expression of need on her face.

“I guess you really want that ending, huh?” she asked, grinning. Zoe nodded, speechlessly. Tiffany turned the key in the lock and entered the house. She turned back to Zoe.

“Come on in, then,” she said.

With the door closed behind them, Tiffany said, “I’ll tell you the rest of the story. But,” she held up a finger. “I want something in return.”

Zoe followed her into the lounge. The house was clean and tastefully decorated. Silently, Zoe noted the lack of male influence in the décor. Clearly Tiffany was single, or more likely divorced. Her hostess settled into a deep leather couch, patting the seat next to her. Obediently, Zoe sat down.

“So, what is it you want?” she asked, after a moment of silence. She was feeling strangely disoriented, as though half of her was still in Tiffany’s story.

At that moment, the women heard footsteps descending the stairs. A few seconds later a guy a few years younger than Zoe, no more than a kid really, came slouching through the door. A baggy t-shirt enveloped his skinny frame, above a pair of grey sweatpants. His hair was unkempt, and he regarded Tiffany and Zoe with eyes that were heavy-lidded.

“Hello, Jadon,” Tiffany said warmly. “My son,” she told Zoe. Zoe tried not to look surprised. It had never occurred to her that the serial castratrix with whom she had left the Ballbusters Anonymous meeting might have any kind of maternal instincts.

“Jay,” said Tiffany’s son, sullenly shaking Zoe’s hand. He sniffed. “You a friend of my mom’s from Kung Fu, or whatever?”

“It’s Tae Kwon Do, honey,” Tiffany replied, indulgently, before Zoe could answer. “And yes, Zoe’s a new member of our dojo. We think she has great potential.”

Jadon rolled his eyes. Zoe wondered how this scant, sulking youth could belong to the poised, attractive, self-confident woman who sat next to her on the couch.

“Jadon doesn’t believe martial arts are effective in a… what was it, dear? ‘A street-fighting scenario?’” Tiffany said, by way of explanation.

Zoe saw Jadon’s face colour.

“I was just telling Zoe a story that would probably change your mind, Jay honey,” continued Tiffany. She flashed a smirk at Zoe.

“People in the real world don’t care about Kung Fu rules, mom,” Jay muttered. “You don’t get points,” he went on contemptuously. “It’s eat or get eaten out there.”

“And I tell my son,” Tiffany replied, “that it’s exactly that kind of male arrogance that makes our training so effective. Maybe,” she said, “before I finish telling you that story, you could give Jadon a demonstration?”

Zoe looked quickly at Tiffany. Was she saying what Zoe thought she was saying?

“Mom,” Jadon whined. “She’s a girl.”

“Then you’ve got nothing to worry about,” Tiffany said decisively. “Up, up, up,” she said, shooing Zoe to her feet.

The room was large and spacious. Zoe stood in its centre, looking pleadingly at Tiffany. She couldn’t believe she had interpreted the other woman’s intentions correctly. That was when Tiffany banished all doubt.

“Why don’t you show my son that technique I was showing you on the walk home?” she said, all innocence. Zoe’s eyes widened. Jadon dragged his feet across the carpet to where she was standing. For all his apparent reluctance, Zoe could tell the prospect of putting his hands on a woman’s body excited him. This kid had definitely never been laid, Zoe decided. Probably never even seen real boobs, or had his hand between a girl’s legs.

“I’ll try not to hurt you,” he told her, winking lazily.

“Alright then, Jadon,” Tiffany called across the room. Zoe could hear amusement in her voice, and perhaps even a trace of… anticipation? “Show us how they fight on the streets,” Jadon’s mother said.

Jadon started bouncing on his heels, jogging his arms like a video game character. Zoe was inclined to laugh at how absurd he looked, this skinny kid feinting and shuffling as though he were some kind of MMA fighter.

Suddenly, Jadon lunged forward. The carpet was thick, and broke most of Zoe’s fall. Jadon had his arms wrapped around her legs. As she struggled to free herself, Jadon started climbing up her body, reeling her towards himself. Tiffany shouted encouragement from the sidelines.

“Come on, Zoe! Remember what I told you!”

Jadon’s arms were up around Zoe’s waist now. Suddenly, she felt his hand slip between her thighs and roughly caress her pussy. She looked up to see him leering at her, an insulting smile plastered across his face. In a burst of anger she began kicking her legs and succeeded in shaking Jadon off. Quickly, they both leapt to their feet.

Zoe was breathing more heavily now – not from exertion, but from anger. With disgust she noticed Jadon’s sweatpants tenting. The little fucker had a semi on after feeling her up on the carpet!

Jadon began moving towards her again.

“Do it, Zoe!” Tiffany called from the couch.

Zoe fixed her narrowing eyes on Jadon’s crotch. In her mind, she was back in Tiffany’s story – Jadon was no longer Tiffany’s teenage son, he was the mugger who deserved everything that was coming to him.

As though in slow motion, she kicked forward with her right foot. Even afterwards, she wouldn’t be sure if she had used the tip of her shoe deliberately, the way Tiffany had told her to if she wanted to cause permanent damage. Everything else, though, was clear – the way Jadon’s momentum carried him unstoppably into her kick; the feeling of his balls compressing as she crushed them against his pelvis; she slow way his expression crumpled in a rictus of agony.

Jadon hit the floor, gasping and dry-heaving.

“Oh!” cried Tiffany, jumping to her feet.

Zoe stepped backwards, her hands over her mouth. She’d kicked dozens of guys in the balls before. She had become used to their reactions – the paralysis, the moans of pain – but Jadon looked worse than any guy Zoe had ever busted before. She didn’t know if he was even more of a wimp than she’d thought, or if she had actually just destroyed his testicles in front of his own mother.

Tiffany knelt down next to her son. “Jadon, honey,” she said, her voice full of distress. Jadon’s eyes were screwed shut in pain, so that only Zoe saw that the expression on his mother’s face was not one of concern. Zoe would almost have said she looked as though she found her son’s agony amusing. Surely not, she thought. Tiffany might have been a self-professed ballbusting bitch, but there was no way her love of ballbusting trumped motherly concern. Right?

Tiffany tried to pull Jadon’s hands away from his crotch, but he clutched determinedly on to his wounded balls.

“Darling, I need to check if your testicles are ruptured,” his mother told him. “You might have to go to the hospital.”

Jadon gave no reply except a loud sob – of pain or fear, Zoe couldn’t tell. She wondered if she ought to flee. If she had injured Jadon, would Tiffany call the police? Would anyone believe that this had been a joke that got out of hand?

“Zoe, hold his arms please.” Tiffany’s businesslike voice snapped Zoe out of her thoughts. She bent down and, with difficulty, succeeded in releasing Jadon’s grasp on his balls. With her son’s arms restrained, Tiffany wrestled the waistband of his sweatpants down around his knees.

Instinctively, Zoe stifled a giggle at the sight of Jadon’s small dick. The image was made more ridiculous by his testicles, which were already so swollen they seemed like they might burst out of his scrotum.

Gently, Tiffany palpated each of her son’s balls in turn, drawing howls of pain. Eventually she withdrew her hands and wiped them on her pantlegs.

“Nothing seems to be broken,” she announced. She patted her son on the head. “But I doubt you’ll be chasing the girls for at least a few weeks, hon.” Turning to Zoe, she said, “Help me get him up.”

With each of their heads under one of Jadon’s arms, they succeeded in lifting him to his feet. Letting Zoe take his full weight, Tiffany pulled her son’s pants back up. “I think Zoe’s seen enough of your little bits and pieces for one evening,” she commented.

Zoe waited in the lounge as Tiffany half-carried her son up the stairs. Her head was almost spinning. She was relieved that she hadn’t caused any lasting damage to Jadon’s balls, even if she was still furious with him for groping her. She was angry with Tiffany for putting her in that situation, even if she had relished the opportunity to punt her little prick of a son right in his fragile nuts. And, as her heartbeat settled, she began to experience the familiar feeling of excitement that accompanied dropping a guy with a solid kick to the balls.

Eventually she heard Tiffany descending the staircase.

“You little minx,” Tiffany said, entering. “I can’t believe you tried to rupture my son’s testicles.”

Zoe jumped up from the couch where she had been gathering her thoughts.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” she stammered.

Tiffany laughed, waving her back down onto the couch. “I said ‘tried to,’ didn’t I?” she said. “It’s a good thing you’re not wearing boots. If you had been, or if – heaven forfend – that had been one of my kicks, it’s safe to say my son would have a sack full of mush right now instead of two unimpressive but healthy testicles.”

She took a seat next to Zoe. “You did wonderfully,” she said, stroking Zoe’s hair.

“Why did you make me do that?” Zoe asked quietly. Tiffany was quiet for a moment before replying.

“Last time I tried to quit ballbusting cold turkey, I ended up neutering three guys in an alley,” she said. “Do you know how long it’s been since I kicked a pair of balls?”

Zoe shook her head.

“Three months, a week, and two days,” Tiffany said at once. “I was starting to feel as though if I didn’t get some action soon, even vicariously, I was going to fall off the wagon hard. Then, who knows how many guys would end up getting involuntary sex changes. Didn’t I say at the meeting that I almost relapsed today?”

“I guess, when you put it like that,” Zoe said after a thoughtful pause. Tiffany nodded encouragement.

“You really helped me tonight, Zoe,” she said. “Thanks to you, I think all my male colleagues’ balls are safe. For a week at least.”

Zoe grinned in spite of herself. “I can’t believe I almost ruined your chances of having grandkids,” she said.

Tiffany tossed her head and laughed. “What the hell, I still have a daughter,” she said. “In fact, you ought to meet her. It’s about time she started learning how to put her older brother in his place.”

“Maybe some other time,” Zoe said. “I think your family’s had enough of me for one night. But, umm…”

Tiffany looked at her enquiringly.

“Before I go…” Zoe said. “Would you mind, um…”

At last Tiffany understood. With a broad smile she settled deeper into the couch, and finished the story of the castrated muggers.

___

“Please, just let me go. I can leave, I’ll just go home. You’ll never see me again.”

The mugger’s pleadings almost stirred a hint of sympathy in Tiffany’s heart. He did look pathetic – pants around his ankles, his exposed dick and balls flopping around as he begged for mercy.

Frantically, the mugger tried to wipe the burning mace from his eyes. “I don’t even know these guys,” he whimpered. “I’ve never done this before, it wasn’t my idea…”

As she walked towards him, Tiffany realized the mugger was probably being truthful. Up close, it was clear he was hardly any older than her own son.

“His too bad,” she thought to herself. After he’d learned the hard way not to fuck with strange women in dark alleyways, there was no chance of him ever trying to pull something like this again.

“Please, lady, swear to God…” The mugger was still blubbing.

“Shut up,” Tiffany snapped. She was standing a foot away from him now. “Lie down on the ground.”

“Please…”

Tiffany slapped him across the face. “Do what I tell you, and maybe I’ll let you get out of here with your life,” she told him.

The kid shuddered. To Tiffany’s amazement he lay down on the ground. The sound of his friends’ agonized screams and sudden silence must have convinced him that she really could kill him. Tiffany kicked his legs as wide as they would go, still hobbled as he was by the jeans around his ankles.

“Wha… what are you going to do to me?” the kid stammered.

Tiffany raised her foot above the young man’s crotch. The light from the moon glinted dully on the thick rubber of her bootheel.

“Since you asked,” she said, “I’m going to stomp on your testicles until there’s nothing left down there but goo. It’s going to hurt worse than anything you’ve ever felt in your life, and afterwards you’ll never function as a man again. No woman will ever look at you without laughing.” She paused. “That clear enough?”

The kid sobbed fearfully.

“Look at me,” Tiffany ordered.

Blinking furiously, the kid opened his red-raw eyes. Tiffany waited for him to fully comprehend the spectacle of her shoe, poised high above his unprotected balls.

Then she stomped down.

The kid screamed shrilly as his testicles compressed under Tiffany’s boot. To no avail he tried to remove her foot from his crotch. As she lifted her leg a second time, he covered his balls with his hands. With a grunt of impatience Tiffany bent down and ripped his hands away. Holding his arms at his side, she lay on top of him and began driving her knee over and over again into his crotch. Her large breasts muffled his screams.

Whump.

Before long the sound coming from between the kid’s legs was less of a thud and more of a wet crunch. His screams had subsided to a delirious sobbing. With one final knee – crunch – Tiffany stood up and looked down at her work. The kid was somehow still conscious, barely. With her toe, Tiffany sloshed around the contents of his scrotum. It felt like a half-empty water balloon.

As the reality of what she had done set in, Tiffany’s hand slipped almost of its own accord under the waistband of her pants. Her breathing became heavier.

“Oh… oh, my God… oh, fuck,” she gasped, sinking to her knees, convulsing with pleasure. She didn’t know how long she stayed there. When she regained her senses, the kid was still moaning softly. Unsteadily, Tiffany got to her feet.

“Wow,” she said to herself.

Looking both ways first, she emerged from the alley. The street was quiet and empty. She quickly began walking in the direction of home. Someone, somewhere must have heard the commotion in the alley, and Tiffany wanted to be nowhere near when the police arrived to find three men brutally castrated. This though wasn’t the only reason for her haste.

As she thought back to what she had done to those men, replaying every moment in her head, she could feel herself getting wet again.

___

Zoe felt like a ball of static energy. A strand of hair had come loose over her forehead, which was glazed with sweat. Tiffany patted her on the knee.

“It’s okay, hon,” she told her. “You don’t have to be shy around me.”

For a further second, Zoe was completely still on the couch. Then she thrust her hand down the front of her skirt, rubbing herself desperately. While she masturbated, she murmured softly to herself.

“… his balls were turned to mush… I bet he never fucked in his life… I bet his dick was the size of a cocktail wiener… oh my God… he can never… never… oh, yes, yes, yes…”

Afterwards, she sat hunched over in embarrassment. She had never lost control like that before. Tiffany’s story had been the hottest thing she’d ever heard.

She felt Tiffany’s hand brush against her hair again.

“There’s nothing to be ashamed of,” the older woman said. “I know. I know what it’s like.”

Eventually Zoe looked up.

“You said… back at the meeting, you said that night was your rock bottom.”

Tiffany sighed.

“I never thought any of those guys would tell anyone what I’d done to them. I mean, who would actually go to the police and tell them they lost their testicles to the woman they were trying to mug?”

Zoe nodded.

“Well, it turned out one of those guys would. The one I’d told my name to, as it happened. There was a trial. He’d already been sentenced for the attempted mugging. I guess he figured he had nothing else to lose. Once he got in the witness box, he described every detail of how I ruined his life. There were a few female giggles from the gallery, I remember.”

Tiffany looked melancholy, however.

“The judge – a woman, by the way, thank God – instructed the jury to find me not guilty on the felony assault, but there was no beating the misdemeanour. I did thirty days in jail. My boyfriend left me, and I almost lost my business. Still,” she said, more brightly, “I’m moving on. Getting better.”

Somehow Zoe doubted that was the case. Still, who was she to talk? She had started the evening sincerely wanting to gain control of her ballbusting urges, and had ended it by almost castrating a horny teen then frigging herself stupid at the thought of finishing the job.

She got up from the couch.

“I should go,” she said.

Tiffany walked her to the door. As Zoe stepped out into the night, Tiffany spoke behind her.

“We’ve got to help each other out, hon,” she said. “We’re all in the same boat here.”

Zoe turned back and looked at her wordlessly.

“I guess I’ll see you,” Tiffany said. “At next week’s meeting?”

“Definitely,” said Zoe, at last.

#ballbusting story #castration story

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backofthebookshelf · 5 years

Text

some vintage season two magnus archives theories

(this is 1000% self-indulgence, ignore me)

Dec. 11, 2016 - I will bet you anything that [Jonathan (we always called him Jonathan back then)] had a serious run-in with a supernatural something early in life, and he’s…avoiding becoming the vampire-hunter guy, but only because he’s squeamish.

Dec. 16, 2016 - if grbookworm1818 is not someone at the Institute then nothing means anything / What do we think: Did Gerard kill his mother, or was she turning herself into a book and he just cleaned up the mess?

Dec. 29, 2016 - I kind of wonder if our antiquarian friend has any relationship to the guy in Amsterdam with the coffin. It can’t have been the same person, obviously - if nothing else it’s strongly implied that whatever was in the coffin ate that guy - but for some reason I keep expecting that story to come back, and not just Breekon & Hope.

Jan. 9, 2017 - Can we think of The Archivist as a title with meaning? I know Rusty Quill uses it to refer to Jonathan Sims the character since the writer decided to use his own name. But does it have in universe meaning as well?(@fedorasandstuff)

Jan. 11, 2017 - But the real question is…Are the tunnels under the archives also Michael? [Can't get 'em all right.]

Jan. 12, 2017 - Also of concern: I’ve been assuming for a while that some of the factions in whatever supernatural chess game/cold war is going on were assuming that Jonathan as Archivist was roughly on a par with Gertrude as Archivist (actually, I’m pretty sure that some of them are not totally clear on the difference between one human and another, but it amounts to the same thing), and Jonathan has basically just admitted to Michael that he has no fucking clue what’s going on, and if Gertrude meant to leave him anything, he didn’t get it. (Except possibly some kind of protection on the Archive itself, which may or may not be directly her influence.) And we still don’t know if Michael is part of a faction or what any of the faction’s goals might be, except that Michael thinks that “this place” has an interesting impact on things and it doesn’t want that to stop just yet. Basically Jonathan’s just lost a card he didn’t know he could have played, which is almost definitely not good. [At least we know Jon isn't trying to manipulate anyone, he couldn't if he tried.]

Jan. 12, 2017 - And I’m kind of screaming internally? I have a few more headcanons now, I suppose? But mainly, the lightless flame/closed eye cult, seems to have it out for anyone associated with the seeing eye (and also Gertrude Robinson). Considering that Johann von Württembergs tomb and book collection also had the seeing eye as a symbol, I wonder if the Magnus Institute is somehow connected to the seeing eye as well. I have no idea where I’m going with this, or if there is some connection, but yeah. (@flammenkobold) [There are literally two notes on this post, my like and my reblog]

Jan. 12, 2017 - But my strong suspicion is that most creatures in this universe, and Michael especially, are not one of a type, they’re their own thing. But I do think that we’ve seen more of Michael than is immediately obvious. (More to come as I progress through the re-listen, but abandoned houses are…definitely a thing.)

Jan. 12, 2017 - It would amuse me tremendously if the whole of the Magnus Institute boils down to a grant-generating machine for the Archives.

Jan. 13, 2017 - But Gertrude died literally THE DAY AFTER “Antonio Blake” came in to give his statement about his dream about her death…so who filed that statement? Was someone just cleaning up in preparation for the new Archivist and stuck it in a box? Or was someone else moving files around for some other reason after Gertrude’s death? [This one still hasn't been answered, wahey!]

Jan. 14, 2017 - I don’t think Gertrude was… arrogant enough, if that’s the word I want, to believe she’d live forever… unless there’s more going on with her than I’ve even begun to suspect. But she may have had a beginning Archivist box ready. (@fedorasandstuff)

Jan. 15, 2017 - [in response to a question about your favorite one-off character]: Julia Montauk. I love that she’s not in denial but she’s coping pretty well – both about her father being a serial killer and about the supernatural. She’s pretty sure there’s something fucked up going on above and beyond the serial murder, but she’s happy leaving it alone, thank you very much, she just wants to get it out of her head so that she can move on with her life. I hope she’s still doing well.

Jan. 16, 2017 - [notes on re-listening] I’m torn on whether the apparition Lensik sees in the house causes burning because Raymond Fielding died in a fire, or because it’s somehow connected to the what I’m referring to as the Fire Nation faction (see also: First Aid, Burnt Offering). / Honestly, Trevor is so damn cool that I’m willing to bet he never crops up again. / Is Jonathan being watched by the Beholders? (I’m becoming more convinced that the closed eye/open eye isn’t two different factions but two levels of the same faction: the bronze versus silver pendant would seem to support that.) / “I believe every word. I’ve seen what Leitner’s work can do.” Which, all things considered, is pretty strong stuff coming from Jonathan Sims. I wonder if it was a run-in with a Leitner that got him working for the Institute in the first place?

Jan. 17, 2017 - I was just thinking about the last episode and making myself sad because John was ready to physically fight Michael over Helen doesn’t even KNOW Michael took Sasha (@regulusly) #shit is gonna go DOWN when he finds out

Jan. 18, 2017 - You know, I’m starting to think that I really like Gerard Keay.

Feb. 3, 2017 - Is Jonathan’s sarcasm his only defense against the creeping influence of The Archivist in his life?

Feb. 9, 2017 - new theory: everyone working at the Institute is a pod person. They hire potheads and dropouts and people with weird academic backgrounds and as soon as they get close to anything real they get replaced by beings from an alternate dimension, just like Not!Sasha. They missed Tim because he was out on medical leave after the attack; it’s just a matter of time now. Martin’s secret is that he’s been working there since 2002 and kind of knows everything and is not yet a pod person.

Feb. 15, 2017 - Although what do they both expect? To find a tape where Gertrude says “No! Elias, you Fiend! You’ll never get away with it!” (@fedorasandstuff)

Mar. 1, 2017 - The new episode has me thinking again about the Observer - the presence in the Archives that Jonathan thinks has an opinion about what his opinion about statements is, also probably connected to the panopticon prison, the nurse who felt the thing watching her when Gerard Kaey was in the hospital, the open eye and/or the closed eye motif that keeps recurring, and whatever it was that caused Gertrude to cut the eyes out of pictures of people on her books. Specifically, it has me thinking about the observer effect - that sometimes things change when they’re seen. This is a major horror trope, although it’s not usually called out so directly: monsters that move only when you’re not looking at them, things that lose their power when they’re seen and named directly, things that can exist only in the darkness. (There’s a nice resonance with the Montorks for you.) Is there something Gertrude was doing that she didn’t want the Observer to know about, or that could only be done unseen? What is the Observer - is it a direct relic of the panopticon (it would make sense as a genius loci kind of like Michael) or was the panopticon built in response to it, or to summon it? Whose purposes does the Observer serve - is it allied with the Institute on the whole, or with any particular faction? Or is it like Michael in that it has its own purposes that everyone else has relatively little to do with? (That seems unlikely to me at this point; I think the Observer is one of the core story points of this season.) Is it watching for a reason, or does it watch simply so that things are seen and known? #the magnus archives #yep it's meta time #i'm becoming attached to the idea that the observer is there for the protection of the archivist #somehow

May 17, 2017 - As to the Archives and the structures it imposes…I’m starting to wonder if it isn’t just that the Archives won’t let them go, but if there is a specific set of roles that it needs filled. We know Gertrude didn’t have assistants, and I’m starting to suspect that that was intentional on her part. But what if the Archives doesn’t just latch onto people and refuse to let go of them? What if it needs there to be a skeptic, and a caretaker, and the paranoid one, and - is not!Sasha part of the Archives’ structure, or is she a disruption of it? I feel like finding out more about where not!Sasha comes from and what her goals might be will be a key turning point in our understanding of this whole mess.

June 15, 2017 - Theory for the finale: Jonathan goes down into the tunnels, gets himself in hopelessly over his head, Tim and Martin come to the rescue, not!Sasha is revealed

June 28, 2017 - I’m starting to wonder if the real division in the supernatural ecosystem isn’t between things that use humans as vehicles and things that don’t? [Hey, uh, are there Powers that don't have human Avatars? This might still be a thing.]

June 29, 2017 - I do like the idea that there are people who basically cannot be fucked with, but then - why go to the Archives? She isn’t interested in a followup, she isn’t trying to process anything, she’s just sharing data. That screams pod person to me: something is trying to get Jonathan’s attention.

#the magnus archives #i'm not that good at theories #this show is just this good at foreshadowing #not posted: a number of confused theories about the tunnels under the archives being connected to michael #i was really invested in that one for a while

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hopevalley · 5 years

Text

Hi everyone! I hope you’re ready for another Tumblr Special™.

Let’s talk about some stuff that’s been on my mind lately.

I’ve been working on my pet project, When Calls the Heart: Reimagined, and my bud @trash-god has assured me that the current first draft isn’t complete garbage, but the discussion we had eventually led to talking about Mark Humphrey and then character-related stuff and as usual I couldn’t shut up.

Before that, I just wanted to drop the update about Reimagined. I don’t know if that’ll be its actual title or not. It’s hard to title a novelization. On one hand you have the option to title it the same as the show, but it’s not the show, so then you’re kind of stuck feeling like you have to come up with something at least slightly different, but it’s still also technically fanfic, and—

Yeah. There’s also the potential for something like this to really blow up in a big way, at least word-wise, so that makes a title even more important. I’ll definitely be out there barking my wares like a peddler on the street, but like...here on Tumblr and especially on Instagram where there are a ton of fans. Twitter too, probably. Considering I have to type this five billion times across social media to try and garner some attention (and hopefully feedback) for it, I’d rather not be embarrassed by the title, or turn people away from it because they think it’s a regular fanfic and not a novelization of the show.

Which leaves me with very few options.

When Calls the Heart: The Novelization

When Calls the Heart: Reimagined

Some other title with a subtitle of “A When Calls the Heart Novelization”

It sounds simple but it’s not. “The Novelization” makes it sound like it’s following the show super precisely. “Reimagined” makes it sound as if it deviates in a big way. Something else could just be too much to type but at least it implies it’s an interpretation. What if this ends up getting absolutely huge and needs to be split up into parts, though? That makes it more difficult.

I’m getting ahead of myself. I’ve made it about five minutes into the first episode, time-wise, and have four thousand some odd words. It’s not even a complete chapter—more like an introduction and the beginning of the first chapter.

But something I noticed in those first five minutes of the television series is that...everything is so incredibly rushed. The pacing is awful. I think I might have talked about this a bit in my ‘episode write-up’ of the first episode, but even though it works well enough for this series (especially considering its S1 budget and everything) it would all be terrible for a narrative choice.

I mean, sure, the first chapter could start with Elizabeth on her journey thinkin’ ‘bout where she’s going, ruminating on her own hubris, and then BANDITS. Cut out and back in to her arriving in town without much of an explanation or showing how she personally handled the whole bandit thing. Then have Abigail, Cat, and Florence steamroll the heck out of her while the narrative laughs at rich, silly Elizabeth who isn’t afraid of hard work but is scared of a mouse.

But that isn’t what I want. Elizabeth as a character, especially the introductory character we’re going to get to know and love over the course of hundreds of thousands of words (in theory, of course), deserves better than that. The narrative cluster from the TV show served its purpose; it flung us right into the thick of things. Which is fine for TV and less fine for what would essentially be a book.

Again, don’t get me wrong, but I want Elizabeth to be the kind of character we don’t know everything about right away. I don’t want to spill every detail of her life right from the get-go. I don’t want her to come off as too obviously rich, especially in her own narrative. I want her observations and mannerisms and attitude to reflect the fact that she comes from money without stating it outright.

I also feel that Elizabeth as a character lacked a lot of attention in the show that, again, worked okay for a tv show, but would be doing her a disservice in a novel. She needs hobbies, passions, random relateable thoughts, habits, joys (especially the quiet kind), and motivation. Not to be That Person, but she needs a personality. As the main character it would just be completely unforgivable to have hundreds of thousands of words dedicated to a character that is dull to read about. Remember, books don’t give us the visually appealing scenes that the TV show does. Elizabeth’s smile, her hair, her fun outfits and hats... Those things can’t distract a reader from the fact that she isn’t a very well-fleshed out or understood character.

It also can’t distract from an insanely rushed narrative.

Tons of people watch WCtH for Erin’s performance of Elizabeth. They won’t be reading this novelization for that reason, because Elizabeth is not Erin.

(Though of course you can imagine her in the role if you want to and most readers will; it’s just not the kind of thing that can carry a book the way it can a piece of visual media.)

Reimagined is, as of right now, just a slight deviation from what we’re used to. Elizabeth has hobbies, interests. She is a passionate teacher who took the position in Coal Valley for Reasons You’ll Read About.

I really liked aspects of the Elizabeth portrayed in the film by Poppy and in the novel by Janette Oke, and some of those tiny things can and will work their way into this version of the story, too. I’m on board with Elizabeth being a writer, but I’m not on board for that being used as journal exposé writing for Narrative Ease and not to really go all-out in showcasing it as something she’s truly and honestly passionate about. If I want to see a movie that did a great job of showcasing a passionate writer, it’s Anne of Green Gables/Anne of Avonlea. Sure, Anne’s flair for flowery writing and drama was embedded into the voiceover bits and had some narrative function, but it was SO clearly a part of WHO SHE WAS that when you thought about who Anne was, you thought, oh, she’s a teacher for her job but she’s a writer at heart—especially when she learns to write from the heart (instead of what she thinks will make her successful).

I don’t expect Elizabeth to be that type of character (she’s far too sensible), but I need her to have a passion. A person doesn’t just take a teaching post in Nowhere Valley, Canada, in 1910 and not have a good reason for it. What drives her? What motivates her? What makes her happy?

And when it comes to writing...what is it about writing that she likes? Enjoys? What’s the best part of it? The worst? I wanted to like Elizabeth’s writing arc because duh, I’m a writer, but it didn’t spark any joy in me because it was just too flat. If you give me half a chance I’ll tell you all the best parts of writing, and the worst, and the most frustrating, and the most rewarding. I’ll talk about character growth and development. I’ll talk about cadence. I’ll talk about self-indulgence.

Elizabeth’s passion for writing existed for one reason: “she writes in her journal for easy skips in the narrative.”

I think she’ll keep her writing passion in Reimagined, but she’ll have other things that matter to her, too, and hopefully if it’s consistently presented it won’t feel like it’s there just to carry a plotline (only for it to disappear afterward).

It’s been fun so far! Elizabeth has been surprisingly nice to write. I won’t lie, though; it’s hard to follow the show enough to make things feel like a novelization while still deviating where it makes sense to. One small example is the conversation that Cat, Abigail, and Florence have with Elizabeth when she gets to town; the TV show didn’t do a bad job with it at all, but when it’s written out exactly the same it feels intensely rushed and out of character/unrealistic. Again, it’s something that got the job done in the TV show, but is nigh unreadable in novel format.

And it’s not the info dumping, either. It’s just the way the characters go about things; it’s not hospitable, it’s not kind, it’s not thoughtful... and we know from later episodes that Abigail is the pinnacle of hospitality and kindness, and Cat isn’t too far behind her! Even Florence isn’t a monster.

So there has been an attempt on my part to twist things slightly, where mayyybe what Florence says that sounds so rude is really just Florence Being Florence (and observing a truth/reality, not always being awful), and where Elizabeth isn’t mocked on top of being doubted, and of course where some concern is shown for her well-being after her stagecoach was robbed and no doubt didn’t show up in town IN THE FIRST PLACE. I mean, how could they NOT know why Elizabeth was late? Being late by a few days or a week was NOTHING back then. It happened ALL THE TIME. (Thanks, weather!)

So yeah! The project is going. I was really getting into writing it last night, and I’d be working on it now, but I’m just too tired to feel useful.

For those wondering about Abigail...she’ll be there. I like the original character and I’ll try to move forward with that person in mind.

But back to the whole thing with Mark and et cetera. It’s really interesting how many WCtH characters got the short end of the stick when it came to character development. They have too many characters for the amount of episodes they get a season, which resulted in like...everyone dating for absurdly long periods of time (that had nothing to do with character-reasons until they felt they had to add that stuff in there to force it to make sense). It wasn’t just Jesse and Clara, either. Obviously Elizabeth and Jack took way too long to get together...and Abigail and Frank dated for literal years and should have had something related to that being..a plot for them. I think it might have been interesting in ways Jesse/Clara can’t be, just because Abigail had a long marriage with Noah and she’s much older than Clara, so she brings all that into a new relationship. Clara’s got different issues and sadnesses to work through.

Obviously it didn’t just result in characters dating for insane lengths of time; it also gave us a lot of just..nothing. This conversation started with Frank, because we were talking about Mark Humphrey, but he’s just one example of a handful. The series focused a LOT more on plot driven stuff than character driven stuff, which makes sense, but look at Frank’s character. He got an arc, and then when it was over, he just kind of became a very backseat background character. We might as well have named him Abigail’s Boyfriend at that point, because he hardly did anything that wasn’t related to Abigail DIRECTLY. He didn’t even really get scenes with Cody, which...c’mon. We deserved those. (The best we got was the Christmas movie where the peddler has his old Bible from prison but that whole thing was...not nearly as good or meaningful as it could have been, and of course IT DIDN’T GO ANYWHERE.)

But then it also happened to Lee, and Jesse, and Clara, and Carson and Faith and—yeah, you get it. I feel like if we had 20 episodes a season this wouldn’t be so bad (each recognizable character could easily get a two part episode plotline), but it’s a symptom of plots > character storytelling. More episodes won’t fix that if they just dump in even more bad plots.

S6 was a large improvement in many areas but they REALLY dropped the ball with Bill overall (easily one of the worst parts of S6 just because he went from being such an involved character to kind of a joke/rag doll that nobody knows how to include in a sensible way) and the children aren’t characters so much as tiny plot devices...that frankly aren’t even particularly interesting.

I’m really looking forward to seeing what they’ll do with S7. I hope it’ll be good! I really want them to get their footing onto solid ground and do the best they’ve ever done. They have something really wonderful and I want to be able to tell people “this series found its way and is worth checking out even if it’s usually not your speed.”

But it’s hard to do that when the characters always end up feeling secondary to the (poorly constructed, not very engaging) plots.

So we’ll see! These are things I can improve upon in Reimagined, but I’d really like the show to do some of that work, too. (Better late than never, right?)

#wcth reimagined #and other shenanigans

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weshallallbehealed · 5 years

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things in brain

inspired by jessie and i’s conversation about wanting livejournal back imnjust gonna pretend this is livejournal

every day of hospital work feels like jiu jitsu for boundaries and interpersonal communication work. i feel deeply invigorated by it but that also means i’m exhausted not just from the intense physical work but by the emotional labor. some patients are endless pits of need, pathologically incapable of getting enough attention, and one of many battles is figuring out when to call upon greater empathy and compassion & when to employ boundaries and self-preservation. this is the same battle as my codependent relationships, which probably means i’m in the right line of work to figure out how to best take care of myself and others. that being said, i’ve come so far in like the last six months. i need to give myself credit for the work i’ve done to set boundaries and put myself first while still being a profoundly emotional person who still aims to generously and authentically connect with others. i remember only a couple months ago agonizing over whether wanting to sleep in meant i’m tired and my body needs rest or am i indulging in depression and avoidant behavior and i need to get the f up rn. wondering whether wanting to talk to someone was codependent neediness or the proper way to combat isolation. whether canceling plans was selfish or listening to my body. i don’t know why but i feel more freedom around those things today. i don’t stress about those types of questions as much and most of the guilt has abated, miraculously. i also remember starting out as a CNA two years ago and feeling frustration, anger, and helplessness at a volume i no longer hit now. i remember feeling horror and sadness so loudly. i hadn’t yet discovered the way i relate to codependency and the cognitive tools i can use to relieve myself of it. maybe i’m just accommodated to the work now, or i’ve addressed the root causes of these emotions. i smile almost all the time at work and it works like a literal charm. because no matter what’s happening i can only do what i can do. it’s something i learned in restaurants that’s been more challenging in the hospital: at some point in restaurant work for when it’s absolutely insane i began to say to myself: “it’s dinner service, no one is going to die.” a reality check. smile and bring the shrimp cocktail for table 6 then do the next task. hospital work i can’t really use that mantra. people DO die, and when they do i am the one to wash their bodies and zip them into a bag. but still i just do what i have to do and then i do the next thing i have to do. i trick myself and others into enjoying the strange cuckoo land of the hospital. boundaries and self care are daily questions to answer on my days off, but it’s moment to moment stuff at the hospital.

i am proud of myself for doing what i’m doing. i give myself approval. i am too hard on myself and many of the people i know are too. i feel fixated on my body right now, but that’s not going to keep me from enjoying summer days. i will say whatever i need to say to myself to do whatever i need to do. and i will enjoy my one life since idk when the hell im gonna die it might be later today.

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mst3kproject · 6 years

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Kronos

This movie has lots to offer, including but not limited to Jeff Morrow from This Island Earth, John Emery from Rocketship XM, Morris Ankrum from Beginning of the End, and a stupid cartoon robot. These star in a movie with a complex plot and a lot to say, and nothing like the talent required to say it. There’s also George O’Hanlon, who was best-known as the voice of George Jetson, although you don’t really notice it in the character he plays here.

After the opening credits play over Ominous Fifties March Music that I’m sure I’ve heard in some other movie before, we begin with some guy getting zapped by a flying saucer at the side of the road. Rather than being abducted and probed, however, he is instead taken over by alien control and drives to a government lab, where he passes the alien influence on to director Dr. Eliot and then immediately drops dead.

Not far away, a couple of nerds named Les and Arnie are playing with their building-spanning supercomputer SUSIE (Synchro Unifying Sinometric Integrating Equitensor – and why, no, that doesn’t make sense) when they notice what they think is an asteroid on its way to collide with the Earth! The government launches some stock-footage nukes to destroy it, but they only make it mad. It lands in the ocean off the coast of Mexico, and Les and Arnie, with Les’ girlfriend Vera, rush to investigate. There they find a giant robot stomping out of the sea, devouring energy and growing bigger and bigger!

There’s all sorts of riffable stuff in Kronos. The first actual shot in the movie after the credits is a blinking cartoon flying saucer zipping across a starfield, to the accompaniment of theremin music. There’s the fact that none of the scientists seem to notice that their ‘asteroid’ is oddly UFO-shaped and has blinking lights on it. The Mexican couple the scientists are staying with on the beach don’t seem to speak any English and I find myself imagining that they have no idea who these white guys are or why they’re in their house. The actors in the helicopter that is definitely flying in the air and not sitting on a soundstage somewhere.

And the robot. Dear lord, the robot. It looks like a five-year-old’s destroy-bot built out of old-fashioned wooden blocks. There’s an inaccurate drawing in a newspaper that’s much more impressive than the robot itself… I think it was probably concept art that never quite made it to the screen. It walks by raising two legs at a time straight up and then putting them straight down again, which looks astoundingly stupid even as a cartoon and makes an amusing squeaky-dog-toy sound.

At the same time, a couple of the things they do with the robot are kind of neat. I do like that it’s not humanoid. If you really squint you can see it as having a head and a body, but even if that’s the case the form has been stripped down to the barest, most symbolic essentials. It makes the thing seem more alien, and I like the way it pulls its ‘head’ and ‘legs’ in like a turtle to brace for attack. There’s also some shots, when the characters are supposedly flying around it in a helicopter, that actually do make it look huge – but it still looks small, as if it’s a tiny toy blown up to building size, like something out of Ant-Man or Honey I Shrunk the Kids. Since it’s a device that transforms energy into its own mass, maybe it was originally very small.

There are several things that go on at once in Kronos. Most of the time we’re watching Les, Arnie, and Vera in Mexico, wandering around watching with somber expressions as the robot destroys stuff. Every so often, though, we cut back to Dr. Eliot, who is in a hospital with the alien influence still controlling him. Episodes of electroshock therapy intermittently bring him back to himself, allowing him to try to warn the world, but soon the alien takes over again. As well as controlling Dr. Eliot, it is controlling Kronos, directing it to power plants and nuclear stockpiles. During a moment of lucidity, Eliot explains to Les that the robot was built by a civilization that is almost out of power, and has therefore sent these things across the cosmos to collect more.

Now, to an astrophysicist this really wouldn’t make sense – the most powerful objects in the universe are things like black holes. Harness even a small one of those, and you’d never need to worry about running out of energy again. But this movie isn’t about practicalities, it’s about energy use. The beings who created Kronos are suffering from an energy crisis that may lead to their own extinction, and Dr. Eliot warns Les that humanity may someday end up the same way.

The movie isn’t subtle about this moral: it’s spoken blatantly by the character best placed to understand it. It would have been nice to see the movie go into it a little more, discussing some of the ways in which our own civilization wastes energy. Instead, the characters spent much of their time roughing it in a shack on the beach in Mexico. Another way to make the point would be to give the possessed Dr. Eliot a fixation on conserving energy, or conversely, by consuming it, for example by having all the lights on even when he’s sleeping. This is not done, either.

Slightly more gentle is the point about what humans do with the energy we produce: we destroy stuff, primarily by building atom bombs. In the world of the movie, this has two undesirable side effects. First of all, it makes us easy prey for Kronos: the possessed Dr. Eliot recommends to the government that they nuke the robot, but it just turns that energy back into mass and heads north for the nuclear stockpile at Hueneme. Second, it means that we may also destroy ourselves by too much energy instead of by too little.

This point is rather undercut by the ending, in which the scientists manage to ‘reverse the polarity’ in the robot so that all the mass it has built up turns back into energy… right in the middle of Los Angeles. By now Kronos has devoured half the power plants in Mexico and a literal nuclear explosion, so shouldn’t that have burned California to a crisp? Maybe they only had one stock footage nuclear explosion and didn’t want to use it twice.

The vital clue to defeating Kronos comes from Dr. Eliot, temporarily de-possessed by an electric shock. I spent most of this movie honestly confused what the nameless alien needs with Dr. Eliot. It gets a list of power plants from him, but since it evidently found out who and where he was without needing any Earthlings to tell it, I’m not sure why that was essential. It also gets him to recommend nuking Kronos, but somebody would have done that sooner or later, too. Nor am I sure why electrocution puts it to sleep and lets Dr. Eliot reassert control for a while. If this is a creature that feeds on electrical energy, as Eliot himself says, shouldn’t zapping it make it stronger?

The scene in which the alien leaves Dr. Eliot’s body is also rather strange. He falls on the floor, and a liquid seems to run out of his head to the wall where the computer is installed, where it sparks and sizzles. Does this mean the alien is dead? But we close on one of those ominous moments where the characters are worrying that more robots may come. So did it just return to the flying saucer? What happened to that flying saucer anyway? Is it still on the seafloor? Still in space? Did it transform into Kronos?

The alien in Dr. Eliot is never really justified, and is therefore a transparent plot device. Two more things that are transparently unnecessary are Arnie and Vera. The former is comic relief who talks about how his computer is his girlfriend, and the latter is a love interest who’s there to sigh whenever Les chooses work over spending time with her. Neither of them really do anything but orbit around Les. He needs people to interact with, obviously, but the script doesn’t allow either of them to contribute anything. This is meant to establish that Les is a genius, but it makes it seem like he lets these people hang around out of mere indulgence. Even the giant computer, while it does a few bits of calculating, doesn’t have nearly a big enough role to justify giving it a name.

I get the impression that the people who made Kronos had some big ideas but rushed them into production without working them through. Much more could have been done with the themes of energy and consumption, and the characters could have been treated far better. The robot doesn’t appear until the movie is half-over, which leaves the early scenes feeling dull and bloated. Even so, it seems like everybody’s hearts were in it. Fifties sci-fi movies come a lot worse than Kronos, and it would have made for a classic episode of MST3K.

I should warn you, if you want to watch this movie (and there is a version on YouTube), Dr. Eliot and his psychiatrist do discuss the idea of suicide. This made me expect Dr. Eliot to try to kill himself in a lucid moment in order to get rid of the alien, but that never happens, so the topic was entirely gratuitous.

#mst3k #reviews #kronos #episodes that never were #tw: suicide #50s

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begoniaguts · 3 years

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and yet again...

things have changed.

as they always do!

things are good tho. for the first time in quite a while i feel very stable in every aspect of my life.

Luke and I broke up in June. I sold my grandmas house by myself in September. Kepler and I now rent a room with my friend Clara and 2 other roomates in Oxnard Shores right by the beach. Literally the end of my street is the ocean. I never thought i would live at the beach but now that i do i dont ever want to leave. I am paying rent for the first time in my life. I have a decent amount of saving and no debt and a 800+ credit score and im able to feed myself and my dog and buy things i probably dont need and still feel comfortable paying my bills. My room is decorated really nicely and i feel like a fucking adult. I go promoted at my retail job to Assistant Manager. I take my vitamins and eat fairly healthy most of the time while still allowing myself to indulge without going overboard. I lost at least 20 lbs since my breakup. I dont exercise as much as i used to but i try to at least a few times a week. I walk kepler in the morning on the beach and its very nice.

August and September was probably the 2nd hardest time of my life (aside from my moms illness/death) I thought i was going to have to move back to my dads with my brother who was going through his worst psychotic episode yet. he was hospitalized for over a week all while i was cleaning out and moving an entire house by my fucking self while dealing with my break up. I truly thought i might end my life if i had to move back to my dads in that environment. im not sure i would have gone through with it but i dont know how i could have dealt.

my breakup is still hard and i question if i did the right thing but considering how stable i feel i think i made the right choice. my life isnt as instense as it used to be and sometimes i do miss it. the high highs defi always come with the low lows and currently i feel like how people describe being medicated. I think sometimes i got addicted to that intensity but for now it is nice to just be here, be present. i am not stressed or freaking out. i dont have a real direction i want to go in but thats fine. i am allowing myself to just be right now. especially considering we are nearly a year into the covid pandemic and there isnt a whole lot of progressing one can do. but i HAVE progressed.

it is nice to indulge in buying things as i havent done that for quite some time because i was very poor while caring for my gma, not working a lot, and getting out of debt/saving to move out. i bought myself and ipad. and ive been framing my artwork and putting it on my walls. im very proud of my art and last year i made art every day for the month of january. i would like to do that again and keep going. my end goal with my life is to create art every single day. it is the most important

I have been sober from weed for over 2 years now and i do casually drink but its never an issue.

I also have a boyfriend, a very nice boy i met on Tinder. I didnt exactly want to be in another monogamous relationship again, but i am making the excuse that the pandemic makes non-monogamy inconvenient. I am sure i will suffer the consequnce of this choice later when i decide my life needs more intensity. but for now he is a wonderful person to spend time with and we have truly some of the best sex of my life. he is very beautiful and angro/femme looking, defi the skinniest man ive ever been with and tbh i fucking love it. he has an adorable doggy names pudding. he loves kep. his dick is fucking beautiful.

Luke and i havent spoken since October. it makes me very sad that this person i was so so close with, i dont even talk to anymore. i hope one day we can when things have healed. i still care about him so much but i continued to hurt him with my shitty behavior so it is best that we are not in touch.

Its nice to make an update when im not in some sort of crisis. youre doing great Brooke. Im really proud of you.

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allyinthekeyofx · 7 years

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Small considerations between partners -11 ‘Must be an eggs-file’

Season one - Chocolate drops do not constitute medicine

Season two - You never gave up on me

Season three - Chasing his demons

Season four - Material things

Season five - There’s no place like home

FTF - To the ends of the earth

Season six - Swaying isn’t dancing

Season seven - Playing with fire

Season eight - Imperfect fish

Season nine - Sock monkeys that soothe the soul

Set pre IWTB a couple of years after ‘The truth’ Tagging @today-in-fic

I think it’s safe to say that if Scully hadn’t gotten sick I would in all likelihood have remained innocently oblivious to the deception that she had been perpetuating for the better part of half a year and while in the past we had both been guilty of keeping things from each other, I just can’t bring myself to even feel remotely aggrieved that she has been duping me in a singularly skilful way for all these months and that more to the point, I have fallen headlong for her simple ruse.

We had finally put down roots so to speak after two frightening years of constantly looking over our shoulders, afraid to stay in one place for more than a couple of weeks lest our carefully constructed and maintained anonymity be destroyed and alert the wrong people to our location. And it had been hard – harder than I could ever have dreamed it to be because the novelty of finally being together after so much collective heartache had waned real fast and while we somehow managed to keep going despite the echoes of the past that lurked darkly around us, neither one of us really had either the ability or the inclination to bring up the ghosts that I think at that time, might have literally blown us apart.

Hanging by the merest thread we had managed at least to hold on to each other long enough to allow the continued interest in us to wane and for the manhunt to be pushed to one side, being deemed, as Skinner had informed us during one of our sporadic contacts with him, no longer in the interests of the FBI to actively pursue. So although we were still fugitives in every sense, providing we didn’t draw too much attention to ourselves we were reasonably safe to finally stop; to take a breath, to find somewhere to settle and attempt to find a way to heal ourselves.

The little house in the Virginia countryside had been provided by Skinner but paid for with the money I had accrued from the sale of my Mother’s house in Connecticut and which, with a myriad of misgivings I had managed to disregard, I had once handed over to him for safekeeping. Mostly to ensure that should Scully ever need to simply disappear with William, wheels could be set in motion that would allow her to start afresh somewhere else. And God help me but when I discovered the sacrifice she had been forced to make, I found myself wishing she had chosen to do just that and had never come looking for me. But Scully is Scully and I should have known better; that she would find a way to somehow keep our son safe and still save my sorry ass just as she has always done. And if that meant sacrificing a huge part of herself in the process…..well, for her that’s just how it had to be.

And if she harboured any resentment against me for failing them both she hid it well; perhaps realising that I resented myself plenty enough for both of us, that I was hanging on by the merest thread and it would take only the slightest push for me to go toppling from the edge of the mental abyss I found myself teetering precariously close to for days and weeks and months after she gave up everything and climbed into that SUV with me to stay with me while we attempted to salvage something from the ashes of our lives.

To finally settle in our ramshackle little house went a long way to allowing us to start the healing process and even more so when Skinner came to us one cool spring evening and informed us that the charges against Scully had been dropped; that providing I kept a low profile and myself out of trouble, there was no reason why she needed to hide anymore. That finally she could emerge from the shadows, resume a career, contact her family – in short, she could become a fully functioning member of society again even if I couldn’t.

And so began the long, exhausting process of her re-certification into medicine and an internship offered after a significant amount of string-pulling by the local priest who Scully had been seeing on a semi regular basis ever since we bought the house, attempting I think to find some meaning in everything she had gone through during her long association with me.

But I missed her presence around the house, far more than I was prepared to admit to her because for the first time in years she seemed happy. Fulfilled in her work in a way I think neither of us had ever even hoped, let alone expected might happen and I was determined that her needs should take priority for once because even if we didn’t vocalise it to any great extent, we both knew that the weight of responsibility for much of what has been taken from her over the years sits squarely atop my shoulders. So I had tried to make amends to her in small ways, moving forwards in increments so as to not make it all too obvious that I was finally able to take care of her in ways I had never had opportunity to before.

I spent that first summer planting flowers for her in the small back yard and fixing up the small henhouse that leant precariously against the side of the old barn, and if Scully had raised one perfectly sculptured eyebrow when I had enthusiastically suggested we should purchase some chickens, she was prepared as always to indulge me in my latest attempt to do something meaningful, realising perhaps that my days stretched long and empty when she was gone.

And so, a few weeks later after I had researched and implemented all the various ways to keep the chickens safe from predators including digging and lining the foundations of the coop with concrete slabs to prevent foxes from digging their way in, we became the proud caretakers of half a dozen prime Sussex layers, individually named by Scully but collectively known by both of us as simply ‘the girls’ when it became clear that aside from a particularly beautiful specimen with a rogue black feather at her breast who we named Matilda, the rest of the girls were pretty hard to tell apart. It’s fair to say though that we became enamoured with them almost immediately, maybe they filled a need within both of us to take care of something wholly dependent on us for their continued survival and within a week they were rewarding us in various ways which included taking corn right from the palms of our hands and allowing us to pick them up and pet them like feathery dogs. Unfortunately their gratitude didn’t actually extend to them producing any eggs for us and while initially I made excuses for them, as days stretched to weeks I was forced to admit defeat.

It actually hit me stupidly hard, much more so that I had expected and while I didn’t know how to vocalise it, the worried frown that creased Scully’s brow every morning when I once again returned empty handed was enough to tell me that I was making a piss poor job of hiding my disappointment from her or the fact that once again, I had failed.

Stupid yes. Understandable? Maybe.

And every day she would smooth out her frown, smiling gently at me and telling me to give it a bit more time as she placed her small hands against my cheeks, standing on her tiptoes to brush her lips against mine as affirmation that she still believed in me even if I didn’t always know how to believe in myself.

Until one morning when I left her in the kitchen preparing breakfast, crossing over to the henhouse to release the girls into the grassy run for their daily sunshine fix before checking for eggs in an act of routine rather than one of hope, a huge grin splitting my face when I saw not one, but two smooth brown eggs in adjacent straw-filled boxes and quite honestly I think I felt happier at that moment than I had for probably the last couple of years.

Carefully, reverently almost I had carried those two precious eggs into the kitchen and produced them from behind my back with all the flourish of a magician pulling the proverbial rabbit out of the hat, feeling something tight and thin within me give just a little at the sight of Scully’s beautiful smile as she gave me that patented ‘I told you so’ look that I knew so well.

And each day after that without fail our egg yield grew until we could realistically expect at least a small clutch of four and if we were extraordinarily lucky and the girls felt particularly generous we might find a full quota of half a dozen.

Suffice to say we ate a lot of eggs that summer.

It never occurred to me to question the absolute uniformity and colour of those eggs or that they were always completely clean and totally devoid of any stray bits of feather or straw, but as a long-time city boy, my experience of eggs had been limited to the scrambled variety that adorned pieces of slightly burned rye toast at the various roadside diners and DC breakfast establishments we had both frequented over the years when we searched for truths that were as elusive as they were damaging.

Egss are eggs are eggs after all.

Or so I thought until today.

Scully had come home early from the hospital, drooping pathetically and shivering like a rain-soaked whippet on a winters day. She had been fighting a cold for the better part of a week, refusing my every effort to persuade her to slow down a little, to rest, to allow herself some respite from the punishing schedule that took her from the house and threw her into the pressured environment for upwards of fourteen hours at a time. Fiercely independent as always she had dismissed my concerns with a wave of her hand and assertions that she was of course just fine.

But even Scully for all her talents can’t fight nature and she had now pushed herself to a point where a simple cold had morphed into a nasty case of bronchitis that, she had been warned by the physician at the hospital who had quickly provided a chair for her to collapse onto when she began to sway on her feet after a particularly vicious coughing fit, was just one small step from turning into full blown pneumonia. Ordering her home to rest, sternly reminding her she was not just risking her own health but that of every patient in the hospital and arranged for someone to cover the remainder of her shift, he effectively rendered her all out of excuses as to why she should stay for the duration.

I had taken one look at her fever flushed face and ignoring her protests to the contrary had picked her up and carried her slight weight up the stairs to our bedroom where I had removed her shoes and laid her gently down on the bed, covering her with the warm down comforter we had only recently bought to replace the one that Skinner had provided when he hurriedly furnished the house with the essentials so as to be ready for our covert arrival many months ago. She had reached out for me then, eyes already half closed as exhausted sleep began to claim her and I had curled myself against her, feeling her relax into the warmth of my chest, her breathing evening out as much as I could hope for given the circumstances.

I had woken her just once to help her change into more comfortable sleeping attire - which in Scully’s case meant well-worn soft flannel of the pyjama variety - to ensure she took her meds and drank something, before kissing her temple gently as she burrowed back beneath the covers and fell back into sleep, staying until I deemed it a safe bet that she wouldn’t awaken anytime soon and then left her in order to go retrieve her medical bag from the trunk of the car, knowing she didn’t like to leave it for any length of time given the amount of drugs it contained.

Sure enough when I popped the trunk, there it was in its usual spot. Right beside a small stack of egg boxes, mostly empty aside from one which, out of the original dozen smooth brown eggs it once contained, now housed only four. Four smooth unblemished brown eggs. Four eggs that matched exactly the five I had gathered just this morning from the henhouse and placed carefully in the small wicker basket we kept on the kitchen countertop and which we had bought specially.

And suddenly it all fell into place.

The eggs we had been enjoying each day, that I had proudly collected and brought to Scully had not been provided by the six lazy Sussex girls that lived a life of luxury in our backyard, but by Scully herself as a way to give me a little of the self respect we both knew I had lost somewhere along the way, to allow me a small victory in amongst my many perceived failures; feeling my throat tighten and my face grow hot as tears filmed my eyes to blur the evidence of her continued love for me and even as I closed the trunk slowly I decided I will never admit to her that I know about the sweet duplicity she has engaged in all these months.

That the daily appearance of these shop-bought eggs will remain Scully’s secret.

A mystery that I will file under X.

Or eggs.

An eggs file.

And I start to laugh.

End

#small considerations #must be an eggs file #my fic #series #fluff #this one is pretty much feathery fluff

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illumynare · 7 years

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Red vs Blue Fic: Lay Your Weary Head to Rest

Summary: Wash knows all about second chances, and how easy they are to lose. After Sidewinder, he knows only one thing for sure: he can't be crazy.

And that means he can't sleep.

Parings: None. Warnings: Canon-typical language, mentions of self-harm, excruciatingly self-indulgent hurt/comfort.

Notes: Also available on AO3!

This was inspired by a conversation with @zalia and @whimsical-writer, and some of their lovely ideas. Also, Aki suggested the photos. Thanks, guys. ♥

Wash knows all about second chances.

That moment when the world opens up, turns over, and everything changes. That dizzying gasp of hope, like fingers loosing from your throat, ecstasy mixed with the sickening knowledge that you can't fuck this up, because you're a soldier now, you're a Freelancer now, you're—

Blue Team leader now.

Wash has never escaped anything except by the skin of his teeth. He was three weeks at boot camp when his homeworld got glassed. He was a breath away from a firing squad when Freelancer recruited him.

He was one suit of armor and a chorus of bad lies away from going back to prison.

Those first two fresh starts were so easily lost. Wash knows his place on Blue Team is just as fragile.

I'm done, he told Sarge, and let himself collapse into the snow of Sidewinder. And he'd really thought he was done. That he was ready to lie down and stop. But then Tucker and Caboose hauled him up, put him in the armor of their friend he'd done his best to destroy, and as soon as Wash took his first breaths through the new helmet, he was shaking with desperation to keep ahold of his final second chance.

But he still doesn't know how.

He knew what it meant to be a good soldier. He knew (too well) what it meant to be a good Freelancer. He's used to rules and structure, harsh expectations and demerits. To being told exactly how close he is to fucking up beyond repair.

He doesn't have the faintest idea how to be a good Blue Team leader.

The first few days, Wash feels like he's in free-fall. He gets them a jeep, he leads them away from Sidewinder, he gets them to the nearest Simulation Trooper base. (The Reds, no surprise, are next door immediately.) And he knows that's right, it has to be—

But then he's sitting at the kitchen table while Tucker works the coffee machine and Caboose eats peanut butter with a spoon.

"So, fearless leader, you got any more orders?" Tucker asks, sounding faintly resentful, and Wash's mouth goes dry, because he just. Doesn't. Know.

"What's standard mission protocol?" he asks.

"The fuck?"

"You have a mission." Wash's head is aching—he's hardly slept since Sidewinder—he hardly slept before Sidewinder—but he can sleep later. Once he knows what to do. Determinedly, he goes on, "Capture the Red Flag. That's your mission. You have a standard protocol, right?"

"Wellll . . . " Caboose draws out the word. "We used to have a protocol, but then it got wet, so we don't use it very much anymore."

Tucker shrugs. "Mostly, we just stand around and bitch. Or bang Sister, but she's not around anymore."

"Wait, what?" Wash stares at him. He can think of five different ways to interpret that sentence, and he's still trying to think of literally anything else it could mean.

"Oh yeah!" says Tucker, and grins. "Also, Blue Team leader has to change Caboose's underwear every day. It's a rule."

"I don't like that rule," Caboose mutters.

"Yeah, when Caboose and I went on that quest to fulfill the prophecy together, I had to take over for Church, and let me tell you, that was worse than getting knocked up and going into labor."

Wash lays his head down on the table.

He ends up leading them on a raid of Red Base, and it goes okay, they capture the flag, he knows that's the goal for Sim Troopers, it has to be okay.

"Man, Church was never this much of a hardass," Tucker complains as they march back into Blue Base.

"We just won, Private Tucker," Wash reminds him, and then his heart pounds for the next ten minutes because it doesn't matter that he's the leader, if Tucker decides he's had enough—

Wash breathes slowly, in and out, and slowly rolls his fingers into fists, one-two-three-four-five, before releasing them.

There's one thing Wash knows for sure: he can't be crazy.

There's no Article 12 on Blue Team. They don't have any hospitals where they can stash a broken soldier until he screams out his nightmares and learns how to stop clawing open his own skin. If they don't want him anymore, they'll call the UNSC. (Maybe they're calling them now.)

Wash has to get this right the first time.

He thinks he can do it. He's been convincing people he was sane for years. Even when he was in prison, and it felt like the walls were continually crawling towards him, he still held it together.

But something seems to have broken in him with they fought the Meta. When he said, I'm done, and threw away everything to help this stupid, senseless team. Wash goes to sleep that first night in Blue Base, and he dreams that his blood is turning into cold wires and circuits beneath his skin, and he's locked up somewhere small and dark as the memories rattle around in his head, you killed them you killed them, faster and faster, it's your fault your fault, and his teeth buzz and he can't breathe AllisonAllisonAllison—

make(){ it.STOP(); }

Wash wakes up, and barely manages to stumble into the bathroom before he vomits.

When he's done, he leans his elbows on the toilet seat and shakes. He wants to peel open the skin of his arms and check for wires. The bile burns in his throat and his nose like ones and zeroes.

But he can't go crazy again. He can't.

The day after, he twitches at every noise. Caboose appears silently behind him, and Wash has a knife to his throat before he can even think. A moment after, he's stumbling back, putting his knife away, thinking, how could you how could you how could you = alert() { error; error; error; }

The next night, he tries to sleep. He dreams that he's made of numbers and wires, and he wakes up screaming and trying to claw at his arms through his kevlar undersuit.

He decides: he can't sleep again.

He can't.

It makes perfect sense.

There are stim pills stored in his suit, but for now, coffee is enough. Coffee and knowing what will happen if he fucks up again. Wash can't go back to prison, he can't let me out let me out let me out—

Caboose gets ahold of the coffee maker and jams coffee grounds into every crevice. Tucker whines for twenty minutes, but Wash finds himself secretly grateful. It's kind of soothing, taking the machine apart and cleaning each piece.

If only he could be taken apart, cleaned, reformed—

He thinks again about peeling up his skin to check for wires again, and swallows. That's crazy. He's not allowed to do that. Normal people don't need to do that.

When he finishes cleaning the coffeemaker, he takes it apart and washes it two more times, just to be sure. Just to enjoy that feeling of gritty, ruined pieces becoming whole again.

Tucker doesn't like Wash.

Like, at all.

They drag the fucker back from Sidewinder because Caboose wants him, and Tucker… well, he's feeling guilty that he didn't stop either version of Church from destroying himself up on a pointless crusade. Letting Caboose adopt a Freelancer seems like the least he can do.

It also seems like a terrible idea.

Agent Washington is pale and twitchy and only gets worse on further acquaintance. He has an empty, mindless stare, and absolutely no sense of humor, and a way of saying. "I'm fine, Private Tucker," that makes Tucker want to punch him in the face.

He also doesn't sleep.

It takes Tucker a while to work that out, once they find a new base and settle down. Tucker has other things to think about, like sending a properly encoded message to Junior. He isn't ever letting a C.O. and his baggage get between him and his son again.

But at a certain point, Tucker notices: Wash doesn't sleep.

Like, ever.

It's kind of creepy, and also kind of dumb. Church didn't sleep, but that's because he was a ghost. AI. Whatever.

Wash doesn't sleep because he's a . . . crazy Freelancer?

"Dude, if you don't sleep, you'll go crazy," he says, and Wash fixes him with a hollow stare.

"I'm totally, completely sane," he says, like it's something he's said a hundred times before. Maybe it is. If Tucker went around acting that weird, he'd probably have to tell people he was sane all the time as well.

Wash helps them capture the Red Team flag four days in a row, and that's nice, but it doesn't change the fact that this fucker killed Donut and Church, and Tucker isn't ready to forgive that ever, ever.

But he also isn't ready when Wash falls asleep on him.

It happens near the end of the first week. Wash has been . . . honestly, the craziest Tucker has ever seen him, starting at nothing and staring at the corners of the room and scratching at his arms in a way that sets Tucker's teeth on edge.

When Tucker's sitting on the rec room couch and Wash asks him, "What are you looking at?" Tucker rolls his eyes and says, "Stolen ONI secrets beamed to me by the Insurrection, duh."

And Wash flinches, the way he does when something reminds him of Project Freelancer. (Tucker hates that he's already nearly fluent in Agent Washington flinches. He hates it just as much as he hated being fluent in the different ways Church would screech or sigh or mutter I'm going to kill myself, I'm going to kill myself, and FUCK YOU, CHURCH—)

"I'm looking at pictures of Junior, geez." Tucker tilts up the tablet so Wash can catch a glimpse. "You can come check it out if you want."

To his surprise, Wash does. He sits down beside Tucker and leans over his shoulder and says, in a baffled voice, "He looks like a normal Elite."

"Hey, Junior's better than normal," Tucker says indignantly. "Top of his class, and he made the basketball team." He swipes the screen to another picture. "Aw, yeah, here he is at his third grade graduation."

It's not that Tucker wants to share anything with Wash, it's just that he understands what it means for Junior to attend a private academy for the kids of UNSC officers (unlike Caboose) and he doesn't mutter kill it with fire (unlike Church). So Tucker shows him the pictures from Junior's school play—his son got cast as Romeo, fuck yeah of course he did—and then, since Wash isn't trying to escape, he starts showing him the pictures from when they were on Sanghelios together.

And he's aware that Wash has started leaning on him kind of heavily, and it's weird, but honestly Tucker doesn't care, because he hasn't gotten a chance to talk about Junior in so long. Until suddenly he realizes—

Wash is sleeping.

Mouth open, face slack. The crazy ex-Freelancer is leaning against him and sleeping, and making little snuffling noises like a normal person who hasn't killed two of Tucker's friends.

Tucker thinks, What the fuck.

And then doesn't move for twenty minutes, until Wash snorts suddenly, stands up, and stumbles away without a word.

Fucking lunatic.

If he isn't good enough, they'll send him back.

Wash knows that, he's always known that, it's been the rule of every family he ever had. And he's always failed and he thinks he's going to fail again. Tucker is always impatient with him, and Caboose always calls him Church, and they don't want him. They can't want him.

He can't sleep. He's tried a few more times, but every time the nightmares send him screaming awake.

There was a time when Wash could take the nightmares. When he was Recovery One, he didn't make a sound. He woke up with a shudder, and he swallowed—you are not a computer you are not Epsilon you are not dead—and flexed his human-not-human fingers, and went back to work.

But now there's no revenge burning in his gut. Not even a desperate, fuck-you-all desire for freedom. There's just a base and a flag and two idiot soldiers who saved him but don't really seem to want him, and without anything to fight for, Wash is falling apart.

He's going back to prison.

He's going, but he's not there yet, and he can't help clinging to every ritual that seems like it might keep him out.

2 A.M. and Wash decides that it's time to take the coffeemaker apart again. He can't quite remember why it's important, but it feels good to rinse the pieces and arrange them in a line as he finishes with each one.

He's not crazy.

(He can't do this.)

Wash's heartbeat pounds against his ribs, throbs behind his eyes and in his fingertips. He can't do this, can't be normal, doesn't even remember how—but he can't go back to prison, he can't he can't—

"Hey, Wash."

He startles and drops the coffee filter basket. Turns. See Tucker slouched in the kitchen doorway.

"What is it, Private Tucker?"

His tongue feels fuzzy and numb. He's not even sure why he's trying, except he has to, he can't go back, he has to—

"You need to sleep," says Tucker. "You're fucking crazy, man."

"I'm totally, completely—"

"OH MY GOD A SLEEPOVER." Caboose appears in the doorway behind Tucker. "Dibs on big spoon."

"What?" Wash's voice cracks, and he doesn't even care. He doesn't understand this.

"I had a lot of sleepovers with my sisters. I am very good at them."

"Okay, I never believed I'd say this, but listen to Caboose."

Wash feels trapped, defenseless before their eyes, and without meaning to, he says, "I can't sleep—I'll just—"

"Yeah, we've all heard you screaming, dude. Fucking Red Team has heard you screaming. I'm just glad Donut isn't here to ask if we—" Tucker cuts himself off. "Anyway. We're having a sleepover."

It still doesn't make sense, but Wash doesn't have it in him to protest. He stumbles after Caboose into the rec room, where there is already a pile of pillows and blankets. He lets Caboose strip the last pieces of his armor off. When Tucker arrives with three mugs, Wash accepts the one he's handed.

He wraps his fingers around the warm ceramic. Heat against his palms. The scent of milky hot chocolate. Those aren't things computers can feel. He takes a sip, and—

"It's good," he says, surprised.

Tucker looks absurdly proud. "Old family recipe. My mom made the best hot chocolate."

Wash takes another sip. His heartbeat is slowing down. He feels . . . warmer. More real.

"I can tell you a bedtime story," Tucker adds, "but I gotta warn you, it's gonna be totally NSFW, bow-chicka-bow-wow."

And Wash smiles reluctantly into his mug. "No thanks," he mutters.

He finishes the hot chocolate. He looks at the pillows and his heart thuds in fear again, because if he dreams he isn't human one more time, he doesn't think he can come back from it.

But Caboose has got an arm hooked around his shoulders and he just rolls over with Wash, down onto the pillows, and his body is tucked along the length of Wash's spine, and it's like warmth and safety being downloaded straight into his skull, and Wash is, he is—

Wanted.

Tucker settles down beside them, and Wash stares at the back of his neck, feels Caboose breathing on the back of his neck, and he can't understand why Tucker trusts him enough to turn his back on him, can't understand why Caboose cares enough to cradle him, but he's warm and he's safe and his heart beats slower, slower.

He sleeps.

He wakes up, and there are phantom circuits shivering over his skin, but he's squashed between Tucker and Caboose and he can feel them both breathing, both their hearts beating, and he breathes in time to them and thinks, Maybe I'm human.

He sleeps again, and doesn't dream.

Wash wakes slowly. He's alone now, beneath a pile of pillows and blankets, but he can hear people moving nearby, and hushed voices.

"Excuse you, moron, obviously pancakes are the best."

"But I do not think Agent Washington likes pancakes."

"You just say that because you don't like pancakes."

Wash thinks about that, his eyes still shut. Pancakes. His mother used to make them sometimes, from a mix. They were mealy and a little dry, but still a treat because of the syrup.

Tucker's voice rises. "Fuck you, I am not cleaning out the waffle iron again!"

York always claimed he had a family recipe for "famous home-cooked waffles," but he never got around to making them. Wash had once dreamed that someday, when the war was over and the Freelancers were all decorated veterans, they would eat waffles together—

He sits up abruptly. "I'll clean it."

"What?" Tucker stares at him. "Oh hey, you're awake. Please don't be crazy anymore."

"I'll clean the waffle iron." Wash's head is swimming a little, and he has to squint against the morning light, but he still manages to look Tucker in the eye. "If you make waffles."

He wants this. He wants it more than anything, to sit with his team and eat waffles—not when the war is over, not when he has his revenge, but now, while they still can. While they are all still here.

"Okay," Tucker says after a moment. "New job for Blue Team leader: always clean the waffle iron."

"I will add it to the handbook," says Caboose.

Wash nods, and doesn't even try to say, I don't believe you have a handbook. He feels like he could believe anything right now. He's still half-asleep and piercingly awake at the same time--his whole body feels lighter than air--and there's a blue border painted around the edge of the ceiling, how did he never notice it before? Such a bright and perfect blue.

"Uh, dude?" says Tucker. "You okay?"

"The colors," says Wash, and doesn't care if he sounds crazy. "They're so bright."

"I have often noticed that," says Caboose, as if they are sharing a fascinating discovery. "And I know all their names, so I can remind you if you forget, Church."

Tucker rolls his eyes, but he's smiling. And Wash thinks, suddenly, that perhaps they're going to keep him.

"I don't know . . . why I'm so . . ." He struggles for words. It's like the first time he stripped off power armor after a long training session, and his body was suddenly the correct size and weight again.

"Yeah, it's called getting enough sleep, dumbass." Tucker gets up from the couch. "C'mon into the kitchen. I'll teach you how to make waffles."

#red vs blue #rvb #rvb fic #agent washington #lavernius tucker #michael j caboose #my fic #fanfic

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samtheflamingomain · 7 years

Text

to care is human

Warning: gruesome descriptions of suicide methods.

So last night I tried to kill myself. Sometimes I wake up knowing it'll be that kind of day, sometimes it creeps up on me. This time was different.

I usually drink a shitload, eat a bunch of sleeping pills and then put a bag over my head and a belt around my neck. It's almost worked a few times, but I usually wake up with a hole in the bag and a terrible headache.

I can't really do that anymore; I can tell it's causing actual brain damage, and I also don't have more than a few sleeping pills at any given time because my psychiatrist instructed the pharmacy to give me my meds weekly.

I was alright until around 4 when I realized I'd be drinking and that it would make a solid week in a row of drinking. Add in the fact that I just put $1200 of cat surgery on my credit card, and by the time I was gulping down an entire bottle of wine in an hour, I couldn't stop thinking about all the things that stress me out. I have no money. I hate working. I have no parents. I can’t stop drinking. I have to start working more hours.

I didn't wait long enough after the wine before going to the bar. It was another few beers before it hit me HARD. It takes A LOT for me to feel drunk; I've gotten used to drinking 10 beers to feel tipsy, so I was surprised to be genuinely drunk. Wanting that to continue, I kept at ‘er.

This is a pretty odd story, and I don't remember everything that happened but here's a self-indulgently-long description of it anyway:

I go to the bar after the wine and have about 8 beers (they have a non-standard "mini-pitcher" you can buy, maybe the equivalent of like 3.5 beers?) and I'm talking to another regular who's been trying to get rid of her last kitten for a while. I've always loved this kitten and have considered taking him in for a while now.

So Fran says, "Hey, wanna come over and see him?" and drunk me was like "Fuck yeah, kitties!"

We take a cab to her place, I ogle some felines, then had to walk home. I'm guessing I left her place at around midnight. Why am I guessing? Wellll...

My phone was dead, as I discovered trying to figure out how to get home from her place. I had no idea where I was.

I live at the edge of a very large neighbourhood with a lot of winding, twisting roads. I walked for hours in the freezing cold, crying, stumbling over drunk. I remember laying in grass at some point(s?) and also concrete.

And I remember far too vividly crawling from the sidewalk out to the road and laying down.

I laid there for what felt like hours, screaming at approaching vehicles, "FUCKING KILL ME!" as I bawled my eyes out. None did. Obviously.

I remember distinctly being stood up by a paramedic and escorted into an ambulance. The first thing I said was, "Great, another $40 I can't afford."

I was barely able to give the paramedics answers. I don't remember getting out or how I ended up sleeping on a hospital bed in the mental illness waiting area.

I was woken up at 4 in the morning by a crisis worker. She said "sounds like you had a bad night?" No fuckin shit.

Well, I'm not new to this rodeo. I don't remember much of what was said, but she discharged me as soon as we were done. I have a horrible, infected scrape on my hand that is putting me out of commission at work for at least a week. I can hardly move my hand or lift anything. They tell me to go to a walk-in-clinic.

Buses don't start till 7 on weekends, so I went for my phone to call an Uber. And that’s when I discovered a shitty Android-shaped hole in my pocket.

That's right, for those of you keeping score at home, that's two, count 'em, TWO phones I've lost in the last 4 months! How will he lose the next one??? Vote NOW!!

Anyway, I call a cab from the hospital, get home at around 5, message my coworkers that I can't come in to work, then pass out till 10, the exact time I was supposed to start work. I fire up the ole' Book of Faces and find that the shift has been covered.

I go buy a new phone and (attempt) to go to a clinic for my hand. Literally every clinic in this city is closed because of the stupid long weekend. I was exhausted so I didn't bother going back to the hospital for a scrape.

Then something weird happened. I realized that people actually care. Let me explain.

I fucked up the schedule at work this week by having to take my cat to the vet on Tuesday. I felt HORRIBLE about missing another shift, especially two in one week, and especially because this time it was my own damn fault.

It gets worse. When I was told that the shift had been covered, I wasn't told that it was being covered by Rob, who closed last night (a 4-12 shift). Running on 3 hours of sleep, he came in at 10 and is still there now. He'll be there till 12 again.

So now I feel even more horrible. Dude is working 22 hours in 2 days because of me*.

*Not quite - I'll get to that in a bit.

Without a phone to call my best friend, I felt very lonely when I got home from the hospital. I was still able to talk to my other friend from the States, though, and this is an important difference.

When I try to kill myself and tell Connor after the fact, he rarely reacts. (If I'm on the phone threatening to do it he's much more involved and often talks me down). But with Danny instead, who was extremely worried, I finally felt like someone actually cared after the fact.

Everyone will care before because death is scary. Few people care after because living is boring.

Danny wasn't the only one. I didn't realize it at the time because I was still a little out of it but when I told my coworker I wouldn't be able to come in, I told her why. I didn't mean to.

She was so understanding about it, told me not to worry, that I could come in for free food if I wanted.

Then, as I began posting on Facebook about my lovely evening, another coworker messaged me - Rob, the one who is a working machine and could probably work 24/7 if necessary. He said he was on a break at Tim Horton's and I should join him.

Kind of worried at this point; I've bailed on 2 shifts in one week, he's got seniority and I singlehandedly* forced him to work a close-to-open-to-close. *Not really. Again, in a minute. Be patient.

To my surprise we just talked, about what happened, about work, about life. At the end of his break he says to come hang out at work.

The concept of "hanging out" coming together with the concept of "work" had never really made much sense to me because I hate working. But I realized that I hate working, not the work itself, not the place and not the people.

So I go to work and... hang out. I try helping when I can but quickly realize my hand is going to be a problem, probably for a very long time. I can't lift much with it and I have a very limited range of motion; it wasn't just due to the scrape, it was also because I'd used it to break a fall. It's not the worst thing, but it does affect nearly every aspect of making pizzas.

Anyway, I shoot the shit with Alycia and Rob and Lily and nobody's mad at me and the store's a mess but it doesn't matter. *And that's when I'm told that 4 people are out of town, and the other morning person wouldn't message back or pick up the phone all day.* It wasn't completely my fault, so I felt a little better.

Then a few things happened.

First, Anthony showed up for his shift at 4. I really like Anthony: he's a hard worker, nice, funny and a little awkward in the same way that I am. Unfortunately, he only works one night a week, and I've only worked with him twice. He talks with Rob as they count the till and I assume Rob's telling him the reason the dough still hasn't been finished at 4pm (me).

Well, he didn't. I take my glove and bandage off my hand to redo it and he goes "Damn, what happened?" I say, "From last night."

"What happened last night?"

I kind of stare at him for a minute. "Didn't Rob tell you?"

"No, what?"

"I tried to kill myself."

His face falls. I can tell he's starting to wear his awkward face. Many people react differently to this news based on relationship level and experience. When I told Danny, one of my closest friends, he was worried and upset. When I told Anthony, a work acquaintance I barely knew, he had a few moments of awkward "No, hey, that's no good, don't do that" before he suddenly opened his arms for a hug.

I'm a bad hugger. I usually just stand there as the other person does all the hugging. This is because my parents would only ever hug me when they were done yelling at me and had forced me to apologize for something I hadn’t done wrong.

I hugged him back, and I almost started crying. It was the first real hug I'd gotten probably in my entire life. By 'real' I mean for the hugger. He did the socially obligatory thing of pretending suicide isn't as serious as it is before he couldn't keep the charade up. That part of the reaction wasn't real. The hug was real.

Anyway. As Anthony arrives, Alycia leaves. As she's waiting by the door for her ride, she says lots of stuff people say to the suicidal, and also indicates that her boyfriend and herself have had their share of mental illness.

Then she tells me that her second cousin commited suicide. She says he did it because he thought no one would care. "It was sixteen years ago and the family has never been the same. People care. We would all care."

I'd heard it a thousand times before but never really believed it, either because it was being said by someone who probably wouldn't care after a week, or because it's said by someone who is socially obliged to at least pretend to care, so I assume they are just pretending.

But between Danny, a close friend but whom I've never met in person, and my coworkers, who, until now, I wouldn't have called friends at all, I feel like I've "realized" that people really do care.

Something I've never really felt before. Thanks, parents.

Anyway, long story, I know, but a happy-ish ending? Who knows. Still pretty fucking depressed but not suicidal. I don’t know if this will prevent me from trying again, but it might, and that’s better than nothing.

Stay Greater.

#suicide tw #mental illness #hospital #friends #sam

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wishingfornever · 6 years

Text

9/10/17 – Heavy Contact: Perpetual Slumber

I crave… so much. I crave you, I crave sugar, I crave alcohol… right now, I just want to indulge. I’m so hungry. T-T

It’ll be worth it. When I’m not fantasizing about fitting an entire cake in my mouth, I’m thinking about the dream children we had together. Isn’t that fucking dumb? It sounds dumb, even to me. I mean, let’s be honest: I’d be the world’s greatest father. Nothing wrong with my fathering abilities at all. You’d be somewhat mediocre, obviously. ;) Kidding, kidding. Still, it’s weird. Cynthia. Such a strange name. I’m not sure how I’d feel about it as a name. It’s kind of blunt, not very fluid. CynTHia. I don’t like that “Th” sound. Maybe there is some sort of cute pet name that would be more sufficient. I don’t know why but my dreams have been more… vivid as of late. I try to pay attention. I don’t think they mean anything, I mean Las Vegas could never flood. I’ve been there. The communist thing in Paris might be symbolic but it’s kind of… meh. I don’t think they mean anything but the cat having a voice and then sort of possessing you was super scary. Btw, it’s currently 12:05. Been writing since midnight struck so, yeah. Hi again, it’s me basically from the same day.

Whatever… Jer and I will be talking to each other tomorrow via voice chat. Or today, I guess. I want to get some writing done, so I hope I will. I’m going to try and finish it to the best of my ability. I’ll have Jer read it, but the thing is he can’t edit it if he reads it unless I’m there. It’s not hands on. Worse yet, my grammar is probably the best among all my friends.

That sucks. If I have to rely on someone I know to edit, they’ll be inferior to my own designs. And I will be biased because I can miss my mistakes. There is no justice in the world. I think I’m going to cave and just grab something to eat; hopefully something small and light in calories. After the food from Mazatlan Grill, I am pushing it for calories. But, it… should be healthy. Healthier, at least. Thing about Mexican food is that there are a lot of veggies. That’s why it was considered a gift from god by the pope, because it has all the food groups and is relatively balanced and super delicious.

Fuuuuuuuuuuck, I’m hungry. Brb

You won’t be able to guess what I found in the fridge. Unless you do. Not the point! The point is, I found MEXICAN FOOD!!! Like there were several tacos, fully loaded with big tortillas. I just grabbed one and slapped in the microwave for 2 minutes and left with that, a banana, and a bottle of water. It’s cool because we were just talking about how great Mexican food is. There was sour cream, no cheese. Also beef. So, I assume it was relatively high in… CALORIES!!! Yeah, that happens. Banana was good. Super sweet and I might get another one.

I feel so much better. I’m trying not to pig out, but food is just amazing. So is this water. Everything just tastes better right now. Thanks, Cynthia. ;)

You know, it’s occurred to me that you may be reading this and be thinking to yourself, “Ooooooh, I see. You’re crazy, huh?” It occurred to me when I started this. In reality, this has helped me cope. I never understood why people had journals but it’s sort of relieving. Then again, I intend for my journal to be read.

A little ironic, my book began as an After-Action Report (AAR) which is basically RP updates about your game. My character was… Diego! Go figure. It was part of this mod for Mount and Blade: Warband. This mod is based in 1809 (a year after my book starts) and I was playing in Prussia. Diego will be going to Prussia. And, of course, he had a JOURNAL and that’s how I did the AAR. It was pretty popular. He was sort of a cynic which is what I plan to have him become in the second book. Spoilers, btw. All the characters were made there. Some had different names like Sarvar but same general concept. Atlas was supposed to be evil-ish. Avdotya didn’t stray too far from her source material. It’s ironic, eh?

Oof. Might have pigged out a little bit. Grabbed myself another burrito + banana + water. I feel so stuffed but I’m sooooooo happy. I’ll make up for it this week. It was loaded with bellpeppers and onions. But this had beef… and cheese. I might have thrown it together and gone a little bit too deep. Kinda regretting not exercising yesterday, but I was a little saddened by your response.

Not your fault; I just wasn’t ready for it.

You, know, I’ve been toying with the idea of writing a political book detailing all the dumb crap the US does. It’s bound to sell if it’s “edgy” enough. Maybe I’ll do that instead of the second book… Of which, I need to change the order around. Sarvar is now third and Atlas is second. So, the next book will begin with Atlas’s story. It’s better chronologically and it’d probably have far more action and will be before Atlas begins to shoulder everything.

That said, the sweat pants I have. Gonna wear them and exercise today. Those pants though were given to me by Daniel. Again, super nice guy. He was talking about a few dark things yesterday and sort of hinted. I hope you’re keeping an eye on him.

So, I see you left Regional Alliance for the Communist Bloc. Which is interesting. During the second nuclear war, I made a few allies within their ranks. Unfortunately, you probably think I kicked Dennis because I was being petty. Maybe. However, someone noticed his currency was child pornography. Thus, in order to save face I took it upon myself as the most vocal communist state to ban him.

I notice he’s in the Communist Bloc as well… You’re making a bad decision siding with Dennis. Really bad. Not just in NationStates but in general. I noticed you’re still online. I’m going to probably upset you, but I’m going to ask why you’re siding so much with Dennis. I see you’re online, so I dropped a message. I wonder what he’s been telling you. He betrayed me, a friend of 12 years. What makes you think he’d stand by you? You know he lies. He’s admitted it. Is it because you feel sorry for him? Is it because you’re angry with me? I guarantee, you won’t be happy with him. My dad kicked me out for a little while before I went to Texas the first time. Dennis isn’t exactly the most hospitable. If you think I was inactive, you’re in for a treat. If you think him going to the gym with Daniel is evidence of anything, it’s because of Daniel that he goes. Without Daniel, he’ll have no drive. But, I’m not concerned. I know you’ll see this and I know you’ll be disappointed again. I’m not sure you’ll come back because you might fear “I told you so.” I wouldn’t bring it up if you did come back, however, so don’t harm yourself further. If you need help with Dennis, then ask me and I’ll help. Of course, I have no respect for him right now. I’ve began to recall all the SHITTY things he’s done to me, Daniel, and Shane. I’m bitter and I’m biased, but that doesn’t mean I’m ignorant. I know how he is. He’s a piece of shit. You’ll see for yourself soon. I’m not even mad.

I do want to revisit what he told you. It horrifies me that he was able to turn you against me so easily. Admittedly, I wasn’t the best boyfriend but I wasn’t the worst boyfriend. I was inactive. You said it yourself; I felt like a roommate. I wasn’t mean or cruel to you but you made it seem like I was. I trust this is because Dennis told you that I’m ready to throw down at a moments notice or some shit.

I’m more into verbal confrontation than physical confrontation. I don’t need to raise a fist, but I’ll defend myself. I told you about what happened in Texas. I defended myself each time. That’s basically the only two fights I’ve gotten in in my adult life. Not that bad, all things considering. The reason for each was too much partying. It wasn’t even me doing the partying for both, I had just gotten off work and came back to fucking drama.

That’s something I wish you weren’t doing. Partying too much. I probably won’t stop you from drinking and smoking pot, but I’m not going to endorse it.

You do have a really skewed image of me. Deny it if you want to, but it’s true. One of the most traumatizing things since this happened were your wide and confused eyes. You thought I hated you? Who gave you that idea? Me, sitting by myself hating life? Or was it perhaps Dennis? Then you thought I was going to hurt Dennis? You thought I was going to hurt you?

I have a temper, but it’s mostly benign. I’m sorry you’ve had to experience it, but I’d never hurt you out of anger. I’m not sure I could hurt Dennis either, and I hate him. Like, literally, as far as I’m concerned the bridges are burned. But I wouldn’t hit him. Except when I met him when I came back from Texas the first time, but I didn’t hit him hard. It was a surprise. We hugged afterwards. Again, I never hated Dennis until he turned you against me. I never hated Daniel, either. I never hated Shane. I don’t hate many people.

I want to offer you an invitation to Adela’s. Honestly, I don’t know what you’re going to do. You made it seem like Texas wasn’t an option anymore. But, whatever the case, you can still come with me. You can have window and I’ll try to give you your space. I’ll try not to talk much. I didn’t want to message you today or yesterday but idk. Something told me I should reach out. I blame those weird dreams.

I’m going to be more active, I guess. I’m going to try to not mention how bad I feel or felt when talking to you. I’ll force myself to be cordial, sort of like what you said you were doing while we were in person. That still hurts, you know? I forgave you, though, so I’m healing. I just wish you knew what I forgave you for.

After this sentence, there will be 9585 words in this journal. I think that includes the number but I’m not sure. I’m not going to talk about Dennis anymore in today’s entry, so please keep reading.

I couldn’t get much sleep after that dream. Have a lot of time to think. Cynthia was such a little brat. Very annoying. Could totally be your daughter. Same shade of hair, with oversized pink glasses. Honestly, I feel if we did have children they’d have darker hair but who knows? Our dream son was only a toddler. Like, either he couldn’t speak yet or he was shy. Had dark hair and a bowl cut. Also a nerd.

Hopefully, if we do ever have children, they’ll have my eyesight. I know you don’t want them but it’s hypothetical, so why not imagine? Remember how we were talking about names? Avril was one I was really big on. I guess you convinced me to go with Cynthia. Not sure how, but you did it. Probably put it in the contract while I wasn’t looking. We should probably have a witness when we sign it, just to ensure both our safety. If we do redo the contract, we’ll have to avoid intentionally hiding certain topics. It was fun for the earlier contracts, but I want us to get serious again. Hopefully we will be. I’d forgive Dennis for everything if it meant another chance at being your boyfriend. Not just friend, but boyfriend. Otherwise, wouldn’t be worth it. A friend would have helped our relationship, not profit from it. Thus, we’ll need to get back together before I can forgive him again. Look at that. I said I wouldn’t talk about Dennis but I did anyways. Really, it’s more talking about us. His involvement is moot. Still, said I wouldn’t mention it. It’s frustrating. No more after this, I promise.

It’s weird that you needed space from me. I mean… you had all the space you wanted. Again, super inactive roommate. That’s one of the things that has baffled me about this entire affair, but if you need it you’ll get it. I want to work with you. Of course, it’s hard to measure progress while you’re away.

What really upset me was it felt like you were making excuses to not finish things. Like… it was supposed to be Thursday for you to do all these things. Then Saturday. Then Wednesday. I was prepared for you to take your things, but you kept postponing. I thought I did something wrong because we weren’t talking. I should have trusted you, but… it’s hard. I felt like I was doing something wrong and I didn’t know how to improve on it.

I said a lot of very hurtful things, iirc. I did hurtful things not just to you but to me. I suffered from temporary insanity. I’ve never been this hurt about anything before. Like… I strangled myself. I hit myself so hard, I left bruises. Of course, hole in wall… I was just feeling hopeless and that there was no one I could turn to.

I feel better now. Been using this journal to vent. And I have Daniel. Sometimes Shane. Jeremiah has been more available. Like… my life shattered but things are getting placed back together. A bit slowly for my tastes, but I’ll work with it. I’d do anything to get you back in my life. You’re the final piece. You complete me. It’s hard to get put back together when you’re so opposed to be that final piece.

I think if we got back together, I’d be more protective. Probably more anal about things. You’d probably call me “Andrew” but I wouldn’t care. I’d be livid if you were to cut yourself. You tell me, “Oh, I just needed to” and I won’t accept that as an answer. Learning that from you but mostly learning that because you tend to not say what you mean directly. You’re afraid of confrontation and I forgot about this. Therefore, you made our break sound vague. You flatout lied about it. You hid your cuts from me and then blamed me when it seemed like I didn’t care.

I care. I always care. The first time you cut yourself, I kept to myself. I wanted to cry, really. I wanted more substance but all I got was “I needed it” and that is a half-assed answer.

After how you treated me… yeah, I’m not surprised that I thought you hated me. Put yourself in my shoes. Just for a minute. Consider how you’ve made me feel. This entire time, I’ve placed myself in your shoes and I’ve tried to reach out. I thought I was doing what was best, but you did need time and I didn’t give it. When I try to fix something, it becomes my project. Sitting around waiting… well, it makes me depressed. Not sure you noticed. That said, I don’t feel like you’ve been very empathetic. I’m probably going to exercise in a bit. It’s 7:36 so it’s pretty early. It’d make up for me pigging out last night and yesterday. Normally, I pig out because… DEPRESSION, go figure but this time I guess I was just super hungry. And Daniel was paying, so free meal, amirite? ;)

The girl I was flirting with. I basically stopped talking to her after I spoke to you on skype yesterday. Kinda feel bad. I’ll message her again later today, but it’s not right for me to put people to the side because I’m feeling moody. If anything, I learned that from how I treated you.

I know I said I was going to exercise, but with minimal sleep, I might try to rest and then exercise when I wake up. I know, making excuses but it’s cold and I’m feeling tired. I wish you were here. A cold bed is best spent with a warm body. And frankly, there are none warmer than yours. <3

Cheesy flirt, I know, but you said I should flirt more with you. I did but you didn’t notice. So, now I have to be ultra obvious. Like, SO obvious. It’s not so bad. Cheesy is good; too bad it’s not going to be a part of my diet soon.

Anyways, I’m going to get some rest. You’ll probably message me in about two hours and I won’t message you until four probably. I’ll try to wake up sooner. I miss you. I love you. Talk to me soon, yeah? Good night (or morning). You’re beautiful. <3

Can’t sleep. Too much on my mind I guess. It happens. Maybe when everything is over I’ll be able to go to sleep at a reasonable time. As I was saying, you’re welcome to come with me to Texas. Don’t even need to stay at Adela’s. We can drop you off at Shane’s the next day, if that’s alright. Thing is, we’re waiting for the hurricanes to pass and for the flooding to clear. As soon as that’s done, I’m getting a ticket and I’m out of here. With or without you.

I miss our relationship in Adela’s. You say I was always on my computer but what I remember was us doing dishes together, running around the neighborhood, doing little things. I miss that. Here? Can’t do that here. It’s a black hole. I hate it here. My sister didn’t come over yesterday, btw. It’s nice because she’s such a hassle. My dad can be too but he’s been rather impartial. My mom has been super energetic and supportive. I think she misses you, but I won’t ask her. Not yet.

I’m glad you haven’t deleted the blog yet. To me, that means there is still hope. Or you pity me enough to leave me my last bastion. Whatever the case, I’m glad. I check it everyday. I reload the page several times a day, just to check if it’s still there. It helps. You said you had it so when I broke up with you, I’d feel bad.

I impulsively click on Skype to get here. To write in my journal, I think “Click the blue!” Reason for this, if I had to guess, is because the journal is specifically targeted to you and right now I have several messages sent to you over Skype. I don’t think I’ll accidentally send you any journal entries but it’s amusing. I hope you’re willing to chat.

I hope these hurricanes pass soon. No offense, but I need to get away. Nice neutral territory, you know? Adela’s a nice person. Even if you broke up with me and insisted to never see me again and also set my hair on fire, she’d still meet up for bubble tea. People like you. She loves you. Adriana loves you. Everyone loves you. I love you the most, though. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have tried so hard. Of course, it could be said I’m trying now. Except I’m not trying, this is me coping. Whether you read it or not, it’s hard to say but I know it’s been helping me. Maybe I should keep a journal more often. Except instead of a journal about you, it’ll be a journal for me. And instead of me consistently updating like I have been with this one, I’ll actually do the end of the day update like I wanted to do. Maybe I should get you a journal… Your birthday is right around the corner. I want to get you something.

Soon. Probably won’t do Christmas. Thing is, for Christmas and Thanksgiving, I’m going to be all by myself at Adela’s. Not a bad thing, but I don’t know how I’d fare. If I slipped into a fit of depression, I might not be able to handle it by myself. :/

Don’t consider that as me wanting you to be by my side during those events. I know Shane is taking you somewhere for Thanksgiving. It’s not an invitation (though if you really wanted to stay with me, I wouldn’t say no). You don’t need to spend the time with me and you don’t owe me anything. I’m just talking my mind. That said, I remember last Thanksgiving. It was just me and Max and I stayed in the guest bedroom. I kept to myself and didn’t eat anything that day. Christmas was a bit better because Adela was there, sort of. We went to that party where I got drunk and played blackjack.

My hair was longer then. I’m surprised it’s taking this long to grow out. Normally it’d be longer. I’m getting older… or I’m more stressed. I miss feeling your fingers run through my hair. It’s soothing. Everything about you is soothing. I should have appreciated you more. Well, I know better now.

I think the day after Thanksgiving, I went to go get Whataburger. Might have walked. Can’t recall. I usually do fast food when I’m depressed. Probably why I gained SO much weight… that and I’ve been inactive. I gained 80 pounds. EIGHTY pounds. That’s a lot. I feel so disgusting… Whataburger was good though. I’ll miss it while I’m down there. Because it’s so close yet it’s totally forbidden. If you and I go out, we’ll have to get Subway. And my sandwich won’t get cheese. I’ll force myself to only eat half and save the rest. Thing is, I eat fast. I really need to slow down. I try but… eh. I really need to be more aware when I eat. I guess I’m like a shark. I just see food and get into a feeding frenzy. RAWR!!! IMMA SHERK!!! GIVE ME UR FISHIES!!! Except for Moshi. Moshi is friend; not food. I miss Moshi. I wake up and look over where she used to be and feel… disappointed. She was literally the reason I woke up in the morning. I’d go back to bed, but it gave me something to do. I really need to start exercising today. But I’ll do that later today. Thinking about Texas… the first time. Before we met. I had a TV, cable, faster internet, Ahnassi… I wanted to come back though because there was no one I hung out with in Texas. Didn’t have any friends or family because my brother moved to Oklahoma and left me there by myself. I was fine in my little apartment but my dad rushed me out. I didn’t want to stay, mind you, but I needed more time. I was saving up to afford to leave but my dad offered to pay for everything. Unfortunately, that means we only had enough to put in our trucks and nothing else. I left the TV, the TV stand, a table plus chairs… so much I left behind. I was charged for leaving stuff in the apartment. It was bullshit, the money I had saved went into paying off my bills from a place I wasn’t even at anymore. Worse yet, before I paid off one of them (cable bill) my dad said I shouldn’t. What would they do? Ruin my credit is what. Thanks, Dad. I know you’ve heard that before, but… Idk, I’m reminiscing. I was totally isolated then but I used to call my friends on this computer. I had the TV on in the background because it was nice to have. Usually Comedy Central because I needed the laugh. I think… that’s why I’m always on this computer. I didn’t used to be this bad, I just haven’t realized it. Christ, loneliness sucks. I didn’t expect to do so much self discovery with this journal.

I used to go out. I went to clubs but I stopped because I got tired of spending money on drinking. I used to go on dates with girls. I was really into the activist scene. I had a V for Vendetta mask and went to the Million Mask March. I want to again… I’d want to take you. Happens every November Fifth.

I feel… addicted to the computer. More than ever. I don’t even want to type on it. Right now, I just want to go to sleep but I can’t. Maybe the computer is to blame? Idk, maybe I should limit my use of the computer to when I’m only writing.

I depend on my vices a lot. I guess your pot is the same as my computer. You allow it, but you don’t encourage it. I guess you were patient with me. More than you should have been. If it’s alright with you, I might just talk about my past today. At least until I fall asleep or if you message me on Skype. Whatever comes first.

I graduated high school in the middle of a recession. It was so hard finding a job. I applied EVERYWHERE and my dad often drove me. I had a car, but we made it a little event. Unfortunately, he lives in the 60’s and 70’s. The way you apply for a job is different than it was then. The first job I got, I wasn’t even applying for. The Lumberjack used to be Black Bear Diner and I applied there and I was told they weren’t taking any applications. I was disheartened because I had applied to all these places and that was the last place I applied to. I was ready to go home with my dad when this short man with a gravelly voice stopped me outside. He offered me a job as a freelancer.

Basically, he worked construction with Walmart. Those shopping cart cages? I placed the little blocks on top of them. It was neat. I road on a forklift lifting a panel. That panel is where I stood. I also riveted down a lot of the isles and did other things. I enjoyed it and the pay was nice. Problem was it was at night so I slept during the day. I had this crush on this girl at the time… she’s married now, but we were close friends. I was just in the friend zone and couldn’t get out. When I have a crush on someone, I have a crush. I didn’t lose my virginity until later, of course. Not trying to talk about my love life (or rather, lack of). Talking about Walmart. The job didn’t last long. The guy I worked with eventually got into it with the dude who ran the Walmart and left. I never got my last paycheck, but I didn’t care. I had experience. Turned out, it didn’t mean shit. I’ll talk more about my job history tomorrow. In High School, I had a few crushes. Never amounted to anything. My first kiss was with this girl. Heather Harmon was her name. It was before I went to Credence (which is a continuation high school). There was this dance which I didn’t want to go to. I felt so awkward just being there. I was a Freshman and I wanted to go home. However, I was told by Heather’s friend that this girl in a curly blouse thought I was cute. I was like, “Oh?” and super surprised. I misheard her and thought she said something different from blouse. Don’t remember what I thought she said. All I remember is that I approached the wrong girl and said, “Hey, I heard you thought I was cute?” The girl looked at me, laughed, and said no. Ouch. What a bitch. I went back to where I was sitting, feeling even worse when Heather’s friend got back and brought Heather with her. Asked why I didn’t ask Heather out to a dance and I said I didn’t know she was who she was talking about. The friend grabbed a sleeve and reiterated blouse. That’s the thing, dances and clubs and all that dumb shit… the music is just too loud. Can’t hear shit.

Anyways, she asked me to dance and I said I didn’t know how. She said it’s fine, she’ll teach me. She dragged me onto the floor and we began dancing. I was dancing horribly but she seemed fine with it. Then the music cut to ‘slow dance’ music and we slow danced. In the middle of it all, she kissed me.

It caught me off guard and I was so surprised. But also happy. I enjoyed even the small amount of affection. She had to leave early, however, so left soon after. My mom eventually picked me up and I left too. On the way back, I saw her again, crossing the street. I didn’t really remember what she looked like until I saw her outside of the dance which was ironic. I was so surprised and caught in the moment that I couldn’t focus.

You’re probably wondering what she looked like. She was a bit on the heavy side but she had a cute face. Thing is, she liked to play the field if you know what I mean. She broke up with me once and I took it easy. Then we dated again and broke up again. Then she wanted to go out for a third time and I said no. She was a year older than me which I felt was odd. Sophomore dating a Freshman. That class politics, amirite? We were dorks. Basically grade school relationship in high school. Of course, I discovered several girls had crushes on me but I never noticed. I was always too focused on my own crushes to notice others. God, I felt bad about that. I didn’t mean to be so neglectful. I didn’t mean to be rude. I just didn’t notice. So, I probably could have lost my virginity sooner. Then again, I was a young republican for the longest time so I’m lucky I didn’t lose it later. Of which, I lost it in the back of my truck on that trail we were on a while back. It’s a good trail. Miss yooooou… <3

Anyways, the crush I had that persisted after high school. I was close with her family, but there was nothing that ever happened between us. She eventually moved away for college and I eventually moved to Texas. We still talked in my early days. I guess I stopped talking to her when everything started to go sour in my life.

Huh, I messaged her a happy birthday this year. I’m surprised, I didn’t wish ANYONE a happy birthday this year. Then the year before during the same month. Seems I commented on one of her posts and we discussed it in PM. Interesting. That’s life. She was very funny. Had a lot of problems though, sort of like you. Stop me if you heard this before, but her mother was a very abusive ultra-christian. I even went to church with her mother. I guess if I had a type, that’d be it.

I’m not sure why, but I’m drawn to girls with issues. Not because I want to feed off it but because I used to want to help. Remember me with that “You’re beautiful” thing? That’s not a flirt, that was me building your self-esteem. Remember how I tried to reinforce your self-esteem? I guess I’d be considered a white knight. At least, I used to be. Not so much now. I’ve been bitter and the last girls I were with didn’t seek help really. I was in it for the sex, not the relationship.

If I had to guess a physical type, I like your body but I also like curves. So bigger butt maybe. Boobs would be nice too.

Eh, I might not have a type. I feel so shallow thinking about it. You have the perfect body in my eyes, though. Not why I love you. If you were less attractive, I’d still be fond of you. I can look past looks, but I feel I’m letting go of a piece of my person. You can be an intellectual, you could be thoughtful, you could be compassionate, you could be reasonable… though, you’ve been less reasonable as of late. Just saying. >.>

Really, I like you. I like you a lot. Your body is great, but I can live without it. Sometimes, I think you’re too attractive because boys are always hitting on you. And, apparently, they made the flirting game increase in difficulty. Ah, fuck. -,-

I really want you to read this. I want to tell you about the journal, but it’s a surprise. You probably don’t want to talk to me right now, anyways. :/

A lot of memories today. I’m going to share the section about the first kiss. Literal copy and paste. However, more information will be here as opposed to as on Skype. I’m not sure how you’ll take it, but that’s alright. I remember! It wasn’t blouse. Heather’s friend said “Shirt” and I heard “Skirt.” Same concept, similar sound. It wasn’t blouse but shirt and skirt. Yeah, I can be a dweeb too. Nothing is sacred.

My parents are talking about me going to Texas. They talk loud because my dad is deaf. My dad doesn’t sound so keen and I’m not sure how my mom feels, but she’s supporting me on this.

My mom just came in and asked me when I wanted the ticket. She was a bit forceful. I guess she’s annoyed that I haven’t done anything and that I just want to leave. I’m talking to Adela. Her mom is coming up for her birthday which is early in October. I kind of want to get there after her mom leaves so I have that super comfy bed. Far better than this bed. Good memories of it, too. Because you were always on it. <3

Flirting. That was flirting. That’s something I miss. That one dream where you were possessed by that demon cat was fucking crazy but it was hot. You’re super sexy and I miss it. I neeeeeeeed it. Probably; men apparently need sex at least once a week for their mental health. I heard that from a co-worker and I’m not sure how true it is. I’ll admit, I’ve been mentally better so perhaps there is some truth to it.

Last time I saw you, I had actually hoped we’d have sex one last time. Unfortunately, I was a muttering whimp and couldn’t contain myself. I wanted affection over sex… how dumb am I? If you answered “Pretty dumb” then you’d be correct. I guess I wasn’t even in the mood.

I think I’d fair better in our next meeting. I’ve been venting! Without judgment, too! At least for now. And the first entry was pretty whiny but I worked through it. Could delete it, but that’d defeat the purpose of a journal. You write what’s on your mind. At least, that’s what I’m thinking. If not, at least it’s a placebo. Really, that’s the only pill I really need right now. Just gotta believe. And I believe in us. I believe we’ll get back together. Maybe I’m wrong, but it’s nice to believe. Faith is fun, eh? I’ve had this pimple on my nose. It was big and greasy. Couldn’t get rid of it with that tea tree oil stuff but I tried to pop it. Not much effect, it’s just scabbing now. I look like a rhinoceros right now. Big, fat, skin condition, rhino. Ugh… be positive. Anyways, the scab is annoying but it’ll heal soon. My cuts look like they’re going to be light scars but they’re subtle. Not my first scars but they seemed to cut the deepest, pun unintended. Again, I was just… so upset. Really should have started this journal sooner.

Anyways, I think I’m rambling now. I’m going to try to catch some sleep. It’s currently 11am and you’re still not awake. I’m not sure I’ll be able to. My eyelids are heavy, but my mind is super active. My dad wants me to take the garbage to the dump but they’re not open on Sunday. Maybe he’ll realize this. Anyways, trying again for sleep. I love you, Esther. I hope you’ve read this far.

Current time is 1:21pm. Still, no sleep. We had a pretty long conversation. You revealed a lot. I think you revealed that you’d never forgive me. Man, that hurts… Crying now. My heart… the muscle in my chest? It physically hurts. So much… I’m sorry I neglected you. I’ve changed, I swear.

I appreciate your honesty… it was blunt. I guess I needed to hear it. It’ll help me become a better person. It’s just… damn. Never have I hated myself more than I do right this very moment. It’s not that great to be me right now. I can’t prove to you that I’ve changed because there is no way to prove it. I’m fighting an uphill battle. You… really don’t want to see me.

The irony is… I still think you care. Might be wrong, but it feels like it. Maybe the voice I’m reading your statements is just more merciful than I allow to be read. I’d sacrifice anything for a chance to get back in your good graces. I wish I knew how to convince you that things would be better… If you’re reading this, I’m obviously still alive. So I’m safe, you have nothing to worry about. Of course, if you’re reading this that means everything after has already happened. It’s probably not even September anymore. So, yeah… right now, I guess you just have to trust I won’t do anything permanent. Good news for current you… I’m not messaging you from now on until you message me. I might message you before I go to Texas, but that’d be it. I think that’s worthy for an exception, no? That said, I guess… my journal entries are going to get longer. At least until I invest myself in something with a lot of time consumption. I want to message you every day. I told you about the journal. THE JOURNAL!!! I don’t know why, ruined the surprise… and you couldn’t care less. Or maybe you did care; you just didn’t show it. You have a better poker face than I do.

The way you ended it sounded like you were annoyed with me, however. “gtg” is probably unlikely. I would normally ask Daniel or Adriana to confirm if you’re going anywhere else. Thing is, I don’t need to. You are just tired of hearing me beg. And I get it… that’s the fucked up thing. I get it. Honestly, you deserve a prince to descend from on high and sweep you off your feet. I’m no prince, I’m just some asshole. I think I’d leave me too.

I’m going to try to go to sleep. Hopefully for the final time. When I wake up, expect me to talk about some dream where you were in a wedding dress and where I was in furs, beating things with a stick and speaking with only one syllable words. You were the best thing that ever happened to me… and I took you for granted. I want to make up for it. But I can’t… maybe I never will…

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RB-RcX5DS5A

The light hurts my eyes. It’s currently 8pm. I think I got five hours of sleep. I say that because I posted on Facebook before I dozed off. It doesn’t matter.

I don’t feel good. I didn’t have any dreams and I woke up… physically numb. It’s hard to do simple things like move my fingers to type this. You won’t get to see it but I’m hitting backspace a lot. I went to the kitchen to get myself food. I was hungry before we chatted but I took a bite out of something my dad made and couldn’t finish it.

I have a banana and a bottle of water. I’m going to try to eat something and drink something. After that, I think I’ll go back to bed. Tomorrow has to be better than this.

Maybe it will be. I’ll have to go to the dump tomorrow. It’ll just be me going to town. Alone. I’ll then get a Subway sandwich. Alone.

It’s not as bad as it sounds… I think I need the solitude right now, ironically. I could always reach out to people if I need a friend. I’m okay. I’ll be fine. Despite how I feel now, I know we had a good talk despite it’s brash ending. Your Facebook nickname is “Still the Most Beautiful.” It’s dumb; not because you’re not the most beautiful but because you’ll never see it. You’ll see my nickname, which I cleared.

I think you’ve seen my post. Probably rolled your eyes and ignored it. It’s me venting. You’ve judged me VERY harshly in the past for my venting. I know you don’t think you did, but you have. You’ve been pretty unreasonable. I guess you’re trying to prove a point. If I were feeling better, maybe I’d guess what that point is.

It doesn’t matter. Nothing really matters. I’ve accepted this.

You’re probably not going to read my journal. Going to be a lot of entries I can see… for what? Well, it calms me down and keeps me collected. Guess it’s not that bad.

You know, the link I’ve linked you… The Scientist by Coldplay. I’ve always liked the song but only now have I listened to the lyrics. I don’t just listen to the song… I feel it. It’s hard to explain but… I’m lost in the lyrics listening to the meaning. The music video is great too, btw. Not that I’ve been watching it. A lot of weird physics in it, though. Maybe you and I can watch the music video in reverse and I can show you sometime… heh… Anyways, I don’t feel like writing anymore today. I’m going to have a snack and then go to bed… again. I’ll talk more tomorrow, alright? I still love you. Good night.

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