#why does my thumb look so inflamed and ugly

[cosmoglass]

“The unbosoming of an ugly duckling,” will be the title of all this nonsense. - Anne Frank, Friday 14th April 1944 Notes on 'The Diary of a Young Girl'

Saturday 19th February 1944 The giddy ups and downs of Anne Frank -

Tuesday 7th March 1944 Anne Frank’s advice for those in a state of melancholy -

She’s such a little philosopher, breaking down the flaws in her mum’s advice. Bet she annoyed the pants off the others in the Secret Annex simply by thinking critically and trying to discuss things. That’s why they harassed her with criticisms so much.

Thursday 23rd March 1944 Envious old guys tryna sabotage Anne & Peter, Peter blushing and Anne being shamelessly vain -

Monday 27th March 1944 Every resident of the Secret Annex is crowded around the radio listening to Winston Churchill making a speech. '... I am wearing a nightdress, which is much too small, too narrow and too short.' Anne doesn't say how she feels about this situation. She does say that 'Peter's eyes are popping out of his head' but she attributes this to the strain of listening to the radio.

Tuesday 28th March 1944 I like it much better if he explains something to me than when I have to teach him; I would really adore him to be my superior in almost everything.' DO GIRLS WANT YOU TO MANSPLAIN OR NOT?!

He longs to kiss you too, Anne. It's because he's afraid of rejection, embarrassment and shame.

Tuesday 4th April 1944 "Eva's Dream" is my best fairy-tale, and the queer thing about it is that I don't know where it comes from. Eva's Dream features a rose who is full of herself just like the flower in The Little Prince. The Little Prince had already been published but only six months before this diary entry and in America, not Europe, which means Anne couldn’t have read it.

Tuesday 11th April 1944 "Then they will find Anne's diary," added Daddy. "Burn it then," suggested the most terrified member of the party. This, and when the police rattled the cupboard door, were my worst moments. "Not my diary, if my diary goes, I go with it!" But luckily Daddy didn't answer. .......................... If we bear all this suffering and if there are still Jews left, when it is over, then Jews, instead of being doomed, will be held up as an example. Who knows, it might even be our religion from which the world and all peoples learn good, and for that reason and that reason only do we have to suffer now. We can never become just Netherlanders, or just English, or representatives of any country for that matter, we will always remain Jews, but we want to, too. ............................... For the remainder of this epic entry in her diary, Anne takes stock of herself and states some of her dreams for the future after the war is over. An indomitable spirit.

Friday 14th April 1944 "The unbosoming of an ugly duckling," will be the title of all this nonsense.

Sunday morning just before eleven o'clock, 16th April 1944 Poor darling Peter awkwardly fumbling his way towards kissing Anne on the ear. Anne in ecstasy.

Monday 17th April 1944 Dear Kitty, Do you think that Mummy and Daddy would approve of my sitting and kissing a boy on a divan - a boy of seventeen and a half and a girl of just under fifteen? I don't really think they would, but I must rely on myself over this. ............. To exchange our thoughts, that shows confidence, and faith in each other; we would both be sure to profit by it! Yours, Anne.

Wednesday 19th April 1944 It is so soothing and peaceful to feel his arms around me, to know that he is close by and yet to remain silent, it can’t be bad, for this tranquillity is good.

Friday 28th April 1944 First kiss on the lips.

Friday 5th May 1944 Anne shares what she intends to tell Daddy in defence of her right to go upstairs for a snog. Very forthright and long-winded. Poor Daddy. The next day, Pim (Daddy) reads it in a letter that Anne gives him and he's upset for the whole evening. Anne talks about it as if she's being grown up but I think she actually enjoys how much it upsets him, which is very childish. The day after that, Pim tells her how hurt he was by her words and Anne realises how obnoxious she's been and is ashamed of herself.

Wednesday 14th June 1944 Aged just 15, Anne works out the narcissistic defence mechanism that is projection and also understands how being far more self-critical than others has emotional and social consequences for her. She may be over-estimating how much of an inner life Peter has. He's not as brilliant as her and he may just simply not have those profound thoughts and feelings like she has -

Thursday 15th June 1944 It's not imagination on my part when I say that to look up at the sky, the clouds, the moon and the stars makes me calm and patient. It's a better medicine than either valerian or bromine; Mother Nature makes me humble and prepared to face every blow courageously.

Thursday 6th July 1944 I've so often thought how lovely it would be to have someone's complete confidence, but now, now that I'm that far, I realise how difficult it is to think what the other person is thinking and then to find the right answer.

Saturday 15th July 1944 I simply can't build up my hopes on a foundation consisting of confusion, misery, and death. I see the world gradually being turned into a wilderness, I hear the ever-approaching thunder, which will destroy us too, I can feel the sufferings of millions and yet, if I look up into the heavens, I think that it will all come right, that this cruelty too will end, and that peace and tranquillity will return again. In the meantime, I must uphold my ideals, for perhaps the time will come when I shall be able to carry them out.

Friday 21st July 1944 With her second last diary entry, Anne is over-excited from optimism about the trajectory of the war and very jokey. So tragic.

Tuesday 1st August 1944 I can't keep that up: if I'm watched to that extent, I start by getting snappy, then unhappy, and finally I twist my heart round again, so that the bad is on the outside and the good is on the inside, and keep on trying to find a way of becoming what I would so like to be, and what I could be, if... there weren't any other people living in the world.

EPILOGUE As for the two girls, they had been sent to Bergen-Belsen in Germany two months before their mother's death. There Anne showed the same qualities of courage and endurance which had already made her noteworthy at Auschwitz. In February, 1945, both the sisters caught Typhus. One day Margot, who was lying in the bunk immediately above Anne's, seeking to rise, lost her hold and fell on to the floor. In her weakened state the shock killed her. Her sister's death did to Anne what all her previous sufferings had failed to do: it broke her spirit. A few days later, in early March, she died.

................................................

“I want to go on living even after my death! And therefore I am grateful to God for this gift, this possibility of developing myself and of writing, of expressing all that is in me. I can shake off everything if I write; my sorrows disappear; my courage is reborn. But, and that is the great question, will I ever be able to write anything great, will I ever become a journalist or a writer?” - Anne Frank

Anne, you were wonderful, lovely and amazing, a great writer and a great person, and you always will be.

#anne frank #diary of anne frank #why does my thumb look so inflamed and ugly #melancholy #blushing #anne and peter #peter van daan #peter van pels #dussel #mr. van daan #winston churchill #nightdress #mansplaining #fear of rejection #ugly duckling #first kiss #narcissistc defence mechanisms #projection

[vodika-vibes]

Congrats on 500, love that's amazing!!!

If I could have Wolffe and Wmerald during spring that would be absolutely lovely.

My Choice Remains

Summary: After the attack that costs Wolffe his eyes, he’s taken to avoiding you. Luckily, you’re just as stubborn as he is.

Pairing: Commander Wolffe x Reader

Word Count: 717

Warnings: Wolffe is a little insecure here

Tagging: @trixie2023 @n0vqni @the-bad-batch-baroness (you love wolffe after all)

A/N: Sorry that this took so long! It kind of got...lost, in the shuffle of all of the other requests! T-T

“Found you!” You lean over so that Wolffe is forced to look at your face, and you note that he seems surprised to see you. To be fair, it is early enough that the sun is just barely peeking over the horizon, even the recently bloomed spring flowers are still sleeping.

The surprise fades quickly as he leans back to look at you, a stern look on his handsome face, “Found implies that I was lost.”

Your grin never wavers, “Weren’t you?” You ask as you plop yourself on the bench next to him and temptingly offer him the breakfast sandwich and caf you ordered for him specifically.

The sandwich and caf that you’ve been ordering every morning for the last month.

Wolffe glances at the food offering, and then sighs and takes the bag and the styrofoam cup, “I knew where I was.” He replies as he pulls the sandwich out of the bag.

“So you’ve been avoiding me then.” 

“...no.”

“You’re a terrible liar, Wolffe.” You reply as you take a sip of your own caf, “But that’s okay, I happen to think it’s one of your good traits.”

“I wasn’t avoiding you.” He counters as he glances at you.

“Really?” You lean over to try and look at his face, but he turns his head away from you, “Because, it kinda seems like you’re still trying to avoid me.” You shift on the bench so that your knees are touching his, “Is this about me agreeing to go on a date with Comet, because it wasn’t a real date-”

“No, it…wait. What? What date?”

“Oh. He didn’t tell you. Never mind.”

Wolffe finally turns to look at you, an unhappy scowl on his face. And you finally see why he’s been avoiding looking at you. The scar and cybernetic eye don’t detract from his looks, in your opinion, but you have the feeling that he won’t appreciate that comment. “What date?” He demands.

You roll your eyes, “It wasn’t a real date. Comet bumped into a cute little thing at the farmer’s market-”

“Comet goes to the Farmer’s Market?”

“Yes, he does. Stop interrupting me,” You chide lightly, “Anyway, she asked him out, and he freaked out and asked me to take him on a practice date so he doesn’t mess up too badly.”

“...how was the practice date?”

“Not terrible. Aside from the fact that he said that my haircut was ugly.”

“It’s not.”

You beam at him, “Yes, I know. Comet apologized right after he said it.” Wolffe hums and turns his head away from you again, or he tries to. You don’t let him, your fingers gentle against his jaw, “May I see, Wolffe? Please?”

The paper wrapper of the breakfast sandwich crinkles in his suddenly clenched fist, but he allows you to tilt his head so you’re looking at him properly.

The injury looks like it’s healed properly, it’s not red or inflamed. And the cybernetic eye looks like it’s working as well as his natural eye. You lightly trail your thumb over the scar, and Wolffe closes his eyes.

“I didn’t want to worry you.” He admits, gruffly.

“Well, you avoiding me made me worry more, Wolffe.” You point out gently, “I thought I had done something to make you hate me.”

He huffs out a laugh, his breath fanning across your face, “You could never.”

You hum quietly, “Did you think that I wouldn’t still find you attractive because of the scar?”

He’s quiet for a long moment, “...you did always like my eyes.” Wolffe finally admits.

“Silly man,” You lean in and press a light kiss just over the scar under his eye, “I like you. Everything else is just…window dressing.”

Wolffe sighs softly, “Was worried that you’d regret choosing me.”

You shake your head, “My choice, Wolffe, remains. You. Always you.” You lightly press your free hand against his cheek, so you’re cupping his face between your hands. “But I can be patient until you believe me.”

He sighs again, “Thank you.”

You beam at him, “Of course. That’s what it means to love someone.”

And the look he shoots you is so soft, and so adoring, that you know that you won’t have to wait long for him to realize that you’re not going anywhere.

#star wars #tcw #vodika-vibes 500 followers celebration #commander wolffe x reader #wolffe x reader #star wars fanfiction #x reader fanfiction #gn!reader fic #answered asks

[farafeys]

instant karma

my third, most recent fic (written as a comic on dl-6 day adapted to prose the day after), and the beginning of an au i’m currently VERY focused on haha

Characters: Gregory Edgeworth, Miles Edgeworth, Manfred von Karma, Blaise Debeste, Raymond Shields, Bonnie Young, Franziska von Karma, and Sebastian Debeste, mentions of various other investigations characters

2,242 words; no romantic relationships; spoilers for aa1/turnabout goodbyes, spoilers for investigations 2 specifically the backstory mentioned in the inherited turnabout/aai2.4; not-super-graphic violence but violence nonetheless

on december 28, 2001, gregory and miles edgeworth go home safe and sound. about a year later, von karma finds his revenge in a different way. 

(link to ao3; fic under cut)

December 28, 2001

District Court 7:00 PM

The long long trial had finally reached an end. Miles could still hear the old judge declaring Mr. Masters guilty as he and his father walked into the elevator to go home.

Mr. Masters wasn't guilty. He knew, because his father said he didn't kill anyone, and he even proved that that mean loud old prosecutor man had forced Mr. Masters to say he did it. It was infuriating. His father had taken the loss with grace, elegantly accepting the unfair, incorrect verdict.

Miles glanced up at his father. He didn't look upset, his usual strong gaze watching the floor numbers tick lower on the elevator display. Miles watched it too, trying to mimic his stoic expression.

Then in an instant everything changed.

he couldn't see everything was dark

the elevator LURCHED        they stopped moving

he heard a yell that wasn't his father was it that man with the official-looking hat he'd forgotten he was there

what was going on—

And the lights turned back on.

They flickered, then stayed constant as the elevator smoothly began its descent again.

Miles found that he was clutching his father's arm. He felt somewhat embarrassed; it had only been a second or two, and he was too old for such things.

Gregory placed a strong hand on Miles’ shoulder. If he was frazzled by that incident, his face didn't show it. With a small smile, he asked, “Are you alright, Miles?”

He glanced between the ceiling lights and his father's kind face. “Y-yes, the light just— just went out, Father.”

The security guard sharing the elevator with them leveled a neutral look at the father and son. He seemed to be breathing almost as heavily as Miles.

Gregory squeezed his son's shoulder. “I know, dear, it's all alright. That was frightening, though, wasn't it?”

Miles nodded solemnly.

After several seconds of quiet, there was a gentle ding. The elevator doors opened onto the ground floor and the occupants all made their ways home.

About three minutes later, the same elevator let out a man holding an expensive cane, wearing expensive clothes, and thinking livid things.

January 15, 2003

Criminal Affairs Department- Morgue 2:00 PM

A simple slip of the tongue, a moment of forgetfulness, the vaguest implication, and multiple lives were instantly in danger.

Dr. Bonnie Young flinched as the tall man on the other side of the table roared, “FORGED? ”

“Did I hear you correctly, woman!?” Her face soured and she steeled herself against the cold eyes of the veteran prosecutor.

“I don't know what you're impl-”

von Karma cut her off, “Dover's autopsy was doctored and I was not informed.” His nostrils flared. Unflattering, she thought. “Correct?”

Dr. Young's denial stuck in her throat. Failure to keep the secret could easily cost her life but in the face of such an accurate deduction the lie she had prepared evaporated.

Too enraged to give her time to improvise, von Karma turned on his heel. “Enough.” He said nothing else as he strode out of the morgue, slamming the exterior door.

January 15

Chief Prosecutor's Office 2:30 PM

Blaise DeBeste was infuriatingly unruffled as von Karma burst into his office as if he were trying to tear the doors off their hinges. It was even more so as he leveled heated, snide accusations of his meddling in the Masters case.

The Chief leaned his cheek into his hand, grinning.

“REALLY, I got no clue what yer talkin’ bout, Manny. Are ya implying I'm at fault for that penalty last year?” His hands flapped lazily in rhythm with his words.

DeBeste reached up to adjust his ugly driving goggles. “Ohh, just the idea brings tears to m-”

“Do not condescend to me, DeBeste,” von Karma hissed. He leaned over onto the desk, getting into the other's space. By chance, his right hand brushed over a custom-made letter opener; the handle was custom engraved with a favorite phrase of Blaise's, 'previligium fori ’.

Manfred von Karma was not aware of this engraving. He was barely aware that there was an object in his hand, let alone a lethal one, as he gripped it unconsciously, fingers clenching as a means of sweating out desperate rage.

DeBeste, however, did notice this. His eyes narrowed, watching his hand as the other continued, “No one fools Manfred von Karma.” He was leaning far enough over the desk that spit flecked Debeste's face with every consonant.

DeBeste leaned back in his expensive swivel chair, glanced at the hand holding the letter opener, and took his favorite cigarette lighter out of his pocket.

“... Are ya threatening me, Manny? Cute.” He flicked the fire on and off, speaking to von Karma but not looking at him.

“What exactly are ya gonna do to the Chief, huh?” He glanced up once to smirk at von Karma's contorted expression. “Unless you wanna disappear?”

Several seconds of silence other than the subtle flick - whoosh - flicks of the lighter.

von Karma by now recognized that he was brandishing a small knife, and the idea of a simple and quick out to this problem was very enticing. He held onto perspective, the knowledge that they were in the Prosecutor's Office and that this man was more indestructible than even he himself, for a tense and chafing while.

The threat hanging in the air, inflamed by the nonchalant arrogance of its creator, felt like a string stretched taut over a quivering knife.

Somehow, something in the mind of that enraged man snapped.

In less than a minute’s time, Blaise DeBeste's assistant ran into the room at the sound of a pained shout. In less than ten minutes’ time, Manfred von Karma was handcuffed after being caught by a perfect witness with perfect evidence. In less than ten seconds’ time, and for the next five hours until all the evidence was documented, Blaise DeBeste's custom-made letter opener was lodged 4 inches into his heart, only previlig- visible over his bloodied chest.

January 15

Detention Center 7:30 PM

Ray stood nervous outside the visiting room door. He usually accompanied Mr. Edgeworth while talking to potential clients, but he had said that this visit was more a courtesy than anything, and he doubted they'd actually be hired. Knowing what he did about the man in question, Ray was glad both that they wouldn't be working with him and that he wasn't a part of this current conversation. Still, he was anxious for his mentor.

Inside, Gregory Edgeworth was enduring an unpleasant but, he thought, necessary conversation.

On the other side of the safety glass, Manfred von Karma sneered at him. “Don't make me laugh.”

His arms were crossed haughtily. “Defend me? Why not just spit in my face, Edgeworth?”

Gregory sighed and ran a thumb along his hat where it rested on the sill below the glass.

“Does the possibility of the death penalty not worry you?” von Karma's eyes flicked from his face to his extended arm. His glare deepened. “Everyone deserves an attorney, even you, Prosecutor von Karma.”

Gregory waited several seconds while the other glared at him, almost searchingly. Perhaps his words actually got through to him?

von Karma swallowed, then huffed a contemptuous sigh. “Leave now.”

His tone allowed no argument. Gregory stood, retrieved his hat, and bid the murderer farewell with a small nod.

January 16

District Court: Courtroom no. Three  10:21 AM

It was not a long trial. It made sense, what with how perfectly decisive the evidence was. The prosecutor called Dr. Young to explain the forgery of Isaac Dover's autopsy report, the subsequent reveal of which enraged von Karma to the point of attacking the man responsible for it. A perfectly precise motive.

Less than an hour and a half after the trial opened, with only three witnesses, the judge was ready to declare a verdict. There was no objection from the defense, as von Karma had refused the public defender offered to him, and had remained silent, glowering in the defendant's chair, the entire morning.

Despite how one-sided and clear-cut the proceedings had been, there was a tense anticipation in the moments before the verdict was called. As the judge's booming voice called out, “Guilty,” something just too sour to be relief filled the courtroom air.

Gregory and Raymond sat in the gallery a few moments past the time the rest of the audience had begun to make their way out. Just the two of them had come together, even though Katie Hall and Miles had both expressed strong interest in seeing the trial (Kate had a performance she couldn't cancel, although she asked Ray over the phone to tell her about the trial later; Gregory refused to let his son meet Manfred von Karma again, even at his murder trial, and even besides that pointed out that it was a school day.).

Just as the two of them got through the lobby into the main atrium of the courthouse, there was a quick tapping sound behind them, then a gentle hand on Gregory's shoulder.

“Excuse me, Mr. Edgeworth?”

“Hmm?” Gregory turned around. The person who had stopped him, her hand now again at her side, was the prosecutor who had just convicted von Karma, Ms. Werther.

She spoke again, “You were the lawyer that got a penalty against him, right?”

Gregory assumed that she meant von Karma. He nodded. Raymond hovered behind him, watching over his shoulder.

Prosecutor Werther smiled a bit and jiggled the papers in her hand. The wind from it ruffled her impressively large ascot and coiffed white hair.

“There's been an issue no one at the Prosecutor's Office could help me resolve. Both von Karma and DeBeste had small children- a three year old girl and a very little baby boy, just over a year.” Her glasses were too thick to see her eyes and her posture was neutral, but a tremble in her typically steady voice betrayed strong feeling.

“None of us want them to go into the foster care system, especially not when they're fathers were our co-workers (...however corrupt). But they don't seem to have willing relatives.”

“But!” her voice got several shades brighter, “I remembered that your son observes your trials! I've met him during recesses, he's a very polite child. I thought, since you're a parent and already connected to the case, you might know what to do.”

Ray looked between the two lawyers. It was a little odd hearing this lady ask his mentor for advice about kids, especially since she looked quite a bit older than Mr. Edgeworth. Her hair reminded Ray of his grandma.

Prosecutor Werther cleared her throat. “Regardless, do you have any advice about these children?”

Gregory stayed quiet a few moments, his hand on his chin. “Prosecutor Werther,” he began. “... What are these children's names?”

January 15

County Social Security Office  6:57 PM

“That's the last of the paperwork! All the best to your family!” The man behind the agency desk gave Gregory a tired smile and handed him carbon copies of the documents.

“Thank you,” Gregory replied, doing the best he could to give a farewell nod at the same time as tucking away the papers with the sleeping Sebastian in his arms.

As far as adoptions go, Gregory may have set a record for speed. Thanks to the thorough work of Prosecutor Werther, gaining the official approval of a judge for Gregory to take in both Franziska and Sebastian was very much painless. Most of the day had been spent speaking with the children themselves (who were not in attendance of the trial but had been supervised at the courthouse during it), then dealing with the many and varied tedious kinds of paperwork. The whole process would have taken much longer without Werther's help in the groundwork and legal aspects, and Raymond's youthful energy and support, as well as his attempts to entertain a stressed, bored three year old girl.

As Ray saw Mr. Edgeworth returning from the desk to the waiting room, he sprung up from his chair and offered Franziska a piggyback ride. After some barbed questions and several tiny slaps to his arm, she agreed and was on his back by the time her new father was ready to leave.

They made their way to Gregory's car. He had offered to drive Raymond home that morning well before all this, and reiterated it several times over the afternoon. He felt no need to repeat it again now.

“...Thank you for helping me all day, Raymond, it was entirely above and beyond the expectations of your position.”

Ray laughed and hopped a little to keep Franziska from sliding down his back. She whined tiredly but said nothing. “ 'Course, Mr. Edgeworth! Ha, Miles is in for a big surprise in a bit, isn't he?”

Gregory internally winced for a moment. Aside from not yet telling his son about this significant change to their lives, he hadn't called him after being out all day. It wasn't unusual for him to be out late and Miles was both very capable and used to this, but it still weighed on Gregory's mind. He certainly wouldn't be able to try that trick anymore; he well remembered how much attention toddlers need, not to mention a 16-month old like Sebastian. Perhaps he'd be spending more time at home with Miles now.

“... Yes. A good surprise, I hope.”

#instant karma au #ace attorney fanfiction #gregory edgeworth #manfred von karma #blaise debeste #im never consistent w the capitalization of the name debeste and i dont.. feel like fixing it lol #gregory is a GOOD DAD!!!!!

[william-arden]

Holding On

“Daya? Daya, come on!” Daya looks at me from across the bustling terminal. I can’t read her expression. One month ago, I would know everything she was thinking at a glance. Now I’m not so sure. “Daya!” I beckon to her. “We need to move.” She plods towards me, eyes downcast, and rests her head on my hip. “What is it? Are you tired?” She nods at me. I sigh and rub the back of her head. “That’s why you were meant to sleep on the plane, silly. Do you know what time it is in America? It’s noon. You can’t sleep at noon.” She plonks her rear end over my knee. “Come on, lazybones,” I accuse. “Get up. We need to hurry.” In response, Daya wraps her arms around my thigh and winds her small legs over my shin. “Oh, don’t do this now, Daya,” I plead. “The hotel Ma and Ba booked for us won’t let us in if we’re late.” Daya’s tiny fingers tighten their hold on my knee. She screws her eyes shut. That’s how I know that she won’t budge unless I leave her no other option. I roll my eyes and slowly start to lift my leg up. Daya shrieks and tumbles to the ground. I smile, then I notice the eyes tracking me from around the airport. Eyes that quickly come to rest on Daya’s sunken nose and melting eyes. “Fine, Daya. You get your way, just this once. I’ll carry you. Ready? 3… 2… 1.” I pick her up and heft her onto my shoulders, supporting her legs under my arms. She relaxes on my back. “Okay,” I mutter to myself. “Where was I…” “Shnghugh… shnghew,” Daya snores. I can feel her small chest puff on my shoulder. I grimace. “Hey. Hey! I’m letting you sleep on my back. What do you say?” “Thanks, Tani,” she breathes softly in my ear. Daya has gotten better at eating. I remember the first few days after the accident. She’d dangle her spoon over her mouth and tilt the rice in so that she didn’t have to touch the inflamed areas around her lips. I could tell her mouth hurt from opening it so wide, but she never complained. In later weeks, her mouth wasn’t so sensitive, but she was still slow and careful. Now she almost looks normal as she eats. Daya notices me staring and cocks her head. “Is the curry good?” I ask quickly. She nods. Continues eating. After Daya’s scraped her plate clean, I carry her over to her bed and tuck her in. Her room is wide and neat, with her bed placed tightly in the very corner of the room so she can see out the window on the opposite side. It’s a wide view overseeing the speckled lights of the city. My room is identical to hers, except my window’s view gives away nothing of the city except the bland flat wall of an opposite skyscraper. Daya huddles under her sheets. She’s still wearing her orange polka-dot jacket from the plane trip. I don’t even want to imagine how bad it will smell tomorrow morning. “Tani?” I pause at the door. “Yes, Daya?” “We’re seeing the doctor tomorrow, right?” My hands drop by my side. “Yeah. But don’t think about that right now.” “Will he be able to fix my face?” “Your face doesn’t need fixing, Daya, it’s…” My tongue falters. I hesitate. “Um, the doctors over here have a better chance of helping you than anybody else in the entire world.” She blinks at me. I hate it when she does that. It feels like she knows exactly what I’m thinking. She rolls over and closes her eyes. “Goodnight,” I murmur. I close the door gently behind her. After I’ve showered and brushed my teeth, I collapse in front of the TV and switch to the baseball. Ma and Ba have always wondered why I love baseball so much. They ask what exactly is interesting about watching people swinging bats at balls and running around fields. They’re huge fans of cricket though, so I don’t think they can talk. The only teams playing are at the bottom of the ladder. I watch it anyway. I don’t know exactly when I dose off, but I wake with harsh white light shining in my eyes and an incessant tapping at my shoulder. “What is it, Daya?” I mumble. “Can I sleep on the couch with you?” “No. That’s gross.” She climbs on anyway and snuggles up next to me. I’m too tired to protest. “Why are you up so late?” I murmur. “Couldn’t get to sleep.” “What were you thinking about?” Daya doesn’t respond immediately. I can tell she’s mulling a thought around in her head. Eventually she says: “Tani, why does my face have to look so ugly?” I frown and turn around. “Daya, your face isn’t ugly, it’s-” “That’s not what I mean,” Daya says huffily. “I mean, why did my face have to be like this?” I twist uncomfortably. “Well, Daya… It’s the acid-” “That’s not what I mean either,” Daya complains. “I’m asking, why did it have to happen to me?” I think about it for a bit. “You mean, why you, out of everyone?” “Yeah.” “I don’t think there is a reason. I think it was random. I think you were just unlucky.” Daya curls up beside me. “That’s just not fair,” she mutters quietly. It sounds petty, but I know exactly what she’s trying to say. I wrap my arms around her. “No, Daya. It’s not.” “Wow!” Daya gapes. I sigh. “You’re so childish.” She’s staring at the ferris wheel rotating slowly in front of her. Her feet shuffle a little so she’s facing me. For once, I know exactly what she’s thinking. “I’m not going on it with you,” I say quickly. She puffs her lower lip out. “Nope. I’m not doing it.” Her eyes shimmer. I slump. “You’ll be the death of me.” Ten minutes later we’re a hundred metres above Arizona. Daya pokes her head out over the edge. Her small hands grip the poles. She stares across the red-rock plains, watching the sun shine through festering clouds and the shadows shortening over the dirt. She’s practically salivating with glee. I relax at the back of the carriage. I’m never going to admit to Daya that I’ve never been to an amusement park before, and that even the sight of the ferris wheel made my heart jitter. I’m handling the ferris wheel well though; I don’t even feel like throwing up. “That was cool,” Daya proclaims as we finish our third rotation. She jumps out and turns back to face me. “Where else should we go?” I know she’s not waiting for a response. Surely enough, she answers her own question and drags me to an empty stall. Inside is a double-seat wooden cart on top of a rickety pair of rails. I sit at the far end of the carriage and pull the safety strap tight around my waist. Daya plonks herself besides me. I handled the ferris wheel. I can basically handle anyth- Wham. It takes me a few seconds to realise that, without warning, the cart had rocketed backwards out the back of the stall. I’m too busy screaming. Daya laughs and holds her arms above her. “Oh my God we’re going to die,” I manage breathlessly. I try to sweep my hair out from my mouth and eyes, but it sticks there. “This is awesome!” Daya yells. The cart goes upside down. My stomach turns. My fingers go white clutching the side of the carriage. Wind roars in my ears. “This is the coolest thing ever!” Daya exclaims. After five minutes, once the contents of my stomach have stopped doing somersaults inside me, I strictly tell Daya that we aren’t going on any more rollercoasters. We stroll around the shops for the rest of the morning. More and more people clutter the park. The day becomes hotter, and I feel moisture start to prick the back of my neck. I wonder if Daya catches the looks passers-by keep shooting her. She doesn’t return their gazes. I wish I knew what she was thinking right now. Once upon a time, I’d know every single thought in her head. Now I’ve lost track of them. We’re due at the doctor’s in less than thirty minutes. I’m sweating. Not just because I’m nervous. Its midday now, and the sun is glaring down on us and sucking the air dry. Our small cramped rental car simmers with heat. Sweat layers my arms and trickles down from my forehead into my eyes. The rattly air conditioner is meant to be on full blast, but I don’t think it’s working. Daya doesn’t feel the heat like I do. She’s peering excitedly over the dashboard at the cars hurtling by, chewing at the orange strap of her jacket. She’s never been on a motorway like this before. She presses her face up against the window and stares in fascination at the city outside. I wipe my brow and drum on the accelerator impatiently. The doctor’s office is a welcome reprieve from the sun. Cold air engulfs me as I enter. We wait for almost five minutes for the doctor to come out, but it feels like forever. My foot taps rapidly on the floor, a bad habit I picked up in the early days after Daya’s accident. Eventually the doctor peers out from his office and beckons us into the room. I inhale and squeeze Daya’s hand. We walk into an office with dark lime carpet and clean white walls. The doctor is standing by a modern glass desk.  He doesn’t flinch when he sees Daya’s face like most people. I suppose he has seen worse. “You’re Daya, I hear?” Daya nods timidly from where she’s loitering by the door. She hides her hands under the sleeves of her dotted orange jacket. “Come on in,” he invites. “I don’t bite.” I’m too nervous to roll my eyes. The doctor sits down opposite us and smiles gently at me. “And you’re Tanima.” “Yeah.” “My name’s Dr Matthew Jones,” he says smoothly. “I heard about you two from your mother back in India.” He shakes my hand. His grip is firm. “You’re here about the acid attack on Daya, correct?” I nod. “Please, sit down.” I brush my hair back and sit. “So, could you outline exactly how the incident occurred?” I glance uneasily at Daya, who’s fiddling with her thumb. I don’t like telling this story. I don’t even recite it to Daya, in the hope it won’t stir up bad memories. “The family was all in the car together,” I say shortly. “This boy we didn’t know came up to the open window. He was holding a bottle of acid, and he threw it over Daya. It went all over her body, but… mainly her face. That was where the damage was.” “And how long ago?” “Almost five weeks.” The doctor stands and strides over to Daya. “Is it possible to reverse the damage done to her face?” I blurt. He crouches. His eyes scan Daya’s face. The seconds stretch on. I clear my throat. “Well?” The doctor reaches out and touches her scalp. He looks Daya in the eyes. “Daya, do you feel that?” Daya’s eyes flicker up at the hand resting on her forehead. “Talk to me, Daya. Can you feel my hand?” “No,” Daya mutters. “We realised it a few days after it happened,” I explain. “Her forehead isn’t sensitive to touch anymore. We think it’s-” He stands suddenly. “Daya, could you please wait outside?” he interrupts. Once the door is closed, the doctor looks me directly in the eyes. “Tanima, do you know why she can’t feel her face anymore?” “I… not exactly.” He sighs wearily. “It means the nerve endings are damaged. That’s an indication that the acid burn was severe. That it permeated the layers of her skin.” “But it can still be fixed, right?” “Ordinarily. In a usual patient, the dead skin cells must be removed and replaced. It’s not easy, or cheap. Unfortunately, Daya would be under too much risk if she took that operation.” My lips feel numb. “Why?” “Because she’s young. In many circumstances, an acid attack to a child that young would have killed them. As it is, there’s too much danger in meddling with her skin again before she’s at least 8 years old.” “We travelled all the way out to America to see you for this,” I tell him. “You can’t just say no.” “Tanima, I’m sorry. I know how much this means to you-” “There’s got to be an alternative,” I insist. “Maybe there’s a safer operation out there. Or maybe your diagnosis was rushed.” “Tanima-” “There have got to be doctors who know this field better than you. I’ll talk to them about it.” “Tanima!” I realise I’m trembling. “Tanima,” Dr Jones says, quietly this time. “I’m sorry, but there’s no way to treat Daya. Maybe there will be in a few years. Maybe we’ll have the technology to do the operation. But right now, it’s impossible.” It feels like there’s lead in my throat. I look him dead in the eyes. “So, what? You’re saying that Daya will have to live like this for the next few years.” “I’m afraid so.” “Okay,” I say quietly. “Okay.” Thunder growls from the dark jagged clouds above. Water slathers down on top of the windshield, smothering the car windows and the roof. “What did he say, Tani?” I don’t respond. My eyes track the road intently. “Can he fix my face, Tani? Can he?” “Your face doesn’t need fixing, Daya, I told you that.” “But can he make it better?” I don’t look at her. “Tanima!” I veer the car off the motorway into the mud and screech to a stop. Our tyres grate in the water. “Don’t yell at me when I’m driving!” I demand. Daya crosses her arms. “I won’t, if you tell me what the doctor said.” “Not now, Daya!” Daya sits back and crosses her arms. I scowl and slam my foot down on the accelerator. The car lets out a painful grumble, splutters and stays completely still. “Oh, you have got to be kidding,” I mutter. I twist the key and slam my boot down on the pedal, this time to no response at all. “Work, you useless thing.” Rain drums down on the roof. I hit the glovebox in frustration. “The car’s dead.” “When are they going to fix my face, Tani?” “Be quiet!” I shout, but I make the mistake of meeting her eyes. She blinks at me, reads my expression. Her body stills. She looks down at her shoes. I bite my lip. My foot’s tapping incessantly on the floor again, and I consciously force it to stop. I pull out my phone and am about to dial an insurance company when I hear the seatbelt unlatch and the door click open. I frown and look backwards. “Daya?” The door slams closed, leaving behind a vacant backseat. “What are you doing, going out into the rain? Daya!” I yell. I barge my door open and stagger into the belting rain. Torrents of rainwater stream down from the car roof and drench my shirt, which clings tight to my chest. I pull my boots through the sludge and my eyes scan the dark road. I can’t see Daya anywhere. “Daya, stop being immature! Where are you?” A car roars past. Gutter water sprays up from the wheels, and showers me in grime. I splutter and spit out dirt. Filthy water drips all over my face. “Dhat,” I curse. I stagger round the side of the car and glimpse Daya’s orange polka-dot jacket in the tall grass. I storm over and glare down at her. “The doctor can’t fix my face, can he?” Daya says in a small voice. “That’s irrelevant. Get in the car, right now!” She curls up into a tighter ball. “Answer me.” “Daya-” “Answer me!” Daya screams. I shudder. Suddenly I can feel the rivulets of water running down my cheeks, the chill curdling in my bones. Daya never screams at me. I softly lower myself down into the mud next to her. I wind my fingers around hers. Her hand is warm, even in the frigid rain. She doesn’t look at me. Her good clothes are soaking and dirty, and her scarf is covered in muck. I take her messy wet hair in my fingers and braid it. It’s difficult, and my fingers shudder in the cold, but I do a half-decent job. Once I’m done, I pull her orange hoodie over her head. “Well?” she demands. “No,” I tell her gently. “He can’t. I’m sorry.” She looks at me with her weepy crescent eyes, still half-closed from the acid attack. I put my arm around her shoulders. We stare out at our broken-down rental, and the indifferent cars speeding along without any notice of the two Indian girls sitting in the mud. “Life really has it in for us, doesn’t it, Daya?” Daya’s shoulders quake. Without answering she tumbles into my thigh and buries her face in my lap. I stroke her as she trembles. Above, the clouds give out another belch and spit rain down on top of us. It doesn’t matter. We keep hold of one other. 2921 words

[gingrichvisualnarrative17]

reading response 3/11

THE VOICE OF THINGS

~thinking about;; general impossibility of accurate conceptual translation when a text is so fully about the richness of its language— the general (obvious) difficulty of translating poetry to get meter and definitions to match

~”Disclaiming any taste or talent for ideas, which disgust him because of their pretension to absolute truth, he abandons ideas and opts for things.” Are these mutually exclusive? Are ideas necessarily rooted in a presumption of truth?

~poems in paragraph form, not a form I’m used to seeing.. addressed in into though, “Written in prose, the orderly lines, grouped familiarly on the page in everyday paragraphs, suggest immediate communication. Even the language, at first glance, seems to be the language of everyday. “

~thinking about;; the importance of titles in poetry

~”It is within this seed that one finds —after the sensational explosion of the Chinese lantern of flavors, colors and perfumes which is the fruited ball itself—the relative hardness and greenness (not entirely tasteless, by the way) of the wood, the branch, the leaf; in short, the puny albeit prime purpose of the fruit. “

~Fire: “Fire has a system: first all the flames move in one direction . . . (One can only compare the gait of fire to that of an animal: it must first leave one place before occupying another; it moves like an amoeba and a giraffe at the same time, its neck lurching, its foot dragging) . . . Then, while the substances consumed with method collapse, the escaping gasses are subsequently transformed into one long flight of butterflies. “

~”I am easily convinced, easily dissuaded. And when I say convinced, I mean if not of some truth, then at least of the fragility of my own opinion.” — such a good distinction

~”Passing off one's opinion as objectively valid, or valid in the absolute, seems to me as absurd as maintaining, for example, that blond curly hair is truer than straight black hair, that the song of the nightingale is closer to the truth than the neighing of a horse.” Is preference tied to truth? It seems it doesn’t have to be, but maybe I’m just being dense??

~”Why is there this difference, this unthinkable margin between the definition of a word and the description of the thing designated by the word?” That idea of a word as representation of a concept— Plato’s theory of forms, the word is not the thing, but a representation of it, therefore imperfect, incomplete, and open to interpretation. Also language/definitions are cultural (speaking within a language, not between different languages) the definitions and understandings of words are in as much flux as ideas are, the language is constantly shifting, people’s experiences shape their understanding of words, and slang/vernacular move language and definitions forward. Not just in adding words but in adapting preexisting words.

BLUETS

~thinking about;; use of italics— creating a code or system for your writing that isn’t necessarily on the same page as typical use, but also not so far from it it becomes indecipherable

~”I admit that I may have been lonely. I know that loneliness can produce bolts of hot pain, a pain which, if it stays hot enough for long enough, can begin to simulate, or to provoke-take your pick-an apprehension of the divine.” — divinity in the pain of loneliness— very romantic

~thinking about;; I love this text!!?! this is beautiful and sad and so so TANGIBLE in a way I can’t totally explain??? I wish I could be more eloquent and maybe later I will be able to but currently I can only articulate that I love this text and can feel it in my body and through my blood and I don’t know why

~”On my cv it says that I am currently working on a book about the color blue. I have been saying this for years without writing a word. It is, perhaps, my way of making my life feel "in progress" rather than a sleeve of ash falling off a lit cigarette.” yesyesyes

~”But why bother with diagnoses at all, if a diagnosis is but a restatement of the problem?”

~numbering sections— makes it a cohesive piece that clearly has an order but also allows it to be parsed out and taken in bits and pieces, while always keeping in mind that it does exist in a greater continuous context, but is not fully reliant on its situation within the larger whole

~”It was around this time that I frst had the thought: we fuck well because he is a passive top and I am an active bottom. I never said this out loud, but I thought it often. I had no idea how true it would prove, or how painful, outside of the fucking.”

~"What are all those I fuzzy-looking things out there? I Trees? Well, I'm tired I of them" — incredible last words

~”And what kind of madness is it anyway, to he in love with something constitutionally incapable of loving you back?”

~”If he hadn't lied to you, he would have been a different person than he is. She is trying to get me to see that although I thought I loved this man very completely for exactly who he was, I was in fact blind to the man he actually was, or is.” amazing !!!

~”that if what I was feeling wasn't love then I am forced to admit that I don't know what love is, or, more simply, that I loved a had man. How all of these formulations drain the blue right out of love and leave an ugly, pigment-less fish flapping on a cutting hoard on a kitchen counter. “

~”What seems clear enough: in 304 AD Lucy was tortured and put to death by the Roman emperor Diocletian, and thus martyred for her Christianity. What is unclear: why, exactly, she runs around Gothic and Renaissance paintings holding a golden dish with her blue eyes staring weirdly out from it.”

~I just bought Maggie Nelson’s book Argonauts on Amazon— I swear I saw it before but I forget the context?? Maybe when I was looking up queer lit to buy for Sarah…

~"What good is my peek at her pubic hair if I must also see the red lines made by her panties, the pimples on her rump, broken veins like the print of a lavender thumb, the stepped-on look of a day' s-end muff ? I've that at home." << what a gross thing to say, William Gass !!

~”Loneliness is solitude with a problem.”

~”Mostly I have felt myself becoming a servant of sadness. I am still looking for the beauty in that.”

~”Eventually I confess to a friend some details about my weeping-its intensity, its frequency. She says (kindly) that she thinks we sometimes weep in front of a mirror not to inflame self-pity, but because we want to feel witnessed in our despair. (Can a reflection be a witness? Can one pass oneself the sponge wet with vinegar from a reed?)” !!!!!!

~ I love the word cogent

~”the romance of seeking”

~I just bought this book on Amazon even though I am reading the PDF right now— why do I do this

~”to see blue in deeper and deeper saturation is eventually to move toward darkness.”

~”The Oblivion Seekers” by Isabelle Eberhardt