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anotherwonderfulmistake · 2 months ago

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When I was a kid, I asked my family what it was like to fall in love. They said it was wonderful and terrifying. They said it made you feel more vulnerable than anything else ever could. I said I hoped I never fall in love. Being vulnerable is the worst. I thought I understood what they meant. I really, really didn't.

I've been to many, many therapists over the years. Social workers, too. I've opened up to the wrong people, I've opened up to the right people at the wrong times, I've opened up to the right people at the right times. I've been held and pushed away and comforted and mocked. I thought I knew what being vulnerable felt like. I've had years of experience. I've had people draw back at my openness, I've had people welcome it, and I've had people abuse it. One would assume I know what vulnerability is like, right? That I'm used to it?

Wrong.

Because when you notice the scratches on my hands, the bruises on my arms, it feels intrusive. You know when I don't like someone because you've analyzed the shift in the tone of my voice. You know my hands shake when I'm anxious. You can tell by the face I make when I've thought of a dirty joke. You've scrutinized every little part of me, every little quirk I have, and I have never felt so incredibly threatened.

Because you see me. I thought I knew what being vulnerable felt like, because I've been vulnerable many, many times before. But not like this. Up until now, my vulnerability had been a choice. I had control over it. I chose who could see those little things, and who couldn't. I revealed them myself.

I never revealed anything to you. You figured it all out by yourself. You read me like an open book. I used to consider myself fairly transparent until you went and shone a light into the crevices of who I am. Now I realize I was never transparent, I just pretended to be so people wouldn't dig further.

But you, insolent fucker that you are, strolled right past the barriers I'd carefully put in place, whistling innocently. How dare you? How dare you make me miss you when you're not there? How dare you make me sad when you don't respond to my messages? How dare you touch me oh so casually, put a hand on my shoulder, pat my head, slap my thigh, in a way I've never seen you do with anyone else, in a way I'd never comfortably let anyone else, and make it feel like the most natural thing in the world? Do you even understand how difficult it is for me to let anyone touch me without flinching? How hard I have to clench my teeth to keep myself from scurrying away before they even get the chance to reach me?

How dare you invade my space, put your face so close to mine, without understanding how fast I'd shove away anyone else who gets that close to me?

How dare you show up in my dreams? How dare you make me see you in every post I see about couples and relationships? How dare you become my favourite topic of conversation? It's ridiculous. I'm twenty-three years old, for christ's sake, I'm not a hormonal fucking teenager, so why are you making me act like one?

I hate it. I hate knowing you. I hate knowing that you have two sisters, that you're the youngest, that you've been an uncle since you were fifteen, that you have two nieces and one nephew, that you love otters and that your favourite f1 team is Alpine. I hate knowing that you unfortunately never inherited your family's propensity for art, that you go to the museum often enough to have a museum card, that you feel a little lost in life because you haven't found your calling, what you want to do for the rest of your life. I hate knowing that you call your family every weekend. I hate the startling realization that before joking about these things at work, thinking that if you'd told me, surely you had told some of our other coworkers, too, I was the only one who knew these little pieces of trivia about you.

I hate how it made me feel special. I'm not special. I'm just the only one who went out of their way to badger you with questions. But if you hadn't wanted to tell me, you wouldn't have, right?

I hate how you think the immediacy of my responses when you text me is only due to the fact that I have no social life. I hate how badly I want to tell you that it's not true, that no matter what I'm doing, who I'm with, I will drop it all to text you back. I hate how I'll drop it all to text you back.

Did you know that when you're absent, people ask me where you are? Did you know that our boss went out of her way to tell me when you were taking your break in case I wanted to take it with you? Did you know that people assume we stay in touch on the weekends? Did you know that our coworkers have often referred to us as the siblings of the warehouse? I hate how we're not really as close as they seem to think we are.

I hate how giddy it made me when the dumb little gift I got you for your birthday made you laugh. I hate how happy it made me when you said you were keeping it in your locker so you could see it first thing in the morning everyday. I hate how no matter what mood I'm in, the sight of you always tempers the storms in my head. I hate how I can't keep a grin off my face when we interact, even when you poke fun at me. I hate being called short or fragile, even my friends have pointed out that none of them could say it without fearing for their lives, so why the fuck do I smile when you do? It's completely illogical.

I hate how you called me a child, and how when I got defensive, you had the audacity to breezily retort that you never said it was a bad thing. I hate how that rendered me speechless. I hate that with those eight little words, you turned my entire world upside down and healed wounds I had been carrying around for nearly two decades, and I especially hate how you didn't even notice. Just continued shopping for candy, thinking all was right in the world.

It wasn't.

It isn't.

You're a tsunami towering over me and you're about to crash into the shores of who I thought I was, destroying all the work I put into building the foundations of my identity. The worst part is, I can't even find it within myself to try and stop you.

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anotherwonderfulmistake · 3 months ago

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Dear Anxiety,

I know you mean well. Really, I do. You want to protect me, right? Just like you did when we were kids.

Like when you’d hold my hand and pull me back when I’d get too close to an edge. I’d rip my hand out of yours and play along the line of recklessness and injury anyway, too busy being curious to listen to your warnings. Like when you taught me to grab the handrail when I use stairs to avoid a bad tumble. ‘But it slows me down!’ I’d tell you, barreling thoughtlessly towards a sprained ankle that still reminds me, twenty years later, what it’s like to crash down a flight of stairs. Like when you taught me how to tell when a horse is about to bite me. Or kick me. Like when you taught me that having a tooth pulled out hurts, and the dentist pulls out teeth, so the dentist is out to hurt us and we need to escape him at all costs.

Like when you taught me that being whacked in the face by a jump rope at full speed hurts like absolute hell, and we should never try jump rope at recess ever again. I was stubborn. I didn’t listen to that one. I’d keep trying, and keep getting whacked in the face.

Like when you taught me that stumbling over my words while reading something aloud in class causes mass hilarity amongst my peers. You told me to never speak again in class. I didn’t understand why.

Like when I told jokes, made gifts for my friends, asked to play with them, and was met with blank stares, side eyes, and silence.

I was a stubborn child. A naive, blind, foolish child. All these years you had been warning me, but I had been too busy being a child to see. But when I finally understood that there was no cousin called Max, that it had been me all along they had been calling fat, ugly, stupid, boring, weird, everything suddenly sharpened into focus. Laughter was cruel. Humiliating. I stopped speaking in class. Eventually, I stopped speaking everywhere. You taught me to erase myself, because no one can laugh at me if they don’t remember I exist. You also taught me to ignore the sharp pain of being forgotten. You taught me so well that it became nothing more than a dull ache. It made its home in my joints, around my ligaments, melded with the calcium in my bones, pulsated along with my growing pains.

You taught me to fear loud noises, because they angered my mother, so I learned to be as quiet as a person could be. I learned to find solace in my headphones. You taught me that people get impatient and irritated when I struggle—or worse, they laugh, so I learned to never learn anything new in front of anyone, because people don’t like it when I’m not immediately good at something. It frustrates them. It bothers them. You taught me that when my parents argue, it is always about something I did wrong, so I learned to listen to their shouting matches, because that way, I could figure out what not to do. You taught me that tears bring nothing but contempt and belittling, that needing help is wrong, because ‘you’re smart, honey, you should be able to figure this out on your own’, so I learned to swallow it down, be strong, smile, wear red clothes to hide the blood, and I learned how to be alone.

I was born in a game in which everyone knew the rules but me, the floor was a minefield, and any wrong step would lead to my pulverization. You were the only one kind enough to hold my hand and teach me how to avoid the mines. You taught me survival and adaptation. You taught me how to hold pain in my bones and anger in my muscles, how to stitch a pleasant smile onto the rotting face underneath, how to hold my voice steady when all I want to do is scream.

You wanted to protect me and you did, Anxiety. You really did. You kept me alive. I will always be thankful for that.

… but I’m not walking a minefield anymore. The game is no longer life or death, win or lose. Life is no longer a game, it just is. I am not alone anymore. You do not need to protect me anymore.

And yet you are still here, and your embrace is no longer warm—

It is threatening—

Like claws sinking into the back of my neck—

Like a snake tightening around my chest—

And you make me feel like a bird in a cage. I can see my wings, I know I can fly, I see others fly, soar amongst the clouds, and I want to go with them, feel the freedom, the wind in my feathers, the sun on my face, but I am shackled to the ground.

I have lived alone for three years, and I still flinch, still get short of breath, my heart still starts hammering beneath my rib cage when my utensil drawer closes loudly, or when I drop a pot, or when I forget to keep my front door from slamming shut. I still wait for my mother’s ire. Silence terrifies me. I cannot leave my apartment without headphones. The very idea of it makes my eyes zone in and out of focus, makes me shake uncontrollably, very nearly brings me to tears. It is mortifying. I have stopped learning anything new, because nothing is worth learning if I am not naturally good at it. It is not worth doing if I am not the best. I fucking hate that. I want to learn everything, I want to do everything, my curiosity is infinite, and I am constantly destroyed by the realization that this need of mine will never be fulfilled. It will fester behind my eyes, maggots in my brain, and I will collect pointless interests like they’re fucking pokemon. You have made me selfish. You have made me think the world revolves around me. Whenever I hear conversations around me, I listen in just in case they’re talking about me. If someone is in a mood, I ask what is wrong, but not because I care. Because I want to know if it’s my fault. If it’s something I can fix. You did such a good job at teaching me to be independent that needing help feels like a failure, makes me feel like I’m worthless. Not being alone is vertiginously frightening. Being perceived is nightmare fuel, I think I liked it better when I was utterly forgettable and invisible—

But I don’t want to be like that anymore. One cannot know the rewards of being loved without subjecting oneself to the mortifying ordeal of being known. And what’s the point in surviving if I don’t leave a handprint on the wall? In a hundred years, a thousand, a million, that handprint will be the only thing left of me. The only proof I ever existed. I should make sure every line of my fingerprints has a story. I owe it to the stardust in my veins.

I no longer know how to scream. Your hands are pressed against my mouth. The chains of my self-control are in my hands, but you are holding them closed.

I understand. I understand why you guard me so jealously, so ferociously. I understand why you snarl and bark and bite at any semblance of peacefulness. You want to survive. It’s all anything wants. Even the bad things.

But you need to let me go, because you are drowning me, and if I do not surface soon, you will have died anyway.

I know you’re scared. If you’ll let me, I’ll take you by the hand and show you the world isn’t such a scary place. I’ll teach you. Just like you taught me. Deal?

#anxiety disorder #anxiety #depression #healing

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anotherwonderfulmistake · 4 months ago

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There’s a guy at work who I think may have a crush on me. I’m not too sure. I can’t tell. Some days I think he does, because he play fights with me, teases me any chance he gets, and he’s touchy with me in a way I’ve never seen him be with anyone else.

Some days I think he doesn’t, because he pulls back, doesn’t talk to me as often, barely looks at me, and avoids my playful gestures like the plague.

Some days I think he does, because he looks at me a lot, because he lets me stick my hands on his arms to warm them up when there’s no one around, because he’s forced himself to stay awake to send me reels for hours on end to help me fend off my crowd anxiety, because he notices when I snap a rubber band on my wrist.

But some days I think he doesn’t, because he pulls away and says he doesn’t care when I tell him my hands are cold, or that I’m tired, or that I haven’t eaten, and he laughs when I trip or knock into things.

But then he makes me laugh when I don’t feel good. He confiscates my rubber bands when I’m anxious. He scolds me and tells me to stop hurting myself when I drop a box on my face, or when I fuck up an articulation. He tackles me all the way to my locker when I don’t leave work on time.

It’s all very confusing. When he’s not at work, I’m the point of reference when people want to know why he’s absent. I guess they assume I’m the person he’s closest to, and I would know. I don’t see why. He seems to talk to other coworkers more than to me. Maybe they see something I don’t.

I may be right. Maybe he does have a crush on me. Or maybe I’m completely deluding myself, reading into things that aren’t there. I mean, I’m aromantic, so what the fuck would I know about the signs of someone crushing on me? Everything he does are things I do with all of my closest friends. I care fiercely for them. I watch over them like I’m their bodyguard, and I’m the first person to take the piss out of them when they do dumb shit. And I’m touchy with everyone I’m comfortable with. So maybe that’s just it. Maybe he’s just being friendly.

But what if he isn’t? I’m aromantic, I don’t have a sense of the normal boundaries of a friendly relationship versus a romantic relationship. In my eyes, everything I do is inherently platonic, but it isn’t to every body else. Not when I cuddle my best friend when I wake up in the morning, not when I kiss him on the forehead when I want to comfort him, not when I play with my friends’ hair, or hold their hands, or rub their backs, or get them gifts and food and invite them places and pay for the hang-outs. Not when I lay my head on their shoulders or lean on them when I’m tired. For me, this is all normal, but it’s not for anyone else. What if it isn’t for him? What if it means something more? What if all these things I do caused these feeling I may be imagining? What then?

I think I want him to like me. To want me. To love me.

Only… I don’t. Well, I do, but not that way. I don’t think I’ll ever like him that way. It’s unfair. I want to have a crush on him so badly. I want someone to hold my hand, I want someone to kiss me, I want someone to invite me on dates, tell me I’m pretty, do all the things couples do. I want to find out what that’s like, and I want to find out with him. He’s probably the closest thing I’ve ever had to actually having a crush. But I don’t like him like that. I just want to know what it’s like to be wanted.

It’s all so frustrating. I want to ask him if he likes me. I want to ask, but I don’t, because I’m absolutely terrified.

What if he says yes and breaks my heart, because I’ve just lost someone I care about much, much more than I would care to admit in front of anyone we know? What if he says no and breaks my heart, because I’ve just had the crushing realization that even if I wasn’t aromantic, I’m just not worth the effort?

But I hate the feeling of being out of the loop. I hate not knowing which version of him I’ll work with that day. I hate not knowing why he threw that empty water bottle at our coworker when I sat down next to him during our break to show him funny videos and she made a comment about our closeness. Was it because he was embarrassed or because he doesn’t appreciate shipping jokes with someone he doesn’t see that way? I hate the knowing glances our colleagues send each other when a new employee asks if we bicker like this every day; what are they seeing? I hate the feeling of being on the outside of the joke, of knowing I’m missing a variable in the equation, but being wholly unable of finding out what it is and solving it.

Maybe I’ll just ask. Rip the band aid off. My heart will break either way, so what’s the point in torturing myself with confusion?

#aroace #aromantism #arospec #crush #aromantic

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anotherwonderfulmistake · 4 months ago

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Sometimes, I'm jealous of babies. I'm jealous of how they're nothing but a mess of emotions, emotions as big and devastating as tsunamis. Kids feel everything so damn deeply, viscerally. I'm envious of that. Here these assholes are, parading their feelings around like it's nothing, while mine stick to my lungs like a boa clings to its victim. I've choked them back so long that I've forgotten how to feel them. My happiness sits at the edge of my words, always just out of reach. My sadness resides in my throat, pushing against my airways, straining my vocal cords; and my tears hang stubbornly from my eyelashes, frozen, suspended in time, waiting for a sun that will never come to melt them. My anxiety is coiled around my chest, squeezing, tightening, cracking my skin, boiling my blood, splintering my ribs, wound so tightly that my heart struggles to beat. My fatigue is a fog, blurring the edges of my vision, blurring the edges of my brain, making me question my every step, am I even still on the path, or will my foot meet engulfing emptiness the next time I put it down? My anger stains the inside of my lungs like cigarette smoke, pushing against the anxiety keeping them prisoner, pulling air in again and again despite the sadness choking me, fuelling me with spite and defiance, forcing my muscles to work, to drag my feet forward, one after the other, in a never-ending race away from the overwhelming pain that threatens to tear me open the second I slow down.

I hate my anger. I hate the only part of me that loves me, that refuses to see me giving up, that knows I deserve so much better than what I was given. I hate it because it bites and it snarls and it's ugly and it keeps yelling at me to get back up, that I'm stronger than this, that I have to keep going, because I don't want to anymore. I don't want to fight anymore. I want to sink to rock bottom and get cozy in the ruins of who I should have been. If I climb back up, I'll just get knocked right back down, so why not just... get comfy? It makes sense in my head. It might not in yours. But who cares what you think, right?

Right?

How come I only care what you think when I'm feeling better? Being at rock bottom is strangely freeing. It feels like I'm saying fuck you. Fuck you to all of you who made me feel small. Shackled. Silenced. Broken. Alien. Fuck all of you. You wanted me down? Well, here I fucking am. Congratulations. I have become nothing more than a carcass, so come feast, vultures. Rejoice in the knowledge that this is your fault. Pick the flesh of my bones, tear apart the ligaments of my failed potential, of my worthless brilliance, of my not-quite-good-enough resilience. Choke on the poison of my resentment. Choke on my rotten emotions. Choke on the venom and vitriol of the words constantly swirling around my head, poke out my eyes and watch the maggots erupt out of them, and know that each and every one of them was put there by you. By your parents, by your parents' parents, and by their parents before them. Understand this. I am angry at you. Not for what you did to me. Not for what your parents did to you. I am angry because you closed your eyes and let the maggots fester.

My anger loves me because it knows. It knows that this is not my fault. That I never asked for any of this. To be who I am. To be set apart from society by damn near every part of my identity. To be the result of generations of mould and poison and fear. To have my destiny written before I was even born, to be chosen as the warrior when I would rather be the poet. It knows and it will not let me stop until I have reached the end of the line. The edge of the written. Until I can carve my own path, choose my own destiny.

So fuck you, and you will not find me amongst the shadows of what I could have become. I will keep walking, and I will peel off my skin to hack away the rot in my bones. I do not know how much of me will remain afterwards. I do not know if what stays will be better than who I used to be.

But I will be alive.

That's something, isn't it?

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anotherwonderfulmistake · 7 months ago

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“I am betraying my entire kingdom right now! For a godforsaken rhaeyyis!”

Nayaris growled low in her throat and her eyes glinted, but Callahan went on.

“A conduit—”

“Faelin.”

“—a creature whose very existence goes against everything I believe in, against all that’s natural in the world, something I have hated and been trained to hate my entire life, trained to eliminate at all costs, and I’m not even sure I made the wrong decision!”

Nayaris remains silent, unsure of whether she should comfort him or scream at him. Hug him or pull out a weapon. The part of her brain that notices that his skin is bare, smooth, free of the notches hunters carve into their skin for every faelin they kill definitely isn’t helping. Neither is the fact that despite everything they’d been through, he still didn’t trust her enough to leave that vial of poison behind. When she tilts her eyes back up at his face, he’s closer, breathing labored, anger twisting his features into an ugly scowl and igniting his eyes. Nayaris instinctively tenses her fingers, ready to fight.

“Why did you have to do it, huh? Why did you have to go and save my life? Why couldn’t you just leave me there to die and wither away like I would’ve done? To mock me? Torture me? Was it fun for you, having a hunter at your beck and call, forced to protect you? Did it satisfy your hunger for revenge when you forced me to get to know you, your family, your culture, when you ripped me away from my comfortable, simple life and split the world apart beneath my feet? Was it all a cruel joke?”

Anger courses through her veins like fire, setting her skin ablaze—how dare he reduce everything to nothing? Act like it was easy for her? Pretend her nightmares never happened, pretend she hadn’t let herself be used and enslaved by his kingdom for months on end because she was terrified to bring him into Faelin territory?

“No, I—”

“Then why?” he demanded.

“Because I don’t choose who gets to live and who dies!”

Callahan staggers back. Her words, the unwavering conviction in her voice pierce his heart like an arrow shot with deadly precision. He can’t keep his eyes from drifting to the scar on her jaw, the one his people had put there, the one that gave her ample reason to hate him and his entire country, the one despite which she decided to save him, despite which she offered him a kindness his own kin hadn’t. Shame coiled inside his stomach like a snake.

But Nayaris wasn’t done. Her ire had her bursting at the seams, ignited her veins with an eerie amber glow, sent her hair flying in a wind that wasn’t there a minute ago.

“I am more natural than you or your magic wielders will ever be, I can feel the earth breathe, I can hear its heart beat. I can hear its song. I see the magic woven into the world, linking every single thing, every being together, and I can tug at the fabric of creation in a way you will never understand. My people have existed long before you, or what you consider ‘acceptable’ magic, were even an idea, and we will long outlive you, no matter how you hunt us down.”

Strings of amber glow stretched from her feet, her hands, her hair, her eyes, unfurling like hungry hands reaching for scraps, weaving intricate, pulsing webs of light in the ground, the air, the trees, breathing as one, responding to everyone of Nayaris’ movements. But instead of watching the sky, the forest, surveilling his surroundings or preparing to defend himself from the overt threat Nayaris poses right this second, Callahan is stuck watching her eyes. Her amber slitted eyes, still so… human, despite their animalistic nature. They betrayed her anguish, her fear, her pain, all the things she oh so desperately attempted to hide through snark and malice. And, despite himself, despite everything he believed to be true, everything he clung to to remain sane, to keep from falling into the madness and chaos of her oceans and depths, Callahan thinks she’s the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.

“We could pretend to be gods, we could be gods, crush every one of you like you’re nothing, make your kingdom—the entire world bow at our feet, worship us, fear us. Yet all we ask is that you leave us in peace, and you are incapable of granting us that. You put us down like dogs because you don’t understand us, and that scares you, and you think your fear lets you choose who lives and dies.”

Callahan is only dimly aware that the world has gone haywire around them, trees ripped from the ground, rivers overflowing, bellowing, skies blood red. He only notices the nebulas erupting all around her, violent bursts of stunning, vivid colors. He watches generations of resentment, torment and dread flash across her face, and can only understand why the stars answered her call.

“Yet we, who have watched our people, our family, fall to people like you, who have seen our kind cower in fear, have witnessed our own brothers and sisters kill themselves to escape you because they wanted their death to be their own choice, saw you, struggling and alone, oh so alone, and helped you. We would have run. We would have let you rot away and die, but she couldn’t. We screamed, we begged, we tried to tear her away from you, but she couldn’t bear the thought of leaving you to suffer and becoming that monster you accuse us of being. She has too much respect for life. She is too good. She is what we were, what we should be, and it will bring her nothing but death.”

And then, as if nothing had happened, the world went back to normal. The skies return to their dark, soothing blue, the trees root themselves back into the ground, and the water recedes back into its riverbeds. Only the nebulas remain, fading slowly as Nayaris blinks, stretches her fingers, settles back into reality. The pulsing webs of amber dissolve, but Callahan knows she can still see them. She can always see them. She can probably see the string that links them, too. The strings that link every Faelin to the hunters who massacre them. And with that, the last of his resolve, his hatred and anger, his sanity wilts away like a dead flower.

“I should hate you,” he says.

“You should,” she answers.

The silence that ensues stews between them, and Nayaris, still reeling from the force of her own emotions, was too shaken to break it. It hadn’t been her ancestors who summoned the chaos and the stars—it was her, her will, her anger, her pain.

“I should kill you.”

Callahan shatters the quiet first. Nayaris stares, searching his face, his eyes. She doesn’t know what she’s looking for. But she does what she always does, and issues a challenge.

“Why don’t you? You saved my life, the debt is paid. You’re no longer bound by the soul pact. You can do whatever you want to me. Maybe I’ll even let you, make it easy for you.”

But he doesn’t rise to the challenge. When he looks at her, all Nayaris sees in his sunset eyes is weariness. She doesn’t like it. It makes all the residual anger deep-rooted in her bones rot away, smashes away the rest of her walls, leaves her bare and vulnerable.

When he steps in closer, she doesn’t back away. She stands her ground as the smell of leather and pine trees envelops her, as he pulls the vial of poison from his belt and holds it up between them. She watches as he sighs, drops it to the ground, and crushes it under his boot. The blood inside it sizzles when it touches the dead leaves and branches, and Nayaris is too surprised by the gesture to quip.

“Because I don’t want to.”

Callahan’s fingers hover over her face, slowly tracing the lines of her cheek, her jaw, her neck in the air.

“I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to. Not really. Not you, or any of them. I think that’s why I’ve never felt like I belong, why I never carved my kills into my skin. But… I’ve never known anything else. It’s you or us, kill or be killed, the belief that you’re wrong and need to be eliminated is beaten into us from the moment we’re born. Tales of the monsters who alter reality at will are used to scare kids into obedience, and our heroes are the ones that decimated you. My life has been violence and lies and death since the day I was born, until I met you.”

Nayaris listens, still as a stone, barely even breathing, because she’s scared that if she so much as flinches, it’ll fracture their little bubble of universe, the alternate dimension where there may be more than animosity between them.

“My squad left me to die, but the creature I was hunting saved me. I know deceit like the back of my hand, but you never lied to me. I was raised to be stoic, unperturbable, uncaring, strong and unfeeling, but you wear your emotions on your face, in your eyes, your heart on your sleeve. You cared so much you followed me into enemy territory and let yourself be used to hunt down one of your own because you didn’t want to potentially endanger your family, because you knew I would’ve had to follow you wherever you went.”

His voice breaks, and Nayaris has to fight the urge to smooth the creases in his eyebrows out with her thumbs, to hug him and make all his worries melt away.

“I hated it, I hated you, tried to villainize you, I was terrified of the fact that you felt like fresh water after weeks in a ruthless desert, like the summer sun after the cruel bite of winter, like a salve on a fresh burn. I tried to convince myself you’d simply altered my feelings, bent my reality to protect yourself, but then I met your family.”

The words come spilling out of him like air—rushing out of his lungs after holding it in for too long. Nayaris doesn’t think he’s talking to her, or even remembers she’s there, inches away. It feels like he’s just throwing the words out into the world, to be carried away by the wind and into the stars.

“I met your family, your people, the adults, weighed down and shackled by the burden of surviving in a world that doesn’t want them, and the children, too young to know anything other than joy and curiosity. I watched your virtue and the respect they have for you open their eyes, let them see past the hunter, past the violence and the fear, see the person underneath it all, a stranger to myself still. And where I expected to feel threatened, helpless, I was instead met with generosity and understanding. It was more violent than anything I’d ever experienced. I’d never heard kids scream and laugh so loud without being reprimanded for acting improper before. I kept waiting for the ball to drop, for the illusion to shatter, but it never happened. I expected cruelty and darkness, but instead I found music, freedom, warmth and I fell in love with all of you. With the kids too busy just being to bother with things like tact or being appropriate, with the fact that the first interactions I had with any Faelin I met were offerings of food, because, apparently, Kheorisian food is drab and flavorless and they wanted me to leave Laelith with the knowledge that I’ll never enjoy food again because it won’t be as good as theirs. I loved the fact that they tried to disguise their innate kindness with malice knowing it would fail miserably, but doing it anyway because letting me go hungry was never even an option. I loved the fact that this altruism was probably the result of years of your warmth influencing them. Because you are sunshine, Nayaris.”

He’s looking right at her now, grabbing a strand of her hair, lightly brushing the skin near her ear and sending shivers down her spine. He twirls it around his finger, straightens it out, lets it fall, and watches it bounce and settle against her shoulder.

“You’re the sunshine that nobody knows they’re missing until they feel it on their skin, until it frees them from the shadows they live in, until it feeds their soul and gives them a reason to live rather than just survive. You’re the sunshine people spend their entire lives chasing, and Gods, it is terrifying. And I won’t do whatever I want to do to you, because the things I want to do to you…”

Callahan breathes in deeply, holds it for a couple of seconds, then breathes out. His eyes roam around Nayaris’ face, landing on her eyes, her eyebrows, her ears, her nose, her dimples, tracing out every freckle, as if committing her face to memory, before finally stopping on her lips. And for all her life experience, Nayaris still doesn’t know what to do with the feeling of mourning his absence, the space between them, when he’s standing so close.

“Well, I don’t think I could ever let you go after, and that wouldn’t be fair to you,” his voice is reduced to a whisper, the words hanging in the air, mist in the cold night.

“What if I let you,” Nayaris whispers back.

“Don’t. Don’t say things like that. You’ll make me believe I deserve you. Standing this close to you without touching you is already torture enough.”

“You—”

But before Nayaris can say anything, Callahan steps away, and it feels like someone stole the air from her lungs. The sudden absence of the heat radiating from his skin leaves her shivering in the cold autumn night. Callahan wordlessly throws her the one blanket he had time to pack before they ran away, and wraps himself in his cloak, curled up next to the fire. Nayaris holds the blanket tightly around herself, tries not to think about how it smells like him, and eventually falls asleep plagued by nightmares of an entirely different nature than what she’s used to.

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anotherwonderfulmistake · 1 year ago

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Ne détourne pas le regard.

Zéphyr n’aimait pas cette partie. Ça la dégoûtait.

Tu ne dois pas détourner le regard.

Elle devait regarder. C’était son devoir, de regarder. Elle devait rester immobile et impassible, ravaler sa mésaise alors que les cris de désespoir d’une mère impuissante lui vrillaient les oreilles.

Détourner le regard est une faiblesse, et tu n’es pas faible.

Elle devait rester indifférente et froide alors que le sang tachait murs, visages, poings et âmes. Elle devait rester passive, un témoin désintéressé alors que la peur et la détresse suintant de cette chambre aux murs moisis par une jalousie et violence rampantes refermait ses griffes sur son thorax, perçant sa peau pour aller s’enrouler autour de ses poumons.

Tu es forte, Gardienne.

Elle devait regarder, tandis que son corps trahissait son stoïcisme à chaque tressaillement incontrôlé au sourd bruit d’un coup qui atteignait sa cible. Seul le goût métallique du sang se répandant dans sa bouche ne lui indiquât qu’elle avait mordu ses lèvres.

Tu ne dois pas intervenir.

Chaque soubresaut de la petite silhouette recroquevillée à côté de son lit—ayant précédemment essayé de se cacher en-dessous—électrocutait les sens de Zéphyr, envoyait toujours plus d’adrénaline à travers ses veines. L’image du petit dragon en peluche abandonné sous le lit, arborant les marques d’antérieures explosions de colère évoquait en elle un tel besoin d��agir, un tel désir de faire subir à cet homme ses plus atroces fantaisies qu’elle n’eût aucun autre choix que de fermer les yeux, de désobéir. Elle n’avait jamais su suivre les règles, de toute façon.

- Je m’attendais à ce que tu sois plus grande.

Ses yeux se rouvrirent d’un coup sec. Ses iris vermillion se vrillèrent sur l'enfant qui l’observait, regard brillant remarquablement dépourvu de la familière peur qu’elle retrouvait si souvent dans les yeux des pauvres âmes qu’elle récupérait. C’était logique, d’une certaine façon, sinon un peu macabre. Quand l’on passe sa vie à avoir peur des vivants, le monde des morts apporte un certain soulagement.

Mais ce n’était pas de la résignation que Zéphyr distinguait dans son frêle visage—non, ses yeux ambrés reflétaient une curiosité enfantine dont la Gardienne ne comprenait pas l'existence. L’enfant lui tendit la main, un sourire que Zéphyr jugea déplacé dans la situation actuelle étampé sur ses lèvres.

- Mon nom c’est Raph. Toi?

Zéphyr ne put s’empêcher de jeter un coup d'œil au vide que l’homme avait laissé derrière lui après avoir terminé sa laide besogne. Seuls les sanglots chevrotants de la mère, penchée par-dessus le corps inerte de son fils, brisaient le silence morbide de la pièce. Un sourcil relevé, son regard retomba sur ledit Raph. Semblant comprendre la question, il lança une oeillade vers sa mère, pour n’ensuite que hausser les épaules et répondre :

- Elle m’a jamais défendu.

- Zéphyr, déclara la Gardienne, en prenant la main du jeune garçon.

Raph lui lança un autre sourire éclatant, et celui-là ne sembla pas aussi étrange que le premier. Elle le lui aurait retourné, si cela n’avait pas été de la main qui s’enroula subitement autour de sa cheville.

‘S’il-vous-plait,’ entendit-elle supplier. ‘S’il-vous-plait…’

Zéphyr baissa les yeux et aperçut la mère de l’enfant, s’accrochant désespérément à sa cheville, comme si cela changerait ce qu’il venait d’arriver. De chaudes larmes avaient creusé leur chemin à travers les ecchymoses qui marbraient sa figure, que Zéphyr devinait avoir été magnifique, il était un temps. Raph et elle avaient les mêmes yeux, nota la Gardienne. Ses implorations devenant de plus en plus fiévreuses, Zéphyr estima ne plus avoir bien de temps avant que la situation ne se dégrade. Elle avait déjà trop tardé. Percevant la fatigue mal dissimulée de la trop jeune victime, elle le pris dans ses bras. Elle lui murmura des chansonnettes oubliées depuis des siècles jusqu’à ce qu’il ne ferme les yeux.

Elle aurait dû partir. Elle le savait. La compassion était un trait dangereusement humain, et elle était une faiblesse. Zéphyr n’était pas faible. Elle ne devait pas être faible… Mais comment pouvait-elle ignorer les pleurs hystériques de la pauvre âme qui venait de perdre sa raison-d’être? Doucement, en s’assurant de ne pas réveiller la jeune âme dans ses bras, elle se pencha vers la jeune femme qui se cramponnait à sa jambe. Elle lui écarta les cheveux du visage et lui laissa un baiser sur le front.

- Je m’occuperai bien de ton fils, je te le promets, lui dit-elle, avant de délicatement retirer les membres qui lui entravaient les jambes.

Zéphyr n’avait aucun doute qu’elle reviendrait bientôt chercher son âme. Et quand jour viendra ou elle réclamera enfin l’âme putride qui aura éteint tant de lumières resplendissantes, elle s’assurerait qu’il souffre comme il les aura fait souffrir.

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anotherwonderfulmistake · 2 years ago

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Nori Valtameri

Nori was born in the 18th century, twenty years after the start of the Salem witch trials. She was born to one of the many women rescued and turned into sirens when their world turned on them, thus marking the first generation of nixies—sirens with an innate ability to perform magic. Come to life under a sky dark as ink, Nori was an oddity from the start. As witches and sirens both drew power from the Moon, a child born under a new moon was unheard of. Many considered leaving her behind, thinking this meant she would be too weak to survive—but many more decided against it, remembering the sting of abandonment and betrayal—and unwilling to inflict that pain on a child.

To the surprise of many, Nori grew to be a force to be reckoned with, her magic more powerful than any witch had ever been before. She could manipulate the weather as she pleased, create waves the size of mountains, shapeshift into anything she wanted, and communicate with beasts of legend—even control them, to some extent. She had a deeper connection to the Earth and the Elements than ever witnessed by anyone in her tribe. That was not all, though. After all, she was not born only to witches. From sirens, she inherited the enchanting voice, the deadly beauty, and the subtle art of subjugating her victims into doing whatever she wanted. But, just like the magic, she was powerful in a way sirens never hoped to be. Everything was exacerbated, subjugation, for example, turning into full-blown mind control. Nobody knew quite what to attribute her unusual strength to—her being the first of a new species, or her being unconstricted by the presence of the Moon?

Her mother liked to claim it was because her eyes reflected the stars.

Nori grew up hearing stories of Land Dwellers—or "humans", as her mother called them. She saw the bitter hatred shining in her elders' eyes as they talked about them, as they taught her that these were jealous, cruel creatures. That they would not hesitate to slaughter her at the slightest inkling ofotherness she might display.

Nori grew up warned to never go near their land, to never go near a human.

Nori grew up scolded whenever she would go too close to a boat and hissed at whenever she would gaze longingly at a land she was not allowed to explore.

Nori grew up dreaming of walking on two legs like her elders once did; dreaming of the forests that would go on for miles and miles, of the mountains that reached up so high that their peaks were lost amongst the clouds; dreaming of the humans. She wondered how such insignificant creatures—such vulnerable little creatures, could hurt her mother so deeply.

Nori dreamed so she did.

One night, on a Full Moon, as her tribe left for the rituals, Nori snuck off. She swam far, further than she had ever gone before, and reached a beach. She dragged herself to a tree, grimacing as she felt sand and grime collecting under her scales. She waited in a bush as she dried off, praying to Selenaia that her shapeshifting was not limited to the Ocean.

She awoke to a teenager staring at her, asking her why she was naked. He took her hand and took her to his home, talking the entire way. Nori didn't understand the language, but she thought it was beautiful. He handed her clothes and laughed when she didn't know how to put them on.

Nori spent two years there. His family took her in, cared for her, and taught her English. She would feel guilty sometimes when she heard her mother's song desperately calling out to her. Sometimes, she would even long to sing back, togoback, but she knew that they would never let her come back if she did—and there was too much to see to risk it.

Overall, she was happy on the land. Everything was new, and it was exhilarating.

... Until it wasn't.

Until the person she'd considered her best friendsaw. Until the day he saw her clearing dark, angry skies, calling forth the sun to offer him a beautiful, flawless sky for his birthday. It was always raining on his birthday, he'd said, a twinge of sadness tinting his voice. Nori thought it would make him happy.

It didn't.

It made him angry.

It made him scared.

Nori remembers the word "witch" ringing inside her head. She remembers how time seemed to slow. How she stood still as He ran and came back, villagers behind him. How she stood still, toes in the sand, clouds coming back and lightning tearing through the sky. Nori remembers how it felt like lightning was tearing throughher.

Nori remembers how it was raining.

She remembers a spear piercing her abdomen, blood spilling through her clothes, her legs giving out, and his eyes. His beautiful blue eyes, the eyes that reminded her of the Ocean, reminded her ofhome, staring at her, anger and fear obscuring them in a way she wished she'd never seen. Those were the eyes her nightmares tortured her with.

Nori remembers how it always rained on his birthday.

She understands now.

Nori doesn't like humans. She never did. Nothing was ever going to change that.

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anotherwonderfulmistake · 2 years ago

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Druxatzia

Druxatzia is a long-forgotten name. A legend. A relic of a world few remember ever existed. It was the name the Gods gave it—back when the blood of the fallen stained earth and oceans alike so many centuries ago. I've often asked myself whether they ever regretted giving their children such a stunning world to walk upon—only to bear witness to the horrors subjected to it. I've asked them, too, to no avail. The Gods don't answer to the likes of me. Or, maybe, the memory of it all is simply too painful to talk about. Rumour was, a long time ago—millennia ago, when my world was still kind and forgiving, it had another name; one that reflected its beauty and riches, one that reflected the generosity and love of each of its people. I don't know if it's true. I don't care to know, either. It's irrelevant. I was made in Druxatzia—a crimson, burning world, abandoned by its creators, and waiting—yearning to swallow those too weak to stand on their own.

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anotherwonderfulmistake · 2 years ago

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Is it alive?!

Fascinated, Elwin carefully examined the delicate creature framing Zeph‘s ear. He’d never seen an ear cuff like that—so intricate, lifelike. [description of the ear cuff—a silver dragon wrapped around her ear] [it moves and huffs indignantly at Elwin before wrapping itself back around Zeph’s ear]

“What the fuck—”

[Elwin topples over and falls on his ass] [everyone is laughing]

“She doesn’t like being stared at,” Zeph says with an amused grin, before handing Elwin his sword. “All fixed!”

“Is that thing alive?!” When he made no move to get up or take his sword, Zeph grabbed Elwin’s hand and hoisted him up. They brushed the dust off his clothes while Elwin was still reeling from what he’d just seen.

“Well, yes and no. In the literal meaning of the word, no, she’s not. She’s dead.”

“… but it moved? How did it move if it’s dead?!”

Zeph softly chuckled and worked on adjusting Elwin’s scabbard and fitting it with the new blades and knives they had made for him. “She is a spirit. Her body is dead, but her soul inhabits this.” They pointed to what Elwin had mistaken for a simple piece of jewelry.

“… but that’s impossible. Spirits can’t embody material objects on their own, they’re not powerful enough, that takes some serious spirit mojo.”

Zeph raised an eyebrow. “Yes, it does.”

[as the realization dawns over Elwin, his jaw drops]

“You… you’re the elf? The spirit elf?! The one I was hired to—uh, well…”

“Kill? Yes. That’s me.”

“Oh… well this is awkward.”

“It’s really not. Most of us were hired to kill her too.”

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anotherwonderfulmistake · 3 years ago

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L'absurdité de la situation

« T’aurais pu m’aider. »

« Je—Je—Je suis désolé Max, je ne suis pas programmé pour me battre. »

« Mais j’sais tu moi esti, t’aurais pu avoir une idée ou un conseil, quelque chose! »

« Si—si vous regardez bien où vous allez—où vous allez en marchant et que vous avez l’air déterminée, il y a de très bonnes chances que les personnes autour de vous se tasseront de votre chemin. »

« Ouais, ok, j’vais essayer ça la prochaine fois que je me fais éclater la gueule, merci, » ricana Max entre deux grognements de douleur.

« Content d’avoir pu aider—content d’avoir pu aider—content d’avoir pu aider. Désiriez-vous répondre à un sondage? »

« Non. »

« Comment avez-vous trouvé votre service aujourd’hui? »

« Atroce. »

« Super! Nous nous adaptons constamment à vos besoins; vos commentaires et suggestions nous aiderons à mieux vous servir et seront grandement appréciés. »

« Apprend le sarcasme, » siffla-t-elle, souffle coupé par une pointe de douleur particulièrement cuisante.

« Merci pour votre participation! Vos demandes seront considérées durant notre prochaine mise à jour! »

« Criss de machine minable… »

Max pensait enfin pouvoir mourir en paix quand l’androïde sembla user de ses dernières minutes de batterie, mais ses espoirs furent brefs—celui-ci se redressa et reprit vie, grands yeux vides d’expression fixés sur le mur en face de lui. Sa tête s’inclina vers la droite quand il aperçu l’abdomen plein de sang de Max—comme pour simuler la curiosité. C’était probablement une tentative de rendre les robots un peu moins… robotiques, avait-elle supposé après l’avoir vu pour la première fois; malheureusement, le geste était bien trop artificiel et mécanique pour évoquer quelconque grain d’humanité.

« Bonjour, je suis l’androïde 657, à votre service. Vous me semblez être incommodée. Pourrais-je vous aider? »

« Nooooon, j’suis pas du tout incommodée, tous les humains ont des blessures gigantesques dans l’estomac! »

« Bonjour, je suis l’androïde 657, à votre service. Vous me semblez être incommodée. Pourrais-je vous aider? »

« Ramène-moi dans un hôpital, putain de tas de ferraille croupissant! »

« Content d’avoir pu vous aider. Désiriez-vous répondre à un sondage? »

J’ai froid.

« Va te faire enculer. »

On est en été pourtant; pourquoi est-ce que j’ai si froid?

« Désiriez-vous répondre à un sondage? »

Je m’en rappelle, aux nouvelles ce matin, la fille de météo disait qu’aujourd’hui serait la plus chaude journée de la saison… peut-être qu’elle s’est trompée.

« Mais tu vas te la fermer un jour, ta sale gueule? »

Peut-être que si je prend une sieste, j’aurai moins froid…

« Désiriez-vous répondre à un sondage? »

Max tâtonna à l’aveuglette autour d’elle pour trouver quelque chose—n’importe quoi—qui pourrait lui servir de projectile. Elle ne trouva que les (brass knuckles) ses agresseurs avaient utilisés pour lui broyer les côtes. Elle haussa les épaules, un geste qui sembla dire « eh, c’est mieux que rien », avant de balancer l’objet dans la direction générale de l’androïde. Enfin, ce qu’elle pensait être la direction générale de l’androïde. Sa vision était trop floue pour être fiable. Elle ne sut qu’elle avait atteint sa cible qu’avec le son grotesque de la collision qui brisa le silence tranquille de sa ruelle. Sa victime inclina sa tête vers la gauche et cligna des yeux deux fois—de la perplexité, peut-être? Ou de l’incrédulité… c’était quoi la différence, déjà?

« Désiriez-vous répondre à un sondage? »

Si aujourd’hui avait été une bonne journée, Max aurait ri à l’absurdité de sa situation. Mais aujourd’hui n’était pas une bonne journée, et elle ne pensait qu’à dormir.

À quelque part dans le cerveau embrumé de Max, l’alerte rouge sonnait. Quelque chose ne marchait pas, mais elle n’arrivait pas à mettre le doigt dessus…

« Désiriez-vous répondre à un sondage? »

Est-ce que l’androïde s’était éloigné? Max ne l’avait qu’à peine entendu, cette fois.

« Je suis toujours là, Max. »

Une autre alarme. De peine et de misère, elle leva ses mains pour se retirer l’ouate des oreilles, mais sa confusion ne fit qu’empirer quand elle se rendit compte qu’il n’y avait rien du tout.

« Dis… j’t’avais pas dit mon nom… »

« Désiriez-vous répondre à un sondage? »

« Comment tu sais mon nom? »

Max grimaça quand elle inspira une goulée d’air—elle avait l’impression qu’on lui forçait du sable dans les poumons. Le noir envahissait peu à peu son champ de vision et il s’avérait de plus en plus difficile de garder les yeux ouverts—est-ce que ça dérangerait quelqu’un si elle s’endormait ici?

Probablement pas…

« Nous connaissons tous ton nom, Max. Tu es la clé. »

Personne ne remarquerait si elle meurt, de toute façon. Elle n’avait rien de spécial. Rien qui la démarquait des autres. Elle n’était qu’un mouton parmi tant d’autres; une goutte de pluie dans une tempête; un grain de sel dans l’océan. Personne ne s’ennuierait d’elle si elle disparaissait.

« … keske t’as dit? »

« Désiriez-vous répondre à un sondage? »

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anotherwonderfulmistake · 3 years ago

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The mortifying ordeal of being known

All my life, I’ve felt unseen. Invisible, unimportant, and ultimately forgettable. Don’t get me wrong—I had people. A loving family, good friends, and fantastic teachers; there were exceptions, of course, every rule has an exception. The thing is… none of them ever knew me. They were looking at me, I could tell, but it was like they saw through me. I was never seen as a whole, I was a robot, a machine that you examine, criticize, that you modify at will. An object that you pick apart and rob of all identity, a toy that you destroy and abandon when it no longer amuses you.

But there’s one thing you adults keep forgetting about us kids. We learn. Fast. We’re adaptable. Ignore a child long enough, and they will wear that shit like a badge of honour. It will become their proof of survival, their shield, the one thing that will keep them afloat in a world that incessantly tries to drown them.

I learned too. I learned that no one likes you when you’re real. When you’re flawed. They only ever like you when you’re palatable—when your qualities and shortcomings fit their narrative. So I became a faceless stranger in a crowd. I let people take me apart, piece by piece, to create the person they wanted to see. That way, it hurt less when they decided they didn’t like me anymore.

No one ever saw the same version of me. I wore that fact as armour. I was proud of it. I had taken the thing that was threatening to break me apart and turned it into the one thing that kept me from breaking apart. Isn’t that cool? Never mind that I was losing sight of who I was, at least I’d made it impossible for anyone to hate me. And to the people who did—that’s on you. You didn’t build me right.

I was twelve. Isn’t that sad? Twelve years old and ready to erase who I was for the sake of everybody else.

It took a toll on me, of course. I became a shell of a person. I was empty, meaningless. I was like that side character in your favourite series whom you keep forgetting exists—because there’s nothing real about them. They have no substance. The most interesting parts of me were my friends. I was plain, boring and tasteless. It got so bad that everybody started treating me as nothing more than a character development device in their stories. I became the secondary character to my own life, only here to help someone else along their path to a better life.

Imagine my surprise when one of my coworkers damn near fell off his chair laughing when I recounted the time I shoved a guy who’d been harassing me off a bus—and then told me he’d pay good money to see me doing it again.

Imagine my surprise when another one of them learned to offer me maple cookies when I look like shit because they’re my favourite—and the gesture alone makes my entire week.

Imagine the tears in my eyes when every single one of them had switched to my chosen name and would correct each other if they ever slipped up within two weeks of learning I’m trans.

Imagine the sheer size of the dam threatening to break when my boss told me I was one of the most authentic people he’d met—and that was why he liked me.

You see, when you spend years rooting the fact that you’re better off faded in the background into your brain, it’s hard to believe anyone will ever see you as a whole. Hell, it’s hard to believe you’re main character material; you’re convinced that you’re not fleshed out enough, deep enough, concrete enough. You think that you’re a bit of an abstract concept, hard to grasp and up for interpretation.

These people taught me that wasn’t true. They taught me that my existence was not up for discussion or interpretation—I just did. Warts and all. Which, you know, is all good and well in theory. In practice, however… a completely different story.

By that point, I was ready to exist. The unapologetic kind of existing. The “don’t like it? Not my goddamn problem” kind of existing. I was (somewhat) ready to subject myself to the judgement of the world, to its hatred, to its anger and envy. I had hidden away long enough and it was time to stop.

I was ready for all the backlash, the comments, the insults that I had come to expect whenever I’d let myself be true, but there was one thing I hadn’t included in the equation—

(Though to be honest, it was a good thing I hadn’t considered it even being an option because I might’ve backed out of the whole thing if I’d thought it possible)

—and that was being liked. Someone seeing me, the whole me, and deeming me worthy of attention. Being subjected to the mortifying ordeal of being known. I could deal with someone hating me now, I was strong enough now, but being liked? Being loved? Man, that was beyond any kind of strength I could ever muster up.

It makes you so vulnerable being loved—it’s almost painful. I was laying my entire self down on the table, bare, naked, and saying “Here it is. This is me. If you don’t like it, you can fuck right off. If you do… I just might break.” Isn’t it funny how when all you’ve ever known is instability and violence, tenderness is what shatters you into pieces? You can scream at me, punch me, push me, throw rocks at me, cut me open and I’ll get back up, but tend to my wounds and show me compassion and I will crumble in your arms.

I wasn’t expecting someone to look at me—and keep looking. To look long enough to see my hands and arms shake when I get anxious; to notice me squatted into a ball on the little stool that serves as a chair when I’ve been sitting at my desk for too long; to see me picking at the skin on my lips and scold me for making them bleed again.

I wasn’t expecting someone to look long enough to realize how clumsy I am; and to realize that even if I seem whiny on the surface, they will never know I genuinely got hurt unless they watch me close enough to notice it.

I wasn’t expecting someone to look long enough to see that my eyes get shiny when I’m tired.

I wasn’t expecting anyone to look—and keep looking; past the bad temper, past the scathing cynicism, past the childish impertinence, past the anxiety and the ADHD and the depressive episodes and the crippling fear of looking stupid—beyond all the things I was led to believe spoiled me—to see the idealistic, mischievous, goofy and dangerously kind child hiding underneath it all. I wasn’t expecting anyone to go looking for the only part of me I wasn’t ready to unveil to the world.

And now that they have? I don’t know if the rewards of being loved are worth the mortifying ordeal of being known.

But I’ll still try.

Because at least,

I’m not living for someone else.

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anotherwonderfulmistake · 3 years ago

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The thing about being an empath is that it’s really fucking weird from an outside perspective. Like, you’re trembling all over and choking back tears and people are noticing and worrying, but you can’t really tell them “yeah no I’m fine, nothing happened, none of this is mine” because it’s such a foreign concept that the probability that they’ll get it is very small 😅

I appreciate the concern, I really do, but at the moment I’m fine tuned into everyone else’s feelings and unless you’re the chillest man alive, I need y’all to back up before I get overwhelmed

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anotherwonderfulmistake · 3 years ago

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Rowan is totally fine with how his life’s going. Absolutely, undoubtedly fine. Everything’s great. He loves waking up to his neighbours loudly getting their freak on. He loves having to listen to some high kid’s trashy music on his morning commute to work. He loves the tepid, bitter cup of coffee he forces down his throat every morning to clear his foggy mind. He especially loves how his job is so boring that he made a game out of counting how many office supplies he can stack on his sleeping, drooling boss without getting caught.

His highest record so far is twenty-three--stupid scissors kept betraying him--but this time, this time he was finally going to do it. Today was the day he finally breaks his own record. Greg had just fallen into a heavy food coma and Rowan was more determined than ever.

“Hey,” Billie whispered, “how many are you at right now?”

“Shhhhh you'll ruin my focus!” Rowan hissed at the woman bent over his shoulder. “19,” he finally grumbled.

The corners of Billie’s mouth curled up into an excited grin. “I’ll keep watch,” she said as Rowan oh so carefully lowered a pair of scissors into the crook of Greg’s elbow.

He sucked in a panicked breath when Greg twitched. “Don’t you dare,” Rowan growled, glaring at the unstable scissors. Finally, they settled in between Greg’s forearm and his prominent belly.

“Wow, even the scissors are terrified of you,” Billie said.

“Fuck off,” Rowan replied, trying his best to fight off the victorious smirk threatening to invade his features.

“Really? No laugh?”

Rowan took the notepad she was holding out for him and balanced it on the top of their boss’ head. “Nope.”

“Not even a chuckle?”

“Nuhuh.”

Stapler on the shoulder.

“I’ll make you laugh one day.”

“Doubtful.”

Ruler in Greg’s double chin.

“I bet you’re a snorter!"

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anotherwonderfulmistake · 3 years ago

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Dear ex-best friend,

So, uh, I lied.

I haven't moved on. This shit is harder than I thought it would be. I've never had this much trouble getting over someone... You left a much more significant hole in my life than anyone else ever did.

I guess that's on me.

I probably shouldn't have let you in so close.

Do you think we'd be in this mess if I'd kept you at arm's length?

I want to be angry at you. I want to be furious, I want to blame you for everything bad that ever happened between us, I want to be the victim in this situation because as selfish as it sounds, it would be so much easier to forget you if I was angry.

But I'm not angry because I know I played a significant part in driving us apart, and that hurts

Much

More.

The thing is, I'm okay, usually.

As long as I'm not reminded of you, I'm fine. It's like you were never even there to begin with, but you're everywhere in my life.

You're in the music I listen to because of the hours upon hours of us sharing music when it was the only way I felt capable of communicating,

You're in the way I dress because you were the one who taught me that I could very well wear whatever the fuck I wanted to as long as it made me feel good,

You're in the way I talk, you're in the ticks I have, because I spent so much time with you that I adopted all your little quirks,

You're in the bursts of anxiety I get when I'm overwhelmed, because I've known you for so long it's only natural for me to worry about what stupid shit you're going to do to get yourself killed next,

You're in the memes I save on my phone to send you later before remembering that we don't talk anymore,

And you're in the way tears come to my eyes, and in the way my smile fades, and in the way my breath hitches in my throat, and in the way I start to lose track of reality when I'm reminded that you aren't here to ground me anymore and that it's my fault.

I just want one last time.

I want one last joyful hello,

One last stupid meme,

One last shared song,

One last pointless hangout,

One last cheap supper,

One last unplanned sleepover,

One last almost-lunch breakfast,

One last aimless roadtrip,

One last bitter goodbye.

I want one last Xmas, one last New Year's, one last birthday, one last St-Jean-Baptiste.

I want one last week, one last month, one last year, and then I'll be okay.

Do you think you could grant me that?

Just one more day. I'll do whatever you want, please just let me be next to you. Let me take care of you again, let me give you food and clean your room when you're too depressed to do it yourself again, let me drag you back down to reality when you feel invincible again, let me run away from myself by caring for you again, let me hide with you when my mother kicks me out again, let me have nightmares next to you again.

Let me say goodbye properly.

Then maybe I'll be okay.

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