#He was hospice so I knew it was coming but it didn’t hurt any less

[bookishfeylin]

Because I haven’t been as active this month due to burnout/work stress I’m going to spend these next few days focused on Black History Month before returning to ACOTAR posting in March

[allie-campbell-bradshaw]

Prologue

A/N: Welcome to the first post for Top Gun: Baby, a love story following Bradley Bradshaw and Allie Campbell. I hope you enjoy this story as much as I do! I will mention this in my notes before every chapter, but I do not give permission for my work to be re-posted without credibility. If you do want to post this story to your page, please be sure that you tag my account or at least mention its original source in your post. Again, thank you for being here and I hope you enjoy :)

Warnings: Angst from a hard childhood, mentions of death, mentions of alcoholism, mentions of PTSD related to war, mentions of cancer, mentions of physically hurting someone

Masterlist for Top Gun: Baby

Prologue

BRADLEY’S POV

This was it. This letter in my hands would determine my fate. I wish I could say that my four years at Virginia flew by, but they didn’t. Everything dragged. And while I was walking across the stage last week accepting my degree, shaking hands with people who didn’t even know me, I couldn’t help but think about how different my life would have been if he didn’t get in my way.

I applied to the Naval Academy when I was a senior in high school. I sent in my application exactly 2 weeks before my mom died. No one knew when it was going to happen, but we all felt that her death was closer than we would have preferred. I sat next to her in her room at the hospice center as I filled out all the paperwork, reading my admissions essay out loud so she could hear me talk about my father, and her, and my fathers father who died when I was 5. All three of them were dealt the worst deck in life, creating challenges that I had to overcome during my childhood. My dad’s death when I was two left me with no recollections of our time together, which created its own set of drawbacks as I grew up. My grandpa died two years later from alcohol poisoning. The pain of recently losing his son while also suffering from PTSD from the Vietnam War became too hard for him to bear, which caused him to rely on alcohol to make it through the day. I remember watching him deteriorate. For a kindergartener, I had enough of a mental capacity to understand what death was, and knew, without having to ask anyone for confirmation, that he was about to experience it. Then there came my mom, whose cancer diagnosis left us without words. Suddenly we had to adapt to a rapidly growing illness that was destined to make me an orphan. I went from a child to a caregiver within 24 hours.

I watched as tears flowed from her eyes, the illness had taken over so much by then that she only had a few hours of energy to give during the day before she would pass out. After I read it to her, she asked to talk to Maverick, who was waiting out in the hall. He always made sure to let us have our time before coming in and joining the conversation. I read through my application again out in the hall while they talked. When Pete came out of the room, there was something different about him. He carried himself at a more awkward angle, his smile didn’t seem as real as it did earlier that morning. My mom, who was now sound asleep, seemed to be in less pain than she was when I was reading to her, there was a part of her that actually looked peaceful for the first time in months. Mav walked with me, a hand held firmly on my shoulder, as we made our way to the post office, sealing the application packet and sending it to its destination in Annapolis. 

I waited.

And waited.

And waited.

The combination of my mothers death and the admission that I was not accepted led me down a crippling road of self-doubt and depression. Someone in my neighborhood already got his acceptance letter, which brought me to that realization that it was not going to happen for me. Although I didn’t want to admit it, it became harder and harder to ignore as the days went on. It took almost two months of sulking before Pete told me what he had done, not wanting to witness my sorrow any longer.

I never hated anyone more than at that very moment. Never in my life have I thought about being violent, but I wanted to beat him. I wanted to pound him until my knuckles broke. Until he was no longer conscious. Until I saw him as broken down, physically, as he just made me feel mentally.

That was the last day I saw him. The last day I cared about him. He knew how important the Naval Academy was to me…to my father…and his father… and his father before him. The Naval Academy was a legacy that he took away from me, away from my family. I applied to the academy every year after that as I attended the University of Virginia, and every year I never heard back. I knew he kept pulling my papers, but I never gave up. I wanted to show him my determination. To show him that I was not happy with the life he forced me to live. He was slowly shredding my heart into pieces, and he didn’t care. Finally, after five years of applying, I had a response. I prepared myself for the worst case scenario, a rejection letter, which any sane person would assume was what I was holding in my hand. There was a part of me that hoped though, hoped that it was the one thing I wanted. I would give anything for it to be that.

This letter, this unopened letter, would be the final decision for if my life would turn out the way I had always envisioned. This was the last year I could apply to the academy, since I would be 24 by next summer. If this letter was a rejection, I would need to reconsider my desire for a career in naval aviation. I was unwilling to go through the Navy any other way. 3 generations of Bradshaw’s had gone through the academy, and I would be damned if I broke that tradition. I would be too embarrassed to even try. I wouldn’t enlist. I couldn’t. It wouldn’t feel right to me. If I am to be a pilot, this is the way I want to go. 

I turned over the envelope and dug my thumb into the corner of the slit. Slowly, but with great force, I tore the paste from the paper, opening the folds and pulling out the letter. I saw the faintest of black print folded in on the paper through the light of my dining room, my heart was pounding and my face turning a deep red. My palms were glistening with sweat as I peeled back the two folds that cut the paper into exact thirds before flipping it over to reveal its contents. I saw my full name printed out on the front: “Bradley David Bradshaw” followed by “we are pleased to inform you”...

[vio1315]

Okay, well I’m gonna write a memorial thing for my cat

At the time of writing this, he’s still alive, but I will post it after he’s passed

So

Basically

My cat has cancer and kidney failure

It came on extremely fast

We just had his bloodwork done to find his gallbladder was infected and all the other bloodwork was fine

Then about a month later we go back because he seems so unwell, and boom. Kidney failure. Anemic. Super super bad.

At this time he’s basically in kitty hospice cuz I really wanted him to have a few good days after like two months of feeling bad.  Now... he’s a very good cat

I think he’s the first animal that’s really been mine, and definitely the first I’ve loved to this extent.

He’s only eight years old right now, which is a lot, lot younger than I ever expected him to go.

I named him Poe, though my parents call him Boo, but it doesn’t matter cuz I call him Buddy and Baby so much he responds better to those names

My mom likes to call him Boo-ber and Boo-lardo

He had always been a very fat cat. I always got on my dad’s case for giving too many treats, and pressured my mom into giving him less food each day (it was definitely over the amount a cat should have), but he kept that weight. 21 pounds of it.  And he loves, more than anything, to lay on people. Or halfway on people. Even as I write this he’s laying on my arm, purring.

He would sit beside my dad on the couch, follow my parents to their room and lay on them until they went to sleep, and then come cuddle with me in my room until I went to sleep. He would lay on my shoulder and watch me on my tablet, I can’t remember what he did before I got one...

He had a bad habit of waking you up for extra attention if you didn’t kick him out, so that was basically his daily routine for a few years. As he got older he became really good at understanding just to lay at the foot of the bed instead.

We first got him because when we were walking through to look at cats, back and forth, he kept sticking his paw out of his cage and putting it on my dads chest to stop him. He has always been a people kitty.

They told us he was a girl cuz we only wanted a girl cat, but as we were driving home we saw the truth on his paperwork, but decided to keep him anyways.

He was so skinny at that time, and we found out why pretty fast.

He wouldn’t eat his food. They fed him science diet and he /hated/ it. Not one piece.

So finally we gave him Meow Mix which our other cats were eating at the time, and he suddenly showed us he could eat just fine.

He was always stubborn that way. He liked to find places I told him he couldn’t go and go there repeatedly no matter how many times I dragged him away. We had a good bout if battle of wills this way, but eventually he came to be very good about listening, only really getting into trouble if he was mad at me for not opening a door for him or something.

He is such a good cat.

The poor thing can’t jump up onto furniture anymore, so I have to pick him up and put him there. When I set him on my bed, the first thing he did when I got settled was lay on my shoulder and purr super loudly. He hasn’t felt super good all day and yet here he was purring back at his normal volume, and for so long too.

Earlier when I was crying he had his sorta soft expression on. Idk if he knows he’s dying or not, but he really is an absolute baby.

I have lost great grandparents and all my grandparents and many animals and even a childhood cat not too long ago, but this is the one, this is the one that hurts.

He has been there with me through the worst times in my life, been very loving, very loyal. He was my shadow so many days, following me everywhere I went, even though I never gave him treats or any such thing. He became my cat and everyone knew it.

For the first time in a very long time I cried in front of someone. I broke in front of my mom when talking. Every funeral we’ve ever attended together, I always tasked myself with being her rock. Idk why, but even when I was young attending that first funeral with her, I said to myself ‘I won’t cry’ and comforted her as best I could. And I have always held to that. Always.

But man I broke. Only once so far, but I might again when it’s time.

I definitely have in private a lot.

He’s my baby, and my whole heart, and it sucks to know he doesn’t feel very well, to see how his personality is different as he conserves energy . He was the strongest cat we ever had, it took multiple people to hold him down sometimes if he needed something. And now he can’t jump anymore. He lets himself be put in the cat carrier so easily. He looks so tired. He’s never meowed much, but the car ride from the vet was entirely silent. It’s going to come very soon.

But he still eagerly looks up for treats, after a week of starving and starving and enduring me syringe feeding him, he finally ate and can maybe feel a little more okay in that way. He’s 14 pounds now. He lost it all so fast.

I really didn’t want him to go out hungry, to go out without being less alone for a bit. The idea of him dying after the overnight vet stay was too much. I wanted him to have a lot of company, since so much leading up to this he was laying off in a corner because we didn’t know what was going on, didn’t know to pick him up and put him with us. So I just had to have him back home for a few more days, or even just one more if it comes to that. I don’t want him to have to endure much pain or anything, but I don’t want him to feel lonely. So we’ll see how long it is before the pain bears down. I think he’s already uncomfortable. It won’t be long.

There’s been times in my life I wasn’t sure I was capable of love. But I love Poe. Idk if time will take that away from me, but I love him very much, and I’m gonna miss him.

I believe fully in God’s timing, I know everything is in His control. No matter how this hurts, I know it has to be this way.  With how unstable things are, maybe this will be the most merciful thing for him, who knows. It’s why I probably won’t get another cat. I am fearful about having my ability to take care of a new animal taken from me, so I can’t risk putting an animal through that. Unless God puts another cat in my life, this is it.

My first and last cat, my most beloved and precious buddy-boy. Who’s been patient and loving beyond what I can expect of an animal, who’s seen me cry many many times in the dead of night .

I love you, Poe

[cinebration]

The Darkest Shine (Dan Torrance x Reader) [Part 10]

Dan asks you to stay.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Epilogue

Tagged: @blackeasteagle​​, @theblackmaskclub​​

Warnings: none

Gif Source: winterswake

Dan pleaded with you to stay the next morning. “If you’re not alone, maybe he won’t come back.”

You sighed heavily, a hint of anxiety tinging your tired voice. You hadn’t slept well, haunted by the hours you had been dead earlier the previous day. “If you’re here when he does, who knows what he’ll do?”

“I’ll feel better if you stay.”

You stared into his blue eyes, at the pleading in those vivid irises. Perhaps resurrecting him had created a bond you hadn’t anticipated, one he felt strongly in the wake of having lost you, however briefly. There was something there on your end, a slight tightening of the chest when you looked at him, as though a part of you were tied to him, anchored there in his own chest. Certainly after last night, when he had held you for the hour you had sobbed senselessly, your hoarse throat turning into a painful rasp, something had been cemented between the two of you.

You had never broken before in front of somebody else. Had never been put back together in someone else’s arms.

“Please,” Dan said.

“If he comes—”

“We’ll face him together. He isn’t the first devil I’ve faced.”

You knew he meant it. He had experienced devils aplenty, from the Overlook to the drinking to the steam vampires.

“Okay,” you whispered. It hurt to speak it, though not only because of your raw throat.

A handsome smile graced his equally handsome, though weary, face. “Good.”

You hoped it would be.

~~

It took a while to get used to the new living situation. Concerned he wouldn’t be able to sense the man in black’s presence if he weren’t in the same room, Dan insisted you move into the apartment. He brought up a twin bed and pushed it near the window so that you could feel the open space beyond the glass panes in case the claustrophobia became overwhelming.

The first night, you listened to Dan’s steady breathing. It occurred to you that you hadn’t tried sleeping in a room with someone else in it in…forever. The last time you had shared a bed, you had crept out after the man slipped off into sleep.

With Dan, though, it didn’t feel strange or uncomfortable. After listening to his breathing for an hour, you were lulled to sleep by its soothing tone and regularity.

“Let’s find out.”

NO!

You awoke with a cry to find Dan’s hand on your shoulder, shaking you awake. Sweat ran in rivulets down your back and between your breasts. The damp sheets clung to you, suffocating.

“I’m here,” Dan murmured. He wiped some of the hair off your forehead, tucking it back behind your ear. “I’m here.”

You wanted to cry again. The comforting touch affected you almost as much as the nightmare, but it soothed you nevertheless. You clung to Dan’s free hand, clutching it to your chest, until the thundering heartbeat quieted in your ears and no longer bruised your ribcage.

Every night, it happened. You woke in a sweat, Dan beside you in an instant, calming you.

“I’m gonna wake the fucking building,” you muttered on the third night.

“Your screams are mental,” he confided quietly. He averted his gaze, as though he had admitted to an indiscretion.

“I’m sorry you have to hear them.”

“I don’t mind. I wish there was something more I could do.”

“I’m not sure there is.”

Had you been alone, you would have slept less and less unless insomnia killed you, giving the man in black all the more reason to appear. That realization set you at ease with living with Dan.

~~

Though it wasn’t in your field or training, you got a job at the library. The quiet calmed you, much to your surprise. You had worried that the near silence of the library would remind you too much of the pinewood box, but the turn of pages—a susurrus you managed not to associate with the man in black’s voice in your mind—subdued coughs, and low murmurs were enough to keep your lizard brain from kicking into flight mode.

Dan had managed to get his old job back at the hospice. He had returned from the dead, but no one truly questioned it. They rationalized it away: He had been injured and recovering in Colorado for the last few months. For those who understood that Doctor Sleep wasn’t quite one of them, they felt they couldn’t pry further into the matter.

He brought you lunch at the library and you brought him dinner at the hospice. The routine helped you re-center yourself.

After a particularly long night involving the passing on of two patients at the hospice, Dan trudged into his room. You had stayed up reading, afraid to try sleeping without his presence. Kicking off his shoes, he pulled his scrubs off. You averted your eyes out of courtesy, but in the month and a half that you had been living with him, you both had discovered it was nothing for Dan to change clothes in the same room after a hard night.

He slipped into pajama bottoms and a shirt, the chill of approaching winter calling for it, and sat on the edge of his bed, sighing heavily as he stared down at the floor. Bookmarking your place, you went over to him.

“Rough night?” you asked.

“Heavy,” he answered. He didn’t lift his head. The slope and tension of his shoulders seemed like a burden had been placed there.

Crouching before him, you placed your hands on his knees, looking up into his weary face. He stared down at you, the exhaustion in his eyes lessening.

“Good and bad days,” you said slowly, trying to find the right words, “are what they are. But at least you have company to share them.”

He smiled faintly, reached out to tuck a lock of hair behind your ear. “I suppose.”

“For true, Dan Torrance.” Rising, you brushed your lips against his cheek.

And froze. Heat flushed up the back of your neck and into your cheeks. Turning away, you retreated to your bed. You hadn’t meant to kiss his cheek. You had just been standing up. Had he leaned forward? Had you? The thoughts ran circles in your head as you listened to him climb into bed.

They didn’t prevent you from your nightly nightmare.

The man in black, emerging from the mist of your mind. “I see you got yourself different eyes this time.”

Endless nothing surrounded you. Only the man in black seemed illuminated as though from within, eyes flashing.

“Have you tried out any new tricks?”

This wasn’t the coffin. Something else. More of your mind under his power for him to enter as himself rather than a memory.

Your threat clenched.

“I think it’s time for another experiment, don’t you?”

“No,” you hissed, but it came out a weak moan.

“Burying you wasn’t good enough. How about…burning?”

Acrid smoke burned your nostrils. You recoiled, panic gripping your chest.

“Leave me alone,” you whimpered.

“Darling, we aren’t done yet.”

You jolted awake with the taste of bloody dirt in your mouth and the man in black’s chuckle in your ears. Dan sat beside you, hand on your shoulder. Nearly sixty nights of this and he hadn’t yet complained.

“That one was different,” he noted when your breathing steadied.

You nodded but didn’t speak. Patting his hand gently, your sign that you were fine, you rolled onto your side to face the wall. Dan frowned but returned to his own bed.

Shivers crawled beneath your skin. The sheets felt like boa constrictors, tightening around you slowly. The moment Dan had let go, you heard the man in black’s voice slithering about in your skull.

“We aren’t done yet.”

Please stop, you cried. You curled tighter into a ball, hands clapped over your ears.

Safety. You needed safety. Something to shut the voice out.

You swung your legs off the side of the bed, hesitated.

Tick tock, tick tock, the man in black cooed.

It took all your strength not to bolt. Crossing the few feet between your beds, you slid into Dan’s.

He stiffened for a moment beside you. You curled into him, muscles twitching as vestigial tremors rolled through you. All you wanted was rest. True, real rest. Peace.

Dan shifted. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you close enough to hear his heartbeat. It seemed faster than it should be, but you had given him a fright, you told yourself.

His nose buried itself into the crown of your head, lips pressed gently against your hair.

The susurrus in your head stopped.

You stayed in Dan’s arms all night, clinging to the peace you had found.

[khunfounded]

Stuck in the Cave

This one is pretty long and serious, birds, and if you are uncomfortable with the discussion of toxic relationships I recommend skipping it. I’ll cut it off before any analysis this time. 

It’s about Rachel and Bam’s tumultuous relationship, so if that interests you, read on.

Tonight we are discussing three songs from the same album, Hospice, which depicts the entirety of a female perpetuated abusive relationship. It has a lot of nuance and treats the both individuals as humans, rather than entirely a monster and an angel.

The songs are Shiva, Kettering, and Epilogue by The Antlers. I’ll have the videos in front of each analysis rather than all at the top to make it less blocky.

Let’s begin with Shiva.

The entirety of Hospice is told through a metaphor about a hospital worker who gets into a toxic relationship with a patient, which I think is really fitting considering the arc of Rachel pretending that she is paralyzed from the waist down.

Suddenly every machine stopped at once And the monitors beeped the last time Hundreds of thousands of hospital beds And all of them empty but mine

I think these lines fit the exact moment that Rachel pushes Bam. For Bam it is sudden, unexpected. Though for Rachel, who metaphorically has been in the hospital bed for a while, it was a long time coming.

The one chance for Rachel to keep their relationship ended with that push, when the monitors beeped the last time, though Bam did not know it yet.

After that, Bam is alone. Even when he is surrounded by people, they are all using him to perpetuate their agenda. So, there are many beds, but there is no one there with Bam, either in a hospital bed or visiting him. Well, I was lying down with my feet in the air Completely unable to move The bed was misshapen, and awkward and tall And clearly intended for you

When Bam is forced into joining Fug, he can’t move. They have him in check. If he does try anything, they will destroy the one good thing he found. The people who would have visited him in the hospital.

These last two lines remind me of when Khun tells Rachel that if she truly cared about Bam, she wouldn’t be coming up the tower while Bam was stuck underneath it. The bed, the ruin, was made for her, but she escaped it by putting Bam in her place.

You checked yourself out when you put me to bed And tore that old band off your wrist But you came back to see me for a minute or less And left me your ring in my fist

The theme of the bed intended for Rachel continues in this stanza. Without anyone (except Fug, who I personally see as the hospital administrators) knowing, she checked herself out of the hospital and placed Bam there instead.

The hospital band is Rachel’s supposed fate of not being worthy of the tower (though you could argue that her cunning and luck actually does make her worthy, but I’m not), which she tore off by sheer force of will.

The minute or less she came to visit him is the push, and the ring (which in the context of the album is a wedding ring) is what is left of their relationship. Bam, because Rachel is so integral to him, is stuck with it, while Rachel is not. He has both rings now, and the relationship is completely one-sided.

For Rachel, to possibility of joining the stars (whether seeing them or becoming one) is worth the dissolution of a completely devoted love. Though, that love of Bam’s is completely healthy, fueled by his loneliness and the fact that for the longest time the only good thing he ever knew was Rachel. She knows this, which is part of why she gives back the ring. She thinks that even if she picks Bam, he will leave her once he is loved and loves other people. My hair started growing, my face became yours My femur was breaking in half The sensation was scissors and too much to scream So instead, I just started to laugh

Now this, this fits so well.

Bam’s hair is such an important part of his character. Not only does it track the years, it also tracks his emotional state. He is at his lowest when it is at its longest, (which is poignant considering the length of Rachel’s), happiest when it’s shortest, and most in control of his destiny when it is in-between, since at that point is able to choose its length.

I think the second half of the stanza represents the mental break and subsequent cognitive dissonance that he goes through because his mind cannot handle the idea of his most precious person betraying him.

Oof, one down two to go. This is tough.

Now, onto Kettering. 

Ouch, this one hurts.

I wish that I had known in that first minute we met The unpayable debt that I owed you Because you'd been abused by the bone that refused you And you hired me to make up for that

Throughout much of the series, Bam believes he owes Rachel a debt because of the hope she gave him in the cave, though in my opinion she did less than the minimum (though no one owes anyone anything, I still believe that sometimes basic human kindness should win out. Well, morality quandaries for another time).

The bone that refused her was her fate of being unworthy of climbing the tower, which everyone and anyone told her whenever they could. Honestly, that would turn me bitter, too. This is a good chunk of why she is so venomous towards Bam, because his fate and outlook are quite literally the opposite of hers.

To Rachel, everything comes so easily to Bam, whilst she has to claw and fight and lie for every scrap that she can. Though, we all know better. Bam’s life is filled with suffering.

Thus, she hires Bam to make up for her destiny. She tries to take his place and put him in hers. Also, she is just fundamentally cruel to him, trying to ruin every good thing he has every chance that she gets. Walking in that room when you had tubes in your arms Those singing morphine alarms out of tune Kept you sleeping and even And I didn't believe them when they called you a hurricane thunderclap

Everyone tells Bam that Rachel is bad news, but he only sees the girl that gave him light and had her chance to climb the tower violently ripped away from her.

It takes Rachel doing to Khun what she has been doing to Bam all this time to get him to realize that he truly does not know her at all. When I was checking vitals I suggested a smile You didn't talk for a while, you were freezing You said you hated my tone, it made you feel so alone And so you told me I ought to be leaving

This is basically a continuation of the theme of Rachel treating Bam cruelly while he tries his best to make her life better.

It reminds me a lot of the moments right before Rachel pushes Bam, and for a few seconds her demeanor shifts, shocking him  But something kept me standing by that hospital bed I should have quit, but instead, I took care of you You made me sleep and uneven And I didn't believe them when they told me that there was no saving you

Bam is stuck standing by Rachel because of his devotion and the toxic relationship that they have created. For the longest time, he tries to find her and take care of her, but she doesn’t want that. She wants to see the stars. Without him.

He doesn’t see it, though, no matter what they people who really love him try to say.

Next, next, next.

It’s the Epilogue.

Finally, we are at a point where Bam realizes how toxic their relationship truly is.

This one is dense, birds.

In a nightmare, I am falling from the ceiling into bed beside you You're asleep, I'm screaming, shoving you to try to wake you up And like before, you've got no interest in the life you live when you're awake Your dreams still follow storylines like fictions you would make

I do not believe for a second that Bam doesn’t have nightmares about Rachel. She is such a large part of his life and his psyche. He must have trauma both about wondering if he could have saved their relationship and what she has done to his loved ones.

Rachel is asleep. She thinks that what she is doing to see the stars is worth it, but Bam knows better. He has lived the destruction and suffering she has caused.

She has no interest for a world where she is unworthy of the tower, so she dreams up a new one and tries to make it real.

So I lie down against your back until we're both back in the hospital But now it's not a cancer ward, we're sleeping in the morgue Men and women in blue and white, they are singing all around you With heavy shovels holding earth, you're being buried to your neck            

In that hospital bed, being buried quite alive now. 

I'm trying to dig you out but all you want is to be buried there together

This again harkens back to the idea of Bam having nightmares about Rachel. The morgue is his fears that what is happening will ruin them both.

The men and women are everyone in the war that are adding onto the pressure and consequences of this fight. In the end, Tower of God truly is about Bam and Rachel’s relationship and all the fallout that it causes

Bam sees that Rachel is being buried by the decisions she has made, and he is slowly being buried, too. Though, unlike Rachel, he is trying to dig their way out and save them both.

You're screaming And cursing And angry And hurting me And then smiling And crying Apologizing

This chorus is haunting, especially because of the singer’s voice (which is even worse if you imagine the singer is Bam) . It is demonstrative of the two faces that Rachel shows, and the abuse that she puts Bam through just to see the stars.

It evokes the image of Rachel and Bam in the meadow after Rachel has been stabbed. Rachel apologizes to Bam, though he does not truly know why. I've woken up, I'm in our bed, but there's no breathing body there beside me Someone must have taken you while I was stuck asleep But I know better as my eyes adjust, you've been gone for quite a while now And I don't work there in the hospital, they had to let me go

After Rachel puts Khun into a coma, Bam wakes up and he sees their relationship for what it truly is. There is still a part of him, though, that wonders what went wrong. 

His eyes are still adjusting, even after he has awoken.

When Bam leaves the hospital, he is leaving their one-sided toxic dynamic, though much like the physical injuries he has suffered, there are still scars.

When I try to move my arms sometimes, they weigh too much to lift I think you buried me awake, my one and only parting gift But you return to me at night just when I think I may have fallen asleep Your face is up against mine, and I'm too terrified to speak

Sometimes, what he has gone through makes it tough for him to go on. I am glad Bam has such a wonderful, loving support system.

Again, nightmares and trauma caused by Rachel. Things like what she has done to Bam never truly leave you. She has gifted him with immense trauma, and scars that may fade to silver but will never disappear. You're screaming And cursing And angry And hurting me And then smiling And crying Apologizing

Thank you for reading, please watch video of puppies after this.

[sweet-xoxo-thatcares]

Went to bed at 12:40am after helping grandma get readjusted in the bed, and helping dad function the oxygen tank because the oxygen machine kept going out and beeping on error. I think grandma got anxious from seeing her family members come from grand rapids to visit. I know she missed them.

But man did I get tired.

I had to set an alarm for 3:45am because that's when grandma has to go potty, and I knew mom and dad needed the rest after cooking, cleaning, grocery shopping, and hosting for her guests.

I kept nodding off to twilight as I waited in the room for grandma to tell me when, so I could help her get up off the bed and onto potty. That wasn't until like 5am.

Glad I could get some sleep in between waiting.

I stayed in there with till 8:30, when she asked for some oatmeal to eat. I think she's having hunger pains, but can't really eat the stuff down as much. We puree mostly everything in the food processor for her. She only ate like a couple spoonfuls. She said her right side started hurting from not eating as much, but we can't make her eat, but there also seems to be a lack of appetite in grandma's mind. I think she's been feeling very tired too, especially after the family visit last night.

This is the first time I heard her fuss today. I cleaned the bucket after she threw up in it and said "Don't use so much Lysol to clean with. I can smell it." I didn't take it personally because I didn't use lysol to clean the bucket, I used Fabuloso and alcohol because we didn't have much cleaner in the bathroom I cleaned it in. Daddy reminded her that I was just trying to clean the bucket out.

She said "I know, just don't use so much."

This was right before she said she feels like she needs some more oxygen, so maybe her not breathing as well and smelling that cleaner made her nose upset.

I've dealt with Grandma and her complaints before, so I'm pretty sure I'm not expecting a happy camper about all this. Im just so glad its not just me to take care of her. So we'll all be making a team effort to help her as she goes along. The social worker, the nurse, and a chaplin is supposed to come from Hospice in the next couple of days. So we'll see how it goes. Its not like the disney movies where the person is happy and being nice to everybody and then suddenly passes.

I think this will be a gradual, slow, but hopefully peaceful passing for her. I know I'm stressed out, but I feel like how I used to be at work. Hopefully we don't get into any arguments and just let her talk if she starts commenting on us not doing something right or if she starts forgetting stuff and then she says that one liner "you calling me a liar?" cause I know what that means when she says that line.

I pray she doesn't go flip mode and the kids don't have to deal with seeing any blood. I'd rather have me and my parents handle that, because we can handle that maturely without feeling that grossed out feeling and wait to hold our comments until after the tasks are finished.

My baby sister, I would be worried to find out she or one of the others were to find her.....like that in the morning.

Because we don't know the timeline and we're not at a hospital. This is real life. Grandma actually came all the way here with my parents to Flint, to come live with us until she passed. And its still just shocking to me. We're putting in our best effort together so this woman we've known for years can have a peaceful going, under the roof and care of her loved ones. We love her and we do care about her. I'm just not gonna expect this to be easy, keep my head up, stay positive, and try to keep my emotions out of it like I do at work. Keeping my emotions off, helps the day seem fast and the work gets done quicker and more efficiently. We're gonna work hard for Grandma and I hope my little sisters can cooperate and not be as selfish and sometimes unhelpful like usual. We have to share our time more and that means less sleep, but I'm glad we're not alone.

I'm glad its not just me, stuck at her house in Grand Rapids again like it was the 1st time and 2nd time I had to help her out at the house.

The 2nd time was the worse, because she was sick, assuming it was maybe covid or a virus, the flu or something else like a cold because of the mucus. And she hadn't been to the hospital in years. The insurance company sent a doctor to check up on her in March and when he just touched that one oldddd surgery spot that she had been talking about for years....it was near the liver and the pancreas. And thats where they said the cancer was, this whole entire time.

I wonder how or when did it start growing? And how long had she known she was gonna die? Even when I stayed with her this year she would say "Just in case something happens to me" or "I'm rotting away." and the pads she would wear in her underwear because she said something kept leaking every so often and she been stopped getting periods because they took her uterus out decades ago.

It's like crazy and mind bottling, because I wanna know why, when, where, and how. I want answers. I want somebody to be able to tell me this is what caused it and am I at risk for something similar either just naturally or just from getting surgeries from doctors who didn't listen to her or tell her what was truly going on...its like nobody knew, but her and God. And she felt everything in her body. Everything. She knew which types of food would hurt her stomach or not, which natural vitamins to help with her pain every so often. I can't even deny that this entire time she's been telling me these stories, moments, and memories all over and over again for one reason and one reason only. So not only she could remember, but also for us to know why she's been feeling in pain for so many years.

She's been duct taping her body like a car for so many years with vitamins for this and hard lemonades to help her get through each day, but she never not once wanted to go to the doctors, the people that she didn't trust for years and held a grudge over it, she knew exactly what injuries and everything that led up to her feeling the stings in her feet, her big toe, her back, her stomach, her side, her lungs, and her chest. She had everything covered like a math equation.

And she's very frugal, did not want no expensive medical bills cause she already felt like a burden to us, even when she came into the house and she saw how much storage stuff we had to clear out of that blue room, she told Daddy she didn't wanna be a burden.

But we gotta take care of you Grandma. Cause we love you and your son, your daughter in law, and your grand babies are gonna help carry you on your way. I don't care if you want ice cream in the middle of the night, I will go get it. I know momma and daddy don't want me to overwork myself, but why do I feel that thing where the mother can't stay away from its child? I don't wanna miss her going, and not have said goodbye and I love you. Thats it, just final words.

Cause that's how you do closure, I wanna know were you in peace when it happened and could I have done anything to help you feel better towards the end. Cause I know what it feels like to not have closure from somebody, I had to do it all by myself and I still feel ungrateful and absent about it. Because nobody talked to me, they just left me hanging.

And I'd be damn if I missed my Grandma before she passed. Her birthday is August 22nd. I know its unlikely to ask for, but can I see her on Christmas? At least? After everything we've went through, her chewing my food up for me when I was little. All the stories she remembered about me eating peaches, chicken, and spaghetti. And how she cooked it with corn flakes so it had the crispiest crunch. And how much I used to ask her to replay Barney when dad would drop me, she said I'd say "Again, Again!" and whoever was there said something about it...

Why do I feel like because we've been so busy helping and working, now is not the time to mourn?

She's still here, but I can still hear her singing our jazzy bathtub song.

"Singing in the bath tubbb,

A doobee-doobee doo

Singing in the bath tubbb

A doobee-doobee doo"

I still remember the note and everything and me giggling and smiling, laughing and singing with her.

Grandma used to sing and listen to music all the time. She showed me a few more songs before we got into it about the hamster.

Honestly, I'm not even mad about all that anymore, I just want her feeling at home and happy with us.

[mimzy-writing-online]

Hey!! I was wondering if you had any advice for a character concept I've been playing with? :) long story short, my character wasn't born blind, but throughout the story she progressively becomes blind from cataracts- cortical vision impairment to be exact. Is this inherently a bad concept? I really don't want to misrepresent this, and the last thing I want is to make people mad about it. Is there a way I should go about this? Thanks!!

Later message from same Anon: Hey! Just following up on my ask of writing a blind character in the Victorian era- sorry if I missed it

Note: in a message between the first and third, anon added that this story takes place in the Victorian era.

You certainly did not miss it, I’ve just been lazy (struggling) with blog maintenance and have been procrastinating answering several asks.  Historical fiction is out of my area of expertise, so this required more research than general advice.

Also, my first and second attempts at an answer were eaten away by computer/tumblr difficulties, so I had to rewrite a lot.

I think it is a fantastic idea to have your character go blind slowly over time. It is also ambitious, so it is something you need to be careful with, but it’s totally doable.

So the era throws me a little because I’ve never had much practice with historical fiction and history wasn’t a fave subject of mine. Most of my research into blind history has been after World War I, because the sudden surge of blinded veterans changed the course of history for the blind community. This and technology overall led to those huge changes.

So I did a little reading up on the recent evolutions of blindness and the world’s general understanding of it in the 1800s.

Conclusion: society was shit with disability, but I already knew that. There were some remarkable inventions and innovations for blindness in this century, which I will get to later.

 So this post will be: 1. The more personal aspects of going blind over time (instead of all at once) such as acceptance vs denial, life changes, and internalized ableism. 2. Speculating on society’s perception of the blind. 3. Innovations for the blind in that era and what comes after.

 So, part one. The Emotional…

As someone who has slowly lost vision over the course of years and has no idea how far this will progress, I can tell you that it’s an agonizing process of realization, denial, understanding, acceptance, adaption.

Realizing you’re going blind comes in small pieces that eventually add up to become a puzzle. And for this reason, adaption follows a similar pattern.

You identify a problem, feel conflicted about this change, wonder if you should ignore or investigate, and regardless of which path you take, you find a new way to adapt.

I’m going to use an example of my process through this, so you can see the actual thought patterns and how they circle between “this isn’t a problem” – “wait this is a problem” – “no I’m fine!” – “this is a problem.” – “I’m fine, what am I complaining for” – “I made this change and now my life is 100x easier??? Who knew? Why didn’t I do this sooner?”

Example from my life: Light is bright. That hurts but I’m fine. I get sunglasses. The pain with bright light is getting worse. Okay, that’s concerning, maybe I should talk to a doctor. Doctor says I’m fine but now I’m thinking I’m not okay. Why are my eyes doing this? Why do I hurt? Oh, and now bright lights at night are becoming a problem, and I get more headaches associated with light. I could wear sunglasses at night and indoors, but society has given me a negative and judgemental opinion of that, so I don’t want to do it. Best friend pushes me to give up on that negative view for the sake of my health. Finally I listen and life feels much better, but I’m still a little uncomfortable with this change. I feel very blind with my sunglasses, but that’s the only way to not feel pain. And now I feel blind when I’m not wearing any light protection, but I’m in pain this way. What’s wrong with me?

And this is just my internal argument with sunglasses and light sensitivity, from age 17-22. On the other side is my struggle with “do I need a cane” from age 21-22, which goes like this-

It’s August and I’m walking through a semi-familiar but gigantic and ridiculously crowded park with a group of friends. It’s bright out and I need to wear my sunglasses. And now I’m realizing there is a dilemma. I can’t see. My sunglasses are too dark to see. But going without is painful and just as bad vision wise. BUT I CAN’T SEE! I’m scared, I’m going to run into someone or something, I’ll get lost or separated from my friends and not be able to find them. I can’t see curbs or pillars or people and the only thing keeping me safe is holding onto K, who knows my current vision situation when no one else does

And I think to myself- this day would be so much easier if I had a cane.

But I haven’t needed one before, and I don’t ‘normally’ need one. Just every time I go outside on a sunny day. I don’t need it all the time, so I can’t have one, I’m fine.

But these things keep happening, where I’m outside and terrified but I think I’m still “sighted” and my only problem is some light sensitivity and not-super-great sunglasses. My glasses let me see 20/20 (or they did, which they did not a year later) so I definitely don’t need a cane at all.

Young past self, you were so wrong. You needed that.

Eventually I had a breaking point when one year later I’m seeing 20/50 with best correction (so, by legal definitions I’m not even visually impaired yet) but I’m terrified of leaving my house and can’t travel alone and am a literal danger to myself because I can’t see and can’t tell people I can’t see because of social anxiety and internalized ableism-

And the breaking point was that I finally got seriously hurt because I was in a situation where I couldn’t see and wasn’t brave enough to ask my current company to be a sighted guide. That’s the day I ordered a cane, and when it came two weeks ago, I finally remembered what it’s like to not be so terrified for my life every time I left my home.

Your character will over time find problems with her daily life that she didn’t have before, and she’ll deal with each one individually, but with all of them will usually be a repeating thought pattern that is unique to her. It depends on her internalized ableism and society’s ableism (and that era is full of it) and accommodations available to them at the time (also not great).

She’ll solve each problem at a different point that may coincide with other problems and yet still seem like entirely separate problems to them. Like how I wouldn’t relate my need for sunglasses and my need for a cane at the same time because they felt like separate battles to me with their own timelines and similar but still different thought processes.

You will have to decide on a case by case basis what accommodations or accessibility she can have at that time.

 Society’s view on blindness:

It’s shit.

It’s not great now, in the world of information available at your fingertips. It’s desperately worse in history.

 (TW: abuse of disabled people mentioned -thoroughly- in the next two paragraphs)

Everyone with a disability was treated like shit. Sensory disabilities (Deaf or Blind or Deafblind people) and mental illness were treated the worst. There is historical religious persecution against them, saying that they were made ill by the devil or a vengeful God. Which lead to abuse. They were seen as helpless or unproductive, defective, and so were treated as burdens upon their family and society. Because of this, abuse from parents and family members was horribly common for disabled people. Disabled people were often left in asylums by their family members because they were seen as a burden, where there was usually still more abuse to come.

There are still children with disabilities who are abused by their parents, families, care givers, or any facility they’ve been placed in. The cases of abuse are less, but by no means over.

 Ableism in general is just rampant and it’s only cured through the distribution of information. Most people (today) have never met a blind person in real life, had a conversation with one. Through the internet they can find information, but in pre-internet and media eras I can’t imagine how much ignorance runs about.

Most people think blindness is something that only happens with old age, birth defects, or tragic accidents. Or that blindness is obvious in a person. Not the case, as we both know, but certainly a cause for many misunderstandings.

 This section is where the development of technology and understanding of blind people begins, but there’s still some ugly history involving abuse of the disabled to come.

Technology and History

 (TW: abuse towards historical disabled people in next paragraph)

In 1785 the Institut National des Jeunes Aveugles, the world’s very first school for the blind was established in Paris, France. It was opened internationally to children who society had previously deemed unteachable. Valentin Haüy witnessed acts of bullying and cruelty done to blind hospice patients and it inspired him to attempt teaching a blind beggar. He taught the boy to read through raised letters (because Braille was not yet invented). The school he founded could better be described as a trade school, because its primary purpose was to teach work skills like letter press and weaving (going back to Valentin’s childhood, whose family worked as weavers)

Due to criminal activity (he was labeled as a terrorist related to the French Revolution and was a member of the Panthéon Club) he was forced to leave the school in 1802. He later moved to Russia (1806) and began a new school upon the request of Alexander I of Russia.

(TW: child abuse mention in next paragraph)

After his leave, the school had a change in leadership and location, and subsequently quality. Sébastien Guillié became the new director and was later forced to leave because of the inhumane conditions of the facility and welfare of the children. Those children lived in a French Revolution prison that was refurbished as an asylum/school for their education. It was cold and dirty. They were kept in the dark, only allowed to bathe once a month, and poorly fed. This went on until 1821 when he was forced to leave.

Louis Braille (the inventor of Braille) was a student of the school until Guillié’s reign of terror.

The school was later moved to Boulevard des Invalides, and it remains there today. Information with this school is hard for me to access. It doesn’t have the prettiest history, so I can only speculate how much was left out of the books to save the school, and what information I could access is in French.

However, back to Braille.

Braille was invented by Frenchman Louis Braille in 1824. Before his invention, he was taught to read through raised lettering, and he concluded that raised lettering was impractical because-

1.       It is difficult to read, the letters had to be printed in huge font to be fully felt out and printed on thick paper.

2.       Thick paper means higher quality, more expensive. Larger font means more paper is needed for a single text.

3.       This made it inaccessible due to expense and the sheer volume of a text.

4.       If today’s Braille books are hard to access and giant compared to traditional books, I can’t imagine how inaccessible those raised letter books really were

 Five years later The Perkins School for the Blind was founded in America, making education accessible to blind and deafblind children, and this time it focused on reading and mathematics, more education than trade school.

Though it would not have been possible for your character to attend the school herself, it could be possible that she became acquainted with a teacher or former student of either school, who might have passed on some O&M skills to her or some not so pleasant tales.

Side note: the Perkins Brailler (a typewriter machine for Braille) was developed by a wood working teacher at the Perkins School for the Blind – in 1951, so not applicable to your character’s time period, but I didn’t know this, so I must info-dump

 This is before the eugenics movement of 20th century America, when the belief that people with “poor breeding” should be prevented from breeding. The eugenics movement targeted not only the disabled, but lower class and people of color.

  The white cane as an accessibility tool was not “discovered” until the 1930’s by Philip Strong, who painted his walking stick white to make himself more visible. This piece of history is a little flimsy in my opinion. Techniques are discovered and lost and rediscovered all the time. You can’t prove he was the first person to “wave a stick” in front of him to find obstacles.

But he is credited for making the white cane something that could be a standard identifier to tell people (moving obstacles) “hey, I’m blind, don’t hit me with your loud vehicle” and made a movement of other people getting white canes to identify themselves.

I very much thank him for it, seeing as I’m so sighted-passing sometimes. If white canes weren’t standard everyone-must-know-what-this-means sort of thing, I think people would just watch me “wave a stick” around and think I’d lost my mind.

(TW: suicide of disabled character mention in next paragraph)

So when you see something like in Downton Abby (season 2) when Thomas and Sybil are trying to teach a blinded soldier how to use a cane to navigate… it could be possible, something that actually occurred to some people then. Although, now that I think about it, that character killed himself by the end of the episode and that still upsets me.

Downton Abby got the period-typical ableism right, I will give them that. Both the internalized ableism as well as how strangers treat you, they got that right. What they did to their disabled characters still bothers me (i.e. death and cure subplots)

(TW has been lifted, you made it past.)

But with World War 1, there was a huge number of blinded veterans entering the world and that did make way for big changes in the world of blindness-

Within a few decades guide dogs were being trained, white canes were becoming a thing, Schools for the Blind were thinking, “hey, maybe we should teach adults these skills too!” and life continued on until it eventually reached out modern world. Which, not applicable to your era, but I think it’s important to know what wasn’t available or common knowledge for your character.

If anyone has other information about historical fiction, the Victorian era, and historical ableism and disability, please feel free to reblog with your input and I’ll reblog it.

As always, this post can be found on my blog through the tags: reference, blind character, historical fiction

[firstumcschenectady]

“Humans: Needing Love and Comfort”

(a sermon dialogue with Rev. Lynn Gardner of the Unitarian Universalist Society of Schenectady and Rev. Sara Baron of the First United Methodist Church of Schenectady)

Part 1: Our awareness of our need for mothering (which is our need to be loved, and comforted)

Lynn: It started when I was on my yoga mat. It was early one morning last spring. I hadn’t been sleeping well, and I was up as the sun was rising, moving through familiar yoga asanas, gently stretching, moving, breathing. I was in child’s pose… curled over bent knees, forehead resting on the mat, when the crying began. Everything that my body had been holding in was let loose in a torrent of tears, growing into deep sobs. Worry, grief, fear, sadness, loneliness and anger, pouring out. My heart ached thinking of all those who were suffering alone or separated from anyone who was familiar.

On the day we were born and received the gift of our first breath we depended on our mothers, our parents, or other caring adults in order to survive. As we grew, those needs changed, but our need to be loved and cared for is still part of us. That morning on my yoga mat, I rocked, and cried, feeling the vulnerability of being human… that we need one another. This may be our vulnerability AND our strength.

Sara: The past year has been one of developing my identity as a mother. My child was born 51 weeks ago today. It has been a very long time since I’ve needed mothering as much as I have since I became a mother. It turns out that the capacity to give my child what he needs is dependent on having enough of my own needs met and, quite often, I can’t fulfill both sets of needs on my own, and am dependent on others to hold me up so I can hold him up.

I was raised upper middle class, and I’m white, and I have internalized the message that self-sufficiency is “good.” Which means I’m REALLY BAD at asking for help, and that hasn’t made me need it less. The pandemic has complicated EVERYTHING. When I needed help the most it felt least safe to receive it. When I hit the end of my capacity and could go no further, when tears filled my eyes and I simply could not do what I needed to do, when without love and comfort and support I could no longer offer love and comfort and support… I have spent this year learning that I need to be mothered well in order to mother well. For me, at least, this applies both to parenting AND to pastoring. To offer love and comfort to my congregation ALSO requires that I have something to give, and that means I have to reach out when I need love and comfort too.

Part 2: Stories of times we have received loving, comforting care when we needed it

Support can come in a wider range of formats than I ever knew. There was, for me, one day when everything I needed to do most profoundly exceeded my capacity to do it. Before that day was easier, after that day was easier, but on that day I could simply go no further. I remember texting 3 friends. It was August, and nothing felt safe, especially not in person. One friend got in the car to come help. Another stayed on the phone with me until she arrived and let me cry while being heard. The third texted back and forth all day assuring me that I was allowed to make things easier on myself, and it didn’t mean I was failing as a mother to do so.

Those three friends comforted me that day, they let their love for me become support when I needed it. I think it is fair to say that they mothered me, and BECAUSE they took care of me, I was able to take care of my child.

In some ways this story seems too small, and in other ways it seems … archetypal. Looking back at my life there are innumerable times when my pain or burden was too much to bear. In every one of them, I reached out for support. Sometimes I reached out directly to the Divine, which for me means I disappeared into nature and silence for the hours I needed before I could form words again. Other times I have reached out to family or friends (or my own pastor), and let them hold me up. It is in being held - in any medium- that I can regain my own self-regulation and find my way again.

Lynn: Isn’t it amazing when someone shows up in simple yet deeply caring ways? 21 years ago I went to stay at my parent’s home when my Mom was nearing the end of her life. She had been diagnosed with cancer just five weeks earlier. She was at home with hospice care, laying in a bed where she could look out and see her garden, and my father and sisters and I were caring for her and for one another. A long time friend called and asked if she could come by. She arrived with three hot-fudge brownie sundaes, one for me, one for her, and one for my Dad. Let’s go for a walk, she suggested. We walked and ate. She listened, and we cried and laughed together, and also held space for the comfort of shared silence. That was the most delicious sundae I have ever eaten.

Each of these moments in our lives have served to remind us that we are not self-sufficient, we do not walk or work alone. It is because of our connections that we are.. It is because we have been nurtured that we are functional and able to offer nurture.

Part 3: Growing us into capacity to give mothering

Sara: Our sweet baby is teething. It is miserable for everyone involved. We are very thankful in our house for pain medication. But sometimes it isn’t enough. Sometimes he hurts, and nothing we can do makes the hurt go away, and it is awful. In those moments, all we can do is be with him and assure him he isn’t alone. It doesn’t feel like enough in the moment, but I also wouldn’t dream of letting him suffer alone.

There are many sources of pain in life, physical, spiritual, mental, and emotional. In some cases we are able to do things that change them, like feeding people who are hungry. In many cases we cannot change reality, or the pain people experience, when they are grieving. In those cases all we can do is be with one another, and assure each other we aren’t alone. It doesn’t feel like enough, but the difference between being alone and being supported is significant. Our congregations can be communities of practice… where we continue to learn about giving and receiving care.

This has been one of the worst parts of the pandemic, that the means of support and comfort we are used to offering grieving people have been taken away. I invite those who are safely ready and able to loosen their COVID restrictions to think about how to offer love and support now that wasn’t possible before.

Learning the limits of what comfort I can give has never felt enjoyable, but it seems like the capacity to be a mother grows along with my awareness of my own limitations.

Part 4: The Divine as Nurturer, and Faith as Subversive when it comes to nurture.

The Gospel lesson we read today in the United Methodist church instructs us to “abide in love,” and expounds eloquently on the subject. I believe that this is what faith is all about. In Christian and United Methodist lingo we talk about “sanctification” which is the process of letting go of whatever is not love and being filled up with love so that you can respond to every person in every moment with pure love. In our models, continued faith development is all aimed at sanctification. (John Wesley, the founder of the Methodist movement believed that people could reach perfection in love during their life times. ;) I share that as an interesting historical fact.)

In real life though, things are complicated. In many circumstances it is not clear what the most loving response actually is. What looks from one angle like loving nurture looks from another angle like enabling. These days I find myself reminding myself several times a day about the process of emerging from cocoons. That is, when transformed creatures emerge from cocoons it is a slow and seemingly painful process. Over the years many well meaning humans have tried to ease creatures ways out of the cocoon, only to learn that the moths and butterflies are permanently damaged by having the process eased. There is a fine line to walk in care for others, and I find I am never clear which side of it I’m on.

Lynn: Receiving care can also be complicated. Sometimes we just need someone to help us, or for someone to comfort us, but we don’t ask, and feel resentful. Or we don’t know who to ask… or we tell ourselves we don’t deserve it, or that someone else needs it more. And sometimes, it is so hard to just allow ourselves to be cared for… to really receive the love that is being offered.

Prior to seminary, I worked in child care for 20 years. Over those years, and while raising our daughter, I have held and rocked many a tired cranky little one. Whether you have done so yourself or not, I invite to imagine holding an overly-tired toddler, who is crying and pushing away, resisting their need for sleep with every ounce of energy they have. They are so tired… and so upset… not wanting to give up, to let go, and to sink into the arms that are holding them.

Unitarian Universalism affirms that each of us is worthy of love…. That we are each more than our worst mistake. That we are each worthy of care and comfort. We are all held by a larger Love that will not let us go… even when we struggle… even when we push away… I can imagine the Holy whispering, “shhh…. Shhhh….. I’m right here.”

Sara: I’m also deeply aware that while the Divine, faith, and Biblical teaching all call us to love, in our society the expectations around that love vary according to the bodies we occupy. Lynn and I have been reflecting on the human need to receive mothering - the human need to receive love and comfort - and suggesting that faith communities may be sources of giving good care so those in them can then give good care to the world. Yet, I keep thinking about the realities of “emotional labor” and the ways that female embodied people, and people of color, along with others thought in society to occupy subordinate positions are subliminally taught to offer care and nurture to those who are male embodied, white, and empowered. Kate Manne in “Down Girl: The Logic of Misogyny” talks about the ways emotional labor is thought to be the work of some and the privilege to receive of others, and how this is encouraged with “carrots” and enforced with “sticks.”

This awareness brings some of the deeper challenges of celebrating love and comfort into view. Humans need love and comfort. Humans can give love and comfort. But often the giving becomes the role of some and the receiving the roles of others. I believe that one of the subversive narratives of faith is inverting those roles, and making the giving of love, comfort, and nurture the role of all people - especially the ones in power.

So, dear ones, may we receive the wonderful mothering of the Divine and of the people of faith, and may we soak in love and comfort so that we are able to share it with abundance.

Amen

[thesnadger]

Quiet Hours

(It was inevitable I’d write something for The Magnus Archives. A small conversation set during the weeks Jon and Martin were in Scotland before everything went sideways.)

Ao3

When Martin woke up, Jon was already gone.

As soon as he saw the empty room around him, Martin knew he wouldn’t find Jon anywhere in the safehouse. He looked anyway, checking what rooms there were and walking a slow circle around the outside. He moved slowly, taking his time not out of any sense of thoroughness but to delay the inevitable moment when expectation became certainty, when what he’d sensed the moment he woke up was confirmed.

Jon had left. And he’d taken any trace that he’d ever been there. The bag he’d been living out of, the scattered papers on the kitchen table. Even the empty cigarette package that he’d left crumpled on the floor next to the wastebasket, all were gone. He hadn’t stepped out temporarily, he’d taken his things with him and he wouldn’t be returning.

Martin found he didn’t feel any need to speculate on why Jon would have left so suddenly, without a word or even a note. There was a logic to it all. Jon had a history of going off on his own, following some plan of his to its natural, likely dangerous conclusion. And Martin had known in the back of his head that those plans probably wouldn’t involve him for long. Eventually, Jon would leave him behind.

He had only hurt himself by entertaining any other possibilities. He had no one to blame for the dull ache in his chest but Martin Blackwood.

A quiet unease crept through him, as if there was someone standing behind him. He didn’t want to look, not because he feared there would be someone there, but because he knew that there was nothing and no one, and that was so much worse. It made him uncomfortable in the safehouse, and he went outside.

The sky was dim and overcast and a mist dampened his skin as he walked out. The air had a numbing chill to it, but he didn’t shiver. He was focused on the view. In some ways it was the same as always, green hills dotted with rocks stretching out in all directions. But today there were no animals outside, and a dense fog had gathered on the horizon, obscuring the village from his view. Somehow, Martin knew that even if he walked to the end of the road and pushed through that fog there would be nothing on the other side. Just more empty green. More mist and overcast skies.

It was better this way. Or, no. Not better. Definitely not better. But this was the way it was meant to be. Martin closed his eyes and let the mist gather around him, until he couldn’t feel anything at all.

Then he woke with a start, disoriented, eyes darting around the room. It was night and he was indoors. A sliver of a moon shone through the window. The sky was free of mist. A dream. It had been a dream. Just a nightmare.

Martin kicked free from the tangle of blankets and dragged himself off the futon. He didn’t want to fall back asleep where the dream might still be waiting, ready to take him back to the mist and the quiet and the numbing cold. He’d stretch his legs a little, maybe get a glass of water. Anything that might clear his head.

He was surprised to find Jon in the kitchen. He was slouched in one of the chairs, staring out the window and fiddling with a pen. It was only when he saw Jon there that Martin realized he should have been surprised to not see him in the room where they’d been sleeping.

A floorboard creaked and Jon started, turning in Martin’s direction with an intense stare that softened as he realized who it was.

“Just me.” Martin said, raising a hand for a wave and trying to smile. He was still re-orienting himself to the waking world.

“Ah. Yes. I see that.” Jon nodded. “Sorry. Startled, that’s all.”

“Have you not been to bed?” Martin asked.

“Not yet, no. I’m, er, getting some work done.” He gestured vaguely to the table in front of him. “Trying to see if I can work out what we should be worrying about, I suppose. Where the next danger is coming from."  

Martin glanced down. There was a pile of old statements that looked untouched--Jon always lost interest after recording, thought for whatever reason he refused to throw them away. Next to them was a yellow legal pad that had barely been marked. A small list of names, question marks and one or two scribbled words were in one corner. That was it, aside from a spot in the margin where something had been scratched out and scribbled over so thoroughly that it was nothing but a dense black square. Martin couldn’t guess what was underneath it. Jon saw him staring and flipped the page over.

“You look like hell, you know.” Martin said. “You shouldn’t burn the candle at both ends. It’ll catch up to you if it hasn’t already.”

“It probably has.” Jon sighed. “What about you? What are you doing awake at this hour?”

“Oh. You know. . . .” Martin shifted, standing in the doorway. “Nightmares . . . trauma. The usual.”

“. . . Ah.” Jon replied. “Right. Of course.”

He looked uncomfortable at that, and Martin shrugged dismissively, hoping to clear the air. “Well, we’ve all been through a lot.”

“Still. That doesn’t make your troubles any less important.” Jon said. His voice was soft and serious, and something about it put a twinge in Martin’s chest.

“. . . It’s only a dream.” Martin said. “Can only do so much about it. Just thought I’d clear my head before trying to sleep again.”

“I see.” Jon gestured towards the chair across from his.

Martin sat down, then gestured at the notepad. “So. . . what exactly are you working on? Any leads?”

“Oh. . . no, not really.” Jon shook his head. “Just trying to, sort of. . . .” He trailed off, looking at the blank page. “Nothing. Honestly, nothing at all.”

“. . .Oh.” Martin smiled a little. “Well. It isn’t as if you’ve got to worry about being fired.”

Jon smirked at that. “Suppose not.”

“Don’t imagine there’s much to do but wait.”

“Yes.” Jon sighed. “Just keeping myself busy, really. Well, trying to. I, ah . . . .” he glanced off to the side, lowering his voice to a mutter. “I know what my dreams will be like.”

So that was it. Martin knew what he meant, of course. He’d heard the tape Jonah recorded while Jon was dead to the world.

“I don’t know.” Jon continued, “maybe. . .maybe if I don’t sleep I can . . . give everyone a night off?”  

“Is that how it works?” Martin asked.

“I’ve no idea.” Jon sighed. “It might?”

Martin considered this. “Well. Even if it does, never sleeping again isn’t really a solution.”

“I know, I know,” he reached up and rubbed his eyes. “I suppose I still need sleep as much as anyone else does.”

“Bet that drives you crazy.” 

"At least we’ll both be alert if there’s a midnight attack from some paranormal creature. One that’s fond of the Scottish countryside.”

“Sure. Evil bagpipes, probably.” Martin said. Then he saw the expression on Jon’s face. “No. No. You’re kidding me.”

“Statement #9931907.” Jon nodded. “A manifestation of the Slaughter in Lancraig.”

“ Bagpipes though?”

“The sound of them, anyway. Not some sort of. . . homicidal wind instrument scuttling along on pipe legs, if that’s what you’re imagining.”

“That was exactly what I was imagining, yes.”

“Mmm. The man who witnessed it mentioned how much sheep sound like people pretending to be sheep. I can’t help thinking about that every time I hear one out here.”

“What?” Martin laughed, “that’s ridiculous. Sheep sound like sheep.”

“I suppose I haven’t had enough exposure to tell yet.”

“Well, neither have I. Still.” He shook his head. “Suppose we’ll have plenty chances to hear them out here. Might be holed up for a while, until some other monster or something forces us out.”

“To be honest, Martin, I think it’ll be a relief when something does.” Jon said. “At least we won’t be waiting anymore.”

Something about Jon’s tone made images from Martin’s dream come creeping back into him, and he frowned. The feeling of the vacant safehouse still lingered. The emptiness in it that had been. . . deeper than a room that simply had no one in it. It was a palpable absence, like the silence after a question or a vacant hospice bed. He found himself focusing on it in a way that he didn’t want to.

Jon must have noticed something, because he cleared his throat. “Not that the waiting’s been all that bad,” he added. “It’s quiet at least. And both of us were in need of a holiday.”

“Are you--” Martin hesitated. “I still think you should get some sleep. For the record. But if you’re not going to, would you mind if I stayed up with you? I. . . .” He paused a moment, then decided to be blunt. “I really, really don’t want to be alone right now.”

”. . .Of course.” Jon hesitated, but when he spoke his voice was gentle and sounded sincere. “That’s. . . completely understandable. Given everything. I, ah, I wouldn’t mind the company either.”

Martin let out his breath, surprised at the relief he suddenly felt. Some tension he’d been holding since waking up eased, and he sagged forwards in the chair. “Right. I mean, thanks.”

Jon nodded and stretched, checking his watch. “Sunrise is at 6:27 am today. Just a few hours from now. The world should feel a bit safer in the daylight.”

“Yeah. That’ll be nice.” Martin didn’t ask Jon if he’d looked the time up or just Known it. It didn’t seem worth pressing.

By the time sunrise actually came, they’d fallen asleep in their chairs. Slumped forward on the kitchen table, unconsciously pressing against each other for warmth.

(Note: @squeeneyart made this beautiful image based on this idea as I yelled about it in Discord to them.)

[writerrsj]

Two Brothers [fanfic]

SPN post finale one-shot: no detailed spoilers for plot, but there are references to current events. I just wanted to bring a bit of happily-ever-after to the Winchester brothers. Fluffy - Cas’ POV.

Two Brothers

Cas watched the car approach the bunker before turning back to the scene in the garage. Head tilted, he didn’t need to hear the words to understand what was happening. Heartbroken and hurting, two brothers were trying to find a way home, a way to live and be happy. Doors slammed behind him and two people approached, but he continued to watch the scene.

“Hey, Cas,” Sam greeted with a slap on the back and a hug. 

Eileen moved in next to hug him. Cas returned her smile and they exchanged a few quick signs. Sam didn’t pay them any attention after he noticed the three people in the garage. He took a step forward then stopped and turned back to Cas.

“What’s going on there?”

Smiling, Cas looked behind Sam to the garage. Dean’s hand was wrapped around the smaller boy’s hand on the tool. Even from a distance, Cas could see the spots of blood where Dean’s knuckles scraped along the metal. Dean said something causing the boy to giggle. The older child stood with his arms crossed over his chest and glared…until the child turned to him. He nodded and smiled…until the boy turned back to Dean again. The returning scowl was even darker.

“Those the ones?” Eileen asked the question but was already nodding. “I can see it.”

Cas pulled his gaze back to watch Sam’s response. The curiosity was there as it always had been in the younger Winchester. He let Sam keep watching but filled the silence. “We have a box with the ingredients and books you requested.”

“Good, we have some things for you too. It’s nice having access to the electronic data, but I like visiting.” Eileen grinned at Cas and rubbed a hand along Sam’s back.

“Are you still doing the inventory? Any new hunters join?” Cas and Eileen spoke daily – they were the Winchesters who were best at communication after all. He knew the answers and she knew he knew. It was a strategy they’d discovered quickly when they’d needed to ease Dean and Sam into something new and different.

Sam hummed without looking away from Dean and the two boys. “The bunker is set up the same as here so it’s big. Being across the country for the last year sucks, but we can help out a lot more hunters this way. Less driving too.”

“Dean misses you,” Cas spoke softly and laid a hand on Sam’s shoulder.

“He tell you that?” Smirking, Sam briefly met Cas’ eyes. He immediately returned his gaze to his brother who had just tossed his head back to laugh. Sam’s smirk twisted into a wide, happy grin. “I’m glad we get to visit. We haven’t seen you guys since that hunt two months ago.”

The hunt hadn’t required both Sam and Dean, but Cas and Eileen coordinated efforts to bring them together whenever possible. The brothers were even busier with two former Men of Letters bunkers training and organizing hunters. The world needed every Winchester it could get, but the Winchesters boys still needed each other. “You’re staying the week, right?”

“Yes,” Eileen confirmed quickly.

A couple new hunters joined them under the guise of asking questions about an upcoming assignment. Cas supplied the information while the young man and woman cast frequent glances at Sam. The Winchesters had a reputation in the hunting world that still persisted even years after their showdown with Chuck. Just what that reputation was depended on who was asked – hunter, demon, angel, monster, victim, or Eileen and Cas. 

A small explosion ended the discussion. The young hunters waited until Cas nodded to run off to investigate.

“Do I want to know?” Sam had already turned back to Dean who waved a hand and grinned.

“We’ve found there’s less clean-up if we test new spells outside.” Cas nodded once to Eileen and she smiled.

“I think I’ll go see what’s going on inside. Sam, grab the box when you come in?” She patted his back when he nodded an agreement.

Cas waited for the questions; it wasn’t a long wait.

“Who are the kids?”

“Mark is ten and he’s the older brother. Paul is only six.” Cas split his attention between Dean’s clean-up of the younger child and Sam’s fascination.

“How’d they end up here?”

“The usual way – parents were killed by a monster. They weren’t hunters though, just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Both boys saw it.” Cas gritted his teeth against one of the curses he’d learned years ago from Dean. He did still believe good things happened, but he knew horrible things happened too.

Sam shifted his weight to the side and ran a hand through his hair. Dean was starting to walk their way. His hand was on Paul’s head – Mark walked several feet away.

Cas spoke quickly and quietly just before the trio joined them, “Mark doesn’t want to stay. He wants to protect Paul and that means staying away from monsters and hunters.”

Dean hugged his brother and slapped his back. “Sammy, took you long enough to get here. If you played better music, you’d want to drive faster.”

The hunter brothers exchanged a few more insults while Paul stayed by Dean’s side. His head bounced between them, and his teeth worried his bottom lip. It wasn’t until the exchange ended and the men hugged again that the child relaxed. Mark continued to glare.

“Paulie, this is my little brother, Sammy.” Dean grinned at the kid. “He’s a big nerd, but we still love him. You know how it is with family.” 

Paul glanced at his brother before smiling at Sam. “Hi.”

“Hey there,” Sam greeted. He jerked his head back toward Baby. “Dean rarely lets me touch his car. You must be a friend of his.”

The kid’s eyes widened and he looked up at Dean.

“Yeah, Paulie is a friend,” Dean confirmed. He turned to Cas and blinked several times.

Cas moved to Dean’s side until he was close enough that their shoulders touched. He brushed the hunter’s hand with his and smiled at him. The moment was broken when Mark pulled his brother away from the men.

“I told you they were our friends, Mark.” Paul frowned until his brother lightly cuffed the side of his head. He then dropped his gaze to his feet and kicked the dirt.

Mark sighed and looked from his brother to the adults. “They’re friends, but they ain’t family, Paul.” He stressed his brother’s name and scowled at Dean.

“Food’s on the table, boys. Anybody work up an appetite for homemade pizza?” Eileen stood several feet away and motioned toward the bunker. “Better get it while it’s hot.”

Grabbing Paul by the back of the neck, Mark pushed him forward. “Come on, you need to eat.” 

Paul glanced back at his brother then the men but didn’t argue. Mark looked steadfastly forward.

“He’s a damn stubborn kid.” Dean added a few curses and fisted his hands tight enough to whiten his knuckles.

Sam watched the boys until the door closed behind them. “Yeah, I’ve heard older brothers can be that way.”

Dean ignored the taunt.  “He can’t care for Paulie alone. They’ll be sitting ducks for any ghost or monster.”

Glancing between Eileen and Cas, Sam started laughing. “I know you two do a lot behind the scenes, but really?”

Cas grinned back then winked at Dean when he turned to him. He knew the simple gesture could still distract the hunter. Dean’s gaze moved from his eyes to his lips and Cas had to fight the urge to give into the distraction himself. It didn’t help when bright green eyes met his again.

“I can’t believe you guys still do the staring thing,” Sam grouched.

“I think it’s romantic,” Eileen retorted. She accepted Sam’s kiss and pinched his side at the same time. 

One arm around his wife, Sam turned back to his brothers. “What’s the plan?”

“There isn’t one. The kids have a grandmother in hospice care at a retirement home and Mark wants to go to her. He’ll end up taking care of her too. After that, they’ll be alone.” No longer distracted, Dean frowned and cursed.

Fisting his hands, Cas didn’t lift a hand to trace the taut line Dean’s full lips had become. He did take a moment to note the laugh lines the more recent years had etched on his love’s face. Theirs wasn’t an easy life, but it was one Cas had given up everything for many times. He’d never regretted the choice.

“We need to show them family doesn’t end with blood,” Cas reminded Dean. He smiled when the hunter sighed and relaxed enough to lean into him. It was a comforting habit to put a hand on his shoulder. 

“Do you want to train them to be hunters?” Sam’s brows furrowed.

“No,” Dean spat out the word. “We want to give them the chance to be kids.”

“Both of them,” Cas added. Neither Sam nor Dean had had a traditional childhood, but the burden of fatherhood had rested with Dean from too early an age.

Sam nodded repeatedly. “Okay, we’ll show them what it means to be family. It won’t be the first kid you’ve taken on, Dean.”

“I’m not a good father figure, but Cas is here. We have some good hunters with kids who can show them love and happiness. They should get to be kids even if we can’t stop all the nightmares.” Dean’s head dropped to rest briefly on Cas’ shoulder.

“Sam turned out okay, all things considered.” Eileen laughed while Sam rolled his eyes.

Cas grinned at them and squeezed Dean’s shoulder. “All things considered.”

Dean snorted and lifted his head. “The big moose—“

“Okay, wait until the boys are around to demonstrate that brotherly love,” Eileen chastised. She hugged Sam and looked up at him. “Are you good staying longer?”

“I’m guessing you packed enough for longer.” Sam shook his head but grinned. “I really should have caught on sooner that you two were up to something.”

Cas watched Dean frown – his hunter didn’t always catch up to the details. The fact that he trusted Cas’ judgment and allowed him to shoulder some of the responsibility was more than enough for him. It was one of the many ways Dean showed his love. It had taken the hunter a long time to say the words, but it had taken Cas an even longer time to see all the small ways Dean had already confessed his feelings.

“What do you mean up to something?” Dean glanced between them and ended up staring at Cas.

“I called Eileen the night we rescued them. Two brothers basically alone in the world. It wasn’t hard to believe we were being given a chance to right a wrong.” Cas watched emotions flit across Dean’s face. “You still don’t believe good things happen or that you deserve them.”

It wasn’t a question. Dean had come a long way from the angry hothead who lashed out and fought battles armed with only sheer bravado and sarcasm. He was, however, still Dean Winchester. Cas had loved him then and he loved him now. Leaning in, he brushed his mouth against Dean’s then pulled back.

“We can make good things happen.”

Dean didn’t argue with Cas – he just slid an arm around his shoulders and kept him close. “Okay, let’s go eat then we’ll do whatever it is you’ve planned.”

“It still surprises me how mellow Cas has made you, Dean.” 

The words might have annoyed Dean, but he’d never been able to not smile when his brother did. It was something else Cas saw in the young brothers in their care. That sibling bond was the first time Cas had recognized the power of human love. To have Dean love him too was something that still made Cas smile – it also made his heart beat a little faster.

“Suck it, bitch,” Dean retorted and passed by Sam with a push that sent him and Eileen stumbling several feet to the side. 

Sam jumped forward to shove Dean back while Eileen rolled her eyes and turned to Cas. He watched the brothers carry on as they all walked toward the bunker. When his sister took his arm and held him back, Cas tilted his head and waited for her words.

“You were right to call me. They need to be together more. I’ve already suggested Sam appoint some other hunters to be in charge of more things. Think you can get Dean to let go of some of his responsibilities too?” 

Eileen grinned to challenge him. She’d come to know Dean well over the years. She’d been the only one to still stand by them too. Even with two bunkers, hunters often chose a solitary life to protect others and themselves. 

The meal and subsequent movie and game night were louder than usual with both Dean and Sam there. Cas was braced against a stool watching the chaos. Mark stood by Dean’s side while Paul was next to Sam on the other side of the foosball table. They battled ferociously to stop each other from scoring. Both sets of brothers teased and taunted whenever they could. When they switched sides again, the ‘smack talk’ continued loudly enough to draw an even bigger crowd. Dean looked up again to smile at Cas.

“I do think the staring thing is sweet and so does Sam,” Eileen leaned close to whisper to Cas.

He shook his head even as memories pulled at him. It hadn’t taken long for him to understand the staring and personal space Dean had explained to him. There’d never been a problem remembering with anyone else. He should have realized much earlier how much he’d loved the hunter. “It’s just part of us, part of our—“

“Profound bond?” Eileen laughed when Cas turned to frown at her. “Oh yeah, Sam loves to tell the story of you two, but he only tells me.”

Trying to ignore the heat in his face, Cas looked back to see Dean watching him. His face grew hotter when the hunter licked his lips. Sam’s well-placed elbow forced Dean back to the game and plan. Paul still watched Dean, but Mark looked back to Cas with a puzzled expression.

“I think I’ll go help them out before it becomes a little too brotherly.” Eileen stepped away then looked back. “Don’t you want to join? We could take on the boys.”

“I think I’ll just…” Cas was again distracted when Dean laughed and turned his way again.

“Just watch over him? That’s creepy, dude.” 

Being around the Winchesters for so many years had given him an affinity for rolling his eyes. Cas added a dramatic sigh which made Eileen laugh harder. “Sam really does talk too much.”

Eileen pressed a kiss to his cheek. “And Dean thinks you’re adorable…what’s new about either of those things?”

She made her way across the room and Dean bowed out quickly to let her play against Sam. His hunter immediately returned to Cas’ side with no thought of personal space. They kept typical public displays of affection to a minimum but did still enjoy looking at each other frequently and for much longer than most people did. Dean finally turned to lean against his side and watch the game.

“Do you really think we can give them a different life? Do you think it can turn out differently for them?” 

Dean’s words were almost too soft for Cas to hear, almost. His answering sigh for the stubborn hunter who hated to talk about his feelings was even softer. “Dean, I think you gave Sam a good life, but it wasn’t fair to you. Now, Sam has made his life his own and it is still a good life.”

Again, Dean dropped his head to Cas’ shoulder and left it long enough for Cas to rest his against it for just a moment. Shouts of laughter echoed across the room while Eileen and Paul did a victory dance. Both Mark and Sam tried to frown, but their lips twitched as they coughed and sputtered.

“I think the world could use a couple more Winchesters to carry on the family traditions after us.” It wasn’t how Cas had intended to ease Dean into a lifetime of responsibility for the boys. He’d meant to get Mark to agree to an extended visit so both Mark and Dean could get used to the more permanent arrangement Cas wanted. Wincing, he looked away from Dean.

Dean stepped directly in front of him without speaking. Cas waited for another second then met the eyes glowing brightly at him.

“You don’t intend for them to be just part of the extended hunting family, do you? You want us to what, adopt them?”

It was one of the rare times Cas couldn’t read Dean’s words or his expression. “I think you’d be the best father for them. I think they’d be good for you too.”

“And what about you, Angel?” Dean’s words were whisper-soft on the nickname he still used when they were alone. “Would that be good for you?”

“Yes,” Cas breathed out the single word.

Dean brushed a kiss across his lips then stepped back. “That’s good enough for me.”

Cas reached out and grabbed his hand to keep him from crossing the room toward the boys. “You can’t just tell them that right now. Mark is too much like you and it took me years…”

“Years to do what?” Dean again stepped into his personal space to tease. “What did you have to wait years to do to me?”

“Dean.” The exasperation he’d hoped to instill in the name came out with too much affection as it always had. “We have to have a plan. We have to be smart about this.”

Laughing, Dean slung an arm around his shoulders. “Are we hunting the boys? Gotta have the right tools and strategy, right?”

“Dean.” He’d managed a little more tone, but not enough to stop his hunter from chuckling. 

“Cas.” 

Dean didn’t like to use his words, but he’d always been able to get a response from Cas just by saying his name which was really a nickname. It had shaken him to hear Dean call him Castiel the first time they’d shared a bed. He tried not to get distracted now, but Dean read him easily and licked his lips. Cas placed a hand on his shoulder to keep him from getting any closer. “We need to discuss this later. We are not going to go in with guns blazing and tell them they can’t leave.”

“If you think the cowboy reference will distract me…okay, you’re right. It did.” Shaking his head, Dean looked away briefly before meeting Cas’ gaze again. “We’ll talk tonight and then do it your way.”

“Our way,” Cas corrected with a small smile. Dean had changed, but so had he. Working with Eileen to make the brothers happy didn’t count as going behind their backs. They no longer withheld information or made secret deals with whoever or whatever to save each other. He grabbed Dean’s hand and brought it up between them. Long ago, he limited his touch to whenever the hunter had needed to be healed. A part of him still wished he could heal Dean. The small marks from today’s work joined a collection of scars and calluses. The man he loved didn’t shy away from hard work or responsibility – he also protected those he loved. Dipping his head, Cas pressed small kisses close to the new injuries.

“Ahh, Cas, they’re just scratches.” Dean blushed but didn’t pull away when Cas brought his other hand up to be kissed. “You know you can’t actually heal me, right?”

Cas stopped long enough to look into Dean’s eyes. They’d been through so much, but Cas still wanted more. If he’d still been an angel, he would’ve gotten a lifetime with Dean and an eternity without him. Losing his grace to gain his love was still the best choice he’d ever made.

“Okay, yeah, you still manage to heal me.” 

The gruffness of Dean’s voice made Cas smile. He squeezed both hands briefly then allowed them to fall.

“You healed me too, Dean. It’s just part of our—“

“Profound bond,” Dean completed the familiar phrase with a wide smile. “I hope you have enough love to heal those two brothers too.”

“We have enough love,” Cas assured him. “We’ll make good things happen.”

“More good things happen,” Dean corrected. “We’ve made a good life together. Those boys…”

“Will become part of our family.” 

“I knew it,” Sam exclaimed as he placed hands on both of their shoulders. 

Dean pushed him away and stepped to Cas’ side. “If you knew, it’s only because Eileen told you.”

She joined them with a laugh. “Sorry, Dean, but he figured it out by himself.”

The brothers traded insults while wearing big smiles. Cas would never stop watching over the Winchester brothers, and there was nothing he enjoyed more. Grinning, he could think of a few more profound things he enjoyed with his hunter, but that wasn’t the point. He was still guardian over the Winchester brothers. Cas looked up and found Mark watching him back. The boy was already much older than his years, and he reminded Cas so much of a young Dean. He hadn’t always been able to protect his Dean, but he could help Dean protect these young boys. 

Cas would never stop watching over the Winchester brothers…and now he had two more brothers to watch over.

[mahlerlove]

I'm gonna use the empty void in this website because here I don't have any connections to people in my daily life

I have issues concerning socialization. Lots of them.

I was born in Brazil, but moved to the US (California) when I was 2. I was learning Portuguese with my family, but when we moved, I had to basically start over with English. The cultural differences between Brazil and the US are huge, especially concerning a child's development. In Brazil, PDA is the norm. If you are a toddler, it's expected for people to talk to your parents AND you. There are a lot of social cues that are vastly different in either country, and US culture focuses on a very detached interaction between people. The only friends I had were the kids of some friends of my parents, and not only couldn't I communicate with them, but I also got bullied by them.

I was a toddler who didn't speak English, and what little Portuguese I knew was shunned even by the Spanish speaking teachers at every single school I went to. My family would have the police called on them because of PDA and existing as immigrants, and also because they couldn't understand, for example, why giving you preschool teacher a hug was enough reason to get their 3yo expelled. I changed schools about 20 times while we lived in the US. My sister, even though she was born in the US, wouldn't be accepted anywhere because of xenophobia.

We were set to live there for life. My parents had applied for US citizenships, and my father's contract was going to be renewed on October. Then 9/11 happened. In less than two months we had been deported and were back to our old house in Brazil without anything except a styrofoam box where we would try to keep some food while everything was being shipped by boat. We lived almost 2 months like that, while my father tried to get his old job back. It was awful.

My parents tried to enroll me in school, but the thing is: Brazil has a lot of practical jokes, especially between kids. I got expelled in a week because a kid slapped me as a joke and I, due to being raised in such a strong "do not touch anyone" policy, responded by beating them up. I didn't know any Portuguese, English is not used as a second language here, and my parents couldn't teach me anything because they were both struggling with unstable jobs and two kids (5yo me and 2yo sister).

In the US I had learned how to read very quickly, and my parents thought I wouldn't have any issues at school here. I ended up changing school half a dozen times, but finally settled in a school that used a different method. That school was hell. The class teacher would lock me in a closet at the back of the class so that I "wouldn't be a bad influence on the other kids". I got beat up daily, multiple times, by other kids, and more than once got physically assaulted by that teacher herself. She got me expelled two months from finishing first grade.

My parents were out of options. They had nowhere else to go. I still couldn't speak Portuguese well enough, no school would accept me or my sister, and even if I wasn't scared and hurt enough, telling them about the abuse wouldn't amount to anything because the school board would defend their own kids at all costs. I was 6, couldn't and wouldn't talk to anyone, and would pounce on anyone who tried to approach me.

The school that expelled me suggested a school for "special kids", where kids who had neurological, genetic, or developmental issues (sorry if these descriptions is offensive, I'm trying to explain this as best as I can). My parents took that advice and tried to get me enrolled there. The school didn't accept any kids younger than 7, but they went out of their way to help. I spent the three next months ina cupboard under a staircase talking and playing with two teachers who would try to find some time between classes to take care of me until I'd go to some sort of therapy. I still didn't have any friends, but I was finally able to speak Portuguese, and wasn't trying to beat up anyone who dared near me.

The next year I got into a 1st grade class, along with 5 other kids. Things were finally starting to go well. I started getting along with my classmates, but most of the time I'd isolate myself and read books. I wouldn't go out to play at recess, and they banned me from the school library when I refused to socialize. I was scared of playing with anyone because I didn't want to get bullied or hurt any of my classmates. I wouldn't establish any sort of friendship out of fear of someone getting hurt. I started going to boy scout meetings, and those were the only reason I lived for.

Two years later I changed schools again, and my parents hoped that then it would be better for me. When the board of the school I'd been attending explained to them that I would get compromised educationally and mentally, they accepted their recommendation and enrolled me in another school. It was even worse than before. I got bullied in every way possible because of the school I'd come from. I would be called r*tarded, filthy, and other stuff by my classmates, other kids, and staff. The only place I'd been even remotely happy was called a hospice by everyone around me, including other parents and teachers. My teacher would try to keep things under control, but when she got diagnosed with cancer and quit to treat her health, things only went downhill. I had my chest slashed open by one teacher's nails when she grabbed me to scream insults when I tried to defend myself from being beaten by four classmates during her class. It was the first time I planned suicide.

When I turned 10, I went back to the school I'd been expelled from. The first day of school my mother pulled me aside and explained to me that my teacher had threatened the school board to give me a chance in his class. He tried to include me at every time, and did whatever he could to keep me from harm. He was fired at the end of that same year under false pretenses and ridiculous accusations of not following the school's method. I would only speak three times a day: "Good morning teacher." "School was ok.", and "Good night".

I wasn't as lucky with my classmates as I was with him. The daughter of my former teacher at the school (the one who locked me in the closet) was in that class, and she made sure to tell everyone where I'd come from, and used that as an excuse to get everyone around to beat me. I got stabbed with pencils and had my clothes and hair cut with scissors. Again, it was hell. I had no friends, because nobody would come close to me, either due to prejudice, or for fear of getting the short end of the stick for approaching me. When my teacher got fired at the end of the year things got even worse. I had to bring two sets of clothes to school each day because I'd get thrown in a small pond at the back of the school every day, sometimes twice. The only place I could be a bit more free was at my scouts group meetings. I tried suicide for the first time.

The next year things started to change. One kid stood up for me and berated everyone in front of the class. The next day he tried to use that as blackmail to manipulate me into doing his schoolwork, and threatened to beat me up as well. He still beat me up. But his speech had some impact: I started to be left alone. I'd hide in the school library and read for hours on end after school while I waited for my parents to pick me up. Some teachers started helping me with schoolwork and I started to pick myself up.

The next two years steadily got better, but I could never trust anyone enough to call them my friend. The only place I was open enough to talk to people was at scouts meetings, and even so, I wouldn't hold conversations or let friendships develop because every time I tried to open up, I was forced to realize I never learned how to act or talk to people, and would have "weird kid" rubbed on my face.

During that time I went as a junior chaperone to a summer camp. That's where I made my first true friend after my time in the "special kids" school. She and I sat down on a riverbank and started talking about feeling left out. My first true friendship was made over a conversation about wanting to commit suicide. She is my friend to this day.

Highschool wasn't much better. Even if people were treating me well, nobody would stick around too much because of how "weird" I was. I did make some more friends. I came out during that time, and even with my family's support, it wasn't easy. The first three people I fell in love with were gone: The first one died of cancer at 16, the next one had a stroke when we were chasing each other, and lost all her memory, even her own name. The third one was one of best friends, and when she left for college she cut all contact with everyone, and I was brokenhearted and lost.

I chose to study Psychology in college. I studied hard to get accepted in a public university (in Brazil those are the best ones), and I moved 500km (a little over 310 miles) away. I was trying my hardest to start over and have a new life. I chose my course because I believed that some rotten apples don't represent Humanity as a whole, and I didn't want anyone to suffer what I've been through. I chose to be a therapist, teacher, or social worker the day I had my first class in that cupboard under the stairs.

College has given me the best moments of my life: I have friends, I have had relationships, I have finally been invited to parties, but to this day I still struggle with social interactions. I still can't connect with people, and I still get teased and ridiculed for certain mannerisms. I still feel better on my own. I don't think I've ever been loved, and I live with the little voice in the back of my head telling me it's all a farce to humiliate and hurt me even more. I have never felt loved, even by my family. I have never had a genuine connection with any of my partners. I have never felt truly accepted in any clique or group of friends.

I spend most of my time drinking, smoking, and trying to relate to other people in some sort of social setting, when I know it's all a temporary relief for this emptiness and detachment from other people I feel 24/7. Quarantine has been a relief and a curse.

Any type of rejection, any type of joke directed at me, makes me break in a cold sweat and hold back tears. Any type of interaction, whoever it may be with, feels fake and staged. I have no identity. Therapy has never helped me with this, because these therapists are never able to grasp how lonely I've been my whole life. Every single day I grow weary of other people, and I feel that I am a fraud. Every day I hate people a little more, and I hate myself for it, for making the decision to help others, for believing in a lie. I am living a lie told by me to myself.

[lacrossepapi]

Fragility

@steterweek day six: the bite was a proposal

Just a warning for everyone this is pretty heavy and angsty! Also some Gore!

Ao3 link| words:

“You must be Stiles.” The words fond and amused.  

“You’re the clever one, Stiles.” Pleased words accompanied by a surprisingly soft grip on his chin despite the claws digging into his skin. 

“I like you, Stiles.” This time the words were whispered like a lover’s caress against the sliver of skin peeking out from his sleeve. 

“Yes or no, Stiles?” Words delivered with impatience and demanding, but with no heat.

Odd that Stiles found himself thinking of the time he’d made a choice, as he lay bleeding out in the middle of Shakespeare Park knowing he’d never get to make another choice again, much less take Peter up on his offer from so long ago. 

How many times had he said “No” this time? 

How many times had he screamed it? 

How many times had he prayed that one of his pack members could hear him? 

He didn’t even know who he was praying to, he hadn’t believed in a higher power since the last time he’d seen the inside of the hospice. 

Maybe that’s why his prayers went unanswered. 

A chuckle ripped through his shredded chest causing blood to well up in his throat. He spit it out as best he could and tried to get his cold, numb hand to work. He wanted to say goodbye to his father, but did he want his father’s last memory of his only child be the sound of him dying? 

No, that wouldn’t do at all. He slowly wormed his hand into his back pocket, the phone slippery with blood. 

He sends what he thinks is a goodbye text to his father, but he couldn’t really be sure through the tears, blood loss going to his head, and blood staining everything. Then as his head swam with the ever approaching black out before death he decided to call Peter Hale. A man he hadn’t seen since he’d left for college two years ago. A man that Stiles was thinking about a lot in his last moments.

What if Stiles had said yes four years ago? 

What if Stiles had left with Peter to travel the world two years ago? 

What if Stiles had been able to call him sooner?

“Stiles? How lovely to see your name on my phone. I’m actually on-” 

“Stiles why does your breathing sound like that? Stiles! Why can’t I hear your heartbeat through the phone?!” 

The dying human could hear Peter growing more frantic with each breath that wetly fell from his lips, but he didn’t think he could speak even if he tried. 

“Stiles please answer me. Where are you?” Peter’s voice sounded wet too. 

It wasn’t funny, it really truly wasn’t funny, but Stiles found a giggle bubble out of him. It didn’t really sound like a laugh, but he didn’t really think it was funny that he wasn’t going to die alone and yet he couldn’t actually speak to let Peter know he was dying. 

“Darling I heard that. I heard your sound. Try to tell me where you are. Please Stiles. Please try for me.” Peter Hale sounding that broken should be a crime against humanity, and the sound of it tore at something in Stiles. 

The ‘sh” sound that came out of him sounded more like a groan and less like the beginning of the word “Shakespeare”, but he was trying. 

“Sh- what sweet boy? Keep going, please.” Peter was sobbing now. 

Stiles hated that sound, hated it more than he hated almost anything in the world. 

“Ache” The word came out guttural and broken. 

“I hear you. Shake what Stiles? Shakes and Tots?” 

“N-No.” 

“Shake Shack?” 

“No.”

“Shakespeare?” 

“-es.” 

“Okay. I understand. Shakespeare. Does that mean Shakespeare park just off campus?” Peter was always the second smartest in the pack. 

“-es.” The ‘y’ sound was hard to make so Stiles didn’t even try that time.

“I’m almost there Stiles. I’m so close. Are you still in danger? Is it still there?” Peter was close? How?

“K-kill-ed” It fucking hurt to speak so much, but Peter needed to know that Stiles was going to die but at least he took the mother fucker down with him. 

“Good boy. What was it?” Peter sounded more put together this time. 

“O-meg-a.” 

“Oh my sweet boy, why would you ever go after an Omega alone?” Peter’s question irritated the part of Stiles that didn’t care that he was dying, that only cared that no one thought he was an idiot. 

An angry grunt escaped him followed by a pained groan.

“So not on purpose, an accident then.” Peter sounded angry now. 

Peter angry brought back memories Stiles was almost fond of. He closed his eyes and let his memories roll over him in warm waves of contentment. 

-

Stiles groaned, his head throbbing as streaks of light burned his eyes. He pushed through the pain and blinked himself into awareness. He was in a hospital bed, which made sense when his memories finally came crashing back in. He should've been dead, might actually be dead if he let himself go down that particular road. 

"Son." 

His father's words came out in a soft creak instead if the warm rubble they normally were. Almost as if the former Beacon Hills sheriff had cried himself hoarse, and that thought punched a hole through Stiles more than any supernatural enemy could ever hope to do. 

"D-a-d" Each letter a dry rasp. 

His father hushed him gently as he moved closer to hold his cheek in his calloused hand. 

"Your throat was pretty torn up. Most of you was pretty torn up, actually." His voice lost volume leaving him to only mouth the last word. 

"S-s-orry" Stiles needed his father to know he never ever wanted him to grieve a family member again. 

Before his dad could say anything the door was opening and Peter Hale was walking in with two coffees. He looked like he hadn't slept in days, and at the sight of Stiles he shuddered. A shudder Stiles felt in his own chest. 

"Good morning Briar Rose." Peter smiled gently at him as he approached. 

"Name w-was A-A-uor-a." Stiles tried to snark back but once again was reminded of how sensitive his throat was. 

"Yes it was but I don't think you're some beautiful, unknowable phenomenon. The other name suits you much better." Peter's gentle smile shifted into his typical know-it-all smirk. 

Stiles found himself smiling as a string wave of nostalgia washed over him, reminding him of days spent researching or just talking with Peter. 

Instead of trying to speak again Stiles just nodded at him before turning back to face his father, whose blue eyes were filled with tears. 

"'m here." Stiles whispered, his numb hand coming up to rest against his father's arm. 

"And I'm so glad for that, son." 

Peter spoke up again, drawing his attention away from his dad, "You're probably wondering how I was able to get you here." 

Stiles nodded again, shifting to watch Peter as the older man handed his dad a cup and both men sat down on either side of his bed. 

"It was a serendipitous chance that lead me to visit Beacon Hills. I landed at LAX and was going to get a hotel room, but the flight left me with a need to smell fresh air free of the stench of humanity." Peter intoned melodically, almost as if he was a bard in the dark ages. 

Stiles rolled his eyes, and immediately regretted it. 

"So I started the arduous trip back home in the middle of the night, on a whim. A song came on the radio that reminded me of you and I suddenly found myself taking the highway that went by your school instead of the one that went straight to Beacon Hills. I don't know what I was thinking or why I was being so impulsive, you know I rarely act on impulse after the disasters of my youth." Peter said with his own eye roll. 

Stiles huffed a breath of laughter knowing Peter was referencing biting Scott, but an image of Peter alone in a hospital bed reminder Stiles that much of his young adult years were spent in a coma. 

"And then by some chance you called me. Not Scott, or Derek, or any of the others who could've potentially saved you." The look Peter gave him communicated that he knew Stiles hadn't called him to save him. He just hadn't wanted to die alone. 

"You're alive right now because nostalgia and romantic notions of the past brought us back into each other's paths on the one night you truly needed me." Peter gripped Stiles' hand in a rare moment of tenderness.

"How?" Stiles was having a slightly easier time talking now that he'd worked his vocal chords a bit. 

Peter's face shuttered and a small shiver went through him, "I regret not having your consent but I do not regret giving you the bite." 

His blue eyes were blazing as he stared into Stiles' before flashing them red. 

Something in Stiles snapped awake and a whine released from his shredded vocal chords. 

Peter had bitten him, but didn't he say all those years ago that survival wasn't guaranteed? Stiles had seen the wolves say that if someone was too close to death the bite could speed things along instead of healing them. Peter clearly realized the risk was worth a try, either it took or it didn't. The outcome of Stiles dying was three out of four. A scary thought now that he was here and alive, he didn't want to feel that peaceful finality again for a long long time. 

"I had always planned it so much differently. I had so many scenarios in my head, but you always did ruin my plans, clever darling." Peter smiled at him and Stiles remembered the charged atmosphere of the garage all those years ago. 

The bite was sacred, pack was more than family and Peter had wanted Stiles since day one. Stiles wondered about the different scenarios Peter had drummed up for a moment before dismissing those thoughts to listen. 

"Once I bit you I knew the change wouldn't be enough. I-" he cleared his throat before continuing " I hadn't seen that level of carnage in a long time. You needed a hospital and fast. I had to make a gurney out of tree branches and a blanket I found in my trunk, even with the gurney I still had to drag you to my car and leverage you into the bad seat." 

Peter swallowed, the sound loud in the quiet room. 

Stiles couldn't look at his father, he knew there would be tears running down his dad's face. 

"Thank you." Stiles whispered. 

Peter grinned at him, though his eyes were pained. 

"Anything for you, darling."

"All those," a pause to work saliva into his mouth, "y-years ago, you offered more than pack." Another pause to lick his lips. 

"You offered more than being a beta."

Peter sat frozen staring at Stiles in shock, the former sheriff's wet, surprised laughter breaking the tension. 

"Hale, did you really not think he would research bite locations and their meanings?" Stiles looked back at his father, a smile on his lips at his father's words. 

"You know?" Peter was like a fish out of water, flopping between the Stilinski men's gazes. 

"Of course I know. He doesn't keep anything from me anymore. He figured it out right after you left." Father and son turned identical grins on Peter, though one was slightly hidden by a split lip and bruises. 

"He whined and cried about not going with you for weeks after he found out he had denied you twice." This time only father grinned while son turned an afronted look on him. 

"Stiles?"

 Stiles didn't really know what Peter was asking, but he didn't think Peter really knew either. 

His throat was beginning to hurt more earnestly so he gently, carefully lifted his hand to caress Peter's cheek before baring his wrist to the alpha werewolf. 

"Yes." Stiles whispered his eyes burning supernaturally gold. 

Peter's whole body practically lit up, a genuine, pleased smile stealing its way across his face before he bared sharp fangs and bit down gently. 

[trustandblasters]

Why I haven't been working on the comic

This post hurts and honestly I'm just hoping it wont come out as a jumbled mess but honestly right now I'm fighting the urge to take down my wine collection and just drowning myself in it so here we go.

The comic isn't dead. A few personal friends know that back in mid December or so my 91 year old Grandmother came to live with my mother. It is the reason she moved at the start of December if I made any mention of it hear and is the primary reason the comic went a bit on hiatus.

As hopeful as my mother was for my grandmother to get better and have some solid good years in her still, we all knew the real unspoken reason my grandmother came.

My uncle was dealing with cancer and could no longer afford to care for Grandma, who had broken some ribs in a fall and now was wheelchair bound. My grandmother didn't come to get better.

My grandmother came to die.

The problems really started a week or two ago. The pain made my grandmother lose her memory, act erratic. She has been in and out of the hospital.

She is now bed bound and in Hospice Care.

Tonight my older brother and I went to see the new Star Wars movie (the theater in town gets movies weeks after they premier in larger cities, so tonight was premier night for us).

Mid way through the movie my grandmother stopped breathing. A nurse was called and right now my grandmother's condition is....

We were given a life expectancy of 5-7 days.

A week or less.

She can't talk or move at all. Can't get out of bed to use the bathroom or respond to us in any way.

I kind of envy my older brother. He drunk himself into a stupor after the movie and went home. I cant even cry right now, despite wanting to.

I want to scream and cry and beg and just do something to take the edge off but I can't.

Anyway, tomorrow I'm going to help my mom a bit with my grandmother. The nurse made my mom choose a funeral home and my uncle took an Express flight from California to here so he should be here sometime tomorrow. My aunt... well, true colors always show in times like these i suppose.

I'm sorry for the silence and lack of updates, but now I need to help plan a funeral and honestly I just....

I think I'm going to drink some wine and go to bed now.

[keelywolfe]

FIC: Reaction Shots, ch.2 (baon)

Summary:   Still in the aftermath of the events of ‘Any Other Tuesday’.

Notes: All right, chapter one was from Edge’s POV. This time let’s see Andy Jeff!

Tags: Spicyhoney, Original Undertale Characters, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Prejudice Against Monsters, Violence, Injury, Prejudice from Police Officers, LV issues

part of the ‘by any other name’ series.

Read it on AO3

or

Read it here!

~~*~~

Andy Jeff

~*~

Since he’d met Stretch, hospital visits had become a thing again in Jeff’s life. A couple years ago he’d had an experience with them as well, when Julia finally told him what was going on. She’d been in hospice at that point and he’d spent a week there with her. Until it was over and he’d gone back to school because he didn’t know what else to do. Julia didn’t have much family, didn’t spend time with them, and seeing the way they went after her estate when she died made Jeff understand why. All he had left were pictures, but he hadn’t wanted more. What he really wanted was the impossible; he wanted her back, her laughter and her kindness. She’d loved cooking too, not like Edge, more haphazard and slapdash, usually tasty and sometimes requiring copious amounts of ketchup and Tabasco. He really missed her. But his fear that hospitals would remind him too much of her were proved wrong, to his relief. For starters, the Monster hospital was a lot nicer than the sterile hospice she’d spent her last days in. The rooms were airy and painted in soothing colors, with artwork on the walls and plants in corners. It was more like a hotel room than a hospital. Not that Stretch ever seemed to appreciate it. Every time Jeff had visited, his relief at seeing him was blatantly obvious and now that he was on the other side of the equation, Jeff could agree with him on one thing; hospitals were fucking boring. Not they were supposed to provide amusement along with healthcare, of course. But as exhausted as he was, Jeff couldn’t sleep and time was dribbling away so slowly he could practically hear the tick-tocks.

His body would’ve been happy for a rest. It was just a shame his brain wasn’t willing to get with the program. The sun was coming up, he could see it coming in through the curtains, which meant he’d slept a few hours at least. Stretch was curled up again in his armchair, this time with legs drawn up to his chest and his feet tucked into the cushion. It made Jeff wince to look at, that looked like a cramp waiting to happen. Maybe skeletons didn’t get cramps? He didn’t know much, but he knew his friends normally slept in a bed, so it was a good guess that Stretch would be waking with some regrets. The television was on with the volume down, the subtitles narrating along. They even had a smart tv, but Jeff didn’t think he’d ever wanted to catch up on his Netflix less. It was still very early. Jeff texted his roommates and Thomas, anyway, before they caught the whole debacle as it was brewing on the news. That was pretty much the end of his contact list. Every other friend he had was either sitting here or already knew where he was. So that left him with Netflix, his phone, and his unsettled thoughts that kept wandering back to what had happened outside the Golden City, to the sight of his own soul, hovering above Stretch’s hand. To everything. To the ache of absence in his gut reminding him that Antwan wasn’t here, and he shouldn’t feel that way, he shouldn’t. He was the one hurt, yeah, but one look at the news had him cringing. A hate crime against a Monster ally, one that involved Stretch who’d already been in the news a few times himself recently. Jeff only read a couple headlines before he didn’t want to see anymore. Antwan and Edge, hell, the whole Embassy was probably working feverishly to get this under control, and there was a lot at stake. But he couldn’t help that small, selfish part of him that wanted Antwan here with him. Stupid, it was stupid and selfish, and— A light knock at that door interrupted the downward spiral of his thoughts. He looked over, expecting to see a nurse and instead Edge walked in. He was in one of his power executive suits, but for the first time in Jeff’s memory, he honestly looked exhausted. There were shadows under his sockets and the crimson magic that glowed in his eye lights and joints seemed dim.

Jeff gave him a little wave and was both startled and amused when Edge raised a curt hand back. There were a couple plastic bags in his other hand and Edge set it down as he glanced over to where Stretch was sleeping. His expression, his entire posture, softened when he saw him; there was no other word for it. He walked on silent feet over to him and Jeff tried not to stare goopily as Edge straightened the blanket, smoothing it gently over him. At least he could enjoy someone else’s affection vicariously.

Stretch made a sleepy sound, nestling deeper into the folds like a particularly tall and lanky puppy and Jeff expected Edge to pull a chair up next to him, the better to keep hands on. Sure, he was the one who got hurt, but Edge was a smart guy. There was no way he hadn’t connected the dots like Jeff had, no chance at all that he hadn’t realized if Stretch hadn’t fallen back a pace, he would’ve been first in line to meet those fuckers, and that didn’t even include what Jeff had seen online about the police. There was a story he needed more information on and soon. But to his surprise, Edge took a seat on the other side of the bed before he asked in a low voice, “How are you feeling?” “Sore,” Jeff said honestly. “But it’s not that bad.” It was true; he’d really expected to be in a lot more pain. But the stitches itched more than they hurt and it seemed almost absurdly easy to forget why he was here to begin with. Edge nodded, unsurprised. “A residual effect of the healing. I’ll warn you now, it will wear off, so when the nurses offer you pain medication, accept it.” “Yeah, okay, I will.” This felt weird, even a little awkward, knowing what he knew about healing; namely that Stretch really hadn’t been supposed to do it. His memory of it all was blurry and dim, and he wasn’t trying very hard to pull any of it back into focus, but he did recall Edge telling Stretch to hurry. So he knew, too, and he hadn’t told Stretch to stop. “I brought you a gift,” Edge said abruptly. Jeff had to bite back a smile, because that was such an…an…Edge thing. Directly to the point, bypassing the unnecessary smalltalk. Whenever they were all together, he made for a great foil for Stretch, a perfect straight man, but on his own, Edge kept firmly on track. From one of the bags, Edge pulled out a tastefully wrapped package and handed it to him. It was about the size of a hardcover book and Jeff opened it curiously, wondering at what kind of reading material Edge would find suitable for hospital bed reading. Except it wasn’t a book. Jeff stared down at the box with uncertain dismay. The word Ipad stared back, and not even the cheapest model. “Edge,” Jeff started weakly, trying to come up with something, but what could he say? Thanks but no thanks for this astonishingly thoughtful and too damn expensive present? “An iPad is not a gift.” “Of course it is. I gave it to you,” Edge told him. The arrogance in it was probably so ingrained in him that Edge didn’t even hear it. Well, that was a tone that brooked no argument, but Jeff was going to give brooking a shot anyway. “I have a laptop.” Something about his obvious distaste made Jeff think Edge knew a little too damn much about his aging Dell. “Yes…and now you have an iPad.” Well, fuck. His first mistake had been taking it because there was no way in hell Edge would take it back now. Especially not with the smug way he was sitting there, and that was the expression of someone who knew they’d won. “Damn it, Edge—“ “Here, let me help you,” Edge interrupted. He stood, reaching out to take the lid from the box. A quick press of a button and it started up, already connected to his Apple ID and there was another question that Jeff probably wasn’t going to get answered. "Now, I'd like you to open this document right here." How a gloved finger that covered bone was able to use a touchscreen was a mystery past Jeff’s skills, but it did. The document opened to a bunch of legalize, enough to make that aching twinge for Antwan flare. It dimmed back as astonishment overshadowed it, Jeff staring at the page. "This is an employment contract." "Excellent, you can read, we can skip that part of the interview." Edge tucked his hands into his pockets and said crisply, "I've been trying to be subtle, but it's become apparent to me that the direct approach would be best. I’d like you to come work for us at the Embassy.” “What would I even do?” Jeff asked, a little helplessly. The contract listed a lot of benefits but there was no sign of job duties or even a title. Edge sighed with pointed exasperation, and his eye lights were sharp, assessing. “Jeff, you have a degree in sociology and a compassionate soul. Do you see how that might be useful working for people who spent most of their lives trapped underground? We are not a perfect people, but we are loyal, and we want you with us.” “How do you know I have a compassionate soul,” Jeff blurted. The memory of his soul, that soft green, compassion, was still very fresh. “Did Stretch tell you?” “Of course you do, it’s obvious—wait,” Edge narrowed his sockets, eye lights flaring. “Did Stretch look at your soul?” “Uhhh.” Well, fuck, that was a smooth move. Stretch had said it was kind of a big deal, maybe it was like, like cheating or something, but it hadn’t been like that, not at all. Meekly, Jeff offered, “I mean, I asked him to?” Edge waved him off. “Never mind that, but he shouldn’t have done it while you’re so weak. What I’m trying to get at is you would be a useful member of the team and—“ He trailed off as Jeff signed it without another word. He hit send, watched as the icon swirled and popped up with a cheery, ‘sent!’. Prickles were stinging in his eyes but Jeff looked up at Edge anyway and told him firmly, “I don’t want a pity job. I want to help.” “You’ll get plenty of work, I assure you.” Edge seemed off-balance, oddly stiff and abrupt, and Jeff realized he expected to have to argue more with him. But working at the Embassy, with all the Monsters he’d met over the past year? It sounded like a dream that he didn’t want to wake from, a chance to pay back kindness that he’d never been able to with Julia.

He wanted this, so much. “Thank you,” Jeff told him, quietly. Edge relaxed visibly at that. “As an employee of the Embassy, you’re entitled to housing in New New Home. Here-“ he leaned in, reaching for the Ipad and Jeff couldn’t stop himself. He wrapped both arms around Edge’s slim form and hugged him. He regretted it instantly. Edge stiffened immediately, standing stock-still in his arms. Fuck, Edge didn’t like being touched unexpectedly by anyone but Stretch, he knew that, he knew it. Before he could pull back or apologize, an awkward hand patted him gently on the back. “You’re welcome.” “are you two done?” Came sleepily from the other side of the bed. “because if you need more bonding time or a chance to sing kumbaya or something, i can go.” Edge drew back and retorted, “If you’re going somewhere else, you may want to take advantage of the clothes I bought you.” The blanket was cast aside as Stretch scrambled to his feet, already reaching for the bags. “babe, in a world of mediocrity, you are a shining star.” “Only because you are easily pleased.” The bag was quickly tossed aside as Stretch pulled out the clothes and laid them on the foot of the bed, making pleased sounds about the sweatshirt and pants, and Jeff didn’t miss that a few of those things were way too short for Stretch. Edge had obviously brought him clothes, too, and Jeff swallowed hard before managing, “You could’ve gone home to change and get some better sleep.” “uh huh,” Stretch agreed absently, chuckling delightedly as he held up a T-shirt with ‘She-Ra, Princess of Power’ emblazoned on it. “excellent. or i can stay here and use the ensuite shower.” “Are you planning on camping here until they cut me loose?” And Jeff was blinking hard because he already knew the answer. “yep.” “Of course.” One more question, the one he’d resisted asking because he wasn’t needy, he understood, he did, but, “Where is Antwan?” That softening fell over Edge again, but Jeff had never seen it directed his way before. “Finishing his work at the Embassy. He’s going as quickly as he can, but there’s really no one who knows it better than him. He was here when they brought you in and waited until he knew you were safe.” Jeff nodded, swallowing hard. “He asked me to stay with you, but to be honest, that was my plan to begin with,” Edge told him with a gentleness Jeff had heard before, months ago when they’d spoken about his parents. “He’ll be here as soon as he can.” “sure he will!” Stretch gathered up an armload of clothes and headed towards the bathroom. “keep an eye on the injured party here, i can’t even stand my own smell right now and that’s saying something.” “Where would I go?” “I will,” Edge said firmly. The door closed behind Stretch and Edge settled back into his chair, pulling out his phone. He was quickly absorbed, probably working, but his eye lights slid Jeff’s way anytime he moved, trying to get comfortable with the slowly growing ache in his side.

The television wasn’t offering any new enticement and he since he couldn’t rightly turn away his new gift, at least he could play with it. Jeff went to the App Store, scowling when he saw the sum loaded to his account and silently promised that he would be paying them all back very soon, for everything. His excitement over a new job was dampened a little by Antwan’s absence, but it was okay. Everything would be fine. He downloaded a game, losing himself in the mindless shifting of gemstones and triumphant lights.

And waited.

~~*~~

Read Chapter Three

[yespoetry]

Control the Echoes

By Jonathan Russell Clark

Her spoken sentences tended to omit proper nouns, leaving only discursive, aimless run-ons that veered off one point, switched to another, swooped again, got murky, and finally landed not really anywhere specific but simply where a period arbitrarily stopped them.

“You were here when they told me,” she’d say, “and so you know that I’m not trying to do anything like they said I did, but they keep coming at me, and I don’t know who or what or where anymore, because there isn’t anything like that that I want, and I said that I was fine yesterday because I saw her over there, you know the young one, the one with the, oh what’s her hair like, and she wasn’t asking because like I said I wasn’t saying anything if I didn’t want to.”

The hospice info pamphlets said to go along with whatever she said, but how do go along with that? It didn’t take long, though, for me to figure out the purpose of going along with the things she said. If you don’t, you have to ask for clarification, or you have to contradict them, or you have to interrupt an already tenuous thread—and none of it with any results. It’s the flow that’s important, not the content. If I’d stopped my grandmother and said, for example, “Who are they?” she’d look at me as if I’d just asked her the most nonsensical thing, since of course she didn’t know who they were, because who they were didn’t matter. What mattered for her was some deep need to express, to communicate something, even if that something didn’t come out explicable. It was the act of talking that compelled her, and any obstruction jammed the rhythm and frustrated her. And since no actual clarification or sense came from any question we asked her, it was obviously better to let the linguistic current expel forth unimpeded.

Among her verbal hemorrhaging were numerous references to her long life: sometimes she’d wonder why her parents hadn’t been around to see her; sometimes she asked if I knew her brother, and where was he; and other times it seemed the words were some uncontrollable reverberation of various points in her nine decades.

An echo of herself.

*

In Aleksander Hemon’s novel The Lazarus Project, there is the following line: “Nobody can control resemblances, any more than you can control echoes.”

If there is a sound and a reverberating obstacle, there is an echo. There is no judgment in the existence of that echo, no choice, no accusation of agency, no life in it. Nobody accuses an echo of hyperbole, of lying, of falsifying the expanse of its resound. It is simply there because it is there.

*

 Three years. Three years. Three years. Three years.

I’ve never reached a fourth anniversary with a partner. All four of my major relationships ended at three, never developing the ability to speak in complex sentences, never learned to count past ten or understand the concept of time or tell a story about what happened to them.

My relationships died before they began to truly become independent. The failure of my love—its inability to keep something alive—repeats in my mind and through me when I meet someone who moves me. The joyous noise of new love echoes off the obstacle of my past failures, and I can no more control it than I can family resemblances.

*

My mother looks like my grandmother, and my sister looks like my mother, but my sister really looks like my grandmother. I see each of them in each other, in little softly articulated ways, as subtle as color schemes in well-decorated interiors, minute spots of this shade, that one, which unite a space of otherwise unconnected things.

*

Echoes are beyond our control—unless we alter the geography of where the sound is made.

*

Echo is a nymph in Ovid’s Metamorphoses, who is condemned to repeat the last few words of whatever Narcissus says. So when he asks, “Is anyone there?” she responds, “One there?”

I am standing in a cavern at Old Man’s Cave in Ohio, where I’m from. I yell out, “HELLO!” and hear loud and clear my voice coming back to me: ELLO Ello ello lo lo o.

Echoes do not return our words; rather, they transform them.

*

From Lacy M. Johnson’s essay “The Reckonings,” in which she grapples with notions of justice and retribution for the man who kidnapped, raped, and tried to kill her:

I carry these stories with me because I don’t know what else to do with them. The details may differ. If it is not the story of an abusive lover, perhaps it is a mother, or a father, or an uncle; or it is the story of a friend who has been killed by a stranger while trying to do the right thing, or a woman who is shot in the back of the head while asking for help; it might be a story about the abuse of power, or authority, of the slow violence of bureaucracy, of the way some people are born immune to punishment and others spend whole lifetimes being punished in ways they did nothing to deserve.

These horrific and common stories demand a corresponding action—some form of symmetrical absolution, as in movies where the villain is righteously killed by the victimized hero. “Then, as now,” Johnson writes, “we want to transform our suffering: to take a pain we experience and change it into the satisfaction of causing pain for someone else.”

Later, on becoming a writer: “I’ve called myself a writer now for more than half of my life, and during all this time, I have learned that sometimes the hardest and more important work I’ve done has meant turning a story I couldn’t tell into one that I can—and that this practice on its own is one not only of discovery but of healing.”

*

The American Psychiatric Association has this to say on PTSD:

People with PTSD have intense, disturbing thoughts and feelings related to their experience that last long after the traumatic event has ended. They may relive the event through flashbacks or nightmares; they may feel sadness, fear or anger; and they may feel detached or estranged from other people. People with PTSD may avoid situations or people that remind them of the traumatic event, and they may have strong negative reactions to something as ordinary as a loud noise or an accidental touch.

*

Echo tries to touch Narcissus, but he repels and rebukes her, saying, “Hands off! May I die before you enjoy my body.” To which Echo replies: “…enjoy my body.”

*

Mark Z. Danielewski’s novel House of Leaves features a chapter dedicated to echoes. This chapter has caused much consternation in readers: if you Google “house of leaves echoes” you’ll find numerous threads asking why this section is included in the book at all.

From that chapter:

Nevertheless, above and beyond the details of frequency shifts and volume fluctuations—the physics of ‘otherness’—what matters most is a sound’s delay.

Point of fact, the human ear cannot distinguish one sound wave from the same sound wave if it returns in less than 50 milliseconds. Therefore for anyone to hear a reverberation requires a certain amount of space.

*

My grandmother, out of necessity, does the same things everyday: she gets out of bed, takes medications, eats some fruit or toast, sits in her chair and watches TV. And she talks. In circles, full of non sequitors, wholly incomprehensible. Though there is sometimes a hint of frustration or helplessness in her words, she does not seem unhappy.

And yet she is losing herself. Has already lost most of herself. This self now—the one that still lives, functions, talks—isn’t her. So she isn’t happy; she is gone.

It is this echo that seems happy.

*

From Salman Rushdie’s The Enchantress of Florence:

The painting is an allegory of the evils of power, how they pass down the chain from the greater to the lesser. Human beings were clutched at, and clutched at others in their turn. If power was a cry, then human lives were lived in the echo of the cries of others. The echo of the mighty deafened the ears of the helpless.

I repeat: echoes do not repeat; they transform. It may be slight, it may seem miniscule, but it is not the same as the original vibration; it is like a recollection of it, a memory.

Memories fuzz the details. They make them murky. They soften the edges of some parts, intensify the sharpness of others. But we do not mistake memories for current realities, no more than we believe that a son and a father are the same person, merely because they share traits, look alike, echo each other.

*

Imagine the inside of yourself. Not the physical inside but the abstract inner space—the spirit or the soul or the heart or the essence—whatever you want to call it or believe it to be.

Imagine it as an open expanse of sky, or an endless field of grass, or a wide ocean. Imagine these impossible geographies filled with items: the house you grew up in; your first pair of glasses; your crush on your neighbor; the backpack you lost on the subway; the books you read and remember; the words that hurt you, that healed you, that gave definition to something that before was inarticulate; the shape of your calf; a painting by a friend; the hope you carry that persists in the face of repeated failures. It is you who connect this space of otherwise unconnected things.

Now imagine moving through these expanses—flying, walking, swimming—brushing up against the items, through them, past them, around them; touching them, holding them, feeling them. Imagine the culmination of these touches, these brushes, how they add up in your fingertips, give you a sense of surfaces, a variety of weight.

Imagine a sudden interruption in these spaces—a wall bounding upwards forever, a cliff with no foot routes, a curved shaped you can’t get above or below or around or inside. Imagine trying to continue moving through the space, but not matter what you do, you can’t get above or below or around or inside this interruption. In vain, you attack it with your fists, which only serves to confound your sense of touch, which before had been the entire point of moving. You have no options. Like some Biblical figure, like some mythological cypher, you yell at the interruption, condemning, berating, pleading, accusing, decrying…

But your words do nothing to it; they only echo back, mocking your futility.

*

When Narcissus first hears Echo in the woods, before he rebukes her, he calls out to her, “This way! We must come together.” Echo replies: “We must come together.”

*

We do not know what to do about my grandmother. She is not she and yet she is.

I do not know what to do with my new love, how I can deflect the echoes of my three-year pattern. Every love is different and yet shades of similarity persist.

We do not know how to get over trauma—not fully, not completely. Those echoes will always be there; we can no more control them than we can control the cause of that trauma.

We do not control the echoes of us; we can only control our own volume, the spaces we create sound in, our voices. We cannot control the sounds of others—“the physics of ‘otherness’”—but we can to the best of our ability change our distance, our space in relation to the echoes, to maybe get close enough to the source, that we can hear it no longer. We must turn the stories we can’t tell into ones that we can. We must reverse the echoes of power.

We must come together.

Jonathan Russell Clark is a literary critic. He is the author of An Oasis of Horror in a Desert of Boredom (Fiction Advocate), on Roberto Bolaño’s 2666. A former contributing editor at Literary Hub, his work has appeared in the New York Times Book Review, Rolling Stone, the San Francisco Chronicle, Vulture, Tin House, The Atlantic, The New Republic, the Columbus Dispatch, The Georgia Review, The Millions, LA Review of Books, The Rumpus, Chautauqua, PANK, and numerous others.

[anogete]

The Most Amazing Woman I Know

I live four hours away from almost all of my family.  I drove home right before I closed on my house because my grandmother was having some health issues and was waiting on a plan of action for a cancer diagnosis.  I spent a weekend with her before returning to my life up north (work, house closing, moving, etc).  I had to move but as soon as that was done, I jumped back in the car to return on Friday evening.  Her prognosis was decided to be not good and the doctor said two weeks a week ago.

When I got here, I found my grandmother in a fugue and my mother exhausted.  She’d been staying with my grandmother, trying to keep her comfortable.  Things got worse on Saturday and we made a late-night call to her Hospice nurse to ask for advice.  This morning my mother and I decided that what we said we’d never do was inevitable.  My grandmother needed to go Hospice House to be cared for by professionals during her final day or two in this life.  She was restless and in pain and unresponsive.  We were having to drug her with crushed up pills dissolved in water and injected into her mouth when she was unaware.  I told my mom that all of my grandmother’s personality was gone and this body was there in her place.  We left her with my uncle for the night.  My mom went to her house.  I came back to my grandmother’s house.  I sat in her kitchen chair (the only chair she ever sat in at this table) to write this.

My heart is broken and I’m so upset with the unfairness of everything.  My grandmother raised me like she was my second mother.  I lived with her for weeks at a time when I was a kid and teenager.  I lived with her when my life fell apart in 2009 and I ran back to my hometown to lick my wounds.  I cannot imagine a world in which I can’t pick up my phone and call her.  The idea is scary and physically hurts.

All I’ve been thinking about lately is the past and all the little things about my grandmother that made me who I am.  So, let me count the ways.

- Her name is Sue.  Actually, that is her middle name, but she never went by her first name.  She is 76 years old and married my grandfather when she was 15 years old.  He was 16 and they went strong until he passed away 8 years ago.

- She lived in Florida and New York, but never called any place but West Virginia home.  She was born and raised here and loved it more than any other place in the world.

- Whey they first married, she and my grandfather worked at a canning/jarring factory and would steal cans of peaches and stewed tomatoes so they couldn’t go hungry.  They lived in a chicken coop that was converted into a one-room apartment.

- She had my mom when she was 16 and used the top drawer of a dresser as a crib because they didn’t have any money to buy one.

- Despite not having a high school diploma, she became a business owner.  She and my grandfather opened a convenience store in their neighborhood, and she ran it and kept the books.  Later in life, she started a mini-storage business and ran it from her home.

- When I was a kid, we’d “go to town” on Wednesday afternoons in the summer.  I’d help her shop and she’d buy me McDonalds for lunch.

- When I was a teenager, I’d do her dishes and laundry every Saturday morning for $25.  I’d promptly use this to buy a CD or two.  I know she thought that was crazy, but she never said a word or questioned me about it.

- She loves John Deere everything and painted all the metal windmills and flowers in her yard “John Deere green and yellow.”  Oh, she had metal lawn ornaments.  Like, eight foot metal sunflowers that she paid way too much money for, but loves.

- She loves Christmas and always went crazy with decorations until the past few years.  When I was a kid, she bought an animatronic Santa Klaus from a department store and put it in her second-floor picture window with a display worthy of a department store window.  She also loved the movie Ernest Saves Christmas and would watch it every year to get in the Chistmas spirit.

- She and my grandfather had a camp in the mountains and they loved spending time there.  I sent a restoring two weeks there when my relationship ended back in 2009.  She invited me to come with them and I spent two weeks helping her around the camp and reading books and she never once made me talk about my heartbreak because she knew I didn’t want to.

- She loves yard sales and garage sales.  We’d go on Saturday mornings when I was younger and she’d buy me anything I wanted.

- She also bought me a Prince CD and let me listen to it on the way home when I was a teenager.  She was absolutely scandalized, but pretended not to hate it because she knew I loved it.

- She’d flip people off in traffic, but there wasn’t a mean bone in her body.

- I always told her she was too nice.  She’d give anyone anything if she had it to give.  I thought some people took advantage of that kindness, but they never once fooled her.  She knew, but she still gave.

- She has a motherfucking red magnetic sheet on her fridge because she loves red and wanted a red fridge.  When she couldn’t find one, she slapped a magnet on the damn thing.

- Before she got sick, she spent her winters making dollhouses.  There is a house, a Christmas cabin, a church, and a barn.  She bought an action figure of a professional wrestler and made a white robe for him.  She decided that he would be Jesus and she put him in the yard of the barn scene with some superhero action figures as his disciples.

- Right after my grandfather passed away, she created a Facebook account and would tell everyone good morning almost every day.

- I’d randomly get shit in the mail from HSN or QVC because she’d be watching and decide I needed whatever they are selling.  One of the recent random gifts was a fancy umbrella.

- She has “wall tattoos” all over her walls.  They are large nature scenes that you rub into the way like a temporary tattoo, except they are permanent.  The guest bathroom as a doe and her fawn with birds and butterflies.  That’s the scene you get to look at while she pee.

- Anytime I ever needed money or help, she’d offer before I even thought to ask.  It wasn’t even a question.  If I needed it, then it was mine.

- She was always deathly afraid of dogs all my life.  When I moved back to my hometown with my dog, she insisted I stay with her.  She immediately adopted my dog as her “granddog” and loved him like her own.  When my grandfather passed away, she and I went back into their bedroom and lied down on the bed with my dog and cried.  It broke my heart, but that was nothing compared to this heartbreak of losing her.

- Speaking of my dog.  She bought a red bench to put under her kitchen window so he could see outside when he came over to visit with her.  And he absolutely adored her for it.

- She is less than five feet tall, but with a personality much bigger.  She loves fringe and red and bejeweled purses and things I lovingly refer to as “gaudy.”

- Her final wishes that she wrote down for my mom include: her wish to wear a red fringe shirt but NO red lipstick, lots of balloons instead of flowers because she hates the smell of flowers since they make it difficult to breathe, and a birthday cake with one candle on it.

- When my grandfather died, she asked me to photoshop a picture of him holding up some trout he had caught while fishing into a stock photo of a stream.  Not knowing her intention, I did what she asked.  The next thing I knew, she had taken the photoshopped pic to a custom graphics shop in town and asked them to put it on the hood of her vehicle.  So, the hood of her car is my grandfather looking proud of his catch.  She parks it right outside her kitchen window so when she has her morning coffee, he’s right beside her.

- Speaking of her morning coffee.  She used to tell me she needed to get up so early because she needed to drink a pot of coffee and smoke half a pack of cigarettes before she could deal with people.

- She loves the Hallmark Movie Channel and almost exclusively watched it at night.  She’d settle in on the same end of her bright red couch and chain smoke Winston Lights while she watched cheesy romance movies.  When I got back here this evening, I sat down in that spot.  The cushion dips down and is worn in on that cushion.  I stayed there and felt the dip under my ass and cried so fucking hard because she’s never going to sit there again.

- When I told her that I caught people having sex in the alley by my office a year ago, she told me, “Well, you know what they say.  Friday is for paychecks and peckers.”

I wanted to be alone after this exhausting weekend filled with people.  But now that I’m alone in this space surrounded by her, I wish someone was here with me.  I wish I had someone to call, but I can’t think of anyone at this time of night that I wouldn’t be bugging.

There are so many other things I could say about her and how amazing and fun and quirky and kind and loving and strong she is.  And how much it hurts to know I’m losing one of the most important people in my life.  I guess I should go wash the tears off my face and try to sleep.  I’m running on fumes.  I’ve had about five hours of sleep in the last two days.  I want this to get easier, but I also don’t want to forget her.

I’m not going to proof this shit, so I hope if you’ve made it this far that you’ll forgive my errors and typos.  And I hope you think about my grandma and how awesome she is.