#Helplessness

[my-sacred-art]

The Flagellation of Jesus Christ, 1491. Rueland Frueauf the Elder (Austrian, 1440-1506).

Jennifer Love Hewitt (American, born Feb. 29, 1979)

Since first posting, I have learned that this is a FAKE. See real image below, and if you steal my image, please label it fake. Thanks.

[feral-ballad]

I was furious at my hands. At myself. At my history. At my inability to do anything with those hands.

Victoria Chang, from Dear Memory: Letters on Writing, Silence, and Grief; “Dear Daughter,”

[envysparkler]

In a world where Batman never joined the Justice League, Superman rescues Robin in Ethiopia.

Batman arrives at the exploded warehouse, too late as usual, but Superman is there. Superman tells Batman he took Jason to Themyscira to heal from his wounds, and Batman demands to be taken there as well.

In this universe, Batman has a strong suspicion of the Justice League. His demand for the League to stay out of Gotham is half-fear, since the League is full of gods and aliens that he cannot hope to beat in a fair fight. To make matters worse, Dick left Gotham for Bludhaven, took a Kryptonian name, and refuses to talk to him.

Of course, in response to Batman's standoffishness, the Justice League doesn't much like him either.

Themyscira is Not Happy that Batman's there. They're happy to heal Jason, but an adult man who radiates hostility? They only let in Batman on Superman's word, and Wonder Woman demands Batman disarm completely and follow all their rules. So Bruce is left weaponless on an island of people far stronger than he is and are predisposed to despise him.

When Jason wakes up fully, he gets into old arguments with Bruce and screams at him to leave him alone. Bruce is forcibly escorted out and more than one person comments on his parenting skills.

Things come to a head at some festival-type thing that Bruce is forced to attend. He drinks something that makes him feel very fuzzy, snapping the razor thin control over his panic, and has a breakdown. Wonder Woman calls for Superman, but that doesn't help, Bruce just begs Superman not to take Jason away from him like he took Dick.

Bruce passes out. When he wakes up the next day, he runs immediately to Jason's room--his heart stops when he sees Superman there. Clark gently asks him how much he remembered of the previous night and Bruce is unable to fully hide his fear. Clark promises he won't take Jason away. Jason, for all his snappishness, is very alarmed at the idea of being taken away from Bruce, and clings tight to his father, hissing at anyone who tries to separate them.

Diana apologizes for their mistaken assumptions and his treatment here, and Clark finally flies them both back to Gotham for Jason to complete his treatment there. Bruce really only calms back down when he gets to the Cave and confirms that there are no Justice League members anywhere near Gotham.

The next day, there's a knock on the door. Dick looks uncertain of his welcome, but Clark was very insistent he show up to correct some misunderstandings. Bruce hugs him tight and refuses to let go of either of his sons for quite some time.

[uuuhshiny]

Vladimir Verevochkin in Double

Premises: A man that looks a lot like the main character (Artem) is a debt collector, because of him doctor lost his home, his family left him. Artem is soon taken by police for stealing he didn't do, and as he keeps saying that it wasn’t him but a man who looks like him, is sent to the mental hospital. Doctor finds out what he’s accused of and plans revenge.

Next

[whumpster-dumpster]

Caretaker getting drugged ahead of time so when Whumper comes to recollect Whumpee, all they can do is slump weakly to the floor and watch it happen in a blur until everything fades away

[serenityquest]

[super-lupus]

“From birth I was cast upon you; from my mother's womb you have been my God.

Do not be far from me, for trouble is near and there is no one to help.” - Psalm 22

1. Velázquez, Diego. Christ Crucified. 1632, Museo Del Prado, Madrid.

2. Barbieri, Giovanni Francesco. Apparition of Christ to the Virgin. 1628 - 1630, Civic Art Gallery, Cento.

3. Sassoferrato, Giovanni Battista Salvi. Madonna and Child. 1625 - 1700, Louvre Museum, Paris.

4. Story, William Wetmore. The Angel of Grief Weeping Over the Dismantled Altar of Life. 1894, Rome.

5. Bloch, Carl Heinrich. The Crucifixion. 1870, Museum of National History, Copenhagen.

6. “Mac Finds His Pride.” It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia, season 13, episode 10, FX Network, 7 Nov. 2018. Writ. Rob McElhenney and Charlie Day. Dir. Todd Bierman.

[tildeathiwillwrite]

June of Doom Day 23

"You're doing great." / Trembling / Gaslighting / Rules

Prompts List | Event Masterpost

Hero x Villain Masterpost | <- Previous Part | Next Part ->

Fandom: Original Work

Words: 1300

Tag List: @juneofdoom @fourwingedsnake @whumperofworlds @pigeonwhumps @mr-orion

@scaewolf @doctorsawyer @pinkrangerv @42questionsandaloafofbread

CW: captivity whump, concussion, blood, swearing, gaslighting, shouting, referenced torture, referenced abuse, helplessness, superpower whump, torture

----------

Villain didn’t struggle against Shapeshifter. Not only because it would be useless to do so, but also because every time the thought of fighting back crossed their mind, they remembered Leader’s warning. Even without Sound Gun around to wave their weapon threateningly, Villain didn’t doubt that Leader would make good on their words.

The worst part was that they didn’t know what would be considered struggling.

Or what Leader would do to Hero should Villain somehow break the rule.

For now, though, they were alone in a cell, the walls, floor, and ceiling blindingly white and sterile. Blood still ran down the side of their head from where Leader had struck them, and although the headache had subsided slightly, the lights and brightness of the cell hurt their eyes, and every time they tried to stand, the entire room seemed to tilt and spin. 

They slumped against the wall, eyes closed, trying to control their breathing and remain calm despite the panic rising in their throat. They’d never felt so helpless before.

Villain’s eyes flew open as the cell door opened without warning, despite the spike of pain from the light. “Where are they?!” they demanded when Leader stepped inside. Alone.

Leader smirked, closing the cell door. “Oh… are we worried about our little friend? They’re unhurt. For now. And as long as you cooperate, it will stay that way. Am I making myself clear?”

“Fuck. You.” Villain spat.

“Ah, a fighter, are we?” Leader mused, folding their arms, an infuriatingly smug expression on their face. “I suppose that’s to be expected. You do keep remarkable control over your territory, despite not having any powers to speak of.”

Villain barked a harsh laugh, ignoring how the sudden movement made the relentless hammering in their head throb faster. “You don’t know anything if you think powers are necessary to protect the innocent.”

“I suppose you are correct about that,” Leader acknowledged. They slowly began to remove their gloves. “However… you misunderstand your situation. The only reason you’ve kept your territory for so long is not through any skill of your own.”

“I understand the situation perfectly fucking well,” Villain snapped, hands curling into fists, “it’s not my fault your people are just so damn incompetent.”

Leader did not respond immediately as they finished removing their gloves, sliding them into a pocket. They casually inspected their fingernails. “Have you ever considered,” they finally said, “that ‘my people’ were simply going easy on you?”

Villain rolled their eyes and involuntarily winced as they accidentally glanced into the light overhead, its brightness temporarily blinding them and causing their retinas to feel as though they’d been stabbed with sharp needles. “Sure. I suppose I have wondered why you only ever sent them in ones or twos. Mostly Hero, for some reason. And then I hear on the news that I’ve been branded as their nemesis. Public attention, then?”

“Correct!” Leader exclaimed. Villain flinched at their tone, sounding somehow both jovial and spiteful. “You’re doing great.”

Villain glowered at the false praise, but Leader continued on. “You were never a threat. Not really. Sure, you had good aim with your little guns, but they really are no match for superpowers, now, are they? Of course not. You were supposed to be baby’s first nemesis, Hero’s first victory against evil in the city.”

“And then Hero wanted out.”

Their eyes still weren’t working properly, but they could see enough to catch the dramatic change in Leader’s expression. Where before it was casually neutral as if commenting on the weather, now it was cold, calculating. Threatening. “‘And then Hero wanted out.’” They repeated mockingly. “The weakling. The coward. I had to teach them a lesson, of course. This line of work is like no other, and the expectations are like no other. They just didn’t understand, yet.”

“You tortured them!” Villain shouted, voice trembling with anger. “I’ve seen their injuries, tended to most of them myself! The extent of their wounds… nobody does things like that in the name of discipline! I’ve been called a villain for years, but if anyone’s the true villain, it’s you. You who perpetuate this cycle of hurt, of violence, who allow your team to harm desperate people who are forced to break the law to survive. 

“You want to know why I chose to do what I do? Because someone has to protect them from people like you.”

Leader watched their tirade coldly, expression unchanging. “That was quite the speech,” they finally said, a hint of amusement in their voice. “How long have you been waiting to say that? Did you give that little monologue to Hero while you tended to their injuries?”

Villain gritted their teeth but did not respond to the dig. They hadn’t meant to say all of that initially, but they’d just… snapped. Remembered when they’d found Hero bleeding out in that alleyway, pursued by Teleporter. Remembered when they’d taken out the bullet, stitched up their wounds, bandaged what they could. Remembered how Hero never had a full night’s sleep, not really. Remembered the really bad nights, when they’d wake up crying, screaming for Leader to stop, and Villain could do nothing but hold them as they sobbed.

The words had just poured out. All the hatred they’d amassed, from years fighting them indirectly and from the weeks with Hero, all of it culminated in such a way that they couldn’t be face to face with them, alone, and just stay silent.

“Staying silent now, are we?”

Villain did not reply.

Leader rubbed their fingers together absently. “Did you know Hero can hear us from their cell?”

Villain blinked. They did not, but what did that have to do with—?

Leader was suddenly directly in front of them, having somehow crossed the short distance between them the moment their eyes were closed. Villain tried to flinch back, but there was nowhere to go. A hint of anticipation simmered in Leader’s eyes as they reached out, slowly, agonizingly, and placed their hand on Villain’s cheek, just below the cut on their temple.

It was a simple gesture. Shouldn’t have done anything. But looks could be deceiving.

The sensation was faint, at first. Barely noticeable underneath the throbbing of Villain’s head and the aching behind their eyes. But it grew. And it grew quickly.

It was like a hundred thousand needles piercing their flesh. 

As if the blood flow had been temporarily cut off from their face and was just now flooding back. 

Stabbing and cutting and jabbing and tearing into their nerves, into their bones, into their very soul. 

Spreading out from the source, Leader’s touch, and reaching every inch of their being.

Someone was screaming.

No, not someone.

They were screaming.

Leader’s eyes locked with theirs, their face a mask of grim determination.

They weren’t going to stop.

All other sensation was gone—drowned out, overwhelmed.

And yet, inexplicably, it continued to grow.

Each imaginary needle grew longer, sharper as the seconds ticked by.

“Do you understand now, just how helpless you are?”

No powers, no weapons, no allies.

“How minuscule you are, compared to me?”

Leader suddenly withdrew, stepping away and pulling their gloves back on. Villain’s breathing came in gasps, their entire body shaking and trembling, the incredible, awful pain dissipating into thin air.

As if it had never existed in the first place.

“You are nothing,” Leader said coldly, “As insignificant as a mite. It’s terrible how you’ve deluded yourself into thinking you could possibly stand a chance against people like me. You couldn’t even save yourself.”

Villain squeezed their eyes shut, becoming aware of the tears dripping down their cheeks as the cell door slammed shut behind Leader. Somewhere, far away, faint shouts echoed.

I’m so sorry, Hero.

They’re right.

I can’t save you.

Can’t even save myself.

[brumeraven]

🪫: On Fates || chronic illness, decay, exhaustion, depression, fatigue, helplessness, self-harm, the mirror

"Have a nice day-oh..." She trailed off mid-platitude, blinking and looking away as she noticed my Fate. I knew that's what it was; I'd grown accustomed to the sudden loss of eye contact. One quick saccade, realization, revulsion, and finally embarrassment.

For the first time, I allowed myself to become aware of the other figure, standing beside and a bit behind her, like an over-controlling manager.

Old. Tired, yes, but at peace, nothing at all like the vivacious youth she'd once been.

Not a bad way to go.

No one knows where Fates came from, or at the very least if someone does, they're not telling. Maybe they sprung from our collective subconscious. Maybe there was a data breach at the Akashic records. Maybe it was just divine revelation.

Or maybe a Witch decided once and for all that She was tired of explaining Herself, tired of the rest of us not seeing the world through Her eyes.

All I know is that one day, they were suddenly there, just beside and a little behind each of us.

Didn't take long to figure out what they meant.

Even if there'd been the possibility for doubt, well, a sizable majority of that first bunch showed all the hallmarks of a myriad novel and varied means of suicide.

And then all of them came true.

Once people came face to face with an inerrant, tangible proof of their own mortality, well, they just gave up. Taking matters into your own hands was a means of control, of reclaiming agency, snatching back some false sense of free will from the jaws of predestination.

It was paradoxical, come to think of it, all wrapped up in retrocausality. None of them ever saw any other death but by their own choice. Perhaps it was just the finality of it all, but it hardly seems as if that could have driven any to it.

And yet...

It was a matter of proof incontrovertible that one just wasn't strong enough to survive in a world devoid of make-believe, one in which it seemed impossible to forget.

They were wrong. The human capacity for self-delusion and willful blindness should never be underestimated.

I nodded politely to the girl and wandered out of the shop to the street. Those who survived adapted quickly.

It became gauche to even notice another's Fate, much less comment on it, and how could one acknowledge one's own without tacitly, indirectly doing the same to others?

People just ignored them.

If your Fate was to die fast and young, what was there but to squeeze in every last drop of life in the interim?

And if instead one was to die after a long life, why bother thinking of the future? Damn the consequences; apparently they wouldn't matter.

And so it was that, after a short period of adaptation, society all but returned to normal.

All but us, the afflicted.

I peered furtively at passersby, taking in the myriad endings their Fates foretold.

Cancer.

Heart disease.

An overdose.

Vehicle accident.

The usual fare.

For them, death was a state, the finality of an outcome so unlike one's current state as to be near impossible to consider. And as such of no concern to them.

For some small number of us, though, death was a process. Dying, dying was hard. And living in spite of it harder still.

I looked to my side, forcing myself to see what others refused to, what I'd seen every single day since that first.

I saw myself, as I was.

My own life, as I lived it.

All the suffering and resentment I lived with, day after day after day.

Only, it wasn't the same at all.

Decades older, she was nevertheless a mirror of me, a cruel reflection in which every ounce of pain and frustration and resentment had been magnified, every bit of exhaustion redoubled.

Decrepit and decaying, I saw the truth of my future every single day.

Decline.

Despair.

Every time I looked at her, I saw that I would only worsen.

Every time I looked at her, I saw that, soon enough, my bad days would be good ones, and the bad to come worse still.

Every time I looked at her, I knew I would go on existing anyways, spared even the mercy of death.

No wonder then that I walked alone in a bubble of averted eyes down these crowded streets.

With time, they'd all found it easy enough to know that they'd die.

How much crueler a fate to know that you'd never be allowed to live.

~🪫

[diaryofadissembler]

298: It's the only way my family knows. Image description: a three panel comic with polaroid frames. The panel shows blue sky and a red brick chimney in the middle of the picture. the text on the panel reads: “We open our hearts to the inevitable. Eyes wide and ribcages broken.” Text underneath reads: “J. krupitza / inspired by asofterworld.com” end Image description

[purlturtle]

I just read this line in a post, and I can't stop staring at it:

"I lost my faith in humanity at that point and I don't think I'll ever be able to get it back."

(Ruminations about my own faith in humanity, and what happened to it in 2016 and onwards, below the cut. CW/TW (will also tag) for Brexit, Trump, Covid. Also descriptions of feelings of fatalism, helplessness, generalized uncertainty. Please only read if you're in the right mindspace; I do NOT want to drag you down with me.)

I've always had faith in humanity. I think being a Star Trek fan and also a Discworld fan kinda inoculates you with that. But those are both stories, visions that one person thought up - even though both of them acknowledge how cruel and vicious humans can be, they still very much work on the premise that humanity as a whole, and even most individual humans, are Better Than That.

And then 2016 happened. Yes, this isn't about Covid, at least not yet. No, this is about Brexit first, and then the election of Trump. Both of those threw me for a massive loop - truly a crisis of faith for me, of my faith in humanity. Not so much in the way of "how can people be so stupid", as in "how can people actively pursue and push these kinds of agendas; how can they lie and twist facts to their purposes, why is their purpose (power. it's always about power. and I don't understand that particular desire - why do they want that kind of power? what's in it for them that they couldn't get any other way that wasn't so cruel?) so important for them that they'll *knowingly* be so cruel and heartless?"

I don't blame the people who were misled by constant fake or clickbait-y news so much as I blame the people who *make* those news, who set out to mislead, y'know?

But one way or another, the Brexit vote got a yes, and Trump was elected, and I was left staring, at those two train wrecks and at the shambles of what I had always thought about humanity.

And THEN Covid happened.

And beyond anything personal (what with me having asthma and thus being at risk from Covid), because personal isn't the same as important as Sir Pterry has taught me - beyond that, just the way it played out publically, in ways even my most cynical thoughts couldn't believe...

Yeah. Big crisis of the faith that has guided me all my life (and I know I'm employing a Christian phrasing here - it rings true to me to use it, probably because I was raised culturally Christian).

I still have faith in the people I know personally - including my mutuals here (although to be honest? If I see people posting about going to conventions or concerts or sports events? It's hard. I don't know what to think or how to feel about it. On the one hand, I know how amazing such events can be, how happy, even elated they can make a person. On the other, multi-spreader events, one and all. I have no solution for this for anyone else than me: I'm not going, both because of Covid and because of my newly acquired sensory issues. But every time I read a post about it, it reawakens that feeling that I don't know how to feel about it, don't know what to think.) But that faith that I have in my friends is a personalized, small, individual faith, not the sweeping generalized feeling it was before, and so it cannot carry me the same way anymore. And the hope that I choose, that I find - that's also more often than not small hope, localized, individualized. Not even the Labour sweep of this week could really buoy me - not after the European elections in June. *big sigh*

I haven't seen anyone talk about this part of - not just the pandemic! but world politics in general, so far. I still choose to choose hope, because what else is there, but it's hard to look at politics, at the reach that evangelical/reactionary/hard right forces are getting, at their concerted efforts on all levels of government and business to gain power - and again: for what? For their petty shit ideas? Why? What the fuck?! - it's hard to look at all that and not despair. It's hard to look at government leaders *choosing war*, pushing for war, closing borders, refusing to help those in need, actively making their situations worse - why? Why? Again I ask, what the fuck?!

I don't talk about this stuff often. Not on here and not off here. There is no... solution, really. It is how these people in these positions are, and there is nothing I can do to remove them from these positions, and the things I do, *can* do, to keep people in my own country from reaching positions like that, I already do. And that helplessness doesn't help matters, at all. All these three things I've mentioned: Brexit, Trump election, Covid, were things I had no hand in and cannot really influence.

I dread the results of the French election (today). I dread the results of the November election in the US. I dread how the world will look in five, ten, thirty years' time. I still have a lot of decades to live, hopefully, and I used to be excited for the future. It is hard to scrounge up that excitement, these days.

I still choose hope. I refuse fatalism. But it's a choice, a chore, and it's hard. It doesn't come easy anymore, it's not the normal anymore. Imagine having to choose to breathe - that's how it feels, some days.

[feral-ballad]

Bedros Courian, from Anthology of Armenian Poetry, ed. & tr. by Diana Der Hovanessian and Marzbed Margossian; "Complaint"

[wisheduponastar]

*･༓˚✧ ❝𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐞❞ ‧͙⁺˚༓˚✧ « Whumptober Day 9 »

Wordcount : 1.7k / Read on Ao3

Obsession | broken window | bruises | “frame me up on the wall, just to keep me out of trouble”

Summary : Boromir would do anything for his younger brother; hang the moon and stars, hold him forever, promise that he'll always be by his side. That he'll always be there to protect him. That he'll always love him. And Boromir makes those last three promises, and he's determined to always be there - no matter the foe. He will value Faramir above everything else.

Or, Boromir learns that some promises can't be kept. Even when you want them to be.

TWs : Child abuse, angst, helplessness, bittersweet ending

With a smashing sound, loud and harsh against the joyful noises that had been heard, Faramir's sword collides with the window - Boromir's pushing into it. Instinctively Boromir pulls his little brother back, away from the danger and towards him. The sword falls to the floor and he can hear Faramir tense beside him, taking a small step towards him.

"Are you hurt?" Briefly checking for glass, Boromir sheaths his sword before looking to his little brother.

"Only shaken." Faramir gives a quick smile then turns to gaze at the window and shards on the floor. "Which is more than can be said for the poor window."

At his brother's quip Boromir laughs, "If you can wield that sword half as well against our enemies, you'll soon be Gondor's best."

Ducking, both to pick his sword and to avoid his brother's attempts at ruffling his hair, Faramir clears the glass of the blade. "D'you suppose father will be angry?"

Boromir thinks back to his own youth, the trouble he got into. "No. Still, it is best you alert someone of the mess."

Faramir gives a non-committal hum, and there's a moment of silence before Boromir begins to move his brother away - not willing to have him near the shards. Faramir tries to protest before eventually giving up, promising to come back quickly with a maid. As Boromir gathers some of the larger glass shards he tries to suppress a wince. It's entirely his fault the window is broken, although he knows Faramir will blame himself.

The skill with which Faramir wields a sword, dancing with the blade and almost becoming one with it, easily makes Faramir one of his best soldiers. But it also makes Boromir forget his brother is still young, isn't strong enough to parry one of Boromir's blows. He could probably outsmart Boromir in combat, however, and that's something they should work on. Most of the shards are cleared when a servant comes to him and takes over.

He doesn't get too far before running into one of his father's aides, a small smile on their face. The grin is knowing, and Boromir is reminded of the times he's sparred with them, as well as the accidents that have occurred. "Next time, if the two of you could spar in an appropriate place."

"We will."

"Good." The smile lessens slightly and they speak again, “Also, Lord Denethor wishes to speak to you about it. At the earliest convenience.”

‘The earliest convenience’ is a longhanded way of saying now, and Boromir can never figure out why they don’t simply say that. He knows that, in proper court, it should not be used - but he is around people he has known for years, talking about someone he has known for years. Still, he bows slightly and then begins to walk in the direction of the hall. “My father is still in his halls, I assume?”

“His studies, sire.” 

Boromir simply nods, although inwardly he’s not sure why his father is there. He knows there’s some meetings today, perhaps he has simply caught him at a lucky time. Or an unlucky time, depending on how he is to view it. Still, when Boromir knocks on the door to his father’s study he is greeted well, and bade to come in. “You must stop indulging your younger brother as you do.”

The words are said mildly, but matter-of-factly, and Boromir knows there is little leeway. “It was not he who suggested we spar there, father. But I will be more careful.”

“I trust you to be. Although I understand it was his sword that went through the window.”

“Only by the forcing of my hand.” Boromir does not like to give up the fight, and so adopts his father’s tone - that he will not move on this issue, on his beliefs.

“Very well.” His father lets out a small sigh before smiling at his eldest, “You are good to him, Boromir.”

There’s a moment of silence, and brief moment of melancholy - in which Boromir knows he is missing something but cannot figure out what - before his father speaks again, this time of a different matter. Informing him of the meeting he has had today, what that could mean for larger Gondor, and then a brief congratulations on Boromir’s progress. It is only a small advancement, but the fact his father knew to comment on it makes him smile. When Boromir does leave it is in better spirits, almost enough for him to forget about the window - or at least lose the negativity from it.

It doesn’t cross Boromir’s mind for the rest of the day, or at least until he sits down to eat dinner. It has been awkward for a long time, the concept of a family meal when it’s so obvious that the whole family isn’t there. Even the way the table is designed makes it about that they’re all missing her. Some days are better than others, and today is worse. The little conversation Boromir tries to make is only picked up by his father, and even then the answers are short. Any other talking isn’t about how people’s days are, but merely to schedule things and make sure what’s going on. Faramir finishes his food quickly and asks to be dismissed, briefly dipping his head to his brother before leaving. 

Boromir struggles to go to bed, the thought of his brother sitting silently at the table and the broken glass playing on his mind. The contrast between the warmth his father spoke to him alone and the curtness that he spoke with when they are all together. As he goes to sleep he resolves to talk to Faramir about it, to make sure his brother knows it was an accident and no-one blames him. When he wakes up that is the first thing on his mind as well.

Faramir is not there at breakfast, although that isn’t entirely surprising. He isn’t in the library either, which is more unusual. Or his room, or even the main training grounds. But eventually he does find his younger brother, in one of the smaller training rooms - silently running through basic training drills, alone. The sword goes through the air again, almost perfectly.

“Well done.” The words immediately break the silence and Faramir jumps, sword slipping out of his hand.

He immediately takes a step back before looking at his older brother and then the training sword, “I. My apologies, you startled me. I… should have been paying more mind to my surroundings.”

��There is nothing to forgive.” Crossing the gap between the two of them, Boromir picks up the sword. “Are you hurt?”

“It’s a training sword.” A hint of exasperation enters Faramir’s voice, but his eyes don’t light up as they usually do. “I didn’t even hit me.”

Noticing the difference, Boromir takes a second to look over his brother. To see that he’s holding himself slightly more rigidly, with slightly less eye contact. “Faramir… how are you hurt?”

“I’m not.” Faramir is trying to sound reassuring, Boromir can tell that much, but his eyes glance to his wrist and he speaks too quickly.

“If you’re sure.” Boromir holds out the sword, placing it slightly in his little brother's hand. Then he guides the hilt up, placing his hand against his little brothers. Enough to put force on, but not enough to suddenly cause pain. Except Faramir winces.

They both stay silent for a second, and Faramir takes in a deep breath that’s far too shaky for Boromir’s liking. Gently, Boromir takes the sword out of his hands and lets it slide to the floor. “Faramir?”

His little brother freezes slightly more, then stays still and silent. It’s up to Boromir to probe again, “Faramir, may you show me your wrist?”

“Promise me.” His voice is shaking and Faramir takes a pause. “Promise me you won’t do anything, that you’ll only look at it.” “Faramir.” Boromir feels his heart break, to hear his brother so afraid. Looking into his eyes, Boromir speaks again. “I’m the Steward’s son. I promise, whoever has done this, I can deal with them. I swear I will help.”

“You-” He cuts himself off, and then Faramir gently pulls up his wrist. There’s the etchings of a bruise there, a handprint a little larger than Boromir’s own. It looks painful, recent, and it’s on his brother's skin. Boromir feels sick, slightly, and angry. But most of all he feels a mixture of protectiveness and heartbreak, that Faramir didn’t feel safe to go to him. And that he will do everything in his power to keep this from happening again. He takes a breath, and tries to remember how young Faramir still is. That it makes sense he wouldn’t act entirely rationally.

“Faramir, I promise I can help. You… you don’t need to be afraid of whoever did this to you. I will protect you.”

At that, Faramir begins to shake his head before rushing into Boromir’s arms. He can feel Faramir begin to cry, shaking and burying his head into Boromir’s chest. The sobbing continues for only a second, before Faramir begins to try and taper them off again. Then he looks up at Boromir, a look of utter defeat in his eyes. “You can’t. He-” The admission brings fear back into his eyes, but Boromir nods again. So his little brother takes a deep breath, “He… outranks you.”

At first Boromir’s mind goes to different military commanders, and what reason any of them would have to hurt Faramir. And then his mind slows for a second, and he realises that Faramir doesn’t mean to outrank him in military power.

Boromir looks down at his younger brother, his own flesh and blood he loves so much, and feels his heart break slightly. As something changes forever, something he’ll never get back again. And he pulls his brother back into his arms. “I am so sorry.”

[howifeltabouthim]

All thoughts of revenge are born of the pain of helplessness. I suffer becomes You will suffer.

Siri Hustvedt, from The Blazing World

[bookishnerd99]

I can't believe that I have to do this right now. But I have no other option. I don't feel safe.

I'm a foreign student living in Korea. I've been here for more than six months. I have been living in a goshiwon for almost 4 months. One day ago, the manager of the goshiwon I'm living in, physically assaulted me. I was so uncomfortable and scared. I'm here so far away from my family living alone and this woman assaults me for absolutely no reason? Not just me, she assaulted a few more of my juniors, all from my country, Bangladesh. I didn't expect Korea to be like this tbh. I didn't expect them to be so disgustingly racist to any other race who are not white.

Even when we all called the police, the senior officer laughed it off. Saying she was just telling us to go in our room by pushing us. You think pushing us will leave a red mark on my brown skin?? Sigh I'm so lost but I felt like I had to put it over here. I wanted to warn all the people who romanticize Korea. Guys it's not as it looks like. Korea is disgustingly racist. You'll realize it with every breath that you take outside. You'll realize it with every stare you get.

I came to this country with such high hopes. I can't believe the way she attacked us and then pretended it was nothing. I can't believe even the police didn't care enough. We had to call them twice because they left without informing us when we were recording proof from the CCTV footage. Then we called them again and showed them the proof AGAIN. Because the first time he saw the footage, in his eyes she was just 'gently' pushing us to go to our rooms. In his eyes she didn't 'exactly' harm us because we had no visible injuries. Lol and here I came to Korea knowing their police are very good they never let victims down. And when I saw the way he looked at us like we were joking, I lost all hopes.

To all the people out there who want to visit Korea, especially those who aren't white, believe me Koreans are worse than you think. Thank you Korea, for showing your true colors so early. I hope nobody ever goes through trauma like this. I hope nobody ever has to feel so scared, alone and traumatized with nobody to share their pain with. May you get the best of life.

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

Salome Sibonex: I had that same example of adopting ideas that I was told were good for me because well, you know, feminism or like Latin American issues or whatever it might be. They're told to you as, "this is for you. This is, we're we're going to help you. We're highlighting all the ways that you're being hurt, and that's how we're going to help you."

But I found that it did the same thing [as you]. It got me to focus primarily on who's out to get me, what obstacles are around me, and it comes with this baked in notion that the real problem is bigger than you. The real problem, the real obstacle is always something that is bigger than you. And as an individual, you're kind of at the mercy of that.

And it pushes this identification with your groups as well, as opposed to this kind of like focus on our shared humanity or individuality."

--

Full video:

How Social Justice Is Exploiting Us ft. Kimi Kaititi & Salomé Sibonex

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Victimhood sold as "empowerment."