#I hate our world where everything is just rehashed shit from the past

[birdy-bird27]

[heyidkyay]

I guess I'll take this pain, instead of your name |

Part Twelve

A/n: This is a lot shorter than the last few but I had to leave it here so I'm sorry about that, hope you like it though! Already working on the next part!!<3

Summary: In life, things changed. The boys you'd once grown up with were men now, and famous ones at that. The type that toured the world and had millions of adoring fans.

The five of you shared a shit ton of history. But you also shared a lot of mixed emotions for one of them in particular, a certain drummer.

Warnings: Lots of angst, pls dont hate me x

Masterlist

--

My eyes met his straight on. There was no worming our way out of this.

“The night you finished with me. I want to know what really happened.”

...

George just laughed me off. “You know what happened. Why do you want to rehash things now?”

He was acting like none of it mattered. Like he didn’t care that he’d gone and broke my heart. That I’d never felt so lost whilst looking at him.

“Because I need to.” I told him honestly. 

I tried to catch his eye then but he was already moving again, standing from his seat and walking straight past me. I watched him open the window, watched him fiddle with a cigarette he’d pulled from the packet he kept there on the side, watched his hand tremble ever so slightly when he lit it.

“I need to know, George. Please. It’s been eating me up inside.”

He inhaled deeply and his eyes fell shut on instinct. I sat there in the silence. Wallowing. Hoping. Thinking over everything I could possibly say to him.

I was shaky when I climbed to my feet, using the edge of the coffee table for assistance. I tried to stay level-headed, keeping the stilted distance even as I rounded on him, using the window to divide us. Him on one end, me on the other.

“Why?” I repeated.

Why won’t you answer me? Why won’t you tell me what went wrong? Why won’t you just look at me?

That word always seemed to be on repeat. The instrumental to my life, I supposed.

George simply shook his head, tapping some ash out onto the window ledge outside. It was dark. The moon was high in the sky, the streetlights had been on for a couple hours, and there wasn’t another soul in sight.

I decided to play a different angle.

“Never pictured you in a place like this.” I breathed, eyes drawn to the quiet street below. To it’s perfectly paved pavement. “In a big empty house.”

I was being spiteful. I knew that but I couldn’t quite seem to help it. To stop myself. I knew what wounds to poke at. Where to hit where it hurt. I knew how to get him to bite back. 

“Figured it’d remind you too much of home.” I shrugged, feigning my obliviousness to the way every muscle in his neck was now tensing. “You always hated it when they were away. When you were left on your own. This feels similar.”

“Yeah, well things change. People change.” George snipped back, I could just make out the faint reflection of his face in the glass, his expression hard and unblinking. He took another long drag.

“I know that much. Suppose you did, didn’t you? Right in front of my eyes, without me even realising.” I replied, voice barely above a whisper. “How is your mum, by the way? Did you tell her about me?”

“She’s fine.” He answered the first, but not the second. “Just drop it, would you?”

But I couldn’t. Not when I was finally getting somewhere with him.

“How did she take the news?” I prodded further, fingers toying with the floral netting he had hung. “Was she as surprised as I was?”

“I said leave it.” George snapped, tossing the cigarette he'd almost finished out of the open window before he turned to me. “You never know when to just stop.”

“I want answers.” I told him with a jerky shrug, chest rising and falling at a new found rate when he stepped closer. “I’ll get them one way or another.”

“The fuck you will.”

He was angry now.

Stood before me, so close I only needed to let go of the curtains I was clinging to to touch him. His nostrils were flared and his eyes were just as glossy as mine felt when I watched him rake his gaze over my pitiful expression. I stood my ground even though he towered above me.

“Or what?” I snarked right back, my whole body heaving. The feeling you’d only ever get when toeing so close to the very edge. Never knowing how far you'll fall. “You wanna scare me? Make out you don’t care so you can push me away, is that it?”

His jaw locked and his hands clenched by his sides, but I didn’t dare move an inch. George was a thousand things, but violent was not one of them. I could see beneath the stoney expression he’d long perfected, he was just as hurt as I was. He had to be. Because he had to have a reason for keeping me at arms length. For keeping me away for so long. For lying to me again and again.

“Come on, George!” I shouted at him, arms thrown out wide in my irritated exasperation as I waited for an answer. An in. “Is that all you’ve got to say to me? Or-” I scoffed, unable to help my painful chuckle as I stared up at him, “Haven’t got to say, I ‘spose would be a better fit. ‘Cause that’s all you given me since the day you left! Isn’t it? You’ve given me nothing, nothing but lies. When all I’ve ever asked from you is the truth.”

George took a giant step away from me, hand pinching at his nose whilst he squeezed his eyes tightly closed. He laughed defeatedly to himself when his arm finally fell away, releasing a heavy harsh breath along with it. 

He was shaking his head next, at me or himself, I wasn’t sure. But his gaze was fixed firmly on the floor. “Why can’t you just leave this the fuck alone?”

“Because it’s been keeping me up at night!” I all but screamed at him, hoping he’d somehow hear the plea behind my words. “It’s made me question everything I am, everything you’ve ever taught me! You were my best mate before anything. I always thought that meant something to you at least.”

“You’re talking shit now.” George bit back, an attempt at belittling me. He rolled his eyes. “Fucking grow up.”

“You know what? You’re a joke.” I scoffed. I was flat out crying now. I could feel the tears as they stained my face, catching on the bow of my lips and falling aimlessly down my cheeks. I wondered whether or not he actually cared. If it hurt him to see me like this, in the same way it tore me apart having to watch him act like this, to me of all people. He’d never felt so far out of reach. 

“What’s that meant to mean?” His eyes were on me now, narrowed and flitting back and forth between my own. I just wanted him to hear me. To stop and see how much he was hurting the both of us. 

“You, George!” I shot back, “You! You’re a paradox! You want to be happy but you only ever focus on the things that make you sad. You say you don’t care, when really you care so much it hurts. Love is something you crave but whenever things get too real, or when stuff starts to change, you reject it and push it away. Push me away! You’re a walking contradiction, and a fucking complicated one at that. If you cant figure yourself out, George, how the hell am I meant to?”

I was crumbling, falling apart under his cold stare. He hadn't moved an inch.

“That’s bullshit and you know it.”

“Is it?” I questioned with a tilt of my head. But he was already on the defence.

“And I never once asked you to work me out either.” George added mostly for the sake of it, his voice so harsh and unfamiliar. We were toe to toe now, only the coffee table there to separate us. “So, who cares if you do or if you don’t? Who the fuck cares if I’m everything you say I am? We’re not together anymore! You’re not mine. I’m not yours. Why can’t you get that through your head?”

He was right. 

I slumped at his words. At the very thought. All the fight I’d been building up practically slipped away from me in that moment. I felt it untangle in my chest, drifting through my veins, up my arms and then down my legs until it was just gone.

But even at my lowest, I still couldn't turn away from him.

I had one more thing to ask. For my own peace of mind. 

“Then what have the last few days been for?”

He stared back at me. Mute. Gone was the sheen in his eyes, the tick of his jaw. All I was met with was a blank gaze. It was like he wasn’t even there at all. 

I closed my eyes for a moment, dipping my head once. Well and truly done. I didn’t say another word to him as I made my way out of the room, or down the stairs. Even when my mind silently begged and pleaded for him to follow.

I put my shoes on one by one, I grabbed my coat. And then I waited a second. Then two.

For something.

Anything.

I realised after the third second that followed I would have to open the door, that he was just going to let me leave.

I wondered if he saw the irony in it all. In me being the one who was giving it all up. Who was walking out on us.

And as the door closed quietly behind me, I felt the rattle of it shake the hinges, shake my bones. It echoed in my ears and danced out into the empty night. My fingers trailed across its wood as I dragged my hand away. Realising then that it appeared to be raining now too.

I guess somewhere during the time we’d spent arguing, the skies had opened up. I found myself wishing I’d worn a thicker coat, or at least had the forethought to grab a hoodie on my way out that morning. 

I kept my head down as I made my way down the garden path and back through the iron gate, arms crossed firmly over my chest in hopes that they would somehow hold me together. I wouldn’t let myself look up to that upstairs window where I hoped he might be. I wouldn’t do it to myself. I couldn’t. So I continued on, head down sheltering my face from the on pour, putting one foot in front of the other.

The rain was really coming down now. Lashing as the evening wind howled around me. I figured I’d catch a cab at the end of the street, or order an Uber a bit away. Somewhere where I wouldn’t be tempted to turn back. To try with him once more.

I dropped down off the curb, water cascading down the slope of the road and under my boots. My feet splashed against its current, splattering the hem of my trousers. I found I didn’t much care, my mind focused on just getting home.

It was in that next moment I heard his voice call out for me. My head shot up at the sound, hope rising in my chest, and I meant to turn back towards the house, towards him. I really had. But then there were lights. They were so bright they stunned me. Froze me in place. I put my hands up to cover my face, confused. And then I couldn’t see a thing.

Only hear the heavy fall of rain, then a screech I couldn’t quite make out, and George’s voice calling my name.

Part thirteen>

[ironwoman359]

Okay smart ass. How come you and the other big blogs aren't saying shit about the racism and other problematic things happening in the fandom? Specially when almost all of you were always ready to put your opinions on something as petty as fans criticizing Thomas for how he wears a skirt.

Well, I cannot speak for other ‘big blogs’ because, while I am friends with some of the people who run the blogs that you’re lumping into the ‘big’ cateogory, we are not a monolith. We don’t have a secret group chat where we all decide “today we shall talk about Thomas wearing a skirt and ignore racism on purpose.” I can offer speculation that perhaps more people quickly added their own two cents on the skirt thing because when compared to everything else that was going on in the world, both on tumblr and off it, it was such a simple thing to digest. Everyone was craving something simple at that time, so it was an easy, cathartic thing to jump in and say “hey, don’t be mean in people’s inboxes” and proceed to stop thinking about almost just as fast. Anyway, like I said, I can’t speak for other people, only for myself. So since you apparently want me to, I’ll speak for myself. 

“How come you and the other big blogs aren’t saying shit about the racism...”

I am white. It is not my place to speak over poc about racism. It is my place to reblog their posts, elevating their voices without commentary. That is something that I learned this year, and it is something I intend to continue to practice. I do recall making one post in early June, about not using the b/l.m tag on fanart posts, but after seeing several poc express that they wanted white people to talk less and listen more, I elected to make no more original posts about the subject and stick to reblogging without comment. If you’re looking for some good posts about racism in the sanders sides fandom, here are a few good ones. Though most of the posts about racism that make their way across my dash and subsequently onto my blog are less fandom focused and more broad. 

“...and other problematic things happening in the fandom?”

This is where I must repeat what I said the other day; this could relate to any NUMBER of things, and unless you are more specific I have no idea what you’re talking about. Are you talking about callouts for specific creators? There were two that happened over the summer that I know about, but A) again, those were about racism, so I chose not to muddle the conversation with my voice, and B) the works being discussed in those situations were works I was personally unfamiliar with, and thus did not feel like I had enough information to state an opinion publically (which again, as I understand it, would have been unneccessary additions to an issue I have no authority to speak on). 

So maybe you’re talking about the Twitter callouts, or the situation with the artists for the Storytime Madlibs video? Again, I felt as though I lacked sufficient need/information to make any statements about those issues. I have a twitter, but I barely use it, and don’t use it for the fander community at all. I had NO IDEA what any of that stuff people were talking about was, and still don’t, and since I don’t use Twitter and am not in that community, it seemed pointless to speak about. That is not to trivialize any hurt or harm that was caused or experienced during those events, just to say that I have nothing to do with them, which is why there’s nothing about it on my blog. (The joke I made about fandom twitter was supposed to be universal and relate to how all the twitter discourse these days seems to be a rehash of tumblr discourse from five years ago. Bad timing on my part I guess, oh well.) And, being 100% honest here, I don’t think I even watched the Storytime Madlibs video. If i did, I don’t remember much about it. I know that when it came out that the artists were underpaid, I reblogged one or two posts about how content creators should not be put on pedestals and are not perfect, but the rest of that situation was centered around the artists involved in that video, and since I was not one of them nor did I know any of them personally, it seemed like something that again, I shouldn’t bring up because I didn’t know anything about it. From what I understand, a solution is/was being worked out, but I haven’t heard anything recently. 

Or by ‘problematic things’ do you mean the existence of remrom, or unsympathetic sides, or how I’ve been in this fandom for over 3 years and our anon hate problem has never gone away, or the rampant purity culture, or the pervasive ageism, or literally a dozen other things, some of which are genuine issues and some of which are simply differing opinions being handled with all the grace of an elephant on roller skates? I’ve said it over and over again on this blog, but this fandom is not perfect. No fandom is perfect, but this one in particular has a reputation for being ‘pure’ and ‘wholesome’ for some reason; a reputation that it has never upheld by the way, because, shocker, fandoms are made of humans, and humans are not flawless porcelein dolls. We’re incredibly flawed creatures, and mistakes are inevitable. The sooner we all accept that and start treating our mistakes as an opportunity to learn and grow and do better next time instead of a signal that we were always worthless pieces of garbage that had no chance to do anything other than fuck up, the better off we’ll all be. 

And may I reiterate: look outside this website for a minute. There is SO MUCH going on in the world right now, every single one of us is utterly exhausted, we are suffering from a massive traumatic event, several massive traumatic events at once, actually, forgive me if my attention is spread a little thin at the moment. 

I’ll readily admit, there have been posts in the past several months that I’ve seen, read, and then not reblogged. Often this is because I feel as though the post that I am seeing does not have the full picture, and that it would be irresponsible to reblog only that part of the ‘discourse.’ And most of the time, I just don’t have the mental energy to go looking for the full story on whatever the Issue of the Week is. And I shouldn’t have to. Because at the end of the day, what I put on my own blog is my business, and no one else’s. There’s not some rule list that magically appears once you pass 1,000 followers that tells you what you must and must not do as a blogger. I am not required to weigh in on every little thing that happens in this fandom just because a lot of people in it follow me, and in fact, NO ONE is obligated to reblog something regardless of how many followers they have. If you are dissatisfied with the posts I make and/or reblog, you’re welcome to unfollow, there’s no rule that says you have to stay. But my energy is so limited these days, and I’m not going to devote what little free time and headspace I have to figuring out the ‘Correct’ take on fandom discourse.

I’d like to end by once again reiterating what many have said beffore, that racism is not the same thing as fandom discourse. It is always my goal to not speak over the voices of poc, and if in this post I have done that in any way, I’d like to apologize. Poc are welcome to DM me so that we can discuss it in any such instance, whether on this post or any other from the past or that comes up in the future. I am still working on unlearning racism, and know I am likely to make many more missteps on that journey. Stay safe out there everyone. 

[sadsapphicslut]

chapter one - original story (i havent come up with a title yet lol)

okay so here it is!! if anyone actually reads this i love u :) please leave feedback if u have any!! 

TWs:

death, drugs, medication, mental illness, references to sex, swearing, alcohol

wordcount: 8.2k

(also i dont think anyone will but im paranoid of people stealing my writing so obligatory dont copy/post to another site or steal my work in any other ways etc)

There were five of us; 4 boys and me. In hindsight I realize from the outside our group probably seemed a little predatory, but it was never really like that. For the most part they were like brothers to me. Of course, being the only girl in a small and isolated club of mainly older boys, things were bound to happen. We were in high school and it was summer, can you blame me? Regardless, however much I loved them, it was not quite in the way my father always assumed or my mother always warned (during our uncomfortable monthly visitations before I managed to get rid of her for good).

The months everything went down, which I often referred to only as ‘The Worst Summer of My Life’, (quite melodramatically but not without reason) were somehow still full of the best moments of my life. Moments I often find myself wishing I could repeat, as nothing has or will ever come close to the way I felt, sitting amongst my boys day after day, somehow light as the warm July breeze that blew past us. My entire body weightless, as non-existent as the time that passed us by. Despite the depression I’d found myself plunged into during the days after my only brother’s death, I truly believe I will never again be as happy as I was then. Laughter seemed to flow freely from our mouths, smiles plastered onto our faces no matter the circumstances, content to just exist. I don’t think I can ever forget the day it was raining so hard the entire city was flooded, but we walked around uptown well past the point of being absolutely drenched, our clothes dripping so heavily the security guard denied us entry into the public library. Something about that day made me feel so free, like we were invisible. Completely apathetic to the whims of the real world, somehow existing only in our twisted minds and intertwined fantasies.

Maybe if I’d had my head screwed on a little tighter, or if we’d met under different circumstances, it wouldn’t have ended the way it did. I used to go down that line of thought every night before succumbing to a fitful but heavy sleep (under the direct affect of 25mg of Quetiapine, working to counteract my Concerta and Lexapro). Those types of irrational thoughts were ones my therapist deemed as my habit for rumination. In regard to the death of my brother she called it ‘bargaining’, one of the stages of grief. I never liked it when she spoke about those stages as I’ve always felt them to be wrong. Maybe because I never quite moved on to the final one, no matter how many years pass. ‘Acceptance’, coined as the “Re-entrance to reality”. Maybe it’s different since I was never really grounded to reality in the first place. I still wake up some mornings, thinking I’ve heard his voice in the other room, ready to beguile me with tales from his day of retail work. Other times I swear I’ve walked past him on the street. Some people may relate to my experiences, with reasonings of ghosts, angels, apparitions, or insanity, among many other causes for the apparent viewing of a loved one long gone to the other side. I never shared these beliefs, but I am not one to deny. Rather, I always take these instances as an omen. A warning. I have come to this conclusion not without evidence, at least circumstantial, given the many occasions over the years – and especially that summer – where I found my hypothesis to be true. All I can say is that I am glad I’ve never been met with the same chimerical visions of my mother; one can only hope that is because she ended up where she belonged. Maybe I’ll see her there, though I hope at the very least they could keep us in separate rooms of Hell if the situation does arise.

From what I know of the others now, which is admittedly not much – majorly due to my own neglect, as opposed to theirs – they share the same prescription for rose-coloured glasses as I. We always were too engrossed with our own romanticization of nostalgia and sentiment that it clouded our view. I often think this was one of the reasons we seemed to fit so well together. Not quite like puzzle pieces, too self-absorbed to hold a candle to that analogy, more like complimentary colours. I wish it could’ve stayed the way it was. We did try, and I never found myself able to fully disentangle myself from James, nor he could to I, but for most of us we could recognize an ending when one arises. I used to find myself using the word tragedy a lot while reminiscing, but I no longer think that word is appropriate. Fate is a more fitting term in my opinion, regardless of if one believes in it or not. “(A)n inevitable and often adverse outcome, condition, or end,” as reported by Merriam Webster. I don’t think there’s a word in the entire English language more accurate in describing how everything ended up; and if there is, I am yet to find it.

  Chapter One

A Dead Brother

          I have tried to erase the day my brother died from my memory so many times I lost count decades ago. I still find the image seeping into my unconsciousness quite dreadfully on the nights I neglect to take my pills and catch myself waking up with a steady flow of tears that dampen my pillow along with the drool that always seems to pour from my sleeping mouth. The dread that pools in my stomach sometimes being heavy enough for me to lose my lunch. I frequently wonder how people managed to reassure me that it wasn’t my fault; the most painful lie I’ve ever been told and one that seemed to stream from people’s mouths as easily as the mini sandwiches laid in the living room of my brother’s wake were stuffed in. The worst part about being told it wasn’t my fault was how obviously one could tell they didn’t believe what they were saying either. His death was my fault; a fact so uncontestable I wanted to kill myself every time I was reminded of it.

           My therapist often tried to remind me that even if his death was “partially” (she always used the word partially, refusing to acknowledge the truth that his death was entirely my fault) my fault, there was nothing I could’ve done to prevent it. This was another lie I despised being told. There were a million ways I could have prevented his death or saved his life and yet, here we are, with him dead and me wishing everyday that I won’t wake up tomorrow. “Begonia,” she’d tell me – she was the only person who called me by my full name, I usually went by Nia, but a nickname felt too personal and I didn’t like her very much – “You mustn’t keep torturing yourself with these scenarios. He’s dead, and there is nothing you can do to change that. I am starting to wonder if you are going to let yourself move on. This isn’t healthy.” That was a line she liked to use a lot, “this isn’t healthy”. As if anything I do is.

           Barb, my therapist that is, liked to go over the details of my brother’s death a lot. She often called it a ‘trigger’, which is why she always seemed to want me to talk about it. “Trauma is a horrible thing, Begonia, and you must learn to move past it, process it. I can see you still haven’t managed to do that on your own, and that’s what I’m here for, to help you move on.” Barb was big on the idea of  “moving past trauma” and “learning to cope”, she often sounded like a broken record of a motivational speech. I found myself comparing her to school guidance councillors without realizing it, they were about equally as helpful (read: not helpful) in my opinion.

           Sometimes I blame my inability to forget and “move past” my brother’s death on the way Barb constantly brought it up and made me go through it. I never quite understood how that part of my therapy was supposed to help me. I asked her once, what good was it doing rehashing the worst day of my life?

           “Well, Begonia,” I hated the way she said my name, always so condescending and sour, like even the idea of me questioning her in any way was as impolite as shitting on her desk.

“You have to understand that I only want to help you. You seem to be unable to process your traumas on your own, which is why we need to go through these things. As you are aware, this PTSD,” she always left strange pauses after each letter, her slow tone grinding on my ears, “you have acquired has left you unable to function normally in daily life. I want you to get to a place where you can have a normal life (Ha!) and cope without these meetings. It’s what your brother would’ve wanted.” Barb liked to tell me what my brother would have wanted at least once every session. Putting aside the fact she knew next to nothing about him aside from the intimate details on how he died, I always thought it was an inappropriate thing to say as a psychologist specializing in grief counselling. It never particularly bothered me, I was reasonable enough to realize she was just trying to comfort me, but I never liked the phrase. “What your brother would’ve wanted.” What he would’ve wanted was to not die but we’re past that, aren’t we Barb, as you so often enjoyed telling me.  

I have always been quite averse to my diagnoses, ADHD at 14, Persistent Depressive Disorder at 15, PTSD at 16, issues with alcohol and drugs that landed me in rehab more than once. I’ve been on a concoction of different medications since I was 13, even before I was diagnosed with anything officially. Sertraline, Lexapro, Prozac, Ritalin, Concerta, Adderall, Quetiapine, Ambien, Zopiclone, a healthy mix of off brand and branded medications. Sleeping pills, antidepressants, stimulants. I can’t remember a time before monthly trips to the drug store and side effect surveys that I’m not sure if I ever told the truth on. It’s a wonder that people didn’t see a slew of addiction issues coming from a mile away.

I think I’ve always had the most contention with my PTSD diagnosis though, I hate it because I know it’s undeniably true. I wish it wasn’t because maybe that’d mean my brother was still alive, but he isn’t. And I’m left traumatized and bereaved. Sometimes it feels like it hurt me more than it ever did my mother or father. Maybe it did. I should feel selfish for saying that, but I can’t, because they didn’t have to look at him while the life left his body, praying to God for the ability to turn back time. See the moment his eyes glazed over, knowing I’d never get to hear his obnoxious laugh, or make fun of his dumb face ever again.

  ❈

             “Ray, hey listen I need you to come pick me up.”

It was a cool evening in May, the end of spring brought with it the promise of summer and the air had the familiar aroma of daffodils and petrichor. I had decided to go to a party with my friend Faun, my dad having been out at his girlfriend’s place for the weekend and me having nothing better to do. I wasn’t one for partying, but I did like to get high, so I usually just hung around with the rest of the potheads and pill junkies until someone dragged me home or I fell asleep. That night Don, a friend of a friend of a friend, had brought coke and E and we were all determined to get as fucked up as possible. Faun only ended up doing one line before running into a bedroom with some guy whose name started with an M – was it Martin or Marvin? Maybe it was Mickey – and left me sitting on the couch beside a girl who was about 1 more shot of vodka away from passing out.

I had fully intended on doing some coke, but the E seemed to be hitting harder than I was used to. I was sure my Ritalin had worn off by then but maybe I was wrong. As I stood up to get a glass of water I nearly fell over and decided to sit back down. Turning to face Don, I tapped him on the shoulder trying to get his attention.

“What was in that molly?” I was vaguely aware of the way my words were slurring, but I felt weirdly energized. I was aware my heart was beating a little too fast, but I couldn’t concentrate on anything. I knew what ecstasy felt like, this was not nearly my first time doing it, but I felt really wrong.

           “Don!” He turned to look at me and I felt uneasy. His eyes looked a little crazed – not that out of the ordinary but given the circumstances I was worried – “What the fuck did you give me?” It felt like I’d done 5 lines of coke in the last 2 minutes and I knew that E had been spiked.

           Don’s face had an unmistakable expression of guilt written on it as he leaned down and whispered in my ear, his voice shaking, “I think it was cut with meth.” Fuck. My stomach dropped. I have to get out of here. I quickly shot up from the musty couch I was sat on, carefully holding onto Don’s shoulder so I didn’t fall, my legs still feeling unsteady. I opened my phone; the screen was too bright, and I had a hard time maneuvering it as I attempted to exit the house. Clicking the green Messages icon, I sent a text to Faun – e ws cut w meth im lesving – with shaky hands and burst out the door into the fresh air. I clicked my brother’s contact and pressed call.

           It rang four times before he picked up.

           “Nia? Why are you calling me it’s like 1am?” I could tell from the smooth tone of his voice he’d been drinking. He didn’t very often but he had an appreciation for cocktails and enjoyed getting buzzed now and then. He still was a year from being legal to drink but his friends we’re all 19 and 20 and bought alcohol for him. I found him fun when he got drunk, becoming talkative and giggly, but right now I wished so badly for him to be sober.

           “Ray, hey listen I need you to come pick me up.” I was slurring, my voice a bit too pitchy to pass as anything but high. I knew he didn’t like it when I did this, but he never ratted me out. Sometimes I wish he did, maybe I never would’ve been able to go to that party in the first place.

           I could hear a door shutting on his end, I assumed he was going into a different room. “What’s wrong?” My skin was bubbling with anxiety at the prospect of having to tell him what I did.

           “Fuck, uh… I did something stupid. I’m at Emily Goguen’s, y’know up in Champlain Heights. Please pick me up.” I rarely used the word please.

“Nia, what the fuck did you do?” I almost started crying but I found my eyes to be bone dry.

“Please don’t yell.”

“Okay, really, tell me what is going on or I won’t come get you.”

“I accidentally took meth.”

“You what? What the fuck, Nia! Fuck this I’m on my way and I’m fucking telling Dad.” I cringed but I knew he was going to before I even called. The pit in my stomach grew deeper as the buzzing of my skin grew stronger. I could feel myself getting higher, everything was so clear and standing around was making me grow restless. Ray huffed on the phone and I heard him entering his car.

His tone was softer the next time he spoke. “I’ll be there in 5, just stay put, please. Do you want me to stay on the call or can I hang up?”

I felt like a child, which I was really, only 16 at the time, a whole life ahead of me. Still, I was grateful for the way he spoke to me, reminiscent of being 6 and getting a scrapped knee after falling off my pink Razor scooter. The high made me edgy, and my voice was sharp to my ears, “No, you can hang up.” I heard the click to indicate he’d done just that, and started pushing my cuticles as I waited, the task somehow greatly interesting me, and I did not realize until later I had managed to pick off all of the skin around my pointer and middle fingernails during the five-minute wait.

 Ray pulled up exactly five minutes later in his ugly, blue 2011 Ford Fiesta he’d gotten the year prior after passing his driving test. What I wouldn’t do now to smell the inside of that car once again, a distinct attar of pineapple car freshener and Old Spice deodorant mixed with stale black tea, faintly present due to his ever-growing collection of empty paper cups from various different fast foods and coffee shops.

I stumbled into the car, feeling the strong impulse to clean the space, but attempting to push it down. From the passenger side overhead mirror I could see my blown pupils and sweaty forehead, pieces of my copper red hair sticking to my face. My freckles were showing through my concealer that had mostly worn off and I wanted to cover them back up. My skin was pale from winter (and probably the drugs in my system) but my cheeks were flushed like I was drunk. My high cheekbones made my face look gaunt in the lighting, but my face was wide which balanced it out, so I didn’t look completely skeletal. Ray was looking at me, the worry apparent in his eyes, but his face was flushed as well, and I could tell he’d been drinking a bit too much to drive. I had my license as well, but it was clear I was in no condition to take over on that front, so I didn’t bother saying anything. I wish I had. There’s a lot of things I wish. I wish I hadn’t gone to that party; I wish I hadn’t taken that E; I wish I called someone else; I wish I waited it out at Emily’s; I wish I walked home; I wish I took a cab; I wish I waited for Faun; I wish I wish I wish I wish I wish.

“Are you okay?” He didn’t take his eyes off me as I shut the mirror in front of me.

“Yeah, yeah I’ll be fine. Please just take me home.”

“Is Dad there?”

“No.”

“Maybe I should take you to Mom’s.”

“No!” I’d moved out of my mom’s completely just over 6 months ago, barely seeing her once a month. It was one of the best decisions I’d ever made. She never liked me much anyways, the feeling was entirely mutual. Ray seemed to have a close bond with her for some reason despite how she treated him like shit. I never called him out though, he no longer lived with her, so I didn’t really care what their relationship was as long as she wasn’t hurting him. She did treat him significantly better than me, however, so I figured maybe he managed to forgive her the way I never could.

“Okay, but I’m staying with you until Dad gets home. I’m not gonna lie to him about this shit. Fucking meth, Nia? Seriously?”

“It was in the molly.” He sighed and started driving.

 My brain felt like it was filled with butterflies, or ants, some kind of movement that was itching at my skull. The paper cups scattered around were making me anxious and I needed to clean his car. I began picking at my nails again, but I needed to pick up those cups, you see. I turned around and started gathering the ones Ray had discarded in the back, filling up an empty plastic bag from Best Buy. I was fully switched around in my seat, nearly crawling into the backseat to reach the trash my brother had left. I felt him tap my side, I looked over at him and he started to scold me.

“Nia, stop that will you, you’re distracting me.” But I needed to finish gathering the cups. The car was dirty, and my skin was itching, the traffic lights burning my skin. I was elated and I didn’t want to listen to him, he was just trying to get in my way. I continued to lean over, not registering the swerve of the car as he looked over at me.

“Nia – ”

He turned over to push me back into my seat, his eyes leaving the road for no more than a few seconds. This time I felt the swerve as we broke into the next lane.

 This is where I have a hard time piecing together what happened. From what I was told, we ended up running directly into a 2015 Dodge Ram 2500. In case you understandably have a lack of knowledge when it comes to cars, that is a very large, sturdy, and expensive pickup truck which I would probably consider the last vehicle you’d want to charge headfirst into while going 70km per hour. I don’t recall the actual incident of hitting the truck, whether that be from the drugs, the position I was in, or hitting my head on the roof of the car, I don’t know. What I do know is that when I woke up, we were in a ditch on the side of the road, with the car flipped upside down, and my entire body was screaming at me to Get Out!

I felt blood oozing sluggishly from my head and noted some indistinct pain in my right wrist where it had scraped something pretty badly and gotten twisted, but I otherwise felt alright. I couldn’t tell if the cloudiness in my head was from a concussion or the earlier events of the night, but I figured it was probably good I was awake, regardless of how dazed I seemed.

I turned my head to the left and was greeted by a view I will never be able to forget, it having been branded to the insides of my eyelids, scorched in my mind. Ray, with his left arm twisted in spectacular fashion, reminding me of Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, after Lockhart spells away Harry’s bones. My brother had always been squeamish with broken bones and I hoped he wasn’t aware of how his limb looked at the moment. His head was bleeding quite profusely, and I was alarmed despite how many times I’d heard in movies that headwounds bleed a lot. His eyelids were fluttering, irises appearing glassy and unfocussed. And then I saw it. A piece of glass was stuck in the left side of his neck. The windshield apparently had broken with the impact and my brother was lucky enough to get a piece lodged right in his trachea. It was thick, bright red blood –  that I could’ve sworn was sparkling in my current inebriated perspective – was gushing out the side, so heavy I could smell it, taste it, in the air. I was frozen once I realized.

Do something, do something! Put pressure on it! Call 9-1-1! My mind was screaming at me, but it was all I could do to sit and watch the blood stain his clothes. He was wearing the corduroy jacket I’d gotten him for his birthday and a white button up, the red seeped into them until it was as if they’d always been that colour. My voice was caught in my throat, but I managed to push some sound past.

“Ray?” It was weaker than a whisper but in the silence that seemed to envelope us in that car, completely independent of the outside world and sirens that could surely be heard from blocks away, I knew he would be able to hear me.

He looked up, eyes focussing slightly on me, and a tear slipped down his face, only it went the wrong way since we were still upside down. He mouthed the words “I love you”. We never said that to each other. As close as we were, our relationship had always been more comparable to that of a best friend than sibling. We weren’t overly affectionate, never hugged or said I love you, hung out for enjoyment rather than as a punishment. Most people didn’t know we were brother and sister until we pointed it out, we never really looked alike and were absent of the traditional distaste and rivalry usually present between siblings. I knew, as he looked me in the eyes and said those words, this would be the last time I’d ever see him outside of a morgue.

I sat in my seat next to him with dry eyes, wishing desperately I could cry, needing to express the feeling of utter horror and despondency that completely overtook my body and mind, but I couldn’t. Barb told me time and time again that I was in shock, there was nothing I could’ve done, but I will never be able to believe that. I still remember the moment the final tear slipped down his face. He smiled at me, pain evident in his eyes. His entire body was covered in the metallic smelling red, and I wanted to vomit. I wish I could say the crash had sobered me, but it didn’t, not really. I was still entirely in a daze as I saw his muscles relax, smiling falling from his face, eyes not quite rolling back all the way but enough to give me nightmares for the next 20 years. The life had been absorbed from his body, leaving a heavy shell. I was told afterwards this all happened within the span of 10 minutes, but it felt like years. By the time the first responders had appeared I was an old woman. Grayed hair, and arthritic bones. Mourning for the brother I’d lost oh so many years ago, when I was just a girl. I think in a way I died in that car with him, I never was really the same. But who would be? Best friend and confidant, older brother, idol, dying in front of your eyes as you do nothing, knowing for the rest of your life that his death is – was – your fault. Knowing you could’ve done something, anything really, to prevent his untimely loss of life before the paramedics arrived. If I’d been the same after that night I would have to be much more disturbed than I ever thought.

I sat in that car beside Ray’s corpse for 3 more minutes before I heard the sirens closing in around us – me. I thought I might pass out, either from the toll of what I’d just witnessed or from my concussion, but I remained upright, probably from the adrenaline. I couldn’t move so I just waited, and hoped I’d die too before anyone reached the scene. It would be much preferrable to any other outcome I could think of at the time. I could vaguely register the pain in my wrist, but I felt so numb I’m sure you could’ve shot me in the foot and I wouldn’t have blinked.

A young fireman named Walter ended up getting me out of the car. The door was smashed and stuck which meant I’d been trapped in there either way. I was happy I hadn’t bothered trying to escape as I'm terribly claustrophobic and finding out I couldn’t would have thrown me into a proper panic attack. The fireman was incredibly nice, saying reassuring things the entire time they were opening the door with the “Jaws of Life”. I ended up seeing him again in the hospital actually, or at least that’s what my father told me. He wanted to check in on me and left me some hydrangeas in a vase. I always preferred chrysanthemums but I'm not that picky when it comes to a floral arrangement.

After the door was busted open I was carried out by Walter. I was shaking and apparently babbling nonsense but in my head I was trying to tell them to save Ray. I wasn’t really aware of all that much, completely blind to the crowd of spectators that had rudely gathered to witness the violence – wasn’t it supposed to be taboo to stop at a car crash? Wondering vaguely about what happened and wishing you could get a better look as you drive past the scene.  My head wound had made me a bit incompetent and the meth in my system was really not helping the entire situation.

I was laid on a gurney and rolled onto an ambulance. I don’t remember much about the ride; the sirens, the bright lights, a paramedic named Alice who spoke softly, smoothing out my hair while the other put an oxygen mask on my face (which I wasn’t entirely cognizant enough to question though now I'm not really sure why they did it) and splinted my wrist. Alice asked me if I was on drugs and I nodded but was unable to speak when she asked me what ( I would find this a common occurrence after the accident, my voice seemingly stolen alongside Ray’s). She just nodded and said something to the other ME that I didn’t quite pick up. She asked if I could tell her my name and I shook my head. She must’ve noticed the iPhone in my pocket and grabbed it, turning to the medical ID page.

“Is your name Begonia?” I nodded, though the name sounded foreign on my ears. I liked the way Alice said it though, she had a light Spanish accent and a matronly tone that made me feel safe. I wondered if she had kids of her own; she looked young, but my own mother had me at 19 so who could say? She told me her name after complimenting mine. “Begonia is a beautiful name; I love the flowers. I’m Alice, okay? We’re gonna make sure you’re alright and take you to the hospital.” Her voice was sweet like syrup and I became sleepy as she spoke.

“No honey, you can’t fall asleep yet. Just stay awake a little bit longer and I promise you they’ll let you sleep at the hospital.”

  I don’t remember anything of the rest of the ride to the hospital. I was dropped off at the Emergency Room at the Regional, head still too foggy to allow me to recall anything before I was sitting in a white bed, in a white room, with white sheets and a light blue hospital gown on. It was morning and my father was sitting at the end of my bed in an uncomfortable plastic chair, his eyes bloodshot and moist. He’d very obviously been crying for a long time and my chest panged with guilt. I reached up to feel my head and realized there was a cast on my wrist. With my other hand I touched the cotton that covered my forehead, wincing when I felt the sting of what had to be stitches in a nasty gash. I would spend the next 5 years of my life with a variety of diverse haircuts that attempted to hide the ugly scar that served as a reminder of the worst night of my life. Even now it is still extremely obvious, but I can’t be bothered to try and hide it, I so rarely look in the mirror that it wouldn’t matter if my skin turned blue.

My dad hadn’t looked up, so I attempted to gain his attention but once again found my voice failing me. I tapped on the bed a few times before he seemed to realize and face me.

“Nia… how are you feeling?” His voice was raspy and thin. He reeked of cigarettes and stale coffee, though this wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. I remained silent as he looked at me, searching my face for something I'm not sure he found.

“Nia, I, I'm not sure how to say this to you.” Here it comes. Almost worse than watching my brother die, the confirmation. “Ray, he’s, well dead.” I saw my father’s eyes begin to tear up again as I stared straight ahead. I couldn’t feel the sobs that racked my body, nor the hot tears streaming from my eyes. I saw my dad start to move closer but sit back down when I flinched. Of course, I knew my brother was dead; I had front row seats to watching the event happen, but somehow I still didn’t believe it until the words left my father’s mouth. According to my dad, who many years later described to me how eery the whole event was, my sobs were completely silent, and I was entirely unaware of everything happening around me. This dissociation lasted the first few days after the accident, and the entirety of my hospital stay. Leaving the blissful gap in my memory I have now.

Barb told me this was my mind’s way of coping with the tragedy and stress of what happened. I was honestly just happy I had an excuse to skip some of the dreadful retelling she forced upon me.

 ❈

             The funeral was of course a depressing and solemn event. I was still yet to speak and found myself thankful for the way people gave up on trying to get me to communicate. I dressed in a black skirt with a black short sleeved button up. A dark coat thrown around my shoulders as the cast on my right hand was too big to fit through the sleeve. I looked terrible, barely a week out of hospital before I watched Ray sink into the ground. The wound on my forehead was still quite nasty, though it looked better than it did before. I tried to cover it up with my hair but was unsuccessful. I got bangs soon after.

           The matter was very traditional, taking place in a church even though none of our family was really religious. It was only the second time I'd ever been in a church, the first having been for my cousin Julie’s wedding when I was four years old. I don’t remember anything of it aside from the material of my dress itching at my neck and making me rather miserable. Of course, not nearly as miserable as I was the day of the funeral, sitting in a pew at the front of the church, listening to a priest claiming Ray would’ve wanted us to celebrate his life. I knew this not to be true; Ray was extremely dramatic and would’ve cherished the thought of everyone he’d ever spoken to moping around for weeks after his death, beside themselves with grief. He sometimes referred to himself as “Romeo” after having been broken up with by another girl he was supposedly in love with, stating he better just stab himself in the heart now if he couldn’t have her. On the rare occasion he broke up with a girlfriend, he’d lounge around, eating ice cream, pretending to not be upset and comparing his cold heart to that of Richard VIII. The concept of him being any different over his death was almost comical; Ray was nothing if not predictable.

           I sat beside my father, who sat beside my mother (it was an extremely awkward arrangement that neither I nor my father cared for) and seemed to have the idea that I could evaporate if I thought hard enough about it. Unfortunately, I did not evaporate, or even come close to it, instead finding myself exactly where I'd been the whole time. I mostly tuned out the service, only really paying attention when my father and Ray’s best friend, Jake spoke. I managed to escape the duty of having to speak that day thanks to my fragile mental state and mutism. Though I'm sure I would’ve been forced all the same if I had been able to talk in any capacity, regardless of where my head was at.

           Faun was sitting in the pew behind me, feeling quite guilty about the whole ordeal. Or friendship dissolved soon after, I think she blamed herself for taking me to the party. It didn’t bother me too much though; we were never the closest and I sometimes thought her to be extremely annoying. An endless stream of shitty boyfriends that she only acquired so she could further repress her sexuality. When we were 14 we kissed at a sleepover and she admitted she was in love with me. I felt bad for not returning the feeling and our relationship had been on rocky territory ever since. I don’t understand how she thought she was in love with me since she barely knew anything about me, but either way she never brought it up again and soon after the monsoon of boytoys had begun.

           My brother’s friends and ex-girlfriends also attended the event. I didn’t approach any of them, far too scared they’d blame me for the death of their friend. One of them, Alex, went up to me to say how sorry he was about everything that happened. He was crying quite heavily (I later found out he was the friend Ray had been drinking with and the second last person to see him alive) and I could smell alcohol on his breath. I stood there while he spoke, telling me about how great my brother was as if I was wholly unaware. Body waving side to side as he stood with his hand on the wall beside me. He offered me some bronze liquid in a flask, and I obliged, savouring the burning sensation that followed in my throat. Alex’s voice was steady and deep, reminding me of my father’s. I’m not sure how long we stood there, him spinning a fantastic web of anecdotes and stories about my brother, some entirely new to my ears. We passed the beverage back and fourth until it was empty. My head felt lighter and heavier somehow simultaneously, and I found it much easier to listen to Alex talk. Later he tried to kiss me in my bedroom during the wake. His mouth was sour, and his tongue seemed too big for his mouth. I wondered how he was able to talk so much without it getting in the way.

             We moved in procession to the cemetery after the service. The grass was a vibrant green colour, and I didn’t understand how the world kept turning after Ray’s death, for mine stopped the moment his heart failed to beat. The sky was a lovely shade of cyan-blue, with clouds so perfect they seemed animated. Pink carnations were planted near the outskirts of the yard and I could smell spring in the air; a heavy, floral aroma that never failed to comfort me. I thought it should be raining, it felt inappropriate that the weather refused to match my despair. My mind wandered as we approached the empty grave and I considered what it would be like if Ray was here beside me. He’d probably be making jokes, telling me to lighten up for a minute or my face would get stuck that way. He’d mock my silence, saying how I never managed to shut up for a minute before but suddenly I'm as proper as a nun. I'd smile, ruffling his hair to piss him off and try to refrain from laughing aloud. The absence of him only felt stronger as I imagined this scenario, so I shoved it out of my head.

           The casket was lowered into the ground, my father was a pallbearer and I often think about how he must’ve felt carrying his son’s body before watching him being buried. My mother sobbed loudly which annoyed me, it felt a bit exaggerated. I had a few tears falling from my eyes but mostly, I just felt numb. Incredibly and absolutely empty inside. To onlookers it may have seemed as though we weren’t very close, my reaction being similar to that of his ex-girlfriends’. However, this didn’t account for the loss of my voice, or the broken state I was in mentally. Maybe it was better that my reaction was rather dulled. It meant people didn’t feel the need to approach me as they did my mother. Less concerned given she was the one playing up her emotions to the point of embarrassment. My father cried, more than I but far less than my mother. He didn’t cry very often – I'd actually only seen it once prior to the whole event – and I figured he probably needed it. At this point I felt as though I'd shed enough tears to last a lifetime so Ray wouldn’t mind if I was a bit subdued in comparison. He never was a crier anyways.

           As I sprinkled soil onto his casket I imagined he was right beside me, watching, ready to criticize as usual. The dirt stained my hand, clutching the sweat and turning my skin a muddy brown colour. As I wiped the dirt on my jacket I could hear him nagging about how I better go wash my hands, what was I, a six-year-old? He was in denial about me growing up and took every chance to remind me I was still just a kid. Not that he had much on me, but I enjoyed it. I never was one to shy away from attention; at least not before. Little quirks and inside jokes between us were always some of my favourite things, the type of humour you could only get from living with someone your whole life. No matter how much his memory will fade there are some things I can’t let myself forget. His mocking tone when he’d make fun of me is one of those things. If I ever managed to let go of that sound then I must be dead as well.

           The sun beat down on my back, my skin burning in my black clothes. I wasn’t sweating yet, but most of the men around were – suit jackets aren’t exactly known for their breathability. My nose was dry and aching red, sore from how much I'd been wiping it the last couple days. Still the sweet seeping tinge of flowers and spring managed to crawl into my nose, settling underneath my skin, the buzzing from before had returned, I could feel my heartbeat loudly in my throat and had the desperate urge to just run. Instead, I just followed the rest of the party, sitting down in the passenger seat of my dad’s car. The silence that settled over us was uncomfortable and stale. He turned on the radio, Led Zeppelin filled the air around us, thankfully relieving some of the tension. I felt in my left pocket for one of the carnations I’d picked from a nearby grave earlier. The flower had begun to wilt, heat taking effect on its delicate composition. When I got home I put it in between the pages of my oldest copy of Romeo and Juliet. Ray would have found it funny if he was around to see.

The drive to my mother’s house was short and minimally awkward. We sat in silence – aside from the music – only because there was no alternative. My hand remained clutched around the dying flower in my pocket as we left the car and entered the home. Other people had already arrived, clustered in the living room, picking at tiny ham sandwiches and various desserts my mother had undoubtedly stress-baked the day before. I wasn’t hungry so I sat as far away from the food and people as humanely possible while staying in the living room, not wishing to hear my mother’s scolding about how I need to socialize more. Eventually I managed to slip away into my old bedroom, where Alex was sitting on my bed drinking a mickey of Smirnoff I assumed he swiped from my mother’s freezer. He offered it to me, and I accepted, the weird repetitive déjà vu like act, mirroring earlier and making the whole day feel like somewhat of a dream.

When I went over this part with Barb she always felt the need to emphasize that it wasn’t a dream. I knew this, obviously, which I told her every time, but she was inclined to disbelief when it came to my denial over my brother’s death. “Begonia, you must realize he’s gone. Dwelling is helping nobody, especially not you. This isn’t a healthy mindset for you to have. Always comparing living to your dreams. I want you to tell me you understand this isn’t just some dream you can wake up from.” The first time she said that to me I was thrust into a bout of wordlessness, as it struck a bit too close to home. The next time she brought it up I just told her of course, though even now I still cannot say I fully understand. How can I when all of my assumptions have been constantly disproven time and time again. How can I ever say this isn’t a dream when I'm not even sure I'm real? James always tries to reassure me, “Bee, I'm telling you, if you can feel this beat, the pulse in your wrist, your neck, your chest, you are alive,” he’ll say while pressing my hand to my wrist, but we both know it isn’t that simple.

Me and Alex made out for a few minutes until I managed to excuse myself. He was a bad kisser and tasted disgusting. I left him sitting on my old bed while I went downstairs to find my dad. He was sitting at the counter with a can of root beer, blank expression sat upon his face. When his eyes met mine he sighed, grabbing his keys out of his pocket. It was obvious neither of us wanted to be here, for numerous reasons, so we left. And if the radio stayed off as we drove home we didn’t acknowledge the silence that time. In my hand was the crumpled carnation, and for some reason it made my chest hurt. A deep ache of dread. I could feel my heartbeat, hear it over the drum of the car engine, and I crushed the flower further. I was careful not to rip it though, as if that was crossing some kind of invisible line my mind had set for me. My fingers felt waxy when I finally let go.

Back home, I opened the copy of Romeo and Juliet. I retrieved the deteriorating plant from my pocket and placed it in the center. Closing the book, I stacked it under a few dictionaries, a magazine under it so it was trapped on either side. I sat down in front of it and cried. Not the huge gasping sobs my mother seemed to fancy, nor the quiet weeping of my father. No, I cried the tears of a child who just found out their grandparents died, the soft uncomprehending grief that overcame them as they first learned what death really meant. How long forever was. My legs pulled up to my chest, hands loosely hung around knees, unable to clasp together because of my cast. I closed my eyes and I swear I could hear the sound of Ray sighing behind me, but when I opened my eyes I was alone. I went to bed, earlier than I ever had in my life, still believing it was a dream and I'd wake up like Alice after her adventures in Wonderland. But when I awoke, I was met with the slow, oozing perdure of my reality. The one which I could not wake up from, and the one where my brother was dead.

[francoiserenaldt]

the emancipation of dizzy

desirée ashton is tired of being tired and the pills don’t hit like they used to. happy @it-lives-week. 

word count: around 3k warnings: some ableist language, cruelty, destructive coping mechanisms, lots of parentheses in here, negative thoughts, references to depression, strong language, there are sweet moments but a lot happens before then

“No.”

The word leaves her in a shout, crippling her as the nicks and scratches that litter her aching body give way to immeasurable pain.

But it’s not the wounds that hurt her most.

“No, no, no, no, no…”

She vaguely hears it behind her as she holds her brother in her arms for the last time.

Or so she thinks.

None of this makes any sense, she thinks.

Nothing she sees is real. None of this is real.

(Not when she puts Devon’s arm around her neck and drags him out of the cave to a stretcher, not when Noah tells them how unbelievably sorry he is for everything, and especially not when his body is found covered in blood 3 hours later.)

That night was a mistake; a terrible, terrible dream. Devon will be in his room when she inevitably has to go wake him up and Andy’s leg is fine and N–

No.

She refuses to think of him.

He fucked off and gave himself to the Power that night, effectively ending his life. She knows she should be thankful; after all, she knows herself enough to know that he wouldn’t stand a chance if he stayed in town after what he’d done. But the thought that he’d never truly get what had been coming to him, the thought that he’d gotten away with it, infuriated her.

Maybe he wouldn’t get what was coming to him, but it’s not too late to get the revenge she’d been itching for.

Jocelyn had been reduced to a sad sack of bones after she lost vision in her right eye and function in both legs and Cody–

There was no need to rehash that; he wouldn’t be a problem.

Unfortunately, Britney is still around; even more so now that Lily gave her another chance. She’s been making her idea of an effort, forcing a Joker-esque smile on her face any time Lily drags her over to the group and gritting out a compliment when she sees Ava’s new piercing or Stacy’s new shoes for the past two weeks.

It’s not enough.

“You know, it wouldn’t hurt my feelings if you just went back to ignoring or insulting us like you usually do,” Desirée smirks, shutting her locker. “It’s obvious you don’t want to be here.”

And we don’t want you here goes unsaid for Lily’s sake.

“Yeah, Britney,” Stacy chimes in. “Don’t hold back on our accounts.”

“Guys, please,” Lily pleads, glancing between the girls. “Can’t we just be civil for once?”

“Sure, I’ll go first.” Ava huffs, pursing her lips. “When’s the last time you put someone in a garbage bin?”

“I’ve never done that, you–” Britney pauses, taking a breath. “Ava.”

“Oh shit, you’re right. You had Jocelyn and Cody do it for you. How is Jocelyn, by the way?”

“You can’t even be nice for two minutes, can you?” Lily scoffs. “Unbelievable.”

Once Lily stomps out of sight, Britney rolls her eyes and whirls on the remaining girls. “The only reason I’m even letting myself be seen with you losers is for Lily’s sake, alright? So you need to get over whatever little beef you have with me.”

“Little beef?” Desirée spits, glaring venomously. “You’ve tormented Lily, Devon, and Ava for years.”

“And you blackmailed Stacy, which is a felony, by the way,” Ava adds, crossing her arms. “You’re lucky the Green’s haven’t sued your bitch ass.”

“You have no idea how extremely lucky you are that I care about Lily–”

“No, you’re lucky we care about Lily. It’s the only thing that’s keeping you from getting jumped.” Stacy snaps.

“Since you care about her so much, you should probably try showing a little restraint.”

“The fact that I’m not wearing you like a shoe right now is me showing restraint.” Desirée retorts before smiling innocently. “But if you really want me to drop the act, that can be arranged.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re excused.” Desirée quips, crossing her arms. “No, seriously. Leave.”

With yet another eye roll, she finally struts away.

“While I don’t disagree with you—like in any shape or form—saying what you said, you kinda threatened her. In public.” 

“Yeah, it would be a really bad look if you hit her, Dizzy.”

“Well, I didn’t, okay?” Desirée snaps, grabbing the last of her things. “I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”

She stomps off without another word, just missing the concerned looks Ava and Stacy send her way as she goes.

“Desirée, wait up!”

Devon jogs up to her. Or tries to, anyway. She never stopped walking.

“Hey, do you mind chilling the fuck out?” Devon admonishes, stepping in front of her. “Lily is really upset.”

“I do, actually.” She sneers. “She’s always around, making these snide fucking remarks, and I wanted her out of my face.”

“And you think being a dick to her is the answer? ‘Cause it’s not.”

“Then what is the answer, Devon? Aren’t you tired of letting yourself get pummeled day in and day out by Britney’s goon squad for all for Lily to go running back to her in the end?” She growls. “Aren’t you tired of being everyone’s little bitch?”

His eyes harden just as hers soften. “Fuck you.”

“I didn’t mean that–”

“Yes, you did. You’re just the only one who’s enough of an asshole to say it to my face.” Devon turns to walk away. “You’re acting just like her, you know.”

“Don’t pull that shit on me, Devon. I’m not doing anything that she doesn’t deserve.”

He bites back a reply before sighing. “Getting revenge isn’t going to make you happy.”

“Our lives are permanently fucked, Devon. Nothing is going to make me happy.” She forces a smile onto her lips. “At least this way I get something out of this nightmare.”

“How long do you think that’s going to last?”

“Until she’s gone.”

Doing away with Britney is the easy part; the bitch is entirely too sloppy with her misdeeds and Stacy knows her pass code like the back of her hand. A mass text from an unknown number full of screenshots does her in and the family moves to the next town over within the month.

(She could always count on Stacy to have her back, especially when it came to Britney.)

Seeing the tears in Lily’s eyes and the disappointment in Lucas and Devon’s faces as Desirée watches Britney walk out of Westchester High for the last time makes it infinitely harder to keep the smirk on her face.

Hard, but not impossible.

(The high inevitably wears off and her friends won’t stop looking at her like she’s some kind of monster, but Britney is gone and that’s all that matters.)

(Until it isn’t.)

Two weeks pass before Lily speaks to her again.

“Do you regret it?” She whispers.

“I regret hurting you,” Desirée whispers back. It’s the closest thing to an apology she can muster.

It’s not enough.

“I wish you were sorry.” Lily loses the whisper then and there, glaring.

“I wish you understood where I was coming from.”

“Why aren’t you sorry?”

“Because I hate her, Lily.” Desirée snaps. She’s had to say this too many times. “And she treats you and Devon like complete and utter shit and I’m tired of you sitting back and letting her do it.”

“So you made her leave.”

“So I made her leave.”

Lily scoffs and turns away.

“I did it for you, Lily,” Desirée whispers. “Everything that I’ve done has been for you.”

“You have no idea how much I want to believe that.”

Devon returns and the conversation is over as quickly as it began.

No.

She feels the word creep up her spine and lodge itself into her throat before she hears it fall into a loop in her head, spiraling quickly out of control.

(She’s lost control again. What a surprise.)

She shakes the empty pill bottle until it flies from her shaking hand to her bed.

Her phone is in her hand within seconds and her fingers fly across the screen. Her vision blurs with unshed frustrated tears but she taps away relentlessly—desperately—until the solution she needs pops up and she can finally stop acting like her life is falling apart.

“Hello?”

Shit.

“Hey,” she replies, trying desperately not to sound like she’s on the verge of tears and failing miserably.

(All she seems to do is fail these days.)

“What happened, Desirée? Are you okay?”

The concern in his voice breaks her resolve and she lets a few tears fall, sniffling.

“Okay. Stupid question.” He shuffles around, then curses. Even in her chaos, she finds it in her to wince. “What can I do to help?”

“I don’t know if you can. Help me. I don’t know why I called you.” She murmurs, running a hand over her face. “I don’t know about much of anything anymore.”

“There has to be something I can do,” Andy mutters quietly, probably to himself. “Hey, what if I stayed on the phone with you? Just until you can sleep.”

The painful—and frankly embarrassing—reminder that it is two in the morning is more than enough to calm her hysterics. “Oh, um…that would be great. And extremely nice of you, which I’m not sure I deserve considering–”

“Nope. None of that.”

“Okay,” she sighs, effectively ridding herself of her wobbly voice. “I gratefully and humbly accept your help, your Majesty.”

His laugh is probably—no, definitely—the best sound in the world and for the half hour it takes for her to find peace, she gets to hear it over and over again. The magic of him dissipates the anxiety that had lodged itself into her chest and for a moment—and not a second longer—she seems to float.

Then she wakes up.

Her phone is dead, naturally, so she goes up to the corner store. Common sense tells her that Devon won’t let her walk to the store without insisting on getting Lucas to drive them.

You know he means well. Why aren’t you letting him help you?

“No.” She smiles at the cashier manning the register. “Thank you, though.”

She learns that faking a smile becomes easy once you spend enough time doing it. Enough time has passed that no one questions it and those who can see through it don’t have the heart to draw attention to you.

The silence is almost peaceful.

You’re not letting him help you because you know you don’t deserve it.

(Until it isn’t.)

Her earlier turbulent and destructive thoughts were good for one thing; they distracted from the whispers and stares that followed her every move. She doesn’t bother listening to what they’re saying at this point—it can’t be anything the mayor or her parents or Cid haven’t told her—but they come from everyone; even the teachers mutter when she lingers too long on a test question or takes a little longer to answer a question.

(“It’s not like her to take so long.”)

The comments should make her angry. They should make her want to cover up her abnormal habits or threaten to have their jobs if they don’t mind their own fucking business.

But there’s nothing. Nothing they say matters. Nothing anyone says or does matters.

She eventually stops speaking to people. Anything urgent will be said to her directly and repeatedly, like a newborn puppy that’s just learning commands.

(“Please call Mom and Dad, Dizzy. They’re worried about you.”)

(“Please talk to me, Rée. I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s wrong.”)

(“Desirée, please pick up the phone.”)

For people who’ve known her all their lives, they’re terrible at taking hints.

Her own brother has given up on getting her to have dinner with him consistently; he just goes to Lucas’s house when he wants company.

Lucas, of all people, has become more approachable than her.

Why would Devon want to spend time with you? Why would anyone after the way you acted?

Her mind—for its many, many faults—is the only thing that hasn’t left her. It buzzes about incessantly, asking questions it has no answers to. This time, she doesn’t wait to answer them.

You told him that he was the world’s punching bag, that he was weak. At least he didn’t turn out anything like you. You have enough weaknesses to fill an encyclopedia.

Devon may be a little bitch, but he’s a little bitch with a boyfriend who hasn’t given up on him. Can you say the same?

No, the voice prattles on gleefully. Of course not. Andy’s already got pain in his legs; he doesn’t need a pain in the ass on top of that.

What’s the point?

Why bother picking up the phone? It’s not like anyone is calling her, or anyone would pick up the phone.

Why bother going downstairs for dinner? She’s just going to be eating it alone.

Why even bother leaving her room? No one wants to see her and, for once in her life, she doesn’t want to be seen.

So she’s content to stay right where she is. She can’t hurt anyone but herself here.

The universe, naturally, has other plans.

One day, Devon throws open her bedroom door. “Get dressed.”

“What the hell are you doing in my room? Get out!”

“Yeah, not happening. If you’re not done in 20 minutes, I’m dragging your ass out of bed myself.”

“As if you could pick me in the first place. Please fuck off.”

“Maybe not by myself. I’m sure Lucas and Dan would be happy to help, though.” He smirks as he turns away. As he goes, he sings, “20 minutes.”

Ughhhhhhh.

In her annoyance, she had failed to realize that all of her friends had been invited to the house.

He said that Lucas and Dan were here earlier, idiot.

“Hey, stranger,” Ava drawled when Desirée appeared at the banister. She was sprawled across a sofa by the coffee table, which she was promptly shoved off of once the words passed her lips.

“Seriously, Ava?” Stacy hisses before turning to face Desirée. “It’s good to see you again.”

It’s at this moment that she realizes that she dropped off the face of the Earth and stopped talking to her friends without an explanation.

You’re actually the worst friend ever. Why do they even bother with you?

“Hey, guys,” she says, looking at everyone. They all seem to be happy—relieved, probably—to see her, but something about the situation feels…off. “What’re you all doing here?”

“I thought we could have a game night,” Devon smiles (carefully? hesitantly?) at her as he gestures to the setup. He’s got just about every board game they’ve ever had on the table, from Candyland to Cards Against Humanity. “It’s been a long time since we’ve all done something together.”

All because you decided to be antisocial and moody.

“Right.” She swallows. “So what’s first?”

The afternoon passes easily. She’s far too wrapped up in the ecstasy of being around her best friends to think about anything other than kicking their asses in board games, let alone–

No. We’re having fun.

At least they were until Lily walked over to her after a particularly successful round of Cards Against Humanity.

(She doesn’t need to ask if they can talk in the kitchen, which just so happens to be tucked away from the living room where everyone sits.)

(Desirée doesn’t need to ask her if they’re speaking again now or if Lily plans on this being the last time they speak.)

Lily taps Desirée on the shoulder and they find the corner of the kitchen furthest from the living room.

“I forgive you,” Lily says once they’re alone.

“I’m not sorry,” Desirée warns. Lily can’t hate her any more than she already does; there’s no use being backward about how she feels.

“I don’t care.” Lily steps forward and before Desirée knows it, they’re hugging. “I’m not losing you over a girl.”

“Wait, wait…you’re not mad anymore?”

“I was being unfair,” Lily says, letting a hand come up to rub her bicep. “On a lot of fronts.”

In the spirit of not ruining her good mood by unpacking her behavior, Desirée opts for humor: “I was being a total bitch myself, so I’ll forgive you. Just this once.”

“Do I get another pass if you get first dibs on the unicorn plushie?”

“Maybe,” she smiles genuinely for once and tugs Lily back into a hug. “Now come back. I missed you.”

“Not as much as I missed you.” Lily replies, hugging her even tighter. “Now let’s go before someone tells Andy that he’s out a girlfriend.”

It’s easy to forget how good of a friend Lily is when she’s not simping over Britney.

Desirée slings an arm around Lily’s shoulders as they leave the kitchen. “You’re ridiculous, Lil.”

Devon raises an eyebrow when they walk back to the group. “Are we all good?”

“Yeah, we’re good,” Lily grins.

Yeah, we are good. Until you fuck it up again.

Eventually they leave (everyone leaves) and Devon sits next to her once they finish cleaning up the games.

“This is the first time you’ve come out of your room in–”

“Three weeks, Devon. I know.” She sighs and walks over to the staircase. “I’m going to bed.”

“No, wait,” Devon rushes, grabbing her hand. “Just be still and shut up for a second. I need to say this.”

“Fine.” She walks back over to him, albeit a bit petulantly.

“Remember how I was when Noah,” he pauses carefully and continues when he doesn’t see her flinch, “first came back to school and he said all that stuff about how Jane was gone because I didn’t blow the whistle? And how I completely shut down? You told me that you’d never thought you’d see the day where I’d stop talking to you completely and I couldn’t make sense of it. I guess this is what it must’ve felt like.”

“You’ve been angry, you’ve been really fucking jumpy, and now you’ve completely shut me out for three weeks, Desiree. I haven’t been away from you for that long since, like, the womb. So I guess what I’m saying is,” he pauses again and sighs. “You’ve never given up on me, even when I was being a self-pitying asshole who would have deserved it. So you take all the time you need because I’m never, ever giving up on you.”

“Does this mean that you’re gonna drag me out of bed every day?”

“No, it means that I’m gonna to let you stay in this slump you’re in. That being said, I’m probably going to drag you to the dinner table. Eating alone sucks.”

“Eating alone has been rough,” she agrees.

“So you understand?”

“Yeah…yeah, I understand. I’ll try to be better.”

“That’s all I can ask from you.”

He steps closer and she puts a hand up. “Oh my God, do not hug me, you dork. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Promise?”

“Promise. And Devon,” Desiree frowns. “You wouldn’t have deserved to be given up on. No one does.”

He nods once and they head up the stairs together.

She finds herself back in her therapist’s office a month later, fielding the usual questions.

“Have you spent an entire day in your room this week?”

“No. I haven’t been back there in about a month now.”

Okay, it’s really been more like three and a half weeks, but semantics. It’s not like she’s the only one who lies to her therapist.

Dr. Chamberlain smiles gently. “That’s good.”

“It was hard, but I’ve learned not to hate him.” She clears her throat. “Noah, that is.”

“Could you forgive him one day?”

“Every day I look at the people I care about and I see how they’re still affected by the things he’s done. I don’t–” She pauses. “I don’t know if I could ever forgive him.”

“Every step in the right direction is a good step, Desirée.”

It’s far from the first time that her therapist has said those words and she knows it most certainly won’t be the last.

“Desirée?”

“Oh, sorry.” Desirée sits up. “What were you saying?”

“I was saying that it’s been a crazy few months for you, but you’ve come such a long way.”

“What if it’s not enough? I did a lot of things I can’t come back from, Dr.”

“I don’t think that’s true.” Dr. Chamberlain glances at her watch and sighs. “We’re just about out of time.”

“Thank you so much. I’ll see you next week.”

“One more thing, Desirée?”

“Yes?”

“Give your friends more credit.”

Desirée nods as she closes the door.

Her phone rings.

“Desirée, thank God! Can you please tell this man that studying is a portmanteau of “student dying” for a reason?”

“I’m probably the worst person you could’ve called for this.”

Devon groans. “Ugh, I forgot how much of a nerd you were.”

She hears a throat clear itself on the other end.

“Right. Lucas wanted to know if you were down to form a study group for finals. I completely understand if you’d rather swallow nails one by one or whatever weirdly specific torture you’re into–”

“If I say yes, does that mean you’ll stop talking?”

“…for now.”

“Deal. I’ll be there in 20.”

She ends the call and sends him a text.

desirée: you don’t have to tell me that I’m the best, or that you’ll actually buy me food the next time you go out. I just know you’ll do it bc you love me so much.

devon: …i really don’t like you, you know that?

desirée: sure, and I know you’re lying your ass off <3 see you at home.

[ais-n]

Why do Boyd/Hsin work? (anon ask)

I moved this ask over from a different place where the person sent a number of questions, as they were unable to get it to fit in tumblr’s space restrictions. In case they didn’t want their name known, I’m referring to them as an anon. But I thought they had good questions others may be curious about as well so I’ll be putting them (and the answers) over here.

ANON ASKED:

I think you mentioned somewhere that at some point during the writing process you guys thought that Boyd and Sin would fall for each other, and that’s how the idea was born. Why do you think, personally, that they fit so well as a couple, and what made you decide that they would fall for each other?

Yep, you remember correctly :) So basically we started ICoS just to fuck around, honestly, because we were bored. Because we didn’t figure it would become a thing, we thought that rather than wasting all our energy/motivation/excitement on character creation and some in depth setting on another world or something, we’d be best off doing something in our world, kind of our times, kind of dystopian, and then to pull in characters we had created for roleplaying games elsewhere that we didn’t get to play as fully as we wanted, or we thought would be fun to play more here.

Sin came from one game, Boyd from another. We knew Sin was going to be "Sonny’s” main character pretty early into it, if I recall correctly, but I didn’t know which of my characters I wanted to bring over. I initially threw out Boyd as an option because I thought the juxtaposition would be really funny, and because I liked him as a character but he barely got anywhere in the other rpg. (Lou came from that RPG too, btw, as did Vivienne and Cedrick of course)

The point at which we realized they would fall for each other was practically right away - we wrote like, I don’t even remember, 4 scenes or something? And already they were seeming like they had great chemistry and wanted to flirt and just somehow, bizarrely, felt like they would gravitate toward each other. 

I don’t know how to explain how we knew without probably sounding like a lunatic, but to me characters are people - and most of the time, I kind of take my cues from them as to what they think, what they would do, how they feel, etc. I know they aren’t real, I know they don’t exist in our world, but maybe I just get interested in the psychology of characters and because I’m an empathetic person, maybe I just naturally start thinking of them in terms of what they want and how that affects what I had thought I had planned for the story.

It was just one of those things where we realized as soon as we had those two characters in the same room as each other, as soon as we tried writing a scene that we had intended to establish them as partners who didn’t get along and who didn’t trust each other and who would never be particularly close, we realized both of them kept somehow responding to the other character in a way that showed they had chemistry and they would like each other. Maybe even love each other, given the chance.

So we started writing the story over again, reworking it this time with the knowledge that they wanted to be a thing, so now it would be a story with a romance, instead of just a story. But being that they were both super messed up, of course that whole journey to love in any way that’s even remotely healthy was a process in and of itself.

(Sorry for rehashing all that since you remember that - but wanted to say all that for anyone who hadn’t seen the context on the previous posts where I talked about that)

As for why they fit so well, honestly I think it’s because of their base characteristics and their default tendencies, and a lot of it too is their backgrounds. It seems like their backgrounds were made to create characters that fit each other so well as a result but that was totally a coincidence that they each already had backgrounds we’d individually decided which ended in life experiences forming the characteristics that drew each other to them.

So, for example, Sin doesn’t trust almost anyone in the beginning of the series; he’s used to being used, he’s cynical, he kind of hates people, and he just doesn’t have much faith in humanity or humans because people have shown him time and time again that they will turn on him if given the chance, or they don’t really see him as a person, or they do but he can’t help feeling like they have an ulterior motive in it all. Then Boyd comes along, and he doesn’t have an ulterior motive whatsoever; he just genuinely does not have any preconceived judgment of Hsin, he doesn’t care either way about him at first, he doesn’t treat him like shit like so many other people have Hsin’s whole life. He just kind of treats him like a person, for good and for bad. Which means they have arguments and they have good moments. They find they have similarities in some things and are way different in other.

I think it’s the fact that Boyd was willing to judge Sin on Sin’s actual actions and actual words instead of basing things on fears, rumors, or the like, that over time made Sin realize Boyd was different. Similarly, how Boyd stood up for Sin even at his own personal detriment, when no one else had in quite the same way. The fact that Boyd cared so little for himself he was even perfectly comfortable sacrificing himself for Sin’s benefit even when they weren’t friends. I think that the fact that Boyd didn’t give a shit about anything, that he only was interested in seeing Sin for who Sin was and not what everyone thought him to be, was something that really spoke to Sin and helped him slowly come out of his shell. And made him feel comfortable starting to trust others on his own terms, and even fall in love, and feel safe doing so in the long run. 

As for Boyd, he also was used to a certain treatment in his life, which was at times indifferent, at other times even cruel. He was used to people judging him by his looks, his family, all sorts of things. He was used to people hurting him. And he was used to losing the only people who had cared about him. He was, in short, used to suffering. He just wanted to die and be done with it all.

Similar to how Boyd didn’t judge Sin for what others judged him as, Sin didn’t seem to treat Boyd the way he was used to - or at least, not for the same reasons. Over time, it let him feel like it was okay to be himself; that he wasn’t inherently wrong for being born, or for how he was born, or for being alive until now. I think for Boyd the fact that Sin was so ridiculously strong and powerful was a relief; it made him feel, on some level, that he wouldn’t break and destroy and kill Sin just by being in his life, the way he felt he had for his dad and Lou. 

In the end, I think they both just happened to be the right kind of person to make the other person feel like it was safe to slowly grow into who they were at the core of themselves without all the trauma of the past being the only thing that dictated their present. They each ended up being the right collection of characteristics to let the other person feel loved, and feel safe loving in return.

Of course, because of all that trauma and everything else contextually in their lives, the process of coming to that realization was a long one, and had a lot of ups and downs, and a lot of unhealthy behavior along the way. They aren’t always the healthiest for each other as they grow, but I do think they were what each other needed to, in the very long run, trust in the world to some extent, and through that learn to trust in themselves.

[creatingnikki]

The first rule of being an artist

The thing about art is that all art is inspired. There are so many cool people creating so many cool things and there have been so many times I've seen someone use a specific format for a poem or have a unique list idea or a writing challenge that gets me so excited that I want to work on a version of it myself. So I go ahead and do that WHILE I GIVE A SHOUTOUT/CREDIT THE IDEA SOURCE to the person that inspired me. Now the points to remember here are:

That idea may not even be their own original idea. Maybe then thousand other people have already done it but I came across it for the first time at their blog/account and hence, I will credit it to them

There are always going to be people doing the same thing as you - writing on the same topics, ranting about the same things, using the exact same colour palette that you thought was unique - and that doesn't make either yours or their art unimportant or less. We all express things differently and we all derive meaning differently. Hence it will always be different and hence it will all always be important

And fuck that. Art doesn't even have to be important. Art doesn't have to be a standard. Or an obligation. Because the truth is...we don't need art to live in a technical sense. We don't need it to nourish our bodies like we need food or we don't need it like sleep to keep our brains going. So no, art is not important in that functional aspect. But does art add meaning to life so we do more than just breathe, eat, shit and sleep? Yes. In that respect, art is everything

And it's very easy to look at something - a beautifully articulated poem, a fascinating writing project, a uniquely painted canvas - and feel like wow. What I do is absolute shit and will never be half as good as that. I know okay, I know it's easy to feel that. But we have to understand two things - art is not supposed to be about being good or bad or comparisons. It's about expressing and being. Second, we have to train our minds to be able to look at something beautiful and just stop at admiring it instead of indulging in comparisons

And stealing art isn't about literally copy pasting the same thing. It can also be about copying the concept. And any one who has ever created in their life will know that the concept is everything

There isn't any patent in art. I mean sure for writing I know there are like copyrights but it's just for actual published books? Or at least that's what I know. So we...creators who create and put our heart and soul and time into art and put it up online to share with everyone...we take a huge risk. Because literally any immoral, uncreative dick - and there are many out there - any where in the world can claim our work as theirs. Or rehash it and promote it as their idea

The first rule of creating art is being honest. That's how you get the quality, the emotion and the connection you know. And you have to be honest about it all. If you can't...if you can't be honest then you can't be a true artist

And in no way admitting that you got inspired by someone else's work takes away anything from yours. In fact it adds more to it - it adds credibility and respect and trust

When people go ahead and steal your work, your ideas and package it so cleverly as theirs, it just discourages you in a way that not even anon hate on this site does. And you know that is some nasty shit. Whatever. I'm going to bed now and hopefully when I wake up, I will not feel as violated.

[hardlyfatal]

gary’s writing workshop: lesson 1: kintsugi, or how to make all criticism constructive

The tough thing about writing is that you have to be bold enough to think your work is worth reading by the public, and also have the humility to accept criticism so that you can improve and be better. You need to be strong enough not to crumple like a used tissue when you receive negative feedback.

The primary, inescapable truth about writing: you won't get better until you acknowledge and accept that you need to get better. That's it. If you think your writing is flawless, you're wrong. If you think you've done a perfect job, you're wrong. If you think there's no way it can possibly be improved, you're wrong.

That's not to say it's bad. Just that it's not perfect, that there is always going to be more you can do to tweak it closer to the ideal. To get there, you have to think critically about your work, instead of through a veil of trembling sensitivity and frail ego. You can't be defensive, but approach it with the knowledge that, despite the discomfort or even pain, the process will make you stronger and better. Kintsugi!

There are two kinds of negative feedback, and two classes of people you’ll get it from. The first kind is when something is factually, empirically wrong. Problems with your SPAG1, anachronisms, and continuity fall into this category – there’s no arguing with “you spelled something wrong” and “people in the Middle Ages didn’t say ‘okay’ “ and “in chapter 1 you said X but in chapter 2 you said Y”. Either it happened or it didn’t.

These are valid criticisms and must be considered and addressed. Yes, even if the person saying them is a complete dick and puts it in the cruelest possible terms. Just because they're a cruel dick doesn't mean they're a WRONG cruel dick. The only thing you can do is correct it. I personally tend to thank them, because even if they’ve been dicks, they still did me a favor in pointing out an error. I improved because of them. That’s worthy of thanks. Kintsugi!

The second kind of feedback is subjective, because you’ve failed to satisfy the reviewer’s expectations in some way. Maybe the story’s premise doesn't do it for them. Maybe they hate the trope you've modeled the plot around, or how you're presenting the characters. They think your pacing is too slow and things need to be snappier. Your dialogue is stilted. Maybe they simply don't like your style.

Where things are matters of opinion – and choices of trope, issues of awful dialogue, and dragging plots are opinion – you need to really, honestly look hard at them, without a veil of ego and self-protection keeping you from seeing what's going on. Why would the reviewer say the dialogue is awful, or that the plot drags?2

It could be that what they consider a lagging pace is merely their impatience to get to the payload; they want to see the fight/smut/revelation scene and all the world-building or slow burn romance is no more than dawdling on the way to the fun stuff. OR it could be that you’re rehashing the same shit three times and need a kick in the pants to see that it only needs saying once.3

Regardless of what conclusion you arrive at, you’re going to have aha! moments, bursts of clarity for issues that you couldn’t perceive on your own but needed someone else to present them, or different wording or metaphors or whatever, in order to see what the problem is. These epiphanies can be hard to cope with. You might feel chagrin, disappointment, irritation, even anger. They’re all valid emotions, and you’re allowed to feel them. Just don’t drown in them. Give them a few minutes to run their course, and then move on to address the situation. You don’t have time to mope forever, you’ve got more chapters and stories to write.

On to the classes of reviewers you’ll have. One class is that of your readers. It can be frustrating to receive valuable feedback after you publish. If it’s a SPAG issue or something likewise easily dealt with, it’s NBD – you just make your correction and hope no one else noticed. If it’s something stylistic, you shrug and move on, as not everyone will appreciate your writing ‘personality’.

If it’s structural, however, it can be devastating, because the entire story can hinge on something you have now learned is problematic. It can even kill your inspiration and motivation to continue the story. That happened to me about eight years ago-- someone pointed out a major issue that I had somehow just… missed. I was over 70,000 words into that story and I just couldn’t manage another word of it, after that. Talk about disheartening.

This type of thing is what makes the second class of reviewer, the beta, so incredibly valuable. You should always take seriously any feedback and advice provided by a beta. If you’re lucky, you’ve found someone who isn’t afraid to really give you the business. You want to root out as many problems as possible before you publish. A good beta is worth their weight in smut.

But it’s one thing to cope with the embarrassment you might feel to have a reader point out an error, and coping with that from someone with whom you’ll be having an ongoing relationship. With a reader, you can just take their criticism and apply it and move on; your contact with them will always be somewhat limited so your discomfort is fleeting.

A beta, however, is someone you have to speak to again, at length, after they’re pointed out what a dolt you are (though probably in far nicer language). It can be daunting to continue dealing with someone who has caught you with your pants down, so to speak. Writing can be very self-revelatory, and when we put it out there and it gets pooped on, we can feel vulnerable and rejected.

But… we are not our writing! We are not our plot holes, or our wonky grasp of SPAG, or our tendency to tell rather than show, or our aversion to ‘said’ as a speech tag, or any of the other million problems we can have as writers. When our betas tell us something is wrong with any of these, fortunately, it’s not a statement on our quality as people.

And, just like who we are as people, nothing we write is over and done forever. Everything can be fixed, tweaked, improved. In this digital age, even after publishing, the story isn’t set in stone. We can always nip in there after the fact and tidy up, twitch it into position, repair what isn’t working. Kintsugi! So what is Kintsugi, anyway? And why does it pertain to us? It’s the Japanese art of repairing broken pottery with lacquer dusted or mixed with powdered gold, silver, or platinum. Philosophically used, it treats breakage and repair as part of the history of an object instead of a method of disguising it. The cracks and dings become beauty marks instead of flaws, because of the story they tell.

In terms that mean something to us in particular, it’s Jaime’s stump and/or gold hand. As people who love him in a particular pairing, and are fans of his character in particular, we see the stump and/or prosthesis as a symbol of the agonizing redemption process he has undergone, and how he had to break before he could be fixed.

Similarly, we can approach our flaws with an open heart, as opportunities for growth. We can be eager to find them, because we know we’re going to conquer them and improve because of it. We can breathe through the discomfort and embarrassment knowing we’ll come through it stronger, both as writers and as people.

Example:

Just today, one of my betas, the unsinkable Mikki, came at me with a contention that I was writing Brienne OOC.

(Note: She was her usual lovely self, not hostile at all – this is just a timely example of dealing with subjective criticism and how to consider and absorb it. But do keep in mind the “sometimes even assholes are right” thing from above.)

At first, I thought, “She’s expecting Brienne to be different, but I’m choosing to adapt her for a modern setting, so of course the character won’t be identical to her canonical self.” So I replied that I was writing her differently because, in the modern AU I’m writing, Brienne hasn’t had the same life experiences that, in canon, resulted in her being far more humorless, touchy, self-ashamed, etc.

Mikki replied with a very insightful analysis of how Brienne’s personality was formed, and how those core characteristics can come through in modern-day!Brienne, albeit in a softened format according to the gentler treatment she’s had in my story. I saw immediately that, put this way, Mikki was entirely correct, and that I’d been going about it without enough depth and consistency.

I don’t need to revamp anything drastically, but to add details here and there – mostly just introspective bits that will add to the characterization in the end, and make her feel more Briennelike. These bits won’t be obvious or attention-grabbing, they won’t change the story significantly, but they’ll contribute to the overall quality.

The upshot of this is that Mikki knows she can tell me when she perceives a problem because I'll take her seriously and won't freak out on her. And I feel comfortable not only receiving her critique but also entering into a discussion about it instead of just blindly accepting her advice and accepting when I'm shown the error of my ways.

Homework:

Think about past incidents of negative feedback. If you’ve had criticism given, even in a hostile way, consider that at length. Are you able to brush off the dross and see the gem hidden beneath? Can you discard the rudeness and find the message hidden within it? Focus on the message, not the delivery.

Once you find it, examine it. Is it pointing out a factual error, or is it subjective? If it’s subjective, is it just because you’ve disappointed their expectations, or because there is valid criticism? Write your response out, if you feel that will be helpful to clarifying your thoughts. 

Endnotes:

1 - SPAG = Spelling, Grammar, And Punctuation.

2 - In future lessons, we’ll be going over many topics – among them natural-feeling dialogue and the matter of pacing – in hopes that you’ll have something to compare their criticism to, gaining the ability to discern whether or not you do have problems with these issues or the reviewer is just a crackpot.

3 - Academic writing is nothing like fiction. Many nonfiction writers have problems with this transition, because they’re used to writing an intro to the premise of their article/paper, then describing the subject at length, then summarizing it all into a tidy package. If you’re coming from academic writing, and someone is telling you your pacing needs work, there’s a strong chance the reason is because you’re trying to write persuasively, when your focus as a fiction writer is to write descriptively. You don’t have to persuade the reader of anything, here, just paint a word-picture for them.

© 2019 to me

[beeblackburn]

Pretender Reads A Little Hatred, Part I, Chapter One

It's time. Goes without saying spoilers ahead for the entirety of The First Law works beyond the keep reading. Read at your own risk.

PART I

"The age is running mad after innovation;

and all the business of the world

is to be done in a new way.”

—Dr Johnson

No joke? This quotes gave me chills as a declaration of authorial intent. I have a slightly more optimistic view of The First Law’s world, but even I knew the first trilogy’s intent was, beyond commenting on how much Abercrombie dug Lord of the Rings so much that he wrote a trilogy to show his... appreciation, to show that, as much as people want to change, they are helpless to actually commit by their pasts, being pieces and pawns to the old ways and grudges of Bayaz and Khalul’s “great” war of two old assholes fighting over grudges kept alive solely two great powers butting heads over wrongs long past. 

That human nature is fundamentally unchanging.

But, at the same time? Abercrombie’s throwing down a gauntlet with this quote. With the new flavor of fantasy he’s promising, the new generation of characters he has to usher in to spearhead that new age, he has to change. He cannot rehash the old stories. Cannot repeat the old patterns. Cannot force the old systems continuing to work, having grown rusty and creaky with age. History has to move forward. Meaning he has to pave the path to new ways. The question is, new way in what manner? New ways as in a social progress, positive change, a better world? Or new ways as in Bayaz changing from magic to money, and from spells to cannons, in order to assert the same small-minded ideal of might makes right with different tools? 

It’s a new age of madness, but with human nature being what it is? Abercrombie has shown that a little hatred goes a long way to lead us to stepping upon old roads left behind our parents, who they themselves trod on by their predecessors.

Chapter Title: Blessings and Curses Point-of-View: Rikke

“Rikke.”

She prised one eye open. A slit of stabbing, sickening brightness.

“Come back.”

She pushed the spit-wet dowel out of her mouth with her tongue and croaked the one word she could think of. “Fuck.”

Now isn’t that just a typical Abercrombie sentiment. Actually, what I want to focus on is how this opening is lean compared to The Blade Itself:

Logen plunged through the trees, bare feet slipping and sliding on the wet earth, the slush, the wet pine needles, breath rasping in his chest, blood thumping in his head. He stumbled and sprawled onto his side, nearly cut his chest open with his own axe, lay there panting, peering through the shadowy forest.

—The Blade Itself, The End

From Blessings and Curses, we already see a much apparent crispness of voice, short paragraphs broken apart, an unusual situation of a girl opening one eye and having to come back (come back from what?) There’s a surreal quality that Logen’s opening, as much as I like it as an introduction to The Blade Itself, can’t beat beyond the chapter title. Yet, to remind us it’s Abercrombie, someone has to say fuck. Because of course.

“There’s my girl!” Isern squatted beside her, necklace of runes and finger bones dangling, grinning that twisted grin that showed the hole in her teeth and offering no help at all.

HOLY FUCK IT’S CRUMMOCK’S SHIN-KICKER AAAAAAAAAAAH!!!

“I saw folk falling from a high tower. Dozens of ’em.” She winced at the thought of them hitting the ground. “I saw folk hanged. Rows of ’em.” Her gut cramped at the memory of swinging bodies, dangling feet. “I saw … a battle, maybe? Below a red hill.”

Isern sniffed. “This is the North. Takes no magic to see a battle coming. What else?”

“I saw Uffrith burning.” Rikke could almost smell the smoke still. She pressed her hand to her left eye. Felt hot. Burning hot.

“What else?”

“I saw a wolf eat the sun. Then a lion ate the wolf. Then a lamb ate the lion. Then an owl ate the lamb.”

“Must’ve been a real monster of an owl.”

“Or a tiny little lamb, I guess? What does it mean?”

So, full disclosure here: I did read the A Little Hatred blurb before reading, so I already knew we were getting something like this... but holy shit, we’re seriously getting a prophet? I’m going to talk my precise thoughts on this later, in full first impressions of Rikke as a character, but man, I usually hate prophecies and prophets, but with Abercrombie? Dude’s earned enough credit (specifically, everything to do with Grom-gil-Gorm’s prophecy in the Shattered Sea series) at my trust bank to get me to care. And I love how Rikke can still feel the sensory details of her visions, the costs of magic. Magic.

Also, am I a terrible person for, seeing the eats in the prophecy, immediately thinking Eaters? I probably am.

I’ll hold off on dissecting the prophecy at the chapter’s end. 

"Well, I can unveil two secrets right away.” Rikke groaned as she pushed herself up onto one elbow. “My head hurts and I shat myself.”

"That second one’s no secret, anyone with a nose is party to it.”

"Shitty Rikke, they’ll call me." She wrinkled her nose as she shifted. “And not for the first time.”

"Your problem is in caring what they call you.”

There’s definitely a very winning formula with how Rikke and Isern’s dynamic works: the young, soft-hearted naif butting and bouncing heads against the more world-weary, a touch twisted, experienced warrior. Rikke complains about how much the world will react to her, Isern tells her to suck it up because Rikke doesn’t have to care at all.

Also, not going to lie: part of why I love Rikke is that she shits herself during her visions and fits. It undercuts the mystique of magic with the unpleasant consequences, grounded in reality.

Isern tapped under her left eye. “You say cursed with fits, I say blessed with the Long Eye.”

So. First off, fun fact:

Crummock spun one of the wooden signs on his necklace round and around. “I can’t see her letting Bethod lose, and herself along with him, can you? A witch as clever as that one? There’s all kinds of magic she could mix. All kinds of blessings and curses. All kinds of ways that bitch could tilt the outcome, as though the chances weren’t tilted enough already.”

—Last Argument of Kings, Leaves on the Water

History echoes, doesn’t it? Another i-Phail, another user of the Long Eye, and a discussion about the blessings and curses of magic. The players are different, but the sentiments are similar enough to ripple from the past to the present.

Now, my first reaction to reading this part of the blurb was: WHOA WHOA WHOA, Caurib’s Long Eye from The First Law trilogy? OH MY GOD!!!!! Just more connective tissue to link this book from its past, the earliest roots of Abercrombie’s world-building, when he was still tinkering with what he wanted (long eye isn’t even capitalized in The First Law’s mention of it). It’s a nice reference for us long-time readers and a magical power for the new readers. 

Mind you, all I’m thinking is: was Caurib, every time she was decked out and being impossibly beautiful in the way Abercrombie wrote her... was she actually having fits and headaches and shitting for her visions? Because, wow, I can only imagine how frustrated she must’ve been having to make public appearances. I can just imagine her wishing everyone would fuck off so she could have headaches and shit in peace. Already makes me like Caurib a lot more now.

“Huh.” Rikke rolled onto her knees and her stomach kept on rolling and tickled her throat with sick. By the dead, she felt sore and squeezed out. Twice the pain of a night at the ale cup and none of the sweet memories. “Doesn’t feel like much of a blessing to me,” she muttered, once she’d risked a little burp and fought her guts to a draw.

I really do appreciate how much Abercrombie grounds and mixes a curse into magical “blessings.” I was really skeptical of putting in some last trace of magic in anyone, but Rikke’s right in it not being a blessing, and considering magic is on its last legs, there’s no way Bayaz won’t meet her later and clutch his monstrous hands on her Long Eye, teaching her finesse in exchange for getting to aim where it goes towards.

Another tool. Another weapon to kill his enemies.

"Might have to rope you in future, make sure you don’t crack your nut and end up a drooler like my brother Brait. At least he can keep his shit in, mind you.” 

HOW MANY SONS DID CRUMMOCK HAVE. THE FUCK!? I can’t even find a Brait anywhere except The Heroes and that was clearly not him. For one, he didn’t drool!

“My head still aches so bad I can feel it in my teeth.” Rikke wanted to shout but knew it’d hurt too much, so she had to whine it soft instead. “I need no more small discomforts.”

“Life is small discomforts, girl! They’re how you know you are alive.”

Another part of why I like Rikke so much is that, as a character starting out, she whines. A decent amount. She’s admittedly got some good reason to do so, but as the narrative points out and Isern especially, at least living means you get to whine about it and too much of it will only enable more discomfort, make the pain bigger. There’s intentional room to grow for Rikke and the fact that Abercrombie lets her be a bit of a whiner at the risk of alienating readers is a writer’s courage I always try to emulate. 

Character development’s has to start somewhere.

“Guess not. Just, in the songs, it’s a thing witches and magi and deep-wise folk used to see into the fog of what comes. Not a thing that makes idiots fall down and shit themselves.”

“In case you never noticed, bards have a habit of dressing things up. There is a fine living, d’you see, in songs about deep-wise witches, but in shitty idiots, less.”

Snrrrrrk. I got to love how Abercrombie shades lesser and classic fantasies. He does so well with it.

“And proving you have the Long Eye is no simple matter. You cannot force it open. You must coax it.” And Isern tickled Rikke under the chin and made her jerk away. “Take it up to the sacred places where the old stones stand so the moon might shine full upon it. But it’ll see what it sees when it chooses, even so.” 

Huh. Crummock made it clear that there was something special about the moon during his time in Last Argument of Kings. I assumed it was solely just him thinking the moon’s love made men more violent and strong, but did he think it could influence magic? Given his more singular focus on violence and his clear Bloody-Nine murderboner fanboying, I think Crummock was a lot more close-minded about how the moon can affect things. Isern’s a lot more flexible, by comparison.

(Also, are those sacred places that fortress Logen and Crummock and the rest had their last stand in the High Places? Crummock did say it was well loved of the moon...)

“War?”

“It’s when a fight gets so big almost no one comes out of it well.”

“I know what it bloody is.” Rikke had a spot of fear growing at the nape of her neck which she couldn’t shrug off however much she wriggled her shoulders. “But there’s been peace in the North all my lifetime.”

“My da used to say times of peace are when the wise prepare for violence.”

“Your da was mad as a bootful of dung.”

“And what does your da say? Few men so sane as the Dogman.”

Rikke wriggled her shoulders one more time, but nothing helped. “He says hope for the best and prepare for the worst.”

Isern’s first line is true, but also makes me think of all the Northmen who came into war, looking for glory and a Name, and came out dead or unable to stop killing, their bloody footsteps followed by fellow warriors with same dreams of glory and a Name, just younger. War chews up men and spits them out, dead or alive, no one living coming out without trauma and/or a score of dead friends.

Also, Dogman’s daughter, huh! Good on him for managing to raise a decent child in the Circle of the World, even if she has her share of flaws. Rikke certainly reminds me of a softer, more whinier Dogman, yet still decent.

Rikke blinked at her. ‘You can’t have been ten years old.’

‘Old enough to kill a man.’

‘What?’

‘Used to carry my da’s hammer, ’cause the smallest should take the heaviest load, but that day he was fighting with the hammer so I had his spear. This very one.’ Its butt tapped the rhythm of their walking on the path. ‘My da knocked a man down, and he was trying to get up, and I stabbed him right up the arse.’

‘With that spear?’ Rikke had come to think of it as just a stick Isern carried. A stick that happened to have a deerskin cover over one end. She didn’t like thinking there was a blade under there. Especially not one that had been up some poor bastard’s arse.

I love Abercrombie’s humor, especially given how actually rather depressing Isern’s age of killing was. It always serves to give levity to some heavy stuff in the story, preventing the darkness from choking most people whole. It’s the “poor bastard” part of that last line that brings the smile and laughter out.

“Girl, you have a ring through your nose.” 

“I am aware.” And Rikke stuck her tongue out and touched the tip to it. “It keeps me tethered.”

Hey, you want to know another part of why I really like Rikke? Nose rings are fucking cool. Gives her a distinct appearance and fashion.

Now if only other prophets had nose rings instead of cloaks and vague portents, I wouldn’t find them so bloody boring.

“You’ve a wolf on your shield,” she said.

“Stour Nightfall’s mark,” growled the big man, with a hint of pride, and Rikke saw he had a wolf on his shield, too, though his was scuffed almost back to the wood.

(Looks at his book) Well, shit! The cover’s actually relevant. I was eyeing the UK cover better, but now that this US/Can one has meaning, I can accept it.

Also, Stour Nightfall is the coolest fucking name. Can’t wait to meet him!

“Nightfall’s the greatest warrior since the Bloody-Nine!” piped up the young one. “He’s going to take back Angland and drive the Union out o’ the North!” 

(Arches an eyebrow) I don’t take issue with taking back Angland, there’s some valid enough history with Casamir that I don’t blame the North for it, but how did what I theorized to be Calder’s son become such a beef-cake? But really? Greatest warrior since the Bloody-Nine? I can’t help but think him a cut-price Bloody-Nine now.

“The Union?” And Rikke looked down at the wolf’s head badly daubed on his badly made shield. "A wolf ate the sun,” she whispered.

Thank you, Rikke, I studied English lit in high school. I can do my own analysis of symbolism and visions.

Rikke’s arrow stuck into his back, just under his shoulder blade.

Her turn to say, “Oh,” not sure whether she’d meant to let go the string or not.

A flash of metal and the old man’s head jolted, the blade of Isern’s spear catching him in the throat. He dropped his own spear, grabbed for her with clumsy fingers.

“Shush.” Isern slapped his hand away and ripped the blade free in a black gout.

The inexperienced child and hardened warrior dynamic continues with Rikke accidentally, not knowing if she meant to or not, dooming a boy to death and Isern, experienced hand at the black business, aims for the kill and gives her enemies no ground to gain leverage upon her. But, ultimately...

“You killed ’em.” Rikke felt all hot. There were some red speckles on her hand. The big one was lying on his face, shirt soaked dark.

“You killed this one,” said Isern. The lad knelt there, making these squeaky little gasps as he tried to reach around his back to the arrow shaft, though what he’d do if he got his fingertips to it, Rikke had no idea.

... no one’s hands in this world remain clean for too long.

“Then killing ’em was all o’ the one choices we had, eh? Your problem is you’re all heart.” And she stabbed Rikke in the tit with one bony finger.

“Ow!” Rikke took a step away, holding her arms across her chest. “That hurts, you know!”

“You’re all heart all over, so you feel every sting and buffet. You must make of your heart a stone.” And Isern thumped her ribs with a fist, the finger bones around her neck rattling. “Ruthlessness is a quality much loved o’ the moon.” As if to prove the point, she bent down and heaved the dead lad into the bushes. “A leader must be hard, so others don’t have to be.”

First off, I stabbed my own chest with my own finger just now to see how much it hurt. I can only imagine the increased discomfort with doing it to breasts.

Second off, to give my first impressions of Rikke... well, it’s funny. I once talked to a great friend of mine who we love to talk tropes and stories and fiction about and I told him I generally don’t gravitate to the rougher shit-talking tomboy and the prophet character tropes. To be quite frank, the former bores me on general lack of craft (everyone seems to think the trope itself constitutes a strong personality!) and the latter is just dry plot exposition on two legs generally, full of billowing cloaks and being fuck-useless 99% of the story.

Rikke might have been love at first sight for a few reasons.

The consequences of prophecy. I keep nailing this point, but I do for a reason: I have rarely seen a prophet actually endure physical ailments for their magical gifts, and the headaches, the fits, the burning hot eye, and the shitting? It helps ground Rikke’s struggles in less abstract details so we can sympathize better. We might not have had visions, but we’ve had headaches, hot eyes and shat before.

She’s got a personality! She’s rough, she gives as good verbally as she gets, but she’s also kind and not someone who goes for violence as a first resort. But, at the same time, she’s definitely got her flaws. She’s a whiner. There’s a touch of naivety and inexperience that shows when she talks how times were different when Dogman was fighting and Isern shuts that illusion down, there’s even a softness in her with how she said they should’ve given Stour’s thugs a chance.

Her partnership dynamic with Isern is really winning, allowing more of her personality to bounce off of Isern while having some sass of her own to snap back at Isern, allowing her to have a personality to bounce off of. It allows for development of both characters in a way that Abercrombie’s first attempt at having an early traveling pair in Malacus Quai and Logen can never match, given all the personality leaping off the screen.

The tonal difference. Rikke is a really decent kid dropped into the Circle of the World. In any other series, my eyes would glaze over in boredom. In here? There’s so much misery and depressing reality that happens in the Circle of the World, that it looks like it’ll be a treat to see how she’ll interacts with the older, hardened generation of characters and how much decency might touch upon them. And that only makes Isern’s advice to her all the more interesting. Because her being all heart is hardly Bayaz’s ideal tool and I get the sense that her turning her heart into stone won’t be a smooth ride.

The nose ring. I’m sorry if it makes me shallow, but that’s a cool design choice and love the tethered justification.

The morning mist was long faded and she could see all the way across the patchwork of new-planted fields to Uffrith, wedged in against the grey sea behind its grey wall. Where her father’s old hall stood with the scraggy garden out the back. Safe, boring Uffrith, where she’d been born and raised. Only it was burning, just the way she’d seen it, and a great column of dark smoke rolled up and smudged the sky, drifting out over the restless sea.

(winces) Well, that’s one part of the prophecy dealt with.

Isern wandered from the trees with her spear across her shoulders and a great smile across her face. ‘You know what this means?’

‘War?’ whispered Rikke, horrified.

“Aye, that.” Isern waved it away like it was a trifle. “But more to the matter, I was right!” And she clapped Rikke on the shoulder so hard she near knocked her down. “You do have the Long Eye!”

Hah! Somehow, Isern, I think she won’t take the blessing of that statement and only see the curse of it.

So! Theory-crafting on the prophecy itself!

The only tower I know of in the North was in the High Places, and given Isern’s with Rikke, I can imagine that’s certainly plausible. Either that or somewhere in the Union, given its towers, especially the Tower of Chains? 

The battle below a red hill will be one of our battle set-pieces. Definitely something like the Casualties chapter in The Heroes.

Uffrith already burnt, but it was the first thing to happen, so the people hanged from towers and the red hill battle are yet to happen.

“I saw a wolf eat the sun” Stour taking down the Union. 

“Then a lion ate the wolf” Leo taking down Stour, which I’d normally take as a sign I shouldn’t get invested because I already know the outcome... but given Grom-gil-Gorm’s prophecy twist, I think there’s plenty of ways this could easily turn twisted, especially with Black Calder about. 

“Then a lamb ate the lion” I heard a decent amount of people say they thought it’d be straight-up Lamb and, man, NO. The point of Red Country is that, deep down, Lamb was only pretending to be a lamb and was really a wolf in lambswool. Someone who genuinely is worthless... Orso, from the blurb, seems to fit the bill, given that Leo’s been hoping for help there.

“Then an owl ate the lamb.” Bayaz with Orso. Owls are symbolized as knowledge and Bayaz’s being the First of the Magi, feels right for that... and given that Orso is part of the royal family and how Bayaz “ate” Jezal, I can’t say him repeating it with Orso is implausible. My only worry is, how will this be new from Bayaz and Jezal’s deal?

PART I

Chapter One: Blessings and Curses Chapter Two: Where the Fight’s Hottest Chapter Three: Guilt Is a Luxury Chapter Four: Keeping Score Chapter Five:  A Little Public Hanging Chapter Six: The Breakers Chapter Seven: The Answer to Your Tears Chapter Eight: Young Heroes Chapter Nine: The Moment

[ellewritesfiction]

Wouldn’t it be Nice (5 times Tony mentions kids + 1 time Bruce does) for @sciencebrosweek

Day Five: Pressure

“I just – I just feel like sometimes, you know, you get to monopolize the shitty dad narrative.”

Bruce flinched to hear Tony say that out loud but he knew it was true. It wasn’t his fault, he was always sensitive to Tony, to Tony’s past and his feelings, but he also knew it was hard for Tony to open up about it knowing everything Bruce went through.

“And can you tell Bruce why you feel that way, Tony?” Maria asked and Tony sighed and stared at the wall. Bruce knew he hated rehashing all this shit. 

“I know he knows but – it’s because even though my dad might have smacked me around a couple times and you know, fucked me up with his alcoholism and narcissism and whatever – he didn’t literally kill my mom in front of me. Like? That’s pretty hard to fucking top.”

Bruce stared at the floor. What was he supposed to say? ‘It’s okay, Tony,’ sounded pathetic. It wasn’t okay. None of it was okay. 

“And how do you feel about this Bruce?” 

Bruce sighed but he knew this was why they were here. Because otherwise he just wouldn’t talk about it. So he had to force himself through. 

“He’s right – it’s not fair,” Bruce responded honestly, risking a glance over at his husband. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t care about what you went through.” 

Tony turned to him and gave him a tight smile. 

“I know – but it’s still hard to talk about it with you. And yeah, I know –” he said, turning to Maria and holding out his hand “– at this point, that’s on me. I get that. But that’s why we’re here, right?” 

“I don’t know why you’re here,” Maria said. “Bruce says he cares and is willing to listen – do you not believe him?”

“No,” Tony huffed. “Of course I believe him. I’m pretty sure Bruce is the only person who’s ever even tried to listen to at least half the shit I say.” 

Tony shared a small grin with him at that and it made Bruce feel a little better as he grinned back.

“Then what do you feel is so difficult to talk to him about that you need me?”

But then his grin was gone and he shuffled his feet a little, trying not to shut down. 

“I just feel like it’s – it’s hard for him to understand –” 

“Can you talk to him?” she interrupted and Tony sighed out a long frustrated huff and turned to Bruce then, not really able to look him in the eye.

“I feel like you don’t understand that... despite the fact that my dad was a dick... I – I still want to be a dad.”

Bruce tried to keep his face neutral in light of that confession but he swallowed hard and wrung his hands together a little, wishing he was anywhere but there. The pressure to say the right thing was intense but there was no right thing to say.

“I don’t,” he confessed, so softly he was almost afraid they didn’t hear it and they’d make him repeat himself. 

“What don’t you understand?” Maria prompted gently. “That Tony still wants to be a dad?”

“I don’t understand that,” Bruce admitted, “but I also don’t understand how – how he knows he’d be a good one.”

Tony laughed but it wasn’t mean and though they were sitting in two separate chairs, a few feet apart, Tony leaned over towards him. “Babe...”

“Do you not think Tony will be a good dad?” 

“No, I – I mean,” Bruce winced and looked away again, hating to admit any of Tony’s flaws in front of him. “I used to think he didn’t have the patience for it but, seeing him with our niece, I... I don’t know. I think he deserves to be a dad. It’s more like – how does he know he will be a good one? Because I... don’t.”

“Bruce,” Tony said sadly and Bruce buried his head in his hands like he could block it all out if he just tried hard enough. 

But Tony? It was impossible to block out Tony. 

“Bruce, baby, come on – you are the sweetest, smartest, kindest man I know,” he said. “I would have killed to have you as my dad, are you kidding me?”

“You don’t know that.” 

“Hell yeah I do – I braved an entire fucking year of couples counseling to win you as my husband, didn’t I?” 

He could practically hear the grin on Tony’s face and Bruce couldn’t help but laugh at that. Tony always knew what to say to make him feel better, no matter how inappropriate. 

“Besides – doesn’t your dad make you want to try to be better?”

Bruce thought about that a minute, staring at the pattern of the tile on the floor, green and white with flecks of grey and blue, ugly in it’s sterile simplicity, forcing the rest of the room to make up for it’s gaudiness. 

“He makes me scared I can’t be,” Bruce said at last, the real crux of the issue. 

“Why is that?” Maria asked softly after a moment and Bruce fisted his hand into his palm anxiously. 

“It’s genetic, isn’t it? I – I can’t escape what he’s done to me. He is me.”

“There is no scientific proof of that,” Maria argued and Tony got up and sat down next to him, so close their thighs were pressed together. 

“But it’s there – always. I can feel it,” Bruce continued, forcing himself to say it, ignoring the feeling of Tony’s thumb stroking along his knee. “His anger lives inside of me and I – I get scared sometimes that I can’t control it.”

“You would never hurt anyone,” Tony soothed but Maria stopped him. 

“Bruce needs to feel free to express his fears, even if to you they seem unfounded,” Maria chided softly. “Have you ever hurt anyone before? When you felt like this?” 

Bruce huffed out a sigh, staring at his shoes. “Of course. Not so much recently but when I was younger, before years of therapy or whatever – any time I got frustrated enough I would snap. Yell, throw things. I – I hit a girlfriend of mine once.”

He was pretty sure he had never admitted that to anyone outside of his college therapist and the guilt saying those words brought back was nearly unbearable. Bruce could feel Tony’s surprise like a tangible thing. He wanted to dig a hole for himself in the floor below and crawl inside of it where he never had to feel Tony’s eyes on him again but at the same time – Tony had to know, Tony had to understand. His fear wasn’t unfounded. It was very, very real. 

“And this happened how many times?” she asked, somehow managing to keep any judgement from her voice. 

“Once. Just once.”

“And how did you decide to deal with that?” 

“I don’t know I mean... We broke up, obviously,” Bruce admitted, wishing Tony was still in his seat a few feet away instead of up against him, carefully holding his breath. “I had just started therapy and... we talked about it. A lot. Obviously I felt terrible. I still feel terrible. I hate talking about this but if we – if I had a kid and...” 

He trailed off completely, the obvious conclusion easy to draw. But instead of backing away even further Tony slid his hand back across his knee, holding it open for Bruce to take, right between his knees, right in his line of sight and he suddenly felt like he couldn’t breathe. It was beyond selfish but he grabbed Tony’s hand and held it tight. 

“This is before you were medicated for your depression?” Maria asked and Bruce nodded numbly. 

“Yeah, this was... I don’t know. Twelve years ago now.” 

But sometimes it still felt like it was yesterday and he would look at Tony and he would think they needed to get divorced because what if he snapped? What if he did it again? How could he ever live with himself if he did that to Tony?

“I’m not going to say it’s impossible that you would ever hurt anyone again but from what you’ve told me, you’ve been medicated now for over ten years. You’ve been in therapy extensively on and off for over ten years. You are here now, discussing this now, because you have developed healthier coping mechanisms that would prevent you from reacting that way in the future. You can see that, can’t you?” 

Slowly Bruce looked up at her, feeling a little blindsided by that assessment. Sure, of course he tried, he was always trying, but... 

“Everyone feels anger, Bruce. Everyone is a few bad decisions or painful experiences away from snapping. It’s how you choose to manage that anger, how you choose to react that matters here.”

He knew that, he did. He’d been told that in therapy before but... Could it apply here too? Was trying enough? Sometimes it felt like no one else in the world could feel anger the way he did and... 

Bruce was still gripping Tony’s hand so tight he was sure it was falling asleep but he couldn’t help it and he looked at his husband hesitantly, unsure what he would find there when he met his eyes but... But it was just the same look he always saw, the same steadfast love Tony always had for him. 

“But aren’t you scared?” he whispered because he was fucking terrified.

“I have never once been scared of you,” Tony told him back, exuding a confidence Bruce struggled to understand. “And today is not going to be the exception.”

[illbefinealonereads]

Blog tour! I present to you some info and an excerpt from She’s Faking It by Kristin Rockaway.

She’s Faking It Kristin Rockaway FICTION/Romance/Contemporary  Trade Paperback | Graydon House Books On Sale: 6/30/2020 978152580464 $15.99 $19.99 CAN

You can’t put a filter on reality. Bree Bozeman isn’t exactly pursuing the life of her dreams. Then again, she isn’t too sure what those dreams are. After dropping out of college, she’s living a pretty chill life in the surf community of Pacific Beach, San Diego…if “chill” means delivering food as a GrubGetter, and if it means “uneventful”. But when Bree starts a new Instagram account — @breebythesea — one of her posts gets a signal boost from none other than wildly popular self-help guru Demi DiPalma, owner of a lifestyle brand empire. Suddenly, Bree just might be a rising star in the world of Instagram influencing. Is this the direction her life has been lacking? It’s not a career choice she’d ever seriously considered, but maybe it’s a sign from the universe. After all, Demi’s the real deal… right? Everything is lining up for Bree: life goals, career, and even a blossoming romance with the chiseled guy next door, surf star Trey Cantu. But things are about to go sideways fast, and even the perfect filter’s not gonna fix it. Instagram might be free, but when your life looks flawless on camera, what’s the cost?

BUY LINKS:

Harlequin Amazon Apple Books Barnes & Noble Books-A-Million Google Play IndieBound Kobo

Kristin Rockaway is a native New Yorker with an insatiable case of wanderlust. After working in the IT industry for far too many years, she traded the city for the surf and chased her dreams out to Southern California, where she spends her days happily writing stories instead of software. When she's not writing, she enjoys spending time with her husband and son, and planning her next big vacation.

SOCIAL LINKS:

http://kristinrockaway.com/ Facebook: /KristinRockaway Twitter: @KristinRockaway Instagram: @KristinRockway

Excerpt

From Chapter Two

“Don’t these books make your purse really heavy? There’s gotta be some app where you can store all this information.”

“Studies show you’re more likely to remember things you’ve written by hand, with physical pen and paper.” She reached across my lap and opened the glove compartment, removing a notebook with an antiqued photograph of a vintage luxury car printed on the cover. “For example, this is my auto maintenance log. Maybe if you’d kept one of these, like I told you to, we wouldn’t be in this predicament right now.”

I loved Natasha, I really did. She was responsible and generous, and without her I’d likely be far worse off than I already was, which was a horrifying thought to consider. But at times like this, I wanted to grab her by the shoulders and shake the shit out of her.

“A maintenance log wouldn’t have helped me.”

“Yes, it would have. Organization is about more than decluttering your home. It’s about decluttering your mind. Making lists, keeping records—these are all ways to help you get your life in order. If you’d had a maintenance log, this problem wouldn’t have caught you off guard in the middle of your delivery shift. You’d have seen it coming, and—”

“I saw it coming.”

“What?”

“This didn’t catch me off guard. The check engine light came on two weeks ago.” Or maybe it was three.

“Then why didn’t you take it to the mechanic?” She blinked, genuinely confused. Everything was so cut-and dried with her. When a car needed to be serviced, of course you called the mechanic.

That is, if you could afford to pay the repair bill.

Fortunately, she put two and two together without making me say it out loud. “Oh,” she murmured, then bit her lip. I could almost hear the squeak and clank of wheels turning in her head as she tried to piece together the solution to this problem. No doubt it included me setting up a journal or logbook of some sort, though we both knew that would be pointless. The last time she’d tried to set me up with a weekly budget planner, I gave up on day two, when I realized I could GrubGetter around the clock for the rest of my life and still never make enough money to get current on the payments for my student loans. You know, for that degree I’d never finished.

But Natasha was a determined problem solver. It said so in her business bio: “Natasha DeAngelis, Certified Professional Organizer®, is a determined problem solver with a passion for sorting, purging, arranging, and containerizing.” My life was a perpetual mess, and though she couldn’t seem to be able to clean it up, that didn’t stop her from trying. Over and over and over again.

“I’ll pay for the repairs,” she said.

“No.” I shook my head, fending off the very big part of me that wanted to say yes. “I can’t take any money from you.”

“It’s fine,” she said. “Business is booming. I’ve got so much work right now that I’ve actually had to turn clients away. And ever since Al introduced that new accelerated orthodontic treatment, his office has been raking it in. We can afford to help you.”

“I know.” Obviously, my sister and her family weren’t hurting for cash. Aside from her wildly successful organizing business, her husband, Al, ran his own orthodontics practice. They owned a four-bedroom house, leased luxury cars, and took triannual vacations to warm, sunny places like Maui and Tulum. They had a smart fridge in their kitchen that was undoubtedly worth more than my nonfunctioning car.

But my sister wasn’t a safety net, and I needed to stop treating her like one. She’d already done so much for me. More than any big sister should ever have to do.

“I just can’t,” I said.

“Well, do you really have any other choice?” There was an edge to Natasha’s voice now. “If you don’t have a car, how are you going to work?”

“I’ll figure something out.” The words didn’t sound very convincing, even to my own ears. For the past four years, all I’d done was deliver food. I had no other marketable skills, no references, no degree.

I was a massive failure.

Tears pooled in my eyes. Natasha sighed again.

“Look,” she said, “maybe it’s time to admit you need to come up with a solid plan for your life. You’ve been in a downward spiral ever since Rob left.”

She had a point. I’d never been particularly stable, but things got a whole lot worse seven months earlier, when my live-in ex-boyfriend, Rob, had abruptly announced he was ending our three-year relationship, quitting his job, and embarking on an immersive ayahuasca retreat in the depths of the Peruvian Amazon.

“I’ve lost my way,” he’d said, his eyes bloodshot from too many hits on his vape pen. “The Divine Mother Shakti at the Temple of Eternal Light can help me find myself again.”

“What?” I’d been incredulous. “Where is this coming from?”

He’d unearthed a book from beneath a pile of dirty clothes on our bed and handed it to me—Psychedelic Healers: An Exploratory Journey of the Soul, by Shakti Rebecca Rubinstein.

“What is this?”

“It’s the book that changed my life,” he’d said. “I’m ready for deep growth. New energy.”

Then he’d moved his belongings to a storage unit off the side of the I-8, and left me to pay the full cost of our monthly rent and utilities on my paltry GrubGetter income.

I told myself this situation was only temporary, that Rob would return as soon as he realized that hallucinating in the rainforest wasn’t going to lead him to some higher consciousness. But I hadn’t heard from him since he took off on that direct flight from LAX to Lima. At this point, it was probably safe to assume he was never coming back.

Which was probably for the best. It’s not exactly like Rob was Prince Charming or anything. But being with him was better than being alone. At least I’d had someone to split the bills with.

“Honestly,” she continued, “I can’t stand to see you so miserable anymore. Happiness is a choice, Bree. Choose happy.”

Of all Natasha’s pithy sayings, “Choose happy” was the one I hated most. It was printed on the back of her business cards in faux brush lettering, silently accusing each potential client of being complicit in their own misery. If they paid her to clean out their closets, though, they could apparently experience unparalleled joy.

“That’s bullshit, and you know it.”

She scowled. “It is not.”

“It is, actually. Shitty things happen all the time and we have no choice in the matter. I didn’t choose to be too broke to fix my car. I work really hard, but this job doesn’t pay well. And I didn’t choose for Rob to abandon me to go find himself in the Amazon, either. He made that choice for us.”

I almost mentioned the shittiest thing that had ever happened to Natasha or to me, a thing neither of us had chosen. But I stopped myself before the words rolled off my lips. This evening was bad enough without rehashing the details of our mother’s death.

“Sometimes things happen to us that are beyond our control,” Natasha said, her voice infuriatingly calm. “But we can control how we react to it. Focus on what you can control. And it does no good to dwell on the past, either. Don’t look back, Bree—”

“Because that’s not where you’re going. Yes, I know. You’ve said that before.” About a thousand times.

She took a deep breath, most likely to prepare for a lengthy lecture on why it’s important to stay positive and productive in the face of adversity, but then a large tow truck lumbered onto the cul-de-sac and she got out of the car to flag him down.

Grateful for the interruption, I ditched the casserole on her dashboard and walked over to where the driver had double-parked alongside my car.

“What’s the problem?” he asked, hopping down from the cab.

“It won’t start,” I said, to which Natasha quickly followed up with, “The check engine light came on several weeks ago, but the car has not been serviced yet.”

He grunted and popped the hood, one thick filthy hand stroking his braided beard as he surveyed the engine. Another grunt, then he asked for the keys and tried to start it, only to hear the same sad click and whine as before.

“It’s not the battery.” He leaned his head out of the open door. “When was the last time you changed your timing belt?”

“Uh… I don’t know.”

Natasha shook her head and mouthed, Maintenance log! in my direction but I pretended not to see.

The driver got out and slammed the hood shut. “Well, this thing is hosed.”

“Hosed?” My heart thrummed in my chest. “What does that mean? It can’t be fixed?”

He shrugged, clearly indifferent to my crisis-in-progress. “Can’t say for sure. Your mechanic can take a closer look and let you know. Where do you want me to tow it?”

I pulled out my phone to look up the address of the mechanic near my apartment down in Pacific Beach. But Natasha answered before I could google it up.

“Just take it to Encinitas Auto Repair,” she said. “It’s on Second and F.”

“You got it,” he said, then retreated to his truck to fiddle with some chains.

Natasha avoided my gaze. Instead, she focused on calling a guy named Jerry, who presumably worked at this repair shop, and told him to expect “a really old Civic that’s in rough shape,” making sure to specify, “It’s not mine, it’s my sister’s.”

I knew she was going to pay for the repairs. It made me feel icky, taking yet another handout from my big sister. But ultimately, she was right. What other choice did I have?

The two of us stayed quiet while the driver finished hooking up my car. After he’d towed it away down the cul-desac and out of sight, Natasha turned to me. “Do you want to come over? Izzy’s got piano lessons in fifteen minutes, you can hear how good she is now.”

Even though I did miss my niece, there was nothing I wanted to do more than go home, tear off these smelly clothes, and cry in solitude. “I’ll take a rain check. Thanks again for coming to get me.”

“Of course.” She started poking at her phone screen. A moment later, she said, “Your Lyft will be here in four minutes. His name is Neil. He drives a black Sentra.” A quick kiss on my cheek and she was hustling back to her SUV.

As I watched Natasha drive away, I wished—not for the first time—that I could be more like her: competent, organized, confident enough in my choices to believe I could choose to be happy. Sometimes I felt like she had twenty years on me, instead of only six. So maybe instead of complaining, I should’ve started taking her advice.

 Excerpted from She’s Faking It by Kristin Rockaway, Copyright © 2020 by Allison Amini. Published by Graydon House Books.

[elizabethrobertajones]

Do you think we'll see Dean and Jody discuss Cas? Does Jody even know Cas exists? They told her s8 angels exits and she was claire but still i thibk textually they never mentioned his name around her? Im guessing they are gonna discuss Deans feeling about Mary since Jody knew her but Cas?

I don’t know, which I know I say to like basically all questions about speculation but this one is something I don’t really have a clue about and I’m not even sitting on my thumbs pretending not to have an opinion because I’d rather not say anything on the record until I know I’m right or not… I really, genuinely, to the best of my ability to sound it all out and guess from the available information, don’t know :P 

It depends how they handle Cas being gone overall, whether Dean’s openly, loudly mourning him all the time every episode constantly, which is a detail where I’d only be able to offer you a confident speculation on the eve of this episode anyway after seeing the first 2. If Dean goes stoic and jaw-twitchy but quiet about it then probably not but that’s just like… super obvious and short term.

In the mean time, please assume the tin foil hat position you’d take to listen to a conversation that sounds like this:

There’s quite a lot to pack in with meeting Patience, and getting our guys some good face to face time with Jody for any emotional support they need to sponge off her. Sam doesn’t seem to be around so he may be off with Jack, but if he wasn’t, he’d probably want to learn how to be a mom to him from Jody, for all we know :P Thematically it might sort of be that way anyhow - if Patience doesn’t come in direct contact with Sam it seems ridiculously unlikely she’s not going to be thematically connected to him and therefore Jack through an extremely easy join the dots between 13x03 and 1x09. (Sam already kinda went one round with this sort of thing in 12x04 so in a way he’s got his booster shot of dealing with it directly so it can just be storytelling mirrors for him :P)

Certainly Jody is more connected to Mary symbolically and in general the Wayward Sisters stuff has been more about parenting and those dynamics recently, with 11x12 looking at how Jody copes and teasing us with hindsight for Mary’s return with Dean talking to her about wishing his mom had been around, and in 12x06 and 12x22 she and Mary sort of bounce off each other as moms directly in a continuation of that - in 12x16 she’s not around except on the other end of phonecalls but Dean’s carrying on parenting Claire as a hunter a lil bit. 

Of all of those, 11x12 was the only one to make a nod to Cas with Claire holding grumpy cat in one of her scenes, but the show has decided to treat him a lot as just the inciting incident to get her onto the road hunting by dragging her into the life, while Dean does the thing he does around feisty wayward teenagers, and probably was mostly responsible for switching Claire’s amateur detective attempt onto a hunting thing in 10x20. I don’t want to make Claire cringe but I think she thought he was actually kinda cool and inspired her or something, because she had not had any interest in the supernatural side of things before that episode… 

Despite all her connections to Cas I think Dean sort of birthed hunter!Claire, so the story sort of wanders that direction and leaves Cas behind because he’s more like Azazel in Claire’s story than anything, even if a very sad soft squishy Azazel who gave her a stuffed toy for her birthday :P Still they played it like her forgiving and hugging Cas was about the same as Dean finally getting to shoot Azazel, in both case freeing them to go do their job with the angsty backstory resolved…

In any case, I think Cas is probably an emergency contact Jody has for Claire-related stuff, although whether they told her to or not, she’d probably always call Sam and Dean first because she knows and understands them (and has met them), and I think the story is asking us to believe that with this symbolism of Claire getting past what Cas did to her family, she’s in a new stage of life he’s not a part of in the same way even if she does cling onto grumpy cat, and Cas is still family to people who consider Jody as family, who she considers family. Sort of shunting him from awkward dad no. 3 of 4 as per 10x20′s recap and symbolism to a weird uncle or something. (Although if Jody has mom symbolism to both Claire and Dean, that makes them siblings and Cas her brother in law… this found family stuff is really difficult :P)

So there’s all that shaping my expectations - Claire’s not in the episode and she’s our connection between Cas and Jody. Previous episodes have made it clear that Sam and Dean really hate calling even beloved friends with their shit and don’t tell Jody alarmingly huge things like that Mary came back from death. She’s been offering a shoulder to Dean personally while he’s been going through all his stuff, and in 9x08 I think Sam did open up to Jody more than Dean even when they were all in the same room, never mind in that and 7x12 they got split up from Dean and actually bonded (And I think this is also a quote from Kim Rhodes but also just something fairly obvious, that because Sam was the one connected to her more in her intro episode and ended up shooting her zombie son for her, they’ve always had a closer emotional bond via shared trauma). 

I don’t think it’s showing that Sam and Jody aren’t as close now to have her switch focus to Dean but that Jody is determined to get Dean to open up to her *too*. In 12x06 they have really different attitudes about her when Sam makes the comment about Dean’s “animated Japanese erotica” which show how they’ve grown in different directions with Jody. So I think Sam’s closeness to her is fairly accepted fact and now Dean’s the tough nut to crack for her :P Anyway she’s made the offer two or three times now that she’s there to talk if Dean in particular needs her (definitely 10x08 and 12x06… Can’t remember if she said as much in 11x12 although they did also have an actual personal conversation in that episode, so one point to Jody there). I think 12x06 made it clear there’s still an owed conversation of greater than that opening up and spilling the beans on what’s making him emo right now, so there’s that.

And Cas and Mary have been connected all through season 12, in their arcs, in the subtext, in basically everything, and Dean textually named that in 12x22 that in the start of the season he’d “got Cas back, got Mom back” and in 12x23 of course he loses both, again, in a highly inter-connected way, and so again they’re going to be parallel lines to him, though again I think showing how he feels differently about one and the other and hopefully we get to unpack what those individual losses mean by the way of having both at once (and Crowley, who often in these cases is included to put a finger on the scale :P). 

One of the things confusing me right now is of last night’s behind the scenes set peeking which revealed a Turducken Slammer relaunch from the ever-hopeful Biggerson’s, which is not letting frequent murder and mayhem and dodgy meat recalls on its premises stop it from trying. Even if it’s as overall irrelevant to the story in the sense of being mentioned or actually explored as the Mystery Spot sign in 12x01, it’s still telling us something and making connections. I mean yeah it can just be worldbuilding continuity but it’s always picked for a reason and they know what all these signs mean and how to connect them, which is why we have the beer language for example. 

And Jody is pretty deeply connected to season 7 and Dean’s arc. And this connection was obliquely referenced in 12x06 in that moment I already mentioned, where Sam outs Dean’s porn habits to Jody. It was a nod from Yockey that he’d watched past Jody episodes because in every way it was a season 12 style rehash of Sam’s “strictly into Dick” comment, which was from a Jody episode. And… look, maybe this is the best way to explain how I felt the season 12 references were kind of out of this world in their scope and intelligence :P 

For starters, that comment was not just a run of the mill Dick joke, that was a Robbie level Dick joke, which collected up a hilarious character thing for Sam (his fucked up moment when he should have made the barb, his determination to hang onto the Best Zinger Of His Life until Dean next gave him an opportunity and bless Sam’s cotton socks he delivered it like a pro :P) and Dean’s spiralling obsession with Dick as a Dick or Anime thing. Dean’s anime-watching was from 7x01, when he was waiting for Godstiel to blow up the planet in despair, and was at just about the lowest point we’ve ever seen him. In 7x02 Bobby gives him the “You just lost your best friend” pep talk, which is a role of comforting parental figure Dean then went and lost that season when Bobby died. And in the end of 7x02 Dean reveals how Not Fine he is to Bobby’s answerphone, which is important that it’s never commented on again but I think affects how Bobby treats him and in the subtext of 7x09 you have to know all that happened. 

In 7x09 Bobby’s on his farewell tour of comforting advice to his adopted sons, in the last great set of retconning episodes to embed him permanently into their backstory as having always been there for them, to make it hurt juuust that much more than it already does. Towards the end of the episode he has another talk with Dean that mirrors advice Dean will get from Frank and Ness in 7x11 and 7x12, and *that* is opened up by Dean getting drugged by the turducken slammer and going on about how he doesn’t care about how he doesn’t care, and that he feels great for the first time since Cas and the black goo. Like, wow, his depression and hurt and betrayal didn’t go anywhere just because he said he was fine, who knew :P 

And that’s the backstory to Dean’s obsession over killing Dick, who has taken everything from him by this point in season 7, told through the medium of anime and sandwiches and somehow always ending up about Cas and Dean’s feelings for him. The anime was an attempt to not care and not think about it that the slammer actually inflicted on Dean, and was used to get Dean to tell us how he really felt. By 7x12 it’s a joke for Sam to make implying Dean’s into lowercase dick, with one of those false binaries the show loves making. And like in season 13 Dean’s lost a love interest and a parental figure, and now things are really blurry about which one hurts more in this short run of episodes before they both reappear in the narrative and make it confusing. 7x11 makes the hurt most about Bobby. 7x12 subtextually tells us rather a lot about Cas, especially by making a Bobby figure to contrast in the background with the lady in the shop who literally calls Dean an idjit at some point, I think, or some other Bobby-ism, to make it clear that Ness is definitely not standing in for that and all those Cas parallels are probably where it’s at while Dean fangirls over him :P 

And nope I’m not even done unpacking the Yockey Robbie Edlund turducken because of course JODY is all tied up in this completely. She’s incidentally in 7x02 as a useful local beloved character who can get menaced by Dr Sexy and let them know there’s leviathan nearby, and so she’s pretty embedded in the early Leviathan worldbuilding. Of course Edlund being Edlund, while the lil girl leviathan is channel surfing for ideas, there’s a Biggerson’s advert, I think the same one that plays in 7x03 or 7x22 about their pie salad bar (it’s like a salad bar, but pie!) and in the end she lands on wanting to be a Dr Sexy when she grows up. 

(Stop me when you think this might somehow subtextually be about Dean :P)

The Dr Sexy leviathan has an amusingly childlike view on being a surgeon as a result of forming its opinions on that job while being a little girl, and apparently not listening to the memories of the poor guy it ate except to get a frightening knowledge of anatomy. It very much acts the part of being a doctor on TV who can just wheel patients off to perform unnecessary surgery, as per the malpractice of our favourite sexy doctor on TV - and there’s a thing to contemplate about “I’m not a doctor, I just play one one TV” but that’s digressing :P But it goes and menaces Jody and Bobby goes and saves her, and Robbie brings her back 2 more times in season 7, once in 7x06 to thank Bobby for saving her, and to link them romantically so she can even more handily take over the parental role by being romantically linked to their adopted father, which is just a sort of easy association to help. And in 7x12 of course she’s just there and helping and mourning Bobby a lil bit with Sam (since Dean was the one in the focus for mourning Bobby in 7x11), drinking his dubiously won scotch from 11x16 (… Rufus didn’t have to let him have that one, Bobby WAS insisting it was a ghost :P I think he just wanted Bobby to have a win after seeing how down he was.) But that IS a Jody episode so it would have been on Yockey’s list for homework for 12x06 and it contained the anime/Dick thing. 

And, if he’d watched the deleted scene, at the end of the episode Dean makes it clear that he’s not sitting alone in the dark watching anime, he is strictly into Dick, and goes and reads an article on Dick “erecting” a tower.

(I hope it is clear how much I love the Dick references in season 7 by now and I’m not sorry, they started it :P)

So yeah. Jody is already intrinsically linked into a ridiculous chunk of the Dean/Cas subtext from season 7, the absolute wild nonsense that Edlund and Robbie were messing around with with pie and turducken and Dr Sexy and anime and Dick, to create the absolutely most ridiculous, like… no one part of it on its own in isolation doesn’t make you cry laughing, bit of storytelling (that, of course, added up into a full picture, just makes you cry a lot in earnest for poor Dean right then).

To me this is the picture of Dean mourning Cas in season 7, and the unique elements to season 7 are the anime (already referenced in season 12 just as an aside and I don’t think as anything more than a witty reference to past canon except that Dean was “kinda bummed” about Cas being gone (and don’t worry, I’m getting to Berens :P)) and the turducken, and Jody as one of the key characters wandering through all this picking up the emotional baton from Bobby, which she has been attempting to use on them ever since season 9, when they got back in contact with her after neglecting her all of season 8. 

(And, oh gosh, I stared out the window to try and collect my thoughts for the next paragraph and washed up on thinking about Sam going and crashing out on Jody over the Dean in Purgatory period instead of hitting a dog and ending up with Amelia, like Dean with Lisa except by the time Dean gets back Sam’s probably been whipped into shape and is wandering around Sioux Falls in a deputy uniform…)

Anyway yeah, to go back to 13x03 finally… If the Turducken sign isn’t portentous of anything, I’m still seeing the Gas n Sip sign, in the maroon colours rather than blue one, but still, in a Berens episode. And if you can’t get mourning Cas in season 7 via Jody and a turducken related things to stick, you can totally shortcut through the fairly simple steps of Berens + Gas n Sip = 9x06 and assume whatever personal feelings stuff Dean and Jody talk about, this is a great way to cram Cas into the background via the enormous glowing yellow sun that has come to represent him. (And, of course, it was Berens who had the “morning, Sunshine” line for us in 12x03.)

So I think the set stuff and character stuff all have some fairly good slap to the back of the head things for Dean to maybe open up to Jody or at the very least for whatever he says to her to be heavily subtextually about Cas even if Jody asks about Mary. Because Dean’s wearing weirdly Cas-coded clothes, and Jody is wearing the family unity red n blue plaid colours. The maroon Gas n Sip seems to be more about family and even Wayward Sisters, since it was prominently used behind Claire in 12x16 and maroon has been a lot about family because of the infamous red hoodie that Kevin, Charlie and Cas all wore, and that Mary was put in maroon within an episode of getting back (and Chuck tried to cash in on it in 11x21 to make himself look harmless and cute and relatable in the same hoodie). But even in 12x16 having the Gas n Sip sun looking over Claire, with her connections to Cas, made it seem like he was watching over her too. The colours change the meaning in some ways but the overall message is the same. I think in 13x03 we have to remember it’s also going to be about the Wayward Sisters so whether Jody and Dean are having a personal conversation or not, the sun might be about Cas but the overall thing might be a more neutral family building thing for the main arc stuff. If it was a blue Gas n Sip I’d immediately think it was all about Cas and oozing tragic subtext *everywhere* and completely unavoidably.

(it might also just be that they’re maroon because Biggerson’s are and maybe there’s some sort of corporate alliance of Gas n Sips connected to Biggerson’s, because, after all, Dick Roman ended up owning both franchises and by 7x23 you can see that both are involved in his masterplan, which is part of why I love so much Cas is then intimately connected to both later while still in a gloomy penance mood about the whole thing and everything he’s ever done since…)

… So to actually answer your question, I can see some really really convoluted reasons in the history of the show that if Dean and Jody have their big important “seriously how are you” talk in this exact location while hanging out and hugging in front of all these signs, that they might either not mention Cas at all because he’s not a part of the openly stated story going on between Dean and Jody and all this family stuff and Wayward Sisters and everything absorbed into the entire chunk of the show about parental relationships, of which Jody has been a part since 7x06 thanks to Robbie. Or it’s a part of the emotional backstory to Dean losing Cas which Edlund kicked into high gear in 7x02 while dibsing all the important Dean and Bobby conversations which shine a light on Dean’s loss and Cas, also dragging Jody into a ridiculous web of Dr Sexy and stuff that Robbie and then much much later Yockey were playing around with.

Either way,

[daisyachain]

This is completely unedited and moderately incoherent, but here we are! DGM rarepair week, day 2

Black | Mysterious | Sophisticated | Powerful | Emptiness | Void | Darkness

Fandom: D.Gray-Man Rating: T-ish for violence, gore, nonexistent plot and Kanda being emotionally insensitive Pairings: Edit: I left it unclear to fit the mysterious prompt but it’s Kanda/Daisya

Total Words: 3.7k

Allen, Johnny, and Kanda are on the world’s worst roadtrip chasing after the Noah and some answers in a timeline parallel to this latest arc, when they run into a rather unwelcome guest. This is somewhat of a rehash of what happened with Alma, but it serves to highlight just how similar the two characters are, and it was mostly a 'what if' scenario.

A church bell faintly rolled the hour, though it didn’t feel like they’d been out for so long.

Johnny had insisted they stop for dinner, saying he wasn’t going to be dealing with both Allen and Kanda on an empty stomach. They all knew it was bullshit, and that he just wanted to them to take care of themselves, so no one complained.

The food in the town’s inn had been the usual, solid stuff, nothing to write home about, but something that would get you through a good couple of hours of chasing down the ultimate source of evil in the world and hoping they didn’t find you first. Then, they’d hit the road again, and coming up on…was it two hours later? Three? Allen had been sure it was closer to two, but it was too dark to check the watch by torchlight, but they’d set out just past the hour. The bell was slow, but Allen decided to count.

One.

It was a sleepy part of the country, even here, and they walked down a broad dusty avenue through the centre, to the central square. It was starting to get cold, and even the light from one or two streetlamps was sucked into the black night, which showed no sign of stars.

Two.

Allen and Johnny fell back behind Kanda, who was quiet for once. No snapping at them to hurry up, or slow down, or stop damn well talking amongst themselves.

Three.

“We’ve made some good time,” said Johnny beside him. “See? It was good that we stopped. Otherwise we’d just be miserable and hungry, now.”

Four.

“You’re right, Johnny.” Allen smiled at him in reassurance, to make sure he didn’t worry. He knew that he was nervous about him, how quiet he was now.

Five.

“Awful quiet, though, for a town this big.”

“Hmm.”

Six.

Allen’s eyes narrowed, doing a quick check-over of the shops and houses on either side. No akuma in sight. There were lights on, and some moving shadows, the roar of voices and the chink of plates from inside, but…

Seven.

“Speaking of which, it looks like we’re the only ones out travelling tonight.”

“I guess everyone else already got in.”

“Yeah.”

Eight.

In front of them, Kanda had been slowing down his pace, and now he fell into step beside Allen.

“Can you activate your Innocence without showing it?” he murmured, far to calm to be the usual Kanda.

“Of course,” Allen whispered in retort. “What’s going on?”

Nine. That should have been the last bell, unless he’d completely messed up with the counting.

“Just take care of Johnny if shit goes down, and find somewhere to hide.”

“Hey, I can fight—”

The last chime didn’t go away. It held, and Allen could swear it started to resonate. And grow louder.

“Shut up!” hissed Kanda, suddenly furious.

“What do you mean? What’s going on?”

And louder, with a tone that set Allen’s teeth on edge.

“Just do what I tell you, and do it now!”

The world shattered in Allen’s ears as he and Johnny went flying from Kanda’s shove.

“Ugh—”

Allen jumped to his feet, Innocence at the ready, then paused. Kanda had pushed them — thrown them — into a wooden shop door, and now Allen could see why: the street’s windows had exploded in a storm of broken glass. The light was dim here, but every last bit of it glittered off the shrapnel that covered the streets, and…

“Kanda! You all right?”

“Get inside!”

He’d been clever enough to shield himself with his coat, but cuts still covered Kanda’s face.

“What about you?” Johnny shouted out from beside him, more winded than he was.

But Allen had already grabbed him by the collar and kicked open the door, loose from the first time they’d slammed into it.

“He’ll be fine,” he said, letting go and shutting the door behind them, searching for a bolt. “I don’t know how, but he knows what’s going on.”

The building hadn’t been used in a few days at least, but it looked to be a shop — Allen took a quick look to make sure the merchandise wasn’t breakable, then swept it on to the floor and dragged a few tables closer to the door. Then, leaving just enough room to sneak out, he dashed back to the window to have a look outside.

“Allen? What’s — do you have any idea what’s going on?” Jonny was shaking just a bit, and he couldn’t blame him. What had Kanda known?

“I’m sorry, but I don’t think I know anything more than you,” he said, craning his neck a bit. Damn — Kanda was looking away, but whatever he was staring at was firmly out of view.

“What’s our plan, then? I can make a pretty good barricade if you give me a few minutes.”

“Yeah, that’d be good.”

What had Kanda meant with all that mysterious stuff? Protect Johnny had seemed to be the gist of it. Allen glanced over — the guy seemed to be on it already, checking over the tables for where the joints were.

“Got it. I’ll get to work—”

“Wait — I’ll go outside and guard the door, and you can cover up the windows from the inside.”

Whether it was an akuma, Innocence, or God forbid a Noah, it was able to do some damage with the shattered glass.

“And you’re sure you’ll be fine?”

“Of course! Kanda hates losing, so he’d never let anything happen.” Allen gave what he hoped was a cheery wink, and stepped outside.

“Good luck!”

The door shut quietly behind him, and he looked out on to the glass-strewn street. Each of the half-timber houses seemed to loom crookedly over the scene, gables seeming far away in the darkness. Overhead, clouds gathered to form the grey-tinged blackness that had settled on them like treacle, thick and numbing. The glass panes of the lamps had shattered, leaving wrought-iron thorns sticking up into the night.

“Come on!” A playful voice rang out, sounding just slightly to metallic for a young man. “You know it’s me, so just say my name.”

Allen’s eyes focused on the situation in front of him, each taking in a different set of information. Oh, shit.

His right saw Kanda standing stock still, sword drawn but by his side, everything else blending into a tall and coal-black figure, just outlined against the slate sky.

The left saw his opponent more clearly, perched up on one of the rooftops like some sort of cat, hanging over the side — a level 3, with the kind of concentrated agony that reached back into Allen’s mind and gave him a toothache last year, and two weeks into the future. Just pure, concentrated pain, and a very loud laugh to drown it out.

“You’re dead.” Kanda’s voice hung low, grinding along like metal on a whetting stone.

“Nope!” The akuma seemed to be amused by this, bouncing up and down, and then unfolding its limbs for a hop down to the ground, flipping up and over as it did.

“I mean,” said Kanda, quieter now, “You’re going to die.”

Even Allen felt the words slide down his throat like ice. There was no heat in Kanda’s anger, if it could be called anger.

The akuma’s spiked teeth just pulled back into a smile.

Like most level 3s it was something of man, something of machine, but this one was also a bit more animal. Two long and sturdy legs, striped vertically around the knees stuck out from a shroud that covered the torso and the arms, and most of the face as well. There was a spring in its movement and a laughter in its — not its voice, but the sound that came from it.

Its hood obscured everything but the mouth running gash-like across its face.

And now, with the body glowing slightly, Allen could see a large red splotch on its cloak, just on the left side of its chest.

“You would never kill me—”

Mugen stabbed into the space where its chest had been, and swept a path under where its legs had stood.

But in that sliver of a second it had let itself fall backwards and roll, springing out of it as if this was all going to plan. What did it mean, Kanda would never kill it? What the hell was it?

“—and it won’t be for lack of tryin’.”

“Shut up.”

Kanda swung the sword again, sending out a wave of pests, but the level 3 was getting bored.

“You should know me better than that, Kanda! Besides, aren’t you wondering why I’m here? I should have been burned and buried!”

It dodged the attack and then held its hands about stomach height, balled together, then drew them apart — this was it! There was the noise of a bell, getting louder and louder—

There was an explosion, and the house the level 3 had perched on collapsed in on itself, forming a new pile of rubble.

“Wanna dance? If you just say you remember who I am,” it continued, cajoling now, “I’ll tell you who it was, you know, that called me back.”

Kanda just strode slowly towards it as it twirled, and extended an arm theatrically out of its cloak. Maybe it had been an actor, when its soul had belonged to a human, or a some other type of entertainer.

“Die.”

Another spirit attack, far too slow to catch the akuma. It seemed to have forgotten that it was here to hunt Allen, for the moment. He probably should have been relieved.

BOOM

Another thundering noise, scattered here and there with the bright sparks of shattering glass, sounded as the akuma collapsed a building on to where Kanda had been standing.

“Just say my name,” the thing said, and each word rang out louder, backed by the chime of a bell. “Do it. Do it!”

It flitted around Kanda, throwing up clouds of debris with its abilities, and working up a cloud — yes, Allen realized, it was trying to cut him off.

He was about to reconsider, and run in to help, when suddenly the noise stopped. Not just the sound of the bell, but the scuffling on feet on the ground, and the muffled sounds of heavy breathing.

“Shut. Up.”

Kanda had unleashed a barrage of black ghosts, seething in a circle around him to eat away the dust.

“You were nothing to me then.”

He stared blankly at the thing that had stopped to listen, frozen in its place.

“And you are nothing now.”

Mugen’s blade withdrew, and reformed, levelled at the akuma’s throat.

Over the course of seconds, his spirits disappeared, fading back into darkness. Somehow, Allen felt as if he were watching a play, some scripted performance play out. Both the fighters made sure to have time to throw insults back and forth, and stand still in the newfound silence of the night.

Yes, it was silent. But just a moment later, Allen heard it break — clumsily. Nothing dramatic about it.

There was just the soft, then louder, shameful and strangled sound of crying.

It carried on, quiet sobbing at first, then a wail, and then just seconds later it crescendoed into a scream — into two words, ripped out from the akuma’s lungs.

“I know!”

It took a blind leap at Kanda, swinging a fist instead of shooting bullets or creating its explosions.

“It was my little sister!” It shouted.

Allen placed the words in his mind alongside the others that this thing had spoken, trying to piece together what it wanted. Was it like Eliade, whose shattered memories changed and rearranged themselves?

Kanda, meanwhile, had caught its blow easily, and redirected it into a throw — and yet, this akuma must have had some training in its life. It twisted and managed to kick out at Kanda’s kneecap, sending them both tumbling. Was Kanda really humouring it that much?

“You bastards tried to hide it from her, didn’t you? But she’s so much fucking smarter than you! Takes after her brother, don'tcha think?The fight wore on, each of the akuma’s blows meeting perfect blocks, but now it honestly fought. The moment Kanda was close to something — aaaugh! Chunks of wood and plaster, stone and brick ripped out from the structures on that side.

"And I looked for you. I found you. I followed you all, through everything, I stayed with you, when I was still level 1. And you know what?”

A swift hip throw slammed it down on a wood spar that shoved through its chest with a sickening sound. Still, it managed to escape the chokehold, pulling out the spar, and held it up like a club.

“You didn’t miss me!” it yelled, punctuating each phrase with a swing. “You didn’t even remember me! I waited so fucking long, just to hear you say something, but…”

Its voice faded suddenly, snuffed out by a burst of effort. Finally it got past Kanda’s oddly loose defenses, scoring a blow that landed with a hollow noise on the back of his skull.

“…you never even said my name.”

Without the sound of battle to cloud it, Allen heard again the scratched voice of a boy about to cry.

A boy that now collapsed over Kanda, pinning him down��shit. Kanda was beaten. Now it was his job to get that obnoxious bastard out of this mess.

Was he really that tired? Was it a Noah? Or, to Allen’s sneaking suspicion was he just playing along?

He took a couple of deep breaths, and tensed his muscles, ready for the fight. It would be over quickly, even with that explosion ability.

“Innocence—”

“Stay the fuck out of this, Walker!”

Kanda yelled — screamed — him down before he’d even pulled out a Crown Clown, but Allen just had to trust him. After that business with Alma, he should have learned his lesson.

“Just hurry up, all right?” he yelled back into the street.

Kanda still lay there, at the akuma’s mercy, the spar hovering over where his throat must have been.

“Grab Johnny, and backtrack. I’ll end it.”

Allen let himself spend another moment in complete confusion, then nodded to himself.

He did not look back.

…

Kanda watched the two of them go. Allen was too much of a fucking goody-two-shoes to be trusted.

Besides, it wasn’t hard to keep the akuma at bay. No bullets, no ability, it was still trying to stick him through the throat with nothing more than brute strength. He had the edge. It had a hole in its chest.

For most of the fight, he hadn’t been able to see its face, between how fast they were moving and the hood’s shadow. He hadn’t wanted to see.

It was clear as fucking crystal that this wasn’t a fake.

But now, he couldn’t deny it any more. Not as human as Alma, no, but a level 3 that looked too real. The mechanical semblance of a face was twisted into an expression he recognized.

“Get off me.”

“Shut up,” it croaked.

Kanda wondered if those were somehow real tears, or just some clever mechanism.

It shouldn’t have mattered. This smartass akuma was still just as weak as any other. It didn’t have the skill to beat him, even without the sloppy blows and missed openings.

But…

“That’s my line, dumbass.”

“I said, shut up!”

The akuma punctuated the sentence with strikes that Kanda could have blocked. He’d heal up soon enough.

There was something boiling up in him that he had no name for. The feeling when old man Zhu told him the truth. When he saw Marie and Lena standing there, and knew that they understood him, and how much he had wanted to die, and knew he’d dragged himself back into a miserable life out of nothing but guilt.

Gently, just a bit at first, then more fully, Kanda smiled, and lifted a hand to the thing’s cheek, brushing aside what looked like tears.

“Daisya.”

It took little effort to then snap what might have been its neck and kick it off, then slam it into the ground to reverse their positions. The blood that trickled out of a cut on his cheek flowed, and took Mugen’s form.

Now Kanda knelt over that mechanical body, and pushed the hood fully away, exposing the face to what little light there was. The tattoos beneath its eyes were now holes in the metallic outer shell, and the bandages that stuck in Kanda’s memory were merely painted on. Hollow, a shell full of meaning but empty inside. But the scars and mottled, uneven skin were the same as ever, and the one rusted earring left over from an impulsive act at age 7 and a stubborn need to be cool that had stayed into their teens.

The careless collection of features was still set in an expression Kanda had rarely seen up close before, unlike the grin his mind painted over this face. It looked disgusting.

“After all that talking, I thought you’d have something to say now.”

The akuma finally snapped out of it, and rolled its eyes at him.

“You could at least let me get my head on straight, first.”

It reached its arms up to about ear level when Kanda released them, and set it in place, broken bones — no, components — healing with a crackling noise.

“That’s disgusting.”

One of the cold hands reached up to brush the bangs out of his eyes, but he didn’t flinch.

“Your face is disgusting.”

“So your sister called you back. Did you kill her?”

“Nope. Didn’t have much use for a body. She’s a good kid, you know. Oh, wait, of course you do. You’re the one who told her I fucking kicked it, ‘cos you guys didn’t care enough to come get me. You heard it, didn’t you? I had my golem on during all of it, so you shoulda had a good bunch of screaming in your ear. Must’ve been fun for Marie! He mentioned me, you know. He remembered.”

Kanda kept Mugen hovering over the akuma’s throat, steady at about an inch away. His expression was flat.

“I heard you, and the Noah.”

“That fuckin’ hat-wearing bastard. I’d thank you for kicking his ass like a dutiful teammate, but you only did that when Lena got involved. Hah! Don’t think I heard anything from her, either, but she’s always hung up on one thing or another, so I’m just going to say that she still remembers me. You can trust her, like that.”

The thing grinned up at him. “So, you gonna kill me now? Or poke another hole in me?”

“You haven’t even gotten to the point, yet.”

“Didn’t I?”

“Nope.”

“Damn.”

If this conversation had been when they were thirteen, and gangly, and sharing tiny straw mattresses between the two of them and whoever else was on the mission, it would have been funny.

Now, it just gave Kanda the cold comfort of knowing that whatever else, this thing did have Daisya’s memories.

“Spit it out.”

“Okay, okay.” The akuma sighed. “We were kind of family, at the Order, you know?”

“Yeah.”

“Seven years, we were together. But, did you ever love me?”

Seven years of night trains and cover identities, tattered uniforms and stolen hair ties, ripping up the sheets to bandage wounds and carrying Daisya in the rain, for three days because the akuma were circling and his leg was broken and badly healed with Kanda’s blood.

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“You didn’t cry, didn’t mourn, I don’t think you noticed it. Marie did, but you never even said my name.”

Travelling for days on end, stopping only for akuma and the occasional hour of sleep, staring at a girl in a tourist town with sharp eyes and messy brown hair, buying a trinket and leaving the next day. Tracking Cross’ inscrutable movements through snow and wind with barely a word passed between them. No quarter in battle against Tyki, or against Bolic.

“Maybe.”

It started crying again, but with a smile on its face.

“It hurts, you know. I remember pretty damn clearly, I still thought you’d save me. I still thought you’d at least, I don’t know, try.”

Age fourteen, tearing a slit down his wrist, letting the blood drip on to a broken body hoping that it would be enough to heal whatever this was. Age eighteen, boots skidding on the cobblestones as they ran, seeing the body just as light dawned. Take care of him. It was a dead body, but the words had still needed to be said. Protect him, where I failed.

“…”

There had been some kind of response lined up, but the words choked out in his throat.

Age sixteen, in the snow, grinning at a dumb joke and holding hands, waiting for the train.

He shifted position, coming to kneel beside the akuma, and not over it, smiling despite himself.

“Kanda?”

Not again. He sat the akuma’s battered body up, wrapping an arm around its shoulders, and leaned back, against a pile of rubble.

No one would ever see him in the darkness. No one would ever hear him in the void. They was fifteen again, stupid and still somehow naive enough to give a damn.

“I’ll save you this time, Daisya.”

“So, does this mean…”

“I did.”

…

Kanda didn’t show up until the next day. Johnny asked about it, worried, but Allen knew better.

That night belonged to Kanda.

[tumblunni]

I think the problem with Joss Whedon is that he’s a ‘90s feminist’. And he will never, ever, even TRY to progress beyond that.

Its like.. he was genuinely seen as feminist back when he first started making shows, he genuinely actually succeeded in doing many feminist things, writing many good story arcs that’re memorable even nowadays. So it becomes hard to imagine how on earth he’s become so terrible now?? I think the problem is just that he’s never progressed, but also that doesn’t necessarily mean he’s standing still. He’s not even as feminist as he used to be back then, there’s such a bigger bar to compare him to. Its not like you can do nothing for decades and retain your crown as the most progressive man in all cinema, and it feels like doesn’t understand that. 'Wow look my new hero can kick ass AND have her boobs out in every scene’ was only a big deal back when cinematic repression was the bigger problem than over-obsession with sex. ‘Hey look my hero is super stereotypically feminine and constantly makes jokes about her own gender’ was one of his go-to things in the early days. Because the idea of a woman being in that particular plot role was considered unknown and impossible, drawing attention to her gender helped get the point across. Back when having one single gay character was ahead of its time, nobody even noticed he was doing weird shit like ‘mm sexy lesbians for the benefit of the straight audience’ and ‘no, even though she liked men too in the past, she’s not bisexual she just ‘turned gay’’ and ‘male homosexuality is somehow funny at the same time’ And like.. he’s still doing the same ‘techniques’ now but he’s fighting against stereotypes that’ve long since been eradicated, and not only ignoring new ones but actively falling head-over-heels in love with them, completely oblivious. its like his definition of himself as some feminist masterpiece has made him stop using critical thinking ever!

And he doesn’t want to improve anything?? It feels like he’s fine with the world as it is? If anything, it feels like he’s fine just letting sexism exist, because it means he can rehash the same tired old talking points forever and make money off it. I dont know if he could even imagine a world where predjudice doesnt exist, or even HOW people could stop it from happening.. he just wants to write how in space 900 years in the future we still have exactly the same gender stereotypes for some reason. And like.. I just.. cannot understand this.... I can’t relate to the sort of person who would ever think “Welp, it’s done, it’s over!” and just.. STOP doing feminism. While still calling himself a feminist. Just decide that one arbitrary point in mid-90s problems for women is the only set of problems they’ve ever had and ever will have. Never bother reading up on even the most minimal info on anything that’s happened since! Its like he thinks he’s stocked up enough backpayments on his activism and now he can retire to a condo out west. its like he thought there was some end goal of Becoming a feminist, and now he’s accomplished it and can never do anything wrong ever again. Level 99, all skills learnt.

Really this is why I hate all the focus on identity politics above everything else. Honestly i don’t give a shit one way or another whether someone identifies as feminist, what i do give a shit about is whether they support sexist shit or oppose it. Hell, its mot even really THAT, its just.. do they DO sexist shit, or not? Its like the old classic analogy, “if you trod on my foot and you said you didn’t mean to, either way i’ve still got a broken foot’. Too much focus on performative ‘yes I will Publically Declare that I am not a sexist/racist/homophobe’, and less on actually stopping people who do bigoted shit, learning how to recognise bigoted shit, learning how to not accidentally do bigoted shit, finding ways to help the victims of the bigoted shit, finding ways to change the society that supports the bigted shit... Nah just lets all say we’re part of the Not Bigoted club and spend more of our time arguing that we can’t have ever said anything bigoted because we hold this arbitrary membership card. You know there’s something wrong when you do most of your arguing against actual members of the minority you claim to support...

Ironically I think Joss Whedon would have gotten away with a lot of his shit if he hadn’t gained that early reputation as ‘a feminist’. He tries to use it as a shield from criticism, but as much as you see people who say ‘he cant have done that, he’s a feminist’, you’re hearing ‘holy shit that’s really bad, he’s supposed to be a feminist’. Like, it wouldnt even be newsworthy otherwise, the state of TV scriptwriting is so shitty right now that there’s dozens of dudes farting out these same shitty attitudes. Honestly the most useful feminist thing Whedon is doing right now is accidentally drawing attention to issues people would have ignored from a less famous bigot!

[bewitchthequeen]

Our Problems With Teen Wolf

Note: My friend, @knightedtime, and I made this a while back and I decided to release it because the world should know our feelings XD Or something meaningful like that. So here we go.

I have nothing against the actors. I have nothing against the writers. This are just my complaints. Any hostility will be exploited.

Feel free to add your own if you’d like! Just include a line break.

Jackson Whittemore. He came off as a huge asshole even when they tried to make him sympathetic and I was indifferent to him “dying” temporarily. 

No reasons for Lydia acting shallow, vapid and pretending to be dumb while she was with Jackson. It was never addressed. Never talked about why she did that and everyone just acts like it didn’t happen. Okay.

Lydia doesn’t seem to have friends. You can claim the Pack are her friends but ??? They don’t hang out much. Like hang out like normal people their age. So I think Danny was her only real friend because he showed concern and shit and talked to her outside of mystery problem stuff. 

Theo Raeken being a Peter Hale rip off. Cause that’s what he is. And trusting him about anything is bullshit. He fucked that up. Maybe had he been developed more I’d be more understanding. Nothing against Cody Christian but Theo is just another evil dude with pretty face. At least Peter had some sort of depth.

Stydia last season

Most Stydia fans

Stydia in general

Stydia being shoved down my throat.

Season 5 in general

Kira’s “ending”. It was bullshit. There was some open ended shit so her story being over was bullshit. BULLSHIT. BULLLLSHIT. and I hope Arden Cho is doing great things after that utter bullshittery.

The loss and lack of Danny. I fucking loved him and he was just gone. Another actor mistreated on this asshole show. Well, I hope Keahu Kahuanui is doing greater things than this.

Last season is about Stiles. At least 6a. I’m sorry but in NO way should the last season of the show being about the sidekick. I don’t give a shit what or who he is. STILES SHOULD NOT HAVE BEEN THE MAIN GOAL OF 6A. I don’t give a shit about what Stiles fans and Stydia fans have to say about it. 

Scott and Stiles’ friendship is continuously on a downward spiral. Stiles has always been the dominating personality in the relationship. Check out all of season one if you don’t believe me. Scott just recently started coming into his own with being an alpha, a leader. I feel like Stiles doesn’t like that. Aside from this, I also feel like Stiles expects certain privileges with being Scott’s “best friend” but their relationship has corroded and they can’t really be “best friends” if Scott no longer trusts Stiles. And I don’t believe he does, regardless of what Jeff says.

The unrealistic relationships. Stydia. Stalia. Mainly. Because it’s kind of relationships that they just kind of pulled out of their asses and were like “meh”. Adelaide and Gage left and Stiles just needed someone. 

No explanation for what happened to Derek. Literally. I know that Tyler H. said he wasn’t coming back but the show never explained where Derek went. Yet another character that we’re suppose to just forget about.

Scott’s development from season 3 to season 5. Where is it? I mean, yes, he was kind of an asshole in season 2 when it came to Derek making more werewolves. Then it went stagnant.

The fandom/fanbase. The most vocal (I don’t want to say majority) are the Stydia people. The most vocal of the Stydia people seem to be bullying the actors and I AIN’T ABOUT THAT. Listen up, you little parasites, your show is ending due to you bitching all the time. Had it not been for that, might have gotten some more.

The shipping wars

Layden. Another rushed relationship that I don’t have the capacity to care about. Plus the “homage” to Scallison is just -.- exhausting.

Theo Raeken comes back for season 6, erasing the last thing Kira did on the show. Thanks.

Rehashing old relationship. Same as 19, but it really urked me so let’s put it up here twice.

Theo Raeken in general

Lydia and Jackson ever being a thing. It was a toxic relationship. They were both kind of hateable. Some people are just too toxic to be together. Maybe had Colton Hayes stayed the could have worked on that, but Colton deserves better so he can go ahead and do what he’s doing.

Stydia in General because it’s really cliche if you look at it. That whole popular girl gets won over by the nerd/geek is so worn out. Usually, I’m all for an underdog story, but Stiles isn’t an underdog. He’s kind of an asshole. He kind of treats everyone like garbage (even Lydia in some instances) and the two of them are usually at odds. Honestly, Stydia happening (to me) isn’t out of love, but out of Lydia paying homage to her dead best friend because Allison was the one who told Lydia to give him a chance. Make of that what you will.

Scott moving too quick. I mean… His relationships go from like 5 to 100 in a matter of episodes. It’s a bit concerning even though he’s a sweet boy. It makes me concerned for him. 

WTF HAPPENED TO LAHEY (I know he’s with Chris but wtf? No updates on him). Not even mentioned again. He doesn’t exist.

The last season being focused on Stiles when they knew beforehand that Dylan O’ Brien was going to be busy and it really should be focusing on the Titular Character given that it’s last season. (On here twice cause it’s BULLSHIT).

The way that Jeff Davis treats his actors. I’m looking at Danny’s actor and Kira’s.

Peter Hale never got a redemption arc until season 6, but Theo basically got his immediately. Theo’s redemption is bullshit at that. Using fear as a redemption tool is never successful. Scared Straight doesn’t work for murderers. If it doesn’t work for sex offenders, it’s not going to work for Theo. Sorry, not sorry.

The fact Peter is probably going to get screwed over again. Wouldn’t surprise me.

The fact that Brett and Liam would have been more believable than Layden and Brett and Liam borderline hating each other. Maybe it’s chemistry, maybe it’s the fact that Layden was so rushed. The world may never know.

There’s not any main queer relationships. I dare you to name your top three in season 6 without repeating any characters. I fucking dare you.

They bring in a Bi character and he’s not used much. *cough*BrettTalbot*cough*

I can’t be excited for season 6 because of the past seasons (mainly 5) being at least somewhat disappointing

The fact that they claimed there wasn’t room for Kira and yet they casted a bunch of people for season 6 who were new.

Not that I ship it, but They baited Sterek a lot outside of the show for views.

Scott trusts Theo more than he trusts Stiles. So much for best friends, am I right?

Stiles kinda being an ass to Scott after Scott died and expecting Scott to be everywhere at once, resulting in that one gif where Stiles attacked Scott very fucking violently. Scott is a werewolf, not a superhero.

The show focuses more on Stiles’ Trauma more than anyone else’s. Scott and Lydia dealing with the loss of Allison, a part of an episode of them crying and the occasional mention. Why did Lydia act dumb? What went on with Scott since he didn’t have a dad? How has them being what they are affected them mentally? What about Malia’s trauma? These things are merely touched upon everyone once in a while. Stiles’ trauma is probably enough to write a thesis paper on.

Having no real reason other than Allison’s death for Isaac leaving (even that relationship was WAY too fast and wasn’t love based, like, at all)

Allison and Isaac’s relationship to begin with. There’s so much with this relationship that just grates me.

Allison tried to justify torturing people who had nothing to do with her mom’s death. Like I understand, but that also made it seem like they were going to set her up as a villain in later seasons, which for her not to go that route made it pretty damn disappointing and pissed me off. (Especially when she seemingly expected Derek to be cool with her. Fun Fact: Once you start disliking someone with a passion, everything that person does pisses you off so I can’t fault Derek here).

Gerard being alive. Just… That bitch.

The fact Scott is barely ever “single” and thus making him pretty fucking unrelateable. In highschool, I only date two people, some of my friends never dated, and some of my friends dated their s.o. freshman year or earlier to senior year. Plus, we never really seen him mourn Allison much so that could be a reason.

Kira’s story arc season 5 because that was weak to the point I barely remember wtf she was doing. Basically, made her character less memorable other being “that one girl Scott dated that wasn’t Allison”

The fact that Allison died at all, when really, they could have just let her actress leave and It’s like if you look at most people who are written off the show, the majority of Females who do DIE. 

Stalia vs. Stydia. Stiles should work on his personality a bit before he should be in a relationship but whatever

Wtf happened to Lydia’s dad?

Wtf happened to Scott’s dad?

The show just gets more unrealistic and unrelatable. These kids basically have no breaks in between problems .-. In continuation to this, I’m adding the fact that this shit always happens to these kids and while it’s a tv show and everything, it’s rly unrealistic that everything happens to them.

There’s a rumor that Scott’s going to kick the bucket for the last season and I don’t like it.

Malia getting hate for dating Stiles. 

Lydia’s sudden feelings for Stiles (Fandom would claim differently, but She looks really annoyed when he talks and their “humor” sounds somewhere between “I fucking hate you” and demeaning).

Void!Stiles not being addressed much (or the results of that rather). 

Just now delving into more of Lydia’s abilities :l and they’re still pretty fucking shoddy.

Stydia getting so much fanservice. For example, the whole Stiles holding Lydia’s hand when it reasonably should have been Scott, considering they’re closer as “friends” and he can take away pain.

The Wendigo thing. Just… What the fuck man. Don’t introduce new creatures if you aren’t going to delve. Seriously.

How everything always happens in Beacon Hills (I understand the whole Nemeton drawing people there but still :l minus when they went to Mexico which can barely be counted :l)

The fact that the show treated Kira’s departure like a joke with the hashtag, but when it comes to Stiles’ Jeep, they take it seriously. You value you a character over a car. Congrats, assholes.

There’s no actual way that Stydia would work out considering the who “Try being less scared” line Stiles told Lydia while working on his Jeep (which is just one instance. This is NOT banter. This is NOT an old married couple).

Stiles is becoming more of an asshole with the more paranoid he gets which is why he shouldn’t be involved with this shit in the first place.

The whole ‘Some of us are human’ line. Like sorry, asshole. I like you most of the time, but still.  

Tbh the way Stiles used to treat Lahey. Like, motherfucker he was abused and Stiles doesn’t acknowledge that and tells him he “milking” that. Lahey has trauma, you have mommy issues. Stop valuing your trauma over everyone else’s. Your trauma is pathetic compared to most other people’s.

The way that the fandom treats Parrish when it comes to Lydia.  She’s 18 guys and not even supposed to be in high school anymore, considering she could graduate early if she wanted. When you’re 18 you can date anyone older than you without people blinking an eye. 

Kate ending up being a werejaguar where she was scratched by werewolf Peter Hale. Just the whole “the bite effects how you feel” or whatever. No. You get bit my a werewolf, you should become a werewolf. Whatever, man. I’m tired of applying logic to this show…

JD disregards his actors feelings

Fandom being Hypocrites when it comes to Posey doing something wrong, when Dylan O’Brien’s done some bad shit too. LEAVE POSEY ALONE.

We didn’t get a funeral for Allison. (But we got one for Crazy Kate -.-)

The show is more about ships than anything else. What is a story line?

The fact Allison’s mom was a bitch and Allison’s “hallucinations” show her as a bitch but she went off the deep end because of her bitchy mom was dead.

They promote Stiles so much that most people think he’s the lead main character. Before I started watching this show, I seriously thought Stiles was the main character. Imagine my surprise when Scott was the werewolf.

All their female characters are kind of shit :l or in the process of going to shit… Or they’re dead... Or gone. My feelings for Malia fluctuate, they reduced Lydia to a crying, moping mess who was willing to risk Scott’s life for Stiles Stfuckboylinski, Erica is dead, Cora is/was female Derek, Allison is dead, Kira will be remembered as “Kitsune girl who dated Scott” because their lack of using her, Hayden… wait… who is Hayden again?, Let’s not touch Krazy Kate, who’s Braedan again? Wait, where did Marin go? Oh, fuck!

Can’t say much for their male characters either at this point.

The fact that they kinda ended Kira’s story with a cliffhanger. 

How Lydia was cool with Peter and went to him for help after the whole possession and “you” thing that happened. “Yeah, I know that you were like haunting me or whatever and literally made me feel like I was losing my mind which you never really tried to make up for, but I totally and completely trust you”

Why the fuck was it necessary to kill Erica? Is that the only way this show knows how to get rid of characters?

The fact that they probably brought theo back to make Matheo a thing. He fucking shot her. If I was Malia, I’d sooner rip his head off.

People defending Stydia with “It’s only fanservice if you don’t agree with it”. No, it’s fanservice because you bitched for it and the writers want to pacify you and hope you shut up. “The Stydia moments every season is only a thing if you ship it”. Nope, it’s fanservice. Holland Roden even admitted that season 6a was fanservice. (I say all of 6a because it was Stiles centered and seemed more like fan fiction than an actual tv show).

For how old everyone was, I’m kind of shocked that Allison and Lydia were still friends after Lydia made out with Scott… Unless she never found out about that? I don’t know man.

Allison neglecting her and Lydia’s friendship and only paying attention to get help from her resulting in what happened with Peter, but no one addresses that. Which, to me, makes Allison not the best bestie.

People sending Malia and Parrish’s actors death threats over Stydia. Are you guys serious? This is why the show is garbage and this is why it’s ending and views are dropping. Kudos to Shelley Hennig and Ryan Kelley for putting up with that shit.

The fact that none of the female cast have storylines that are front and center. They all seem to be in the background more than anything. The women of this show are more like props (excluding Allison and Melissa).

Stydia fanbase freaking out over anything bad that happens to Dylan or Holland. I’m pretty sure that whole freak out of her getting pushed is enough to explain my feelings towards this.

Then antiStydia people making hashtags telling Holland to kill herself :l That’s not fair guys. It’s not Holland’s fault there’s a bunch of oversized babies shoving their ship down your throat.

The actors getting any kind of threats over a FUCKING FICTITIOUS TV SHOW! ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?! ARE YOU SERIOUS?! YOU’RE DOING THIS TO A REAL PERSON OVER A FAKE FUCKING TV SHOW. YOU PEOPLE NEED TO BE ON SO MANY FUCKING DRUGS TO THINK THAT’S AT ALL ACCEPTABLE. A FAKE RELATIONSHIP SHOULDN’T BE THE CENTER OF YOUR LIVES. JESUS FUCKING CHRIST LEAVE THIS POOR PEOPLE ALONE YOU DEMENTED ASSHOLES. GO TO YOU FUCKING FAN FICTION AND JUST FUCKING STOP. JUST FUCKING STOP PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD STOP.

JD giving the stydia fandom what they want when they don’t deserve it and they’re just a bunch of a brats.

The fandom shipping the actors together when they are real people with lives. This is just a general pet peeve of mind. Stop shipping living, breathing functional people unless you’re shipping them with their significant other. Don’t get caught up in other people’s life and start living yours.

The fact that apparently JD hinted Stiles was Bi and never did anything with it? :l He’s the straightest person ever. Seriously, I have never seen anyone straighter than Stiles Stilinski. 

The Panic Attack kiss .-. I don’t wanna say it was OOC but it was a lot less Lydia like than everything else and the begin of Lydia acting less like herself like people do when they’re in an abusive relationship! (That was also the kind of panic attack that requires space too.)(Yeah -.- but oooo stydia)

The fact that the fandom was anti Malia (partially because she punched him once) but was totally cool shipping Sterek despite the fact that Derek p much assaults Stiles whenever Stiles steps out of line

Stiles also kinda treats Derek badly and Really? I don’t see why anyone would consider them to be ‘Friends’.

Lacrosse is somehow popular.  Don’t know how, but Beacon Hills seems about the same size as Fresno is and really? I don’t know how lacrosse got so popular when beacon hills has a football team and that’s the so called american sport.

Fandom is woo girl power one minute, then bitching about Malia and Kira (Lydia less than those two) as individual parts.

The fact that everyone’s character development is all over the place, basically all the time

Basically all the female characters getting slut shamed

People thinking that Stiles deserves Lydia, like she’s some sort of prize to be won. Lydia is a fucking person. Fucking chauvinists. 

Tbh the people who get the least amount of hate are more abusive? (examples?)(Jackson, Derek (though Derek’s “hate” is more the fandom sexualizing him?)) (I’ve seen them call Scott abusive and I’m like okay HOW.)

Ima just say this now, which prob ties to a lot of the actor stuff earlier, but the way the fandom treats Tyler Posey specifically like… I really just… :l (It’s frankly disgusting how they treat him.)(It really is :c) So much love in my heart for that boy. I just want to fucking hug him and make him feel better. 

The fact that they’re putting Parrish in a Freezer during season 6 when he could help.

Ik that Lydia wouldn’t do this because Lydia and Allison were “best friends” but tbh Lydia has more romantic and even more friendship chemistry with Scott than she does with Stiles (Yeah. I noticed that.)

[starreviews]

8:46

WARNING: This documentary is about 9/11, it shows some very emotional scenes and while it doesn’t feature the typical war mongering, it does really have one of the most depressing premises to any documentary I’ve seen (I don’t like watching ones about tragedys though, I’ve mostly just seen those 9/11 documentaries they show in schools)

Initial Impression: Oh… This is about 9/11… I don’t like that… There will probably be a rant at some point in this post. 

9/11 Rant: So I really don’t like the culture around 9/11. I grew up in post-9/11 America, and the virulent racism and pro-war attitude that has arisen post has been an absolute nightmare that has drained every inch of empathy by this point. I mean every year we have to have what approximates a state-sponsored celebration in school. And none of this is to say that it wasn’t a tragedy because it was, but Hurricane Katrina was a much worse one and I don’t even know what fucking day that was on because it did nothing to further the political agendas of a bunch of rich assholes in suits. This is all to say if I seem callous in this review it’s because I’m fucking tired of the entirety of 9/11. It wasn’t even the first terrorist attack on American soil or the most deadly. 

Rotten Apples: Fresh

Does the Dog Die: NO DATA

First 30 Minutes: I feel like I can’t criticise or make jokes about this. I will, but I’m uncomfortable. Anyways alot of good things are happening to these people, except this mailroom guy, whose boss is just an absolute dick. I feel for these service workers though. Of all the people whose lives were ended, I think they are ignored the most. I’m a Hardee’s worker right now, and if something happened I think about how the company would react. I know their deaths weren’t treated how they should have been. How the middle class people’s deaths were treated. 

On a seperate point, why do none of these food service workers have their shirts tucked in? I feel like I need to lecture them on safety in the food industry. Oh hey there’s a girl from Alabama here. I feel bad for her fucking Northeners are mean as hell. 

This dad to the gay dude is a fucking dickhole. Homophobic asshole I’ll kick his ass. “You need to leave at 7 if it’s at 9” God his whole vibe reminds me of my Nana, are all old straight people like this? Also the mom is not helping. This kid does not want to do this don’t make him go into finance stop giving him bad advice? These are not good parents lol. 

Also the uh guy that got passed over for promotion has this wife who’s sick and I love her and I wish it didn’t remind me of my own health issues that have taken away from my life. I hope wherever she is today she’s okay. I know most of these people aren’t… I don’t want to finish that thought. 

Is the guy with kids that’s a buisnessman the same guy who was on the phone earlier? Is he cheating on his wife? Do I have bad facial recognition? I think he is? He looks like my Bio professor. Also this poor lady trying to tell her boyfriend or whatever that she’s pregnant is not having a good time. Also I don’t think they’re the same person? 

Side track before I start on the next section: There’s a part in here talking about the fucking thing where boys make fun of girls cause they like them and let me tell you. I am a boy and I have never been mean to someone because I liked them? You wanna know why? Because that’s not how you express emotions stop fucking telling your daughters and shit that that’s how life works or I’m gonna steal your kidneys I’m so sick of it. 

Impressions After the Movie: I love how just about every straight white couple that comes on screen is an absolute train wreck lmao. 

Anyways 37 minutes in is when it is actually 9/11/01. I will have to put so many tw on this post no ones gonna be able to read it. I also felt in this point of the movie the anticipation of having a dream that something bad is gonna happen and the day before is so good that I forgot about it and then I realise it is happening as it’s happening around me. 

I know I talked about 9/11 culturally but the actual scenes are alot. I was in Preschool that day so I can’t say what I was doing, but whenever I hear about the people I think about how mundane everything was to that point. I think they used the real audio I don’t 

So much of this tragedy has been used to to justify so much I forget that behind the propaganda, behind the war mongering was something that should’ve never I’m always reminded of how many times this has been rehashed in a million different places by us, by the US, and all these people are are used as a driving force. 

I thought this would be a good post so soon after after the uh bombings in Iran by us. I thought anyone anyone that saw this that’s an American that is uh so deadened by the consistant wars of the past whole of our lives, that this action that has spurned so much vitrolent hate that caused so many deaths not just in the initial impact, but in the years afterwards where this was the propaganda used, that this happens everytime the US does one of these heartless acts. If there was a documentary every time that showed these people in those final hours, how much would you have in common with them? How many of them lived lives that mirror your own, there is so much death and every time I’m reminded of it, I think about how those people lived and the people whose fault it is. Who sit in Washington and drown in money while children are killed and are orphaned and where hundreds of thousands to millions of people are killed for fucking shit. For materials and how much do we need them. How much do we hate our fellow man that this keeps happening over and over again. 

I’m constantly reminded of my sisters, who are being raised in a world that is not fit through no fault of theirs. Where they are turned against their siblings, who are forced to sink further into poverty, while our country bombs people who’s only fault is living, who go to school with a target on their back, while their older brother works himself to death and I’m told to hate my brothers and sisters in Iran for no reason other than a reelection campaign. Why can’t we let the victims rest 

Enjoyment Rating Total: 0/10 I’m crying, and my faith is shot I truly hate America at this point. This entire movie has reminded me of every bit of justification of wars our schools shoved down our throats with ‘Remember 9/11’ as the inciting action. I really just want these people to be put to rest. 

Queer Rep: 10/10 

Rep of Women: 10/10

Racial Awareness: 10/10

General Assholery: 10/10

Fat People: 10/10

Neurodivergency: 10/10

Ableism (Not Including Neurodivergent Peoples): 10/10 The most heartbreaking scene for me is the image of a woman sitting in a wheelchair in front of the elevators, resigned because there’s nothing she can do. 

Diversity: 10/10

Movie Quality: 10/10

Trigger Warnings: death, terrorism

Total Rating: 90/100

Final Thoughts: I’m still crying, even writing this made me cry. I think this documentary is better than any other 9/11 documentary I’ve seen because there was no calls to war from this. And maybe you can tell I went to a school in the south that was connected right to the military where we were raised to go and die for our country because of that statement, but Idc. If you have to see a documentary on a tragedy, this one is very well done, but otherwise I would not recommend watching it because it's so heart wrenching to see. 

I’m gonna go watch the care bears or something now and play with my cat.