#I have to call my neuro and interrogate him now

[ziskeyt]

When i learned i would have to get an EMG (electromyography) my dad and aunt both told me i would hate it cause they stick needles in your muscle to see how to responds. I react poorly to IVs and blood draws, but i have two tattoos and get every vaccine i am allowed to. I wasn’t really sure what to expect because my dad said it was a weird test and he hated it. And i thought, well i’ve had plenty of weird medical tests, i mean barium x-rays and colonoscopies both force you to drink copious amounts of terrible liquid — but nothing. Nothing is as weird as an echocardiogram where they are looking to see if you have a hole in your heart. You learn at some point in your life that air in the blood is bad for you and can kill you, and then one day you’re lying on a hospital bed with a doctor sitting on the bed next to you so she can manipulate the device they hooked your iv up to as she explains how they will be putting air in your blood to look for a hole in your heart. it’ll be safe, she says. It is safe. But you will feel that air the whole trip from the iv entry to your heart.

anyway. So i go to the hospital at eight in the morning and the nurse sticks goopy stickers on my foot and ankle and puts a device on my leg that shoots an electric current through my nerve to see how it responds. It responds! Rejoice. Then the doctor comes in and he tells me he will be putting a needle in three of my leg muscles and i explain about the needle issue and he tells me it is like an acupuncture needle — and i’ve had those once weirdly coincidentally hooked up to a minor electric pulse in physiotherapy years ago. So he sticks my leg and makes me flex my muscle and i learn you can hear your muscles working. Tap tap tap taptaptaptap. My muscles are fine, my nerves are fine. The forgetting my legs problem is not a problem with my legs.

The doctor did tell me when he asked if i had any other medical issues aside from stroke, that having chronic migraines increases your stroke risk. I was diagnosed with chronic migraines about eight years ago—no one has ever informed me of this. But he also has chronic migraines and also let me know i probably shouldn’t do hormones cause, again, increases stroke risk.

a lot of information for pre-nine am.

[anotheronechicagobog]

Functional Dysfunction - Chapter 3 - Abortion Day - Rheese

written by @anotheronechicagobog

warnings: swearing, abortion, mention of vomit, stress, Daniel Charles is an ass, Connor is still dating Robyn just so you guys know

Avoiding Maggie and Manning was easier said than done. She was working in neuro, not the ED, but they still managed to corner her only forty-five minutes into her shift. She'd managed to escape by being called to do rounds but she knew she wouldn't be so lucky next time. She was trying to think of a game plan or an excuse, just something she could use when they hunted her down next time, but she was coming up empty. Manning had mother's intuition and Maggie is a living, breathing lie detector. So she was drowning herself in work, Dr. Abrams had just given her a bland stare when she was in his office that morning. "I'll give you the extra work because Anderson is out sick, but don't take this as an invitation to distract yourself because of your pregnancy." Sarah had only managed to make choking noises as she wished a hole would swallow her. "I'm a doctor, don't look so shocked. I will need to know what adjustments will need to be made to your schedule depending on your condition, but that can be handled at a later date. I will not tell anyone because I do not partake in hospital gossip, but I must ask that you refrain from talking about it excessively should you choose to share the news, this is a workplace."

"O-of course." So, now two people knew and neither of them was the father. But she was getting an abortion so what did it matter? Plus, Jimmy had gotten back together with Chilli for the... Third? Time... Honestly, she'd stopped keeping track because, to be frank, she wasn't a fan of gossip herself. So she was pushing everything but neurology to the back of her mind and focusing on her patients. It was actually helping, being methodical and relatively unemotional. She'd heard when she was a med student that Dr. Abrams was unnecessarily cruel but Sarah didn't believe that to be true at all. Sure he was cold and blunt, but in his field, there was even less room for error than there usually was when treating someone. Dousing bad odds in sugar wasn't going to make anything better and Sarah thought that his demeanour and the way he presented things actually made patients sober up and recognize just how serious he was being. And no, the man did not have a humble bone in his body, but everyone has flaws and considering how low his mortality rate is compared to other neurosurgeons, she considers it a flaw well-earned. 

Sarah was doing the pre-ops for a patient who was going to have a sizable brain tumour removed, the tumour was actually in the best spot possible, you know, considering it's a brain tumour. She was going to be scrubbing in provided she completed the pre-ops to Dr. Abrams' expectations. "Reese."

"Ah!" She whirled around to see Manning standing behind her a pensive look on the older woman's face. "Dr. Manning, you snuck up behind me." She placed her hand over her chest in an attempt to slow her racing heart, not just from being startled, but because now might be time for the confrontation she'd been working so diligently to avoid. "How else was I supposed to talk to you? You've been avoiding Maggie and I." 

"Not actively, I just have a lot of work to do. You know how much effort and time it takes to do a double specialty."

"Don't lie to me Reese, I know that something's wrong. We can help you, you just need to talk to us!"

"There is nothing wrong, though! I am fine, I just need you and Maggie to stop jumping down my throat."

"Wow, settle down, Sarah. You're not usually this irritable, so there definitely is something wrong."

"Dr. Manning I need my resident now, so if you could stop interrogating her in the hallway that would be wonderful." 

"Bye Dr. Manning."

"Reese-" Sarah turned back to Natalie to give her a quick thumbs up and smile, something she hoped would reassure her, before continuing behind Dr. Abrams at a speedy pace. "How's our patient doing?"

"His labs are good, cell count normal, temp hasn't gone up, the scans were a little concerning though. The tumour has gotten bigger since the last scan. By half a millimetre." Dr. Abrams stopped walking abruptly, grabbed the scan from the still speed-walking Sarah, and studied it intently while Sarah nearly tripped over herself trying to stop. "You are correct. His tumour is growing, we need to remove it today. It's impressive that a first-year resident caught that slight discrepancy. Scrub up and inform the head OR scheduling team." She nodded and ran ahead to the neuro nurse's station. 

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Dr. Abrams' steady hands delicately probed their patient's brain, carefully moving the scalpel to separate the tumour from the rest of the brain. Sarah was at his side studying his movements and answering all his questions. " And what do we do next Dr. Reese?"

"The tumour is ready to be removed, we place it in a surgical tray to get transferred to pathology to be tested."

"Good. I want you to take the tumour there personally, the growth rate is concerning. Attend to my post-ops afterwards."

"Of course Dr. Abrams." Sarah took his orders very seriously and refrained from doing a happy dance the second she exited the OR. The tumour was moved from the surgical tray to a plastic container marked for biological testing before she washed her arms and scrubbed down. As she headed to the elevator she noticed Maggie talking to the OR nurses stationed at the desk. Their eyes met and Sarah knew that Maggie, like Manning, weren't going to stop insisting she was acting differently until she wasn't. As the doors closed she took a deep breath and revelled in the relief that her abortion was tomorrow.

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Sarah finished her shift completely starving and a little disheartened. News of Robyn's admittance to the hospital had become widespread, she'd had to act like she hadn't already known when Doris jumped next to her in the cafeteria before flittering off to tell another person who had no business knowing that information. Sarah felt angry on Robyn's behalf, the poor woman was going through something so terrifying, and now she wasn't even able to defend herself from others slandering her. She'd wanted to say something to Doris, snap back at her, but the gossip had slithered away before she could even get a word out. 

Her day got even worse when Jimmy came in with a victim, riding in ambo 61 while Sylvie was on vacation visiting her parents. It was hands down the most awkward interaction ever. He handed off the patient to her, but then wouldn't go away. And Chilli was glaring at her the whole time. Sarah briefly considered that maybe they were on a break or having a tiff and he was trying to make the other paramedic jealous, and then just got more annoyed. She just looked at him incredulously before focusing back on the patient. He still didn't leave. "Jimmy, let's go restock... Jimmy. Let's go." She could feel his eyes boring into her and could feel her blood boiling. What was his problem? His job was done, it was time for her to do hers now. Instead, he was jabbering on about shrimp, the Blackhawks, and her hair, of all things. She closed the curtains on him, only for him to open them back up with a smug smile. All despite the fact that everyone was telling him to leave, Dr. Manning, April, Doris, Maggie. "Uh, hey, dude? Could you maybe leave her alone? She's supposed to fix my arm which has a shard of glass sticking out of it, not being creeped on by you." She couldn't believe it took her patient saying something to get him to leave.

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Sarah rolled her neck, trying to shake the day away while she relished in a moment of silence in her hiding place when Connor found her. "I heard that you had a pretty crappy morning."

"You could say that."

"So, Jimmy showed up?"

"He was a paramedic today."

"Well, that's debatable. Paramedics leave after they hand off a patient."

"Yeah, I know. It was... Really weird. Honestly, it's probably because he's working with Chilli and they're going through something."

"They're always going through something."

"Tell me about it."

"So what really happened? Cause I've heard a few different versions at this point."

"The ambulance called ahead with possible neurological damage, he was fine but it's better to be safe than sorry, and Jimmy just wouldn't leave. I was just trying to do my job and he was just standing there, watching me, and talking about my hair. He was asked to leave so many times, Dr. Manning, nurses, hell even his partner joined in. I tried to close the curtain twice but he just opened it again, and actually looked a little insulted that I did. I don't know what his deal was."

"Damn. I don't know him very well but he kinda seems like a tool."

"He is, but I wasn't exactly looking for anything long-term with him."

"Fair enough."

"Speaking of long-term relationships, how's Robyn doing? Your meeting with the hospital about her release is today, right?"

"Yeah, it's in an hour. Robyn's been doing good, I'm just trying to calm down right now."

"Nervous?"

"Angry."

"About?"

"Dr. Charles is her father who abandoned her and has spent the last several months trying to forge some kind of a relationship with her. He has no right to claim to know what's best for her, personal or professional. She was meeting with a psychiatrist, they'd come up with a treatment plan, she was actually talking about admitting herself to psych. But now? She's totally shut down, completely defensive, and I want to help her but she won't let me."

"Something to bring up to her is resuming treatment and all the plans she had before, just at a different hospital. Gaffney isn't the only hospital with psych facilities, Lakeshore's is actually better rated. So she'd still get treatment but her files wouldn't be accessible by her father and none of his orders regarding her care would be taken seriously, he doesn't have clearance there."

"That's a great idea, Sarah. Thank you, I'll make sure to bring it up with her."

"No problem. I really hope that Robyn gets proper treatment and as much space from her father as she wants."

"Me too. I should probably get going, I have to change out of my scrubs and meet with my lawyer before the meeting."

"Good luck!"

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"Hey, Reese, are you going to Molly's?"

"No, I'd rather go home and get some sleep."

"You haven't really been coming out with us a lot, are you okay?"

"Did I ever really go that often in the past?"

"Touché."

"And, I'm fine. Completely fine, but Manning and Maggie don't believe me and I suspect that they go to you too, Choi."

"Guilty as charged, we're just worried about you."

"But there is nothing to be worried about."

"You can't eat, you've been throwing up, you've somehow gotten even more private and secretive, and Borelli's been really weird lately. Always asking where you are, how you're doing, what your day was like, and then there was that whole incident in the ED. Something's going on, Sarah. We are worried about you."

"You're right, something's going on, but it's nothing bad and certainly nothing I can't handle myself."

"So there is something going on." She just sighed and gave him an exasperated look. He held his hands up in defence and sent a weak smile her way. "I guess I'll see you later then, Reese."

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It was abortion day, as Connor had so lovingly dubbed it. Sarah was nervous beyond belief and she had no idea why. It was a quick, painless procedure. A procedure she wanted. There was nothing to be afraid of. She'd been in an OR a couple of times to watch abortions being performed during her OB/GYN rotation. The procedure was simple and safe, there should not have been an entire damn zoo stomping around in her stomach, there was nothing to be nervous about... Right? The knots in her stomach kept twisting and twisting, bile was rising up her throat and she just couldn't hold it back. She barely made it to the bathroom in time. 

She spent ten minutes gripping the toilet bowl as her body shook and was drained of energy every time she opened her mouth. Her hair had clumps of vomit and toilet water infect her curls. She was cold everywhere but her throat which felt like it was burned with how raw it was. Tears prickled her eyes, but she had no idea why. Yes, she was going through hormone changes but she hadn't actually reached the hormone stage of pregnancy yet. Stage of pregnancy. She felt so strange whenever she thought about it, so she tried not to. She'd finished getting dressed in leggings and a sweater when her buzzer went off. Puzzled, she pressed the button on the intercom system. "Hello?"

"Sarah? Hi, it's Connor. I'm here to take you to the clinic for your procedure if you want. Just to be supportive and take you home after."

"Connor, you don't have to."

"I know, I'm offering. Everyone needs a support system. You've been mine while dealing with this whole Robyn debacle, I'll be yours through this."

"Thank you, Connor. I'll take you up on it, I'll be downstairs in a few minutes."

"Okay, see you then."

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The car ride was smooth and luxurious, solely because of Connor's high-end car. Inside, Sarah was nothing but nerves. The sinking feeling in her stomach that had been present since she booked the abortion got heavier and heavier the closer they got to the clinic. Connor was trying to keep the mood light by talking about how hectic med school had been in Guadulajara but was failing through no fault of his own, it was all Sarah's. When they actually made it to the clinic Sarah was on the verge of violently vomiting all over the interior of the car. "Sarah? Are you okay?"

"I'll be fine."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Sarah, you don;t have to do this if you don't want to."

"I know."

"Okay. Then take a deep breath, I've got you."

Sarah doesn't actually remember exiting the car on shakey legs. Or pushing through the mob of pro-life jackasses. Or being escorted to the admitting room by a security guard. One moment she was sitting in the passenger seat with Connor holding her hand and running his thumb across her knuckles and the next she was standing beside him in line to talk to the secretary who sat behind bullet-proof glass. The blue walls and colourful decor felt alien to her for some reason. "Name?"

"Sarah Reese." 

"And is this your support person?"

"Yes."

She answered the rest of the secretary's questions despite feeling like she was underwater, and was instructed to take a seat and wait for her name to be called. The longer she sat there, the more suffocated she felt, and Connor's supportive hand-holding and an arm wrapped protectively around her shoulders only did so much. It felt like they sat there for eternity, time dragging on in the most cruel, painful way. The woman who had been opening the frosted door to call out names and guide people through to the back reappeared. "Sarah Reese?" She didn't move. She couldn't. "Sarah?" This time it was Connor. "Sarah? Please say something, anything." She could feel the weight of everyone in the room staring at her. "I can't do this Connor."

"Okay, then let's get out of here."

[5lazarus]

Lore and the Prophets

Written for the Boldly Go Gift Exchange (go check it out, everyone’s wonderful!), and crossposted to AO3 here. Lore thinks he can sneak off Deep Space Nine and get through the wormhole without anyone noticing. The Prophets have other ideas. special thanks to @saathiray for helping me work out the plot and @planesofduality for cheering me on!

Lore is tasting Romulan ale at Quark’s bar, using Data’s credits. His brother comes in useful occasionally, though rarely. Around him buzzes a party. Apparently the station’s constabulary is celebrating all its new recruits. Lore is disinterested. Dr. Soong had programmed him with an appreciation of the finer tastes of life, and the way Romulan ale interacts with his organic mesh is pleasing to him. When he is disguised like Data he likes to think like him--not, of course, because he particularly admires the logical turns of his android mind, or because he misses feeling close to him. It’s method acting, as the Earth actors of the 21st century would claim. He swirls the bright blue beer in the snifter, enjoying the sensation of falling into an electric cloud, and ignores the chatter around him. A vedek slides down next to him and signals to Quark to bring him his usual. His robes and hat are arranged to hide his face. Lore is slightly curious, but not enough to move to another table. He will leave soon--the freighter meant for the Bajoran colony on the other side of the wormhole is set to depart in two hours, with him and his grand plans with it. Dr. Soong might think his brother his greatest creation, but what Lore will wreak will be the best yet. Then a man says, “Commander Data! It’s good to see you.” He curls his fingers around Lore’s shoulder and Lore turns mechanically to regard him, cursing to himself. He fixes his face in Data’s blank stare. “Yes,” he says. He does not recognize the man in the Starfleet doctor’s uniform, but clearly Data would. The doctor smiles warmly. “Oh, Romulan ale,” he says. He slides onto the stool next him. “I suppose you’re running some sort of experiment.” He looks at him expectantly, still inanely grinning, and Lore rapidly thinks of an excuse. The doctor keeps staring at his feet. Why the fuck is he staring at his feet? He opens his mind and suddenly the circuits of his perfect positronic brain fizzled, and panicked at the malfunction Lore tries to get up as the Ferengi bartender says in an echoing voice, THE MACHINE. The doctor, slackjawed, says, THE MACHINE HAS ANSWERED THE CALL. Lore starts in horror as the words echo in his  mind and almost falls off his perch. The Bajoran security officer behind him is suddenly in front of him, and he blinks, because Romulan ale is hypnotic, not hallucinogenic, this should not be happening, not when he set his organic processing system to separate out the suggestic effect-- THE MACHINE WILL KNOW, the Bajoran security officer intones. FOR THE SISKO THE MACHINE WILL KNOW. BAJOR IS OF THE PROPHETS, the Ferengi says: Quark. THE MACHINE WILL KNOW. The doctor says, THE MACHINE WILL KEEP BAJOR FOR THE PROPHETS. Lore says, “What the fuck is this?” His brain buzzes, he seizes again, and his vision goes dark as his body prioritizes life support over data processing systems.

Lore wakes up to the doctor and several security officers hovering over him anxiously, prone on the sticky floor of Quark’s bar, with the changeling constable barking orders to evacuate the place. He grabs the doctor. “What’s happening?” “There’s been a murder,” he says. “You’ve been poisoned too--Lore.” Lore spasms hard and collapses again to the ground, his eyes filling with a bright white light. When he wakes up, he is splayed on a biobed, despite his obvious synthetic parts. He tries to move, but finds himself stuck in a containment field: just his luck. His eyes swivel over to the controllers, where that doctor and a Trill regard him cautiously. The Trill straddles a chair, leaning on the headrest. Lore knows far too much of human biology and understands she would be considered quite attractive. The lankiness of the doctor is more his type, however, more easily manipulated, and while she looks at him warily the doctor has open curiosity on his face. Lore can use that. “Lore, I presume,” the doctor says. “Data’s...brother.” Lore twitches in annoyance. He was the better creation, he suffered more, he survived more--why does he always have to be defined by Data? They are nothing alike. They share the same neuro-synthetic make-up. That is it. “Dr. Soong’s murderer,” the Trill adds solemnly. She places her hand on the phaser at her belt. The doctor looks at her curiously. “An old drinking buddy of Curzon’s.” Lore sniffs. His father spent more time running about the galaxy than with him, and perhaps he wouldn’t have ended up so broken--perfect, he corrects himself, determined and justified and perfect--if Dr. Soong had bothered to stay with him, rather than plugging him into the computer. “Dax,” Lore says. “Can’t say he ever mentioned you.” He is lying, of course, but that’s his right. “And I’m Bashir,” the doctor says. “Dr. Julian Bashir.” Dax rolls her eyes at him, a private joke. Lore feels a flash of envy. He wants to know everything, even the private things. Dax touches her combage while Bashir continues, “You gave us quite a surprise, Lore. We’d been given an alert that you might be heading to the Gamma Quadrant, but we didn’t think you’d show up at Quark’s bar! The Romulan ale--how did it interact with your positronic brain? I don’t think that’s what caused you to black out, but--” “Do you mind?” Lore interrupts. “Are you arresting me or experimenting on me?” He tests the biobed’s confinements again. Dax points her phaser at him. Lore chuckles. “Really, Dax? May I call you Dax? What can I even do to you from here?” The door to the medbay opens and the goo constable and station captain walk in, phasers drawn: Odo, and Cpt. Benjamin Sisko, according to the database he hacked before piloting to the station. “Well, well,” Odo says, “a fugitive. And one who crashed a party of cops, while drinking illegally-imported ale. You can’t make this up.” Lore is a bit embarrassed. “It’s only illegal to Starfleet personnel,” he snarks. “And I am not my brother.” Odo snorts in response. Sisko eyes him, amused, then turns to Lore. “When you were...incapacitated,” he doesn’t want to use the word unconscious for a machine, “you muttered something about a vision. Explain.” “Oh,” Lore says, “we’ve decided on a genre. So now this is an interrogation, not an experiment.” “We can still vivisect you,” Odo says. “No, we can’t,” Bashir says testily. Sisko raises his hands slightly, to quiet them all down. They all look at him. Dax has not dropped her phaser, not once. Lore decides it’s in his best interests to cooperate. “If you must know,” he says, “I don’t know what happened either. I was just biding my time til I could head through the wormhole, where my vision went--blurry, and everyone started speaking as if they were..echoing within the circuits of my mind. They called me the ‘Machine’--they said I will know that Bajor is the Prophets--your wormhole aliens, aren’t they?” Sisko blinks slowly like a snake, taking him in. Lore keeps his gaze steady. He feels if he makes any sudden movements, Sisko will strike, precise and deadly. He is even more carefully controlled than Picard, and smoother. Lore can’t help but admire it. Then Sisko blinks. He stares into the distance, and suddenly shakes his head and refocuses. “Fascinating,” Sisko purrs. “A vedek is murdered while the Prophets tell you to keep Bajor theirs. A likely story. A likeable one.” “Noonian was always a charmer,” Dax says. “Well, he knew how to get you off his back.” Is that a hint of bitterness Lore detects? History he will never know: Dr. Soong burned his diaries when he realized Lore knew his code. “Since you claim the Prophets want to use you,” Sisko says, “let us see what use the Prophets have for you. Odo, Bashir--let him out of his clamps. You may investigate the vedek’s murder. Chief O’Brien has programmed the station’s database to keep you well restrained within its borders. Odo, Dr. Bashir--I want you two to use him. Find what poison they used, cross-reference whatever Starfleet database Lore has compiled--and find who did it.” “And then what?” Lore asks. Sisko smiles. “And then,” he says, “the Prophets will know what to do to you.”

They release him from his clamps but keep the containment field but in the medbay. Dax and Sisko leave, Dax never letting her back be exposed, and Bashir clears his throat when the door clicks shut. He begins to explain the poison--a distillation of expired moba fruit cut with smoke, a popular amphetamine amongst the former Bajoran resistance. Odo nods along thoughtfully but Lore is bored. It is clear this has to do with some petty regional squabble. One faction wanted another out, and Bajor’s resident would-be gods decided to intervene. It is odd that they have made him their tool, but Lore cannot blame them. He is brilliant, after all, and has a good reputation amongst the more eldritch species of the galaxy. The Q Continuum and the Crystalline Entity gave him rave reviews. When Bashir is finally done, Lore speaks before Odo can reform vocal cords. “So. What priesthood and caste is he? Have you done your report?” He raises an eyebrow at Odo. “No, of course not. Well, plug me in. Give me his name and twelve seconds and I can tell you everything about him, including what he ate for dinner last night.” Bashir looks at him wryly, rapping his PADD with knuckles. “Simple fare--he is part of the late Vedek Bareil’s order. Rice and a touch of salt. The drink was a surprise.” Lore is confused. He doesn’t know what he is talking about. Odo crosses his arms and smiles thinly. “ Also Romulan ale, which a simple vedek could not afford, let along drink in public. A vintage Quark was told to lay aside, by a certain Tahna Los a few years ago.” Lore is irritated. “If you’re going to withhold information, I’m going to complain to the captain. He wants me here for a reason. You may as well use my processing capabilities, or be done with me now, and hand me over to Starfleet.” Bashir and Odo exchange a glance, and Odo scoffs. “Believe me,” he says, “there is nothing I would like more. But the captain is as good as his word. We are going to see what the wormhole aliens want with you. And then we’ll hand you over to Starfleet.” “So glad I’ve excited such intellectual curiosity in you,” Lore snorts. “Put please--give me the information and let’s be done with it. I don’t like being used, you know. I want to know what they’re doing with me as much as you do.” Odo regards him. “Hm. You do know Captain Sisko drove the Q Continuum off the station, right? We don’t...tolerate horrors coming out of space at Deep Space Nine. And every starbase has been outfitted with the graviton resonance to shatter one of those crystal creatures.” “Right,” Lore says. “Because there’s only room for one ‘horror out of space’ on this station.” Bashir coughs a laugh into his hand, and coughs harder at the look Odo gives him. Proverbial dick-measuring done, the three set to work. Odo accesses the constabulary's databases from Bashir’s desk, and after carefully adjusting the security parameters, allows Lore to begin analysis of his files regarding Tahna Los, the unfortunate vedek, Bareil’s order, and Bajoran religious factionalism. Lore could easily hack into the rest of the databases, and he zips the files and stores them to chew over when he’s finally out of the Alpha Quadrant. He blinks rapidly as he realizes that this vedek and Tahna Los share an arrest record. Both were taken into custody by Cardassian nine years ago, with two people who work with station security. He says aloud, for the fleshier folk in the room, “Kira Nerys, Tahna Los, our unfortunate vedek, and one of your very own officers were arrested together, Constable. Perhaps you should screen your recruits more thoroughly.” He mimics Data in his deadpan delivery. Odo is unamused. Everyone’s a critic. “That doesn’t mean anything,” Odo says. “Kira shares an arrest record with half of Bajor. And most of my officers were...detained by Cardassians, at one time or another.” He looks a little uncomfortable. Collaboration always is--he arrested a few of them. Lore smiles slowly. He has learned many useful things from these files, more than the constable will ever know. “So let’s talk to Kira,” Bashir says eagerly.

They ping Kira, and Lore has to admit he’s curious as to what she’s going to say. She is fascinating. It takes a certain kind of person to go from terrorism to Starfleet-adjacent bureaucracy, and Lore wants to know exactly what that is. He knows he could do it, he has taken his survival matrix and run with it, and of course that is why the Prophets chose him for whatever little mission they have. It’s flattering to be in the center of the storm. It is exactly what he deserves, and he is curious to see what this kindred spirit is like. Major Kira glances at him curiously but without the hostility that characterized Dax or the interest Bashir showed. She looks tired. The vedek must’ve been a friend of hers, or at least a comrade. Lore doesn’t understand that relationship, nothing he has read or experienced has explained friendship beyond desire, but he knows she must feel upset. If only he cared. “Yes?” Kira says guardedly. “You called?” She glances at the body on the table, bites her lip, and looks away. “You don’t think it was the Cardassians, do you? I need an answer to give the provisional government. And if Bareil’s order, of all things, has been infiltrated, we need to start preparing. I’ve lost enough of my comrades to them.” Odo and Bashir exchange a glance, concerned. Lore, again, does not care--but he registers this is a vulnerability he can exploit. Bashir says slowly, “He was poisoned, Major. With a drink that Tahna Los sent him. And the only connection he has to Tahna Los is--well, you.” Kira regards the body. “The Kohn-Ma has long been disbanded. And Tahna Los is held at a monastery in the Rakantha monastery, being rehabilitated for civilian life. He wouldn’t have had access to even a data PADD. It’s the Shakaar cell who guards them, and they’re no friend to the Kohn-Ma. Not anymore.” “You’ve said that before,” Odo says. “And you were wrong.” “Are you accusing me of lying?” “No. Just that your sources might be.” Kira glares at the constable, and Bashir makes a face at Lore. Lore raises an eyebrow. Bashir hides a smile. “Gentlemen,” Bashir interrupts. He gestures at the body. “If we may get back to the matter at hand.” “Sometime before it finishes decomposing,” Lore drawls. Bashir’s mouth twitches into a smile. “Quite. Now, we know the Prophets are worried about a threat to their connection to Bajor--the wormhole, presumably, we’ve been through this before. We have a dead body, killed by a drink sent by a known member of the Kohn-Ma--separatists. And we know this man was not , but a member of the late Vedek Bareil’s secularist order. Now, I’ll willing to bank on the hunch that Tahna Los was framed--but the question is, does this represent a Kohn-Ma resurgence? Who killed him, and why?” Lore says, “Two of your new recruits were arrested with Tahna Los and this...unfortunate.” He regards the corpse with some distaste. At least he will never truly die. Odo straightens abruptly. “I vetted those men myself--” and then the station shakes, and while Lore simply adjusts the mechanical gravitational sense of his body, the fleshier ones stumble. Odo’s combadge chimes. He presses it. Lore cocks his head, curious. Does he pin it to his flesh? Does a changeling have flesh? Can he feel? Sisko’s voice rings out. “Constable, you’d better get to Ops. Bring Lore. A bomb went off in my office.”

In Sisko’s office, one of Odo’s new recruits is running a tricorder over the explosive powder left over from the bomb. Papers are strewn everywhere, and the desk is in splinters. Sisko turns from the window as the wormhole opens and frowns when he sees them, palming a baseball. Lore quickly analyzes the new recruit’s face: it’s one of them that was arrested with the homicide victim and Tahna Los himself. He smiles quietly to himself. Their security is truly incompetent, if they let any old Bajoran resistance fighter in. It’s embarrassing they caught him at all. Then again, it’s hard to disguise himself when he has his brother’s face. He scowls to himself, annoyed. He came first: when his brother took his face. Sisko nods at Odo, who quietly sets a containment field behind him. Lore realizes they know. Perhaps they are cleverer than they look. Even a stopped clock hits on something right twice a day--something Dr. Soong would tell him. Sisko says, “Report.” Odo cannot hide his own smugness. “We have reason to believe,” he says stiffly. Lore quirks his head. Fascinating how even a shapeshifter cannot keep his emotions from working its way to his face: expression truly is a learned behavior, Lore thinks. Odo continues, “We have reason to believe that we have been infiltrated by rogue members of the Kohn-Ma sect, who are striking against resistance fighters who have taken a more moderate position since Bajor’s liberation.” Behind Odo, Bashir puts his hand on his phaser. Lore is amused to see that it is set to stun. The recruit stiffens, but continues to analyze the bomb sample. His hands are shaking. “Really?” Sisko says. “A threat that concerns even the Prophets, who don’t want their connection to Bajor severed. I suppose that makes sense. Recruit, do you have anything to say?” The recruit turns slowly. “Is there any point?” he says. “When even the Prophets are against you.” Sisko says gently, “Not against you. For Bajor. By any means necessary.” He looks at Lore. “Even using a machine.” Sisko nods at Odo, who puts his hand on the recruit’s shoulder and helps him up. He leads him from Sisko’s office and into the turbolift, solemn-faced. “What will happen to him?” Bashir asks. Sisko sighs. “He killed a vedek. You’re better off asking the Major about the limits of Bajoran jurisprudence when it comes to old comrades. But doubtless he will not be getting the same treatment as Tahna Los. And we will need to monitor where he is sent, to make sure the monastery is not being used as a hotbed of radicalization.” Bashir frowns. Sisko turns to Lore. “And now for you, our resident fugitive.” He smiles thinly, and Lore steps back. The containment field is still up. He realizes he’s been tricked--it was not just for the bomber, but for him as well. With newfound respect, he gazes steadily at Sisko. This team is nothing like Data’s crew. They are much, much trickier. “Oh, I hope I won’t be staying long enough to be a resident ,” Lore says, trying to play it cool. “There’s a whole galaxy to see, on the other side of the wormhole. And, well, the Prophets have taken an interest in me. Why don’t you toss me at the Dominion and see what happens?” Sisko is unamused but Bashir snorts. “No,” Sisko says, “I think not. You see, I was sent a top-secret message by Starfleet Command an hour ago--alpha alpha black gamma clearance. A certain secretive department wants you, Lore.” “Section 31,” Bashir says out loud. Lore is unmoved. He has never heard of them. Sisko continues, “And I don’t want them to have you. If you’re so despicable to make an alliance with the Borg,” his eyes flash, and Lore is chilled, “then I don’t want to see what Section 31 will twist you into. I believe in the Federation.” Those words sound hollow, even to Lore. “I believe in Bajor, and I trust the Prophets. I’m sending you through the wormhole, Lore. For the Federation’s good and the good of Bajor. Right to the colonies on New Bajor, where the electromagnetic net in the atmosphere is set to make androids such as yourself move a bit more slowly. And certainly too slowly to be successful in any escape attempt. May this time in contemplation be good for you, Lore. And better than the Borg.” He smiles grimly, and turns away from them to regard the wormhole once more. “Dismissed.”

Lore is terrified. Bashir stings him with a hypospray that makes his movement malleable and leads him into the turbolift and towards the docks. He tries to work his mouth, but nothing comes out. Bashir himself is stony-faced. He doesn’t approve, but he follows orders. Lore curses himself, he should have realized that Captain Sisko of all people is not to be trifled with, the man lost his wife to the Borg, of course he wouldn’t be able to work out a deal. He’s heard so many stories of people who have managed to bargain with the station’s crew, he thought that he out of all people would be able to come up with a deal. The turbolift stops and the doors chime open, and Bashir pushes him forward gently, hand at his neck, another prodding a phaser into his back. Lore wonders if it is set to kill. He stammers, “D-don’t--” as they march to the runabout. Bashir opens the door and regards him sadly. “You are magnificent, do you know that?” he says. “A truly human android. Even more than your brother. Fully flawed, emotive, angry. So you deserve a chance.” He walks him into the cabin and straps him into the pilot’s chair of the runabout. “I hope you take this one. It’ll be the last you get, but who’s to say it’s better than you deserve?” Bashir turns the runabout on and activates the autopilot. “Good luck, Lore. And godspeed. I hope you find what you need on New Bajor. Slowing down a fast-paced mind--” He exhales sharply. “Well.” He smiles. “I was genetically augmented, you know. Using a procedure based on Dr. Soong’s experiments. So I think I understand a bit how your mind works, and how it can go--not wrong, but how it is hard. Perhaps this will be good for you.” He pats him on the shoulder. “It’s better than Section 31, at least. Good luck.” The runabout leaves and Lore is left in the lurch as the stars spin away and the wormhole opens to swallow him, leaving the Alpha Quadrant far behind, and he cannot move as his mind slows in the odd electric silence. He wishes, he wishes, he wishes--and then time slows and he can only contemplate as a spectre taking the shape of his father looks at him and says, THE MACHINE IS OF BAJOR. THE MACHINE KNOWS.

[iggy-of-fans]

Part 6, here we are! Also, I hope nobody thinks I don't like Raven. She's literally my favorite TT ever. Hopefully I didn't lose too many of you to her turning. She does get a redemption, I promise! 

Now, we're going to have the conclusion and the epilogue and then I'm done this one. 

What is will always be

Damian had seen several of the magic users take to corners in the ballroom, and so when Jason returned fully costumed he took the Cat Miraculous and ran to the cave. He found Tim about to transform and stopped him. 

"Take this one and transform instead" he said, "the weapon is a staff anyways. Give me the fox. I have an easier time hiding the eears under my hood. And my costume is brighter. No one will look twice at orange thrown in."

"That is…. Brilliant…. No One would believe you switched to a baton, and I don't know if we can switch weapons… Not that a flute is all that… Useful." Timothy said, handing the fox tail to Damien. They transformed quickly and threw on their costumes, finishing just in time for the others to start making their way down. Timothy tried to make it look like he was hiding something much larger than the little black triangles that blended into his hair, while Robin made sure his hat stayed securely on.

"The situation we find ourselves in today…." 

When the JL saw that they had two missing teens Alfred decided to step in. He was out of practice, but he was sure he could help the teens. He looked to Oracle and begged the Miraculous box to open for him. It seemed his prayer was heard, at least somewhat, as the butterfly Miraculous fased up through the box. 

"Oracle, take this. I will need your help to save those kids" Alfred handed her the Miraculous. Noroo awoke and looked at the woman, sitting patiently in a wheelchair and he gasped. 

"oh my poor fairy! Who hurt you so?! I was hurt before too, do you want to help each other heal?" Noroo was quite young in comparison to the others in the inner circle and had very little experience out in the world. But he was eager to redeem himself in the eyes of the world. Barbara was shocked, but nodded. When the light faded, she sat in her chair with new purpose. A butterfly was born from her good intentions to help and landed on her hand. "Magic is so weird" she mumbled, before she thought of how to help the kids. She'd seen the fear in the shorter boys, but the taller one was determined to do the right thing. Him then. She powered up the butterfly, watching as Alfred concentrated hard as well. With a wave of his fan, the butterfly and feather took off to Metropolis. 

… "Here's the plan, everyone. I need Tim to create an illusion of Robin to get close to Adrien and Alya. Then-" 

"Sorry to interrupt Angel, but I don't fight with a staff" Robin stated, lifting his hood slightly to reveal the long fox ears. He dropped it and Guardian Angel looked shocked for a second. 

"You brilliant, brilliant man!" she called, "Okay, new plan. We need a comm from their end. Can anyone do an impression of someone? Like Bane or something?"

"That would be me!" Red Hood called through the comms, shooting another assassin between the eyes. 

"Perfect! Robin, use the mirage to create a ring under your left glove, make it real. You will have to be able to fake a cataclysm midway through, can you do that?" Robin just nodded his head, pulling the flute out from under his Cape and creating a perfect Bane replica. The battle still raging produced the perfect cover for them. 

" Now, make it look like he's dragging you, don't fight too hard, or your illusion will vanish. Superman, get the real Bane and at least break his comm. Take the nerve toxin from Red Robin. Someone get the Red Hood the enemy communicator. Wonder Woman, assist Superman. Supergirl and Superboy. Are you recovered enough to take the ground troops out? Perfect. Remember Robin, you'll have to make an illusion of the ladybug earrings too. Tikki knows to run and hide as soon as he's distracted." 

In Metropolis, Max had long since gone from scared to catatonic. Barely breathing and too terrified to speak. He'd been separated from Nino after their message was discovered. He was as good as dead. 

Nino on the other hand kept tugging at his binds. There is a way out. Ladybug and Marinette would've found one. By Wayzz he hated himself. Why the hell had he let Lila get in the way of years of friendship? How had he believed the utter crap that came out of her mouth? 

Luther had decided it wasn't worth the trouble to kill them since Adrien planned to just resurrect them with his wish, so he left them tied (and beaten and bloody) in a couple of offices on the top floor.. Nino glared at the door, anger coursing through him. 

"Justice, I am Fairy Oracle, from Gotham. I can help you and your friend escape from not only this maniac, but away from the ones you once called friends." 

"And I am Påfugl. I will lend you a companion to aide in your escape. If you accept our aide, unlike when you were Akumatized, you will remember and have ultimate control of your actions. What do you say?" 

"I accept" Nino whispered. Immediately a green light overtook him. He felt the new powers coursing through him, but looking down he didn't look like his outlandish Bubbler form, but rather a bit like the American heroes, with a simple green spandex suit. He flexed his muscles. He didn't look too different from usual, didn't feel too different. But the binding broke from his muscles like glass. He wondered what the power up was hidden in. He hadn't seen the butterfly… Shrugging he looked to the door. He knew roughly that Max was in another office to the right of his own door. He also knew he had a minimum of four guards to fight through. He looked around for the companion he was supposed to receive.

"Look outside" a voice whispered through his head. He looked and saw a falcon flying in the distance, "when you're ready, jump. We will catch you." 

Oh… Okay. He looked at the door and checked the slit to see if it was locked. Of course it was. Okay. Let's see how strong he really was. He yanked the door with all his might, pulling the door clear off the wall. Oops. The guards turned to look at this unknown and lifted their guns. Well, so much for stealth, Nino thought as he threw the door at the two guards. He saw the two that had take Max running down the hall from his right and he quickly picked the door back up and threw it at them too before taking off towards the rooms at the end of the hall. He broke three doors before he found Max, gaping at him like he had two heads. 

"Let's GO!" Nino yelled, breaking the rope on Max and jumping out the nearest window. 

"OH please dear God if I rot in jail, please just get us out of here" he whispered as he and Max fell fifteen stories and counting. Suddenly they abruptly stopped falling, claws closing in on their shirts as a giant falcon swooped over them and lifted off towards Gotham. Distantly Nino still heard the shouts from guards to shoot, but they were out of range. 

With Bane subdued with Neuro-inhibitors, the assassins placed into bullet proof glass boxes, Scarecrow on his way to Arkham, and a quick Miraculous Ladybug to fix the damage, the heroes were left with a passed out Adrien and a cuffed Alya. Commissioner Gordon wanted to have Adrien brought to the hospital for treatment and Alya to the police station for questioning. But the heroes wouldn't be left out. Batman insisted he and Wonder Woman head to the hospital with Adrien. Red Hood nodded and asked Supergirl to accompany himself with Alya. Nightwing nodded to the passed out Raven, being held in cuffs by Star fire. Robin took hold of Guardian Angel and offered her a ride home on his Robin Bike. She smiled and was about to nod when a bird cry was heard from above. Looking up, everyone saw a giant falcon landing with two boys in its claws. They recognized them immediately as Max Kantê and Nino Lahiffe. Commissioner Gordon took them into custody as well, to decide what to do with them after, giving the heroes not joining for the Interrogation a rest. Guardian Angel thanked Comissioner Gordon, and went with Robin back to the batcave. 

Once there, along with several other heroes who were recovering, Marinette tuned in to the screen where Red Hood and Supergirl were with Alya. 

"Miss Cesaire, I am curious about what led you to follow Mr Agreste to Gotham" a translator sat in the room, turning her head to Alya. 

"Lila Rossi is not a liar! I'm a journalist, I know this! She can't be a liar. That means Ladybug is and I just wanted her to admit Lila was telling the truth!" Alya screamed in frustration. The translator frowned as she spoke to Comissioner Gordon. 

"What does that have to do with this incident?" 

And so Red Hood gave the run down of Paris and what happened to Rossi, including her deportation and multiple lawsuits she was facing currently. The translator explained to Alya that the lawsuits were from both individuals who'd been lied about, including Jagged Stone and Clara Nightingale, as well as the city of Paris on behalf of Ladybug. Alya paled with the words, shaking her head frantically. 

"Did you or did you not lead the planned attack on a former classmate on behalf of Lila Rossi?" Red Hood asked. But Alya was mute. She wasn't wrong. She wasn't wrong.

" Marinette was just jealous" Alya whispered. She wasn't wrong! "Marinette was just so jealous, she bullied Lila!" she finally screamed, "Ladybug could have fixed her!" 

"Has the girl mentioned, Marinette, ever shown bullying tendencies before? Been outwardly cruel or antagonistic when provoked or jealous?" Comissioner Gordon broke in. Alya froze. She thought about Kagami and Chloe and all the girls involved in Adrien's life and tried to come up with an example. She lowered her head and shook it no. 

" Has Ladybug ever been able to bring back a deceased that was killed outside of a magical attack by these Akuma?" 

"She cured Lila's tinnitus!" she exclaimed. 

"the same Lila that lied about being bullied, and has lawsuits against her from multiple sources? You believe this to be a credible source? Let me ask this, has she ever cured anyone else of chronic illness?" Gordon asked. Alya shook her head. 

"So you came here with the intention of what… Using Ladybug, aka, Guardian Angel, to bring back all those you and your partner killed?" Gordon looked skeptical. 

"you can wish for anything with the jewel of creation and destruction. Even for life to be breathed into the dead" Alya said clearly. 

"Is that a fact?" Gordon turned to Red Hood. He shook his head. 

"The consequences of making any wish can be destructive. A wish for peace might kill half the population, simply because less population means more resources. The law of Alchemy states that everything must remain in balance. To bring back a dear friend, you have to lose another dear friend first. To bring back 14 innocent people, 14 other innocent people would have to die. From my understanding, they planned on not only resurrecting the people they themselves killed, but also the classmate who committed suicide. On top of this, they also planned on creating a "perfect world" in conjunction, to make sure no conflict happened in their class specifically" Red Hood played the video on his phone of Nino explaining this before he was caught. Gordon frowned. He glared at Alya, who was pale. They couldn't bring them back. They couldn't bring any of them back and that meant Marinette was dead and she'd never be able to see or hug or apologize or…. Alya puked on the floor. The realization that even limitless power was in fact limited. Gordon nodded and told an officer to put her in a cell and call Paris. 

When Adrien awoke, he was cuffed to a hospital bed, his head was bandaged down past the right eye, and his torso was strapped to the bed with a warm blanket. In the room with him were Wonder Woman and Batman. He frowned. 

"Mr Agreste. Do you know where you are?" Wonder Woman asked. He tried to shake his head but he opened his mouth anyways. 

"Gotham City" his voice was scratchy and dry. 

"Do you know why we are here?" 

"I tried to get the Ladybug and Cat mirculouses."

"Why?" 

"Because Ladybug should've healed Marinette. My Princess should be here with me. Ladybug was jealous and let her die and sent Lila away and took my ring and my family from me! Everything was ruined because of her!" Adrien shouted. Batman looked at him. This was going to be a long day.

"Tell us what happened from your perspective?"

And Adrien did.

Okay, so.... Here's part six. Seven will be really short but I couldn't find a way to include it in this.

@bookreader20003

@mooshoon @artxyra @spicybelladonna @northernbluetongue @kuroko26 @mystery-5-5 @2sunchild2 @iwantswifttoblessmysoul @zelladane @ellerahs @thedarkwhiteangel @resignedcatservant @scribblinggraveyard @alexzandria-747 @nyctamaximoff @mysteriouslyswimmingfan-blo-blog @sapphiraazure2708 @tinybrie @dudet @thatrandomfandomsgirl @lunar-wolf-warrior @zazzlejazzle @zebrabaker @constancestruggle @unabashedbookworm @ginamarie1512 @mindfulmagics @bitterheart12224 @captainmac6 @blue-peach14 @enduskdragon @multishipper1needshalp @abrx2002

@throneoffirebreathingbitchqueen

[stillellensibley]

Becoming Machine: Surrealist Automatism and Some Contemporary Instances

Involuntary Drawing

DAVID LOMAS

Examining the idea of being ‘machine-like’ and its impact on the practice of automatic writing, this article charts a history of automatism from the late nineteenth century to the present day, exploring the intersections between physiology, psychology, poetry and art.

Philippe Parreno’s The Writer 2007 (fig.1) is a video, played on a screen the size of a painted miniature, of the famous eighteenth-century Jaquet-Droz automaton recorded in the act of writing with a goose quill pen. Zooming in on the automaton’s hand and face, Parreno contrives to produce a sense of uncertainty as to the human or robotic nature of the doll. It is an example of a contemporary fascination with cyborgs and with the increasingly blurred dividing line between machine and organism. In a manner worthy of surrealist artist René Magritte, Parreno plays on the viewer’s sense of astonishment. As the camera rolls, the android deliberates before slowly writing: ‘What do you believe, your eyes or my words?’ The ‘Écrivain’ is one of the most celebrated automata that enjoyed a huge vogue in Enlightenment Europe. In a lavish two-volume book, Le Monde des automates (1928), Edouard Gélis and Alfred Chapuis define the android as ‘an automaton with a human face’.1 A chapter of this book, which supplied the illustrations for an article in the surrealist journal Minotaure, is devoted to drawing and writing automata.2 The oldest example Gélis and Chapuis cite was fabricated by the German inventor Friedrich von Knauss whom, they state, laboured at the problem of ‘automatic writing’ for twenty years before presenting his first apparatus in 1753.3

Fig.1 Philippe Parreno The Writer 2007 Photographic still from DVD 3:58 minutes Courtesy the artist and Haunch of Venison, London © Philippe Parreno

The graphic trace

From the mid-nineteenth century onwards, recording instruments became vital tools in the production of scientific knowledge in a range of disciplines that were of direct relevance to surrealism. Such mechanical apparatuses, synonymous with the values of precision and objectivity, quickly became the benchmark of an experimental method. The inexorable rise of the graphic method has been intensively studied by historians of science and visual culture, but surrealism has not yet been considered as partaking of this transformation in the field of visual representation. In what follows, recording instruments are shown to have helped to underwrite surrealism’s scientific aspects and bolster its credentials as an experimental avant-garde.

The graphic method inaugurated a novel paradigm of visual representation, one geared towards capturing dynamic phenomena in their essence. It was the product of a radically new scientific conception of the physical universe in terms of dynamic forces, a world view that is doubtless at some level a naturalisation of the energies, both destructive and creative, unleashed by industrial capitalism.5The proliferation of mechanical inscription devices in the life sciences coincided with the displacement of anatomy, as a static principle of localisation, by physiology, which analysed and studied forces and functions. Étienne-Jules Marey, known today as an inventor of chronophotography, was one of the main exponents of the graphic method in France, and he personally devised a number of instruments whose aid, he wrote, made it possible to ‘penetrate the intimate functions of organs where life seems to translate itself by an incessant mobility’.6 As an apparatus for visualisation, the graphic method carries implications for how to construe figures of the visible and invisible. It was not simply a technology for making visible something that lay beneath the human perceptual threshold (like a microscope), but rather a technology for producing a visual analogue – a translation – of forces and phenomena that do not themselves belong to a visual order of things.7

At its simplest, a frog’s leg muscle is hooked directly to a pointed stylus that rests on a drum whose surface is blackened with particles of soot from a candle flame (fig.2). An electrical stimulus causes the muscle to contract, deflecting the stylus and thus producing on the revolving drum a typical white on black curvilinear trace. Fatigue of the muscle produces an increased duration and diminished amplitude of successive contractions, as shown in the figure at the bottom. A more sophisticated device pictured by Marey consisted of a flexible diaphragm, a sort of primitive transducer, connected by a hollow rubber tube to a stylus, which inscribed onto a continuous strip of paper. At the heart of the graphic method is the production of a visible trace.8 A stylus roving back and forth on a rotating cylinder or a moving band of paper translates forces into a universal script that Marey regarded as ‘the language of the phenomena themselves’ and which he proclaimed is superior to the written word.9 In an era where quantitative data gradually became the common currency of scientific discourse, Marey considered written language, ‘born before science and not being made for it’, as inadequate to express ‘exact measures and well-defined relations’.10 The incorporation of a time axis owing to the continuous regular movement of the drum lends a distinctive property to the graphic trace. The historian Robert Brain remarks that ‘the graphic representation is not an object or field like that of linear perspective, but a spatial product of a temporal process, whose order is serial or syntagmatic’.11 Units of time are marked off at the bottom of the myographic trace as regular blips on a horizontal axis; additionally, the passage of time is registered in the palimpsest-like layering of successive traces.12

Fig.2 Simple myograph (top) and trace of repeated muscular contractions (bottom) From Etienne-Jules Marey, La Méthode graphique dans les sciences expérimentales et principalement en physiologie et en médecine, Paris 1875, p.194

From its initial applications in physiology, the graphic method soon made inroads into areas such as medicine and psychology, eager to prove their scientific legitimacy. The familiar chart of a patient’s temperature, pulse, and respiration had become standard fare in hospital wards by the mid-nineteenth century.13 Marey went so far as to predict that the visual tableau comprised of such ‘medical curves’ would replace altogether the written record. The growth of medical specialties saw doctors attempting to justify their status and claims to authoritative knowledge by adopting the tools-in-trade of an experimental science. The Salpêtrière Hospital in Paris, under neurologist Jean-Martin Charcot, was at the forefront of these developments, and graphic traces are liberally interspersed among the better-known photographs, engravings, and fine art reproductions of Charcot’s book Iconographie de la Salpêtrière (1878). Employed first for the investigation of muscular and nervous disorders, the myograph was subsequently applied by Charcot to the study of hysteria. By enabling the hysterical attack to be objectively recorded in the form of a linear visual narrative, the graphic trace performed an invaluable service in conferring a semblance of reality upon a condition that was widely dismissed as mere playacting or simulation (fig.3).

Fig.3 Epileptic phase of an hysterical attack From Paul Richer, Études cliniques sur l’hystéro-épilepsie ou grande hystérie, Paris 1885, p.40.

Nearer in time to the surrealists, the hysteria problem was revived with particular urgency in the guise of shellshock, and there again physicians placed their faith in the graphic method as a means of reliably excluding simulation where clinical observation alone was of no avail. Evidence of the surrealist André Breton’s first-hand acquaintance with such devices is not hard to find. Soon after his arrival at the neuro-psychiatric centre at St Dizier in August 1916 he writes excitedly to Théodore Fraenkel, a fellow medical student, saying that all his time is devoted to examining patients. He details his technique for interrogating his charges and in the same breath adds ‘and I manipulate the sphygmometric oscillometer’.14 The instrument to which Breton refers gives a measure of the peripheral pulses and would have been used by him to detect an exaggerated vascular response to cold that was held to be a diagnostic feature of reflex nervous disorders. There is a reasonable likelihood that Breton also came in contact with the use of a myograph for the same purpose, either at St Dizier or the following year when he was attached as a trainee to neurologist Joseph Babinski’s unit at the Pitié Hospital in Paris. Breton possessed a copy, with a personal dedication from the authors, of Babinski and Jules Froment’s Hystérie-pithiatisme et troubles nerveux d’ordre réflexe en neurologie de guerre (1917), a textbook profusely illustrated with myographic traces.

As a newly formed discipline, psychology was also quick to integrate the paraphernalia of experimental physiology.15 Alfred Binet, one of the pioneers of psychology in France, employed the graphic trace as an instrument more sensitive in his opinion than automatic writing for revealing a dissociation of the personality in cases of hysteria. ‘In following our study of the methods that enable us to reveal this hidden personality’, Binet writes, ‘we are now to have recourse to the so-called graphic method, the employment of which, at first restricted to the work-rooms of physiology, seems, at the present time, destined to find its way into the current practice of medicine’.16 The definition of psychology as experimental is seen to be closely tied with the use of a measuring instrument. Binet’s goal appears to be an almost paradoxical exclusion of the subject, with its nigh infinite capacity for dissimulation, from the scientific investigation of that subject’s own subjectivity. Coinciding with the introduction of quantitative forms of measurement, introspection rapidly fell into disrepute as a method of inquiry. Robert Brain’s observation that in the field of psychology ‘the graphic method served both as a research tool and a source of analogies for investigating mental activities’ is certainly to be borne in mind with regard to surrealism.17

Alongside mainstream science, recording devices also made incursions into psychical research. The use of such apparatuses to restrict the latitude for fraud contributed to the general air of scientific enquiry. The historian Richard Noakes has shown that the intractable problems of researching mediums, their notoriously capricious and untrustworthy nature, led some experimenters to suggest that sensitive instruments alone could replace the human subject as a means of accessing the spirit world.18 In the 1870s, William Crookes, a respected chemist and a pioneer in the application of measuring instruments to spiritualist research, devised an apparatus for recording emanations from the body of the medium Daniel Dunglas Home, as a result of which he claimed to have discovered a mysterious new form of energy, which he termed ‘Psychic Force’ (fig.4).19 A Marey drum was used to make physiological recordings of the medium Eusapia Palladino, who had been often exposed for cheating in the past, during a highly publicised series of séances conducted under controlled experimental conditions at the laboratories of the Institut général de psychologie in Paris.20

Fig.4 Apparatus for recording the emanation of psychic force from a medium. From William Crookes, Researches in the Phenomena of Spiritualism, London 1874.

Modest recording instruments

It would appear that surrealism was not indifferent to the lure of the graphic method. The particular aspect to foreground here is the promise of objectivity. The graphic method offered the prospect of bypassing altogether the human observer who was increasingly liable to be viewed as a source of error in scientific experiment. With precision and objectivity the yardsticks of science by the latter part of the nineteenth century, the historian Peter Galison remarks that ‘the machine as a neutral and transparent operator … would serve as instrument of registration without intervention and as an ideal for the moral discipline of the scientists themselves’.21 Addressing the graphic trace in these terms, Marey strikingly adumbrates the language of surrealism in remarking that ‘one endeavoured to write automatically certain phenomena’.22 The surrealists spoke of their art and literary productions as objective documents and advocated an objective stance that sidelines the authorial subject who was meant to be as near as possible a passive onlooker at the birth of the work. Or, in Breton’s words, a modest recording device: ‘we, who have made no effort whatsoever to filter, who in our works have made ourselves into simple receptacles of so many echoes, modest recording instruments not mesmerised by the drawings we are making.’23 Closely allied with this imperative to become akin to a machine is a metaphorics of the trace and tracing: ‘here again it is not a matter of drawing, but simply of tracing’, Breton insisted in the 1924 ‘Manifesto of Surrealism’.24

The accent on objectivity is consonant with surrealism’s avant-gardist ethos of experiment, stemming ultimately from science. In fact, Breton contended that by the time the manifesto had been published, five years of uninterrupted experimental activity already lay behind it.25 Around the time of the manifesto, the surrealists set about creating a research centre of sorts, the short-lived Bureau of Surrealist Research, testifying to the earnestness of their experimental impulse. However, it was no ordinary laboratory that opened to the public at 15 Rue de Grenelle, Paris, in October 1924. The surrealist playwright and poet Antonin Artaud recalls that a mannequin hung from the ceiling and, reputedly, copies of the crime fiction volume Fantômas and Sigmund Freud’s The Interpretations of Dreams framed with spoons were enthroned on a makeshift altarpiece. The second issue of the house journal La Révolution surréaliste, the cover of which was modeled on the popular science magazine La Nature, carried an announcement of its purpose:

The Bureau of Surrealist Research is applying itself to collecting by all appropriate means communications concerning the diverse forms taken by the mind’s unconscious activity. No specific field has been defined for this project and surrealism plans to assemble as much experimental data as possible, without knowing yet what the end result might be.26

Asserting a parallel with science, as Breton was fond of doing, was a way of implying that surrealism was dedicated to finding practical solutions to vital problems of human existence, and of distancing it as far as possible from a posture of aesthetic detachment. The statement above identifies the unconscious as the privileged object of surrealist research. Automatism, from this point of view, could be understood as a research method, a set of investigative procedures that organise and govern practice but do not determine outcomes. The openness of scientific inquiry is something that may have been especially attractive to surrealism; the final clause above insists upon their refusal to define goals – a programme – which would have run the risks of a reductive instrumentalism or empty utopianism. At the same time, however, bearing in mind the extreme animosity towards positivism that Breton notoriously gives vent to in the 1924 manifesto, the dangers for surrealism of too close a proximity to science should not be overlooked. Perhaps for this reason, Artaud, in a report on the bureau carried in the third issue of the journal, argues warily for the necessity of a certain surrealist mysticism. A survey of the terms ‘research’ and ‘experiment’ in the period would reveal that much the same vocabulary was utilised in the marginal, pseudo-scientific world of spiritualism and parapsychology as by mainstream science, and it is notable that surrealist experimentation happily straddles these seemingly contradictory currents. The hypnotic trance sessions, one of the main experimental activities engaged in by the nascent surrealist group, are illustrative of this cross-over between science and the occult. 543 pages of notes and drawings obsessively documenting the sessions, which took place nightly between September and October 1922, were preserved by Breton and included among a list of artworks, books and other objects housed in the bureau.

While Salvador Dalí did not partake of the ‘birth pangs’ of surrealism, as Breton ruefully observed, his overheated imagination provides a vivid if fanciful evocation of this first phase of surrealist experiment. In an essay written in 1932, Dalí conjures up an improbable scenario of hypnotic subjects wired to recording devices like the unfortunate frog in Marey’s illustration, though in this case it is the trace of poetic inspiration that is expectantly awaited:

All night long a few surrealists would gather round the big table used for experiments, their eyes protected and masked by thin though opaque mechanical slats on which the blinding curve of the convulsive graphs would appear intermittently in fleeting luminous signals, a delicate nickel apparatus like an astrolabe being fixed to their necks and fitted with animal membranes to record by interpenetration the apparition of each fresh poetic streak, their bodies being bound to their chairs by an ingenious system of straps, so that they could only move a hand in a certain way and the sinuous line was allowed to inscribe the appropriate white cylinders. Meanwhile their friends, holding their breath and biting their lower lips in concentrated attention, would lean over the recording apparatus and with dilated pupils await the expected but unknown movement, sentence, or image.27

Dalí clearly took to heart Breton’s exhortation to his fellow surrealists that they should make themselves into ‘modest recording instruments’. Inspired by extant photographs that afford a rare glimpse of the legendary bureau, Dalí conjures up a fantastical laboratory with pliant subjects hooked to a plethora of arcane recording devices.

Beyond a serviceable metaphor employed by Breton, what evidence is there for the graphic method as having any bearing on the actual practice of automatic drawing? While scattered instances of direct citation of graphic traces can be demonstrated, what is more significant is that this novel regime of visuality, beginning as a style of scientific imaging and becoming by the time of surrealism a widely circulated and understood visual idiom, was a necessary historical antecedent in order that the automatist line might be imbued with meaning as the authentic trace of unconscious instinctual forces and energies (in its absence, they would have been literally unreadable in these terms). With the precedent of the graphic trace available to them, it was possible for surrealist artists to imagine how they might square the circle by integrating temporal duration within a static visual medium.

‘Could it be that Marcel Duchamp reaches the critical point of ideas faster than anyone else?’, wondered Breton. It is a question that can profitably be asked in examining the impact on avant-garde artists of an avowedly scientific visual idiom. Duchamp, and his artistic collaborator Francis Picabia, around 1912 to 1913 rejected traditional painterly techniques, along with extreme subjectivism that had reached a zenith in the neo-symbolist circles both artists had been involved with up until that point, and turned instead to technical drawing and scientific illustrations as alternative, non-artistic sources of inspiration. Duchamp’s 3 Standard Stoppages 1913–14 (fig.5) is evidence of his search for what art historian Linda Dalrymple Henderson calls ‘the beauty of indifference, the counterpart to his painting of precision’.28 For this work, one-metre lengths of thread were allowed to fall from a height of one metre, and the random configurations formed as they came to rest on the ground were fixed and recorded. Displaying the resultant shapes as curved white lines on a long horizontal black strip of canvas would have rung bells with viewers familiar with the then standard repertoire of scientific imaging practices. The typical format of the graphic trace served as a convenient shorthand by means of which Duchamp encoded the desired values of precise measurement and objectivity. Not for the first (or last) time did Duchamp appeal to forms of visual competency that had begun to creep into the common culture, as art historian Molly Nesbitt’s pioneering study relating his use of technical drawing to reforms in the French school curriculum shows.29 The creation of wooden templates or stencils based on the resultant curves is also significant: these were utilised to transfer the curves to other works, notably Network of Stoppages 1914 (Museum of Modern Art, New York) and the capillary tubes in the Large Glass 1915–23 (Tate T02011), but in addition they provide a measure of the area beneath the curve which, as every student of basic calculus knows, is equal to the integral of the curve.

Marcel Duchamp 3 stoppages étalon (3 Standard Stoppages) 1913–14, replica 1964 Tate © Succession Marcel Duchamp/ADAGP, Paris and DACS, London 2018

Of the surrealist artists, links between art and science run deepest in the work of Max Ernst, who attended lecture courses on psychology while he was a student at university in Bonn.30 Scientific illustrations and tables are frequent source materials for Ernst’s collage, among which are examples of graphic traces, most notably the illustrations to the book Les Malheurs des immortels (1922), a collection of collages and automatic poems produced collaboratively with the surrealist poet Paul Éluard. Between the Two Poles of Politeness is one of at least two collages in the book to utilise a graphic trace, which functions as a ground for the image and a springboard for the artist’s imagination. The typical white-on-black format is exploited by Ernst to evoke a night sky against which the solid white line of the trace stands out starkly. He embellishes the horizontal x-axis marked on the graph by a dotted line with a distant polar landscape that appears to echo the peaks and troughs of the graphic trace. At the left-hand edge of the image, the lines of the graph are extended so they appear to converge towards a vanishing point; the net effect of these hand-drawn additions is to produce incongruities of scale as well as an ambiguous play between the flat space of the diagram and an illusory perspectival space. Accentuating the horizon serves to foreground the idea of a horizon of vision, beyond which normally one cannot see, and thus implies the existence of an invisible realm to which surrealism affords access.    

From 1919 through to the manifesto of 1924 – a period of intense experiment with automatic writing and other means for penetrating the unconscious, including hypnosis – Breton’s poetry is replete with imagery of electric currents and magnetic fields, to which the title of Ernst’s collage may allude. Ernst’s deployment of a graphic trace in the context of this book can be seen as mounting a polemic in favour of collage as an equivalent to automatic writing. Breton, who the following year in his poem ‘Sunflower’ penned the exquisitely apposite phrase, ‘the white curve on a black ground that we call thought’, would have understood that the graphic trace in Ernst’s collage offers itself to be read as an indexical equivalent to thought, in no ways inferior in this respect to the automatic text on the facing page.31Ernst’s painting North Pole 1922 is contemporaneous with the collage and closely related to it.32 A distinctive fine wavy pattern across the upper half of the canvas, the result of dragging a fine comb or something similar across the black oil paint so as to expose the white support, is highly suggestive of a seismographic or magnetic trace. There is a direct connection between this work and Ernst’s use of frottage and other automatic procedures in the 1920s. Between 1927 and 1928 Yves Tanguy produced a number of quite distinctive automatist paintings in which undulating lines are scratched into a black ground. Of even greater significance than such isolated examples of the direct citation of graphic traces, however, is to recognise that the novel regime of visuality it inaugurated made possible a mindset that saw the automatist line as an authentic trace of unconscious instinctual forces and energies. In its absence, they would have been literally unreadable in these terms. The surrealists were not alone in choosing to regard the unconscious as a repository of imperceptible, yet powerfully active forces. Sigmund Freud commonly spoke of the unconscious in terms of an energetics of instinctual cathexes and circuits.33 But what has been lost sight of is that these were never any more than metaphorical descriptions or analogies, a way of talking. The mistake is to think that the wavy lines in an Ernst painting are actually a trace of anything, least of all Ernst’s unconscious, rather than a polemical mobilisation of the idea (or metaphor) of the indexical trace.

Re-inscriptions of automatism

It comes as a surprise to learn that, notwithstanding the seemingly intractable difficulties posed by the Bretonian concept of ‘pure psychic automatism’, a considerable number of more recent artists and poets have not been deterred from taking up such practices, often in the context of an overt re-engagement with the historical avant-garde.

In the main, the aleatory and automatic practices to be surveyed here no longer purport to be indexical traces or expressions of the unconscious. These recent examples prompt the question afresh: is surrealist automatism expressive, and if so what is it expressive of? This question is inseparable from another concerning the status of chance in surrealism.34 Here, it is necessary to make a distinction between Breton’s objective chance (‘hasard objectif’) and true randomness.35 Freud maintained that seemingly chance events, slips of the tongue and so forth, are actually governed by a strict order of psychic determinism: nothing in the mind, he believed, is arbitrary or undetermined.36 This alone is what assures the validity of dream interpretation. Without the supposition of unconscious causation, the whole hermeneutic project of psychoanalysis would be pointless. Automatism, from this angle, registers an unconscious level of determination, that is to say, of meaning. But what if it turned out that surrealist automatism had been all along simply a method for generating randomness?

Between October 2003 and June 2005 the musician and composer Jeremy ‘Jem’ Finer was artist in residence in the astrophysics department at OxfordUniversity, where Roger Penrose, nephew of the surrealist artist Roland Penrose, had conducted pioneering work in theoretical physics on black holes and the early conditions of the universe. Finer’s Everywhere, All the Time 2005 (fig.6) comprised part of a larger sculptural project arising from the residency. As Finer explains:

A chart recorder is transformed into an automatic drawing machine, its source the electrical fluctuations of a detuned radio. The universe is permeated by radiation, the Cosmic Microwave Background, which contemporary cosmology concludes is the cooled remnant of the Big Bang. Everywhere, all the time, it’s visible in the snow between channels on a television, the hiss of static on a radio, the rattling pen of the chart recorder, like a spirit hand.37

Fig.6 Jem Finer Everywhere, All the Time 2005 Chart recorder, transistor radio and paper Courtesy the artist Photograph © Jem Finer

The automatic messages that are of concern to Finer – ‘an unreadable communication with its own inner sense’ – are of an impersonal, non-human nature (fig.7). Rendering literal the Bretonian metaphor of a simple recording instrument, Finer bypasses altogether the artist as expressive origin of the message: ‘Endless gyres, overwriting, obliterating, annihilating any pretence of analysis, the chart recorder is transformed into an automatic drawing machine, the universe the invisible hand.’38

Fig.7 Jem Finer Everywhere, All the Time 2005 Graphic trace from chart recorder Courtesy the artist Photograph © Jem Finer

It is fruitful to think about Finer’s practice in terms of a tension between noise and message as theorised by communication theory. Random noise can be understood as interference within a system of meaning production. In this respect, it might be understood to be quite similar to a Freudian slip, which manifests as an interruption or distortion of the intended message. However, the apparently chance or accidental nature of the latter turns out to be illusory and the lapsus is, in fact, subject to a strict psychic determinism. True randomness, which is the arena of contemporary practitioners’ interest, implies a breach in causality and hence ought not to be confused with the surrealist notion of objective chance, though it is compatible with the surrealists’ interrogation of the author function. The ratcheting-up of randomness undercuts the expressive paradigm of a subject who is the putative origin of a message.

Finer’s reference to a spirit hand resonates with surrealist automatism, whose derivation from mediumistic writing and drawing Breton acknowledged in his essay ‘The Automatic Message’ (1933). It also recalls a passage from the philosopher Roland Barthes’s famous text ‘The Death of the Author’ (1967) that implicitly appeals to the precedent of automatic writing: ‘the hand, cut off from any voice, borne by a pure gesture of inscription (and not of expression), traces a field without origin.’39 Barthes conceives of the writer not as expressive origin but rather as a kind of radio antenna picking up and remixing messages randomly absorbed. Tuning in to white noise instead of the overt communicative content of their chosen medium, postmodern artists perpetuate as well as update the historical avant-garde’s engagements with chance. In an essay on Cy Twombly, Barthes made an explicit analogy to white noise, writing of the picture Panorama 1955 (private collection) that: ‘The whole space is crackling in the manner of a television screen before any image appears on it.’40 Twombly reinterpreted an automatist practice in a manner contrary to the expressive paradigm that had dominated in the previous generation of artists. It is thus comparable to other gestures of cancellation, such as his friend Robert Rauschenberg’s Erased De Kooning Drawing 1953 (San Francisco Museum of Modern Art). The artist in the abstract expressionist mould was not only masculine, he was also stridently hetero-normative, a factor that art historian Jonathan Katz has argued lay behind the next generation of artists’ wish to distance themselves.41 Barthes refers to a new technological analogy for an automatist procedure in the television set, which, by the mid-1950s, had become nigh ubiquitous in American households. The origins of information theory in the immediate post-war period narrowly preceded the arrival of this new medium of mass communication. The white on black of Twombly’s Panorama evidently reminded Barthes of the cathode ray screen.

The experimental filmmaker Peter Rose explains that his sixteen minute film Secondary Currents 1982 is about the relationships between the mind and language: ‘A kind of comic opera, the film is a dark metaphor for the order and entropy of language.’42 In the course of the film, words – white on a black ground – gradually decompose into constituent letters that jostle in a random, Brownian motion, such that the screen becomes an almost literal representation of white noise (fig.8). Rose’s work relates to concrete poetry but also draws upon his mathematical training. In communication theory, the concept of entropy is closely related to randomness. As expounded by engineer John R. Pierce in his book Symbols, Signals and Noise (1961): ‘entropy increases as the number of messages among which the source may choose increases. It also increases as the freedom of choice (or the uncertainty to the recipient) increases and decreases as the freedom of choice and the uncertainty are restricted.’43

Fig.8 Peter Rose Secondary Currents 1982 Still from film 16 minutes, 16 mm, black and white, sound Courtesy the artist Photograph © Peter Rose

Might it be possible to consider Rose’s language experiments as offering a route in to the final automatic text of Breton and Éluard’s ‘The Possessions’, the ‘attempt at simulating schizophrenia’ (‘démence précoce’), which plots a similar stepwise dissolution of language and sense? Under the guise of emulating the language of the insane, Breton and Éluard can be understood as exploring in an intuitive vein the relationship between a poetic or creative use of language and entropy. The act of collaboration seems to have been one means for interrupting the smooth flow of logical sense, an express aim of automatic writing being to divert language from its communicative function. In a manner not dissimilar to Rose, the schizophrenic treats words as things; their language was described in the kinds of manuals to which Breton and Éluard had access as propagating on the basis of chance associations or incidental resemblances between words. One can point to numerous examples of this in Breton and Éluard’s text. Within certain limits, an increase in randomness is experienced as poetic indeterminacy. However, the final paragraph of their exercise in simulation presses way beyond this threshold:

Fils de Judas rondève, qu’A Linné pasteur hippomythe U vraïli ouabi bencirog plaïol fernaca gla …lanco. U quaïon purlo ouam gacirog olaïama oual, u feaïva zuaïailo, gaci zulo. Gaci zulo plef. U feaïva oradarfonsedarca nic olp figilê. U elaïaïpi mouco drer hôdarca hualica-siptur. Oradargacirog vraïlim…u feaïva drer kurmaca ribag nic javli.44

Extraordinarily, this was among the texts that Samuel Beckett chose to translate.

The fact that The Magnetic Fields (1920), the true ur-texts of surrealist automatic writing, were composed jointly by Breton and Philippe Soupault (most obviously the texts called ‘Barrières’ (Barriers) which take the form of a dialogue or conversation) demonstrates that believing automatic writing to be the outpouring of a single unconscious is a misconception. In these texts, the writing subject makes use of an interlocutor in order to interrupt the flow and continuity of his discourse; a systematic interference with communicative language is thus built in to the procedure. It is a device that maximises incongruities. This can also be seen in the long distance collaboration of Ernst and Éluard in Les Malheurs des immortels. In his later comments on The Magnetic Fields, Breton placed great value on the speed of execution as the guarantor of the authenticity of a message that was to be as far as possible an uncorrupted record of unconscious thought. It is necessary to consider that the factor that comes increasingly into play as the speed of writing increases is not the unconscious but sheer randomness, which beyond a certain point manifests as a lexical decomposition.

Inspired by Marcel Duchamp’s 3 Standard Stoppages, and other artworks utilising chance, the New York conceptual artist William Anastasi began creating Pocket Drawings on folded sheets of paper while he was at the cinema in the 1960s. These led on to Subway Drawings that started as he was travelling to and from daily chess games with his friend, the composer John Cage, and which he has continued to produce (fig.9). Sitting with a pencil in each hand and a drawing board on his lap, his elbows at an angle of 90 degrees, his shoulders away from the backrest, Anastasi surrenders to a random process. His body operates likes a seismograph, allowing the rhythm of the moving train – its starts, stops and turns, accelerations and decelerations – to be transmitted onto the sheet of paper. In a 1990 interview, Cage talked about Anastasi’s modus operandi vis-à-vis surrealist automatism, insisting that: ‘It’s not psychological; it’s physical.’45

Fig.9 William Anastasi Subway Drawing Courtesy Gering & Lopez Gallery, New York

It is instructive to compare Anastasi’s Subway Drawings with another work that references the movement of a train and its effects on the human body, Marcel Duchamp’s Nude (Study), Sad Young Man on a Train 1911–12 (The Solomon R. Guggenheim Foundation,Peggy Guggenheim Collection, Venice).46 For Anastasi and the other artists in Cage’s circle, Duchamp was a cardinal reference point. The picture depicts the pipe-smoking artist on a train journey between Paris and Rouen. It is, Duchamp explained, a painting of ‘two parallel movements corresponding to each other’, that is to say, the forward velocity of the train together with the sideways rocking motion of the man standing in the crowded carriage.47 The passivity of a body acted upon by external mechanical forces is certainly akin to Anastasi’s Subway Drawings. The painting’s multiple registrations of a single figure, comparable to the more famous Nude Descending a Staircase 1912 (Philadelphia Museum of Art), reflects Duchamp’s preoccupation with Marey’s chronophotography. Moreover, the picture might be said to represent a quirky response to the futurist cult of machines and the dynamism of speed. Slightly perplexing is the undress of the solitary figure, who, it has been suggested, is depicted in a state of sexual arousal. What the picture represents, then, is a bachelor machine: the kinetic energy of the train transformed via the onanistic rhythms of a swaying body into libidinal energy. A helpful commentary on this state of affairs comes from faraway Vienna. Asserting that ‘mechanical agitation must be recognised as one of the sources of sexual excitation’, Freud, in Three Essays on the Theory of Sexuality (1905), specifically relates the pleasurable effects of this mechanical stimulus to train travel:

The shaking produced by driving in carriages and later by railway travel exercises such a fascinating effect upon older children that every boy, at any rate, has at one time or other in his life wanted to be an engine driver or a coachman. It is a puzzling fact that boys take such an extraordinarily intense interest in things connected with railways, and, at an age at which the production of phantasies is most active (shortly before puberty), use those things as the nucleus of a symbolism that is peculiarly sexual. A compulsive link of this kind between railway travel and sexuality is clearly derived from the pleasurable character of the sensation of movement.48

Freud contends that any physical stimulus to the body releases a quota of energy and this release of (libidinal) energy is felt as pleasurable. He instances the rocking of a child in order to put it to sleep. Duchamp wrote enigmatically of the period immediately preceding the First World War: ‘The machine, motion and eros were things which touched me in a poetic way. They were in the air and I felt I could use them for my art.’

Anastasi is well aware that his drawing could be seen as a displacement of a forbidden act. He says as much when he explains that he began making the Subway Drawings instead of the Pocket Drawingsbecause he was concerned about what fellow passengers might think he was doing with his hands in his pockets. The drawing is done on a sheet of paper that rests directly on the artist’s lap. For a near equivalent, one must look to surrealism’s disreputable left field, to the sole example of what Salvador Dalí dubbed ‘espasmo-graphisme’. An inscription on the etching, purpose-made as a frontispiece to a collection of poems by Georges Hugnet titled Onan (1934), forthrightly confesses: ‘“ESPASMO-GRAPHISME” OBTAINED WITH THE LEFT HAND WHILE MASTURBATING WITH THE RIGHT HAND UNTIL BLOODUNTIL BONE UNTIL SCAR!’ The image harks back stylistically to some tentative experiments by Dalí with an automatic technique in the late 1920s, quickly abandoned as he evolved his more characteristic illusionism. The jagged, staccato rhythms of the compulsively repeated doodles mime the action believed to have been carried out with the artist’s other hand. There is a crucial distinction to be drawn between illustrating the act of masturbation, which Dalí plainly was not reluctant to do, and producing a non-representational, so to speak, automatic trace of the activity, as he does here. Using his left hand to engrave the plate – Dalí was right-handed – eliminates at one stroke any semblance of manual skill or virtuosity. One is reminded that for Freud the solitary vice of masturbation was a frequent cause of neurosis. If this opinion, oddly indebted to Victorian prudery, is accepted for a moment, then Dalí chooses the shortest possible route between the supposed forbidden activity and its unfettered, automatic expression.49 But in doing so, it seems that he short-circuits the whole Freudian apparatus of the unconscious and repression. An area of staining across the centre of the sheet raises other questions for the inquisitive critic: does it merely simulate what it purports to be, or is it the forensic evidence one is searching for, the veridical trace that authenticates the automatic message? Granted, the work is parodic in intent, tossed off in a matter of minutes, but it is nonetheless a wry, amusing commentary on the discourse and practice of surrealist automatism.

Rebecca Horn Pencil Mask 1972 Tate © DACS, 2018

Finally, Rebecca Horn’s Pencil Mask 1972 (fig.10) is a sort of mechanical prosthesis that transforms the artist into a drawing machine. It is a sinister and disturbing piece, more autistic than artistic. Horn describes its operation thus: ‘All the pencils are about two inches long and produce the profile of my face in three dimensions … I move my body rhythmically from left to right in front of the white wall. The pencils make marks on the wall the image of which corresponds to the rhythm of my movements.’50Strapped around her face, the harness turns the wearer into a blind automatic drawing instrument. There is not space here to do justice to this arresting work, nor to tease out its relation, on the one hand, to her robotic painting machines or the pseudo-expressivity of her later Artaud-like drawings.51 The key point, however, is the way it encircles the artist’s head, interposing a physical barrier between the artist and the sheet of paper. The ‘unconscious’ is simply bracketed off from whatever is going on. Horn and the other contemporary artists discussed here point to ways of understanding surrealist automatism beyond the impasses of the assumption that such works are, or ever were, the expression of such a thing.

Source

[tahere-ravenwick]

So I wanted to share my experience.. ordeal? Idk.. I'm not sharing this for sympathy or anything, I just want people to know.. My story may help someone else. Maybe not. But I want to put it out there..

About a week after my 18th birthday(just over four years ago now) I went down with two massive seizures about five hours apart, the first lasted about 5 minutes, I was taken to the local hospital, where I had basic cognition testing and held for observation, they said I was fine and sent me home with my mum with a referral to follow up at my gp… However not even a full hour after getting home I had another seizure that lasted 8 minutes. The paramedics initially assumed my mother was exaggerating, but she had been on the phone from the minute I started convulsing and said it had been 8 minutes since she called and I had not come out of it. The main concern is that 3-5 minutes of blood flow to the brain since there is high risk of permanent brain damage occurring.

Apparently I went psychotic after my second seizure and cussed out the paramedics, refusing to go with them. I didn't get physical, just very shouty and rude...

I.. don't remember most of what happened, I somewhat remember waking up in the ambulance(the second time) puking and then apologising a lot, closing my eyes and then waking up in the hospital feeling like crud..

This time My head was scanned with a few different machines and it was on the MRI they found a golf ball sized shadow with concentric rings(doctors said it looked like a bullseye.. I thought it looked more like a… twat..) over my left temporal lobe (behind my right eye just to be confusing... the mri is flipped for some reason...I lost my eyesight in that eye temporarily). At first they told me it could be a tumor but wanted to do more tests...They kept me at the hospital for four days before I could go home(for a day). The more tests they did, led to worse conclusions and more confusion and I ended up being taken to the royal brisbane and women's hospital the next week.

At the RBWH (where I stayed for about a month and a half), I had a team of about 20 neuro specialists, neurosurgeons and medical trainees on my case and my test results were sent overseas.

I was interrogated by a group from disease control, who came in wear full hazmat suits and cordoned off my room with plastic and kept asking if I'd been to places like Taiwan or Africa or been in contact with any exotic animals. I told them several times that I've never actually been overseas and the most exotic animal I'd held was my cousins pet python..

Now during all that the doctor in charge of my case (I called him Dr.Nemo because he looked like captain Nemo from league of extraordinary gentlemen with a tall turbin and a really awesome moustache, I also think he was head of neurosurgery... I can't really remember all that well….)he was so excited because they just couldn't figure out what was wrong with me. I still remember the sparkle in his eye as he told me they had no idea what was going on but my results were acting strange... it was just so absurd I couldn't find it in myself to be anything but amused.. They speculated at many things from malignant tumor to parasites, they even talked about cutting open my head to get a biopsy of whatever it was (I really wasn't at all keen on that) then they did a lumbar puncture, (or two...) which was hell and then some, but they stuffed up by using the wrong sized needle and had to do another one(worst night of my life) the doctors talked some more and decided to send some of the LP samples to denmark for testing to look for a marker that would mean they could give me a special treatment, if it turned out I had a certain disease...but the marker came back negative, but its ok since i didn’t end up having that disease anyway.

By the end of my stay there they figured out that I had some sort of autoimmune disease. But that was as far as they got for a long time. The LP samples were useful in getting results but the doctors couldn’t make heads nor tails of them, since apparently a few days after I had the LP the samples reacted weirdly. It had them totally baffled, they sent my charts to sydney and other places for help. No one knew what was going on.

At this point there really wasn't much more anyone could do besides keep an eye on me, I had been stable and hadn't had another seizure so they sent me home. I was on some pretty heavy anti-seizure medication(keppra and something else I can't remember what it was called) that I switched off of after about two years(under medical supervision).

I didn't get confirmation of what I had until late december of that year, mostly it was an accidental discovery by the optical specialist I saw due to entirely losing vision in my right eye after the seizures.

BALOS type MS.

It’s a rare disease similar to MS, that when I found out, there was about 60 cases ever diagnosed worldwide (mostly filipino men..)and 5 years before I was diagnosed it had only been a post mortem diagnosis. There's not much known about it and there's no real treatments, most cases progressed rapidly and died or relapsed within 2 years and died... only thing I could do at the time was take anti epilepsy medication to try to prevent more seizures,(and a massive amount of painkillers for the crippling pain)

It went into remission sometime last year, or it progressed into Remitting Recurring MS? It's all really confusing.. But I currently have RRMS and the BALOS could come back at anytime or it may never come back, but if it does it will be a lot worse.. but in general my immune system basically thinks the nerves in my brain are a virus and attack & eat away at them causing hemorrhaging. It doesn't do this all the time, just 60%..maybe 70% of the time. So I take the immunosuppressants to attempt to manage this(it still attacks my brain but not in huge chuncks now), which means that when I get sick its very very bad because my immune system(thats subdued by the immunosuppressants)gets agitated and attacks the wrong thing.

I still get migraines, though not as frequently as before, which is great since I have been attempting to manage them anyway I can. My vision's came back mostly, though I can't see very well without glasses (due to brain scarring on the optical nerve). I am uncoordinated, foggy, forgetful and have random pain all over due to my brain misfiring as it gets attacked randomly...and I find while my stamina isn't as it used to be, a trip to the supermarket leaves me so exhausted and drained I end up falling asleep on the couch, I don't let that stop me from going out, I can still do a lot of things, I just have to pace myself.

And recently my neurologist said that the immunosuppressive medication is working and that I won't be having seizures any time soon (if I keep taking it) only downside is that I can't get Vaccinated with live culture vaccines, (measles, mumps, rubella, chicken pox, and a few others). Since I have MS(Multiple sclerosis) its pretty dangerous if I get sick, because my immune system attacks my brain instead of the virus. I do get all the vaccines that I can(usually just the booster shots) But because my immune system is so fucked up, even if it does work and my immune system takes to the vaccine, I will still catch pretty much everything out there, because viruses can mutate and evolve if left unchecked.... So I've decided to start wearing surgical masks...I found a bunch of cute looking ones from Japan that I can wear out and about and not look.. sick..or germaphobic (even tho I kanda have become so..)

Anyway it's been interesting.. a bit hectic and overwhelming, but things are looking up now, everything has settled down and I'm attempting to get back on track with my life. I'm traveling and going out with friends. I am getting back into my hobbies. Trying new things. Living life to its fullest.

[greysfanpage388]

Elevator Hug part 3 ( repost)

As requested by @ameliashepherdgoeshunting :)

Parts 1 and 2 can be found here:

Part 1 :

http://greysfanpage388.tumblr.com/post/172963018076/elevator-hug-repost

Part 2 :

http://greysfanpage388.tumblr.com/post/172963240926/elevator-hug-part-2-repost

Hey guys, this is a continuation of ‘Elevator Hug parts 1 and 2, but this can also be read separately as a oneshot. Enjoy! ;)

 This is based on on the promo and synopsis of 13x23, about Owen receiving some life changing news and Amelia being there to support him. This is also based on a prompt I received, with some modifications made.

Prompt : You're an amazing writer! Do you think you'd be interested in writing a fanfic based off the synopsis for ep 13x23 where "Amelia supports Owen." She hears from another doctor that some bodies were found(including Megan's) and has a bad feeling & runs thru the hospital and eventually finds Owen in an on call room and she holds and talks to him?

P.s  I know in the show and based on the promo Amelia hasn’t returned back home and Owen would go to Meredith’s to probably meet her. But for the sake of my ‘Elevator Hug’ series- Amelia is already back home in this fic. However the main point remains- it’s Amelia’s time to support Owen :)

P.p.s  In this fic, Amelia finds Owen at home, not in an on call room

p.p.p.s  New note: I know on the show Megan didn’t die. This was written before we found out that Megan was still alive :p

It had been a very busy day so far for Owen Hunt. There was an influx of patients in the ER due to a huge pile up involving a bus, a van and several cars. He and April Kepner had been kept occupied.

It didn’t dampen his spirits though. It had been 2 weeks since his wife, Amelia Shepherd had returned home, and almost 2 weeks since he had the first glimpse of their baby. All was well in the world again.

He was humming to himself, discharging a patient who was under observation for a syncopal attack when he heard his name being called.

‘ Hunt.’ April approached him. ‘ I’m attending to the patient in bed 6 who has upper GI bleed. Can you attend to the patient in bed 3 who was just brought in? The paramedics said that she was in a car accident and suffered head trauma.’

‘ Ok,’ Owen answered. ‘ I’m just about done discharging this patient.’

As he walked towards bed 3- he stopped in his tracks. It couldn’t be her. He knew his mind was playing tricks on him, but from a far this patient looked rather similar to him. The red wavy hair, the slim body.

As he approached the patient, his heart sank. So much for getting his hopes up. Of course it wasn’t Megan. It was just another patient who looked like her. Today he had been thinking about Megan a lot.

‘ Hello. I’m Dr. Hunt. May I know your name?’ he asked the patient, who seemed fine at a glance, except for the laceration wound on her forehead.

‘ Michelle.’ she answered. ‘ My head hurts.’

‘ I was driving when another car switched lanes right in front of us without signalling . I couldn’t manage to brake and we collided with the car. I’m fine, but she hit her head.’  a red haired man sitting next to her explained. ‘ I’m Michael, by the way. I’m her brother. We were on the way to our parents’ place for dinner.’

‘ Do your parents know that you’re here?’ Owen asked.

‘ Yes, they’re coming over in a short while.’ Michael answered.

‘ Alright, Michelle, can you look right at me? I need to check your pupils .’ said Owen as she obeyed.

‘ Do you have any dizziness, vomitting or blurring of vision?’ Owen asked once he ascertained that her pupils were equal and reactive.

‘ No.’ Michelle shook her head.

‘ She’ll be ok right?’ Michael asked, concerned. ‘ She’s my only sister- I don’t want anything to happen to her.’

She’s my only sister. I don’t want anything to happen to her.

Owen found his mind drifting again to his only sister, Megan.

He shook the thought of Megan off his mind as he answered, ‘ Yes, she seems fine at the moment. But I want to page Neuro to do a full examination on you just to be sure. And I’m gonna stitch this wound on your forehead ok?’

He began working on Michelle’s wound as he ordered a nurse to page Amelia.

 _____________________________________________________________

‘ You ok?’ Amelia asked as she approached Owen at the nurses’ station half an hour later. She had done a thorough examination on Michelle and reviewed Michelle’s Brain CT which turned out normal. Being cleared by Neuro, Michelle would be discharged after another 6 hours of observation in the ER.

Owen had a distant look on his face, and she knew that something was preoccupying his mind.

‘ Huh? Yeah I’m fine.’ Owen answered distractedly.

‘ Owen….’

‘ I said I’m fine!’ he repeated, louder than he intended to.

However Amelia didn’t flinch this time. No- Owen had always supported her all this while,   she wanted to be the one to offer him support this time.

‘ You can always talk to me you know.’ Amelia said softly as she rubbed his arm soothingly. ‘ You have always supported me, and now I’m here to support you as well.’

Owen nodded as he looked at Amelia. He appreciated her support, he really did. But this wasn’t the time to be talking to her about it.

‘ Thank you, Amelia, I really appreciate it.’ he said earnestly. ‘ But I’m rather busy now. I’ll talk to you about it later ok?’

‘ Ok.’ she nodded. ‘ Just know that you can tell me anything.’ she offered, as she patted his shoulder before she left.

________________________________________________________________

It was quiet in the house as Owen sat on the couch of their living room that night. He could hear the sound of crickets and the occasional car driving by.  Amelia was on call- so he sat alone on the couch, just like he always did during the 3 months before her return.

He was exhausted after an entire day of attending to motor vehicle accident victims. Now all he wanted was to sit back and relax with a drink.

He poured himself a glass of Scotch as he leaned back on the couch. He savored the feel of the drink going down his throat.

The truth be told, he had been drinking every night since Amelia left with a simple note. Without Amelia around , there was no reason for him to stop drinking. If before, he always tried not to drink in front of her, now he binge drank. He drank to drown all the sorrows he felt deep down inside. He drank to fill the hole in his heart and the loneliness and emptiness he felt. He missed her laughter, her dimpled smile, the vanilla scent of her hair. He even missed their petty squabbles over the remote and the dishes.

Now that Amelia was back home, he had another reason to drown his sorrows with a drink today.

Although he didn’t want to admit it, he really missed his sister Megan.

Today was supposed to be Megan’s 35th birthday had she still been around. He stood up from the couch and walked over to the collection of old photo albums he and Amelia kept in one of the drawers below the TV.

He took out one of the photo albums and sat back down on the couch, flipping through the album. It contained photos of him and Megan from birth to adulthood. There were many photos of them both as babies, then as children, and subsequently as teenagers and young adults. He stared at a photo of him and Megan building sandcastles together at the beach. Their parents would make it a point to bring them to the beach every summer for vacation, and it was something they looked forward to the entire year. Then there were photos of him and Megan smiling widely during her 2nd birthday party, cakes smeared all over their faces. Another page of the album contained photos of them during their teenage years- him dressed smartly in a suit, going to prom with a girl whose name he had forgotten, and her looking so beautiful in a red dress during her prom day, being escorted by a boy who Owen disliked. Owen had always shown an interest in Megan’s love life, much to her dismay. But the actual fact was, and they both knew it- he had her best interest in mind and just wanted to protect his little sister from getting hurt. As he turned to the last page of the album, a photo caught his eye. It was the last photo they had taken together, right before they were both posted to Iraq. They were both wearing similar army uniforms and smiling widely at the camera. Both Hunt siblings shared a similar passion for serving in the army.

He let his mind drift off again to Megan. He missed her so much. He missed her cheeky smile, her cheerful laughter, he missed the way she loved to tease and provoke him to make him mad. But he could never stay mad at her for long. He missed their happy childhood memories, cycling to the park and chasing around the neighbourhood with the neighbours’ kids. He missed her interrogating him on every girl he brought home during his teenage years. Later as she grew older, he would do the same to her, scaring away every boy she brought home. He missed her provoking him by calling him sausage fingers while he operated on a patient in the battlefield.

He could recall the last conversation he had with her. She had been upset about Riggs cheating on her, but still managed to squeeze in a word of wisdom for him.

‘ Owen, I hope you find someone who would be your soulmate and companion for life. I hope you can build a happy family and future with her. Because you deserve it.’ she had said as she hugged him tight before getting on the helicopter.

‘ Oh Megan - if only you got to meet Amelia.’ he thought to himself. He was sure they would both get along great.

He took another sip of his Scotch as he wondered where she was now. Was she in hiding somewhere? Was she kidnapped and being held captive by the enemies all these years? If so, were they torturing her? Or…was she….he couldn’t bring himself to think of the word ‘dead.’

But if she was dead, wouldn’t they have found her body? He didn’t know. No one knew.

There was a knock at his front door.

Owen frowned, puzzled. Who could be visiting him and Amelia at this hour? Was it Meredith, Maggie or one of their colleagues?

He opened the door to come face to face with a buff man dressed in an army uniform.

‘ Hello, is this Dr. Owen Hunt?’ he asked.

‘ Yes, it’s me.’ Owen answered, feeling a sense of trepidation. Surely this isn’t good news, he could feel it.

‘ I’m Major William Allen.’ the man introduced himself in a booming voice as he stiffly shook hands with Owen.

‘ Are you the elder brother of Dr. Megan Hunt?’ he asked.

‘ Yes.’ Owen answered in a small voice as he could feel his heart sinking. He had a very bad feeling about this- and he didn’t want to hear what was coming next.

‘ I’m so sorry to inform you that we have found your sister’s body today. The helicopter she was on was shot down in Iraq several years ago, but due to it being hostile territory, we could only manage to recover it now.’

At the Major’s words- Owen’s entire world collapsed. Even though he had tried to prepare himself for this possibility, now that her death was confirmed, he wasn’t prepared for this moment. He had always clung on to the small possibility that she might be still alive and might return to him someday. And now- that hope was crushed just like that.

Owen remained silent as he stood there in a daze, a shocked and devastated expression on his face. He could barely register the Major’s subsequent words.

‘ Her body was badly decomposed and beyond identification- we had to perform DNA testing.’ Major William added. ‘ We guess the body had been there for a long time- probably many years. It was found near the helicopter wreckage, which leads us to believe that she might have died from the crash itself - if that’s any consolation.’

‘ If that’s any consolation.’

He wondered how could anything give him consolation upon receiving this devastating news about the confirmation of his sister’s death. Maybe, the Major meant well. He understood, it would have been better for Megan to die from the crash itself than to die from being kept a Prisoner of War after all these years. He could never bring himself to imagine Megan having to go through all the torture had she still been alive. But still, the Major’s words pierced through his heart like a double edged sword. His little sister, his only sister was gone. She was never coming back. He would never see her smile, hear her laughter or be provoked by her anymore.

‘ We’ll help you to make her funeral arrangements.’ the Major added in a serious tone.

Owen thanked the Major solemnly as he shook hands with him and closed the door behind him.

_____________________________________________________________

As soon as the front door was closed and locked, Owen sat on the couch with his head in his hands, silently mourning for his sister.

He wondered how the last minutes of her life were, and whether she died a slow, painless death. Did she think of him? Or of Riggs?

He lifted his head up from his hands and stared at the photo album full of photos and him and Megan, still placed on the couch. Now all that’s left of her were just memories.

He knew that the first stage of grief was denial. Which was exactly what he felt at the moment. Maybe, just maybe he was dreaming and it was all just a nightmare. Maybe if he pinched himself, he would wake up from this nightmare, and Megan would appear to him alive and well the next day. Maybe he was just hallucinating, the Major was just a visual hallucination and the Major’s words were just an auditory hallucination.

He progressed on quickly to the next stage of grief - anger. As if on reflex- his wrist slammed against the coffee table, knocking down his half empty glass of Scotch. Scotch spilled on the coffee table, but he didn’t care. He was angry at the universe, angry at the God above for taking away his beloved sister from him. He was angry he didn’t get a chance to say a final goodbye to her, angry at himself for letting her go on the helicopter in the first place. If only he had stopped her from getting on the helicopter- she would still be alive.

He threw the photo album across the living room and plunked back down on the couch, burying his head in his hands again, wrecked in silent sobs.

________________________________________________________________

He didn’t know how long he sat in that position. It might have been just minutes, or hours. Time seemed to stand still for him.

He jumped as he felt a warm comforting hand on his shoulder.

He looked up to see Amelia looking sympathetically at him.

‘ I heard.’ she whispered, as she rubbed his arm soothingly. ‘ I rushed back right after April told me. ‘I’m so sorry, Owen.’ she added in a soft voice.

She had just finished reviewing a patient in the ER when she overhead April and a few residents talking about an army helicopter wreckage being discovered after so many years and several bodies being found. As she approached the group to learn more details, one name stood out for her, Megan Hunt. Upon hearing the name, she immediately rushed back home, asking April to page her if there were any incoming patients that needed Neuro consults. She knew that Owen needed her at that moment.

Owen looked up at her as their eyes met. His eyes were forlorn and filled with sadness, while hers were filled with sympathy and love.

He shook his head wordlessly, at loss of words to say to her. How could he tell her how receiving the news of a sibling’s death felt like?

She pulled his body closer to her chest and hugged him tight as he finally broke down in her arms. The warmth of her touch and the feel of her heart beating broke down his defenses. He sobbed and sobbed, mourning for his sister. She rubbed his back soothingly in circular motions, knowing that the gesture would calm him down. She knew because he always performed the same gesture on her to calm her down, and now it was time for her to reciprocate.

‘ It’s ok Owen.’ she whispered as she continued rubbing his back in soothing circles. ‘ Just cry, let it all out. I know you miss her. I’m here for you.’

Amelia’s comforting voice only made him sob harder in her arms. He sobbed, letting out all the emotions he had kept buried inside for so long. He had never told anyone else besides Amelia about Megan. He couldn’t possibly talk to Riggs about her- it would be too awkward. He never told anyone this, but he would often dream of her being shot in the battlefield and would wake up screaming and sweaty. Only Amelia and Cristina knew about his condition. He had been to the psychiatrist and was diagnosed with PTSD. However, there was little that the psychiatrist could do to treat it. When Amelia left for a few months- those few months when he would wake up alone, screaming after having a nightmare were the loneliest months of his life.

‘ I know- you didn’t manage to say goodbye to her.’ she said softly, as she rubbed his arm. ‘ I didn’t manage to say goodbye to Derek as well. I miss him so much too.’

Owen finally looked up at Amelia, as the realization dawned upon him that they both had something in common, they had both lost a sibling.

‘ How do you get over the loss of a sibling?’ Owen asked, as he looked up at her with teary eyes.

‘ You don’t get over it, the pain will remain with you for the rest of your life.’ she answered sadly. ‘ It would dull over time, but there is this ache that remains. I miss Derek too and think of him all the time.’

‘ For years I was clinging on to the tiny bit of hope that she might still be alive.’ Owen admitted, a downcast and crestfallen look on his face. ‘ And tonight that tiny glimpse of hope I had was crushed. I miss her so much. We had so many wonderful memories together. She’s my only sister, my only sibling.’ he shook his head sadly.

‘ I know.’ Amelia whispered softly, nodding her head in an understanding manner.

‘ I shouldn’t have let her get on the helicopter.’ he said angrily. ‘ Had I prevented her from doing so, she would still be alive right now. It’s my fault.’

‘ It’s not your fault, Owen.’ said Amelia earnestly as she held his hands in hers.

‘ It IS my fault.’ Owen insisted, frowning.

‘ Owen, look here.’ said Amelia as she cupped his face in her hands, tilting his head upwards so their eyes met.

‘ It’s not your fault, Owen. You wouldn’t have known that the helicopter would crash.  I’m sure if you knew, you wouldn’t have let her get on it.’ said Amelia as she continued looking into his eyes.

‘ They said that they found her body near the wreckage site. I really hope that she didn’t suffer too much before she…died..’ said Owen sadly, a distant look in his eyes.

‘ I hope so too.’ said Amelia softly, taking his hands in hers and using her thumb to rub soothing motions on the palm of his hands. ‘ I’m not religious, but I would like to think that she’s in a better place. That’s what I do to cheer myself up- I tell myself that my dad, Ryan, my first baby and Derek are all up in heaven, watching and smiling down at us.’

Owen closed his eyes for a moment as he tried to imagine Megan smiling down at him from heaven with her beautiful smile. He wasn’t by any means religious, but he had to admit, it was a comforting thought indeed. And maybe, his and Cristina’s aborted child was also with her, smiling down at him. Maybe Megan was taking care of his child in heaven.

They both sat in silence on the couch, thinking about their loved ones in heaven. Amelia’s head was leaned against Owen’s chest as she cuddled up close to him.

Amelia’s hand covered Owen’s as she slowly guided his hand until it rested on her growing baby bump. Over the past two weeks, the bump had grown significantly, and now more than half the hospital knew her secret.

She placed her hand over his, as both of them savored the feel of their baby under their touch.

It was then that Owen realized he had to let go of his sister, she was never coming back. It saddened him deeply, but he knew that Megan would always be with him- in his heart, and smiling down at him and his family. He loved her so much, she was his only sister and she occupied a special place in his heart. However, he knew that she was never returning to him and he had to move on. At least this was the sense of closure he needed, as sad as it was. Megan was his past, but Amelia and their baby are his future.

It was Amelia whom he would lean to for support during Megan’s funeral, and throughout the subsequent years when he would think of her. Life went on though, and he knew that Megan was smiling down at him, watching him build his family as Charlotte, Noah and Olivia arrived. Megan would live through his youngest daughter, Olivia, whose middle name was Megan after her aunt Megan. As she grew, he would notice more and more of her aunt Megan’s characteristics in her, not only in terms of appearance, but also personality. He knew that It was Megan’s way of telling him that she was never truly gone.

Comments, reviews, reblogs and messages are very much appreciated! :)

[monicaaaaatje]

Locked away

It is 30 minutes after midnight, and I am completely exhausted because work. Here it is.

“Do you wanna read some of my old case files?” It had taken Owen and Amelia a lot of bugging, bothering, signing forms and simply be a pain in the ass to take Megan home with them. Her doctors at the base had had their doubts if it was wise to let her go, but she had been a month in threatment at the base. When Owen and Amelia had called in their contacts, the doctors at the base had finally given in. “I think you like this one. The biggest tumor I ever removed.” Amelia had put the folder of Herman her surgery in front of Megan, but all the young woman did was turn around on the couch, and pull the blanket over her head. “Owen, look at me,” Amelia said while she grabbed his hand. “You’ve been with her all this time at the base, but don’t you think work would be good now? Just getting your mind of this for a while?” It had taken her a lot of effort, but she had managed to get Owen to work for a 24-hour shift, while she took care of his sister. On multiple rides to the base, Owen had told Amelia she would have liked Megan, in the right state of mind. His sister used to have the same attitude like her and also had neuro as a speciality. “You know what, I’m just gonna leave this here. If you need me, I’ll be in the kitchen. No one can resist my waffles.” Megan had not spoken since they had gotten home a few days ago. She had not spoken at all, something that drove Owen mad. Somewhere, Amelia understood why she didn’t spoke. Sometimes you just did not want to talk. While she put some dough in the waffle iron, she saw on her phone Owen would be home in five hours, if nothing spectaculair happend. “TSSJK!” “YOU WON’T BE ABLE TO HOLD ME ANYMORE, DO YOU HEAR ME?!” Megan pulled the kitchen knife from Amelia her shoulder, and stabbed her again. This time, it was in her lower back. The redhead screamed something in arabic, while she pulled the knife back, stabbing Amelia again. Owen would be home soon. Owen would be home soon. Nathan gasped for air when he ran into the surgery floor. The first one he saw was Alex, who looked at him with pity. “Bailey is operating on her herself man. It’s bad.” “How bad?” Nathan asked. “The EMT’s don’t get how they got her to the hospital alive.” “Oh jesus-” “Hunt his sister is nowhere to be found. SPD is all over the place looking for her.” Nathan cursed. “I got to go man, but Mer is with Hunt right now in the waiting area. Good luck.” Nathan turned the other way around, not knowing what would be best for him to do. If the situation had been the other way around, he would not have been that sure if he would have liked to see Owen. He sended Maggie a text, knowing Meredith would probably not leave Owen alone right now. He waited for Maggie down the stairs from the main hall, where she ran into him with red and puffy eyes from crying. “Oh Nathan, it’s horrible!” She was in such a state of emotion that she did not realise his ex had caused this, but Nathan choose not to remind her. “Owen is in shock, and Amy… She can’t die. I can’t lose my sister.” “She’s a fighter. She’ll fight.” In short, Maggie told Nathan how Owen had found Amelia. She had been in the kitchen, covered in a pool of blood, with Megan nowhere to be found. “Could you… I’m gonna go see if I can find her. Tell Owen I will find her.” “Yeah, I… Be carefull. Please.” He gave her his classic Nathan smile. “I’ve operated during bombings. Think I should be good.” He wasn’t good at all. But he sure wasn’t gonna tell that to Maggie.

He had been unable to get the blood off his skin. Her blood. “Owen. Owen, stop!” His girl was a fighter. Always had been. Always would be. She had been dead before. She would manage. She had to. She couldn’t leave him. Not like this. He could taste the blood from the wounds from the inside of his cheeks. He had been bitting down on them to keep at least some sense into his being. His sister had done this. He didn’t know what had happend, but Megan had done this to her. Amelia couldn’t leave him. Not after he just had gotten her back. “Owen? Owen, look at me.” Meredith snapped her fingers in front of his face. “Nathan went out to look for Megan. He would call when he finds her.” Owen didn’t answer. Amelia had been in surgery for 4 hours and 36 minutes now. He couldn’t lose her. Not after he had just gotten her back. She couldn’t leave him like this. The doors of the OR floor opened, and Miranda Bailey came out of them, looking more exhausted then ever. Meredith immediately stood up to talk to her, but Owen didn’t move. 4 hours and 37 minutes. 1… 2… 3… Meredith had a short talk with Bailey, who came to Owen after a while. Her lips moved. This time, Owen did hear her speak. He heard every single word. “She has made it through surgery but she isn’t out of the woods yet. The next twenty-four hours are gonna be critical. We put her on a ventilator to give her left lung some time to heal. We managed to get control over the wounds in her liver and indestines.” It was like ten thousand pound had fallen from his shoulders. He breathed in relief, tears streaming down his face, thanking all powers in the universe that she had made it through surgery. “Owen… I am affraid that isn’t everything yet.” “Mr. Riggs, even a psychiatrist could not get her to speak. At least-” On his way to Owen and Amelia their place, Nathan had been called by Meredith, who had gotten a call from SPD. Megan hadn’t gotten far, and they had brought her to the presinct. They hadn’t gotten any word out of her, so now Nathan wanted to try. After consulting with the psychiatrist, Nathan had gotten into the interrogation room where Megan was. She wasn’t sitting at the table, but on the ground, moving back and forward, like she was in some kind of trance. “Meg? It’s me, Nate.” No response. “Do you know where you are? Do you remember what happend? Amelia-” “It wasn’t her,” Megan whispered. “It wasn’t her. It wasn’t her. It wasn’t her.” “Meg?” She yelled something at him in arabic. It was a term Nathan had heard often during his time serving. It all finally made sense to him now. “I didn’t know. I didn’t know!” Megan had thought Amelia had been one of her capturers. Owen did not leave her bedside. “Robbins managed to save her uterus, but she was carrying a fetus from two weeks old. She probably didn’t even know herself.” Holding her hand, he sat at her bedside. She hadn’t known. She could not have known, right? He waited. One hour. Ten hours. An arm around his shoulder. “You can’t stay here forever. I’ll sit with her for a while. Go get yourself cleaned up a little.” He ignored April her comment. “Do you think she wants you to look like a complete mess?” There she had a fair point. Knowing he could trust April with her, he left for a cup of coffee, cleaned himself up and returned again. He waited. Minutes. Hours. People passed by to ask how he was doing. After 16 hours and 32 minutes, alarms went off. “We have to get her back into the OR!” Minutes passed again. Hours. This time, it was April who stood by his side. After 3 hours and 22 minutes, Miranda Bailey came to him, looking more defeated then ever. Owen already knew enough.

[hurr1can30m3l1a]

19 Nights

This is for @toevenexist - as requested a sequel to Without Her. Enjoy! 

She was home. She had come back to me and she was home. We still had our issues and still had a lot to talk about but at least she was home, with me.  She was home with me though it didn’t really feel as though she was there, it was like a ghost of Amelia was in the room. We still hadn’t talked about the baby situation fully and it was eating me up inside. The first week she was home was the hardest. We barely talked, she slept on her side of the bed and I slept on mine; there was so much space between us that we might as well have been in our own single beds. She was home but she wasn’t really home. She would sleep with her back to me, so close to the edge I was scared she would fall off. It didn’t feel like the Owen and Amelia we used to be, the Owen and Amelia I loved. We were walking on eggshells around each other. I slept better though knowing she was next to me, that at least was better than her not being here.

9th Night at home

“Owen, do we have any floss left in the house?” she asked, poking her head out of our en suite

“It’s just…”

“You can’t sleep without it I know” I interrupted her quietly

“I’m not sure, hop in the shower and I’ll have a look round the house for you” I carried on, she smiled gently and her head disappeared into the bathroom again, accompanied by the sound of the shower turning on. I knew we didn’t have any floss in the house, we hadn’t had any since she had left. So that left me with one option. I quietly snuck out of the house and drove off to the nearest gas station, knowing I had a 20-minute window. I bought the biggest multi-pack they had, it surely would last her a while. As I stepped back into the house and quietly shut the door behind me I heard the shower turn off. I quickly made my way into our room, I took one packet out of the bag ready to hand to her and without thinking stuffed the bag with the rest into the nearest draw.

“I found some in a cabinet draw for you, Mia” I called out knocking on the bathroom door. She opened it, wrapped in a very fluffy towel, her wet hair framing her face; how could still be that beautiful soaking wet?! As I handed her the box our fingers brushed together and I couldn’t help but noticed she was blushing; feeling too awkward to do anything, I excused myself and got ready for bed while she finished up in the en suite. That was the first night she fell asleep facing me. Progress, no matter how slow, is progress.

18th Night at home

We had been settling back into a routine: we ate, watched TV, brushed our teeth, left for work and cooked together. It wasn’t back to normal but it was all definitely progress. Each night she slowly edged closer and closer to me in bed. I kept a polite distance and I had made it very clear I was going to give her space and let her come back to me. We still had to talk about the baby situation though, that seemed to have been put on pause indefinitely. It needed to be resolved. That night as I got into bed I noticed to she was looking through different draws looking for something, what I don’t know. I decided to let her get on with it and not interfere, so I picked up my book and allowed myself to get lost in the pages. Suddenly my concentration was ripped away from the pages of my book,

“Owen what is this?” she asked a confused look taking over her face, as I sat up to peer over the edge of the bed I noticed she had in her hand the bag of floss I had shoved in a draw and forgotten about, what I hadn’t realised at the time was that that draw just so happened to be the draw of her nightstand,

“Ummm it’s a bag of floss” I said, very matter of fact

“I can see that” she quipped

“but what I don’t understand is why it’s in a gas station bag and stuffed into my draw” all I could so was stare at her

“Owen?” she questioned, I gulped and opened my mouth to talk, picking my words very carefully

“Well remember the other week when you couldn’t find floss and said I’d look for you? Well I knew we didn’t have any in the house so, while you were in the shower, I drove to the gas station to pick some up for you; as I didn’t want to make a big deal about it I just shoved it in a draw, though now I realise which draw”

“Why did you do that?”

“Well I didn’t want a big bag of floss lying around the place…”

“That’s not what I meant! Why did you drive to the gas station in the middle of the night to buy me what looks like 15 boxes of floss?!”

“Because you can’t sleep without floss Mia”

“But why did you…” she began

“Because I love you” I snapped beginning to get frustrated at her interrogating of my actions. She looked at me shocked, as if I had just told her I had punched someone. Without saying anything she stood up, walked around the bed to my side

“Look at me Owen” she commanded, I swung my legs off the bed and sat up looking at her, she took a step closer to me so she was standing between my knees and rested her hands on my shoulders. My heart was beating so fast I didn’t know what to do, this was the closest she had come to me since coming home. As she lowered her head closed to mine she whispered

“I love you too, so much. What did I ever do to deserve you Owen Hunt?” and then she kissed me. Taken aback by her actions I broke the kiss and looked at her, suddenly I wasn’t confused anymore, my hand found its way into her hair pulling her lips to mine again. All of a sudden she was straddling me and her hands were pulling at the hem of my pyjama trousers. Every kiss and every movement from then on was so natural I barely had to think about it. We were finally back to the Owen and Amelia I knew and loved. That was the first night we slept with her head against my chest and my arms wrapped around her. It was the best nights sleep I had had in months.

19th Night at home

We had been a little awkward around each other during the day, neither really knowing how to breach the subject of what had happened the night before. As I lay there I bed, in the dark I found myself speaking before my mind even had time to catch up to and analysed what I was saying

“Mia why did you say you did want kids and then say you didn’t? What am I missing here? Because I want us and I’m trying to understand I really am but I need a little help…”

Silence fell over the room for what felt like an eternity, my brain was yelling at me for speaking without thinking, why had I spoken? Why did I think now was the right time to approach the subject that almost ended our marriage in the first place?

“Owen, do you remember when I told you that my baby lived for 43 minutes? Well that wasn’t the whole story. My baby, my baby boy, was the reason I stayed sober. I found out I was pregnant with him after I came out of rehab after Ryan had died, he was Ryan’s son. I was too far along to do anything, but I would never have terminated, I could never abort my child. But it wasn’t that simple. When I went to get a check up with Addie the ultrasound revealed that he was anencephalic, he had no brain. I am a damn neuro surgeon and my baby had no brain – God really has a sense of humour. But as I said back then there is no God, as no God would do that. So I decided to carry him to term, he was my Unicorn Baby. He donated all of his organs and saved so many other babies. He was magical. I got to hold him, but when they took him away from me my heart broke. My soul shattered. I died inside. I could never do that again Owen, I cannot loose another child; I would not survive. What if I only make anencephalic babies? What if that is all my body is wired to do? I could never knowingly put you trough that much pain, you want a baby so bad I just couldn’t do that to you” I could hear her voice breaking and I knew she was crying, but I couldn’t move I was frozen

“I love you too much to put you through that Owen. Your heart broke when the first test was negative, I can’t imagine what an anencephalic baby would do to you. I could never do that to you…”

“Amelia you would never do anything to me. Remember when I asked you if you had people? I am your people; I am your person. Why didn’t you tell me?! I don’t care if you can’t have a healthy baby, I won’t love you any less. We could adopt of hire a surrogate. I just want you, and if you want a family, whichever form that comes in, then great; but if not, all I want is you. You are the love of my life, I am not going anywhere” as I spoke I wrapped my arms around her, and her tears had slowly begun to dampen my t-shirt.

“I want babies, Owen I want hundreds of babies, I want your babies. I’m just terrified so I need time, I will get there I just need time. Because I love you, I love you so much.” She continued to sob as she spoke, but at least we were talking about it. As I lay back, still holding her I ran my fingers up and down her back and just held her. That was the night I knew we were going to be ok. That was the first night she slept as the little spoon to my big spoon. I had my person back. I had forgotten how well her tiny frame moulded against mine, she was back, we were back to being us. Owen and Amelia. That was the first night in months I knew that if either of us woke up in the middle of the night terrified, of well, ourselves that we would be ok. The other was there. She was there for me and I was there for her. So for the first time in months I slept with my wife’s back pressed against my chest, my arm wrapped around her waist, her fingers intertwined with mine; I finally slept like I was meant to, protecting the love of my life.  

[shellymetals-blog]

Nap-In with Barbara Bickle My personal reflection and perspective SIUC – March 8, 2017 Barbara Bickle is my professor this semester in an art history credit class called “Art as Social Practice: Applications and Theories”. The “Nap-In” is a project of hers and her colleagues and has be performed many times all around the world. My classmates and I were invited on March 8, 2017 to take part in this project held in the rotunda of SIUC’s library. We began by sewing and stitching little pillows that were stuffed with lavender and mug wort. Once the pillows were completed we all sat or laid around the central dream scroll at the center of a tape labyrinth and were encouraged to fall asleep with the thoughts of diversity in mind. We only had 20 minutes for this part so I unfortunately did not fall asleep. I think a few of my classmates did but for me that was an awkward spot with too many surrounding noises for me to fully relax into a dream state. Although I could not fall asleep I was thinking of someone that means a lot to me who shortly after the most recent presidential election tried to enter the USA. This friend typically would travel to and from the states through Florida but this time was going through US customs in Texas. He was detained for over 12 hours, thankfully not roughed up but interrogated by several immigration officers, made to wait with no food or water and then interrogated again and again. After the first hour of being hassled he was more than willing and offering to just go back to Columbia, South America but the racist Texas officers kept him in a holding room for far longer. After this extremely long waiting period they stamped his passport to make it illegal for him to enter the USA for the next 5 years! This friend yes, is a light skinned brown man who speaks English just not without his Columbian accent. He is a talented blacksmith that has shared his knowledge and techniques with many adults and children across the United States over the last several years. Blacksmithing communities have requested his presence and teachings at many conferences. He is compensated for his time with room and board and travel expenses. It makes very little sense that he was treated so poorly in Texas, beyond that the USA has now elected a racist head that wants to go to great lengths to keep out immigrants. This friend of mine has enriched and inspired the furthering of the blacksmithing arts and knowledge for so many and it is very disappointing to see what this country is headed towards on a whole. He was not in any way trying to move here or do anything illegal, he was just teaching and sharing, not even being paid. No longer is the USA a melting pot of culture and diversity, it’s an arrogant white supremacy totalitarian place of the top 1% ruling in a practically Hitler-like way. This country is reversing in its progressive ways and everything from human rights, female rights, environmental rights, animal rights are all on the chopping block. I am devistated by how this is the world I currently live in. To come back to the Nap-In, After our 20 min of dreaming/nap/thinking time was up we were asked to create something to add to the central scroll. I made a little heart like pillow that had several multi-colored knots/bows as a tail, like a kite or balloon might have. Asleep or awake I dream of a world that is more accepting, loving and community based. Around the time that the Nap-In occurred a FOX reporter was trolling student newspapers for stories they could slant upon. It’s outrageous that FOX can even still have the word “news” in their title since they are nothing more than a fabricated entertainment show rather than an actual news broadcast! On top of that Fox is primarily filled with arrogant, sexist, racist white men with perhaps one token man of color. Thankfully, there has recently been several white male FOX anchors that are beginning called out on several sexual assault charges. Beyond the males on FOX the women they have employed as news casters portray themselves as nothing more than unintelligent sexy dressed distractions that agree with the men on everything as if they have no brains of their own. This broadcast slant on the Nap-In was trying to say that parents are paying for their children to get a degree in sleeping! On top of that they had an interview with a mini-me FOX reporter/student from SIU that was not even in the slightest way aware of the purpose or intent of the Nap-In. However, she fit the stereotypical architype of female FOX prefers so of course she was the one to be the face of this internal interview not Barbara or any of the other facilitators of this project who could clearly explain the project. Interestingly enough, my class attended the Nap-In on International Women’s Day, March 8th. So, in conjunction of Trumps attack on women’s rights during this week this slant broadcast aired just a few days after. It was absolutely planned shenanigans and brain washing bull-shit. How are people buying into this crap? They must still have ratings that are keeping them on the air, but really? How can people keep listening to fake news and not question the spoonful’s of crap they are being fed? A short while after the slant broadcast was aired, Barbara held a panel session to discuss further the project and the benefits of taking resting moments. Most interestingly for me there was a Neuro-scientist on the panel that has proof through MRI brain scans that our brains are very active during a resting/dreaming state. Our brains function at 70% while resting and only 1-3% higher when we are fully awake and cognitive! Even if you aren’t in a dream state, just closing your eyes and relaxing for short periods of time can be extremely beneficial to re-focusing and being more productive. This world we live in is overly stimulating and distracting. There is always 101+ things to do all at the same time, especially as a student. With digital media bombarding us across our phones and computers we are saturated with distraction as the norm and focus can be a true challenge. In a somewhat related way, while I was working towards my undergraduate degree I took many classes in Asian art Studies and Histories. During one of these art history classes I did a project on Kum Nye. I attended regularly a 2 hour Sunday Kum Nye class held at the Nyingma Institute in Berkeley, California for that entire semester (and continued this practice long after). Kum Nye is an ancient Tibetan medical spiritual technique that refreshes and revitalizes both the body and mind and was developed and brought to the states by Tarthang Tulku. In the simplest and possibly mis-represented way for me to explain this, it’s essentially a type of slow movement and breathing yoga that helps to align and center the body and mind. To begin with I had no idea that I would connect with or get so much out of this extra class. In closing one’s eyes, paying attention to one’s breath going in and out of their body and slowly moving their appendages according to a particular exercise, this practice can open up tension and relieve stress and distraction. Many people taught this class but my favorite was Santiago. He and I spoke often after the classes. I felt like an obvious amateur in this practice but he assured me that just like physical creations the more practice given to Kum Nye the more accomplished and centered I would feel in some of the more difficult poses. He also said that of course it’s nice to have the Sunday 2 hours to practice but that even the 10-15 minutes I could give to this during the week would prove to be beneficial to my existence in this world. He could not have been any more right. I’ve taken many forms of yoga that help to keep me flexible however I have not had another class where my brain and body become flexible and open at the same time. I am so thankful to have had this experience and do continue to practice from memory and books I acquired while still living in California. I do see and feel a beneficial similarity with Kum Nye practice and Barbara Bickles Dreaming Diversity Nap-Ins.

[hurricanefrankie]

You’re Not the Only One Suffering

Amelia is jolted awake by a sudden pain in her abdomen, the kind of pain that makes your toes curl and your fists clench in a hope to counteract the sensation. She rolls onto her side with a groan. The early morning sun dimly lit the room so she knew it was at least the morning. Suddenly overcome by a hot flash, she rips off her covers in an attempt to cool herself down. Her skin was on fire. She checks her forehead for a temperature but it’s too hard to tell whether or not she has one thanks to her hands being ice cold yet still clammy from sweat. 

The pain that woke her strikes again causing her stomach to churn uneasily. She tries to gulp down the nausea but her mouth is dry and any moisture she had left in her body has now been sweated out during the night.

She hears hurried footsteps thud against the floor upstairs, signalling someone else was awake. A door slamming shut abruptly overshadows the footsteps closely followed by the distant sound of retching. 

Oh no. Amelia scrambles off the couch, her stomach now violently churning. She runs in the direction of the downstairs bathroom, her hand placed firmly over her mouth as bile retreats back up her throat. She wrenches open the door and makes a beeline for the toilet. She reaches it just in time to watch the contents of her stomach spew from her mouth into the bowl. 

Tears stream down her cheeks as a result of the violent retching but she has no energy to wipe them away, at least not until she’s finished puking her guts up. She continues vomiting for the next few minutes until her body realises there’s nothing left to relinquish from her now empty stomach.

She drops down next to the toilet with a sigh of relief. Please let that be the last of it. She remains slumped on the bathroom floor tiles, her legs pulled up to her chest whilst her head hung limply between them, enjoying the sensation of the cool tiles against her still burning hot skin. 

Amelia doesn’t even realise she’s fallen asleep until she’s gently shaken awake by her four year old nephew Bailey. Her stormy blue eyes open to see his sky blue ones staring right back at her with curiosity.

“Why are you sleeping in here aunty Amy?” he asks with a furrowed brow. 

Meredith appears behind him with Ellis on her hip, “You ill too?” she queries, surveying her sister-in-law with pursed lips.

The neurosurgeon runs a hand through her matted hair, “I feel like…” she stops herself from swearing to spell it out instead. “C. R. A. P.”  

Meredith nods in understanding, “I’ve been up half the night with Zola while Maggie has been in my en suite and Alex has now too locked himself away in the main bathroom. I’m dropping these two off at day-care, I want them to remain healthy.” She ushers her son away from his aunt. “How’re you feeling?”

“A bit better.” Amelia shrugs and leans her head back against the wall.

“Good, I need you to go check on Zola, she was asleep but I don’t want her waking up alone.”

She wipes her hand over her sweaty face, “Ok, sure.” The mere thought of standing up and removing herself from such a close proximity to a toilet made her feel very anxious.

“I’ve also gotta call Catherine Avery and cancel my trip with Jackson, she’ll have to find someone else to go.” Meredith swiftly leaves, tugging a still very curious yet concerned Bailey with her; he hated seeing people hurt or unwell just like his older sister. His mother and aunts were all very positive both siblings would follow in their parents’ footsteps by becoming doctors. 

With a deep breath, Amelia pushes herself up as gently as she possibly can, her head spinning momentarily once she’s standing upright. Her legs feel like jelly. The front door shuts indicating Meredith and the kids were gone.

Ok. You can do this. She gives herself a mini pep talk as she slowly but surely makes her way out of the bathroom and up the stairs. She clings to the bannister with dear life as yet another wave of nausea hits her. She freezes mid step until it passes. Mind over matter.

When she finally arrives at Meredith’s room, she finds Zola curled up in the tightest ball possible, still fast asleep. Amelia crawls onto the bed to join her, mentally making a note of the plastic bowl on the side table in case she felt like she might vomit again. She lies down beside her niece, above the covers, she was still burning up and the prospect of tucking herself in made her feel claustrophobic and very uneasy.

The sound of the en suite toilet flushing alerts Amelia to the presence of Maggie in the adjoining room, she had almost forgot that Meredith has said both she and Alex were in the same predicament as her and Zola.

The bathroom door creaks open to reveal an incredibly pale Maggie. Her hair was pulled back and hidden beneath one of her headscarf’s and she was wearing a tank top with yoga pants. “What did I do to deserve this?” she grumbles, using the doorframe as a support to keep her upright.

“You’re not the only one suffering.” Amelia says, remaining perfectly still, scared that if she moved even an inch; she’d unsettle her stomach. “Did we eat something?” she grimaces at the thought of food.

“Mer thinks it’s just the flu. Half of Zola’s class has gone down with it.”

“So she’s to blame.” She retorts half jokingly as she glances at the girl to her left.

“I’m so tired. All I want to do is curl up in bed but every time I step foot outside of this room, I…” Maggie drifts off, her face turning green. She whips back around and crouches over the toilet bowl. 

Amelia tries to cover her ears to block them from hearing the inevitable vomiting but it’s no use. She closes her eyes and tries her best to think of anything but what was happening a few feet from where she lay.

‘You ok?’ His voice suddenly enters her mind. It’s full of concern and love as usual. Throughout the course of their relationship, he’s only ever seen her ill once.

“Go away!” She groans when she hears him knocking at the door. She doesn’t want him to see her like this. She’s sweaty and gross with chunks of vomit in her hair.

“Mia,” he only calls her that on rare occasions when he doesn’t know how to help and wants her to just tell him what to do. “Just let me in.” they both know the door is unlocked but he’s trying to respect her boundaries by waiting outside until she invites him in. 

“I’m disgusting.” She heaves up another load of last night’s dodgy Mexican food. “Please go away!” she splutters, spitting out any remnants from her mouth into the bowl.

She hears him sigh from the other side of the door. “Can I at least get you something? A glass of water? Some ginger ale?”

“Sorry you had to hear that.” Maggie’s voice interrupts her thoughts.

She sighs, disappointed to find herself stuck at Meredith’s house while she was ill rather than being at home with her husband who would gladly look after her, despite her objections. “Shut the door next time.” 

The mattress dips and Maggie cautiously lies down beside her. “I don’t wanna jinx anything but… I might be over the worst of it.” 

Amelia scoffs at her unwavering optimism. The world is on fire and she holds a marshmallow on a stick to the flames.

“Having the flu is the perfect excuse not to be in the O.R with Minnick as she allows some first year resident to butcher a patient’s heart valve.”

Speaking about food made her stomach churn but talking about surgery, where there was blood, guts and gore only made Amelia’s heart flutter. Nothing beat the rush of adrenaline a surgeon got when they cut into a person’s body, or in Amelia’s case, their head.

“When are you coming back for good?”

The neurosurgeon sighs as she delicately rests her hands on her abdomen. After getting a taste of being back in the O.R the other day, she had spent every minute since craving the rush. The only thing that topped doing surgery was being in Owen’s presence, it didn’t matter if they were fighting or even giving one and other the silent treatment, just being in the same room as him made her heart skip a beat.

“I…” she gulps, pleased to find her mouth was no longer dry. “I don’t know… maybe sooner rather than later.” She knew she couldn’t stay out of work forever, her patients and her department needed her. She was still getting updates from Stephanie regarding the other neuro attendings and none of them were living up to her high expectations.

“And what about Owen?” 

Amelia stares up at the cream colored ceiling. To her surprise, since being back at Meredith’s house, she hadn’t been interrogated as much as she expected. She thought she’d receive daily grilling’s from Meredith while Maggie asked incessant questions until they wore their sister down but none of that happened. Alex had been the only one to push her to talk because of what she had previously told him but only when they were alone, and when she told him to back off, he had done so without hesitation.

“I…” 

Maggie tilts her head slightly to face her, “It’s ok, I’m not pressuring you like the other day. Come back when you’re ready.”

What if I’m never ready? I’m not ready for the fight with Owen. I’m not ready to break his heart.

Zola shifts beside her, “Mommy,” she mumbles, still half asleep. 

“Mommy’s gone out for a little bit Zo Zo,” Amelia diverts her attention from Maggie to her niece, “she’ll be back soon.”

The seven-year-old uncoils herself from a tight ball and rolls over to face her aunt; she shuffles closer in need of physical contact. Amelia pulls her into her arms, dismissive of the idea that she might be vomited upon any minute now. She starts to rub circles on her niece’s back to sooth her just like her mom used to whenever she was sick.

“I told you to go away!” She whimpers into the toilet, trying to use it to shield her face from her husband’s view.

“I know but I don’t care.” Owen kneels down next to her. He rests his hand on her back and begins to draw a figure of eight while the other gathers up her mop of hair to keep it from her face as she continued to puke. “You’re my wife. In sickness and in health.” He reminds her affectionately.

“I don’t-want-you seeing-me like-this.” she groans between violent bouts of vomiting.

He sighs, “I’m a doctor plus I’ve been in multiple war zones, I’ve seen much worse, believe me.” 

“But you’re not sleeping with your patients after you’ve seen them crap their pants or watched them vomit on sacred ground.” By sacred ground, she meant their bed. She buries her reddening face further down into the toilet.

“Do you want me to vomit in front of you? Will that make you feel better?” he sniggers. “If it means that much to you, I will go eat the other half of that bad burrito and in three to six hours, you can watch me projectile vomit anywhere you want.”

“You’d really do that for me?” the porcelain bowl amplifies her muffled voice.

He sniggers. “If that’s what it takes to make you feel better, then of course I will.

Amelia slowly lifts her head to reveal a small smile tugging at her lips. “The honeymoon period is officially over.”

“I feel like I’m in hell.” Alex staggers into the room, his hand placed firmly on his gurgling stomach.

“Join the club.” Maggie says, gesturing for him to sit down. He does as he’s instructed and slumps down at the end of the bed with a groan. 

Zola suddenly jerks up from her prone position and before Amelia can grab the plastic bowl from the side table, Zola is puking onto both herself and her aunt, the latter’s lap receiving the brunt of it.

“Oh god,” Maggie scrambles off the bed but instead of helping the situation, she’s back crouching over the toilet being sick again.

Zola starts to cry out of both discomfort and embarrassment while her aunt tries her best to sooth her whilst keeping her own vomit down.

Pushing his own nausea aside, Alex gets up and moves round the bed to where Amelia and Zola were situated. “Strip off and jump in the shower.” He says before he picks up the shaking girl, his Peds instincts kicking in and carries her through to the bathroom opposite Meredith’s room.

Amelia grits her teeth but does as she’s told, doing her best to keep the puddle of vomit on her lap and stomach from trickling down into the mattress. She strips off her pyjamas so she’s standing in just her bra and panties before she removes the sheets from the bed.

“I’m sorry,” Maggie reappears with a guilt-ridden expression.

“It’s fine, go shove these in the washer. I need to shower.” She points to the balled up pile of sheets.

Maggie nods apologetically as Amelia brushes past her to jump into Meredith’s shower.

[greysfanpage388]

Elevator Hug - part 3

Hey guys, this is a continuation of ‘Elevator Hug parts 1 and 2, but this can also be read separately as a oneshot. Enjoy! ;)

You can read parts 1 and 2 here:

http://ailingnoor.tumblr.com/post/160177931956/elevator-hug

http://ailingnoor.tumblr.com/post/160295590911/elevator-hug-part-2

This is based on on the promo and synopsis of 13x23, about Owen receiving some life changing news and Amelia being there to support him. This is also based on a prompt I received, with some modifications made.

Prompt : You're an amazing writer! Do you think you'd be interested in writing a fanfic based off the synopsis for ep 13x23 where "Amelia supports Owen." She hears from another doctor that some bodies were found(including Megan's) and has a bad feeling & runs thru the hospital and eventually finds Owen in an on call room and she holds and talks to him?

P.s  I know in the show and based on the promo Amelia hasn’t returned back home and Owen would go to Meredith’s to probably meet her. But for the sake of my ‘Elevator Hug’ series- Amelia is already back home in this fic. However the main point remains- it’s Amelia’s time to support Owen :)

P.p.s  In this fic, Amelia finds Owen at home, not in an on call room

 Thank you to the amazing @jia911 for helping me to proofread this!

_______________________________________________________________

It had been a very busy day so far for Owen Hunt. There was an influx of patients in the ER due to a huge pile up involving a bus, a van and several cars. He and April Kepner had been kept occupied.

It didn’t dampen his spirits though. It had been 2 weeks since his wife, Amelia Shepherd had returned home, and almost 2 weeks since he had the first glimpse of their baby. All was well in the world again.

He was humming to himself, discharging a patient who was under observation for a syncopal attack when he heard his name being called.

‘ Hunt.’ April approached him. ‘ I’m attending to the patient in bed 6 who has upper GI bleed. Can you attend to the patient in bed 3 who was just brought in? The paramedics said that she was in a car accident and suffered head trauma.’

‘ Ok,’ Owen answered. ‘ I’m just about done discharging this patient.’

As he walked towards bed 3- he stopped in his tracks. It couldn’t be her. He knew his mind was playing tricks on him, but from a far this patient looked rather similar to him. The red wavy hair, the slim body.

As he approached the patient, his heart sank. So much for getting his hopes up. Of course it wasn’t Megan. It was just another patient who looked like her. Today he had been thinking about Megan a lot.

‘ Hello. I’m Dr. Hunt. May I know your name?’ he asked the patient, who seemed fine at a glance, except for the laceration wound on her forehead.

‘ Michelle.’ she answered. ‘ My head hurts.’

‘ I was driving when another car switched lanes right in front of us without signalling . I couldn’t manage to brake and we collided with the car. I’m fine, but she hit her head.’  a red haired man sitting next to her explained. ‘ I’m Michael, by the way. I’m her brother. We were on the way to our parents’ place for dinner.’

‘ Do your parents know that you’re here?’ Owen asked.

‘ Yes, they’re coming over in a short while.’ Michael answered.

‘ Alright, Michelle, can you look right at me? I need to check your pupils .’ said Owen as she obeyed.

‘ Do you have any dizziness, vomitting or blurring of vision?’ Owen asked once he ascertained that her pupils were equal and reactive.

‘ No.’ Michelle shook her head.

‘ She’ll be ok right?’ Michael asked, concerned. ‘ She’s my only sister- I don’t want anything to happen to her.’

She’s my only sister. I don’t want anything to happen to her.

Owen found his mind drifting again to his only sister, Megan.

He shook the thought of Megan off his mind as he answered, ‘ Yes, she seems fine at the moment. But I want to page Neuro to do a full examination on you just to be sure. And I’m gonna stitch this wound on your forehead ok?’

He began working on Michelle’s wound as he ordered a nurse to page Amelia.

 ______________________________________________________________

‘ You ok?’ Amelia asked as she approached Owen at the nurses’ station half an hour later. She had done a thorough examination on Michelle and reviewed Michelle’s Brain CT which turned out normal. Being cleared by Neuro, Michelle would be discharged after another 6 hours of observation in the ER.

Owen had a distant look on his face, and she knew that something was preoccupying his mind.

‘ Huh? Yeah I’m fine.’ Owen answered distractedly.

‘ Owen….’

‘ I said I’m fine!’ he repeated, louder than he intended to.

However Amelia didn’t flinch this time. No- Owen had always supported her all this while,   she wanted to be the one to offer him support this time.

‘ You can always talk to me you know.’ Amelia said softly as she rubbed his arm soothingly. ‘ You have always supported me, and now I’m here to support you as well.’

Owen nodded as he looked at Amelia. He appreciated her support, he really did. But this wasn’t the time to be talking to her about it.

‘ Thank you, Amelia, I really appreciate it.’ he said earnestly. ‘ But I’m rather busy now. I’ll talk to you about it later ok?’

‘ Ok.’ she nodded. ‘ Just know that you can tell me anything.’ she offered, as she patted his shoulder before she left.

_______________________________________________________________

It was quiet in the house as Owen sat on the couch of their living room that night. He could hear the sound of crickets and the occasional car driving by.  Amelia was on call- so he sat alone on the couch, just like he always did during the 3 months before her return.

He was exhausted after an entire day of attending to motor vehicle accident victims. Now all he wanted was to sit back and relax with a drink.

He poured himself a glass of Scotch as he leaned back on the couch. He savored the feel of the drink going down his throat.

The truth be told, he had been drinking every night since Amelia left with a simple note. Without Amelia around , there was no reason for him to stop drinking. If before, he always tried not to drink in front of her, now he binge drank. He drank to drown all the sorrows he felt deep down inside. He drank to fill the hole in his heart and the loneliness and emptiness he felt. He missed her laughter, her dimpled smile, the vanilla scent of her hair. He even missed their petty squabbles over the remote and the dishes.

Now that Amelia was back home, he had another reason to drown his sorrows with a drink today.

Although he didn’t want to admit it, he really missed his sister Megan.

Today was supposed to be Megan’s 35th birthday had she still been around. He stood up from the couch and walked over to the collection of old photo albums he and Amelia kept in one of the drawers below the TV.

He took out one of the photo albums and sat back down on the couch, flipping through the album. It contained photos of him and Megan from birth to adulthood. There were many photos of them both as babies, then as children, and subsequently as teenagers and young adults. He stared at a photo of him and Megan building sandcastles together at the beach. Their parents would make it a point to bring them to the beach every summer for vacation, and it was something they looked forward to the entire year. Then there were photos of him and Megan smiling widely during her 2nd birthday party, cakes smeared all over their faces. Another page of the album contained photos of them during their teenage years- him dressed smartly in a suit, going to prom with a girl whose name he had forgotten, and her looking so beautiful in a red dress during her prom day, being escorted by a boy who Owen disliked. Owen had always shown an interest in Megan’s love life, much to her dismay. But the actual fact was, and they both knew it- he had her best interest in mind and just wanted to protect his little sister from getting hurt. As he turned to the last page of the album, a photo caught his eye. It was the last photo they had taken together, right before they were both posted to Iraq. They were both wearing similar army uniforms and smiling widely at the camera. Both Hunt siblings shared a similar passion for serving in the army.

He let his mind drift off again to Megan. He missed her so much. He missed her cheeky smile, her cheerful laughter, he missed the way she loved to tease and provoke him to make him mad. But he could never stay mad at her for long. He missed their happy childhood memories, cycling to the park and chasing around the neighbourhood with the neighbours’ kids. He missed her interrogating him on every girl he brought home during his teenage years. Later as she grew older, he would do the same to her, scaring away every boy she brought home. He missed her provoking him by calling him sausage fingers while he operated on a patient in the battlefield.

He could recall the last conversation he had with her. She had been upset about Riggs cheating on her, but still managed to squeeze in a word of wisdom for him.

‘ Owen, I hope you find someone who would be your soulmate and companion for life. I hope you can build a happy family and future with her. Because you deserve it.’ she had said as she hugged him tight before getting on the helicopter.

‘ Oh Megan - if only you got to meet Amelia.’ he thought to himself. He was sure they would both get along great.

He took another sip of his Scotch as he wondered where she was now. Was she in hiding somewhere? Was she kidnapped and being held captive by the enemies all these years? If so, were they torturing her? Or…was she….he couldn’t bring himself to think of the word ‘dead.’

But if she was dead, wouldn’t they have found her body? He didn’t know. No one knew.

There was a knock at his front door.

Owen frowned, puzzled. Who could be visiting him and Amelia at this hour? Was it Meredith, Maggie or one of their colleagues?

He opened the door to come face to face with a buff man dressed in an army uniform.

‘ Hello, is this Dr. Owen Hunt?’ he asked.

‘ Yes, it’s me.’ Owen answered, feeling a sense of trepidation. Surely this isn’t good news, he could feel it.

‘ I’m Major William Allen.’ the man introduced himself in a booming voice as he stiffly shook hands with Owen.

‘ Are you the elder brother of Dr. Megan Hunt?’ he asked.

‘ Yes.’ Owen answered in a small voice as he could feel his heart sinking. He had a very bad feeling about this- and he didn’t want to hear what was coming next.

‘ I’m so sorry to inform you that we have found your sister’s body today. The helicopter she was on was shot down in Iraq several years ago, but due to it being hostile territory, we could only manage to recover it now.’

At the Major’s words- Owen’s entire world collapsed. Even though he had tried to prepare himself for this possibility, now that her death was confirmed, he wasn’t prepared for this moment. He had always clung on to the small possibility that she might be still alive and might return to him someday. And now- that hope was crushed just like that.

Owen remained silent as he stood there in a daze, a shocked and devastated expression on his face. He could barely register the Major’s subsequent words.

‘ Her body was badly decomposed and beyond identification- we had to perform DNA testing.’ Major William added. ‘ We guess the body had been there for a long time- probably many years. It was found near the helicopter wreckage, which leads us to believe that she might have died from the crash itself - if that’s any consolation.’

‘ If that’s any consolation.’

He wondered how could anything give him consolation upon receiving this devastating news about the confirmation of his sister’s death. Maybe, the Major meant well. He understood, it would have been better for Megan to die from the crash itself than to die from being kept a Prisoner of War after all these years. He could never bring himself to imagine Megan having to go through all the torture had she still been alive. But still, the Major’s words pierced through his heart like a double edged sword. His little sister, his only sister was gone. She was never coming back. He would never see her smile, hear her laughter or be provoked by her anymore.

‘ We’ll help you to make her funeral arrangements.’ the Major added in a serious tone.

Owen thanked the Major solemnly as he shook hands with him and closed the door behind him.

As soon as the front door was closed and locked, Owen sat on the couch with his head in his hands, silently mourning for his sister.

He wondered how the last minutes of her life were, and whether she died a slow, painless death. Did she think of him? Or of Riggs?

He lifted his head up from his hands and stared at the photo album full of photos and him and Megan, still placed on the couch. Now all that’s left of her were just memories.

He knew that the first stage of grief was denial. Which was exactly what he felt at the moment. Maybe, just maybe he was dreaming and it was all just a nightmare. Maybe if he pinched himself, he would wake up from this nightmare, and Megan would appear to him alive and well the next day. Maybe he was just hallucinating, the Major was just a visual hallucination and the Major’s words were just an auditory hallucination.

He progressed on quickly to the next stage of grief - anger. As if on reflex- his wrist slammed against the coffee table, knocking down his half empty glass of Scotch. Scotch spilled on the coffee table, but he didn’t care. He was angry at the universe, angry at the God above for taking away his beloved sister from him. He was angry he didn’t get a chance to say a final goodbye to her, angry at himself for letting her go on the helicopter in the first place. If only he had stopped her from getting on the helicopter- she would still be alive.

He threw the photo album across the living room and plunked back down on the couch, burying his head in his hands again, wrecked in silent sobs.

_______________________________________________________________

He didn’t know how long he sat in that position. It might have been just minutes, or hours. Time seemed to stand still for him.

He jumped as he felt a warm comforting hand on his shoulder.

He looked up to see Amelia looking sympathetically at him.

‘ I heard.’ she whispered, as she rubbed his arm soothingly. ‘ I rushed back right after April told me. ‘I’m so sorry, Owen.’ she added in a soft voice.

She had just finished reviewing a patient in the ER when she overhead April and a few residents talking about an army helicopter wreckage being discovered after so many years and several bodies being found. As she approached the group to learn more details, one name stood out for her, Megan Hunt. Upon hearing the name, she immediately rushed back home, asking April to page her if there were any incoming patients that needed Neuro consults. She knew that Owen needed her at that moment.

Owen looked up at her as their eyes met. His eyes were forlorn and filled with sadness, while hers were filled with sympathy and love.

He shook his head wordlessly, at loss of words to say to her. How could he tell her how receiving the news of a sibling’s death felt like?

She pulled his body closer to her chest and hugged him tight as he finally broke down in her arms. The warmth of her touch and the feel of her heart beating broke down his defenses. He sobbed and sobbed, mourning for his sister. She rubbed his back soothingly in circular motions, knowing that the gesture would calm him down. She knew because he always performed the same gesture on her to calm her down, and now it was time for her to reciprocate.

‘ Its ok Owen.’ she whispered as she continued rubbing his back in soothing circles. ‘ Just cry, let it all out. I know you miss her. I’m here for you.’

Amelia’s comforting voice only made him sob harder in her arms. He sobbed, letting out all the emotions he had kept buried inside for so long. He had never told anyone else besides Amelia about Megan. He couldn’t possibly talk to Riggs about her- it would be too awkward. He never told anyone this, but he would often dream of her being shot in the battlefield and would wake up screaming and sweaty. Only Amelia and Cristina knew about his condition. He had been to the psychiatrist and was diagnosed with PTSD. However, there was little that the psychiatrist could do to treat it. When Amelia left for a few months- those few months when he would wake up alone, screaming after having a nightmare were the loneliest months of his life.

‘ I know- you didn’t manage to say goodbye to her.’ she said softly, as she rubbed his arm. ‘ I didn’t manage to say goodbye to Derek as well. I miss him so much too.’

Owen finally looked up at Amelia, as the realization dawned upon him that they both had something in common, they had both lost a sibling.

‘ How do you get over the loss of a sibling?’ Owen asked, as he looked up at her with teary eyes.

‘ You don’t get over it, the pain will remain with you for the rest of your life.’ she answered sadly. ‘ It would dull over time, but there is this ache that remains. I miss Derek too and think of him all the time.’

‘ For years I was clinging on to the tiny bit of hope that she might still be alive.’ Owen admitted, a downcast and crestfallen look on his face. ‘ And tonight that tiny glimpse of hope I had was crushed. I miss her so much. We had so many wonderful memories together. She’s my only sister, my only sibling.’ he shook his head sadly.

‘ I know.’ Amelia whispered softly, nodding her head in an understanding manner.

‘ I shouldn’t have let her get on the helicopter.’ he said angrily. ‘ Had I prevented her from doing so, she would still be alive right now. It’s my fault.’

‘ It’s not your fault, Owen.’ said Amelia earnestly as she held his hands in hers.

‘ It IS my fault.’ Owen insisted, frowning.

‘ Owen, look here.’ said Amelia as she cupped his face in her hands, tilting his head upwards so their eyes met.

‘ It’s not your fault, Owen. You wouldn’t have known that the helicopter would crash.  I’m sure if you knew, you wouldn’t have let her get on it.’ said Amelia as she continued looking into his eyes.

‘ They said that they found her body near the wreckage site. I really hope that she didn’t suffer too much before she…died..’ said Owen sadly, a distant look in his eyes.

‘ I hope so too.’ said Amelia softly, taking his hands in hers and using her thumb to rub soothing motions on the palm of his hands. ‘ I’m not religious, but I would like to think that she’s in a better place. That’s what I do to cheer myself up- I tell myself that my dad, Ryan, my first baby and Derek are all up in heaven, watching and smiling down at us.’

Owen closed his eyes for a moment as he tried to imagine Megan smiling down at him from heaven with her beautiful smile. He wasn’t by any means religious, but he had to admit, it was a comforting thought indeed. And maybe, his and Cristina’s aborted child was also with her, smiling down at him. Maybe Megan was taking care of his child in heaven.

They both sat in silence on the couch, thinking about their loved ones in heaven. Amelia’s head was leaned against Owen’s chest as she cuddled up close to him.

Amelia’s hand covered Owen’s as she slowly guided his hand until it rested on her growing baby bump. Over the past two weeks, the bump had grown significantly, and now more than half the hospital knew her secret.

She placed her hand over his, as both of them savored the feel of their baby under their touch.

It was then that Owen realized he had to let go of his sister, she was never coming back. It saddened him deeply, but he knew that Megan would always be with him- in his heart, and smiling down at him and his family. He loved her so much, she was his only sister and she occupied a special place in his heart. However, he knew that she was never returning to him and he had to move on. At least this was the sense of closure he needed, as sad as it was. Megan was his past, but Amelia and their baby are his future.

It was Amelia whom he would lean to for support during Megan’s funeral, and throughout the subsequent years when he would think of her. Life went on though, and he knew that Megan was smiling down at him, watching him build his family as Charlotte, Noah and Olivia arrived. Megan would live through his youngest daughter, Olivia, whose middle name was Megan after her aunt Megan. As she grew, he would notice more and more of her aunt Megan’s characteristics in her, not only in terms of appearance, but also personality. He knew that it was Megan’s way of telling him that she was never truly gone.

  Comments, reviews, reblogs and messages are very much appreciated! :)