#I now have a total of 28 death mostly from caves and/or falling

[if-loki-was-a-fox]

[1wn8ure fell from a high place]

[IfLokiWasAFox fell from a high place]

@1wn8ure and I can't seem to stop falling to our deaths in caves, we're just cursed like that. Anyways, we were joking the other day about how we might as well be called Fall Duo 'cus we just keep falling so I thought I'd do a drawing of that — then the hyperfocus kicked in and I did more work on it than intended :P

[sleepless-in-starbucks]

74 +28

28: Proposal fic || 74: Huddling for Warmth

random choice generator ship: losleep

~

okay so i know proposal fic implies they're already dating but i like my gays oblivious so: super duper best friends logan and remy, who live together and eat together and more often than not sleep in the same bed (it was cheaper to get the apartment with only one bedroom, alright? plus, as logan always remains, the cuddling is good for their human need for touch) and even go to family events with each other like thanksgiving and such

literally Everyone thinks they're dating but every time one of them is asked when they're gonna 'put a ring on that' remy/logan just scoff and ask why they'd do that to their best friend

except, of course, they're terribly in love with each other, except logan doesn't think he's cool enough for remy to like-like him and remy doesn't think they're smart enough for logan to like-like them, so they just stick with the friend thing

it's winter when they're on another one of their family trips with each other, headed for remy's aunt's cabin nestled a good bit of a ways from most of regular society. everything's fine and dandy until the black ice on the road transforms one of their turns into a spin, sending the car off the side of the mountain road and rolling into a ditch at the bottom, surrounded by dark and thick woods

they survived, but one of logan's legs is fucked up, and remy's pretty scratched up too. the car's totaled, and even as they sit there in initial shock snow is beginning to fall heavy around them

the slope they fell down isnt that steep, enough rocks and bumps in it that it's climbable. get to the top, get back to the road, flag down help or even start walkin in the direction of the cabin again for help

logan urges remy to go. there's no way he can climb with his leg, but remy can make it, can get themself to safety and then get help for logan. it's the logic choice

but remy knows it's cold as fuck, they have no idea how fast they'll able to get help, and leaving a severely injured, already dealing with blood loss + pain and soon hypothermia too logan alone is not going to bod well for him. at. all.

so instead of climbing out, remy does their best to carefully lift logan up, apologizing for the pain and gently shushing whenever he tries to protest what remy's doing. they set themself and logan up in a small cave set into the base of the slope; it's got a low-ceiling, not much room, and is mostly composed of cold stone, but it's protection from the snow, and that's better than nothing

the cold's already starting to set into their bones, remy trying not to let their teeth chatter too much as they pull logan up against their chest, zipping up their leather jacket around the both of them, hoping to something, anything, that it helps. logan's head is lolling, his grip on reality clearly not good, and remy wouldn't be surprised if he passes out soon

except remy knows they need to prevent that as long as possible, need to keep logan awake, because that's better right? because if he falls asleep he might- he might-

remy banishes the thought from his mind and just starts. talking. about everything he can think of, just to try and keep logan focused on them and awake

somehow they land on the topic of all those times people asked about them proposing, and remy, who as hard as they're trying to be brave and strong, is also injured and cold and terrified, and just about ready to say things they thought they'd keep til their deathbed, asks logan if he'd ever actually thought about it

"y'know, marrying me." remy murmurs, because they don't have the strength for anything louder, logan shivering against their chest and looking at them with half-lidded and dazed eyes that make remy wonder if he'd understand what they were saying even if they were yelling, "i know we're not... together, but... i don't think i would've minded. marrying you, that is."

for a long minute, there's no reply. logan's still staring at them the same, and remy doesn't think he processed what was said at all. they're about to start talking again when logan says, so quietly it's almost lost in the wind and snow, "i would've married you"

it's really too bad the circumstances are what they are, because if they were anything else remy's pretty sure it'd be the best day of their life

"what if, when we get out of this-" and isn't that confident, 'when', just for logan- "we do that." remy says, tentatively, pulling logan even closer to themself. "will you, logan orion celeste, marry me?"

the response takes even longer this time, logan nuzzling his head further into remy's shoulder, eyes dropping close to shut. "yes please" he finally mumbles, and remy almost wants to laugh at how absurd the 'please' seems right now, "i love you"

and then his eyes close all the way and none of remy's words nor slight shakes seem enough to get them back open

without logan to focus on, remy's fading out themself, the full effects of Everything setting in. they try to stay awake, but it's a losing battle. succumbing to the warm embrace of sleep, remy's last thought is how sad it would be if the last thing they ever heard from logan were words they had been hoping to hear for years

remy wakes up in the hospital gods-know-when and the first thing they do is go looking for logan

somehow, the doctors and nurses cant fight the suffering-from-horrible-frostbite-and-hypothermia patient back into bed, remy stumbling around them until they find the room where logan is, still asleep, leg in a cast and covered in bandages and still looking a bit too pale but alive

they quickly arrange themself in his bed, tucking themself up against them, holding him too close for the doctors to get them apart

eventually, he'll wake up, and eventually they'll talk about remy's near-death proposal, and they'll admit crushes and feel silly and maybe kiss a little bit before they both pass out again

but for now remy's content to hold logan, assured of his safety, and oh-so-very content already calling him fiancé

[sunsetinmyvein]

Just Off the Key of Reason - Chapter Twelve - Me and My Plus One

Saturday, 28th of April, 2007 – Chicago, Illinois

This time around, Patrick at least knew why he was being ignored. He couldn’t say he was overly comfortable with the situation but this time he knew what the cause behind it was. At least he was pretty sure he knew what it was; his memory was kind of hazy up until when Joe had interrupted them.  As his head hung over his toilet bowl the following morning, he tried to recall everything to the best of his ability through his pounding headache. It felt like a freight train had pushed its way through his ear canal and left a train of destruction as it pushed from one side of his head to the other, but he could make out some details through the debris. He had sent her a few half-drunken texts shortly after Pete had interrogated him about his opinion on their party planning, and unsurprisingly, they went unanswered. The night had ended not long after that, partially due to Patrick kicking people out one by one in his attempts to find her, and partially due to people actually having to go home. Once everyone had left Patrick found himself moping in his bedroom until the sun started creeping through his curtains the following morning. In the cold light of day, being forced to throw up the contents of his stomach, he was beginning to feel like maybe last night wasn’t his best decision. He should’ve known better. He should have known that it would only leave him feeling worse and wanting even more answers than he had been given. She had told him to forget it, so maybe that’s exactly what he should, would do.

 Thursday, 14th of June, 2007 – Chicago, Illinois

The time gradually ticked by in their time off. Andy had a low key family get-together for his 27th birthday in late May; meanwhile Pete had another raging party in a privately hired club for his 28th in early June to celebrate getting through his 27th year on this Earth that he never felt he’d make it to. Eventually they had to start getting ready to go back on tour. The bus was hired for the month that they would need it and was scheduled to meet them in Washington after their flight. Guitars were packed, drums were neatly slipped into their boxes, and merch was chosen. Mostly that had all been sent earlier so that it could take the longer, and cheaper, way around. Interviews were had, signings were attended, promos were released – anything to make sure that people knew Fall Out Boy were coming. If the first of their two months off had been a break, the second had been intentionally made as busy as possible just to make touring seem easy in comparison. In the process of all this commotion, Patrick had found himself meeting many new people. One of whom took a shine to him, and he took a shine to her. All of a sudden he found himself with a girlfriend. A girlfriend who wanted to come on tour with him. This was unfamiliar territory for him; he’d never properly dated anyone since they started touring regularly. She was one of the people who worked in the studio, so she wouldn’t be coming on the road normally, but he had assured her that she could come along to the first two shows with him. From there she was going to meet a friend in Oregon and they’d drive home together. He was more than happy to let the excitement of the new experience keep his mind occupied.

 The band and immediate crew members had crammed themselves into a row of seats at the airport, waiting patiently – or impatiently in Andy’s case – for their red eye flight to Washington. He sat there bouncing his knee as he watched the clock in the corner of the electronic poster in front of them. The time gradually counted up and up as he anxiously glanced around the waiting area for their missing bassist.

“Where the fuck is he?” He grumbled under his breath.

“He’ll be here, man. He was in that group chat with the flight times, just like the rest of us.” Joe reasoned from under his eye mask. He had decided as soon as they sat down that it was far too late to still be functioning and had opted to take a nap in the waiting room seat. But their drummer’s constant worrying had mostly prevented that from happening.

“It’s five minutes until we board. You’ve not heard anything from him?” His question fell upon deaf ears. Joe was either ignoring him or half asleep already and Patrick was too engrossed in his conversation with his girlfriend to care. He kicked Patrick’s shin across the aisle, earning an ‘ow’ in response as he attempted to rub the pain out of his leg. “Pete? Have you heard from him?” He asked again.

“No, I haven’t spoken to him since the day after my party.” Patrick glared back.

“Well, I’m going to call-” Before he could even punch the numbers into his phone, a familiar, overly loud, laugh filled the mostly empty gates.

“I told you he’d be here.” Joe mumbled.

 “Are you not meant to be my babysitter?” Pete laughed as he dropped his backpack from his shoulder. Patrick felt himself tense at those words, trying to remain interested in his conversation but suddenly finding it very hard to remain focused. “I’m pretty sure you shouldn’t be giving me tips about how to get as drunk as I can on the plane.”

“You said you don’t like flying. If you’re totally wasted, you won’t even remember you did it.” She shrugged as the two of them walked up to join the group. Patrick felt the hairs prickle on the back of his neck. They hadn’t spoken in over two weeks. He had assumed that she wasn’t coming back for the second leg of the tour. The label had never mentioned her staying on for another month.

“I might also try and join the mile high club though.” He chuckled as he nudged her in the ribs.

Joe snorted loudly with a laugh, “Don’t pretend like you haven’t already.”

 Eventually Patrick caved to the nagging feeling in the back of his mind and looked up at her from the waiting room chair. She was rifling through her bag, he assumed for her boarding pass. The conversation he had been having was still droning on in the background of his thoughts. He felt like maybe he should say something about where they left off, but if she hadn’t wanted to talk then, why would she now? He stared at her in a stupefied silence until eventually she looked up from her bag and met his gaze. Her eyes flicked from his to above his head.

“New hat?” She asked with an eyebrow raised.

“Uh, yeah.” He absentmindedly touched the fedora atop his head. “The other one…” He swallowed hard as he tried to force the words out, “it kept getting in the way.” He could’ve sworn he saw a blush creep onto her cheeks, but he didn’t have time to dwell on it because soon enough his girlfriend was grabbing his arm and dragging him to the gate to board their flight.

 Friday, 15th of June, 2007 – Seattle, Washington

The flight was mostly uneventful. To avoid his crippling anxiety of impending doom on a metal death trap, Pete doped himself up on some sleeping pills and in-flight vodka. When he came to he was draped across a couch somewhere. He felt vaguely like he was moving, but he himself wasn’t. Was he in a car? His eyes slowly came into focus and he realised he was facing a small living area. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and sat up, figuring he must have been relocated to the tour bus. A little part of him wondered who had the pleasure of hauling his unconscious ass here, but given the fact that a blanket was draped around his waist and a water bottle sat at his feet, he assumed it was probably Andy. Also he wasn’t entirely sure if anyone else would be able to carry him without assistance. He glanced around the small area at the back of the bus, spying the kitchen through the aisle of bunks and feeling his stomach growl. How long had he been out? Apparently long enough that he felt that familiar sleep induced unsteady feeling settling in his legs.  The bus seemed dark; it must still be early morning. All of the bunks had their curtains pulled shut so he assumed they had left him here while they all went to bed. He ambled through to the kitchen, examining what was in the well-stocked cupboards. This was a hell of a lot fancier than what they had in the past. The appliances were all chrome and shiny, there was a proper benchtop and even an oven cooktop combo. They must have either hired or purchased this bus from new. He absentmindedly wondered how fancy a tour bus kitchen would have to be before he decided they had made it as he refiled through the food supplies. He couldn’t help but snicker with the knowledge that the label had intended for this to last the whole tour. It would last a week at best.

 After much consideration he settled on a packet of pancake mix, it seemed the most practical option and he was excited to use appliances that he’d never had the thrill of using on a moving vehicle before. Would it be easier to flip pancakes with the momentum of the bus? But before his hand could even come into contact with the gas dial, it was rudely slapped away.

“Fucking hell,” He squeaked in surprise as he pulled his hand up to his chest, “don’t sneak up on people like that.”

“You are banned from the gas appliances.” She ordered as she moved in between him and the stove.

“What? Why?” He tried to reach around her to at least retrieve the pancake mix but she wouldn’t budge.

“Because you have a tendency to explode things.” She explained, narrowing her eyes at him. He vaguely remembered fireworks in hotels.

“No, I don’t.” He lied. “But even if I did, how am I going to cook pancakes without a stove?”

“I guess you’ll have fun working that out.” She grinned up at him. They stood there in silence for a few moments, waiting for the other to stand down, until he admitted defeat. He groaned loudly, instead grabbing a bag of chips from the counter and moving to sink back into the couch.

 The two of them decided to watch whatever terrible show was on at five in the morning in the middle of nowhere, killing time until everyone else woke up. She had gotten up early to make sure everything on the bus was working before everyone attempted to use it, at least that way they would be able to accurately tell if Pete did break anything, or if it just came like that. They’d grown a lot closer in the month or so since Patrick’s party. Anyone who was willing to assist with Pete’s antics was someone he considered a friend. He was also beginning to find her company considerably more tolerable than what it had been at the start of their tour. Even despite that every second conversation was her reprimanding him for something. After a few minutes of static silence Pete threw a chip in her vague direction. She looked over at him in confusion.

“How’s things with you and lover boy?” He asked with an eyebrow raised. She rolled her eyes.

“How’s things with you and your girlfriend?” She shot back, voice laced with sarcasm.

“Good, actually.” He nodded. The confused stare he got in response urged him to continue. “We, uh… we didn’t break up this time, we’re going to try the long distance thing.” It was still a concept that didn’t sit well with him, but he figured if Patrick could work it out, then so could he.

“Oh. Well, good for you guys. I hope it goes well.” She smiled back at him, reaching across the table to grab a handful of chips. He pulled the bag away from her as he clicked his tongue.

“Nuh-uh. Answer my question.”

 She let out a heavy sigh. “That should be pretty self-explanatory, Pete. He’s on tour with his girlfriend.” Since coming back onto the tour she was trying her best to ignore the changes that had occurred in their month off. Patrick’s hair had grown out quite a bit, nearly coming down to his shoulders. He also seemed very attached to his new hat, she was yet to see him without it. In addition, and probably the most hard-hitting change, they hadn’t spoken except for their brief exchange in the airport. It was odd going from being attached at the hip to suddenly having a minimum ten metre gap between you at all times.

“That doesn’t mean shit. She goes home after two shows and you’re still here.” He finally offered the bag over to her and allowed her to take a handful.

“They won’t break up just because she goes home. Patrick’s not like you.” She laughed dryly, trying to avoid the slightest amount of hope sitting in the back of her mind that maybe Patrick was like Pete.

“I take offense to that.” He gasped. “But you never know. Crazier things have happened.” He shrugged, stuffing a wad of chips into his mouth.

“Yeah, like you being a bass player in a band when you’re terrible at it.” She grinned.

“You’re sho mean ooday.”  He garbled, spraying chips over the living room table.

[starsandboulevardsroleplay]

Zosia Solomon ✖ 28 ✖ Professional Artist ✖ Bisexual

‣ BIOGRAPHY ↴

Spoiled would be an understatement to describe Zosia Svahnstrom. Born to an heiress of billions and a self-made multi-millionaire, she’s wanted for absolutely nothing her entire life. Zosia was born in a mansion on the North Shore of Long Island and since that day, her entire childhood, she only lived in luxury and had been pampered from the start. Luckily, her personality never really entirely reflected her nearly-royal DNA and aside from reflections, she wasn’t much like her family. She made a choice one day to quit private school and attend public, something her family and all their wealthy neighbors thought to be far beneath them. It was the only way to get Zosia to attend school. Her father had too much of a soft spot to fully argue with her and her mother eventually wore down without the backup, and that left young Zosia to get her way. The argument made, however, had been hard to beat, especially since it went so far beyond her personality and she clashed with the kids at school so much that all she did was butt heads with them. Zosia didn’t like that wealth and who had the best what or the biggest that was all that mattered to everyone around her, everything was a competition and she hated the feeling of always being measured. That way of life felt shallow to her, not just the peers she went to school with but the world she grew up in as well. Love wasn’t in short supply from her parents and she was blessed with their looks, though it often left her feeling frustrated that most people didn’t look past the surface. Zosia craved more from life and from her connections and interactions with others. She wanted people she could really talk to and those that were interested in life rather than parading. Achievements scholastically were fairly easy. She was sharp and witty like her father and carried her mother’s allure and poise. Sometimes she wondered if she intimidated her teachers into giving her top grades and rather than being upset by that, she found it an amusing thought but never made to exploit it. Like her mother, Gia, Zosia looked too adult for her age and her beauty was hard to resist and she faced very similar things her mother did when she was 16. Men started coming around, even her father’s business friends tried getting her attention. Zosia hardly showed any interest and quietly despised the disrespect she often felt in the actions of those seeking her attention and affections. There was a time in particular when one of her suitors, a man that clearly went above and beyond to try and win her materialistically, bought her a brand new Ferrari in hopes of gaining her attention and time. Zosia crashed the car and made sure it was totaled beyond repair. Any jewelry given to her by these men, she would donate or give away, having no interest in the material things she could easily get herself. Love was found though with a small pub owner in the city; he drank, he smoked, played music, and just had an all-around wildness to him that Zosia wasn’t used to. The relationship was kept secret from her parents, it had to have been due to their very different social classes and coming from two very different worlds. Plus, Zosia liked having something of her own and free from the constant judgment. She knew her parents wouldn’t approve, especially since the pub owner was older, much too old for the then eighteen-year-old Zosia. The secret relationship went on for nearly two years and ended abruptly when an absolute nightmare happened that still haunts her to this very day. The couple had been having issues, things were no longer quite as rosy between them anymore and it had largely been due to Zosia finding out about his drug problem. He wasn’t a heavy addict, it gave him mood swings and changed his personality in some ways that made Zosia pull back. They tried to repair things and while she hadn’t left his side or given up on their relationship, he had become jealous of a male friend of her that she was close to. Surprising her one day with a stop at her house just outside of the city, he was acting strange and speaking in goodbyes as he stood on her doorstep. Zosia went to grab something he had asked for in the house and she had it in her hand, turning back towards the door when the words “I will always love you” were spoken just before he took his own life with the gun he hand in his hand. Shaken to the core, hurt and depressed, broken at the loss, Zosia allowed her family to move her across the country to California. She was still in a deep state of grief when she learned she was with child and she still doesn’t understand how it all happened, only remembers bits of what is now another one of her family’s deeply buried secrets. The being whisked away to “have it taken care of”, and it wasn’t until she began to come out of her depression that she remembers the hospital and some of the whispers. A fight ensued with her parents and billionaire grandfather and Zosia received no real answers, only that she had taken herself out on her own once again. They lived in a world where they believed they were above just about anything and anyone, they made their own rules and had the power and influence to make them so. It was a pattern in her life of being forced to be apart of their world and her trying to get away from it, only now as an adult with some money and a name for herself in the art world she could make a real attempt at living her own life by her own rules. Back when she lived in New York, just outside of the city, Zosia attended Tisch School of the Arts to hone her talents and perfect natural skills she had with painting. Ever since she was capable as a child Zosia was drawing and painting, she enjoyed using her hands to craft and create things. Learning about sculpting and woodworking in high school she expanded upon her artistic skill set and often made mixed media artwork. Thanks to her family name being so known around the city and holding power she had much of her paintings seen, some even sold and displayed as abstract works seemed to be her greatest talent they were the most sought after when it came to selling or loaning pieces. She traveled south and away from her family in Long Beach and set to make a name for herself strictly on her artwork and talent alone, changing her last name from Svahnstrom to Solomon, in hopes that any influence it could have on the west coast be put to bed right away. It had been something she had always been insecure about if anyone truly liked what she created or if it was simply for whom she was and whom she was the child of. Now living in Los Angeles, the pressures of her parents aren’t far away but they have given her some room to be herself and do her own thing. Mostly due to her father’s say so because of his guilt and since her mother would like for Zosia to follow in her’s and her grandfather’s footsteps of the family business back in Sweden. While dining with the royal family was fun and quite an unforgettable experience the last thing she wants is to be anything like her family. Aside from her art, Zosia really wants to be a writer and has begun attending classes at the university and while she’s made some progress with her painting she has yet to fall anywhere with her words. With no romantic prospect in mind, Zosia took herself on lonely dates that mainly comprised of watching other couples and feeling her chest constrict at the sight. In free time that she had no clue what to do with other than lurk in libraries and street corner cafes when it came to reading and writing, it seemed a second chance would happen. It was at one of these cafes that Zosia heard the pleasant sound of his voice above all others, which is when her eyes first found the man she would learn was named Marco. He’d been alone and spoke English with a thick Italian accent, which was definitely what compelled Zosia to get up and introduce herself out of intrigue mostly. The gorgeous face, warm eyes, dark velvety hair, and soothing voice had nothing to do with it at all. Marco’s presence was the unexpected and anticipated sensation of sweet relief all at once. Zosia’s instant attraction to the brunette had brought down a barrier within her. She suddenly had desired to make her beautiful companion laugh and be interested and impressed. Conversation flowed from Zosia’s lips as if she was seventeen again. In Marco’s presence, her body instantly relaxed and unwound, as if recognizing an old friend. An old friend that it felt right to trust and kiss and touch and make moan in ways she had never felt drawn to in so many years. Zosia had never felt a love so charged before, was this what safety felt like? It had been so long since her heart had felt so open. There was a new tenderness in it that existed not out of pain, but out of her longing to be nearer. Moving in had seemed inevitable, as the longer they spent together the better. Zosia hadn’t thought they were moving fast, but some forces at be seemed to. She had never expected to lead a life with someone else in happiness. Alas, even her refreshed outlook on sharing a future with an equal did not go as planned either. If she had known that a few more days wrapped up in Marco is all she had to feel the warmth of love fluttering in her chest, she wouldn’t have let him out of sight. In the middle of one of the following nights, Marco unexpectedly fled without explanation, leaving an abundance of questions and worry behind. Zosia’s questions and worries, that is. Marco was brilliant minded and capable of being out in the world on his own, Zosia knew that much of the little she knew of the man, but his absence felt like death had walked into Zosia’s life again. The abandonment took a heavy toll on the already weary and grief-stricken shoulders of the artist, leaving her to cave in on herself a little. Putting her hands to work had seemed to be the only thing that pulled the gloomy woman from her bed; whether it was paint brushes in her hands or carving and sculpting tools in her grip, books held gently and typewriter keys under her fingertips, through her continued charity work and completely throwing herself into saving anything and everyone she could — Zosia found a way to maintain.

‣ CONNECTIONS ↴

Danish Royal Family connections are HERE

hAR[T]per connections are HERE

LACMA connections are HERE

‣ DETAILS ↴

FC: Phoebe Tonkin Ethnicity: English Availability: Taken Writer: Sarah Gifs: 383 . 252 . 176

main rp . rules . nav . faceclaims . APPLY

[theo-westenberger]

Moving In, an essay on returning to my body after helping my mother leave hers

Contributed by Christy Hartman, 2017

Photo by Rachel Hamburg

I remember my first bee sting. I was stung mid-air as a chorus of lifeguards blew their whistles signaling the end of break. The bee got stuck between my toes, freaked out and stung me. It happened all at once. The jumping and falling, the shrill whistle, hot skin hitting cold water and burning needle-like pain. I remember the stinger stayed between my toes and only came out when someone dug it out with a needle. It could only have been her, my mother. When my mom told me that the cancer in her breasts had spread to her lungs, we spent hours on the phone pipe-dreaming. Should we buy one house or two houses in the same town? We both really value independence, but she wanted to live close enough to spend time with my kids. The kids she was hoping to live long enough to meet. She dictated what features she would want in her new car: reliable, colorful, absolutely no brown interior. I began spending hours on craigslist trying to find the perfect everything. 

Mom’s Gloves

One day, without much warning, she bought a plane ticket and I had to tell my  housemates that my mother and her oxygen machine would be crashing indefinitely in my room in our queerdo house. I wasn’t ready, but she said her body told her not to wait. In the emergency room on the day she moved to California, the doctor showed us her x-rays. Her cancer was stage 4. After hearing the extent of her diagnosis, she said in jet-lagged, crestfallen disbelief, “Wow- so-  this is it?”

I have a magnet on my refrigerator. It is a little girl looking out at the ocean. That world is hopeful, composed. It is dark outside but the stars are shining. Nobody can see her face. She is far away, reflecting the seemingly endless horizon. At night in our new house, two small rooms rented from a friend, I would enter her room. My mom would roll onto her belly and pull her shirt up for me to rub frankincense on her back. This time felt intimate, sacred. Often the window would be open and cool air and cricket music joined us. I warmed my hands with my mouth before making contact with her skin, rubbing sweeping circles over her lungs and the enlarged lymph nodes under her armpits. I was afraid of touching her more intimately but I knew the day was coming when it would be necessary. I felt afraid that I would make her uncomfortable because I was uncomfortable. When her breathing and mobility got worse, I sat down and wrote what kind of experience I wanted my mom to have.  I was determined to give her a good death. I needed something short and simple to guide me. A mantra for my frayed heart. Dignity, without shame.

Rise. Check on her. Short conversation. Prepare incredibly detailed Budwig diet breakfast. Deliver. More conversation. Meds. Breakfast for me. Help her change clothes. Help her move downstairs. Adjust oxygen. More conversation on the staircase. Find a movie for her to watch. Make lunch. Adjust oxygen. Get something for her from upstairs. Continue making lunch. Get something else from upstairs. Deliver lunch. She requests Chipotle instead. Dignity, without shame. Adjust oxygen. Get something else from upstairs. Text your friend, forget to hit send. Help her to the bathroom. Conversation on the stairwell, she can’t go any further. Deliver leftover Chipotle to her on the stairs. Bring her a paper towel. Bring her a pillow. Read her Pema Chodron. Get myself dressed. Breathe. She is resting in the stairwell, staring up at the ceiling. Go to the kitchen and wash dishes. Notice there is a world outside. The sight of the sky is shocking. Feel ashamed that my mother is convalescing in the stairwell. Maybe people with money don't die like this. I notice the farmer’s tan on her pale feet, her heels weathered from a summer of gardening. Toes still painted salmon pink. She liked to make the extra effort to keep her nails painted just in case she met someone. She was still hoping someone would fall in love with her. Eat some food. It has no flavor. She wants some fruit and asks for three strawberries. Bring her three strawberries. She has been a grateful and gracious patient and she makes me feel like I won the World Series when she sees the plump red fruit. Wonder how long I can do to this. Never allow that thought to land. 

I see my arms outstretched and I feel like the ends of myself are far away.

They're touching stars.

Only they don't warm me.

They burn me. 

I imagine I am made of paper.

And when I hug myself I ignite. 

My mother no longer needs her favorite underwear. I don't know what to do with them. They make me emotional. I photograph them and put them in the garbage can. The one by the curb, so I won't fish them back out. I hear them in there whimpering that night. Used to love and gentle touch, now surrounded by coffee grounds and cat shit.

She spends her second to last night on Earth throwing up strawberries. I alternate between comforting her and sleeping. Her breathing becomes loud, animal. She is suffering and I am tired. In the morning I feel ashamed when I see that the oxygen tubes have slid part-way off her nose and the tip of her nose has turned blue. Around 10AM, our hospice nurse John arrives. He gives me a look and we leave the room. John tells me that she probably isn’t going to communicate with us again. I nod. We re-enter the room and give her a full body massage with frankincense and grapeseed oil. John tucks her shirt down from where it has bunched up around her ribs. He lifts up her torso and gently massages her back. “Do you like that Elise?” He asks turning his face towards hers. Her eyes are closed. She smiles. “Yeah. I like that.” They are her last words.  

After she stops breathing, I climb into bed with her, still holding her hand and go to sleep. When I wake up the sun has come up and her body is much cooler. Her jaw has relaxed and her eyes are open. She looks dreamy and at ease. I take off her clothes and wash her whole body with a wash cloth. I decide to dress her in blue silk pajamas. I put on her makeup, which seems silly, but it also seems silly not to do it right one last time. I arrange her hands over her abdomen and straighten the legs of her pajama pants. When everything feels done I close the door and wait for the men who will come and take her. I spend much of the first year after her death wondering when my body will fail. I begin touching my breasts for lumps. Rubbing them. Admiring them. I decide to appreciate them while I still have them. I sign up for a burlesque class. It feels obscene to take a class on strip tease so close to my mother’s death. But I do it anyway. I feel that I have nothing left to lose, therefore I = unstoppable. I join half a dozen other women in a cold warehouse in rainy autumnal San Francisco and learn the correct way to apply carpet tape to pasties. When our class performs a couple months later, my mind goes blank I forget the moves, my body totally numb. I am smiling but it is pasted on, like the pink cardboard things on my nipples. I block out those four and a half minutes on stage, but the warmth from the well-seasoned women afterwards makes me feel connected. They welcome us to their ranks, as one naked organism.

I decide to start treating myself the way I wanted my dying mother to be treated. Dignity, without shame.  I decide to stand taller, grounded in the earth, shoulders back, glitter-covered breasts held high. A year later I start seeing a somatic therapist. I tell her that my body is still mostly just a human meat carriage that I drive around. I recently learned the word people use for this: disassociation. Isn't that what everybody does? No. You learned this to survive.   Much of my softening happens in the bathtub. Looking down the length of my nakedness, I can’t help but see my mother's body. Her white abdomen and tan legs jutting out. I imagine her farmer’s tan on my feet.  I am trying to take care of myself. My right nipple hurt this morning, throbbed when pushed, tender far-away cries. I soak it in salt water, allowing the solution to enter and exit the  piercing like water at a cave entrance. And usually I am a bit rougher, but this time I am gentle, merely swishing the ceramic cup suctioned over my breast.

Mom’s Faves

Christy Hartman is an artist who lives in Oakland, CA. She studied at the Salt Institute for Documentary Studies and overcame her fear of the dark at the age of 28.