#I think the long post was more addressing those losses and fear of a repeat of that than what had happened that night

[uponrightful]

Hi! I’ve just finished Welcome Company-it was so good, your writing is amazing! I have a question about one of the last scenes if that’s OK? Partly about Pups point of view, because a lot of what happened to her post Order 66 is clearly in her mind, but seems to read differently emotionally later if that makes sense? I’d also like to know why you decided to include the scene of Pup having to fight one last time. -RebelMedic99

“Wolffe! Please!” She sobbed through the pain and fear, whimpering when the kid pulled her own arm around her throat, locking in a chokehold she was unable to break from. He laughed dryly in her ear, yanking on her broken wrist to elicit another scream.

“He’s not coming back you little slut.” He fell into another fit of laughter, “And even if he did you’ll be so used he won’t even want to look at you.” His evil words cut right through her. She was already broken, and yet another piece was about to be taken, and smashed on the floor right in front of her. She felt the pain of his remarks, feeling just as useless as he’d appraised.

She wanted to fight anyways.

The pain in her wrist didn’t subside, but it wasn’t going to stop until she got his filthy hands off her. And without that blaster, she really didn’t have a chance at getting off the ship, or keeping the ship safe until Wolffe got back. She struggled to keep her breath even, fighting to pull her broken wrist out of his grasp so she could get free.

Think fast…

Get him off guard…

“You really want me?” She choked out, wincing from the abrasive words cutting at her tongue. If he was that young, there was a chance he’d fall for it and drop the -hopefully- act long enough for her to grab the upper hand.

“You’re a fucking slut! Already turning towards the closest man you can get in your pants!” He snarled, yanking her wrist again. The girl held back her cry, again repeating the question for him, praying it would make a bigger impact this time.

“I’ll behave. I promise.” She faked convincingly enough through her tears. The kid’s grip faltered just for a second before retaining its unflinching need to inflict pain again. Yet, by miracle, he released her wrist and stepped back with the blaster dropped down at his side. Miraculously, his anger suddenly disappeared, and a look of disbelief came over him.

“Pick me.” He ordered harshly, as she turned to face him.

Everything moved so quickly.

Commentary Track for Welcome Company

Copy 500 words -or more- of any of my fics and I’ll give my thoughts/rambles on what was going through my head -or the character’s- when I wrote it!

*send one in here*

This one is challenging, but we'll see if I can explain it without sounding like a complete dumbass... 😅

***

We'll start with addressing her emotional shift towards Order 66 first, and that will help set up the reasoning why she had this "last stand" at the end. (This won't be from her POV, it'll make things a little simpler.)

Pup's true knowledge of what Order 66 is comes in small bits and pieces after she flees Coruscant. It's obvious right away that something changed, but it's not for a really long time that she finds out that there might be something "unwilling" about the whole situation. In this time frame -of a couple years- she's actually left to her own devices and thought-process to make sense of it all. And a couple of years can really take a toll on someone's perception of what is really going on.

There is talk of manipulation, and how 'robotic' the clones are. All of it culminating in a bunch of half-assed theories as to why they suddenly have this unbending will for the Empire when they fought for the Republic for so long. (The bar fight Wolffe was in, is where I tried to explore this a little bit with the Cerean.) But Pup only hears rumors, and those weak excuses aren't enough to dissuade her fear of seeing troopers again. Because ultimatley, there are hundreds of them who'd been to her home, and in her mind, it's possible that they could come after her and punish her for that. It's not a realistic fear, but if you combine it with her last experience with a clone, it's one that would easily create a serious emotional trigger.

I meant for it to be a tad bit confusing when reading her emotions. Pup wants to love the clones -and she still does- but seeing one of them in real life would be fucking terrifying. Their sweet memories are always there, and she does her best to only think of those. However it's easy to be reminded of why she can't still see them, when she's living on a backwater planet to try and reassure herself that she'll never have to risk seeing a clone again. Because all of the love that they'd given her -in her mind- is completely gone the second she's shot by one.

And her entire being is damaged assuming that Wolffe is no different than the rest of them. Pup knows all the clones are acting this way, and Wolffe is really no exception. So even though she loves him dearly it's really scary when she sees him for the first time after all these years. Is he safe? Is there something still wrong with him? Does he want to take her with him, back to the Empire? These are all questions she has, because she's never seen a clone after Order 66 without a functioning chip.

The reason her change of heart is so sudden, is because Pup didn't let go of the good memories she had of her troopers. That integral part of her character is to forgive and be patient -even if she's been damaged by something or someone. Yes, she keeps it bottled up. But that was because she couldn't get rid of her base traits. You can't wholly change your personality very easily, and Pup never really wanted to in the first place. She was just forced to create this harder persona so she could survive. Then after Wolffe comes back, and he's painstakingly careful in trying to prove that he's not under influence any longer, it makes that desire to care for him -like she's always had- come back much smoother.

(It's a continuity error that I never gave a proper scene dedication to it; But I did have a draft that included an Order 66 conversation with Rex and Pup during that scene in Chapter 14.)

I chose not to include it because I wanted someone to focus on Pup's traumas faced during the transition period of planet-hopping. It might sound cruel of me to not include his struggles, but they've been covered so many times in other fics, that I gave the assumption my "Initial Implementation" scene and "Chip Removal Scene" would be emotionally sympathetic and exploratory enough of how Wolffe felt during and after, without needing to express it to you directly. Not to mention, after Pup and Wolffe are reunited, she's not stupid enough to not infer that it was against his will. She quite frequently notes throughout that his guilty looks and hesitancy to make physical contact with her are very noticeable and telling of how he feels about his time with the Empire.

All of this said, now her fight scene:

Right before they leave the cabin, she's feeling a little loss of home. But really, Pup never had too much of an attachment to her house on Takodana in the first place. What's really getting her emotional at this point is the realization that she finally has Wolffe back. It's security she's wanted this whole time, and although the boys aren't letting her help with the bounty, she's willing to do whatever they want because she understands that they've got the experience here. Plus, she's really not physically able to do a whole lot after her slight hypothermia exposure.

I wanted her weak for this: Emotionally, physically, mentally. It had to be that way for a reason.

Until this point, Pup hasn't ever shown a real motivation to fight for anything, other than making the trip to the outpost to save her friend. BUT. That's risking herself to save someone else. Pup has never done anything for her own benefit, without it being equally helpful for someone else. Even when she got Wolf, it wasn't just for herself. Iahcen was getting something out of it as well.

I know it's cliche, but her last moments alone on that ship waiting was where her character development needed to reach and end. Because I made the overarching plot of fighting for love, but I needed that same lesson to be learned in-story, as well to round it out. It had to be Pup, because she's been running this whole time. Wolffe can't learn it, because he's been fighting the entire time.

The kid is a symbol of kindness not being returned. This is key, because Pup has always been nice -even when she didn't need to be. And he attacks her for that. He comes in as the tool to show her that being kind doesn't always work; And sometimes you have to stand against something, instead of running or letting someone run over her. I also made certain to have the kid attack Wolffe's character. This was essential, because Pup has nothing else she wants to fight for. Wolffe has always been her one essential thing, and he was what made her realize that being a little selfish and desiring something isn't a bad thing. This kid is a product of her sympathetic nature, and he's willingly insulting and threatening her chance at having the one thing Pup has always wanted.

Pup needed fight or flight, and the only time her 'fight mode' kicks in, is when she realizes there's something she wants. On Coruscant, she had nothing, so she ran. Pup wanted to live for Wolffe, in the hopes that he might still be alive, and that was the first time her fight response kicked in. Then her friend was in danger of dying, that was the second time she chose to fight.

Her love and security in Wolffe was being threatened, and that was Pup's final character development, and why she needed this fight scene without Wolffe -or anyone else's assistance- in the matter.

***

I hope this wasn't garbage 😅 and I explained it decently... If not, please let me know. I'll do anything I can to answer your questions!

Much Love, Rightful 🤍

[mattzerella-sticks]

🌊What the Water Gave Him 🌊

Destiel-centric finale spec based on a post I made earlier, found here

Can be read on ao3 here

It was over. Chuck lost, Sam and Dean can live their lives how they want them. But their victory wasn't without losses. The biggest upset nearly taking Dean out of the game, happening so close to the final battle. Now he's on the other side, alive against all odds, but Sam knows he isn't happy. Not truly happy since the Empty stole his best friend.

But there's a chance they can save him. A slim chance. A risk that Dean's willing to take despite every logical nerve in Sam's body screaming at him to look for better options. That threading a needle this small is too dangerous. That they don't have to take on another big bad, not anymore. That they don't have to risk their lives anymore. Dean is far past the point of listening. Dead set on this mission, Sam can only watch.

And pray his brother proves him wrong.

           He stands along the water’s edge, gentle waves lapping the rocky shore. Barely licking at his boots while he gazes upon the beautiful, blue stretch of lake. Sun hanging low on the horizon, sky a far deeper color of orange than earlier.

           They’ve been at this for over an hour.

           Sam glances behind him, skin crawling as he sees nothing changed since last he looked. Jack stationed on one edge of the circle, Michael at the other. Dean between them, his eyes closed. Lying deathly still over the sigils scratched into the earth. His skin pale, and both hands tightly clasped around tan fabric folded over Dean’s lap.

           He hates this. What Dean’s doing. That Sam cannot help. And how it’s their only option.

           Jack saw this once before. A variation of it, actually. “When I killed Nick,” he said, handing out copies of photographs he printed out amongst their little group. “I found him in the middle of resurrecting Lucifer –“

           “If he just had a little more patience,” Dean sneered. “Chuck could’ve saved him a whole lot of effort, though I’d doubt it’d end any differently.” Adam nodded at Dean’s side, studying his copy with interest like Sam did. Trying to identify the scene Jack captured. Dean continued, not even addressing the image. “Do you think this can work?”

           “Given who we’re doing this for, no,” he admitted, “the spell Nick found would only open a portal to the Empty, wake Lucifer up. It would then be up to him to cross over, and with his amount of power that wouldn’t be difficult.” Jack then opened the book he brought, pushing it into the middle of the table. Pointing at an illustration. “But I think I can modify it. Although…”

           Sam set the photo down, facing Jack. “What is it Jack?”

           “I… well, it’d be very complicated,” he started, not meeting Sam’s gaze. “For it to work, me and Michael would need to use all of our power.”

           “To wake Cas? Jack, you did it before –“

           “When the Empty was asleep,” Jack said, “when they weren’t expecting it. When Cas hadn’t already ticked them off… they’ve already lost him once.”

           “And they won’t be keen on losing Cas again,” Dean added. A storm darkening his hooded stare. Sam watched him sink into his seat, memories from that awful night weighing on Dean. It haunted him, too. Finding Dean curled around himself the next morning, unresponsive, incoherently mumbling about their friend. Shoulder stained with dried blood. In time, he recovered as he always did. Sometimes though Sam feared he’d turn and there Dean would be. Shattered completely with no chance of putting those pieces together. Stuck in that helpless ball, trembling. Forever praying. That’s not the case now. No sign of careful fragility anymore, the storm passing. Back ramrod straight Dean carelessly flicked the photo away. “What else you need?”

           “Ingredients that we have here at the Bunker, I’m sure,” Jack continued, “a nice open space where we can perform the ritual. Something that belonged to Cas, that will resonate with his unique wavelength. And finally…” he trailed off near the end, faltering.

           “Jack,” Sam said, “What else?”

           “One of us would have to go in,” he told them, “but… there’s a chance they might not come back.” For the first second, there’s silence. The next –

           “Jack, there has to be –“

           “I’ll do it.”

           He whipped his head towards him, scowling at the grim determination of Dean’s face. Lips thinned in a small line. Brows bent aggressively. An expression that appeared whenever Dean grabbed onto the most idiotic, suicidal thought he had and stubbornly refused to surrender. He’d refuse any option other than what he decided. Arguing with him when he’s like that was impossible.

           Sam tried regardless.

           “There has to be another way,” Sam whispered, both men waiting as Jack and Michael recreated Nick’s sigil-work in the dirt. Leaning against Baby’s frame, drinking in silence. “Billie always threatened she’d throw us in there one day, why don’t we ask her –“

           “She’d never agree to it, Sammy. Too messy.” Dean wouldn’t look at Sam. Not since he exploded on Dean back at the Bunker. Called him selfish, that the last thing Cas wants is Dean endangering himself. His tantrum earned Sam a swift right hook he still has the bruise from, cheek mottled blue and green. Dean’s knuckles newly scabbed. “Billie plays by the universe’s rules… and we make our own.”

           “Yes, finally. Rules we fought so hard to make, I…” Sam sighed, “we were finished, Dean. No more big risks. We won. Facing the Empty… there’s no do-over button if you get stuck there.”

           “I’m okay with that.”

           “And yet you’re still doing this?”

           “It’s like I told you Sam,” he said, finally deigning Sam with a frigid glance. Steely resolve sharpening it, cutting through him. “Have been telling you. You don’t have a clue what’s really going on. If you knew… you’d see there’s no risk at all.”

           Sam’s temper flares now, pain edging his vision. “Then let me in, Dean. Tell me. Why are you so afraid of –“

           “I’m not afraid –“

           “You clearly are,” he hissed, “otherwise you wouldn’t be throwing yourself into another near-death experience instead of having a simple conversation with me.” Sam reels his anger back, softening. Pleading. “I want Cas here as much as you do, Dean. But there has to be another way.”

           Dean drained his bottle and then threw it. Far enough so when it exploded the glass wouldn’t touch them. “If it were Eileen stuck in there,” he said, “you’d know there wasn’t.”

           He paused. “Eileen? What’s that have to –“

           Jack called, saying they were ready. Dean stalked off towards them. Sam left behind in his confusion. “Do you have the anchor?”

           “Right here.” He showed Jack the trench coat, grip on it gentle like if he squeezed any tighter Dean might rip it. “Where do you want me?”

           Sam remembered Dean rambled on about its sturdiness. Boasting how he gassed the store clerk with half-truths to not draw suspicion when asking after ‘protective outerwear’. Buying it because he noticed a tear along the seam of Cas’s armpit. “I thought he’d stitch it up,” Dean laughed, whipping his purchase like a cape. Playing with it. Sam chuckled at his brother’s antics. “But he just shrugged and carried on like it was nothing. I asked him why he left it and he tells me that it’d be a waste of his grace.”

           “Then why didn’t you mend it for him?”

           “…What?”

           “Come on, Dean,” Sam said, “you’re a master with the needle. And I’m not talking about sewing gashes… do you recall the Luke Skywalker costume you made me from those stolen motel bed sheets?”

           Dean blushed, “I was just a kid then, Sammy…”

           “Still the best costume, better than any of those store-bought ones at school.”

           “Well… maybe I didn’t want to fix it,” he said, “that’s why. I mean… sure I could’ve. But then he’d rip it again and… it’s not like he can’t have another jacket! Cas needs a little more variety.”

           Sam snorted. “Yeah, because a slightly lighter brown is really crazy for him. What’s he even gonna do with it?”

           “Wear it?” Dean said, “Or… put it away, keep it here. Dude’s been living with us this long and how much stuff does he own? It might not be a huge change but it’s… it’s a start, Sam.”

           Dean was right in buying it. Ransacking Cas’s room, there wasn’t anything they could use for the spell save for the single, untouched trench coat hanging in his closet. As Sam leaves that memory, he realized too late the others began without him. Jack and Michael knelt like statues. His brother had left for the Empty.

           And he’s still there.

           Helpless while Dean pokes the bear in his cave. Sitting on the sidelines as he faces down an extraordinary being with limitless powers, like beating Chuck wasn’t pure luck. Like any of their efforts left a scratch on him. It was a group effort, what little remained of their family pitching in. Sending Chuck onto his next project. But this… it was just Dean. He was alone. And worse… Sam thinks his brother wanted it that way.

           If it were Eileen stuck in there, you’d know it wasn’t.

           When he wasn’t worrying about Dean, Sam mulled over his parting message. Trying to fit together the pieces Dean gave. He suspects it’s a simple picture. A niggling sense at the base of his skull tells Sam that the answer is clear. It always was. Except he looked past it, over and over, again and again. Never seeing the truth of it. Of Dean and Cas. Without either of them here, where he can observe them one more time – careful, in a way Sam hasn’t before – Sam doubts he will uncover much of anything.

           At least it distracts him from Dean. Until it doesn’t.

           Dean gasps, lurching forward. Coughing, spitting up bile and gagging on air. Michael collapses, exhausted. Jack almost follows but overcomes his dizziness. Sam, the only unaffected one, dashes towards. Rubs Dean’s back while he works through his nausea. How Dean lets him either shows he’s too woozy to know it’s him, or the earlier animosity was forgotten. As Dean claws at his shirt, gasping, repeating his name, Sam guesses the latter. “Yes, Dean?” he says, “What is it?”

           “Cas,” he says, voice hoarse and raw, “Where… where is he?”

           There weren’t any portals. Nor did a star shoot downwards from the sky. Their friend had not even blinked into existence with a smile and a familiar rumble.  “Cas,” Sam sighs, “Cas. Dean, I don’t think –“

           “Cas.”

           He scrambles to his feet, knocking Sam onto the ground. Dean runs across the shore and, when he reaches the lake, wades in. Fully dressed, madly waving the trench coat. Sam yells, but Dean ignores him. Hellbent on drowning himself.

           Except Sam misses it, again.

           Someone meets Dean halfway. Breaking through the lake’s surface, swimming to where the water rests above their waists. Drags his brother into a hug, spinning him. With raven hair, tanned skin, and blue eyes crinkled with joy and life and love. “Cas,” Sam says, “it’s… it worked?”

           “Of course it worked,” Jack says, “This is Dean and Cas.”

           Maybe Sam understands because of the off-hand way Jack spoke about the two men. Or, more likely, it’s when Cas – wrapped in the trench coat Dean bought him – sweeps Dean into his arms and kisses him. Dean melts under his touch, responding with an excitement that had been absent when Chuck left them alone for real. It doesn’t matter how. He finally gets it.

           Dean and Cas… they get their happy ending.

[hearthandhomemagick]

Cottage Witch Journal Entry

I have a longing for Tennessee. 

I have a pure, unadulterated and wild attraction to the Tennessee Mountains. This is a dream I’ve had, and a yearning I’ve felt, for years. A need to be hidden deep in the mountains in a tiny cottage/cabin of sorts. I’m sure this is an affinity very popular in mainstream culture today, and all I can think of when I hear people say they want a cottage or cabin in the mountains is, “How the Hell does everyone expect to FIT on these mountains?!” But, this is my Shadow Self, the over realistic and overthinking side of myself. And I easily get discouraged from my own wants thinking of others wants. 

This is a side of me to notice in myself. I need to be able to move past thoughts of, “If everyone wants it, I’ll never have it.” and move forward with thoughts of, “This is something I want for myself, and I deserve to work hard for it.” And that’s a goal I have with myself. 

You see, this post isn’t just about my want to be in Tennessee in the woods, it’s much deeper than that I feel. It’s about improvement and wanting to grow. 

I bring up Tennessee because that is not a goal I can easily obtain within a couple of weeks or even a month. But, it is something I want to build up to obtaining. Something I want to do right so that everything is exactly as it needs to be. And I can’t fully accomplish this until I accomplish other goals that take precedent first. For Example, my physical health.

As a witch, I truly believe in loving every part of yourself, the good and the bad. The exciting and the terrifying. The understood and the neglected. Part of this acceptance process is learning what is and is not acceptable for my body. Now, I have struggled with my weight and how I see myself since I was a child. I remember a little boy seeing my tummy in a bathing suit in 1st grade and him telling me I was fat and that his dad said fat girls were ugly. Comments like this, stares and whispers were constant when in regards to my weight. It felt like an overwhelming amount of attention was directed at the way I looked, even if no one was looking at me I felt as though everyone was thinking about it. Over the years, this mental state took a tole on a lot more than I expected, even affecting me today with my Significant Other. The consistent attention to my own weight pulled me into depression, our of depression, into anxiety and out of anxiety. What I mean is I had an up and down relationship with my tummy. 

I felt abandoned most days. I would get this idea that I was too much and not enough all at once. A gentle and cooing tone from my toxic thoughts led to a lot of issues and concerns for me and my health. Some days, I would read something that made me feel as though I was a Queen. A bad bitch lurking in this cruel world and taking it by the throat to stare it in the eyes and say, “I love my body fat.” 

The sad part is your heart, mind and body know when you are lying to it. I didn’t love my body. Not in those confident moments and not in those depressed moments. I was locked away in a cage in my mind that gave me two illusions to choose from, while hiding my third option under the rug. I neglected my feelings because I didn’t want to experience them. I neglected my health because I didn’t want to deal with it. And I neglected my body because I hated it. 

Reality here is that this is the only fucking body I have. Do you understand that? Let me repeat this so maybe you can understand how harsh of a reality this was to me. 

I am on this Earth for goodness knows how long. 50 years, 20 years, 72 days. I don’t know, and no one does. I was literally forced into owning this body, whether I like it or not, it is mine. I can move houses, I can get a new car, I can get a new job. I cannot get a new body. 

I heard this in High School and started what I called my weight loss journey. I lost maybe 20 pounds while attending a workout-boot camp of sorts and trying to maintain a healthy diet. That sentence resonated so much with me that I repeated it every day to myself. My motivation was on point. Then, I stopped going. There are multiple reasons why I stopped, but none of them are rightful excuses.

I just stopped. 

Now, during those days I had lost weight, I was starting to gain confidence in myself and was attempting to genuinely look out for my health. I had more energy and felt amazing! But like I said, I had stopped for terrible reasons. 

Fast-forward to college and you will find a very anxiety filled, sleep deprived and mentally exhausted Carly. Some nights I wouldn’t sleep but for 4-5 hours. Other nights I didn’t sleep at all. I believe my stay up streak was 3, going on 4 nights. All due to homework. My coping technique has always been eating food, too. So when you have a sleep deprived student settled next to a 24/7 pizza joint with half baked cookies, you gain 30-40 pounds. 

At 245 Pounds, I was at my heaviest. This weight gain came on as my roommates were saying I was fat, stupid and were making me question myself frequently. Self hate festers among others who don’t value your worth, remember that. So, through those years of college I weighed an uncomfortable amount of weight that made my body start shutting down physically. 

Mental Health had a lot to do with my physical health, here as well. When I was in a really bad place, I would stop moving completely and just sit still. If I had a terrible feeling, I’d cook something to make myself feel better or would just grab a processed, quick snack. It was a pattern of mine. I’d get just enough motivation to do one or two things, and then I’d stop all together and feel as though that was enough for a few weeks. 

Eventually, when I was done with college, I started back on that rollercoaster of healthy and unhealthy. I’d lose 5 pounds, then gain 7 pounds right back. I started detail critiquing myself and stressing myself out. My weight never could get under control, and I couldn’t break the 200 mark to save my life. I would see pictures and videos of myself and feel as though I had eaten an entire buffet. Not too long after getting with my S/O and starting my job as a Sexual Violence Outreach Advocate, I got sick.

It started as a birthday dinner at a Korean Barbecue in 2019. I was with my two best friends at the time and having a blast. We all ate the same food, but when I woke up the following morning I was throwing up everything in my tummy. 

The throwing up went on for 4 days before I was taken to the hospital, only for them to release me saying it was virus. My personal doctor couldn’t figure out what was wrong and it eventually became an everyday thing. I would wake up between 3-6 in the morning, go to the bathroom and be sick for hours before pulling myself together to make it to work. 

Weeks turned into months, and months turned into a year. 

I lost 50 pounds from this thing that no doctor could seem to figure out. I got x-rays and everything, but nothing and no one could tell me exactly what was going on with me. I couldn’t eat anything friend, only raw fruits and veggies, or broth. I only drank water and ginger based drinks, and could not for the life of me stop what was going on with my body. Many doctors tried to pass it as a virus, stomach ulcers, GURD, or even Heart Burn (?). None of them were right. 

After a long time, my mom finally confessed that every woman in our family has Endometriosis. If you don’t know what this is, it is the build up of scar tissue on the outside of your uterus. This leads to nausea, ovarian cysts (which they found on me in x-rays) and sub or infertility. No doctor can diagnose it, either, unless you have a surgery to see if there is scarring. So for many, suffering on your own is easier than seeing a doctor. 

I discussed this with my doctor, and it was as if a light flashed in her brain. This is a disease she cannot say I have, but can say it sounds very much like that. It is hereditary and once you have it, you have it for good.

After this information entered my line of though, I decided the stress from my job was too much for too little pay, and chose to leave. Leading up to my leaving the job, I was sick almost every second of every day. The moment I left, I felt better.

I still feel pain in my ovary area, but because I don’t have the money to see a doctor, and can control my pains with eating habits and physical influence, I choose to work through it alone. 

I said ALL THAT BACKGROUND BULLSHIT JUST TO SAY THIS!!!!!

This is the part that marks my new journey. It is the Journey to Strength and Well Being. The Journey to Feeling Good. The Journey the Choosing my happiness over anything else. And the Journey to choosing the health of my body over my insecurities.

I wrote this because a couple of days ago I had a very graphic and vivid dream about my boyfriend falling in love with the woman I wanted to be. In other words, I seen him with a woman who literally presented all of my insecurities to me. Small, lithe and dainty, gentle and calming, and everything I wasn’t. She was beautiful. And he seen this, and did things for her that he never did for me. I woke up almost in tears, because my emotions were raw, but I had no idea that my insecurities were still very deeply rooted. 

I pondered over the last few days of this dream. What it could mean, what I should do, how I should feel and I have finally come to a conclusion.

This dream is a depiction of my fears. My brain was saying, “You need to address this shit right now.” and did it in the most face slap kind of way I could think. 

I still, even after learning to love myself genuinely, have image issues that need to be nurtured and tended to before I can move forward in my life.

So, I’m making 1-3 goals every month that are attainable and reachable. This will be a brick road to my obtaining that cottage/cabin in the Tennessee Mountains. 

This months Goals start today! 

GOAL 1 -  Learn to do a split, find a healthy yoga sequence, be able to do 15 pushups, & 30 Squats by the end of December. 

GOAL 2 - Make a conscious effort to what you eat/making a new dish once a week to try.

GOAL 3 - Save $100.

This is a process, and I am only human. I don’t want to fall back into the habits of toxic mentality. I don’t want to neglect myself or how I feel and I don’t want to lose myself in to the world in the process of searching for freedom from myself. 

I expect myself to exude self control, self love, and empowerment. I expect to expect better from and for myself, and I expect to accomplish my goals.

I manifest it here, I can do a split. I have a healthy maintainable yoga sequence that I have committed to growing expanding and changing. I can do 15 push ups and 30 squats. I have 100 dollars saved up already and make concious decisions that better my health rather than hurt it. This is part of my lifstyle now! 

And it is for the better!

Thank you to anyone who read this through. These entries are more for my benefit and thought process, but appreciate anyone who recognizes it or even relates and wants to talk about it. It’s personal to me and means a lot. I intend on being on here more often to update my challenges and express how I use my witchcraft in the process of this Journey.

I love you all! Stay safe, warm and full to the brim! Later Witches! xx

[troger]

the atlantic: This is your last free article.

me: *shares the fuck out of it*

Trump Has Justified Breaking One of America’s Most Sacred Norms

The tradition of granting post-term immunity from prosecution to those who leave the White House now comes at too great a cost.

12:33 PM ET

Paul Rosenzweig

Principal at Red Branch Consulting

In the 240 years since America’s founding, no former president has been indicted for criminal conduct. This isn’t because they were angels—far from it. And it isn’t because post-term indictment is not legally allowed. Instead, it is because Americans don’t like the idea of criminalizing politics. Both parties and the public see the prospect of post-term immunity as a guarantee that the country’s politics will remain civil and that power will transition peacefully from one party to the other. That is what drove President Gerald Ford to pardon Richard Nixon. And it’s one reason why the Office of the Independent Counsel decided not to indict former President Bill Clinton.

The presidency of Donald J. Trump has upended those calculations, and the resistance to post-term investigation may now come at too great a cost. When he leaves office, whether in January or four years later, the next administration or one of the states can and should investigate citizen Donald Trump—a former president whose legal status will be no different from that of any other American. The risk of politicization of such an investigation is far outweighed by the danger posed by failing to uphold our nation’s values. To protect future presidents from retributive investigations once they leave office, however, any investigation should be limited to Trump’s conduct before and after his presidency, not his behavior while he was president. If the findings of such an investigation justify it, prosecutors should indict the former president for violations of criminal law.

I come to this view reluctantly. The risks in the approach are both real and substantial. But after having served as a prosecutor in the Department of Justice, as a senior counsel in the Whitewater investigation of Clinton, and as a Bush appointee at the Department of Homeland Security, I’ve come to recognize that challenging, balanced judgments of the sort necessary today are sometimes forced on us by circumstances beyond our control. Hard choices do, sometimes, make bad law, but they cannot always be avoided. To decline to investigate Trump’s alleged criminality after he has left office is itself a choice—and it’s the wrong one.

The biggest danger of countenancing the investigation of ex-presidents is also the most obvious: an ever-escalating cycle of retribution. One can easily imagine a losing president resisting the call to leave the White House at least in part because he feared subsequent prosecution, or a winning president prosecuting her opponents over normal political differences. Indicting one former president risks making a habit of doing so, and reducing America to little more than a revolving-door banana republic. That’s why, for example, former Attorney General Eric Holder has reacted with grave concern to calls for Trump’s post-presidency prosecution. As Holder might put it—with substantial justification—if you thought “Lock her up” was the wrong thing to say about Hillary Clinton, you shouldn’t support a “Lock him up” perspective on Trump.

But a reluctance to prosecute does not mean there should be a prohibition against doing so. The idea of absolute presidential impunity from prosecution for all time and for all actions is just a re-instantiation of the kingly prerogative—“The king can do no wrong”—that was one of several reasons America had a revolution. Should a president who committed murder before his election that was only discovered once he was in office be immune from prosecution after impeachment and removal? Surely not.

And yet the promise not to prosecute after a term ends is part of the price we pay for the routine peaceful transition of power. One can readily imagine, for example, the violent reaction of some presidential supporters to even the hint of a possible criminal investigation.

This is true even in normal times, but it is all the more true during periods of deep political hostility. The prosecution of Trump after he leaves office, as the conservative journalist Jonathan V. Last recently wrote in his newsletter, The Triad, is of secondary importance to the more important value of preserving the nation: “Buttressing the rule of law today won’t matter if we descend into widespread, open civic unrest that undermines the legitimacy of the political system itself. That would be a generational, ongoing crisis. And once the toothpaste is all the way out of that tube, then there is no going back until the people who have decided to be against the system die off.” That’s a pretty grim prospect, and if that were the choice, it might be wise to buy civil peace with the coin of prosecutorial deferral.

But is that the standard we aspire to? Do we think so little of our civil society that we set rules of behavior based on fear of mob rule? America is often said to be a nation of ideals, not of cultural groups. It exists as a collection of aspirational principles—equality of opportunity, freedom of expression, and, ultimately, the rule of law. If we discard those ideas to save the nation, have we actually saved the nation? If we truly believe in those principles, then, without prejudging the result, it would be a dereliction of duty for the next president—or for any state with cause to investigate—to refrain from examining the potentially illegal actions of former President Trump just because of his previous title. As Teddy Roosevelt famously said, “No man [should be] above the law and no man [should be] below it; nor do we ask any man’s permission when we ask him to obey it.” To categorically say otherwise is to undermine the foundation of American democracy.

A post-term investigation would be on solid legal footing. Post-term immunity is fundamentally inconsistent with the ground that is offered by the Department of Justice for immunity from prosecution while a president is serving. The DOJ has long been of the view that sitting presidents cannot be criminally charged. It justifies that position in two ways.

First, it looks to practical questions of implementation. The DOJ has argued, broadly, that the possibility of an indictment and criminal prosecution of a sitting president would “undermine the capacity of the executive branch to perform its constitutionally assigned functions.” It is difficult, they say, to imagine a president running a government while sitting in jail. While other, lesser officials have successfully continued in office from prison (the example of James Michael Curley, who served as the mayor of Boston while in prison for mail fraud, springs to mind), it is not unreasonable to think that doing so would be impossible for the president of the United States.

In addition to the practical difficulties created by a requirement for the president’s physical presence at a trial or in jail, the DOJ has relied on the intangible but significant effects that an indictment and trial could have on presidential power. As Nixon’s DOJ put it in a memorandum prepared in 1973, “The President is the symbolic head of the Nation. To wound him by a criminal proceeding is to hamstring the operation of the whole governmental apparatus, both in foreign and domestic affairs.”

Notably, for our purposes, both the analysis and the import of the DOJ’s views are limited to a time when the president is still in office. After the president’s term is over, there is no longer the practical problem of running a government. Nor are there the same sorts of intangible effects on presidential symbolism; he is, after all, no longer the “head of the Nation.”

All of this is precisely why the DOJ has long justified its term-based immunity argument by contending that a president would be subject to prosecution “after he left office” (albeit while noting the possibility that a lapse in the statute of limitations might create a gap in criminality). In other words, in the department’s view, it is the office itself that commands the immunity, not the person. It would be strange and ironic if the argument for immunity during a term of office were somehow converted into a prohibition on post-term indictment as well.

Quinta Jurecic and Benjamin Wittes: How to corrupt the Justice Department

It is likely that even the DOJ would argue against this sort of impunity. To do so would be, in effect, to recant much of what they said in 1973 and later repeated in 2000, with respect to Bill Clinton. As a formal matter, no legal barrier to post-term indictment exists.

Thus the ultimate question is not whether a former president can be investigated but whether one should be. What is best for our country? How can the country uphold the rule of law and the idea that no one is above the law, without driving itself into civil discord and risking fatal polarization?

There are no easy answers here. The best one can offer is a discretionary judgment that has some convincing rationale and offers a plausible way forward. In my view, the outlines of this are clear: It would be too great an affront to law for a president to have perpetual immunity. At the same time, the risks of polarization from criminalizing decisions that were made by the president during the course of a presidency is substantial. Alternatives, such as impeachment and loss of an election, exist that can address those wrongs.

Hence, let us try to thread the needle: Forgo the prospect of prosecution for actions undertaken while in office, but recognize that crimes a president commits while a regular citizen should not be excused just because he or she has served as the president of the United States.

This is not, by any means, a perfect solution. In our parade of horribles, there might be edge cases of conduct that occurred while the president was in office that would be so egregious we would want them to be criminally addressed. If, say, a hypothetical future president committed murder while in office, we would hope that a post-term prosecution for that offense would be permissible.

This example suggests that a ban on temporally based prosecution may be too broad and would, if strictly interpreted, revive the kingly prerogative against which we rebelled. On the other hand, any bright-line temporal rule that we adopt as a prudential matter has the virtue of being easy to administer and of avoiding post-term disputes about the level of egregiousness necessary for certain conduct to be prosecuted.

As a theoretical matter, the discretionary policy of not prosecuting an ex-president for acts committed while in office (especially those involving even tangentially the execution of his official duties) would have to yield in extreme cases. And while we cannot, with precision, define what those extreme cases might be, one hopes we would know them when we saw them.

Thankfully, we have yet to confront this degree of egregious behavior. For now, it is sufficient to articulate a general rule: A president should not be prosecuted after he leaves office for actions that occurred while he was the head of state, but he should remain subject to investigation for actions that occurred before or after his term.

To say anything else would be an affront. The powerful should be held to account. For society to function, all Americans must believe that crime doesn’t pay and that everyone is equal before the law. To avoid strife, we may exempt a president from criminal investigation for his political actions (however heinous and criminal they may be), but if we go further, and extend to him the kingly prerogative of impunity for his lifetime, we go a long way to destroying the faith in the rule of law that undergirds democracy.

With those concerns somewhat resolved, how do we decide whether to investigate former President Trump?

In many ways, the investigation of an ex-president should be no different from that of anyone else. As in other cases, a prosecutor would conduct interviews, subpoena documents, serve search warrants, convene a grand jury, and, in the end, if appropriate, ask the grand jury to return an indictment. There may be plea agreements, or trials, and then convictions, appeals, and, ultimately, perhaps, a prison sentence.

Kevin Wack: American justice isn’t impartial anymore

In that context, a prosecutor would typically ask two interrelated questions: First, is there sufficient admissible evidence of criminality that could sustain a conviction on the crimes to be charged? If not, the prosecutor should let the matter drop.

In Trump’s case, it seems clear that multiple credible criminal investigations are warranted. While not all of them may prove well grounded, the existing public record of well-documented allegations of criminal misconduct provides plentiful predication for opening an inquiry. This record includes but is not limited to a New York Times investigation that has described potential tax and mortgage fraud by Trump and the Trump organization; a narrower investigation of a series of transactions in the run-up to the 2016 election that has suggested the possibility of both tax fraud and campaign-finance fraud; a claim in Bloomberg that Trump may have committed insurance fraud; the uncovering of evidence by ProPublica of Trump’s alleged mortgage and tax fraud; the allegations of Trump’s niece, Mary Trump, that the Trump family committed fraud in the probate of her father’s will; and multiple alleged incidents of sexual assault (to the extent not barred by a statute of limitations).

There are other investigations for which there is likewise predication, but that, as a matter of prudence, we ought to forgo because they involve actions the president took while in office. For example, more than 1,000 prosecutors have concluded that the Mueller report uncovered ample evidence of Trump’s criminal obstruction of justice, and, additionally, former Trump staffers have reported the president’s corrupt offer of a pardon for illegal conduct that advanced his political interests.

One cannot, of course, know what an investigation of the allegations of pre-term criminal conduct might ultimately uncover (and, indeed, at least one, and possibly three, investigations are ongoing). But were Trump just an average citizen, there would be a basis to open up an inquiry into his behavior.

Which brings us to the second question: If prosecutors (at least those in the federal system, with which I am more familiar) conclude that there is sufficient evidence to prosecute, they will ask if reasons of public policy exist that suggest that the prosecution should not be brought. Typical reasons might be that it’s a small enough infraction that it’s not worth their time, that they don’t have enough resources, or that the prosecution won’t have any deterrence value.

The Principles of Federal Prosecution are intended to guide prosecutors in the exercise of their discretion, and offers nine (admittedly flexible) factors for assessment and consideration.

The first of these, which asks what the current federal priorities are, is not specific to any individual. It allows, for example, for an administration to say that it is focusing on drug crimes or for another to devote resources to fighting child pornography or white-collar crime.

The remaining factors, however, deal with the specifics of the offense and the nature of the defendant. How serious is the crime? How culpable is the accused in the scheme, and what is his role? What is his criminal history? And, more generally, what would be the deterrent value of the prosecution?

Here, it is fair to say that any balance we can strike at this stage, before all the facts are known, strongly suggests that an investigation of former President Trump would be consistent with these principles and that they would not bar an investigation of his conduct were he just a typical citizen. Trump’s pre-term conduct (if it is proved) would indicate a long-standing scheme of fraud (akin to that perpetrated by Bernie Madoff, for example) and significant financial abuse—exactly that sort of pattern of conduct and severity of offense that, in normal cases, would demand the investment of federal resources. If Americans are to have any confidence in the concept of the rule of law and equality before the law, and if the Principles of Federal Prosecution are to be applied in a neutral manner, the same result must obtain here.

Focusing exclusively on potentially illegal conduct that occurs outside the presidency is unlikely to solve the problems that lie ahead. Trump’s supporters will not be mollified by the distinction. And leaving unaddressed criminal activity that occurred during the presidential term may be too high a price to pay. But this sort of uncomfortable compromise is the only way to maintain accountability for crimes without making political differences a criminal offense. At least, I hope that is so.

The real shame, of course, is that we even have to contemplate this issue at all. Three times in the past half century, Americans have had to ask whether a president should be prosecuted after he leaves office. Perhaps the better solution would be to be more careful in the person we elect.

PAUL ROSENZWEIG is a principal at Red Branch Consulting. Twenty years ago, he served as a senior counsel in the investigation of President Bill Clinton.

[my-whumpy-little-heart]

The Zodiac Whumper - Aries

A continuation, and the first real whump piece, from yesterday’s post. I’m glad y’all liked it, and I’m excited to show what I have in store for each of the poor signs! Each one will feature a character drawing like the one up above, and a drabble with whump fitting thematically with a sign’s general theme and temperament that I make way longer than I’m anticipating every time.

Content warnings: choking, creepy/intimate captor (moreso verbally than in body language), descriptions of bleeding, mouth whump

Continued from here (note: “The Zodiac Whumper” is named Zoran now)

Early the next morning, Zoran finally began.

They strolled into the room, a duffel bag slung over their shoulder and a megaphone in hand. Each of their captives still looked to be asleep, but they wouldn’t be for long. 

“Good morning!” They shouted through the megaphone, voice amplified to an almost deafening level in the enclosed space. They saw several flinches around the room, and a yelp sounded from Libra’s cage. Perhaps a few of them had been awake after all.

“The hell was that for?!” The breathless shouting came from Sagittarius who was pale as a sheet, clutching at the bars of her cage like a lifeline. Most of the others were watching at this point too, varied expressions on their faces.

“How else do you expect me to wake you lot up, hm?” Zoran smiled at her, walking over to kick harshly at Cancer’s cage, who was the only one who hadn’t sat up from his curled up position on the floor. He finally blinked awake at the third kick, sitting up drowsily. They looked down at him coldly. “Come on, up and at ‘em Cancer.”

“Whhh? I already told you, it’s Carter. You’re getting mixed up with the, uh, the disease.”

“No, I’m not,” they replied simply, “but if you dare fall asleep during today’s activities, I’ll have you wishing you did have cancer instead of enduring what I’ll do to you.” 

“Activities?” Scorpio butted in, expression leveled in a sneer. “You better hope those activities include letting us out, or you’re gonna be sorry.” 

“Well, I don’t think there’s any reason for me to apologize then. Obviously I can’t let you all out, but you’ll all get your turn in time,” Zoran said. They walked over to Aries’ cage where the occupant had been glowering silently through the conversation, emerald eyes nearly glowing in the low light. They knelt down to the cage, fishing for the key color coded to the red lock, and stuck it in without twisting quite yet.

“Aries, are-” 

“Riley-!” Aries shouted over them.

“Aries,” Zoran repeated firmly, only continuing when they reluctantly stayed silent, “are you going to be good if I take you out of there?”

“Very funny. When I get out of here, you’ll be on the floor before you can blink.” Somewhere in the background, Scorpio shouted a, “yeah, you fuckin’ tell ‘em, Riley!” but Zoran didn’t pay any attention to him. Instead, they dropped their bag on the ground and unzipped it. Aries leaned over to get a glimpse of what was inside, but as soon as they did the lock clicked, the door swung open, and their head was slammed against the wall of the cage. They yelped as their vision went blotchy with black, and when it came back they were staring at the concrete floor they’d crumpled down to, and short platinum hair obscuring the rest of their vision. 

Aries felt their pliable arms pulled sharply behind their back and finally remembered to struggle again, but it was too late. Zoran kept their wrists together and wound something around them with strong, deft fingers, and when they pulled against it again there was the sharp pain that came with the splitting of skin and hot blood trickling down their forearms.

And then they were thrown on their back, a breathless keen pulled from their throat as the restraints tore through their sweater and pressed into the small of their back. The cuts bled on their hands, and the same restrictive wire wound around their ankles and up their thighs. Breathing in panicked gasps, Aries sat up and watched as fucking barbed wire that’s what it was dug into their ankles, their thighs, all the way up until the line of their shorts. 

“What are you doing?!” they shouted, horror and anger mingling together in their cracking voice. They couldn’t help the further struggling that only made the sparks of pain burn across their body. Their hands were slick with blood now, but they would rather that than showing weakness at a bit of pain.

“I don’t know, Aries, what does it look like?” Zoran didn’t even glance up from their work when they said it.

“Well, it certainly looks like you’ve tied me up with barbed wire, but it sure feels a hell of a lot like torture. And, well, I’m really not on board with that, so if you could just put me back on the shelf where you found me that would be lovely!” 

“Someone has a mouth on them! What is this on the nutrition facts label? Short tempered, angry little bitch?” They had the nerve to laugh at that, voice dropping to a low drawl. “Well that certainly sounds like something I’d like to have, so no: you’re not going back on the shelf. In fact, I think I’d like to own you. What do you think about that, hm?”

“I think you’re a bastard!” Aries grunted, trying to buck off the foot that landed on their chest, wriggling against the floor as the heel ground down. Each movement with the added pressure only shredded their lower back further, barbed wire slicing paths through marred skin over and over again. Their sweater was hopelessly ripped and stained by this point, and somehow they were worried more about that then the amount of blood loss they were going to suffer.

“Thanks for your input, but I think you talk just a little too much for your own good. Take notes, Scorpio.” And it was at this point Zoran finally lifted their head to address the rest of the room, most of which was watching in stunned silence. “In fact, everyone better be looking right at what I’m doing right now. That includes you, Libra, Pisces, Taurus…” Each name was growled with an unspoken threat that each pair of watchful eyes seemed to understand except for Taurus, who continued staring resolutely at the wall. 

“Stay still for a moment, will you Aries? I’m sure you won’t have any trouble with that,” they snickered, strutting over to Taurus’ cage and rattling the cage door with a well aimed kick. He flinched at that, but didn’t dare look at the source of the loud noise.

“Taurus! Darling. Look at me.” A pause. “Taurus, look at me now or I will make you regret it.” Soft black eyes glanced over, and even in the low light Zoran could see how they glimmered with unshed tears. 

“Oh, you poor thing. Is this too much for you?” An eyebrow raised silently back at them, and it would have communicated disinterest if not for the tear tracks now running down his cheeks. “Well, I’ll have you know that you’re next.” That got a reaction out of him. A flinch, a gasp, and a subconscious attempt to scoot backwards before he stopped himself.

“Yes, and you really should be scared. But if you don’t watch the entire time I’m torturing Aries, I promise you that you’ll be hurting far more than they’re about to be. Got it?” A slow, slight nod satisfied them, and they walked back to their current project who was still right how they left them, if only with more blood pooled on the floor around them. 

As they bent closer, they could see Aries muttering insults at them under their breath, which shook and shuddered with continued pain as they struggled. Zoran prepared another length of barbed wire, now kneeling over their chest with it poised over their still moving lips. It only took Aries a second to see what they were planning to do, and shut their mouth firmly, a glare locking on the offending piece of wire.

“Oh, come on now. Aren’t you only delaying the inevitable?” Not a word parted their lips, and Zoran sighed dramatically. Their hand wrapped around their captive’s throat, pressing down hard and immediately halting their breathing. Green eyes went wide with anger and fear, short gasps through the nose taking no air and mouth refusing to even try. 

Slowly they became more desperate, body struggling languidly in an attempt to dislodge the restricting hand, mind racing because there’s no air I’m going to die they’re going to kill me I’m going to die I’m going to--and pure desperation pried their mouth open wide hoping that the further apart their lips went, the more air they’d find. But nothing came except for sharp bits of metal pulling around their head and wrapping through their hair over and over and over again.

And finally when Aries was bleeding and losing the spark of hope deep within them, sweet blessed oxygen was back in their lungs, and they were gasping so hard they nearly passed out at the sudden influx of air alone. Sharp prongs dug into their tongue, their cheeks, their scalp, tightening at every movement of their mouth. They tried to speak, but they couldn’t make proper sounds around the rudimentary gag that only bled them further, and nearly choked them on the blood running down their throat.

“There. I trust you’ll be a little quieter from now on?” Aries yelled desperately in response, no shape around the sound that came raw from the back of their throat.

“Oh, well that’s fine though. I don’t mind you making noises, just so long as they aren’t words, yeah?” The sound this time was more of an exasperated whine, and Zoran was sure they’d be begging now if they could. “No, of course I’m not taking the gag out. It’s serving its purpose quite well, really. I mean, just listen to yourself.”

Aries stopped making noises and went back to controlled breathing, trying to erase the hitch in their breath the choking had created.

“Though, now that I’m thinking about it, this isn’t quite enough for you, is it? You’re still yelling at me in that dense little brain of yours, and still hoping you can get out of here. Just look at the mess you’ve already made trying to! You really did my work for me, digging that wire in as far as it’ll go. That’s gonna hurt a lot more to get off than it did to get on, you know.” They whimpered at that, but only because Zoran paired it with a shoe digging between their thighs, pushing them against the barbed wire and reigniting the wounds all over again until Aries was shrieking and writhing under their hands.

“That’s what I’m talking about! Spontaneity like that without overthinking it first is the spice of life, babe!” They smiled, and their enthusiasm was so palpable that it was terrifying. “If you’d just stop thinking about how upset you are with me, that headspace you were just in could get us so much farther.”

Aries very much did not like that headspace they were just in, but they couldn’t voice any of that anymore: especially not when a fist came crashing into the side of their face. Their head whipped to the side, left cheek slammed into the floor along with the wire that just dug deeper into their cheek. Another hit came, and another, and it was hard to count or think after that. Their skull was rattling around inside their head, and they were vaguely aware that every vulnerable noise they would have normally held back was coming out unrestrained, singing like music to Zoran’s ears.

After long enough, they felt that familiar pressure against their throat once again, cutting off air and coherent thought for just long enough to scar the deepest recesses of their soul before letting up and letting them breathe precious air for a few seconds before it was right back under. 

At one point, without warning, a burning pain slipped under the neckline of their shirt, pressing hard against their skin and smelling of rotted flesh, and they’d screamed their throat raw for the eternity that it had laid there, and even louder in the seconds after it ripped away.

And when all sensations of new pain finally left, and everything else only lingered like a bad memory, Aries found that they could hardly think at all.

Next Part

[saint-hildegard-of-bingen]

If you love our country, please read this article, and continue to work to save our democracy. And stay hopeful!

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The despair felt by climate scientists and environmentalists watching helplessly as something precious and irreplaceable is destroyed is sometimes described as “climate grief.” Those who pay close attention to the ecological calamity that civilization is inflicting upon itself frequently describe feelings of rage, anxiety and bottomless loss, all of which are amplified by the right’s willful denial. The young activist Greta Thunberg, Time magazine’s 2019 Person of the Year, has described falling into a deep depressionafter grasping the ramifications of climate change and the utter refusal of people in power to rise to the occasion: “If burning fossil fuels was so bad that it threatened our very existence, how could we just continue like before?”

Lately, I think I’m experiencing democracy grief. For anyone who was, like me, born after the civil rights movement finally made democracy in America real, liberal democracy has always been part of the climate, as easy to take for granted as clean air or the changing of the seasons. When I contemplate the sort of illiberal oligarchy that would await my children should Donald Trump win another term, the scale of the loss feels so vast that I can barely process it.

After Trump’s election, a number of historians and political scientists rushed out with books explaining, as one title put it, “How Democracies Die.” In the years since, it’s breathtaking how much is dead already. Though the president will almost certainly be impeached for extorting Ukraine to aid his re-election, he is equally certain to be acquitted in the Senate, a tacit confirmation that he is, indeed, above the law. His attorney general is a shameless partisan enforcer. Professional civil servants are purged, replaced by apparatchiks. The courts are filling up with young, hard-right ideologues. One recently confirmed judge, 40-year-old Steven Menashi, has written approvingly of ethnonationalism.

In “How Democracies Die,” Professors Steven Levitsky and Daniel Ziblatt of Harvard describe how, in failing democracies, “the referees of the democratic game were brought over to the government’s side, providing the incumbent with both a shield against constitutional challenges and a powerful — and ‘legal’ — weapon with which to assault its opponents.” This is happening before our eyes.

The entire Trump presidency has been marked, for many of us who are part of the plurality that despises it, by anxiety and anger. But lately I’ve noticed, and not just in myself, a demoralizing degree of fear, even depression. You can see it online, in the self-protective cynicism of liberals announcing on Twitter that Trump is going to win re-election. In The Washington Post, Michael Gerson, a former speechwriter for George W. Bush and a Never Trump conservative, described his spiritual struggle against feelings of political desperation: “Sustaining this type of distressed uncertainty for long periods, I can attest, is like putting arsenic in your saltshaker.”

I reached out to a number of therapists, who said they’re seeing this politically induced misery in their patients. Three years ago, said Karen Starr, a psychologist who practices in Manhattan and on Long Island, some of her patients were “in a state of alarm,” but that’s changed into “more of a chronic feeling that’s bordering on despair.” Among those most affected, she said, are the Holocaust survivors she sees. “It’s about this general feeling that the institutions that we rely on to protect us from a dangerous individual might fail,” she said.

Kimberly Grocher, a psychotherapist who works in both New York and South Florida, and whose clients are primarily women of color, told me that during her sessions, the political situation “is always in the room. It’s always in the room.” Trump, she said, has made bigotry more open and acceptable, something her patients feel in their daily lives. “When you’re dealing with people of color’s mental health, systemic racism is a big part of that,” she said.

In April 2017, I traveled to suburban Atlanta to cover the special election in the Sixth Congressional District. Meeting women there who had been shocked by Trump’s election into ceaseless political action made me optimistic for the first time that year. These women were ultimately the reason that the district, once represented by Newt Gingrich, is now represented by a Democrat, Lucy McBath. Recently, I got back in touch with a woman I’d met there, an army veteran and mother of three named Katie Landsman. She was in a dark place.

“It’s like watching someone you love die of a wasting disease,” she said, speaking of our country. “Each day, you still have that little hope no matter what happens, you’re always going to have that little hope that everything’s going to turn out O.K., but every day it seems like we get hit by something else.” Some mornings, she said, it’s hard to get out of bed. “It doesn’t feel like depression,” she said. “It really does feel more like grief.”

Obviously, this is hardly the first time that America has failed to live up to its ideals. But the ideals themselves used to be a nearly universal lodestar. The civil rights movement, and freedom movements that came after it, succeeded because the country could be shamed by the distance between its democratic promises and its reality. That is no longer true.

Democrats and anti-Trump Republicans are often incredulous seeing the party of Ronald Reagan allied with Vladimir Putin’s Russia, but the truth is, there’s no reason they should be in conflict. The enmity between America and Russia was ideological. First it was liberal democracy versus communism. Then it was liberal democracy versus authoritarian kleptocracy.

But Trump’s political movement is pro-authoritarian and pro-oligarch. It has no interest in preserving pluralism, free and fair elections or any version of the rule of law that applies to the powerful as well as the powerless. It’s contemptuous of the notion of America as a lofty idea rather than a blood-and-soil nation. Russia, which has long wanted to prove that liberal democracy is a hypocritical sham, is the natural friend of the Trumpist Republican Party, just as it’s an ally and benefactor of the far right Rassemblement National in France and the Lega Nord in Italy.

The nemeses of the Trumpist movement are liberals — in both the classical and American sense of the world — not America’s traditional geopolitical foes. This is something new in our lifetime. Despite right-wing persecution fantasies about Barack Obama, we’ve never before had a president who treats half the country like enemies, subjecting them to an unending barrage of dehumanization and hostile propaganda. Opponents in a liberal political system share at least some overlapping language. They have some shared values to orient debates. With those things gone, words lose their meaning and political exchange becomes impossible and irrelevant.

Thus we have a total breakdown in epistemological solidarity. In the impeachment committee hearings, Republicans insist with straight faces that Trump was deeply concerned about corruption in Ukraine. Republican senators like Ted Cruz of Texas, who is smart enough to know better, repeat Russian propaganda accusing Ukraine of interfering in the 2016 election. The Department of Justice’s inspector general’s report refutes years of Republican deep state conspiracy theories about an F.B.I. plot to subvert Trump’s campaign, and it makes no difference whatsoever to the promoters of those theories, who pronounce themselves totally vindicated.

To those who recognize the Trump administration’s official lies as such, the scale of dishonesty can be destabilizing. It’s a psychic tax on the population, who must parse an avalanche of untruths to understand current events. “What’s going on in the government is so extreme, that people who have no history of overwhelming psychological trauma still feel crazed by this,” said Stephanie Engel, a psychiatrist in Cambridge, Mass., who said Trump comes up “very frequently” in her sessions.

Like several therapists I spoke to, Engel said she’s had to rethink how she practices, because she has no clinical distance from the things that are terrifying her patients. “If we continue to present a facade — that we know how to manage this ourselves, and we’re not worried about our grandchildren, or we’re not worried about how we’re going to live our lives if he wins the next election — we’re not doing our patients a service,” she said.

This kind of political suffering is uncomfortable to write about, because liberal misery is the raison d’être of the MAGA movement. When Trumpists mock their enemies for being “triggered,” it’s just a quasi-adult version of the playground bully’s jeer: “What are you going to do, cry?” Anyone who has ever been bullied knows how important it is, at that moment, to choke back tears. In truth, there are few bigger snowflakes than the stars of MAGA world. The Trumpist pundit Dan Bongino is currently suing The Daily Beast for $15 million, saying it inflicted “emotional distress and trauma, insult, anguish,” for writing that NRATV, the National Rifle Association’s now defunct online media arm, had “dropped” him when the show he hosted ended. Still, a movement fueled by sadism will delight in admissions that it has caused pain.

But despair is worth discussing, because it’s something that organizers and Democratic candidates should be addressing head on. Left to fester, it can lead to apathy and withdrawal. Channeled properly, it can fuel an uprising. I was relieved to hear that despite her sometimes overwhelming sense of civic sadness, Landsman’s activism hasn’t let up. She’s been spending a bit less than 20 hours a week on political organizing, and expects to go back to 40 or more after the holidays. “The only other option is to quit and accept it, and I’m not ready to go there yet,” she said. Democracy grief isn’t like regular grief. Acceptance isn’t how you move on from it. Acceptance is itself a kind of death.

[delusion-of-negation]

are you okay? :(

Tumblr is shite for telling me that I have new messages, so I apologize so much to everyone for not responding to these sooner. I'm guessing they're about the other night and not my cold (but if they're about my cold: I'M NOT OKAY, THIS IS NOT A DRILL, SATAN CREATED THIS COLD SPECIFICALLY TO PUNISH ME!), so I'll explain as best I can:

So, for context, I'm occasionally "neurotypical passing" enough to "seem normal" to friends of friends who aren't as familiar with mental health stuff, and I try to limit my hanging out with them to when I'm well enough to keep up that facade -which means that in the past I've had the "privilege" of hearing people talking about non-neurotypical people we know behind their backs, or about annoying people we know that they've decided probably have [insert conditions here] because they're "weird". As a result, I really don't like doing something that puts a giant neon "ASPERGERS! BIPOLAR! OCD! AND MORE! COMING TO A GOSSIP NEAR YOU THIS FALL!" sign over my head, especially in front of people who I don't know well, especially especially if they say certain phrases that I've heard before in a gossipy context - and a lot of that fear comes from not wanting my friends to be hearing things like that about me behind my back, not wanting to risk them having to choose between me and their other friends, and generally not wanting to embarrass them or myself. That night, I was with two friends and two of their friends, and I started acting weird, like loud, obnoxious, controlling, bossy, not myself at all - I knew something was wrong but my head was all static, I couldn't even make sense of what I was saying, everything was in fast forward, I think I was dissociating because I only have fragments of memory of it. Then something one of the friends of friends did to wind me up triggered a flashback and panic attack, and after it ended I felt like I crashed, everything slowed down, even my vision went weird; I must've done something visibly because everyone looked horrified at me, I think I shouted. I then ran into another room. Later, one of my friends came in and got really upset with me for embarrassing them, they said that they were sick of having to defend me to their friends, and when I apologized and said I appreciated that they tolerated me, they responded "I shouldn't have to" and left me alone. I was mad at them for not understanding, I was mad at myself for not being normal, and I was still reeling from everything, so then all my other problems came flooding back in, it was like my mind went "Oh and here's 97 other times you fucked up, here's everything bad that person has ever done to you, also here's examples of lots of other people who hate you, with some abuse flashbacks as a side order, and while we're on the subject of you fucking up, what's it like having no money?" and I just... I couldn't take it any more, I wanted to kill myself, I decided that I was going to, but I have a rule that I have to wait a bit after deciding something like that before acting upon it - partially because of failures in the past and their consequences (you make mistakes when you're rushed or impulsive), but also because I remember a passage that I read a long time ago about how you should always wait before acting on extreme emotions like that to ensure that the emotion is one you stand by and not just fleeting, it always pops into my head when I get suicidal. So instead, I grabbed the lighter, but then I thought about the times people self-harmed in front of me or told me that it was because of me, and I thought about how hurt my friends would be if they found out that I did it in the same house as them because of them, I thought about how angry they get when I do it, about how many times they've told me that they'll leave if I do it again... I got scared so I put it down and started looking at pictures of self-harm instead (to try to live vicariously through them I guess, I really wasn't thinking clearly by that point), and that's when all the tumblr posts happened. I must've been dissociating pretty bad then too because I don't actually remember writing the posts or what I said in them, I only remember reblogging some depressing quotes and pictures. Eventually I just broke down crying and I don't remember anything at all after that.

The next morning, both of my friends were really supportive, and a third friend talked it through with me, plus my cold had gotten so bad that I was like "haha no need to kill myself I'm already fucking DYING". I felt more like myself, time was passing normally and I could think before I opened my mouth again, my sense of humour was back, and I couldn't remember much of the night so that made it easier. The embarrassment started to fade, and so I went through some old quotes and songs that have messages like "It's not your fault, don't let other people get to you, you can't control what they think so worrying about it is fruitless", and I re-read some stoic texts to reaffirm the whole "stop worrying about what you can't control" thing. Occasionally little thoughts and bitterness creep back up, but mostly it has passed. I'm really genuinely sorry if I frightened anyone during the episode, that wasn't my intention.

[hazelnmae]

Things Unsaid

This was my contribution to the fic exchange hosted by @peakyblindersexchange​ It’s a little Tofie one shot that grapples with the time between Tommy receiving Alfie’s letter and his visit to Margate (and all the feels that happened in between). 

Warnings: Angst, leading to fluff but not quite arriving there. 

Tommy/Alfie Paring.

“I placed the post on your desk, Mr. Shelby,” Frances said as Tommy shed his coat and hat by the door. She knew he’d head directly to his study and would want to see the mail straight away. He’d been on edge, as usual, but had recently received letters and phone calls at strange hours of the day from people she'd never heard of, and that had even Frances worried.

Tommy lit a cigarette as he lazily entered his office and took up the mail stacked neatly on his desk. Without paying attention to the return address, he ripped open the first letter.

He recognized the handwriting immediately and sunk into his chair, his eyes struggling to focus and running too quickly over the words.

In the end, he’d had to reread the letter more than once to catch all of the content. But he’d decided to reread it many more times because of what it meant.

Alfie was alive.

The letter included exactly what Tommy would have expected, had he known Alfie were alive: Some light ribbing about the fact that Tommy couldn't finish the job and question after question about his fucking dog.

It also excluded exactly what Tommy would have expected, had he known Alfie were alive: Any mention, whatsoever, about how he’d survived being shot in the face and left for dead on the beach, and any indication as to whether or not he’d forgiven Tommy for doing what he had to do.

For two weeks, Tommy carried Alfie’s letter in his breast pocket--the fact that it was pressed against his heart wasn’t something Tommy would acknowledge for years to come.

Instead, for those two weeks, Tommy pulled out the letter when he needed a reminder that there was, in fact, hope.

Hope was fleeting. He’d been without it for so long. Had been focused on all that he’d lost, all that he could lose, and all that he’d never have. Tommy had no use for hope. At least that’s what he’d told himself since returning from the war. Everything was extra.

But then hope arrived. In a letter.

And that changed everything.

Now, when Cyril greeted him each evening on his return home, Tommy saw the dog's former owner. He’d worked so hard to forget Alfie since that day on the beach--had tried, and failed, to put him out of his mind as a figment of his imagination, larger than life, and having never existed at all.

But Cyril was a constant reminder that he had been there. That it had been real.

And that it was real still.

Three weeks after receiving Alfie’s letter, Tommy finally sat down to write a response.

What he thought would be difficult, proved to be damn near impossible. While the pen worked almost of its own accord, nothing that came out felt quite right.

Tommy had never been a man of many words. Not for a lack of trying, but because he usually found that words never worked to adequately explain what he was feeling. And because of that, he’d kept it all inside, placing it into neat boxes in an attempt to keep the irreconcilable parts from bumping into one another.

He sat back in his chair and read his own words again. Not completely happy with the result, he folded it neatly and placed it on the corner of his desk.

Tommy would repeat this process three more times over the coming months, each time entering his office with an assurance it would come out correctly, but each time also folding the resulting letter and neatly placing it on top of the others.

The words just never materialized. The sentiment just never worked.

What he wanted to say and what he needed to say were two different things.

He wanted to tell Alfie he was glad he was alive. He wanted to tell him he valued his opinion and missed being able to ask for it. He wanted to tell him he was angry Alfie had forced his hand, but that he’d forgiven him for throwing him over.

But he needed to tell him so much more.

He needed to confess that losing Alfie was like losing Grace all over again. He needed to tell Alfie that he awoke from his dreams wishing he’d just once see his ghost the way he saw hers. He needed to tell Alfie he needed him. That he needed things to change. That he needed to know they could change.

But no matter how hard he tried, those things never seemed to make their way to the paper. Instead the ink wrote of droll stories, happenings since Alfie had been gone, business strategies, and confessions of what worried him.

When the day finally came, writing the letter would no longer suffice. He was out of options. He was out of patience. And he was nearly out of time.

He placed the four letters in a single envelope, carefully sealing the flap with wax, and made his way to the only place that had any chance of granting him peace again.

Tommy went to Margate.

The house was exactly what Tommy had expected. Grand but unimposing. Gothic but not sad. Almost palatial, but somehow exactly suited for the backdrop of the sea behind it.

He nodded to the housekeeper who let him in immediately. But he took his time going to the sitting room. He walked the halls instead, admiring the immense collection of decor. Oil paintings, busts, ornate dishes, floral arrangements--things lined almost every inch of wall and every surface along the way. For most, this would seem comical--a collection of stuff that couldn’t possibly mean a thing. But he knew that wasn’t the case in this house. Every single item had been, no doubt, meticulously examined, mulled over, and selected for a very specific reason.

He entered the sitting room, a song playing casually on the gramophone. It wasn’t a song he’d heard before, but that didn’t surprise him given the person who’d selected it.

The doors opened right up to the beach. The curtains whipped languidly in the breeze.

Tommy stepped out onto the balcony to take in the view. The sun was setting, streaking the sky in orange and purple. He remembered the last time he’d visited that beach. The turmoil he’d faced. The sinking feeling he’d experienced in the pit of his stomach. The moment he’d pulled the trigger.

He remembered almost walking away for good. The tug he’d felt to go back for the fucking dog.

Tommy took up a pair of binoculars that sat by the door. Looking through them, he spotted a ship on the horizon and chuckled to himself thinking of Alfie watching ships as a hobby.

“You out there, Tommy?” A familiar voice rang out from behind him.

And for the first time since the last time he was at Margate, Tommy felt the weight lifted.

Alfie followed Tommy through the house and back to grand entrance to see him off. He was far enough behind him, that he hadn’t noticed when Tommy laid the envelope on the small table near the door. It wasn’t until Tommy had sped off, on his way back toward the chaos of his life and business, that Alfie saw it.

He took up the envelope and read all four letters, right there in the foyer, without even sitting down.

What Tommy had worked so hard to convey and ultimately decided he hadn’t, Alfie noticed straight away.

In one letter, Tommy told him about Charlie--about how much he’d grown, about his admiration for horses, about his mean streak. He told the story of the day Charlie was thrown from a horse in the stables and how Tommy had panicked and rushed him to hospital to learn he’d only had minor injuries. How the nurses didn’t care who he was and chided him for whisking the poor boy into a frenzy over a few bumps and bruises. And about how Tommy had been so relieved that he didn’t care he’d overreacted.

In another letter, Tommy wrote about the war. He shared, for the first time to anyone, his experiences in the tunnels, the horror of the collapse, and the way he still found himself struggling to breath in small, enclosed spaces. He told Alfie something he’d never shared with another person (not even the doctor Ada insisted he see)--the fact that he never took a lift in a tall building, choosing always to find the stairs instead from fear he might find himself trapped and in a panic. He didn’t care if it meant he’d climb ten floors and be late for a meeting. He’d rather be out of breath than risk falling apart in front of a stranger.

One letter was all about business, but the tone of it wasn’t wholly professional. Tommy lamented the loss of Alfie as a partner, spoke of his distillery, and even asked advice on perfecting that fucking gin recipe he was still battling. Without sharing details, as it wasn’t Tommy’s style to divulge his plans, he spoke of his position in Parliament and his work for the labour party. And while he didn’t come right out and admit it, it was clear he was struggling to reconcile his beliefs with his work.

The last letter, the shortest of the four, dealt very simply with the most complex subject--his dreams. Tommy’s dreams had shifted from nightmares of the war to something much darker. He asked Alfie what he thought they might represent but failed to share his own analysis--something Alfie was sure he’d overthought and had his own, very strong and probably incorrect, opinions about.

The last letter ended rather abruptly. After detailing dreams in which Grace visited, trying to convince Tommy it was time for him to pull the trigger and drift away from it all, he simply closed with: “But if you had visited me, Mr. Solomons, I know the message would have been different. You didn’t visit. And now I know why.”

Alfie paused over those last lines, fighting back the tears that threatened to form.

In truth, he was relieved when he woke up on that beach. He’d not admit it to Tommy until some time later.

Now he had another chance.

They both had another chance.

Alfie grabbed the keys from the side table and rushed out of the door as quickly as his aching bones would allow, ignoring the housekeeper yelling after him to get his coat lest he catch his death in the cold.

He simply looked back at her over the car as he opened the door and shouted,

“I’m off to Birmingham, love. You're best off not waiting up.”

[woppy42]

Mothers, be good to your daughters

Fanfic: She-Ra (2018) Rating: G Characters: Catra, Angella, Shadow Weaver (sort of) Category: Angst, family, mother-daughter relationship

Summary: Shadow Weaver is gone. Catra doesn't quite know how she feels about it. (Post-redemption Catra) (alternate summary: sad cat daughter needs a mother, and angella is conveniently available) Update: This now has a second chapter!

Angella walked the silent halls of the castle, her steps illuminated only by moonlight and the faint glow of her wings. In a sense, it really wasn’t fair, she mused. An immortal being who couldn’t sleep? She would give nearly anything for that sweet reprieve, a way to skip over a few scant hours of eternity. But sleep eluded her, as always, and her regrets of the past and fears for the future did not.

So she walked.

A dark figure caught her eye as she passed an open door to one of the castle’s many balconies. She backtracked, approaching the archway. The figure was small, lithe, and topped with an unruly mane of hair, leaning against the wall of the balcony and staring out across the moonlit woods beyond. A familiar figure, these days, but the stillness--that was new.

“Catra?” Angella called quietly, though she suspected Catra had detected her near-silent footsteps long before she spoke. The figure’s head turned, and the thin glow of a thoroughly unsurprised blue eye confirmed her suspicions before turning back to the silent woods.

“Hey.”

(read on AO3)

The corner of Angella’s mouth quirked upward. Catra’s casual disregard for her authority was a far cry from the way Adora had literally and figuratively fallen over herself in her attempts at propriety during her first days at Bright Moon.

Angella found herself not caring in the slightest.

There was a strange tenseness to her stance. A small piece of ragged paper caught Angella’s eye as she approached, held loosely in Catra’s hand where it rested on the balcony wall. The paper appeared to have been crumpled and smoothed repeatedly.

“Long patrol?” Angell asked, conversationally. She would hear Catra’s report in the morning, as usual, but clearly… something… needed to be addressed before then.

“Yes. No,” Catra amended her automatic response. She sighed. “It was typical.”

“Mm.”

Angella waited.

Catra’s hand clenched around the paper, crumpling it further, then relaxed.

“Shadow Weaver is dead.”

Ah.

Angella swallowed against the familiar, cold emptiness those words brought. Shadow Weaver. Light Spinner. Another person from her past she could have helped, perhaps even saved, if only she had been more observant. Another failure. Another loss. She shook her head, collecting her thoughts and carefully pushing them aside.

Right now, her attention was needed elsewhere.

“I see,” she responded. “How far has the news spread?”

“Aside from our spy network? I doubt anyone else knows. It was quiet, apparently. Just Hordak  cleaning up another one of his messes.” The paper twisted in her fingers again.

“I will need to share this news in tomorrow’s meeting,” Angella said, carefully. “Does Adora…?”

“I'll tell her in the morning,” Catra said, tiredly. “I don't know how she'll feel about it.” She scoffed. “I don't know how I feel about it.”

Angella stood, silent.

“I can't believe she's actually gone.” The words were delivered in a strange tone, thick with an unnamed emotion.

“It's all right to be sad, Catra.” A laugh interrupted her words.

“Sad? I’m not sad! I should be happy the old witch is gone!” For a moment, Angella wondered if the girl was speaking to her, or to herself. Catra’s words continued to flow, as though a dam had been broken.

“Why should I miss someone who was never once nice to me? She could be nice to Adora, sure, telling her what a great leader she’d be someday, smoothing her hair back all gentle--you know what she did with me?” Her words were punctuated with sweeping gestures, an almost wild look in her eyes. “She threatened to kill me when I was four. Four! Who does that? She used her restraining magic on me all the time, couldn't even bring herself to touch me unless it was to hit me—except for one time,” she was pacing now, index finger upraised to drive her point home, unable to hide the tremor in her voice. “The one, single time when I thought I had finally earned her respect, and she used me.” Her voice broke, and Angella’s heart broke with it. “It was all a lie. She was a terrible person and I should be glad she's gone.”

Catra stood a moment, catching her breath from the emotion of her outburst.

“I don't even know why I'm telling you this,” Catra muttered, dropping her elbows to the wall of the balcony and leaning against it in a way that belied exhaustion beyond the physical.

Another silence, broken only by the distant rustling of wind in the trees.

“You still can't touch Adora's hair when she's half-asleep without her freaking out,” Catra finally said, softer. “Did you know that?”

Angella did not. She added it to the long list of things that she would contemplate later, in the hours she spent not sleeping.

“Even her approval messed us up so much, and yet it's all I ever wanted.” Catra laughed; a short, bitter thing. “I must be an idiot.”

“No,” Angella said firmly. Catra looked up in mild surprise. “No,” she repeated, more gently. “How could you not desire the approval of the only mother you'd ever known?”

Catra’s gaze dropped.

“I shouldn't,” she whispered. “I should be happy she's gone.”

Angella stepped closer. “But you aren’t.” Catra turned away from her, silent, briefly bringing the back of her hand to her face and roughly dragging it across her eyes.

“It's all right to be sad, Catra,” she repeated. “Shadow Weaver did terrible things, things you never deserved--but she was an important part of your life. It's normal to grieve such a loss.”

Silence.

“You were alike in many ways, you know,” Angella said a moment later.

Catra scoffed, and it sounded wet. “I thought you were trying to make me feel better.”

“I said many, not all. She was driven. Intelligent. Determined. As for her other, less desirable qualities, you have accomplished what all good mothers wish for their children: you have grown beyond them. Become the best version of themselves, the one they could never attain.”

“I don't believe you.” Her voice was unsteady in the dark.

“It’s the truth. And truth remains, whether you believe it or not,” Angella said simply.

Catra’s gaze was fixed on the ground, and for a moment all Angella could see was her own daughter standing before her, broken and hurting. Without thinking, she raised a hand and gently pushed back some of Catra’s hair from her face before resting her palm against the side of her face.

Catra froze to stone under her touch. Slowly, mechanically, her head raised.

“What do you want,” she demanded, all traces of her former vulnerability replaced with a cold, hard stare. Angella dropped her hand away, silently cursing herself for not remembering how the only soft touch Catra had known from her parental figure had been a manipulative lie.

“Nothing,” she said, too quickly. “I’m sorry.”

A moment passed as something coalesced in her mind, and she spoke again.

“No, you’re right,” she said firmly. “I do want something.”

Catra’s eyes held a heartbreaking mixture of disappointment, resignation, anger. The look of someone who knew what was coming, but had hoped, however faintly, they would be wrong.

“I want you to know that it was never your fault.” The anger faded from Catra’s face, replaced by confusion. “You were a child, and you never deserved what was done to you.”

Catra’s lips parted, but Angella forged on. “I want you to know that you’re good enough, smart enough, strong enough. That you always have been. That you… you are enough.”

Confusion gave way to shock, then disbelief, and Catra spun her back to Angella too late to hide the tears spilling from her eyes. Her fists reflexively clenched and unclenched at her sides.

“Shut up.” Her voice was cracked, fragile.

Angella thought of how Scorpia and Entrapta deserted with her when Catra left the Horde--not so much because they wanted to leave the Horde, but because they refused to leave her. She thought of Bow and Glimmer and how, despite their near-daily complaints and protestations about Catra’s behavior, they had been practically frantic when she was briefly captured by a Horde patrol a few weeks ago. Thought of Adora, and of the warmth she herself had felt steadily growing for this angry, damaged girl who hid so much and cared so deeply.

Slowly, gently, she reached out and rested her hand on Catra’s shoulder, feeling her tense under the touch.

“I want you to know you are loved.”

There was a long silence while Catra stood, trembling and shaking under Angella’s hand with the force of holding herself together, not even breathing. When she finally drew a breath, it came as a sharp sob wrenching its way out of her throat--followed by another, then another as she sank to the ground. Angella followed, listening to her cries with an aching heart before she finally risked putting an arm across Catra’s shoulders.

“Oh, child,” she whispered.

To her great surprised, Catra suddenly spun in place, wrapping her arms around Angella in a vice-like grip and firmly planting her damp face in her shoulder as she continued to cry. Frozen only momentarily, Angella brought up her arms up to wrap them gently around her shaking frame, cocooning them both in the soft, iridescent glow of her wings. A memory came to her of Glimmer, not long after Micah’s death, as she started to rub slow, gentle circles on Catra’s back.

“Shh,” she murmured. “It’s all right.”

Eventually, her wracking cries faded to hiccuping breaths, and her grip loosened. Angella loosened her grip in return, allowing Catra to pull a short distance away. She wiped her forearm across her face before pulling her knees to her chest.

“Sorry,” she mumbled.

Angella offered her a handkerchief, which she accepted without making eye contact. “You have nothing to apologize for.”

Another silence. Angella knew she didn’t believe her words, but it was all right. She would repeat them as many times as necessary.

Catra looked at the iridescent wing that was still wrapped loosely around her back.

“You know, I used to think you were some enormous, disgusting winged monster?” Catra smiled sheepishly. “The Horde wasn’t exactly flattering with their propaganda.”

Angella laughed softly. “Opinions can change. After all, I wasn’t your biggest fan when you tried to shoot the Moonstone while I was standing under it.”

Catra gave a stuffy, wincing laugh. “Yeah… sorry about that.”

Angella’s wing tightened briefly around Catra, brushing her shoulder. “It’s in the past,” Angella said gently. “I trust you now.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t.”

“Maybe I should.”

Catra’s mouth opened, then closed. Angella saw her brow crease in the dark as her jaw muscles worked, like she was trying to force words out that wouldn’t come. She laid a hand gently on Catra’s arm.

“It’s all right,” she said. “You don’t have to say it. Trust comes when it comes.”

Angella’s wing remained gently curled around Catra’s shoulders, shielding her from the occasional cool breeze. They sat that way for some time, side by side, lost in their own thoughts and a silence that was strangely comfortable.

A sudden thought came to Angella, and she pulled her wing back instinctively. “Do you wish for me to depart? Glimmer often has to remind me that I can sometimes… overstay my welcome.”

Catra looked startled, glancing back with almost a hurt expression at the wing that now hovered a respectful distance behind her.

“What? No, it’s fine, I--” Catra stammered, flushing slightly and averting her gaze at this unfamiliar vulnerability. “...I don’t really want to be alone right now.”

Oh. Of course. Angella gently replaced the wing around Catra’s back, noting the soft sigh the girl gave when she did so.

Angella hummed. In the distance, the deep indigo of the night sky began to fade purple with the barest tinge of morning light.

“Neither do I.”

Daughters will love like you do Girls become lovers who turn into mothers So mothers be good to your daughters, too 

Thanks for reading! If you liked it, I’ll love you forever if you drop me a kudos or a comment on AO3!

This now has a second chapter!

[bonesgadh]

My opinion on what the future may hold for Gendrya (or a shipper’s desperate rant).

This is a very long post. It basically consists of me analizing evidence that points to Arya and Gendry being endgame. The reason why I decided to write this is because I want to give hope to some Gendrya shippers out there who were left pretty devastated after what happened on Sunday. Of course I can’t know for sure if all this shit will mean anything in the end, for all I know the failed proposal was Gendrya’s last scene and we are facing a bigger heartbreak. Still I wanted to share with you the reasons why I’m feeling optimistic and I really hope I can make you feel optimistic as well. Please forgive any grammar/spelling mistakes because, although I do my best, english is not my first language :)

First, some shout-outs:

To @chocolatecarstairs for this wonderful post that points out how Arya and Gendry are pretty much redoing their story. You gave me the idea to write this :)

To @captainfangirlll for reminding me we still haven’t seen Gendry addressing Arya’s scars. I had forgotten that very important detail.

To @miladyaryastark for proving nothing is more effective than a fan with a quest and providing evidence that the show will go back to Storm’s End at some point.

To every fan who has mentioned how this recent turn of events is basically a live action version of “My Featherbed”, especially @ladywolfandbastardbull and @forehead451 for these two wonderful analysis.

 Last but not least to my mom™ for ranting with me every day of this damn week. Love you mom :)

Okay, let’s begin:

The “I reject you not because I don’t love you, but because I’m not ready to be with you” scene

I was born in the Bones fandom. Those of you who have followed me since I first got into this hellfire of a website know it. Temperance Brennan is my life guru and there’s no show, book or movie that has taught me more about love and life than Bones. 

When the now infamous episode 4 aired I saw a striking similitude between the Gendrya scene and a scene from the 100th episode of Bones. I don’t know if you have ever seen the show but the main couple are Booth & Brennan. He has been in love with her for a while and on that episode he finally makes his move and tells her he wants to give their relationship a shot. Brennan rejects him but you can tell she is suffering because she also has feelings for him, although she doesn’t want to risk ruining their relationship and she doesn’t want to take a leap of faith because her life is basically shit and she has been burnt before. Eventually and after some angst —him getting into a relationship with someone else, jealous Brennan— she realizes she loves him too and decides to give her relationship with Booth a shot and they have a baby and get married —although she said she would never do it— and they live happily ever after.

The Gendrya scene follows a very similar path. There’s an undeniable attraction between Arya and Gendry, an attraction that is years in the making. Although Arya was the first one to make her move with the whole “we are probably going to die” line, you could say them having sex only happened because it was an extreme situation and because of the threat of imminent death. Now that they have left that behind Gendry makes his move and confesses his love to Arya *sobs*, only to be rejected by her in a kind but still very sad way, and his heart clearly shatters in a million pieces.

I’m gonna take a risk here and say I know Arya pretty well —I identify with her a lot, actually—, and I’m certain one of the reasons behind her rejection is her fear of giving her heart to Gendry only to lose him as she has lost everything she has ever loved. Every person who has suffered loss, especially catastrophic loss develops a fear of attachment because they know firsthand that nothing lasts forever, and they are scared of being hurt again. Like they said in Grey’s Anatomy (back when it was good): “Fears means you have something to lose”; it was obvious Arya was terrified during the Battle of Winterfell and there were also traces of fear in her face as Gendry word-vomited his feelings for her. This has been said a lot in other posts so it might come across as repetitive, but Arya has lost so much and she is not willing to lose anything else (ironically by rejecting Gendry she is “losing him”, but at least she believes he still has a chance of finding happiness with another woman like @apiratecalledav mentions here.  Selflessness with a bit of the good ole self destruction).

Still, I firmly believe Arya will recapacitate and something will happen that will make her realize what she feels for Gendry is worth fighting for. My guess is it’ll have something to do with The Hound (you can read my theory below), and whatever happens will show her that it’s okay to be scared of loss, but that life is better when you are with those you love, even if it’s just for a little while. When she comes to this realization she will feel comfortable enough to let Gendry know how she really feels about him, how afraid she is of losing him again and how she is willing to fight her own demons in order to find peace and happiness with him, something that is long overdue (just like it happens on Bones. Seriously, you should watch it if you haven’t already. It’s full of life lessons).

Arya’s final lesson

I already wrote this in another post, you can read it here. The Hound will be crucial for our ship to stay alive.

Arya’s issue with letting go/Being “torn”

When Gendry tells Arya she is beautiful and that he loves her, her face is a very interesting mix of surprise, fear and awe. She is clearly so overwhelmed with what he just said that she can’t bring herself to say a word, because he literally took her breath away with his kiss. It’s quite an unusual reaction on Arya’s part as she always seems to be so calm and prepared for anything, which says a lot of how much Gendry’s lovely speech caught her off guard. I can’t help but wonder what she would’ve said if he hadn’t proposed, if his speech had ended with “None of it will be worth anything if you are not with me”.

One of Arya’s main traits is her issue with letting go. She can’t let go of her desire of returning to Winterfell, she can’t let go of Needle when Jaqen asks her to, she can’t let go of her identity as Arya Stark, she can’t let go of her list and her thirst of revenge even though she defeated the personification of death and a man gave his life for her to live. But if there’s one thing Arya hasn’t been able to let go as well is her feelings for Gendry. Maisie said it herself, the moment Arya reconnects with him she can’t help but remember the girl she used to be and how she was so in love with Gendry she was willing to follow him to the end of the world. Back in seasons 2 and 3 Arya was still a girl who wanted to be with Gendry but his mind was clearly set on something else. Now it’s the other way around, Gendry is head over heels in love with Arya but her mind is set on something else. 

Now that Arya’s old feelings for Gendry have risen to the surface, my guess is they will be addressed on the next two episodes because his proposal clearly shook her to her foundations. She will be torn —as Maisie said she would— between her thirst for revenge and her desire of being with Gendry and fulfilling a dream she had when she was thirteen years old. This will obviously be very hard for her because her list is what kept her alive all those years she spent away from home, it’s like giving up your lifesaver because you are ready to learn how to swim. And I want my girl to give that step, to chose life (yes I know you are tired of reading that expression everywhere but I can’t think of a better way to describe her options).

The three acts

This fucking show loves foreshadowing and mirroring scenes. Thanks to @chocolatecarstairs amazing post I noticed we have seen Gendrya complete two full cycles.

Cycle #1  

Arya and Gendry meet in King’s Landing.

Gendry defends Arya from Hot Pie.

Arya tells Gendry about her real identity.

Arya shows traces of being attracted to Gendry.

Arya asks Gendry to go with her to Winterfell and says she can be his family.

Gendry refuses her proposal in a very gentile way because he believes his fate to be somewhere else, and because he isn’t drawn to serving others forever.

Gendry leaves (unintentionally but still) and she goes with The Hound to Winterfell.

End of the first act.

Cycle #2

Arya and Gendry meet again in Winterfell.

Arya defends Gendry from The Hound.

Gendry tells Arya about his real identity.

Gendry shows traces of being attracted to Arya.

Gendry asks Arya to marry him and to be the Lady of Storm’s End.

Arya refuses his proposal in a very gentile way because (we assume) she believes her fate to be somewhere else, and because she isn’t drawn to the life he is offering her as a lord.

Arya leaves and she goes with The Hound to King’s Landing.

End of the second act.

At this point they are pretty much even. Now some people would take this as proof they have come full circle and that their story is over, but I disagree. Cycle #3 is still yet to unfold and I’m betting a large sum of money they will repeat the process one last time. If my analysis of @chocolatecarstairs analysis (Lol) is correct, my guess is their story is following the A-B-A structure.

They meet in King’s Landing (his birthplace)—they see each other again in Winterfell (her birthplace) —therefore they will reunite in King’s Landing (back to his birthplace and where their relationship began).

She is shown to be attracted to him—he is shown to be attracted to her—she will be shown to be attracted to him (although they kind of already showed that but work with me).

She told him she loved him (or that’s how I interpret the “I can be your family” quote)—he told her he loved her—now she will be the one to tell him she loves him.

The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different outcome, right? Well, if they actually want to be together, they will need to do something to disrupt the pattern (something Bones also taught me). Now, how will they do it?

Let’s play attention to this scene that has already been referenced:

She asks him to come with her to Winterfell but he refuses—He asks her to come with him to Storm’s End but she refuses—?

AHA! Here’s where the pattern will break!

My guess is the key is in the final moment that will be mirrored:

“Last time you saw me you wanted me to come to Winterfell. Took the long road, but…”

(I don’t know if he says “road” or something that sounds very similar. If I’m wrong feel free to correct me).

Thanks to @miladyaryastark’s post I learned they filmed some stuff in the Cushendun Caves, which was used as location for Storm’s End back in season 2. It was actually the last known location for season 8 although I don’t think we have any idea who filmed there (logic points to Joe because Gendry is the new Lord but who knows?) Anyway, let’s suspend reality for a second and suppose both Joe and Maisie filmed there. I would love a callback to Gendry’s quote but this time Arya is the one who delivers it:

“Last time you saw me you wanted me to come to Storm’s End. Took the long road, but…”

And this is how this scene would bring an end to the third act of their story:

Gendry leaves Arya—Gendry returns to her—Arya leaves Gendry—Arya returns to him.

It would even be a different structurem from A-B-A to A-B-A-B. 

Full circle.

I would die if a scene like that makes it to the finale.

The symbolism of Arya’s target practice

We have seen Arya practicing her archery and being interrupted by Gendry twice now. First time in episode 2 and then in episode 4. My mom™ says both scenes are extremely symbolic and perfectly represent their relationship. Let me elaborate:

Arya’s archery practice is meant to represent her goal of killing Cersei. Why? Because when you are practicing archery you are basically aiming for a target. You need to concentrate in order to hit it, and a little distraction can cause you to miss. Arya’s main desire is to kill Cersei, she is her target. That’s why she looks so concentrated as she shoots and why she pretty much hides to practice, she is not willing to let anything or anyone distract her from her objective. She kills the Night King and instead of celebrating with the others, she chooses to go back to focus on her target instead. The Long Night was a distraction, but now she’s ready to return to her goal.

Along comes Gendry.

As I just mentioned, the first time he interrupts her is in episode 2 when he delivers her weapon. She makes a pause in her practice (a.k.a. her mission) to talk to him and, you know, ride him. The second time happens in episode 4, when Gendry literally comes between her and her target and she almost pierces his head with an arrow. This time she also makes a pause to listen to what he is saying to her, she even puts down the bow for a moment as she kisses him. After she rejects his proposal she goes back to shooting arrows, which symbolizes her returning to her target.

What can we conclude from this? That Gendry is the only one who can literally make her turn away from her target (wow I’m using the world “literally” too much). He can get her to forget about her objective, even if it’s only for a little while. He is her distraction, and I believe he will be the reason why she won’t be the one to kill Cersei.

Arya’s scars

Another thing my mom™ pointed out regarding Arya’s scars (thanks @captainfangirlll for reminding us the director said they will be important) is the fact that no one else besides Gendry has seen them. She noticed this, which probably caught her off guard because he is the first person she shows them to. You look at Arya and the first thing that catches your eye is her cold demeanor and seemingly overconfident attitude, you would never imagine her body is full of scars that remind her all the time someone tried to kill her and almost succeeds. Her scars represent her vulnerability, that she can be hurt, that’s why she hasn’t shown them to anybody. But Gendry saw them. The moment she catches him staring at them she demands him to take his pants off. She doesn’t want him to stare because that gives him an intel of how vulnerable she really is, and she doesn’t like that. He literally saw her scars which is very symbolic. I don’t think anyone has seen her that naked since she was a baby tbh.

The live action version of “My Featherbed”

I don’t have much to say about this because other fans have made a much better job than me (@ladywolfandbastardbull and @forehead451 for example). What I can say is I’m certain the lyrics of the song will play an important part :) 

I honestly have no idea how Gendrya will end the show. Will they marry? I have no idea. Will Gendry give up his newfound fame and fortune to sail west of Westeros with her? Probably. Will Arya realize she doesn’t have to be a traditional lady and that Gendry would never ask her to be something she is not? Hopefully. Will Gendry be crowned King and Arya will go back to Winterfell, never to see each other again? God, I hope not. 

But what I believe, in my heart, is that they will be endgame. How? If only I knew. Maisie said Arya’s arc this season revolves around her regaining her humanity and finding herself after years of misery. Joe said Gendry’s arc is very tightly linked to Arya’s. They brought Gendry back to make a statement, for us to see a side of Arya we hadn’t really seen before. For her to remember the person she used to be and the one she could still be. Remember this until May 19th. Don’t give into despair. For the love of God, get the fuck away from reddit and spoilers. Trust in the story they have told us since season 1.

Feel free to share your opinions with me. I only ask you, for the love of all that is holy, to NOT post spoilers or pseudo leaks. I don’t want to know and there are others who don’t want to know either. Please respect our decision :)

*Don’t Stop Believing plays in the background*

[theresnosafeharbor4myships]

the final chapter of Swept Away, my missing Caryl scenes fic for 9x15. you can find the first two chapters here

Swept Away: The Bond of Tragedy (also on 9L)

Daryl stood in the shade of the willow oak as Siddiq shared the last moments he’d spent with the ten.

The entire community, shaken, stunned, and fearful, had shown up, and he’d gladly taken a place in the back, away from the solemn hugs, the grieving looks, the small talk, and the overwhelming sorrow. He had enough of his own.

He tried to focus on Siddiq’s eulogy, but all he could see, all he relived, were his own final minutes with those they were laying to rest.

The hill. The discovery. The horror.

Carol.

She hadn’t wanted to leave Henry behind, and though he dreaded returning more than what he’d just had to do, he promised.

“We gotta go.”

She peered up at him, heartbreak written on her face as she wiped some of her tears away. His eyes pleaded with her, desperate to remove her from the horrific border behind them.

Tears still falling, she sighed and nodded, acquiescing. He supported her as she rose, the act so reminiscent from the first time they experienced this scenario together—though this time she clung to him instead of flinging his hands away from her—he wanted to scream until the heavens poured with the same grief they felt on this godforsaken hill.

“I gotcha,” he murmured again as Carol tried to regain her footing, his hands never leaving her arms, her back, her shoulders, trying to support her however she needed.

And what would that be? How would she ever move past this, not only the fifth—God, how…?—child she’d lost, but one she’d helped raise for a good portion of his life? One they’d left safely back at home, behind walls, at the fair, with his father, happy to be with the girl he’d too quickly fallen for? How would she cope with an empty nest now that she’d spent years building one?

It’d never be the same.

They’d always moved on, tiptoeing past grief like traversing the edge of cliff, and their nomadic life, from the quarry to the farm to the prison to the road, helped with that: they had to fight to live, move to survive, never able to work through all they’d suffered and lost, which he knew was both a blessing and a curse. But Carol had a life. A husband. A family unit. She’d have space. Time to think. An empty room. Memories to haunt every inch of the compound. Echoes of a life no longer.

He feared Carol’s kingdom would fall like she’d done moments ago in his arms.

His chest ached at the thought, at how much she was hurting…and how much more he believed awaited her on the horizon.

A quick glance over his shoulder told him Yumiko had grabbed up his crossbow from where he’d flung it when he’d run to Carol. Siddiq and Michonne, both looking ready to collapse at the slightest breeze, clung to and supported each other as they moved toward him.

Keeping an arm around Carol, Daryl guided them to the main road, trudging back to a fortress that would soon learn its limits, a haven that would no longer feel safe. A queen shattered by loss and a broken heart that no amount of faux grandiosity, fair, or fairy tale would heal.

Yumiko kept a lookout on their tail, and his eyes scanned their path, ever watchful for one of the walkers that wasn’t.

Carol leaned on him for a good portion of the trip, but the closer they came to the Kingdom, the more she pulled herself together. By the time they neared the gates, not a word spoken amongst the five of them, she’d wiped her tears away and stood straight, though she now had her arm linked through his.

The gate yawned open before them, and the guards’ faces fell as they saw their stricken looks. He knew they wouldn’t leave their posts to distribute the news that some of their fighting party had returned. He’d have to do it himself.

Daryl steered them away from the fair’s festivities to the first building on the left, a meeting hall. He moved to the closest row of chairs and eased down on one next to Carol. He barely noted that the others did the same around them.

Carol stared listlessly at the floor, lost in the shadow and the weight of the day.

He gently set his hand to her jaw and drew her face towards him. “Carol...” She lifted her eyes to meet his, and he waited until he knew she saw him and not the sight on that hill. “I’ll be right back. I’m gonna go get Ezekiel. Okay?”

Tears filled her eyes but didn’t spill over, and she nodded. He was loathe to leave her, but he’d be damned if he left her to tell Ezekiel all of the grisly details.

She suddenly eased her arms around his neck, pressing herself against him. He cinched his arms around her, holding her as close to his heart as he could, eyes closed, heart thrumming, breath knocked out of him at how badly he wished he could take this pain from her.  

It was theirs. It was hers and Ezekiel’s too, but it was their shared discovery, their repeated tragedy, their thread of another time, another place, another life, their memory of everything and everyone they’d lost since the beginning. Their bond of tragedy no one else could possibly understand.

He couldn’t be this vulnerable with anyone else. She couldn’t describe what having him there, instead of being alone or with anyone else, meant. They could each break, but together they were unbreakable.

Daryl held her tightly, as he’d done so many times the past few months, a comfort he didn’t know he needed, until she eased away from him, wiping the tears from her face again.

“I’ll be right back,” he whispered, his throat swollen with unshed tears.

He stood up and cleared his throat, repeating it to the others. He eyed Michonne, who glanced at Carol and nodded, silently agreeing to keep an eye on her.

With a heavy heart and heavier steps, Daryl sought out Ezekiel. He found him laughing at something someone had just said to him at one of the fair tables, but when he saw Daryl, the smile fell from his face.

Daryl felt sick again, nearly ready to lose his stomach at the thought of speaking of the horror, and he withdrew into the closest building, Ezekiel close on his heels.

He swallowed hard before speaking, the anguished words leaving his throat sounding hollow. Ezekiel stared hard, the happy-go-lucky king long gone; before him stood a broken man. When he asked after Carol, Daryl told him where she was, and Ezekiel bolted out the door, leaving Daryl, solitary, sick, and traumatized, all alone.

He waited, unable to walk into that hall and watch Ezekiel comfort Carol in the early moments of their parental grief, a place he didn’t belong but something he felt all too keenly. Forcing himself to take deep breaths and try to calm his stomach, he finally, slowly, shuffled his way there and entered the hall again.

Ezekiel had sequestered Carol away from the others as they whispered in shock. The other three sat side by side, quiet, hollow, exhausted.

Though his eyes drifted to Carol, Daryl sat next to Siddiq and cleared his throat, even as he spoke in only a whisper.

“Where’re the bodies?”

Siddiq abruptly turned to face him, eyes wide and sad, and he shook his head.

He didn’t understand. “What?”

Siddiq leaned in closer. “They took them.” His voice, already low, cracked as he spoke. “I saw them cut…I…they took them out of the barn. I don’t think we’re going to find them.”

“Son of a bitch.” His head fell back, weary from the fight. He heaved a few ragged breaths, before shoving to his feet. “I’m going to get them.” He addressed them all but looked pointedly at Carol, determined to fulfill his promise to her, no matter what the task cost him. “Take a vehicle?” he asked the royal duo. “And one or two others with me. Be back before nightfall.”

He didn’t wait for a response, had instead bee-lined for the door faster than he thought capable with the sorrow that pressed in on him like a compactor.

And he’d done it. He’d brought back the only remains that he could of their group, of Carol’s child. Of the others who had all of them grieving the breakdown of the lives they’d known, the sanctuary they’d created, the confidence they’d built.

And he just stood back. Praying Siddiq’s words would inspire them to come together, even as they all fell apart.

[mittensmorgul]

Why did the convo abt being cosmic and your loved ones dying make me feel like Cas or Jack even may choose to be human

Hello! And congrats on spotting it! :P

Disclaimer: I’ve been on the “Cas will eventually choose to be human” train since he opened his first doorway to doubt back in s4, even though I didn’t realize it in those exact words until later in canon, so this is nothing new for him.

I’m gonna start this out by saying that while I think Cas has long been destined to eventually choose humanity for himself at the end of his journey, I don’t think it’s really an option on the table for Jack. Jack is essentially a dual-natured being. I wrote a bit about this yesterday here:

http://mittensmorgul.tumblr.com/post/183324416960/hi-did-jack-use-all-of-his-human-soul-on-his

We already know that Jack can’t survive without grace (becoming purely human), and we have to assume he’d become just as compromised without his soul (becoming purely angel). We know in the Supernatural universe that Nephilim are unique in this way, being a combination of human soul and angelic grace holding them in balance between the two.

Now we know that Jack has essentially chosen his human family over, say, allying himself with Heaven and the angels, or even choosing Lucifer over his adopted human family (which includes Cas, despite his current species, because he’s also chosen the Winchesters as his family). So in effect, he has chosen humanity for himself, regardless of the fact that he would die if he attempted to BECOME purely human himself. So for Jack it’s more a choice of allegiance and self-identity, than a literal change of species, barring some sort of cosmic intervention to transform him into a real boy or something to that effect, but we don’t even know if that could even be an option for him at this point, so that’s entirely theoretical for now.

But for Cas? Yeah, we know he can live just fine as a human after a grace-ectomy. And that’s not just Cas, because Metatron did fine as a human, too. Well, okay, Metatron proved to be kinda lacking as a human, but like... he wasn’t hacking up a lung or suffering any other ill effects of becoming human the way Jack was. And Cas only began getting sick after he stole another angel’s grace to power himself up again. If he hadn’t done that, he could’ve still been humaning his way through life just like any other human, in theory.

Not to mention the fact that Cas has offered up his own grace without hesitation to help heal Jack (in 14.07). He didn’t even think twice, or worry over what his loss of grace would mean for him long-term, you know? It was just WAIT JACK NEEDS GRACE AND I HAVE GRACE HERE TAKE MY GRACE. It took longer for him to offer Jack his COAT when they left the hospital in 14.07 than it did for him to offer up his grace.

But the potential for this choice has multiple roadblocks still to navigate around (or through). There’s the fact that his current physical state-- as an angel-- seems directly tied to his unhappiness, and with his deal with the Empty hanging over him, it’s too risky for him to even thinking about doing anything that might actually make him happy. There’s also the fact that as an angel, he understands that he’s incapable of true human joy (as he said in 10.03 when explaining to Sam why Dean wouldn’t want to be cured of being a demon). It’s just one more layer of protection against his deal. And then of course there’s the eternal “I could be useful because of my powers” and his fear of not being able to help in situations that he can while he has those powers. And those are just the Big Problems keeping him from being able to make that choice for himself right now. There are so many others, not to mention his fears based on the events that unfolded the last time he was human. Not that any of those situations are likely to repeat themselves, but he’s not really in a place where he’s even considered that, let alone addressed it directly, because the bigger-picture issues are still looming too large for that yet.

Heck I could go on about all of this for days :P

As far as the character narrative that’s gradually been drawing Cas closer to making this choice, I have a tag for that, including several posts already related to 14.14:

http://mittensmorgul.tumblr.com/tagged/you+learned+it+from+the+goats

But yeah, you got that feeling, because that’s the feeling they’ve been driving us toward for years now. :)

[devillainsarchive]

🐾 meta;

Carlos and his mental state and disabilities (this is the best way i could think to phrase it). These are present in all my verses unless stated otherwise (like my mr robot verse where he has dissociative identity disorder).

I want to be very clear, this post will only graze the surface of deeper issues. I am also putting a majority of this post under a read more due to the some of the more sensitive topics, and I don’t desire to trigger anyone.

I want to also say, making this post has made me extremely nervous. As I don’t want to portray things incorrectly, or wrong. I am always learning, and striving to reduce the stigma and glorification of these things.

Additionally, this things are not plot points for Carlos. I will never use them to make his story more sad or more upsetting. I am not here to have them be a shock value. With writing about these things most of my nerves regarding this post that I have put off for months is the backlash I will get. If you want to talk to me about anything I say in this post, I ask you do it off anon.

Finally this post is not going to be addressing Carlos intelligence (ie his IQ score and how he is a prodigy where schooling is concerned). Certainly some of these things can feed into that. But his intelligence is something that deserves its own post.

Short list: things Carlos has (diagnosed and diagnosed)

Asperger’s

PTSD and C-PTSD

Anxiety

Depression

Schizophrenia

OCD

Insomnia

This is the longer list, essentially I go a bit into detail about each thing on the short list, explain my reasoning behind him having each thing, where I pull from canon to get the reasoning, a bit about the manifestations of each thing for Carlos. There will be cross over, so I may repeat myself on occasion.

Asperger’s (Asperger Syndrome)

Carlos’ Asperger’s is evident when you know the signs. Carlos struggles to pick on basic social cues. He certainly gets better and learns more when he is older. But as a young child, and especially all his time on the Isle, and when he first lives in Auradon. One of the most evident signs of this is that he will talk about things he likes typically mechanics and wires and machines without stopping to care about what his listener thinks about it. In Auradon he learns to stop himself from getting to far, and he always feels bad about it after. He cherishes people that let him talk.

Carlos is not loud, but he certainly has a wide vocabulary. While this is not incredibly evident, his annoyance with Reza’s vocabulary could lead to he knows what all those words mean. Carlos just knows how to use them in natural conversation. He does not understand normal jokes or humor, and it takes him a few moments to get a joke. In Auradon he gets better with those social queues, and learns how and when people are trying to be funny. Carlos may laugh but that does not mean he gets the joke. He also may not understand when he is telling a joke. This does not mean that Carlos can’t laugh or doesn’t know when to laugh, he laughs easily with Jay, and probably for a very long time Jay is the only one who can get a genuine laugh out of him.

Carlos’ is very aware of his surroundings. He notices small changes in things, and often changes in thins will bug him, and make him upset. He hyper-fixates this primarily on his desk in Auradon, and his desk in the hideout on the Isle, and the treehouse in the backyard of Hell Hall on the Isle. He knows immediately when things are wrong with it. This applies also to people around him, sudden movements, but for the most part Carlos associates that with always having to be on alert for his mother. His own interactions with people may seem odd, he may ignore them or seem rude, but he doesn’t mean it. This is where part of that callous demeanor comes from, but he is much better at turning that off and on than people realize.

Carlos also has his hobbies that he talks forever about, that he will ignore people for. This hobby is science and mechanics, and computers. He also enjoys binary code, and Morse code. One prime example of this is when he first ignores Evie when she meets him officially for the first time. He is focusing on building the machine that pierces a hole in the barrier. He essentially ignores Evie, until she makes a comment about the machine to help him make it work. Another example of this is from D1 where he is playing the video game. One other example is the fact that he has the period table of elements memorized this comes up as a way to calm himself down, when he is aware enough to calm himself down.

Last but not least Carlos has a serious aversion to touch. This plays into so many other things about him, and many things you will see on the list. Carlos does not like being touched. And touching him when its uninvited could lead to a various range of results.

PTSD

Carlos PTSD mainly manifests itself in the forms of flashbacks, and nightmares, and panic attacks. His PTSD is caused by his mother’s treatment of his as a child. His mother’s treatment of him, wont be discussed in great detail here, but it is traumatic for him. In short he was not loved or cared for. He had to do so much on his own, on top of his mother ordering him about. She burned him with butts of cigarettes, threw things at him, and treated him like a dog to the point of Evie thinking he was a dog because she could hear it. Dog jokes on the isle about him run rampant.

His triggers on the Isle, he doesn’t really care about. He still is in the situation constantly, so he doesn’t really pay attention. In general, and one he has control of, is the various dog nick names. He will get a bit volatile about being called dog names. Other triggers mainly include heals clacking, smoke, dogs (all dogs, and then just big dogs as he gets to know Dude), and touch particularly touch of his hair. These are his biggest triggers, and they are not his only ones. They also don’t always set him off. He has it all much more under control than he thinks he does. He is good at self regulating his panic attacks and knows when they come on. Flashbacks are his rarest form of manifestation. They are not always full on vivid images of things, but he often gets an overwhelming smell of his mother, and Hell Hall. Nightmares are his most common manifestation. He struggles to sleep, but when he does 6 nights out of 7 he will have a nightmare. He does his best to thoroughly exhaust himself before he sleeps in order to not have nightmares (and to not disturb people, namely Jay). They mainly manifest in Auradon.

His PTSD can get very bad, especially when he has a full flashback. His full flashbacks are generally brought about when he thinks he is being threatened. They come mostly from fear of being touched, mainly if he thinks someone is going to strike him, or if someone is yelling at him. He has full flashbacks very very rarely, but he has had them. One of the most prominent times he has had one is on Parents day when Audrey’s grandmother, and Chad yelled at Mal, Evie, and Jay.

Carlos has both PTSD and C-PTSD. There are certain events from Carlos’ childhood that cause PTSD, but the ongoing abuse he suffered is what gives him C-PTSD. PTSD includes reliving the trauma through nightmares ( referenced vividly in book 4 ) and flashbacks both of which Carlos experiences. He avoids situations, and when he can’t he either disassociates or runs such as with Parent’s Day when Queen Leah’s yelling makes him dissociate. His fear of dogs stems from his PTSD, as well as his hyper awareness of the world around him (though this hyper awareness is also brought on for other reasons). Some of his triggers cause somatic symptoms, as shown above.

Carlos’ C-PTSD is evident in both the books and the movies. From lack of emotional regulation (him yelling at his mom in D1), to dissociation his response to Jane in D3 where he forgets seemingly that his mother abused him. Carlos shows many signs for C-PTSD. He has the most control over his emotions almost to the point where he can come of as emotionless ( “they say I’m callous” ). Carlos has a negative view of himself, but don’t expect him to say that. His mother’s comments towards him made it such so that he feels different, not to mention how utterly embarrassed he is of his handwriting because he taught himself how to write. Carlos’ inability to form good relationships with people, especially outside of the Core4 is not only a symptom of C-PTSD but also something that is part of asperger’s. However its a fine line because the type of people he is typically attracted to, tend to have power over him. Its a delicate line that both parties have to walk.

Carlos’ perception of his mother is his biggest sign that he has C-PTSD. He loves her. He loves her to the point that he will defend her. He knows she doesn’t love him, this is his plot of book 1 essentially. But that does not change his feelings towards her. He has a desire to make her proud, even at the cost of his own morals. Carlos loves Cruella unconditionally even though he shouldn’t, and its unhealthy. He also fears her, but that doesn’t mean he can’t love her. His fear of her causes physical reactions in him from shaking, as seen in book one, to nearly becoming a different person, a main reason he doesn’t want Dude on the Isle in D2.

Carlos doesn’t really exhibit loss of systems, mainly because his only real connection with religion is that his dad is Jewish. However, in my writing, he does often think about how stupid it is to have hope, so that would fit in well there.

Overall Carlos has both. There are specific child hood events that give him PTSD, but the abuse over the years is what gives him C-PTSD, and yes one can have both.

This is not diagnosed.

Anxiety

Carlos’ has anxiety, mainly severe social anxiety. Carlos does not do well in big crowds, or social situations. He has the constant thought that he is annoying people or bugging them. He may want to approach someone, but actually doing it is incredibly taxing on him, and he panics.

Social situations in general make his heart rate go up. Carlos has panic attacks from this. These are the ones that he can barely control, if at all. They come on fast, and often Carlos gets no real warning for them mainly because he doesn’t always know what triggers them.

This is also not diagnosed, but it does stem from Cruella’s treatment. He is always on edge around her, and worried and nervous about how she feels about him. This extends to every person he knows and meets. This extends to his friends. He is always worried about them, and how they view him. He is waiting often for their guidance to tell  him what to do, even if he knows what he needs to do. He likes orders.

Additionally his mind is constantly going a million miles a minute. He often has different things processing and going on at the same time. But worries are most of those. These worries keep him up at night, and actually add to his insomnia.

His anxiety is potentially the least worrying thing for Carlos though. It has been ingrained in him so long to be on edge, that that is all he views it as.

Depression

Carlos’ depression is the must fuzzy of all the things he is diagnosed with. It is definitely the hardest to pin down. And it is one of the things that Carlos does his best to ignore. He has other things going on his mind, if he wants to lay in bed, he has things going on telling him he can’t. Something needs to be cleaned, something needs to be done, his mother is telling him to get up.

Something that links into his depression is his view of his body. Carlos is incredibly self conscious. He has multiple scars that are from cigarettes, or chemical burns. He has cuts, and scrapes that have scared over. He also has his freckles which are a love hate relationship with. His mother found it the one good thing about him since he was born with spots unlike puppies, but for a while it made him resent them. However due to his unique relationship with his mom, he likes his freckles because he knows that since he has them his mom has the chance to love him.

Carlos’ view of his own body being malnourished, and that his growth is stunted, among other things is skewed. He doesn’t like people seeing his body. Sometimes seeing his body makes him uncomfortable with himself, or he just loses all motivation he had. It can be incredibly debilitating. It is often the thing that gets him down the most, and makes his days the hardest to get through.

Schizophrenia

Carlos’ schizophrenia began to manifest itself when he was around the age of 10. He has no idea what it is. It is gentic, and he did get it from Cruella (this is based primarily on Descendants Cruella, and Disney’s live action and animated Cruella).

Carlos’ main symptoms for this are hallucinations, delusions, unusual ways of thinking, agitated body movements, reduced expression of emotion, reduced speaking, and poor executive function. He may exhibit more, but these are the most common. On the daily he typically experiences auditory or visual hallucinations that are vivid and often seem real to him. It his strongest symptom. He explains as he does in D2 where he hears Cruella’s voice in his head. She often talks to him telling him that he is worthless and useless, or she will give him orders. Disobeying the orders is hard, and sometimes he feels that he has no control over his body as he obeys whatever order his mother told him.

Carlos also often known to have delusions, and when he is having an episode he likely wont make sense. He will behave opposite to how he is commonly known (so how Auradonians view him), but he will also be opposite to how the Core 4, and friends who actually know him are. One way to confirm that he is potentially relapsing is that he will respond to the vivid hallucinations.

Often the best way to get him to come back to reality, and get him past the episode is to initiate contact with him, because that is the best way to ground him. Its not an easy feat since he doesn’t like being touched. And he will likely lash out when people try to touch him.

Aside from hearing his mother’s voice, he may feel her arms around him and she could be stroking his hair. His protection of her is often what makes him lash out at people who come near when this happens. Carlos seems almost relaxed when this happens, in a way he never is, his eyes close and it looks like he is experiencing something euphoric, he has this look in D1 when his mother is petting his hair in Maleficent’s home before they head to Auradon.

However, his most common system is the auditory hallucinations, and he rarely talks about them even with his friends. This is also not diagnosed because of his refusal to admit that he is crazy like his mom. He does not want to be like her, and he knows that having it could potentially get him sent back to the Isle. He doesn’t necessarily like when people say he isn’t like his mother, because he knows its a load of bull.

OCD

Carlos has OCD, it goes beyond his need for things to be perfect and meticulous something that was ingrained into him by his mother. Carlos has a few very small ticks. He does things in 10s, or in 101s. For example Carlos will wash his hands for 101 seconds, or will brush his teeth for 101 seconds. He will eat food in ten bites, not a whole meal but each seperate piece of food he eats will be done in 10 bites. This leads to him being a bit of a messy eater, but don’t worry he has 10 napkins for that issue exactly. If he used a clickable pen he would have to click the pen 10 times before he will use it. Often when panicking he counts to 10 to help him breathe. 101s are meant for longer tasks, his brain automatically sorts things like that. His worst infraction of this is going up stairs, if a stair case does not have 101 steps, which most of them don’t, he will calculate what he needs to get to those steps. If a staircase has more than that, he will start the 101 over, and calculate how to get to that number like he would with a regular stair case. It is the hardest tick to hide, in his opinion.

This is not diagnosed.

Insomnia

Carlos has severe insomnia, it is added to by a few things, such as his anxiety and PTSD. It is not dependent on those things. Carlos’ mind just does not shut off. In order to get a good night’s sleep he has to be pretty much exhausted. It became much more apparent in Auradon than on the Isle. It did exist on the Isle. Often being coaxed into sleep helps too, and that typically includes friends helping him sleep, this can be seen more so in my own writing. However I do pull him having insomnia from the scene in D1 where he is shifting on his bed awake, granted all the kids are awake, but his just feels different to me.

As with everything else on the list this is not diagnosed, but it is one of the few things Carlos is fairly comfortable self diagnosing himself with.

In general, the numerous things he deals with that affect his life day to day, when he is diagnosed and does talk about them, are the reason he is eligible for a service dog, and why he gets a service dog. Granted he has to over come his fear of dogs first, but its the baby steps. Medicine is not exactly an option for Carlos because he is so scared of the side affects of many of them Not to mention he kind of refuses to take it. Agreeing to having a service dog is a good compromise for now. But doctors ideally want him on medication to further improve his life. He does not get a service dog til he is essentially an adult in most of my verses.

[wahbegan]

Okay Non-Spoiler Review

So I am gonna put this under a cut because it might get a bit long but yeah i’ll keep it spoiler-free and if you’ve been following my liveblogging of it i am gonna just re-iterate bits of old text posts during this so ye

So The Haunting of Hill House was fucking amazing. Let’s get this out of the way first though: If you come in looking for an adaptation of Shirley Jackson’s novel or the ‘63 film, you’re going to be disappointed. Or the ‘99 film, but if you want an adaptation of that, you’re a monster and may God have mercy on your soul.

Characters share names, very famous scenes are referenced, the opening line of the book is quoted almost verbatim and re-visited at the end with a twist like the film (although not the same twist but i shan’t spoil), and it involves psychic characters in a haunted house. That’s about it, though.

This story focuses on the Crain family, who were the spooky background story family in the OG, and completely changes their mythos as well. So the characters are all related, they live there as kids and don’t actually go back as adults until just about the end, and it’s dealing with their grief and trauma and dysfunction that drives them, not any kind of experiment in the supernatural.

No, what this show has much more in common with is Oculus. I know I’ve said this repeatedly but I can’t stress it enough. The Haunting of Hill House literally has more in common with Oculus than it does with the novel it takes inspiration from. Similar cinematography, similar style ghosts, same flipping between past and present, similar eldritch abomination disguised as inanimate thing villain fucking with perceptions of time and reality...The Haunting of Hill House really is more a re-imagining of Oculus than a re-imagining of The Haunting of Hill House.

Now that’s all just to address people’s expectations, though. Once again, if I had expected a re-imagining of Oculus, I wouldn’t have said no, because Oculus was the big dog’s biscuit. For those not in the know, it’s about a brother and sister whose parents went crazy when they were kids, their dad killed their mom, and then the little brother had to kill the dad in self-defense. He’s spent years in a mental hospital and chalked everything up to mental illness and an evil father, while his older sister is convinced the mirror they had just purchased was evil and drove their parents to do what they did. Zombie ghosts with glowing white eyes and mind-fuckery ensue. If you’re reading this after starting or even finishing THOHH, you may perhaps notice that sounds awfully familiar. 

Oculus was actually an expansion of/improvement on a short film Mike Flanagan made, which you can find on youtube. I’d argue THOHH is an analogous expansion of/improvement on Oculus.

The thing with Oculus is it had problems. Because of the power of the mirror, basically from the moment they enter their old house until the end of the movie, the thing’s illusions are so strong that there is no way of knowing what’s really happening. Audiences complained that it’s hard to get invested in a plot when you’re not sure how much of the plot is actually happening or when it’s happening, in the past or present. Flashbacks and the present narrative blended together in very artistic and jarring ways, but some people found it too jarring, hard to keep track of, nonsensical. Additionally, things were a bit rushed, and there wasn’t enough room for Flanagan to really let some of his more complex concepts for the plot and the scares breathe. 

Thankfully, in THOHH, Flanagan seems to have really actually taken those critiques to heart. There are characters largely unaffected by what’s going on, and the sequence of events never truly gets cluster-fucked. It’s a much more coherent narrative. In Oculus, a big complaint was things were too muddled to tell if the rug was actually being pulled out from under you and where the rug was to begin with and whether there was a rug in the first place. There is no fucking question in Hill House. 

Additionally, the 10-episode set-up means that he can go absolutely wild with everything he wants to do, and it fucking shows.

In Oculus, one of the most disturbing scares was a brief flicker on the TV. A split instant that showed the adult sister, mouth open and dripping blood, dead and vacant stare in her eyes, for less than a second. On the TV the younger brother was watching as a child in the past. It was truly unnerving. Something similar happens when they pass the cameras at one point that they’re using to record the mirror, just showing creepy pictures of her face. But those are the only two really good easter egg background scares that could fit in that movie. There was much more right up in your face.

Not so in Hill House. Hidden ghosts and unsettling details are EVERYWHERE. Not even just the now-famous easter egg ghosts. There are also obvious ghosts in the background that seem like jump scares waiting to happen....that don’t. There are small details that change, people walking past in the background of a hallway silently, statues that turn their heads to face a character without anyone noticing it in-show. The tension is masterfully built. There are scenes that you don’t even fucking realize are scary until you see something later that completely re-contextualizes it.

It also expands on the driving concept behind Oculus, family trauma and the repeating cycle of mental illness, which wasn’t as well explored there as Flanagan clearly wanted to. But here? In all its 10 episode glory, with each child’s trauma and resulting psychological issues getting full spotlight for an hour? 

It hits you hard. Flanagan’s concepts are fully realized. You get to intimately see what their childhoods have done to these characters, how history repeats itself (sometimes literally), how the ghosts-if you’ll pardon the pun-of the past drag the living of the present down. Not only that, he expands the themes he worked with in Oculus to include some downright Pet Sematary-style shit about loss, grief, and what meaning can be gleaned from death. It’s oppressively heavy, and the scares and the sadness interweave in beautiful ways. The end of one episode, which sees a maimed, anguished, silently screaming ghost standing by her own corpse, completely invisible to the assembled mourners, is both an absolutely haunting visual and an existential punch to the gut. A lot of the show is like that.

Of course this wouldn’t work if you weren’t invested in the people, but they managed to hit another home run on the characterization front. Every single character of any importance in this show is sympathetic to some degree, and even if you don’t like them, you understand why they are the way that they are. The actors are mainly relative unknowns, but i’ll be god damned if they don’t breathe life into these people. There’s also Carla Gugino who....you know. Is Carla fucking Gugino.

You can tell love and care has been put into this show. Small details almost always become important, I’m sure if I went back through with a fine-toothed comb for a second viewing, I would find a downright Edgar Wright level of foreshadowing in the earlier episodes. 

There were some questions I think I still have, maybe they’d be cleared up with a second viewing, and I do want to watch this show again. I had some issues with the ending which I won’t get into here, and the show absolutely isn’t above a jump scare or six. They’re never cheap though, either coming at the end of a truly tense scene or so insanely unconventional and out-of-left-field (Anyone who’s seen Episode 8 knows what i’m talking about) that it’s noteworthy in and of itself.

Overall, it plays out like a very intense and emotionally effective family drama about trauma, grief, sickness, death, dysfunction, and love with heavy horror elements. You’ll go half an episode without any horror sometimes, making it all the more jarring when it does rear its zombified, dead-white eyed head again. This isn’t to say that the tone isn’t cohesive, like i said before, it absolutely makes it mesh together. 

And yes, I did say love up there. I want to pause for a moment to tell you that all hope is not lost in this show. There are genuine moments of humor, heartwarming, and love. Yes, most of them are at best bittersweet and at worst setting you up for a cold, black sucker-punch to the heart, but it’s not all darkness and fear and death. This show has heart.

I honestly can’t say enough good things about The Haunting of Hill House. The family dynamic was realistic as hell, the characters were complex, the scares and tension were masterfully executed, the themes were intelligent, the cinematography beautiful, I cannot recommend this show enough to anyone with even a passing interest in horror.

[everydayanth]

22 July Film...

So I watched the Netflix movie last night, and I have a few thoughts.  

Warning: This turned into a personal rant with some anthropology-thoughts thrown in. TL;DR: I think this is an important example of the kinds of stories we need, and the debate about the representation of the terrorist on-screen as an ethical one seems to me a moot point.

Second warning: SPOILERS (kinda, vague ones)

I would love to see the Norwegian Utøya - 22 Juli (U- July 22) and do a better comparison of the perspectives. Both films were released in 2018, one by Norwegian director Erik Poppe, the other by English director Paul Greengrass. But that’s for later... after I’ve recovered a bit lol.  

Culture is an interesting thing, and so many of the critiques and comparisons of these films involve the ethical question of portraying a terror event and a terrorist him/herself as a story, or on screen at all. 

This was interesting to me, because the intended audiences for each film seemed to be so diverse, one was telling the world of the event, while the other (I have not seen it, so I can’t confirm) seems to be giving Norway an art piece preserving and telling the story of the event to the people who know it and need little context - cultural or otherwise. 

Terror and disaster are culture shaping and defining. How we respond, how we react, the consequences and the way we tell the story, they are all revealing. And how/why we portray them to ourselves and as outsiders is also revealing.

If this film did one thing perfectly, in my opinion, it was the portrayal of PTSD and the sudden and immediate flashbacks, often sounds, that don’t go away, the isolation and exhaustion that they cause, and the feeling that vulnerability is a weakness you can’t afford. I’m speaking from experience that I’m not ready to elaborate on here, those things are powerful and extremely misunderstood and misrepresented in American culture. PTSD is often used as a MacGuffin, a simple plot device that causes chaos or explains some rash and nonsensical choice, and is often reserved for stories about soldiers returning from war (thanks Hemingway), but sorely left out of conversations about rape, or abuse, or bombings, or terror attacks or any other trauma we go through (then again... so is the representation of those stories). 

It was so hard for me to watch, and I had to fast forward through a few parts, I didn’t sleep because of my own triggers and whatnot, but looking at it from what I would consider an “average” perspective, of people who haven’t witnessed or experienced something so traumatic, it puts viewers in a position they are forced to empathize with. And I think that is a valuable and powerful cultural perspective. 

How did human empathy get tied in with a connotation of weakness? This film challenges that cultural assumption, it asks us to consider: how did emotion and fear become synonymous with coward? How did we twist the world so that victims become responsible and personal forgiveness is a sin?

Maybe I pulled more questions from the film because of my personal experience, relating or overcoming my own challenges - it was something of a challenge to push play and it sat on pause for nearly an hour after the first 20 minutes. The film doesn’t give you answers, but it does seem to provide a safe place for asking questions as our primary protagonist, Viljar, learns to cope. We, the audience, are, if we allow ourselves to be, challenged with an unspoken question: have you chosen to live? Have you chosen hope? Or are you angry all the time, are you defeated and nihilistic, are you passive and apathetic, do you want to ignore and run away and hide in fear? Have you taken steps forward to face your life and made a conscious decision to live it lately?

And that was hard for me to hear because it’s what I’ve been working on, on living consciously and making choices consciously and forming thoughts and opinions and understanding my own values, and not living in my head where everyone else is more right, more valid, more everything; where I dismiss myself and my experiences because of what they are. I’m still working on coming to terms with a lot of things, Jake divides it between acknowledgement, acceptance, and growth or adaption. 

I’ve acknowledged the things that happened, [SPOILERS] and I think that’s what Viljar does on the snowmobile. I’ve accepted the things that happened as beyond my control, I think that’s what Viljar does by deciding to appear in court, what his father does by encouraging him, and what his mother does by... well, personally I think she does this when he tells her to win the campaign for mayor, she decides then to carry on and try her best to reassure them and fight with her boys, not for them (the younger brother could have used a bit more character, but I get it). And then, for me, I’m struggling with the adaption, and we see Viljar struggle, constantly: physically, emotionally, mentally, it is his speech that tells us the truth - he is going to keep struggling, but he is ready to adapt to that, to grow from it, to choose to be vulnerable and depend on his friends and family, to reach out to them and to try, to understand himself and how this event has impacted him so that he can continue to live a life he values. 

This is where I, and I think a lot of people, get stuck, and why I think this film had to feature the terrorist, though I do understand the ethical fears of giving a terrorist a platform by featuring them. But this was a real event, and by giving the guy a face and a story, we see how it juxtaposes Viljar’s growth, how the terrorist did not grow or learn from his fears or struggles, how he isolated himself and what that intentional ignorance does to a person. If we do not grow from our trauma, if we do not adapt to the ways it has impacted us, like in Viljar’s speech, how he acknowledges that he pulled away from his family and friends, he avoided Lara’s calls for weeks, but he’s ready to understand that he is different now, and that’s okay.

We tend to leave this out of our stories in America, and probably other places as well. We end with the happily ever after when the physical body is saved and we rarely go into details about the mental or emotional journey that is yet to start. We can perceive it in films, we can write tumblr posts about Tony Stark’s PTSD and Steve Rogers’ issues, we can transpose ourselves onto these characters, which makes them so universal, but we do not see them specifically address or combat these problems. We do not see Captain America lamenting a world he knew or the confusion and trauma that would result from such a drastic transition, we do not see the Hulk’s loss of identity plague him as anything more than a good one-liner (okay, this one is a bit more debatable). These are good films, and they have limitations they have to work with - source material, fandoms, broader story archs, time limits, etc. But the mental health journey is nearly always left to subtext at best. 

Of course we struggle to understand our mental health in context in America, our stories don’t remind us of the importance of responsible emotion, of the pains of growing that last our whole lives, they don’t tell us about our changing identities as adults, or give us the tools to cope or find help after trauma. There are always exceptions, obviously, but collectively, they seem few and far between. But when they do happen, they stick around for a long time, like Christmas classics It’s a Wonderful Life and Miracle on 34th St. that look at adult growth and development from the primary struggle. Then there are your intentional dives into mental health, diversity, and trauma like, A Beautiful Mind, Good Will Hunting, Rain Man, Room, Charlie Bartlett (a personal favorite, oh, also Gran Torino imo), even The Breakfast Club. 

I think we want stories that teach us how other people get through trauma, so we can learn from them, see ourselves reflected, and grow and adapt to our new identities after something has happened to us. We want to deal with difficult subjects, but to do that, we’re going to have to start talking about personal ethics and consumer responsibility more and more. We can’t dismiss that as classroom conversation or over-analysis or invalid. We’re going to make bad stories, and we’re going to mess up, but at least there will be more variety and we won’t just be repeating the same shallow stories that end as soon as the physical person is in a physical or economically stable place, occasionally a romantically stable one too. 

To encourage directors to look at mental health and tell new stories, we have to support them when they do. We have to watch and then discuss. We can’t just write it off as inherently right or wrong, because our worldviews are so different. People like that terrorist exist in the world, and ignoring it and not representing that social fear in our media does not even attempt to acknowledge the problem. Trauma hurts us and we’re often told to put some pretty tape around our cracked and broken selves and make do. We teeter through life fearing exposure, anxious, depressed, hidden, and we just keep cutting ourselves on all our jagged pieces. 

But films like this say it’s okay to be broken, it’s okay for Lara and his brother to feel the same as Viljar, even if they weren’t shot, it’s okay for them to face their fears in different ways and to be patient and understanding with themselves as they fit all those cracks back together and learn what they can do to glue them and sand them and make themselves whole again. It’s okay for the parents to struggle, to feel inadequate, terrified, and consumed by guilt and fear, and then to grow and gather strength from their own children and learn to be stronger together. 

We have this independent mindset, that to overcome by yourself is stronger, the lone wolf is the awesome badass, but we know, even our stories know, that we require teams. Even the Avengers need each other (getting into Civil War territory here lol). Our YA masterpieces teach us about the power of friendship and teamwork in developing our identities and overcoming pain and trauma. But we still walk around jaded and in pain, we don’t know how to talk or listen to each other, and we get frustrated and angry when others begin to talk about their vulnerabilities. 

But work like this, it gives us an opportunity to understand what we might not have the experience to relate to, it gives us the ability to be empathetic to something we may not be able to completely comprehend. It tells us that it’s okay to hurt, and it shows us that we can still grow, if we so choose, and that the choice we make is what we control. And we get so overwhelmed by our choices these days, there are so many, and yet so few. I think it’s hard for us to remember to choose to grow and reflect and redefine ourselves at all, hard to find the time to even consider our options. But it’s the most important choice we make every day. It defines who we are and we spend so much of our lives ignoring it or building a protective wall around it. 

This was not a perfect film, but it offered perspective in-context and I think it did justice to the trauma, and the resilience and growth required to overcome it, to choose to have hope. And I don’t think it could have done that without also showing us how easy it is to give up and assume we are right, like the terrorist, to assume we know best and can fix the world ourselves with our own walls firmly planted between us and our own identities. 

This film needed an antithesis to prove it’s point, for the same reason The Silence of the Lambs requires a Hannibal Lecter (and, like the greatly respected Anthony Hopkins, the actor, Anders Danielsen Lie, who played the terrorist, is an accomplished and greatly respected Norwegian actor, and that seemed important to me; this was not an opportunity for a new actor, this was an experienced artist telling the dark side of the story). 

We need filmmakers and story tellers to break rules so that we can all adapt and grow as a society. We need to start telling our stories and stop repeating our own folktales and bedtime stories over and over again. They lead us to sweet dreams, but they forget to help us learn how to stay asleep, and how to wake up, determined to live each day. 

We do not need to simply exist, and while existential crises are frickin’ impossible (there’s that personal experience again), and seem to be a massive current social problem, maybe they are not the cause of our lack-of-hope endings and false identities and fake happiness, but rather the result of a society that doesn’t allow itself to be broken, and therefore doesn’t allow itself to grow. 

You’re allowed to fail. You’re allowed to be wrong. You’re allowed to mess up and make mistakes and hurt the people you love. You’re allowed to be hurt and vulnerable in your life. 

And when you’re allowed to be these things, you’re allowed to be forgiven and grow from them, instead of hoarding all your broken pieces where they cut you over and over, or only revealing them to anonymous Tumblr netizens. You are not a static object, you are not made of stone that can only be cutaway, you are human, and flesh grows back. You can grow back. And I try to tell myself these things every day, to step into the world knowing it will hurt, but that I will grow back. 

Viljar has a hard time facing Lara, he doesn’t call her back, but when he meets her before the trial, she forgives him, and because of that allowance to grow, she is able to be persistent and keep being his friend, and he is able to be vulnerable and strong, which translates into his acceptance of help. We need art to tell us that it’s okay to be human, and to stop comparing us to these things that are supposed to be better than us - aliens, superpowers, mutants, super-spies, the wealthy elite, etc. 

And I think we need to focus on more than just romantic relationships, we need parents and friends and siblings and teachers and idols and well, more diverse romances; our stories reflect our values, and if this were a “Hollywood film,” I don’t think it would have done the story justice or let its audience come to its own conclusions. What does that say about us? Do we not give ourselves enough credit? Or do we intentionally misinterpret art that challenges our perceptions of reality, like trauma and relationships and other personal ethics because we find it offensive? Can we even hold others accountable for what offends us? Is there a line there involving accuracy and representation and culture, or is it all subjective?

I don’t know, I’ve just been thinking about all this while I spent all night and morning not-sleeping. So I thought I’d just get it out there where it can float for a while. I thought it was a good film, because it was a good story, and it was a good story because it focused on that elusive symptom of trauma, that nihilistic existential identity that refuses to reform. And because that is the story I am living right now, that is the story I needed to hear. Because we are social learners, like all primates, and if Viljar can choose to live and be vulnerable and strong, then maybe I can do it too. 

This turned into a personal rant more than a review... whoops. But I don’t have context enough to compare the film, I think I would have to see the Norwegian-made one (though the cast and setting were still Norwegian in this one), to really compare, and look at what happened in real life, how the world reacted to that event, and basically do a full lit-review to get an understanding of whether this film was accurate or if its portrayal was “good.” But then I would have to define good, and we all know where that will lead. 

So in my opinion, we need more stories about tragedy that don’t end with the acceptance of others, but the acceptance, acknowledgement, and reformation of self. And this movie followed that whole story, or at least, I think it did, and I appreciate it for that. 

[rosylipsandcheeks]

Compassion and Suffering: The Redemption of Rodion Raskolnikov

I am a huge fan of the character of Kylo Ren/Ben Solo. I’ve been thinking about my favourite literary human disasters and their fates. Dostoyevsky’s Rodion Raskolnikov is high up in my ranking of protagonists so broken, so misguided, and so lost. Both Star Wars and Crime & Punishment carry a message that “It’s not too late [to make amends and choose the path of good]” and “No one’s ever really gone”. Thus this fan of both compiled the post below :)

A cursory knowledge of the plot and themes of the novel and its context is really handy, I encourage you to click through these if you never heard about C&P before (I provide a morsel of that under the cut):

Read a quick synopsis here 

Wikipedia 

Here’s an extra bonus, a fragment describing Raskolnikov’s appearance:

An expression of the profoundest disgust gleamed for a moment in the young man’s refined face. He was, by the way, exceptionally handsome, above the average in height, slim, well-built, with beautiful dark eyes and dark brown hair.

tell me I’m not the only one casting Adam Driver in this role!

DISCLAIMER: I’m NOT claiming there’s a direct parallel between Rodion and Kylo Ren, nor Rodion/Sonia and Rey/Kylo Ren. These are very different stories: C&P is a realist novel while SW is a modern monomyth. Rey and Kylo Ren are equal protagonists (it’s her story) - the R/S dynamic IS a product of its era (19th c. tsarist Orthodox Russia). I’m a literature major and I believe in exploring the richness and thematic similarity across history, geography, and media.

I didn’t give much commentary - my main aim was to put some interesting quotes to the light. I’m open to discussion with merit. Pointless anti-ism and anti-intellectual arguments will not be addressed.  A long read-more, enjoy!

To quote this summary,

A former student, Raskolnikov lives in poverty and chaos and is eventually driven to murdering an aged woman (a pawnbroker) and her sister. He believes he has devised the perfect crime, as no one will regret the loss of his victims. It is a crime novel without a mystery, as from the very outset of the novel Dostoyevsky draws the reader into the interior of Raskolnikov’s mental life; the reader knows “who did it” (i.e., the crime) and sees his reasoning and can explain his actions.

The narrative’s feverish, compelling tone follows the twists and turns of Raskolnikov’s emotions and elaborates his struggle with his conscience and his mounting sense of horror as he wanders the city’s hot, crowded streets, and the novel’s status as a masterpiece is chiefly a result of its narrative intensity and moving depiction of the recovery of a diseased spirit.

The story is set in the 1860s, in the bowels of Saint Petersburg, tsarist Russia, bathed in the creed of the Eastern Orthodox Church. Dostoyevsky’s novel remains one of the most vital texts and literary achievements in European culture.

I have gathered several fragments of Rodion’s scenes with Sonia; I think the way they discuss morality, sin, and forgiveness could be an interesting reading for those interested in the theme of redemption in culture.

Rodion’s deed has been tormenting him increasingly.

‘Of course you’re right, Sonia,’ he said softly at last. He was suddenly changed. His tone of assumed arrogance and helpless defiance was gone. Even his voice was suddenly weak. ‘I told you yesterday that I was not coming to ask forgiveness and almost the first thing I’ve said is to ask forgiveness…. (...) I was asking forgiveness, Sonia….’

He tried to smile, but there was something helpless and incomplete in his pale smile. He bowed his head and hid his face in his hands. And suddenly a strange, surprising sensation of a sort of bitter hatred for Sonia passed through his heart. As it were wondering and frightened of this sensation, he raised his head and looked intently at her; but he met her uneasy and painfully anxious eyes fixed on him; there was love in them; his hatred vanished like a phantom. It was not the real feeling; he had taken the one feeling for the other. It only meant that that minute had come.

‘What’s the matter?’ asked Sonia, dreadfully frightened.

He could not utter a word. This was not at all, not at all the way he had intended to ‘tell’ and he did not understand what was happening to him now. She went up to him, softly, sat down on the bed beside him and waited, not taking her eyes off him. Her heart throbbed and sank. It was unendurable; he turned his deadly pale face to her. His lips worked, helplessly struggling to utter something. A pang of terror passed through Sonia’s heart.

‘What’s the matter?’ she repeated, drawing a little away from him.

‘Nothing, Sonia, don’t be frightened…. It’s nonsense. It really is nonsense, if you think of it,’ he muttered, like a man in delirium. ‘Why have I come to torture you?’ he added suddenly, looking at her. ‘Why, really? I keep asking myself that question, Sonia….’

He had perhaps been asking himself that question a quarter of an hour before, but now he spoke helplessly, hardly knowing what he said and feeling a continual tremor all over.

‘Oh, how you are suffering!’ she muttered in distress, looking intently at him.

Her terror infected him. The same fear showed itself on his face. In the same way he stared at her and almost with the same childish smile.

‘Have you guessed?’ he whispered at last.

‘Good God!’ broke in an awful wail from her bosom.

She sank helplessly on the bed with her face in the pillows, but a moment later she got up, moved quickly to him, seized both his hands and, gripping them tight in her thin fingers, began looking into his face again with the same intent stare. In this last desperate look she tried to look into him and catch some last hope. But there was no hope; there was no doubt remaining; it was all true! Later on, indeed, when she recalled that moment, she thought it strange and wondered why she had seen at once that there was no doubt. She could not have said, for instance, that she had foreseen something of the sort—and yet now, as soon as he told her, she suddenly fancied that she had really foreseen this very thing.

‘Stop, Sonia, enough! don’t torture me,’ he begged her miserably.

It was not at all, not at all like this he had thought of telling her, but this is how it happened.

She jumped up, seeming not to know what she was doing, and, wringing her hands, walked into the middle of the room; but quickly went back and sat down again beside him, her shoulder almost touching his. All of a sudden she started as though she had been stabbed, uttered a cry and fell on her knees before him, she did not know why.

‘What have you done—what have you done to yourself?’ she said in despair, and, jumping up, she flung herself on his neck, threw her arms round him, and held him tightly.

Raskolnikov drew back and looked at her with a mournful smile.

‘You are a strange girl, Sonia—you kiss me and hug me when I tell you about that…. You don’t think what you are doing.’

‘There is no one—no one in the whole world now so unhappy as you!’ she cried in a frenzy, not hearing what he said, and she suddenly broke into violent hysterical weeping.

A feeling long unfamiliar to him flooded his heart and softened it at once. He did not struggle against it. Two tears started into his eyes and hung on his eyelashes.

‘Then you won’t leave me, Sonia?’ he said, looking at her almost with hope.

‘No, no, never, nowhere!’ cried Sonia. ‘I will follow you, I will follow you everywhere. Oh, my God! Oh, how miserable I am! … Why, why didn’t I know you before! Why didn’t you come before? Oh, dear!’

‘Here I have come.’

‘Yes, now! What’s to be done now? … Together, together!’ she repeated as it were unconsciously, and she hugged him again. ‘I’ll follow you to Siberia!’

He recoiled at this, and the same hostile, almost haughty smile came to his lips. ‘Perhaps I don’t want to go to Siberia yet, Sonia,’ he said.

Sonia looked at him quickly.

Again after her first passionate, agonising sympathy for the unhappy man the terrible idea of the murder overwhelmed her. In his changed tone she seemed to hear the murderer speaking.

‘And why, why did I tell her? Why did I let her know?’ he cried a minute later in despair, looking with infinite anguish at her. ‘Here you expect an explanation from me, Sonia; you are sitting and waiting for it, I see that. But what can I tell you? You won’t understand and will only suffer misery … on my account! Well, you are crying and embracing me again. Why do you do it? Because I couldn’t bear my burden and have come to throw it on another: you suffer too, and I shall feel better! And can you love such a mean wretch?’

‘But aren’t you suffering, too?’ cried Sonia.

Again a wave of the same feeling surged into his heart, and again for an instant softened it.

‘Sonia, I have a bad heart, take note of that. It may explain a great deal. I have come because I am bad. There are men who wouldn’t have come. But I am a coward and… a mean wretch. But … never mind! That’s not the point. I must speak now, but I don’t know how to begin.’ 

He paused and sank into thought.

‘Ah, we are so different,’ he cried again, ‘we are not alike. And why, why did I come? I shall never forgive myself that.’

‘No, no, it was a good thing you came,’ cried Sonia. ‘It’s better I should know, far better!’

(...)Do you understand now?’

‘N-no,’ Sonia whispered naïvely and timidly. ‘Only speak, speak, I shall understand, I shall understand in myself!’ she kept begging him.

‘Oh hush, hush,’ cried Sonia, clasping her hands. ‘You turned away from God and God has smitten you, has given you over to the devil!’

‘Then Sonia, when I used to lie there in the dark and all this became clear to me, was it a temptation of the devil, eh?’

‘Hush, don’t laugh, blasphemer! You don’t understand, you don’t understand! Oh God! He won’t understand!’

‘Hush, Sonia! I am not laughing. I know myself that it was the devil leading me. Hush, Sonia, hush!’ he repeated with gloomy insistence. ‘I know it all, I have thought it all over and over and whispered it all over to myself, lying there in the dark…. I’ve argued it all over with myself, every point of it, and I know it all, all! And how sick, how sick I was then of going over it all! I have kept wanting to forget it and make a new beginning, Sonia, and leave off thinking.

‘Don’t interrupt me, Sonia. I want to prove one thing only, that the devil led me on then and he has shown me since that I had not the right to take that path, because I am just such a louse as all the rest. He was mocking me and here I’ve come to you now! Welcome your guest! If I were not a louse, should I have come to you? Listen: when I went then to the old woman’s I only went to try…. You may be sure of that!’

‘And you murdered her!’

‘But how did I murder her? Is that how men do murders? Do men go to commit a murder as I went then? I will tell you some day how I went! Did I murder the old woman? I murdered myself, not her! I crushed myself once for all, for ever…. But it was the devil that killed that old woman, not I. Enough, enough, Sonia, enough! Let me be!’ he cried in a sudden spasm of agony, ‘let me be!’

He leaned his elbows on his knees and squeezed his head in his hands as in a vise.

‘What suffering!’ A wail of anguish broke from Sonia.

‘Well, what am I to do now?’ he asked, suddenly raising his head and looking at her with a face hideously distorted by despair.

‘What are you to do?’ she cried, jumping up, and her eyes that had been full of tears suddenly began to shine. ‘Stand up!’ (She seized him by the shoulder, he got up, looking at her almost bewildered.) ‘Go at once, this very minute, stand at the cross-roads, bow down, first kiss the earth which you have defiled and then bow down to all the world and say to all men aloud, ‘I am a murderer!’ Then God will send you life again. Will you go, will you go?’ she asked him, trembling all over, snatching his two hands, squeezing them tight in hers and gazing at him with eyes full of fire.

He was amazed at her sudden ecstasy.

‘You mean Siberia, Sonia? I must give myself up?’ he asked gloomily. ‘Suffer and expiate your sin by it, that’s what you must do.’

‘No! I am not going to them, Sonia!’

‘But how will you go on living? What will you live for?’ cried Sonia, ‘how is it possible now? Why, how can you talk to your mother? (Oh, what will become of them now?) But what am I saying? You have abandoned your mother and your sister already. He has abandoned them already! Oh, God!’ she cried, ‘why, he knows it all himself. How, how can he live by himself! What will become of you now?’

‘Don’t be a child, Sonia,’ he said softly. ‘What wrong have I done them? Why should I go to them? What should I say to them? That’s only a phantom…. They destroy men by millions themselves and look on it as a virtue. They are knaves and scoundrels, Sonia! I am not going to them. And what should I say to them—that I murdered her, but did not dare to take the money and hid it under a stone?’ he added with a bitter smile. ‘Why, they would laugh at me, and would call me a fool for not getting it. A coward and a fool! They wouldn’t understand and they don’t deserve to understand. Why should I go to them? I won’t. Don’t be a child, Sonia….’ ‘It will be too much for you to bear, too much!’ she repeated, holding out her hands in despairing supplication.

‘Perhaps I’ve been unfair to myself,’ he observed gloomily, pondering, ‘perhaps after all I am a man and not a louse and I’ve been in too great a hurry to condemn myself. I’ll make another fight for it.’

A haughty smile appeared on his lips.

‘What a burden to bear! And your whole life, your whole life!’

‘I shall get used to it,’ he said grimly and thoughtfully.

‘Listen,’ he began a minute later, ‘stop crying, it’s time to talk of the facts: I’ve come to tell you that the police are after me, on my track….’

‘Ah!’ Sonia cried in terror.

They sat side by side, both mournful and dejected, as though they had been cast up by the tempest alone on some deserted shore. He looked at Sonia and felt how great was her love for him, and strange to say he felt it suddenly burdensome and painful to be so loved. Yes, it was a strange and awful sensation! On his way to see Sonia he had felt that all his hopes rested on her; he expected to be rid of at least part of his suffering, and now, when all her heart turned towards him, he suddenly felt that he was immeasurably unhappier than before.

‘Sonia,’ he said, ‘you’d better not come and see me when I am in prison.’

(all quotes above from Part V, Chapter IV)

Raskolnikov decides to turn himself in, he visits Sonya though leaves her without a goodbye, goes to the market square and prostrates himself on the ground as she told him to, almost confessing his deed out loud. People think he’s drunk. At the station it turns out that the man who suspected him shot himself, Raskolnikov is relieved, but:

He went out; he reeled, he was overtaken with giddiness and did not know what he was doing. He began going down the stairs, supporting himself with his right hand against the wall. He fancied that a porter pushed past him on his way upstairs to the police office, that a dog in the lower storey kept up a shrill barking and that a woman flung a rolling-pin at it and shouted. He went down and out into the yard. There, not far from the entrance, stood Sonia, pale and horror- stricken. She looked wildly at him. He stood still before her. There was a look of poignant agony, of despair, in her face. She clasped her hands. His lips worked in an ugly, meaningless smile. He stood still a minute, grinned and went back to the police office. (Part VI, Chapter VIII)

EPILOGUE

Rodion confesses and is convicted to 8 years of penal servitude in Siberia after many people supplied evidence of him helping them and being a good but troubled man. His mother dies, his sister marries the man she wanted, Sonia follows him there.

His clothes were warm and suited to his manner of life. He did not even feel the fetters. Was he ashamed of his shaven head and parti-coloured coat? Before whom? Before Sonia? Sonia was afraid of him, how could he be ashamed before her? 

And yet he was ashamed even before Sonia, whom he tortured because of it with his contemptuous rough manner. But it was not his shaven head and his fetters he was ashamed of: his pride had been stung to the quick. It was wounded pride that made him ill. Oh, how happy he would have been if he could have blamed himself! He could have borne anything then, even shame and disgrace. But he judged himself severely, and his exasperated conscience found no particularly terrible fault in his past, except a simple blunder which might happen to anyone. He was ashamed just because he, Raskolnikov, had so hopelessly, stupidly come to grief through some decree of blind fate, and must humble himself and submit to ‘the idiocy’ of a sentence, if he were anyhow to be at peace.

Vague and objectless anxiety in the present, and in the future a continual sacrifice leading to nothing—that was all that lay before him. And what comfort was it to him that at the end of eight years he would only be thirty-two and able to begin a new life! What had he to live for? What had he to look forward to? Why should he strive? To live in order to exist? Why, he had been ready a thousand times before to give up existence for the sake of an idea, for a hope, even for a fancy. Mere existence had always been too little for him; he had always wanted more. Perhaps it was just because of the strength of his desires that he had thought himself a man to whom more was permissible than to others.

And if only fate would have sent him repentance— burning repentance that would have torn his heart and robbed him of sleep, that repentance, the awful agony of which brings visions of hanging or drowning! Oh, he would have been glad of it! Tears and agonies would at least have been life. But he did not repent of his crime.

Sonia works in the town, befriends the prisoners and their families, becomes a liaison between them. She’s adored while Rodion is disliked and people don’t understand why she’s there for him.

Here’s the very ending of the novel and the moment of Rodion’s change of heart.

On reaching the prison he learnt from the convicts that Sofya Semyonovna was lying ill at home and was unable to go out.

He was very uneasy and sent to inquire after her; he soon learnt that her illness was not dangerous. Hearing that he was anxious about her, Sonia sent him a pencilled note, telling him that she was much better, that she had a slight cold and that she would soon, very soon come and see him at his work. His heart throbbed painfully as he read it.

Again it was a warm bright day. Early in the morning, at six o’clock, he went off to work on the river bank, where they used to pound alabaster and where there was a kiln for baking it in a shed. There were only three of them sent. One of the convicts went with the guard to the fortress to fetch a tool; the other began getting the wood ready and laying it in the kiln. Raskolnikov came out of the shed on to the river bank, sat down on a heap of logs by the shed and began gazing at the wide deserted river. From the high bank a broad landscape opened before him, the sound of singing floated faintly audible from the other bank. In the vast steppe, bathed in sunshine, he could just see, like black specks, the nomads’ tents. There there was freedom, there other men were living, utterly unlike those here; there time itself seemed to stand still, as though the age of Abraham and his flocks had not passed. Raskolnikov sat gazing, his thoughts passed into daydreams, into contemplation; he thought of nothing, but a vague restlessness excited and troubled him. Suddenly he found Sonia beside him; she had come up noiselessly and sat down at his side. It was still quite early; the morning chill was still keen. She wore her poor old burnous and the green shawl; her face still showed signs of illness, it was thinner and paler. She gave him a joyful smile of welcome, but held out her hand with her usual timidity. She was always timid of holding out her hand to him and sometimes did not offer it at all, as though afraid he would repel it. He always took her hand as though with repugnance, always seemed vexed to meet her and was sometimes obstinately silent throughout her visit. Sometimes she trembled before him and went away deeply grieved. But now their hands did not part. He stole a rapid glance at her and dropped his eyes on the ground without speaking. They were alone, no one had seen them. The guard had turned away for the time.

How it happened he did not know. But all at once something seemed to seize him and fling him at her feet. He wept and threw his arms round her knees. For the first instant she was terribly frightened and she turned pale. She jumped up and looked at him trembling. But at the same moment she understood, and a light of infinite happiness came into her eyes. She knew and had no doubt that he loved her beyond everything and that at last the moment had come….

They wanted to speak, but could not; tears stood in their eyes. They were both pale and thin; but those sick pale faces were bright with the dawn of a new future, of a full resurrection into a new life. They were renewed by love; the heart of each held infinite sources of life for the heart of the other.

They resolved to wait and be patient. They had another seven years to wait, and what terrible suffering and what infinite happiness before them! But he had risen again and he knew it and felt it in all his being, while she—she only lived in his life.

On the evening of the same day, when the barracks were locked, Raskolnikov lay on his plank bed and thought of her. He had even fancied that day that all the convicts who had been his enemies looked at him differently; he had even entered into talk with them and they answered him in a friendly way. He remembered that now, and thought it was bound to be so. Wasn’t everything now bound to be changed?

He thought of her. He remembered how continually he had tormented her and wounded her heart. He remembered her pale and thin little face. But these recollections scarcely troubled him now; he knew with what infinite love he would now repay all her sufferings.

And what were all, all the agonies of the past! Everything, even his crime, his sentence and imprisonment, seemed to him now in the first rush of feeling an external, strange fact with which he had no concern. But he could not think for long together of anything that evening, and he could not have analysed anything consciously; he was simply feeling. Life had stepped into the place of theory and something quite different would work itself out in his mind.

Under his pillow lay the New Testament. He took it up mechanically. The book belonged to Sonia; it was the one from which she had read the raising of Lazarus to him. At first he was afraid that she would worry him about religion, would talk about the gospel and pester him with books. But to his great surprise she had not once approached the subject and had not even offered him the Testament. He had asked her for it himself not long before his illness and she brought him the book without a word. Till now he had not opened it. He did not open it now, but one thought passed through his mind: ‘Can her convictions not be mine now? Her feelings, her aspirations at least….’

She too had been greatly agitated that day, and at night she was taken ill again. But she was so happy—and so unexpectedly happy—that she was almost frightened of her happiness. Seven years, only seven years! At the beginning of their happiness at some moments they were both ready to look on those seven years as though they were seven days. He did not know that the new life would not be given him for nothing, that he would have to pay dearly for it, that it would cost him great striving, great suffering.

But that is the beginning of a new story—the story of the gradual renewal of a man, the story of his gradual regeneration, of his passing from one world into another, of his initiation into a new unknown life. That might be the subject of a new story, but our present story is ended.

If you made it this far, I hope you got something out of it! Read the book, it will leave you with the best literary fever :)