#Rotting away on the streets where was born or rotting away in this place that I'm now trapped in

[fantastic-mr-corvid]

The thing is I really fucking want to work. I joke about being self unemployed and all that but I don't know what to do with this free time and I'm terrified of what not being able to work means for me. At some point in a month or two I'm gonna try and get a part time job and I know it's gonna fall apart. But at least then I know. Know I'm fucking useless and will never make enough money because of this fucking body of mine. I'm trying so hard to be positive but this fucking sucks. I'm too disabled to work unless i have a miraculous recovery and at some point I'm gonna have to suck it up and apply for benefits and go through that hell.

I spent over a decade fighting depression, dyslexia, bullying and just a eduction system hostile to me, and I was so close! Despite everything I had suffered up till that point I was on track to get a great graduate scheme and work my way up an engineering company, but then all that was ripped from my hands. My friends got them, and I'm left behind. I was just as smart, as clever, as passionate, and I'm facing the liklihood that I can never work, more than maybe a very flexible short shift position after years of management and recovery. My life was ahead of me, but it's been fucking stolen from me.

[materlux]

The priestess and the swordsman - Prologue: The lamb that killed the wolves.

This is an alternate version of my "Garden of Abundance" fic, this will much longer and much angstier. It will be found family.

CW: A lot of death and blood, pure angst, reader is refered to as "Priestess" and is written as fem (second person perspective mostly)

Honkai Star Rail | Main Masterlist

Kaira (Greek): Right or opportune moment.

Lethe (Greek): River in the underworld that made souls forget the sufferings of life; oblivion.

This is the longst thing I have ever written, 3.5k words, enjoy

You were born into an average family, in a small town, on an untraversed planet. But you were not born average, see, your planet is dedicated to the Abundance, and so Yaoshi takes special care of it. 

   But back to you not being average, from a young age odd things, peculiar even, would happen in your presence. It started small, potted plants would inexplicably grow and bloom when you touched them. 

   Then it got worse, for you, when your skin made contact with the ground, it would spring to life. Flowers grew in places where they never did, plants grew in places where they’d surely die in a short amount of time. 

   The last incident that occurred before you were shipped away, you had found a tainted spring not far from town, it was causing the fields to rot, you only wanted to help. You dipped your hand into it and before your eyes it cleared, the fields stopped rotting, the town was saved, but you weren’t.

   It had now become clear that you were chosen by Yaoshi themself, to be an emanator of the Abundance, as such your parents agreed to have you sent away to  the capital city. In the city you were given to the cult of Abundance, the largest of its kind on your home planet, and they made quick work of ‘checking’ if you really were chosen by the Abundance. By checking of course I mean stabbing you through the heart before the altar and statue, as a live human sacrifice to THEM, you of course woke back up fully healed just an hour later.

   And that is the short and not very sweet story of how you found yourself imprisoned by the cult of Abundance, if you told them you felt imprisoned they’d merely call you naive and misunderstanding. You are young, but you are not a fool, at least you think so.

<><><><><><><><><><><><^POV: Kaira^><><><><><><><><><><><>

     Short unruly black hair frames the face of a young girl, behind her she drags an equally young boy with equally black and unruly hair. They are Kaira and Lethe, despite their similar complexions they are not twins, but older brother and younger sister.

   News had spread about the new priestess, the one appointed by Yaoshi. The siblings, being still too young to truly join the mature cult ceremonies, had heard from their parents the honour and beauty of the new priestess. Being young and curious they longed to see her, or rather Lethe couldn’t care less, but Kaira insisted.

   They scaled up the side of the church during one of these mature ceremonies, if anyone saw them doing this they would surely be punished, good thing most adults were in attendance, the rest at work. Kaira crawled across the roof to look through the small gaps in the wall, her brother looked around the street for anyone out on a stroll.

   “Look! Look!” Kaira urged her brother, grabbing wildly at his body and face. He huffed and knocked her hands away. “Wow! She really is beautiful!” Kaira whisper yelled and Lethe nodded along.

   The priestess made her way down the aisle to the altar, where she first sat on the edge facing the statue of Yaoshi, she looked up and locked eyes with THEM, before she laid down on the stone altar still facing the statue. The main priest spoke before the gathering, he called out to THEM and beckoned the people to join him in prayer. As the masses prayed, Kaira quietly muttered a prayer of her own, her brother furrowed his brow, this was not a prayer either of them recognized. 

   Off to the side a man dressed in white unsheathes a blade, typically placed in the arms of the statue. He rubs a cloth over the ornate blade and holds it out to the priest, who takes it in both hands. He holds it out before the statue and bows his head. He moves to the side of the altar, he aligns the tip of the blade so it hover just between the priestess shoulder blades. Lethe reaches out for his sister, who unknowingly leans in with bated breaths. The priest raises the blade and mutters the last words of the prayer, then lets gravity pull it down straight through the heart and into a notch that’s been worn into the stone.

   Lethe opens his eyes a little, seeing the altar covered in a white sheet, he peels his hand away from his sisters eyes. He holds her close to his side, she breathes deep as she processes what just happened. “Is she dead?” She quietly asks no one in particular, Lethe knows this, but answers anyway. “I don’t know.”

   The two of them stay on the roof for who knows how long, breathing, waiting for something. Eventually the church empties of people, only the main priest and his assistants remain. They pull away the white sheet, pull the blade from her body with care, and carry her away to a separate room. One wipes a dark liquid from the stone and blade, it seems too dark to be normal blood, actually it looks like someone spilled ink on the stone and metal.

<><><><><><><>><><><><^POV: Priestess^><><><><><><><><><><>

     You wake up in your bed, you’re disoriented and everything is blurry, as your vision clears you feel a familiar ache in your chest, in your heart. You recall the cold stone and the hollow voices, and you recall the sting and tear of a blade. You sigh, another day another ceremony, maybe this wouldn’t be so tortuous if it wasn’t everyday.

   You stand and stretch, your skin aches and the sheet sticks to your back. You peel it off, a patch of black, you frown but don’t dwell on it. You move on to your bathroom, you peel white clothes stained with ink from your skin, you look over the newly healed skin in the mirror, you pick at the edges.

   The cold water shocks your body and clears your mind, before it grows warmer and comforting. It washes away the residual ‘blood’ stuck to your body, it flows down the drain and you pray for it to take your conscience with it, it doesn’t.

   You turn off the water and dry off, you pull on a more comfortable outfit. A hoodie two sizes too big and a pair of comfy pants, you throw your ceremony clothes into a basket for one of the priest’s assistants to collect later. Your drying off your hair when a soft tapping catches your attention, you turn to your window, the one that faces the street. You watch a small stone collide with the glass producing a soft tap, you know from experience that the glass won’t break that easily. You walk over and wrench the broken lock open, leaning out the window you spot two people, both with black unruly hair.

   “Hi!” The girl waves to you, you wave back awkwardly. “Come down,” she calls, you look around. “Uh, I can’t do that,” you reply, if you did leave they’d just change the locks, they are quite hard to break. “Why not? The priest isn’t here and neither are his assistants,” the girl argues. “Are you sure?” You ask, you want to leave, you haven’t had the chance to actually see the city that held you hostage. 

   “Yeah, they leave everyday, same time. We see them in the city all the time, wandering around like pigeons looking for crumbs,” the boy intejects. You smile at the image, such elegant and haughty people being compared to something considered filth of the street amuses you.

   You look around the street, biting your lip, you take the leap of faith, not literally of course, now that would be stupid. “Okay, one moment,” you call back. You turn back and find a hair tie, you pull back your hair and hide it in your hood. You return to the window and begin your somewhat clumsy descent.

   You spend your day in their company, you learn their names are Kaira and Lethe. Lethe makes a point of clarifying that they are NOT twins, but older brother and younger sister, Kaira sticks her tongue out at him and he returns the sentiment. They show you their favourite spots in the city, they buy you some cheap charms and street food. They sneak you back to your room before the priest and his assistants return, or henchmen as Kaira calls them.

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     You spend your days like this, you get sacrificed just before 10 am, then you get your bearings and shower, and at around 11 am Kaira and Lethe come get you. By 3 pm you’re back in your room and the priest and his henchmen are none the wiser, you think, you hope.

   You have started to look forward to this time of day, you wish you could spend your whole day with them, meet their parents or their other friends they sometimes talk about. Maybe go to school and learn something new, become something more than a prisoner, a white lamb.

   You shake these thoughts from your mind, you’re supposed to be having fun, not think dreaded thoughts. Kaira leads the way along a dirt path, you’re still in the city Lethe assures you, it’s a garden he says, it’s a strange garden you think. Kaira stops ahead of you, the sound of running water fills your ears before you see it, the last time you saw a river like this was back home.

   “We can put our things over here.” Kaira’s voice cuts into your nostalgia, she points at a group of rocks. “Our stuff?” You ask, she looks at you like you're the crazy one. “Were you planning on getting in with your shoes and socks on?” She looks bewildered, and your mouth forms an ‘o’. “No, of course not, I just didn’t realise you wanted to get in,” you justify, she laughs.

   The three of you place your shoes by the stones, and your socks on top. Kaira is the first to step in, she sucks in a sharp breath, but practically runs into the river, not too far of course, she’s still fully clothed. Lethe scowls at her when she splashes in his direction, he steps in after her in a much more controlled manner. That leaves you alone on the bank, you look into the water and you get the feeling it’s looking back at you.

   “Well?” Kaira asks, you look up at her, she smiles at you. You swallow your apprehension and step in, the water is cold, slowly you go in further until you have joined the siblings. The water goes barely past your knees, it caresses your skin in an almost comforting way. “See? It’s not so bad.” Kaira exhales a breath of bliss. “It really isn’t, it’s perfect for this hot day,” Lethe, for once, agrees with his sister. 

   You smile, but something feels off, the water feels alive in a not so normal way. Maybe that’s just how city water is your reason, you wouldn’t know, you’re not from the city, but even you admit that sounds dumb. Kaira and Lethe argue about something, you tune it out, or does the water drown it out?

   Something tugs at your limbs, it beckons you to come further out, and you can’t help but heed it. If you can stand here, it should be fine further out, right? You wade through the river towards the centre, the water level rises past your knees, distantly you hear Kaira call out to you, next you hear Lethe, then you hear a third voice. The voice is soft and comforting, eerily familiar and so distinctly different from anything you have heard before. In the back of your mind you recall having heard it when you were younger, by a river in the woods, your mother had to pull you away before you went in.

   You're pulled back to reality by the sounds of water splashing wildly, a pair of hands grab ahold of your hoodie and pull you back with great force. “Wha- are you crazy?!” Lethe’s voice echoes in your ears, you realise it’s his hands that are holding you, he pulled you back. “What?” You ask, what does he mean crazy? “The waters by the bank are shallow and calm, they are safe. But the deeper it gets the stronger the current gets, you could get swept away, you could die.” He says it with such concern and anger, like a parent scolding a child. But he knows you won’t really die, you know that.

   You return to the church around 3 pm, shoes and socks in hand, your feet and legs are still damp. The walk is mostly quiet, Kaira and Lethe bid you farewell by your window like always, they watch you make your way back up to make sure you’re safe, like always. But after you get up and close the window they stay, it’s odd, they know the priest will be back soon, they know they’ll be punished if he finds out. Maybe that’s why it all goes so wrong, because they stay, they stay too long.

<><><><><><><><><><><><^POV: Kaira^><><><><><><><><><><><><

     The priest’s assistants drag them inside, it’s early, they won’t be meeting with the priestess for another 2 hours. The ceremony is supposed to start soon, so what is the priest doing? Kaira stares at him, he takes a slow drink from a glass of something, it’s a dark liquid, like wine.

   “What do you want?” Kaira asks, the priest looks at her. “The ceremony starts in a few minutes.” The priest hums, he smiles, it sickens her. “Today's ceremony has been moved to a later hour, I had more important business to attend to.” He turns to face them, Lethe takes a step in front of his sister. “Awh, how sweet, isn’t that sweet?” The priest looks to his assistants, they nod along, blank faces.

   “You see, I caught you, the game is over,” he starts, moving forward with languide steps. “Stealing the priestess, the most holy thing within this church, is a crime of the highest order.” He stands before them, tall and with a straight spine, shoulder relaxed with a lazy smile on his face. “It is my job, my duty, to see that you are punished, just as THEY would have it.”

   “I won’t dread the details for too long, it doesn’t matter, there won’t be anyone to hear you out after all.” He turns away and walks back to the small table, he picks up his glass and motions to his assistants. They move forward wordlessly.

   “What? What are you doing!? Stay away!” Kaira yells, the priest perks up, he glances back. “Oh? Don’t you know?” He hums again. “The penalty for stealing holy artefacts from the church, is, well, death.” He shrugs.

<><><><><><><><><><><^POV: Priestess^><><><><><><><><><><><

     The priest leads you through the hall, the only sound in the hollow hallway being his expensive shoes clicking against the stone. It’s late, you note, later than usual, the ceremony should be over now, you should be cleaning off and waiting for Kaira and Lethe.

   The priest opens a door, it’s odd, normally he’d be leading you down the main hall, walking you down the aisle like a father at a wedding. You feel uneasy, something feels very wrong with this room. You step in anyway, nothing seems odd, except for the dark crimson on the floor. A sheet like your own covers something human like, dread fills your heart.

   The priest motions for his assistants, who gather the sheet and pull it away, it sticks and peels away in a way that makes you sick. The sight below nearly has you doubling over, in a pool of crimson lay Kaira overlapped slightly by Lethe. You stagger forward, your toes dip into the warm liquid, you take a deep breath to steady your unruly stomach.

   You can’t take your eyes away, you find yourself leaning down. You want to stop, to pull away, to scream and cry and run. You do none of that, instead your hand grazes Lethe’s bangs. They’re still dry and soft, you slowly move them aside, his eyes are open, but hollow as the church halls. You shudder and pull your hand away, you eye Kaira, her head is in contact with the pool below her. You know her hair is soaked, you still reach out and move her hair aside, the feeling of it forces you to suppress a gag. Her eyes are closed, her face is nearly red, so are your hand and feet.

   The priest pulls you back, you let him, why do you let him? You want to fight, why can’t you? “You see, this what happens when the world sees you, when you leave THEY demand the crime be punished. I am only a humble and poor servant, I take no joy out of this.” He lies, you know he does, you hear no remorse, you can see his smile.

   He leads you out of the room, why do you let him? You leave red footprints behind, you don’t look back, you don’t want to. He leads to the main hall, down the aisle between the pews, past the church goers, They mutter and whisper about the blood you trail behind you, you don’t ignore them, you don’t realise they're there. Your eyes are locked on to the statue ahead of you, is this really what THEY wanted? Did they want their favourite child to suffer like this? Could they even feel love? Remorse? Were they a being of apathy?

   You stop by the altar, you sit on it facing the statue like always. The priest takes the stand, his voice is drowned out in your muddled mind. You note that the blade is still left resting in the arms of the statue, normally it would be in the hands of an assistant by now, but the odd hour of this ceremony must have caused a fluke.

   Your mind goes quiet, the world goes quiet, you stand from the altar. You look up at the statue, study its face. Your hand reaches up, you don’t know why? Do you want to do this? Do you have a choice?

   Your hand wraps around the scabbard of the blade, it’s lighter than you imagined it to be. You look around, everyone has their heads bowed and eyes closed in prayer, no one sees you. You pull the blade from the sheath, it is quite beautiful when you look at it up close. It feels good in your hand, like it belongs there, does it?

   You turn around, the priest has his back to you. You step around the altar, you observe his shoulder blades. No one sees you align the blade like he has before, no one sees you drive it forward, but they hear it, they hear him sputter. The blade comes away red, but this red doesn’t bother you, it should shouldn’t it? Why doesn’t it?

   The church goers are stunned, you carry on, one by one. You feel numb, distant, free. The ground is painted red, so are you splattered across the walls and your skin, soaking into the pew cushions and your white clothes. Why do you do this? What is wrong with you?

   The church is silent, except dripping echoes along the walls. You think it comes from you, but then why does it sound so distant? You turn around, water drips down the face of the statue, you stare at it for a while.

   You walk up the aisle, blade in hand coated in red. You look up at the statue, like a child looking at its parents. You reach out and catch a droplet in your palm, it rests for a while. Another drops into your palm, and then another, and another. It burns, you realise with a sharp sound, it burns all the way through your bones, to your heart. You drop the blade, it clatters and echoes over the walls like laughter, in favour of holding your arm. You shrink to the floor, tears of your own run down your cheeks. You have to leave, the thought overwhelms you, you need to leave, now.

   You grab the blade, shake what you can off and dry the worst off in your formerly white clothes. You stand, shaking, you grab your hair and cut it with the blade. You find the scabbard and sheath the blade, why do you do that?

   You rush around the church, pack a random bag you find with whatever you can find. You change out of your bloody clothes, you note the strange marking spreading across your arm. You find some bandages in the bathroom and cover it, before covering them with a hoodie.

   You leave the church behind, it’s light out, you flee the scene and no one sees you, no one stops you. The blade now feels heavy in your hand, why did you even bring that? Where are you going? They’ll know you did it, they’ll find you, they’ll kill you. If this decision doesn’t make you a fool, an idiot, then your next one certainly makes you one. You decide to find a Xianzhou Alliance ship, of all places to go hiding, why is that your idea?

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[monomorphilogical]

The death of a white horse

I am lead through the world by the hands of my own sickness

watching them choke on the spit of their forgiveness

but the scars will arise to their defense

there's no saving the skin tightening in repeated suspense

white-knuckle the wheel in thinking a machine could still betray me

and the engine drowns out through the nods of a baby

their empty hands have already reached into the pile-up backseat

fill the night with silence born from an mispronounced sigh of defeat

when the apple rotted through the core where it fell down

besides a river of blood where that line was meant to drown

they have never taken anything away from me

the ground was already barren between the roots of my family tree

only God knows why angels wait on the shoulder of a country byway

watching from the sidelines where I let my faith decay

and I never stopped it — call it sheer curiosity

ninety-five down the highway like there's something wrong with me

I'm winning in a losing game confession and it'll never be enough

'cause I can take a hit but I'm not that tough

tell me this life's all about knowing when it's time to sink or swim

I'll jump into the river just to illicit a response from him

and all of the angels will drown with me while I run softly out of air

heaven has forsaken the fate of a broken up radio station prayer

'cause I am strangled to death by love

forever listening to a white horse trample the ground above

I can only keep it steady on fractured concrete

the same way I continuously cut the knee on my hometown street

with dirt-covered fingers pressed against the flayed open nerve

— God never gives you more than you deserve

but it's not anyone's fault and I don't need nobody to pull me out

daddy told me that the white horse is something I should do without

so I watched it leave while I begged but it never came back

soaked through with tears until the world went black

woke up with my morality swinging forth from the ceiling beam

I used to be so good but they have made me mean

in between the jaw of a rabid dog 'cause its breath keeps out the cold

and the fear is there but it's getting fucking old

down on floorboards I've worn out by praying on my knees

I'd keep the wolf from the door if I wasn't weak from this disease

their teeth break my scar tissued skin so easy

and I'll lay there steadily bleeding out until they see me

'cause I am strangled to death by love

forever listening to that white horse trample the ground above

I am what they have made me — they will never save me

God will carve unto my body that he wishes he'd never forgave me

all of my bones will grind to dust beneath the weight

my edges sharpened to a knife until decay is all I'm able to create

hold me by the neck and lift my weary feet off the killing floor

I'll beg you to stop and you will bear down to give me more

'cause I've killed myself again

my skin gives so easy — but I didn't know it back then

all of my guts and glory spread throughout the power line valley

no different from a scared child running through the alley

after my daddy said white horses would never find me

I'll beg to the sleeper for a place to hide me

letting in a world of hurt with every straggler I drag home

but when they lay down next to me they'll never feel more alone

and they'll tell me quietly it feels like sleeping next to a dead body

they don't know my momma took me out back and shot me

I bit the bullet with lidded eyes and leaded limbs

corroded away until all my soft spots became cess pools for their sins

the body of a child molded into an afterthought for years to come

praying for a fist to the face to keep it from going numb

my hands are taught to throw a punch so I'll never hold it too tight

I'm winning the losing game by succumbing to every fight

no one will be there awaiting my survival to save me

and God will hate the way I have become what they made me

— 'cause I am strangled to death by love

forever listening to that white horse trample the ground above

[nonbinaryeye]

Little Inventor

Written for @gortash-week

Day 1 - Inventor

Little Enver Flynn designs and builds a trap to solve a rat problem he has been asked to deal with. His parents are still not happy though.

Read on AO3

...

Baldur’s Gate is a wonderful place. Known also as Halfway to Everywhere, it is one of the largest city-states on the Sword Coast. This influential merchant centre, city full of commerce and opportunities, seems to be offering chances for a bright future to everyone. Or to be a bit more specific, everyone who had the luck to be born either wealthy merchant or Upper city patriar.

Enver Flynn is none of those. He is an unhappy miserable child but who could blame him for it? Lower city is a place of misery and whoever claims otherwise is a fool living in self-deception. 

While the better parts of the city are busy with trade, marketplaces overflowing with rare goods, luxurious fabrics, rare gems and exotic fruits here the streets are filled only with thieves, crooks and charlatans and one would struggle to buy fruit or fish that does not already smell of rot. While the songs of bards trying to make a coin are never falling silent in the Upper City, these parts of Lower City can enjoy only the sounds of crying orphans and sick beggars spreading their germs around in their dying breaths. And while on the other side the air is filled with the rich flavour of odours of freshly baked pastries and expensive perfumes and blooming flowers, here one’s nostrils will get hit only with smell of piss and decay and bodies that get washed only when it rains.

Enver Flynn always felt like there must have been some mistake. He could not really belong here; he could not really be meant for this terrible and unhappy place. He hates how people's faces contort with disgust or pity when they look down upon him as they do not really see him as a person but only as a pathetic poverty-stricken child.  Poor peasant whose only concern is how to survive till the next meal and how to protect said meal so some of the ever hungry rats do not steal it away.

Though right now rats for a fact are his concern. They were chewing on his father’s leather and people just do not desire to buy shoes with a rat's nest in it. And so as it is a tradition by now, whenever any unpleasant task appeared, Enver was the one assigned to it. What else was a child then a slave to fulfil any wish and whim of their parents, obediently bearing all screaming and beating and all the degrading tasks. And of course the entire time he needs to stay grateful that he was not thrown on streets yet.

One day. One day Enver will just leave without even glancing back and he will not return till he has enough money and success to rub into the faces of his spiteful parents. However that day was not today and so any plans and dreams of future greatness must take a backseat to the troubles with rats.

Whenever a problem is posed in front of Enver, no matter how much he wishes to be petty and ignorant towards tasks his parents throw at him, his brain simply cannot stop itself and starts offering solutions. Several ideas come to his mind almost immediately. There is no point in running around the shop or the attic hoping to run into some of those annoying pests nor just laying around simple traps. Even if they could afford to buy one, rats are unfortunately smart creatures, there is no point trying to approach the issue with methods already well known to fail.

The original new and innovative idea is needed and Enver is never lacking those. Coming up with possible answers to the problem is not the real issue. Getting the needed materials is the harder part. The nails he could “borrow” from his father’s workspace. He knew of a broken fence at the house that appeared to be abandoned and there he gained a few simple wooden planks. But he still needed some rope, or better yet a wire. Luckily he knew where fishermen hid their crawfish traps overnight.

When all the materials are gathered he can start assembling them together. He still dislikes the task and that it was given to him. However there is some sense of satisfaction, a sense of meaning to be found, in crafting, in combining things together and creating something new. To his own surprise he finds out to feel till now unknown sense of satisfaction from his work. Even though his hands are clumsy, wire is bending strangely under his unskilled fingers, planks do not fully fit together and nails spread unevenly, he feels excitement over his accomplishment. What once was a vague fleeing idea now gained a physical form by his will it was born into world.

The construction looks ugly, like a child built it - because it did. A little tower of wood and wire with a bridge-like part to be positioned on the table. There will be a bit of food placed inside, his parents will surely not miss a slice of stale bread that is probably meant to be tonight's dinner. The rat will get in, its weight triggering a mechanism and the bridge will tilt down. And down the vermin will slide, down on the bottom of his little tower of wood and wire and also nails. The board at the bottom is covered in them. Sharp metal spikes waiting for something to be impaled on them.

He sets his trap. He waits. Eyes glued to it, crouch down a few feet away. He is quite good at staying still and quiet, an unfortunate skill obtained by every child of unhappy parents that tend to look for excuses for punishment whenever their own miserable life frustrates them too much. 

And he waits.

It always felt like the rats were everywhere. Trying to steal leftovers from his dinner, pulling out straws from his already thin mattress, gnawing at the corners of those few spare books their household had. But it is not as if he has anything else, anything more exciting awaiting him anywhere in his life…

And so he waits some more.

And as it always tends to be, only when he starts losing his patience, when he lets his eyes wander around the room without even realising he is doing so, only then he hears the click, his amateurish mechanism working as intended, and the sound of an animal in distress falling through his trap. Enver lets out a joyful giggle as there is usually not many things to be excited for and both catching an annoying rat and his invention doing what it was designed for is a good enough reason for little celebration.

When the initial thrill passes he smacks his tongue against the roof of his mouth disapprovingly – a gesture he noticed adults are doing sometimes when they are not fully happy with their work – and he is not fully content with the result of his work either. There is a pathetic sound coming out of the foul creature but it does not sound like a dying scream. The sound of rapid movement and scratching of the wall made out of cranky wooden planks suggest that the rat is still very much alive.

The mechanism luring the rodent in worked perfectly, so did the trigger that trapped the rat inside. But Enver never intended to just trap it, that’s why he wasted so many of nails on the bottom part of it. The vermin was inconveniencing him long enough, it deserves to suffer. Maybe next time he needs to let the animal fall from bigger hight. Or maybe the nails are too thick, he would need thinner ones. Maybe he should add another board full of nails that would fall down upon the creature so it gets crushed in deadly squeeze between them.

Well, it does not matter now. He will improve his trap next time. But to do so, he has to get rid of the current occupant, his prisoner, the creature he caught and which now was completely at his mercy. He wondered what it would look like impaled on those nails. And, well, he needs to kill the pest somehow anyway, no point just throwing it out else it will crawl back.

Enver removes the top part of his trap and takes one of the spare planks. He thrusts it down crushing the rat against the nails at the bottom of his creation. He enjoys the desperate little squeak the vermin lets out in its dying breath. It is satisfying for once to hold such a control over something and its life. Have a living being at his mercy. Holding its fate in his hands and deciding that the only fate it deserves is death. There is the sound of little bones cracking, there is the painful cry of the dying animal, there is a gleeful smile on Enver’s face and then there is also a scream.

Too focused on the task, he does not even hear his mother climbing the stairs and entering the room just to witness final moments of his triumph over the cursed rodent. Hard to say why she even came here right now. Was she wondering where her son is slacking off? Did she come up with a new stupid task to waste his time with, as the previous one might have already slipped her mind? Or was she here for a completely different reason as she is always happy to forget she even has a child.

“Enver! What have you done?” he does not really understand why his mother sounds so horrified. He turns to her pleased smile on his face as he is still just a child and a hope of receiving praise has not yet been fully beaten out of him.

“I’ve caught the rat!” he proudly presents his trap, his little invention he created all by himself. The crushed body of the pathetic pest impaled on nails is still twitching a bit. There is a little puddle of blood on the floor.

Enver Flynn does not understand where all the swearing and curses came from, why is he being pulled by his ear downstairs, why his mother in her fit of hysteria calls him a sadistic monster and why his father starts unbuckling his belt. He has just done exactly what they asked him to do. He caught the rat. He got them rid of one of those damned vermin. Is it not exactly what they wanted from him?

They do not seem to hear his word of explanation, they do not see his vision and the trap he worked so hard on the entire day it angrily thrown out of the window. And they never stop to tell him why, offer a reason for their hateful behaviour. They just scream and call him wicked and wrong and depraved. 

But they never say why. 

By now he takes those words as compliments. If they consider themselves to be the norm he would very much prefer to be deviant.  He will force them, he will force the entirety of Baldur’s Gate to see his potential, appreciate all of his never ending flow of ideas and brilliance. They all will be one day the rat crushed in his trap.

[boygiwrites]

Harley D. Dixon 23

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📖Chapter List.

Author's Note.

Warning for strong themes of suicide in this chapter because of Beth, and well, everything else.

Herschel left the farm all by himself while we was out.

As the sun sets behind the porch railing, Lori explains to Rick and Glenn that Beth's in shock — the thing I was in this morning. She tries to mutter it under her beath, but I hear just fine that she tried to kill herself by slicing her wrists up. Different to how Momma did it, but I know just about every way there is, and that's one of 'em. If I were Beth, I would'a just jumped out the window. Prolly would'a worked, but maybe she didn't want it to. Lori and Patricia found her just in time to save her. She's laid up in bed now, apparently still staring at the wall.

Rick keeps glancing at me throughout the whole conversation. I don't know why he's doin' it, but I wish he'd cut it out.

Herschel told us today he'd learnt what grit was, but I guess he ain't learned enough to deal with his daughter wantin' to die, 'cause he hopped in his truck and took a trip to town to get away from it all. Maggie begs the two of 'em to go bring him back, and they agree.

"You got any guesses where he might'a gone?" Rick asks, putting his hat back on. Always savin' people. "Parks, stores, houses?"

"Hatlin's." She answers unhappily. "Bar on main street. He practically lived there in his drinking days. If he's gone anywhere, it's there."

I can't imagine Herschel in a bar. My Daddy and Uncle Merle used to rot away in bars when they was angry or sad, but that was them.

Rick must be thinking the same thing. "I didn't take Herschel for a drinker."

"He gave it up the day I was born." She half-smiles. "Didn't even allow liquor in the house... But not anymore, I guess."

"I've seen the place." Glenn assures her, holding her shoulder and turning to Rick. "I can drive us there."

"Okay." Before they turn to leave, he murmurs to Lori, "Does Daryl know 'bout Beth yet?"

She shakes her head and glances at me, too.

He warns her, "Well, you're gonna want to. Harley's been havin' a tough go of it and I ain't sure how this is... gonna affect her."

She gives a look of understanding. "I'll go talk to him now."

When he comes down the steps, he crouches in front of me. He's got his Dad-face on, the one that's all nice and reassuring.

"Hey, you did good today." He tells me. "How 'boutchu go find Carl and read some comic books together or something for a while?"

"Alright." I lilt, watching him gently clap me on my shoulder before following Glenn down the path toward the cars.

But as soon as they're gone, I don't go find Carl. I take myself around the side of the house and slouch between two old barrels in the grass, hiding from everyone. I've gotten real good at swallowing down the need to cry, so that's what I do. At some point, the darn ringing returns.

I wish some little animal would cross paths with me, so I could take my knife out and stab it dead. That'd make me feel better.

Merle would smack me if he saw me like this. Don't cry, Harley. Don't cry. Been a long, long day, but you don't gotta cry.

The sun soon disappears under the earth.

"Sh, sh, sh. Baby, it's okay." The night is quiet, but our little tent is filled with my pent-up sobs. "It's okay."

I wish I could go to sleep like everyone else, but I can't. The day's finally caught up with me. Rick and Glenn still haven't returned, but the farm's been a mess without 'em all the same. Dad's been watching me like a hawk since Lori spoke with him, and dinner was spent in silence, and I been trying not to cry for hours. He keeps crooning the same thing to me over and over. It's okay. I hear that stupid lie every time things aren't okay. It don't get any more okay-er no matter how hard I bawl or scream into his shoulder, or wish with all my heart and all my body, right down to my toes, that I weren't such a little wuss. I wish Sophia was alive. I wish Shane made it to Fort Benning.

Seems I'm always hurting. If anyone asked me what I did best, I'd say this. Sometimes feels like all I was made for.

I did good faking my way through the day, but as soon as I laid my head down to go to sleep and realized that I couldn't no more 'cause of my ear, I finally broke. Can't shoot, can't hear, can't sleep. Everything, even the way I curl up at night, been stripped from me.

"It's not okay," I moan, hating that when I close my eyes, I can still see the things I don't wanna. "S'all wrong. It hurts."

"I know it does, chicken. But I'm 'ere. I'm always here." He murmurs into my hair, holding me even tighter to his chest. "Just get it all out."

I wanna tell him I can't, it don't work that way. If you could cry yer sadness out, I would'a lost all mine by now. But he already knows. Just like me, he's made up of sadness. Most people say we're alike 'cause our matching scowls, our little moles. But more than anythin', it's that.

I don't think I've ever been this type of angry before. There's just nowhere to put it. There's no-one to blame. It's just inside me. And I think it'll be there forever, like my bones are. There's no use being sour at Rick or Dad for killin' Shane. You can't get mad at people when there's no right or wrong to it, when they was just doin' what needed to be done. Shane was crazy, we've always said it. He done so many things he shouldn't have. No, I ain't mad at them for that. Or at Glenn, or T, or Andrea for helping 'em. Not at the bullet that shot my ear off, not at the Greenes' God for takin' all my friends away. I'm just angry at being alive.

"He said it was gonna be d-different this time." He said a whole bunch'a things, but that one I remember. "Daddy, I want it t'be different."

"It will be, baby. It will. I'mma keep you safe with everythin' I got, okay?" At least that one's not a lie. "You know that."

"But I'on care about me." I pull back, my fingers twisted in his tank top. "It's everyone else that's dead. It's Shane and Sophia a-and Momma and Merle and Morales and prolly Meemaw and Kyle and my cousins. I'm sick of it! Ain't no point in movin' on if people gonna keep dyin'!"

"Don't talk like that, Harley Dixon." He gently scolds, brows twitching into a frown. "Don'tchu ever. There is a point."

Well, I don't get it no more. "I ca-an't even sleep properly, Dad."

"Well, let's just try again. You can lay on yer other side." He offers. "Dad'll read you another story, huh? Or you want me to sing again?"

"No." I croak miserably. I don't want a story. I don't even want a song. "Even if I go to sleep, t-that's ruined, too. I get nightmares. And when I wake up, it's the same thing all over again. Eatin' scraps and cryin' and takin' ringing meds just for somethin' else bad to happen."

"That's the way life is, Harley." He tells me, a little stricter this time. "I can't change it any more than you can. People die—"

"People mourn," I quote him with a roll of my wet eyes, "Life moves on. I heard."

"Stop it." He don't like that I mocked him, not one bit. Not when it comes to this. "It's true. We move on. We keep livin'."

"Well, maybe I don't wanna. Maybe I'm done."

Herschel says I got a thing called grit. Dad says I'm his brave girl. Carl thinks I'm some sorta badass, but really I'm just a nasty, broken little thing called Harley Dixon. I don't wanna keep living if living's full of death. Maybe it's better the other way. Beth thinks so. Momma sure did, too. I never got to ask her if it worked out like she wanted and got all her sadness taken away, but I like to think it did. I like to think there's no bad things where she is, only good and happy things. She ain't watched Shane die. She ain't stood at Sophia's grave. She ain't hurtin'.

"Little girl," Dad's voice is thin and shaky like a whisper, but also very, very, very angry. "I know you ain't just said that."

I stare right back at him through my tears without a word, 'cause I did say that. Not to hurt him, but because it's the truth.

He slowly starts shaking his head. "Nah, I ain't raised you this way. I ain't raised a girl that gives up."

My wobbly frown deepens. "So that's what Momma was, then? She was weak?"

"Yes. Weak an' stupid." He says unapologetically. "And I won't have you talkin' like her. Over my dead body, girl, I won't have it."

"And how's that?" I challenge him. "You gonna make Sophia come back? You gonna fix my ear? You gonna make Shane—?"

"Weren't me that did that, Harley. Weren't Rick, weren't nobody but himse—"

"—Come back? You gonna kiss it all better and sing a song?" I taunt, shouting in his face, "They're all dead!"

"I know they are." He argues, taking a moment to suck in a breath. "I'm sorry I ain't find Sophia. I'm sorry 'boutcher ear. I'm sorry you're hurtin' and I can't do nothin' about it, but this type'a talk ain't what's gonna help you, Harley. It's bein' strong. You gotta be stronger."

"But I ain't," I tell him, and the tears are back now, streaming down my face, 'cause I'm right. I ain't strong. "I'm just nothin'."

"You're my little girl, is whatchu are." He says sternly, voice cracking. "I love you more'un anythin'. How you think hearin' that makes me feel?"

Probably makes him see the little traces of Momma on my face. Makes him feel like he's failing the same woman twice.

But I'm just so tired, and I just don't care. "I'on care how it makes you feel, Daddy. I'on care 'bout nothin' anymore."

Being empty must be worse than being full of somethin' like anger, 'cause this is the thing that really gets to him. Under his pair of twisted brows, his sharp eyes start to well up, his mouth curls into a sneer. The crickets outside chirp happily either way, dutifully filling the silence that comes. For the first time, I think my Dad is wrong about something. There is no point in moving on. Bein' strong, that's a waste. Shane said we deserve for things to go differently, go better in some way that ain't so cruel, but it didn't. It won't.

"You're fuckin' scarin' me, Harley." He utters thinly. "You ain't never talked like this."

I know. I ain't never stayed down after a hit, but I been strong for so long, I think it's just ran out.

I don't answer him. Instead I confess quietly, "I think I wanna go sleep in somebody else's tent tonight, Dad."

I need out this stuffy tent. If I could sleep alone in a hole somewhere, I would. I'm done arguing. And he's done, too. He wordlessly slides me off his lap and helps me gather my bedding, trying his best not to tear up more than he already is, muttering to himself, swiping at his eyes. He leads me back to main camp, where all the lamps are shut off and the fire pits are smoking. The night air cools my hot, red cheeks. 

He taps his knuckles onto a crate just outside the Grimes' tent, and before he even steps back, there's shuffling inside.

The zipper peels back, revealing Lori's sleepy, moon-lit face. She takes us in with a confused look. "Daryl? What are you doing over here?"

"Listen, I'm sorry for wakin' ya." He murmurs, putting on a level voice. "Came to ask you if... Harley can bunk with you guys tonight."

"Uh, sure." She agrees kindly, encouraging me to step inside by my shoulder, taking my sleeping bag from Dad. "Everything alright?"

"No." He answers gruffly. No point in lying. He don't give up anything else, and she don't pry. He places a kiss to my hair. "Night, chicken."

"Night, Dad." I force myself to say back, 'cause I'm grateful he ain't just kept me stuck in our tent, and that he really listened.

As he gives me one last glance and then leaves, Lori zips the tent up and lays my bedding down next to hers and Rick's. Carl snoozes away in the corner, an open comic book splayed out over his chest. I bet Lori knows what's the matter with me. Rick saw that thousand-yard stare I had after they killed Shane, knows how I been hating myself. He no doubt told her everything. But she's too nice to say anything.

"Here, sweetie." She takes my lumpy pillow and sets it down. I wiggle into the sleeping bag. "Comfy?"

I give a nod, even though laying on my back feels real strange and I don't got Matilda anymore.

She smiles blearily and crawls back under the covers. "Wake me up if you need anything."

And that's that. I stare up at the sky through the Grimes' tent, counting the stars through the black mesh until I fall asleep.

Sometime during the night, I bolt awake, sweating, crying, confused. Shane, I couldn't save him. I watched him die. Again. A gunshot, blood, shouting, dying, searing pain and a dog tag dangling from a broken mirror. Darkness, and then two little hands on my shoulders, shaking me. A boyish, worried voice telling me, hey, it's just a nightmare. I cling to them. Carl. He's here. I don't think before I let him hug me. I sniffle into his neck as he pets the soft spot between my shoulder blades like his Momma and Daddy do when he's upset.

"It was him again," I shudder. "Shane. I miss him. I miss all of 'em."

Life moves on, Daddy said. But how's it that mine ain't? When's that moving part happen?

"Me, too." His arms tighten around me as much as a boy's can. "You're allowed."

After that, I remember the sound of blankets shuffling, a flashlight clicking on, a comic book being quietly read to me. I remember my eyes closing, heart slowing, and I remember thinking he's gonna be the best big brother one day. In a way, he already is.

The next morning, my eyes flutter open to the sight of a quiet, empty tent. By some miracle, I must've slept in a little. I hear the fire crackling away outside, the clinking of spoons on bowls, muffled conversation. After taking a minute to yawn and stretch, I crawl out the tent.

"Ah, there she is." As I round the camping chairs, Dale sends me a warm smile. I take the seat next to him. "Just in time for breakfast."

I glance up at the second storey of the farmhouse, imagining Beth behind one of those pretty windows. I wonder how she feels about waking up this morning. I know I'm exhausted, and all I've done is open my eyes. Another day of eating scraps, crying, and taking pills. Ironically enough, Lori interrupts my spacing out by holding out two little white capsules and a water bottle to me. She's speaking, but I'm not hearing her. I throw both pills back and wash 'em down so I don't gotta look at 'em any longer. I hate that my body can't work on its own anymore.

"Harley." Lori's voice comes quick and sharp this time, startling me. "Are you listening?"

I glare up at her. She's standing so close to me that I don't know how I couldn't hear what she said the first time. "Huh?"

She looks at me like I've done something strange. "I said, 'You can't take those on an empty stomach'. Are you hungry?"

"Oh. Yeah." Now everyone's lookin' at me like that. I reach under my hair and nervously tug on my ear as she turns and fills a bowl with the creamy soup cooking over the fire. I've never not been able to catch what someone's saying like that. She hands the food to me. "Thanks."

As conversation picks up again, I struggle to pin certain words being said, especially when they're from Andrea, who's sitting the furthest from me, and Lori, on my left. S'like half the world's gone silent, and the other half's just a high-pitch squeal. God, it's makin' me mad. I claw at my ear again, as if there's somethin' stuck in there, like a wad of earwax or a cork, but there ain't nothin' in there but the ringing.

A scary thought crosses my mind. If you can't hear for no good reason, that means you're deaf. I can't be deaf.

When Andrea looks directly at me and says something that I think's meant to be a joke, I snap back, "I can't fuckin' hear you, Andrea."

Her smile drops pretty fast, but I don't feel bad. I feel frightened. To my surprise, I don't get told by anyone to mind my language.

Lori just looks at me all pitiful-like and hesitates to guess, "Is it the ringing?" 

I'm tired of hearing about the ringing almost as much as I'm tired of hearing the ringing itself. "It ain't the damn— I just can't hear proper."

She glances side-long at Dale. "Herschel did say..."

He sighs, looking a little stressed, before scooting his chair closer to mine and clicking his fingers on my right ear. "What about that?"

It sounds like a far-away thud, thud, thud, where it should actually sound like a snap, snap, snap.

"S'dull." I mutter unconfidently. 

He moves to my left ear. This time, there isn't even any thud, thud, thud at all. It's just silence.

When I say nothing, he leans back. "I'm no doctor, but... It seems very obvious to me."

I'm not a doctor neither, and neither is Lori or T or Andrea or Carl, but it's all rather obvious to us, too. I can tell, 'cause they're all lookin' pretty uncomfortable, like this discovery has already ruined the rest of my life as I'm just sitting here. I'm losing hearing in my left ear. That's what it is. As soon as Dad mentioned my hearing to Herschel, and when it got worse at shooting practice, I was scared this would happen.

Ain't nobody shocked. I was never gonna walk away from a gunshot to the side of the head with all my hearing intact.

I guess whenever somebody talks, I'll just have to try reading their lips.

"I had a teacher who was deaf." Carl offers this up like it means anything. "She was really nice and smart. Everyone liked her."

I almost feel like scoffing at him, Wow, thanks so much, Carl. You've cured me.

"It's really nothing." Lori's quick to reassure me, covering for his shitty attempt. "Hundreds of people live like this and they still thrive."

"Hell, I think I'm going deaf sometimes, too." Dale jokes. "And I'd say I'm doing alright, wouldn't you?"

"Sure, Dale." I try to chuckle, staring down at my cold soup.

Nobody mentions the fact that having sharp senses is what keeps you alive nowadays. If a walker sneaks up on me, I won't hear it.

It's then that Dad walks into camp, looking nearly as tired as I feel. He mutters a good morning to everyone, and Lori reluctantly stands to go collect my bedding for him. I waste no time hopping out my seat and going over to hug him, locking my arms around his neck as he kneels to hold me close. I said a whole lotta things last night, and so did he, but I don't think either of us is angry at the other over it. We can read each other well enough to know. He kisses my cheek before pulling back and taking my things from Lori.

Clearing his throat like he does when he might cry, he asks me, "You sleep well, chicken?"

Instead of answering, I just hug his waist and Lori changes the subject. "Daryl, just a heads up. That thing Herschel spoke about..."

"Damn it." He sighs when what she's implying clicks. He reaches down to soothingly pet my hair. "And they still ain't back, are they?"

"No. But we both know Harley and Beth are... in some type of way. We need him."

"And y'all want me to go and fetch him, huh?" He guesses, taking a long moment to consider. Then, "Y'all be grateful you been good to me."

"Thank you, Daryl." She exclaims. "Thank you. We've always been able rely on you."

He scoffs. "Maybe not always."

"Well, enough." She smiles. "They said they were headed to a bar in town called Hatlin's. I think you'll wanna head there first."

"There even gonna be anythin' he can do?" He mumbles so I can barely make it out. "I mean, the guy ain't David Copperfield."

"Well, in the old world, I might've suggested trying out a hearing aid, but now... I'm not so sure."

He grunts. "Them things need batteries, don't they?"

"I think so, but not any standard ones we'd have. You're thinking of finding one, aren't you?"

"I'd turn the whole fuckin' country upside down to get her one, if it's what she needs." He says. "Maybe some old dead guy's wonderin' around with his. Maybe I find one in a doctor's office. Either way, ain't no bill attached to 'em these days and if there's one out there, I'll find it."

She admires the determination in his eyes, lips twitching into a smile. "Rick will help you. I know he will."

"Best I go find officer goody-two-shoes and company, then." He agrees. "Look after my girl for me."

She nods. "That goes without saying."

"I love you, baby." He tells me, which is how I know I done messed up. Takes a lot for him to randomly tell me he loves me, and I guess all that talk last night about giving up was enough. He even places another kiss to my cheek, pinching it after. "I'll see you later."

"I'm sorry, Dad." I mutter.

"I know." He understands I can't help what's happening to me, or how I feel. "I'm gonna get whatchu you need. It's gonna be alright."

I'm not quite sure what I need, but at least the adults seem to know. At least some part of me can be saved.

After he leaves to put my bedding back in our camp, I climb back into my seat and watch the blue truck bumble down the drive and eventually, through the trees. Dale encourages me to finish off my soup in that annoying way my Dad always does, but I only eat a spoonful or two before my stomach shrivels distastefully and he tells me I've tried enough for this morning, so I take to curling up and staring at the fire.

I know if Shane was alive to see what he did to me, he'd be that word Lori likes to say, appalled. He never wanted to hurt me.

A hearing aid. It's one of them things I've never had to think about until now. If I had to go back a couple months and tell seven-year-old Harley, with her long, straight hair and chubby cheeks and bright, green eyes, that I look like a boy, got half an ear, and need a hearing aid, I think she'd hit me upside the head for being a liar. But I know now that you gotta be ready for anythin', like dead people in barns and a last-minute gunshot, and now, I guess, the need for a hearing aid. I have to try squash that feeling of shame. It ain't good for me, but it's always there.

I almost make myself chuckle imagining Carl tryna make being half-deaf badass. He's so relentlessly supportive. They all are.

It's too bad, then, that I still feel this way. This numb and hollowed out, alive but-also-dead way.

The way Carol must feel, and maybe the way Dad felt after Momma died.

"Thank you." Maggie tells Lori and Jacqui in the kitchen, as I stand in front of the fireplace in the next room over. "This is nice of y'all."

I see what Glenn was talkin' about now, about Maggie's great grandfather lookin' like a bald Georgie Washington. He's sitting all proper and important-like inside a photo frame on the mantle, like all people from forever ago do. But there's also newer photos, ones with color, like Maggie and Beth as little girls, posing with horse riding trophies and smiling together at old Thanksgivings and Christmases. I feel happy just looking at them. Baby photos, kind-looking people, school photos. We never knew the Greenes before, but I feel like now I might.

"We just thought you could use some help." Lori replies. "It's been a difficult time for all of us, especially Harley and Beth."

"I appreciate it. Sharin' your supplies, that means a lot these days. You wouldn't mind helpin' me toss it all together will you?"

"Not at all." Jacqui pokes her head around the arch and calls out, "Harley, you wanna come help Maggie finish cooking?"

With a little flinch, I turn to face the three women, remembering why we came here in the first place. We had some tinned vegetables and whatever else left over from breakfast, and Lori thought we'd offer them to Maggie, who's in the middle of cooking a meal for Beth.

"I guess." I hum as I head into the kitchen. It ain't like I got anything better to do. "What're you makin'?"

"Potato soup." Maggie pulls a few bowls from the worn cabinets with a smile. "Well, veggie soup, now."

"Hopefully Beth will feel a little better after a warm breakfast." Lori muses. "It always helped me."

All their words are muffled, as if I'm underwater and they aren't, but I can still just about make out what they're saying.

When Maggie places the bowls on the counter and sees me peering over the ledge, she chuckles. "Let me grab you a stool, huh?"

She grabs a mini wooden step-ladder leaning against the pantry, pulls it open, and sets it down for me. I step onto the lowest rung. She fills a bowl with water from the faucet and slides it in front of me, instructing me to how to rinse off the fat, muddy potatoes and lay them on the dry rag afterwards. It's an easy, mindless task. I get to work while they start slicing up the vegetables and opening the tins. 

As Maggie scrapes carrot into the pot, she jokes, "I been makin' so much soup recently I think I forgot how to make anything else."

"Good thing we've taken a liking, then." Jacqui smiles. "I've never tasted a tater soup good as y'all Greenes'. You know your stuff."

Feels like I'm back at the quarry again, helping prepare our next meal from whatever scraps we had, listening to the women gossip.

"Pssh. I'm tellin' you, as kids, Beth and I loathed the day Wednesday came around and Momma'd make her famous potato soup." She scoffs, grinning at old memories. "She always put too much salt in, said it was good for us. But all it was good for was makin' us barf."

Lori makes a sassy face. "I'm taking it the recipe's been tweaked a little since then."

Maggie smirks. "Wouldn't be eatin' it if it hadn't."

"Must've been nice, growing up with food on the table that's straight from your garden."

"Yeah, it was. Fresh peaches and apples to take to school, home-made bread and the like. We've always lived this way."

"Pretty perfect, if you ask me." Jacqui agrees. "Me and my fiancé were always eatin' take away all the time. God, I miss it sometimes."

"A nice greasy burger sounds so good right now." Lori moans, like she can almost taste it. "Oh, and some curly fries on the side."

They all laugh. It's a little funny. I remember her back in the beginning, braggin' about how her family never ate fast food. Now look at her.

As the conversation drifts to more boring things, I find myself thinking about Beth again. We sure grew up different, but we got broken the same way, at the same time. We clearly been thinking about the same things. She was just brave enough to actually pick up a knife and do something about it. I wonder if she knows now her Momma and step-brother been dead a long time, that they weren't sick at all, and were just bodies needed mourning. The Greenes were a little late to that, but it's like Meemaw used to say, better late than never.

I wonder if Beth regrets what she did. She could be dead right now, in a mound of dirt right next to her Momma.

When I was littler, I used to think Dad could read my mind when I was thinkin' unsavoury things like this, and that he'd give me in trouble right away. I thought that's how it worked with adults and kids, but it ain't. I can think whatever I want and it's safe inside my head.

The potatoes get peeled and diced and thrown into the soup like everything else, and then my new job is to help wash dishes.

When we're down to the last few, Maggie says I should take the bowl of soup up to Beth, 'cause they've got this handled.

"Sure." I agree before hopping down, wondering why my heart's beating so fast all of a sudden.

The door to Beth's bedroom creaks open.

I don't bother waiting for her to give me permission to come in. I just creep in all on my own, because from what I've heard, she hasn't talked all day. Her room is exactly like I would'a guessed. Like something out a trendy teenager's magazine, with a nice white desk covered in perfume bottles and hair clips and crumpled paper and books, blonde pop star posters stuck to the walls, a fluffy, cutesy rug, a teddy bear thrown on the lounge chair sitting by the window. Even the Mp3 player Maggie was telling me about, laying forgotten on the floor.

I carefully set the hot bowl on her nightstand, but something keeps me curious, and I don't turn to leave just yet.

Beth's staring at the wall like they said. Not out the window or anything. Just at the wall. I can't imagine her humming sweetly and letting me borrow one of her shirts, giggling at something I said from the other side of the bathroom door. She looks like a totally different girl.

"I went into shock too, yesterday." I randomly muse. "Or at least that's what Rick said. He's the one with the cowboy hat."

I think I might still be in shock. I'm talking and walking around, but inside, I feel like whatever statue Beth's turned into.

"I ain't sure if anyone's told you about it, but you prolly heard the screamin'. The man my Daddy stabbed, Shane, he took me away. We got pretty far. Sometimes I think about what would'a happened if we got even further, but... he was meant to die. Some people just are."

At that, she breaks her gaze away from that spot on the wall and looks me right in the eye. "Do you think I'm one of those people?"

"I... I ain't smart enough to know." I say honestly, before an awkward pause takes over. "'Cause I was only in grade two, y'know."

Carl seemed to find that funny when I first told him, but Beth just looks uninterested.

"And you?" She hides her bandaged wrists under the covers when she catches me looking. "What're you meant for? Dyin', or somethin' else?"

"I think, um... All I'm meant for is suckin' up hurt." I confess. "Like, there's all this bad in the world, and when there's nobody left for it to go to, it goes to me. Maybe I'm just unlucky. Maybe I done somethin' wrong. That's how life is, my Daddy says. So if that's the 'something else', I think I'd rather just be the type meant for dyin'. That's what my Momma did. She was in pain, and then one day... She wasn't."

"She killed herself," Beth says as fact.

"Yeah." I mutter, feeling the weight of the locket crush down on my chest as I take a seat on the edge of the bed. "She did."

"Was she the sort meant for dyin'?"

"No. She weren't." That much, I'm sure of. "She was just meant to be my Momma."

Beth's pretty eyes gloss over as she says very dully, "Our Mom's dead, too. Right before I thought I was about to die, I imagined what she'd think of me when we'd meet in heaven. She'd be ashamed, I know. Somehow, that was so much worse than the thought of going to Hell."

"Well, maybe your God made sure you didn't die." I guess, hoping it's comforting. "Maybe he wants you to live for everybody else."

A tear beads up on her waterline before sliding down her pale cheek. "I just don't know what to do. I think I'm ashamed, too."

"My Dad says you just gotta be stronger, but I don't know how." I wish I did. "I'm sorry. I'd tell you if I did."

"It's okay." With a sniff, she sends me a tiny smile. "You know, you're kind. I can just tell."

That makes me smile back. Something about my rugged hair, my mean face, my missing ear must still be soft like it was before.

Author's Note.

Sorry for the longer than usual wait between chapters! I've been dealing with intense writer's block recently so it just took me a while to get this out, but I'm pushing through!

I hope you're ready for a familiar face to return next chapter! ;)

PS. I wanted to thank you all for the touching dms and messages I've received recently, both on here and on ao3. It's still so mind blowing to me that there are so many people out there who hold a special place in their heart for this story just like I do. I'm so grateful for you all :) 💙

[ninjago-autism-hours]

@bluetorchsky THIS IS GOING TO BE LONG SO I'M MAKING A SEPARATE POST! The green cousins are, in fact, Morro and Lloyd!! Keep in mind this is almost entirely headcanons!!

So, these two are dubiously cousins- Lloyd is the son of Garmadon, and Morro was sorta-adopted by Sensei Wu who is Garmadon's brother. Now, these cousins were born like- decades years apart, mind you. Morro was born about 40 years before the start of the series, and Lloyd was ~10 when the series began. One of the biggest connections between them is the prophecy of the Green Ninja- that one ninja will rise above the rest to defeat the evil Lord Garmadon and save Ninjago. When the four Golden Weapons were placed before the Green Ninja, they will rise and glow to signal his presence.

So, starting with Morro!

Morro was a homeless orphan, roaming the streets for years. This kid was feral- illiterate, no home training, barely speaking, no name, nothin. Zeph was about 8 and working with 2 older kids when he was found digging through Wu's trash for food. The older kids bolted and left zeph there, and Wu took pity on zephyr. He began leaving food and water out for Morro, and before too long he was able to coax the boy into the monastery. Wu's brother had left mere months before, and the guy was lonely despite the few students already in his care.

At first, Morro was just staying in the monastery- zeph was in horrible shape and Wu felt it would only hurt zeph if they were to train with the others, despite zephyrs growing interest in it. One day, Wu noticed Morro's fascination with kites and birds- really anything that flew- so he bought the boy a kite! He gave Morro the gift, then hurried to pull his kettle from the stove; when he returned, he saw Morro flying the kite by controlling the wind, and with incredible skill at that. Morro was an elemental master, the Master of Wind!

Wu knew the prophecy, knew that an elemental master was most likely to be the Green Ninja- so he told Morro. Wu told Morro of the prophecy, and that Morro could be the one to fill it. Morro, who had lived all his life just trying to survive, being treated like scum, was suddenly told that he could have a higher purpose, could be the one to save the world. That's a lot for an, at this point, barely 9 year old kid. Morro began training, and he trained relentlessly, with Wu being three times as harsh and stern to him in comparison to the other students. By the time zeph was 10, zeph was able to hold his own against Wu himself.

At this point, Wu feels zeph is ready, and sets up the ceremony... only for the weapons not to respond to Morro's presence.

Wu is heartbroken. Morro is even more so. The kid looks up to his sensei, his master, his father, and sees no reassurance. "You are not the green ninja," Wu says, taking away that green gi that symbolized everything Morro wanted to be. Morro became hysterical- that was his! His destiny, his purpose! What was he if not the green ninja?! Wu had promised!

Over the next few months, Morro would become obsessed with proving destiny wrong, with proving himself to be worthy- throwing himself into worsening danger with Wu having to save zephyr. It wasn't long until it all came to a head in an explosive argument, and Morro took off into the sunset in search for the Tomb of the First Spinjitsu Master- surely that would prove destiny wrong. Wu left the monastery doors open for zephyr, desperately hoping his son would return.

Morro died in the Caves of Despair at 14, trapped alone in the firey depths, body left to rot away without a proper burial. Their soul was sent to the Cursed Realm, where the Preeminent whispered lies and stoked the flames of their wrath and bitterness- promised them the great destiny they craved if only zephyr could free Her.

Lloyd was born to Garmadon- not yet fully corrupted by the venom of the Great Devourer, by pure unfiltered Evil- and Misako- a simple archeologist who had played the hearts of both brothers. Things were okay, for just a few months- a husband, a wife, and their perfect baby boy.

Garmadon was barely allowed time to know his beloved son before the venom took hold and he was banished to the Underworld, yet the limitless love for the boy remained a glowing light in his darkened, twisted soul. There was little he could do to reach out to his son- he could only work to escape and trust Misako to make sure their boy was kept safe and raised right.

Misako did not do that. Instead, she abandoned Lloyd at Darkly's Boarding School for Bad Boys at about 4 years old in favor of hunting down clues on how to stop the prophecy from playing out. She knew, deep down, that Lloyd would be the Green Ninja, and she wanted to do whatever possible to save her family- to free Garmadon of the venom, to prevent Lloyd from becoming a ninja, to prevent their inevitable fight to the death. She didn't want Wu to find out about Lloyd, didn't want a repeat of Morro.

Lloyd was raised desperately trying to be as evil as his dad, only to be told he wasn't bad enough. He was too kind-hearted, too vulnerable- evil villains didn't help protect others, didn't cry over their losses, didn't care, according to Darkly's. He was only 9 when he was kicked out to the streets after standing up for a student who had been harmed by a teacher. He was only 9 when he released the Serpentine from their ancient tombs and had his trust and desperation for love taken advantage of by Pythor the Anacondri.

Lloyd was only 9 when Wu took him in, when he was used as a lesson for Kai, Cole, Jay, and Zane. "The best way to defeat your enemy is to make them your friend," Wu had said, standing between the scowling teenagers and his nephew who was falling asleep safe for the first time in 5 years. It would take patience to handle this young boy, to undo the training and traumas given by Darkly's. Patience, love, and gentleness, the same Wu had shown all those years ago with Morro.

Lloyd was only 9 when the Golden Weapons responded to his presence. Lloyd was only 10 when he told the ninja to throw the Tomorrow's Tea, taking the hit alongside the Grundle- and the Lloyd that stood back up on trembling legs was 16. His childhood was gone, and it would only be a year or two before he would have to kill his father, and the green gi against his skin symbolized the weight of the world on his too old yet too young shoulders.

Lloyd was 17 when he watched his father get sacrificed in order to end the Second Serpentine War. Lloyd was only 17 when Morro slipped through the rift between worlds with a plan for vengeance, possessing Lloyd and using his body to complete the journey Morro had died to complete.

A child denied the destiny zeph craved, a child for ed into a destiny he did not want. They are a fucking tragedy.

[i-eat-deodorant]

[Shakes you] TELL US ABOUT YOUR LAMB

LMAO watching this appear in my inbox in real time was a treat.

In my headcanons, the sheep were total pacifists that lived in high-altitude villages in the mountains outside of Shamura's territory. Lamb did have a twin, but it died in utero; they were born as a single child in a species that normally births in doubles. Because of this, they compensated for the lack of siblings by making everyone their friend. They're generally pretty easygoing, gregarious, and considered their place in their family an integral part of who they are.

That's why being the sole surviving sheep hurt them so much.

Sheep get distressed when separated from their flock, and Lamb is no different. Shamura's genocide tore away everything they loved: their family, their heritage, their homeland. by the time lamb was sent to the executioner's block, Lamb had no purpose left. They had nothing--nothing except for an all-consuming rage at what the Bishops took away from them.

Later on, Lamb would gather up the courage to ask him exactly why he chose them–why, in a meadow of flowers, he’d plucked a wilted one. "Wilted one?" came his rumbling laugh. "I chose you, vessel, because you called to me, even if you did not know me by name then. Your comrades, they soiled themselves and cried and sang sheer terror…but you?" An emaciated finger lifted their head, cold finger digging into the soft underside their jaw. "Every death, every head that rolled onto the ground–it fed your fury like an open fire. I could see it. You called out to me, in your final darkest moment, and wished to repay each and every one of their deaths in blood."

That's where TOWW comes in.

The thing about Lamb that sets them apart from all of TOWW’s previous vessels is that they were stripped clean of their worldly attachments before they were crowned. When they were resurrected, it was to a strange and unfamiliar world where everything they once knew was gone, and all they had left was a blood-red crown and a need to kill.

It made them incredibly susceptible to TOWW’s suggestions: of anger, of revenge, of rebuilding a community (but not the same, nothing will ever be the way it used to be) in his name. TOWW gave them purpose. They were literally his vessel–emptied of their own hopes and dreams and replaced with his. His fury was their fury. His hurt and pain was their hurt and pain. When they cut down every bishops and tore the hearts from their chests, they felt glee and satisfaction as if they were personally betrayed by each of them. The lamb they once were died on the executioners block; the Lamb that rose again had no life, and so they lived for him. There was no other choice except to serve. They were devoted, yes, but it was something so dark and twisted it could barely be called love.

It was a one way street of loyalty that worked for the both of them as long as Lamb could live for the TOWW. Their devotion made them much better than the other vessels, because they were willing to push themselves to the point of self-sacrifice to fulfill their god’s wishes.

However, the thing about experiencing the complete destruction of everything they’ve loved for a taste of godly power was that they came out at the end of it knowing it wasn’t worth it. Over the course of their crusades they learned how Narinder sacrificed everything he knew to become more powerful, and got chained as a result. It drew them closer to him, because they empathized with his loss, but they never agreed with his end goal.

So when he asked them to give up themselves, their followers, and the little community they’ve built from the ground up to set him “free”?

He's war-torn; they may not have seen it then, lost in their awe and their grief, but they could recognize the signs now. Hunched back. Nicked ears. Arms rotted to nothing. An eternally bleeding robe, always a wet shade of red. (He's tired. They'd know–they saw the same thing every time they looked in the mirror.) And so they fought. One last time. For him.

Personally I don’t think Lamb was ever afraid of death. They're surrounded by it. They've died way too many times to fear it, even if this last one would be final. Instead, they refused to give up the crown because of him. They knew him, or thought they knew him. They pictured themselves in his position: ascended, free, with all the power that they wanted and the world at their whim and so utterly alone. Power, they learned, did not buy happiness.

In the end, Lamb defied TOWW because they loved him too much to see him destroy himself, all over again.

It’s really hard to justify the in-game mechanic discrepancy of Narinder’s follower form (why did he survive when the other bishops just exploded?) and I think it’s Lamb’s unconscious will holding them back. They never wanted to kill TOWW. Despite everything, they’re still grateful for him being there to catch them and give them a second chance for retribution. Whenever he fell, they wanted to be there to catch him too. 

When they brushed off the mountain of bloodied robes and chains and found a trembling little thing they slew curled in the epicenter, the last thing they expected was to fall for him all over again.

Post-game, Lamb tries to put everything behind them and focus on the cult, but it’s hard! They develop a bit of a two-faced reputation, where they’re incredibly kind and sweet to those in their flock but will coldly and mercilessly strike down anyone outside of it. They’re incredibly conflicted about this, to the point where they see the ruthless part of themselves as an alter ego, where they’re an impostor that took the skin and flesh of an innocent little Lamb after resurrection. Lamb also blames the crown for corrupting their personality (it didn’t, it just amplified a preexisting personality trait that wouldn’t have been expressed had Lamb not gone through what they did) and fears that the more they use their godly powers, the faster this evil side will consume them. Crusades always come with a bit of internal crisis. 

Since serving Narinder was their purpose for so long, they kind of flounder on where to go afterwards. For a while, Lamb gets severe separation anxiety when they don’t know where Narinder is–had they made the wrong decision, turning him into a mortal? What if he dies? They live because of him, and if he’s done, they straight up do not have any reason to live anymore. 

Even though he’s a little pissy bitch for the first half a year he’s a mortal, Narinder actually helps ground Lamb a lot. After centuries as an immortal god, they’ve become detached to their followers. Narinder, a former god, had long forgottem how to be a mortal. His slow road to recovery was him relearning how to appreciate life again in its fleeting little details, and through him Lamb was also able to relearn what they’ve forgotten as well. 

Nothing’s ever perfect–they cannot fix the past, and even resurrection cannot bring back non-followers. However, Lamb has already built a life for themselves from nothing once. After the Bishops, after TOWW, they’re able to put the worst of their traumas to rest, and rebuild themselves; a death god dying and being reborn anew. 

[tg-headcanons]

Hey dude! I was just wondering, with all the worldbuilding you do, do you have any tokyo ghoul ocs of your own?

I do! @fawntastic (who I made these ocs with) did a drawing of them here and I’ll put details under the cut because i have brain rot

First is Arlen Cain

He’s 6’0, 42 years old, ex Mormon, and seemingly a normal, if a little too straight laced, associate special class investigator in the Las Vegas branch of the CCG. The story he tells people is that he lived a normal life until a ghoul broke into his house and killed his family, which prompted him to become an investigator and attempt to hunt down the ghoul known as the Shrike who was believed to be the one that killed them. He has a reputation as a kind and hardworking man who is popular with his coworkers and impressive in his ghoul killing skills. However this is a carefully cultivated facade. In reality, the abuse and repression from his family had him on thin ice when he met a ghoul he fell in love with, and they killed and ate his family together. From the beginning he was working at the CCG to have an inside advantage in keeping his husband safe and has a long history of killing any partners who get too close to figuring them out. Between being raised in a cult, an affinity for cannibalism, and the increasing ease with which he kills other CCG employees, he has something so very wrong with him. He loves his family but everyone else is fair game and he doesn’t much care for human life

Next is Leonard Cain

He’s 5’0, somewhere in his late 30s, known to the CCG as the SS ranked Shrike and extremely off putting. He was born in tokyo, and lived on the streets as he never had a human identity. He moved from gang to gang to avoid being exterminated but became too high priority for the doves after he killed a senior investigator. So as not to endanger more people by staying in groups of other ghouls, he stowed away in a shipping container and ended up in bullshit nowhere Utah, where he met Arlen. He ended up falling for him after enough of his clumsy attempts at communicating with him despite knowing he wasn’t human, and after killing his family with him per his request, he stuck around and eventually married him. He worked several jobs as a bouncer before eventually settling into one at a casino his adopted son’s distant family owned, and since he says maybe 5 words a day and can’t make a normal amount of eye contact to save his life people mostly leave him alone. He has a reputation with the CCG for hunting with long Ukaku sharks by hand and staying on buildings or in trees

Then there’s Angela Kazmarik

She is 5’9, 33, a moderately strong kakuja known as The Plague Doctor and was only weeks away from getting her doctorate before she was outed as a ghoul. She was orphaned when she was young and to survive she stalked a notoriously bad foster home until one of the kids was killed, and quickly ate the body and took her place before the death could ever be reported. She was incredibly clever and skyrocketed through grades, eventually getting a full scholarship to an accelerated medical program. Her goal was always to find a way to allow ghouls to eat non-human meat food, but was discovered before she graduated and has been in hiding since. She lives with the Cains as she’s been a long time friend ever since she met Leonard while hunting and just refused to leave, and continues her work in secret. She funds it by doing questionable art commissions online and steals medical equipment. She’s become oddly obsessed with investigator Vivienne Mallory, makes massive shows of killing doves, and is all around a theatrical nuisance who is unfortunately able to get away with her cringe ass performances because she is horrifically strong. She’s no stranger to cruel and unusual methods of slaughter and her victims are often found uneaten but missing organs

Next is Ahiga Cain

He is 6’8, 16, an SSS rated kakujas known as Roadkill and an absolute horror show of a ghoul. As far as anyone knows, he’s a living fossil, the last surviving ghoul from a bygone era that was never meant to survive this long and who both humans and ghouls find deeply upsetting. He’s a southwestern American subspecies once known as the N’daga Hasteen, but is currently referred to as the Cave Ghoul thanks to fossil records of creatures like him and the CCGs reluctance to publicly admit that a ghoul with adaptations meant for hunting megafauna and mimicking human voices is still out there. He was born deep in the Grand Canyon where his mother was hiding him, and he lived there for only three years before the CCG launched a massive raid to kill her. She bought him time to escape, but he could only flee so far, and was found by Arlen hiding behind a dumpster. Thankfully for him Arlen reported him as a human child found captured by a ghoul and adopted him. Human Friends of his mother who were part of the tribe his family came from confirmed the story, and he’s lived with his dads and sister since. He grew close to them and spent several years living peacefully, but after being targeted by gourmet ghouls who wanted a piece of the last Cave ghoul, he and his sister began hunting and fighting against the CCG. Becoming a kakuja came naturally to him, and the CCG was completely unprepared to handle Cave Ghoul fighting abilities. He amassed a gang which has become quite a problem for the doves, and hopes to eventually be followed out of loyalty rather than fear that he’s well aware he instills in people. He is an apex predator, and despite his desire to be likable, he needs to be dangerous right now, even to the point of kakuja induced chronic illness and no longer being able to pass as human. But despite being built like a sleep paralysis demon, he hopes that eventually the conflict between humans and ghouls can end and he can go back to school and focus on a somewhat normal life

Finally there’s Megan Cain

Megan is 5’8, 16, avid 4chan user, and known to the CCG as the S rated Jaeger. Her mother was a friend of Arlen’s at the training academy and in the same squad as him in the Coyote King Extermination Operation that killed Ahiga’s mother. Unfortunately she was also killed in this attack, and Arlen, being her godfather, adopted her. Since she and Ahiga were both the same and and both orphaned in the same event, they became inseparable, and by the time the language barrier wasn’t an issue and they could speak each other’s languages easily, they were as close as biological twins. Being raised by a human and a ghoul and with the single weirdest subspecies still alive, she ended up very good at telling when someone is a ghoul, and with all the ghoul behaviors she’s picked up ghouls often think she’s one of them. When her brother was taken by a gourmet circle and came back changed, she was enraged by what people could get away with doing to ghouls and joined in on the war against the CCG. She was a natural with coding and machines, and she designed a lot of viruses for CCG computers and weapons for the ghouls. Her biggest job is keeping Ahiga under control. Since his kakuja is so massive, it has a mind of its own, all his brain power goes towards just keeping it alive, so she rides on it’s neck and gives it commands. Between that, and being the one who makes and equips the armor and kakuja mounted turrets, they are always together when they fight. The CCG has no idea she’s human, and if she spent as much time producing more weapons as she does bullying people on Reddit, they’d stand no chance

Again The other three OCs, Vivienne, Fawn, and Jonah, belong to @fawntastic and are part of the same universe! I’ll leave it to him if he wants to gush about them but oughhh I have so many oc thoughts I am rotating them in my mind

[atherix]

👀👀👀👀 any birdie related wips in your back pocket

mmmmm Birdie related wips huh? I think I may have shared all but like... one. But this one is, yet again... MAJOR spoilers. And this time it is MAAAAAAAJOR 👀 That being said... continue at your own risk <3

--

The Alley is eerie from a distance but downright terrifying up close, Jimmy can’t help but think, his pale yellow wings curling around himself as he walks down the street. Barely old enough to make the trip to the temple on his own- his first time taking the Alley Roads and he has already veered off of his path, his offerings for the gods left beside the rickety wooden stairs out of the cavern.

It’s dark, only the light of his torch and the dim sunlight filtering in through the holes in the ceiling. For a ruin, he thinks, the Alley is surprisingly intact; the wood is still rich in color with no signs of rot. If it weren’t for the stones that had fallen through the roofs, crashed into the ground- if not for the charred edges of where fire burnt away an entire section of the city, it would look like a ghost town instead of a corpse.

It’s silent, and he imagines what it must have been like back then- bustling with life, full of energy.

He imagined a city full of people just like him.

He walks through the city, foot catching on loose stones occasionally, and turns around, looking at the ruin towering over his head. It looks like home, he can’t help but note. He wonders if there’s stone under the facades, too.

“What are you doing here?”

Jimmy screams, whirling around and stumbling back. No one is supposed to be here!

When he lifts his torch, the firelight just barely glimmers off of colorful wings and purple robes. It reflects in golden-brown eyes, and Jimmy’s breath catches in his throat.

A Watcher?

The stranger is perched on a bench, balancing on its back as if the wood isn’t more than a hundred years old already, tilting its head at him. “Well?”

“I-I’m sorry!” he stammers, too startled and uncertain to even so much as bow to the god in front of him- because certainly this is the god who struck down the Alley, this must be the god who punished the wayward gods who abused their power, tricked its people into following them into a whole new prison. “I was just- curious! About this place! My, uh, my grandparents told me stories! You see, their grandparents were born here but were brought to Icaria when they were young, and I was just trying to find their old house, and-”

“Ah, so that’s where the survivors went,” the god says, perking up. “I’m glad! I always worried they died on their way out of the Alley- the magic those Watchers released was very strong, it caused quite a... disaster here. Very few people survived, you see.”

Jimmy doesn’t quite understand what the god’s talking about but he nods anyway, smiling tightly. “I didn’t mean to intrude or anything, I’m just curious-”

“Oh, stop your trembling,” the god laughs, jumping off of the bench and stretching its arms above its head. “I’m not a Watcher, you silly bird. Well- I am, but not.”

“Huh?” Jimmy tilts his head now, confused, and draws his wings tighter around himself. “Uh- but you’re... in the Alley?”

“I was born here, too,” the god- or person, Jimmy isn’t sure now- laughs, waving a hand dismissively. “My name’s Grian. Grian Xelqua.”

“Grian...?” Jimmy repeats slowly. “Uh- oh, right, I’m Jimmy!”

“Weird name,” Grian deadpans, and Jimmy squawks. “Is that just a thing out there? Names like that? How do you even say that sound- that doesn’t sound Craftian to me. Sh? Gri- dri- Timmy? Nailed it.”

“My name’s not Timmy!” Jimmy protests, frowning. “And it is Craftian, thank you very much!”

“Mm, I’m not sure about that,” Grian says, raising a brow at him. “Sounds pretty- well, to be honest I haven’t exactly been anywhere else. But I have never heard that before.”

“You live in an abandoned cave- wait, did you say you were born here?” Jimmy asks, Grian’s words catching up to him. “Wait- how in the world- it’s been abandoned for like a hundred years now!”

“Right,” Grian agrees, nodding. 

“How in the world-”

Grian laughs, spreading his wings and taking off. “Well, Timmy, I think that is a mystery for you to figure out!” he calls down, and for a moment Jimmy swears he sees eyes.

He swallows. A Watcher but not, Grian had said. Something else- or something in between. "If you were born here!" he calls before Grian can fly away. "If you were born here, do you know anything about the Solidarity family?"

Grian pauses. "Solidarity..." he repeats slowly before dropping down again, landing in front of Jimmy- inches from his face. His eyes are calculating, curiosity and interest flitting across his face. "Now that you mention it, yeah, I see it. You look a lot like her."

"Who?" Jimmy asks.

"Emmy," Grian answers, wings ruffling. "Emmy Solidarity. Sweet lady- the Palace adored her embroidery. She made all our robes. She had a young son when the Alley fell."

"Emmy! Yeah, they named me after her," Jimmy says, wings puffing up in excitement. "She was my grandfather's great grandmother!"

"I see," Grian murmurs, scanning over him. "That explains a lot, actually. Do you feel drawn here?"

Jimmy blinks and opens his mouth, a denial on his tongue- but he stops, because...

Yeah. I do.

As if reading his mind, Grian grins. He holds out a hand to Jimmy. "I see. Well, Timmy, I suppose I can let you stick around. It's nice to talk to a person again."

[offender42085]

Post 0482

Paul Arthur Joseph Dimick, New Hampshire inmate 87452, born 1991, incarceration intake in 2018 at age 27, (this time around) scheduled for full discharge on 08/18/2117  (Sentenced 30 years to life, for computation purposes ‘life’ means 100 years.)

Murder

Paul Dimick, the Manchester murderer responsible for an hours-long Central High School lockdown in 2018, said Monday that his victim was like a brother to him and “I’ll love you every minute that I rot away.”

That will be 30 years’ worth, according to the prison sentence that Dimick, 28, received.

Judge Diane Nicolosi sentenced Dimick in Hillsborough County Superior Court, a formality since he pleaded guilty to the second-degree murder of Justin “Drizzy” Lee. The sentence of 30 years to life was part of the plea bargain.

Nicolosi issued the sentence after two of Lee’s relatives castigated Dimick in their victim-impact statements.

At one point, both Dimick and Lee lived with Lee’s grandmother, who would purchase them food because she didn’t want them to go hungry, said Lee’s sister, Kim Allan.

“You took advantage of my grandmother, then you turned around and killed her grandson,” Allan said. The grandmother died about seven weeks after Lee’s murder.

The relatives portrayed a man skilled at drawing, writing poetry and telling jokes poorly. He liked to ride dirt bikes. And he fathered a child.

But, like Dimick, he was addicted to drugs. Both were also members of the Gangster Disciples gang.

Lee’s stepmother, Jodi Dukette, said the family had always hoped that Lee would turn his life around and leave the world of drugs and crime.

“Paul Dimick has taken that chance away,” she said.

The shooting death took place late on the morning of Friday, Sept. 7, 2018, the third day Manchester students were back to school.

Police and school officials put Central High School into “secure campus” status, which prevented anyone from arriving or leaving the campus.

Some movement was allowed inside the school, but students were confined to their classrooms after the school day ended at 2:50 p.m. Police let students leave about 10 p.m.

Principal John Vaccarezza said students handled the situation very well, calming one another and forming a bond that lasted throughout the year.

“When you’re with people for that amount of time, in some ways you get close to people that you wouldn’t have,” he said. It was a learning experience for school officials, who have incorporated lessons from the incident into their safety drills.

“We got a real frame of reference about how things can play out,” Vaccarezza said.

Dimick shot Lee after his friend pilfered some electronics and clothes from the apartment hallway landing where Dimick was sleeping. According to previous testimony, he told his girlfriend he planned to kill Lee and would end up in prison for the rest of his life.

One witness told police he saw Dimick put a gun to Lee’s head and say “Yo. You want to rob me?” He then shot Lee underneath the armpit.

Dimick’s public defender said Dimick was exposed to crack cocaine in his mother’s womb and lead paint in his home. A doctor once recorded unexplained burn marks on his body.

He saw his parents fight and once witnessed his father getting pistol-whipped.

At times, his father would give him $100 just to leave the apartment for a day. The family could not afford the drugs needed to help Dimick at school, where he suffered taunts and humiliation, his lawyer said.

He started smoking marijuana at 10, and using hard drugs at 13. “Paul came to find out that using drugs was the only thing he was good at,” said public defender Sarah Amorin.

When a mental health counselor told Dimick recently that he was not developmentally disabled, Dimick refused to believe it, Amorin said.

Amorin said Dimick and Lee had a brotherly bond, and that was part of the reason for Dimick’s strong reaction to the theft.

“We just needed to get away from the streets,” Dimick wrote in a poem to Lee that he read during the sentencing hearing.

The sentence included a recommendation that Dimick be incarcerated out of state, preferably Maine or Vermont. Prosecutors would not discuss the reason for the request.

He waived the ability to seek a sentence reduction and to earn reductions for fulfilling education or other goals. He received a suspended sentence for disposing of the gun used to shoot Lee.

2d

[martyrette]

◤✞ Maggotmilk ✞◥

~

!!!HEY!!!

I’m going to be describing the development and story of this character below. It is going to contain a lot of triggering topics such as familial exploration and abuse, addiction and just overall trauma stuff. You've been warned!

Where do I start with MM? Maggie was the original concept for Bunnyguts when I began writing her. She originally came from some fun and edgy special effects makeup I was playing around with during the Rona. I took photos in my wigs and went all artsy and soon came up with her; Maggotmilk.

A sex worker back from the dead, trying to sort out their life now that their former job wasn’t really an option.

I’m going to make a Bunnyguts development master post soon with my very first concepts of her soon, I’m just struggling to find the notebook I had her concepts in.

But the two were basically the same character for awhile before I decided to put her in the WoW RP scene, which is when the characters became Maggotmilk and Bunnyguts respectively.

Maggotmilk, born Fiona Cullen, grew up in Drustvar with her step-mother and younger half-brother. Her father had died of illness, leaving them without income. Her step-mother was quick to pimp out Maggotmilk in order to make ends meat, and generally just saw her as another mouth to feed along with her little brother.

Fiona’s little brother was her world though. In place of their vicious and cold matron, Fiona began to raise brother while she too was still just a youth. However, after Fiona’s step-mother found out she was stashing away money to runaway, a violent fight broke out between the two. In the conflict, her brother accidentally got caught between them and killed, leading to Fiona soon killing her step-mother in a fit of rage.

After the emotions died down and the realization of what she did kicked in, she broke down. She was alone. And she was a murderer. She abandoned her home, running away to Boralus to escape her crime of passion and grief. It’s here she continued to be a sex worker to make income, her guilt eating away at her. She soon turned to drugs to numb it out and hopefully forget the face of the family she lost.

It’s around this time Shion finds Fiona, ODing out in the streets. Saving her, Fiona admits to not having a place to stay. Shion allows her to stay and accommodations if she can pull off a job. Desperate, she agrees and passes Shion’s test; she can be taught to be a thief. A Magpie. The two end up growing close and working together, Shion aiding in Fiona’s healing and growth. This is when she sheds the name Fiona and is given the name Maggotmilk by Shion.

She is something motherly and sweet, only left with rot and empty spots in her. The things she mothered are in the ground now.

An owning and acceptance of one’s trauma.

Maggotmilk is the first member of The Magpies and helps Shion recruit through her good heart and judge of character. It is also through Maggie Bunnyguts ends up joining them.

Bunnyguts and Maggotmilk quickly became best friends: Bunnyguts the heated and outgoing one while Maggotmilk was mild and softspoken. Though their world came crashing down during the siege of Boralus. When the Horde came, The Magpies got split up in the chaos, leaving Bunnyguts and Maggotmilk to their own devices. BG did her best to protect Maggotmilk, but she was soon skewered by an Orc and ended up dying in Bunnyguts’ arms, triggering The Magpies to break up and for her to leave Boralus and go to Stormwind. That city would never been the same without her best friend.

However, Maggotmilk was scooped up by the Forsaken and soon raised into Undeath unknown to Bunnyguts. Forced into a brand new life, Maggie is trying to figure out what she wants for herself now; she based her whole life on others and looking after them.

Shes mostly been focusing on her art and reconnecting with her heritage to feel closer with her passed family.

Yuh.

The evolution and story of Maggotmilk. I want to wait will I have a current wip of BG done before I make her masterpost and spill her character beans. Spoilers: Bunnyguts Whitetrash Grandma Core

[pathofmysins]

𝐈’𝐦 𝐧𝐨 𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐈’𝐦 𝐚 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭.

I've tasted blood and it is sweet.

I've had the rug pulled beneath my feet.

I've trusted lies and trusted men.

Broke down and put myself back together again.

You couldn’t tell where the grey skies ended and the grey seas began. There was only the wind, sending shivers down my body as I was walking down the coast of southern California. Despite the wind and the freezing air, engulfing me in it’s clutches, it was somewhat peaceful. I loved storms, they resembled my personality, but even more I loved sitting on the beach during one. It was therapeutic, a way to calm the storm within my mind while watching one unfold before my eyes. Another wave of shivers runs down my spine and I throw that old, outworn leather jacket over my shoulders. It belonged to my dad, at least that’s what my mother told me. The jacket was all I had left of him now. We lived on the outskirts of town, but our house was located conveniently halfway between biker clubhouses and acted as a safe haven to a lot of the bikers who stopped at our house. When I was ten years old, I used to pop open beer bottles for them while my mother patched up their wounds and cooked them dinner. Sometimes she would let them crash for the night and that’s also how she became pregnant with me.

Once I make my way closer to the water, I sit down on the wet sand and inhale the salty peace while lighting up a cigarette. The ocean always felt more home to me than those four walls and a roof people call home could ever be, that’s why I always came here since the day I can remember. It was my escape, where I kept the record of the wreckage in my life. It was not a tragedy, it was just the sad reality.

My mother always blamed me for ruining her life, shattering her dreams of fame. Her wish was to be a famous singer and travel the world, but instead God gave her me. I was the daughter she never wanted, the mark of shame for eternity since she wasn’t even sure who was my daddy. There was a man who sticked around for a little bit though, he taught me how to ride a bike and how to hold a gun when I could barely even fit it in my hand. No, it wasn’t love, but it was the closest I ever got. Of course it didn’t last long and the dream soon turned into a nightmare.

“I’ll be back soon, kid. Make me proud.” Those were the last words he ever said to me before placing a kiss on my forehead and walking out through the doors to ride off into the sunset. Twenty something years later and I still haven’t heard from him, no prayers will ever bring him back to me now. People disappear, but a little part of you always remains hoping that maybe it was just a bad dream and soon enough your loved one will walk through those doors again. My mother says he’s probably rotting in prison, but I would rather believe he is dead.

I have mastered the art of portraying the perfect facade of not having a single care in the world. I had no choice, it was the only way to survive in my world where different men came and went almost every night. It was an open house. I lost count how many boyfriends my mother had over the years or how many times she let them slap me across the face. It didn’t take me long to realize where the money was actually coming from. What once was my home became my worst nightmare so I grew up on the streets and quickly enough I found myself involved in many dangerous situations as well as potentially fatal addictions. Some of them, I regret and regret is something I carry a ton of within the depths of my soul. My path is now one of sins, it always has been my fate, no matter where I go. I try to be better, to be selfless and compassionate, but then a trigger gets flicked and my emotions turn cold. I push the good people away, hurt them in ways they don't deserve to be and in times like these, I fail to be the warrior I was born to be. Instead, I show the frightened child within, still hiding under the safe covers of my bed, counting seconds until the next hit would come and leave me in tears.

“So you let Max fuck you now? You know what he does, Nora. I didn’t think you were this fucking stupid!” My mother shouted while stubbing out the cigarette into the ashtray on the kitchen counter. Her eyes gave it away, how little she thought of me, how ashamed she was of my choices.

“What can I say? I learn from the best. You have no right to judge me.” I snapped back.

An embarrassment, an idiot, a slut. All the insults heard one too many times, I became immune to it all. I have tasted blood too many times before and now it just tastes sweet. Oddly my mother never approved of the lifestyle I chose, but she gave me no choice. I would have done anything not be stuck in this house, which is why I got involved with Max and his business, that was the easiest way to make money around here. Earn enough to get myself as far as possible from this place. Max owned a brothel in the city where I spent most of my nights for the past few years. It wasn’t all that bad, at least no one could hurt me there. Besides, most of the men only last five minutes and they are good to go which makes my job so much easier. The plan was always to get away and perhaps if only I could get closer to Max, become his favorite girl, a different path would open up. With every risk I take, with every kiss and each tainted touch - I get one step closer to my goal.

My mom’s last boyfriend, Jonathan, he was a bit of a drinker. That’s how I got all my bruises since I was about ten years old, that’s the age when I started to remember. The first slap was the worst, even though his hand was empty, I felt like I was hit with a piece of metal. I guess when you’re a kid, you don’t realize how much strength adults hold because they’re never meant to use it against you. When I was older, whenever I could, I used to take the hits meant for my mother too. My whole childhood I dreamed of the day my mother would leave him, I would go with her and flee the violence. But that day never came. Every hiss from Jonathan’s lips had to be more spiteful than the last, as if it was bringing him satisfaction to see me hurting, breaking. Long ago I learned how to hide the pain, I became intoxicated with the emotions I never had the desire to feel. Hate. The acidity of it was too strong to ignore, it was just waiting to be spat out in the most foul manner. In this fog of anger and vulgar words, before I could realize what was happening, his fingers were wrapped around my throat as he slammed me against one of the kitchen walls and spit on my face.

“You’re a fucking whore. If you were my daughter, I would fucking kill you.”

Here comes another insult, but I just smile in the most twisted way possible. Perhaps I was signing my death wish with the sarcastic curl of my lips, but the temptation to send him over the edge of anger was too sweet to resist. I looked over to see my mother, she was curled up on the couch, almost choking on her tears, but she never had the courage to protect me. The wall shuddered, I could hear my mother desperately crying out for him to stop, to let me go. But his fingers tightened instead, the glowing embers in his eyes ablaze with rage and I could smell the reek of whiskey coming from his breath. I couldn’t deny the pain anymore and my facial expression was a clear indicator. My vision blurred, a flame curled in the pit of my stomach and my brain went on overdrive.

This was my life, always has been, whatever I do, they make me suffer for it. Repeat, repeat, repeat. How many more hits before he decides to finally kill me? How long until my mother finds me beaten to death on the kitchen floor because there was no more whiskey in the house? My words were scattered as I struggled to breathe with his hand still wrapped around my throat. That bitter smile on my lips though, it lingers as I try to provoke him to see how far was the bastard willing to go.

“Kill me, go ahead. Put me out of my misery. I fucking dare you!”

The memories come rushing through, weighing me down as I relived every night I spent crying, begging him to spare me. The flame twisting in my stomach came rushing forward, crawling through my veins and taking complete control over my body. My fingers coiled into fists as I was being completely deprived of air and now my rage held the power of a wildfire. I saw it in his eyes. It was either kill or be killed. I’m scared. Frightened. Was there a chance that all of this is just a nightmare? I’ve been there for my mother so many times, saved her over and over again, but now I was being outgunned and she still would rather watch me die than fight the man she claimed to love. She didn’t know what love was, neither did I, maybe we were never meant to find out. Now my lungs are running out of air as Jonathan continues to choke me. I worry I won’t be able to control the ending of my story. Darkness consumes me and I find myself reaching over for one of the kitchen knives on the counter. Pain and sickness, fear and cold. I let go of the last piece of hope in my heart and stab him in the abdomen.

The waves are crashing, rising and falling. They come without fear of the beach, embracing their destiny. My fingers find their way into the pocket of my leather jacket as anxiety begins to take over, my chest is hollow. What have I done? Is he still breathing? Trying to juggle my mistakes, my past and present sometimes would leave me wishing I was drowning in these mighty waves. I am worthy of a better life, but I have been a drowning victim since childhood and now, in adulthood, I curse those to blame for the life I found myself living.

I walked these streets my whole life, I know them as if they were etched in my mind with a sharp knife, scars so deep they would never heal. I knew I did something horrible, but I had no choice. Right? I had to do it. The guilt was now like gasoline in my guts, there was so much of it, that it left me completely empty, just an outline of a person. I had no one to turn to, except for the family I chose myself, it meant more to me than my own blood. And these beautiful streets, that were once my salvation, now spike up my adrenaline as good as a shot to the arm.

[fllagellant]

10 23 33 lets get it on

You spoil me , Mwah

Sorry these became little drabbles , that was the only way I could see answering the prompts ERM ! I wrote them in my notes app thinking they would be short but Um ! < 3 woe wall of text

10 ) The Garbage Collector.

In Novigrad, some folks pay a premium to have their trash collected every other week. Instead of having to keep and burn your own, or hope the smell of rotting food didn’t turn away customers, most tavern and inns pay whatever is demanded.

One such customer was the Chameleon.

The sun had already dipped low enough that the shadows of the stone walls and buildings draped across the streets. The last bits of sunlight slipping into the cracks wherever it can, burn orange colouring like a toddlers hand.

Waiting just beyond the front door, was Priscilla. A woven basket in her hands, the small bits of garbage they had collected strewn inside. When she saw the man come trotting down, pulling his cart behind him, she waved him down.

He just couldn’t understand.

She shook the minuscule amount in the cart, smiled, and reached to unhook a hefty coin sack from her belt.

“Oi, got any more in there?” He couldn’t help it. Gesturing toward the open door of the tavern, the outdoor performers paying little attention to the man. Priscilla paused, fingers now tracing the beading of her belt. Her other hand tucking the basket under her arm.

“You know how we are, good sir! Rare we have anything to toss!”

“Aye, but I thinks you’re forgetting something.”

Priscilla narrowed her eyes, the man stared like he had just answered her question.

“… No sir, this is all we got? Thank you for asking.” She didn’t move to offer the pouch, even with the sureness of her words. She knew this wasn’t the end of the discussion.

“So, you folks pay so much, every time we come round. And most times you have nothing for the pile. And the times you do, it’s hardly scraps.” The man, expecting an explanation, guffawed when she simply shrugged.

“Come now! I heard from the hunter that the fella Zoltan placed an order for rabbit and pheasant. Many of them, if he did not fib. So tell me, where are the carcasses?”

Priscilla seemed to pale at that, eyes widening ever so slightly. The man cocked a brow. In the encroaching darkness, their faces only half highlighted by the torches and oil lamps that the people began to light.

Almost like a whisper, Priscilla tucked her auburn hair behind her ear. Thick locs only being held back for a few moments before they slipped back to frame her face. But that was all the Man needed.

Pheasant feathers. Tied with beads and thread, an earring. An earring on an ear with a slight pointed tip to it. Now, it was the man’s turn to widen his eyes.

“Lady Callonetta, the rumours are real? I knew about your companionship, but you as well?”

“Well, my good man, will you still take my coin?”

Instead of accepting her offer of payment and to continue his route, he couldn’t help but push some more. “Does this make you Scoia’tael? Do they guard this place?”

“I’d have to join to be a member, like how you’re not in the army if you’re born in Nilfgaard. And no, not to my knowledge.”

“Is your mother human? She must be, aye?”

“Well, sure she is, but she’s not from any settlement you’d know.”

By now, Priscilla has crossed the small barrier between them, coinpouch hanging from her outstretched hand.

“So you make jewelry? Only jewelry?”

“You don’t see me wearing rib bones, do you? Everything has a purpose, these feathers were for my crafts. Now, you should take your money and go.”

When the man opened his mouth again, a different voice was heard. It came calling from the warmth of the Chameleon. When it was heard, Priscilla couldn’t help but smile.

“Oi, Kwitókwito, get inside! Or I’m gonna start stretching the hides, and the bet is still on, You hear?” Zoltan. There was a chance he was calling out to scare off the collector. Or his impatience had finally won.

Either way, it did work. The garbage man finally took his payment, hooking the sack on his own belt. Priscilla stood back, giving him ample room to maneuver the cart, sending a friendly smile his way.

Behind her, a drummer brought down his mallet on his hand drum, thunder seeing the man out.

23) Low Stakes Gambling gets Heated.

“No, no- walk me though your plays again. You couldn’t have done what you did.”

The Lodge was seen, to many who wish to discredit the sorceresses at any chance, as something dark. Scary. Mystery and an air of intrigue.

In actuality, while they did try to see how they could influence the rulers, it was to see how far they could push their agenda of protection. Pass laws to allow them easier access to owning homes and travel passes. Before they would have to take to more physical means to prove a mage should not be trifled with.

At the moment, while waiting for Kiera and Síle to show, they’d taken to Gwent.

And Phillipa was certain that Yennefer of Vengerburg- Yes, the Horsewoman of War- had cheated. It didn’t help she was giggling to herself.

“Did you check the stars before you played, my dear?” Fringilla chimed. “Maybe they would have told you how Yennefer would cheat you of five coins.”

Truly, there was no loss. But Phillipa was certain that Yennefer had played too many cards. Pushing her just over Phillipa’s score.

The blindfold she wore, the one she used to see after loosing her eyes, blinked angrily. The threads twisting and weaving to mimic actual eyes. Triss placed two drinks in front of the betting women, having been the one to refill their glasses the whole time they played.

“I’ll play you five coins if you give Yennefer the five coins?” It was a small offering, one she knew was going to fail, but she still offered it.

“Oh, don’t fret too hard, Phillipa!” Yennefer was still giggling. “I asked my magic ball how to-“ she broke into a full throated laugh, knowing she was playing into being ridiculous. So was Fringilla. Phillipa had almost puffed herself up like a bird, by that point.

“Keep it up, Yennefer! Maybe I’ll find a nice travelling band to dump you on. You can cast little shines for them. I know how you adore to travel.”

“I do! But only with people I know. And with people I can beat at cards.”

Triss, having joined Fringilla’s side, leaned in to whisper to the other woman. “Did she actually?”

Fringilla smiled, dimples pulling at her cheeks. “No, she just had an unruly amount of spies. I think Phillipa lost count.” She whispered back. They both paused, seeing the two now trying to play the other for a fool, Phillipa starting to have a ghost of a smile on her face. The others must just be down the road now, as well.

“Hm, I need to check on the curry.” Still whispering, like their meal was a secret, Triss changed subjects. “If I overcook the lamb I’ll never hear the end of it.”

“That you will, I’ve been looking forward to this meal. Go, start plating. They’ll forget about their tryst here once they hear plates.”

As Triss moved towards the kitchen once more, one of the woman make a comment about fortune telling. And both of them finally broke into a fit of laugher.

33) Investigating an Abandoned Place

“Elven.” Stated Lambert.

“Elven.” Echoed Eskel.

They’d found the carving of the head of a Griffin on a rock a few steps away from the entrance to the ruin. If Geralt’s tracking was right, Coën had been here. Now, they needed to see if he was still here. Though, based on the flooded floor from last nights rain, Geralt wouldn’t be surprised if he had left during the night.

Now that they were there, they slowed their investigation and began… poking around.

“Burial tomes are still solid. No man had been down here. No treasure hunter or historian or… Whatever.” Lambert had only checked to relight the fire, stood high enough the pooling water couldn’t reach it, one that had been lit the night before.

“Those are sitting tomes, aren’t they? You don’t see those all too often anymore.” Eskel’s voice echoed across the room, his hands brushing the remains of herb bundles. His hands paused their movements, finding something of importance amongst the dried, fragile remains.

Geralt paused his investigation of, what looked to be, a set of once cleaned deer furs. Eying the knelt form of the larger man, he waited to see what he had discovered.

“Geralt, could you come handle this? It’s not mine to hold.” He stated it matter of factly, standing and taking a step away from it. Lambert, now curious, pulled away from his own investigation and moved to join Eskel. Long legs crossing the distance quickly. He seemed to stumble when he noticed what Eskel found, though he would deny it later.

Geralt took a moment to wonder, imagine what he would find. A dagger of lore, a headdress in perfect condition, beading work that rivalled any living hand.

When he did finally catch a glance, he understood why neither Eskel or Lambert had picked it up. A sacred bundle.

They could recognized it easily, Eskel was their Fire Keeper and Lambert was usually the dancer. Geralt was the Bundle Keeper.

When they were younger, Eskel had asked Geralt to be his Bundle Keeper. A few years after that, they both pursued Lambert and asked if he would be willing to participate. He already seemed to know Red River jigs, and was quick to learn Fancy dance on top of that.

Now, the three of them watched the forgotten sacred bundle like it could run away. Geralt took a moment, deep breath in then out, before kneeling to pick it up.

“Do you think it belonged to one of the buried?” Lambert offered, after a moment of quiet.

“Sad thing, then, it wasn’t passed down.” Eskel shifted, the noise of gravel and water grinding beneath his heel.

“We should burn it. For them, I think.” Geralt looked over his shoulder, eyeing the fire by the tomes.

There was no argument amongst the three.

A moment before they finished their setup, Lambert called everyone’s attention.

“Did Coën miss the bundle? Weird we haven’t found a note.”

Geralt offered, “We haven’t been looking for his traces, have we?”

Eskel finished, “The bundle was buried in the remains of the herbs. I think he did that.” almost forgot questions here !

[lordmetalface]

In the small town of Greystone, nestled among rolling hills and dense forests, lived a boy named Lucas. Lucas had an unusual phobia—a deep-seated fear of garbage. The mere sight of overflowing bins and the acrid stench of decay would send him into a panic. It was a fear that many found peculiar, but for

Lucas, it was as real as any nightmare.

His parents tried to reassure him, telling him that trash was just discarded remnants of everyday life, harmless and mundane. But Lucas couldn't shake the feeling that something malevolent lurked within those piles of refuse, something waiting to emerge from the muck and mire.

One chilly autumn evening, Lucas ventured out to visit a friend who lived at the other end of town. The air was heavy with the promise of rain, and the streets glistened with an oily sheen. He tried to avoid the alleyways, where the garbage bins loomed like shadowed sentinels along his path.

As he walked, he heard a wet, squelching noise from the alley up ahead—a vile sound like the slurping of mud. His heart raced, but he forced himself forward, rationalizing that it was just the wind stirring last week's rubbish.

But as he approached, his footsteps faltering, he glimpsed a movement in the corner of his eye. The mound of trash shifted, and a figure slowly rose from the depths of the garbage—a hideous monster, formed of dripping waste and rotting detritus. The creature's skin was a sludge-like tapestry of wet muck, patched with soiled scraps and dripping banana peels. Flies buzzed around it in a frenzied cloud.

The Garbage Monster—a grotesque manifestation of Lucas's deepest fears—fixed its gaze on him. Its eyes gleamed with a malice born of decay, and its mouth, a ragged gash lined with sharp shards of broken glass, opened in a sneer. The stench it exuded was suffocating, a pungent blend of rot and old, sour milk.

Lucas stumbled backward, his scream caught in his throat as the monster advanced with a deliberate, squelching step. Each movement was accompanied by the sickening sound of rubbish being displaced, blended with an eerie whispering that filled Lucas's mind like a swarm of insects.

"You've feared this darkness, boy," the creature gurgled, its voice a wet rasp. "Feared what lies forgotten and festering. Now it comes for you."

Panic gripped Lucas, his legs giving way as he collapsed onto the rain-slicked pavement. He watched in horror as the monster stretched out a long, glistening arm, its surface writhing with maggots that spilled onto the ground in a vile cascade. He scrambled back, managing to rise onto shaky feet before sprinting away, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

But the Garbage Monster pursued, its form changing and shifting with each step. The sugary sweetness of decaying fruit mixed with the stagnant odor of aged filth as it drew closer, relentless in its disgusting pursuit.

Lucas's only refuge was an abandoned factory at the edge of town—a place his instincts led him to like a wounded animal seeking shelter. He crashed through the rusted doors, darkness enveloping him as he stumbled through the shadows. Behind him, the monster's presence was a miasma of foulness that filled the air.

Desperation guiding him, Lucas toppled a stack of forgotten crates, creating a barrier between him and his pursuer. The monster slammed against it, filth splattering in all directions, but it merely sneered, a guttural laugh escaping from its makeshift throat.

Cornered, Lucas spotted a broken pipe protruding from the wall, thick sludge oozing from its depths. An idea, born of fear and necessity, sparked in his mind. He grasped the pipe, its slick surface cold and slimy under his fingers, and aimed it at the advancing terror.

The monster paused, its eyes narrowing with curiosity, before charging. At the last possible moment, Lucas wrenched the pipe free. A torrent of water sludge erupted forth, engulfing the Garbage Monster in a deluge of its own making.

The creature flailed and screeched, the sound like metal grinding against bone, as the sludge overwhelmed it, dissolving its form back into the filth from which it rose. As the remains of the Garbage Monster pooled on the floor, Lucas slumped against the wall, exhausted but victorious.

The air was thick with the stink of victory and decay, and as dawn's light crept in, Lucas realized he had faced his deepest fear and survived. The memory of the Garbage Monster would haunt him, yet it marked the beginning of a newfound resilience—a strength forged in the shadows of fear, where nightmares once lay buried.

[harmonyhealinghub]

The Insistent Whisper Shaina Tranquilino October 11, 2024

Detective Aaron Greaves sat in his car, staring out at the cold rain that slicked the streets of Hollowbrook. The town was small, sleepy, but not without its horrors. Eight people had vanished in as many weeks, leaving no trace, no evidence, and no hope. Greaves had investigated homicides for over fifteen years, but this case was different. No blood, no bodies, just an ever-present sense of something watching. He took a drag from his cigarette, the smoke curling lazily toward the cracked window. His eyes flickered toward the abandoned mill, where the most recent victim, a schoolteacher, had last been seen. The place was a ruin, decaying and forgotten, but Greaves couldn't shake the feeling that something there held answers — something hidden, waiting to be found.

He was about to step out of the car when he heard it for the first time.

"I know who did it."

Greaves froze, the cigarette burning low between his fingers. The voice had come from the back seat — faint, a whisper just above a breath. He spun around, the shadows thick in the back of the car, but no one was there.

He turned back, shook his head. Stress, he told himself. Too many late nights, too many dead ends. He crushed the cigarette into the ashtray and climbed out of the car, ignoring the faint chill crawling down his spine.

The second time, it was louder.

"I know who did it."

Greaves was standing by the mill's entrance, flashlight sweeping through the yawning blackness beyond. The voice was clear, like someone standing just behind him. He turned again, sharply this time, his heart thudding. The only sound was the rain tapping against the rotting wood of the building.

"Who's there?" he called, his voice firm but betraying a note of unease. Silence answered him.

He entered the mill, his footsteps echoing on the damp floorboards. The air was thick with rot, the smell of mold curling into his nostrils. He pushed deeper inside, heart beating fast, senses on high alert. The voice hadn’t come again, but it lingered in his thoughts, gnawing at his nerves.

By the time he reached the center of the mill, he felt it again: a presence, unseen but palpable. His flashlight flickered, casting long, shifting shadows along the walls.

"I know who did it," the whisper came again, this time insistent.

Greaves whipped around, his flashlight beam shaking. "Who are you?" he demanded, voice rough.

The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating. Then, the whisper came once more, closer this time, intimate.

"I can tell you... but there’s a price."

Greaves’ blood ran cold. The whisper wasn’t coming from outside him. It was inside his head, curling through his mind like smoke. His grip tightened on the flashlight.

"I don’t make deals with voices in my head," he muttered, trying to shake off the growing unease. But something about the whisper felt ancient, powerful. It slithered through his thoughts like it belonged there.

"You want to know, don’t you? The killer’s right under your nose. I can show you. But first… you must give me something in return."

Greaves pressed a hand to his temple, willing the voice away. "What are you?"

"What I am doesn’t matter, Detective. What matters is that I know the truth. And you… you want to catch him, don’t you?"

He felt it — the overwhelming urge to agree. His head ached, the pressure of the voice building.

"A simple price. A memory. One precious moment — that's all I need."

Greaves swallowed hard, his mind racing. His fingers twitched toward his gun, but he knew it would do no good. This wasn’t a person. It was something else. Something older. Something dark.

"What kind of memory?" he asked, against his better judgment.

"Something precious. Perhaps the day your daughter was born? Or the last words your wife said to you before she died?"

His heart lurched painfully at the mention of his wife. He hadn’t spoken to anyone about her in years. The wound still felt fresh, the loss a raw nerve in his soul. He gritted his teeth. "No."

The whisper chuckled, low and mocking.

"It’s a small price, Detective. You want to catch him, don’t you? You want to end this?"

Greaves’ mind wavered. He could feel the memories shifting in his head, the warmth of his wife’s smile, the softness of her voice on the last morning before the accident.

"One memory. Just one... and I will give you the name."

Greaves’ heart pounded in his chest. The image of the missing faces swam before him. Eight people, lost, their families torn apart. He was so close. But the memory of his wife was all he had left. If he lost that…

"Time’s running out, Detective." The whisper turned cold, sharp, pressing in. "Another will disappear tonight. Do you really want that on your conscience?"

His hands shook, indecision clawing at him. He squeezed his eyes shut, her voice echoing in his mind, the last real thread to his old life.

"Choose."

The word echoed in the hollow of his skull.

With a trembling breath, Greaves whispered, "Take it."

The world shifted. He felt a searing pain in his chest, a ripping sensation deep within his mind, and suddenly, the memory was gone. He reached for it, but it was like trying to grab smoke. His wife’s face, her voice, her last day—it was all a blur, something distant, like a half-forgotten dream.

The whisper coiled in his mind, triumphant.

"Good. The name you seek is Marcus Vane."

Greaves’ eyes snapped open. Marcus Vane. His own partner.

Cold realization settled in. He stumbled back, breathless, the weight of the truth crashing down on him. He knew Marcus, had worked with him for years. He never suspected…

The voice slithered back into his thoughts, laughing softly.

"Enjoy the truth, Detective. It will cost you more than you know."

And then, silence.

Greaves stood alone in the empty mill, the name echoing in his hollowed mind. The whisper was gone, but so was the memory of the one person he had loved the most. All for the truth.

And now, the truth felt like a curse.

[sampledtex]

In about the span of four hours:

The molten exterior of my body cooled, slowly floating through space and time in just the right orbit around a beautiful blue star

Weather began, winds of steam and blankets of snow whipped across my body, carving me out to have every and any environment imaginable, and with that, simple life was born.

In the valley between my curled arms and my head I got to witness only a small portion of the world, seeing gentle beaches and rugged mountains. There was space and a home for all. This little valley of mine nurtured this life, and I got to watch beautiful ferns, trees, and mosses decorate it from the deepest valley underwater to the very top of the tallest mountain, my elbow.

Things began to move, feathered creatures, small and big, strange and familiar, all began to flitter about in my little valley, and surely on the rest of my body, just as much as I was sure the ferns and mosses had made their way all over to make even the places I could not hope of seeing beautiful.

The world wasn't perfect, but it was the best I could do, I existed and the birds below were busy enjoying theirs, never getting a chance to stop and even realize I exist. But that's alright, I don't want them to worry themselves about me, I want them to enjoy their lives as best as they can, trillions of stories per species alone, and I couldn't get enough of watching the beautiful mundane of it all.

Some even began to build small camps, then tribes, these beaked people wanted to carve out a small bit of myself for them, and my interest grew. At first they were clumsy, learning everything from nothing and making mistakes. I wished them the best, I could not get them to hear my silent encouragement, but I was rooting for every single one of them.

Camps turned into villages, which turned into towns, which turned small nations, each co existing peacefully, asking for permission to take from one another's lands or trading for things they need. When their neighbors needed aid they always had it. I was proud of the bird people, they cared for one another much as I cared to see them all do well.

One nation even sent an exploration party to my head, to climb the tallest mountain in the world, high enough to scrape the oily, starry night of endless colors. I got to watch them camp, joke, tease, and play. They were quite the adventuring party, all with their own unique style and tastes, yet a common bond of companionship despite every difference in their rituals they had.

I feel bad however, this was about when I needed to stir, to take care of myself. My body had to move after millennium of inactivity. I gave them as much time as I could to get down safely, but I never saw what happened to them. I hope dearly that they are ok, still laughing and smiling, and thinking fondly of their climb.

The great upheaval was quite dramatic, the mountains had gotten up to move, to care for themselves. No one was at fault, but my body needed care and that care would be destructive to the people below. Great fires erupted into the sky, far away from anywhere and anyone. My body shook and moved with its own desires as a rot deep inside was forced out of me, hiding deep in the earth and away from the beautiful things.

I gingerly laid back down, having taken care of myself far far away from the people. They pointed and chattered, some were scared, others were curious. The mountains that had gotten up and walked away hundreds of years ago had returned, before settling back down as close to where they had been before as I could manage. The nation's had built great castles, stone walls protected their homes from fires and monsters. But these walls had gates, perpetually open to all their neighbors.

I watched the castle of the nation that sent the adventuring party. They had the most wonderful dyes, brilliant blues and deep purples on cloth that were common in the streets, as well as nice cloth and dyes such as greens and oranges from their nearest neighbors. I wonder what tales they told of the mountains that moved, the adventuring party that went up hundreds of years ago just before it happened.

I fell asleep. My body needed rest after it's care. My mind slowly drifting with thoughts of the nations and their histories. I was excited to see how they had been doing when I would wake up.

I flitted in and out of consciousness for unknowable years, never more than skimming the consciousness of being awake. I didn't want to lose the people again, and I didn't want their mountains to vanish once more.

I do not want to forget. I love them. They are the reason my body fights so hard to protect itself.

I wake up, it's midnight. And then I start writing.