#She Put That Bottle To Her Head And Pulled The Trigger (Gray and Brandy)

[all-my-friends-were-glorious]

GRAY WILLIAM THELMAN

The Wildcard

“Appear weak when you are strong, and strong when you are weak.” ― Sun Tzu

GENERAL INFORMATION

Name: Gray William Thelman

Nicknames: None

Faceclaim: Nicholas D’Agosto

Age: 15

Gender: Transmasculine

Sexuality: Homosexual Homoromantic

Height: 5′8″

Weight: 126lbs

Birthday: October 31st

Sign: Scorpio

Occupation: Unemployed, Artist, Black Market Dealer

GRAZZLEGRITCH

Not much is known about how they came to be a team, but the pair work together so seamlessly that it spells trouble for anyone that gets in their way. Grazzle is Gray’s familiar and confidant, and takes direct (and indirect) cues from his master. He has a tendency to bully the animals/familiars of those that Gray is unhappy with, or animals that get too close to Greer. 

QUICK FACTS

Gray is one of Michael and Pete’s sons. His twin is Greer, and his half-siblings from Pete are Ringer, Brandy, and Hennessey. He has many half-siblings by Michael.

Gray loves his twin brother, and almost nobody else. He respects his father enough to listen to him and take direction from him, and will at least try to listen to his mother.

While he does his best to put on the face that he is absolutely the sweetest boy and be a backstabbing bitch, whenever Greer is overtly upset, he gets more than a little unhinged.

He got his taste in art from Michael, and has done his best to take his father’s cue and has tried his hand at it. His pieces are rough and raw, for the most part, as he flip-flops from feeling nothing to feeling everything. 

He will help Michael where he can with his rituals, regardless of if it’s carrying someone to the basement or actually torturing the person. Or both.

Gray is very close with the Lithuanian Goddess of Death, Giltinė, and has made quite a few deals with her. For the most part, he seeks her out for counsel, but due to her he has a higher threshold for tolerating poison. He has been taught how to lick the poison from corpses, much like the Goddess he prescribes to.

Gray is typically not very fond of most animals and living people, though he makes exceptions for Grazzle, Greer, and their parents. He is not overly fond of people that he cannot control with threats of violence or guilt, Michael being the only one that he will even consider listening to in most cases.

Typically, Gray is much sneakier with his obsession with Greer, with the level of Unhinged that he shows to people. However, whenever Greer is upset by someone, Gray typically has it out for them. It’s hard for him to hide how much of an absolute bastard he is when Greer is really upset.

Grazzlegritch and Gray both are very good at pretending that they are absolutely innocent little angels so much of the time that there actually are people who don’t see through it. However, that might not be the case since he appeared the night Greer almost committed suicide, and he’s been on the rampage since he arrived. He has been known to pretend to be innocent until the person’s back is turned, and then he will attack.

He has helped his father with his rituals, either with hunting, the actual torture, or both. He enjoys being able to hurt others, and Pete chalks it up to Gray’s psychopathy.

Gray is commonly passively homicidal, up until someone has upset Greer too much. He is actively homicidal even in public when his Beloved is depressed more than usual

Headcanons Masterlist

TAGS LIST

Hum It You Will Remember Some Of It But If You Solve It You Will Remember All Of It (Gray Thelman)

Did I Ask You To Trust Me At All? (Gray Musings)

Don't Even Try To Take This Weapon From Me (Gray Aesthetic)

My Mother He Told Me "Don't Get In Trouble" My Father He Told Me He Knew I Would (Gray Closet)

You Can't Hear The Noise Inside My Head (Gray Headcanons)

Thanks Bastards! You Made Me What I Am (Gray Journal Entries)

You're Purring So Sweetly Whenever You Greet Me Then Without Warning You're Vicious And Clawing (Grazzlegritch)

VERSES

TBD

MAINS AND SHIPS

MAINS

@southxparkxafterxdark​ - Michael - Everybody Wants Me To Be Their Angel (Gray and Michael - SouthxParkxAfterxDark)

@southxparkxafterxdark​ - Henrietta - They Left Me In The Dust Again It Seems To Have Become A Trend (Gray and Henrietta - SouthxParkxAfterxDark)

@southxparkxafterxdark​ - Ague -The Best Thing About Our Future Is Knowing That I'm Gonna Die (Gray and Ague - SouthxParkxAfterxDark)

@southxparkxafterxdark​ - Ric - I’m Pure Pure Love (Gray and Ric - SouthxParkxAfterxDark)

@southxparkxafterxdark​ - Asher - Everyone's Got A Secret What's Yours? What's Yours? Don't Be Shy I'll Never Repeat It (Gray and Asher - SouthxParkxAfterxDark)

@southxparkxafterxdark​ - Harley - It’s Hard To Be A Man When There’s A Gun In Your Hand (Gray and Harley - SouthxParkxAfterxDark)

@southxparkxafterxdark​ - Reagan - Pretty Women Silhouetted Stay Within You (Gray and Reagan  - SouthxParkxAfterxDark)

@southxparkxafterxdark​​ - Afton - Death Becomes Us (Gray and Afton - SouthxParkxAfterxDark)

@throughxthexmist​ - Stan - Don’t Ask Your Questions To The Walls (Gray and Stan - ThroughxThexMist)

@throughxthexmist​ - Hennessey - It's Getting Faster Moving Faster Now It's Getting Out Of Hand (Gray and Hennessey - ThroughxThexMist)

Here - Pete - I've Got The Spirit But Lost The Feeling (Gray and Pete)

Here - Greer - There’s No One That Can Take That Away From Me And You (Gray and Greer)

Here - Brandy - She Put That Bottle To Her Head And Pulled The Trigger (Gray and Brandy)

Here - Lily - Could These Sensations Make Me Feel The Pleasures Of A Normal Man? (Gray and Lily)

SHIPS

Here - Greer - I Was Meant To Be Yours We Were Meant To Be One (Gray x Greer)

[thanatosangels]

Good

a three part Matthew Fairchild fic

part two and three coming soon.

TRIGGER WARNING: alcoholism, suicidal feelings, self injury

tags: @princesslucretia @churchthecatismyspiritanimal @booksandbeanbags @tyisthebestshadowhunter @simon-lewis-is-a-skinny-legend @truth-lies-hidden @abigneignenn @oscar-fairchild @themostawesomehuman @cecilyfightwood

1901

Matthew stood in the doorway of his dining room.

Tick. Tick. Tick. The grandfather clock marked the seconds dripping away into nothingness.

His mother was upstairs, in her bed, resting. 

Recovering.

Recovering from the ordeal she had been through the day before.

Matthew balled up his hands, digging his nails into his palms.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

His father was at her bedside.

Matthew knew, without seeing him, that his eyes were ringed with red.

He also knew that there were new lines, of worry and grief, on his father’s face.

He’d seem to age five years in a day.

Matthew opened his hands, looking down at them. 

He half expected to see them dripping scarlet blood, like Dorian Gray’s painting, but there was none. Just eight indents of white crescent moons. 

Tick. Tick. Tick.

He lifted his gaze towards to drinks cabinet under the window.

The late afternoon sun, low in the sky, shone through the crystal decanters which fractured and broke the light, scattering it across the floor like the pieces of Matthew’s heart.

He could hear his mother’s sobs, floating down from her bedroom.

He closed the distance between him and the cabinet.

Tick.

He reached for the middle decanter, the one with the pale amber liquid. 

The one that his father only poured very little amounts of, on very special occasions.

Tick.

With a trembling hand, he removed the stopper from the bottle.

A sweet, fiery smell filled his nose. 

It burned.

Tick.

Matthew brought the bottle to his lips, and swallowed.

His body wanted to choke, to spasm, to spit it out, but he would not let.

He was in control now.

He felt as the whisky branded his throat and made its way down to his stomach. 

It hurt, but he needed the pain. Any pain at all.

He needed to hurt like his mother.

Like his sister.

It seemed to cauterise the throbbing, bloody slashes across his soul.

The world swam at the edges. He felt lighter, like he could float.

Like nothing was real.

He took another swig. And another. And another.

_______________________

The worst part was his mother trying to comfort him.

She sat him down a few days later, in their drawing room. There had been none of the usual tidiness Matthew associated with his mother: the bags under her watering eyes were a deep purple, her brown hair was escaping the braid on the back of her head, her old tea dress was creased and slightly stained in places, with tea and jam. She looked so tiny, so fragile, a china doll that should have been wrapped tightly and kept in the box to save it from shattering. 

She reached out across their rose printed sofa, her delicate hand covering Matthew’s. Somehow, she looked older than she ever had, yet so heartbreakingly young at the same time. Matthew could not look at her. He kept his back straight and his eyes trained on the glowing embers of the dying fire in the hearth.  He wasn’t sure what she was going to say to him. He wanted her to scream at him and slap him and hit him and throw him out on the street for what he’d done to her, but he knew she would never. 

He knew what she did not. 

Matthew’s stomach lurched as he felt her take a breath, though he wasn’t sure if it was from the anxiety that was gnawing at his heart or the brandy he had been drinking just before she had come in. 

“I’m sorry, Matthew,” She said in a very small, shaking voice. “I’m sorry you will not get to meet your sister. I want you to talk to me, if you need anything. I love you, and I wish for us to get through this pain together. As a family.”

He shut his eyes so tightly it hurt, bowing his head as the tears began to fall. She was apologising to him. His poor, sweet, innocent mother. She was the strongest woman he knew, for here she was just days after her own tragedy asking to comfort him. 

If only she knew, he thought, who was truly causing her this pain.

He opened his mouth to tell her, to let the words tumble out. I did this. I did this to you. But no words came, just the air escaping his lungs in a hollow groan. She reached out and put her arms around him, pulling him to her, as he whispered over and over again “I am so sorry. I am so sorry, Mama, I am so sorry.” into her shoulder, apologising for an act she had no true knowledge of. She too was crying, her tears tumbling into his messy blonde hair as she stroked it gently, as gently as she had done when he was a child awoken by nightmares. 

He wrapped his arms around her and held her against him, breathing in her familiar scent of paper and fresh lilies. Nausea rose in his stomach like a tidal wave, his guilt as bitter as bile in his mouth. Now he knew for sure that it was his close proximity to his mother doing this to him, not the alcohol bleeding through his veins. He buried his face into her hair, grasping at any last wisp of a childhood that was now gone. 

That day, with the grey clouds hanging over London like a shadow and the wind making the windows howl in its wake, was the last time Matthew Fairchild ever held his mother.

_____________________

It had been two months. 

Matthew had found a way to numb the pain, and it lived in his father’s drinks cabinet. 

Everyday, he drank a little more of whatever he could get. He told himself it was only until the pain lessened, until it stopped feeling like pouring gin into an open wound, but he was not sure he entirely believed himself.

His mother was preparing to go back to work. His father was anxiously looking after her, or experimenting down in the basement. Matthew did not care where Charles was.

Matthew was making his way back to his room, his throat still burning from the sweet whisky, his flask half-full to keep him going throughout the day. He was refilling his father’s liquor bottles with water and apple juice, and though his family did not drink much, he knew this could not last. He did not now what he would do when they found out.

His vision was slightly blurred, every light just a little too bright, so he did not see Charles hurrying down the corridor towards him until it was much too late. The two collided, someone’s feet on someone’s toes, heads knocking together, Matthew’s open flask sloshing onto Charles’ white shirt.

“By the angel, you bloody idiot! This shirt was new!” Charles wiped his hands down himself, a look of disgust on his face. He looked so disgruntled that Matthew let out a small giggle.

“What, you think making me look like a slob is funny? What the hell is this anyway? It stinks.” Any amusement Matthew derived from the situation evaporated like water in the sun as Charles brought his hands to his face and sniffed. The anger on his face was chased away by confusion and then replaced by disgust. “Is this whisky?”

Matthew gulped, refusing to meet his brothers eye. He felt like his legs might give way.

“You disgust me.” Charles took a step towards Matthew, a finger prodding his chest. Despite their similar heights, in that moment Charles seemed to loom over him, his face thunderous. “Mother and father have been through so much already and you think it’s wise to drink yourself away?” He scoffed. “If they weren’t so grief-stricken I’d go and tell them what a little lowlife you are right now, but I don’t think you want to break their hearts any further, do you?” The question sent shockwaves through Matthew. He knew that there was no way Charles knew what he had done, but his heart still skipped several beats all the same. Charles brought his face very close to Matthew’s and, snarling menacingly, flattened his hand against Matthew’s chest and gave a small shove, which cause him to stumble backwards until he fell into a table near the end of the hallway. 

Charles rolled his eyes and turned on his heels. “Selfish brat. Go and pour that down the drain right now.” He called over his shoulder. “And don’t ever do it again.” 

Matthew leaned back against the table, his hands and legs shaking uncontrollably. He fought to control his breathing. He took a sip from his flask, which seemed to calm his nerves slightly. He closed his eyes and sighed deeply.

Matthew was always very careful after that.

[tunehummed]

THE JONATHAN LARSON PROJECT. — 458 sentences from the 2019 album the jonathan larson project, conceived by jennifer ashley tepper! change pronouns as needed. trigger warning for mentions/discussion of abuse, sexism, homophobia, and oil spills.

GREENE STREET.

‛ i found the sun on a midwinter day. ’

‛ on a backstreet down in soho, there was snow on the ground. ’

‛ instinct told me to get out and search for a day. ’

‛ there goes a chic, chic baby on her way to a coup d’état. ’

‛ there goes a fella like me lookin’ for his day. ’

‛ there goes a boy in his mama’s arms. ’

‛ you can say what you can say. ’

‛ there goes a lover sittin’ and writin’ this song. ’

‛ i’m sittin’ on greene street! ’

‛ and i don’t mean money, honey. ’

‛ watchin’ the world waltz by. ’

‛ laughing the day away. ’

‛ there goes a man with a camera whose sunglasses shade his eyes. ’

‛ there goes a man who seems that he knows a star. ’

‛ there goes a tourist who’s scared to answer me. ’

‛ there goes a dancer too scared to answer me, an artist who winked as she passed by. ’

‛ an artist who winked as she passed by! ’

‛ all these people out in the street, too bad that no one wants to meet. ’

‛ too bad that no one wants to meet. ’

‛ everybody i see walks right by. ’

‛ would someone please look me in the eye? ’

ONE OF THESE DAYS.

‛ another failure, another flop. ’

‛ i should try another hobby, this has gotta stop. ’

‛ i feel like a tightrope walker without the wire. ’

‛ one more disaster, one more dud. ’

‛ it could be worse! at least this time no flood. ’

‛ at least this time no flood. ’

‛ at least this time no flood, though it’s the fourteenth time that i’ve almost caught on fire. ’

‛ though it’s the fourteenth time that i’ve almost caught on fire. ’

‛ maybe it’s luck! what is luck, how could this be luck? ’

‛ no one’s luck could be this bad! ’

‛ maybe it’s fate, maybe it’s time… ’

‛ one of these days i’ll find a way. ’

‛ i’ll make it to the top, leave ‘em all back in the dust. ’

‛ one of these days someone will say, ‘that boy will never stop!’ ’

‛ that day’s gonna be one of these days. ’

‛ don’t understand it, it isn’t fair. ’

‛ every time i try to prove myself results just aren’t there. ’

‛ i feel like a mountain climber without the peak. ’

‛ my sister laughs at me, says i’m odd. ’

‛ my mom and pop think i’m a punishment from god. ’

‛ i get looks from my neighbors that seem to say, ‘there goes that FREAK!’ ’

‛ sometimes i wish - no, i don’t - yes, i do, i wish! ’

‛ i wish that somehow i’d been born dumb. ’

‛ then i feel that something may change. ’

‛ i’ll rise above the throng. ’

‛ they’ll be amazed at who they see. ’

‛ one of these days someone will say, ‘i knew it all along.’ ’

‛ one of these days that’s what will be. ’

‛ god, can it happen today? ’

‛ maybe there’s been a mistake. ’

‛ let’s trade a failure for one minor miracle. ’

‛ i’m gonna be number one! ’

‛ i’m gonna be number one, at least in some one person’s eyes. ’

‛ one of these days someone will say, ‘you are my only one.’ ’

‛ i’m gonna fly, i’m gonna touch the sky. ’

‛ i’m gonna win, i’m gonna sin, i’m gonna never die. ’

‛ gonna glow, gonna flow, gonna click, gonna stick. ’

‛ gonna gain, reach, conquer, gonna make ‘em sick. ’

‛ gonna triumph, prevail, sail, razzle dazzle, glitter gleam. ’

‛ gonna see my face in every house on every screen. ’

‛ i’ll be the hero, i’ll change the world. ’

‛ and maybe in the end i’ll even get the girl! ’

‛ gotta believe it. ’

‛ i can see through the haze. ’

‛ a miracle’s in for a landing, gonna get here, gonna happen one of these days. ’

BREAK OUT THE BOOZE.

‛ the wolf’s at the door and i hear talk of war. ’

‛ somebody break out the booze. ’

‛ let’s grab some hooch. ’

‛ let’s get goopy and smooch. ’

‛ forget all this sob sister news. ’

‛ the world’s gettin’ lousy, so let’s go get drowsy. ’

‛ yes, right here and now-sy. ’

‛ let’s bow-wow these blues. ’

‛ the stars look poetic. the moon’s copacetic. ’

‛ crank up your jalopy and then we’ll get sloppy. ’

‛ we’ll call up our bookie and say to him: ‘cookie, lookie, we’ve nothing to lose.’ ’

‛ the times ain’t so jake, every bum’s on the take. ’

‛ got no cake, got no steak, just this ache in my shoes. ’

‛ the moon’s looking cheesy. your eyes say, ‘i’m easy.’ ’

‛ oh – it’s swell to be alive. ’

‛ oh – it’s the real mccoy! ’

‛ oh – give a yell, we’ll survive. ’

‛ waiter! who needs a mug? give me a bottle or a jug. ’

‛ the government’s awful, so let’s be unlawful. ’

‛ throw out the compass and let’s make a rumpus. ’

‛ this town’s getting screwy, so let’s go kablooey. ’

‛ it’s true if we get boo-hoo-y, we lose. ’

‛ let’s make it strange – hell! let’s get naked, angel. ’

OUT OF MY DREAMS.

‛ out of my dreams. ’

‛ out all night, kisses on the street. ’

‛ sidewalk, dance, september heat. ’

‛ stay in bed, love all day. ’

‛ fire, passion, every single way. ’

‛ go to work, mind on you. anticipating what we’re gonna do. ’

‛ nasty words on the telephone. ’

‛ alarm goes off, i’m in bed alone. ’

‛ you left my life. stay out of my dreams. ’

‛ thursday, friday, 3 am. ’

‛ buses, subways. us versus them. ’

‛ winter chill, skies look dark. ’

‛ monkey business in central park. ’

‛ coffee, cocoa, more whipped cream. ’

‛ vodka, brandy. was it just a dream? ’

‛ window shopping, christmas day. ’

‛ i wake up, all that was yesterday! ’

‛ try to stay busy. hard to stay afloat. ’

‛ will i be sunk by this lump in my throat? ’

‛ can’t think, can’t act, can’t find new roads. ’

‛ think i see you everywhere, my heart explodes. ’

‛ will i ever laugh? will i ever be the same? ’

‛ i’m tossing, i’m turning, i’m calling your name. ’

‛ maybe you’ll come back. that thought makes me weep. ’

‛ the only thing i do is i go back to sleep. ’

‛ stay out of my dreams. get out! ’

VALENTINE’S DAY.

‛ he was a greeting card candy cupid. ’

‛ there was a blizzard, it was twenty below. ’

‛ she was 15, clean, lonely and stupid, and as pure as the virgin snow. ’

‛ he pulled her in from the storm and the fire was warm. she didn’t have the nerve to say no. ’

‛ she didn’t have the nerve to say no. ’

‛ beat her till she’s black and blue and gray. ’

‛ draw a little heart. draw a little arrow. draw a little blood. ’

‛ v-v-v-valentine’s day. ’

‛ red wine, waterford crystal. chocolate kisses and lace. ’

‛ knives and chains and a pistol mounted on a wall, like scars on a face. ’

‛ he said he liked to play rough as he locked the handcuff. she knew it’d be tough to escape. ’

‛ she knew it’d be tough to escape. ’

‛ february winter in her heart. ’

‛ i said i’d show her normal love. she said, ‘too late to start.’ ’

‛ she said, ‘too late to start.’ ’

‛ now her fashion is basically leather. favorite color is basically red. ’

‛ and her passions change like the weather, as she dances from bed to bed to bed. ’

‛ and she feels like a fool, but she likes her men cruel. ’

‛ i doubt she’ll be cool till she’s dead. ’

WHITE MALE WORLD.

‛ bryant gumbel, decaf coffee, french vanilla ultra slim. ’

‛ pert shampoo with extra body, clinique, neutrogena. ’

‛ hey, madonna. ho, madonna, hey. ’

‛ stay-free, yeast-x, estee lauder. ’

‛ estee lauder, revlon, calvin klein’s obsession. ’

‛ advil, ultra-brite, no nonsense. ’

‛ diamonds are forever. ’

‛ it’s just another day. just another day. ’

‛ just another day in the white male world.  ’

‛ salad bar, no! candy bar. ’

‛ yes. candy bar, no! salad bar. ’

‛ diet coke, no! diet rite. ’

‛ cellulite or cancer? ’

‛ yes sir, no sir. ’

‛ holly hunter, melanie griffith, meryl streep. ’

‛ spandex, reeboks. ’

‛ taylor dayne, stairmaster, oprah winfrey. ’

‛ let’s cut down a jungle. ’

‛ let’s go start a war. ’

‛ let’s go rape a co-ed. ’

‛ what a lovely thing to do! ’

‛ let’s drink beer and bust some heads. ’

‛ let’s all vote for jesse helms. ’

‛ let’s string up a faggot and a black guy and a jew. ’

‛ evian water, black lace push-up, billiard table, dirty words. ’

‛ skinny blue jeans, skimpy t-shirt. ’

‛ husband hunting, binge & purge. ’

‛ open your mouth and open your legs and open your purse. now – where’s the trojan? ’

‛ now – where’s the trojan? ’

‛ wait! don’t stop! too late, he’s finished. ’

‛ what if men got pregnant? ’

LA DI DA RAP.

‛ we all should be drinkin’ to abraham lincoln and get stinkin’ drunk in his name. ’

‛ it’s a good thing he’s dead cause he’d cry his eyes red, hang his head if he saw this campaign. ’

‛ singing hey la di la di, hey la di da day. ’

‛ lincoln! here’s mud in your eye. ’

‛ are we past our prime? or is this the time to climb from the slime, make america great. ’

‛ are we so hollow that we blindly follow and swallow whatever they put on our plate? ’

‛ just sing no! ’

‛ to handlers, sound bytes, madison avenue, cynical hollywood, la di da pictures. ’

‛ tabloids, images, wrapped up facts in relation, slim control. ’

‛ la di da you drama la di da de da de la di da. ’

‛ pour some ales for old roger ailes and danny quayle’s his protégé. ’

‛ in ‘96 his looks, his tricks make tricky dick’s crime passe. ’

‛ i’ve had it up to here. ’

‛ here’s mud in your eye! ’

IRON MIKE.

‛ on a starry black night at the base of mount hogan, beyond horsetail creek and anderson bay. ’

‛ from the port of valdez sailed a ship, bound for long beach. ’

‛ over one million barrels of crude stowed away. ’

‛ to the left of the wheel in the bridge of the upper deck under the compass, was he. ’

‛ navigation computer, the captain and fisherman’s friend who could steer perfectly. ’

‛ they called him iron mike. ’

‛ in the dead of the night he steered the way through the darkness. ’

‛ iron mike didn’t see the red light on the reef. ’

‛ he’d been known to throw back one or two. ’

‛ yet no one thought twice when he set autopilot and retired below with the crew. ’

‛ from the two am stillness came the cry of the third mate. ’

‛ someone better go wake up the chief! ’

‛ yet by then it was too late. ’

‛ the starboard tanks had 12 foot gashes cut out by bligh reef. ’

‛ the forget-me-nots cried and the salmon all died and the fisherman wore black armbands. ’

‛ and the spokesmen from exxon said, ‘no major damage,’ though six million gallons remain in the sands. ’

‛ and from rocky point down to mount freemantle, you can still see the black film on the soil. ’

‛ and the echoes rebound throughout prince william sound of half frozen animals, choking in oil. ’

‛ who’s at the helm of this ship of state? ’

‛ we’ve in for some rough navigation. ’

‛ we have the power – the hour is late. ’

‛ gotta get tough and clean up the nation. ’

‛ black rainbows of exxon lightgrade again flowed, like hot fudge in a big apple spill. ’

‛ the detection machine had malfunctioned quite often, repair procedure so hard to enforce. ’

‛ and down on prall’s island, the cleanup begins. ’

‛ and the horror continues till we chart our own course. ’

‛ it’s the dead of the night. ’

‛ we can steer a new way through the darkness. ’

‛ we must see the light for relief. ’

FIND THE KEY.

‛ she’s walking, he’s sitting. ’

‛ he plays a dark c-minor chord. ’

‛ it’s like the keyboard is his heart. ’

‛ he hears the clock, he hugs the cat. ’

‛ he hugs the cat… no. he kicks the cat. ’

‛ he pumps the volume higher. ’

‛ a fire’s just about to start. ’

‛ why can’t, why can’t i? ’

‛ why can’t i, why can’t i find the key? ’

‛ why can’t i find the key? ’

‛ door closes – he freezes. ’

‛ he sees it’s hard to end duets. ’

‛ he lets his fingers feel the way. ’

‛ he loves her, he’s lost her. ’

‛ he’s hearing melancholy strings that sing the things that he can’t say. ’

‛ he can’t imagine what he should have said. ’

‛ it’s all been said and sounds cliché. ’

‛ he’s at the bridge between his head which says, ‘it’s dead,’ and his heart which says, ‘don’t let her get away.’ ’

‛ she’s gone now. he’s singing. ’

‛ he’s singing. he hears no two part harmony. ’

‛ he hears no two part harmony. ’

‛ he looks around – this can’t be real. ’

‛ this can’t be real. ’

‛ depression, a dark progression. ’

‛ why can he only sing it? ’

‛ what will it take to make him feel? ’

‛ and then somehow it ends. ’

HOSING THE FURNITURE.

‛ hello my lucite coffee table. someone spill a little milk on you? ’

‛ tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk. ’

‛ one – more – twist! that’s better now. ’

‛ silly little me, me, me, me, me, me, me! ’

‛ i’m singing in the living room. ’

‛ what’s the time? fifteen minutes. ’

‛ pour the bleach, put the finishing touches on the dinner. ’

‛ the dog – the dog – the dog. still outside. ’

‛ my nails! my god! a chip! ’

‛ tom likes wonder bread with turkey. ’

‛ tom was preoccupied last night. ’

‛ is it me? is it – ’

‛ do i have enough milk? ’

‛ oh stain stain, down the drain. ’

‛ i can see myself in the coffee table, pretty as i was on my wedding day. ’

‛ pretty as i was on my wedding day. ’

‛ i’m as pretty as the coffee table. we’re so pretty! ’

‛ we’re so pretty! ’

‛ ah! what? you scared me. ’

‛ who were you talking to? ’

‛ who? no one. ’

‛ what’s all this? ’

‛ why are you acting so weird? ’

‛ you know i’m hosing the furniture. ’

‛ and when i hose, i sing to myself. ’

‛ who do you think cleans up? some elf? ’

‛ no sweeping – no mops. in no time it’s wheeeeee! ’

‛ when i’m hosing the furniture i’m free. ’

‛ i’m free – i’m free! ’

‛ now run along and play – i’m concentrating. ’

‛ you know your father likes to come home to that ‘just decorated look’... ’

‛ raindrops are falling on my couch! ’

‛ what’s the time? thirty minutes! ’

‛ martinis, cut the flowers for the dinner. ’

‛ the dog – the dog – the dog. hasn’t been fed. ’

‛ my hair! my god! a gray hair! ’

‛ tom likes onion cocktails. ’

‛ tom nodded off again last night. ’

‛ i get treated like dirt! ’

‛ i can see myself in the drapery. ’

‛ am i pretty as i was on my wedding day? ’

‛ am i pretty as the drapery? are we pretty? ’

‛ are we pretty? ’

‛ don’t you care? ’

‛ do i look mad? my happiness grows! ’

‛ who needs dad when i’ve got the hose! ’

‛ this house is a reflection of me – modern, graceful, easy, simple – synthetic. ’

‛ modern, graceful, easy, simple – synthetic. ’

‛ in everything i see my reflection. ’

‛ do i really look so simply pathetic? ’

‛ what? pull the trigger! ’

‛ soon it’s gonna rain on the bookshelf. ’

‛ what’s the time? 120 minutes. ’

‛ dry turkey, look relaxed for the dinner. ’

‛ the dog – the dog – the dog. the dog died last year! ’

‛ my blouse! my god! a crumb! ’

‛ i can see myself in the television. ’

‛ i was pretty on my wedding day. ’

‛ i was pretty as a television. we were pretty. ’

‛ we were pretty. ’

‛ a minor flood never hurt anyone! ’

‛ sometimes i wish this hose were a gun. ’

‛ just joking – see, i’m laughing. ’

PURA VIDA

‛ we are the people. ’

‛ we are the people who float on the river. ’

‛ we run up to the hill, we run down to the water. ’

‛ birds laugh and the sun, she smiles. ’

‛ and the trees, they dance in the wind. ’

‛ we race against time. ’

‛ we race for pure life. ’

‛ we need the people. ’

‛ we need the people who live on the river. ’

‛ find a pace, find a speed. ’

‛ nowhere to stop in big water. ’

‛ fish fly and the rocks play games and the trees sing out in the wind. ’

‛ sing in harmony. ’

‛ can we endure this race? ’

‛ can this race endure? ’

‛ we need the people who live in the forest. ’

‛ ‘ust there be finish lines? ’

‛ can’t the world drum like the water? ’

‛ the rivers will dry, and the birds will die. ’

‛ and the ghosts of the trees will cry out in the wind. ’

THE TRUTH IS A LIE.

‛ the berlin wall wasn’t destroyed, it was dismantled brick by brick. ’

‛ it was dismantled brick by brick. ’

‛ it was dismantled brick by brick and reconstructed on capitol hill, on the congressional floor. ’

‛ the money spent on one stealth bomber couldn’t wipe out homelessness. ’

‛ george bush never said, ‘read my lips.’ ’

‛ the peace dividend didn’t pay for the war. ’

‛ don’t look out the window. don’t go to the mirror. don’t you know what you will see? ’

‛ don’t you know what you will see? ’

‛ martin luther king and the kennedys were fictional players in a mini-series, just like charles manson and princess grace. ’

‛ bensonhurst was a publicity stunt. ’

‛ aids is a myth, first amendment’s fake. ’

‛ the sun revolves around the earth and the holocaust never took place. ’

‛ the truth is a lie! ’

‛ love does not exist between consenting members of the same sex. ’

‛ two plus two is five. ’

‛ the human body is revolting. ’

‛ we always will thrive. ’

‛ children don’t learn to hate from their parents. they catch it like german measles. ’

‛ they catch it like german measles. ’

‛ the moon is cheese and everyone should own a gun. ’

‛ women ask to be black and blue and pregnant their entire lives. ’

‛ the earth is flat and the white man knows what’s best for everyone. ’

‛ don’t you know what you might see? ’

‛ don’t look at the picture. don’t go to the theater. don’t you know what you will see? ’

RHAPSODY.

‛ i turn a corner, see a rat in the rubble as i try with all my might to put it out of mind. ’

‛ as i try with all my might to put it out of mind. ’

‛ i step on some budweiser glass. a limousine drives by. ’

‛ a rich man turns a corner, sees a rat in the rubble. ’

‛ he raises his smile glass window and reads the wall street journal. ’

‛ sky’s not free. river’s not free. i’m not free. life’s not free. ’

‛ life’s not free in the city. ’

‛ i’m told i too must wear a tie or they’ll fire me from my boring nothing job. ’

‛ i guess a tie is the ornament of establishment. ’

‛ i guess a tie is the ornament of establishment, though it seems to me to be more of a leash than a bow. ’

‛ though it seems to me to be more of a leash than a bow. ’

‛ so many people hounded to the pound. ’

‛ so many people collared to the dollar. ’

‛ okay, freedom is a state of mind. i agree. ’

‛ but i need the elements to remind me why. ’

‛ but i need the elements to remind me why with all this steel and concrete and noise about money. ’

‛ with all this steel and concrete and noise about money. honey, you get tunnel vision. ’

‛ honey, you get tunnel vision. ’

‛ you forget that there’s earth below the subway and beyond the ‘scrapers, there’s sky. ’

‛ i plan a day in the country with you. ’

‛ having gotten home from work last night at 12:30 am. ’

‛ having fallen asleep last night at 3:30 am because i couldn’t shut down my mind. ’

‛ because i couldn’t shut down my mind. ’

‛ the city never sleeps. ’

‛ as the phone rang this morning, your sweet was calling, i looked at that clock. ’

‛ how i hate that damn clock. ’

‛ i excuse myself from our date. ’

‛ see, i had to be back by mid-afternoon. ’

‛ and i know these are lame excuses and i’m so damn sorry. ’

‛ i’m so damn sorry. ’

‛ i know it’s important, but i feel like i’ve gotten my priorities beaten out of me. ’

‛ but i feel like i’ve gotten my priorities beaten out of me. ’

‛ but i feel like i’ve gotten my priorities beaten out of me with a rolled-up new york times. ’

‛ and this leash keeps tanking on my tie. ’

‛ i love ‘rhapsody in blue’ too. it’s just that he was rich when he wrote it. ’

‛ it’s just that he was rich when he wrote it. ’

‛ and only the rats, the roaches, the rubble and the rich men are free in the city. ’

SOS.

‛ this may be my final message. ’

‛ this may be the final bow. ’

‛ i’m sure i don’t know what will happen. ’

‛ i’m sure i don’t know what will happen. does it matter anyhow? ’

‛ does it matter anyhow? ’

‛ i hear footsteps down the hall. ’

‛ don’t know how much they’ll allow. ’

‛ if you’re waiting for the last reel, i think the time is now. ’

‛ i think the time is now. ’

‛ sos, oh, savior! ’

‛ sos, oh, hero! ’

‛ sos, messiah! ’

‛ yes, oh yes, oh! ’

‛ sos, oh jesus! ’

‛ sos, oh buddhal! ’

‛ sos, emmanuel!  ’

‛ this may be my final hour. ’

‛ this may be the dying day. ’

‛ though they never taught me why in school, i think i’m learning how to pray. ’

‛ i think i’m learning how to pray. ’

‛ they are right outside the door. ’

‛ don’t know why they keep on stalling. ’

‛ i know you’ve heard this all before. ’

‛ i know you’ve heard this all before, but it’s the last time that i’m calling. ’

‛ but it’s the last time that i’m calling. ’

‛ sos, almighty! ’

‛ sos, oh yahwah! ’

‛ sos, oh mighty zeus! ’

‛ sos, oh allah! ’

‛ does anybody hear? ’

‛ does anybody hear? answer me now if you do. ’

‛ answer me now if you do. ’

‛ is anybody there? ’

‛ is anybody there? i need you. ’

‛ i need you. ’

‛ this may be the curtain call. ’

‛ does it matter anymore? ’

‛ i asked why. that’s why i say make a try. it’s only a play. ’

‛ that’s why i say make a try. ’

‛ it’s only a play. ’

LOVE HEALS.

‛ like a breath of midnight air. ’

‛ like a lighthouse, like a prayer. ’

‛ like a flicker and the flare the sky reveals. ’

‛ like a walk along the shore that you’ve walked a thousand times before. ’

‛ like the ocean roars, love heals. ’

‛ there are those who shield their heart. ’

‛ those who quit before they start. ’

‛ who’ve frozen up the part of them that feels. ’

‛ in the dark they’ve lost their sight, like a ship without a star in the night. ’

‛ but it’s alright. love heals. ’

‛ love heals when pain’s too much to bear. ’

‛ when you reach out your hand and only the wind is there. ’

‛ when life’s unfair, when things like us are not meant to be. love heals. ’

‛ when you feel so small like a grain of sand, like nothing at all. ’

‛ when you look out at the sea. that’s where love will be. ’

‛ that’s where love will be. ’

‛ that’s where you’ll find me. ’

‛ you’ll find me. ’

‛ so if you fear the storm ahead as you lie awake in bed. ’

‛ no one there to stroke your head and your mind reels. ’

‛ if your face is salty wet and you’re drowning in regret, just don’t forget. ’

‛ don’t forget. ’

‛ don’t forget love heals. ’

‛ love heals. ’

PIANO.

‛ when the world is a constant jumble and a wall or two decides to tumble. ’

‛ when i think i’m at the end of the line. ’

‛ when i think i’m at the end of the line, somehow i get to you in time. ’

‛ somehow i get to you in time. ’

‛ somehow i get through to you in time. ’

‛ oh piano, you saved my soul again. ’

‛ you saved my soul again. ’

‛ oh piano, you saved my soul, amen. ’

‛ you saved my soul, amen. ’

‛ i may not play like a concert man, but i got a song to sing. ’

‛ but i got a song to sing. ’

‛ i may not play like a concert man, but i got soul. ’

‛ but i got soul. ’

‛ piano, save my soul. ’

[aria-i-adagio]

This Body Breathes From Inertia

Fandom: The Arcana

Wordcount: 4100

Masterpost

Trigger warnings: minor character death, acute grief, self harm, excoriation, dissociation

Five years ago.  The Red Plague.

“You did everything you could.  Literally, I, uh, couldn’t have done anything else.”  The doctor was young, only a few years older than me, and skinny as a bean pole and with the slightest hint of an accent when he spoke the trade language.  Shouldn’t say that.  Everyone had an accent when they spoke the trade language.  That was the point of a trade language.  He had a faint non-Vesuvian accent when he spoke the trade language.  

He wasn’t wearing one of those ghastly masks.  Thank God for that - if God still deserved thanks.  I was more in a mood to lay into God with every invective I knew.  Anna, my aunt, hated those masks.  Claimed they wouldn’t do much more than just covering your mouth with a kerchief anyway.  In the three weeks since her eyes started turning red, I had burnt every kerchief in the house and then given up entirely, assuming that I’d sicken soon enough anyway.

“I’m sorry.”  He took a tiny vial out of his bag and offered it to me.  “Laudanum.  It might help if she’s in pain, but only give her a drop or two at a time.  Anymore will -”

“I have opium.”  I cut him off.  I’m a fucking apothecary; of course, I have opium.  And the implication behind carefully stating just how much would be too much, well, I understood that as well.  “And if I decide that she’d want me to end it, I can think of at least five other admixtures I have the ingredients for that would do the job as well.  Keep that for someone else.  It won’t be very long now anyway.”

He put the bottle back in his bag, talking quietly as he does so, perhaps just to fill the silence as it’s all common knowledge.  “The carts come round in the morning.  I know, if seems awful, but the mass graves, they’re the best way to minimize the contagion being passed on.  You should burn all that bedding too.”

I nodded absently and continued stroking the back of my aunt’s hand, counting the seconds between each increasingly shallow breath.  It didn’t seem awful; it was awful.  But he was right.  Even if the quarantines and the dead wagons - carting off the deceased like so many cattle - have down nothing thus far, they were the best of multiple bad options.

“Hey, do you, um, have anyone else?  Someone to help you, maybe.”

The doctor touched my shoulder, bringing me back from my grim musings.  I looked up at him, paying attention to his face for the first time.  Gray eyes, nearly lost in dark circles - he didn’t look like he’d slept more than I had in the past few weeks.  Friends?  I felt too empty to even think of myself as the type of thing that could have anything, much less friends.  There was Artemis, but she had been trying carefully to avoid the plague victims as much as she could.  It was too easy for her to spread the contagion to already vulnerable women and infants.  But I wanted Asra with me most.  “He’s traveling right now.”  I twisted the ring Asra gave me before he left - two trips ago, maybe, they blur together, he often seems like he’s gone more than he’s here - around on my finger.  He was supposed to return soon and bring with him some of the rarer herbs and medicines that we didn’t stock, that we hoped would do some more good for the plague than what we had tried some far.  But, he was too late.  As usual.  Always running late.

The doctor frowned, rummaged around in the pockets of his coat, and then handed me an unlabeled glass flask.  “For you.  Not officially approved, but it takes the edge off.”

I gave him a skeptical look.  This was not the sort of thing I expected from someone in ‘professional’ medicine.  But, what the hell?  I uncorked the bottle and took a swig, managing not to make a face as the liquor burnt its way down into my stomach.  My second drink was slower.  “It’s not bad.  I like a drink to bite me back, at least a little bit.  What is it?”

“Slivovitsa - plum brandy.  My grannies swear by it for basically everything.  Not that this is as good as theirs.”

I held the flask back out to him, but he shook his head.

“Keep it.”

Another cough racked Anna’s frail body - weaker than the last.  Any strength she had left to try and clear her lungs was fading fast.  I wrapped an arm around her shoulders and rearranged the pillows behind her so that she’s a bit more upright.  Once she’s settled, I held a shallow cup of water to her cracked lips and blotted away what she doesn’t drink - most of it, probably all of it - with a square of cloth.  Another for the burning pile.

When I look up, the doctor was still watching me with those exhausted gray eyes.  There weren’t a lot of sad eyes left in Vesuvia; we’d all become too acclimated to pain and death to show any response on our jaded faces.  But his eyes were curiously, somehow, still melancholic.

“You can go.  I know you can’t do anything.”

“I, uh, I’ll stop by tomorrow.  To check on you.”

“You don’t have to.  We all know how this ends.”

“I will anyway.”

***

A few hours past midnight, her eyes blinked open for a moment, then with a final rattling cough, she died.  I convinced myself that she had looked at me, and faintly, ever so very very faintly, had squeezed my hand.  Maybe it really happened, maybe it was a figment of my sleep deprived imagination.  But believing it made me feel a little better.

I arranged her limbs into something that vaguely looked peaceful, surrounded her with flowers we had dried the past summer - chamomile, lavender, and rose - and knotted the bedsheets into a shroud.   Finally, I gathered her up in my arms, using magic to steady my self on the steps, but taking her diminished weight on myself, sure that I needed to do this last task for her on my own.  Some final, last acknowledgement who she was to me, since I couldn’t bury her properly.  

When dawn came with the wagons to collect the dead, I pacing in front of the shop,  shawl pulled tight against the cool air that passes for winter in the Vesuvian climate, and counting the cobblestones in the street to try to keep the roaring in my head at bay.  As the wagon pulled away, the roaring terminated, and I slumped back against the door of the shop, knees no longer able to bear my weight and curled into a small, shaking bundle of sobs.     

I pulled myself up after a passer by poked me with a stick to see if I was still alive, and staggered back into the shop, into my home.  Forced myself to drink a cup of water.  I should sleep.  I knew that I should sleep.  But I also knew I would dream, and I could predict what those dreams would be.  I didn’t want them.

I started taking apart the upstairs bedroom instead.  By late afternoon, I’d tossed all the bedding from the window to the yard below and dragged it far enough away that I wouldn’t set the shop on fire by mistake.  I summoned a flame, more than I really needed for the pile to catch light, but I was sad and angry, and it felt good to destroy something.  

I watched it burn, then started shooing my chickens - so happily oblivious - into their coop for the night.  As I latched the gate shut on their enclosure, a voice called to me from the gate.  Auburn hair was just visible above the high fence - the doctor from last night?  He had said he’s come by, but I hadn’t believed him.  Certainly that had just been a nice thing to say at the time.  I pulled the gate and looked him up and down.  No uniform, and there’s a wrinkled dog tagging along at his heels.

“Hey, I said I’d check on you.”

“She’s dead.  I’m alive.  Thanks.”  My response bordered on rude - no, actually, quite rude - but I didn’t really care, even if he was trying to be kind.  I didn’t have the emotional reserves to respond in the way I knew that I should.

My answer didn’t seem to put him off.  “Can I, could I step in for a minute?  I wanted to talk to you.”

“Is your dog going to attack my chickens?”

He laughed, and it was an odd sound, almost shocking, maybe even scandalous, to hear laughter.  “Nah, I can promise that she’s too damn lazy to chase a chicken.”

I silently held the gate open for him, and he walked into the back yard.  The fire behind me has turned into a roaring blaze.  “Sorry, I didn’t get your name last night.”

“Oh, um, yeah, Julian Devorak.  You took me seriously about burning the bedding.”

“Yep.”  I folded myself into an ironwork chair.  Iron shouldn’t, couldn’t hold any of the plague.  In folktales iron would counteract the supernatural, quell it, and the longer this pestilence ravaged the city, the more rational accepting a fey, irrational origin for the suffering seemed.  Right?  Iron and fire.  Maybe those were the solutions.  “Cleaned out pretty much everything in that room.”    

“You did that all on your own?”  He sat down in the chair opposite of mine.  “I thought a neighbor or someone would -”

I gestured absently at the chair he’s sitting in and floated it a few inches off the ground.  Ah, yes, this isn’t a folktale and iron doesn’t counteract the supernatural.  Or at least iron doesn’t counteract my magic.  So much for the supernatural as a diagnosis and iron for a prescription.  Back to square one.  Death, lots of death, from an unexplained and untreatable illness.  

As the chair rose, the doctor grabbed the arms and yelped in surprise.  His dog gave me a disapproving look that I did deserve, and I gently let the chair settle back onto the ground.

“I’m not exactly helpless.”

“I see that.”  His face has gone paler, if that was even possible, at the display of magic.  “But still.  I’m sorry that you, uh, had to do that alone.”

“The slivovitsa helped.”  I pulled the bottle out of my shirt pocket and drank the last mouthful.  I’d also been nursing a bottle of whiskey all day, half expecting Anna to step into the room and inform me that day drinking is not a healthy coping strategy.  But she hadn’t.  Of course she hadn’t.  Staring at the fire, I shrugged out of the bulky shirt I had on a sleeveless blouse and tossed it in with everything else.  Despite the fire, the night air chilled me quickly and I wrapped my arms tight around my torso.  I should probably burn all the clothing I’d worn while cleaning, but I supposed that can wait until the doctor - until Julian - leaves.  “Thanks for that.”

“When is your husband getting back?”

“Husband?”  It was staccato and bitter, but I couldn’t help but laugh as I imagined Asra’s face at having that vocabulary applied to him.  His eyebrows would pull together for a moment, then the right one would lift in concert with the corner of his mouth curling in something halfway between amusement and disgust.

“Sorry, I assumed with the ring and you, uh, you said he.”

The alcohol in my blood said he was cute when him stammered.  Or at least, I blamed the alcohol.  

“You’re observant.”  I picked up a stick and poked at the embers.  “He is at best a term of convenience when talking about Asra.  And I don’t know what word you’d use for what we are.”  Lovers?  Non exclusive lovers - what’s the word for that?  Two people who keep coming home to each other, despite whoever and whatever else we got involved with in the interim.  I curled my free hand against my mouth, lips pressed against the ring I’m wearing.  “He should be home in the next week.  Should be.  Doesn’t mean he will be.  He gets distracted sometimes.”  Distracted is also not quite the right word for Asra, but again, I’m not sure what word you would use to explain his convoluted, occasionally non linear sense of time.

“They’ve closed down the port.  I hear they’re planning to seal off the city gates soon.”

“Oh, that won’t stop him.“  I sometimes suspected that Asra could pass through walls and step between mirrors if he so desired.  "Why are you here, Dr. Devorak?  I can’t imagine you take this much interest in the family of every person who dies.”

“I, well, I meant it when I said I thought you did everything you could, and I wanted to know more about what you used.”

“She’s still dead.”  One of the four universals, along with aloneness, lack of meaning, and the terrifying responsibility of free will.  But Death comes for us all, no matter the virtuous or unvirtuous choices we’ve made.  It bleaches them of meaning and abandons us in finitude.  Intellectualizing.  A coping mechanism.  Not always a good one.  But it’s something.

“Yes, but …”

Anna had survived for three weeks after her eyes turned red, instead of the handful of days most plague victims counted.  After watching her become slowly feebler and feebler before slipping into that last long coma, I wasn’t convinced that was a good thing.  Perhaps it was easier to go quickly.  But still, I sighed and began to rattle off what Anna and I tried - first for our neighbors and customers who had come developed then sickness, then for her.  “Boneset and willow bark for the fever and aches.  Start the tincture at the new moon so that it will draw out the active parts of the plant.  Pleurisy root and horehound for the cough and the lung congestion as a oxymel.  A salve of ginger, arnica, and comfrey for swollen joints.  Those should be extracted into an oil while the moon is waning.  I use spellwork to complement the herbs, some of which I can attach to charms, some of which I have to be present to work.  All of that only treats the symptoms.  We tried echinacea and elderberry to build immune systems, but it didn’t work.  I found a reference to an herb from the west that supposedly cured a plague there, but -”  I shrugged, it was a folktale in an old book, not a solid lead.  But library research was one of the things I knew I was good at, and lately I wasn’t feeling very confident in my ability to do anything.  “Asra is supposed to bring some back with him.  But none of it really seems to do any good.  Is there anything else you want to know?”

“I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“I’m not upset.  I’m exhausted.”  The dog pushed her head into my hands, and I rubbed her velvety ears absently before pressing my face against her warm body, trying to fight back the tears that I had kept myself from crying for the entire day.  “And the only family that gave a damn about me just died, so excuse me if my conversation skills are lacking.”  I hadn’t heard from the rest of my family in years … not since … well, perhaps I couldn’t blame them.  My mother had - apparently - given up after the third letter I didn’t respond to.  My father had sent a book of sacred texts, littered with notes on scrap paper after I had first come to live with Anna, but nothing since.

He was silent for a minute, then I heard the chair shift as he stood up.  His hand was warm - more comforting than I could admit I wanted - when he placed it on my shoulder.  “Listen.  Just, uh, think about this.  When you’re ready, I could use an assistant, preferably someone who knows something, because nothing I’ve tried works either.”

 I angrily wiped tears away from my eyes.  “What would be the point?  No one recovers from this.”

“I want to be the kind of person who at least tries.”  He squeezed my shoulder and without thinking, my head fell against his arm.  He moved again, kneeling behind the chair until he could wrap both of his arms around me in an awkward, surprisingly welcome hug.  “Just think about it, okay?”

***

I scrubbed the shop: attic to basement.  Hot water and strong vinegar until the skin started to peel from my fingers.  Scalded every piece of fabric I could in the washtub.  Laid the cushions and blankets out for the sun to purify then dragged them all back in.  Paced around the shop with burning sage and hyssop.   I filled the tub with water as hot as I could stand and crawled in, worrying at my hands and arms with a pumice stone until the abrasions began to bleed, like the day bleeding into the night then back again.  And when I couldn’t lift another finger, I fell out on the cushions in the backroom and waited, staring at the ceiling for hours until I thought of something I might forgotten to clean, to burn, to purify.  And then I did it.  First time, second time, third, fifth, eighth - it didn’t matter, so long as it was something to keep the silence beginning to scream again, echoing, roaring like the sea trapped within a conch shell.

Lies.  It was screaming the whole time.

I tried not to close my eyes.

If I closed them, I’d lose grasp on this reality.

This reality because I’m not sure which reality is more real right now.

If I closed my eyes the fey aching tracings are my arms become more real.

Past tense confused with present tense with future tense.  No.  Past perfect.

Fait accompli.

It won’t change anything if I drag a knife along those lines.  They’re already there.

Except I wouldn’t be lying anymore.  Pretending to be something I’m not.  Faking being healed and whole instead of the accumulation of broken parts, the exquisite corpse that I actually am.  No more lies.  Just the nightmare they hide.

But if I kept my eyes open - keep looking for new details in the tapestry on the wall, the brocade of the cushion in clutching, keep looking at anything - those lines are a trick of my mind.  Didn’t happen again.  A misfiring, misrepresentation of something in my brain.  Somatization.  

There are more words, better words, for this reality.  Maybe that makes it the more real one?  If I don’t lose words, I don’t lose this reality.  Derealization.  Dissociation. Depersonalization.  Mad.  Lunatic.  Liar.

No, those aren’t good words.  Real.  But not good.

Real is what I touch.  Fabric.  Wool.  Linen.  Silk.  Cotton.  Jacquard.  Twill.  Herringbone.  Velvet.  Flannelette.  Knit.

I could keep the other reality at bay.  Just barely.  It’s roaring, pacing at the limits.  A lion in a too small cage.  

Cross stitch.  Silk stitch.  French knots.  Applique.  Blanket stitch.  Crow’s foot tack.

But if I don’t close my eyes it won’t take over.  Not yet.  Not already.

Just a little while longer.  Just keep my eyes open a little bit longer.

I think it was the third day that Asra came home.  I was buried under a pile of blankets in the backroom, dozing.  I half roused when his dropped his bundles on the floor, and then his hands were on my shoulders, pulling me upright, pushing hair back out of my face.  “Dema?”  

“She’s dead.  She’s dead, and you weren’t here, and I’ve been alone, and, and …”

“She?  Anna?”  Asra gathered me into his arms.  “Oh.”  He rocked back and forth, pressing his face into the top of my head.  Faust, cool and smooth, wrapped around my shoulders.  Asra shook with the sobs that I had cried out days before day.

At some point, curled together in a little pile of misery, we fell asleep.

He was checking my arms when I wake up.  I couldn’t blame him, and his hands on mine felt more soothing than anything else.  I smiled at him weakly.  "No cuts.  No burns.”  It wasn’t exactly something I should feel accomplished about.  The scrapes from pumice stones were bad enough.  But I did.

“Oh, dear heart.  I’m so sorry.”  He kissed the this of my fingers and the inside of my wrist.  “Can I -?”  I closed my eyes and nodded.  He methodically ran his thumb over each of the scrapes.  The places he touched grew warm for a moment as the skin knitted itself back together.  He settled himself against me, head resting on my breast, and I sighed and ran my hands through his soft hair.

“I made it.  Kind of, at least.”

“You did.  I can hear your heart beating.”

“I finally just laid in here and went through all the different fibers and weaves and stitches.”

“Heh."  He pressed his lips softly against my collarbone.  "I’m glad there are so damn many fabrics in here then.  You’re stronger than you think you are.”

“I’m just a stubborn bitch.”

“Whatever works, my love.”  His fingertips traced along my arm.  I buried my hand in his hair and kneaded my fingers along his scalp.

“I’m sorry, Asra.  I know she was important to you too.” 

“What are you sorry for?”

“Losing it like that.”

He was silent for a moment, fingertips still tracing small circles on my upper arm.  “I understand.  I should have been here.”

“No, no,  You didn’t even know she was sick.  It was just hard.”

“I know.”  He kissed my collarbone again.  “You’re shaking.  When did you last eat?”

My response was more of a noncommittal noise than an answer.  Asra sat back up next to me and runs a hand over my forehead.  "Dema, is there any food in the house?“

"I -"  I tried to remember when I ate.  I couldn’t.  I wasn’t even exactly sure how many days had passed.  I thought I had kept the chickens fed.  I hoped I had kept the chickens fed and watered.  I really didn’t know.  Shit … they might have started eating each other.  They’d do that.  "I’m sorry, I don’t know, I -”

“Sh, it’s okay, love.  It’s fine.”  He leaned down and pressed his forehead to mine.  “I’m going to go upstairs, make some tea, and see if I can find something for you to nibble on, then I’ll go to the market and bring back something good."  Another kiss.  "It’s alright.”

“Asra -” I grabbed at his hands, panicking, afraid that if he left the room again, he wouldn’t be back, wouldn’t have actually been here at all.  “Don’t -”

“Come upstairs with me.” I sat up and curled around my knees, shaking my head.  I wasn’t ready to go back up there, to the stripped and barren space that had been home.  Either cleaning it hadn’t removed the ghosts, or it had sent them away, and I wasn’t sure which idea was more frightening.  I didn’t want to know which it is.  Until I know, until I go back up there, the state is both and neither, and perhaps the space can hold the ghosts of better memories while being purged of those last few weeks.

“Faust.”  Asra said his familiar’s name softly and the snake slid into my lap, a welcome weight.  I ran my fingers over her very real head.  Faust was here, so Asra was here.  Simple math.  “Faust will stay with you.  I’ll be right back, promise.”

I nodded and lifted Faust from my lap, draping her around my neck.  I wish she could talk to be like she does Asra, but just having her with me helps.  “I’m, I’m going to go wash my face.”

“That’s good.” Asra grabbed my hand and pulled me to my feet, looking concerned at my unsteady gait.  I kept a hand on the wall and managed a wan smile for him.  The washroom is on the ground floor, I least won’t have to manage any stairs.  Asra nodded.  “Alright,  I’ll be right back down.”

I splashed some cool water on my face and run my fingers through my hair a few times before stumbling back into my room with its nest of cushions.  Asra isn’t long with a steaming teapot in one hand and a mug in the other.  He set the teapot near me on the floor and pressed the mug into my hands.  Chamomile.  With quite a lot of honey in.

“There isn’t any food left in the house.”  

“Sorry, I might have thrown it all out.  Along with everything else.”

He fumbled through his traveling bag for some coin.  “It’s alright, but I’ve got to go down to the market and get something.”  My fingers tightened around the warm mug.  “Faust will stay with you.  I won’t be gone but for a few minutes.”

I closed my eyes and nodded trying to focus on the warmth of the tea in my hands and the cool weight of Faust draped around my shoulder, but I couldn’t quite slow my breathing.  His hand is on the latch when I open them.  “Asra.”  He stopped and turning before stepping back over to me and leaning down to press his lips to my forehead.  

“I will never not come back to you, dear heart.  I promise.”  His fingertips traced over my jaw.  “And I won’t be long.  Just a few minutes.

***

I reopened the shop a week after Asra returned.  One person knocked on the door to see if I had any herbs left, and then slowly, more people wandered in - more than I thought would have braved the specter of a plague death.  But then, there wasn’t much of anywhere left in the city that wasn’t sepulchral by that point. 

One visitor was the doctor.

Asra was out of the shop, trying to track down honey.  I had run out, and while most of the herbs for coughs were still useful without it, they really did do best compounded in a oxymel.  Having Asra back was a help.  He kept me from tearing up my hands in the hope of cleaning them, generally by holding me tight against him until the impulse had passed.  And he at least got me to sleep through part of the night in addition to naps throughout the day.  

The doctor waited patiently, studying the intricate diagrams with which Anna had decorated the shop, while I explained a charm to a customer.  Customer might not have been the right term.  Anna and I had stopped charging for anything related to treating the plague weeks before.  I wrapped the enchanted trinket -  it didn’t especially matter what I embedded the spell in - the cheapest charm from the market would do as well as the most valuable jewelry - up in paper, and the customer left, doorbell ringing behind them.

“Can I get you something Dr - uhm.”  My voice trailed off as I blanked entirely on his name.

He winked at me and smiled.  “Just call me Julian.  No, I just wanted to check on you.  And thank you.”

“For what?”  I smoothed the remaining sigils from the sand tray I used for spellwork and lined the styluses up in the slots above it.  

“The, um, suggestions you gave me.  They’ve been helping.  Really, more than anything else I was trying.”

“But not a cure,” I said softly as I stepped out from behind the counter.

“No.  But it’s more than what I had to work with before.”  He looked away from me, back to one of the geometric designs on the wall.  “Have you thought about it?”

He began to trace the pattern on the diagram; I pushed his hand away from it.  The lines were part of an array for recombining the energies of various substances.  Anna really shouldn’t have put them on the wall where a curious person could unknowing activate them, even if it was a rather attractive diagram.  

“About what?”  

“Working with me.  I meant it when I said I could use your help.”

“I … actually, I had forgotten.”

“It’s okay.  You’ve been -”

“- but I will.  Think about it, I mean.”

He smiled again.  Lopsided, the left corner of his mouth picking up a moment before the right.  “I’m glad to hear that.  Here.”  He extended his hand, offering me a folded square of paper.  “That’s the address of the clinic I run.  South side.”

I tucked the paper into my pocket.  “I’ll think about it.  Really.”

“I’ll just hope I see you again then.  Soon, maybe.”

Chapter Ten

A/N: This chapter title is taken from a song by the Russian groups Bi-2 and Agata Kristi, ‘Vse kak on skazal.’  The video is actually pretty cool even if you don’t know Russian.