#Triggering story

[inbabylontheywept]

i once accidentally dated someone for a few months. its very difficult to explain how this happened, but the gist is that i thought we were hanging out, and she thought we were on dates, and it was just a very painfully highschool thing.

she was a little bit confused that i hadnt tried to pull any moves, at all, even a little. like, didnt even try holding hands because, and i cannot emphasize this enough, i did not know we were dating.

so, halloween rolled around, and she thought, you know, why wait for destiny, when you can grab it? so she hit me with a clue by four.

babylon, she said. babylon. my mom's gonna be out of town on halloween, and im gonna have the house to myself, and it's going to be kind of lonely. would you like to come to my house and watch scary movies with me?

you know, kind of a netflix and chill thing. except, and i cannot emphasize this enough, i did not know we were dating. also autism. so i took it at face value and said: oh! yeah! thatd be fun! and she thought she got her point across, but she didnt and it was a mess.

skip forward to halloween: my family has a block party every year, right? and at that point i was too old to really trick or treat, but we still wore costumes for our role in the block party, which in my case, was handing out cotton candy. so i took the first shift, and my costume was this homemade abomination minion thing. i had full yellow body paint, and goggles, and a bald cap, and overalls. the kids who saw it were like, uh, hm. overly realistic minion. and adults were like, oh, some kind of hills have eyes hillbilly with jaundice. very scary.

(it was not my best costume.)

my little brother swapped me out for second shift, and i was getting ready to change out to head to her house when i was like: no, she'll get a real kick out of this. this is one of the worst things i have ever worn. so i kept it on and just brought a change of clothes thinking i could shower real quick and change at her place after she saw my nightmare getup.

so i left after that, got there, knocked on her door, and she said come on in. so i went in, and there was this very long hall with an abrupt right turn into her living room where the tv was, and i went down the hall, and i made the turn, and my field of view went from beige drywal to her, on the couch, naked. naked in the paint me like one of your french girls pose. super naked.

i panicked. this was my first time seeing a real person like, full on sex naked,which is a totally different beast from other kinds of naked. you see one kind of naked and you think yeah, im ready for all the kinds of naked, but you arent. i wasnt at least. i really wasn't.

so my brain crashed to BIOS. she also crashed to BIOS, but for different reasons. of all the ways this could have turned me, having me show up in yellow body paint and overalls was pretty pretty low down the list.

so we sat there a while, and you know, she wasn't getting any less naked, which really wasn't helping me get my brain sorted out. it really wasnt much of a surprise when she got her bearings first and started asking questions.

"babylon," she said. "babylon. what are you wearing?"

and i was like, kind of rebooted, but i was nowhere near full functionality, so symbolic language wasnt loaded in yet. i had nothing running but my trusty autism.exe, so i said

"overalls"

and she looked at me like i was the dumbest person in the entire world, and i looked at her like she was the first naked person i had seen in real life who got naked specifically for me, and my upper level cognitive process went: "listen man, we are not going to get our shit together as long as 80% of your brain power is devoted to not blinking. you gotta get out of here."

and if id communicated that, maybe things would have been less of a mess, but instead i just kind of turned around and walked back to my car. i figured i could drive a few loops around the block, get my brain in order, and figure out what the hell we were gonna do.

the only thing i had said to her since arriving was, again, overalls.

first loop around, i was like: oh god fucking damnit. oh shit. oh shit. shes gonna get like, an eating disorder from this. oh no.

second loop around i was like: oh NOOOOO oh WHAT THE FUCK oh SWEET JESUS PLEASE. i dont wanna go back man. i just wanna bury this and forget about it. please. please. let this bitter cup pass from my lips.

and after my third loop, i went and i knocked on her door again.

she answered it this time, and i counted my lucky stars that she'd changed into some pajamas. she was all teary eyed which was the saddest thing ever, and we sat down in her kitchen and talked. it was pretty bad - i figured out we'd been dating, and she figured out that trying to jump from home plate to 3rd base is considered ballsy in baseball, least of all dating. no real winners there. and i can remember after all that, we sat there a bit a bit longer, just steadying ourselves, and i was like "well, im actually really glad we figured that out. guess i'll see you at school tomorow' and she said "WAIT. wait."

"lets watch shrek 2."

so we did and it was horrible. we did not look at each other. we did not say a word. we just sat in stony silence, while shrek 2 played in the background, and when it was done we shook hands. i think we might have been able to salvage that as a friendship if it hadnt been for shrek. as it was she turned white as a sheet and ran away every time she even got a glimpse of me at school, and that summer she moved to a new state to live with her dad. all her friends said she moved just so she wouldn't have to go to school with me anymore, and i dont actually think they were lying.

every time i hear relationship counselors talk about how important communication is, and i'm tempted to roll my eyes, i look back and go, alright. alright. theres probably some poor bastard, somewhere in the world, who doesnt even know that hes married.

and god help him when he figures it out.

other bad dating story here.

[sarahdogoc80]

My Cancer Journey

Note: To protect myself and my family names will be changed. And I might leave some events vague because either I don't remember in full or for privacy reasons. TW : Cancer, Hospitals, parental abuse, suicidal thoughts, religious confusion.

When I was three I was diagnosed with rhabdomyosarcoma. This cancer is in the soft tissue of the foot and hands. It was in my left foot. When I was three I had tripped over a manga doodle. Due to the cancer making it to the bone it had started eating it causing it to be weaker thus easily broken. My mom had noticed the tumor and kept taking me to the doctors but they said it was normal swelling due to the broken bone. Around this time my parents were fighting. And my dad had kidnapped me to psychologically attack my mom. My dad would purposely drive into the driveway with the car door lock and laugh as me and my mom cried and tired to get to each other. The only reason my mom got me back was because my dad had missed an appointment my mom made months ago. That appointment would have told them I had cancer. But at the time they didn't know it was cancer but it was an important appointment my dad had technical kept me from. So my mom's parents managed to get a lawyer and get me back. When she got me back I had lice and a bad diaper rash.

When my mom found out I had cancer she was extremely vulnerable and my dad realized how bad he messed up so took advantage of my mom to drop the charges as he was looking at prison time. He pulled the I want to be with my daughter before she could die. So all he was charged with was parental interference.

He loved me so much that when they were told my parents they had to pay for the first round of chemo. My dad didn't want to pay for it and insed wanted to pay for my mom's fertility treatment. So he guilt tripped my grandma (she felt responsible for my cancer because I broke my ankle at her house. ). So my dad told her she had to pay for it and acted like he didn't have the money. So my grandma sold her car took up a second job and even begged her mother for money. To note my great grandma gladly gave my grandma the money as it was for my cancer treatment. My grandma just didn't want to ask he mother for money because she had to financially help my grandma though her whole terrible marriage. Because my grandpa was an ass at the time. But once my grandma got the money she was helping my mom clean my parents bed room and they found around 100,000 dollars in 2003 money, in shoe boxes. When my mom confronted my dad he said it was for my mom's fertility treatment because he needed a son. So because I was born with the wrong genitals my dad didn't care if I lived or died. And just used me as a pawn to hurt my mom.

My dad was hardly there my whole treatment. My mom said it's because he was always working which is true but he also just doesn't view me as valuable because in Mexican culture the boys are what matter. My dad later in my life said he wasn't going to waste his time on me because I was a girl and all I was going to be was someone else wife. My mom did get pregnant and she had my little brother. I wanted my brother. I even told the nurse who was doing the ultrasound I hope it's a boy because if it was a girl I'd throw her in the trash (I was three I didn't understand what I was saying... But I wonder why I had this opinion hmmm). Dispite dying of cancer I wanted to help my mom with my brother and we were inseparable.

During my chemo we found out I can't handle regular anesthesia. We found this out after the first time they put me under to I think either to do a biopsy or drill into my hips to make sure the cancer wasn't else were. While I'm a twilight state (my eyes were closed and I wasn't aware) I tried jumping out the car window on the highway as it started wearing off. My mom had to hold me down in the backseat because I kept insisting I had to jump out the window. This so a genetic disorder which mostly effects people with blue eyes. And while I had brown eyes my mom had blues eyes and also had this problem. An example is my mom while out for her hysterectomy she "woke up" during her surgery and said she had to pick me and my brother up from school. The doctor has to hold her down because she started getting violent. She wasn't aware of this and doesn't remember doing it. But we have this problem so when they had to put me out for surgery or just to get an MRI as I was very combative thought my whole chemo process. They had to use propofol (the stuff that killed Michel Jackson). And because this was 2003-2006 they had to have one the the nurses pump the breather by hand.

When my parents were discussing my treatment plan the children's hospital almost took my parents to court because they didn't want to do radiation treatment and just chemo. My parents said if they did radiation it would destroy my leg and foot and they'd have to amputate. Which was unacceptable to my dad. My parents wanted me to keep the foot and leg no matter what. As my dad didn't want a physical disabled kid. So they went with this very experimental treatment plan. Due to this being experimental my mom let them write about my case so long as they censor my name. So my treatment was used to help other kids.

Unfortunately in my teens I felt extremely guilty about this because I am in so much pain and the thought of this being inflicted on another kid hurt me. Infact I came face to face with this . Dispite my cancer being rare in 10th grade a girl in my school system was diagnosed with the same cancer and I had a mental breakdown. Because I met her (thought I didn't tell her I had the same cancer not that my research was going to be used to help her) but seeing her so hopefully and happy that she might survive. I just cried and cried because I didn't want this girl to be in as much pain as I was in. Especially because the opioid epidemic hit... So all I could get was lyrica and while it helped I was still in chronic pain. And the thought of her having to endure this just broke me. I started hating the whole medical system, resending I was considered a success case and that because I lived it was concerned a good treatment plan. I wrote several suicide notes outlining my pain and how the pain controlled and ruined my life. And I just wanted to kill myself because I thought if I did then they would have to consider it a failure and rethink how they treated it. I was in a dark place and I thought i would save this girl the pain if I just died. I never went thought with it though because my brother needed me and even though I was in an awful home life. I cared more about him then some girl I didn't know. I moved away from my home town so idk if she even survived but I hope she did and I hope they treated her better. And she is happy.

Back to 2003. I was very combative my whole chemo treatment causing me to have to be sedated or held down alot. While I didn't know the full scope of my ordeal I knew the chemo was killing me. And to watch my mother hold me down while injecting me with poison caused a lot of trauma. And because my parents hated therapy I never went after chemo even though the doctor said I should. But that also damaged my relationship with my mother because I knew the chemo was hurting me and to also see doctors doing this made me resent doctors my whole childhood. Thought because of this headstrong attitude I also told the hospital I didn't want a wig. My mom said I said quote "I don't care if I'm bald the other kids don't have to play me." Or something along those lines. Now I called a couple years ago so I don't remember which organization it was. But I very clearly remember a make a wish type organization coming to grand me a wish. My parents were excited because hey thought I was going to say Disneyland. But when I said I wanted to go to college to be a CSI agent or help murdered children they were pissed. After chemo when I wanted to go to Disneyland. My dad said I should have used my wish then if I wanted to go so badly. I would have wished for that if I really wanted to go. Supposably this organization has an education trust set up for me. But due to a flood my parents lost the paperwork, and no bank I call or make a wish type organization I call says they granted me a wish. So I don't know what happened to that.

Something I need to note is I was a child raised in a racist house. Yes dispite me being biracial both my parents were still racist towards each other races and others. So when a basketball star I think it was Lebron James but I could be wrong as I don't know Basketball stars. Came to the hospital to meet the children and their parents. My dad was a huge basketball fan. So when LeBron tried approaching me to give me a signed basketball I ran to my parents and refused to take it. My dad asked why I didn't want it(because he wanted the ball) I apparently told LeBron to his face I wasn't taking the ball from him because he was black. All the parents and nurses stared at my parents who left with me in "shame". When really it was because I did that out loud and embarrassed them and didn't just take the ball. Note: they didn't correct this racism at all. I had to correct myself and learn about other races when I got older. So I don't still hold any of these beliefs but I am being honest with how I was as a kid.

My parents did take one vacation on their own dime (I think) to Canada to go visit Hershey Park in the beginning of my treatment. But otherwise I was either at the hospital or home

My mom also started cheating on my dad at this time and bringing home her partner when he was at work. Looking back this really grosses me out. She just had my brother and I was dying yet she couldn't control herself for a couple years. And worse she bring them over to the house. I have no clue how she squeezed in cheating after having a baby with digestive issues and the other one is on chemo. But whatever.

My chemo is a blur and mostly just remember it as trama.

I guess a "funny" story is at the start of my chemo my grandpa noticed I wasn't eating and kept throwing up. So when he went to get my brother medication from a Native American friend of his (note: this friend was a Native American herbalist medicine doctor of some kind (sorry idk the correct term) in Arizona he gave my brother essentially probiotics (before they because main stream) to give him some gut bacteria my brother was missing. Honest to God they were going to cut my brother open to see what the problem was. And a week before the surgery my grandpa started giving my brother the powder and his stomach problems stopped.) Something else he got from this friend was a weed brownie. My grandpa was a hippie so he knew what weed was and knew what he was giving me. After I ate it my mom said I was eating like I hadn't in over a year, was laughing and spinning around. My mom asked what was up with me and my grandpa (her dad) laughed and said it was a weed brownie. Note my parents are both huge pot smokers infact my nickname is weed related. Lol. My mom was pissed because she was worried about it coming up in a blood test (the hospital never found out).

I also hate morphine. I still do. I would only take Tylenol at home for the pain. But at the hospital that was what they give me. This is were I learned to lie. Because I have a distinct memory of a nurse coming in to ask if I was in pain and that she'd make it stop. No one listened when I said as a kid I didn't like what they gave me for pain. So I started lying about not being in pain so they wouldn't give me morphine. No matter how much pain I was in I hid it so they wouldn't give me morphine. So that was a disaster. They started giving me I think liquid Percocet when I was in remission which I liked because it didn't make me feel like death and actually helped my pain.

Once they removed the tumor they tried giving me a walker and wanted me in physical therapy. Now I don't know if this was because the doctor weren't 100 sure about what they did to my foot and how it would affect me. Or the Physical therapist didn't get some notes. But they were trying to get me to do stuff I just physical couldn't do anymore or were extremely painful. So I started just sitting there and refusing to to anything because no one was listening and I wasn't going it be put though this. So I stopped going and taught myself to walk again my mom said. As for the walker they gave me I used it once then threw it behind our couch and never used it again.

Now I need to note I am an atheist (specifically part of the Satanic Temple) so I'm not trying to make this a religious thing but I'm telling you what I experienced. During my chemo another family member had his cancer come back. He was named Uncle N (not saying his real name). I became very close to him because we could understand each other. I remember we'd eat grape popsicles together. He was very old when I was born. He is like my great uncle. But the night I went into surgery he died. And even is believed to have died during my surgery. I was pronounced legally dead for 5 seconds during the surgery. I remember watching my own surgery. Then Uncle N came in. I was excited to see him. He told me it was his time to go and wanted to say goodbye. He told me to not give up. That it wasn't my time. And that everything would be okay. That he would watch over me. I was a little confused and sad and he told me he loved me and it was about time to wake up. I woke up with my family surrounding me smiling but I started crying saying uncle N died. They were all confused and said he was fine. My mom left her cell phone in the car and went to go get so I could call him and tell him they got the cancerous tumor out. When my mom came back she was crying and said uncle N was actually dead. My mom then asked how I knew. I said he visited me before I woke up. She wasn't really listening and everyone stepped out to cry. The nurses tried making me feel better all pitched in and brought me a fish cake later that day. Idk what I experienced. Idk if it was just the brain doing it's thing. But it felt real to me.

This is all I can write right now as I am crying. But if you have any questions feel free to ask. And I will definitely be going into detail about my life and how I was living in cancer's shadow. If you made it though thank you for listening.

[cheesemenace]

Everything Has A Memory

Chapter 4 - Tempest

Air was sharply sucked into my lungs. My hands tried to find anchor on the smooth surface of the floor, scratching, scraping, and pawing at the cold gloss. But to no avail. 

        What the hell was that? 

        My body calmed its erratic movements as the fright lessened, but my mind is never quiet.

        I was somehow able to witness the event before my current situation… How? It doesn’t make any sense. Was it something to do with what I had been doing before? Maybe the place I touched on my arm? The vision- or whatever that was- ended when the wire planted in my skin… So maybe, just maybe. 

        I turned towards my wire pierced arm once again. My blood jeweled hand shook as it moved. So much blood. My vision blurred for a second. Focused. Unfocused. Color blurred together, solidified, only to blur once again. Sweat seeped through the roots of my hair and formed at my forehead. I gagged. 

        The room started to spin.

        Nausea.

        Probably from traveling through the white space. The blood didn’t help either.

        My insides felt like they were turning within my skin as if I were placed in the belly of a ship being sacrificed to the harsh waves of the sea. 

0.7 pages · 209 words

[californiannostalgia]

when a story has a predestined ending and you thought you already knew who the characters would become, but then you're hit with the fact that no, you actually didn't know these characters at all, they were unknowable to you until this very moment when a larger portion of their life has been revealed to you, and you realize, abruptly, that they had lives and losses and the aching desperation of a love they guarded with every piece of stubborn will they could muster, and the unknowable is suddenly rendered sublime for its opacity

[jahdefender]

So I found this posted to reddit and I wanted to share it here because I'm sure there are some fans who haven't seen the Adventures Bible stuff. (I had not so this is just referencing myself)

[spirk-trek]

Nightvisions Fanzine & Novel | Merle Decker, Signe Landon (1979)

Nightvisions, by Susan K. James and Carol A. Frisbie, is one of the first standalone k/s novels published in a zine. It can be read in full here!

[rebouks]

Previous // Next

Penny: [huffs] What now? Levi: Déjà vu much. Penny: Shut up.

UNIDENTIFIED RETINA – ACCESS DENIED

Aster: Woah. Penny: Don’t suppose you can pick that? [Robin scoffed, shaking his head]

Jacob: Maybe one of these bodies would work. Levi: Jesus, no one’s dragging a dead body around-.. besides, the eyes are the first to rot. Tess: EW-.. how do you know that?

Levi: It’s basic anatomy! Aster: Nerd. Penny: Lol.

RETINA IDENTIFIED – ACCESS GRANTED

Levi: What the fuck, Robin?! Robin: I didn’t do anything! Jacob: You didn’t hack it?

Robin: No, I just looked at it! [Levi squinted suspiciously] Robin: What?! It’s not like I’ve been here before.

Levi: If you say so. Jacob: Pretty weird, either way. Penny: Whatever, let’s keep going.

…

Penny: [groans] This place is even more disgusting than the last. Aster: Yeah.. if this is a prank, I’m way over it. Penny: Same.

Robin: Well, we’re stuck here until we find a way out. Tess: Great. Jacob: C’mon, let’s sit down for a sec…

[electricity humming]

[racke7]

Ectoplasm and Jason Todd

Danny is wandering around Gotham (visiting, chasing a ghost, running from GIW, attending college, etc) and stumbles across Jason.

Jason who is flaring his ecto-signature like a madman (is he trying to get into trouble?).

Danny drags the guy into a nearby alley to give the guy some kind of crash-course on how not to do that.

Jason isn't sure why this guy grabbed him and dragged him into an alley, but if it's a fight he wants, Jason would be able to fight more freely in an alley, so he doesn't struggle. (Does he know that Jason is Red Hood? Does he think that Jason is a random civilian? Is it just him, or does this guy have really cold hands?)

Jason isn't sure why this guy is now trying to... ask him to meditate? The fuck is going on? But if it's not a fight, then... maybe it's fine to just listen to the weirdo? Taking a few deep breaths isn't going to hurt him.

Danny is very proud of himself for guiding the ecto-flaring guy through how to not flare his ecto-signature. He's such a good teacher.

And then Jason collapses.

Turns out, Jason has been using his anger to create a feedback-loop that artificially raises his ectoplasm-levels.

Ghosts need ectoplasm to live, but they'll also produce ectoplasm when feeling strong emotions. For most ghosts, this a bit like saying "everyone needs a good cry every now and then". For Jason, he's been basically aiming a gun at his own face for the adrenaline-rush. Constantly.

So, Danny is now holding onto a barely-conscious person who desperately needs more ectoplasm. As in, this is a medical emergency, and every second probably counts.

Danny, being that he wasn't planning on needing to carry around some kind of ectoplasm-container at all times (who the fuck does that? His parents, that's who), is now desperately trying to problem-solve this.

Danny realizes that, actually, even in his human form? Danny has a lot of ectoplasm in his body. Enough that he could probably save this guy by... feeding him his blood.

Cue intimately sexy reverse-vampire scene.

And oh boy, if Danny's blood doesn't taste fantastic to Jason's ecto-starved self.

[gunsatthaphan]

"I just haven't found the right person for me."

[keywhole]

ok crawling out of my cave rq bc this is driving me crazy (mouthwashing spoilers since this game is kinda new at the time of posting) i see you guys supporting and loving anya as you should but we all have to consider something. especially the people who don’t like anya because “how can u be a nurse and be afraid of blood 🙄” hey do you remember she’s pregnant. do you know that adds to the the mass of her nausea. do you know within this game she is 2+ months pregnant. do you know what that does to someone psychologically. not only that, but she is in a literal nightmare scenario. i feel like not enough people are talking about what that can do to anya’s psychology and how she deals with certain things

[swift-kwikster]

A comic about Sam and Max being trans guys, taking place at Sam's old job as a stewardess before he transitioned. Being that it's Sam & Max, weird ridiculous hijinks ensure.

So... After two years of working on this on and off, it's finished! I had posted pages as I was making them on here before but those posts are no longer on my blog- I actually redid most of the pages with new jokes and panels, and fixed a lot. I'm really proud of how far this has come. :)

Please reblog if you can if you like it, so more can see it! It'd mean so much! Thank you. <3

[vgadvisor]

[saaraofthesand]

of course, the essentials: power, skill, strategy, and Canadians

[gameraboy2]

"Loose Tongues Mean Hot Triggers" 10 Story Western Magazine, July 1950 Cover by Norman Saunders

[arandomidiot]

Someone should probably help him

Also I finished trigger happy havoc yesterday it was so hype I loved it I will play goodbye despair tomorrow very hyped I love all the characters in that game‼️‼️‼️

[ghost-proofbaby]

never love an anchor (e.m. x reader)

"On some level, I think I always understood that a ship could never really love an anchor."

warnings: severe hurt/brief comfort, suicidal ideations, severely depressed reader. again: detailed recount of suicidal ideations. dead dove: do not eat.

wc: 5.8k+

an: i cannot emphasize this enough - this fic deals with a severely depressed, and blatantly suicidal reader. it is extremely heavy. it is extremely triggering. it is extremely self-indulgent. the romance aspect is ambiguous and the comfort aspect at the end is brief. this is a genuine, and sincerely personal piece of writing. it is an outline of how suicidal ideations may present themselves to some people. of these 5k words, 4k is deeply littered with reader's ideations without sugar coating. please, please, please do not read this unless you're in the state of mind to read it. you've surely heard it before but i'll say it just to be sure: it is a permanent solution for temporary feelings. and, just in case no one has told you, i'm glad you're alive. if you're reading this, i'm glad that you're alive. you're enough.

if you find yourself feeling like reader, i urge that you find resources such as those linked. hotlines, therapists, friends, your doctor, your family - please. i do not wish these emotions upon anyone, and they should never be taken lightly.

that being said, here are my guts from a very vulnerable moment, spilled out across the page. please handle them with care if you choose to read.

Technically speaking, the pressure that the human body is capable of handling almost seems infinite. When introduced slowly, and time is given to adjust, there is no pinpointed amount of pressure that dooms the human body. Like a crab in slow boiling water, your body should be theoretically able to handle a steady increase, bit by bit, and never truly notice. 

So why does it currently feel like you’re dying?

The pressure was never an overnight thing. It was a conglomeration you’d gathered, piece by piece, collecting little souvenirs of all the responsibilities you can’t currently remember if you’d ever agreed to along the way. It hadn’t been sudden, it hadn’t been with lack of adjusting, it hadn’t been a pressure suddenly unloaded upon you all at once – you’d done this, brick by brick, all with your own two hands. 

Keeping up with friends, keeping up with work, keeping up with expectations. Always trying to run ahead of the curve, always trying to be better. You should be fine. You shouldn’t even notice. You shouldn’t be sobbing on your bathroom floor, clutching the edge of your porcelain tub, every single breath a labor of survival. 

It feels like every bone in your body is splintering. It feels like the world has cracked open your ribs, one by one, just for show. You don’t feel poetic like the movies, you don’t feel like a valuable lesson learned in the books. You feel as though you’ve become nothing more than some crude display in a contemporary art gallery, and you were the one to hang yourself on the wall. 

Needles prickle across your skin with another heaving sob, as if you can feel the push pins you’ve used to spread yourself out for consumption. 

We still on for tonight? 

The text from Eddie glares at you from your phone discarded on the floor mere inches away. You’re lucky the screen hadn’t broken when you’d thrown it down on the ground on your way to the toilet, dry heaving through all your tears. 

He wasn’t a part of the issue. If anything, he was part of the solution. 

A shining clean slate, pristine whites and a scratch-free surface for you to press your cheek to when it all got a bit much. An abyss of freedom and openness for when the world was all a bit smothering. An anchor to cling to, a rope to tie around your wrists to keep from floating too far. The willow tree in a graveyard to rest your back against, the caress of a warm sun even if only momentarily as you stared out across headstones of all the pieces of you that you can never get back. Every version of you that has long since buried, a few even with newly churned dirt resting upon them. Something soft, something sacred, to rest your hands upon. 

Why does he still let you rest your bloodied and dirtied palms on his shoulders? Did he ever agree to that to begin with? 

You can’t remember. Or maybe your brain is simply refusing to recall. 

I hate to cancel, but I’m sick. I don’t think I can come out tonight :-( 

What? Is everything okay? Are you okay? Do I need to bring you anything? 

Please don’t.

The please is what gives you away. You should have forgone it, should have offered him a lighthearted response instead. 

But there is a pit in the bottom of your stomach, and seeing all the question marks across his text only made it more terminal. Only gave it more reason to swallow you whole. Only gave it more reason to grow and to tangle up and to restrict each stuttering breath of yours that you can’t seem to steady. 

Another buzz comes from your phone, but you don’t look to read it. You resort to resting your forehead against the lip of your toilet, all attempts at a deep breath futile as you finally taste the salt across your lips. 

Were you too much? Were you not enough? Was it possible to be an odd juxtaposition of both? 

A harrowing thought crosses your mind, and you know if Eddie could read minds across the intricate webbing that connects cell phones, he’d grab you by your shoulders. Maybe shake you until you see sense, or maybe cling to you until the thought has faded into nothingness. As if he could squeeze you hard enough to press together all the splinters that are left of your bones, forming a new body – a better body. One that can handle the pressure. One that isn’t imploding upon itself. A more durable mind, a more capable suit of skin to occupy. 

Does it even matter anymore? Would it even matter if I simply vanished? 

Would it be so bad to let the pit finally consume you? To just give in, to let it erase you from existence. To finally wave your white flag and let the awfulness inside of you finally win the battle, erasing you from existence and leaving behind an empty space in the world that could be filled with someone better.

Someone who could be a better friend. Someone who could be a harder worker. Someone who wasn’t choked up on their bathroom floor, beginning to contemplate if the painful gasps were even worth it. 

Were you worth it? Were you worth the air in your lungs? Or could it better serve someone who could handle all the pressure? 

And it wasn’t even that much pressure to begin with, if you pick it apart thread by thread. It was the natural weight of the human experience, and you were still crumbling. 

There was a full bottle of ibuprofen in the cabinet. There was a busy street not far from your home. There was a bathtub that could easily be filled with water – you’d never been good at holding your breath, unless someone counted the last few months, in which that seemed to be all you were good at. 

There was even a bridge, 5.27 miles away from your house exactly. You could already envision the patch of grass you could park your car at, feel the drop in temperature as you stood and overlooked the tame waves of a man-made lake.

Maybe your feet didn’t even have to leave the pavement. Maybe it would be enough to just stand in the silence and see the jump with your own two eyes. 

You felt like nothing more than a ghost of yourself, yes, but maybe. Maybe, just maybe, there would still be a broken shard within you that could stir awake at it all. Maybe if you got up off the bathroom floor and set yourself into motion, it would open its eyes just in time to scream no. 

Ghosts don’t just appear. They were a vibrant soul once – they were somebody once. 

But it’s hard to imagine that you ever were. When it gets like this, it’s hard to push through all the tumultuous thoughts and loathly emotions to remember that. A version of you vibrant, a version of you that might have been worthy, if only for a moment. 

A version of you that wasn’t insulting to compare to others. That was capable of progress, of earning your blip of existence. 

You don’t want the bottle of ibuprofen. You don’t want the busy street. You don’t want the overflowing tub. You don’t even want the calm of the bridge. You just want it to stop. 

There’s a knock on your front door that echoes through the entire apartment. You dread that you already know who it is, but you can’t get up to answer. 

You can’t move from this very spot. You’re terrified of what will happen when you do. 

Will your bones collapse into ash upon the floor? Will you make one wrong move, and in a fit of pressure, make a terribly permanent decision for what feels like a terribly permanent feeling? 

Maybe you were born with the pit in your stomach. Maybe you were born with that black hole inside of you. Cursed to always be yearning, always be a juxtaposition, always be a ghost of what could have become. 

You think you hear the click of your front door opening. You think you hear heavy footsteps across the hardwood floors. You think, you think, you think. That’s the issue. 

The tears are still coming and going in erratic tides. The salt is drying out your lips, your cheeks, the corners of your eyes. You’d thought you’d been incapable of any more emotions like this, but your tear ducts have managed to prove you wrong. 

Does it even matter anymore?

You’d left the bathroom door wide open. 

Were you worth it?

You’d been home alone – past tense.

A more durable mind, a more capable suit of skin to occupy.

A soft gasp of your name has you microscopically lifting your head from the toilet seat. You know what the scene looks like; it looks like nothing more than the excuse you’d used. You look as though you’re ill, like you’ve been spilling your guts across the bathroom floor all night. 

If you had been, would it all feel a little less heavy? 

“Hey, Eds.” 

You’re tired. You’re exhausted. Your voice is nothing more than a drag of a whisper as you look up at your anchor standing in the doorway, his face painted with concern. 

Maybe you were an anchor – maybe being an anchor wasn’t a good thing. After all, what use does an anchor have beyond weighing down the ship? 

“Jesus,” he mutters as he rushes to your side, falling to his knees carelessly as his hand flies out to brush back tendrils of your hair, “You look like shit.”

You felt like shit. 

Selfishly, you lean into his touch, desperate for comfort. Desperate for those caring palms to soothe the ache you’d carried since birth. Desperate to hear him tell you that you’re wrong – hands to promise you that you’re worthy, fingers to wrap around your bones rather than these burning ropes. You’re bloodied and raw, fully on display, and you just want to be okay. 

You don’t want the bridge. You want Eddie. You want him to magically make it okay, and that’s unfair. 

You’re not his weight to carry, not his burden to shoulder. 

After far too long of a silence, one in which he sits patiently in with you, all you can really reply is a broken, “Yeah.” 

Immediately, he knows something is wrong. Because of course he does. 

Because he’s a good friend. He’s a good person. He has the right words more often than not, and his hands were always formed to heal rather than injure. Create rather than destroy. Those warm palms are made to hold the space he’s earned in the grand scheme of the Universe, and it almost makes you nauseous as the jealousy spreads. 

He’s good. 

And you’re simply rotten.

You used to lie to yourself and say it was simply one rotted bit amongst plenty of good, but tonight, it all seemingly comes to clarity. You can’t dig out the bad, cleanse yourself of the rot, because it’s all decay. 

You don’t have to let the pit consume you – it already has. You were born with it, and it had swallowed you whole from the first cry that had ever left your lips. 

He makes himself a bit more comfortable, and you almost feel bad for reducing him to nothing more than the bathroom floor, “You wanna talk about what’s really wrong?” 

“I’m sick.” 

“This isn’t just some stomach bug.”

Your throat begins to tighten again, and suddenly, his gentle touch across the crown of your head burns. Your eyes water ferociously, and your chest caves into itself.

You can’t make a better body or a more sound mind out of the mess you’ve become. You can’t pull gold from tarnished rubble. 

Confessing to him will only be handing over something heavy, something terrible, that he shouldn’t have to struggle with as well. But not offering him a sliver of the truth almost feels more dishonoring. 

“Do you ever feel like a waste of space?” you croak, leaning back, finally accepting that the small space of the toilet that had been cooling your face has gone warm. Another thing you’ve ruined, in hindsight, “Like, this world is filled with great people, and I just… I just, I’m taking up the space- I’m wasting the space-” 

You can’t get out the proper words. You don’t know how.

How do you say you want to cease to exist when you’re not really sure if that’s the truth? You’re miserable, and you’re selfish, and you’re not entirely sure your feet would have ever left the pavement if you had driven yourself to the bridge. You’d be too scared to do it.  

Too scared to miss the day that science announces it’s found a cure to all your rot, a miracle drug to erase the pit, a way to reverse all the damage you’ve been comprised of your whole life. 

His brows furrow and his hand stops all the calming movements, “What? Are you- are you saying you feel like a waste of space?”

It feels silly to admit it to other people. To try and describe how it all feels. Like a child trying to convince their parents the Boogeyman is real, you have to make him see that you’re right. You have evidence, you have proof, and it’s not just a feeling. 

“I don’t feel like I’m a waste of space,” you finally correct, both yourself and him, “I know I’m a waste of space.” 

“Bullshit.”

“Eddie, don’t-”

“No,” he cuts you off. And somehow, in only a way that he’s capable of, it’s not offensive, “You’re not. I’m not going to sit here and listen to my favorite person claim they’re wasting space-”

“I am!” It’s your turn in the cycle of interruption. You pull away from him entirely, chest heaving with the weight presenting itself once more, tears starting to fall all over again. You can’t even distinguish where the old tears stop and the new ones begin, “I really am. All I seem to do lately is just exist. And that’s such a- such a- that’s such a waste. I can’t read any of the things I should enjoy these days, I can’t even write. All of the words feel like they just come out wrong. I’m letting everyone down left and right, I’m never living up to whatever pedestal you’ve put me on. I don’t even know what I’m doing with my life. I don’t even know where I’ll be in a year from now – I can’t even see that far in the future.”

Heaves become sobs, and the crumbling has begun once more. A cycle of breaking, a cycle of demolition. Even leaving behind the rubble feels like a crime. A waste of space. 

“I don’t think I’m a good person,” you manage to spit out between all your visceral reactions, “Every year, I tell myself the same thing – I’ll be better, I’ll be kinder, I’ll be worth it. And every year, I fail.” 

Can he see it? All the fractures and splinters and pits and metaphors? 

Can he smell it? All the rot and the destruction and hopelessness?

Can he feel it? All the pressure? 

Through your sniffles, you press your back to the tub, knees to your chin as you wrap your arms around your legs, desperately trying to shrivel up. To take up less space. To waste less space.

“I used to think I could make up for it,” you whisper, “I could offer people things that made them forget I’m… so useless. But I don’t think I’m even capable of that anymore.”

If he’s about to respond, it’s drowned out by your cries. You press your eyes hard into your kneecaps, until you see stars, and you try to swallow down all the embarrassment. Try to stop all the hurt from spilling out, to stop all your guts from painting the bathroom walls. 

He could simply sit there, let you wallow in your misery alone. Sit and stare as the artwork finally serves its purpose to the visitors of the gallery. Maybe jot down some commentary on how with your bones all spread out like this, the point the artist was attempting to make becomes oh so clear. 

And yet, he doesn’t. 

You know it’s his arms that are wrapping around you, pulling you from the chill of the tub and into the warmth of his chest.  And you let yourself smother within the fabric of his shirt the same exact way in which you’ve convinced yourself you smother everyone around you, let yourself breathe in drugstore cologne and his last cigarette rather than think about all the thoughts that had been spiraling you into dismay over the last twenty four hours – over the last twenty four years. 

He’d probably been smoking while waiting on your call tonight. Probably riddled with anxiety, if the shake of his hands pressing into your back are anything to go off of. An anxiety and waiting game that wouldn’t have to exist if you didn’t exist.

The thought makes you cry harder. 

If a ghost dies, can it even still return back as itself? Can it still find it within itself to haunt empty hallways, and watch the ones it once loved find peace?

“You’re not useless,” it sounds as though Eddie might be crying as well, if not just a little choked up, “You’re not- I swear- You’re not useless, okay? Never have been, never will be.”

His murmured words are nice, but they fuel an unimaginable guilt. It was supposed to be a nice night. A night of movie marathons and midnight coffee, of trying to remind yourself why you still stick around. A moment of incomparable joy and sweet reprieve as your stomach ached from laughter, your cheeks swelling with an infallible grin that Eddie always seems to pull out of you.

There’s no smiling, no giggling, right now. Just his favorite band shirt from the show you two had attended a few years before, soaking with a fast-growing stain from all your tears. 

When you don’t answer him, only manage to wrap your selfish arms around his waist, he continues, “How long have you felt this way, sweetheart?”

And if you hadn’t already been shattered previously, that would have finally broken you. 

You can’t pinpoint when it started. You can’t clear the smoke of memories and find an exact moment that you can point to and say, there. That’s where the hurt starts — that’s where the rot starts. 

“I don’t know.”

In your mind, it’s a wail. Loud and ferocious, efforts of all it has taken to withstand the pressure of your undoing screamed out loud. 

But on this quiet bathroom floor, it can’t even be considered a whisper. Nothing more than the spoken words lingering from a ghost who can’t give up the haunt. An echo of a memory, an echo of the piece in you that can’t let go, not yet.

Not of existing, and not of him. Your fists hold him so firmly against you, you’re scared that you’re going to bruise him. Hurt him just from the sheer effort of trying to show that you love him. 

The only way you know how to love – a violent dog who will always bite the kindest hands. Leaving behind bloodied knuckles even if you hadn’t so much as snipped this time. 

You take a sharp breath, aware of the levity of the words you’re about to say, “I don’t want to exist anymore, but I wouldn’t even make it off the bridge if I tried.”

It’s not about the bridge anymore. In all likelihood, it wouldn’t be the bridge you turn to. There’s a grand metaphor somewhere in the admittance, but your mind is just too tired to try and paint a prettier picture of it for him. 

Because exist is just a placeholder. And there’s a bigger, scarier word that should stand in its place. 

He starts to break the hold, and you nearly sob out again just at that. Losing the warmth of his chest and arms strike pain somewhere deep within you, just north of the pit that’s devoured all that’s left of you. 

“Bridge?” Phrased as a clarifying question, but when you see his face, it’s clear he knows. There are no good words left to say about it, “Sweetheart, no.”

There are worse reactions to be had. More scenarios that end in slamming doors or deafening silent treatments. Realizations that you’re right and it’s not worth it – defense mechanisms that involve them leaving first. 

“I couldn’t do it, even if I want-” 

Even if I wanted to. The words you can’t speak, dying on your tongue. 

Do you want to? Where does the pain begin? And where could it end?

“You really don’t see it, do you?” he laughs humorlessly, his hands still gripping your biceps in a death hold, “You… you just…” 

He doesn’t know what to say, and you don’t blame him. You knew this was heavy; you knew this isn’t the type of bomb to drop on someone you love. 

But if you didn’t, where would the bomb have gone? You’re not equipped to detonate it. You’re not equipped to survive the explosion. You wouldn’t want to survive that explosion. 

“I’m sorry,” your words pour out, beginning to shake beneath his palms, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” 

Dry, cracked lips feel as though they nearly split from the apologies. More violence, more devastation, more of what you always knew you were. You can see it in his eyes – you’re dragging him down with you, right down to the bottom of the ocean. You’re being an anchor. 

He’s all stutters and harsh breaths, panic filling the space with your own as his eyes search yours, “Don’t apologize. You don’t have to apologize. Just-”

He cuts off and is pulling you close again. Slamming your bones into his, wrapping up around you as if he might be able to keep you safe from the world. From your own mind. 

“I don’t need apologies,” another squeeze of your closer to him, another attempt to pull you away from the dangers that lie within, “I don’t- I just… Can I help? How do I make it better? Just say the word. I’ll do it.” 

It’s not your job. That’s not your job. 

You don’t realize you’ve said the words out loud until he’s squeezing you so tightly that you now can’t breathe. Until all you are is him. All his old t-shirts he’s lent to you that hang in your closet, all the nights spent with tangled legs as you sit across from each other on your couch, all the phone calls in which he refused to be the first one to hang up. Cologne that is too cheap to be able to cling so ferociously as it does to all your surroundings, chain-smoked cigarettes you always chastise him for because they’re gonna kill you one day, the smoke of his latest blunt resting in an ashtray as his head finds home in your lap. 

All the inside jokes. All the hugs. All the simple texts, if for nothing more than to just check in on each other. The broken reminders of having someone out there that cares. That loves you. 

How can such rotten hands pull such love from others? How have you yet to infect him? 

“I know it’s not my job,” he finally says, and you know for a fact he’s crying along with you before the first of his tears have wet the crown of your head, “It’s never been a job. You’re not a job. Okay? Get that through your head. There’s- Fuck, there’s plenty of things I wanna drill in that pretty little head of yours right now, but I know I can’t, so just get that.”

He’s trying. A little trill of his tongue that falls a bit flat when he refers to your pretty little head, a brief squeeze of your shoulders as he tries to relax a little. He wants to make you feel better. He wants to make it better. 

But he’s still holding you like he’s terrified. You did that – you instilled that fear. 

“I’m a mess,” you whisper in bitter realization, ash on your tongue as you process what you’ve done. You’ve already apologized, but you’re seconds away from doing so again, “I’m- I’m a mess, and I’m dragging you into it, and I’m sor-”

“Stop being sorry.” Definitive words, no room for argument. The smallest of shifts as things click into place. He isn’t budging – he isn’t letting go, “Do you remember when I first met you?” 

You can’t tell if the question is meant to have a point, or if it’s meant to be a distraction. You let it grow into the latter.

“Yeah,” you breathe out against him, melting into his chest, trying to focus on his voice rather than the ones in your head, “But tell me about it anyway?” 

“Two years ago. Technically, two years and seven months,” he starts in the same voice he used to take on during Hellfire sessions, before the members had scattered from coast to coast and his D&D club only became a rarity when the stars aligned. There’s still a crack to his voice from his tears, but that doesn’t stop him, “We were in some cursed fucking diner we don’t even go to anymore, in the dead of the night, and all the servers knew your name and order,” he paints the picture with a humor that should feel out of place, but it settles some of your breathing. Omitting all the vivid details, opting for triggering the memory with words you’d just get. You can feel the stick of the plastic beneath your thighs, you can smell the grease of the kitchen. You can see the cloudy night out of the oversized windows. He’s a natural born storyteller in the most subtle of ways, always knowing his audience, “You were sitting all alone in that booth, and all of Hellfire had just left. Gareth had just told us how he was going to college in California – did you know that?” 

“I didn’t.” 

“Well, he did,” his chin presses against the top of your head, a huff of a laugh escaping him, “Dropped the bomb it was our last summer as a club probably. We were happy for him, though. Real fucking happy. Got milkshakes to celebrate and made plans to get drunk off our asses the next night to keep the party going. It was dumb, and I’m getting off track, but…” 

Baited breath, you’re waiting for him to continue. No thoughts of the bridge. No thoughts of your failures. Living in a small memory with him on the floor of your bathroom. 

“Anyways, you were sitting there all alone, with a plate of fries and ranch.” 

“Oh, God,” your nose scrunches and you try to pull away, suddenly remembering how embarrassing this memory ends for you. It suddenly didn’t seem like the best way for him to make you feel better by any means, “No, I remember how this story ends, and-”

“I’m not done,” he locks his arms around you, and you can feel the whisper of a smile as it brushes against your temple, “Obviously you know where I’m going with this, but I’m not done, sweetheart. Because all the other guys had just left, and I’m sitting there, realizing the only other customer was some random person over across the diner, scribbling away in some notebook. Thought you looked cute when you were all focused like that, y’know? But then you were so focused that it became distracted, and you spilled that ranch all over yours-” 

“Please, stop.”

You’re laughing through the words, weakly, the air of desperation in the word please being far different from earlier in the night. No bridges, no failures. 

“I was probably being a weirdo, trying to run over and help you or whatever the fuck I was trying to do. I probably made it worse, right?” 

You’re there, remembering a version of Eddie that was a stranger, taking napkins to the knees of your jeans and smearing the ranch rather than really helping you clean it up. “Yeah, just a little bit.” 

“Sorry for that, by the way,” he airily apologizes before continuing, “But I just remember thinking about how focused you were on that notebook. And how you laughed with the waiter. And how you were just… lost in your own little world. And how you were so cute. You were so nice. The type of person I wanted in my life. Took one look at you with that ranch all over your lap and thought, huh. I want to get to know that person.” 

“Nice? I was not nice, I was-” you cut off, heart all but stopping as you recognize the point of it all. It wasn’t meant to just be a distraction. He was making a point. “I was a… a mess that day.” 

“Exactly.”

He pulls away again, and this time, it’s a little easier. The world has put a pause on its ending and you can handle the weight of his arms lightening for a few seconds, just so he can get a good look at your face. 

“You were a mess the day that I met you, and I still wanted you in my life,” he says each word deliberately, not breaking eye contact. Fear has broken through to determination. “And even if you’re still a mess today, I still want you. Nothing changes. You get that?” 

No bridges.

No failures.

The weight of it all had been heavy. The type of sorrow you thought was never meant to be carried by more than your own two hands. But he had taken it in his palms, lifted it from you entirely, even if it would only be temporary. One day you’d have to endure the pain again, get to the root of the problem. Figure out if all your ailments had been something wired into you since birth, or things you’d picked up along your way. But for now, you could breathe again. You could hear the drumming of your heart in your ears, and you could hear every single one of both yours and Eddie’s breaths in the silence, and that was enough. 

“I don’t want to die,” you finally quietly admit. Saying one of the bigger, scarier words. The thing you’d been too afraid to let slip off your tongue originally. “I just- sometimes it all gets a bit loud, you know? And I know you said don’t apologize, but I am sorry that I scared you. And I’m sorry that you have to take the bad to also get that little bit of the good with me.” 

His hand leaves one of your arms for the first time since he’d first wrapped you up, and it finds its way to cradle the side of your head. Holding you as if you’re porcelain still. You know that won’t go away, not tonight. “I’d rather have your bad days than have nothing at all,” he chokes up once more, and you can see tears threatening to welt in his eyes, “You get that, too. Alright? You’re worth it. Bad, good, funny, sad – give it to me. I’m asking for it. Just don’t… don’t leave me with the nothing.”

You’re worth it. 

He’s found a worth in you attached to nothing at all. He’s sitting here with you, on the bathroom floor, and his perception of you has nothing to do with what you can only offer. 

It just has to do with you. He sees you, and he’s decided you’re worth it. Even now.

He smiles softly, as if he can see the realization dawning upon you, “You wanna get up off the floor now? We can go sit on your couch or bed or something.” 

You’re quick to shake your head. Your knees are partially digging into his thighs, your breaths are matching his. 

“Okay,” his face falls slightly, but not entirely. Not entirely, “That’s okay. Do you want me…. Do you want me to go?” 

Another shake of your head. But this time, you need to offer more than just the motion of your head, especially when you can feel tears returning as your throat tightens up, “No. No, just- Stay with me? Please?” 

Your hands reach out without you even processing it, gripping his wrists, desperate and clinging and still verging on the edge of violent. The thought of being alone is terrifying, but the thought of having to watch him walk out of this room is even more petrifying. 

He doesn’t even flinch as you sink your claws in. His smile only returns, and he shuffles to pull you both to hold your backs up against the wall across from the toilet, “Of course. I’ll stay, sweetheart. I’m not going anywhere – wouldn’t even dream of it.” 

His words shake just a little less than they had when he’d first entered the room. 

He can’t fix it all magically. That isn’t his job, isn’t his role, isn’t his choice. But he can sit here with you, on the floor of the bathroom, endlessly patient and tragically caring as he urges you to lay down. He stretches his legs out and pats his lap once before hovering his hands over your shoulder, guiding you until your temple is flush with his thigh. 

He can choose to not hesitate as his fingers immediately push through the baby hairs by your temple, a soft hum in the back of his throat that sounds exactly as you feel.

Hesitantly content. Just for now. It’s enough. 

The storm is receding. As hours pass by, and noises of uncertainty become more confident hums of a song you faintly recognize, it all settles. He stays. You stay. The storm passes for the time being, and the hole tempers itself for just the night. 

It’s enough for now. You’ll worry more tomorrow, or the day after, or the day after that. You’ll talk more about why you feel this way, and he’ll offer better solutions. The weight won’t simply be passed into his waiting hands and forgotten – one day, you’ll find a way to lighten it through dissipation rather than through catastrophe. 

One day, the seas will calm, and you’ll find yourself the ship rather than the anchor. 

And the captain can be the boy who sits on the floor with you through the sadness, content to wait out the storms with you until you find the worth he sees in you.