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writingindulgence · 4 years ago

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Illumi x F.Reader - Expectation

Pairing: Illumi x Female Reader

Story tags: Arranged marriage, typical Zoldyck behaviour, angst-ish, heavy manipulation, ILLUMI, unhealthy one-sided dependence : ) my guy just toxic

3,200+ words and why? I don’t even like the dude. Also, two points of view.

The sound of fancy porcelain tea cups clinking against the glass table is soothing, along with the warm rays shining on your face. Times like these are what you are thankful for. The smell of purposely picked flowers, arranged to please the eyes. Not the stench of trash dumped for the sole convenience of other countries. Colourful butterflies and bees, instead of flies and disease ridden rats. A home cooked meal ready for your consumption rather than scraps of rotting food that you more often than not nearly died for.

Kukuroo mountain is infinitely more beautiful compared to Meteor City.

“(Y/n) dear, it’s unbecoming of you to make noise with your tableware,” a powerful feminine voice chastates your mistake. The woman sitting opposite you is none other than Kikyo Zoldyck. Or as she forces you to call her, mother.

Your heart flutters in relief, an apologetic expression weaving onto your face. She must be in an agreeable mood since her fan hasn’t struck your hand. Sometimes you are let off with a warning if she spots a blunder on your part. Sometimes, she resorts to physical punishment. It always depends on whether or not a family member said anything to ruin her day. In fact, any matter concerning Killua will set her off in a positive or negative direction.

Just like Illumi whenever you bring up his younger brother.

“I apologise mother, I’m too excited because Illumi is returning,” you proceed to take a sip and this time around, gently settle the tea cup down.

A content hum comes from her direction, her visor flashing for a split second. “Oh (Y/n), you’ll make such a good wife one day.” She picks up a fork gracefully and stabs it into the cake she asked for from the family cook.

The compliment ignites a multitude of feelings in your chest. It spreads out, only one thought in your mind.

How immensely grateful and happy you are to hear it.

Many of your friends from when you were young, starved to death. Some were beaten up by other desperate residents. Others lost their will to fight, a state you threaded on a magnitude of times.

Being taken away by the mafia one day was what gave you back the spark, a life in the city no more out of your reach. Until you figured out what type of work they wanted to sell you and other kids for. Stories from the older girls back in Meteor City came rushing back.

Your bloodlust and instinct to survive are what happened to change your life for the better. Out of all the line-up of children, you were selected by the Zoldycks. Instead of being the pet of some old pervert, you found a home within the assassin family.

There were many times when you felt like giving up. When the training you went through was worse than simply dying. However, you promised yourself to never throw away the chance you received all those years back.

You were indebted to the Zoldycks.

Hearing words of encouragement from one of the people you looked up to the most brought tears to your eyes. You wiped them away with your thumb.

Mother is a role model to you. It helped when you found out that she originates from Meteor City too. In a sense, it is easier to place yourself in her shoes and strive to achieve what she did. Being an amazing assassin, wife and mother.

A sudden scraping of a chair brought you back to the presence, startling you into a defensive pose. The knife under your sundress clasped in your hand.

Out of the corner of your eye you notice Kalluto coming out from behind the bushes, his paper fan also ready for action.

“My Kil, what is he doing?! Quick, we have to stop him. Kalluto go call for Milluki right now!,” she orders shrilly before running into the mansion.

Without hesitation, you rush after her. It is expected of you. A nagging feeling in the back of your head also foreshadows that whatever is going on, it will have dire consequences if not stopped.

Killua is in the foyer, being kept idle by the servants. But not for long. You can see the irritation growing on his face, his muscles tensed.

You’ve known Killua since he was a baby, having been inducted as a future family member when mother was pregnant with him. There’s no doubt that if something wasn’t done, it would lead to a messy aftermath.

A few seconds after you make it inside, Milluki shows up and the servants are all dismissed.

“Kil, my little Kil, what’s wrong? Why did I hear that you’re leaving to take the Hunter’s Exam?,” mother’s voice is aghast, the idea of her favourite child abandoning the nest filling her with pain.

You too are taken aback at the news, a protective sensation coursing through you. Your fingers flex at your side.

“It’s boring here and I heard that the Exam is difficult so I’m going to test my skill,” he shrugs her worry off and spins his skateboard. Your heart begins to pound uncontrollably.

Hearing the disrespect, Milluki steps up and lashes out at Killua. “You brat, what’s with that arrogant attitude you-,”

“Stop that!,” mother’s voice sharply cuts him down.

She begins pleading with Killua to stay, her voice cracking multiple times. It pains you to watch someone you respect growing so desperate.

Killua is too young to understand what he’s putting the ones around him through. Of course, a rebellious phase is healthy-

A prickly discomfort surges through your head and you clutch it. Your unexpected movement grabs everyone’s attention. You try to brush it off, not wishing to be a burden.

It isn’t expected of you to be one.

“Killua, you should stay here. The world is a dangerous place,” your words try to reach him. “Illumi is coming home today, why don’t we-”,

“I don’t want him around! Just leave me alone,” he angrily interrupts. The air grows heavy. Heavier than it’s been since the beginning.

Mother gasps in shock at his behaviour since Killua never really yells at you. Yes, he gets annoyed as much as any other kid but when he shouts, he doesn’t really mean it.

It’s expected of you to coerce him into calming down.

“You’ve changed during the past few weeks (Y/n), after Illumi came back before leaving again. Anyway, I will kill you all if you try to stop me,” Killua promises in a cold voice, his blue eyes a piercing ice.

This rouses an onslaught of insults from Milluki and a mix of agony and happiness from mother.

However, you’re currently stuck in your own mind, reflecting on Killua’s comment. It is true that during the past three weeks you doted on him more than ever before. Usually you try to split your attention between him and Kalluto when you have free time. What changed?

Nothing should have changed, Killua is the priority of the family.

A high-pitched scream echoes around the foyer and your clouded head awakens. The sight in front of you freezes your blood and it takes immense strength not to bite your tongue.

Mother is kneeling down on the ground, her hands covering her bloody face. Before you can take a step, Milluki rages and charges at Killua. The young boy bounces back and proceeds to plunge the knife into his older brother. Milluki curses and grabs his wound.

On impulse, your hand is already equipped with a knife and you’re ready to protect yourself as well as mother Killua.

Killua mistakes your movements as an attack and strikes his own knife across your arm. A long gash appears on your skin, the blood seeping out moments later. You take in the pain as punishment. Punishment for letting it get this far and failing.

You’re a failure.Failure.Failure.Failure.Failure.Failure.Failure.Failure.Failure.

Taking the chance to escape, he kicks his skateboard up and runs out.

And you were helpless to stop him.

It’s been a while since Illumi has been back home on Kukuroo mountain, his previous mission requiring him to travel across multiple locations. The target was a cautious person so they moved from place to place, leaving lousy decoys. That did not impede Illumi at all, it was simply an inconvenience at worst.

After all, nervous-wrecks are the ones who put their emotions out on display. They are the first to slip up due to the fact that they care about others.

Which is concerning because Killua is at a stage where he is showing his rebellious streak more often. It is crucial that he can snuff it out before his dear brother falls further down the slope of idiotic fantasies . In which case, it is a slight relief that (Y/n) is here. She tries to keep Killua in check in a subtle way instead of hanging over his shoulder or perpetuating his moody behaviour.

Though the last time he visited there were hints of her growing soft and losing her devotion of raising Killua to be the next head of the family. He is ashamed to confess that it irked him to some degree. It’s expected of her to put her desires down for what he wants. And he wants Killua to be the next head.

Even so, he thought that he dealt with this the last time.

However, imagine the surprise he felt when his mother came wailing to him, begging him to follow her little Kil to the Hunter’s Exam. To think that instead of a joyful family reunion, the news of his stray younger brother reached his ears before anything else.

That won’t do.

Currently, it’s close to midnight which is the time (Y/n) comes to his room to say goodnight. Why she even bothers is beyond him. The effort of keeping up with formalities could be used for better activities. It’s already indisputable that they are arranged to marry in the future at the request of his parents, so there is no reason to be close together in any romantic sense.

In fact, Killua will succeed as the head which is why there is no point in thinking about his own future.

A sigh leaves his mouth.

There is only one positive outcome that came out of this whole arrangement. He has an extra set of eyes and he’s sure that she will listen to him without question. All he has to do is play into these formalities and she’s wrapped around his finger.

An affectionate hug here, a tiny smile there...Normally he’d be concerned that a future Zoldyck , even if not by blood, would be so easy to deceive. However, since every carefully planned step is coming from him he’s not surprised in the slightest.

It’s expected of (Y/n) to be loyal, just as much as it’s expected for Killua to take over the family business.

The wooden clock hanging opposite his bed strikes 12 but there is no sign of (Y/n). She never runs late.

The fact that she hadn’t even greeted him when he came back is also unusual. Normally she’d be pacing in front of the entrance door but today his mother took over that role. He heard that she got injured by Killua but (Y/n) has experienced worse so what’s the fuss?

It’s not his problem, he’ll just take a bath before bed. She’ll come running eventually.

Illumi’s right arm is beginning to grow numb. He hasn’t moved from the water in over an hour. Not because he needed a break to relax, taking time off for yourself is inefficient. No, he hasn’t moved because he’s been waiting for the familiar steps and hesitant knock to come from outside his room.

Discerning who someone is from the sound of their footsteps and how they carry themselves is second nature to any professional assassin. For instance, Milluki hovers in one spot when walking while Kalluto creates soft patters with his toes.

On the other hand, (Y/n) always shuffles her feet forward just before his door. It takes her approximately 2 seconds to knock when she’s unsure, 1 second when she’s in a normal mood and 0.5 whenever she has news deemed worthy enough for him to hear. Reading the mood of someone before they see you face to face is important.

Coming to terms with the fact that today she won’t pay him a visit, he steps out of the bathtub, water dripping down his naked body. He throws on a plain black bathrobe and leaves the bathroom. Giving his bed a quick-over, he walks out the door.

Guess it’s time for him to pay a visit instead.

If he actually bothers and gives it some thought, it’s not a mystery as to why he hasn’t even seen her shadow today. She’s ashamed. Ashamed of being a failure for letting Killua go.

Her scrambled mind is most likely trying to piece together what she should say. How she should ask for forgiveness and repent.

He wonders if she’s starving herself or if she’s contemplating about going to the self-confinement room.

Normally he’d push her into whatever she makes up but a stick approach by itself won’t be enough. There needs to be a push and pull factor involved if he wants her to listen to him unconditionally.

And what better way than to appear before her, disheveled and still wet in his robe? She’ll jump to conclusions.

Further guilt will set in, how she unnecessarily worried him by skipping the usual goodnight. His state will continue feeding her imagination, connecting unrelated dots to make her believe that he cares for her.

Truly, a puppet and its real master.

Soaking footprints follow behind him on the floor, the dim candlelight making them difficult to notice. He knocks once before letting himself in and shutting the door, back turned to the only other person inside.

A small gasp penetrates the silence and a rush of steps follow suit, stopping just behind him.

“Illumi, welcome back,” (Y/n) is the first to speak. He stays silent.

A nervous shuffle. “Is..everything okay?”.

The voice quietens downs the more she speaks. That should be enough for now.

He turns around and looks down at her concerned face, with no emotion of his own. Her eyes widen a fraction after registering his condition. Before she can open her mouth to question him further, Illumi crinkles his eyes and smiles.

“It’s nothing. I was just worried since I didn’t see you today,” he gazes away, giving her enough time to fix her expression. It’ll be harder for him to get her to open up if she thinks that he sees through her lack of control.

“I missed you too-,”

Presumptuous to think that he missed her.

“-and I’m sorry for not saying anything. I just…,” she stops right before confessing her shortcoming.

He doesn’t provide her with any more time to compose herself, a full day is already generous. Grabbing the door handle he gives it a slight tug but her hand shuts it and pulls his sleeve. That’s new. (Y/n) rarely takes the initiative.

He allows her to drag him over to the bed, slightly curious about her next move. Is she trying to entertain him as an apology or simply trying to put distance between him and the door?

Both tactics aren’t half bad when it comes to simple targets.

He sits down on the covers and analyses her.

A long white nightdress, face ready for bed, barefoot, and a long knife wound going up her arm.

A shred of pride for Killua’s work passes through his head but he doesn’t showcase this. If by any chance she spotted the look, it would demolish the picture he wants to paint.

(Y/n) kneels down in front of him and takes his hand into hers. It’s warm, though not as soft as it used to be. Her breasts rest atop his knees.

His attention migrates from the sudden action to her face, looking for answers. He made sure that she will only expect affection coming from him, not the other way around. It would be too tiring to keep up a loving demeanour- no, scratch that. It wouldn’t be tiring but the expectations would eventually rise and it would result in less time spent on bringing up Killua.

Oh, he zoned out.

(Y/n)’s eyes are full of regret and desperation, the hand holding his trembling just enough to tell him that today’s event is eating at her. Is she waiting for him to say something?

Finally after what feels like an unprecedented amount of time, the scene unfolds.

Her smaller hand pulls his to her face and rests it against her cheek. The second his skin touches hers, he detects slight heat radiating. She must have not treated the cut. The knife was probably dirty too, Killua slacks off in that regard.

“I’m sorry for being a failure, I’m very sorry Illumi. I have no excuse,” the apology flows out of her mouth, bottom lip quivering. The pain of looking at someone she disappointed forces her eyes to shut close. Her free hand latches onto his thigh and she digs in before continuing.

“You can slash my other arm as punishment. Or hang me upside down in the self-containment room,” she throws out. “But please, please don’t give up on me. I can do better Illumi”.

And as if to prove how determined she is, her eyes open up again, staring deeply into his own. Unwavering. Confident.

Though the thumb that he has under her jaw gave the hammering pulse away.

1,2,3. 1,2. 1,2,3.

He stretched out the silence, pretending to ponder over his answer. The unsettling emotions influencing her thoughts will prove beneficial when he flips her assumption around.

He removes his hand from her cheek and moves the one on his thigh to her side. (Y/n) adopts a look of relief, believing that he agreed to her conditions of punishment. What he’s about to do is infinitely more cruel though.

She catches her breath when he follows her example and kneels in front of her. He pulls up the sleeve of her nightdress that’s slipping down before grabbing her shoulders, gently.

“How can I not give up on you when you give up on yourself,” he lectures her, peeking down at her wound. Make the target question their actions.

An expression of remorse adorns her face, a downward tug of the mouth.

He pulls her in, arms encircling and resting on her lower back. The material of the nightdress is light enough for him to make out the feeling of skin.

“Though I won’t give up on you.” Affirmation and a moment of reassurance.

One of his hands travels deliberately slowly up to her neck. It rests on the back of her head, fingers entangled in her hair. Illumi locates the present that he left her the last time he visited and pushes it back into her head. It has moved slightly out.

This prompts (Y/n) to hug him in response, her previously hanging arms now resting comfortably around him. Good, as for the finishing line.

“Though your failure is a disappointment, I know that you will not repeat the same mistake, because you

love me, right?”.

Her head moves to rest between the crook of his neck, nodding in agreement. She doesn’t ask him if he loves her.

It’s expected of her not to.

#illumi zoldyck #illumi x reader #illumi zoldyck x reader #hunter x hunter fanfiction #hunter x hunter #This took 2 long but now I can focus on other things yay

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hitory--chan · 3 years ago

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Day 5: Queen of the Garden

(Ranked T)

Title: In my withered roses you lay resting

Around the forest there were always legends of all kinds, about fantastic creatures and horrifying monsters beyond human imagination, about nymphs, fairies, werewolves and giant snakes that would devastate the entire town in a few minutes if they wanted to; they were just legends, stories to amaze or scare whoever would listen to them, hypnotizing the virgin ear that listened to them with their magnetism, leading their victim to demand more, driving them mad in the search to satisfy that need.

But there was one in particular, the biggest, the most fantastic, the most sublime and the most terrifying no one ever dared to tell, the one whose existence was only known to the oldest of the town who defended tooth and nail its veracity, but nevertheless only tell each other, remembering and crying the intense agony that each word conveyed.

The legend of Hinata, the queen of the garden in the heart of the forest, and Sasuke, the infamous king who without any army was able to penetrate the invulnerable barriers that protected the queen.

The king who never returned.

“My King!” One of her courtesans shouted. "Please, I beg you to reconsider!"

He ignored her, tightening the draws of his armor as the guards placed the shoulder pads and handed him his helmet, which he took.

It was still dark, the moonlight hanging over the entire sleeping kingdom as he prepared to leave.

"My lord, he turned, now listening to his first officer, Kakashi, who was speaking to him "Are you sure this is a good idea? Going into the forest alone?"

"It's not something I didn't do before, Kakashi, you should know" he replied without much interest as he grasped the reins of Onyx, the majestic black horse that had accompanied him for years.

"I understand, but it's not the same, your majesty, it never got beyond the Stone River" the man said, his voice so slow and dull as if it was something he was trained to say, but Sasuke knew him better than many as to know that there was concern hidden behind those dead tones “It is a great risk to take to find a woman that we do not even know exists”

"People are dying Kakashi, of hunger, of disease ..." He inclined his head a little towards his first officer, not enough to really see him “If that woman, that… witch exists, it will be our chance to solve all the evils that afflict us, if I find her, then I save my people”

“And if you do not find her, my lord?”

“Then we will have to take more drastic actions, actions that I don't think we're ready for right now, Kakashi”

The silence that followed told Sasuke that the man knew what he was referring to.

They had recently fought a war against a rival kingdom that wanted to take over all his lands. They attacked in the middle of the night, cowardly seeking to have the tactical advantage darkness gave them without expecting the surprise that they were ready to fight back with much more violence than would be expected of a small kingdom that barely prospered in comparison to others. Many lives were lost on both sides, but his army had kept the slightest advantage over the invaders and captured the main officers of the intruders, executing him right on the battlefield as he had ordered them to do, closing any openings to negotiation the rival might propose.

They rose above them and conquered, drove the remaining invaders from their lands and proclaimed their victory, but they had not come out without casualties, as happened in any other war.

Their crops were burned and their women desecrated. Bodies of infants who had adventured out of their hiding spots now laying among the corpses of their fathers and men who sacrificed their lives in the name of the king's sovereignty, waiting to be buried or burned while their mothers, wives, and brothers mourned their losses.

Soon after came the diseases, plagues so violent that even the best physicians in the kingdom had succumbed to permanent contact with the infected and were now lying in beds, signaling with weak voices to proceed to their charges.

The only hope was the woman who dwelt in the depths of the forest, a queen in her own right, the oracle told him, whose miraculous fingers brought life to everything she touched. A witch, servant of the devil, counterattacked the priest, who would only bring bliss before plunging them further into misery.

A queen, a witch, Sasuke didn't care, he only wanted her hands to heal his people, determined to cut them off if necessary to save the few that were left.

Then Sasuke mounted his horse and reached out his hand, taking the sword that Kakashi had prepared for him and fastening it to his waist strap, where it would remain with him throughout his journey.

"Itachi will be in charge while I'm gone" he decreed, looking at his court, who looked at him in surprise and disbelief.

“My king, my lord!” The woman spoke again “His majesty is very ill for this task, I fear that his condition is too delicate to carry the role, your highness!”

“My brother already ruled once in a worse state than the one he currently is in while waiting for me to grow up to cede the throne, he certainly can do it a bit more while I'm gone”

“But sir…!”

"In case his condition worsens ..." he interrupted, with a tone of voice as icy as the look he gave the woman "in case he´s not an act to continue, then Kakashi will make all the decisions in my absence and my brother's disability”

Several indignant murmurs were heard from the other members of the court, annoyed by the possibility of a military man would rule them, but with the same look he gave the insolent woman, he quieted them all.

"Kakashi" he called and the man walked with him towards the limits of the kingdom that served as the border of the forest, trotting slowly as his first officer followed him with great ease "I trust you to keep everyone safe, especially my brother” he said, stopping his steed and staring at the man.

"My king's orders are my perpetual la," Kakashi recited, quoting the motto of imperial strength as he brought his right hand to his heart and bowed to him.

Sasuke nodded, but before starting his horse again, he spoke for the last time.

- And Kakashi ... execute her

Kakashi bowed again and Sasuke pulled the reins of his horse to start running, going into the forest when the first rays of dawn hit the ground, and knowing his order would be carried out without hesitation.

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Inside the forest the thick trees hid any trace of the sun, giving the illusion that it was still night even though Sasuke knew it must be after eight.

Still he didn't back down, mentally reciting the directions the oracle had given him to find the mysterious woman.

“Once crossed the river of stone, the road will split for you, one more dangerous the other, competing for the new prey that appears before them. Be guided by the horrendous noises that make the bones of the strongest of men tremble, by the trail of perdition from which your eyes will not be able to turn away, from the putrid stench of those who defied the sanctity of the earth who stepped on impure feet.

Along the way you will find death's favorite resting place. Do not drink or eat the natural delicacies that will be shown for you, instead you must use your senses, facing the great beast that will attack from the shadows.

If the combat is satisfactory, then the beast will show its respects by leading you to its queen, otherwise, there will be the place of your last rest"

Naturally, oracles liked to be cryptic with their words to the point of making them indecipherable, but the more than a century old woman who had served three generations of her family had put those fanfare behind her, preferring to be as clear as possible in her revelations than risk a bad future for the kingdom because of misunderstandings out of her tongue.

Upon reaching the Stone River, he took a moment to observe the waters peacefully.

That river had been named this way not only because of the rock formation that simulated a natural bridge in the center of that great pool, just covering its surface with a thin layer of water that made it extremely slippery, but also because of the rock at its bottom, arranged in the shape of spikes so sharp that even the slightest fall on them could cause fatal injuries to the unfortunate victim.

He allowed Onyx to drink some of the water before venturing across the stone bridge.

His horse, fearless just like his owner, also had some afraid. On rare occasions he’d tried to cross that path through the waters with the equine, but his partner had acquired a phobia at that particular step when, being very young, he slipped on the stone and it was almost impossible for him to get back on his feet, almost falling to the bottom of the river when with desperate movements he slid to one side before finally reaching the bank of the river and climbing, being completely exhausted on the grass, all under the frightened gaze of his owner who had remained on dry land while his horse struggled.

He remembers that, after that, he had remained with Onyx there for longer than he ever was in that place, being found by the royal guard and brought to the castle only to remain expectant all night at the possibility of having to sacrifice the animal.

Now, Onyx was a majestic and imposing stallion with more history than half his stablemates, but from time to time he would turn back into a fearful foal when they were near that place.

However, while he normally wouldn't push him any further than he considered Onyx could take, this time around he couldn't afford to be understandable to his horse or to be left without a mount for the rest of the way.

“Come on boy!” He encouraged him, shaking the reins several times and smiling as Onyx, refusing at first, approached the rock and put his front legs on it, whinnying loudly as he took small terrified steps.

Even in the slippery material, the new horseshoes he had had his horse put on were being especially helpful in preventing the equine's legs from slipping over the rock even when Onyx's steps were somewhat shaky, leading the horse to gain a little confidence with every step until he was finally on the other side.

“Well done, Onyx!” He congratulated the horse, patting and stroking his neck before pulling out an apple, which he happily accepted.

He wasted no time and continued with the journey, reaching the place where the road divided in three.

At first glance they did not seem dangerous at all, leading him to wonder if the oracle had been wrong with her interpretation or if he had deviated from the correct path himself, but the sudden sound of something sliding on the ground caught his attention and put his whole body on guard again, waiting for any sign of attack.

Instead what he received was the cawing of birds, crows, he recognized, noises of something sliding and the screeching of bats that flew directly to his face at that moment, causing Onyx to panic and stand up on his two hind legs, almost making Sasuke to fall.

When he regained his balance and Onyx was back on all fours, Sasuke looked at the central path, remembering what the oracle had said and thinking that this should be the way to go, so he made the horse move forward, despite the reluctance of the animal.

The putrid stench started only a few minutes on the road before dead animals began to appear on the road, being replaced only a few meters later by human corpses in various states of putrefaction, from skeletons to bodies that should barely have been there for a few days. , and even recognized the uniform worn by the third-rank guards in his kingdom, only stuffed with bones, each corpse wrapped by vines and other local weeds.

He was forced to breathe as little as possible when the stench became impossible to bear, coming to vomit in the section where everything was strongest, without having the opportunity to breathe until the road began to clear of so much death, showing to his sight a great stone plateau clothed with climbing vines and rosebuds.

He got off his horse and gave him another snack, tying the reins to the tree farthest from the ferns and other plants full of fruit that he knew they shouldn't eat.

Slowly and carefully he approached the great structure, gazing at it in fascination. Up close, he noticed the spines that protruded around the roses of different sizes that decorated the plateau, which, he noticed, were deceptively sharp, cutting him at the simple touch and spilling a thick drop of blood that bathed the thorn that caused his wound.

The sudden tremor in his spine appeared as the slight trembling of the earth beneath his feet, accompanied by the sound of something sliding - something that must have been big and heavy, from the way it sounded - and then deafening silence was present. .

“Onyx!” He shouted, turning around when he heard the horse whinny and stop suddenly, expecting to meet the animal where he had left it, however in its place he found another type of animal, giant and with shiny black scales, which were only cut with the three red lines of scales on the tip of its tail, raised in the air with a swaying motion.

The gigantic snake kept its eyes fixed on his, hissing and showing off his forked white tongue.

Eyes wider than they had ever been in his life, he diverted them just a little to the rest of the great reptile's body, almost growling in pain at the bulge protruding from where, he guessed, was the stomach of the immense snake, sure it was the product of his horse swallowing.

Feeling the flame of fury ignite and grow in him, he grasped the hilt of his sword in a slow motion and drew it lightly, as the serpent rose a little higher above him.

With one swift movement he pulled it out completely as the snake lunged at him, barely being fast enough to avoid its jaws, but not fast enough to dodge its tail, which slammed it against a tree and left it stamped there until he nailed the sword almost halfway.

Even his powerful armor hadn't been enough to shield him from that blow, catching his breath cut short by the pressure of the limb that had held him captive, but he had no time to think about that as he tried to get away from the great perimeter that covered the snake.

The injured tail slammed into the ground next to him, causing him to stumble from the din it caused.

The reptile's head also collided with the ground a few feet from his back and then glided at high speed towards him, using its nose to push him up when he collided with him and sent him flying into the air as the snake rose again, now with its jaws open.

But Sasuke was able to hold on to the tip of the animal's nose and avoid being swallowed as he had done with his horse by resting his feet against the bottom of the snake's mouth and giving a little jump before it closed it, being helped by the impulse that the same reptile gave him before the abrupt movement it made while trying to make him fall.

Sasuke stayed on the snake's skull and held onto its scales as best he could before stabbing his sword - which he had clung to as much as he could during the attack - into one of the animal's eyes, which let out a shrill and strange sound before, to Sasuke's immense amazement, it made a 180 ° turn and threw himself hard against the floor, taking him with and crashing him on the flat surface, a blow so violent that it caused him to lose his helmet, his mobility and his strength.

--------------------------------

Only seconds before he lost consciousness he saw the towering snake - now one-eyed - rise above him before launching itself with his jaws open just as Sasuke's eyes finally gave up.

When he woke up, the first thing he noticed was the immense throbbing pain in his head that only got worse when he tried to open his eyes, being hit by the brightest sunlight that forced him to close them again.

Where had so much light come from?

After a while, and when he was sure he could resist it, he opened his eyes again.

It took him a long time to regain the clarity of his sight, but once everything was clear he was astonished at what he saw.

In front of him a large colorful space, green above all, stood proud in all that light. Huge trees were here and there, casting great shadows, covered with fruit in great quantity.

A few meters from him was a lake with crystal clear waters, reflecting everything that was shown from above.

It was only when a slight movement behind him caught his attention that he realized he had been leaning against something cold, and when he turned around he felt as if his entire being had left his body when he found himself face to face with the giant eye yellowish that he recognized instantly.

He backed away quickly, grunting in pain as his muscles protested at his sudden movements, but instead of stopping to ease them, he fought them and reached for his sword at her waist, surprised not to find it.

The snake stared at him for a few seconds before lazily deflecting its head toward the center of the thread that had turned its body.

—You must not fear, it will not hurt you

He turned quickly and looked around, searching for the soft voice that he had said those words.

"Onyx" he breathed out, seeing the mate he had thought he lost, now lying on the grass, asleep on the other side of the lake.

Naturally those words were not said by the animal, but by the other person next to it, who was gently stroking the mane of his horse.

Their eyes met and he forgot how to breathe, incredulous of the moons that were his pupils, beautiful, and that without a doubt were looking directly at him.

The woman stood up and he could see her completely: snowy skin, long dark hair that swayed with every step she took. Her body was covered in leaves, branches and flowers that clung to her like a second layer. The upper part of her was covered by vines up to the middle of her breasts, being enough to cover the most. The lower part was a skirt, much less rigid than the upper one as it was made entirely of green leaves in different sizes, stopping only a few inches above her knees.

A long vine rested in the center of her abdomen, joining the two pieces as one.

She was barefoot and her hair was decorated with the most elaborate flower crown he had ever seen in his life.

As he passed by the lake, he stopped, crouching in the direction of the water, taking from the ground a large leaf of a plant that he did not recognize - and which he had not realized was lying there - and wrapped it gently until it formed a bowl that she plunged into the water until filled it, rising again and resuming its way towards him, now with the makeshift pot that spilled tiny drops from its bottom.

When she finally got to him, he saw her more clearly: thin and natural pink lips, a small and upturned nose, perfectly shaped eyebrows and long eyelashes that only marveled her appearance even more, also highlighting the lack of the slightest freckle on her face.

She offered him the bowl but he did not take it at first, still fascinated and hypnotized by the beauty of the woman in front of him until she pushed it to his chest, forcing him to hold it as she took one by one his hands between her smallest and drew them to the sides of the blade, releasing it when she made sure his grip was firm.

She, with one of her index fingers, touched the surface of the water three times in different parts, and when her hand lowered three different flowers grew in the water: a lotus, a calla and a water lily, which immediately disintegrated and mixed with the liquid, giving it a color that ranged from pink to purple.

"Take it" she said, looking into his eyes "it will help you heal."

He didn't know why, but he obeyed her and took the entire tonic in one gulp, grimacing when the bitter taste of it touched his tongue and she slid down her throat.

She smirked and turned around, walking back to where Onyx was now awake, looking at them wearily.

"It's you" was the first thing that came out of his mouth, looking at her completely uncovered back as she walked away from him “The witch”.

Her walking stopped and she turned around again, looking at him now with a frown, offended.

“That's very rude!. I am not a witch" she protested "My name is Hinata Hyuga, and I am the queen of this garden" she said proudly, turning to resume her march as if her statement was enough to deny his word.

But he would not be fooled; he had witnessed for himself what she had done in the water she had given him to drink.

He looked around him and his sight fell on his sword and armor, arranged neatly on the grass near the giant serpent's tail.

Slowly and careful not to be heard he approached his things and took the sword at the same time that with difficulty he took three steps back as the snake's tail moved to hit the ground and then returned to its original position.

It took a bit of trouble, but he was able to raise his sword and hold it with both hands, directing the tip in the direction in which that woman - that witch - was, now again sitting on the grass, stroking the back of his horse, looking at him unimpressed.

"Witch, you will come with me" he demanded "Everything will be easier if you do not resist, you will get a decent treatment: you will sleep in the softest bed, you will wear the finest clothes ... otherwise, if you resist, you ... you ..." He stopped for a moment, not for lack of words, but from shortness of breath —If… if you resist… the dungeon… the smallest and dirtiest dungeon will be…

"You’re hurting them" she interrupted, and he didn't understand.

The witch looked down and he followed her eyes, stopping at the sword that was now stuck in the middle of a small group of flowers.

When had he lowered his sword?

“What did you do to me?” He growled, aware of the progressive loss of strength to which he was subjected.

"It's the medicine" said the witch, calmly "for your body to heal, it must first rest”

And as if that were a command, his body fell apart, causing him to fall to the floor on a tall grass bed that he could swear was not there a moment ago.

- Witch! ... You will pay...

Unconsciousness welcomed him.

--------------------------------------

When he woke up there was still sunlight, quite clear, so he thought that maybe he had only slept a few seconds, but the environment felt different from before and he could hear the distinctive galloping and neighing of Onyx, going here and there as his footsteps slightly covered the happy laugh of the female.

He could not move his body freely, only just his fingers, and mentally he cursed himself for having taken that concoction that this evil woman had given him, clearly using her sorcery to weaken him.

“Your body still needs rest” he could have shuddered at the sudden voice if it weren't for the fact that he was paralyzed, shortly afterwards the witch's face appeared in his visual range, tilted from above so he could see her “you´ve been very hurt by your confrontation with Munda, your injuries will take a little longer to heal”

He grunted, annoyed.

“Why have you risked your life to get here, mortal?” She asked him, now in a more serious tone.

Then and once again without really knowing why, he began to tell her about his kingdom, about the moments of wealth and prosperity before the war struck, about the deaths and the lack of food that besieged them, making their situation worse. He told her about his brother and his mysterious bedridden illness, about the sudden barrenness of his lands, and how he had preferred to make this trip alone rather than take away much-needed protection in case they tried again to invade them during his absence.

In her face there was no sorrow, annoyance or joy for their misfortunes, instead it was pure curiosity what he could see while he finished explaining the reason why he was looking for her.

"Okay, I'll go with you" she answered with conviction.

He, who had gradually regained mobility to the point where he could now sit up and the waves of heat attacked him insistently, looked at her in surprise, unable to avoid questioning her decision.

"I'll go with you" she confirmed again "However, the starting path is more dangerous than the one you traveled to get here, so you will have to make a full recovery first" She stood up and looked at him “I cannot be away for long, this place depends on me, so I will help your people and leave immediately, it is my only condition”

He watched her, almost denying immediately that he could leave that easily, but he was quick enough to bite his tongue before speaking.

"Okay, then we have a deal" he agreed.

She nodded pleased and stood up, walking away from him and up a tiny hill where she began to press with her fingers the closed buds and the withered flowers that surrounded her, opening and coming back to life with the simple touch of her.

Despite having accepted, in his mind they only danced ways of how he would interrupt her departure, it would be very foolish of him to let her go that easy, a person with her abilities, whether witch or not, was unique, one in a million , and no self-respecting kingdom would let her go that easily.

He could try to convince her by showing her everything that she obviously didn't have in her "garden", the wonders of modernity, and if that couldn't convince her, well, he had dungeons at his disposal that he could trick her into or even without them, but surely he would not lose those abilities from his hands.

Satisfied with that plan, he began to touch the back of both of his hands, searching and removing the splinters that he did not know how he has nailed himself.

Even though Hinata's tonics were helping him recover faster than he normally would, it felt like it was actually taking forever.

There, the days and nights seemed to last longer than normal, as if the clock had 36 hours instead of 24.

Each remedy that Hinata gave her were different and she healed something different, like the one she used to make his bruises disappear, which were a combination of wild flowers and citrus fruits that melted in the water as soon as she created them and released. Those bruises that would normally take a week or more to fade, she had done it in almost three days.

The problem is that she could only give him a tonic for one thing at a time, along with the first one that she had given him so his body relaxes and rests.

Now he was drinking one that she claimed would help with his internal ailments, and he guessed she was referring to the bruised bones that barely allowed her to walk or breathe. This was particularly bitter and she had to take it several times a day, which was a mini torture considering that these wounds would take even longer to heal.

He was washing his armor when he heard her scream.

“No! Go away, you can't be here!”

His skin prickled when she heard it. Had someone entered that place? An ally or an enemy? The great snake that was supposed to be the only one that could make someone else reach that place, Munda, hadn't moved from the rock it had spread on the day before, almost looking dead if it weren't for the hiss it left escape from time to time, maybe someone had found a way to enter without facing the great reptile?

“No! Get away!”

Wasting no time he dropped the piece of armor he was washing into the water and instead grabbed his sword, gripping it tightly and ran - or rather, he limped quickly - looking beyond the trees and bushes until he saw her midnight hair, covered with small flowers of various colors, and he went quickly towards her, who kept her fists clenched and her arms stiff down, slapping the floor with one foot while she kept yelling at whoever was there to leave.

But as he got closer to her, he still couldn't see anyone else; maybe it was some invisible person? It would not be unreasonable to think about that.

Finally, when he got to her side, he saw whoever caused her annoyance.

"This… creature…" she began, making an exasperated gesture with her hand at the wild boar that nonchalantly ate the blackberries from the orchard it raided "This annoying creature won't go away!" I've tried everything but it keeps coming back”

He looked at her in disbelief.

“So much fuss over a wild boar?”

“Is this the name of this demon spawn?” She asked him, looking at him intensely "Do you know him?"

"It's a wild boar, there are hundreds of them in the forest" he said more calmly, dismissing the accusation of her previous question.

“Hundreds?!” She gasped in disbelief.

"Calm down, just ... get rid of him."

“I´ve tried it! But this ... boar keeps coming back”

He let out an exasperated sigh, thinking of suggesting of making her pet snake eat the animal, but dismissed the idea as he thought the reptile was pretty useless when it don´t came to attacking and killing unsuspecting humans and their horses near the plateau of stone.

Since he first woke up he had only seen it move a few inches and change position, so another idea occurred to him.

“Can you hold it?” He asked him “with your ivy?”

She looked at him curiously and suspiciously, but instead of answering vocally, she raised a hand and made a few short movements with her fingers before clenching her fist, catching the animal that began to screech in panic.

He approached it, and with a certain movement, cut off it head.

When he heard her loud gasp he looked back and there she was, her brows furrowed, her eyes staked and both of her hands covering her mouth.

He looked back at the now dead animal, grabbed it head and raised it before asking.

“Do you know fire?”

Sasuke sat on a rock while at the same time bringing the now cooked boar meat to his mouth, biting off a large chunk and tearing it from the rest so he could eat it.

Sitting on another rock on the other side of the bonfire he had made, Hinata found herself with her arms crossed and her brow furrowed, looking at him with such intensity as if she wanted to make his head explode with just her powerful gaze.

She was upset with him, that was clear. Since he had killed the animal and cut its meat into smaller portions so he could stick them into branches and put them on the fire to cook.

The turning point, however, was when he gathered branches and leaves and started the fire that he had surrounded with rocks of different sizes as a barrier so that the fire did not spread.

Apparently, she could forgive him for killing an animal even if she was clearly against it, but lighting wood and using leaves as a burning material was where she drew the line, practically declaring enmity at the prolonged silence she had maintained.

It was funny to tell the truth, even if preparing that meat and the dressing he had bathed it with to give it a little more flavor had been torture for his sprained wrist, it was worth it if I could see her normally relaxed and smiling face distorted with annoyance and disappointment, her lower lip sticking out childishly.

Furthermore, and despite the wide variety of fruits she had been feeding him - more delicious than he had ever eaten - he had really missed the taste of meat on his palate.

“Hey!” He called her even though it wasn't necessary, since she hadn't taken her gaze from him for a second. "Try a little" he said, spreading some meat even though he was too far for her to reach.

That scandalized her.

“I will not do it!” She vigorously refused, looking quite offended by his proposal “I'm not a savage!”

"Me neither" he said, shrugging even though he wanted to burst in laughs at her expression.

“You are eating a living being”

“You eat the children of your plants, but I don't judge you for doing that”

The expression on her face finally overcame him, making him laugh.

With difficulty and care, he rose to his feet and walked around the fire, sitting next to her and extending with his good hand the piece of meat he himself had previously been eating.

"Try a little" he repeated, but she pursed her lips and turned her face away, refusing.

“No, I do not like”

"You can't say you don't like it if you haven't tried it yet" he told her, repeating the words his mother had repeated so much to the fussy eight-year-old he was.

But she kept refusing, so he took another approach they used to use with him when he was especially difficult to feed: negotiation.

"How about this" he began “If you try a little of this, I promise I won't complain and take all your strange meds even if they taste like hell itself, you don't have to like it, just try a little”

She looked at him scrutinizingly, apparently looking for some kind of dishonesty, but he just brought his injured wrist to the center of his abdomen, in a well-camouflaged dirty little manipulative move, which he knew was working when she looked at his wrist and then again to in his eyes.

“Just a little?” He nodded "And will you take the medicine without complaining?" He affirmed again.

Hinata closed her eyes and took a deep breath before letting it out again in the form of a long sigh.

She opened her eyes again, now with a look of determination and nodded.

He smiled and brought the meat to her mouth.

“W-wait!” she yelled, holding his wrist.

He was really having a hard time not laugh again.

Without letting go his wrist, she barely opened her mouth and bit into some of the meat, chewing it and stopping after swallowing it.

He looked at her expectantly, watching as she frowned again and sudden tears began to fall from her eyes.

Was it really that bad?

He began to feel guilty for forcing her to do so, but he was surprised when she now took a bigger bite, taking the meat from his hand to grab it herself, saying between sobs

"It's good!" she sniffed and cried harder as she ate more of it.

________________________

That night he woke up because of the pain that attacked his healthy wrist, grunting and looking for the reason for that, and when he looked at it, he was surprised and out of breath to see how a bracelet of branches wrapped him, which would not be a problem if it was not for the fact that they seemed to come straight out of his skin.

________________________

Another few days passed and he had kept thinking a lot about his situation.

Due to his suspicions, he decided to do an experiment.

For a few days he stayed especially close to her, touching her skin with his fingertips in the most subtle way he could, leading him to offer help during the moments when she did her self-imposed tasks that were not really necessary - there was not much to entertain herself with, he supposed — and despite confusion at his sudden need to help, she agreed and directed him what to do, frustrating him when any of those tasks kept him away from her.

But at the end of the day he touched her enough without going overboard - tapping her shoulder to get her attention or patted it awkwardly as he congratulated her with a "good job" - and then he walked away from her and went to the makeshift cot she had created for him, leaving her more confused than at first.

The first night he waited awake for something to happen, for the branches to start coming out or for his skin to turn green, he wasn't entirely sure what could happen, but he waited.

And he received nothing.

He repeated the experiment several more times and nothing happened, so he thought maybe it was a side effect of the last potion she had given him to drink? It would make sense that his body is no longer producing more vegetation by changing the type of medicine she was giving him, and it would also make sense that she did not know that effect as something out of the ordinary, since her own body seemed to produce by itself the plants that dressed her.

Then he forgot the topic, classifying it as a one-time occurrence.

Until he wasn't.

That morning, when he no longer had any kind of ailment and was beginning to feel he was finally regaining his strength, he had helped Munda - who, he learned, was really peaceful when he was not protecting the entrance to that garden - to get rid of the little debris that had stuck to him after his last shedding of skin.

"Good work," Hinata said, patting him on the shoulder as best she could since he was significantly taller than her “Munda's shedding of skin is usually a disaster because it is more resistant than normal, so I always have a hard time cleaning it when it's in season” she revealed, now with her hand fixed on his shoulder “you are very good at that”

He accepted her congratulations with a small hint of pride on her chest.

They passed the day with normally, and at night, while taking a bath in the lake, a sudden pain attacked his shoulder.

When he tried to move his shoulder in circles, he couldn´t, the pain and stiffness prevented him from the slightest movement, then he brought his other hand over said shoulder to try to massage himself, but when he felt his fingers prick, He stopped.

Surprised, he looked at his shoulder and couldn't believe what he saw: it was covered in thorns right where Hinata had touched it.

The fire of anger ignited in him and spread like forest fire, was that it? Her hands? Were her hands causing his body to produce leaves and thorns as if it were a simple plant? Although, now that he thought about it, he had been a fool not to realize it before, after all, she was nothing more than a witch whose hands could grow trees and flowers out of nowhere.

He had been fooled. He had let his guard down and this witch was turning him into another plant in her garden.

Who many more had she done this to?

He looked at the surrounding trees for the hint that any of them were once a man, but he had done his job so well that there was not the slightest trace of a previous humanity in them.

Angry, he left the lake and put on his pants, not caring they were dirty and dusty from the activities he had done that day. He dressed in his armor and took the sword with him, searching for Hinata and finding her, as always, in the center of the small flower-covered hill that surrounded her.

His quick and heavy steps caught his attention, turning and smiling at him when she saw him approaching, but that expression quickly changed when he entered, stepping carelessly on the flowers that she loved so much.

"Sasuk ..!"

"In two days we will leave," he interrupted, placing the sword under her chin and applying enough pressure so the tip dug lightly into her neck, hurting her “I have already lost a lot of valuable time with your stupid games, as of today, I command”

He turned around without giving her the opportunity to speak and went to the farthest part of that garden, where he found what seemed to be the oldest tree of all, the most leafy, where he sat down and pressed his back against it, crossing his arms with his sword still in his hand, quickly creating in his mind all the logistics of what he would do next.

______________________

The desperate neighing of Onyx woke him up.

He hadn't realized when he had fallen asleep, but it seems as if the apocalypse had taken place once he closed his eyes.

He blinked, trying to clear the blurry view of him until everything was terrifyingly sharp.

In front of him, Onyx kept crying, rising on his hind legs and then dropping the front legs in heavy blows, kicking up the dust with each fall.

It was daytime, he could tell, but the whole environment was so bleak that his brain had a hard time understanding it.

He looked around him, all the space that had previously been green and colorful had turned to the darkest gray he had ever seen. The trees shed their leaves at an impressive speed, the same ones that were now on the ground, surrounding him.

He tried to take one, but the blades were so brittle they broke with the simple touch.

"Onix, take it easy" But the horse ignored him; instead, he whinnied louder as if urging him to stop and then ran, leaving him behind.

He walked carefully, looking everywhere: the bushes were dry but still held some of their fruits, of which he took one and put it in his mouth only to spit it out instantly, disgusted by the horrible taste of the previously delicious blackberry had taken. As he walked, a foul stench began to fill his nostrils, aggravating the closer he got to the lake, until he realized that was where it came from. The waters, previously clean and clear, were now as black and thick as tar.

What was happening?

It didn't take long for him to find the cause.

Still on the small hill was Hinata, motionless and with her head bowed, the flowers around her were wilted. Munda surrounded the hill, making a great circle with its whole body, as trying to be a wall of protection for her owner.

The great snake gave him a warning hiss, glaring at him, now with both of its healthy eyes, as if it was challenging him to come closer.

Even with the threat of the reptile, he did, he knew how protective he was, but he had learned that in here Munda was more like a puppy playing at being brave than the gigantic and terrifying snake really was.

Already within the circle of protection of him everything was more horrible, here the flowers were not withered, and instead they seemed burned. Hinata's body remained immobile, not even seemed to breathe, and when he surrounded her and was face to face with her, he was surprised by the horrible state that in just a few hours she had gotten.

Her skin was as gray as the rest of the earth, her previously pink lips were now dangerously close to black, almost all the flowers in her hair and crown had lost their petals and the ones that remained would fall at any moment. Her eyes were open and she kept them that way, without blinking, and the only sign that told him there was still life in her was the trail of tears that fell without stopping.

He crouched in front of her and called out, but he didn't get the slightest bit of recognition from her.

He grabbed her face and winced at the ease of movement he had from her, even if her body seemed stiffer than could be possible.

Then the dark green trail that fell from her throat to her abdomen caught his eye, and he felt as if he had been hit with the strongest metal as he remembered what he had done.

Was this his fault?

"Hinata," he called her, lifting her face so he could look into her eyes, which seemed to be empty. "Hinata, I'm sorry."

But his attempts were in vain because she did not respond or make the slightest movement that indicated she would do it at some point.

Desperation began to fill him and he didn't know what to do, stroking her face and trying to wipe the tears away, but they kept falling and instead, sliding over and around his thumbs, mocking his unsuccessful attempts to stop them.

Then, in a moment of utter despair he did something he had only thought would happen in his dreams, and kissed her.

His lips froze over the cold, chapped of hers, and all ambient sound that he had previously not actively noticed disappeared. He made no move, just stood with his lips joined, praying inside his mind for a reaction, until her lips trembled.

One sob left them, then two, until it was totally a symphony of wailing.

He hugged her and pressed her to his chest, quietly apologizing to her and preferring to hear her cry than remain in the deathly silence of moments ago.

----------------------------

Recovery was slower than he could have imagined. While it took less than one night to produce the disaster, fixing it was a matter of a long time.

She avoided talking to him and he couldn't blame her, not after all that he´d caused.

She was just getting back to her normal color and at the same time so did her garden, slowly returning to the green it was when he had arrived.

He hadn't given her a reason for his action in the first place, and he didn't think he'd do it sometime soon - never, if he could.

He just helped her silently, discovering that when he kissed her, she recovered a little more.

So he kept doing it, morning, afternoon and evening, until the pink on her cheeks appeared and the flowers in her hair began to bloom.

That, however, came at a price, and it didn't take long for him to realize that the mere touch was more powerful than that of her fingers.

It first reflected on his nails, which turned brown and their textures became like that of a tree trunk. Then on his chest, where leaves and thorns came out again.

It was a much faster process than he had thought.

"I think we can leave tomorrow" were the first words she spoke to him after days of silence, smiling shyly at him, speaking in a low voice.

He nodded as best she could, his neck stiff from the changes taking place in him.

That day his feet stuck to the ground, and pulling them off felt as if he had lost a limb.

"Sasuke" Hinata called him the next morning, worried about what she was seeing. "Since when has this been happening?"

He looked at her, but he didn't answer.

He was still lying on his grass cot, trapped by the ivy that had tightly encircled his arms, torso, and legs to keep him in place.

"Wait." The desperation in Hinata's voice was palpable, but he could barely recognize anything.

With her hands, Hinata touched the plants on top of him, but was surprised to see that instead of obeying her and disappearing, they seemed to tighten around Sasuke.

She looked at her hands without understanding what was happening and tried again, her eyes clouding over as she obtained the same result as the first time.

The tears left her eyes and the sobs soon appeared the more she tried and failed, becoming more energetic and miserable with every second more.

"Hinata," he called out, barely a hoarse whisper as he felt a new plant grow from his stomach and slide its roots through his esophagus, slowly exiting his mouth "There is no time for me…”

“Do not!" She shouted shakily" Don't say that!”

“S. Save them ... my people ...” he said, barely breathing.

"I-I will, but-but first ..." A sob interrupted her "you first..."

Sasuke wanted to deny, but he had neither the strength nor the mobility to do so.

"There ... there is ... no time for ... me" he repeated.

“Sasuke”

“Please”

Without finding the words to answer him, she just nodded.

Sasuke smiled and looked at her, grateful as a single tear slid down the side of his face as more roots came out of his mouth.

"Thank you" he said, his voice cracking, closing his eyes, "I lo ..."

But he couldn't finish his sentence, losing the last breath he had and finally letting the roots slide out of his mouth and dig into the ground beneath him.

A heartrending scream came from Hinata's mouth, the loss, for the first time in hundreds of years, completely ripping her apart.

She cried over his body, feeling a pain much worse than that of a few days ago completely invade her, feeling again how she was fainting rapidly.

But she still had one last promise to keep.

Unwilling to leave him, Hinata placed both hands on the ground and gathered all of her strength, screaming as she transferred her power beyond the forest, filling all around with the life that he had come looking for.

The earth shook and great thorny walls rose above all of her garden, joining in the center without closing completely, and leaving a small gap through which the sunlight entered.

Exhausted, she walked to where Sasuke's body lay covered in roots and she dropped down beside him, placing a hand on his chest, slowly closing her eyes and melting into him.

------------------------

From the highest tower of the Uchiha castle, the cries of the courtesans invaded the room of King Itachi, whose body was covered by a white sheet as his court surrounded him.

"You did it, my king," Kakashi whispered, watching from the window as the kingdom began to fill with the vivid green of the growing plants and the colorful buds of flowers and fruit that followed them, though his attention was really fixed on the large bud that it had formed in the farthest part of the forest.

While, at the gates of the kingdom, Onyx the steed without his king arrived.

@sasuhinamonth

#sasuhina month #sasuhinamonth2021 #day 5 #sasuhina #queen of the garden #theres a spanish vertion #but im not publishing it here #too long

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avidreader135 · 3 years ago

Text

HER OMINOUS WORDS

'Sometimes I think I fell in love because you are the perfect partner. One who listens and doesn't talk back. Confined to bed, you have little chance to go astray. I can control the length of your facial hair, your hairstyle, so you look like the way I want you to and not go on a no-shave November. Beard's not for handsome boys like you; you have nothing to hide.'

She runs her hand over my face.

'You will be all right. It will be such a waste of a good life if you don't wake up.'

She shakes her head.

'You know what I'm looking forward to most? For you to wake up and photograph me. Naah, not for the 54 followers on instagram. For myself. I want to know how you will see me. Will you hate me? Will you like me? I keep thinking about it every night, imagining various scenarios. In most, you're grateful to me because I saved your life but then you walk off with a nice girl.

She turns towards me.

'You make me want to be nice again. Be good and kind. Isn't that something, Ananth? You make me want to believe in love.....you.....were supposed to be my story. Instead, you changed mine.' She then puts her arm around me and closes her eyes. She whispers 'I like feeling this way. It's been ages since I have felt like this. And I want to hold onto this feeling, hold onto you.'

I feel her breath on my neck. She is close, way too close for comfort.

'You know what? I won't ever let you leave me. You are mine now, forever. But you must be wondering who am I?'

She kisses my neck gently and rests her head on my chest, right above my heart, gently thrumming her fingers on my fractured ribs.

'I am the girl who has always been invisible to you. I have watched countless girls fall for your handsome face, your charming personality and your quick wit. And I have also watched you giving them what they desired. It felt like a knife twisting my dark soul.'

The thrumming stopped and I felt her going still.

'But now my agony has come to an end. Now I can start living my life again. I am so excited for the next chapter in our lives to begin.' She says happily.

Her love for me is toxic and it is suffocating me. I cannot do anything except lie there, listening to her future plans involving me being in a perpetual vegetative state.

My limbs won't move. They are like dead weights lying beside me. My head feels like it would explode any minute. Everything aches and I feel as if I am burning, I don't know if it's the fever or the immense rage I feel listening to the woman talking about me as if she owns me, as if I am her slave.

Suddenly I feel light, like I am floating in air, and I feel it spreading through my veins, that sense of laziness you feel after a trying day.

'Sleep my prince charming. Your Cinderella will be taking care of you.........' are the last words I hear before everything goes dark and the burning subsides.

#dark romance #romance #mania #toxic love

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bubonickitten · 4 years ago

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Summary: Jon goes back to before the world ended and tries to forge a different path.

Previous chapter: AO3 || Tumblr

Chapter 18 full text & content warnings below the cut.

CWs for Chapter 18: discussion of passive suicidal ideation; unintentional self-harm (scratching at arms as a stim, to the point of drawing blood); brief allusion to childhood neglect; internalized ableism (re: ADHD, but not explicitly stated as such); brief acephobia (past experience & internalized); Jon-typical negative self-talk, guilt, & rejection sensitive dysphoria; discussion of past trauma (including having bodily autonomy overridden, canon non-consensual surgery, & stabbing); internalized victim blaming/comparing victim to their abuser; discussion of self-inflicted blinding/eye gouging (past attempts & potential future attempts); brief mention of Mr. Spider/arachnophobia themes; swears. SPOILERS through Season 5.

Chapter 18: Reconciliation

Once Jon opened the door and the Fears rewrote reality, not only was sleep no longer a physiological necessity – it was no longer an option. Much like the Coffin, even a temporary escape via unconsciousness was contrary to a world defined by the ceaseless generation of terror. And just as it did any human in that place, perpetual wakefulness took its toll on Jon’s already ravaged mental health.

The fact that he was no longer plaguing the nightmares of his victims may have been a small consolation, if not for the fact that he was instead witnessing the waking nightmares of billions of new victims: the same scenes looping over and over, layered one on top of the other, an endless soundtrack screaming in the background of his mind. Venting a statement from time to time could only do so much to quell that storm. He’d really had no choice but to learn to compartmentalize on autopilot and dissociate on command.

So when, for the first time since before the world ended, Jon awakens to Martin at his side, his mind cannot immediately reconcile the sight. He might think he was dreaming, if not for the fact that he hasn’t had a pleasant dream of his own since he became the Archivist. And even before then – well, he’d always been more predisposed to nightmares.

Jon feels his heart stutter in his throat when he sets eyes on Martin. Their hands are still clasped together, and despite the sweatiness of their palms and the way Jon’s arm is cramping from the angle, he has no desire to let go. Instead, he lies still, breathing shallow and measured, fearful of any sound or movement that might shatter the almost uncanny peace of the moment.

He really shouldn’t be staring like this, though, should he? Martin has given him permission to stare many times before, but that was in a future where they had Seen each other at their most vulnerable. Being seen, truly seen – as terrifying as it was for the both of them – became a comfort, because of what they had been through together. Here in the past, Martin hasn’t shared that experience. He might not be as keen to put up with Jon’s incessant watching.

Those reservations still aren’t enough to stop him, though.

Martin is still sat in his chair, but bent sideways at the waist to lean halfway on the cot. He’s snoring lightly, his head pillowed on his free arm, glasses askew. The angle is probably hell on his back.

Maybe I should wake him up, Jon thinks idly, one corner of his mouth turning up in a small, fond smile.

He doesn’t. Instead, his eyes remain rapt on Martin, soaking in every detail, as beloved and familiar as always: the length of his eyelashes, the shape of his lips, the spray of freckles across his nose, that particularly stubborn cowlick that always, always stands on end. Jon wants to reach out, sink his fingers into those curls, massage his scalp in that way Martin used to love – but that would be a step beyond staring, wouldn’t it? So he watches: unblinking, aching, adoring, and so overwhelmed that he's at risk of tearing up.

It’s painfully, embarrassingly maudlin of him, he knows, but can he really be faulted for that? Jon surpassed the lifespan of a normal human several times over, bereft and alone in a desolated realm of his own making. He spent much of that time out of his mind with grief, drowning in hopelessness and guilt, cycling between numb dissociation and raw destruction. When he wasn’t wandering aimlessly – near-catatonic, subsumed by the never-ending deluge of fear permeating that world – he was lashing out. Although he couldn’t die, he could still hurt, and so he did, with exacting focus: both himself and all the other monsters going through the motions in that doomed world.

Ending them neither decreased nor increased the net output of fear, but it was the closest Jon could come to some nebulous, fleeting sense of justice. He didn’t enjoy it – in fact, he hated the other Avatars sometimes, bitter that they could attain a release that seemed impossible for him. His first few acts of vengeance in those early days had felt good in the moment, but the high never lasted: just like taking a statement.

Eventually, once the fear began to grow scarcer, it felt more and more like granting mercy – often to monsters who never showed any themselves – rather than meting out justice. A few moments of pain was preferable to slow, torturous starvation. Breekon was the first to request such a favor. He was far from the last.

It made Jon feel monstrous in an all new way, offering escape to predators when he could do nothing to save their victims – at least not without turning them into Avatars themselves, creating more monsters to replace the old. But it also made him feel real – a tangible, active presence interacting with the world, as opposed to a ghost, unseen and unknowable. An undeniable consequence, rather than a detached observer.

Tears start to gather in the corners of his eyes. Jon tries to swallow them back, but his throat has grown thick with emotion. He never expected to escape that place; never expected to see a friendly face or hear a kind word ever again. And now that he has…

This isn’t for you, says an insidious little voice in the back of his head: some twisted chimera comprised of all those who have known him well enough to see him for what he is, to catalogue his failings, to pass judgment. There is no place for you in this world. You don’t belong here. You were made for something greater; eliminate that, and what remains –

A gentle knock-knock at the door startles him out of his thoughts.

“Jon?” Georgie pushes the door open and peers through the gap. “You awake?”

“Yeah.” It comes out as a fractured whisper. He sniffles and rubs his eyes, but Georgie has already noticed his distress.

“Bad dream?”

“No.” Jon clears his throat and props himself up on one elbow. “No, ah – quite the opposite, really.”

“Oh?” Georgie says, probing for an explanation.

Jon's gaze drifts to his hand, still joined with Martin’s. “None of this feels real, and…”

“And?”

“I, uh…” Jon closes his eyes, blinking back tears. “I don’t deserve it.”

“The world doesn’t work that way.”

“Maybe it should.” Jon lets out a wet, clipped laugh.

No one got what they deserved in the world he created, only what hurt them the most. Tempting as it was to find some meaning in it all, to retroactively draw correlations between past actions and current circumstances, Jon Knew from the very beginning that there was no cause-and-effect at play. Not really. Any misery being experienced in that new world was utterly unrelated to the lives people lived before the change. It was indiscriminate. Everyone was afraid and in agony, regardless of any subjective judgment on whether or not they deserved it.

And nothing Jon did changed those material conditions in the slightest. He could shift an individual’s role from subject to object and vice versa, reassign their place on the spectrum of the tortured versus the torturer, but at the end of the day, he was still just facilitating fear, regardless of what shape it took. Despite being one of the most powerful and fearful things roaming that scorched earth, his options were as limited as they’d always been. Every choice led to more or less the same end.

By every measure that could be said to actually matter, he was ultimately powerless.

Would it have been any more tolerable if the suffering was more proportionate? If at least some of the people trapped in the domains could be said to be receiving just punishment for any agony they themselves had inflicted before the end of the world? Maybe. But probably not. Securing vengeance never actually yielded any meaningful catharsis for Jon. Even Jonah Magnus' ultimate fate produced nothing but revulsion. The Archive may feed on such fear, but after all this time, Jon – all the pieces of him that still belong to him – has no desire to behold suffering. He has seen enough for several lifetimes, and he was never once given the option to look away, let alone put an end to it.

Jon shakes his head and begins to fully sit up, slowly and carefully so as not to disturb Martin. He’s hardly expecting Georgie to engage with his newest avenue of brooding, but after a minute, she gives a thoughtful hum and leans against the doorframe.

“Don’t know that I want to see what that would look like,” she says pensively.

“What?”

“A world where ‘deservedness’ was quantifiable – where you could put a precise value on suffering, and every action had a moral price tag on it that stayed the same regardless of the circumstances. Where subjective experiences could be – shoved into neat little categories that everyone could agree on.”

“Like Robert Smirke,” Jon murmurs.

“Sure.” Georgie shrugs. “I don’t know if humanity as we know it could even exist in a world like that. We’d be… unrecognizable.”

“O-oh?”

“Mm. We aren’t equations. Or – well, we are, I guess, at the most basic physical level, if you scale down small enough. Atoms, physics, chemical reactions and all that. But when it comes to the experience of consciousness, personal identity, free will… isn’t the complexity what gives it all meaning? If we could account for every last variable, know the exact effect of every cause, what would that make us?”

“I… I don’t know.”

“Life isn’t about the destination, I guess is what I’m saying.” Georgie runs her thumb over her lips as she muses. “We already know the destination. One way or another, everything dies.”

“‘The moment that you die will feel exactly the same as this one,’” Jon recites, a distant quality to his voice. “There’s no difference between that last moment that ushers us out into oblivion and the one we experience now – everything ends, even the universe, even time. And… that means it has always already ended.”

It takes a moment for Jon to come back to himself, blinking dazedly. It's another few seconds before he realizes what happened – and when he does, a sudden, heavy coldness takes root and blossoms in his chest.

“I’m so– I didn’t – I wasn’t –”

“It’s – fine,” Georgie says, although she sounds a bit rattled. “It was an accident.”

“Still, I’m sorry, I –”

“Apology accepted, Jon. I’m not angry.” When she sees Jon gearing up to belabor the point, she holds up a hand. “You’re forgiven. Let’s just move on, okay?”

Jon bites down on his lower lip, torn between dueling impulses: groveling, berating himself, shutting down, or… simply taking Georgie at her word. With a long, shaky exhale, he settles on trust: Georgie expressed a desire to drop it and move forward. He should respect that, right? Right.

He bites back his protests and nods stiffly. “Okay.”

“Look, what I was trying to get at is – knowing the destination doesn’t invalidate the journey, right? If anything, the inevitability of an ending is what gives meaning to all the rest.”

The End forced Georgie to confront the insignificance of her own birth and death against the backdrop of a vast universe – but rather than allow that realization to immobilize her with despair, she opted to make all the moments in between meaningful. Jon can't help but once again remember the confidence with which Martin countered Simon Fairchild's brand of flippant nihilism: I think our experience of the universe has value, even if it disappears forever.

I might have a type, he thinks to himself, equal parts wry and endeared.

“We all end up in the same place,” Georgie continues, “but that doesn’t have to mean we all follow the same path. What matters is what happens along the way, and – if you could map out every bit of the journey, predict the outcome of every single step you take, then – what else is left?”

“If you already know the answer to every question,” Jon says softly, “what’s the point of being?”

Jon isn’t sure what expression he’s making, but whatever it is, Georgie blanches when she catches his eye.

“Oh, I – Jon, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean –”

“No, it’s – it’s alright. You’re not wrong.” Jon chuckles awkwardly. “Is it odd that I find the thought…reassuring? Sort of?”

“We’re getting lost in the weeds, aren't we?” Georgie says with a flustered laugh. “My original point was – this obsession you have with deservedness, and establishing dichotomies, and trying to find simple, objective answers to complicated questions – it’s a skewed way of looking at the world, and it’s eating you alive. You have to stop treating your life like it’s a scorecard. Relentlessly punishing yourself isn’t going to change the past. It’s not healthy, it’s not productive, and it just makes you more likely to sabotage your future.”

“I know. It’s just… the things I’ve done, they’re – unforgivable. I can’t leave it behind, and I can’t take it back.”

Jon used to wonder when the Eye would make him too monstrous to feel shame. It never did, never had to: he abetted it regardless of how he felt about it. For the most part, he can’t even apologize: the people he hurt are either dead or have no memory of what Jon did to warrant it. Besides, some consequences too irrevocable, too catastrophic to cushion with remorse.

Sorry that you died because I failed; sorry that I burned a bridge that could have kept us both safe; sorry that you’re trapped here just because I stood too close to you. Sorry for the invaded privacy, sorry for the mistreatment, sorry for all the hunger and fear and nightmares. Sincerest apologies, everyone, for the eternal torment.

He could have composed a personalized apology for every last person in the world had he wanted – he’d certainly had the time to spare, as well as detailed knowledge of each victim’s plight. But any apology he could possibly make, no matter how eloquent or sincere, would have been insulting in its inadequacy. What reparations can be made to soften the blow of a life lost or a world ended?

“S-so,” he says, eyes downcast, “that just leaves… guilt.”

And fear. Fear enough to cram an Archive full to bursting.

“I know,” Georgie says.

“I’m sorry, I –” Jon breathes a bitter laugh. “I’m a broken record, aren’t I? I fall apart every time I see you.”

“Jon,” George sighs, “you don’t have to apologize. You’ve been through unimaginable trauma. You’ve had barely any chance to start to heal from it. You’re still living it. I don’t expect a few heart-to-heart conversations to close the book on… all of that.”

“Still, it’s – annoying, I imagine.” Jon picks nervously at a loose thread on his trouser leg. “To sit through the same conversation over and over again.”

“I’d be more worried if you went back to just – pretending to be okay, refusing to talk about it. It’s been barely a month since you got out of the hospital. Shit, it hasn’t even been twenty-four hours since you crawled out of that Coffin.” Her eyes narrow slightly, intent and searching. “Speaking of which, I should ask: Are you a danger to yourself right now?”

“What?” The question catches Jon off guard. “No? N-no, I’m – why would you –”

“Just checking in. Which I’m going to keep doing. Regularly. So you may as well make peace with that now.”

“It’s not like I’m going to kill myself,” Jon mumbles – aiming for casually unconcerned and instead landing squarely in transparently uncomfortable territory. “I’m fairly certain I can’t die a mundane human death, anyway.”

“Maybe not, but that doesn’t mean you can’t still hurt yourself. And being suicidal sucks regardless of whether you actually plan on going through with it.” Jon studiously avoids eye contact as Georgie speaks. “Anyway, I know I sound like a broken record, but I’ll say it as many times as you need reminding: You have a second chance. You said you were going to make the best of it, and you can’t do that if you won’t let yourself have some peace.” Her expression softens, as does her voice. “Just… let yourself be, won’t you?”

There’s truth to what Georgie is saying. Even if he wasn’t mired in guilt, though…

“I’m afraid,” Jon whispers. “Of losing him, of losing everyone, of…”

Of dooming everyone. It was so easy. All it took was his voice, an incantation, and this ceaseless, aberrant hunger. He’s seen the consequences of the destiny for which he has unwittingly been prepared. Like it or not, he is the most dangerous thing in this world – a walking hair-trigger, already having overstayed his welcome on this earth by several lifetimes. One misstep, and…

“I should be grateful to have this, to have him – and I am, but every – every time I come close to letting myself feel – safe, hopeful, content, it… it never lasts. It’s always swallowed up by fear – not of if something goes wrong, but when. It just feels like… any choice I make is bound to end in tragedy. Like there’s no way out. Like nothing I do will change anything. I – I’ll mess it up; I always do.”

It’s a pattern that began long before he became entangled in Jonah’s machinations. Jon was a difficult child who grew into an even more difficult adult, always saying and doing all the wrong things because he’s never been able to fully grasp the invisible rules that other people seem to navigate so naturally. At home he could never shake the feeling that he was an odd guest, secretly unwelcome but with nowhere else to keep him; at school he was a menace, asking all the wrong questions at all the wrong times and prone to following his own lesson plans whenever the curriculum failed to hold his interest. Peer relationships typically failed to take root: he’s too guarded, too abrasive, too annoying and tactless and awkward. Whatever friendships managed to blossom tended to wilt before long, for all the same reasons.

Romantic relationships have historically been even more fraught. There are expectations that he will never meet, forms of intimacy that are traditionally assumed to be required rather than optional for such a relationship to qualify as normal, healthy, and sustainable. In his experience, setting those boundaries have usually been a deal-breaker. Georgie was the first to accept that aspect of him unconditionally; Martin was the second – and although Jon no longer believes that it’s a problem to be fixed, those old, long-held insecurities still rear up from time to time.

He had hoped he could at least prove himself capable as a Head Archivist, but, well… he was inexperienced with the duties of a mundane archiving job, unsuited to managing a department, and his preexisting difficulties with establishing rapport were exacerbated by his need to maintain a professional boundary between himself and his assistants. He tried to make up for those shortcomings with effort and dedication and – in retrospect – frankly obscene levels of overwork, but he never did manage to be a good boss or a good coworker.

It’s a cruel joke that of all the roles to finally excel in, it’s as the Archivist – or, specifically, Jonah’s Archivist. He met every expectation, even – perhaps especially – when he didn’t know what those expectations were. Not like Gertrude. She would doubtless be disappointed by her successor: constantly second-guessing himself, resolving indecisiveness with impulsivity, stumbling around in the dark, pointlessly sabotaging himself and those unlucky enough to find themselves in his orbit – ultimately devastating a world that she had made so many ruthless sacrifices to protect.

Jon has spent most of his life fumbling at being a peer, a friend, a partner, a colleague, an ally. If he couldn’t manage to figure it out when he was still human, how is he supposed to play at being a person now, when he’s…

“This – this isn’t for things like me,” Jon says hoarsely. He can feel more tears teeming as he looks down at Martin: kind and good and so, so deserving of happiness, of security, of a peaceful life that Jon fears he will never be able to provide, no matter how fiercely he loves. “I don’t get to” – end the world – “to become – this, and still get a happy ending.”

“Do you Know that?” Georgie asks.

“N-no, I can’t predict the future, but –”

“Then you shouldn’t assume the worst. You don’t have a fixed destiny, no matter what you’ve been led to believe.” She scowls at him. “And stop referring to yourself as a ‘thing’. It really doesn’t matter how human you are or aren’t, you're still you. You’re still a person.”

Jon doesn’t know how to respond to that without either contradicting her or offering lukewarm, disingenuous agreement. Luckily, he doesn’t have to: Martin begins to stir, and Jon hurriedly wipes away any evidence of tears, fighting to regain his composure. With a snuffle and a sleepy groan, Martin opens his eyes, blinking blearily.

“Hey there,” Jon says with a soft smile.

Martin returns a vague grin, muzzy with sleep. With unfocused eyes, he appears to slowly take in his surroundings, gaze lingering briefly on and then skating over his hand, fingers still interlocked with Jon’s. When his attention drifts towards Georgie, he stares at her for a long few seconds, squinting at the influx of light from the hallway. Another slow blink, another extended stare at his and Jon’s linked hands, and then his eyes widen. Color blooms on his cheeks as he abruptly surfaces into full consciousness, glasses tumbling off his face as he jerks upward.

“Oh, god, I’m sorry,” he says, groggy voice at odds with the panicked embarrassment in his eyes. He pulls his hand back, mumbling apologies about clammy palms. As he straightens in his seat, he lets out a pained hiss.

Jon cringes sympathetically. “You should’ve taken the cot.”

Martin ignores the comment, scrubbing at his face now, hiding it in his sleeve. It does nothing to conceal his reddened ears, Jon notes with amused affection.

“Did you sleep alright, otherwise?” Jon asks.

“Mm?” Martin retrieves his glasses and slips them back on before turning his attention to Jon. “Oh, uh – yes. You?”

“Yes, actually.”

His first routine breakdown of the day notwithstanding, Jon did manage to sleep through most of the night, only waking once after a brief foray back into Karolina’s nightmare.

The rest of the dreams were relatively benign. He spent some time with Georgie. Naomi was pleased to see him and eager as ever to regale him with cat anecdotes. Dr. Elliott was less pleased, but he was at least no more afraid of Jon than he had been during the coma. Seeing Jordan Kennedy was as uncomfortable as ever; Jon doubts he’ll ever know what to say to him. Tessa was more difficult to read. She wasn’t exactly happy to see him again, but she didn't seem angry, either.

Should’ve known it wouldn’t last, she’d sighed to herself – and then promptly changed the subject before Jon could stammer out an apology.

“Learned a lot about the right to repair movement,” Jon says absently.

“What?” Martin asks, bewildered.

“Oh, uh – Tessa Winters. Gave a statement in 2016 about a haunted chatbot. It forced her to watch a seventeen-hour-long video of a man eating his computer.”

Georgie perks up at that.

“Oh, is that the, uh – that creepypasta about that guy who mutilated himself trying to upload his mind to his computer?”

“Sergey Ushanka.”

“Yeah! Something about how he tried to crack open his skull and wire his brain to the motherboard?”

“That is one variation of the story, yes.”

“What,” Martin says flatly.

“I was thinking about doing a What the Ghost episode on that one,” Georgie explains, her sheepish smile doing little to conceal her lingering enthusiasm. “Haunted technology is always a popular topic. Didn’t expect that one to be real, though. I wonder –”

Jon answers her question before she can ask it: “I doubt Tessa would be interested in being a guest on the show.”

“Yeah,” Georgie sighs, “I guess not.”

Martin lets out a nervous chuckle. “What, uh – sorry, what does any of this have to do with right to repair?”

“Oh. Right. Tessa’s one of the people whose nightmares I… invade. Perpetuate, I suppose. She’s, ah, not my biggest fan, considering what I’ve put her through, but she says I’m a decent audience.” Martin gives Jon a blank look. “She basically gives me free lectures sometimes? Technology-related subjects, mostly. Fascinating stuff.”

“God, you sound like a grandpa,” Georgie says.

“Yes, yes, Tessa tells me the same.” Jon rolls his eyes. “Anyway, she has some, ah… strong feelings about Apple. Among other things.”

“Right,” Martin says slowly. “Wait, back up – you know what creepypasta is?”

“Yes, Martin,” Jon says with a sigh and an indulgent smile, “I know what creepypasta is.”

“That particular internet rabbit hole was one of his many, many avenues of procrastination in uni, believe it or not,” Georgie says.

“Contrary to popular belief, I’m not a Luddite. I tried to introduce the Archives to the twenty-first century, remember? It’s not my fault the Beholding has a retro aesthetic.”

“Huh,” Martin says with a bemused smile. Then he yawns. “Sorry. What time is it?”

As soon as the question is posed, the Beholding drops the knowledge into Jon’s head.

“About 10:30,” Georgie answers, just as Jon says, “10:28 and forty-six seconds” – and then, wincing at his own pedantry, “Sorry.”

Georgie looks ready to let loose with a snarky reply, but before she can say anything, Martin is on his feet, the blanket on his lap sliding to the floor.

“10:30? Jon, why didn’t you wake me up?”

“I – I wasn’t really paying attention to the time, I haven’t actually been awake for…”

Jon trails off as the Beholding casually notifies him that he woke up thirty-seven minutes and twenty-three seconds ago. He can feel heat pooling in his cheeks as a vague sense of shame sets in. Good lord, was he really just watching Martin sleep for that long?

“I should have been upstairs over an hour ago,” Martin says, frantically scanning the room for –

For his shoes, the Eye informs Jon.

Do you ever mind your goddamn business? Jon shoots back. On impulse, he swats at the air to his side, momentarily forgetting that the ever-present eldritch tagalongs he’d grown accustomed to during the apocalypse are no longer with him. In his dreams, he’d come eye-to-eye with them again for the first time since waking up in the hospital; apparently, that’s all it took to reintroduce this old, reflexive shooing tic to his waking life.

Georgie raises her eyebrows at the gesture, but Martin appears not to notice, preoccupied with his escalating panic.

Jon scrambles for some way to soothe him, but he’s at a loss. In his future, through trial and error and intense observation, he had painstakingly learned how to comfort Martin. Now, though, after so much time spent alone, Jon is out of practice. Moreover, he’s always been more adept at offering comfort through action and touch rather than words – and right now, he’s still uncertain where Martin’s boundaries lie.

So Jon continues to sit there, hands fluttering slightly as his mind rifles through a mountain of inane clichés in search of something, anything that might be able to help. Meanwhile, the Archivist in him is distracted by Martin’s growing anxiety. It isn’t the same as abject fear, per se, but it’s similar enough to pique the Eye’s interest.

Once again, Jon takes a swipe at the empty space beside him – and again ignores Georgie’s amused expression.

“If Peter notices I’m not in the office…” Martin nearly trips over the blanket on the floor as he turns in place to search behind him. “He – he’ll be suspicious –”

That’s when Georgie decides to speak up. Thank god, Jon thinks to himself. She exudes far more confidence than he does in this sort of situation.

“Won’t he already be suspicious?” she says, calm as can be. It’s enough to bring Martin’s fretting to a pause. “It’s not like you can keep this a secret forever, right? Your change in attitude is… pretty noticeable, Martin.”

“I – I – I didn’t really think much further ahead than –” Martin laughs nervously. “I was just – playing along, and it felt right, like if I just kept following the path I’d reach a – a – a conclusion? I don’t know what, but…” His shoulders slump, leaving his arms hanging awkwardly at his sides; he tugs at the hem of his shirt, as if he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. “I don’t think I cared much? I figured I could just – gather information and pass it along, and if nothing else I could keep Peter’s attention away from the Archives, and… that was the whole plan, to just keep doing that until… until whatever was going to happen happened, I guess, and now I don’t – I don’t know where to go from here, and…”

“Martin?” Jon says softly.

“Huh?” Martin finally glances up to meet Jon’s eyes.

“Can I take your hand?”

Cautiously, wordlessly, Martin offers his hand. Jon takes it in his, lacing their fingers together loosely.

“It’ll be alright,” he says. “You don’t have to figure it out on your own. Not anymore.”

Martin’s lips move minutely for a few seconds before meekly saying, “That doesn’t feel right.”

“I know.”

“I’m – I’m not saying you’re lying,” Martin says, rushed and anxious to appease, “it’s just…”

“Hearing something isn’t the same as accepting it. Or trusting it.”

“I do trust you, I do, it’s just… I don’t know. It’s like I can’t wrap my mind around it.”

“It’s alright,” Jon says gently. “I understand.”

“I’m sorry,” Martin whispers, his voice steeped in guilt.

“You don’t need to apologize.” When Martin opens his mouth to protest, Jon reiterates: “You have nothing to be sorry for. I promise.”

“Okay,” Martin says after a pause, still sounding somewhat doubtful. Then he grimaces. “I, uh, still don’t know what to do about Peter, though.”

“That depends on what you want,” Jon says, squeezing Martin’s hand. “I trust you. I’ll follow your lead.”

“O-okay,” Martin repeats. He blinks several times, surprised, before giving a nervous chuckle. “Only… I, uh, don’t really know what I want, to be honest?”

“Break it down into smaller pieces,” Georgie says. Martin flinches slightly – he must have momentarily forgotten she was in the room. “Do you want to go back to the Lonely?”

There’s only a short delay before Martin says, “No. I don’t… it feels different than before. Doesn’t fit right.”

“Do you want to continue working with Peter?”

“I don’t know,” Martin says slowly. “Not really? I mean, I never wanted to in the first place, it just… seemed like the thing to do.”

“Okay, rephrase,” Georgie says. “Do you want to stop working with him now?”

“I think so.” Another pause. Martin’s brow wrinkles as he stares at the floor in thought before glancing back up at Georgie. “Yeah, I – I think I do.”

“But…?” Georgie prompts, sensing Martin’s uncertainty.

“I worry about how he might react. He’ll probably start paying more attention to the Archives, and…” Martin looks at Jon. “What if he takes it out on you? Or – I mean, I don’t want him to hurt anyone, but I…” He looks down at their joined hands, tightening his grip just slightly. “I think you would be his most likely target.”

“Maybe,” Jon admits. He’s witnessed firsthand how vindictive Peter can be. “But I would rather take that risk than have you torture yourself on the off chance he’ll let me be. And… I think we’ll all be safer if we cooperate as a group rather than stay divided.”

“I guess. I’m not sure how to go about it, though.”

“Well,” Georgie says thoughtfully, “it depends on whether you want to quit all at once or ease into it.”

“I don’t know.” Martin looks to Jon again. “If I continue to work for him in some capacity, would it give us an advantage?”

At this point, they know more about the Extinction than Peter does, and Jon has a decent grasp on Peter’s goals and how he operates. So…

“I… don’t think there’s anything to be gained if you keep working closely with him, no,” Jon replies. “And anyway, I – I would rather that not be the deciding factor? It’s your decision, of course, it’s just – your wellbeing is more important.”

“Hypocrite,” Martin mutters, but there’s a tinge of endearment there.

“I know,” Jon sighs. “I’m working on it. But to the point, I worry that working closely with him might drag you back into the Lonely.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m also worried about you confronting him directly to resign. Especially on your own.”

Peter is patient. Moreover, he enjoys a long game. If he sees Martin’s change of heart as a surmountable obstacle, Peter is likely to take a step back and wait for another opening to regain the upper hand. If, on the other hand, he decides that Martin is a lost cause… well, Peter is a sore loser. There’s every chance that he could drop Martin into the Lonely out of spite again.

“Either way,” Jon says, “I don’t think it’s safe for you to be alone with him. Sooner or later, he’ll realize that the Lonely’s starting to lose its hold on you.”

Unthinkingly, Jon tightens his grip on Martin’s hand.

“It’s been slipping for a while now,” Martin says quietly. “I think he’s already noticed.”

“In that case… there’s no telling how he’ll react if he decides your allegiance to the Lonely is too tenuous to salvage.”

“Do you – or…” Georgie appears to grapple with wording for a few seconds. “Can you Know what Peter knows?”

“No,” Jon says. The last time he tried to Know something about Peter, not only did it yield nothing of value, it nearly incapacitated Jon – and he didn’t recover until he gave in and fed on a new victim. He can’t afford to repeat the experience. Daisy’s supply of statements is finite; Jon needs to ration them as much as possible. “I do know that Peter can’t spy from a distance, but that doesn’t mean he can’t just turn invisible to eavesdrop. Or that Elias won’t feed him information.”

“Let’s focus on the immediate question, then,” Georgie says. “Do you want to go upstairs and walk into your office two hours late with bedhead” – Martin runs a self-conscious hand through his hair, eliciting an affectionate smile from Jon – “or do you want to no-call/no-show?”

“Well… Peter isn’t actually around much,” Martin says. “Sometimes days go by before he checks in. He might not realize I’m not in my office yet. Maybe I can just – go about my normal routine for now?” He glances at Jon, almost beseeching. “At least until I have an idea of how much he knows?”

Like everyone who has worked in the Archives, Martin has developed a harder edge over the years. Early in his tenure, he seemed unassuming on first impression. He was by no means a pushover, but he was eager to please and preferred to avoid unnecessary confrontation. It made him an all-too-easy target for Jon’s insecurity-fueled ire.

But rather than roll over in the face of criticism, Martin has always been determined to prove his detractors wrong. Whether it’s risking his life for the sake of doing his due diligence – Jon cringes at the memory – or stubbornly caring for people who deemed him incompetent and didn’t appreciate his attentions, Martin is tenacious. It would be admirable – and it is, to an extent – but all too often it leads to self-neglect, bordering on self-harm.

And right now, despite the thicker skin that Martin has been forced to grow through necessity and loss, his demeanor when he looks at Jon is vaguely reminiscent of those early days in the Archives: cowed, cautious, desperate for approval and dreading reproach. With a pang of old guilt and a desire to soothe, Jon forces a smile and kneads the back of Martin’s hand with his thumb.

“I trust you,” Jon says, “and I know you’re more than capable. Just – when the fog starts to creep up on you, try to remember that there are people who care about you. You’re not a burden; you’re not – unseen, unwanted, undeserving, or – or whatever other lies the Lonely wants to tell you. You’re not alone. Not anymore.”

“Right,” Martin says in a breathless whisper. He gives Jon’s hand another squeeze before letting go. “I guess I, uh – I guess should head upstairs.”

“Text or call if you need a reminder,” Jon blurts out as Martin turns to leave. “S-sorry, I don’t mean to – to hover, it’s just… sometimes it helps.”

In Scotland, once Jon was too hungry to safely visit the village, Martin had to go on supply runs alone. Although he had largely left the Lonely behind, it still lurked in the background, waiting for quiet moments in which it could seep back in through the cracks it left behind. It was opportunistic and insidious, passive until it wasn’t, and it could strike unpredictably. And so, he and Jon would check in with one another frequently whenever Martin had to go into town.

In many ways it was an exercise in codependence, but they were doing their best, considering their particular circumstances.

“Thanks,” Martin says, splotches of pink staining his face again. “I – I will.”

“There’s no service in the tunnels,” Georgie reminds them. “Just in case you were planning on going down there today, Jon. Martin, do you have the rest of our numbers?”

“I have Basira’s. And Melanie’s.”

“Give me your phone. I’ll add my number. And Daisy’s.” Martin makes a face at that, but hands his phone over. “If Jon doesn’t answer, text one of the rest of us. We can make sure to always keep someone up here and reachable, just in case.”

“That’s really not necessary,” Martin says stiffly. “I don’t need my hand held every second of the day.”

“No, but you might need your hand held at any second during the day,” Georgie says, entirely unfazed by the shift in attitude, “and there's no shame in that. Sometimes a bad time sneaks up on you. Doesn’t hurt to be prepared.”

“I’ve always taken care of myself. I can handle a few hours alone.”

“I’m sure you can, but that doesn’t mean you have to.” Martin looks ready to object, but Georgie cuts him off. “You’re not going to win this argument; I’ve already heard it all before. I’ve known this one” – she jerks her thumb in Jon’s direction – “for years, and you have near-identical hangups about being an inconvenience or whatever.”

“I’m right here, you know,” Jon mutters.

“Yeah, this is directed at both of you. People want to help you. The world won’t end if you let yourself accept it without berating yourself in the process.” Georgie looks between the two of them as she hands Martin’s phone back, and then chuckles. “Huh. You two have damn-near-identical scowls, too, by the way.”

Simultaneously, Jon and Martin both roll their eyes.

Compared to the last time Jon saw her, Melanie looks… well, better. The wild, furious look in her eyes has subsided and the bags underneath are no longer quite so heavy. Her posture doesn’t look relaxed, exactly, but she doesn’t seem nearly as overwrought. She's still clearly weighed down by ambient tension, but she always has been – and the Archives have a way of making even the most well-adjusted person feel on edge.

She pauses at the bottom of the ladder, watching Jon with an air of distrust and uncertainty. Then Georgie takes her hand and a little more of that stiffness bleeds out of her. She allows Georgie to lead her over to the circle of chairs where Jon waits, and mirrors Georgie when she sits.

The ensuing silence is thoroughly unsettling. When it becomes clear that Georgie isn’t going to break the ice for them, and Melanie likewise keeps her silence, Jon reluctantly takes the initiative.

“Hi,” he says eloquently. He starts to give a little wave, but doesn’t fully commit to the motion, instead allowing his hand to hang awkwardly in the air for a few seconds before lowering his arm again, self-conscious.

“Hey,” Melanie replies – guarded, somewhat flat, but without any outright hostility.

Melanie scuffs one foot against the ground. Jon bounces his leg, chewing the inside of his cheek as he stares at the floor. Neither of them speak.

“So…” Georgie says after a minute, drawing out the vowel. “Do you two want me to, uh… I can leave, if you’d prefer to have this discussion in private?”

“Stay,” Melanie says abruptly, seeking out Georgie’s hand again. Georgie looks at Jon, a question in her eyes.

“I don’t mind. You can stay, Georgie.”

“If you’re sure,” Georgie says. “Just – let me know if that changes, I suppose.”

More silence. When Jon can’t take it anymore, he blurts out: “H-how have you been?”

“Well,” Melanie says sardonically, “I’m essentially trapped in an eldritch fear prison, doing the bidding of an evil voyeur-god, and apparently the only way out of its unfathomable contract is to gouge my eyes out.”

“Right,” Jon says with a hollow laugh. “Stupid question.”

“How are you?” Melanie asks with mock cheeriness.

“Same as you, really. Well. Except for the eye-gouging clause.”

“What, don’t have the stomach for it?”

“No, uh – it… it just won’t work for me, is all.” Staring down at his lap, Jon occupies himself with tracing circles onto one knee with his fingernail. “The Beholding isn’t keen on losing its Archivist.”

“It didn’t mind losing Gertrude.”

“Gertrude… wasn’t as far gone as I am,” Jon says quietly. “She never fully embraced the power the Eye offered. Not to the extent that I did. Blinding herself would have released her from the Eye’s service. She planned on it, actually, but Elias got to her first. And she was still human enough for a gunshot to kill her.”

And wasn’t that a release, in a way? Is it morbid for Jon to envy the fact that Gertrude even had that option available to her?

“Right,” is all Melanie says. She sounds dubious.

“I’m not just speculating a worst-case scenario to give myself an excuse not to go through with it.” Jon can feel himself bristling now. “I know it won’t work. I’ve tried. Multiple times. It hurts like hell, and then I heal. All I got out of it was an onset of chronic cluster headaches – though, who knows,” he adds acidly, “that may have just been the side effect of becoming a linchpin of the apocalypse and having all the world’s terror crammed into my head. I didn’t bother Knowing. It wouldn’t have made a difference.”

“Jon,” Georgie says gently – and all the fight goes out of him, shoulders slumping.

“Sorry,” he sighs. “Didn’t mean to snap.”

“I wasn’t scolding you. It’s just – you’re scratching.”

Oh. Jon looks down to see long, angry red scratches on his forearms, already fading now.

“Sorry,” he says again. “Didn’t notice.”

“It’s alright.”

Another awkward pause, until Melanie breaks the silence.

“Are you sure blinding will work for the rest of us?” she asks. She no longer sounds suspicious. Simply… curious: reminiscent of how things used to be, back when she was an avid investigator, beholden only to herself.

“Yes.”

“Did I…? Last time?”

“Are you sure you want to know?” Jon waits until Melanie gives a firm nod before he answers the question. “You did.”

“And it worked.”

“It worked.”

Melanie nods again. She’s clenching her teeth, if the subtle movements in her jaw are any indication. Closing her eyes, she takes a deep breath in, lets it out slowly – and her shoulders relax. By the time she’s opened her eyes, there’s the hint of a smile on her face.

“Good,” she says, equal parts relief and determination.

“S-so, do you think you’ll –” Jon stops himself, shaking his head. “No, sorry, I shouldn’t pry.”

Melanie simply shrugs. “I haven’t made a decision yet. Let’s just say I’m strongly considering it.”

Georgie’s hand tightens on Melanie’s, worry lining her face.

“Tell me what happened last time?” Melanie says. “I’d like to hear the whole story.”

Jon takes a deep breath, rubbing his arms as he orders his thoughts.

“Last time, I didn’t know about the bullet until after I woke up,” he begins. “I, ah, only saw you briefly – you were, um… you were convinced that I wasn’t me anymore. Didn’t want me anywhere near you.”

Thought I should have been the one to die, he doesn’t add. Most days, Jon couldn’t find fault in that assessment. He didn’t want to die – most of the time, anyway – but if he could have traded his life for Tim’s… well, it wouldn’t have been a difficult decision.

“So how did you find out about it, then?”

“I just… Knew it, all of a sudden.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Melanie narrows her eyes suspiciously.

“It’s an Archivist thing. I mean, you're probably already aware – I just… Know things, sometimes, even without compelling anyone. It started before the Unknowing, but it wasn’t as noticeable. Or as often. And it was typically more vague impressions, rather than specific truths. It got worse after I woke up from the coma. More frequent, more detailed, more – intrusive.”

“Fantastic,” Melanie says sourly.

“Yes, I’m not thrilled about it either. Sometimes I can Know things by choice, but the Beholding has a tendency to withhold answers to the questions I actually ask. Mostly it just airdrops information on me unsolicited. Often without me even wondering about a thing. Just… apropos of nothing. I did have much more control over it after the world ended, but, well…” He shrugs, awkward. “Not anymore. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?” Melanie repeats.

“Last time, I had – still have, I suppose – a tendency to Know things about specific people. Things they wouldn’t normally share with me. I still remember things I Knew back then. Including some things about you.”

The color rises in Melanie’s cheeks. “That’s –”

“An invasion of privacy, I know,” he says, contrite. “I really will try to avoid it, just… sometimes things slip through the cracks when I’m not paying attention.”

“So, what, you can read minds?” Melanie says, an accusation threaded through the question. “Like Elias?”

Jon visibly recoils.

“Melanie,” Georgie begins, but Jon cuts her off.

“No, it’s – it’s a fair question. Elias’ powers come from the same source mine do.” He pauses, nervously flexing his fingers as he composes an explanation. “I can’t see your thoughts verbatim. It’s just… Knowing things. It’s the same with Elias. Sometimes it seems like he can read minds, b-but that’s – that’s just because he’s very – very good at reading people –”

“– finding you when you’re at your lowest point, when you’re your most emotionally vulnerable. And when you’re at that point it’s astounding what can crawl into your heart and start to fester there –“

Jon bites his tongue, applying pressure until the Archive stops its clamoring. Melanie raises her eyebrows in an unspoken question.

“Sorry. Sometimes it just slips out, and…” He laughs and massages his temples. “Well. Still an Archive, in the end.”

His voice cracks and Georgie’s already-concerned expression grows more serious.

“Jon –”

“I’m fine, Georgie,” Jon says, more curtly than intended. “Sorry. I just – I can’t go there right now.”

“We can take a break if you need,” she says.

“No, I… let’s just continue.” He nods at Melanie. “You have more questions.”

Melanie gnaws on the inside of her cheek for a moment, mulling over her words.

“Can you do that…” She wiggles her fingers vaguely. “That thing where you put thoughts in people’s heads?”

“No. Not – not really.”

Not anymore, he corrects privately. During the apocalypse, he was able to make others See and feel things, but… only because he could call upon the Ceaseless Watcher to turn its gaze upon them. Here in the past, the Beholding and all the other Fears remain cloistered behind their door, leeching through the cracks but unable to fully manifest in the world.

“But I, um…” Jon pauses, wetting his lips nervously. “In addition to compelling people to tell me things, sometimes I can compel people to… to do things. Nothing – nothing complex. Simple commands, mostly. ‘Stop,’ ‘leave,’ ‘look,’ ‘don’t look,’ that sort of thing. I haven’t done it often, but the times I have… with a few exceptions, it’s usually been accidental. A sort of – knee-jerk defense mechanism of sorts.”

“Hmm.” Melanie crosses her arms, tapping her foot on the ground.

“I realize that reflects poorly on me.” He swallows, mouth going dry. “It’s… a terrifying prospect, being near someone who can do something like that, and doesn’t have full control over it.”

Jon knows – and Knows via billions of proxies – what it’s like to have something other supplant his will and commandeer his body. Melanie deserves to know the risks of standing too close to him.

“I promise I’ll try to keep it under control, I just – wanted you to be aware of it. I won’t blame you if you’d rather not be around me.”

“Stop being so melodramatic,” Melanie says, rolling her eyes.

“I’m not,” Jon says flatly. “Compelling answers and – and subsisting on a diet of fear has always been more than enough to justify people keeping their distance. Adding more sinister bullshit on top of the pile doesn’t exactly do me credit. I know – Know how people see me.” He laughs, a harsh and humorless thing. “I can’t not Know.”

People tend to naturally give him a wide berth, as if they can sense that there’s something wrong about him, even if they can’t quite discern why. If he’s too careless, if he locks eyes with the wrong person, sometimes they can’t look away – and sometimes he can’t, either, and he’s forced to watch as the terror dawns in their eyes. Just like the nightmares, bleeding into his waking life.

Jon can feel when people are afraid; the Archivist in him relishes it, gravitates towards it like a flower turning to face the sun, soaks it in regardless of whether or not he wants it. And there is always a part of him that does want it, that always wants more – and isn’t that fitting, taking a page from the book of his very first monster? He is, quite literally, a thing of nightmares. Helen is right: he is what he is, and there’s no use denying it.

He’s always been hypersensitive to how other people perceive him. Being able to Know how people really feel about him has historically tended to confirm his customary hostile attribution bias. Vicariously feeling the reality of others’ hatred and fear of him, passively basking in it, being forced to derive sustenance from it – god, it’s like cannibalizing his own vicious self-loathing, a sustainable resource that can be recycled ad infinitum. It takes self-flagellation to a new and perverse extreme.

“I Know when people don’t want to be near me,” he says, unable to suppress the bitterness in his tone. “When someone nearby is afraid, I feel it – as natural as sensing the temperature in a room. I feed on it. It’s an automatic process. So if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not bask in the knowledge of how much the other people in the room can’t stand breathing the same air as me, if I can avoid it.”

“Jon,” Georgie tries again, “I know how things used to be, but –”

“It’s different now, I know. But the Eye tends to prioritize – well, unpleasant impressions. I know it’s only giving me one side of the story. That there’s more, even if I can’t See it. But fear is loud. Doesn’t leave room for mindfulness.”

Georgie has a reply ready, but Melanie speaks first.

“Okay. I get it.” At Jon’s blank expression, Melanie heaves a sigh – aggravated, but not hostile. “It’s like how anger was for me, okay? Rage has a way of drowning out everything else. Reliable, when nothing else can be trusted. Makes things clearer, simpler. Made me feel more… alive, real.” She hesitates, crossing her arms and shifting uncomfortably in her seat. “Nourishing. Sort of. I guess.”

“Yeah,” Jon says, picking aimlessly at his sleeve.

“I’ll just avoid being in the same room as you when I’m… having a day,” she continues. Jon nods. “Or you can just tell me to go away if I’m – I don’t know, giving off rancid vibes, or whatever.”

Jon breathes a surprised, amused huff. “Well. Same goes for you, I suppose.”

He’s even more shocked to see a grin twitch to life on Melanie’s face – very small, but present all the same. Then, appearing to take pity on him, she changes the subject.

“So, you Knew about the bullet.”

“Yes,” Jon says, grateful for the opportunity to move on. “But not until a couple weeks after I got out of the hospital. Didn’t even realize I Knew it until I said it aloud.”

“Meaning it had more time to poison me, where you’re from. Was I… worse?”

“Well, the first time I saw you after I came back, you attacked me on sight, so… maybe? But I don’t really have a point of comparison. That was the only time I saw you up until we removed it, so I don’t know how much you deteriorated in the interim. And this time, I only saw you after the bullet had already been removed.”

“I attacked you?” She doesn’t sound surprised, really. More… intrigued.

“In your defense, you didn’t think I was me anymore. Tim died, Daisy was presumed dead, and I was still alive.” He knows that, of the three of them, Melanie wouldn’t have picked Jon to be the survivor. I hope it hurts, she’d said in her testament. Instead, he slept for six months and then woke up wrong. “You were angry, and afraid, and you had a bullet in your leg making it worse. You needed someone to blame, and Elias was beyond your reach.”

So I was the next best thing, he doesn’t say. Bitterness aside, Jon can’t say he blames her.

Melanie narrows her eyes suspiciously. “Then how the hell did you convince me to have it removed?”

“We, uh… we didn’t. I told Basira first. She – didn’t think you would have agreed. So, we…” Jon forces himself to meet Melanie’s eyes as he gives the confession. “We performed some amateur surgery. Without your consent. Basira procured some local anesthetic, and the Eye let me See where the bullet was, how to remove it with… minimal damage. You were using some rather strong sleep aids, at the time, so you slept through most of it. You only woke up once the bullet was out. And you, uh, promptly stabbed me with the scalpel, though I – I probably deserved that.”

“What the fuck, Jon.”

“I – I know, I know. I’m – well, it might be – odd, to apologize for something that never happened from your perspective? But I am sorry. It wasn’t right, for us to do it that way. We should have asked you.”

“I might not have agreed.” Her voice is tightly controlled, but there’s still a quiet sort of fury simmering just under the words.

“No, uh – probably not. You said later that the anger was always there. Motivating you to keep going. Helping you survive. The Slaughter validated that rage. Made it feel like home.” Melanie stares, unblinking. “You told me the bullet stayed because you wanted it, and… we took that choice from you, decided what was in your best interests without asking you how you felt about it.”

Melanie is quiet for a few more moments, glaring at the floor, before her eyes flick back up to meet Jon's. “What would have happened if you didn’t get it out of me?”

“I can’t say for certain, but it’s likely that you would have become a Slaughter Avatar. Reached a point of no return.”

She scoffs. “So it was worth it, in the end?”

“I don’t know. I want to say yes. You saw me as a monster, and I doubt you would have wanted to become like me. Something inhuman, feeding on suffering. But…”

“But?”

“It’s easy to look at how things ultimately worked out for you and use that outcome to justify what we did,” he says, “but I – I’m not fond of the idea that the ends justify the means. I didn’t know at the time that you and Georgie were this close. If I did, maybe I could have asked her to talk to you, except…”

“We weren’t speaking,” Georgie says.

“Yeah. I – honestly don’t know what else we could have done, but… still, the way we went about it was wrong. You were trapped here like the rest of us, and we… we stole the only thing that gave you some semblance of control. What we did was a violation of your autonomy. I know that feeling, I know how it feels to…” Jon shakes his head. “We saved your life, or – your humanity, at least, but in doing so we took away your choice. Subjected you to more trauma, made it so you couldn’t feel safe anywhere. Eventually you quit, and you and Georgie seemed happy together after that, but the fact that you were able to start healing – that doesn’t change the fact that we hurt you in the first place. I’m sorry.”

“This place,” Melanie says with a breathless laugh.

“Yeah. It’s… not known for presenting benign choices. I’m, ah… I’m glad that this time, it was your own choice.”

“And what if I had still said no?”

“I probably would’ve given you the line about becoming a monster like me. I would have told you what happened last time – or, told Georgie and let her tell you, more likely, if only to avoid any, ah… stabbiness.” Melanie huffs, but it sounds amused rather than offended. “And if you still decided to choose the Slaughter after being fully informed… well, it wasn’t my place to take the choice away from you.”

“Even if I wasn’t in my right mind?” she asks.

“Even if you weren’t in your right mind.”

Melanie’s stare is piercing, scanning him for any signs of dishonesty. Eventually, she folds her arms and leads back in her chair with a hmm.

“What?” Jon asks, heart in his throat.

“Just – unexpected. Would’ve expected you to make a unilateral decision.”

Truthfully, Jon doesn’t trust himself to make those kinds of decisions. Last time, he’d let Basira call the shot. Not only did he trust her judgment more than his own – secretly, selfishly, he was relieved to abdicate at least some of the responsibility. He doubts that his conscience would have been able to carry the full burden of that choice.

Later, during the apocalypse, he had made an executive decision on someone else’s behalf: Jordan Kennedy. In that instance, there was no one with whom he could share the blame. Although it was intended as an act of mercy, Jon cannot deny that he created an unwilling Avatar – stripped a man of his humanity and reshaped him into something other, same as had been done to Jon.

The people in that domain would have continued to suffer just the same whether it was controlled by an Avatar or a hivemind of ants. At least this way, one person could be spared the torture. But it didn’t save anyone. It did not even end Jordan’s suffering, only transformed it into a different, hypothetically more endurable but still horrific shape – one that Jon knew all too intimately.

It was done with merciful intentions, and he may have given Jordan the choice to reverse it – a choice that Jon has never been given himself – but making that decision for Jordan in the first place… well, at the end of the day, Jon could never shake the feeling that he’d taken a page out of Jonah’s playbook. It wasn’t the same, but it felt… adjacent, too much so for comfort.

The choice has haunted Jon ever since. It eats away at him every time he sees Jordan in his nightmares, whenever Jordan watches him with the same dread that he does Jane Prentiss. Yet, Jon still cannot say for certain whether he would do anything differently, if faced with Jordan’s agonized pleading a second time.

But as for Melanie’s particular situation…

“I know what it’s like to have someone else decide on your destiny for you,” he says quietly.

Melanie looks thoroughly unimpressed.

“Look, I – I understand why you resent me. Elias used you to further the Archivist’s progress. Same as he used Tim, Sasha, and Martin, and Basira and Daisy, and Helen… even Jane Prentiss, Mike Crew, Jude Perry – and Jared, Manuela, Peter… everyone, everyone who crosses his path is either irrelevant or a stepping stone. Which means that everyone who crosses my path suffers.”

Stop, Jon tells himself, shutting his eyes tight against the first stirrings of panic lapping at the edges of his mind. It’s pathetic, he thinks, how easily he sinks into this headspace. Jon’s mutinous brain does all of Jonah’s work for him – like prodding at a recent wound, just to see if it still hurts, even knowing full well that it only sabotages the healing process. Stupid, pointless. Just stop dwelling on it.

He can’t.

“All of it – all of it was to create the Archive to his specifications –”

“– bound together – I would look at him, and see a grim sort of destiny for myself: trapped here, until I became him; any future I might have had, sacrificed to his –”

“– and I just – I don’t want people to look at me and – and see him. Or the Beholding –”

“– keeping its prisoners ignorant in pursuit of… knowledge –”

“– I've spent enough time being synonymous with the Eye. I don’t want it. I never wanted it, even if I did choose to – to keep looking for answers –”

“– idiots who destroyed themselves chasing a secret that wasn’t worth knowing –”

“– I can’t reverse that, but I can still make it difficult for Elias to get any use out of me. But I’m sorry – I’m sorry that I let him do it for so long –”

“– any idiot could have seen it would play out that way –”

“– I’m sorry you got dragged into all this. I wish I could have gone back to the very beginning, back to the day I took the job, and – god, I thanked Elias for the opportunity, and he – he smiled, because he knew, he knew I would be easily manipulated, knew everything about me – knew all about –”

Thankfully, Georgie interrupts his heated muttering and brings that thought train to a jarring halt. Or – no, she's been saying his name, but he's only just now heard it.

“Jon,” she says, loudly but calmly. She's leaning forward in her seat, hand prepared to reach over to him. “You’re scratching again.”

So he is. Badly. As soon as he stops, the scratches along his forearms heal, leaving only drying blood behind: thin, messy streaks painted across his skin and caked under his fingernails. He should probably clip them shorter, at this rate.

“Sorry,” he says, pulling his sleeves down to hide his arms. “I’m just – sorry.”

“Change the subject?” Georgie offers, lowering her arm.

“I think that would be best,” Jon agrees, discomfited and more than a little annoyed with himself. Will he ever be able to spare a thought for Jonah Magnus without completely unraveling in the process? Hell, will he ever be able to go a day without sparing a single thought for Jonah Magnus at all? Okay, no, stop harping, he reprimands himself. “Just – give me a minute.”

Jon forces himself to take several breaths until he can no longer hear his heartbeat thundering in his ears. Once he regathers his composure, he meets Melanie’s eyes again.

“What I mean to say is – I owe you a lot of apologies, Melanie. I was dismissive of you when we first met, and it just sort of – snowballed from there.”

“It was mutual, I think,” Melanie says guardedly.

“Still, I was – unprofessional, at the very least. And unnecessarily cruel. It was my job to be impartial, but I didn’t have to be callous. Most of the statements that come in aren’t real, but they aren’t impossible, either. And even if a story was due to – substance use, or mental illness, or – or even just an overactive imagination… most people who came in still believed that their story was true. Their distress was genuine. They deserved comfort, not ridicule, regardless of whether or not their story actually happened the way they remembered. And beyond that, it was… poor research methodology, really, to refuse to entertain the possibility of a story’s veracity simply because of my first impression of a statement giver.” His voice grows quieter. “Or because of my own baggage.”

“Your own baggage?”

“I, ah…” Jon deliberates for a brief moment on whether to share this part of himself. It seems only fair, given the personal details he knows about the rest of them. And… telling Daisy had felt cathartic in its own way, hadn't it? “I had a supernatural experience of my own once. Before working at the Institute, I mean. I was a child, so of course it was chalked up to an overactive imagination. And then at some point I was too old to still be afraid of monsters.”

Jonathan, this has gotten out of hand, his grandmother had told him with hands on her hips, exasperated after once again finding every door and cupboard in the house thrown open. Ten is too old to be sleeping with the lights on and checking closets for monsters.

And with that, she had closed the closet doors, flicked the light off, and pulled his bedroom door shut on her way out. He had clung desperately to the hope that she would at least leave the hall light on – but moments later the thin strip of light filtering through the crack under the door was snuffed out. When he heard the click of his grandmother's bedroom door down the hall, he'd dissolved into tears. Turning his face into his pillow to muffle his sobs so as not to alert her to yet another of his childish meltdowns, he spent the rest of the night – and countless nights thereafter – sleeping in fitful stops and starts, plagued by phantom knocking and chitinous clicking and creaking doors. He knows now that such sounds were nothing more than hypnopompic hallucinations, the remnants of nightmares chasing him into wakefulness; knows that the web binding him in place and the hulking presence in the room were only symptoms of sleep paralysis; but at the time…

Jon shakes his head.

“The fear doesn’t go away just because people don’t believe it’s based in truth. So, I learned to hide it instead. To stop talking about it, even though I never stopped searching for an answer –”

“– was there when he was taken; he never got over what he saw. Or didn’t see. After much searching and despair, it drove him into the waiting arms of the Institute –”

“– damn,” he hisses, flustered.

“You okay?” Georgie asks.

“Yeah,” he says gruffly. “Just – one moment.”

Pause, breathe, recollect. Listen to the quiet – which really shouldn’t be so difficult, should it? Aren’t archives supposed to be quiet? Why does this library have to be so horrifically noisy? – and breathe, breathe, breathe. Okay.

“What I’m saying is, I coped with it – poorly – with denial. I could never shake the conviction that what I saw was real, no matter how I tried to rationalize it. But I was still afraid that admitting belief in monsters would – draw their attention to me, somehow. Again. And because of that, I was… unsympathetic, to people who were genuinely afraid. The last thing they needed was derisive skepticism. Or projection. I know what it’s like to not be believed. I shouldn’t have put others through the same thing.”

“Huh.” Melanie looks him up and down. “That’s… unusually insightful for you.”

“I had a lot of time alone to obsess during the apocalypse,” Jon says drily. “Some of it even ended up being productive.” Melanie snorts; Jon gives a cautious smile. “I, ah, also should have tried harder to warn you away from India. Or the Institute in general.”

“And I would have told you to fuck off, because I already didn’t like you, and you would have been just one more in a long line of pompous men acting like they knew better than me.”

Jon laughs. “I suppose you’re right.”

“Look, we just – we both treated each other poorly. You were the easiest target to take my anger out on. Martin’s too nice, Basira was basically a hostage, Daisy is Daisy, and Tim… Tim wasn’t around much, and anyway, he would have thrown whatever I gave him right back in my face. You were a prick, but I think I blamed you more than was fair. And I guess… you were – are – trapped as much as the rest of us. So. I’m sorry too.”

“Well, it’s not like I tried to make a good first impression.”

“Neither did I.” She glowers at him, daring him to challenge her. “Accept the apology or don’t, but don’t throw it back in my face.”

“Fine,” Jon sighs. “I accept the apology.”

“There. Was that so hard?”

“Excruciating,” he deadpans.

Georgie snorts. Melanie and Jon both look at her with a combined, “What?”

“Just… watching the two of you. I think I may have a type.”

Another simultaneous, “What?”

“Curious, stubborn, temperamental, cute, short…”

“H-hey,” Melanie protests, “I’m at least a few centimeters taller than he is –”

“One-point-eight, actually,” Jon mutters under his breath – and then cracks a smile, encouraged by Georgie’s bright, surprised laugh. Melanie just glares at him.

“You know,” Melanie says, “you make it very hard to like you sometimes.”

“Sorry.” He’s not sorry at all. Shooting Georgie an indignant glance, he adds: “Also, I’m not cute.”

“I’m sure Martin would beg to differ,” Georgie teases. Jon sighs, arms crossed and face uncomfortably warm. “Well, anyway…” Georgie grins, looking between the two of them. “Does this mean… truce?”

Melanie gives Jon another long, searching look, and Jon forces himself to meet her eyes.

“Yeah, alright,” she says after a moment, then looks down, bouncing her heel against the floor. “Seems the only one who isn’t trapped and miserable is Elias. And you’re not him. Or working with him. So.” She shrugs one shoulder. “That just makes you one of us. I guess.” When Jon doesn’t reply, she glances back up at him. “What’s that face for?”

“That, uh…” Speechless, Jon roots around for something substantial to say. Instead, one corner of his mouth quirks up as he says, with tentative daring: “That might just be one of the nicest things you’ve ever said to me, is all.”

“Yeah, well…” Melanie scoffs, but there’s a hint of amusement in it now. “I’m still going to call you out when you’re being a dick, mind.”

“A public service, really,” Jon says, wry and more than a little elated.

An invitation to playful bickering as opposed to scathing antagonism is, as far as he and Melanie are concerned, an undeniable olive branch.

End Notes:

Jon: my type is Aggressively Idealistic Existentialists Who Give Amazing Hugs, apparently Georgie: and my type is Short Nerds With Strong Feelings About Basically Everything ~*mlm/wlw solidarity*~ But seriously though,,, I love the idea of Georgie and Martin meeting the End and the Vast, respectively, and basically going "hey why don't you read some Camus and maybe you'll calm down???" I may or may not be projecting. I need them and Oliver to have a philosophy book club. Actually everyone else can come too. Basira strikes me as the type to have some Strong Opinions about Certain Philosophers and yes sure that dude may have died ages ago and maybe she shouldn't take it so personally but if she found a Leitner that let her temporarily resurrect him for an hour she might just do so if only for the opportunity to debate his pompous ass in a Tesco parking lot. (I, once again, may or may not be projecting. I was a philosophy minor and I WILL pepper in the fact that I hate Kant. You cannot hold this against me.)

____

Citations for Jon's Archive-speak are as follows, in order of appearance: MAG 094; 153; 144/101/111/014; 101.

Martin's "I think our experience of the universe has value, even if it disappears forever" quote is from MAG 151 and yes it IS one of my all time favorite Martin quotes, how could you tell

Disclaimer re: how Jon talks about his ace identity: I'm ace & projecting a bit, like I do with Jon's ADHD/neurodivergence. The way I describe ace stuff is not meant to be reflective of all ace-spec people's experiences.

would you believe me if I said the whole 'deservedness' spiel was written before the latest episode??? bc it was and then I read the newest ep transcript and I was like "oh"

Sorry for the delay in getting this chapter out, btw. funny story: I accidentally let the prescription for my ADHD meds expire and I had to go like four days without them before I could go get another paper script bc it's one they can't submit electronically or call in, soooo I got fuck-all done for half of that week and it broke my writing flow :0 hoping to get back into my usual flow from here on out and manage to have the next chapter ready in 2ish weeks, but we shall see. Thanks for sticking with me <3 (I might start shortening chapters again, the last few have been 10k+ compared to the earlier 6-8k and I could probably stand to split them up a bit.)

Speaking of the next chapter - yes, I AM planning on moving the plot forward I swear. I realize the last few chapters have basically taken place within a single week and have been mostly People Talking About Things, RIP.

And as always, thank you for reading, and for all your comments! <3 They're basically 50% of my regular serotonin intake. The other 50% is my cat's motorboat purring.

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thepeakyfckingblinders · 5 years ago

Text

āmentĭa || Thomas Shelby x reader

⤠ MASTERLIST⤟

Anon requested: “Can I request #16 with a jealous tommy, angsty pretty please?”

Summary: n.16 from prompt list: “Another’s hands on her skin” Warnings: swearing, anxiety, angst, a bit of smut, jealous desperate Tommy making my soul ache

Author’s notes:

Behind each one of these works there are sleepless nights and something really close to multiple mental breakdowns, so, please, take a minute to send me a message about it, I need actual feedbacks to understand how to improve my skills and grow ♡

Paragraphs written in italics are flashbacks.⤟ IMPORTANT

Sentences between bold quotation marks (❝ ❞ ) are Tommy’s thoughts.⤟ IMPORTANT

I wanted to thank you darlings for all the love you’ve been sending me, you truly make me happy, I’m so grateful to share my works with you ♡

I’m sorry for being this late, but I’ve been really busy in the past days and writing is never just easy, it demands concentration and effort, plus I don’t want you to be disappointed, so I’m always extra accurate while working. I hope this is worth the wait!

If you want to be added to my tag list, please, directly message me

I’m Italian, English isn’t my first language, so I apologize for every possible mistake I made. Also, please, help me improve my writing by telling me if there’s something wrong

ENJOY!

āmentĭa [amentiă], amentiae feminine noun I declension

1. compulsion, disturbance, raving, hysteria 2. malaise, vexation, affliction, regret, 3. viciousness, anger, furor, choler, 4. impetum, violence, heat, rush, impulse 5. separation, rupture, abandon 6. paroxysm, yearning, eagerness 7. infatuation, frantic desire, amorous fervour

Heavy rain incessantly hit the windows sideways, giving life to a perpetual recurrence of dull sounds relentlessly haunting Tommy’s eardrums, yet he remained laying on his cold bed, motionless, with his glacial stare disturbingly fixed on the ivory ceiling. His bare chest kept raising and lowering in toil, labored breath coming out of his slightly parted lips in agonizing sighs, goosebumps slimily crawling on his more than ever pale skin, due to the extremely low temperature in his room; still, he didn’t seem to care. Two deafening chimes abruptly ripped apart the bleak air, midnight struck with no mercy, inexorably, raiding into his black lungs, plundering all of the oxygen he had left. The day had eventually come, the day in which he would’ve lost you, forever. Thomas brusquely stopped breathing as his raw flesh seemed to lacerate, it felt like the Devil’s acuminate claws had pierced his ribcage, penetrating through his bones, carving to reach his cardiac muscle, ruthelessly stabbing it, brutally slicing into his stomach. For a full, interminable minute, blind panic took over his paralyzed body, having him pant and whine, making him look like a dying animal in pure agony, while his empty gaze never left the spot right before his dilated pupils. Tom had met you three years before, by the time war had just come to an end: it’d been only a few months since Harry had hired you to help him handle the pub, and when the Shelbys finally entered the Garrison again, after four long years, you clearly didn’t have a clue of what was going on.

Your boss had tensely hurried to instruct you on what your job was for that night, apparently, it only consisted in following those three men in their private room, favoring their every wish, always with a smile and kindness. You remembered looking around the tavern, deeply confused, since the whole clientele had suddenly fallen deadly silent: every man in there was gazing at the ground and taking off his hat out of respect, causing you to be even more disorientated by that odd situation. “Just keep your head down, y/n, those guys are dangerous, I mean it. They take whatever they want, whenever they want, whether people like it or not” Harry’s words kept echoing into your mind, Tommy’s crystal eyes immediately piercing your soul when you quickly reached for their privè. There was some sort of unsettling stravation sailing through his granitic irises, while he shamelessly stared at you, barely blinking his eyelids, and a cheeky grin peered out on his angular face. Breath unexpetedly shattered into your throat, your forearms rippled with evident goosebumps, as you truly began to see what that previous alarming reccomendation was about. Your heart grievously skipped a beat because of that abrupt scene mercilessly flashing before your tired eyes. A huge amount of air was forcefully shoved down your pharynx in a miserable effort to put to rest any of your conflicting emotions, yet you didn’t seem able to abort your detrimental thoughts; once more, your restless glare fell on the wooden pendulum clock pinned to the wall in front of your queen size bed. “Oh my God, what happened?” Thomas watched your hexyl hand shake before your open mouth, an expression of pure horror mixed with shock virulently took over your soft features at the sight of bleeding abhorrent wounds mutilating his marble skin. “Let me in” That order dropped from his busted lips, but it sounded like nothing more than a feeble prayer, as he painfully cought up blood on your doormat. His stomach unusually clenched when he sensed your tiny arms carefully wrap around his torsum for the very first time, in order to support his weight, thus his head innately tilted in your direction, making your noses rub one another by accident, while his icy-blue eyes carved deep into yours. “You’re a fucking angel” He whispered at the end of his rope, already being in a state of partial unconsciousness, therefore it took only a few more instants for him to effectively faint in your warm embrace. That brief memory led Tommy to hastily lift his back, a crippling feeling of anxiety, along with deep overwhelming fear, came unbidden, having him struggle to inhale as much oxygen as possible, while he crawled towards the edge of the mattress, then sitting and propping both his elbows right above his knees; his left hand convulsely run through his face, like that simple gesture could’ve helped him get rid of those loathsome sensations devouring his guts from the inside. Bells rang again, another hour went by, time continued to unrelentingly slip between his fingers. “Just be rational for once!” Tommy ferociously shouted in your face, thick veins appallingly throbbing in his neck, blood traces invading his white orbs; as usual, he was plainly too despotic and hardheaded to let anyone around him make their own decisions. “I don’t see what the problem is, Thomas. You’ll find another bloody bartender, for God’s sake!” Soon afterwards your reply brusted out in another yell and your hands started franticly moving into the air, as you were strenuosly fighting for your sacrosanct right to finally leave Birmingham and move to Paris to begin a whole new life, putting all of that shit behind you. Yet, before your brain could process what was actually happening, you felt your back hardly clash with the cold brick wall, Tom’s mighty figure trapped yours forthwith, one of his fists vehemently grabbing a consistent strand of your hair, so to make your mouths collide in an unexpected tempestuous movement. “That’s my fucking problem” An atrocious knot cluttered up your gullet, forcing you to scarcely gasp for a fresh breath again, your velvet fingertips unwittingly went to brush your slightly wet lips, due to a lonely tear which had just tumbled from your full lashes. You could almost sense his touch on your fervent skin.

Faltering, you dragged yourself on your feet and your shoulders shriveled, for a cool draft brutally hit your quivering body; with heavy steps, you reached for your wedding dress armonically rested on a copper mannequin. Ivory tulle coursed amidst your fingers, while your blurred vision remained anxiously fixed on that wonderful piece of haut couture at the fathal stroke of the third hour of the morning. “You belong to me” That husky grunt lingered the soft skin of your naked chest, instantly followed by Tommy’s luscious kisses, his callous palms utterly enveloping your curves as your live flesh superbly engulfed every inch of his length and his hips kept diving into yours, miraculously giving life to an exquisite blend. He was revelling in the sight of your erotic beauty, he couldn’t just avert his thirsty glacial irises from your winsome shape now twitching with raw pleasure.

Those ruthless sequences of images irretrievably haunted his dark pupils, unfolding into his head over and over again. Thomas squeezed his eyelids nearly in physical pain, allowing himself to drown in his bittersweet memories: he was still perfectly able to feel your edges fill his hands, your voluptuous voice reawaken his numb ears, your mild thighs fondling his sharp pelvic bones. “Fuck!” All of a sudden, his hoarse tone clamorously reverberated in the room, brutally tearing apart the previous stillness, while Tommy berserkly stood up and, affected by a pernicious choler, he savagely ravaged every single thing in his path, until the floor was completely covered in shards and his breathing showed clear symptoms of hyperventilation. Everything was shot in pieces because of him, because of his pathetic selfishness and his shameless arrogance; you had loved him from your skin to your bones, never leaving his side, offering him a safe harbour from his private hell, stoking that cataclysmic fire, only to let it consume yourself with each passing day. He’d always been aware of that, in truth, he’d always felt the same about you, still, he had treated you like nothing more than one of his whores; afterall, it was just a matter of priority, and business was his one and only priority, obviously. So, when you had eventually presented him with a definitive choice, demanding to know what your strange affair truly meant to him, he had almost laughed in your face, deliberately making it clear that, whatever that thing was, it would’ve never become something more.

The thought that in the end you might have really left him didn’t even remotely cross his mind, not once; nevertheless, barely a year later, you were about to marry another man, and it was too late for him to fix all of his uncountable mistakes. ❝ There will be another’s hands on her skin, Tommy. He’s gonna hold her, he’s gonna take your place, and it was your fault, you wreck everything you touch ❞ That voice inside his brain continued to scream that obnoxious truth with no mercy, steadily driving him to madness, violently gouging dire tears from his hollow eyes. Intoxicating fury festered his already rotten blood, pushing him to throw several raging punches at the door, excruciating shrieks kept escaping his maw, until two deep dents ploughed it and his bleeding knuckles broke under the abnormal strain of his animalistic blows. Thomas surrendered to his agonizing sorrow, soon he let his empty corpse fall against the damaged wooden surface, his fractured fists henceforth laying along either side of his bust, while his growling voice didn’t seem to find peace, as it was still spilling from his lips into deafening cries alternated to beastly snarls and sporadic curses. Sure, Tommy Shelby had learnt far too soon what pain and darkness were, he had experienced death, loss, abandon, even the gory war itself, but never before that wretched day he had felt his soul disintegrate into his aching ribcage in such a diabolical, cruel, inhuman way.

tag list: @spidey-pal, @shadow-of-wonder, @shelby1baby, @peachlle, @livvtheangel, @myjbphase, @namelesslosers, @crazyonesarethebest, @vxxn128, @keithseabrook27, @spaghettirogers, @writingstudent

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itonje · 4 years ago

Quote

As we traveled the reservation that day, we came to see that her house was not unusual there. Everyone was so poor it would take your breath away. Most Americans could not comprehend it. It looked nearly identical, to me, to the state of hundreds, thousands of Vietnamese refugees I had seen, people whose entire life's effort had been reduced to a shack and some rags. So it was in Pima country--flat, desolate and arid--a desert, except for when it is a flood plain. As we drove around the reservation, one of the many that dot Arizona, the woman and her husband would stop every few miles, sometimes every few fields, and point to the place where some relative or friend had died. By that cattle guard, right over there. That's where they found Manuel. He was my cousin. His face was hacked off with an ax. See that old cottonwood, way over there? That's where his brother shot uncle Joe with the shotgun. Most were men. All were murdered or committed suicide. Thirteen of their relatives were on the list--brothers, fathers, sons, uncles, cousins. Yeah, it was clear. These motherfuckers were gooks. No doubt about it. No matter how the government dresses it up, you can always tell by the kill ratios. These people were definitely still gooks. Sometime during that drive I realized that Sacaton was where Sgt. Juan had grown up. He had not needed us to tell him about being a gook. He already knew. His people have been gooks for a long time. The theaters have changed now, of course. We no longer call it Vietnam--because it is not. It is a new, much grander era. It might be called the era of perpetual internal warfare: the Perpetual War. America's military and foreign policy apparatus is its hub--the driving, organizing, controlling center of an international security state. The Vietnam war never really went away: the tiger simply rearranged its stripes, changed its name--and grew. Its mechanisms of political control were also extended home, but that is a story for another time. Today, in Latin America, the U.S. pays for and sponsors "Vietnamized" wars of one kind or another in roughly half the countries from Mexico south. Every one of the drug war countries, for instance, is currently involved in some variation of a Vietnam-style counterinsurgency campaign. Some are disguised as "drug wars," others as counterinsurgency campaigns separate from simultaneous drug wars, or as in El Salvador and Nicaragua, as an outright counterinsurgency or insurgency operation. Each country has a MILGROUP, the modern variation on MACV, boatloads of traveling TDY (temporary duty) advisors, American military and/or drug war aid, and tons of American training. Other similar wars are also being waged in Africa and Asia. In every case, amazingly enough, the enemy happen to be citizens, usually large numbers of them, who oppose the government we support. Gooks, I guess you'd say. In each of those countries the tools, the tactics and the techniques of the Vietnam war are at work. The Pentagon calls it Low Intensity Conflict: Pentagon packaging of the same old thing. Richard Wright, the Assistant Commander of the School of the Americas (the U.S. Army training school for Latin American military leaders) said in an interview that LIC is nothing more than a sanitized version of counterinsurgency. Because few allegations of direct U.S. involvement in Vietnam war-style atrocities surface in the pages of America's newspapers, however, there is not much press or public interest in the perpetual war. The U.S. is nevertheless still orchestrating the slaughter of gooks throughout the world. Massacres, assassinations, disappeared ones, forced relocation of the rural poor, government "secure" zones, death squads, the torture of prisoners, the labeling of any and all opposition as "terrorists"--all have a familiar ring. Call it Nixon's revenge. It is Vietnamization that seems to work. We provide the money, the guns, the strategies, and plenty of on-the-scene advisors to our friends, the good gooks. They in turn steal most of the money, do the dirty work on the bad gooks, and if someone gets caught, take all the blame. A whole continent with gooks on one side and potential Lt. Calleys on the other. Gooks and Lt. Gooks. What could be more perfect in a world of perpetual war? The Perpetual War will be bigger than the Vietnam war. And longer, of course. It already stretches from Mexico south to Bolivia, a reach that covers eleven countries. If this entire region is looked at as one theater of operations, with each country the equivalent of a U.S. Army Corps such as I Corps in Vietnam, and each ambassador as a Corps level provincial military advisor, then the drug war suddenly starts looking a whole lot like a real war--a real big war. Some Corps are quieter within the Latin American theater, of course, but there is still plenty of action. If all the war news from each of the eleven Corps of the Drug War were ballyhooed and concentrated by America's daily newspapers the way the war news from the Gulf War was, how much space would the Perpetual War take? Too much. All the news--let's face it--is not fit to print. Some of it is R-rated: too strong for the stomachs of discerning adults. It's funny how people are. I never heard Mike Terry say the word "gook." If you'd have called him a racist, he would have denied it with the purest conscience. Sometimes I wonder, though, what Mike would have done if the people in that ditch at My Lai had been Mormons, white Mormons? Would he have put them out of their misery? Maybe, but I doubt it. That's kind of the way it is with the people trapped in the Perpetual War. We only catch occasional glimpses of the victims moaning from the ditch during our lunch. The audible sound of human agony is less obtrusive for us than it was for Mike and Billy that day at My Lai. We don't actually hear them. We still do not feel compelled to make a choice. Instead, we turn the page on the three-inch story at the back of the news section in the New York Times, down at the bottom just before the crossword puzzles begin, and barely have a second thought about the massacre of more villagers in some remote spot in some Latin American country. It doesn't even dawn on us that we're leaving them all to die in the ditch. Perhaps, if they were white Mormons, people would be pissed.

Ron Ridenhour, ‘Jesus was a Gook’, from Nobody Gets Off the Bus: the Viet Nam Generation Big Book

#g slur #racism #imperialism #my lai #vietnam war #ask to tag #death #violence #sui ment #this is really heavy but its required reading. genuinely

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ckcker · 4 years ago

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I Walk in Madness

Nobody has or can have all the information, but they have the requisite amount of information and agony in combination to believe they accurately see the entire thing. I don’t and can never have all the information, but still I must have an opinion that seems binding or confident. The information I selected and pressed into an opinion is now my special soul, and defines me. It must be released and time-stamped to show that at one point, I made this all-encompassing definition, which is a summary of my self and the window of all my beliefs hereafter. Elevate yourself to say, “I no longer wonder.”

I have made myself publicly available; all that the community asks of you is that you participate. To not participate is to disrespect those who put all of their time, effort and mental filaments into the ideal of community. Such a reclusive impulse should be modified swiftly but in the most holistic way if possible, it is not helpful for others. It is not helpful for you. It is, at heart, cowardly, as it turns away in fear from the difficulties involved in building a resilient, healthy and just community. It courts isolation as a comfort, when in fact voluntary isolation is the fortification of unhealthy habits and delusional or paranoid thought processes which precariously redirect the lost person away from the tough but rewarding civic duties necessary to building a fact-driven social network. If I am lonely at night, the solution is to participate. Though I walk in madness, I end up at the voting booth. A discussion takes place in which everyone pretends to know how recycling works; one inches towards integration. Recipes are shared, and an evening passes with an attempt to perfect avocado gazpacho.

I love traditional open-toed sandals. Making the body more vulnerable to the elements of the outside world shows a general dissipating apprehension. Though current events inevitably fade in relevance and thus sustained public attention, their emotional immediacy and rousing thrust are exceptionally good at forcing the under-opinionated to participate and commune with others. Opinions always coalesce under the pressure of current events, and since current events are established and projected much more widely and much more often in this era, it follows that one should have more opinions, and participate more. Of all the methods I’ve tried, the most effective and least artificial toner I’ve used is two tablespoons of rose water mixed with 1 cup of filtered water. The rose water I use is a brand from Lebanon and you can probably find it in a local middle eastern grocery store. Having a very public life no longer makes me uneasy!

I published the post and I was feeling satisfied, though very likely no other person would see it. My only patron appeared to be a woman in her early 40s with hard bangs and a diamond choker smiling in her icon’s bubble, with arm around a presumed husband and the suggestive text “Be Kind” pegged in lower left corner in hot pink with white outline. Miscellaneous background details in the icon, particularly a hanging silver streamer, communicated that at the time of the photo this woman had been at a New Years party. Her silent interpretation of my persistently scarce content was eager musing territory for me when her icon focused my attention in the midst of a wild scroll, or when her face and militarized endorsement of kindness intruded with the elegance of a twirling maple samara upon my mind during a bout of fear-walking. She made no effort to contact me, had no posts of her own or even personalized layout style, and yet she hypothetically watched me. Of course it was pointless on her end — my posts were designed solely for the tactical misdirection of algorithmic spectres, conceived and published only in order to convince those supra-wiggly archivists of instinct that I was overwhelmingly a different person. I did not want even the smallest gleak of truth to land online. This “lost mind” plan even extended to my video watching and digital window shopping maneuvers, though in the case of the former it was impossible to totally restrain myself from a true curiosity and craving to pursue certain videos. This lack of impulse control expanded even more robustly when porn entered an afternoon; it was insurmountable to search and watch against the specific desires and images I knew would satisfy me the most. Yet I tried in rapid toe dips, once spending eleven minutes on a video of a nude bodybuilder shot-putting a collection of corns and lettuces into a wall, and with no o-face to conjure.

“I walk in madness” was both my unorthodox phrase of meditation and most important sentence of self-parody. When walking around at night in a certain state, I would now and then repeat to myself, “I walk in madness.” After this I would laugh and say, “that’s dramatic.” Self-parody swooped in to dehydrate the potential mirages, delusions. But no other summary was as accurate — literally I walked in madness. From the habits of my mind, a complex system had emerged and, quite simply, enveloped my unhinged ass. I had strobe-nurtured my preferences for “the best way to think” over the last several years, so that now I was only sufficiently energized when mentally combining (1), an act of making fun of myself for feeling out of sorts, with (2), an earnest attempt at my own healing. This perverse combo made me feel very aware but rarely good. And when these thought commands then marinated in the head to a fully abusive gush, there was one more thing to consider. What was the source of that powerful sensation that took me over when I went walking alone and without a plan at night? What was it in the body that prodded me along that highly nummy snack trail of mini-catharses? What was the source of those tiny pecks of transcendence that scattered down the back of the neck when nearing the production of an abyss? That is, I did not only walk in madness because I had to, but also because it had become fun. It raveled me on a line leading to some other connection, a connection which was not to The World. It promised recognition of and commune with everything that did not matter or had not ever been confirmed to exist.

These areas were very important to pay attention to — I had ignored them for the majority of my, to be acutely real, goofiest years, it was important to know everything that was possible. This was my routine. I walked with glamour in circular patterns around less populated city neighborhoods at night, always listening to music that accentuated a spike in insane flavoring. I only chose music that had the strength to combine halo and blurred hole, it was always music that floored my sensation to its final speed. I knew I was so lucky to have built-in machinery that let me expand all of my reserves through music. It was my only advantage. It made me proud to turn inward. If my skill was extreme sensitivity, it could only flourish in its most insular and native format.

But I desperately needed new songs to fill me up, and over-listened as a resting state. I over-listened, and a night out, i.e. the sustained advancement of nightlife over several hours, was an exhausting condition for me. In a bar, I was penetrated by the old song I had heard over two thousand times before, but which now had been remixed in a contemporary style wherein synth stabs commanded by creatine hands had replaced what was once very clean, antiquated AOR guitar strumming. The popular song I had highly ignored for the length of my life, and which hearing did not provoke outrage (or even flashback to wedding dance floor) but instead perpetual indifference in me, had been updated using the most cutting edge technology to produce aural depths not possible with the recording equipment available when the song was originally produced, and which now plunged the emotions much further down and much harder. The original voice was now placed in a melancholy minefield of hysterically deep bass and plummeting, omnidirectional dynamics and, when the remix passed through the tequila that I was allowing to patrol my body, it replicated itself with viral menace to produce in me the extraterrestrial threat of a single tear.

In this instance of a night out, Rob had invited me to this bar and party that I had never been to before. Where I had expected to see more of his friends or even the endless hallway of acquaintances he seemed to be able to mobilize at random, instead I only saw Gail, revealing the conditions were such that Gail and I were the only people Rob had invited to the event. There I stood under the song, almost leaking with melody-induced sentimentality or globular nostalgia mucus. I looked across at Gail who was leaning on a wall, who did not seem to be able to observe me after our initial greeting when I arrived at the bar. She appeared to not take in much information when moved from location to location, and when looking in her eyes I did not ever get the sensation that enormous perspectival changes were part of her social rhythm. A common conclusion from a young person would be that she was fried, but whether as a condition of drugs/alcohol/trauma or some combo, there had not been any stories shared on which to focus a rock hard drama-horny eye. Though I yearned to know what details flanked the long road leading to her hellscape, I realized it was unjust since I wasn’t prepared to present the full set of demonic coordinates that had led to mine. How can one appeal with another story of lost sleep? “Awake all night” is not the story anyway, yes we know, please make your complaining entertaining. I was in the heart of the club, I understood it was not the moment to emerge brumal vapors in the form of uninteresting plot points excerpted from my very personal checklist of booboos. “Oops,” the convicted serial killer said when the public did not like the realistic paintings he made of his victims while in jail. Gurn: it was possible for the public to see horrifying paintings made by a serial killer.

Several screens around the bar played the same music video, which the dance floor area magnified via projection on the wall, so that, in the most emotional part of the bar, emotion was keyed up considerably by the illusion of entering the world suggested by the song. Rob and the bartender were near cheek-to-cheek, taking turns cocking their heads to the side so the voice of the other could enter the ear successfully over the newest Chicago house-derived, 80s-synthpop-infused rap song scorching the lair. Gail stayed against the wall, looking around but appearing totally comfortable, a woman in her 60s drinking a High Life surrounded by a different generation, I was moved. Being young is incredibly dangerous. The bartender poured Rob and himself shots and they downed them together.

Snippets of Gail’s circumstances had reached me, I knew she had been living with her son in Texas but now was essentially homeless, that Rob and Q.C. had met her at a goth club where she was hanging out with a much younger woman named Lillian. Lillian would often be run into at the goth club or other clubs and bars, flirting with Rob and Q.C., and though she was definitely younger than Gail, she wore enough makeup to sufficiently alter minds and, with the support of moody bar lighting that left certain preferred corners in medium darkness, had an age that was unrecognizable. “My instinct tells me she’s at least 35,” Rob had suggested after explaining to me the situation and after a long silence in which I didn’t respond or engage at all with what he had just said. The pause had felt uncomfortable and also unnatural after such bulbous gossip so he apparently felt it important to break the silence with this one more detail of her estimated age. I knew it would make both of us more comfortable if I said something in response to the story of Gail and Lillian but I didn’t, in the end, have anything to say, and so Rob told me he thought Lillian was at least 35, and I responded, “oh.” Lillian and Gail were good friends and Lillian would often bring Gail along to the goth club; Gail did not dress on theme. Eventually Rob learned she lived in her car and he invited her to stay with him for an unspecified amount of time. Inevitably this increased my estimation of Rob’s worldview. When he would decide once again it was time to throw trash from the neighborhood off the 2nd floor apartment balcony — for instance a decommissioned flatscreen or legless American Girl doll — Gail, watching through the open door from the beige velvet couch, would laugh once.

Rob concluded his interaction with the bartender, turned to me and explained the bartender was hot and straight, and when the bartender worked the weekly gay night they held at the bar, he would appropriately enhance his image in honor of the conventional gay male eye — pouring himself into a tight black tank top that demonstrated his tactful chest hair and relevant bicep gains was the respectful thing to do. “I’m going to dance now,” Rob said as a commanding female voice shook the establishment with its first notes.

I wandered over with him but stuck to the doorway that connected the bar area to the dance floor, watching as he threw himself, alone, into the writhing environs, quite clogged with personal freedoms. The mass of dancers sang the chorus of the song all together, the subject matter concerned a protagonist that felt jealous and sad to see their long pined after crush dancing with another girl. In fact the protagonist likely never had a chance with the person who was their crush but had built up a dream narrative in which their idealistic love with this person was nearing possibility. In the midst of such crushing circumstances, the protagonist, now left alone and heartbroken at some event they likely attended simply to engage further with their crush, has decided to dance through their loneliness despite it all, even if it will only enliven them for a moment, and for the length of the song. Rob danced “with” almost anyone he turned his body towards. Some people engaged, dancing back, and others stealthily maneuvered away. At some point it was discernible that he no longer had on shoes or socks. A girl very much liked that, drawing her friend’s attention to the fact, then touching Rob on the arm, saying something inaudible. All three laughed. I stood and watched, occasionally pinged by passing bodies gunning for the most emotional part of the bar. I watched the video on the projection screen. The female vocalist danced specifically, had short pink bowl cut hair, conveyed well-lit and accessible agony. Several bar dancers unmistakably entered a sub-orgasmic flehmen response. My left shoulder reflexively darted front and back — a significant space-grabber had brushed me by on their way to the dance floor. It was eventually revealed to be Gail. I watched her scream “YAHHHHHHHHHH!!!” as she launched herself into the crowd.

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relapseblog · 5 years ago

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Dear Father: A Letter I will Never be Able to Send...

I’m unsure how to begin this. I don’t know what words to use. I don’t think there is an adequate or befitting way to compose a thesis or introduction. However, I do have a vague notion of the thoughts I’d like to convey.

I am hurt. I’ve existed in a state of superposition for as long as I can remember; simultaneously occupying space in two separate but parallel realities. One is authentic, one that is insincere. Within the authentic reality I suffer perpetual agony. Within the insincere reality I function through enactment of a false display so skilled that I at times even fool myself, forgetting that my authentic reality is one typified by anguish. To a slightly lesser degree, this remains true today.

Since before I was even born the story of how I would come to exist in such a state was beginning to transpire. You abused my mother ever since the two of you first became associated until the day she took us and escaped from you. You once threw her onto a bed where my baby big brother lied, proceeding to wrap your hands around her throat asphyxiating her, whilst at the same time suffocating infant Trey under her body weight being forcefully pressed against him. You could’ve killed not only my mother, but your infant son as well. This is just one of many incidents of this kind that I’ve been told of. I am certain for each story of your iniquity I’ve been told there exists another three.

I don’t have detailed memories of the cruel torment you imposed on my mother. I have very few fractured memories of the vile things you said and did to her. what I do remember are the feelings of confusion, anger, helplessness, fear, and heartache. Feelings that I’ve carried with me my entire 25 years of life. Feelings so excruciating they placed me on a path of self-destruction where thrice I’ve attempted to kill myself, where I’ve wished for death innumerable times, where I’ve incalculably deliberated killing myself whilst writhing in tears and pain. Feelings that I wanted desperately to banish from my mind. At the tender age of 13 I became a heroin addict who would wish silently every time she stuck a needle in her veins that this would finally be the fatal shot she’d been waiting for. That this would finally be the shot that would end her lifelong torment she’d been subjected to.

It was also around this age I ceased believing in God. I did not believe that I would go to Heaven upon my death; I was not hoping to escape this world seeking refuge in a better place, I was hoping to be annihilated. To cease to exist. As though I’d never existed at all. I’d fantasize about my lifeless body going cold, then stiff, the bloating and changing colors, then beginning the process of decomposition until there would be no remaining trace of evidence that I was ever a living organism that existed on Earth. These thoughts strangely elicited a sense of comfort. But accompanying them were thoughts of how my mother and the rest of my family that loved me would feel. These thoughts were painful. Even more painful were the thoughts I’d have regarding you. I’d think to myself that if I were to die you would never even know, that if you did somehow find out you wouldn’t care because you don’t love me. The comforting images in my mind of my death did not stay comforting for very long before the accompanying thoughts made me feel worse than I previously had. Self-hatred ensued.

Before becoming a heroin addict often I’d dream of you at night. You’d come to where we lived in Iowa to visit me and Trey. Despite the fact she abhorred you and feared you my mother always graciously let you stay out your visit in our home so Trey and I could spend as much time with you as possible. You had missed us, you were happy to be with us, we were happy to be with you too. These dreams were extremely vivid. I would wake from my slumber, eagerly searching the house looking for you only to find that it was just a dream. This was very painful. I had variations of this dream at least twice weekly for four years. Eventually I stopped searching for you upon waking up, as I had accepted that it was merely a dream. Just as I had accepted that you didn’t give a fuck about me or Trey. I mean, you didn’t give a fuck about Aaron either; it was a bit narcissistic of me to believe that I was somehow any more important.

I’d always hated you for what you’d done to my mother; it’s unforgivable what you did to her, and she deserved none of the cruelty she suffered by your hands. For this, I have hated you all my life. I’ve also hated you because during my childhood in California and Illinois you never had a job, you never tried to help support our family, you were never a man. Rather you let my mother run the streets day and night committing illegal acts putting herself and our family in jeopardy because you were a lazy piece of shit. For these two things, I have always hated you. But it was during this time in my life, around age 13, that I started to hate you for what you did to me. Even thought I hated you for what you did to my mother and for what you did not do for our family I still loved and admired you. In my eyes you were strong, intelligent, wise. I loved you with the most unconditional love that anyone could ever have for another person. And you never came to see me. I just wanted to see you. To hug you. But you never came. I hate you so much for that. I loved you so much. No matter what you did wrong I always loved you. Despite my belief that you were evil I still loved you. But you didn’t love me. So, I buried it deep inside.

The first time I ever used heroin I felt brand new, reborn, like I had been recreated by this substance into someone I could never even have dreamed of being. I felt exalted. I felt warm. I felt happy. I felt safe. I felt loved. I felt serenity. Every ill thought and feeling instantly vanished. It felt as if I had been cleansed and anointed by the God I no longer believed in. There was no more pain. I was unbound, infinite. As I continued to inject heroin into my veins day in and day out I found that I no longer had those painful dreams in which you loved me only to wake and be faced with the fact that you didn’t. For a while everything finally felt okay, better than okay. Exceedingly better than okay. Heroin comes to you as everything you could ever want to possess and own for yourself. But that’s the thing about heroin, you can’t own it, rather it owns you. I soon spiraled downward at an exponential rate and became slave to this cruel and beguiling master. i no longer had free will. My thoughts and actions were no longer mine. I now existed only to seek and use heroin. And I was still a child.

Injecting heroin every day, typically multiple times a day, continued until I was 19 years old. But I couldn’t live as a sober individual. I didn’t know how. Aside from the lifelong pain you inflicted upon me, now I had damaged my brain irreparably with heroin. Serotonin and dopamine were no longer being synthesized correctly in my brain, leaving me extremely depressed and angry all the time. I became violent like you. Moreover, the person I was at this point was someone I hated; someone I was ashamed of. I no longer recognized who I was. In my mind I was a filthy, immoral, lowlife scourge upon the Earth who had done nothing but degrade my own self and sadden, disappoint, and horrify my family to no end. I viewed myself as innately bad; I even went so far as to say to myself that I was evil. Because of the anger and rage I harbored I thought I was just like you. Which to me was the worst thing possible. I’d rather be like anyone, like anything, rather than be like you.

Even though I quit using heroin I continued to use methamphetamine and by the age of 23 I had relapsed on heroin too. Also at the age of 23 I got arrested for the first time. Then I was arrested again. And again. And again. The last time I was arrested I decided I needed to change. I was, and still currently am, in school studying criminal justice and psychology. Despite my deteriorated mental health, I always yearned to by successful. To graduate college, have a career, make my mother proud. I had spent half of my life putting her through a living Hell that I’ll never be able to comprehend. She has always felt that my addictions, my feelings of confusion, anger, helplessness, fear, and heartache, my wish for death, was all her fault. My wonderful mother whom I owe nothing less than everything believes that she has failed as a parent.I need to prove to her that she didn’t fail. If I succeed she will believe that she has succeeded. So, I quit using methamphetamine and I quit using heroin. My goal in life, my purpose for living, is to make her proud. To instate within her an overwhelming feeling of joy, success, and peace.

I have been clean and sober now for almost two year, though not without a couple of brief and minor lapses along the way, I am very proud of myself. I have not allowed these lapses to dishearten me or lead me to believe that the time I have managed to remain clean is null and void. I am affording myself grace. I am relearning how to live life. I have come to realize that I am not a bad, immoral, or evil person. I am simply a product of my upbringing which was less than favorable and of no fault of my own; though I also know that it is on me to become better, and that my past is not an excuse to continue to choose to be a bad person. I’ve come to realize that the circumstances of my birth and upbringing are not things that I can allow to define who I am and who I become. I’ve come to realize that my suffering is not in vain. I can help others who suffer as I have.

I am a heroin addict and a meth addict. This is something I must continue to manage and will continue to struggle with for the rest of my life. There is no cure for addiction. There is no cure for my bipolar disorder either. I am permanently afflicted, but I am not worthless, bad, immoral, or evil. I am a strong woman, but at the same time I am a very sad and broken little girl.

Last night (the other night at this point) I had that dream again for the first time in probably 12 years. I was little. Trey was little. Mother was gracious. You were with us. We were happy. I woke up wailing with tears streaming down my face as I placed my hands on top of my head and pulled my hair tight into my fists. All the painfully familiar confusion, anger, helplessness, fear, and heartache came flooding back. I wanted to run. I wanted to get high. I wanted to die. I wanted to disappear. I went to work that night at the emergency youth shelter here in Des Moines on overnight shift. All the boys on my unit were sound asleep throughout the entire night. I was alone in an eerily silent dimly lit room. I sat there a cried virtually all night because of you. Yet again, all the confusion, anger, helplessness, fear, and heartache resurfaced.

I don’t think these feelings, which are the product of being witness to the horrible things you did to my mother, will ever leave me. They are a permanent part of me. This is what you’ve given to me rather than love. Where your love was supposed to go, instead you have placed confusion, anger, helplessness, fear, and heartache. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with these things aside from using them to help others who feel similar things. But that still does not tell me what I am supposed to do with them when I dream of you, or when I am crying all alone for hours in pain because no matter how much I hate you I can’t unlove you. I wish I could. Living would be a lot easier if I could.

I used to view you as strong, intelligent, wise. I cannot say that this perspective has changed entirely. I will think that you are intelligent to a certain degree. My mother used to refer to you as a “smart dumb motherfucker.” To me this is an accurate statement. You’re intelligent, but mindless. I no longer view you as strong. You succumbed so easily to the vile and sordid influences of this world, being whisked away by them falsely thinking they somehow made you powerful. That they made people respect you. That they gave you control. Fact of the matter is that you were too weak to fight to retain your moral humanity, so you forfeited it. You had no power, respect, or control. You allowed the depravity of this world to control you thus becoming depraved yourself. Though I once thought you to be evil I never thought you to be ignorant to what a proper sense of morality was. I know you understand right from wrong, yet you could never summon the willpower to make the right decisions. Your trepidation of fear and lack of strength always prevailed.

In my eyes today you are a coward. You are a coward for your acts of violence and abuse toward my mother. You are a coward for being too ashamed to attempt to reconcile with the children you have forsaken. You are a coward for being too afraid to turn inward to fix whatever it is that’s inside of you that makes you so angry, calloused, and violent. To my dismay I am quite a bit like you. I’ve got your temper. I’ve got your rage. I had begun to become cold and calloused like you. I’ve got your propensity for violence. But the difference between me and you is this, I am no coward. I will admit that once I was afraid to turn inward and look at myself for who and what I was. I was afraid of what I would see. I was afraid of having to deal with the horrible things that I’ve done. I was afraid of having to relive moments from my past that I’d tried for so long to banish from my mind. Most of all, I was scared to think too critically about you. But none of this is true today. Unlike you, I am brave. Unlike you, I am strong enough to not allow this, at times, cruel world to corrupt me. Unlike you, I am not afraid of the pain associated with accountability and personal growth. I would much rather endure that pain than be forced to endure the pain of self-destruction. I would much rather endure that pain than become a monster who inflicts the pain I feel inside upon others.

I know that you were, and probably still are, in pain too. Hurt people hurt people. It isn’t an excuse for one’s shitty actions, it’s merely a fact. I no longer think that you are evil. At least not by some sort of malign nefarious nature. Any evil that exists within you is present not because you’re innately malevolent, rather it’s because you relinquished your control over the one and only thing you did have control over. Yourself. I can’t speculate much more than this about you. You’re a person shrouded in mystery and I think that I’ve finally accepted that I don’t have to fully comprehend the reasons for your actions and inactions.

I hate you. I love you. I hate myself for loving you, but I am learning to be gentle and kind with myself because regardless of anything you were my father. Regardless of how cruelly you treated my mother, regardless of your lack of ambition and failure to provide, and regardless of the fact that you abandoned me and Trey, for a short time when I was a small child you were an active and doting father to me. You made me feel like a beautiful and powerful princess in a world that does not readily subscribe beauty, power, nor prestige to black women and girls. You encouraged me in everything I did. You taught me many things that I carry with me to this day and will continue to carry with me for the rest of my life. This is the person I love unconditionally. The person that I’ve mourned the loss of for 16 long years who exists now only in my memory.

The person who victimized and tormented my mother for years without remorse as her two small children witness it crying a pleading that it stop, the person who failed to ever contribute to society and help provide for his children, the person who so easily cast his children aside, the person who seemed to delight in feeling evil. That person is not my father. That person is someone that I’ve had the grave misfortune of knowing. That person is someone that I’ve allowed to wreak havoc on my life for as long as I can remember. I don’t love that person. i abhor that person. That person is the exemplification of everything I never want to become. That person is who I fear every day that I will become because he is the reason for my anger, hostility, and predisposition for destruction and violence. That person is the cause of my greatest everlasting sorrow. That person is you.

For what you’ve done only God can forgive. If there is a God I pray that you find serenity and peace that you’ve never known on Earth. If God doesn’t exist and annihilation follows our death, then I hope that you somehow manage to make peace with yourself before death. I know pain, and it is not something anyone should have to carry with them to the grave. Not even you, Arcell.

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michelles-garden-of-evil · 4 years ago

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Episode 39 Review: Pirates of the Caribbean

{ YouTube: 1 | 2 | 3 }

{ Full Synopses/Recaps: Debby Graham | Bryan Gruszka }

Hello and welcome again to my Garden of Evil, today with what I believe may be my shortest entry since last July. This time around, I want to focus on the Raxl and Vangie scenes set in the crypt, because, in my not-so-humble opinion, they’re the only interesting scenes in this entire episode. With even more recap than the average Thursday episode, this one is mostly boring. Hell, even the Lost Episode summary for this one is not that interesting:

If Rev. Matt Dawson refuses to attend Vangie's next séance, he may doom the girl he loves.[1]

I mean, it’s pretty clear that Holly is already doomed, based on the accident in Episode 30, the slashed portrait, and Vangie’s association of her with the Nine of Swords. But I digress.

In the second half of this episode, we do have a telling new revelation about the message that appeared in Raxl and Quito’s writing box following the disastrous séance three episodes ago. It connects to a period of Jacques’ past that the show left mostly unexplored. Yes, today we will be exploring Jacques’ career as a pirate, which was alluded to in Episode 6 and confirmed in this episode, only to never again be brought up on television. So, without further ado, let’s explore what we know of this chapter of the past of THE DEVIL JACQUES ELOI DES MONDES!

*sting and lightning flash*

The original message in the writing box, from Episode 36.

To recap: At the end of the séance, Raxl discovered a message left in the sand of the writing box that she and Quito use to communicate with spirits. She tried to preserve the message with the hopes that the Conjure Woman Vangie Abbott would be able to interpret it once she recovered from the cataleptic trance that Jacques put her in by dropping a chandelier on her during the séance, but this was not to be, because Jacques found the box and obscured the message before Vangie could recover. Now that she has recovered thanks to the potion that he mixed for her, Quito delivers fresh sand to the two priestesses so that Raxl can try to recreate the message from memory for Vangie to read.

Raxl: "When you were in the séance, you did not know when you were in a trance and you did not know that the spirit had warned us that there was an evil presence at that séance. But it was written here." Vangie: "In the ancient language and symbols?" Raxl: "Oh, you know them so well. I read so little. They spoke of the conjure doll and the silver pin which would destroy the Devil and return him to the eternal flame! Where they were hidden, I could not tell. I could not read!" Vangie: "Do you remember the symbols? Try to write them!" Raxl: "May the Great Serpent guide my hand well."

Next scene, after the commercial break:

Raxl: "The first I remember well. I have long known it." Vangie: "A man. Not a real man. A doll, an effigy. An instrument." Raxl: "Symbols have many words, but one meaning." Vangie: "A piercing instrument, but not a weapon. The silver pin!" Raxl: "The first message was left to us by a friendly spirit who came to the séance to save us all." Vangie: "What spirit? I don't remember. I felt only the Devil." Raxl: "What spirit? Perhaps Erica Desmond, whom we sought to summon. Who, at the next moment, might have spoken, had not the Devil interfered." Vangie: "Yes, Erica might well have been there, within a hand's touch of the husband who sought to call on her through me with such agony and grief. I've never felt vibrations of such love and sorrow. There would have to be a response. Erica would be compelled to reply. Raxl, now write the symbols you could not read."

Raxl tries to remember the remaining symbols, but can’t. Vangie tells her to remember, so she searches her memory banks while Holly tries unsuccessfully to convince Matt to quit ministry and become an engineer. Finally, she remembers--or thinks she remembers--something:

Raxl: "Can you read it yet?" Vangie: *shakes head* "Perhaps it was like this?"

Raxl: "I cannot tell." Vangie: "That would be fire. Fire, an all-consuming fire." Raxl: "From Hell? Then it would destroy us all!" Vangie: "No, no, that makes no sense. We must be wrong. We must try again. Think, Raxl!"

Vangie: "No! Raxl, no!" Raxl: "It-It WAS like this!" Vangie: "A vessel of the sea, a great vessel with weapons. A ship that destroys." Raxl: "The pirate vessel of Jacques Eloi des Mondes, when he seized this island centuries ago!" Vangie: "The conjure doll that doomed him wouldn't be on the ancient ship of Jacques Eloi des Mondes."

Athough they rule out this possibility and decide to search the supply boat--unsuccessfully--for the doll and pin instead, this revelation is important. This right here is confirmation not only that Jacques stole the island from someone else back in the 17th century, but that, during his lifetime, he lived as a pirate. And a successful and ruthless pirate he must have been! Back in Episode 6, Jacques told Alison not only that he was a “free looter” (likely a misreading or mispronunciation of “freebooter”) in life, but that “he was the beginning of the family’s true wealth. Legend has it that in the coral caves beneath the island of Maljardin, he buried a king’s ransom, which still lies hidden.”

Originally, we would have learned more about this secret history of Jacques Eloi des Mondes on the show. This Lost Episode summary for Episode 42 describes Jacques as “a French buccaneer,” implying that this detail become important starting in that episode:

Source: Cleveland Plain Dealer (November 7, 1969). I plan on discussing this in more detail in my Episode 42 review.

In 1975, five years after the show’s cancellation, Ian Martin wrote a script for CBS Radio Mystery Theater called “To Die is Forever,” with a premise and characters nearly identical to those of Strange Paradise. (A transcription of the radio play can be found here.) In the introduction, the announcer states that the piece’s villain, Richard the Red-Hand “bought [his family’s island] with the blood money and booty of a hundred pirated ships.” While this method of acquisition differs from Jacques’ alleged conquest of Maljardin, his characterization otherwise remains mostly the same. (Richard does come across as less refined than Jacques and talks more like a stereotypical pirate, but those are minor differences.)

Still, no Strange Paradise-related media provides more backstory about the pirate career of Jacques Eloi des Mondes than Dorothy Daniels’ Paperback Library novels, especially the final installment of the trilogy, Raxl, Voodoo Priestess. Published in August 1970, the novel centers around an attempted invasion of Maljardin by a crime boss named Vidran, which Jean Paul and Jacques team up to stop. The novel draws parallels between this and a similar incident in 1681 when a Spanish armada attempted to take the island:

"It was in August, 1681. Ah, this Jacques was a sly devil. He knew the Armada was on its way. Word had been brought by fishermen who spotted it. Jacques then made haste to transfer from the mainland to Maljardin all of the gold and gems. He buried them secretly and no one was the wiser. He had a friend named Emile, a young man about Jacques’ age. Emile helped him prepare for the invasion and bombardment which was certainly coming. But, according to Jacques’ own writing, Emile was not the strongest man in the world--speaking in terms of character, not physical strength. He was also enamored of a young lady taken prisoner during one of the pirate raids.”[2]

Ian Martin himself later re-used the trope of a wealthy family descended from pirates in his first novel, Nightmare's Nest, published in 1979 under the name of his second wife Joen Arliss. The novel's villain, Jason Greaves, is an illegitimate descendant of the reclusive and aristocratic Rensevelt family who, like the des Mondes, live in a castle on an island and acquired their wealth through pillaging and plundering. According to him, the 17th-century Rensevelts were "pirates, usurers, thieves, murderers, [and] despoilers of women".[3] Later, the family’s kind-hearted heir Ted mentions "the history of my family and the pirates who began and perpetuated it. The lure of gold, the thirst for money, that's the Rensevelt tradition!" (p. 232). Like Jacques, Jason is also tall and dark, oozes sex appeal, and has "that open, free, untrammeled laugh of a man whose conscience is untroubled" (p. 209). So, while there aren’t enough similarities to warrant a full review series for Nightmare’s Nest the way I did for Shadow Over Seventh Heaven last year, it does show some clear SP influence.

There is one other interesting part of this episode that I think I should mention. Raxl seems to have become disillusioned with her partnership with Matt and now wonders if he and his religion are a “disruptive force” on the island:

I know it looks like she’s talking to Vangie in the second screencap, but she’s actually backacting with Matt. Also, “end” in the last image’s subtitle is supposed to read “and.” I’ll never understand why the automatic captions have such trouble with her accent, because I can usually understand her just fine.

Coming up next: Jean Paul and Matt argue over the next séance and I use clues from multiple Lost Episode summaries to determine what happened in the original script for Episode 40.

{<- Previous: Episode 38 || Next: Episode 40 ->}

Notes

[1] Minneapolis Star (November 6, 1969).

[2] Dorothy Daniels, Raxl, Voodoo Priestess (New York: Paperback Library, 1970), p. 108.

[3] Joen Arliss, Nightmare's Nest (New York: Popular Library, 1979), p. 212.

#strange paradise #ian martin #maljardin arc #week 8 #episode 39 #foxless episodes #review #analysis #cbsrmt #dorothy daniels #ian martin's novels #lost episode summaries #nightmare's nest #paperback library #sign of the great serpent #sp and religion #speculation on ian martin's original story #unexplored plot point #the writing box

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ablanariwho · 4 years ago

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Anatomy Of Male Rage In Patriarchy

Has patriarchy really empowered men by legitimizing anger as a trait of manhood? Or has it weakened their emotional maturity? A weakened emotional intelligence is damaging both for them and other members of their families and society at large.

Both men and women are victims of the system. Knowingly or unknowingly either they play the role of a perpetrator or a facilitator of this victimhood.

Let me start with a story

I heard about male rage quite early in my life. I also got to know how women got conditioned to put up with their male partners’ unmanaged anger as a regular part of their lives. My grandmother would tell me this story about a woman named Lakshmi, the wife of one of my grandfather’s residential staff. Lakshmi used to come home and chat with her. Sometimes my grandmother would found her little unmindful or low. She would ask her why. Laxmi would sigh and say in a sad tone that she doubted her husband was not in love with her anymore. She would express her concern that he might be getting into an affair. On a little probing about what made her think so, she would confide to my grandmother that her husband had not been beating her as frequently as he used to. She believed that beating was an extended-expression of marital love and a husband’s right to his wife. It fostered intimacy and trust between them. It maintained the marital equation as it was ideally supposed to be. Often, on the same or later nights, the husband would ‘make love’. Soon another bundle of joy would make its way into the family. Strangely, a grieving woman often arouses lust, and not compassion in some men. They find a sadistic pleasure in forcing sex on their wives even before the hapless women could recover from the pain of physical and emotional abuse. Despite feeling uncomfortable and unwilling, women often get carried away. They mistake it for ‘love’. Even so, sex in such scenarios in the pretence of making up for the violence is often nothing but another way of asserting male dominance over women. This way, they do not want to give women the time and space to heal or ponder over what happened. On some occasions, the encounter amounts to marital rape if the woman shows reluctance or resistance. According to Lakshmi, it was a wife’s duty to put up with the torture and abuse. She believed it would help the man release his stress and pain due to the day-long toil he needed to do for his family. She perceived her husband as a guardian, sort of father figure, a master. According to her, he was entitled to his right to ‘fix’ her by scolding and beating her if she committed any mistake. The mistake could be as trivial as putting less salt in a dish or forgetting to stitch a broken button on his shirt. She also believed having sex with her husband right after the violence was necessary to retain the marriage. Because it is a woman’s only power to keep the man hooked on her and not drift away. Years later I heard the same stories during my fieldwork while doing a course in counselling. The NGOs working for women empowerment in slum areas of the economic capital city of Mumbai shared similar experience. That is how the marital cycle of love lost and found again have been maintained forever in many households.

This is just one example. It shows how the ego-centric power play manifests through the male partner’s rage and what it does to a marital relationship.

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Tamed elephants, tame others

Lakshmi grew up watching the same cycle of conflict and pacification happening between her parents and other couples. She heard elderly women consoling the anguished younger ones. Those very pieces of advice and worldly wisdom had taken a firm root in her beliefs. She heard them saying that God intended women to maintain balance in their homes and families. If at times it required sacrificing or compromising with their dignity, it was okay. Essentially, women were born to bear the pain to make everyone happy. That is why God entrusted women with a special, sacred capacity to endure sorrow, misfortune and agony. Thus, women were expected to silently put up with their husband’s rage, manipulation, verbal and physical abuse. It helped to retain the marriage and maintain the family’s integrity. The same is expected of women in modern society, even today. Often, women themselves criticize other women revolting against male aggression. They discourage deviating their paths away from this toxic subservience.

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It’s a universally prevalent mindset

My grandmother would casually narrate this tale as a funny story. Later, I realized it was not one Lakshmi’s personal story or an anecdote to laugh at. I observed that this was the cultural conditioning and social status of women from all walks of life. It exposed the flawed and malicious tradition of power-play generally exercised by men in marriage. It is present even in non-marital relationships, patronized by patriarchy.

Almost every time I catch up with my friends, I hear a few of them perpetually complaining about their husbands. These men humiliate and abuse them for no reason or for trivial things. They often speak to their wives using foul language and shout at them at the top of their voices. On some occasions, I saw the derogatory way these men talk to their wives. I heard them nonchalantly making sweeping comments about women in their presence.

At some point in their marital lives, many women endure some or other kind of physical abuse. I and many of my friends and relatives are no exception to this. In some cases, it was spanking and beating, forced sex or forced abortion. I know of cases where in-laws forced a woman to go for the removal of perfectly healthy high canine teeth. Her husband found it ugly. But he was smart enough not to go with the wife to the dentist. Instead, he sent his parents. One of my friends suffered forced non-medical removal of an IUD. Another did not receive any treatment, proper diet and prenatal medical care during her first pregnancy. Some I know were forced to do menial household labour during pregnancy. They had a history of miscarriages. Still, their in-laws and husbands forced them to do excessive household labour. One was subjected to coerced consumption of alcohol. Her husband did this to her to have sex with her against her will. Many of them have been putting up with the humiliating behaviour of their husbands almost throughout their 30 plus years of marital life. They hopelessly hope for change. What amazes me about us women is that even after suffering so much, we temporarily sulk and eventually get back to our tamed status. Women end up accepting and submitting to it as their unchangeable and inevitable fate. The incidences I shared just now are from a so-called upper middle class, urban and educated families. But they almost resemble what happens with countless Lakshmis in less privileged sections of society.

Cultural conditioning

Strangely, these women despite regularly being abused and having been severely ill-treated by their husbands in the past, diligently abide by the marital vows. It starts with revering the ornamental signs of marriage they wear on their person. They unfailingly keep special fasts or perform rituals for their abuser husbands’ well-being and long life. They serve them and sometimes their complicit in-laws in all obeisance and dedication. They feel grateful to them for their evolution from a naïve girl to a woman of the marital household. They keep referring to the ‘good training’ their worldly-wise abusing husbands imparted to them. They feel obliged for the good ‘care’ their abusive, controlling yet ‘responsible’ husbands otherwise provide. The food, shelter, medical care, occasional entertainment and gifts, as if they did not do anything to deserve all that. What amazes me the most is the way these women vouch for their ‘love’ for their husbands though being treated like doormats for decades! I try to gauge how deep the conditioning has been within them. It obliterated the sense of self-care and self-worth in them. It blunted their discretionary power to differentiate between what is a healthy marital relationship based on mutual love, respect and understanding, and what is an ‘arrangement of convenience’. This gives rise to the question are women expected to ‘love’ their husbands by default? Especially in arranged marriages, no matter whether their husbands love them or not? I have seen women being superstitious or defensive if they were asked to question themselves about their unconditional love for their abuser husbands. There could be various reasons for that. One of the main reasons is economic dependence. Staying in an abusive marriage is a far better bargain than being a widow or a divorcee for many women. Hence, women are trained by society, or they train themselves as adults to pay the price by compromising with their self-worth and dignity and stay put. I am no exception. Been there and done that. Although eventually, I did free myself from a long, unsuccessful and abusive marriage, I have experienced my fair share of male rage in the family.

Normalization of male rage under social pressure

I have observed how I rationalized the angry outbursts of the male relatives in my family as the manifestation of their inner unresolved issues. Even after being severely verbally abused, I proceeded with a ‘nothing happened’ façade. Partially, the façade helps in protecting myself emotionally. As they say, no one should have the remote control to manipulate your state of mind. But the other reason for doing so is to avoid or prevent further deterioration of the situation in the family. Hence, to keep the façade of normalcy and balance in relationships and family, we women go on with our daily lives with these abusing men around. We interact with them normally, burying all bruised emotions in the recesses of our hearts. Thus, in so many ways we contribute to the normalization of anger and aggression as an integral part of masculinity. We do not let them realize how damaging it is.

Women do not enjoy the entitlement to get angry, yet not misunderstood

Why am I calling it ‘male rage’?

Let us analyse the ‘genderization’ of rage by patriarchy. It is a common phenomenon that when women lose their composure and get into angry outbursts in certain vulnerable moments, it is not tolerated as in the cases of men. People, including both men and women in the family, criticize and condemn it. They judge and label the angry women. There is no attempt to know and understand the underlying reasons behind it. No one sees it in the totality of the matter, as they do for men. They start characterization of the woman for getting into angry fits. People even start doubting women's mental health, unempathetically though, if they occasionally get angry. In some outlandish cases, they believe it to be the influence of certain supernatural or paranormal elements. Not only that. Later, those angry episodes of women are referred to out of context. The men in the family would do that to justify their own irrational and often deliberated rage. It becomes a counterattack or whataboutery technique.

In the case of men, episodes of anger are often considered as freak incidents under stress and duress caused by certain external factors. The faith in their core goodness is retained by parents and others. Not so for women. This is strange. It shows how convoluted is the belief that anger or aggression is a sign of masculinity. It is perceived as synonymous with power and strength. Simultaneously, blaming men’s anger on some external factors indicates their inherent weakness, incapacity, immaturity or failure to handle difficult emotions, people or situations. This paradox nullifies the concept of power or superiority expressed through their anger.

The hard questions men and women need to ask themselves

Why do women not want the men in their lives and in society to be accountable and responsible for their behaviour? Why should men enjoy the liberty and privilege to let loose their toxic states of mind, anytime, anywhere? Why would they use their lousy anger to hide their messed up emotions, stress, internal pain, confusion or trauma? Why would they choose to unleash their anger on the women closest to them such as their mother, sister, daughter or wife? Is it because these women provide themselves as the safest punching bags with the least propensity to hit back? Is it because women are expected to save the semblance of family honour and peace, at least on the surface, by quietly tolerating and hiding it within the four walls of their homes? Why do we allow men to cross our boundaries and howl at us and utter all sorts of nonsense? Why will the onus be on women to provide men with emotional crutches or a hardened back or both at the cost of their own emotional and physical well-being? Why do women let the men in their families unleash their internal demons upon them? Anyway, the relief men get by doing so remains temporary as the root cause is somewhere else and something else. Things come back to square again. What then is the point of women taking the brunt of male rage upon themselves? Does it help in keeping the peace, love and family bond, unscathed and not sabotaged? When will men, especially the so-called educated breed who manifest so much anger, realize and accept that they need help to fix this problem? When will men take responsibility for their malaise and seek professional help or do anything but spare their wives, mothers, sisters, female relatives or subordinates from it?

Is putting up with male rage an arrangement of convenience?

Let women not fool themselves and hide behind the self-glorification of saving family peace and integrity by putting up with male rage. They need to wake up and acknowledge how deeply they have been conditioned to devalue their role in the family and society. They need to question themselves why do they accept such rage? Is it the pound of flesh they barter against the monetary support provided by their husbands or other male relatives? They need to look into the mirror and see. Do they silently put up with male rage in the marriage to hang on to the marital surname, its perks and privileges and a perceived sense of security that comes with it? There is a saying that nothing comes free. So, is the monetary support received from husbands or any other immediate male family members also not free? Rather, are these considered as ‘favours’? Women’s contribution, their legal rights or men’s socially defined duties towards them, nothing matters? A woman’s role and contribution in the family and society as a mother, wife, daughter or sister has been deemed economically void. There is no statutory system of monetary reimbursement for their services in the family. Whatever economic support they receive from the males in the family is thus projected as a favour and not a return they deserve. On top of that are women supposed to reimburse these ‘favours’ by conforming to patriarchal expectations? Upon failing in that area too, are they supposed to compromise with their self-care and accept such abuses in the form of men’s angry outbursts? Are they also expected to own up to the guilt of causing it? Then, should women play any victim card? As in that case, wouldn’t it be women who choose this predicament for themselves? In the process, directly or indirectly, aren't they facilitating patriarchy to spoil the human capacity of compassion, empathy and better emotional maturity in men? Isn’t it high time that society and women themselves unlearn to devalue their roles? Or else, shouldn’t they make economic independence a priority over and above everything else? At the end of the day, isn't money a big and powerful differentiating component in human life? Surprisingly, I have seen even economically independent women putting up with male aggression and abuse. Why? Some of them told me that they did so to retain the ‘image’ society wanted women to have. Some of them are crippled by the fear of what people would say if they take any step to free themselves out of this trap? They are wary of how that would impact their children’s lives? But is it worth it? Isn’t life too big and too precious for this delusional ‘image’ women are fooled into conforming to by society and culture? Isn’t this ‘image’ a sort of blackmailing tactic by patriarchy? Because if a woman loses it or defies it, society makes her life miserable at every step.

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Faulty attribution of human traits by patriarchy

Endurance, composure, gentleness, and forgiveness are considered integral qualities of being feminine. But anger, temper tantrums, violence, and rage have been defined as signs of masculinity or power. Both are constructs of patriarchy and both women and men are victims of it.

As a woman, I have heard innumerable times that I should not get angry, raise my voice, say harsh things or use cuss words. Not because these are not the right way to deal with my emotions triggered by someone or something. But because it is unbecoming of women to behave like that. They must always be soft-spoken, shy, understanding and tolerant. Whenever I slipped from this paradigm, I was criticized and called names. My grandfather, a great patriarch himself, enjoyed and endorsed my adolescent brother shouting over me in his cracked teenage voice. He said, “He is a man. He is supposed to roar like a lion. You cannot equal him as you are a woman, you do not even have a strong voice like him.” In reality, none of these traits is gender-specific. Though it is believed from an evolutionary perspective that men are genetically more prone to aggression, violence and combative tendencies, social psychological theories do corroborate the genderization of this supposedly genetic tendency which is misused as a power tool in patriarchy.

Be it aggression or compassion, both are behavioural characteristics of human emotions. It is found both in men and women. In some cases, a role reversal also happens. In such cases, the women resort to anger, temper tantrums, undue domination, manipulation and rage as a defense, offence or simply a power-exerting tool. Thus they camouflage their vulnerabilities, while the husbands or the other men in their family put up with it for the sake of peace. Men submit to such anger management issues of their female partners or family members due to vulnerabilities of their own. However, the cases of male rage over women are always much more. It reflects a general, widespread social trend with innumerable types of manifestations within various layers of social life. It is being increasingly evident.

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What needs to be done to de-genderize anger and rage?

First, let us deal with ‘anger’ as it is and without attaching gender identity to it as perceived and propagated by patriarchy.

Let us all evolve, understand and deal with ‘anger’ as an aspect of the human psyche. It is a creation of ego and deep, turbulent emotion of negative nature. It has to be seen in the context of the civilized modern society we live in. Let us not surrender it to the alibi of primate trails still running in our blood. We need to acknowledge that shouting, cursing, beating or any type of verbal or physical abuse are the behavioral manifestations of anger – an internal state of mind indicating unresolved issues. It is never a sign of machismo, strength, maturity, or power. Rather, it exposes one’s vulnerability due to suppressed emotions such as despair, lack, fear, jealousy, false pride, insecurity, a sense of being less or inferior, an urge for superiority, dominance and control. It is a desperate call for attention and help, depression, and above all complete unawareness about one’s true self. Angry outbursts give one a false sense of power, camouflaging the fragility inside.

Be it an individual’s inner thoughts, emotions, belief systems or society’s collective accumulation of the same, anger must be freed from patriarchal genderization. Anger is extremely debilitating and damaging for both men and women. Every individual needs to be aware of the fact that anger is a phenomenon generating out of their internal mental state and their inability to deal with it. Nobody or nothing outside is responsible for their anger. Externalities function as triggers, often inadvertently or unintentionally. Every person must be held accountable for choosing how they would like to deal with such triggers that activate their own raw emotions, ego, psychological wounds and internal issues. They cannot use others as punching bags to hit out in frustration or as garbage bins to dispose of all the rubbish in their minds. Intensive self-awareness and emotional capacity building (EQ) training right from childhood through to adulthood would facilitate mindfulness in identifying anger in its core form and dealing with it without genderisation.

Secondly, women need 360-degree awareness to break free of male rage Besides both men and women being trained in identifying anger as an emotion, what causes it, how it influences and shapes our behavior and actions, women also need to be made aware of what role they play in normalizing and legitimizing anger as a male trait. They have to recognize the situations, the psychology and cultural conditioning that make them subjugate their dignity, body autonomy, physical and mental well-being to male rage as a weapon of patriarchy. Once they are enlightened with this 360-degree awareness around the issue of male rage in patriarchy, they will have to stop endorsing it and become mentally and financially empowered to break free of this trap.

#anger #domestic violence #wife beating #patriarchy #misogyni #machismo #feminism #mindcontrol

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jodiereedus22 · 6 years ago

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Wanderer Part 3

Part 3/3

A/N: so this is the last part of my little 3 parter!!! The response has been amazing!! Thank you to everyone who has read, liked and commented on the previous parts!! It’s overwhelming!! I hope you enjoy this part just as much!!! <3

Link to the first 2 parts is in my Masterlist!!! <3

Word Count: 1718

You watched Daryl’s back walk away from you, putting his arm around his brother, slowly disappearing from view, you felt nothing and everything all at once.

Heading back to the prison you felt like you were in a bubble, everything was silent. There was no road noise, you could see people’s mouths moving, but you couldn’t hear anything they were saying.

You were trying not to focus on the pain in your ribs, or the pain in your heart, instead trying to concentrate on not letting the tears that were threatening to spill, run down your cheeks.

The car coming to a halt was what brought you out of your trance, signalling the arrival at the prison.

Upon arrival, you realised this was the first time you would be in the prison without Daryl being there too.

Even without stepping foot in the actual prison, and with everyone else in your group there, it felt empty.

You never knew one person’s presence could have such an impact on someone’s life, to make such an impact that their absence changes the feeling of everything.

Driving up the long pathway to the main courtyard, the car came to yet another stop, parking up as everyone filed out.

You were the last one out of the car, subconsciously holding your ribs, you could feel everyone’s eyes on you, not liking the unwarranted attention, you made your way to your cell, avoiding talking and eye contact with anyone.

Sitting in your cell, eyes wandering from wall to wall, at a loss at what to do with yourself, when someone’s presence at your cell entrance caused you to turn your head.

“I saw you holding your ribs. Would you like me to take a look?” Hershel asked warmly but concerned.

“Nah, I’m good,” you said, trying to get rid of him.

“(Y/N), just let me check, please,” Hershel somewhat pleaded you, not believing you.

You conceded to his request with a sigh as Hershel gestured with his arms for you to stand up.

With another sigh, you rose from your bed for Hershel to take your place.

As Hershel sat down you prepared yourself to show your injuries.

As Hershel set up items he felt he might need, you proceeded to lift your shirt, revealing dark black and purple bruising. If you weren’t the one suffering from it, you would be able to tell that it was painful.

With a sympathetic look from Hershel, he proceeded to wrap your ribs tightly. Causing you to wince.

“Here,” Hershel went to hand you some painkillers.

“No, I’m good, I’ve had worse, give them to Glenn,” you told him.

You didn’t want to use medication, not when someone else could benefit from it, and you had had worse when you were out there alone, you didn’t have painkillers then, you weren’t going to use them now.

As Hershel got up to leave you retook your place on the bed, when he turned back around.

“Are you okay?” he asked you.

You turned your head to look back at him, not trusting your voice you just nodded, probably unconvincingly, but you didn’t care, you just didn’t want to answer any more questions.

Hershel turned to leave your cell once and for all, leaving you alone again with nothing but your thoughts.

As night drew in and the prison fell into silence, you couldn’t take it, just knowing that he wasn’t there, was something you couldn’t handle.

Daryl was your second chance, he brought you back from a place you thought you would be in perpetually, you realised, that even though you lived in a prison now, that it wasn’t your home – Daryl was.

And with Daryl no longer at the prison, you felt like you no longer belonged.

With that realisation, you knew you couldn’t stay. You could already feel yourself reverting back into the loner that you once were.

Because of that it wasn’t safe for you to stay there, not you for, and especially not for the people around you.

You were lost, the only place you knew you could find yourself, was back being alone, traipsing through the trees, surviving on your own instincts.

With no note, no words to anyone, you packed up what belongings you had and left, and you knew how to get out without anyone seeing.

By the time Daryl had decided to come back – Merle in tow – the prison was under siege from the Governor.

Bullets were flying everywhere, Rick was defending himself from the assailants and was hiding in the tall grass.

Daryl aided his family in its defence, shooting any men and any walkers threatening his family’s lives.

Once the fight was done, The Governor had left, all the walkers were dispatched and everyone was safe, Daryl’s eyes scanned the vicinity, looking for one person in particular – you.

“She’s not here,” Rick said making his way over to Daryl.

“Wha’ do ya mean she ain’t ‘ere?” Daryl asked perplexed.

“She left, last night sometime, she snuck past the watch, no note, no nothing, just up and left,” Rick explained.

Daryl stood there dumbstruck. Why would she leave? Without saying anything, it doesn’t sound like her.

“She’s injured Daryl,” Rick broke Daryl from his thoughts.

Daryl took that as a sign from Rick to go and find you, and that’s what he was going to do.

Packing up a bit of gear, making sure he had bolts for his crossbow and then headed out.

You couldn’t have gotten far, maybe a couple of hours lead on him, Daryl thought.

Daryl followed a trail for a while, assuming it was yours, until he heard a struggle.

You had been walking for a couple of hours now, only stopping to take a break for water, or to hide from groups of the dead that would prove a challenge, even for you.

You must admit a part of you missed the group you left behind, but you also found some comfort in the solitude.

Your solitude didn’t last long when a few walkers stalked out from the trees.

Taking your knives from your sheaths you strode towards the first walker, raising one knife to dispatch it, you had a painful reminder that your ribs were not up to par, this job was going to be harder than usual.

That came into fruition very quickly when the last walker managed to get the best of you.

Struggling against its grip, you both tumble to the floor, knocking the wind out of you, causing your ribs to burn pain through your whole body.

Screaming out in pain as you used as much strength as you could muster, fighting through the agony.

When the walker fell limp on top of you, you rolled if off, relieving its weight from you only to see a bolt clearly protruding from its skull.

Standing up, clasping your ribs, you looked in the direction from which the bolt originated.

Seeing the one man you thought you’d never see again.

“Wha’ tha hell are ya doin’?” Daryl yelled as he pulled out the bolt from the walker.

“What does it look like?” you yelled back.

“Looks like ya runnin’ away,” Daryl stated.

“That’s exactly what I’m doing,” you confessed still out of breath from your encounter.

“Never took ya for a coward,” Daryl said bluntly.

“Yh? Well, I never took you for a deserter,” you fired back.

Daryl stood there in shock at your words, looking down at his feet in shame.

“I had ta,” Daryl whispered.

“So did I,” you replied.

“Why?” Daryl asked confused, you had changed so much since he found you that he didn’t understand your actions.

“Why?” you yelled. “I left because I couldn’t stand to stay there anymore. I felt alone. I’d rather be out here,” you admitted.

“I don’ get it?” Daryl asked yet again bewildered.

“Why do ya think I stayed in the first place, huh?” You asked somewhat rhetorical.

“Dunno,” Daryl looked from you back to his feet.

“I stayed because of you. I stayed because even with everything I had been through, after every bad encounter with the worst kinds of people, you still made me feel safe, and that scares me because, without you, I can’t survive, not anymore,” you revealed, a tear rolling down your cheek.

You worked up the courage to look at Daryl, afraid at what you might see.

But when you looked up, to your surprise Daryl was looking right at you, into your eyes, into your soul.

He couldn’t say anything, he didn’t know what to say.

Not standing the silence you carried on speaking.

“Then you left, and I was lost, more so than I could be out here. So, I did the only thing I knew how to do… run.”

Some more silence followed before Daryl broke it.

“’m sorry, ’m sorry I left (Y/N), ’m sorry I made ya feel this way, didn’t mean ta, ya have to know tha’, but I’m back now, and I ain’t goin’ anywhere. So please come back, we need ya, I need ya,” Daryl said the last part in almost a whisper as he took steps forward towards you until you were toe to toe with each other.

Staring into each other eyes, you felt it difficult not to trust him.

He stood there, looking down into your eyes, as he placed a hand on your cheek, wiping away a stray tear that had escaped your eye as if he was wiping away all the loneliness you once felt and replacing it with his presence.

“I…,” you started before he gently placed his lips on yours for a soft, heartfelt kiss.

It ended as quickly as it started, but you were still basking in the feeling of his lips on yours.

“How are ya ribs?” Daryl asked in a concerned, hushed tone.

“They don’t hurt anymore,” you said with a blissful smile upon your face.

“Let’s go home,” Daryl said taking his hand in yours, heading in the direction of the prison.

“You’re my home Daryl,” you declared.

With a blush on his cheeks he out his arm around your shoulders and you walked back to the prison.

For the first time in a long time, you had found a home – in Daryl Dixon.

And that's the last part!!! I hope you all enjoy it!!! there will be more stuff coming soon hopefully!!!

Taglist: @crossbowking @viraloutbreakcontrol @coffee-obsessed-writer @bluesfortheredj @shutupimtryin2write @crowleysreigningqueenofhell @selenedixon @cbarter @cole-winchester @alyisdead @hopplessdreamer @infinitewcr @blogsporadicartist @serfyan18 @mtngirlforever @sassi-luna @twdsunshine @momc95 @emo-potato-virgil @wilhelmjfink @sourwolf-sterek32 @tatertot1097 @coffeebooksandfandom @twdeadfanfic @cutiepiemimi13 @kickin-with-dixon @feartheendlesssummer @twdeadlysins @apocalypse-haven @baseballbitch116 @trashcanband4 @mblaqgi @addiction-survivor25 @mel-2a @spaghettyrogers @xxboesefrauxx @sapphire1727 @little-miss-mischief1 @wontlookaway @bunnymother93 @auntiebyn

IF ANYONE WANTS TO BE ADDED JUST LET ME KNOW!!! <3 <3 <3

#daryl dixon x reader #daryl x reader #daryl dixon #daryl dixon fanfic #twd daryl #twd daryl dixon #the walking dead #the walking dead fanfiction #twd #twdfanfiction #reader insert #fluff #angst #fanfic #daryldixonfanfiction

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nervexolpainsolution · 5 years ago

Text

Nervexol (United States)- Reviews, Price, Benefits and Where To Buy?

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End

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End

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marcloveskylie · 6 years ago

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Kylie Minogue Sunday Times interview in full. (Thanks to Darren Nixon)

Kylie Minogue interview: the pop star talks love, regret and new beginnings ahead of playing the Glastonbury ‘legends’ slot

Kylie Minogue is glowing. Of course she is. As the blue-eyed, blonde princess of pop music and golden girl of pop culture, idolised by millions since the 1980s, Minogue, I imagine, floats around in a perpetual state of looking luminous. She has also been dancing in front of our photographer for an afternoon and, as she puts it, “should be glowing after all that make-up!” It’s not just the make-up. On the brink of releasing a new album, the gig of her career, her 51st birthday and with the thrill of a new man, she is happy. “I could say nothing and you could read everything,” she laughs, pointing to her smiling face. “I’ve met someone who I feel good with. It feels right.”

Post-shoot, Minogue sits upright and cross-legged on a sofa in our east London studio, her 5ft frame wrapped in a barely-there slip dress. Much has been written about her dabbles with Botox, something she admitted in 2009, but today she looks beautiful and natural — faint lines on her face, yet still miles younger than 50. She speaks so softly that I strain to hear her and she answers many questions with a giggle. On the surface, dainty and delicate. Underneath, nerves of steel. “None of this was handed to me,” she says, “but this was my destiny. I was meant to do it.”

The first music I remember was a 1989 VHS tape of Kylie’s videos. Aged five, I watched nothing else for months. Fever (2001) and Aphrodite (2010) — the CDs scratched from overuse — made up much of the soundtrack to my clubbing twenties. Interviewing her is an excruciating test, as I attempt to maintain professionalism while trying not to touch her face. (Full disclosure: when we hug at the end, I scream a bit. She doesn’t mind.) But aren’t we all Team Kylie? In 2005, when, at the age of 36, she revealed her breast cancer diagnosis, support from fans and the press came in floods. When her highly public relationships end, it is always her the world sides with. She is, perhaps, the only non-Brit considered a “national treasure” by the tabloids — The Sun ran a campaign in the early Noughties to have her bottom listed as a World Heritage Site on the grounds it was an Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty. Brand Kylie has mastered the near impossible: triumphing for three decades, with gold- and platinum-certified records, scandal-free and to global adoration. She’s still considered both a reigning disco diva and a bubbly, Aussie girl next door. Underestimate her at your peril, though. Being Kylie, she says, “takes a lot of work, graft and insecurity — not always what the wrapped-up end product looks like. There have been times when I’ve thought, ‘I just can’t.’ But you’ve got to take the knocks because they’re always coming. It ain’t all roses.” A pause. “But maybe otherwise it wouldn’t be as sweet in the end.”

She values her private life as “precious”, and admits that she has “sacrificed some anonymity”, no doubt because her romances have been tabloid fodder for years. Her most high-profile relationship was with INXS frontman Michael Hutchence from 1989 to 1991. In 1997, long after they broke up, he committed suicide. For four years, she dated the French actor Olivier Martinez, who supported her through her cancer diagnosis and chemotherapy (“Olli was there all the time,” she said in 2006). They broke up in 2007, but were rumoured to have reignited their romance in 2017, claims that she has never addressed. Then there was an engagement to the British actor Joshua Sasse. The two started dating in 2015 and that December she told Desert Island Discs that Sasse, then 28, was “my love”. They announced their engagement in February 2016, but broke up 12 months later; last September, he married an Australian entrepreneur. It strikes me as sad, but her steeliness quickly reappears.

You’ve had your heart broken, I begin. “I don’t know about heartbroken,” she flashes. “I’ve made mistakes.” Such as? “I regret lying to myself. Like, ‘This is OK,’ and doing the merry dance. When that honest bit inside of you knows, but you’re busy covering it up? I regret doing that. It’s not fair on yourself. And yet I think we’ve all been there, we’ve all done it. But I don’t see myself doing it again. I’ve met someone who I feel good with.” She has been dating Paul Solomons, the 45-year-old creative director of British GQ, for just over a year. When talk turns to him, she lights up. “I can feel my face going,” she says. “People say, ‘Your face changes when you talk about him,’ and it does. Happiness. He’s an inspiring, funny, talented guy. He’s got a real-life actual job! It’s lovely.”

Their weekends are generally spent in her Knightsbridge home, watching documentaries on Netflix — “We liked the Ted Bundy Tapes. I was too scared to watch them on my own” — or listening to podcasts — “Have you heard Dear Joan & Jericha [Julia Davis and Vicki Pepperdine’s mock agony-aunt podcast]? I’ve literally creased myself to that, it’s so inappropriate.” He does most of the cooking. “He’s got me cooking too, actually. He’s the first to do that. It can no longer be the family joke that I can’t cook.” Her family are all still in Australia. Her parents, Ron and Carol, worked as an accountant and dancer respectively, and her younger sister, Dannii, followed in Kylie’s showbiz footsteps as a pop star. She also has a younger brother, Brendon. They are a close family who text daily and speak frequently. I imagine they are overprotective about any new boyfriends. Minogue tells me that the first time Solomons met her clan was spending last Christmas with them. “They [already] could tell I was good within myself. They liked him before they met him, and they liked him more after they met him.”

Her Australian accent is still distinctive, but she has lived in London since the early 1990s, when Soho was her stomping ground. “I was really deep in London nightlife back then,” she says. Now, generally, the only time she’s up until the early hours is when she’s on tour. Her last big night out was her 50th birthday party, a year ago, at Chiltern Firehouse, complete with performances by Rick Astley and Jake Shears. “I went to bed at about 5am, but probably had no more than a glass of champagne all night. I was talking and dancing and high on life. The icing on the cake was that I had my special someone to share it with.”

It’s remarkable that Minogue has the stamina to dance until 5am at an age when many women are experiencing the menopause. Indeed, she’s already been there, done that. As is common with younger breast cancer patients, her menopause was medically induced when she had treatment, to suppress her oestrogen levels. On Desert Island Discs, she stated that she would love to start a family. It’s a difficult subject to broach, but I wonder if she feels the chance to have children has passed. “I can definitely relate to that,” she answers. “I was 36 when I had my diagnosis. Realistically, you’re getting to the late side of things. And, while that wasn’t on my agenda at the time, [cancer] changed everything. I don’t want to dwell on it, obviously, but I wonder what that would have been like. Everyone will say there are options, but I don’t know. I’m 50 now, and I’m more at ease with my life. I can’t say there are no regrets, but it would be very hard for me to move on if I classed that as a regret, so I just have to be as philosophical about it as I can. You’ve got to accept where you are and get on with it.”

Born and raised in Melbourne, she attended acting school in her home town and became a superstar at 18 as Charlene in the Australian soap Neighbours. Charlene’s wedding to Jason Donovan’s Scott in 1987 was witnessed by 20m viewers in the UK. Despite no formal singing or dancing training, she left the show to pursue music, and her debut album, Kylie, released in 1988, was No 1 in the UK for six weeks. She has since released 13 more studio albums, as well as dozens of compilation, live and remix records. Next month she is releasing Step Back in Time, her latest greatest hits album. All the big hitters are on there: Spinning Around, I Should Be So Lucky, Confide in Me. She doesn’t have a favourite, but points to Where the Wild Roses Grow (1995) and All the Lovers (2010) — “just glorious”. She had to brace herself, she says, to listen to some of the older tracks. “I recorded Locomotion when I was 18 or 19. I was so young and I felt so young.” She shakes her head in bewilderment.

Minogue has just finished the Golden Tour, six months of shows in Europe and Australia. “I don’t know how much time I’ve got before my showbiz hips and knees start to protest,” she laughs. “They’ll be like, ‘You’ve been treading those boards for a long time, we think you should slow down a bit.’ ” This summer, along with gigs in London, Manchester and even Scarborough, she will take to the Pyramid Stage at Glastonbury in the Sunday afternoon “legends” slot, previously filled by the likes of Dolly Parton, Barry Gibb and Lionel Richie. It is particularly poignant as she was set to perform there in 2005, but her cancer diagnosis meant that she had to pull out. She sang at the festival in 2010, as a guest of the Scissor Sisters, but has never performed solo. “I’m bound to cry,” she says. On stage? “It’s going to happen. When I was meant to be there, I watched it from Australia. I was dealing with much bigger things back then, but when I’m there it will take me back to when I wasn’t there. But I’ll work through that.”

She confirms there will be guests joining her on stage, but won’t tell me who. Dolce & Gabbana designed the Greek goddess-inspired costumes for her Aphrodite: Les Folies tour in 2011, but her on-stage style now is “more human, more real”. “But even Elvis had a few diamantés on him,” she continues. “Come on! I’m thinking of it as a big sing-along. It’s daytime, so you can’t have the lights, effects and lasers that I normally have. I think the simplicity is part of what makes that slot so magical. Dolly Parton just walked on out. Lionel Richie just walked on out. I mean, I’ll sashay on out.”

Minogue’s manager then intervenes. The car is waiting and the star has somewhere to be. “I keep threatening my team that I’m going to retire,” she winks, safe in the knowledge that there are decades left of her career. And, with that, she sashays out. Glowing.

Step Back in Time is released on June 28

#Kylie Minogue #the one and only kylie

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j-j-ehlby-writes · 6 years ago

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Meet Me at the Chalet || day three.

Eventual pairing: Tom Hiddleston x OFC (Jenessee Borosi)

Word count: ~3.1k

Summary (I suck at these): Jenessee goes on a solo vacation after the release of her first novel. She got a little more than she bargained for when she gets snowed in with her biggest celebrity crush.

Warnings: So much freaking fluff, swearing but blink and you’ll miss it, depressing thoughts (THIS chapter), mental breakdown (THIS chapter), Tom being Tom

A/N: This chapter contains very personal experiences for me. I wanted the main character to be flawed (because we all are), and the only thing I could write about that would be authentic was something that I’ve gone through myself. If you have troubles with mental breakdowns and depressive thoughts, either proceed with caution or skip this chapter all together.

night one. || day one. || day two. || day three. || day four. ||

“Good morning, darling.” He greeted once he heard me enter the room. “Did you sleep well?” He finally looked up to take in my appearance. I fully expected him to flinch. There must be dark circles under my eyes from lack of sleep, my hair must be a mess from running my fingers through it in frustration when I couldn’t find the word I was looking for, my clothes wrinkled from the constant position changed they endured through the night- in other words, I look like a wreck. But he didn’t seem to notice or care. He still watched me, waiting for me to answer.

“I actually haven’t been to sleep yet.” I dragged my fuzzy sock clad feet over to where he was standing getting a delicious whiff of the pig fat that was frying in the pan.

He slipped an arm around my shoulder, pulling me to his body. “Oh yeah? Were you writing?” I nodded, leaning into him welcoming the warmth it brought me. I lazily wrapped my arms around his narrow waist, surprising myself by how natural this all feels. This physical contact is new to whatever this is we have going on here, but I like it. I like having his strong arm around me, keeping me close to him like he actually wants me there. I tucked comfortable under his arm as he draped it over my shoulder. I would have buried my face in his neck but I didn’t want to push it. “Well then, let’s get your beautiful brain some food before you go back on up to bed.” He gave my shoulder a gentle squeeze before he returned his attention to the stove. He watched me consume the three strips he gave me before escorting me back up to my room. He cleared off my bed before tucking me in. I was out before he shut my door.

By the time I woke up, my room was pitch black. I found Tom downstairs reading on the couch. “Why did you let me sleep so long?” I questioned as I plopped down on the opposite end. “Now I won’t sleep tonight.”

“Because, darling, you were exhausted and you deserved to rest.” He set his book down next to him before standing up. “Shall I make you some dinner? I’m having a real hankering for some grilled cheese.” The cheesy (pun-intended) smile he plastered on his face was heart-stopping. How could anyone say no to it? He came to stand in front of me, holding out both hands. I happily took them as he pulled me up.

“Again?” I giggled. He started walking backwards, bringing me along with him since he hasn’t let go of my hands yet. They sent warmth throughout my entire body as all of the blood rushed to my face.

All traces of playfulness disappeared reminding me of the pictures I’ve seen of him as Loki. “Oh yes, darling. You’ve created a monster.” He stopped, yanking me to him. My body collided with his, with him catching me like I weighed nothing at all. His arms captured my waist as my arms were crushed between us as I had braced myself for impact. His eyes stayed locked on mine as his voice dropped a few octaves. “A bacon and pickle grilled cheese loving…” His head bent down towards my ear. I could feel his hot breath against my neck. I had to restrain myself from shivering. “Monster.” He almost growled into my ear.

And in one split second, he went from sexy God Tom to playful “Loki’d” Tom as his large hands attacked my sides. The initial contact warranted a very loud shriek, but it was quickly replaced with cackles and pleas for him to stop. I wiggled my way out of his grip and ran into the kitchen to take refuge in. He chased me around the place until I complained of a side ache from too much running and laughing at the same time. We called a temporary truce until I sneakily decided to kick it up a notch. I’d seen them happen multiple times in movies and TV shows and have always wanted to be a part of one. I figured now would be the perfect opportunity. I found myself in the pantry, looking for the perfect weapon to use against him. It can’t be something too big that it’ll hurt him, but I want it to make a mess. Flour is the obvious choice, but I also don’t want to be cliché… Oh to hell with that. I grabbed the huge tub of it and hid it behind a cupboard for future use. I scooped a handful into my hand for my sneak attack. I spotted my clueless victim as he prepared the bread. I went right up to him, hiding all trace of my impending betrayal.

“What were you doing in there?” He asked when he noticed my return.

“Planning my next move.” I brought my flour-filled hand up to his face as he looked at me confused. I blew as I opened my hand, covering his entire face with the white powder. His mouth and eyes snapped shut, flinching away slightly. We stayed still while he processed what just happened. When he finally opened those beautiful blue eyes again, there was vengeance written all over them.

“Oh it’s so on.”

Ten minutes later we were sat on the floor covered in flour, laughing at how ridiculous the other looks. The white powder stuck to our hair, turning it all gray, it clung to our clothes and every single surface it came into contact with.

“I think I have flour in places flour should never be.” He commented, shifting his hips against the floor causing me to fold over in continued laughter. My tears mixed with the flour on my face creating a paste-like substance that will be impossible to wash off later. But right now I didn’t care.

I looked over at the man in front of me who was equally covered in white. His ginger locks and beard were now gray, making him age 30 years right in front of my eyes. To say he will be a hot silver fox is the biggest understatement of the century. I couldn’t help but picture us in that 30 years reliving this moment in our own kitchen, our grandchildren playing along with us, getting scolded by our kids when they came to pick them up. But then I would look at him, all gray-haired and perfect and know that I-

“So I’ve been meaning to ask you…” He trailed off breaking me out of my fantasy. I didn’t realize we both stopped laughing and silence had filled the room until he spoke. He was fidgeting with his hands in his lap, his gaze locked on them. When I realized what he had said, my heart dropped slightly. Panic was lingering, not knowing if it should rear its ugly head or if it would be premature. He took an abnormally long pause which only made it worse. It is the same feeling when someone texts you saying “Can I ask you a question?” and then taking forever to respond to your text back. Agony. Pure agony. “Are you… spoken for?” He finally met my eyes, probably to gauge my reaction. Did he think he was crossing the line somehow? Did he think it was too personal? Was he afraid I would get emotional due to a recent break up? Who knows…

Am I spoken for? Who in the world phrases it like that anymore? Why don’t we speak like that nowadays? We’ve gotten so lazy. Everyone is all about the quick fling or get straight to the physical stuff. No one courts anymore. No one writes long, handwritten love letters anymore. I’m not saying we should talk like Shakespeare, more like in the early to mid-1900s. Going on long walks, bringing her flowers before a date, picnics in the park, then escorting her to her front door, giving a sweet good night kiss before parting ways only to have a smile on your face for the rest of the night.

Like Tom said in an interview a few years ago, “This generation has lost the true meaning of romance,” and how he is an “old-fashioned romantic.” It’s sad that he hasn’t really been given the chance to show that side. And if he has, it hasn’t been appreciated like it should.

Am I spoken for? The only person that could possibly make that sound like the most romantic thing in the world and not at all old-fashioned is sitting right in front of me, covered in flour.

“Okay, first of all, who says that anymore?” I voiced my previous thoughts. He chuckled, breaking the serious façade he put up.

“Well pardon me for being old-fashioned about it.” He placed his hand over his heart in offense. “I am a self-proclaimed romantic.” He stated confirming what he has previously said.

“And second of all, no.” I shrugged, “I’m not spoken for. I am completely unattached.” I shudder thinking about how long it has been since my last relationship and how painful it was. That heartbreak has kept me from opening up again for years. I didn’t want to feel that kind of earth-shattering feeling again. It’s only partly to blame for my perpetual singleness, but a big part nonetheless.

“I find that quite surprising actually.” He admitted.

“Why? Because of my winning personality and devastatingly good looks?” I flipped my current non-existent long hair over my shoulder for effect. I don’t think I have either so I know those are also parts of why I’m single and have been.

He chuckled at my sarcasm. “Why, yes actually. You are beautiful, you have a phenomenal sense of humor,” he gestured around us at everything covered in flour, “you know how to have fun, you like having relaxing nights just sitting on the couch reading, or in your case, writing,” he smiled, “you’re obviously independent since you are on vacation alone-”

“Well that’s not necessarily true.” I interrupted. “My friend would have joined if she could have gotten off work.”

“Alright then.” He conceded. “I still stand by your independence though.” I nodded, not arguing with him. I know I’m independent, sometimes to a fault.

“So, you think you got me all figured out after knowing me for 3 days?” I concluded from his compliments.

“Oh no, darling. I believe I’ve just scratched the surface.” He intensely gazed at me. “And I’m eager to see what else there is to learn about you.”

I found myself asking him “Why?” Why, out of all of the people in the world, is he eager to learn more about me? I’m just a woman from the Midwest that is as complicated as anyone can be. “There’s nothing special about me.” I confessed wholeheartedly. Even if he knew I’m a published author, I still don’t see what’s so interesting that someone like him would want to get to know me? There are so many issues that I’ve buried deep beneath the surface that no human should have to bare or anyone else should have to endure. Dark thoughts that only comes out at night thanks to a trigger… No one else deserves to carry the burden of knowing I have those thoughts. Especially Tom.

“Do you truly believe that?” He asked with a hint of sadness I never wanted to hear or even expected.

“How can I not? When there are so many others out there that are more successful, prettier, skinnier…” I wrap my arms around my stomach, one of my many trouble spots. I’ve always been self-conscious about the way I look. I compare myself to everyone around, no matter what. I always have and I more than likely always will. I know it’s not healthy. It’s just one of my countless bad habits. “It’s hard to see myself as anything more than ordinary. I mean, I know I’m not a-” I use air quotes- “’hot girl.’ I’m probably never going to take anyone’s breath away or impress anyone with the way I look, but I can make you laugh and make you feel wanted, and sometimes I can be really fucking cute. I just wish that could be enough. Just once.” I shrugged again, wanting to change the subject. The way he’s looking at me with such sadness when mere moments ago he was filled with pure joy, I want that gone. So I stood up. “Shall we eat or clean up first?”

For the rest of the night, there was something… off. Like there was a dark cloud hovering over us and was persistent for the entirety of the time we spent together after we peeled ourselves off the floor. I knew the reason for my dark cloud, but even he seemed to be thrown off too.

Not being able to deal with the new weirdness between us, I excused myself and retreated to my room. The heaviness continued all night. I found myself just staring off into the distance as my mind raced with topics I haven’t thought about in years that love to surface at the most inconvenient times, like now. They put me into a funk for hours until I fall asleep, only to wake up like nothing ever happened. I can only hope this is one of those times and Tom forgives me for being sucky company.

More often than not, I will work myself up so badly that I will have a mental breakdown, crying myself into hyperventilation. Unfortunately this time is no exception. My thoughts latched onto the topic that guarantees waterworks and a lot of them. My sobs literally shaking my entire body to the core, gasping for breaths in between, asking questions no one will be able to give me answers to. The kinds of questions only sink me deeper and deeper into the darkness.

Light knocks on my door broke me out of my depression bubble.

Crap. He must have heard me… Well, I haven’t exactly tried being quiet. I banked on the walls being thicker than standard hotels and for him to be a deep sleeper. Both seem to be wrong.

I lay there going over my options: I could ignore him, I could answer and lie about why I’m emotional, I could tell him the truth but that’s not something he needs to worry about…

There’s no way I can ignore him. He was kind enough to leave his room to come and check on me. The least I could do is let him in. However I don’t want him to see me. My eyes are no doubt bloodshot and puffy, along with the rest of my face. I can’t lie to him or tell him the truth. I decide what the easiest option is and unwrap myself from my cocoon of comfort. I slide my room key under the door before returning to the warmth.

Seconds go by before I hear the door gently opening. I see his shadow in the light of the doorway then it’s dark again. The bed dipped behind me then his hand rested on my shoulder, pulling me back to face him. I lie flat on my back now like he wanted. I bite my lip to keep it from quivering; I tried to even out my shaky breathing without much success. I didn’t want him to think I’m weak for crying for God-knows how long… but those walls have long since been shattered; my strength being abysmal at the moment.

Even in the pitch black room, I can see how close he is. His outline was only mere inches from me. His hand caresses my cheek as I feel his gaze all over my face as if he can see right through me. His thumb wipes away some of the moisture that had remained there. I didn’t bother to try to wipe it all away if more tears were going to flow eventually.

“Oh darling…” He whispered as he slipped his other arm under and around me, pulling me into his chest, tucking me under his chin. An overwhelming sense of comfort- of home- filled my entire being, which only brought on another wave of tears. I’ve never had anyone around during my breakdowns, always suffering in silence. For him to immediately want to comfort me in my time of need… it means more to me than I could ever explain.

“I’m so sorry.” He murmured against my hair before pressing a tender kiss on my head. He runs his hand softly up and down my arm just like my mom used to do on my back. His touch created goosebumps all along my arm.

“What could you possibly be sorry for?” I ask just above a whisper, not trusting my voice at the moment.

He sighed, “For all of the pain that is in your heart that you feel you have to suffer with it alone.”

No more words were exchanged after that. How could I when he says something like that?

What I didn’t anticipate him doing was he took care of me. He got me the Kleenex box so my nose could empty out. He rubbed my back whispering soothingly, encouraging me to let it all out. He even went as far as starting the shower for me after I was sure the floodgates were closing. I stepped in letting the hot water relax my muscles and wash over my face, eliminating any evidence of the past few hours. I washed my body with my peach body wash before getting out. I smiled, noticing my bag that was now sitting on the vanity. I rummaged through it to find a different pair of pajamas to get back into.

When I finally emerged from the bathroom, Tom was waiting for me on the bed. I climbed in and he immediately wrapped his arms around me, pulling me so close there was no space between us. I inhaled the faint smell of his cologne, instantly lulling me into a new sense of calm which terrified me to no end. How can I feel so safe and secure with someone I just met a few days ago? How can he give me everything with no questions asked?

It wasn’t long before I felt myself slip into unconsciousness. There was only one thing on my mind by the time I finally fell… I don’t deserve him, but I sure as hell want to.

day four...

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